“’Twas her father’s doin’, God rest his soul,” she said. Before he could answer, she had gone swiftly into the house.
Archibald rode away, repeating the words to himself. “’Twas her father’s doin’.” Now, why had she told him that? Did she mean him to understand that the girl’s own heart was not in the marriage? Did she think that it lay in his power to interfere? Did she believe that her mistress cared more for him than for the man she had promised to marry? For a moment or two, his heart beat high. Then again it was a leaden weight. The Smiling Lady was not to be swept off her feet by any lover. Since she had given her word to Meredith, perhaps to her father too,—No; she would not listen, if he should plead; and, even if she would, there were things no fellow could do. He had never believed that all was fair either in love or in war.
It was Mrs. Neal who brought him word of Meredith’s arrival. She billowed into the shack one morning to borrow some coffee and settled into the largest of the chairs to rest and gossip, while Pegeen went after the coffee.
“Met Miss Moran’s beau yet?” she asked. “No? Well, I guess he just come yesterday. They went by our house this morning and she stopped to ask about a ham I’d promised her. Pretty as a picture, she looked. Pinkish, soft sort of a veil around her head, and her cheeks pinker. They make a mighty hansome couple. I’ll say that for them, even if he is mite old for her. I should say he’d make a first-rate husband—kind as any woman could ask. You can see that in his face and in his ways, only he can’t help being quiet and a little bit stiff—kind of like a pudding where you’ve used too much gelatin but got the flavor all right. John, that works down at Miss Moran’s, told Neal last night that he’d heard they was going to be married this fall and go off to Egypt or some heathen place like that for the winter. I tell you, the Valley’ll miss Miss Moran.”
“Yes; she’ll be missed.” Archibald admitted.
“Peggy,” he said, after their neighbor had gone away, “you’ll have to keep me hard at my gardening and my neighboring. It isn’t going to be easy for me to be contented all the time.”
“Yessir.” There was a trace of anxiety in her ready smile. Something was wrong in his face and voice and she was quick to notice it. “The garden doesn’t need much now; but neighbors always need a lot. Shall we go and see the Kelleys this afternoon? He’s up now; but he isn’t well enough to work and she says he gets awfully lonesome and discouraged.”
In their way to the Kelleys they stopped at the house under the maples. Archibald proposed it. He wanted to meet the man the Smiling Lady was going to marry; wanted to meet him and have done with it. When a dream refused to lie down decently and die of its own accord, the thing to do with it was to kill it and the sooner, the better.
So he and Pegeen made their call on the Smiling Lady, finding a warm welcome—and Richard Meredith, which was what Archibald had expected. He took the measure of the man, as he shook hands with him and, involuntarily, his hand tightened. This was a man. He liked the quiet manner, the quiet voice, the air of distinction, the refinement and strength of the mouth, the kindness in the eyes—but, as he noted the fine lines about the kind eyes and the gray hair above them, his heart cried out Ellen’s protest. Springtime was mating time.
The Smiling Lady was quiet, too, that afternoon. She and Archibald talked together over the teacups, while Pegeen sat in the hammock with Richard Meredith—at his invitation; and the teacup talk of casual things was punctuated by gay little peals of laughter from the child and deeper answering laughter from the man beside her. They seemed to be getting on famously together, those two.