CHAPTER VI.
THEO GOES TO PARIS.
The letters that were faithfully written to Downport during thefollowing month were the cause of no slight excitement in the house ofDavid North, Esq. The children looked forward to the reception of themas an event worthy of being chronicled. Theo was an exact correspondent,and recorded her adventures and progress with as careful a precision asif it had been a matter of grave import whether she was in Boulogne orBordeaux, or had stayed at one hotel or the other. It was not thepleasantest season of the year to travel, she wrote, but it was, ofcourse, the gayest in the cities. Lady Throckmorton was very kind andvery generous. She took her out a great deal, and spent a great deal ofmoney in sight-seeing, which proved conclusively how kind she was, asher ladyship knew all the places worth looking at, as well as she knewCharing Cross or St. Paul's. And at the end of a month came a letterfrom Paris full of news and description.
"We reached Paris three days ago," wrote Theo, "and are going to remain until Lady Throckmorton makes up her mind to go somewhere else, or to return to London. She has a great number of friends here, who have found us out already. She is very fond of Paris, and I think would rather stay here than anywhere else; so we may not come away until spring. We went to the opera last night, and saw Faust again. You remember my telling you about going to see Faust in London the first time I wore the rose-pink satin. I wore the same dress last night, and Lady Throckmorton lent me some of her diamonds, and made Splaighton puff my hair in a new way. Splaighton is my maid, and I don't know what to do with her sometimes, Pamela. You know I am used to waiting on myself, and she is so serious and dignified that I feel half ashamed to let her do things for me. Two or three gentlemen, who knew Lady Throckmorton, came into our box, and were introduced to me. One of them (I think Lady Throckmorton said he was an _attache_) called on us this morning, and brought some lovely flowers. I must not forget to tell you about my beautiful morning robes. One of them is a white merino, trimmed with black velvet, and I am sure we should think it pretty enough for a party dress at home. I am glad you liked your little present, my darling Pam. Give my dearest love to Joanna and Elin, and tell them I am saving my pocket money to buy them some real Parisian dresses with. Love and kisses to mamma and the boys from
"Your THEO."
She did not know, this affectionate, handsome Theo, that when she wrotethis innocent, schoolgirl letter, she might have made it a record oftriumphs innumerable, though unconscious. She had never dreamed for amoment that it was the face at Lady Throckmorton's side that had causedsuch a sudden accession to the list of the faithful. But this was thecase, nevertheless, and Lady Throckmorton was by no means unconscious ofit. Of course, it was quite natural that people who had forgotten her inLondon should remember her in Paris; but it was even more natural thatpersons who did not care for her at all, should be filled withadmiration for Theo in rose-colored satin. And so it was. Such a changecame over the girl's life all at once, that, as it revealed itself toher, she was tempted to rub her bright eyes in her doubt as to thereality of it.
Two weeks after she reached Paris she awoke and found herself famous;she, Theodora North, to whom, as yet, Downport and shabbiness, andbread-and-butter cutting, were the only things that appeared real enoughnot to vanish at a touch. People of whom she had read six months ago,regarding their very existence as almost mythical, flattered, applauded,followed her. They talked of her, they praised her, they made high-flownspeeches to her, at which she blushed, and glowed, and opened herlovely, half-uncomprehending eyes. She was glad they liked her, gratefulfor their attentions, half-confused under them; but it was some timebefore she understood the full meaning of their homage. In rose-coloredsatin and diamonds she dazzled them; but in simple white muslin, with ablack-velvet ribbon about her perfect throat, and a great white rose inher dark hair, she was a glowing young goddess, of whom they ravedextravagantly, and who might have made herself a fashion, if she hadbeen born a few years earlier, and been born in Paris.
Lady Throckmorton was actually proud of her, and committed extravagancesshe might have repented of, if the girl had not been so affectionatelygrateful and tractable. Then, as might be expected, there arose out ofthe train the indefatigable adorer, who is the fate of every pretty orpopular girl. But in this case he was by no means unpleasant. He wasfamous, witty, and fortunate. He was no less a personage than the_attache_, of whom she had written to Pamela, and his name was VictorMaurien. He had been before all the rest, and so had gained some slightfooting, which he was certainly not the man to relinquish. He had gainedground with Lady Throckmorton too, and in Denis Oglethorpe's absence,had begun almost to fill his place. He was graceful, faithful in herladyship's service; he talked politics with her when she was gravelyinclined, and told her the news when she was in a good humor; he wasindefatigable and dignified at once, which is a rare combination; and hethought his efforts well rewarded by a seat at Theo's side in their boxin the theatre, or by the privilege of handing her to her carriage, andgaining a few farewell words as he bade her good-night. He was not likethe rest either. It was not entirely her beauty which had enchanted him,though, like all Frenchmen, he was a passionate worshipper of thebeautiful. The sweet soul in her eyes had touched his heart. Herignorance had done more to strengthen it than anything she could havedone. There was not a spark of coquetry in her whole nature. Shelistened to his poetic speeches, wondering but believing--wondering howthey could be true of her, yet trusting him and all the world tooseriously to accuse him of anything but partiality.
