Ames & Gaston had been awarded the designs for some important
buildings, to be erected at a distance of a few miles from Washington,
and it was in connection with this matter that Louis Gaston, the
morning after the interview with Miss Trevennon, just recorded, stepped
into a street-car which was to take him within a short distance of the
site of these buildings.
As he glanced around on entering, he met the smiling and enticing gaze
of Mrs. Vere. There was a vacant seat beside her, but he did not choose
to take it. His mind, since last night’s episode, had been full of
memories and anticipations with which the very thought of Mrs. Vere was
discordant. So he merely raised his hat, in answer to her greeting, and
seated himself at some distance from her, near the door, turning his
face to the window. But, as the car went on toward the suburbs, the
passengers gradually departed, and he presently became aware of the
fact that only Mrs. Vere and himself remained. Even then his aversion
to an interview with her, in his present mood, was so strong that he
kept his place, choosing to ignore the fact of their being left alone
together. In a very few minutes, however, Mrs. Vere crossed to his
side, saying, with an airy little laugh:
“As the mountain won’t come to Mahomet----”
Louis, of course, turned at once and resigned himself to the inevitable
interview.
“To what fortunate circumstance am I to attribute the honor of Mrs.
Vere’s society, so far outside the pale of civilization?” he said,
adopting the bantering tone he usually made use of in talking to Mrs.
Vere, in order to veil his real feeling.
“I am going out to see the Temples,” she replied; “I shall have to walk
from the terminus. It’s such a nuisance having no carriage, and I’m
sure I think I deserve one--don’t you? But what brings you out so far
during business hours?”
“Business,” answered Gaston. “I am going to spy out the land for a new
building enterprise.”
“What sort of building enterprise? I should say a charming cottage,
suitable for a pair of domestic neophytes, designed by the architect
for his own occupancy, if it were not that a dishevelled young
Southerner, with an eccentric tailor and a beautiful voice, stands
in the way of that idea! I’m afraid Miss Trevennon, for all her
gentleness, must be rather cruel; for, judging by superficial
evidences, she has beguiled the wary Mr. Gaston to the point of a
futile hankering after Mr. Somers’ place. I suppose she has had the
conscience to tell you she’s engaged.”
“Miss Trevennon?” said Louis, meeting her searching gaze without
flinching, though his heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand
still. “She has not made me her confidant as to her matrimonial
intentions; but if what you say is true, young Somers is a man I well
might envy, whether I do or not.”
He hated the idea of seeming to discuss Margaret with this woman, and
yet he was burning to hear more. He asked no questions, feeling sure
that he could become possessed of whatever information Mrs. Vere had,
without that concession on his part.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about its being true,” went on Mrs. Vere. “I
happen to know the Welfords, the people Mr. Somers stayed with, very
well. Mrs. Welford told me all about it. It seems this young fellow is
troubled with a certain degree of impecuniosity, and he had received
an offer from some people in South America to come out and join them
in some business enterprise, and so he came on at once to consult Miss
Trevennon; and it was agreed between them that he should go. The plan
is that he is to return a millionnaire and marry her. I wonder she
hasn’t told you.”
“Why should she? Ladies are apt to be reserved about such matters,
however garrulous a man may think proper to be, and Mr. Somers, for
one, seems to have been sufficiently communicative.”
“Oh, I suppose he only told Mrs. Welford, and she only told me. You
must consider it confidential.”
“Certainly,” replied Louis; “but here is the terminus, and we must
abandon our equipage.”
He walked with her as far as the Temples’ place, which was a very short
distance off, and then he bowed and left her with unbroken serenity.
Mrs. Vere was a woman who, in point of fact, was by no means incapable
of deep duplicity, but in the present instance she had been guilty only
of stating as facts what Mrs. Welford had told her more in the form of
conjectures. She had happened to meet Somers at this friend’s house
one evening, and had introduced the topic of Miss Trevennon, adroitly
plying the young man with questions, and had satisfied herself that he
was certainly in love with and probably engaged to her. On this basis
she and Mrs. Welford had constructed the story which she told with such
confidence to Gaston.
