by Bret Harte
TWO AMERICANS
Perhaps if there was anything important in the migration of the Maynardfamily to Europe it rested solely upon the singular fact that Mr.Maynard did not go there in the expectation of marrying his daughter toa nobleman. A Charleston merchant, whose house represented two honorablegenerations, had, thirty years ago, a certain self-respect which didnot require extraneous aid and foreign support, and it is exceedinglyprobable that his intention of spending a few years abroad had noulterior motive than pleasure seeking and the observation of manythings--principally of the past--which his own country did not possess.His future and that of his family lay in his own land, yet withpractical common sense he adjusted himself temporarily to his newsurroundings. In doing so, he had much to learn of others, and othershad something to learn of him; he found that the best people had ahigh simplicity equal to his own; he corrected their impressions that aSoutherner had more or less negro blood in his veins, and that, althougha slave owner, he did not necessarily represent an aristocracy. With adistinguishing dialect of which he was not ashamed, a frank familiarityof approach joined to an invincible courtesy of manner, which made evenhis republican "Sir" equal to the ordinary address to royalty, hewas always respected and seldom misunderstood. When he was--it wasunfortunate for those who misunderstood him. His type was as distinctiveand original as his cousin's, the Englishman, whom it was not thefashion then to imitate. So that, whether in the hotel of a capital,the Kursaal of a Spa, or the humbler pension of a Swiss village, he wasalways characteristic. Less so was his wife, who, with the chameleonquality of her transplanted countrywomen, was already Parisian indress; still less so his daughter, who had by this time absorbed thepeculiarities of her French, German, and Italian governesses. Yetneither had yet learned to evade their nationality--or apologize for it.
Mr. Maynard and his family remained for three years in Europe, his stayhaving been prolonged by political excitement in his own State ofSouth Carolina. Commerce is apt to knock the insularity out of people;distance from one's own distinctive locality gives a wider range to thevision, and the retired merchant foresaw ruin in his State's politics,and from the viewpoint of all Europe beheld instead of the usualcollection of individual States--his whole country. But the excitementincreasing, he was finally impelled to return in a faint hope ofdoing something to allay it, taking his wife with him, but leavinghis daughter at school in Paris. At about this time, however, a singlecannon shot fired at the national flag on Fort Sumter shook the wholecountry, reverberated even in Europe, sending some earnest hearts backto do battle for State or country, sending others less earnest intoinglorious exile, but, saddest of all! knocking over the school benchof a girl at the Paris pensionnat. For that shot had also sunk Maynard'sships at the Charleston wharves, scattered his piled Cotton balesawaiting shipment at the quays, and drove him, a ruined man, into the"Home Guard" against his better judgment. Helen Maynard, like a goodgirl, had implored her father to let her return and share his risks. Butthe answer was "to wait" until this nine days' madness of an uprisingwas over. That madness lasted six years, outlived Maynard, whose gray,misdoubting head bit the dust at Ball's Bluff; outlived his colorlesswidow, and left Kelly a penniless orphan.
Yet enough of her country was left in her to make her courageous andindependent of her past. They say that when she got the news she crieda little, and then laid the letter and what was left of her lastmonthly allowance in Madame Ablas' lap. Madame was devastated. "But you,impoverished and desolated angel, what of you?" "I shall get some ofit back," said the desolated angel with ingenuous candor, "for I speakbetter French and English than the other girls, and I shall teach THEMuntil I can get into the Conservatoire, for I have a voice. You yourselfhave told papa so." From such angelic directness there was no appeal.Madame Ablas had a heart,--more, she had a French manageress'sdiscriminating instinct. The American schoolgirl was installed in ateacher's desk; her bosom friends and fellow students became her pupils.To some of the richest, and they were mainly of her own country, shesold her smartest, latest dresses, jewels, and trinkets at a very goodfigure, and put the money away against the Conservatoire in the future.She worked hard, she endured patiently everything but commiseration."I'd have you know, Miss," she said to Miss de Laine, daughter of thefamous house of Musslin, de Laine & Co., of New York, "that whatever myposition HERE may be, it is not one to be patronized by a tapeseller'sdaughter. My case is not such a very 'sad one,' thank you, and I prefernot to be spoken of as having seen 'better days' by people who haven't.There! Don't rap your desk with your pencil when you speak to me, orI shall call out 'Cash!' before the whole class." So regrettable anexhibition of temper naturally alienated certain of her compatriots whowere unduly sensitive of their origin, and as they formed a considerablecolony who were then reveling in the dregs of the Empire and the lastorgies of a tottering court, eventually cost her her place. A republicanso aristocratic was not to be tolerated by the true-born Americans whopaid court to De Morny for the phosphorescent splendors of St. Cloudand the Tuileries, and Miss Helen lost their favor. But she had alreadysaved enough money for the Conservatoire and a little attic in a verytall house in a narrow street that trickled into the ceaseless flowof the Rue Lafayette. Here for four years she trotted backwardsand forwards regularly to work with the freshness of youth and theinflexible set purpose of maturity. Here, rain or shine, summer orwinter, in the mellow season when the large cafes expanded under thewhite sunshine into an overflow of little tables on the pavement, orwhen the red glow of the Brasserie shone through frosty panes on theturned-up collars of pinched Parisians who hurried by, she was always tobe seen.
Half Paris had looked into her clear, gray eyes and passed on; a smallerand not very youthful portion of Paris had turned and followed her withsmall advantage to itself and happily no fear to her. For even in heryoung womanhood she kept her child's loving knowledge of that greatcity; she even had an innocent camaraderie with street sweepers, kioskkeepers, and lemonade venders, and the sternness of conciergedommelted before her. In this wholesome, practical child's experience shenaturally avoided or overlooked what would not have interested a child,and so kept her freshness and a certain national shrewd simplicityinvincible. There is a story told of her girlhood that, one day playingin the Tuileries gardens, she was approached by a gentleman with a waxedmustache and a still more waxen cheek beneath his heavy-lidded eyes.There was an exchange of polite amenities.
"And your name, ma petite?"
"Helen," responded the young girl naively. "What's yours?"
"Ah," said the kind gentleman, gallantly pulling at his mustache, "ifyou are Helen I am Paris."
The young girl raised her clear eyes to his and said gravely, "I reckonyour majesty is FRANCE!"
