The Mystery of the Hasty Arrow

by Anna Katharine Green

  XXXIV

  THE BUD--THEN THE DEADLY FLOWER

  You who have read thus far will care little for the legalities whichfollowed the events just related, but you may wish to know to a fullerextent some of the facts in Ermentrude Taylor's life which led to thistragic end of all her hopes.

  Her story is twofold, the portion connecting her with Carleton Robertsbeing entirely dissociated from that which made her the debtor ofAntoinette Duclos. Let me tell the latter first, as it preceded theother, and tell it in episodes.

  * * * * *

  Two girls stood at one end of a long walk of immemorial yews. Atthe other could be seen the advancing figure of a man, young, alert,English-clad but unmistakably foreign. They were school girls and bosomfriends; he their instructor in French; the walk one attached to awell-known seminary. When they had entered this walk, it had been empty.Now it held for one of them--and possibly for the other, too--a world ofjoy and promise;--the world of seventeen. Innocent and unthinking,neither of them had known her own heart, much less that of her fellow.But when in face of that approach, eye met eye with an askance look ofeager question, revelation came, crimsoning the cheeks of both, andmarking an epoch in either life.

  Noble of heart and tender each toward the other, they were yet human. Armfell from arm, and with an equally spontaneous movement, they turned tosearch each the other's countenance, not for betrayal,--for that hadalready been made--but for those physical charms or marks of mentalsuperiority which might attract the eye or win the heart of a man of theideality of this one.

  Alas! these gifts, for gifts they are, were much too unequallydistributed between these two to render the balance at all even.

  Ermentrude was handsome; Antoinette was not.

  Ermentrude had besides, what even without beauty would have made herconspicuous to the eye, the figure of a goddess and the air of a queen.But Antoinette was small and had to feel secure and in a happy mood toshow the excellence of her mind and the airy quality of her wit.

  Then, Ermentrude had money and could dress, while Antoinette, who wasdependent upon an English uncle for everything she possessed, woreclothes so plain that but for their exquisite neatness, one would neverdream that she came from French ancestry, and that ancestry noble.

  Yes, she had that advantage; rank was hers, but not the graces whichshould accompany it. More than that, she had nothing with which tosupport it. Better be of the yeoman class like Ermentrude, and smile likea duchess granting favors. Or so she thought, poor girl, as her meekregard passed from the friend whose attractions she had thus acknowledgedto the man whose approbation would make a goddess of her too.

  He was coming--not with his usual indifferent swing, but eagerly,joyously, as though this moment meant something to him too. She knew itdid. Small memories rushing upon her, made no doubt of that. But why?Because of Ermentrude or because of herself? Alas! she could recallnothing which would answer that. They were much together; he had scarcelyever seen them separate. It might be either----Hardly alive fromsuspense, she watched him coming--coming. In a moment he would be uponthem. On which would his eyes linger?

  That would tell the tale.

  In an anguish of ungovernable shyness, she slipped behind the amplefigure of her friend till only her fluttering skirt betrayed herpresence. Perhaps she was saved something by this move; perhaps not.She did not see the beam of joy sparkling in his eye as he greetedErmentrude; but she could not but mark the heaviness of his step as hepassed them by and wandered away into the shadows.

  And that she understood. Ermentrude had not smiled upon him. To him, themoment had brought pain.

  It was enough. Now she knew.

  But why had not Ermentrude smiled?

  * * * * *

  A dormitory lighted only by the moon! Two beds close together; in one aform of noble proportions, and in the other the meagre figure of a girlalmost buried from sight among pillows and huddled-up blankets. Both arequiet save for an occasional shudder which shakes the bed of the latter.Ermentrude lies like the dead, though the moonlight falls full upon herface blanching it to the aspect of marble. Even her lashes rest movelesson her cheek.

  But she is not sleeping; she is listening--listening to the sobs, almostinaudible, which now and then escape from the beloved one at her side. Asthey grow fainter and fainter and gradually die away altogether tillstillness reigns through the whole dormitory, she rouses and bendingforward on her elbow, looks long and lovingly at the wet brow of hersleeping mate. She then sinks back again into rigidity, with a low moan,ending in the whispered words:

  "He does not love,--not yet. A slight thing will turn him. Did I not seehim glance back twice, and both times at her? The look with which shegreeted him was so wonderful."

  * * * * *

  A village street in Britanny; a parish church in the distance; two womenbidding each other farewell amid a group of wedding-guests, gay as theheavens are blue.

  "_Au revoir!_" was the whisper breathed by the bride into the ear ofthe other. "_Au revoir_, my Ermentrude. May you have a happy year inSwitzerland!"

  "_Au revoir_! little Madame. _You_ will be happy I know in those UnitedStates to which you are going."

  And the tears stood in the eyes of both.

  "You will write?"

  "I will write."

  But the bride did not seem quite satisfied. Glancing about and findingher young husband busy with his adieux, she drew her friend apart andsoftly murmured:

  "There is something I must say,--something I must know, before the seadivides us. You remember the day we all left school and you went homeand I came to Britanny? Ermentrude, Achille tells me that on that day hesought the whole house over for you till he came upon you in one of theclassrooms; and that you whom I had sometimes seen so sad were very gayand told him between laughing and crying that you were bidding a solemnfarewell to all the nooks and corners of the old seminary, because yourfiance awaited you at home, and there would be no coming back."

