As a matter of fact, he was not. Too poor in imagination to invent, on the spur of the moment, charms and qualities suited to his ideal, he had, at first unconsciously, taken as a model the girl before him; quite unconsciously and innocently at first—then furtively, and with a dawning perception of the almost flawless beauty he was secretly plagiarizing. Aware, now, that something had annoyed her; aware, too, at the same moment that there appeared to be nothing lacking in her to satisfy his imagination of the ideal, he began to turn redder than he had ever turned in all his life.
Several minutes of sixty seconds each ensued before he ventured to stir a finger. And it was only when she bent again very gravely over her pad that he cautiously eased a cramped muscle or two, and drew a breath—a long, noiseless, deep and timid respiration. He realized the enormity of what he had been doing—how close he had come to giving unpardonable offense by drawing a perfect portrait of her as the person he desired to find through the good offices of Keen & Co.
But there was no such person—unless she had a double: for what more could a man desire than the ideal traits he had been able to describe only by using her as his inspiration.
When he ventured to look at her, one glance was enough to convince him that she, too, had noticed the parallel—had been forced to recognize her own features in the portrait he had constructed of an ideal. And she had caught him in absent-minded contemplation of the hands he had been describing. He knew that his face was the face of a guilty man.
"What is the next question?" he stammered, eager to answer it in a manner calculated to allay her suspicions.
"The next question?" She glanced at the list, then with a voice of velvet which belied the eyes, clear as frosty brown pools in November: "The next question requires a description of her feet."
"Feet! Oh—-they—they're rather large—why, her feet are enormous, I believe—"
She looked at him as though stunned; suddenly a flood of pink spread, wave on wave, from the white nape of her neck to her hair; she bent low over her pad and wrote something, remaining in that attitude until her face cooled.
"Somehow or other I've done it again!" he thought, horrified. "The best thing I can do is to end it and go home."
In his distress he began to hedge, saying: "Of course, she is rather tall and her feet are in some sort of proportion—in fact, they are perfectly symmetrical feet—"
Never in his life had he encountered a pair of such angrily beautiful eyes. Speech stopped with a dry gulp.
"We now come to 'General Remarks,'" she said in a voice made absolutely steady and emotionless. "Have you any remarks of that description to offer, Mr. Gatewood?"
"I'm willing to make remarks," he said, "if I only knew what you wished me to say."
She mused, eyes on the sunny window, then looked up. "Where did you last see her?"
"Near Fifth Avenue."
"And what street?"
He named the street.
"Nearhere?"
"Rather," he said timidly.
She ruffled the edges of her pad, wrote something and erased it, bit her scarlet upper lip, and frowned.
"Out of doors, of course?"
"No; indoors," he admitted furtively.
She looked up with a movement almost nervous.
"Do you dare—I mean, care—to be more concise?"
"I would rather not," he replied in a voice from which he hoped he had expelled the tremors of alarm.
"As you please, Mr. Gatewood. And would you care to answer any of these other questions: Who and what are or were her parents? Give all particulars concerning all her relatives. Is she employed or not? What are her social, financial, and general circumstances? Her character, personal traits, aims, interests, desires? Has she any vices? Any virtues? Talents? Ambitions? Caprices? Fads? Are you in love with her? Is—"
"Yes," he said, "I am."
"Is she in love with you?"
"No; she hates me—I'm afraid."
"Is she in love with anybody?"
"That is a very difficult—"
The girl wrote: "He doesn't know," with a satisfaction apparently causeless.
"Is she a relative of yours, Mr. Gatewood?" very sweetly.
"No, Miss Southerland," very positively.
"You—you desire to marry her—you say?"
"I do. But I didn't say it."
She was silent; then:
"What is her name?" in a low voice which started several agreeable thrills chasing one another over him.
"I—I decline to answer," he stammered.
"On what grounds, Mr. Gatewood?"
He looked her full in the eyes; suddenly he bent forward and gazed at the printed paper from which she had been apparently reading.
"Why, all those questions you are scaring me with are not there!" he exclaimed indignantly. "You are making them up?"
"I—I know, but"—she was flushing furiously—"but they are on the other forms—some of them. Can't you see you are answering 'Form K'? That is a special form—"
"But why do you ask me questions that arenoton Form K?"
