What reply could be made to his careless, easy tones? And the talk drifted smoothly on—the more smoothly, perhaps, since no one believed a word that he said, for Keith Endicott ere this had earned the name of the soul of bravery and honor; but Dorris dropped to the ground the roses that had lain all this time in her lap, as if an unseen thorn had wounded her, and, rising, went away to her own cosey room, where she flung herself into an arm-chair and fell into a deep study, looking from her window through the trees to where the blue waters of the Charles gleamed and rippled in the sunlight. It was a lovely spot, this home of her aunt in the suburbs of Boston,—a home which Dorris had called her own since her parents’ death, years before, when she and her brother had been confided to her aunt’s tender care. And Dorris loved every spot of this rambling, old, colonial mansion, from its spacious ballroom, and its wide porches, to her own room, with its faded tapestry hangings, its great fireplace and bright brass andirons, its hanging book-shelves with their store of well-chosen volumes, the English titles varied here and there by a Latin or French classic (for Dorris had studied with her brother, and was quite proficient in both languages; indeed, L’Estrange delighted in calling her a bas-bleu in a vain attempt to tease her), its tall, brass-handled secretary with its secret drawer, which Dorris called so tantalizing, because she had no secret to hide in its depths, and the eight-day clock ticking away in the corner, which now struck the hour, waking Dorris from her revery into words:—
“I wonder why he does not go: he is no coward; it is not that. I verily believe it is as he said: he is selfish, and does not want the trouble. How he laughs, and disbelieves in everybody, even himself! and what a narrow life he must lead! And yet, sometimes I think better, as I needs must, of my old playmate. Just now he spoke to me with real feeling, and truly, it was a sweet and comforting thought he offered me. And yet the other day, after church, when Gen. Brewster spoke so cordially to Henri L’Estrange and Lieut. Allen, and then bestowed rather a contemptuous glance on Keith,—I mean Mr. Endicott,—I caught him quoting, under his breath, ‘The world is a farce, and its favors are follies; but farces and follies are very dear to human hearts.’ I could not help saying, ‘When its favors are well-earned I think they cease to be follies.’ It was, at the best, bad taste to cavil in that way at Henri, who is so brave and enthusiastic, and has come all the way from his own and his father’s native France because his mother’s land needed brave, true men. And he is going away next week; if he could only send us news of Roy!”
“Dorris!” called her aunt’s voice. “It is quite time you were ready for dinner, dear. And do you not think you were failing in courtesy to your guests to leave them so abruptly?”
“Cousin Henri has had enough of my society, to-day, Aunt Dorothy, and I’ve no patience with Keith Endicott; you heard how he answered uncle. But I’ll come in a moment, auntie,” answers Dorris; and the arm-chair loses its fair occupant.
Quaint, dainty little Dorris! What would not I—I, your great-granddaughter, in this degenerate year of 1885—give to see you just as you looked then, thinking over this and that in a manner not so very unlike the maidens of this generation! Ah, well! I must perforce content myself with that miniature of you as “Madam,” in your lavender brocade, with the feathers in your powdered hair, and the row on row of pearls about your throat. Very stately and dignified you look there; and yet, Great-grandmother Dorris, I can see the spice of “innate depravity,” as I doubt not your grave pastor would have called it, and catch a glimpse of the quick temper and warm heart in those bright eyes and that saucy little nose.
The evening before Capt. L’Estrange’s departure has come, and a few of the many friends he has made during his short furlough spent with the Gordons are gathered there to make the last hours of his stay such as shall afford him pleasant recollections in the future. Dorris makes a charming little hostess as she flits from room to room, and at last pauses on the porch before a group of three, L’Estrange, Endicott, and Lieut. Allen, an old friend who is home on sick-leave, who welcome warmly and admiringly the slight, graceful figure in its white dress, with a bag of red, white, and blue hanging from her dimpled elbow, a fancy of Dorris, enhanced by the red and white roses and blue forget-me-nots in her hair,—flowers which she found on her spinning-wheel, with no clew to the giver.
“Mon Capitaine Henri, Aunt Dorothy wants you for a moment,” she says now. “They are all enjoying themselves, so I came out here to rest. Lieut. Allen,” she adds graciously, as her cousin disappears, “I am glad that we are to have one representative of the army left after my cousin leaves us.”
“I thank you, Miss Gordon,” answers the young soldier, “but my stay is limited; you see I hobble around now with the aid of a crutch. I only wish I could go with your cousin.”
“L’Estrange is in your regiment, is he?” asks Endicott.
“Yes, we fought side by side at Saratoga. You know what a close conflict that was. Such a din of shot and shell that an order could be scarcely heard in the tumult. It was hot work I can assure you.”