  "I meant my music."

  "He did not know that, Ermentrude," and here she laid her hands upon theother's shoulders, drawing back as she did so to look earnestly up intoher face. "Was that done for me?"

  They were too near for anything but the truth to pass from eye to eye.Ermentrude tried to laugh and utter a quick _No, no!_ but the littlebride was not deceived. Again upon her face there appeared that wonderfullook of hers, which made her face for the moment verily beautiful, andunclasping her hands, she threw them about the other's neck, whisperingin awed tones:

  "Yet you loved him! loved him too!"

  Then after a moment of silence dear to both their hearts, she drew backto give her friend one other look, and quietly said:

  "His heart is mine now, Ermentrude, wholly and truly mine. And so youwould have it be, I am sure. Life looks fair to me and very sweet; buthowever fair, however sweet, that life is yours if ever you want it andwhen you want it. The time may come--one never knows--when I can pay youback this debt. Till then, let there be perfect trust and perfect lovebetween us. Give me your hand upon it--not just your lips--for I speak asmen speak when they mean to keep their word."

  Their eyes met, their hands clasped; then the bridegroom drew away hisbride, and Ermentrude turned with bowed head and glistening eyes, toenter upon the new life awaiting her in ways she had yet to tread.

  * * * * *

  The second series of episodes opens with the meeting of a man and womanon a rustic bridge spanning a Swiss chasm. They are strangers to eachother, yet both instinctively pause and a flush of intuitive feeling dyesthe cheek of each.

  The eternal, ever-recurring miracle has happened. He sees Woman for thefirst time, though he had thought himself in love before and had wanderedthus far in an effort to forget. So, likewise, with her. She had had herfancies, or rather her one fancy; but when in strolling along this roadahead of her party she saw rising between her a
nd the glorious landscapewhich had hitherto filled her eye the fine masculine head and perfectfigure of Carleton Roberts, this fancy floated from her mind like theveriest thistledown, leaving it free to expand in fuller hopes and deeperjoys than visit many women even when they think they love.

  Alas! why in that instant of mutual revelation had not the further gracebeen given them of quick catastrophe shutting the door upon a future ofwhich neither could then dream or sense the coming doom.

  It was not to be.

  He passed, she passed, and for the time the look they gave each other wasall; but the world had been glorified for them both--and Destiny waited.

  * * * * *

  "Good looks? Yes; but nothing else; very ordinary connections, very. Alittle money, true. Her uncle, whom by the way I judge you have not seen,will leave her a few thousands; but meanwhile he is a fixture--will notleave her or let her leave him, which is a misfortune since in a socialway he is simply impossible. No sort of match for you, Roberts. Cut andrun while there is time; that's my advice to you, given in the mostfriendly spirit."

  "Thank you. As I have but just met Miss Taylor, don't you think suchadvice is a little premature?"

  "No, I don't. She is a woman who must be loved or left; that's all.You've heard me."

  Did Carleton Roberts heed these words? No. What man in the thrall of hisfirst romance ever did.

  "You love me, Ermentrude?"

  "I love you, Carleton."

  "For a day, for a month or for a year?" he smiled.

  "Forever," she answered.

  "That's a long time," he murmured, with his eyes on a little clockhanging in the shop window before which they had stopped in one of theirinfrequent walks together. "A long time! That foolish little clock willbeat out the hours of its short life and go the way of all things, beforewe shall hardly have entered upon the soul's 'forever.'"

  "That clock will last our lifetime, Carleton. Afterward, love will not becounted by hours."

  As she said this she turned her face his way and he saw it in its fullflower with the light of heaven upon it. In later years he may haveforgotten the emotions of that moment, but they were the purest, thefreest from earthly stain that he was ever destined to know.

  "I will love you _forever_," he whispered. "That little clock shall be mywitness." And he drew her into the shop.

  * * * * *

  "Cuckoo!"

  Ermentrude glanced up; the clock hung on her wall.

  "Oh," she murmured, "each hour it will speak to me of him and his words,"then softly, like one adream in Paradise:

  "I love but thee, And thee will I love to eternity."

  Such was the event to her. What was it to him? Let us see:

  A hotel room--a view of Pilatus, but with its top lost in envelopingclouds.

  Seated before it with pen in hand above a sheet of paper, CarletonRoberts eyes these clouds but does not see them; he is hunting in hisbrain for words and they do not come. Why? His mother's name is on thepage and he has only to write that she has been quite correct in herjudgment as to the unfitness of the marriage he had had in mind:--thatyouth should mate with youth and that if she could see the glorious younggirl whose acquaintance he had made here, she would be satisfied withhis new choice which promised him the fullest happiness. Why then a sheetyet blank and a hesitating hand, when all it had to do was to write?

  Who can tell? Man knows little of himself or of the conflicting passionswhich sway him this way or that, even when to the outward eye, andpossibly to the inner one as well, action looks easy.

  Did he feel, without its reaching the point of knowledge, that thismother of keenest expectation and highest hope would not be satisfiedwith what this charming but undeveloped girl of middle class parentagewould bring him? Or was there, deep down in his own undeveloped nature, asecret nerve alive to ambitions yet unnamed, to hopes not yet formulated,which warned him to think well before he spoke the irrevocable wordlinking a chain which, though twined with roses, was nevertheless a chainwhich nothing on earth should have power to break.

