It led through a dense, semi-tropical forest in the direction of the swamp beyond, the way being well beaten, but here and there jealously crowded by an undergrowth of brambles and the prickly Spanish bayonet.I know not how far I had walked, my head bent in thought, before Ifelt the ground teetering under my feet, and there was the bayou.It was a narrow lane of murky, impenetrable water, shaded now by the forest wall.Imaged on its amber surface were the twisted boughs of the cypresses of the swamp beyond,--boughs funereally draped, as though to proclaim a warning of unknown perils in the dark places.On that side where I stood ancient oaks thrust their gnarled roots into the water, and these knees were bridged by treacherous platforms of moss.As Isought for a safe resting-place a dull splash startled me, the pink-and-white water lilies danced on the ripples, and a long, black snout pushed its way to the centre of the bayou and floated there motionless.
I sat down on a wide knee that seemed to be fashioned for the purpose, and reflected.It may have been about half-past five, and I made up my mind that, rather than return and risk explanations, I would wait where I was until Mrs.Temple appeared.I had much to think of, and for the rest the weird beauty of the place, with its changing colors as the sun fell, held me in fascination.
When the blue vapor stole through the cypress swamp, my trained ear caught the faintest of warning sounds.
Mrs.Temple was coming.
I could not repress the exclamation that rose to my lips when she stood before me.
``I have changed somewhat,'' she began quite calmly;``I have changed since you were at Temple Bow.''
I stood staring at her, at a loss to know whether by these words she sought to gain an advantage.I knew not whether to pity or to be angry, such a strange blending she seemed of former pride and arrogance and later suffering.There were the features of the beauty still, the eyes defiant, the lips scornful.Sorrow had set its brand upon this protesting face in deep, violet marks under the eyes, in lines which no human power could erase: sorrow had flecked with white the gold of the hair, had proclaimed her a woman with a history.For she had a new and remarkable beauty which puzzled and astonished me,--a beauty in which maternity had no place.
The figure, gowned with an innate taste in black, still kept the rounded lines of the young woman, while about the shoulders and across the open throat a lace mantilla was thrown.She stood facing me, undaunted, and I knew that she had come to fight for what was left her.I knew further that she was no mean antagonist.
``Will you kindly tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this--summons, Mr.Ritchie?'' she asked.
``You are a travelled person for one so young.I might almost say,'' she added with an indifferent laugh, ``that there is some method and purpose in your travels.''
``Indeed, you do me wrong, Madame,'' I replied; ``I am here by the merest chance.''
Again she laughed lightly, and stepping past me took her seat on the oak from which I had risen.I marvelled that this woman, with all her self-possession, could be the same as she who had held her room, cowering, these four days past.Admiration for her courage mingled with my other feelings, and for the life of me I knew not where to begin.My experience with women of the world was, after all, distinctly limited.Mrs.Temple knew, apparently by intuition, the advantage she had gained, and she smiled.
``The Ritchies were always skilled in dealing with sinners,'' she began; ``the first earl had the habit of hunting them like foxes, so it is said.I take it for granted that, before my sentence is pronounced, I shall have the pleasure of hearing my wrong-doings in detail.I could not ask you to forego that satisfaction.''
``You seem to know the characteristics of my family, Mrs.Temple,'' I answered.``There is one trait of the Ritchies concerning which I ask your honest opinion.''
``And what is that?'' she said carelessly.
``I have always understood that they have spoken the truth.Is it not so?''
She glanced at me curiously.
``I never knew your father to lie,'' she answered; ``but after all he had few chances.He so seldom spoke.''
``Your intercourse with me at Temple Bow was quite as limited,'' I said.
``Ah,'' she interrupted quickly, ``you bear me that grudge.It is another trait of the Ritchies.''
``I bear you no grudge, Madame,'' I replied.``I asked you a question concerning the veracity of my family, and I beg that you will believe what I say.''
``And what is this momentous statement?'' she asked.
I had hard work to keep my temper, but I knew that Imust not lose it.
``I declare to you on my honor that my business in New Orleans in no way concerns you, and that I had not the slightest notion of finding you here.Will you believe that?''
``And what then?'' she asked.
``I also declare to you that, since meeting your son, my chief anxiety has been lest he should run across you.''
``You are very considerate of others,'' she said.``Let us admit for the sake of argument that you come here by accident.''
It was the opening I had sought for, but despaired of getting.
``Then put yourself for a moment in my place, Madame, and give me credit for a little kindliness of feeling, and a sincere affection for your son.''
There was a new expression on her face, and the light of a supreme effort in her eyes.
``I give you credit at least for a logical mind,'' she answered.``In spite of myself you have put me at the bar and seem to be conducting my trial.''
``I do not see why there should be any rancor between us,'' I answered.``It is true that I hated you at Temple Bow.When my father was killed and I was left a homeless orphan you had no pity for me, though your husband was my mother's brother.But you did me a good turn after all, for you drove me out into a world where I learned to rely upon myself.Furthermore, it was not in your nature to treat me well.''
``Not in my nature?'' she repeated.