Part 79 (1/2)

This was that same road which led me into Paradise on that autumn day which seemed years and years ago. The forests were leafless but beautiful; the blackthorns already promised their scented snow to follow the last melting drift which still glimmered among the trees in deep woodland gullies. A violet here and there looked up at us with blue eyes; in sheltered spots, fresh, reddish sprouts p.r.i.c.ked the moist earth, here a whorl of delicate green, there a tender spike, guarding some imprisoned loveliness; buds on the beeches were brightening under a new varnish; naked thickets, no longer dead gray, softened into harmonies of pink and gold and palest purple.

Once, halting at a bridge, above the quick music of the stream we heard an English robin singing all alone.

”I never longed for spring as I do now,” broke out Speed. ”The horror of this black winter has scarred me forever--the deathly whiteness, month after month; the freezing filth of that ghastly city; the sea, all slime and ice!”

”Gallop,” I said, shuddering. ”I can smell the moors of Paradise already. The winds will cleanse us.”

We spoke no more; and at last the road turned to the east, down among the trees, and we were traversing the square of Paradise village, where white-capped women turned to look after us, and children stared at us from their playground around the fountain, and the sleek magpies fluttered out of our path as we galloped over the bridge and breasted the sweet, strong moor wind, spicy with bay and gorse.

Speed flung out his arm, pointing. ”The circus camp was there,” he said. ”They have ploughed the clover under.”

A moment later I saw the tower of Trecourt, touched with a ray of suns.h.i.+ne, and the sea beyond, glittering under a clearing sky.

As we dismounted in the court-yard the sun flashed out from the fringes of a huge, snowy cloud.

”There is Jacqueline!” cried Speed, tossing his bridle to me in his excitement, and left me planted there until a servant came from the stable.

Then I followed, every nerve quivering, almost dreading to set foot within, lest happiness awake me and I find myself in the freezing barracks once more, my brief dream ended.

In the hallway a curious blindness came over me. I heard Jacqueline call my name, and I felt her hands in mine, but scarcely saw her; then she slipped away from me, and I found myself seated in the little tea-room, listening to the dull, double beat of my own heart, trembling at distant sounds in the house--waiting, endlessly waiting.

After a while a glimmer of common-sense returned to me. I squared my shoulders and breathed deeply, then rose and walked to the window.

The twigs on the peach-trees had turned wine-color; around the roots of the larkspurs delicate little palmated leaves cl.u.s.tered; crocus spikes p.r.i.c.ked the gra.s.s everywhere, and the tall, polished shoots of the peonies glistened, glowing crimson in the sun. A heavy cat sunned its sleek flanks on the wall, brilliant eyes half closed, tail tucked under. Ange Pitou had grown very fat in three months.

A step at the door, and I wheeled, trembling. But it was only a Breton maid, who bore some letters on a salver of silver.

”For me?” I asked.

”If you please,” she said, demurely.

Two letters, and I knew the writing on one. The first I read standing:

”Buffalo, N. Y., Feb. 3, 1871.

”Mr. Scarlett, Dear Sir and Friend,--Trusting you're well I am pleased to admit the same, the blind G.o.ddess having smiled on me and the circus since we quit that d.a.m.n terra firma for a more peeceful climb.

”We are enjoying winter quarters near to the majestic phenomena of Niagara, fodder is cheap and vittles bountiful.