FullReads

“This she confessed to me not many days ago, after a long period of remorseful questioning; and I deem it my duty now, in view of what you have just told me, to acquaint you with the truth. I am the only one who knows that she was not engaged to my son, and never really loved him. The fact cut me so deeply, when I learned it first, that I persuaded her, most selfishly, to continue in the disguise she had permitted, sustained so long,–to rest in it, that my boy’s memory might be honored through this sacrifice of the truth. Weak, fond old man that I was, and worse! But now you have my confession. As soon as I can speak with her alone I will release her from that promise. She was fain to be free before all the world,–our little part of it,–but I fastened it on her. I see now that I could not have invented a crueler punishment; but it was never my purpose to punish her. I will also tell her that I have opened the true state of the case to you.”

“Would you not stop just short of that, Mr. Withers? To know she is free to listen to him,–that is all any man could ask.”

“Perhaps you are right; yes, she need not know that I have possessed you with her secret,–all of it that has any bearing on your hopes. I only thought it might save you, in her mind, from any possible imputation of–of want of respect for her supposed condition, akin to widowhood; but no doubt you will wait a suitable time.”

“I will wait till we meet in Boise.”

“In Boise!” the old gentleman cried, aghast.

“That will be three days from now,” answered Thane innocently. Did Mr. Withers imagine that he would wait three years!

“But what becomes of the–the placer-mine?”

“The placer-mine be–the placer-mine will keep! She is shutting up her book; the sketch is finished. Will you hold the umbrella, sir, or shall I put it down?”

Mr. Withers took hold of the umbrella handle; the wind shook it and nearly tugged it out of his grasp. “Put it down, if you please,” he murmured resignedly. But by this time Thane was half across the road to where Daphne, with penknife and finger-tips, was trying to strip the top layer of blackened sandpaper from her pencil-scrubber; turning her face aside, because, woman-like, she would insist on casting her pencil-dust to windward.

Thane smiled, and took the scrubber out of her hands, threw away the soiled sheet, sealed up the pad in a clean stamped envelope, which bore across the end the legend, “If not delivered within ten days, return to”–“Robert Henry Thane,” he wrote, with his address, and gave her back her property. It was all very childish, yet his hand trembled as he wrote; and Daphne looked on with the solemnity of a child learning a new game.

“May I see the sketch?” he asked.

They bent together over her book, while Daphne endeavored to find the place; the wind fluttered the leaves, and she was so long in finding it that Mr. Kinney had time to pack up her stool and umbrella, and cross the road to say good-by to Mr. Withers.

“Here it is,” said Thane, catching sight of the drawing. He touched the book-holder lightly on the arm, to turn her away from the sun. Her shadow fell across the open page; their backs were to the wagon. So they stood a full half-minute,–Thane seeing nothing, hearing his heart beat preposterously in the silence.

“Why don’t you praise my sign-posts?” asked Daphne nervously. “See my beautiful distance,–one straight line!”

“I have changed my plans a little,” said Thane. Daphne closed the book. “I shall see you again in Boise. This is good-by–for three days. Take care of yourself.” He held out his hand. “I shall meet your train at Bliss.”

“Bliss! Where is Bliss?”

“You never could remember, could you?” he smiled. The tone of his voice was a flagrant caress. The color flew to Daphne’s face. “Bliss,” said he, “is where I shall meet you again: remember that, will you?”

Daphne drew down her veil. The man returning from the ferry was in sight at the top of the hill. Mr. Withers was alighting from Thane’s wagon. She turned her gray mask towards him, through which he could discern the soft outline of her face, the color of her lips and cheeks, the darkness of her eyes; their expression he could not see.

“I shall meet you at Bliss,” he repeated, his fingers closing upon hers.

Daphne did not reply; she did not speak to him nor look at him again, though it was some moments before the wagon started.

Kinney and Thane remained at the cross-roads, discussing with some heat the latter’s unexpected change of plan. Mr. Kinney had a small interest in the placer-mine, himself, but it looked large to him just then. He put little faith in Thane’s urgent business (that no one had heard of till that moment) calling him to Boise in three days. Of what use was it going down to the placers only to turn round and come back again? So Thane thought, and proposed they drive forward to Bliss.

“Bliss be hanged!” said Mr. Kinney; which shows how many ways there are of looking at the same thing.

Thane’s way prevailed; they drove straight on to Bliss. And if the placer-mine was ever reported on by Thane, it must have been at a later time.