“He’s a nice old chap,” Howard remarked. She did not answer. He desired, at all hazards, to avoid an intimate talk so stepped quickly toward the supper room as if to open the door. “Let me conduct you to the crackers and cheese,” he said with forced lightness.

“No. I want to speak to you.”

“This is hardly a good opportunity,” he pleaded.

“Come here, please.” He hesitated only briefly; something new in her to-night warned him that it would be unwise to gainsay her.

“Wilton, I am being talked about—too much. Talk does things, after awhile. When is this going to end?” Her voice was strained with her effort to control herself.

“What?” His face was turned from her.

“When can I go to my aunt and tell her that you have asked me to marry you? She persecutes me about it.”

“When you can answer your aunt’s first question—‘what are you and your husband going to live on?’” he replied glumly.

“Oh, the same old story. I’m sick of it. When a man loves he doesn’t think of money.” Her tone cut into him. Her contempt was not easy to bear.

“I do love you,” he asserted hotly, “but how could I support you? I’ve never worked. I can’t earn a round sum at anything. But for cousin Hibbert Mearely’s little legacy, I’d have been on the parish long ago. You and I can’t live any life but this. We’re not pioneer stuff. If we eloped to the swamps, the gnats would eat us—that’s all.”

“Don’t talk like that! It sounds so cowardly. You must think of me. I can’t face any more talk, and Aunt Emma’s sneers....”

“I’ve been thinking of that. Mabel, we must face facts squarely.”

“What do you mean?” tremulously.

“Our situation is hopeless. We can’t marry. The only thing for us to do....”

“I know,” she broke in bitterly. “I’ve heard you say that before, but I didn’t believe you meant it. We must separate and marry money; if we can.”

“Has society provided any other way of life for merely useless men like me, and merely ornamental women like you?”

She did not speak at once, but studied his face to find the reason for a mood so positive and malign. Across the screen of her thoughts floated a rose-and-silver gown—and she cried out as if she had been struck. “I’ve been blind! I see it now. You mean to marry Rosamond.”

“What an idea!” awkwardly, his eyes avoiding hers.

“Don’t try to deceive me. You may as well admit it. You’ve told me you mean to throw me aside for some rich woman. Is it Rosamond? Yes, of course, it is! What has she done to make you think you have a chance with her?” She caught hold of his arm and turned him to her.

“Nothing,” he sneered; “but I suspect it works both ways—this benign social law with its talk. It won’t let us marry—because we’re poor. Well, it won’t let her alone, either—because she’s rich. This is Rosamond’s fourth year of widowhood. Gossip has its eye on her. She’ll have to marry. I am a kinsman—being a distant cousin of her departed husband’s. That gives me a more familiar footing here. Gossip will naturally pick me out as the most likely bridegroom. In other words, don’t let their miserable, superwise social code crush you, but twist it round and use it to your own advantage.”

The passion in her face seemed to blend all the bitter emotions—scorn, jealousy, deep anger—with a fierce resolve.

“I see,” she answered presently, “I haven’t any illusions about you, Wilton. I had once, of course. You’re selfish. You don’t really care what happens to anybody but yourself. While this thing has dragged on and you have put off making it an open engagement, I’ve hoped and suffered everything—and you’ve let me. You know that we couldn’t walk along the river-path three times together without all Roseborough chattering about it and wondering whether you would marry me—and then sneering at me because there was no announcement. You do care for me—more than you can ever care for any one but yourself. I’m not afraid of poverty—or work. Merely ornamental you called me! I do everything at Aunt Emma’s—excepting the roughest work. I wouldn’t mind if she’d be fair enough to say that I am not living on her charity, but that I earn what she gives me. Don’t you suppose I could drudge for you and myself as I do for her and Corinne? And I’d have my own home—even if it was only two rooms, and not be slighted and treated contemptuously as a poor hanger-on.” A hard, dry sob shook her. “I won’t go back to that awful life with aunt—without you—without any hope. You can’t be so cruel to me.”

