Chapter 7

Sometimes he caught perch and dace and chub, and she accepted half, never more. Sometimes he caught nothing; and then her clear, humorous eyes bantered him, and sometimes she even rallied him. For it had come to pass in these sunset moments that she was learning to permit herself a friendliness and a confidence for him which was very pleasant to her while it lasted, but, after he had gone, left her with soft lips drooping and gaze remote.

Because matters with her, with them both, she feared, were not tending in the right direction. It was not well for her to see him every day--well enough for him, perhaps, but not for her.

Some day--some sunset evening, with the West flecked gold and the zenith stained with pink, and the pink-throated bird singing of Paradise, and the brook talking in golden tones to its pebbles--some such moment at the end of day she would end all of their days for them both--all of their days for all time.

But not just yet; she had been silent so long, waiting, hoping, trusting, biding her time, that to her his voice and her own at eventide was a happiness yet too new to destroy.

That evening, as he stood at her window, the barrier of mignonette fragrant between them, he said rather abruptly:

"Are you ill?"

"No," she said startled.

"Oh, I am relieved."

"Why did you ask?"

"Because every Tuesday I have seen the doctor from Moss Centre come in here."

In flushed silence she turned to her table and, folding her hands, gazed steadily at nothing.

Marque looked at her, then looked away. The big, handsome young physician from Moss Centre had been worrying him for a long while now, but he repeated, half to himself: "I am very much relieved. I was becoming a little anxious--he came so regularly."

"He is a friend," she said, not looking at him.

He forced a smile. "Well, then, there is no reason for me to worry about you."

"There never was any reason--was there?"

"No, no reason."

"You don't say it cheerfully, Mr. Marque. You speak as though it might have been a pleasure for you to worry over my general health and welfare."

"I think of little else," he said.

There was a silence. Between them, along the barrier of heliotrope and mignonette, the little dusk moths came hovering on misty wings; the sun had set, but the zenith was bright crimson. Perhaps it was the reflection from that high radiance that seemed to tint her face with a softer carmine.

She looked out into the West across the stream, thinking now that for them both the end of things was drawing very near. And, to meet fate half way with serenity--nay, to greet destiny while still far off, with a smile, she unconsciously straightened in her chair and lifted her proud little head.

"Lord Marque," she said quietly, "why do you not go back to England?"

For a moment what she had said held no meaning for him. Then comprehension smote him like lightning; and, thunderstruck, he remained as he was without moving a muscle, still resting against her window-sill, his lean, sun-browned face illuminated under the zenith's fiery glory.

"Who are you?" he said, under his breath.

"Only an English girl who happened to have seen you in London."

"When?"

She turned deliberately and, resting one arm across the back of her chair, looked him steadily in the eyes.

"I am twenty-five. Since I was twenty your face has been familiar to me."

They exchanged a long and intent gaze.

"I never before saw you," he said.

"Perhaps."

"_Have_ I?"

"Who can know what a fashionable young man really looks at--through a monocle."

"I don't wear it any more. I lost it out West," he said, reddening.

"You lost your top hat once, too," she said.

He grew red as fire.

"So you've heard of that, too?"

"I saw it."

"You! Saw me attacked?" he demanded angrily, while the shame burnt hotter on his cheeks.

"Yes. You ran like the devil."

For a moment he remained mute and furious; then shrugged: "What was I to do?"

"Run," she admitted. "It was the only way."

He managed to smile. "And you were a witness to that?"

She nodded, eyes remote, her teeth nipping at the velvet of her underlip. He, too, remained lost in gloomy retrospection for a while, but finally looked up with a more genuine smile.

"I wonder whatever became of that fleet-footed girl who hung to my heels long after the more solidly constructed aristocracy gave up?"

"Lady Diana Guernsey?"

"That's the one. What became of her?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because she gave me the run of my life. She was a good sport, that girl. I couldn't shake her off; I took to a taxi and she after me in another; my taxi broke down in the suburbs and I started across country, she after me. And the last I saw of her was just after I leaped a hedge and she was coming over it after me--a wonderful athletic young figure in midair silhouetted against the sky line. . . . That was the last I saw of her. I fancy she must have pulled up dead beat--or perhaps she came a cropper."

