"But this is different; and please, Miss Selwyn, don't let on to a soul that I gave you that letter. Mrs. Le Grande said if I didn't take it some one else would; and it was an easy way to earn a trifle."
"But if there is anything wrong in the matter it is the hardest way in the world to get money," I said, perplexed at her words.
Linden Lane lay back from Oaklands a mile or more, and led me on a road I had never traversed before, although I had often planned to take it on some of my exploring journeys. But it led away from the sea shore, and that probably was the reason I had hitherto neglected it. There was a strip of woodland belonging to the Oaklands estate through which a part of the road lay. There had been a recent fall of snow and this was still clinging heavily to the trees, especially to the spruce and hemlocks, bringing strangely to mind the muffled, mysterious figures of the Sisters of Charity and Nuns, as I used to see them gliding about the streets of the old world cities. Here and there interspersed with the evergreens were beech, and maple, and other hardwood growths, with their graceful leafless branches stretching up like dumb pleading hands toward the pitiful sky. I grew so interested seeking out specially picturesque forest growths, and glimpses into the still woodland depths under the white snow wraith which I might come again to study more closely, and put on my canvas, that I so far forgot the business of the hour as to find myself a half hour after the appointment at still some distance from Linden Lane. Shutting my eyes resolutely on the rarest bits of landscape caught now and then through a chance opening in the trees, I walked at my best speed along the drifted road. Esmerelda had described the cottage so minutely that I had no trouble in recognizing it. Once past the strip of woodland, a bend in the road brought me at once into a thick cluster of houses with a few linden trees bordering the street that had given to it its rather poetical and alliterative name. One house much more pretentious than the rest, I at once recognized to be Rose Cottage. I rang the bell and was so quickly admitted, I concluded the tidy looking little maid had been posted at the door on the lookout for me. I gave her my card and inquired for Mrs. Le Grande; a formality quite unnecessary, as she assured me she knew who I was and that the lady was already waiting for me.
"Just come this way. She has a parlor upstairs; and my! but its a stunner."
I received the information in perplexed silence. But the little maid apparently did not look for encouragement, for she continued chattering until the door of the "stunning" apartment was closed behind her. A bright fire was burning in the grate at my left. In the swift glance with which I took in all the appointments of the room I acknowledged that the girl's description was correct. The walls were lined with pictures which I could see were gems; rich Turkish rugs concealed the common wood floor; while on brackets and stands were ornaments of rarest design and workmanship. I had only a few moments, however, to gratify my curiosity; for a portière at the farther end of the room was lifted, and a vision of female loveliness met my view such as I had never seen before. Probably the surroundings, and the unexpected appearance of this beautiful woman, heightened the effect.
She paused and looked at me intently. Instinctively I shrank into myself. She seemed to be in some swift, clear-sighted way taking my measure, and labeling the visible marks of my personality. Then she came graciously forward, her step reminding me, in its smooth, gliding motion, of some graceful animal of the jungle that might both fascinate and slay you.
Her eyes were of that dark, velvety blue, that under strong emotion turns to purple, and when she chose could melt and appeal like a dumb creature's, whose only means of communicating their wants is through their eyes. The lashes were long and curved; her complexion delicate as a rose leaf, with a fitful color vanishing and re-appearing in the peachy cheek apparently as she willed it. Her hair, a rare tint of golden auburn was wreathed around her head in heavy coils that reminded me of the aureoles the old masters painted about the beautiful Madonna faces. Her mouth, I concluded, was the one defect in the otherwise perfect face. The teeth were natural and purely white, but long, and sharp, reminding one in a disagreeable way of the fangs of an animal of prey; the lips, a rich scarlet, were too thin, and tightly drawn for a judge of faces to admire; the chin was clear-cut and firm—a face on the whole, I decided, that might drive a man, snared by its beauty, to desperation. There was passion and power both lurking behind the pearl-tinted mask.
Her attitudes were the perfection of grace—apparently, too, of unstudied grace, which is the mark of the highest art in posing. She sat in a purple velvet easy-chair, whose trying color set off her fine complexion perfectly. Her voice was low and well modulated, but it had no sympathetic chords; and therefore I could not call it musical or pleasing. She thanked me in very exaggerated terms for having responded to her appeal.
I exclaimed, rather impulsively, in reply—
"I expected to find the author of that pathetic letter in great distress, and came, hoping to relieve; but I cannot be of any service here." I glanced around the luxuriously appointed room, and then let my eyes rest on her elaborate costume.