A sigh so deep that it was like a sob broke from her.
She thrust forth her hand entreatingly.
"Why don't you go to him with your generosity?
You are so ready to believe ill of me! And I shall not
defend myself; but I will say these things to you, Mr.
Glenarm: I had no idea, no thought of seeing him at
the Armstrongs' that night. It was a surprise to me,
and to them, when he telegraphed he was coming. And
when I went into the tunnel there under the wall that
night, I had a purpose-a purpose-"
"Yes?" she paused and I bent forward, earnestly
waiting for her words, knowing that here lay her great
offending.
"I was afraid,-I was afraid that Mr. Glenarm might
not come in time; that you might be dispossessed,-lose
the fight, and I came back with Mr. Pickering because
I thought some dreadful thing might happen here-to
you-"
She turned and ran from me with the speed of the
wind, the cloak fluttering out darkly about her. At the
door, under the light of the lamp, I was close upon her.
Her hand was on the vestibule latch.
"But how should I have known?" I cried. "And you
had taunted me with my imprisonment at Glenarm;
you had dared me to follow you, when you knew that
my grandfather was living and watching to see whether
I kept faith with him. If you can tell me,-if there
an answer to that-"
"I shall never tell you anything-more! You were so
eager to think ill of me-to accuse me!"
"It was because I love you; it was my jealousy of that
man, my boyhood enemy, that made me catch at any
doubt. You are so beautiful,-you are so much a part
of the peace, the charm of all this! I had hoped for
spring-for you and the spring together!"
"Oh, please-!"
Her flight had shaken the toque to an unwonted angle;
her breath came quick and hard as she tugged at
the latch eagerly. The light from overhead was full
upon us, but I could not go with hope and belief struggling
unsatisfied in my heart. I seized her hands and
sought to look into her eyes.
"But you challenged me,-to follow you! I want to
know why you did that!"
She drew away, struggling to free herself "Why was it, Marian?"
"Because I wanted-"
"Yes."
"I wanted you to come, Squire Glenarm!"
Thrice spring has wakened the sap in the Glenarm
wood since that night. Yesterday I tore March from
the calendar. April in Indiana! She is an impudent
tomboy who whistles at the window, points to the sunshine
and, when you go hopefully forth, summons the
clouds and pelts you with snow. The austere old woodland,
wise from long acquaintance, finds no joy in her.
The walnut and the hickory have a higher respect for
the stormier qualities of December. April in Indiana!
She was just there by the wall, where now the bluebird
pauses dismayed, and waits again the flash of her golden
sandals. She bent there at the lakeside the splash of
a raindrop ago and tentatively poked the thin, brittle
ice with the pink tips of her little fingers. April in the
heart! It brings back the sweet wonder and awe of those
days, three years ago, when Marian and I, waiting for
June to come, knew a joy that thrilled our hearts like
the tumult of the first robin's song. The marvel of it
all steals over me again as I hear the riot of melody in
meadow and wood, and catch through the window the
flash of eager wings.