“No, I want you to take me further; there is a gate leading to the road, is there not? I should like to go past the house; it will make it seem more real, Maggie, and you shall describe exactly how it is situated.”
Margaret complied at once—not for worlds would she have hinted that she was already nearly spent with fatigue and want of food. Cathy, the bright little mulatto chamber-maid, would get her a cup of tea and a sandwich presently. Raby’s lover-like wish must be indulged; he wanted to pass the house that held his treasure.
It was bright moonlight by this time, and the piazza had been long deserted. The shadows were dark under the avenue, for the road was thickly planted with trees. Just as they were nearing the corner house—a low, white building, with a veranda running round it—Margaret drew Raby somewhat hastily behind a tall maple, for her keen eyes had caught sight of two figures standing by the gate. As the moon emerged from behind a cloud, she saw Crystal plainly; Miss Campion was beside her with a black veil thrown over her gray hair.
Margaret’s whispered “hush!” was a sufficient hint to Raby, and he stood motionless. The next moment the voice that was dearer to him than any other sounded close beside him—at least it seemed so in the clear, resonant atmosphere.
“What a delicious night; how white that patch of moonlighted road looks where the trees do not cast their shadows so heavily. I like this quiet road. I am quite glad the boarding-house was full; I think the cottage is much cozier.”
“Cozier, yes,” laughed the other; “but that is a speech that ought to have come out of my middle-aged lips. What an odd girl you are, Crystal; you never seem to care for mixing with young people; and yet it is only natural at your age. You are a terrible misanthrope. I do believe you would rather not dine at the table d’hôte, only you are ashamed to say so.”
“I have no right to inflict my misanthropy on you, dear Miss Campion; as it is, you are far too indulgent to my morose moods.”
“Morose fiddlesticks,” was the energetic reply. “But, there, I do like young people to enjoy themselves like young people. Why, if I had your youth and good looks; well”—with a change of tone sufficiently explicit—“it is no use trying to make you conceited; and yet that handsome young American—wasn’t he a colonel?—tried to make himself as pleasant as he could.”
“Did he?” was the somewhat indifferent answer; at which Miss Campion shook her head in an exasperated way.
“Oh, it is no use talking to you,” with good-natured impatience. “English or American, old, ugly, or handsome, they are all the same to you; and of course, by the natural laws of contradiction, the absurd creatures are all bent on making you fall in love with them. Now that colonel, Crystal, I can’t think what fault you could find with him; he was manly, gentlemanly, and as good-looking as a man ought to be.”