Читать книгу: «The Strollers», страница 23

“Don’t let me detain you longer, then, I beg.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. He’s so delightfully jealous when I fail to appear on the stroke of the clock! Always imagines I am in some misch–but I mustn’t tell tales out of school! So glad to have met you! Come and see me–do!”

And Susan with friendly hand-clasp and lingering look, tore herself away, the carnival lightness in her feet and the carnival laughter in her eyes.

“He is in love with her still,” she thought, “or he wouldn’t have acted so indifferent!” Her mind reverted to a cold little message she had received from Constance. “And to think he was innocent after all!” she continued, mentally reviewing the contents of the letter in which Constance had related the conversation with the lawyer. “I don’t believe he’ll call on her now, though, after–Well, why shouldn’t I have told him what every one is talking about? Why not, indeed?”

A toss of the head dismissed the matter and any doubts pertaining thereto, while her thoughts flew from past to present, as a fortress on a car, its occupants armed with pellets of festival conflict, drove by amid peals of laughter. Absorbed in this scene of merriment, Susan forgot her haste, and kept her apostolic half waiting at the rendezvous with the patience of a Jacob tarrying for a Rachel. But when she did finally appear, with hat not perfectly poised, her hair in a pretty disarray, she looked so waywardly charming, he forgave her on the spot, and the lamb led the stern shepherd with a crook from Eve’s apple tree.

“As thin as a lath and gaunt as a ghost!” repeated Saint-Prosper, as the fair penitent vanished in a whirl of gaiety. “Susan always was frank.”

Smiling somewhat bitterly, he paused long enough to light a cigar, but it went out in his fingers as he strolled mechanically toward the wharves, through the gardens of a familiar square, where the wheezing of the distant steamers and the echoes of the cathedral clock marked the hours of pleasure or pain to-day as it had tolled them off yesterday. Beyond the pale of the orange trees with their golden wealth, the drays were rumbling in the streets and there were the same signs of busy traffic–for the carnival had not yet become a legal holiday–that he had observed when the strollers had reached the city and made their way to the St. Charles. He saw her anew, pale and thoughtful, leaning on the rail of the steamer looking toward the city, where events, undreamed of, were to follow thick and fast. He saw her, a slender figure, earnest, self-possessed, enter the city gates, unheralded, unknown. He saw her as he had known her in the wilderness–not as fancy might now depict her, the daughter of a marquis–a strolling player, and as such he loved best to think of her.

Arising out of his physical weakness and the period of inaction following the treaty of peace, he experienced a sudden homesickness for his native land; a desire to re-visit familiar scenes, to breathe the sweet air of the country, where his boyhood had been passed, to listen to the thunder of the boulevards, to watch the endless, sad-joyful processions.

Not far distant from the blossoming, redolent square was the office of the Trans-Atlantic Steamship Company, where a clerk, with a spray of jessamine in his coat, bent cordially toward Saint-Prosper as the latter entered, and, approaching the desk, inquired:

“The Dauphin is advertised to sail to-morrow for France?”

“Yes, sir; at twelve o’clock noon.”

“Book me for a berth. Ernest Saint-Prosper,” he added, in answer to the other’s questioning look.

“Very good, sir. Would you like some labels for your baggage? Where shall we send for it? The St. Charles? Very well, sir. Are you going to the tableaux to-night?” he continued, with hospitable interest in one whom he rightly conceived a stranger in the city. “They say it will be the fashionable event. Good-day.” As the prospective passenger paid for and received his ticket. “A pleasant voyage! The Dauphin is a new ship and should cross in three weeks–barring bad weather! Don’t forget the tableaux. Everybody will be there.”

The soldier did not reply; his heart had given a sudden throb at the clerk’s last words. Automatically he placed his ticket in his pocket, and randomly answered the employee’s further inquiries for instructions. He was not thinking of the Dauphin or her new engines, the forerunner of the modern quadruple-expansion arrangement, but through his brain rang the assurance: “Everybody will be there.” And all the way up the street, it repeated itself again and again.

