Keene appeared to encourage their companionship. He watched them curiously, sometimes, not as if he were jealous, but rather as if he were interested in some delicate experiment. At other times he would be singularly indifferent to everything, remote, abstracted, forgetful.
Dorothy's birthday, which fell in mid-October, was kept as a holiday. In the morning everyone had some little birthday gift for her, except Keene. He had forgotten the birthday entirely. The shadow of disappointment that quenched the brightness of her face was pitiful. Even he could not be blind to it. He flushed as if surprised, and hesitated a moment, evidently in conflict with himself. Then a look of shame and regret came into his eyes. He made some excuse for not going with us to the picnic, at the Black Brook Falls, with which the day was celebrated. In the afternoon, as we all sat around the camp-fire, he came swinging through the woods with his long, swift stride, and going at once to Dorothy laid a little brooch of pearl and opal in her hand.
"Will you forgive me?" he said. "I hope this is not too late. But I lost the train back from Newburg and walked home.
I pray that you may never know any tears but pearls, and that there may be nothing changeable about you but the opal.""Oh, Edward!" she cried, "how beautiful! Thank you a thousand times. But I wish you had been with us all day. We have missed you so much!"For the rest of that day simplicity and clearness and joy came back to us. Keene was at his best, a leader of friendly merriment, a master of good-fellowship, a prince of delicate chivalry. Dorothy's loveliness unfolded like a flower in the sun.
But the Indian summer of peace was brief. It was hardly a week before Keene's old moods returned, darker and stranger than ever. The girl's unconcealable bewilderment, her sense of wounded loyalty and baffled anxiety, her still look of hurt and wondering tenderness, increased from day to day. John Graham's temper seemed to change, suddenly and completely.
From the best-humoured and most careless fellow in the world, he became silent, thoughtful, irritable toward everyone except Dorothy. With Keene he was curt and impatient, avoiding him as much as possible, and when they were together, evidently struggling to keep down a deep dislike and rising anger. They had had sharp words when they were alone, I was sure, but Keene's coolness seemed to grow with Graham's heat. There was no open quarrel.
One Saturday evening, Graham came to me. "You have seen what is going on here?" he said.
"Something, at least," I answered, "and I am very sorry for it. But I don't quite understand it.""Well, I do; and I'm going to put an end to it. I'm going to have it out with Ned Keene. He is breaking her heart.""But are you the right one to take the matter up?""Who else is there to do it?"
"Her father."
"He sees nothing, comprehends nothing. 'Practical type--poetic type--misunderstandings sure to arise--come together after a while each supply the other's deficiencies.'
Cursed folly! And the girl so unhappy that she can't tell anyone. It shall not go on, I say. Keene is out on the road now, taking one of his infernal walks. I'm going to meet him.""I'm afraid it will make trouble. Let me go with you.""The trouble is made. Come if you like. I'm going now."The night lay heavy upon the forest. Where the road dipped through the valley we could hardly see a rod ahead of us. But higher up where the way curved around the breast of the mountain, the woods were thin on the left, and on the right a sheer precipice fell away to the gorge of the brook.
In the dim starlight we saw Keene striding toward us. Graham stepped out to meet him.
"Where have you been, Ned Keene?" he cried. The cry was a challenge. Keene lifted his head and stood still. Then he laughed and took a step forward.
"Taking a long walk, Jack Graham,," he answered. "It was glorious. You should have been with me. But why this sudden question?""Because your long walk is a pretence. You are playing false.
There is some woman that you go to see at West Point, at Highland Falls, who knows where?"Keene laughed again.
"Certainly you don't know, my dear fellow; and neither do I. Since when has walking become a vice in your estimation?
You seem to be in a fierce mood. What's the matter?""I will tell you what's the matter. You have been acting like a brute to the girl you profess to love.""Plain words! But between friends frankness is best. Did she ask you to tell me?""No! You know too well she would die before she would speak. You are killing her, that is what you are doing with your devilish moods and mysteries. You must stop. Do you hear? You must give her up.""I hear well enough, and it sounds like a word for her and two for yourself. Is that it?""Damn you," cried the younger man, "let the words go!
we'll settle it this way"----and he sprang at the other's throat.
Keene, cool and well-braced, met him with a heavy blow in the chest. He recoiled, and I rushed between them, holding Graham back, and pleading for self-control. As we stood thus, panting and confused, on the edge of the cliff, a singing voice floated up to us from the shadows across the valley. It was Herrick's song again:
A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free Is in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.
"Come, gentlemen," I cried, "this is folly, sheer madness.
You can never deal with the matter in this way. Think of the girl who is singing down yonder. What would happen to her, what would she suffer, from scandal, from her own feelings, if either of you should be killed, or even seriously hurt by the other? There must be no quarrel between you.""Certainly," said Keene, whose poise, if shaken at all, had returned, "certainly, you are right. It is not of my seeking, nor shall I be the one to keep it up. I am willing to let it pass. It is but a small matter at most."I turned to Graham--"And you?"
He hesitated a little, and then said, doggedly "On one condition.""And that is?"
