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Page 14
The most dangerous lovers women have are men of Cordis's feminine
temperament. Such men, by the delicacy and sensitiveness of their own
organizations, read women as easily and accurately as women read each
other. They are alert to detect and interpret those smallest trifles in
tone, expression, and bearing, which betray the real mood far more
unmistakably than more obvious signs. Cordis had seen her backward
glance, and noted her steps grow slower with a complacent smile. It was
this which emboldened him, in spite of the short acquaintance, to venture
on the line he did.
"Good-evening, Miss Brand," he said, as he over took her. "I don't really
think it's fair to begin to hurry when you hear somebody trying to
overtake you.
"I'm sure I didn't mean to," she replied, glad to have a chance to tell
the truth, without suspecting, poor girl, that he knew very well she was
telling it.
"It isn't safe to," he said, laughing. "You can't tell who it may be.
Now, it might have been Mr. Burr, instead of only me."
She understood instantly. Somebody had been telling him about Henry's
attentions to her. A bitter anger, a feeling of which a moment before she
would have deemed herself utterly incapable, surged up in her heart
against the person, whoever it was, who bad told him this. For several
seconds she could not control herself to speak. Finally, she said--
"I don't understand you. Why do you speak of Mr. Burr to me?"
"I beg pardon. I should not have done so."
"Please explain what you mean.
"You'll excuse me, I hope," he said, as if quite distressed to have
displeased her. "It was an unpardonable indiscretion on my part, but
somebody told me, or at least I understood, that you were engaged to
him."
"Somebody has told you a falsehood, then," she replied, and, with a bow
of rather strained dignity turned in at the gate of a house where a
moment before she had not had the remotest intention of stopping. If she
had been in a boat with him, she would have jumped into the water sooner
than protract the inter-view a moment after she had said that.
Mechanically she walked up the path and knocked at the door. Until the
lady of the house opened it, she did not notice where she had stopped.
Good-afternoon, Madeline. I'm glad to see you. You haven't made me a call
this ever so long."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Tuttle, but I haven't time to stop to-day. Ha--have you
got a--a pattern of a working apron? I'd like to borrow it."
CHAPTER V.
Now, Henry had not chanced to be at church that first Sunday evening when
Cordis obtained an introduction to Madeline, nor was he at Fanny Miller's
teaparty. Of the rapidly progressing flirtation between his sweetheart
and the handsome drug-clerk he had all this time no suspicion whatever.
Spending his days from dawn to sunset in the shop among men, he was not
in the way of hearing gossip on that sort of subject; and Laura, who
ordinarily kept him posted on village news, had, deemed it best to tell
him as yet nothing of her apprehensions. She was aware that the affection
between her brother and Madeline was chiefly on his side, and knew enough
of her wilfulness to be sure that any attempted interference by him would
only make matters worse. Moreover, now that she had warned Cordis that
Madeline was pre-empted property, she hoped he would turn his attention
elsewhere.
And so, while half the village was agog over the flirtation of the new
drug-clerk with Madeline Brand, and Laura was lying awake nights fretting
about it, Henry went gaily to and from his work in a state of blissful
ignorance. And it was very blissful. He was exultant over the progress he
had made in his courtship at the picnic. He had told his love--he had
kissed her. If he had not been accepted, he had, at least, not been
rejected, and that was a measure of success quite enough to intoxicate so
ardent and humble a lover as he. And, indeed, what lover might not have
taken courage at remembering the sweet pity that shone in her eyes at the
revelation of his love-lorn state? The fruition of his hopes, to which he
had only dared look forward as possibly awaiting him somewhere in the dim
future, was, maybe, almost at hand. Circumstances combined to prolong
these rose-tinted dreams. A sudden press of orders made it necessary to
run the shop till late nights. He contrived with difficulty to get out
early one evening so as to call on Madeline; but she had gone out, and he
failed to see her. It was some ten days after the picnic that, on calling
a second time, he found her at home. It chanced to be the very evening of
the day on which the conversation between Madeline and Cordis, narrated
in the last chapter, had taken place.
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