"Of course, you know it already, but truly, with no exaggeration, as
you stand there now with that western sun for a side light you are the
daintiest thing in Creation. And the same spell-binding eyes! Well, I
knew that night in the dark that you were not a giantess--and that was
about all."
She raised a hand for silence. "That will do, Drowsy. You have covered
the ground."
But Cyrus went on. "And so angelic and pleasantly superior! Why, you
are a temptation to any able-bodied lover to pick you up and run--or
fly--away with you."
She blushed, frowned and laughed, all at the same time. "That will do!
Now I know exactly what I am--and just how childish a man can be. I
believe you are lighter headed than when you were a boy."
"I am telling the truth."
"Telling the truth! Then you have changed, indeed, for that was not
your habit." In sudden alarm she straightened up. "Oh, but you mustn't
be seen here, Drowsy! You must go--at once!"
"Not now? Not this very minute?"
"Yes, this very minute. Men are not allowed here, under any
circumstances. If I were found talking with you it would mean--oh,
anything!"
"What does it matter? You are not going to stay here."
"Stay here? Of course I am!"
"But not long?"
"So long as I live."
"You don't mean that!"
"Why not? I expect to live and die here. We are all very happy and very
thankful."
"You don't mean that you are not coming back to--to Longfields--to me?
You don't really mean what you say? That you are going to stay here
forever?"
"Certainly. Of course. Why not?"
"Then you have changed your mind since this morning--since yesterday."
She looked up into Cyrus's face, puzzled, and disturbed. "Changed my
mind? What do you mean? I really don't understand."
"Are you pretending that you don't know why I am here?"
"Pretending!"
"Any other word that you prefer. Only tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"Do you mean to say that you don't know why I am here?"
"You came to see me, I suppose."
"And you had no idea I was coming?"
"Not the slightest. How could I? I never was more surprised. But it's a
most welcome surprise."
Cyrus closed his eyes and drew a long breath as one who makes an effort
at self control. "I ask just one thing, Ruth. Be honest with me."
"Be honest! Why, Cyrus, what _do_ you mean? Indeed I can only guess at
what's in your mind. You look as if you were angry. You have no right
to be. Aren't you assuming----"
"Oh, don't! Don't do that! At least be frank. Why did you call me
across the water? Just for the pleasure of doing this?"
"Call you? Across the water?"
There was touch of contempt in Cyrus's manner as he replied: "You don't
even know what I mean?"
"On my honor I do not!"
"And you accuse me of not being truthful!"
"Drowsy, listen. This may be our last meeting. Let us not part in this
spirit--through any misunderstanding. Our friendship is too precious
for that, isn't it? I beg you, tell me what you mean by my calling you.
When? How? Do you mean a letter?"
"I mean the message I received last night, and again early this
morning. Through the air--by wireless as it were--in the old way, years
ago, that I often got your messages."
"But I have sent you no message."
"Didn't you even think of me yesterday or this morning?"
"No, I did not. I have thought of you often, and of our old childhood
attachment, but not yesterday nor this morning, nor for several days."
"Perhaps you remember," said Cyrus, speaking slowly, the slumbrous eyes
looking earnestly down into Ruth's, "I used to get messages from you
when we were far apart, even from your house to mine."
"Indeed I do! And it was most mysterious--almost uncanny."
"And they never deceived us?"
"No, never;--as I remember them."
"Well, it was the same sort of message I received last night. It came
to me twice, and the meaning of the message was as clear as any spoken
word. And to this spot it guided me."
He turned and looked about the grounds, beyond the trees and garden,
toward the cloisters and the chapel. "Who but you could call me here?"
Ruth, also, looked toward the convent buildings. "Is it not possible
your own brain may have played you a trick? Such things happen, you
know."
"My brain has not played such tricks. So far it has never deceived me.
To be honest I was not thinking of you at the time. Father's death had
been almost my only thought for weeks."
"What more can I say, Drowsy? I am telling you the truth. And after all
why should I call you? If you are the faithful soul you pretend to be,
why didn't you write me months ago?"
"How could I? I never had your address. And you promised--or almost
promised--to let me have it. I waited, and waited, hoping for
it--wondering in what way it was to come."
She frowned: then, with a solemn movement of the head:
"You did have it."
"I did have it! How on earth could I get it?"
"From Gertrude Page. I told her to mention a letter from me. Then, if
you asked for my address, she would give it to you. But you didn't ask."
Vehemently he protested. "On my honor, Ruth, this is the first I have
heard of it. She never spoke of any letter. And why should she, poor
thing? For nearly a year she has been in the asylum at Worcester."
"You mean her--her mind is affected?"
"Yes;--sort of a nervous breakdown. And her memory gone."
"Oh, how dreadful!"
In the silence that followed, Ruth found the drowsy eyes looking deep
into her own, as if reading her innermost thoughts. She recalled the
singular power he had exercised as a boy--of seeing into other people's
minds, apparently without effort, and answering questions before they
were asked. At this present moment she had reasons for keeping her own
thoughts to herself. She avoided his gaze, and looked away, over the
water, toward the west. Too late, it seemed, for he said, quietly:
"It would have been fairer to me if you had sent it."
"Sent what?"
"The second letter, the one you wrote to somebody else."
Ruth's little figure stiffened. Color flew to her cheeks, and there
were signs of anger as she faced him.
"How do you know I wrote a second letter?"
