"What!" she said crisply.
"Suppose I offered you a college finishing, Miss Herold. Would you
accept?"
She slowly grew scarlet under his gaze. "That would be insulting," she
said, in a low voice.
"Why, when only kindness is meant--as I mean it for Jim?"
"It is not the same. I am a grown woman capable of caring for myself.
Such an offer, however kindly meant, could only hurt me, humiliate
me--and--I thought you found me companionable as I am. Friends do not
offer to better each other--in such a way."
"I have not offered it to you, Miss Herold."
She looked up, still flushed and brilliant eyed; then her face changed
softly. "I know it. I was foolishly sensitive. I know you couldn't offer
such a thing to me. But I wish I knew whether we could accept for Jim.
He is such a darling--so intelligent and perfectly crazy for an
education. I've saved a little--that's why I wanted you to hire me for
your bayman. You see I don't spend anything on myself," she added, with
a blush.
Marche was fighting hard for self-restraint; he was young and romantic,
and his heart was very full. "What I'd like to do," he said, "would be
to send Jim to some first-rate school until he is ready for college.
Then I'd like to see him through college, and, if he cared for it, start
him with me in business."
"Oh," she cried softly, "is it possible! Is there--can any man really do
such heavenly things? Have you any idea what you are saying? Do you
realize what you are doing to me--with every word you utter?"
"What am I doing to--to you?" he asked unsteadily.
"Making me your slave," she said, in a low voice, thrilling with
generous passion. "Even for the thought--even if father will not
accept--what you have said to me to-night has put me in your debt
forever. Truly--truly, I know what friendship is, now."
She clasped her hands tightly and said something else, sweetly
incoherent; and, in the starlight, Marche saw the tears sparkling on her
lashes.
With that he sprang nervously to the shore and began to tramp up and
down the shingle, his mind in a whirl, every sense, common or the
contrary, clamoring for finality--urging him to tell her the truth--tell
her that he loved her, that he wanted her--her alone, out of all the
world of women--that it was for love and for her, and for love of her,
that he offered anything, did anything, thought anything now under the
high stars or under the circling sun.
And now, as he tramped savagely to and fro, he realized that he had
begun wrong; that he should have told her he loved her first of all, and
then acted, not promised.
Would she look on his offer scornfully, now? Would she see, in what he
asked of her, a bribe desired for the offer he had made in her brother's
behalf? She did not love him. How could she, in a week? Never had there
been even a hint of sentiment between them. What would she think--this
young girl, so tranquilly confident in her friendship for him--what
would she think of him and his love? He knew there was nothing
mercenary or material in her character; he knew she was young, sweet
tempered, reticent concerning herself, clean hearted, and proud. How
could he come blundering through the boundaries of her friendship with
such an avowal, at a moment's notice?
He returned slowly to the boat and stood looking up at her; and he saw
that she was smiling down at him in the starlight.
"Why did you start off so abruptly and tramp up and down?" she asked.
He looked up at her. "Shall we walk back, now?" he said.
She extended her hands to him, and he swung her to the beach. For a
moment he retained her hands; she looked at him, smiling, thrilling with
all that he had said, meeting his eyes frankly and tenderly.
"You are like some glorious magic prince to me," she said, "appearing
among us here to win our hearts with a word."
"Have I won yours with what I have said?"
"Mine? Oh, don't you know it? Do you think--even if it doesn't come
true--that I can ever forget what you have wished to do for Jim?"
Still holding her hands, he lifted them, joined her fingers, and laid
his lips to them. She bent her head and caught her breath in surprise.
"I am going North to-morrow," he said.
For a moment she did not comprehend his words. Then, a trifle dazed, she
looked up at him. "To-morrow?"
"Yes."
"Are you coming back?"
"Perhaps--next year."
"_Next--year!_"
"Do you--find it--a long time?"
Her straight brows bent inward a little, the startled gray eyes became
clear and steady. "Of course I knew that you must go--some time. But I
had no idea that it would be so soon. Somehow, I have thought of you as
being--here----"
"Do you care?"
Her honest eyes widened. "Care?" she repeated.
"Yes. How greatly do you care?"
The straight brows contracted still more as she stood considering
him--so close that the fresh and subtle youth of her freshened the night
again with its faint perfume.
Again he touched her hands with his lips, she watching him palely, out
of clear, gray eyes; then, as they turned away together, he encircled
her slender waist with his arm.
That she was conscious of it, and not disturbed by it, was part of her
new mystery to him. Only once, as they walked, when his circling clasp
tightened, did she rest her own hand over his where it held her body
imprisoned. But she said nothing; nor had he spoken when the belt of
pines loomed against the stars once more.
Then, though neither had spoken, they stopped. He turned to face her,
drew her into his arms, and the beating of his heart almost suffocated
him as he looked into her eyes, clear, unshrinking eyes of gray, with a
child's question in their starry depths.
And he answered the question as in a dream: "I love you. I want you for
my wife. I want you to love me. You are the first woman I have cared
for. All that you are I want--no more than you are. You, as you are now,
are all that I care for in the world. Life is young for us both, yet.
Let us grow up together--if you can love me. Can you?"
"I don't know."
"Can you not care for me a little, Molly?"
"I do. I know--nothing about--love--real love."
"Can you not imagine it, dear?"
"I--it is what I _have_ imagined--a man--like you--coming this way into
my loneliness. I recognize it. I have dreamed that it was like this.
What is it that I should do--if this is really to come true?"
"Love me."
