Prisoners of Chance | Page 8

cometh now."
Even as he gave utterance to the words, I turned, attracted by the soft
rustle of a silken skirt at my very side, stole one quick, startled glance
into a young, sweet face, lightened by dark, dreamy eyes, and within
the instant was warmly clasping two outstretched hands, totally
oblivious of all else save her.
"Eloise!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "Eloise--Mademoiselle
Lafrénière--can this indeed be you? Have you sent for me?"
It seemed for that one moment as if the world held but the two of us,
and there was a glad confidence in her brimming eyes quickly
dissipating all mists of the past. Yet only for that one weak, thoughtless
instant did she yield to what appeared real joy at my presence.
"Yes, dear friend, it is Eloise," she answered, gazing anxiously into my
face, and clinging to my strong hands as though fearful lest I might tear
them away when she spoke those hard words which must follow. "Yet
surely you know, Geoffrey Benteen, that I am Mademoiselle Lafrénière
no longer?"
It seemed to me my very heart stopped beating, so intense was the pain
which overswept it. Yet I held to the soft hands, for there was such a

pitiful look of suffering upon her upturned face as to steady me.
"No, I knew it not," I answered brokenly. "I--I have been buried in the
forest all these years since we parted, where few rumors of the town
have reached me. But let that pass; it--it is easy to see you are now in
great sorrow. Was it because of this--in search of help, in need,
perchance--that you have sent for me?"
She bowed her head; a tear fell upon my broad hand and glistened
there.
"Yes, Geoffrey."
The words were scarcely more than a whisper; then the low voice
seemed to strengthen with return of confidence, her dark eyes anxiously
searching my face.
"I sent for you, Geoffrey, because of deep trouble; because I am left
alone, without friends, saving only the père. I know well your
faithfulness. In spite of the wrong, the misunderstanding between
us--and for it I take all the blame--I have ever trusted in your word,
your honor; and now, when I can turn nowhere else for earthly aid, the
good God has guided you back to New Orleans. Geoffrey Benteen, do
not gaze at me so! It breaks my heart to see that look in your eyes; but,
my friend, my dearest friend, do you still recall what you said to me so
bravely the night you went away?"
Did I remember! God knew I did; ay! each word of that interview had
been burned into my life, had been repeated again and again in the
silence of my heart amid the loneliness of the woods; nothing in all
those years had for one moment obliterated her face or speech from
memory.
"I remember, Eloise," I answered more calmly. "The words you mean
were: 'If ever you have need of one on whom you may rely for any
service, however desperate (and in New Orleans such necessity might
arise at any moment), one who would gladly yield his very life to serve
you, then, wherever he may be, send for Geoffrey Benteen.' My poor

girl, has that moment come?"
The brown head drooped until it rested in unconsciousness against my
arm, while I could feel the sobs which shook her form and choked her
utterance.
"It has come," she whispered at last; "I am trusting in your promise."
"Nor in vain; my life is at your command."
She stopped my passionate utterance with quick, impulsive gesture.
"No! pledge not yourself again until you hear my words, and ponder
them," she cried, with return to that imperiousness of manner I had
loved so well. "This is no ordinary matter. It will try your utmost love;
perchance place your life in such deadly peril as you never faced before.
For I must ask of you what no one else would ever venture to
require--nor can I hold out before you the slightest reward, save my
deepest gratitude."
I gazed fixedly at her flushed face, scarcely comprehending the strange
words she spoke.
"What may all this be that you require--this sacrifice so vast that you
doubt me? Surely I have never stood a coward, a dastard in your sight?"
She stood erect, facing me, proudly confident in her power, with tears
still clinging to her long lashes.
"No! you wrong me uttering such a thought. I doubt you not, although I
might well doubt any other walking this earth. But listen, and you can
no longer question my words; this which I dare ask of you--because I
trust you--is to save my husband."
"Your husband?" The very utterance of the word choked me. "Your