A MAN ABOUT TO MEET A MAID.
One may approach the White House by way of the High Street of Easthampton, of which thoroughfare the dwelling in question is a conspicuous ornament; but for such as prefer a more secluded road, a grassy lane behind the houses affords direct access to Miss Claghorn's garden.
Mark chose the lane. Since, in obedience to Natalie's request, he must see her, he hoped to find her in the garden, where there would be less danger of interruption.
The birds twittered in the trees, joyous in the new day; the dew glimmered on the grass-blades; the scent of flowers from adjacent gardens perfumed the fresh air of a perfect summer morning. On such a morning a man about to meet a maid should have trod the earth lightly. But Mark lingered as he walked, reluctant to hear his fate pronounced by lips which he longed to kiss, but could never kiss; lips, therefore, it were better not to see. Yet, since he had been summoned, he must go on; and because of the summons there were moments when he still, if faintly, hoped. Hope dies hard; and, notwithstanding the forebodings which had vexed him ever since he had written the letter (for which writing he had since cursed his folly), there had been times when hope had risen high, and, as he even now assured himself, not without reason. If he had been self-deceived, it had not been from the complacency of the coxcomb. Surely she had loved him, or had been willing to love, had that been permitted her.
In arguing thus he was not reasoning unfairly. He had been unintentionally deceived by the philosopher, Beverley Claghorn, who had permitted the intercourse between his daughter and this young man, partly from carelessness, more because he approved of a cousinly friendship of which one of the partakers was able to gratify a noble sentiment by an addition to the dowry of the other. It had been by pointing out this ability that he had assuaged the misgivings of the Marquise; at the same time so solemnly reiterating his loyalty to the treaty with that lady, that when Mark's disclosure came it had been impossible for him to receive it otherwise than he had done—by a regretful rejection. He had been astounded by the avowal, for he had noted no sighs, no posturing, no eloquent apostrophes or melting glances from this suitor who approached him with a tale of love, having never displayed a visible sign of the tender passion. M. Claghorn's observation of lovers had long been confined to one variety. He forgot that Anglo-Saxon swains are less prone to languish in public than their brothers of Gaul. Had Adolphe de Fleury been in Paris there would have been more frequent flowers, scented billets, rapt gazes, rolling eyes and eloquential phrases; all offered for the general appreciation as much as for the lady of his love. In the absence of these familiar evidences of ardor, the philosopher was, in his own eyes, acquitted of responsibility for the surprising fact which Mark had imparted to him. For, how could he suspect a legitimate passion in a youth who had yet to sow his wild oats, and one with the capacity for acquiring an unlimited field for that delightful, if futile, and generally expensive, husbandry? No man of Mark's years could be so wise—or so foolish. That was, as the philosopher viewed human nature, not in such nature. The case was different with Adolphe de Fleury, compelled by circumstances to seize the most attractive dowry that fell in his way; and even that gallant but impecunious soldier was, doubtless, cultivating a modest crop as sedulously as circumstances permitted.
Thus had Mark been the victim of a philosophic mode of thought and had bowed to that which he had supposed would be the filial, as it had been the paternal, decision; saying good-bye, sadly, doubtless, but without betrayal of that which he believed would not be gladly heard, nor could be honorably disclosed.
The ocean lay between him and the woman that he loved before he fully realized how much must be henceforth lacking in his life, and when repentance was too late he repented that he had taken the philosopher's word for a fact of which he now sometimes doubted the existence. Many memories whispered that she, too, had loved. No word of hers had told him this; but love is not always told in words—and then he would accuse himself of the folly of permitting vain longings to control his judgment. Nevertheless, when, while still at Stormpoint, he had heard of the sudden death of Beverley Claghorn, he had resolved to do that which before he had omitted, to appeal to Natalie herself, when, most inopportunely, there came a letter from the Marquise to Mrs. Joe; a letter which informed the relatives of the deceased that the death of the father would hasten, rather than retard, the marriage of the daughter, who had already taken up her residence with the writer of the epistle, in accordance with the wish of her father. Not long after the receipt of that letter Mark had started for Russia, leaving France unvisited.
