And Olive accepted the commission, and was deceived by it. For she, absorbed in her own fears and hopes, was not aware of the drama of love and cross purposes that was being enacted under her very eyes.
When Clarence called, on the next day but one, he found, to his surprise and sorrow, that the bright face of the girl he loved so well was to smile upon him no more, at least for a time. Making his call an unusually brief one, he rode back to the city in a very grave and thoughtful mood. Or, rather, the gravity and thoughtfulness usual in him was tinged with sadness.
On the same day, almost at the same hour, Claire Keith stood in her mother's drawing-room, answering the thousand and one questions that are invariably poured into the ears of a returned traveler.
By and by, drawing back the satin curtain, that shaded the windows of the drawing-room, Claire gazed out upon the familiar street which seemed smiling her a welcome in the Autumn sunshine. Finally she uttered an exclamation of surprise, and turned to Mrs. Keith.
"Merci! Mamma! what has happened to the people across the way? Why, I can't catch even one glimpse of red and yellow damask, not one flutter of gold fringe; have the parvenus been taking lessons in good taste? Positively, every blind is closed, and there isn't a liveried being to be seen."
Mrs. Keith laughed softly. "I don't know what has happened to the parvenus, my dear, but whether good or bad it has taken them away, liveries and all. The house has a new tenant, who is not so amusing, perhaps, but is certainly more mysterious. So, after all, the exchange may not have been a gain to the neighborhood."
Claire peeped out again. "A mysterious tenant, you say, mamma? That must be an improvement. What is the Mystery like?"
Mrs. Keith smiled indulgently on her daughter.
"There is not much to tell, my love. I don't know whether the lady who has taken the house is young or old, handsome or ugly, married or single. She lives the life of a recluse; has never been seen, at least by any of us, to walk out. But she drives sometimes in a close carriage, and always with a thick veil hiding her face. She is tall, dresses richly, but always in black, although the fabric is not that usually worn as mourning. She moves from the door to her carriage with a languid gait, as if she might be an invalid. No one goes there, and I understand she is not at home to callers, although, of course, I have not made the experiment myself. There, my dear, I think that is about all."