The Strollers Part 42

"I dislike congratulations!" she said, indifferently.

He looked at her quickly, but her eyes expressed only apathy. In his a sudden gleam of light appeared.

"From me, you mean?" The light became brighter.

She did not answer. His self-control was fast ebbing.

"You underestimate your favors, if you fancy they are easily forgotten!"

A crimson flush extended to her brow; the unconcern died out of her eyes.

"I do not understand," she answered, slowly.

"When a woman says 'I do not understand,' she means 'I wish to forget'."

Her wide-open glance flashed ominously to his; she clasped and unclasped her fingers.

"Forget what?" she said, coldly.

"Nameless nothings!" he returned. "A smile--a glance--nothing to you, perhaps, but"--the set expression of his face giving way to abrupt pa.s.sion!--"everything to me! Perhaps I had not meant to say this, but it seems as though the words must come out to-night. It may be"--his voice vibrating with strange earnestness--"for once I want to be myself. For weeks we have been--friends--and then suddenly you begin to treat me--how? As though I no longer existed! Why did you deceive me--let me drift on? Because I was mute, did you think I was blind?

Why did I join the strollers--the land baron accused me of following you across the country. He was right; I was following you. I would not confess it to myself before. But I confess it now! It was a fool's paradise," he ended, bitterly.

She shrank back before his vehement words; something within her appeared violated; as though his plea had penetrated the sanct.i.ty of her reserve.

"Would it not be well to say nothing about deception?" she replied, and her dark eyes swept his face. Then, turning from him abruptly, she stepped to the window, and, drawing aside the lace curtains mechanically, looked out.

The city below was yet teeming with life, lights gleaming everywhere and shadowy figures pa.s.sing. Suddenly out of the darkness came a company of soldiers who had just landed, marching through the streets toward the camping ground and singing as they went.

The chorus, like a mighty breath of patriotism, filled her heart to overflowing. It seemed as though she had heard it for the first time; had never before felt its potency. All the tragedy of war swept before her; all that inspiring, strange affection for country, kith and kin, suddenly exalted her.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Above the tramping of feet, the melody rose and fell on the distant air, dying away as the figures vanished in the gloom. With its love of native land, its expression of the unity of comradeship and ties stronger than death, the song appeared to challenge an answer; and, when the music ceased, and only the drum-beats still seemed to make themselves heard, she raised her head without moving from her position and looked at him to see if he understood. But though she glanced at him, she hardly saw him. In her mind was another picture--the betrayed garrison; the soldiers slain!--and the horror of it threw such a film over her gaze that he became as a figure in some distressing dream.

An inkling of her meaning--the mute questioning of her eyes--the dread evoked by that revolting vision of the past--were reflected in his glance.

"Deceived you?" he began, and his voice, to her, sounded as from afar.

"How--what--"

"Must it be--could it be put into words?"

The deepest shadows dwelt in her eyes; shadows he could not penetrate, although he still doggedly, yet apprehensively, regarded her! Watching her, his brow grew darker.

"Why not?" he continued, stubbornly.

Why? The dimness that had obscured her vision lifted. Now she saw him very plainly, indeed; tall and powerful; his face, harsh, intense, as though by the vigor of physical and mental force he would override any charge or imputation.

Why? She drew herself up, as he quickly searched her eyes, bright with the pa.s.sions that stirred her breast.

"You told me part of your story that day in the property wagon," she began, repugnance, scorn and anger all mingling in her tones. "Why did you not tell me the rest?"

His glance, too, flashed. Would he still profess not to understand her? His lips parted; he spoke with an effort.

"The rest?" he said, his brow lowering.

"Yes," she answered quickly; "the stain upon your name!--the garrison sold!--the soldiers killed!--murdered!--"

She had turned to him swiftly, fiercely, with her last words, but before the look of sudden shame and dread on his face, her eyes abruptly fell as though a portion of his dishonor had inexplicably touched her. He made no attempt to defend himself--motionless he stood an instant--then, without a word, he moved away. At the threshold he paused, but she did not look up--could not! A moment; an eternity!

"Why don't you go?" she cried. "Why don't you go?"

The door opened, closed; she was alone.

Pale as the dying lilies on the table, she stepped toward the threshold, when Barnes, chipper and still indefatigable, entered by another door. He was too inspired with festal intoxication to observe her agitation.

"What, my dear!" he exclaimed cheerily. "Has he gone? Did you make up your little differences? Did you settle your quarrel before he leaves for Mexico?"

"For Mexico!" she repeated, mechanically.

"Of course. He has his commission in the army and leaves early in the morning. But you look tired, my dear. I declare you are quite pale"--pinching her cheek--"rest will bring back the roses, though."

Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck.

"Why, why, what's this?" he said, patting her head.

"I only care for you," she whispered. "My dear! My dear!"

CHAPTER XI

THE Pa.s.sING OF A FINE GENTLEMAN

"'Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse me,'" ruminated Francois on his high seat next to the coachman, repeating the marquis' words, as they drove home after the n.o.bleman's precipitous retreat from the theater. "Well, he didn't look as though he had been particularly amused. But no wonder he was startled! It even"--reviewing the impression first made upon him at sight of the actress--"sent a shiver through me!" Here the carriage drew up sharply before the marquis'

home, and Francois, hastily alighting, threw open the door.

"Eh? What? Are we here?" muttered the marquis, starting from the corner where he had been reclining.

He arose with some difficulty; traversed the sidewalk and the sh.e.l.l-strewn path to the house which loomed darkly before them; paused at the foot of the stairs where he breathed heavily, complaining of the oppressiveness of the air; and finally, with the a.s.sistance of the valet, found himself once more in his room, the sick chamber he had grown to detest! Here alone--having dismissed the servant as soon as possible--he moved restlessly to and fro, pondering deeply. Since the moment when he had seen and recognized his daughter, all the buoyancy which had given his wasted figure a sort of galvanic vitality seemed to vanish. It was like the exhaustion of a battery, the collapse of the sustaining power.

"That resemblance can not be coincidence!" he thought. "Oh, errors of the past, you come home in our old age when the limbs are faltering and life is failing!"

Going to the _secretaire_, he took out a box that had not been opened in years, and, with trembling fingers, turned over many papers. He shivered, and, thinking it was cold, stirred the fire. Returning to the secretary, he took from the box a package tied with a ribbon still, after the lapse of these many years, slightly fragrant, and he breathed that perfume, so faint, so subtle, while recollections smote him like a knife.

Its scent was familiar to him; it seemed to bring life to the dead, and for the moment in his mind's eye he saw her glowing figure, the love of his youth, with flashing, revengeful eyes and n.o.ble mien. He cowered over the desk, as if shrinking from an avenging spirit, while the perfume, like opium, filled his brain with strange fantasies. He strove to drown remembrance, but some force--it seemed not his own!--drove him irresistibly to untie that ribbon, to scrutinize many old theater programs and to gaze upon a miniature in ivory depicting a woman in the loveliness of her charms, but whose striking likeness to the young actress he had just seen filled his heart with strange fear.

Some power--surely it could not have been his will which rebelled strenuously!--impelled him to open those letters and to read them word for word. The tenderness of the epistles fell on his heart as though to scorch it, and he quivered like a guilty wretch. His eyes were fascinated by these words in her last letter: "Should you desert me and your unborn child, your end will be miserable. As I believe in retribution, I am sure you will reap as you have sown."