Harry Kendal did not intend being untrue to Dorothy when he let himself
drift into that platonic friendship with Iris, the beauty, which had
developed into such a dangerous flirtation.
Gradually the girl's fascinations seemed to overpower him, and before
he quite realized it, Iris had become part and parcel of his life.
On the way to the postoffice a little event had happened which had
almost changed the current of his life.
They had taken the short cut from Gray Gables to the postoffice, which
lay over the hills, and were walking along arm in arm when suddenly
Iris' foot slipped upon a stone, and she stumbled headlong in the path
with a little, terrified cry.
In an instant Harry had raised her, and to his utter consternation she
clung to him half fainting.
"Oh, Mr. Kendal--Harry--I--I have sprained my ankle! I can not walk!"
she said; and a low cry of pain broke from her lips.
He gathered her close in his arms, and did everything in his power to
soothe her.
"I am so sorry--so sorry that I let you undertake this trip with me. Let
me carry you back to the house."
"My--my ankle is not sprained," she faltered; "it was only wrenched a
little as it turned over against that stone. We will sit down on this
log a few moments, and after a little rest I will be all right again."
To this Kendal willingly assented, but he did not remove his arm from
the slender waist.
"I am so thankful that it is no worse, Iris," he breathed, huskily.
"Would you have cared so very much if I had sprained my ankle?" she
faltered, looking up into his face with those great, dark, mesmeric eyes
that no one had ever yet been able to resist.
He looked away from her quickly and did not reply.
"Would you?" persisted Iris, in her low, musical voice.
Throwing prudence to the winds, he turned to her suddenly and clasped
her still closer in his arms.
"Does not your own heart teach you that, Iris?" he returned, hoarsely.
"Oh! if I could only believe what my heart would fain tell me," she
murmured, "I--I would be so happy!"
"If it told you that I--I love you," he cried, "then it would--"
The rest of the sentence died away on his lips for there, directly in
the path before him, stood Mrs. Kemp. She might have been blind to all
her beautiful niece's short-comings, but she was not a woman to so mix
right and wrong as to permit Iris to listen to a word of love from one
she knew belonged, in the sight of God, to another.
Iris was equal to the occasion.
"Oh, aunt!" she cried, "I am so glad that you happened along just now.
I--I hurt my foot, and it was so painful that I had to sit down and
rest; and Mr. Kendal was kind enough to remain here with me a few
moments, although--although--besides the invitations we had to mail, he
had other important letters to go out to-day."
"Are you quite sure your ankle is not sprained, my dear?" cried Mrs.
Kemp, in alarm. "The wisest thing to do will be to come home with me at
once, and we will send for a doctor to examine it."
Iris sprang to her feet with a wicked little laugh.
"See, it is better now--almost as good as new," she declared, "thanks
to Mr. Kendal for insisting upon my sitting down here to rest."
Had it been any one else but Iris, Kendal would have said the affair had
been a clever little ruse to give him the opportunity to make love to
her.
But in this instance it never occurred to him but that Iris was telling
the plain facts--that her ankle had been wrenched, and with a few
moments' rest it was as good as ever again.
Mrs. Kemp looked greatly relieved.
"We may as well be going," said Iris, hoping that her aunt would pass on
and leave them to enjoy the _tete-a-tete_ which she had interrupted at
such an inopportune time.
"I will go with you both as far as the postoffice," said Mrs. Kemp; and
the good soul did not notice the expression of annoyance on both faces,
and, very much against the will of each, she accompanied them there and
back.
Iris was bitterly annoyed, but she was diplomatic enough to conceal it;
and she could see, too, by Harry's face that he was disappointed in
being so ruthlessly cheated out of a _tete-a-tete_ with her.
They loitered long by the way, trusting that Mrs. Kemp would become
impatient with their delay, and excuse herself, to get back to the house
in time to superintend dinner, which was quite a feature at Gray Gables.
"You do not seem to be in any hurry to-day," laughed Iris, eyeing her
aunt sideways.