  He never sounded his soul for an answer to this question; but when herose, the paper was still blank. The letter had not been written.

  * * * * *

  "I do not like secrecy."

  "Only for a little while, Ermentrude. My mother is difficult. I wouldprepare her."

  "And Uncle!"

  "What of Uncle?"

  "He made me take an oath to-day."

  "An oath?"

  "That I would not leave him while he lived."

  "And you could do that?"

  "I could do nothing else. He's a sick man, Carleton. The doctors shaketheir heads when they leave him. He will not live a year."

  "A year? But that's an eternity! Can you wait, can I wait a year?"

  "He loves me and I owe everything to him. Next week we go to Nice. Theseare days of parting for you and me, Carleton."

  Parting! What word more cruel. She saw that it shook him, and held herbreath for his promise that she should not be long alone. But it did notcome. He was taking time to think. She hardly understood his doing this.Surely, his mother must be very difficult and he a most considerate son.She knew he loved her; perhaps never with a more controlling passion thanat this moment of palpitating silence.

  As she smiled, he caught her to his breast.

  "We have yet a week," he cried, and left her hurriedly, precipitately.

  * * * * *

  It was their last ride and they had gone far--too far, Ermentrudethought, for a day so chilly and a sky so threatening. They had enteredgorges; they had skirted mountain streams, had passed a village, left aruined tower behind, and were still facing eastward, as if Lucerne had nofurther claims upon them and the world was all their own.

  As the snows of the higher peaks burst upon their view, she made anattempt to stop this seeming flight.

  "My uncle," she said. "He will be counting the hours. Let us go back."

  Then Carleton Roberts spoke.

  "Another mile," he whispered, not because he feared being overheard bytheir driver, but because Love's note is instinctively low. "You arecold; we shall find there a fire, and dinner--and--Listen, Ermentrude,--aminister ready to unite us. We are going back, man and wife."

  "Carleton!"

  "Yes, dear, it is quite understood. Letters are urging my return to NewYork. Your uncle is holding you here. I cannot face an uncertainseparation. I must feel that you are mine beyond all peradventure--mustbe able to think of you as my wife, and that will hold us both and makeit proper for you to come to me if I cannot come to you, the momentyou are free to go where you will."

  "But why this long ride, this far-away spot? Why couldn't a minister befound in Lucerne? Is our marriage to be as secret as our engagement?Is that what you wish, Carleton?"

  "Yes, dear; for a little while, just for a little while, till I have seenmy mother, and rid our way of every obstacle to complete happiness. Itwill be better. When one has promised to love _forever_, what are a fewweeks or months. Make me happy, dear. You have it in your power to do so.Happy! When once I can whisper 'wife,' the world will not hold a happierman than I."

  Did she yield because of her own great longing? No, it was by that phrasehe caught her: _The world will not hold a happier man than I_.

  * * * * *

  Mountains! Icy peaks, with sides heavy with snow! And so near! Almostthey seemed to meet across the narrow valley. She gave them one quickglance, then her eyes and her heart became absorbed in what she could seeof this Alpine village, holding up its head in the eternal snows like anedelweiss on the edge of a glacier.

  It was to be the scene of her one great act in life; the spot she wasentering as a maiden and would leave as a wife. What other spot wouldever be so interesting! To note its every detail of house and churchwould not take long--it was such a little villag
e, and the streets wereso few; and the people--why she could count them.

  Afterward, she found that the exact number and the difference in color ofthe short line of timbered houses stretching between them and the churchwere imprinted on her brain; but she did not know it at the time for herattention was mainly fixed upon the people when once she had seen them,for there was a strangeness in their looks and actions she did notunderstand, all the more that it seemed to have nothing to do either withCarleton or herself.

  It was not fear they showed, not exactly, though consternation was notlacking in their aspect, so strangely similar in all, whether they weremen or women, or whether they stood in groups in the street or came outsingly on the doorstep to glance about and listen, though there seemed tobe nothing to listen to, for the air was preternaturally still.

  "Carleton, Carleton," she asked as he came to lift her to the ground,"see those people how oddly they act. The whole town is in the street.What is the matter?"

  "Nothing, except that if we do not hasten we shall have to returnunmarried. The minister is waiting for us."

  "What, in the church?"

  "Yes, dear. We are a little late."

  She took his arm, and though they were a fine couple and the event wasalmost an unprecedented one in that remote village, only a few followedthem; the rest hung round their homes or gazed with indecision at themountains or up and down along the empty roads.

  * * * * *

  "Wilt thou have this woman...."

  The ceremony had proceeded thus far and all seemed well, when with a rushand a cry a dozen people burst into the building.

  "The snows are moving!" rang up the aisles in accents of mad terror."Save yourselves!"

  Then came the silence of emptiness. Every soul had left the church savethe three before the pulpit.

  An avalanche! and the ceremony was as yet incomplete! Ermentrude neverforgot Carleton Roberts' look. Doubtless he never forgot hers. Meanwhilethe minister spoke.

  "There is a chance for escape. Take it; the good God will pardon you."

  But the bridegroom stood firm and the bride shook her head.

  "Not till the words are said which make us man and wife," declaredCarleton Roberts. "Unless"--and here his perfect courtesy manifesteditself even in this crisis of life and death--"you feel it your duty tocarry what assistance you can to the saving of your frightened flock."

