The judge started uneasily, with an involuntary gesture as if to detain him, to keep him back at any cost, but Fox did not see it and the old man sank back in his chair quiescent. His lips moved but he said nothing; after all, had he a right to interfere? Unconsciously the younger man went out of the window and down the two short steps to the gravel path.
The judge watched him disappear behind the Persian lilac with a fascinated eye. Then he took out his handkerchief again, and passing it swiftly across his brow pushed back his scant white hair until it seemed to rise up in active protest. The glare of the May sunshine suddenly hurt his gaze and he shook out his handkerchief and threw it over his head, closing his eyes.
Aunt Hannah, opening the door a moment later, with a pleasant jingle of ice in the mint-julep glass on her tray, peeped in, thought him asleep and cautiously and discreetly closed the door again. “Fo’ de Lord,” she murmured, “ef it ain’t de fust time dat he didn’t kinder sense dat de julep was comin’; I reckon he’s right po’ly!”
Fox turned the corner by the lilac, walking slowly, holding his hat behind his back, his bare head bowed. His face was gloomy with thought, and he almost passed the arbor. At the turn a glint of white caught his eye and he looked up quickly and saw Rose industriously sewing without a needle, her head down over her work and the sunshine filtering through a trellis of vines on her soft bright hair and her white gown.
He came toward her with an exclamation of unrestrained joy, but as their eyes met a wave of mutual feeling swept over their souls and left them mute. Between them seemed to lie the sorrow and the love of that beautiful and unfortunate woman who had separated them. The language of conventionality was no longer possible; Rose tried to speak, but her words died in an inarticulate murmur. The anguish of Margaret’s letter came back to her; it had saved Fox in her eyes; she no longer condemned him, she no longer felt it a duty to avoid him, but she found it impossible to tell him of the change in her heart by any commonplace word of friendship. Her hand had slipped from his eager grasp and lay trembling on her work. It was terrible to betray herself so; her cheek reddened and tears of mortification came into her eyes. But to speak to him of common things at such a moment—how could she? And he made no effort to help her, but only watched her, his soul in his eyes. The marks of suffering on his face touched her, too; the lines had sharpened, the gaze deepened and become more introspective, the shock of primitive passions had really decentralized his life. He smiled at the sight of her, almost the old eager smile, but even that light had died out of his face now, and in the pause she seemed to hear her own heart beating against her breast.
He stood looking at her. “How long must I be silent?” he asked at last.
Rose busied herself in a fruitless attempt to thread an imaginary needle, and her slender fingers shook. It had been in her mind to tell him that Margaret had written her, but as he spoke a sudden intuition of the truth arrested her impulse, a flood of light poured in upon her, illuminating the twilight of her thought. She felt that he must not only never know of Margaret’s confession—she had not meant to tell him that—but not even of her letter. It was impossible to answer him; her lips were tremulous as she looked up and met his grave, compelling gaze. In her look, so full of buoyant and beautiful youth, there was not even the shadow of reproach. Her simplicity, her renewal of confidence in him, were profoundly touching; the bitterness and humiliation of the past months seemed at last sanctified by her forbearance. The secret agony which had torn his heart during the long winter fell away from the present; it belonged at once to the past, sinking into that long vista which leads to oblivion. To-day was beautiful and strong with hope.
Before her youth and purity William Fox experienced a feeling of sudden and complete humility. “Can you forgive me?” he asked, in a low voice.
Margaret’s letter seemed to breathe its message in her ears. “There’s nothing to forgive,” Rose said simply.