Heart to heart

When, long after sunset, Maud Willowby returned home with Henry Cross, the young man was in too happy a state of mind to confront Colonel Willowby or Alice Devigney. Maud had requested him to remain silent for a time concerning what had passed, and he had promised; and now he felt that if he went into the house, they would read the truth in his face.

So he kissed her good night at the gate—a long, tender good night—and went forth humming a popular melody, and never once dreaming of the fearful awakening that was so close at hand.

On the following morning a message came to him, requesting his immediate presence at a certain point along the proposed line of the new railroad. The surveyors had encountered some difficulty, and he must go and straighten matters out.

Next in importance to his love for Maud was his new scheme for wealth, and he hastened off, without stopping longer than to swallow a cup of coffee and a couple of rolls. He went on horseback, and, as the weather looked threatening, carried with him a blanket for the beast and a rubber coat for himself.

He found the surveyors at a spot called Kelly’s Gap. Here an old farmer owned a tract of a hundred acres, some woodland, and the rest rocky and decidedly uneven. The surveyors wished to take one route across the land; the old farmer demanded that they take another. Matters had arrived at such a crisis that the farmer was guarding the land with a shotgun, while the surveyors and linemen were resting in their tent in disgust.

The excitement was such that Cross at once forgot the tender thoughts that had previously occupied his mind. He politely accosted the farmer, calmed his ruffled temper, and at last both adjourned to the farmhouse to talk matters over.

The conference lasted two hours, and Cross won the day, although it cost the company a few dollars. Then the necessary papers were made out, and the young man set the gang once more at work.

“And no more lagging,” he said. “Before long winter will be on us, and this road must be well under way before that.”

Henry Cross remained on the scene until nightfall. He was about to return to Lakeview, when there came another message, asking him to come up to Cherrytown, a little village two miles to the north of Oakdale. Five thousand railroad ties had been brought in, and they were defective.

Despite the darkness and the fact that it was beginning to rain, the young man set off by a lonely forest road. It was a tedious journey, and he was glad enough when, after missing his way twice, he finally reached the Cherrytown tavern. It was too late to do anything that night, so he put up at the hostelry, and did full justice to the appetizing rabbit stew mine host served up.

In the morning it cleared off for a time, and Cross hunted up the railroad men and made inquiries regarding the defective ties. Another long wrangle followed, and it took until noon to settle matters again.

At one o’clock the young man found himself on the way to Oakdale, through which he must pass on his journey home. It had stopped raining, but the clouds still hung low, as if holding another downpour in readiness. A cold, raw wind faced him, and he wrapped himself up as best he could in the rubber overcoat, and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

A mile to the northeast of Oakdale runs a mountain torrent, bridged by a stout iron structure, placed there by the county board. As Cross neared this bridge, a sudden blast of wind came rushing down the course of the stream, carrying with it flying leaves and branches, and compelling his horse to come to a halt.

“Phew! But this is rather violent—eh, Dan?” he muttered, as he crouched down in the saddle. “Wait a bit, boy; we shall not attempt to cross until the storm subsides. We might both be swept into the stream.”

As the wind came tearing along more violently than ever, he turned his horse aside to the shelter afforded by a hill of rocks. The wind moderated in a little while, and Cross was about to advance again, but the horse seemed disinclined to go forth. Good-naturedly, Cross decided to humor him a trifle, and they remained where they were.

Three minutes passed, and Cross’ attention was attracted to the figure of a woman hurrying along the road on the opposite side of the bridge. She was plainly dressed, wore a red shawl over her shoulders, and had a veil tied over her hat and face. She was trying to move up a path that led parallel to the stream, and in the teeth of that momentary gale she could scarcely keep her feet.

“She must be hard pressed, or she would wait until the blow was over,” thought Henry Cross. “My! the wind almost sweeps her from the ground. If she isn’t careful, she’ll go over into the stream.”

He continued to watch the woman, who kept on, sometimes moving a yard or two, and then scarcely an inch, up the path that led to the summit of a thickly wooded hill.

Suddenly an unusually heavy blast rushed furiously down the water course, and along the path. It lifted the woman from her feet and whirled her into a dense mass of low brush. The hat that had been pinned on so tightly was wrenched loose, and with it came the veil.

“She’s down now—perhaps I had better go to her assistance,” mused Cross. “But she ought to know enough to stick close to the shelter of the wood. If she——”

He abruptly paused, speechless with amazement. The woman was Maud Willowby!

At first he could not believe it. He leaped from his horse and ran forward to obtain a better view, and, as he did so, the figure on the opposite side of the torrent raised itself up and clutched the hat and veil. There was no mistake—it was really the woman he loved.

He stood dazed, dumfounded. What was she doing out here, so far from home, alone, and in such weather?

