What had become of her dreams of intimate exchange of noble thoughts with dear friends? Where were her romantic fancies of a world of love, of glory and poetry? She knew not what these dreams and fancies might actually be, but she was sure they were not being realized now. Was her life’s horizon to be landlocked as was this rural home? Was her life’s goal to reach no farther than the making of pretty bonnets for strangers? Was this to be her ideal? Certainly she had found a freedom from one kind of bondage, but had she not obtained it only to find herself bound by far more cruel fetters—the drudgery of a life occupied in gaining a livelihood and losing its soul?
Would she be compelled to point to this as her only achievement? And what would Mr. Morton say when her hour of reckoning came with him? “And it was for this—that you disobeyed your father’s wishes, and gave me unspeakable pain!” Had she pained him? Had she disregarded her father’s injunctions? Oh—if she could but be enlightened on these doubts, these ever recurring questions!
She sat meditating, lost to her surroundings while the busy bees hummed and the flies buzzed about her. A slender catbird, smooth and droll like a dainty squirrel, its bright beetle eyes turned inquisitively upon the intruder, slipped in and out of the underbrush—“Peep”—“Peep”—its mate joined in the sport,—“Peep,” and they were gone. Little kinglets with their wine-colored caps flitted from branch to branch, chirruping in sweet confidence. A subdued whirr drew Helène’s eyes idly to a tall plant swaying in blossom in the glaring sunshine; above it was the most exquisite of little creatures floating in a haze produced by the rapid motion of its delicate wings, its thread-like bill seemingly resting within the flower. Whirr—it had vanished!
Was this an enchanted glade or a fairy’s retreat?
Yes—even if she had done wrong in running away, she had learned to know something of life, life as it was to the vast majority of humankind. She had come to know this great Western world—his own land. Surely he could not but approve—he——
An aggressive noise, resembling the sound of scissors being ground on a whetstone, piercing and disturbing, broke her reveries. Helène sat up staring into the leafy tangle which screened her refuge. What could it be? There it was again. It was only a locust, had Helène but known it, but its arrival had broken the spell; her retreat became once more but the hot, sweltering clearing; the buzzing of the flies became an annoyance, the bees a threat. She was again alone—a stranger among a strange people.
Oh, no—not alone! There was always her good Margy. No one could take her from her. And there were her own thoughts and memories. No one could steal them from her. And—autumn would soon be here—the day of reckoning and, perhaps, the day of promise, also—the day when her letter must be written and sent. But her first duty was to Margaret. She must help her dear friend and protector to get well. As soon as they were again settled at home, she surely would set to work on the letter. And an inward voice whispered to her: “my knight without blemish.” She rose and smoothed out her crumpled dress to cover her self-confusion at the unspoken words.
Carefully picking her way through the tall weeds and brush she gained the road. Glancing for a moment towards the house she saw no one about; but the next instant her attention was drawn to a distant cloud of dust and the sound of the regular hoof-beats of horses. A carriage was approaching, and soon it drew up before the gate of the Post’s farm-house. Hesitating what she should do, she saw a man alight, but, instead of going up to the house, he turned and made straight to where she was standing.
As he approached nearer she recognized Mr. Van Dusen. Her indecision died in its inception. Hat in one hand and the other extended cordially he called out:
“How are you, Miss Barton? I am so glad to see you. What good fairy brought you here?”