CHAPTER XXXIX
IN CENTRAL PARK
Johnnie burst into the kitchen beaming. "We're gonna p'int for thehills, Kitty. Clay he's had a letter callin' him home."
"When are you going?"
"Thursday. Ain't that great?"
She nodded, absently. Her mind was on another tack already. "Johnnie,I'm going to ask Miss Whitford here for dinner to-night."
"Say, you ce'tainly get the best notions, honeybug," he shouted.
"Do you think she'll come?"
"Sure she'll come."
"I'll fix up the bestest dinner ever was, and maybe--"
Her conclusion wandered off into the realm of unvoiced hopes, but herhusband knew what it was as well as it she had phrased it.
When Clay came home that evening he stopped abruptly at the door. Thelady of his dreams was setting the table in the dining-room andchatting gayly with an invisible Kitty in the kitchen. Johnnie washovering about her explaining some snapshots of Clay he had gathered.
"Tha's the ol' horn-toad winnin' the ropin' championship at Tucson. Hesure stepped some that day," the Runt boasted.
The delicate fragrance of the girl's personality went to Clay's headlike wine as he stepped forward and shook hands. To see her engaged inthis intimate household task at his own table quickened his pulse andsent a glow through him.
"You didn't know you had invited me to dinner, did you?" she said,little flags a-flutter in her cheeks.
They had a gay dinner, and afterward a pleasant hour before Clay tookher home.
Neither of them was in a hurry. They walked through Central Park inthe kindly darkness, each acutely sensitive to the other's presence.
Her gayety and piquancy had given place to a gentle shyness. Clay letthe burden of conversation fall upon her. He knew that he had come tohis hour of hours and his soul was wrapped in gravity.
She had never before known a man like him, a personality so pungent, sodynamic. He was master of himself. He ran a clean race. None of hisenergy was wasted in futile dissipation. One could not escape from hisstrength, and she had already discovered that she did not want toescape it. If she gave herself to him, it might be for her happinessor it might not. She must take her chance of that. But it had come toher that a woman's joy is to follow her heart--and her heart answered"Here" when he called.
She too sensed what was coming, and the sex instinct in her was ontiptoe in flight. She was throbbing with excitement. Her whole beinglonged to hear what he had to tell her. Yet she dodged for a way ofescape. Silences were too significant, too full-pulsed. She madeherself talk. It did not much matter about what.
"Why didn't you tell us that it was Mr. Bromfield who struck down thatman Collins? Why did you let us think you did it?" she queried.
"Well, folks in New York don't know me. What was the use of gettin'him in bad?"
"You know that wasn't the reason. You did it because--" She stoppedin the midst of the sentence. It had occurred to her that this subjectwas more dangerous even than silence.
"I did it because he was the man you were goin' to marry," he said.
They moved side by side through the shadows. In the faint light hecould make out the fine line of her exquisite throat. After a momentshe spoke. "You're a good friend, Clay. It was a big thing to do. Idon't know anybody else except Dad that would have done it for me."
"You don't know anybody else that loves you as much as I do."
It was out at last, quietly and without any dramatics. A flash of softeyes darted at him, then veiled the shining tenderness beneath longlashes. She paced a little faster, chin up, nerves taut.
"I've had an attack of common sense," he went on, and in his voice wasa strength both audacious and patient. "I thought at first I couldn'thope to win you because of your fortune and what it had done for you.Even when I knew you liked me I felt it wouldn't be fair for me to askyou. I couldn't offer you the advantages you'd had. But I've changedmy mind. I've been watching what money does to yore friends. It makesthem soft. They flutter around like butterflies. They're paupers--agood many of them--because they don't pay their way. A man's a trampif he doesn't saw wood for his breakfast. I don't want you to get likethat, and if you stay here long enough you sure will. It's in my heartthat if you'll come with me we'll live."
In the darkness she made a rustling movement toward him. A little sobwelled up in her throat as her hands lifted to him. "Oh, Clay! I'vefought against it. I didn't want to, but--I love you. Oh, I do loveyou!"
He took her lissom young body in his arms. Her lips lifted to his.
Presently they walked forward slowly. Clay had never seen her morelovely and radiant, though tears still clung to the outskirts of herjoy.
"We're going to live--oh, every how!" she cried to the stars, herlover's hand in hers.