Page:Century Magazine v069 (centuryillustrat69holl).pdf/455
off. I knew you'd be so glad. We must keep out of the way a little."
The door closed behind her words, and Henrietta looked about her vaguely. The yellow cat's head had ceased to waggle, and the glass eye stared at her roundly.
"Ugh!" said Henrietta.
She found her hat, and throwing it on, ran hastily down-stairs, stopping a moment at the library door.
"Oh, mother!"
"Yes, dear," came absently from the depths.
"I'm going up to camp again. I 'll be back to-morrow."
"Yes, dear. Take Buff."
"Of course." She stepped out into the sunlight and gave a low sound, something between a whistle and a call. The great dog bounded to her side.
"Where are you going, sister?" called Ethelberta, swaying in the hammock. Her white dress gleamed cool against the green.
"Just up to camp. I want to get something I left." She drifted past and disappeared in the wood.
The Scientist, up in his room, lifted his head and stepped quickly to the window. He seized his hat and sped down the stairway. As he passed the hammock it was Ethelberta's voice that stayed him:
"Whither away, Sir Knight?"
He paused a moment and turned back to her, his hat held in his thin fingers and his eyes fixed on the wood.
"Has she gone?" he asked.
"Henrietta? Yes; up to camp. She 'll be gone hours. Sit down."
He regarded the proffered seat gravely. "Could I find the camp?"
"You?" She had started up, and was looking at him with long, slow glance.
He returned it humbly. But the joy within him broke into smiling. If her own smile was a little slow in coming, he did not notice. When it came, she nodded assentingly.
"Yes—yes. How stupid in me!" She rose slowly and stepped toward the forest. "Come. I will put you on the path." A little farther in she paused. "There; you can't miss it now. Mother had it blazed from here. Good-by." She held out her hand in the graceful curve he knew. "Good-by, and good luck to you. Bring her back to luncheon."
"Yes; thank you a thousand times."
He stood with his hat in his hand, watching her as she moved gracefully away through the green wood. And his near-sighted gaze saw only the back of a charming woman and a delightful comrade who played his accompaniments divinely well.
All about the camp the wind stirred softly. Down below, to the right, the brook went blab, blab over the stones and spilled itself in ripples, and through the branches overhead filtered the sunshine, pine-scented and sweet. It fell on a figure lying, face down, in the moss, and flecked it lightly. The figure lay very still, the breath coming heavy and slow.
When she had reached the camp she had thrown herself down, blind and reckless, her breath choking her, and her hands clutching the moss on each side and tearing it apart. But now she lay quiet, her tense shoulders relaxed and her eyes filled with tears. What a fool she had been! What a fool! Why should she have dreamed it! He was a great man, distinguished, famous—and she, who could not play a note, or talk, or write, and she hated music. What a fool! Tears of shame overflowed, and she wiped them away, miserably, groping for her handkerchief beside her.
The Scientist, who had emerged from the trees, stopped short, peering uncertainly at the figure. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. Then he replaced it and stood looking up at the sunlit branches. There were no sounds but the blab, blab of the little brook below and the girl's slow breath. The Scientist took a step forward and stopped. A twig had snapped beneath his foot.
She sat up hastily with a startled look, stowing the wet ball of handkerchief beneath a fold of her dress.
"Where is Ethelberta?" she said, with dignity.
He came forward slowly. "I left her by the hammock." He was looking wistfully at the damp face. "Perhaps I ought to go away."
She said nothing, but her lip quivered, and she looked away.
He took off his glasses and rubbed them with elaborate care. When he replaced them, he looked at her again; then he moved forward, and sat down beside her. She did not speak or stir, and they sat very