She retained this childish fearlessness as the poor student of theConservatoire; went alone all over Paris with her maiden skirtsuntarnished by the gilded dust of the boulevards or the filth ofby-ways; knew all the best shops for her friends, and the cheapest forher own scant purchases; discovered breakfasts for a few sous with palesempstresses, whose sadness she understood, and reckless chorus girls,whose gayety she didn't; she knew where the earliest chestnut buds wereto be found in the Bois, when the slopes of the Buttes Chaumont weregreen, and which was the old woman who sold the cheapest flowers beforethe Madeleine. Alone and independent, she earned the affection ofMadame Bibelot, the concierge, and, what was more, her confidence. Heroutgoings and incomings were never questioned. The little American couldtake care of herself. Ah, if her son Jacques were only as reasonable!Miss Maynard might have made more friends had she cared; she might havejoined hands with the innocent and light-hearted poverty of the coterieof her own artistic compatriots, but something in her blood made herdistrust Bohemianism; her poverty was something to her too sacred forjest or companionship; her own artistic aim was too long and earnestfor mere temporary enthusiasms. She might have found friends in her ownprofession. Her professor opened the sacred doors of his family circleto the young American girl. She ap
preciated the delicacy, refinement,and cheerful equal responsibilities of that household, so widelydifferent from the accepted Anglo-Saxon belief, but there were certainrestrictions that rightly or wrongly galled her American habits ofgirlish freedom, and she resolutely tripped past the first etage four orfive flights higher to her attic, the free sky, and independence! Hereshe sometimes met another kind of independence in Monsieur Alphonse,aged twenty two, and she who ought to have been Madame Alphonse, agedseventeen, and they often exchanged greetings on the landing with greatrespect towards each other, and, oddly enough, no confusion or distrait.Later they even borrowed each other's matches without fear and withoutreproach, until one day Monsieur Alphonse's parents took him away,and the desolated soi-disant Madame Alphonse, in a cheerful burst ofconfidence, gave Helen her private opinion of monsieur, and from herseventeen years' experience warned the American infant of twenty againstpossible similar complications.
One day--it was near the examination for prizes, and her funds wererunning low--she was obliged to seek one of those humbler restaurantsshe knew of for her frugal breakfast. But she was not hungry, and aftera few mouthfuls left her meal unfinished as a young man entered and halfabstractedly took a seat at her table. She had already moved towardsthe comptoir to pay her few sous, when, chancing to look up in a mirrorwhich hung above the counter, reflecting the interior of the cafe, shesaw the stranger, after casting a hurried glance around him, removefrom her plate the broken roll and even the crumbs she had left, andas hurriedly sweep them into his pocket-handkerchief. There was nothingvery strange in this; she had seen something like it before in thesehumbler cafes,--it was a crib for the birds in the Tuileries Gardens,or the poor artist's substitute for rubber in correcting his crayondrawing! But there was a singular flushing of his handsome face in theact that stirred her with a strange pity, made her own cheek hot withsympathy, and compelled her to look at him more attentively. The backthat was turned towards her was broad-shouldered and symmetrical, andshowed a frame that seemed to require stronger nourishment than thesimple coffee and roll he had ordered and was devouring slowly. Hisclothes, well made though worn, fitted him in a smart, soldier-like way,and accentuated his decided military bearing. The singular use of hisleft hand in lifting his cup made her uneasy, until a slight movementrevealed the fact that his right sleeve was empty and pinned to hiscoat. He was one-armed. She turned her compassionate eyes aside, yetlingered to make a few purchases at the counter, as he paid his bill andwalked away. But she was surprised to see that he tendered the waiterthe unexampled gratuity of a sou. Perhaps he was some eccentricEnglishman; he certainly did not look like a Frenchman.
She had quite forgotten the incident, and in the afternoon had strolledwith a few fellow pupils into the galleries of the Louvre. It was"copying-day," and as her friends loitered around the easels of thedifferent students with the easy consciousness of being themselves"artists," she strolled on somewhat abstractedly before them. Her ownart was too serious to permit her much sympathy with another, and inthe chatter of her companions with the young painters a certain levitydisturbed her. Suddenly she stopped. She had reached a less frequentedroom; there was a single easel at one side, but the stool before it wasempty, and its late occupant was standing in a recess by the window,with his back towards her. He had drawn a silk handkerchief fromhis pocket. She recognized his square shoulders, she recognized thehandkerchief, and as he unrolled it she recognized the fragments of hermorning's breakfast as he began to eat them. It was the one-armed man.
She remained so motionless and breathless that he finished his scantmeal without noticing her, and even resumed his place before the easelwithout being aware of her presence. The noise of approaching feetgave a fresh impulse to her own, and she moved towards him. But he wasevidently accustomed to these interruptions, and worked on steadilywithout turning his head. As the other footsteps passed her she wasemboldened to take a position behind him and glance at his work. Itwas an architectural study of one of Canaletto's palaces. Even herinexperienced eyes were struck with its vigor and fidelity. But she wasalso conscious of a sense of disappointment. Why was he not--like theothers--copying one of the masterpieces? Becoming at last aware ofa motionless woman behind him, he rose, and with a slight gesture ofcourtesy and a half-hesitating "Vous verrez mieux la, mademoiselle,"moved to one side.
"Thank you," said Miss Maynard in English, "but I did not want todisturb you."
He glanced quickly at her face for the first time. "Ah, you areEnglish!" he said.
"No. I am American."
His face lightened. "So am I."
"I thought so," she said.
"From my bad French?"
"No. Because you did not look up to see if the woman you were polite towas old or young."
He smiled. "And you, mademoiselle,--you did not murmur a compliment tothe copy over the artist's back."
She smiled, too, yet with a little pang over the bread. But she wasrelieved to see that he evidently had not recognized her. "You aremodest," she said; "you do not attempt masterpieces."
"Oh, no! The giants like Titian and Corregio must be served with bothhands. I have only one," he said half lightly, half sadly.
"But you have been a soldier," she said with quick intuition.
"Not much. Only during our war,--until I was compelled to handle nothinglarger than a palette knife. Then I came home to New York, and, as I wasno use there, I came here to study."
"I am from South Carolina," she said quietly, with a rising color.
He put his palette down, and glanced at her black dress. "Yes," she wenton doggedly, "my father lost all his property, and was killed in battlewith the Northerners. I am an orphan,--a pupil of the Conservatoire." Itwas never her custom to allude to her family or her lost fortunes; sheknew not why she did it now, but something impelled her to rid her mindof it to him at once. Yet she was pained at his grave and pitying face.
"I am very sorry," he said simply. Then, after a pause, he added, witha gentle smile, "At all events you and I will not quarrel here under thewings of the French eagles that shelter us both."
"I only wanted to explain why I was alone in Paris," she said, a littleless aggressively.
