Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (12 page)

 
          
“You
might have heard for yourself, if you’d been where you are a little sooner,”
returned Wat, edging toward the road—for there was something about the
swarthy-faced fellow that he did not like, in spite of his golden offer.

 
          
“I
was there,” said the man with a laugh, “but you spoke so low I couldn’t catch
it all.”

 
          
“What
do you want to know for?” demanded Wat.

 
          
“Why,
perhaps I know something about that spirit woman he seemed to be asking about,
and if I do, he’d be glad to hear it, wouldn’t he? Now I don’t want to go and
tell him myself, for fear of getting into trouble, but I might tell you, and
you could do it. Only I must know what he said, first; perhaps he has found out
for himself what I could tell him.”

 
          
“What
are you going to give me that for, then?” asked Wat, much reassured.

           
“Because you are a clever little
chap, and were good to some of my people here once upon a time. I’m rich,
though I don’t look it, and I’d like to pay for the news you give me. Out with
it, and then here’s another yellow boy for you.”

 
          
Wat
was entirely conquered by the grateful allusion to a friendly act of his own on
the previous day, and willingly related his conversation with
Douglas
, explaining as he went on. The gypsy
questioned and cross-questioned, and finished the interview by saying, with a
warning glance, “He’s right; you’d better not tell anyone you saw the
spirit—it’s a bad sign, and if it’s known, you’ll find it hard to get on in the
world. Now here’s your money; catch it, and then IT1 tell you my story.”

 
          
The
coin came ringing through the
air,
and fell into the
road not far from Wat’s feet. He ran to pick it up, and when he turned to thank
the man, he was gone as silently and suddenly as he had come. The lad stared in
amaze, listened, searched, but no gypsy was heard or seen, and poor bewildered
Wat scampered home as fast as his legs could carry him, believing that he was
bewitched.

 
          
That
afternoon
Douglas
wrote a long letter, directed it to “M.
Antoine Dupres, Rue Saint Honore, Paris,” and was about to seal it when a
servant came to tell him that Mrs. Vane desired her adieus, as she was leaving
for town by the next train. Anxious to atone for his seeming negligence, not
having seen her that day, and therefore being in ignorance of her intended
departure, he hastily dropped a splash of wax on his important letter, and
leaving it upon his table hurried down to see her off. She was already in the
hall,
having bidden Lady Lennox farewell in her boudoir—for
her ladyship was too poorly to come down. Harry was giving directions about the
baggage, and Gabrielle chattering her adieus in the housekeeper’s room.

 
          
“My
dear Mrs. Vane, forgive my selfish sorrow; when you are settled in town let me
come to thank you for the great kindness you have shown me through these dark
days.”

 
          
Douglas
spoke warmly; he pressed the hand she gave
him
in both his own,
and gratitude flushed his pale
face with a glow that restored all its lost comeliness.

 
          
Mrs.
Vane dropped her beautiful eyes, and answered, with a slight quiver of the lips
that tried to smile, “I have suffered for you, if not with you, and I need no
thanks for the sympathy that was involuntary. Here is my address; come to me
when you will, and be assured that you will always find a welcome.”

 
          
He
led her to the carriage, assiduously arranging all things for her comfort, and
when she waved a last adieu, he seized the little hand, regardless of Harry,
who accompanied her, and kissed it warmly as he said, “I shall not forget, and
shall see you soon.”

 
          
The
carriage rolled away, and
Douglas
watched it, saying to the groom, who was just turning stableward, “Does not Jitomar
go with his mistress?”

 
          
“No,
sir; he’s to take some plants my lady gave Mrs. Vane, so he’s to go in a later
train—and good riddance to the sly devil, I say,” added the man, under his
breath, as he walked off.

 
          
Had
he turned his head a moment afterward, he would have been amazed at the strange
behavior of the gentleman he had left behind him. Happening to glance downward,
Douglas gave a start, stooped suddenly, examining something on the ground, and
as he rose, struck his hands together like one in great perplexity or
exultation, while his face assumed a singular expression of mingled wonder,
pain, and triumph. Well it might, for there, clearly defined in the moist
earth, was an exact counterpart of the footprint by the pool.

ON THE TRAIL

 
          
THE
packet from Havre was just in. It had been a stormy trip, and all the
passengers hurried ashore, as if glad to touch English soil. Two gentlemen
lingered a moment, before they separated to different quarters of the city. One
was a stout, gray-haired Frenchman, perfectly dressed, blandly courteous, and
vivaciously grateful, as he held the others hand, and poured out a stream of
compliments, invitations, and thanks. The younger man was evidently a Spaniard,
slight, dark, and dignified, with melancholy eyes, a bronzed, bearded face, and
a mien as cool and composed as if he had just emerged from some elegant
retreat, instead of the cabin of an overcrowded packet, whence he had been
tossing about all day.