"She did," said the girl in a low voice.

"Is that so?" he said, interested. "Hope it didn't damage her."

"She broke her thigh."

"Oh, that's too bad!" he exclaimed. "If I'd guessed any such thing I'd have come back. . . . The poor little thing! I mean that, though she was nearly six feet, I seem to think of her as little--and, of course, I'm six--two and a half. . . . Good little sport, that Diana girl! She got over it all right, I hope."

"It lamed her for life, Lord Marque."

Shocked, for a moment he could find no words to characterise his feelings. Then:

"Oh, dammitall! I say, it's a rotten shame, isn't it? And all on account of me--that superb young thing taking hedges like a hunter! Oh, come now, you know I--it hurts me all the way through. I wish I'd let her catch me! What would she have done to me? I wouldn't mind being pulled about a bit--or anything--if it would have prevented her injury. By gad, you know, I'd even have eaten her plum cake, frosting and all, to have saved her such a fate."

The girl's eyes searched his. "That was not the most tragic part of it, Lord Marque."

"God bless us! Was there anything more?"

"Yes. . . . She was in love with you."

"With--with _me_?" he repeated, bewildered.

"Yes. As a young, romantic girl she fell in love with you. She was a curious child--like all the Guernseys, a strange mixture of impulse and constancy, of romance and determination. If she had fallen in love with Satan she would have remained constant. But she only fell in love with young Marque. . . . And she loves him to this day."

"That--that's utterly impossible!" he stammered. "Didn't she become a suffragette and carry a banner and chase me and vow to make me eat my own words frosted on a terrible plum cake?"

"Yes. And all the while she went on loving you."

"How do you know?" he demanded, incredulously.

"She confided in me."

"In _you_!"

"I knew her well, Lord Marque. . . . Not as well as I thought I did, perhaps; yet, perhaps better than--many--perhaps better than anybody. . . . We were brought up together."

"You were her governess?"

"I--attempted to act in a similar capacity. . . . She was difficult to teach--very, very difficult to govern. . . . I am afraid I did not do my best with her."

"Why did you leave her to come here?" he asked.

She made no reply.

"Where is she now?"

She looked out into the cinders of the West, making no answer.

He gazed at her in silence for a long time; then:

"Is she really lame?"

"Yes."

"Very?"

"It is hip disease."

"But--but that can be cured!" he exclaimed. "It is now perfectly curable. Why doesn't she go to Vienna or to New York----"

"She is going."

"She ought to lose no time!"

"She is going. She only learned the nature of her trouble very recently."

"You mean she has been lame all this time and didn't know what threatened her?"

"She was--too busy to ask. Finally, because she did not get well, she called in a physician. But she is a very determined girl; she refused to believe what the physician told her--until--very recently----"

"See here," he said, "are you in constant communication with her?"

"Constant."

"Then tell her you know me. Tell her how terribly sorry I am. Tell--tell her that I'll do anything to--to--tell her," he burst out excitedly, "that I'll eat her plum cake if that will do her any good--or amuse her--or anything! Tell her to bake it and frost it and fill it full of glue, for all I care--and express it to you; and I'll eat every crumb of that silly speech I made----"

"Wait!" she exclaimed. "Do you realise what you're saying? Do you realise what you're offering to do for a girl--a lame girl--who is already in love with you?"

His youthful face fell.

"By gad," he said, "do you think I ought to marry her? How on earth can I when I'm--I'm dead in love with--somebody myself?"

"You--in love?" she said faintly.

He gazed across the brook at the darkening foliage.

"Oh, yes," he said with a pleasant sort of hopelessness, "but I fancy she cares for another man."

"W-why do you think so?"

"He comes to see her."

"Is that a reason?"

"She won't talk about him."

"When a woman won't talk about a man is it always because she cares for him in _that_ way?"

"Isn't it?"

"No."

They had lifted their heads now, facing each other in the violet dusk. Between them the scent of heliotrope grew sweeter. He said:

"I've been all kinds of a fool. For all I know women have as many rights on earth as men have. All I wish is that the plucky girl who took that hedge, banner in hand, were well and happy and married to a really decent fellow."