His first impulse was to run to her assistance and ask for an explanation, and he half started across the bridge for that purpose. But reflection made him change his mind, and he ended by drawing back out of sight once more.

She had come there for a purpose—was bound on some errand—had come alone, and, consequently, wished to keep that errand a secret. All this flashed instantaneously through his mind. And he remembered, too, that she had often spoken of her aversion to Oakdale, had often refused to drive to the locality, although some of the roads in the vicinity were most picturesque.

The more he reflected the more he became perplexed. Like many another lover, he became at once jealous of any secret his sweetheart tried to keep from him. He would follow her and see where she went. She might be in peril, and, sooner or later, need his assistance.

By this time Maud Willowby had succeeded in moving out of the direct path of the wind. Standing in the shelter of a huge tree, she adjusted her hat and veil once more. Then, without once looking back, she continued her flight up the hillside path.

Running to his horse, Henry Cross led him behind the rocks and into the woods a short distance, and there tied him to a tree and blanketed him. This done, he crossed the bridge, despite the raging wind, and followed along the path, keeping the figure before him well in view, and himself on guard to dart out of sight should she take it into her head to turn around.

It was a disagreeable walk, over masses of mud and stones, and under low-hanging, dripping-wet tree branches. But the young man scarcely noticed this, so occupied was his mind by what was before him.

At last he saw Maud turn from the path and enter a thicket on the side of the hill. Peering through the bushes, he caught sight of a long, low stone cottage set in the midst of a small clearing. At one side of the building was a well-kept garden, and farther on a tidy barn, showing that the dwellers there were neat and thrifty.

Henry Cross paused in the thicket and watched breathlessly as Maud knocked sharply on the back door of the habitation. Three seconds passed, and then the door was opened by an elderly woman, and the girl hastily slipped inside, carefully closing the door after her.

By this time the young man’s curiosity was aroused to its highest pitch. He felt assured that he was on the scent of some great secret, but what, he could not for the moment imagine. One thing alone was certain—no ordinary quest had brought Maud Willowby to such a lonely place on such a disagreeable afternoon.

The cottage contained but few windows, each hung with a white curtain on an old-fashioned wooden roller. The young woman had not vanished over two minutes when every curtain in the house was pulled tightly together, although it was still fairly bright outside.

“She dreads being observed by any stray pedestrian,” thought Henry Cross, and this made him more curious than ever to fathom the mystery.

The curtains down, a lamp was lighted in the main room and placed on a table in the center of the apartment. This threw fantastic shadows on the starched white muslin, which grew more and more distinct as the evening advanced.

At the risk of being discovered, Henry Cross approached quite closely to the cottage, and walked completely around it. But nowhere could he see as much of what was going on within as at a certain window on the south side, and here, concealed behind a crooked apple tree, he took up his stand.

For a long while the shadows of the old woman and of Maud Willowby were distantly outlined on the curtain. Occasionally he would see one or the other stop and bend down, and he could see by their gesticulations that they were engaged in earnest conversation.

“If it were not such a lonely place, so far from her home, and such a beastly day, I would not be annoyed with suspicions,” he murmured. “But what could bring her——Ah!”

He stopped and looked forward eagerly. Maud Willowby had come to a halt close to the curtain. She stooped down, and the next instant Henry Cross saw her holding a boy in her arms. She caught the boy to her breast, and kissed him several times, and then set him down out of sight.

The young man gave a start and a sigh. But there was no time for conjecture. He heard the back door of the cottage being unbolted, and Maud Willowby came out. The old woman followed as far as the sheltered porch would permit.

“Oh, yes, I dare say it’s all right,” Cross heard her exclaim, in a high, disagreeable voice. “But I want the money——”

“You shall have it, Mrs. Darrow, never fear,” interrupted Maud Willowby hastily. “In a few days I will have my quarterly allowance, and then I will bring it.”

“The doctor’s bill was heavy. He wouldn’t come away out here to attend the young one unless he was certain of a big fee.”

“I suppose not. But it will be all right, do not fear.”

“I’ll wait a week—no longer. If the money isn’t coming then, I’ll march up and tell——”

“Hush!”

The young woman’s voice was full of fear. Then she dropped her voice to a whispered tone, and Henry Cross did not catch what she said. The conversation continued for a few moments, and then the door was closed, and Maud Willowby sped away along the path by which she had come.

She passed close to where her lover was standing, so close that he could see that she was in a state of nervousness bordering upon hysteria. She began to run, and in less than half a minute was lost to sight in the rain that was now coming down in torrents. For fully five minutes he stood still, unmindful of the storm or the gathering darkness. What did it all mean? What mystery was this, and in what way did it involve the woman he loved?

“I am harassed with terrible suspicions, with doubts and fears,” he murmured. “I must look into this matter. I dare not return home until I have at least endeavored to discover the meaning of Maud’s extraordinary conduct.”