She had really been afraid, that April evening in the orchard,
that she had hurt him
terribly and that the wound would be
long in healing. Now she saw that she need not have worried.
Men have died and the worms have eaten them but not for love.
Gilbert
evidently was in no danger of immediate dissolution.
He was enjoying life, and he was full of
ambition and zest.
For him there was to be no
wasting in
despair because a woman
was fair and cold. Anne, as she listened to the
ceaseless badinage
that went on between him and Phil, wondered if she had only imagined
that look in his eyes when she had told him she could never care for him.
There were not
lacking those who would
gladly have stepped into
Gilbert's
vacant place. But Anne snubbed them without fear and
without
reproach. If the real Prince Charming was never to come
she would have none of a
substitute. So she
sternly told herself
that gray day in the windy park.
Suddenly the rain of Aunt Jamesina's
prophecy came with a swish
and rush. Anne put up her
umbrella and
hurried down the slope.
As she turned out on the harbor road a
savage gust of wind tore
along it. Instantly her
umbrella turned wrong side out. Anne
clutched at it in
despair. And then -- there came a voice
close to her.
"Pardon me -- may I offer you the shelter of my
umbrella?"
Anne looked up. Tall and handsome and distinguished-looking
-- dark,
melancholy, inscrutable eyes -- melting, musical,
sympathetic voice -- yes, the very hero of her dreams stood
before her in the flesh. He could not have more closely
resembled her ideal if he had been made to order.
"Thank you," she said confusedly.
"We'd better hurry over to that little pavillion on the point,"
suggested the unknown. "We can wait there until this shower
is over. It is not likely to rain so heavily very long."
The words were very
commonplace, but oh, the tone! And the smile
which accompanied them! Anne felt her heart
beating strangely.
Together they scurried to the
pavilion and sat
breathlessly down
under its friendly roof. Anne laughingly held up her false
umbrella.
"It is when my
umbrella turns inside out that I am convinced of
the total depravity of inanimate things," she said gaily.
The raindrops sparkled on her shining hair; its loosened rings
curled around her neck and
forehead. Her cheeks were flushed,
her eyes big and
starry. Her
companion looked down at her
admiringly. She felt herself blushing under his gaze.
Who could he be? Why, there was a bit of the Redmond white and
scarlet pinned to his coat lapel. Yet she had thought she knew,
by sight at least, all the Redmond students except the Freshmen.
And this courtly youth surely was no Freshman.
"We are schoolmates, I see," he said, smiling at Anne's colors.
"That ought to be sufficient
introduction. My name is Royal Gardner.
And you are the Miss Shirley who read the Tennyson paper at the
Philomathic the other evening, aren't you?"
"Yes; but I cannot place you at all," said Anne, frankly.
"Please, where DO you belong?"
"I feel as if I didn't belong
anywhere yet. I put in my Freshman
and Sophomore years at Redmond two years ago. I've been in
Europe ever since. Now I've come back to finish my Arts course."
"This is my Junior year, too," said Anne.
"So we are classmates as well as collegemates. I am reconciled
to the loss of the years that the
locust has eaten," said her
companion, with a world of meaning in those wonderful eyes of his.
The rain came
steadily down for the best part of an hour. But
the time seemed really very short. When the clouds parted and a
burst of pale November
sunshine fell athwart the harbor and the
pines Anne and her
companion walked home together. By the time
they had reached the gate of Patty's Place he had asked
permission to call, and had received it. Anne went in with
cheeks of flame and her heart
beating to her fingertips. Rusty,
who climbed into her lap and tried to kiss her, found a very
absent
welcome. Anne, with her soul full of
romantic thrills,
had no attention to spare just then for a crop-eared pussy cat.
That evening a
parcel was left at Patty's Place for Miss Shirley.
It was a box containing a dozen
magnificent roses. Phil pounced
impertinently on the card that fell from it, read the name and
the
poeticalquotation written on the back.