“Would you like to go?” asked Marcia, listlessly.
“Yes, I should, very much,” said Halleck, scrambling to his feet, “if it won't tire you too much?”
“Oh, no,” said Marcia, gently, and led the way. She kept ahead of him in the climb, as she easily could, and she answered briefly to all he said. When they arrived at the top, “There is the view,” she said coldly. She waved her hand toward the valley; she made a sound in her throat as if she would speak again, but her voice died in one broken sob.
Halleck stood with downcast eyes, and trembled. He durst not look at her, not for what he should see in her face, but for what she should see in his: the anguish of intelligence, the helpless pity. He beat the rock at his feet with the ferule of his stick, and could not lift his head again. When he did, she stood turned from him and drying her eyes on her handkerchief. Their looks met, and she trusted her self-betrayal to him without any attempt at excuse or explanation.
“I will send Hubbard up to help you down,” said Halleck.
“Well,” she answered, sadly.
He clambered down the side of the bluff, and Bartley started to his feet in guilty alarm when he saw him approach. “What's the matter?”
“Nothing. But I think you had better help Mrs. Hubbard down the bluff.”
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Macallister. “A panic! how interesting!”
Halleck did not respond. He threw himself on the grass, and left her to change or pursue the subject as she liked. Bartley showed more savoir-faire when he came back with Marcia, after an absence long enough to let her remove the traces of her tears.