The Lilac Girl. Barbour Ralph Henry
saw you standing there—." The first alarm was yielding to curiosity. She glanced at the scarred and stained hand which grasped the brass railing, and from there to the pleasant, eager, sunburnt face under the upturned brim of the battered sombrero. "No, I see you're not that," she went on reflectively. "Are you a miner?"
"No, only a prospector. We're camped up there." He tilted his head toward the slope without moving his gaze.
"Oh," said the girl. Perhaps she found that steady, unwinking regard of his disconcerting, for she turned her head away slightly so that her eyes were hidden from him. But the soft profile of the young face stood clear against the darkening sky, and Wade gazed enravished.
"You are looking for gold?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And—have you found it?"
"No."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" There was sympathy in the voice and in the look she turned upon him, and the boy's heart sang rapturously. Perhaps weariness and hunger and the girl's radiant twilit beauty combined to make him light-headed; otherwise how account for his behavior? Or perhaps starlight as well as moonlight may affect the brain; the theory is at least plausible. Or perhaps no excuse is needed for him save that he was twenty-three, and a Southerner! He leaned against the railing and laughed softly and exultantly.
"I've found no gold," he said, "but I don't care about that now. For I've found to-night what is a thousand times better!"
"Better than—than gold!" she faltered, trying to meet his gaze. "Why, what—"
"The girl I love!" he whispered up to her.
She gasped, and the hand on the knob began to turn slowly. Even in the twilight he could see the swift blood staining the ivory of her cheek. His eyes found hers and held them.
"What is your name?" he asked, softly, imperatively.
Oh, surely there is some quality, some magic power in mountain starlight undreamed of in our philosophy, for,
"Evelyn," whispered the girl, her wide eyes on his and a strange wonder on her face.
"Evelyn!" he echoed radiantly. "Evelyn! Evelyn what?"
"Walton," answered the girl obediently. He nodded his head and murmured the name half aloud to his memory.
"Evelyn Walton. And you live in God's country?"
"In New York." Her breath came fast and one hand crept to her breast where the flowers drooped.
"I'll remember," he said, "and some day—soon—I'll come for you. I love you, girl. Don't forget."
There was a quick, impatient blast from the engine. The wheels creaked against the rails. The train moved forward.
"Good night," he said. His hand reached over the railing and one of hers fell into it. For a moment it lay hidden there, warm and tremulous. Then his fingers released it and it fled to join its fellow at her breast.
"Good night—dear," he said again. "Remember!"
Then he dropped from the step. There was a long piercing wail of the whistle that was smothered as the engine entered the snow-shed. The girl on the platform stood motionless a moment. Then one of her hands dropped from her breast, and with it came a faded spray of purple lilac. She stepped quickly to the rail and tossed it back into the twilight. Wade sprang forward, snatched it from the track and pressed it to his lips. When the last car dipped into the mouth of the snow-shed he was still standing there, gazing after, his hat in hand, a straight, lithe figure against the starlit sky.
II
Well down in the southeastern corner of New Hampshire, some twenty miles inland from the sea, lies Eden Village. Whether the first settlers added the word Village to differentiate it from the garden of the same name I can't say. Perhaps when the place first found a name, over two hundred years ago, it was Eden, plain and simple. Existence there proving conclusively the dissimilarity between it and the original Eden, the New England conscience made itself heard in Town Meeting, and insisted on the addition of the qualifying word Village, lest they appear to be practising deception toward the world at large. But this is only a theory. True it is, however, that while Stepping and Tottingham and Little Maynard and all the other settlements around are content to exist without explanatory suffixes, Eden maintains and is everywhere accorded the right to be known as Eden Village. Even as far away as Redding, a good eight miles distant, where you leave the Boston train, Eden's prerogative is known and respected.
Wade Herrick discovered this when, five years after our first glimpse of him, he stepped from the express at Redding, and, bag in hand, crossed the station platform and addressed himself to a wise-looking, freckle-faced youth of fourteen occupying the front seat of a rickety carryall.
"How far is it to Eden, son?" asked Wade.
"You mean Eden Village?" responded the boy, leisurely.
"I suppose so. Are there two Edens around here?"
"Nope; just Eden Village."
"Well, where is that, how far is it, and how do I get there?"
"About eight miles," answered the boy. "I kin take you there."
Wade viewed the discouraged-looking, flea-bitten gray horse dubiously. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Have you ever driven that horse eight miles in one day?"
"Well, I guess! There ain't a better horse in town than he is."
"How long will it take?"
"Oh, about an hour; hour an' a half; two hours—"
"Hold on! That's enough. This isn't exactly a sight-seeing expedition, son. We'll compromise on an hour and a half; what do you say?"
The boy examined the prospective passenger silently. Then he looked at the horse. Then he cocked an eye at the sun. Finally he nodded his head.
"All right," he said. Wade deposited his satchel in the carriage and referred to an address written on the back of a letter.
"Now, where does Mr. Rufus Lightener do business?"
"Over there at the bank."
"Good. And where can I get something to eat?"
"Stand up or sit down?"
"Well, preferably 'sit down.'"
"Railroad Hotel. Back there about a block. Dinner, fifty cents."
"I certainly am glad I found you," said Wade. "I don't know what I'd have done in this great city without your assistance. Now you take me over to the bank. After that we'll pay a visit to the hotel. You'd better get something to eat yourself while I'm partaking of that half-dollar banquet."
An hour later the journey began. Wade, fairly comfortable on the back seat of the carryall, smoked his after-dinner pipe. The month was June, there had been recent rains and the winding, dipping country road presented new beauties to the eyes at every stage. Wade, fresh from the mountains of Colorado, revelled in the softer and gentler loveliness about him. The lush, level meadow, the soft contour of the distant hills, the ever-present murmur and sparkle of running water delighted him even while they brought homesick memories of his own native Virginia. It was a relief to get away from the towering mountains, the eternal blue of unclouded skies, the parched, arid miles of unclothed mesa, the clang and rattle of ore cars and the incessant grinding of quartz mills. Yes, it was decidedly pleasant to have a whole summer—if he wanted it—in which to go where he liked, do what he liked. One might do much worse, he reflected, than find some such spot as this and idle to one's heart's content. There would be trout, as like as not, in that stony brook back there; sunfish, probably, in that lazy stream crossing the open meadow yonder. It would be jolly to try one's luck on a day like this; jolly to lie back on the green bank with a rod beside one and watch the big white clouds sail across the wide blue of the sky. It would seem almost like being a boy again!
Presently, when, after passing through the sleepy village of Tottingham, the road crossed a