A Bachelor's Dream by Margaret Wolfe Hamilton (popular books of all time txt) 📕

Another and longer interval of profound darkness, of brooding silence followed, until the footsteps again returned, the door was thrown open, and he stepped out, dazed by the light, feeble as it was. The lamp was held by the man with the scar on his cheek, the couch upon which the wounded man had lain was empty; a faint trace of light shone through the chinks of the crazy shutters—it was almost morning.

"You are free, sir," said his captor calmly and in a tone of perfect indifference, cutting short the useless words of wrath and indignation which fell from the Doctor's lips. "Go, and hasten, if you please; the night is nearly over! The carriage in which you came waits."

"I shall not use it; I will go alone, and on foot." He stepped toward the door, anxious just then for nothing except to get free of the detested house, but, as before, the man's hand was brought down upon his shoulder.

"Your pardon, sir—you will go as you came, and with the same companion. You need not fear—no harm of any kind will be done you. I have pledged my word that you shall depart as you came, and I will keep it. Good! Depart then, if you please."

Realizing the utter futility of lingering or speaking, Doctor Brudenell was prudent. He obeyed without remonstrance or delay. He mounted the stairs, crossed the bare hall, and left the house. In a moment his arm was seized by the younger man, he was hustled into the carriage which had brought him, and driven off at a pace so swift that he had the sense at once to abandon the design of leaping out which he had hastily formed. But that would have been impossible had the vehicle moved slowly, for the eyes of his companion were keenly on the alert, as he could not fail to see. Not a word upon either side had been spoken when, some half an hour later, the carriage suddenly stopped, he was thrust out as strongly and roughly as he had been hustled in; and, as he stood, dazed by the events of this extraordinary night and the rush of fresh sweet air, the coachman drove rapidly away.

George Brudenell looked about him like one bereft of reason. He had no idea of the route by which he had been driven, and it was only after looking for some time at the houses about him that he discovered where he was, for he felt as perplexed and confused as though he had been voyaging through the air in a balloon. Slowly he recognized his surroundings—he was close upon the confines of Victoria Park. Not a sound broke the silence, not a form was visible, the dawn was brightening rosily in the east. He drew out his watch; it was just three o'clock on Sunday morning.

It was not to be wondered at that Doctor Brudenell, coming down to breakfast at the usual time some five hours later, should have looked what Mrs. Jessop called "as pale as the very table-cloth itself," or that he should have but little desire either for the meal or his Sunday paper. The very children, coming in by and by to bid him good-morning before going to church, loudly expressed their astonishment in a shrill trio as to Uncle George's funny looks, and rather rebelled at the unusually curt greeting and dismissal which he gave them. Even the governess's eyes opened a little wider as she looked at him, but she gave him her hand with her usual shadowy smile, and expressed no interest or surprise. Not that she would have learned anything had she been as concerned as she was indifferent, for George Brudenell, reflecting upon and recalling his adventure of the night before, fully realizing his own position, had come to the conclusion to dismiss and forget it if he could, and to speak of it to no one.

The Doctor was a shrewd man, and, understanding his fellow-men in their mental as well as their physical natures, knew very well that such a story, if it were not entirely discredited, would be at any rate doubted and caviled at. The general opinion would be that there was some truth in it, but not much. He was a sensitive man, disliking and dreading ridicule, and he came to the conclusion that no possible good could result from his publishing the story. He did not know the men—the street, the house, and the locality were alike unknown to him. When speech could do no good, could throw no light, silence became wise. He would be silent.

He fell asleep in his comfortable chair presently, and waking up in a couple of hours, was cheerful—more cheerful than usual. It happened that he was not called out, and that there were no visits that he was absolutely obliged to make, and so he spent the day about the house and garden, enjoying his leisure almost boyishly. He romped with the children in the garden, swung them, played ball with them, would have even run races with them perhaps, as they earnestly besought him to do, had the weather been cooler. Suddenly he caught sight of the perfect face of Alexia Boucheafen at a window, with her brother beside her, and, meeting her dark eyes, was a little abashed for the moment. He did not play with the children any more, and the young rebels wondered why, after being in such an absolutely seraphic temper, he should turn cross so suddenly. Perhaps it was not her watching that vexed him, but the scrutiny of that other pair of eyes. For, slowly and reluctantly, George Brudenell had by this time made up his mind that, with every desire to like this handsome young Gustave Boucheafen, he could not do so.

"Prejudice, no doubt," said the Doctor to himself, when presently, after having discreetly quieted his nephews and niece by a gift of sixpence each, he sat down to smoke a cigar in his study; "but upon my word I shall be glad when the young fellow is out of the house. Well, this post at Langley's will be a pretty good chance for him if he chooses to stick to it. If he has any sense he will. I'll tell her this evening, by the way."

