"Tommy refers to this calmly as _his_ carriage, Miss Carstairs. See what a week of New York has done for him. Where did he disappear to--did you notice? A great day it has been"--in the rising inflection of farewell--"hasn't it?"

Came out of s.p.a.ce in answer, like a fluttering bird from nowhere, a voice that had once seemed music in his ears:

"I sent him ... to look for you. They said that you were ... ill.

Perhaps you would let us drive you to the river?"

"And make you miss the speech?" continued this easy and agreeable young man, whom Laurence Varney, a great distance off, stood dumbly and watched from the swirling void with a certain remote admiration. "Of course not. I was never better in my life and the walk will be pleasant on so nice an afternoon. But thank you very much."

Again his tone held the faint inflection of finality, of leave-taking.

Came again the voice like tossed chimes out of s.p.a.ce:

"Then ... won't you stay and hear the end? It would please Mr. Hare.

From this carriage ... you can see and hear everything very well."

"Thank you," said the debonair spirit, rather carelessly--while Laurence Varney, off in another world, clutched at the invitation, fought for it, lied, thieved, prayed, lived and died for it--"I'm afraid I must go on now."

"There is something I wanted to say. And ... a message."

A shuffling of the cosmos, a shrieking readjustment of the universe, and he found himself sitting on a blue upholstered seat staring at two great golden moons, which later on turned out to be, after all, mere burnished b.u.t.tons upon a coachman's purple back.

So, not for the first time, the sudden meeting with a lady knocked from the young man's head all recollection of his enemy. And if their parting had taken place in the entire privacy of a country road, their re-meeting, certainly, was in the fullest view of the many. Only, luckily, n.o.body chanced to be looking, or within eavesdropping distance; and even the coachman presently removed himself to stand at his horses'

restive heads. Tommy's carriage happened to be the last one in the line.

Behind it the street was a desert. Before it was nothing but a packed army of backs.

"I did not know that you were here until Mr. Hare spoke. And they all began to look...."

"Mr. Hackley especially invited me to share his porch ..." and the other Varney, not the one who sat so stiff and mute, desperate eyes glued on the far horizon, but the easy, negligent Varney, gay dare-devil that he was, actually achieved a pleasant laugh. "I must show you his note. It's been a long time since I have had anything to please me so much."

He unfolded and held out into the blue empyrean a rather soiled bit of paper, which a small white-gloved hand descended from heaven like a dove and took. Then, presumably, this was duly read:

MR. VARNEY. dear sir: Announcment of Election will be made in the Squair this p.m. around 6 p.m. Would feel onered if you would come to my Poarch where everthink can be seen & heard & no crouding, Josle ect.

Will call at your Yot with horse and Bugy around 5 p.m.

this p.m. if agreble though you don't nead no eskort anywairs in Hunston, the Unfortunit mistaik having been diskovered. Noing your intrest in our Poltix will add that I voated for Mister Hair, first think this a.m. with sorro for the Past and hoapes for your Speady convlessense,

Resp.

J. HACKLEY.

S.P.--Should you come to my Poarch all would no as bygorns was bygorns.

"Wasn't that kind of him?" he asked when the note had again come down into the ornamental lap, which was the upper line of his range of vision. "And thoughtful. But then everybody has been so wonderfully kind to me. I think I shall remember Hunston as altogether the kindest town I ever saw."

There was quite a silence after that.

"I am like Jim," came the voice beside him, troubled chimes waving bravely, "in having wronged you by ... an unfortunate mistake. You have forgiven him, haven't you ... let by-gones be by-gones? Can you do as much ... for me?"

"Don't," he begged with sudden hoa.r.s.eness--and there the mannersome insouciant Varney waved an easy hand and blew himself away, like the rascally light o' heels he was--"I have to ask forgiveness of you--not give it," he said.

"You have much to forgive. That day in the road--I was angry. I was not just ... not fair. I am mortified to remember ... what I said to you."

His heart contracted for the trouble in her voice; his spirit made obeisance to the courage which carried her so perfectly through that pretty suit for pardon; but for himself--

"There is not one thing--believe me--that your goodness can reproach itself for--not one thing for you to be sorry for. If you have forgiven me now--for all that you had to forgive--I go away quite happy."

