"Laurie! Laurie! come and carry my flowers for me!" called a voice.
It was sweet and clear as a chime of silver bells, but it pierced
St. Leon Le Roy's heart like a sword-point. It thrilled and quivered
through him, stirring him with a blended joy and pain. He listened, and
again the sweet voice cried:
"Come, my son! Mamma is waiting for you."
They were calling at Belle Vue--St. Leon and his mother. Mr. Ford had
entertained them graciously in the splendid blue and gold drawing-room,
but Mrs. Lynn could not be found. "She must be out walking," said her
uncle, disappointedly, and after awhile he invited them to come out
into the rose-garden. She might be there, he said. It was a favorite
haunt of hers.
So, in the freshness and beauty of the July morning, they went out
into the graveled paths lying whitely in the sunshine, forming such
an exquisite contrast to the green grass and the beds of glorious
ever-blooming roses, with the morning dew still shining on their bright
petals; and while they walked that voice came to St. Leon like an echo
from the buried past--dead and buried for eight long years.
"She is here. I will bring her to you," Mr. Ford says, nervously,
starting away from them; and they pause by a little crystal fountain
throwing up diamond spray into the clear, bright air, and wait--St.
Leon with his heart beating strangely, thrilled to blended ecstasy and
despair by a voice.
"Her voice is like--" Mrs. Le Roy begins; then shuts her lips over the
unspoken name, vexed with herself that she was about to sadden the
tenor of her idol's thoughts. "Let us walk on a little further," she
amends, abruptly, and a few more steps bring them upon a picture.
Mr. Ford has found his niece. He is standing talking to her earnestly,
making no move to return to his guests. Perhaps he is explaining to her
the fact of their presence.
"Am I going mad?" St. Leon asks himself, with stern, set lips and
wildly staring eyes.
"She is not of us, as I divine;
She comes from another, stiller world of the dead."
The tide of years rolls backward. He has forgotten Mrs. Lynn the
authoress as if she had never been. This slender, stately woman with
her white hand resting lightly on Mr. Ford's arm is a ghost from the
past; the dark, uplifted eyes, the tender crimson mouth, the waving,
golden hair, are like hers whom, for a little while he believed to be
an angel, but finding her only a faulty mortal, he had sternly put
away from him. So like, so like, that he cannot take his eyes from the
white-robed form with the wide sun-hat tilted carelessly back from the
low white brow with its clustering waves of sunny hair, and the white
hands full of roses, most of them dewy crimson, as if she loved that
color best.
While he gazes like one stupefied, they turn and walk toward him. St.
Leon is conscious of a little admonitory pinch administered by his
mother's slim fingers, and tries to rouse himself to the occasion. In a
minute he is conscious of a lamentable failure as he meets Mrs. Lynn's
dark eyes upturned to his in calm surprise. She is by far the cooler
and calmer of the two, and directly he finds himself walking by her
side along the graveled path, the elder couple pacing sedately after
them.
He is aware that he has not distinguished himself in this meeting with
the gifted authoress. His words have been few and incoherent--not
worthy of St. Leon Le Roy. He rallies himself with a desperate effort
and makes the first remark that comes into his head:
"You like flowers, Mrs. Lynn?" is the hackneyed observation.
"I love them," she answers, quickly, and he is instantly reminded of
another who "loved," not "liked," the fragrant, dewy darlings.
"You see, I have gathered almost more than I can carry," she goes on,
looking lovingly at the great bunch in her hands. "I called my son
Laurie to help me, but he is chasing a butterfly, I dare say, and out
of sound of my voice."
"Permit me," he says, taking them courteously from her, and at the
unavoidable touch of their hands a hot crimson flush mounts to his
brow, his heart beats painfully.
"I must go away from here, presently," he says to himself, impatiently.
"I have no self-possession at all. What a ninny Mrs. Lynn must believe
me. And yet--and yet, she is so like a ghost from my dead past that I
lose my senses looking on her perfect face!"
"We have some very rare flowers at Eden," he says, "I hope you will
come and see them since you are so fond of them. You shall carry away
all you like."
"Thank you. I shall be sure to come," she answers. "I know--I have
heard, I mean--that the flowers at Eden are wonderful."
"I hope they will justify your expectations," he says. "Shall we sit
down here and rest, Mrs. Lynn? You must be tired."
They sit down on a rustic bench side by side, and the elderly couple
follow suit at some little distance. It is a lovely morning and a
lovely scene.
The golden sunshine sifts down through leafy boughs all about them,
the air is sweet with the song of birds and the breath of flowers, the
blue waves of the Hudson are visible at some little distance, lending
additional beauty to the charming scene. Mrs. Lynn looks away at the
river and St. Leon looks at her, trying to convince himself that her
likeness to the dead is not so great as he had fancied.
"Laurel was a girl--this is a woman," he tells himself.
