In the meantime, Mrs. Horatio knitted on.
At last when breathless and panting Horatio Senior, like an alarm clock ran down and sank exhausted into his chair, Mrs. Horatio began the second row of knit two, purl two and ventured the irrefutable observation that after all Horatio Junior was their only child.
As this could not be denied, it passed without challenge and gaining confidence to venture farther, she presently added, quite casually that a wife was a steadying influence in a young man's career.
Horatio Senior vouchsafed no reply. Perhaps he had no breath left to demur.
At any rate his wife, considering silence a favorable symptom, followed up her previous comments with the declaration that Sylvia Hayden was a nice little thing. This drew fire.
Horatio Senior sputtered something about "nothing but a penniless school-teacher—a nobody."
Very deliberately then Mrs. Horatio began thefourth row of her knitting and as her needles clicked off the stitches, she murmured pleasantly that if she remembered rightly this had been the very objection Horatio Senior's father had made to their own marriage.
At this Horatio Senior flushed scarlet and said promptly that fathers did not know anything about choosing wives for their sons; that his marriage had been ideal; that his Jennie had been the one wife in the world for him; that time had proved it—even to his parents; that she was the only person on earth who really understood him—which latter statement unquestionably demonstrated that all that proceeded out of the mouth of Horatio Senior was not vanity and vexation of spirit.
After this nothing was simpler than to complete the pink stripe and discuss just when Horatio Junior had better start East.
Had Sylvia dreamed when she licked the envelope's flap with her small red tongue and smoothed it down with her pretty white finger she was thus loosing Alton City's thunderbolts, she might, perhaps, have hesitated to send the letter she had penned and perhaps would not have started off so jauntily late that afternoon to post it.
As it was, she was ignorant of the future consequences of her act and went skipping across the wee azure pools the tide had left behind as gaily as if she were not making history.
And not only did she go swinging off in this carefree fashion, but toward six o'clock she telephoned she was at the Doanes and Henry and his mother—the little old lady she had met on the train the day she arrived—wanted her to stay to supper. He would bring her home early in the evening. There would be a moon—Marcia need not worry.
Marcia had not thought of worrying until that minute, but now, in spite of knowing Sylvia was safe and in good hands she began, paradoxically enough, to worry madly.
Her heart would palpitate, her hand tremble while she spread the cloth and prepared the supper; and when she could not put off the dreaded and yet anticipated moment any longer, timidly as a girl she summoned Stanley Heath to the small, round table.
"Sylvia isn't coming," she explained, all blushes. "She telephoned she was going to stay over in town."
They seated themselves.
It was the first time they had ever been alone at a meal and the novelty of finding themselves opposite one another awed them into silence.
"Would you—do you care for cheese soufflé?" stammered Marcia.
"Thank you."
"Perhaps you don't like cheese."
"I do—very much."
"I hope it is done."
"It is perfect."
"It's hard to get it out of the oven at the right moment. Sometimes it falls."
"This one hasn't," beamed Stanley.
"I don't know. Perhaps I might have left it in a second or two longer."
"It's wonderful!"
"I'm glad you like it. Rolls?"
"Rather! My, but you are a marvelous cook."
"Oh, not really. You're hungry—that's all. Things taste good when you are."
"It isn't that. Everything you put your hand to is well done."
"Nonsense!"
"It isn't nonsense and you know it. You're a marvelous person, Marcia."
"There is nothing marvelous about me."
"There is—your eyes, for one thing. Don't drop them, dear. I want to look at them."
"You are talking foolishness."
"Every man talks foolishness once in his life, I suppose. Perhaps I am talking it tonight because our time together is so short. I am leaving here tomorrow morning."
"Stanley!"
Across the table he caught her hand.
"I am well now and have no further excuse for imposing on your hospitality."
"As if it were imposing!"
"It is. I have accepted every manner of kindness from you—"
"Don't call it that," she interrupted.
"What else can I call it? I was a stranger and you took me in. It was sweet of you—especially when you knew nothing about me. Now the time has come for me to go. Tomorrow morning I am giving myself up to the Wilton sheriff."
"Oh, no—no!"
"But you said you wanted me to. It is the only square thing to do, isn't it?"
She made no answer.
He rose and came to her side, slipping an arm about her.
"Marcia. Dearest! I am doing what you wish, am I not?"
"I cannot bear it." The words were sharp with pain.
"You wanted me to go through with it."
She covered her face and he felt a shudder pass over her.
"Yes. But that was then," she whispered.
At the words, he drew her to her feet and into his arms.
"Marcia, beloved! Oh, my dear one, do I need to tell you I love you—love you with all my heart—my soul—all that is in me? You know it—know that every moment we have been together has been heaven. Tell me you love me, dear—for you do love me. Don't deny it—not tonight—our last night together. Say that you love me."
"You—know," she faltered, her arms creeping about his neck.
He kissed her then—her hair, her eyes, her neck, her lips—long, burning kisses that left her quivering beneath the rush of them.
Their passion brought her to herself and she drew away.
"What is it, dear?" he asked.
"We can't. We must not. I had forgotten."
"Forgotten?"
"Something stands between us—we have no right. Forgive me."
"But my dear—"
"We have no right," she repeated.
"You are thinking of the past," he challenged. "Marcia, the past is dead. It is the present only in which we live—the present—just us two—who love."
"We must not love."
"But we do, sweetheart," was his triumphant cry. "We do!"
"We must forget."
"Can you forget?" he reproached.
"I—I—can try."
"Ah, your tongue is too honest, Marcia. You cannot forget. Neither can I. Our pledge is given. We belong to one another. I shall not surrender what is mine—never."
"Tomorrow—"
"Let us not talk of tomorrow."
"We must. We shall be parted then."
