NEWS OF THE WANDERER.
Dog-days had come, and on one of the days when the dogstar rose and set
most persistently with the sun Miss Gastonguay was strolling toward the
avenue gates.
The day had been too hot to walk, too hot to ride. Now at approaching
evening she felt restless, and looking searchingly at the road wished
that Derrice or her now frequent visitor, Captain White, would come to
see her.
Their well-known figures were not in sight. Only a young man on a
bicycle was coming down the road. He was barely moving, and, with
a thought of the heat of the evening, Miss Gastonguay murmured a
listless, "Simpleton."
He was the first bicyclist that she had seen for three days and, as he
drew near, she examined him curiously.
There was something familiar about his appearance, yet for a few
minutes she was puzzled. Where had she seen before the straight figure
in the smart knickerbocker suit,--a figure so straight and so lean
that in a girl it would be called "willowy."
Ah, she knew now. The pale face, too pale for a habitual bicyclist,
gave her the needed suggestion.
"Young man, your way lies there," she said, pointing to the road when
he dismounted and approached her, cap in hand.
"Not for a minute, if you please," he said, taking a small piece of
paper from his pocket.
She refused to touch it, until he said, impatiently, "It's a message
from your brother. He's dying, and I haven't time to make hay."
She took it at this, but returned it immediately. "Have I eyes like
microscopes that I can read these scraggy lines? Why didn't he send me
a proper letter?"
"It's for your sake it's small," replied the young man, with a covert
sneer, "I might have had to make my supper off it, if I'd been
overhauled."
A sickening dread came over Miss Gastonguay, and she averted her head
with an imperious, "Read it to me."
He ran glibly over the words, "'My dear Jane--if I may call you so, but
my mind is not on small matters.--I have come to the end of my rope.
Let me say what I have to say and be done. I have about four weeks to
live, possibly three,--it does not matter. In view of this, let the
dead past bury itself. I want to see you, but especially my girl. I
cannot die without it, yet the hounds are on my track. I have been
dragging myself from place to place, but the chase will be over after
I see you both. This is my only desire,--to see you, then to bestow
myself in some safe place.'"
Miss Gastonguay interrupted the reading, "What does he mean by a safe
place?"
"I don't know,--that river, I dare say."
"Go on," she said, sternly.
"'I must come soon or I cannot come at all. Everything is misty and
faded but bygone days and the necessity of keeping out of sight. I am
tired like a child. If I don't come soon I shall have no strength to
leave you, but I shall not disgrace you, don't be afraid. You will
agree--you must. Keep at home for a few days. Be surprised at nothing,
but don't have too much communication with J. M. He is watched. Yours
wearily, L.'"
"Tear it up," said Miss Gastonguay.
The young criminal tore the paper into fifty pieces, and scattering
half on the ground put the rest into his pocket.
"Can he come?" he asked.
"Yes; where is he now?"
"Not far away."
"He is still your hero?"
"Well, he's having a pretty tough time of it now," said the young man,
thoughtfully.
"What's the matter with him?"
"Consumption,--a churchyard cough; it nearly chokes him."
"Will you come with him?"
"It depends on his disguise."
Miss Gastonguay steadied herself against one of the gates, and put her
hand against her side. When this disgraceful thing was over, would her
heart be at rest?
"There's some private party after him," said the young man,
thoughtfully. "We can't make out who, but they're not regulars. We
nearly got tripped in New York. You've no more to say to me, ma'am?"
"No; there is the chief of police driving by in that buggy."
The young criminal turned and gave him a cool stare.
"How dare you?" she said, wrathfully.
"Madam, one of the first points given in my school was never to play
faint heart. Act suspicious, and you'll be suspected. If you have no
further commands I have the honour to wish you good evening," and
bowing like an embryo Chesterfield, he mounted his wheel, and rode away
as deliberately as he had come.
Miss Gastonguay retraced her steps. The warm beauty of the approaching
night had no power to penetrate her soul. The enchanting scene of lawn
and garden, stately house and river, was as unattractive to her as a
desert would have been. Nothing relieved the unspeakable desolation of
her heart; nothing lifted the heavy shadow from her brow.
Chelda, too, was moping. What had come to the girl? and she paused
beside the reclining chair in which she had been sitting motionless for
two hours.
"Chelda, are you ill?"
"No, aunt, I am not."
"You act ill. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Rossignol oppresses me. Would you care to go to Europe?"
Miss Gastonguay laid her hand kindly on her shoulder. "My dear, I shall
not be much longer with you. When I am gone, go where you like. While I
live, let Rossignol be your abiding-place. When we were last in Paris,
I looked one day at the crowds surging through the streets, and a great
fright came over me. Who among all that horde of strangers would care
if I were to drop dead? Here in my own State would be some to say, 'So
Jane Gastonguay has gone. I am sorry to hear it.' Later on, you, too,
may feel this love of country. I have misgivings about you. I have not
trained you aright, but I have got to leave it all. You have been
patient with an old woman's whims. Think kindly of me when I am gone,
and, if you wish, go now for a few days to visit some of your friends."
"I do not wish it," said Chelda, in a dry, hard voice, and turning her
head away.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks. "You will not regret your
devotion," said Miss Gastonguay, softly, and leaving her she continued
her walk in the direction of the stable.
The coachman was just locking up for the night, only leaving open the
pony's private door.
"Jones," said Miss Gastonguay, "tell McTavish to bring up the steam
yacht from the town and keep her at my wharf. I may want a trip at any
hour of the day or night. Let Stevens stay with him."
"All right, ma'am," replied the man, touching his cap. Then he ventured
a question. "I'm afraid you don't feel as spry as you might?"
"No, Jones, I don't."
"It makes me feel bad myself, ma'am, to hear it," he replied, with so
much feeling that she turned abruptly away.
"Somethin's gnawing at her," he continued, uneasily, "and she's
freakish. She ain't been in that little puffer all summer, and now she
wants it handy all the time. Folks that has things don't enjoy 'em, and
those that hasn't 'em would. It's a queer world."