  "God must save my flock," said the minister with a solemn glance upward."I am where my duty places me." And calmly as though the pews werefilled with guests and joy attended the ceremony instead of apprehendeddoom, he proceeded with the rite.

  "Wilt thou have this man...."

  The glad "I will" leaped bravely from Ermentrude's lips; but it was lostin loud calls and shrieks from without, mingled with that sound--terribleto all who hear--impossible to describe--of the might of the hills madeaudible in this down-rushing mass, now halting, now gathering freshmomentum, but coming--always coming, till its voice, but now a threat,swells into thunder in which all human cries are lost, and only from themovement of the minister's lips can this couple see that the words whichmake them one are being spoken.

  Then comes the benediction, and with the falling of those holy hands, aheadlong rush into the open air--a vision of flying forms here, there,and everywhere--men staggering under foolish burdens--women on theirknees with arms lifted to heaven or flung around their babes--hope lostunder the bowing mountain; and in the midst of it all, plain to the viewof all, the stranger's horse and carriage which, standing there, stampedwith undying honor these terrified villagers, who had seen and nottouched them though Death had them by the hair.

  * * * * *

  "Quick! quick! You mother there with the child, get in, get in; there isroom here for one more."

  But another got the place. The driver, reeling as he ran, sprang for theempty seat and hung there between the wheels as the horses plunged andtore away to safety just as the great mass with its weight of gatheredboulders and uprooted forests crashed in final doom upon that devotedvillage, burying it from sight as though it had never been.

  To safety? Yes, for two of them; the other, struck by a flying stone,fell in the road and was covered in a trice. So close were they todestruction's edge at this moment of headlong flight.

  * * * * *

  Not till the painted towers encircling Lucerne had come again into sightdid the newly wedded pair find words or make the least attempt to speak.Then Carleton kissed his bride and for a moment love was triumphant. Wasit triumphant enough to lead him to acknowledge their marriage? Shelooked anxiously in his face to see and finally she asked:

  "How much of this are we to tell, Carleton?"

  "All about the catastrophe; but nothing more," he answered.

  And while her heart retained its homage, the light in her eyes wasveiled.

  Married but not acknowledged! Would it not have been better if theavalanche had overwhelmed them? She almost thought so, till bending, hemurmured in her ear:

  "I shall follow you soon. Did you think I could go on living withoutyou?"

  * * * * *

  "Why so thoughtful, Ermentrude? You are not quite yourself to-day?"

  "Uncle is very ill. The doctors say that he may not live a month."

  "And does that grieve you?"

  A yes was on her lips, but she did not utter it. Instead, she drew alittle ribbon from her breast, on which hung a plain gold ring, andgazing earnestly at this token she remarked very quietly:

  "Carleton, have you ever thought that but for this ring no proof remainsin all this world of our ever having been married?"

  "But our hearts know it. Is that not enough?" he asked.

  "For to-day, yes. But when uncle goes...."

  His kisses finished the sentence for her, and love resumed its sway; butwhen alone and wakeful on her pillow, she recalled his look, the sting ofher first doubt darted through her uneasy heart, and feeling eagerlyafter the ring she tore it from its ribbon and put it on her finger.

  "It is my right," she whispered. "Henceforth I shall wear it. He loves metoo well to quarrel with my decision. Now am I really his wife."

  * * * * *

  Did she see a change in him? Did he come less frequently? Did he stayless long? Was there uneasiness in his eye--coolness--languor? No, no.It was her exacting heart which thus interpreted his look--which countedthe days--forgot his many engagements--saw impatience in the quicknesswith which he corrected her faults in manner or language instead of theold indulgence which met each error with a smile. Love cannot always keepat fever-heat. He, the cynosure of the whole foreign element, had theworld at his feet here as in Lucerne. It needed no jealous eye to seethis; while she--well, she had her attractions too, as had been oftenproved, and with God's help she would yet be a fit mate for him. What shenow lacked, she would acquire. She would watch these fine ladies whoblushed with pleasure at his approach, and when her time of mourning wasover she would astonish him with her graces and her appearance. For sheknew how to dress, yes, with the best of them, and hold her head and walklike the queen she would feel herself to be when once she bore his name.Patience then, till she had stored her mind and learned the ways he wasaccustomed to in others. She had money enough now that her uncle wasdead, and she could do things....

  Yes, but something had gone out of her face, and the ring hung loose onher finger.

  * * * * *

  And he? Had her fears read him aright? Had he grown indifferent or washe simply perplexed? Let us watch him as he paces his hotel room oneglorious afternoon, now stopping to re-read a letter he held in his hand,and now to gaze out with unseeing eyes to where the blue of the sea meltsinto the blue of the sky on the far horizon.

  Love had been sweet; but man has other passions, and he is in the grip ofthe one mightiest in men of his stamp--the all-engrossing
, all-demandingone of personal ambition.

  Without solicitation, without expectation even, a hand had been held outto him whose least grasp meant success in the one field most to hismind,--a political career under auspices which had never been known tofail. But there were conditions attached--conditions which a year beforewould have filled him with joy, but which now stood like a barrierbetween him and his goal, unless.... But he was not yet ready to disavowhis wife, trample upon her heart, nay on his own as well;--that is,without a struggle.

  For the third time he read the letter which you will see was from hismother.