He replied by unhooking his palette, which was ingeniously fastened by astrap over his shoulder under the missing arm, and opened a portfolio ofsketches at his side. "Perhaps they may interest you more than thecopy, which I have attempted only to get at this man's method. They aresketches I have done here."
There was a buttress of Notre Dame, a black arch of the Pont Neuf, partof an old courtyard in the Faubourg St. Germain,--all very fresh andstriking. Yet, with the recollection of his poverty in her mind, shecould not help saying, "But if you copied one of those masterpieces, youknow you could sell it. There is always a demand for that work."
"Yes," he replied, "but these help me in my line, which is architecturalstudy. It is, perhaps, not very ambitious," he added thoughtfully,"but," brightening up again, "I sell these sketches, too. They are quitemarketable, I assure you."
Helen's heart sank again. She remembered now to have seen suchsketches--she doubted not they were his--in the cheap shops in theRue Poissoniere, ticketed at a few francs each. She was silent as hepatiently turned them over. Suddenly she uttered a little cry.
He had just uncovered a little sketch of what seemed at first sight onlya confused cluster of roof tops, dormer windows, and chimneys, levelwith the sky-line. But it was bathed in the white sunshine of Paris,against the blue sky she knew so well. There, too, were the grittycrystals and rust of the tiles, the red, brown, and greenish mossesof the gutters, and lower down the more vivid colors of geraniums andpansies in flower-pots under the white dimity curtains which hid thesmall panes of garret windows; yet every sordid detail touched andtransfigured with the poetry and romance of youth and genius.
"You have seen this?" she said.
"Yes; it is a study from my window. One must go high for such effects.You would be surprised if you could see how differen
t the air andsunshine"--
"No," she interrupted gently, "I HAVE seen it."
"You?" he repeated, gazing at her curiously.
Helen ran the point of her slim finger along the sketch until itreached a tiny dormer window in the left-hand corner, half-hidden by anirregular chimney-stack. The curtains were closely drawn. Keeping herfinger upon the spot, she said, interrogatively, "And you saw THATwindow?"
"Yes, quite plainly. I remember it was always open, and the room seemedempty from early morning to evening, when the curtains were drawn."
"It is my room," she said simply.
Their eyes met with this sudden confession of their equal poverty. "Andmine," he said gayly, "from which this view was taken, is in the rearand still higher up on the other street."
They both laughed as if some singular restraint had been removed; Heleneven forgot the incident of the bread in her relief. Then they comparednotes of their experiences, of their different concierges, of theirhousekeeping, of the cheap stores and the cheaper restaurants ofParis,--except one. She told him her name, and learned that his wasPhilip, or, if she pleased, Major Ostrander. Suddenly glancing at hercompanions, who were ostentatiously lingering at a little distance,she became conscious for the first time that she was talking quiteconfidentially to a very handsome man, and for a brief moment wished,she knew not why, that he had been plainer. This momentary restraint wasaccented by the entrance of a lady and gentleman, rather distingue indress and bearing, who had stopped before them, and were eyingequally the artist, his work, and his companion with somewhat insolentcuriosity. Helen felt herself stiffening; her companion drew himself upwith soldierly rigidity. For a moment it seemed as if, under that banalinfluence, they would part with ceremonious continental politeness, butsuddenly their hands met in a national handshake, and with a frank smilethey separated.
Helen rejoined her companions.
"So you have made a conquest of the recently acquired but unknownGreek statue?" said Mademoiselle Renee lightly. "You should take upa subscription to restore his arm, ma petite, if there is a modernsculptor who can do it. You might suggest it to the two Russiancognoscenti, who have been hovering around him as if they wanted to buyhim as well as his work. Madame La Princesse is rich enough to indulgeher artistic taste."
"It is a countryman of mine," said Helen simply.
"He certainly does not speak French," said mademoiselle mischievously.
"Nor think it," responded Helen with equal vivacity. Nevertheless, shewished she had seen him alone.
She thought nothing more of him that day in her finishing exercises. Butthe next morning as she went to open her window after dressing, shedrew back with a new consciousness, and then, making a peephole in thecurtain, looked over the opposite roofs. She had seen them many timesbefore, but now they had acquired a new picturesqueness, which as herview was, of course, the reverse of the poor painter's sketch, must havebeen a transfigured memory of her own. Then she glanced curiously alongthe line of windows level with hers. All these, however, with theiroccasional revelations of the menage behind them, were also familiar toher, but now she began to wonder which was his. A singular instinct atlast impelled her to lift her eyes. Higher in the corner house, and sonear the roof that it scarcely seemed possible for a grown man to standupright behind it, was an oeil de boeuf looking down upon the otherroofs, and framed in that circular opening like a vignette was thehandsome face of Major Ostrander. His eyes seemed to be turned towardsher window. Her first impulse was to open it and recognize him with afriendly nod. But an odd mingling of mischief and shyness made her turnaway quickly.
Nevertheless, she met him the next morning walking slowly so near herhouse that their encounter might have been scarcely accidental on hispart. She walked with him as far as the Conservatoire. In the lightof the open street she thought he looked pale and hollow-cheeked;she wondered if it was from his enforced frugality, and was trying toconceive some elaborate plan of obliging him to accept her hospitalityat least for a single meal, when he said:--
"I think you have brought me luck, Miss Maynard."
Helen opened her eyes wonderingly.
"The two Russian connoisseurs who stared at us so rudely were pleased,however, to also stare at my work. They offered me a fabulous sum forone or two of my sketches. It didn't seem to me quite the square thingto old Favel the picture-dealer, whom I had forced to take a lot at onefifteenth the price, so I simply referred them to him."
"No!" said Miss Helen indignantly; "you were not so foolish?"
Ostrander laughed.
"I'm afraid what you call my folly didn't avail, for they wanted whatthey saw in my portfolio."
"Of course," said Helen. "Why, that sketch of the housetop alone wasworth a hundred times more than what you"--She stopped; she did not liketo reveal what he got for his pictures, and added, "more than what anyof those usurers would give."
"I am glad you think so well of it, for I do not mean to sell it," hesaid simply, yet with a significance that kept her silent.
She did not see him again for several days. The preparation for herexamination left her no time, and her earnest concentration in her workfully preoccupied her thoughts. She was surprised, but not disturbed, onthe day of the awards to see him among the audience of anxious parentsand relations. Miss Helen Maynard did not get the first prize, noryet the second; an accessit was her only award. She did not know untilafterwards that this had long been a foregone conclusion of her teacherson account of some intrinsic defect in her voice. She did not know untillong afterwards that the handsome painter's nervousness on that occasionhad attracted even the sympathy of some of those who were near him. Forshe herself had been calm and collected. No one else knew how crushingwas the blow which shattered her hopes and made her three years of laborand privation a useless struggle. Yet though no longer a pupil she couldstill teach; her master had found her a small patronage that saved herfrom destitution. That night she circled up quite cheerfully in herusual swallow flight to her nest under the eaves, and even twittered onthe landing a little over the condolences of the concierge--who knew,mon Dieu! what a beast the director of the Conservatoire was and how hecould be bribed; but when at last her brown head sank on her pillow shecried--just a little.
