Part 57

"When?" The girl's lips scarcely moved as she asked the question.

"Now. Please come."

"I'll--I'll have to go home first, with this," she replied, indicating the paper. "Then I'll come."

"All right. I'll go on ahead and wait for you. Shall I tie the red ribbon to the tree?" He spoke thoughtlessly, meaning only to be pleasant, but the girl's eyes filled. She shook her head decisively and neither of them spoke until they reached the corner where she must turn.

"Good-bye," she said.

"Auf wiedersehen," he replied, lifting his hat. "Don't be long."

Always, before, it had been Rosemary who waited for him. Now he sat upon the log, leaning back against the tree, listening to the chatter of the squirrels and the twitter of little birds in the boughs above him. It was not yet noon, and the sunlight made little dancing gleams of silver-gilt on the ground between the faint shadows of the leaves. He waited for her in a fever of impatience, for in his pocket he had a letter for Edith, addressed in a dashing masculine hand.

Not so long ago, in this same place, he had asked Rosemary to marry him. Now he must ask her to release him, to set him free from the bondage he had persisted in making for himself. He made a wry face at the thought, unspeakably dreading the coming interview and, in his heart, despising himself.

Rosemary did not keep him waiting long. When she came, she was flushed and breathless from the long climb--and something more. She sank down upon the seat he indicated--her old place.

"It's been a long time since we were here last," Alden observed, awkwardly.

"Has it?" The grey eyes glanced at him keenly for a moment, then swiftly turned away.

"I've--I've wanted to see you," Alden lied.

"I've wanted to see you," she flashed back, telling the literal truth.

Alden sighed, for there was tremulous passion in her tone--almost resentment. He had treated her badly, considering that she was his promised wife. She had been shamefully neglected, and she knew it, and the hour of reckoning had come.

For the moment he caught at the straw the situation seemed to offer him. If they should quarrel--if he could make her say harsh things, it might be easier. Instantly his better self revolted. "Coward!" he thought. "Cad!"

"I've wanted to see you," Rosemary was saying, with forced calmness, "to tell you something. I can't marry you, ever!"

"Why, Rosemary!" he returned, surprised beyond measure. "What do you mean?"

The girl rose and faced him. He rose, too, awkwardly stretching out his hand for hers. She swerved aside, and clasped her hands behind her back.

"I mean what I said; it's plain enough, isn't it?"

"Yes," he answered, putting his hands in his pockets, "it's perfectly plain. If I've done anything to hurt or offend you in any way, I--I'm sorry." So much was true. He was sorry for Rosemary and had never been more so than at that very moment. "You'll give me a reason, won't you?" he continued.

"Reason?" she repeated, with a bitter laugh. "Oh, I have plenty of reasons!" His heart sank for a moment, then went on, evenly. "It's all a mistake--it's never been anything but a mistake. I couldn't leave Grandmother and Aunt Matilda, you know. They need me, and I shouldn't have allowed myself to forget it."

"Yes," Alden agreed, quickly, "I suppose they do need you. I was selfish, perhaps."

Hot words came to her lips but she choked them back. For an instant she was tempted to tell him all she had seen and heard a few days before, to accuse him of disloyalty, and then prove it. Her face betrayed her agitation, but Alden was looking out across the valley, and did not see. In his pocket the letter for Edith lay consciously, as though it were alive.

"It isn't that you don't love me, is it?" he asked, curiously. His masculine vanity had been subtly aroused.

Rosemary looked him straight in the face. She was white, now, to the lips. "Yes," she lied. "It is that more than anything else."

"Why, my dear girl! I thought----"

"So did I. We were both mistaken, that is all."

"And you really don't love me?"