It was June once more.
Burton had been in Washington for two days; it was Tuesday evening now
and his business was at last completed. He had earned a vacation, he
told himself, and he meant to take it. Washington was maintaining its
reputation for torridness, and when at the lunch-table an acquaintance
had pictured a mile of cool green waves breaking on the shingle at
Virginia Beach and had likened the sea-breezes there to a million
electric fans, Burton had made up his mind on the instant. He would
take the night boat for Hampton and spend the morrow by salt water;
the thought of cleaving his way through gurgling, hissing combers
was so enticing that the rest of the hot, humid afternoon was almost
endurable.
He took the little steamer after dinner, just as the weary sun was
sinking back of the miles of parched brick and fetid asphalt. He was
tired, and he meant to go to bed early, but the deck was comparatively
cool and the little box-like state-room was incomparably hot, and so
darkness found him still smoking with his feet on the rail. Near at
hand two men were talking lazily, but he gave them no heed until one
said:
[Illustration]
“Belle Harbour? Yes, over there where you see the lights. We stop
there. Say, have you ever been there? Well, of all----”
Burton listened no longer. Belle Harbour--the Enchanted Garden--and
Kitty! How long ago it all seemed, to be sure! And yet the mere mention
of the sleepy old town set his heart a-racing and the memory of the
girl amidst the roses still never failed to bring a frown to his
brow and a queer little ache to his breast. It was June once more,
he thought, and the garden would be gay and fragrant with the waving
blooms, but Kitty----
[Illustration]
He dropped his feet from the rail and sat up suddenly in his deck
chair. But _would_ Kitty be absent? Wasn’t it far more probable that
she would be at home, there in the garden, now that rose-time had come?
It was a long cry from Algiers to Virginia, and yet, as he gazed across
the dark water to the few scattered lights, he felt certain that the
girl he loved was there.
[Illustration]
Only twice since she had gone abroad had he had tidings of her, though
he had searched the foreign pages diligently. Once her name was among
a list of persons who had registered at the _Herald_ Bureau in Paris:
that was in September. In January the paper had mentioned Colonel
Simpson Barrett as having been a guest at a Government function given
in Algiers to a visiting potentate. That was all. He had instructed
Mrs. Phillips to advise him the instant the Colonel and his niece
returned to Mary Street, but such advice had never come. And yet--and
yet something seemed to tell him that Kitty was back among the roses,
that the Castle once more held the Princess!
The steamer sidled across the black waste of water with a warning
screech and much tinkling of bells. The lights on the wharves grew
brighter and brighter. Burton tossed his cigarette into the wake and
sought his state-room. Virginia Beach and rolling waves and sea-breezes
were forgotten. The steamer bumped against the spiling and a voice
droned:
[Illustration]
“Belle Harbour! All off for Belle Harbour!”
[Illustration]
A solitary figure, laden with suit-case and umbrella, strode down the
gang-plank.
As Burton turned into King’s Street and walked along under the
motionless branches of the arching oaks he caught dim glimpses of
white-gowned figures on doorsteps and heard young voices. Once the
tinkling of a mandolin floated across the street, and with it the sound
of a girl singing softly in the darkness. It was June once more, the
month of roses and of love! Burton went on with a new lightness in his
heart.
“How things do happen!” exclaimed Mrs. Phillips, leading the way
upstairs. “The Colonel got back yesterday, and I was just this minute
hunting for pen and paper to write to you! Mr. Burton, that is surely a
coincidence!”
“It is indeed, Mrs. Phillips. Er--I presume the Colonel brought his
family back with him?”
“Well, now, sir, he hasn’t got much family to bring, but he brought
what he had--his niece, Miss Fletcher, you know.”
“Ah, his niece? Indeed! There’s nothing I shall want, thank you. I
think I will go out again for a stroll. If you will ask the worthy
Robert to remember my existence in the morning----”
[Illustration]
Out under the oaks again, Burton lighted a pipe and set off in an
aimless manner down King’s Street. But at the first corner he turned
to the right without hesitation. The third house held a solitary light.
He stood for several moments across the way watching it, and then,
humming a tune from sheer gladness, strolled on. At the next corner he
again took the right-hand turning, and presently the tower of the old
church arose, murky-white, against the starlit sky. The green, dotted
with its crumbling tombstones, invited him in through the open gate.
As he passed the church door he saw that the building was lighted, and
simultaneously the sound of voices reached him. Wondering, he stepped
noiselessly to a window and looked in.
[Illustration]
A little group of men and girls were congregated near the farthest
door and a second group stood beside the chancel. There was much
talking, and what was said he could not hear. But as he looked the
group at the door ranged itself in couples, from the organ loft came
the first notes of the wedding-march, and the procession started up
the aisle. At the same moment Burton’s heart stood still. Back of the
first three couples--apparently the ushers--a middle-aged gentleman and
a girl came. For the man Burton had no eyes, but at the girl he gazed
fixedly, hungrily. It was Kitty of the Roses!
