Читать книгу Atalanta in the South - Maud Howe Elliott - Страница 8

​

CHAPTER IV.

Rondelet found General Ruysdale sitting on the shaded porch, watching a passing procession. The elder man greeted him pleasantly, saying—

"Ah, Rondelet, I was hoping to see you to-day! Do you know we have been in this house just sixty days, and in that time seventy-nine processions have passed before this door?"

"Yes, we are fond of parades here."

"It is such an extravagance. How much better to expend the money devoted to paying those marching musicians in improving the city and carrying on the public charitable institutions, which seem to depend mainly upon private subscription."

"I am not sure about that," Rondelet objected. "It is a great gain to keep the people amused and good-natured. What should we be without our gayety and good-humor? Remember how little we have, poverty-stricken as we are. As to the charities, I hold that the rich and poor are brought in nearer and closer sympathy when they are directly dependent upon ​each other. It makes the wealthy realize their duty to the poor, and the poor look less bitterly upon a rich class that directly confers benefits upon them. State charities are such cold, impersonal things. You rich people at the North pay taxes to support your sick and blind because your State forces you to do it, and you avoid them as much as you can."

The New Englander, high in office over the charities of his native town, stared at the speaker, and made an effort to protest against these heretical remarks. But Rondelet continued—

"You think us behind the world in every way, behind the North particularly. Well, perhaps we are; but the social atmosphere which your condition of things has brought about is not without its drawbacks. The aristocracy of money, which rules your society with a golden rod, is not, to my mind, a noble or great phase of human existence. You are now suffering from a very plethora of money, a terrible indigestion from too much high living, while we are growing day by day weaker and weaker from inanition; and yet you would have us call you brothers! Our country is one now, and I hope and believe will ever remain so; but the country cannot march as it should in the progress of nations while one foot is bare, lame, and blistered. It is strange that you forget us so; our ​interests are bound up with yours, there is no separating them. That has been proved, and the proof was a grave one, as you who shed your blood, as I who lost my patrimony in the awful proving, know full well."

"But you brought it on yourselves, after all. As you made your bed, so must you lie on it. Can a parent love the child that has turned and struck at her life, as she does the one that gave his own to defend it?"

"Do you remember the parable of the prodigal son? Methinks that the husks have been fed to us too long, and that, despite the well-fed elder brother, the fatted calf should be slain. But, General, I did not come to talk politics with you, sir, but to take my revenge for my defeat of last evening. Are you in the mood for a game of chess?"

It was as well that Rondelet had turned the conversation, as it might soon have become a heated one. The bitterness which had crept into his voice was most unusual with him. In all his intercourse with the old officer, he had never shown the feeling he had just expressed. It is not improbable that this state of mind was produced by what had gone before in the studio. The General was too well-bred a man not to abandon the topic, though it cost him something of a struggle to do so. He was one of those ​natural fighters, to whom a contest of words is next best to that of arms.

"I will play a game of chess with pleasure," he answered. "There is one thing I wish to speak to you about first, Rondelet; it is about the killing of young Fernand Thoron. Have you heard of any new developments in the case?"

The General watched the young physician keenly as he spoke. Philip's color changed as he answered, in a low, constrained voice—

"No, I have heard nothing."

"They were talking about it at the club last night; no one told you of that?"

"No."

"I think you ought to know," said the General, speaking slowly and impressively, "what was said—whispered, rather, for I do not know how the rumor started, or even how it reached my ears; but it was suggested by some one that you knew something about that affair."

It had come at last, the vague report of that wild night, nearly two months ago. He straightened himself where he stood, as if to brace himself against another shock. But the General said nothing more, and evidently waited for an answer. It came slowly.

"I never to my knowledge saw the man you speak of. I remember hearing of his sudden death at the time, and that a theory of suicide ​was very generally accepted. Did you know him? What did he look like?"

"I had seen him once only. He was a fine-looking fellow and quite young. Margaret had met him, and he brought his mastiff, Launce, a fine dog, for her to model in her Atalanta. She was much shocked to hear of his death three days after."

"His mastiff Launce, a fine dog," these words sounded dimly in Rondelet's ears. They settled the question which had so long tormented him as to the identity of Fernand Thoron and the youth he had seen die in the hut near the duelling ground. He had avoided seeking the solution of the mystery, remembering Jean's words, "It is better for you that you should not know;" but now the knowledge was forced upon him, and with it a sense of the suspicion with which he was regarded. The General's eyes were still fixed upon Rondelet inquiringly, but he had nothing more to say.

