Beth Norvell: A Romance of the West

by Randall Parrish

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE SUMMIT OF SUCCESS

  There followed three years of silence, three years of waiting for thatmessage which never came. As though she had dropped into an ocean ofoblivion, Beth Norvell disappeared. Winston had no longer theslightest hope that a word from her would ever come, and there weretimes when he wondered if it was not better so--if, after all, she hadnot chosen rightly. Love untarnished lived in his heart; yet, as shehad told him out in the desert, love could never change the deed. Thatremained--black, grim, unblotted, the unalterable death stain. Why,then, should they meet? Why seek even to know of each other? Closetogether, or far apart, there yawned a bottomless gulf between.Silence was better; silence, and the mercy of partial forgetfulness.

  Winston had toiled hard during those years, partly from a naturalliking, partly to forget his heartaches. Feverishly he had taken upthe tasks confronting him, sinking self in the thought of other things.Such work had conquered success, for he did his part in subjectingnature to man, thus winning a reputation already ranking him high amongthe mining experts of the West. His had become a name to conjure within the mountains and mining camps. During the long months he had hopedfiercely. Yet he had made no endeavor to seek her out, or to uncoverher secret. Deep within his heart lay a respect for her choice, and hewould have held it almost a crime to invade the privacy that hercontinued silence had created. So he resolutely locked the secretwithin his own soul, becoming more quiet in manner, more reserved inspeech, with every long month of waiting, constantly striving to forgetthe past amid a multitude of business and professional cares.

  It was at the close of a winter's day in Chicago. Snow clouds werescurrying in from over the dun-colored waters of the lake, bringingwith them an early twilight. Already myriads of lights were twinklingin the high office buildings, and showing brilliant above the smoothasphalt of Michigan Avenue. The endless stream of vehicles homewardbound began to thicken, the broad highway became a scene of continuousmotion and display. After hastily consulting the ponderous pages of acity directory in an adjacent drug store, a young man, attired in darkbusiness suit, his broad shoulders those of an athlete, his facestrongly marked and full of character, and bronzed even at this seasonby out-of-door living, hurried across the street and entered the busydoorway of the Railway Exchange Building. On the seventh floor heunceremoniously flung open a door bearing the number sought, andstepped within to confront the office boy, who as instantly frowned hisdisapproval.

  "Office hours over," the latter announced shortly. "Just shuttin' up."

  "I am not here on business, my lad," was the good-natured reply, "butin the hope of catching Mr. Craig before he got away."

  The boy, still somewhat doubtful, jerked his hand back across hisshoulder toward an inner apartment.

  "Well, his nibs is in there, but he 's just a-goin'."

  The visitor swung aside the gate and entered. The man within, engagedin closing down his roll-top desk for the day, wheeled about in hischair, quite evidently annoyed by so late a caller. An instant helooked at the face, partially shadowed in the dim light, then sprang tohis feet, both hands cordially extended.

  "Ned Winston, by all the gods!" he exclaimed, his voice full ofheartiness. "Say, but I 'm glad to see you, old man. Supposed it wassome bore wanting to talk business, and this happens to be my busynight. By Jove, thought I never was going to break away from thisconfounded desk--always like that when a fellow has a date. How areyou, anyhow? Looking fine as a fiddle. In shape to kick the pigskinat this minute, I 'll bet a hundred. Denver yet, I suppose? Must be agreat climate out there, if you 're a specimen. Must like it, anyhow;why, you 've simply buried yourself in the mountains. Some of the oldfellows were in here talking about it the other day. Have n't beenEast before for a couple of years, have you, Ned?"

  "Considerably over three, Bob, and only on urgent business now. Havebeen hard at it all day, but thought I would take a chance at findingyou in, even at this hour. Knew your natural inclination to grind, youknow. I take a train for the West at midnight."

  "Well, I rather guess not," and Craig picked up his hat from the top ofthe desk. "Do you imagine I 'll let go of you that easily, now thatyou are here? Well, hardly. You 've got to give up that excursion forone night at least, even if I 'm compelled to get you jugged in orderto hold you safe. I can do it, too; I have a pull with the policedepartment. My automobile fines are making them rich."

  "But you just mentioned having an engagement, or rather a date, which Isuppose means the same thing."

  Craig smiled indulgently, his dark eyes filled with humor.

