arV1187 °°""" """"^"v Libia,, ^iiSBLffl/?.,,.',!!!?... St. A little olin,an^ ^^^4 031 254 646 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY The Charles and Mary Collection *rom An Annonymous Donor Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031254646 POPULAR NOVELS. BY MAY AGNES FLEMING. 1.— aUT EAELSCOUET'S WIFE. 8.— A WONDERFUL WOMAN. 3.— A TEKKIBLE SECKET. 4.— NORIXE-S REVENGE. 5— A MAD MARRIAGE. 6.— ONE NIGHT'S MYSTEKY. 7.— KATE DANTON. 8.— SILENT AND TRUE. 9.— HEIR OF CHARLTON. 10.— CARRIED BY STORM. 11.— LOST FOR A WOMAN. 12.— A WIPE'S TRAGEDY. IS.— A CHANGED HEART 14— PHIDE 4ND PASSION (JTew). " Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popular every day. Tlieir delineations of character, li/e-liko conversations, flashes of wit, con- stantly varying scenes, and deeply inter- eating plots, combine to place their author in the very first rank of Modem Novelists." All published uniform with this volume. Price, JLBO each, and sent free by mail on receipt of price, ET G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, New York. SILENT AND TRUE OK, A Little Queen MAY AGNES p^EMING, AUTHOR OF "GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE," "A WONDERFUL WOMAN," "A TERRMl I 'norine's revf.nge," "a mad M "ONE night's mystery," ETC. ** He would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, had not his path been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghost, goblin, or tile whole race (H witches, and that was — a woman." Washington Xrying. NEW YORK: Copyright, 1877, by W. Carleton &' Co., Publishers. LONDON: S. tOW & CO. MDCCCLXXXII. TO Miss Katie Russell THIS OTHER "LITTLE QUEEN" BROOKLYN, SsFTEHBUi lt77- CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. „„ Per Steamer Hesperia g CHAPTER n. Lost in Port , . . . . 29 CHAPTER HI. Longworth of the Phenix 39 CHAPTER IV. The Story of the Stone House 54 CHAPTER V. A Point of Honor 60 CHAPTER VI. Grandmamma's Granddaughters 69 CHAPTER VII. Mrs. Windsor at Home 83 CHAPTER VIII. Before 98 CHAPTER IX. Noblesse Oblige 115 CHAPTER X. After 129 CHAPTER XI. Longworth's Idyl 144 CHAPTER XII. Delicate Ground 162 CHAPTER XIII. " As the Queen Wills " 185 CHAPTER XIV. The Embarrassment of Riches 194 CHAPTER XV. " By the Sweet Silver Light of the Moon " 210 CHAPTER XVI. " The Wooing O't " 223 Vlll CONTENTS. CHAPTER XVII. MGi " The Very Best Thing in all the World " 229 CHAPTER XVIII. M. Lfonce Durand 245 CHAPTER XIX. '• Silent and True " 257 CHAPTER XX. " To be Wise, and Love, Exceeds Man's Strength " 270 CHAPTER XXI. " The Rivals " 289 CHAPTER XXII. " The Rivals "—On the Stage and Off 305 CHAPTER XXIII. By the Garden Wall 317 CHAPTER XXIV. Nightfall 332 CHAPTER XXV. Two in the Morning 344 CHAPTER XXVI, Another Day 354 CHAPTER XXVII. Reine's Knight 365 CHAPTER XXVIII. Marie Speaks 386 CHAPTER XXIX. O'SuUivan Speaks 404 CHAPTER XXX. " With Emptied Arms and Treasure Lost " , 417 CHAPTER XXXI. Durand 431 CHAPTER XXXII. " After Long Grief and Pain " 439 CHAPTER XXXIII. A Foregon^ iConclusion 454 A Little Queen. CHAPTER I. PER STEAMER HESPERIA. jjT is a May day. If we did not take our weathei on trust and tradition, as we take so many things, 31 we would certainly never find it out for ourselves. Dropping down on the dock, amid the shivering throng of passengers, from some other planet, let us say, we might easily conclude we had alighted in the middle of March, so gusty, so bleak, so chill is this May morning. The Cunard steamer will float away down the Mersey in something less than an hour, the little fussy, puffing ten der is already waiting for her passengers and luggage, and snorting fiercely, as though in fiery impatience to be off. There is the customary crowd, cabmen haggling over fares, poAers shouldering trunks and boxes, passengers hurrying wildly hither and thither, or mounting guard over their belongings, shrill voices of women, deeper tones of men, . and now and then, in base growls, some of the strong words in which the nobler sex are wont to relieve "^heir manly minds. Overhead there is a dark, fast-drifting sky, that bodes anything but a pleasant first night on the ocean, and outside there is an ominous short-chop, and little, wicked white cap? I' lO PER STEAMER HESPERIA. breaking the turbid flow of the river. And all around, from every quarter of the compass at once, there come sud- den bleak blasts that chill to the marrow of your bones, and set you shivering and make you wrap your great coat 3i waterproof about your shrinking form never so closely. Standing a little apart, if there be any apart in this mad- ding crowd,- leaning easily against the back of a cab, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, an amused look in his face, is a young man. A solitary large trunk beside him, bearing on its canvas back the big black initials " F. D.," is evidently his only property ; a very large and lumbering Newfoundland is evidently his only companion. He is a tall, strongly-built, square-shouldered young fel- low, of perhaps three-and-tvventy, his beardless face not in the slightest degree handsome except with the good looks that three-and-tvventy years' perfect health, boundless good- humor, and a certain boyish brightness gives. He is sun- burned and ruddy, he is buttoned up in a shaggy overcoat, and is taking life at present with a perfect coolness that is refreshing contrasted with the wild excitement depicted on most of the faces around him. Fragments of flurried conversation reach him on all sides as he stands, but he pays nv particular heed to any, until a girl's voice, fresh and clear, but in accents of misery, reaches his ear. " Mon Dieu ! Marie!" cries this, despairing voice, in a composite mixture of French and English, " if that imbecile has not carried off my box again. Here, you ! " a frantic lit- tle stamp ; " drop that directly. It is mine, I tell you. I told you before, stupide I Que devoiis — nous fair e, Marie " A soft laugh is the answer. The young man turns round, and see two young ladies and a porter. One of the young ladies is seated quietly on a black box, the other is standing excitedlj, trying to prevent the porter from carrying off a similar article of luggage, and trying in vain. PER STEAMER HESPERIA. II The owner of the dog, with the impetuosity of three-and twenty, instantly comes to the rescue of beauty in distress. " Hi ! I say you ! drop that, will you," he cries, authori- tatively, and the porter yields at once to the imperious mas- culine voice what he has scorned to yield to the frantic fem- inine. " Don't you want your luggage taken on board the tender ? " inquires the young American gentleman, for such his accent proclaims him to be, lifting his hat to the joung person who stands, and appears so greatly exercised over the fate of the black box. "Thanks, monsieur," responds the young lady who has been talking French, in perfect English, but with a musical accent, " this is the second time that stupid man has tried to carry it off whether or no. Oh, yes, we want our luggage to go on board, but the captain, our very good friend, has told us to wait here until he comes." " I see him coming now," says the second young lady, who has a very sweet voice and much fainter accent than -the first. " Look yonder. Petite. Ah ! he has stopped to speak to the stout lady, but he is coming for us." " Small black box, large black box, one portmanteau, a bag, and a bonnet-box," says the first, rapidly and concisely, taking the inventory of her belongings. " Yes, everything is here. Ma foi, how I wish we were on board, and out of this josthng, noisy throng." "Yes, it is very cold," replies the young lady called Marie, and she draws a large shawl she wears close about her, and shivers in the raw wind. They are dressed alike, in traveling suits of dark gray tweed, and are apparently sisters. Monsieur " F. D.," resum- ing his easy position against the back of the cab, looks at. them critically, and on the whole approvingly, while they wait for their very good fiiend, the captain. He can look with perfect ease, for they are not looking at him, have apparent- ly forgotten his proximity and existence. The one addressed 12 PER STEAMER HESPERIA . as Marie interests him most, for the good rearoii that lie cdo not see her, so thick is the mask of black Is-ce she weaia strapped across her hat and face. But the voice is peculiarly sweet, the braided hair under the hat is a lovely gold bronze, and the form is so shapely, so graceful, that even the heavy disguising shawl cannot wholly conceal it. She stands uf presently and he sees that she is tall — divinely tall, he says to himself, and no doubt divinely fair In a general way he approves of tall, fair young women. The other is a little person, about eighteen, perhaps, with a dark clive face, and with no especial claim to beauty, except the claim of two large, brilliant brown eyes. Even if he had not heard her speak, he would have set her down as a French girl — her nationality is patent in her face. The captain, brown-faced, burly, and genial, makes his way to where they await him, with some difficulty, for friends be- siege him on all sides. "Well, my little ladies," is his greeting, " ready, are you, and waiting ? Here, my man 1 " A porter approaches, and touches his cap. " Bear a hand here, with these bags and boxes, and look sharp. Now, young ladies," here he pre- sents an elbow to the right and left, " I'll take you under my wing, and consign you to the tender mercies of the tender." It is a mild joke, but he laughs at it, and goes off with his fair freight. The owner of the sweet voice never looked back, but the owner of the pretty dark eyes casts one fare- well glance and slight smile backward to the gentleman who came to the rescue of the black box. Mr. " F. D." lifts his hat, sees them vanish, and busies himself, for the first time, about his dog and his trunk. Presently they are all on board the tender, and puffing down the stream to where, big, and quiet, and powerful, the Hesperia awaits her passengers. The number is very large ; there is hardly standing room on the little tender's deck. It PER STEAMER HESPERIA. 13 is rough, and raw, and cold, and supremely m.serable. To make matters worse, a drizzling rain begins to fall, and um- brellas are unfurled, and ladies crouch under such shelter as they can find, and everybody looks blue, and sea-sick by an- ticipation, and most utterly wretched. The Newfoundland and his master hoist no umbrellas ; (hey stand and look, on the whole, as if they rather enjoyed the misery of those about them, and were perfectly warm, and cozy and comfortable themselves. The young man looks about him for the dark eyes, and the tall, slight, grace- ful figure ; but the captain has stowed them away somewhere, and he speedily forgets them, and is sufficiently amused by the rest. Then they are on board, and he gets one more glimpse of "my little ladies,'' as, wing-and-wing with the cap- tain, they go to the cabin. Only a glimpse, for he has his own cabin to look after, and his dog to consign to the proper authorities. And then a gun fires, and there is a parting cheer from the tender, and Liverpool lies behind them and the wide Atlantic before. Luncheon hour arrives, and as no one has had time to be- come sea-sick, there is a rush for the long saloon. Among them is. the owner of the dog, whose appetite, afloat or ashore, is all that the appetite of hearty, hungry three-and- twenly should be. As he carves his chicken, he glances about for the owner of the veiled face — a pretty face, he has iiade up his mind— but she is not there. The other is, how- . £ver, seated near her good friend, the captain, still wearing hat and jacket, and her interest apparently pretty equally di- vided between the contents of her plate and the men and women around her. She catches the eye of the preserver o( her box, and smiles a frank recognition— so frank, indeed, that when they rise, he feels warranted in approaching and addressing her. "Are you coming on deck?" he asks, rather eagerly. She is not precisely pretty, but she is sufficiently attractive tc 14 PER STEAMER HES.PERIA. make him desire a better acquaintance— the eyes are lovely, and the smile is winning. " You had better," he urges, " keep on deck as much as you can, if you want to avoid sea-sickness.'' " But it is raining, monsieur," she says, hesitatingly. She accepts his advances with the unconventional readi- ness with which people ignore introductions and talk to one another on shipboard. She has all the ease of manner of one who has traveled a good deal, as Mr. " F. D." sees, and bears about her unmistakably the stamp of " the world." " It has ceased raining ; it was nothing but a passing drift. It is quite pleasant on deck now." " Not cold nor rough ? " she asks, dubiously. Not at all cold, he assures her ; that is to say, no colder t}ian it was on the dock, not so cold even in some sheltered nooks he knows of; and finally mademoiselle takes his arm, and ascends with him to the deck. " The other young lady is not surely sea-sick so soon ? " says this artful young man, for he is curious to see that other young lady, with the silvery voice, and graceful figure, and vailed face. " No, only getting ready," she answers, and laughs. " My sister is always sea-sick — the very sight of the sea turns her ill. She will be ill from now until we land. I am sorry for her, you understand, but I have to laugh. Now I am sea- sick scarcely at all. I have crossed the Channel many times, and unless it is very, very rough, I am not ill a moment. But for Marie — ah ! she is fit to die before she reaches Calais." From this artless speech, the artfiil young gentleman learns niany'things. First, that Marie is my sister — well, he had surmised that much ; that the " little ladies '' are certainly French; that they had crossed the Channel many times; that this one may be his compagnon de voyage to New York PER STEAMER HESPERIA. IS but that ii is more than doubtful if the other appears at all. This is so disappointing that he hazards a question. " I am really very sorry for your sister. Surely she will not be obliged to keep her cabin all the way across." " All the way, monsieur," answers the owner of the dark e)es, with a pretty French gesture of eyebrows and shoul- ders. " She will just lie in her berth, and grow whiter and whiter every day, and read a great deal, and munch dry bis- cuits, and sleep when she is neither reading nor munching, until we land at New York. Do you belong in New York, monsieur ? " " Not exactly, mademoiselle. I belong down South, but I have seen a good deal of New York off and on. If you will permit me " — he produces a card with a bow, and a slight boyish blush. The dark eyes rest upon it and read " Francis Dexter." Before she can make any acknowledgment, or re- turn, as he hopes, the confidence, the captain suddenly approaches, and reads the pasteboard over her shoulder. " Well, my little lady," he says in his jovial voice, " how goes the mal-de-mer ? None yet? That's a good girl. Mr. Dexter, good-afternoon to you, sir. I saw you on the deck a while ago, but hadn't time to speak. My little friend, Ma- demoiselle Reine, Mr. Dexter, going to New York in my care. If you can help to amuse her on the passage, I shall take it as a personal favor. How is Mademoiselle Marie ? Not sick, surely ? Oh ! I am sorry to hear that. I'll call up- on her presently, when I get time." The captain bustled away. Mademoiselle's dark eyes regard her companion. " You know the captain? " she inquires. " Oh, very well ; crossed with him when I came over— an out-and-out good fellow, one's beau-ideal of a jolly sailor. It is more tlian a year since we met, but he seems to have a good memory for faces. I didn't suppose he would remem- ber me.'' X6 PER STEAMER HESPERIA.- " You have been traveling a whole year ? " she asks. " All Americans travel, do they not ? They all go to Paris once at least in their life, I am told." " Or if not in their life, they go if they are good when thej die," responds young Dexter, laughing. " Paris is a partic ularly jolly paradise, alive or dead. I spent two moiitha there, and could hardly tear myself away to do Brussels, and Vienna, and all the rest of 'em. I think I have gone over the beaten track of travel pretty well in my year, although a man could spend half a dozen years very comfortably knocking about Europe, and not exhaust the sights. But with the year my leave of absence expires, and I am obliged to re- turn." " Ah ! monsieur is in the army " " Not at all. Leave from the powers at home, I mean. My uncle — I am his property, made over to him absolutely — orders me about at will. ' Take a run over to Europe, my boy,' he says to me ; ' only don't make it over a year. You can see sights enough, and spend money enough in that time, and if it takes away a little of that puppyish self-conceit 1 see you are developing so fast, it will neither be time nor money wasted.' Such is the frank and ingenuous style of my uncle. So I packed my valise, and came, and now the year is up, and I atn returning." He tells this with an off-hand cheeriness that is a part of his character ; and, by the way, what a good , gift a frank, cheery voice is ! He is prepared to give mademoiselle his whole biography, since he first went into roundabouts, if she cares to listen, but she does not seem to care. She smiles, and is silent for a while ; then she asks suddenly : " Mon> sieur, have you seen Rouen ? " " The Manchester of France, as they call it — place with the grand cathedra], and Louis de Breze's wonderful statue, and Diane de Poictiers kneeling on the tomb, and where Joan of Arc made a noise in the world, and Corneille and PER STEAMER HESPERIA. 1/ Fontenelle were born, and wheie there is Notre Dame de Bon Secours, beautiful as a vision," he says, with voluble discon nectedness. " Oh, yes, mademoiselle, I have seen Rouen." Her face lights, her eyes shine, her lips pout eagerly. She is about to speak — then suddenly some thought checks the words upon her lips, the light fades out of her face, and she leans over and looks silently at the dark flowing water. "You know Rouen, mademoiselle?" Dexter asserts, his folded arms on the bulwarks, his eyes on her face. " I know it well, monsieur, better than well. I was born in Rouen.'' She stops abruptly, recollecting, perhaps, that this cheery, boyish, bright young fellow is a total stranger. Indeed, most people are apt to forget that fact, after ten minutes of Mr. Dexter's society. He sees a shadow fall on her face, he hears a faint sigh, or fancies he does, but the brown eyes do not lift from the white-capped and angry-looking little waves. "Ah! awfully jolly place to be born in, I should say," is what Mr. Dexter remarks sympathetically ; " so old, and his- torical, and all that. Makes one rub up one's knowledge of French history ami Agnes Sorel, and Diane de Poictiers, and 'La Pucelle d' Orleans,' as they call her there, and all the other lovely ladies who had their day and made themselves immortal in that old town ' across the hills of Normandy.' Now, I was born in Boston, and anything more unromantic than Boston the mind of man has never conceived." "But generations yet unborn will proudly point it out as the birthplace of Frank Dexter. My dear boy, turn round, and let me see if those dulcet tones really belong to you." The voice that says this is a woman's, and Mr. Dexter and Mademoiselle Reine, turning round simultaneously, see the speaker. They see a lady whose best friend cannot call her young, whose worst enemy dare not stigmatize her as old. A lady who has rounded the Rubicon— thirty-five— and gone a 1 8 PER STEAMER HESPERIA. Step or two down hill towards forty, tall, commanding, of fine presence and fine face, dark and well tanned, and lit up by a pair of brilliant dark gray eyes. " Miss Hariott for a ducat ! " cries Dexter, almost before he has seen her, and then he has seized her hand and is shaking it with an energy that people of his type invariably throw into that performance. " I knew you were abroad, and used to search the hotel registers in every place I came to for your name." " I don't believe you ever thought of me once, from the moment we parted until the present,'' skeptically retorts the lady. " Oh ! upon my word I did ; kept a lookout for you every- where, on the top of Mont Blanc, and in the Hospice of the Great St. Bernard included. But you never turned up, 1 need hardly say. Better late than never, though. Delight- ful surprise to meet you here. How was it I didn't see you on the dock this forenoon ? " " Because you were better employed gazing elsewhere, I suppose. But, my dear boy, you are really looking very brown, and nice, and healthy, and good-natured. It is quite a pleasure to see you looking so well." " My dear Miss Hariott, do I ever look anything else ? " " I had a letter from Laurence last month," goes on the lady ; " he was asking for you — saying you ought to be re- turning about this time, and that if I met you he hoped I would take care of you and fetch you home." "Ah!" Dexter says, laughing, " Longworth is an old lover of yours, I know. I've a good mind, since he so kindly committed me to youi charge, to let you take care of me as far as Baymouth. I should like to see the dear old boy again." " Do," says Miss Hariott ; " there need be no hurry going down South, and Baymouth will be looking its loveliest bj PER STEAMER HESPERIA. 19 the time we get there. I think, on the whole, I prefer it tc Italy." " Rank blasphemy to say so. Mis s Hariott, let me make you acquainted with — Mademoiselle Reine." An older man, a wiser man (which Frank Dexter is not) a man of the world (wliich Frank Dexter never will be), might have thought twice before introducing two ladies in this free and easy way, without the consent of either, and in profound ignorance of the name of one. But if Frank Dex- ter were that older, wiser, more polished man, he would not be the well-liked young fellow that he is. The little Norman girl, whose dark eyes are the chief charm of her olive face, looks up and smiles. Miss Hariott looks down with that kind and half wistful glance young Dexter has seen often in her eyes, when they look on fair and youthful faces. "Thank you, Frank," she says. "I was wishing you would. Now, like a good boy, if you will run for a chair — ■ not a camp-stool, I beg. I weigh one hundred and fifty-seven poimds, Mademoiselle Reine, and tremble whenever I in- trust myself to one Ah ! thank you, my dear," to Frank returning with a substantial arm-chair. " Now we can talk and be comfortable— as comfortable, at least, as it is ever possible for sane human beings to be in a ship. Praise the sea, but keep on land — no truer axiom than that anywhere, my dear Frank." "Sorry I can't agree with you. Miss Hariott. 'A wet sheet, and a flowing sea, and a wind that follows fast,' is about my idea of perfect earthly felicity. Do you know what I mean to do in Baymouth ? " " Nothing good, I am perfectly sure ; the particular sort o( evil I am unable to specify. You said to see Laurence I^ongworth." •' Well, partly that, and to enjoy your society, of course " (Miss Hariott looks severe); "but my chief object i-J to hav« 20 PER STEAMER HESPERIA. a yacht biilt. They know how to do that sort of thing in your little New England town, and it is about all they dc know, except to make pumpkin pies " " Pumpkin pie is the national dish of my country. I have eaten nothing to equal it on the whole continent of Europe. Speak of your nation's institutions with respect, young man, or forever hold your peace." " Well," goes on Dexter, " I mean to build that yacht. I wish I might name it after you. Miss Hariott, but we will settle that later, and 1 shall spend (D. V.) the next five years of my life cruising about between Boston Bay and the Gulf of Florida. I'll take you and Larry every time you both like to come, for I know it would be cruel to part you. You ought to be a pretty good sailor by this time, I should think. And, if Ma'amselle Reine is anywhere within a hundred miles, we will be more than happy to call for and take her too." Mile. Reine has been sitting all this time watching the rough, dark water, tossing so restlessly all around them. But she has been listening also. Since the word Baymbuth was spoken, a quick interest has awakened in her quiet face, and she has sat attentive to every word. But if Dexter, artful once more, wished by this well directed hint to discover her destination, he does not discover it. Mademoiselle laughs and answers too, with perfect seeming frankness. " I am a tolerable sailor as girls go," she says, " but I share Miss Hawott's aversion for the sea, and I don't think I should fancy yachting. Are we going to have a rough night, monsieur ? A prospective sea-captain ought to be weather-wise." "Well — a leetle dirty weather," replies Mr. Dextei, cast- ing his eye in a skipperish manner to windward ; " meiely a little. Nothing to signify — nothing to be afraid of." "Who's afraid?" retorts Miss Hariott, indignantly. "A little travel is a dangerous thing for a boy of your age. Master Franky. I never liked precocious children, and if I ha«l PER STEAMER HESPERIA. 21 been near that uncle of yours when he proposed the trip, 1 should have strongly recommended him to keep you in the nursery a few years longer. Not that I think the old gentle- mm should be spoken to as a rational being, for what sane man would ever have disinherited I.aurence Longworth for a siJly boy like you." " Now, my dear Miss Hariott," says the young man, rathei uneasily, ''don't get on that exciting topic, I entreat. Il always carries you away. And it wasn't my fault. If Larry chose to be a fool " " There ! change the subject," exclaims Miss Hariott rubbing her nose in a vexed way. "As you Say, it's a thing that upsets me, and also, as you say, it is not your fault. Mademoiselle, is this your first trip across the Atlantic ? " " Yes, it is mademoiselle's first ocean voyage ; but she has crossed the Channel six times, and that is a tolerable test of sea-going qualities." " You are French, my dear," pursues the elder lady. " 1 knew it before I came up and spoke to Frank. You have a thoroughly French face. But how perfectly you speak English, with scarcely even an accent." Mile. Reine smiles again. That dusk, French face, which one would hesitate before pronouncing even pretty, lights vividly whenever she smiles, and the smile is in the bronze brown eyes before it reaches the lips. Miss Hariott, no mean judge of faces, a shrewd and keen observer of the men and women she meets, but withal one of the most tender- hearted and impulsive maiden ladies on earth, falls in love with her on the spot. "Mademoiselle was born in P.ouen," says young Destei, who is a talker or nothing. "You went to Rouen, .Miss Hariott, didn't you, and went out of your senses as I did over Notre Dame de Bon Seconrs, and said your prayers be- fore one of Ihose lovely altars every dayj as I didn't. I wisli I had bee J. born in Rouen, oi Versailles, oi Verona, or 22 PER STEAMER HESPERIA. Venice, or any of those old romantic, historical places, where I feel a man of my caliber ought to have been born." " Frank, my dear,'' says Miss Hariott, resignedly, " what a dreadful deal of nonsense you talk. I was asking made- moiselle how she comes to speak English so perfectly Please don't say anything for the next five minutes if you can lielp, and give your fellow-creatures a chance." The rebuke in no way disconcerts Mr. Dexter, and the soft eyes of the little mademoiselle look up at him with that pleasant smile, as if she found his honest boyish face good to look at. But she addresses the lady. " I was born in Rouen, and have Uved there nearly all my life ; but I knew many English there " — she hesitates a second and the smile dies quite away — " my mother was American." " American ! " repeats Miss Hariott, delightedly. " Ah ! that accounts. Why, my dear, you are almost a compatriot." " Almost is a wide word. 1 am nothing at all of an Ameri- can. Will I oflend you very much if I say I like neither America or Americans ? " Frank reddens. For a moment Miss Hariott does look inclined to be offended. There is a little embarrassing pause. " But, my dear, your mother " " My mother is dead." " I beg your pardon. I was only about to say how was it possible for you to dislike your mothei-'s people ! Have you known so many disagreeable Americans ? " " I never knew any." "Then how is it possible for you to judge whether you like them or not ? Perhaps you read the books English literary people — Sala, Dickens, Mrs. Trollope — have written to make money and caricature us ? " "Yes. That is, I have read Dickens; but it is not that. 1 caimot tell you what it is — a Doctor Fell sort of dislike, perhaps. All 1 know is that it is there." FER STEAMER HESPERIA. 23 " A very poor compliment to her late mother,'' tliinks Miss Hariott. " Well, my dear," she says aloud, with perfect good humor, "we must try and dispel that illusion when we get you among us. We and the French have always been good friends. We adore to this day the memory of Lafa- yette. He was, I remember, my very first love.'' " As Longworth is your last," says Mr. Dexter. Please, niay I speak now, Miss Hariott ? The five minutes are surely up." " If you can talk Ma'amselle Reine out of her aversion to you and your countrymen, Frank, use your tongue, by all means.'' " I have no aversion to Monsieur Frank," says made- moiselle, and says it so unexpectedly and so coolly that Frank blushes with pleasure, and Miss Hariott laughs out- right. " Then it is collectively, not individually, that you dislike us," she says. " I am glad of that, for general aversions are more easily overcome than particular. I am glad, too, you are about to visit us ; that shows a generous wish on youi part to know us before you absolutely condemn." Mademoiselle looks up suddenly and curiously into the elder lady's face. " Because I wish it," she repeats. " Do you suppose, then madame, I am going because I desire to go — going of my own free will ? " Once again the girl's words are so unexpected that they quite put good Miss Hariott out all the more because a re- ply is evidently expected. " Well, mademoiselle, I certainly supposed that in visiting us " " I am not going on a visit. I am going to stay.'' " Oh ! " says Miss Hariott, and for a moment it is all she can say. There is at once an outspoken abruptness and a reserve 24. PER STEAMER dESPERIA. about this young person that puzzles her. She sits and looks at her. Mademoiselle has resumed her former listless attitude, and is gazing at the fast-flowing water. "A young woman a little out of the coijimonj" she thinks. " Girls, as a rule, are as much alike as dolls cast in a mold — this one with black hair and black eyes, that one with fait hair and blue eyes, the inside of the pretty heads all the same pattern. But I fancy this small demoiselle thinks for herself." " It is growing very cold," says the young lady, rising abruptly, " and my sister is ill ; I must go to her. No, mon- sieur, not at all " — as Frank eagerly offers an arm. " I will do very well alone. Good-by for to-day. Miss Hariott. I shall have the pleasure, I hope, of meeting you to- morrow." " We will meet, and disagree, every day we are on board, my dear," refponds Miss Hariott, cordially. And then she sits and watches the slight, shapely figure, quick, light, and easy in every movement, out of sight. " Well, Miss Hariott," says Dexter, taking the deserted stool, "and what do you think of her? I have heard — Longworth said it, of course — that your judgment is infalli- able." " Is she pretty, Frank ? " is the lady's response. " You are a boy, and ought to know." " A boy ! I was three-and-twenty last birthday. I ara 'five feet eleven and a half inches high. I weigh one hua dred and sixty pounds. I have been in love with three dis tinct ballet-girls, and one Alpine maid last summer. What have I done to be stigmatized thus ? " " If you were as tall as Blunderbore, the Welsh giant, if your locks were as silvery as John Anderson's 'pow,' and if you had been in love with all the balkt-girls in the Black Crook, you would still be nothing but a big boy," retorts PER STEAMER HESPERIA. 2$ Miss Hariott. "Answer my question — is mademoiselle pretty ? " " Well, no — except when she smiles, and then she is al most — " ' Brown eyes, and pale, pale face— A wond'rous face, that never beauty had. And yet is beautiful.' That describes her. There's a sort of fascination about her — don't you think ? A fellow might easily fall in love with a girl like that." " A fellow of the Frank Dexter sort might easily fall in love with his grandmother, if the law did not forbid it and nothing else in petticoats was near. I wonder you had not made an idiot of yourself long ago, and married one of your ballet-girls." "So do I. It is not my fault, though. I asked one of them, and she wouldn't have me." "Nonsense." "No, it is a fact. She danced in Niblo's, and it was three winters ago. I was madly in love, I assure you." Here Frank, catching sight of Miss Hariott's disgusted face, explodes into a great laugh. " Frank, this is awful nonsense " " It is gospel truth, Miss Hariott. She fluctuated between me and the fellow who blew the clarionet in th? orchestra, for five whole days and nights, and finally threw me over for the clarionet. I was in despair for twenty-four hours ; then I went to see ' Faust ' at the Opera-House on Eighth ave- nue, fell in love with Montaland, and one passion cured the other." " You are a dreadful fool, Frank. Are you going to fall in love with this little mademoiselle ? " " If she will permit me. I don't think I can amuse nay- self more innocently on the passage home." " What is her name ? " 26 PER STEAMER HESPERIA. " Alademoiselle Reine." " What is her other name ? " " ' My little ladies,' I heard the captain call her and he« sister that." " Oh, there is a sister. What is she like ? " " A pretty girl, if one could see her, I am certain. I didn't. She wore a vail which she never put up. They seem to be quite alone, and traveling in the captain's charge. I have a conviction she will be the one I shall honor with my preference, if she appears." " If she is anything like the one who has appeared, it will be labor lost. There are plenty of brains in that little dark head, and the girl who marries you, Frank, will of necessity be a simpleton of the first water." Mr. Dexter removes his hat and bows to this compliment. Then Miss Hariott, who, like most plump people, is of a chilly habit, gets up, takes his arm, staggers below, and is seen no more. Young Dexter goes to the smoking-room, fraternizes with every one he meets, and forgets all about the pretty smile, the deep soft eyes, and that other vailed face. The owner of the vailed face — the vail removed now — lifts her head from her pillow as her sister enters, and speaks wearily. "At last. Petite " «' Marie ! " "Well, Petite!" " I have been on deck," says Mademoiselle .Reine, sup- pressed excitement in her voice. " I met again the gentle- man who spoke to us on the dock — you remember ? " " I remember. Well ? " " He addressed me again and we began to talk. Thf n a lady came up and spoke to him, an old friend, and they talked of— Marie, they talked of Baymouth." But Marie is not excited, though Reine is. She lifts hei eyebrows and says, calmly : PER STEAMER HESPERIA. 2/ "Et puisV "And th ;n — how is it that nothing excites 3011, Marie? It startled me, 1 can tell you. To speak of that place, and before me, and so soon.'' " An odd coincidence, I admit. Did they speak of " " Not a word," says Reine quickly ; " they mentioned but one name — Laurence Longworth. Eut who is to tell what I may not hear before the journey ends." "Wliat, indeed," says the other, falling back on her pillow, " as if it could do any good. Reine, I would rather hear nothing — not one word — and go to my fate blindfold. If I were going to have a limb cut off, I would rather the surgeon told me nothing about when or how, but just put me into an ether sleep and amputate it without my knowledge. When we know what we are going to suffer, we suffer twice over, in anticipation and in reality. And I think the first is the worse." " Majie, I wish we had never come. I have a feeling, a presentiment, that nothing but humiliation and misery wiU come of it." " 1 don't believe in presentiments, and it was wise to come. Madame, notre grand' mere, may be a dragon, but in the old fairy-tales even the dragons were conquered by cour- age. I feel as though we were the heroines of a fairy-tale, on our way to an enchanted castle, never knowing what the guardian monster is like, but determined to charm it, and come off victorious all the same." " And the Prince Charming, cherie, are we to find him there too ? " asks Reine, smiling as she stoops to kiss her sister ; " every fairy-tale ends with the marriage of jirincesg an,\ prince." The face on the pillow clouds suddenly — Marie turns away from the caress with a restless, impatient sigh. "Don't let us talk. Petite," she says, wearily; "il is very rough, and I am half sick.'' 28 PER STEAMER HESPERIA. An hour after darkness lies over the stormy and lonely sea. Lights are flashing in every cabin, the saloon is brave with many lamps, much music, and cheerful conversation. Hours pass, and presently it is bedtime, and music ceases, and good-nights are said, and lamps go out, and the first evening on board ship is over. People clamber into berths, and fall asleep to the lullaby of the rocking waves. Miss Hariott has had what she dearly likes — a bright, social even- ing, and goes to bed in high good humor. Frank Dexter retires to his, chanting cheerfully a piratical refrain, which informs all whom it may concern that " Oh, he is a pirate bold. The scourge of the wide, wide sea. With a murd'rous thirst for gold. And a life that is wild and free," and breaks off to order Tom, the steward, to be sure and fetch him a; tub of the Atlantic at sharp six to-morrow morn- ing for his bath, and tumbles up to his roost, and is asleep almost before his brown curly head is fairly on the pillow. Up in her berth the little mademoiselle reclines, gating out with darkly solemn eyes at that restless, complaining, tossing ocean, which stretches everywhere, black and heaving, and melts away at last into the storm-driven sky. Below, Marie sleeps, her fair head pillowed on one perfect arm ; but Reine cannot sleep this first night, and so lies thinking. Somber thoughts surely, with those deep, melancholy eyes fixed on the dark and lonesome sea. L.OST IN PORT. 2Q CHAPTEK II. LOST IN PORT. R. DEXTER'S prediction about dirty weather is verified — it is extremely dirty for the next three days. There is a head-wind, a leaden sky, and off and on a fine drizzling rain. The stout ship plunges and plows through it all, and as a rule everybody is at death's door with sea-sickness. A few gentlemen still show at dinner and on deck, and conspicuous among these gentlemen is Frank Dex ter, who " comes out strong," in the words of Mark Tapley, and is as "jolly" as even Mark could be in the same place. He never misses a meal, he spends his evenings in the smok- ing-room, where his great haw-haw leads the laugh ; he makes friendly calls upon his big dog,' and also upon Miss Hariott ; he takes vigorous exercise for hours together on deck, buttoned up to the eyes in his rough coat, His ruddy face ashine in the slanting wind and rain. Miss riariott is dis- mally sick, so the captain informs him are also " my httle ladies ; " but in their absence Mr. Frank is consoled by an- other ministering angel, upon whom neither head-winds nor dirty weather have the least effect. This is a Mrs. Scarlett, a pass'e pretty blonde, a coquette of the purest water, and who, having discovered that young Dexter is enormously rich, or the heir of an enormously rich uncle, wlu'ch is the same, singles him out at once for distinc- lion. For, although Mr. Scarlett exists, and partakes wilh unexceptional relish of three meals and high tea daily, and Mr. Dexter's wealth can ultimately benefit in no way Mrs. Scarlett, still it is quite in feminine human nature to prefer 3° LOST IN PORT. the golden youth for one's favors, and Frank, as has been said, rises to the distinction of pretty Mrs. Scarlett's cavalier servant. In a ravishing suit of navy blue, fitting like a glove the roundest, trininiest shape in the world, a sailor-hat crush- ed dc vvn over the fluffy copper-gold hair, a little gauzy gray vail over the smiling, dimpling face, Mrs. Scarlett hangs daily, for hours at a stretch, upon his arm in that quick march up and down ; by Mrs. Scarlett's side he sits at dinner, by Mrs. Scarlett's side he stands all evening while she plays " pieces " and sings pathetic little songs about standing on bridges at midnight when the clocks are striking the hour and imploring, in a wailing minor strain, the sea to break, break, break at the foot of its crags, in a heart-breaking little way that makes the listener feel, without any previous data to go upon, that Mr. Scarlett must be a brute, and Mrs. Scarlett must have been forced to give him her hand while her heart was another's; Frank falls in love ; to fall in love is Frank's normal condition, and whether the lady be married or single, old or young (and Mrs. Scarlett might easily have been younger), does not for the time being signify in the least. He forgets Miss Hariott and Mademoiselle Reine, until, on the morning of the fourth day, going on deck after breakfast, he finds winds and waves propitious, the sun try- ing to, break out from behind sulky clouds, and a little gray figure that he knows leaning in the old position over the side and watching the water. Before he can advance, a neatly-gloved hand is pushed through his arm, and Mrs. Scar- lett claims her own. " Naughty boy ! I have been on deck this half-hour, look- ing for you everywhere. Where have you been ? I^ook there — it is actuaUy the sun at last. Come for our walk. No one has my step like you, P'rank." For after three days' acquaintance Mrs. Scarlett calls her victim Frank. " What ! not Scarlett ? " says Frank, in that cheery voice LOST IN PORT. 31 of his — a thoroughly heart-whole voice, whatever its ownei may think. " Scarlett ! ' repeats Mrs. Scarlett, with ineffable scorn. 1'hea she sighs, and saddens, and is silent, and the sigh, and ' th'i sadness, and the silence are meant to say : " Why speak oihim ? Why not let me forget if 1 can, in congenial com- panionship, the galling chain that binds a sensitive heart to one cold and coarse ? " Frank is touched. " Poor little woman,'' he thinks. " Scarlett is a beast. If I were in his place " And then he looks down into the pensive face, and sighs in sympathy, and starts her off at a brisk canter. Tiiey pass Madenjoiselle Reine ; she sees them, but she does not look up. Miss Hariott sees them too, when a lit- tle later she reels on deck and totters to mademoiselle's side, and she nods curtly to young Dexter, and looks his fair friend through with her keen woman's eyes. Mademoiselle greets her with a smile, and the two fall in- to talk at once, and compare notes about their three days' woe. They drift off to other things, and Miss Hariott finds that Mile. Reine can converse fluently and well. Her de- scriptions and anecdotes of life in Rouen are wonderfully in- teresting. She narrates simply and unaffectedly, and grows vividly dramatic sometimes. They sit until the luncheon bell summons them below, and the elder lady has thoroughly enjoyed her tete-a-tete. Neither Mr. Dexter nor Mrs. Scarlett sit at their table, l)ut they are still together, with Mr. Scarlett, a stout, sensi- ble, good-humored, middle-aged gentleman, on the other side of his wife, paying much more attention to the eatables than to his lady's flirtation. Luncheon over, mademoiselle disappears for a time, and Frank presently frees himself from his fair enslaver, and findi himself at Miss Hariott' s side. 32 LOST IN PORT. " So sorry to hear you have been sea-sick. Miss Hariott, Nobody can tell how much I have missed you." Miss Hariott regards him with a scornful eye. " Ah, nobody, I am quite sure. You have been dreadful- ly sorry, no doubt — ^you look it. Who is that woman i ' " What woman, my dear Miss Hariott?" " Now don't begin by being an imbecile at the very open- ing of this conversation. That woman you have been pranc- ing up and down the deck all this forenoon ? " " Prancing ! That any one should call Mrs. Scarlett's graceful, gliding gait prancing. That is the lady who has kept me from utter desolation diuing your illness of the past three days. She is the prettiest lady ot board." "Ah ! " says Miss Hariott, with skeptical scorn. " Surely you think so. Did you ever see a more perfect complexion ? " " Rice-powder," curtly responds the lady. " But that lovely color " " Rouge vegetal." " And such a superb head of hair " " Bought it in Paris, my precious boy." " Such an exquisite tint, too-^ " " Golden Fluid, Frank." "Well, but the figure," remonstrated Dexter, tr)ang to look indignant, but immensely tickled ; " that, at least, you cannot deny is genuine, and " "Cotton and corsets," says Miss Hariott, trenchantly. " Don't tell me. I know nature when I see it, and I know ait. If she wants to parade this ship and exhibit herself, why doesn't she get her lawful owner to parade her? She is married, isn't she ? " " Alas ! yes. As for the husband, he is what all husbands are, an insensible brute. He smokes and reads all day, he sniokes and plays cards all evening, and, I believe, smokes LOST IN PORT. 33 and sleeps all night. Is it not sad to see an angel like that thrown away on such a stolid animal ?" M:3s Hariott, in angry disgust, looks to see if he is in earnest, and the look is too much for Frank. That school- boy laugh of his breaks forth, and makes all who are within hearing smile from very sympathy. " What is the joke ? " says a voice behind. " May I come and laugh too ? I like to laugh." " Yes, my dear, come. It is nothing in the least amus- ing ; but silly boys are always ready to laugh at their own folly. No, don't leave us, Frank " " I am not going to leave you, if you will let me stay. I am only going to get mademoiselle a chair." For it is mademoiselle, with that smile on her dark face and in her deep eyes, that makes Miss Hariott think her something more than pretty. " How is your sister ? " she says. " Still miserably ill. Marie is the very worst sailor in the world. She will be ill until we get to New York." " Even if the weather is fine ? " " Even if it is fine. But if she were well, she still would not come on deck ? " "Why not?" Mademoiselle looked at her with a half laugh. " My sister is very fair, and the sea-wind and sun spoil her skin. It is fine and fair as an infant's, and will not bear the least exposure." "Your sister is a vain little goose," thinks Miss Hariott. " Blonde girls are always insipid, and I have known a few. And you, my little lady, are fond of your sister, and proud of her beauty, and it is the first weak spot I have discovered in you yet." Miss Hariott is not malicious in spite of her starlingly candid criticism, but she conscientiously sets herself to work to discover a few more. But this demure Norman girl baffles 34 LOST IN PORT. even her penetration. Weaknesses she may have in plenty but at least they do not lie on the surface. " Your sister is younger than you, of course ? " she remarks, and mademoiselle looks at her as if surprised. " Younger ? No, she is two years older. Marie is twenty, 1 am eighteen." The mingled candor and reserve of the girl puzzle the elder lady. Young persons of eighteen are not generally averse to teUing their age, but these admissions lead one to look for others, and the others do not come. All Miss Hariott, who has a full share of woman's curiosity, can make out be- fore they part that evening, is that mademoiselle has lived most of her life in Rouen with a paternal aunt, that she has visited Italy, that for the past year or more she has resided in London, that she speaks German and a little Italian, and that she does not know, and never has known a single crea- ture in all America. Then why is she going there ? As a teacher? Hardly; an indefinable something about her says she has a definite home and purpose in view, and that she does not propose to earn her own living. " Will you not come into the saloon, my dear," Miss Ha- riott says, as darkness falls over the sea, and they go below j " we are to have an amateur concert." " Yes,'' responds mademoiselle, with a moue of disdain that is thoroughly French, " a concert of cats. We heard you last night, and shut the door to keep it out." " That must have been when Frank was singing," responds Miss Hariott. " Did you hear Frank ? When he is very much excited he sings the most and the worst of any one alive. It was rather trying, even to nerves not too musical, to hear him and Mrs. Scarlett doing a duo, she shiieking soprano, he booming bass. But if you will come in to-night, I promise to try and keep him quiet. I know by your face you can sing." " Yes, I can sing," says Mile. Reine. She pauses witr LOST IN PORT. 35 her hand on tne handle of hei door, and looks at both with a bright smile. "I won't sing for you in this ship," she says, " but I will promise you this. I will sing for you one day, as often and as long as you like. A demain — good night." She disappears. Miss Hariott looks blankly at Dexter. ■' What does she mean ? " she asks. Frank shrugs his shoulders. " Who knows ? Don t ask me. Let us only hope so charming a promise may be fulfilled. Perhaps she too is en route for Baymouth." He says it with an incredulous laugh ; but a thoughtful shadow conies slowly over Miss Hariott's face. It remains there all evening as she sits and knits something with two long needles, and a lap full of rose-colored and white wools, and not even Frank's comic songs can dispel it. It is still there when she goes to bed. "It would be curious," she says, as she knots up all her glossy, abundant dark hair for the night, "it would be very curious, and yet it might be." Whatever her suspicion is, she tries next day, and tries in vain to discover if it be correct. She asks no direct, not even indirect questions, but the shadow of a smile dawns in mademoiselle's dark eyes. She sees her drift, and evades her skill so artfully that Miss Hariott is almost vexed. It is a fine, sunny day, and they spend it chiefly on deck, and, despite her clever reticence, Miss Hariott's liking hourly in- creases for Mademoiselle Reine. There is a ring of the true metal about her ; she has been brought up on strictly French principles, the elder lady discovers, and she approves of that sort of training in spite of its tendency to make young women "dolly." Frank Dexter stays with them as much as Mrs. Scarlett will let him, for it is one of the cheerful principles of this young gentleman's life to be off with tlie old love and or 36 LOST IN PORT with the new as rapidly and as frequently as possible. That mademoiselle likes his society is evident ; that she cares for the society of no other man on board is also evident ; and Dexter, hugely flattered, surrenders Mrs. Scarlett entirely before the voyage ends, and lies all day long like a true knight on a railway rug at his liege lady's feet. The morning of the very last day dawns ; before noon they will be in New York. All is bustle and expectation on board, gladness beams on every face — on every face except that of Mile. Reine. She during the last three days has grown grave, and very thoughtful, and silent. " My solemn little lady," says Miss Hariott — it is the captain's invariable name for his charge, and she has adopted it — " how pale and somber you sit. Are you not glad it is to be our last night on board ? " " No, madame ; I am sorry.'' "Sorry, dear child ? " "I am going to begin a new life, in a new land, among new people — friends or foes, I know not which yet. The old life — ah, such a good life, madame ! — lies behind forever ; I can never go back to it. And between that old life of yesterday and the new one of to-morrow, this voyage has been a connecting link, a respite, a breathing-space. Now it is ended, and I must get up and begin all over again, and I am sorry. I am more than sorry — -I am afraid." "Afraid?" " I am going to a home I know nothing of, to a person I have never seen. I do not know whether I am welcome or an intruder. I do not know whether I shall be kept or sent away. It is the same with my sister. Have we not reason . to be afraid?" < " Is she afraid, too ? " " Marie is not like me ; she is braver, wiser ; she is older, and has seen more of people and of the world. No; my sister is not afraid. Perhaps I have no reason to be ; hut I LOST IN PORT. 37 wiih this voyage would go on, and on, and ( n. It has been pleasant, and pleasant things end so soon. If to-day is good, why should we ever wish for to-morrow?" Frank Dexter is approaching. Before he comes, Miss H ariott takes both the girl's hands, and looks earnestly into the brown sweet eyes. " Tell me this," she says. " I suspect something. Shall we ever meet> again?" Mademoiselle smiles, a mischievous light chasing the grav- ity from her face. " I think so, raadame." "Then remember this, my dear little mademoiselle: if ever you are in trouble, come to me. I have always wanted to be fairy godmother to somebody," says Miss Hariott, with a touch of her usual whimsical humor ; "let it be to you. If you ever want a friend, let me be that friend ; if you evei need a home, come to mine. I fell in love with your bonnie brown eyes the first moment they looked at me ; I am morf in love to-night than ever. Promise me — here is Frank — promise me, my little lady." " I promise," says Mademoiselle Reine, and there are tears in the "bonnie brown eyes." She leans forward with a quick, graceful, gesture, and touches her lips to Miss Hariott's tanned cheek, then turns and moves rapidly away, just as Mr. Dexter saunters up. "What did she run away for?" demands Frank, in an injured tone. " Who would not run when they see you coming, if they could?" retorts Miss Hariott. " I cannot. I can't even t walk decently in this rolling steamer. Here — give me your arm, and help me to my state-room. It is all the arm will ever be good for." " Couldn't be devoted to a nobler use. I say, Miss Hariott, have you found out where mademoiselle is going ? " " And do you suppose I would tell you if 1 had ? I leave 3^ LOST IN PORT. impertinent questions to Frank Dexter. Now go away and sing yourself hoarse with that little purring passy-cat, Mrs. Scarlett." " Thank you, I will," says Frank, and goes. But when to-morrow, the last day, comes, he is inwardly determined to discover the destination of the nameless and mysterious little ladies. The invisible Marie appears on deck, tall, slender, graceful, but again — vailed. She is intro- duced to Miss Hariott by her sister, and bows and murmurs a few languid, gracious words. Frank is not presented. Mademoiselle Reine seems rather to wish to avoid him, and what this young lady wishes it is evident she can accomplish, for he hardly finds an opportunity of saying six words to her all day. They reach the pier. To describe the scene that ensues is impossible — the wild rush and excitement, the noise of many voices, the scramble after baggage, the meeting of friends, the going ashore, the finding of hacks. Frank has to see after his own and Miss Hariott's belongings, to find a hackney-carriage for that lady, and see her safely off. The "little ladies" at the beginning of the melee have been conveyed for safe keeping to the captain's room. But when, having seen Miss Hariott safely away, Dexter returns, flushed and hot and eager, he instantly makes fpr the captain. " Good-by, captain," he says, extending his hand, and looking everywhere ; " I am about the last, am I not ? Where are your little ladies ? " "Gone, Mr. Frank." " Gone 1 Gone where ? " "Can't tell you that. A friend came for them — a gen- lleia^n, a very fine-looking young fellow," says the captain, malice prepense in his eye, "and they went away with him. We have had a rattling run, haven't we? Awfully soiry to lose them ; charming little ladies, both. Mr. Frank, sir, good by \.o you." LONGWORTH OP THE PHENIX. 