He opened the gate which led from the lane into the garden, and found—Tabitha.
Who raised her hands in astonishment, then stretched them forth in welcome: "And so you're back! For how long this time? More of a Claghorn than ever—as grim as one of the Eliphalets."
"No need to ask how you are," said Mark, his grimness softened by her heartiness. "You get younger every year. How are my aunt and——"
"And Natalie? Blooming—that's the word. You'll find things different at the White House. We haven't had a good spat in months. Soor le ponty Avinyon, on y donks, on y donks——"
"On y danse," repeated Mark, laughing at Tabitha's French in spite of himself.
"Yes; even my old legs. Your aunt's are too stiff. But we young things, that's Natalie and I, we cut our capers," and in the exuberance of her spirits Miss Cone essayed a caper for Mark's benefit.
"Such grace, Tabby——"
"Is worth coming from Russia to see. I'm practising; there's to be great doings here before long. What would you say to a wedding?"
"Let me salute the bride?" he said, with an attempt at gaiety which, to himself, seemed rather sickly, and suiting his action to the word.
"Well!" ejaculated Miss Cone, adjusting her cap, "many a man's had his ears boxed for that. However, I suppose it's in the air around here—but you're mistaken. I'm not the bride."
"Surely, not Aunt Achsah?"
"As if you couldn't guess! But don't say I told you. The fact is I'm so full of it I blabbed without thinking."
"Then it's a secret?"
"It won't be after to-day. Leonard told us last night. I suppose your aunt'll tell your ma to-day."
Mark promised to say nothing and went toward the house. Miss Claghorn welcomed him cordially, but made no reference to the subject of Tabitha's disclosures, though traces of her agreeable agitation were visible. "There's Natalie, now!" she exclaimed after some minutes had been spent in conversation sufficiently dreary to one of the two.
The thundering of a horse's hoofs told of a wild gallop. The old lady rushed from the house, followed by Mark, dismayed by her action and the alarm expressed in her countenance. He reached the gate in time to assist Natalie to dismount.
"My dear child!" exclaimed the elder lady reproachfully.
She was grasping Mark's hands in welcome. Her face was flushed; her dark hair, disturbed by the pace at which she had ridden, hung low upon her forehead; he had never seen her so beautiful—nor so happy. His face was pale, his hands cold in hers.
"Dear Aunt," she said, "I felt as though I must gallop; I didn't mean to in the High Street; I couldn't hold him."
"He was homeward bound," said Mark, turning to look at the horse, now being led away by Miss Achsah's "man." "He's a handsome beast."
"I have much to ask you about the Marquise," said Natalie to Mark, as they went into the house, whereupon Miss Claghorn left them.
The short-lived bloom of her face was gone; she was deadly pale. She stretched her ungloved hands toward him; it might have been a gesture of appeal. He dared not take them in his own; his longing to clasp her to his heart was too great to risk the contact. She dropped her arms.
"You wished to see me—to ask me——" He paused; his voice sounded stern in his ears, but he had no power over it.
"To—to say something. Give me a moment."
As she turned toward the window he caught a glimpse of the sheen of tears. A mighty impulse raised his arms as though to clasp her; then they fell.
"What fates impose, that man must need abide."
She turned toward him. "I thought there was much to say. There is—nothing."
"Nothing for you; for me, something. It is to wish you all happiness, to assure you of my constant—friendship."
"And that is needless. We shall always be friends, warm friends, Mark. Let it be so. And—there is something more. I should not have written as I did of Paula; I had no right. But—since I am your friend, and you are mine——"
"We shall be. Even so, give me a little time."
His words were accompanied by a sardonic smile. The words and the smile silenced her. There was a pause.
"Has the Marquise forgiven me?" she asked at length.
"She will in time. By the way, I saw Adolphe. I hope he did not persecute——"
"No, no. He left that to his mama," she answered, laughing. "To Adolphe, as a cousin, I had no objection; but——"
"You have chosen more wisely," he said gravely. "I wish you happiness, Natalie." He held out his hand; she took it, her own trembling. "God bless you, Cousin." His lips brushed her cold cheek, then he was gone.
