A MAN ABOUT TO MEET A MAID.
One may approach the White House by way of the High Street of
Easthampton, of which thoroughfare the dwelling in question is a
conspicuous ornament; but for such as prefer a more secluded road, a
grassy lane behind the houses affords direct access to Miss Claghorn's
garden.
Mark chose the lane. Since, in obedience to Natalie's request, he must
see her, he hoped to find her in the garden, where there would be less
danger of interruption.
The birds twittered in the trees, joyous in the new day; the dew
glimmered on the grass-blades; the scent of flowers from adjacent
gardens perfumed the fresh air of a perfect summer morning. On such a
morning a man about to meet a maid should have trod the earth lightly.
But Mark lingered as he walked, reluctant to hear his fate pronounced by
lips which he longed to kiss, but could never kiss; lips, therefore, it
were better not to see. Yet, since he had been summoned, he must go on;
and because of the summons there were moments when he still, if faintly,
hoped. Hope dies hard; and, notwithstanding the forebodings which had
vexed him ever since he had written the letter (for which writing he had
since cursed his folly), there had been times when hope had risen high,
and, as he even now assured himself, not without reason. If he had been
self-deceived, it had not been from the complacency of the coxcomb.
Surely she had loved him, or had been willing to love, had that been
permitted her.
In arguing thus he was not reasoning unfairly. He had been
unintentionally deceived by the philosopher, Beverley Claghorn, who had
permitted the intercourse between his daughter and this young man,
partly from carelessness, more because he approved of a cousinly
friendship of which one of the partakers was able to gratify a noble
sentiment by an addition to the dowry of the other. It had been by
pointing out this ability that he had assuaged the misgivings of the
Marquise; at the same time so solemnly reiterating his loyalty to the
treaty with that lady, that when Mark's disclosure came it had been
impossible for him to receive it otherwise than he had done--by a
regretful rejection. He had been astounded by the avowal, for he had
noted no sighs, no posturing, no eloquent apostrophes or melting glances
from this suitor who approached him with a tale of love, having never
displayed a visible sign of the tender passion. M. Claghorn's
observation of lovers had long been confined to one variety. He forgot
that Anglo-Saxon swains are less prone to languish in public than their
brothers of Gaul. Had Adolphe de Fleury been in Paris there would have
been more frequent flowers, scented billets, rapt gazes, rolling eyes
and eloquential phrases; all offered for the general appreciation as
much as for the lady of his love. In the absence of these familiar
evidences of ardor, the philosopher was, in his own eyes, acquitted of
responsibility for the surprising fact which Mark had imparted to him.
For, how could he suspect a legitimate passion in a youth who had yet to
sow his wild oats, and one with the capacity for acquiring an unlimited
field for that delightful, if futile, and generally expensive,
husbandry? No man of Mark's years could be so wise--or so foolish. That
was, as the philosopher viewed human nature, not in such nature. The
case was different with Adolphe de Fleury, compelled by circumstances to
seize the most attractive dowry that fell in his way; and even that
gallant but impecunious soldier was, doubtless, cultivating a modest
crop as sedulously as circumstances permitted.
Thus had Mark been the victim of a philosophic mode of thought and had
bowed to that which he had supposed would be the filial, as it had been
the paternal, decision; saying good-bye, sadly, doubtless, but without
betrayal of that which he believed would not be gladly heard, nor could
be honorably disclosed.
The ocean lay between him and the woman that he loved before he fully
realized how much must be henceforth lacking in his life, and when
repentance was too late he repented that he had taken the philosopher's
word for a fact of which he now sometimes doubted the existence. Many
memories whispered that she, too, had loved. No word of hers had told
him this; but love is not always told in words--and then he would accuse
himself of the folly of permitting vain longings to control his
judgment. Nevertheless, when, while still at Stormpoint, he had heard of
the sudden death of Beverley Claghorn, he had resolved to do that which
before he had omitted, to appeal to Natalie herself, when, most
inopportunely, there came a letter from the Marquise to Mrs. Joe; a
letter which informed the relatives of the deceased that the death of
the father would hasten, rather than retard, the marriage of the
daughter, who had already taken up her residence with the writer of the
epistle, in accordance with the wish of her father. Not long after the
receipt of that letter Mark had started for Russia, leaving France
unvisited.