"No; for it is not often that I indulge myself in going out for a
stroll," answered Mrs. Kemp, "and I need to make the most of it. If I am
not back at the usual time Dorothy will superintend affairs--bless her
dear little heart! Why, she's a regular little jewel about the house,
even with her affliction."
This praise of Dorothy was anything but pleasant to Iris, especially
when Kendal was present, and she turned the conversation at once into
another channel.
As they neared the house they met one of the servants hurrying down the
road.
"You are the very person I am looking for, ma'am," he cried,
breathlessly. "There is something the matter with the range, and they
are all in a stew over it, not knowing what to do until you come."
"Good gracious! if I step out of the house for a moment something is
sure to happen," cried the good old lady, despairingly. "Say that I will
be there directly, John;" and much to Iris' relief, she hurriedly left
them.
"Why need we hasten?" said Kendal, in a low voice. "This is the
pleasantest part of the afternoon."
"I am in no hurry," assented the girl.
"We will linger here in this delightful spot, and I will gather you some
autumn leaves," cried Harry. "Would you like that?"
"Yes," she assented; "if you will help me to weave them into garlands."
"Nothing would give me more pleasure," he declared; "that is, if you are
not afraid of the old tradition becoming true."
She looked up into his face, blushing as crimson as the heart of a
deep-red rose.
"I have never heard it," she said. "Do tell me what it is."
"Bye and bye, with your permission, while we are weaving the garlands,"
Harry answered, with a rich, mellow laugh. "If I should tell you
beforehand, you might refuse to accept my services altogether."
"Is it so bad as that?" laughed Iris.
"You had better use the word _good_ instead of bad. The idea would be
more pleasant."
"Not knowing what you are talking about, and not possessing the key to
solve the riddle of your incomprehensible words, I had better make no
further reply, lest I get into deep water," she pouted. "But really you
have aroused my curiosity."
"Well, when we have the first wreath made, then, and not until then,
will I tell you what they say of the youth and maiden who weave autumn
leaves for each other, and together. Come and sit on this mossy ledge. I
will spread my overcoat upon it. It shall be your throne."
"I will be a queen, but where will be my king?" laughed Iris, gayly.
"Your king will come a-wooing all in good time," he answered, his dark
eyes seeking hers with a meaning glance, which the beauty and coquette
understood but too well.
In less time than it takes to tell it, Kendal had gathered about her
heaps of the beautiful, shining leaves.
"Oh, aren't they lovely!" cried Iris, delightedly. "I fairly adore
autumn leaves."
"I did not know that you had such an eye for the beautiful in nature,"
he retorted, rather pleased.
"I adore everything that is handsome," she said, in a low voice,
returning his look of a few moments ago with interest.
An hour flew by on golden wings, and the wreaths grew beneath their
touch.
"Now you look indeed a queen!" cried Harry, raising one gracefully, and
laying it on the girl's dark curls. "You remind me just now of pictures
I have seen of Undine and the woodland nymphs."
"Ah! but Undine had no heart," declared Iris.
"In some respects you are like Undine," he retorted. "She never knew she
had a heart till she was conscious of its loss. Ah, but you do look
bewitching, Miss Vincent--Iris, with that wreath of autumn foliage on
your head, like a crown of dying sunset. When I see the leaves turn in
the autumn, lines that I read somewhere always recur to me:
"'As bathed in blood the trailing vines appear,
While 'round them, soft and low, the wild wind grieves;
The heart of autumn must have broken here,
And poured her treasure out upon the leaves.'"
"What pretty poetry!" sighed Iris. "Why, it seems to me that you have
some beautiful sentiment, set to rhyme, to express almost every thought!
You must love poetry. Does--does Dorothy care for it?"
"No," he returned, in a low voice, and looked away from her with a moody
brow.
"That is strange," mused Iris. "I should think that you would inspire
her with a love for it."
"If it is not in one's soul, how can you expect to find it there," he
retorted, rather bitterly. "No, Dorothy has no love for poetry, flowers,
or birds, nor, in fact, anything that other young girls care for. I
imagine she would quite as soon prefer a garden filled with hollyhocks
and morning-glories to the daintiest flowers that ever bloomed. Alas,
there are few tastes in common between us!"