"Shall we have our game?"

"Certainly," said the General, placing the men upon the board; and the battle began.

At the moment when the two gentlemen were arranging their chessmen, Margaret and Robert entered the Fair Grounds. The scene that met their eyes was an animated one. A vast crowd of gayly dressed people filled the large enclosure, ​where numbers of booths and ornamented tents flaunted their banners and streamers in the evening air. Here a band of fortune-tellers professed to predict the future of young men and maidens for a small compensation. These gypsy folk had established themselves at the foot of a giant live-oak, whose wide-spreading arms served to shelter them from the rays of the afternoon sun.

A girl tricked out with tinsel and mock jewels beckoned to Margaret and Robert, and with a bold smile dropped them a courtesy and invited them to approach and have their fortune told; but the two passed on unheeding. A wonderful glittering palace, with a retinue of beasts, next attracted their attention—a pair of elephants, followed by twin ostriches, with dolphins, giraffes, deer, winged horses, goats, unicorns, half the animals of history and fable, slowly gyrating to the strains of some concealed music.

"Will you ride in the great show? Only a nickel apiece!" cried the showman in a voice made harsh by long vociferation. The pair stood back and watched the riders who bestrode the strange creatures. When the number of travellers was complete, the music pealed forth in quicker time, and the whole Noah's ark seemed to take unto itself wings, and flew round and round at a bewildering pace. Beyond the ​revolving palace a crowd of people stood watching the brightening sky. A small black box suddenly appeared, whirling upwards at a great speed; then came an explosion; and a gigantic uncouth monster, idol or demon, floated slowly earthward, assuming successive clumsy attitudes in its descent, now bowing gravely, again doubling itself up, as in a very paroxysm of infernal laughter at the crowd beneath, who screamed and applauded with shout and halloo.

"It is too ugly," cried Robert; "its horrid shadow must not fall on you. Away! away!"

"Look again!" said Margaret; "see the palette of the cloud-painter."

This time the square black box had thrown out a little group of colors, to the number of seven. These grew and grew, till they seemed like so many tinted clouds floating westward toward the sunset, which now began to flame forth from the crystal sky.

"To the dancers!" cried Robert. "Come while there is yet time; it will soon be night." And taking the hand of his companion, he hurried her toward a spot where a group of people were weaving the intricate patterns of a contra-dance. Thrusting aside the crowd of on-lookers, he quickly found a place for himself and his partner, and they struck into the measure with a frank delight which animated the dancers as a ​magnetic shock electrifies a whole circle of linked human beings. They hardly recognized each other, this quiet, hard-working maiden, and this melancholy, brooding man, who had for weeks met and parted every day, each speaking his own language and ignorant of the other's as of a foreign tongue. At last they understood each other, and the contagious gayety of the pair set the whole line of dancing folk into a sympathetic merriment. The master of ceremonies was in despair as the couples, abandoning the set figures, which he called aloud in a persuasive voice, followed the new-comers through quaint and intricate measures never trod before. It seemed as if Terpsichore had abandoned her sex and was masquerading in the form of this tall fellow, who looked the very incarnation of the dance as he led the merry throng through march and counter march, flourish, promenade, galop, and at last the waltz, which Robert started, catching his lithe, tireless partner in his arms and whirling her to its wavy measures. His dark face was flushed with the passion of the dance, and faster and faster he whirled his light burden through the swaying maze of men and maids. "Enough, enough!" cried a youth, and the cry was repeated; it seemed as if they could not leave the mad whirl into which he had led them without the signal from this self-appointed master of the ​revels. He heeded not the exclamations of the crowd; but suddenly conscious of the tremulous throbbing of the heart beating so near to his, he halted in the midst of the dreamy exaltation.

"You will die if we do not stop," he said, looking at Margaret's dilated eyes and panting breast.

"Such a dance is worth a life," she answered; and laughed, and panted for her lost breath. He drew her from the crowd and placed her on a seat beneath an arbor shaded by a group of heavy-scented magnolia-trees. She drew her breath with labored gasps, growing less and less frequent, and he fanned her with a branch of green leaves.

