Part 3

Mr. Carter gave utterance to a sound that seemed to be a cross between a grunt and a bellow, but the thunderous arrival of the engine drowned all other noises, and he fell silent while he stared gloomily down the long aisle between the tracks where the passengers were disembarking.

“There’s William,” said Daniel in his ear.

“Where?” Mr. Carter experienced a strange, sinking feeling around the diaphragm. “Oh, I see!”

The two stood silent, trying to get a good view through the crowd.

“My word, Dan, has he married a kid? She’s no size at all!”

Dan went forward, his halting walk jarring anew on his father. Mr. Carter hated to have one of his boys a cripple, but to-night he felt that Daniel was heroic. He followed in a panic.

William saw them.

“Hello, Dan! How d’you do, father? Here--here’s your new daughter,” he added in a lower, more vibrant tone, drawing his wife forward, pride in his face.

Mr. Carter made a desperate plunge, tried to think of something to say, stumbled badly, and surprised himself and both his sons by suddenly kissing the bride.

“Welcome home!” he said loudly. “We’re all mighty glad to see you. We----”

He stopped short with his mouth open, amazed at his own performance. He had never intended to do anything of the kind. He was suffering from stage fright, his mind became a blank, and he simply stared.

But the bride was not at loss. His greeting seemed to touch her. She held out both hands with a fluttering, birdlike gesture, one to him and one to Dan, and she lifted a lovely, animated face.

“_Vous parlez Français?_” she cried eagerly, with shining eyes.

Mr. Carter looked about aghast.

“Good Lord, William! Can’t she speak English?”

He was answered with a chorus of laughter. Young Mrs. Carter, William, and Daniel giggled outrageously.

“Of course she does, father! She’s half American,” replied William.

But the laugh had broken the ice. Mr. Carter looked more narrowly at his daughter-in-law, and discovered that her eyes were lovely. She raised them to his now with a look that suddenly recalled William’s description. They were soft and brown and tender, with something sylvan and untamed in their lucid depths.

“By George, a wild fawn, of course, of course!” thought Mr. Carter, and he offered her his arm.

She took it, clinging to him a little with a touch at once soft and confiding. There was the ghost of an elusive fragrance in her hair, and in the light veil that floated across his shoulder. It suggested violets wet with dew, and even Mr. Carter was intuitively aware that there was something unique, something distinguished and amazing about the small figure, so slight and graceful, and the delicately poised head.

“Of course I speak English,” she murmured softly in his ear as they threaded the crowd, followed by William and Daniel and two porters with innumerable bags. “_Mais, hélas!_ I wanted to speak French to you because I love it. It’s the language of my heart, and you”--there was a lovely tremor in her voice--“you’re so good to me here in this smoky place--like a father! I--oh, I know--_je t’adore!_”

Mr. Carter, unaccustomed to the language of extravagance, had a pleasurable feeling of elation. Hitherto, his performances in the social line had been unappreciated, even in the bosom of his family. He had frequently felt like a dancing bear, but now all was changed; this little French girl knew a good thing when she saw it.

“That’s all right, you’re William’s wife,” said Mr. Carter, “and I’m mighty fond of William. His mother thinks he’s a chip of the moon, I’ll tell you that!”

“_Tiens!_” The girl drew in her breath quickly. “Then I’m afraid--she will never like me!”

Mr. Carter, who felt that this time he had really put his foot in it, covered his confusion by hustling her into a waiting taxi. Daniel and he had secured one, but it was necessary to take another for the hand-luggage, and Daniel rode home in that, alone with the bags and umbrellas, while his father and William sat with the bride.

Daniel, who had exchanged a word or two with his brother as they crossed the station together, was aware of William’s uneasiness. In the familiar station, confronted with his father and his brother, and all the old realities of his home life, William must have suffered some kind of a shock. He had even said, rather thickly, as they walked along:

“How are they all? Judge Jessup, Dr. Barbour--the--the Denbighs?”

Daniel, staring straight before him, had answered shortly. All their friends were in good health, he said. But he had previously caught William’s eye, and something in its expression rankled in Daniel’s mind. He glanced moodily at the heap of luggage in the cab with him, topped by a small green-leather bag with the initials “F. L. F.” in silver on the flap. She was pretty; he had perceived the subtle charm of the small, irregular face and the beautiful, wild eyes. Yet he was not reassured; he was, in fact, vaguely uneasy.

