"Not in the house," she said.
Mr. Fisbee came around the corner of the porch and went toward Harkless.
"Fisbee," cried the latter, "where is your nephew?"
The old man took his hand in both his own, and looked him between the
eyes, and thus stood, while there was a long pause, the others watching
them.
"You must not say that I told you," he said at last. "Go into the garden."
But when Harkless's step crunched the garden path there was no one there.
Asters were blooming in beds between the green rose-bushes, and their
many-fingered hands were flung open in wide surprise that he should expect
to find young Fisbee there. It was just before sunset. Birds were
gossiping in the sycamores on the bank. At the foot of the garden, near
the creek, there were some tall hydrangea bushes, flower-laden, and,
beyond them, one broad shaft of the sun smote the creek bends for a mile
in that flat land, and crossed the garden like a bright, taut-drawn veil.
Harkless passed the bushes and stepped out into this gold brilliance. Then
he uttered a cry and stopped.
Helen was standing beside the hydrangeas, with both hands against her
cheeks and her eyes fixed on the ground. She had run away as far as she
could run; there were high fences extending down to the creek on each
side, and the water was beyond.
"You!" he said. "You--you!"
She did not lift her eyes, but began to move away from him with little
backward steps. When she reached the bench on the bank, she spoke with a
quick intake of breath and in a voice he scarcely heard. It was the merest
whisper, and her words came so slowly that sometimes minutes separated
them.
"Can you--will you keep me--on the 'Herald'?"
"Keep you----"
"Will you--let me--help?"
He came near her. "I don't understand. Is it you--you--who are here
again?"
"Have you--forgiven me? You know now why I wouldn't--resign? You forgive
my--that telegram?"
"What telegram?"
"That one that came to you--this morning."
"Your telegram?"
"Yes."
"Did you send me one?"
"Yes."
"It did not come to me."
"Yes--it did."
"But there--What was it about?"
"It was signed," she said, "it was signed--" She paused and turned half
way, not lifting the downcast lashes; her hand, laid upon the arm of the
bench, was shaking; she put it behind her. Then her eyes were lifted a
little, and, though they did not meet his, he saw them, and a strange,
frightened glory leaped in his heart. Her voice fell still lower and two
heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. "It was signed," she whispered, "it
was signed--'H. Fisbee.'"