  My Son:--I have an apology to make and a bit of news to give you. When I urged you to give up Lucie and to seek distraction abroad, I felt that I was doing justice to your immaturity and saving you from ties which might very easily jeopardize your future happiness.

  But I have lately changed my mind. In seeing more of her I have not only learned her worth but the advantage such a woman would be to one of your tastes and promise. And she loves you more devotedly, perhaps, than you have loved her. How do I know this? Let me tell you of an interview I had with a certain relative of hers last night. I allude to her brother, and for a recognized boss buried out of sight in politics, he has more heart in his breast than I have ever given him credit for. Not having children of his own, he has centered his affections on this choice little sister of his, and finding her far from happy, came to see me yesterday evening with this proposition: If I would consent to your union with Lucie, and withdraw my opposition to your immediate marriage, he would take your future in charge and put you in the way of political advancement only to be limited, as he says, by your talents, which he is good enough to rate very high.

  After this, how can I do otherwise than bid you follow your impulses and marry Lucie in spite of the disparity of years to which I have hitherto taken exception. Were she as poor as she is accounted rich, I should say the same, now that I have sounded the depths of her lovely disposition and the rare culture of a mind which those seven years have enriched beyond what is usual even in women of intellect. Her money does not influence me in her favor, nor does it weigh with me in my present opinion of her complete fitness for the position you are so eager to give her. That this will make you happy I know. Let it hasten your return which cannot be too speedy.

  This was the bombshell which had disturbed Carleton Roberts' complacency,bared his own soul to his horrified view, and revealed to him theweakness of his moral nature which he had hitherto considered strong. Forhis first impulse was one of recoil, not only from the secret marriagewhich shut him off from these new hopes, but from his youthful bride aswell. He found himself weary of his flowery bonds and eager for a man'slife in his native city. Oh, why had he urged this immature girl to takethe ride which had led him into slavery to one who could not advance himin life, however queen-like she moved and talked and smiled upon theworld from the heights of her physical perfections. It was brain that wasneeded--an understanding like Lucie's, tempered, like hers, by years, notmonths, of culture and refined association.

  It was at this point he paused in his restless walk and looked forinspiration to the far-off waters of the bluest of all seas.

  Suddenly he resumed his walk; then quickly stopping again sat down at hisdesk and with an air of desperate haste began a letter to his mother withthe announcement:

  It is too late. Unfortunately for your scheme, I am already....

  He never got any further. A fresh impulse drove him into the street. Hecould not thus summarily settle his future fate. It meant too much tohim. He must take time to think. His heart clamors loudly for its rights;he is only twenty-six--and in a rush of feeling which should have beenhis salvation, he turned toward that nest among the flowers where helpwas to be had if help was to come at all in this crisis of conflictingpassions.

  * * * * *

  The hour was noon, one which he had never chosen before for a visit toErmentrude. Would he find her in? Would she be in spirits to meet him?Would she look beautiful--worthy of his name, worthy of the greatestsacrifice a man can make for a woman? He half hoped that she would;that he would find his chains riveted and secure beyond the power of anyforce to break.

  As his musings faltered, he turned the knob of the little side door andwent in. As he did so a shower of rose-leaves fell upon him from thevines enveloping the balcony.

  He shuddered slightly and passed down the hall. Everything was verystill.

  She was asleep. Lying on a couch in utter weariness or pain, she haddrifted off into the land of dreams, and he felt that he had a moment ofrespite. He could look and weigh the question: Love or a quick success? Aweakling's paradise or the goal of the strong man?

  Meanwhile, she was not as beautiful as he thought. But she was moretouching--less robust, less bounteous of aspect, more child-like, moreappealing,--a woman who, if he were no more of a man than he appeared tobe in this hurly-burly of pleasure and fashion, might in time do himcredit and hold him back from follies.

  But he was not just the man these casual friends and admirers consideredhim. There was much more to him than that. He knew this better than Luciedid or her powerful brother, or even his adoring mother. Greatopportunities awaited him and a large space in the affairs of men if notof nations. Such confidence did he feel in himself at this fevered momentthat he never doubted that eventually he would gain all this, even withthe handicap of a good-looking but unsophisticated wife.

  But not quickly;... step by step perhaps ... and he was longing to takeit all at a bound.

  Poor girl! and she lay there under his eyes all unmindful of his conflictor of the fact that her fate as well as his was trembling in the balance;unmindful, though her dreams were far from joyous--or why the tearwelling from between her lashes as he gazed.

  She was alone in the house; he knew it by the complete silence. He couldlook and look and study her every feature, without fear of interruption;wait for her waking and be ready to meet her first glance of tenderastonishment which might restore him to his better self.

  Drawing up a chair, he sat down; then started upright again with dilatingeyes and a strange shadow on his brow. One of her arms lay uppermostand on the hand--almost as fine as Lucie's, but not quite,--he saw thering--his ring, and it hung loosely. The poor child was growing thin,very thin. "If she were to hold her hand downward," he muttered tohimself, "I believe that ring would fall off." Did some stray glimpse ofhis own features, wearing a look never seen on them before, confront himfrom some near-by mirror that he started so guiltily as this heart murmurrose to his lips? Or was it at a thought, hideous but tempting, whichheld him, gained upon him and soon absolutely possessed him, till his ownhand went out stealthily and with hesitations toward those helplessfingers of hers, now approaching, now withdrawing, and now approachingthem again but not touching them, great as his impulse was to do so,for fear she should wake, while yet the devil gripped his arm and lit upbaleful fires in his eyes.