Then he reflected bitterly that he was a prejudiced judge. He had never been able to get the look in Virginia Denbigh’s eyes out of his mind. He could see them still as he gave her the first warning. The blood went up to Daniel’s ears and burned there; he abhorred that little green bag.

Both taxis slowed down at the Carters’ door, a stream of light flowed out of the house, and Mrs. Carter, frightened and tearful, appeared at the threshold, supported on either hand by Leigh and Emily.

Daniel, busying himself with directions about the hand-luggage, escaped the ordeal of the greeting, but he caught a glimpse of his mother trying to be nice to the bride and then crying on William’s shoulder. When Daniel finally entered the house, the young stranger had taken off her hat and tossed aside the light furs that she had worn with such a daring effect of style. Her brother-in-law was almost startled, she looked so small, so delicate, and so young. Her hair was fluffy and dusky and riotously pretty; it escaped into curls about her little ears and on the nape of her white neck. Her dress, too, in the extreme of the prevailing mode, was a little daring in its display of both neck and ankles.

As Daniel entered, she had discovered Emily, a gawky girl of sixteen, and was displaying a flattering interest in her that covered the embarrassed Emily with blushes. Mrs. Carter tried to save the situation by urging her daughter-in-law to come up-stairs.

“I’ve got the very best room ready for you, my dear,” she said tremulously. “You’ll want to arrange your things and come right down. We’ve waited supper for you.”

“How sweet of you, _maman_! I may call you _maman_, mayn’t I?” She laid a light hand on Mrs. Carter’s arm, raising her soft eyes to her face. “If I’m good I may call you that--_toujours--toujours, n’est-ce-pas?_”

“For Heaven’s sake, Fanchon, don’t talk French to mother!” her husband exclaimed. “She doesn’t know a word of it--and you can speak English.”

“I used to speak French quite a little, Willie,” Mrs. Carter protested, coloring faintly; “but I--I’m a little rusty!”

Mr. Carter laughed.

“Mama can just about say, ‘_oui, oui_,’ like a pig,” he said bluntly. “You women hurry up; I want my supper.”

Fanchon, with one foot on the stairs, turned and kissed her hand to him.

“I’m coming,” she declared. “I’m starving, too. I won’t be ten minutes!”

“She means two hours,” said William, his eyes following the small figure with a look that did not escape either his father or Daniel.

“She’s turned his head,” the latter thought moodily, not unaware of the charm of the light, hurrying voice and the accent, delicate and sweet, that made her English so exotic.

At the moment, too, Leigh appeared, laden with Fanchon’s luggage. Like a beast of burden he toiled up behind the women, plainly captivated. William, seeing it, grinned and laid his hand on Daniel’s shoulder. Daniel was the only one who had, so far, shown no signs of capitulation.

“Well, Dan, got any of those old cigarettes in your room?” he asked jocularly.

Daniel yielded, returning his smile, and the two brothers, anxious perhaps for a little talk together, went up-stairs.

Left alone--marooned, as it were--on the old Turkey rug in the hall, Mr. Carter prowled about for a moment, his mind in a maze. He looked into the dining-room, wondered if supper was ready, and finally went into the library and sank heavily into his favorite chair. He had a confused feeling of amazement that the room looked just as usual--the same old books around the walls, the same old portrait of an ancestral Carter over the fireplace, and the guttered chairs, looking as homelike and shabby as ever. Even the litter on the table--it hadn’t set itself in order, this corner of the house having escaped the cleaning up for the bride. There was the same old lamp in the center, and his old brier-wood lay there, too.

He sighed, slowly rubbing the back of his head with one hand, while he gazed reflectively at the other. He was confusedly aware of an elusive fragrance about his fingers, the ghost of a perfume, and he had a dazzled consciousness of those wild-fawn eyes, and the red lips, and little pointed chin. He had a guilty recollection, too, of calling his son a young donkey.

He was still sitting there, staring into the vacant fireplace, when he heard the rustle of skirts and felt his wife’s entrance. He did not look up; he seemed to feel an unsympathetic atmosphere, and he heard Mrs. Carter drop into a chair by the table with a heaviness that suggested collapse after an ordeal.

