The Courting of Lady Jane | Page 4

Driscoll," she said in a low, uneven voice, "my daughter
wishes me to say to you that she appreciates deeply the honor you do
her, and that if you wish it she will be your wife. She--she is sure she
will be happy."
The colonel felt his heart leap up and hit heavily against his chest. Was
it possible? A great gratitude and pride glowed softly through him. He

walked nearly up the steps and stood just below her, lifting her hand to
his lips.
"My dear, dear child," he said slowly, "you give me too much, but you
must not measure my thankfulness for the gift by my deserts. Whatever
a man can do to make you and your mother happy shall be done so long
as I live."
She smiled gravely into his eyes and bowed her head slightly; like all
her little motions, it had the effect of a graceful ceremony. Then,
slipping loose her hand, she seated herself on a low stool beside her
mother's chair, leaning against her knee. Her sweet silence charmed
him.
He took his accustomed seat, and they sat quietly, while the breeze
puffed little gusts of honeysuckle across their faces. Occasional
neighbors greeted them, strolling past; the newly watered lawns all
along the street sent up a fresh turfy odor; now and then a bird chirped
drowsily. He felt deliriously intimate, peacefully at home. A fine,
subtle sense of bien-être penetrated his whole soul.
When he rose to go they had hardly exchanged a dozen words. As he
held, her hand closely, half doubting his right, she raised her face to
him simply, and he kissed her white forehead. When he bent over her
mother's hand it was as cold as stone.
Through the long pleasant weeks of the summer they talked and
laughed and drove and sailed together, a happy trio. Mrs. Leroy's
listless quiet of the first few days gave way to a brilliant, fitful gayety
that enchanted the more silent two, and the few hours when she was not
with them seemed incomplete. On his mentioning this to her one
afternoon she shot him a strange glance.
"But this is all wrong," she said abruptly. "What will you do when I am
gone in the winter?"
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Gone where, when, how?"

"My dear colonel," she said lightly, but with an obvious effort, "do you
imagine that I cannot leave you a honeymoon, in spite of my doting
parenthood? I plan to spend the latter part of the winter in New York
with friends. Perhaps by spring--"
"My dear Mrs. Leroy, how absurd! How cruel of you! What will Lady
do? What shall I do? She has never been separated from you in her life.
Does she know of this?"
"No; I shall tell her soon. As for what she will do--she will have her
husband. If that is not enough for her, she should not marry the man
who cannot--"
She stopped suddenly and controlled with great effort a rising emotion
almost too strong for her. Again a deep, inexplicable sympathy welled
up in him. He longed to comfort her, to give her everything she wanted.
He blamed himself and Jane for all the trouble they were causing her.
That afternoon she kept in her room, and he and his fiancée drank their
tea together alone. He was worried by the news of the morning,
dissatisfied out of all proportion, vexed that so sensible and natural a
proposition should leave him so uneasy and disappointed. He had
meant the smooth, quiet life to go on without a break, and now the new
relation must change everything.
He glanced at Jane, a little irritated that she should not perceive his
mood and exorcise it. But she had not her mother's marvellous
susceptibility. She drank her tea in serene silence. He made a few
haphazard remarks, hoping to lose in conversation the cloud that
threatened his evening; but she only assented tranquilly and watched
the changing colors of the early sunset.
"Have you made a vow to agree with everything I say?" he asked
finally, half laughing, half in earnest.
"Not at all," she replied placidly, "but you surely do not want an
argument?"

"Oh, no," he answered her, vexed at himself.
"What do you think of Mrs. ------'s novel?" he suggested, as the pages,
fluttering in the rising breeze, caught his attention.
"Mother is reading it, not I," she returned indifferently. "I don't care
very much for the new novels."
Involuntarily he turned as if to catch her mother's criticism of the book:
light, perhaps, but witty, and with a little tang of harmless satire that
always took his fancy. But she was not there. He sighed impatiently;
was it possible he was a little bored?
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