“Suppose I had not come to Virginia—and known you! My heart jumps when I think of it. It makes one believe in fate. Here at the Court I found an old leaf-calendar—it sits at my elbow now, just as I came on it. The date it shows is May 14th, and its motto is: Every man carries his fate upon a riband about his neck. I like that.
“That first Sunday at St. Andrew’s, I thought of a day—may it be soon!—when you and I might stand before that altar, with your people (my people, too, now) around us, and I shall hear you say: ‘I, Shirley, take thee, John—’ And to think it is really to come true! Do you remember the text the minister preached from? It was ‘But all men perceive that they have riches, and that their faces shine as the faces of angels.’ I think I shall go about henceforth with my face shining, so that all men will see that I have riches—your love for me, dear.
“I am so happy I can hardly see the words—or perhaps it is that the sun has set. I am sending this over by Uncle Jefferson. Send me back just a word by him, sweetheart, to say I may come to you to-night. And add the three short words I am so thirsty to hear over and over—one verb between two pronouns—so that I can kiss them all at once!”
He raised his head, a little flushed and with eyes brilliant, lighted a candle, sealed the letter with the ring he wore and despatched it.
Thereafter he sat looking into the growing dusk, watching the pale lamps of the constellations deepen to green gilt against the lapis-lazuli of the sky, and listening to the insect noises dulling into the woven chorus of evening. Uncle Jefferson was long in returning, and he grew impatient finally and began to prowl through the dusky corridors like a leopard, then to the front porch and finally to the driveway, listening at every turn for the familiar slouching step.
When at length the old negro appeared, Valiant took the note he brought, his heart beating rapidly, and carried it hastily in to the candle-light. He did not open it at once, but sat for a full minute pressing it between his palms as though to extract from the delicate paper the beloved thrill of her touch. His hand shook slightly as he drew the folded leaves from the envelope. How would it begin? “My Knight of the Crimson Rose?” or “Dear Gardener?” (She had called him Gardener the day they had set out the roses) or perhaps even “Sweetheart”? It would not be long, only a mere “Yes” or “Come to me,” perhaps; yet even the shortest missive had its beginning and its ending.
He opened and read.
For an instant he stared unbelievingly. Then the paper crackled to a ball in his clutched hand, and he made a hoarse sound which was half a cry, then sat perfectly still, his whole face shuddering. What he crushed in his hand was no note of tender love-phrases; it was an abrupt dismissal. The staggering contretemps struck the color from his face and left every nerve raw and quivering. To be “nothing to her, as she could be nothing to him”? He felt a ghastly inclination to laugh. Nothing to her! The meaning of the lines was monstrous. It was inconceivable.
Presently, his brows frowning heavily, he spread out the crumpled paper and reread it with bitter slowness, weighing each phrase. “Something which she had learned since she last saw him, which lay between them.” She had not known it, then, last night, when they had kissed beside the sun-dial! She had loved him then! What could there be that thrust them irrevocably apart?
He sprang up and paced the floor in a blinding passion of resentment and revolt. “You shall! you shall!” he said between his set teeth. “We belong to each other! There can be nothing, nothing to separate us!” Again he pored over the page. “She could not see him again, could not even explain.” The words seemed to echo themselves, bleak as hail on a prison pane. “If he went to St. Andrew’s, he might find the reason why.” What could she mean by the reference to St. Andrew’s? He caught at that as a clue. Could the old church tell him what had reared itself in such dismal fashion between them?