Howard winced. He had natural feeling enough to be ashamed of himself; and his emotion for her was stirred by her intensity.

“Mabel, dear, need you say all this? You know I love you. You have said so. But—it’s hopeless. I haven’t enough to keep us even in the poorest comfort. We’ve got to end it.” She shook her head.

“Don’t delude yourself. I will not be given up. You came and sought me and paid me attentions. You let me think you meant to marry me. And I’ve let you kiss me. I suppose that doesn’t mean anything to a man. But it does to a girl. I kissed you as the man I was going to belong to. I’d feel degraded if I could change. No, Wilton. You have brought something into power in me that you will have to reckon with. It controls me utterly; and I mean that it shall govern you, too. You shall never marry Rosamond or any one but me. I will stop it somehow. I’ll give Aunt Emma something worth while to talk about!”

“Hush! Don’t talk so wildly. If there were really a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, don’t you suppose I’d rather set off with you to find it?”

He took her into his arms suddenly. She yielded to his embrace, as if it soothed the wound he had dealt her love and her faith.

“Oh, Mabel, I’ve ceased to feel responsibility about anything. I’m simply a product of this bloodless, stagnant little village. Conditions rule individuals. Accept the facts, dear, and be wise.”

She put her arms round his neck. If her resolution did not falter, tenderness overflowed it for the moment. She recognized that what he said of himself was true—“the product of a bloodless, stagnant village.” She thought that he did not love her less than she loved him, but that he believed that the Roseborough which had shaped him must conquer him; whereas, she, of more rebellious clay, had thrown down the gauntlet to Roseborough. They clung to each other recklessly, then tore apart, because they heard Rosamond’s voice in the garden and the doctor’s answering.

Regaining a show of composure, they went into the dining room. The doctor—entering with Rosamond and Frei—was induced by his hostess’s urging to risk his digestion with “one small sandwich and a thimbleful of wine.”

Frei was humming, with a bland and childlike look on his face. He picked up his violin from the desk where he had laid it and put it into its case.

“Will you not sup, too?” she asked him.

“No, I thank you.” He came toward her. “My body needs no salads, for my soul is satisfied. I have found a place where there is no criticism; where the memorial fountains of kindness are unsealed—and the waters do arrive. Here, in Roseborough—‘here, where all hearts are tender and sincere’—surely I shall find at last a beautiful woman to love me for myself alone.”

“Why not?” she said kindly. “It is given to every man....”

She stopped in quoting what she, herself, had said to him in the orchard, because of the change in his face. He strode forward and gazed intently into her eyes.

“Ach!” he cried, as if she had now burst upon his sight for the first time. “You are beautiful!” He seized her hand. “Could you love me for myself alone?”

“Oh—oh!” She was startled. “I think your music would share in any love given to you,” she parried.

“That I permit. My music is me.”

“Oh, yes; but—it is also Tschaikowsky, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Chopin....”

Instantly his head drooped and his face was overcast with gloom.

“True. I am nothing—but to play the tunes of others.” He sighed heavily. Then, recovering from this humour, he drew himself up with a regal air. “I will overlook your birth and station, because you are beautiful and good. Here—here in Roseborough—with your devotion to console me; here—in this peaceful village—is my journey’s end. Later, when you have won my confidence by your serviceable affection, I will reveal to you certain matters. These may prevent our marriage——”

“Er—oh—I mean aren’t you a little precipitate...?”

He waved her to silence. “If our union be prevented, I shall still regard you with a noble and platonic affection. And you will be forever faithful and devoted to me.” He was obliged to conclude abruptly, for the other guests came in from the supper room.

“Mercy!” Rosamond said, under her breath, and removed herself from the impetuous musician’s proximity as quickly as possible.

“Well, we’re off,” the Judge announced. “Our lovely ladies must not lose their beauty sleep. It must be far along after nine.”

Mrs. Witherby plucked at her hostess’s sleeve.

