VI.
During the years following his abrupt departure from Rio Henderson flitted about the Southern Hemisphere. He was in Australia, in South Africa, and on many islands, but most of his time was spent in South America, on one side or other of the Andes. In his last venture he saw the face of death near and ugly and felt that he had lost some of his nerve afterward. Likewise, as he himself expressed it, he had made his pile. So he resolved to run no more risks, but to return to his native land and settle down to enjoy his gains. Like many another wanderer he fancied he would like to buy the house in which he had been a happy child and he was not sure but he would find his native town a permanent bourne.
He noticed the change in grade of the railroad as his train steamed in. It entered the city now over a viaduct which cleared the streets on trestles and crossed the main thoroughfare on a fine stone arch. Under that arch he passed in the hotel omnibus. Just beyond it he noticed a shop with cages of birds, stuffed animals and a pretty little black kitten just inside the plate glass of the front. He noted the number and meant to return later after he had had his supper.
A square or so farther on he saw pass him a handsome open carriage. His heart stood still at sight of the figure in it. Milly saw him and returned his bow with a cordial smile. She was still beautiful, with a full-grown woman’s best charms. Very haughty she looked too, as became the heir of the Wareham fortune. Henderson had heard of her brother’s death sometime before.
About sunset John entered the animal-seller’s shop. The kitten was gone. Could not say when it had been sold. Could not say to whom it had been sold. Could not send to the purchaser and try to buy it back. Grumpy and curt replies generally. John left the shop in a bad humor.
Flicking with his cane the tall grasses in the neglected spaces before wooden front-yard fences John strolled in the twilight to the old garden. The house was empty again and the garden had run wild. It was not the wilderness he remembered but it had the same outlines and the same general character. His heart warmed over it and memories thronged.
His feet carried him he knew not whither. In the late twilight he found himself before the splendid Wareham mansion. He was vexed that he had not been able to get that kitten and send it to Milly in a big box of pink roses, like the roses in the old garden. Then he was vexed that he had not thought to send her the roses anyhow, as soon as he had found he could not get the kitten. Then he opened the gate, walked springily in and rang the bell.
Yes, Miss Wareham was at home. The warm lamp-light which had led him in shone from the room into which he was ushered. Milly was reading by the lamp itself. She rose to greet him. Her yellow satin gown became her well and her voice was sweet to his ears. Her words were cordial. But what Jack noticed to the exclusion of everything else was the very black kitten he had failed to purchase, tucked under her arm, purring vociferously, and very becoming, it seemed to his eyes, to the color of her dress. The instant he saw it he knew what he meant to say to her. And the look in her eyes told him almost as plainly as the pet she fondled what her answer would be.
