"You make use of every pretext to avoid me," he continued, "but it won't serve you; no matter what cool things you say now, I can only hear through your words the meaning of those Fontainbleau days, and that one day in Paris when you loved me and dared to say it. Judithe, give me my answer. I thought I could wait until tomorrow, but I can't; you must tell me tonight; you must!"

"Must?" She drew away from him and leaned against a tall garden vase overrun with cl.u.s.tering vines. They were in the full blaze of light from the windows; she felt safer there where they were likely to be interrupted every minute; the man surely dared not be wildly sentimental in full view of the crowd--which conclusion showed that she was not yet fully aware of what Kenneth McVeigh would dare do where a woman--or the woman was in question.

"An hour ago you said: 'Will you?' Now it is: 'You must!'" she said, with a fine little smile. "How quick you are to a.s.sume the tone of master, Monsieur."

"If you said slave, the picture would have been more complete," he answered. "I will obey you in all things except when you tell me to leave you;" he had possessed himself of her hand, under cover of the vines; "it's no use, Judithe, you belong to me. I can't let you go from me again; I won't!"

All of pleading was in his voice and eyes. Moved by some sudden impulse not entirely guileless, she looked full at him and let her hand remain in his.

"Well, since you really cannot," she murmured.

"Judithe! You mean it?" and in an instant both his hands were clasping hers. "You are not coquetting with me this time? Judithe!"

She attempted to draw her hand away, but he bent his head, and kissed the warm palm. Margeret who was lighting an extinguished lantern, saw the caress and heard the low, deep tones. She turned and retraced her steps instead of pa.s.sing them.

"Do you realize that all who run may read the subject of your discourse?" she asked, raising her brows and glancing after the retreating woman.

"Let them, the sooner they hear it the better I shall be pleased; come, let us tell my mother; I want to be sure of you this time, my beautiful Judithe. What time more fitting than this for the announcement--come!"

"What is it you would tell her?" she asked, looking straight ahead of her into the shadows on the lawn. Her voice sounded less musical than it had a moment before. Her eyes avoided his, and for one unguarded instant the full sculpturesque lips were tense and rigid.

"What is it?" he repeated, "why, that I adore you! that you have been the one woman in the world to me ever since I met you first; that I want you for my wife, and that you--confess it again in words, Judithe--that you love me."

She shook her head slowly, but accompanied that half denial with a bewildering smile.

"Entirely too much to announce in one evening," she decided; "do you forget they have had other plans for you? We must give your family more time to grow accustomed to me and to--your wishes."

"_Our_ wishes," he said, correctively, and she dropped her eyes and bent her head in a.s.sent. She was adorable in the final surrender. He murmured endearing, caressing words to her, and the warm color merged across her face, and receding, left her a trifle pale. All her indifference had been a pretense--he knew it now, and it strengthened his protests against delay. He drew her away from the steps as the dance ended, and the people came chattering and laughing out from the brilliantly lit rooms.

"You talk of haste, but forget that I have waited three years, Judithe; remember that, won't you? Put that three years to my credit; consider that I wooed you every day of every year, and I would if I had been given the chance! You talk of time as if there were oceans of it for us, and you forget that I have but one more day to be with you--one day; and then separation, uncertainty. I can't leave you like that, now that I know you care for me--I won't."

"Oh--h!" and she met his look with a little quizzical smile. "You mean to resign your commission for the sake of my society? But I am not sure I should admire you so much then. I am barbarian enough to like a fighter."

"I should fight all the better for knowing it was a wife I was leaving behind instead of a sweetheart, Judithe; marry me tomorrow!"

She made a little gesture of protest, but he clasped her hand in his and held it close to prevent her from repeating it. "Why not?" he continued. "No one need know unless you wish; it can be kept secret as the engagement would be. Then, wherever the fortunes of war may send me, I can carry with me the certainty of your love. Speak to me, Judithe! Say yes. I have waited three years; I want my wife!"

"Your wife! _Your_--oh!"--and she flung out her hands as though putting the thought away from her. A tear fell on his hand--she was weeping.

"Judithe, sweetheart!" he murmured, remorsefully.

"Tomorrow--not tonight," she half whispered. "I must think, so much is to be considered."

