The morning broke with abounding good cheer. It was impossible
not to respond to the revivifying matutinal influences. The vast
solemnity of the austere mountain ranges filling the universe seemed
more impersonal. Some stupendous, resplendent work of art might
thus affect the senses. Only a keenly receptive temperament, the
impressionable, plastic mood, might embrace its insistent meaning, its
eloquent message, its redundant appeal to every vibrant, sensitive
pulse. One saw the reality, yet put it aside, postponed it, like the
great facts of life and death, and the momentousness of eternity,
turning instead to the cheerful trifle of the hour. And perhaps it
was enough to breathe such fresh balsamic air, to hear the sonorous
periods of the lordly wind sounding over cliff and torrent, while
all the poly-tinted leafy forests bent in obeisance; to see with the
shallow outward eye the variant tints of blue, from the dark blurred
efflorescence on the nearest slopes to the translucent sapphire of
further ranges and thence to a hard, clear, turquoise blue, and so to
a faint, vague azure that one could hardly discriminate from the sky
line; and above still, the silent great, white domes, where, although
so early, the snow had fallen. Even the shadows were but simulacra
of winged joys, as the white dazzling clouds sped through the sky,
while their similitudes followed swiftly below over the mountain side
and the valley, racing for some unimagined aërial goal. The air was
full of woodsy fragrance--the odour of sere leaves, the pungent aroma
of mint and of water-side weeds, the balsamic breath of fir and pine.
Keen, too, withal; the group gathering around the hearth in the office
comprised all the adult guests in the house, save a few loiterers,
still lingering at the breakfast tables nearest the fire in the great
dining-room. Now and then juvenile parties came thundering down the
stairs with golf clubs or tennis rackets, rushed through the office,
and were gone, banging the glass doors to imminent fracture, or the
hearth-side was recruited by the laggards from the breakfast table
bringing a whiff of cold air from the transit through the hall. Ruth
and Lucia were rubbing their pink hands, and shivering in their boleros
of dark red and light blue cloth respectively, worn over their sheer
lawn morning dresses, to the wonderment of Jardine, who could not
comprehend why, if they were cold, they should not wear warm cheviot
gowns, unmindful of the unwritten law of truly orthodox Southern women,
who would fain cling to their white lawn attire till the snow falls.
Lloyd's theatric discrimination had already appraised the effect of
their Dresden belt ribbons, and high stocks, the one in red and brown,
the other blue and pink. He bowed to them with distant gravity,
but his face had a suggestion of happiness which had not heretofore
characterised its quiet composure. His peculiar appeal to popular
favour had been all the more effective because of the romantic history
of good fortune detailed in his absence last night, and there had been
some very hearty hand-shaking in the casual introductions around the
fireside this morning. All the house looked with a joyous prepossession
upon the newly found legatee and a sort of vicarious pleasure. They
were even prepared to find a certain quaint zest in his "outrageous
profession," as one irreconcilable old prig called it.
"Did you have a fine bout with the gloves?" asked a clean-shaven
gentleman, taking his cigar from his smiling lips. His expression just
now was as benignant as a bishop's, but he was broker at home.
Lloyd was a trifle embarrassed; he did not know how much of the lawn
had been in view from his interlocutor's point of observation.
"Oh, Mr. Laniston will get so he can stand up, after a little."
There was a laugh around the circle, and Frank's pink cheeks grew very
red.
"Why, Francis," exclaimed his mother in genuine amazement, "I thought
you were a champion boxer!"
"Oh, I've got it in for him, good and hot," Frank sputtered, over his
cigarette.
"Did he down you?" asked the broker. "Really?"
"I fell over somehow, every time he crooked his little finger."
"I'll get him so that he can stand up," said Lloyd patronisingly.
"There's all the difference in the world between a pastime and a
profession," said the broker. "We see that in the market--a little
flier once in a while--and a plunger."
"But will you continue this profession, Mr. Lloyd?" the prig fixed him
with such a scandalised expression in his prominent, lashless eyes,
that it amounted to an intentional reproach and affront.
Mr. Dalton seemed to resent it.
"He has something better to do." He laughed prosperously, and stroked
his moustache.
"He was signing cheques for half an hour this morning," continued the
lawyer. This boast was not in the best taste, but Lloyd had so far won
upon him that he was both sensitive and belligerent in his client's
behalf.
The showman was pained, and winced visibly.
