"Will you do me a favor?" she said.
"Any you may ask," he replied.
"Bring me the picture, the sketch you made of me."
"Certainly, if you desire it."
"I do desire it very, very much."
"Right away?" he asked, unconsciously falling into a Southernism.
"Yes, sir, if you please."
"I hope you are not angry," he said, delaying.
"No, oh no! but I am right, which is much better. Don't you think I am?"
"Perhaps so: I am slow to think you ever could be wrong. But be frank with me, Miss La Rue: why should he — why should Col. Vance control this thing?"
Her face reddened, and she stood a moment in silence. She held her head a little higher, and her lips trembled slightly as she said, —
"Will you be kind enough to fetch the picture now?"
He went immediately, and without another word. He was gone a long time. She waited impatiently, idly straying around on a little space of the lawn, her hands crossed in front of her, and her eyes bent upon the ground. In one hand, all unconsciously, she still held the little fan that Willard had brought to her. When she chanced to notice this she let it fall as if it had been a dangerous thing; but she stooped and picked it up again, just as he came down the steps with the sketch.
"I will exchange with you," she said, with a poor little smile, holding out the fan in one hand, and reaching to take the sketch with the other.
"It hurts me," he said: "it gives me a real pang."
They both hesitated, half offering, half withdrawing. Their eyes met in a way which caused them both to wonder, there had come such a change, and so quickly.
"I would give it to you if my life went with it," continued Willard, holding the sketch farther toward her. It was an extravagant assertion, but at such a time it had the force of reality. It was as though he offered his life.
"But you must not think me mean," she said: "I do not wish to be unkind, or give you pain."
"I know, I know," he said. "It is what lies behind it all that cuts so keenly. I cannot bear it."
She did not understand him. Her face, in expressing perplexity, was so unique and so beautiful a study that the subject of their conversation faded from his mind. His love for her leaped up like a flame.
"Lucie, Miss La Rue," he continued, so soon as he again returned to himself, "how is this to end? Do you see? Have I any right to consideration? Is he every thing? Must I go at the wave of his hand?"
"Now you are bitter," she responded: "you do not consider. There are differences of custom. He did not like for you to have my picture. He did not think it proper."
"Oh! but he would think proper for him to have one. He is an exception."
"Mr. Willard, give me the"—
"Certainly: here, pardon me."
She almost snatched the sketch, and ran up the steps with it; but she immediately returned, holding out the fan.
"I was acting unfairly, keeping both," she said, again essaying to smile, which enhanced her look of embarrassment.
"Keep it: I am going away — going home," he murmured huskily.
"Oh, no! you must not, it would"—
"Immediately," he said, "I must go at once. I came too late, I have staid too long. Lucie, Lucie, I love you, and I must go!" His voice had in it an infinitude of tender, hopeless trouble. He held out both hands. It was a fine picture they made, the lithe, strong, fair young man, and the dark, graceful, splendid girl, as they stood facing each other. The charm of youth, the magnetic power of personal beauty, and the influence of that indescribable element of sympathy which leaps from heart to heart at such a time, held them as if on tiptoe. And the wind blew gently, swaying the long moss and dark sprays of the oaks. The perfume of jasmine came, the mocking-birds sang, the lazy warmth of the semi-tropic crept along from the west, where the sun swung low; the dull old house seemed sleeping.
"No, no, not that," she said, putting her hand toward him, as if to thrust back his words, "you must not say that!"
He strove to read her meaning in her eyes. He bent eagerly forward, bringing his hands closer together.
"Must I go?" he scarcely more than whispered. "Say, Lucie, must I?"
She stood in a faltering attitude. Her color came and went. Her lips moved, but she spoke no word. Then, with a quick, resolute movement, she put the fan on his outstretched hands; and, turning abruptly about, fled into the house.
Something tinkled on the steps as she passed over them, and Willard saw her eye-glasses shining where they had fallen. He picked them up, and stood a while holding them. Lucie had used these so furtively that he had scarcely more than suspected her near-sightedness; but he knew they were hers. He had seen them slipped under her scarlet waist-ribbon.
He went up to his room in a dazed, bewildered mood. He tried to shake off the feeling, and be able to see his way clearly, but nothing offered save immediate departure. He looked at his watch. He would barely have time to reach the train. He sat down at the little table, and wrote the following: —
"My Dear Friend, — You will pardon my sudden flight from your house: circumstances of the most imperative nature compel me. I will explain thoroughly when I have leisure.
"Hurriedly, faithfully yours,
"Herman Willard, Jun.
"To Judge La Rue."
This he left lying on the table. Hastily packing a small valise, and taking the cane Lucie had given him, he left the house, and made his way to the railway-station just in time for the eastward-going train.
A few minutes after Willard's departure, Lucie received, by a special messenger, the following: —
"Dear Lucie, —Just had a telegram that my father is dying at Hot Springs, Ark. I leave on train going east Will write you.
"Ever yours,
"Arthur Vance."
It can easily be seen that these two little epistles caused a stir in the quiet old house. Miss La Rue senior was exasperated at Willard, the judge was utterly nonplussed, Lucie was excited but silent. Of course nothing could be done but wait for the explanation.
To Lucie the affair seemed unreal; and she tried in vain to make it take some explainable shape, so that she could go to her father and her aunt, and tell them the whole of it. Down in her heart there was a great regret like a heavy stone; there was also a sweet, tender consciousness of a new life, lived for a day, which no mischance could ever wholly drive out.
For two or three days she went softly about the house, a little pale, not inclined to talk.
Cauthorne came to see her. He was greatly surprised when she told him Willard was gone. He could hardly believe it.
"What ever took the boy away in such a hurry?" he exclaimed, more to himself than to her. "Are you sure he has gone back to his home?"
"I know nothing except what his note stated," she said.
"What day did he leave?"
"The day before yesterday, on the evening train."
Cauthorne started.
"Are you sure?" he asked, "On the evening train?"
"I know he must have gone on that train, for he left the house not more than a half-hour before train-time."
"Then he and Col. Vance went on the same train! " said Cauthorne.
"I had not thought of that," she exclaimed, and her face grew very pale.
"Well, I dare say nothing has come of it," rejoined Cauthorne after a pause, "or we should have heard of it."
That very evening, after Cauthorne had gone, Lucie received a letter from Col. Vance, written from Montgomery, Ala. He would write again as soon as he reached Hot Springs. He said nothing about having seen Willard.
Strange enough, Cauthorne got a letter from Willard, dated the same as Vance's, and postmarked at Montgomery, in which there was no mention of Vance. It was a relief to know that they had not met and fought. It rolled a great weight from Lucie's heart. She did not smile much; but her eyes were not so sad and heavy, and her step took something of the old quickness and lightness again.
Cauthorne went to La Rue place every day. He spent much time talking over political matters with the old judge. He was doing his utmost to forward Vance's plans in his absence, and this endeared him to the old man and to the elder Miss La Rue. He delved with the legislators, using every art, and, it is to be feared, some artifice, to hold them steadily where he needed them.
When the time came for the ballot on Vance's measures, it was owing to Cauthorne's personal efforts, more than to any other influence extrinsic of the Legislature itself, that they were, after a whole night's struggle, triumphantly pulled through. He immediately telegraphed to Vance as follows: —
"We have won. Your policy has been vindicated. Both bills passed by a small majority. We staid with them all night. We triumphed just as the roosters crowed for day.
"Cauthorne."
He received the following reply: —
"A thousand thanks. Let us shake hands over the bloody chasm.
"Vance."
