CHAPTER V.
"But he is not at all bad, this American officer," insisted thedowager; "such a great, manly fellow, with the deference instinctive,and eyes that regard you well and kindly. Your imagination has mostcertainly led you astray; it could not be that with such a face, andsuch a mother, he could be the--horrible! of that story."
"All the better for him," remarked her daughter-in-law. "But I shouldnot feel at ease with him. He must be some relation, and I shouldshrink from all of the name."
"But, Madame McVeigh--so charming!"
"Oh, well; she only has the name by accident, that is, by marriage."
The dowager regarded her with a smile of amusement.
"Shall you always regard marriage as merely an accident?" sheasked. "Some day it will be presented to you in such a practical,advantageous way that you will cease to think it all chance."
"Advantageous?" and the Marquise raised her brows; "could we be morehappy than we are?" The old face softened at the words and tone.
"But I shall not be always with you," she replied; "and then--"
"Alain knew," said the girl, softly. "He said as a widow I could haveliberty. I would need no guardian; I could look after all my affairsas young girls could not do. Each year I shall grow older--morecompetent."
"But there is one thing Alain did not foresee: that your many suitorswould rob you of peace until you made choice of some particular one.These late days I have felt I should like the choice to be made whileI am here to see."
"Maman! you are not ill?" and in a moment she was beside the couch.
"No; I think not; no, no, nothing to alarm you. I have only beenthinking that together--both of us to plan and arrange--yet I needLoris daily. And if there should be only one of us, that remaining onewould need some man's help all the more, and if it were you, who thenwould the man be? You perceive! It is wise to make plans for allpossibilities."
"There are women who live alone."
"Not happy women," said the dowager in a tone, admitting of nocontradiction; "the women who live alone from choice are cold andselfish; or have hurts to hide and are heart-sick of a world in whichtheir illusions have been destroyed; or else they have never knowncompanionship, and so never feel the lack of it. My child, I will nothave you like any of these; you were made to enjoy life, and life tothe young should mean--well, I am a sentimentalist. I married the oneman who had all my affection. I approve of such marriages. If the mancomes for whom you would care like that, I should welcome him."
"He will never come, Maman," and the smile of the Marquise somewaydrifted into a sigh. "I shall live and die the widow of Alain."
The dowager embraced her. "But for all that I do not approve," sheprotested. "Your reasons for not marrying do not convince me, and Ipromise my support to the most worthy who presents himself. Have youan ideal to which nothing human may reach?"
"For three years your son has seemed ideal to me," said the Marquise,after a moment's hesitation. The dowager regarded her attentively.
"He was?" she asked; "your regard for him does you credit; but, ambereyes, it is not for a man who has been dead a year that a womanblushes as you blush now."
"Oh!" began the Marquise, as if in protest; and then feeling that thecolor was becoming even more pronounced, she was silent.
The dowager smiled, well pleased at her cleverness.
"There was sure to be some one, some day," she said, noddingsagaciously; "when you want to talk of it I will listen, my Judithe. Icould tell it in the tone of your voice as you sang or laughed; yes,there is nothing so wonderful in that," she explained, as the girllooked up, startled. "You have always been a creature of aims,serious, almost ponderous. Suddenly you emerge like sunshine from theshadows; you are all gaiety and sudden smiles; unconsciously yousing low songs of happiness; you suggest brightness and hope; youhave suddenly come into your long-delayed girlhood. You give meaffectionate glimpses of the woman God meant you to be some day. Itcan only be a man who works such a miracle in an ascetic of nineteenyears. When the lucky fellow gathers courage to speak, I shall beglad to pass judgment on him."
The Marquise was silent. The light, humorous tone of the dowager haddisarmed her; yet she had of her own accord, and influenced by somewild mood, told Dumaresque all that was only guesswork to the friendbeside her. How could she have confessed it to him? She had wonderedat herself that she had dared, and after all it had been so entirelyuseless; it had not driven away the memory of the man at Fontainbleau,even for one little instant.
Madame Blanc entered with some message for the dowager, and thequestion of marriage, also the more serious one of love, were putaside for the time.
But Judithe was conscious that she was under a kindly surveillance,and suspected that Dumaresque, also, was given extra attention. Herconfession of that unusual fascination had made them better comrades,and the dowager was taking note that their tone was more frank, andtheir attitude suggested some understanding. It was like a comedy forher to watch them, feeling so sure that their sentiments were veryclear and that she could see the way it would all end. Judithe wouldcoquette with him awhile, and then it would be all very well; and itwould not be like a stranger coming into the family.
The people who came close enough to see her often, realized that thejourney back to Paris had not been beneficial to the dowager. It hadonly been an experiment through which she had been led to open herhouse, receive her friends, introduce her daughter; but the littleexcitement of that had vanished, and now that the routine of life wasto be followed, it oppressed her. The ghosts of other days came soclose--the days when Alain had been beside her. At times she regrettedRome, but the physician forbade her return there until autumn. She hadfancied that a season in the old house at Fontainbleau would serve asa restorative to health--the house where Alain was born; but it was afailure. Her days there were days of tears, and sad, far-awaymemories. So to Paris she went with the assertion that there alone,life was to be found. She meant to live to the last minute of herlife, and where so well as in the one city inexhaustible?
"Maman is trying to frighten me into marriage," thought the Marquiseafter their conversation; "she wants some spectacular ceremony toenliven the house for a season, and cure her ennui; Paris has been adisappointment, and Loris is making himself necessary to her."
She was thinking of the matter, and of the impossibility that sheshould ever marry Loris, when a box of flowers was brought--one leftby a messenger, who said nothing of whence they came, and no name orcard attached suggested the sender.
"For Maman," decided the Marquise promptly.
But Madame Blanc thought not.
"You, Madame, are the Marquise."
"Oh, true! but the people who would send me flowers would not be socertain their own names would not be forgotten. I have no old, tried,and silent friends to remember me so."
While she spoke she was lifting out the creamy and blush-tinted roses;Maman should see them arranged in the prettiest vase, they must go upwith the chocolate--she would take it herself!
So she chattered while Madame Blanc arranged the tray. But suddenlythe chatter ceased. The Marquise had lifted out the last of the roses,and under the fragrant screen lay the cause of the sudden silence.
It was a few sprays of dew-wet forget-me-nots! Her heart seemed tostop beating.
Forget-me-not! there was but one person who had any association in hermind with that flower. Did this have a meaning relating to him? or wasit only chance?
She said nothing to Madame Blanc about the silent message in thebottom of the box.
All that day she moved as in a dream. At times she was oppressed bythe terror of discovery, and again it was with a rebellious, deliciousfeeling of certainty that he had not forgotten! He had searched forher--found her! She meant to ignore him if they should meet; certainlyshe must do that! His assurance in daring to--yet--yes, she ratherliked the daring--still----!
She remembered some one saying that impertinence gained more favorsfrom women than respe
ct, and he--yes, certainly he was impertinent;she must never recognize him, of course--never! Her cheek burned asshe fancied what he must think of her--a girl who made friends withstrangers in the park! Yet she was glad that since he had not let herforget, he also had been forced to remember.
She told herself all this, and much more; the task occupied so much ofher time that she forgot to go asleep that night, and she saw themorning star shine out of the blue haze beyond the city, and itbelonged to a dawn with a meaning entirely its own. Never before orafter was a daybreak so beautiful. The sun wheeled royally into viewthrough the atmosphere of her first veritable love romance.
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