III
"Stephen," she asked, as she returned to him and stood for a moment smiling straight at him, "will you tell me something?"
"Anything you ask," he assured her. "What do you wish to know?"
But she did not inquire further. Her eyes were fixed in earnest attention upon the flowers which she began to arrange into a little bouquet.
"Are you still vexed with me?"
There! It was out. She looked at him coquettishly.
"Marjorie!" he exclaimed. "What ever caused you to say that?"
"I scarce know," she replied. "I suppose I just thought so, that was all."
"Would I be here now?" He tried to assure her with a tone of sincerity. "One need not hear a man speak to learn his mind."
"Yes. But I thought——"
He seized hold of her hand.
"Come," he said. "Won't you sit down while I tell you?"
She accepted his offer and allowed herself to be assisted.
"You thought that I was displeased with you on account of John Anderson," he remarked as he took his place by her side. "Am I correct?"
She did not answer.
"And you thought, perhaps, that I scorned you?"
"Oh, no! Not that! I did not think that ... I ... I...."
"Well, then, that I lost all interest in you?"
She thought for a second. Then she smiled as if she dared not say what was in her mind.
"Listen. I shall tell you. I did not reprove you with so much as a fault. I know well that it is next to impossible to be in the frequent presence of an individual without experiencing at some time some emotion. He becomes continually repugnant, or else exceedingly fascinating. The sentiments of the heart never stand still."
"Yes, I know,—but...."
"I did think that you had been fascinated. I concluded that you had been charmed by John Anderson's manner. Because I had no desire of losing your good will, I did ask you to avoid him, but at the same time, I did not feel free enough to cast aspersions upon his character and so change your good opinion of him. The outcome I never doubted, much as I was disturbed over the whole affair. I felt that eventually you would learn for yourself."
"But why did you not believe in me? I tried to give you every assurance that I was loyal...."
"The fault lay in my enforced absence from you, and in the nature of the circumstances which combined against you. I knew Anderson; but I was unaware of your own thought or purpose. My business led me on one occasion to your home where I found you ready to entertain him. The several other times in which I found you together caused me to think that you, too, had been impressed by him."
Marjorie sat silent. She was pondering deeply the while he spoke and attempted to understand the emotions that had fought in his heart. She knew very well that he was sincere in his confession, and that she had been the victim of circumstances; still she thanked God that the truth had been revealed to him.
"Sometimes I feel as if I had been simply a tool in his hands, and that I had been worsted in the encounter."
"You have had no reason to think that. You perhaps unconsciously gave him some information concerning the members of our faith, their number, their lot, their ambitions,—but you must remember, too, that he had given some valuable information to you in return. The man may have been sincere with you from the beginning."
"No! I think neither of us were sincere. The memory of it all is painful; and I regret exceedingly of having had to play the part of the coquette."
A great silence stole upon them. He looked out over the river at the wavelets dancing gleefully in the sunlight, as they ran downstream with the current as if anxious to outstrip it to the sea. She grew tired of the little flowers and looked about to gather others. Presently she bethought herself and took from her bodice what appeared to be a golden locket. Stephen, attracted by her emotion, saw the trinket at once, its bright yellow frame glistening in the sun.
"Have you ever seen this?" she asked as she looked at it intently.
He extended his hand in anticipation. She gave it to him.
"Beautiful!" he exclaimed. "How long have you had this?"
"About a year," she replied nonchalantly, and clasped her hands about her knees.
He leaned forward and continued to study it for the longest time. He held it near to him and then at arm's length. Then he looked at her.
"It is beautiful," he repeated. "It is a wonderful likeness, and yet I should say that it does not half express the winsomeness of your countenance." He smiled generously at her blushes as he returned it to her.
"It was given me by John Anderson," she declared.
"It is a treasure. And it is richly set."
"He painted it himself and brought it to me after that night at Peggy's."
"I always said that he possessed extraordinary talents. I should keep that as a commemoration of your daring enterprise."
"Never. I purpose to destroy all memory of him."
"You have lost nothing, and have gained what books cannot unfold. Observation and experience are the prime educators."
"But exceedingly severe."
"Come," said Stephen. "Let us not allude to him again. It grieves you. He has passed from your life forever."
"Forever!" she repeated.
And as if by a mighty effort she drew back her arm and flung the miniature far from her in the direction of the river. On a sudden there was a splash, a gulp of the waters, and a little commotion as they hurriedly came together and folded over their prey.
"Marjorie!" he shouted making an attempt to restrain her. It was too late.
"What have you done?" he asked.
She displayed her empty hands and laughed.
"Forever!" she repeated, opening her arms with a telling gesture. "I never should have accepted it, but I was strangely fascinated by it, I suppose."
For the moment neither spoke; he felt as if he could not speak; and she looked like a child, her cheeks aglow with the exertion, and her eyes alight with merriment. Stephen looked intently at her and as she perceived his look, a very curious change came across her face. He saw it at once, although he did not think of it until afterwards.
"Marjorie," he said as he moved nearer to her and slipped his arm very gently about her. "You must have known for the longest time, from my actions, from my incessant attentions, from my words, the extent of my feeling for you. It were idle of me to attempt to give expression to it. It cannot be explained. It must be perceived; and you, undoubtedly, have perceived it."
There was no response. She remained passive, her eyes on the ground, scarcely realizing what he was saying.
"I think you know what I am going to say. I am very fond of you. But you must have felt more; some hidden voice must have whispered often to you that I love you."
He drew her to him and raised both her hands to his lips.
She remonstrated.
"Stephen!" she said.
He drew back sadly. She became silent, her head lowered, her eyes downcast, intent upon the hands in her lap. With her fingers she rubbed away the caress. She was thinking rapidly, yet her face betrayed no visible emotion, whether of joy, or surprise, or resentment. Only her cheek danced with a ray of sunshine, a stolen reflection from the joyous waves.
"Marjorie," he said gently, "please forgive me. I meant no harm."
She made a little movement as if to speak.
"I had to tell you," he continued. "I thought you understood."
She buried her face in her hands; her frame shook violently. Stephen was confused a little; for he thought that she had taken offense. He attempted to reassure her.
"Marjorie. Please.... I give you my word I shall never mention this subject again. I am sorry, very sorry."
She dried her eyes and looked at her handkerchief. Then she stood up.
"Come, let us go," he said after he had assisted her.
They walked together towards the boat.