 
          
“It
is a thousand pities we do not go on together; but remember I am under many
obligations to Senor Arguelles, and I implore that I may be allowed to return
them during my stay. I believe you have my card; now au revoir, and my
respectful compliments to Madame your friend.”

           
“Adieu, Monsieur Dupont—we shall
meet again.”

 
          
The
Frenchman waved his hand, the Spaniard raised his hat, and they separated.

 
          
Antoine
Dupres, for it was
he,
drove at once to a certain
hotel, asked for M. Douglas, sent up his name, and was at once heartily
welcomed by his friend, with whom he sat in deep consultation till very late.

 
          
Arguelles
was set down at the door of a lodging house in a quiet street, and admitting
himself by means of a latchkey, he went noiselessly upstairs and looked about
him. The scene was certainly a charming one, though somewhat peculiar. A bright
fire filled the room with its ruddy light; several lamps added their milder
shine; and the chamber was a flush of color, for carpet, chairs, and tables
were strewn with brilliant costumes. Wreaths of artificial flowers strewed the
floor; mock jewels glittered here and there; a lyre, a silver bow and arrow, a
slender wand of many colors, a pair of ebony castanets; a gaily decorated
tambourine lay on the couch; little hats, caps, bodices, jackets, skirts,
boots, slippers, and clouds of rosy, blue, white, and green tulle were heaped,
hung, and scattered everywhere.
In the midst of this gay
confusion stood a figure in perfect keeping with it.
A slight blooming
girl of eighteen she looked, evidently an actress—for though busily sorting the
contents of two chests that stood before her, she was en costume, as if she had
been reviewing her wardrobe, and had forgotten to take off the various parts of
different suits which she had tried on. A jaunty hat of black velvet, turned up
with a white plume, was stuck askew on her blond head; scarlet boots with brass
heels adorned her feet; a short white satin skirt was oddly contrasted with a
blue-and-silver hussar jacket; and a flame-colored silk domino completed her piquant
array.

 
          
A
smile of tenderest joy and admiration lighted up the man's dark features, as he
leaned in, watching the pretty creature purse up her lips and bend her brows,
in deep consideration, over a faded pink-and-black Spanish dress, just unfolded.

 
          
“Madame,
it is I.”

 
          
He
closed the door behind him, as he spoke, and advanced with open arms.

 
          
The
girl dropped the garment she held, turned sharply, and surveyed the newcomer
with little surprise but much amazement, for suddenly clapping her
hands,
she broke into a peal of laughter, exclaiming, as she
examined him, “My faith! You are superb. I admire you thus; the melancholy is
becoming, the beard ravishing, and the tout ensemble beyond my hopes. I salute
you, Senor Arguelles.”

 
          
“Come,
then, and embrace me.
So long away, and no tenderer welcome
than this, my heart?”

 
          
She
shrugged her white shoulders, and submitted to be drawn close, kissed, and
caressed with ardor, by her husband or lover, asking a multitude of questions
the while, and smoothing the petals of a crumpled camellia, quite unmoved by
the tender names showered upon her, the almost fierce affection that glowed in
her companions face, and lavished itself in demonstrations of delight at
regaining her.

 
          
“But
tell me, darling, why do I find you at such work? Is it wise or needful?”

           
“It is pleasant, and I please myself
now. I have almost lived here since you have been gone. At my aunt’s in the
country, they say, at the other place. The rooms there were dull; no one came,
and at last I ran away. Once here, the old mania returned; I was mad for the
gay life I love, and while I waited, I played at carnival.”

 
          
“Were
you anxious for my return? Did you miss me, carina?”

 
          
“That
I did, for I needed you, my Juan,” she answered, with a laugh. “Do you know we
must have money? I am deciding which of my properties I will sell, though it
breaks my heart to part with them. Mother Ursule will dispose of them, and as I
shall never want them again, they must go.”

 
          
“Why
will you never need them again? There may be no course but that in the end.”

 
          
“My
husband will never let me dance, except for my own pleasure,” she answered,
dropping a half-humble, half-mocking curtsy, and glancing at him with a
searching look.

 
          
Juan
eyed her gloomily, as she waltzed away
clinking
her
brass heels together, and humming a gay measure in time to her graceful steps.
He shook his head, threw himself wearily into a chair, and leaned his forehead
upon his hand. The girl watched him over her shoulder, paused, shook off her
jaunty hat, dropped the red domino, and stealing toward him, perched herself
upon his knee, peering under his hand with a captivating air of penitence, as
she laid her arm about his neck and whispered in his ear, “I meant you, mon
ami, and I will keep my promise by-and-by when all is as we would have it.
Believe me, and be gay again, because I do not love you when you are grim and
grave, like an Englishman.”

 
          
“Do
you ever love me, my—”

 
          
She
stopped his mouth with a kiss, and answered, as she smoothed the crisp black curls
off his forehead, “You shall see how well I love you, by-and-by.”

