Barclugh grew impatient and chafed under the uncertainties of his
position. He had restricted all of his business since his illness to
the plot with Arnold and to the establishment of a bank among the
merchants. Arnold was now at West Point and had been joined by his
wife. The latest despatch that Barclugh had in Philadelphia from Andre
was that negotiations had been opened up with Arnold and that he
expected to have the whole matter consummated within a week.
In spite of the apparent serenity of his affairs, he paced the floor by
day and tossed in his bed at night. The thoughts of Mollie Greydon’s
demeanor of late disturbed him.
“She does not enter into conversation with her former frankness and
abandon. There must be some restraining influence at work. I must
have this uncertainty off my mind. I shall go to her to-morrow and
have my mind clear about her love for me. Her time of a month for
the consideration of my proposal will be up in a week, but I cannot
postpone this longer. I must settle the matter to-morrow.”
On the day succeeding his resolution, Barclugh went to Dorminghurst
early in the afternoon and invited Mollie to accompany him on a
horseback ride to the Delaware.
Mollie received her suitor with a gracious smile, as it was perfectly
evident that she admired Mr. Barclugh (for in spite of his despicable
secret mission he was worthy of better things) and the two very soon
were on their way, gayly cantering down the avenue of hemlocks.
The afternoon was one of those sere, autumn days in late October. The
sun shone through a hazy smoke and the air was crisp and bracing. The
smoke curled out of the chimneys, lazily ascending, loath to leave the
environment of its former condition in the fireplace; but the calm
atmosphere allowed the ethereal vapor to hover about the old chimney
and house and to fill the hemlocks with a pungent incense.
This pungency of the smoky atmosphere oppressed Barclugh but to Mollie
it was like a sweet odor. She rattled off small-talk, as, aglow with
her buoyant spirits, she rode her prancing bay.
Barclugh never had such a task to perform as now confronted him. To
broach the subject nearest his heart would cast a gloom over the one
whom he loved better than his own life. As he rode closely to the
side of his companion, he could feel his heart throb violently, and
as he sat stolidly in his saddle, between his monosyllabic answers to
Mollie’s gayety, he thought:
“What ails you, old soul? Are you losing the power of speech? What
a pity to molest the happy life of such a perfect being! But we are
selfish. Yes; her life must be linked with mine. She can make me a
better man. Is it something in the poise of her head? is it something
in the way that she rides her horse? No, it is what she thinks, her
unconscious nobility of soul, that enthralls me.”
“Well, Mr. Barclugh, let us take a spurt on this fine stretch of road.
My Prince is chafing for a dash,” suggested Mollie as she looked up
into her companion’s face, who evidently was in a reverie.
“Good!” exclaimed Barclugh, somewhat startled. “Let’s go!” So he
spurred his horse and as if by magic the two finely-bred steeds
responded to the spirit of their riders and leaped into the air for a
brush.
Barclugh at once was on his mettle. To be challenged for a race by the
one whom he adored was the tonic needed for his soul. The somber spell
that depressed him was gone as he turned and saw Mollie urge on her
steed. She was a daring horse-woman; her mount was peerless. Barclugh
felt the blood mount to his hair as Mollie came up and rode past and
smiled roguishly at her lover as she distanced him.
Mollie reined in and turned around with her face full of animation as
she asked spiritedly:
“How’s that for my Prince, Mr. Barclugh?”
“Splendid! splendid!” exclaimed Barclugh in admiration of the restless
steed and the aristocratic form of Mollie, who, breathing fast, glanced
at her whip with which she struck her habit, for she intuitively felt
the ardor of Barclugh’s gaze and the blood mounted to her cheeks.
Here was the moment for Barclugh to ask the question uppermost in his
mind. But he did not. The power to encroach upon the sacred precincts
of the innermost soul of the one whom a refined nature loves is like
admiring the rose and then tearing up the roots that give it being. A
refined nature pauses at desecration.
Barclugh had offered himself, and Mollie had asked a month to answer.
The gnawings at a man’s heart often lead him through labyrinths of
impatience and indiscretion that are hard to untangle and bring him
into paths that are serene and pure. But on the other hand, it often
happens that the woman withholds her answer to a man’s avowal because
she must satisfy the questionings of a heart that needs more than a
mere avowal to convince her that the man is sincere and thoroughly in
earnest.
However, the exhilaration of the gallop with Mollie had cleared the
cobwebs from Barclugh’s brain. He looked upon Mollie as magnificently
noble and pure. She would certainly answer him at the end of the month
and if then she could not declare herself, he would know that some
further proof of his devotion must be made.
“Yet after all of the fine calculations that one can make,” thought he,
“love thrives without reason.”
Their way now lay through a wooded glen. The horses stepped smartly and
pranced proudly as their nostrils extended out of their classic heads.
“How beautiful this day!” exclaimed Mollie with enthusiasm. “I rejoice
to be here!” as she stroked the arched neck of her steed with her
shapely gloved hand. Mollie rode her horse as though she were mistress
of the situation. Her feminine intuition told her that her lover was
craving to declare his devotion, but she would have despised him for
it. She knew that the ground on which she trod was sacred until the
four weeks had passed. Yet she was fearful lest the promise to Segwuna
could not be kept. Her party was to be held in two days and she was to
dance in the minuet with Mr. Barclugh. She was satisfied as things were.
“What makes you so happy and beautiful this evening, Miss Mollie?”
ventured Barclugh at last.
“I don’t know,” replied Mollie archly.
“May I guess?” queried Barclugh after some reflection.
“Don’t guess. I don’t like guessing,” retorted Mollie impatiently.
“But you _will_ allow me this time?” returned Barclugh in his most
dulcet tones.
“No; I can not,” replied Mollie, as she spurred her horse and started
on a canter, Barclugh following her lead.
“Look! Mr. Barclugh, there is the Delaware!” exclaimed Mollie as she
pointed toward a broad expanse of the river, at the same time looking
at Barclugh with a roguish twinkle in her eyes.
“Confound those four weeks,” thought Barclugh; then he said:
“I don’t see so much in that to rave over. I am interested in better
views. I am interested in you, just now.”
“Nonsense! Mr. Barclugh,” protested Mollie. “You ought to have better
sense,” while she good-naturedly laughed at the evident discomfiture of
her lover.
Barclugh now colored, for he felt sheepish in his awkward position.
In another instant, however, he smiled, himself, and they rode down
the banks of the Delaware discussing pleasantly the beauties of the
landscape.
Barclugh recognized the fact that the fates were against him and
he concluded that the better part of valor was to wait for a more
propitious time. However, something within told him that the present
was his opportunity, for he thought:
“He who hesitates is lost.”
The road now took them over the Wingohocking as the crimson setting
of the sun shone over the rippling water and the autumnal hues of the
landscape mellowed the disappointment in his breast.
When the avenue of hemlocks at Dorminghurst was passed and he led
Mollie from her horse up to the portico, Miss Mollie smiled more than
graciously as she said:
“Now, Mr. Barclugh, I shall depend upon you at my party for the minuet.”
“Thank you, Miss Greydon,” replied Barclugh, bowing very low, “but
don’t forget that I shall claim my answer in another week.”