"Just some little things I wanted before the fairy gold melts away,"
he said, laughing but disconcerted. He had begun to entertain great
confidence in Mr. Dalton, but bruiser though he was, he could not
appreciate the lawyer's faculty for putting people down.
Mr. Dalton took from his pocket a great sheaf of letters, ready stamped
for the mail.
"And I had better post these while I think of it;" he began to sift
them apart, and one by one slipped them into a slit in the counter
where a box lurked for their reception.
"The first expresses filial piety, and endows a bed in a hospital in
his mother's name. The second orders a monument to the memory of his
parents."
Mr. Dalton looked around with a triumphant eye, evidently bent on
"rubbing it in."
"Then comes the discharge of just debts. James Tunstan."
"That's Wick-Zoo," said Lloyd, suddenly forgetful of the public display
of his affairs. He looked with a laugh of extreme relish at Frank, who
cried hilariously, "Oh, hi! the wild man!"
"And John Haxon."
"Captain Ollory," Lloyd interpreted, still smiling, half regretfully;
the street fair seemed now some tender reminiscence of many a year
agone.
"I can't persuade my young friend to sever his connection with the
greatest show on earth," Mr. Dalton laid the letters on one knee
and glanced around the circle with an expression of disapproval and
exasperation. "That is, he doesn't propose to manage it personally or
to perform, but he still remains a partner, and intends to finance it.
With all its faults, he loves it still!--and Haxon succeeds to the
managerial--er--er--er--ermine."
"Why, they'd go to pieces without me--to everlasting smithereens!"
exclaimed Lloyd excitedly. "And it's hard to get a place in a company
to break your neck in!"
"But I understand they went off and left _you_," said Dalton.
"Somebody had to stay, and I was the captain of the ship."
"But, Mr. Lloyd, think of the unpleasant personal publicity," said the
priggish gentleman. "They will advertise your name in this connection
and make money out of it. That's what they'll do--make money out of it.
They will use your accession to fortune as a sensation, a card to draw
people to the show."
"Exactly what I wrote to Haxon--work it for all it's worth, and quit
sousin' in that old tank of yours that will break your back and drown
you some day! I'll keep that show going--straight goods; it kept me
going many a day."
Mr. Dalton mournfully shook his head, and the priggish gentleman, too
inquisitive for good form--but he was justified in some degree by the
uncommon circumstances--demanded:
"Then you contemplate a different occupation for your own life, I
suppose?"
"Yes; I'm fed up with knocking about the world. I want to be quiet
for a change. I'll go to my own house," he paused, and shook his head
a trifle sadly. "Sounds funny to me! I don't understand farming, but
I'll see if I can catch on. I like animals, but they're wild generally;
the lions and panthers and such fellows always get to know me almost
before I notice them. Maybe cows and mules _would seem_ tame." He
laughed a little.
"Professor Gordon B. Lancaster," read Mr. Dalton from another stamped
and addressed envelope, "--thought I'd mislaid his letter; desiring if
possible to secure his company and services."
"Ah, to read with Mr. Lloyd," said the priggish gentleman, a look like
a benediction in the lashless orbs, such satisfaction beamed from them.
"Yes--yes; you are still young enough to prepare for a collegiate
course."
"But I don't contemplate that," said Lloyd, very calmly; "I'd fizzle
out at that. This gentleman, if he accepts, will seem to the world to
be my secretary, but in private life he will be my tutor, and live with
me in my house."
Mrs. Laniston looked bewildered.
"But I should think that would be more expensive than a regular
university course."
Mr. Dalton smiled and beamed, and tapped the letter against the sheaf
he was sorting.
"A good bit of money goes with the real estate. Mr. Lloyd thinks he can
afford to put himself on a level in culture with his station."
"Very praiseworthy," said the prig.
"I haven't the proper foundation for the classics," explained Lloyd.
"I propose that this gent shall read with me. Hist'ry is the racket I
care most for. When I performed with a circus company I travelled with
through Europe, I saw enough to excite my wonder, and I jus' wondered,
an' wondered. Now I want to _know_. And the poets and general
literachure! My father used to read a great deal of such stuff when his
health had disabled him, and I am going to travel right along the road
he took, and read the words he read, and dream the dreams he dreamed. I
never had the time before. I'm strong on the common rudiments--readin'
and writin' and arithmetic."
"A very fair accountant," Mr. Dalton commended the meritorious
attainment.
"Oh, yes; kept the books of the company."
