KENNETH GALT came back from Atlanta at the end of the week. John Dilk drove down, and brought him up from the station at dusk. Galt had just alighted at his front steps, and the carriage had gone round the house toward the stables in the rear, when he saw Margaret Dearing among the flowers on the lawn adjoining. Through an open window, in the glow of gas-light, he could see the supper-table waiting for him, and knew that his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, had all in readiness for his evening meal. He knew, too, that she was most particular about having his favorite dishes served while they were hot, and yet he could not resist the temptation to exchange greetings with this fair young girl whose genial friendship and interest in his affairs had always appealed to him. The prospects were very bright for success in his plan of building a railway from Stafford to the sea, and he was still young enough to want to warm himself in the smile of the girl’s approval.
“Oh, you are back!” she said, cordially, as he strode across the grass, and lightly vaulted over the row of boxwood which divided the two properties. “Uncle Tom will be delighted.”
“Yes, and I am very tired,” he answered. He paused and shook her hand, experiencing a decided shock as he noticed the unexpected pallor of her face and the dark splotches beneath her eyes. “I was on my feet all morning in Atlanta. I made a speech to-day at a luncheon, and then had to ride up on a slow train.”
“And the railroad is almost a certainty?” she asked, forcing a wan smile. “You are about to have your dream realized?”
“Almost,” he answered, modestly. “I think we may count on most of the subscribers for the stock throughout the South, and the farmers who have agreed to donate the right of way through their lands still seem enthusiastic. The only thing we lack is the support of a certain group of New York capitalists who are to put up the bulk of the funds and are now considering our final proposition. If they should go in the road would be a certainty.”
“My uncle is sure they can be counted on,” the girl went on, sympathetically. “He declares no one but you could have won the confidence of all those prim, old-fashioned ladies and pious elders, who have never been willing to invest their savings before.”
Galt shrugged his shoulders and drew back somewhat into his habitual mantle of reserve. “If we do put it through,” he said, “they won’t regret it. Thorough confidence in an enterprise like this is necessary, of course, and I am glad they trust me.”
“All Stafford was reading the articles in the Atlanta papers yesterday about it,” Margaret said. “Uncle says when it is settled beyond a doubt the town will give a torch-light procession in your honor.”
“There were many inaccuracies in the papers,” he informed her, as he stood wondering over her evident dejection. “Did you read the articles?”
“Did I? Twice—once for myself and again for Uncle. I am sure he had already been over them, but, like the child he is, he wanted to hear the glorious news coming from the lips of some one else. I didn’t like the pictures of you, though—not a bit.”
“You didn’t? Why?”
“Because they don’t do you justice; they were so harsh and fierce. They made your mouth look—what shall I say?—cruel?—yes, cruel and utterly heartless. And we all know you are not so. Wynn says you have the greatest fondness for children of any man he knows, and surely that is a sign of a good heart.”
“There is one thing I am now showing an extravagant fondness for,” Galt said, with a cynical laugh, “and that is, hearing you sound praises that aren’t deserved. So I am going to tear myself away from them and run in to supper.”
“Poor girl!” he mused, as he walked away. “She looks pale and troubled, and talks as if she were trying to hide something. She has altered, even in the last week. I wonder if she really cared for Fred Walton? Who knows? Women often like unworthy men. God knows, I ought to understand that.”
After supper Galt went up to his sumptuous quarters on the floor above, and, lighting a cigar, he threw himself into an easy-chair and began to smoke.
“Yes, I must see her to-night,” he said, almost aloud. “I can’t wait longer. It has been more than a month now, and not a line from her. I am winning the fight of my life, and I want to see her glorious face light up as I tell her about it. She is the sweetest, dearest girl in the world. Her great dreamy eyes haunt me night and day. I love her, God knows I do. But it mustn’t get out yet—not yet; not, at least, till my road is built. We have a right to our secret, the sweetest that ever a love-mad pair held between them. She trusts me, and for the present no one need dream of our intimacy. The last time I saw her the little darling had all sorts of fears in her dear little head, but such fancies are only natural. I’ll kiss them away, once she is nestling in my arms. The dear little thing is jealous—actually jealous—of my success. She said once that she believed I would desert her if it would serve my ambition to do so. She doesn’t know me. She has a wonderful brain, but she reads me wrongly.”
The hours went by. The old grandfather clock in the hall below struck nine and then ten, and he rose and slipped down the stairs into the grounds below. Stafford was a town which went early to bed as a rule, and Galt found a vast stillness all about him out under the mystically shimmering stars. Softly treading the grass and furtively looking about, he went down to a gate near his stables, passed through and closed it without sound. Again looking up the little street cautiously, he went on till he reached the rear gate of Mrs. Barry’s cottage. Going in, he walked through the widow’s vegetable garden till he stood behind the little coal-and-wood house not ten feet from the open window of Dora’s room. Here he paused, holding his breath in suspense. There was a light in the room as from a low-burning gas-jet at the bureau in the corner, and against the white window-curtain he saw the shadow of some one bowed over a table. The outlines of the silhouette were familiar, and they, set his heart to beating rapidly. Picking up some small particles of coal, he shot them at the window from his closed hand with the nail of his thumb. Sometimes they would fall short of the mark, but now and then one would strike the glass and produce a faint clicking sound. The trick was successful, as it had been before. The crouching shadow straightened up, the distinct profile of Dora’s face appeared for an instant, and then lost its exquisite outlines in a blur of black which elongated itself upward as the girl rose to her feet. The curtain was drawn, and Dora, fully dressed, peered out. Stepping into open view, Galt signalled with his hand for her to come out. He saw her shake her head excitedly and stand motionless.
He signalled again and again, showing his impatience by the growing rapidity of his gestures and the impassioned movement of his mute lips. He heard her sigh, and then she nodded resignedly and retreated into the room. Her light went out. She was coming; he knew she would join him if her mother was asleep. And yet that sigh! What could it mean from her who had always come so joyfully, so full of love and faith? Ah, he had it! The gentle girl, not having seen him for several weeks, was genuinely jealous of the weighty affairs which had recently absorbed so much of his attention. All the uproar over his prospective success in the papers, the graphic accounts of his high position, had made her fancy, in her artistic sensitiveness, that circumstances were separating them. Ah, yes, that was it! But he would set her right on that score, as he always had done. He would convince her that their sweet secret was their own, and assure her that it need not be long now before they could announce their love to the world. Where could he look for a better or a truer mate? The secret of their present, and perhaps imprudent, intimacy would never be known. But for the time being, of course, he could not think of marrying any one. Much depended, right now, on his remaining exactly as he was—the suave bachelor whom certain prim and accurate maiden ladies had intrusted with the management of their finances, and reserved a right to decide, as members of some churches do in the cases of their unmarried pastors, what manner of woman their paragon was to choose, if any, as his partner in life. They would be unanimo............