he thought of the countess, that Trouville heroine that he believed
to be little better than an adventuress, a gambler, tracked by the
police. And Mrs. Dehon--well, if Mrs. Dehon were to ride madly up that
quiet Boston lawn, May felt sure that he should flee in terror. And
Georgiana Rutherford--now that it came to the point, and after his
three months’ consideration, May did not feel that he wished to marry
even Georgiana Rutherford.
He gave little thought to his impending doom, still less thought of
escaping it. He was as one who had been released eleven years upon
parole, and must now give himself up to be shot. He even gave himself
little curiosity as to whose the fatal bullet would prove to be. A
man ordered out with a file of soldiers to be executed looks upon the
levelled row of muzzles with an absolute impartiality. He was in the
position of the celebrated d’Artagnan, who, having three duels in
the Pré aux Clercs, and certain of being killed by Athos at 12, gave
himself little anxiety about Porthos, who was to follow at 12.15, or
Aramis, who was only due at 12.30.
But, as the day wore on, and the reaction followed the artificial
strength given by many cigars, his state of mind had approximated to an
abject and unreasoning terror. And in this mood he was, late in the
afternoon, when he turned and saw, stationary before his front door,
that carriage, with its footman in livery.
His one instinct was to conceal himself. Nervously he grabbed the heavy
“Burton’s Anatomy;” the secret door swung open; the fountain in the
lake began to play, and in a score of seconds May was hiding in its
cool and watery depths.
III.
THE UNCERTAIN GLORY OF A NEW YORK GIRL.
When May emerged in the little grass island, screened safely by the
play of falling waters, he was breathless with the run; and his heart
pounded against his ribs with the violence of his emotions. The
countess it unquestionably was. None but she would arrive in open
carriage and pair and splendid livery. And May reckoned he would have
to stay there, in the shelter of the fountain, until the light made
his escape safe and possible. As for seeing her, that was out of the
question. Had he still cared for Mrs. Dehon, he might have choked off
the other one; but he had not pluck for it now. He had mildly hoped
that Gladys and the countess might have arrived at the same time and
settled it between them; but Allah had willed otherwise. It was damp
and uncomfortable upon the little island, however, without even a
cigar; and he did not dare go back to the pavilion.
As he stood peering through the falling water the carriage turned
about, left the house, and came down the driveway. May was astounded.
He tried his best to see who was in it, but the distance was too great.
He fancied that he made out a figure upon the back seat, but it was
that of a young man. He was surely too young for Serge; but, possibly,
Serge had left a son. This, indeed, was extremely probable. And the
son was gone to the gate to await more formal introduction to his
papa-in-law; and had left the countess in the house.
This was the most terrible possibility that had yet occurred to his
fevered imagination, overwrought with suspense and too much tobacco as
it was. For a moment the idea of the buggy and the fast horse in the
stable presented itself as the only certain means of escape. But at the
same instant he saw Fides emerge from the side-door, carrying something
white in his mouth. The hound came to the door of the pavilion and
scratched there; not finding any response, he took to coursing around
the building, in wider and wider distances, until his circle included
the whole pond. When he had once more made the circuit of this, without
getting trail of his master, he lifted his nose from the ground to give
utterance to occasional lugubrious howls.
This was impossible. Something must be done at once, or his chief
retreat would be discovered. May rapidly descended through the
subterranean passage, and appearing at the door of the pavilion,
whistled softly. The dog bounded toward him, and May took the letter
from his mouth. It was accompanied with a card of “Mr. Burlington
Quincy,” as May hurriedly read. Now, Mr. Burlington Quincy bore a name
utterly unknown to Austin May.
He looked at the note. It was certainly not in the handwriting of
Madame Polacca de Valska, and May breathed a sigh of relief. He opened
it.
“MY DEAR MR. MAY: (it began)
“I know you will not misinterpret my action, when I write to tell you
that our engagement cannot be made known to-day. The bearer of this,
Mr. Burlington Quincy, of Boston, I did not know when our pleasant
acquaintance began last year, but I feel sure that he is the only man
I have ever----”
“Loved,” added May to himself, mechanically, as the first page came
to an end. Without troubling himself to read any further, he merely
looked at the signature, which was, “yours ever sincerely, Georgiana
Rutherford.”