39 CHAPTER III. LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. AR away from the bustle and uproar of tlie New York piers, sunny and sleejiy this May day, the town of Bayniouth lies baking in the heat of mid- afternoon. It is very warm ; windows stand wide, men wear linen coats and straw hats pulled far over their eyes, ladies wield fans as they go shopping, and in the office of the Bay- inoiith Phenix, every man of them, from Longworth,, pio- prietor and editor-in-chief, to the youngest and inkiest devil, is in his shirt-sleeves, and uncomfortable at that. Baymouth is in Massachusetts. Having premise;! that geographical fact, it is unnecessary to add that Baymc^ith is a town of enterprise, intelligence, industry, and every cardinal virtue. Baymouth is a town of white houses and green Venetian blinds, of beautiful little flower-gardens and beauti- ful waving elms, of grape-vines and orchards of bake-shops and book stores, of baked beans and brown bread religiously every Sabbath morning ; of many and handsome churches, of red brick public schools, of lovely walks and drives,- of sociability and a slightly nasal accent, of literary culture, three daily and two weekly papers. Of these journals the Phenix is perhaps the chief ; its editor is admitted, even by men who differ from him in poHtics, to be by all odds the " smartest" man. The Phenix is the workingman's papei ; it advocates reform in factories and foundries, and Baymouth is great in both ; goes in for short hours and half-holidays, and is the delight of the operatives. North Baymouth ii 40 LONGWOhTH OF THE PHEJflX. black and grimy, is full of tangled streets, and big, ugly brick buildings, with more windows than "is in tne king's house." Tall chimneys that vomit black smoke all day, and blot out the summer sky, belch forth fiery showers at night, and turn it lurid. Fierce whistles go off at noon and night, and men and women pour forth from these big buildings and fill the streets' -to overflowing, on their way to other big buildings where they go to feed. The taint of the smoke and the soot and the coal is on everything in North Baymouth — on green trees and soft grass, on white houses and tall church-spires. North Baymouth is not a handsome place ; but handsome is that handsome does, and it sends carpets and cottons, fur- naces and ranges, boilers and engines, all over the great country to which it is proud to belong, and feeds hundreds of men, women, and children, who might else go hungry. North Baymouth is not handsome, but Baymouth propet is. Here are the dry-goods stores, here is plate-glass and gilding, here are wide, clean, tree-shaded streets ; here rich men live and ride in their carriages ; here their good ladies " walk in silk attire, and siller hae to spare ; " and here, among other tall buildings, is the tall Phenix building, with editors, compositors, and grimy boys, all en deshabille, and too hot at that. In his sanctum, in his editorial chair, in the sketchy costume distinctly mentioned before, sits Longworth of the Phenix. It is not a large room, but a room three times the size could not be more littered. This litter is the more re- markable that the walls are fuller of virtuous and orderly precepts than a copy-book. " A Place for EvertthIng AND Everything in its Place " is conspicuously posted above the editor's desk. A place for nothing and nothing in its place appears to be the rule acted on. Waste-paper baskets, newspapers old and new, magazines and books foi review (good or bad according to the temper Mr. Longworth cliances to find himself in), chairs, f tools, pipes, half-smoket' LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. 41 cigars, a head of Clytie on a pedestal surmounted by Mr Longwovth's old black velvet smoking-cap, a handsome plaster bust of Rosa Bonheur, which some one has improved by a charcoal mustache ; heaps of letters brought by that day's afternoon post and not yet opened; and amid this con- fusion worse confounded sits serenely the editoi himself, a cigar held between his teeth, smoking and writing with a vast amount of energy. For about twenty minutes he goes on, scrape, scrape, never pausing a second, growing so absorbed that he forgets to puff and his cigar goes out, his face kind- ling as a war-horse in the thick of the fight. Finally, with a tremendous flourish, he finishes, falls back in his chair, re- moves his cigar, and nods in a satisfied way at his work. " There ! " says Mr. Longworth, " that will extinguish that consummate ass of the News for this week, I flatter myself. Now for these books — one, two, three, four, five of them. It is always best to do one's reviewing before dinner; hunger is apt to make a man clear-sighted for little literary failings, and sharpens the edge of the critical saber. A heavy dinner and a touch of indigestion are no mean preparations either. I'll make mince-meat of this batch, and then I'll go home. O' Sullivan!" He raises his voice. The editorial door opens, and a short, stout man, with a pen in his hair and a paper in his hand, °nters. "Did ye call, chief?" "Here's that settler I promised you for Doolittle of the News" says Longworth, handing him tiae wet MSS. — to- morrow's Phenix leader. " I'm off in half an hour. The first hot day always reduces my intellect to the consistency of melted butter. Inside pages printed, O. ?" "Just gone down stairs." " Editorial page made up ? " " Principal part in type, sir." « Well, have this set up at once. I'll have the review 42 LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. column read} in half an hour ; I shall make shart work of them, for it is nearly dinner-time. 1 must look ov^r my letters, too. Come back in half an hour sharp, O'Sullivan." " All right, chief." Mr. O'Sullivan, called usually in the office hy the capita! letter " O," disappears, and Longworth, taking up one after another of the pile of books, gives one rapid, keen, practiced, concise glance through the pages, notes the style, the sub- ject, and if a novel, as three of them are, the plot, writes a critique of half a dozen lines on each, damning one with " faint praise,'' mildly sarcastic with another, sardonically facetious with a third, sneering cynically at a fourth, and sav- agely ferocious with the last. For, as the thirty minutes end, and Mr. Longworth's appetite grows clamorous, censorship grows more and more intolerant in direct ratio. It is with a weary gesture he pushes paper, books, and pen away, and rises at last. A tall, fair man this editor of the Baymouth Phenix — a man of thirty, with profuse blond beard and mustache, a fine, intellectual face, and handsome blue eyes with a lurking suspicion of humor in them — on the whole, a well-looking, stately, and rather distinguished man. The doors open ; his second in command, O'Sullivan, en- ters, bears off the scathing review, and vanishes. Longworth tosses over his letters, on office business chiefly, glances through them with the same rapid, comprehensive glance he has given the books, throws most pf them into the waste-pa- per basket, and out of the sheaf kfeeps only two. One of these is in a lady's hand ; this he naturally reads first, and as he reads a pleased expression comes into his face — a face that can be as expressionless as a dead wall, when he wills. " H'm ! " he thinks, " that is well. She will be here before the end of the week. I am glad of it. Don't know any one I miss as I do Hester Hariott. Perhaps I may meet her in New York, and travel down with her." LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. 43 He looks at the second, pauses in the act of opening, knits his brows, turns it over, examines the superscription, as we all insanely do with a letter that jjuzzles us. " Odd," he mutters ; " what can he have to say at this late day ? I never expected to see his chirography again.'' He breaks it open, and reads — ^reads once, twice, and yet a third time. "Private and Confidential." "Macon, Ga., May 5th. " Dear Mr. Laurence : I have been meditating for some time past dropping you a line and a hint — a hint, no more. Mrs. Dexter is a shrewd little woman in her way, but I think Mrs. Dexter made a mistake in persuading Mr. Longworth to send Mr. Frank abroad. The old gen- tleman has broken greatly of late, and whatever attachment he miy have had to the lad (and . it never was very strong) alxsence has weakened. More than once of late he has spoken of you, and always with a touch of regi"et. I-Ie was very fond of you, Mr. Laurence, and very proud of you — he has never been either of young Dexter. What I wish to say is this : Can you not by some happy chance find yourself in this neighbor- hood shortly, on newspaper or lecturing business, let us say ? It would be worth while to take the trip. One word from you would blot out the whole unfortunate past, and replace you in your uncle's regard. Will you come and say that word ? Dexter will be at home in about a month ; after that it may be too late. " Thi.s, of course, is as unbusiness-like a letter as it is possible to write. Also, of course, I would never write it did I not know well of old tl e manner of man you are. Yours, ete., "Thomas Chapman." Longworth goes through this epistle for the third time with an unchanging face, then slowly and thoughtfully tears it in little pieces, and consigns it, in a white drift, to the waste-bask- et. There is rathfer a grim smile on his face as he puts on his coat. " They do well who paint Fortune as a woman," he thinks, " She's a jade no man can trust, ready to kick you to-day and kiss you to-morrow ; ready to flout you when you courl 44 LONGWCRTH OF THE PHENIX. her, and fawn upon you when you snap your finger in hei face. Very like a woman, every way you take hei." From which, cynical soliloquy it may reasonably be inferred that Mr. Longworth's experience of the fairer sex, in spite of his good looks, has been unfortunate. He puts on his hat, and, in the yellow, tranquil evening, goes home. Ilis way lies through pleasant, elm-shaded streets, and as he goes on, leaving the noise and jar of the town far behind, there comes to him, mingled with the fragrance of mignonette in the gar- dens he passes, the salt breath of the sea. Baymouth is a seaport ; many ships sail into its wide har- bor ; its wharves and docks ring with the tide of commerce, and presently they come in view, riding on the shining bosoir of the bay. Men nod or stop to speak to him in passing, ladies smile an<* bow — he is a man of note in the town ; but his face keeps a look of reflective gravity all the way. The hint in the letter he has just destroyed is no trivial one — a noble inheritancj hangs on it. He knows Chapman, shrewd lawyer and keen- sighted business man that he is, means more than meets the eye — has made certain of his ground before issuing that cau- tious " hint." He has been for years the legal adviser of his uncle. Is it at that uncle's desire he writes now ? Long ago Laurence Longworth gave that uncle deadly offense, and lost a fortune. Than that uncle no prouder man exists on earth ; beyond this hint dropped by his attorney, his nephew knovi^s he will never go. And in a month Dexter will be at home, and it may be too late. " Poor old boy 1 " Longworth muses — meaning his uncls, not Dexter — " what a trump he used to be — what a prince's life I led of it — what a prince's life I might go back to ! It is rather hard on Frank, though, to hold a fortune and favoi by only a hair." He reaches a large white house, with many green shutters, and a piazza or " stoop " running all along the front. It LONG WORTH OF THE PHEWIX. 45 faces the sea, and from this stoop, upon which wicker chairs are scattered, there spreads a view of the bay, ghstening in the sunset, with vessels at anchor and many boats gliding about. The sweet salt wind blows in his face, and stirs a grea. honeysuckle that twines itself over the pillars. Climb- ing roses in pink clusters hang here, two or three large rose of Sharon trees in the grass-plot in front are in full leaf already. A. pretty place — such a place as one sees every- where in New England. Mr. Longworth in his day — but it is a day far gone, when he was very young, and knew no better — has been a poet, has written and published a volume of verses. It is one of those juvenile indiscretions of which we all may have been guilty in different forms, and of which in our riper years we are properly ashamed. But, having been capable of poetic folly once, a litUe, a very little, of the old leaven lingers, and gives this hard-headed, clear-sighted editor and merciless reviewer a keen enjoyment of all that is exquisite in nature. It is unalloyed pleasure and rest, for example, to sit on this piazza, with the sensuous sweetness of the honeysuckle and roses about him, the saline freshness blowing in his face, and watch the bay yonder dimpling and blushing in the good- (light kiss of the sun. He takes one of the wicker chairs, tilts it back, lights a cigar — he smokes as many cigars as a Cuban — elevates the editorial legs on the railing, where the roses twine around his boots, folds his arms, and prejsares to think it out. To throw the Phenix, the pride of his heart and the apple of his eye, to the dogs — to be a millionaire or not a millionaire, that is the question ; and, strange to say m this age of Golden Calf worship, Longworth actually thinks it worth debating. The white house behind him is very still. The hall-door stands wide, there is a vista of long carpeted hall, a large picture on each side, a hat-rack adorned with many hats, and a wide stairway. No sound reaches him from within ; but af 46 LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. he sits and smokes, some one descends the stahs, coniej towards the open door, sees him, approaches, and lays a very white, very phimp, very ringed hand, on his shoulder. " Larry," says a soft voice. It is a young lady — well, not very young either — eight and twenty perhaps, and looking every day of it, chiefly because she is so luxuriously developed. Fat is no*^ a word to be applied to a young lady, and if one says inclined to embon- point, one does not do the truth strict justice. She is tall, there is not an angle anywhere about her ; she has abun- dance of palest flaxen hair. She has two rather small, rather light, ratlier lazy blue eyes. She has a complexion like a baby's, milk-white, satin-smooth, and she is dressed in white, r knot of pale blue ribbon in her hair, a cluster of pale pink •OSes in her breast. "Ah — d'ye do. Tot?" says Long worth, glancing careless- ly o^er his shoulder. "Infernally — I beg your pardon — excessively hot, isn't it? Those merciless tj'rants, the print- ers, kept me at my desk, shrieking for copy, until, between the heat and the mental pressure, I became reduced to the state of a — ah, a wilted lily. I resemble a wilted lily, don't I ? " inquires Mr. Longworth, glancing over his shouldei again. " Oh, yes, very like a lily," replies the young lady, laugh- ing languidly. " Are you going to Emma Harris's birthday reception to-night ? " " Cou'dn't — couldn't possibly. You might knock me over with a leather now, so utterly prostrate am I. People shouldn't have birthdays during the summer solstice.'' " People can't help being born, I suppose," retorts the young lady, cavalierl)- addressed as " Tot," with some indig- nation. " People ougnt to help it,'' dogmatically persists Mr. T^ong. worth, who never allows himself to be contradicted, on prin. ciple ; " and if they are obstinate, and won't, they shouldn'j LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. 47 expect other people to victimize themselves on account of it. Totty, I am hungry ; is dinner nearly ready ? " "The dinner hour is half-past six, you ought to know by tliis time, Mr. Longvvorth, unless yesterday's trip to Boston has impaired your memory," says another voice, and another lady presents herself, so like the first, with an additional twenty years added, that you do not need to look twice to know they are mother and daughter. " What is this Mr. O'Sullivan is saying about'your going off to New York to- morrow ? " " How should I know? I am not en rapport with all the thoughts which pass through the gigantic mind of the O'Sul livan. What does he say ? " " That you are going to New York to-morrow." "Sol am." " On business ? " " On business." " How long shall you be gone ? " " Three days." "I wish I might go with you," sg,ys Totty, plaintively. "Mamma, would it be improper for me to go to New York with Larry, and come back with him ? " "Eminently improper," says Larry himself; "not to be thought of. My subscribers are moral people — the circula- tion of the Fhenix would go down to zero if they heard of such glaring immorality." "But they need not hear of it," says Totty, still more plaintively; "and three days is such a very little while. I want to go shopping to Stewart's, and they are still having Italian opera at the Academy. It wouldn't be any harm, mamma— it's — onlj- I^arry.' " Here is Mrs. Windsor," mterrupts her mother, with sud- den animation. "Don't be a simpleton, Totty — of course you can't go. Only Larry, indeed ! I «-onder what Mrs. Windsor would say if she heard you." 48 LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. " What Mrs. Windsor says is n9t an act of Congress," re- plies Totty. " She would go with Larry to New York fast enough, or anywhere else, if he asked her." All this time Mr. Longworth has been placidly smoking and watching what is going on at the gate. A low phaeton and a pair of well-matched grays, driven by a black boy, have come down the street and drawn up before the house. In the carriage reclines a lady. The black boy assists her to ahght, and she enters the gate and approaches the group on the piazza. She is a lady of fully sixty years, but stately, handsome, and upright, with a certain pride and majesty of bearing, very richly dressed in dark, soundless silk, a verita- ble cashmere trailing more like drapery than like a shawl over her shoulders and flowing skirts. " Looks like one of Kneller's or Sir Joshua Reynolds' court ladies," murmurs Longworth; "makes a picture of herself always. Don't know any one, anywhere, such thor- oughly good 'form' as Mrs. Windsor." Totty shrugs her plump shoulders. "Why don't you tell her so? There is no one living whose good opinion Mrs. Windsor values as she does yours. You are the only man on earth who would dare to tell her she looked well. And you know it.'' Longworth smiles. He would be something less thaii man if he did not know the women who like him. And Longworth is thoroughly a man, and a man of the world. He rises as this stately and distinguished new-comer as- cends the steps, throws away his cigar, and takes off his hat. "My dear Mrs. Windsor," begins the lady of the house, advancing with effusion, "so very pleased to see you. 1 heard only yesterday you were back. When did you return from Washington ? " " I have been home a week. You are looking well, Mrs. I i»ngworth, but then I think you always do. Mrs. Sheldon " LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. 49 (to Totty) you grow a very Hebe. Ah! Mr. Laurence, happy tc meet you. They told me you had gone to Boston, and I was in doubt whether you had yet returned." She holds out her hand with a slight smile — a hand that in a number-six glove looks like a perfect hand in dark gray marble. Her voice is low — a "trained" voice — smooth,' courteous, cold as ice. The eyes th^t glance from the face of mother and daughter are chill as the voice, but they Sviften into quite another expression so quickly when they turn upon the man, that the change is almost startling. " Only ran up for a day or two ; got back this morning," returns Long worth in his oflf-hand fashion. "Going to New York to-morrow. Can I do anything for you there, Mrs. Windsor?" " Nothing, thank you ; my own visit has been too recent. Besides, I have not much faith in the way gentlemen fulfill ladies' commissions. Mrs. Sheldon, I suppose you go to Miss Harris's ffite to-night ? " " Yes, I think so, Mrs. Windsor — mamma and I. Shall you ? " Mrs. Windsor raises her eyebrows slightly. " I go nowhere, my dear Mrs. Sheldon. I grow an old woman, you know, and birthday f^tes have long lost their charms. Over fifty, one counts these anniversaries by one's gray hairs and wrinkles." " But we all know that Mrs. Windsor is one of the fortunate few who never grow old," says Mrs. Longworth ;• "and we saw your name very often last winter at the great Washing- ton receptions Of course, though, the capital offers attrac- rions our poor country town can never boast.'' " I went out a little last winter. Yes," responds Mrs. Windsor, coldly. "Mr. Longworth," she says, turning to the gentleman, that subtle change in face and voice, " are rou going ? " •'No; Totty must make my excuses. What you say a so LONGWORTff OF THE PHENIX. about gray hairs and wiinkles is eminently tiue. I shall stay at home and count mine.'' She smiles. " You have no other engagement ? " " None." " Then do me the favor to come and count the wrinkles at my house. I am very desirous of seeing you before you go to New York, on a matter of — business." She makes a pause before the last word and looks at him as if afraid of refusal. Longworth, however, does nol refuse. " I spend my pleasantest evenings at your house, Mrs. Windsor. I shall be glad to go." She draws a quick breath, as of relief, and turns to depart. " I shall expect you then. Perhaps, though, you will let me take you with me at once ? " " Not now ; I shall present myself about eight. Will that do?" " Certainly. Good evening, Mrs. Longworth. How is it you never come to see me now? " " Many commercial gentlemen and much gravy weigh on her mind," suggests Longworth, " as they must on all the successors of the immortal M. Todgers." For this rose-wreathed white house, facing the bay, is a boarding-house, and Mrs. Longworth, widow, and a distant cousin of the editor of the Phenix, the lady who keeps it. Mrs. Windsor does not know " M. Todgers ;" she is not a lady addicted to novel-reading of any sort, but she smilei f^raciously, because the remark is Longworth's, and slowly and gracefully moves away, re-enteis her carriage, and ii driven off. "What can she want of you now, Larry?" says Totty as though it were no unusual thing for Mrs. Windsor to want Larry. LONGWORTH OF THE PHENIX. Si " Do you know," says Mrs. Longwortli, with a shoit laugh, " what people would say if Mrs. Windsor were thirty years younger? That she wanted to marry I.arry." Mr. Longvvorth has resumed his smoking and his chair. tie glances over his shoulder at the speaker. "That's a beastly remark, Mrs. Longworth," he says, "don't make it again." " There's the dinner-bell," says Totty, and she and her liiamma vanish precipitately. Mr. Longworth puts down his legs lazily, gets up, mounts to his bed-room, makes some improvement in his toilet leis- urely, for, although the dinner-bell has rung and the select circle of boarders may be waiting, he is never in a hurry. " Yes, what does she want ? " he thinks. " It would be remarkable if I received two of Fortune's kisses in one day. More remarkable still if I were forced to decline both." He descends to dinner, which is a lively meal. Mrs. Longworth, one of those sometimes trying people who have seen better days, offers all the comforts of a home through the columns of the daily press, and has fifteen boarders in all. There are two or three ladies, but these are exceptions. The Salic law is enforced, and single gentlemen are the Spartan rule. Mr. Miles O'SuUivan, sub-editor of the Phe- nix, sometime graduate of Maynooth, lineal descendant of the Kings of Kerry, is one of these. It is a prolonged meal ; the gentlemen like to sit and crack nuts and jokes together, long after the ladies flit away. Now the twilight steals into the loom, the sea-breezes arise cool and delicious, and the scent of the honeysuckle nearer and sweeter than all. Faint and far away the singing of some sailors floats on the wind ; a r ew spring moon shines in the sky — one brilliant star, dame dhonneur to the queen of night, beside it. In the parloia across the hall some one is playing Thalberg's " I^ast Rose ;" when the piano stops you can hear the soft wash of the suil down on the shore. Longworth lies back in his chair in true 52 LONGWORTH OF THE RHENIX. after-dinner mood, dreamy and indolent, dips his walnuts U3 his wine, listens to the other men, but does not talk m'.'ch. Presently the laughter and jokes — very elderly jokes some of them — grow tiresome, and he rises and returns to his former place and position on the piazza. The boarders flit in and out, one or two of the ladies are good enough to sit beside him'and rally him on his thoughtfulness. But Long- worth's moods are well known, and as a rule respected, in this select boarding-house. "Larry," says Mrs. Totty Sheldon, coming out in hei muslin dress and pink roses, and looking cool and white in the faint light, "is it not time you were keeping your ap- pointment ? " "Mr. Longworth an appointment," cries a vivacious young matron ; " that acounts for his silent incivility. With a lady, I bet." " With a lady," answers Totty ; " only a quarter of eight, Larry, and she is not a lady to be kept waiting." Longworth rises, still with the dreamy laziness of after- dinner upon him, picks up his hat, aud strolls off, without ^paying the slightest attention to the fair creatures around him. The volatile little matron, who is a bride, and pretty, and used to attention, looks piqued. "Odd man, your cousin, Mrs. Sheldon," she says; "sometimes so silent and glum, at others perfectly charming to listen or talk to. He is your cousin, is he not ? " " His father and mine were," Mrs. Sheldon answers. "And he and Totty came very near being something rearer and dearer than second cousins," interposes an old matron ; "only Totty threw him over for Mr. Sheldon." " Did you, really ? " says the bride, looking at her curi- ously. " He does not seem like the sort of man one could throw over. How had yoji the courage ? Such a handsome and clever fellow ? " " We were only children," says Totty, in a low voice , but LONGWORTH OF THE PRE NIX. 53 she looks awa) from the questioner, out at the long, slendei line of light on the sea. " I was only a little girl, and Larry nothing but a boy." " You wer« a little girl old enough and big enough to mar ry Willy Sheldon " " Totty ! " her mother calls sharply, coming suddenly for- tvard, "if you are going to Mrs. Harris's to-night, it is time; you were dressing, instead of standing chattering nonsense here.'' Totty bites her lips, but obeys. Twenty-eight and a widow though she be, she- still feels compelled to mind her mother. Mrs. Longworth turns, with some acerbity, to the young bride. " Please don't allude to this again, Mrs. Beckwith," she says. '' There was some boy-and-girl folly between Mr. Long- worth and my daughter years ago, but it was only folly. I don't approve of cousins marrying — even distant cousins. Don't speak of it in his presence, I beg." The elder matron laughs softly and significantly to her- self. " Does not approve of cousins marrying," she thinks ; "and it was only boy-and-girl folly, was it? How our views change as we grow older ! At least it was folly that has cosi Mr. Larry dear." The younger matron looks puzzled. "Something queer here?" she thinks. "I wonder Mr. Longworth likes to stay." But she only bows, and says ; " Oh, certainly not," and, as the charm of the stoop has departed with Mr. Longworth, goes in. Meantime, Mr. Longworth pursues his way, in his u;;ual leisurely manner, through various streets, until he comes to an iron railing and two tall, handsome iron gates. The place inclosed looks like a park in this pale light— it is extensive, and full of large trees. 54 THE STORY OF THE STONE HOUSE. He enters, and goes up a gravel walk, broad and well kept, trees meeting overhead and making the darkness b'ackness. From this arcade he emerges into an open space, the grass close-clipped and dotted with little beds of flowers. A dark, large house looms up, with lights shining from its windows, and a glass arch over the hall doors. He glances at two windows to the right ; through these the lamplight sliines, red and comfortable, through lace, curtains, and seems to welcome him even before he enters. A large, old-fashioned brass knocker is on the door ; he lifts this and knocks loudly. CHAPTER IV. THE STORY OF THE STONE HOUSE. jjHILE Mr. Longworth knocks and waits in the star- light to be admitted, a word may be said of this house and the lady who owns it. It has a name and a history, and is perhaps the oniy house in Baymouth that has either. It is called the Stone House. Many years back there came over from England a man named William Windsor, a sturdy and thrifty yeoman, tolera- bly well to-do at home, and resolute tc make a fortune in the colonies. He chose New England, got a grant of land, built a log cabin, shot Indians, tilled the soil, and led a busy life of it. Time passed ; the revolution began, and this English- man shouldered his musket and took the side of the colonies igainst the king. The war ended, and though Master William Windsor left a leg and one arm on the field of glory, he returned well satisfied, for another grant of land had been awarded him, and all about his dwelling for many and many THE STORY OF THE STONE HOUSE. 55 a mile was his Thinking it not well for man to be alone, even part of a mar; as he now was, he took unto himself a wife of the daughters of the land — a blooming Pmitan maiden far and away too patriotic to refuse a one-legged hero — reared a family, and in his old age saw the Stone House erected ic all its strength and statehness by his eldest son. Then he died and was gathered to his fathers, and years went on and Bayinouth grew and prospered, and the Windsors with it, and they were the wealthiest and oldest family in all the town, Mills and manufactories arose on their land, noble timber was cut down, and the Windsors need be farmers no more, but sit at home at ease and let their income flow in like a golden river. Nobody knew exactly how rich the last Henry Windsor was when he became master, but enormously, every- body said. He married a young lady of Boston, one of the fairest of all its fair daughters, proud and uplifted as a young queen, and brought her home to the Stone House. Two children were born, only two. Mrs. Windsor was born to be a mother of sons, and knew it, and was intensely disappointed to find the younger of these two only a girl. Girls being one of the evils of this life that cannot be cured and must be endured, the lady of the Stone House accepted her fate, but bitterly and under protest to the end. To her son she gave love, loyally and liberally and lavishly, without stint or measure ; to her daughter, almost indifference. They grew up ; the son went to Harvard, the daughter to a fashionable boarding-school in New York. Both had done credit to their name and their family, both were handsome ; the son was clever, and though brains are a superfluity in the only son of a rich man, it still pleased his mother that he had them. George was nineteen, Mary seventeen, when the ■ first blow fell. It fell in the person of an extremely handsome young man, who arrived in Baymouth one day, and sought an interview with Mrs. Windsor. He was a Frenchman, his name Mon $6 > THE STORY OF THE STONE HOUSE. sieur Hippolyte Landelle, his prcfession teacher of modern laiv- guages at Madame Campion's fashionable seminary, his er- rand — to ask Henry Windsor, Esquire, for the hand of hia only and richly-dowered daughter. To say that Henry Windsor was stricken dumb by this matchless audacity would do no sort of justice to "lis feelings. He sat and glared at the young man, who, tall and ;iender, with handsome olive face and black, melancholy eyes, stood and awaited his answer. What that answer was exactly can never be told. " Our army in Flanders " never swore harder than Mr. Henry Windsor knew how to do when exigency re- quired. Monsieur Landelle must have found it unpleasant, for he left the paternal mansion leaden-white with passion and wounded pride. Mr. Windsor sat down", red-hot with fury, and penned a let- ter to the preceptress of the seminary, which must have shocked that elegant lady to the last degree. He told her, among several other unpleasant things, to keep his daughter under lock and key for the next three days, at the expiration of which period he would arrive to take her home. Mr. Windsor went. Madame Campion, unspeakably dis- tressed, dismissed M. Hippolyte Landelle, and turned the key upon Miss Mary Windsor. But it is a very old truism that Love laughs at locksmiths. When Mr. Windsor arrived on the spot he found his daughter flown, and the traditional note left behind to say that life without cker Hippolyte would not be worth the living, that they had been marrie 1 the day before, and would sail in an hour by tlie Havre steamer. Mr. Windsor returned home. How bitter the blow to these two haughty and imperii. ^is people no ..uman being, ever knew. The father was wounded both in his pride and his love, for he had been fond of his one " little maid ; " the mother smarted in her pride alone. Every trace of that lest daughter was obliterated, her name was erased from the great family Bible her jiortrait in oil, her photographs, books, THE STORY OF THE STONE HOUSE. $7 drawingfj, burned. She was not to be as a daughter dead, but as a daughter who had ne\'er existed. Three years later Mr. Windsor died, and handsome George was master of the Stone House. He was a fair-haired young giant, wh5 might well have been the darhng of any mother's heart — blue-eyed, stalwart, sunny-faced as a young Norse god. He was far more than the darling of his mother — he was her idol, the life of her life. All the love of her soul she gave him, and George, in careless young man fashion, was fond of his stately and handsome mother. One night— oh, dark and terrible night, never to be forgot- ten ! — a schooner drifted on some sunken rocks near the entrance of the harbor. It was winter, anight with a gale howling and the cold deadly— ^the two or three poor fellows clinging to the frozen rigging must be taken off at once or perish. A boat was matined, a.nd George Windsor, brave, generous, and full of adventure, made one of the volunteer crew. It was desperate work to launch the boat, desperate work to keep her afloat in that howling winter tempest. AH at once a fiercer blast than the others struck her broadside, and she went over. In a moment they had righted her again in spite of the storm, and the freezing crew clambered in. ■ All but George Windsor ! He could not swim ; his mother had always kept her darling away from that treacherous bay, and in the darkness he went down like a stone. His last cry : "Save me, boys, I'm sinking," rang in the ears of his mother (for they told her) until they were dead to every sound of earth. Some time that night, while she sat restlessly waiting for him, the- clergyman of the church she usually attended came slowly and sadly into her presence. How he told her he hardly knew. She stood and heard him in stony silence, her eyes fixed and blind, turned from him mechanically, made a step to tlie door, and fell like a stone. She was a strong woman, and had never fainted in all her life before, but for 3* 58 THE STORY OF THE STONE HOUSE. hours she lay now like' the dead. Perhaps death would have been the greater mercy ; but life came back, and they went away and left her alone with her awful despair. Three days after they found him washed ashore some miles lower down, and in two more a long, sad procession went out finm the Stone House, a house from which many dead men had gone. They laid in the earth the last of all the Wind- sors, and a monument that was a marvel of beauty, ar.d sculpture, and cost, was erected over him. Then the Stone House was shut up, and for six long years Mrs. Windsor saw it no more. A stern and resolute woman this Mrs. Windsor, a proud and bitterly rebellious one. Once in her hearing that well- meaning clergyman had said : " It is one of the mysterious dispensations of Providence. She made a god of her son, and a jealous God has taken him." From that moment, in her fierce vindictiveness, she arrayed herself against the awful Arbiter of Life and Death, and never until the day of her own death crossed the threshold of a church again. George Windsor had been dead some fifteen years when Laurence Longworth first came to Baymouth, bought out the Phenix, going rapidly to the dogs in the hands of its then proprietor, and established himself as a permanent fixture in the town. Mrs. Windsor had long been back and resumed her old life — how unspeakably lonely and desolate a life no one ever knew. She would have died in her relentless pride sooner than let any living soul see that broken and bleeding heart of hers. There are some things that not even time cj.n help — this was one. But outwardly there was little change. She even went into society more than of old, and opened hei house more frequently to her friends. And it was at one of these reunions — a dinner-party given by a magnate of the town, and where Mrs. Windsor, handsome, cold, refiellunt, and supe^rbly dressed, was a guest of distijiction — that she anc' THE STORY OF THE STONE HOUSE. 59 L.ougworth first met. As she sat in the drawing-room after dinner, listlessly allowing herself to be entertained, she over- heard the words of two men behind her. " Sg that's the new man of the Phenix. H'm ! good head and frontal development. Looks as if he might know how. Doesn't he look like some one I've seen before ? " "He looks like poor George Windsor. You remember young Windsor, don't you — drowned some dozen years ago ? The mother, fine-looking, stern-looking lady in black velvet, is here this evening. He resembles George sufficiently to be a long-lost brother." The men moved away, and Mrs. Windsor, with a feeling as if a knife had pierced her, looks for the first time intently at the tall, fair-haired young man, leaning lightly against the chimney-piece, and earnestly conversing with a little group of men. Her face paled, her eyes dilated, her lips parted, her breath came quick. He was like George — so like that the mother's heart thrilled and trembled within her. It was one of those accidental resemblances that startle all at times, and yet she could hardly have defined where it lay. The shades of hair, eyes, and skin were the same ; the figure of this young man was tall and strong as George's had been ; even a subtle trick of smile and glance that her boy had had, this stranger possessed. It troubled her at first ; gradually, as they met oftener, it comforted her, and at last, after years of acquaintanceship, Laurence Longworth took the place in her childless, widowed heart that she would once have thought it sacrilege to fill. People began to observe her marked partiality for the young editor, and to smile and opine that his fortune was made. Miles O'Sullivan one day — not long before this night upon which Longworth stands waiting for admittance before the Stone House — put the general opinion into words. " Upon me conscience^ Larry, 'tis better to be born lucky than rich. Here's the Widow Windsor, long life to her, 6o A POINT OF HONOR. ready to lave you everything she's worth in the world if fs behave yourself. And a mighty pretty penny it must be," " I wouldn't take it," replies Longworth, coolly. "Ye wouldn't, wouldn't ye ? And why, if it's plaising to ye?" " Mrs. Windsor has her natural heirs — her daughter and her daughter's children." " Mighty unnatural ones if all I hear be tnie. Sure, the daughter ran away with a Frinchman — the Lord look on her ! — and has been disowned this many a day." " That is nothing to nie. I would not accept Mrs. Wind- sor's money while they are alive to claim it." " Oh ! then, by this and that, I wish a widow woman or any other woman would offer me a fortune. It's twice — yes, faith, maybe three times, I'd be thinking before I threw it back in her face." " You would do precisely as I would do, O. You couldn't take it. But doesn't it strike you that this is an uncommonly cheeky, premature discussion ? It is never well to refuse before one is asked." What Mr. Longworth thinks about his chances himself, no one knows. Silence is this gentleman's forte. But so mat ters stand this sultry May night, upon which he stands and knocks at Mrs. Windsor's door. CHAPTER V. A POINT OF HONOR. MIDDLE-AGED woman-servant admits hini, and Longworth enters a long, low, very spacious hall, softly carpeted, hung with rich pictures, and adorned on e'ther side by a stern Roman soldier in bronze, leaning A POINT OF HONOR. 6 1 on his sword. Four doors flank, this wide hall ; the first of these to the right the woman opens, says " Mr. Longworlh, ma'am," and departs. The room, on the threshold of which he stands for a mo- ment and gazes, as at a picture, is one that is very familiar, and that never fails to give his artistic eye pleasure. It ig Mrs. Windsor's sitting-room; here none but intimate friends (and she has very few) find her. It is a square apartment, carpeted in pale, cool colors, gray and blue, curtained in white lace, soft chairs and sofas also blue and gray, a full- length mirror at each end, two inlaid tables, whereon repose some large albums and Books of Beauty, but not another volume of any sort ; water-color sketches and line engravings on the walls, both perfect of their kind, and a few heads in Parian from the antique ; pretty and expensive trifles every- where. Two or three slender glasses of cut flowers perfume the air, the light falls soft and shaded, wealth and refined taste speak to you in every detail, and meet you again in the figure of the lady, who rises to greet her guest. Her heavy silk falls about her in those soft, large, noiseless folds that women love ; some point lace at the throat is caught with one great gleaming diamond. Her hair, profuse still, but silvery white, is combed back over a roll, and adds to the severe immobility of that pale, changeless face. No, not change- less, for it lightens and softens as she gives him her hand. " You are punctuality itself, Mr. Laurence," she says ; " it is precisely eight." She resumes her chair, folds her white hands, upon which many jewels twinkle, in her lap. There are women so womanly, or so restless, that they can never sit contentedly quite idle — some piece of flimsy feminine handicraft must ever be between their fingers. Mrs. Windsor is not one d1 these ; she can sit for hours with those white hands folded, her eyes half closed, without the necessity of either needle work or book occurring to her. 62 A POINT OF HONOR. Longwoith has a chair in this room, sacred foi the past two years to his use, a very comfortable and caressing chair, indeed, and into its open arms he consigns himself now, leans his blonde head against its azure back with a feeling he has often had before — that this room is a very comforting and restful place, and Mrs. Windsor one of the most thoroughly satisfactory women he has ever met. As she sits before him in her lustrous silks and jewels, her serene, high-bred face and trainante voice, she has all the " stilly tranquil " manner of a real grand dame. At sixty she is a woman to command admiration, and Longworth admires her; but it is surely a deeper and stronger feeling that looks out of her eyes upon him. If she ever gave her lost idol greater love, then indeed she must have loved beyond the love of mothers. They talk for a time after the desultory fashion of friends. She tells, him of her winter in Washington, and of the celeb- rities, foreign, political, literary, and musical, she has met there. But her usual animation is wantnig ; it is not to talk of these things she has asked him to come here. She is rarely at a loss, but she seems to be somewhat so to-night, and it is Mr. Longworth himself who, as the clock strikes nine, breaks the ice. " You made some allusion to business this afternoon,'' he says. " Is it anything in which I can be of service ? Any- thing about the mills " " Nothing about the mills. Thompson is a very com- petent man of business, and sees to that. Laurence, when 1 was in Washington, I made my will." She says it abruptly. Longworth, lying back easily, loop- ing and unlooping his watch-chain, lifts his eyebrows. " Always a wise precaution," he answers, " but in your case quite premature. Still, it is well to have these thingi settled and done with." " And, Laurence, I have made you my heir." A POINT OF HONOR. 63 It has come. In spite of her marked partiality for liim, which he understands and which touches him — ir. spite of O'Sullivan's words, he has hardly ever glanced at this possi- bility. He is a man absorbed in his work, work which suits him thoroughly ; he has no especial ambition for sudden and great wealth. Yet sudden and great wealth is ofifered him here. He sits quite still, and there is a brief silence, hei face slightly agitated, his showing no shadow of change. At last : " I am sorry to hear this," are his first words. " It can- not be. I am deeply grateful, but it cannot be.'' "Why not?" " Dear madam, do you need to ask ? Vou have a daugh- ter " " I have no daughter." she interrupts, her voice low and cold. " I have had none for twenty-one years. I have doubly none now, for she is dead." " Is she dead? I regret to hear that." "I do not," says Mrs. Windsor, icily. " But she has left children — you mentioned the fact to me once yourself. She has left daughters, and your daughter's daughters are your heirs — not I ?" " The daughters of the Frenchman, Landelle, will never inherit a penny of mine." "My dear Mrs. Windsor, pardon me — they ought, they must. They are the last of your line ; your blood is theirs. Do not visit the sin of their father, if sin it was, upon them. In any case I shall not usurp their right." '* You absolutely refuse ? " "I absolutely refuse. It is quite impossible 'for me to take this inheritance of your grand-daughters." " You are magnanimous," she says, with a brief and very bitter laugh. "You are one of the world's wonders — a man who can refuse a fortune." " 1 don't think I stand alone," he says, coolly. " Think 64 A POINT OF HONOR. bettei of mankind, my dear madame. I fancy 1 know sonje men who would decline to rob two orphan girls of theil birthright. It must be theirs, dear lady, not mine." " It shall never be theirs," she retorts, cold, repressed passion in her tone ; " they were nothing, less than nothing to me before. If you persist m thwarting me for their sakes, you will make me absolutely hate them." " I must persist, and you will not hate them. Do you not see I would be utterly unworthy of the regard with which you honor me, if I do this. In your heart you would despise me, and your contempt would be as nothing to the contempt I would feel for myself. It is best for a man to stand well with himself. I would be simply robbing your grand-daugh- ters if I accepted their rightful inheritance — be nothing better than any other thief. I feel all your great goodness, believe me — feel it so deeply that I have no words to thank you ; but if, indeed" — his voice grows low and tender — "you give me some of that affection you once gave your son, let me use it to plead for your grandchildren. Send for them, bring them here, if their father will resign them, and my word for it love will follow, and the right will be done." " Their father is dead," she says, drearily. " And they stand in the world quite alone. Then truly it is time they were here. This is their home, you are their mother. Forget the past, let death blot it out j send for these young ladies, and let them be the comfort and blessing of your later life." She sits, her quiet hands folded, stimg — deeply stung in her affectipn for this man, and in her pride. He sees the diamonds darting rays of fire on her fingers and at her throat, sees the hard, cold 'look that sternly sets her face. " This is your final and absolute decision? " she aijks in a low voice. " You will not think twice — you will not change your mind ? " " I will not change my mind. It is simply i aipoasible." A POINT OF HONOR. 65 "Not even," she says, looking at him fixedly, " if I refuse cnce and for all to have these French girls here, and leave the fortune you despise to the town ? " " Not even then. Nothing can alter in the slightest degree the decision I have just expressed." ' You are indeed a man of iron mold," she says, -with that slight, bitter smile. "Well, I will not press the matter. Only one point more. Suppose at my death the will I have just made is found intact — what then ? " " Then it will become my duty to search out your grand- daughters, and transfer it to them without an hour's loss of time." " Very well." She takes from the pocket of her dress a letter, removes the envelope, and passes it to him. " Read that," she says, briefly. Longworth obeys — it is written in delicate feminine tracery, and is brief enough : "London, April 17th, 18—. " Madame Our Grandmother : Two months ago our father died, and his latest wish was, that we would write this letter arid go to you. All the letters we have sent have been unanswered, even that written by our mother on her death-bed, beseeching you to take pity on her children. Under these circumstances we would not force ourselves upon you had we any other home, but our aunt in Rouen is also dead. You are our sole remaining parent ; yours is the only home, the only protec- tion we can claim on earth. We come to you therefore. We will sail from Liverpool for New York early in May, and if you will have the goodness to send some one to meet us there we will be deeply grateful. We desire to know and to love you, madame, and with the most affec- tionate sertiments we are, your granddaughters, "Marie and Reine Landelle," Longworth finishes the letter and looks up with a liaH smile. " Did you ever read anything more coolly audacious ? " ghe demands ir. suppressed anger. "It is a cool production, certainly ; its author I judge to 66 A POINT OF HO.VOR. be an eminently self-possessed and resolute young lady Still she is quite right. She obeys the dying wishes of her parents, and conies, as she says, to her rightful home." " I deny her right. Her parents had no shadow of claim upon me, and neither have the demoiselles Landelle." " ?Iave you answered this letter ? " asks Longworth, look- ing at it curiously. " Certainly not." "Then they may even now be on their way here." " They are not only on their way, but their steamer is due in New York the day after to-morrow. They cabled at start- ing, like a pair of princesses." " Had I accepted your offer," he says, still half smiling, " how would you have acted in this complication ? " "There would have been no complication. Had you ac- cepted my offer, as you would have done were you a wise man, I would not have shown you this letter. I would have gone to New York, met them, then taken a return passage for them in the next ship, and sent them back where they came from." " Madame, you would not have been so cruel ! " " Do you call it cruel ? This beggar, Landelle, carried off my daughter, a silly fool of seventeen, for her fortune, hoping, no doubt, that, like stage parents, the flinty father and mother would relent. He robbed me of my daughter — why should I receive his ? I might not have sent them back penniless ; I might have settled a life annuity upon each, and am ready to do so still if you will do as I desire. Think it over, Lau- rence — it is no bagatelle of a few thousands you are reject- ing — and I will send them back. I do not want them here. You have only to say the word." " I would be a brute and a scoundrel if I said it. Do not tei us speak of the inheritance again. Let us consider that question forever at rest. Your granddaughters must come A POINT OF HONOR. 6j and^they must be met in New York as they say. I wonder^ by the by, what steamer they cross in ? " " The Hesperia." "-The Hesperia! Why, that is Miss Hariott's ship. They will have crossed together." "Probably," says Mrs. Windsor. She does not like Miss Hariott — they are of different orders of women, and perhaps without knowing it she is jealous of Longworth's regard. " Then our discussion ends here ? " she says, calmly, after a short silence. " You refuse my offer, and these young women are to come. Mr. Longworth, will you be the one 1.0 meet them ? 