“Gail and Doctor Boyd must sing for you,” announced Aunt Grace, in whom there was a trace of wistfulness. “They do sing so beautifully together!”
“I’m afraid I can’t to-night,” refused Gail hastily, and indeed she had good reason why her voice should not have its firm and true quality just now. “I will accompany Doctor Boyd, though, with pleasure,” and she started toward the music room.
The Reverend Smith Boyd was cut off from the ordinary lies about not being in good voice, and suffering from a slight cold, and such things. He hesitated a moment, and then he followed.
The Bedouin Love Song, the Garden of Sleep, and others of the solo repertoire which Gail had selected for him, came pulsing out of the music room, first hesitantly, and then with more strength, as the friendly nearness between himself and the accompanist became better established.
Presently, the listeners in the library noticed an unusual pause between the songs, a low voiced discussion, and then, the two perfectly blended voices rose in a harmony so perfect that there was moisture in the eyes of two of the ladies present.
Allison, springing forward with a jerk as he left Jim Sargent’s house, headed his long, low runabout up the Avenue. He raced into the Park, and glanced up at the lookout house as he sped on past; but it was only a fleeting look. He needed no reminder of Gail, and he scarcely noticed that he was following the same road which they had so often taken together. His only impulse had been to drive somewhere at top speed, and he had automatically chosen this path. The night was damp and chill, but his evening top coat was open, revealing the white glint of his shirt front. He did not seem to mind. As he passed Roseleaf Inn, he slowed down. The roadhouse may have given him, and probably did, another reminder of Gail, in such a manner as to concrete him into logical thought; for he slowed down the terrific speed which had been the accompaniment of his unreasoning emotion. The driving required too much concentration for specific thought.
With this turning of his mental attitude, even the slow running of the car seemed to disturb him, and, about half a mile past Roseleaf Inn, he came slowly to a stop, sitting at the wheel, with his head bent slightly forward, and staring at the spot where the roadway had ceased to roll beneath his machine. Presently he became aware of the cold, and running his car to the side of the road, he stepped out, and, buttoning his coat around him, crossed a fence and walked through the narrow strip of trees to the river bank, where he stood for a moment looking out upon the misty Hudson, sparkling under the moonlight. He began to walk up and down the bank presently, the turf sinking spongily under his feet, and it was noticeable that his pace grew more and more rapid, until he was striding at a furious rate of speed.