“Bah!” said Austin to himself again, and he crumpled up the letter
and threw it upon the pedestal of the Venus of Milo. A very different
sort of girl from Georgy Rutherford, she looked at him with an air of
dignity offended by his flippancy. Certainly a great weight was off
his mind, even if it did leave behind the faintest conceivable smart
of irritation. One, at least, was disposed of satisfactorily, and he
threw himself into the great arm-chair with a sigh of relief. He wished
Miss Rutherford joy of her bargain, though he could not but think it
ill-bred of her to choose the replacing victim as the messenger of his
release. The only man she had ever loved, indeed! And who was Mr.
Burlington Quincy? Well, it mattered little to him.
May looked at his watch; it was seven o’clock. Only five hours more
of this awful day remained! His condition was one of absolute nervous
prostration; and he looked in a glass to see if his hair had yet
turned gray. Could it be that they would none of them appear? He felt
almost hungry, but that eating was out of the question for one in his
position. He could, however, take a biscuit and a glass of claret; and
this he did.
But May was fated that day to have hard luck with his uncle’s wine.
Hardly had he begun to sip the glass, when a loud knocking at the very
door of his pavilion made him drop it, and again seek refuge in his
fountain hiding-place. From there he looked through the jets of water
and saw that the knocker was none other than the faithful Schmidt.
May hastened back again to the pavilion and opened the door.
“What do you mean by this?” said he, angrily. “Did I not tell you not
to come out under any circumstances, unless you heard a pistol-shot?”
But, alas! The effect of the solitude, the heat, and the excitement of
his master’s strange behavior had been too much, even for the perfect
valet. Moreover, he had felt it his duty to finish all his master’s
so precipitately abandoned bottles, lest they should fall into the
hands of the enemy. If Mr. Schmidt was not tipsy, it was clear that
he soon would be. He had been leaning heavily against the door, and
as his master opened it suddenly, he fell into the room, head over
heels to the floor; and there, without getting up, he endeavored to
bow apologetically, and swayed to and fro with the effort, smiling a
meaningless smile and holding a visiting-card in his right hand. May
took it mechanically. It was edged in deep black; and upon it he read
the simple legend:
_Mrs. Terwilliger Dehon_.
IV.
THE KEEPING OF THE TRYST.
May grasped the half-drunken valet by the coat. “And you let her in?”
said he.
“I said, m’sieu’,” gasped out poor Schmidt, “that m’sieu’, was here.”
With a groan of mingled rage and terror, May flew to the door and made
it fast. Then he took Schmidt by his offending coat and shoved, rather
than led, him into the subaqueous passageway. When they emerged upon
the island, May said, with a final shake:
“Now, sir, go and tell all the world that I’m not at home--d’ye hear?
And come back and tell me; and that you may come back sober, I’ll
clear your thick head for you.” And suiting the action to the word,
May hurled poor Schmidt through the cool jets of the fountain; and he
disappeared with a startling plunge in the waters of the ornamental
lake. They were but a few feet deep, however, and Schmidt scrambled to
his feet and went wading through the lily-pads to the shore. And in a
few moments he came back, still wet, but quite sobered, to the brink
nearest the island.
“What does she say?” cried May.
“That she will wait for M’sieur,” came back the answer that May heard;
and he sank upon the rustic seat with a feeling that all was over with
him. Should he still fly? He could not bring himself to break his
word at this late hour. If it could be that the widowed Mrs. Dehon
had come all this distance--unwomanly as it was--he could not leave
her now. Moreover, it was exactly like her. She was just the woman to
take the leap herself, rather than trust herself and her heart-secrets
to written words. And as May pulled himself together and went toward
the house he wished he could have conjured back one spark of that
flame he once felt for her. His crusty old uncle had not foreseen that
thus, by the rash heir’s promise, the wise provisions of his will
could be evaded. What would his wise uncle have done in a similar
situation?--Ordered a monument at Mount Auburn and prepared the
remains for it afterward, perhaps. His head was too cloudy to think.
May reached the doors of the house. It was already dark; and he had one
last moment of hesitation as he pressed his hand upon the carved-oak
door-knob. Then, with a rally of his sense of honor, he turned it and
entered the house.
The great hall was quite dark; and Austin had to feel his way to the
dining-room, into which, as being the only habitable apartment, Schmidt
had had to show the fair Gladys. Here was a single candle burning; and
beyond the remains of what was evidently Schmidt’s dinner, just under
the Copley portrait of the lady in the lilac dress, sat a solitary
figure.