"Because it is my duty to do all I can to secure evidence which may lead to the discovery of the person you desire to find. I—I assure you, Mr, Gatewood, this duty is not—not always agreeable—and some people make it harder still."
Gatewood looked out of the window. Various emotions—-among them shame, mortification, chagrin—pervaded him, and chased each other along his nervous system, coloring his neck and ears a fiery red for the enlightenment of any observer.
"I—I did not mean to offend you," said the girl in a low voice—such a gently regretful voice that Gatewood swung around in his chair.
"There is nothing I would not be glad to tell you about the woman I have fallen in love with," he said. "She is overwhelmingly lovely; and—when I dare—I will tell you her name and where I first saw her—and where I saw her last—if you desire. Shall I?"
"It would be advisable. When will you do this?"
"When I dare."
"You—you don't dare—now?"
"No . . . not now."
She absently wrote on her pad: "He doesn't dare tell me now." Then, with head still bent, she lifted her mischief-making, trouble-breeding brown eyes to his once more.
"I am to come here, of course, to consult you?" he asked dizzily.
"Mr. Keen will receive you—"
"He may be busy."
"He may be," she repeated dreamily.
"So—I'll ask for you."
"Wecouldwrite you, Mr. Gatewood."
He said hastily: "It's no trouble for me to come; I walk every morning."
"But there would be no use, I think, in your coming very soon. All I—all Mr. Keen could do for a while would be to report progress—"
"That is all I dare look for: progress—for the present."
During the time that he remained—which was not very long—neither of them spoke until he arose to take his departure.
"Good-by, Miss Southerland. I hope you may find the person I have been searching for."
"Good-by, Mr. Gatewood. . . . I hope we shall; . . . but I—don't—know."
And, as a matter of fact, she did not know; she was rather excited over nothing, apparently; and also somewhat preoccupied with several rather disturbing emotions the species of which she was interested in determining. But to label and catalogue each of these emotions separately required privacy and leisure to think—and she also wished to look very earnestly at the reflection of her own face in the mirror of her own chamber. For it is a trifle exciting—though but an innocent coincidence—to be compared, feature by feature, to a young man's ideal. As far as that went, she excelled it, too; and, as she stood by the desk, alone, gathering up her notes, she suddenly bent over and lifted the hem of her gown a trifle—sufficient to reassure herself that the dainty pair of shoes she wore, would have baffled the efforts of any Venus ever sculptured. And she was perfectly right.
"Of course," she thought to herself, "his ideal runaway hasn't enormous feet. He, too, must have been struck with the similarity between me and his ideal, and when he realized that I also noticed it, he was frightened by my frown into saying that her feet were enormous. How silly! . . . For I didn'tmeanto frighten him. . . . He frightened me—once or twice—I mean he irritated me—no, interested me, is what Idomean. . . . Heigho! I wonder why she ran away? I wonder why he can't find her? . . . It's—it's silly to run away from a man like that. . . . Heigho! . . . She doesn't deserve to be found. There is nothing to be afraid of—nothing to alarm anybody in a man like that."
So she gathered up her notes and walked slowly out and across to the private office of the Tracer of Lost Persons.
"Come in," said the Tracer when she knocked. He was using the telephone; she seated herself rather listlessly beside the window, where spring sunshine lay in gilded patches on the rug and spring breezes stirred the curtains. She was a little tired, but there seemed to be no good reason why. Yet, with the soft wind blowing on her cheek, the languor grew; she rested her face on one closed hand, shutting her eyes.
When they opened again it was to meet the fixed gaze of Mr. Keen.
"Oh—I beg your pardon!"
"There is no need of it, child. Be seated. Never mind that report just now." He paced the length of the room once or twice, hands clasped behind him; then, halting to confront her:
"What sort of a man is this young Gatewood?"
"Whatsort, Mr. Keen? Why—I think he is the—the sort—that—"
"I see that you don't think much of him," said Keen, laughing.
"Oh, indeed I did not mean that at all; I mean that he appeared to be—to be—"
"Rather a cad?"
"Why,no!" she said, flushing up. "He is absolutely well-bred, Mr. Keen."
"You received no unpleasant impression of him?"