He opened the gate which led from the lane into the garden, and
found--Tabitha.
Who raised her hands in astonishment, then stretched them forth in
welcome: "And so you're back! For how long this time? More of a Claghorn
than ever--as grim as one of the Eliphalets."
"No need to ask how you are," said Mark, his grimness softened by her
heartiness. "You get younger every year. How are my aunt and----"
"And Natalie? Blooming--that's the word. You'll find things different at
the White House. We haven't had a good spat in months. Soor le ponty
Avinyon, on y donks, on y donks----"
"_On y danse_," repeated Mark, laughing at Tabitha's French in spite of
himself.
"Yes; even my old legs. Your aunt's are too stiff. But we young things,
that's Natalie and I, we cut our capers," and in the exuberance of her
spirits Miss Cone essayed a caper for Mark's benefit.
"Such grace, Tabby----"
"Is worth coming from Russia to see. I'm practising; there's to be great
doings here before long. What would you say to a wedding?"
"Let me salute the bride?" he said, with an attempt at gaiety which, to
himself, seemed rather sickly, and suiting his action to the word.
"Well!" ejaculated Miss Cone, adjusting her cap, "many a man's had his
ears boxed for that. However, I suppose it's in the air around here--but
you're mistaken. I'm not the bride."
"Surely, not Aunt Achsah?"
"As if you couldn't guess! But don't say I told you. The fact is I'm so
full of it I blabbed without thinking."
"Then it's a secret?"
"It won't be after to-day. Leonard told us last night. I suppose your
aunt'll tell your ma to-day."
Mark promised to say nothing and went toward the house. Miss Claghorn
welcomed him cordially, but made no reference to the subject of
Tabitha's disclosures, though traces of her agreeable agitation were
visible. "There's Natalie, now!" she exclaimed after some minutes had
been spent in conversation sufficiently dreary to one of the two.
The thundering of a horse's hoofs told of a wild gallop. The old lady
rushed from the house, followed by Mark, dismayed by her action and the
alarm expressed in her countenance. He reached the gate in time to
assist Natalie to dismount.
"My dear child!" exclaimed the elder lady reproachfully.
She was grasping Mark's hands in welcome. Her face was flushed; her dark
hair, disturbed by the pace at which she had ridden, hung low upon her
forehead; he had never seen her so beautiful--nor so happy. His face was
pale, his hands cold in hers.
"Dear Aunt," she said, "I felt as though I must gallop; I didn't mean to
in the High Street; I couldn't hold him."
"He was homeward bound," said Mark, turning to look at the horse, now
being led away by Miss Achsah's "man." "He's a handsome beast."
"I have much to ask you about the Marquise," said Natalie to Mark, as
they went into the house, whereupon Miss Claghorn left them.
The short-lived bloom of her face was gone; she was deadly pale. She
stretched her ungloved hands toward him; it might have been a gesture
of appeal. He dared not take them in his own; his longing to clasp her
to his heart was too great to risk the contact. She dropped her arms.
"You wished to see me--to ask me----" He paused; his voice sounded stern
in his ears, but he had no power over it.
"To--to say something. Give me a moment."
As she turned toward the window he caught a glimpse of the sheen of
tears. A mighty impulse raised his arms as though to clasp her; then
they fell.
"What fates impose, that man must need abide."
She turned toward him. "I thought there was much to say. There
is--nothing."
"Nothing for you; for me, something. It is to wish you all happiness, to
assure you of my constant--friendship."
"And that is needless. We shall always be friends, warm friends, Mark.
Let it be so. And--there is something more. I should not have written as
I did of Paula; I had no right. But--since I am your friend, and you are
mine----"
"We shall be. Even so, give me a little time."
His words were accompanied by a sardonic smile. The words and the smile
silenced her. There was a pause.
"Has the Marquise forgiven me?" she asked at length.
"She will in time. By the way, I saw Adolphe. I hope he did not
persecute----"
"No, no. He left that to his mama," she answered, laughing. "To Adolphe,
as a cousin, I had no objection; but----"
"You have chosen more wisely," he said gravely. "I wish you happiness,
Natalie." He held out his hand; she took it, her own trembling. "God
bless you, Cousin." His lips brushed her cold cheek, then he was gone.
