She went into the house to change her habit. Her brother Clay, who had been sitting on the far end of the porch unobserved, arose and, without noticing Travis as he passed, walked into the house.
“I cannot imagine,” said Mrs. Westmore apologetically, “what is the matter with Clay to-day.”
“Why?” asked Travis indifferently enough.
“He has neglected his geological specimens all day, nor has he ever been near his laboratory—he has one room he calls his laboratory, you know. To-night he is moody and troubled.”
Travis said nothing. At tea Clay was not there.
When Travis left it was still early and Alice walked with him to the big gate. The moon shone dimly and the cool, pure light lay over everything like the first mist of frost in November. Beyond, in the field, where it struck into the open cotton bolls, it turned them into December snow-banks.
Travis led his saddle horse, and as they walked to the gate, the sweet and scarcely perceptible odor of the crepe-myrtle floated out on the open air.
The crepe-myrtle has a way of surprising us now and then, and often after a wet fall, it gives us the swan-song of a bloom, ere its delicate blossoms, touched to death by frost, close forever their scalloped pink eyes, on the rare summer of a life as spiritual as the sweet soft gulf winds which brought it to life.
Was it symbolic to-night,—the swan-song of the romance of Alice Westmore's life, begun under those very trees so many summers ago?
They stopped at the gate. Richard Travis lit a cigar before mounting his horse. He seemed at times to-night restless, yet always determined.