Part 16 (1/2)

”Yes,” said Eddring, simply, ”it's empty.” Decherd cast at him one swift, veiled look, under which Eddring saw all the covert venom of a dangerous serpent that is aroused. ”It's not my bag, anyhow,” said Decherd, regaining his composure. ”I thought it was, but mine had my name on the plate.”

”Yes?” said Eddring. ”I am sorry I can't help you. Well, if the bag isn't yours, I'll just keep it. I don't doubt the owner will be found in time.” The eyes of the two met fairly now; and from that instant there was issue joined between them.

CHAPTER XVII

MISS LADY AND HENRY DECHERD

Why Henry Decherd should have remained so long at the Big House at this particular time might have found plausible answer in any of a dozen ways. There were reasons indeed why Decherd should be covertly pleased at matters as he now found them. Colonel Blount touched his pride keenly enough by practically ignoring his presence, yet he made amends by continuing moody and aloof, spending little time about the house. John Eddring had long since taken his departure for the city.

Mrs. Ellison was rarely visible about the house. There was an atmosphere of uneasiness, an unsettled discontent over all things.

Yet, for the oblique purposes of Henry Decherd, matters could not have been better arranged. So much being established, he played his chosen part at least with boldness. In spite of all this recent stress and strain, in spite of this continuing trace of sadness and anxiety which lay over all, Henry Decherd none the less knew very well that there was now at hand the best and perhaps the last opportunity which, he might expect for the carrying out of a certain intention which, above all other purposes, worthy or unworthy, had long possessed his soul. At times he was absent from the Big House, none knew where; for in the careless bigness of that place there were no locks upon the doors and no hours for the spreading of the table.

Each came and went as he pleased. In no other situation could Decherd have found things shaped better to his plan.

That plan, the sole motive which could have kept him at that time in that certain locality, was to speak alone with Miss Lady. Even thus favored by circ.u.mstances, he found this purpose difficult to accomplish. Now it was Colonel Blount who pa.s.sed moodily across the yard; or it was Mrs. Ellison who accosted him just as he started to follow the young girl down the hall or out on the gallery. Once or twice the girl Delphine stopped him in some such errand and held him on one pretext or another in some corner of the place. Yet Decherd, involved as was the game he played, persisted and at length had his more immediate wish.

He came upon Miss Lady at last in the twilight on the big gallery, when the birds were chirping all about and the insects were attuning their nightly orchestra. He walked directly up to her.

”Miss Lady,” he said suddenly, without parley or preface, ”ah, Miss Lady, how glad I am to find you at last!”

The girl drew back from him, at once divining the import of his air and tone; but he went on.

”I've waited so long,” said he. ”There's always been some one about.

Couldn't you see--don't you see what it is that brings me to you!” He would have caught her hand in his own feverish one, but again she drew away, looking at him with startled eyes.

”Dearest,” he went on, ”listen. I can't do without you. I have loved you ever since first I saw you. Come, tell me--”

Even the icy silence of the girl scarce served to check him. There was, indeed, evident on his face the existence of an emotion as genuine as could be conceived in a soul like his. It was, moreover, the very devil's instant for approaching this poor girl, hopeless, outcast, overstrung, altogether and piteously in need of comfort. At that time Miss Lady could count upon no friend in all the world. She had no confidante, no counselor. That, of all possible moments, was the most fortunate time for a man like Henry Decherd, even had the sweet beauty and helplessness of this girl not wrung from him respect as well as an unrestrained and pa.s.sionate regard. What was it, then, which at that moment intervened between these two? What was the hidden guidance that came to Miss Lady at that time? She herself could not explain. She could not have told what caused her to tremble as though of an ague--could not have told why, though she sought to see clearly the face of this man who came to her with the words of a lover, there seemed to fall between them some interposing veil, rendering his features uncertain, indistinct. Craving and needing a friend at this hour of her life, none the less she saw not now that friend.

”No,” she called out, frightened. ”No! Do not!” And that was all that she could think, as all that she could do was to move yet farther away.

He would not accept repulse, but followed on with eager and impa.s.sioned words. ”I love you!” he whispered. ”Come, what is this place to you? There's a big world full of things to see and do! We'll be married, we'll travel, we shall see the world. You shall know what love can mean--what life really is! Miss Lady, dearest--”

After all, by the will of the immortal G.o.ds, who sometimes have in care the welfare of the Miss Ladys of this earth, Henry Decherd erred in these very proofs of a pa.s.sion sincere as he was capable of feeling. A too hasty ardor failed where a calmer friends.h.i.+p had gone further toward winning a heart-sore, helpless girl. The balance of the issue, for a moment trembling in his favor, was, within the instant, quite destroyed.

”Sir,” said Miss Lady, and he paused as she freed her hand and stepped back from him, strangely cold and calm, ”I have given you no possible right--”

”But you don't understand. Listen, I tell you,” he began again.

”I can not listen; it is not right for me to listen. I am too troubled with many things to listen to you now. You don't know who I am. I do not know, myself, who I am. You've been deceived by her--you don't know. I have no mother, as I thought I had. I am going away from here to-morrow. I don't know where I shall go, but I know I shall not stay here. It's wrong for me to stay. It's wrong for me to listen to yon. I can't tell you all I've heard.” Miss Lady's lip trembled.

”Did she tell you? Has Mrs. Ellison--” cried Decherd, suddenly flus.h.i.+ng. But Miss Lady was too much disturbed to notice his speech or his changed expression. She could only reiterate, ”I am going away.”

”Oh, come now,” said he, his voice again gaining confidence and his face showing relief as he glanced about him. ”Come, you are only tired. I ought not to have troubled you this way, this evening, but I could not help it--I could not wait. I was afraid--but then to- morrow--I'll see you to-morrow. Think, Miss Lady, think--”

”I have thought,” said Miss Lady, with sudden decision. ”I have thought; and as for to-morrow, there'll be none for me at this place.

I'm going away at once. I must begin life all over again. It has been wrong for me to live here at all. Why did you ask us to come here? We would have been better off where we were, even if we were poor and helpless.”

”It's been heaven here since you came.”