But what was all this to that next morning--the glorious spring morningwhich bathed all the roofs of Paris with warmth and hope, rekindlingenthusiasm and ambition in the breast of youth, and gilding even muchof the sordid dirt below. It seemed quite natural that she should meetMajor Ostrander not many yards away as she sallied out. In that brightspring sunshine and the hopeful spring of their youth they even laughedat the previous day's disappointment. Ah! what a claque it was, afterall! For himself, he, Ostrander, would much rather see that satin-facedParisian girl who had got the prize smirking at the critics from theboards of the Grand Opera than his countrywoman! The Conservatoiresettled things for Paris, but Paris wasn't the world! America wouldcome to the fore yet in art of all kinds--there was a free academythere now--there should be a Conservatoire of its own. Of course, Parisschooling and Paris experience weren't to be despised in art; but, thankheaven! she had THAT, and no directors could take it from her! This andmuch more, until, comparing notes, they suddenly found that they wereboth free for that day. Why should they not take advantage of that rareweather and rarer opportunity to make a little suburban excursion? Butwhere? There was the Bois, but that was still Paris. Fontainebleau? Toofar; there were always artists sketching in the forest, and he wouldlike for that day to "sink the shop." Versailles? Ah, yes! Versailles!
Thither they went. It was not new to either of them. Ostrander knewit as an artist and as an American reader of that French historicromance--a reader who hurried over the sham intrigues of the Oeil deBoeuf, the sham pastorals of the Petit Trianon, and the sham heroics ofa shifty court, to get to Lafayette. Helen knew it as a child who haddodged these lessons from her patriotic father, but had enjoyed thewoods, the parks, the terraces, and particularly the restaurant at thepar
k gates. That day they took it like a boy and girl,--with the amused,omniscient tolerance of youth for a past so inferior to the present.Ostrander thought this gray-eyed, independent American-French girl farsuperior to the obsequious filles d'honneur, whose brocades had rustledthrough those quinquonces, and Helen vaguely realized the truth of herfellow pupil's mischievous criticism of her companion that day at theLouvre. Surely there was no classical statue here comparable to theone-armed soldier-painter!
All this was as yet free from either sentiment or passion, and was onlythe frank pride of friendship. But, oddly enough, their mere presenceand companionship seemed to excite in others that tenderness they hadnot yet felt themselves. Family groups watched the handsome pair intheir innocent confidences, and, with French exuberant recognition ofsentiment, thought them the incarnation of Love. Something intheir manifest equality of condition kept even the vainest andmost susceptible of spectators from attempted rivalry or cynicalinterruption. And when at last they dropped side by side on a sun-warmedstone bench on the terrace, and Helen, inclining her brown head towardsher companion, informed him of the difficulty she had experienced ingetting gumbo soup, rice and chicken, corn cakes, or any of her favoritehome dishes in Paris, an exhausted but gallant boulevardier rose from acontiguous bench, and, politely lifting his hat to the handsome couple,turned slowly away from what he believed were tender confidences hewould not permit himself to hear.
But the shadow of the trees began to lengthen, casting broad bars acrossthe alle, and the sun sank lower to the level of their eyes. They werequite surprised, on looking around a few moments later, to discover thatthe gardens were quite deserted, and Ostrander, on consulting his watch,found that they had just lost a train which the other pleasure-seekershad evidently availed themselves of. No matter; there was another trainan hour later; they could still linger for a few moments in the briefsunset and then dine at the local restaurant before they left. They bothlaughed at their forgetfulness, and then, without knowing why, suddenlylapsed into silence. A faint wind blew in their faces and trilled thethin leaves above their heads. Nothing else moved. The long windowsof the palace in that sunset light seemed to glisten again with theincendiary fires of the Revolution, and then went out blankly andabruptly. The two companions felt that they possessed the terrace andall its memories as completely as the shadows who had lived and diedthere.
"I am so glad we have had this day together," said the painter, witha very conscious breaking of the silence, "for I am leaving Paristo-morrow."
Helen raised her eyes quickly to his.
"For a few days only," he continued. "My Russian customers--perhaps Iought to say my patrons--have given me a commission to make a study ofan old chateau which the princess lately bought."
A swift recollection of her fellow pupil's raillery regarding theprincess's possible attitude towards the painter came over her and gavea strange artificiality to her response.
"I suppose you will enjoy it very much," she said dryly.
"No," he returned with the frankness that she had lacked. "I'd muchrather stay in Paris, but," he added with a faint smile, "it's aquestion of money, and that is not to be despised. Yet I--I--somehowfeel that I am deserting you,--leaving you here all alone in Paris."
"I've been all alone for four years," she said, with a bitterness shehad never felt before, "and I suppose I'm accustomed to it."
Nevertheless she leaned a little forward, with her fawn-colored lashesdropped over her eyes, which were bent upon the ground and the pointof the parasol she was holding with her little gloved hands between herknees. He wondered why she did not look up; he did not know that itwas partly because there were tears in her eyes and partly for anotherreason. As she had leaned forward his arm had quite unconsciously movedalong the back of the bench where her shoulders had rested, and shecould not have resumed her position except in his half embrace.
He had not thought of it. He was lost in a greater abstraction. Thatinfinite tenderness,--far above a woman's,--the tenderness of strengthand manliness towards weakness and delicacy, the tenderness that looksdown and not up, was already possessing him. An instinct of protectiondrew him nearer this bowed but charming figure, and if he then noticedthat the shoulders were pretty, and the curves of the slim waistsymmetrical, it was rather with a feeling of timidity and ahalf-consciousness of unchivalrous thought. Yet why should he not try tokeep the brave and honest girl near him always? Why should he not claimthe right to protect her? Why should they not--they who were alone in astrange land--join their two lonely lives for mutual help and happiness?
A sudden perception of delicacy, the thought that he should havespoken before her failure at the Conservatoire had made her feel herhelplessness, brought a slight color to his cheek. Would it not seemto her that he was taking an unfair advantage of her misfortune? Yetit would be so easy now to slip a loving arm around her waist, while hecould work for her and protect her with the other. THE OTHER! His eyefell on his empty sleeve. Ah, he had forgotten that! He had but ONE arm!