  He had remembered those words of hers: "Have you ever thought that withthe exception of this ring no proof exists in all the world of our everhaving been married?" Remember them? He had not remembered them; he hadheard them, sounding and resounding in his ears till the whole roomseemed to palpitate with them. Then the devil made his final move.Ermentrude shuddered, and her position changing, the hand which hadbeen uppermost fell down at her side and the ring slipped--left herfinger--paused on the edge of the couch--then came to rest in his palmheld out to receive it.

  He had not drawn it from her hand. Fate had restored it. As he forcedhimself to look at it lying in his grasp, a faintness as of death seizedand held him for a moment; then this passed and he slowly rose and stepby step with sidelong looks and hair starting upright on his forehead,like one who has walked in blood and sees the trail of guilt followinghim along the floor, he left her side--he left the room--he left thehouse--and the rose-leaves fell about him once more, maddening him withtheir color,
maddening him with the memories inseparable from theirsweetness--a sweetness which spoke of her, of love, and the attachmentof a true heart destined to grieve for a little while at least, for hewas never going back, never, never.

  There was no eye to see, and no tongue to tell him that the seed,destined to flower into awful crime some dozen or more years later, putforth its first bud at this fatal hour.

  * * * * *

  He wrote her a letter. He had the grace to do that. Addressing her simplyas Ermentrude, he told her that he had been called home to enter upon theserious business of life. That he was not likely to come back, and as shewas not really his wife, however pleasing the fiction had been in whichthey had both indulged, it seemed to him wiser to end their happy romancethus suddenly and while much of its glamour remained, than to linger onand see it decay day by day before their eyes till nothing but bitternessremained. He loved her and felt the wrench more than she did, but dutyand his obligations as a man, etc., etc., till it ended in his signaturelimited to initials like his love.

  Despicable! the work of a man without conscience or heart! Yes, and heknew it, and for weeks his sleep was broken by visions and his wakinghours rendered dreadful by fears. How had she taken this cool assumptionthat the ceremony performed in the path of the snow was voided by lack ofproof? To whom had she ascribed the loss of her ring, and what must shethink of him? He had left Nice almost immediately, but wherever he went,in whatever hotel he stayed, or through whatever street he passed, he wasalways expecting to see her figure rise up before him in the majesty ofinnocence and outraged love.

  Thus several weeks passed, and seeing nothing of her, hearing nothingfrom her, a different apprehension darkened his days and despoiled him ofrest at night. Grief if not shame had killed her; and the weight of herfancied doom lay heavy on his heart. At last he could bear it no longer,and stealing back to Nice he entered it one dark night and prepared tolearn for himself what he feared to trust to the discretion of another.Alone, with hidden face and heavily throbbing heart, he trod the familiarways and encircled the familiar walls. Had she been there----

  But the windows were blank and the place desolate, and he fled the spotand the town, with his questions unasked and his fears unallayed. In twodays he had sailed for home. With the ocean between them he might forget;and in time he did. As week followed week, and the silence he had halftrusted, half feared, remained unbroken, his equanimity graduallyreturned, and he prepared to face the prospect of his new marriage muchas a man who watches for a dreaded door to open moves with restoredconfidence about his affairs, when at last convinced that the door ispadlocked and the key lost.

  One precaution and one only he was wise enough to take. He told his storyto Lucie's brother, and left it to him to say whether or not he shouldmarry his sister. And the answer was yes; that if trouble came he wouldsee him through it. A marriage which could not be proved was no marriage,and as for anything else, Lucie's happiness must not be sacrificed to aboy's peccadillos. What were a few wild oats sown by a man of hispromise?

  And was this the end? Did Ermentrude accept her doom without a struggle?

  Let us see.

  * * * * *

  One afternoon in June, there entered the parlor of the old-fashionedmansion of the Roberts family a lady who had asked to see Mrs. Roberts onbusiness of an important nature. Though plainly clad, her appearancepossessed an elegance which insured respect; but when alone and seated inthe darkest corner of the great drawing room she put up a trembling handto thrust back her veil, the countenance thus revealed betrayed anemotion hardly in keeping with the quiet bearing with which she hadadvanced under the servant's eye.

  His home! and these the surroundings amid which he had grown to manhood!Why should the sight of all this rouse emotions she believed eliminatedby a treachery most cruel in face of promises most sacred? Why, as shelooked about, and noted object after object which must have been thereprevious to his birth, did she see him as a child and boy and not as theman who had first won and then deserted her? She would not have had it soat this hour when strength was needed rather than tenderness. But shecould not help her nature, or still the wild surging of her rebelliousheart, as his portrait seen upon the wall challenged her constancy andwhispered of the hour when his "forever" echoed her "forever" and thecompact for eternity was sealed.

  He had broken this compact--broken it soon--broken it before thehoneymoon had passed. But she! Was she to show no firmer spirit whoselove was of the soul and took no note of time? She was his wife, andacknowledged or unacknowledged, must yet prove to be his blessing thoughhe--he----

  But this would not do. The interview before her called for calmness. Shewould not add to the turbulence of her spirits by another glance at whatbrought back too much of the past to fortify her for the impendingstruggle. She had to do credit to his choice, to impress a difficultwoman with her dignity as a wife. She must not shake nor weep.