1 would not trouble you, but that you tell me you are going to New York." " It will be no trouble ; it will be a great pleasure. Yes, I will meet them and bring them home." And then silence falls, and in that silence the clock on the mantel strikes ten. Longworth rises. " As I start by the first train I will get to bed betimes. Good-night, my dear Mrs. Windsor, and for two or three days, good-by." " Good-by," she says, and rises and looks full in his eyes. " You have disappointed me more bitterly to-night, Laurence, than I ever thought mortal man could do again." " But you do not care for me the less, I know," he answers. " Your regard is something I hold very precious ; I cannot afford to lose it. How truly I return it, how profound is my gratitude to-night, it would be useless for me to try to tell. From my heart I thank you.'' He holds both her hands in his close, warm grasp. He is the least demonstrative of men ; to most people he is cold, silent, self-centered, but this widowed mother's regard foi him has always seemed in his eyes a sacred and pathetic thing. He is but once more in the still starlight, windless and and warm. 68 A POINT OF HONOR. Two of Fortune's kisses in one day — well, yes it is rathei odd. To decline these kisses seems to him no parliculai heroism — nothing more than any man of principle might do. He would like well enough to be a rich man, but not af the cost of self-respect. If he held no other code than the old Pagan code of honor, if he were not a Christian gentleman, that code of honor would stil compel him to do as he had done to-night. " I may as well write to Chapman, too," he thinks, " and make an end of it. My uncle took me up twenty years ago, and let me go adrift on the world after — my own fault, I know, but it is rather late in the day to whistle me back. Now he has taken up young Dexter, and, when the whim seizes him, is ready to throw him to the dogs and reinstate me. How long would I hold his favor, I wonder ? and if I were sent into outer darkness a second time, who would be heir-apparent number three ? So I am to meet grandmam- ma's granddaughters ! Humph ! Mrs. Windsor's grand- daughters ought to be pretty." He reaches home, lets himself in, and goes up to his room at once. They are singing and playing cards in the parlor, but he feels in no mood for music or cards. His room is a large, airy, front chamber, the walls piled high with books, a few fine engravings hung among them. He turns up the gas, sits down, and dashes off his letter on the spot. "Baymouth, Mass., May 20, i8 — . " Dear Chapman : Quite impossible for me to go South this year. Could not think of stealing down in Frank Dexter's absence and sup- planting him. Would it not rather look like the w<'rk of a snc.ik ? Sorry to hear the governor is breaking. Should like to see him im- mensely, and shake hands, if I could. But I cannot, as things are. Have not the slightest ill feeling toward him ; I consider his letting me start out to fight Fate single-handed as the very best thing he ever did me. As to creeping in behind Dexter's back and trying to curry favor, I could not do it, you know. The Phenix keeps me in bread, and beef- Iteaks, and books- -just at present I ask no more. Waiting for dead GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 69 men's shoes wou)d never agree with ray constitution. Dexter's a likely young fellow besides, and, as his mother has worked so hard for a for- tune, I think he ought to have it. My uncle has no right to bringhira UD a prince and turn him out a pauper. So I cannot go, Chapman : but, al'. Uie same, I am obliged to you, and remain as ever, etc. , " Laurence Long worth." " P. S. —Let me know if there is any danger. I should not like the dear old uncle to go without one good-by. He was awfully good to me in the old days. L. L." CHAPTER VI. grandmamma's granddaughters. R. LONGWORTH is up betimes next morning, and on his way to the office. He has a few letters to answer, and instructions to give to his chief staff officer, O'SuUivan. These do not occupy him long ; as eight strikes he is standing on the piazza of the white house, looking otit over the broad bay, with its multitudinous waves flashing in the sunshine, and listening to the shrill chatter- ing of the little brown sparrows in the trees. Suddenly a harsh, discordant voice breaks the sylvan silence croaking his name. " Larry ! Larry ! Larry ! " shrieks this hoarse voice. " Kiss me, Larry ! You're a fool, Larry ! you're a fool ! Oh, demmit ! " " Ah ! you're there, are you ? " says Longworth, glancing at an upper window where the author of these remarks sits in the sun. " you're a fool, Larry ! a fool, a fool ! Oh demmit ! Sacr^ bleu! donner und blitzen ! You're a fool 1 you're a fool ! " 70 GHAA'DMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. Longworth's response to this torrent of bad language is a grin. He turns, looks up, and nods familiarly. " Good-morning, Polly ; you're in a heavenly temper this morning as usual, I see. I shall have to go and see about your breakfast, or you will curse up hill and down dale foi tha rest of the day." For the speaker is a parrot, in a large, gilded cage- a bird whose looks are handsomer than her conversation, as she swings with her red head on one side, her black eye fiercely cocked, a bird of tenacious black claws, dangerous black bill, breast of brilliant green and gold, tail and wings vivid crimson and blue. Polly's principal command of lan- guage is in English, but she can swear with admirable fluency in two or three other languages. She is the pupil and prop erty of Frank Dexter, who bought her, upon the occasion of his last visit to Baymouth, from a Dutch skipper, devoted a couple of weeks exclusively to her education, and left her as a precious legacy and solace of his leisure hours to his cousin, Longworth. She is still screaming, " Kiss me, Larry ! You're a fool, Larry ! Sacr6 bleu ! Oh, demmit ! " when that gentleman disappears. Mr. Longworth reaches New York by nightfall, and spends the evening at one of the theaters. He attends to the business that has brought him next day, ascertains that the Hesperia wil' not reach her pier until eleven to-morrow, visits a few f,::onds, and dines with sundry congenial souls at a literary club to which he belongs. Next day, at eleven sharp, he is down on the pier wait- ing for the Hesperia, and grandmamma's granddaughters. Punctual as he is, the Hesperia is still more punctual. She is there before him, and her passengers are Imrrying in wild haste hither and thither. Longworth boards her, glances abo':t for any young ladies likely to answer the idea he has in his mind of the Demoiselles Landelle. He has nol thought much about these young ladies. What he hai GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. J I thought has not been exactly flattering. Even with right on their side that " round robin " of theirs has a stupendously cheeky sound ; their feelings, he opines, cannot be any too delicate or sensitive in thus forcing themselves uninvited and unwelcome, even upon their grandmother He sees many young girls, dark and dashing, fair and stylish, but none that quite answer that private idea of the ladies Lan- delle. Presently he espies tlie captain, and makes for him. "I am in search of two young ladies due in this vessel," hesays. "They are French, their names Landelle." " My little ladies," cries the captain with animation ; " they were afraid no one was coming to meet them after all. Are you a relative, sir ? " " No. Where are they ? " "In my cabin. This way, sir. All right, madame. I'll be back in a second. They are going to their grandmother. You are from her, I suppose ? " Longworth nods. The captain of the Hesperia throws open his cabin door, Longworth takes off his hat and stands in the presence of the French granddaughters. " My little ladies," exclaims the captain, cheerily, " here he is at last, sent by grandmamma, and come to fetch you. And as I am tremendously busy, I will say good-by at once, and God-speed." He shakes hands with both and departs. Longworth is alone with the orphan girls, whose case he pleaded at his own cost. Their eyes are upon him ; what their opinion of him may be, he neither knows nor cares ; his opinion of them - -prompt and incisive as all his opinions are — is, that one is without exception the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. In his thirty-odd years of life he has seen many fair women — • anything quite so faultlessly perfect as the tallerof these two, he does not remember ever to have met. in days gone by, as has been said, he has been a poetaster ; enough of the poet's adoration of the beautiful in all things still clings tc 72 GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. the pr;)saic man of business to make him yield spontaneous homage here. He has but the vaguest idea of separate details in his first moment, he is only conscious of a match- less whole. He hazily realizes that she is tall and very graceful, that she has masses of lovely hair of that peculiar and rare tint known as Italian red, that she has yellow-brown eyes, a complexion of pink and pearl, and is dressed in gray. I'he sister he just glances at — few men would do more than just . glance at her with that other radiant vision in view — and in that glance, notes that she is small and dark, rather plain than pretty, and that she is watching him earnestly with two large black eyes. He turns to the taller and fairer, and as she looks, the older of the two, no trace of the admi- ration he certainly feels in his face — ^his look, as they see it, cool, steadfast, critical, matter-of-fact. " My name is Longworth," he says, concisely ; " I live in Baymouth, and as business was bringing me to New York, your grandmother, Mrs. Windsor, requested me to meet you here, and escort you there. I will place you in a cab now. if you are ready, and then will see after your baggage." A faint amused smile, which she bites her pretty lips to repress, dawns in the fair face, as its owner stands quietly before him and listens. Evidently she is not accustomed to being addressed by gentlemen in that cavalier fashion, evi- dently also the brusquerie does not offend her. She bows without a word, accepts the arm he oifers, the small dark demoiselle takes the other, and in profound silence Mr. Longworth leads them to, and places them as per promise in the cab. Then he disappears in search of the luggage, Wid Marie Landelle looks at her sister and laughs outright. " Here's richness, Reine ! Ursa Major in the flesh—much too good-looking to be such a bear. Longworth ! where have I heard that name before ? " " You have heard it from me," says Reine. ' Mr. Dextei and Mees Hariott talked of him perpetually. He seemi GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 73 to be a great friend of that lady — Mr. Dexter said a lover, but he appears too young for that, and that tall monsieur was always farceur. Marie, he looked at us coldly, almost sternly ; if grandmamma's messenger is like that, Mon Dieu ! vdut will not grandmamma be ? " " A very dragon, but withal a very great lady, if all pooi ruamma used to say were true, and une grande dame at least will not be discourteous. Be she cold as snow, and hard as stone, I will still melt and soften her, or fail for the first time. As to the tall blonde monsieur, with the cold, stern blue eyes, what does it signify ? How very like an English man he is." The tall, blonde monsieur, with the stern blue eyes, appears as she sa)fs it, informs them briefly that their proper ty is all right, mounts beside cabby, gives his order, lights a cigar, and they rattle off to one of the grand Broadway hotels. He puffs his cigar, watches the crowd and the familiar streets, and thinks of his fair cargo. " Mrs. Wind- sor's granddaughters ought to be pretty" — well, one is not actually, the other is something more. The small dark one looks French, the tall, fair one thoroughly English. She speaks English perfectly, too, with hardly an accent, but thai is to be expected from constant association with her mother, and her life in London. By-the-by, he wonders why Landelle has lived in London — teaching no doubt. Then his thought? drift to Miss Hariott — ^he has not seen her, she must have got ofT before he came. How will Madame Windsor receive these two young people ? Civilly he hopes, icily he knows ; but, then, they must have made up their minds to pocket thtir pride when they determined to force themselves upon her. "Apropos," he muses ; "if she sets up that regal beauty. La Fille aux Yeux dOr, as Balzac hath it, that 'tall, fait maiden full of grace,' as an heiress, presents her as such at the imperial court of Washington next winter, what an 4 74 GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. enormous sensation she will create, what a brilliant hit in the holy estate of matrimony she may achieve. But unless the power of beauty is greater than even I give it credit for (and 1 credit it with being tlie greatest power of earth) Mrs. Wind- sor won't. They must have designs upon her fortune too, nothing else would have brought them. What would they say, I wonder, if they knew of that will made last winter? " As he thinks it, a sudden inspiration flashes upon him, so brilliant an idea that he smiles in a grim fashion to himself. " Upon my word, that would be an easy way to recon- cile difficulties, do the correct thing, and gain a couple of millions. I cannot take Mrs. Windsor's money, but I could marry la belle blonde and take half of it. Grandmamma would not decline the alliance, and if mademoiselle is so keen for a fortune she would not refuse even with the incumbrance of a husband. It would be worth while on both sides, and though it is not for an outside barbarian to judge of conjugal bliss, I think it would be pleasant to look at a face like that across the breakfast-table three hundred and sixty-five days every year. They reach the hotel and are conducted to their rooms — very spacious and elegant rooms, but with the bare dreari- ness pervading their elegance that is the essential atmosphere of hotels. It is now one o'clock ; Mr. Longworfh lingers to inform them that he will call to take dinner at three, and once more forsakes them. " I don't think I shall like your Mr. Longworth, Petite," remarks Marie, letting down all that radiant abundance of red gold hair, "he is too brusque. I thought Americans were something like Frenchmen in their appreciation oi ^\& petics soins. He is everything that there is of the most Eng- lish." " He looks sensible, and I think clever," Reine responds, " and not at all like a gentleman to be affected by the good or bad opinion of two girls. What very handsome rooms, GRANJDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 75 and wliat a very bright and busy street. It is like the boule- vards in Rouen." The two young ladies make their toilets, and then sit amused and interested, and watch the steady stream ol people, the ceaseless procession of reeling omnibuses, and the pretty street costumes of the ladies. Three o'clock comes, and with it, punctual to a second, Mr. Longworth who escorts them down to the great dining-hall, leads them to a little table under a window, where they can feast their eyes and their palates together. The dinner is very good, and Mile. Marie, who likes good dinners, appreciates the delicate French cookery, and the dry champagne. There is not much talking; what there is she and Mr. l^ongworth mo- nopolize. Reine sits with her dark still face, and large, thoughtful eyes fixed more on the street than on her plate. Her taste has not been cultivated as her sister's has, delicate dishes are thrown away upon her, and champagne makes her head ache. She will have only coffee, black and bitter. Was she sea-sick Mr. Longworth inquires, of course. Wretchedly, mademoiselle responds with pathos, unable to lift her head all the way. She kept her berth from the first day to the last, and there were times when death would have been a relief. Mr. Longworth expresses his sympathy and regret ; he mellows as all men do under the benign influence of dinner ; he would never suspect, he murmurs, from her present a)5pearance that she had been ill an instant. As she kept her cabin all the way over, she did not meet a friend of his who also crossed, a lady, a Miss Hariott. •' I met no one, monsieur, no one. But my sister knows the lady. Petite, it is the lady so kind, of whom you have often told me." Mr. Longworth glances with the nearest approach to at- tention he has yet ehown towards the silent sister. A pair of very fine eyes met his — remarkably fine he decides, quit! 76 GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. different from the golden orbs of the other, but in theij darkei way quite as attractive. " 1 know Mees Hariott very well," responds Mile. Reine. " More, monsieur, I also know you!' She looks at him with that sudden smile which makes so bright and vivid a change in the dark quiet of her face as to lend it momentarily almost beauty. But it is a beauty quite unlike her sister's, of soul and expression, not of peaily flesh and ros) blood. " Am I indeed so fortunate ? But cordial friend of mine as I know Miss Hariott to be, how could she reconcile it to her conscience to bore a perfect stranger with my manifold perfections ? " " She did not bore me. She and a young gentleman bored one another. He seemed to know you very well also. His name was Dexter." " What, Frank ? " " Yes, Monsieur Frank. It was Mees Hariott' s daily habit to hold you up as a model of all perfection for Monsieur Frank to imitate. They were the only people I knew on coard, and as I was always with them, your name grew a very familiar sound indeed." " How happy am I," says Longworth, " to possess a friend who, not content with appreciating me herself, sings my praises across the broad Atlantic. But do you know where she and Dexter are stopping ? for no doubt they will put up at the same hotel." No, mademoiselle does not know. She has seen and bid- den Mees Hariott good-bye, knowing they would soon meet in Baymouth, but their destination in New York ghe has not learned. They linger long over dessert. When they arise, Mr. Longworth proposes their coming and taking a bird's- eye view of the city a little later — New York by gas-light is worth looking at. The young ladies assent, and all depart. They go every- GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 77 where they can go, and see everything they can see, in the space of a couple of hours, and still it is early when they re- turn. "Will you come to the opera this evening?" their escor inquires. " It is not very warm, and the opera is the ever- charming ' Figlia.' " "We have no costume, monsieur," says Mile. Marie, glancing deprecatingly at her gray serge robe, tlie straight, clinging, classic folds of which have pleased Longworth's ar- tistic eye from the first. " And papa is not yet three months dead," says Mile. Rfeine in a very low voice " I beg your pardon," says Longworth. " I quite forgot that." And then he wonders for the first time why these girls are not in black. " Papa told us not to put on mourning," says Marie, as if answering that thought; " he always considered it a use- less form. He knew it was the heart that mourns, not the garments." " And we were too poor to buy it," adds, with simplicity. Mile. Reine ; "but though we do not wear crape and sables, we cannot go to the opera, monsieur.'' " No, certainly not. But where, then, shall I take you ? " says Longworth, feeling somewhat like the bewildered gen- tleman who was presented with a white elephant. " There are many other places " "I think it would be best to go nowhere to-night," an- swers Marie ; " we are tired, and you cannot be troubled with us always. We will go to our rooms and retire early." Mr. Longworth protests, of course, that it is no trouble, that it is a pleasure, etc., but feels immeasurably relieved all the same. As they are about to part Mile. Reine askj him a question. " We go to Bayniouth to-morrow ? " 78 GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. " To-morrow, unless you wish to remain another day and see the city." " Oh, no ! «'e desire to have no wish in the matter. You know madarae, my grandmother ? " " Intimately, mademoiselle." She hesitates, and looks at him wistfully. Yes, uncom- monly fine eyes Lcngworth thinks again, eyes of which the white is almost blue, and the brown almost black. " Will she be kind to us, monsieur? " It is an embarrassing question. With that earnest crys- tal-clear gaze on his face, it is impossible even to equivo- cate. " I hope so," he answers slowly, " after a little — I think so. But you must be considerate with her, and wait." " Good-night," she says, and both bow simultaneously and depart. " Poof little thing ! " he thinks, touched as he remembers that wistful look. " I wish madame, our grandmother, were not made of quite such Spartan stuff. I fancy the little one — petite Reine — will feel it most. Now, if I could only hunt up Dexter." He starts out, determined to drop in at two or three hotels. He is more fortunate than he expects, for in the doorway of the second he encounters his man. Frank is standing whistling, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the street, when Longworth approaches and slaps him on the shoulder. " What, my Frank ! What, my Baby ! (Mr. Dexter' s sobri- quet,in times past, from his vast length of limb and I readth of shoulder, has been the Baby) " have I run you to earth at last ? Bless the boy, how well he is looking." ■" Longworth, by Jupiter ! " exclaims Frank, grasping his hand, "who'd have thought it? Awfully glad to see you all the same. What do you mean by hunting me down? You haven't been looking for me, have you?" ~ GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 79 " For the last three hours, my boy. I know you crossed in the Hesperia. Is Miss Hariott here ? " " Oh, she told ^ou," says Frank. It is quite characteris- tic of Mr. Dexter to make this remark in good faith without pausing to think how she can have done it, not knowing he was on board, until after they had started. " Yes, she's here, but I don't think you can see her to-night; she was dead tired and went to bed early. But I say, old boy, how un- commonly glad I am to meet you. How are they all in Baymouth ? How is Totty ? " " Blooming and lovely, and plumper than when you left." " Is she ? Do you know, I like plump women. How is my Polly?" " Your Polly is well, and as uncivil as ever. A more dis- reputable old bird never talked. O' Sullivan has taught her to swear in Irish." "Ha, hal" laughs Frank. "How is that exiled Irish prince ? I am going down to Baymouth for a week or two • — going to have a yacht built." "Where is Trumps?" asked Longworth. "You didn't leave him in Europe, did you, a present to one of the crowned heads ? " " Not likely. Here, Trumps." Frank whistles, and the big Newfoundland comes lumbering up, and recognizes I^ongworth with demonstrative doggish delight. " I'd like to fetch a dog down to Totty," says Dexter ; "she told me once she would like a King Charles — they had an aristocratic sound, she said, and I know a little wooly fellow she could carry in her pocket. Do you think she would like it ? " Among Mr. Dexter's pet habits, and their name is legion, is a great and absorbing passion for animals. Down at home, in the Georgian Mansion, he keeps a perfect menagerie, from small white mice, to great black dogs, cows, and horses If a hippopotamus or an elephant were easy trifles to get oi 8o GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. keep, a hippopotamus and an elephant Frank wc uld have. His first impulse, whtn he desires to render himsell agreeable to a young lady, is to give her a dog, just as any other gen tleman's would be to present her with a bouquet. "Tot might," responds Longworth, "but her mother wouldn't ; she abhors the canine race. A dog followed O Sullivan home once ; stray curs always have a draggle- tailed habit of following the O'Sullivan. He was about the ugliest beast that ever wore a tail at one end, and a bark at the other. He had only one eye and three legs — was such a hopeless and forlorn spectacle that O. named him (from some association of ideas, with a certain lost cause) ' Head Center,' on the spot. I think the name blighted him, as a bad name will blight any of us. Although he grew round and fat, and lazy and luxurious, the moment there was no possibility of his ever growing fatter or fuller he disappeared, vanished, evaporated, made himself thin air, and never was heard of more. O'Sullivan always had suspicions of Mrs. I^angworth and the cook, for he was of thievish propensities (the dog I mean, not O'Sullivan), and made away with every- thing he could lay his paws on. But I always attribute it to his name. As a consistent Head Center, he could not have acted otherwise." " It may have been consistent Head Center nature," retorts Dexter, " to take all he could get, and rob his bene- factors, but it wasn't consistent dog nature. I'll bring the King Charles down to Tot all the same." " What kind of trip did you have. Baby ? A good run and nice people ? " " \ spanking run and a splendid crowd of fellow-creatures. There was one young lady — awfully jolly little girl, with whom jVIiss Hariott struck up an inti:nacy. I wish I could find hej again — never had a chance to say good-by even.'' " What was her name ? " " Madeiiioiselle Reine." GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. 8l " What was her other name? " " I don't know. We got on with that. She was French, and that eminently convenient word, mademoiselle, supplied all deficiencies.'' "But her friends " " Had none. Traveled in charge of the captain. Papa and mamma dead. There was a sister whom nobody saw — she appeared to have taken the vail — but with whom I wanted to fall in love. Wouldn't give me a chance though. Shut herself up in her room all the way." " Pretty, Baby ? " "Must have been, with that figure, that air, that hair, that voice. Didn't see her face, but know it was stunning." "And the other one ? " " Well she was charming, with the eyes and smile of an angel, but not what some people — you, for instance — would call exactly handsome, you know. Miss Hariott fraternized with her as she doesn't often with strangers." " If Miss Hariott liked her, all is said ; her judgment is next door to infallible. I presume you and Miss Hariott bored this unfortunate young person with perpetual talk of Baymouth ? " "Well, yes, naturally, we talked of Baymouth a good deal." " And of Baymouth people ? " " Of some of 'em — you, for instance." " Ah ! Did you ever by any chance speak of Mrs. Wind- sor ? " " Mrs. Windsor ? — the empress in her own right, who used to curdle the blood in my youthful veins whenever she said, ' Good morning. Master Frank,' in that deep, Siddons voice of hers ? No, I don't think we ever spoke of Mrs. Windsor, Why ? " " Nothing," Longworth answers, with a peculiar smile. He is thinking of this reticent little dark-eyed mademoiselle^ 4* 82 GRANDMAMMA'S GRANDDAUGHTERS. sitting so demurely while they discussed Baymouth, and never dropping a hint that she, too, was going there. " What has brought you to New York, Larry?" inquires Dexter. " Phenix business, I suppose. How is that noble literary bird ? " " In full feather, pluming himself for fresh flights. Yes, Phenix business has brought me, and as it is .satisfactorily concluded, I shall return to-morrow. Suppose you come along. " "Can't. Promised Miss Hariott to do escort duty, and she is going to stay a week. I want to stay, myself. Who knows but that I may meet my ' little ladies' some fine after- noon among the other belles of Broadway ? " "So far gone as that, dear boy? Well, the ilight wears apace, and I'll be off. So, until we meet at Philippi, adieu." "I'll walk with you. Where are you staying? At your old quarters, I suppose. What train do you take to-mor- row ? If I have nothing better to do I'll come and see you off." " No, don't trouble," says Longworth ; " we'll see enough of each other soon. How long did you tell me you meant to stay in Baymouth ? " " Only a week or two, to arrange the contract about the yacht, then 'away down South in Georgey.' My mother and the governor pine for the light of my ingenuous counte- nance once more. But I shall return again before the sum- mer ends." Mr. Longworth holds out his hand. " Well, good-by, my Baby — here we are. Best love to Miss Hariott of course. Take good care of her ; existence in Baymouth would be a bore without her.'' " Tell you what, Larry," says Frank — " I've often thought it, too — you ought to marry Miss Hariot. She would suil you to the finest fibre of your rrature, as I've read somewhere And though she's a trifle too old " MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. 83 " Not a day too old. I asked her once, and she said no. Bless }-ou, my Baby, and good-night." He waves his hand, and disappears. Frank turns to re- ti'ace his steps, in a musing mood. "Asked her once, and she said no! Wonder if he did, tliough. He's such a one to chaff; but it would be exactly like him. Oh, if some beneficent fairy, some modern As- modeus, would but unroof New York, and show me where my ' little ladies ' are at this moment!" CHAPTER VII. MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. HE ten o'clock express next morning bears away among its passengers Mr. Laurence Longworth and his two young ladies. Mile. Marie sits serene in her loveliness at one of the windows — Mile. Reine sits beside her. That lovely stretch of country that lies between New York and Boston looks its loveliest this genial summer morning, and the dark eyes of Reine, weary of restless, toss- ing blue water for so many days and nights, gaze as though they could never gaze their fill. It interests Mile. Landelle, but not to the same extent ; she can look at her fellow-trav- elers, glance over the illustrated papers, and converse with monsieur. Monsieur sits opposite ; to him the route and the sunlit landscape are very old stories. He lies back and watches as steadfastly as is consistent with good breeding the fair flower face before him. It is a face upon which it is a pel petual pleasure to gaze ; its youthful freshness, its per- fection of feature and coloring, look as often as you may, seem ever neM^. Most beautiful faces are marred by some 84 MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. flaw, howevei trifling ; Longworth, no mean judge, examin ing' critically, can find none here. Many men glance in pass- ing, pause for a second as if struck, then glance again. H she notices, her unconsciousness is something perfect — if she were blind she could not be more outwardly indifferent to it all. It appears to Mr. Longworth that she accepts this eye homage with the tranquillity of one to whom it is such an old story that it has ceased to embarrass, as something she had been accustomed to from her very cradle, and so has ceased almost to observe it. She talks well, Longworth finds, in a soft, lather slow voice, and is a good listener. She has spent nearly all her life in London, it appears, but has visited more than once, Paris, Versailles, and Rouen. Beyond France she has never been ; but Reine has been up the Rhine, and in the Tyrol, and once spent Holy Week in Rome with her aunt, who brought her up and took her everywhere. Longworth, upon this, glances at the petite figure, and dusk face, and still eyes of brooding darkness. " And, in spite of all this foreign travel, she leaves the onus of the conversation upon us. Or is it that she thinks it too trivial. to join? How silent you are, mademoiselle." " Reine holds her tongue in four different languages,'' says Marie, with a smile, and a caressing touch ; " she is a won- derful linguist and musician, is la petite. She speaks English and French, reads German, and sings in Italian." "And yet she has not condescended to make half a dozen remarks in any language, living or dead, for the past three hours." "You and Marie do it so well, monsieur, it would be a pity to interrupt. And I am always stupid when traveling. Besides I was thinking." "A self-evident fact. If one only could read those thoughts " " They would not interest you ai all, monsieur." MXS. WINDSOR AT HOME. 85 Monsieur is not sure of that, but he does not say so. She has the head and brow of one who thinks more tlian she talks, and is a young lady whose thoughts and opinions on most subjects might be worth hearing. " I met a friend of yours, mademoiselle," he says, still ad- dressing himself to the younger sister, " last night, after we parted. He is lingering a whole week in New York, in the hope of encountering two young ladies who crossed with him, and whom he calls ' my little ladies.' He is desolated at having missed them on landing, and if he only knew their name would search every hotel register in the city to find them." " Ah ! Monsieur Frank,'' laughs Reine ; " yes, we missed each other that last day. But he never saw Marie." " Which does not hinder him from being excessively anx- ious to do so. Mademoiselle, you are a wonderful young lady. You hear these two people talking perpetually of Baymouth for ten long days, and never once drop a hint that )Ou are going there yourself." Mademoiselle lifts her eyebrows. " But why, monsieur — why should I ? How could it pos- sibly interest them ? And though extremely kind they were yet strangers, and we do not tell strangers our family history,, and where we are going, and all our biography. Why should I have told ? " " Mademoiselle, I repeat, you are an extraordinary young lady. The average American girl would have taken Miss Hariott into her confidence the moment the name of Bay- mouth passed her lips, retailed her own history, and found out everything there was to find, concerning Mrs. Windsor and her future home. You do not speak one word. I con- gratulate myself on the pleasure of knowing a heroine who can profoundly keep her own secrets." " Ah ! now you are laughing at me. And indeed I was, and am anxious to know." A troubled look creeps into th< 86 MXS. WINDSOR AT HOME. wistful eyes fi? ed upon him. " Do you tell us, monsieur — you know her well — what is our grandmother like ? " " Like a queen, mademoiselle, if queens are always stately and tall, handsome, and high-bred ; severe perhaps, cold cer- tainly, but a lady to her finger-tips." •' Une grande dame — I said so. Petite," murmurs Marie. " Cold and severe, and we are coming uninvited and un- welcome,'' Reine responds, under her breath. " But to the home that is ours by right, the only home we have in all the world," says Marie, and a look of resolution that is not unlike Mrs. Windsor's own, sets her young face ; " it is our right to go there, my sister." " So ! " Longworth thinks, " in spite of your pretty face you have a will of your own, and are a much better diplomat than petite Reine. 1 foresee if madame melt at all it will be toward you." Mr. Longworth on the whole decidedly enjoys this day's ride and companionship, although he is not so fascinated that he cannot desert them at intervals for a brief retreat to the smoking-car. Among all the enchantresses that ever turned the heads of men was there ever one yet who had not a formidable rival in her lover's cigar-case ? They dine together in very friendly fashion at two : Mademoiselle Marie manifests that admirable appetite which perfect health, beauty, and twenty sunny years require ; but Reine's flags, she takes little, she looks restless, and nervous, and excited. This expression deepens as the afternoon wears on ; Longworth sees it in the large eyes that glance up at him upon one of his returns from smoking. Marie, angelic almost in her slumber, has made a pillow of her shawl, removed her hat, and sleeps — a lovely vision. Reine lifts a warning finger. " S-h ! monsieur, she sleeps. She is not accustomed to railway travel, and it fatigues her." She looks with loving eyes at that fair, sweet, sleeping MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. %^ face. Longwortli looks, too, with the admiration he cannol quite Iiide in his eyes. What a model she would make, he thinks, for a sleeping beauty ; how some artistic Bohemians he wots of in New York would rave of that wondrous chev- elure of red gold, those long, amber eyelashes, that faint, delicate flush on the waxen skin ! " It is a pity," he says, " but I am afraid we must. In five minutes we change cars for Baymouth." A flicker of fear passes over her face, and he sees it with a touch of compassion for this nervous, sensitive child. "The other will be the better off," he thinks ; " this poor little creature is to be pitied." " How long before we reach Baymouth, monsieur ? ' Reine inquires. " We will be there at six ; it is now half-past four. Here is the junction ; they are slowing already. Pray wake your sister, mademoiselle, while I collect our goods and chattels." "Marie, m'amour," Reine whispers, and Marie opens wide her lovely eyes. " Are we there ? " she asks, stifling a yawn. Reine explains. " Change cars for Baymouth ! " shouts the conductor ; ■ and preceded by Longworth the two French girls go, and presently find themselves in another train, and flying along in another direction on the last stage of their journey home. From this moment Reine does not speak ; she looks cold and pale, and is trembling with suppressed nervous excite- ment. Marie sits tranquil and serene, the faint flush of sleep yet on her cheeks, a smile on her lips, a starry light in her eyes, talking brightly, and without a tremor. "Yes," thinks Longworth for the third time, " you WiW do. 1 fancy you were the one who wrote that remarkaMj? cool letter. But for this petite Reine — ' Alas ! poor princess, to thy piteous moan Heaven send sweet peace.' 88 MRS. WINDSOR AT BOMS. This excitable nature of yours will work you woe in Mrs Windsor's stern household." The train stops at last. As all the fierce steam-whistles of the Baymouth mills and factories shriek forth the welcome hour of six, and disgorge their swarming hives, they enter a hack and are driven away to the Stone House. " Monsieur, are you not coming with us ? " Reine asks, clinging to him instinctively, and looking at him with eyes all black and wide with vague terror. " I will go to the door," Longworth answers, kindly. " My dear Mademoiselle Reine, do not be nervous about this business. As your sister says, you are only going to your rightful home." She makes no reply ; her small face is absolutely colorless as she shrinks away into a corner of the carriage. No more is said, but a sense of kindly compassion fills Longworth ; it is of her he thinks as they drive along through the familiar Bay- mouth streets, not of the lovely, serene Marie. And now they are at the gate, and grim and gray, and still and stern as its mis tress, the Stone House rises before them, half hidden in trees, with the red light of the sunset on its sniall-paned windows. " We are here," says Longworth, somewhat superfluously. He springs out, assists them to follow, precedes them to the door, lifts the knocker, and sends a reverberating echo through the house. " And now I will say good-by and good-speed until we meet again." He shakes hands cordially with both, and as the heavy hall-door opens, disappears. The rather elderly woman who admits them looks at them with curious eyes. " Be you missis's granddaughters ? " she asks ; " the young ladies from France ? " Marie bows with a smile. '' Then you are to walk right in ; missis will be with you in a minute." MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. 89 She opens the door of a reception-room, handsome and costly in every appointment, but with the chill air of a state apartment not often used. They are- not more than a moment here when the door opens and their grandmother is before them. So stately, so severe, so cold, sn calm, so royal. Marie has seen a queen more than once, but a queen who did not look half so unapproachable as this lady with the silver hair and smileless face. But Marie Landelle is not easily frightened, she has known the power of that magical face of hers too long to doubt its potency here. She goes up with both arms outstretched, and touches lightly, and quickly, and gracefully first one cheek and then the other. " Grandmamma," she says softly, and tears flash into the lovely eyes, " we have come." Neither by word nor sign does Mrs. Windsor reply. She submits to the caress with just a gleam of scorn passing across her face, and her eyes rest on that other smaller, darker, less fair, and more shrinking form. " "Reine," Marie says, "come, Petite." She comes forward and bows very low. Mrs. Windsor holds out her hand, and Reine lifts it and touches it with her pale lips. Then grandmamma speaks for the first time. "You are like your mother," she says, looking full at Marie, and there is not a particle of emotion in face or voice, " only very much handsomer. You are like " " I am like my father," Reine answers, and if there is a ring of defiance in her tone, it is involuntary and unpremedi- tated. " I never saw your father," Mrs. Windsor responds, and the eyes that rest on Reine are full of chill displeasure. " Mr. Longworth " — she turns to the elder sister as she says it — " came with you, of course ? " "To the door, madame. He has been most kind and attentive all the way." •90 MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. "Mr. Loi.gworth could not be otherwise.'' She rings a bell, and a second and more youthful woman servant appears. " Show these young ladies to their rooms, Catherine, anrl wait upon them. Are you too fatigued to come down stairs again this evening ? If so, Catherine will fetch you what- ever you may desire to your rooms." " We will come down, madame, with your permission," answers Marie. " Very well. I dine at three. Early hours best agree with me, I find. I take tea at seven. It is now half-past six — sufficient time for you to change your dress. Your trunks shall be taken up at once. You will hear the bell at seven.'' She motions to Catherine to lead the way. , Both young ladies make a sliding obeisance in passing, which she re- turns with a stately bend. A court reception could hardly be more formal or ceremonious, and all the way upstairs Marie is laughing softly to herself. "Ma fair' she thinks; "but that is a grand old lady — a grandmamma to be proud of ! Poor mamma ! how utterly unlike she was ! A fine house, too, carpets like velvets, pictures, statuary, satin hangings, mirrors, everything one likes most. We were wise to come." Their rooms, when thej' reach them, adjoin each other, are spacious and tasteful. The French beds, tucked up all white and tight, look tempting. Here, too, are pretty pic- tures, lace draperies, mirrors, gilt vases, and fragrant flowers. " Ah ! this is charming, is it not. Petite ? " cries Marie, in French ; " and the grandmother an empress, my faith ! This is different from the Islington lodgings^ and our one grimy bedroom in the three pair back. Did I not say it was ivell to come ? " "We were not interlopers at Islington," Reine re- sponds curtly ; " the grimy lodgings were home. I cannot MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. 9I breathe in this house. I feel as though I were in a prison." "You will outgrow all that," says the philosophical Matie, " Our aunt has brought you up badly, Petite. Here are the boxes \V'hat shall we wear ? Black, I suppose. I saw the eagle eye of grandmamma fixed on our poor gray serge — and it is an eagle eye, keen, sidelong, piercing. As we have only one black dress each, we cannot easily be at a loss. That, at least, is a comfort." She laughs as she says it. Her sister looks at her almost enviously. "Would anything put you out, Marie, I wonder?" " Not a fine house, a dignified grandmamma in rep silk and chantilly lace, and a speedy prospect of high tea at least. How will you ever get through the world where every trifle has power to make you miserable ? " " Not very well, I am afraid," Reine sighs. " Send away this woman, Marie ; see how she stares. We do not want her." With a few dulcet words, Catherine is dismissed, and de- scends to the kitchen to extol to the skies the beauty and sweetness of the tall young lady. The little one is too dark and foreign-like, Catherine sapiently opines, has no pretty looks to speak of, and isn't no way so pleasant-spoken as the pretty one. They dress — Marie in a tolerably new black silk, Reine in a by no means new grenadine. But both dresses in make and fit show French skill and taste, and both dress their hair in the prevailing mode, which, by some rare chance, happens to be a becoming one. " I shall not wear a scrap of color anywhere," says Marie, as she fastens a cravat of black lace at her white throat ; "it will not do to shock grandmamma's prejudices the very firs( evening." She does not need color. The black silk sets off the fail 92 MRS WINDSOR AT HOME. face, the lovely bright liair is brilliance sufficient. She needs neither ribbon, nor flower, nor jewel, to enhance her perfect beauty, and she knows it. " I shall wear what I always wear,'' says Reine, and when the grenadine is on, takes from one of the bouquets two deep crimson roses, and fastens one in her breast, the other over her left ear, and lights herself up effectively in a se- cond. The supper bell rings as she turns from the glass, and they go down stairs. Catherine awaits them in the lower hall, and ushers them into that particular apartment, where I^ong- worth was the other night received, and where Mrs. Windsor always takes tea. One brief, comprehensive glance she gives them, and there is a slight compression of the lips as she sees the red roses. But she makes no comment ; she points out their seats, and takes her place to preside. Marie glances complacently over the well-ap]3ointed table ; young ladies, as a rule, are the farthest possible from epicures ; Mile, Landelle is an exception. Quantity she may not care for, quality she certainly does ; first-rate dinners and perfect cookery she has not always been used to, but she knows both, and can appreciate both when she gets them. Out of consideration for their exhausting day of travel, the table is abundantly and substantially spread, and at the head of her own table Mrs. Windsor, even to her unwelcome granddaughters, is almost gracious. People said this lady had "charming manners,'' was a " perfect hostess," and they said rignt. Even the enemy who broke her bread, and ate her salt, became worthy of consideration for the time. But when the meal ended and she arose, she slowly hut surely froze- again. She sat down, her ringed hands crossed in her lap, and watched her granddaughters as they moved about the room. Tiere was a piano in a corner, and Marie opened it, and ran her fingers over the keys with a skilled touch. Reine stood at one of the windows, and watched the MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. 93 sweet summer twilight falling, and the sweet summer slara come out. " There are one or two things I would like to say to you young ladies," Mrs. Windsor begins at last, and low as her voice is, it seems to jar on the stillness ; " but perhaps it is almost too soon to speak to-night. It is always best to come to a perfect understanding as speedily as may be ; it saves possible unpleasantness in the future. But if you wish I will defer what I have to say- until to-morrow." "Whatever you wish, dear madame," Marie is gently be- ginning, when Reine turns suddenly from the window. " Madame is right," she says, a ring of decision, scarcely to be expected, in her tone ; " it is always best to know pre- cisely how we stand at once. We do .not wish you to defer, on our account, anything you may have to say until to-mor- row.'' "Very well." She looks surprised and slightly displeased at the abrupt interruption. " If you will leave that window, and sit down, all I have to say can be said in a very few minutes." Reine obeys. Marie takes a low rocker, Reine seats her- self in Longworth's especial arm-chair, her small face looking white and still in the faint pale dusk. "I need not tell you," begins Mrs. Windsor in her very coldest voice, " that when your mother eloped with your father, she was discarded from this house at once and forever. I need not tell you that she wrote me many letters imploring pardon and money. I need not tell you those letters, one and all, were consigned to the fire, and never answered. All this you know. When your father wrote of his wife's death, it did not move me. I neither grieved for her, nor regretted her. I had cast her out of my heart many years before ; she had been dead to n,e from the hour she became Monsieur Landelle's wife. When, later, you informed me of his death, it did not as a matter of course concern me at all. 94 MRS WINDSOR AT HOME. But when still later, young ladies, you wrote announcing your intention of coming here, it became necessary to take some decisive step. You merely said you were coming, and you gave no address to which I could write to prevent that coming. Still 1 took decisive measures — the first being to make my will." She pauses. The dusk is deepening in the room, the three figures sit motionless, the low, harsh voice of the speaker alone breaks the twilight silence. Marie sits, one hand over her eyes ; Heine sits, both hands clenched hard and fast in her lap, as one might in the nuite agony of physical pain, her eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness. "I am a very rich woman," pursues Mrs. Windsor, "there are few richer in the State to-day. I made my will, and I bequeathed every dollar of that wealth which has been accumulating in the Windsor family for nearly one hundred years to the only human being on earth I greatly care for, the gentleman who brought you here, Mr. Laurence Long- worth. Why I care for him you need not know — the fact remains. My will is made, and at my death all that I possess is bequeathed to him." She pauses again. Still profound silence, and in an instant she goes on. " The second step I proposed taking was, to go to New York, meet you there upon the landing of the Hesperia, pay your return j^assage, and send you back, settling an annuity on each suflScient at least to keep you from want. That was my fixed resolve. But before going, I sent for Mr. Longworth, and told him of my plans, showed him your letter, and informed him he was my heir." Every few minutes Mrs. Windsor pauses, and in these pauses Reine can hear the beating of her own angry, rebellious, passionate heart. " Mr. Longworth is a man of men, a gentleman of high honor and spotless integrity — he refused to accept the forlune MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. 95 offered him. He so positively refuses it, that it becomes necessaiy for me to think of some other disposition of it. That, however, is a question for the future. I told him also of my intention of sending you back, and found him so reso- lutely opposed to it, that I was forced to give it up. He pleaded your right to come here so forcibly, that at last, I yielded to his judgment. But I am only stating the simple truth, in stating that you owe it entirely to him your being here now — that these doors ever opened to receive your father's daughters. To Mr. Longworth's high sense of honor and right, you owe whatever gratitude, may be due for the home I give you — not to me." Once again a pause. In the creeping dark Marie still shades her eyes — in Longworth's own chair Reine sits, with bitter hatred of Longworth rising and swelling in her heart. " What I intend to do for you," pursues Mrs. Windsor, " is easily told. Being my daughter's daughters, and havuig, received you, I feel it due to myself and my position to receive you becomingly. I shall present you to the best society of Baymouth at a reception next week ; I shall settle upon you a yearly income, to be paid in quarterly install- ments, in advance, sufficient to enable you to dress well, and as becomes my granddaughters, without troubling me. Your first installment will be paid you to morrow ; and, remember, I shall expect your wardrobe at all times to do me credit. Beyond that you will be in all things your own mistresses, free to come and go, to mingle in society here, and to make friends. Punctuality at meals I shall expect, of course. This is all I have to say. [ have spoken plainly, but plain speaking is always best, and the subject need never be renewed. I look for neither gratitude nor affection — I need hardly say I do not expect to give it. And now, as you must be fatigued after your day's traveling, I will detain you no longer. We understand each other. Is there any- thing you have to say before you go ? " 96 AfRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. Both young ladies rise, and stand silently for a tirief instant. Then Marie speaks. " Nothing, niadame,'' she says in a very low voice. " I wish you good-night." " Good-night," briefly responds Mrs. Windsor. Reine does not speak at all. She bows in passing, and receives a bend of the haughty head, and so they pass out of the darkening sitting-room into the hall. The gas is lit here. As they go upstairs they hear Mrs. Windsor .ringing for lights — she does not like that haunted hour, twilight. In their rooms, too, the gas is burning, and tui led low. As Reine shuts the door, both sisters face each other in that pallid light. "Well!" says Marie, drawing a long breath; "that is over ! It was like a douche of ice-water on a winter morn- ing. And to think that but for the blond monsieur with the ■cold eyes, we would have been sent back in the next ship ! Mon Dieu ! " " Marie ! " Reine cries, pale with passion, her eyes afire, her dark hand clenched; " I hate that man !" " I do not,'' says Marie coolly ; " I thank him with all my heart. That high sense of honor of yours, monsieur, is eminently convenient. Thanks, Mr. Laurence Longworth, for favors past, present, and to come ! " She sweeps him a mocking courtesy, then throws herself on her bed. " I need not mind crushing my black silk,'' she says, laughing — " my one poor five-and-sixpenny silk — to-morrow our first quarter's allowance is to be paid. Oh, how sleepy I am ! — lectures are always sleepy things. Reine, Petite, get rid of that tragic face, and let us go to bed." "To think," Reine says, in a stifled voice, passionate tears in her eyes, " that but for that man, that utter stranger, we would have been sent back like beggars, that but for hia MRS. WINDSOR AT HOME. 97 pleading we would have been scorned and spurned ! Oh 1 I hate him, I hate him ! " " I always said the aunt did not bring you up well, Petite. It is very wicked to hate any one. And the blond monsieur is not an utter stranger lo our gentle grandmamma at least — did she not say he was the only being on earth she cared for. And once more I kiss his lordship's hand for the good he has done." " Marie," Reine impetuously bursts forth, " I wish, I wish, I wish we had never come ! I did not want to come. I would rather work my fingers to the bone than have dainties flung to me like a dog. Oh ! why did you write that letter ? Why did we ever come here ? " " Because it was wise to write, and well to come. Listen here. Petite." She lifts herself on her elbow and ^ the gas- light falls across the white loveliness of her face. " It is very fine to talk- of'working one's fingers to the bone, but I could not do it, and would not if I could. I am young and pretty, I like silk dresses and soft beds, handsome rooms, and good dinners, servants to wait on me, and a fine house to live in. All these we are to have — all these we have a right to. I do not thank madame the grandmother, nor monsieur the friend — no, not that ! It is our right and our due. Don't you re- member what poor Leonce used to say — ' Man has a sov- ereign right to ail he can get.' For all these good things we take a few cold looks, a few harsh words, and even these time will change. Go to bed. Petite, and never say again you hate Monsieur Longworth.'' " Good-night," Reine says, and goes at once. " Sleep w-^11, my angel," cheerily responds Marie, and then the door between the rooms closes, and each is alone. Marie goes to bed, and to sleep, but long after that beauty sleep has begun, and she lies in her darkened chamber, a vision of" slumbering loveliness, and sweetness, and youth, Reine kneels by her open window, trying to still the tumul- 5 98 BEFORE. tuous beating of her undisciplined heart, trjdng to banish hatred, ill-will, and all uncharitableness toward this stranger, and look at things calmly and reasonably like Marie. But s'-e is neither calm nor reasonable, and it is very long before sne can crush down all that sinful anger and rebellion. Tears fall hotly and swiftly from between, the fingers that hide her face, broken murmurs of prayer fall from her lips ; something about strength for the accomplishing of " ta volonti supreme, O, Dieu notre Pere," and with prayer comes peace. The one Friend who never refuses to hear, call when and where they wUl, the cry of sorrowing human souls for help, sends help and comfort both, and as she kneels the tears cease, and the starhght falls like a benediction on the bowed dark head. ' CHAPTER VIII. BEFORE. I RANK, my dear," says Miss Hariott, "this is grow ing monotonous. I thought a week of New York essential to my happiness, but I find three days a great abundance. This perpetual, neverrceasing stream of men and women rushing up and down Broadway, as if it were what they came into the world for, is dazing me. The din and crash of the streets are beginning to bewilder me. If you would not see me a hopeless maniac on your hands, Frank, take me home, I conjure you." Miss Hariott makes this speech at the hotel breakfast-table, where she and Frank sit alone. The window at which they sit fronts on Broadway, and the usual ebb and flow of human- ity that pours up and down that great artery of the city's throbbing heait, at half-past nine of a fine May morning, ii BEFORE. 