"On the contrary!" she said rather warmly—for it hurt her sense of justice that Keen should so misjudge even a stranger in whom she had no personal interest.
"You think he looks like an honest man?"
"Honest?" She was rosy with annoyance. "Have you any idea that he is dishonest?"
"Have you?"
"Not the slightest," she said with emphasis.
"Suppose a man should set us hunting for a person who does not exist—on our terms, which are no payment unless successful? Would that be honest?" asked Keen gravely.
"Did—didhedo that?"
"No, child."
"I knew hecouldn'tdo such a thing!"
"No, he—er—couldn't, because I wouldn't allow it—not that he tried to!" added Keen hastily as the indignant brown eyes sparkled ominously. "Really, Miss Southerland, he must be all you say he is, for he has a stanch champion to vouch for him."
"All Isayhe is? I haven't said anything about him!"
Mr. Keen nodded. "Exactly. Let us drop him for a moment. . . . Are you perfectly well, Miss Southerland?"
"Why, yes."
"I'm glad of it. You are a trifle pale; you seem to be a little languid. . . . When do you take your vacation?"
"You suggested May, I believe," she said wistfully.
The Tracer leaned back in his chair, joining the tips of his fingers reflectively.
"Miss Southerland," he said, "you have been with us a year. I thought it might interest you to know that I am exceedingly pleased with you."
She colored charmingly.
"But," he added, "I'm terribly afraid we're going to lose you."
"Why?" she asked, startled.
"However," he continued, ignoring her half-frightened question with a smile, "I am going to promote you—for faithful and efficient service."
"O-h!"
"With an agreeable increase of salary, and new duties which will take you into the open air. . . . You ride?"
"I—I used to before—"
"Exactly; before you were obliged to earn your living. Please have yourself measured for habit and boots this afternoon. I shall arrange for horse, saddle, and groom. You will spend most of your time riding in the Park—for the present."
"But—Mr. Keen—am I to be one of your agents—a sort of detective?"
Keen regarded her absently, then crossed one leg over the other.
"Read me your notes," he said with a smile.
She read them, folded them, and he took them from her, thoughtfully regarding her.
"Did you know that your mother and I were children together?" he asked.
"No!" She stared. "Isthatwhy you sent for me that day at the school of stenography?"
"That is why . . . When I learned that my playmate—your mother—was dead, is it not reasonable to suppose that I should wish her daughter to have a chance?"
Miss Southerland looked at him steadily.
"She was like you—when she married . . . I never married . . . Do you wonder that I sent for you, child?"
Nothing but the clock ticking there in the sunny room, and an old man staring into two dimmed brown eyes, and the little breezes at the open window whispering of summers past.
"This young man, Gatewood," said the Tracer, clearing his voice of its hoarseness—"this young man ought to be all right, if I did not misjudge his father—years ago, child, years ago. And heisall right—" He half turned toward a big letter-file; "his record is clean, so far. The trouble with him is idleness. He ought to marry."
"Isn't he trying to?" she asked.
"It looks like it. Miss Southerland, wemustfind this woman!"
"Yes, but I don't see how you are going to—on such slight information—"
"Information! Child, I have all I want—all I could desire." He laughed, passing his hands over his gray hair. "We are going to find the girl he is in love with before the week ends!"
"Do you really think so?" she exclaimed.
"Yes. But you must do a great deal in this case."
"I?"
"Exactly."
"And—and what am I to do?"
"Ride in the Park, child! And if you see Mr. Gatewood, don't you dare take your eyes off him for one moment. Watch him; observe everything he does. If he should recognize you and speak to you, be as amiable to him as though it were not by my orders."
"Then—then Iamto be a detective!" she faltered.
The Tracer did not appear to hear her. He took up the notes, turned to the telephone, and began to send out a general alarm, reading the description of the person whom Gatewood had described. The vast, intricate and delicate machinery under his control was being set in motion all over the Union.
"Not that I expect to find her outside the borough of Manhattan," he said, smiling, as he hung up the receiver and turned to her; "but it's as well to know how many types of that species exist in this Republic, and who they are—in case any other young man comes here raving of brown eyes and 'gleams' in the hair."
Miss Southerland, to her own intense consternation, blushed.
"I think you had better order that habit at once," said the Tracer carelessly.