To the last day of his life Victor Maurien will not forget one quietevening, when he came to the hotel and found Theodora North by herself,in their private parlor, reading an English letter by the blaze of acandelabra. It had arrived that very day from Downport, and something init had touched her, for when she rose to greet him, her gipsy eyes weremistily soft.
They began to draw near to each other that night. Half-unconsciously shedrifted into confiding to him the yearnings toward the home whoseshadows and sharpnesses absence had softened. It was singular how muchpleasanter everything seemed, now she looked back upon it in the past.Downport was not an unpleasant place after all. She could remember timeswhen the sun shone upon the dingy little town and the wide-spread ofbeach, and made it almost pretty.
"I am afraid I did not love them all enough," she said. "LadyThrockmorton does not intend that I shall go there to remain again; butif I were to go, I feel as if I could help them more--Pamela, you know,and mamma. I want to send Joanna and Elin something, to show them that Idon't forget them at all. I think I should like to send them some prettydresses. Joanna is fair and she always wanted a pale-blue silk. Do youthink a pale-blue silk would be very expensive, M. Maurien?"
She started, and colored a little the next moment, recognizing theoddity of her speech, and her little laugh was very sweet to hear.
"I forgot," she said. "How should you know, to be sure. Political mendon't care about pale-blue silk, do they?" And she laughed again, such afresh, enjoyable little laugh, that he was ready to fall down andworship her in his impulsive French fashion. Until Lady Throckmortoncame, she amused him with talking of England and the English people,until the _naivete_ of her manner had an indescribable fascination forhim. He could have listened to her forever. She told him about Downportand its small lines, unconsciously showing him more of her past lifethan she fancied. Then, of course, she at last came to Broome street andMiss Elizabeth, and Miss Priscilla, and--Mr. Denis Oglethorpe.
"He is very talented, indeed," she said. "He has written, oh! a greatdeal. He once wrote a book of poems. I have the volume in one of mytrunks."
He looked at her quietly but keenly when she said this, and he did notneed more than a second glance to understand more than she understoodherself. He read where Mr. Denis Oglethorpe stood, by the queer, suddeninner light in her eyes, and the unconscious fluctuation of rich colorin her bright glow
ing face. He was struck with a secret pang in asecond. There would be so frail a thread of hope for the man who wasonly second with a girl like this one.
"I know the gentleman you speak of," he said, aloud. "We all know him.He is a popular man. I saw him only a few weeks ago."
Her eyes flashed up to his--the whole of her face flashed with electriclight.
"Did you?" she said. "Where was he? I didn't know--" and there shestopped.
"He was here," was the answer. "In Paris--in this very hotel, the daybefore you came here. He had overworked himself, I think. He was lookingpaler than usual, and somewhat worn-out. It was fatigue, I suppose."
Her eyes fell, and the light died away. She was thinking to herself thathe might have waited twenty-four hours longer--only a day--such a shorttime. Just at that moment she felt passionately that she could not bearto let him go back to England and Priscilla Gower without a farewellword.
In all the whirl of excitement that filled her life, through all thedays that were full of it, and the nights that were fairly dazzling toher unaccustomed eyes, she never forgot Denis Oglethorpe. She rememberedhim always in the midst of it all, and now her remembrance was of adifferent kind; there was more pain in it, more unrest, more longing andstrength. She had ripened wonderfully since that last night in Broomestreet.
Among the circle of Lady Throckmorton's friends, and even beyond itspale, she was a goddess this winter. Her dark _viante_ face, with itsinnocence and freshness of beauty, carried all before it, and this herfirst season was a continuation of girlish triumphs. The chiefcharacteristic of her loveliness was that it inspired people with a sortof enthusiasm. When she entered a room a low murmur of pleasure followedher. There was not a man who had exchanged a word with her who would nothave been ready to perform absurdities as well as impossibilities forher sweet young sake.
"How kind people are to me!" she would say to Lady Throckmorton. "I canhardly believe it, sometimes. Oh, how Joanna and Elin would like Paris!"
They had been two months in Paris, and in the meantime had heard nothingfrom Denis Oglethorpe. He had not written to Lady Throckmorton since theletter dated from Vienna, so they supposed he had lost sight of them andthought writing useless. There were times when Theo tried to make up hermind that she had seen him for the last time before his marriage, butthere were times again when, on going out, her last glance at her mirrorhad a thrill of expectation in it that was almost a pang.
She was sitting in their box in the theatre one night, half listening toMaurien, half to the singers, and wondering dreamily what was going onin Broome street at the moment, when she suddenly became conscious of aslight stir among the people in the seats on the other side of thehouse. She turned her face quickly, as if she had been magnetized.Making his way toward their box was a man whom at first she saw mistily,in a moment more quite clearly. Her heart began to beat faster than ithad ever beaten in her young life, her hand closed upon herbouquet-holder with a nervous strength; she turned her face to the stagein the curious, excited, happy, and yet fearing tremor that tookpossession of her in a second. By some caprice or chance they had cometo see Faust again, and the Marguerite who had been their attraction,was at this very moment standing upon the stage, repeating softly hersimple, pathetic little love-spell,
"_Er lieber mich, er lieber mich nicht._"
Theo found herself saying it after Marguerite to the beating of herheart. "_Er lieber mich, er lieber mich nicht. Er lieber mich_,--" andthere she stopped, breathlessly, for the box door opened, and DenisOglethorpe entered.
