The days that followed brought uncertainty and doubt to the heart and mind of John Saxton. He had seen Evelyn several times before she left home, on occasions when he went to the house with Fenton for conferences with her father. He had intended saying good-by to her, but the Porters went hurriedly at last and he was not sorry; it was easier that way. But Mrs. Whipple, who was exercising a motherly supervision over John, had exacted a promise from him to come to Orchard Lane during the time that she and the general were to be with the Porters in their new cottage. When he went East, Saxton settled down at his club in Boston, and pretended that it was good to be at home again; but he went about with homesickness gnawing his heart. He had reason to be happy and satisfied with himself. He had practically concluded the difficult work which he had been sent to Clarkson to do; he had realized more money from their assets than the officers of the trust company had expected; and they held out to him the promise of employment in their Boston office as a reward. So he walked the familiar streets planning his future anew. He had succeeded in something at last, and he would stay in Boston, having, he told himself, earned the right to live there. The assistant secretaryship of the trust company, which had been mentioned to him, would be a position of dignity and promise. He had never hoped to do so well. Moreover, it would be pleasant to be near his sister, who lived at Worcester. There were only the two of them, and they ought to live near together.

It is, however, an unpleasant habit of the fates never to suffer us to debate simple problems long; they must throw in new elements to puzzle us. While he deferred going to Orchard Lane a new perplexity confronted him. One of Margrave's "people" came from New York as the representative of the syndicate that had purchased the Clarkson Traction Company, and sought an interview. John had met this gentleman at the time the sale was closed; he was a person of consequence in the financial world, who came quickly to the point of his errand. He offered John the position of general manager of the company.

Margrave, it appeared, was not to have full swing after all. He was to be president, but John's visitor intimated broadly that the position was to be largely honorary. They had looked into the matter thoroughly in New York and were anxious that the policy and methods of the receivership should continue. Mr. Margrave was an invaluable man, said the New Yorker, but his duties with the railroad company had so multiplied that he would be unable to give the necessary care to the street car management. John should have absolute authority. The syndicate would be greatly disappointed if he declined. A salary was named which was larger than John had ever dreamed of receiving in any occupation; and they wished an answer within a few days. John Saxton was human, and it was not easy to decline a salary of six thousand dollars for services which he knew he could perform, offered to him by a gentleman whom people were not in the habit of refusing. He remained indoors at the club all day, smoking many pipes in a fruitless effort to reconcile his resolves with his new problems.

The next day he thought he saw it all more clearly. Perhaps, he reflected, life in Boston would become endurable; there was his sister to consider, and he owed something to her; she was all he had. He went out and walked aimlessly through the hot streets, little heeding what he did. He realized presently that he had gone into a railway office and asked for a suburban time table. He carried this back to the club, where the atmosphere of his cool, quiet room soothed him; and he lay down on a couch and studied the list of Orchard Lane trains. He found that he could run out almost any hour of the day. He slept and woke refreshed, with the time table still grasped in his hand. He had been very foolish, he concluded; it would be a simple matter to go out to Orchard Lane to call on the Porters and Whipples, and he picked out one of the afternoon trains and marked it on the folder with a lead pencil. He spent the evening writing letters,—in particular a letter to the representative of the Clarkson Traction syndicate, declining the general managership; and the next afternoon when he went up to Orchard Lane he carried the letter sealed and stamped in his pocket, as a kind of talisman that would assure his safety.

It suited his righteous mood that he should find no one at home at Red Gables but Mr. Porter, who played golf all the morning and slept and experimented at landscape gardening all the afternoon. He welcomed John with unwonted cordiality, in the inexplicable way people have of being friendlier with a fellow townsman away from their common habitat than at home. He led the way to a cool and cozy corner of the broad veranda, where Japanese screens made a pleasant nook. The afternoon sea shimmered beyond the trees; the lawn was tended with urban care. Porter was very proud of the place and listened with approval to John's praise of it.

"Well, sir; it's cooler than Clarkson."

"A trifle, yes; the efforts of the Clarkson papers to make a summer resort of the town were never very successful." John's eyes rested on a wicker table where there were books and a little sewing basket, which it wrung his heart to see.

"Folks are all off somewhere. The Whipples are in town. Grant's gone sailing and Evelyn's out visiting or attending a push of some kind up the shore. But I guess I know when I've got a good thing. You don't catch me gadding into town when I've got a cool place to sit." He stretched his short legs comfortably. "I hope you'll smoke a cigar if you've got one. They've cut mine off, and Evelyn won't let me keep any around; thinks they'd be too much of a temptation."

"It's just as well to keep away from temptation," said John, not thinking of cigars. The sight of Porter and the mention of Clarkson brought his homesickness to an acute stage.