But May started back as he saw it. It certainly was not Gladys. It
was--it was a man; and as it rose and came forward to the candle-light
there appeared unmistakably the red face and pudgy figure of her
elderly husband! For a moment the joyous reaction held May speechless;
but then he sprang forward.
“Mr. Terwilliger Dehon, I am delighted to----”
But Terwilliger waved him back with the gesture of an M.P. quelling an
assembly of constituents; and in his hand he carried a letter. “May
I ask, Mr. May, what is the meaning of this?” And Dehon brought the
offending document close beneath May’s nose, lying upon his chubby
palm; and then slapped it violently with his other hand.
“Of this?” said May, innocently. “What is it?”
“That, sir, is a letter I found among my wife’s effects.” And beyond
all question the letter was in May’s own handwriting. May stared
helplessly at Dehon; and Terwilliger glared fixedly at May. And through
all the embarrassment of the situation loomed up May’s consciousness,
antagonistic as their meeting was, that he was uncommonly glad to see
him.
“Is--is Mrs. Dehon with you?” said May, feebly, as the awful
possibility occurred to him that they had been divorced.
“My beloved wife is in heaven,” said Dehon, pulling out a large
pocket-handkerchief and sinking back into his chair.
“My dear sir,” cried May, grasping both his hands, “I am--unfeignedly
sorry to hear it. When did----”
“That, sir,” cried Terwilliger, furiously, “is no answer to my
question. Did you, or did you not, write this letter?” And he jumped
from his chair and smacked the letter savagely against the dinner-table.
Evasion was impossible. “I am afraid, Mr. Dehon, that I did.” Dehon
fumed.
“And now, my dear sir,” said May, his face unconsciously broadening to
a smile, “will you not stay and dine with me? I have only----”
But at this the peppery old gentleman positively sailed off the floor
in his passion. In vain May told him that he had received nothing from
the late Mrs. Dehon but a long course of snubs; in vain May assured
him that he himself was more delighted than ever Mr. Dehon could be,
that there had never been a possibility of his marrying the lamented
Gladys; it was to no purpose that he besought him to stay and dine. He
tried to sympathize with Terwilliger in his loss, and Terwilliger grew
only the more infuriated. He pointed out to him that his letter had
been entirely contingent, to take effect solely upon Mr. Terwilliger’s
death; but upon this the old gentleman fairly choked with rage.
Finally poor Austin gave it up. He abandoned all effort to pacify him,
and listened submissively to the philippic the indignant Terwilliger
poured forth. And, to use the expressive but inelegant phrase of the
day, he blew himself off right well. Austin sat and listened with a
mind at peace.
A man’s own eloquence is a great relief, and there is no knowing how
far Mr. Dehon would have cooled off in time. It is possible that he
would have ended by staying to dinner. But, just as he was finishing a
most effective exordium, the noise of carriage-wheels was heard outside
upon the gravel.
In two strides May was at the window, had thrown open the sash with
a crash that shivered all the glass, and hurled himself through it
into outer darkness, leaving the astounded Mr. Dehon, one eloquent arm
extended in the air, addressing himself most earnestly to the four
Copley portraits and the two battle-pieces of indigestible fruit.
V.
THE RETURN OF THE COUNTESS.
Beyond all question this was now the Comtesse Polacca de Valska. She
was the only one left. All others were present or accounted for. Again
May gained his pavilion, with the fleetness of an Exmoor deer; it was
quite dark by this time, and he could run about fearlessly. With a
trembling hand he adjusted his dark-lantern, lit the lamp, and fixed
the focus full upon the house-front door.
He was just in time to see a veiled and much beshawled lady assisted
down from the vehicle that stood at the door; and after a word of
colloquy with the driver, she entered the house. May could not see
her face; but it was just the figure, he fancied, of the Countess de
Valska. The carriage drove away, the front door closed, and all again
was silent, save the thumping of poor Austin’s strained and shaken
heart. Great heavens! he complained to the harmless Venus of Milo. The
worst had been realized indeed.
This time there was no indecision. The only safety lay in flight. When
it came to the point of marrying the de Valska, he would be damned if
he would. No sooner had he gained this conclusion than he sought to put
it in practice. With quick and stealthy steps he gained the stable.
