I looked and saw your heart In the shadow of your eyes,
As the seeker sees the gold
In the shadow of the stream.
Three Shadows.
There is a legend which says that September is the month of the fading leaf. Townsmen may fancy so, looking at their own starved avenues, which begin to shrivel and strip themselves as early as July; but in the country the massive woods (except that an elm here and there hangs out a single crocus-yellow spray) keep the somber green of late summer to the very end of the month. Then, as the days pass, first the lime "strips to the cold and standeth naked above her yellow attire." The horse-chestnuts on some night of frost let drop all their fans in a rustling heap. The woodland paths are crisp with fawn-colored oak leaves. Last of all, in mid-November, the elms loosen to the wind and the rain those faint clouds of green and greenish-gold which have rounded the shape of their limbs, till all the wet meadows are strewn with them; and it is winter.
 
At Rochehaut it was September still, late September. Gardiner, at leisure after the summer rush, had been to his bank at Bouillon, and, instead of returning by the vicinal, had chosen to walk back over the hills through Botassart. This route brought him past the crucifix. He had not been there since the grand explosion, and it cost him an effort to go back; but he refused to be sentimental, or allow a beautiful thing to be spoiled for him by fancies. There he lay then on the grass, smoking and dreaming.
 
It seemed long, long since that summer night; so long[Pg 114] that he could look back now, on it and on Dorothea, as part of the past. Heavens! how she had hurt him! There was that time as a boy, when he tumbled waist-deep into a vat of scalding liquid at some chemical works; he could compare his feelings only to that violent assault of pain. Yes, she had hurt him abominably; the pain of his crushed hand had been by contrast a relief and a distraction. But the wound was on the surface; and, though he scarcely knew it himself, already it was beginning to heal. There was no poison in it. His passion for Dorothea had been effectually cauterized; he thought of her now without either resentment or desire. He was profoundly sorry; sorrier for Dorothea O'Connor than even for Mrs. Trent. This pity, oddly enough, confirmed him in impenitence. "I did her a good turn when I cleared that fellow out of her road," he said to himself with inverted satisfaction. "If he'd lived long enough for her to find him out, there'd have been la de Dios es Cristo!"
 
Three days of pale still sunshine had closed in threatening gloom. The grassy hill of the crucifix was burnt putty-color; the hill of forests opposite was olive-somber; the valley fumed with tawny vapors, breathing down from the gloom of the sky, and up from the dark current of the river. All was still, grave, overcast, till the sun found his sunset crevice in the clouds and split them, overflowing in long lines of liquid gold between iron-heavy bars. Splendid transparent fan-rays of light and dark alternate streamed up the sky; they rimmed vague forms of mist with burning wire, they filled the empty blue with bronze and golden vapors; the whole vault of heaven was on fire, the wet brown hills flamed back responsive glory.
 
Gardiner, susceptible to every earth influence, found his senses flooded with that golden exhilaration. Vague mists of thought took shape in its light; he knew now that that name on the lintel of the farm was not a mere coincidence. When he first saw the Bellevue, "Why, I've been here before," he had said to himself, with a thrill of startled recognition. And now, "I belong here," he added, half aloud,[Pg 115] with a touch of solemnity, as though the spoken word must be irrevocable. Old ties were dear; but he knew in his heart, his body knew, that the wild Semois down there in the valley was more to him than the Darenth of his boyhood. This was his home.
 
Bringing his dazzled eyes to earth, he saw that a figure had detached itself from the orchards of the Bellevue, and was slowly mounting the hill. One person only would climb like that, with so many divagations to avoid steep places, and so many halts to admire the view—or could it be to get her breath? It was Lettice.
 
Since his accident, now five weeks ago, Gardiner had seen a good deal of Miss Smith. His hand had been unexpectedly troublesome; indeed he was only now beginning to use it. Meantime he had made use of Lettice as his amanuensis, repaying her services by refusing to allow her to settle her bill. "No, I am not going to take that money," he said, energetically nodding towards the pile of notes she had deposited on his table. "I'll pitch it into the fire if you leave it there. Also I shall wire to town for a regular secretary. Pick it up and take it away." Lettice did not like it in the very least; but very slowly and very stubbornly she did pick the money up and return it to her purse. Nor was her temper soothed when Gardiner looked at her direct, with a glint in his eye, and added, "I know you wind Denis round your little finger, but I am not Denis. Two can play at being obstinate, savez-vous?" Still, she continued to act as his secretary; until by the end of the month she knew his methods and his business almost as well as he did himself.
 
It was after this episode that she began to play with him, admitting him to rank as an intimate; and that he began to discover what it was that Denis loved in those velvet touches. But he was more uncertain than Denis—he was not to be run by formula; he would turn unexpectedly, and parry, and strike back. Once or twice, too, especially at first, when he was acting the urbane and cheerful host, he found her eyes fixed upon him. They were instantly [Pg 116]withdrawn; but he knew she knew he was suffering, and oddly enough he did not resent it. Oddly, be it understood, because Gardiner was by no means fond of sympathy. His instinct when hard hit was to cover up the wound and keep it hidden from the world, and especially from his friends. Yet it seemed he did not mind Lettice. And now, though he saw she was making for the crucifix, to disturb his regal solitude, he did not stir.
 
She had not seen him. She plodded on without looking up, and presently was hidden in a fold of the hill. When she emerged again, it was within ten yards of the crucifix and that lazy, smiling figure. She stopped short; one could almost hear her spirit say "Oh!" though her lips were silent. Her first impulse obviously was to beat a retreat (Gardiner chuckled, he had known it would be!), but she thought better of it, and came on. After surveying the heap of stones, she chose the one comfortable place, settled herself, and got out the inevitable green tablecloth. Lettice made great play with that tablecloth.
 
Since she would not speak, Gardiner did.
 
"I didn't know you'd found your way up here."
 
"Why, you told me about it yourself."
 
"Do you like it better than your wood pile in the forest?"
 
Lettice paused in the act of threading her needle to look round on the brown and gold of hills and woods and sky. "Yes," said she; and if she had raved for an hour she could have expressed no more. Comfortable silence fell between them. Lettice stitched, and Gardiner smoked, and in the west the sunset flared in citron, amber, saffron, bronze, and a thousand shades of glory. In the east a scroll of cloud reared dazzling sunny heights of snow against dazzling blue. Lettice's needle slackened; it came to a standstill.
 
"Penny for your thoughts," said Gardiner.
 
"I haven't any."
 
"I thought you were composing a poem."
 
Insults of insults! Lettice looked volumes of reproach. "I was not," said she.
 
"But you do write poetry."
 
[Pg 117]
 
"Who told you so?"
 
&............