CHAPTER XX.
“DO WE EVER LOVE THE WRONG ONE?”
“Yes, the loss of Queenie Trevalyn was a blow which I can never get over, though I believed myself a strong man,” he mused, the hard, bitter lines of disappointment and pain deepening on his face, and painting shadows in his troubled eyes.
“And what a surprise it was to me to hear that letter read which the farmer received from his brother-in-law down in New Orleans, which so vitally interested me. How strange it is that this girl was to be sent to the home of Queenie, in New York, and fate interposed in sending her here where I am instead. But she shall not know me. I will take care of that.”
He had no opportunity to cogitate further, for the carriage by this time had reached the gate where he stood.
Lucy Caldwell did not wait for him to approach to assist her from the vehicle, but sprang out with the nimbleness of foot which characterized her.
He looked rather eagerly for the second figure in the old carryall to step forth, as he advanced. He was thinking of the letter which he had received from his little Jess when he was at Newport, in which she had described herself, and he wondered vaguely if the description she gave him was true or false. He paused for an instant as he beheld the lithe, slender, girlish figure seated within. He could not see her features, for, contrary to his expectations, her face was concealed by a heavy veil.
Like her companion, she sprang from the carriage ere he could take another step forward to proffer his assistance.
“A society girl and belle,” he muttered, frowning darkly as his quick glance took in every detail of her stylish traveling dress. “Now, why under heaven did she give me such a false description of herself in that letter she wrote me?”
“I want to introduce you to Mr. Moore, Jess,” said Lucy, catching her by the arm.
A little, brown hand swept aside the heavy folds of tulle that covered the girl’s face, and then Jess, with the same face as the picture he had received from her, stood before him. He knew that she had not misrepresented her character in her letter, when, the next instant, the little, brown, warm hand was extended to him in greeting, and she said, eagerly:
“I know all about you and your awful mishap, Mr. Moore, and I am quite as glad as Lucy is that you are getting well.”
The impulsive action, and the straightforward words that accompanied it, softened his heart in a measure toward her, although she was of the sex whom he had sworn to himself that he should evermore detest with the deadliest of hatred.
“You are very kind, Miss—Miss——” he returned, with a low bow, raising his hat with a gallantry which surprised Lucy, who was looking on a little jealously, as she wondered if Mr. Moore thought the stranger pretty.
“Your sympathy is very pleasing, believe me,” he added, continuing: “I suppose we cannot shuffle off this mortal coil, no matter what good opportunities seem to be thrown in our way, until our time comes; at least, it would seem so in my case, Miss—Miss——”
“My name is simply Jess—nothing more,” said the girl, looking up into his face with just the faintest suspicion of tears in her big, dark eyes. “When names were given out, whoever was responsible for the giving of them in my case, passed me by, it appears, either by accident or design, so ever afterward I was known by the simple cognomen of Jess—just Jess.”
Somehow, as he looked into the lovely, young face, his resentment against one of the sex which he had sworn to hate seemed to be melting away, although he would have scoffed at the idea had any one told him that an interest had sprung up in his heart toward the girl in the first moment they had met.
“Come,” said Lucy, “we will go to the house. We can talk afterward. Mother and dinner await us.”
And as the two girls got beyond the sight and hearing of Mr. Moore, Lucy turned to her companion, saying:
“What do you think of our invalid, as we often laughingly call him when we want to tease him? Do you think him good-looking?”
“He is more than that, Lucy,” returned Jess, gravely. “He is simply splendid! I know of no word which will express it. We have just such a pictured face hanging up in the library of Blackheath Hall, and it is named ‘Apollo Belvidere,’ who is supposed to be the perfection of manly beauty, so the legend runs which tells about him in old books.”
“You have fallen in love with him at first sight!” cried Lucy, in terror, her heart sinking and a stifling sensation creeping up to her throat.