"Only for a little while. I shall come back to you. Our love will hold. Absence, distance, nothing can part us—not really."
"No."
"Then tell me you love me so I may leave knowing the truth from your own sweet lips."
"I love you, Stanley—God help me!"
"Ah, now I can go! It will not be for long."
"It must be for forever, dear heart. You must not come back. Tonight must be—the end."
"Marcia!"
"Tonight must be the end," she repeated, turning away.
"You mean you cannot face tomorrow—the disgrace—"
"I mean tonight must be the end," she reiterated.
Through narrowed lids, he looked at her, scanning her averted face.
Then she heard him laugh bitterly, discordantly.
"So we have come to the Great Divide, have we?" he said. "I have, apparently, expected too much of you. I might have known it would be so. All women are alike. They desert a man when he needs them most. Their affection has no toughness of fibre. It snaps under the first severe strain. The prospect of sharing my shame is more than you can bear." Again he laughed. "Well, tonight shall be the end—tonight—now. Don't think I blame you. It is not your fault. I merely rated you too high, Marcia—believed you a bigger woman than you are, that's all. I have asked more than you were capable of giving. The mistake was mine—not yours."
He left her then.
Stunned by the torrent of his reproach, she stood motionless, watching while, without a backward glance, he passed into the hall and up the stairs. His receding footsteps grew fainter.
Even after he was out of sight, she remained immovable, her frightened eyes riveted on the doorway through which he had disappeared.
Prince Hal raised his head and sensing all was not well came uneasily to her side and, thrusting his nose into her inert hand, whined.
At his touch, something within her gave way. She swayed, caught at a chair and shrank into it, her bodyshaking and her breath coming in gasping, hysterical sobs.
The clock ticked on, the surf broke in muffled undertone, the light faded; the candles burned lower, flickered and overflowed the old pewter candle sticks; and still she sat there, her tearless, dilated eyes fixed straight before her and the setter crouching unnoticed at her feet.
Sylvia, bubbling over with sociability after her evening at the Doanes', was surprised, on reaching the Homestead, to find a lamp set in the window and the living-room empty. Ten o'clock was not late and yet both occupants of the house had gone upstairs.
This was unusual.
She wondered at it.
Certainly Marcia could not be asleep at so early an hour; nor Heath, either. In fact, beneath the latter's door she could see a streak of light, and could hear him moving about inside.
Marcia's room, on the other hand, was still. Once, as she paused listening, wondering whether she dared knock and go in for a bedtime chat, she thought she detected a stifled sound and thus encouraged whispered the woman's name. No response came, however, and deciding she must have been mistaken she tiptoed away.
Having, therefore, no inkling of a change in the delightful relations that had for the past week prevailed, the atmosphere that greeted her when she came down the next morning was a shock.
Stanley Heath stood at the telephone talking to Elisha Winslow and on the porch outside were grouped his suit-case, overcoat and traveling rug.He himself was civil—nay, courteous—but was plainly ill at ease and had little except the most commonplace remarks to offer in way of conversation.
Marcia had not slept, as her pallor and the violet shadows beneath her eyes attested.
Sylvia could see that her duties as hostess of the breakfast table taxed her self-control almost to the breaking point and that only her pride and strong will-power prevented her from going to pieces.
Although the girl did not understand, she sensed Marcia's need of her and rushed valiantly into the breach—filling every awkward pause with her customary sparkling chatter.
Her impulse was to cry out:
"What under the sun is the matter with you two?"
She might have done so had not a dynamic quality vibrant in the air warned her not to meddle.
When at length the meal was cut short by the arrival of Elisha Winslow, all three of the group rose with unconcealed relief.
Even Elisha's presence, hateful as it would ordinarily have been, came now as a welcome interruption.
"Wal, Mr. Heath, I see you're expectin' me," grinned the sheriff, pointing toward the luggage beside the door.
"I am, Mr. Winslow."
"I've got my boat. Are you ready to come right along?"
"Quite ready."
Heath went to Sylvia and took her hand.
"Thank you very much," murmured he formally, "for all you've done for me. I appreciate it more than I can say. And you, too, Mrs. Howe. Your kindness has placed me deeply in your debt."
"I wish you luck, Mr. Heath," called Sylvia.
"Thanks."
"And I, too," Marcia rejoined in a voice scarcely audible.
To this the man offered no reply.
Perhaps he did not hear the words.
They followed him to the door.
It was then that Marcia sprang forward and caught Elisha's arm.
"Where are you taking him, Elisha?" she demanded, a catch in her voice. "Where are you taking him? Remember, Mr. Heath has been ill. You must not risk his getting cold or suffering any discomfort. Promise me you will not."
"You need have no worries on that score, Marcia," replied the sheriff kindly, noticing the distress in her face. "You don't, naturally, want all you've done for Mr. Heath thrown away. No more do I. I'll look out for him."
"Where is he going?"
"To my house for the present," Elisha answered. "You see, the town ain't ever needed to make provision for a criminal. I can't lock him up in the church 'cause he could get out had he the mind; an' out of the school-house, too. Besides, them buildin's are kinder chilly. So after weighin' the matter, I decided to take him 'long home with me. I've a comfortable spare room an' I figger to put him in it 'til I've questioned him an' verified his story.
"Meantime, nobody in town will be the wiser. I ain't even tellin' May Ellen why Mr. Heath's at the house. If I choose to harbor comp'ny, that's my business. Not a soul 'cept Eleazer's in on this affair an' he's keepin' mum. When him an' me decide we've got the truth, we'll act—not before."
"That relieves my mind very much. Mr. Heath is—you see he—"
"He's a friend of yours—I ain't forgettin' that. I shall treat him 'cordin'ly, Marcia."
"Thank you, Elisha—thank you a hundred times."
