TELL ME YOUR SECRETS.
At eleven o'clock Miss Gastonguay's brougham stopped before the Mercer house, and the coachman, pulling up his horses, looked over his shoulder, to see whether Derrice was opening the door. She was, having been told by Miss Gastonguay that, while a coachman was a necessary evil, a footman was a blot on modern civilisation.
The man watched the girlish figure hurrying up the steps, waited until he heard the door open, then, with a disapproving smile at the dull, dark house, drove quickly away.
Derrice, excited and refreshed by her visit, and the attention she had received, almost fell into her husband's arms. "Oh, Justin, have I kept you up?"
"No," he said, and he led the way to the dining-room, where the gas was burning brightly, and a book was lying face downward on the table.
"Look at my flowers; are they not delightful?" and she displayed a bouquet of roses and geraniums.
"Very delightful."
"I've had a good time,—such a good time, but who are those people? I could not ask many questions, and I had no time with Mr. Huntington. I thought perhaps you would not like my going there. Miss Gastonguay was not very polite to your mother, but I don't think she means all she says," and she paused doubtfully.
Justin scarcely heard what she said. He was absorbed in examining her flushed, charming face, her tumbled hair, her youthful self-possession, with its touch of timidity. Not since they had come to Rossignol had he seen her so excited as she was at present.
"Did you mind my going?" she asked.
"No; nothing you could have done would have given me greater pleasure."
"You like Miss Gastonguay?"
"Yes."
Derrice's radiant eyes flashed around the room, then, shuddering slightly, she drew her cloak about her.
"It is dull for you to come back to this house," said her husband, quietly. "You feel the contrast between it and Miss Gastonguay's beautiful home."
She dropped her head to his hand that lay outstretched on the table. "It is like a stone vault," she whispered against his fingers; "can't we leave it?"
She was so chary of her caresses that Justin'sblood grew warm in his veins, though his manner became troubled.
"Never mind to-night," she went on. "I don't want to vex you. Oh, I have had such a good time!" and she closed her eyes rapturously until a sudden misgiving caused them to fly open. "You didn't miss me, I hope?"
"I always miss you."
"But not with a hateful, longing miss. Do tell me that you are beginning to get weaned away from me. Oh, I should be so glad! It is ridiculous for you to be so fond of me. Really, it just makes me laugh,"—and she shook her head like a provoking child.
"You little flirt," he said, composedly. "You have gone out and got your blood stirred, and, coming back to this quiet house, you, for lack of other amusement, wish to incite me to make love to you."
"It isn't that at all," she said, poutingly.
"You are only eighteen," he observed.
"I am sorry you regret having married one so young."
"I don't regret it,—it was unavoidable."
"Why didn't you wait until I was older?"
"Ah, why did I not?" he asked, with some humour.
"Justin," she said, wistfully, "there is some mystery about you and papa and myself,—what is it?"
Her husband did not answer her. He took off his glasses, rubbed his hand over his eyes, stifled a yawn, and glanced at his watch.
"You are provoking," she said, petulantly. "When you don't want to tell me anything, you just keep still."
"I have nothing to tell you on this subject."
"You are tired,—I must not keep you, but just let me ask you two or three questions. What is the matter with Mr. Huntington?"
"Well, I think he has some mental worry."
"He acted so strangely to-day. I came suddenly upon him and Miss Chelda, and he seemed to be in a state of perfect bliss,—almost silly in fact. All through dinner—ah, what a nice dinner we had, Justin!—he was the same way. Then afterward we went to the music-room to hear Miss Chelda play. Her execution is something wonderful, but I suppose you know all about it, also that she cannot sing. Miss Gastonguay wanted me to try. I told her I had only a little faint squeak of a voice, but she insisted. I sang one song after another, and when I finished 'The Land o' the Leal' Mr. Huntington looked so strangely, and finally stepped out of the room and left the house. Miss Chelda didn't say anything, but I felt that she didn't like it. Was it not queer of him not to take leave?"
"Very."
"I would like to know what is wrong with him, but I see you won't tell me. Do you like Miss Chelda?"
"I don't know much about her, except that she was fond of making faces at me when she strutted about the streets here, a little overdressed girl. My father used to be intimate with the Gastonguays before his marriage; but they have never liked my mother nor me, and I was surprised to hear that Miss Gastonguay had called to-day. One of her whims must have taken possession of her."
"Do you mean to say that Miss Chelda is as old as you are?"
"Almost."
"Why, she acts as if she were as young as I am. I dare say she takes something off her age. Girls often do."
"Would you?" he asked.
"Well, I don't need to yet. Perhaps I will some day."
His face darkened, and he absently toyed with his glasses.
"You are a very proper man," said his wife, teasingly. "I believe you would want to shake me if I told a story. I'll have to, you know. Good gracious, everybody tells stories."
"Please don't jest on such a subject."
"On such a subject,—I will if I choose, sir. Oh,what a fright you are with that ugly frown on your brow! but I am not afraid of you. I think I will go to bed, you are getting tiresome. Miss Gastonguay is so amusing," and, with a regretful sigh, she rose to leave him.
"You like Miss Gastonguay," he said, with quiet eagerness.
"Yes, immensely. At first I could not make her out. Now I like her a thousand times better than that niece of hers. Miss Chelda is queer,—just like a deep, dark river. I detest people who look at me so coolly that I can't tell what they are thinking about. You are like that sometimes."
