In the degree to which masculine good looks and elegance are accessories to impressing a maid's heart, the Marquis de Bienville had reason to be sure of the effect he was producing, as he bent and kissed Miss Marion Grimston's hand, in her aunt's drawing-room, on the following afternoon. He was not surprised to detect the thrill that shot through her being at his act of homage, and communicated itself back to him; for he was tolerably certain of her love. That had been, to all intents and purposes, confessed more than two years ago; while, during the intervening time, he had not lacked signs that the gift once bestowed had never been withdrawn. He had stood for a few seconds at the threshold on entering the room, just to rejoice consciously at his great good-fortune. She had risen, but not advanced, to meet him, her tall figure, sheathed in some close-fitting, soft stuff, thrown into relief by the dark-blue velvet portiere behind her. He was not unaware of his unworthiness in the presence of this superb young creature, and as he crossed the room it was with the humility of a worshipper before a shrine.
"Mademoiselle," he said, simply, when he had raised himself, "I come to tell you that I love you."
The glance, slightly oblique, of suspended expression with which she received the words encouraged him to continue.
"I know how far what I have to give is beneath the honor of your acceptance; and yet when men love they are impelled to offer all the little that they have. My one hope lies in the fact that a woman like you doesn't love a man for what he is--but for what she can make him."
The words were admirably chosen, reaching her heart with a force greater than he knew.
"A woman," she answered, with a certain stately uplifting of the head, "can only make a man that which he has already the power to become. She may be able to point out the way; but it's for him to follow it."
"I don't think you'd see me hesitate at that."
"I'm glad you say so; because the road I should have to ask you to take would be a hard one."
"The harder the better, if it's anything by which I can prove my love."
"It is; but it's not only that; it's something by which you could prove mine."
His face brightened.
"In that case, Mademoiselle--speak."
She took an instant to assemble her forces, standing before him with a calmness she did not feel.
"You must forgive me," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "if I take the initiative, as no girl is often called upon to do. Perhaps I should hesitate more if you hadn't told me, two years ago, what I know you've come to repeat to-day. The fact that I've waited those two years to hear you say it gives me a right that otherwise I shouldn't claim."
He bowed.
"There are no rights that a woman can have over a man which you, Mademoiselle, do not possess over me."
"Before telling me again," she continued, speaking with difficulty, "what you've told me already, I want to say that I can only listen to it on one condition."
"Which is--?"
"That your own conscience is at peace with itself."
There was a sudden startled toss of the head, but he answered, bravely:
"Is one's conscience ever at peace with itself? A woman's, perhaps; but a man's--!"
He shook his head with that wistful smile of contrition which is already a plea for pardon.
"I'm not speaking of life in general, but of something in particular. I want you to understand, before you ask me--what you've come to ask, that you couldn't make one woman happy while you're doing another a great wrong."
He was sure now of what was in store for him, and braced himself for his part. He was one of those men who need but to see peril to see also the way of meeting it. He stood for a minute, very straight and erect, like a soldier before a court-martial--a culprit whose guilt is half excused by his very manliness.
"I have wronged women. They've wronged me, too. All I can do to show I'm sorry for it is--not to give them the same sort of offence again."
"I'm thinking of one woman--one woman in particular."
He threw back his head with fine confidence.
"I don't know her."
"It's Diane Eveleth. She says--"
"I can imagine what she says. If I were you, I wouldn't pay it more attention than it deserves."
"It deserves a good deal--if it's true."
"Not from you, Mademoiselle. It belongs to a region into which your thought shouldn't enter."
"My thought does enter it, I'm afraid. In fact, I think of it so much that I've invited Mrs. Eveleth to come here this afternoon. I hope you don't mind meeting her?"
"Certainly not. Why should I?" he demanded, with an air of conscious rectitude.
Miss Grimston touched a bell.
"Ask Mrs. Eveleth to come in," she said to the footman who answered it.
As Diane entered she greeted Bienville with a slight inclination of the head, which he returned, bowing ceremoniously.
"I've begged Mrs. Eveleth to meet us," Marion hastened to explain, "for a very special reason."
"Then perhaps she will be good enough to tell me what it is," Bienville said, with a look of courteous inquiry.
"Miss Grimston thought--you might be able--to help me."
There was a catch in Diane's voice as she spoke, but she mastered it, keeping her eyes on his, in the effort to be courageous.
"If there's anything I can do--" he began, allowing the rest of his sentence to be inferred.
He concealed his nervousness by placing a small gilded chair for Diane to sit on. He himself took a chair a few feet away, seating himself sidewise, with his elbow supported on the back, in an easy attitude of attention. Marion Grimston withdrew to the more distant part of the room, where, with her hands behind her, she stood leaning against the grand piano, with the bearing of one only indirectly, and yet intensely, concerned. Bienville left the task of beginning to Diane. In spite of his determination to be self-possessed, a trace of compunction was visible in his face as he contrasted the subdued little woman before him with the sparkling, insouciant creature to whom, two or three years ago, he had paid his inglorious court.
"I shall have to speak to you quite simply and frankly," Diane began, with some hesitation, still keeping her eyes on his, "otherwise you wouldn't understand me."
"Quite so," Bienville assented, politely.
"You may not have heard that since--my--my husband's death, I have my own living to earn?"
"Yes; I did hear something of the kind."
"I've had what people in my position call a good situation; but I have lost it."
"Ah? I'm sorry."
"I thought you would be. That's why Miss Grimston asked me to tell you the reason. She was sure you wouldn't injure me--knowingly."
"Naturally. I'm very much surprised that any one should think I've injured you at all. To the best of my knowledge your name has not passed my lips for two years, at the least. If it had it would only have been spoken--with respect."
