CLAIRE TURNS CIRCE.
There was more to tell than to learn, when Clarence called, a day or
two later, at the villa.
The expert who had been dogging the steps of Lucian Davlin, had made
his report, it is true. But that report was a very unsatisfactory
affair:
A man, whom Clarence readily identified with the Professor, was an
almost constant visitor at the rooms of the Man of Luck, but they,
that is, the Professor and Davlin, were never seen on the street
together, nor, indeed, anywhere else. In short, Lucian Davlin had been
closely shadowed, but with no success to speak of. He came and went
just as such a man usually does. And no person that might be made to
answer for a doctor, had been visited by him or had visited him
unless, and this began to appear possible, the Professor himself was
the man.
After a long and serious discussion of the pros and cons of the case,
Olive and Clarence decided they would instruct the detective to
transfer his attentions to the Professor, only keeping a general
_surveillance_ over Davlin. They began to fear that they were watching
the wrong man.
Those were pleasant days to Doctor Vaughan; the days when he rode down
to the pretty villa to consult with Olive and to look at Claire.
And those were pleasant days to Claire as well. Once, and that not
long before, she had taken but little interest in Clarence Vaughan.
She had thought of him very much as had Madeline that first night of
their meeting, when she looked at him sitting near her in a railway
carriage, and regarded him as just a "somewhat odd young man with a
good face." Now, Madeline thought him not only the noblest but the
handsomest of men. And Claire was beginning to agree with her.
But on one thing she was determined. Doctor Vaughan must learn to look
upon her only as a friend, and he must learn to love Madeline. So
Claire and Clarence vied with each other in chanting the praises of
Madeline Payne, and learned to know each other better because of her.
One day when he called, Claire chanced to be alone. Somehow she found
it hard to be quite at her ease when there was no Olive at hand,
behind whom to screen her personality from the eyes that might
overlook that sisterly barrier, but could not overleap it. If his eyes
had said less, or if she could have compelled her lips to say more!
But her usually active tongue seemed to lack for words and she found
herself talking in a reckless and somewhat incoherent manner upon all
sorts of topics, which she dragged forward in order to keep in check
the words which the look in his eyes heralded so plainly.
When she was almost at her wit's end, and tempted to flee ingloriously
in search of Olive, that lady entered and Claire felt as if saved
from lunacy. But she could not quite shake off the consciousness that
had awakened in her, and soon framed an excuse for leaving the room.
Once having escaped, she did not return, nor did Olive see her again
until she came down to dinner, and Doctor Vaughan had gone.
While lingering over that meal, Olive said, after they had talked of
Madeline through three courses, "I think, by-the-by, that Doctor
Vaughan expected to see you again before he went."
If I were writing of impossible heroines, I might say that Claire
looked conscious; but real women who are not all chalk and water, do
not display their feelings so readily to their mothers and sisters. So
Claire Keith looked up with the countenance of an astonished kitten.
"To see me? What for?"
"How should I know, if you don't?" smiling slightly.
"And _how_ should I know?" carelessly.
"Well, perhaps I was mistaken. But why have you kept your room all
this afternoon?"
"I have been packing. Please pass the marmalade."
"Packing!" mechanically reaching out the required dainty.
"Yes, packing. You don't think I came to spend the winter, do you?"
"But this is so sudden."
"Now, just listen, you unreasonable being!" assuming an air of grave
admonition. "Don't you know that I have overstayed my time by almost a
month?"
"Yes, but--"
"Well, don't you know that if I tell you beforehand that I am going,
you always contrive excuses and hatch plots, to keep me at least three
weeks longer?"
"I plead guilty," laughed Olive.
"Well, you see I have staid out my days of grace already. And knowing
your failing, and feeling sure that I could not humor it, I have just
taken advantage of you, and packed my trunks."
"And you won't stay just one more little week?"
Claire laughed gleefully. "What did I say? It is your old cry. Now,
dear, be reasonable. Mamma wants me, and the boys want me. You have
plenty of occupation just now. It will take you one-third of the time
to keep me informed of all that happens."
"Well," sighed Olive, "of course you must go sometime; but you don't
mean to go to-morrow?"
"I do, though."
"What will Doctor Vaughan say?"
"Whatever Doctor Vaughan pleases. I can't lose a day to say good-by to
him, can I?"
"But why didn't you tell him good-by to-day?"
Claire looked up in some surprise. "Upon my word, I never thought of
it."
And she told the truth. She had thought only of how she could avoid
another meeting.
Olive looked puzzled. "And I supposed that you liked Doctor Vaughan,"
she said, after a moment's pause.
"Why, and so I do; I was very careless. Olive, dear, pray make my
adieus to him, and all the necessary excuses. I do like the doctor,
and don't want him to think me rude."
And Olive accepted the commission, and was deceived by it. For she,
absorbed in her own fears and hopes, was not aware of the drama of
love and cross purposes that was being enacted under her very eyes.
When Clarence called, on the next day but one, he found, to his
surprise and sorrow, that the bright face of the girl he loved so well
was to smile upon him no more, at least for a time. Making his call an
unusually brief one, he rode back to the city in a very grave and
thoughtful mood. Or, rather, the gravity and thoughtfulness usual in
him was tinged with sadness.
