man, whose destination also was the orange walk, where Posey sat
disconsolate. John Glynn, finding at the last moment in New York that
he could get a quick passage to Genoa by an ocean greyhound put on for
an occasion, had returned to Europe several days before he was expected,
and neglecting to wire from Genoa, expected to take his friends here by
surprise. He had walked from the station, entering the villa grounds
from the lower gate. It seemed to him something queer was inspiring the
forces of Nature that afternoon. A strange, weird, exciting wind was
astir under brilliant sunshine--a wind to provoke and condone any act of
nervous irritability. Glynn felt glad to take refuge from its fury by
pausing under a great eucalyptus at the foot of the garden, and resting
there a while.
All during his quick eight days' passage across the southern route of
the Atlantic, he had been alternately drawn and repelled by the
consideration of his forthcoming marriage. At the idea of his
benefactor, the maker of his fortunes, the dear confiding old man whom
he could never repay for benefits conferred, he felt ready to march up
to the church door and surrender himself to Posey without a look behind.
But it was different when the reverie centred upon the young girl whose
innocent thoughts were translated into words as fast as her impulse gave
them birth, whose fun and daring, joy and pain, succeeded each other
like ripples on a summer sea; he wondered if he had a right to make of
her an unloved wife.
For since that fateful hour when he had sat close to Helen in the
railway train, and since their meeting at the wayside chapel on the
hill, their hearts pulsing together, their thoughts yearning each toward
the other, stern resolve forcing them apart, he had known that to say he
would cease to love Helen had not made it any better with him, as far as
the only woman he had ever desired to marry was concerned. Absence from
her, a voyage to and from America, tough work which he had surmounted
successfully, a negotiation so skilfully concluded that it had saved Mr.
Winstanley grave loss, none of these circumstances had lessened his
passionate yearning for her whom he had first held in his arms and
kissed as his future wife. When, after one of these outbursts of feeling
for Helen, he thought of Posey, it was always with keen shame and
abiding pity; it did not seem to him that he was "playing fair"--and
yet, here he was, back again at Cannes, the day of the wedding was
shortly to be set, and, as Posey's husband, he was to enter upon a
career in his native country, the breadth and magnitude of which would
surpass the fondest dreams of his ambitious boyhood.
So strong had been the current of inclination turning him from his
destined way, that he had actually come afoot from the station, and sent
his belongings by a cab, rather than expedite his progress to Reine des
Fees by driving. He had no idea that Helen had become a temporary
inmate of the establishment. His one letter received from Posey during
his swift run home, had described her friend as having sailed away on
the "Sans Peur," in company with that "utterly odious Mrs. Carstairs,"
and "looking so sad and spiritless it wrung one's heart to see her."
Helen in Naples or Sicily, even if he knew her to be far from happy, was
better than Helen in Cannes, looking on at his wedding with Posey!
If Glynn could have suspected that at the identical moment, when he was
sitting under the eucalyptus tree trying to screw his courage to pushing
boldly up the hill, Miss Carstairs was at the writing-table in her room,
inditing with hot hands and desperate resolve a letter to Mariol,
telling him she would be his wife!
But he dreamed of none of the threads of Destiny weaving together that
day and hour while the mistral blew fiercely around Villa Reine des
Fees. He only thought he would tarry a little while longer, his legs
and spirits feeling weighted as if with lead, before announcing himself
at the house, the hero of the "happy event" to come.
A third unexpected visitor to the garden now also advanced from the
direction of Villa Julia, and moved furtively behind the hedges toward
the Triton fountain.
As Ruby had found herself in the lane about to get into her carriage,
with Rosa in attendance, she had caught sight of Clandonald lightly
striding ahead of her, his evident destination the gilded iron grille
opening into the drive of Reine des Fees. Instantly, the burning,
unreasoning jealousy of Posey, that had never forsaken Mrs. Darien,
sprang up again to madden her into action.
