  “Are you the clerk?” A well-modulated voice; a silvery crown of hair leaning over the counter of the St. Charles; blue eyes, lighted with unobtrusive inquiry. The small, quiet-looking man addressed glanced up. “No,” he said; “I am the proprietor. This”––waving his hand to a resplendent-appearing person––“is the clerk.” Whereupon the be-diamonded individual indicated (about whom an entire chapter has been written by an observing English traveler!) came forward leisurely; a Brummell in attire; an Aristarchus for taste! Since his period––or reign––there have been many imitators; but he was the first; indeed, created the office, and is deserving of a permanent place in American annals. “His formality just bordered on stiffness,” wrote the interested Briton, as though he were studying some new example of the human species; “his conversation was elegant, but pointed, as he was gifted with a cultured economy of language. He accomplished “Yes?” he interrogatively remarked, gazing down at the caller in the present instance. “Is Colonel Saint-Prosper stopping here?” “Yes.” “Send this card to his room.” “Yes?” Doubtfully. “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?” “There was a military banquet last night,” interposed the quiet, little man. “Patriotism bubbled over until morning.” “Ah, yes,” commented Culver––for it was he––“fought their battles over again! Some of them in the hospital to-day! Well, well, they suffered in a glorious cause, toasting the president, and the army, and the flag, and the girls they left behind them! I read the account of it in the papers this morning. Grand speech of the bishop; glorious response of ‘Old Rough and Ready’! You are right to protect sleeping heroes, but I’m afraid I must run the guard, as my business is urgent.” A few moments later the lawyer, breathing heavily, followed a colored lad down a crimson-carpeted corridor, pausing before a door upon which his guide knocked vigorously and then vanished. “Colonel Saint-Prosper?” said the lawyer, as he obeyed the voice within and entered the room, where a tall young man in civilian attire was engaged in packing a small trunk. “One moment, pray––let me During this somewhat playful introduction the attorney was studying the occupant of the room with keen, bright gaze; a glance which, without being offensive, was sufficiently penetrating and comprehensive to convey a definite impression of the other’s face and figure. The soldier returned his visitor’s look deliberately, but with no surprise. “Won’t you sit down?” he said. Culver availed himself of the invitation. “I am not disturbing you? I have long known of you, although this is our first meeting.” “You have then the advantage of me,” returned Saint-Prosper, “for I––” “You never heard of me?” laughed the lawyer. “Exactly! We attorneys are always getting our fingers in every one’s affairs! I am acquainted with you, as it were, from the cradle to the––present!” “I am unexpectedly honored!” remarked the listener, satirically. “First, I knew you through the Marquis de Ligne.” Saint-Prosper started and regarded his visitor more closely. “I was the humble instrument of making a fortune for you; it was also my lot to draw up the papers depriving you of the same!” Culver laughed amiably. Artful Culver was not by any means so sure in his own mind that, if the other were disposed to make trouble, the legal proofs of Constance’s identity would be so easily forthcoming. Barnes was dead; her mother had passed away many years before; the child had been born in London––where?––the marquis’ rationality, just before his demise, was a debatable question. In fact, since he had learned Saint-Prosper was in the city, the attorney’s mind had been soaring among a cloud of vague possibilities, and now, regarding his companion with a most kindly, ingratiating smile, he added: “Besides, when the marquis took you as a child into his household, there were, I understood, no legal papers drawn!” “I don’t see what your visit portends,” said Saint-Prosper, “unless there is some other matter?” “Just so,” returned Culver, his doubts vanishing. “There was a small matter––a slight commission. Miss Carew requested me to hand you this message.” The visitor now detected a marked change in the soldier’s imperturbable bearing, as the latter took the envelope which the attorney offered him. “The young lady saw you at the Mistick Krewe ball last night, The young man’s hand trembled as he tore open the envelope, but he surveyed the contents of the brief message with tolerable firmness.
