``You are talking nonsense, David,'' she said; ``it is not like you.Come,'' she said, rising with something of her old manner, ``I must show you what I have been doing all these years.You must admire my garden.''
I followed her, marvelling, along the shell path, and there came unbidden to my mind the garden at Temple Bow, where she had once been wont to sit, tormenting Mr.
Mason or bending to the tale of Harry Riddle's love.
Little she cared for flowers in those days, and now they had become her life.With such thoughts in my mind, I listened unheeding to her talk.The place was formerly occupied by a shiftless fellow, a tailor; and the court, now a paradise, had been a rubbish heap.That orange tree which shaded the uneven doorway of the kitchen she had found here.Figs, pomegranates, magnolias; the camellias dazzling in their purity; the blood-red oleanders;the pink roses that hid the crumbling adobe and climbed even to the sloping tiles,--all these had been set out and cared for with her own hands.Ay, and the fragrant bed of yellow jasmine over which she lingered,--Antoinette's favorite flower.
Antoinette's flowers that she wore in her hair! In her letters Mrs.Temple had never mentioned Antoinette, and now she read the question (perchance purposely put there) in my eyes.Her voice faltered sadly.Scarce a week had she been in the house before Antoinette had found her.
``I--I sent the girl away, David.She came without Monsieur de St.Gre's knowledge, without his consent.It is natural that he thinks me--I will not say what.I sent Antoinette away.She clung to me, she would not go, and I had to be--cruel.It is one of the things which make the nights long--so long.My sins have made her life unhappy.''
``And you hear of her? She is not married?'' I asked.
``No, she is not married,'' said Mrs.Temple, stooping over the jasmines.Then she straightened and faced me, her voice shaken with earnestness.``David, do you think that Nick still loves her?''
Alas, I could not answer that.She bent over the jasmines again.
``There were five years that I knew nothing,'' she continued.``I did not dare ask Mr.Clark, who comes to me on business, as you know.It was Mr.Clark who brought back Lindy on one of his trips to Charleston.And then, one day in March of this year, Madame de Montmery came.''
``Madame de Montmery?'' I repeated.
``It is a strange story,'' said Mrs.Temple.``Lindy had never admitted any one, save Mr.Clark.One day early in the spring, when I was trimming my roses by the wall there, the girl ran to me and said that a lady wished to see me.
Why had she let her in? Lindy did not know, she could not refuse her.Had the lady demanded admittance?
Lindy thought that I would like to see her.David, it was a providential weakness, or curiosity, that prompted me to go into the front room, and then I saw why Lindy had opened the door to her.Who she is or what she is I do not know to this day.Who am I now that I should inquire? I know that she is a lady, that she has exquisite manners, that I feel now that I cannot live without her.
She comes every week, sometimes twice, she brings me little delicacies, new seeds for my garden.But, best of all, she brings me herself, and I am always counting the days until she comes again.Yes, and I always fear that she, too, will be taken away from me.''
I had not heard the sound of voices, but Mrs.Temple turned, startled, and looked towards the house.Ifollowed her glance, and suddenly I knew that my heart was beating.