  "That's exactly the ticket. Glad to see you keep up with the slang ofthe day; proof you live in the real world, possess a normal mind, andfeel an interest in current events. Altogether most commendable. Thatengagement of mine happens to be the very thing I want you for. Mostglorious event in our family history, at least within my remembrance.My birth probably transcended even this in importance, but the detailsare not clear. You will add _eclat_ to the occasion. By Jove, it willbe immense; paterfamilias and mater-ditto will welcome you with openarms. They often speak of you; 'pon my word they do, and I don't knowof another fellow anywhere they 'd rather have join in our littlefamily celebration. Oh, this is a great night for Old Ireland. Stay?Why, confound it, of course you 'll stay!"

  "But see here, Bob, at least give me the straight of all this. What 'shappening? What is it you are stacking me up against?"

  "Box party at the Grand. Here, have a cigar. Just a family affair,you know. First night; certain to be a swell crowd there; everythingsold out in advance. Supper afterwards, private dining-room at theAnnex--just ourselves; no guests, except only the Star and her manager."

  "The Star? I never heard that you people went in for theatricals?"

  "Lord! they never did; but they 've experienced a change of heart. Yousee, Lizzie took to it like a duck to water--she was the baby, the kid,you know--and, by thunder, the little girl made good. She 's got 'emcoming and going, and the pater is so proud of her he wears a smile onhim that won't come off. It 's simply great just to see him beau heraround downtown, shedding real money at every step. Nothing is toogood for Lizzie just now."

  "And she is the Star?"

  "Sure, and the lassie is going to have an ovation, unless all signsfail. Society has got a hunch, and that means a gorgeous turnout. Thehorse-show will be a back number. Lord, man, you can't afford to missit! Why, you 'd never see anything like it in Denver in a thousandyears."

  Winston laughed, unable to resist entirely the contagious enthusiasm ofhis friend.

  "You certainly make a strong bid, Bob; but really if I did remainovernight I 'd much prefer putting in the hours talking over old times.With all due respect to your sister, old boy, I confess I have n't verymuch heart for the stage. I 've grown away from it; have n't evenlooked into a playhouse for years."

  "Thought as much; clear over the head in business. Big mistake at yourage. A night such as Lizzie can give you will be a revelation. Say,Ned, that girl is an actress. I don't say it because she 's my sister,but she actually is; they 're all raving over her, even the critics.That's one reason why I want you to stay. I 'm blame proud of mylittle sister."

  "But I have n't my evening dress within a thousand miles of here."

  "What of that? I have no time now to run out to the house and get intomine. I 'm no lightning change artist. Lizzie won't care; she 's gotgood sense, and the others can go hang. Come on, Ned; we 'll run overto the Chicago Club and have a bite, then a smoke and chat about AlmaMater; after that, the Grand."

  * * * * * *

  The great opera house was densely crowded from pit to dome, the boxesand parquet brilliant with color and fashion, the numberless tiers ofseats rising above, black with packed, expectant humanity. Beforeeight o'clock late comers had been confronted in the lobby with the"Standing Room Only" announcement; and now even this had be
en turned tothe wall, while the man at the ticket window shook his head todisappointed inquirers. And that was an audience to be remembered, tobe held notable, to be editorially commented upon by the press the nextmorning.

  There was reason for it. A child of Chicago, daughter in a family ofstanding and exclusiveness, after winning notable successes in SanFrancisco, in London, in New York, had, at last, consented to returnhome, and appear for the first time in her native city. Endowed withrare gifts of interpretation, earnest, sincere, forceful, loving herwork fervently, possessing an attractive presence and natural capacityfor study, she had long since won the appreciation of the critics andthe warm admiration of those who care for the highest in dramatic art.The reward was assured. Already her home-coming had been heraldedbroadcast as an event of consequence to the great city. Her name wasupon the lips of the multitude, and upon the hearts of those who reallycare for such things, the devotees of art, of high endeavor, of a stageworthy the traditions of its past. And in her case, in addition to allthese helpful elements, Society grew suddenly interested andenthralled. The actress became a fashion, a fad, about which revolvedthe courtier and the butterfly. Once, it was remembered, she had beenone of them, one of their own set, and out of the depths of theirlittle pool they rose clamorously to the surface, imagining, as ever,that they were the rightful leaders of it all. Thus it came about,that first night--the stage brilliant, the house a dense mass of madenthusiasts, jewelled heads nodding from boxes to parquet inrecognition of friends, opera glasses insolently staring, voiceshumming in ceaseless conversation, and, over all, the frantic effortsof the orchestra to attract attention to itself amid the glitter anddisplay.

