Part 28

“Are the people on the border as bad as they are represented?” she asked.

“Certainly not much worse than they represent themselves,” he replied; “I suppose the difference is that men feel less restraint there.”

“It is something more than that,” added Morgan. “There is a sort of drift-wood of adventure and devil-may-care-ism that civilization throws in advance of itself; but that isn't so bad as the slag it manufactures in the cities.”

“I remember you said, Mr. Morgan, that men go West to get rid of their past,” said Margaret.

“As New Yorkers go to Europe to get rid of their future?” Henderson inquired, catching the phrase.

“Yes”--Morgan turned to Margaret--“doubtless there is a satisfaction sometimes in placing the width of a continent between a man and what he has done. I've thought that one of the most popular verses in the Psalter, on the border, must be the one that says--you will know if I quote it right 'Look how wide also the East is from the West; so far hath He set our sins from us.'”

“That is dreadful,” exclaimed Margaret. “To think of you spending your time in the service picking out passages to fit other people!”

“It sounds as if you had manufactured it,” was Henderson's comment.

“No; that quiet Mr. Lyon pointed it out to me when we were talking about Montana. He had been there.”

“By-the-way, Mr. Henderson,” my wife asked, “do you know what has become of Mr. Lyon?”

“I believe he is about to go home.”

“I fancied Miss Eschelle might have something to say about that,” Morgan remarked.

“Perhaps, if she were asked. But Mr. Lyon appeared rather indifferent to American attractions.”

Margaret looked quickly at Henderson as he said this, and then ventured, a little slyly, “She seemed to appreciate his goodness.”

“Yes; Miss Eschelle has an eye for goodness.”

This was said without change of countenance, but it convinced the listener that Carmen was understood.

“And yet,” said Margaret, with a little air of temerity, “you seem to be very good friends.”

“Oh, she is very charitable; she sees, I suppose, what is good in me; and I'll spare you the trouble of remarking that she must necessarily be very sharp-sighted.”

“And I'm not going to destroy your illusion by telling you her real opinion of you,” Margaret retorted.

Henderson begged to know what it was, but Margaret evaded the question by new raillery. What did she care at the moment what Carmen thought of Henderson? What--did either of them care what they were saying, so long as there was some personal flavor in the talk! Was it not enough to talk to each other, to see each other?

As we sat afterwards upon the piazza with our cigars, inhaling the odor of the apple blossoms, and yielding ourselves, according to our age, to the influence of the mild night, Margaret was in the high spirits which accompany the expectation of bliss, without the sobering effect of its responsibility. Love itself is very serious, but the overture is full of freakish gayety. And it was all gayety that night. We all constituted ourselves a guard of honor to Miss Forsythe and Margaret when they went to their cottage, and there was a merry leave-taking in the moonlight. To be sure, Margaret walked with Henderson, and they lagged a little behind, but I had no reason to suppose that they were speaking of the stars, or that they raised the ordinary question of their being inhabited. I doubt if they saw the stars at all. How one remembers little trifles, that recur like the gay bird notes of the opening scenes that are repeated in the tragedy of the opera! I can see Margaret now, on some bantering pretext, running back, after we had said good-night, to give Henderson the blush-rose she had worn in her hair. How charming the girl was in this freakish action!

“Do you think he is good enough for her?” asked my wife, when we were alone.

“Who is good enough for whom?” I said, a yawn revealing my want of sentiment.

“Don't be stupid. You are not so blind as you pretend.”

“Well, if I am not so blind as I pretend, though I did not pretend to be blind, I suppose that is mainly her concern.”

“But I wish she had cared for Lyon.”

“Perhaps Lyon did not care for her,” I suggested.

“You never see anything. Lyon was a noble fellow.”