“Never,” answered Andrew passionately. “She is just beginning to lose some of her sensitiveness among us and this is the worst of all the things she has felt were between her and her people. It is the only thing he covered and hid from her. I’ll never tell her—I’ll go—and she will forget!” In his voice there was the note of finality that is unmistakable from man to man. He turned toward his room as he finished speaking.
“Then, boy,” said David as he held him back for a second in the bend of his arm, a tenderness in voice and clasp, “go if you must; but we’ve three days yet. The gods can get mighty busy in that many hours if they pull on a woman’s side—which they always do. Good night!”
LOVE’S HOME AND ANDREW SEVIER
And the Sabbath quiet which had descended on the frost-jeweled city the morning after the hunt found the Buchanan household still deep in close-shuttered sleep. Their fatigue demanded and was having its way in the processes of recuperation and they all slept on serenely.
Only Caroline Darrah was astir with the first deep notes of the early morning bells. Her awaking had come with a rush of pure, bubbling, unalloyed joy which turned her cheeks the hue of the rose, starred her eyes and melted her lips into heavenly curves. In her exquisite innocence it never dawned upon her that the moments spent in Andrew’s arms under the winter moon were any but those of rapturous betrothal and her love had flowered in confident happiness. It was well that she caught across the distance no hint of the battle that was being waged in the heart of Andrew Sevier, for the man in him fought (for her) with what he deemed his honor, almost to the death—but not quite, for some men hold as honor that which is strong sinewed with self-control, red blooded with courage, infiltrated with pride and ruthlessly cruel.
And so Caroline hummed David’s little serenade to herself as she dressed without Annette’s assistance and smiled at her own radiance reflected at her from her mirrors. She had just completed a most ravishing church toilet when she heard the major’s door close softly and she knew that now she would find him before his logs awaiting breakfast.
She blushed another tone more rosy and her eyes grew shy at the very thought of meeting his keen eyes that always quizzed her with such delight after one of her initiations into the sports or gaieties of this new country. But assuming her courage with her prayer-book, she softly descended the stairs, crossed the hall and stood beside his chair with a laugh of greeting.
“Well,” he demanded delightedly though in a guarded tone with a glance up as if at Mrs. Matilda’s and Phoebe’s closed doors, “did you catch your possum?”
“Yes—that is—no! I didn’t, but somebody did I think,” she answered with delicious confusion in both tone and appearance.