99 at its height. Mr. Dexter, whose matutinal appetite and spirits are excellent as usual, protests that he lives but to obey, that the faintest of Miss Hariott's wishes are to him as the " finnan " of the Sultan to a true believer, and that al- though up to the present he has cherished the hope of en- countering the " little ladies," he now at last resigns it as a hope all too bright and good to be realized. "And I know that girl with the vail was pretty,'' says Frank, pathetically ; " it is hard lines after devoting myself as I did, all the way across, to Mademoiselle Reine, to part at last and forever without so much as one good-by. But such are the floorers of fate." " How do you know you have parted forever ? " says Miss Hariott " I don't countenance betting as a rule, but I am willing to wager a box of gloves — number six and three-quar- ters — shades dark-browns and grays — that before you are a week older you will have met again the " little ladies." " Done ! " cries Mr. Dexter, and producing book and pen- cil on the spot, gravely enters the bet : "six and three-quar- ters, dark-browns and grays. Miss Hariott, if you have their New York address, let us go up and call upon them at once. ' I shall never breathe easily until I have fulfilled my destiny and fallen in love with that girl with the golden hair." " Frank, I wonder • if all young men are as hopelessly idiotic as you are, with your perpetual talk of falling in love. As if great hobbledehoys of two-and-twenty could know what the word meant. No, my precious boy, this is our last day in the city, and you are to take me to Greenwood and Pros- pect Park. That will occupy the day. We will get back to a six-o'clock dinner, and then we are going to see ' Rip Van Winkle.' And by to-morrow morning's earliest express we will shake the wicked dust of Gotham off our wandering feet and go back to Baymouth, fair Baymouth, peaceful Bay- mouth, sadder and wiser beings for all this foreign gadding.' " But you said " 100 BEFORE. " Never mind what I said. Pay attention to what I am saying now." " You said 1 would meet my little ladies " " Mr. Dexter, I am on my way to my apartment to put on my bonnet for our excursion. You are to stand at this door and wait for me until I come down, and on penalty of the eternal loss of my friendship, you are not so much as to name any ladies, little or large, in my Jiearing for the rest of the day." Upon which Miss Hariott " sweeps " out of the room, and Frank sighs and resign'fe himself to his destiny. Presently she reappears ; they hail an omnibus, and go rattling off to one of the ferries, to begin this last day's sight-seeing. It is a long, warm, sunny day. Frank forgets his troubles and enjoys it, looks at all the handsome vaults, and monu- ments, and mausoleums with the complacent feeling that he is on the right side of them. Late in the mellow afternoon they return, and the programme is gone through, dinner, Booth's, and the last day in New York is at an end. Next Horning sees them on the train, and next evening sees them safely back in Baymouth. " Dear dirty New England town ! " murmurs Miss Hariott, as she lies back in the cab and watches with contented eyes the flitting, familiar landscape ; " dear disagreeable North Baymouth, I salute you ! Frank, I would insist upon your coming home and stopping with me during your stay, only I know it would bore you to death, and that you would ever so much rather go to Mrs. Longworth's." " Well, you see," says Frank, " Larry's there and the rest of the fellows, and I always stop there, and it would put you out horribly to 'have a great fellow like me knocking aboul your little doll's house. Thanks all the same, Miss Hariott. It's awfully jolly to be with you — shouldn't wish for bettei company all my life — but it would put you out, you know.'' "And put yen out a great deal more," laughs Miss Hariott ; BEFORE. lOI " I understand, Master Frank. Give my regards to Mr. Longworth ; teli him to come and see me as soon as he can ; and for you — show your gratitude for all the care I have taken of you since We met in the Hesperia by dropping in every day." They shake hands and part. Miss Hariott's home is a cottage, many streets removed from either Mrs. Longworth's or the Stone House — a tiny, two-story cottage, with honey- suckle and Virginia creeper, and all sorts of climbing things in front, and grape-vines, and thrifty peach and plum trees in the rear. A doll's house, as Frank has said, with a big bay window bulging out of one end, filled with roses, and fuchsias and rich geraniums. A house " too small to live in, and too big to hang to your watch-chain," as Longworth quotes, but amply large for Miss Hariott and her one handmaiden ; large enough, too, for Longworth himself to be luxuriously lazy in, many a time and oft. The one servant, a tall, thin. beautifully neat and intelligent mulatto woman, opens tht door to her mistress, at sight of whom her whole yellow face lights and glows. "Well, Candace," Miss Hariott says, holding out hei hand, "home again, you see. Ah! we don't need the old song to tell us there is no place like it. How good it seems to see the dear little house and your familiar face. And how are you, and how are the birds, and the flowers, and everything, and everybody ? " " Everything and everybody are well," Candace answers, smiling jubilantly all over her face, and "bless the Lord that missis is back safe and sound. And Mass Larry, missis, he's been here every day a' most to look after the garden and see that it was fixed as you liked. And there's a big bookay in the parlor now, missis, that he sent an hour ago, cause he said there was no knowin' what arternoon yoj'd come. And tea's ready, missis, and jest as soon as I help I02 BEFORE. fetch in these trunks, I'll bring in the things. And blesi the good Lord, missis, that you's back again. It's been powerful lonesome now, I tell yer, since you went, and Mass Larry, missis, he say so too." Miss Hariott goes into the pretty parlor, with its lace curtains, and delicate adornments, its piano and well-filled music-rack, its tables strewn with all the latest books and magazines, and on a little stand Longworth's big bouquet. She glances at it and smiles — ^it is like him to think of her, and send this to welcome her. Everything in the room is associated in some way with him ; these books and periodi- cals are from him ; she is his reviewer sometimes when he is in a merciful mood; that sunny Southern landscape over the mantel is his gift ; there is his favorite place at that open, lace-draped window, where through so many long, warm, summer evenings, through so many blusterous winter nights, he has sat and talked, or read, or listened in a waking dream to her music — her true and good friend from first to last. And there is no one in all the world quite so dear to her as this friend. He is the sort of man to whom many women give love, not alone the love of which poets sing, and novel- ists write, as if human hearts held no other, but friendship strong, and tender, and true, all the nobler and more lasting, perhaps, because utterly unblended with passion. While Miss Hariott sits in her cosy home, and sips her tea in the light of the sunset, Frank Dexter is dining with the boarders, and retailing his adventures by land and sea. They are interested in these adventures, but far more inter- ested in an event which is to come off the day after to- mor- row. Mrs. Windsor — everybody there is profoundly inter- ested in Mrs. Windsor — Mrs. Windsor's granddaughters have arrived from Europe, and on the evening but one from this they are to be presented to Baymouth in form. They have been at the Stone House for four days, but no one has seen them yet, it would appear, except Longworth. Longworth BEFORE. 103 met them in New York, Longworth escorted them hotne^ and has spent two evenings in their society, and Longworth has been plied with questions on all sides since, with breath- less interest and eagerness. Are they pretty ? But Mary Windsor's daughters, cry out the elders of the party, must i)f necessity be that, and then the Frenchman was said to be an uncommonly handsome man. That old, half forgotten story has cropped up from the dust and ashes of the past, and Mary Windsor's romance of one-and-twenty years ago has rung the changes over and over during these four days, at every dinner-table of note in the town. And did Mrs. Windsor send for these girls, and are they to be her heir- esses, and are they really handsome, and are they thorough- ly French, and do they talk broken English, and will every- body Mrs. Windsor knows get cards ? There is a flutter of expectation through Baymouth, and Mr. Longworth of the Phenix, the only man who can enlighten them, awakes all at once and finds himself famous. He takes the breathless questions that beset him in his cus- tomary phlegmatic way, smokes and listens, and laughs a little, and drops a few syllables that are as oil to the fire of curiosity. Frank Dexter pricks up his ears as he listens, with an in- terest quite as great as that of those around him. " Came four days ago, and landed at New York. The Hesperia landed four days ago at New York. What vessel did they cross in, Longworth ? " " The Hesperia," responds Mr. Longworth, placidly, help- ing himself to mint sauce. " By George !" cries Dexter with an energy that makes his hearers jump, " that is what Miss Hariott meant when she bet the gloves. Mrs. Windsor's granddaughters are my Little Ladies." Explanations are demanded and given. Dexter is excited " Are their names Reine and Marie ? " he demands of Long' worth. I04 BEFORE. " Marie and Reine — Marie is the elder. Calm yourself, my Baby," says the unemotional Longworth ; " this sort o( thing is eminently detrimental to the proper exercise of the digestive organs." '' Hang the digestive organs ! Is Mile. Reine small and dark, with splendid brown eyes, very white teeth, a delight- ful smile, and just the faintest foreign accent ? " " All these good and pleasant gifts Mile. Reine rejoices in, my Baby. Splendid eyes, as you say, large, dark, luminous, with a sunny smile in them. And there are so few eyes that smile. Now for the other." " Ah ! I never saw the other. She kept her cabin all the way, and I only had a glimpse of her vailed. But I have had a conviction from the first that she must be stunningly pretty." " Stunningly is hardly an adverb of sufficient force when applied to Mademoiselle Landelle. She is the prettiest woman I ever saw. It isn't a question of eyes, or nose or complexion, or hair or shape — though these are all about perfect, I should say ; beauty and grace encircle her as a halo, she walks in them, they surround her as an atmosphere. Everything she does, or looks, or says, is graceful ; and when •she neithei' does, nor looks, or says at all, she is, if possible, more graceful still. In short. Mile. Marie Landelle is one of those masterpieces of creation which refuse to be de- scribed, which must be seen to be believed in." All this glowing eulogium Mr. Longworth pronounces in a tone devoid of every particle of earthly emotion, with a face guiltless of the faintest trace of admiration or enthusi- asm. He goes placidly on with his dinner as he talks, and passes his plate for another help of peas as he concludes. Mrs. Longworth laughs shortly as she returns the plate. " Are you in love with her, Laurence ? I never heard you so enthusiastic about any one before." " Did you not ? " says Longworth. ' I thought you had.* BEFORE. 105 His eyes lift from the peas, and fix first on her and then on her daughter. " I remember I used to bore you with my rhapsodies long ago ; but a man who runs a daily and weekly Phenix has hardly time for that sort of thing." " You couldn't do better, Longworth,'' says Mr. Beckwith ; " each of these girls will get a million and a half. And il she's the beauty you say, it would pay better than the Phenix, A fellow like you owes a duty to society — he ought to marry and settle." "And faith it's a settler, I'm told, most men find it," murmurs O' Sullivan in his corner. "It's something every man of thirty owes to his country," pursues the speaker, who is himself a full decade over that golden age, and a bridegroom of barely two months' standing. " Thirty-one and a half," lazily responds the editor. " It's something no fellow can understand," says Mr. O'Sullivan, still pianissimo, " why men, when they run into the matrimonial noose themselves, are so eager to drag their fellow-mortals into it. It's the old principle that misery loves compamy, I suppose.'' " At thirty-two every man should be, as St. Paul says, the husband of one wife " " I beg your pardon, St. PauJ never said anything of the sort." "He said every bishop should be the husband of one wife " " Longworth's not a bishop," interrupts Frank, " so the text doesn't apply." " In such high feather as you are with' the old woman, too, it would be the easiest thing in the world for you to go in and win " " Don't call Mrs. Windsor the old woman, Beckwith ; she wouldn t like it. No more do I," cuts in Longworth, and, disgusteandelle3 earnings that they were perpetually in debt, perpetually re- ceiving notices to quit from indignant landladies. I can infer, too, that poor mamma was fretful and fractious, eter nally bewailing the luxury of the past and the misery of the prese nt. I think that unlucky Hippolyte Landelle must have realized the dismal truth of the proverb about marrying in 114 BEFORE. haste and repenting at leisure. I think he fully expiated his sin ef running away with an heiress. But she is dead now, rest her soul, and on the whole Madame Windsor is dis- posed to act generously towards her granddaughters." " Is she disposed to act kindly ? " inquired Miss Hanott, abiuptly. " Well, you know, indiscriminate kindness is not one of the weaknesses of her nature. In her own way, and if they will let her, I think she is." " What do you mean by if they will let her ? " " If they are like Uriah Heep, 'umble, if they humor her, if they take pains to please " " If they cringe, if they fawn, if they toady — ^bah ! I have no patience with the woman, nor with you either, Larry, when you defend her." 'i Come, now, Miss Hariott, dont let your feelings carry you away. She is kind. Does not this party look like it?" " This party is for her own sake, not theirs. ' I am the greatest lady in the land ; it is due to me that my grand- daughters are received into the very best circles of this manufacturing New England town. Having received them, a slight shown to them is a slight shown to me. I do not like them— they are intruders ; but I am Mrs Windsor, of the St'"/ne House, and nobility obliges. Therefore, they shall be yresented to awe-stricken and admiring Baymouth in a grand coup de thidtre on Thursday night.' Don't let us talk about it ; I have no patience with the woman, I repeat." " So I perceive. I think it would be better and more like you. Miss Hariott, if you had. She is a profoundly dis- appointed woman — disappointed in her ambition, her love, and her pride. And it is not your mitier to be hard on the absent.' " Thank you, Larry," says Miss Hariott, and holds out hei hand. " You are a friend. Come, what shall I play foi ATOBLESSB OBLIGE. IIJ jrou ? Here is one of Chopin's marvels in two dozen flats, and no end of double sharps — will you have that ? " They linger long, and Candace brings in tea and transpa- rent biscuits. Longworth is " tatne cat " enough to like tea, and sips the cup she gives him with relish. They fall to gos- siping about new books, until Frank, whom literature very naturally bores, yawns drearily, and brings the eye of his hostess upon him. " Take that child home and put him to bed," she says to Longworth. " We might have known it was dreadfully in- discreet to allow a boy of his tender age to sit up until a quarter of eleven. Good-night, Franky ; good-night, Larry, and thank you for everything." They go home to the white house facing the bay, all ashine in the hght of the . young June moon, and Frank springs .p to bed whistling "My I^ove is but a Lassie yet." He would like to dream of his Little Ladies, he thinks, but neither the dark, dreamy-eyed Reine, nor the girl with the golden hair, visit his sound slumbers all night. CHAPTER IX. NOBLESSE OBLIGE. HE evening comes. There is flutter and pleasant tumult in many Baymouth homes, as maids and matrons, sons and fathers array themselves for Mrs. Windsor's grand field night. It is a radiant summer night, sweet and starlit, scented with the odor of dewy roses and mignonette, a perfect night for youth, and gladness, and feast- ing and making merry. After considerable rumination^ in which she his ignored Il6 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. the young ladies and taken counsel of Longworth, Mrs. Windsor has decided that it shall be a dancing party. Not an absolute ball — the word implies too, much — but something supposed to be friendly and informal, with a sit-down supper cards, and conversation for the elders, unlimited dancing and fliitation for the young ones. ;She had thought of a dinner- party at first, but heavy dinner-parties were not favorably regarded in Baymouth ; and when Mrs. Windsor did open her house, she honestly wished to please her guests. To main- tain her own dignity was of course always the first essential ; but that maintained, why, then, everybody must go home de- lighted. Longworth, too, who knew Baymouth tastes, pronounced in favor of the dance ; so a dance it was to be, with a band and a supper from Boston. Of all who stood before their mirrors and arrayed them- selves sumptuously, not one young beauty of them was in a more feverish flutter than Frank Dexter. An irresistible and ridiculous longing to see his goddess described by Longworth was upon him. He would be glad to meet Mile. Reine once more, of course, and see those deep, dusk eyes light into sun- shine as she welcomed him ; but that other, that unseen sister — it was of her he thought as he dressed. He grew hot and angry in the struggle with buttons and collars, and cuffs, and studs, and neck-ties, and gloved, before the glass. Never had he labored so hard, never had he been so disgusted with the result. Certainly it was not a handsome face Frank saw, and the genial boyish jollity that was his principal attraction was sadly marred by an anxious scowl to-night. But he finishes at last, and, flushed .and heated, goes down to wait for Longworth. Waiting for Longworth is, if possible, a more trying ordeal than dressing. Longworth has gone back to the office aftei dinner in his customary cold-blooded and unexcitable manner, remarking casually that he may be late, as there is a broad NOBLESSE OBLIGE. llj side of vituperation to be poured into a brother editor in next morning's edition, but will endeavor for Frank's sake to slaughter the enemy in as brief a space as possible. Nine comes, and there is no Longworth. A quarter past, and Mrs. Totty Sheldon, dazzling in the salmon pink and pearl necklace — an old g'age ^ amour of Longworth's, by the way — her large, beautiful arms, and plump polished shoulders sparkling in the gas-light, sails in. "Will I do, Frank? Do you iike my dress? Are you coming ? " " Can't, unfortunately, yet awhile — waiting for Lofigworth. Impossible for me to go without him, you know. Your dress is ravishing, Totty — ^you are bound to be the beauty of the ball. "No hope of that, I fear.' You forget Larry's description of Miss Landelle. Only I wonder if he meant it. Well, au revoir for the present." She gathers up her rich train, and takes his arm to the cab waiting at the door. Mamma in a golden brown silk that has seen some service, follows, and they drive off. Frank i)aces up and down the stoop, growling inaudible anathemas iipon Longworth lingering over his imbecile newspaper para- graphs — for no other reason, Frank is convinced, than to ex- asperate him into a brain fever. But all things end, and pres- ently the laggard comes, the red tip of his cigar announcing his approach afar off, with his usual leisurely and deliberate step. No human being can recall the phenomenon of seeing tne editor of the Phenix in a hurry. " Dressed, my Baby ? " he says, springing up the steps ; "hope 1 haven't kept you waiting, dear boy." "But you have kept me waiting," growls Frank; "per- haps you don't happen to know it is ten minutes of ten. What poor devil of an editor were you pitching into to-night ? He appears to liave taken a great deal of killing. You must have been enjoying yourself abusing somebody, or you nevei would have scribbled until this time of night." Il8 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. Longworth does not wait for these reproaches- -he runs up to his room, and sets about his toilet with celerity and dis- patch. " Awful nonsense," he says, as Dexter, still rather huffy follows, "obliging a man, because you ask him out to enjoy himself, to undergo the torture of putting himself inside a a sable-tail coat, and nether garments first. This gray suit is new, and neat, well-fitting, and comfortable ; but it would be a deadly sin against the ordinances of society to go in it to Mrs. Windsor's to-night, I am a wiser, happier, and better man in it than I am in the regulation white tie and swallow- taU." But when the white tie is tied, and the swallow-tail on. Dexter has his doubts about it. Certainly Longworth looks well, as most tall, fair men do, in full evening dress — no de- tail wanting, even to the tiny bouquet for the button-hole, one tuberose and a sprig of heliotrope. "He isn't half a bad-looking fellow when he likes," Frank thinks, moodily. "I suppose that is why the women all like him. For lots of women like him and always have ; and I suppose, as Beckwith suggests, he'll go in for Mrs. Windsor's heiress, and win her too." The thought is depressing, and in gloomy silence Frank sets out by his side at last. But Longworth is inclined to talk, for a wonder, and does talk, although Mr. Dexter's re- plies are sulky monosyllables. A sense of strong personal injui-y weighs upon this young gentleman — a sense he would have found it difficult to explain, as if Longworth's undeni- able good looks and unexceptional get-up were matters of direct personal wrong and insult. " You seem a trifle depressed and low-spirited, to-night, dear boy, don't you?" suggests Mr. Longworth, cheerfully, "as if you had a secret sorrow preying upon you. Or perliapj if s bile — it struck me you were looking yellow at dinner. Or, perhaps if s a presentiment of coming evil — the sort NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 119 of thing people have in books, when the lady of their love is going to elope with another fellow. If it is a presentiment, my Baby, it is not yet too late. Yonder is Mrs. Windsor's — say but the word, and across that fatal threshold you shall never pass." " Bosh ! " returns Mr. Dexter, with suppressed savagery ; " for a man most people seem to think sensible, you can talk more horrid nonsense than any fellow alive. I suppose 1 may have my silent fits too, although I am not the editor of a two- penny newspaper. Now, for Heaven's sake, don't let us have any more of your chaff, for here we are." Here they were certainly. Every window aglow, its long gray front all alight, many carriages in a line before the gate, peals of dance music coming through the open door, the grim Stone House may wonder if " I be I " to-night. They enter a little room where other men are assembled, and do as these men are doing — ^give hair, and tie, and vest, and gloves one last adjustment, give mustaches one last loving twirl, then pass out and on to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Wind- sor is receiving her friends. " Courage, my Frank," says Mr. Longworth ; " we will only see grandmamma this first heat. The ball-room, where the Demoiselles Landelle, it is to be presumed, are tripping the light fantastic toe, is farther on. In poor George Wind- sor's time it was a billiard room, but tables and balls went long ago, and the floor is waxed, and the heir of all this is food for fishes. So the glory of the world passes away — come on." " Upon my word, you are a cheerful spirit, Longworth," says Frank, in disgust. "Wait one moment. I say, who is tliat beside her ? " " Yes, my Baby, pause and look. Many moons may wax and wane before you behold anything else one-half so lovely. There she stands — queen, lily, and rose in one — Mademoi- selle Marie Landelle.' I20 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. In a large chair Mrs. Windsor is seated, beautifully and perfectly dressed, more uplifted, more majestic, more awful, it seems to Frank, than ever before. A little group sur- rounds her, a tall young lady stands by her side. At this young lady he looks, and with that first look forgets there is another human being in the house, in the world. He stands and gazes, and falls there and then abruptly, and hopelessly, and helplessly, and irretrievably in love on the spot. " Oh, heavens ! " he says below his breath," what a perfect- ly dazzUng beauty ! " " Ah ! " says Longworth. " I told you so. I see she has knocked you over ; but restrain yourself, my Baby. Calm that frenzied fire I see in your eye, and come and be intro- duced. Be brave and fear not ; if you ask her prettily, I dare say she'll even dance with you." He moves on, and Frank follows, but in a dazed way He is vaguely conscious that the tall young beauty is dress- ed in floating, gauzy, translucent white, all puffs and bunch- es, and trailing yards behind her. He sees, as in a dream, tiny clusters of violets all over it, a large cluster on her breast, a bouquet of white roses and violets in her hand, and still another knot in her hair. He has never seen such hair ; it falls in a rippling shower, in a crinkling sunburst to her slim waist, and yet it is banded, and braided, and twisted in a wondrous combination on her head, at the same time. What a lot of it she must have. Dexter thinks, still dazed ; and what a stunning color ! and were ever any of the fair dead women of long ago, for whom worlds were lost, and conquer- ors went mad, and heroes gave up honor and life, one-half eo lovely ? All this time they are slowly approaching "the piesence," ind, in a dreamy way, Frank is conscious that Longworth is talking. " I knew it would be a floorer," that gentleman is remark- ing; "but no». such a floorer as this. She's uncommonly NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 121 pretty, there can be no doubt — ^looks like the ' Blessed Da- mozel,' or as Andersen's 'Little Sea-Maid' must, when she got rid of her fish-tail and danced before the prince. Still, allowing for all that, your attack is awfully sudden. Try and get rid of that sleep-walking look, Baby, or, when you are presented, Miss Landelle may be pardoned for thinking I have in charge an able-bodied young lunatic." Frank, is conscious that his admiration is perhaps a trifle too patent, and pulls his wits together by an effort. They are in" the presence " now, and Mrs. Windsor has always had the refreshing effect of an iced shower-bath upon Mr. Dexter's nerves. She pauses in her conversation, and theold pleased and softened light comes into her cold, turquoise-blue eyes. "You are late," she says, graciously; "I have been watching for you. That tiresome office, I suppose ? " Mr. Longworth apologizes. Yes, it is the office. He bows to Mile. Marie, who greets him with a bewitching smile, and draws forward Frank. " You remember my young kinsman, Frank Dexter, Mrs; Windsor? He is visiting Baymouth, and presuming upon your old friendship for him, I have taken the liberty of bring- ing him to-night." Mrs. Windsor's welcome is dignified cordiality itself. Yes, she remembers Mr. Frank very well. Any friend Mr. Long- worth may bring is welcome for Mr. Longworth' s sake, but Mr. Frank is welcome for his own. Then she turns to the brilliant young beauty at her elbow and says : " My grand- daughter. Miss Landelle, Mr. Dexter." "Mr. Dexter and I are very old acquaintances, grand- mamma," says MissuLandelle, smiling; "or at least we came ueai being. We crossed in the same steamer." " Indeed." " And he and Reine know each other like old friends. I kept my berth all the way, and knew nobody. She will be very pleased to meet you again, Mr. Dexter." 6 122 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. Frank murmurs something — the pleasure is his — aw— hopes Mademoiselle Reine is quite well — um — trusts Miss Landelle has quite got over her mal-de-mer. He is not usually at a loss in young ladies' society ; his words generally flow freely and fluently enough, but he is so visibly embar rassed stammering out this that Longworth compassionately comes to the rescue. "Where is Mademoiselle Reine? In the ball-room, dancing, I suppose. You have not forgotten, I .jope, Miss Landelle, that you yesterday promised me the first waltz?" " Mr. Longworth, I wonder you have the audacity to speak of it. The first waltz, sir, is over." " And I come late. Ah ! unfortunate that I am, tied to the tread-mill of business and unable to break away. But surely there is a second — is not that a waltz they are begin- ning now. Pardon the past, and give me the second." " Shall I, grandmamma ? " she says, smiling. " Can you spare me ? " "Certainly, child. I have no intention of detaining you here all evening. Go and waltz, by all means." " Come on, Frank," says Longworth, over his shoulder, as he bears off his radiant vision, " and say how do you do to Mademoiselle Reine." Frank follows. Up to the present, Longworth has rather been one of his ideals — up to to-night he has been more oi less " wrapped in the sweet and sudden passion of youth toward greatness in its elders ; " but at this moment deadly emotions of rage, hatred, and revenge are stirring in liis bosom. Yes, there can be no doubt of it — it is patent to the dullest observer, Longworth will win and wear this daughter of the gods, this queen rose of girlhood, this one of all the women of earth, he, Frank feels, that Fate has created for him. But, in the ball-room, flooded with gas-light, filled with inusic, brilliant with beauteous ladies, these dark and direful NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 123 musings pass. Mr. Dexter has fallen in love, suddenly it may be, but desperately, and gloom, and jealousy, and despaii — Love's pleasant handmaidens — are gnawing already at his vitals. At the same time he is only three-and-twenty, is in a state of perfectly splendid vitality, is a tolerable dancer and immoderately fond of dancing, and the light returns to his eye, a thrill to his pulse, and he looks about him for a partner. " Monsieur Frank ! " says a voice. " Oh, it is — Monsieur Frank?" He turns and sees a fairy in rose silk, rose and black, an artistic combination, roses in her dark hair, roses in her hand, a perfume of roses all about her, and with eyes like brown diamonds. " Mademoiselle Reine." She gives him her hand and smiles up in his eyes. He has thought often before — he thinks it again now — what a beauti- ful, sunny smile she has ! "Have you seen Marie and been introduced? But of course you have. Did I not tell you that night on the ship that we would meet again ? Mees Hariott understood, she tells me, but you did not." " You were terribly silent and mysterious, mademoiselle, and I never was a good one at mysteries. Are you engaged for this waltz. Mademoiselle Reine?" " Monsieur, I never waltz — ^it is against my convictions ; but the next is a quadrille, and I kept it for you — I knew you were coming — 1 knew you would ask me. Among all these strangers, not one of whom except Mees Hariott and M. Longworth I have ever seen before, you seem altogether like an old friend." "Thank you, mademoiselle," he responds, with emotion. Ir. his present bhghted state it is something to hear words like these fr jm the lips of Her sister. Ah ! if She would bul speak them. " I ask nothing better of fate than being my whole life long your friend," he says aloud. 124 ATOBLESSE OBLIGE. Mile. Heine opens her brown eyes for a second rather sur- prised. He does not see it ; his are following Longworth and a certair gauzy figure that seems to float in a white cloud, gyrating round and round. " How beautiful your sister is," he is^ on the point of say- ing, but he bites his lips and stops- " Your sister does not re semble you at all, ' is what he does say. " Oh, no ; she is a thousand times prettier. How well Monsieur Longworth waltzes ; one so seldom meets with a gentleman who can waltz really well." " Longworth is a sort of Admirable Crichton, I find — what is there he does not do well ! " retorts Frank, with bitterness, for with every praise of his rival the iron goes deeper and deeper into his soul. " I presume he and Mile. Marie are friends for life already ? " " I don't know what you mean by fnends for life," says Reine ; " they are friendly enough for two people who have only known each other one short week." " But there are some friendships that do not require time, but spring up full-grown in an hour ! " " Really ! " thinks Mile. Reine, " this is very odd. Has Monsieur Frank been dining late, I wonder ? " They join the dancers as she thinks it. As a dancer Frank does not shine ; even as a dancer of square dances, his feet are in the way, and so is his partner's train. Mile. Reine of course floats about like a Frenchwoman, and prevents him from upsetting himself and her. Longworth meandering by, still with the beauty of the night, nods encouragingly in pass- ing, and ^A^iaughs. The laugh is at his awkward plunges, Mr. Dexter feels, and is the last drop of bitterness in his al- ready brimming cup. Mrs. Sheldon, in the next set, goes by, and darts an angry glance at his rose-silk partner — the rose-pink and salmon-pink are swearing at each other horri- bly, the rose naturally having the best of it. It is evident she and Frank can sympathize on other grounds, for the look NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 125 she casts after Miss Landelle is almost as gloomy as Frank's own. The hours of the night, set to music, sweet with flowers, bright with illumination, are danced away. Outside, under the stars and the trees, beyond the iron railing, groups of factory hands linger, and look, and listen ; but as midnight approaches they flit away, and solitude wraps the dark and lonely street. Through it all Frank sees, and Mrs. Sheldon sees, and Miss Hariott sees, and Mrs. Windsor, slow to see, but seeing at last, that Mr. Longworth is devoting himself to Mile. Marie as no one remembers ever to have seen him de- vote himself to any young lady before. Yes, Mrs. Sheldon remembers once — so long ago it seems — when he looked upon, and listened to her, as he is looking and listening to- night. " Is he falling in love ? " Miss Hariott wonders as she watches. " Well — ^why not ? She is wonderfully pretty, too pretty almost. She will be very rich — it will please Mrs Windsor — it is time he married, and she looks gentle and sweet. Why not ? " There seemed no " why not ! " " Only I wish it were the other one," adds Miss Hariott, inconsequently, as Reine comes up to her, " she is dearer and sweeter, and better by far." But Miss Hariott has no reason for judging thus, and so has to confess. Of the elder sister she knows nothing, ex- cept that beauty so rare and great rather prejudices her un- favorably than otherwise. " She is too beautiful to be anything but silly, and shallow, and selfish, and vain," so illogically and rather uncharitably reasoned this impulsive lady. " Men fancy a beautiful soul must go with a beautiful face of necessity. I wish it were Reine. But, like all men, he is ready to pass the gold and take the glitter." Ouce before supper Reine keeps the promise made on 126 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. shipboard, and sings for Miss Hariott. But as the rich, full, silvery contralto fills the long .drawing-room, otliers flock in, surprised and eager. Miss Hariott is perhaps the most sur- prised of all — she can appreciate the beauty, and compass, and power of that deep, strong, sweet voice. " My dear," she says in her amazement, " whj would have deemed you could sing like this ? Of course I knew from your face you could sing, but who was to tell me we had caged a nightingale ? A finer contralto I never heard." The girl glanced up, a flash of pleasure in her eyes. "Yes, I can sing ; it is my one gift — more precious to me than anything else in the world. Aunt Denise had the very best masters for me, and I studied hard. Not for drawing- room perfon/ ances like this, you understand, but — for the stage." " The !St3f^a 1 " " Ye« ; ^hat was the aim of my life, the operatic or l)rric stage. ^ V course all that is at an end — ^for the present." " For the present? " Reipe looks up again. She sees Mr. Longworth at Miss Hariott's side, and perhaps it is for his benefit that swift, dark flash gleams in her eyes. " For the present. One day or other I shall realize my dreams and face the world for myself, and win my own way. I think there can be nothing in the world so sweet as the bread one w- irks for and wins. Here is something you will like; shall I sing it?" • She sings again. Surely a fine voice is one of Heaven's best gifts — a gift to stir the heart beyond even the power of beauty. Th ? loveliness of the elder sister is forgotten for the time even by Frank Dexter, in listening to the rich, ringing sweetness of the little dark girl who sings. Supper comes. Still devoted, Mr. Longworth takes down the daughter of the house. Reine goes with Frank. And Madame Windsor, matchless in her easy grace as hostessy NOBLESSE OBLIGE. IZJ sees, and a light slowly dawns upon her- — a light tliat is pleasant and altogether new. Laurence Longworth has re- jected her fortune, but as the husband of her granddaughter even his fastidious honor may take it and be satisfied. It will be a most judicious and excellent thing if he marries Marie. The girl is certainly superbly handsome ; even upon this pold and repellant grandmother that face worked its way. Her manners are what a young girl's manners should be — gentle, and yielding, and sweet. The other she does not like ; she is cold, she is proud, she is repellant, she takes no pains to please. If young Dexter, who will be very rich, by any chance should fancy her, it will be a happy release. But for Longworth to marry Marie is the very.best thing that can possibly happen. " And if I tell her to marry him, of course she will ; her inclination need have nothing to do with the matter, even supposing a possible lover in the past. And a girl as hand- some as that is not likely to have reached the age of twenty without lovers. Still, having been brought up on French principles — convenient things French, principles — she will take her husband from the hand of her guardian wlien she is told, and make no demur. Yes, I am sincerely glad she is pretty and pleases Laurence." They break up early; by three o'clock the last guest is gone. It has been a very bright and charming little reunion. Whatever Mrs. Windsor does she does well. She has pre- sented her granddaughters to Baymouth society in a manner that reflects credit upon her and them. Miss Hariott kisses Reine as they part. " Good-by, Little Queen,'" she says. " Come and see me to-morrow, and sing for me again. You sing like a seraph." Frank and Longworth go as they came, together. Long- worth is in excellent spirits still, and a cluster of violets has 128 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. taken the place of the tuberose in his button-hole, violets tliat an hour ago nestled in Marie Landelle's glistening hair. "What thinkest thou, oh, silent Baby," he says, " of the girl with the angel's smile, and the angel's face, and the head for Greuze ? Doth yonder moon, most gloomy youth, shine on anything else one-half so lovely ? " " Mrs. Windsor's champagne was heady, but you needn't have taken quite so much of it/' is Frank's cold and scorn- ful retort, " Cynic ! And the imputation is unjust, for it is the intoxication of peerless beauty and grace, not the vintage of la veuve Cliquot, that has turned ray brain. Tell me, my Baby, what you think of her, and don't be sardonic. It pains me to hear a^ little thing like you talk in that grown-up way." "You're a fool, Longworth ! " says Frank, and wrenches his arm free. "And as she hasn't accepted you yet — for 1 suppose even your cheekiness wasn't equal to proposing to-night — I wouldn't be quite so cock-a-hoop about it, if I were you." Longworth only laughs. He can afford to laugh, Dexter thinks, bitterly. " Good-night, Baby," he says, in a friendly voice. " Try and get rid of that pain in your temper before morning." Frank's response is sullen and brief. He goes up to his room and tosses for hours on his bed with the serene pink dawn smiling in upon him, and the songs of a hundred little birds sounding in the trees. " I knew I would fall in love with her," he thinks with a groan ; "but if I had known Longworth was to have her I would never have set foot in that house. I made a joke of it, by George, but it will be r.o joking matter to me all the rest of my life." AFTER. 129 CHAPTER X. AFTKR. ]'!" IS the middle of the afternoon. Miss Hariott, in garden gloves and hat, is busy among her rose- bushes and verbena-beds and heliotrope, and prun- ing, weeding, tying up. It is the day after the party, a soft, pale, sunless day, the gray sea melting into the fleecy gold- gray sky, and a pale, dim haze vailing the land. Miss Hariott hums a tune to herself as she works, when the click of the little garden gate reaches her, and looking up she seeS' Miss Landelle the younger. Miss Hariott drops basket and garden shears, and approaches to greet her guest. " My dear mademoiselle " " My name is Reine," interrupts the young lady, with thai brilliant smile of hers. " And Reine is queen. Well, you looked like a Little Queen last night. You do always. 1 shall call you that.'" " Go on with your work, madame," says Reine, dropping into a rustic chair, " and please don't flatter, pompliments and daylight never go well together. What a pretty garden — ^what a pretty little house this is.'' " A doll's house, my dear, but big enough for one old maid and her waiting-woman. I am glad you have found rae out, Little Queen ; I was thinking of you as you came up" > " Thinking wh'at ? " Miss Hariott smiles as she draws on her gloves, and re- sumes basket and scissors. " i am afraid it would hardiy do to tell you — just yet. If 6* 130 AFrnK. might be premature," she answers, snipping away industri ously, " but something pleasant all the same." She has been thinking of her friend, Mr. Longworth, and Mrs. Windsor's second granddaughter, after the fashion of match-making women, but something in the pale, serious look of the young lady's face makes her realize that the as- sociation of ideas might not be agreeable. Miss Hariott's snipping and clipping goes on, mademoi- selle sits and looks at her, her hat in her lap, with tired, somber eyes. " Little Queen,'' Miss Hariott says, suddenly pausing in her work, " how pale you are, how weary you look. What is it?" " Am I pale ? But that is nothing. I never have color. And I suppose I am tired after last night. I am not used to dissipation and late hours." "Three o'clock is not so very late." "^ It is for me. I have been brought up like a nun. Ex cept when Aunt Denise took me two or three times to Eng- land, to visit papa, I hardly ever spent an evening out. At home, my music and my other studies, little birthday ikies, and trips away with my aunt, filled all the hours. So I sup- pose very mild dissipation like that of last night tells." " How is your sister to-day ? Does she bear it better ? " " Much better ; but Marie is used to it. She knew many people, very great people too, in London," Reine says, with a touch of sisterly pride, " and went out a great deal. Marie makes friends, go where she'will." "With that lovely face of hers, to make friends must in- deed be easy." " You think her lovely, madame ? " " Can there be any two opinions on that subject, my dear ? I think it is the most beautiful face I ev<-r saw out of a frame." Mademoiselle smileii, and her dark eyes, not as brillianl AFTER. 131 as usual this afternoon, light. Praise of her sister is evi- dently the short-cut to Reine Landelle's heart. No touch of envy for that superior loveliness, it is quite evident, min-' gles with the boundless admiration she feels for that elder sister. " 1 think the angels must look like Marie," she ^ays, quite simply, " with golden hair and yellow-brown eyes, as old ItaUan artists paint the Madonna. Mees Hariott, how happy you ought to be all by yourself in this pretty little house." " Ought I ? Most people's idea of happiness does not consist in being all by themselves in any kind of house. But you are right, petite Reine. I am happy. My life has had its drawbacks, many and great, but it has had its bless- ings, many and great also." " The friendship of Monsieur Longworth chief among them, I suppose?" says mademoiselle, with a speaking shrug. " The friendship of Mr, Longworth chief among them, my dear. You don't like Mr. Longworth." " I know nothing about him,'' says Reine, a touch- of scorn in her tone, " only that you all — all you ladies^ — seem to pet him, and do hun honor, and consult him, and obey him. He is a very great personage in this little town, is he not ? Not to know Monsieur Longworth is to argue one's self unknown." " A very great personage ?" repeats Miss Hariott. " Well, that depends upon your definition of greatness. He is a clever man, a sensible man, a good man. If these qualities constitute greatness, then he is great.'' *: How is he clever ? What does he do ? " " Oh ! innumerable things. He has written poetry," saya Miss Hariott, with a repressed smile ; " he has written a novel. And both have been hopeless failures, my dear. He delivers most eloquent lectures on occasion ; he is editor and proprietor of the principal journal of Baymouth, and finally 132 AFTER. he is, and will continue to be, one of the rising men of tha age." " A triumphant knight of the goose-quill, in short, in the bloodless realms of pen and ink, without fear and without reproach ! " " Mademoiselle Reine, why do you dislike Mr. Long- worth ? " " Mees Hariott, why do you like him ? None of these things are any reason why. I think he is a meddler and a busybody — I think he is consulted by people old enough to know their own minds, and I think he impertinently sits and gives advice with a Jove-live loftiness from which there is no appeal. I have read Dickens, madame, and I think your learned and literary friend has molded himself upon Mon- sieur Pecksniff. Can you tell why Madame Windsor thinks him first and best of all the men in the world ? " Miss Hariott suspends work and looks at her. Some one else stands still and looks, and listens too, an auditor unseen and unbargained for. It is Longworth. Finding the garden- gate ajar as Reine left it, he enters and comes close upon them, unseen and unheard. If ever the temptation to play eavesdropper was strong enough to excuse the deed, it is surely strong ^nough here. " Let me see myself as others see me for once," he tliinks, and coolly stands still and waits for Miss Hariott's reply. " Why ? " cries Reine Landelle ; " tell me, if you can, why she, so haughty, so scornful, so imperious, should bow to his fiats as though he were a god ? " •' Ah ! that is it," Miss Hariott says to herself. She has ceased work altogether, and stands listening to this sudden outbreak in amaze. " My dear child, do you not know ? Have you never heard the name of George Windsor ? " " Often. He was mamma's brother, and was drowned. I wish he had not been, with all my heart." "Why?" AFTER. 133 ' Because then we would never be here. But what of him ? " " Longworth is very like him. It is only a chance resem- blance, but it is really very striking. And for her dead son's sake Mrs. Windsor is fond of Longworth. My dear, your grandmother may seem a little hard and cold to you, a little' too tender to this man, but when you think of the reason you must pity her." " I do not know that I do. When her son was taken her daughter was left. Does it not strike you that she, not this stranger with the chance resemblance, should have been the comforter ? " " Little Queen, if we only look at the right and wrong of things " " How else should we look at them ? Listen here, ma- dame." The girl sits erect, passionate anger in her voice, passionate fire in her eyes. " You see us here, my sister and myself. Do you think Madame Windsor ever asked us to come ? You know better. You know what she was to my mother — cold, loveless, unmotherly, unforgiving to the last. Was she Ukely, then, to relent to my father's daughters ? I say you know better. We came unasked ; we forced our- selves upon her. Do you know what shfe meant to do ? She meant to meet us at New York and send us back — back in shame and ignominy. She made her will, and gave our birth- right to this stranger. Without consulting him, this wise man, this infallible judge, she will not even thrust her granddaugh- ters from her door. And he — oh, he is good, and upright, and great, as you say, my friend — ^he says, ' No, no, you must not. It would not be right. You must let these poor girls come ; you must give them a home ; and I will not take your money — it is theirs, not mine.' Oh, he is indeed gen erous and noble — with that which is none of his. So we come ; we owe it to your friend that we are here, that we have a roof lo cover us, food to eat, clothes to wear. And J »34 AFTER. burn with shame, ai.^ rage, and humiliation^ whenever I see him, and feel his kingly, compassionate .look upon me, the pauper he has saved from beggary and It is wicked, I know, and unjust, if you like, but I will hate him for it m) whole life long ! " " Good Heaven above ! " says Miss Hariott. She stands basket in one hand, shears in the other, a petrified listener. The girl has not risen, but she sits upright as a dart, her small hands clenched, her eyes aflame with passionate anger and scorn. All this has been burning within her since the night of her arrival, and must come out. Perhaps Marie is right, and Aunt Denise has not judiciously trained this girl. A violent and undisciplined temper appears, certainly, to be one of her prominent gifts. Longworth stands listening to every word. If they turn their heads ever so slightly they must infallibly see him ; but both are too absorbed. For him, the picture he sees, he never forgets. The small, slight figure sitting in the garden chair, in its gray dress, a knot of crinison ribbon at the throat, another in the hair — for even these details he takes in — and the impassioned, ringing voice that speaks. The words he hears remain with him forever — his portrait as Mile. Reine sees him. There is a pause after her last words. Miss Hariott, her face very grave, breaks it. " Mademoiselle, you are cruelly unjust " " Ah, he is your friend ! " breaks in mademoiselle, with scorn. " If he were not, if he were the most utter stranger, I would still maintain it — you are cruelly unjust to Mr. Long- worth. Yes, he is my friend — my friend, tried and true, of many yearS; — and I know him to be incapable of one sordid thought or action — a thoroughly generous and honorable man. He spoke to your grandmother as I would have done AFTER. I3S in his place, only 1 never could have spoken one-half sc well ; and in renouncing your fortune, let me tell you, mademoiselle, he has done what nDt ten men out of a thou- sand would have done.'' " Do I deny it ? Do I not say he acted generously and well ? You talk like Marie, as if I doubted it. Mon Dieu !*• I say from first to last he is the grandest of men, and I — de- test him !" " That I regret. You will one day see its injustice, how- ever. I am glad your sister is disposed to be more fair. I observed last night that you avoided him ; I thought some- thing had prejudiced you against him, but I did not dream it was as bad as this. I am more than sorry ; I had hoped you would be friends." " My good or bad opinion can matter nothing to a gentle- man who has such hosts of warm advocates," says Made- moiselle Reine, stooping to pick up her hat. " I ought not to come and say such things to you, and show you my horrid temper, but I know nobody, and I am only a girl and cannot help it. We are all alone in the world ; she is our only parent or relative, and it seems hard — oh, how hard ! — to be indebted to a stranger for the cold charity she gives, scorning us all the while. You see what a senseless creature I am, madame, for you are my only friend, and I risk the loss of your friendship by speaking in this way of the man you like. But do not withdraw that friendship, or I shall be poor in- deed, and in spite of all this I want you to like me a little." She is smfling, but there are tears in her eyes. Miss Hariott takes the hand she extends in both her own, and stoops and kisses the low, broad forehead. " I^ittle Queen," she says, "did I not tell you before, I fell in love with you at sight on board the Hesperia ? I am more in love with you to-day than ever, unreasonable, prejudiced little mortal that you are. 1 like honesty, and you are honest. I hke people to think for themselves, and that you J 36 AFTER. do with a vengeance. But still, I repeat and maintain, yot are cruelly unjust to Laurence Longworth." " I think Monsieur Longworth is here," says Reine, sud- denly. She has chanced to glance around and seen him standing there, not three yards off, examining the long, yellow buds ot a tea-rose. She turns quite white for a moment, and hei fpce takes a startled look ; the next a flash of proud defiance leaps into it. She faces him resolutely, lips compressed, eyes alight. "You have heard every word," that fiery glance says; " you know how I scorn and despise you, and I am glad of it."