CHAPTER XI
Distant Versailles
He walked, quite leisurely, over the turf beside the house, past the western wing, towards the terraces that led into the garden. The sunset faced him in a blinding, hazy radiance. At the top of the little flight of white steps he paused. Silence, perfect, lonely, was all about, undisturbed by the bird-notes from the woods, or the murmurous lapping of the river along its bank. Once or twice he breathed, long and deeply, delighted with the pure fragrance of the air. Then, without haste, he passed down into the garden. What a chaotic mass of color it was! All the common garden flowers, perennials and exotics, were at his feet; clove-pinks, sweet-williams, marigolds, blue iris, candy-tuft, corn-flowers, purple-stock, cyanus, carnations, poppies, balsam, fragrant herbs innumerable, the last sweet-pease, pansies and dahlias--all in a disorderly tangle of glory. But beyond these bourgeoisie of the flowers, in statelier rows, with only here and there a blossom in their dark and lustrous foliage, was the noblesse, the court of the flowers--the rose-garden. In the midst of this, upon a little rustic seat against the northern wall, in a tumbled, forlorn heap, her face hidden in her arm, her unkempt curls all loose upon her neck, lay Deborah--poor Deborah, whose little colonial world had crumbled about her, and left her alone, wretched, hopeless, in space. In the afternoon despair overcame her. Her work was over, and she was at liberty to think unprofitable thoughts. So, after an hour of tears here in the drowsy garden, the day finally brought what peace it had to give, and she slept--was sleeping now, in the twilight, while Claude and her new world came to her.
He had discovered her almost as soon as he entered the garden, more by instinct than observation. And he made no haste to go to her, not because he was indifferent, but because he could not bear to mar the perfect progress of the hour by haste. It was almost with regret that he left behind the lower half of the garden and entered the turfy walk between the rose-bushes. From a perpetual he plucked one full pink rose, infinitely beautiful in its solitude, from where it glowed, half hidden, beneath the leaves. Gazing half at it and half at her, he softly approached the rustic bench, till his knee touched her gown.
"Deborah!" he whispered; and then again, a little louder, "Deborah!"
She stirred in her sleep, under the spell of a wandering dream.
"Deborah!"
In slow wonderment the tangled head lifted, the white face, with its tear-stained cheeks, was raised, and the gray-blue eyes fell open sleepily. He did not speak while she looked at him, the actual presence corresponding, with startling accuracy, to her dream.
"I thought--you had gone away," she said, softly.
"I could not go while you were here," he answered, seating himself beside her.
She sighed like a child. She seemed to-day many years younger than usual, and Claude looked at her curiously, wondering at her manner.
"Deborah," he said, gravely, without offering to touch her, "I am going back--home. Will you come with me? Will you trust me? Will you let me make a new life, a new home, for you?"
She caught her breath, as a child, after a long crying-spell, sobs, reminiscently. Then she sat silent while he waited.
"I can't be happy here after--last night," she said, at length.
"I will try to make you happy."
She made no answer, but perhaps he read her mind, for he grew troubled. One thought held each of them. It was that of the fair and stately Duchess--la Châteauroux, whom Claude had loved. And which picture was the fairer, Claude's memory or Deborah's imagination, it were hard to tell.
After a moment or two the pause became more than uncomfortable. Both sat in growing rigidity, looking straight before them, thinking, helplessly. Then, all at once, Deborah, with fearful hesitation, turned her head and looked into his face. And suddenly, when Claude's poor hope was all but dead, one of her hands, cold and tremulous, crept into that passive one of his that lay beside her on the seat. It was her answer. How the promise was sealed--need not be told.
Twilight deepened over the shadow of the dead day. Behind the black, lacy tree-tops of the forest a sunset flush pulsated in crimson and gold. From the still garden the evening fragrance, intoxicating, heart-stilling, to which neither the sunny morning odors nor the night's holy incense could be compared, floated in warm, rich breaths about the figures of the man and woman whose lives had come to join each other over wide seas and many lands. The spell of the evening was over them both. Their eyes wandered. Their thoughts were still. Hand in hand, two of God's pilgrims met here to rest a little ere they moved on again, they sat, silent, nerveless, feeling, perhaps, more of the universal love than that of individuals. No prophecy of storms to come disturbed their hour. Only the garden and the timeless twilight enfolded them. The bird-songs, one by one, melted away. The waves whispered unutterable things. And so, out upon the pale sunset, hanging tremulous as by a thread of heaven, came a fair silver jewel--the evening star. Deborah's eyes beheld it, and were riveted upon its liquid beauty.
"Look," she breathed, gently; "they call it the emblem of hope."
"Hope--dearest? What need have we of hope?"
She made no answer, only her hand tightened within his, as the evening wind blew softly from the west.
Book III
THE POST