This was the man, tall, gentle, clean-cut of limb and feature, and bearded like Jovethis was the man to whom Lorraine devoted her whole existence. Every heart-beat was for him, every thought, every prayer. And she was very devout.
This also was why she came to Jack so confidently and laid her white hands in his when he sprang from his saddle, his heart in flames of adoration.
He knew this, he knew that her undisguised pleasure in his company was, for her, only another link that welded her closer to her father. At night, often, when he had ridden back again, he thought of it, and paled with resentment. At times he almost hated her father. He could have borne it easier if the Marquis de Nesville had been a loving father, even a tyrannically solicitous father; but to see such love thrown before a marble-faced man, whose expression never changed except when speaking of his imbecile machines! "How can he! How can he!" muttered Jack, riding through the woods. His face was sombre, almost stern; and always he beat the devil's tattoo on his boot with the battered riding-crop.
But now he came to the park gate, and the keeper touched his cap and smiled, and dragged the heavy grille back till it creaked on its hinges.
Lorraine came down the path to meet him; she had never before done that, and he brightened and sprang to the ground, radiant with happiness.
She had brought some sugar for the horse; the beautiful creature followed her, thrusting its soft, satin muzzle into her hand, ears pricked forward, wise eyes fixed on her.
"None for me?" asked Jack.
"Sugar?"
With a sudden gesture she held a lump out to him in the centre of her pink palm.
Before she could withdraw the hand he had touched it with his lips, and, a little gravely, she withdrew it and walked on in silence by his side.
Her shoulder had healed, and she no longer wore the silken support for her arm. She was dressed in blackthe effect of her glistening hair and blond skin was dazzling. His eyes wandered from the white wrist, dainty and rounded, to the full curved neckto the delicate throat and proud little head. Her body, supple as perfect Greek sculpture; her grace and gentle dignity; her innocence, sweet as the light in her blue eyes, set him dreaming again as he walked at her side, preoccupied, almost saddened, a little afraid that such happiness as was his should provoke the gods to end it.
He need not have taken thought for the gods, for the gods take thought for themselves; and they were already busy at Saarbrück. Their mills are not always slow in grinding; nor, on the other hand, are they always sure. They may have been ages ago, but now the gods are so out of date that saints and sinners have a chance about equally.
They traversed the lawn, skirted the tall wall of solid masonry that separated the chase from the park, and, passing a gate at the hedge, came to a little stone bridge, beneath which the Lisse ran dimpling. They watched the horse pursuing his own way tranquilly towards the stables, and, when they saw a groom come out and lead him in, they turned to each other, ready to begin another day of perfect contentment.
First of all he asked about her shoulder, and she told him truthfully that it was well. Then she inquired about the old vicomte and Madame de Morteyn, and intrusted pretty little messages to him for them, which he, unlike most young men, usually remembered to deliver.
"My father," she said, "has not been to breakfast or dinner since the day before yesterday. I should have been alarmed, but I listened at the door and heard him moving about with his machinery. I sent him some very nice things to eat; I don't know if he liked them, for he sent no message back. Do you suppose he is hungry?"
"No," said Jack; "if he were he would say so." He was careful not to speak bitterly, and she noticed nothing.
"I believe," she said, "that he is about to make another ascension. He often stays a long time in his room, alone, before he is ready. Will it not be delightful? I shall perhaps be permitted to go up with him. Don't you wish you might go with us?"
"Yes," said Jack, with a little more earnestness than he intended.
"Oh! you do? If you are very good, perhapsperhapsbut I dare not promise. If it were my balloon I would take you."
"Would youreally?"
"Of courseyou know it. But it isn't my balloon, you know." After a moment she went on: "I have been thinking all day how noble and good it is of my father to consecrate his life to a purpose that shall be of use to France. He has not said so, but I know that, if the next ascension proves that his discovery is beyond the chance of failure, he will notify the government and place his invention at their disposal. Monsieur Marche, when I think of his unselfish nobleness, the tears comeI cannot help it."
"You, too, are noble," said Jack, resentfully.
"I? Oh, if you knew! II am actually wicked! Would you believe it, I sometimes think and think and wish that my father could spend more time with mewith me!a most silly and thoughtless girl who would sacrifice the welfare of France to her own caprice. Think of it! I prayvery oftenthat I may learn to be unselfish; but I must be very bad, for I often cry myself to sleep. Is it not wicked?"
