Somewhat embarrassed, she permitted him to take her hand, and press it lightly. He felt rather than saw her indifference. “You are not pleased to see me, Miss Barton?” he added with a weak smile. “But never mind, since I am here, may I walk with you?”
“Y-e-s, Mr. Van Dusen. Miss Fisher is resting—the doctor’s orders, you know—but it is almost time for her to waken. Do you wish to see her?”
“Ah, Miss Barton, I am not going to let you get rid of me in that way. Let Miss Fisher have her full allowance of sleep; my message to her can wait. Mother sent me to invite her and you for a drive around the lakes to-morrow. The country is looking so beautiful, she thought you would enjoy the water and the hotels along the shore. But may I be frank? I agreed to be her messenger because I had heard you were expected to-day. Now, please, Miss Barton, don’t look so forbidding. I do so want to speak to you.”
Helène made a motion as if about to step back, a slight blush suffusing her cheek and neck. Courteously bowing her proud little head she said in somewhat staccato tones:
“Very well, Mr. Van Dusen; but I really think we ought both of us go in to Miss Fisher. I am her guest, you know.”
“I know, Miss Barton, but let me have my way, won’t you? This place, these woods, fields and lakes,” he added with a wave of his arm, “have been my playground ever since I was a boy. I know every nook and corner. You are not alone Miss Fisher’s guest but the guest of us all who live here and love this secluded corner of Jersey. Do let me be your guide and show you around.” His humorous eyes gave his face so whimsical an expression that Helène almost regretted her coldness towards him.
“Have you seen the orchard and the enchanted bower of Kittanah, the Indian Maiden who dwelt here more than two hundred years ago? No? It’s right round the bend of this road, less than a minute’s walk, and really well worth a visit. Shall we go?”
His playful insistence and her own desire to efface the impression of her cool reception of him conquered her indecision. She turned with him along the road to where the orchard was situated.
Gnarled old fruit trees laden with red, green and speckled apples, deep grass that clung to ankles, weeds of unusual size and luxuriance, and all against a dense clump of birches as background.
Within these birches were flat boulders covered with lichen and small tufts of living green—“The Indian bower, Miss Barton; behold the throne of Kittanah!”