What she desired to do, to say, to accomplish, she knew not, but (the
bad wind, no doubt, aiding) an evil spirit in her blood commanded her
imperatively to enter and lurk in the forbidden garden, with the hope of
hearing or seeing something pass between the two. She knew from public
announcement that Miss Winstanley was about to marry Glynn, the man who
had supposed he had bought Ruby's forbearance from troubling his
fiancee. If any prick of conscience assailed the desperate creature it
was at thought of her sworn promise to John Glynn--a promise about to be
forfeited in most treacherous fashion--to say nothing of her loss of his
indispensable allowance. For, in stealing the key of the green door
from Lady Campstown, she had really meant to be more mischievous and
offensive than openly aggressive. She intended to keep it until the
chance came to give, as she termed it, "that vindictive old hag, Aunt
Lucy," a rousing fright, and at the same time, perhaps, satisfy her
curiosity as to how things were going on between Clandonald and the
Winstanley girl.
And here was her opportunity sooner than she had hoped. She had sharply
ordered the alarmed Rosa to keep watch in the cab until her return; had
heeded not the woman's beseechings, for the love of all the Saints, not
to run this risk of offending Milady Campstown; and had let herself into
Reine des Fees by means of the key which Posey had begged Lady Campstown
to use at will, now that the green door was kept permanently locked.
To cross the forbidden threshold seemed to inspire Ruby with more
rancorous thoughts than ever before. Why should Clandonald, also Glynn,
have paid her so heavily to protect this girl, already favored by
fortune, whilst she wandered in outer darkness? She hated Posey the
more, not only because these two men stood before her, but because
Ruby's best endeavor had not seemed to do her material harm; because the
girl had ceased being insignificant and was now rich and powerful; and
lastly, because Lady Campstown was her best friend.
Ruby knew that by taking the nearer way she would arrive upon the scene
before Clandonald could do so, and be safely in ambush watching him. If
he were merely to enter the house for a conventional call she could do
nothing, and might slip back to rejoin Rosa, unseen. But she counted
rather confidently upon what she had ascertained from questioning her
tool, that Miss Winstanley and her friend were generally to be found
out-doors at this hour of the afternoon.
The sight of Clandonald walking unconcernedly ahead of her, twirling the
Makila stick, which she recognized as a souvenir of their joint visit to
Biarritz, was as fuel to her flame. He looked so young, so normally
vigorous, so full of bounding life; he was so well groomed, so well
turned out, as the men were not with whom she associated in the present
phase of her existence. How long it was, with the exception of her talk
with Glynn, since she had held converse with a clean, wholesome, and
courteous gentleman!
And she was so thin, so bloodless, so unbeautiful; her empire over his
sex was so nearly gone, she had so little left to hope for!
The immediate result of this contrast between herself and the man who
had once taken her, for better, for worse, at the altar, was to make
Ruby Darien furiously angry. As Clandonald passed out of her sight,
between the ivied walls of the steeply descending street, she felt that
she would have liked to spring upon him like a panther, and--ah! it was
better that he had passed on!
Clandonald, as has been said, had unexpectedly stepped in through an
arch of crimson ramblers, to find Posey, whom Helen Carstairs had just
left to go in to write her letter to Mariol, weeping alone, and lovelier
than even he had remembered her.
If Miss Winstanley had been on her guard, or chatting with a friend, or
sitting with her book and looking up with a pleasant smile as he drew
near, Lord Clandonald might not have forgotten himself, as he now
unquestionably did!
Without a moment's forethought, following out the impulse one has to
console a child whom one finds in distressful solitude, he made toward
her a buoyant movement, taking her hand in both of his, and dropping
upon the bench beside her.
In her present period of believing herself, as it were, deserted by John
and Helen, who, so fitted for one another, had, figuratively, soared
away out of her ken upon a rosy cloud, the girl welcomed Clandonald with
lips and eyes too eloquent to be mistaken. Feeling that he must speak,
knowing that he ought to choose his words most carefully, he ended by
doing nothing of the kind.
"Oh, please don't cry!" he simply said. "You are too dear and lovely
ever to shed a tear! If you were mine----"
In books it is where people make the beautiful set speeches that come
out just right as to semicolons and periods, besides fitting exactly
into place in conversation. In real life, under strong emotion, things
are said brokenly that often have neither grammar, rhyme nor reason.
This man certainly never meant to make love to this girl out of a clear
sky. But his voice, his face, his manner, were all those of a lover
such as Posey had not known in her brief experience. And the worst of
it was, the same unaccountable, unbidden feeling of delight again rushed
over her that she had felt for him upon the ship. It seemed sufficient
for him to be near her for that to tingle in her veins! She thought he
was the brightest, noblest object her eyes had ever rested upon, not a
mere faulty man idealized. In plain words, "the old, old story was told
again" in the garden of Reine des Fees!