"Tell me, Mr. Keen," she asked tremulously, "am I to spy upon Mr. Gatewood? And report to you? . . . For I simply cannot bear to do it—"
"Child, you need report nothing unless you desire to. And when there is something to report, it will be about the woman I am searching for.Don'tyou understand? I have already located her. You will find her in the Park. And when you aresureshe is the right one—and if you care to report it to me—I shall be ready to listen . . . I am always ready to listen to you."
"But—I warn you, Mr. Keen, that I have perfect faith in the honor of Mr. Gatewood. Iknowthat I could have nothing unworthy to report."
"I am sure of it," said the Tracer of Lost Persons, studying her with eyes that were not quite clear. "Now, I think you had better order that habit . . . Your mother sat her saddle perfectly . . . We rode very often—my lost playmate and I."
He turned, hands clasped behind his back, absently pacing the room, backward, forward, there in the spring sunshine. Nor did he notice her lingering, nor mark her as she stole from the room, brown eyes saddened and thoughtful, wondering, too, that there should be in the world so much room for sorrow.
"'I am sure of it,' said the Tracer of Lost Persons."
"'I am sure of it,' said the Tracer of Lost Persons."
"'I am sure of it,' said the Tracer of Lost Persons."
"'I am sure of it,' said the Tracer of Lost Persons."
Gatewood, burdened with restlessness and gnawed by curiosity, consumed a week in prowling about the edifice where Keen & Co. carried on an interesting profession.
His first visit resulted merely in a brief interview with Mr. Keen, who smilingly reported progress and suavely bowed him out. He looked about for Miss Southerland as he was leaving, but did not see her.
On his second visit he mustered the adequate courage to ask for her, and experienced a curiously sickly sensation when informed that Miss Southerland was no longer employed in the bureau of statistics, having been promoted to an outside position of great responsibility. His third visit proved anything but satisfactory. He sidled and side-stepped for ten minutes before he dared ask Mr. KeenwhereMiss Southerland had gone. And when the Tracer replied that, considering the business he had undertaken for Mr. Gatewood, he really could not see why Mr. Gatewood should interest himself concerning the whereabouts of Miss Southerland, the young man had nothing to say, and escaped as soon as possible, enraged at himself, at Mr. Keen, and vaguely holding the entire world guilty of conspiracy.
He had no definite idea of what he wanted, except that his desire to see Miss Southerland again seemed out of all proportion to any reasonable motive for seeing her. Occasional fits of disgust with himself for what he had done were varied with moody hours of speculation. Suppose Mr. Keen did find his ideal? What of it? He no longer wanted to see her. He had no use for her. The savor of the enterprise had gone stale in his mouth; he was by turns worried, restless, melancholy, sulky, uneasy. A vast emptiness pervaded his life. He smoked more and more and ate less and less. He even disliked to see others eat, particularly Kerns.
And one exquisite May morning he came down to breakfast and found the unspeakable Kerns immersed in grapefruit, calm, well balanced, and bland.
"How-de-dee, dear friend?" said that gentleman affably. "Any news from Cupid this beautiful May morning?"
"No; and I don't want any," returned Gatewood, sorting his mail with a scowl and waving away his fruit.
"Tut, tut! Lovers must be patient. Dearie will be found some day—"
"Some day," snarled Gatewood, "I shall destroy you, Tommy."
"Naughty! Naughty!" reflected Kerns, pensively assaulting the breakfast food. "Lovey mustnotworry; Dovey shall be found, and all will be joy and gingerbread. . . . If you throw that orange I'll run screaming to the governors. Aren't you ashamed—just because you're in a love tantrum!"
"One more word and you get it!"
"May I sing as I trifle with this frugal fare, dear friend? My heart issohappy that I should love to warble a few wild notes—"
He paused to watch his badgered victim dispose of a Martini.
"I wonder," he mused, "if you'd like me to tell you what a cocktail before breakfast does to the lining of your stomach? Would you?"
"No. I suppose it's what the laundress does to my linen. What do I care?"
"Don'tbe a short sport, Jack."
"Well, I don't care for the game you put me up against. Do you know what has happened?"
"I really don't, dear friend. The Tracer of Lost Persons has not found her—hashe?"
