the first weeks of the new year passed rather drearily. christmas had been a day of disappointment for her, although she threw herself into the carefully planned festivities with a feverish gayety. the carys had come across the valley to see the tree, and before dinner-time every gift had found its way to the one it was intended for, except the big net stocking which the children had filled for the doctor. he had promised tim to come that morning; yet the day passed without him. he sent word that he was called over the mountain; yet, legitimate though the excuse was, rosamund became gayer than before—for anger always acted as a goad to her self-control.
after christmas his calls grew farther and farther apart; sometimes a week passed without his coming at all. when they met upon the road their greeting was cheerful enough—too cheerful! eleanor watched her, wondered, and said nothing. rosamund was aware that something new had come into her friend's life, and rejoiced, for eleanor fell into the way of wanting to go for the mail; or if any one else brought it, she would take the letter that was addressed to herself in a characteristic handwriting that rosamund knew, and ran off with it to read it alone. had it not been for grace's growing need of her, and for the new friendliness of the mountain people, rosamund would have deserted the brown house, for a time at least. but the increasing confidence of her neighbors was unmistakable; and she told herself that she would remain throughout the winter, if only to prove john ogilvie's forebodings wrong.
but all the while, as time passed, more and more, on her walks and in her own house at night, she was becoming haunted with that feeling of being watched and followed. she spoke of it to no one. grace alone, her most constant companion, might have offered some explanation; but joe tobet's trial was approaching, and grace was in no condition to be needlessly alarmed. mother cary was showing herself increasingly anxious about ogilvie; and the teething grandchild kept her away from home much of the time. so rosamund confided in no one; but especially whenever she was out alone, or towards twilight, she was possessed by the sense of a shadowy something watching, following, haunting her. it amounted to an obsession, a fear that was all the more terrifying because it could not be faced. she tried to persuade herself that it was a trick of overwrought nerves, a wild phantasy of the imagination; and the better to convince herself of that she laid little traps—sprinkling fresh snow over the path to the house, for one thing, only to find a man's footprints on it in the morning.
when the time came that she would wake in the night in horror, from a dream of something unseen creeping upon her out of the dark, she knew that she must somehow find and face the elusive presence, whatever it might be, or become utterly unnerved. moved by the impulse of a frightened creature at bay, she had tried to do so before, but in vain; now, however, in her determination she laid a plan which was more likely to succeed.
there were two ways from the brown house to the post-office; by the road it was a countryman's long mile, and until the leaves fell she had not discovered that there was a shorter way by one of the hidden paths worn by the mountaineers. this little path ran along beside the highway at times, though higher up on the mountain-side, so that anyone walking upon it could look down, unseen, on the road; now and again it cut across turns, through woods, often with sharp turnings to avoid some bowlder or fallen tree.
although at the thought of it her heart beat with something more closely related to fear than she cared to admit, rosamund determined to take the little frozen path, and when she felt the presence lurking back of her to turn, at one of the points where the path bent aside, and, her movements hidden by the nature of the path, to retrace her steps and face whatever was following her.
at first she thought the thing must in some ghostly way have divined her purpose; all the way to the summit she knew that she was unfollowed. but on the way back, scarcely had she turned into the path when her heart gave a leap. there was the sound, so detestably familiar of late, of a stealthy footstep, which stopped when hers did, and which came on, quietly, relentlessly, when she started forward again. nerving herself to courage, she walked quickly on until she came to a place where the path turned sharply; there for a moment or two she paused, to let the pursuer gain upon her, then quietly and quickly retraced her steps.
the ruse was successful. she could hear the footsteps come on, the man plainly unaware of her returning. suddenly she stepped a little out of the path and waited. the man came nearer, was opposite her—and with a cry, her hand on her heart, she faced—john ogilvie.
for a long minute they stared at each other. she could scarcely believe the evidence of her eyes, yet it was surely ogilvie. "is it you who have been following me?" she gasped.
his shoulders drooped as guiltily as a schoolboy's caught in mischief; he looked at her dumbly, wistfully.
"i—it—yes!" he stammered.
for a moment she could not speak, so amazed was she. when she did, he flushed deeply at the scorn in her voice, but at once grew pale again.
