Audrey

Leaving the library they went into the hall, and from the hall looked into

great, echoing, half-furnished rooms. All about lay packing-cases, many of

them open, with rich stuffs streaming from them. Ornaments were huddled on

tables, mirrors and pictures leaned their faces to the walls; everywhere

was disorder.

"The negroes are careless, and to-day I held their hands," said Haward. "I

must get some proper person to see to this gear."

Up stairs and down they went through the house, that seemed very large and

very still, and finally they came out of the great front door, and down

the stone steps on to the terrace. Below them, sparkling in the sunshine,

lay the river, the opposite shore all in a haze of light. "I must go

home," Audrey shyly reminded him, whereat he smiled assent, and they went,

not through the box alley to the gate in the wall, but down the terrace,

and out upon the hot brown boards of the landing. Haward, stepping into a

boat, handed her to a seat in the stern, and himself took the oars.

Leaving the landing, they came to the creek and entered it. Presently

they were gliding beneath the red brick wall with the honeysuckle atop. On

the opposite grassy shore, seated in a blaze of noon sunshine, was Hugon.

They in the boat took no notice. Haward, rowing, spoke evenly on, his

theme himself and the gay and lonely life he had led these eleven years;

and Audrey, though at first sight of the waiting figure she had paled and

trembled, was too safe, too happy, to give to trouble any part of this

magic morning. She kept her eyes on Haward's face, and almost forgot the

man who had risen from the grass and in silence was following them.

Now, had the trader, in his hunting shirt and leggings, his moccasins and

fur cap, been walking in the great woods, this silence, even with others

in company, would have been natural enough to his Indian blood; but

Monsieur Jean Hugon, in peruke and laced coat, walking in a civilized

country, with words a-plenty and as hot as fire-water in his heart, and

none upon his tongue, was a figure strange and sinister. He watched the

two in the boat with an impassive face, and he walked like an Indian on an

enemy's trail, so silently that he scarce seemed to breathe, so lightly

that his heavy boots failed to crush the flowers or the tender grass.

Haward rowed on, telling Audrey stories of the town, of great men whose

names she knew, and beautiful ladies of whom she had never heard; and she

sat before him with her slim brown hands folded in her lap and the

rosebuds withering in her hair, while through the reeds and the grass and

the bushes of the bank over against them strode Hugon in his Blenheim wig

and his wine-colored coat. Well-nigh together the three reached the stake

driven in among the reeds, a hundred yards below the minister's house.

Haward fastened the boat, and, motioning to Audrey to stay for the moment

where she was, stepped out upon the bank to confront the trader, who,

walking steadily and silently as ever, was almost upon them.