There was nothing more to be said.
Heath bowed once again and the two men walked down to the float where they clambered with the luggage into Elisha's dory and put out into the channel.
Sylvia loitered to wave her hand and watch themrow away, but Marcia, as if unable to bear the sight, waited for no further farewell.
Even after the girl had followed her indoors and during the interval they washed the breakfast dishes together, Sylvia did not venture to ask any explanations. If Marcia preferred to exclude her from her confidence, she resolved not to intrude.
Instead, she began to talk of her evening with the Doanes and although well aware Marcia scarcely listened, her gossip bridged the gulf of silence and gave the elder woman opportunity to recover her poise.
By noon Marcia was, to outward appearances, entirely herself. She had not been able, to be sure, to banish her pallor or the traces of sleeplessness; but she had her emotions sufficiently under control to talk pleasantly, if not gaily so that only an understanding, lynx-eyed observer like Sylvia would have suspected she was still keyed to too high a pitch to put heart in what she mechanically said and did.
That day and the next passed in much the same strained fashion.
That the woman was grateful for her niece's forbearance was evident in a score of trivial ways. That she also sensed Sylvia's solicitude and appreciated her loyalty and impulsive outbursts of affection was also obvious.
It was not until the third morning, however, thatthe barriers between the two collapsed.
Marcia had gone into the living-room to write a letter—a duty she especially detested and one which it was her habit to shunt into the future whenever possible.
Today, alas, there was no escape. A business communication had come that must be answered.
She sat down before the infrequently used desk and started to take up her pen when Sylvia heard her utter a cry.
"What's the matter, dear?" called the girl, hurrying into the other room.
No answer came.
Marcia was sitting fingering a slip of green paper she had taken from a long envelope.
With wild, despairing eyes she regarded it.
Then, as Sylvia came nearer, she bowed her head upon the desk and began to sob as if her heart would break.
"Marcia, dear—Marcia—what is it?" cried Sylvia, rushing to her and clasping the shaking figure in her arms. "Tell me what it is, dear."
"Oh, how could he!" moaned the woman. "How could he be so cruel!"
"What has happened. Marcia?"
"Stanley—he has left a check—money—thrown it in my face! And I did it so gladly—because I loved him. He knew that. Yet he couldleave this—pay me—as if I were a common servant. I had rather he struck me—a hundred times rather."
The girl took the check.
It was filled out in Stanley Heath's clear, strong hand and was for the sum of a hundred dollars.
"How detestable of him!" she exclaimed. "Tell me, Marcia—what happened between you and Mr. Heath? You quarreled—of course I know that. But why—why? I have not wanted to ask, but now—"
"I'll tell you everything, Sylvia. I'd rather you knew. I thought at first I could keep it to myself, but I cannot. I need you to help me, dear."
"If I only could!" murmured Sylvia, drawing her closer.
As if quieted by the warmth of her embrace, Marcia wiped her eyes and began to speak, tremulously.
She unfolded the story of her blind faith in Stanley Heath; her love for him—a love she could neither resist nor control—a love she had known from the first to be hopeless. She confessed how she had fought against his magnetic power; how she had struggled to conceal her feelings; how he himself had resisted a similar attraction in her; how at last he had discovered her secret and forced her to betray it.
Slowly, reluctantly she went on to tell of the final scene between them—his insistence on coming back to her.
"Of course I realized we could not go on," she explained bravely. "That we loved one another was calamity enough. All that remained was for him to go away and forget me—return to his wife, his home, and the interests and obligations of his former life. Soon, if he honestly tries, this infatuation will pass and everything will be as before. Men forget more easily than women. Absence, too, will help."
"And you, Marcia?"
"I am free. There is no law forbidding me to remember. I can go on caring, so long as he does not know. It will do no harm if here, far away, where he will never suspect it, I continue to love him."
"Oh, my dear, my dear!"
"I cannot give up my love. It is all I have now. Oh, I do not mean to mourn over it, pity myself, make life unhappy. Instead, I shall be glad, thankful. You will see. This experience will make every day of living richer. You need have no fears for me, Sylvia. You warned me, you know," concluded she with a pathetic little smile.
"I was a brute! I ought to have shielded you more," the girl cried. "I could have, had I realized. Well, I can yet do something, thank heaven. Give me that check."
"What do you mean to do?"
"Return it, of course—return it before Stanley Heath leaves town. Isn't that what you want done? Surely you do not wish to keep it."
"No! No!"
"I'll take it over to Elisha Winslow's now, this minute."
"I wonder—yes, probably that will be best. You won't, I suppose, be allowed to see Stanley," speculated she timidly.
"I don't suppose so."
"If you should—"
"Well?"
"Don't say anything harsh, Sylvia. Please do not blame him, or—"
"I'll wring his neck!" was the emphatic retort.
"Oh, please—please dear—for my sake! I can't let you go if you go in that spirit," pleaded Marcia in alarm.
"There, there—you need not worry for fear I shall maltreat your Romeo, richly as he deserves it," was the response. "I could kill him—but I won't—because of you. Nevertheless, I warn you that if I get the chance I shall tell him what I think of him. No power on earth can keep me from doing that. He is terribly to blame and ought to realize it. No married man has any business playing round with another woman. He may get by with it inNew York, but on Cape Cod or in Alton City," she drew herself up, "it just isn't done and the sooner Stanley Heath understands that, the better. That's that! Now I'll get my hat and go."
"I am half afraid to let you, Sylvia."
"You don't trust me? Don't you believe I love you?"
"I am afraid you love me too much, dear."
"I do love you, Marcia. I never dreamed I could care so intensely for anyone I have known for so short a time. What you did for my mother alone would make me love you. But aside from gratitude there are other reasons. I love you for your own splendid self, dear. Please do not fear to trust me. I promise you I will neither be unjust nor bitter. The fact that you care for Stanley Heath shall protect him and make me merciful."
