It was not to be wondered at that Doctor Brudenell, coming down to
breakfast at the usual time some five hours later, should have looked
what Mrs. Jessop called "as pale as the very table-cloth itself," or
that he should have but little desire either for the meal or his Sunday
paper. The very children, coming in by and by to bid him good-morning
before going to church, loudly expressed their astonishment in a shrill
trio as to Uncle George's funny looks, and rather rebelled at the
unusually curt greeting and dismissal which he gave them. Even the
governess's eyes opened a little wider as she looked at him, but she
gave him her hand with her usual shadowy smile, and expressed no
interest or surprise. Not that she would have learned anything had she
been as concerned as she was indifferent, for George Brudenell,
reflecting upon and recalling his adventure of the night before, fully
realizing his own position, had come to the conclusion to dismiss and
forget it if he could, and to speak of it to no one.
The Doctor was a shrewd man, and, understanding his fellow-men in their
mental as well as their physical natures, knew very well that such a
story, if it were not entirely discredited, would be at any rate
doubted and caviled at. The general opinion would be that there was
some truth in it, but not much. He was a sensitive man, disliking and
dreading ridicule, and he came to the conclusion that no possible good
could result from his publishing the story. He did not know the
men--the street, the house, and the locality were alike unknown to him.
When speech could do no good, could throw no light, silence became
wise. He would be silent.
He fell asleep in his comfortable chair presently, and waking up in a
couple of hours, was cheerful--more cheerful than usual. It happened
that he was not called out, and that there were no visits that he was
absolutely obliged to make, and so he spent the day about the house and
garden, enjoying his leisure almost boyishly. He romped with the
children in the garden, swung them, played ball with them, would have
even run races with them perhaps, as they earnestly besought him to do,
had the weather been cooler. Suddenly he caught sight of the perfect
face of Alexia Boucheafen at a window, with her brother beside her,
and, meeting her dark eyes, was a little abashed for the moment. He did
not play with the children any more, and the young rebels wondered why,
after being in such an absolutely seraphic temper, he should turn cross
so suddenly. Perhaps it was not her watching that vexed him, but the
scrutiny of that other pair of eyes. For, slowly and reluctantly,
George Brudenell had by this time made up his mind that, with every
desire to like this handsome young Gustave Boucheafen, he could not do
so.
"Prejudice, no doubt," said the Doctor to himself, when presently,
after having discreetly quieted his nephews and niece by a gift of
sixpence each, he sat down to smoke a cigar in his study; "but upon my
word I shall be glad when the young fellow is out of the house. Well,
this post at Langley's will be a pretty good chance for him if he
chooses to stick to it. If he has any sense he will. I'll tell her this
evening, by the way."
He did not see Alexia again until the children were sleeping and the
twilight was fading at the approach of night. Then, looking from his
study window, he saw her, tall and erect, in her black dress, pacing
the gravel walk beside the trimly-kept lawn. Her brother was at her
side again, and they were talking earnestly, absorbedly--he with his
usual redundancy of gesture, she with unfailing calmness. It seemed
that they were arguing about something--he urging, she resisting--for
presently she flung off the hand which he had placed upon her arm, and
turned her back upon him. His face darkened, the lines about his mouth
grew hard, he spoke a word or two, regarding her with a curious smile;
and then, turning upon his heel, without waiting for a reply, went into
the house. Doctor Brudenell paused, stood hesitating for a few moments,
then went out and joined her.
She would have moved away as he approached her, but, with his usual
diffident, shy manner toward her, he begged her to remain for a little
while, as he had something to say. Then she turned and walked beside
him--her eyes fixed intently upon him in the gray dusk. Had he kept his
eyes upon her face, instead of nervously looking away, he would have
seen upon it curiosity, and signs of apprehension too scornful and
contemptuous for fear.
"I will only keep you a moment, Mademoiselle. I wanted to say, that
with regard to your brother----"
"Yes, sir."
