"Pats?"
"My friend. His name was Patrick."
"And Pats is the little name--the familiar--for Patrick?"
"Sometimes."
"Ah, I never knew that! But pardon me. Please go on."
"He told me to come back--that the bank was undermined by the river and
might give way. He said: 'Whoever enters that river to-day leaves hope
behind.' At the very instant I started back the earth under me gave way,
and--and, well, I went down to the river and under the water--an awful
distance. I thought I should never come up again. But I did come up at
last, gasping, half dead, several yards from the shore. The current was
carrying me down the river, but I saw Pats on the bank above, watching
me. His face was pale and he was hurrying along to keep near. Oh, how I
envied him, up there, alive and safe!"
"Poor child! I can well believe it!"
"He cried out, 'Try and swim toward the shore! Try hard!' And I tried,
but was carried along so fast that I seemed to make no headway. Then I
saw him run on ahead, pull off his shoes and outer clothes, slide down
the bank and shoot out into the water toward me."
"Bravo!" exclaimed the listener. "Bravo! That was splendid!" And in her
enthusiasm she rose, and sat down again.
Elinor sank back in her chair. But the Princess was leaning forward with
wide open eyes and parted lips.
"Then what happened?"
"He reached me, caught me with one hand by my dress between the
shoulders, and told me again to swim hard for the shore. It seemed
hopeless, at first, for the current was frightful--oh, frightful! It
washed us under and tried to carry us out again. But Pats pushed hard,
and after an awful struggle--it seemed a lifetime--we we reached the
shore."
"Ah, good!"
But in the speaker's face there came no enthusiasm. She closed her eyes,
leaning back in her chair as if from physical weakness. The Princess got
up, and once more came and stood by the girl's chair, and gently patted
a shoulder.
"Tell me the rest later. There is no haste."
"I shall feel better for telling it now. I started to climb up the bank.
It was steep, all stones and gravel, and a few little bushes. The stones
gave way and kept letting me down--slipping backward. He was still in
the water. I heard him tell me to go slow and not hurry. He was very
calm, and his voice came up from beneath me, for--" and here she
laughed, a little hysterical laugh--more of a sob than a laugh, as if
from over-taxed nerves--"for I seemed to be sitting on his head."
The Princess also laughed, responsively.
"I shall never know just how it happened, but in one of my struggles the
whole bank seemed to slide from under me into the river. I clung to a
bush and called to him, and tried to look down, but--he was gone."
A silence followed. The Princess rested her cheek against Elinor's hair,
and murmured words of comfort. "How long ago did this happen?"
"A month ago."
More from sympathy than from conviction the Princess said:
"He may return. Stranger things have happened. Perhaps he was carried
out to sea--and rescued."
Elinor shook her head. "He was buried beneath the rocks and gravel. If
he had risen to the surface, I should have seen him, for the day was
clear. No, I know where he is. I see him, all night long, in my sleep,
lying at the bottom of the river, his face looking up."
"My child," said the Princess, "listen. With your sorrow you have
precious memories. From what you have _not_ told me of your Pats, I
know him well. He loved you. That is clear. You loved him. That is also
clear. Alone with him in this cottage through an endless winter, and
perfectly happy! _Voyons_, you confessed all when you said 'we were
happy!' He was the man of a woman's heart! With no hesitation, he gave
his life for yours: to save you or die with you. Tell me, what can
Heaven offer that is better than a love like that?"
She closed her eyes and drew a long breath. "Ah, these Americans! These
extraordinary husbands! I have done nothing but hear of them!"
"He was not my husband."
"But he was to be?"
"Oh, yes!"
The Princess rose, walked around the table and stood beside the chair
that held her portrait.
"My child, I respect your grief. My heart bleeds for you, but you are to
be envied." With uplifted eyebrows, and her head slightly to one side,
she went on: "My husband, the Prince de Champvalliers is good. We adore
one another. As a husband he is satisfactory,--better than most. But if,
by chance, I should fall into a river, with death in its current, and he
were safe and dry upon the bank--"
Sadly she smiled, and with a shrug of the shoulders turned about and
moved away.
Erect, and with a jaunty step, she walked about the room, renewing
acquaintance with old friends of her youth: with the little tapestried
fables on the chairs and sofa; with certain portraits and smaller
articles. But it was evident that the story she had heard still occupied
her mind, for presently she came back to the table and stood in front of
Elinor. With a slight movement of the head, as if to emphasize her
words, she said, impressively, yet with the suggestion of a smile in her
half-closed eyes:
"Were I in your place, my child, I should grieve and weep. Yes, I should
grieve and weep; but I should enjoy my sorrow. You are still young. You
take too much for granted. You are too young to realize the number of
women in the world who would gladly exchange their living husbands for
such a memory." She raised her eyebrows, closed her eyes, and murmured,
with a long, luxurious sigh: "The heroism! the splendid sacrifice! I
tell you, Mademoiselle, no woman lives in vain who inspires in an
earthly lover a devotion such as that!"
[Illustration]