Part 47 (1/2)

”I do not wish to walk well,” she answered angrily.

He never would act according to her plan or theory. Here was all this persistence about a trifle, while she was wrought up to matters of deep moment.

”I do not care whether you wish to take it or not; you must. There!

_Now_ what do you want to say to me?” He was not wrought up at all; he was even smiling, and looking at her in the same old way. It was hard to begin under such circ.u.mstances; but she did begin. ”Mr. Heathcote, while I thank you for all your kindness--”

”I have not been kind; I only said that I loved you. That is either above or below kindness, certainly not on a level with that tepid feeling.”

But Anne would not listen, ”While I thank you, I wish at the same time to say that I understand quite well that it is but an impulse which--”

”It _was_ but an impulse, I grant,” said Heathcote, again interrupting her, ”but with roots too strong for me to break--as I have found to my dismay,” he added, smiling, as he met her eyes.

”I wish you, I beg you, to return to New York on this train now waiting,” said the girl, abandoning all her carefully composed sentences, and bringing forward her one desire with an earnestness which could not be doubted.

”I shall do nothing of the kind.”

”But what is the use of going on?”

”I never cared much about use, Miss Douglas.”

”And then there is the pain.”

”Not for me.”

”For me, then,” she said, looking away from him across the net-work of tracks, and up the little village street ending in the blue side of the mountain. ”Putting everything else aside, do you care nothing for my pain?”

”I can not help caring more for the things you put aside, since _I_ happen to be one of them.”

”You are selfish,” she said, hotly. ”I ask you to leave me; I tell you your presence pains me; and you will not go.” She drew her arm from his, and turned toward the car. He lifted his hat, and went across to the dining-hall.

Mademoiselle was eating cold toast. She considered that toast retained its freshness longer than plain bread. Anne sat down beside her. She felt a hope that Heathcote would perhaps take the city-bound train after all. She heard the bell ring, and watched the pa.s.sengers hasten forth from the dining-hall. The eastward-bound train was going--was gone; a golden s.p.a.ce of suns.h.i.+ne and the empty rails were now where had been its noise and bell and steam.

”Our own pa.s.sengers will soon be returning,” said Jeanne-Armande, brus.h.i.+ng away the crumbs, and looking at herself in the gla.s.s to see if the helmet was straight.

”May I sit here with you?” said Anne.

”Certainly, my dear. But Mr. Heathcote--will he not be disappointed?”

”No,” replied the girl, dully. ”I do not think he will care to talk to me this afternoon.”

Jeanne-Armande said to herself that perhaps he would care to talk to some one else. But she made no comment.

The train moved on. An hour pa.s.sed, and he did not appear. The Frenchwoman could not conceal her disappointment. ”If he intended to leave the train at Centerville, I am surprised that he should not have returned to make us his farewells,” she said, acidly.

”He is not always attentive to such things,” said Anne.

”On the contrary. _I_ have found him extremely attentive,” retorted mademoiselle, veering again.

But at this stage Heathcote entered, and Anne's hope that he had left them was dashed to the ground. He noted the situation; and then he asked mademoiselle if she would not join him in the other seat for a while.

The flattered Frenchwoman consented, and as he followed her he gave Anne a glance which said, ”Check.” And Anne felt that it was ”check” indeed.