"Then," said Hetty, "you will recognize this."
The chords rang under her fingers until they swelled into confused and
conflicting harmonies that clashed and jarred upon the theme. Their burden
was strife and struggle and the anguish of strain, until at last, in the
high clear note of victory, the theme rose supreme.
"Yes," said Flora Schuyler, "we know that. We heard it with the Kaiser in
Berlin. Only one man could have written it; but his own countrymen could
not play it better than you do. A little overwhelming. How did you get
down to the spirit of it, Hetty?"
Lights were brought in just then, and they showed that the girl's face was
a trifle paler than usual, as closing the piano, she turned, with a little
laugh, upon the music-stool.
"Oh!" she said, "I don't quite know, and until to-night it always cheated
me. I got it at the depot--no, I didn't. It was there I felt the marching,
and Larry brought the prairie back to me; but I couldn't have seen what
was in the last music, because it hasn't happened yet."
"It will come?" said Flora.
"Yes," said Hetty, "wherever those weary men are going to."
"And to every one of us," said Cheyne, with a curious graveness they
afterwards remembered. "That is, the stress and strain--it is the triumph
at the end of it only the few attain."
Once more there was silence, and it was a relief when the unemotional Mrs.
Schuyler rose.
"Now," she said, and her voice, at least, had in it the twang of the
country, "you young folks have been solemn quite long enough. Can't you
talk something kind of lively?"
They did what they could, and--for Cheyne could on occasion display a
polished wit--light laughter filled the room, until Caroline Schuyler,
perhaps not without a motive, suggested a stroll on the lawn. If there was
dew upon the grass none of them heeded it, and it was but seldom anyone
enjoyed the privilege of pacing that sod when Mr. Schuyler was at home.
Every foot had cost him many dollars, and it remained but an imperfect
imitation of an English lawn. There was on the one side a fringe of
maples, and it was perhaps by Mrs. Schuyler's contrivance that eventually
Hetty found herself alone with Cheyne in their deeper shadow. It was not,
however, a surprise to her, for she had seen the man's desire and tacitly
fallen in with it. Miss Torrance had discovered that one seldom gains
anything by endeavouring to avoid the inevitable.
"Hetty," he said quietly, "I think you know why I have come to-night?"
The girl stood very still and silent for a space of seconds, and
afterwards wondered whether she made the decision then, or what she had
seen and heard since she entered the depot had formed it for her.
"Yes," she said slowly. "I am so sorry!"
Cheyne laid his hand upon her arm, and his voice trembled a little. "Don't
be too hasty, Hetty," he said. "I would not ask you for very much just
now, but I had ventured to fancy you could in time grow fond of me. I know
I should have waited, but I am going away to-morrow, and I only want you
to give me a promise to take away with me."
It was with a visible effort the girl lifted her head and looked at him.
"I feel horribly mean, Jake, but I can't," she said. "I ought to have made
you realize that long ago, but I liked you, and, you see, I didn't quite
know. I thought if I waited a little I might be more sure of what I felt
for you!"
"Then," said the man, a trifle hoarsely, "give me what you can now and I
will be patient."
Hetty turned half way from him and closed one hand. The man was pleasant
to look upon, in character and disposition all she could desire, and she
had found a curious content in his company. Had that day passed as other
days had done, she might have yielded to him, but she had been stirred to
the depths of her nature during the last few hours, and Flora Schuyler's
warning had been opportune. She had, as she had told him, a liking for
Jackson Cheyne, but that, she saw very clearly now, was insufficient.
Destiny had sent Larry Grant, with the associations that clung about him,
into the depot.
"No," she said, with a little tremble in her voice, "it wouldn't be honest
or fair to you. I am not half good enough for you."
The man smiled somewhat mirthlessly, but his voice was reproachful. "You
always speak the truth, Hetty. My dear, knowing what the best of us are, I
wonder how I dared to venture to ask you to share your life with me."
Hetty checked him with a little gesture. "Can't you understand?" she said.
"The girl who sang to you now and then isn't me. I am selfish,
discontented, and shallow, and if you hadn't heard me sing or play you
would never have thought of me. There are people who sing divinely, and
are--you see, I have met them with the mask off--just horrible."
"Hetty," said Cheyne, "I can't allow anyone to malign you, even if it's
yourself, and if you have any faults, my dear, I'll take them with the
rest. In fact, I would be glad of one or two. They would only bring you a
little nearer to me."
The girl lifted her hand and silenced him. "Jake," she said appealingly,
"please take your answer and go away. If I could only be fond of you in
the right way I would, but I can't, you see. It is not my fault--it isn't
in me."
The man recognized the finality in her tone, but, feeling that it was
useless, made a last endeavour.
"I'm going away to-morrow," he said. "You might think differently when I
come back again."
The girl's voice quivered a little. "No," she said. "I have to be
straightforward now, and I know you will try to make it easier for me,
even if I'm hurting you. It's no use. I shall think the same, and by and
by you'll get over this fancy, and wonder what you ever saw in me."
The man smiled curiously. "I am afraid it will take me a lifetime," he
said.
In another moment he had gone, and Hetty turned, a trifle flushed in face,
towards the house across the lawn.
"He took it very well--and I shall never find anyone half so nice again,"
she said.
It was half an hour later, and Miss Torrance had recovered at least her
outward serenity, when one of Mrs. Schuyler's neighbours arrived. She
brought one or two young women, and a man, with her. The latter she
presented to Mrs. Schuyler.
"Mr. Reginald Clavering," she said. "He's from the prairie where Miss
Torrance's father lives, and is staying a day or two with us. When I heard
he knew Hetty I ventured to bring him over."
Mrs. Schuyler expressed her pleasure, and--for they had gone back to the
lighted room now--Hetty presently found herself seated face to face with
the stranger. He was a tall, well-favoured man, slender, and lithe in
movement, with dark eyes and hair, and a slightly sallow face that
suggested that he was from the South. It also seemed fitting that he was
immaculately dressed, for there was a curious gracefulness about him that
still had in it a trace of insolence. No one would have mistaken him for a
Northerner.
"It was only an hour ago I found we were so near, and I insisted upon
coming across at once," he said. "You have changed a good deal since you
left the prairie."
"Yes," said the girl drily. "Is it very astonishing? You see, we don't
spend half our time on horseback here. You didn't expect to find me a
sharp-tongued Amazon still?"
Clavering laughed as he looked at her, but the approval of what he saw was
a trifle too evident in his black eyes.
"Well," he said languidly, "you were our Princess then, and there was only
one of your subjects' homage you never took kindly to. That was rough on
him, because he was at least as devoted as the rest."
"That," said the girl, with a trace of acerbity, "was because he tried to
patronize me. Even if I haven't the right to it, I like respect."
Clavering made a little gesture, and the deference in it was at least half
sincere. "You command it, and I must try to make amends. Now, don't you
want to hear about your father and the Range?"
"No," said Hetty. "I had a talk with Larry to-day."
"In New York?"
"Yes. At the depot. He is going back to-morrow. You seem astonished?"