"Tell her where I am."
"I will," answered Dexter. And he fully intended to do it in any case. He liked, when she was not with him, to have Anne safely under her grandaunt's watchful vigilance, not exactly with the spirit of the dog in the manger, but something like it. He was conscious, also, that he possessed the chaperon's especial favor, and he did not intend to forfeit it; he wished to use it for his own purposes.
But Rachel marred his intention by crossing it with one of her own.
Dexter admired Mrs. Bannert. He could not help it. When she took his arm, he was for the time being hers. She knew this, and being piqued by some neglect of Heathcote's, she met the other man at the door, and made him think, without saying it, that she wished to be with him awhile on the moon-lit piazza; for Heathcote was there. Dexter obeyed. And thus it happened that Miss Vanhorn was not told at all; but supposing that her niece was still with the escort she had herself selected, the fine-looking owner of mines and mills, the future Senator, the "type of American success," she rested mistakenly content, and spent the time agreeably in making old Mrs. Bannert's life a temporary fever by relating to her in detail some old buried scandals respecting the departed Bannert, pretending to have forgotten entirely the chief actor's name.
In the mean while Heathcote, sauntering along the piazza in his turn, came upon Anne sitting alone by the window, and dropped into the vacant place beside her. He said a few words, playing with the fringe of Rachel's sash, which he still wore, "her colors," some one remarked, but made no allusion to the occurrences of the previous day. What he said was unimportant, but he looked at her rather steadily, and she was conscious of his glance. In truth, he was merely noting the effect of her head and throat against the lighted window, as Dexter had done, the outline being very distinct and lovely, a profile framed in light; but she thought it was something different. A painful timidity again seized her; instead of blushing, she turned pale, and with difficulty answered clearly. "He does not praise me," she thought. "He does not say that what I did yesterday was greater than anything among Indians and mines and on sinking steamers. He is laughing at me. Grandaunt was right, and no doubt he thinks me a bold, forward girl who tried to make a sensation."
Heathcote made another unimportant remark, but Anne, being now nervously sensitive, took it as having a second meaning. She turned her head away to hide the burning tears that were rising; but although unshed, Heathcote saw them. His observation was instantaneous where women were concerned; not so much active as intuitive. He had no idea what was the matter with her: this was the second inexplicable appearance of tears. But it would take more than such little damp occasions to disconcert him; and rather at random, but with sympathy and even tenderness in his voice, he said, soothingly, "Do not mind it," "it" of course representing whatever she pleased. Then, as the drops fell, "Why, you poor child, you are really in trouble," he said, taking her hand and holding it in his. Then, after a moment: "I do not know, of course, what it is that distresses you, but I too, although ignorant, am distressed by it also. For since yesterday, Anne, you have occupied a place in my memory which will never give you up. You will be an image there forever."
It was not much, after all; most improbable was it that any of those who saw her risk her life that day would soon forget her. Yet there was something in the glance of his eye and in the clasp of his hand that soothed Anne inexpressibly. She never again cared what people thought of her "boyish freak" (so Miss Vanhorn termed it), but laid the whole memory away, embalmed shyly in sweet odors forever.
Other persons now came in sight. "Shall we walk?" said Heathcote. They rose; she took his arm. He did not lead her out to the shadowed path below the piazza; they remained all the time among the lights and passing strollers. Their conversation was inconclusive and unmomentous, without a tinge of novel interest or brilliancy; not one sentence would have been worth repeating. Yet such as it was, with its few words and many silences which the man of the world did not exert himself to break, it seemed to establish a closer acquaintance between them than eloquence could have done. At least it was so with Anne, although she did not define it. Heathcote had no need to define; it was an old story with him.
As the second dance ended, he took her round, as though by chance, to the other side of the piazza, where he knew Rachel was sitting with Mr. Dexter. Here he skillfully changed companions, simply by one or two of his glances. For Rachel understood from them that he was bored, repentant, and lonely; and once convinced of this, she immediately executed the manœuvre herself, with the woman's usual means of natural little phrases and changes of position, Heathcote meanwhile standing passive until it was all done. Heathcote generally stood passive. But Dexter often had the appearance of exerting himself and arranging things.