Longer and longer trailed the shadow of a tall tombstone until, as the sun went down, it merged into the general twilight like a life lengthening out and out and finally blending in restful darkness. With that transition came a sudden sense of isolation and loneliness; the little burial ground seemed the world; the sky, its walls and ceiling.

From the neighborhood of the gates had vanished the dusky venders, trundling their booths and stalls citywards. As abruptly had disappeared the bearers of flowers and artificial roses with baskets poised upon their heads, imparting to their figures dignity and erectness. The sad-eyed nuns had wended their way out of the little kingdom of the departed, surrounded by the laughing children and preceded by the priests and acolytes. All the sounds and activities of the day––the merriment of the little ones, the oblations of the priests, the greetings of friends––were followed by inertness and languor. Motionless against the sky spread the branches of the trees, like 373 lines etched there; still were the clambering vines that clasped monolith and column.

But suddenly that death-like lull in nature’s animation and unrest was abruptly broken, and an uproarious vociferation dispelled the voiceless peace.

sang a hoarse voice as its owner came staggering along one of the walks of the cemetery; for all his song, no blue-water sailor-man, but a boisterous denizen of the great river, a raftsman or a keel-boatman, who had somehow found himself in the burial ground and now was beating aimlessly about. How this rollicking waif of the grog shop came to wander so far from the convivial haunts of his kind and to choose this spot for a ramble, can only be explained by the vagaries of inebriety.

he continued, when his eye fell upon the figure of a woman, some distance ahead, and fairly discernible in the gathering twilight. Immediately the song ceased and he steadied himself, gazing incredulously after the form that had attracted his attention.

“Hello!” he said. “Avast, my dear!” he called out.

Echoing in that still place, his harsh tones produced a startling effect, and the figure before him moved 374 faster and faster, casting a glance behind her at the man from the river, who with snatches of song, started in uncertain but determined pursuit. As the heavy footsteps sounded nearer, she increased her pace, with eyes bent upon the distant gate; darker seemed to grow the way; more menacing the shadows outstretched across the path. Louder crunched the boots on the shell walk; more audible became the words of the song that flowed from his lips, when the sound of a sudden and violent altercation replaced the hoarse-toned cadence, an altercation that was of brief duration, characterized by longshoreman oaths, and followed by silence; and then a figure, not that of the tuneful waterman, sprang to the side of the startled girl.

“Miss Carew!” exclaimed a well-remembered voice.

Bewildered, breathing quickly, she gazed from Edward Mauville, who thus unexpectedly accosted her, to the prostrate form, lying motionless on the road. The rude awakening from her day-dream in the hush of that peaceful place, and the surprising sequence had dazed her senses, and, for the moment, it seemed something tragic must have happened.

“Is he dead?” she asked quickly, unable to withdraw her glance from the immovable figure, stretched out in the dim light on the path.

“No fear!” said Mauville, quietly, almost thoughtfully, although his eyes were yet bright from the encounter. “You can’t kill his kind,” he added, contemptuously. “Brutes from coal barges, or raftsmen 375 from the head waters! He struck against a stone when he fell, and what with that, and the liquor in him, will rest there awhile. He’ll come to without remembering what has happened.”

Turning moodily, the land baron walked slowly down the road, away from the gate; she thought he was about to leave her, when he paused, as though looking for something, stooped to the ground, and returned, holding out a garment.

“You dropped your wrap, Miss Carew,” he said, awkwardly. “The night is cold and you will need it.” She offered no resistance when he placed it over her shoulders; indeed, seemed unconscious of the attention.

“Don’t you think we had better go?” he went on. “It won’t hurt him”––indicating the motionless body––“to stay here––the brute!”

But as he spoke, with some constraint, her eyes, full of doubts, met his, and he felt a flush mantle his face. The incongruity of his position appealed forcibly to him. Had he not been watching and following her himself? Seeing her helpless, alone, in the silent spot, where she had unconsciously lingered too long, had he not been almost on the point of addressing her? Moved by vague desires, had he not already started impetuously toward her, when the man from the river had come rollicking along and insinuated himself after his fashion in the other’s rÔle?

