“Please give me my dinner, my dear. I’m—I’m a little done up!”
At that hour of the day the sun had got down a little behind the tree-tops, and was casting feathery and delicate shadows on the smooth water below the bridge. The flicker of light between them, the slender grace of the tall flags that thrust pale blossoms up through the lush grass at the edge, and the whistling call of a catbird, who was darting from twig to twig over his head, held Overton. He watched it all, tried to concentrate his attention upon it, until he should be able to wrestle with the foe within.
Over and over again he told himself, as he had told Judge Herford, that Diane was right; yet his heart leaped up in fierce rebellion against the fate that had overtaken him. He could not forget the look in her eyes, the tender beauty of her face, as she leaned toward him through the mist. He felt again the tremor of her hands in his, and he knew now that it had been the tremor of flight.
She had been stronger than he. She had seen their danger, and she had turned her back upon it. She was right—right in the higher moral sense, right in the eyes of the world, and yet—he loved her! He must give her up, too, to a man whom he despised, a man who was, at that very hour, trading upon his generosity, his forebearance, climbing upon his shoulders to a command that was not rightfully his, and doing it because his wife was shielding him.
Contempt, deep-seated and remorseless, took possession of Overton’s mind. He wondered what manner of man Faunce was—what manner of man that she could love him, go back to him! But did she love him? Ah, that tormenting question again!
Overton left the bridge and sat down upon a stone, his big figure hunched over in a strange attitude, his chin in his hands. He fixed his eyes upon the catbird again. It was a delicate creature, gray-coated and black-capped. Its bright eyes had discovered him, and regarded him in a friendly way. It hopped from twig to twig again, its twitching tail accentuating its nervous little jerks. It screamed plaintively, like a kitten crying for its mother, but its eyes were keen.
Overhead the soft blue sky was dappled with pink clouds, for the sun was setting. The trees began to rustle with a faint breeze, and he could smell the salt of the sea as the tide changed. It was very clear, yet he heard a far-off fog-horn beginning to moan; there must be a fog outside.
The thought brought back to him the longing for adventure, the lure of the sea. It had been in his blood from boyhood. If he had been born of poorer parents, he would have followed the sea—would perhaps have been a sailor before the mast. As it was, the very tang of salt in the air, the sound of the fog-horn, stirred his blood as a bugle-note stirs a soldier in his sleep.
He longed to go back, to follow the trail, to finish his work! The expedition was ready, and he had only to raise his finger to take the command; but he would not. For her sake he was still willing to give up; for her sake he was covering her husband’s cowardice with a cloak, giving him a share of the glory that his craven spirit had shamed.