There was also another reason for now choosing this byway walk. She knew, or felt sure, that Ray would visit Christmas Cove on his return from the woods. He must come in the old carryall,–about the only vehicle ever journeying along this road,–and now, like a brownie of the forest, she watched until she spied it afar and then hid in the bushes and peeped out until it passed each day.
A curious and somewhat complex feeling toward this young man had also come to her. At first, like a child, she had loved him unasked. She had known no different. He had seemed like a young god to her, and to cling to him was supreme happiness. Then had come an awakening, a consciousness that this freedom was not right and must be checked. Following that also–a bitter lesson–it had come to her that she was a kind of outcast, a child of shame, as it were, whose origin was despicable, and who was dependent upon the charity of others. This awakening, this new consciousness, was like a black chasm in front of her, a horror and shame combined, and true to her nature, she fled from it like one pursued.
But two years had changed her views of humanity. She had learned that money and social position did not always win friends and respect. That birth and ancestry were of less consideration than a pure mind and honest intentions, and that fine raiment sometimes covered a base heart and vile nature.
Toward this boyish lover, also, her feelings had been altered. A little of the old-time fondness remained, however. She could not put that away. She had tried and tried earnestly, yet the wildwood illusion still lingered. She had meant, also, to put him and herself quite apart–so far, and in such a way, that she would never be found by him. That had failed, however; he knew where she was. He had said that he was coming here. Most likely he would expect to renew the old tender relations; but in that he would be disappointed. She was sure she would be glad to see him for old times’ sake, however. She would be gracious and dignified, as Aunt Abby was. She wanted to hear all about the woods and Old Cy again, but caresses must be forbidden. More than that, every time she recalled how freely she had permitted them once, she blushed and felt that it would be an effort to look him in the face again.
But she was anxious to see how he would appear now: whether the same boy, with frank, open face, or a commanding, self-possessed man.
And so each pleasant afternoon she strolled up this byway road. When the ancient carryall was sighted, she hid and watched until it passed.
But Captain Mix, its driver, also had observing eyes. He knew her now as far as he could see her, as every one in the village did, and he soon noticed her unusual conduct. He also watched along the wayside where she left it, and slyly observed her peeping out from some thicket. Just why this odd proceeding happened time and again, he could not guess, and not until a strange young man alighted from the train one day and asked to be left at the home of Mrs. Abby Bemis, did it dawn on him.
Then he laughed. “Friend o’ Aunt Abby, I ’spose?” he inquired in his Yankee fashion, after they had started.
“No,” answered Ray, frankly, “I have never seen the lady. I know some one who is living with her, however. A Miss Mc–Raymond, I mean.”
Captain Mix glanced at him, his eyes twinkling. “So ye’re ’quainted with Vera, be ye,” he responded. “Wal, ye’re lucky.” Then as curiosity grew he added, “Known her quite a spell, hev ye?”