Most of all, in her present
condition of mind, the presence of a man--for the thought of a man lay
behind all her trouble, was as a tornado striking a burning forest. The
blood of her tortured heart seemed to leap to her brain and to suffuse
her eyes. She 'saw blood'! It mattered not that the man whom she saw she knew and trusted. Indeed,
this but added fuel to the flame. In the presence of a stranger some of
her habitual self-restraint would doubtless have come back to her. But
now the necessity for such was foregone; Harold was her alter ego, and in
his presence was safety. He was, in this aspect, but a higher and more
intelligent rendering of the trees around her. In another aspect he was
an opportune victim, something to strike at. When the anger of a poison
snake opens its gland, and the fang is charged with venom, it must strike
at something. It does not pause or consider what it may be; it strikes,
though it may be at stone or iron. So Stephen waited till her victim was
within distance to strike. Her black eyes, fierce with passion and blood-
rimmed as a cobra's, glittered as he passed among the tree-trunks towards
her, eager with his errand of devotion. Harold was a man of strong purpose. Had he not been, he would never have
come on his present errand. Never, perhaps, had any suitor set forth on
his quest with a heavier heart. All his life, since his very boyhood,
had been centred round the girl whom to-day he had come to serve. All
his thought had been for her: and to-day all he could expect was a gentle
denial of all his hopes, so that his future life would be at best a
blank. But he would be serving Stephen! His pain might be to her good; ought to
be, to a certain extent, to her mental ease. Her wounded pride would
find some solace . . . As he came closer the feeling that he had to play
a part, veritably to act one, came stronger and stronger upon him, and
filled him with bitter doubt as to his power. Still he went on boldly. It had been a part of his plan to seem to come eagerly, as a lover should
come; and so he came. When he got close to Stephen, all the witchery of
her presence came upon him as of old. After all, he loved her with his
whole soul; and the chance had come to tell her so. Even under the
distressing conditions of his suit, the effort had its charm. Stephen schooled herself to her usual attitude with him; and that, too,
since the effort was based on truth came with a certain ease to her. At
the present time, in her present frame of mind, nothing in the wide world
could give her pleasure; the ease which came, if it did not change her
purpose, increased her power. Their usual salutation, begun when she was
a little baby, was 'Good morning, Stephen!' 'Good morning, Harold!' It
had become so much a custom that now it came mechanically on her part. The tender reference to childhood's days, though it touched her companion
to the quick, did not appeal to her since she had no special thought of
it. Had such a thought come to her it might have softened her even to
tears, for Harold had been always deep in her heart. As might have been
expected from her character and condition of mind, she was the first to
begin:

'I suppose you want to see me about something special, Harold, you have
come so early.' 'Yes, Stephen. Very special!' 'Were you at the house?' she asked in a voice whose quietness might have
conveyed a warning. She was so suspicious now that she suspected even
Harold of--of what she did not know. He answered in all simplicity:

'No. I came straight here.' 'How did you know I should be here?' Her voice was now not only quiet
but sweet. Without thinking, Harold blundered on. His intention was so
single-minded, and his ignorance of woman so complete, that he did not
recognise even elementary truths:

'I knew you always came here long ago when you were a child when you were
in--'  Here it suddenly flashed upon him that if he seemed to expect that
she was in trouble as he had purposed saying, he would give away his
knowledge of what had happened and so destroy the work to which he had
set himself. So he finished the sentence in a lame and impotent manner,
which, however, saved complete annihilation as it was verbally accurate:
'in short frocks.' Stephen needed to know little more. Her quick
intelligence grasped the fact that there was some purpose afoot which she
did not know or understand. She surmised, of course, that it was some
way in connection with her mad act, and she grew cooler in her brain as
well as colder in her heart as she prepared to learn more. Stephen had
changed from girl to woman in the last twenty-four hours; and all the
woman in her was now awake. After a moment's pause she said with a
winning smile:

'Why, Harold, I've been in long frocks for years. Why should I come here
on this special day on that account?' Even as she was speaking she felt
that it would be well to abandon this ground of inquiry. It had clearly
told her all it could. She would learn more by some other means. So she
went on in a playful way, as a cat--not a kitten--does when it has got a
mouse:

'That reason won't work, Harold. It's quite rusty in the joints. But
never mind it! Tell me why you have come so early?' This seemed to
Harold to be a heaven-sent opening; he rushed in at once:

'Because, Stephen, I wanted to ask you to be my wife! Oh! Stephen, don't
you know that I love you? Ever since you were a little girl! When you
were a little girl and I a big boy I loved you. I have loved you ever
since with all my heart, and soul, and strength. Without you the world
is a blank to me! For you and your happiness I would do
anything--anything!' This was no acting. When once the barrier of beginning had been broken,
his soul seemed to pour itself out. The man was vibrant through all his
nature; and the woman's very soul realised its truth. For an instant a
flame of gladness swept through her; and for the time it lasted put all
other thought aside. But suspicion is a hard metal which does not easily yield to fire. It
can come to white heat easily enough, but its melting-point is high
indeed. When the flame had leaped it had spent its force; the reaction
came quick. Stephen's heart seemed to turn to ice, all the heat and life
rushing to her brain. Her thoughts flashed with convincing quickness;
there was no time for doubting amid their rush. Her life was for good or
ill at the crossing of the ways. She had trusted Harold thoroughly. The
habit of her whole life from her babyhood up had been to so look to him
as comrade and protector and sympathetic friend. She was so absolutely
sure of his earnest devotion that this new experience of a riper feeling
would have been a joy to her, if it should be that his act was all
spontaneous and done in ignorance of her shame. 'Shame' was the generic
word which now summarised to herself her thought of her conduct in
proposing to Leonard. But of this she must be certain. She could not,
dare not, go farther till this was settled.