He was saying that he loved her, _loved her_. Did she understand? That he had been _miserable_! His defense was masterly. He played on her imagination delicately, as if she were a harp, and his fingers touched the strings. He realized what a cad he must have seemed. But she was a saint in a shrine--it will be seen that he did not hesitate to borrow from Randy. She was a saint in a shrine, and well, he knelt at her feet--a sinner. "You needn't think that I don't know what I have done, Becky. I swept you along with me without a thought of anything serious in it for either of us. It was just a game, sweetheart, and lots of people play it, but it isn't a game now, it is the most serious thing in life."

There is no eloquence so potent as that which is backed by genuine pa.s.sion. Becky coming down through the garden had been so sure of herself. She had felt that pride would be the rock to which she would anchor her resistance to his enchantments. Yet here in the garden----

"Oh, _please_," she said, and stood up.

He rose, too, and towered above her. "Becky," he said, hoa.r.s.ely, "it's the real thing--for me----"

His spell was upon her. She was held by it--drawn by it against her will. Her cry was that of a frightened and fascinated bird.

He bent down. His face was a white circle in the dark, but she could see the sparkle of his eyes. "Kiss me, Becky."

"I shall never kiss you again."

"I love you."

"Love," she said, with a sort of tense quiet, "does not kiss and run away."

"My heart never ran away. I swear it. Marry me, Becky."

He had never expected to ask her. But now that he had done it, he was glad.

She was swayed by his earnestness, by the thought of all he had meant to her in her dreams of yesterday. But to-day was not yesterday, and George was not the man of those dreams. Yet, why not? There was the quick laughter, with its new ring of sincerity, the sparkling eyes, the Apollo head.

"Marry me, Becky."

Beyond the pool which reflected the little star was the dark outline of the box hedge, and beyond the hedge, the rise of the hill showed dark against the dull silver of the sky--a shadow seemed to rise suddenly in that dim brightness, the tall thin shadow of a man with a clear-cut profile, and a high-held head!

Becky drew a sharp breath--then faced Dalton squarely. "I am going to marry Randy."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Becky drew a sharp breath--then faced Dalton squarely. "I am going to marry Randy."]

His laugh was triumphant----

"Do you think I am going to let you? You are mine, Becky, and you know it. _You are mine_----"

V

Randy, having made a record run with Little Sister to the Flippins', had brought back Major Prime. When he returned Becky had disappeared. He looked for her, knowing all the time that she had gone down into the garden to meet Dalton. And he had brought Dalton back to her, he had given him this opportunity to plead his cause, had given him the incentive of a man of his kind to still pursue; he had, as he had said, let Becky in for it, and now he was raging at the thought.

Nellie Custis, padding at his heels, had known that something disturbed him. He walked restlessly from room to room, from porch to porch, across the lawn, skirted the garden, stopped now and then to listen, called once when he saw a white figure alone by the big gate, "Becky!"

Nellie knew who it was that he wanted. And at last she inst.i.tuted a search on her own account. She went through the garden, pa.s.sed the pool, found Becky's feet in blue slippers, and rushed back to her master with an air of discovery.

But Randy would not follow her. He must, he knew, set a curb on his impatience. He walked beyond the gate, following the ridge of the hill to the box hedge. He was not in the least aware that his shadow showed up against the silver of the sky. Perhaps Fate guided him to the ridge, who knows? At any rate, it seemed so afterwards to Becky, who felt that the shadow of Randy against the silver sky was the thing that saved her.

She gave the old Indian cry, and he answered it.

His shadow wavered on the ridge. He was lost for a moment against the blackness of the hedge, and emerged on the other side of the pool.

"Randy," she was a bit breathless, "here we are, Mr. Dalton and I. I saw you on the ridge. You have no idea how tall your shadow seemed----"

She was talking in that clear light voice which was not her own. Dalton said sullenly, "h.e.l.lo, Paine." And Randy's heart was singing, "She called me."

The three of them walked to the house together. Becky had insisted that she must go back to her guests. George left them at the step. He was for the moment beaten. As he drove his car madly back to King's Crest, he tried to tell himself that it was all for the best. That he must let Becky alone. He would be a fool to throw himself away on a shabby slender slip of a thing because she had clear eyes and bronze hair.

But it was not because of her slenderness and clear eyes and bronze hair that Becky held him, it was because of the force within her which baffled him.

The guests were leaving. They had had the time of their lives. They packed themselves into their various cars, and the surrey, and shouted "good-bye." The Major stayed and sat on the lawn to talk to the Judge and Mrs. Beaufort. Mary and Truxton ascended the stairs to the Blue Room, where little Fiddle slept in the Bannister crib that had been brought down from the attic.

Becky and Randy went into the Bird Room and sat under the swinging lamp.

"I have something to tell you, Randy," Becky had said, and as in the days of their childhood the Bird Room seemed the place for confidences.

Becky curled herself up in the Judge's big chair like a tired child.

Randy on the other side of the empty fireplace said, "You ought to be in bed, Becky."

"I shan't--sleep," nervously. There were deep shadows under her troubled eyes. "I shan't sleep when I go."

Randy came over and knelt by her side. "My dear, my dear," he said, "I am afraid I have let you in for a lot of trouble."

"But the things you said were true--he came--because he thought I--belonged to--you."

She hesitated. Then she reached out her hand to his. "Randy," she said, "I told him I was going to marry--you."

His hand had gone over hers, and now he held it in his strong clasp. "Of course it isn't true, Becky."

"I am going to make it true."

Dead silence. Then, "No, my dear."

"Why not?"

"You don't love me."

"But I like you," feverishly, "I like you, tremendously, and don't you want to marry me, Randy?"

"G.o.d knows that I do," said poor Randy, "but I must not. It--it would be Heaven for me, you know that. But it wouldn't be quite--cricket--to let you do it, Becky."

"I am not doing it for your sake. I am doing it for my own. I want to feel--safe. Do I seem awfully selfish when I say that?"

A great wave of emotion swept over him. She had turned to him for protection, for tenderness. In that moment Randy grew to the full stature of a man. He lifted her hand and kissed it. "You are making me very happy, Becky, dear."

It was a strange betrothal. Behind them the old eagle brooded with outstretched wings, the owl, round-eyed, looked down upon them and withheld his wisdom, the Trumpeter, white as snow in his gla.s.s cage, was as silent as the Sphinx.

"You are making me very happy, Becky, dear," said poor Randy, knowing as he said it that such happiness was not for him.