But Posey had gained in self-control since her experience of the world.
She checked the radiant return movement toward Clandonald, who, also
pulling himself together, guiltily arose and stood at some distance away
from her, holding his hat like a shy schoolboy, without saying another
word.
"I'm not crying," she remarked, somewhat untruthfully. "I'm only
thinking over a sad sort of talk I've just had with my friend, Miss
Carstairs, who's staying with me, as you know. She told me, by the way,
you'd been so nice to her on the journey, and so had M. de Mariol. We
were sorry to miss you yesterday, and are looking forward to the dinner
this evening. I didn't think you would call again to-day."
"Neither did I," he said, "but when it came to waiting for my aunt's
dinner hour I had to. I hope you won't mind my taking the short cut to
Paradise, without ringing at your front door. It got me here the
sooner, see? And as my aunt had happened to let fall that you always
came to the Orange Walk about this time, I ventured upon the liberty.
But I didn't dare expect such good luck as finding you quite alone."
"Helen has just left me," she answered, a little confused by his ardent
gaze. "I can see that it astonished you to find me so much grander than
I was. But for me, I'm already used to it. Oh! Do you know, I had the
greatest satisfaction yesterday. That Mrs. Vereker, who snubbed me so
on the ship, you remember, and that stuffed image of a Mr. Brownlow,
were both lunching at the Gold Club, at a table by themselves; and
seeing us with some people they thought 'worth while,', came up and
spoke to me, almost humbly!"
"How did you treat them in return?"
"I said, 'Oh! really. Are you in Cannes?' And then the Grand Duke
asked me some question, and I turned away to him. If the Grand Duke
hadn't happened to be there it would have been no fun at all. You see
how wicked and worldly I have grown. Then Mr. Brownlow asked if he
might call at Villa des Fees, and I said we were so much engaged we
hadn't any day at home. Mrs. Vereker is dying to know Lady Campstown,
who doesn't care whether she meets a leader in New York or a leader in
Allison's Cross Roads. I won't ask you to tell me about your travels,
for darling Lady Campstown has read me every line of your late letters,
and even some you wrote her as a boy. I know how you stroked the crew
of that splendid boat-race at college, and when you shot the lion on the
Upper Nile, and what you ate in South Africa. After my talks with her
this winter I used to go home thinking you certainly the biggest and
greatest and bravest person in the world!"
Her girlish raillery seemed to him the most delicious fooling. He
tossed his hat and stick into the flower-border behind them, and dropped
again upon the bench beside her. Beside the cool green shadow of their
verdurous niche, the sunshine seemed to lie on the marble pavement
beyond, like a slab of gold, the mad wind whistling outside harmless.
And neither noticed that Mrs. Darien, who had been standing dark with
menace, still as Fate, in the shrubbery at their rear, had leaned over
and possessed herself of the dangerous Makila stick.
A few moments later, Glynn, where he sat down in the lower garden, heard
Posey scream once, then silence.
He sprang up and flew to the spot whence the sound issued, some
under-gardeners reaching it at the same time. They found Miss
Winstanley upon her feet, with horror in her eyes, Lord Clandonald
endeavoring to lift from the ground the form of a senseless woman, his
right arm hanging helpless, an ugly bleeding wound upon his brow.
"It's all right!" he exclaimed to them grimly. "This person attacked
Miss Winstanley, and I caught the blow, that's all."
"Oh! John, John, how thankful I am to see you!" cried Posey. "Help
Lord Clandonald, please; he is badly hurt. It is Mr. Glynn, Lord
Clandonald, and for my sake you must let him serve you."
Clandonald, wavering upon his feet, was glad to be assisted to the bench
where they were sitting when Mrs. Darien aimed her deadly blow. But he
retained sufficient understanding to thank Glynn, and urge on him the
necessity of having the woman, who had been evidently overtaken by some
kind of a seizure, removed quietly from the place, and put in charge of
Lady Campstown--"who will understand." After which brief direction, he
uttered one sigh, and fainted.
So Helen found the little group whom tragedy had grazed! Posey, holding
Clandonald's head in her arms, his limp body lying across the seat!
Helen was carrying in her hand the letter she had come outside to show
Posey, in fulfilment of her promise to the girl--the letter to Mariol,
telling him she would be his wife!