"But--she loves you."

"And I"--he looked up, encountering her blue eyes--"am already hopelessly in love. What shall I do?"

She said under her breath: "God knows. . . . I can not blame you for not wishing to marry a lame girl----"

"It isn't that!"

"But you wouldn't anyhow----"

"I would if I loved her!"

"You _couldn't_--love a--a cripple! It would not be love; it would be pity----"

He said slowly: "I wish that _you_ were that lame girl. Then you'd understand me."

For a while she sat bolt upright, clasped hands tightening in her lap. Then, turning slowly toward him, she said:

"I am going to say good-night. . . . And thank you--for Diana's sake. . . . And I am going to say more--I am going to say good-bye."

"Good-bye! Where are you going?"

"To New York."

"When?"

"Before I see you again."

"There is no train until----"

"I shall drive to Moss Centre."

"Where that--that doctor lives----"

"Yes. I am going to New York with him, Lord Marque."

He stood as though stunned for a moment; then set his teeth, clenched his hands, and pulled himself together.

"I think I understand," he said quietly. "And--I wish you--happiness."

She stretched out her hand to him above the heliotrope.

"I--wish it--to you----" suddenly her voice broke; again her teeth caught at her underlip like a child who struggles with emotion. "You--_don't_ understand," she said. "Wait a little while before you--come to any--unhappy--conclusions."

After a moment she made a slight effort to disengage her hand--another--then turned in her chair and dropped her head on the table, her right hand still remaining in his. Presently he released it; and she placed both hands on the edge of the table and her forehead upon them.

"I am coming in," he said.

She straightened up swiftly at his words.

"Please don't!" she said in a startled voice, still tremulous.

But he was gone from the dark window, and, frightened, she bent over, caught up her walking stick, and took one impulsive step toward the door. And stood stock still in the middle of the floor as he entered.

His eyes met hers, fell on the supporting cane; and she covered her face with her left arm, standing there motionless.

"Good God!" he breathed. "_You!_"

She began to cry like a child.

"I didn't want you to know," she wailed. "Oh, I didn't want you to know. I thought there was no use--no hope--until yesterday. . . . I--wanted to go to New York with the doctor and be made all sound and well again b-before--before I let you love me----"

"Oh, Diana--Diana!" he whispered, with his arms around her. "Oh, Diana--Diana--my little girl Diana!"

Which was silly enough, she being six feet--almost as tall as he.

"Turn your back," she whispered. "I want to go to my desk--and I can't bear to have you see me walk."

"You darling----"

"No, no, no! Please let them cure me first. . . . Turn your back."

He kissed her hands, held her at arm's length a second, then turned on his heel and stood motionless.

He heard her move almost noiselessly away; heard a desk open and close; heard the chair by the window move as she seated herself.

"Come here," she said in a curious, choked voice.

He turned, went swiftly to her side.

"Great heavens!" he said. "When did you bake that cake?"

"Y-yesterday."

"Why?"

"B-because I was going away to New York and would never perhaps see you again unless I was entirely cured. And I meant to leave this for you--so you would know that I had followed you even here--so you would know I had made a plucky try at you--through all these months--"

"You--you corker!"

"D-do you really mean it?"

"Mean it! I tell you, Diana, you women put it all over the lords of creation--or any lord ever created! Mean it! You bet I do, sweetness! I'll take back everything I ever said about women. They're _the_ real thing in the world! And the best thing for the world is to let them run it!"

"But--dear----" she faltered, lifting her beautiful eyes to him, "if men are going to feel _that_ way about it, we won't want to run anything at all. . . . It was only because you wouldn't let us that we wanted to."

He said in impassioned tones:

"Let the bally world run itself, Diana. What do we care--you and I?"

"No," she said, "we don't care now."

Then that rash and infatuated young man, losing his head entirely, drew from his jeans a large jack-knife, and, before she could prevent him, he had sliced off an enormous hunk of plum cake heavily frosted with his own words.

"Don't, dear!" she begged him. "I couldn't ask _that_ of you----"

"I will!" he said, and bit into it.

"Don't!" she begged him; "please don't! I haven't had much experience with pastry. It may give you dreadful dreams!"