- " Good afternoon, ladies," says Mr. Longworth, placidly, taking off his hat. " I trust I see you both well after the fatigue of last night ? " Neither speaks. Miss Hariott measures with her eye the distance at which he has stood, and thoroughly as she is accustomed to his cool audacity — or, as Frank ^uts it, " the stupendous magnificence of his cheekiness" — on this occa- sion it for the first instant renders her dumb. The pause grows so embarrassing that Reine rises to go. " Mademoiselle,'' the gentleman says, " if my coming hastens your departure, Miss Hariott will have reason to regret my very ill-timed visit." "Your coming does not influence my departure in the least," responds Mademoiselle, coldly and proudly. " Mees Hariott " — she turns to that lady, a laugh in her eyes — " you cannot imagine how much good my visit has done me. I go away with conscience lightened, and a mind relieved, and J will return to-morrow, and all the to-morrows, if you will le! me Until then, give me one of your roses as a souve iiir." " I wonder you care to have it. Mrs. Windsor's specimenf are the finest in the country round." AFTER. 137 " They are not half as sweet as these. Adieu, then, inadame, until we meet again." She passes Mr. Longworth in silence, with a stately little bow. Mr. I^ongworth, also in silence, gravely and pro- foundly respcnds. Miss Hariott goes with her guest to the gate, and when she returns, finds Longworth comfortably in the chair the young lady has just vacated, and (need it be said ?) lighting the inevitable cigar. With sternest majesty in her eye, the lady faces him. " Laurence Longworth, how long had you been standing eavesdropper there ? " "Let me see," says Mr. Longworth, and pulls out his watch. " I can tell you to a minute. I opened your gate at twenty minutes of four, now it is five minutes past. 1 must have been standing there examining that yellow rose (the rose-worms are at it, by the way) fully fifteen minutes. But was it eavesdropping, Miss Hariott ? And is it your habit and Mile. Reine's to discuss family secrets in the open air, and in a tone of voice that he who runs may read ? I ask for information ? " " You heard every' word she said ? " " Every word, I think and hope." "Very well," says the lady, with some grimness. "At least you verified the adage that listeners never hear any good of themselves, and you have found out how cordially Mademoiselle Reine detests you." " Very tnie, but do you know that is not always a bad sign ? Mrs. Malaprop says, in fact, that it is best to begin with a little aversion." " Begin what ? " Longworth laughs, and puffs a volume of smoke into the rose-bushes. " That elder sister is an exceedingly pretty girl, Lau- rence." « Exceedingly pretty, Miss Hester." 138 AFTER. "You paid her very marked attention last night, 1 observed. ' " Did you ? Perhaps you also observed that very marked attention was paid her by every other man in the house." "And she will be very rich." "As one of Mrs. Windsor's heiresses^naturally." " Larry," goes on Miss Hariott, filling her basket with dead lea^-es, " I observed, likewise, that Mrs. Windsor watched you two with very friendly eyes. Do you think you can do better than become her grandson-in-law ? " « I don't think I can." " And it is time you married." " So several persons have informed me recently. Is my hair turning gray, are the crow's-feet growing so painfully plain, or do I show symptoms of dropping into my dotage, that the necessity of an immediate wife is thus thrust upon me?" " I do not believe," pursues the lady of the cottage, " in any man or woman marrying for money ; but if marriage and money go hand in hand, held together by a moderate amount of affection, why, then the combination is eminently judicious, and greatly to be desired." " And that moderate amount of affection you think I could get up for Mrs. Windsor's elder granddaughter ? Well, she is beautiful enough, and brilliant enough to war- rant a moderate amount, certainly. I presume it would be quite useless to turn my thoughts toward la petite Reine ? Her insuperable aversion is not to be overcome." " She rings true and clear as steel. She does not like you — in her place perhaps I would not either " " But what have I done ? I try to be civil. I asked her to dance twice last night, and she refused. She runs away now when I come. She goes out of the room when I visit the Stone House. I consider myself badly treated — I am scorned, and I don't know why." AFTER. 139 " I think you 3o, or you are duller than I ever gave you credit for. It is unjust, but it is natural, and I don't like her any the less for it. But this is beside the question. I sup- pose if you fell in love with either, it would of course be Marie ! " " Why of course ? " " She is beautiful — ^Reine is not. Need we give any other reason to a man ? " " It is your turn to be unjust, Miss Hariott. Men do not always give the palm to beauty. The women of history, ancient and modern, who have exercised the most extraordi- nary power of fascination have been plain — they leave more to the imagination, I presume. But Mademoiselle Reine is not plain — no woman could be with such a pair of eyes, such an angelic voice, and such a smile. The light of that smile does not often fall upon me, I regret to say — I might appre- ciate its beauty less if it did." " Very true. But do you mean to tell me " " I don't mean to tell you anything, except that Mile. Marie, with all her loveliness, is a blonde, and blondes are tasteless and insipid." " Indeed ! You did not always think so." " A man may change his mind. It is a woman's preroga- tive, but a man may use it. I think so now. Are you not nearly through with that eternal snip-snip ? If you are, here is a, bundle of new novels. Look over them and let me have your opinion for the next number of the Weekly Phenix." "You will stay and have tea?" says Miss Hariott, re- ceiving the books. But Mr. Longwrrth declines — ^he is on his way home to dinner, and accordingly departs. He takes the Stone House on his way and makes one of his friendly infonnal calls on its mistress, to inquire for her health and that of Miss Lan- delle. Marie is alone in the drawing-room when he enters, 140 AFTER. perfectly dressed, all the red-gold hair floating loosely, and she looks up and welcomes him with a cordiality that amply makes amends for her obdurate sister's perversity. " I came to' ask you how you were, but I need not," he says, holding the slim, white hand she gives him, and looking into the bright face. " I wonder if anything could make you look pallid and fatigued ? " " Not five hours' dancing, certainly. Besides, I slept all day J I have a talent for sleeping. We all have some one talent, have we not ? The party was pleasant, and I like your Baymouth people so much. How very handsome your cousin is, Mr. Longworth." " Totty — Mrs. Sheldon ? Yes she is rather. I had an- other cousin present last night for whom you do not in- quire, and who stands in need of inquiry, I assure you." " Mr. Frank Dexter ? He is well, I hope ? " " Not at all well — uncommonly ill I should say ; in mind of course, not in body. Need I speak more plainly of what is patent to all the world ? In your Sitrength remember mercy, Miss Landelle ! " Mrs. Windsor comes in, is pleased to see Mr. Longworth, . and presses him to stay. This second invitation he also de- clines, thinking as he does so that Frank is half right, and that he must be developing sundry tame-cattish proclivities to be so greatly in request. Reine does not appear, but as he goes down the avenue, he catches a glimpse of a gray dress, and a red breast-knol ahead. She makes no attempt to avoid him, returns his for- mal salute, and passes on. And then at his feet, where she has stood a moment before, he sees that other knot of crim- son silk which she has worn in her hair. He stoops and picks it up, glances after her with the honest intention, no doubt, of following and restoring the dropped property thinks better of it, puts it into his breast-pocket, and goes on. AFTER. 141 " Another time," he thinks ; " my intentions are virtuous, but my courage is weak. It would take more moral nerve than I possess to face that stately little refrigerator again just now." He goes home, and dines, lingers with the boarders for a time, and is " chaffed " about his very pronounced devotion of last night to Mrs. Windsor's heiress. Frank sits opposite, glowering darkly and sullenly, and says nothing. Then Mr. Longworth saunters back to the office and remains there hard at work until nearly eleven. The majority of the boarders have retired before he returns, but the stoop is not quite deserted when he and O'SuUivan ascend the steps, for Mrs. Sheldon sits there alone, wearing the blue silk Long- worth admired yesterday, and wrapped in a light summer shawl, apparently watching the stars shining on the bay. " You, Totty ? " says Mr. Lohgworth, " and at this time of night ? You will get your death of cold. What do you mean by sitting here, and looking at the moon ? " " There is no moon to look at," Mrs. Sheldon answers, smilingly. She nods to Mr. O'Sullivan, who discreetly passes in at once. " I do not think I was looking at any- thing. I have been sitting here, thinking of — you." "That's friendly," says Longworth in his calmest tone. " Nothing very unkind, I hope. Which of my failings were you grieving over as I came up ? " " Have you failings ? " she says. "I suppose you have, but I never see them. I would be ungenerous indeed if 1 did." They are getting on dangerous ground. They do drift upon sundry shoals and quicksands occasionally in conver- sation, but it must be stated the fault is not the gentleman's. He comes to his own rescue promptly now — anything more prosaic than his remark, more unsentimental than his tone, cannot well be conceived. " I don't know how it may be with you after last night," 142 AFTER. he says, suppressing a yawn, " but I am consumedly sleepy. I got up and went to the pflSce at eight, you know, and have been hard at it ever since. Better come in, Mrs. Shel- don ; you'll catch cold to a dead certainty in this dew." " Laurence ! " she exclaims petulantly, " I hate that name from you. Call me Totty always — no one does but you now, and I like it. Mamma says Laura." "Well, if you like. Ifs not a very dignified appella- tion " " But I prefer it from you," she says, half under her breath ; " it brings back the old times when we were both young. Oh, if they could only come all over again ! " " It would be a tremendous mistake, take my word for it. Old times should never be brought back. Let the dead die, and be buried decently and forever out of sight and mind." " Is there nothing, then, in the past you would wish brought back, Laurence ? " "Nothing," returns Longworth, promptly, "except, per- haps, a few absconding subscribers. But they are hopeless." " I was thinking when you came up," she goes on, her voice hurried and tremulous, " of that time so long ago, when your uncle and my mother behaved so badly to us both — to you most of all. When I see you working so hard, and think of what you were, and of all you have lost for my sake, do you think, — Laurence, do you think I can ever forget my folly or forgive my blindness ? " " I don't see why not. You did me no harm — pecuniarily, at least. I never was a happier man in my life than since I have had to work for my living. Don't let the past trouble you on my account, my dear Laura, I beg." His tone is cool — is sarcastic, almost, one rnight say. But though her heart is beating suffocatingly, she is not to bq stopped in what she wishes to say. "In those past days," she goes on, brokenly, "I nsver used to think at all ; now I seem to do nothing elie. Ohi AFTER. 143 what a child I was ! how little I valued all that yau offered me ! how lightly I threw it from me ! and now when I would give my life to win it back Laurence ! " she cries out, in a stifled voice, " w-it too late ? " " It is precisely eight years and four months too late," he answers with perfect composure. He is in for it, and may as well have it out. " I offered you a boy's senseless pas- sion, and you very properly refused it. You threw me over and married Sheldon, a much better fellow. For that sort of thing there is no resurrection. As to the rest — my uncle's fortune, and so on — I don't regret its loss. As Mr. Long- worth's heir presumptive I was simply good for nothing ; as a hard-working editor I flatter myself I am good for some- thing. That mad thirst for gold which some men possess I never felt, and never will, and like the rest of mankind I compound ' for the sins I am inclined to, by damning those, I have no mind to.' I happen to be one of the people to whom money is not the chief end and aim of life, to whom their art would be dear though it kept them beggars. It is exceedingly kind of you, of course, to think of me in this way, and regret the past for my sake ; but you need not — for I never do. You see in me a perfectly satisfied man, content with to-day, not asking too much of to-morrow, and never, never for an instant wishing to recall yesterday. We will always be good friends and cousins, I hope, Totty ; more than friends — never again." The Calm, friendly voice ceases. She has buried her face in her hands and turned from him, shamed, humbled, re- jected. "Best come in," he says, gently j "you're certain tT be kid up with cold in the head to-morrow." She lifts her face, but keeps it turned from him, hev pale blue eyes, with an angry gleam in them, fixed on tlie misty sea. " A cold in the head ! " she repeats, and laughs derisively, 144 LONGWORTirS IDYL. " You have been a poet and a novelist, Mr. l.ongworth, but you are not a romantic man. Don't let me detain you — don't mind me — I will go in directly," He takes her at her word, turning to go, sorry that he has wounded her, but not liking the situation, and not knowing what to say. So he says, " Good-night," and goes in, and leaves licT there alone. And, though he is not a romantic man, two little verses he has read somewhere come to hia memory as he goes upstairs : " I had died, for this last year, to know You loved me. Who shall turn on fate ? I care not if love come or go Now ; though your love seek mine for mate. It is too late. " You loved me, and you loved me not, A little much and overmuch — Will you forget as I forget ? X/et all dead things lie dead ; none such Are soft to touch. " CHAPTER XI. tONGWORTH'S IDYL. |IS face has shown very little feeling of any sort, as he stood leaning against the honeysuckle-wreathod pil- lar of the stoop and rejected a woman, but this impas- siveness has grown with him second nature. But at least the bt ief interview has banished all present desire for sleep. He seats himself before the open window, elevates his bouts on the sill, tilts back his chair in genuine Yankee fashion, kindles the inevitable cigar, without which he can neithei write nor think, and prepares to introvert himself. Here in his quiet LONG WORTH'S IDYL. HS room, with all the house at rest around him, the low, mur- murous sound of the water lapping the shore, the slipping of a branch, the tremulous twitter of a bird in its nest, the innumerable sounds of silence alone to be heard, ten years of his life slip away, and he is back in ti>e gallant and golden days of his youth, hopeful, high-hearted, enthusiastic, twenty- two, and in love. The broad expanse of star-lit bay fades from before him j a Southern landscape, steeped in the fire of an April sun, takes its place. He sees the long white Georgian mansion, Jirith its piazzas, its open doors and windows, the cotton-fields afar off with the negroes at work, the " quarters," a minia- ture village, where his Uncle Longworth's people live. It is a fair picture, a noble domain, one day to be all his own. As a boy, orphaned and nearly destitute, his rich and childless uncle, who all his life had held himself aloof from his family and every domestic tie, absorbed heart and soul in the hot pursuit of gold, came forward and took him to his home — to his heart as well, such heart as his life-long worship of Mam- mon had left him. He was a handsome lad, and a gallant, brave, high-spirited, self-willed, full of generous impulses, rash to recklessness, but with a heart as tender and nearly as easily touched as a girl's. And, best of all, with the God- fearing principles of a gentle and loving mother so deeply implanted that neither the world, the flesh, nor the devil (and all three battled hard in his life of ease and self-indul- gence under his uncle's roof) could ever wholly eradicate them. He was truthful to an extreme, open and frank as the day, with a temper as sunny and nearly as hot as the cloud- less soutlpern weather. In short a youth, so unlike in all things, the grave, self repressed man of thirty, that in looking backward he might well wonder what had become of that old impetuous self. Laurence Longworth was a nephew and an heir to be proud of, an(} old James Longworth was proud of him. All {ha 1 146 LONGWORlff'S IDYL love of a moneyngrubbing life that might have been divided between vnit and children, was concentraited on his boy. He sent him to a Northern college until he was eighteen, and then to Germany for the next four years, to complete a most thoroughly unbusiness-like and uncommercial education. The boy should never grub along in dingy warehouses, noi lose that bright and golden beauty of his, pouring over dry- as-dust ledgers. He should not even be a professional inan ; with the wealth he was to inherit, what need of toiling to master a profession ? He should be a young Georgian prince ; he should marry, by and by, of the elect of the land ; he should rear sons to hand the name of Longworth, undefiled by commerce, down to dim futurity. That was the old man's ambition, and young Laurence was only too ready and will ing to gratify it. He led a lordly life ; his pockets were filled with monej scattered hither and thither with a reckless prodigality. Mr Longworth never stinted him — when he traveled it was et. prince. Indeed he was known as " Duke Laurence " during his life at Heidelberg. With it all he had his own ambition and high sense of honor, and notions of the obligations of i prince, and studied hard, and ended his course with univei sity honors. Among the varied and useful information noi set down in the university course, was a taste for smoking, for the unlimited consumption of lager-bier, and the other German nectars, for small-swjrd exercise, and soft-eyed, fair- haired Gretchens. About one of these frauleins he fought a duel the last year, pinked his adversary, without doing him much damage, and finally returned home and fell in love with his second cousin, Laura. It was his very first serious " af- faire ; " that of Gretchen had been the veriest summer-day fancy — born and buried in an hour. But this was different, you understand. She was not unlike Gretchen either, at six- teen; tall for her age, inclined even then to a delightful plumpness, all that flaxen hair falling fluffy and crimpy to her LONGWORTH'S IDYL. 147 waist, and in " lunatic fringe " to her very eyebrows. The blue eyes were rather small, rather light, rather expression- less, and the ready smile that came and went so incessantly, rather vacuous, and insipid, and silly. That is, it might seem so, to hypercritical people — to Laurence Longworth, atat twenty-two, Laura Longworth was a paradisiacal vision of purity, loveliness, and white Swiss dresses, and to win this most beauteous of her sex for his wife would be to crown his existence with never-ending ecstasy. Miss Laura Longworth, lOtherwise Totty, at sixteen had no more mind of her own, no more individual soul, than a newly- hatched chicken. But she could see that young Laurence was handsome, and dressed in perfect taste, and wore such diamond studs and buttons as made her small, pale eyes open wide in wonder and admiration. His taste was not toned in those days — the lad was inclined to be foppish, and liked dia- monds of the first water, and superfine linen, and broadcloth. His presents, too, were such as any heir-presumptive might offer to his princess consort, and Tobty's white fat Uttle hands were hands to hold fast all they could grasp, even at sixteen. The costly books and bouquets she did not care about, but the jewelry touched her inmost soul. It was tiresome of Larry to insist on lying at her feet on the grass, and reading dull poetry aloud by the hour out of those aforesaid blue and gilt books. Poetry bored Totty — so did books of any kind, in fact, but this was the only drawback she could find in her splendid young lover. And so the sweet, hot weeks wore on, and June \yas approaching, and Mrs. Longworth began to talk of fleeing from the summer heats, and going back to her Baymouth home. \ word of Mrs. Longworth. She was so remotely akin to the old miUionaire merchant that she never dared to count upon the kinship Ar.d she was a lady ready to dare a good deal. Her late husband, besides being only a very distant cousin of James Longworth, had made James Longworth in 148 LONGWORTWS IDYL. early youth nis bitter foe. Mr. Longworth was a good hater ; he never pardoned an affront, never forgave an enemy if he could help himself. And so, when at the beginning Laurence had come one day full of the news and exclaimed, '' I say, uncle, here's Mrs. Longworth from Baymouth and her daugh- ter stopping at the Sheldons'. It would only be handsome, sir, I think, to ask them here," the old man had bent his bushy gray brows and scowled. " Tom Longworth's widow and her girl here ! What are they after ? Very bad taste on their part to come where I im ; but I know that woman — a brazen, bold-faced hussy, ind vicious enough for anything. Tom Longworth was 4 tnave and a fool ; no widow or daughter of his shall ever cross this threshold." " But you have no right, sir, to visit the wrong-doing of the father upon " " Bosh, Larry ! How old is this girl ? " " Sixteen, sir, and one of the loveliest r " " Of course 1 of course ! Every bread-and-butter school- girl is an angel in the eyes of a soft-headed boy of twenty- two. What has her mother brought her down here for ? Couldn't she barter her off up North ? Or does she want to «;atch young Sheldon ? He's next door to a fool, but his j»rospects are good, and I daresay Sarah Longworth will find it easier to inveigle a fool than a man endowed with the average amount of common sense. For you, Larry, my lad, I never interfere with your amusements, as you know — flirt with this little Longworth, or any one else, to your heart's content. There is a certain amount of calflove which young fellows of your stamp find it indispensable to get rid of some- how before they marry and settle ; you may bestow a little of its superfluity on this girl, if you like ; but when it comes to marrying, you shall please me as well as yourself. That will do ! Reserve your eloquence for the fiifeure, when you go to represent your native State in Congress, you know — don'J LONGWORTWS IDYL. 149 inflict it on me. You told me you were short of funds yes- terday. Here's a check for current expenses. Go and en- joy yourself; but mind, my boy" — he lays his hand on the lad's square shoulder, and looks at him, half-imperi- ously, half-fondly — " nothing serious for two or three years yet." Young Laurence, very erect, very resolute, very indignant, opens his lips to answer, is waved authoritatively down, takes his check, rides oif to town, and buys a pearl necklace for his fair, pale goddess. It is the only sort of offering he has discovered that can bring a sparkle of rapture to her eyes, » flush of joy to her cheeks. Flowers may have a language to him — to Miss Totty, peerless but practical, they speak not half so eloquently as pearls. It disappoints him a little, but girls are like that, he judges, fond of jewels, and laces, and pretty things. He is fond of them himself, in a way. It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to record, that long before this he " has told his love," in burning and eloquent words — not that burning eloquence was needed — and has been accepted. Mrs. Longworth is enchanted. Some ultimate design upon young William Sheldon has brought her here, it may be, but young Laurence Longworth is more than she could liave hoped for. As the wife of James Longworth' s heir, Totty' s position and her own are secure for all time. But Mis. Longworth must go home, and this pleasant idyl must come to an end. Laurence must speak to his uncle, says Mrs. Longworth ; it would place her darling in a false position, to take her away, engaged, without Mr. Longworth's sanction and blessing, and that she could never consent to. Laurence goes home and speaks. He stands before hia uncle in the rosy evening light, flushed, eager, handsome, pleading. He loves his Cousin Laura to distraction^ he can have neither life nor hope apart from her, she will be the inspiration, the good genius of his life ; will her uncle not IS6 LONGWOMTWS IDYL. forget and forgive the past, and take her to his heart as the daughtef of his home ? James Longworth listens,- growing purple with passion, ant} rises from his chair with a great oath. Accept her ! the art- fiil, maneuvering daughter of a brazen, sordid, match-makingy money-hunting mother ? Allow Tom Longworth' s daughter to enter this house as its mistress ? He would set fire to it with his dwn hand and burn it to the ground first. For Laurence, he is a fool, a love-sick, sentimental, ridiculous young fool, and if ever he mentions that girl's name in his hearing again, he will turn him out of the house without & shilling, like the beggar he was whefi he took- him in. James LongwOfth in a passion is a sight not good to see ; he is not choice in his words nor particular in his epithets. He sinks back now, out of breath, mopping his crimson old face, and glaring up ferociously angry at his heir. That con- lumacious young gentleman stands before him, his blond Tace quite colorless with a passion as intense as his own, his ips set, a steely fire in his handsome blue eyes, but though his rage is at white heat, he holds himself well in hand. Whenever the uncle waxes furious, and coarse, and vittlper- ative, the nephew puts him down with contemptuous, lordl' gentlemanly, frigid quiet. " Whatever abusive epithets you may find it necessary to use, sir," in his most ducal way says " Duke Laurence,'" looking the fiery old man unwinkingly in the eye* " yon will have the goodness to apply to me, not to a young lady whose acceptance of my suit 1 consider the chief honor of my life. I will not give her up. As to turning me out without a shilling, the beggar that you found me, that is a threat you have made before. To save you the trouble of repeating it, the next time you make it I will take you at your word." Mr. Laurence leaves the room, and smarting with anger and wounded dignity, rides at a furions rate to his lady's V wer, to prodiim that thro'igh good and ill, through fire LONGWORTH^S IDYL. 151 and water, through life and beyond life, he is hers, to do with as she chooses. Totty listens, and wishes he wouldn't — he makes her heaci ache when he goes on like that, he had better speak tc mamma, mamma will know what to do. And mamma knits her maternal brows^ and looks anxious. " Laurence, does he mean that ? " she asked ; " is it only an idle threat of anger, or will he keep his word ? I mean about disinheriting you." "I think it is extremely likely," says Laurence, coolly ; " he's the sort of customer, is the governor, to say unpleas- ant things, and stick to them. But you know Mrs. Long- worth, not a thousand fortunes shall come between me and my love for Totty." " Oh ! I know, I know," says Mrs. Longworth, in a still more worried tone ; " of course you're everything that's honorable, Larry, but it isn't that. You see there is honor due on our side too, and I couldn't, oh ! I really couldn't allow you to ruin yourself for my daughter's sake. If your uncle won't consent, you must give her up." " And a pretty, penniless, good-for-nothing son-in-law 1 should have on my hands," adds the lady, mentally, glancing contemptuously to the fair-haired prince of the house of Longworth. " A nice lily of the field you would be, if cut oif with a shilling, neither able to toil nor spin, twenty-two years of age, and fit for nothing but to read tomfoolery out of poetry books, and talk like the hero of a novel." " Give her up ! " cries young Laurence, with eyes afire. " Never ! My uncle sliall come round and accept her, or if he does not I can still make my own way in life. I have youth, and health, and strength, a fair education, and the average of brains. Surely I am not such a milksop as to be unable to achieve a career for myself. The world is mine oyster — I'll open it. I ask nothing but that Totty may be true to me." 152 LONGWORTH'S IDYL. Mrs. Longworth listens to this rhapsody with illc oncealed contempt. "Well, my dear boy," she says, '-if you can bring your uncle round, well and good — I will be delighted to give you Totty. But if you cannot — and indeed I am afraid you cai- not, for he is the most obstinate old wretch on earth — if you cannot, I say " "You will refuse me Totty — do you mean that?" cries the lad, indignantly. " Well, now, Laurence, be reasonable. Think of it. You are twenty-two, you have no profession, you are unfit for trade, you can' t live on a very fine university education and a knowledge of Greek and Latin, French and German. I believe a young man who has to make his way in the world will get on much better without any of those things, although the French and German might not hurt him. There would be an engagement of years and years, and I object to long engagements, and I am poor; very poor, Larry, and Totty would have a hard time. Still we won't do anything pre- maturely ; we will wait and see what you can do with the flinty-hearted old unclei" Laurence seeks out Totty — poor Totty ! — and pours his love and his wrath into her ears until she cries. Why does he come to her ? she says, piteously. She doesn't know- mamma knows ; whatever mamma says, she must do of course. Oh, yes, she likes him — well, loves him then, and will wait for him, if mamma will let her, ever and ever so long, or will marry him to-morrow if mamma is willing just the same. But please don't go on so any more ; it always makes her head ache, and she is willing to dc anything, and please everybody, if only mamma will give her lea,ve. Laurence goes home disspirited, sore, very love-iick, and cast down indeed. Old Mr. Longworth looks at him and laughs to himself, and while he laughs le pities his boy. He has quite got over his anger ; his red-hot rages with Larry LONGWORTWS IDYL. I S3 never last, and he makes up his mind to buy off this woman and her girl, and pack them back where they came from, and cure Laurence of his boyish folly. He is a man to strike while the iron is -hot, in business and out of it. He rides into town, seeks out Mrs. Longworth the very next day, has a plain, curt, prosaic, business-like interview with her, per- fectly civil, quiet, passionless. " I like the lad," the old man says, his hands clasped over his cane, his chin upon them, his stern old eyes on the lady's discomfited face ; " it is for his sake I want this foolery ended and done with. He is my heir, as you know ; he has been brought up like a king's son ; left to himself, he is ut terly unable to make his way an inch in the world. I have done it on purpose ; I want him to be solely dependent upon me. If he marries your daughter I'll turn him out ; a dollar of my money he shall never see. You know me, ma'am. I'm not the sort to bluster and swear, and come round in the end with my fortune and blessing. I'll turn him adrift, 1 say — I'll take my sister's son, Httle Dexter, in his place. Your daughter will have a fine, high-toned, thoroughly edu- cated young gentleman for a husband, and you will have a beggar for a son-in-law. I don't think that would suit your book, ma'am. But the boy is bothered over this affair — ] can see it — and will be until all is over. Then he'll come round all right and fast enough. Young men die, and worms eat them, but not for love. Now, Mrs. Longworth, how much will you take, ma'am, and go off with your young lady, and let my boy see her no more ? I've spent money freely on him, for his pleasure and profit, up to the present ; Fm ready to spend a trifle more now. Name your price, and try and be reasonable." " Mr. Longworth, this is outrageous," cries the lady in a fury. "Do you think my daughter's affections are to be bought and sold like so many bales of cotton ? " " Is that a hint at my business, ma'am ? I'm not in cot 7' ^54 LOMG WORTH'S IDYL. ton bales any more. As to the affections — never mind tuem. She's not her dear mother's daughter if she doesn't prefer bread and butter to a kiss and a drink of water. There's young Sheldon-^I hear he's willing — couldn't you pass her along to him ? For you— you ate poor, I understand, and have a clear head for figures. Give the sum a name, ma'am, and then I'll make my stipulations." MrSi Longworth looks him full in the face, and names the sum — no trifle. Old James Longworth, still with his chin on his cane, chuckles inaudible admiration. " My word, ma'am, you're a cool hand; and a clever one ! It's a round price, but for the lad's sake . If I pay it I must make my conditions, and the first is, that Laurence is to know nothing, absolutely nothing; of this little business transaction, or of my visit to you at alh" " Have no fear, sii? ; I am not so proud of either that I am likely to proclaim them," says Mrs. Longworth, bitterly. " Very good, ma'am — it's not a creditable affair-^to you. The second is, that you are to make your daughter refuse him — say she mistook herself and her affections, and what not — she'll know. If she doesn't you can coach her. You're a clever woman." "Thank you, sir," says Mrs. Longworth, still more bitterly. " The third is, that you'll mdrry her to Willy Sheldon, if Willy Sheldon wants her, and as quickly as may be. He does want her, doesn''t he ? " " He has asked my daughter to marry him, if that is what you mean." " That is what I mean. And she '' " Being engaged to your nephew, sir, she refused hmi." "Well, the obstacle of that engagement being rem Dved, there is no reason why these young "hearts shouldn't come together," says old Mr. Longworth, with a sneen " Noth- ing else will thoroughly cure Larry of his besotted folly, Sheldon's prospects are good ; he is senior clerk in a big LONGWORTff'S [DYL. 155 banking-house, a.nd will be junior partner before long, if I choose to give him a push. I'll give him that push when he's your daughter's husband. For you, ma'am, I'll give you one-half the sum you have named, when you have turned out Laurence, and are ready to go. The second half I will hand over the day you are mother-in-law to little Willie Sheldon. I'll give you my bond for it in black and white." Two days after, standing by her mother's side, a little pale and scared, Laura Longworth gave Laurence Longworth his dismissal and his diamond ring. It was the only thing she did give him of all his gifts. Al*. that " portable property " in gold and precious stones lay snugFy upstairs. It cost her a greater pang to part with the fine solitaire she drew off her finger than it did to part with the gallant and handsome young lover, who stood before her pallid with pain, but taking his punishment like 'a man. She had mistaken herself — she cared most for Willy, and she never could consent to ruin her cousin Laurence. They must part, and — and here was his ring, and — and Willy wished the wedding to take place speedily, and he was to follow them to Baymouth in a month, and — and they were to be married the last of July. Perhaps Laura hoped that Laurence in a transport of passion would fling that diamond at her feet — her eyes were upon it all the while, and never had it sparkled so temptingly ; but he did nothing of the sort ; he picked it up and put it in his pocket without ' a word. There was no appeal — he did not try to appeal. She had said she cared for William Sheldon most — that settled everything. He stood white and silent, his brows knit, his blue eyes stern, amazed, contemptuous, and then he took his hat, and bowed to both ladies, and went out of the house, feeling that for him, and for all time, the whole world had come to an end. He did not go away. He spoke of the matter just once to his uncle, in words brief and few. 156 LONGWORTH'S IDYL. " If s all over, sir," he said. " She is to marry Will Shel don. I'll try to please you next time, instead of myself. Excuse anything I may have said, and don't let us speak of it again." ' But he grew thin as a shadow, moodily indifferent to all things, silent, pale. Nothing could arouse or amuse him ; all his old pursuits lost their savor, books, horses, billiards held no charms, his apathy grew on him day by day. As the latal wedding-day drew near, his gloom and depression became so profound that his uncle grew alarmed. The boy must go dway — must travel. This foolery and love-sickness was be- coming startling — the last state of the youthful swain was worse than the first. Laurence must try change. " All right, sir, I'll go," Laurence answers, wearily ; " one place is as good as another. I'll try New York." He goes to New York, and New York does him good, after a fashion. Not mentally nor morally, perhaps, for he gets into a rather reckless set, and gambles and drinks much more than is good for him, but it certainly helps him to get over his love fever. He reads Miss Laura Longworth's marriage in the papers one July morning, stares at it in a stony way for awhile, then throws down the sheet, and laughs in the diabolical way the first murderer does his cachinnation on the stage, and out-Herod's Herod in mad dissipation for the ensuing week. At the end of that period he receives a visit from Mrs. Longworth, which sobers him more effectu- ally than many bottles of soda-water. " 1 heard you were here, I^aurence," she says, to the young man, who receives her with Arctic coldness. " I have come from Baymouth on purpose to see you. Now that Totty io married" (Laurence grinds his teeth), "and the money paid to the last cent, I may speak. I do not do it for revenge." Oh, the vengeful fire that blazed in Mrs. Long- worth's eyes as she says it ! " Far be it from me to cherish so sinful a feeling. But I think you ought to know Totty LONGH'ORTff'S IDYL. 157 loved you best, Lauiy — I may tell it surely now, since she will never know — and nothing would have made her give you up but the fear of ruining you for life. I am a poor woman, I^aurence, a poor hard-working widow, and need I shame to saj it, I have my price. Your uncle bought me off, and but for him my daughter might be your wife to-day instead of Sheldon's." " For Heaven's sake stop ! " the young fellow says> hoarsely. " I can't stand this ! Don't talk of her if you wanl me to keep my senses. What is this of my uncle?" She sits, vindictive triumph in her face, and tells him the story, exaggerating his uncle's part, extenuating her own, re- peating every sneer, every threat. "I say again," she concludes, "but for this money which poverty alone forced me to accept, and the dread of ruining you, Totty would be your bride, not Willy Sheldon's, at this hour." Her work is done and she goes away — done almost too well she is afraid, as she looks in young Laurence's stony, fixed face at parting. But he says little or nothing — in these deadly white rages of his he always becomes dumb. But that niglit, as fast as steam can carry him, he is on his way to his Southern home. In the yellow blaze of an August afternoon, dusty and travel-worn, he reaches it. Unannounced, unexpected, he opens the door of his uncle's study and stands before him. Mr. Longworth, sitting at his desk writing, looks up in eager and glad surprise at his boy. " What ! Larry, lad ! So soon ? Well, soon or late, always glad t see you. But, what is the matter, boy ? you do not look well." Truly he did not. His cheeks were hollow, his lips' were white, dark circles were beneath his eyes, and in those steadfast eyes a fire that boded no good. Physically, at 158 LONGWORTH-'S IDYL. (least, his fortnight in New York had not benefited the hen of the Longworths. " You are busy, sir," is his answer, in an odd, constrained voice ; " I will wait until you have finished." " My writing need never be finished ; I was answering your last letter, my boy. You asked for more money — ^you spend like a prince, Larry ; but I have brought you up like a prince, and I find no fault. Here is the check, you see, ready signed." Laurence takes it, looks at the amount — a large one— • then looks steadfastly at the old man. " Three days ago, sir, Mrs. Longworth came to see me in New York. Her daughter was safely married, her price was safely paid, she had notliing to fear. She came and told me the whole story. By stealth and by treachery you bought her, you compelled her to marry her daughter to Sheldon ; your money was an all-powerful lever, as you know ; even hearts and souls can be bought and paid for with it. But even money cannot do all things — cannot pay for every- thing. It bought Mrs. Longworth — it cannot buy me. You have done me many and great services — their memory has helped me to bear the many and great insults you have heaped upon me. But even for millionaires there is a line — you have gone beyond it. I return you yo«r check and bid you good-by^ Good-morning ! " He tears the slip of paper deliberately in four pieces, lays them on the table, and turns to go. The old man starts from his chair and holds out his arms. " Laurence ! " he cries, in agony ; but it is doubtful if that despairing cry reaches him, for the door has closed upon him and he is already gone. Laurence Longworth returned to New York, and began at the beginning. He was twenty two, he had no profession, and the world was all before him where to choose. It was LONGWORTWS IDYL. 1 59 tremendously up-hill work, but it did him good. Ke dropped dissipation of every kind, and forgot Totty Longworth. His classical education, his Greek and Latin hexameters, did not help him much in the beginning of this hard, single-fisted fight with fate ; it would have been more to the purpose and infinitely more remunerative if his uncle had taught him shoe-making. He floated about for many months among the flotsam and jetsam of the great army of the Impecunious in a large city, and finally drifted ashore on the Land of Litera- ture. He had firaternized in the days of his princedom with a good many newspaper men — he had a taste for that sort of people — and they got him work now. And having got it, Laurence discovered that he had found his vocation — jour- nalism was his forte and destiny for life. He was attached to the corps of a daily paper, and won his way with a rapidity that left the good comrades who had befriended him far behind. He had acquired stenography as an amusement long ago — it stood him in good stead now. From reporting, in course of time he took to leader- writing ; it was found he had- a dashing, slashing, daring style, with a strong vein of sarcasm and a subtle touch of humor. He could dash off audacious diatribes' against political and social vices, and handle brilliantly every.topic he undertook. He held ex- haustive opinions on every subject uuder the sun, ventilated those opinions freely, and was prepared to fight for them, to slay and spare not, in their defense. Promotion followed rapidly. At the end of the second year he was city editor, with a fine salary, of one of the first papers of the day. This position he held two years. Then he discovered the Haymouth Phenix was for sale, went to Baymouth and '■ bought it. It was a promising field, and his one great ambi- tion was to make the world better and wiser by an ideal newspaper. He resigned his position, took Miles O'Sullivan as his second, and settled in Baymouth " for good." Mr. O'Sullivan was one of the journalistic gentlemen who l6o LONGWORTH'S IDYL. had first given Longworth a latch-key to literature — a clevei little man in his profession, with a twinkling eye, the national nose, and a rich accent brought from the Reeks of Kerry, to flavor his unexceptionable English. It was during the first year of struggle that Longworth wrote his novel and volume of verses. Both fell dead. The novel was didactic, and dogmatic, and realistic, and un- speakably dreary ; the " poems '' were Byronic, gloomy, and vapid. Mr. Longworth never tried again — he had discovered that though a man may be a brilliant journalist, a keen and clever reporter, a sarcastic and witty reviewer, some addi- tional gift is needed to make him a successful novelist and poet. It being agreed on all hands, however, that fiction wriring is the very lowest branch of the lofty tree of litera- ture, he had the less reason to regret this failure, and the failure itself did him this good, that it made him the more austere and carping critic, your true critic being notoriously the man " who has failed in literature and art." Mrs. Longworth, with the money that had been hot daughter's price, had opened a boarding-house in her native town. The editor of the Phenix became one of her board- ers. How completely the love-dream of four years befor*-. had died out, may be inferred from this. He bore her no. ill-will, he bore his nncle none, now. These four years had been a liberal education, more valuable by far than all thai had preceded them. He blamed himself for his conduct to his uncle — the old man had acted wrongly, but he had been fond of him and good to him. He did not greatly regret the lost inheritance — he would not have exchanged the past four years, with their struggles, and failures, and triumphs, for twice that inheritance. Nothing would ever have induced him to give up his career, and go back to the old useless life, but he could nol even if he would. Mr. Longworth, in wrath deep and deadlj against his nephew, had adopted his sister's son, Frank Dex LONGWCRTWS IDYL. l6l ten Mrs. Dexter, a widow, had lived in Boston, and Lau' rence knew the boy, and liked him. He had no wish to oust him ; he had found his work in life, and it was a labor of love. No other love came to rival it ; at one-and-thirty Longworth was unmarried, and likely to remain so. He had neither time nor inclination for falling in love, his pen and his inkstand were his mistresses. Two years before this night on which he sits and smokes and muses, Mrs. Sheldon, in widow's weeds, had returned to the maternal roof. She had no children ; she was handsomer than ever, and she was tolerably well dowered. She and the dashing lover of her youth had met prosaically enough over the buckwheats and boiled eggs of breakfast, and he had shaken hands with her, and looked into the light blue eyes, and smiled to himself as he recalled that dead and nearly forgotten summer idyl. What a consummate young ass he had been ; what could he have seen in this big wax doll, witli the fluffy flaxen hair and china eyes, who only knew how to say '' mamma " when punched in the pit of the stomach, like any other doll ? The fluify flaxen hair was combed back off the Ipw, intellectual forehead now, and wifehood and widow- hood had expanded- her mind ; she had pronounced ideas of her own on the subject of spring bonnets and the trimming of dresses — she even read the stories in one or two ladies' magazines. Certainly years and matrimony had developed Mrs. Sheldon. As time wore on a new idea was developed also, a very decided tendresse for the handsome and talented author and publisher. People talked of him ; he was a man of mark, he delivered lectures that were lauded, he was f aid to be growing rich. And into that calmly pulsing organ, Mrs. William Sheldon's heart, came something that thrilled at the sound of Longworth's voice, at the touch of his hand, at the glan'ie of his eye. " She looked at him as one who awakes ; The past wa.s a dream, and her life begun," l62 DELICATE GROUtTD. Did Longworfh observe it? He gave no sign. There were times, certainly, in conversations with his fair kinswo- man, when, as Mr. 0"Sullivan expressed it, " he shied like a two-year-old." This night on the stoop had finished what had been going on for some time. She had not meant to be unwomanly, or go as far as she had gone, but jealousy, in spite of herself, had forced it from her. She was jealous of Marie I^andelle, and sitting brooding over the past and the present, her passion had mastered her, and when he came she had laid her heart at his feet, and seen it — rejected. A clock down-stairs strikes twelve. Longworth jumps up, ind flings away the end of his cigar. " Midnight and morning here ! There goes the town ;lock ! I'm one minute and a half fast. ' 'Tis the witching hour when churchyards yawn ' " Here Mr. I^ongworth yawns himself, and winds his watch. " I will to bed," And as he goes, the words of the poem still keep their jingle in his mind : " A year divides us, love from love; Though you love novif, though I loved then, The gulf is deep, but straight enough ; Who shall recross — ^who among men Shall cross again ? " CHAPTER XII. DELICATE GROUND. I HEN Longworth descends to breakfast next morn- ing, he finds Mrs. Sheldon before him, and alone, in the dining-room. She is standing in the bay- window, niahiug a tiny bouquet from among the roses and DELICATE GROUND 163 geraniums, the brilliant sunshine bathing her in her pretty white wrapper, pale azure ribbons, and pale flaxen hair. A very fair picture of matured beauty, surely ; but Longworth's first thought as he looks at her is : " What an enormous debt of gratitude 1 owe my uncle for that day's work nine years ago, and what an idiotic young donkey I must have been to be sure ! " She turns quickly. She has learned to know his step from among all the others, and in six years of marriage she had never learned to distinguish her husband's. Something akin to a flush of shame passes over her face. " Good morning, Totty," he says genially, standing by her side. " That looks suspiciously like a button^bole bouquet. Who is to be the happy recipient ? " " You, if you care to have it. Larry ! " she says quickly, and with a catch in her breath, " I want you to forget last night. I must have been mad I think j I — I let my feel- ings carry me away. I do not know how to explain what I mean " " There is no explanation needed, my dear child," Long- worth says kindly, and with a certain grave tenderness in his tone. (What man in his secret heart does not respect the good taste of a woman who persists in being in love with him ?) " I know that you were but a child in those days-^ I know that in maturer years you regret the past for my sake, because I lost a fortune, and in your womanly self-abnegation, would i-acrifice yourself to atone. I understand it all, but believe nie, I never regret that loss. Now, if I am to have that bouquet you must pin it for me." " You are generous," she says, in a low voice, but she bites her lips as she says it with cruel force. " Yoa always were generous. Trust me, I shall not forget it." Something in her tone makes Longworth look down at her curiously, but at that moment enters unto them Mr. Miles O'Sullivan. He takes in the situation— the close proximity l64 DELICATE GROUND. the bouquet, the flushed cheeks of the lady — and makes an instinctive step backward. The gesture annoys J-ongworth, he can hardly tell why. " Are you from the ofBce, O. ? " he calls. " What took you there at this hour ? " " Nothing took me there. I have not been next or near the office. Sure that's a beautiful little posy you've got this morning, chief. Upon my word it's the lucky fellow you are ; the favorite of the ladies wherever you go." " I'll make you one if you like, Mr. O'Sullivan," says Totty, quickly, and moving away. " It's Larry's audacity, I think, that does it. He asked me for it first, and then w? keinder lonesome, inwintei now it's oncommon, and of a winter's night when the wind's from the rior'rard, an' makes a clean sweep of this yere is- land, an' the waves roar right up a'most over the place, it ain't noway cheerful. But he mostly takes it out in sleep, all through the vvinter, and somehow don't mind. Wrecks, miss ? Wall, sometimes of course, it's the nater of things that there must be wrecks.'' A weird picture rises before Reine. A tempestuous win- ter night, the winds howling over this ' sea-girt isle," the snow falling in blinding drifts, the lamp up yonder gleaming through the wild, white darkness, the light-house keepei DELICATE GROUND. 17J asleep before his fire, and some fated vessel driving on and on to her doom. She goes through the light-house with Longworth and Rob- inson Crusoe, up, up the spiral stairs to the very top, where the big lamp sits like a cherub "up aloft," and the breeze nearly tears the coquettish little hat off her head. Then down, and through the tiny three-roomed cottage, all at sixes and sevens, speaking pathetically in every dusty chair, in every untidy household god, of the abject creature Man sinks to, when he tries housekeeping alone. " You ought to have a wife, my friend," suggests Mr. Long- worth, "to put things straight, and keep you company on howling winter nights." "Wa-a-1," drawls doubtfully the philosopher, "I keinder don't know. Marryin', to my mind, is suthin' like dpn' — a man knows whar he is, but he don't know whar he's goin' to, I never did sot much store by wiramin folks even when I was a young chap, an!- 'taint no use tryin' 'speriments at my time o' life. I guess I'll suifer right on as I be.'' Reine laughs — her coldness melts in spite of her — she has never been in so gracious a mood with her chosen enemy be- fore. He takes advantage of it and shows her all the pretty lookouts, and miniature caves, and tin}' inlets, and glimpse.'* of green woodland where the song of the sea steals slumber ously, and the strong salt wind is mingled with the scent o) wild roses. He gathers her some ferns, and makes them s9nd the wild roses into a bouquet, and in doing it tears hi& hand with a spiky branch — a long tear from which the blood flows. " Oh ! " Reine says, and turns pale. " I don't want to stain my bouquet with blood — that would be an evil omefi," he says. "Will you kindly wipe it off be- fore it drops on the ferns ? " He draws out his handkerchief, and she obeys in all good faith ; but I^ongworth's eyes are laughing as he watches her. 8* 178 DELICATE GROUND. " ' 'Tis not so deep as a Well,' " he thinks, " ' nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve.' Thanks^ mademoiselle. Now if you will do me the favOr to accept my very humble floral offering • " She hesitates a moment, bites her lip, reddens, but accepts They pass out of the sylvan twilight into the sunshine and the midst of the merry-makers. " ' I hate him — I will hate him my whole life long 1 ' Little Queen," he thinks, looking down at her^ " rash promises are dangerous things— foolish to make and hard to keep* You shall forgive me yet for refusing to rob you of your forturte." The day is a perfect day, the picnic an ideal picnic. The dinner is good, the champagne is iced, the knives and forks have not been forgotten, the jellies are jellies, not shapeless masses, the pies are not squash, the ham is firm and rosy. Insane beings who care for dancing, with the thermometer at ninety in the shade, dance ; the sane people who do notj drift away in twos and threes, but mostly in twos, and nobody knows anything of the whereabouts of anybody else, until the sun goes down like a wheel of fire* and purple and crimson, and orange and opal, pale away into primrose and drab. Then they drift together as they drift asunder, and there is a gipsy tea-drinking, which is merrier than all. Faces are flushed, noses are sunburned, the wind comes cool off the sea, and pound-cake and tea are as the nectar of the gods. " It has been a consumedly hot day," says Mr. Long.i worth, pushing the damp, fair hair off his forehead. " My lords and gentlemen, you behold an utterly collapsed editor. Mrs. Windsor, I hope the thermometer has not been too many for you ? " "No, she likes heat," Mrs. Windsor replies^ "it agrees with het." But she looks bored as she sg^s it, and has registeied a mental vow, to be inveigled to picnics no more. Music and moonshine, picnics and pleasuring, beyond a certain age, are mistakes. DELICATE GROUND. 