At the entrance to the gallery the Marquise saw Dumaresque on the
step, and with him Kenneth McVeigh. She entered the carriage, hoping
the Countess would not perceive them; but the hope was in vain, she
did, and she motioned them both to her to learn if Mrs. McVeigh had
also unexpectedly returned.
She had not. Italy was yet attractive to her, and the Lieutenant had
come alone. He was to await her arrival, whenever she chose, and then
their holiday would be over. When they left Paris again it would be
for America.
He smiled in the same lazy, yet deferential way, as the Countess
chatted and questioned him. He confessed he did not remember why he
had returned; at least he could not tell in a crowd, or with cynical
Dumaresque listening to him.
"Invite him home, and he will vow it was to see you," said the
artist.
"I mean to," she retorted; "but do not judge all men by yourself,
Monsieur Loris, for I suspect Lieutenant McVeigh has a conscience."
"I have," he acknowledged, "too much of one to take advantage of your
invitation. Some day, when you are not tired from the crowds, I shall
come, if you will allow me."
"No, no; come now!" insisted the Countess, impulsively; "you will rest
me; I assure you it is true! We have been with women--women all
morning! So take pity on us. We want to hear all about the battle
grounds and fortresses you were to inspect. The Marquise, especially,
is a lover of wars."
"And of warriors?" queried Dumaresque; but the Countess paid no
attention to him.
"Yes, she is really a revolutionist, Monsieur; so come and enlighten
us as to the latest methods of those amiable patriots."
The Marquise had given him a gracious little bow, and had politely
shown interest in their remarks to such an extent that the Countess
did not notice her silence. But during the brief glance she noticed
that the blue eyes had dark circles under them, but they were steady
for all that. He looked tired, but he also looked more the master of
himself than when they last met; she need fear no further pleading.
The Countess prevailed, and he entered the carriage. Dumaresque was
also invited, but was on some committee of arrangements and could not
leave.
As they were about to drive away the Marquise called him.
"Oh, Monsieur Loris, one moment! I want the black and white sketch of
your Kora. Pray have it bid in for me."
It was the first time she had ever called him Loris, except in her own
home, and as a partial echo of the dowager. His eyes thanked her, and
Kenneth McVeigh received the benefit both of her words and the look.
"But, my dear Marquise, it will give me pleasure to make you something
finer of the same subject."
"No, no; only the sketch. I will value it as a souvenir of--well--do
not let any one else have it."
Then she bowed, flashed a rare smile at him, and they wheeled away
with McVeigh facing her and noting with his careless smile every
expression of her coquetry. He had gone away a boy--so she had called
him; but he had come back man enough to hide the hurts she gave him,
and willing to let her know it.
Someway he appeared more as he had when she met him first under the
beeches; then he had seemed so big, so strong, so masterful, that she
had never thought of his years. But she knew now he was younger than
he looked.
She had plenty of time to think of this, and of many other things,
during the drive.
The Countess monopolized the young officer with her questions. He
endeavored to make the replies she invited, and neither of them
appeared to note that the share of the Marquise was limited to an
interested expression, and an occasional smile.
She studied his well-formed, strong hands, and thought of the night
they had held her own--thought of all the impetuous, passionate words;
try as she would to drive them away they came back with a rush as his
cool, widely different tones fell on her ear. What a dissembler the
fellow was! All that evil nature which she knew about was hidden under
an exterior so engaging! "_If one only loved where it was wise to
love, all the sorrows of the world would be ended,_" those words of
the pretty figureante haunted her, with all their meaning beating
through her brain. What a farce seemed the careless, empty chatter
beside her! It grew unbearable, to feel his careless glance sweep
across her face, to hear him laugh carelessly, to be conscious of the
fact that after all he was the stronger; he could face her easily,
graciously, and she did not dare even meet his eyes lest he should,
after all, see; the thought of her weakness frightened her; suppose he
should compel her to the truth. Suppose--
She felt half hysterical; the drive had never before been so long. She
feared she must scream--do something to break through this horrible
chain of circumstances, linking them for even so short a space within
touch of each other. And he was the man she had promised herself to
hate, to make suffer, to--
Some one did scream; but it was the Countess. Out of a side street
came a runaway team, a shouting man heralding their approach. At that
point street repairs had left only a narrow carriage-way, and a wall
of loose stone; there was no time to get out of the way; no room to
turn. There was a collision, a crash! The horses of the Countess
leaped aside, the right front wheel struck the heap of stone, flinging
the driver from his seat. He fell, and did not move again.
