For a moment--silence. She was thinking of her duty to her father, of
her implied promise, of all that Janet had told her, and so thinking
could not for the moment answer--could not meet his earnest gaze. Dark
as it was she felt, rather than saw, the glow of his deep blue eyes.
She could not mistake the tenderness of his tone. She had so believed
in him. He seemed so far above the callow, vapid, empty-headed
youngsters the other girls were twittering about from morn till night.
She felt that she believed in him now, no matter what had been said or
who had said it. She felt that if he would but say it was all a
mistake--that no woman had crossed his threshold, all Camp Sandy might
swear to the truth of the story, and she would laugh at it. But how
could she ask such a thing of him? Her cheeks took fire at the
thought. It was he who broke the silence.
"Something has happened to break your faith in me, Miss Angela," said
he, with instant gravity. "I certainly had it--I know I had it--not
a week ago"; and now he had dropped to a seat in the swaying hammock,
and with calm strength and will bent toward her and compelled her
attention. "I have a right to know, as matters stand. Will you tell
me, or must I wait until I see your father?" With that Neil Blakely
actually sought to take her hand. She whipped it behind her at the
instant. "Will you tell me?" he repeated, bending closer.
From down the line, dancing along the wooden veranda, came the sound
of swift footfalls--Kate Sanders hurrying back. Another moment and it
would be too late. The denial she longed to hear from his lips might
never be spoken. If spoken at all it must be here and now, yet how
could she--how could she ask him?
"I will tell you, Mr. Blakely." The words came from the window of the
darkened parlor, close at hand. The voice was that of Janet Wren,
austere and uncompromising. "I got here in time to hear your
question--I will answer for my niece--"
"Aunt Janet--No!"
"Be quiet, Angela. Mr. Blakely, it is because this child's father saw,
and I heard of, that which makes you unworthy the faith of a young,
pure-hearted girl. Who was the--the creature to whom you opened your
door last Wednesday midnight?"
Kate Sanders, singing softly, blithely, came tripping along the
major's deserted veranda, her fresh young voice, glad, yet subdued,
caroling the words of a dear old song that Parepa had made loved and
famous full ten years before: "And as he lingered by her side,
In spite of his comrade's warning
The old, old story was told again
At five o'clock in the morning."