To her, with a hurried explanation of the affair and of his presence
there, Glynn consigned Posey, who seemed scarcely conscious of where she
was and what had happened, begging Miss Carstairs to take her to her
room. Before all things, it was desirable that Miss Winstanley's name
should be kept out of the business, which he believed would end
favorably for Clandonald. Helen led her away, obedient as a child,
although trembling violently, and holding her hand over a spot upon the
breast of her white gown where Clandonald's blood had stained it.
Glynn, fetching some water from the fountain, soon brought Mrs. Darien's
victim back to consciousness. Clandonald's first act was to look about
for the murderous weapon, and ask Glynn to suppress it; his second to
eagerly question the two gardeners, who, having borne Mrs. Darien away,
had now returned with remedies from the servants at Villa Julia, secured
under pretence that one of their number had met with an accident.
"_Quant a la dame, milor_," said one of these men, who had been for a
long time on the place and knew very well the skeleton in his neighbor's
closet. "It was not found necessary to trouble Milady Campstown with
her. The housemaid, Rosa, was waiting in the cab, much frightened,
since she thought that Madame Darien had looked exceedingly ill when she
went into the garden against Rosa's advice. Madame Darien had revived
and bidden the men assist her into her carriage, and the housemaid had
driven off with her to the station. It was not needful to tell anyone
else what occurred, since, the Virgin be praised, no serious harm
appeared to have been done."
Glynn, whose French fell short in moments of emergency, tried to explain
to the men that his and Mr. Winstanley's gratitude for their excellent
service and consideration would continue to be remembered substantially
in proportion to their reticence upon the subject. He emphasized it by a
transfer of gold to each brown right hand, which the Provencals received
with blushes of becoming modesty.
"And now, you will go back to your work, _comprehendez vous_?" added
John, "leaving me to conduct _ce monsieur_ to Villa Julia, explaining
that a _branch fell from a tree across his cheek and arm_!"
Clandonald smiled wanly.
"That will do for a stop-gap," he said. "But I have my fears that the
woman who committed this unexplained assault will again be heard from on
the subject. I fancy you know, Mr. Glynn, who she is, and that Miss
Winstanley has been for months an object of her virulence."
"I should tell you," said Glynn, while aiding him to get upon his feet,
"that I had some experience of Mrs. Darien upon my former visit to
Cannes. I, in fact, then found it better to go to her lodgings in Nice,
and try to perfect a little arrangement for Miss Winstanley's
protection. That, it seems, has failed."
"The person is irresponsible," answered Clandonald, a dark flush, coming
into his face. "And, I am afraid, incorrigible."
"All the same, I am going to ask your permission to interfere so far as
to look her up again to-night."
"You know that is what I most want?"
"I think so. I put myself in your place."
"More than that no man can do for another," said Clandonald warmly.
After Glynn had gotten him into his own bedroom, called up his servant,
and telephoned for the family physician of Lady Campstown (who, herself,
remained still fortunately absent upon her round of calls), they parted
like friends of years.
*CHAPTER XII*
There was no little dinner at Villa Julia that evening. Clandonald,
wretched and feverish, tossed upon his bed. Posey's white face and
strained expression of anxiety kept the other villa in a state of
suspended animation while Glynn, in the motor car, was running over to
Nice on business not stated.
Helen Carstairs met him early next morning upon the terrace, at his
request.
"How has she slept?" he asked eagerly.
"Like a tired baby. Toward morning she awoke sobbing, and I soothed her
till she fell asleep again. Just now, when I went into her room with
the news that Lord Clandonald also had passed a good night, she was very
much more like herself--gentle, yet plucky, and determined to keep up."
"I hate a nervous shock for an impressionable woman. Thank God, it is
all no worse! Suppose you and I had happened not to be with her--it
makes me sick to think of it! Helen, this isn't the time to beat about
the bush to find phrases. Tell me the honest truth. Does Posey love
Clandonald?"
"I think so. But she has fought against it from the first. Don't let
your sympathy with her at this moment lead you to any rash act of
renunciation. She is so young. She will get over it. Besides, she has
told me most positively that she could never bring herself to marry a
man whose divorced wife is living."
"If that is the only obstacle, it need not count," said Glynn gravely.
