Lewis Rand Part 29

"I am not trying to be agreeable. I am looking for the truth. Am I, then, merely an acquaintance?"

Unity sighed. "Why not say 'friend'?"

"'Friend' is good as far as it goes. It does not go far enough."

"Yes, it does," said Miss Dandridge. "It goes further than all your less sober travellers.

"Love me little, love me long.

"You want such violent things!"

"I want you. Is it, then, only a poor, pale friends.h.i.+p?"

"Why call it poor and pale? Friends.h.i.+p can be rosy-cheeked as well as--as other things. Look how the gra.s.s is burned--and all the locusts are singing of the heat!"

"It is beneath you to trifle so. If this is all, it is poor and pale, and the sooner it dies, the better! Unity, I'm waiting for your _coup de grace_."

"I'm tired," said Unity. "You hurt me, and I'm tired."

"I never heard you say that before. Look at me! the tears are in your eyes."

"Everybody cries over Elosa to Abelard.

"O death all-eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when't is man we love!

"Where are you going?"

"Home first, then--I don't know where. Good-bye."

"Don't go."

"I'm afraid the book in the lilac bush is spoiled. If you'll allow me, I'll send you another copy."

"Please don't go."

"The tears are on your cheeks. It is a moving poem.

"Oh, may we never love as those have loved!

"This is the third and last good-bye. Good-bye."

The younger Cary turned and resolutely walked away. Miss Dandridge rose and followed him. He did not turn his head, and the thick turf could not echo her light footfall. He walked firmly, with the port of a man who hears a distant drum beat to action. Miss Dandridge admired the att.i.tude through her tears. He walked rapidly and the sweep of greensward between them widened. It was no great distance to the driveway and the white pillars of the house. Uncle d.i.c.k and Uncle Edward, Deb, the servants, any one, might be looking out of the windows. For one moment Unity stopped short as Atalanta when she saw the golden apple, then she began to run. She touched her goal within ten feet of the house, and he stood still and looked at the hand upon his arm. "Oh!" she panted. "Don't go!

I--I--I--"

"I--?"

"I love you. Oh!"

If any window saw, it was discreet and never told, remembering perhaps a youth of its own. The embrace was not prolonged beyond a minute. Unity, red and beautiful, released herself, looked about her like a startled dryad, and made again for the catalpa. Fairfax Cary followed, and they took that portion of the circular bench which had between it and the house the giant bole of the tree. Before them dipped the shady hollow, filled with the rustling of leaves, cool and retired as its parent forest.

"Oh, yes, yes; it's true, gospel true!" cried Unity. "But I'll not be married for a long, long year!"

"A year! You're going to be cruel again."

"No, no, I'm not cruel! I never was. 'Twas all your imagination. When I marry, I'll be married hard and fast, hand and foot, wind and rain, sleet and snow, June and December, forever and a day, world without end, amen! holidays and all! I may live forever, and I'll be married all that time. I want just one little year to say good-bye to Unity Dandridge in."

"We'll take her to Greenwood with us."

"No, no. We'll bury her in the flower garden the day before. Just one year--please!"

"Oh, Unity, when you say 'please'!"

"This is August. I'll marry you twelve little months from now--please!"

"A thousand things may happen--"

"They won't--they won't. Don't you love Unity Dandridge? Then let her live a little longer!"

"Kiss me--"

Unity did as she was bid. The sunlight left the hollow, but stayed bright upon the hills beyond. It was August, but in a treetop somewhere a solitary bird was singing. Nearer the earth the crickets and cicadas began their evening concert, a shrill drumming in the warm, still air.

There was a scent of dry gra.s.s, a feeling of summer at its full. Dewy freshness, tender green, mist of bloom, and a thousand songs were far away, and yet upon the bench beneath the catalpa there was spring.

"The sun is setting," said Unity at last. "Let us go speak to Uncle d.i.c.k."

"He'll be glad, I think. May I stay to supper? I want to hear Unity Dandridge sing afterwards."

"Yes, Uncle d.i.c.k will be glad--he and Uncle Edward will be very glad. I don't believe that Unity Dandridge will want to sing to-night. She'll be thinking of that grave in the flower garden."

"No! She shall think of the sunrise at Greenwood--sunrise and splendid roses and the million harps of heaven playing!"

"Oh!" cried Unity, "the sunrise at Greenwood should have been for your brother!"

"Yes, for him and your cousin. Blind fate! He is worth a thousand of me, and he sits lonely there in his house--and I am here!"

"There's no pure joy."

"When I tell him to-night, he will feel but pure joy for me--not one thought of self, of the sunrise he might have watched at Greenwood! Oh, Justice and her balances! There goes the last rim of the sun."

"I'll sing to you what you will--and you may stay as long as you like--and I'll love you all my life. Oh! Now let's go find Uncle d.i.c.k."

Uncle d.i.c.k was easily found, being in fact upon the porch in his especial chair, with the dogs around him, and in his hand a silver goblet of mint and apple brandy. "Hey! What, what!" he cried, "has the jade said Yes at last? Where's Edward? Edward, Edward! Kiss me, you minx! Fair, I wish that my dear friend, your father, were alive. Well, well, patience does it, and the Lord knows, Unity, he's been patient!

Oh, you black-eyed piece, you need a bit and bridle! Here's Edward!

Edward, the shrew's tamed at last! Such a wedding as Fontenoy will have!"

Four hours later, when supper was over, and Aunt Nancy in the "chamber"

had been visited by the affianced pair, and all matters had been discussed, and Unity at the harpsichord had sung without protest a number of very sentimental songs, and Deb had gone unwillingly to bed, and first one uncle and then the other had thoughtfully faded from the drawing-room, and good-night, when it came to be said in the moonlit porch, took ten minutes to say, and the boy who brought around the visitor's horse had caught with a grin and a "Thank'e, sah!" the whirling silver dollar, and Major Edward's voice had sounded from the hail door behind Unity, "Good-night, Fair; bring Ludwell with you to-morrow night," and Unity had echoed softly, "Yes, bring Ludwell," and the last wave of the hand had been given, Fairfax Cary cantered down the driveway and through the lower gates. Out upon the red highway he put his horse to the gallop, and rode with his bared head high to the wind and the stars of night.