"Oh yes," nodded Bellew, "when I met him he was on his way there to bring back gold for you—in a sack."
"Only Uncle Porges said it was a goodish way off, you know, so I 'cided to stay an' find the fortune nearer home."
And thus they talked unaffectedly together until, tea being over, Anthea volunteered to show Bellew over her small domain, and they went out, all three, into an evening that breathed of roses, and honeysuckle.
And, as they went, slow-footed through the deepening twilight, Small Porges directed Bellew's attention to certain nooks and corners that might be well calculated to conceal the fortune they were to find; while Anthea pointed out to him the beauties of shady wood, of rolling meadow, and winding stream.
But there were other beauties that neither of them thought to call to his attention, but which Bellew noted with observing eyes, none the less:—such, for instance, as the way Anthea had of drooping her shadowy lashes at sudden and unexpected moments; the wistful droop of her warm, red lips, and the sweet, round column of her throat. These, and much beside, Bellew noticed for himself as they walked on together through this midsummer evening…. And so, betimes, Bellew got him to bed, and, though the hour was ridiculously early, yet he fell into a profound slumber, and dreamed of—nothing at all. But, far away upon the road, forgotten, and out of mind,—with futile writhing and grimaces, the Haunting Shadow of the Might Have Been jibbered in the shadows.
CHAPTER VII
Which concerns itself among other matters, with "the Old Adam"
Bellew awakened early next morning, which was an unusual thing for Bellew to do under ordinary circumstances since he was one who held with that poet who has written, somewhere or other, something to the following effect:
"God bless the man who first discovered sleep. But damn the man with curses loud, and deep, who first invented—early rising."
Nevertheless, Bellew, (as has been said), awoke early next morning, to find the sun pouring in at his window, and making a glory all about him. But it was not this that had roused him, he thought as he lay blinking drowsily,—nor the black-bird piping so wonderfully in the apple-tree outside,—a very inquisitive apple-tree that had writhed, and contorted itself most un-naturally in its efforts to peep in at the window;—therefore Bellew fell to wondering, sleepily enough, what it could have been. Presently it came again, the sound,—a very peculiar sound the like of which Bellew had never heard before, which, as he listened, gradually evolved itself into a kind of monotonous chant, intoned by a voice deep, and harsh, yet withal, not unmusical. Now the words of the chant were these: