"But one."

And that one had been unworthy, and Judith had sent him adrift. She had always been frank with Crittenden. That much he knew and no more--not even the man's name; but how he had wondered who and where and what manner of man he was! And how he had longed to see him!

They were pa.s.sing over a little bridge in a hollow where a cool current of air struck them and the freshened odour of moistening green things in the creek-bed--the first breath of the night that was still below the cloudy horizon.

"Deterioration," said Judith, almost sharply. "What did you mean by that?"

Crittenden hesitated, and she added:

"Go on; we are no longer children."

"Oh, it was nothing, or everything, just as you look at it. I made a discovery soon after you went away. I found that when I fell short of the standard you"--Crittenden spoke slowly--"had set for me, I got at least mental relief. I _couldn't_ think of you until--until I had recovered myself again."

"So you----"

"I used the discovery."

"That was weak."

"It was deliberate."

"Then it was criminal."

"Both, if you wish; but credit me with at least the strength to confess and the grace to be ashamed. But I'm beginning all over again now--by myself."

He was flipping at one shaft with the cracker of his whip and not looking at her, and Judith kept silent; but she was watching his face.

"It's time," he went on, with slow humour. "So far, I've just missed being what I should have been; doing what I should have done--by a hair's breadth. I did pretty well in college, but thereafter, when things begin to count! Law? I never got over the humiliation of my first ridiculous failure. Business? I made a fortune in six weeks, lost it in a month, and was lucky to get out without having to mortgage a farm.

Politics? Wharton won by a dozen votes. I just missed being what my brother is now--I missed winning you--everything! Think of it! I am five feet eleven and three-quarters, when I should have been full six feet. I am the first Crittenden to fall under the line in a century. I have been told"--he smiled--"that I have missed being handsome. There again I believe I overthrow family tradition. My youth is going--to no purpose, so far--and it looks as though I were going to miss life hereafter as well as here, since, along with everything else, I have just about missed faith."

He was quite sincere and unsparing, but had Judith been ten years older, she would have laughed outright. As it was, she grew sober and sympathetic and, like a woman, began to wonder, for the millionth time, perhaps, how far she had been to blame.

"The comfort I have is that I have been, and still am, honest with myself. I haven't done what I ought not and then tried to persuade myself that it was right. I always knew it was wrong, and I did it anyhow. And the hope I have is that, like the man in Browning's poem, I believe I always try to get up again, no matter how often I stumble. I sha'n't give up hope until I am willing to lie still. And I guess, after all--" he lifted his head suddenly--"I haven't missed being a man."

"And a gentleman," added Judith gently.

"According to the old standard--no." Crittenden paused.

The sound of buggy wheels and a fast-trotting horse rose behind them.

Raincrow lifted his head and quickened his pace, but Crittenden pulled him in as Basil and Phyllis swept by. The two youngsters were in high spirits, and the boy shook his whip back and the girl her handkerchief--both crying something which neither Judith nor Crittenden could understand. Far behind was the sound of another horse's hoofs, and Crittenden, glancing back, saw his political enemy--Wharton--a girl by his side, and coming at full speed. At once he instinctively gave half the road, and Raincrow, knowing what that meant, shot out his feet and Crittenden tightened the reins, not to check, but to steady him. The head of the horse behind he could just see, but he went on talking quietly.

"I love that boy," pointing with his whip ahead. "Do you remember that pa.s.sage I once read you in Stevenson about his 'little brother'?"

Judith nodded.

The horse behind was creeping up now, and his open nostrils were visible past the light hair blowing about Judith's neck. Crittenden spoke one quiet word to his own horse, and Judith saw the leaders of his wrist begin to stand out as Raincrow settled into the long reach that had sent his sire a winner under many a string.

"Well, I know what he meant--that boy never will. And that is as a man should be. The hope of the race isn't in this buggy--it has gone on before with Phyllis and Basil."

Once the buggy wheels ran within an inch of a rather steep bank, and straight ahead was a short line of broken limestone so common on bluegra.s.s turnpikes, but Judith had the Southern girl's trust and courage, and seemed to notice the reckless drive as little as did Crittenden, who made the wheels straddle the stones, when the variation of an inch or two would have lamed his horse and overturned them.

"Yes, they are as frank as birds in their love-making, and they will marry with as little question as birds do when they nest. They will have a house full of children--I have heard her mother say that was her ambition and the ambition she had for her children; and they will live a sane, wholesome, useful, happy life."

The buggy behind had made a little spurt, and the horses were almost neck and neck. Wharton looked ugly, and the black-eyed girl with fluffy black hair was looking behind Judith's head at Crittenden and was smiling. Not once had Judith turned her head, even to see who they were.

Crittenden hardly knew whether she was conscious of the race, but they were approaching her gate now and he found out.

"Shall I turn in?" he asked.

"Go on," said Judith.

There was a long, low hill before them, and up that Crittenden let Raincrow have his full speed for the first time. The panting nostrils of the other horse fell behind--out of sight--out of hearing.

"And if he doesn't get back from the war, she will mourn for him sincerely for a year or two and then----"

"Marry someone else."

"Why not?"

That was what she had so often told him to do, and now he spoke as though it were quite possible--even for him; and she was both glad and a little resentful.

At the top of the hill they turned. The enemy was trotting leisurely up the slope, having given up the race earlier than they knew. Judith's face was flushed.

"I don't think you are so very old," she said.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Go on!" said Judith.]

Crittenden laughed, and took off his hat very politely when they met the buggy, but Wharton looked surly. The girl with the black hair looked sharply at Judith, and then again at Crittenden, and smiled. She must have cared little for her companion, Judith thought, or something for Crittenden, and yet she knew that most women smiled at Crittenden, even when they did not know him very well. Still she asked: "And the other things--you meant other women?"

"Yes, and no."

"Why no?"

"Because I have deceived n.o.body--not even myself--and Heaven knows I tried that hard enough."

"That was one?" she added, smiling.

"I thought you knew me better than to ask such a question."

Again Judith smiled--scanning him closely.

"No, you aren't so very old--nor world-weary, after all."

"No?"

"No. And you have strong hands--and wrists. And your eyes are--" she seemed almost embarra.s.sed--"are the eyes of a good man, in spite of what you say about yourself; and I would trust them. And it was very fine in you to talk as you did when we were tearing up that hill a moment ago."

Crittenden turned with a start of surprise.

"Oh," he said, with unaffected carelessness. "You didn't seem to be very nervous."