At that a wild exhilaration possessed him. He wanted to shake hands with everybody in the tent, to tell them all that he loved them with his whole heart, but, what was vastly more important, she loved them a great deal—in spite of having known them only two days!
He made the horses prance on the homeward drive, and once, when she told him that she had read a good many of his political columns in the “Herald,” he ran them into a fence. After this it occurred to him that they were nearing their destination and had come at a perversely sharp gait; so he held the roans down to a snail's pace (if it be true that a snail's natural gait is not a trot) for the rest of the way, while they talked of Tom Meredith and books and music, and discovered that they differed widely about Ibsen.
They found Mr. Fisbee in the yard, talking to Judge Briscoe. As they drove up, and before the horses had quite stopped, Helen leaped to the ground and ran to the old scholar with both her hands outstretched to him. He looked timidly at her, and took the hands she gave him; then he produced from his pocket a yellow telegraph envelope, watching her anxiously as she received it. However, she seemed to attach no particular importance to it, and, instead of opening it, leaned toward him, still holding one of his hands.
“These awful old men!” Harkless groaned inwardly as he handed the horses over to the judge. “I dare say he'll kiss her, too.” But, when the editor and Mr. Willetts had gone, it was Helen who kissed Fisbee.
“They're coming out to spend the evening, aren't they?” asked Briscoe, nodding to the young men as they set off down the road.
“Lige has to come whether he wants to or not,” Minnie laughed, rather consciously; “It's his turn to-night to look after Mr. Harkless.”
“I guess he won't mind coming,” said the judge.
“Well,” returned his daughter, glancing at Helen, who stood apart, reading the telegram to Fisbee, “I know if he follows Mr. Harkless he'll get here pretty soon after supper—as soon as the moon comes up, anyway.”
The editor of the “Herald” was late to his supper that evening. It was dusk when he reached the hotel, and, for the first time in history, a gentleman sat down to meat in that house of entertainment in evening dress. There was no one in the diningroom when he went in; the other boarders had finished, and it was Cynthia's “evening out,” but the landlord came and attended to his guests' wants himself, and chatted with him while he ate.
“There's a picture of Henry Clay,” remarked Landis, in obvious relevancy to his companion's attire, “there's a picture of Henry Clay somewheres about the house in a swallow-tail coat. Governor Ray spoke here in one in early times, Bodeffer says, except it was higher built up 'n yourn about the collar, and had brass buttons, I think. Ole man Wimby was here to-night,” the landlord continued, changing the subject. “He waited around fer ye a good while. He's be'n mighty wrought up sence the trouble this morning, an' wanted to see ye bad. I don't know 'f you seen it, but that feller 't knocked your hat off was mighty near tore to pieces in the crowd before he got away. 'Seems some the boys re-cog-nized him as one the Cross-Roads Skillets, and sicked the dogs on him, and he had a pretty mean time of it. Wimby says the Cross-Roads folks'll be worse 'n ever, and, says he, 'Tell him to stick close to town,' says he. 'They'll do anything to git him now,' says he, 'and resk anything.' I told him you wouldn't take no stock in it, but, see here, don't you put nothin' too mean fer them folks. I tell you, Mr. Harkless, plenty of us are scared fer ye.”