At that sight the Countess uttered a gasp and sank to the bottom of
the carriage. The Marquise stooped over her only for an instant, while
the carriage righted itself and all four wheels were on a level once
more; the horses alone had been struck, and were maddened with fear,
and in that madness lay their only danger now.
She lifted her head, and the man opposite, in her instant of
shrinking, had leaped over the back of the seat to secure the lines of
the now thoroughly wild animals.
One line was dragging between them on the ground. Someway he
maintained his footing on the carriage pole long enough to secure the
dragging line, and when he gained the driver's seat the Marquise was
beside him.
She knew what lay before them, and he did not--a dangerous curve, a
steep embankment--and they had passed the last street where they could
have turned into a less dangerous thoroughfare.
People ran out and threw up their hands and shouted. She heard him
fling an oath at them for adding fury to the maddened animals.
"It is no use," she said, and laid her hand on his. He turned and met
her eyes. No veil of indifference was between them now, no coquetry;
all pretense was swept aside and the look they exchanged was as a
kiss.
"You love me--now?" he demanded, half fiercely.
"Now, and always, from the first hour you looked at me!" she said,
with her hand on his wrist. His grip tightened on the lines, and the
blood leaped into his face.
"My love, my love!" he whispered; and she slipped on her knees beside
him that she might not see the danger to be faced.
"It is no use, Kenneth, Kenneth! There is the bank ahead--they cannot
stop--it will kill us! It is just ahead!"
She was muttering disjointed sentences, her face averted, her arms
clasping him.
"Kill us? Don't you believe it!" And he laughed a trifle nervously.
"Look up, sweetheart; the danger is over. I knew it when you first
spoke. See! They are going steady now."
They were. He had gained control of them in time to make the dangerous
curve in safety. They were a quarter of the way along the embankment.
Workmen there stared at the lady and gentleman on the coachman's seat,
and at the rather rapid gait; but the real danger was over.
They halted at a little cafe, which was thrown into consternation at
sight of a lady insensible in the bottom of the carriage; but a little
wine and the administrations of the Marquise aided her recovery, and
in a short time enabled her to hear the account of the wild race.
The driver had a broken arm, and one of the horses was slightly
injured. Lieutenant McVeigh had sent back about the man, and secured
another team for the drive home. He was now walking up and down the
pavement in front of the cafe, in very good spirits, and awaiting the
pleasure of the Countess.
They drove home at once; the Countess voluably grateful to Kenneth,
and apparently elated over such a tremendous adventure. The young
officer shared her high spirits, and the Marquise was the only silent
member of the party. After the danger was passed she scarcely spoke.
When he helped her into the carriage the pressure of his hand and one
whispered word sent the color sweeping over her face, leaving it paler
than before. She scarcely lifted her eyes for the rest of the drive,
and after retiring for a few moments' rest, apparently, broke down
entirely; the nervous strain had proven rather trying, and she was
utterly unable--to her own regret--to join them at lunch.
Lieutenant McVeigh begged to withdraw, but the Countess Biron, who
declared she had never been the heroine of a thrilling adventure,
before, insisted that she at least was quite herself again, and would
feel cheated if their heroic deliverer did not remain for a lunch,
even though it be a tete-a-tete affair; and she, of course, wanted to
hear all the details of the horror; that child, Judithe, had not
seemed to remember much; she supposed she must have been terribly
frightened. "Yet, one never knew how the Marquise would be effected by
_any_ thing! She was always surprising people; usually in delightful
ways, of course."
"Of course," assented her guest, with a reminiscent gleam and a wealth
of absolute happiness in the blue eyes. "Yes, she is rather surprising
at times; she surprised me!"