“Now, are you sure there’s to be no interesting little item given out, to match that gown? I find it almost impossible to believe it was put on only for us. Well,” as she saw Rosamond frown, “keep your secret.” She was half way to the door, when she turned back and said: “Oh, do—do let me leave our Thomas. I can drive myself home. I feel so alarmed about you. I can’t endure the thought of your being alone. I wonder you didn’t tell me about it. Blake told the toll-man and the toll-man told Johnson, the butcher’s boy. So it’s publicly known that you are alone in this house to-night!” She was working herself up to a lively pitch, ignoring attempts at interruption from the Judge, who had had quite enough of her and her fears for one evening. “I assure you that just now I saw....” Mabel led the burst of laughter which put an end to her discourse. It was useless to talk against such a gale of hilarity. Rosamond caught the infection and laughed as unrestrainedly as the rest.

“It is so good to laugh,” she said; “I never miss the opportunity. But please tell me what I am laughing at.”

Dr. Wells with little snickers, and glancing sidewise at Mrs. Witherby to see how far he dared provoke her—that he might go just one step further—undertook to enlighten her.

“Te-he—our dear Mrs. Witherby saw a spotted cannibal peering in at the window; te-he-he.”

“’Twas—ah—Oolabaloo, the—ah—Matabele wild man.” The Judge was airily facetious.

“He wore a battle club and a wreath of daisies, the evening being cool,” Wilton Howard supplemented, whereupon every one roared again; except Dr. Frei, whose foreign intellect did not adapt itself readily to Anglo-Saxon humour. He was regarding the infuriated lady with sympathy and credence.

“But if she says she saw something...” he protested in her behalf, only to draw forth another peal of mirth.

He turned to Rosamond solicitously. “There is danger to you?”

“Oh, no! none. Tramps never come to Roseborough. Besides, I—I have a pistol—though I’ve never shot anything but bottles and rabbits, and never expect to!”

Mrs. Witherby was not easily overborne at any time, less than ever when she knew she was not inventing.

“I tell you, I saw distinctly....” She took a few steps toward the verandah, in order to point out the exact spot where the face had appeared. It happened, unfortunately, that every one was looking at her and laughing, instead of following the direction of her pointing finger. Once again, hers were the only eyes to see the swarthy face raised, this time till the tip of its nose was level with the rail. She screamed in long, piercing wails. The face withdrew.

“There!—there!—again!—I saw...!”

Every one laughed again except Frei. Mrs. Mearely, forgetful of her acquired deportment, put her hands on her hips and swayed with the ripples of her joy. Dr. Wells doubled up and choked, till the Judge was obliged to pat him on the back with a hand weak from his own mirth. The farewells were lost in the echoes of laughter.

“You think you really saw something?” Frei asked, as he offered his arm to Mrs. Witherby, who was trembling from alarm and insult.

“I shall notify the authorities. I am quite positive I saw him—absolutely positive!” “Don’t let mamma frighten you, Dr. Frei. Wait till you know her as well as I do!” Corinne suppressed her giggles long enough to kiss her hostess good-night. She ran out after her mother.

“Coming, Howard?” asked Wells over his shoulder.

“I’ll catch up with you at the foot of the hill. I think I’ll satisfy myself that my cousin’s bolts and bars are all in working order.”

“Te-he—our poor, dear Mrs. Witherby—such imagination!” The doctor waved his hand, smiling, and went out.

“Good-night, Mrs. Mearely.”

Rosamond had gone to the verandah rail to wave her guests down the hill. She was slightly startled to come upon Miss Crewe standing in the shadow, and evidently watching Howard.

“Good-night,” she said. “I hear your aunt calling you.” She was aware of a sombre flash from Mabel’s dark eyes; then the slender figure moved off with leisurely pace and the bearing of a princess—at least, so Rosamond, in her own mind, described Miss Crewe’s walk. One by one, the carts and buggies started round the gravel drive to the hill-road. As they passed just under the jut where the house stood, Mrs. Mearely leaned over the rail and called her good-nights.