MELANIE'S DREAMS
Midnight and the relaxation of slumber could subtract nothing from the
high-browed dignity of the club officials, and the message that was
waiting for Mr. Van Camp was delivered in the most correct manner.
"Mr. Hambleton sends word to Mr. Van Camp that he has gone away on the
_Jeanne D'Arc_. Mr. Hambleton may not be back for some time, and
requests Mr. Van Camp to look after the _Sea Gull_."
"Very well, thank you," replied Aleck, rather absent-mindedly. He was
unable to see, immediately, just what change in his own plans this
sudden turn of Jim's would cause; and he was for the moment too deeply
preoccupied with his own personal affairs to speculate much about it.
His thoughts went back to the events of the evening, recalled the
picture of his Diana and her teasing ways, and dwelt especially upon
the honest, friendly, wholly bewitching look that had flown to him at
the end of the evening. Absurd as his own attempt at a declaration had
been, he somehow felt that he himself was not absurd in Mélanie's eyes,
though he was far from certain whether she was inclined to marry him.
Aleck, on his part, had not come to his decision suddenly or
impulsively; nor, having arrived there, was he to be turned from it
easily. True as it was that he sincerely and affectionately desired
Mélanie Reynier for a wife, yet on the whole he was a very cool Romeo.
He was manly, but he was calculating; he was honorably disposed toward
matrimony, but he was not reborn with love. And so, in the sober
bedroom of the club, he quickly fell into the good sleep induced by
fatigue and healthy nerves.
Morning brought counsel and a disposition to renew operations. A note
was despatched to his Diana by a private messenger, and the boy was
bidden to wait for an answer. It came presently:
"Come at twelve, if you wish.
"MELANIE REYNIER."
Aleck smiled with satisfaction. Here was a wise venture going through
happily, he hoped. He was pleased that she had named the very hour he
had asked for the night before. That was like her good, frank way of
meeting a situation, and it augured well for the unknown emergencies of
their future life. He had little patience with timidity and
traditional coyness in women, and great admiration for an open and
fearless spirit. Mélanie's note almost set his heart thumping.
But not quite; and no one understood the cool nature of that organ
better than Mélanie herself. The ladies in the apartment at the
Archangel had lingered at their breakfast, the austerity of which had
been mitigated by a center decoration of orchids and fern,
fresh-touched with dew; or so Madame Reynier had described them to
Mélanie, as she brought them to her with the card of Mr. Lloyd-Jones.
Miss Reynier smiled faintly, admired the blossoms and turned away.
The ladies usually spoke French with each other, though occasionally
Madame Reynier dropped into the harsher speech of her native country.
On this morning she did this, telling Mélanie, for the tenth time in as
many days, that in her opinion they ought to be going home. Madame
considered this her duty, and felt no real responsibility after the
statement was made. Nevertheless, she was glad to find Mélanie
disposed to discuss the matter a little further.
"Do you wish to go home, Auntie, or is it that you think I ought to go?"
"I don't wish to go without you, child, you know that; and I am very
comfortable here. But his Highness, your cousin, is very impatient; I
see that in every letter from Krolvetz. You offended him deeply by
putting off your marriage to Count Lorenzo, and every day now deepens
his indignation against you. I don't like to discuss these things,
Mélanie, but I suspect that your action deprives him of a very
necessary revenue; and I understand, better than you do, to what
lengths your cousin is capable of going when he is displeased. You
are, by the law of your country, his ward until you marry. Would it
not be better to submit to him in friendship, rather than to incur his
enmity? After all, he is your next of kin, the head of your family,
and a very powerful man. If we are going home at all, we ought to go
now."
"But suppose we should decide not to go home at all?"
"You will have to go some time, dear child. You are all alone, except
for me, and in the nature of things you can't have me always. Now that
you are young, you think it an easy thing to break away from the ties
of blood and birth; but believe me, it isn't easy. You, with your
nature, could never do it. The call of the land is strong, and the
time will come when you will long to go home, long to go back to the
land where your father led his soldiers, and where your mother was
admired and loved."
Madame Reynier paused and watched her niece, who, with eyes cast down,
was toying with her spoon. Suddenly a crimson flush rose and spread
over Mélanie's cheeks and forehead and neck, and when she looked up
into Madame Reynier's face, she was gazing through unshed tears. She
rose quickly, came round to the older woman's chair and kissed her
cheek affectionately.