"Let it!" he said. "What do I care for dreams while you remain real! Diana--Diana--huntress of bigger game than ever fled through the age of fable!"

And he bolted a section of frosting and began to chew vigorously upon another, while she slipped both hands into his, regarding him with tender solicitude.

"Have no fears for me, dearest," he said indistinctly; "fortified by months of pie I dread no food ever prepared by youth and beauty. Even the secret dishes of the Medici----"

"John!"

"W-what, darling?"

"After all--I don't cook so badly."

So, in the gloaming, he swallowed the last crumb and gathered her into his strong young arms, and drew her golden head down close to his.

"Take it from me," he whispered, relapsing into the noble idioms of his adopted country, "you're all to the mustard, Diana; your eats were bully and I liked 'em fine!"

XIV

THE situation in Great Britain was becoming deplorable; the Home Secretary had been chased into the Serpentine; the Prime Minister and a dozen members of Parliament had taken permanent refuge in the vaults of the Bank of England; a vast army of suffragettes was parading the streets of London, singing, cheering, and eating bon-bons. Statues, monuments, palaces were defaced with the words "Votes for Women," and it was not an uncommon sight to see some handsome young man rushing distractedly through Piccadilly pursued by scores of fleet-footed suffragettes of the eugenic wing of their party, intent on his capture for the purposes of scientific propagation.

No young man who conformed to the standard of masculine beauty set by the eugenist suffragettes was safe any longer. Scientific marriage between perfectly healthy people was now a firmly established principle of the suffragette propaganda; they began to chase attractive young men on sight with the avowed determination of marrying them to physically qualified individuals of their own sex and party, irrespective of social or educational suitability.

This had already entailed much hardship; the young Marquis of Putney was chased through Cadogan Place, caught, taken away in a taxi, and married willy-nilly to a big, handsome, strapping girl who sold dumb-bells in the new American department store. No matter who the man might be professionally and socially, if he was young and well-built and athletic he was chased on sight and, if captured, married to some wholesome and athletic young suffragette in spite of his piteous protests.

"We will found," cried Mrs. Blinkerly Dank-some-Hankly triumphantly, "a perfect human race and teach it the immortal principles of woman's rights. So, if we can't persuade Parliament to come out for us, we'll take Parliament by the slack of its degraded trousers, some day, and throw it out!"

This terrible menace delivered in Trafalgar Square was cabled to the _Outlook_, which instantly issued its first extra; and New York, already in the preliminary throes of a feminine revolution, went wild.

That day the handsome young Governor of New York, attended by his ornamental young Military Secretary in full uniform, had arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria to confer with the attractive young Mayor of the metropolis concerning a bill to be introduced into the legislature, permitting the franchise to women under certain conditions. And on the same day a monster suffragette parade was scheduled.

Some provisions of the proposed measure, somehow or other, had become known to the National Federation of Women; and as the Governor, his Military Secretary, and the Mayor sat in earnest conference in a private room at the Waldorf, the most terrible riot that New York ever saw began on Fifth Avenue just as the head of the parade, led by the suffragette band of 100 pieces, arrived at the hotel.

The Governor, Mayor, and Secretary rushed to the windows; acres of banners waved wildly below; cheer after cheer rent the raw March atmosphere; in every direction handsome young men were fleeing, pursued by eugenists. Under their very windows the shocked politicians beheld an exceedingly good-looking youth seized by several vigorous and beautiful suffragettes, dragged into a taxi, and hurried away toward a scientific marriage, kicking and struggling. This was nothing new, alas. More than one attractive young man had already been followed and spoken to in Manhattan.

Mr. Dill, president of the Board of Aldermen, and the handsomest incumbent of the office that the city ever beheld, had been courted so persistently that, fearful of being picked up, he remained in hiding disguised as a Broadway fortune teller, where the Mayor came at intervals to consult him on pretense of having his palms read.

But now the suffragettes threw off all restraint; men, frightened and confused, were being not only spoken to on Fifth Avenue, but were being seized and forcibly conducted in taxicabs toward the marriage license bureau.

It was a very St. Bartholomew for bachelors.