His first easy composure, which far outmatched her own, had unsteadied her. His wasted and scarred face, which she had been quite unprepared for, had shocked her inexpressibly. And now there was this new thought knocking at the door of her mind--that he was going away quite happy.

"There was something else I wanted to tell you ... if you could wait a moment ... some news."

He turned toward her with a movement of pleasant interest, meant to verify his recent gallant promise; but he turned so quickly that his face had no time to come into the kindly conspiracy, and no triumph of hyperbole could have described its look as happy.

"Yes? Good news, I hope?"

"I won't ... be cowardly and let you think that this was accidental ...

my seeing you ... and telling you that I'm sorry. We--we were going to drive down to the yacht ... after the speeches were over. I don't understand it all yet, but this afternoon a great thing happened. There came a letter from my father ... and everything is all settled now. He ... wants my mother ... more than me, now. Why shouldn't I tell you? It is what I have longed for ... prayed for every night ... for twelve years. We are going to New York--to-morrow--to see my father."

His great gladness at that made him forget himself entirely, and for the first time he could look at her.

"Why, I can't _tell_ you how glad I am! How tremendously happy that makes me!"

She sat back in her cushioned seat, still as a sculptured lady, hands clasped on her silken lap, eyes gone off down the street, though not for vision, to where Hare was thundering a splendid peroration. He had already become aware, without looking at her, that she was richly and beautifully dressed; but he was hardly prepared for the effect which such a setting would have upon her face. For all his conjuring of memory, he had forgotten that she looked quite like that....

"Yes ... it makes me happy, too. And my mother wants to ask you--no, I do--that is, both of us want to ask you--if you won't allow us to go down ... in the yacht?"

Misunderstanding, the senseless world started mad antics again; but Intelligence, which saw more clearly, reached out a long arm and jerked it firmly back on its feet.

"Allow you! It's exactly what I'd like most _immensely_. She's all ready for you--I'll have my things off her in no time--catch the eight-ten to-night and go straight to congratulate Uncle Elbert. How great to see him so happy! I 'll run right down to the yacht this minute and attend to it."

"There is nothing to attend to ... is there? You said she was all ready.

Of course we could not let you--leave her. We could not go in the yacht ... unless you will go with us."

But speech stuck in his throat like a bone gone wrong. She would get no help from him; that was evident. If suffering had wrought miracles of absolution, she alone could make that plain.

"You came to Hunston ... to take me to my father ... didn't you?" said Mary Carstairs. "Why ... won't you do it?"

A fugitive wave of pallor ran up her cheek, leaving its white trail behind. She knew now that she had said the last word to him that she could say, and that if he wanted to go away, he must go. The heavy curtain of her lashes fell, veiling her eyes ... but, as it chanced, fell slowly. He had turned at her words, very quickly; he caught the curtain half-drawn, and a look come and gone like an arrow had shot through those windows into the lit place beyond.

"I could only do that," he began unsteadily--"I--you know how it is with me.... To the longest day I live--I'll love you ... with every breath I draw. I could not do that--unless ... Will you marry me?"

The stillness about them then was like a tangible thing, measureless and infinite. But into it faltered almost at once that voice like silver bells.

"If you're _perfectly sure_ you want me to," said Mary faintly.

Her eyes met his in a wonderful union, divinely sealed the promise of her lips, stamped it forever and ever with a heavenly stamp....

The bay horses curveted and pranced, the coachman sprang to his seat, a big red motor backed, snorted, honked, and whizzed past them. The speechmaking was over. The little line of gay carriages, breaking itself into pieces, was maneuvering for rights of way homeward. The bay horses, turning, too, were caught in the press and must needs go slowly: so that the whole vivid pageant might have been but the ordered setting for this moment--for Laurence Varney and the girl he had sworn to carry home to her father....

In the square, the lingering crowd, attuned to cheering, was summoning one name after another to noisy felicitation. Out of the tumult rose one persistent voice, clamoring a changeless request. Yes, it was Hackley's voice, very near, evidently on his own front porch, and he was saying over and over: "Lemme ask you! Lemme ask you!" And about the moment the victoria--Tommy's victori' (Tommy himself, if the truth be known, riding snugly on the back springs at that very moment)--got safely put about, Mr. Hackley secured what public notice he required and divulged the nature of his request.