"Dear Auntie, you are very good to me, and patient, too. It's all
true, I suppose; but the prospect of home and Count Lorenzo
together--ah, well!" she smiled reassuringly and again caressed Madame
Reynier's gaunt old face. "I'll think it all over, Auntie dear."
Madame Reynier followed Mélanie into her sitting-room, bringing the
precious orchids in her two hands, fearful lest the fragile vase should
fall. Mélanie regarded them a moment, and then said she thought they
would do better in the drawing-room.
"I sometimes think the little garden pink quite as pretty as an orchid."
"They aren't so much in Mr. Lloyd-Jones' style as these," replied
Madame Reynier. She had a faculty of commenting pleasantly without the
least hint of criticism. This remark delighted Mélanie.
"No; I should never picture Mr. Lloyd-Jones as a garden pink. But
then, Auntie, you remember how eloquent he was about the hills and the
stars. That speech did not at all indicate a hothouse nature."
"Nevertheless, I think his sentiments have been cultivated, like his
orchids."
"Not a bad achievement," said Mélanie.
There was an interval of silence, while the younger woman stood looking
out of the window and Madame Reynier cut the leaves of a French
journal. She did not read, however, and presently she broke the
silence. "I don't remember that Mr. Van Camp ever sent orchids to you."
"Mr. Van Camp never gave me any kind of flower. He thinks flowers are
the most intimate of all gifts, and should only be exchanged between
sweethearts. At least, I heard him expound some such theory years ago,
when we first knew him."
Madame smiled--a significant smile, if any one had been looking.
Nothing further was said until Mélanie unexpectedly shot straight to
the mark with:
"How do you think he would do, Auntie, in place of Count Lorenzo?"
Madame Reynier showed no surprise. "He is a sterling man; but your
cousin would never consent to it."
"And if I should not consult my cousin?"
"My dear Mélanie, that would entail many embarrassing consequences; and
embarrassments are worse than crimes."
Mélanie could laugh at that, and did. "I've already answered a note
from Mr. Van Camp this morning; Auntie. No, don't worry," she
playfully answered a sudden anxious look that came upon her aunt's
countenance, "I've not said 'yes' to him. But he's coming to see me at
twelve. If I don't give him a chance to say what he has to say, he'll
take one anywhere. He's capable of proposing on the street-cars.
Besides, I have something also to say to him."
"Well, my dear, you know best; certainly I think you know best," was
Madame Reynier's last word.
Mr. Van Camp arrived on the stroke of twelve, an expression of
happiness on his lean, quizzical face.
"I'm supposed to be starting on a cruise," he told Mélanie, "but luck
is with me. My cousin hasn't turned up--or rather he turned up only to
disappear instantly. Otherwise he would have dragged me off to catch
the first ebb-tide, with me hanging back like an anchor-chain."
"Is your cousin, then, such a tyrant?"
"Oh, yes; he's a masterful man, is Jimmy."
"And how did he 'disappear instantly?' It sounds mysterious."
"It is mysterious, but Jim can take care of himself; at least, I hope
he can. The message said he had sailed on the _Jeanne D'Arc_, whatever
that is, and that I was to look after our hired yacht, the _Sea Gull_."
Mélanie looked up, startled. "The _Jeanne D'Arc_, was it?" she cried.
"Are you sure? But, of course--there must be many boats by that name,
are there not? But did he say nothing more--where he was going, and
why he changed his plans?"
"No, not a word more than that. Why? Do you know of a boat named the
_Jeanne D'Arc_?"
"Yes, very well; but it can not matter. It must be another vessel,
surely. Meanwhile, what are you going to do without your companion?"
Aleck rose from the slender gilt chair where, as usual, he had perched
himself, walked to the window and thrust his hands into his pockets for
a contemplative moment, then he turned and came to a stand squarely
before Mélanie, looking down on her with his quizzical, honest eyes.
"That depends, Mélanie," he said slowly, "upon whether you are going to
marry me or not."
[Illustration: "That depends upon whether you are going to marry me."]
For a second or two Mélanie's eyes refused to lift; but Aleck's
firm-planted figure, his steady gaze, above all, his dominating will,
forced her to look up. There he was, smiling, strong, big, kindly.
Mélanie started to smile, but for the second time that morning her eyes
unexpectedly filled with tears.
"I can't talk to you towering over me like that," she said at last
softly, her smile winning against the tears.
Aleck did not move. "I don't want you to 'talk to' me about it; all I
want is for you to say 'yes.'"
"But I'm not going to say 'yes;' at least, I don't think I am. Do sit
down."
