“If love should come again, I ask my heart,
In tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thy ancient smart,
If love should come again?
“Would Fate, relenting, sheathe the cruel blade
Whereby the angel of thy youth was slain,
That thou might all possess him unafraid,
If love should come again?
“In vain I ask. My heart makes no reply,
But echoes evermore that sweet refrain:
If love should come again!”
“Yes, the loss of Queenie Trevalyn was a blow which I can never get
over, though I believed myself a strong man,” he mused, the hard,
bitter lines of disappointment and pain deepening on his face, and
painting shadows in his troubled eyes.
“And what a surprise it was to me to hear that letter read which the
farmer received from his brother-in-law down in New Orleans, which so
vitally interested me. How strange it is that this girl was to be sent
to the home of Queenie, in New York, and fate interposed in sending her
here where I am instead. But she shall not know me. I will take care of
that.”
He had no opportunity to cogitate further, for the carriage by this
time had reached the gate where he stood.
Lucy Caldwell did not wait for him to approach to assist her from the
vehicle, but sprang out with the nimbleness of foot which characterized
her.
He looked rather eagerly for the second figure in the old carryall to
step forth, as he advanced. He was thinking of the letter which he had
received from his little Jess when he was at Newport, in which she had
described herself, and he wondered vaguely if the description she gave
him was true or false. He paused for an instant as he beheld the lithe,
slender, girlish figure seated within. He could not see her features,
for, contrary to his expectations, her face was concealed by a heavy
veil.
Like her companion, she sprang from the carriage ere he could take
another step forward to proffer his assistance.
“A society girl and belle,” he muttered, frowning darkly as his quick
glance took in every detail of her stylish traveling dress. “Now, why
under heaven did she give me such a false description of herself in
that letter she wrote me?”
“I want to introduce you to Mr. Moore, Jess,” said Lucy, catching her
by the arm.
A little, brown hand swept aside the heavy folds of tulle that covered
the girl’s face, and then Jess, with the same face as the picture he
had received from her, stood before him. He knew that she had not
misrepresented her character in her letter, when, the next instant, the
little, brown, warm hand was extended to him in greeting, and she said,
eagerly:
“I know all about you and your awful mishap, Mr. Moore, and I am quite
as glad as Lucy is that you are getting well.”
The impulsive action, and the straightforward words that accompanied
it, softened his heart in a measure toward her, although she was of the
sex whom he had sworn to himself that he should evermore detest with
the deadliest of hatred.
“You are very kind, Miss--Miss----” he returned, with a low bow,
raising his hat with a gallantry which surprised Lucy, who was looking
on a little jealously, as she wondered if Mr. Moore thought the
stranger pretty.
“Your sympathy is very pleasing, believe me,” he added, continuing: “I
suppose we cannot shuffle off this mortal coil, no matter what good
opportunities seem to be thrown in our way, until our time comes; at
least, it would seem so in my case, Miss--Miss----”
“My name is simply Jess--nothing more,” said the girl, looking up into
his face with just the faintest suspicion of tears in her big, dark
eyes. “When names were given out, whoever was responsible for the
giving of them in my case, passed me by, it appears, either by accident
or design, so ever afterward I was known by the simple cognomen of
Jess--just Jess.”
Somehow, as he looked into the lovely, young face, his resentment
against one of the sex which he had sworn to hate seemed to be melting
away, although he would have scoffed at the idea had any one told him
that an interest had sprung up in his heart toward the girl in the
first moment they had met.
“Come,” said Lucy, “we will go to the house. We can talk afterward.
Mother and dinner await us.”
And as the two girls got beyond the sight and hearing of Mr. Moore,
Lucy turned to her companion, saying:
“What do you think of our invalid, as we often laughingly call him when
we want to tease him? Do you think him good-looking?”
“He is more than that, Lucy,” returned Jess, gravely. “He is simply
splendid! I know of no word which will express it. We have just such a
pictured face hanging up in the library of Blackheath Hall, and it is
named ‘Apollo Belvidere,’ who is supposed to be the perfection of manly
beauty, so the legend runs which tells about him in old books.”
“You have fallen in love with him at first sight!” cried Lucy, in
terror, her heart sinking and a stifling sensation creeping up to her
throat.