1/9 Rcine is beside her grandmother, but she has thrown away the roses and ferns — wild roses are not long-iived flowers. Marie reclines beside Mr. Longworth on the dry, wind- scented grass ; she has been beside him all the afternoon in spite of every effort of Frank Dexter, and neither flush, nor freckle, tan, nor sunburn, spoil her pearl fair-skin. They re-embarki The moon rising slowly from over there in the west, comes all silvery and shining out of the water. It is a full moon — this picnic has been arranged with an eye to her quarters, and three-quarters, and she leaves a trail of tremulous light behind her. The band is at it again, " A Starry Night for a Ramble " it plays, and the moon and the melody make the young people sentimental — they lean over the side and stare pensively at the former. Reine stands among the moon-gazers, but Marie, who does not care for moonlight effects except on the stage, is promenading slowly up and down, listening to, and smiling indulgently upon Mr. Frank Dexter. " Come here, Laurence,' ' says Mrs. Windsor, and he goes over and takes a seat beside her. " I do not think we have exchanged ten words all day. What did you do with your- self the whole of this afternoon ? " She smiles as she says it. She knows very well who his companion has been, all this afternoon, much better than she does who was his companion this morning. "J had the honor of pointing out to Miss Landelle the various points of interest and attraction about the island," he answers. " 1 only regret in my character of cicerone they were not more numerous and more romantic." " Young people manufacture their own romance, do they ; not, Laurence ? " She leans forward and lays one long, slim hand on his arm " How do you like my granddaughter ? " Longworth laughs. The perfect abruptness of the ques tion is enoigh to throw any man off guard, but that inscrut able face never betiays its owner. l8o DELICATE GROUND. " My dear Mrs Windsor, is that not a somewhat embar rassing question ? And there can be but one reply. Youi granddaughters are young ladies whose great attractions the whole world must admit." " I said granddaughter," retorts Mrs. Windsor, with em- phasis, glancing at Marie. " My younger granddaughter certainly has little claim to beauty or attraction of any kind." " That may be a question of taste,'' says Longworth, coolly, and looks in turn at the dark, quiet face, the dark, straight brows, the dark, shining eyes. Robe that figure in white, he thinks, crown that dusk brow irith a band of yellow gold, and she might stand as she stands now, for some Oriental princess. " She is not pretty," Mrs. Windsor says, rather coolly ; " and I think she has a bad temper. But Marie is, beyond dispute, a most beautiful girl." "A most beautiful girl," the gentleman echoes. " She is well-bred, her manners are full of repose, her dis- position is amiable. She will be a wife with whom any man may be happy, of whom any man may be proud." She pauses and glances at her again. Longworth' bows, inwardly amused. " Those facts are indisputable, madam." " Have you thought, Laurence," the lady goes on, earn- estly, " of our last private interview before those girls came — pf the proposal I made to you then, and which you so peremptorily declined ? I trust you have thought it over since, and thought better of it." " I have not thought it over for one moment," he answers, promptly. " I never can or could think better of it. If I found it impossible to do it than, you may imagine, having seen the young ladies, how much more impossible it must be now." "But is there no other way," she asks, with a peculiai gmile, " in which these diiferent and clashing interests can b« DELICATE GROUND. l8l merged ? Is there no other way in which what I offer maj be yours, without injury to them ? " " Madam, your goodness overpowers me," says Mr. Long worth. He pauses a moment, his eyes follow hers toward the tall, slender form with the loose, golden hair and lovely, smiling face. " I cannot pretend to misunderstand you. Yes, there is one other way." " If both my granddaughters were plain girls " "Impossible for Mrs. Windsor's granddaughters to be that," puts in the gentleman, parenthetically. — " If, as I say, both these girls were plain and unattrac- tive in any way, it is a suggestion I would never dream ot making. But Marie is more than usually beautiful ; she is gentle and graceful, and I do make it. It would please me very much, Laurence, to see Marie Landelle your wife — to know you as my son in reality, as you have long been in heart. I like the girl better than I ever thought to like Hippolyte Landelle's child. Will you think of this, Laurence, for my sake ? " " With pleasure, Mrs. Windsor — for your sake and for my own. Indeed," he says, and a slight smile breaks up the giavity of his attentive face, " I have thought of it myself before this evening. How long do you give me to make up my mind ? " " Oh, all that is entirely for you to decide. Fall in love at your leisure, by all means. I do not know how a man may feel, and at no time was I ever very susceptible myself, but I really cannot think it a difficult matter to fall in love with Marie." " Frank does not seem to find it so at least. I think he was fatally hard hit from the first. You stand decidedly in Miss Landelle's light, madam, in offering her to me. In a pecuniary point of view Dexter is far and away a better match than I." " My heiresiS can afford to dispense with that consideration, 1 82 DELICATE GROUND. Yes, I know he has the fortune that was to be yours. 1 know too why, and for whom you lost it. Laurence, I can' not realize it. She is pretty in her way but unutterably insipid. What could you ever have seen in Mrs. Shel- don ? » " Ah ! what ? " Longworth laughs. " Now we are on delicate ground indeed. My Cousin Laura was a very pretty girl at sixteen, and in those days my taste had not been formed. She threw me over sensibly enough for a better fellow." He rises as he speaks, turns as if about to go, and pauses, as if a thought had struck him. " You are sure there are no prior engagements ? I wouldn't care to poach on another man's manor. You are sure they will not object ? It would be unpleasant for me to fall deliberately in love only to be a blighted being for the rest of my life." She looks at him quickly to see if he is jesting. It is sometimes difficult for her to tell whether her favorite is in jest or earnest. His countenance at least is quite grave. " I presume so," she answers rather haughtily ; " they would hardly come to me as they did come if prior attach- ments or engagements existed." " And you will drop them a hint of this little arrangement. It will only be fair to give them a voice in the matter, you know. " " Well — if you wish it, certainly, but " "I decidedly wish it," he interrupts, coolly, "a fair field and no favor on both sides. By-the-by, you don't restrict me to Mademoiselle Marie, I hope ? A man naturally I'kes freedom of choice, and as I told you before, tastes differ. If , by any chance " She looks at him in unfeigned surprise. "Could you reall} think of that small, silent, dark, lathei DELICATA GROUND, 183 plain girl ? I cannot believe it I should certainly, foi youi own sake, prefer it to be Marie " " My dear lady, how are we to tell that either will conde- scend to think of me twice ? As to Mile. Reine, I have it from her own lips, that she hates me, that she always intends to hate me, that she thinks me insufferably priggish and PecksnifBan, and for all I know she may be right. But it is my whim to have freedom of choice^-with your permis- sion." " Mr. Laurence Longworth," says Mrs. Windsor, half- amused, half annoyed, " my opinion is that you are laughing at me all this while, and mean to have nothing to say to either. You know perfectly well that for the success of our scheme it would be much better not to say a word about it. Girls are proverbially perverse — tell them they are to do a certain thing, and they immediately go and do the reverse. But you shall please yourself. I will speak to them if you desire it." " I do. And believe me I am more in earnest than you give me credit for. Here comes Mrs. Longworth. I resign in her favor." Marie and Frank pass at the moment, and she smiles upon him. They both seem well amused ; it would be a pity to spoil sport. A little farther down he sees Reine, no longer alone. O'Sullivan is by her side, and Mrs. Sheldon, and a few more, and this group he leisurely joins. Mr. O'Sullivan appears to have the floor, and is expatiating on the purity of Hibernian lineage and the desirability of the capital letter ♦' O " by way of a prefix. " It's the equivalent of the Germa.n von or French de — a patent of nobility in itself Sure any one that ever took the trouble to read Irish history " " A trouble which nobody ever does take, my prince," says Longworth. " knows," continues the O'Sullivan, " that ' O ' and l84 DELICATE GROUND. ' Mac ' are the prefixes of all the kings of the countiy from time immemorial. And there's the old rhyme besides : •"By Mac and O, Ye'U surely know True Irishmen alway. But if they lack Both O and Mac, No Irishmen are they.' " The town clocks are striking ten as they land, and all are weary and glad to be home. They have toasted their next merry meeting in claret cup, they have lauded Mr. Francis Dexter to the heavens, and sung boisterously in his honor, " For he's a jolly good fellow. Which nobody can deny," And so, a brilliant success from first to last, Mr. Dexter's picnic comes to an end. " It has been the happiest, the very happiest day of my life," he murmurs to Miss I^andelle at parting, and he lifts her hand, as he says it, in right knightly fashion, and kisses it. On Reine's table, when she enters her room, a letter lies — a letter in a man's hand, and post-marked London. Her tired face flushes as she sees it ; she tears it open and reads it eagerly, and kisses with shining eyes the words which are its last : " Thine for ever and ever, LboncX- " "AS THE QUEEN WILLS" l8S CHAPTER XIII. 'as the queen wills.' EINE," Marie Landelle says, " did you really enjoy the excursion yesterday ? I ask because I heard you singing ^ Ah I mon fils,' this morning as you made your toilet. And it is time out of mind since I have heard you sing as you dressed before.'' She is seated in an arm-chair, still wearing her pretty morn- ing-gown, although it is close upon three, grandmamma's early dinner hour. Reine stands behind her, brushing slowly out the long, lovely hair — her daily task. She laughs frankly now. " Undoubtedly I enjoyed it. The day was delightful, the water smooth, the company agreeable, and " "Mr. Longworth attentive. Please don't pull, Petite. You and he were together in close and confidential converse all the forenoon." " Not especially confidential. How shall I arrange your coiffure to-day, Marie ? Braided or loose as usual ? " " Braids, please, and put in the finger-puflfs for a change. What did you talk about ? " " As if I could remember ! What do people who meet at picnics always talk about ? Only I must say this — M. Long- worth's conversation as a rule is much better worth hearing than the average." " Ah ! " " I don't know what you mean by ' Ah ! ' You must have discovered that yourself. One may dislike a person and still do him justice." 1 86 »AS THE QUEEN fVlLLS." " But the other day justice was the very last thing you were disposed to do Mr. Longworth. Truly now, Petite, in all candor and honesty, do you really dislike him as you say ? " " Am I in the habit of saying what I do not niean,^ Marie?" "Oil, you are frightfully truthful I admit, but rash judg- ments, Petite, are to be repented of. You said you hated Monsieur Longworth for refusing to rob us of* our fortunej and for making oiir grandmother let us come. Now was that just or reasonable, I ask? And surely, hearing his praises sung so assiduously by Miss Hariott, and meeting him so frequently there, you must be inclined to err rathet on the side of mercy than of prejudice by this time;" Reine looks annoyed^ and Marie winces as her hair is pulled. " I do not meet him so Very often at Miss Hariott's. When he is there, they two talk and I play. I do not exchange a dozen words with him. Have I not told you he heard every word I said that first time we met there, when I declaied I would hate him forever? It was unjust and unreasonable, as you tell me j but what you insinuate —that is another thing." " He was at church last Sunday — I saw him, Reine," Marie says, plaintively. " How you are pulling my hain"' " I beg your pardon, dear, but it is impossible for me to help it, if you will talk," responds Reine, with decision ; and Marie smiles to herself and gives up the point. But when the red-gold hair is fashionably and elaborately coiffured, Reine herself returns to the charge. " Marie," she says gravely, " Mr. Frank Dexter's atten- tions are growing far too pronounced. That poor boy is falling hopelessly in love." " That poor boy, indeed ! One would think she was his giandmbther I You are getting a trick of your friend, Miss "AS THE qUEBN WILLS." 187 Hariott, in talking. Apropos, Reine, I don't half like your Miss Haiiott." " And I love her ■ It is the kindest heart, and she is a gentlewoman to her finger tips. But we are speaking of Monsienr Frank Uexten" " You are, you mean." " And you ought to put a st<)p to it, Marie, you know that, He was so kind all the way out, he is so good-hearted always " " And pray what have I got to do with his good heart ? One must amuse one's self, and if they fall in love, I cannot help iti One likes to be liked, and if it amuses him as well- " " Amuses ! Marie, you know he is in earnest. Oh ! ybU cannot care for him, I know that well. I am not thinking of you, although you have no right " " Now, Petite ! " " No right to flirt at all ; but one day, poor fellow, when vou throw him over ■ " " Ah ! Dieu mercie I there is the dinner-bell," cries Mariey jumping up. " She ca-nnot go on preaching in the presence of her majesty down-stairs^ If you say another word. Petite Reine, I will drop Monsieur Frank and take up Monsieur Larry ! " " Do," says Reine ; " I wish you Would* I promise not to interfere there. He cannot hurt you, and I am quite sure you cannot hurt him. The man is as hard as stone." It is quite evident Mr. Longworth is still not absolutely a foe-forgiver. Mrs. Windsor, with a more gracious face ahd bearing than usual, awaits them in the dining-room. It is the first time they have met that day. Madame has break, fasted in her room, and so has Miss Landelle. Have they recovered from the fatigue of the picnic ? Marie, she is glad to see, has escaped the sun scathless, but Reine is sunbumedj It is something quite out of the common for her to hotice l88 »AS THE QUEEN WILLS." her younger granddaughter at all, except in the mbst casual manner. Dinner passes. Marie always exerts herself and makes talk in her grandmother's presence, and no one can do it more fluently or more gracefully, when she chooses to try. Reine never chooses. She knows Mrs. Windsor dislikes her, and if the truth must be told, cordially returns that dislike. Dinner ends. Reine walks to the open window and looks out. The clear sunshine that has lasted so long has gone, the day is gray, windless, threatening rain. One or two large drops patter and fall on the flags, as she looks. As she stapds dreamily gazing at the glimpse of lead-colored sky seen between the trees, Mrs. Windsor in her slow, modulated voice, speaks. " There is a matter of some moment upon which I wish to speak to you, young ladies,'' she begins; "it concerns the disposal of my fortune. Mademoiselle Reine, may I claim the honor of your attention ? " Marie, reclining gracefully indolent in p chair, turning over the leaves of an illustrated book, pauses and turns to her grandmother. Reine comes forward a step or two, and stands leaning lightly against the low marble chimney. " I told you on the evening of your arrival," says Mrs. Wind- sory " that I had made my will and disposed of all I possess to my friend, Mr. Longworth. That he declined the gift did not alter my resolution. But last night, coming home in the steamer, he and I talked it over, and a new idea, in which conflicting interests need no more clash, has dawned upon us both. He desired me to inform you of it. It is— that one of you two become the wife of Mr. Longworth." Dead silence, dead blank, unbroken silence. Reine looks stunned, absolutely stunned. Then anger, amaze, defiance, flame up, and flash from her dark eyes. She looks at Marie, but except that Marie has grown a shade paler, that her del- icate lips tighten and compress, her face does not change. "AS THE QUEEN WILLS." 189 " I need hardly say Mr. Longworth has not fallen in love with either of you," pursues Mrs. Windsor, and as she says it she turns and almost pointedly addresses the elder sister ; " that is an affair of the future, if necessary at all. Of course such a marriage reconciles any claim of blood you have upon me, with my own inclinations. When he has chosen, and is prepared, he will speak. Is it necessary for me to say what I desire your answer to be ? " Again Reine looks at Marie, fiery scorn and wrath in hei face, passionate rebellion and defiance in her eyes. " Speak ! Fling back her insulting offer in her face ! " says that flaming glance. But Marie's eyes are fixed on the white hands folded in her lap, her face tells absolutely nothing of what she may feel. • " To young ladies brought up on French principles, as I presume you both have been," continues grandmamma, in her most marked grand duchess manner, " to accept the hus- band chosen for you must present itself as the most proper and correct thing possible. Mr. Ijongworth, I need not say, possesses in himself all that is likely to attract the fancy of the most romantic girl. He is handsome, he is gifted, his manners are perfect— he will be a husband whom any lady may be proud of. He is well disposed to make one of you his wife, if you throw no obstacle* in his way. And this, I think, educated as you have been, situated as you are, neither of you will be insane enough to do." " Oh ! this is shameful ! shameful ! " Reine gasps undei her breath, her hands clenching, her heart throbbing. " Why will not Marie speak ? Why does she not rise up, and say we will go out and beg, or starve, or die, sooner than listen to such degradation as this ! And he — oh ! I said well when I said I hated him ! To make such a compact as this, to be ready to force one of us into manying him be- cause he is ashamed to take her fortune m any other way I He is almost too despicable for hatred and contempt ! " IQO "AS THE QUEEN WILLS." «You do not speak," Mrs. Windsor resumes, in slow sur prise. " How am I to interpret this silence ? Ain I to think the proposition does not strike you favorably ? " " Marie ! " Reine cries out, in a tone of concentrated anger and scorn ; " why is it you do not answer ? It is for you to reply that what madame wishes is utterly and abso- lutely impossible." "Impossible!" Mrs. Windsor repeats, in the tone a sul- tana might use to an insolent slave — " impossible ! What do you mean,? Why impossible ? It cannot — no, it cannot be that either of you has had the audacity to come to me already engaged ? " Marie looks across at her sister — one straight, level, warn ing look. Then she sits erect, and turns to the speaker. ■' We are neither of us engaged, madame," she says, and as she says it, Reine turns and lays her face on the arm rest- ing on the mantel j '^ it is the suddenness of this unexpected proposal that leaves us dumb. I have not been brought up on French principles," she says, a touch of scorn in her voice. " My mother's daughter was hardly likely to be, and with my father's example before me, his teachings on that point could hardly produce any very great effect. My sister has certainly been, and I see no reason "• — again Marie glances steadily at her — ''why she should object." " I do not know that it is necessary for your sister to con- sider the matter at all," retorts madame, in her iciest voice. " I doubt if there is the slightest Ukelihood of her being put to the test. Do I understand you, then, Miss Landell, to say on your part that if Mr. Longworth does you the honor to propose for you, you will accept at once ?" Reine starts up. A flush, a faint, transient flush, passes for a second over the pearly fair face of Marie. " Madame, this is very sudden. Will you not give me a little time " " You have known Mr. Longworth a fortnight. That is "AS THE QUEE^N WILLSy IQI aniply sufificiant. I am not in the habit of pressing my fa- vors on any one. A simple yes or no will suffice. Which is it?" " It must be yes, madame, if you command it." ' Oh ! '•' Reine says, as if some one had struck her, and she turns, with clasped hands and crushed look, and goes back to the window. " Understand me," pursues Mrs. Windsor, in frigid dis- pleasure. " I know very little of your antecedents. You may both have had lovers by the score before you came here ; but if I thought either of you were bound by tie or engagement of any sort, that one should instantly leave the this house and return to the man to whom she belongs. I have received your father's daughters because it seemed in- evitable — if I fancied either of you were bound to men like him, you would not remain another hour with me." " Oh ! " Reine says again, under her breath, in the hard, tense tone of one in unendurable pain. " One other thing," continues the lady of the Stone House, rising, " one last and final word on this subject. Whomever Mr. Longworth may choose, should she see fit to refuse, she will also see (if she retains the slightest good taste) the in- dispensability of providing herself at once with another home. Should he be accepted, however, there must be no reluctance, no playing fast and loose, no young ladylike humors or caprice. She must look upon the contract as in- dissoluble, and conduct herself as the affianced of an honor able gentleman, and as becomes my granddaughter." And then — very erect, very majestic — Mrs, Windsor sails out of the dining-room and into her own. There is silence for a time between the sisters. Reine still stands by the window ; the rain is falling fast and dark now, and she looks at it with blank, stony eyes. After a moment Marie rises and crosses to her sister's side. " Reine ! " slie says, but Reine neither lifts her eyes nor 192 "AS THE QUEEN WILLS." responds. Reine, Petite," she repeats, and la3rs one hand caressingly on her arm. The hand is shaken oif, quickly, fiercely. " Speak on," Reine says, in a voice of suppressed passion ; » I hear." '■Are you angry? " " Have I any right to be ? What does it signify if I am ? Am I the one whom madatpe most insulted ? Am I the one to whom she spoke ? Am I my sister's keeper ? Is she not at liberty to be as cowardly, to tell as many lies as she chooses ? " " Thou art angry then, Petite ? " She speaks softly, caress, ingly, in their own tongue, no whit moved by this passionate tirade. " This is worse than I ever feared. Petite, Petite, what are we to do ? " Reine looks up, her great dusky eyes afire. " 1 know what I shall do. I shall do all I can to please M. Longworth — all — and if he asks me I .will marry him ! " Marie shrugs her shoulders. " And if he does me the honor, as madame hinted, to pre- fer me i"' Again Reine' s eyes flash out, and a flush of red color darts across her lace. " Marie, if you let him fall in love with you, if you let him ask you, I will never forgive you to my dying day ! " " I foresee 1 am to lose my inheritance in any case," says Miss Landelle. " I lose it if Mr. Longworth sees fit to se- lect me and I refuse, as you tell nie I nmst. In that case snadame ignominiously turns me out. I lose it if he selects you, for then all goes to you as his wife, and 1 am still a pauper. It would be better for me if I had stayed in Lon- don." " Much better. I always said so. But if Monsieur Long- worth selects me ! Oh ! Mon Dieu / tl^at I should stand here and discuss such a possibility " ••AS THE QUEEN WILLS." 193 " No such dreadful possibility," interrupts Marie coolly. "I like him, and would say yes, to-morrow if " Reine stamps her foot, perfect fury for the moment in her eyes. " If you dare to say it ! " A moment ago I despised you. I shall hate you as well as him if you say another word. J jsten — if he asks me, and I take him, do you think it will be for his sake, or my own ? No, no ! it will be for yours, Marie — for yours alone. If his fear of the world's opinion would not let him rob us of all before, surely it will not allow him to rob you of your share. I will make it a stipu- lation that half shall go to you. But he will never think of me ; it will be you, Marie, you, and then — 7na soeur, my dearest, what then ? For myself I do not care, but for you — ^for you " " Best of tempestuous little sisters,'' says Marie, and laughs softly, and stoops and kisses her. " Let us not dis- cuss that. Let us hope for the best; let us hope you will be the one to find favor in the eyes of my lord the Sultan.'' **The shame of it ! the shame of it ! " Reine says, in a stifled voice ; " to think he can take us or leave us as he likes. How shall we ever look in his face again ? " •' Very easily," Marie responds, calmly. " I can see noth- ing to be ashamed of. It is a family affair, as grandmamma — bless her ! — says, quite correct and Frenchy. Monsieur speaks to the grandmother, the grandmother apprises made- moiselle of the honor done her, mademoiselle casts down her eyes and bows. One interview follows between monsieur and mademoiselle, and everything afterward goes on velvet. If he had chosen one of us^^I mean chosen you last evening — since he spoke at all, it would have been better, but as he did not Reine, you are not crying ? " But Reine is crying, not in the least like an imperious Little Queen, but like a very self-willed, humiliated, morti- fied little girl. 9 194 THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. " I was tr}'ing to be just to him — yes, to be friendly wiln him yesterday," she sobs, vehemently, "and see how he re- turns it. I remained with him, I took his flowers, 1 tried to be pleased — and now, this is my thanks for it all ! " She tries to run from the room, but Marie, who is laugh- ing, catches, and holds her back. "He is a wretch, a deceiver, anything you like ; but one word, Petite. Do be more careful, I beg. You are so terri- bly outspoken and uncontrollable in your fiery tornadoes. You aroused madame's suspicions by your words and looks to-day — a little more and the whole horrible truth will come out, and then ! " she breaks off with a gesture of despair, " tAat will be direst ruin indeed ! " CHAPTER XIV. THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. j ISS Hariott was not a lady of leisure ; she led a very busy life, an earnest life, a useful life, in the service of all who needed service. Long ago, in the days of her youth, she had known sorrow, and death, and disap- pointment, deep and bitter ; in later years she had known illness and poverty, in povert/s bleakest and most grinding form —indeed, for years, in the language of Mr. Mantalini, life had been nothing but " one dem'd horrid grind." Then had come fortune's first favor, and the trial and labor of life's best years ended, and affluence began. To many it would not have been aJHuence, but Hester Hariott's tastes weie Binii^le, her wants feiy. A rich relative had died, and among many large bequests, had left a few thousands to the patient music mistress and cousin he had hardly ever met. Her own years of suffering and toil had left her with a very tender and THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. I9S pitiful heart for all who toiled and suffered, and she fed the hungry and clothed the naked, and the sick and imprisoned she visited. So when, accompanied by Mr. Longworth, she presented herself at the town jail and asked to ^e the piis- oner, Kate lilake, no official there was very much surprised, or offered any demur. She found the woman — a young woman, a girl almost, and handsome, in a fierce and haggard way — lying on the bed, her hands clasped over her head, her eyes fixed in an un- winking sort of stare on the grated square of light, high up near the stone ceiling. Kate Blake knew Miss Hariott well, and knew why she had come, and did not turn on her fiercely, as she did on all other ghostly counselors ; she only made an impatient motion of shoulders and body, and turned away her head. " What brings you here ? " she demanded sullenly , " I never sent for you. It's manners to stay away until you're asked to come, isn't it ? " " Why, Kate," Miss Hariott answered, sitting down beside her, " is it the first time I ever came to see you ? It is cer- tainly the first time )'0u ever were rude to me. You used to seem glad to have me visit you, I think.'' " Used to,'' the girl said, and covered her I'^ce with her hands. She was not thinking of the speaker ; a rubh of other memories bitterer than death filled her soul. It was not remorse for the deed she had done that was wearing her to a haggard skeleton, nor fear of the doom impending, but passionate, longing love and despair for the man she had killed. She poured it all out in one burning flow of woids to Miss Hariott — Miss Hariott sitting smoothing the dark- tossed hair with soft, magnetic touch, and soothing her fren- zied nerves with her low, tender, pitying voice — all her, love, all her wrongs, all her madness, all her crime. " Why do they try me ? " she cried. " Have I ever denied igS THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. it ? have I not told them again, and again, and again that 1 killed him ? And I am not sorry for it — mind, I am not sorry —I would do it again sooner than let him marry her. He promised \p marry me — ^lie swore it. Oh ! he promised, he promised, and he left me, and went to her, and the wedding- day was named, and I think I went mad. I met him coming out of her house and I shot him. And now the days come back of long ago, and I see him again as he used to be, smil- ing and handsome, and always kind, until he almost seems standing beside me, and then I wake up and remember that he is dead, and that I killed him. But mind — ^mind. Miss Hariott ! " — she starts up in bed and wildly tosses back her hair — " I would do it again ; I would, I tell you, sooner than let him marry her ! Now you know the sort of sinner I am, and you won't convert me, though you're a good woman, and I like you better than the preachers. But you won't make me sorry for what I've done, and you may go and leave me as soon as you like." " I will go and leave you presently," Miss Hariott answers, " but you will let me come back, won't you, Kate ? You were a good girl once, a girl bright and full of promise, and I liked you so well. For the sake of our friendship you will let me come and visit you again, will you not ? " "Well, if you like," Kate Blake answers, sullenly, but less sullenly than at first. " I wonder you care to come to such a place, and to such a wretch. No other lady would. But you're a good woman ; you don't help people with fine words only, you give them what costs money, and that's what all your preaching people don't do. Come again if you like ; it won't be for long." " And I will promise not to preach if I can help it," Miss JIariolt says, cheerfully. But though she does not preach, ghe kneels down for a moment, and half-whispers one plead- ing prayer : " Save me, O God, for the waters are come into iny soul ! " Sullenly, and turned away, the girl catches the THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. 197 words, and the eloquent cry finds an echo in her broken and desolate heart. And long after her visitor has gone, in the black, desolate watches of the night, they say themselves over, and over, and over, until they fall like dew, at last, on hard and burning ground. As Miss Hariott opens her own garden-gate, she sees some one sitting in one of the garden-chairs, and catches the flut- ter of a pale summer dress. It is Reine, and she is reading, reading so absorbedly that Miss Hariott is leaning over hei shoulder before she hears her. " What has the child got ? ' Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book.' Do yOu like Aldrich's poetry ? — but I see by your face you do. Friar Jerome has a very tender and touching little moral, has he not ? " "And one which I think Miss Hariott practices," says Reine, closing her book. " You are the Lady Bountiful of Baymouth, I think ? You look tired — where have you been now?" Miss Hariott sits down, rather spiritlessly, for her who is always in spirits, and tells her. " Poor soul ! " Reine says, " it is very dreadful. Will they hang her, do you imagine ? " " Oh ! no ; labor and imprisonment for life, probably. She killed him, but there were extenuating circumstances. He was a villain — to her at least, though an honorable man enough in a general way, and as men of the world hold honor, and she loved him. Loved him so well that she shot him sooner than see him belong to another." " It is very horrible," Reine says, slowly and thoughtfully, " and yet I think I understand her. I thhik I, under similai circumstances " " What ! you would commit a murder, too ? " " No, no, what I mean to say is, that any woman who really loved, would rather see her lover dead than the hus- band of any one else. I think there can be no moic poig- 198 THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RTCffES. nant despair. And as men are mostly false, the better way is not to love at all. Only those we 'hold in our heart fan ever break it." " Then how close a place Madame Windsor must hold in yours, for you look as if you were letting her, or something, or somebody kill you by inches. Little Queen, you look pale, and dark, and ill to-day. What is the matter ? " " Nothing. Yellow is my normal tint ; if I look a trifle yellpwer to-day than usual, it is that I am probably a Uttle more bilious. I have nothing to do, Mees Hariott, and I find that very hard work. I think I must be your almoner and go with you on your charitable rounds, two sceurs de charity, without the white cornette and black robe.'' " You could do nothing better. But I wish I knew what was the especial trouble to-day. You promised to make me your mother confessor. If I am, you must not begin by hid- ing your secret sins and sorrows." Reine laughs. " But if it happens to be neither sin nor sorrow ? I would like to tell you, but then you are too fond of " " Laurence Longworth. Speak up, my dear. Yes, I am fond of him. What has he done now ? " " He has done nothing, at least nothing wrong. Does he ever do anything wrong ? I must be very wicked, I suppose, by nature, for do you know I never Uked perfect people. They are always pedantic and self-opinionated, and Pharisai- cal, and dreadfully tiresome. If I had lived in the old Scrip- tural days, I would have been bosom friends with the publi- cans and sinners." " H'm ! " says Miss Hariott, " and this is the preface to something about Laurence Longworth ! " " And In novels," goes on mademoiselle, " one always hates the goody hero who is so pragmatic, and high-princi- pled, and stupidly correct in all his doings, and never swerves the least little inch from the straight path, and take to one'i TUB BMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. 199 heart the black sheep who is reckless, and a spendthrift, and a dare-devil, and who never holds himself a little lower than the angels^ " " All very fine and very nonsensical," cuts in Miss Har kott. " What has it to do, and how does it apply to oui friend, Mr. Longworth ? " " I wish I were back in Rouen," goes on Reine, a tremoi in the sweet, clear voice, and looking up with impassioned eyes at the patches of gold-gray between the trees. " I wonder if I shall ever be as happy again as I was in Rouen ? My aunt was so kind — so kind, and I loved her, and Leonce so handsome and so gay " "And you loved him ? Who is Monsieur Leonce ? " A soft roseate flush rises up over the dusk face. " Ah, who ? " she says, softly. " Some one whose like I never see here, some one you don't know and never will. But I was infinitely happy there, and now — and now " " You are infinitely miserable, I suppose. Thanks, made- moiselle, in the name of Baymouth, and all its people." '* I like you, and you know it, and I can never be infi- nitely miserable while Marie is near. But life is all Carnival or all Lent," says Reine ; " and Lent has come, and seems likely to go on forever." " Still," persists Miss Hariott, " as I said before I say again — what has all this to do with Laurence Longworth ? " " Madame, need you ask ? Do you not see grandmamma wishes one of us to marry him ? " " Well, and is that such a very terrible contingency ? I think few women might ask for a fairer fate than to be Lau- rence Longworth' s wife." " How well you like him," says Reine, gazmg at her curi- ously. "How well he seems to like you. I wondei, then " She stops, and laughs and blushes. "Why 1 do not want to maxty him myself?" sug^estf 200 THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. Miss Hariott, looking straight into the dark, pretty ej. a, with a smile that puzzles Reine. " My dear, iny day of o- mance has come and gone. And I am seven years oldei than Mr. Longworth — I am thirty-nine years of age." " You do not look it ; you are handsomer and fresher than scores of girls of twenty. Marie, for instance, is a lozen years older in heart and a dozen times as blase as you. And seven years is not so very much." But Reine' s voice falters over the white lie. " It is just twice seven too much. Nevertheless, Mr, Longworth once asked me to marry him. I have no deli- cacy in telling you, because I think a day must come when I would tell you in any case, and besides, he would not care. He never was in earnest, you know, he never really meant it." Reine sits up and. stares. " He asked you to marry him, and never really meant it. Madame, what a strange thing you tell me ! " " I hardly know how to explain," says Miss Hariott, laugh- ing. " If I had been absurd enough to say yes, I would have been Mrs. Longworth to-day, and the great bugbear of your life — having one day to assume that title — would never have existed." " I wish you had," interrupts Reine, with a sincerity there is no doubting. " But it was impossible, and he knew it, and I knew it, and the liking that is so pleasant, would have been a very galling marriage bond by now. It was the most absurd pro- posal, I think, that ever was made. She laughs once more, her clear, fresh, heart-Tvhole laugh. The scene rises before her as vividly as if it had happened yesterday instead of nearly eight years ago. Both had but lately settled in Baymouth, but lately got acquainted, but had at once recognized each other as " two souls with but a single thought," and fraternized on the spot. There is such a thing THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. 201 as love at sight, there is also such a thing as friendship at sight. Such had been theirs ; they were friends, close and sympathetic from the first moment their hands clasped. Longworth came to her regularly for counsel and advice ; I she wrote hii> book reviews, his dramatic and musical criti- cisms ; she picked him up on dits, and scraps of poetry, and bits of romance, and current gossip of all sorts. He spent his evenings almost invariably with her in those days, and people whispered that it would be a match. The whisper came to Longworth' s ears, taking him rather by surprise at first. But the more he thought of it, the more pleasing and plausible the idea seemed. Finally he spoke. Lying on the grass at her feet, a favorite attitude of rest after a long day's office work, smoking his cigar, listening to the wind in the trees, and the stitch, stitch of Hester Hariott's busy needle, he proposed. " Miss Hariott," he said, " I wish you would marry me." Miss Hariott was sitting, as has been said, placidly sew- ing. She was used to abrupt speeches after long silences, but the abruptness of this fairly took her breath away. Her sewing dropped in her lap. " Well ! " she gasped, and then she laughed. "Yes, I wish you would," continued Longworth, "I've thought of it a good deal lately, and meant to ask you before, but somehow it always slipped my memory. In the eternal fitness of things nothing could be more appropriate. I be- lieve we were made for each other. Our opinions differ on nearly every subject, which opens an illimitable vista of agreeable controversy. You intend to live and die in Bay- mouth — so do I. Let us live and die together." " Well, upon my word ! " Miss Hariott manages to utter ; "of all the audacious " " No, I don't see it. It is particularly reasonable. See here" — he raises himself on his elbow, cool, but quite in earnest— "let me prove it to you. A man marries to find an 9* t02 THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. agreeable companion for life ; could any companion be more agreeable than you are ? A man marries to find a heliimeet — you are that eminently to me. Don't know how 1 or the Phettix would get on without you. We like to be together, we never tire of each other, and I am uncommonly fond of you. You are clever — I couldn't marry a commonplace young woman " — he winces as he thinks of Totty — " though she were a very Venus. You are good, and I reverence good women. You are handsome — couldn't love an ugly woman, had she the wit of De Stael, the genius of George Sand. And it would bore me to live with a woman I didn't love. Those are my principles. Think it over, Miss Hariott, I won't hurry you, and let me know when you make up your mind." And then Mr. Longworth languidly — for it has been a hot day, and there has been a press of work — resumes his cigar and his position on the grass, his hands clasped under his head, and listens with uplifted, dreaming eyes to a Katydid somewhere in the twilight piping plaintively to its mate. Years have come and gone, and Miss Hariott has not yet made up her mind to reconsider that very unimpassioned dec- laration, and laughs now with as thorough an enjoyment as she did then while she relates it to Mile. Reine. But Mile. Reine is disposed to look at the matter seriously. " I think Mr. Longworth was right. I think you two were made for each other. You have known him all his life, have you not ? Tell me about him — I. am in a lazy, listening humor to-day, and even an enemy's history may prove inter- esting. Who- is Monsieur Laurence Longworth ? Who is his father? Who is his mother? Has he a sister? Has he a brother ? He looks like a man who hsay have had a story." Miss Hariott laughs. " Shall we call in Candace ? She has been his biographei to me. She tries to picture him to me as she saw him firs' THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. 203 — a little fellow of ten, with long, golden curls, dreised in black velvet, and wearing a crimson sash, tall boots with red tassels, and a little velvet cap with a golden band. Imagine it." " Impossible ! " laughs Reine. She thinks of the grave, gi'ay figure in the felt hat, the editor in his dingy sanctum, the man old, and cold, and self-centered — lifts shoulders and eyebrow despairingly, and laughs once more. " Oh, impos- sible ! You describe a fairy prince in a burlesque, ftot that solemn matter-of-fact Mr. Larry." " Nevertheless Mr. Larry was a prince in a small way in those days, and his uncle had brought him out in that dress to show him his kingdom and his subjects. In other words, he had adopted the little lad, and displayed him to his admir- ing servants as their future master. And old Mr. Longworth is a very rich man." " Theft how comes our heir to be a hard-working editor, our butterfly a caterpillar, our prince to have lost his principality, and be here in exile with none so poor as to do him honor ? " '' My dear, the reason that has worked all the mischief in the whole world, from the days of Eve down — a woman." Reine is vividly interested at once. She rises on her el bow, and looks eagerly at Miss Hariott. " A woman ! Monsieur Longworth in love ! Oh, more and more impossible ! The first might be imagined — this never." She listens, profoundly interested in the story her friend tells. She may not like the man, but where is the girl that does not like a love story ? " So ! " she says, slowly, "he really resigned a fortune for love. That cold, cautious, calculating man ! I cannot un- derstand it. And so two ladies — you and Madame Sheldon have really refused him ! " " Do you like him the less for that, Little Queen ?" • We all prize most that which is most prized by others,' re 204 THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. spends Mile. Reine, coolly. " I certainly would not (if 1 liked hLn at all) like him the less for the story you have just told. He was not then the bon garfon of the Sunday-school story that he is now, and so I prefer him. But I cannot re- alize it." No, it is impossible, either in the character of fairy prince, all black velvet and crimson tassels, or as ardent lover stand- ing up flushed and impassioned, and yielding a fortune for a lady's favor, or as youthful poet writing melodious verse or romantic novel. Always before her there rose a vision of a crowded, jostling deck, excited people, scampering in frantic haste everywhere, and elbowing two friendless girls, and then a tall, well-built figure, in a gray business suit, coming easily toward them, and taking possession of them as coolly and de- liberately as though they had been two parcels left to be called for. There was power certainly in that tranquil face, plenty of self-will and self-reliance, and a certain beauty in the clear, cold, critical eyes. A clever man that face bespoke him, a talented lecturer, a successful editor, a shrewd man of business, with a steady eye to the main chance — but prince, poet, lover — Oh, surely never ! " Long ago," says the voice of Miss Hariott, breaking in on her reverie, " Candace was a slave on old James Long- worth's place, and the one ambition of her life was freedom. When Laurence came north, and set up in life for himself, he remembered Candace, who had petted him in his boyhood, and sent her the money that purchased her freedom. She came here, he sent her to me, and with me she has remained ever since. Now, wait one moment, and I'll unearth Larr/s poems." She goes into the house and returns with a small volume, all blue and gilt." " This, Mademoiselle Reine, is ' Falling Leaves,' by L. L. -well named, I am sorry to say, for it fell remarkably flat indeed ! Prepare to be victimized, for I am going to read THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. 20$ you one of these * Falling Leaves ' — ^not that I do not think them rather pretty myself, but then I'm a sentimental old maid. " Before you begin,'' says Reine, demurely, " let me men- tion that [ see the top of a certain straw hat down yonder among the trees, and I think the talented head of your poet IS under it." " That makes no difference whatever. Now listen : " ' The roses hung from the garden wall. With a low-sung song, and sweet ' " " Were the roses singing ? " inquires Longworth, saunter- ing up ; " rather a new floricultural fact, that, isn' t it ? " He bows to Reine, and takes a seat. The reader frowns, but resumes : " ' And my heart kept time to the summer rhyme. And the patter of little feet.' " " Did the feet belong to the roses ? " persists Longworta. " If they could sing, why not walk ? " " Will you hold your tongue, Mr. Longworth ? " demands Miss Hariott, with asperity. " Your remarks, sir, are as silly as they are uncalled for. " ' But now when the summer is dead and gone, No fireside is for me, And I sit alone, with a dreary moan, By the lonesome wailing sea.' " " If the summer is dead and you have no fireside, I would strongly recommend you not to sit moaning too long by the wailing sea, or you will have an attack of acute rheumatism," interrupts the editor of the Phenix, and Miss Hariott shuts up the bosk in silent displeasure. " There never was a more- necessary prayer than Delivei me from my friends,' " goes on the gentleman. •' WhaJ 206 THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. wrong have I ever done you, Miss Hariott, that you should take^ revenge in this cold-blooded fashion, and poison the youthful mind of Mile. Reine ? I had hoped there was not a copy of my youthful rubbish extant. I know I bought up all I could lay my hands on, and made a bonfire of them ; and now, without provocation on my part, while I innocently look upon you in the light of a friend and well-wisher, you fiendishly thrust this proof of by-gone idiocy in my face. In the words of the immortal Pecksniff, have I indeed been cherishing an ostrich in my bosom all these years, that it turns and stings me now ? " " The verses are not so bad," says Miss Hariott. " Ra- ther nonsensical, perhaps, but musical. The average of what is called poetry nowadays possesses more sound than sense, more jingle than judgment. Still I will temper justice with mercy, and inflict no more of it on mademoiselle at pres- ent." In the interval that has elapsed since the picnic, Mr. Long- worth" and the Demoiselles Landelle have met daily. He is eminently a social man, despite those long fits of silence to which he is subject, and many homes are open to him in Bay- mouth. Of these it has already been said he most prefers Mrs. Windsor's and Miss Hariott's. At the Stone House he is tol- erably certain of seeing both young ladies ; at the white cot- tage he may confidently count in certain hours upon finding the younger. The embarrassment, natural to their, situation, appears to be unfelt, at least, by Mr. Longworth or her sister. He enters their presence with the debonnaire ease that sits so naturally upon him, and converses with Mrs. Windsor on topics of mutual interest, as though grandmamma alone ex- isted, and there were no such things as granddaughters in the scheme of creation. Or lie improves his French under Marie's laughing tuition, or he courteously asks Mile. Reine for a song, and renders by his taet an awkward situation as little awkward as may be. But as he lies back in that great THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. TOfJ aim-chair, his blond head resting against its blue back, his quiet eyes seeing everything, while seeming to nbte nothing, Reine catches the steadfast look with which he examines her and her sister — cool, impartial, almost ironical — measuring, as she feels, their worth and fitness, or unfitness, for the honor of his choice. It stings her pride like a whip ; she burns and tingles under it with very shame. There are times when it requires an effort of will not to rise and de- nounce, and defy and refuse him, and rush from the room and the house, and return no more. He is considering well, no doubt, which he will choose and take as the unpleasant but inevitable incumbrance of a great fortune j it is the em- barrassment of riches, and he is slow in making up his mind. She rises now to go, having lingered sufficiently long to prevent his thinking she flies at his approach. She is far too proud for that. He does not oifer to go with her, and she is . grateful to him for that much at least. He returns her part- ing and distant bow, and sees her depart, the same attentive and watchful look in his eyes the girl has often detected. He does not remove it until she is out of sight. '' A thoroughly good little girl," Miss Hanott remarks j " a tender heart, a clever head, a pure soul> " "And an uncommonly peppery temper," interrupts Long- worth ; " the pride of the duse and the self-will of a^ — woman." " I like her none the less for that. Neither do you, Mr. Longworth. We know what sort of nonentities girls without pride or self-will are. A moderate amount, of course, there certainly is a line.'' " Ah, but there's the rvib — how much is a moderate amount, and where is the line? Now I am disposed to be friendly with Mile. Eeine. Is it her proper pride and self-will that impel her to fly from me on every occasion, as if I were his Satanic majesty, horns, hoofs, and all ? " "That is prejudice — she will see its injustice one day How do you progress with the lovely Marie ? " 208 THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. " The lovely Marie is as angelic of temper as of face ^she is everything the heart of man could desire. If your little gipsy favorite were only half as amenable to reason -" He stops and stoops to pick up something, It lies on the grass near him, and proves to be a photograph, the photographed face of a young and eminently handsome man. " What celebrity is this," he asks ; " or is it for its intrinsic beauty you keep it, or is it some one you know ? " He passes it to Miss Hariott. She has a mania for col- lecting photographs, autographs, and relics of literary and artistic people ; the little house is littered with albums full of them. " This is none of mine," she answers ; " it must belong to mademoiselle." The pictured face of the gentleman — the face, beyond doubt, of a ■ Frenchman — is, without exception, the most beautiful Miss Hariott has ever seen. Underneath there is written, in a manly hand : " Wholly thine — LfioNCE." " L6once," Miss Hariott says ; " a French name and a French face. Did you ever see anything half so handsome ?' Yes, Mile. Reine must have dropped it, pulled it out, prob ably, with her handkerchief." " Here she comes to claim missing property," says Long worth. As he speaks Reine hurries up the walk, a little flushed with heat, and haste, and excitement. " I dropped something. Oh, you have it ! " The coloi deepens in her dusk cheeks as she holds out her hand. " Thanks." She pauses a second and puts the picture in her pocket. " It is my aunt's son, Lfionce Durand," she says, and she hfts her head as she says it, and there is an in- voluntary ring of defiance in her tone. Then she turns ones laore and goes. THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. 