He rose up abruptly,--so abruptly that Helen, rising too, almost touchedthe arm that was hurriedly withdrawn. Yet in that accidental contact,which sent a vague tremor through the young girl's frame, there wasstill time for him to have spoken. But he only said:--
"Perhaps we had better dine."
She assented quickly,--she knew not why,--with a feeling of relief. Theywalked very quietly and slowly towards the restaurant. Not a word oflove had been spoken; not even a glance of understanding had passedbetween them. Yet they both knew by some mysterious instinct that acrisis of their lives had come and gone, and that they never again couldbe to each other as they were but a brief moment ago. They talked verysensibly and gravely during their frugal meal; the previous spectatorof their confidences would have now thought them only simple friends andhave been as mistaken as before. They talked freely of their hopes andprospects,--all save one! They even spoke pleasantly of repeating theirlittle expedition after his return from the country, while in theirsecret hearts they had both resolved never to see each other again.Yet by that sign each knew that this was love, and were proud of eachother's pride, which kept it a secret.
The train was late, and it was past ten o'clock when they at lastappeared before the concierge of Helen's home. During their journey,and while passing though the crowds at the station and in the streets,Ostrander had exhibited a new and grave guardianship over the younggirl, and, on the first landing, after a scrutinizing and an almostfierce glance at one or two of Helen's odd fellow lodgers, he hadextended his protection so far as to accompany her up the four flightsto the landing of her apartment. Here he took leave of her with a gravecourtesy that half pained, half pleased her. She watched his broadshoulders and dangling sleeve as he went down the stairs, and thenquickly turned, entered her room, and locked the door. The smile hadfaded from her lips. Going to the window, she pressed her hot foreheadagainst the cool glass and looked out upon the stars nearly level withthe black roofs around her. She stood there some moments until anotherstar appeared higher up against the roof ridge, the star she was lookingfor. But here the glass pane before her eyes became presently dim withmoisture; she was obliged to rub it out with her handkerchief; yet,somehow, it soon became clouded, at which she turned sharply away andwent to bed.
But Miss Helen did not know that when she had looked after theretreating figure of her protector as he descended the stairs that nightthat he was really carrying away on those broad shoulders the charactershe had so laboriously gained during her four years' solitude. For whenshe came down the next morning the concierge bowed to her with an airof easy, cynical abstraction, the result of a long conversation with hiswife the night before. He had taken Helen's part with a kindlycynicism. "Ah! what would you--it was bound to come. The affair ofthe Conservatoire had settled that. The poor child could not starve;penniless, she could not marry. Only why consort with other swallowsunder the eaves when she could have had a gilded cage on the firstetage?" But girls were so foolish--in thei
r first affair; then it wasalways LOVE! The second time they were wiser. And this maimed warriorand painter was as poor as she. A compatriot, too; well, perhapsthat saved some scandal; one could never know what the Americans wereaccustomed to do. The first floor, which had been inclined to be civilto the young teacher, was more so, but less respectful; one or two youngmen were tentatively familiar until they looked in her gray eyes andremembered the broad shoulders of the painter. Oddly enough, onlyMademoiselle Fifine, of her own landing, exhibited any sympathy withher, and for the first time Helen was frightened. She did not show it,however, only she changed her lodgings the next day. But before she leftshe had a few moments' conversation with the concierge and an exchangeof a word or two with some of her fellow lodgers. I have already hintedthat the young lady had great precision of statement; she had a prettyturn for handling colloquial French and an incisive knowledge of Frenchcharacter. She left No. 34, Rue de Frivole, working itself into a whiterage, but utterly undecided as to her real character.
But all this and much more was presently blown away in the hot breaththat swept the boulevards at the outburst of the Franco-German War,and Miss Helen Maynard disappeared from Paris with many of her fellowcountrymen. The excitement reached even a quaint old chateau in Brittanywhere Major Ostrander was painting. The woman who was standing by hisside as he sat before his easel on the broad terrace observed that helooked disturbed.
"What matters?" she said gently. "You have progressed so well in yourwork that you can finish it elsewhere. I have no great desire to stayin France with a frontier garrisoned by troops while I have a villain Switzerland where you could still be my guest. Paris can teach younothing more, my friend; you have only to create now--and be famous."
"I must go to Paris," he said quietly. "I havefriends--countrymen--there, who may want me now."
"If you mean the young singer of the Rue de Frivole, you havecompromised her already. You can do her no good."
"Madame!"
The pretty face which he had been familiar with for the past six weekssomehow seemed to change its character. Under the mask of dazzling skinhe fancied he saw the high cheek-bones and square Tartar angle; thebrilliant eyes were even brighter than before, but they showed more ofthe white than he had ever seen in them.
Nevertheless she smiled, with an equally stony revelation of her whiteteeth, yet said, still gently, "Forgive me if I thought our friendshipjustified me in being frank,--perhaps too frank for my own good."
She stopped as if half expecting an interruption; but as he remainedlooking wonderingly at her, she bit her lip, and went on: "You havea great career before you. Those who help you must do so withoutentangling you; a chain of roses may be as impeding as lead. Until youare independent, you--who may in time compass everything yourself--willneed to be helped. You know," she added with a smile, "you have but onearm."
"In your kindness and appreciation you have made me forget it," hestammered. Yet he had a swift vision of the little bench at Versailleswhere he had NOT forgotten it, and as he glanced around the emptyterrace where they stood he was struck with a fateful resemblance to it.
"And I should not remind you now of it," she went on, "except to saythat money can always take its place. As in the fairy story, the princemust have a new arm made of gold." She stopped, and then suddenly comingcloser to him said, hurriedly and almost fiercely, "Can you not see thatI am advising you against my interests,--against myself? Go, then, toParis, and go quickly, before I change my mind. Only if you do not findyour friends there, remember you have always ONE here." Before he couldreply, or even understand that white face, she was gone.
He left for Paris that afternoon. He went directly to the Rue deFrivole; his old resolution to avoid Helen was blown to the winds inthe prospect of losing her utterly. But the concierge only knew thatmademoiselle had left a day or two after monsieur had accompanied herhome. And, pointedly, there was another gentleman who had inquiredeagerly--and bountifully as far as money went--for any trace ofthe young lady. It was a Russe. The concierge smiled to himself atOstrander's flushed cheek. It served this one-armed, conceited Americanposeur right. Mademoiselle was wiser in this SECOND affair.