Taken aback by this sudden change of manner, he hesitated, then he
smiled, but with an obvious effort. And the smile was not of mirth.
It was a smile of the joyless type, often employed to carry favor.
"Why--I--er--I don't know exactly."
"Yes you do know. You pried into my thoughts. It's your old trick. And
a hateful habit."
"I am sorry, Ruth. I know it's a hateful habit."
"Then why do you do it?"
"I don't do it. I didn't mean to do it then. It's not a habit any more.
Years ago I gave it up. But now, I was so anxious, so very anxious to
know your real thoughts--to know if you really had no love for me at
all--that I couldn't resist. I swear I will not do it again. Truly I
almost never do it. But now, at the critical moment of my life, when
it's a matter of life or death, the temptation was too great."
"It's an exasperating, dishonorable trick, and I don't like it."
"I am sorry, Ruth. Please forgive me."
"And you are very much mistaken if you think any woman with a
particle of pride is going to marry a man who can spy into her secret
thoughts--and merely by staring at her."
Her eyes still avoided him. She looked over the garden, toward the
cloisters, anywhere except at his face. When she spoke again, however,
there was more sympathy in her voice. "But that doesn't matter. It has
always been my intention to remain here."
"You don't really mean it?"
"Indeed I do! It is no sudden decision. I am very happy here."
He turned partly away, and said nothing. She glanced at his face, and
its expression would have softened the Rock of Ages. There was no doubt
of his sincerity; nor of his silent agony beneath the blow he had just
received. No words were uttered. He simply stood and gazed--at nothing.
Across the garden, from the open windows of the central building, came
the sound of a harp. It came faintly, a gentle, plaintive melody, all
in harmony with the murmur of the fountain, the fading glories in the
west--and an aching heart. The voice of the harp may have had its
effect on Ruth. As she looked up at the face of Cyrus, with its misery,
she began to feel the old-time sympathy of their childhood; the long
forgotten sense of responsibility for his welfare when she was mother
and sister to him, with the woman's love he had missed as a boy; also
his chosen pal;--his adored and trusted playmate. She felt again the
yearning to keep him out of trouble. His distress brought an almost
equal suffering to herself. But when he turned his eyes again to her
face she was--apparently--still studying the cloisters.
"Is this really the end?" He spoke in a lower, unsteady voice. "Do you
really mean that our boy and girl days, our old affection, all those
memories--and you don't know how much they have meant to me--always,
always--through everything--you don't really mean--all that is--is
just--nothing? That I am no more to you than anybody else?"
The heart in Ruth's little body beat so loud--it seemed to her--that
a man could hear it. She tried hard to blink away the moisture in her
eyes as they rested on various objects, but not on the face of Cyrus.
"You will get over it, Drowsy. I feel it, in another way, as much as
you do. Please don't talk about it. And you really must go. A man's
presence here--and alone with me--would be very hard to explain. Please
go--for my sake!"
Cyrus closed his eyes and drew a hand, slowly, across his forehead.
Then, instead of the protest she expected, he straightened up in a
sudden agitation, laid his hand on her arm and pointed toward the
convent buildings.
The voice of a woman, singing, came floating across the silent garden.
"What is that?" he whispered.
Also in a lower tone Ruth answered: "That is Sister Francesca,
singing. She has a heavenly voice."
"What is she singing?"
"An old Hungarian song. A mother's prayer for her child. She often
sings it. And nothing could be more beautiful."
"Sister Francesca!" he exclaimed, but in a solemn whisper. He
remembered his father's dying words.
"A famous singer," Ruth explained. "All the world has heard of her. She
was never a mother but she sings this song with all the feeling and
the----"
He did not hear the end of the sentence. He had started in the
direction of the song, across the garden.
"Stop! Stop! Cyrus, stop. You don't know what you are doing!"
But he paid no attention. Again she called. She entreated, then
commanded. Still he paid no attention. And he walked so fast that she
stopped and stood still in helpless terror. She could only guess at
what this humiliating misadventure might signify to the other sisters.
On second thought she followed, but with the courage of despair. The
catastrophe was at hand, and she would face it. As for Cyrus, he heard
her not. He heard only the song. He heard only the woman singing--the
voice and the song that had come to him beneath the stars, at
Longfields!
At last he stopped. And when he stopped he was standing upon a stone
terrace, where high arched windows reached the floor, their heavy
casements now wide open.
There he stood, and listened.
Although a lover of music, and keenly sensitive to its charm, this
prayer affected him beyond any other song. Its pathos, with the divine
voice that had thrilled the world, reached deeper than his emotions.
Into his very soul it sank. It seemed to open the doors of memory--the
memory of things long forgotten; things almost of another life.
Under a spell he listened, and the spell was intensified by the scene
about him,--an enchanted garden high above the world. Against the gold
and crimson in the West stood the statues at the garden's edge, their
purple shadows reaching almost to the terrace. With the warm, soft
light that enveloped all things came a peace and a beauty that were
more of paradise than of earth. And, as if to complete the illusion
of the upper realms, the voice of the singer seemed to lift him yet
further from the world of common things. Between this voice and his
spiritual self came a new born harmony. It came to him as a message
between two hearts, wafted across a gulf of years. The message it
brought was intimate, for him alone. To the voice itself, a tendril of
love, all the chords of his own heart were vibrating. Some mysterious
power reawakened elusive but imperishable bonds between itself and him.
He closed his eyes, shut out the world about him, and his soul and the
soul of the singer were one.
[Illustration]