Unmindful of this thrust, Justin asked, "Did she tell you anything about her family history?"
"Oh, yes, she said her house was called French Cross on account of the cross her Catholic ancestor put up there, and she showed me the picture of the old chief Kanawita, and some day she is going to let me see the Indian relics she has stored in her attic."
"She has indeed taken you into favour," said her husband, in a tone of gratification.
"What does it matter?" said Derrice, coldly. "I shall probably soon be leaving here," and she lowered her eyes, for a sudden mist of tears made her husband's figure a blur, except for the splash of light on the glasses of his spectacles.
"You do not feel yourself growing more contented?" he asked.
"Contented, no," she cried, stretching out her arms; "I am homesick,—homesick for my father. Oh, I wish he would come. I shall beg him to do so."
"My poor child," said Justin, softly, "what can I do for you?"
"You cannot do anything," she said, vehemently. "You should not have married me—" and she dashed away the tears from her eyes in order to see his shocked face.
But he was not shocked. He seemed rather to be thoughtfully following up the ramifications of some problem connected with her statement.
"Derrice," he said, abruptly rising and putting a hand on her shoulder, "you are nervous, I should not allow you to talk. Good night, my dear child."
"Good night," she said, twitching her smooth, sloping shoulder away from his hand, but without making any further effort to leave him.
His calm features became suffused with compassion. "Do you know that I came home to-day with a carriage to give my dear dolly a drive?"
"No; did you?" and her face brightened.
"Yes, and I found her absent."
Derrice breathed a gentle, "She could not help it. If she had known—"
"And all the evening," Justin continued, "the house has been so lonely."
"Has it?" she said, delightedly.
"And my foolish little girl comes home from a visit to a fine house where apparently nothing but peace and happiness reign—"
"Yes, it is a charming place," and she sighed.
"And where she saw a good-looking man ostensibly making love to an interesting young lady—"
"Yes, he was, I am sure of it."
"And she is discontented because her own husband is so very commonplace—"
"Oh, no, no—"
"And this other man is so superlatively beautiful, and has such entrancing hair and such melting eyes," said Justin, sarcastically, "and also having been a former friend of the discontented doll, she suffers from the pangs of jealousy."
"She does not," said Derrice, decidedly.
"Tell me how much you knew of Bernal Huntington in former days?" said Justin. "I have not had a chance to ask you before. Come, sit on my knee, dolly, and tell me about it."
Derrice shrugged her shoulders, then shook her head so vehemently that her whole mass of light hair came tumbling about her shoulders. "I never flirted with him, Justin."
"I should hope not. You were too young. Where did you meet him?"
"In western Canada. When we were travelling we often met nice girls, and my father always took me to see them if he could. Once we met an English girl on a Cunard steamer. She was going to visit her brother, who had a ranch in Manitoba. I liked her ever so much, and the next year, after we had been doing the Rocky Mountains, my father took me to the nearest town to the ranch. This girl and her brother used to drive into town,—oh, such queer sights they would be, for if they couldn't get horses they took mules. The people used to come in from all the country round about, particularly if there were dances at the hotel. Among them was a handsome New Yorker who was visiting a cousin. They called him Lucifer, or the son of the morning, from a little play they acted. How stunning he used to look, Justin, driving in with his cousin's tandem, or else riding on horseback! He had a friend with him called Mr. Denham, and finally they came to stay at our hotel. I was too young to go to the dances, but Mr. Huntington often talked to me, and I simply adored him. But one day my father suddenly said we must leave. I don't think he liked Mr. Huntington, but I am not sure. You know he never talks much."
"Yes, I know," said Justin, absently stroking her hair.
"The girls were crazy about Mr. Huntington,—simply crazy. You know there are some men that women just rave about."
"And some uninteresting ones like myself that they don't care a fig about."
"No, not uninteresting," said Derrice, sweetly.
"Undemonstrative, then?"
"Yes."
He smiled, and turned his head away.
"Tell me why you were in such a hurry to marry me?" she whispered in his averted ear, "and why my father seconded you?"
Justin promptly kissed her teasing mouth.
"Let me go," she said, laughingly, "I don't like you when you are silly."
He smiled and detained her. "I must be silly long enough to tell you that it grieves me to know that my wife can look with envy upon people who are apparently happy, and say to herself, 'I am alone in the world, no one loves me.' Will you try to remember that you are the centre of attraction in this whole universe for me, and also for your father? Our hearts are bound up in you, dolly."
"Are they," she murmured, and putting up one plump hand she gently caressed his cheek.
He coloured vividly, and put her out of his arms. "Run away now, darling,—and go softly past mymother's door. This is an extravagantly late hour to her."
She seemed reluctant to leave him. "Justin," she said, hanging about the threshold of the door, "I know I am not satisfactory as a wife, but I will try to do better,—I am not very old yet."
Without answering her he remained standing on the hearth-rug.
"And I like you better than I did," she said, shyly; "perhaps, when I get quite wise, you will tell me all your secrets?"
"Perhaps," he said, calmly.
She smiled her own sweet, mischievous smile, and, waving her hand to him, hurried up-stairs. He stood intently listening until the sound of her light footstep had died away; then picking up the gloves and the lace handkerchief that she had dropped, he pressed them to his lips, and late as it was, threw himself in a chair by the table, and sat staring intently at them. Some trouble threatened his young wife, and, resourceful and clear-headed as he was, his knotted brow showed that he saw but little chance of averting it.