As for Louis, he made but little headway with his estimates and
prospecting that morning. His first impulse had been to disbelieve
this story, and the remembrance of Margaret’s looks and tones as he
had talked with her last night made it seem almost incredible. But
then, as he looked back into the past, he recalled the incident of
the pressed flower, and the emotion Margaret had shown on hearing Mr.
Somers sing that Christmas night, and the long interview that followed
next morning, and, more than all, the traces of tears he had afterward
detected; and, as he thought of all these things, his heart grew very
heavy.
He soon resolved that he would go at once to Margaret, and learn the
truth from her own lips.
When he reached the house, he found Thomas engaged in polishing the
brasses of the front door, which stood partly open. Being informed
by him that Miss Trevennon was in the drawing-room alone, he stepped
softly over the carpeted hall and entered the library. From there he
could see Margaret, seated on a low ottoman before the fire, her hands
clasped around her knees, and her eyes fixed meditatively upon the
glowing coals. How his young blood leaped at the sight of her! How
lovely and gentle she looked! Was she not the very joy of his heart,
and delight of his eyes? Where was another like her?
He stood a moment silently observing her, and then he cautiously drew
nearer, treading with great care, and shielding himself behind a large
screen that stood at one side of the fire-place. In this way he was
able to come very near without having his approach suspected. He meant
to get very close and then to speak her name, and see if he could call
up again the sweet, almost tender regard with which she had looked at
him last night. Somehow, he felt sure that he should see that look
again. He had half forgotten Charley Somers and Mrs. Vere. He kept
his position in silence a moment. It was a joy just to feel himself
near her, and to know that by just putting out his hand he might touch
her. His eager gaze was fixed upon her fair, sweet profile, and sought
the lovely eyes which were still gazing into the fire. He could see
their musing, wistful look, and, as he began to wonder what it meant,
those gentle eyes became suffused with tears. He saw them rise and
fill and overflow the trembling lids, and fall upon a letter in her
lap. At sight of that letter his heart contracted, and a sudden pallor
over-spread his face. He had been so uncontrollably drawn to her that,
in another moment, the burning words of love must have been spoken,
and the eager arms outstretched to clasp her to his heart. But this
letter was in a man’s handwriting, and his keen eyes detected the South
American stamp on the envelope. His blood seemed to congeal within him,
and his face grew hard and cold.
He stepped backward, with an effort to escape, but his wits seemed
to have deserted him; he stumbled against a chair, and, at the sound,
Margaret looked up. Oh, _why_ were his eyes so blindly turned away
from her? _Why_ did he not see that ardent, happy look with which she
recognized him? Surely it was all and more than memory pictured it!
Surely then he must have known, beyond a doubt, that her whole heart
bade him welcome!
But he would not look at her. He turned to make his way out, as he had
come, pausing merely to ask, with resolutely averted eyes:
“Excuse me, but can you tell me where Eugenia is?”
“In her dressing-room, I think,” said Margaret, in a voice that, in
spite of her, was husky.
“I want to speak to her,” he said, and, without another word or look,
he walked away.
Poor Margaret! Her heart was sore and troubled at the sad words of
Charley Somers’ note. In her own state of happiness and hope, they
struck her as a thousand times more touching. She felt restless
and uneasy, and she would have given much for some slight sign of
protecting care and tenderness from Louis. She was ready to relinquish
everything for him. She knew that he could make up to her for the loss
of all else; but although he must have seen that she was troubled, he
could bear to leave her with that air of cold composure! A dreadful
doubt and uncertainty seized upon her, and she went to her room feeling
lonely and dispirited.
There was to be a large ball that night, and it was not until Margaret
came down to dinner, and observed that Mr. Gaston’s place was vacant,
that she learned from Cousin Eugenia that he had excused himself from
both dinner and the ball. She did not ask for any explanation, and Mrs.
Gaston only said that she supposed he had work to finish. No one took
any special heed of his absence, but Margaret remembered that it was
her last dinner with them, and felt hurt that he should have absented
himself; the ball was suddenly bereft of all its delight. She knew
there was something wrong, and her heart sank at the thought that
there might be no opportunity for explanation between them. But then
she remembered the unfinished sentence that General Gaston’s entrance
had interrupted the night before, and she felt sure that all must come
right in the end.