"'Greatest show----'" suggested Mr. Dalton, dimpling.
And the impresario had the grace to laugh good-humouredly, though he
flushed, too.
"Now here are two letters to the department stores," said Mr. Dalton,
who for some reason seemed bent on exploiting his client, who in
his inexperience and his absorption in the strange developments of
his affairs, apparently saw nothing unusual in the trend of the
conversation.
"They've not got stamps," he exclaimed excitedly, "That'll never do.
They must get off! Can you accommodate me?" to the affable clerk.
"Thanks, much."
"They are both orders for dry goods?" said Mr. Dalton.
"Oh, no; this is for the hydrostatic bed for the Living Skeleton. That
poor man's bones, that he lives by, torture him. The feather beds,
and the flock beds, and the mattresses are simply fierce. And he is
stingy, yet he is tolerably warm in this world's goods. And he is an
educated man. But he always stuck at the expense. Now he has got it."
Lloyd chucked the letter into the slit with extreme satisfaction.
"Stop--hadn't you better ask some lady about the number of yards for
that gown, Mrs. Laniston, for instance, before you mail that letter?"
"If you will be so very kind." The _ci-devant_ showman turned toward
Mrs. Laniston with that distinguished manner which she had first
observed in him. "It depends, of course, on the size of the person. It
is a gown for the fat lydy. She is sensitive, and suffers dreadfully
from the public. But she is a very nice lydy! I think she would like
to be beautiful, and as she has so few pleasures I thought a surprise
might tickle her. So I ordered sixty yards of silk--the heaviest and
best quality."
"Oh, oh, I should think that would be ample," said Mrs. Laniston,
decorously able to preserve her gravity.
But Ruth's dimples could not be hid; she was all pink now, and smiled
alluringly.
"What tint--Mr. Lloyd?" she asked.
"Alice blue," he replied, quite solemnly, and Ruth's suppressed
laughter burst out uncontrollably at the idea.
His eyes had a suggestion of reproach, as he looked at her, but Lucia's
face was grave, deeply flushed, pondering, pained.
"Hard life, to be a freak," Lloyd said; then as if for tabulation of
correspondence by Mr. Dalton--"One dozen pink sandals for flying lydy.
She has so much trouble presenting fresh soles to the public, and dingy
ones show so."
"And now, your grand relative, Thomas Lloyd, Esquire."
"Do you visit him in Glaston?" the habitué of Glaston asked with an
added infusion of respect.
"No, sir!" said the ex-showman, with his first touch of stiffness.
"_He_ visits me at my house."
"Mr. Thomas Lloyd wrote to request the honour of a visit, and I brought
the letter," said Mr. Dalton; he still had the air of exploiting a case
and marshalling his points, one by one, before a judge or a jury. "It
seemed an agreeable arrangement to me, but Mr. Lloyd saw the matter
in a different light. He is a man equipped for _tours de force_, and
he seemed to think it best to make the mountain come to Mahomet. So
we telegraphed his refusal and his counter invitation last night, and
received a long distance telephone of acceptance this morning. Now Mr.
Lloyd writes to name the day. It seems he is not leaving New Helvetia
immediately."
"I hope you don't inconvenience yourself on my account--our little
contract," said Frank, with solicitude.
Lloyd showed sudden embarrassment.
"No--no----," he said, his fine face flushing, his candid eyes
faltering. "Not on your account. I know you'd release me. I'm tired of
hustling round; and--I like the place, and I've a little leisure now."
Mr. Jardine hearkened to this in prophetic displeasure. His pride,
his self-respect, had been cut down by the part he had played in the
esclandre of the previous evening, and yet he could not reproach
himself with precipitancy. He had vainly sought to evade, to shake
off this dangerous, this derogatory association, since the incident
of the Ferris Wheel. The crisis was forced when he had seen the
woman he loved and admired and respected unsuspiciously promenading
the moon-lit verandah in this showman's company. The fact that he
proved to be the scion of a family of standing, and that he had been
lifted from vagabondage to competence by the provisions of a will did
not in any small degree annul the objections to his career and the
suspicion, which Jardine felt was justified, of recent complicity
with the moonshiners in their unlawful traffic. Jardine's inherent
caution, however, was rendered more conservative by the circumstance
that the fellow-traveller had proved to be a lawyer, rather than a
Federal emissary, and was charged with a mission of honour and service
to the object of his suspicion instead of espionage and arrest, as
he had fancied, and he was devoutly thankful that this ludicrous
mistake of identity was not definitely elicited in his impetuous
and uncharacteristic outburst last night, when he had demanded an
explanation. The sensational outcome with its elements of romance, so
alluring to the average mind, had served to obliterate at the time
Jardine's own extraordinary conduct, and although it had recurred to
the memory of more than one of the group, since the excitements had
subsided, they had hesitated to mention it. Jardine was not a drinking
man, but intoxication only might serve to account with simplicity for
the demonstration. His was a nature of almost austere reserve and his
presence had always a certain distinction and dignity difficult to
disregard. Most of those present after the breaking up of the party
last night, lingering to finish out their cigars, had reconciled
themselves to the ravages of their curiosity, and there was a sentiment
of gratitude as to a public benefactor when the broker suddenly
accosted Jardine.
