your engagement. In a worldly point of But Anne would not look. In all her struggles and all her resolutions, all her jealousy and her humiliation, she had made no provision against this form of trial, namely, that he should love her like this. "Oh, go, go; leave me," she murmured, hardly able to speak. He gathered the words more from the movement of her lips than from any sound. "I will go if you wish it. come back," he said. But I shall 66 "But I am glad, glad to the bottom of my heart, that he did care for me, even if only a little," she thought, as she watched the hills. "My task is now to protect him from himself, and-and what is harder, myself from myself. I will do it. But I am glad I am glad." Quieted, she waited for his return. When he came she would speak so calmly and firmly that his words would be quelled. He would recognize the uselessness of further speech. When he came. But he did not come. The hills changed to cliffs, the cliffs to mountains, the long miles grew into thirty and forty, yet he did not return. He had risen, but did not come to her; he had gone forward to the smoking-car. He had, in truth, caught the reflection of her face in a mirror, and decided not to come. It is not difficult to make resolutions; there is a fervidness in the work that elevates and strengthens the heart. But once made, one needs to exercise them, otherwise they grow cold and torpid on one's hands. Jeanne-Armande, finding herself alone, barricaded her seat with basket and umhe left her alone, and returned to Jeanne-brella, so as to be able to return thither Armande. (and perhaps have other conversations), and came across to Anne. The Frenchwoman was charmed; she had not expected him so soon. She said to herself, with a breath of satisfaction, that her conversation had fallen in fit places. "Where does this train stop?" asked Anne, with some irrelevance as to the château. "A most accomplished gentleman!" she said, with effusion. "Mrs. Lorrington, charming as she is, is yet to be herself congratulated. He has even been in Alone, looking at the hills as they pass- Berri," she added, as though that was a ed in procession, Anne collected her scat- chief accomplishment, "and may have betered resolves, and fought her battle. In held with his own eyes the château of my one way it was a sweet moment to her. ancestors." Rarely indeed did JeanneShe had felt dyed with eternal shame at Armande allude to this château: persons having given her love unsought, uncared with château ancestors might be required for; but he loved her-even if only a lit- to sustain expenses not in accordance with tle, he loved her. This was balm to her her well-arranged rules. wounded heart, and diffused itself like a glow; her cold hands grew warm, her life seemed to flow more freely. But soon the realization followed that now she must arm herself in new guise to resist the new temptation. She must keep her promise. She would marry Rast, if he wished it, though the earth were moved, and the hills carried into the midst of the sea. And Heathcote would be far happier with Helen; his feeling for herself was but a fancy, and would pass, as no doubt many other fancies had passed. In addition, Helen loved him; her life was bound up in him, whether he knew it or no. Helen had been her kindest friend; if all else were free, this alone would hold her. 66 At Centerville, for what they call dinner; and at Stringhampton Junction in the evening. It is the fast express." "Do we meet an eastward-bound train at Centerville ?" "I presume we do; but we shall not get out, so the crowd in the dining-room will not incommode us. The contents of my basket will be sufficient. But if you wish a cup of coffee, it will be eight cents. There is a species of German cake at Centerville, remarkably filling for the price. They bring them through the cars." "What time is it now?" About half past twelve; we reach Cen- | I found on the ferry-boat. terville at two. What age has Monsieur Heathcote, my dear?" "Thirty-two or thirty-three, I believe." "A gentleman of independent fortune, I presume?" It is in good order; I smoothed it out carefully; you can read that." She produced it from some remote pocket, and Anne took refuge in its pages, while Jeanne - Armande closed her eyes under the helmet, no doubt to "He is independent, but, I was told, not meditate further on the picture of felicity rich." she had called up. "The position I should have supposed," said mademoiselle. "What penetrating eyes he possesses; penetrating, yet soft. There is something in his glance, coming from under those heavy brows, which is particularly moving-one might almost say tender. Have you observed it?" Yes, Anne had observed it. Jeanne-Armande, protected as she supposed from indiscretion by the engagement to the