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.