“That’s true. Somehow, I’ve hardly even thought of it before, and never spoken of it to anyone. But you are—are sympathy itself.”
“I lost my husband, and I know how it is with you. I didn’t marry again—I had my dear children.”
Austin nodded. Across the room, still seated before the piano, and coaxing something wonderfully pathetic from the long keyboard was Dorothy, a dainty picture in her gown of flowing white.
Mrs. Thorburn saw the direction of his look. “Dorothy is never interested in very young men,” she said. “I like to see her evident pleasure in your company. I hope she’ll help to make your stay a very pleasant one. You know, after all, there’s no virtue in continued mourning, in nursing one’s grief.” Then, quickly, seeing Austin breathe deep, “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean we should forget soon, or forget at all. Only, we’re put on this earth for happiness—happiness that doesn’t conflict with the happiness of others.”
“Yes,” said Austin; “yes, I’m sure that’s so.” When she got up to move over to the Lamberts, chatting together in a corner, he stayed where he was. For a second time he was thinking along new lines. This time, however, his thoughts were decidedly definite.
“I wonder,” he said to himself, “I wonder how it would have been if I had died and Barbara lived.” The thought of another man in his place came up. “Well, I’d have wished it.” And, presently, when he went up to bed, his mind was so engrossed that, for the first time since She had gone, he forgot to take his nightly look at the picture in the round locket.
The next morning he and Dorothy rode again. It proved a less entertaining ride than the other. For she was unusually silent, even distrait, and, Austin thought, rather sad. They went beyond Arroyo, as before, and passed the ranch where Ned Heaton was staying. But they did not see him, and as the sun had grown unpleasantly warm by that time, they headed their horses back.
The wistfulness of Dorothy’s eyes, and the little droop at the corners of her pretty mouth, touched Austin considerably. “We should have started earlier,” he said, and, “I’m afraid you’ve overdone. Sha’n’t we rest awhile at the creek?”
But she was hungry, she declared, and gave her horse a sharp cut with her quirt to put him into a gallop. Austin kept alongside, feeling somewhat contrite. When they reached the house, he helped her dismount with marked care, and anxiously followed her to the veranda. There she left him, and he did not see her again till dinner, which fact kept him waiting about all day, not a little worried.
After dinner, they walked together in the cool. Somehow, Austin came to help her occasionally, taking her by the arm, for the road was gravelled and her slippers were thin. Again she was quiet; again, her eyes were sad, and glistened with what seemed to him to be unshed tears. He was very gentle with her, and won a wan smile now and then, or a quick, grateful look.