"John," said the Governor to his capable young Military Secretary, "take off that uniform. I'm going to flee in disguise."

"What does your excellency expect me to flee in--dishabille?" stammered the Military Secretary.

"I don't care what you flee in," said the Governor bluntly; "but I will not have it said that the Governor of the great State of New York was seized by a dozen buxom eugenists and hurried away to become the founder of a physically and politically perfect race of politicians. Get out of those gold-laced jeans!"

"I'll flee disguised as a chambermaid," muttered the handsome, rosy-cheeked young Mayor. And he rang for one.

While the Governor and his Secretary were exchanging clothes they heard the Mayor in the hallway arguing with a large German chambermaid in an earnest and fatherly manner, punctuated by coy screams from the maid.

By and by he came back to the room, perspiring.

"I bought her clothes," he said; "she'll throw them over the transom."

The clothing arrived presently by way of the transom; the Governor and the Secretary tried to aid the Mayor to get into the various sections of clothing, but as they all were bachelors and young they naturally were not aware of the functions of the various objects scattered over the floor.

The Governor picked up a bunch of curls attached to a cup-shaped turban swirl.

"Good heavens!" he said. "The girl has scalped herself for your sake, John!"

"I bought that, too," said the Mayor, sullenly. "Do you know which way it goes on, George?"

They fixed it so that two curls fell down and dangled on either side of his Honour's nose.

Meanwhile the unfortunate Military Secretary had dressed in the top hat and cutaway of the Governor.

He said huskily, "If I can't outrun them they'll catch me and try to start raising statesmen."

"It's your duty to defend me," observed the Governor.

"Yes, with my life, but not with my p-progeny--"

"Then you'd better run faster than you've ever run in all your life," said the Governor coldly.

At that moment there came a telephone call.

"Lady at the desk to speak to the Governor," came a voice.

"Hello, who is it?" asked his excellency coyly.

"Professor Elizabeth Challis!" came a very sweet but determined voice.

At the terrible name of the new President of the National Federation of American Women the Governor jumped with nervousness. Anonymous letters had warned him that she was after him for eugenic purposes.

"What do you want?" he asked tremulously.

"In the name of the Federation I demand that you instantly destroy the draft of that infamous bill which you are preparing to rush through at Albany."

"I won't," said the Governor.

"If you don't," she said, "the committee on eugenics will seize you."

"Let 'em catch me first," he replied, boldly; and rang off.

"Now, John," he said briskly, "as soon as they catch sight of you in my top hat and cutaway they'll start for you. And I advise you to leg it if you want to remain single."

The unfortunate Military Secretary gulped with fright, buttoned his cutaway coat, crammed his top hat over his ears, and gazed fearfully out of the window, where in the avenue below the riot was still in lively progress. Terrified young men fled in every direction, pursued by vigorous and youthful beauty, while the suffragette band played and thousands of suffragettes cheered wildly.

"Isn't it awful!" groaned the Mayor, arranging the lace cap on his turban-swirl and shaking out his skirts. "The police are no use. The suffragettes kidnap the good-looking ones. Are you ready for the sortie, Governor?"

The Governor in the handsome uniform of his Military Secretary adjusted his sword and put on the gold-laced cap. Then, thrusting the draft of the obnoxious bill into the bosom of his tunic, he strode from the room, followed by his Secretary and the unfortunate Mayor, who attempted in vain to avoid treading on his own trailing skirts.

"George," said the Mayor, spitting out a curl that kept persistently getting into his mouth every time he opened it, "I'll be in a pickle unless I can reach Dill's rooms. . . . Wait! There's a pin sticking into me----"

"Too late," said the Governor; "it will spur you to run all the faster. . . . Where is Dill's?"

The Mayor whispered the directions, spitting out his curl at intervals when it incommoded him; the Governor walked faster to escape.

Down in the elevator they went, gazed at by terror-stricken bell-hops and scared porters.

As the cheering and band playing grew louder and more distinct the Secretary quailed, but the Governor admonished him:

"You've simply _got_ to save me," he said. "_Pro_ _bono publico!_ Come on now. Make a dash for a taxi and the single life! One--two--three!"