He waited, expectant, but nothing happened. The silence, in fact, grew rather thick. Mrs. Carter sat there, saying nothing, though she swallowed once or twice rather audibly. Unable to endure it any longer, her husband broke the pause.

“She’s mighty pretty,” he said at last, apparently addressing the fireplace.

His wife said nothing. She only turned a slow, absent look toward him, her mind at work on some problem too deep for him.

“Maybe it’ll turn out better than we thought, mama,” he ventured again.

“Maybe,” she assented reluctantly. “Poor Willie.”

“Poor fiddlesticks! He’s in love.” Mr. Carter frowned heavily. “I reckon a man has a right to pick his own wife, anyway,” he decided finally.

Mrs. Carter gave him another mysterious look--a look that seemed to deplore his ignorance. Then she rose, murmured something about supper, and left the room. She was going up the front stairs, but she heard William coming down, and, for the first time in her life, she avoided her first-born. With a feeling of guilty panic, she fled up the back stairs. She could hear the bride still moving about in the best parlor chamber, and she slipped past it and crept softly into Emily’s room.

At the moment her daughter was standing in front of the looking-glass, staring fixedly into it, but Mrs. Carter did not notice this. She shut the door behind her with the air of a conspirator. Her knees felt weak under her, and she needed sympathy, the sympathy of her own sex. Of course, Emily was a child, but she was a girl child.

Mrs. Carter drew a long breath and put her finger on her lip. Her astonished daughter viewed her a moment in alarm; then a look of understanding dawned in Emily’s eyes, and she stood quite still, waiting. Mrs. Carter tiptoed across the room and whispered:

“Emily, do you think she paints her eyes?”

Emily shook her head.

“It’s her eyelashes. I looked hard at ’em, mama, and she does something to them. They look thick and soft like feathers. I think they’re just lovely!”

“Emily!”

“I do! That’s why her eyes look so nice. I’m going to find out how she does it, too.”

“Emily Carter, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I--oh!” Mrs. Carter wiped her eyes. “I’m so ashamed--for Willie! My son’s wife with make-believe eyelashes! It--it isn’t respectable!”

“I wish I knew how she did it,” said Emily. “Anyway, I’m going to find out.”

Mrs. Carter, having dropped into a chair, buried her face in her handkerchief. She had been longing for a good cry, and this was her first moment of real enjoyment. Her comfortable shoulders rose and fell convulsively, and her daughter caught the muffled sounds of grief. Emily did not heed them, but turned again to her mirror. She had short, blond eyelashes, a good two shades lighter than her blond hair. She viewed them now with the cold eye of an unbiased critic.

“Light eyelashes are horrid,” she said to herself with a glitter of determination in her eye. “I must find out how she does it.”

“My daughter-in-law!” sobbed Mrs. Carter under her breath. “My Willie’s wife, and--and she chalks her nose--I saw it myself!”

V

THE CARTERS, after a few days, tried to settle down and get used to it, but the new Mrs. Carter never quite let them do it. She kept taking them by surprise, with a kind of flying grace that left them speechless. She was making rapid conquests, too. Leigh had become her slave. He followed her about in an embarrassed state of subjugation, and spent long hours in his room writing sonnets, dedicated to Fanchon, or, more often, to “another’s wife.”

Emily, meanwhile, was making some curiously subtle alterations in her own appearance, as yet undiscovered by her anxious mother. She had successfully negotiated a loan of three dollars from Daniel--for purposes unknown.

In one way or another, the bride had made progress with them all; she had fascinated, or dazzled, or perplexed first one member of the family and then another. It was only Daniel, the student and philosopher, who still resisted. In the rôle of an observer, he maintained an unruffled tranquillity.

It was this very thing--his inaccessibility, his aloofness--that ruffled young Mrs. Carter. At first she had not noticed him--a pale young man who limped; but after a while she caught herself watching him, expecting something, she knew not what. She was tantalized by his silence, his drawling Southern speech, his quiet observation. In a hundred little ways she had tried to take him unawares and failed. Then he grew interesting, and she studied him. She had that love of conquest that some women have, and she had not conquered Daniel.

Quite unaware of the interest he had excited, Daniel pursued his usual course, except in one direction. He had had neither the heart nor the courage to go to the Denbighs. It seemed to him that he could never bear to see again that look in Virginia’s eyes, a look that was not for him--and not caused by him, thank God! It followed him when he worked in Judge Jessup’s office, on briefs that were soon to make him famous, and when he walked, meditating, under the stars. It could not be shut out, because Virginia’s face, her eyes, her smile, had been with him so long in secret.

