The leaves fluttered with her hasty movement, and a folded sheet of
parchment fell out upon the floor. As he turned the pages to the F's
she picked up the paper and held it in her hands, looking curiously at
the bold, clear superscription on the back, and the big red seal; but
it told nothing to her uneducated eyes, and with an unconscious sigh,
she pushed it back into the dictionary, her hand touching his in the
movement and sending an odd thrill of pleasure along his nerves.
He read aloud, in his clear, full tones:
"'FRIEND.--One who, entertaining for another sentiments of esteem,
respect, and affection, from personal predilection, seeks his society
and welfare; a well-wisher, an intimate associate.'"
She stood by him, her hands resting on the table, trembling with
pleasure, her face glowing.
"It is beautiful," she exclaimed. "I thought the word sounded very
sweet. And--you--you want to be my friend?"
The most finished coquette might have envied the artless naïveté of her
look and tone, yet she was
"Too innocent for coquetry,
Too fond for idle scorning."
Touched by this new side of her character, he put his hand impulsively
on the little one resting close by his on the table with a gentle
pressure.
"Child, I will be your friend if you will let me," he said, in a gentle
tone, and not dreaming of all to which that promise was swiftly leading.
"I shall be so glad," she said, in a voice so humble, and with so
tender a face, that the people in the other room would scarce have
recognized her as the little savage and vixen they called her.
But Pierre Carmontelle, always full of mischief and banter, had
deliberately sauntered in, and heard the compact of friendship between
the two who, until to-night, had been utter strangers. He gave his
friend a quizzical smile.
"Ever heard of Moore's 'Temple to Friendship,' Van Zandt?" he inquired,
dryly. "Let me recall it to your mind."
He brought a book from a stand near by, opened it, and read aloud, with
dry significance, in his clear voice:
"'A Temple to Friendship,' said Laura, enchanted,
'I'll build in this garden--the thought is divine!'
Her temple was built, and she now only wanted
An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor who sat down before her
A Friendship the fairest his art could invent;
But so cold and so dull that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.
"'Oh, never!' she cried, 'could I think of enshrining
An image whose looks are so joyless and dim;
But you, little god, upon roses reclining,
We'll make, if you please sir, a Friendship of him.'
So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden,
She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove;
'Farewell,' said the sculptor, 'you're not the first maiden
Who came but for Friendship and took away Love!'"
He shut the book and laughed, for he had the satisfaction of seeing a
warm flush mount to the temples of the young journalist, but the girl,
so young, so ignorant, so strangely beautiful, looked at him unabashed.
Evidently she knew no more of love than she did of friendship.
They were alike meaningless terms to her uncultured mind. Frowning
impatiently, she said:
"Carmontelle, why did you intrude upon us here? I wanted to talk to
Monsieur Van Zandt."
"And I, ma'amselle, wanted to talk to you. Madame Lorraine was very
angry with you for racing Selim to-day. What did she do to you?"
The large eyes brightened angrily, and a hot rose-flush broke through
the creamy pallor of her oval cheek.
"Beat me!" she said, bitterly.
"No!" from both men in a shocked tone.
"But yes," she replied, with a sudden return of sullenness. With a
swift movement she drew the mass of hair from her white shoulders,
which she pushed up out of her low dress with a childish movement.
"Look at the marks on my back," she said.
They did look, and shuddered at the sight. The thick tresses of hair
had hidden the long, livid marks of a cruel lash on the white flesh.
There were a dozen or so of stripes, and the flesh was cut in some
places till the blood had oozed through.
The girl's eyes flashed, and she clinched her little hands tightly.
"I hate that woman!" she muttered, fiercely. "Oh, it is cruel, cruel,
to be nobody, to have no one but her, to be nothing but a pretty
plaything, as she calls me, like her Spitz and her cat, her parrot and
monkey! I mean to run away. It was for that I rode to-day--to win the
gold--but--"
"But--what?" said Van Zandt, huskily.
She answered with passionate pride:
"When she beat me--when she flung my poverty in my face--when she said
I should be starving but for her bread--I flung the purse of gold down
at her feet--to--to--pay!"
The hard glitter of the dark eyes dissolved in quick tears. She dropped
the golden tresses back on her lacerated shoulders, flung her arms
before her face, and hard, choking sobs shook the slight, young form.
The two men gazed on her, pale, moved, speechless.
Eliot Van Zandt thought of his fair, young sisters, scarcely older
than this girl, on whose lovely frames the winds of heaven were scarce
permitted to blow roughly. Why, if any one had struck Maud or Edith
such a blow, he should have sent a bullet through his heart, so fierce
would be his anger.
He looked at Carmontelle.
"Monsieur Lorraine--does he permit this?" he asked, indignantly.
"Lorraine had been in a mad-house fourteen years--sent there by the
madness of jealousy," was the unexpected reply.
Madame's gay, shrill laugh rang out from the salon where she was
winning golden eagles from her friends. The journalist shuddered and
wondered if the brilliant woman ever remembered the man gone insane for
her sake.
Ma'amselle's hard, bitter sobs ceased suddenly as they had begun. She
dashed the tears from her eyes, and said, with bitter resignation:
"_N'importe_! It is not the first time--perhaps it may not be the
last. But, _mon Dieu_, it is better to be only her plaything, petted
one moment, whipped the next, as she does her mischievous monkey and
snarling puppy. She says she should make me live in the kitchen if I
were ugly instead of being so pretty. She wants everything about her to
be pretty. But, say nothing of all this, you two," lifting a warning
taper finger. "It could do no good--she would only beat me more."
"Too true!" assented Pierre Carmontelle, sadly.