Ostrander did not finish his picture. The princess sent him a cheque,which he coldly returned. Nevertheless he had acquired through hisRussian patronage a local fame which stood him well with the picturedealers,--in spite of the excitement of the war. But his heart was nolonger in his work; a fever of unrest seized him, which at another timemight have wasted itself in mere dissipation. Some of his fellow artistshad already gone into the army. After the first great reverses heoffered his one arm and his military experience to that Paris whichhad given him a home. The old fighting instinct returned to him with acertain desperation he had never known before. In the sorties fromParis the one-armed American became famous, until a few days before thecapitulation, when he was struck down by a bullet through the lung, andleft in a temporary hospital. Here in the whirl and terror of Communedays he was forgotten, and when Paris revived under the republic he haddisappeared as completely as his compatriot Helen.
But Miss Helen Maynard had been only obscured and not extinguished. Atthe first outbreak of hostilities a few Americans had still kept giddystate among the ruins of the tottering empire. A day or two after sheleft the Rue de Frivole she was invited by one of her wealthy formerschoolmates to assist with her voice and talent at one of theirextravagant entertainments. "You will understand, dear," said Miss deLaine, with ingenious delicacy, as she eyed her old comrade's well-worndress, "that Poppa expects to pay you professional prices, and it may bean opening for you among our other friends."
"I should not come otherwise, dear," said Miss Helen with equalfrankness. But she played and sang very charmingly to the fashionableassembly in the Champs Elysees,--so charmingly, indeed, that Miss deLaine patronizingly expatiated upon her worth and her better days inconfidence to some of the guests.
"A most deserving creature," said Miss de Laine to the dowager duchessof Soho, who was passing through Paris on her way to England; "you wouldhardly believe that Poppa knew her father when he was one of the richestmen in South Carolina."
"Your father seems to have been very fortunate," said the duchessquietly, "and so are YOU. Introduce me."
This not being exactly the reply that Miss de Laine expected, shemomentarily hesitated: but the duchess profited by it to walk over tothe piano and introduce herself. When she rose to go she invited Helento luncheon with her the next day. "Come early, my dear, and we'll havea long talk." Helen pointed out hesitatingly that she was practicallya guest of the de Laines. "Ah, well, that's true, my dear; then you maybring one of them with you."
Helen went to the luncheon, but was unaccompanied. She had a long talkwith the dowager. "I am not rich, my dear, like your friends, and cannotafford to pay ten napoleons for a song. Like you I have seen 'betterdays.' But this is no place for you, child, and if you can bear with anold woman's company for a while I think I can find you something todo." That evening Helen left for England with the duchess, a piece of"ingratitude, indelicacy, and shameless snobbery," which Miss de Lainewas never weary of dilating upon. "And to think I introduced her, thoughshe was a professional!"
*****
It was three years after. Paris, reviving under the republic, hadforgotten Helen and the American colony; and the American colony,emigrating to more congenial courts, had forgotten Paris.
It was a bleak day of English summer when Helen, standing by the windowof the breakfast-room at Hamley Court, and looking over the wonderfullawn, kept perennially green by humid English skies, heard thepractical, masculine voice of the duchess in her ear at the same momentthat she felt the gentle womanly touch of her hand on her shoulder.
"We are going to luncheon at Moreland Hall to-day, my dear."
"Why, we were there only last week!" said Helen.
"Undoubtedly," returned the duchess dryly, "and we may luncheon therenext week and the next following. And," she added, looking into he
rcompanion's gray eyes, "it rests with YOU to stay there if you choose."
Helen stared at her protector.
"My dear," continued the duchess, slipping her arm around Helen's waist,"Sir James has honored ME--as became my relations to YOU--with hisconfidences. As you haven't given me YOURS I suppose you have none, andthat I am telling you news when I say that Sir James wishes to marryyou."
The unmistakable astonishment in the girl's eye satisfied the duchesseven before her voice.
"But he scarcely knows me or anything of me!" said the young girlquickly.
"On the contrary, my dear, he knows EVERYTHING about you. I have beenparticular in telling him all I know--and some things even YOU don'tknow and couldn't tell him. For instance, that you are a very niceperson. Come, my dear, don't look so stupefied, or I shall really thinkthere's something in it that I don't know. It's not a laughing nor acrying matter yet--at present it's only luncheon again with a civilman who has three daughters and a place in the county. Don't make themistake, however, of refusing him before he offers--whatever you doafterwards."
"But"--stammered Helen.
"But--you are going to say that you don't love him and have neverthought of him as a husband," interrupted the duchess; "I read it inyour face,--and it's a very proper thing to say."
"It is so unexpected," urged Helen.
"Everything is unexpected from a man in these matters," said theduchess. "We women are the only ones that are prepared."
"But," persisted Helen, "if I don't want to marry at all?"
"I should say, then, that it is a sign that you ought; if you wereeager, my dear, I should certainly dissuade you." She paused, and thendrawing Helen closer to her, said, with a certain masculine tenderness,"As long as I live, dear, you know that you have a home here. But Iam an old woman living on the smallest of settlements. Death is asinevitable to me as marriage should be to you."
Nevertheless, they did not renew the conversation, and later receivedthe greetings of their host at Moreland Hall with a simplicity andfrankness that were, however, perfectly natural and unaffected in bothwomen. Sir James,--a tall, well-preserved man of middle age, withthe unmistakable bearing of long years of recognized and unchallengedposition,--however, exhibited on this occasion that slight consciousnessof weakness and susceptibility to ridicule which is apt to indicate theinvasion of the tender passion in the heart of the average Briton. Hisduty as host towards the elder woman of superior rank, however, coveredhis embarrassment, and for a moment left Helen quite undisturbed to gazeagain upon the treasures of the long drawing-room of Moreland Hall withwhich she was already familiar. There were the half-dozen old masters,whose respectability had been as recognized through centuries astheir owner's ancestors; there were the ancestors themselves,--wigged,ruffled, and white-handed, by Vandyke, Lely, Romney, and Gainsborough;there were the uniform, expressionless ancestresses in stiff brocadeor short-waisted, clinging draperies, but all possessing that brilliantcoloring which the gray skies outside lacked, and which seemed to havedeparted from the dresses of their descendants. The American girl hadsometimes speculated upon what might have been the appearance of thelime-tree walk, dotted with these gayly plumaged folk, and wondered ifthe tyranny of environment had at last subdued their brilliant colors.And a new feeling touched her. Like most of her countrywomen, she wasstrongly affected by the furniture of life; the thought that all thatshe saw there MIGHT BE HERS; that she might yet stand in succession tothese strange courtiers and stranger shepherdesses, and, like them, lookdown from the canvas upon the intruding foreigner, thrilled her for amoment with a half-proud, half-passive sense of yielding to what seemedto be her fate. A narrow-eyed, stiff-haired Dutch maid of honor beforewhom she was standing gazed at her with staring vacancy. Suddenlyshe started. Before the portrait upon a fanciful easel stood a smallelaborately framed sketch in oils. It was evidently some recentlyimported treasure. She had not seen it before. As she moved quicklyforward, she recognized at a glance that it was Ostrander's sketch fromthe Paris grenier.