  Utterly indifferent to all of it, Ned Winston leaned his elbow on thebrass rail of the first box, and gazed idly about over that sea ofunknown faces. He would have much preferred not being there. To him,the theatre served merely as a stimulant to unpleasant memory. It wasin this atmosphere that the ghost walked, and those hidden things oflife came back to mock him. He might forget, sometimes, bending abovehis desk, or struggling against the perplexing problems of hisprofession in the field, but not here; not in the glare of thefootlights, amid the hum of the crowd. He crushed the unread programmewithin his hand, striving to converse carelessly with the lady sittingnext to him, whom he was expected to entertain. But his thoughts wereafar off, his eyes seeing a gray, misty, silent expanse of desert,growing constantly clearer in its hideous desolation before theadvancing dawn.

  The vast steel curtain arose with apparent reluctance to the top of theproscenium arch, the chatter of voices ceased, somewhat permitting thestruggling orchestra to make itself felt and heard. Winston shut histeeth, and waited uneasily, the hand upon the rail clenched. Even morethan he had ever expected, awakened memory tortured. He would havegone out into the solitude of the street, except for the certainty ofdisturbing others. The accompanying music became faster as the innercurtain slowly rose, revealing the great stage set for the first act.He looked at it carelessly, indifferently, his thoughts elsewhere, yetdimly conscious of the sudden hush all about him, the leaning forwardof figures intent upon catching the opening words. The scene portrayedwas that of a picturesque Swiss mountain village. It was brilliant incoloring, and superbly staged. For a moment the scenery; with greatsnow-capped peaks for background, caught his attention. If wasrealistic, beautifully faithful to nature, and he felt his heart throbwith sudden longing to be home, to be once more in the shadow of theRockies. But the actors did not interest him, and his thoughts againdrifted far afield.

  The act was nearly half finished before the Star made her appearance.Suddenly the door of the chalet opened, and a young woman emerged,attired in peasant costume, carelessly swinging a hat in her hand, herbright face smiling, her slender figure perfectly poised. She advancedto the very centre of the wide stage. The myriad of lights rippledover her, revealing the deep brown of her abundant hair, the dark,earnest eyes, the sweet winsomeness of expression. This was the momentfor which that vast audience had been waiting. Like an instantaneousexplosion of artillery came the thunder of applause. Her firstattempted speech lost in that outburst of acclaim, the actress stoodbefore them bowing and smiling, the red blood surging into her unrougedcheeks, her dark eyes flashing like two diamonds. Again and again thehouse rose to her, the noise of greeting was deafening, and a perfectavalanche of flowers covered the stage. From boxes, from parquet, fromcrowded balcony, from top-most gallery the enthusiastic outburst came,spontaneous, ever growing in volume of sound, apparently never ending.She looked out upon them almost appealingly, her hands outstretched ingreeting, her eyes filling with tears. Slowly, as if drawn toward themby some impulse of gratitude, she came down to the footlights, andstood there bowing to left and right, the deep swelling of her bosomevidencing her agitation.

  As though some sudden remembrance had occurred to her in the midst ofthat turmoil, of what all this must mean to others, to those of her ownblood, she turned to glance lovingly toward that box in which they sat.Instantly she went white, her hands pressing her breast, her roundthroat swelling as though the effort of breathing choked her. Possiblyout in front they thought it acting, perhaps a sudden nervous collapse,for as she half reeled backward to the support of a bench, the clamordied away into dull murmur. Almost with the ceasing of tumult she wasupon her feet again, her lips still white, her face drawn as if inpain. Before the startled audience could awaken and realize the truth,she had commenced the speaking of her lines, forcing them into silence,into a hushed and breathless expectancy.

  Winston sat leaning forward, his hand gripping the rail, staring ather. But for that one slender figure the entire stage before him was ablank. Suddenly he caught Craig by the arm.

  "Who is that?" he questioned, sharply. "The one in the costume of apeasant girl?"

  "Who is it? Are you crazy? Why, that 's Lizzie; read your programme,man. She must have had a faint spell just now. By Jove, I thought fora moment she was going to flop. You 're looking pretty white about thelips yourself, ain't sick, are you?"