"has it amused you to frighten me?" she demanded.
he took off his cap, and ran his fingers through his hair in the old perturbed gesture. there was a pale intensity of yearning on his face, a dark gleam of hungering pain, something of the bewildered misery of the lost child, an agony of renunciation with none of that exaltation which makes renunciation beautiful. despite the sharp cold of the closing day he looked hot, disheveled, as one hard pressed. his breath came quickly and painfully, as if he had been running a race. every vestige of color left his face as he stood there, his look not faltering from hers.
"oh, how could you do it?" she cried, tears starting to her eyes.
"i didn't think you knew," he said, hoarsely.
"not know? not know!" she gave a little laugh that was half a sob. "i have gone in terror—for weeks!"
"i am sorry," was all he found strength to say; and it seemed as if the words could scarcely pass his lips.
in the sudden revulsion of feeling she was becoming shaken with anger. he saw that she misjudged him; but she had never seemed to him so beautiful as in her scorn and anger and resentment. the appeal of her beauty only added to his distress. the moment was as tense as that earlier one when their hearts had been disclosed; but now no one came to break the spell. instead, rosamund turned, and walked away from him.
he had believed, during these weeks, that he had schooled himself to silence and restraint; but she heard him call, hoarsely, chokingly,
"rosamund! i had to—know you were safe! i had to—see you!"
then, for her, the world threw off the horror that had befogged it for weeks, and once more opened to light and life. anger, resentment, doubt, all—all were swept away at his cry, were as if they had never existed. she heard the love in his voice, and with a little answering cry of her own she turned and ran toward him. shyness and restraint had no place in this new happiness.
in a moment she would have been in his arms, for they were opened toward her. but before she had quite reached him he threw them upward, across his face, as if to shut off the sight of her, and with a cry she could never forget turned and ran, stumbling down from the little path to the highway, crashing through the bushes, running, running, in the desperate haste of a man fleeing from temptation, over the frozen ruts, sometimes stumbling, almost falling, recovering, running still—running away from her.
she could never tell how she got back to the cottage, how she found her way to her own room through the blind agony of the hour. what stood between them she could not surmise; yet now she knew, beyond all doubt, that he loved her. his cry still rang in her ears. there might remain wonder, distress, sorrow, even separation; but doubt had been forever swept away.
somehow she got through the evening, and, later, slept. she awoke before dawn as if someone were calling; and, as in answer, she slipped from the bed and went to her window. she thrust her feet into her fur-lined bedroom slippers; the heavy coat she used for driving lay across a chair; she fastened it around her, and turned the full collar up about her bare white throat. the air was very cold, but so still that it held no sting. over the sleeping whiteness of the valley, the snowy steeps of the lower hillsides, the dark crests of the mountains, myriads of stars shone with a pale radiance more lovely far than moonlight. mother cary's lamp burned, small and clear, on the side of the opposite mountain, which at night seemed so like a huge crouching beast; little farmsteads in the valley and the nearer cottages were alike dark and slumbering patches of shadow. she watched the steady brilliance of a planet pass towards the horizon and sink over the mountain. a star fell. after a while, from somewhere far away, a cock crowed. the earth was waiting for the day.
then a subtle change began. the stars grew dim; the sky deepened its blue, and again slowly paled. the western mountains were faintly crowned with light, and under the base of those to the eastward shadows gathered more closely. again a cock called, and was answered from near at hand. over the eastern mountain tops an iridescent wave of color spread upward. so still was the air, so silent lay the earth, that it might have been the expectant hush of creation, the quiet of some new thing forming in the thought which gives love birth. dawn was there; and through the stillness something stirred, or dimly echoed; almost a pulse it seemed, or the first faint throbs of life. then gaining strength, or coming nearer, the sound came up to her more clearly. she knew where the road lay, white on white; along its winding lift something was moving. surely the sound came from there! nearer, more clearly, beat upon beat, she heard it. at last she made out the form, and watched it with straining eyes and heart that yearned toward it.
from some night errand of ministration his old white mare was wearily bringing him homeward.
