CHAPTER XII

ADVENTURE

It was late afternoon when Helen came down from her room. She had
regained her calm. The Judge had gone about his affairs, her aunt was
deep in her siesta, the Mexican woman was bustling about in the kitchen.
Refusing this kindly soul's offer of food, she walked listlessly into
the library and sank into a huge chair. Spring was well advanced, yet
there was an open fire. Elbows upon the arms of her chair, hands clasped
under her chin, she turned unseeing eyes upon the flickering flames.
Motionless, barely breathing, she was a picture of hopeless grief.

Yet her thoughts were active. One after another the swift-moving events
of the night before came to her--a night of delightful happenings and
torturing surprises. She recalled that the crowd had been unusually gay,
but that Stephen had been unusually quiet and absorbed. She remembered
the games, and the story-telling, and the toasting of marshmallows in
the grate. But over against these simple pleasures there had been
Stephen, entering into the gaiety only because he must, now forcing a
smile, now drawing back within himself, until a chorus of laughter would
again force him to smile. Yet she had understood, and she had excused
him. She had thought him resigned and content to be merely one of the
crowd. And then had come that opportunity which evidently he had sought.
It had come as a surprise. But with it had come also a sudden desire to
be alone with him, and to impress upon him her convictions. So they had
gone out into the moonlight, to the corral fence, and to Pat, where she
had endeavored to make everything clear. And then their return, and the
departure of her guests, and his lingering on the porch, and his
decision to go away, to leave her for ever. He hadn't put it in just
that way! But that was what he was doing--that was what he had done. He
had gone from her for ever.

The thought hurt. It hurt because she knew what part she had taken in
it. She knew that she herself had sent him away. And when he had left
her she knew, as she knew now, that in her heart she did not want it.
For she liked him--liked his society. She liked his care-free manner,
his whimsical outlook upon her country, his many natural talents--his
playing, and the naivete of his singing, while he often admitted that
his voice hurt him, and so must hurt others. No, she had not wanted him
to go away. And somehow it had never occurred to her that he would go
f