  He shook his head, sinking back into his seat. Hastily he opened thepages of the crushed programme, his hand shaking so he was scarcelyable to decipher the printed lines. Ah! there it was in black-facedtype: "Renee la Roux--_Miss Beth Norvell_."

  CHAPTER XXX

  THE MISSION OF A LETTER

  All through the remainder of the play he sat as one stunned, scarcelyremoving his eyes from the glittering stage, yet seeing nothing thereexcepting her. He could not later have recalled a single scene.Between the acts he conversed rationally enough with those about him,congratulating her people upon the brilliant success of the evening,and warmly commending the work of the Star. Yet this was allmechanical, automatic, his mind scarcely realizing its own action.

  She never glanced in that direction again; during all the four acts notonce did she permit her eyes to rest upon their box. The others maynot have noticed the omission, but he did, his interpretation of theaction becoming a pain. It served to strengthen the resolve which wastaking possession of him. He noticed, also, that she playedfeverishly, vehemently, not with that quiet restraint, that promise ofreserve power, always so noticeable in the old days. It caused him torealize that she was working upon her nerves, holding herself up to thestrain by the sheer strength of will. The papers the next daycommented upon this, hinting at nervousness, at exhilaration consequentupon so notable a greeting. But Winston knew the cause better--he knewthe spectre which had so suddenly risen before her, turning her whiteand frightened at the very moment of supreme triumph. There, in frontof them all, under the full glare of the lights, herself the very focusof thousands of eyes, she had been compelled to fight down her heart,and win a victory greater than that of the actress. In that instantshe had conquered herself, had trodden, smiling and confident, over theawakened memories of the past.

  After the curtain had fallen--fallen and lifted, again and again, topermit of her standing in the glare, smili
ng happily, and kissing herhands toward the enthusiastic multitude--he passed out with the others,still partially dazed, his mind remaining undecided, irresolute. Withthe cool night air fanning his cheeks as their car rolled southward,clearer consciousness came back, bringing with it firmer resolve. Shehad not wanted him; in all those years there had not come from her asingle word. Now, on this night of her triumph, in the midst of familyrejoicing, he had no part. It had all been a mistake, a most unhappymistake, yet he would do now everything in his power to remedy it. Hisfurther presence should not be allowed to detract from her happiness,should not continue to embarrass her. The past between them was dead;undoubtedly she wished it dead. Very well, then, he would help her tobury it, now and forever. Not through any neglect on his part shouldthat past ever again rise up to haunt her in the hour of success. Shehad discovered her ideal, she had attained to the height of herambition. She should be left to enjoy the victory undisturbed. Withinthe hotel rotunda, under the multicolored lights, he halted Craig,hurrying forward to a conference with the steward.

  "I am awfully sorry, old man," he explained apologetically, "but thefact is, I do not feel well enough to remain down here to the spread.Nothing serious, you know--indigestion or something like that. I 'llrun up to my room and lie down for a while; if I feel better I maywander in later."

  Craig looked concerned.

  "Thought you were mighty white about the gills all the evening,Ned--the lobster salad, likely. I hate letting you go, awfully; uponmy word, I do. I wanted Lizzie to meet you; she 's always heard mesinging your praises, and your not being there will prove quite adisappointment to her. But Lord! if you 're sick, why, of course,there's no help for it. Come down later, if you can, and I 'll run upthere as soon as I can break away from the bunch. Sure you don't needthe house physician?"

  "Perfectly sure; all I require is rest and a bit of sleep. Beenworking too hard, and am dead tired."

