"You are chilled!" he cried. "If you would but go into the house while we are waiting! Indeed, if you do not, I shall wonder how I have offended you! It will be something to remember"--half lightly, half seriously--"that you have crossed my threshold!"

He stood at the door, with such an undissembled smile, his accents so regretful, that after a moment's hesitation, Constance entered, followed by the patroon. Sweeping aside the heavy draperies from the window, he permitted the golden shafts of the ebbing day to enter the hall, gleaming on the polished floors, the wainscoting and the furniture, faintly illuminating the faded pictures and weirdly revealing the turnings of the ma.s.sive stairway. No wonder a half-shudder of apprehension seized the young actress in spite of her self-reliance and courage, as she entered the solemn and mournful place, where past grandeur offered nothing save morbid memories and where the frailty of existence was significantly written! After that Indian summer day the sun was sinking, angry and fiery, as though presaging a speedy reform in the vagaries of the season and an immediate return to the legitimate surroundings of October.

Involuntarily the girl moved to the window, where the light rested on her brown tresses, and as Mauville watched that radiance, shifting and changing, her hair alight with mystic color, the pa.s.sion that had prompted him to this end was stirred anew, dissipating any intrusive doubts. The veering and flickering sheen seemed but a web of entangling irradiation. A span of silence became an interminable period to her, with no sight of fresh horses nor sign of preparation for the home journey.

"What takes him so long?" she said, finally, with impatience. "It is getting so late!"

"It is late," he answered. "Almost too late to go on! You are weary and worn. Why not rest here to-night?"

"Rest here?" she repeated, with a start of surprise.

"You are not fit to drive farther. To-morrow we can return."

"To-morrow!" she cried. "But--what do you mean?"

"That I must insist upon your sparing yourself!" he said, firmly, although a red spot flushed his cheek.

"No; no! We must leave at once!" she answered.

He smiled rea.s.suringly. "Why will you not have confidence in me?" he asked. "You have not the strength to travel all night--over a rough road--after such a trying day. For your own sake, I beg you to give up the idea. Here you are perfectly safe and may rest undisturbed."

"Please call the horses at once!"

An impatient expression furrowed his brow. He had relied on easily prevailing upon her through her grat.i.tude; continuing in his disinterested role for yet some time; resuming the journey on the morrow, carrying her farther away under pretext of mistaking the road, until--Here his plans had faded into a vague perspective, dominated by unreasoning self-confidence and egotism.

But her words threatened a rupture at the outset that would seriously alter the status of the adventure.

"It is a mistake to go on to-night," he said, with a dissenting gesture. "However, if you are determined--" And Mauville stepped to the window. "Why, the carriage is not there!" he exclaimed, looking out.

"Not there!" she repeated, incredulously. "You told them to change the horses. Why--"

"I don't understand," returned the land baron, with an effort to make his voice surprised and concerned. "He may--h.e.l.lo-a, there!

You!--Oly-koeks!" he called out, interrupting his own explanation.

Not Oly-koeks, but the driver's face, appeared from behind the barn door, and, gazing through the window, the young girl, with a start, suddenly realized that she had seen him not for the first time that day--but where?--when? Through the growing perplexity of her thoughts she heard the voice of her companion

"Why don't you hitch up the grays?"

"There are no horses in the barn," came the answer.

"Strange, the care-taker did not tell me they had been taken away!"

commented the other, hastily, stepping from the window as the driver vanished once more into the barn. "I am sorry, but there seems no alternative but to wait--at least, until I can send for others."

She continued to gaze toward the door through which the man had disappeared. She could place him now, although his livery had been discarded for shabby clothes; she recalled him distinctly in spite of this changed appearance.

"Why not make the best of it?" said Mauville, softly, but with glance sparkling in spite of himself. "After all, are you not giving yourself needless apprehensions? You are at home here. Anything you wish shall be yours. Consider yourself mistress; me, one of your servants!"

Almost imperceptibly his manner had changed. Instinctive misgivings which had a.s.sailed her in the coach with him now resolved themselves into a.s.sured fears. Something she could not explain had aroused her suspicions before they reached the manor, but his words had glossed these inward qualms, and a feeling of obligation suggested trust, not shrinking; but, with his last words, a full light illumined her faculties; an a.s.sociation of ideas revealed his intent and performance.

"It was you, then," she said, slowly, studying him with steady, penetrating glance.

