Part 72 (1/2)

Nothing had changed, he a.s.sured her; mill-dam and pond and bridge, and the rus.h.i.+ng creek below were exactly as she knew them; her house stood there at the crossroads, silent and closed in the suns.h.i.+ne, and under the high moon; pickerel and sunfish still haunted the shallow pond; partridges still frequented the alders and willows across her pasture; fireflies sailed through the summer night; and the crows congregated in the evening woods and talked over the events of the day.

”And my cat? You wrote that you would take care of Adoniram.”

”Adoniram is an aged patriarch and occupies the place of honour in my father's house,” he said.

”He is well?”

”Oh, yes. He prefers his food cut finely, that is all.”

”I don't suppose he will live very long.”

”He's pretty old,” admitted Neeland.

She sighed and looked out of the window at the kitten in the garden.

And, after an interval of silence:

”Our plot in the cemetery--is it--pretty?”

”It is beautiful,” he said, ”under the great trees. It is well cared for. I had them plant the shrubs and flowers you mentioned in the list you sent me.”

”Thank you.” She lifted her eyes again to him. ”I wonder if you realise how--how splendid you have always been to me.”

Surprised, he reddened, and said awkwardly that he had done nothing.

Where was the easy, gay and debonaire a.s.surance of this fluent young man? He was finding nothing to say to Rue Carew, or saying what he said as crudely and uncouthly as any haymaker in Gayfield.

He looked up, exasperated, and met her eyes squarely. And Rue Carew blushed.

They both looked elsewhere at once, but in the girl's breast a new pulse beat; a new instinct stirred, blindly importuning her for recognition; a new confusion threatened the ordered serenity of her mind, vaguely menacing it with unaccustomed questions.

Then the instinct of self-command returned; she found composure with an effort.

”You haven't asked me,” she said, ”about my work. Would you like to know?”

He said he would; and she told him--chary of self-praise, yet eager that he should know that her masters had spoken well of her.

”And you know,” she said, ”every week, now, I contribute a drawing to the ill.u.s.trated paper I wrote to you about. I sent one off yesterday.

But,” and she laughed shyly, ”my nostrils are no longer filled with pride, because I am not contented with myself any more. I wish to do--oh, so much better work!”

”Of course. Contentment in creative work means that we have nothing more to create.”

She nodded and smiled:

”The youngest born is the most tenderly cherished--until a new one comes. It is that way with me; I am all love and devotion and tenderness and self-sacrifice while fussing over my youngest. Then a still younger comes, and I become like a heartless cat and drive away all progeny except the newly born.”

She sighed and smiled and looked up at him:

”It can't be helped, I suppose--that is, if one's going to have more progeny.”

”It's our penalty for producing. Only the newest counts. And those to come are to be miracles. But they never are.”