"It is something more than that," added Morgan. "There is a sort of drift-wood of adventure and devil-may-care-ism that civilization throws in advance of itself; but that isn't so bad as the slag it manufactures in the cities."

"I remember you said, Mr. Morgan, that men go West to get rid of their past," said Margaret.

"As New Yorkers go to Europe to get rid of their future?" Henderson inquired, catching the phrase.

"Yes"--Morgan turned to Margaret--"doubtless there is a satisfaction sometimes in placing the width of a continent between a man and what he has done. I've thought that one of the most popular verses in the Psalter, on the border, must be the one that says--you will know if I quote it right 'Look how wide also the East is from the West; so far hath He set our sins from us.'"

"That is dreadful," exclaimed Margaret. "To think of you spending your time in the service picking out pa.s.sages to fit other people!"

"It sounds as if you had manufactured it," was Henderson's comment.

"No; that quiet Mr. Lyon pointed it out to me when we were talking about Montana. He had been there."

"By-the-way, Mr. Henderson," my wife asked, "do you know what has become of Mr. Lyon?"

"I believe he is about to go home."

"I fancied Miss Esch.e.l.le might have something to say about that," Morgan remarked.

"Perhaps, if she were asked. But Mr. Lyon appeared rather indifferent to American attractions."

Margaret looked quickly at Henderson as he said this, and then ventured, a little slyly, "She seemed to appreciate his goodness."

"Yes; Miss Esch.e.l.le has an eye for goodness."

This was said without change of countenance, but it convinced the listener that Carmen was understood.

"And yet," said Margaret, with a little air of temerity, "you seem to be very good friends."

"Oh, she is very charitable; she sees, I suppose, what is good in me; and I'll spare you the trouble of remarking that she must necessarily be very sharp-sighted."

"And I'm not going to destroy your illusion by telling you her real opinion of you," Margaret retorted.

Henderson begged to know what it was, but Margaret evaded the question by new raillery. What did she care at the moment what Carmen thought of Henderson? What--did either of them care what they were saying, so long as there was some personal flavor in the talk! Was it not enough to talk to each other, to see each other?

As we sat afterwards upon the piazza with our cigars, inhaling the odor of the apple blossoms, and yielding ourselves, according to our age, to the influence of the mild night, Margaret was in the high spirits which accompany the expectation of bliss, without the sobering effect of its responsibility. Love itself is very serious, but the overture is full of freakish gayety. And it was all gayety that night. We all const.i.tuted ourselves a guard of honor to Miss Forsythe and Margaret when they went to their cottage, and there was a merry leave-taking in the moonlight.

To be sure, Margaret walked with Henderson, and they lagged a little behind, but I had no reason to suppose that they were speaking of the stars, or that they raised the ordinary question of their being inhabited. I doubt if they saw the stars at all. How one remembers little trifles, that recur like the gay bird notes of the opening scenes that are repeated in the tragedy of the opera! I can see Margaret now, on some bantering pretext, running back, after we had said good-night, to give Henderson the blush-rose she had worn in her hair. How charming the girl was in this freakish action!

"Do you think he is good enough for her?" asked my wife, when we were alone.

"Who is good enough for whom?" I said, a yawn revealing my want of sentiment.

"Don't be stupid. You are not so blind as you pretend."

"Well, if I am not so blind as I pretend, though I did not pretend to be blind, I suppose that is mainly her concern."

"But I wish she had cared for Lyon."

"Perhaps Lyon did not care for her," I suggested.

"You never see anything. Lyon was a n.o.ble fellow."

"I didn't deny that. But how was I to know about Lyon, my dear? I never heard you say that you were glad he wasn't your husband."

"Don't be silly. I think Henderson has very serious intentions."

"I hope he isn't frivolous," I said.

"Well, you are. It isn't a joking matter--and you pretend to be so fond of Margaret!"

"So that is another thing I pretend? What do you want me to do? Which one do you want me to make my enemy by telling him or her that the other isn't good enough?"

"I don't want you to do anything, except to be reasonable, and sympathize."

"Oh, I sympathize all round. I a.s.sure you I've no doubt you are quite right." And in this way I crawled out of the discussion, as usual.