Jess laughed a strange, little laugh. Stopping short in the path, she
suddenly threw her arms about Lucy’s neck, saying, with a laugh which
was almost a sob:
“I never had a girl friend or a girl companion to make a confidant of
in all my life, and I would so love to make a confidant of you, Lucy;
may I? There’s something that I would love to tell you, if you would
never, never tell--never breathe one word of it to any living soul in
the whole wide world.”
“Of course you can make a confidant of me, and tell me all the secrets
you have, and I’ll never tell them,” declared Lucy, solemnly. “You can
depend upon me. I’ve kept lots of girls’ secrets, and never told one of
them yet; I would not be so mean.”
“Well, then, Lucy,” cried Jess, half laughing, half sobbing, “I
couldn’t fall in love with your Mr. Moore if I liked him ever so much,
for I’m engaged to be married to another gentleman, and--and it’s to
take place--the wedding, I mean--just as soon as I come back from the
visit to the Trevalyns, of New York. I never intended to tell anybody
that I was an engaged girl, but, somehow, Lucy, you have wrung the
truth from me in spite of myself, it seems.”
“How delightful, and how romantic!” exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands.
“You must confide to me just how it seems to be--engaged. I’ve wondered
about it so much.”
Jess determined to tell her new-found friend all about her betrothal,
and how it came about, and also to confide to her the terrible secret
that was gnawing her heart out, like a worm in the bud; that she hated
the man, handsome though he was, to whom she had sent the note of
acceptance just before she had started away on her trip, in accordance
with the wishes of Mrs. Bryson, who had concluded that it was wisest
and best to nail Jess down with a solemn promise, by post, which had
been duly forwarded to the expectant lover at New Orleans on the
morning on which Jess had left Blackheath Hall.
Yes, Jess concluded to tell Lucy all about it, but that could wait
until after she had her bonnet off and had been in the house an hour,
at least.
“Her coming is not so much to be feared, after all,” breathed Lucy,
growing more amiable instantly. “I feared she would be trying to lure
Mr. Moore, whom I have set my heart upon winning, away from me. He has
not said so much as a word to me yet, but I am sure he intends to, else
why is he lingering here when the doctor said that he could go his way,
almost a week ago, if he so desired?
“His waiting to recuperate still further, as he called it, was merely
an excuse to linger where I am, and he would not do that unless he was
in love with me, and meant to propose to me, Ma says.”
For an hour or more, Mr. Moore lingered in the old garden, lost in deep
thought. At length he retraced his steps slowly to the old farmhouse.
Lucy was standing on the steps which led into the wide, cool kitchen.
“What do you think of our guest, Miss Jess?” she asked, displaying
more anxiety in her tone than she was aware of.
“She impressed me very favorably at first sight,” he answered, adding:
“I imagine she would wear well in a long and close acquaintance.”
“Do you think her pretty?” persisted Lucy, eagerly.
“Well, no, not as artists and critics define beauty. Still, she is
scarcely more than a child at present. She may become, in the years to
come, a girl who might be termed unusually handsome. Father Time is
so prodigal in his gifts in the flower of youth. And then, again, she
might develop into a--well, comparisons are odious, they say, and we
will make none in this instance, content to let time do his best or his
worst, as fate decrees.”
He did not see a young face, half screened by the climbing rose
branches at the window directly overhead, nor did he, therefore, know
that the young person under discussion--Jess herself--had heard every
word of the conversation.
Jess had drawn hastily back, her face as red as the great, dewy roses
that nodded to her from outside the window.
From the first moment her eyes had met those of the handsome stranger
at the gate, the old life had seemed to fall suddenly from her. She had
said to herself: “Surely, this is the hero of my daydreams; the face,
come to life, of the Romeo whom Juliet loved, whose picture hangs on
the walls of Blackheath Hall, and like the boyish face, too, of John
Dinsmore, when he was a little lad, and came there to visit; and like
the bust of Apollo, too; and the knight’s pictures in the old books.”
And he did not think her fair: probably, on the contrary, he considered
her homely; he had said as much, and tears of wounded pride welled up
to the girl’s eyes. She never realized until that moment that she had
so much vanity to hurt.