It would be difficult to define the emotions that consumed Miss
Garrison as she entered her mother's boudoir. She could not conceal
from herself the sensation of jubilant delight because he had come
to Brussels. At the same time, even though his visit was that of a
mere friend, it promised complications which she was loath to face.
She went into the presence of her mother with the presentiment that
the first of the series was at hand.
“What is Philip Quentin doing here, Dorothy?” demanded Mrs.
Garrison. She was standing in the center of the room, and her
attitude was that of one who has experienced a very unpleasant
surprise. The calm, cold tone was not far from accusing; her steely
eyes were hard and uncompromising. The tall daughter stood before
her, one hand still clutching the bits of white paper; on her face
there was the imprint of demure concern.
“I haven't had time to ask him, mamma,” she said, lightly, “Would it
be quite the proper thing to demand the reason for his presence here
when it seems quite clear that he is paying us a brief morning
call?”
“Do not be absurd! I mean, what is he doing in Brussels? Didn't he
say he was to return to New York last week?” There was refined
belligerence in her voice. Dorothy gave a brief thought to the cool,
unabashed young man below and smiled inwardly as she contemplated
the reception he was to receive from this austere interrogator.
“Don't ask me, mamma, I am as much puzzled as you over his sudden
advent. It is barely possible he did not go to New York.”
“Well, why didn't he?” This was almost a threat.
“It is a mystery we have yet to unravel. Shall we send for Sherlock
Holmes?”
“Dorothy, I am very serious. How can you make light of this
unwarranted intrusion? He is--”
“Why do you call it intrusion, mamma? Has he not the right to come?
Can we close the door in his face? Is he not a friend? Can we help
ourselves if he knocks at our door and asks to see us?” Dorothy felt
a smart tug of guilt as she looked back and saw herself trudging
sheepishly up the front steps beside the intruder, who had not been
permitted to knock at the door.
“A gentleman would not subject you to the comments of--of--well, I may
say the whole world. He certainly saw the paragraphs in those London
papers, and he knows that we cannot permit them to be repeated over
here. He has no right to thrust himself upon us under the
circumstances. You must give him to understand at once, Dorothy,
that his intentions--or visits, if you choose to call them such--are
obnoxious to both of us.”
“Oh, mamma! we've talked all this over before. What can I do? I
wouldn't offend him for the world, and I am sure he is incapable of
any desire to have me talked about, He knows me and he likes me too
well for that. Perhaps he will go away soon,” said Dorothy,
despairing petulance in her voice, Secretly she was conscious of the
justice in her mother's complaints.
“He shall go soon,” said Mrs. Garrison, with determination.
“You will not--will not drive him away?” said her daughter, quickly.
“I shall make him understand that you are not the foolish child he
knew in New York. You are about to become a princess. He shall be
forced to see the impregnable wall between himself and the Princess
Ravorelli--for you are virtually the owner of that glorious title. A
single step remains and then you are no longer Dorothy Garrison.
Philip Quentin I have always disliked, even mistrusted. His
reputation in New York was that of a man of the town, a rich
roisterer, a 'breaker of hearts,' as your uncle has often called
him. He is a daring notoriety seeker, and this is rare sport for
him.” Mrs. Garrison's eyes were blazing, her hands were clenched,
her bearing that of one who is both judge and executioner.
“I think you do him an injustice,” said Dorothy, slowly, a feeling
of deep resentment asserting itself. “Philip is not what you call
him. He is a gentleman.” Mother and daughter looked into each
other's eyes squarely for a moment, neither flinching, both
justifying themselves for the positions they were to take.
“You defend him?”
“As he would defend me.”
“You have another man to defend. Do you think of him?”
“You have yet to say that Ugo is no gentleman. It will then be time
for defense, such as I am offering now.”
“We are keeping your friend waiting, Dorothy,” said Mrs. Garrison,
with blasting irony. “Give him my compliments and say that we trust
he may come every day. He affords us a subject for pleasant
discussion, and I am sure Prince Ugo will be as charmed to meet him
here as he was in London.”
“Don't be sarcastic, mamma. It doesn't help matters and--” began
Dorothy, almost plaintively.
