The three were still upon the porch half an hour later, with others of the family, when the two figures came again up the stretch of lawn between the slim white birches, showing ghostlike now in the June moonlight. They came in silence, as far as any sound of their voices reached the porch, and they disappeared like two shades toward the front of the house.
"He's not coming even to speak to us," whispered Rosamond to Stephen.
"That's very unlike him. Do you suppose—"
"It may be a case of the voice sticking in the throat," returned her husband, under his breath. "I fancy he'll take it hard when Rob disposes of him—as she certainly ought to do by this time, if she's not going to take him. But she'd better think twice. He's a brilliant fellow, and he has no rivals within hailing distance, in his line."
But Rosamond shook her head again. "He would never make her happy," she breathed, with conviction. "Oh, I hope—I hope!"
Her hopes grew with Roberta's absence. Westcott had gone, for Ruth, appearing at Rosamond's side, announced that Roberta was in her own room, and would not be down again to-night.
"I think she has a headache," said the little sister. "Queer, for I never knew Rob to have a headache before."
"The headache," murmured Louis, in Rosamond's ear, "is the feminine defence against the world. A timely headache, now and then, is suffered by the best of men—and women. Well—let her rest, Rufus. She'll be all right in the morning."
Above them, by her open window, sat Roberta, for a little while, elbows on sill, chin in hands. Then, presently, she stole downstairs again, out by a side entrance, and away among the shrubbery, to the furthest point of the grounds—not far, in point of actual distance, but quite removed by its environment from contact with the world around. Here, stretched upon the warm turf, her arms outflung, her eyes gazing up at the star-set heavens above her, the girl rested from her encounter with a desperate besieging force.
For a time, the last words she had heard that evening were ringing in her ears—sombre words, uttered in a deep tone of melancholy, by a voice which commanded cadences that had often reached the minds and hearts of men and swayed them. "Is that all—all, Roberta? Must I go away with that?"
She had sent him away, and her heart ached for him, for she could not doubt the depth and sincerity of his feeling for her. Being a woman, with a warm and kindly nature, she was sad with the disquieting thought that anywhere under that starry sky was one whose spirit was heavy to-night because of her. But—there had been no help for it. She knew now, beyond a doubt, that there had been no help.