charming Mrs. Lorrington, rambled on, enjoying the real pleasure of being sentimental and romantic, without risk, cost, or loss of time, on this eventful day. "I wish you could have seen Mr. Dexter, mademoiselle," said Anne, making an effort to turn the tide. "He is considered handsome, and he has a large fortune-" "But not inherited, I presume," interposed mademoiselle, grandly. "Mr. Heathcote, as I understand, lives upon his paternal revenues." If Heathcote had been there, he might have answered that he tried to, but never succeeded. He was not there, however; and Anne could only reply that she did not know. "He has undoubtedly that air," said Jeanne-Armande, faithful to her distinguished escort, and waving away all diversions in favor of unknown Dexters. "Do you know when they are to be married ?" "No," said Anne, drearily, looking now at the cliffs which bounded the narrow valley through which the train was rushing. "Let us hope that it will be soon; for life is short at best. Though not romantic by nature, I own I should be pleased to possess a small portion of the wedding cake of that amiable pair," pursued JeanneArmande, fixing her eyes upon the suspended lamp of the car, as though lost in sentimental reverie. "I think I will buy a newspaper," said Anne, as the train-boy came toward them. "Buy a paper? By no means," said mademoiselle, descending hastily to earth again. "I have yesterday's paper, which Anne felt all the weariness of long suspense. It was one o'clock; it was half past one; it was nearly two; still he did not appear. Even mademoiselle now roused herself, looked at her watch, and in her turn began to ask where he could be; but she had the comfort of asking it aloud. The speed was now perceptibly slackened, and the brakeman announced at the door: "Cen-ter-ville. Twen-timinets for dinner," in a bar of music not unlike a hoarse Gregorian chant. At this instant Heathcote entered from the next car. "Ah! there he is," said mademoiselle, with satisfaction. "Do you think he will partake of a little taste with us?" He joined them, and she repeated her question in the shape of a modest allusion to the contents of her basket. "No, thanks; I shall go out and walk up and down to breathe the air. But first, will you not go with me, and see what they have? Perhaps we might find something not altogether uneatable." Mademoiselle declined, with her most gracious smile. She would content herself with the contents of her basket; but perhaps Anne The eastward-bound train was in, drawn up beside them. "Yes," said Anne, "I should like to go." Then, as soon as they were in the open air, "I only wish to speak to you for a moment," she began. "I shall not go to the dining-room. "Take my arm, then, and we will walk up and down." "Yes, let us walk," she said, moving onward. "We can not walk well unless you take my arm." "I do not wish to walk well," she answered, angrily. He never would act according to her plan or theory. Here was all this persistence about a trifle, while she was wrought up to matters of deep moment. "I do not care whether you wish to take it or not; you must. There! Now what do you want to say to me ?" He was not wrought up at all; he was even smiling, and looking at her in the same old way. It was hard to begin under such circumstances; but she did begin. "Mr. Heathcote, while I thank you for all your kindness-" "I have not been kind; I only said that I loved you. That is either above or below kindness, certainly not on a level with that tepid feeling." But Anne would not listen. "While I thank you, I wish at the same time to say that I understand quite well that it is but an impulse which—” "It was but an impulse, I grant," said Heathcote, again interrupting her, "but with roots too strong for me to break-as I have found to my dismay," he added, smiling, as he met her eyes. "I wish you, I beg you, to return to New York on this train now waiting," said the girl, abandoning all her carefully composed sentences, and bringing forward her one desire with an earnestness which could not be doubted. "I shall do nothing of the kind.” "But what is the use of going on?" "I never cared much about use, Miss Douglas." "And then there is the pain." "Not for me." "For me, then," she said, looking away from him across the net-work of tracks, and up the little village street ending in the blue side of the mountain. "Putting everything else aside, do you care nothing for my pain?" "I can not help caring more for the things you put aside, since I happen to be one of them." "You are selfish," she said, hotly. "I ask you to leave me; I tell you your presence pains me; and you will not go." She drew her arm from his, and turned toward the car. He lifted his hat, and went across to the dining-hall. Mademoiselle was eating