III.
THE UNCERTAIN GLORY OF A NEW YORK
GIRL.
When May emerged in the little grass island, screened safely by the play of falling waters, he was breathless with the run; and his heart pounded against his ribs with the violence of his emotions. The countess it unquestionably was. None but she would arrive in open carriage and pair and splendid livery. And May reckoned he would have to stay there, in the shelter of the fountain, until the light made his escape safe and possible. As for seeing her, that was out of the question. Had he still cared for Mrs. Dehon, he might have choked off the other one; but he had not pluck for it now. He had mildly hoped that Gladys and the countess might have arrived at the same time and settled it between them; but Allah had willed otherwise. It was damp and uncomfortable upon the little island, however, without even a cigar; and he did not dare go back to the pavilion.
As he stood peering through the falling water the carriage turned about, left the house, and came down the driveway. May was astounded. He tried his best to see who was in it, but the distance was too great. He fancied that he made out a figure upon the back seat, but it was that of a young man. He was surely too young for Serge; but, possibly, Serge had left a son. This, indeed, was extremely probable. And the son was gone to the gate to await more formal introduction to his papa-in-law; and had left the countess in the house.
This was the most terrible possibility that had yet occurred to his fevered imagination, overwrought with suspense and too much tobacco as it was. For a moment the idea of the buggy and the fast horse in the stable presented itself as the only certain means of escape. But at the same instant he saw Fides emerge from the side-door, carrying something white in his mouth. The hound came to the door of the pavilion and scratched there; not finding any response, he took to coursing around the building, in wider and wider distances, until his circle included the whole pond. When he had once more made the circuit of this, without getting trail of his master, he lifted his nose from the ground to give utterance to occasional lugubrious howls.
This was impossible. Something must be done at once, or his chief retreat would be discovered. May rapidly descended through the subterranean passage, and appearing at the door of the pavilion, whistled softly. The dog bounded toward him, and May took the letter from his mouth. It was accompanied with a card of “Mr. Burlington Quincy,” as May hurriedly read. Now, Mr. Burlington Quincy bore a name utterly unknown to Austin May.
He looked at the note. It was certainly not in the handwriting of Madame Polacca de Valska, and May breathed a sigh of relief. He opened it.
“My dear Mr. May: (it began)
“I know you will not misinterpret my action, when I write to tell you that our engagement cannot be made known to-day. The bearer of this, Mr. Burlington Quincy, of Boston, I did not know when our pleasant acquaintance began last year, but I feel sure that he is the only man I have ever——”
“Loved,” added May to himself, mechanically, as the first page came to an end. Without troubling himself to read any further, he merely looked at the signature, which was, “yours ever sincerely, Georgiana Rutherford.”
“Bah!” said Austin to himself again, and he crumpled up the letter and threw it upon the pedestal of the Venus of Milo. A very different sort of girl from Georgy Rutherford, she looked at him with an air of dignity offended by his flippancy. Certainly a great weight was off his mind, even if it did leave behind the faintest conceivable smart of irritation. One, at least, was disposed of satisfactorily, and he threw himself into the great arm-chair with a sigh of relief. He wished Miss Rutherford joy of her bargain, though he could not but think it ill-bred of her to choose the replacing victim as the messenger of his release. The only man she had ever loved, indeed! And who was Mr. Burlington Quincy? Well, it mattered little to him.
May looked at his watch; it was seven o’clock. Only five hours more of this awful day remained! His condition was one of absolute nervous prostration; and he looked in a glass to see if his hair had yet turned gray. Could it be that they would none of them appear? He felt almost hungry, but that eating was out of the question for one in his position. He could, however, take a biscuit and a glass of claret; and this he did.
But May was fated that day to have hard luck with his uncle’s wine. Hardly had he begun to sip the glass, when a loud knocking at the very door of his pavilion made him drop it, and again seek refuge in his fountain hiding-place. From there he looked through the jets of water and saw that the knocker was none other than the faithful Schmidt.
May hastened back again to the pavilion and opened the door.
“What do you mean by this?” said he, angrily. “Did I not tell you not to come out under any circumstances, unless you heard a pistol-shot?”
But, alas! The effect of the solitude, the heat, and the excitement of his master’s strange behavior had been too much, even for the perfect valet. Moreover, he had felt it his duty to finish all his master’s so precipitately abandoned bottles, lest they should fall into the hands of the enemy. If Mr. Schmidt was not tipsy, it was clear that he soon would be. He had been leaning heavily against the door, and as his master opened it suddenly, he fell into the room, head over heels to the floor; and there, without getting up, he endeavored to bow apologetically, and swayed to and fro with the effort, smiling a meaningless smile and holding a visiting-card in his right hand. May took it mechanically. It was edged in deep black; and upon it he read the simple legend:
Mrs. Terwilliger Dehon.