A drive of fifteen miles to Framingham would put him on the New York
train; and the Umbria sailed on the morrow. Little difficulties with
countesses were better understood on European shores.
But alas! it was only to find that the stable-door was locked. He could
hear inside the noises of a restless horse, but both fast horse and
buggy were beyond his reach. The over-cautious Schmidt had locked them
in, and taken the key. May’s heart sank. He looked around for an axe,
a log, anything to batter down the door with--he would have set fire
to his own stable if necessary; then a brilliant thought occurred to
him--of the pistol-shot that was to be the signal to Schmidt in cases
of emergency.
He ran back to the pavilion. As he passed the house he thought he heard
sounds of angry collocation in the entry. But this was no time for idle
curiosity; and he ran on to the pavilion, grasped the revolver, ran
back before the house, placed himself in the little clump of pines, and
fired. The noises in the house ceased. He fired again.
The second report of his revolver was followed by a wild and shrill
screaming in the house. A second after, the front door was violently
flung open, and Mr. Terwilliger Dehon burst forth with the celerity of
a pellet from a pop-gun. He was immediately and closely pursued by a
female figure, screaming violently. After her, all in the focus of the
dark-lantern, appeared a gaunt and stooping individual with a shot-gun,
which he brought to his shoulder and incontinently fired, aiming, as
far as May could judge, at the North Star. Then he threw away the
shot-gun and joined in the pursuit; and after him came the faithful
Schmidt, in obedience to his master’s signal, once more unperturbed.
“What has happened?” cried May, rushing forward. “Where is she?”
But even as he spoke, feminine arms were thrown around his neck, a
fainting feminine figure hung about his shoulder, and feminine lips
whispered in his ear:
“At last!”
With a gasp of despair, May disengaged her and led her to the
front door, where he deposited his precious burden upon the china
garden-seat. The countess seemed less graceful than of yore, and she
certainty was heavier. But the countess, of course it was.
“Sech a time, Mr. May,” said she. “Me a-comin’ up with the dépôt-man,
and findin’ a burglar in the house; an’ the volleys from the ambushes
as was outside; an’ Mr. Eastman a-runnin’ for his gun, an’ I chasin’
the burglar; an’ all along of that furriner in the kitchen as left the
cellar-door wide open; an’, says I----”
“Mrs. Eastman!” cried May, with a sigh of relief, as if he saw the dawn
again. But that heroine’s short-lived valor was exhausted. To chase an
elderly burglar out one’s own front door, amid salvoes of musketry, was
surely excuse enough for leaning on the shoulder of the first reliable
male one met and knew; but the thought of both actions was too much
for feminine nerves, and Mrs. Eastman proceeded to get up the best
notion of hysterics her Maine training could produce. As for May, he
was so glad that it was not the Polacca de Valska that he could have
kissed even the elderly housekeeper; but he thought better of it, and
consigned her to the tender soothing of her husband.
“Mirandy,” he heard Mr. Eastman say, “don’t ye be a fool!”
Scene Fifth
THE RESIDUARY BEQUEST
I.
THE ORDER OF DISCHARGE.
May went back again to his pavilion. Great heavens, what a day! He
looked at his watch. It was already after ten o’clock; and his heart
gave a leap of joy. Could it be that the countess would never turn up
at all?
He was too much shaken by the excitements of the day to sit still
quietly, and count the minutes; so he took to wandering in the driveway
about the lake. He was conscious of a marvellous accession of spirits!
Poor Mr. Terwilliger Dehon! And May laughed to himself as he pictured
their meeting, and the Eastmans taking him for a burglar. What could
she have done to drive Dehon in such terror from the house? May
wondered what had become of him, and looked with some apprehension lest
he should have rushed into the lily-pond. But that was impossible in
so light a night. Moreover, he could have waded out. Well, well! he
never should have known how to get rid of him. Peace to his widower’s
weeds.
The harvest moon had risen, and shone brightly on the familiar fields.
Beauty is only relished by the free. How strong and sweet is our memory
for places! Each swell of grassy hill seemed like an old playmate; the
very contour of the masses of elm-foliage, darkly outlined under the
moon, seemed all familiar to him. Every time that May walked by the
main gate-way, with the iron cannon-balls, he looked nervously through
it; but the white, shady road was clean and empty, and the night was
still.