The wall, the room, the park beyond, even the gray sky, seemed to fadeaway before her. She was standing once more at her attic window lookingacross the roofs and chimney stacks upward to the blue sky of Paris.Through a gap in the roofs she could see the chestnut-trees trilling inthe little square; she could hear the swallows twittering in the leadentroughs of the gutter before her; the call of the chocolate venderor the cry of a gamin floated up to her from the street below, orthe latest song of the cafe chantant was whistled by the blue-blousedworkman on the scaffolding hard by. The breath of Paris, of youth, ofblended work and play, of ambition, of joyous freedom, again filled herand mingled with the scent of the mignonette that used to stand on theold window-ledge.
"I am glad you like it. I have only just put it up."
It was the voice of Sir James--a voice that had regained a little ofits naturalness--a calm, even lazy English voice--confident from theexperience of years of respectful listeners. Yet it somehow jarred uponher nerves with its complacency and its utter incongruousness to herfeelings. Nevertheless, the impulse to know more about the sketch wasthe stronger.
"Do you mean you have just bought it?" asked Helen. "It's not English?"
"No," said Sir James, gratified with his companion's interest. "I boughtit in Paris just after the Commune."
"From the artist?" continued Helen, in a slightly constrained voice.
"No," said Sir James, "although I knew the poor chap well enough. Youcan easily see that he was once a painter of great promise. I ratherthink it was stolen from him while he was in hospital by thoseincendiary wretches. I recognized it, however, and bought for a fewfrancs from them what I would have paid HIM a thousand for."
"In hospital?" repeated Helen dazedly.
"Yes," said Sir James. "The fact is it was the ending of the usualBohemian artist's life. Though in this case the man was a realartist,--and I believe, by the way, was a countryman of yours."
"In hospital?" again repeated Helen. "Then he was poor?"
"Reckless, I should rather say; he threw himself into the fightingbefore Paris and was badly wounded. But it was all the result of theusual love affair--the girl, they say, ran off with the usual richerman. At all events, it ruined him for painting; he never did anythingworth having afterwards."
"And now?" said Helen in the same unmoved voice.
Sir James shrugged his shoulders. "He disappeared. Probably he'll turnup some day on the London pavement--with chalks. That sketch, by theway, was one that had always attracted me to his studio--though he neverwould part with it. I rather fancy, don't you know, that the girl hadsomething to do with it. It's a wonderfully realistic sketch, don't yousee; and I shouldn't wonder if it was the girl herself who lived behindone of those queer little windows in the roof there."
"She did live there," said Helen in a low voice.
Sir James uttered a vague laugh. Helen looked around her. The duchesshad quietly and unostentatiously passed into the library, and in fullview, though out of hearing, was examining, with her glass to her eye,some books upon the shelves.
"I mean," said Helen, in a perfectly clear voice, "that the young girldid NOT run away from the painter, and that he had neither the right northe cause to believe her faithless or attribute his misfortunes to her."She hesitated, not from any sense of her indiscretion, but to recoverfrom a momentary doubt if the girl were really her own self--but onlyfor a moment.
"Then you knew the painter, as I did?" he said in astonishment.
"Not as YOU did," responded Helen. She drew nearer the picture, and,pointing a slim finger to the canvas, said:--
"Do you see that small window with the mignonette?"
"Perfectly."
"That was MY room. His was opposite. He told me so when I first saw thesketch. I am the girl you speak of, for he knew no other, and I believehim to have been a truthful, honorable man."
"But what were you doing there? Surely you are joking?" said Sir James,with a forced smile.
"I was a poor pupil at the Conservatoire, and lived where I could affordto live."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"And the man was"--
"Major Ostrander was my friend. I even think I have a better right tocall him that than you had."
Sir James coughed slightly and grasped the lapel of his coat. "Ofcourse; I dare say; I had no idea of this, don't you know, when Ispoke." He looked around him as if to evade a scene. "Ah! suppose weask the duchess to look at the sketch; I don't think she's seen it." Hebegan to move in the direction of the library.
"She had better wait," said Helen quietly.
"For what?"
"Until"--hesitated Helen smilingly.
"Until? I am afraid I don't understand," said Sir James stiffly,coloring with a slight suspicion.
"Until you have APOLOGIZED."
"Of course," said Sir James, with a half-hysteric laugh. "I do. Youunderstand I only repeated a story that was told me, and had no idea ofconnecting YOU with it. I beg your pardon, I'm sure. I er--er--in fact,"he added suddenly, the embarrassed smile fading from his face as helooked at her fixedly, "I remember now it must have been the conciergeof the house, or the opposite one, who told me. He said it was a Russianwho carried off that young girl. Of course it was some made-up story."
"I left Paris with the duchess," said Helen quietly, "before the war."
"Of course. And she knows all about your friendship with this man."
"I don't think she does. I haven't told her. Why should I?" returnedHelen, raising her clear eyes to his.
"Really, I don't know," stammered Sir James. "But here she is. Of courseif you prefer it, I won't say anything of this to her."
Helen gave him her first glance of genuine emotion; it happened,however, to be scorn.
"How odd!" she said, as the duchess leisurely approached them, her glassstill in her eye. "Sir James, quite unconsciously, has just been showingme a sketch of my dear old mansarde in Paris. Look! That little windowwas my room. And, only think of it, Sir James bought it of an old friendof mine, who painted it from the opposite attic, where he lived. Andquite unconsciously, too."
"How very singular!" said the duchess; "indeed, quite romantic!"
"Very!" said Sir James.
"Very!" said Helen.
The tone of their voices was so different that the duchess looked fromone to the other.
"But that isn't all," said Helen with a smile, "Sir James actuallyfancied"--
"Will you excuse me for a moment?" said Sir James, interrupting, andturning hastily to the duchess with a forced smile and a somewhatheightened color. "I had forgotten that I had promised Lady Harriet todrive you over to Deep Hill after luncheon to meet that South Americanwho has taken such a fancy to your place, and I must send to thestables."
As Sir James disappeared, the duchess turned to Helen. "I see what hashappened, dear; don't mind me, for I frankly confess I shall now eat myluncheon less guiltily than I feared. But tell me, HOW did you refusehim?"
"I didn't refuse him," said Helen. "I only prevented his asking me."
