Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

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

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

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

  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 f
or 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.

  Mrs. Vane shook her dress and assured him that no harm was done; but nothing could prevent the distressed gentleman from going down upon his knees, and with his perfumed handkerchief removing several drops of water from the foot of his hostess—during which process he discovered that, being still an invalid, she wore quilted black silk boots, with down about the tops; also that though her foot was a very pretty one, it was by no means as small as that of Virginie Varens.

  When this small stir was over, Mrs. Vane led the way back to the saloon, and here Douglas was more than ever mystified by Dupres’s behavior. Entirely ignoring Madame’s presence, he devoted himself to Arguelles, besetting him with questions regarding Spain, his own family, pursuits, and tastes; on all of which points the Spaniard satisfied him, and accepted his various invitations for the coming days, looking much at their fair hostess the while, who was much engrossed with Douglas, and seemed quite content.

  Arguelles was the first to leave, and his departure broke up the party. As Earl and Dupres drove off together, the former exclaimed, in a fever of curiosity, “Are you satisfied?”

  “Entirely.”

  “She is not Virginie, then?”

  “On the contrary, she is Virginie, I suspect.”

  “You suspect? I thought you were entirely satisfied.”

  “On another point, I am. She baffles me somewhat, I confess, with her woman’s art in dress. But I shall discover her yet, if you let me conduct the affair in my own way. I adore mystery; to fathom a secret, trace a lie, discover a disguise, is my delight. I should make a superb detective. Apropos to that, promise me that you will not call in the help of your blundering constabulary, police, or whatever you name them, until I give the word. They will destroy the eclat of the denouement, and annoy me by their stupidity.”

  “I leave all to you, and regret that the absence of this Jitomar should complicate the affair. What deviltry is he engaged in now, do you think? Not traveling to India, of course, though she told it very charmingly.”

  His companion whispered three words in his ear.

  Earl fell back and stared at him, exclaiming presently, “It is impossible!”

  “Nothing is impossible to me,” returned the other, with an air of conviction. “That point is clear to my mind; one other remains, and being more difficult, I must consider it. But have no fear; this brain of mine is fertile in inventions, and by morning will have been inspired with a design which will enchant you by* its daring, its acuteness, its romance.”

  Chapter IX

  MIDNIGHT

  FOR a week the three gentlemen haunted the house of the widow, and were much together elsewhere. Dupres was still enthusiastic in praise of his new-made friend, but Douglas was far less cordial, and merely courteous when they met. To outside observers this seemed but natural, for the world knew nothing of his relations to Diana, nor the sad secret that existed between himself and Mrs. Vane. And when it was apparent that the Spaniard was desperately in love with that lady, Douglas could not but look coldly upon him as a rival, for according to rumor the latter gentleman was also paying court to the bewitching widow. It was soon evident which was the favored lover, for despite the dark glances and jealous surveillance of Arguelles, Mrs. Vane betrayed, by unmistakable signs, that Douglas possessed a power over her which no other man had ever attained. It was impossible to conceal it, for when the great passion for the first time possessed her heart, all her art was powerless against this touch of nature, and no timid girl could have been more harassed by the alternations of hope and fear, and the effort to hide her passion.

  Going to their usual rendezvous somewhat earlier than usual one evening, Dupres stopped a moment in an anteroom to exchange a word with Gabrielle, the coquettish maid, who was apt to be in the way when the Frenchman appeared. Douglas went on to the drawing room, expecting to find Mrs. Vane alone. The apartment was empty, but the murmur of voices was audible in the conservatory, and going to the curtained arch, he was about to lift the drapery that had fallen from its fastening, when through a little crevice in the middle he saw two figures that arrested him, and, in spite of certain honorable scruples, held him motionless where he stood.

  Mrs. Vane and the Spaniard were beside t
he fountain; both looked excited. Arguelles talked vehemently; she listened with a hard, scornful expression, and made brief answers that seemed to chafe and goad him bitterly. Both spoke Spanish, and even if they had not, so low and rapid were their tones that nothing was audible but the varied murmur rising or falling as the voices alternated. From his gestures, the gentleman seemed by turns to reproach, entreat, command; the lady to recriminate, refuse, and defy. Once she evidently announced some determination that filled her companion with despair; then she laughed, and in a paroxysm of speechless wrath he broke from her, hurrying to the farthest limits of the room, as if unconscious whither he went, and marking with scattered leaves and flowers the passage of his reckless steps.

  As he turned from her, Mrs. Vane dipped her hands in the basin and laid them on her forehead, as if to cool some fever of the brain, while such a weight of utter weariness came over her that in an instant ten years seemed to be added to her age. Her eyes roved restlessly to and fro, as if longing to discover some method of escape from the danger or the doubt that oppressed her.

  A book from which Douglas had read to her lay on the rustic table at her side, and as her eye fell on it, all her face changed beautifully, hope, bloom, and youth returned, as she touched the volume with a lingering touch, and smiled a smile in which love and exultation blended. A rapid step announced the Spaniard’s return; she caught her hand away, mused a moment, and when he came back to her, she spoke in a softer tone, while her eyes betrayed that now she pleaded for some boon, and did not plead in vain. Seizing both her hands in a grasp more firm than tender, Arguelles seemed to extort some promise from her with sternest aspect. She gave it reluctantly; he looked but half satisfied, even though she drew his tall head down and sealed her promise with a kiss; and when she bade him go, he left her with a gloomy air, and some dark purpose stamped upon his face.

  So rapidly had this scene passed, so suddenly was it ended, that Douglas had barely time to draw a few paces back before the curtain was pushed aside and Arguelles stood in the arch. Unused to the dishonorable practices to which he had lent himself for the completion of a just work, Earl’s face betrayed him.