"He says he has," retorted Gatewood sullenly, pulling a crumpled telegram from his pocket and casting it upon the table. "I don't want to see her; I'm not interested. I never saw but one girl in my life who interested me in the slightest; and she's employed to help in this ridiculous search."
Kerns, meanwhile, had smoothed out the telegram and was intently perusing it:
"John Gatewood, Lenox Club, Fifth Avenue:"Person probably discovered. Call here as soon as possible.W. KEEN."
"John Gatewood, Lenox Club, Fifth Avenue:
"Person probably discovered. Call here as soon as possible.
W. KEEN."
"Whatdo you make of that?" demanded Gatewood hoarsely.
"Make of it? Why, it's true enough, I fancy. Go and see, and if it's she, be hers!"
"I won't! I don't want to see any ideal! I don't want to marry. Why do you try to make me marry somebody?"
"Because it's good for you, dear friend. Otherwise you'll go to the doggy-dogs. You don't realize how much worry you are to me."
"Confound it! Why don'tyoumarry? Why didn't I ask you that when you put me up to all this foolishness? What right have you to—"
"Tut, friend!Iknow there's no woman alive fit to wed me and spend her life in stealing kisses from me.Ihave no ideal.Youhave an ideal."
"I haven't!"
"Oh, yes, dear friend, there's a stub in your check book to prove it. You simply bet $5,000 that your ideal existed. You've won. Go and be her joy and sunshine."
"I'll put an end to this whole business," said Gatewood wrathfully, "and I'll do it now!"
"Bet you that you're engaged within the week!" said Kerns with a placid smile.
The other swung around savagely: "What will you bet, Tommy? You may have what odds you please. I'll make you sit up for this."
"I'll bet you," answered Kerns, deliberately, "an entire silver dinner service against a saddle horse for the bride."
"That's a fool bet!" snapped Gatewood. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, if you don't care to—"
"What do I want of a silver service? But, all right; I'll bet you anything."
"She'llwant it," replied Kerns significantly, booking the bet. "I may as well canter out to Tiffany's this morning, I fancy. . . . Where are you going, Jack?"
"To see Keen and confess what an ass I've been!" returned Gatewood sullenly, striding across the breakfast room to take his hat and gloves from the rack. And out he went, mad all over.
On his way up the avenue he attempted to formulate the humiliating confession which already he shrank from. But it had to be done. He simply could not stand the prospect of being notified month after month that a lady would be on view somewhere. It was like going for a fitting; it was horrible. Besides, what use was it? Within a week or two an enormous and utterly inexplicable emptiness had yawned before him, revealing life as a hollow delusion. He no longer cared.
Immersed in bitter reflection, he climbed the familiar stairway and sent his card to Mr. Keen, and in due time he was ushered into the presence of the Tracer of Lost Persons.
"Mr. Keen," he began, with a headlong desire to get it over and be done with it, "I may as well tell you how impossible it is for you, or anybody, to find that person I described—"
Mr. Keen raised an expostulatory hand, smiling indulgence.
"It is more than possible, Mr. Gatewood, more than probable; it is almost an accomplished fact. In other words, I think I may venture to congratulate you and say that sheisfound."
"Now,howcan she be found, when there isn't—"
"Mr. Gatewood, the magician will always wave his magic wand for you and show you his miracles for the price of admission. But for that price he does not show you how he works his miracles," said Keen, laughing.
"But I ought to tell you," persisted Gatewood, "that it is utterly impossible you should find the person I wished to discover, because she—"
"I can only prove that you are wrong," smiled Keen, rising from his easy chair.
"Mr. Keen," said the young man earnestly, "I have been more or less of a chump at times. One of those times was when I came here on this errand. All I desire, now, is to let the matter rest as it is. I am satisfied, and you have lost nothing. Nor have you found anything or anybody. You think you have, but you haven't. I do not wish you to continue the search, or to send me any further reports. I want to forget the whole miserable matter—to be free—to feel myself freed from any obligations to that irritating person I asked you to find."
The Tracer regarded him very gravely.
"Is that your wish, Mr. Gatewood? I can scarcely credit it."
"It is. I've been a fool; I simply want to stop being one if anybody will permit it."
