Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (13 page)

 
          
Too
well-bred to continue the conversation in a language which excluded the others,
Mrs. Vane soon broke up the party by inviting Douglas and his friend to call
upon her that evening, adding, with a glance toward the Spaniard, “It will
gratify me to extend the hospitalities of an English home to Senor Arguelles,
if he is a stranger here, and to enjoy again the familiar sound of the language
which is dearer to me than my own.”

 
          
Three
hats were lifted, and three grateful gentlemen expressed their thanks with
smiles of satisfaction; then the carriage rolled on, the senor galloped off,
looking very like some knightly figure from a romance, and Douglas turned to
his companion with an eager “Tell me, is it she?”

 
          
“No;
Virginie would be but
one-and-twenty,
and this woman
must be thirty if she is a day, ungallant that I am to say so of the charming
creature.”

 
          
“You
have not seen her to advantage, Antoine. Wait till you meet her again tonight
in full toilet, and then pronounce. She has been ill; even I perceive the great
change this short time has wrought, for we parted only ten days ago,” said
Douglas
, disappointed, yet not convinced.

 
          
“It
is well; we will go; I will study her, and if it be that lovely devil, we will
cast her out, and so avenge the past.”

 
          
At
nine oclock, a cab left
Douglas
at
the door of a handsome house in a
West End
square. A servant in livery admitted him, and passing up one flight of stairs,
richly carpeted, softly lighted, and decorated with flowers, he entered a wide
doorway, hung with curtains of blue damask, and found
himself
in a charming room. Directly opposite hung a portrait of Colonel Vane, a
handsome, soldierly man, with such a smile upon his painted lips that his
friend involuntarily smiled in answer and advanced as if to greet him.

 
          
“Would
that he
were
here to welcome you.”

 
          
The
voice was at his side, and there stood Mrs. Vane. But not the woman whom he met
in Lady Lennox's drawing room; that was a young and blooming creature, festally
arrayed—this a pale, sad-eyed widow, in her weeds. Never, surely, had weeds
been more becoming, for the black dress, in spite of its nunlike simplicity,
had an air of elegance that many a balldress lacks, and the widow's cap was a
mere froth of tulle, encircling the fair face, and concealing all the hair but
two plain bands upon the forehead. Not an ornament was visible but a tiny pearl
brooch which Douglas himself had given his friend long ago, and a wedding ring
upon the hand that once had worn the opal also. She, too, was looking upward
toward the picture, and for an instant a curious pause fell between them.

 
          
The
apartment was an entire contrast to the gay and brilliant drawing rooms he had
been accustomed to see. Softly lighted by the pale flame of antique lamps, the
eye was relieved from the glare of gas, while the graceful blending of blue and
silver, in furniture, hangings, and decorations, pleased one as a change from
the more garish colors so much in vogue. A few rare pictures leaned from the
walls; several statues stood cool and still in remote recesses; from the
curtained entrance of another door was blown the odorous breath of flowers; and
the rustle of leaves, the drip of falling water, betrayed the existence of a
conservatory close at hand.

 
          
“No
wonder you were glad to leave the country, for a home like this,” said
Douglas
, as she paused.

 
          
“Yes,
it is pleasant to be here; but I should tell you that it is not my own. My kind
friend Lady Leigh is in
Rome
for the winter, and knowing that I was a homeless little creature, she
begged me to stay here, and keep both servants and house in order till she came
again. I was very grateful, for I dread the loneliness of lodgings, and having
arranged matters to suit my taste, I shall nestle here till spring tempts me to
the hills again.”

 
          
She
spoke quite simply, and seemed as thankful for kindness as a solitary child. Despite
his suspicions, and all the causes for distrust- nay, even hatred, if his
belief was true—
Douglas
could not resist the wish that she might be
proved innocent, and somewhere find the safe home her youth and beauty needed.
So potent was the fascination of her presence that when with her his doubts
seemed unfounded, and so great was the confusion into which his mind was thrown
by these conflicting impressions that his native composure quite deserted him
at times.

 
          
It
did so then, for, leaning nearer, as they sat together on the couch, he asked
almost abruptly, “Why do I find you so changed, in all respects, that I
scarcely recognize my friend just now?”

 
          
“You
mean this?” and she touched her dress. “As you have honored me with the name of
friend, I will speak frankly, and explain my seeming caprice. At the desire of
Lady Lennox, I laid aside my weeds, and found that I could be a gay young girl
again. But with that discovery came another, which made me regret the change,
and resolve to return to my sad garb.”

 
          
“You
mean that you found that the change made you too beautiful for George’s peace?
Poor lad—I knew his secret, and now I understand your sacrifice,” Earl said, as
she paused, too delicate to betray her young lover, who had asked and been
denied.

 
          
She
colored beautifully, and sat silent; but
Douglas
was possessed by an irresistible desire to
probe her heart as deeply as he dared, and quite unconscious that interest lent
his voice and manner
an unusual
warmth, he asked,
thinking only of poor George, “Was it not possible to spare both yourself and
him? You see I use a friend’s privilege to the utmost.”

