Violet Jacob > Flemington

94
FLEMINGTON
were glad to spend an afternoon looking upon the
show, and the Conte would invite now one, now
another. He loved to strut about exhibiting his
gardens. Diane was his daughter—my poor
Diane ! Flemington, do I weary you ?”
“No, no, indeed!” cried Archie, who had been
lost, wandering in an enchanted labyrinth of
bloom and colour as he listened. The image of
the house rising from among its waterways was
as vivid to him as if he had seen it with bodily
eyes.
“She was so young,” said the soldier, “so gentle,
so little suited to such as I. But she loved me—
God knows why—and she was brave—brave to
the end, as she lay dying by the roadside . . .
and sending me her love. . . .”
He stopped and turned away; Archie could
say nothing, for his throat had grown thick
Logie’s unconscious gift of filling his words with
drama—a gift which is most often given to those
who suspect it least—wrought on him.
James looked round, staring steadily and blindly
over his companion’s shoulder.
“ I took her away,” he went on, as though
describing another man’s experiences; “ there
was no choice, for the Conte would not tolerate
me. I was a Protestant, and I was poor, and
there was a rich Spaniard whom he favoured.
So we went. We were married in Breda, and for
a year we lived in peace. Such days—such days!
The Conte made no sign, and I thought, in my
folly, he would let us alone. It seemed as though