Animated by this strong conviction, and remembering that she would
not leave until late in the afternoon of the next day, she dressed
for the ball in a beautiful toilet of Cousin Eugenia’s contriving,
composed of white silk and swan’s-down, resolved to throw off these
fancied doubts and misgivings as far as possible. In spite of all,
however--though Cousin Eugenia went into ecstacies over her appearance,
and she had more suitors for her notice than she could have remembered
afterward--the evening was long and wearisome to her, and she was glad
when Cousin Eugenia came to carry her off rather early, in anticipation
of the fatigues of the next day.
When they reached home there was a bright light in the library, and
Louis was sitting at the table writing.
“Is that you, Louis?” said Mrs. Gaston, calling to him from the hall:
“Margaret must give you an account of the ball, for I am too utterly
worn out. Go, Margaret--and lest you should not mention it, I’ll
preface your account by saying that Miss Trevennon was, by all odds,
the beauty and belle of the occasion.”
With these words she vanished up the staircase, whither her husband had
preceded her.
Half glad and half timid, Margaret advanced toward the centre of the
room, and when Louis stood up to receive her, she could not help
observing how careworn and grave he looked. There was a troubled
expression in his face that touched her very much. Something had
happened since last night. She felt more than ever sure of it; and it
was something that had stirred him deeply.
“I am glad the last ball was such a successful one,” he said, placing a
chair for her, and then, going over to the mantel, he stood and faced
her.
“It was a beautiful ball,” said Margaret; “the rooms were exquisite.”
“Were they supplied with mirrors?” he asked, folding his arms as he
looked down at her, steadily.
“Mirrors? Oh yes; there were plenty of mirrors.”
“And did you make use of them, I wonder, Miss Trevennon? Do you know
just how you look, in that beautiful soft gown, with the lovely white
fur around your neck and arms? I should fancy it might tempt one to the
mermaid fashion of carrying a mirror at the girdle.”
He smiled as he spoke--a resolute, odd smile that had little merriment
in it.
“What have you been doing, all this time?” she asked, wishing to lead
the conversation away from herself.
“Working,” he answered; “writing letters--doing sums--drawing plans.”
“How you love your work!” she said.
“Yes, I love my work, thank God!” he answered, in a fervid tone. “It
has been my best friend all my life, and all my dreams for the future
are in it now.”
“You love it almost too much, I think. It takes you away from
everything else. Do you mean to work in this way always? Have you no
other visions of the future?”
“Oh, I have had visions!” he said, thrusting his hands into the
pockets of his sack-coat, and bracing himself against the end of the
mantel, while he looked at her steadily as he spoke. “I have had
visions--plenty of them! They mostly took the form of very simple,
quiet dreams of life; for I have already told you, Miss Trevennon,
by what a very demon of domesticity I am haunted. The sweetest
of all thoughts to me is that of home--a quiet life, with a dear
companion--that would be my happiness. Exterior things would be very
unimportant.”
He seemed to rouse himself, as if from some sort of lethargy which he
dreaded, and, standing upright, he folded his arms across his breast,
and went on:
“But if I had this vision once, I have put it from me now, and only the
old routine remains--business and reading and a half-hearted interest
in society. There is music, but that I mistrust; it brings the old
visions back, and shows me the loneliness of a life in which they can
have no part. So it is no wonder, is it, that I call my work my best
friend?”
Poor, poor Margaret! Her heart sank lower and lower, and when he
finished with this calmly uttered question, a little shudder ran
through her.
“I am cold,” she said, rising; “I must go.”
He went and brought her white wrap from where she had thrown it on a
chair, and with one of his peculiarly protecting motions he threw it
around her. Then, gathering the soft folds in his hands on each side,
he drew them close across her breast, and held them so a moment, as he
said:
“Yes, Margaret, you must go. And it is not for the night, nor for the
season, nor even for the year; it is forever. What would you say to me,
if you knew we were never to see each other again?”
“Most likely we never shall,” she said, speaking in a cold, vacant way.
“And what will you say to me? What will you give me to remember?”