  He sank down within the great arm-chair in the silence of his own room,not even taking trouble to turn on the lights; mechanically lit acigar, and sat staring out of the window. Before him the black,threatening cloud-shadows hung over the dark water of the lake; farbelow resounded the ceaseless clatter of hoofs along the fashionableavenue. He neither saw nor heard. Over and over again he reviewed thepast, bringing back to memory each word and glance which had ever,passed between them. He was again with the "Heart of the World"strollers, he was struggling with Burke in the depths of the mine, hewas passing through that day and night of misfortune on the ridgeoverlooking Echo Canyon, he was riding for life--her life--across thetrackless desert. It all came before him in unnatural vividness,seemingly as though each separate scene had been painted across thatblack sky without. Then he perceived the great playhouse he had justleft, the glorious glitter of lights, the reverberation of applause,the cheering mob of men and women, and her--her bowing and smiling atthem, her dark eyes dancing with happiness and ignoring him utterly,her whole body trembling to the intoxication of success. Oh, it wasall over; even if there had been no gulf of death between them, it wasall over. She had deliberately chosen to forget, under the inspirationof her art she had forgotten. It had usurped her thought, herambition, her every energy. She had won her way through the throng,yet the very struggle of such winning had sufficed to crowd him outfrom memory had left the past as barren as was the desert amid thedreariness of which they had parted. He set his teeth hard, strikinghis clenched fist against the cushioned arm of the chair. Then he satsilent, his cigar extinguished. Once he glanced at his watch, butalready the hour was too late for any hope of catching the west-boundtrain, and he dropped it back in his pocket, and sat motionless.Suddenly some one rapped upon the outside door. It would be Craig,probably, and he called out a regretful "Come in." A bell-boy stoodthere, his buttoned-up figure silhouetted against the lights in thehall.

  "Lady in Parlor D asked me to hand you this, sir," the boy said.

  He accepted the slight bit of paper, scarcely comprehending what itcould all mean, turned on an electric bulb over the dresser, and lookedat it. A single line of delicate writing confronted him, so faint thathe was compelled to bend closer to decipher: "_If you are waiting myword, I send it._"

  He caught at the dresser-top as though some one had struck him, staringdown at the card in his hand, and then around the silent room, hisbreath grown rapid. At first the words were almost meaningless; thenthe blood came surging up into his face, and he walked toward the door.There he paused, his hand already upon the knob. What use? What use?Why should he seek her, even although she bade him come? She might nolonger care, but he did; to her such a meeting might be only a mereincident, an experience to be lightly talked over, but to him such aninterview could only prove continual torture. But no! The thoughtwronged her; such an action would not be possible to Beth Norvell. Ifshe despatched this message it had been done honestly, done graciously.He would show himself a craven if he failed to face whatever awaitedhim below. With tightly compressed lips, he closed the door, andwalked to the elevator.

  She stood waiting him alone, slightly within the parlor door, hercheeks flushed, her red lips parted in an attempt to smile. With asingle glance he saw her as of old, supremely happy, her dark eyesclear, her slender form swaying slightly toward him as if in welcome.For an instant their gaze met, his full of uncertainty, hers ofconfidence; then she stretched out to him her two ungloved hands.

  "You gave me a terrible scare to-night," she said, endeavoring to speaklightly, "and then, to make matters worse, you ran away. It was notlike you to do that."

  "I could not bring myself to mar the further happiness of your night,"he explained, feeling the words choke in his throat as he uttered them."My being present at the Opera House was all a mistake; I did not dreamit was you until too late. But the supper was another thing."

  She looked intently at him, her expression clearly denoting surprise.

  "I really cannot believe you to be as indifferent as you strive toappear," she said at last, her breath quickening. "One does not forgetentirely in three short years, and I--I caught that one glimpse of youin the box. It was that--that look upon your face which gave mecourage to send my card to your room." She paused, dropping her eyesto the carpet, her fingers nervously playing with the trimming of herwaist. "It may, perhaps, sound strange, yet in spite of my exhibit offeeling at first discovering your presence, I had faith all day thatyou would come."

  "Is it possible you mean that you wished me there?"

  "Quite possible; only it would have been ever so much better had Iknown before. It actually seemed when I saw your face to-night as ifGod had brought you--it was like a miracle. Do you know why? Because,for the first time in three years, I can welcome you with all my heart."

  "Beth, Beth," utterly forgetting everything but the mystery of herwords, his gray eyes darkening from eagerness, "what is it you mean?For God's sake tell me! These years have been centuries; through themall I have been waiting your word."

  She drew in her breath sharply, reaching out one hand to grasp the backof a chair.

  "It--it could not be spoken," she said, her voice faltering. "Notuntil to-day was it possible for me to break the silence."

  "And now--to-day?"

  She smiled suddenly up at him, her eyes filled with promise.

  "God has been good," she whispered, drawing from within the lace of herwaist a crumpled envelope,--"oh, so good, even when I doubted Him.See, I have kept this hidden there every moment since it first came,even on the stage in my changes of costume. I dared not part with itfor a single instant--it was far too precious." She sank back upon thechair, holding out toward him the paper. "Read that yourself, if mytears have not made the lines illegible."

