The Messengers | Page 5

though I do not care--I WANT to care.
Ainsley caught at her hand and, to the delight of the crew of a passing
tug-boat, kissed it rapturously. His face was radiant. The fact of parting
from her had caused him real suffering, had marked his face with hard
lines. Now, hope and happiness smoothed them away and his eyes

shone with his love for her. He was trembling, laughing, jubilant.
"And if you should!" he begged. "How soon will I know? You will
cable," he commanded. "You will cable 'Come,' and the same hour I'll
start toward you. I'll go home now," he cried, "and pack!"
The girl drew away. Already she regretted the admission she had made.
In fairness and in kindness to him she tried to regain the position she
had abandoned.
"But a change like that," she pleaded, "might not come for years, may
never come!" To recover herself, to make the words she had uttered
seem less serious, she spoke quickly and lightly.
"And how could I CABLE such a thing!" she protested. "It would be
far too sacred, too precious. You should be able to FEEL that the
change has come."
"I suppose I should," assented Ainsley, doubtfully; "but it's a long way
across two oceans. It would be safer if you'd promise to use the cable.
Just one word: 'Come.'"
The girl shook her head and frowned.
"If you can't feel that the woman you love loves you, even across the
world, you cannot love her very deeply."
"I don't have to answer that!" said Ainsley.
"I will send you a sign," continued the girl, hastily; "a secret wireless
message. It shall be a test. If you love me you will read it at once. You
will know the instant you see it that it comes from me. No one else will
be able to read it; but if you love me, you will know that I love you.
Whether she spoke in metaphor or in fact, whether she was "playing for
time," or whether in her heart she already intended to soon reward him
with a message of glad tidings, Ainsley could not decide. And even as
he begged her to enlighten him the last whistle blew, and a determined
officer ordered him to the ship's side.
"Just as in everything that is beautiful," he whispered eagerly, "I always
see something of you, so now in everything wonderful I will read your
message. But," he persisted, "how shall I be SURE?"
The last bag of mail had shot into the hold, the most reluctant of the
visitors were being hustled down the last remaining gangplank.
Ainsley's state was desperate.
"Will it be in symbol, or in cipher?" he demanded. "Must I read it in the
sky, or will you hide it in a letter, or--where? Help me! Give me just a

hint!"
The girl shook her head.
"You will read it--in your heart," she said.
From the end of the wharf Ainsley watched the funnels of the ship
disappear in the haze of the lower bay. His heart was sore and heavy,
but in it there was still room for righteous indignation. "Read it in my
heart!" he protested. "How the devil can I read it in my heart? I want to
read it PRINTED in a cablegram."
Because he had always understood that young men in love found solace
for their misery in solitude and in communion with nature, he at once
drove his car to Lone Lake. But his misery was quite genuine, and the
emptiness of the brick house only served to increase his loneliness. He
had built the house for her, though she had never visited it, and was
associated with it only through the somewhat indefinite medium of the
telephone box. But in New York they had been much together. And
Ainsley quickly decided that in revisiting those places where he had
been happy in her company he would derive from the recollection some
melancholy consolation. He accordingly raced back through the night
to the city; nor did he halt until he was at the door of her house. She
had left it only that morning, and though it was locked in darkness, it
still spoke of her. At least it seemed to bring her nearer to him than
when he was listening to the frogs in the lake, and crushing his way
through the pines.
He was not hungry, but he went to a restaurant where, when he was
host, she had often been the honored guest, and he pretended they were
at supper together and without a chaperon. Either the illusion, or the
supper cheered him, for he was encouraged to go on to his club. There
in the library, with the aid of an atlas, he worked