CHAPTER X

CONSTANCE AND THE SOLDIER

"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 by inflection what many people can only attain through volubility."

"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 catch my breath. That lad accomplished the ascent two steps at a time, and, I fear, the spectacle stimulated me to unusual expedition. We're apt to forget we are old and can't keep up with boys and monkeys!"

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. "'Oft expectation fails, where most it promises.' Pardon my levity! There were two wills; the first, in your favor; the last, in his daughter's. I presume"—with a sudden, sharp look—"you have no intention of contesting the final disposition? The paternity of the child is established beyond doubt."

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, and, recognizing an old friend,"—with a slight accent—"pressed me into her service. And now, having completed my errand, I will wish you good-morning!" And the lawyer briskly departed.

The young man's hand trembled as he tore open the envelope, but he surveyed the contents of the brief message with tolerable firmness.

"COLONEL SAINT-PROSPER: Will you kindly call this morning to see me?

CONSTANCE CAREW."

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 cafe.

From the carriage the house was some distance, and yet it appeared very near the gate to the soldier, who dimly realized he was passing through a garden where were many flowering plants and where the air was unusually heavy with perfume. Many other details, the construction of the house, the size of the verandas, passed without attracting his notice. Soon, however, he was seated in a great room, an apartment of old-fashioned height and breadth. He felt his heart beating fast. How long did he sit there? No inconsiderable period, surely. He examined everything carefully, without carrying a definite impression of anything to his mind. The large, carved mirror; the quaint decoration of walls and frieze; the soft colors of the rug that covered the floor; the hundred and one odd little things in the cabinet near the chair where he was seated, trifles in ivory, old silver and china; the pictures, a Van Dyke, Claude, and a few modern masters. After this interminable, but confused scrutiny of inanimate things, his heart beat faster still, as a tall figure, robed in white, entered the room!

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 first strong impression of how gaunt and haggard were his features, bearing the traces of recent illness!

"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 you suffered—for it?" he said, wonderingly. "Then you—" He arose quickly and approached her, a new expression transfiguring his bronzed and worn young face.

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, while a brood of little clouds nestled and slept around it. From the window, the count's ally watched them, among the plants and vines, pausing now and then; their interest more in themselves than in the liveliest hues or forms that nature offered. He stood still, regarding his shadow on the path seriously.

"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 on his face. Here were fine hopes gone a-glimmering!

"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



A LIST OF RECENT FICTION OF THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY



AN INTERESTING STORY OF FAMILY LIFE.

THE FIGHTING BISHOP

By HERBERT M. HOPKINS

"The Fighting Bishop" is drawn with firm, bold strokes and with a sufficiently scholarly atmosphere to make the picture life like. There is wisdom too, in the attitude of the author toward his characters; and the entire atmosphere of the book is of fine quality. The general accuracy and vividness of the portraiture are likely to impress everyone. * * * It contains passages and characterizations that some readers will find it difficult to forget.—The Hartford Courant.

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"NOTHING BUT PRAISE"

LAZARRE

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Glorified by a beautiful love story.—Chicago Tribune.

We feel quite justified in predicting a wide-spread and prolonged popularity for this latest comer into the ranks of historical fiction.—The N. Y. Commercial Advertiser.

After all the material for the story had been collected a year was required for the writing of it. It is an historical romance of the better sort, with stirring situations, good bits of character drawing and a satisfactory knowledge of the tone and atmosphere of the period involved.—N. Y. Herald.

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A VIVACIOUS ROMANCE OF REVOLUTIONARY DAYS

ALICE of OLD VINCENNES

By MAURICE THOMPSON

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A STORY BY THE "MARCH KING"

THE FIFTH STRING

By JOHN PHILIP SOUSA

The "March King" has written much in a musical way, but "The Fifth String" is his first published story. In the choice of his subject, as the title indicates, Mr. Sousa has remained faithful to his art; and the great public, that has learned to love him for the marches he has made, will be as delighted with his pen as with his baton.

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"A NOVEL THAT'S WORTH WHILE"

THE REDEMPTION OF DAVID CORSON

By CHARLES FREDERIC GOSS

A Mid-century American Novel of Intense Power and Interest

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"THE MERRIEST NOVEL OF MANY, MANY MOONS."

MY LADY PEGGY GOES TO TOWN

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The Daintiest and Most Delightful Book of the Season.

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"AS CRISP AND CLEAN CUT AS A NEW MINTAGE."

THE PUPPET CROWN

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Superior to most of the great successes.—St. Paul Pioneer Press.

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"AN ADMIRABLE SOCIAL STUDY"

THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN

By HAROLD BEGBIE

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The author possesses an admirable style, clear, unaffected, strong. To the discriminating public, the book is certain to give far more pleasure than that public usually gets from a new novel.

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FULL OF INCIDENT, ACTION & COLOR

LIKE ANOTHER HELEN

By GEORGE HORTON

Mr. Horton's powerful romance stands in a new field and brings an almost unknown world in reality before the reader—the world of conflict between Greek and Turk.

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"A CHRONICLE OF MARVELS"

THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON

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Author of "The War of the Worlds" and "Tales of Time and Space."

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Profusely Illustrated by E. Hering

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"AN INDIANA LOVE STORY"

ROSALYNDE'S LOVERS

By MAURICE THOMPSON

Author of "Alice of Old Vincennes"

As Mr. Thompson avers, this is "only a love story," but it is a story of such sweetness and wholesome life that it will at once claim a permanent home in our affections. The love of nature, so prominent a characteristic of Mr. Thompson, is reflected throughout and the thunderstorm and following gleam of sun, the country garden and southern lake are each in turn invested with a personality that wins our instant sympathy. Rosalynde Banderet is winsome and artless, her lovers are human and manly, and her final happiness is ours. Mr. Peirson's many pictures are entirely worthy.