“I can only say good-bye,” she answered in the same dull tone.
“Good-bye, then, Margaret. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye; and may God
Almighty bless you,” he said, and she felt the hands that rested
against hers trembling. He looked long and searchingly into her face,
with a scrutinizing steady gaze, as if he would photograph upon his
mind its every line and feature. And then the light folds of her wrap
were loosened, his hands fell heavily to his side, and he stepped back
from her.
Like a woman walking in her sleep she passed him, her long draperies
trailing heavily after her as she crossed the hall and began to
ascend the stairs. Her step was heavy and she moved slowly, and Louis,
watching her from below with eyes that were wild with longing and
lips that were stern with repression, held his breath in passionate
expectation that, as she turned at the bend of the stairs, she might
give him one last look. But her eyes, as the sweet profile came in
view, were looking straight before her, and the tall white-clad figure
was almost out of sight when, without willing it, without meaning
it, absolutely without knowing it, he arrested her by a hurried,
half-articulate call.
“Margaret!” he cried, in a voice that seemed not to be his own, so
strange and altered was it.
The weary figure paused, and she turned and looked down at him. A
little glimmer of the bright joy, which had been so lately smothered
out of life, shot up in her heart as she heard him call her name, but
when she looked at him, it died. He was standing with his arms folded
tightly together, and a look of the most rigid self-control in his
whole aspect. A man that loved her could never look at her like that,
she thought, and she felt at that instant, more than ever, that she had
deceived herself. Complete weariness seemed to master her. Her chief
feeling was that she was tired to death. What was the use of going back?
“I have something to say to you,” said Louis, in a voice that was
colder than it had been yet. “Come back, for a moment only.”
She was very weak, and it seemed easier to comply than to refuse; so,
very silently and slowly, Margaret retraced her steps.
As the beautiful white vision drew nearer, step by step, the young
man’s whole heart and soul went out to meet her, but at the same moment
his physical frame retreated, and he withdrew into the room before
her, conscious only that he still held possession of himself, and
that the spirit within him was still master of the body. Long habit
had accustomed him to frequent renunciation. All these years he had
been resisting and overcoming, in smaller things, with the conscious
knowledge that he was thereby acquiring power which would enable him to
conquer when greater temptations should come. And now he knew that his
mightiest temptation was hard upon him.
He pressed his arms tighter together across his breast, set his lips
and held his breath, as his temptation, clad in a wondrous long white
garment, wafting a sweet fragrance and waking a murmuring silken sound,
came near to him, and passed him by.
When Margaret had actually moved away from him, and thrown herself
weakly into a low, deep chair, and he realized that his arms were
still folded, his lips still set, he drew in his breath, with a long
respiration that seemed to draw into his heart a mortal pain; and
he knew that his practice had stood him in good stead, and that his
strength had proved sufficient in his hour of need.
It would have been only for a moment. All he wanted was to take her in
his arms an instant, and kiss her just once, and then he could have
let her go forever, and counted himself a happy man to have lived that
moment’s life. That was all; but that he felt himself in honor bound to
renounce, because he believed her to be pledged to another man. And he
had accomplished the renunciation; but now that this was so, he felt an
impatient rebellion against further discipline. The resistless torrent
of his love and despair rushed over him, and nothing should keep him
from speaking! Words could do her no harm, and there were words that
burnt upon his lips, whose utterance alone, it seemed to him, could
keep his brain from bursting.
He opened his lips to speak, but the words refused to come. There was
a spell in the silence that he felt powerless to break. The room was
absolutely free from either sound or motion. Margaret had dropped her
weary body sideways in the cushioned chair, with her long white robe
sweeping behind her, and her face turned from him, so that only her
profile was in view.
The young man stood and looked at her, possessed by the sense of her
nearness, enthralled by the spell of her beauty. He could see the rise
and fall of her bosom under its covering of silk and fur, and there
was a dejectedness in her attitude that made a passionate appeal to
his tenderness. She was very pale, and her lowered lids and a little
drooping at the corners of her mouth gave her lovely face a most
plaintive look. She was tired too; the inertness of the pliant figure,
with the motionless bare arms and relaxed, half-open hands, showed
that plainly enough. Fragile and slight and weary as she was, how
could she endure the battle of life alone, and who, of all men in the
world, could strive and struggle for her as he could? The thought of
her woman’s weakness was a keen delight to him at that moment. He had
never felt himself so strong. With a quick motion that emphasized his
thought, without interrupting the stillness, he threw out his right
arm and clinched his hand with a conscious pleasure in his strength.
