She sent a note over to Senator North that evening, explaining why she
could not meet him in the morning; but as she rowed Harriet up the
lake, she saw him standing on the accustomed spot. He beckoned
peremptorily, and she pulled over to the shore, wondering if he had not
received her note.
"Will you take me with you?" he asked. "I cannot get a boat, and I
should like to row for you, if you will let me."
He boarded the boat, and Betty meekly surrendered the oars. She sat
opposite him, Harriet in the bow, and he smiled into her puzzled and
disapproving eyes. But he talked of impersonal matters until they had
entered the upper lake, and explained to Harriet the whereabouts of the
farmhouse whence she might be directed to the camp. Harriet had not
parted her lips since she left home. She sprang on shore the moment
Senator North beached the boat, and almost ran up the path.
"Well!" he exclaimed. "Did you suppose that I should allow you to row
through that lane alone? There is no lonelier spot in America; and with
the forest full of negroes--were you mad to think of such a thing?"
"I never thought about it," said Betty, humbly. "I am not very timid."
"I never doubted that you would be heroic in any conditions, but that
is not the question. You must not take such risks. I shall return with
you tonight--"
"And Harriet!" exclaimed Betty, in sudden alarm. "Perhaps we should not
leave her."
"She will be with the crowd. Besides, it is her husband's place to look
after her. I am concerned about you only. And I certainly shall not
permit you to go to a camp-meeting, nor shall I leave you to take care
of her. So put her out of your mind for the present."
And Betty Madison, who had been pleased to regard the world as her
football, surrendered herself to the new delight of the heavy hand. He
re-entered the long water lane in the cleft of the mountain, and she
did not speak for some moments, but his eyes held hers and he knew of
what she was thinking.
"I wonder if you always will do what I tell you," he said at length.
She recovered herself as soon as he spoke.
"Too much power is not good for any man! Nothing would induce me to
assure you that you held my destiny in your hands, even did you!"
His face did not fall. "You are the most spirited woman in America, and
nothing becomes you so much as obedience."
"Nevertheless--"
"Nevertheless, you always will do exactly what I tell you."
"Even if you told me to marry another man?"
"Ah! I never shall tell you to do that. On your head be that
responsibility." He did not attempt to speak lightly. His face
hardened, and his eyes, which could change in spite of their
impenetrable quality, let go their fires for a moment.
"Of course, if you wanted to go, I should make no protest. But so long
as you love me I shall hold you--should, if we ceased to meet. And
whatever you do, don't marry some man suddenly in self-defence. No man
ever loved a woman more than I love you, but you can trust me."
"Ah!" she said with her first moment of bitterness, "you _are_ strong.
And you believe that if you held out your arms to me now, in the depths
of this forest, I would spring to them. I might not stay. I believe, I
hope I never should see you alone again; but-"
"You are deliberately missing the point," he said gravely. "I am not
willing to pay the price of a moment's incomplete happiness. I have
lived too long for that. And I should not have ventured even so far on
dangerous ground," he added more lightly, "if it were not quite
probable that five hundred people are ranging the forest this minute.
We are later than we were yesterday, and they are not at their hymns.
This evening when we return I shall discuss with you the possible age
of the Adirondacks, or tell you one of Cooper's yarns." She leaned
toward him, her breath coming so short for a moment that she could not
speak. Finally, with what voice she could command she said,--
"Then, as we are safe here and you have broken down the reserve for a
moment, let me ask you this: Do you know how much I love you? Do you
guess? Or do you think it merely a girl's romantic fancy--"
"No!" he exclaimed. "No! No!" This time she did not cower before the
passion in his face. She looked at him steadily, although her eyes were
heavy. "Ah!" she said at last. "I am glad you know. It seemed to me a
wicked waste of myself that you should not. And if you do--the rest
does not matter so much. For the matter of that, life is always making
sport of its ultimates. The most perfect dream is the dream that never
comes true."
He did not answer for a moment, but when he did he had recovered
himself completely.
"That is true enough," he said. "We who have lived and thought know
that. But there never was a man so strong as to choose the dream when
Reality cast off her shackles and beckoned. Imagination we regard as a
compensation, not as the supreme gift. The wise never hate it, however,
as the failures so often do. For what it gives let us be as thankful as
the poet in his garret. If we awake in the morning to find rain when we
vividly had anticipated sunshine, it is only the common mind who would
regret the compensation of the dream."