"Take the check then and go. I wish I were to see him."
"Well, you're not! Rowing across that channel and hurrying to his side after the way he's treated you! Not a bit of it! I'd tie you to your own bedpost first," snapped Sylvia. "Let him do the explaining and apologizing. Let him cross the channel and grovel at your feet. That's what he ought to do!"
"You won't tell him that."
"I don't know what I shall tell him."
"Please, Sylvia! You promised, remember."
"Don't fret. Some of the mad will be taken out of me before I see Mr. Heath. The tide is running strong and it will be a pull to get the boat across to the mainland. Kiss me and wish me luck, Marcia. You do believe I will try to be wise, don't you?"
"Yes, dear. Yes!"
"That's right. You really can trust me, you know. I'm not so bad as I sound."
Tucking the check into the wee pocket of her sweater, Sylvia caught up her pert beret and perched it upon her curls.
"So long!" she called, looking back over her shoulder as she opened the door. "So long, Marcia! I'll be back as soon as ever I can."
The haste with which she disappeared, suddenly precipitated her into the arms of a young man who stood upon the steps preparing to knock.
"Hortie Fuller," cried Sylvia breathlessly. "Hortie! Where on earth did you come from?"
Her arms closed about his neck and he had kissed her twice before she swiftly withdrew, rearranging her curls and saying coldly:
"I cannot imagine what brought you here, Horatio."
"I can'timagine," repeated Sylvia, still very rosy and flustered, but with her most magnificent air, "what brought you to Wilton—I really cannot."
"Can't you?" grinned Horatio cheerfully.
"No, I cannot."
From his superior height of six-feet-two, he looked down at her meager five feet, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
Sylvia, however, was too intent on patting her curls into place to heed his glance.
"You wrote me to come, didn't you?" he presently inquired.
"I wrote you to come!"
"Well, at least you led me to suppose you'd like it if I were here," persisted Horatio. "Toward the bottom of page two you said: 'I am positively homesick'; and in the middle of the back of page three you wrote: 'It seems years since I've seen you.'"
"What if I did?" answered the girl with a disdainful shrug.
Nevertheless the dimples showed in her cheeks.
"And that isn't all," Horatio went on. "At the end of page five you wrote: 'Would that you were here'!"
Sylvia bit her lip.
"That was only a figure of speech—what is called poetic license. Writers are always would-ing things: Would I were a bird; would I were a ring upon that hand; would I were—were—well, almost anything. But it doesn't mean at all that they would really like to be those things."
"Then you didn't mean it when you said you wished I was here."
Horatio was obviously disappointed.
"Why, of course I am pleased to see you, Hortie. It is very nice of you to come to the Cape to meet my aunt and—"
"Darn your aunt!" he scowled. "I didn't come to see her."
"Hush! She's just inside."
"I don't care."
"But you will when you know her. She's darling."
"I am not interested in aunts."
"Take care! I happen to be very keen on this aunt of mine. If she didn't like you, you might get sent home. Don't be horrid, Hortie. I truly am glad you've come. You must make allowance for my being surprised. I haven't got over it yet. How in the world did you contrive to get away at this season? And what sort of a trip did you have?"
"Swell! I stopped overnight in New York at the Gardeners. Mother wanted me to deliver abirthday cake to Estelle who, you may remember, is the mater's god-daughter. She's a pippin, too. I hadn't seen her since she graduated from Vassar."
Sylvia listened.
She did not need to be told about the Gardeners.
They had visited Horatio's family more than once and rumor had it the elders of both families would be delighted were the young people to make a match of it.
"I'm surprised you did not stay longer in New York," Sylvia observed, gazing reflectively at her white shoe.
"New York wasn't my objective. I came on business, you see."
"Oh!"
This was not so flattering.
"Yes," continued Horatio, "Dad gave me two months off so I could get married."
This time he got the reaction for which he had been waiting.
Sylvia jumped.
"I was not aware you were engaged," murmured she in a formal, far-away tone.
"I'm not," came frankly from Horatio Junior. "But I'm going to be. In fact I chance to have the ring with me this minute. Want to see it?"
"I always enjoy looking at jewels," was her cautious retort.
Horatio felt of his many pockets.
"Where on earth did I put that thing?" he muttered. "Hope I haven't lost it. Oh, here it is."
He took out a tiny velvet case and sprang the catch.
"Oh, Hortie! Isn't it beautiful!" Sylvia cried. "It fairly takes away my breath."
"Like it?"
"It is perfectly lovely!"
"Try it on."
She shook her head.
"It wouldn't fit me. My hands are too small."
"It's a small ring. Here. Put it on," he urged, holding it toward her.
"Well, I suppose I might try it to please you. But I know it will be too large."
She slipped it on her finger.
"Why, it does fit. How odd!"
"Very odd indeed," he answered drily, as she reached her hand out into the sun and turned the diamonds so that they caught the light.
"Looks rather well on, doesn't it?" was his comment.
"It is a beautiful ring."
Horatio, standing behind her, twice extended his arms as if to gather her into them and twice withdrew them, deciding the action to be premature.
At length with a determined squaring of his shoulders, he locked his hands behind him and stood looking on while she continued to twist the ring this way and that.
"Well," yawned he after an interval, "I suppose I may as well put it back in the box."
"Don't you think it would be wiser if I took care of it for you, Hortie?" suggested she demurely. "You are dreadfully careless. Only a moment ago you had no idea where the ring was. If it is on my finger you'll know exactly."
"Bully idea! So I shall! Now tell me where you're off to. You were in a frightful hurry when you burst through that door."
