HE had searched the farmhouse, calling her name softly. He had peered into the lumber-room, where shadows were gathering. He had looked everywhere indoors. Now he stepped into the orchard and called more loudly, “Desire. Desire. Princess.”
Leaves shuddered. Across moss-grown paths slugs crawled. Everything betokened rain; all live things were hurrying for shelter. Behind high red walls, where peach-trees hung crucified, the end of day smoldered. The west was a vivid saffron. To the southward black clouds wheeled like vultures. The beauty of the garden shone intense. The greenness of apple-trees had deepened. Nasturtiums blazed like fire in the borders of box. The air was full of poignant fragrances: of lavender, of roses, and of cool, dean earth.
To-morrow night all that he was at present feeling would have become a memory. He called her name again and renewed his search. To-morrow night would she, too, have become a memory? How loud the whisper of his footsteps sounded I And if she had become a memory, would she forget—would the future prove faithless to the past?
The garden would not remember. The brook would babble no less contentedly because he was gone. All these flowers which shone so bravely—within a week they, too, would have vanished. The birds in the early morning would Scarcely notice his absence. In the autumn they would fly away; in the spring, when they returned, they would think no more of the boy who had parted the leaves so gently that a little girl might peep into their nests. And would the little girl remember? Even now, when he called, she did not answer.
In an angle of the garden, most remote from the farmhouse, he espied her. Something in her attitude made him halt Her head was thrown back; she was staring into a chestnut which tumbled its boughs across the wall. Her lips were moving. She seemed to be, talking; nothing reached him of what was said. At first he supposed she was acting a conversation.
“Desire,” he shouted. “Princess.”
She glanced across her shoulder and distinctly gave a warning. The chestnut quivered. He was certain some one was climbing down. She kissed her hand. The bough was still trembling when he reached her.
“Who was it?”
She pressed a finger to her lips.
“Was it Ruddy? But it couldn’t have been Ruddy unless——”