"No! Only one thing is to be considered;" he held her hands and looked in her face, with eyes ardent, compelling; "Only one thing, Judithe, and that is, do you love me--now?"

"Now, and from the first day we ever met," she answered, looking up at him; her eyes were like stars glimmering through the mist of late tears. There came to them both the remembrance of that other avowal, behind those plunging horses in the Paris boulevard. They had unconsciously repeated the words uttered then.

For an instant his arms were about her--such strong, masterful, compelling arms. A wild temptation came to her to remain in that shelter--to let all the world go by with its creeds, its plots, its wars of right and wrong--to live for love, love only, love with him.

"My queen!" he whispered, as her head bent in half avoidance of his caresses even while her hand clasped his closely, convulsively, "it has all been of no use; those three years when you kept me away. It is fate that we find each other again. I shall never let you go from me--never! Do you hear me, Judithe? You are so silent; but words matter little since you belong to me. Do you realize it?--that you must belong to me always!"

The words over which he lingered, words holding all of hope and happiness to him brought to her a swift revulsion of feeling. She remembered those other human creatures who belonged to him--she remembered--

A moment later and he stood alone in the sweet dusk of the night. She had fairly run from him along the little arbor to the side door, where she vanished unseen by the others. How she was for all her queenly ways! What a creature of moods, and pa.s.sions, and emotions! The hand on which her tear had fallen he touched to his cheek. Why had she wept at his confession of love for her? She had not wept when the same words were spoken on that never-to-be-forgotten day in Paris!

CHAPTER XXVII.

The love affair of Colonel McVeigh was not the only one under consideration that evening. Delaven was following up the advice of the Judge and Madame Caron to the extent of announcing to Mistress McVeigh during a pause in the dance that his heart was heavy, though his feet were light, and that she held his fate in her hands, for he was madly in love, which statement she had time to consider and digest before the quadrille again allowed them to come close enough for conversation, when she asked the meaning of his mystery.

"First, let me know, Mrs. McVeigh, which you would prefer if you had a choice--to have me for your family physician, or a physician in your family?"

She smiled at the excentric question, but as the dance whisked him off just then she waited for the next installment of his confidence.

"You must tell me, first, what relationship you seek to establish,"

she demanded, as he came up for his answer.

He looked at her quizzically, and seeing a slight gleam of humor in her fine eyes, he launched into the heart of the question.

"What relationship? Well, I should say that of husband and wife, if I was not afraid of being premature;" he glanced at her and saw that she was interested and not in the least forbidding. "To be sure, I am poor, while you are wealthy, but I'm willing to overlook that; in fact, I'm willing to overlook anything, and dare all things if you would only consider me favorably--as a son-in-law."

"You are actually serious?"

"Serious, am I--on my faith, it's a life and death affair with me this minute!"

"And my little Evilena the cause?"

"Yes, our Evilena, who does not feel so small as you may imagine. Look at her now. Could a dozen seasons give her more confidence in her own powers than she has this minute by reason of those uniformed admirers?--to say nothing of my own case."

"_Our_ Evilena?" and Mrs. McVeigh raised her brows inquiringly--"then you have proposed?"

"Indeed, no! I have not had the courage until tonight; but when I see a lot of lads daft as myself over her, I just whispered in the ear of Delaven that he'd better speak quick. But I would not propose without asking your permission."

"And if I refused it?"

"You could not be so hard-hearted as that?"

"But suppose I could--and should?"

He caught the gleam of teasing light in her eyes, and smiled back at her:

"I should propose just the same!"

"Well," said Evilena's mother, with a combination of amus.e.m.e.nt and sympathy in her expression, "you may speak to her and let me know the result."

"I'd get down on my knees to kiss the toe of your slipper, this minute," he whispered, gratefully, "but the Judge would scalp me if I dared; he is eyeing me with suspicion already. As to the result--well, if you hear a serenade in the wee small hours of the night, don't let it disturb you. I've got the guitar and the uniform all ready, and if I fail it will not be because I have overlooked any romantic adjuncts to successful wooing. I'll be under your daughter's window singing 'Sweet Evilena,' rigged out like a cavalier in a picture-book. I'm wishing I could borrow a feather for the hat."