"By the way, Mr. Jardine, you treated us to a fine sensation to-night.
Were you acquainted with this lawyer and his lucky client, or whom did
you suppose them to be?"
"A case of mistaken identity," said Jardine easily, but with the
certain aloof composure that became him so well. "I beg you won't refer
to it. I could not discuss it--very embarrassing. Good-night." And he
turned away.
In the days that ensued Mr. Jardine's gloomy expectations seemed hardly
likely to be justified. Mrs. Laniston had taken the helm with a strong
hand, and the sway that she could maintain when she would was amply
manifest. The two girls were continually under her wing, and the old
routine of their occupations was re-established as before the outing to
Colbury. Jardine once more found himself her partner at bridge against
Lucia and Ruth, whiling away long hours of rainy weather, while Lloyd
was smoking and chatting or playing billiards with some of the other
gentlemen, with whom he had swiftly become cordial friends, or deep
with his lawyer in business correspondence, or out exercising with the
stalwart Frank. Mrs. Laniston was not so radical in her management of
the situation as to attract attention, not even indeed from the persons
most concerned. Now and again Lloyd, all unsuspicious of her effort at
avoidance, entered into conversation with the two young ladies in the
group by the office fire, and their chaperon had not a word or glance
to check them. She even smilingly surveyed the scene when more than
once he joined them in the procession of young people who, in wraps and
rubbers, essayed a constitutional tramp, trudging up and down the wet
and windy piazzas while the persistent rain steadily fell without and
the rest of the world had vanished utterly in the clouds. But these
occasional incidents occupied inconsiderable fractions of time, and
counted but scantily against the long hours that Jardine spent in their
society, at cards, or driving in the woods, or reading aloud to them,
while they sat at their crochet-work in the bay-window, an improving
book, of which Mrs. Laniston had expressed her desire that he should
give them his views, in marginalia, so to speak, which were somewhat in
contravention of the conclusions of the author. Mr. Jardine entertained
a conviction not only that he read well, but that his thoughts did not
suffer disparagement in contrast with the expositions of the text.
It was not altogether with a good grace, however, that Jardine
fell into line under these tactics. Mentally he revolted at every
concession, even slight and apparently obligatory, to evade an awkward
discrimination against Lloyd. Jardine could tolerate no half measures,
and the errors of this policy he deemed amply demonstrated one morning
of brilliant sunshine when all the guests were assembled in the hotel
office awaiting the arrival of the stage from Colbury.
When the stage came in with the mail, but with not a single passenger,
there was a general diversion of the attention of the group around
the fire. Letters were opened and read, the recipients now frowning
over unwelcome information, now with hard-set teeth and firm jaw, as
the eyes scanned the lines, in prophetic refusal of a proposition
as yet hardly presented. Only once or twice was there a gleam of
pleasure, so awry does the world go with most of us, so do anxiety
and disillusionment, and actual disaster predominate. The composite
expression of countenance of the group after opening the mail was a
reluctant and grudging thanksgiving that matters were no worse. The
columns of market prices and stock quotations in the newspapers came in
for serious and silent study, and the politician, who had congressional
aspirations, pondered long and deeply over the reports of the returns
from certain local elections, of moment to a possible canvass.
Mr. Dalton and his young friend had retired to the bridge table in the
bay-window, where the man of law explained and expatiated upon certain
business interests of which his correspondence treated. Now and again
Lloyd's eyes wandered to the verandah outside where Lucia and Ruth
were rapidly walking to and fro in the sunshine, their sheer, crisp,
white skirts waving in the speed of their motion and their chilly hands
tucked under their elbows in the sleeves of their blue and red boleros.