209 "Her aunt's son ! Does she mean her cousin ?" inquire* Long[worth. " I presume so ; I have heard her speak of him before. He must be a remarkably handsome young man." " ' Wholly thine — Llonce.' Affectionate for a first cousin," says Longworth, and Miss Hariott looks at him keenly for a moment. Then she learns forward and speaks. " Larry, I am curious to know. Will you marry one of Mrs. Windsor's granddaughters ? " He laughs. " Who has been telling you ? " he asks. " Oh, it is patent to every one — he who runs may read. You intend to marry one of them ? " " Being impracticable to marry both, yes — if she will have me." She looks at him thoughtfully, wistfully, and long. " I wonder if you are in love ? " she says, as much to her- self as to him. His face wears its most impassive expression. It tells her nothing. But the smile that comes slowly relieves her. " I am your friend," she says. " I wish you well, and I do not wish you to marry without love — deep, and lasting, and true, as it is in you to love." " And as I will if I marry. Without it I will ask no one, not even one of Mrs. Windsor's most charming granddaugh- ters. And I mean to ask one of them. You wish me God- peed, do you not ? " " With all my heart, if it be Reine." " Here are visitors," he says and rises. " No, I won't stay and meet them. Good-night." And so he goes, with the shadow of a smile on his face, and Miss Hariott is left perplexed and provoked, to ask he^ s:lf again and again, " Which is it to be ? ' 8IO "SWEET SILVER LIGHT OF THE MOOIf." CHAPTER XV. "bv the sweet silver light of the moon." Bays go by, weeks go by, July comes in its splendoi to Baymouth, and still Miss Hariott says to herself, as she has said from the first, " Which is it to be ? It seems the most impracticable, the most hopeless thing in the world, )f Reine is the one he wants.'' But whether or no Reine is the one, it is impossible to tell. No oi.' i can tell ; not Mrs. Windsor, growing anxious but hiding her anxiety well ; not Reine, cool and impassive ; not ^/arie, smiling and serene. The former young person puz'j''?s Hester Hariott nearly as much as the gentleman — cold apathy has replaced passionate rebellion, utter indififer- euce more hopeless than active dislike. She never avoids hin , she talks to him and of liim quite freely, but with a sei ne composure that should be the most exasperating thing on iarth to a lover. A lover in no sense of the word does Mr. Longworth appear — perhaps the role of sighing swain is not consistent with editorial dignity. They meet, they part, they talk, they walk, they sail, they ride, they dance, they laugh together ; and the more they see of each other the farther off all idea of tender sentiment seems. And yet, somehow — the wish being father to the thought — Miss Hari- ott cannot get it out of her head that Reine is the one. She has learned to love very dearly tMe girl with the brown, ear- nest e"es and thoughtful face — there are times when she doubts known to extreme bread-and-butter-maidenhood as 'infei esting.' Interesting is the word, I think, for pallid young gentlemen, with a tendency to bile, long eyelashes, and dyed mustaches, white teeth, and an inch and a quarter of brain. The pity is, when Nature gives herself so much trouble em- bellishing the outside, she generally finishes her work in a hurry and leaves the inside a blank." But this is Mr. Longworth' s little mistake. Nature, in giving M. Durand more than his fair share of beauty, has by no means forgotten that useful article brains, and, to do the young man justice, he values the latter much more than the former. Vain he is not, never has been. His looking-glass and women's eyes have long ago made him so absolutely aware of his good looks, that he has ceased to think of thera, and accepts the fact that he is handsome as he accepts the other facts that he can hear and see, without thinking about it. Many years ago, when he was a little soft-eyed angel in long, ebon ringlets g.nd velvet blouse, it had been impressed upon his memory never to be effaced. Walking in the gar- den of the Tuileries, with Madame Durand, the loveliest and greatest lady in all France had stooped with alittle exclamation of pleasure and kissed him, and asked him his name. Many years ago truly, and she who was then a radiant bride, peerless throughout the world for her own beauty, was now an exiled^ widowed, and sorrowing woman ; but Leonce Durand grew up with the memory of that caress in his heart, and it was still that memory, not so many months before, that had nervec his arm against the Prussian foe. All at once, by a sudden effort, Reine Landelle, in the midst of her excited talk, recalls the fact that she is not alone. Longworth sees her companion glance at him with a slighl 248 M. LioNCE DVRAND. interrogative elevation of the eyebrows. Directly after both approach. " Monsieur Longworth,'' begins Reine hurriedly, ' allow me to present my friend, M. Durand." M. Durand smiles, touches his hat, and bows with the in- imitable ease and grace of his nation. Mr. Longworth lifts liis almost an eighth of an inch, as stiffly, and coldly, and repellantly as mortal man can perform the act, and in pro- found silence. " I have taken Mile. Reine by surprise," says M. Durand, still smilingly, and in unexceptionable English. " I wrote, but I infer my letter has miscarried. Extraordinary, is it not, my coming upon you. Petite, the moment I enter the grounds ? " " How did you discover we were here ?" Reine asks. She is still looking pale and agitated, Longworth can see, paler and more agitated than any mere ordinary surprise can account for. " From Madame Windsor's yirwwi? de chambre, I suspect," responds M. Durand coolly, and Reine looks up at him with a faint gasp. " L6once ! you went there ?" " But certainly, ma Petite. Is there anything surprising in that ? Where else should I go ? A very fine old mansion, too ; I congratulate you upon your new home. A thrice amiable lady's-maid appeared — informed me you were here, informed me also how I should find my way. I come, and almost the first person I behold is ma belle cousine. Foi/d tout." " Ah ! you are Mile. Reine's cousin ? " remarks Long- worth, and unconsciously the contraction between the eye- brows slowly relaxes. " Her cousin — more than cousin — more than brother — is it not so, Petite?" he says gayly. "Madame Durand, the great-aunt of Mile. Reine, was my belle rn6re — my M. LEONCE DURANP. 249 mother-in-law. How is it yoil say that word, Mr. Long- worth ? " " Your step-mother, perhaps." "Ah ! thanks, yes ; that is it — ray step-mother. I was a little fellow of eight when niadame married my father, and Petite here, a fairy of two when she first came to live with us in the old house in Rouen. Is it to be wondered at, th(;n, having lived together all our lives, 1 should be transported to meet her again after a separation of — ma foi I — six endless months ? " " Then, in point of fact, Mr. Durand," says Mr. Longworth, coldly, " you and Miss Landelle are not related at all ? " " By no tie of blood, monsieur," responds the gay Leonce, smiling down into Reine's half-averted face ; " but there are ties nearer and dearer than even ties of blood. Petite, all this time I see not Marie. If monsieur will kindly pardon us " Again M. Durand finishes his sentence with a gracious and graceful bow, again Mr. Longworth responds by a curt and most ungracious nod. " If you want to find your sister. Mile. Reine," he says, ignoring the suave speaker, '' I think you will find her in this direction. At what hour shall I come to take you home ? You were expressing a desire to go home, you may remem- ber, a moment before Monsieur Durand came up." " In about an hour," Reine answers, taking Durand's arm and moving away. Longworth bows, and turns in the opposite direction. He catches Durant's low, amused laugh, as he goes, although he does not catch his words. " Pardieu ! ch^re Petite ; what have I done that monsieur, yo :t friend, should scowl upon me so blackly ? Is it thai you have a lover, and he is jealous ? I saw him looking pis- tols and small swords as I embraced you." Miss Marie Landelle has left the circle s urrounding the 11» 2 so- M. l£once durand. '/and, and strolled away on (he arm of one of her innumet ible admirers, out of the heat and noise, and glare, and i( chances that it is Longworth who comes upon her first. She is seated under a great elm, her hat off, her fair face slightly flushed with heat and weariness, all her blonde hair falling damp and glittering over her shoulders, slightly bored evide.itly, but beautiful as a dream. Longworth thinks it as he has thought it a hundred times before, and wonders how it is that admiring that perfect lovehness as he does, it yet has so little power to move him. Her cavalier of the moment is seated beside her, looking almost idiotically happy, and he darts a frowning look at the intruder. But Miss Landelle glances up with that supremely sweet, though somewhat monotonous smile of hers, and moves aside her white drapery to make room for him on the other side. " Thanks, don't disturb yourself," he says. " Ah ! Mark- ham, how do ? Didn't know you were here ; horrible hot ind stui)id, isn't it ? Unutterable bore all this sort of thing j but they will do it every summer, invariably selecting the dog days, and we persist in coming to see it." " Where is Reine ? " asks Reine's sister. " Looking for you. She met a friend just now, a friend from France, and both have gone in search of you. 1 will take you to them, if you like." "A friend?" repeats Miss Landelle; a puzzled look coming over the serene face. " A friend from France — here. But there is no one to come. Who can it be ? " "A very handsome man — M. L6once Durand." Marie Landelle's is a face that seldom changes, either in color or expression, but as he speaks Longworth sees a most remarkable change pass over it. The faint, incredulous siiile fades, the slight flush dies slowly out, the lips com- press, the pupils of the bronze eyes seem to contract — a look of quiet, intense anger sets every feature. There are no conflicting emotions of terror or gladness here, as ir M. tioNCE BUS AND. 25 1 Reine's case — Miss Landelle evidently has but one feeling on the subject. She rises at once. ' Excuse me, Mr. Markham," she turns to that bereaved gentleman with her usual grace, but without her usual smile. •' Mr. Longworth, will you be kind enough to take me to my sister and her friend ? " " Her friend," thinks Longworth, as he presents his arm " Is he not yours then as well ? If he were your deadliest foe you could hardly wear a look that would welcome him less." He has said, and he has thought many times, there is something about this young lady that baffles him. She re- minds him of a mirror, clear and transparent on first view, reflecting everything, hiding nothing ; but turn to the reverse side and you meet — blankness. Whatever depth there may be you get at nothing but the fair, shining, polished surface all beneath is like the back of tlie mirror, impenetrable. There is a sort of still strength in her character, it seems to Longworth, that may be hidden from her closest friends for years, unless some sudden eiiiergency calls it forth. Has that sudden emergency arrived ? Has she any reason for being antagonistic with this man ? That he is unlooked for and unwelcome to both is evident, but the difference, so far as Longworth's penetration and prejudice can make it out, is that Reine likes, perhaps loves him, while the elder sister simply and absolutely is his enemy. They walk on in silence for a little. Then Marie speaks, and even her voice has a subtle change, and sounds as hard and cold as Mrs. Windsor's own." " Reine introduced M. Durand to you, I suppose ? " she inquires. " She did." " He is Reine's cousin, you know, her brother almost." " Indeed? Mile. Reine's great aunt was his stepmother Does that constitute cousinship and brotherhood in France ? " 2S2 M. LjiOISrCS DURAND. She glances at him quickly, then laughs in a constrained way. " All the same, they have been as brother and sister all their lives. Reine could not be fonder of him if he were hex brother in reality.'' " From the little I have seen, I infer not." The responses are frigid — the expression of Mr. Long- worth's face, chill and cynical. Evidently this sort of re- lationship, when the " brother " is so eminently handsome a man as M. Leonce Durand, is not altogether to his taste. There is another pause. " Did Mr. Durand say how or why he comes ! " she asks. ' ' Not in my hearing. I believe he stated that he could not stay away, that six endless months had elapsed since he and your sister had met, and that it was impossible to endure the separation longer. Are brothers usually so devoted in France? It is not customary here." Marie gives him a quick, keen, sidelong glance that re- minds him once more of Mrs. Windsor. Indeed, in many tricks of manner Marie Landelle resembles her grandmother. But before she can answer, the two they are in search of appear. The band is still playing a lively melody from " La Fille de Madame Angot," and the well-dressed throng still surround it. But the music to many there has ceased to be the attraction — M. Durand is the center of many pairs of admiring and interested eyes. There can be no privacy of meeting here, but it is apparent that Marie desires none. She drops Longworth's arm and approaches, and despite the gazing crowd, assumes no welcoming, artificial smile. The eyes that look at him steadfastlj' are cold, angry, smileless ; she does not even extend her hand in pretense of greeting. She bows slightly and frigidly, and will not sec the eager hand he offers, the wistful, pleading, reproachful glance he gives her. "No affectionate embrace here,'' thinks Longwortli, M. LiONCE DURAND. 253 grimly. " Miss Marie is a young lady of resolution, and knows how to make her displeasure felt. Evidently M, Durand does not stand in the light of a brother to Miss Lan- delle." For that first salutation still rankles in his memory. He has asked Reine Landelle to be his wife, and she has pro- mised, but they have met and parted from first to last with the coo' courtesy of ordinary acquaintances. And this fellow presumes to kiss her ! Does the fact of being brought up together, or the other fact of his being her aunt's step-son give him that right, or is it by the supreme right of mutual love? He has seen the gladness in her eyes — yes, in spite of surprise and fear, the gladness, the welcome have shone through. He has thought her defiant and brave, wilful and perverse per- haps, and none the less charming for it, but open and honest as the day. She has accepted him, and made no mention ol any previous attachment or broken engagement. Why has she not told him of this " cousin ? " Why is she in the habit of carrying his picture about with her ? Why is she afraid of his coming ? He has asked her to be his wife ; he is ready and willing to wait and to do his utmost to win her heart, but he has not the faintest idea of taking a leap in the dark, of try- ing to win a heart already given to another. And by the sharpness of the jealous pain the bare thought gives him, Mr. Longworth learns more in that moment of the true state of his own feelings than perhaps he has ever known before. He stands and furtively watches, as many others are doing, the pantomimes going on before him. He cannot hear a word, but it is apparent M. Durand is eager for Miss Lan- delle to come with him out of the crowd, it is evident he is anxious to give some explanation — it is evident also that Miss Landelle will neither go nor listen. Her coldly reso- lute face says plainly to all beholders : " You have come here against my wish — I am angry. You are unwelcome — ] will neither go with you, nor listen to you, nor forgive yon. 254 M. LIlONCE D UK and. He glances moodily at Reine. Reine looks anxious and distressed ;' her wish seems to be that of Diuand ; she appar- ently pleads with earnestness his cause. But Mane is as calmly inexorable as Fate itself; she turns determinedh away and joins a group of acquaintances. Nothing remains for the other two but to follow her example. The handsome and elegant foreigner is presented, and there is a flutte; among the young ladies. He throws ofif the earnest and pleading look his face has worn, and is at his ease at once with every one, wilh all the debonair grace of a man well used to the society of women. " A very unexpected addition," says a voice at Long- worth's elbow, and Mrs. Sheldon approaches her cousin. " Who is this Monsieur Durand, Laurence ? " " Monsieur Durand is — Monsieur Durand, and a very good-looking young man, Totty.'' " Good-looking ! Well, yes, I should call him that. A delightful acquisition. I wonder if he has come to stay?" " Could you not inquire. I saw him introduced to you." " Miss Landelle looked annoyed, I thought," pursues Totty, languidly. "She did not even shake hands with him. Reine, on the contrary, clings to his arm in a way that — really — . There, they are moving off together, I declare. Is he any relative, do you know ? " " My dear child, do you think I stood up and demanded M. Durand's biography the moment we met ? Miss Lan- delle is here — had you not better apply to her for his ante- cedents, since you appear so deeply interested ? " "Oh ! 1 am not interested in him" answered Mrs. Shel- don, with emphasis on the personal pronoun. " I only thought — but it is no matter." "You only thought what ? " impatiently. "That being engaged to Mile. Reine, you might — but it is all nonsense, of course. Only we know so little of these young ladies, and they seem to have led such odd, wandering M. Li ONCE DURAND. 2SS sort of lives, and met so many people, and they tell so little of the past — but of course it is all nonsense." " 1 think you must labor under some remarkable halluci- nation, Mrs. Sheldon," responds Longworth, coolly. " What do you mean by ' odd, wandering sort of lives ? ' Reine Landelle was brought up by her father's aunt in Rouen, anc wandered nowhere, except when she visited her parents in London, or visited Italy with her aunt, for that lady's health. This young Durand is the late aunt's step-son " " Oh ! " interjects Totty, innocently opening her light blue eyes,. " her step-son ? I thought you didn't know." " I know that much. Mile. Marie, not having been reared by the aunt, is, as you may see, less intimate with hira than her sister. Your tone and look are singularly suggestive, Totty. May I inquire of what ? " " Oh ! dear, no — not at all ! I really do not mean to sug- gest anything. Only I thought — but of course, as I said be- fore, that is all tionsense." Longworth fairly turns upon her savagely. " For Heaven's sake, Laura, speak out I " he cries, with a scowl. " If there is anything 1 hate, it is innuendoes. You think what ? " " Laurence, please don't be angry," says Totty, plaintive- ly. She lays one gloved hand on his arm, and looks plead- ingly into his flushed and irritated face. " If I cared for your happiness less, I might be more indifferent. What I think is, that Reine Landelle seems to be afraid of this young man. It may be only fancy, but I certainly fancy it, and she is not one to be easily made afraid. Pardon me if I of- fend you in speaking of her. I know that she is everything to you, and I am nothing, but I cannot forget " Mrs. Sheldon is a pretty woman,* and in her way not al- together a stupid woman, but she certainly lacks that deli- cate sixth-sense, tact. A more inoi)portune moment foj Bentimeat, for recalling the " past," she could not hav« 256 M. lMonce durand. chosen. Au impatient " Pshaw !" actually escapes Long wcrth's lips as he turns away. " Confound the woman and her love-making ! " is the sav- age thought that rises in his mind. But she has planted her sting, and the poisoned barb ankles. She, too, has seen that glance of inexplicable teiroi in Reine's eyes, and all Baymouth will be talking of this mar and this meeting by to-morrow, and making their own con- jectures as to why Mile. Marie would not shake hands with him, and Mile. Reine looked afraid of him. He turns away ; Mrs. Sheldon's eyes emit on? pale, angry gleam as they fol- low his moody face. Shall he demand imperiously an ex- planation on their way home, he is thinking, or shall he wait for her to volunteer it ? There is an explanation of some sort, of that he is certain. He cannot decide. He will wait and let circumstances decide for him. He looks at his watch — quite time to be starting. He will go for her, and on their homeward drive His clouded face clears suddenly. He starts rapidly in the direction they have gone. He has an insuperable aver- sion to doubts and mysteries — there must be none between him and the woman he marries. She shall have no option in the matter; she must speak out on the way home. Friendly she may be with her aunt's step-son, but caresses — no ; secrets — no ; all that must -end at once and forever. In the heart of Laurence Longworth there is generosit) manliness, and good fellowship in a more than ordinary de- gree, but blended with them there is a tolerably strong leaven of self-will, selfishness, obstinacy, and jealousy. As a man, men like him ; as a friend, women may safely like and trust him ; as a lover, he will surely be more or less a tyrant in direct ratio to the degree he loves. He is inclined to carry i all before him with a high hand now. Reine must under, stand that, though her suitor, he is not and never means to be her slave. No one must come between him and liif ** SILENT AND TSUE." 257 future wife • if it is her best friend in the woild, then hei best fiiend must be dropped. If she has mistaken the man she has promised to many, then there is no time like the present for setting that mistake right. She is thoroughly true, and pure, and good, that he feels; but all the world must see and acknowledge "hat truth, and purity, and goodness. Like Csesar's, Laurence Longworth's wife must be above reproach. His lips com- press, his eyes kindle, his face is calm and decided. ' Yes," he says, " it must end in the beginning. All must be explained on the way home." CHAPTER XIX, " SILENT AND TRUE." |HERE is a general movement among the people, as Mr. Longworth makes his way to the spot where he thinks to find Reine. Every one is preparing to go home. P'rank Dexter, Miss Hariott, and Miss Landelle go together, and Frank is looking in his turn for the last named young lady. Longworth passes him, and as he suspects, after a few min- utes, comes in sight of Reine and M. Durand. Marie is also with them. The place where they stand is secluded and silent, and as he draws near he hears distinctly some emphatic words. Miss Landelle is the speaker ; she possesses in an eminent degree — indeed, both sisters do — that '■ excellent thing in woman " — a low, sweet voice, which comes cleai from the chest, and has a peculiar distinctness in its lowest accent. The flush of sunset light is full on her face, and he can see the cold, pale, intense anger that makes it like marbla 258 "SILENT AiVD TRUEV —anger all the more intense perhaps for its perfect outward repression. " Reine may do as she pleases,'' these are her chill words. " She has known you longer, and can forgive you more than I. The man who will deliberately, for his own selfish gratifi- cation, break his plighted word, is a man so utterly contemp- tible and despicable, that he is beneath even scorn. And for anything you will gain by coming, you might as well have stayed forever. Either in public or in private I absolutely re- fuse to " She pauses, for Longworth, pursuing his way steadily over the grass, stands before them at the moment. One keen glance takes in the three faces ; the white, cold anger of the elder sister, the flushed and downcast face of the younger, with tear traces still on the cheeks, the darkly handsome, half-sullen, half impassioned countenance of the young man standing almost like a culprit before them. " Well, Reine,'' Mr. Longworth begins, lifting his hat, " if I do not too greatly interrupt you, and you are quite ready " She turns to him as he fancies almost with an air of relief, and places her hand on his arm. Marie's face changes in- stantaneously as she turns brightly to him. " If it is time for Reine's departure it must also be time for mine. Miss Hariott and I were to return as we came, with " " I met Dexter just now, looking for you. Miss Hariott is already in the carriage. If you like I will take you to her." " Thanks— yes." She takes Longworth's arm without one parting glance at Durand, and the three move off But Reine looks back, turning an appealing,' wistful, tender little face. " Adieu, Leonce," she says, " au revoirj' He bows to her courteously, then turns on his heel, and walks away. "SILENT AND TRUE." 255 Miss Landelle takes her place beside Miss Hariott, aiK? Reine passes on to where the low carriage in which Long worth has driven her, stands. He hands her in and takes hif place beside her in perfect silence. Once or twice tht daik eyes lift and look at hira. The stern expression which un- consciously to hini-self his face wears, bodes no especiall} pleasant conversation to come. She sighs wearily, and looks with tired eyes that see nothing of the beauty of the sun- steeped landscape straight ahead. He drives slowly, and surely a fairer view never stretched before lovers' eyes. The path that led to the town was called the Bay Road, and was one of the pleasantest and most jjicturesque of all the Bay- mouth drives. On the right lay the bay, ros)' with sunset light, dotted with sparkling sails, on the left fields of corn and buckwheat, and beyond them, stretching far away, the dark, dense "forest primeval." Straight before rose up the black stacks of factory chimneys, the numberless windows of the huge brick factories ghnting in the ruby light hke sparks of fire. But the two in the carriage see nothing of all this. It has been said that enough of the leaven of poetic folly yet lingered in the editor of the Phenix to render him keenly sensible of sunset and moon-rise effects, and other atmos- pheric influences ; as a rule, too, he was considered a man of sound sense and logical judgment ; but — " To be wise, and love, exceeds man's strength," and he is disposed to be neither wise nor logical just at this moment. He looks like some handsome, blond despot, about to administer firman and bowstring to some fair contumacious member of the seraglio. "You seem tired, Reine," he begins, his eyes ; pon he/ ■with a cold keenness that makes her shrink and shiver " You look bored, you look ill, you look, strange to say, as though you had been crying." She makes no reply. She sits gazing across at the pink flush upon the water. 260 "SILENT AND TRUE." " The unexpected coming of M. Durand has not been, 1 fear, a wholly unalloyed delight. Taking people by surprise is mostly a mistake. And yet you were glad to see him, I think ? " He makes this assertion with emphasis, and looks at hei for reply. She speaks slowly. " I was glad to see him— yes. I shall always be glad to see Leonce." Her color returns a little as she says it. It is to be war between them, and though she may prefer peace, if war is to be made, she is not disposed to turn coward. The tile-d-t&te is not to be an agreeable one, and she braces herself for her part in it. " Your sister hardly appears to share in your gladness. His coup de tMatre — (he has rather the look of a theatrical gentleman, by the way) — is evidently singularly unwelcome to her. For you, mademoiselle, if it were not the wildest supposition in the world, I should say- — -- " " Yes ! " she says, her dark eyes kindling ; " go on." " That you were afraid of him." He hears her catch her breath with a quick, nervous sound, but she laughs shortly. " You watch well, monsieur ! What other wild supposi- tions have you formed ? Had I known I was under surveil- lance I might have been on guard. For the future I will endeavor to be more careful." She meets his glance now fully, daringly, defiantly. He is determined to have war, and she is singularly reckless and disposed to oblige him. A green gleam on one of her hands catches his eye — it is a ring and she is slowly turning it round and round. A ring on the finger of Reine Landelle is some- thing remarkable. Except the traditional diamond solitaire he himself has given her, and which she has worn since their engagement, he has never seen a ring on the small brown hand. T le heat lias caused her to remove both gloves, the} "SILENT AND TRUE:' 26 1 lie a crumpled ball in her lap, and on the first finger of hei left hand he sees now an emerald of beauty and price. " A pretty ring, Reine," he says. " You never wore it before. It is quite new to me." " It is quite new to me also, monsieur,'' "Ah — you did not have it on this morning.'' "No, M. Longworth, I did not." " Probably " — he flecks the off horse lightly with his whip as he speaks — " it is a gift from your cousin and brother M. Durand ? " " Monsieur's penetration does him credit. It is from M. Durand." " He has selected an unfortunate color, I am afraid. Green means forsaken, or faithless, or something of the sort, does it not ? " "If it does then his choice has been prophetic," she says, looking down at it, and speaking it seems as much to herself as to him. " Indeed ! " He looks at her steadfastly, so steadfastly and long that her color rises. " But faith may be restored, may it not, and the forsaken be recalled ? It is never too late for anything of that kind while people live. Let me see it." She draws it off her finger without a word, the defiance of her manner more defiant than ever. It is a thick band of gold, set with one emerald, large, limpid — a jewel of beauty and price. And inside on the smooth gold are these words : " Silent and True." " A pretty ring," Longworth repeats, and gives it back, " and a pretty motto. One hardly knows which to admire most.' " To a man of M. Longworth's practical turn, surely the the emerald," Reine retorts. " Silence and truth are virtues with which he is hardly likely to credit so poor a creature at a woman." 262 "SILENT AND TRUE.'' " That is your mistake, mademoiselle. I believe, for in- stance, you can be both silent and true." He sees her eyes flash, her whole dark face kindle and flush. " Yes,' she cries, " to those who trust me, to those who love me, when the time comes I can be both." " And those who trust and love you are here, and the time has come ? " " Monsieur Longworth," she exclaims, and turns upon him full, " what do you mean ? You suspect me of some- thing ; will you tell me of what ? " " I saw him kiss you,'' he answers, roughly and abruptly, fire and passion in his voice. She is still looking at him coldly, proudly. As he says these words the color flushes redly over her whole face. It is the very first time he has ever seen her blush like this among all the changes of her changeful face. She turns all at once and drops it like a shamed child into her hands. " Oh," she says, under her breath, " do you care ? " Something-^he cannot tell what — in the blush, in the im- pulsive, childish, shamefaced action, in the startled words, touch hira curiously, but it is no time to let her see he is moved. "Well, in a general way," he answers coolly, "men do object to seeing another man go through that sort of perform- ance witJi the lady they expect to marry, naturally preferring to retain the patent-right themselves. Now, it is a right I have never asserted, never intend to assert until we come to a more friendly understanding than we did that night by the garden wall. I may ask a lady to marry me who professes no regard for me, hoping in time to win that regard, but [jending the winning I enforce no claim to which mutual love alone can give any man the right. And it may very well be that the fact of all privileges being debarred me may make me the more jealous and intolerant of these privileges be "SILENT AND TRUE." 263 ing accorded to another man. I do not pain yot, 1 hope, Mile. Reine, and I trust you understand me ? " She may understand him, but he certainly has nevei un derstood her — less to-day than ever. She lifts her head as he ceases, and asks him the strangest question, it icems to him, ever woman asked. " Monsieur Longworth," she says and looks h'ni straight in the eyes, " you have asked me to marry you — you prefer me to Marie — you say you wish to win my regard. Answer me this — are you in love with me ? " He is so honestly, so absolutely amazed, so utterly taken aback, that for a moment he cannot find words to reply. This is certainly carrying the war into Africa, in a way which that imperious enemy has never dreamed of. He calls him- self a man free from prejudice, but no man lives free from prejudice where he fancies the delicacy of the woman he loves is concerned, and — he is shocked. Her matchless audacity takes away his breath. " Mademoiselle," he says, " I have asked you to be my wife. You are answered." " Bah! You have asked one of Mrs. Windsor's heiresses. You have not answered. But I can read my sentence in your face — I am bold, unfeminine — I infringe on man's sole prerogative. I ask a question no woman has a right to ask. All the same, it might be better for us both if you answered." " If I answer ' I am,' and ask a return, are you prepared to give it ? " "No." " If I answer ' I am,' are you ready to tell me exactly, what tie binds you to L6once Durand ? " " No." " Then pardon me if I decline in turn. A lady's rights are limitless, and yet a man may be excised for declining to give all and receive no'^hing." 264 "SILENT AND TRUE.'' "And yet," she says, with a slow, bitter smile, "there are men who do it." " Meaning Monsieur L6once Durand ? " " Meaning L6once Durand, if you like. He is quite capable of it. '' "But surely that is not exacted. I think he receives something. I really see no reason why he should be dissatis- fied. A lady accepts his ring and his embraces both with equal readiness and pleasure ; she declines taking into his confidence and her own the man she stands pledged to marry. Of the two she greatly prefers and trusts him, beyond all dispute. No, I see no reason why he should complain." "Monsieur Longworth," Reine cries, turning upon him, her temper held partly in until now, refusing to be held in a moment longer, " enough of this ! Do you want to quarrel with me ? Do you want me to give you up ? Please say so, if you do. It is better to understand one another. I dislike quarreling, and my head aches." Her voice trembles and breaks for the first time. Her head does ache throbbingly, and she puts her hand to it with a weary, hopeless sort of gesture. In a moment he is touched and remorseful. "I beg your pardon," he says, penitently, with a swift and total change of manner. "Yes, I see it aches. I won't annoy you any more. Petite Reine, forgive me." She has been overwrought, excited, terrified, troubled ; the unexpected change in him from cold sarcasm to kind- liness is too much for her. She bows her face in her hands, and he knows that she is crying. " Oh, forgive me ! " he exclaims. " Tliis is too bad ! I am a brute ! Reine — dear Little Queen " He half-encircles her with his arm. Is the question asked by her so haughtily a moment ago, declined by him so coldly, about to be tenderly answered now? If so, fate interposes. Wheels that have been gaining upon them for some time "SILENT AND TRUE." 263 • crash close behind ; he has just time to remove his arm, when the barouche containing Mr. and Mrs. Beckwith, Mrs. Sheldon, and L6once Durand himself, rolls past. " Reine. for Heaven's sake ! " he cries, with a man's horror of a scene ; " here are all these people " But he need not fear. His half caress has startled her into composure more effectively than the barouche. She sits resolutely erect, ready to return the quartet of bows with proud composure. The barouche keeps just ahead, to the unspeakable disgust of Longworth, and the intense relief of Reine. Mrs. Sheldon sits with M. Durand, facing them, her back to the horses, and it seems to Longworth that those small steadfast blue eyes are reading their faces like printed pages. Nothing more can be said, and one of life's golden opportunities is forever lost. What can Durand be doing there in that carriage with that party, is the thought of both ; but he is an explosive subject, like nitro-glycerine, dangerous to touch never so lightly, so neither make any remark. They are flashing through the streets of the town by this time, and all the rubies and pur- ples of the sunset have faded out into pallid grays. Madame Windsor, who has not gone to the Exhibition, has invited Mr. Longworth, Mr. Dexter, and Miss Hariott to dine with her upon their return. The other three have not yet arrived, but Reine has only had time to go up stairs, and bathe her hot face, when Marie throws open the door and enters. "Reine!" she exclaims, with singular abruptness for her, ''in the name of Heaven, what is to be done now ? " " I do not know," Reine answers, despairingly. " To think of his coming after all his promises ! To think of his rashness, his selfishness, his insane folly ! Reine ! Reine ! this is ruin to us all." "I know it," Reine answers again, in the same despairing tone. " Already Laurence Longworth suspects ; I could see '\\ 256 "SILENT AND TRUE." in his eye, those cold, keen, pitiless blue eyes, that see everything. I trembled for you when we parted. Petite, was the drive home very dreadful ? " Reine makes an impassioned gesture that speaks volumes. "Ah ! I knew it. Chfere Petite, how sorry I am for you. What did he say?" " Marie, do not ask me. He bad the right to say all he said, and more. It is all wrong and treacherous, and false and miserable together." " If grandmamma hears — and she must surely hear, every- thing is known to everybody in this stupid gossiping town— we are lost. He is so reckless, so insane. Oh, Mon Dieu I why did he come ! " " Marie, he had the right to come " " Right ! You are always talking of right. He has no right to come here and ruin us. He is base and false, he has broken his promise, and I will never forgive him for it No! " Marie Landelle says, uplifting one white hand, " I will never forgive him to my dying day." "Marie!" " I will never forgive him — and you know me, Reine — I am not one to say and not do. For you — oh, Petite, be careful, be prudent ; don't meet him, don't answer if he writes ; try and coax or frighten him into going away. You may care for him, if you will, but I wish — .1 wish — I, wish with all my heart I had never seen his face." She says it in a voice whose bitter earnestness there is no mistaking. Reine looks at her almost angrily. " Marie, this is wicked, this is intolerable. You have* no right " " Right again ! Ah, Petite, what a foolish child you are. It is all his own fault, and I say again from the bottom of my heart, I wish I ha4 never seen Leonce Durand. Reine, take off that ring — how imprudent to wear it. Why, Mr. Long- worth might have seen it." "Sn.ENT AND TRUE." 26? " He has sev^ii it, Marie." " Reine ! " " He asked me who gave it to me and I told him ; he took it off and read the motto ; he is jealous and angry, and suspects more than I care to think. Oh, Marie, I said from the first it was all wrong to come." Marie sits for a moment looking crushed. Then the old steadfast expression returns. " Reine," she says, calmly, " give me that ring," and Reine wearily obeys. "At least all is not lost that's in danger, and we need not accept defeat without a struggle. Ah ! what a pity it is, when all was going so well-^grandniamma almost reconciled, you engaged to her favorite, life so pleasant and free from care " " And Frank Dexter so infatuatedly in love with you , don't leave that out," Reine interrupts, coldly. " I shall struggle for my place here until the very last," goes on Miss Landelle, unheeding; "if I am defeated it will be because fate is stronger than I. Help me, Reine, and make Llonce go away. You can do it." " Can I ? I doubt it. He went home this afternoon with Madame Sheldon — that looks as if he had made up his mind to stop at her house for some time.'' " Good Heaven ! And there he will meet Mr. Longworth daily." " And Mr. Dexter, do not forget him." " I am not afraid of Dexter, I am of your argus-eyed fiance. Well ! — there is the bell — there is nothing for it but to do one's best and wait." The sisters descend, and Longworth notices at once that the emerald has left Reine's hand. He sees too the constraint of her manner, her lack of appetite, her silence and depres- sion. Miss Hariott also observes it, and wonders if in any way the arrival of the very handsome young F"renchman has anything to do with it. In some way the conversation driftf 268 "SILEYT AND TRl/E.^ to him, his name is mentioned, and Mrs. Windsor lifts two surprised, displeased, and inquiring eyes to the face of Misa Landelle. "Monsieur Durand — a friend of ray granddaughters? Who is this gentleman, Marie ? " " No one very formidable, grandmamma. A sort of cousin of Reine's, her aunt's step-son,' and her companion from child hood." " What brings him here ? " " Really I^o not know. To see the country, in the first place, I presume — to see us in the second." " Monsieur Durand is then, I infer, a man of means ? " " Yes — no — ^he is not rich, certainly, as you count riches here, but I suppose he has a competence at least." "You appear out of spirits, Mile. Reine," says Mrs. Wind- sor, who seldom addresses her younger granddaughter without the prefix ; " does the coming of this relative annoy you ? " " His coming has annoyed me, Madame — ^yes," Reine re- sponds. " Might one venture to ask why ? " There is silence. Mrs. Windsor's brow is overcast. Reine'a eyes are fixed on her plate — :she seems unable, or resolved not to answer. Marie comes swiftly and smilingly to the rescue. " The truth is," she says, with an outbreak of frankness, " LSonce is an opera-bouffe singer, and has crossed with a company from Paris, to sing in New York, and Reine, who is proud in spite of her demureness, is half-ashamed to mention it." Reine does not look up, does not speak. Mrs. Windsor's brow darkens more and more. "That is odd, too," she says, icily, "since I understand mademoiselle makes no secret of having been trained for the operatic stage herself. Opera-singing appears to have run in the family of the late Madame Durand." "SILENT AND TRUE.'" 26g Every one sits, feeling warm and uncomfortable, during this discussion. Frank sliows his discomfort, Longwort-h wears his impassive mask, Miss Hariott is nervous. Some thing causes her to distrust Marie and her frank announci:- ment of Durand's profession — Reine l:;^s not indorsed hei statement by look, or sign, or word. IjOngworth, too, seemingly absorbed in iced pudding, also notices. Something lies behind the opera-bouife — some- thing both sisters are ashamed of, afraid of. " Our French friend, with the prima tenore voice and air, is evidently a black sheep, a very speckly potato, and the nightmare of these young demoiselles," he thinks. " If Reine would only be frank and trust me, and tell me all." But Reine tells nothing, and the evening that ensues is rather dreary to all, except P'rank, who, beside his idol, is ever in a perfect bathos of bliss. Reine sings, and the others play whist, but the music is melancholy, and the card party dull. Even Miss Hariott's constitutional good spirits feel the depression and out-of-sorts sensation that usually follows a hot day's sight-seeing, and she is glad v/hen eleven comes, and she can rise and go home. "Am I forgiven?" Longvvorth says, in a low voice, to Reine, as he holds out his hand at parting. " I pained you to- day by my fancies ; I will try and not offend in the future." But he has stung and wounded Reine more deeply than he knows, and she is not disposed to accord pardon and peace at a word. " Monsieur Longworth is a poet and a novelist ; he pos- sesses a brilliant imagination, and fancies many things, nc doubt. But for the vagaries of that imagination it is hardly fair to hold me accountable. He is, however, so far as 1 am concerned, at liberty to fancy what he pleases." He turns pale with anger and surprise. " Thanks," he says, and drops her hand. " I ivill avai' myself of tlie kind permission." 270 "TO BE WISE, AND LOVE" ETC. He has thought she will only be too glad to meet the olive branch half way ; for this bold defiance he is not prepared. But he is obliged to own to himself that he has never thought her so nearly beautiful as when she looks up at hiui with those brightly, darkly angry eyes, and braves iiim to his face. lie almost laughs aloud as he thinks of this novel and remarkable way of winning a woman's heart. '''Was ever woman in this humor wooed— was ever woman in this humor won ? ' " he thinks, grimly. But — oh, humiliating fact to woman ! — because another man- values his prize, he is doubly determiiied to win it, values it him- self for^ that reason the more, and under the blue starlight registers a vow to all the gods, that he, not this intrusive Frenchman, shall win and wear Reine Landelle. CHAPTER XX. •'TO BK WISK, AND LOVE, EXCEEDS MAN's STRENGTH." DARK and sultry August evening, the sky black, overcast, and threatening rain. In Mrs. Long- worth's boarding-house many lights are lit, all the windows stand wide, mosquito-nets drawn across, wooing the jreeze that never comes. Even on the bay no breath of air stirs this oppressive evening — it lies all black and breezeless under the low-lying sky, only murmuring in a sort of ominous splash down on the beach below. Mrs. Sheldon sits by the window of her room, the muslin curtains drawn to screen her from passing eyes, her fair, nearly colorless eyebrows bent in profound thought, one foot tapping impatiently the hassock upon which it rests. Dinner is over ; she can hear voices and laughter down on the stoop, and the odor of cigars comes floating up. As she listeas with "yO BE iVISE, AND LOVE," ETC. 27 1 an intent look, she can hear the harmonious foreign accented voice of LSonce Diirand, his low, S9.rcastic laughter — she can even, leaning out, catch a gHnipse of his slender figure as he leans negligently against one of the vine-wreathed pillars^ and gesticulates and talks. The light from the parlor lamps streams over the dark Southern beauty of his face ; his very attitude is full of easy debonair grace ; his voice is singularly sympathetic and musical, but there is much less of feminine admiration than baffled feminine curiosity in the pale, puzzled blue eyes that regard him. " Who is he ? " she thinks. " What is he to Reine Lan- delle ? Why has he come here? Why does he remain? Why are both these French girls afraid of him ? For even the elder, in spite of the cold disdain with which she treats him, is afraid of him, I can see, in- her secret heart. But Reine — if I only knew what he is to her — if I only knew what this letter means." She takes her pocket-book out, opens it, and draws forth a torn scrap of paper. It is a fragment of a letter, torn across, a portion of one corner, it seems, written in French, in a light, delicate hand. She has chanced upon it in Durand's room, this very day, lying with a heap of charred scraps in the empty grate. Mrs. Sheldon's familiarity with the French language is not great, but it is sufficient, with the help of a dictionary, to translate this sciap into English. So translated it is still puzzling : "naelesa for you to ask will never forgive you meet you this onee. danger in clandea - truth sujpected ruin and must go B. L.' 272 <^T0 Bh WISE, AND LOVE,' ETC. "R L Reine Landelle, of course, is the writer. I know that Mrs. Windsor has fprbidden him her house from the first. Wliat is it that it is useless for him to ask ? What is it she will never forgive him ? where and when is she to meet him ? what is the truth that is suspected ? what does that word ruin mean ? ' Must go ' — but he has no iritention of going. If I could only understand. This much is easily enough understood — there is some important secret between him and Reine Landelle, and where there is secrecy there must be guilt. Mrs. Windsor has forbidden all intercourse, and yet she meets him clandestinely. And Laurence is proud and inflexible, stern and unforgiving to plotting, or treachery, or falsity. What if, after all, I can take him from her yet ? " She replaces the torn scrap carefully, and, still with knitte'd brows and closed lips, muses intently. "To think of his falling in love with her — that little, dark, plain creature ! And after all those years, when I thought, and I fancy he thought, the capability was gone forever. They say we always return to our first loves, and but for her Oh ! if I had only known in the past — if I had only been a woman instead of a child — if mamma had not come between us, or if that dead summer could only return ! He gave up for iny sake home and fortune, and went out into the world to poverty and hard work, and I let my mother do with me as she chose, and married a man I cared no more for than any stranger who walked the streets. And now — now when it is too late ," She rises with strange emotion, strange impetuosity, for one so phlegmatic and unemotional, and begins walking up and down. " Is it too late ? " she thinks ; is it indeed too late ? 1 will not believe it ! Some of that old passion must still remain. If Reine Landelle were only out of ray way ! If I could only plot and lay plans, as they do in books ! But women do such impossible things in books, and I have no head for "TO BE WISE, AND LOVE,-' ETC. 2'Jl plotting. Surely, though, with the help of this torn ".etter and L6once Durand, I can do something. If I only knew what secret is between them ! " An outbreak of laughter comes up from the piazza. She goes to the window, and leans feverishly out. Longworth is i;ot there, Dexter is not there, but all the other gentlemen aie, and O'Sullivan's mellow bass leads the laugh. Durand is telling some story with inimitable drollery and mimicry, and joins with genial good will in the burst of merriment that follows. He is the life of the house, his fund of anecdote, repartee, epigram, and racy satire seems exhaustless ; he plays upon the piano like a professional ; he sings like a lesser Mario, he dances like a Frenchman, he bows and pays compliments with the easy grace of a court chamberlain. What is there charming that this handsome and elegant Mon- sieur Durand does not ? In a week he has won golden opinions from all sorts of people. Men vote him a prince of good fellows^a little too much of a dandy and lady's man, but a thorough good fellow all the same. Ladies one and all pronounce him " perfectly splendid," and fall in love with him without an effort. He is denied admission to Mrs. Windsor's ; it is whispered about that he is a negro minstrel, an opera boufife singer. Has not Miss Landel'.e said so in Frank Dexter' s hearing — Frank Dexter who alone hates him ferociously. A mystery of some sort envelops him in a deli- cious haze, and all these things go to make him still more irresistibly attractive. He has fought the Prussian Uhlans, been wounded at Versailles, taken prisoner at Sedan. What is there that Monsieur Durand has not done, can not do ? Where is there he has not been, and whether opera singer or exiled prince, his pockets at least are well filled. Adven- turer he may be, needy adventurer he is not. He wears the best clothes, smokes the best cigars, drives the best horses money can procure. He is also an adept in sundry little games of skill, and luui 274 " TO BE WISE, AND LOVE," ETC. proven, once or twice, over the card-table, to the satisfaction (or otherwise) of Mrs. Longworth's boarders, that he can win the dollars of the gentlemen as easily and gracefully as the hearts of the ladies. With it all he is a puzzle. Seeminglv he is frankness itself on all subjects ; the airy, surface man- ner he wears seems transparent as glass, and still he is baflling. There are times when the boarders think they know all about him — why he is here, how he stands with the Demoiselles Landelle ; and, after all, at the end of the first week, they have to acknowledge they still know nothing. " Half-past eight," Mrs. Sheldon hears him say, as she stands looking and listening ; " I have an engagement at nine. Messieurs, a-demain — good-night." He runs down the steps. " Capital little fellow I " she hears Mr. Beckwith say. •' Never thought a foreigner could be half so 'cute. You don"t catch me playing vinty-une with him again in a hurry, nor euchre either. Knows a sight too much about both fot my money — a cool card and a knowing one." Monsieur Durand has lit a cigar, and moved off, after the fashion of the duke in Rigoletto singing, " La donna e mo- bile:' An engagement at nine. What can it be ? A sudden thought strikes Mrs. Sheldon. She hastily catches up a light shawl and hat, leaves her room, runs down a pair of back stairs, and so out, unseen by the people on the stoop, into the street. M. Durand is a gentleman of leisure, a believer, evident- ly, in the Arabic maxim that " Hurry is the devil's." He does not hurry now, he walks away quite slowly, still hum- ming, under his breath, the air from the opera, and IVlrs. Sheldon without the least trouble keej s him in view. Is he going to the Stone House ? Is the engagement, announced with such cool audacity, the assignation of the letter ? If he, going to meet Reine Landelle ? "TO BE WISE, AA'D LOVE,' ETC. 275 A moment decides the fcrst question. He turns int 3 the street leading to Mrs. Windsor's. Laura Sheldon, her heart beating fast with the excitement of the chase, follows. He reaches the gate, opens it, enters, and disappears. There can no longer be a doubt — he has come to meet Reine Landelle in response to Reine Landelle' s letter. She draws close to the gate, concealed by trees, and waits in a fever of excitement and exultation. What will Laurence say to this ? Laurence, fastidious, ridiculously fastidious about the reserve and delicacy of young girls even in trifles. A few breathless moments of suspense, and then the house door opens, and in the lighted entrance she sees distinctly the face of Reine. It quickly closes, the night and darkness wrap her rival — she sees and hears no more. Still she lingers. It is not likely he will stay long-^Reine will not permit herself to be missed. In this surmise she is correct. Fifteen minutes have barely elapsed, when, without sound to warn her of his approach, Leonce Durand hastily opens the gate, and stands almost beside her. Her heart seems to stop beating for a moment — she cannot see his face distinctly in that obscurity, and it may be her fancy that it looks angry and lowering. A second later and he is gone, and she stands alone under the shadow of the elms. Among the sheaf of letters next morning's mail brings to the .editor of the Fhenix there is one over which he knits his brows, and scowls in a manner so savage, that Mr. O' Sulli- van, who chances to be in the sanctum at the moment, pauses in his work to stare. " Upon me word, chief, that's a mighty pretty expression to have your photograph taken in. What has our esteemed correspondent said to throw ye into sucli a tearing passion ! l!,'s not a billet-doux ye have, I'm thinking." *• Look at that writing, O — did^you ever see it before ? " 276 " TO BE WISE, AND LOVE," ETC. He flings him the envelope, an ordinary buff one, and O' Sullivan inspects it gravely. " Never chief, and never want to again. ' A d — d crabbed piece of penmanship,' as Uncle Toby has it, as ever I look- ed at." " Seems like a feigned hand, does it not ? " "Well — that's as may be. A woman trying a man's fist might execute such chirography. Nothing unpleasant I hope, chief?" " An anonymous letter — nothing more." But the scowl still lingers on Longworth's visage, as he crumples the epistle into a ball, thrusts it into his pocket, and begins writing with a ferocious rapidity. He writes until O' Sullivan has left the room, then throws down the pen, "akes out the crumpled letter, smooths it, and frowning Jarkly, glances vindictively over it once more. " A Sincere Friend wishes to offer Mr. Longworth a word of advice. The inclosed scrap of writing came into his possession by accident, and through the carelessness of M. L6bnce Durand, whose property it is. The initials at the end are not to be mistaken. Last night the assignation made in this torn letter was kept in the grounds of the Stone House. Monsieur Ldonte Durand and Mademoiselle Reine Landelle met there at nine o'clock. A Sincere Friend wishes Mr. I ongworth would discover what the exact relation of this vtiy handsome young man is to Mile. R. Landelle — why he is here — ^why they meet by night and by stealth — before he makes her his wife." Inclosed is the torn corner of the French letter sighed " R. L." All honorable men and women, as a matter of course; despise anonyn-.ous letters, and yet do those poisoned stilet- toes ever quite miss their mark ? Longworth crushes this in a fury and flings it from him, only to pick it up for the second time, and regard it with loathing. Was this accusation true ? "TO BE WISE, AND LOVE," ETC. 2'JJ did Reine indeed meet by night and by stealth this step-son o( hei aunt ? Well, and if she did — was it after all so unnatural ? He was her friend — her brother, as Marie had said ; she had known him all her life. Mrs. Windsor had absolutely for- bidden him the house — how then were they to meet except by stealth ? And yet the thought that they met at all stung him like a whip. She was watched, suspected, talked of, this girl he meant to marry — there was something horribly revolt- ing in the idea. Innocence, purity itself, she might be — was, he knew — and yet one such letter, one such ui aligner as this, was enough to spot the fairest reputation. " Be you pure as ice, chaste as snow, you shall not escape calumny " — per- haps not ; but if the calumny have the shadow of truth to build upon, how then ? What if this vile, nameless thing spok* truth? what if Reine met Durand? what if she were in the habit of meeting him ? All that day editors, reporters, compositors, the very prin- ter's devil, notice that the chief is in a white and silent rage. Every article he dashes off is steeped in the very gall of bit- terness. On the editorial page goes in a brief, bitterly scath- ing article headed " Anonymous Letters," in which every epi. thet almost in the English language is hurled at the heads of the perpetrators of that atrocity. But he keeps his chair un- til his usual hour for departure, and O'SuUivan, glancing up as he passes, observes that a look of dogged resolution has replaced the fiercely-repressed, silent fury of the morning. " Upon my honor and conscience, I hope no more anony- mous epistles will reach ye, for it's a fine savage temper ye've b?en in all day. Surely it wasn't anything about the little niad-mo-zel ; and yet that's the onlj thing that could upset him to such a degree. Something about her and the good- looking little Frenchman, I'll wager a button. If I only had the cut-throat that wrote it for five minutes, the Lord look tc him ! Devil another anonymous letter he'd write this month ' of Sundays." 