ONE PROBLEM SOLVED
The dusk was cool and soft. Below him the current gurgled against the
piers with sounds as though the river's fairies laughed there in the
gloom. Doves nestled against the rafters of the bridge above, stirring
with tired murmurings.
When he came out under the stars he saw the red eyes of Dennis
Kavanagh's house. The sight of them put the peace of the sky and fields
out of his heart. He spurred his horse and galloped up the hill.
Even as Thelismer Thornton found true haven on his porch in the summer
evening, so Dennis Kavanagh had his solace in his own domain, smoking
his pipe. He sat there when Harlan swung close to the steps.
"Mr. Kavanagh," said the young man, sternly, "I am Harlan Thornton. Do
you know any ill of me?"
"I know that you're old Land-Grabber Thornton's grandson! I also know
that you have shaken him in politics until his old teeth rattled. And
I'm much obliged to you!"
"I'm not here to talk about politics or my grandfather. I'm here on my
own account. You know where your own daughter is. I've come to ask you
honorably and fairly where she is. Will you tell me?"
Mr. Kavanagh was silent a long time. He seemed to be struggling with
some kind of surprise.
"No, I'll not tell you," he declared at last.
"Then I want to tell _you_ something, sir. I love your daughter. I love
her so honestly--so devotedly that I propose to search for her through
this world. And when I find her--" he hesitated.
"If you find her?"
"I stopped because I do not want to threaten or boast. But I will say,
Mr. Kavanagh, that when I find her I'll beg of her to be my wife, and if
she consents I promise you that no two sour old men are going to spoil
our happiness! I want a fair understanding with you."
"Queer notions you have of a fair understanding," retorted Mr. Kavanagh.
"You'd call it a fair understanding, would you, to come here and tell me
to get off my own doorstep because you claimed the place?"
"I mean that no man has the right to refuse happiness to his own or to
others simply to curry his own personal spite. That's all, sir."
He whirled his horse and galloped away. He halted at the church, threw
the reins over the animal's head and went and sat on the steps. He
wanted to think. He wanted to calm himself. He hoped that the place
would console him with its memories, afford him some hope, some
suggestion.
He wondered now why he had allowed anything to delay that search. Yet he
understood vaguely that she had hidden herself from him by her own
choice. She had fled with wounded heart. He had not dared to seek her
too eagerly.
The red eyes of Kavanagh's house mocked him.
Suddenly he started up. A figure, flitting and wraith-like, was coming
toward him from those eyes. It was running. He could hear the swift
patter of feet. She came straight to him where he stood; he had not
dared to run toward her.
"I heard--I followed!" she gasped, and the next moment was sobbing in
his arms.
All his talk to her for a long time was incoherent babbling of love and
remorse. Then he held her close.
"Little girl," he said, "I've learned in the world outside. I've learned
many things. But this--this I've learned bitterly and forever! There's
love of fame and of power and of mere beauty--but there's only one love
after all--that's the love that gives all, is all--that's my love for
you and the love I think you have for me. It is ours--that love. Oh, my
sweetheart, how we will cherish it all the years through!"
After a time he drew her down on the steps and they sat in silence
through long minutes, listening to the muted calling of the crickets in
the grasses, the rustle of the river current, all the soft noises of the
summer night.
Then he bethought himself and drew Madeleine Presson's letter from his
pocket. He gave it to her with a word of explanation.
Looking into his eyes, her own eyes brilliant as stars, she slowly tore
the letter to bits and scattered the snowy fragments upon the grass.
"A woman does know," she said; "knows without reading what some other
woman writes. I do not need her words, Big Boy. I know of my own heart.
I knew long ago. I listened too readily to others. I have listened to my
own love since. I have been waiting for you to come."
After another silence which needed no words to interpret it, he rose and
lifted her to her feet. With his arm about her he walked to his horse.
He mounted and drew her up, and she clung to him, as maid to knight.
"So, to your father now," he told her.
"But not to speak to him harshly," she said, a ripple of merriment in
her voice, "for I'll tell you a secret. He did not try to stop me when I
ran away--he even called after me, 'He's turned in at the church, you
wild banshee!' They have told him things that have given him new
respect for Harlan Thornton. But your grandfather?"
"He has learned that my love is my own affair, along with my politics."
"Let me do my part, Harlan," she said, proudly. "Love will light the
waiting, and it will not seem waiting. When I take my place at your side
he shall not be able to say that I am not the wife for you."
"It's enough for me to-night that I love you and you love me. The years
must take care of themselves. Love will mark off the calendar for us,
little sweetheart, not in months or in years, but in one dear summer of
waiting that will make work worth while and life worth living."
He patted the horse's neck and they went slowly up the road toward the
Kavanagh house, their arms about each other, the gracious dusk hiding
them. Life's future hid its problem. Love's present was enough.
THE END