“Now, sir, go and tell all the world that I’m not at home—d’ye hear? And come back and tell me; and that you may come back sober, I’ll clear your thick head for you.” And suiting the action to the word, May hurled poor Schmidt through the cool jets of the fountain; and he disappeared with a startling plunge in the waters of the ornamental lake. They were but a few feet deep, however, and Schmidt scrambled to his feet and went wading through the lily-pads to the shore. And in a few moments he came back, still wet, but quite sobered, to the brink nearest the island.
“What does she say?” cried May.
“That she will wait for M’sieur,” came back the answer that May heard; and he sank upon the rustic seat with a feeling that all was over with him. Should he still fly? He could not bring himself to break his word at this late hour. If it could be that the widowed Mrs. Dehon had come all this distance—unwomanly as it was—he could not leave her now. Moreover, it was exactly like her. She was just the woman to take the leap herself, rather than trust herself and her heart-secrets to written words. And as May pulled himself together and went toward the house he wished he could have conjured back one spark of that flame he once felt for her. His crusty old uncle had not foreseen that thus, by the rash heir’s promise, the wise provisions of his will could be evaded. What would his wise uncle have done in a similar situation?—Ordered a monument at Mount Auburn and prepared the remains for it afterward, perhaps. His head was too cloudy to think.
May reached the doors of the house. It was already dark; and he had one last moment of hesitation as he pressed his hand upon the carved-oak door-knob. Then, with a rally of his sense of honor, he turned it and entered the house.
The great hall was quite dark; and Austin had to feel his way to the dining-room, into which, as being the only habitable apartment, Schmidt had had to show the fair Gladys. Here was a single candle burning; and beyond the remains of what was evidently Schmidt’s dinner, just under the Copley portrait of the lady in the lilac dress, sat a solitary figure.
But May started back as he saw it. It certainly was not Gladys. It was—it was a man; and as it rose and came forward to the candle-light there appeared unmistakably the red face and pudgy figure of her elderly husband! For a moment the joyous reaction held May speechless; but then he sprang forward.
“Mr. Terwilliger Dehon, I am delighted to——”
But Terwilliger waved him back with the gesture of an M.P. quelling an assembly of constituents; and in his hand he carried a letter. “May I ask, Mr. May, what is the meaning of this?” And Dehon brought the offending document close beneath May’s nose, lying upon his chubby palm; and then slapped it violently with his other hand.
“Of this?” said May, innocently. “What is it?”
“That, sir, is a letter I found among my wife’s effects.” And beyond all question the letter was in May’s own handwriting. May stared helplessly at Dehon; and Terwilliger glared fixedly at May. And through all the embarrassment of the situation loomed up May’s consciousness, antagonistic as their meeting was, that he was uncommonly glad to see him.