She had altered so much since they had last met that she scarcely daredto look at him, even after the confusion of greetings and formalitieswas over, and he had answered Lady Throckmorton's questions, andexplained to her the cause of his protracted wandering--for, though shedid not meet his eyes, she knew that he was altered, too. He looked wornand fatigued, she thought, and there was a new unrest in his expression.
It was fully a quarter of an hour before he left Lady Throckmorton andcame to her side; but when he did so, something in his face or air,perhaps, made Victor Maurien give way to his greater need in an impulseof generosity.
There was a moment's silence between them after he sat down, duringwhich, in her excited shyness, Theo only looked at Marguerite with afluttering of rich, warm color on her cheeks. It was he who ended thepause himself.
"Are you glad to see me, Theodora?" he said, in a low, unsteady voice.
"Yes," she answered, tremulously. "I am glad."
"Thank you," he returned. "And yet it was chance that brought me here. Iwas not even sure you were in Paris until I saw you from the other sideof the house a few moments ago. I wonder, my dear Theodora," slippinginto the old careless, whimsical manner, "I wonder if I am doomed to bea rascal?"
It might be that her excitement made her nervous; at any rate there wasa choking throb in her throat, as she answered him.
"If you please," she whispered, "don't."
His face softened, as if he was sorry for her girlish distress. He wasstruck with a fancy that if he were cruel enough to persist, he couldmake her cry. And then the relapse in the old manner, had only been arelapse after all, and had even puzzled himself a little. So he wasquiet for a while.
"And so it is Faust again," he said, breaking the silence. "Do youremember what you said to me the first time you saw Faust, Theodora--thenight the rose-colored satin came home? Do you remember telling me thatyou could die for love's sake? I wonder if you have changed your mind,among all the fine people you have seen, and all the fine speeches youhave heard. I met one of Lady Throckmorton's acquaintances in Bordeaux,a few days ago, and he told me a wonderful story of a young lady who wasthen turning the wise heads of half the political Parisians--a sort ofenchanted princess, with a train of adorers ready to kiss the hem of hergarment."
He was endeavoring to be natural, and was failing wretchedly. His voicewas actually sad, and she had never heard it sad in all theirintercourse before. She had never thought it could be sad, and the soundwas something like a revelation of the man. It made her afraid ofherself--afraid for herself. And yet above all this arose a thrill ofhappiness which was almost wild. He was near her again! he had not goneaway, he would not go away yet. Yet! there was a girl's foolish, lovingcomfort in the word! It seemed so impossible that she could lose himforever, that for the brief moment she forgot Priscilla Gower andjustice altogether. In three months the whole world had altered its faceto her vision. She had altered herself; her life had altered she knew,but she did not know that she had been happier in her ignorance of herown heart than she could be now in her knowledge of it.
Her little court were not very successful to-night. Denis Oglethorpekept his place at her side with a persistence which baffled the boldestof her admirers, and she was too happy to remember the rest of theworld. It was not very polite, perhaps, and certainly it was not verywise to forget everything but that she herself was not forgotten; butshe forgot everything else--this pretty Theo, this handsome andimpolitic Theo. She did not care for her court, though she wassweet-temperedly grateful to her courtiers for their homage. She didcare for Denis Oglethorpe. Ah, poor Priscilla! He went home with them totheir hotel. He stayed, too, to eat of the _petite souper_ LadyThrockmorton had ordered. Her ladyship had a great deal to say to him,and a great number of questions to ask, so he sat with them for an houror so accounting for himself and replying to numberless queries, all thetime very conscious of Theo, who sat by the fire in a mist of whitedrapery and soft, thick, white wraps, the light from the wax tapersflickering in Pamela's twinkling sapphires, and burning in the greatcrimson-hearted rose fastened in the puffs of her hair.
But Lady Throckmorton remembered at last that she had to give someorders to her maid, and so for a moment they were left together.
Then he went to the white figure at the fire and stood before it, losingsomething of both color and calmness. He was going to be guilty of aweakness, and knowing it, could not control himself. He was not so greata hero as
she had fancied him, after all. But it would have been veryheroic to have withstood a temptation so strong and so near.
"Theo," he said. "The man who ran away from the danger he dared not faceis a greater coward than he fancied. The chances have been against him,too. I suppose to-night he must turn his back to it again, but--"
She stopped him all at once with a little cry. She had been so happy anhour ago, that she could not fail to be weak now. Her face dropped uponthe hands on her lap, and were hidden there. The crimson-hearted roseslipped from her hair and fell to her feet.
"No, no!" she cried. "Don't go. It is only for a little while; don't goyet!"