CHAPTER IX
“COMUS’ MISTICK WITCHERIES”

That elusive, nocturnal company, “The Mistick Krewe of Comus,” had appeared–“Comus, deep skilled in all his mother’s witcheries”–and the dwellers in Phantasmagoria were joyfully numerous. More plentiful than at a modern spectacular performance, reveled gods, demons and fairies, while the children resembled a flight of masquerading butterflies. The ball at the theater, the Roman Veglioni, succeeded elaborate tableaux, the “Tartarus,” of the ancients, and “Paradise Lost,” of Milton, in which the “Krewe” impersonated Pluto and Proserpine, the fates, harpies and other characters of the representation. In gallery, dress-circle and parquet, the theater was crowded, the spectacle, one of dazzling toilets, many of them from the ateliers of the Parisian modistes; a wonderful evolution of Proserpine’s toga and the mortal robes of the immortal Fates. Picture followed picture: The expulsion from Paradise; the conference of the Gorgons, and the court of pandemonium, where gluttony, drunkenness, avarice and vanity were skilfully set forth in uncompromising colors.

Availing themselves of the open-house of the unknown “Krewe,” a composite host that vanished on the stroke of twelve, many of “Old Rough and Ready’s” retinue mingled with the gathering, their uniforms, well-worn, even shabby, unlike the spick and span regimentals from the costumier. With bronzed faces and the indubitable air of campaigns endured, they were the objects of lively interest to the fair maskers, nor were themselves indifferent to the complaisance of their entertainers. Hands, burned by the sun, looked blacker that night, against the white gowns of waists they clasped; bearded faces more grim visaged in contrast with delicate complexions; embroidery and brocade whirled around with faded uniforms; and dancing aigrettes waved above frayed epaulets and shoulder straps.

“Loog at ’im!” murmured a fille à la cassette, regarding one of these officers who, however, held aloof from the festivities; a well-built young man, but thin and worn, as though he, like his uniform, had seen service. “If he would only carry my trunk!” she laughed, relapsing into French and alluding to the small chest she bore under her arm.

“Or my little white lamb!” gaily added her companion, a shepherdess.

And they tripped by with sidelong looks and obvious challenge which the quarry of these sprightly huntresses of men either chose to disregard or was unconscious of, as he deliberately surveyed his surroundings with more curiosity than pleasure and absently listened to a mountebank from “The Belle’s Strategem.”

“Who’ll buy my nostrums?” cried the buffoon.

“What are they?” asked Folly, cantering near on a hobby horse.

“Different kinds for different people. Here’s a powder for ladies–to dispel the rage for intrigue. Here’s a pill for politicians–to settle bad consciences. Here’s an eye-water for jealous husbands–it thickens the visual membrane. Here’s something for the clergy–it eliminates windy discourses. Here’s an infusion for creditors–it creates resignation and teaches patience.”

“And what have you for lovers?”

“Nothing,” answered the clown; “love like fever and ague must run its course. Nostrums! Who’ll buy my nostrums?”

“Oh, I’m so glad I came!” enthusiastically exclaimed a tall, supple girl, laden with a mass of flowers.

“Isn’t it too bad, though, you can’t polka with some of the military gentlemen?” returned her companion who wore a toga and carried a lantern. “Mademoiselle Castiglione wouldn’t let you come, until I promised not to allow you out of my sight.”

“It was lovely of you to take me,” she said, “and I don’t mind about the military gentlemen.”

“My dear, if all women were like you, we poor civilians would not be relegated to the background! I wish, though, I had worn some other costume. This–ahem, dress!–has a tendency to get between my legs and disconcert my philosophical dignity. I can understand why Diogenes didn’t care about walking abroad. My only wonder is that everybody didn’t stay in his tub in those days. Don’t talk to me about the ‘noble Roman!’ Why, he wore skirts!”

“And Monsieur Intaglio lectured to us for an hour to-day about the wonderful drapery of the ancients!” laughed the girl. “The poetry of dress, he called it!”

“Then I prefer prose. Hello!”–pausing and raising his lantern, as they drew near the officer who had fallen under the observation of the fille à la cassette. “Colonel Saint-Prosper, or set me down for an ass–or Plato, which is the same thing!”

“Straws!” said the soldier, as the bard frankly lifted his mask and tilted it back over his forehead.

“Glad to see you!” continued the poet, extending his hand. “I haven’t run across you before since the night of the banquet; the début of Barnes’ company you remember? You must have left town shortly afterward. Returned this morning, of course! By the way, there’s one of your old friends here to-night.”

Saint-Prosper felt the color mount to his face, and even Straws noted the change. “Who is that?” asked the soldier, awkwardly.

“Mrs. Service–Miss Duran that was–now one of our most dashing–I should say, charitable, ladies. Plenty of men at Service’s church now. She’s dressed in Watteau-fashion to-night, so if you see any one skipping around, looking as though she had just stepped from the Embarkation for the Island of Venus, set her down for the minister’s pretty wife!”