"I'm sure of that. I'm not pretending when I say that I'm absolutely convinced you're a man of sensitive honor. If you weren't you couldn't be a Frenchman and a Bienville. I want you to understand that I've never attributed--the--things that have happened--to anything but folly and imprudence--for which I want to take my full share of the blame."
"I've never ventured to express to you my own regret," Bienville said, in a tone not free from emotion, "but I assure you it's very deep."
"I know. All our life was so wrong! It's because I feel sure you must see that as well as I do that I hoped you'd help me now."
He said nothing in reply, letting some seconds pass in silence, waiting for her to come to her point.
"On the way up from South America," she began again, with visible difficulty, "you were on the same ship with my--my--employer. From certain things you said then--"
"But I've withdrawn them," he interrupted, quickly. "He should have told you that. Mademoiselle," he added, rising, and turning toward Marion Grimston, "wouldn't it spare you if we continued this conversation alone?"
"No; I'd rather stay," Miss Grimston said, with an inflection of request. "Please sit down again."
"He should have told you that," Bienville repeated, taking his seat once more, and speaking with some animation. "I did my best to straighten things out for him."
"Then he didn't understand you. He told me you had taken back what you had said, but only in a way that reaffirmed it."
"That's nothing but a tortuous construction put on straightforward words."
"Quite so; but for that very reason I thought that perhaps you'd go to him again and explain what you meant more clearly."
He took a minute to consider this before speaking.
"I don't see how I can," he said, slowly. "I've already used the plainest words of which I have command."
"Words aren't everything. It's the way they're spoken that often counts most. I'm sure you could convince him if you went the right way to work about it."
"I doubt that. I'm afraid I don't know how to force conviction on any one against his will."
"You mean--?"
"I mean--you'll excuse me; I speak quite bluntly--I mean that he seemed very willing to believe anything that could tell against you, but less eager to credit what was said in your defence."
"You think so because you don't understand him. As a matter of fact--"
"Oh, I dare say. I don't pretend to understand the gentleman in question. But for that very reason it would be useless for me to try to enlighten him further. It would only make matters worse."
"It wouldn't if you'd put things before him just as they happened. I don't want any excuses made for me. My best defence would be--the truth."
There was a perceptible pause, during which his eyes shifted uneasily toward Marion Grimston.
"I should think you could tell him that yourself," he suggested, at last.
"It wouldn't be the same thing. You're the only person who could speak with authority. He'd accept your word, if you gave it--in a certain way."
"I'm afraid I don't know what that way is."
"Oh yes, you do, Bienville!" she exclaimed, pleadingly, leaning forward slightly, with her hands clasped in her lap. "Don't force me to speak more plainly than I need. You must know what I refer to."
He shook his head slowly, with a look of mystification.
"What you may not know," she continued, "is all it means to me. I won't put the matter on any ground but that of my need for earning money. Because Mr. Pruyn has--misunderstood you, I've had to give up my--my--place"--she forced the last word with a little difficulty--"and until something like a good name is restored to me I shall find it hard to get another. You can have no idea of what that means. I had none, until I had to face it. There's only one kind of work I'm fitted for--the kind I've been doing; but it's just the kind I can't have without the--the reputation you could give back to me."
That this appeal was not without its effect was evident from the way in which his expressive brown eyes clouded, while he stroked his black beard nervously. The fact that his pity was largely for himself--that with instincts naturally chivalrous he should be driven to these miserable verbal shifts--being unknown to Diane, she was encouraged to proceed.
"You see," she went on, eagerly, "it wouldn't only bring me happiness, but it would add to your own. You're at the beginning of a new life, just like me--or, rather, just as I could be if you'd give me the chance. Think what it would be for you to enter on it, I won't say with a clear conscience, but with the knowledge that in rising yourself you had helped an unhappy woman up, instead of thrusting her further down! It isn't as if it would be so hard for you, Bienville. I'd make it easy for you. Miss Grimston would help me. Wouldn't you?" she added, turning toward Marion. "It could all be done quite simply and confidentially between ourselves--and Mr. Pruyn."
"Oh no, it couldn't," he said, coldly. "If I were to admit what you imply, secrecy wouldn't be of any use to me."
"Does that mean," she asked, fixing her earnest eyes upon him, "that you don't admit it?"
"It means," he said, rising quietly and standing behind his chair, "that this conversation is extremely painful to me, and I must ask to be excused from taking any further part in it. I know only vaguely what you mean, Madame; and if I don't inquire more in detail, it's because I want to spare you distressing explanations. I think you must agree with me, Mademoiselle," he continued, looking toward Miss Grimston, "that we should all be well advised in letting the subject drop."
Marion came slowly forward, advancing to the side of Diane, over whose shoulder, as she remained seated, she allowed her hand to fall, in a pose suggestive of protection.
"Of course, Monsieur," she agreed, "we must let the subject drop, if you have nothing more to say."
He stood silent a minute, looking at her steadily. "I'm afraid I haven't," he said, then.
"Nor I," Miss Grimston returned, significantly.
Again there was a minute or two of silence, during which Bienville seemed to probe for the meaning of the two laconic words. If anything could be read from his countenance, it was doubt as to whether to relinquish the prize with dignity or to pay its price in humiliation. There was an instant in which he appeared to be bracing himself to do the latter; but when he spoke his interrogation threw the responsibility for decision on Miss Grimston.
"Have I received--my answer?"
She waited, finding it hard to give him his reply. It was as if forced to it against her will that her head bent slowly in assent.
"Then," he said, in a tone of dignified regret, "there's nothing for me but to wish Mademoiselle good-by."
He bowed separately to Miss Grimston and to Diane, and, with the self-possession of a man accustomed to the various turns of drawing-room drama, he left the room.