Part 45 (1/2)

Leighton read the scant three pages slowly. It was as though Folly had reached across the sea to scratch him again, for the note was well written in a bold, round hand. It was short because Folly combined the wisdom of the serpent with the voice of a dove. She knew the limits of her s.h.i.+bboleth of culture, and never pa.s.sed them. She said only the things she had learned to write correctly. They were few.

The few weeks at the homestead had changed Leighton. A single mood held him--a mood that he never threw off with a toss of his head. He seemed to have lost his philosophy of cheerfulness at the word of command.

Lewis was too absorbed in his long days with Natalie to notice it, but Nelton took it upon himself to open his eyes.

”Larst month,” he said, ”you and the governor was brothers. Now persons don't have to ask me is he your father. It's written in his fyce. It's this country life as has done it. Noisy, I calls it. No rest.”

Lewis felt penitent. He suggested to Leighton a day together, a tramp and a picnic, but Leighton shook his head.

”I don't want to have to talk,” he said bluntly.

”Dad,” said Lewis, ”let's go away.”

Leighton started as though the words were something he had too long waited for.

”Go away?” he repeated. How often had he said, ”To go away is the sovereign cure.” ”Yes,” he went on, ”I believe you are right. I think it's high time--past time--for me to clear. Will you come or stay?”

”I'll come if it's London,” said Lewis, smiling.

”London first, of course,” said Leighton, gravely. ”To-day is Tuesday.

Say we start on Thursday. That gives us a day to go over and say good-by.”

”One day isn't enough,” said Lewis. ”Make it two.”

”All right,” agreed Leighton.

For that afternoon Lewis and Natalie had planned a long tramp, but before they had gone a mile from Aunt Jed's a purling brook in the depths of a still wood raised before them an impa.s.sable barrier of beauty. By a common, unspoken consent they sat down beside the gurgling water. They talked much and were silent much.

For the first time Lewis had something in mind which he was afraid to tell to Natalie. He was not afraid for her. It was a selfish fear. He was afraid for himself--afraid to tell her that two short days would close the door for them on childhood. He wondered that mere years had been powerless to close that door. He looked on Natalie, and knew that renunciation would be hard.

Natalie had tossed aside her hat. She sat leaning against the crisp trunk of a silver birch. Her hands were in her lap. Her dress was crumpled up, displaying her crossed feet and the tantalizing line of her slim ankles. Against the copper green of the tree trunk the ma.s.s of her hair was pressed, gold upon the shadow of gold. Her moist lips were half open. Her eyes were away, playing with memory.

”Bet you can't tell me the first thing you ever said to me,” said Lewis.

”My dwess is wumpled,” said Natalie, promptly, a single dimple coming and going with her sudden smile. Then she looked down and blushed. She straightened out her skirt, and patted it in place. They looked at each other and laughed.

”Do you remember what came after that?” said Lewis, teasingly. ”We kissed each other.”

Natalie nodded.

”Nat,” said Lewis, ”do you remember any kiss after that one?”

”No,” said Natalie.

”Funny,” said Lewis. ”I don't either. Do you want me to kiss you when it comes to saying good-by?”

Natalie turned a wide and questioning look on him.

”No,” she said in a tone he had never heard from her before,