CHAPTER VII.

“I HAVE LOST HER!”

Of course there was love in it all. What else could result from such an accident? When a young man, good-looking, well enough educated, with pleasing manners--when the rascal chose to exert them, as he certainly did now--and a young and healthy female, heart and fancy free, are thrown into constant and familiar intercourse, there will generally result a violent passion, either of love or hate. But add to the first cause the additional ones of illness on one side, and a desire to alleviate it on the other, and what could result but love?

Young men have been injured and nursed, and have fallen in love with their nurses time and again; so often in fact, that the result has become so commonplace as to cease to be romantic. And if there was nothing of greater interest to result from this accidental illness than the love of Norine Bright and Clinton Percival, there would be very little use in my trying to tell the story.

There _was_ love in it--there could be no doubt about that--and I think this had been expected by all but Norine. So, in turn, Norine was the last one of all to realize the actual result. And I think if it had so happened that this young man, instead of staying to get unreasonably well, had coolly walked off some day, leaving nothing but his thanks, Norine would have been the only one at Bright Farm free from disappointment.

They all saw it with this exception. And Mrs. Higgins became so mixed, between her pride in the fact that her dear Norry had a “bo,” and her own decided and inextinguishable dislike for the aforesaid “bo,” that she was halfway between hugging the one and hitting the other all the time. Out of her love for Norine she would concoct the choicest and most delicate dishes for their guest, and would fervently wish that he might choke himself to death with one of them.

Clinton might and did mollify Jim at least into a state of neutrality, and he could, and unfortunately did, rather ignore the doctor: but he could neither ignore nor mollify Mrs. Higgins. She was impervious to flattery. She was the one thorn in his side; all the rest were like the odor of roses.

There was nothing said now about his leaving the farm, though Norine used to wonder a little at his protracted stay. So the days went on, and he increased in health and strength with every one.

Doctor Conway came very seldom now; not so often by any means as he had been in the habit of coming before Clinton’s arrival. He looked a trifle paler, too, Norine thought, and passed his hand slowly over his head, in that thoughtful way of his, very often. He was none the less friendly to Norine and Jim, and his smile was as bright as ever--when it came; but it was not as frequent as it had been.

I am afraid Clinton and Norine rather monopolized the happiness of the little party. The doctor certainly did not seem to have much of it, unless it was in the contemplation of Norine’s happiness.

She was very happy in those sweet summer days--so happy that she would sometimes stop and wonder how long it would all last.

Clinton was well enough now to be outdoors the greater part of the day, and they devoted part of every afternoon to a ramble in the woods opposite the little cottage. These rambles gradually became more extended as Clinton regained his strength, and the companionship became greatly cemented thereby.

It was the very essence of life, Clinton thought. Day after day they would stroll through the woods together, or in the shade of some big oak Norine would sit and stitch industriously, while Clinton would lie at her feet, content to simply look at her.

“Norine,” he said one day. “I am getting so strong now that I think I must get you to show me the cabin where you first found me.”

“Do you care to go?” she asked.

“Yes; I am impatient to go; I wish to see it; and if I could I would trace myself back, step by step, over all my wanderings of that night.”

Norine turned pale, and her lips quivered a little, but she said nothing.

“Well,” he said softly, after waiting a moment, “will you go with me?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, starting a little; “I will go if you wish it; but I can not understand why you care to see the place?”

“Perhaps I have some regard for the place where we first met.”

“You were not conscious of the meeting, sir,” said Norine, smiling archly; “and there was very little in it to flatter your vanity.”

“No, I suppose not,” laughed Clinton. “But then I was not trying to look my best; for, you see, I had no idea of receiving company. I should like to know what you thought of me at first sight.”

“You would not find it very flattering, I am afraid.”

“No,” he responded coolly, “I suppose not; but you have changed your opinion since then.”

“Indeed, sir!” cried Norine, with her expressive eyebrows raised as high as possible. “How did you become aware of any change in my opinion?”

“I do not know how I did,” said Clinton thoughtfully; “but I am fully aware of it.”

“Well,” said Norine, with a rosy flush on her downcast face, “does the change gratify you any?”

She tried to look at him and meet the answering look in his eyes, but she could not. She could only bend her head very low over her work, and flutter and blush and pant a little, telling the story of her opinion, to those watchful eyes of his, as plainly, yet as unconsciously, as possible; and when he rose from his lounging position at her feet there was a satisfied look on his face that plainly said the world was his.

It was on the next day after this that they started for the dismantled cabin in the woods. They sauntered slowly along the forest path; sometimes side by side, oftener, as the path was narrow, with Norine in front leading the way.

Clinton was very grave and preoccupied--thinking over his narrow escape, Norine thought; and not wishing to disturb him, she too walked on in silence. They had been silent for so long that she, somewhat in advance, and overcome by the dreamy languor of the summer afternoon, had almost forgotten his presence.

While passing through a little open glade she had plucked a handful of great yellow-hearted daisies, and now she was plucking the white petals from them, one by one, murmuring as she did so:

“Loves me, loves me not; loves me, loves me not.”

But the perverse flowers would never come right, and she cast them from her petulantly, and turned to look for her companion. He was just seating himself on a fallen log, and she turned slowly back and joined him.

“Norine,” he said thoughtfully, “do you remember what you said when I spoke of my desolate condition that day?”

“That you would make friends?” answered Norine--“yes.”

“There are closer ties than those of friendship, Norine; and I am very lonely.”

There was no answer. Norine sat silently apprehensive.

“There are dearer ties than those of friendship, Norine,” he repeated, “and I am going to form them, Norine. I am going to get married.”

Norine was mute. She felt something cold clutch at her heart, and for a moment she was numb with anguish.

She knew now that she loved him--loved him with the first and purest love of her life. Why did he tell her this? She knew that her cheek was bloodless, but she would have rather died than have let him see it.

So she started along the path, making him a little gesture to follow. She walked faster than she knew, for her trembling limbs tried to keep pace with her thoughts. She loved him. She knew now that he was the one lover of her life. To lose him now was to lose all the brightness of her future. Yet the daisies had been right. She had only found him to lose him again. Ah, why had they ever met?

She hurried on, reached the edge of the clearing, and before she thought, she was standing in the open door of the cabin.

She heard his footsteps close behind her, but she could not trust herself to look at him yet. Then, while she was struggling for composure, an arm stole around her waist, and his voice whispered in her ear:

“Norine, ’twas here you saw me first; here that you saved my life. And, Norine, I want you to tell me here that you love me and will be my wife.”

She could not speak; the reaction was too great. She turned in his arms and looked at him. Ah, such a look!

What need was there of words, when she told him all he cared to know in that one look?

And what words were necessary for Lester Conway, who, just returning from a visit at the Higgins’, had come out into the clearing in time to see Clinton’s arm steal around Norine’s waist--in time to see the two figures blend together as she sank into his arms?

He caught a glimpse of her face over her lover’s shoulder, and what need had he of words to tell the story? It was told in the blackened sunshine, repeated by every bird, and leaf, and tree; repeated and repeated by his throbbing heart as he dashed, bare-headed and desperate, through the woods.

The strong, self-contained man sank down at the root of an old tree and wept bitter, passionate tears as he tore at the earth with his hands, and repeated again and again:

“I have lost her--lost her--lost her!”