WHEN, one evening in the late Autumn, David Meudon reached the entrance to Stoneleigh Garden, where Una Leighton awaited him, it was evident something unusual had happened.
“You are late,” she said, as he clasped the slender hand extended to him in welcome.
“I could ride no faster. Comet is lame.”
The tired bay, belying his name, stood dejectedly, one white foreleg slightly bent, as if seeking relief from a weight it was weary of bearing. By the friendly way in which he stretched forth his muzzle to touch the girl’s proffered fingers, Comet was evidently not a stranger to her endearments.
“Poor Comet! Why didn’t you take better care of him?”
“I was too impatient at the start, and that got him into trouble. After that, of course, we had to go slowly. I hated the delay. I hated having to listen to my own thoughts for so long.”
Her gray eyes fixed questioningly upon the bronzed, sharp-featured man, she noted his restless gaze, his riding-whip’s irritable tattoo on polished boot-top as he stood at her side. Then, flinging her arms about his neck, her face, flushed with pleasure and expressive of a mingled tenderness and anxiety, turned expectantly to his.
“David, you are here!” she said impulsively. “You are glad, aren’t you? Say that your thoughts aren’t gloomy any more.”
“What need to say it—Una!”
Silently the two lovers threaded the box-bordered path leading to the great stone mansion beyond, pausing to admire the flowers that still bloomed in a straggling sort of way, or marking the loss of those whose gay colors and delicate fragrance had formed a part of their own joyous companionship a month ago. But this evening, as if reflecting Nature’s autumn mood, there was something of melancholy—restraint, where restraint had never been before—in David’s bearing; while with Una there was an affectionate solicitude that strove to soothe an unspoken trouble...
