In the dusk he could not see the expression on her face. He knew that she listened intently, leaning above him. He was not conscious that he praised Madeleine Presson's gifts of mind or person. But as he had found her, so he portrayed her to the isolated girl of the north country, describing her attainments, her culture, her breadth of view, her grasp of the questions of the day, her ability to understand the big matters in which men were interested.
She made no comment as he talked. She did not interrupt him when he had finished with Madeleine Presson and went on to relate how he had been forced into the forefront of the State's political situation.
"So, then, you have become a great man," she faltered. "I remember. I was selfish. I did not want you to go away."
"No, I am not a great man, little Clare," he protested, laughingly. "I'm only a little chap that a great man is using. And you were not selfish. It was you that first put the thought into my mind that I ought to use my opportunities. That night at the end of the bridge, you know! I was sullen and obstinate. But you talked to me like a wise little woman. All the time I was with my grandfather later that evening, trying to be angry with him, I kept remembering your advice."
"I lied to you!" she cried, so passionately that he leaped to his feet and stared down on her. "I said it. I remember. But I lied. I was punishing myself because I had been selfish about you. But I didn't believe what I was saying—not deep in my heart. I wanted you to say you wouldn't go—but I didn't want you to look back ever and blame me for my selfishness. You see now how wicked and wrong and weak I am. I didn't want the world to take you away from—from us up here: from the woods and the plain folks. You'll hate me now. But I have to be truthful with you!" Her voice broke.
"The world has not won me away from my friends, dear. You must know me too well for that suspicion to shame me."
She crouched on the step before him. Her hands, fingers interlaced, gripped each other hard to quiet their trembling. In her girlish frailness, as she bent above her clasped hands, huddled there in the black shadow of the porch, she seemed pitifully little and helpless and forsaken. The woe in her tones thrilled him. She was trying hard to control her voice.
"You see, Harlan, I can look ahead and understand how it will be. A woman does understand such things. That's the awful thing about being a woman—and looking ahead and knowing how it must be before it ever happens!"
"Before what happens, Clare? I'm trying hard to understand you."
He leaned forward, and could see her eyes. He had seen that look in the eyes of a stricken doe.