"So I was," agreed Sylvia. "And here I am loitering and almost forgetting my errand. Come! We must hurry. I've got to go to town. Want to row me over?"
"You bet your life!"
"It may be quite a pull. The tide is running out and that means you will have to row against it."
"Show me the boat."
Still she hesitated.
"I don't know how nautical you are."
She thought she heard him chuckle.
Leading the way to the yellow dory, she took her place opposite him and he pushed off.
As they sat facing one another, her eyes roamed over his brown suit; his matching tie, handkerchiefand socks; his immaculate linen; his general air of careful grooming, and she could not but admit he wore his clothes well. She was so accustomed to seeing him that she never before had stopped to analyze his appearance. Now after weeks of separation she regarded him from a fresh viewpoint and realized with something of a shock how very good-looking he was.
He had the appearance of being scrubbed inside and out—of being not only clean but wholesome and upstanding; of knowing what he wanted and going after it.
He was not a small town product.
Three years in an eastern preparatory school, followed by four years of college life had knocked all that might have been provincial out of Horatio Junior.
Nevertheless these reflections, interesting though they were, proved nothing about his knowledge of the water.
Then she suddenly became aware that the boat was being guided by a master hand.
"Why, Hortie Fuller, I had no idea you could row like this!" exclaimed she with admiration.
Horatio deigned no response.
"Wherever did you learn to pull such an oar?"
"Varsity Crew."
"Of course. I had forgotten," she apologized, hereyes following as with each splendid stroke the craft shot forward.
Although the oarsman ignored her approbation he was not unmindful of it.
"Where do we land?" he asked.
"Anywhere."
He bent forward and with one final magnificent sweep sent the nose of the dory out of the channel.
"Come on," he called, leaping to the beach.
"But—but, Hortie—I can't get ashore here. I'll wet my white shoes."
"Jump."
"It's too far. Pull the boat higher on the sand."
"Not on your life. Jump, darling! I'll catch you."
She stood up in the bow.
"I can't. It's too far."
"Nonsense! Where's your sporting blood? Don't be afraid. I'm right here."
"Suppose you shouldn't catch me?"
"But I shall."
He would. She was certain of it.
Still she wavered.
"I don't want to jump," she pouted.
"You'll have to. Come on, Beautiful. You're wasting time."
"I think you are perfectly horrid," she flung out as she sprang forward.
An instant later she was in his arms and tight in a grip she knew herself powerless to loosen.
"Let me go, Hortie! Let me go!" she pleaded.
"I shall, sweetheart. All in good time. Before I set you free, though, we must settle one trivial point. Are we engaged or are we not?"
She made no answer.
"If we're not," he went on, "I intend to duck you in the water. If we are, you shall tell me you love me and go free."
"Don't be idiotic, Hortie. Please, please let me go. Somebody may come along and see us."
"I don't mind if they do. There are other considerations more important."
A swift, shy smile illuminated her face.
"I—I—don't want to be ducked, Hortie," she murmured, raising her arms to his neck.
"You precious thing! You shan't be. Now the rest of it. Say you love me."
"I guess you know that."
"But I wish to hear you say it."
"I—I—think I do."
"That's a half-hearted statement."
"I—I—know I do, Hortie."
"Ah, that is better. And I love you, Sylvia. Loving you is an old, old story with me—a sort of habit. I shall never change. You are too much a part of me, Sylvia. Now pay the boatman and youshall go. One is too cheap. Two is miserly. The fare is three. I won't take less."
"I consider your methods despicable," announced the girl when at last he reluctantly put her down on her feet.
"A warrior must study his adversary and plan his attack accordingly."
"You blackmailed me."
"I know my Sylvia," he countered.
"Just the same you had no right to take advantage."
"Perhaps you'd rather I trundled back to New York tomorrow and offered the ring to Estelle."
"Silly! I was only fooling," she protested quickly, linking her arm in his. "This ring would never fit Estelle, dearest. Her hands are tremendous. Didn't you ever notice them? They are almost as large as a man's. I never saw such hands."
"She's an awful nice girl just the same."
"I don't doubt that. Come. We must quit fooling now and hurry or we shall never get home. Marcia will be frantic."
"Marcia?"
"My aunt. I have so much to tell you I hardly know where to begin," sighed Sylvia. "Do listen carefully, for I need your advice."
"What about?"
"A lot of things. It is a long story. You seeMarcia has fallen in love with a robber."
"A robber? Your aunt?"
"Uh-huh. I know it sounds odd, but you will understand it better after you have heard the details," nodded Sylvia. "This man, a jewel thief, came to our house one day shipwrecked and hurt, so we took him in."
"A thief?"
Again she nodded.
"Yes. We didn't know then, of course, that he was a thief. Afterward, when we did, he was sick and we hadn't the heart to turn him out. In fact we couldn't have done it anyway. He was too fascinating. He was one of the most fascinating men you ever saw."
"He must have been," Horatio growled.
"Oh, he was. I myself almost lost my heart to him," confessed Sylvia earnestly. "Don't jeer. I am speaking the truth. I did not quite fall in love with him, but I came near it. Marcia did."
"Your aunt?"
"Yes. Don't look so horrified, Hortie. I realize it seems queer, unconventional; but you'll understand better when you see Marcia. She is no ordinary person."
"I shouldn't think she was."
Sylvia ignored the comment.
"Well, anyway, the robber hid the loot and ofcourse Marcia and I did all we could to protect him."
"Why of course?"
"I just told you—because he was so fascinating—because Marcia did not or would not believe he had stolen it. I knew better. Still I helped shield him just the same. Then one day the Wilton sheriff heard over the radio there had been a jewel robbery on Long Island, and stumbling upon the hidden gems, arrested Mr. Heath."
"Mr. Heath?"
