And as Gonfallon, in obedience to the summons, turned again, he heard the purser, presumably to a sympathetic ear, exclaim, “Ah, çà! Does he think I have his Miss Bucholz in my pocket?”
But Gonfallon had no opportunity of meditating on the variation of demeanor which is peculiar to the French: a moment or two later the guide which Providence or his sister-in-law had sent, had led him through coils of descending passengers to a corner of the deck, which, so nearly as his vision permitted him to discern, was occupied by but one person, a pouting, good-looking lad, such as one may see any day at Eton during term-time, who stood leaning against the back of a steamer-chair in such a manner that only the head and shoulders were visible.
“Here,” said the guide, greatly to Gonfallon’s astonishment, “here is your quest.—Miss Bucholz, can I be of further assistance?”
Immediately the pout disappeared, and a hand gloved in suede was extended. “Is Ruth not with you?”
And then for the first time Gonfallon realized that he was in the presence of her whom he sought.
“Yes,” he answered—“no, I mean. She is at the house—” In amusement at his own surprise, he smiled a little. “I have a carriage, though—”
The girl turned to the young man who had introduced himself as Mr. Yarde. “You may go,” she said, abruptly, and to her lips the pout returned.
The young man made as would he speak, but evidently he thought better of it, and, raising his hat, took himself off. As he moved away, Gonfallon glanced at him, and as he glanced there bubbled within him that unmotived, instinctive dislike of which antipathy is born.
“Detestable little cad!” the girl muttered, and issued from her barricade.
Gonfallon eyed her curiously. Whatever manner of gown she wore was covered by an ulster. On her head was a sailor-hat, about her neck was a high white collar, the ends bent, and beneath it was a scarf such as is worn by men. She was worse than pretty. In her skin was the hue of that white rose which has a sulphur heart. Her features had the surety of an intaglio, her head was small, the brow low; in her hair, which was short and curled, was the glisten of gold-leaf shown to the sun. Her eyes were of porcelain-blue, the under lids retreating and shorter than the upper. The effect of her mouth, now that the pout had gone, was that of lips untouched and unaware of love. In height she was a trifle taller than the average New York girl. She held herself with the erectness of one accustomed to the saddle. And when again she spoke, Gonfallon felt the charm of that undulant intonation which is the sweetest heritage of English speech.
“Father, I suppose, was too busy to meet me, was he not?” she asked.
Too busy, indeed! Gonfallon thought of the sodden mortal he had seen the week before ambling down a side-street, the estray of millions and of health, and then, remembering that Claire was as yet uninformed of the successive disasters in which he had foundered, he nodded cheerily and smiled.
“Yes, yes, of course. Ruth would have come too, but she is a martyr—no, but really a martyr, you know.” For a second he paused, as though in some dumb fashion he might console the girl for the absence of those she loved. “You had a pleasant trip, I hope?” he added. “If you will come with me I will put you in the carriage and see to your traps. Have you the keys?”
An hour later, without further incident necessary of record, the house was reached, and Gonfallon, leaving the girl to her sister’s ministrations, went to his study to sandpaper an address for the morrow. But, whether because his routine had been disturbed, or because he was personally out of trim, certain it is that he felt in no mood for the chastening of homilies that noon. For a little while he still fingered the manuscript, striving to coerce his thoughts, until, conscious of the futility of the endeavor, he abandoned further effort and lounged back into the past.
At the time contemporaneous to the episodes with which these pages have to deal, Christopher Gonfallon was in his fortieth year. Across his forehead was a sabre-cut which thought had dealt, near the temples was a suspicion of gray, on either side of his nostrils were the beginnings of furrows, but otherwise the years had been gentle. In his face and bearing was the fragrance of the fields. He wore no beard, his lip was unmoustached. His eyes were of that green-black which is noticeable in dysodile coal. His profile suggested sensitiveness, the full-face strength. Lavater would not have praised his chin. At first sight you would have taken him for a maker of songs and of laws, but his coat betrayed him. By profession he was an ecclesiastic, a priest of the Episcopal Church.
On the conferment of orders he had accepted a call at Bronx, a somnolent New England hamlet, and there during an entire decade he had wasted his fervors on a collection of cattle, surreptitiously beloved the while by a procession of parochial maids.
Throughout the parish, however, there was at most but one person capable of appreciating the imageries of his speech, and that person, the Countess of Cinq-Cygne, was deaf. To this lady his subsequent and metropolitan success was indirectly due.
The countess, born a Chisolm-Jones, lived in a great stone house that overlooked the village and patches of the surrounding country as well. And this stone house each summer and autumn she was accustomed to populate with detachments and reinforcements of guests. The winter she passed in meditation, though not, presumably, of the count. For de Cinq-Cygne, who had enjoyed the formidable reputation of being the handsomest member of the Jockey, had, after marrying the heiress of Bronx, as