Jardine noticed that they smiled graciously upon the two gentlemen
in the bay-window as they passed. They came in presently, all aglow,
announcing their intention to make up a party for the bowling alley.
"Mamma says the ground is too damp for tennis," pouted Ruth, glancing
at Jardine, expectant of partisanship and counsel.
He had been saying to himself bitterly that it was not his capacity for
self-sacrifice in Lucia Laniston's interests that was limited, but the
possibilities. Her aunt had been present throughout the scene of the
disclosure of identity and otherwise knew as much of the man as he did,
for his suspicions could not have been safely suggested, and he had
no means of proving their truth. He was amazed to find that his anger
against Lucia Laniston, his disapproval of her headstrong folly, had
not diminished the strength of his attachment, for the qualities she
had displayed throughout the Street Fair episode were precisely the
traits with which he had least sympathy--unconventionality, girlish
impetuosity, a lack of solid judgment, a flighty fun that no sane man
could enjoy, a wild relish of fantastic novelty, and the evening of
their return a flout at a friendly monition and a defiant persistence
in her own course. He loved her, it was clear, and he had an infinite
patience where she was concerned.
He merely bowed with silent acquiescence in the proposition to wile
away the time with tenpins, but Mrs. Laniston broke out with inexorable
negation.
"No--no bowling alley to-day. The roof leaks like a riddle and the
building is sopping with dampness and as chilly as a vault. What _are_
you two thinking of?"
Lucia's countenance clouded with disappointment.
"We can't sit moping by the fire all this magnificent day, Aunt Dora,"
she plained.
For his life Jardine could not refrain from coming to the rescue.
"What do you say to a brisk gallop in the sunshine? The horses are in
fine fettle."
"The very thing!" cried Ruth.
"I just _live_ for the saddle!" declared Lucia, beaming with pleased
anticipation.
"What a help he'll be to Mrs. Jardine (when he finds her) in making up
her mind!" said Ruth, in explanatory wise to Lucia.
"How astonished Mrs. Jardine will be (when he finds her) at the way he
can hit it off when he does let himself go!" said Lucia, in an affected
aside to Ruth.
Jardine laughed with genuine good humour. It had been so long since he
had encountered this fiction of "Mrs. Jardine" that he was heartily
glad to hear of her again, and was disposed to think them and their
ingenuity in manufacturing her views very fetching.
"Shall I have your saddle put on Admiration?" he asked of Lucia, for
two of the horses were his; the affection of the liver which he had,
or fancied he had, was presumed to be benefited by horseback exercise,
and as Mr. Jardine had no affinity for martyrdom he had brought his own
excellent mounts with him. On occasions like this he sacrificed his own
pleasure and rode an animal from the livery stable which, however, kept
very passable stock, especially since the hard driving and riding of
the season were over and the horses had had time to recuperate.
"Oh, do, Lucia," cried Ruth. "I'm afraid of Admiration. He's dear, but
he dances so on his hind legs."
"He's perfectly safe," said Jardine, "only a little spirited."
"And so fast! I lo-o-ve him!" declared Lucia.
"And will you have the mare, Rosabel?" he asked Ruth, respectfully.
"Oh--won't I, though!" she said, dimpling.
"And the rest of us will have to put up with the livery stable nags,"
said Frank, oblivious of the fact that Mr. Jardine had not invited
him to join the party; indeed Jardine had contemplated taking the two
girls on a decorous morning canter, riding a livery stable nag between
the two, and had by no means proposed an equestrian party. Still,
the suggestion had grown out of the taboo of tenpins and tennis, and
it was natural, with his cubbish facility for blundering, that Frank
should not think the project at all exclusive. Indeed, the idea that
it was to be a general outing of the youth of the place was shared by
others as well, and one of the elderly gentlemen, the broker from New
Orleans, turned with a sudden inspiration to Lloyd, who had completed
his business with Dalton and now waited to pass through the group.
"Let me warn you against the livery nag. I have an extra good saddle
horse here, and shall be much complimented to put you up."
He had been greatly attracted by the young fellow's face and manner;
besides Lloyd might be soon seeking investment for his money, and there
was no telling when he would want to buy or sell stocks. Fair words go
as far in the brokerage business as any other.
Jardine was amazed and incensed at Lloyd's ready acceptance, and the
broker, turning to the telephone, was the first to cry "Hello" to the
livery stable.
