“It will come?” said Flora.
“Yes,” said Hetty, “wherever those weary men are going to.”
“And to every one of us,” said Cheyne, with a curious graveness they afterwards remembered. “That is, the stress and strain—it is the triumph at the end of it only the few attain.”
Once more there was silence, and it was a relief when the unemotional Mrs. Schuyler rose.
“Now,” she said, and her voice, at least, had in it the twang of the country, “you young folks have been solemn quite long enough. Can’t you talk something kind of lively?”
They did what they could, and—for Cheyne could on occasion display a polished wit—light laughter filled the room, until Caroline Schuyler, perhaps not without a motive, suggested a stroll on the lawn. If there was dew upon the grass none of them heeded it, and it was but seldom anyone enjoyed the privilege of pacing that sod when Mr. Schuyler was at home. Every foot had cost him many dollars, and it remained but an imperfect imitation of an English lawn. There was on the one side a fringe of maples, and it was perhaps by Mrs. Schuyler’s contrivance that eventually Hetty found herself alone with Cheyne in their deeper shadow. It was not, however, a surprise to her, for she had seen the man’s desire and tacitly fallen in with it. Miss Torrance had discovered that one seldom gains anything by endeavouring to avoid the inevitable.
“Hetty,” he said quietly, “I think you know why I have come to-night?”
The girl stood very still and silent for a space of seconds, and afterwards wondered whether she made the decision then, or what she had seen and heard since she entered the depot had formed it for her.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I am so sorry!”
Cheyne laid his hand upon her arm, and his voice trembled a little. “Don’t be too hasty, Hetty,” he said. “I would not ask you for very much just now, but I had ventured to fancy you could in time grow fond of me. I know I should have waited, but I am going away to-morrow, and I only want you to give me a promise to take away with me.”