[Illustration]
Up the nearer aisle marched the bridegroom and the best man. The
organ’s notes rose and sank. Burton, with a vague disquiet at his
heart, watched frowningly. “A rehearsal,” he told himself. The ushers
turned at the end of the aisle and took up their stations. Bride and
bridesmaids went slowly onward to the chancel; groom and best man
advanced to meet them. Then the organ’s notes died away and with them
went Burton’s happiness.
[Illustration]
Side by side before the empty altar stood the bridegroom and Kitty!
Burton turned away from the window and stumbled blindly down the gravel
driveway that led through the darkness to King’s Street. His hands
clinched themselves fiercely and his heart was like lead. At the gate
he paused and relighted his pipe with fingers that trembled. Then he
laughed softly and walked homeward.
“You’re too late, old man,” he muttered, “too late!”
When he was ready for bed he blew out the lamp and drawing a chair to
the open window sat and smoked many pipes and looked miserably down
onto the darkened rose-garden. In the Castle all lights were gone. The
town was silent save for a distant whistle from the direction of the
railroad or the occasional _cheep_ of a circling bat.
“Kitty!” he murmured once, “Kitty!” Then he closed his lips resolutely,
grimly, over the stem of his pipe.
God! how he hated the fragrance of roses!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
X
The north-bound train left at eleven; his bag stood in the hallway; his
watch said ten minutes of nine. Two dreary hours remained before he
could shake the dust of Belle Harbour from his shoes for the last time.
There is a strain of morbidness in the most healthy of us and Burton
was no exception. That, perhaps, is why, after vainly striving to find
interest in the Washington morning paper, he lighted the inevitable
cigarette and went out into the yard.
[Illustration]
It might well have been a morning of a year ago; everything was
unchanged. The Daphne-tree threw its grotesque shadows on the turf;
the iris bloomed along the old wall; the birds sang and called from
the boughs; and beyond the iron fence the roses were courtesying and
swaying--flares of pink and yellow, white and red--on their slender
stalks; the Enchanted Garden was as beautiful as ever. Burton, his
hands behind his back, a little stream of smoke curling up from under
his moustache, stood in the shade of the tree in the corner and viewed
the scene with unresponsive eyes. It was all over, he told himself for
the fiftieth time--over and done with, dead and buried. In an hour
or two he would put the memory of it out of his heart; until then,
though, what harm in----
[Illustration]
There came the sound of an opening door from beyond the rose-garden. At
the top of the steps stood a girl in a muslin gown and a broad-brimmed
hat. The gown was caught at her waist with a sash of light blue ribbon.
With one gloved hand she held a basket, with the other her skirts. For
a moment she stood there in the half-shadow of the rose-vines looking
thoughtfully over the sea of color that broke at her feet. Over the
garden her gaze wandered to the farther end, to the neighboring house,
to a window open to the morning sunlight; and suddenly a flush of color
ran riot over her cheeks, then faded. She stepped down to the path
between the box hedges, and Burton, watching from beyond the fence,
lost sight of her.
He contemplated retreat; he even reached a point half way to the side
door; then he stole back, like a thief, to the shade of the Daphne-tree
and waited there, his heart galloping and plodding by turns; waited for
just one more sight of her, for a word before he went away. He could
hear the snipping of her scissors and, as often before, could catch a
glimpse now and then of her hat above the bushes. He waited and tried
to think of things to say, things which would tell nothing of his
heart-sickness. And, ere he had prepared his speech of greeting, she
turned the corner of the path and stood gazing full upon him.
[Illustration: STOOD GAZING FULL UPON HIM]
She was surprised; oh, yes, she must have been surprised, for the
color came and went in her cheeks and her lips parted breathlessly as
she bowed to him. Burton removed his hat and took a step towards the
fence. But he said nothing; nor did she; and the next instant they were
gazing at each other again in silence over the topmost leaves. Burton
made a desperate effort; he advanced to the fence and with a picket in
each hand for support uttered a remark masterly in its originality,
utter simplicity, and veracity,--
“A lovely morning?”
“Yes,” she answered. The blushes were gone, leaving her clear,
soft cheeks paler than before. She moved towards the fence until,
had he stretched forth his hand, he could have almost touched her
gown. She was the same Kitty, he thought with something of wonder;
a year had made no change in her that his eyes could discern. And
yet--perhaps--she seemed graver, though not a whit less sweetly fair
and gracious.
“A year makes little difference to a Princess,” he said smilingly.
“It leaves her a year older,” she answered.
