One day at the end of October, Agnes did not come until the afternoon, and Maria rightly judged that Harry was in New York. There was no need to tell her so, the knowledge was an intuition, and when Agnes said to Madame, "she had a friend, and would like Maria to bring the pelerine they were retrimming to her house, and spend the evening with her," no objection was made. "I shall miss you baith; so will the Elder," she answered, "but I dare say that English lord is feeling I have had mair than my share o' your company."
"Oh, Madame!" said Agnes, "it is not the English lord, it is a true American boy from—up the river," and Agnes opened her eyes wide as she lifted them to Madame's, and there was some sort of instantaneous and satisfactory understanding. Then she added, "Will you ask Mr. Neil Semple to come for Maria about eight o'clock?"
"There will be nae necessity to ask him. His feet o' their ain accord will find their way to your house, Agnes," said Madame. "Before he has told himsel' where he is going he will be at your doorstep. He must be very fond o' his niece Maria—or of somebody else," and the old lady smiled pleasantly at the blushing girl. Then both girls kissed Madame and stopped at the garden gate to speak to the Elder, and so down the road together full of happy expectation, divining nothing of One who went forth with them. How should they? Neither had ever seen the face of sorrow or broke with her the ashen crust. They were not aware of her presence and they heard not the stir of her black mantle trailing upon the dust and the dead leaves as she walked at their side.
"Harry will be here for tea," said Agnes, when they reached the house, and a soft, delightful sense of pleasure to come pervaded the room as they sat sewing and talking until it was time to set the table. And as soon as Agnes began this duty there was a peculiar whistle, and Maria glanced at Agnes, threw aside her work, and went down the garden to meet her lover. He was tying his boat to the little jetty, and when the duty was done they sat down on the wooden steps and talked of this, and that, and of everything but love, and yet everything they said was a confession of their interest in each other. But the truest love has often the least to say, and those lovers are to be doubted and pitied who must always be seeking assurances, for thus they sow the path of love with thorns. Far happier are they who leave something unsaid, who dare to enter into that living silence which clasps hearts like a book of songs unsung. They will sing them all, but not all at once. One by one, as their hour comes, they will learn them together.
That calm, sweet afternoon was provocative of this very mood. Maria and Harry sat watching the river rocking the boat, and listening to the chirruping of the crickets, and both were satisfied with their own silence. It was a heavenly hour, hushed and halcyon, full of that lazy happiness which is the most complete expression of perfect love. When Agnes called, they walked hand in hand up the garden, and at the tea-table came back again into the world. Harry had much to tell them, and was full of confidence in the early triumph of the Americans.
"Then I hope we shall have peace, and all be friends again," said Maria. She spoke a little wearily, as if she had no faith in her words, and Harry answered her doubt rather than her hope.
"There will not be much friendship this generation," he said; "things have happened between England and America which men will remember until they forget themselves."
After tea, Harry said, "Maria is going with me to the river to see if the boat is safe," and Agnes, smiling, watched them a little way; then turned again to her china, and without any conscious application began to sing softly the aria of an old English anthem by King:
"I went down into the garden of nuts, to see whether the pomegranates budded—to see whether the pomegranates—the pomegranates budded,"[A] but suddenly, even as her voice rose and fell sweetly to her thoughts, a strange chill arrested the flow of the melody; and she was angry at herself because she had inadvertently wondered, "if the buds would ever open full and flowerwise?"
[A] "Solomon's Song," 6:11.