"I would--if I knew how. I don't know how," she said wistfully. "My
heart is so full--already--of your goodness--I--and then this dream I
have dreamed--that a man like you should come here and say this to
me----"
"Is it in you to love me?"
"I'll try--if you'll tell me what to do--how to show it--to
understand----"
He drew her closer, unresisting, and looked deep into her young eyes,
and kissed them, and then her lips, till they grew warmer and her breath
came fragrant and uneven.
"Can you love me?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Are you sure?"
"Y-yes."
For a moment's exquisite silence she rested her flushed face against his
shoulder, then lifted it, averted, and stepped aside, out of the circle
of his arms. Head lowered, she stood there, motionless in the starlight,
arms hanging straight; then, as he came to her, she lifted her proud
little head and laid both her hands in his.
"Of those things," she said, "that a woman should be to the man she
loves, and say to that man, I am ignorant. Even how to speak to
you--now--I do not know. It is all a dream to me--except that, in my
heart, I know that I do love you. But I think that was so from the
beginning, and after you have gone away I should have realized it some
day."
"You darling!" he whispered. Again she surrendered to him, exquisite in
her ignorance, passive at first, then tremulously responsive. And at
last her head drooped and fell on his shoulder, and he held her for a
little longer, then released her.
Trembling, she crept up the stairway to her room, treading lightly
along the dark entry, dazed, fatigued, with the wonder of it all. Then,
as she laid her hand on the knob of her bedroom door, the door of her
father's room opened abruptly.
"Molly?"
"Yes, dear," she answered vaguely.
He stood staring at her on the threshold, fully dressed, and she looked
back at him, her eyes slightly confused by the light.
"Where have you been?" he said.
"With Mr. Marche."
"Where?"
"To the dory--and back."
"What did he say to you, child?"
She came silently across the threshold and put her arms around his neck;
and the man lost every atom of his color.
"What did he say?" he repeated harshly.
"That he loves me."
"What!"
"It is true, father."
The man held her at arm's length roughly. "Good God!" he groaned, "how
long has this been going on?"
"Only to-night. What do you mean, father?"
[Illustration: "'He tells you that he--he is in love with you?'"]
"He tells you that he--he is in love with you? With _you_?" repeated
Herold unsteadily.
"Yes. It is true, too."
"You mean he asked you to marry him!"
"Yes. And I said I would."
"_You_ love _him_!"
The man's pallor frightened her silent. Then he dropped her arms, which
he had been clutching, and stood staring at nothing, gnawing at his
colorless lips.
The girl watched him with dawning terror and finally ventured to speak.
"Dear, what is the matter? Are you displeased with me? Do you think that
he is not a man I should care for? You don't know him, dear. You have
only to see him, to speak with him, hear his voice, look into his
eyes----"
"Good God!" groaned Herold, closing his sunken eyes. Then, almost
feeling his way out and along the dark passageway, he descended the
stairs, heavily.
Marche, cleaning his gun in the sitting-room, looked up in surprise,
then rose, laying aside stock, fore-end, and barrel, as Herold came into
the room. The next instant, stepping nearer, he stared into Herold's
face in silence. And so they met and confronted each other after many
years.
"Are _you_ Herold?" said the young man, in a low voice.
"That is my name--now."
"_You_ have been in my employment--for five years?"
"Yes. Judge Gilkins gave me the chance. I could not suppose that the
club would ever become your property."
The younger man's face hardened. "But when it did become my property,
why had you the indecency to stay?"
"Where else could I go?"
"You had the whole world to--operate in."
Herold's thin face flushed. "It was fitter that I should work for you,"
he said. "I have served you faithfully for five years."
"And unfaithfully for ten! Wasn't it enough that Vyse and I let you go
without prosecuting you? Wasn't it enough that we pocketed our loss for
your wife's sake?"
He checked himself in a flash of memory, turned, and looked at the
picture on the wall. Now he knew, now he understood why his former
associate's handwriting had seemed familiar after all these years.
And suddenly he remembered that this man was Jim's father--and the
father of the young girl he was in love with; and the shock drove every
drop of blood out of his heart and cheeks. Ghastly, staring, he stood
confronting Herold; and the latter, leaning heavily, shoulder against
the wall, stared back at him.
"I could have gone on working for you," he said, "trying to save enough
to make restitution--some day. I _have_ already saved part of it. Look
at me--look at my children--at the way we live, and you'll understand
how I have saved. But I _have_ saved part of what I took. I'll give you
that much before you go--before I go, too."
His breath came heavily, unevenly; he cleared his eyes with a
work-stained hand, fashioned for pens and ledgers.
"You were abroad when I--did what I did. Vyse was merciless. I told him
I could put it back if he'd give me the chance. But a thief was a thief
to him--particularly when his own pocket was involved. He meant to send
me to prison. The judge held him--he was his father-in-law--and he was
an old man with a wife and children of his own."
Herold was silent for a moment, and his gaze became vague and remote,
then he lifted his head sharply:
"A man makes one slip like that and the world damns him forever. And I
tell you, Marche, that I am not dishonest by nature or in my character.
God alone knows why I took those securities, meaning, of course, to
return them, as all the poor, damned fools do mean when they do what I
did. But Vyse made it a condition that I was to leave the country, and
there was no chance of restitution unless I could remain in New York and
do what I knew how to do--no chance, Marche--and so fortune ebbed, and
my wife died, and the old judge saw me working on the water-front in
Norfolk one day, and gave me this place. That is all."
"Why did you feign illness?" asked Marche, in an altered voice.
"You know why."
"You thought I'd discharge you?"
"Of course."