"You!" she repeated, with such contempt that he was momentarily disconcerted. "The man in the carriage--he was hired by you. The driver--his face is familiar. I remember now where I saw him--in the Shadengo Valley. He is your coachman. Your rescue was planned to deceive me. It deceived even your man. He had not expected that. Your rea.s.suring me was false; the plan to change horses a trick to get me here--"

"If you would but listen--"

"When"--her eyes ablaze--"will this farce end?"

Her words took him unawares. Not that he dreaded the betrayal of his actual purpose. On the contrary, his reckless temper, chafing under her unexpected obduracy, now welcomed the opportunity of discarding the disinterested and chivalrous part he had a.s.sumed.

"When it ends in a honeymoon, _ma belle_ Constance!" he said, swiftly.

His sudden words, removing all doubts as to his purpose, awoke such repugnance in her that for a moment aversion was paramount to every other feeling. Again she looked without, but only the solitude of the fields and forests met her glance.

The remoteness of the situation gave the very boldness of his plan feasibility. Was he not his own magistrate in his own province? Why, then, he had thought, waste the golden moments? He had but one heed now; a study of physical beauty, against a crimson background.

"To think of such loveliness lost in the wilderness!" he said, softly.

"The gates of art should all open to you. Why should you play to rustic b.u.mpkins, when the world of fashion would gladly receive you? I am a poor prophet if you would not be a success in town. It is not always easy to get a hearing, to procure an audience, but means could be found. Soon your name would be on every one's lips. Your art is fresh. The jaded world likes freshness. The cynical town runs to artless art as an antidote to its own poison. Most of the players are wrinkled and worn. A young face will seem like a new-grown white rose."

She did not answer; unresponsive as a statue, she did not move. The sun shot beneath an obstructing branch, and long, searching shafts found access to the room. Mauville moved forward impetuously, until he stood on the verge of the sunlight on the satinwood floor.

"May I not devote myself to this cause, Constance?" he continued. "You are naturally resentful toward me now. But can I not show you that I have your welfare at heart? If you were as ambitious as you are attractive, what might you not do? Art is long; our days are short; youth flies like a summer day."

His glance sought hers questioningly; still no reply; only a wave of blood surged over her neck and brow, while her eyes fell. Then the glow receded, leaving her white as a snow image.

"Come," he urged. "May I not find for you those opportunities?"

He put out his eager hand as if to touch her. Then suddenly the figure in the window came to life and shrank back, with widely opened eyes fixed upon his face. His gaze could not withstand hers, man of the world though he was, and his free manner was replaced by something resembling momentary embarra.s.sment. Conscious of this new and annoying feeling, his egotism rose in arms, as if protesting against the novel sensation, and his next words were correspondingly violent.

"Put off your stage manners!" he exclaimed. "You are here at my pleasure. It was no whim, my carrying you off. After you left I went to the manor, where I tried to forget you. But nights of revelry--why should I not confess it?--could not efface your memory." His voice unconsciously sank to unreserved candor. "Your presence filled these halls. I could no longer say: Why should I trouble myself about one who has no thought for me?"

Breathing hard, he paused, gazing beyond her, as though renewing the memories of that period.

"Learning you were in the neighboring town," he continued, "I went there, with no further purpose than to see you. On the journey perhaps I indulged in foolish fancies. How would you receive me? Would you be pleased; annoyed? So I tempted my fancy with air-castles like the most unsophisticated lover. But you had no word of welcome; scarcely listened to me, and hurried away! I could not win you as I desired; the next best way was this."

He concluded with an impa.s.sioned gesture, his gaze eagerly seeking the first sign of lenity or favor on her part, but his confession seemed futile. Her eyes, suggestive of tender possibilities, expressed now but coldness and obduracy. In a revulsion of feeling he forgot the distance separating the buskined from the fashionable world; the tragic scatterlings from the conventions of Vanity Fair! He forgot all save that she was to him now the one unparagoned entirety, overriding other memories.

"Will not a life of devotion atone for this day, Constance?" he cried.

"Do you know how far-reaching are these lands? All the afternoon you drove through them, and they extend as wide in the other direction.

These--my name--are yours!"

A shade of color swept over her brow.

"Answer me," he urged.

"Drive back and I will answer you."

"Drive back and you will laugh at me," he retorted, moodily. "You would make a woman's bargain with me."

"Is yours a man's with me?" Contemptuously.