"The thief, Hortie! The thief! How can you be so stupid?" ejaculated Sylvia sharply, squeezing his arm.
"I get you now. You must admit, though, this is some story to understand."
"I know it sounds confused, but in reality it is perfectly simple if you'll just pay attention. Well," the girl hurried on, "I cannot stop to explain all the twists and turns but anyway, the sheriff brought the burglar to Wilton and Marcia is broken-hearted."
"Broken-hearted! I should think she'd be thankful to be rid of him."
"But you keep forgetting she's in love with him."
"Well, do you wonder I do? What kind of a woman is your aunt? What sort of a gang have you got in with anyhow?"
"Hush, Hortie! You mustn't talk like that," Sylvia declared. "This affair is too serious. Marciaand the—the—she and Mr. Heath love one another. It is terrible because, you see, he has a wife."
"I should call that a stroke of Providence, myself."
"Horatio, I think you are being very nasty. You are joking about something that is no joking matter."
"I beg your pardon, dear. I wasn't really joking. Don't be angry. But this yarn is unbelievable—preposterous," explained the man, taking her hand and gently caressing it.
"I realize it sounds—unusual."
"Unusual is mild."
"Well—perhaps a little theatrical. Yet, for all that, it isn't. Now do stop interrupting and let me finish. When Mr. Heath went away from the Homestead, he left behind him a hundred dollars in payment for what Marcia had done for him. It almost killed her."
"She—she—thought she ought to have had more, you mean?"
"Horatio!"
"But—a hundred dollars is quite a sum in these days. She would better have grabbed it tight and been thankful. My respect for this bandit chap is rising. I should call him an honest gentleman."
"It is useless to talk with you, Horatio—I can see that," Sylvia said, stiffening. "A delicate affairlike this is evidently beyond your comprehension. You can't seem to understand it. All you do is to make light of every word I say."
"I'm not making light. On the contrary I guess I am taking the situation far more seriously than you are. I don't like the moral tone of this place at all. It looks to me as if you had got into most undesirable surroundings. It is high time I came and took you out of them. Thieves, and jewel-robberies, and sheriffs, and bandits with wives—Heavens! Alton City is a Garden of Eden compared with this town. The sooner you are married to me, young woman, and out of here the better. As for this remarkable aunt of yours—"
"Stop, Horatio! Stop right where you are," bridled Sylvia. "One more word against Marcia and back home you go so fast you won't be able to see for dust. I'm in earnest, so watch your step."
"The woman has bewitched you," frowned Horatio.
"She has. She bewitches everybody. She'll bewitch you."
"Not on your life!"
"Wait and see. Mr. Heath will bewitch you, too."
"The—the—?"
"Yes, the burglar, bandit, thief—whatever you choose to call him. You'll admit it when you meethim. We are going there now."
"To—to—call?"
"To return the check I just told you about. You're the stupidest man I was ever engaged to, Horatio. Why can't you listen?"
"I am listening with all my ears."
"Then the trouble is with your imagination," Sylvia said in her loftiest tone.
They walked on in silence until presently the girl stopped before the gate of a small, weather-beaten cottage.
"Well, here we are at Elisha's," she remarked, turning in at the gate.
"What's he got to do with it?"
"Mercy, Hortie. You'll wear me to a shred. Elisha is the sheriff. I'm going to coax him to let us see the prisoner."
"You don't mean the chap is jailed here! My—!" he clapped his hand over his mouth. "Why, any red-blooded man could knock the whole house flat to the ground with a single blow of his fist. I'll bet I could."
"There wasn't any other place to put him."
"Well, if he stays incarcerated in a detention pen like this, he's a noble-minded convict—that's all I have to say."
They walked up the narrow clam-shell path, bordered by iris and thrifty perennials.
As they did so, the sound of a radio drifted through the open window.
Sylvia peeped in.
Elisha, too intent on the music to hear her step, was sitting before the loud speaker, smoking.
"I've come to see Mr. Heath," she shouted above the wails of a crooning orchestra.
"You can't. 'Tain't allowed."
"Nonsense! Prisoners are always permitted to see visitors. Where is he?"
"I ain't sure as I'd oughter let you see him," hesitated Elisha.
"I'll take the responsibility."
"Wal—mebbe on second thought, 'twill do no harm," he drawled. "He's round on the back porch. I'd come with you warn't I waitin' for the news flashes."
"That's all right. I can find him."
"Say, who you got with you?" called the sheriff over his shoulder.
"A friend from my home town."
"Don't know 'bout his goin'."
"Oh, he won't do any harm. He's nobody—just my fiancé."
"Your what?"
"The man I am going to marry."
"You don't tell me! So you're gettin' married, are you? Good lookin' feller! I heard at the post officeyou had some chap in the offin'. But to let him see Mr. Heath—I dunno as 'twould be just—"
"Where I go Horatio goes," Sylvia retorted.
Elisha weakened.
"Wal, in that case—" he began.
She waited to hear no more.
"Come on, Hortie," she called.
Leaving Elisha absorbed in a saxophone solo, the two rounded the corner of the cottage and found themselves in the presence of Stanley Heath.
Hewas looking very fit and comfortable, lying at full length in a Gloucester hammock with cushions beneath his head, a book in his hand, and a package of cigarettes within reach.
"Sylvia!" he cried, springing up and advancing toward her with outstretched hand. "Sylvia! What a brick you are to come!"
Angry as she was, when face to face with him she could not resist the contagion of his smile.
"I'm glad to see you so well," she said. "This is Mr. Horatio Fuller of Alton City."
Horatio looked Heath up and down and then stepped forward and gripped his hand with unmistakable cordiality.
