Leronde stood for a moment watching his friends excitedly; and then, as
Pacey moved towards the door, he sprang before it.
"No, no!" he cried; "you two shall not quarrel. I will not see it.
You, my two artist friends who took pity on me when I fly--I, a
communard--for my life from Paris. You, Pacie, who say I am brother of
the crayon, and help me to sell to the dealaire; you, Dale, dear friend,
who say, `Come, ole boy, and here is papaire and tobacco for cigarette,'
and at times the dinner and the bock of biere, and sometimes wine--you
shake hands, both of you. I, Alexis Leronde, say you muss."
"Silence!" roared Pacey. "Whoever heard of good coming of French
mediation?"
"Be quiet, Leronde," cried Armstrong firmly. "Joe, old fellow, let me--
a word--explain."
"Explain?" growled Pacey, as the young Parisian shrugged his shoulders
and stood aside to begin rolling up a cigarette with his thin deft
fingers.
"Stop, Joe!" cried Armstrong, "you shall not go. The letter is some
request about the picture--for another artist to finish it. Here, read
it, and satisfy yourself."
He tore open the scented missive, glanced at it, and was about to hand
it over to his friend; but a few words caught his eye, and he crushed
the paper in his hand, to stand flushed and frowning before his friend.
"All right: I see," said the latter, with a bitter, contemptuous laugh.
"We're a paltry, weak lot, we men. Poor little daughter of the stars
and stripes across the herring-pond! I'm sorry, for I did think I could
believe your word."
"Dear boys--ole men!" cried Leronde, advancing once more to play
mediator.
"Shut up!" roared Pacey, so fiercely that the young Frenchman frowned,
folded his arms across his chest, and puffed out a cloud of smoke in
defiance.
"Joe, I swear--"
"Thank you," said Pacey ironically. "I can do enough of that as I go
home;" and, swinging open the door, he strode out and went downstairs,
whistling loudly the last popular music-hall air.
"Aha! he flies," cried Leronde, biting through his cigarette, the
lighted end falling to the floor, while he ground up the other between
his teeth. "I go down. He insult me--he insult you, my dear friend. I
pull his nose on ze door mat, and say damn."
"Be quiet, lad!" cried Armstrong fiercely. "It is nothing to do with
you. It is my affair."
"Yes, I understand, dear ole man," said Leronde, placing his fingers to
his lips, and nodding his head a great deal, while Armstrong stood
dreamy and thoughtful, frowning, as if undecided what to do. "I know I
am French--man of the whole world, my friend. I love the big Pacie. So
good, so noble, but he is not young and handsome. The lady, she
prefaire my other good friend. What marvel? And the good Pacie is
jealous."
"No, no; you do not understand."
"But, yes. Cherchez la femme! It is so always. They make all the
mischief in the great world, but we love them always the same."
"I tell you that you do not understand," cried Armstrong angrily.
"Well, no; but enough, my friend. Ah, there is so much in a lettaire
that is perfumed. I do not like it; you two are such good friends--my
best friends; you, the American, he, the big honest Jean Bull. I do not
like you to fight, but there, what is it?--a meeting for the honour in
Hyde Park, a few minutes wiz the small sword, a scratch, and then you
embrace, and we go to the dejeuner better friends than before. You are
silent. I will make another cigarette."
"I was thinking," said Dale slowly.
"What--you fear to ask me to be your second? Be of good courage, my
friend. I will bear your cartel of defiance, and ask him who is his
friend."
"Bah!" ejaculated Dale, so roughly that Leronde frowned. "There, don't
take any notice of me, old fellow," he cried. "Sit down and smoke. You
will excuse me."
Leronde bowed, and Armstrong hurried into his inner room, where he
smoothed out the note, and read half aloud and in a disconnected way:--
"_How can you stay away--those long weary weeks--my unhappy state--force
me to write humbly--appealingly--my wretched thoughts--Lady Grayson--her
double looks of triumph over me--will not believe it of you--could not
be so base for such a heartless woman as that--heartbroken--my first and
only love--won from me my shameless avowal--not shameless--a love as
true as ever given--for you so good and noble. In despair--no rest but
in the grave--forgive your coldness. Come back to me or I shall die--
die now when hope, love, and joy are before me. You must--you shall--I
pray by all that is true and manly in your nature--or in my mad
recklessness and despair I shall cast consequences to the winds and come
to you_."
Dale crushed up the letter once again, and as he stood frowning and
thoughtful, he struck a match, lit the paper, and held it in his hand
till it had completely burned out, scorching his hand the while. Then,
going to the window, he blew the tinder out and saw it fall.
"The ashes of a dead love," he muttered; and then quickly, "No, it was
not love. The mad fancy of the moment. There, it is all over. Poor
woman! if all she says is honest truth, she must fight it down, and
forgive me if I have been to blame. Yes; some day I can tell her. She
will not forgive me, for there is nothing to forgive. Poor little
woman! Ah, if the one who loves us could see and know all--the life,
the thoughts of the wisest and best man who ever breathed! Nature, you
are a hard mistress. Well, that is over; but poor old Joe! He will
find out the truth, though, and ask my pardon. Everything comes to the
man who waits."
He crossed to a desk lying on a table by his bed, opened it, took out a
photograph, and gazed at it for a few moments before replacing it with a
sigh.
"You can be at rest, little one. Surely I am strong enough to keep my
word."
Then he started and bit his lip, for a hot flush came to his temples as
the last words in the letter he had burned rose before him: "_cast
consequences to the winds and come to you_."
He shivered at the idea, as for the moment he saw the beautiful,
passionate woman standing before him with her pleading eyes and
outstretched hands.
"No!" he cried aloud, "she would not go to the man who treats her with
silence and--"
"Did you call me, mon ami?" said a voice at the door.
"No, old fellow; I'm coming," cried Dale; and then to himself, as one
who has mastered self. "That is all past and gone--in ashes to the
winds. Now for work."