That was all; nothing more, save the address and the date! How long he remained staring at it with mingled feelings he never knew, but finally with a start, looked at his watch, thoughtfully regarded the half-filled trunk, donned his coat and left the room. Several fellow-officers, the first of the sluggards to appear, spoke to him as he crossed the hall below, but what they said or what he replied he could not afterward remember. Some one detained him at the steps, a gentleman with a longing for juleps, but finally he found himself in a carriage, driving somewhere, presumably to the address given in the letter. How long the drive seemed, and yet when the carriage finally stopped and he had paid his fare, he mentally determined it had been too short! The driver gazed in surprise after the gentleman, who did not wait for his change, but, forbearing injudicious comment, gathered up the reins and drove to the nearest cafÉ. From the carriage the house was some distance, and He rose; they regarded each other with mutual constraint; her face had a bit of color, like the tinge of a rose-leaf; her eyes seemed agitated beneath the sweeping lashes, a sentiment in ill accord with the stateliness of her presence. She gave him her hand; he held it he knew not how long; probably, for the conventional moment. They found themselves, each in a chair; at ease, yet not at ease; he studying her face, furtively, yet eagerly; she turning in her fancy the “I am glad you came,” she began, their eyes meeting once more. He bowed. “Mr. Culver brought me your message.” “I heard that you––it was reported you were dead.” “I was wounded; that was all, and soon took to the field again.” The suspense that fell between them was oppressive. “You should have let your friends––know,” she said at length. He looked at her curiously, vivid memories of their last interview recurring to him. Indecisively she interlaced her fingers, and he, watching them, wondered why she had sent for him. Suddenly she rose, walked to the window, and stood, looking out. He, sitting in the dim light, in a maze of uncertainty, was vaguely conscious of her figure outlined against the brightness without; of the waving, yellow flowers of the vines on the veranda. “It is long since we have met,” he said, awkwardly. She did not answer. Had she heard? Yet he did not resent her silence. If he had ever felt anger for her it had all vanished now. He was only conscious of regarding her more attentively, as she still remained, gazing out into the sunlit garden. “Much has happened since I saw you,” he continued. She turned; her eyes were moist; her hand trembled a little against her dress, but she held her head proudly, as she had always done, and it was the aspect of this weakness set against strength that appealed swiftly to him, softening his heart so that he longed to spring to her side. “Yes, much!” she replied. Was her voice tremulous, or was it but the thrill of his own heart which made it seem so? “You have been here long?” she asked, still holding back what was on her mind or blindly endeavoring to approach the subject. “Only since yesterday.” “And you remain some time?” “I am leaving to-day––for France.” At that a touch of color left her face, or was it that a darkening shadow fell upon the house and garden, momentarily chastening the outlook? “For France?” she repeated. Her lips quivered. Something seemed to still the beating of his heart. “Constance––what is it?” he half-whispered. She stepped forward suddenly, her hands outstretched. “I wronged you!” she cried. “I wronged you. I thought the disgrace was yours. Oh, do not speak!” she added, passionately. “I have suffered for it––and now, would you mind––please––leaving me?” “You thought the disgrace was mine!” he repeated, slowly. “Not my”––he broke off abruptly. “And Swiftly he sought her glance; her eyes gave irrefutable answer. Unresistingly, she abandoned herself to his arms, and he felt her bosom rise and fall with conflicting emotions. Closely he held her, in the surprise and surpassing pleasure of the moment; then, bending, he kissed her lips. A wave of color flooded her face, though her eyes still sought his. But even as he regarded her, the clear, open look gradually changed, replaced by one of half-perplexity, half-reproach. “That night you went away––why did you not defend yourself?” she asked, finally. “I never imagined––any mistake. Besides, what had I to offer? Your future was bright; your name, on every one’s lips!” “Did you think you were responsible for another’s sins?” His dark features clouded. “I suppose I had become accustomed to cold looks. In Africa, by some of my comrades who had an inkling of the story! No matter what I did, I was his brother! And the bitterest part was that I loved him; loved him from my boyhood! He was the handsomest, most joyous fellow! Even when he died in my arms in Mexico my heart could not absolutely turn from him.” She opened her lips as if to speak, but the shadow on his face kept her silent. “I was weak enough to keep the story from you in the first place––a foolish reticence, for these matters follow a man to the ends of the world.” “Oh,” she said, “to think it was I who made you feel this!” He took her hand; his grasp hurt her fingers; yet she did not shrink. “You showed me a new world,” he answered, quickly. “Not the world I expected to find––where life would hold little of joy or zest––but a magical world; a beautiful world; yours!” She half-hung her head. “But then––then––” “It became a memory; bitter-sweet; yet more sweet than bitter!” “And now?” He did not answer immediately. The figure of the count, as he had seen him the night before, had abruptly entered his mind. Did she understand? She smiled. “And now?” At her question he dismissed all thought of jealousy. Looking into her clear, half-laughing eyes, he read of no entangling alliances; without words from her, he understood. “Shall we go into the garden?” she said, and, opening the window, they stepped out upon the veranda. In the sky a single large cloud stretched itself in a dreamy torpor, too sluggish, apparently to move, “Nearly noon by the soldier’s dial!” he said. She pushed back the hair the wind had blown about her brow. “My boat sails in an hour,” he continued. “But––you are not––going––now?” “If I stay, it must be––” “Forever!” she said. “Forever!” “Have you heard the news?” said Susan to the count. “Secular?” drawled the erstwhile emissary. He was in ill-humor, having called three times on Constance, who had been excused on all these occasions. “Not necessarily,” replied she, with the old familiar toss of the head. “Saint-Prosper has come back, and he’s going to marry Constance!” “Eh? What? I don’t be––Who told you?” demanded the count, sharply. “Well, you needn’t take my head off! She did, if you want to know.” “Miss Carew?” “Herself!” The nobleman lolled back in his chair, a dark look “Pardie! the creditors will have to wait awhile,” he thought. “And I––I have been a dunce, dancing attendance all these days! I had hoped to marry wealth and beauty. What did I come over here for? The demned country’s barren of everything!” “Isn’t it delightful they should meet after such a long time?” rattled on Susan, gaily. “So romantic! And then they were exactly suited for each other. Dear me,”––enthusiastically––“I have taken such an interest in them, I almost feel as if I had brought it all about.” THE END emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem emblem |
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