“And the minister?” asked Saint-Prosper, mechanically.

“He brought her; he compromised on a Roundhead costume, himself! But we must be off. Au revoir; don’t be backward; the ladies are all military-mad. It may be a field of arms”–casting his glance over the assemblage of fashionably dressed ladies, with a quizzical smile–“but not hostile arms! Come, Celestina–Nydia, I mean!”

And Straws’ arm stole about the waist of his companion, as Saint-Prosper watched them disappearing in the throng of dancers. It was Celestina’s first ball, and after her long training at the Castiglione institute, she danced divinely. Evidently, too, she was reconciled to the warden’s edict, denying her the freedom of the ball-room, for she showed no disposition to escape from Straws’ watchful care. On the contrary, though her glance wandered to the wonders around her, they quickly returned to the philosopher with the lamp, as though she courted the restraint to which she was subjected. Something like a pang shot through the soldier’s breast as he followed the pair with his gaze; he seemed looking backward into a world of youth and pleasure, passed beyond recall.

“It is useless to deny it! I knew you when I first saw you!” exclaimed a familiar voice near by, and turning around sharply, the officer observed approaching a masked lady, graceful of figure and lacking nothing in the numerical strength of her escort. It was to her that these words were addressed by an agile man of medium stature who had apparently penetrated her disguise. The lady, who would have attracted attention anywhere by her bearing, wore a pardessus of white gauze, fitting close and bordered with a silver band; the sleeves, short; the skirt of white gauze and very ample, as the fashion of the day required; the feet shod in small white silk “bottines”; the hair in bands, ornamented with wild poppies. Altogether this costume was described by Phazma as “ravishing, the gown adorning the lady, and the lady the gown, her graces set forth against the sheen of voluminous satin folds, like those of some portrait by Sir Joshua or Gainsborough.”

“How could you expect any one not to know you?” continued the speaker, as this little coterie drew near, their masks a pretext for mystery. “You may impersonate, but you can not deceive.”

“That is a poor compliment, since you take me for an actress,” laughed the lady. An hilarious outburst from an ill-assorted cluster of maskers behind them drowned his reply, and the lady and her attendants passed on.

Saint-Prosper drew his breath sharply. “She is here, after all,” he said to himself.

“A nostrum for jilted beaux!” called out a mountebank, seeing him standing there, preoccupied, alone, at the same time tendering a pill as large as a plum. A punchinello jarred against him with: “Pardonnezmoi, pardie!” On the perfumed air the music swelled rapturously; a waltz, warm with the national life of Vienna; the swan song of Lanner! Softly, sweetly, breathed “Die Schönbrunner;” faster whirled the moving forms. Eyes flashed more brightly; little feet seemed born for dancing; cheeks, pale at midday, were flushed with excitement! Why doesn’t he dance, wondered the lady with the white lamb. Carnival comes but once a year; a mad, merry time; when gaiety should sweep all cares out of doors!

 
“Said Strephon to Chloe: ‘For a kiss,
 
 
 I’ll give thee the choice of my flock.’
Said Chloe to Strephon: ‘What bliss,
 
 
 If you’ll add to the gift a new smock,’”
 

hummed the lively nymph, as she tripped by.

 
“Said Chloe to Strephon: ‘For a kiss,
 
 
 I’ll return thee the choice of your flock.
Said Strephon to Chloe: ‘What bliss,
 
 
 With it I’ll buy Phyllis a new frock,’”
 

she concluded, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

A sudden distaste for the festal ferment, the laughter and merriment; a desire to escape from the very exuberance of high spirits and cheer led the soldier to make his way slowly from the ball-room to the balcony, where, although not removed from the echoes of liveliness within, he looked out upon the quietude of the night. Overhead stretched the sky, a measureless ocean, with here and there a silvery star like the light on a distant ship; an unfathomable sea of ether that beat down upon him. Radiant and serene, in the boundless calm of the heavens, the splendent lanterns seemed suspended on stationary craft peacefully rocked at anchor. Longings, suppressed through months of absence, once more found full sway; Susan’s words were recalled by the presence of the count.

Suddenly the song of “Die Schönbrunner” ceased within, and, as its pulsations became hushed, many of the dancers, an elate, buoyant throng, sought the balcony. Standing in the shadow near the entrance, aroused from a train of reflections by this abrupt exodus, the soldier saw among the other merry-makers, Constance and the count, who passed through the door, so near he could almost have touched her.

