intelligent man. And Marche was not a fool; he was the typicalproduct of his environment--the result of school and college, and a NewYork business life carried on in keenest competition with men asremorseless in business as the social code permitted. Also, he went tochurch on Sundays, read a Republican newspaper, and belonged to severalunexceptionable clubs.
That was the kind of a man he had been only a week ago--a good fellow inthe usual sense among men, acceptable to women, kind hearted, not toocynical, and every idea in his head modeled upon the opinions he heardexpressed in that limited area wherein he had been born and bred.
That was the kind of a man he had been a week ago. What was henow--to-night--here in this waste corner of the world with the lightfrom a kitchen window blazing on him as though it were the flashingsplendor streaming through the barred portals of paradise? Was itpossible that he, John Benton Marche, could be actually in love--in lovewith the daughter of his own game warden--with a girl who served him atsupper in apron and gingham, who served him further in hip boots andragged jacket--this modern Rosalind of the marshes, as fresh andinnocent, as modest and ardent, as she of the Arden glades?
The kitchen door opened, and Molly Herold came down the steps andstraight toward him, unthinkingly, almost instinctively, laying herhands in his as he met her under the leafless China tree in the yard.
"I was longer than usual to-night," she said, "trying to soften my handswith that cold cream you so kindly sent for." She lifted them in thestarlight with a little laugh. "They're a trifle better, I think," shesaid, "but they're always in water, you know, either there," she glancedaround at the kitchen, "or yonder with the decoys. But thank you all thesame," she added brightly. "Are you going to have another delightfultalk, now?"
"Do you care to?"
"Of course. The idea of my not caring to talk to you," she said,laughing at the absurdity. "Shall we go into the sitting room, or walkin the starlight? There are no snakes out, yet," she assured him,"though if this weather holds, the moccasins will come out."
"We'll walk down to the shore," he said.
"One moment, then." She turned and sped to the house, reappearing, aftera few minutes, wearing her ragged shooting coat.
"Is your father comfortable?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you."
"Do you think he might want you?"
"No. Jim sleeps next to him, and he is preparing for bed, now." Shesmiled. "What a darling my brother is, isn't he, Mr. Marche?"
"He's a fine boy."
They moved on together, down the rutted lane, between dismantled fencesand ragged, leafless hedges. She was lithe and light and sure footed,but once or twice, as they skirted puddles, he supported her; and thetouch of his hand on her body almost unnerved him. Never had he dreamedthat contact with any woman could so thrill, so exquisitely shock. Andevery instant he was falling deeper and deeper in love with her. He knewit--realized it--made no effort to avoid it, fight it off, control it.It was only his speech and manner that he held desperately under bit andcurb, letting his heart go to everlasting smash and his reason run riot.And what on earth would be the end he could not imagine, for he wasleaving for the North in the morning, and he had not yet told her.
As they came out upon the shore, the dory loomed up, beached, a darksilhouette against the starlit water. She laid her hands on the sternand vaulted lightly to her perch, sliding along to make room for Marche.
From far away in the sound came the confused murmur of wild fowlfeeding. Except for that, and the ceaseless monotone of the outer sea,there was no sound, not even the lap of water against the bow.
Marche, who had been leaning forward, head bent as though watching thewater, turned to the girl abruptly. "I want to do something for--Jim,"he said.
The girl looked up at him, not understanding.
"Will your father let me?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"I mean that I want to send him to a good school--a good boys' school inthe North."
She caught her breath, was silent for a moment, then, amazed: "_Would_you do that? Oh, I've wished for it--dreamed of it! But--how can you?You are so kind--so good to us--but how could we--accept?"
"That's why I want to see your father."
"For _that_! Was it really for that, Mr. Marche?"
"Yes--partly." He swallowed and looked the other way, for the girl'sexcited face was very near his own as she bent forward to search hiseyes for the least change of expression--bent nearer as though toreassure herself that he meant it seriously. For an instant her softbreath made the night air fragrant; he felt it, faint and fresh on hischeek, and turned sharply, biting his lips lest he lose allself-control.
"Could you and your father spare him?" he asked carelessly.
"Oh, if you only would give him that chance!" she cried. "But--tellme--_how_ can we accept such a thing of you? Is it possible?"
"Would _you_ accept it?" he asked, turning toward her.
The question startled her. She looked at him, striving to think clearly,trying to see this offered miracle through calm, impartial eyes.
"I--I would do anything--almost--for Jim," she said. "I'd have no prideleft, if his chances lay in the balance. But men--my father--may bedifferent."
He said slowly: "Suppose I offered the same chance to you?"
"What!" she said crisply.
"Suppose I offered you a college finishing, Miss Herold. Would youaccept?"
She slowly grew scarlet under his gaze. "That would be insulting," shesaid, in a low voice.
"Why, when only kindness is meant--as I mean it for Jim?"
"It is not the same. I am a grown woman capable of caring for myself.Such an offer, however kindly meant, could only hurt me, humiliateme--and--I thought you found me companionable as I am. Friends do notoffer to better each other--in such a way."
"I have not offered it to you, Miss Herold."
She looked up, still flushed and brilliant eyed; then her face changedsoftly. "I know it. I was foolishly sensitive. I know you couldn't offersuch a thing to me. But I wish I knew whether we could accept for Jim.He is such a darling--so intelligent and perfectly crazy for aneducation. I've saved a little--that's why I wanted you to hire me foryour bayman. You see I don't spend anything on myself," she added, witha blush.
Marche was fighting hard for self-restraint; he was young and romantic,and his heart was very full. "What I'd like to do," he said, "would beto send Jim to some first-rate school until he is ready for college.Then I'd like to see him through college, and, if he cared for it, starthim with me in business."
"Oh," she cried softly, "is it possible! Is there--can any man really dosuch heavenly things? Have you any idea what you are saying? Do yourealize what you are doing to me--with every word you utter?"
"What am I doing to--to you?" he asked unsteadily.
"Making me your slave," she said, in a low voice, thrilling withgenerous passion. "Even for the thought--even if father will notaccept--what you have said to me to-night has put me in your debtforever. Truly--truly, I know what friendship is, now."
She clasped her hands tightly and said something else, sweetlyincoherent; and, in the starlight, Marche saw the tears sparkling on herlashes.
With that he sprang nervously to the shore and began to tramp up anddown the shingle, his mind in a whirl, every sense, common or thecontrary, clamoring for finality--urging him to tell her the truth--tellher that he loved her, that he wanted her--her alone, out of all theworld of women--that it was for love and for her, and for love of her,that he offered anything, did anything, thought anything now under thehigh stars or under the circling sun.
And now, as he tramped savagely to and fro, he realized that he hadbegun wrong; that he should have told her he loved her first of all, andthen acted, not promised.
Would she look on his offer scornfully, now? Would she see, in what heasked of her, a bribe desired for the offer he had made in her brother'sbehalf? She did not love him. How could she, in a week? Never had therebeen even a hint of sen
timent between them. What would she think--thisyoung girl, so tranquilly confident in her friendship for him--whatwould she think of him and his love? He knew there was nothingmercenary or material in her character; he knew she was young, sweettempered, reticent concerning herself, clean hearted, and proud. Howcould he come blundering through the boundaries of her friendship withsuch an avowal, at a moment's notice?
He returned slowly to the boat and stood looking up at her; and he sawthat she was smiling down at him in the starlight.
"Why did you start off so abruptly and tramp up and down?" she asked.
He looked up at her. "Shall we walk back,