* * * * *
"Judithe, my child, it was an ideal adventure," insisted the Countess,
an hour after the Lieutenant had left her, and she had repaired to
the room where the Marquise was supposed to be resting. Her
nervousness had evidently not yet abated, for she was walking up and
down the floor.
"An absolutely ideal adventure, and a heroic foreigner to the rescue!
What a god-send that I invited him! And I really believe he enjoyed
it. I never before saw him so gay, so charming! There are men, you
know, to whom danger is a tonic, and my friend's son is like that,
surely. Did he not seem at all afraid?"
"Not that I observed."
"Did he not say anything?"
"Y--yes; he swore at the people who shouted and tried to stop the
horses."
"You should not have let yourself hear that," said the Countess,
reproachfully. "I thought he was so perfect, and was making my little
romance about him--or could, if you would only show a little more
interest. Ah! at your age I should have been madly in love with the
fine fellow, just for what he did today; but _you_! Still, it would be
no use, I suppose. He is fiancee, you know. Yes; the mother told me; a
fine settlement; I saw her picture--very pretty."
"American--I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; their lands join, and she is a great heiress. The name--the
name is Loring--Genevieve? No--Gertrude, Mademoiselle Gertrude Loring.
Ah! so strong he was, so heroic. If she loves him she should have seen
him today."
"Yes," agreed the Marquise, with a curious little smile, "she
should."
* * * * *
Two hours later she was on her knees beside the dowager's couch, her
face hidden and all her energy given to one plea:
"Maman--Maman! Do not question me; only give me your trust--let us go
away!"
"But the man--tah! It is only a fancy; why should you leave for that?
Whoever it is, the infatuation grew quickly and will die out the same
way--so--"
"No! If I remain I cannot answer for myself. I am ashamed to confess
it, but--listen, Maman--but put your arms around me first; he is not
worthy, I know it; yet I love him! He vows love to me, yet he is
betrothed; I know that, _also_; but I have no reason left, and my
folly will make me go to him if you do not help me. Listen, Maman!
I--I will do all you say. I will marry in a year--two years--when this
is all over. I will obey you in everything, if you will only take me
away. I cannot leave you; yet I am afraid to stay where he is."
"Afraid! But, Judithe, my child, no one shall intrude upon you. Your
friends will protect you from such a man. You have only to refuse to
see him, and in a little while--"
"Refuse! Maman, what can I say to make you understand that I could
never refuse him again? Yet, oh, the humiliation! Maman, he is the man
I despised--the man I said was not fit to be spoken to; it was all
true, but when I hear his voice it makes me forget his unworthiness.
Listen, Maman! I--I confessed to him today that I loved him; yet I
know he is the man who by the laws of America is the owner of Rhoda
Larue, and he is now the betrothed of her half-sister; I heard the
name of his fiancee today, and it told me the whole story. He is the
man! _Now_, will you take me away?"
The next morning the dowager, Marquise de Caron, left her Paris home
for the summer season. Her destination was indefinitely mentioned as
Switzerland. Her daughter-in-law accompanied her.
And to Kenneth McVeigh, waiting impatiently the hour when he might go
to her, a note was given:
"Monsieur:
"My words of yesterday had no meaning. I was frightened and
irresponsible. When you read this I will have left Paris. By not
meeting again we will avoid further mistakes of the same nature.
"This is my last word to you.
"JUDITHE CARON."
For two weeks he tried in vain to find her. Then he was recalled to
Paris to meet his mother, who was ready for home. She was shocked at
his appearance, and refused to believe that he had not been ill during
her absence, and had some motherly fears regarding Parisian
dissipations, from which she decided to remove him, if possible. He
acknowledged he would be glad to go--he was sick of Europe any way.
The last day he took a train for Fontainbleau, remained two hours
under the beeches, alone, and got back to Paris in time to make the
train for Havre.
After they had got comfortably established on a homeward-bound vessel,
and he was watching the land line grow fainter over the waters, Mrs.
McVeigh came to him with a bit of news read from the last journal
brought aboard.
The dowager, Marquise de Caron, had established herself at Geneva for
the season, accompanied by her daughter, the present Marquise, whose
engagement to Monsieur Loris Dumaresque had just been announced.