By Margaret Westrup, Author of "They Furriners," Etc.

A smile shone in his blue eyes as the sweet, childish voice sounded clear and high in the still, scented air.

"What now, Jeannette, shall the mistress of Ancelles fall in love like an ordinary mortal, then?"

There was mischief in the pretty voice, but there was pride, too.

"But yes, mamzelle! Love comes to all—high and low—and spares no one its pangs."

"Pangs? Ah, bah! it shall have no pangs for me!"

"Ah, mamzelle! do not be rash."

"How will it take me, Jeannette? Tell me, that I may be prepared. Will it come like a fiery dart to my bosom, bringing a light to my eyes, and a colour of roses to my cheeks? Or will it take me sadly, rendering my cheek pale and my spirits low? Tell me, Jeannette."

"Not the last way, mamzelle"—the voice was slow now—"for you are too proud."

"You are right, Jeannette, I am too proud! 'Tis not I who must be pale and afraid. 'Tis the other. Love must come to me humble and suing—to be glad or sorry at my will. Is it not so, Jeannette?"

"How should I know, mamzelle?"—sadly—"I dread its coming at all."

"Bah! what matters it? And why should it come? I, for one, do not want—— Ah! do not scream so, Jeannette—it is a man—he is hurt."

The man scrambled to his feet, and tried to bow, but his face was ghastly.

"I beg your—pardon——"

"You are hurt, monsieur. Do not try to apologise. Jeannette, help him to the house. Follow me."

The man leant on Jeannette's stout shoulder, and followed the stately little figure through the sunny, twisting paths, sweet and rich with their wealth of roses, up to the old chÂteau with its narrow windows gleaming in the sunshine.

"Here, Jeannette," said the little mistress of the roses and the chÂteau. "Monsieur, you will rest on the sofa."

He obeyed the wave of the small white hand and lay down.

"Jeannette, send for Dr. Raunay."

Jeannette departed.

The man opened his blue eyes.

"I am so sorry——"

"You must not speak," eyeing him with grave, dark eyes. "You will keep quiet till the doctor comes."

He submitted.

Jeannette returned immediately.

"Are you thirsty?" asked his little hostess gently.

"No—thank you."

"You want for nothing?"

"No, thank you."

She sat down and waited.

Then later—"Jeannette, lower the blinds. Make no noise."

"Thank you," said the man.

"Do not speak!"—frowning.

He smiled a little.

"Mamzelle, suppose he dies?"

"Jeannette, how dare you?"

"But his face is white; and"—her suspicions bursting out—"how came he to fall into mamzelle's garden?"

"Jeannette, leave the room!"

"That I will not! No, I will not! Jeannette knows what is owing to her mistress, and to leave——"

"Well, well"—quickly—"but do not dare to utter another word."

Jeannette mumbled rebelliously, but retired to a corner vanquished.

The man opened his eyes as a soft wave of air was wafted across his face.

A pair of soft, dark eyes looked down pityingly into his.

He shut his own with a murmured word of thanks, and let her fan him. Jeannette came ponderously across the room.

"Mamzelle, it is not fitting——"

"Did I not forbid you to speak?" said the haughty young voice.

"Yes, but Jeannette knows what is due to mamzelle, and——"

"Mademoiselle also knows."

Something in the tone stopped the old servant's words, and once more she retired vanquished.

The man smiled to himself.

Dr. Raunay came and pronounced a bad sprain of the left arm to be the only injury the man had received.

The doctor's sharp, black eyes were full of questions, but Mademoiselle StÉphanie met his gaze calmly, indifferently, and he dared not put one question into words.

"Monsieur, of course, will be our guest," she said when the doctor had taken his departure.

The man reddened slowly under his tan.

"I—really——" He raised himself on his right elbow.

Jeannette eyed him with sharp suspicion.

"Of course, you will stay," said mademoiselle, with her little imperious air.

"But I am quite well enough to go to an inn——"

"There is not one within five miles, and that—well——" A little expressive wave of the small hands and a whimsical smile finished her sentence.

"I do not like to trespass——"

"It is not trespassing," with pretty warmth; "indeed, monsieur, you must accept of our hospitality."

"Then thank you very much."

"And—your luggage? Is it with friends? They will be anxious—we will send——"

She was too courteous to ask with whom he was staying. Yet she wondered much, for, beyond poor cottages, there were no dwellings within many miles of Ancelles.

