"One evening we approached a gate at the farther end of our longest course, and the gate stood open. He rode on to close it. I stopped him. 'I am going out,' I said. It was a resolution taken that moment. He held up his watch to the light, which made me angry.
"'Go back to the stables,' I said, 'if you are due there. I don't want to know the time.'
"He brought his horse alongside. 'Where is Miss Benedet going, please?'
"'Anywhere,' I said, 'where it will be cool in the morning.'
"'Miss Benedet will have a long ride. Does she wish for company?'
"I did not answer. Something drove me forward, though I was afraid.
"'Outside that gate,' he went on quietly, 'I shall set the pace, and I do not ride behind.' Still I did not answer. 'Is that the understanding?'
"'Ride where you please,' I said.
"After that he took command, not roughly or familiarly, but he no longer used the third person, as I had instructed him, in speaking to me. The first time he said 'you' it sent the blood to my face. We were far up the mountain then, and morning was upon us.
"I wish to be definite here. From the moment I saw him plainly face to face the illusion was gone. Before, I had seen him by every light but daylight, and generally in profile. The profile is not the man. It is the plan in outline, but the eyes, the mouth, tell what he has made of himself. So attitude is not speech. As a shape in the moonlight he had been eloquent, but once at my side, talking with me naturally—I need not go on! From that moment our journey was to me a dream of horror, a series of frantic plans for escape.
"All fugitives on the coast must put to sea. The Oakland ferry would have answered my purpose. I would never have been seen with him in the city—alive.
"But at Colfax we met your husband. He knows—you know—the rest."
* * * * *
In thinking of the one who had first pitied her, pity for herself overcame her, and the proud penitent broke down.
Mr. and Mrs. Thorne sat in the shy silence of older persons who are past the age of demonstrative sympathy. The girl rose, and as she passed her hostess she put out her hand. Mrs. Thorne took it quickly and followed her. They found a seat by themselves in a dark corner of the porch.
"Your poor, good husband—how tired he is! How patiently you have listened, and what does it all come to?"
"Think of yourself, not of us," said Mrs. Thorne.
"Oh, it's all over for me. I have had my fight. But you have him to grieve for."
"Shall you not grieve for him yourself a little?"
The girl sat up quickly.
"If you mean do I give him up without a struggle—I do not. But you need not say that to him. I told him that it was all a mistake; I did not—do not love him."
"How could you say that"—
"It was necessary. Without that I should have been leaving it to his generosity. Now it remains only to show him how little he has lost."
"But could you not have done that without belying yourself? You do—surely you still care for him a little?"
"Insatiate mother! Is there any other proof I can give?"
"Your hand is icy cold."
"And my face is burning hot. Good-night. May I say, 'Now let thy servant depart in peace'?"
"I shall not know how to let you go to-morrow, and I do not see, myself, why you should go."
"You will—after I am gone."
"My dear, are you crying? I cannot see you. How cruel we have been, to sit and let you turn your life out for our inspection!"
"It was a free exhibition! No one asked me, and I did not even come prepared, more than seven years' study of my own case has prepared me.
"I was a child; but the fault was mine. I should have been allowed to suffer for it in the natural way. No good ever comes of skulking. But they hurried me off to Europe, and began a cowardly system of concealment. They made me almost forget my own misconduct in shame for the things they did by way of covering it up. My mother never took me in her arms and cried over my disgrace. She would not speak of it, or allow me to speak. Not a word nor an admission; the thing must be as though it had never been!
"They ruined Dick Malaby with their hush-money. They might better have shot him, but that would have made talk. My father died with only servants around him. Mama could not go to him. She was too busy covering my retreat. Oh, she kept a gallant front! I admired her, I pitied her, but I loathed her policy. Does not every girl know when she has been dedicated to the great god Success, and what the end of success must be?
"I told mama at last that if she would bring men to propose to me I should tell them the truth. Does Lord So-and-so wish to marry a girl who ran away with her father's groom? That was the breach between us. She has thrown herself into it. She is going to marry a title herself, not to let it go out of the family. Have you not heard of the engagement? She is to be a countess, and the property is controlled by her, so now I have an excuse for doing something."
"My dear!" Mrs. Thorne took the girl's cold hands in hers. "Do you mean that you are not your father's heiress?"
"Only by mama's last will and testament. We know what that would be if she made it now!"
"It was then you came home?"
"It was then, when I learned that one of my rejected suitors was to become my father. He might be my grandfather. But let us not be vulgar!"
"Aren't you girls going to bed to-night?" Mr. Thorne inquired, with his usual leaning toward peace and quietness. "You can't settle everything at one sitting."
"Everything is settled, Mr. Thorne, and I am going to bed," said Miss Benedet.
Mrs. Thorne did not release her hands. "I want to ask you one more question."
"I know exactly what it is, and I will tell you to-morrow."
"Tell me now; it is perfectly useless going to your room; the temperature over your bed is ninety-nine."
"The question, then! Why did I allow your son to commit himself in ignorance?"
"No, no!" Mrs. Thorne protested.
"Yes, yes! You have asked that question, you must have. You are an angel, but you are a mother, too."
"I have asked no questions since you began to tell your story; but I have wondered how Willy could have found courage, in one week, to offer himself to such gifts and possessions as yours."
"A mother, and a worldly mother!" Miss Benedet apostrophized. "I did not look for such considerations from you. And you are troubled for the modesty of your son?"
"My dear, he has nothing, and he is—of course we think him everything he should be—but he is not a handsome boy."
"Thank Heaven he is not."
"And he does not talk"—
"About himself. No."
"Ah, you do care for him! You understand him. You would"—
Miss Benedet rose to her feet with decision.
"You have not answered my question," the unconscionable mother pursued. "Does he know—is it known that you are not the great heiress your name would imply?"
"Everything is known," said the girl. "You do not read your society column, I see. Six weeks ago you might have learned the fate of my father's millions."
She