For a few moments dead silence; then Haward spoke, slowly, weighing his
words: "I am on my way, Colonel Byrd, to the country beyond the falls. I
have entered upon a search, and I know not when it will be ended or when I
shall return. Westover lay in my path, and there was that which needed to
be said to you, sir, and to your daughter. When it has been said I will
take my leave." He paused; then, with a quickened breath, again took up
his task: "Some months ago, sir, I sought and obtained your permission to
make my suit to your daughter for her hand. The lady, worthy of a better
mate, hath done well in saying no to my importunity. I accept her
decision, withdraw my suit, wish her all happiness." He bowed again
formally; then stood with lowered eyes, his hand griping the edge of the
table.
"I am aware that my daughter has declined to entertain your proposals,"
said the Colonel coldly, "and I approve her determination. Is this all,
sir?"
"It should, perhaps, be all," answered Haward. "And yet"--He turned to
Evelyn, snow-white, calm, with that faint smile upon her face. "May I
speak to you?" he said, in a scarcely audible voice.
She looked at him, with parting lips.
"Here and now," the Colonel answered for her. "Be brief, sir."
The master of Fair View found it hard to speak, "Evelyn"--he began, and
paused, biting his lip. It was very quiet in the familiar parlor, quiet
and dim, and drawing toward eventide. The lady at the harpsichord chanced
to let fall her hand upon the keys. They gave forth a deep and melancholy
sound that vibrated through the room. The chord was like an odor in its
subtle power to bring crowding memories. To Haward, and perhaps to Evelyn,
scenes long shifted, long faded, took on fresh colors, glowed anew,
replaced the canvas of the present. For years the two had been friends;
later months had seen him her avowed suitor. In this very room he had bent
over her at the harpsichord when the song was finished; had sat beside her
in the deep window seat while the stars brightened, before the candles
were brought in.
Now, for a moment, he stood with his hand over his eyes; then, letting it
fall, he spoke with firmness. "Evelyn," he said, "if I have wronged you,
forgive me. Our friendship that has been I lay at your feet: forget it and
forget me. You are noble, generous, high of mind: I pray you to let no
remembrance of me trouble your life. May it be happy,--may all good attend
you.... Evelyn, good-by!"
He kneeled and lifted to his lips the hem of her dress. As he rose, and
bowing low would have taken formal leave of the two beside her, she put
out her hand, staying him by the gesture and the look upon her colorless
face. "You spoke of a search," she said. "What search?"