Part 4 (1/2)
”I am fortunate. Well, that is the wheat. I don't know that I can expect you to go into ecstasies over it, as I confess to me it appears more or less weak about the head. _Could_ one say that wheat was imbecile?”
”In these days,” politely, ”one may say anything one likes.”
”Yes? You see that rain did some damage; but after all it might have been worse.”
”You will excuse my asking the question,” says Luttrell, gravely, ”but did you ever write for the _Farmer's Gazette_?”
”Never, as yet. But,” with an irrepressible smile, ”your words suggest to me brilliant possibilities. Perhaps were I to sit down and tell every one in trisyllables what they already know only too well about the crops, and the weather, and the Colorado beetle, and so forth, I might perchance wake up some morning to find myself famous.”
”I haven't the faintest doubt of it,” says Tedcastle, with such flattering warmth that they both break into a merry laugh. Not that there is anything at all in the joke worthy of such a joyous outburst, but because they are both so young and both so happy.
”Do you think I have done enough duty for one day?” asks Molly. ”Have I been prosy enough to allow of my leaving off now? Because I don't think I have got anything more to say about the coming harvest, and I wouldn't care to say it if I had.”
”Do you expect me to say that I found you 'prosy'?”
”If you will be so very kind. And you are quite sure no one could accuse me of taking advantage of John's and Letty's absence to be frivolous in my conversation?”
”Utterly positive.”
”And you will tell John what a sedate and gentle companion I was?”
”I will indeed, and more,--much more.”
”On the contrary, not a word more: if you do you will spoil all. And now,” says Molly, with a little soft, lingering smile, ”as a reward for your promises, come with me to the top of yonder hill, and I will show you a lovely view.”
”Is it not delicious here?” suggests Mr. Luttrell, who can scarcely be called energetic, and who finds it a difficult matter to grow enthusiastic over landscapes when oppressed by a broiling sun.
”What! tired already?” says Molly, with fine disregard of subterfuge.
”No, oh, no,” weakly.
”But you _are_,” reproachfully. ”You are quite _done up_.
Why, what would you do if you were ordered on a long day's march?”
”I dare say I should survive it,” says Tedcastle, shortly, who is rather offended at her putting it in this light.
”Well, perhaps you might; but you certainly would have nothing to boast of. Now, look at me: I am as fresh as when we started.” And in truth, as she stands before him, in her sky-blue gown, he sees she is as cool and bright and unruffled as when they left the house three-quarters of an hour ago. ”Well,” with a resigned sigh that speaks of disappointment, ”stay here until I run up,--I love the place,--and I will join you afterward.”
”Not I!” indignantly. ”I'm good yet for so much exertion, and I don't believe I could exist without you for so long. 'Call, and I follow--I follow,' even _though_ 'I die,'” he adds to himself, in a tone of melancholy.
Up the short but steep hill they toil in silence. Halfway Miss Ma.s.sereene pauses, either to recover breath or to give encouragement.
”On the top there is always a breeze,” she says, in the voice one adopts when determined to impress upon the listener what one's own heart knows to be doubtful.
”Is there?” says Luttrell, gloomily, and with much disbelief.
At length they gain the wished-for top. They stand together, Molly with her usually pale cheeks a little flushed by the exercise, but otherwise calm and collected; Luttrell decidedly the worse for wear. And, yes, there actually _is_ a breeze,--a sighing, rustling, unmistakable breeze, that rushes through their hair and through their fingers, and is as a draught from Olympus.
”There, didn't I tell you?” cries Molly, with all the suspicious haste and joy that betrays how weak has been her former hope. ”Now, _do_ say you are glad I brought you up.”
”What need? My only happiness is being with you,” says the young man, softly.