"And you decline to attempt to identify the very beautiful person we have discovered to be the individual for whom you asked us to search?"
"I do. She may be beautiful; but I know well enough she can't compare with—some one."
"I am sorry," said Keen thoughtfully. "We take so much pride in these matters. When one of my agents discovered where this person was, I was rather—happy; for I have taken a peculiar personal interest in your case. However—"
"Mr. Keen," said Gatewood, "if you could understand how ashamed and mortified I am at my own conduct—"
Keen gazed pensively out of the window. "I also am sorry; Miss Southerland was to have received a handsome bonus for her discovery—"
"Miss S-S-S-S-outherland!"
"Exactly; without quite so manyS's," said Keen, smiling.
"Didshediscover that—that person?" exclaimed the young man, startled.
"She thinks she has. I am not sure she is correct; but I am absolutely certain that Miss Southerland could eventually discover the person you were in search of. It seems a little hard on her—just on the eve of success—to lose. But that can't be helped now."
Gatewood, more excited and uncomfortable than he had ever been in all his life, watched Keen intently.
"Too bad, too bad," muttered the Tracer to himself. "The child needs the encouragement. It meant a thousand dollars to her—" He shrugged his shoulders, looked up, and, as though rather surprised to see Gatewood still there, smiled an impersonal smile and offered his hand in adieu. Gatewood winced.
"Could I—I see Miss Southerland?" he asked.
"I am afraid not. She is at this moment following my instructions to—but that cannot interest you now—"
"Yes, it does!—if you don't mind. Where is she? I—I'll take a look at the person she discovered; I will, really."
"Why, it's only this: I suspected that you might identify a person whom I had reason to believe was to be found every morning riding in the Park. So Miss Southerland has been riding there every day. Yesterday she came here, greatly excited—"
"Yes—yes—go on!"
Keen gazed dreamily at the sunny window. "She thought she had found your—er—the person. So I said you would meet her on the bridle path, near—but that's of no interest now—"
"Near where?" demanded Gatewood, suppressing inexplicable excitement. And as Keen said nothing: "I'll go; I want to go, I really do! Can't—can't a fellow change his mind? Oh, I know you think I'm a lunatic, and there's plenty of reason, too!"
Keen studied him calmly. "Yes, plenty of reason, plenty of reason, Mr. Gatewood. But do you suppose you are the only one? I know another who was perfectly sane two weeks ago."
The young man waited impatiently; the Tracer paced the room, gray head bent, delicate, wrinkled hands clasped loosely behind his bent back.
"You have horses at the Whip and Spur Club," he said abruptly. "Suppose you ride out and see how close Miss Southerland has come to solving our problem."
Gatewood seized the offered hand and wrung it with a fervor out of all reason; and it is curious that the Tracer of Lost Persons did not appear to be astonished.
"You're rather impetuous—like your father," he said slowly. "I knew him; so I've ventured to trust his son—even when I heard how aimlessly he was living his life. Mr. Gatewood! May I ask you something—as an old friend of your father?"
The young man nodded, subdued, perplexed, scarcely understanding.
"It's only this: If youdofind the woman you could love—in the Park—to-day—come back to me some day and let me tell you all those foolish, trite, tiresome things that I should have told a son of mine. I am so old that you will not take offense—you will not mind listening to me, or forgetting the dull, prosy things I say about the curse of idleness, and the habits of cynical thinking, and the perils of vacant-minded indulgence. You will forgive me—and you will forget me. That will be as it should be. Good-by."
Gatewood, sobered, surprised, descended the stairs and hailed a hansom.
All the way to the Whip and Spur Club he sat buried in a reverie from which, at intervals, he started, aroused by the heavy, expectant beating of his own pulses. But what did he expect, in Heaven's name? Not the discovery of a woman who had never existed. Yet his excitement and impatience grew as he watched the saddling of his horse; and when at length he rode out into the sunshine and cantered through the Park entrance, his sense of impending events and his expectancy amounted to a fever which colored his face attractively.
He saw her almost immediately. Her horse was walking slowly in the dappled shadows of the new foliage; she, listless in her saddle, sometimes watching the throngs of riders passing, at moments turning to gaze into the woodland vistas where, over the thickets of flowering shrubbery, orioles and robins sped flashing on tinted wings from shadow to sun, from sun to shadow. But she looked up as he drew bridle and wheeled his mount beside her; and, "Oh!" she said, flushing in recognition.