"Mighty glad to know you, sir," was his greeting. "You seem to have got yourself into a jam. If there is anything I can do—any way I can be of service—"
"Horatio, you forget we are not here to make a social call," interrupted Sylvia, who had by this time regained her routed chilliness and indignation. "On the contrary, Mr. Heath, we have come on a very painful errand. We are returning this check to you."
She extended it toward him, gingerly holding its corner in the tips of her fingers as if it were too foula thing to touch. "It was outrageous of you, insulting to leave a thing of this sort for Marcia—to attempt to pay in cash—kindness such as hers."
"I'm—sorry," Heath stammered.
"Sorry! You couldn't have been very sorry, or you would have sensed such an act would hurt her terribly."
Horatio Fuller fumbled nervously with his tie.
"You deserve," swept on young Sylvia with rising spirit, "to be thrashed. Hortie and I both think so—don't we, Hortie?"
Horatio Junior turned crimson.
"Oh, I say, Sylvia, go easy!" he protested. "Don't drag me into this. I don't know one darn thing about it."
"But I've explained everything to you."
"You've tried to. Nevertheless, the whole affair is beyond me. I can't make head or tail out of it," shrugged Horatio. "Suppose I just step inside and listen to the news flashes while you and Mr. Heath transact your business. It will be less awkward all round. If you want me you can speak."
Nodding courteously in Heath's direction, Horatio Junior disappeared.
"Your Mr. Fuller is a man of nice feeling," Stanley Heath declared looking after him. "I congratulate you."
"Thank you."
"Everything is settled then?"
She nodded.
"I hope you will be very happy."
She did not reply at once. When she did, it was to say with a humility new and appealing:
"I shall be. I never appreciated Hortie until now. I was too silly."
"Perhaps you were merely young."
"It wasn't that. I was vain—feather-headed. I have realized it since knowing Marcia."
"We all want to be different after we have seen Marcia," Stanley Heath said gently.
"We don't just want to be—we set about it," was the girl's grave reply.
"Sit down, Sylvia, and let us talk of Marcia," ventured Heath after a pause. "I am deeply sorry if I have wounded her—indeed I am."
The girl searched his face.
"I cannot understand you, Mr. Heath," she said. "What has Marcia done that you should have left her as you did? Hasn't she believed in you through thick and thin? Stood up for you against everybody—going it blind at that? Few women would have had such faith in a stranger."
"I realize that. You do not need to tell me," he answered. "It is precisely because she has gone so far I believed her capable of going farther yet—the whole way."
"What do you mean by the whole way?"
"To the end."
"Well, hasn't she?"
He shook his head.
"No. She has fallen short—disappointed me cruelly. When it came to the final test, her affection collapsed. Oh, she has been wonderful," he added quickly. "Do not think I fail to appreciate that. She has far out-distanced every other woman I ever have known. I simply expected too much of her, doubtless the impossible. Human nature is frail—a woman's heart the frailest thing of all. I have always said so."
"You wrong Marcia," cried Sylvia hotly. "Her heart is not frail. Neither is she the weak sort of person you have pictured. In all the world you could not match her loyalty or the depth of her affection. I owe Marcia a great debt. I could tell you things she has done that would make you thoroughly ashamed of your superficial rating of her. But why go into that? If after the experience we three have lived through together you have not discovered what she is, it is futile for me to attempt to show you.
"You came into our lives like a meteor—entirely detached from everything. We knew nothing about you and in the face of damaging evidence you offered neither Marcia nor me one word of explanation. Marcia asked none. Without rhyme or reason shebelieved in you. I had not her faith. I freely confess I thought you guilty. Oh, I liked you sufficiently well to be ready to help you save your skin. But Marcia cared enough for you to want you to save your soul.
"There is a difference in that sort of caring, Mr. Heath—a big difference. When you were taken ill, we both nursed you—I willingly, she devotedly. Here lay another difference had you been able to detect it. What happened as a result of this enforced intimacy? You know—know far better than I."
"I fell in love with Marcia," replied the man without an instant's hesitation.
"You fell in love!" Sylvia repeated, her lip curling. "You call it love—the poor thing you offered her! Why, Marcia would have gone to the world's end with you, Stanley Heath, had she the right. She would have faced any humiliation for your sake. If prison doors closed upon you, she would have remained faithful until they swung open and afterward followed you to any corner of the earth in which you chose to begin a new life."
"That's where you're wrong, Sylvia," contradicted Heath. "Marcia was not ready to do that. I tried her out and she refused. When I told her I should return to her, and asked her in so many words whether she was willing to face shame and publicscorn for my sake she turned her back on me. She could not go to that length."
"Are you sure she understood?" asked Sylvia, stepping nearer and looking fearlessly into his eyes. "There is a shame Marcia never in this world would face for any man; but it is not the shame you have just described.
"It is the shame of wronging another woman; destroying a home. I know that sounds old-fashioned in days like these. Perhaps Marcia is old-fashioned. Perhaps I am. In the villages where we have been brought up, we do not go in for the new standards sponsored by more up-to-date communities. We believe in marriage as a sacred, enduring sacrament—not a bond to be lightly broken. When you offered Marcia less than that—"
"I never offered Marcia any such shameful position, Sylvia," cried Stanley Heath. "I would not so far insult her."
"But you are married."
"That is a lie. Who told you so?"
"The—the wire to Mrs. Stanley Heath—the telephone message. I heard you call her Joan."
"But, Sylvia, Mrs. Stanley Heath is not my wife. She is my young step-mother, my father's widow. I always have called her Joan."
"Oh! I beg your pardon."
"I see it all now," the man exclaimed. "Youhave entirely misunderstood the situation. I'm a Junior. Since my father's death, however, people have got out of the way of using the term. Sometimes I myself am careless about it. So Marcia thought—"
"Of course she did. We both did. So did Elisha Winslow and Eleazer Crocker. So did lots of other people in Wilton."