  He took it from her, his hands trembling, and drew forth the enclosure,a single sheet of rough yellow paper. Once he paused, glancing towardwhere she sat, her face buried in her arms across the chair-back. Thenhe smoothed out the wrinkles, and read slowly, studyin
g over eachpencil-written, ill-spelled word, every crease and stain leaving animpression upon his brain:

  "SAN JUAN, COL., DEC. 12, 1904.

  "Deer Miss: I see your name agin in a Denver paper what Bill broughtout frum town ternight, an read thar that you wus goin ter play a piecein Chicago. I aint seen yer name in ther papers afore fer a long time.So I thot I 'd write yer a line, cause Bill thinks yer never got itstraight bout ther way Biff Farnham died. He ses thet you an MisterWinston hes got ther whol affair all mixed up, an that maybe it's akeepin ther two of yer sorter sore on each other. Now, I dont wanterbutt in none in yer affairs, an then agin it aint overly plisent fer meto make a clean breast ov it this way on paper. Not that I 'm afeard,er nothin, only it dont just look nice. No more do I want enythingwhut I did ter be makin you fokes a heep o trouble. That aint mystyle. I reckon I must a bin plum crazy whin I did it, fer I wusmighty nigh that fer six months after--et least Bill ses so. But itwus me all right whut killed Farnham. It wan't no murder es I see it,tho I was huntin him all right, fer he saw me furst, an hed his gunout, when I let drive. Enyhow, he got whut wus comin ter him, an Iaint got no regrets. We're a doin all right out yere now, me anBill--ther claim is payin big, but I never aint got over thinkin boutMercedes. I shore loved her, an I do yit. You was awful good to her,an I reckon she 'd sorter want me to tell you jist how it wus. Hopinthis will clar up som ov them troubles between you an Mister Winston, Iam Yours with respects,

  "WILLIAM BROWN."

  Winston stood there in silence, yet holding the paper in his hand.Almost timidly she glanced up at him across the back of the chair.

  "And you have never suspected who I was until to-night?"

  "No, never; I had always thought of Bob's sister as a mere child."

  She arose to her feet, taking a single step toward him.

  "I can only ask you to forgive me," she pleaded anxiously, her eyesuplifted. "That is all I can ask. I ought to be ashamed, I amashamed, that I could ever have believed it possible for you to commitsuch a deed. It seems incredible now that I have so believed. Yet howcould I escape such conviction? I heard the voices, the shot, and thena man rushed past me through the darkness. Some rash impulse, a desireto aid, sent me hastily forward. Scarcely had I bent over the deadbody, when some one came toward me from the very direction in whichthat man had fled. I supposed he was coming back to make sure of hiswork, and--and--it was you. Oh, I did not want to believe, but I hadto believe. You acted so strangely toward me, I accepted that as asign of guilt; it was a horror unspeakable."

  "You thought--you actually thought I did that?" he asked, hardlytrusting his own ears.

  "What else could I think? What else could I think?"

  This new conception stunned him, left him staring at her, utterlyunable to control his speech. Should he tell her? Should he confesshis own equally mad mistake? the reason why all these years had passedwithout his seeking her? It would be useless; it would only add to herpain, her sense of wounded pride. Silence now would be mercy.

  "Beth," he said, controlling his voice with an effort, "let us think ofall this as passed away forever. Let us not talk about it, let us notthink about it any more. You have reached the height which you set outto gain; or, possibly you have not yet fully attained to your ideal,yet you have travelled far toward it. Has it satisfied? Has it filledthe void in your life?"

  She returned his questioning look frankly.

  "Do you remember what I once said in a cabin out in Colorado?"

  "I think so; yet, to avoid mistake, repeat it now."

  "I told you I would give up gladly all ambition, all dreams of worldlysuccess, just to be alone with the man I loved, and bring himhappiness. To-night, as then, that is all I wish--everything."

  A moment neither moved nor spoke.

  "Beth," he whispered, as though half afraid even yet to put thequestion, "am I all you wish--everything?"

  "Yes, everything--only you must wait, Ned. I belong still to thepublic, and must play out my engagement. After that it shall be home,and you."

  They stood there facing each other, the soft light from the shadedglobes overhead sparkling in her dark hair, her cheeks flushed, hereyes smiling at him through a mist of tears. Unresisted, he drew herto him.