AMES & Gaston had been awarded the designs for some important buildings, to be at a distance of a few miles from Washington, and it was in connection with this matter that Louis Gaston, the morning after the interview with Miss Trevennon, just recorded, stepped into a street-car which was to take him within a short distance of the site of these buildings.
As he glanced around on entering, he met the smiling and gaze of Mrs. Vere. There was a vacant seat beside her, but he did not choose to take it. His mind, since last night’s episode, had been full of memories and with which the very thought of Mrs. Vere was . So he merely raised his hat, in answer to her greeting, and seated himself at some distance from her, near the door, turning his face to the window. But, as the car went on toward the suburbs, the passengers gradually departed, and he presently became aware of the fact that only Mrs. Vere and himself remained. Even then his aversion to an interview with her, in his present mood, was so strong that he kept his place, choosing to ignore the fact of their being left alone together. In a very few minutes, however, Mrs. Vere crossed to his side, saying, with an airy little laugh:
“As the mountain won’t come to Mahomet——”
Louis, of course, turned at once and resigned himself to the interview.
“To what fortunate circumstance am I to attribute the honor of Mrs. Vere’s society, so far outside the pale of civilization?” he said, adopting the tone he usually made use of in talking to Mrs. Vere, in order to veil his real feeling.
“I am going out to see the Temples,” she replied; “I shall have to walk from the terminus. It’s such a nuisance having no carriage, and I’m sure I think I deserve one—don’t you? But what brings you out so far during business hours?”
“Business,” answered Gaston. “I am going to spy out the land for a new building enterprise.”
“What sort of building enterprise? I should say a charming cottage, suitable for a pair of domestic neophytes, designed by the architect for his own occupancy, if it were not that a dishevelled young Southerner, with an eccentric tailor and a beautiful voice, stands in the way of that idea! I’m afraid Miss Trevennon, for all her gentleness, must be rather cruel; for, judging by superficial evidences, she has the Mr. Gaston to the point of a hankering after Mr. Somers’ place. I suppose she has had the conscience to tell you she’s engaged.”
“Miss Trevennon?” said Louis, meeting her searching gaze without , though his heart gave a great leap and then seemed to stand still. “She has not made me her confidant as to her matrimonial intentions; but if what you say is true, young Somers is a man I well might envy, whether I do or not.”
He hated the idea of seeming to discuss Margaret with this woman, and yet he was burning to hear more. He asked no questions, feeling sure that he could become of whatever information Mrs. Vere had, without that on his part.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about its being true,” went on Mrs. Vere. “I happen to know the Welfords, the people Mr. Somers stayed with, very well. Mrs. Welford told me all about it. It seems this young fellow is troubled with a certain degree of , and he had received an offer from some people in South America to come out and join them in some business enterprise, and so he came on at once to consult Miss Trevennon; and it was agreed between them that he should go. The plan is that he is to return a millionnaire and marry her. I wonder she hasn’t told you.”
“Why should she? Ladies are apt to be reserved about such matters, however a man may think proper to be, and Mr. Somers, for one, seems to have been communicative.”
“Oh, I suppose he only told Mrs. Welford, and she only told me. You must consider it .”
“Certainly,” replied Louis; “but here is the terminus, and we must abandon our equipage.”
He walked with her as far as the Temples’ place, which was a very short distance off, and then he bowed and left her with unbroken .
Mrs. Vere was a woman who, in point of fact, was by no means of deep duplicity, but in the present instance she had been guilty only of stating as facts what Mrs. Welford had told her more in the form of . She had happened to meet Somers at this friend’s house one evening, and had introduced the topic of Miss Trevennon, the young man with questions, and had satisfied herself that he was certainly in love with and probably engaged to her. On this basis she and Mrs. Welford had constructed the story which she told with such confidence to Gaston.
As for Louis, he made but little headway with his estimates and that morning. His first impulse had been to disbelieve this story, and the remembrance of Margaret’s looks and tones as he had talked with her last night made it seem almost incredible. But then, as he looked back into the past, he recalled the incident of the pressed flower, and the emotion Margaret had shown on hearing Mr. Somers sing that Christmas night, and the long interview that followed next morning, and, more than all, the traces of tears he had detected; and, as he thought of all these things, his heart grew very heavy.
He soon resolved that he would go at once to Margaret, and learn the truth from her own lips.
When he reached the house, he found Thomas engaged in polishing the of the front door, which stood partly open. Being informed by him that Miss Trevennon was in the drawing-room alone, he stepped softly over the carpeted hall and entered the library. From there he could see Margaret, seated on a low ottoman before the fire, her hands clasped around her knees, and her eyes upon the glowing coals. How his young blood leaped at the sight of her! How lovely and gentle she looked! Was she not the very joy of his heart, and delight of his eyes? Where was another like her?
