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, pa.s.sionately. "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 surpa.s.sing 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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!"