What a pretty simile it is, comparing life to a river, because rivers are so different! There are the calm streams that flow eagerly from the youthful sources, join a kindred flood, and go placidly to the sea, only broadening and deepening and getting very muddy at times, but without a rapid or a fall. There are others that flow carelessly in the upper sunshine, begin to ripple and dance, then run swiftly, and rush into rapids in which there is no escape (though friends stand weeping and imploring on the banks) from the awful plunge of the cataract. Then there is the tumult and the seething, the exciting race and rage through the canon, the whirlpools and the pa.s.sions of love and revelations of character, and finally, let us hope, the happy emergence into the lake of a serene life. And the more interesting rivers are those that have tumults and experiences.

I knew well enough before the next day was over that it was too late for the rescue of Margaret or Henderson. They were in the rapids, and would have rejected any friendly rope thrown to draw them ash.o.r.e. And notwithstanding the doubts of my wife, I confess that I had so much sympathy with the genuineness of it that I enjoyed this shock of two strong natures rushing to their fate. Was it too sudden? Do two living streams hesitate when they come together? When they join they join, and mingle and reconcile themselves afterwards. It is only ca.n.a.ls that flow languidly in parallel lines, and meet, if they meet at all, by the orderly contrivance of a lock.

In the morning the two were off for a stroll. There is a hill from which a most extensive prospect is had of the city, the teeming valley, with a score of villages and innumerable white spires, of forests and meadows and broken mountain ranges. It was a view that Margaret the night before had promised to show Henderson, that he might see what to her was the loveliest landscape in the world. Whether they saw the view I do not know. But I know the rock from which it is best seen, and could fancy Margaret sitting there, with her face turned towards it and her hands folded in her lap, and Henderson sitting, half turned away from it, looking in her face. There is an apple orchard just below. It was in bloom, and all the invitation of spring was in the air. That he saw all the glorious prospect reflected in her mobile face I do not doubt--all the n.o.bility and tenderness of it. If I knew the faltering talk in that hour of growing confidence and expectation, I would not repeat it.

Henderson lunched at the Forsythe's, and after lunch he had some talk with Miss Forsythe. It must have been of an exciting nature to her, for, immediately after, that good woman came over in a great flutter, and was closeted with my wife, who at the end of the interview had an air of mysterious importance. It was evidently a woman's day, and my advice was not wanted, even if my presence was tolerated. All I heard my wife say through the opening door, as the consultation ended, was, "I hope she knows her own mind fully before anything is decided."

As to the objects of this anxiety, they were upon the veranda of the cottage, quite unconscious of the necessity of digging into their own minds. He was seated, and she was leaning against the railing on which the honeysuckle climbed, pulling a flower in pieces.

"It is such a short time I have known you," she was saying, as if in apology for her own feeling.

"Yes, in one way;" and he leaned forward, and broke his sentence with a little laugh. "I think I must have known you in some pre-existent state."

"Perhaps. And yet, in another way, it seems long--a whole month, you know." And the girl laughed a little in her turn.

"It was the longest month I ever knew, after you left the city."

"Was it? I oughtn't to have said that first. But do you know, Mr.

Henderson, you seem totally different from any other man I ever knew."

That this was a profound and original discovery there could be no doubt, from the conviction with which it was announced. "I felt from the first that I could trust you."

"I wish"--and there was genuine feeling in the tone--"I were worthier of such a generous trust."

There was a wistful look in her face--timidity, self-depreciation, worship--as Henderson rose and stood near her, and she looked up while he took the broken flower from her hand. There was but one answer to this, and in spite of the open piazza and the all-observant, all-revealing day, it might have been given; but at the moment Miss Forsythe was seen hurrying towards them through the shrubbery. She came straight to where they stood, with an air of New England directness and determination. One hand she gave to Henderson, the other to Margaret.

She essayed to speak, but tears were in her eyes, and her lips trembled; the words would not come. She regarded them for an instant with all the overflowing affection of a quarter of a century of repression, and then quickly turned and went in. In a moment they followed her. Heaven go with them!

After Henderson had made his hasty adieus at our house and gone, before the sun was down, Margaret came over. She came swiftly into the room, gave me a kiss as I rose to greet her, with a delightful impersonality, as if she owed a debt somewhere and must pay it at once--we men who are so much left out of these affairs have occasionally to thank Heaven for a merciful moment--seized my wife, and dragged her to her room.

"I couldn't wait another moment," she said, as she threw herself on my wife's bosom in a pa.s.sion of tears. "I am so happy! he is so n.o.ble, and I love him so!" And she sobbed as if it were the greatest calamity in the world. And then, after a little, in reply to a question--for women are never more practical than in such a crisis: "Oh, no--not for a long, long, long time. Not before autumn."

And the girl looked, through her glad tears, as if she expected to be admired for this heroism. And I have no doubt she was.