"Very," said Jack, but his smile faded and there was a catch in his voice.
"You see," she said, with a gesture of despair, "even you feel it, too!"
"Do you really wish to know what I do thinkof you?" he asked, in a low voice.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say "Yes." She checked herself, lips apart, and her eyes became troubled.
There was something about Jack Marche that she had not been able to understand. It occupied herit took up a good share of her attention, but she did not know where to begin to philosophize, nor yet where to end. He was different from other menthat she understood. But where was that difference?in his clear, brown eyes, sunny as brown streams in October?in his serious young face?in his mouth, clean cut and slightly smiling under his short, crisp mustache, burned blond by the sun? Where was the difference?in his voice?in his gestures?in the turn of his head?
Lorraine did not know, but as often as she gave the riddle up she recommenced it, idly sometimes, sometimes piqued that the solution seemed no nearer. Once, the evening she had met him after their first encounter in the forest carrefourthat evening on the terrace when she stood looking out into the dazzling Lorraine moonlightshe felt that the solution of the riddle had been very near. But now, two weeks later, it seemed further off than ever. And yet this problem, that occupied her so, must surely be worth the solving. What was it, then, in Jack Marche that made him what he was?gentle, sweet-tempered, a delightful companionyes, a companion that she would not now know how to do without.
And yet, at times, there came into his eyes and into his voice something that troubled hershe could not tell whysomething that mystified and checked her, and set her thinking again on the old, old problem that had seemed so near solution that evening on the moonlit terrace.
That was why she started to say "Yes" to his question, and did not, but stood with lips half parted and blue eyes troubled.
He looked at her in silence for a moment, then, with a half-impatient gesture, turned to the river.
"Shall we sit down on the moss?" she asked, vaguely conscious that his sympathies had, for a moment, lost touch with hers.
He followed her down the trodden foot-path to the bank of the stream, and, when she had seated herself at the foot of a linden-tree, he threw himself at her feet.
They were silent. He picked up a faded bunch of blue corn-flowers which they had left there, forgotten, the day before. One by one he broke the blossoms from the stalks and tossed them into the water.
He looked at her in silence for a moment, then, with a half-impatient gesture, turned to the river.
"Shall we sit down on the moss?" she asked, vaguely conscious that his sympathies had, for a moment, lost touch with hers.
He followed her down the trodden foot-path to the bank of the stream, and, when she had seated herself at the foot of a linden-tree, he threw himself at her feet.
They were silent. He picked up a faded bunch of blue corn-flowers which they had left there, forgotten, the day before. One by one he broke the blossoms from the stalks and tossed them into the water.
She, watching them floating away under the bridge, thought of the blue bits of paperthe telegramthat she had torn up and tossed upon the water two weeks before. He was thinking of the same thing, for, when she said, abruptly: "I should not have done that!" he knew what she meant, and replied: "Such things are always your rightif you care to use it."
She laughed. "Then you believe still in the feudal system? I do not; I am a good republican."
"It is easy," he said, also laughing, "for a young lady with generations of counts and vicomtes behind her to be a republican. It is easier still for a man with generations of republicans behind him to turn royalist. It is the way of the world, mademoiselle."
"Then you shall say: 'Long live the king!'" she said; "say it this instant!"
"Long liveyour king!"
"My king?"
"I'm his subject if you are; I'll shout for no other king."
"Now, whatever is he talking about?" thought Lorraine, and the suspicion of a cloud gathered in her clear eyes again, but was dissipated at once when he said: "I have answered the Herald's telegram."
"What did you say?" she asked, quickly.
"I accepted"
"What!"
There was resentment in her voice. She felt that he had done something which was tacitly understood to be against her wishes. True, what difference did it make to her? None; she would lose a delightful companion. Suddenly, something of the significance of such a loss came to her. It was not a revelation, scarcely an illumination, but she understood that if he went she should be lonelyyes, even unhappy. Then, too, unconsciously, she had assumed a mental attitude of interest in his movementsof partial proprietorship in his thoughts. She felt vaguely that she had been overlooked in the decision he had made; that even if she had not been consulted, at least he might have told her what he intended to do. Lorraine was at a loss to understand herself. But she was easily understood. For two weeks her attitude had been that of every innocent, lovable girl when in the presence of the man whom she frankly cares for; and that attitude was one of mental proprietorship. Now, suddenly finding that his sympathies and ideas moved independently of her sympathiesthat her mental influence, which existed until now unconsciously, was in reality no influence at all, she awoke to the fact that she perhaps counted for nothing with him. Therefore resentment appeared in the faintest of straight lines between her eyes.