Nerves and veins and muscles seemed to tingle with sentient animal
force.
All these excited thoughts passed through his brain with lightning-like
swiftness, but now, at last, the silence was broken by a sound. It was
a very gentle one--a short, faint sigh from Margaret; but its effect
was powerful. It roused the young man from his absorption and recalled
him to reality.
He sat down a little space away from her, and with his fervid eyes
fixed on her pale profile and lowered lids, began to speak.
“It was an impulse, not a deliberate purpose, that made me call you
back,” he said. “I should perhaps have done better to let you go, but I
did not, and now you are here, and I am here, and we are alone in the
stillness together, Margaret, and you will have to listen to what I
have to say. I think you must know what it is. My efforts to keep the
truth out of my eyes when I looked at you, and out of my voice when I
spoke to you, have seemed to me miserable failures many a time, and I
dare say you have known it all along.”
He paused a moment, still looking at her. There was not a quiver in
the still face pressed against the cushions, but at his last words the
beautiful arm was uplifted and laid against her cheek, hiding her face
from view, as the slim hand closed upon the top of the chair, above her
head. It was an attitude full of grace. The white wrap had fallen back,
leaving bare the lovely arms and shoulders, and revealing perfectly the
symmetry of the rounded figure. Although the face was hidden, he could
see every exquisite line and tint of it, in his mind’s eye, almost as
plainly as he saw, with his actual vision, the soft masses of hair
drawn back from the little shell-like ear, and the portion of white
cheek and throat which her screening arm did not conceal.
In spite of strong repression, the hot blood overflowed the young man’s
bounding heart and sent a glow of dark color surging over his face.
Something--a little fluttered movement of the breast--revealed to his
confused consciousness that Margaret herself was not unmoved. He rose
and advanced toward her.
“You know it,” he said; “but let me put into words the sweet,
despairing truth. I love you, Margaret. Oh, good and beautiful and true
and sweet, how could I choose but love you!”
He dropped upon his knees before her, and in this low position he could
see her lovely, tremulous lips. At something in their expression a
sudden little flame of hope shot up in his heart.
“Margaret,” he said, in a deep, commanding tone that was almost stern,
while all the time his hands were clinched together, so that he touched
not so much as the hem of her dress--“Margaret, look at me. Let me see
straight into your eyes.”
There was no disobeying that tone, which he now used to her for the
first time. She felt herself mastered by it, and, lowering her arm, she
showed to him her loving eyes, her trembling lips, her entranced and
radiant face. Instantly his arms were around her, his lips to hers, in
an embrace so tender, a kiss so sweet, as can come only in that rare
union of freshness and completeness for which all the past lives of
these two young souls had been a preparation.
“You were wrong. I did _not_ know,” she said, presently, breaking the
long silence and murmuring the words very softly in his ear.
“Then you have been dull and blind and deaf, my darling, my darling,
my darling!” he said, lingering caressingly upon the repetition of the
poor little word, which is the best we have to convey the tenderest
message of our hearts. “Do you know it now, or do you need to have it
proved to you still further? Let me look at you.”
But she would not lift her head from its safe and happy resting-place,
and her eyes refused to meet his until he said again:
“Margaret,” in that stern, sweet voice which thrilled and conquered
her; and then she lifted up her eyes, and fixed them with a fervent
gaze on his.
“God help me to deserve you, Margaret, my saint,” he murmured, as he
met that look of lovely exaltation. “It hurts me that you have to stoop
so far.”
“I do not stoop,” she answered. “You have pointed me to heights I never
dreamed of. We will try to reach them together.”
* * * * *
Later, when their long talk, including the short explanation of their
misunderstanding, was over, and they were parting for the night, with
the blessed consciousness that they would meet to-morrow in the same
sweet companionship--with the thought in the mind of each that the
future was to be always together, never apart, Louis went with her into
the hall, to watch her again as she ascended the stairs.
