How strange it seemed to Pansy to be going again, after the lapse of
more than three years, to the Capitol Square to meet one whom she
loved, but whom she must see in secret because a cruel fate kept them
sundered in life, but one in heart. Then it was the father--now it was
the child.
While she was wondering how she was to get away from the lynx eyes of
her husband’s niece, Juliette came in to say that she would like to
have the phaëton for her own use that afternoon, if Mrs. Falconer was
not going out.
“One of my dearest friends, Miss Norwood, is just home from a long
visit in New York, and I would like so much to take her for a drive,”
she said.
“Pray do so. I shall not need the phaëton this afternoon,” Pansy
answered eagerly.
“You are not going out yourself?” Juliette asked.
“I don’t know. Should I do so, it will only be for a short walk.”
Juliette thanked her and hastened away.
“Colonel Falconer is busy with his lawyer, Juliette away, and the field
clear. I will go and see my child,” she thought gladly.
It was July, and the day was warm and sultry. Pansy dressed herself
simply, in a plain white dress and leghorn hat, and, taking a large
sun-shade in her hand, started for the Capitol Square.
Her heart throbbed painfully as she walked slowly along the old
familiar streets, thinking of those past days, so full of love and pain.
It was only four o’clock when she reached the square, and the nurses
and children were just beginning to come in. She looked everywhere, but
there was no sign of Mrs. Meade and little Pet.
“I am too early. I must sit down in some quiet, secluded spot and
wait,” she thought, and sought a shady seat on the slope of the hill
back of the Capitol building.
“It was here we sat that day when Norman told me he was going to
London,” she murmured sadly, and then she recoiled with a sudden cry:
“Oh!”
The quiet bench she sought was already occupied, and by Norman Wylde
himself.
She could scarcely repress a wild and passionate cry of pain and
reproach. As it was, she dared not trust herself, and turned to flee.
But Norman Wylde had been aroused from a deep abstraction by her low
exclamation of dismay, and, starting up, he confronted her, coming out
of such a mood that he for a moment fancied his lost love had come back
from the other world to comfort his sad heart. A glad cry came from his
lips:
“Pansy!”
That name arrested her footsteps. She paused, frightened, moveless. Had
he recognized her? Would he tax her with her identity?
“Pansy!” he repeated tenderly, and, although she trembled and grew
faint at the passion in his voice, it came to her suddenly that she
must make some defense for herself. She, the honored wife of the proud
Colonel Falconer, must never own herself to be that Pansy Laurens whom
the man before her had deceived and betrayed. She would be brave and
proud for her husband’s sake, as well as for her own.
Steeling her heart and her nerves as well as she could, she turned
toward him, saying coldly:
“It is quite true, Mr. Wylde, that my name is Pansy, but as you and I
have never met but once before to-day, it seems to me that I should be
Mrs. Falconer to you.”
Norman Wylde could only stare for a moment with bewildered eyes at the
lovely speaker, and mutter helplessly:
“Mrs. Falconer!”
“Yes,” she replied coldly, and suddenly he struck his hand against his
forehead, exclaiming:
“I am a fool, a madman! Madam, pardon me. I--I--was mistaken.” Then,
seeing that she lingered, he added, with an imploring gesture: “Will
you not sit down here for one moment and let me explain?”
She knew quite well that she ought not to stay, but she could not turn
from him. She sank down on the rustic bench and waited with throbbing
pulses for an explanation. What would he say--what could he say?
He sat down beside her, pale with emotion, but so splendidly handsome
in his cool summer suit and spotless linen that her heart throbbed
madly, and she thought:
“Oh, my false love! How grandly handsome, how winning you are! It is
no wonder that I lost my heart to you, innocent child that I was! Oh,
would that you had been true and good, as well as fascinating.”
But no one who saw how coldly and proudly her blue eyes looked at him
would have thought that such passionate thoughts thrilled her heart. He
himself believed that she was bitterly angry, and he hastened to say
deprecatingly:
“Mrs. Falconer, you are so startlingly like one I used to know that
when you appeared before me I did not remember you as Mrs. Falconer,
and I called you by that name unwittingly. No offense to you was
intended. I did not know that you were called Pansy.”
“Yes, that is my name. I was Pansy Wilcox when Colonel Falconer
married me. And so you say that I resemble some one you used to know,
Mr. Wylde? How strange!” Pansy said, trying to draw him into some
reminiscences of the past, womanlike, wishing to know whether he
remembered her with love or remorse.
He sighed heavily, and answered:
“Yes, you are the image of one I loved and lost. Do you remember the
night I came to your house, Mrs. Falconer? I came very near calling
you Pansy then--I was so startled at the first sight of your face. But
while you were singing I recovered myself so that I could greet you
calmly. It was different just now, for I was thinking of that other
Pansy, and you came upon me so suddenly that I had no time for thought,
and I called you by her name.”
“It was some one you loved?” Pansy said, in a low, soft voice.
“Loved!” exclaimed Norman Wylde hoarsely, and his dark eyes seemed to
burn into her soul as he added: “Love is hardly the word. I worshiped,
adored my little Pansy.”
“Did she die?” asked Pansy gently.
“Yes, she died,” he replied hoarsely; then, pausing abruptly: “Has not
Juliette Ives told you all about it?” he asked.
“No.”
“It is a wonder,” he muttered.
“You make me quite curious. I think unfortunate love affairs are so sad
and romantic. Was yours unfortunate, Mr. Wylde?” asked Pansy, still
leading him on.
“It was tragic,” he answered gloomily; and she was glad when she saw he
was suffering some remorse for the ill that he had wrought. Her heart
began to grow softer toward him.
“He is sorry for his sin. Perhaps he would undo it if he could,”
whispered her heart.
Norman Wylde lifted his sad, dark eyes and looked at her gravely. Oh,
how strong was the resemblance to his lost love, and how strangely his
heart thrilled at the sound of her voice! No one but Pansy Laurens had
ever made his heart beat faster by a voice of music.
“I wish you would tell me all about it,” she said persuasively.