Part 48

He trudged back to his hotel gloomily. The day had passed in a most unsatisfactory manner, according to his way of looking at it. Yet he had come more clearly to an understanding of the girl; her cheerfulness, her unselfishness, and, above all, the sweet, beautiful philosophy of life that must lie back, to render her so uncomplainingly the slave of the self-willed woman, yet without the indifferent cynicism of Gerald, the sullen, yet real, partisanship of Kendrick, or the general's week-kneed acquiescence.

The next morning he succeeded in making an arrangement by letter for an excursion to the newly projected Central Park. Promptly at two o'clock he was at the Bishops' house. To his inquiry the butler said that Mrs. Bishop had recovered from her indisposition, and that Miss Bishop would be down immediately. Orde had not long to wait for her. The SWISH, PAT-PAT of her joyous descent of the stairs brought him to his feet. She swept aside the portieres, and stood between their folds, bidding him welcome.

“I'm so sorry about last night,” said she, “but poor mother does depend on me so at such times. Isn't it a gorgeous day to walk? It won't be much like OUR woods, will it? But it will be something. OH, I'm so glad to get out!”

She was in one of her elfish moods, the languid grace of her sleepy-eyed moments forgotten. With a little cry of rapture she ran to the piano, and dashed into a gay, tinkling air with brilliancy and abandon. Her head, surmounted by a perky, high-peaked, narrow-brimmed hat, with a flaming red bird in front, glorified by the braid and “waterfall” of that day, bent forward and turned to flash an appeal for sympathy toward Orde.

“There, I feel more able to stay on earth!” she cried, springing to her feet. “Now I'll get on my gloves and we'll start.”

She turned slowly before the mirror, examining quite frankly the hang of her skirt, the fit of her close-cut waist, the turn of the adorable round, low-cut collars that were then the mode.

“It pays to be particular; we are in New York,” she answered, or parried, Orde's glance of admiration.

The gloves finally drawn on and buttoned, Orde held aside the portieres, and she passed fairly under his uplifted hand. He wanted to drop his arm about her, this slender girl with her quaint dignity, her bird-like ways, her gentle, graceful, mysterious, feminine soul. The flame-red bird lent its colour to her cheeks; her eyes, black and fathomless, the pupils wide in this dim light, shone with two stars of delight.

But, as they moved toward the massive front doors, Mrs. Bishop came down the stairs behind them. She, too, was dressed for the street. She received Orde's greeting and congratulation over her improved health in rather an absent manner. Indeed, as soon as she could hurry this preliminary over, she plunged into what evidently she considered a more important matter.

“You aren't thinking of going out, are you?” she asked Carroll.

“I told you, mother; don't you remember? Mr. Orde and I are going to get a little air in the park.”

“I'm sorry,” said Mrs. Bishop, with great brevity and decision, “but I'm going to the rectory to help Mr. Merritt, and I shall want you to go too, to see about the silver.”

“But, mother,” expostulated Carroll, “wouldn't Marie do just as well?”

“You know very well she can't be trusted without direction.”

“I DO so want to go to the park,” said Carroll wistfully. Mrs. Bishop's thin, nervous figure jerked spasmodically. “There is very little asked of you from morning until night,” she said, with some asperity, “and I should think you'd have some slight consideration for the fact that I'm just up from a sick bed to spare me all you could. Besides which, you do very little for the church. I won't insist. Do exactly as you think best.”

Carroll threw a pathetic glance at Orde.

“How soon are you going?” she asked her mother.

“In about ten minutes,” replied Mrs. Bishop; “as soon as I've seen Honorine about the dinner.” She seemed abruptly to realise that the amenities demanded something of her. “I'm sorry we must go so soon,” she said briefly to Orde, “but of course church business--We shall hope to see you often.”

Once more Orde held aside the curtains. The flame-bird drooped from the twilight of the hall into the dimness of the parlour. All the brightness seemed to have drained from the day, and all the joy of life seemed to have faded from the girl's soul. She sank into a chair, and tried pathetically to smile across at Orde.

“I'm such a baby about disappointments,” said she.

“I know,” he replied, very gently.

“And it's such a blue and gold day.”

“I know,” he repeated.

She twisted her glove in her lap, a bright spot of colour burning in each cheek.

“Mother is not well, and she has a great deal to try her. Poor mother!” she said softly, her head cast down.

“I know,” said Orde in his gentle tones.

After a moment he arose to go. She remained seated, her head down.

“I'm sorry about this afternoon,” said he cheerfully, “but it couldn't be helped, could it? Jane used to tell me about your harp playing. I'm going to come in to hear you this evening. May I?”