When she had gone but a few steps, she paused, leaning over the
banister:
“Doesn’t it seem funny,” she said, the serious happiness her face had
worn giving place to a merry smile, “such a Yankee and such a Rebel, as
you and I! Let us set an example of letting by-gones be by-gones, and
shake hands across the bloody chasm!”
THE END.
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THOMAS NELSON PAGE
“_Mr. Page’s heroines are so delightfully sweet and attractive that
no one can help falling in love with them._”--_Chicago_ Times-Herald.
=Red Rock.= A Chronicle of Reconstruction. Illustrated $1.50
=Pastime Stories.= Illustrated 1.25
=In Ole Virginia.= Marse Chan, and Other Stories 1.25
=The Burial of the Guns= 1.25
=On Newfound River: A Story= 1.00
=Elsket, and Other Stories= 1.00
=The Old South.= Essays Social and Political 1.25
_New Uniform Edition of the above seven vols., in a box_ 8.00
=The Old Gentleman of the Black Stock.= [_Ivory Series_] .75
=Social Life in Old Virginia Before the War.= With
Illustrations 1.50
=Marse Chan.= A Tale of Old Virginia. Illustrated by SMEDLEY 1.00
=Meh Lady.= A Story of the War. Illustrated by REINHART 1.00
=Polly.= A Christmas Recollection. Illustrated by CASTAIGNE 1.00
=Unc’ Edinburg.= A Plantation Echo. Illustrated by CLINEDINST 1.00
=“Befo’ de War.”= Echoes of Negro Dialect. By A. C. GORDON and THOMAS
NELSON PAGE 1.00
=Among the Camps=, or Young People’s Stories of the War.
Illustrated 1.50
=Two Little Confederates.= Illustrated 1.50
_For sale by all booksellers: published by_
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
153-157 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK
BOOKS BY GEORGE W. CABLE
“_There are few living American writers who can reproduce for us more
perfectly than Mr. Cable does, the speech, the manners, the whole
social atmosphere of a remote time and a peculiar people._”
--_New York_ Tribune.
=John March, Southerner= $1.50
=Bonaventure.= A Prose Pastoral of Acadian Louisiana 1.25
=Dr. Sevier= 1.25
=The Grandissimes.= A Story of Creole Life 1.25
=Old Creole Days= 1.25
_A New Edition of Mr. Cable’s Romances comprising the
above 5 vols., printed on deckle-edge paper, gilt top,
and bound in sateen with full gilt design, now ready,
$1.50 per volume. The set in a box_ 7.50
=Strong Hearts= 1.25
=Strange True Stories of Louisiana.= With illustrations
and fac-simile reproductions 1.25
=Madame Delphine= .75
=The Creoles of Louisiana.= Illustrated from drawings
by PENNELL 2.50
=The Silent South=, together with the Freedman’s
Case in Equity and the Convict Lease System.
_Revised and Enlarged Edition._ With portrait 1.00
_For sale by all booksellers; published by_
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
153-157 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK
HAROLD FREDERIC’S NOVELS
“_The Scribners have in press a new uniform edition of novels and
short stories by Mr. Harold Frederic. This is a well-deserved tribute
to the abilities of a writer whose worth was recognized by discerning
critics long before ‘The Damnation of Theron Ware’ occasioned
something of a furor._”
--_New York_ Tribune.
=In the Valley= $1.50
=Seth’s Brother’s Wife= 1.50
=The Lawton Girl= 1.50
=In the Sixties= 1.50
_The above four volumes are issued in a handsome uniform binding,
gilt top, deckle edges, etc._
=Marsena, and Other Stories= $1.00
=The Copperhead= 1.00
=In the Valley.= _Illustrated Edition._ With
16 full-page illustrations by HOWARD PYLE 1.50
“_Mr. Frederic’s stories of the wartime (‘In the Sixties’) are
constructed thoughtfully and written admirably. They are full of
feeling._”
--_New York_ Evening Post.
_For sale by all booksellers; published by_
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
153-157 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Blanc-mange.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.