"I have missed you terribly," he said quietly.
It was dreamy weather, even for late spring: the scent of lilacs and mock-orange hung heavy as incense along the woods. Their voices unconsciously found the key to harmonize with it all.
She said: "Well, I think I have succeeded. In a few moments she will be passing. I do not know her name; she rides a big roan. She is very beautiful, Mr. Gatewood."
He said: "I am perfectly certain we shall find her. I doubted it until now. But now I know."
"Oh-h, but Imaybe wrong," she protested.
"No; you cannot be."
She looked up at him.
"You can have no idea how happy you make me," he said unsteadily.
"But—I—but I may be all wrong—dreadfully wrong!"
"Y-es; you may be, but I shall not be. For do you know that I have already seen her in the Park?"
"When?" she demanded incredulously, then turned in the saddle, repeating: "Where? Did she pass? How perfectly stupid of me! Andwasshe the—the right one?"
"Sheisthe right one. . . . Don't turn: I have seen her. Ride on: I want to say something—if I can."
"No, no," she insisted. "I must know whether I was right—"
"Youareright—but you don't know it yet. . . . Oh, very well, then; we'll turn if you insist." And he wheeled his mount as she did, riding at her bridle again.
"How can you take it so coolly—so indifferently?" she said. "Where has that woman—where has she gone? . . . Never mind; she must turn and pass us sooner or later, for she lives uptown.Whatare you laughing at, Mr. Gatewood?"—in annoyed surprise.
"I am laughing at myself. Oh, I'm so many kinds of a fool—you can't think how many, and it's no use!"
She stared, astonished; he shook his head.
"No, you don't understand yet. But you will. Listen to me: this very beautiful lady you have discovered is nothing to me!"
"Nothing—to you!" she faltered. Two pink spots of indignation burned in her cheeks. "How—how dare you say that!—after all that has been done—all that you have said. You said you loved her; youdidsay so—tome!"
"I don't love her now."
"But you did!" Tears of pure vexation started; she faced him, eye to eye, thoroughly incensed.
"What sort of man are you?" she said under her breath. "Your friend Mr. Kerns is wrong. You are not worth saving from yourself."
"Kerns!" he repeated, angry and amazed. "What the deuce has Kerns to do with this affair?"
She stared, then, realizing her indiscretion, bit her lip, and spurred forward. But he put his horse to a gallop, and they pounded along in silence. In a little while she drew bridle and looked around coldly, grave with displeasure.
"Mr. Kerns came to us before you did. He said you would probably come, and he begged us to strain every effort in your behalf, because, he said, your happiness absolutely depended upon our finding for you the woman you were seeking. . . . And I tried—very hard—and now she's found. You admit that—andnowyou say—"
"I say that one of these balmy summer days I'll assassinate Tommy Kerns!" broke in Gatewood. "What on earth possessed that prince of butters-in to go to Mr. Keen?"
"To save you from yourself!" retorted the girl in a low, exasperated voice. "He did not say what threatened you; he is a good friend for a man to have. But we soon found out what you were—a man well born, well bred, full of brilliant possibility, who was slowly becoming an idle, cynical, self-centered egoist—a man who, lacking the lash of need or the spur of ambition, was degenerating through the sheer uselessness and inanity of his life. And, oh, the pity of it! For Mr. Keen and I have taken a—a curiously personal interest in you—in your case. I say, the pity of it!"
Astounded, dumb under her stinging words, he rode beside her through the brilliant sunshine, wheeled mechanically as she turned her horse, and rode north again.
"And now—now!" she said passionately, "you turn on the woman you loved! Oh, you are not worth it!"
"You are quite right," he said, turning very white under her scorn. "Almost all you have said is true enough, I fancy. I amount to nothing; I am idle, cynical, selfish. The emptiness of such a life requires a stimulant; even a fool abhors a vacuum. So I drink—not so very much yet—but more than I realize. And it is close enough to a habit to worry me. . . . Yes, almost all you say is true; Kerns knows it; I know it—now that you have told me. You see, he couldn't tell me, because I should not have believed him. But I believe you—all you say, except one thing. And that is only a glimmer of decency left in me—not that I make any merit of it. No, it is merely instinctive. For I havenotturned on the woman I loved."