  Yet when she heard a step at the door, instinct told her to pull down herveil till the first greetings were over--a precaution for which she wasdeeply grateful when in another moment a young woman entered instead ofher husband's mother for whom she had asked and whom she naturallyexpected to see.

  In the humiliation of the moment, her disappointment took words and shemuttered within herself:

  "A companion or possibly a relative. I am to be put off with kindlyexcuses; begged to state my errand--rehearse my claims and my hopes tosome gentle go-between! I have not strength for that. I must see themother--the mother. God give me wisdom and keep me calm--calm."

  Meanwhile the young woman she had instinctively called gentle advancedinto the center of the room. Mechanically, Ermentrude rose to meet her,and thus stepped into a better light. Tragedy came with her. This it wasimpossible not to see--not to feel. But the warning which her aspect gavepassed as she spoke and said in tones a little tremulous, perhaps, butwith an air of perfect courtesy:

  "I had hoped to see Mrs. Roberts herself."

  The smile with which this was greeted, the flush of pride and the joy ofpossession which lit the other's pleasing features as she replied, "I amMrs. Roberts," should have carried the truth to Ermentrude.

  But they did not. She looked surprised--baffled, and after the briefesthesitation, observed:

  "I am a stranger in this city and have doubtless made some mistake. TheMrs. Roberts I have called to see--and I was told she lived here--is themother of a gentleman of the name of----"

  She could not speak it.

  But the other could.

  "Carleton?" she asked; and at Ermentrude's agitated nod, added withfriendly interest: "This is her home; but she has left it for a while tous. I am Mr. Carleton Roberts' wife."

  * * * * *

  There are blows which prostrate; there are others which sear but leavethe body intact--feet still supporting it--eyes still gazing aheadunmoved--lips moving with mechanical exactness and sometimes stillretaining their smile. Only the soul which gave life to all of this isdead. The image is there but the spirit is gone; and if sufficientlypreoccupied, the one who struck the blow sees no change. So was it withErmentrude and Lucie.

  "We are looking for mother to return next week," added the latter asErmentrude stood stark and silent before her. "Would you like to leave amessage for her?"

  At these words uttered with the sweetness of a rich and sympatheticnature, the soul returned to Ermentrude's body. With a long and earnestlook which took in the full measure of the other's personality, radiantwith happiness and the consciousness of an assured wifedom, she answeredsoftly:

  "No, I will leave no message," and turned as if to go.

  "Nor any name?" queried Lucie, eying with admiration the noble lines ofa figure with whose perfect proportions her own could never hope tocompete.

  "Nor any name," came back in indescribable accents from the doorway.

  Lucie paused, and gazing in vague trouble after her rapidly
disappearingvisitor, murmured to herself, "Who is she?"

  But the one who could have answered her was gone.

  * * * * *

  "Carleton, you seldom see such a woman. Younger than I, she had the poiseof a woman of thirty. Who could she have been?"

  "Describe her."

  "I wish I could; I hardly saw her face; it was her figure, her voice, herway of moving and holding herself. I felt as small and quiet as a littlemouse beside her. Only I was happy and she was not. That much I feel nowthat I recall her look in leaving."

  "Was she American or--or foreign?" he asked, hiding his trouble, for agreat fear had seized him.

  "She had an English accent which added very much to her charm."

  "Forget her." For a moment his accent was almost fierce, then he laughedthe matter off, assuring this bride of a month that she made him crosswith her self-depreciation, that there was no one of finer mien andmanner than herself, the chosen of his heart upon whom he always lookedwith pride. Which subtle tribute to what was her greatest charmaccomplished its end; she did forget the stranger.

  But he did not; he knew what was before him and prepared himself for theinevitable meeting which would be followed by--what?

  Not by what he had every right to expect and evidently did. Ermentrudehad learned all she would both of this marriage and of the woman who hadsupplanted her, and had made her resolve. This he saw as they cametogether in the isolation of a quiet corner of the Park, and so was notgreatly surprised, though a little moved, as after the first few words,and with an earnest look, she said:

  "I am your wife, I, Ermentrude Roberts, married to you in the sight ofGod and man. I cannot prove it, but as you once said, our hearts know itand will continue to know it as long as either of us lives. But I am notgoing to obtrude my claims upon you, Carleton, or stand like a specter inyour path. Had this woman you have deceived been weak or foolish orunloving, or indeed anything but what she is, I might have held to myrights and insisted upon a recognition which would have profited you inthe end. But I cannot shame that woman--I can neither shame her nor bringher to grief. You have broken one heart, but you shall be saved theremorse of breaking two. I had rather suffer myself. I am alone in theworld. I have means. I can ultimately be useful and face good men andwomen without fear. Why then should I drag down to the dust one asinnocent as myself, or take from you what may make you the man I oncethought you and hope to see you again. But that I may have strength forthis and for all the sacrifices it involves, you must declare here, now,in this open park where we stand, with no one within sight much lesswithin hearing, that I am your wife."

  "You are my wife."