It seemed a fate, the most mischievous of complications, that
Jardine's effort to save his lady-love the ennui of a dull day should
presently place her beside the man of all others whom he wished her to
avoid--handsomer than ever in correct equestrian costume--"possibly
his gear as a ringmaster," Jardine thought, with a sneer--and riding
like a centaur. The broker's horse was a stylish, well-bred brute, and
his very proximity seemed to stimulate Admiration to sudden bursts of
competitive speed. Both mounts were hard to hold, and Lucia had never
seemed half so beautiful, so spirited. Her dark-green riding-habit
enhanced her fairness. She wore the regulation high stiff silk hat on
her fluffy brown hair, with a shimmering white silken veil twisted
half about it, and half about her throat. Her high white collar and
shirt front in their mannish effect and a dark-red four-in-hand tie
were her special pride. Her airy poise on the side-saddle seemed to
Lloyd infinite temerity and a great sacrifice to feminine bondage in
convention, for he was accustomed to see "lydies" ride cross-saddle,
but she appeared to have much confidence, and maintained a secure seat.
Erect and fearless she now and again looked over her shoulder to
invite Ruth's bright-eyed sympathy from the distance. For Rosabel could
not canter in the same class; sleek and gentle and fleet enough, she
was ideal for a lady's use, and Jardine jogged on his hired nag beside
her. Jardine had jockeyed, as one may say, to throw Lloyd with Ruth
Laniston, and himself join the two ahead. But Lloyd had taken his place
beside Lucia's rein, and persistently kept it. Frank was soon losing
ground. He could not maintain the pace, and Jardine presently to his
immeasurable chagrin found the brother and sister beside him while the
fleeter steeds carried the couple ahead on and on--out of sight.
For a time neither drew rein; the sandy road, beaten hard by the late
storm, was ideal. The foliage of the forest trees all along the vast
slopes was freshly washed and resplendent. The illuminated yellow of
the maples and hickories might have dispensed with the sun in its
wonderful clarity of tone; it seemed to glow with inherent light. The
red of the sourwood and the sumach and the scarlet oak contrasted
richly. Down in the valleys, glimpsed whenever the road skirted the
mountain's verge, one could see that the deciduous trees were still
green, but on these lofty levels no foliage showed verdant save the fir
and the pine. The wind itself seemed hardly more swift than the racing
steeds; the clouds, dazzlingly white above the endless blue ranges,
challenged their speed, scudding before the high aërial currents above
even the bare domes, the "balds" of the mountains.
Now and then as the riders skirted a precipice they caught sight of
a swift torrent, leaping down the mountain side, in cataract after
cataract. Once Lloyd checked his horse to mark how the great vine that
climbed from among the roots of a giant poplar on the slope below to
its topmost branch, was laden with grapes; on a level with the road sat
the cub of a bear in their midst, feeding on the fruit, pausing to gaze
at them with a quaint ursine stare.
The horses snorted and sprang aside, and he laid his hand on her bridle
as they passed along the narrow precipitous way. It was somewhat too
narrow, too precipitous for this breakneck speed, and perhaps but for
his peculiar insensibility to danger in equine matters he might earlier
have checked it.
"We had best go slow along here," he said. "The earth is soft with the
rain, and it might cave. Step lightly, my friend," he addressed the
animal. But when they came on good rock-ribbed footing he did not mend
their pace.
"Yes, we will go slow," she said, "and wait for the others."
"I don't care for them to overtake us," he said. "I have something in
mind I want to say to you."
She looked confused, agitated. Her flush rose to the roots of her
hair. She turned upon him her beautiful eyes--was it appeal or was it a
gentle compassion that looked out at him inscrutably. Then she turned
them hastily away.
"Don't say it," she exclaimed. "Don't say it!"
"You know already what it is--and why should I not speak? You want to
spare me?"
She made a gesture of assent.
"I am not very easy hurt; that's one value of the hard knocks I've had;
I'm equal to taking my punishment. I hardly hoped--how could I? But
from the moment I saw you there on the piazza of the hotel in Colbury
I knew the difference 'twixt prose and poetry. The world's been set to
music since; sometimes it's sad, and sometimes it's sweet, but it's all
singing rhymes. I loved you from the minute I heard your voice--but I
did not begin to say my prayers to you till that night in the wheel;
oh, you seemed so kind, so good, made in a special creation, unlike
all in heaven or earth--not an angel--'cause you are a woman; not a
woman--'cause you are a blessed saint! Oh, I lived to see you, and
in all my troubles I'd only have to think of you, and though I never
expected you to speak to me again my heart would be light--light!"