“Mr. Quentin certainly does not help matters, my dear. Still, if you
will enjoy the comment, the notoriety that he may be generous enough
to share with you, I can say no more. When you are ready to dismiss
him, you shall find me your ally.” She was triumphant because she
had scored with sarcasm a point where reason must have fallen far
short.
“I might tell Rudolf to throw him into the street,” said Dorothy,
dolefully, “only I am quite positive Phil would refuse to be thrown
by less than three Rudolfs. But he is expecting you downstairs,
mamma. He asked for you.”
“I cannot see him to-day. Tell him I shall be only too glad to see
him if he calls again,” and there was a deep, unmistaken meaning in
the way she said it.
“You will not go down?” Dorothy's face flushed with something akin
to humiliation. After all, he did not deserve to be treated like a
dog.
“I am quite content upstairs,” replied Mrs. Garrison, sweetly.
Dorothy turned from her mother without another word, and as she went
down the stairs there was rebellion in her soul; the fires of
resistance showed their first tiny tongues in the hot wave that
swept through her being. Quentin was stretched out comfortably in a
big chair, his back toward the stairs, his eyes upon the busy avenue
below. She paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs and there
was a strange longing to pass her fingers over the thick dark hair.
The thought passed instantaneously, but there was a new shyness in
her manner as she approached.
“Hullo,” he said, arising as he heard her footfall. “Been watching
the people drive by. Pretty smart traps, some of them, too. The old
families that came over in the Ark with Moses--er, Noah, I should
say.” There was deep concern in the remark, but she was confident
that he vaguely understood why she was alone.
“Mamma trusts you will excuse her this morning. She says she will be
glad to see you when you come again.” She seated herself on a divan
near the window, a trifle out of the glaring light of the August
sun. She held in her hand a fan and the bits of paper had
disappeared. “Isn't it dreadfully warm?”
“Looks like rain, too,” said he, briefly. Then, with new animation:
“Tell me, what was in that letter?”
“Nothing but nonsense,” she replied, smiling serenely, for she was
again a diplomat.
“How dare you! How dare you write nonsense to me? But, really, I'd
like to know what it was. You'll admit I have a right to be
curious.”
“It pleases me to see you curious. I believe it is the first time I
ever saw you interested in anything. Quite novel, I assure you.”
“Don't you mean to tell me?”
“Assuredly--not.”
“Well, I think it's a roaring shame to write anything to a fellow
that he can't be allowed to read. I wouldn't treat you that way.”
“I know you wouldn't. You are too good, and too sensible, and too
considerate, and all the other kind of too's, while I am just an
unaccountable ninny. If you ever did anything crazy you wouldn't
like to have it found out, would you?”
“By all means! Then I could take treatment for the malady. Lean
forward, Dorothy, so that I can see your eyes. That's right! Now,
look at me squarely. Will you tell me what was in that letter?” She
returned his gaze steadily, almost mockingly.
“No.”
“That's all I want to know. I can always tell by a girl's eyes
whether she is stubborn.”
“I am not stubborn.”
“Well, I'll drop the matter for all time. Doubtless you were right
when you said it was nonsense; you ought to know. Changing the
subject, I think I'll like Brussels if I stay here long enough.” He
was again nonchalant, indifferent. Under her mask of unconcern she
felt a trifle piqued that he did not persist in his endeavor to
learn the contents of the unfortunate letter.
“How long do you expect--I mean purpose to stay?” she asked.
“It depends on conditions. I may be crazy enough to stay six weeks
and I may be crazy enough to go away next week. You see, I'm not
committing myself to any specified degree of insanity; it won't make
so much difference when I am found out, as you say. At present,
however, I contemplate staying until that affair at St. Gudule.”
She could not hide the annoyance, the discomfiture, his assertion
inspired. In a second she saw endless unpleasantries--some
pleasantries, it is fair to say--and there seemed to be no gentle way
of escape. At the same time, there came once more the queer flutter
she had felt when she met him in the street, a half-hour before.
“You will find it rather dull here, I am afraid,” she found courage
to say. “Or do you know many people--the American minister,
perhaps?”
“Don't know a soul here but you and Mrs. Garrison. It won't be
dull--not in the least. We'll ride and drive, go ballooning or
anything you like--”
“But I can't, Phil. Do you forget that I am to be married in six
weeks?” she cried, now frightened into an earnest appeal.