He had tried to thrust the image out when he thought she was to be his brother’s wife, but now he did not try to battle with it. He would, indeed, have loved to dwell upon it, but for that look of doubt and pain in her eyes when she first heard of William’s marriage. Love’s vision is excruciatingly clear when it is looking at love revealed. He knew now! And he had found it too hard to go there; he felt as if he had, in some mysterious way, become heir to his brother’s falsehood. He was bearing a vicarious punishment by denying himself a sight of Virginia’s face; but he thought of her with a constancy that shut out his brother’s bride.

He was thinking of Virginia one day when he came in rather earlier than usual, and, finding the library empty, sat down to write a letter or two. He chose his place, too, because there was a picture of Virginia on the mantelpiece--a small photograph of her as a schoolgirl, which she had given to his mother. It was framed and standing there beside the old ormolu clock.

As Daniel wrote he looked up at the picture with that curious sense of companionship that lonely people, people who have suffered, draw from such inanimate images of those they love. It comforted him. He lit his pipe and began to write. For the moment he forgot his lameness, that lameness which seemed to him such an insuperable barrier to his own hopes of happiness.

The house was quiet. His father and William had not yet come in, his mother and Emily seemed to have effaced themselves, and he knew that Leigh was taking an examination at school. It was very peaceful. The old, worn room had a certain shabby dignity, the company of books looked down at him, and through the open window he could see a snow-white lilac in full and splendid bloom. He halted his pen for a moment, and looked out at the sunshine that seemed to bathe the delicate blossoms in a shower of splendor.

He had utterly forgotten the sensation of the household, his brother’s wife, and he was taken unawares. The door behind him opened softly, he perceived the scent of violets, and Fanchon entered.

“_Ma foi._” She stood looking at him, her head on one side. “I didn’t know you were here!”

Daniel laid down his pen. He had come to expect something new every time he saw her.

“Does that matter?” he asked, smiling, aware that she was dressed for the street and that she looked lovely, a dark, bewitching little creature with haunting eyes. “I don’t matter. Come in, do!”

She came, watching him, and put out her hand.

“_Mais non!_ Let us be friends,” she said softly, with a kind of childish frankness.

“I thought we were friends already,” he retorted, touching the hand lightly and flushing in spite of himself.

She shook her head.

“_Non, non_, you don’t like me!”

Daniel rose and drew forward a chair.

“Pardon me, _madame_,” he said gaily. “I forgot my manners. You see, I’m your brother and I don’t remember.”

She perched lightly on the arm of the chair, waving him back to his seat.

“It isn’t that,” she retorted quickly. “You don’t like me, _monsieur_!”

He leaned back in his own chair, watching her, wondering just what she meant.

“Perhaps you’re mistaken. Perhaps I do like you. Why shouldn’t I?”

She laughed, throwing one arm lightly across the back of the chair and letting the light flash on the jewels she wore on her small fingers--extraordinary jewels, Daniel thought, for William’s wife.

“_Mais non_, I know! I feel things here!” She touched her heart lightly, the dark eyes misting suddenly, the red lips trembling. “I--I can’t live unless I’m loved!”

“If we all felt like that there’d be a good many deaths,” Daniel remarked.

For a moment she made no reply, but her face seemed to grow pale and small and appealing.

“She’s either a creature of a hundred moods,” he thought musingly, “or she has an extraordinary facial control.”

Fanchon seemed to feel his thought. His very attitude, aloof and challenging and critical, affected her. She shivered, covering her eyes with her hands.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she cried passionately. “_Mon Dieu_, I can’t bear it! You--you hate me!”

Daniel reddened; he found himself in an uncomfortable position. Had he shown his hostility so strongly? Had he let this wild young creature see that he felt she was an interloper?

“You’re talking nonsense, Fanchon,” he said gravely. “I hate no one--as far as I can remember. I’m a colorless fellow, you know, and a cripple. I don’t count.”

She lifted her face from her hands at that and looked at him again, her dark eyes soft, tender, almost caressing.