* * * * *
On the same day, almost at the same hour, Claire Keith stood in her
mother's drawing-room, answering the thousand and one questions that
are invariably poured into the ears of a returned traveler.
By and by, drawing back the satin curtain, that shaded the windows of
the drawing-room, Claire gazed out upon the familiar street which
seemed smiling her a welcome in the Autumn sunshine. Finally she
uttered an exclamation of surprise, and turned to Mrs. Keith.
"_Merci!_ Mamma! what has happened to the people across the way? Why,
I can't catch even one glimpse of red and yellow damask, not one
flutter of gold fringe; have the _parvenus_ been taking lessons in
good taste? Positively, every blind is closed, and there isn't a
liveried being to be seen."
Mrs. Keith laughed softly. "I don't know what has happened to the
_parvenus_, my dear, but whether good or bad it has taken them away,
liveries and all. The house has a new tenant, who is not so amusing,
perhaps, but is certainly more mysterious. So, after all, the exchange
may not have been a gain to the neighborhood."
Claire peeped out again. "A mysterious tenant, you say, mamma? That
must be an improvement. What is the Mystery like?"
Mrs. Keith smiled indulgently on her daughter.
"There is not much to tell, my love. I don't know whether the lady
who has taken the house is young or old, handsome or ugly, married or
single. She lives the life of a recluse; has never been seen, at least
by any of us, to walk out. But she drives sometimes in a close
carriage, and always with a thick veil hiding her face. She is tall,
dresses richly, but always in black, although the fabric is not that
usually worn as mourning. She moves from the door to her carriage with
a languid gait, as if she might be an invalid. No one goes there, and
I understand she is not at home to callers, although, of course, I
have not made the experiment myself. There, my dear, I think that is
about all."
"She seems to be a woman of wealth?"
"Evidently; her horses are very fine animals, and her carriage a
costly one. Her servants wear a neat, plain livery, and apparently her
house is elegantly furnished."
"And mamma," said Robbie, who had been standing quietly at her side,
"you forget the flowers."
"True, Robbie. Every day, Claire, the florist leaves a basket of white
flowers at her door."
"I like that," asserted Claire. "She must have refinement."
"She certainly has that air."
"Well," said Claire, laughing lightly, "I shall make a study of the
woman across the way."
With that the subject dropped for the time. But as the days went on,
and she settled herself once more into the home routine, Claire found
that not the least among the things she chose to consider interesting
was the mysterious neighbor across the way.
And now, having put considerable distance between herself and Edward
Percy, she wrote him a few cool lines of dismissal.
And here again the individuality of the girl was very manifest. Many a
woman would have written a scathing letter, telling the man how
thoroughly unmasked he stood in her sight, letting him know that she
was acquainted with all his past and his present, and bidding him make
the most of the infatuation of the last victim to his empty pockets,
the ancient Miss Arthur.
What Claire did was like Claire; and perhaps, after all, she best
comprehended the nature she dealt with. Certainly no tirade of
accusing scorn could have so wounded the self-love of the selfish,
conscienceless man as did her cool farewell missive.
Edward Percy was in a very complaisant mood when Claire's letter
reached him. True, he had received no reply to his two last effusions;
but knowing that Claire must be soon returning to her home, if she had
not already gone, he assured himself that it was owing to this that he
had received no letter as yet. He never doubted her attachment to
himself. That was not in his nature.
Opening a rather heavy packet, as he sat in his cosy sitting-room, out
dropped two letters; two letters full of poetry and fine sentiment,
that his own flexible hand had penned and addressed to Miss Claire
Keith. His letters, and returned with the seals unbroken. He could
scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. His handsome,
treacherous, light-blue eyes darkened and widened with astonishment
and anger.
He never moved in a hurry, never spoke in a hurry, never thought in a
hurry. And slowly it dawned upon his mind to investigate further and
find some clue that would make this unheard-of thing appear less
incomprehensible. Accordingly he took up the envelope that had
contained his rejected letters, and drew from them a brief note:
BALTIMORE, Saturday, 6th.
It will scarcely surprise Mr. Percy to learn that Miss Keith
desires now to end an acquaintance that has been, doubtless,
amusing "intellectually" and "socially" to both.
Of course, a gentleman so worldly-wise as himself can never
have been misled by the semblance of attachment, that has
seemed necessary in order to make such an acquaintance as
ours at all interesting. A flirtation based upon a "sympathy
of intellect," must of necessity end sooner or later, and
has, no doubt, been as harmless to him as to CLAIRE KEITH.
Yes, without doubt Claire knew how to hurt this man most. He was not
permitted to know that she felt the keen humiliation, which a proud
nature must suffer when it discovers that it has trusted an unworthy
object. Instead, he was to feel himself the injured one; the one
humiliated. He, the deceiver, must own himself deceived. When he
believed himself loved, he was laughed at. His own words were flung in
his teeth in an insolent mockery. "A sympathy of intellect;" yes, he
had used these words so often. He had obeyed the beckoning of a Circe,
and now she held out to him his swine's reward of husks.
Edward Percy had been dissatisfied with others, with circumstances,
and surroundings, many a time and oft; but to-day, for the very first
time, he felt dissatisfied with himself.
And Claire had revenged her wrongs twofold.