“Here she is,” said the count, as they approached an elderly lady, seated near the edge of the balcony. “Ah, Madam,” he continued to the latter, “if you would only use your good offices in my behalf! Miss Carew is cruelty itself.”

“Why, what has she done?” asked the good gentlewoman.

“Insisted upon deserting the ball-room!”

“In my day,” said the elderly ally of the nobleman, “you could not drag the young ladies from cotillion or minuet. And the men would stay till the dawn to toast them!”

“And I’ve no doubt, Madam, your name was often on their lips,” returned the count gallantly, who evidently believed in the Spanish proverb: “Woo the duenna, not the maid; then in love the game’s well played!”

The ally in his cause made some laughing response which the soldier did not hear. Himself unseen, Saint-Prosper bent his eyes upon the figure of the young girl, shadowy but obvious in the reflected light of the bright constellations. Even as he gazed, her hand removed the mask, revealing the face he knew so well. In the silence below, the fountain tinkled ever so loudly, as she stood, half-turned toward the garden, a silken head-covering around her shoulders; the head outlined without adornment, save the poppies in her hair.

Her presence recalled scenes of other days: the drive from the races, when her eyes had beamed so softly beneath the starry luster. Did she remember? He dared not hope so; he did not. To him, it brought, also, harsher memories; yet his mind was filled most with her beauty, which appeared to gloss over all else and hold him, a not impassive spectator, to the place where she was standing. She seemed again Juliet–the Juliet of inns and school-house stages–the Juliet he had known before she had come to New Orleans, whose genius had transformed the barren stage into a garden of her own creation.

And yet something made her different; an indefinable new quality appeared to rest upon her. He felt his heart beating faster; he was glad he had come; for the moment he forgot his jealousy in watching her, as with new wealth of perfume, the languid breeze stirred the tresses above her pallid, immovable features. But the expression of confidence with which the count was regarding her, although ostensibly devoting himself to her companion, renewed his inquietude.

Had she allowed herself to be drawn into a promised alliance with that titled roué? Involuntarily the soldier’s face grew hard and stern; the count’s tactics were so apparent–flattering attention to the elderly gentlewoman and a devoted, but reserved, bearing toward the young girl in which he would rely upon patience and perseverance for the consummation of his wishes. But certainly Constance did not exhibit marked preference for his society; on the contrary, she had hardly spoken to him since they had left the ball-room. Now clasping the iron railing of the balcony, she leaned farther out; the flowers of the vine, clambering up one of the supports, swayed gently around her, and she started at the moist caress on her bare arm.

“It is cold here,” she said, drawing back.

“Allow me–your wrap!” exclaimed the count, springing to her side with great solicitude.

But she adjusted the garment without his assistance.

“You must be careful of your health–for the sake of your friends!” Accompanying the words with a significant glance.

“The count is right!” interposed the elderly gentlewoman. “As he usually is!” she added, laughing.

“Oh, Madam!” he said, bowing. “Miss Carew does not agree with you, I am sure?” Turning to the girl.

“I haven’t given the matter any thought,” she replied, coldly. She shivered slightly, nervously, and looked around.

At that moment the lights were turned on in the garden–another surprise arranged by the Mistick Krewe!–illuminating trees and shrubbery, and casting a sudden glare upon the balcony.

“Bravo!” said the count. “It’s like a fête-champêtre! And hear the mandolins! Tra-la-la-la-la! Why, what is it?”

She had given a sudden cry and stood staring toward the right at the back of the balcony. Within, the orchestra once more began to play, and, as the strains of music were wafted to them, a host of masqueraders started toward the ball-room. When the inflow of merry-makers had ceased, bewildered, trembling, she looked with blanched face toward the spot where the soldier had been standing, but he was gone.

At that moment the cathedral clock began to strike–twelve times it sounded, and, at the last stroke, the Mistick Krewe, one by one began to disappear, vanishing as mysteriously as they had come. Pluto, Proserpine, the Fates, fairies and harpies; Satan, Beelzebub; the dwellers in pandemonium; the aids to appetite–all took their quick departure, leaving the musicians and the guests of the evening, including the visiting military, to their own pleasures and devices. The first carnival had come to a close.

CHAPTER X
CONSTANCE AND THE SOLDIER

“Are you the clerk?” A well-modulated voice; a silvery crown of hair leaning over the counter of the St. Charles; blue eyes, lighted with unobtrusive inquiry.

