IN CENTRAL PARK
Johnnie burst into the kitchen beaming. "We're gonna p'int for the
hills, Kitty. Clay he's had a letter callin' him home."
"When are you going?"
"Thursday. Ain't that great?"
She nodded, absently. Her mind was on another tack already. "Johnnie,
I'm going to ask Miss Whitford here for dinner to-night."
"Say, you ce'tainly get the best notions, honeybug," he shouted.
"Do you think she'll come?"
"Sure she'll come."
"I'll fix up the bestest dinner ever was, and maybe--"
Her conclusion wandered off into the realm of unvoiced hopes, but her
husband knew what it was as well as it she had phrased it.
When Clay came home that evening he stopped abruptly at the door. The
lady of his dreams was setting the table in the dining-room and
chatting gayly with an invisible Kitty in the kitchen. Johnnie was
hovering about her explaining some snapshots of Clay he had gathered.
"Tha's the ol' horn-toad winnin' the ropin' championship at Tucson. He
sure stepped some that day," the Runt boasted.
The delicate fragrance of the girl's personality went to Clay's head
like wine as he stepped forward and shook hands. To see her engaged in
this intimate household task at his own table quickened his pulse and
sent a glow through him.
"You didn't know you had invited me to dinner, did you?" she said,
little flags a-flutter in her cheeks.
They had a gay dinner, and afterward a pleasant hour before Clay took
her home.
Neither of them was in a hurry. They walked through Central Park in
the kindly darkness, each acutely sensitive to the other's presence.
Her gayety and piquancy had given place to a gentle shyness. Clay let
the burden of conversation fall upon her. He knew that he had come to
his hour of hours and his soul was wrapped in gravity.
She had never before known a man like him, a personality so pungent, so
dynamic. He was master of himself. He ran a clean race. None of his
energy was wasted in futile dissipation. One could not escape from his
strength, and she had already discovered that she did not want to
escape it. If she gave herself to him, it might be for her happiness
or it might not. She must take her chance of that. But it had come to
her that a woman's joy is to follow her heart--and her heart answered
"Here" when he called.
She too sensed what was coming, and the sex instinct in her was on
tiptoe in flight. She was throbbing with excitement. Her whole being
longed to hear what he had to tell her. Yet she dodged for a way of
escape. Silences were too significant, too full-pulsed. She made
herself talk. It did not much matter about what.
"Why didn't you tell us that it was Mr. Bromfield who struck down that
man Collins? Why did you let us think you did it?" she queried.
"Well, folks in New York don't know me. What was the use of gettin'
him in bad?"
"You know that wasn't the reason. You did it because--" She stopped
in the midst of the sentence. It had occurred to her that this subject
was more dangerous even than silence.
"I did it because he was the man you were goin' to marry," he said.
They moved side by side through the shadows. In the faint light he
could make out the fine line of her exquisite throat. After a moment
she spoke. "You're a good friend, Clay. It was a big thing to do. I
don't know anybody else except Dad that would have done it for me."
"You don't know anybody else that loves you as much as I do."
It was out at last, quietly and without any dramatics. A flash of soft
eyes darted at him, then veiled the shining tenderness beneath long
lashes. She paced a little faster, chin up, nerves taut.
"I've had an attack of common sense," he went on, and in his voice was
a strength both audacious and patient. "I thought at first I couldn't
hope to win you because of your fortune and what it had done for you.
Even when I knew you liked me I felt it wouldn't be fair for me to ask
you. I couldn't offer you the advantages you'd had. But I've changed
my mind. I've been watching what money does to yore friends. It makes
them soft. They flutter around like butterflies. They're paupers--a
good many of them--because they don't pay their way. A man's a tramp
if he doesn't saw wood for his breakfast. I don't want you to get like
that, and if you stay here long enough you sure will. It's in my heart
that if you'll come with me we'll live."
In the darkness she made a rustling movement toward him. A little sob
welled up in her throat as her hands lifted to him. "Oh, Clay! I've
fought against it. I didn't want to, but--I love you. Oh, I do love
you!"
He took her lissom young body in his arms. Her lips lifted to his.
Presently they walked forward slowly. Clay had never seen her more
lovely and radiant, though tears still clung to the outskirts of her
joy.
"We're going to live--oh, every how!" she cried to the stars, her
lover's hand in hers.