"I am alone," he answered; "I have walked from B—— to-day."

Jeannette snorted. She plainly did not believe him. B—— was thirty and more miles distant. The suspicion in her stare grew deeper.

"Oh," said StÉphanie.

"My luggage——" He hesitated; yet what could he do without it? "It is only a small bag—it is—er—outside your garden wall," he finished desperately.

"Jeannette, please see that it is fetched at once."

No faintest spark of surprise appeared in his hostess's small face. She seemed quite used to having strangers tumble over her wall into her garden, quite used to luggage being left outside the wall.

The man was distinctly amused, but he was touched too.

An old manservant, with a faint, indescribable old-world air, that fitted in with the chÂteau and the garden and the roses somehow, brought food to the stranger, and, after he had eaten, showed him to his room.

The stranger looked round him with interest.

It was a large apartment, large and bare and old—but everything at Ancelles was old.

But the curtains to the bed, faded now, had once been rich and handsome. The tapestry across the door of a smaller room leading from the other, was still beautiful though worn with age.

Hugh Michelhurst shivered a little as he stood there, in the dim, dark, old-world chamber. There was something pathetic in the tale it told of bygone splendour, something sad and forlorn.

Then his eye fell on a bowl of vivid red roses standing on his dressing-table, and he smiled.

They at least were not old. Their splendour was undimmed. There was nothing faded in their fresh, glowing beauty; and who had put them there?

He went closer; he bent over them and drank in their sweet scent. And as he did it the old, sunny garden rose before him again. The little twisting paths, the roses so thick and luxuriant that they trespassed forward from their beds; the old broken fountain, with the water nymph bending eternally in graceful readiness to dive, and amongst them—the roses, the sunshine, the queer paths, and the old fountain—the little mistress of them all, slim, childish, with soft dark eyes, with pretty lips made for laughter, with the sun caught in the waves of her brown hair. His hands wandered gently over the roses as he stood and thought what a gracious little hostess she was! How sweetly she had welcomed him, asking no questions!

A wave of colour surged over his white face.

But he smiled as he sank down on to a chair.

His entry into the sweet, old-world garden had been supremely ridiculous. Moreover, he was terribly ashamed of himself as well as rueful.

But his sense of humour was strong enough to save either feeling from overpowering him. His arm began to pain him badly again. He shut his lips tightly and sat still.

Outside he heard a gay young voice. "It is a pity, Jeannette, that the sun does not shine into his room now. See how glorious is its setting to-night."

A pause.

Hugh Michelhurst guessed how the pause was filled by his little hostess's mocking answer:

"Why, Jeannette, how cross you are! And, anyway, in the morning the sun will wake him."

"It may rain, mamzelle."

"Rain?" with a little burst of prettiest laughter. "Why, where are your eyes, Jeannette? Rain? With that sky—that sunset? All, no! Even ma tante would not say that, and she always predicts rain, you know."

"It is her rheumatism, mamzelle; she feels it in her bones."

"Yes," carelessly. "Jeannette, he will need assistance—how careless I am! It is that I am so unused to entertaining a guest, and yet once Ancelles was noted for its hospitality——"

The pretty voice died away into the distance, and a few minutes later there was a discreet tap at the stranger's door, and the faded old manservant appeared, and, with an air, offered monsieur his humble services.

Two mornings had StÉphanie's prophecy been fulfilled. Two mornings the sun had wakened her guest, and now he was wondering if he dared stay and let it wake him a third.

"Madame ma tante" had put in an appearance once. She had welcomed the stranger with a stiff yet courteous stateliness that was as old-worldly as the garden and the chÂteau and everything pertaining thereto.

She was a confirmed invalid, and, till she sallied forth to welcome her niece's guest (Ancelles belonged to StÉphanie), had not left her room for nearly two years.

Hugh Michelhurst was duly presented, and made a favourable impression on "Madame ma tante." In half an hour the impression had faded. In an hour it was gone. "Madame ma tante" had forgotten his existence.

He was sitting now on the old, worn steps leading to the second terrace. His right arm rested on the step above, close by his hostess's dainty little feet.

The air was sunny and warm, and sweet with the scent of roses.

He wondered dreamily what had become of the world——

A little breeze came and scattered the rose leaves in her lap—the soft, fragrant heap that she had gathered for pot-pourri—and roused the man.

He stooped to gather them up, but she stayed him.

