There came a day, however, when Sperry, with one of his sudden resolves, preferred the daughter's company to the wife's. What had influenced his decision he must have confided to Alice--that is, his version of it--for when he asked Margaret to come for a walk, and had received the girl's answer, "I'm afraid we haven't time for a walk before luncheon," Alice had replied: "Of course you have. The walk will do you good."

What really determined him to seek Margaret's companionship was a desire to fathom her heart. She was her father's confidante, and as such might be dangerous, or useful. To have refused him Margaret knew would only have made matters worse. Much as she disliked him, she was grateful to him for having set the little Frenchman's arm; so she ran into the house and returned in a moment, her fresh young face shaded by a brim of straw covered with moss roses.

"What a pretty hat!" exclaimed Sperry, as they crossed the compound to the trail leading down to the brook. "Oh, you young New York girls know just what is and what is not becoming."

"Do you think so?" returned Margaret vaguely, not knowing just what answer to make. "It was my own idea."

Sperry looked at the young girl, fresh and trim in her youth, and a memory rushed over him of his Paris days. Margaret reminded him of Lucille, he thought to himself, all except the eyes--Lucille's eyes were black.

"Yes, it's adorable," he replied, drinking in the fresh beauty of the young girl. "You are very pretty, my dear--just like your mother."

This line of attack had always succeeded in sounding the hearts of the young girls he had known.

The girl blushed--the freedom of his tone troubled, and then half frightened her. So much so that she walked on in silence, wishing she had not come. Then again it was the first time she had been entirely alone with him, and the feeling was not altogether a pleasant one.

There was, too, a certain familiarity in his voice and manner which she would have resented in a younger man but which, somehow, she had to submit to.

She stopped abruptly as they came to a steep rock.

"Please go on ahead," she said with an appealing look in her brown eyes, as he put out his hand to help her down. "I can get down very well myself."

"Come, be sensible, little girl," he returned; "we must not have another accident to-day. Pretty ankles are as hard to mend as broken arms."

Again the colour mounted to her cheeks; no one had ever spoken to her in this way before.

"Please don't," she returned, her voice trembling.

"Don't _what_, may I ask?" he laughed.

"Please don't call me 'little girl'; I--I don't like it," she returned, not knowing what else to say and still uneasy--outraged, really, if she had understood her feelings. She sat down quickly, and as he turned to look at the torrent below, slid down the rock in safety. Sperry's brow knit. What surprised him was to find her different from the girls he had known. Then he said in an absent way:

"What splendid rapids!"

"It's the most beautiful old stream in the world," replied Margaret, glad he had found another topic besides herself.

"But be careful," he cautioned her a few rods farther on; "it's slippery here. Come, give me your arm."

Again she evaded him.

"I'm not an invalid," she laughed--she was farther from him now and her courage had accordingly increased.

"Of course you're not--whoever said you were. Invalids do not have cheeks like roses, my little girl, and yours are wonderful to-day."

The girl turned away her head in silence, and the two picked their steps the remainder of the way down to the brook without speaking.

There she made a spring and landed on a flat rock about the edge of which swirled the green water of a broad pool. Sperry, undaunted, seated himself beside her.

"Margaret," he began, "why don't you like me? I seem to have offended you. Tell me, what have I said? I wouldn't offend you for the world, and you know it. Why don't you like me?" he repeated.

"Why, doctor!" she exclaimed with a forced little laugh that trembled in her fresh, young throat, "what a funny question!"

"I am quite serious," he added, with a sudden vibrant tone in his voice. Impulsively his hand closed over hers; she felt for a second the warm pressure of his fingers, the next instant she started to her feet.

"Don't!" she cried indignantly, flushing to the roots of her fair hair, her wide-open eyes staring at him. "You mustn't do that; I don't like it!" Her lips were trembling now, her eyes full of tears. Then she added helplessly "We had better be going--we shall be late for luncheon."

He was standing beside her now. "Then tell me you like me," he insisted. "Besides, we have loads of time. Why, it's only twenty minutes to one," he said, looking hurriedly at his watch, careful to conceal the tell-tale hands of its dial from her frightened glance.

Without answering the girl turned and began to retrace her steps.

"But you haven't said you like me," he called out, hurrying to her side.

Margaret did not speak; she only knew that her head was throbbing, that she heard but indistinctly the words of the man who kept close to her as they went on up the steep trail. At the rock where she had been too quick for him, Sperry abruptly stepped in front of her, barring her way.

"Come now," he said; "be sensible. You must not go in to luncheon looking as you do." He put forth both hands to a.s.sist her up the rock; she offered her own mechanically, in a helpless sort of way, knowing it would be impossible to ascend otherwise while he was there. A quick, steady pull, and she was abreast of him, the brim of her gay little hat touching for a second his waistcoat. The moment was irresistible--in that second he was conscious of the fragrance and warmth of her girlhood. He felt her soft brown hands in his own, straining to release themselves.

"Don't!" she faltered; "please--I beg of you--"

A voice behind him brought him to his senses:

"Beg pardon, miss, but luncheon is served."

It was Blakeman. The butler stood respectfully aside to let them pa.s.s.

Slowly he followed the retreating form of the doctor and Margaret, his hands clenched. For some seconds he stood immovable, then he broke hastily into the woods, cross-cutting back to his pantry.

"d.a.m.n him!" he muttered, as he squeezed the cork from a bottle of Pomard. "I hadn't a second to lose!"

At luncheon Blakeman served the Burgundy without a trace upon his round, smug face of the indignation surging within him. His skilled hand replenished Sperry's gla.s.s generously.

The doctor grew talkative; he told his complete set of luncheon stories with enthusiasm, while Margaret sat in grateful silence; she was in no mood to talk herself; the incident of the morning had left her depressed and nervous.

"She's pulling out of it," he said to Alice when the girl had left the room. "Colour good and walks without losing her breath. I think now you can dismiss all anxiety from your mind. The woods have saved her life." What he said to himself was: "I made a mess of this morning's work; she's not such a fool as I thought."

The end of the week, and Sperry's last (for Thayor, despite all of Alice's numerous hints, had not asked that his visit be prolonged), brought Alice's paradise to a close. So far their days together had seemed like a dream--his departure the next morning would mean the renewal of an ennui which would continue until she reached the month of freedom which her husband had promised her.

If Thayor had noticed his wife's anxiety he made no sign. He had gratified her wishes and she had been happy; further than that he did not care to go.

As to Alice, that which occupied her waking thoughts was how to prolong the situation without letting the doctor feel her need of him.

Then again there was her husband. Would he agree to a continuance of Sperry's visit if she proposed it outright? She had lately noticed a certain reserved manner in Thayor whenever he found them together--nothing positive--but something unusual in one so universally courteous to everybody about him, especially a guest.

Would this develop into antagonism if he read her thoughts?

That same day Sperry went twice to the lower shanty to see Le Boeuf.

His increasing his usual morning visit to glance at the slowly mending fracture was sufficient to make Thayor inquire anxiously about the little Frenchman's condition.

"Is poor Le Boeuf worse?" he asked the doctor as they sat over their cigars in the den after dinner.

Sperry rose, bent over the lamp chimney and kindled the end of a fresh Havana.

"I am afraid," he said, resuming his seat, "that the poor fellow's arm is in a rather discouraging condition. I shall see him again to-night."

Thayor frowned--the old worried look came again into his eyes.

Suffering of any kind always affected him--suffering for which in a measure he was responsible was one of the things he could not bear.