His fortune was almost too great to be believed in, and he looked
frequently at his watch, and listened timidly for every sound. Had the
countess forgotten him? Had she captured another? Well, Gladys was
dead, and Georgiana “was married;” and he sat there, “dipping his nose
in the Gascon wine”--still seven years short of “forty year.”
But the night waxed and the moon rose higher, and the white mists began
to drift in, stilly, from the distant river; and there was yet no
manifestation of the Countess Polacca de Valska.
And at last the village church rang out twelve bells; and the
cocks crew; and May pitched his cigar into the lake with a sigh
that resembled a benediction. The day was over. That most terrible
twenty-four hours of his life was safely passed. He could go to bed and
sleep serenely, in the consciousness that no one of his idle old dreams
was to be realized, that no folly of his past was to assume shape and
confront him now. And all his arsenal of weapons, his laboratory of
drugs, his store-house of Dutch courage, had proved unnecessary.
He walked along by the margent of the little lake; and as he did so,
a thought struck him. He entered the pavilion and set the fountain
playing, in celebration of his deliverance. He threw open all the
shutters and the wide door--useless precautions now--and the flood of
moonlight streamed again into the familiar old hall. He looked about
at the misanthropic pictures, and the moonlight fell fair upon the
beautiful Venus of Milo in the corner. He looked again at the old
will, and Georgiana Rutherford’s note, and Mrs. Dehon’s visiting-card
lying beside it. Through such various fortunes had he tended into
Latium.
He patted Fides on his massive head, as the dog walked along beside
him. He went back into the house. It was all his own now; all his own,
and untrammelled. He called his valet to him.
“Schmidt,” said he, “I am not going to sit up any longer. If anyone
comes, I have been here and gone--you understand? I have gone--to
Arizona.” Schmidt bowed. He had regained his imperturbability, and was
fearful of being discharged. An American servant would have left, and
brought an action for his ducking; not so the obsequious Oriental. And
Austin May took his candle and went quietly to bed. He had kept his
tryst honorably; he had made due tender of himself; and by all laws,
human and divine, his three offers of marriage had now expired.
II.
A PRIOR MORTGAGE.
Our hero sank comfortably into the great old-fashioned bed, with a sigh
of relief that he could sleep at last in peace. The broad windows were
opened, and the moonlight lay across the lawn; and from it came the
speech of insects, and of summer birds; far off, one whip-poor-will.
If anyone ever deserved sleep, he thought that he did; but this is not
a world where we get our deserts. All night long he lay awake. His mind
would go from his infatuation with the de Valska to his passion for
poor Gladys Dehon; from the Exmoor hounds to his engagement with Miss
Rutherford. He was devoutly thankful that he had escaped them all, and
yet the peace he had expected did not come. He heard the familiar old
church-bell strike two, and three, and four, as he had heard it in his
boyhood, when wakeful for a fishing-excursion, or for some country
ride. What was he to do next?
He could not analyze his state of mind. The night hours passed, and
still he lay there wondering. The whip-poor-will had some time been
silent; suddenly, as if at a wave of an unseen baton, the orchestra of
day birds fell to singing. May listened; in eleven years he had not
heard them. Then, as suddenly, they stopped. And then the dawn came,
one ray of orange sunlight, and the fragrance of the new-born day.
At last he rose, impatiently, and went to the wide window. The sunbeams
slid beneath the arching elms and slanted through the sward. Such
scenes had been wont to make him happy when he was young--and when
he was in love. This was a strange mood for him at thirty-three and
free--a mood of melancholy, almost a loneliness.
Even his cold bath failed to restore him. He was glad they had none of
them come; he was certain of that. And yet----
As he was dressing, he opened the closet door. There was the broad
straw hat, with its pink ribbons, still hanging, faded, on the nail;
and suddenly he recognized it. He took it down, and looked at it
curiously; and as he sat there, holding it in his hands, the great St.
Bernard dog came up and sniffed at it. It was May Austin’s. And as
Austin sat there, he remembered that he had loved her.
He walked out upon the lawn again, brushing the dews upon the grass.
Fool that he was! First loves were best, after all.
But where was she? He had not heard from her for years. He had never
even written, after the Trouville episode. And she--she must have
divined that he was false. First loves were best. Oh, cruel Uncle
Austin! Yet his own wretched fickleness was the most to blame, after
all. His uncle was a cynic; but he had been a young man in love.