The Strollers

    Constance Carew.”

That was all; nothing more, save the address and the date! How long he remained staring at it with mingled feelings he never knew, but finally with a start, looked at his watch, thoughtfully regarded the half-filled trunk, donned his coat and left the room. Several fellow-officers, the first of the sluggards to appear, spoke to him as he crossed the hall below, but what they said or what he replied he could not afterward remember. Some one detained him at the steps, a gentleman with a longing for juleps, but finally he found himself in a carriage, driving somewhere, presumably to the address given in the letter. How long the drive seemed, and yet when the carriage finally stopped and he had paid his fare, he mentally determined it had been too short! The driver gazed in surprise after the gentleman, who did not wait for his change, but, forbearing injudicious comment, gathered up the reins and drove to the nearest café.

From the carriage the house was some distance, and yet it appeared very near the gate to the soldier, who dimly realized he was passing through a garden where were many flowering plants and where the air was unusually heavy with perfume. Many other details, the construction of the house, the size of the verandas, passed without attracting his notice. Soon, however, he was seated in a great room, an apartment of old-fashioned height and breadth. He felt his heart beating fast. How long did he sit there? No inconsiderable period, surely. He examined everything carefully, without carrying a definite impression of anything to his mind. The large, carved mirror; the quaint decoration of walls and frieze; the soft colors of the rug that covered the floor; the hundred and one odd little things in the cabinet near the chair where he was seated, trifles in ivory, old silver and china; the pictures, a Van Dyke, Claude, and a few modern masters. After this interminable, but confused scrutiny of inanimate things, his heart beat faster still, as a tall figure, robed in white, entered the room!

He rose; they regarded each other with mutual constraint; her face had a bit of color, like the tinge of a rose-leaf; her eyes seemed agitated beneath the sweeping lashes, a sentiment in ill accord with the stateliness of her presence. She gave him her hand; he held it he knew not how long; probably, for the conventional moment. They found themselves, each in a chair; at ease, yet not at ease; he studying her face, furtively, yet eagerly; she turning in her fancy the first strong impression of how gaunt and haggard were his features, bearing the traces of recent illness!

“I am glad you came,” she began, their eyes meeting once more.

He bowed. “Mr. Culver brought me your message.”

“I heard that you–it was reported you were dead.”

“I was wounded; that was all, and soon took to the field again.”

The suspense that fell between them was oppressive.

“You should have let your friends–know,” she said at length.

He looked at her curiously, vivid memories of their last interview recurring to him. Indecisively she interlaced her fingers, and he, watching them, wondered why she had sent for him. Suddenly she rose, walked to the window, and stood, looking out. He, sitting in the dim light, in a maze of uncertainty, was vaguely conscious of her figure outlined against the brightness without; of the waving, yellow flowers of the vines on the veranda.

“It is long since we have met,” he said, awkwardly.

She did not answer. Had she heard? Yet he did not resent her silence. If he had ever felt anger for her it had all vanished now. He was only conscious of regarding her more attentively, as she still remained, gazing out into the sunlit garden.

“Much has happened since I saw you,” he continued.

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, passionately. “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 surpassing 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.”

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.