"I suppose our old friend Margrave's enjoying himself running the Traction Company by this time," continued Porter. "Well, sir; I guess he can have it. I thought for a while that I wanted it myself, but Fenton talked me out of it. It will pay, if they run it right; yes, sir; it's a good thing. But the trouble with Margrave is that he won't play square. It ain't in him. He's so crooked that they'll never find a coffin for him,—no, sir; not in stock; I guess it'll tax the manufacturer to his full capacity to fit Tim. But he seems to have those Transcontinental people on the string, and they're smart fellows, too. I reckon Margrave's a handy man for them. They used to say I was crooked,"—he twirled his straw hat, and changed the position of his legs; "but I guess that for pure sinuosity I was never in Tim Margrave's class. Well, Tim's a good enough fellow when all's said and done!"

"They say of him that he always stands by his friends," said John. "And that's a good deal."

"That's right. It's a whole lot," Porter assented.

There were some details connected with the final transfer of the Traction Company to Margrave's syndicate which Porter had not fully understood, or which Fenton had purposely kept from him; and he pressed John for new light on these matters. John answered or parried as he thought wisest. He was surprised to find how completely Porter had freed himself from business; the sometime banker talked of Clarkson affairs with an accentuation of the past tense, as if to wave them all away as far as possible. Events in themselves did not interest him particularly; but he took a mildly patronizing tone in philosophizing about them. He drew from John the fact that most of the property of the Neponset Trust Company in the Trans-Missouri region had been sold.

"That's good. I guess you've done pretty well for them, Saxton. But I hope we shan't lose you from Clarkson. We need young men out there; and I guess we've got as good a town as there is anywhere west of Chicago."

"I'm sure of that," said John; and he rose to go.

"I'm sorry the rest of them are not here," said Mr. Porter. "Evelyn ought to have been home before this. But you must come again. Come out and try the golf course and have dinner with us any time. I'm playing a little myself this summer. Evelyn and Grant can outdrive me all right; but they're not in it with me on putting. I'm one of the warmest putters on the links. You can find the shore path this way." He led John to an exit at the rear of the house, where there was an old apple orchard. "After you pass the lighthouse you come to a road that leads right into the village."

John left his greetings for the rest of the household and turned away. It had all happened much more easily than he had expected. He had burned all his bridges behind him now; he would mail his letter in the village; not that it would be delivered any sooner, but because it fell in with his spirit of renunciation that it should go hence with the Orchard Lane postmark.

He took it from his pocket and carried it in his hand. He found the walk very pleasant, with the rough shore of the bay on one hand and pretty villas on the other. Orchard Lane was not wholly a fiction of nomenclature. There were veritable lanes that survived the coming of fashion and wealth, and spoke of simpler times on these northern shores. The path was not altogether straight, but described a tortuous line past the lighthouse which crouched on a point of the bay. There was a train at six o'clock; it was now five and he loitered along, stopping often to look out upon the sea. A group of people was gathered about a tea table on the sloping lawn in front of one of the houses. The colors of the women's dresses were bright against the dark green. It was a gay company; their laughter floated out to him mockingly. He wondered whether Evelyn was there, as he passed on, beating the rocky path with his stick.

Evelyn was not there; but her destination was that particular lawn and its tea table. Turning a fresh bend in the path he came upon her. He had had no thought of seeing her; yet she was coming down the path toward him, her picture hat framed in the dome of a blue parasol. He had renounced her for all time, and he should greet her guardedly; but the blood was singing in his temples and throbbing in his finger tips at the sight of her.

"This is too bad!" she exclaimed, as they met. "I hope you can come back to the house."

She walked straight up to him and gave him her hand in her quick, frank way.

"I'm sorry, but I must go in to town on this next train," he answered. He turned in the path and walked along beside her.

"This happened to be one of our scattering days, for all except father."

"We had a nice talk, he and I. Your place is charming."

They descended the shore path until they came to the villa where the tea drinkers were assembled.

"Don't let me detain you. I'm sure you were going to join these lotus eaters."

"I don't believe they need me," she answered, evasively. "They seem pretty busy. But if you're hungry—or thirsty, I can get something for you there." They passed the gate, walking slowly along. He knew that he ought to urge her to stop, and that he must hurry on to catch his train; but it was too sweet to be near her; this was the last time and it was his own!

"I seem to remember your tea drinking ways," she said. "You use only sugar and the hot water."

"But that was in the winter," he responded. He wished she had not referred to that afternoon, when he had been weak, just as he was proving weak now. A yacht was steaming slowly into the bay. It was a pretty, white plaything and they paused and commended its good qualities with the easy certainty of superficial knowledge. They walked on, passing the lighthouse, and slowly nearing the entrance to Red Gables. She led the talk easily and her light-heartedness added to his depression; every step he took was an error; but he would leave her at the gate when they came to it and go on to the village and his train. She paused abruptly and looked across a meadow which lay between them and the Red Gables orchard.

"I really believe it's a cow; yes, it is a cow," she declared, with quiet conviction.

"I thought it was a yacht. Was I as dull as that?" he demanded.

"Be it far from me to say; but I was getting a little breathless. Even the professional monologuists in the vaudeville have to rest."

