Fairfield leered at him, with a glint of desperation in his eyes, and started off to the west wing, with Benedict Calvert at his elbow, while Claude de Mailly, musing gently, passed out into the golden mist of early twilight, on his way to the rose-garden and Deborah.
CHAPTER XI
Distant Versailles
He walked, quite leisurely, over the turf beside the house, past the western wing, towards the terraces that led into the garden. The sunset faced him in a blinding, hazy radiance. At the top of the little flight of white steps he paused. Silence, perfect, lonely, was all about, undisturbed by the bird-notes from the woods, or the murmurous lapping of the river along its bank. Once or twice he breathed, long and deeply, delighted with the pure fragrance of the air. Then, without haste, he passed down into the garden. What a chaotic mass of color it was! All the common garden flowers, perennials and exotics, were at his feet; clove-pinks, sweet-williams, marigolds, blue iris, candy-tuft, corn-flowers, purple-stock, cyanus, carnations, poppies, balsam, fragrant herbs innumerable, the last sweet-pease, pansies and dahlias—all in a disorderly tangle of glory. But beyond these bourgeoisie of the flowers, in statelier rows, with only here and there a blossom in their dark and lustrous foliage, was the noblesse, the court of the flowers—the rose-garden. In the midst of this, upon a little rustic seat against the northern wall, in a tumbled, forlorn heap, her face hidden in her arm, her unkempt curls all loose upon her neck, lay Deborah—poor Deborah, whose little colonial world had crumbled about her, and left her alone, wretched, hopeless, in space. In the afternoon despair overcame her. Her work was over, and she was at liberty to think unprofitable thoughts. So, after an hour of tears here in the drowsy garden, the day finally brought what peace it had to give, and she slept—was sleeping now, in the twilight, while Claude and her new world came to her.
He had discovered her almost as soon as he entered the garden, more by instinct than observation. And he made no haste to go to her, not because he was indifferent, but because he could not bear to mar the perfect progress of the hour by haste. It was almost with regret that he left behind the lower half of the garden and entered the turfy walk between the rose-bushes. From a perpetual he plucked one full pink rose, infinitely beautiful in its solitude, from where it glowed, half hidden, beneath the leaves. Gazing half at it and half at her, he softly approached the rustic bench, till his knee touched her gown.
"Deborah!" he whispered; and then again, a little louder, "Deborah!"
She stirred in her sleep, under the spell of a wandering dream.
"Deborah!"
In slow wonderment the tangled head lifted, the white face, with its tear-stained cheeks, was raised, and the gray-blue eyes fell open sleepily. He did not speak while she looked at him, the actual presence corresponding, with startling accuracy, to her dream.
"I thought—you had gone away," she said, softly.