She watched him from the window; her face was very white, her hands
tightly clenched. So she stood until he had passed from view, then she
went upstairs. In the hall she passed Tabitha, who exclaimed: "You
scared us all--yourself, too. You look like a ghost."
"Scared?" questioned Natalie.
"Riding like that."
"Like that! I wished the horse had wings."
"You'll have 'em if you don't take care, then----"
"Then I'll fly away." The intensity of her utterance made Tabitha stare.
Natalie laughed aloud, and left her still staring.
Alone in her room, she paced slowly back and forth, struggling with her
pride, crushing a forbidden and rejected love. So she regarded it. With
a wrung heart, Mark had respected her decision, and in the depths of her
soul she blamed him, scorning the puny passion so easily beaten. "Go to
Paula," she had written, while "Come to me," her heart had cried so
loudly that, except he were deaf, he might have heard.
When she had written her letter to Mark she had accomplished a bitter
task only after a long and desperate struggle. She loved Leonard; she
had said this to herself over and over again, and it was true; and to
him she had given her troth freely, fully believing that for him there
would be happiness and for her content. But the lowest depths of her
soul had been stirred by the letter from Mark. There were chambers there
that Leonard had not entered, could never enter, and into which she
herself dared not look.
Self-sacrifice is to women alluring. That which she had made had been
made, at least she so believed, with honest intention, yet, since now it
was irrevocable, it was too hideous to contemplate. She would call him
back, and on her knees----
Shameful thought! She was betrothed to a man she loved. Had she not
admitted it? Not to him only, but shyly this very morning to the fond
old woman to whom she owed so much, whose last days by that very
admission were brightened by a glorious sunshine never before known in a
long and gloomy life. Could she now, even if in her own eyes she could
fall so low--could she fall so low in the eyes of these women by whom
she was surrounded? In her aunt's eyes and Tabitha's? In Paula's, to
whom, in loving loyalty, she had herself confided the secret? In those
of Mrs. Joe, who had so carefully warned her from this preserve? No--to
that depth she could not descend, not even to bask in the cold and
passionless love of Mark.
The engagement was received with universal favor. It could hardly be
otherwise, since all peculiarly interested were of that sex which dearly
loves to contemplate a captive man, the only male (Leonard, of course,
excepted) being Mark, whose attitude, being unsuspected, was ignored.
And the bridegroom was the hero of all these women: the heir of Miss
Claghorn; the one of the family to whom Tabitha was willing to ascribe
all the virtues; regarded with affectionate esteem by Mrs. Joe, and, as
to all except his denominational qualities, worshipped by Paula. As to
the question of yoking believer and unbeliever, it had certainly
occurred to all the devotees of the young theologian, but, aside from
the certainty that truth must find its triumph in the union, the more
pressing question of clothes for the approaching wedding left but little
room in pious but feminine minds for other considerations. Events had so
fallen in with Leonard's wishes that an early marriage was deemed
advisable in Natalie's interest. Mr. Ellis Winter had encountered
difficulty with regard to certain property in France belonging to her,
and her presence in Paris was essential; and it was no less desirable
that while there she be under the protection of a husband. For, aside
from other considerations, marriage was the easiest solution of the
complications which had arisen out of the guardianship of the Marquise,
which guardianship would legally terminate with Natalie's marriage. And
these things opened the way for Mark's return to Stormpoint.
"Urgent business" in San Francisco had precluded his attendance at the
wedding. He wrote Leonard a cordial letter, and he sent to Natalie a
ruby set in small diamonds, which, Tabitha Cone confidentially imparted
to Miss Claghorn, was "mean for a billionaire," and which, even in the
eyes of the latter lady, with whom the donor was a favorite, looked
paltry. Both would have been surprised and even indignant at the man's
folly, if they had known that he had bid against a crowned head to get
the gem, employing a special agent, furnished with _carte blanche_ for
the purpose. Natalie knew better than they, but it was not of its purity
or value that she thought, as she looked at the jewel long and
steadfastly, until a mist of tears suddenly obscured her vision and
struck terror to her soul.