“But perhaps, after all, it hasn’t been a year. Perhaps it was only
yesterday that you left me here and went up the path and into the
Castle; I could almost believe it.” She shook her head.
“Things have happened since then,” she replied with a little sigh. He
echoed the sigh; did not he know it?
[Illustration]
“Yes, I suppose so. You’ve travelled much and seen many things since
that morning.”
[Illustration]
“Yes.” She showed no surprise that he should know.
“And----” But he stopped. “The Ogre is well, I trust?”
“Very well,” she answered with a laugh.
“You know you fooled me there.”
“Not I; you fooled yourself. We found your card when we returned
yesterday.”
“Yes. I remember.” He looked thoughtfully at one of his thin, sunburned
hands.
“My uncle will be glad to see you,” she went on a little breathlessly.
“He was saying so this morning.”
“You are very kind,” he said, “but I fear I can’t give myself the
pleasure of calling upon him this time. I am leaving for the North at
eleven o’clock.”
“Oh!” she said. There was silence between them. Then,--
“Are those for the church?” he asked, indicating the roses in the
basket.
“The church?”
“Yes, the--the wedding is to-night, I presume?”
“Yes, to-night; but these are not for that. They are having a florist
in Washington do the decorating.”
“I see.” He put a hand inside his serge coat and drew forth a
pocket-book. From it he brought to light a flattened, crumbling rose.
He held it forth, smiling bravely.
[Illustration]
“I want you to accept this as a present,” he said lightly. “It is
no longer very lovely to look at, but”--with a bow of artificial
gallantry--“it has been what I prized most in the world.”
“A present?” she repeated, while a tinge of color crept into her
cheeks. “You mean----”
“A wedding-present, yes.” He wondered whether the smile on his face
looked as ugly as it felt! She looked from the rose in his outstretched
palm to his face and back again to the rose with a puzzled expression
in her brown eyes.
“But I don’t understand,” she said.
[Illustration]
“I beg your pardon,” he answered gravely, “it was a poor joke.” He
began to slip the dried blossom back into his pocket-book.
[Illustration]
“But I will accept it,” she cried, and held forth a small hand. “I will
take it as a wedding-present, although it is somewhat ahead of time.”
He placed it in her hand, looking, in turn, puzzled.
“But you said it was to-night--the wedding?”
“But why should you give me presents?”
“Why--but--you’re to be married!”
She shook her head, smiling across at him with a new light in her eyes.
“Not I, alas!” He stared back in bewilderment.
“But I saw! I looked in the window last night!”
“And you thought I was the bride?” She laughed deliciously. “Didn’t you
know that it was bad luck for a bride to take part in a rehearsal? I
was only a substitute, you see.”
[Illustration]
“Kitty!” He had seized her hand and was gazing rapturously into her
eyes. “Kitty!”
The lids fluttered down over the brown depths. The hand trembled.
“You--you’re crushing my rose,” she whispered.
“Kitty!” he cried again, releasing her hand as though it were life
itself, “tell me again that it’s true!”
“True that I was only a substitute bride?” she asked tremulously, with
hidden eyes. “Yes, it’s quite true, sadly true.” She looked up with an
attempt at exaggerated woe, but when she saw his face she averted her
own again and gave all her attention to the crushed rose in her hand.
“I--I must be going now,” she said.
“Going? No, you mustn’t go!” he cried.
“I must,” she murmured from the safe distance of a yard away. “Good-by.”
“Good-by?”
“You are going North, are you not?” she asked innocently.
“North? I? Never!”
“Oh!” said Kitty.
“North!” he repeated witheringly. “I’m not such an idiot! I lost you
twice, Kitty, and now--now I’m not going to let you out of my sight!”
[Illustration]
“I fear you’ll have to,” she laughed, with a shake of her head, “at
least as far as the house.”
[Illustration]
“I shall follow!”
“You mustn’t.”
“But you said your uncle----”
“He won’t be at home until dinner-time.”
Burton groaned.
“But you’re coming back into the garden, aren’t you, after awhile?” She
shook her head again.
“No, you forget the wedding,” she answered.
“Hang the wedding, Kitty!”
“I--I don’t think you ought to call me Kitty so--so much,” she
protested.
“Don’t you?” he scoffed. “Kitty--Kitty--Kitty! But--but there’s another
name I know, and if you like I’ll call you that--Kitty; shall I? May I
tell you what it is--Kitty?”
“No, I--I don’t think so,” she answered in sudden alarm. She moved away
as though meditating flight. “Good-by,” she said again.
“But it’s not good-by,” he pleaded. “I may come this evening, mayn’t I?”
“If you are not afraid of the Ogre,” she laughed.
She moved farther.
“Kitty,” he called softly.
“Yes?”
“It begins with an S!”
“It?--Oh!”
She fled to the house.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]