He is right. Mrs. Lynn is very young, but the sweet gravity, the
exquisite majesty of womanhood are stamped on her pure, white brow.
Thought, intellect, experience, are blended with her still youthful
beauty, in charming combination. Laurel had been a beautiful rosebud,
Mrs. Lynn was a perfect rose. And yet--he said to himself--Laurel at
twenty-five would have been Mrs. Lynn's counterpart.
While she looked dreamily off at the river with those dark, heavily
fringed eyes and he looked at her, a silence fell between them. It was
broken by the laughter of a child. A beautiful boy came running down
the path toward them and stopped at his mother's knee.
"Oh, mamma, I am so tired," he panted, breathlessly, his rosy lips
parted with happy laughter, "and I did not catch my beautiful butterfly
after all!"
The lovely young mother turned toward her child. Her cheek was very
pale, there was a strange light in her dark eyes.
"Laurie, do you not see the gentleman?" she said. "Go and speak to him.
Mr. Le Roy, this is my son, Laurence."
He did not blame her for the sweet ring of triumph in her voice. The
boy was as handsome and spirited as a little prince. He had great,
flashing dark eyes and clustering dark hair combined with perfect
features at once proud and gentle. His beautiful rosy lips seemed made
for smiles and kisses. His dark blue velvet suit set off his fine
spirited little figure to the greatest perfection.
Mr. Le Roy drew the manly little fellow to his side.
"I am very glad to make the acquaintance of so important a person as
Mrs. Lynn's son," he said. "How old are you, Master Laurence?"
"Almost eight," said the little lad, and his mother amended in a low
voice, that had somehow a strange quiver in its sweetness, "Seven and
a half, Mr. Le Roy." Then in a sadder cadence, "The only son of his
mother, and she is a widow."
"I have no papa, Mr. Le Roy," said the manly little fellow, in a tone
of regret. "Other boys have fine times with their papas, they tell me,
but I do not even remember mine. He died before I was born."
"Do not weary the gentleman with a recital of your family history, my
dear," interposed his mother, gently. "Go now and speak to the lady who
is sitting with Uncle Carlyle."
The child went away, followed by Mr. Le Roy's glance. He could not
understand the strange yearning that drew him to the princely little
lad.
"I have fancied you must be very proud of the books you have written,
Mrs. Lynn," he said, impulsively. "I can fancy that you are prouder
still of your son."
"I am," she answered, in a voice full of love and pride. "I cannot tell
you how I love my boy, Mr. Le Roy. It seems to me that he is the most
beautiful, the most intelligent, the most loving lad in the world.
Do you blame me?" suddenly lifting her dark, grave eyes to his face.
"Should not you be proud of such a son, Mr. Le Roy?"
"No, I do not blame you," he answered. "I am quite sure I should
be proud of such a fine little son," and a thrill of sorrow and
self-reproach went through him as he recalled the words his mother had
spoken to him eight long years ago. "In a little while there would have
been an heir to Eden."
A buried hope! Ah! if only he had been a little less hard and cold! If
only Laurel had told him her precious secret! He must have forgiven her
then. He could not have withheld his pardon.
There was something in Mrs. Lynn's tone he could not understand. Was
it a taunt at his childlessness? Or was it only a mother's triumph in
her treasure? He looked at the beautiful face. It was faintly flushed,
the drooping lashes were dewy with unfallen tears. Some deep emotion
stirred her heart and made roses on her breast rise and fall with its
intensity. While he puzzled over it, there came a startled cry from Mr.
Ford. Mrs. Le Roy had fallen from her seat in a dead faint.
St. Leon hastened to her. They raised her up, but it was some little
time before she recovered. None could understand what had caused her
swoon.
"She was sitting with Laurie on her knee talking very brightly and
pleasantly, and quite suddenly--all at once, as it were--her arms
dropped from around the child and she fell like one dead," said Mr.
Ford. "I cannot understand it. Has your mother any heart disease, Mr.
Le Roy?"
"None, but she is not very strong," St. Leon answered. "She very seldom
goes out."
Then she opened her eyes and looked at him.
"Take me home, St. Leon," she said, "I am very tired."
Mrs. Lynn pressed her cordially to remain at Belle Vue until she was
better.
"No, I cannot stay now," Mrs. Le Roy answered gravely. "But you will
pardon my display of weakness, Mrs. Lynn, and you will come to see me
soon--will you not?"
Mrs. Lynn promised with a smile that she would certainly accept the
invitation.
"And the child--you will be sure to bring him?" said Mrs. Le Roy,
kissing the wondering little face.
"If you wish it," assented the beautiful young authoress, and her face
grew paler still when Mrs. Le Roy impulsively kissed her cheek. St.
Leon wondered why her small hand was so cold as he pressed it lightly
at parting. He would have wondered yet more could he have seen the
white, agonized face she turned upon Mr. Ford when they had gone away.