He stood a moment silently observing her, and then he cautiously drew nearer, treading with great care, and shielding himself behind a large screen that stood at one side of the fire-place. In this way he was able to come very near without having his approach suspected. He meant to get very close and then to speak her name, and see if he could call up again the sweet, almost tender regard with which she had looked at him last night. Somehow, he felt sure that he should see that look again. He had half forgotten Charley Somers and Mrs. Vere. He kept his position in silence a moment. It was a joy just to feel himself near her, and to know that by just putting out his hand he might touch her. His eager gaze was fixed upon her fair, sweet profile, and sought the lovely eyes which were still gazing into the fire. He could see their , wistful look, and, as he began to wonder what it meant, those gentle eyes became with tears. He saw them rise and fill and the trembling lids, and fall upon a letter in her lap. At sight of that letter his heart contracted, and a sudden pallor over-spread his face. He had been so uncontrollably to her that, in another moment, the burning words of love must have been spoken, and the eager arms outstretched to clasp her to his heart. But this letter was in a man’s handwriting, and his keen eyes detected the South American stamp on the envelope. His blood seemed to within him, and his face grew hard and cold.
He stepped backward, with an effort to escape, but his wits seemed to have him; he stumbled against a chair, and, at the sound, Margaret looked up. Oh, why were his eyes so blindly turned away from her? Why did he not see that , happy look with which she recognized him? Surely it was all and more than memory pictured it! Surely then he must have known, beyond a doubt, that her whole heart bade him welcome!
But he would not look at her. He turned to make his way out, as he had come, pausing merely to ask, with eyes:
“Excuse me, but can you tell me where Eugenia is?”
“In her dressing-room, I think,” said Margaret, in a voice that, in spite of her, was husky.
“I want to speak to her,” he said, and, without another word or look, he walked away.
Poor Margaret! Her heart was sore and troubled at the sad words of Charley Somers’ note. In her own state of happiness and hope, they struck her as a thousand times more . She felt restless and uneasy, and she would have given much for some slight sign of protecting care and tenderness from Louis. She was ready to everything for him. She knew that he could make up to her for the loss of all else; but although he must have seen that she was troubled, he could bear to leave her with that air of cold composure! A dreadful doubt and seized upon her, and she went to her room feeling lonely and dispirited.
There was to be a large ball that night, and it was not until Margaret came down to dinner, and observed that Mr. Gaston’s place was vacant, that she learned from Cousin Eugenia that he had excused himself from both dinner and the ball. She did not ask for any explanation, and Mrs. Gaston only said that she supposed he had work to finish. No one took any special of his absence, but Margaret remembered that it was her last dinner with them, and felt hurt that he should have absented himself; the ball was suddenly of all its delight. She knew there was something wrong, and her heart sank at the thought that there might be no opportunity for explanation between them. But then she remembered the unfinished sentence that General Gaston’s entrance had interrupted the night before, and she felt sure that all must come right in the end.
by this strong conviction, and remembering that she would not leave until late in the afternoon of the next day, she dressed for the ball in a beautiful toilet of Cousin Eugenia’s , composed of white silk and swan’s-down, resolved to throw off these fancied doubts and as far as possible. In spite of all, however—though Cousin Eugenia went into ecstacies over her appearance, and she had more suitors for her notice than she could have remembered afterward—the evening was long and wearisome to her, and she was glad when Cousin Eugenia came to carry her off rather early, in of the of the next day.
When they reached home there was a bright light in the library, and Louis was sitting at the table writing.
“Is that you, Louis?” said Mrs. Gaston, calling to him from the hall: “Margaret must give you an account of the ball, for I am too worn out. Go, Margaret—and lest you should not mention it, I’ll preface your account by saying that Miss Trevennon was, by all , the beauty and of the occasion.”
With these words she vanished up the staircase, whither her husband had preceded her.
Half glad and half timid, Margaret advanced toward the centre of the room, and when Louis stood up to receive her, she could not help observing how and grave he looked. There was a troubled expression in his face that touched her very much. Something had happened since last night. She felt more than ever sure of it; and it was something that had stirred him deeply.
“I am glad the last ball was such a successful one,” he said, placing a chair for her, and then, going over to the mantel, he stood and faced her.
“It was a beautiful ball,” said Margaret; “the rooms were .”
“Were they supplied with mirrors?” he asked, folding his arms as he looked down at her, .
“Mirrors? Oh yes; there were plenty of mirrors.”
“And did you make use of them, I wonder, Miss Trevennon? Do you know just how you look, in that beautiful soft gown, with the lovely white fur around your neck and arms? I should fancy it might one to the fashion of carrying a mirror at the girdle.”
He smiled as he —a , odd smile that had little merriment in it.
“What have you been doing, all this time?” she asked, wishing to lead the conversation away from herself.
“Working,” he answered; “writing letters—doing sums—drawing plans.”
“How you love your work!” she said.
“Yes, I love my work, thank God!” he answered, in a tone. “It has been my best friend all my life, a............