Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  “I want to ask you a few questions, Wat; answer me truly, and I will thank you in a way you will like better than words,” began Douglas, as the boy pulled off his hat and stood staring.

  “I’m ready; what will I say, sir?” he asked.

  “Tell me just what sort of a thing or person the spirit looked like when you saw it by the pit.”

  “A woman, sir, all black but her face and arms.”

  “Did she resemble the person we were searching for?”

  “No, sir; leastways, I never saw Miss looking so; of course she wouldn’t when she was alive, you know.”

  “Did the spirit look like the lady afterward? When we found her, I mean?”

  The boy pondered a minute, seemed perplexed, but answered slowly, as he grew a little pale, “No, sir, then she looked awful, but the spirit seemed scared like, and screamed as any woman would if frightened.”

  “And she vanished in the pit, you say?”

  “She couldn’t go nowhere else, sir, ’cause she didn’t turn.”

  “Did you see her go down into the water, Wat?”

  “No, sir, I only see her fly up out of the bushes, looking at me over her shoulder, and giving a great leap, as light and easy as if she hadn’t no body. But it started me, so that I fell over backward, and when I got up, she was gone.”

  “I thought so. Now tell me, was the spirit large or small?”

  “I didn’t mind, but I guess it wasn’t very big, or them few bushes wouldn’t have hid it from me.”

  “Was its hair black or light?”

  “Don’t know, sir, a hood was all over its head, and I only see the face.”

  “Did you mind the eyes?”

  “They looked big and dark, and scared me horridly.”

  “You said the face was handsome but white, I think?”

  “I didn’t say anything about handsome, sir; it was too dark to make out much, but it was white, and when she threw up her arms, they looked like snow. I never see any live lady with such white ones.”

  “You did not go down to the edge of the pit to leap after her, did you?”

  “Lord, no, sir. I just scud the other way, and never looked back till I see the lodge.”

  “Is there any strange lady down at the inn, or staying anywhere in the village?”

  “Not as I know, sir. I’m down there every day, and guess I’d hear of it if there was. Do you want to find anyone, sir?”

  “No, I thought your spirit might have been some live woman, whom you frightened as much as she did you. Are you quite sure it was not?”

  “I shouldn’t be sure, if she hadn’t flown away so strange, for no woman could go over the pit, and if she’d fell in, I’d have heard the splash.”

  “So you would. Well, let the spirit go, and keep away from the pit and the pool, lest you see it again. Here is a golden thank-you, my boy, so good-bye.”

  “Oh, sir, that’s a deal too much! I’m heartily obliged. Be you going to leave these parts, please, sir?”

  “Not yet; I’ve much to do before I go.”

  Satisfied with his inquiries, Douglas went on, and Wat, pulling on his torn hat as the gentleman disappeared, fell to examining the bit of gold that had been dropped into his brown palm.

  “Do you want another, my lad?” said a soft voice behind him, and turning quickly, he saw a man leaning over the wall, just below the place where he had lounged a moment before.

  The man was evidently a gypsy; long brown hair hung about a brown face with black eyes, a crafty mouth, and glittering teeth. His costume was picturesquely ragged and neglected, and in his hand he held a stout staff. Bending farther over, he eyed the boy with a nod, repeating his words in a smooth low tone, as he held up a second halfsovereign between his thumb and finger.

  “Yes, I do,” answered Wat sturdily, as he sent his horses trotting homeward with a chirrup and a cut of his long whip.

  “Tell me what the gentleman said, and you shall have it,” whispered the gypsy.

  “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 a
s 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.

  Chapter VIII

  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 sti
ll 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.