He broke off suddenly.
"Oh, I distress you;" for her head was bent low and he saw the tears
falling from her eyes on her little trembling riding gloves. "And you
are so kind; you wanted to spare me."
"No," she said, suddenly, brokenly; "I wanted to spare myself, for,
oh--oh, I care as much as you--and more; _more_!"
She could not look at him, but she knew that his face was irradiated.
"Then--why--_why_ can't we be happy together? Say it again! I can't
believe it!"
"No--no----" She was calming herself, sorry and dismayed that she had
said aught. She had lost her self-control, and was struggling hard for
composure.
"You mean that your friends would object? I would not have spoken
a word, but for this change. I told you that if I had a chance for
life on a better scale I'd take it. I have the means to make your
life comfortable; I could not, I would not have asked you to make any
sacrifice. Ought you to let your friends prevent our marriage if you
care--if you really care?"
"It is impossible--the sorrow of my life, but impossible!" He gave a
sigh of perplexity.
"You think I am--or rather my life has made me--so unacceptable?"
"I am so artificial," she sobbed. "I should not be easily contented."
She thought of the little six-room house just across the swamp and
beyond the bayou, near her aunt's handsome country place in Louisiana,
and tried to see herself there--in a rocking-chair on the porch, or
planting seeds in the turfed, star-shaped flower beds.
"You are no more artificial than a lydy of culchure should be," he
asseverated. Then ensued a long pause during which she glanced at
him as, with a frown of doubt and perplexity, he looked far away
at the horizon line, and she winced to note his grace and perfect
pose in riding, realising the tawdry life which this apotheosis of
equestrianism comprehended and represented.
"If you care," he said, "and God bless you for the word, will we be
happy apart?"
"Oh, no! no!" she said, with a gush of tears. "A great joy has knocked
at my door, and I can't open to it, but must bar up, and draw the
bolts, and--how can I be happy?"
He turned in the saddle and looked sternly at her.
"Are you promised--to--another? That Mr. Jardine, perhaps?"
She rejoiced to see the fires of jealousy fiercely kindling in his
eyes. She burst into a peal of laughter.
"Oh, poor Mr. Jardine," she cried. "To be jealous of poor Mr. Jardine!"
"Then, why--why--?" he asked impatiently.
"Can't you see that there would be no happiness for us together? We
are of different worlds. I couldn't endure to see you give up your
standards--and yet I could not abide them. The distance between us
would widen, not close. I have no instincts for the simple life, and
you would have no interest in the artificial."
Once more the dark and dreary little farmhouse came within her mental
range of vision.
"You would not know what I relinquished, nor I what you sigh for. You
keep up your connection with your roving company for _their_ benefit,
and I honour you for your generosity--but I would prefer a more selfish
man, with more regard for the sneer of the world."
"And you care for that--the sneer of the world?"
"The world would think I had quite thrown myself away."
"H-a-rdly--ha-a-rdly. The world noses out a little money mighty quick!"
"All your training, won with such pain and toil, is something I
can't appreciate; tawdry and odious with a personal application, a
stumbling-block and an offence to me; and all I have been taught and
have striven for is beyond your ken."
"All I know is I love you; and all I care for is that you have said you
love me!" he declared resolutely.
"And I should never have said it, but I have a confidence in you beyond
my faith in any other mortal. I wanted you to know it, and keep it
hidden in your heart, though we part forever."
"For my life I can't see why."
"It will be bitter, but that knowledge will help us to live through it."
"Oh, we will live through it--like the survivors live through death.
The sun shines on graves all over the world, but the mourners go about
the streets."
She burst into sobbing again, holding up her handkerchief to her eyes.
Suddenly she lifted her head.
"They are coming--they are coming! Do I look as if I had been crying?
Oh, I don't want them to know--it's like a sacrilege for them to know!
There! there is a man coming along that path. What is that in his hand?
Let us ride forward and stop him, as if we had been questioning him."
She drew the white gauze veil over her tearful eyes, and her cheeks
all pallid from weeping, and together they rode forward to hail the
mountaineer who had stopped stock still on beholding them. And from the
long reaches of the road, like the footsteps of approaching doom, they
heard the iterative tramp of hoofbeats, every moment growing louder.