"Heavens!"
"Well, how were we to know?" Sylvia demanded.
"How, indeed? If an innocent citizen cannot visit a town without being arrested as a criminal within a week of his arrival, why shouldn't he be married without his knowledge? Circumstantial evidence can, apparently, work wonders."
Then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed.
"Bless you, little Sylvia—bless you for setting me right. I told you you were a brick and you've proved it. Thanks to you, everything is now straightened out."
"Not quite everything, I am afraid," the girl protested.
"Everything that is of importance," he amended. "The rest will untangle itself in time. I am not worrying about it. Here, give me your hand. How am I to thank you for what you have done? I only hope that young Horatio Fuller of yours realizeswhat a treasure he is getting."
"He does, Mr. Heath—he does," observed that gentleman, strolling at the same instant through the door and encircling his tiny bride-to-be with his arm. "Haven't I traveled half way across this big country of ours to marry her?"
"Oh, we're not going to be married yet, Hortie," demurred the girl trying to wrench herself free of the big fellow's hold.
"Certainly we are, my dear. Didn't you know that? I'm surprised how many things there are that you don't know," he went on teasingly. "I thought I explained exactly what brought me East. Didn't I tell you this morning I came to get married? I was perfectly serious. Dad gave me two months vacation with that understanding. I must either produce a wife when I get home or lose my job. He'll never give me another furlough if I don't."
"Looks to me as if you had Mr. Fuller's future prosperity in your hands, Sylvia," Heath said.
"She has. She can make or break me. A big responsibility, eh, little Sylvia?"
"I know it, Hortie," retorted the girl seriously.
"She is equal to it, Fuller—never fear," Stanley Heath asserted.
"I'm not doing any worrying," smiled Horatio. "I—"
The sentence was cut short by the radio's loudspeaker:
The much sought Long Island gem thief was captured this morning at his lodgings in Jersey City. Harris Chalmers, alias Jimmie O'Hara, a paroled prisoner, was taken by the police at his room on K— Street. A quantity of loot, together with firearms and the missing jewels were found concealed in the apartment. The man readily admitted the theft. He has a long prison record.
For a second nobody spoke.
Then as if prompted by common impulse, the three on the piazza rushed indoors.
Elisha was sitting limply before the radio.
"Did you hear that?" he gasped.
"Well, rather!" Horatio Fuller shouted with a triumphant wave of his hand.
"Ain't it the beateree?" exploded the astonished sheriff. "That sends the whole case up in the air. All that's needed now to make me out the darndest fool on God's earth is for Eleazer's young nephew-lawyer in New York, who's checking up Heath's story, to wire everything there is O.K. If he does, I'll go bury my head. There goes the telephone! That's him! That's Eleazer—I'll bet a hat."
"Hello!—Yes, I heard it.—You ain't surprised? Wal, I am. I'm took off my feet.—Oh, your nephewwired, did he, an' everything's O.K.? That bein' the case, I reckon there's no more to be said. I feel like a shrimp. How do you feel?——"
Elisha hung up the receiver.
"Wal, Mr. Heath, the story you told Eleazer an' me is straight as a string in every particular," he announced. "You're free! There ain't nothin' I can say. To tell you I'm sorry ain't in no way adequate. I shan't offer you my hand neither, 'cause I know you wouldn't take it—leastways I wouldn't, was I in your place. There's some insults nothin' can wipe out an' this blunder of mine is one of 'em. You'll just have to set me down as one of them puddin'-headed idiots that was over-ambitious to do his duty. I ain't got no other explanation or excuse to make."
"I shall not let it go at that, Mr. Winslow," Stanley Heath acclaimed, stepping to the old man's side and seizing his palm in a strong grip. "We all make errors. Forget it. I'm going to. Besides, you have treated me like a prince since I've been your guest."
"You are the prince, sir. Livin' with you has shown me that. Had I knowed you 'fore I arrested you as well as I do now the thing wouldn't 'a' happened. Wal, anyhow, all ain't been lost. At least I've met a thoroughbred an' that ain't none too frequent an occurrence in these days."
"What I can't understand, Mr. Winslow, is why you didn't recognize he was a thoroughbred fromthe beginning," Horatio Fuller remarked.
"You've a right to berate me, young man—a perfect right. I ain't goin' to put up no defense. 'Twas the circumstances that blinded me. Besides, I had only a single glimpse of Mr. Heath. Remember that. After he was took sick I never saw him again. Had we got acquainted, as we have now, everything would 'a' been different. Findin' them jewels—"
"Great hat, man! I had a diamond ring in my pocket when I came to Wilton, but that didn't prove I'd stolen it."
"I know! I know!" acquiesced the sheriff. "Eleazer an' me lost our bearin's entirely. We got completely turned round."
"A thief with a Phi Beta Kappa key!" jeered Horatio. "Godfrey!" Then turning to Sylvia, he added in an undertone: "Well, so far as I can see the only person who has kept her head through this affair is our Aunt Marcia."
Elisha overheard the final clause.
"That's right!" he agreed with cordiality. "You're 'xactly right, Mr. Fuller. The Widder's head-piece can always be relied upon to stay steady."
"Whose head-piece?" inquired Stanley Heath, puzzled by the term.
"Marcia's. Here in town we call her The Widder."
"Well, you'll not have the opportunity to call herthat much longer," Heath laughed.
"You don't tell me!" Elisha regarded him, open-mouthed. "Humph! So that's how the wind blows, is it? Wal, I can see this mix-up would 'a' ended my chances anyway. Marcia'd never have had me after this. Disappointed as I am, though, there's a sight of comfort in knowin' she won't have Eleazer neither. He don't come out of the shindy a whit better'n me. That's somethin'. In fact it's a heap!"