Audrey

Haward, sitting at the table in Marot's best room, wrote an answer to

Audrey's letter, and tore it up; wrote another, and gave it to Juba, to be

given to the messenger waiting below; recalled the negro before he could

reach the door, destroyed the second note, and wrote a third. The first

had been wise and kind, telling her that he was much engaged, lightly and

skillfully waving aside her request--the only one she made--that she might

see him that day. The second had been less wise. The last told her that he

would come at five o'clock to the summer-house in Mistress Stagg's garden.

When he was alone in the room, he sat for some time very still, with his

eyes closed and his head thrown back against the tall woodwork of his

chair. His face was stern in repose: a handsome, even a fine face, with a

look of power and reflection, but to-day somewhat worn and haggard of

aspect. When presently he roused himself and took up the letter that lay

before him, the paper shook in his hand. "Wine, Juba," he said to the

slave, who now reëntered the room. "And close the window; it is growing

cold."

There were but three lines between the "Mr. Haward" and "Audrey;" the

writing was stiff and clerkly, the words very simple,--a child's asking of

a favor. He guessed rightly that it was the first letter of her own that

she had ever written. Suddenly a wave of passionate tenderness took him;

he bowed his head and kissed the paper; for the moment many-threaded life

and his own complex nature alike straightened to a beautiful simplicity.

He was the lover, merely; life was but the light and shadow through which

moved the woman whom he loved. He came back to himself, and tried to think

it out, but could not. Finally, with a weary impatience, he declined to

think at all. He was to dine at the Governor's. Evelyn would be there.

Only momentarily, in those days of early summer, had he wavered in his

determination to make this lady his wife. Pride was at the root of his

being,--pride and a deep self-will; though because they were so sunken,

and because poisonous roots can flower most deceivingly, he neither called

himself nor was called of others a proud and willful man. He wished Evelyn

for his wife; nay, more, though on May Day he had shown her that he loved

her not, though in June he had offered her a love that was only admiring

affection, yet in the past month at Westover he had come almost to believe

that he loved her truly. That she was worthy of true love he knew very

well. With all his strength of will, he had elected to forget the summer

that lay behind him at Fair View, and to live in the summer that was with

him at Westover. His success had been gratifying; in the flush of it, he

persuaded himself that a chamber of the heart had been locked forever, and

the key thrown away. And lo now! a touch, the sudden sight of a name, and

the door had flown wide; nay, the very walls were rived away! It was not a

glance over the shoulder; it was full presence in the room so lately

sealed.