The words caressed her so well she could have pointed to the sky and repeated with Doña Sol:
“Regarde: plus de feux, plus de bruit. Tout se tait.
La lune tout à l’heure à l’horizon montait:
Tandis que tu parlais, sa lumière qui tremble
Et ta voix, toutes deux m’allaient au cœur ensemble:
Je me sentais joyeuse et calme, ô mon amant!
Et j’aurais bien voulu mourir en ce moment.”
But at once some premonition seemed to visit her. “Roland,” she murmured, “what if we leave our happiness here?”
And Roland, bending toward her, whispered sagely: “We shall know then where to find it.”
VI
New York meanwhile, in its effeminateness, had forgotten the snow, and was listening to the sun. And the day after the return from Aiken, as Roland, in accordance with an agreement of which the locus sigilli had a kiss for token, went down to knock at Mr. Dunellen’s office door, the sky was as fair as it had been in the South. Yet to him it was unobtrusive. His mind was occupied with fancies that had a birth, a little span of life, and which in passing away were succeeded by others as ephemeral as themselves—thoughts about nothing at all that came and went unnoticed: a man he had met in Corfu, and whom a face in the street recalled; the glisten of silk in a window that took him back to Japan;—but beneath them was a purpose settled and dominant, a resolution to trick Fate and outwit it—one which, during the journey from Aiken, had so possessed him that, in attending to the wants of Mrs. Metuchen or in ministering to Justine, at times he had been quasi-somnambulistic, at others wholly vague. But now, as he gave his card to an office-boy, to all outward intent he was confident and at ease; he picked up a paper and affected to lose himself in its columns. Presently the boy returned, and he was ushered into the room which he had previously visited. On this occasion Mr. Dunellen was not seated, but standing, his back to the door. As Roland entered he turned, and the young man stepped forward, his hand outstretched.
To his contentment, and a little also to his surprise, in answer to that outstretched hand Honest Paul extended his, and Roland had the pleasure of holding three apparently docile fingers in his own; but in a moment they withdrew themselves, and he felt called upon to speak.
“Mr. Dunellen,” he began, with that confident air a creditor has who comes to claim his due, “Mr. Dunellen, I have ventured to interrupt you again. And again I am a suppliant. But this time it is of your daughter, not of my father, that—”
He hesitated, and well he might. Mr. Dunellen, who had remained standing, and who in so doing had prevented Roland from sitting down, now assumed the suspicious appearance of one who detects an unpleasant smell; his features contracted, and for no other reason, apparently, than that of intimidating the suppliant in his prayer.
But Roland was not to be abashed; he recovered himself, and continued glibly enough: “The matter is this. I am sincerely attached to your daughter, and I am come to ask your consent to our marriage.”
“That is the purpose of your visit, is it?”
“It is.”
“My daughter is aware of it, I suppose?”
“She is.”
“And she consented, did she?”
“Perfectly.”
“H’m! My daughter has made a mistake. I told her as much last night. There can be no question of marriage. You will do me the favor to let the matter drop.”
“I am not a rich man, Mr. Dunellen, but—”
“So I am informed. But that has nothing to do with it. There are other things that I take into consideration, and in view of them I insist that this matter be dropped.”
“Mr. Dunellen, I love your daughter; I have reason to believe that she cares for me. We became engaged a few days ago. I came here now to ask your consent. If you refuse it, I have at least the right to ask what your objection is.”
“Rather unnecessary, don’t you think?”
“I cannot imagine, sir, what you mean.” And Roland, holding himself unaffectedly straight, without the symptom of a pose, looked the old man in the eyes.
That look Mr. Dunellen returned. “Take a seat,” he said; and, motioning Roland to a chair, he sat down himself.
“All this is needless,” he announced; “but since you are anxious for an explanation, I will give it. In the first place, when you were at my house you remember that my nephew Dr. Thorold happened in. The other day I mentioned to him that you were at Aiken. He then informed me of a certain incident in your career, one which you have not forgotten, and of which I do not care to speak. I may say, however, that it utterly precludes the possibility of any further intercourse between my daughter and yourself.”
And the old man, still gazing at his guest, added: “This explanation should, it seems to me, suffice.” But he made no attempt to rise, or to signify that the interview was at an end, and Roland, who was shrewd, interpreted this in his own favor. “He is not altogether positive,” he reflected, “but he can be so tomorrow,” and with a show of shame that did him credit he hung his head.
“I had thought the incident to which you refer was forgotten,” he murmured, penitently enough.
“Forgotten? Do you suppose Thorold forgets? Do you suppose any man could forget a thing like that—a sister’s death, a mother’s insanity? No, you did not think it was forgotten. What you thought was this: you thought that my nephew would hesitate to speak; and indeed even to me for ten years he has kept silent. But now—there, you need not fear a criminal charge. It was that you feared once, I understand, and it was on that account you went abroad. At this date, of course, no proof is possible; and,
