"It is such a little way, let us walk," she replied, and then with a laugh she offered an explanation of her presence."I wrote twice, but I had no answer," she said; "then I decided to come, and telegraphed, but they handed me my telegram and my last letter at the cross-roads.Can something have happened, do you think? or is it merely carelessness that keeps them from sending for the mail?""I hardly know; but they are all alive, at least.You have come straight from--where?""From abroad.I lived there for six years, first in one place, then in another--chiefly in Italy.My husband died eighteen months ago, but I stayed on with his people.It seemed then that they needed me most, but one can never tell, and I may have made a mistake in not coming home sooner.""I think you did," he said quietly, running the end of his long whip through his fingers.
She flashed a disturbed glance at him.
"Is it possible that you are keeping something from me? Is any one ill?""Not that I have heard of, but I never see any of them, you know, except your brother.""And he is married.They told me so at the cross-roads.I can't understand why they did not let me know.""It was very sudden--they went to Washington.""How queer! Who is the girl, I wonder?"
"Her name was Molly Peterkin--old Sol's daughter; you may remember him."She shook her head."No; I've lived here so little, you see.What is she like?""A beauty, with blue eyes and yellow hair.""Indeed? And are they happy?" He laughed."They are in love--or were, six months ago.""You are cynical.But do they live at the Hall?""Not yet.Your grandfather has not spoken to Will since the marriage, and that was last August.""Where, under heaven, do they live, then?""On a little farm he has given them adjoining Sol's.I believe he means that they shall raise tobacco for a living."She made a gesture of distress."Oh, I ought to have come home long ago!""What difference would that have made: you could have done nothing.A thunderbolt falling at his feet doesn't sober a man when he is in love.""I might have helped--one never knows.At least I should have been at my post, for, after all, the ties of blood are the strongest claims we have.""Why should they be?" he questioned, with sudden bitterness."You are more like that swallow flying up there than you are like any Fletcher that ever lived."She smiled."I thought so once," she answered, "but now I know better.The likeness must be there, and I am going to find it.""You will never find it," he insisted, "for there is nothing of them in you--nothing.""You don't like them, I remember."
"Nor do you."
A laugh broke from her and humour rippled in her eyes.
"So you still persist in the truth, and in the plain truth!" she exclaimed.
"Then it is so, you confess it?"
"No, no, no," she protested."Why, I love them all--all, do you hear, and I love Will more than the rest of them put together."He looked away from her, and then, turning, waited for the oxen to reach the summit of the hill.
"You'd better get in now, I think," he said; "there is a long walk ahead of us, and if my team is slow it is sure also."As he brought the oxen to a halt, she laid her hand for an instant on his arm, and, mounting lightly upon the wheel, stepped into the cart.
"Now give me Agag," she said, and he handed her the little dog before he took up the ropes and settled himself beside her on the driver's seat."You look like one of the disinherited princesses in the old stories mother tells," he observed.
A puzzled wonder was in her face as she turned toward him.
"Who are you? And what has Blake Hall to do with your family?"she asked.
"Only that it was named after us.We used to live there.""Within your recollection?"
He nodded, with his eyes on the slow oxen.
"Then you have not always been a farmer?""Ever since I was ten years old."
"I can't understand, I can't understand," she said, perplexed.
"You are like no one about here; you are like no one I have ever seen.""Then I must be like you," he returned bluntly.
"Like me? Oh, heavens, no; you would make three of me--body, brain, and soul.I believe, when I think of it, that you are the biggest man I've ever known--and by that I don't mean in height--for I have seen men with a greater number of physical inches.
Inches, somehow, have very little to do with the impression--and so has muscle, strong as yours is.It is simple bigness that I am talking about, and it was the first thing I noticed in you--""At the cross-roads?" he asked, and instantly regretted his words.
"No; not at the cross-roads," she answered, smiling."You have a good memory; but mine is better.I saw you once on a June morning, when I was riding along the road with the chestnuts and you were standing out in the field.""I did not see you or I should have remembered," he said quietly.
Silence fell between them, and he was conscious in every fiber of his body--that he had never been so close to her before--had never felt the touch of her arm upon his own, nor the folds of her skirt brushing against his knees.A gust of wind whipped the end of her veil into his face, and when she turned to recapture it he felt her warm breath on his cheek.The sense of her nearness pervaded him from head to foot, and an unrest like that produced by the spring wind troubled his heart.He did not look at her, and yet he saw her full dark eyes and the curve of her white throat more distinctly than he beheld the blue sky at which he gazed.Was it possible that she, too, shared his disquietude?
he wondered, or was the silence that she kept as undisturbed as her tranquil pose?
"I should not have forgotten it," he repeated presently, turning to meet her glance.