"I am glad to tell you that I have been successful in my efforts on his
behalf. There is, in the business-house of a friend of mine, a post
vacant which I think will probably suit him, and which he is likely to
fill creditably. Indeed, I may say that it only awaits his acceptance
to-morrow."
Her eyes had wandered away from his face when he began to speak; now
they came back quickly, gleaming brightly in the dusk. He was taken
aback, and yet he wondered why, for she merely repeated:
"To-morrow?"
"I was merely going to add that to-morrow an interview will probably
settle the business."
"Ah, sir--you see you are so kind, so good! How can I thank you--what
can I say?"
George Brudenell, listening, looking, lost his head. He had meant to
tell her what he had to tell quietly and coolly, make light of the
thanks which only embarrassed him, and so go back soberly to his book
and cigar again. But he met her eyes, heard her voice, and the resolve
was gone. He never knew what it was that he said to Alexia
Boucheafen--in what words he clothed his passion, in what phrases he
pleaded. He only knew that she listened for a moment impassively, that
the next time the cold blankness of her face was gone, that it was
replaced by a look of scorn, incredulity, pity, contempt--he did not
know what--that an instant later she had wrenched away the hand he had
taken, had burst into a laugh that rang out shrilly in the gloom, and
that he was standing alone, bewildered, thinking that her laugh had
sounded like an echo of the laugh that he had heard last night in that
mysterious house--the laugh of the gray-haired man with the scar upon
his cheek.
Alexia Boucheafen, moving with a rapidity unlike her usual slow
graceful motion, had rushed into the house and up to her sitting-room.
Her brother was there, evidently waiting for her, but he was not
waiting for anything like this. She looked at him for a moment, then
drew herself into a chair, and shrieked with hysterical laughter.
Gustave Boucheafen was cautious. He hurried to the door, shut and
locked it, returned and grasped her arm firmly.
"What is this? Control yourself--consider!"
Her wild laughter was already dying away; it was evident that she had
to exercise rigid self-control to prevent it from turning to still
wilder sobbing. She sat for a few moments with her hands pressed over
her eyes, her breast heaving convulsively. When she looked at him,
rising as she did so, her eyes dilated and gleamed.
"This night," she said--"this night of all others to choose!"
"To choose for what?"
"To make love to me! Think of it!"
"Bah! What did I tell you but just now?" he returned sullenly,
releasing her arm. "You laughed. Fool as he was--tool as you had made
him, he was not fool enough for that, you said. Eh--was he not? I knew
how it would be. Did I not tell you so before I even entered this
house?" Looking at her, he laughed grimly. "What a fool--an idiot!"
"Bah!" she retorted, with a bitter smile. "What, think you, does he
know? I could laugh at myself, for I am almost sorry!"
"For him?"
"Why not? He is a good man in his way, and he has been kind. Don't look
at me like that!" she cried with sudden passion, a swift rush of blood
tinting the pallor of her cheeks. "What do you think he is to me, this
man, but the tool I have made him? He has not harmed me--he represents
nothing that has harmed me; and I would not hurt him, as I would not
hurt a child."
"Ah, that is all?" He looked at her keenly. "Good--and yet last
night----"
"Well," she said defiantly, "last night I saved him. What then? He
could do us no harm--he had done us good, and our use for him was
nearly over--I may say now that it is over."
"Unless we fail."
"Fail!" she echoed contemptuously.
"What did you say to him?" he asked after a moment's pause.
"Nothing. What should I say? I rushed away. What does it matter? I
shall not see him again."
"True." He glanced at the clock. "Eight," he said, turning toward the
door, as though to close the conversation by leaving the room. "You
will not forget the time?"
"I shall not."
"And," he added warningly, "you will not blench--this time?"
She did not hear him. She had drawn from her breast the tiny roll of
red-marked paper; and, holding it upon the palm of her hand, was
looking at it with a curiously intent and bitter smile.
"Good!" said Gustave Boucheafen, with satisfaction; and he went out and
left her.