"How?"
Then Helen told her all,--everything except her first meeting withOstrander at the restaurant. A true woman respects the pride of thoseshe loves more even than her own, and while Helen felt that althoughthat incident might somewhat condone her subsequent romantic passion inthe duchess's eyes, she could not tell it.
The duchess listened in silence.
"Then you two incompetents have never seen each other since?" she asked.
"No."
"But you hope to?"
"I cannot speak for HIM," said Helen.
"And you have never written to him, and don't know whether he is aliveor dead?"
"No."
"Then I have been nursing in my bosom for three years at one and thesame time a brave, independent, matter-of-fact young person and the mostidiotic, sentimental heroine that ever figured in a romantic opera or acountry ballad." Helen did not reply. "Well, my dear," said the duchessafter a pause, "I see that you are condemned to pass your days withme in some cheap hotel on the continent." Helen looked up wonderingly."Yes," she continued, "I suppose I must now make up my mind to sell myplace to this gilded South American, who has taken a fancy to it. ButI am not going to spoil my day by seeing him NOW. No; we will excuseourselves from going to Deep Hill to-day, and we will go back homequietly after luncheon. It will be a mercy to Sir James."
"But," said Helen earnestly, "I can go back to my old life, and earn myown living."
"Not if I can help it," said the duchess grimly. "Your independence hasmade you a charming companion to me, I admit; but I shall see that itdoes not again spoil your chances of marrying. Here comes Sir James.Really, my dear, I don't know which one of you looks the more relieved."
On their way back through the park Helen again urged the duchess to giveup the idea of selling Hamley Court, and to consent to her taking upher old freedom and independence once more. "I shall never, neverforget your loving kindness and protection," continued the young girl,tenderly. "You will let me come to you always when you want me; butyou will let me also shape my life anew, and work for my living." Theduchess turned her grave, half humorous face towards her. "That meansyou have determined to seek HIM. Well! Perhaps if you give up your otherabsurd idea of independence, I may assist you. And now I really believe,dear, that there is that dreadful South American," pointing to a figurethat was crossing the lawn at Hamley Court, "hovering round like avulture. Well, I can't see him to-day if he calls, but YOU may. By theway, they say he is not bad-looking, was a famous general in the SouthAmerican War, and is rolling in money, and comes here on a secretmission from his government. But I forget--the rest of our life is tobe devoted to seeking ANOTHER. And I begin to think I am not a goodmatchmaker."
Helen was in no mood for an interview with the stranger, whom, like theduchess, she was inclined to regard as a portent of fate and sacrifice.She knew her friend's straitened circumstances, which might make sucha sacrifice necessary to insure a competency for her old age, and,as Helen feared also, a provision for herself. She knew the strangetenderness of this masculine woman, which had survived a husband'sinfidelities and a son's forgetfulness, to be given to her, and herheart sank at the prospect of separation, even while her pride demandedthat she should return to her old life again. Then she wondered if theduchess was right; did she still cherish the hope of meeting Ostranderagain? The tears she had kept back all that day asserted themselvesas she flung open the library door and ran across the garden into themyrtle walk. "In hospital!" The words had been ringing in her earsthough Sir James's complacent speech, through the oddly constrainedluncheon, through the half-tender, half-masculine reasoning of hercompanion. He HAD loved her--he had suffered and perhaps thought herfalse. Suddenly she stopped. At the further end of the walk the ominousstranger whom she wished to avoid was standing looking towards thehouse.
How provoking! She glanced again; he was leaning against a tree and wasobviously as preoccupied as she was herself. He was actually sketchingthe ivy-covered gable of the library. What presumption! And he wassketching with his left hand. A sudden thrill of superstition came overher. She moved eagerly forward for a better view of him. No! he had twoarms!
But his quick eye had already caught sight of her, and before she couldretreat she could see that he had thrown away his sketch-book and washastening eagerly toward her. Amazed and confounded she would haveflown, but her limbs suddenly refused their office, and as he at lastcame near her with the cry of "Helen!" upon his lips, she felt herselfstaggering, and was caught in his arms.
"Thank God," he said. "Then she HAS let you come to me!"
She disengaged herself slowly and dazedly from him and stood looking athim with wondering eyes. He was bronzed and worn; there was the secondarm: but still it was HE. And with the love, which she now knew he hadfelt, looking from his honest eyes!
"SHE has let me come!" she repeated vacantly. "Whom do you mean?"
&n
bsp; "The duchess."
"The duchess?"
"Yes." He stopped suddenly, gazing at her blank face, while his own grewashy white. "Helen! For God's sake tell me! You have not accepted him?"
"I have accepted no one," she stammered, with a faint color rising toher cheeks. "I do not understand you."
A look of relief came over him. "But," he said amazedly, "has not theduchess told you how I happen to be here? How, when you disappeared fromParis long ago--with my ambition crushed, and nothing left to me butmy old trade of the fighter--I joined a secret expedition to help theChilian revolutionists? How I, who might have starved as a painter,gained distinction as a partisan general, and was rewarded with anenvoyship in Europe? How I came to Paris to seek you? How I found thateven the picture--your picture, Helen--had been sold. How, in tracing ithere, I met the duchess at Deep Hill, and learning you were with her, ina moment of impulse told her my whole story. How she told me that thoughshe was your best friend, you had never spoken of me, and how she beggedme not to spoil your chance of a good match by revealing myself, and soawakening a past--which she believed you had forgotten. How she imploredme at least to let her make a fair test of your affections and yourmemory, and until then to keep away from you--and to spare you, Helen;and for your sake, I consented. Surely she has told this, NOW!"
"Not a word," said Helen blankly.
"Then you mean to say that if I had not haunted the park to-day, in thehope of seeing you, believing that as you would not recognize me withthis artificial arm, I should not break my promise to her,--you wouldnot have known I was even living."
"No!--yes!--stay!" A smile broke over her pale face and left it rosy. "Isee it all now. Oh, Philip, don't you understand? She wanted only to tryus!"
There was a silence in the lonely wood, broken only by the trills of afrightened bird whose retreat was invaded.
"Not now! Please! Wait! Come with me!"
The next moment she had seized Philip's left hand, and, dragging himwith her, was flying down the walk towards the house. But as they nearedthe garden door it suddenly opened on the duchess, with her glasses toher eyes, smiling.
The General Don Felipe Ostrander did not buy Hamley Court, but he andhis wife were always welcome guests there. And Sir James, as became anEnglish gentleman,--amazed though he was at Philip's singular return,and more singular incognito,--afterwards gallantly presented Philip'swife with Philip's first picture.