"But he is not at all bad, this American officer," insisted the
dowager; "such a great, manly fellow, with the deference instinctive,
and eyes that regard you well and kindly. Your imagination has most
certainly led you astray; it could not be that with such a face, and
such a mother, he could be the--horrible! of that story."
"All the better for him," remarked her daughter-in-law. "But I should
not feel at ease with him. He must be some relation, and I should
shrink from all of the name."
"But, Madame McVeigh--so charming!"
"Oh, well; she only has the name by accident, that is, by marriage."
The dowager regarded her with a smile of amusement.
"Shall you always regard marriage as merely an accident?" she
asked. "Some day it will be presented to you in such a practical,
advantageous way that you will cease to think it all chance."
"Advantageous?" and the Marquise raised her brows; "could we be more
happy than we are?" The old face softened at the words and tone.
"But I shall not be always with you," she replied; "and then--"
"Alain knew," said the girl, softly. "He said as a widow I could have
liberty. I would need no guardian; I could look after all my affairs
as young girls could not do. Each year I shall grow older--more
competent."
"But there is one thing Alain did not foresee: that your many suitors
would rob you of peace until you made choice of some particular one.
These late days I have felt I should like the choice to be made while
I am here to see."
"Maman! you are not ill?" and in a moment she was beside the couch.
"No; I think not; no, no, nothing to alarm you. I have only been
thinking that together--both of us to plan and arrange--yet I need
Loris daily. And if there should be only one of us, that remaining one
would need some man's help all the more, and if it were you, who then
would the man be? You perceive! It is wise to make plans for all
possibilities."
"There are women who live alone."
"Not happy women," said the dowager in a tone, admitting of no
contradiction; "the women who live alone from choice are cold and
selfish; or have hurts to hide and are heart-sick of a world in which
their illusions have been destroyed; or else they have never known
companionship, and so never feel the lack of it. My child, I will not
have you like any of these; you were made to enjoy life, and life to
the young should mean--well, I am a sentimentalist. I married the one
man who had all my affection. I approve of such marriages. If the man
comes for whom you would care like that, I should welcome him."
"He will never come, Maman," and the smile of the Marquise someway
drifted into a sigh. "I shall live and die the widow of Alain."
The dowager embraced her. "But for all that I do not approve," she
protested. "Your reasons for not marrying do not convince me, and I
promise my support to the most worthy who presents himself. Have you
an ideal to which nothing human may reach?"
"For three years your son has seemed ideal to me," said the Marquise,
after a moment's hesitation. The dowager regarded her attentively.
"He was?" she asked; "your regard for him does you credit; but, amber
eyes, it is not for a man who has been dead a year that a woman
blushes as you blush now."
"Oh!" began the Marquise, as if in protest; and then feeling that the
color was becoming even more pronounced, she was silent.
The dowager smiled, well pleased at her cleverness.
"There was sure to be some one, some day," she said, nodding
sagaciously; "when you want to talk of it I will listen, my Judithe. I
could tell it in the tone of your voice as you sang or laughed; yes,
there is nothing so wonderful in that," she explained, as the girl
looked up, startled. "You have always been a creature of aims,
serious, almost ponderous. Suddenly you emerge like sunshine from the
shadows; you are all gaiety and sudden smiles; unconsciously you
sing low songs of happiness; you suggest brightness and hope; you
have suddenly come into your long-delayed girlhood. You give me
affectionate glimpses of the woman God meant you to be some day. It
can only be a man who works such a miracle in an ascetic of nineteen
years. When the lucky fellow gathers courage to speak, I shall be
glad to pass judgment on him."
The Marquise was silent. The light, humorous tone of the dowager had
disarmed her; yet she had of her own accord, and influenced by some
wild mood, told Dumaresque all that was only guesswork to the friend
beside her. How could she have confessed it to him? She had wondered
at herself that she had dared, and after all it had been so entirely
useless; it had not driven away the memory of the man at Fontainbleau,
even for one little instant.
Madame Blanc entered with some message for the dowager, and the
question of marriage, also the more serious one of love, were put
aside for the time.
But Judithe was conscious that she was under a kindly surveillance,
and suspected that Dumaresque, also, was given extra attention. Her
confession of that unusual fascination had made them better comrades,
and the dowager was taking note that their tone was more frank, and
their attitude suggested some understanding. It was like a comedy for
her to watch them, feeling so sure that their sentiments were very
clear and that she could see the way it would all end. Judithe would
coquette with him awhile, and then it would be all very well; and it
would not be like a stranger coming into the family.
The people who came close enough to see her often, realized that the
journey back to Paris had not been beneficial to the dowager. It had
only been an experiment through which she had been led to open her
house, receive her friends, introduce her daughter; but the little
excitement of that had vanished, and now that the routine of life was
to be followed, it oppressed her. The ghosts of other days came so
close--the days when Alain had been beside her. At times she regretted
Rome, but the physician forbade her return there until autumn. She had
fancied that a season in the old house at Fontainbleau would serve as
a restorative to health--the house where Alain was born; but it was a
failure. Her days there were days of tears, and sad, far-away
memories. So to Paris she went with the assertion that there alone,
life was to be found. She meant to live to the last minute of her
life, and where so well as in the one city inexhaustible?
"Maman is trying to frighten me into marriage," thought the Marquise
after their conversation; "she wants some spectacular ceremony to
enliven the house for a season, and cure her ennui; Paris has been a
disappointment, and Loris is making himself necessary to her."
She was thinking of the matter, and of the impossibility that she
should ever marry Loris, when a box of flowers was brought--one left
by a messenger, who said nothing of whence they came, and no name or
card attached suggested the sender.
"For Maman," decided the Marquise promptly.
But Madame Blanc thought not.
"You, Madame, are the Marquise."
"Oh, true! but the people who would send me flowers would not be so
certain their own names would not be forgotten. I have no old, tried,
and silent friends to remember me so."
While she spoke she was lifting out the creamy and blush-tinted roses;
Maman should see them arranged in the prettiest vase, they must go up
with the chocolate--she would take it herself!
So she chattered while Madame Blanc arranged the tray. But suddenly
the chatter ceased. The Marquise had lifted out the last of the roses,
and under the fragrant screen lay the cause of the sudden silence.
It was a few sprays of dew-wet forget-me-nots! Her heart seemed to
stop beating.
Forget-me-not! there was but one person who had any association in her
mind with that flower. Did this have a meaning relating to him? or was
it only chance?
She said nothing to Madame Blanc about the silent message in the
bottom of the box.
All that day she moved as in a dream. At times she was oppressed by
the terror of discovery, and again it was with a rebellious, delicious
feeling of certainty that he had not forgotten! He had searched for
her--found her! She meant to ignore him if they should meet; certainly
she must do that! His assurance in daring to--yet--yes, she rather
liked the daring--still----!
She remembered some one saying that impertinence gained more favors
from women than respect, and he--yes, certainly he was impertinent;
she must never recognize him, of course--never! Her cheek burned as
she fancied what he must think of her--a girl who made friends with
strangers in the park! Yet she was glad that since he had not let her
forget, he also had been forced to remember.
She told herself all this, and much more; the task occupied so much of
her time that she forgot to go asleep that night, and she saw the
morning star shine out of the blue haze beyond the city, and it
belonged to a dawn with a meaning entirely its own. Never before or
after was a daybreak so beautiful. The sun wheeled royally into view
through the atmosphere of her first veritable love romance.