"There are plenty more," she said.

"Yes," he said; "what a lovely old garden it is!"

He watched the pink deepen in her cheek, and the little dimples come and go as she smiled softly at his words.

Then he sighed.

"My arm is better," he said. "I"—doubtfully—"must go to-day."

"Must you? Will you not stay a little longer? It"—wistfully—"is nice to have a guest."

He looked up at her with his blue eyes full of love.

"It is good of you to say so," he said earnestly.

"Ancelles cannot offer much," she said, with a little stately air, "but it offers you a true welcome, monsieur, and one that will never fail you so long as you will stay with us."

"I have never," he said slowly, "had such a true welcome before."

His eyes made her restless.

She crushed the rose leaves in her hand, and scattered them abroad.

He picked them up and kept them.

"Do you never wonder," he said, "how I came to fall into your garden?"

"We are only glad that monsieur so fell, except for the sprained arm," answered the little mistress of Ancelles.

"I heard your voice," he said, looking up into her face. "I stood and listened, and then—I wanted to see the owner of the voice, and I climbed to the top of the wall and then—I fell."

"I thought only schoolboys behaved so," she said, but her pretty lips parted and her eyes smiled, in spite of herself.

"If I had been a schoolboy I should not have fallen."

"Why?"

"Because a schoolboy does not lose his head as I did, mademoiselle."

"And your footing, monsieur."

"The one was an outcome of the other."

She looked away across the sweet, smiling sunshine.

"Monsieur"—suddenly bending her gaze upon his face—"how came you to lose your head?"

He glanced at her in swift surprise. He was no chicken-heart, yet something in the proud little face made him hesitate.

But he was proud, too.

"Because directly my eyes fell upon you I loved you," he said steadily.

StÉphanie started to her feet.

"Monsieur, you outrage my hospitality," she said haughtily.

He got up and faced her.

"Never!" he cried. "I did not mean to say it—yet, but——"

"You insult me, monsieur!"

"Pardon me, mademoiselle"—his tone was cool as hers now—"but the offer of a man's heart and home can never be an insult!"

"An honour, perhaps?" mockingly.

"It is at least his best, mademoiselle."

"And seemly within a two-days' acquaintanceship, monsieur?"

Her pride, the haughty little smile curling her pretty lip, maddened him.

He bent towards her.

"Seemly or unseemly," he said in low, tense tones, "you shall love me!"

Her dark eyes flashed.

"I shall not, monsieur!" she cried, and shut her small teeth closely.

With a haughty inclination of her pretty head, she left him—left him amongst the roses, in the sunshine, but cold at heart at what he had done.

He wooed her persistently. He was persistent by nature, and all his life he had never wanted anything as he wanted her. He bore the discomforts of the little inn without a murmur, and every day the roses on the little twisting paths found him among them.

Mademoiselle was proud and cold; mademoiselle was proud and mocking, proud and wilful, proud and laughing, proud and non-comprehending—every mood in the world, one after another, was mademoiselle, but proud always—proud with them all. And at last he lost heart.

So there came a day when the scent of the roses sickened him, when the twisting paths maddened him, and he stood before the little mistress of them all, white, stern, beaten.

"I have come to say good-bye," he said, and the tone of his voice had changed.

"Good-bye?" she repeated, and she gave him her hand without another word.

"I would like to thank you for your kindness to me," he said dully; "but—well, perhaps some day you will understand what I feel now. I know you are too good for me. I don't see why you should ever have cared for me; but oh! my little StÉphanie, you are just all the world to me——"

His voice broke, and he turned away down one of the little sunny paths. But there amongst the roses love came to him at last; for StÉphanie, with a sudden radiance in her face which sent all the pride away, ran after him, and he, seeing the radiance, straightway took her into his arms, and the scent of the roses grew sweet to him again.

And all the explanation mademoiselle ever saw fit to give of her many unkind moods was—"You were so masterful, monsieur. You hammered out love, love, love, and 'you must,' and 'you shall'—till that day—then you wooed me as I would that I should be wooed."

And he, remembering the words he had overheard when he stood beneath the garden wall, smiled and thought he understood.

Not all peace was his wooing even now.

His little mistress still had her moods, and was tantalisingly chary of her soft words and caresses. Moreover, she possessed a will that had never been thwarted, and she did not understand the words "shall" and "must," never having had them said to her.