  "It is enough. Now I can say what otherwise could never have left mylips. I love you, Carleton, love you to eternity as I promised; but Ishall never seek you again, and you can go on your way unperturbed. Ihave consolations here," laying her hand on her breast. "It will nolonger be my portion to watch your face for signs of a failing regard.What I have is mine, and that is the undying memory of two months ofperfect happiness."

  She would have said more, but she saw that he had been greatly shaken.She feared the renewal of a flame not yet altogether extinct in a heartwhich once beat for her alone, and so contenting herself with a lowfarewell, she was turning swiftly away, when one last thought made herpause and say:

  "I cannot return you your ring. It is lost. I was careless with it and itfell unnoticed from my hand. But to-night I will send you back the littleclock which unites our initials. Destroy it if you will, but if somesentiment bids you keep it, let it be this one and no other: 'I recallErmentrude only that I may be faithful to Lucie.'"

  With a low cry his head fell upon his breast in extreme self-abasement,then he slowly lifted his eyes and seeing in her face a full knowledge ofhis sin, murmured in overwhelming shame and contrition:

  "You know me for the wretch I am. I have the ring; it fell from your handinto mine one day while you lay asleep. I do not ask for forgiveness,but this I promise you, Ermentrude:--if the little clock comes back, Iwill make a place in it for this ring, and neither clock nor ring shallleave me again while I live."

  Instinctively her hands went out to him, then they fell back on herbreast.

  "God will hold you to that promise," she said; and melted away from hissight in the mist which had been gradually enveloping them without beingseen by either.

  Thus the struggle ended for him, which for her had simply begun.

  Not till she found herself in the South with her girl friend, AntoinetteDuclos, did she discover that the closest bond which can unite man andwoman held her in spite of her late compact with Carleton Roberts. Shouldshe reassert her rights and demand that the father should recognize hischild? Her generous heart said No. The old arguments held good. Sheappealed to Antoinette for advice.

  The result we know. When Antoinette's own child died at birth, she tookErmentrude's to her heart and brought it up as her own. There was littledifficulty in this, as the Professor had already yielded to a Southernfever and lay at rest in a New Orleans cemetery.

  And this brings us to another episode.

  * * * * *

  The widow in fact and the widow in heart stood face to face above asleeping infant. They were both dressed for traveling and so was thebabe. The dismantled rooms showed why. Young still, for the years ofeither's romance had been few, each face, as the other contemplated it,told the story of sorrow which Time, for all its kindliness, wouldnever efface. But the charm of either remained--perceptible at this houras perhaps it would never be again to the same extent. Antoinette baskedin the light of Ermentrude's beauty ennobled by renunciation, andErmentrude in that wonderful look in her friend's plain face which cameat great crises and made her for the moment the equal of the best.

  They had said little; and they said little now, as is the way of thestrong amongst us when an act is to be performed which wrings the heartbut satisfies the conscience.

  The child was legitimate. It must not grow up under a shadow. To insureits welfare and raise no doubt in its own mind as it grew in knowledgeand feeling, the two women must separate. No paltering with this duty,and no delay. A month of baby cries and baby touches might weaken thereal mother. It should be now. It should be to-day.

  But first, a final word--a parting question. It was uttered byErmentrude.

  "You will go back to France?"

  "Yes. I can easily live there. And you, Ermentrude?"

  "To New York. I shall never go far from him. But he and I will nevermeet. My world will not be his world. I shall make my own place."

  "As Ermentrude Taylor?"

  "As Mrs. Ermentrude Taylor. I am a wife. I shall never forget that fact."

  "And the child? Will you never come to see it?"

  Ermentrude's head fell and she stood a long time without answering. Thenwith a steady look she calmly said:

  "I can think of but one contingency which might shake my resolutionto leave her yours without the least interruption from me. If_he_--Antoinette, if he were left alone and childless, I might seemy duty differently from now. You must be prepared for that."

  "Ermentrude, when you send me this little shoe--See, I will leave one onand give you the other, I shall know that you are coming, or that youwant the child. My life is yours as I once promised, and do you think Iwould hold back the child?"

  And again their hands met as once before, in that strong clasp, whichmeans:

  "Trust me to the death and beyond it."

  * * * * *

  With Antoinette it was to the death, as we have seen. Warned byErmentrude of the appalling results of their plan to bring father andchild together, and entreated to fly lest her story should imperilthe secret upon the preservation of which his very life now hung, sheanswered to the call as she had promised, and thus acquitted her debtthough she failed to save him.

  Of her previous act in disfiguring his photograph in her temporarylodg
ing-place, we shall never know the full story. The picture had beenhers for years, given her by Ermentrude on their parting, so that thechild should not be without some semblance of her father even if sheshould not know him as such, and it was to secure this clue to their nowdoubly dangerous secret that Madame Duclos ransacked her baggage previousto her flight from the New York hotel. But whether its destruction in thepeculiar manner we know was the result of simple precaution, or of afeeling of antagonism so strong against this destroyer of her beloved'speace, that it had to be expended in some way before she felt strongenough for that supreme sacrifice in his favor toward which events seemedhurrying her, may be known in _Eternity_ but will never be told in_Time_.

  * * * * *

  And Ermentrude? What of her? Alone, robbed of husband and child andfriend--where shall we look for her in this world of extreme tribulation?Search the hospitals of France where they press closest to the trenches.There will you find the woman who losing all has found much. Blessingand blest! the angel of the battlefield whom the bullets spare since herwork on earth is not yet accomplished!