           
She still looked down, and the color
deepened visibly in her smooth cheek as she replied, “It was not possible, nor
will it ever be, for him.” “You have not vowed yourself to an eternal
widowhood, I trust?” She looked up suddenly, as if to rebuke the persistent
questioner, but something in his eager face changed her own expression of
displeasure into one of half-concealed confusion.

 
          
“No,
it is so sweet to be beloved that I have not the courage to relinquish the hope
of retasting the happiness so quickly snatched from me before.”

 
          
Douglas
rose suddenly, and paced down the room, as
if attracted by a balmy gust that just then came floating in. But in truth he
fled from the siren by his side, for despite the bitter past, the late loss,
the present distrust, something softer than pity, warmer than regard, seemed
creeping into his heart, and the sight of the beautiful blushing face made his
own cheek burn with a glow such as his love for Diana had never kindled.
Indignant at his own weakness, he paused halfway down the long room, wheeled
about, and came back, saying, with his accustomed tone of command disguised by
a touch of pity, “Come and do the honors of your little paradise. I am restless
tonight, and the splash of that fountain has a soothing sound that tempts me to
draw nearer.”

 
          
She
went with him, and standing by the fountain’s brim talked tranquilly of many
things, till the sound of voices caused them to look toward the drawing room.
Two gentlemen were evidently coming to join them, and Earl said with a smile,
“You have not asked why I came alone; yet your invitation included Arguelles
and Dupont.”

 
          
Again
the blush rose to her cheek, and she answered hastily, as she advanced to meet
her guests, “I forgot them, now I must atone for my rudeness.”

 
          
Down
the green vista came the gentlemen—the stout Frenchman tripping on before, the
dark Spaniard walking behind, with a dignity of bearing that made his companion’s
gait more ludicrous by comparison. Compliments were exchanged, and then, as the
guests expressed a desire to linger in the charming spot, Mrs. Vane led them
on, doing the honors with her accustomed grace.

 
          
Busied
in translating the names of remarkable plants into Spanish for Arguelles, they
were somewhat in advance of the other pair; and after a sharp glance or two at
Douglas
, Dupres paused behind a young orange tree,
saying, in a low whisper, “You are going fast, Earl. Finish this business soon,
or it will be too late for anything but flight.”

 
          
“No
fear; but what can l do? I protest I never was so bewildered in my life. Help
me, for heaven's sake, and do it at once!” replied
Douglas
, with a troubled and excited air.

 
          
“Chut!
You English have no idea of finesse; you bungle
sadly. See, now, how smoothly I will discover all I wish to know.” Then aloud,
as he moved on, “I assure you,
mon
ami, it is an
orange, not a lemon tree. Madame shall decide the point, and award me yonder
fine flower if I am right.”

 
          
“Monsieur
is correct, and here is the prize.”

 
          
As
she spoke, Mrs. Vane lifted her hand to break the flower which grew just above
her. As she stretched her arm upward, her sleeve slipped back, and on her white
wrist shone the wide bracelet once attached to the opal ring. As if annoyed by
its exposure, she shook down her sleeve with a quick gesture, and before either
gentleman could assist her, she stepped on a low seat, gathered the azalea, and
turned to descend. Her motion was sudden, the seat frail; it broke as she
turned, and she would have fallen, had not Arguelles sprung forward and caught
her hands. She recovered herself instantly, and apologizing for her
awkwardness, presented the flower with a playful speech. To Earls great
surprise, Dupres received it without his usual flow of compliments, and bowing,
silently settled it in his buttonhole, with such a curious expression that his
friend fancied he had made some unexpected discovery. He had— but not what
Douglas
imagined, as he lifted his brows inquiringly
when Mrs. Vane and her escort walked on.

 
          
“Hush!”
breathed Dupres in answer. “Ask her where Jitomar is, in some careless way.”

 
          
“Why?”
asked Earl, recollecting the man for the first time.

 
          
But
his question received no reply, and the entrance of a servant with refreshments
offered the desired pretext for the inquiry.

 
          
“Where
is your handsome Jitomar? His Oriental face and costume would give the
finishing touch to this Eastern garden of palms and lotus flowers,” said
Douglas
, as he offered his hostess a glass of wine,
when they paused at a rustic table by the fountain.

 
          
“Poor
Jitomar—I have lost him!” she replied.

 
          
“Dead?” exclaimed Earl.

 
          
“Oh,
no; and I should have said happy Jitomar, for he is on his way home to his own
palms and lotus flowers. He dreaded another winter here so much that when a
good opportunity offered for his return, I let him go, and have missed him
sadly ever since—for he was a faithful servant to me.”

 
          
“Let
us drink the health of the good and faithful servant, and wish him a prosperous
voyage to the torrid land where he belongs,” cried Dupres, as he touched his
glass to that of Arguelles, who looked somewhat bewildered both by the odd name
and the new ceremony.

 
          
By
some mishap, as Dupres turned to replace his glass upon the table, it slipped
from his hand and fell into the fountain, with a splash that caused a little
wave to break over the basin’s edge, and wet Mrs. Vane’s foot with an
unexpected bath.

 
          
“Great heavens—what carelessness!
A thousand pardons!
Madame, permit me to repair the damage, although it is too great an honor for
me, maladroit that I am,” exclaimed the Frenchman, with a gesture of despair.