“That's it, precisely. After that you can't go ballooning with
anybody but the prince, so for at least a month you can have a good
time telling me what a jolly good fellow he is. That's what girls
like, you know, and I don't mind in the least. If you want to talk
about him by the hour, I won't utter an objection. Of course, I
suppose you'll be pretty busy with your trousseau and so forth, and
you'll have the house full of visitors, too, no doubt. But you can
give me a little time.”
“I am sure mamma would not--”
“She never did approve, if that's what you were about to say. What
is she afraid of? Does she imagine that I want to marry you? Good
heavens!” So devout was his implied denial of such a project that
she felt herself grow hot. “Doesn't she think the prince has you
safely won? You are old enough to take care of yourself, I'm sure.”
“She knows that I love Prince Ugo, and that he is the only man I
shall ever love. Her disapproval would arise from the needless
exposure to comment. You remember what the London paper said about
us.” If she thought that he was chilled by her bold opening
assertion she was to find herself mistaken. He smiled complacently.
“I thought it was very nice of them. I am preserving the clipping,”
he said, airily. “We can talk over this little difficulty with
public opinion when we've had more time to think about it. You see,
I've been here but ten hours, and I may be willing to leave
tomorrow, that is, after I've seen more of the town. I may not like
the king, and I'm quite sure the palace doesn't suit me. I'll come
around to-morrow and we'll drive through one of these famous parks--”
“Oh, no, Phil! Really, you don't know how it embarrasses me--”
“I'll go away to-night, if you say you don't want to see me at all,
Dorothy,” he said, seriously, rising and standing before her.
“I don't mean that. You know I want to see you--for old times' sake.”
“I shall go, nevertheless, if you merely hint that I am unwelcome.”
She arose and suddenly gave him her hand.
“You are not unwelcome, and you are foolish to speak in that
manner,” she said, seriously.
“And your mother?”
“She must endure what I endure.”
“Somewhere Baedeker says that the Bois de la Cambre is the finest
park in Brussels,” said he, his eyes gleaming.
“I am quite sure Baedeker is reliable,” she agreed, with a smile.
“At three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, then, I will come for you.
Will you remember me to your mother and tell her I am sorry not to
see her to-day? Good-bye!”
She followed him to the door, and when he sped lightly down the
steps there was a broad smile on the face of each. He turned and
both laughed outright. “Where there's a will, there's a way,” she
mused, as she went to her room upstairs. An hour later her daily
letter to the prince was ready for the post. The only allusion to
the visitor of the morning was: “Mr. Quentin--our New York friend,
you will remember--made us a brief call this morning. He is quite
undecided as to the length of his stay here, but I hope you will be
here to see him.”
Then, dismissing Quentin from her mind, she sat down to dream of the
one great event in her life--this wonderful, glorious wedding in old
St. Gudule's. Already her trousseau was on a fair way to completion.
She gave no thought to the fortune that these gowns were to cost,
she considered not the glories she was to reap by becoming a real
princess, she dwelt not on the future before her, for she knew she
was to be happy with Ugo. Instead, she dreamed only of the “color
scheme” that was to make memorable her wedding procession.
In her mind's eye she saw the great church thronged with the most
brilliant, illustrious assemblage it had ever held (she was quite
sure no previous gathering could have been more august), and a smile
of pride came to her lips. The great chorus, the procession, the
lights, the incomprehensible combination of colors, the chancel, the
flowers, her wedding gown, and Ugo's dark, glowing face rushed in
and out of her vision as she leaned back in her chair and--almost
forgot to breathe. The thought of Ugo grew and grew; she closed her
eyes and saw him at her side as they walked proudly from the altar
with the good bishop's blessing and the song of the choir in their
ears, the swelling of love in their souls. So vivid became the dream
of his presence that she could almost feel his hand touching hers:
she felt her eyes turn toward him, with all that great crowd
watching, and her heart quivered with passion as his dark, happy
eyes burnt through to her very soul. Somehow she heard distinctly
the whisper, “My wife!”
Suddenly a strange chill came over this idle, happy dream, and she
opened her eyes with a start, Ugo's face fading away like a flash.
The thought had rushed in like a stab from a dagger. Would Philip
Quentin be there, and would he care? Would he care?