cold toast. She considered that toast retained its freshness longer than plain bread. Anne sat down beside her. She felt a hope that Heathcote would perhaps take the citybound train after all. She heard the bell ring, and watched the passengers hasten forth from the dining-hall. The eastward-bound train was going-was gone; a golden space of sunshine and the empty rails were now what had been its noise and bell and steam. "Our own passengers will soon be re An hour passed, The Frenchwo and he did not appear. man could not conceal her disappointment. "If he intended to leave the train at Centerville, I am surprised that he should not have returned to make us his farewells," she said, acidly. "He is not always attentive to such things," said Anne. "On the contrary, I have found him extremely attentive," retorted mademoiselle, veering again. But at this stage Heathcote entered, and Anne's hope that he had left them was dashed to the ground. He noted the situation, and then, with studied dignity, he asked mademoiselle if she would not join him in the other seat for a while. The flattered Frenchwoman consented, and as he followed her he gave Anne one quiet glance which said, plainly as words, Check." And Anne felt that it was "check” indeed. 66 He had no intention of troubling her; he would give her time to grow tired. But she was tired already. At last, however, he did come. They were in plain sight now, people were sitting behind them; she could not childishly refuse to let him take the vacant place beside her. But at least, she thought, his words must be guarded, or people behind would make out what he said, even from the motion of his lips. But Heathcote never cared for people. in a tone as low as his own. Yes, it could "It will end went over its possibilities. in my feeling a contempt for you." "I know very well that you are in earnest. But I shall be equally in earnest in breaking down the barriers between us. When that Western lover of yours is married to some one else, and Mrs. Lorrington likewise, then shall we not be free?" "Helen will never marry any one else." "Why do you not say that Mr. Pronando never will ?" Because I am not sure," she answered, with sad humility. ously unable to endure his wordless presence longer, she began to talk of Caryl's, Miss Vanhorn, mademoiselle, the halfhouse-anything and everything which possessed no real importance, and did not bear upon the subject between them. He answered her in his brief fashion. If she wished to pad the dangerous edges of the day with a few safe conventionalities, he had no objection; women would be conventional on a raft in mid-ocean. The afternoon moved on toward sunset. He thought the contest was over, that although she might still make objection, at "Are you going to tell him all that has heart she had yielded; and he was not happened?" Yes." "And leave the decision to him?" "Yes." "You will put yourself in a false position, then. If you really intend to marry him, it would be safer to tell him nothing," said Heathcote, in an impartial tone. "No man likes to hear that sort of thing, even if his wife tells it herself. Though he may know she has loved some one else, he does not care to have it embodied and stated in words; he would rather leave it disembodied." Anne was looking at him; a sudden pain, which she did not have time to conceal, showed itself in her face as he spoke. "You darling child!" said Heathcote, laughing. "See how you look when I even speak of your marrying any one save me!" unwilling to rest. Why should they hurry? The whole of life was before them. As night fell, they reached Stringhampton Junction, and the great engine stopped again. The passengers hastened hungrily into the little supper-room, and Heathcote urged mademoiselle to accompany him thither, and taste a cup of that compound found at railway stations called Japan tea. Jeanne-Armande looked half inclined to accept this invitation, but Anne, answering for both, said: "No; we have all we need in our basket. You can, however, if you will be so kind, send us some tea." This decision being in accordance with Jeanne-Armande's own rules, she did not like to contravene it, in spite of the satisfaction it would have given her to enter the supper-room with her decoShe shrank back, feeling the justice of rous brown glove reposing upon such a his inference. Her resolution remained coat sleeve. Heathcote bowed, and went unchanged; but she could not withstand out. Anne watched his figure entering entirely the personal power of his pres- the doorway of the brightly lighted supence. She gazed at the afternoon sun-per-room, which was separated by a wide shine striking the mountain-peaks, and space from the waiting train. Then she asked herself how she could bear the long turned. hours that