Part 28 (2/2)

I was in the act of turning, even as he spoke. Certainly had I been alone I would have seen Elisabeth, would have known that she was there.

It was Elisabeth, alone, and hurrying away! Already she was approaching the first stair. In a moment she would be gone. I sprang after her by instinct, without plan, clear in my mind only that she was going, and with her all the light of the world; that she was going, and that she was beautiful, adorable; that she was going, and that she was Elisabeth!

As I took a few rapid steps toward her, I had full opportunity to see that no grief had preyed upon her comeliness, nor had concealment fed upon her damask cheek. Almost with some resentment I saw that she had never seemed more beautiful than on this morning. The costume of those days was trying to any but a beautiful woman; yet Elisabeth had a way of avoiding extremes which did not appeal to her individual taste. Her frock now was all in pink, as became the gentle spring, and the bunch of silvery ribbons which fluttered at her belt had quite the agreeing shade to finish in perfection the cool, sweet picture that she made. Her sleeves were puffed widely, and for the lower arm were opened just sufficiently. She carried a small white parasol, with pinked edges, and her silken mitts, light and dainty, matched the clear whiteness of her arms. Her face, turned away from me, was shaded by a wide round bonnet, not quite so painfully plain as the scooplike affair of the time, but with a drooping brim from which depended a slight frilling of sheer lace. Her smooth brown hair was drawn primly down across her ears, as was the fas.h.i.+on of the day, and from the ma.s.ses piled under the bonnet brim there fell down a curl, round as though made that moment, and not yet limp from the damp heat of Was.h.i.+ngton. Fresh and dainty and restful as a picture done on Dresden, yet strong, fresh, fully competent, Elisabeth walked as having full right in the world and accepting as her due such admiration as might be offered. If she had ever known a care, she did not show it; and, I say, this made me feel resentment. It was her proper business to appear miserable.

If she indeed resembled a rare piece of flawless Dresden on this morning, she was as cold, her features were as unmarked by any human pity. Ah! so different an Elisabeth, this, from the one I had last seen at the East Room, with throat fluttering and cheeks far warmer than this cool rose pink. But, changed or not, the full sight of her came as the sudden influence of some powerful drug, blotting out consciousness of other things. I could no more have refrained from approaching her than I could have cast away my own natural self and form. Just as she reached the top of the broad marble stairs, I spoke.

”Elisabeth!”

Seeing that there was no escape, she paused now and turned toward me. I have never seen a glance like hers. Say not there is no language of the eyes, no speech in the composure of the features. Yet such is the Sphinx power given to woman, that now I saw, as though it were a thing tangible, a veil drawn across her eyes, across her face, between her soul and mine.

Elisabeth drew herself up straight, her chin high, her eyes level, her lips just parted for a faint salutation in the conventions of the morning.

”How do you do?” she remarked. Her voice was all cool white enamel. Then that veil dropped down between us.

She was there somewhere, but I could not see her clearly now. It was not her voice. I took her hand, yes; but it had now none of answering clasp.

The flush was on her cheek no more. Cool, pale, sweet, all white now, armed cap-a-pie with indifference, she looked at me as formally as though I were a remote acquaintance. Then she would have pa.s.sed.

”Elisabeth,” I began; ”I am just back. I have not had time--I have had no leave from you to come to see you--to ask you--to explain--”

”Explain?” she said evenly.

”But surely you can not believe that I--”

”I only believe what seems credible, Mr. Trist.”

”But you promised--that very morning you agreed--Were you out of your mind, that--”

”I was out of my mind that morning--but not that evening.”

Now she was _grande demoiselle_, patrician, superior. Suddenly I became conscious of the dullness of my own garb. I cast a quick glance over my figure, to see whether it had not shrunken.

”But that is not it, Elisabeth--a girl may not allow a man so much as you promised me, and then forget that promise in a day. It _was_ a promise between us. _You_ agreed that I should come; I did come. You had given your word. I say, was that the way to treat me, coming as I did?”

”I found it possible,” said she. ”But, if you please, I must go. I beg your pardon, but my Aunt Betty is waiting with the carriage.”

”Why, d.a.m.n Aunt Betty!” I exclaimed. ”You shall not go! See, look here!”

I pulled from my pocket the little ring which I had had with me that night when I drove out to Elmhurst in my carriage, the one with the single gem which I had obtained hurriedly that afternoon, having never before that day had the right to do so. In another pocket I found the plain gold one which should have gone with the gem ring that same evening. My hand trembled as I held these out to her.

”I prove to you what I meant. Here! I had no time! Why, Elisabeth, I was hurrying--I was mad!--I had a right to offer you these things. I have still the right to ask you why you did not take them? Will you not take them now?”

She put my hand away from her gently. ”Keep them,” she said, ”for the owner of that other wedding gift--the one which I received.”

Now I broke out. ”Good G.o.d! How can I be held to blame for the act of a drunken friend? You know Jack Dandridge as well as I do myself. I cautioned him--I was not responsible for his condition.”

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