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ANOTHER SUCCESSFUL HISTORICAL NOVEL

THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED

By HARRIS DICKSON

From the Boston Globe:

"A vigorous tale of France in the old and new world during the reign of Louis XIV."

From the Philadelphia Press:

"As delightfully seductive as certain mint-flavored beverages they make down South."

From the Los Angeles Herald:

"The sword-play is great, even finer than the pictures in 'To Have and To Hold.'"

From the San Francisco Chronicle:

"As fine a piece of sustained adventure as has appeared in recent fiction."

From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat:

"There is action, vivid description and intensely dramatic situations."

From the Indianapolis News:

"So full of tender love-making, of gallant fighting, that one regrets it's no longer."

Illustrated by C. M. Relyea. Price $1.50

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"IN LONDON OF LONG AGO"

THE FICKLE WHEEL

By HENRY THEW STEPHENSON

In this tale of merry England, of the time when Shakespeare jested and Ben Johnson blustered, Mr. Stephenson has painted for us a picture informing and above all entertaining. His is not a story of counts and crowns, but of the ever interesting common people. Without seeming to do so the author shows us many interesting bits of the life of the day. We go to Paul's walk, we see Shakespeare play at the Globe theatre and other such glimpses of old time London are deftly added to our experiences. Throughout the book is an evanescent charm, a spirit of wholesome gaiety. It is well worth while.

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A FINE STORY OF THE COWBOY AT HIS BEST

WITH HOOPS of STEEL

By FLORENCE FINCH KELLY

"The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel"

From the San Francisco Chronicle:

"Western men and women will read it because it paints faithfully the life which they know so well, and because it gives us three big, manly fellows, fine types of the cowboy at his best. Eastern readers will be attracted by its splendid realism."

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"For my own part, I finished it all in one day, and dreamt it over again that night. And I am an old hand, heaven knows."

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With six illustrations, in color, by Dan Smith

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"DIFFICULT TO FORGET"

A FEARSOME RIDDLE

By MAX EHRMAN

This mystery story, based on the theory of the arithmetical rhythm of time, contains much of the same fascination that attaches to the tales of Poe. Simply told, yet dramatic and powerful in its unique conception, it has a convincing ring that is most impressive. The reader can not evade a haunting conviction that this wonderful experiment must in reality have taken place. Delightful to read, difficult to forget, the book must evoke a wide discussion.

With Pictures by Virginia Keep

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A NOVEL OF EARLY NEW YORK

PATROON VAN VOLKENBERG

By HENRY THEW STEPHENSON

From the New York Press:

"Many will compare 'Patroon Van Volkenberg,' with its dash, style and virility, with 'Richard Carvel,' and in that respect they will be right, as one would compare the strong, sturdy and spreading elm with a slender sapling."

The action of this stirring story begins when New York was a little city of less than 5,000 inhabitants.

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The atmosphere of the tale is fresh in fiction, the plot is stirring and well knit, and the author is possessed of the ability to write forceful, fragrant English.

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A STORY OF THE MORGAN RAID, DURING THE WAR OF THE REBELLION

THE LEGIONARIES

By HENRY SCOTT CLARK

The Memphis Commercial-Appeal says:

"The backbone of the story is Morgan's great raid—one of the most romantic and reckless pieces of adventure ever attempted in the history of the world. Mr. Clark's description of the Ride of the Three Thousand is a piece of literature that deserves to live; and is as fine in its way as the chariot race from 'Ben Hur.'"

The Cincinnati Commercial-Tribune says:

"'The Legionaries' is pervaded with what seems to be the true spirit of artistic impartiality. The author is simply a narrator. He stands aside, regarding with equal eye all the issues involved and the scales dip not in his hands. To sum up, the first romance of the new day on the Ohio is an eminently readable one—a good yarn well spun."

The Rochester Herald says:

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A STORY TOLD BY A REAL STORYTELLER

A SON OF AUSTERITY

By GEORGE KNIGHT

Mr. Knight has created a real atmosphere for his men and women to breathe, and his men and women take deep breaths. They are alive, they are human, they are real.

He has a delightful story to tell and knows how to tell it. It is a story of human life, of possible people in possible situations, living out their little span of life in that state in which it has pleased God to call them.

The reader realizes at once that Mr. Knight is a man who served his seven years of apprenticeship before opening a shop on his own account.

The deftness and charm of his literary style, combined with the absorbing interest of the story, can not but prove a delight to every reader.

With a frontispiece by Harrison Fisher

12mo, Cloth. Price, $1.50

The Liverpool Mercury says:

"This is a book far removed from the ordinary mass of featureless fiction. There is no gainsaying the strength of characterization and the command of English language."

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VIGOROUS, ELEMENTAL, DRAMATIC

A HEART OF FLAME

The story of a Master Passion

BY CHARLES FLEMING EMBREE

Author of "A Dream of a Throne."

The men and women in this story are children of the soil. Their strength is in their nearness to nature. Their minds are vigorous, their bodies powerful, their passions elemental, their courage sublime. They are loyal in friendship, persistent in enmity, determined in purpose.

The story is a story of great wrongs and of supreme love. It is done in black and white, with few strokes, but they are masterly. The shadows at the back are somber but the value of contrast is appreciated for the vivid high light in the foreground.

It is a work of art—powerful, convincing and abiding. Powerful, because true to life; convincing, for it has the saving touch of humor; and abiding because love, like "A Heart of Flame," prevails in the end.

With illustrations by Dan Smith

12mo. cloth. Price, $1.50.

The Bowen-Merrill Company, Indianapolis