HE came every day; and every day, at sundown, she sat sewing by the
window behind her heliotrope and mignonette waiting.
Sometimes he caught perch and dace and chub, and she accepted half, never
more. Sometimes he caught nothing; and then her clear, humorous eyes
bantered him, and sometimes she even rallied him. For it had come to pass
in these sunset moments that she was learning to permit herself a
friendliness and a confidence for him which was very pleasant to her
while it lasted, but, after he had gone, left her with soft lips drooping
and gaze remote.
Because matters with her, with them both, she feared, were not tending
in the right direction. It was not well for her to see him every
day--well enough for him, perhaps, but not for her.
Some day--some sunset evening, with the West flecked gold and the zenith
stained with pink, and the pink-throated bird singing of Paradise, and
the brook talking in golden tones to its pebbles--some such moment at the
end of day she would end all of their days for them both--all of their
days for all time.
But not just yet; she had been silent so long, waiting, hoping, trusting,
biding her time, that to her his voice and her own at eventide was a
happiness yet too new to destroy.
That evening, as he stood at her window, the barrier of mignonette
fragrant between them, he said rather abruptly:
"Are you ill?"
"No," she said startled.
"Oh, I am relieved."
"Why did you ask?"
"Because every Tuesday I have seen the doctor from Moss Centre come in
here."
In flushed silence she turned to her table and, folding her hands, gazed
steadily at nothing.
Marque looked at her, then looked away. The big, handsome young physician
from Moss Centre had been worrying him for a long while now, but he
repeated, half to himself: "I am very much relieved. I was becoming a
little anxious--he came so regularly."
"He is a friend," she said, not looking at him.
He forced a smile. "Well, then, there is no reason for me to worry about
you."
"There never was any reason--was there?"
"No, no reason."
"You don't say it cheerfully, Mr. Marque. You speak as though it might
have been a pleasure for you to worry over my general health and
welfare."
"I think of little else," he said.
There was a silence. Between them, along the barrier of heliotrope and
mignonette, the little dusk moths came hovering on misty wings; the sun
had set, but the zenith was bright crimson. Perhaps it was the reflection
from that high radiance that seemed to tint her face with a softer
carmine.
She looked out into the West across the stream, thinking now that for
them both the end of things was drawing very near. And, to meet fate half
way with serenity--nay, to greet destiny while still far off, with a
smile, she unconsciously straightened in her chair and lifted her proud
little head.
"Lord Marque," she said quietly, "why do you not go back to England?"
For a moment what she had said held no meaning for him. Then
comprehension smote him like lightning; and, thunderstruck, he remained
as he was without moving a muscle, still resting against her window-sill,
his lean, sun-browned face illuminated under the zenith's fiery glory.
"Who are you?" he said, under his breath.
"Only an English girl who happened to have seen you in London."
"When?"
She turned deliberately and, resting one arm across the back of her
chair, looked him steadily in the eyes.
"I am twenty-five. Since I was twenty your face has been familiar to
me."
They exchanged a long and intent gaze.
"I never before saw you," he said.
"Perhaps."
"_Have_ I?"
"Who can know what a fashionable young man really looks at--through a
monocle."
"I don't wear it any more. I lost it out West," he said, reddening.
"You lost your top hat once, too," she said.
He grew red as fire.
"So you've heard of that, too?"
"I saw it."
"You! Saw me attacked?" he demanded angrily, while the shame burnt hotter
on his cheeks.
"Yes. You ran like the devil."
For a moment he remained mute and furious; then shrugged: "What was I to
do?"
"Run," she admitted. "It was the only way."