And at the sight––the fleeing girl, the drunken, profane waterman!––how his heart had leaped and 376 his body had become steel for the encounter; an excess of vigor for a paltry task! Jack, as he called himself, might have been a fighting-man earlier in the day, but now he had gone down like straw. When the excitement of this brief collision was over, however, the land baron found his position as unexpected as puzzling.

As these thoughts swiftly crossed his mind, he could not forbear a bitter laugh, and she, walking more quickly toward the gate, regarded him with inquiry, not perhaps unmingled with apprehension. A picture of events, gone by, arose before her like a menacing shadow over the present. He interpreted her glance for what it meant, and angry that she doubted him, angry with himself, said roughly:

“Oh, you haven’t anything to fear!”

Her answering look was so gentle, so sad, an unwonted feeling of compunction seized him; he repented of his harshness, and added less brusquely:

“Why did you remain so late?”

“I did not realize how late it had become.”

“Your thoughts must have been very absorbing!” he exclaimed quickly, his brow once more overcast.

Not difficult was it for him to surmise upon whom her mind had been bent, and involuntarily his jaw set disagreeably, while he looked at her resentfully. In that light he could but dimly discern her face. Her bonnet had fallen from her head; her eyes were bent before her, as though striving to penetrate the gathering 377 darkness. With his sudden spell of jealousy came the temptation to clasp her in his arms in that silent, isolated place, but the figure of the sailor came between him and the desire, while pride, the heritage of the gentleman, fought down the longing. This self-conquest was not accomplished, however, without a sacrifice of temper, for after a pause, he observed:

“There is no accounting for a woman’s taste!”

She did not controvert this statement, but the start she gave told him the shaft had sped home.

“An outlaw! An outcast!” exclaimed the patroon, stung beyond endurance by his thoughts.

Still no reply; only more hurried footsteps! Around them sounded a gentle rustling; a lizard scrambled out of their path through the crackling leaves; a bat, or some other winged creature, suddenly whirred before them and vanished. They had now approached the gate, through which they passed and found themselves on the road leading directly to the city, whose lights had already begun to twinkle in the dusk.

The cheering rumble of a carriage and the aspect of the not far-distant town quickened her spirits and imparted elasticity to her footsteps. Upon the land baron they produced an opposite effect, for he was obviously reluctant to abandon the interview, however unsatisfactory it might be. There was nothing to say, and yet he was loath to leave her; there was nothing to accomplish, and yet he wished to remain with her. For this reason, as they drew near the city, his mood became darker, like the night around 378 them. Instinctively, she felt the turbulent passions stirring in his bosom; his sudden silence, his dogged footsteps reawakened her misgivings. Furtively she regarded him, but his eyes were fixed straight before him on the soft luster above the city, the reflection of the lights, and she knew and mistrusted his thoughts. Although she found his silence more menacing than his words, she could think of nothing to say to break the spell, and so they continued to walk mutely side by side. An observer, seeing them beneath the cypress, a lovers’ promenade, with its soft, enfolding shadows, would have taken them for a well-matched couple, who had no need for language.

But when they had emerged from that romantic lane and entered the city, the land baron breathed more freely. She was now surrounded by movement and din; the seclusion of the country gave way to the stir of the city; she was no longer dependent on his good offices; his rÔle of protector had ended when they left the cypress walk behind them.

His brow cleared; he glanced at her with ill-concealed admiration; he noticed with secret pride the attention she attracted from passers-by, the sidelong looks of approval that followed her through the busy streets. The land baron expanded into his old self; he strode at her side, gratified by the scrutiny she invited; assurance radiated from his eyes like some magnetic heat; he played at possession wilfully, perversely. “Why not,” whispered Hope. “A 379 woman’s mind is shifting ever. Her fancy––a breath! The other is gone. Why––”

“It was not accident my being in the cemetery, Miss Carew,” said Mauville, suddenly covering her with his glance. Meeting her look of surprise unflinchingly, he continued: “I followed you there; through the streets, into the country! My seeing you first was chance; my presence in the burial ground the result of that chance. The inevitable result!” he repeated softly. “As inevitable as life! Life; what is it? Influences which control us; forces which bind us! It is you, or all; you or nothing!”

