"You must think me rude," apologized Hope, entering the tent as quickly
as she had left it, and seating herself directly beside Livingston. "I
surely didn't intend to be gone so long."
"So _long_!" exclaimed Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "Why, I hadn't missed you!
Where in the world have you been?"
"Oh, _now_ I'll not tell you!" laughed the girl, while her face flushed
deeply.
"But you were missed," said Livingston. "You've been gone just ten
minutes."
She looked at him and smiled at her own mistake. It seemed to her that
she had been gone an hour. He was dazzled by the unusual brilliancy of
her face, the strange light in her eyes. The smile, he thought, was for
himself. "Did the moonlight transform you?" he asked. She only laughed
in reply. Her heart was bounding in very joy of life now that she saw
her way clear through the grave difficulty that had confronted her. A
great tragedy would be averted, a lot of unscrupulous men brought to
justice, and more than this--the boy beside her was safe. What mattered
it to her at this moment that he possessed somewhere in the universe a
wife, which irrevocably separated her from him by every social law and
moral rule? This was nothing to her now in view of the great sense of
his personal safety that lifted such a weight of fear from her heart.
Nothing mattered much since he was safe. How desperate the chance had
seemed, and now how easily the danger averted!
Livingston knew little of the thoughts that played wildly in her brain
while she, to all intents, was listening with eager, brilliant face to
Clarice's light chatter. But Mrs. Van Rensselaer was tired. Her chatter
began to fag. Outside the shadows settled down about the tents, until
the moon rose above the mountain like a great ball of fire, casting over
everything the soft radiance of its white light. The night was almost
as bright as day. Livingston reluctantly said good-night, and went out
with Sydney to get his horse, which was staked some little distance
away. When they returned to saddle up a movement on the opposite side of
the brush attracted Sydney's attention, and borrowing the horse he rode
over to investigate. Livingston, wondering vaguely what had taken him
away so abruptly, seated himself upon the tongue of the camp wagon and
listened to the soft tones of women's voices from the white tent near
the bank. Quite without warning a hand was laid upon his shoulder.
"Where did Syd go?" asked Hope.
"Over there," replied Livingston, rising quickly beside her, and
pointing across the brush. "He took my horse to drive out some cattle, I
think, and so I am waiting. I thought you had retired. Did you come to
say good-night to me?"
"Yes," said the girl softly, "what of it?"
"Everything! That you should care that much--that you----"
"But I wouldn't need to care--so _very_ much--to come to bid you
good-night--would I?" she interrupted.
"No--perhaps; but you _do_ care! I seem to feel that you care for
me--Hope!"
"No! I don't care for you a bit! Not at all--I mean----You haven't any
right to talk to me like that! Certainly, I don't care for you, Mr.
Livingston. Oh, I didn't mean to hurt you! I mean----This is no time for
such things!"
"Hope!"
"Wait, listen! They will hear. See, Syd is coming!" She stepped back
from him, pointing.
"What of it! You shall tell me! Look at me!" he commanded. "Do you know
what you are making me believe--what you are telling me?"
"Nothing!" she insisted. "I am telling you nothing--only--_wait_!" She
spoke hurriedly, catching her breath. "Before day-break I will be on
that hill over there between your ranch and here--there above Fritz's
grave, to watch the dawn of day--and the sunrise and----"
"And I will be waiting for you! God bless you, dear." He kissed the
brown hand, which was snatched hurriedly from his clasp just as Sydney
rode up beside them.
"You mustn't believe _anything_," she gasped under her breath.
"_Everything!_" he insisted.
"Your horse is loose, pard," said Sydney, "I thought I caught sight of
it over there, but couldn't see anything of it when I rode over. You're
afoot! Now what are you going to do about it?"
"Walk," replied the girl, darting a quick look at Livingston. "Half a
mile is _nothing_."
"Half a mile," laughed her cousin. "You mean two miles and a half, don't
you?"
"Oh, the horse isn't far! We'll find it the first thing in the morning.
Good-night, you two! It's time school-teachers were in bed--and everyone
else. Good-night!" She turned around and waved her hand at them just
before the flap of the white tent closed upon her.