"Have I found you what you needed?"

"Yes, yes; it was what I dreamed of."

"I have made you feel young and happy and alive?"

"Yes."

"When you need youth and happiness and life again, will you send for me?"

She nodded.

"Always?"

"Always? Don't talk about anything so serious! Always means to-morrow, next week, next year, the future, and that most terrible thought the mind can conceive—Eternity! Let me ​have to-day to myself undisturbed, will you not?"

"Ay."

Sitting in the arbor, looking westward, they watched the fading sky grow faint and colorless, and then deepen with the beauty of the night, purple, gold-flecked. From the dark magnolia overhead the mocking-bird trilled forth his matchless thread of song, linking the gems of heaven with the star flowers of earth. The perfume of the flowers was full of a subtile intoxication; and under the fitful light of the many-colored lanterns hanging from the branches like vast luminous fruits, pairs of men and women appeared and disappeared, flitting down the dim rose-bordered alleys. Strangers yesterday, strangers again perhaps to-morrow, but for that hour lovers—by the power of the night, the odor of the flowers, by the note of the mocking-bird, and beneath all these by the magic melody of the Spring throbbing in the breasts of men, kindling in the eyes of girls, gushing from the song-bird's throat, swimming from the hearts of flowers, Spring and Love, Love and Spring!

The music of a hidden orchestra took up the great hymn, and the viols wailed forth the passion of that noblest of love-songs, "Adelaida," whose measures the deaf Beethoven never heard.

​The throng grew greater; dark-eyed girls in soft-hued garments of state trod the sanded paths with satin-shod feet: the wedding-guests had come from a church near by. Now that the bride no longer needed their gentle ministrations, the eight fair bridesmaidens joined the fête. They walked sedately two by two, fresh as the flowers of the field which they typified. This yellow dandelion, nodding gayly as she passes, has the dark eyes and rounded limbs of the South; but her cheeks are red with the color of the northern rose. She laughs; and catching sight of Robert, greets him with a—

"Bon soir, Robert le diable."

"She is a working-woman, as you call yourself," he whispers; "she does the work and earns the salary of a man."

A blue field-flower passes, graceful, slight, with lips that curl a little scornfully sometimes; but to-night they smile as she hums the melody of the song.

"That young girl is a musician, and earns her bread too, though she is so young."

A scarlet poppy follows. She has a fine, sensitive face, red-bronze hair, and determined brown eyes.

"Her father lost his fortune and his life at the close of the war. She it is who has educated her sisters and kept her brothers to their duty. Her ​fingers are never idle; besides clothing her many sisters, she finds time to fashion garments for some gentlewomen poorer than she, and not less proud."

"That morning-glory is well fitted to typify the flower she wears," said Margaret.

"Yes; she is to be the maiden queen of our carnival revels."

"She is very beautiful, but she looks almost too slight to bear the burden even of a crown of pleasure."

"You will see her carry her honors regally, and yet modestly."

The living chain of flowers linked together two by two passed gayly by, and were soon lost in the surging crowd of holiday folk. The fête was at its height, and our two pilgrims of pleasure felt this hour to be the fairest of the day as they sat a little withdrawn from the current of passing people, and yet not out of sympathy with them. Robert, leaning back, with the soft leaves of the jessamine-vine touching his cheek, gave a sigh of pleasure, and after a short pause spoke again to his companion, just for the happiness of hearing her voice in answer to his question.

"Life is pleasant to you now?"

"Yes, very, very pleasant; and I believe that I have earned the right to enjoy it. It is very long since I have played."

​"Yes, it is a glorious thing, life, on such a night as this. There are many pleasures which we often forget to be grateful for."

Something touched him on the shoulder. It was a touch as light as the tap of the leaves against him; but he started as if some one had struck him a direful blow. A voice faint as the wind echoing in the trees whispered these words in his ear: "Those who die in strife leave behind the pleasures, but not the pain of life."

The young man started to his feet and crossed himself mechanically. Through the thicket he caught a glimpse of a tall woman with a mantilla wrapped about her head and shoulders; at the sight the color faded from his lip and cheek, and his great frame shook with a sudden tremor. Margaret had seen and heard nothing; but she rose and shivered even as he had done, and laying her hand upon his arm said, "Take me home; we have stayed too long."