"I did not realize how late it had become."

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

Not difficult was it for him to surmise upon whom her mind had been bent, and involuntarily his jaw set disagreeably, while he looked at her resentfully. In that light he could but dimly discern her face.

Her bonnet had fallen from her head; her eyes were bent before her, as though striving to penetrate the gathering darkness. With his sudden spell of jealousy came the temptation to clasp her in his arms in that silent, isolated place, but the figure of the sailor came between him and the desire, while pride, the heritage of the gentleman, fought down the longing. This self-conquest was not accomplished, however, without a sacrifice of temper, for after a pause, he observed:

"There is no accounting for a woman's taste!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For what? For what we don't want? That's the philosophy of your moralists, Miss Carew," he exclaimed. "That's your modern ethics of duty. Playing tricks with happiness! The game isn't worth the candle.

Or, if you believe in striving," he added, half resentfully, half imploringly, "strive to care for me but a little. But a little!" he said again. "I who once wanted all, and would have nothing but all, am content to ask, to plead, for but a little."

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

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

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

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

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

"May I see you again?" he asked, abruptly.

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

"You are well named," he repeated, more to himself than to her.

"Constance! You are constant in your dislikes as well as your likes."

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

"Only indifference, then!" he said, dully.

"No; not indifference!"

"You do care what--may become of me?"

"You should do so much--be so much in the world," she answered, thoughtfully.

"_Sans peur et sans reproche!_" he cried, half-amused, half-cheerlessly.

"What a pity I met you--too late!"

They were now at the broad entrance of the brilliantly-lighted hotel.

Several loungers, smoking their after-dinner cigars, gazed at the couple curiously.

"Mauville's a lucky dog," said one.

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

As he pa.s.sed through the envious throng, the land baron had regained his self-command, although his face was marked with an unusual pallor.

In his mind one thought was paramount--that the walk begun at the burial-ground was drawing to an end; their last walk; the finale of all between them! Yet he could call to mind nothing further to say.

His story had been told; the conclusion reached. She, too, had spoken, and he knew she would never speak differently. Bewildered and unable to adjust his new and strange feelings, it dawned upon him he had never understood himself and her; that he had never really known what love was, and he stood abashed, confronted by his own ignorance.

Pa.s.sion, caprice, fancy, he had seen depth in their shallows, but now looked down and discerned the pebbly bottom. All this and much more surged through his brain as he made his way through the crowd, and, entering the corridor of the hotel, took formal leave of the young girl at the stairway.

"Good-night, Miss Carew," he said, gravely.

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

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

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

"Aren't we gentlemen?" growled a professional turfsman.

"Gad! it's the first time I ever heard a jockey pretend to be one!"

chuckled the first speaker. "What do you say, Mauville?"

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

"Win?" interrupted the proud owner.

"No; fall off before he's at the second quarter!"

"Done!" said the man, immediately.

"Huzza!" shouted the crowd.

"That's the way they bet on a gentlemen's race!" jeered the gleeful jockey.

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