The small, quiet-looking man addressed glanced up. “No,” he said; “I am the proprietor. This”–waving his hand to a resplendent-appearing person–“is the clerk.”

Whereupon the be-diamonded individual indicated (about whom an entire chapter has been written by an observing English traveler!) came forward leisurely; a Brummell in attire; an Aristarchus for taste! Since his period–or reign–there have been many imitators; but he was the first; indeed, created the office, and is deserving of a permanent place in American annals. “His formality just bordered on stiffness,” wrote the interested Briton, as though he were studying some new example of the human species; “his conversation was elegant, but pointed, as he was gifted with a cultured economy of language. He accomplished by inflection what many people can only attain through volubility.”

“Yes?” he interrogatively remarked, gazing down at the caller in the present instance.

“Is Colonel Saint-Prosper stopping here?”

“Yes.”

“Send this card to his room.”

“Yes?” Doubtfully.

“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?”

“There was a military banquet last night,” interposed the quiet, little man. “Patriotism bubbled over until morning.”

“Ah, yes,” commented Culver–for it was he–“fought their battles over again! Some of them in the hospital to-day! Well, well, they suffered in a glorious cause, toasting the president, and the army, and the flag, and the girls they left behind them! I read the account of it in the papers this morning. Grand speech of the bishop; glorious response of ‘Old Rough and Ready’! You are right to protect sleeping heroes, but I’m afraid I must run the guard, as my business is urgent.”

A few moments later the lawyer, breathing heavily, followed a colored lad down a crimson-carpeted corridor, pausing before a door upon which his guide knocked vigorously and then vanished.

“Colonel Saint-Prosper?” said the lawyer, as he obeyed the voice within and entered the room, where a tall young man in civilian attire was engaged in packing a small trunk. “One moment, pray–let me catch my breath. That lad accomplished the ascent two steps at a time, and, I fear, the spectacle stimulated me to unusual expedition. We’re apt to forget we are old and can’t keep up with boys and monkeys!”

During this somewhat playful introduction the attorney was studying the occupant of the room with keen, bright gaze; a glance which, without being offensive, was sufficiently penetrating and comprehensive to convey a definite impression of the other’s face and figure. The soldier returned his visitor’s look deliberately, but with no surprise.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said.

Culver availed himself of the invitation. “I am not disturbing you? I have long known of you, although this is our first meeting.”

“You have then the advantage of me,” returned Saint-Prosper, “for I–”

“You never heard of me?” laughed the lawyer. “Exactly! We attorneys are always getting our fingers in every one’s affairs! I am acquainted with you, as it were, from the cradle to the–present!”

“I am unexpectedly honored!” remarked the listener, satirically.

“First, I knew you through the Marquis de Ligne.”

Saint-Prosper started and regarded his visitor more closely.

“I was the humble instrument of making a fortune for you; it was also my lot to draw up the papers depriving you of the same!” Culver laughed amiably. “‘Oft expectation fails, where most it promises.’ Pardon my levity! There were two wills; the first, in your favor; the last, in his daughter’s. I presume”–with a sudden, sharp look–“you have no intention of contesting the final disposition? The paternity of the child is established beyond doubt.”

Artful Culver was not by any means so sure in his own mind that, if the other were disposed to make trouble, the legal proofs of Constance’s identity would be so easily forthcoming. Barnes was dead; her mother had passed away many years before; the child had been born in London–where?–the marquis’ rationality, just before his demise, was a debatable question. In fact, since he had learned Saint-Prosper was in the city, the attorney’s mind had been soaring among a cloud of vague possibilities, and now, regarding his companion with a most kindly, ingratiating smile, he added:

“Besides, when the marquis took you as a child into his household, there were, I understood, no legal papers drawn!”

“I don’t see what your visit portends,” said Saint-Prosper, “unless there is some other matter?”

“Just so,” returned Culver, his doubts vanishing. “There was a small matter–a slight commission. Miss Carew requested me to hand you this message.” The visitor now detected a marked change in the soldier’s imperturbable bearing, as the latter took the envelope which the attorney offered him. “The young lady saw you at the Mistick Krewe ball last night, and, recognizing an old friend,”–with a slight accent–“pressed me into her service. And now, having completed my errand, I will wish you good-morning!” And the lawyer briskly departed.