Aleck started straight for the gilt chair.
"Oh, no; not that! You are four times too big for that chair.
Besides, it's quite valuable; it's a Louis Quinze."
Aleck indulged in a vicious kick at the ridiculous thing, picked up an
enormous leather-bottomed chair made apparently of lead, and placed it
jauntily almost beside Miss Reynier's chair, but facing the other way.
"This is much better, thank you," he said. "Now tell me why you think
you are not going to say 'yes' to me."
Mélanie's mood of softness had not left her; but sitting there, face to
face with this man, face to face with his seriousness, his masculine
will and strength, she felt that she had something yet to struggle for,
some deep personal right to be acknowledged. It was with a dignity, an
aloofness, that was quite real, yet very sweet, that she met this
American lover. He had her hand in his firm grasp, but he was waiting
for her to speak. He was giving her the hearing that was, in his
opinion, her right.
"In the first place," Mélanie began, "you ought to know more about
me--who I am, and all that sort of thing. I am, in one sense, not at
all what I seem to be; and that, in the case of marriage, is a
dangerous thing."
"It is an important thing, at least. But I do know who you are; I knew
long ago. Since you never referred to the matter, of course I never
did. You are the Princess Auguste Stephanie of Krolvetz, cousin of the
present Duke Stephen, called King of Krolvetz. You are even in line
for the throne, though there are two or three lives between. You have
incurred the displeasure of Duke Stephen and are practically an exile
from your country."
"A voluntary exile," Mélanie corrected.
"Voluntary only in the sense that you prefer exile to absolute
submission to the duke. There is no alternative, if you return."
Mélanie was silent. Aleck lifted the hand which he held, touched it
gently with his lips and laid it back beside its fellow on Mélanie's
lap. Then he rose and lifted both hands before her, half in fun and
half in earnestness, as if he were a courtier doing reverence to his
queen.
"See, your Highness, how ready I am to do you homage! Only smile on
the most devoted of your servants."
Mélanie could not resist his gentle gaiety. It was as if they were two
children playing at a story. Aleck, in such a mood as this, was as
much fun as a dancing bear, and in five minutes more he had won peals
of laughter from Mélanie. It was what he wanted--to brighten her
spirits. So presently he came back to the big chair, though he did not
again take her hand.
"I knew you were titled and important, Mélanie, and at first I thought
that sealed my case entirely. But you seemed to forget your state,
seemed not to care so very much about it; and perhaps that made me
think it was possible for us both to forget it, or at least to ignore
it. I haven't a gold throne to give you; but you're the only woman
I've ever wanted to marry, and I wasn't going to give up the chance
until you said so."
"Do you know also that if I marry out of my rank and without the
consent of Duke Stephen, I shall forfeit all my fortune?"
"'Cut off without a cent!'" Aleck laughed, but presently paused,
embarrassed for the first time since he had begun his plea. "I, you
know, haven't millions, but there's a decent income, even for two. And
then I can always go to work and earn something," he smiled at her,
"giving information to a thirsty world about the gill-slit, as you call
it. It would be fun, earning money for you; I'd like to do it."
Mélanie smiled back at him, but left her chair and wandered uneasily
about the room, as if turning a difficult matter over in her mind.
Aleck stood by, watching. Presently she returned to her chair, pushed
him gently back into his seat and dropped down beside him. Before she
spoke, she touched her fingers lightly, almost lovingly, along the blue
veins of his big hand lying on the arm of the chair. The hand turned,
like a magnet spring, and imprisoned hers.
"No, dear friend, not yet," said Mélanie, drawing away her hand, yet
not very quickly after all. "There is much yet to say to you, and I
have been wondering how to say it, but I shall do it now. Like the
heroes in the novels," she smiled again, "I am going to tell you the
story of my life."
"Good!" said Aleck. "All ready for chapter one. But your maid wants
you at the door."
"Go away, Sophie," said Mélanie. "Serve luncheon to Madame Reynier
alone. I shall wait; and you'll have to wait, too, poor man!" She
looked scrutinizingly at Aleck. "Or are you, perhaps, hungry? I'm not
going to talk to a hungry man," she announced.
"Not a bite till I've heard chapter thirty-nine!" said Aleck.
In a moment she became serious again.
"I have lived in England and here in America," she began, "long enough
to understand that the differences between your people and mine are
more than the differences of language and climate; they are ingrained
in our habits of thought, our education, our judgments of life and of
people. My childhood and youth were wholly different from yours, or
from what an American girl's could be; and yet I think I understand
your American women, though I suppose I am not in the least like them.
