"Mrs.--Huntington," he got out somehow, taking her hand, and staring eagerly down into her face, "I heard you were home, and I hoped to find you here. I--you are--I am extremely glad----"

Half an hour later Anthony came upon his wife in the darkness of the dining-room. "Oh, you shouldn't have left them when I was away," she said.

"Little Tony cried out and I had to go. I know Rachel doesn't want to be left with him to-night."

"Angels and chaperons defend us," muttered Anthony. "I can't stand it forever to feel a man wanting to kill me for staying by him through a meeting like this, after three years. I didn't know but Lockwood would attempt to throw me off my own porch. Give him a chance--he hasn't any, anyhow."

"It's after nine," whispered Juliet.

"I know it. Roger's taking a terrible risk."

"He doesn't know she's here. But I thought he cared enough for us to----"

"That's what I've been so sure of. He's probably been detained by some case. He's getting so distinguished, the minute he sets foot in town now the folks with things the matter with them begin to block his path. I hope she knows what she throws over her shoulder if she refuses him now."

"I don't see that she's going to have a chance to refuse him," mourned Juliet. "Do you think he'd ever forgive us if we let him get away without knowing she was here?"

"Lockwood found it out, somehow. Carey's safe to tell him if he sees him--and he's pretty sure to, at Roger's club."

"You couldn't telephone?"

"Where? If he can he'll come here, if only to get news of her. She's never let him write to her, has she?"

"He told me she hadn't when he was here last fall. And she didn't know where he was."

"Fellow-conspirator," whispered Anthony, "we'll give fate her chance to-night. If she bungles the game we'll take it into our own hands to-morrow. But I've a feeling I'd like to let it happen by itself, if it will."

When Lockwood had gone--which was not until eleven o'clock, in spite of the way his hosts remained in his vicinity--Rachel stood still upon the porch smiling a little wearily at Juliet.

"My staying all night has been settled for me," she said. "There was no way to go."

"Luckily for us," Juliet answered. "Sit here a little longer, dear. It's such a perfect night, and I know we shall see little enough of you when you get at work."

Rachel dropped into the hammock. "I should like to lie here all night,"

she said, "and watch the stars until I go to sleep. I've done that so many, many nights from under a tent flap."

All at once she looked up, her eyes widening. Upon the porch step stood a strong figure--as unlike Lockwood's gracefully slender one as possible. A man's eyes were gazing steadily down into hers--determined gray eyes, with a light in them. The two faces were plainly visible to each other in the radiance from the open door.

XXVIII.--A HIGH-HANDED AFFAIR

If she had not been standing in the doorway Juliet would have run away, but she had to welcome Dr. Roger Barnes, a traveler whom she had not seen for almost a year. Her presence, however, after one glad greeting, seemed not to bother him much. He turned from her to Rachel, who had risen, and took her outstretched hand in both his.

"It's been rather a long evening," he said, "wandering around and around this place, waiting for the other man to go. I explored the orchard and the willow path, and every familiar haunt. I had to refresh myself occasionally by stealing up for a glimpse of your face between the vines.

But, somehow, that only made it harder to wait. I had to march myself off again with my fists gripped tight in my pockets to keep them off that fellow, eating you up with his eyes--confound him--you, who belong only to me."

He did not smile as he said the last words, but stood looking eagerly at her with a gaze that never faltered. She tried to draw her hands away; it was useless. Juliet slipped off, knowing that neither of them would see her go.

"Come down on the lawn with me," he said, but she resisted.

"Please stay here, Doctor Barnes," she said, "and please let me have my hand. I can't talk so."

"You needn't talk--for a while," he answered. He sat down facing her. "At six o'clock I found out you were here. At eight--as soon as I could get away--I came out. I told you how I spent the evening. If I had needed anything to sharpen my longing for you that would have done it--but I think I had reached about the limit of what I could bear in that line already. It has been one constant augmenting thirst for a draught that was out of my reach. I shouldn't have kept my promise not to write you another day after I had been here this time and heard--what I have heard, Rachel."

She did not answer. Her face was turned away; she was very still. Only a slightly quickened breathing, of which he was barely conscious, betrayed to him that this was not listening of an ordinary sort.

"I shouldn't have said anything could make any difference with my feeling, to strengthen it," he went on very quietly, after a while, "but I find it has. I don't try to explain it to myself, except by the one thing I am sure of--that Alexander Huntington was the n.o.blest and most heroic of men, and deserved to the full those last few hours of knowledge that you had taken his name. And I can understand your loyalty to him in wishing to wear it these three years. But, Rachel, I can't let you wear it any longer."

She turned her face a shade farther away.

"I am leaving to-morrow night for another year's absence." He spoke as simply as if he were discussing the most ordinary of subjects. "So I can see but one thing to do, and that is----"

He got up and came around behind her, standing in the shadow of the vines, where the light did not touch him--"and that is, to take you with me."

He had not said it doubtfully, although his inflection was very gentle.

She moved quickly, startled.

"Doctor Barnes----"

"Yes, I'm ready for them. You can't raise an objection that I'm not ready for, not one that I can't meet--except one. And that you can't raise, Rachel."

She was silent, the words upon her lips held in check by this last bold declaration.

"You see you can't, being truthful," he said, smiling a little. "If I seem too confident, forgive me; but I've carried with me all these years that one look, when you forgot to veil your eyes away from me as you always had--and always have since then. When I get that look from you again----"

He paused, drawing a long breath. "I don't dare dream of it. Rachel, will you go?"

She tried to glance at him, and managed it, but no higher than his shoulders.

"I am engaged to take the training for nurses at the Larchmont Memorial----" she began.

But he interrupted her joyfully. "You don't say, 'I don't love you'--it's only, 'I was intending to be a nurse.' I told you you couldn't say it, because it isn't true. You do love me, Rachel. Tell me so."

Her hurried breathing was plainly perceptible now. She rose quickly, as if she could not bear the telltale lamplight upon her face any longer, and went hurriedly across the porch and down upon the lawn, into the starlight. He followed her, his pulses bounding.

"Oh, give up to me," he said in her ear, his own breath coming fast.

"You've been fighting it four years now--it's no use. We were made for each other, and we've known it from the first. You stood heroically by your first promise--you gave him all you could; but that's all over. You don't have to be true to anything or anybody now but me. Give up, dear, and let me know what it feels like to have you pull a man toward you instead of pushing him away."

They had reached the edge of the orchard--in deep shadow; and she stopped.

"I don't know what I came down here for," she said, in confusion.

"I do; you were running away. It's your instinct to run away--I love you for it--it's what first made me want to follow. But I can't stand your running away much longer. Look, Rachel, can you see? I'm holding out my arms. Rachel--I can't wait----"

For an instant longer she held out, while he stood silent, holding himself that he might have the long-dreamed-of joy of receiving her surrender.

Then, all at once, he realised that it had been worth all his days of patient and impatient waiting, for turning to him at last she gave herself, with the abandon such natures are capable of showing when they yield after long resistance, into the arms which closed hungrily around her.