The young man’s hand trembled as he tore open the envelope, but he surveyed the contents of the brief message with tolerable firmness.

“Colonel Saint-Prosper: Will you kindly call this morning to see me?

Constance Carew.”

That was all; nothing more, save the address and the date! How long he remained staring at it with mingled feelings he never knew, but finally with a start, looked at his watch, thoughtfully regarded the half-filled trunk, donned his coat and left the room. Several fellow-officers, the first of the sluggards to appear, spoke to him as he crossed the hall below, but what they said or what he replied he could not afterward remember. Some one detained him at the steps, a gentleman with a longing for juleps, but finally he found himself in a carriage, driving somewhere, presumably to the address given in the letter. How long the drive seemed, and yet when the carriage finally stopped and he had paid his fare, he mentally determined it had been too short! The driver gazed in surprise after the gentleman, who did not wait for his change, but, forbearing injudicious comment, gathered up the reins and drove to the nearest café.

From the carriage the house was some distance, and yet it appeared very near the gate to the soldier, who dimly realized he was passing through a garden where were many flowering plants and where the air was unusually heavy with perfume. Many other details, the construction of the house, the size of the verandas, passed without attracting his notice. Soon, however, he was seated in a great room, an apartment of old-fashioned height and breadth. He felt his heart beating fast. How long did he sit there? No inconsiderable period, surely. He examined everything carefully, without carrying a definite impression of anything to his mind. The large, carved mirror; the quaint decoration of walls and frieze; the soft colors of the rug that covered the floor; the hundred and one odd little things in the cabinet near the chair where he was seated, trifles in ivory, old silver and china; the pictures, a Van Dyke, Claude, and a few modern masters. After this interminable, but confused scrutiny of inanimate things, his heart beat faster still, as a tall figure, robed in white, entered the room!

He rose; they regarded each other with mutual constraint; her face had a bit of color, like the tinge of a rose-leaf; her eyes seemed agitated beneath the sweeping lashes, a sentiment in ill accord with the stateliness of her presence. She gave him her hand; he held it he knew not how long; probably, for the conventional moment. They found themselves, each in a chair; at ease, yet not at ease; he studying her face, furtively, yet eagerly; she turning in her fancy the first strong impression of how gaunt and haggard were his features, bearing the traces of recent illness!

“I am glad you came,” she began, their eyes meeting once more.

He bowed. “Mr. Culver brought me your message.”

“I heard that you–it was reported you were dead.”

“I was wounded; that was all, and soon took to the field again.”

The suspense that fell between them was oppressive.

“You should have let your friends–know,” she said at length.

He looked at her curiously, vivid memories of their last interview recurring to him. Indecisively she interlaced her fingers, and he, watching them, wondered why she had sent for him. Suddenly she rose, walked to the window, and stood, looking out. He, sitting in the dim light, in a maze of uncertainty, was vaguely conscious of her figure outlined against the brightness without; of the waving, yellow flowers of the vines on the veranda.

“It is long since we have met,” he said, awkwardly.

She did not answer. Had she heard? Yet he did not resent her silence. If he had ever felt anger for her it had all vanished now. He was only conscious of regarding her more attentively, as she still remained, gazing out into the sunlit garden.

“Much has happened since I saw you,” he continued.

She turned; her eyes were moist; her hand trembled a little against her dress, but she held her head proudly, as she had always done, and it was the aspect of this weakness set against strength that appealed swiftly to him, softening his heart so that he longed to spring to her side.

“Yes, much!” she replied.

Was her voice tremulous, or was it but the thrill of his own heart which made it seem so?

“You have been here long?” she asked, still holding back what was on her mind or blindly endeavoring to approach the subject.

“Only since yesterday.”

“And you remain some time?”

“I am leaving to-day–for France.”

At that a touch of color left her face, or was it that a darkening shadow fell upon the house and garden, momentarily chastening the outlook?

“For France?” she repeated.

Her lips quivered. Something seemed to still the beating of his heart.

“Constance–what is it?” he half-whispered.

She stepped forward suddenly, her hands outstretched.

“I wronged you!” she cried. “I wronged you. I thought the disgrace was yours. Oh, do not speak!” she added, passionately. “I have suffered for it–and now, would you mind–please–leaving me?”

“You thought the disgrace was mine!” he repeated, slowly. “Not my”–he broke off abruptly. “And you suffered–for it?” he said, wonderingly. “Then you–” He arose quickly and approached her, a new expression transfiguring his bronzed and worn young face.