She did not reply; his voice, vibrating with feeling, touched no answering chord. Nevertheless, a new, inexplicable wave of sorrow moved her. It might be he had cared for her as sincerely as it was possible for his wayward heart to care for any one. Perhaps time would yet soften his faults, and temper his rashness. With that shade of sorrow for him there came compassion as well; compassion that overlooked the past and dwelt on the future.

She raised her steady eyes. “Why should it be ‘I or nothing,’ as you put it?” she finally answered slowly. “Influences may control us in a measure, but we may also strive for something. We can always strive.”

“For what? For what we don’t want? That’s the philosophy of your moralists, Miss Carew,” he exclaimed. “That’s your modern ethics of duty. Playing 380 tricks with happiness! The game isn’t worth the candle. Or, if you believe in striving,” he added, half resentfully, half imploringly, “strive to care for me but a little. But a little!” he said again. “I who once wanted all, and would have nothing but all, am content to ask, to plead, for but a little.”

“I see no reason,” she replied, wearily, yet not unkindly, “why we should not be friends.”

“Friends!” he answered, bitterly. “I do not beg for a loaf, but a crumb. Yet you refuse me that! I will wait! Only a word of encouragement! Will you not give it?”

She turned and looked into his eyes, and, before she spoke, he knew what her answer would be.

“How can I?” she said, simply. “Why should I promise something I can never fulfil?”

He held her glance as though loath to have it leave him.

“May I see you again?” he asked, abruptly.

She shook her head. His gaze fell, seeing no softening in her clear look.

“You are well named,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. “Constance! You are constant in your dislikes as well as your likes.”

“I have no dislike for you,” she replied. “It seems to have been left behind me somewhere.”

“Only indifference, then!” he said, dully.

“No; not indifference!”

“You do care what––may become of me?”

“You should do so much––be so much in the world,” she answered, thoughtfully.

“Sans peur et sans reproche!” he cried, half-amused, half-cheerlessly. “What a pity I met you––too late!”

They were now at the broad entrance of the brilliantly-lighted hotel. Several loungers, smoking their after-dinner cigars, gazed at the couple curiously.

“Mauville’s a lucky dog,” said one.

“Yes; he was born with a silver spoon,” replied the person addressed.

As he passed through the envious throng, the land baron had regained his self-command, although his face was marked with an unusual pallor. In his mind one thought was paramount––that the walk begun at the burial-ground was drawing to an end; their last walk; the finale of all between them! Yet he could call to mind nothing further to say. His story had been told; the conclusion reached. She, too, had spoken, and he knew she would never speak differently. Bewildered and unable to adjust his new and strange feelings, it dawned upon him he had never understood himself and her; that he had never really known what love was, and he stood abashed, confronted by his own ignorance. Passion, caprice, fancy, he had seen depth in their shallows, but now looked down and discerned the pebbly bottom. All this and much more surged through his brain as he made his way through the crowd, and, entering the corridor of 382 the hotel, took formal leave of the young girl at the stairway.

“Good-night, Miss Carew,” he said, gravely.

“Good-night,” she replied. And then, on the steps, she turned and looked down at him, extending her hand: “Thank you!”

That half-timid, low “thank you!” he knew was all he would ever receive from her. He hardly felt the hand-clasp; he was hardly conscious when she turned away. A heavier hand fell upon his shoulder.

“You sly dog!” said a thick voice. “Well, a judge of a good horse is a judge of a handsome woman! We’re making up a few bets on the horses to-morrow. Colonel Ogelby will ride Dolly D, and I’m to ride my Gladiator. It’ll be a gentlemen’s race.”

“Aren’t we gentlemen?” growled a professional turfsman.

“Gad! it’s the first time I ever heard a jockey pretend to be one!” chuckled the first speaker. “What do you say, Mauville?”

“What do I say?” repeated the land baron, striving to collect his thoughts. “What––why, I’ll make it an even thousand, if you ride your own horse, you’ll––”

“Win?” interrupted the proud owner.

“No; fall off before he’s at the second quarter!”

“Done!” said the man, immediately.

“Huzza!” shouted the crowd.

“That’s the way they bet on a gentlemen’s race!” jeered the gleeful jockey.

“Drinks on Gladiator!” exclaimed some one. And as no southern gentleman was ever known to refuse to drink to a horse or a woman, the party carried the discussion to the bar-room.

BOOK III

THE FINAL CUE