He did not see Alexia again until the children were sleeping and the twilight was fading at the approach of night. Then, looking from his study window, he saw her, tall and erect, in her black dress, pacing the gravel walk beside the trimly-kept lawn. Her brother was at her side again, and they were talking earnestly, absorbedly—he with his usual redundancy of gesture, she with unfailing calmness. It seemed that they were arguing about something—he urging, she resisting—for presently she flung off the hand which he had placed upon her arm, and turned her back upon him. His face darkened, the lines about his mouth grew hard, he spoke a word or two, regarding her with a curious smile; and then, turning upon his heel, without waiting for a reply, went into the house. Doctor Brudenell paused, stood hesitating for a few moments, then went out and joined her.

She would have moved away as he approached her, but, with his usual diffident, shy manner toward her, he begged her to remain for a little while, as he had something to say. Then she turned and walked beside him—her eyes fixed intently upon him in the gray dusk. Had he kept his eyes upon her face, instead of nervously looking away, he would have seen upon it curiosity, and signs of apprehension too scornful and contemptuous for fear.

"I will only keep you a moment, Mademoiselle. I wanted to say, that with regard to your brother——"

"Yes, sir."

"I am glad to tell you that I have been successful in my efforts on his behalf. There is, in the business-house of a friend of mine, a post vacant which I think will probably suit him, and which he is likely to fill creditably. Indeed, I may say that it only awaits his acceptance to-morrow."

Her eyes had wandered away from his face when he began to speak; now they came back quickly, gleaming brightly in the dusk. He was taken aback, and yet he wondered why, for she merely repeated:

"To-morrow?"

"I was merely going to add that to-morrow an interview will probably settle the business."

"Ah, sir—you see you are so kind, so good! How can I thank you—what can I say?"

George Brudenell, listening, looking, lost his head. He had meant to tell her what he had to tell quietly and coolly, make light of the thanks which only embarrassed him, and so go back soberly to his book and cigar again. But he met her eyes, heard her voice, and the resolve was gone. He never knew what it was that he said to Alexia Boucheafen—in what words he clothed his passion, in what phrases he pleaded. He only knew that she listened for a moment impassively, that the next time the cold blankness of her face was gone, that it was replaced by a look of scorn, incredulity, pity, contempt—he did not know what—that an instant later she had wrenched away the hand he had taken, had burst into a laugh that rang out shrilly in the gloom, and that he was standing alone, bewildered, thinking that her laugh had sounded like an echo of the laugh that he had heard last night in that mysterious house—the laugh of the gray-haired man with the scar upon his cheek.

Alexia Boucheafen, moving with a rapidity unlike her usual slow graceful motion, had rushed into the house and up to her sitting-room. Her brother was there, evidently waiting for her, but he was not waiting for anything like this. She looked at him for a moment, then drew herself into a chair, and shrieked with hysterical laughter. Gustave Boucheafen was cautious. He hurried to the door, shut and locked it, returned and grasped her arm firmly.

"What is this? Control yourself—consider!"

Her wild laughter was already dying away; it was evident that she had to exercise rigid self-control to prevent it from turning to still wilder sobbing. She sat for a few moments with her hands pressed over her eyes, her breast heaving convulsively. When she looked at him, rising as she did so, her eyes dilated and gleamed.

"This night," she said—"this night of all others to choose!"

"To choose for what?"

"To make love to me! Think of it!"

"Bah! What did I tell you but just now?" he returned sullenly, releasing her arm. "You laughed. Fool as he was—tool as you had made him, he was not fool enough for that, you said. Eh—was he not? I knew how it would be. Did I not tell you so before I even entered this house?" Looking at her, he laughed grimly. "What a fool—an idiot!"

"Bah!" she retorted, with a bitter smile. "What, think you, does he know? I could laugh at myself, for I am almost sorry!"

"For him?"

"Why not? He is a good man in his way, and he has been kind. Don't look at me like that!" she cried with sudden passion, a swift rush of blood tinting the pallor of her cheeks. "What do you think he is to me, this man, but the tool I have made him? He has not harmed me—he represents nothing that has harmed me; and I would not hurt him, as I would not hurt a child."

"Ah, that is all?" He looked at her keenly. "Good—and yet last night——"

"Well," she said defiantly, "last night I saved him. What then? He could do us no harm—he had done us good, and our use for him was nearly over—I may say now that it is over."

"Unless we fail."

"Fail!" she echoed contemptuously.

"What did you say to him?" he asked after a moment's pause.

"Nothing. What should I say? I rushed away. What does it matter? I shall not see him again."

"True." He glanced at the clock. "Eight," he said, turning toward the door, as though to close the conversation by leaving the room. "You will not forget the time?"

"I shall not."

"And," he added warningly, "you will not blench—this time?"

She