"The woman who called herself Mrs. Darien died last night--and a blessed
solution it is to a miserable snarl. She went back with the housemaid
to her hotel in Nice, and they got her into bed. By the time I reached
the place the woman, crying bitterly, came down to tell me 'her
ladyship' was dead. It was apoplexy--the second attack--precipitated by
her insane passion of jealousy of Posey."
"Thank Heaven, it wasn't a murder she had to carry with her into
eternity! Our poor darling, Posey--if that horrid flint had struck her
in the head where the woman aimed to hit--I can't bear to think of
it----"
"Don't. We have shaved the narrow edge, but have escaped. Helen, one
of the strangest things that ever happened to me was that Mrs. Darien
left in the blotter on her table a sealed letter addressed to me. I
took possession of it by showing the landlord and the doctor my visiting
card. I don't know what they thought of me. I don't much care. In it
she asked my pardon for breaking her pledge to me. Said she was tempted
beyond resistance to return to Villa Reine des Fees, that she was dead
broke, desperate, expected to die suddenly some day, and wanted me to
know that if she ever could have gone straight again it was because of
the way I had trusted her."
"But your trust was in vain," said Helen, with the hardness of most good
women toward bad ones. "Therefore I can feel no sentiment for her but
one of thankfulness that she is out of your hands, in Higher ones."
They walked back and forth for a few moments in the crisp morning air,
Nature smiling as she always does after the poignant scenes enacted in
her sight. Mr. Winstanley, who was having his breakfast in the
rose-wreathed loggia upstairs, and from whom the incident of the attack
on Posey had been kept, saw them and waved his kind hand cordially.
Glynn stopped.
"It's no use, Helen. All the things I long for upon earth would lose
their flavor at the cost of ingratitude to him. Even if Posey does
believe that she cares most for Clandonald--and if you had heard the
words the poor child spoke when she held him, without life, bleeding,
against her heart, you would not doubt it--it is not I who can withdraw
from my pledge to her."
Helen could not speak. She was thinking of that letter to Mariol, not
yet sent. Although she felt now that Glynn meant to keep to his
engagement at all costs, she was sure she could never send it; that
Mariol's brief mirage of winning her must fade into the desert sands of
friendship, if he would be content with that.
During the days that ensued she kept almost altogether with Posey, who
was not allowed by her physician to leave her room. And as Helen was in
the act of making up her mind to go to Paris to enter as a boarder in
the family of a governess of former days, who now gave shelter to art
students and girls whose voices were in training for the stage, she
received a startling telegram.
It was from her father at Taormina, requiring her presence there without
delay. "I am alone and ill," were the magic words that sent her
speeding back to him, to find the hapless gentleman deserted by his
wife, whose affair with Danielson had ended in guilty flight! Aged,
mortified, broken, clinging to Helen in his humiliation, Mr. Carstairs
had yet made short work of ridding himself of the unwelcome visitors who
had preyed upon his money, while deriding him for a blind old fool not
to have seen before the condition of affairs. In the flotsam of the
wreck Miss Bleecker, too, floated off, Helen refusing to see her or
listen to explanations, and Mr. Carstairs making short work of her
prayer to be allowed to remain with poor darling Helen in this awful
time.
At last, then, she was again alone with her father, free to cheer and
comfort his life with her best endeavors, a new object given to her for
daily care and sacred ministration. Mr. Carstairs would not hear of
dallying in the hateful spot where his shame had come to him. He
insisted that the "Sans Peur" should take them to an English port,
whence they might embark immediately for home. And Helen had reluctantly
to acknowledge that the only medicine for a wrong and grief like his was
a return to the life of great affairs, in which he was signally a
leader.
At Liverpool, where she had landed so listlessly the previous autumn,
Miss Carstairs received a letter of loving farewell and God-speed from
Posey Winstanley at Cannes. The girl could not keep out of her phrases
of affection the note of common sense, which made Helen's humiliating
experience a subject of ultimate rejoicing by her friends. She was sure
that Helen was going home to new happiness, new occupation, a generally
broadening horizon. In the continual circling of moderns around this
little globe the friends were sure to meet again, "early and often,"
Posey prayed. She had entirely regained her health, the weather was
getting piping hot, Reine des Fees was too dreadfully dull now that dear
John Glynn had gone back "for good" to his office in New York; even Lady
Campstown had been taken off by Lord Clandonald for a visit to
Beaumanoir; and lastly--it was on the cards that Mr. Winstanley and
Posey might also soon go to make acquaintance with England in the
Spring.