"And, from Palatka, do you go back to New York?"
"Yes; immediately."
"We shall be in New York, too, by the middle of April. You are to stay in New York, aren't you?"
"Yes. It is to be my post in the game which will end, we trust, in your husband's piling up still higher his great fortune, while I shall have laid very solidly the foundation of mine. Good! that boy sees me at last." For the little negro, suddenly leaving the road, was galloping directly towards them over the barren, his bare feet flapping the flanks of his horse to increase its speed. Walter ran forward to meet him, took the telegram, tore open the envelope, and read the message within. Then, after rewarding the messenger (who went back to town in joyful opulence), he returned to Ruth.
"Palatka?" she said, as he came up.
"No. Something entirely different. And very unexpected. I am to go to California; I am to start to-morrow morning. And I am to stay there—live there. It will be for a year or two, I suppose; at any rate, until this new campaign of your husband's planning has been fought out and won—as won it surely will be. For Patterson, it seems, won't be able to go at present, and I am to take his place. Later, he hopes to be on the spot. But even then I am to remain, they tell me. My instructions will be here to-night by letter." He felt, inwardly, a great sense of triumph that he was considered competent—already considered competent—to take charge of the more important post. And as he put the telegram in his pocket, the anticipation of success came to him like a breeze charged with perfume; his pulses had a firm, quick beat; the future—a future of his own choosing—unrolled itself brightly before him.
Ruth had made no reply. After a moment her silence struck him—struck him even in his preoccupation—and he turned to look at her.
Her face had a strange, stiffened aspect, as though her breathing had suddenly been arrested.
"Are you ill?" he asked, alarmed.
"Oh no; I am only tired. Where is the phaeton? I have lost sight of it."