Part 35 (1/2)

”Oh, she has? Well, let her go, there wan't no string tied to her. Bill, I want you to drive over to Antioch for me if you've got the time, and you never appear to be busy when there's women around. They've got the pony hitched up.”

Mrs. Goodwin drove with him. Near the old brick house they met the Professor, leading a calf.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed off his hat, and the calf s.n.a.t.c.hed him off his feet, but he scrambled up, tied the rope to a fence-post, and was then ready to do the polite thing, bowing and brus.h.i.+ng himself. He had been on the keen jump, he said, catching drift-wood in the commercial whirlpool, but he had often thought of Mrs. Goodwin, one of the n.o.blest of her honored s.e.x. ”I have turned from the sylvan paths where wild roses nod,” said he, ”turned into the dusty highway of trade, but I have not forgotten the roses, madam,” he declared with a bow. ”They come as a sweet reminiscence of my brighter but less useful days. Permit me to extend to you----”

The calf broke loose and went scampering down the road, a twinkling of white hoofs in the black dust; and with a shout the Professor took to his heels in pursuit.

”Something always happens to that man's dignity,” said Mrs. Goodwin, laughing as they drove on. ”Is he ever serious?”

”He may not appear so, but he's serious now,” Milford answered, looking back at him, galloping down the road.

”Couldn't we have helped him in some way?” she asked, now that it was too late even to think about it.

”We might have shouted advice after him, but that was about all we could have done,” said Milford. ”He'll catch him down there. Somebody'll head him off.”

As they drove through the village street, Milford pointed out the place wherein he had trained himself to meet the man Dorsey. He had worked during weeks that one minute might be a victory. She told him that it was the appearance of having a dauntless spirit that at first aroused in her an interest in him. She detested a quarrel, but she liked a man who would fight. Her father had been a captain in the navy, and he had taught her to believe that a courageous knave was more to be admired than an honest man without nerve. Of course this was an extreme view, the exaggerated policy of a fighting man, and though she did not accept it in full, yet it had strongly impressed her. She did not see how a man could be an American and not be brave. And frankness was a part of bravery. At least it ought to be. Milford was brave, but not frank enough, with her. On the way home she returned to the subject. There was a charm in the confidence of a brave man. It was strange that he had not told Gunhild more about himself. He surely loved her. She was capable of inspiring the deepest love. Of course she had seen him in the West, but had merely seen him, and his life was still a sealed book to her.

Oh, no, she had not complained. That was not her nature.

”She'll know enough one of these days,” said Milford. ”Perhaps too much,” he added.

”Well, I suppose we must wait,” she replied. ”And I hope you'll not think my curiosity idle. All interest is curiosity, more or less, but all interest is not idle. So you don't know how long you'll remain here?”

”I haven't staked off the time.”

She sighed. She said that the summer had been a disappointment. She had not been happy since Gunhild left her. Her going away must have been a wild notion, caught from Milford. There was no necessity for teaching, till at least she had studied longer herself. She had not been disappointed in her development, not wholly. Her outcome as a woman had more than offset her failure as an artist. And she found that it was the woman whom she had liked, rather than the artist. With her new care it was different. She was all musician, a genius with whims and caprices, a moody companion, not capable of inspiring friends.h.i.+p. She had taken her as a duty, a duty which she felt that she owed to the musical world.

”I am going home to-morrow,” she said, when Milford helped her down at Mrs. Stuvic's gate. ”I don't like these new people. They are coa.r.s.e.”

”To-morrow I have business across the country,” said Milford. ”I may not see you again.”

”I am sorry. Will you do me a favor? When you write to Gunhild tell her that she must come back to me. I need her.”

”I will tell her that you have said so.”

”That won't be much of a favor, but tell her. And I want you to promise one thing--that you will come to see me, when you are married.”

”I'll promise that gladly, and keep it. I am very fond of you.”

”Are you?”

”Yes. You said you would like to be the mother of such a son. That was the kindest thing ever said to me. It makes you my mother.”

”Oh,” she said, falteringly, as he took her hand. ”You will understand me better in the time to come. Good-bye.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

DREAMED OF THE ANGELUS.

Gunhild wrote that she could not spare the money to come out, and to Milford the summer fell flat and lay spiritless on the ground. He begged her to let him bear the expense, and for this she scolded him. But she enlivened him with a suggestion. Near the first of October she would visit her uncle in the city. ”It will make me glad to have you come to see me then,” she said. ”And I shall feel that you have held the summer and brought it with you. Mrs. Goodwin wrote to me as soon as she came home. She said much about you, and I really think she likes you deeply.