“Now toklate!” they chorused hopefully, as they emerged from the embrace; and, laughing, pink cheeked, shining eyed, she cut them huge slices of chocolate cake and sent them on their way, smeared, gorged, but rejoicing.
“It’s all wrong,” she acknowledged shamefacedly. “They’ll be sick, I suppose; but; they did want it so dreadfully. I couldn’t say ‘no.’ ”
Then, realizing the recklessness of admitting weakness in the face of great longing, she dropped the cake knife and fled to the pantry, leaving Archibald exultant but tempest-tossed. He was sure now, absolutely sure. She loved him, not Meredith. Her face had said it, beyond shadow of doubt, in the moment when her guard was down. His heart sang for gladness—and yet he had no right to be glad. It would have been better if the unhappiness could all have been his. That she loved him would make no difference in the outcome of things. She would put away the love and keep her word to the man she had promised to marry. He was sure of that and though the sacrifice of two lives for one might be all wrong, though it might not be for the ultimate happiness of even the one, he knew that he would only hurt her, not shake her resolve, if he should fight for his own. And then there was Meredith. Meredith and he were friends now.
The man who could not have his chocolate cake turned and went out through the kitchen door into the friendly, sheltering dark.
The house was ablaze with lights. Through the open windows came a stream of sound, laughter, chatter of voices, the click of billiard balls, the clatter of dishes, the music of the phonograph, the shuffle and tap of dancing feet. The Valley was neighboring happily, whole-heartedly, as it never had neighbored before; but, out in the night, beyond reach of the far-flung light, the man who had brought the thing about leaned his arms upon the top rail of a fence, hid his face against them and fought hard against old enemies, against bitterness and discouragement and a loneliness of which he had almost lost the trick, in months of living among neighbors.
There was an autumnal chill in the air. The quiet stars looked down frostily from infinite heights. All the warm, companioning summer had slipped away.
Archibald straightened his shoulders and moved slowly toward the house. He had come to the end of summer’s trail.
There were two figures on the side door steps and Archibald caught a few words in a man’s voice. He veered away hastily, smiling a little, as he went toward the front door. Joe Trevor was unquestionably “courting”! To be alone with the one girl and to have the right to speak!—Lucky Joe!—even though Deacon Ransom was in the offing.
It was long after midnight, before festivities flagged and the older folk began to talk of homegoing; but Archibald and Nora Moran did not come within speaking distance again, until the final ebbing surge of the crowd flung them together in the big assembly room on the main floor. Good-bys had begun and the two stood side by side, shaking the hands of crowding neighbors and smiling into the friendly faces. Suddenly a boy’s voice shouted “Three cheers for Mr. Archibald!” The homegoers turned back and gave the cheers with a will.
“Speech! Speech!” Dr. Fullerton called. The cry was taken up and echoed through the house.