So that, sweet as he found his wooing, at times his brow grew dark; for he too had a strong will, and it irked him to have to make it give way to hers.

And at last there came a matter in which he would not yield, and so they parted.

For mademoiselle declared that always must Ancelles be her home.

"When you are my wife," he said, "you must come with me to my house in town—in London, you know. What a change it will be for you, petite!"

And then mademoiselle, her eyes kindling, declared that never would she live elsewhere than at Ancelles.

He was aghast. For to a man, strong of limb and strong of brain, the life that was a dream amongst the roses could not suffice.

In vain he urged his views upon her. She rebelled against his tone of authority. At last she stood before him with head erect, and eyes that flashed on him from under their long lashes.

"Choose," she said peremptorily: "London or me."

"But, child, hear me——"

"I will not hear you. Pray choose at once."

"I would have both——"

With a little scornful laugh she bade him begone.

"StÉphanie——"

She waved her white hand towards the gates of Ancelles.

"You have chosen. Adieu!"

She turned away with a scornful smile on her lips.

He sprang forward.

"StÉphanie, you must—you shall give way to me in this——"

Her small hand clenched.

"Monsieur, allow me to pass!"

He stood aside.

"You will repent," he said.

For an instant she turned her great eyes dark with pride on him.

"Never!" she said, and walked away.

At Ancelles the roses still blossomed, the sun still shone, though not so hotly, on the little twisting paths, the water nymph still bent gracefully for her dive, and amongst them all flitted their little mistress. In and out, gayer, more restless, swifter of foot than even of yore, she wended her way—a laugh ever on her lips, merry words tripping from her tongue, and hovering near—Jeannette.

"Life is good, Jeannette," cried mademoiselle, and gaily she made herself a crown of roses.

"Life with love—yes, mamzelle," murmured Jeannette, for she was getting desperate over the problem as to how long a young girl could live eating nothing, or next to nothing.

"Love? Bah! Jeannette, what an old sentimentalist you are!"

Yet Jeannette had heard the sharp, indrawn breath that preceded the mocking words.

And why did mamzelle have to rest half-way up to her room now?

Jeannette had seen her again and again, yet never with mademoiselle's knowledge.

For if Jeannette were with her, then, setting her little white teeth closely, mademoiselle did the flights of stairs without a pause; but Jeannette saw how the small hand, once so disdainful of the balusters, now clung to the support. She saw how the pretty throat throbbed, how her bosom heaved, and how the colour left her face; and, seeing, Jeannette's own face grew grey and lined with care.

"It is a merry world," cried mademoiselle, setting the crown of roses on her pretty head, "and love is superfluous."

"So is pride, mamzelle."

Up went the small crowned head.

"Pride superfluous, Jeannette?" haughtily. "Nay, it is but proper and right for those of Ancelles."

Jeannette moistened her dry lips.

"It can be bought too dearly, mamzelle."

"I—do not understand, Jeannette. Surely you are forgetting yourself?"

The eyes were dangerous, the lips haughty, but Jeannette's love for her charge overcame the long reserve and terror of those last months.

"Mamzelle, mamzelle, listen to me! He is a good man, and he loves you well. Without him you will pine a——"

"Pine, Jeannette? Pine?" Suddenly she caught the old servant's wrists between her small, hot hands. "Jeannette," she whispered passionately, "never speak so again! Do you hear? I pine—I! Am I sad, Jeannette? Answer me! Are my spirits low?"

"N—no, mamzelle."

"Do I not work and read and play as always?"

"Y—yes, mamzelle."

"Do I ever droop?"

"No——"

"Or sigh?"

"No——"

"Or weep?"

"No——"

"Then what made you speak so, Jeannette?"

"I—I do not know, mamzelle."

StÉphanie dropped her wrist. Her eyes were burning, her cheeks flushed.

"Then never dare to speak so again," she said, and turned haughtily away.

And almost directly she burst into a gay little song; and Jeannette, standing listening, felt the slow tears of age dropping one by one down her cheeks.

In London Hugh Michelhurst shouldered his way amongst the busy throng in Piccadilly, and in the fog his thoughts turned to the old sunny garden at Ancelles. He sighed, then frowned as if such sighing displeased him. His mouth took a bitter curve as his thoughts wandered back to the last time he had stood on the little sunny paths amongst the roses, with StÉphanie at his side.

G. G. Manton

She turned away with a scornful smile.