Clarice yawned dismally. "Will you never settle down, Hope? Isn't this
lovely and comfortable? So cool after the hot, fatiguing day, I just
love it! Whom were you talking to--Livingston? What a shame he's
married! He's such a dear boy, why, I'd almost be tempted, _if_ he
wasn't married----But pshaw! Lady Helene Livingston is one of those
frizzy-haired blondes that suggest curl papers and peroxide, and she
affects velvet dresses, black or purple--but always _velvet_--and a
feather! I've seen her loads of times, but she doesn't go in our set,
because she's taken up with those Grandons. You know Harriet married an
English peer, with a title, _nobody_ over there recognizes. She was such
a pretty girl that she might have done something for her family, but I
don't think the poor man fared as well as he expected, for it's well
known that old Grandon hasn't a half a million in his own name. But
Harriet lives well, and entertains a lot of English people nobody else
cares to have. Lady Helene Livingston is pretty enough in spite of her
velvet and feathers to get on anywhere, if only she didn't follow in
the train of Harriet's crowd. I wonder how it happens that she never
comes out here?"
"The curl papers and velvet may have something to do with that," said
Hope, settling down beside Louisa, on the opposite side of the tent,
with a motion as weary as if the only thought she possessed was to
secure a good night's sleep. "Velvet and feathers," she yawned.
"Clarice, do you know that it's nearly eleven o'clock?"
"Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "I'd never have thought it. See
how bright it is in here--almost like day."
"Full moon," observed Hope. "It will be light like this until almost
morning, and then darkness for a little while before daylight."
"How well you understand such things, Hope! I should think it would be
very difficult to keep track of the moon."
"Yes," yawned the girl, "it is. We'd better go to sleep, Clarice,
because as soon as the sun is up it will be too warm to stay in here,
so you won't get your morning nap. That's the worst of a tent."
"What a shame!" sighed Mrs. Van Rensselaer. Then after ten minutes of
silence: "Hope, I want you to go back to New York with me next week.
Now, no joking, dear, I mean it."
"No," replied Hope. "It's too roasting hot there at this season. I
couldn't think of it, Clarice."
"But we're going by way of the Lakes, and take in a lot of those cool
summer resorts. Then I must get to Newport for the last of the season,
and after that, you know, it will be decent weather in New York, and we
can have no end of good times. Come now, Hope, just make up your mind to
go!"
"You forget, I must teach my school for several weeks yet, so that
settles it. Good-night, Clarice! Go to sleep like a good girl."
"What does this little school amount to, to you?" insisted Mrs. Van
Rensselaer. "Not a thing, and you know it! You just don't want to go
with us. Come on, please do go, that's a dear girlie!"
"Impossible, Clarice," replied Hope. "There are many good reasons why I
really couldn't. This school up here, and my little Louisa, and, anyway,
I don't want to go. Aren't you very tired and sleepy, Clarice?" She
thought Mrs. Van Rensselaer bid fair to remain awake all night, and was
devising various schemes in her mind for getting away from her. But Mrs.
Van Rensselaer had an object in view, and disliked exceedingly to give
it up.
"I really don't think you ought to stay up here, Hope. To be candid, I
don't just like your position. Of course, in this country,
conventionalities don't count for much, but honestly I think this
Livingston is caring for you."
"What in the world put such an idea into your head?" asked the girl,
flushing beneath her cover of blankets.
"Hope!" reproved Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "You know it, and I know it, so
what's the use of denying it? But, of course, if you think it's
right----Really, I have nothing further to say except that I wish you
would return with me, and bring your little Louisa along."
The girl was silent for a moment, forgetting her anxiety to get away, in
thoughts Clarice had suggested.
"Has he any family?" she suddenly asked. "I mean--_children_, Clarice."
"I don't think so. But what difference would that make?"
"No difference in reality--but a heap of difference in my thoughts. If
he had a family,--children,--it would seem more natural to think of him
as being a married man, a family man. As it is, I will remember him as a
true-hearted, free young Englishman."
"I think, Hopie, his being married has spoiled a very pretty romance. I
wish it might have been different, dear!"
"You are too sleepy to know what you think. Go to sleep and dream that I
shall join you in New York as soon as the school is ended."