thoughts of such a man on a night like this, for instance?
"I want to see that man," he kept repeating to himself. "I want to see him; and I'm going to."
Restless, but now always listening for the sound of a light tread which he had come to know so well—alas!—he began to walk to and fro, with keen glances toward the illuminated kitchen window every time he passed it. Sometimes his mind was chaotic; sometimes clear. The emotions which had awakened in him within the week were complex enough to stagger a more intelligent man. And Marche was not a fool; he was the typical product of his environment—the result of school and college, and a New York business life carried on in
keenest competition with men as remorseless in business as the social code permitted. Also, he went to church on Sundays, read a Republican newspaper, and belonged to several unexceptionable clubs.
That was the kind of a man he had been only a week ago—a good fellow in the usual sense among men, acceptable to women, kind hearted, not too cynical, and every idea in his head modeled upon the opinions he heard expressed in that limited area wherein he had been born and bred.
That was the kind of a man he had been a week ago. What was he now—to-night—here in this waste corner of the world with the light from a kitchen window blazing on him as though it were the flashing
splendor streaming through the barred portals of paradise? Was it possible that he, John Benton Marche, could be actually in love—in love with the daughter of his own game warden—with a girl who served him at supper in apron and gingham, who served him further in hip boots and ragged jacket—this modern Rosalind of the marshes, as fresh and innocent, as modest and ardent, as she of the Arden glades?
The kitchen door opened, and Molly Herold came down the steps and straight toward him, unthinkingly, almost instinctively, laying her hands in his as he met her under the leafless China tree in the yard.
"I was longer than usual to-night,"
she said, "trying to soften my hands with that cold cream you so kindly sent for." She lifted them in the starlight with a little laugh. "They're a trifle better, I think," she said, "but they're always in water, you know, either there," she glanced around at the kitchen, "or yonder with the decoys. But thank you all the same," she added brightly. "Are you going to have another delightful talk, now?"