Did he observe the quiver of her lips? Perhaps so. Still, no one would
have known it as he stood there, swinging his hunting-crop like a
pendulum from one finger.
And she--well, the quiver did not last long, and with a little laugh and
shrug she continued: "I suppose most pleasant times come to an end, and
perhaps it is better that they should come too soon than too late. But,
Mr. Mordaunt, we must be going--that is, if we are to be in time for the
meet."
"Where is it to be?"
"At Farmingdale, and that is twelve miles away."
Together they walked down the wide corridor, and many an admiring glance
was bestowed upon them as they passed, and many an insinuating wink and
shrug was given as soon as their backs were turned.
Together they passed through the hotel door on to the terrace and down
the steps--those same steps upon which Jack Mordaunt had sat just three
weeks ago and watched her drive away. There was the same trap waiting,
the same diminutive-looking groom standing at the horse's head. He
helped her in, a trifle more tenderly, perhaps, than was absolutely
necessary. Then he mounted to the seat beside her, and away they drove,
the groom behind hanging on as by his eyelids.
All during those twelve miles they talked together of anything and
everything, save on the one subject which was uppermost in their minds.
Religiously they abstained from discussing themselves, and yet they knew
that sooner or later that subject would have to be broached.
Instinctively, however, they both avoided it, as if in their hearts
they knew that from it no good could come.
At Farmingdale, as they drove into the stable-yard behind the little
country tavern, all thoughts but of the hunt were banished, at least for
the moment. They were both too keen about the sport not to feel their
pulses quicken at the familiar scene and sounds.
All the hunters had been sent over in the morning, and stood ready in
the adjoining stalls and sheds; grooms were taking off and folding
blankets, tightening girths and straps preparatory to the start. In the
middle of the stable-yard, O'Rourke, the first whip, was struggling with
all his might and main to get into his pink coat, which had grown a
trifle tight, and was giving the finishing touches to his toilet, gazing
at himself in a broken piece of looking-glass that a friendly groom was
patiently holding up before him.
Gentlemen and grooms were going and coming, giving and receiving their
final instructions. The baying of the hounds, and the dashes here and
there of color from pink coats, all went to make up a most charming and
exhilarating picture.
Into the midst of this noise and bustle came Miss Easton and Jack. The
groom scrambled down from his perch, and the two got out. In an instant
she was surrounded by three or four men, all talking at the same time
and upon the same subject: "Was not the day superb?" "Did she know which
way the hounds were to run?" "Was she going to ride Midnight?" "What a
beauty he was!" and a great deal more of the same kind.
She was gracious to all, and when at last Jack returned, followed by a
groom leading her horse, not one man of that group but felt that Miss
Easton was simply charming, and any one who married her was indeed in
luck.
Jack stood aside to let young Martin give her a lift into the saddle,
and watched him somewhat wistfully as he arranged her straps and skirt.
At the final call every one sought his horse, mounted, and away they
went, chattering and laughing.
The run was one of the best of the season, and after it was over Jack
found himself riding by Miss Easton on their homeward journey.
Perhaps the others had ridden quite fast, or perchance these two had
gone at a snail's pace, but when half-way home they looked about them
and found that they were alone.
As far as the eye could reach along the wooded road no living thing was
to be seen. The sun was setting like a globe of fire, and the red shafts
of light penetrated between the straight trunks of the tall trees,
bringing them out black against the evening sky, while the soft breeze
moaned through their branches laden with the odors of hemlock and pine.
And this was the end. Another twenty minutes and the hotel would loom up
before them, and the little farce, comedy, or tragedy, whichever it
might be, would be finished. The curtain would fall, and the two
principal actors would disappear.
No art could have given a finer setting to this the last act.
Neither cared to break the spell, and so they rode in silence until it
seemed as if the intense stillness could no longer be borne. It was she
who first spoke:
"And so it is really good-by?"
For a long time he did not answer, but gazed steadily ahead of him,
looking into space.
"Yes," he said at length, "it is good-by; and it were better had it been
good-by three weeks ago."
"Why?"
He gave a little start, merely repeating the word after her in a queer
absent-minded way.
"Yes, why?"
"Oh, I don't know."
Again silence fell upon them both.
"Violet," it was the first time he had ever used that name.
Violet Easton turned in her saddle and looked straight at him, trying to
read something in those dreamy eyes. He met her gaze quietly.
"Why do you call me Violet?"
"Because--because--" He drew in his breath sharply, and hesitated.
"Because--" and she looked inquiringly in his face.
"Don't ask me; please don't ask me. I believe I am mad."
Again she let her eyes rest upon him with the same earnest look of
inquiry.
He turned away, and gazed absently into the trees and underbrush.
In a few minutes she again spoke. "Is this all you have to say,
especially--especially"--and she paused a moment as if searching for a
word--"if this is the end?"
Again he turned and looked at her. Their horses were now walking side by
side, and very close; one ungloved hand lay upon her knee.
He leaned over and took it, and attempted to draw her towards him.
"No, no, not that; please not that."
"Why?"
"Can't you see--can't you understand? You and I are going to part--this
very night, in fact, and--and--Oh, please do not."
He paid little heed to what she was saying, but drew her closer to him.
The blood rushed to her cheeks, suffusing them with a deep red glow.
Nearer and nearer he drew her, until, half-resisting, half-willing, her
lips met his. It was but for an instant, and then all was over. She drew
herself away from him, and the blood faded from her face until it was
very white. Two tears welled up into her big blue eyes, overflowed, and
ran down her cheeks.
"Oh, why did you do it? Otherwise we might have remained friends. But
now," and she looked him fair in the face, while her words came slowly
and distinctly, "you belong to me, for you are the only man that has
ever kissed my lips."
A little shiver passed over Jack as he heard her speak. He could find no
explanation for the feeling.
The next day Miss Easton found on her plate at breakfast a big bunch of
red roses. Attached to them was a card, and on it the single word
"Adieu!"