Part 27 (1/2)
”There are the Tombses waiting at their gate,” interrupted the son. The aged pair had hurried away from the train on foot to have their house open for Sister March.
”Yes,” said Daphne, sweetly yielding herself to their charge, ”John's fierce driving has damaged a wheel, and we wont----”
”Go home till morning,” said the delighted pastor with a tickled laugh that drew from his wife a glance of fond disapproval.
John drove alone to a blacksmith shop and left his buggy there and his horse at a stable. For the blacksmith lay across his doorsill ”sick.” He had been mending rigs and shoeing critters since dawn, and had drunk from a jug something he had thought was water and found--”it wusn't.”
March sauntered off lazily to a corner where the lane led westward like the pike, turned into it and ran at full speed.
With a warm face he came again into the main avenue at a point nearly opposite the Halliday's cottage gate. General Halliday and the Englishman were just going through it.
John turned toward the sun-setting at a dignified walk. ”I'm a fool to come out here,” he thought. ”But I must see at once what Jeff-Jack thinks of my plan. Will he tell me the truth, or will he trick me as they say he did Cornelius? O I must ask him, too, if he did that! I can't help it if he is with her; I must see him. I don't want to see her; at least that's not what I'm out here for. I'm done with her--for a while; Heaven bless her!--but I must see him, so's to know what to propose to mother.”
The day was dying in exquisite beauty. Long bands of pale green light widened up from the west. Along the hither slope of a ridge someone was burning off his sedge-gra.s.s. The slender red lines of fire, beautiful after pa.s.sion's sort, but dimming the field's fine gold, were just reaching the crest to die by a road-side. The objects of his search were nowhere to be seen.
A short way off, on the left, lay a dense line of young cedars and pines, nearly parallel with the turnpike. A footpath, much haunted in term-time by Montrose girls, and leading ultimately to the rear of the Academy grounds, lay in the clover-field beyond this thicket. John mounted a fence and gazed far and near. Opposite him in the narrow belt of evergreens was a scarcely noticeable opening, so deeply curved that one would get almost through it before the view opened on the opposite side. He leaped into the field, ran to this gap, burst into the open beyond, and stopped, hat in hand--speechless. His quest was ended.
Not ten steps away stood two lovers who had just said that fearfully sweet ”mine” and ”thine” that keeps the world a-turning. Ravenel's right arm was curved over Fannie's shoulder and about her waist. His left hand smoothed the hair from her uplifted brow, and his kiss was just lighting upon it.
The blood leaped to his face, but the next instant he sunk his free hand into his pocket and smiled. John's face was half-anger, half-anguish.
”Pleasant evening,” said Ravenel.
”For you, sir.” John bowed austerely. ”I will not mar it. My business can wait.” He gave Fannie a grief-stricken look and was hurrying off.
”John March,” cried Ravenel, in a voice breaking with laughter, ”come right back here, sir.” But the youth only threw up an arm in tragic disdain and kept on.
”John,” called a gentler voice, and he turned. ”Don't leave us so,” said Fannie. ”You'll make me unhappy if you do.” She had drawn away from her lover's arm. She put out a hand.
”Come, tell me I haven't lost my best friend.”
John ran to her, caught her hand in both his and covered it with kisses, Ravenel stood smiling and breaking a twig slowly into bits.
”There, there, that's extravagant,” said Fannie; but she let the youth keep her hand while he looked into her eyes and smiled fondly through his distress. Then she withdrew it, saying:
”There's Mr. Ravenel's hand, hold it. If I didn't know how men hate to be put through forms, I'd insist on your taking it.”
”I reckon John thinks we haven't been quite candid,” said Ravenel.
”I'm not sure we have,” responded Fannie. ”And yet I do think we've been real friends. You know John”--she smiled at her hardihood--”this is the only way it could ever be, don't you?” But John turned half away and shook his head bitterly. She spoke again. ”Look at me, John.” But plainly he could not.
”Are you going to throw us overboard?” she asked. There was a silence; and then--”You mustn't; not even if you feel like it. Don't you know we hadn't ever ought to consult our feelings till we've consulted everything else?”
John looked up with a start, and Fannie, by a grimace, bade him give his hand to his rival. He turned sharply and offered it. Ravenel took it with an air of drollery and John spoke low, Fannie loitering a step aside.
”I offer you my hand with this warning--I love her. I'm going on to love her after she's yours by law. I'll not make love to her; I may be a fool, but I'm not a hound; I love her too well to do that. But she's bound to know it right along. You'll see it. Everybody'll know it.
That'll be all of it, I swear. But any man who wants to stop me from it will have to kill me. I believe I have the right, before G.o.d, to do it; but I'm going to do it anyhow. I prize your friends.h.i.+p. If I can keep it while you know, and while everybody else knows, that I'm simply hanging round waiting for you to die, I'll do it. If I can't--I can't.” The hands parted.
”That's all right, John. That's what I'd do in your place.”