Gay hardly slept at all. She was at her window half the night asking
troubled questions of the stars and of the moon and of the moonlight on
the lake. She had not, during the summer, taken her sisters' affairs
very seriously, perhaps because she was so seriously engrossed with her
own. She had, even in her heart, almost accused them of flirting and
carrying on lest time hang heavy on their hands. Her own romance she had
supposed all along to be real, the others mere reflections of romantic
places and situations. But it began to look as if only her own romance
had been spurious. It was a long time since she had heard from
Pritchard. He had told her very simply that he was now the Earl of
Merrivale, and that, as soon as certain things were settled and
arranged, he intended to return to America. After that, there had been
no word from him of any kind. She tried to comfort herself with the
thought that if he was that kind of man--blow hot, blow cold--she was
well rid of him, and she failed dismally.
A man is in love with a certain girl. He learns that she is vain, gay,
extravagant, heartless, and going to marry some other man. Does any of
this comfort him? Not if he is in love with her, it doesn't. Not a bit.
So Gay could say to herself: "He's thoughtless and inconstant, and I'm
well out of it!" She could say that, and she did say that, and then she
buried her face in her pillow and cried very quietly and very hard.
She was up before the sun.
It would have taken more than one night of wakefulness and weeping to
leave marks upon that lovely face which sudden cold water and the
resolution to suffer no more could not erase.
But she had not rowed a mile or more before the color in her cheeks was
really vivid again and the whites of her eyes showed no traces of tears.
She did not know why she was rowing or whither. It was as if some strong
hand had forced her from bed before sunrise, forced her into her
fishing-clothes, forced her into a guide boat, placed oars in her hands,
and compelled her to row.
She even smiled, wondering where she was going.
"I can go anywhere I like," she thought; "but I don't want to go
anywhere in particular, and yet I am quite obviously on my way to
somewhere or other. I'm like Alice in Wonderland. I think I'll go to
Carrytown and get the morning mail."
But she had no sooner beached toward Carrytown than the distance there
seemed unutterably long, especially for a rower who had yet to
breakfast.
"I know," thought Gay at last; "I'll row to Placid Brook and see if the
big trout is still feeding in his private preserve. I'll land just where
we did before and cross the meadow and spy on him from behind a bush. I
wish I'd brought some tackle. I'd like to catch him and cook him for my
breakfast--so I would!"
Upon this resolution, the work of rowing became very light. It was as if
the force which had started her upon the excursion had had Placid Brook
in mind all the time.
Having laid her course for the meadow at the mouth of Placid Brook, she
kept the stern of the boat in direct line with a distant mountain-top,
and so held it. The sun was now peeping over the rim of the world, and
here and there morning breezes were darkening and dappling the burnished
surface of the lake.
Now and then, as she neared the meadow, Gay glanced over her shoulder,
once for quite a long time, resting on her oars, because she thought
she saw a doe with a fawn. They turned out to be nothing more tender
than a couple of granite rocks. And once again she rested on her oars
and looked for a long time--not this time upon the strength of a
hallucination, but of an impulse.
She followed this inconsequential act with a long sigh, and enough
strokes of the oar to bring her to land.
When she stood upright on the meadow she could see the very spot from
which Pritchard had cast for the big trout. And she saw (and had a
curious dilating of the heart at the same moment) that that particular
spot of meadow was once more occupied by a human being--or were her eyes
and her breakfastless stomach playing tricks?
A young man in rusty meadow-colored clothes appeared to be kneeling with
his back toward her. She advanced swiftly toward him, curious only of a
great wonder and an indescribable (and possibly fatal) beating of her
heart. And suddenly she knew that her man was real and no hallucination,
for she perceived at her feet the stub of a Turkish cigarette, still
smoking. Then she called to him:
"Halloo, there!"
The Earl of Merrivale started as if he had been shot at, then leaped to
his feet and turned toward her with a cry of joy.
"What are you doing here?" he cried.
And they had approached to within touching distance of each other.
"I don't know," she said. "What are you?"
"It was too early to pay calls," he said, "so I thought I'd have one
more whack at the big char and bring him to you for a present. But tell
me--does our bet still stand?"
He looked at her so tenderly and lovingly and hopefully that she hadn't
the heart to be anything but tender and loving herself.
"The bet still stands," she said, "if you win. I've missed you
terribly."
"I took him," said the earl. "I was just weighing him when you called.
He weighs a lot more than three pounds. So I win."
"Yes, you win."
"And the bet still stands?"
She nodded happily.
"And you won't renege--you'll pay? You'll be Countess of Merrivale?"
"If you want me to be," she said humbly.
"If I want you to be!"
And she had imagined herself so often in his arms that she was not now
surprised or troubled to find herself there.
"I was so unhappy," she said; "and now I'm so happy."
And after a little while she said:
"I'd like to see him."
Presently they stood looking down at the great trout.
"He's done a lot for us, hasn't he?" said Gay. "He was the beginning of
things. And it seems sort of a pity----"
"He's still breathing. He'll live if we put him back. Shall we?"
"Yes, please."
There was plenty of life and fight in the old trout. He no sooner felt
that water was somewhere under him than he gave a triumphant, indignant
flop, tore himself from Merrivale's hands, and disappeared with a
splendid, smacking splash.
"Good old boy!" laughed Merrivale.
"And yet," said Gay, "it's a pity that we couldn't take him back to camp
and show him off. He was the biggest trout I ever saw."
"He wasn't a trout, dear," said Merrivale; and he grinned lovingly at
her. "He was a char."
"Of course he was," said Gay humbly; "I forgot."