"But I, on the other hand, have seen the dark side of life, and
particularly of marriage. When I was a child I was more important in
my own country than I am now, since it seemed then that my father would
succeed to the throne. I was brought up to feel that I was not a
woman, but a pawn in the game of politics. When I had been out of the
convent for a year or more, I loved a youth, and was loved in return,
but our marriage was laughed at, put aside, declared impossible,
because he was of a rank inferior to my own. My lover disappeared, I
know not where or how. Then affairs changed. My father died, and it
transpired that I had been officially betrothed since childhood to Duke
Stephen's brother, the Count Lorenzo. The duke was my guardian, and
there was no one else to whom I could appeal; but the very week set for
the wedding I faced the duke and declared I would never marry the
count. His Highness raged and stormed, but I told him a few things I
knew about his brother, and I made him see that I was in earnest. The
next day I left Krolvetz, and the duke gave out that I was ill and had
gone to a health resort; that the wedding was postponed. I went to
France and hid myself with my aunt, took one of my own middle names and
her surname, and have been known for some time, as you know, as Mélanie
Reynier."
"I know you wish to tell me all these things, Mélanie, but I do not
want you to recall painful matters of the past now," said Aleck gently.
"You shall tell me of them at another time."
The color brightened in Mélanie's face, her eyes glowed.
"No, not another time; you must understand now, especially because all
this preface leads me to what I really want to say to you. It is this:
I do not now care for the man I loved at nineteen, nor for any of the
other men of my country who have been pleased to honor me with their
regard. But ever since those early days I have had a dream of a
home--a place different from Duke Stephen's home, different from the
homes of many people of my rank. My dream has a husband in it who is a
companion, a friend, my equal in love, my superior in strength."
Mélanie's eyes lifted to meet Aleck's, and they were full of an almost
tragic passion; but it was a passion for comprehension and love, not
primarily for the man sitting before her. She added simply: "And for
my dream I'd give all the wealth, all the love, I have."
The room was very still. Aleck Van Camp sat quiet and grave, his
forehead resting on his hand. He looked up, finally, at Mélanie, who
was beside him, pale and quite worn.
"Poor child! You needed me more than I thought!" was what he said.
But Mélanie had not quite finished. "No, that is not enough, that I
should need you. You must also need me, want what I alone can give
you, match my love with yours. And this, I think, you do not do. You
calculate, you remain cool, you plan your life like a campaign, and I
am part of your equipment. You are a thousand times better than Count
Lorenzo, but I think your principles of reasoning are the same. You do
not love me enough, and that is why I can not say yes."
Aleck had taken this last blow standing. He walked slowly around and
stood before Mélanie, much as he had stood before her when he first
asked her to marry him; and this time, as he looked down on her
fairness, there was infinite gentleness and patience and love in his
eyes. He bent over, lifted Mélanie's two hands, and drew her bodily
out of her seat. She was impassive. Her quick alertness, her
vitality, her passionate seriousness, had slipped away. Aleck put his
arms around her very tenderly, and kissed her lips; not a lover's kiss
exactly, and yet nothing else. Then he looked into her face.
"I shall not do this again, Mélanie dear, till you give me leave. But
I have no mind to let you go, either. You and Madame Reynier are going
on a cruise with me; will you? Get your maid to pack your grip. It
will be better for you than the 'professional advice' which you came to
New York for."
Aleck stopped suddenly, his practical sense coming to the surface.
"Heavens! You haven't had any lunch, and it's all times of the day!"
He rang the bell, begged the maid to fetch bread and butter and tea and
to ask Madame Reynier to come to the drawing-room. When she appeared,
he met her with a grave, but in no wise a cowed, spirit.
"Madame Reynier, your niece refuses, for the present, to consider
herself engaged to me; I, however, am unequivocally betrothed to her.
And I shall be endlessly grateful if you and Miss Reynier will be my
guests on the _Sea Gull_ for as long a time as you find it diverting.
We shall cruise along the coast and put into harbor at night, if it
seems best; and I'll try to make you comfortable. Will you come?"
Madame Reynier was willing if Mélanie was; and Mélanie had no strength,
if she had the will, to combat Aleck's masterful ways. It was soon
settled. Aleck swung off down the street, re-reading Jim's letter,
intent only on the _Sea Gull_ and the preparations for his guests. But
at the back of his mind he was thinking, "Poor girl! She needs me more
than I thought!"