than himself."
Philip flushed, and his visitor, with a formal bow, vanished.
"Till a quarter past six," he called from the lower hall.
The two men had begun their conversation in English, but had quickly lapsed into French, after the manner of their kind under all strong excitements.
To these people, with whom the two languages are spoken indifferently from the cradle, the Latin tongue is the natural expression of all strong emotions.
Mechanically Rondelet changed his dress; and as he was about to go forth, he paused irresolute, unlocked a drawer beneath the bookshelves, and took out a case of surgical instruments. The dust was thick upon the box. He touched the spring, to make sure that everything was in its place; and at the sight of the shining steel the old repugnance came over him with stronger force than ever. He closed the box with a quick movement of disgust, and threw it back into the drawer. At that moment the stranger's words echoed in his ear: "Some one less timid than himself." That decided him. He slipped the instruments into the pocket of his over-coat and ran lightly down stairs into the street. It was very cold; the wind spitefully wrenched open the garments of the few people who were abroad, and rattled the great iron gates of the ancient court-house. It had come from the northern ice-fields, and gloried that the South could not rob it of all its fierce pain. Enough was left to pinch the faces of the poor folk, wretchedly housed for such weather, and to make the rich wish regretfully that their fireplaces were more in accordance with Northern notions. At Mr. Darius Harden's comfortable house on Esplanade Street, however, there was little needed to complete the air of warmth and cheer.
The large drawing-room was lighted comfortably, though not brilliantly. The guests already assembled had drawn into a semicircle before the fire, and were listening to Mrs. Harden's last good story, when the door opened, and Philip Rondelet entered.
"Forgive me if I am late, kind hostess," he said; "and," he added, looking over Mrs. Harden's shoulder, "tell me, while she is not looking, who that young girl in white is. Do I know her?"
"No; it is Miss Margaret Ruysdale, a stranger from the North—here for the winter with an invalid papa, the gentleman with one arm. I will present you to her, as you are to take her in to dinner. Miss Ruysdale, Mr. Philip Rondelet."
The young man made a deep obeisance, and the girl bowed simply to him, with nothing of the drooping of the lids or sudden uplooking into his eyes which he had often noticed in his introductions to young women in society. This Margaret Ruysdale from the North looked at him as quietly and civilly as she would have looked into the face of his grandmother.
"I have seen you before, Mr.—should I not say Dr. Rondelet?"
"I hardly know, mademoiselle; this is the second time to-day I have been so called. I had thought that I had left my title, along with my profession, on the other side."
"In Paris; it was there I saw you."
"In Paris?" Rondelet smiled, his whole face lighting up with a look of unspeakable pleasure. It was as if a lover had suddenly heard the name of his absent mistress.
"Yes; ah, how you miss it! I feel it in your voice," said Miss Ruysdale, her own voice growing, in sympathy, a trifle less like the murmur of cool running water than at first.
"Miss it? Ye gods, how I miss it! I suffer for it. Where did you see me? I never can have seen you; I should not have forgotten your face."
"It was at the hospital, where I went once to make the portrait of a dying child for its mother. You took care of the little fellow André; don't you remember him—the son of your concierge?"
"To be sure, poor little soul! How bravely he bore it all! It was better that he died; he could never have walked again. You, then, mademoiselle, are the young art student who paid—"
Miss Ruysdale interrupted him—
"Yes, yes, I was his friend. How long is it since you left Paris?"
"A month, a year, a cycle—I cannot say. It seemed very long ago this morning; but you have brought it back to me so vividly, it might have been yesterday. Have you neglected your profession as I have mine? You were modelling in those days, were you not?"
"Yes, I am a sculptor, and am always at work."
Looking down, Rondelet noticed that her small, bare hands, lying loosely clasped, were unusually firm-looking for those of so young a person. Margaret Ruysdale, sculptor, could hardly have more than attained her first score of years. He was ten years her senior, and since his last birthday had known the pain of finding himself no longer in the twenties. His feet were still hesitating what life-path to tread, and this slim girl quietly claimed the profession which had counted among its followers some of the greatest men the world has known. Her assertion had been made very simply and without assumption. She was a sculptor, and used as best she could the tools of Phidias and Angelo.
"I am to take you in to dinner," said Rondelet, as a general move was made in the direction of the dining-room.
"I am very glad," answered Margaret Ruysdale, sculptor, laying her small white hand upon his arm with the air of a comrade. She had put aside all coquetry, if she had ever possessed it, which to Philip Rondelet seemed very doubtful; and yet nothing could be more feminine than her face and figure, her well-modelled white gown and appropriate ornaments of yellow gold.
"Tell me, is Mr. Robert Feuardent among the guests? I heard I was to meet him to-night."
Robert Feuardent! Rondelet started at the name and glanced at the clock. It was nearly half-past six. At that moment the door-bell was violently rung, and immediately afterwards a servant whispered a message in Mrs. Harden's ear.
"Mr. Rondelet, a messenger has come for you, summoning you to a sick person; can you not send him for some other physician?"
Philip set down untasted the glass of wine he had raised to his lips, and said, "Tell the person that it is not possible for me to leave at present. He should summon another physician. Dr. N—— lives half a block from here."
In two minutes the man returned. "The gentleman says, sir, that he can wait, but that you will hardly like to keep a lady waiting in the carriage on such a night as this."
"Mrs. Harden, you must excuse me. Mademoiselle, I cannot express to you my regrets at being forced to lose the pleasure of knowing you better."
"I am very sorry too; but of course your professional duties must take precedence of everything else. Good night, and god-speed to you," said Margaret Ruysdale, sculptor, with a smile, the first she had given him. Her smiles were not plentiful, and this one was to the unwilling Samaritan like a draught of the rich strong wine he had left untasted.
In the hall he found the young man, who was still a stranger to him, looking wan and pale beside the merry circle he had just quitted.
"You look ill yourself, my friend; you are not fit to be out on such a night."
The stranger made an impatient gesture of dissent and threw open the door. A whiff of the chill north wind burst in at the opening, and fanned the flame in the chandelier, and blew into the face of the girl from the North, as if it bore her a greeting from her home. Outside, the street was empty and silent. A chill dense rain was beginning to fall, and the horses of the carriage which awaited them were fretting and tramping uneasily. "Get in as quickly as you can," said the stranger; "there is one person on the back seat."
Rondelet placed himself beside the person on the back seat, the young man sprang into the carriage, and the horses leaped forward into a gallop. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the young physician observed that the person beside him was a woman.
A lace scarf was thrown about her head and shoulders, bare, save for this slight protection, through which sparkled a profusion of jewels.
"Madame, have you no cloak?"
There was no audible answer; but the woman shook her head, indifferent