“But I did.”
“Once more.”
She put down her shawl, plant case, and basket, and, climbing one round of the ladder, extended her hand; their finger-tips
touched.
“Thanks,” said the voice above, and the head was withdrawn.
Dexter, after doing what he could to make the buggy dry, was on the point of driving away, when he saw a figure coming
toward him, and recognized Anne. He jumped lightly out over the wheel (he could be light on occasion), and came to meet her.
It was a
“And my cuffs?”
“You can not have them; I shall keep them as souvenirs. And now–have you had a pleasant day, Anne?”
“Very,” replied the girl, frankly.
They shook hands in farewell, and then she went down the ladder, her shawl, plant case, and basket on her arm. Heathcote
remained in the cave. When she had reached the ground, and was turning to descend the hill, a low voice above said, “Anne.”
She glanced up; Heathcote was lying on the floor of the cave with his eyes looking over the edge. “Shake hands,” he said,
cautiously stretching down an arm.
I beg you to refrain. Promise me not to tell him until you have seen Miss Vanhorn.”
“Very well; I promise that,” said Anne.
“Good-by, then. The rain is over, and he will be going. I will not show myself until I see you drive away. What good fortune
that my horse was tied out of sight! Must you carry all those things, basket, tin case, and all? Why not let me try to
smuggle some of them home on horseback? You would rather not? I submit. There, your hat has fallen off; I will tie it on.”
“But the strings do not belong there,” said Anne, laughing merrily as he knotted the two blue ribbons with great strength
(as a man always ties a ribbon) under her chin.
“Never mind; they look charming.”
s. And Miss Vanhorn’s first command to you will be the same. She will look blackly at me for a day or two, but I
shall be able to bear that. Take my advice; to Dexter, at least, say nothing.” Then, seeing her still unconvinced, he added,
“On my own account, too, I wish you would not tell him.”
“You mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will not,” she answered, raising her sincere eyes to his.
Heathcote laughed, lightly lifted her hand, and touched the blue-veined wrist with his lips. “You true-hearted little girl!”
he said. “I was only joking. As far as I am concerned, you may tell Dexter and the whole world. But seriously, on your own
account,
y should I not tell him?”
“Because it is as well that he should not know I have been here with you all day,” said Heathcote, quietly, but curious to
hear what she would answer.
“Was it wrong?”
“It was a chance. But he would think I planned it. Of course I supposed the miller and his family were here.”
“But if it was wrong for you to be here when you found them absent, why did you stay?” said Anne, looking at him gravely.
“The storm came up, you know; of course I could not leave you. Do not look so serious; all is well if we keep it to
ourselve
“Perhaps he met grandaunt. I heard him say that he was going to Mellport to-day.”
“That is it. The roads cross, and he must have met her. Probably, then, he has her permission to take you home. Miss
Douglas, will you accept advice?”
“I will at least listen to it,” said Anne, smiling.
“When the rain stops, as it will in a few minutes, go down alone. And say nothing to Mr. Dexter about me. Now do not begin
to batter me with that aggressive truthfulness of yours. You can, of course, tell Miss Vanhorn the whole; but certainly you
are not accountable to Gregory Dexter.”
“But wh
at had she said? But no matter; something disagreeable, without doubt. Even the boys who frequent this retreat could
not well have grimier hands than we have now: look at them. No, you can not be released, unless you promise.”
“What?”
“Not to go down until I give you leave: I will give it soon.”
“I promise.”
With a quiet pressure, and one rather long look, he relinquished her hand, and leaned back against the rock again.
“I wonder how Dexter knew that you were here?”
“But it is still raining.”
She leaned forward and looked down at Dexter again; he was standing under a tree wiping his hat with his handkerchief.
“Please let me go down,” she said, entreatingly, like a child.
“No,” said Heathcote, smiling back, and taking her hand as if to make sure. “Do you remember the evening after the quarry
affair, Anne? and that I took your hand, and held it as I am doing now? Did you think me impertinent?”
“I thought you very kind. After that I did not mind what grandaunt had said.”
“And wh
y, Miss Douglas?”
“Did you not say he had come for me?”
“That was a supposition merely. And did not I come for you too?”
“But as he is there, would it not be better for us to go down?”
“Have we not done well enough by ourselves so far? And besides, at this late hour, I see no object in getting a wetting
merely for his sake.”
“It is not raining hard now.”
n the heat of the small fire away from them; yet even there among the cool rocks they had found it necessary to put
out the little blaze, as making their niche too warm. Down below in the open valley the heat was unbroken; and to be wet and
warm, and obliged to exert all one’s strength at the same time, is hard for a large man like Gregory Dexter. The rain dripped
from the roof directly down upon his hat, and probably, the looker-on thought with glee, was stealing down his back also. At
any rate he was becoming impatient, for he broke a pane of glass and put his hand through to try and reach the sash-spring.
But the spring was broken; it would not move. And now he must be growing angry, for he shivered all the panes, broke the
frame, and then tried to clamber in; the cushions were already sacrificed down on the wet boards below. But it is difficult
for a broad-shouldered heavy man to climb through a small window, especially if he have no firm foot-hold as a beginning.
Heathcote laughed out aloud now, and Anne leaned forward to look also.
“Who is it?” she said, as she caught sight of the struggling figure. At this moment Dexter had one knee on the sill and his
head inside, but he was too broad for the space.