still lay between her and the time of release-release from this narrow space where she must sit beside him, and feel the dangerous subtle influence of his voice and eyes. Then suddenly an idea came to her, like a door opening silently before a prisoner in a cell. She kept her face turned toward the window, while rapidly and with a beating heart she "Mademoiselle," she said, her burning haste contrasting with her clear calm utterance of the moment before, "I beg you to leave this train with me without one instant's delay. The peace of my whole life depends upon it." "What can you mean?" said the bewildered teacher. "I can not explain now; I will, later. But if you have any regard for me, any "And our trunks-they are checked through to Valley City. Will there be time to take them off?" said Jeanne-Armande, confusedly. Then, with more clearness, "But why should we go at all? I have no money to spend on freaks." "This is Stringhampton Junction; we can cross here to the northern road, as you originally intended," explained Anne, rapidly. "All the additional expense I will pay. Dear mademoiselle, have pity on me, and come. Else I shall go alone." The voice was eloquent; Jeanne-Armande rose. Anne hurried her through the almost empty car toward the rear door. "But where are we going?" "Out of the light," answered Anne. They climbed down in the darkness on the other side of the train, and Anne led the way across the tracks at random, until they reached a safe country road-side beyond, and felt the soft grass under their feet. "Where are we going?" said the Frenchwoman again, almost in tears. "Monsieur Heathcote - what will he think of us?" "It is from him I am fleeing," replied Anne. "And now we must find the cross-road train. Do you know where it is ?" "It is, or should be, over there," said Jeanne-Armande, waving her umbrella tragically. But she followed: the young girl had turned leader now. They found the cross-road train, entered, and took their seats. And then Anne feverishly counted the seconds, expecting with each one to see Heathcote's face at the door. But the little branch train did not wait for supper; the few passengers were already in their places, and at last the bell rang, and the engine started northward, but so slowly that Anne found herself leaning forward, as though to hasten its speed. Then the wheels began to turn more rapidly-clank, clank, past the switches; rumble, rumble, over the bridge; by the dark line of the wood-pile; and then onward into the dark defiles of the mountains. They were away. CHAPTER XXI. "How heavy do I journey on the way When what I seek, my weary travel's end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 'Thus far the miles are measured from my friend.'"-Shakspeare's Sonnets. IN the mean time Ward Heathcote was in the supper-room. After selecting the best that the little country station afforded, and feeing a servant to take it across to the train, he sat down to eat a nondescript meal with some hunger. The intelligent mulatto boy who carried the waiter consumed as many minutes as possible in his search for "the two ladies in that car, on the right-hand side opposite the fourth window," who, plainly, were not there. He had the fee in his pocket, there would not be another, and the two "suppers" were paid for. It was decidedly a case for delay. He waited, therefore, until the warning bell rang, and he was then encountered in hot haste hurrying to meet his patron, the waiter still balanced on his shoulder. "No ladies there, sah. Looked everywhere fur 'em, sah." There was no time for further parley. Heathcote hurried forward, and the train started. They must be on board, of course; probably the cars had been changed or moved forward while the train was waiting. But although he went from end to end of the long file of carriages, he found no one. They were under full headway now; the great engine did not need gradual beginnings. He could not bring himself to ask questions of the passengers whose faces he remembered in the same car; they would open upon him a battery of curiosity in return. He went to the rear door, opened it, and looked out; the two grime-encircled eyes of a brakeman met his gravely. He stepped outside, closed the door, and entered into conversation with the eyes. Yes, he seed two ladies get off; they come out this here end door, and climbed down on the wrong side. Seemed to be in a hurry. Didn't know where they went. Called after 'em that that warn't the way to the dining-room, and the young one said, "Thanks," but didn't say no more. Was they left behind? No, train didn't stop this side of Valley City; but the gentleman could telegraph back, and they could come on safe and sound in the morning express. "Twarn't likely they'd gone north by the little branch. |