For perhaps a quarter of an hour they walked up and down the lawn, chatting away unconcernedly about the people around them. It was the first time they had been alone together since Duncan's return, but he made not the slightest reference to their last meeting. He was careless and unconcerned, and Marion tried to appear the same, but there was a strange feeling in her heart, half of fear and half of resentment, which told her that indifference had no place there. She laughed and chatted, but waited anxiously, thankful that so many people were there, but hopeful that he might say something to tell her that he remembered the words he had spoken at the Patricians' ball.

Suddenly Duncan stopped at a secluded part of the lawn where there was an empty bench. "Let us sit down here in the shade. You must be tired,"

he said, and then, after they had taken seats, a moment of silence came, and Marion could feel that Duncan was looking into her face, but she did not dare to meet his glance. He leaned toward her and spoke in the soft tones she remembered so well. "You are cruel," he said.

She looked up, startled. "Cruel, what do you mean?" she asked.

"You are cruel to forget so easily. You are cruel to treat me as you have."

"I, cruel; I don't understand," she said, and she thought of his careless manner and how she had waited for him to speak.

"Yes, you women are all alike. You play with us men for the moment, and then we are cast aside like a toy which no longer pleases. I thought you were different from the rest."

Marion looked up into his face with an expression of astonishment. She met his grey eyes, and for a moment she felt again that subtle power she had been dreaming of so long.

"Have you forgotten?" he said slowly.

Marion turned her head away. "Don't talk of that, Mr. Grahame," she answered. "That is all ended."

"It can't be ended while----" He did not finish for he saw a man approaching. "Here we are, Sanderson," he called carelessly. "I suppose you are looking for your wife."

"Yes," answered Roswell, coming nearer. "Mr. Sedger has tea ready on the upper veranda, and he wants his party. You look pale, Marion, is anything the matter?"

"I felt very much upset by that accident. I came here to get away from the people for a moment."

"A cup of tea will put you right," said Duncan.

CHAPTER XIV.

DANGER.

The races were over, and the rays of the setting sun streamed through the western window of the little dining-room where Walter Sedger's party was seated. The gla.s.s and plate glistened in the fading sunlight, and cast many deep shadows on the white table cover, while the faces of the people sitting there were flushed with the first glow of the approaching twilight. The servants moved quietly from place to place, and the merry conversation of Sedger's friends mingled with the soft strains of a Viennese waltz coming through the open hallway door. The thousands who had crowded the course that day had rumbled back over the dusty roads to the city. The huge Grand Stand was silent and deserted, and only the few parties dining at the club remained of the great crowd that had cheered Belle of Newport in her Derby victory. The refreshing cool of the evening seemed to inspire the tired people with new spirits, and the addition to their number of Jack Elliot and his coaching party supplied the zest of variety, while the tales of a clever _raconteur_ produced peals of merry laughter and called forth the utmost efforts of the staid French waiters to preserve their habitual immobility of countenance.

When the dinner was over and the party had removed to the veranda for coffee and cigars, each person there had forgotten, for the moment, all the cares of life, and was lost in the delightful joy of living.

Exception must, however, be made of Marion, for, although the society of others usually enabled her to cast aside the depressing influences which often afflicted her, on this occasion she was unusually silent, and had been quite unresponsive to the loquacious efforts exerted by the grain broker on her right to arouse her interest. She now sat a little removed from the rest and gazed moodily out over the deserted race-course, thinking over the events of the past few months, and wondering, in a dazed sort of way, what the outcome would be. The men had gathered together and were discussing sport, while the women talked animatedly about a certain Mrs. Johnson whose actions had lately been disapproved of in certain quarters, so Marion was permitted to follow the current of her fancies undisturbed.