 
          
“Ah,
it is always ‘by-and-by,’ never now. I have a feeling that I never shall
possess you, even if my long service ends this year. You are so cold, so
treacherous,
I have no faith in you, though I adore you, and
shall until I die.”

 
          
“Have
I ever broken the promise made so long ago?”

 
          
“You
dare not; you know the penalty of treason is death.”

 
          
“Death for you, not for me.
I am wiser now; I do not fear
you, but I need you, and at last I think—I love you.”

 
          
As
she added the last words, the black frown that had darkened the man’s face
lifted suddenly, and the expression of intense devotion returned to make it
beautiful. He turned that other face upward, scanned it with those magnificent
eyes of his, now soft and tender, and answered with a sigh, “It would be death
to me to find that after all I have suffered, done, and desired for you, there
was no reward but falsehood and base ingratitude. It must not be so; and in
that thought I will find patience to work on for one whom I try to love for
your sake.”

 
          
A
momentary expression of infinite love and longing touched the girls face, and
filled her eyes with tenderness. But it passed, and settling herself more
comfortably, she asked, “How have you prospered since you wrote? Well, I know,
else I should have read it at the first glance.”
“Beyond my
hopes.
We crossed together; we are friends already, and shall meet as
such. It was an inspiration of yours, and has worked like a charm. Monsieur
from the country has not yet appeared, has he?” “He called when I was out. I
did not regret it, for I feel safer when you are by, and it is as well to whet
his appetite by absence.”

 
          
“How
is this to end?
As we last planned?”

 
          
“Yes; but not yet.
We must be sure, and that we only can be
through
himself
. Leave it to me. I know him well, and
he is willing to be led, I fancy. Now I shall feed you, for it occurs to me
that you are fasting. See, I am ready for you.”

 
          
She
left him and ran to and fro, preparing a dainty little supper, but on her lips
still lay a smile of conscious power, and in the eyes that followed her still
lurked a glance of disquiet and distrust.

 
          
Mrs.
Vane was driving in the park—not in her own carriage, for she kept none—but
having won the hearts of several amiable dowagers, their equipages were always
at her command. In one of the most elegant of these she was reclining,
apparently unconscious of the many glances of curiosity and admiration fixed
upon the lovely face enshrined in the little black tulle bonnet, with its frill
of transparent lace to heighten her blond beauty.

 
          
Two
gentlemen were entering the great gate as she passed by for another turn; one
of them pronounced her name, and sprang forward. She recognized the voice,
ordered the carriage to stop, and when
Douglas
came up, held out her hand to him, with a
smile of welcome. He touched it, expressed his pleasure of meeting her, and
added, seeing her glance at his companion, “Permit me to present my friend, M.
Dupont, just from
Paris
, and happy in so soon meeting a countrywoman.” Dupres executed a superb
bow, and made his compliments in his mother tongue.

 
          
Mrs.
Vane listened with an air of pretty perplexity, and answered, in English, while
she gave him her most beaming look, “Monsieur must pardon me that I have
forgotten my native language so sadly that I dare not venture to use it in his
presence. My youth was spent in
Spain
, and since then
England
or
India
has been my home; but to this dear country
I must cordially welcome any friend of M. Douglas.”

 
          
As
she turned to Earl, and listened to his tidings of Lady Lennox, Dupres fixed a
searching glance upon her. His keen eyes ran over her from head to foot, and
nothing seemed to escape his scrutiny. Her figure was concealed by a great
mantle of black velvet; her hair waved plainly away under her bonnet; the heavy
folds of her dress flowed over her feet; and her delicately gloved hands lay
half buried in the deep lace of her handkerchief. She was very pale, her eyes
were languid, her lips sad even in smiling, and her voice had lost its
lightsome ring. She looked older, graver, more pensive and dignified than when
Douglas
last saw her.

 
          
“You
have been ill, I fear?” he said, regarding her with visible solicitude, while
his friend looked down, yet marked every word she uttered.

 
          
“Yes,
quite ill; I have been through so much in the last month that I can hardly help
betraying it in my countenance. A heavy cold, with fever, has kept me a
prisoner till these few days past, when I have driven out, being still too
feeble to walk.”

 
          
Earl
was about to express his sorrow when Dupres cried, “Behold! It is he—the friend
who so assuaged the tortures of that tempestuous passage. Let me reward him by
a word from M. Douglas, and a smile from Madame. Is it permitted?”

 
          
Scarcely
waiting for an assent, the vivacious gentleman darted forward and arrested the
progress of a gentleman who was bending at the moment to adjust his stirrup. A
few hasty words and emphatic gestures prepared the stranger for the interview,
and with the courtesy of a Spaniard, he dismounted and advanced bareheaded, to
be presented to Madame. It was Arguelles; and even
Douglas
was struck with his peculiar beauty, and
the native pride that was but half veiled by the Southern softness of his
manners. He spoke English well, but when Mrs. Vane addressed him in Spanish, he
answered with a flash of pleasure that proved how grateful to him was the sound
of his own melodious tongue.