He was not in a humor for frivolous conversation; but she had never been so gay. He had committed himself to general chaos and yet she was smiling amid the ruin of the world.

"I don't believe there are any letter boxes along here," she continued, looking straight ahead. He remembered his letter; he was stupidly carrying it in his hand; his fingers were cramped from their clutch upon it. It was not easy to resist her mood, and he now laughed in spite of himself.

"I'm disappointed. I thought they had all the necessities of a successful summer resort here,—even mails."

"Rather poor, don't you think? I suppose you were carrying the letter to get an opening for that."

They paused and John held open the little gate in the stone wall. He was grave again, and something of his seriousness communicated itself to her. Clearly, he thought, this was the parting of the ways. He had not relaxed his hold upon the letter; it was a straw at which he clutched for support.

"Won't you come in? There are plenty of trains and we'd like you to dine with us."

A great wave of loneliness and yearning swept over him. Her invitation seemed to create new and limitless distances that stretched between them. In fumbling with the latch of the gate he had dropped his letter. The wind caught and carried it out into the grass.

He went soberly after it and picked it up. There was a dogged resignation in his step as he walked slowly across the grass. While he was securing the bit of paper, she sat down on a rustic bench and waited for him.

"The fates don't agree with you about the letter, Mr. Saxton. You were looking for a letter box and they tried to thwart you."

"I'm not superstitious," said John, smiling a little.

"One needn't be,—to act on the direct hints of Providence."

She sat at comfortable ease on the bench, holding her parasol across her lap. There was room for two, and John sat down.

"Suppose it were a check on an overdrawn account; would Providence intervene to prevent an overdraft?"

"That's a commercial hypothesis; I think we should be above such considerations." Then they were silent. John bent forward with his elbows on his knees, playing with his stick and still holding the letter. The wind came up out of the sea and blew in their faces. The brass mountings of the yacht shone resplendent in the slanting rays of the lowering sun. It was very calm and restful in the orchard. Two robins came and inspected them, and then flew away to one of the gnarled old trees to gossip about them.

"It happens to be important," said John, indicating the letter.

"Oh, pardon me!" with real contrition. It was not her way to flirt with a young man over a letter. John held up the envelope so that she saw the superscription. She knew the name very well. It was constantly in the newspapers, and the owner of it had dined once at her father's house.

"He's the head of the syndicate that has bought the Traction Company. He has asked me to stay in Clarkson and run the street cars."

"That's very nice. But merit gets rewarded sometimes."

"But I have refused the offer," he said quietly. He had not intended to tell her; but it was doubtless just as well; and it would alter nothing. "My work in Clarkson is finished," he went on. "Warry's affairs will make it necessary for me to go back from time to time, but it will not be home again."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were to be of us. But I suppose there is a greater difference between the East and the West than any one can understand who has not known both." They regarded each other gravely, as if this were, of course, the whole matter at issue.

"I can't go back,—it's too much; I can't do it," he said wearily.

"I know how it must be,—this last year and Warry! It was all so terrible—for all of us." She was looking away; the wind had freshened; the yacht's pennant stood out against the blue sky.

John rose and looked down at her. It was natural that she should include herself with him in a common grief for the man who had been his friend and whom she had loved. She had always been kind to him; her kindness stung him now, for he knew that it was because of Warry; and a resolve woke in him suddenly. He would not suffer her kindness under a false pretense; he could at least be honest with her.

"I can't go back, because he is not there; and because—because you are there! You don't know,—you should never know, but I was disloyal to Warry from the first. I let him talk to me from day to day of you; I let him tell me that he loved you; I never let him know—I never meant any one to know—" He ceased speaking; she was very still and did not look at him. "It was base of me," he went on. "I would gladly have died for him if he had lived; but now that he is dead I can betray him. I hate myself worse than you can hate me. I know how I must wound and shock you—"

"Oh, no!" she moaned.

But he went on; he would spare himself nothing.

"It is hideous—it was cowardly of me to come here."

His hands were clenched and his face twitched with pain. "Oh, if he had lived! If he had lived!"

She rose now and looked at him with an infinite pity. This is one of God's unreckoned gifts to man,—the gift of pity that He has made the great secret of a woman's eyes. Evelyn's were gray now, like the stretch of sea beyond her, where a mist was creeping shoreward over the blue water.

"If he had lived," she said very softly, looking away through the sun-dappled aisles of the orchard, "if he had lived—it would have been the same, John."

But he did not understand. His name as she spoke it rang strange in his ears. The letter had fallen to the ground and lay in the grass between them; he half stooped to pick it up, not knowing what he did.

She walked away through the orchard path, which suddenly became to him a path of gold that stretched into paradise; and he sprang after her with a great fear in his heart lest some barrier might descend and shut her out forever.

"Evelyn! Evelyn!"

It was not a voice that called her; it was a spirit, long held in thrall, that had shaken free and become a name.