“They don't answer.”
“They are there! You must get them. Turn on the buzzer.”
After a time the sleepy voice of Mrs. Henderson answered.
“Has Hart gone?” panted Edith Carr.
“No! He came in late and began to talk about starting to California. He hasn't slept in weeks to amount to anything. I put him to bed. There is time enough to start to California when he awakens. Edith, what are you planning to do next with that boy of mine?”
“Will you tell him I want to see him before he goes?”
“Yes, but I won't wake him.”
“I don't want you to. Just tell him in the morning.”
“Very well.”
“You will be sure?”
“Sure!”
Hart was not gone. Edith fell asleep. She arose at noon the next day, took a cold bath, ate her breakfast, dressed carefully, and leaving word that she had gone to the forest, she walked slowly across the leaves. It was cool and quiet there, so she sat where she could see him coming, and waited. She was thinking deep and fast.
Henderson came swiftly down the path. A long sleep, food, and Edith's message had done him good. He had dressed in new light flannels that were becoming. Edith arose and went to meet him.
“Let us walk in the forest,” she said.
They passed the old Catholic graveyard, and entered the deepest wood of the Island, where all shadows were green, all voices of humanity ceased, and there was no sound save the whispering of the trees, a few bird notes and squirrel rustle. There Edith seated herself on a mossy old log, and Henderson studied her. He could detect a change. She was still pale and her eyes tired, but the dull, strained look was gone. He wanted to hope, but he did not dare. Any other man would have forced her to speak. The mighty tenderness in Henderson's heart shielded her in every way.
“What have you thought of that you wanted yet, Edith?” he asked lightly as he stretched himself at her feet.
“You!”
Henderson lay tense and very still.
“Well, I am here!”
“Thank Heaven for that!”
Henderson sat up suddenly, leaning toward her with questioning eyes. Not knowing what he dared say, afraid of the hope which found birth in his heart, he tried to shield her and at the same time to feel his way.
“I am more thankful than I can express that you feel so,” he said. “I would be of use, of comfort, to you if I knew how, Edith.”
“You are my only comfort,” she said. “I tried to send you away. I thought I didn't want you. I thought I couldn't bear the sight of you, because of what you have seen me suffer. But I went to the root of this thing last night, Hart, and with self in mind, as usual, I found that I could not live without you.”
Henderson began breathing lightly. He was afraid to speak or move.
“I faced the fact that all this is my own fault,” continued Edith, “and came through my own selfishness. Then I went farther back and realized that I am as I was reared. I don't want to blame my parents, but I was carefully trained into what I am. If Elnora Comstock had been like me, Phil would have come back to me. I can see how selfish I seem to him, and how I appear to you, if you would admit it.”
“Edith,” said Henderson desperately, “there is no use to try to deceive you. You have known from the first that I found you wrong in this. But it's the first time in your life I ever thought you wrong about anything—and it's the only time I ever shall. Understand, I think you the bravest, most beautiful woman on earth, the one most worth loving.”
“I'm not to be considered in the same class with her.”
“I don't grant that, but if I did, you, must remember how I compare with Phil. He's my superior at every point. There's no use in discussing that. You wanted to see me, Edith. What did you want?”
“I wanted you to not go away.”
“Not at all?”
“Not at all! Not ever! Not unless you take me with you, Hart.”
She slightly extended one hand to him. Henderson took that hand, kissing it again and again.
“Anything you want, Edith,” he said brokenly. “Just as you wish it. Do you want me to stay here, and go on as we have been?”
“Yes, only with a difference.”
“Can you tell me, Edith?”
“First, I want you to know that you are the dearest thing on earth to me, right now. I would give up everything else, before I would you. I can't honestly say that I love you with the love you deserve. My heart is too sore. It's too soon to know. But I love you some way. You are necessary to me. You are my comfort, my shield. If you want me, as you know me to be, Hart, you may consider me yours. I give you my word of honour I will try to be as you would have me, just as soon as I can.”
Henderson kissed her hand passionately. “Don't, Edith,” he begged. “Don't say those things. I can't bear it. I understand. Everything will come right in time. Love like mine must bring a reward. You will love me some day. I can wait. I am the most patient fellow.”
“But I must say it,” cried Edith. “I—I think, Hart, that I have been on the wrong road to find happiness. I planned to finish life as I started it with Phil; and you see how glad he was to change. He wanted the other sort of girl far more than he ever wanted me. And you, Hart, honest, now—I'll know if you don't tell me the truth! Would you rather have a wife as I planned to live life with Phil, or would you rather have her as Elnora Comstock intends to live with him?”
“Edith!” cried the man, “Edith!”
“Of course, you can't say it in plain English,” said the girl. “You are far too chivalrous for that. You needn't say anything. I am answered. If you could have your choice you wouldn't have a society wife, either. In your heart you'd like the smaller home of comfort, the furtherance of your ambitions, the palatable meals regularly served, and little children around you. I am sick of all we have grown up to, Hart. When your hour of trouble comes, there is no comfort for you. I am tired to death. You find out what you want to do, and be, that is a man's work in the world, and I will plan our home, with no thought save your comfort. I'll be the other kind of a girl, as fast as I can learn. I can't correct all my faults in one day, but I'll change as rapidly as I can.”
“God knows, I will be different, too, Edith. You shall not be the only generous one. I will make all the rest of life worthy of you. I will change, too!”
“Don't you dare!” said Edith Carr, taking his head between her hands and holding it against her knees, while the tears slid down her cheeks. “Don't you dare change, you big-hearted, splendid lover! I am little and selfish. You are the very finest, just as you are!”
Henderson was not talking then, so they sat through a long silence. At last he heard Edith draw a quick breath, and lifting his head he looked where she pointed. Up a fern stalk climbed a curious looking object. They watched breathlessly. By lavender feet clung a big, pursy, lavender-splotched, yellow body. Yellow and lavender wings began to expand and take on colour. Every instant great beauty became more apparent. It was one of those double-brooded freaks, which do occur on rare occasions, or merely an Eacles Imperialis moth that in the cool damp northern forest had failed to emerge in June. Edith Carr drew back with a long, shivering breath. Henderson caught her hands and gripped them firmly. Steadily she looked the thought of her heart into his eyes.
“By all the powers, you shall not!” swore the man. “You have done enough. I will smash that thing!”
“Oh no you won't!” cried the girl,