She watched him from the window; her face was very white, her hands tightly clenched. So she stood until he had passed from view, then she went upstairs. In the hall she passed Tabitha, who exclaimed: "You scared us all—yourself, too. You look like a ghost."
"Scared?" questioned Natalie.
"Riding like that."
"Like that! I wished the horse had wings."
"You'll have 'em if you don't take care, then——"
"Then I'll fly away." The intensity of her utterance made Tabitha stare. Natalie laughed aloud, and left her still staring.
Alone in her room, she paced slowly back and forth, struggling with her pride, crushing a forbidden and rejected love. So she regarded it. With a wrung heart, Mark had respected her decision, and in the depths of her soul she blamed him, scorning the puny passion so easily beaten. "Go to Paula," she had written, while "Come to me," her heart had cried so loudly that, except he were deaf, he might have heard.
When she had written her letter to Mark she had accomplished a bitter task only after a long and desperate struggle. She loved Leonard; she had said this to herself over and over again, and it was true; and to him she had given her troth freely, fully believing that for him there would be happiness and for her content. But the lowest depths of her soul had been stirred by the letter from Mark. There were chambers there that Leonard had not entered, could never enter, and into which she herself dared not look.
Self-sacrifice is to women alluring. That which she had made had been made, at least she so believed, with honest intention, yet, since now it was irrevocable, it was too hideous to contemplate. She would call him back, and on her knees——
Shameful thought! She was betrothed to a man she loved. Had she not admitted it? Not to him only, but shyly this very morning to the fond old woman to whom she owed so much, whose last days by that very admission were brightened by a glorious sunshine never before known in a long and gloomy life. Could she now, even if in her own eyes she could fall so low—could she fall so low in the eyes of these women by whom she was surrounded? In her aunt's eyes and Tabitha's? In Paula's, to whom, in loving loyalty, she had herself confided the secret? In those of Mrs. Joe, who had so carefully warned her from this preserve? No—to that depth she could not descend, not even to bask in the cold and passionless love of Mark.
The engagement was received with universal favor. It could hardly be otherwise, since all peculiarly interested were of that sex which dearly loves to contemplate a captive man, the only male (Leonard, of course, excepted) being Mark, whose attitude, being unsuspected, was ignored. And the bridegroom was the hero of all these women: the heir of Miss Claghorn; the one of the family to whom Tabitha was willing to ascribe all the virtues; regarded with affectionate esteem by Mrs. Joe, and, as to all except his denominational qualities, worshipped by Paula. As to the question of yoking believer and unbeliever, it had certainly occurred to all the devotees of the young theologian, but, aside from the certainty that truth must find its triumph in the union, the more pressing question of clothes for the approaching wedding left but little room in pious but feminine minds for other considerations. Events had so fallen in with Leonard's wishes that an early marriage was deemed advisable in Natalie's interest. Mr. Ellis Winter had encountered difficulty with regard to certain property in France belonging to her, and her presence in Paris was essential; and it was no less desirable that while there she be under the protection of a husband. For, aside from other considerations, marriage was the easiest solution of the complications which had arisen out of the guardianship of the Marquise, which guardianship would legally terminate with Natalie's marriage. And these things opened the way for Mark's return to Stormpoint.
"Urgent business" in San Francisco had precluded his attendance at the wedding. He wrote Leonard a cordial letter, and he sent to Natalie a ruby set in small diamonds, which, Tabitha Cone confidentially imparted to Miss Claghorn, was "mean for a billionaire," and which, even in the eyes of the latter lady, with whom the donor was a favorite, looked paltry. Both would have been surprised and even indignant at the man's folly, if they had known that he had bid against a crowned head to get the gem, employing a special agent, furnished with carte blanche for the purpose. Natalie knew better than they, but it was not of its purity or value that she thought, as she looked at the jewel long and steadfastly, until a mist of tears suddenly obscured her vision and struck terror to her soul.