Mother was a very happy woman. I am not sure but Chris came the nearest to her heart. He was her last baby, and he had a religious tendency that harmonized strongly with her now. She was proud to have him preparing for the life of a clergyman. Homer's children were her delight. They were merry, pretty things and in exuberant health.
She felt somehow curiously about Dan, though his marriage had not settled him quite as much as she had hoped. Ruth was a lovely wife, but it was a pity there were no children, when there was likely to be so much money on both sides.
Because I loved her so and had been betrayed into that one impassioned moment I was very careful. I went there when I was almost sure Mr. Gaynor would be around. And Dan, I found, was seldom home of an evening. Both Ruth and her father never tired of hearing about my travels and Mr. Le Moyne.
Then a curious whisper seemed to pervade the air about Dan, that he went a good deal to the Morrisons'. He had been making some investments for Polly. I ventured to call one day, but the house was shut up. Polly went out very little among her old friends, it seemed. It was reported that her rich marriage had not left her a rich widow.
Dan was very much interested in the copper at Lake Superior, and planning to make a journey thither. But Sophie one day roused my indignation by telling me that Dan spent nearly every evening at the Morrisons', and that occasionally Polly stole out to a lane below, little frequented, and met Dan and drove off with him.
I knew after seeing Dan and Ruth together a few times that whatever love he had once had for her no longer existed. He was not rough to her, but cruelly indifferent. Did she still care for him, or was this only a semblance, this sweet devotion that would have won any man's heart twice over? She clung so closely to her father. There never could be a tenderer affection.
One evening I resolved to learn the truth of Sophie's story. From the Gaynors' I went down to the Morrisons', a long walk. The house was all in darkness except a faint glimmer at the kitchen end. I crept softly up, when a low growl from a bulldog fairly curdled my blood. I could not see where he was, and retraced my steps cautiously. The next day I planned differently. I stationed myself at an intersection of streets, they were not much beside lanes, and sat down under a tree to wait. There was no moon, and at first a rather hazy sky, but it cleared presently into magnificent starlight.
From my point I could see down to the house. It was all a blur at first, but by degrees I became so accustomed to it that I could discern the outlines of all between. A tree partly hid the side, but the front was dimly visible.
It was ten when I took up my vigil. Eleven, half-past. Perhaps I was on a fool's errand. Then—yes, there were two figures stepping out in the open space. They found parting such "sweet sorrow" that it seemed as if they would say "Good-night 'til it were morrow." Their arms were about each other, their faces turned from me, but close together. A long, long embrace, then Dan started away swiftly.
I rose. He took the other way, but I stepped over there.