Jess laughed a strange, little laugh. Stopping short in the path, she suddenly threw her arms about Lucy’s neck, saying, with a laugh which was almost a sob:
“I never had a girl friend or a girl companion to make a confidant of in all my life, and I would so love to make a confidant of you, Lucy; may I? There’s something that I would love to tell you, if you would never, never tell—never breathe one word of it to any living soul in the whole wide world.”
“Of course you can make a confidant of me, and tell me all the secrets you have, and I’ll never tell them,” declared Lucy, solemnly. “You can depend upon me. I’ve kept lots of girls’ secrets, and never told one of them yet; I would not be so mean.”
“Well, then, Lucy,” cried Jess, half laughing, half sobbing, “I couldn’t fall in love with your Mr. Moore if I liked him ever so much, for I’m engaged to be married to another gentleman, and—and it’s to take place—the wedding, I mean—just as soon as I come back from the visit to the Trevalyns, of New York. I never intended to tell anybody that I was an engaged girl, but, somehow, Lucy, you have wrung the truth from me in spite of myself, it seems.”
“How delightful, and how romantic!” exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. “You must confide to me just how it seems to be—engaged. I’ve wondered about it so much.”
Jess determined to tell her new-found friend all about her betrothal, and how it came about, and also to confide to her the terrible secret that was gnawing her heart out, like a worm in the bud; that she hated the man, handsome though he was, to whom she had sent the note of acceptance just before she had started away on her trip, in accordance with the wishes of Mrs. Bryson, who had concluded that it was wisest and best to nail Jess down with a solemn promise, by post, which had been duly forwarded to the expectant lover at New Orleans on the morning on which Jess had left Blackheath Hall.
Yes, Jess concluded to tell Lucy all about it, but that could wait until after she had her bonnet off and had been in the house an hour, at least.
“Her coming is not so much to be feared, after all,” breathed Lucy, growing more amiable instantly. “I feared she would be trying to lure Mr. Moore, whom I have set my heart upon winning, away from me. He has not said so much as a word to me yet, but I am sure he intends to, else why is he lingering here when the doctor said that he could go his way, almost a week ago, if he so desired?
“His waiting to recuperate still further, as he called it, was merely an excuse to linger where I am, and he would not do that unless he was in love with me, and meant to propose to me, Ma says.”
For an hour or more, Mr. Moore lingered in the old garden, lost in deep thought. At length he retraced his steps slowly to the old farmhouse. Lucy was standing on the steps which led into the wide, cool kitchen.
“What do you think of our guest, Miss Jess?” she asked, displaying more anxiety in her tone than she was aware of.
“She impressed me very favorably at first sight,” he answered, adding: “I imagine she would wear well in a long and close acquaintance.”
“Do you think her pretty?” persisted Lucy, eagerly.
“Well, no, not as artists and critics define beauty. Still, she is scarcely more than a child at present. She may become, in the years to come, a girl who might be termed unusually handsome. Father Time is so prodigal in his gifts in the flower of youth. And then, again, she might develop into a—well, comparisons are odious, they say, and we will make none in this instance, content to let time do his best or his worst, as fate decrees.”
He did not see a young face, half screened by the climbing rose branches at the window directly overhead, nor did he, therefore, know that the young person under discussion—Jess herself—had heard every word of the conversation.
Jess had drawn hastily back, her face as red as the great, dewy roses that nodded to her from outside the window.
From the first moment her eyes had met those of the handsome stranger at the gate, the old life had seemed to fall suddenly from her. She had said to herself: “Surely, this is the hero of my daydreams; the face, come to life, of the Romeo whom Juliet loved, whose picture hangs on the walls of Blackheath Hall, and like the boyish face, too, of John Dinsmore, when he was a little lad, and came there to visit; and like the bust of Apollo, too; and the knight’s pictures in the old books.” And he did not think her fair: probably, on the contrary, he considered her homely; he had said as much, and tears of wounded pride welled up to the girl’s eyes. She never realized until that moment that she had so much vanity to hurt.