"Do you care?" he asked, carelessly.
"I? Why, no."
If she had smiled at him and said "Yes," he would have despaired; but she frowned a trifle and said "No," and Jack's heart began to beat.
"I cabled them two words: 'Acceptprovisionally,'" he said.
"Oh, what did you mean?"
"Provisionally meantwith your consent."
"Mymy consent?"
"Yesif it is your pleasure."
Pleasure! Her sweet eyes answered what her lips withheld. Her little heart beat high. So then she did influence this cool young man, with his brown eyes faintly smiling, and his indolent limbs crossed on the moss at her feet. At the same moment her instinct told her to tighten her hold. This was so perfectly feminine, so instinctively human, that she had done it before she herself was aware of it. "I shall think it over," she said, looking at him, gravely; "I may permit you to accept."
So was accomplished the admitted subjugation of Jack Marchea stroke of diplomacy on his part; and he passed under the yoke in such a manner that even the blindest of maids could see that he was not vaulting over it instead.
Having openly and admittedly established her sovereignty, she was happyso happy that she began to feel that perhaps the victory was not unshared by him.
"I shall think it over very seriously," she repeated, watching his laughing eyes; "I am not sure that I shall permit you to go."
"I only wish to go as a special, not a regular correspondent. I wish to be at liberty to roam about and sketch or write what I please. I think my material will always be found in your vicinity."
Her heart fluttered a little; this surprised her so much that her cheeks grew suddenly warm and pink. A little confused, she said what she had not dreamed of saying: "You won't go very far away, will you?" And before she could modify her speech he had answered, impetuously: "Never, until you send me away!"
A mottled thrush on the top of the linden-tree surveyed the scene curiously. She had never beheld such a pitiably embarrassed young couple in all her life. It was so different in Thrushdom.
Lorraine's first impulse was to go away and close several doors and sit down, very still, and think. Her next impulse was to stay and see what Jack would do. He seemed to be embarrassed, toohe fidgeted and tossed twigs and pebbles into the river. She felt that she, who already admittedly was arbiter of his goings and comings, should do something to relieve this uneasy and strained situation. So she folded her hands on her black dress and said: "There is something I have been wishing to tell you for two weeks, but I did not because I was not sure that I was right, and I did not wish to trouble you unnecessarily. Now, perhaps, you would be willing to share the trouble with me. Would you?"
Before the eager answer came to his lips she continued, hastily: "The man who made mapsthe man whom you struck in the carrefouris the same man who ran away with the box; I know it!"
"That spy?that tall, square-shouldered fellow with the pink skin and little, pale, pinkish eyes?"
"Yes. I know his name, too."
Jack sat up on the moss and listened anxiously.
"His name is Von SteyrSiurd von Steyr. It was written in pencil on the back of one map. The morning after the assault on the house, when they thought I was ill in bed, I got up and dressed and went down to examine the road where you caught the man and saved my father's little steel box. There I found a strip of cloth torn from your evening coat, andoh, Monsieur Marche!I found the great, flat stone with which he tried to crush you, just as my father fired from the wall!"
The sudden memory, the thought of what might have happened, came to her in a flash for the first time. She looked at himher hands were in his before she could understand why.
"Go on," he whispered.
Her eyes met his half fearfullyshe withdrew her fingers with a nervous movement and sat silent.
"Tell me," he urged, and took one of her hands again. She did not withdraw itshe seemed confused; and presently he dropped her hand and sat waiting for her to speak, his heart beating furiously.
"There is not much more to tell," she said at last, in a voice that seemed not quite under control. "I followed the broken bushes and his footmarks along the river until I came to a stone where I think he sat down. He was bleeding, toomy father shot himand he tore bits of paper and cloth to cover the woundhe even tore up another map. I found part of it, with his name on the back againnot all of it, though, but enough. Here it is."
She handed him a bit of paper. On one side were the fragments of a map in water-colour; on the other, written in German script, he read "Siurd von Steyr."