Her face was pale as her level eyes met him:
"You said she was nothing to you. . . . Look there! Do you see her? Do you see?"
Her voice broke nervously as he swung around to stare at a rider bearing down at a gallop—a woman on a big roan, tearing along through the spring sunshine, passing them with wind-flushed cheeks and dark, incurious eyes, while her powerful horse carried her on, away through the quivering light and shadow of the woodland vista.
"Isthatthe person?"
"Y-es," she faltered. "Was I wrong?"
"Quite wrong, Miss Southerland."
"But—but you said you had seen her here this morning!"
"Yes, I have."
"Did you speak to her before you met me?"
"No—not before I met you."
"Then you have not spoken to her. Is she still here in the Park?"
"Yes, she is still here."
The girl turned on him excitedly: "Do you mean to say that you will not speak to her?"
"I had rather not—"
"And your happiness depends on your speaking?"
"Yes."
"Then it is cowardly not to speak."
"Oh, yes, it is cowardly. . . . If you wish me to speak to her I will. Shall I?"
"Yes . . . Show her to me."
"And you think that such a man as I am has a right to speak of love to her?"
"I—we believe it will be your salvation. Mr. Kerns says you must marry her to be happy. Mr. Keen told me yesterday that it only needed a word from the right woman to put you on your mettle. . . . And—and that is my opinion."
"Then in charity say that word!" he breathed, bending toward her. "Can't you see? Can't you understand? Don't you know that from the moment I looked into your eyes I loved you?"
"How—how dare you!" she stammered, crimsoning.
"God knows," he said wistfully. "I am a coward. I don't know how I dared. Good-by. . . ."
He walked his horse a little way, then launched him into a gallop, tearing on and on, sun, wind, trees swimming, whirling like a vision, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, save the leaden pounding of his pulse and the breathless, terrible tightening in his throat.
When he cleared his eyes and looked around he was quite alone, his horse walking under the trees and breathing heavily.
At first he laughed, and the laugh was not pleasant. Then he said aloud: "It is worth having lived for, after all!"—and was silent. And again: "I could expect nothing; she was perfectly right to side-step a fool. . . . Andsucha fool!"
The distant gallop of a horse, dulled on the soft soil, but coming nearer, could not arouse him from the bitter depths he had sunk in; not even when the sound ceased beside him, and horse snorted recognition to horse. It was only when a light touch rested on his arm that he looked up heavily, caught his breath.
"Where is the other—woman?" she gasped.
"There never was any other."
"You said—"
"I said I loved my ideal. I did not know she existed—until I saw you."
"Then—then we were searching for—"
"A vision. But it was your face that haunted me. . . . And I am not worth it, as you say. And I know it, . . . for you have opened my eyes."
He drew bridle, forcing a laugh. "I cut a sorry figure in your life; be patient; I am going out of it now." And he swung his horse. At the same moment she did the same, making a demi-tour and meeting him halfway, confronting him.
"Do you—you mean to ride out of my life without a word?" she asked unsteadily.
"Good-by." He offered his hand, stirring his horse forward; she leaned lightly over and laid both hands in his. Then, her face surging in color, she lifted her beautiful dark eyes to his as the horses approached, nearer, nearer, until, as they passed, flank brushing flank, her eyes fell, then closed as she swayed toward him, and clung, her young lips crushed to his.
There was nobody to witness it except the birds and squirrels—nobody but a distant mounted policeman, who almost fainted away in his saddle.
Oh, it was awful, awful! Apparently she had been kissed speechless, for she said nothing. The man fool did all the talking, incoherently enough, but evidently satisfactory to her, judging from the way she looked at him, and blushed and blushed, and touched her eyes with a bit of cambric at intervals.
All the policeman heard as they passed him was; "I'm going to give you this horse, and Kerns is to give us our silver; and what do you think, my darling?"
"W-what?"
But they had already passed out of earshot; and in a few moments the shady, sun-flecked bridle path was deserted again save for the birds and squirrels, and a single mounted policeman, rigid, wild eyed, twisting his mustache and breathing hard.