“Cummings turned in?” he asked casually.
Carleton nodded. “Yes, he’s turned in, I believe,” he answered; then, with the hospitality for which he was famous, he added, “Is there anything more that I may chance to be able to do for your entertainment, Mr. Vaughan?”
Vaughan shook his head. “Oh, thanks, no,” he answered, “I’m ready for bed myself, I believe.”
“Very well,” said Carleton quickly, “then I think, in that case, if you will excuse me, I’ll take my little turn about the grounds and retire myself. If you should care for a pipe on the piazza, the house is always open. We don’t lock up here at all. I always say, if a burglar is going to try to break into a country house, that’s all windows and doors, a key turned in the lock isn’t going to stop him. So you can get in at any time between now and morning.”
Vaughan laughed. “Thanks,” he answered, “that’s genuine kindness, but I don’t think I shall take advantage of it. A bed seems more attractive to me just now than a pipe even.”
“Suit yourself,” answered Carleton, “I’ll have my man call you in the morning. Good night.”
He turned indoors as he spoke, and Vaughan stood silent for perhaps five minutes, looking out into the glorious summer night, with his thoughts where they could scarcely have failed to be—on the wonderment of all the happiness that had come to him, on the difference that the love of a girl had made in him, his ambitions, his hopes, of all the great things that he longed to accomplish now for her sake, to show her that perhaps she had not chosen unworthily.
Then, coming suddenly to himself, he decided that it would be pleasant to accompany Carleton on his rounds, looked indoors for him, and not finding him there, concluded that he must have gone out by some other way. Coming out once more on to the piazza, he stood for a moment irresolute, had even made a hesitating step toward the house again, and then, summoned irresistibly by some subtle kinship with tree and flower, star and whispering breeze, he walked hastily down the steps, and then, more leisurely, strolled away around the curve of the drive until his figure was lost amid the shrubbery of the lawn.
Surely Henry Carleton’s little evening had been enjoyed to the full by every one. And, as it chanced, even the humblest actor in it was to have his share of luck. Tom Satterlee, with some two thirds of his journey to Mr. Sheldon’s accomplished, suddenly gripped the reins more tightly as a warning blast fell on his ears, and a moment later a big motor whizzed past him from the rear. Instantly he recognized the chauffeur, driving alone, and the next moment his cheerful hail had brought the motor to a halt. Then ensued a brief conference, resulting in the transfer of the package, while Satterlee, with a good hour saved from the schedule that was to bring him back at midnight, in high good humor turned old Robin’s head toward home.
Meanwhile, back at The Birches, Vaughan wandered idly along, his feet on earth, his thoughts in the clouds. Rose and his book. His book and Rose. From one to the other his thoughts plied back and forth. Not, indeed, that the book could ever rival Rose, but it was as a means to win her that it now appeared most precious to him, as if his written word, as something outside of himself, were striving, like some faithful friend, to aid him in his fight—and Rose and the book and his happiness blended in his mind with all the intoxication of youth and hope, and a world still untried and unconquered, its problems undespaired of still.