It was just dark enough for the freshly lighted cigars to glow in the fading light. With the setting of the sun had come the silence evening casts over a busy city, and except the occasional croaking of a frog in the Club House lake, or the distant whistle of a locomotive, there was no sound to break the evening quiet. Away over by the long row of red-roofed stables a pair of work-horses were slowly dragging a harrow over the deserted race-course, and they and the laborer trudging behind them were the only evidences of life which Marion could see. The last sun-gleam left the sky, but a fading tinge of light still rested upon the clouds. Marion watched it for a moment,--then it was gone. It seemed to her like a life which fades slowly into oblivion. She often thought of the unseen, and tried, occasionally, to form some life theory which seemed rational. To-night, in the stillness which came after the bustle of the day, she felt singularly alone. She looked up into the impenetrable darkness and to her fancy the world seemed a frightful pit of blackness with a ma.s.s of living creatures at the bottom,--writhing in misery and gasping for a breath of happiness. And G.o.d? An awful monster at the pit's mouth, baiting the distorted souls with pestilence or dangling hopes before their burning eyes, only to mock their struggles and let them sink down! down! down! Death comes to one sufferer, and then, with a gloating laugh, the monster drops another life into the pit to let it writhe in its awful misery. Marion shuddered at her fancy, and glanced up as if expecting to see the monster's eyes gleaming at the pit's mouth. The thought was horrible, and she covered her eyes with her hands to shut out her distorted imaginations, asking herself if there was no power strong enough to drive away the spirit of gloom which beset her, and make her pulses beat with joy. Deep in her heart she felt there was such a power, but it troubled her to think of it.

"Mrs. Sanderson." She looked up, startled, and saw Duncan by her side.

"I thought you might like to walk on the other side of the veranda. It is delightfully cool there."

For a moment she hesitated. "What can be the harm?" she thought. "None,"

was the answer she gave her question, and then she followed Duncan to the northern side of the veranda where an arm of the building hid them from the others. The moon was rising and her soft light was shed upon the soughing trees, and the stretch of white roadway before them. It was one of those perfect nights of early summer when the vexatious spirits of the day seem lulled to sleep by the mild airs of heaven, and as Marion sat there looking out over the moonlit park, she wondered at the gruesome fancies which had filled her mind but a moment before.

"It is a joy to live on such a night as this," she said, after the moment of silence which followed their coming.

Duncan leaned toward her, and spoke in the deep, soft tones Marion remembered so well. "I feel," he said, "that heaven has sent us this peaceful night to show us that happiness can be a reality."

"It is fortunate that perfect happiness seldom comes," she replied; "the monotony of it would be unendurable."

"Do you think it would be monotonous always to love?" he asked.

"Not if it were possible," she answered after a moment of thought.

"I know it is possible," he said firmly.

"How?" she asked, looking up into his face.

His hand touched hers. "Because, when I look into your eyes, I feel a love which no power on earth could change." She let her hand remain in his, but she turned her face away. "How can I know this love is sincere?" she asked.

"By driving the cruel spirit out of your heart. You may send me away again as you did last winter, but I will come back, for, Marion, I love you, and I must have your love." Instinctively she started to her feet.

Duncan was quickly by her side. His arm was about her, and she felt his lips against her cheek.

"I love you, my Marion," he whispered pa.s.sionately; "you shall not leave me." For a moment she rested her head against his breast and felt the embrace of his strong arms.

"If it were not a sin, Duncan," she said, looking up into his eyes, "I might love you."

"No love like ours can be a sin. It is heaven sent."

"If it only were," she sighed; then he drew her closer to him.

"It is, dearest," he said. "If you will listen to me, you will believe it, too."

"I must not listen to you, Duncan."

"Must I go away?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then I was foolish to fancy I could read love in your eyes."

"Don't torture me."

"I, torture? It is you who send me from you."

"I know it, but think of the danger we are in. Leave me to-night, Duncan. To-morrow Florence will be with Mr. Wainwright's aunt, and Roswell goes to St. Louis. Dine with me at eight, perhaps I can tell you then, but not to-night. I must have time to think."

"I will go now," he said, "but I will come to you to-morrow." He kissed her.

"G.o.d help me," she sighed.

Duncan quietly released her and they walked silently back toward the place where they had left the others. At the corner of the building they met Sedger. It was too dark for him to notice that Marion was agitated, and any possible suspicions were averted by Duncan's saying quietly, "Here we are. We had just started to join you. Is the drag ready?"

"Yes. I have been collecting the party. You are the last to be found.

It's a capital night for a drive and I intend to take you back through Jackson Park."