“Why do you think of that so much?” she asked him kindly. “It hurts you all through to your soul, I see it! Yet it doesn’t matter--_ça ne fait rien_! You’re only a little lame, it is so interesting, _si distingué_.”

“Thank you,” he smiled bitterly. “If you keep on, Fanchon, I shall have cause to love you in good earnest. I hate being lame.”

“I know it!” Her eyes still dwelt on his with a kind of wild softness--the sylvan, fawn-like look again. “And I care--see? Yet you can’t like me! Oh, I know”--she shook her head--“I always know--because I’ve been unhappy, too.”

“You?” he smiled, this time with amusement. “You seem to me a thing of thistledown and sunshine, a sprite, a nymph--anything but unhappy.”

She clasped her hands on her knee, looking at him dreamily.

“Ah, _mais non_, that’s because you don’t know! I’m an orphan; I had no one--until William came.” Her face softened, glowed, grew infinitely tender. “_Guillaume de mon cœur!_ Before that--I will tell you. _Maman_ died when I was two years old. She was Irish--she was born in southern California, but all her people were Irish. She was poor; she worked in a little inn near a great fruit-grower’s ranch. _Mon père_”--Fanchon made a sudden grimace--“I didn’t like him. You think that’s wicked? I didn’t love him. He was French and he made wine upon the ranch. He married the Irish girl, and I was born.”

She stopped, her chin in her hand, thinking. Daniel, listening, smiled inwardly. Involuntarily his eyes lifted to the portrait of the ancestral Carter.

“Shade of my ancestors!” he thought amusedly. “An Irish waitress and a French wine-maker!”

But Fanchon’s voice, light and sweet and tantalizing, went on.

“Papa took me to Paris after _maman_ died. He put me in a convent and left me there. That’s all. I never saw him again, though he sent money now and then. At last he died. _Voilà!_” She clenched her hands passionately. “No one loved me, no one cared whether I lived or died except the good sisters.” She leaned over and laid one hand lightly on the table, looking at him. “Do you wonder now--that I’m so wild?”

“I didn’t know you were wild,” Daniel replied, smiling. “I’m sorry--poor child!”

“No one else was sorry!”

“Oh, yes, I think some one else must have been--besides William,” said Daniel.

She drew her breath quickly, biting her lip. For a long moment she studied him; then, with a shrug, she reached for a match on the table and looked at it, turning it over in her hand.

“I----” She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes veiled by their long lashes. “Please give me a cigarette,” she pleaded. “William didn’t want me to frighten your mother. I’m--I’m dying to smoke!”

Daniel stared, not so much at the request as at the sudden change. It was as if she had dropped a mantle and revealed her true self. The tragedy and pathos which, a moment before, had made her so appealing, so childlike, vanished. She sat on the arm of the chair, a daring little figure, one hand stretched out, the other holding the match ready to strike. Her face, too, sharpened, and seemed to have lost its soft beauty.

There was something keen and reckless about it, and the darkened lashes and reddened lips gave it a bizarre effect, almost like a mask.

“Please--a cigarette!” she pleaded.

Daniel thrust his hand into his pocket, produced his cigarette-case, and held it out.

“Better smoke when mother isn’t on hand,” he counseled her. “She’s old-fashioned, you know.”

Fanchon drew a long breath of content, lit the cigarette, and began to smoke. She smoked, daintily, her eyes changing and the long-fringed lashes shading them. Gradually, visibly, she relaxed, the sharpness softened, the eyes grew languorous.

“What heaven!” she said after a moment. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it, when you’ve always smoked, and you can’t get it? I--I think I should have stolen it soon!”

“I see!” Daniel laughed softly. “You should always smoke, Fanchon. Without it you’re a prey to sadness, to memories, to imagination. With a cigarette you’re happy!”

“_Mais non_, I’m not happy!” She lifted her lashes and gave him a fleeting glance. “But it soothes me. I’m not happy, because”--she rose and stood looking at him, the cigarette in her fingers--“because I know you all wanted William to marry _her_!”

With one of her sudden, birdlike dives, she touched the picture of Virginia Denbigh on the mantel. In spite of himself, Daniel started violently and colored. An impulse, as sudden and uncontrollable as her movement, made him spring to his feet. He wanted to snatch the picture from her hand; but he restrained himself, lifted his pipe from the table, and knocked the tobacco out into his father’s ash-tray.