2/8 •' TO BE WISE, AND LOVE" ETC. Mr. Longvvorth goes home, dines, still rather stern and silent, but with all indications of anger gone. He glances keenly across at Durand. That elegant and gay young for- eigner is in high feather, as usual, and is flirting with Mrs Beckwith, to that coquettish little matron's heart's content. , He has frankly corroborated Miss Landelle's statement — yes, he is an operatic singer, has been for years, but his en- gagement does not begin before October, and meantime he has run down here to see their charming town, and pay a visit to his still more charming friends, the Demoiselles Lan- delle. True, the imperial grandmamma does not like him, he regrets to say ; she dislikes Frenchmen, probably, M. Du- tand gayly infers, on the principle of the burnt child who dreads fire. It grieves him, but what would you ? he strives to survive it. He likes Baymouth ; the fishing is excellent, Madame Longworth's house and family all that there is of irthe most charming (a smile and bow that comprises all the ladies) ; he sees no reason why he should not lihger in these pleasant pastures until the ides of October arrive. " Of course not," Mr. Beckwith agrees, " a better place to loaf away the blazing days couldn't be found. Sea-breezes, nice trout streams, pa'tridges later on, comfortable family, as you say, munseer, airy house, pretty girls, French and Yan- kee, married, widowed, and single," adds Mr. Beckwith, with an unctuous chuckle. " What say, Franky, my boy ? — you ain't looking well, I think. Capital succotash, Mrs. Long- worth ; may I trouble you for a second help ? " So Durand means to stay until the close of September, five more weeks. Mrs. Beckwith looks radiant, Mrs. Shel- don casts a quick glance at Longworth, but Longworth's mask is on, and he is absorbed in his dinner. Frank Dextei darkly scowls, and poniards a French roll, as if it were M. Durand he has impaled on his fork. He is jealous of Du- rand, more jealous than he has ever been of Longworth, al- though that fact is not in itself remarkable, Mr. Dexter being " TO BE WISE, AND LOrE," ETC. 2^Q jealous to a perfectly frightful degree, of every man upon whom the light of Marie Landelle's golden eyes chances to fall. He certainly seems to have very little cause in the present instance, but jealous souls make their own causes. She has known Durand long ago — who is to tell how inti- mately, — and though she avoids him now with a narked avoidance, that is in itself suspicious, though her coldness of manner is more than Arctic when she chances to meet him, that only roots the distrust of this moody, miserable young Bluebeard still more. And now the fellow is going to remain five whole weeks longer. jvTonsieur Durand's pleasant and polite little speech throws settled gloom over Mr. Dexter for the remainder of the meal. He quits the house the instant it is over, and a few minutes later Longworth goes down the piazza steps in his turn and takes the same direction. Durand stands on the stoop, a curious, and not altogether pleasant smile on his dark face, as he watches the twain out of sight. " The same loadstar draws both," says the voice of Mrs. Sheldon beside him, " the Stone House. lV[y cousin Lau- rence's is quite an old aftair by this time, as no doubt you know. Mr. Dexter's does not appear as yet to be settled. but a young man with a fortune so princely need hardly feai a rejection when he makes up his mind to speak." M. Durand has removed his cigar out of deference to the lady — now he looks at her with a smile still on his handsome face. " Ah ! " he says airily, " so Mr Longworth's affair is quite settled ? Yes, as you say, La Petite told n-e from the first. Happy Monsieur Longworth i And M. Dexter's is not quite ' — do I understand you to say, madame, that he is very riir.h ? " "A prince, nonsieur. The heir of nobody knows how many millions " " Vague, but delightful ! Millions ! How exquisite th< 28o « TO BE WISE, AND LOVE," ETC. sound of that .word ! How fortunate are my fair cous ins ! " " Monsieur Durand, they are not your cousins." " No ? But it is all the same, is it not ? We are of one family And you think when Mr. Dexter speaks Mile. VTarie will nut say no ? Why should she ? It is a most brilliant match even for Madame Windsor's heiress. Ah ! that terri- ble Madame Windsor ! who shuts her doors in my face, as if I were an ambitious lover, instead of a brother, a cousin, altogether harmless, and meant to carry off one of her grand- daughters under the very noses of messieurs, the favored ones." He laughs lightly, and looks longingly at his cigar. He smokes almost as steadily as Longworth himself. " Don't mind me, monsieur ; smoke if you wish to. And if you did carry off one of the granddaughters I don't think it would surprise Baymouth very greatly. It does not seem to regard you as the harmless cousin or brother — whicli do you prefer ? — that you claim to be." Again Durand laughs, as he resumes his cigar, bowing his thanks for the gracious permission. " Mr. Dexter for example. My faith, how like Othello he looked at dinner, when I announced my intention of remain- ing still a few weeks." " Yes, I think Frank is jealous ; but Frank, poor boy, is jealous of every one who so much as looks at his divinity. She is wonderfully pretty, Mile. I^andelle ; the prettiest woman you ever saw, is she not ? " " Pardon, niadame — not at all. Very pretty, I grant you — the very prettiest — no ! " The look of Durand's dark eyes, the slight smile, the al- most imperceptible bow, bring a faint flush of gratified vanity even to Mrs. Sheldon's cool cheek. But she laughs. " Of course. I deserve it. My question sounded, nc doubt, as if I wanted such an answer. All the same, I know "TO BE WISE, AND LOVE;' ETC. 281 there is ho one in Baymouth half so handsome. But it is not Miss Landelle they say who is your friend, in spite of hej beauty." Once more Durand laughs, thoroughly and unaffectedly amused. Does this rather faded young widow expect liim to commit himself to her, to satisfy her curiosity, to own him- self the lover of Reine ? Before he can reply, Mrs. Beck- with has fluttered to his side, and claims his proiii'lse to teach her an Italian song, and so makes an end of the conversa- tion. Mr. Dexter calls at the Stone House, and findi. /^ille. Marie reading in the garden. Mr. Longworth, upor. mi arrival a few minutes later, finds that Mile. Reine is not at nome ; she is somewhere in the grounds, or down on the saiids, her sis- ter thinks. Mr. Longworth goes in search of her, and pres ently afar off on the sandy shore he catches a glimpse of a gray robe, a fluttering blue ribbon, and a slight solitary figure seated on a rock. He vaults over the low wall, and turns in the direction at once. The summer evening is at its loveli- est — bright, windless, mellow with the sweet scent of the sea on the still air, a few pearly stars already ashine, although the pale pink and primrose of the sunset have not quite faded out of the pale fleecy sky. Hushed and tranquil the bay lies, the little waves whispering and murmuring up on the shore, a gold gray haze lying over the distant towns. Reine sits, a book in her lap, but not reading, the dark eyes with the far-off distant light in them, her lover has learned to know, fixed on the silent shining water, as if away beyond the rosy horizon yonder they looked once more for " thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, Oh ! pleasant land of France." As the footsteps approach she glances up, and that pleased iook of welcome, Longworth of late has moie than once seen, comes into her face. Perhaps it is only that she is 282 "TO BE WISE, A.VD LOVE," ETC. weary of solitude, and is glad of the interruption. There are- times when this demure little gray-robed juaiden seems a true daughter of her native land, when she knows how to look up with a certain coquettish and alluring grace in the face of her chosen foe, and this it one. She smiles brightly for just one second, then the lids droop over the dark eyes, and she sits, waiting for him to address her. " I am fortunate in finding you alone, Mademoiselle Reine and here. It is a quiet place ; we can talk without fear of interruption, and that is something which does not often liappen. But, first, are you quite well ? I have not seen you for three days." " I am quite well, monsieur." " You are pale, I think — you are not looking as well as you used. But I suppose the hot weather is exhausting." Mile. Reine makes no reply. Is this what he desires to say without fear of iriterruption ? The sudden momentary brightness has left her face, she sits expectant, with down- drooped eyes, tracing figures with the points of her parasol in the sand. Whatever he has followed her here to say it is nothing agreeable, that she feels. There is no lovers look in his face, no lover's tone in his voice. He stands beside her in the fair evening light, looking remarkably stern, and resolute and inflexible indeed for a wooer. "Reine," he says, speaking quickly, "my errand to-night is no pleasant one, but duty is duty and not to be shirked. 1 received a letter this morning, an anonymous letter, and it concerns you." She glances up, the straight black brows contracting after a fashion he knows well. "An anonymous letter and concerning me?" " Here it is." He takes it out of his pocket, and placet il in her hand. " I know — every one knows how utterly contemptible such a thing is, but like all insidious poison if hardly ever fails to plant its sting. I could not destroy it "TO BE WISE, AND LOVE," ETC. 283 without consulting you ; the memory of what it says would rankle in spite of me. Read it — I ask only one word of de nial and I pledge myself never even to think of it again." Her face has paled slightly, but she opens it with a steady hand, and reads both letter and inclosure without tremor or pause. Then she calmly refolds them and hands both back without a word. "Well!" he exciaims impatiently, "have you nothing to say — nothing to deny ? " " I have very little to say— nothing to deny. What your Sincere Friend tells you is quite true." " Quite true ! You met Monsieur Durand then, last night, at nine in the grounds ? " " I did." " This torn scraj) of writing is from you to him ? ' "Undoubtedly." There is a pause. He crumples the snake in his hand into a b^U, and flin^'S it out into the Sea. " Reiiie," he says abruptly, and in a voice of whose harsh- ness he is not aware, " this must end. One of two things must happen — our engagement must cease, or this intimacy with Durand must be broken off. It may be perfectly inno- cent — of you I have no doubt — but i)eople are beginning tc talk, and the amount of the matter is it won't do. My future wife nmst be the subject of no anonymous letters, must meet no man in darkness and in secret." " How then am I to meet him ? " she demands, with a proud calmness that surprises him, but a dangerous light kindling in hei eyes. " He is. my friend — I care for him more than perhaps you would wish to hear ; Madame Wii.d- soi has forbidden him her house. What would monsieur have me do ?" "Abide by your grandmother's decision. Anything is better than being spied upon and talked of like this." " But, my grandmother's decision is most unjust. She 284 "TO RE WISE, AND LOVE," ETC. knows nothing to the discredit of M. Durand. Does it not seem rather the act of a craven and cringing spirit, to give up an old and very dear friend, at a word from a rich and tyrannical relation ? " "While you accept the shelter of that relation's roof, mademoiselle, you are bound to obey." " She looks up at him, stern, inflexible, stubbornly just, with eyes afire. " You do well," she says, in a passionate undertone. " Oh ! you do well to remind me of that. I am her slave — Mon Dieu I I know it well, and should obey every com- mand. Am I also to be yours, monsieur ? " "Reine, you speak like a child. Am I a tyrant because I wish my promised wife to be above and beyond the gossip of a censorious babbling country town ? " " Your promised wife ! " she repeats, still with those brightly angry eyes upon him. " I grow tired of hearing that. lean take care of my own honor, monsieur, believe me, although I should never be raised to that dignity." " I never doubted it, but I do doubt your power to silence slanderous tongues, ready to put the most vicious construc- tion on the most virtuous actions. Do you think the writer of that letter did not know his man ? do you think any other words in human power to write could have struck home as these did? Reine, you 'are but a child in years — in the ignorance of innocence you think you can brave and defy the world. I tell you, no ! it will crush and defame you without pity -or mercy. Let me , be your shield from it, as you have, given me the right to be. Let me go to Mrs. Windsor and appeal to her to withdraw this injunction against your friend. I think I have influence enough foi that, and if you must see him, let him come to the h(juse openly and like a man, and in the face of all the world. .Say the word and I will speak to her this very evening." " Not for worlds ! " cries Reine, passionately — " not foi' a "TO BE WISE, AND LOVE,^ ETC. 28S thousand worlds ! - What ! after all her insults to the memory of my dear dead father, her taunts of our poverty and de pendence, which she makes us feel every hour of our lives, I send you to plead with with her for Leonce ! Oh ! I have indeed fallen low when I sit and listen even to such a proposal ! ' " I meant il in good faith. Do you then prefer stealing cut to meet him after dark in the grounds ? Do you intend to i)ersist in doing so ? " "And what if I do?" " The what is very simple. I resign, at once, and forever, any slight claim I at present possess to influence youi actions, and leave you altogether free to meet M. L6once Durand when, and where, and how you please. Only, for your own sake, mademoiselle, let the trysting-hour be broad day, the trysting-place where all the world may see.'' She looks up at him, deadly pale, and rises to her feet. " Monsieur," she says, " I will never forgive you this last insult to the day of my death." " There are many things you refuse to forgive me, Made- moiselle Reine," he answers ; " one added can hardly signify. And I have no intention of offering you insult — nothing is further from my thoughts. If I did not care for you in a way and to an extent that makes me despise myself, do you think I would- stand here warning you? Reine," he cries, fiercely, " cannot you see that 1 love you — love you so well that it maddens me to doubt you ? " " Oh ! indeed, do you love me ? " she says, with wonder- ing scorn, still pale to lividness, and with quivering lips. " Vou guard your secret well. I could never have guessed it. Will you pardon me if, even after your tender declara- tion, I still doubt the fact ? " He, too, is startlingly pale, and there is certainly very little of lover's look or tone about him. And yet in his voice there is passionate pain, passionate longing, passionate rd 286 TO BE WISE, AND LOVE," ETC. gret, and in his very intensity of anger and bitterness, per haps deepest depths of love, " Do you recall that night in the garden ? " he says ; '' dc yoi' think, have you ever thought, I came to you with one idea of Mrs. Windsor or her money in my mind ? You know better. But you said to me it was not Reine Landelle 1 de sired but Mrs. Windsor's heiress. Perhaps I had given you some right to say that — if so. I now withdraw that right. I tell you if Mrs. Windsor cast you off penniless to morrow, I would still ask you, and you alone, of all the women I know to be my wife. Does this give me no right to speak as I do ? to ask you once more to give up Durand ? " " What does giving up Durand mean, monsieur ? " " It means meeting him no more clandestinely — it means telling me exactly what he is to you." " I have already told — my aunt's step-son." " Pshaw ! You are usually brave and outspoken enough—- don't prevaricate for so poor a creature. For he is un- worthy of your regard, Reine ; without knowing mucli of him, I know that. Trust me, dear," he takes her hands and looks earnestly into her eyes; "indeed I love you, I trust you, even while I seem to doubt you. Will you not trust me in turn ? " His sudden tenderness moves her. She trembles, shrinks, falters for the first time. " I can — I do — I always have," she says brokenly ; " it is not that. Oh ! Mon Dieii I if it were my affair only ! but it is not, and my lips are sealed. You must trust me blindfold or not at all. I will be the last to blame you. It will only be justice if you let me go." There is a struggle, that she can almost see, and though she does not look at him, she hardly breathes while she waits. He drops her hands with a look of keenest disap- pointment. "You will not trust me." " TO BE WISE, AND LOVE,"" ETC. 287 " I cannot." "Will you tei me this at least — was he ever your lovei i " She hesitates and half averts her face. "He was but a boy. He was not old enough '.o bo any one's lover " "Still he was — you do not deny it." '' It meant notliing — it was years ago — it is all past and done with. It never meant anything. He was only a boy." She may think so, and does, he can see, but Durand knows better; ' Answer me this at least: what brings him here?" ' I cannot." " Not even this ? " " Not even this. My promise is given." " A promise to Durand ? " " Monsieur, I implore you, do not ask me. I cannpt telL I can tell you nothing — now." " Will the day ever come when you can ? " "Yes," she answers, with a weary sigh, "I thmk so, I hope so, but I do not know. Oh ! monsieur, let us end this — I foresee nothing but trouble will come of it. My conduct looks suspicious. You are honestly trying to trust me, and you cannot. Let us make an" w>d. It is not yet too late. Nothing is done that cannot be undone, and I am weary ef doubts and quarrels. I will give you back your ring and your freedom, and then these secrets and hidden troubles of mine need disturb you no more. Monsieur Longworth, it \\'0uld have been better for us all if you had never let us come here." " 1 begin to think so," he answers, bitterly, " since this is to go on indefinitely. I had hoped — but what does it mat- ter now. If you had cared for me " He stops with an impatient gesture, and moves away a few lleps. Then he comes again and stands before her. " You told me that night," he says, with an impetuosity 288 "TO BE WISE, AND LOVE," ETC. that is as unlike his usual manner as this deeply moved, pas- sionate man, is unlike the phlegmatic Longworth Baymouth knows, " that ybu did not absolutely dislike me. How is it now ? Have I compelled your dislike again ?" " No," she slowly answers, " you have not. I ought never Xo have disliked you, for you were good to us, M. Longworth, jind meant well. But, oh ! believe me, it would have beei. bettel if you had never let us come.'' He goes on without heeding her last words : "You own you do not dislike me. It seems a difficult thing to draw admissions from you, but will you admit also that it may be possible for you one day to care for me ? " " I think — it may be possible." " No one else has any claim on you ? " " No one in all the world." " Then I will wait," he says, earnestly, " and while I wait trust. Only be prudent. I will not hurry your decision ; I will give you time. No, do not speak ; I have more at stake than you give me credit for, and you are excited and annoyed now. I will wait for your decision, and I believe you will come to me one day soon, and of your own choice tell me all. Reine" — once again he takes her hands — " how shall I convince you you "have no truer friend than I — no one in all the world you can more implicitly rely on ? If I have been imperious, pardon me ; if I felt less deeply I might be more collected and courteous ; but my whole heart has gone out to you, and I cannot recall it if I would. Think this over, dear, and come to me and tell me your troubles. I can be ]3urand's friend as well, if he needs one, for your sake." She withdraws her hands and covers her face, moved to her very heart. " Oh 1 you are good, you are kind, you are generoue," she says, in a stifled voice ; " but it is all in vain. I have nc right iQ speak j I am bound by promise, and I cannot betray trust." "THE RIVALS." 289 "You can ask those who have bound you to fiee you. Surely you must see that this is right. You have proven sufficiently how thoroughly you can be silent and true. Prove to your plighted husband in turn how thoroughly you can confide in and trust him." He stoops and touches her cheek with his lips ; then, be- fore she can speak or look up, is gone. The slight caress awakens within her a curious sort of tenderness ; she stands and watcaes him out of sight — pain, regret, yearning in her eyes, and something stronger and deeper than either beneath. Then she sits down, white and unnerved, and looks blankly before her at the fast-darkening sea, and so when the summer night falls it finds her. CHAPTER XXI. "the rivals." RANK," says Miss Hariott, " answer me this. Did you or did you not, tell me on board the Hesperia, that you were only going to make a flying visit to Baymouth, for the sole purpose of building a yacht, and were then going virtuously and dutifully home to Georgia to see your mother and uncle?- Did you, I say, or did you not ? " There is severity in Miss Hariott' s tone, dignified reproof in Miss Hariott's eye. We say " eye " emphatically, for while she keeps one upon the culprit, the other is fixed ir much distaste upon the little mud puddles in the road, through which she is daintly picking her way. The after- noon is delightful, breezy, crisp, clear, but the morning has been rainy, hence the mud. " Did you, or did you not ? " categorically repeats the lady, and Mr. Dexter laughs, lazily. 290 "THE RIVALS." "On board the Hesperia was three whole months ago. How is a fellow to carry his mind back over such a period as that? I remember well enough your saying — (need I mention that every saying of yours is indelibly imprinted on this heart) — that you preferred Baymouth to Venice. If I prefer it to Georgia in August, who is to blame me ? Not you, Miss Hariott; so smooth away that frown, and smile once more on the most abject of your adorers." Miss Marie Landelle, sauntering by Frank's side, her pink- lined parasol casting a faint roseate glow over her pearl fail face, laughs faintly. These two are in front ; behind come Mr. Longworth and Reine; Miss Hariott, in the center, skips over the puddles unsupported, sufficient unto herself. The whole party are bound for the Baymouth croquet ground, being members, one and all, of the Baymouth Croquet Club. " This is all very fine," says Miss Hariott, with increased severity ; " but as you have survived the Georgian heats foi the past seventeen or eighteen years, don't you think the delicacy of your constitution might survive them once more ? Last night I received a letter from your respected maternal parent, making four anxious epistles in all, imploring me in pathetic language to inform her truly, and at once, what it • is that holds you speU-bound in this dull town. That letter, young sir, I shall answer before I sleep. Frank, I conjure you ! What am I to say to your mother ? " A flush rises over Frank's sun-brown cheek — he casts a quick glance at his companion, but that lovely, serene face looks cahn and more unconscious than the summer sky, the wonderful, yellow brown eyes gaze straight before into space and are as nearly expressionless as beautiful eyes can be. The young man sighs impatiently, and switches the heads oflf wayside daisies and dandelions with a quick, petulant motion. Every day the last state of this young Georgian grows worse than the first, every day he becomes a greater coward, in the very intensity of his passion. Every day he " THU RIVALS." 291 grows more afraid to speak — the present is paradisiacal, she never seems to weary of his presence, but also, he can see with bitterness, she never seems to weary of his absence. The same sweet smile welcomes his coming, and speeds his going. If he went forever, some prescience tells him that sweet, placid smile would bid him farewell the same. If he speaks, and the dread flat is No, he will be exiled from her presence, hope will die within him, the vulture of despair will gnaw at his vitals. And he is afraid to speak. To-day is good, even in its pain — so let to-day linger. But he knows, and she knows — and he knows she knows — what keeps him here ; and Miss Hariott knows, and all Baymouth knows, and the whole world is welcome to know, what de- tains him here, a far too willing captive. "You do not speak,'' goes on his stern monitress, after a long pause, devoted to shirking puddles. " My dearest Miss Hariott, have not your own fair lips taught me many a time and oft, that speech is silver and. silence gold." " Some speech may be silver ; yours, young man, has the empty ring of hollow brass. Your silence is golden, I allow, in its rarity ; but at present we will have brazen speech. What shall I say to Mrs. Dexter ? " " Oh, anything you please ! Tell her not to fidget. The verb to fidget expresses my mother's normal state, though. Tell her I am all right, and being trained by you daily in the way I should go, and that when the yacht is launched my first trip shall be to see her. I'll take you along, if you like. Miss Hester — I promised that, did I not, on the Hes- peiia ? Can mortal man promise more ? " " You will not go until the yacht is launched ? " " Can't, I give you my word i Have to be there every day — ought to be there at this moment. No end of a bore^ building a yacht." "Very well," says Miss Hariott, resignedly, "I may a« 292 " THE RIVALS." well get my Spare bedroom ready ; for the dcjsing lines of your mother's letter, Frank, are these : ' If that wretched boy does not leave Baymouth this week I will be there next, to fetch him.' " Frank laughs. " By George ! " he says, " let her come by all means. Miss Hariott. I shall be uncommonly glad to see the poor little mater, and then I can take her home in the yacht. Miss Landelle, will you not come, too? You will enjoy the trip, I am sure." "Are you?" responds Miss Landelle ; "then I am not at all sure. Do you forget, Mr. Frank, that I am always sea-sick, that I cannot sail down the bay in the calmest weather without being ill ? I should like the yacht and the company, but not the mal de mer. I think you must ask Reine instead." " Mile. Reine is asked of course — that goes without say- ing. But you " — Frank's voice drops almost to a whisper in the intensity of his eagerness — " Miss Landelle, surely you will not refuse me this pleasure. If you knew how I have looked forward to it, how all this summer " " We are late," interrupts Miss Landelle, with placid in- difference : •' see, they are playing. Had we not better :jwalk on a little faster, Mr. Frank ? " The words are checked on his lips as they have been checked many a time before. Her calm unconsciousness is impenetrable, all his enthusiasm falls flat before it. He obeys in silence, and they leave the group behind, and hasten forward to the croquet-players. At the gate a blear-eyed beggar sits crouched in the sun, nolding out his hat and whining for alms. They pass him unheeded, only Reine stops abruptly, goes over and ad- di esses him. ''What nonsense I" exclaims Longworth, impatiently; " it is that drunken old scoandrel Jackson, who got thirtj "THE RIVALS.^ 293 days for vagrancy and drunkenness, and has just served out his term. Now she is giving him money — what folly ! I shall stop her^^such a horrid old impostor " " You will let her alone," says Miss Hariott, softly, and looking with eyes full of tenderness at her little friend. " ' For alms delivereth from death, and the same is that which purgeth away sin and maketh to find mercy and life everlasting.' " She goes. Longworth stands still and waits for Reine to come up. The momentary annoyance has passed from his face, something very different looks out of his eyes as thev linger on the pair before him. It is a picture he never foi gets — the cringing, red-eyed beggar, in his dirty rags, shrink- ing like a foul lizard in the sun, and the girl with her soft, tender eyes and pitiful young face looking down upon him. But Mr, Longworth chooses to grumble when she rf'ioJns him. " Why do you let yourself be imposed upon by these peo- ple ? " he says ; " that is the most rascally old humbug in the town. He drinks, he steals, he beats his wife. He will go straight from here and get drunk on what you gave him. You should exercise discrimination in your charities, my dear child." " Discrimination is not one of the cardinal virtues. I do not possess it, Mr. Longworth." " But such a notorious old fraud " " He is old, and poor, and half blind," she says, impatient- ly, for long suffering is no more one of Reine's virtues than discrimination. " Let me alone, Mr. Longworth, you are not the keeper of my conscience. You never do wrong your- self, I know — how can you be expected to find mercy oi pity for weaker mortals who do ? " They have reached the gate. Longworth is about to an- swer, but Mons. Durand comes up at the moment and joini them. 294 "THE RIVALS." " I have been waiting for you, Petite," he says j " honjour, Mr. Longworth. Are you the originator of this philanthropic scheme I hear them discussing, or is it Miss Hariott ? " " What philanthropic scheme ? " inquires Longworth, short- ly, " I have originated none." " Then it must be the ever excellent Miss Hariott ! A scheme to help these poor people, kUled in the late mill ex- plosion the other day " "As these poor people are dead and buried, Mons. Du- rand, 1 should imagine they were past helpii^ by any scheme, however philanthropic,'' interrupts Longworth, grimly. " Ah ! pardon," Durand laughs, " it is that I express my- self so badly. No, no, to help the families, the widow,' and the orphan. I have left them discussing the project instead of playing the croquet, and waiting for you to come. Could they decide upon anything in this town without you, mon- sieur, I ask ? " He asks it with a shrug, and a smile at Reine, and Reine hastily interposes, for she sees an ominous knitting of Long- worth's brows. " I dare say Miss Hariott did originate it," she says ; " she is one of the chief sufferers always by these dreadful things ■ — she bleeds in heart and pocket alike. What is the present proposal, Leonce ? " " Proposal ! Their name is legion. A fancy fair, says one lady, a charity ball says another, a concert sa/s a third, with M. Durand for primo tenore, and Mile. Reine for prima- donna. I say no, no, no, to all — let us have a play." " I second the motion," says Miss Hariott when they have approached. " What do you say, Frank ? " " I say nothing,'' says Frank, sulkily. Frank would die at the stake sooner than coincide with any idea of Durand's. Durand laughs in his airy fashion, and lays one -vhite and shapely hand on Dexter's stalwart riioulder. "THE RIVALS." 29S '* Francois, mtn ami " " My name's Frank,'' growls Mr. Dexter, still more sulkily. " ilcoute, mon cher Frank " " Speak English if you want to talk to me. Mister Durand.'' He shakes off the hated hand, and moves away, closer tc Miss Landelle's side. " Listen^ then, Frank, and all of you messieurs and mes- dames. I say let us have a play — a play is my strong point. I will be stage manager. I will take all the labor of arrange- ments upon myself — you shall do nothing but accept yout parts, and cover yourselves with distinction." " Ah ! cover ourselves with distinction ! " repeats Miss Hariott with a groan, " what fiendish sarcasm is here ? " " What say you, Reine ? " inquires Longworth, smiling, and Reine lifts two eyes dancing with delight. " You look as if you might like it." " Monsieur, to perform in a play is the one unsatisfied am- bition of my Hfe ! " " And of mine," chimes in Miss Hariott ; " let me strut my little hour upon the stage and 1 die happy.'' " It ain't half a bad idea,'' says Vlr. Beckwith, coming up, " it's new, and nice, and will pay. Fairs are bores, a ball this hot weather is not to be thought of, and picnics are played out. I say a play." " A play ! a play ! my kingdom for a play ! " cries little Mrs. Beckwith dancing up. " Mr. Durand you are a per- fect angel ! " " Ah ! madame," says M. Durand, and removes his hat, and lays his hand upon his heart ; " as you are strong be mer- ciful ! Your lightest word of praise overpowers me." Frank looks on and listens with a face of unmitigated dis- gust. What a little simpering fool that wife of Be(jkwith's is, he is charitably thinking, and what grinning, chattering monkeys Frenchmen invariably are ! " Let us form a committee of ways and means," says Beck 296 " THE RIVALS." with, " and let us decide the matter at once. Here's a zoJ place under these trees — let us sit down. Now then, mon sieur, you're the leader and chief of this project — what's the play to begin with ? " A confusion of tongues immediately ensues. " The Lady of Lyons," cries shrilly Mrs. Beckwith ; " I will play Pauline and M. Durand the fascinating Claude Mel- notte." " Did ever a collection of amateur noodles murder a good drama, I wonder, without beginning with ' The Lady of Ly- ons ? ' " comments Mr. Dexter, still disgusted, to Miss Marie. Miss Marie smiles, reposes under her pink parasol, listens and takes no part in the discussion. Some one proposes "Macbeth," with Mr. O' Sullivan as the Th^ne of Cawdor, and Miss Hariott as the tremendous heroine. This is over- ruled with much laughter. "Hamlet" is ambitiously asked for next by Mr. Beckwith ; Durand can play Hamlet, Mr. B. opines, he rather looks like that sort of thing, and he might throw a little originality into the performance by singing a French comic song, say in the grave-digging scene, or just befoi^e the ghost enters. He, Mr. Beckwith, thinks he might distinguish himself as the Ghost This too meets with ob- jection. Then they discuss the " School for Scandal," but here Mr. Beckwith takes high moral ground. The " School for Scandal" isn't proper, by George, and he isn't going in for what is not strictly virtuous and correct. No married man ought to countenace such a rascal as Joseph Surface, and Charles was not much better. Saw it played once in Boston, and was sorry he took Mrs. B. The man who wrote it ought to be ashamed of himself. " Speaking of the School for Scandal, what do you say to Sheridan's other comedy ' The Rivals,' " inquires Durand ; " it is not beyond ordinary amateur histrionic efforts, and Mr. Beckwith's moral scruples do no apply. Yoii have all seen •The Rivals.' I suppose ?" "THE RIVALS." 297 Yes, all had seen " The Rivals " — it would do capitally. "Let me see," says Durand, frowning reflectively ; "there are enough of us, I think. You can all learn your parts this week, next Monday we can have our first rehearsal, and the Monday night following shall be the night, big with fate. We will have rehearsal every morning at ten. M. Longworth, you will make an excellent Captain Absolute. Mr. Dexter, please consider yourself Captain Absolute's father, the stormy Sir Anthony. Reine, look upon yourself from this hour as the ever charming Mees Lydia Languish. Madame Sheldon, whom I regret not to see here, will make a most admirable 1/Ucy." " " If Mrs. Sheldon takes any part," says Reine, slowly and decidedly, " I decline to play." Without a moment's warning this bomb-shell explodes in the midst of the party. Everybody is stricken mute, every- body stares. Longworth turns and looks at her keenly. Miss Hariott seems astonished, Marie opens her soft, sleepy eyes, Durand alone takes it coolly. ''Ah ! well," he says, gayly, "a lady's caprice is a thing to be respected, not questioned. We omit the so charming Madame Sheldon, from our corps dramatique. Madame Beckwith, will you condescend to accept the character of the vivacious and sprightly I^ucy ? " " Is it a good part ? '' inquires Mrs. Beckwith, not best pleased at the preference given Mrs. Sheldon. " Have I coil- siderable to say ? Can I wear pretty dresses ? " " One of the principal parts, and you can dress as bewitch- ingly as you please." " Luc/s only a waiting-maid, ray dear, and drops out of sight altogether about the second act," chuckles Mr. Beck- with. "You'll have to wear a cap and a duster, a white apron with pockets, and a dress down to your ankles, (cham- bermaids always dress like that on the stage." "But these nice proprieties need not be observed in am* 1 3* 298 « THE RIVALS." teurs," interposes Miss Hariott, soothingly. "Liic/s is a delightful part, and you may get up the most coquettish little costume imaginable. Nothing could suit you better, M. Durand, if you do not cast me for Mrs. Malaprop I will never forgive jou.'' " Mees Hariott, consider yourself Mrs. Malaprop, I fore- see you will electrify us in that role. Marie," he turns abrupt- ly, an instantaneous change in tone and face. " You know the play well — will you perform Julia to my Faulkland ? " " I will spoil the performance. I have no talent whatever Select some one else," she answers, with a shrug. " Pardon. Do you forget I have seen you in private the- atricals before ? Yes, in that very character. As a favor to me — I do not often ask favors — play Julia." There is a curious silence. Frank Dexter scrowls blackly, Reine watches her sister with sudden eagerness, Durand never moves his glance from her face, Marie meets that glance full, a sort of hard defiance in her handsome eyes. " You need not put it in that earnest way. Monsieur Du rand. If you, as manager and proprietor, wish it, and no one else objects, I am quite willing to oblige." " A thousand thanks ! You will play Julia ?" "I will make the attempt." " And you are the jealous lover ! You select a thankless role, M. Durand," observes Longworth. " It is one he can perform, too, I'll be bound," says Mr, Beckwith. " Dark-complected men, with black eyes and mustaches, always make first-rate jealous lovers or first mur- derers. You don't intend to leave me out in the cold, I hope, a looker-on in Vienna ? " " By no means. We war t a Bob Acres. You will be Bob Acres." "Capital, faith!" says Mr. O'Sullivan, who has been lounging in the outskirts; "he was made for the character Are you going to do nothing for me, Mr. Stage Manager?" " THE RIVALS." 299 "Need you ask? There is Sir Lucius O'Trigger. Are you not the veiy man we want ? " "Better and better. Upon me life, if I'm the success 1 think I'll be, in this, my debut, I'll retire from pen, ink, and paper forever — sure literature's a pernicious profession, all the world knows — and take to genteel light comedy. ' Ah ! me little friend,' " says Mr. O'SuUivan, turning to Beckwith, and quoting from the part assigned him, " ' if we had Blunder- buss Hall here, I could show you a range of ancestry in the O'Trigger line, every one of whom had killed his man. For though the mansion house and dirty acres have slipped through my fingers, thank Heaven ! our honor and the family pictures are as fresh as ever.' I'm to fight a duel with somebody, I forget who." " You will discover to-morrow,'' says Durand. " Every one is satisfied with his or her role, I hope. I do not think we can do better." But where were ever private theatricals in which the per- formers were satisfied with their parts ? Mr. Dexter, for in- stance, still out of humor, grumbles audibly with the part assigned him. Sir Anthony Absolute, a blustering old heavy father, stumping ridiculously about the stage, and making an eldeily ass of himself — a pretty part to assign him ! He feels sure he would shine as Faulkland, in a suit of black velvet ; but no — Durand, in his beastly selfishness, must keep that to himself, for the sole purpose of making love to Marie. Mrs. Beckwith would have preferred Lydia Languish to Lucy. Marie looks bored by the whole business. Miss Hariott, alone brisk and satisfied, announces her intention of returning instantly home, and bearing Reine with her, to begin their studies without a second's loss of time. " What an exceedingly versatile gentleman M. Durand happens to be," she observes on the way ; "he seems to know a little of everything under the sur . Was he ever an actor, Little Queen ? " 30D " THE rivals: " He is an opera singer," Reine says, in a low voice. " He sings charmingly, I allow, and although I do not overmuch like M. Durand, it is impossible to really dislike any one with such a voice. What a good gift it is." " You say you do not like him ? " Reine repeats. " Vih.y, madame ? " " How can I tell ? He is handsome, he is agreeable, h* is polite, but still, ' I do not love you. Dr. Fell ; ' it is that sort of unreasonable Dr. Fell feeling, I know some one else who does not like him either. Petite Reine." " You mean Mr. Dexter ? " "No, my dear, I don't. I mean Mr. Longworth." " And yet— poor Leonce — what has he done that any o£ you should dislike him?" " Have you never disliked and distrusted any one. Petite, without why or wherefore ? How long does he remain in Baymouth ? " "I do not know. Until the end of September, 1 be- lieve." "Reine," says Miss Hariott, abruptly, "when art: you going to be married ? " " Married ! Mon Dieu I " exclaims Reine reddenii g and laughing nervously. What a startling question." " Why startling ? You are engaged, are you not f And marriage is the customary climax of engagement," " Not always." " Petite, what do you mean? I can see, I have s< en, for some time that there is something between you and Laur- ence that is not as it should be. Dear, I was so glad when 1 heard he had chosen you, so glad my Little Queen was to be his wife." "Yes," Reine says, smiling, but with a little quivei of the voice, " and not jealous at all ? " " 1 shall be sorry to lose my friend," replies Miss Hai'iott, Bteadilr, " and a man is lost as a friend who marries. But 1 " THE l^IVALS." 3Q1 knew he would ma^ry some time, and I was glad he chosf you — glad, thankful, happy.'' " Yes," Reine murmurs, softly, again, " it was best." "You had vowed never to like him," goes on Miss Hariott, Avith a smile ; ''you tried hard to make yourself be- lieve you did not like him ; but, oh ! child, I saw through it all, and I read your heart better than you read it yourself, and I know you care for him strongly, truly, deeply, and well." The dark face droops guiltily, deep red burning on either cheek. " And he gave you his whole heart. Reine, do you know what a good gift the love of a true man is ? I saw all from the first ; I saw, too, that you both were proud and perverse, and misunderstood, and would not show what you felt. Still, this sort of thing rights itsplf in time if let alone, and every- thing was beginning to go on as I wished, when lo ! this young Durand comes on the carpet and spoils all." " How ? " asked Reine, defia,ntly. <' M. Durand has noth- ing to do with it. Is he not my brother ? " •' I don't believe in that sort of brother," retorts Miss Hariott, cynically, "unless he is fifty and humpbacked. L6orjce Durand has one of the most beautiful faces any male creature ever wore ; your regard for him is plain for all the woild to see ; and Laurence is only man, and very mortal, my dear, and he is jealous, and everything is going wrong." " He has no right to be jealous,' ' Reine flashes out. " I have told him what L6once and I are to each other. He has no right to think of me as he does." " My dear, right has nothing to do with it. When love begins to weigh things, and balance the right and the wrong, it ceases to be love. It is the most supremely unwise and unreasoning passion on earth. It makes the wise man a mad- man, the miser a spendthrift, the savant a simpleton. He is jealous unreasonably, if you like, so is Frank Dexter with Still less reason ; and until Durand goes, so both will remain. 302 "THE RIVALS" Take my advice, Reine, and send your little French brothei away." " No ! " cries Reine. " I am not my brother's keeper. He shall stay as long as he pleases. With Mr Longworth'a doubts, and fears, and fancies I have nothing to do. If he chooses to suspect me unjustly, let him. I will not lift a finger to set him right." " Reine, take care ! You will regret this." "Very likely — I regret many things." " You do not know him as I do. He will bear until he thinks endurance ceases to be a virtue, and then " "Well, madame, and then ?" The dark head lifts haughtily. " All will end between you, and you will be the one to suffer most. It is always the woman who suffers most." " Do you suppose M. Long worth could suffer for the loss or gain of any woman ? " the girl says, scornfully. " If so, do him justice — he is quite above any such weakness. For the rest, I say, and say again, if he chooses to suspect me unjustly, let him. I will not try to set him right. If he can- not trust me, then the sooner he gives me up the better." " Willful ! " says Miss Hariott, shaking her head ; " head- strong both of you, and proud as Lucifer. You are well matched — either of you would die before you would yield an inch." " I have nothing to yield. I do not suspect him. I am not jealous." " My little Norman girl, we weaker vessels must yield or break. If I did not like you and Laurence both so well, I would wash my hands of your antematrimonial squabbles, like a sensible maiden lady, who has had the wisdom to steer clear of them herself; but I do like you, and cannot give you up, that is the truth. Here we are — come in and stay the evening. Larry shall take you home." Reine remains willingly enough, and they peruse "Thi "THE RIVALS." 303 Rivals," and take tea together in the pretty room, with the evening sunshine glinting on the china, and the flowers in the cent;r of the table. Later, Longworth comes, and Reine sings for them, while they sit as usual in the twilight and talk. The moments are charmed; ten comes far too soon,, and Reine looks round the pleasant room with regret as she ^ rises to go. " What a pretty house this is," she says. " I wish I lived with you, Mees Hariott, and we could grow old gracefully together, drinking tea, reading books, singing songs." " Mr. Longworth," says Miss Hariott, "what do you think of the programme ? Are you willing ? Because nothing would please me better, and I would guard Petite like a fiery dragon from the Scylla and Charybdis of man and mat- rimony. What do you say ? " Longworth laughs. " Nothing to you. I shall endeavor to change mademoi- selle's opinion on the way home. I promise to provide her with tea ad nauseam, books, and songs ad libitum, if she will consent to live with me instead of you." "When?" " Ah ! when ? Who knows ? The when is for Reine. In the vague and indefinite future. But don't you go and poison her mind with your baleful anti-matrimonial doctrines, confirmed vestal that you are ! Petite, I never told you," he turns to her, his eyes laughing, " that I once asked Miss Hariott to marry me." " No," says Reine, coolly, " but she has." " Did she tell you also that she refused me ? " " I beg your pardon," interposes Miss Hariott, " I never refused you. You did not press for an answer, and I simply reserved my decision. I still reserve it, and some day when you stand the bridegroom of Another, at the very altar, I ma) stride forward an awful Nemesis, and forbid the banna It is my right," 304 " THE RIVALS." " M. Longworth should be used to rejectioiif by ^hij time," says Mile. Reine ; *' he appears to have been singulany unfortunate in his affairs of the heart. Repeated blows, hov^- ever, harden substances already hard by nature, do they not ? '' " Ah ! You know all about it, I see. Yes, I have been most unfortunate in the past ; let us hope the future will make amends." ^' Does not the present ? " inquires Miss Hariott. " Not satisfactorily. Good-night, fair hostess. Don't let the small hours find you studying the wit and wisdom of Mrs. Malaprop." They go home through the sweet smelling, faint warm darkness of the August night, meeting few, speaking little, sui&emely content in their hidden hearts, to be together and alone. " Reine," he says, gently, " what did you mean by refusing to play if Mrs. Sheldon was to be one of us ? " "Need you ask?" she answers, calmly. " L6once tore up his letter in his room, set fire to the fragments and threw them in the grate. One portion escaped and was found. Who think you, in that house, would take the trouble to write an anonymous letter, and inclose it ? Mrs. Sheldon was once your affianced. There are those who say she aspires to the position still. Do you think that letter was the work of a servant ? " Longworth answers nothing; he has been thinking tlie matter over himself. But when the subject is renewed by Mrs. Sheldon herself, as she stands alone with him next day, he speaks. " You are engaged to Miss Reine Landelle, I-aurence," she says, with emotion, and her handkerchief to her eyes j " she can do nothing wrong in your regard, I know, but I thought at least you were my friend — old times might surely have made you that. I never — no, I never thought yon would stand quietly by and hear me insulted." " THE RIVALS"— ON THE STAGE AND OFF. 305 Longworth looks at her cynically, unmoved by the falling tears. " I would leave old times put of the question if I were you, Totty," he answers. "As for Mile. Reine, what would you have ? I couldn't knock her down. Freedom of speech is a lad/s prerogative, and besides, I am not sure that I do not rather admire her spirit." " Laurence ! Admire her for insulting me ! Oh ! this is cruel indeed ! " "Don't cry, Mrs. Sheldon — there are few ladies whose beauty is improved by tears. Shall I really tell you why she spoke as she did ? " " If you please. If you know." " I know. Up stairs in his room, one day last week, Monsieur Durand tore up and burned the fragments of a letter. One fragment escaped, and was picked up by Some one in this house — was inclosed in a vile, anonymous letter and sent to me. The letter was in a woman's hand — disguised. I showed it to Mile. Reine Landelle, and she formed her own surmise as to the writer. I have no more to say ; only, in my own defense, I shall burn any further nameless com- munications. Time to start for the office, I see. Good- naorning, Laura." CHAPTER XXII. " THE RIVALS " ON THE STAGE AND OFF. HROUGH the pleasant afternoon, Mr. Longworth of the Phenix saunters up to make a call upon hia friend Miss Hariott. It is as well to say Miss Ha- riott, although he is pretty certain to find Mile. Reine Lan- delle there, as well. The windows of the little cottage stand open, and a smile breaks over his face as he draws near, for 306 «' THE RIVALS"— ON THE STAGE AND OFF. he can plainly hear Mrs. Malaprop and Miss Languish ve heraen:ly gabbling their parts. He leans his folded arms on the window-sill and looks in at the two actresses who, in the spirit of true artistes, pay no heed to their audience but go on. " There, Sir Anthony ! " exclaims Mrs. Malaprop, point- ing a derisive finger at her fair companion, •' there stands the deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family, and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling ! " (Reine — as Lydia Languish.) — " Madame, I thought you once " (Mrs. Malaprop.) — "You thought, miss! I don't know what business you have to think at all ! thought does not be- come a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow — ^to illiter- ate him, I say, from your memory." Lbngworth glances at Reine, his smile fading. He is thinking of Durand — the words seem to apply. Perhaps Reine is also, for the pathos of her tone is very real as she answers : " Ah ! raadame, our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget." (Mrs. M.) — " But I say it is, miss ! there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never existed, and I thought it my duty so to do ; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't be- come a young woman." Here there is some gentle applause from the window. Miss Hariott delivers this speech as if she meant it. " Madame," says Lydia, still pathetically, ' what crime have i committed to be treated thus ? " " Will you promise to do as you are bid? " demands ]\[rs. Malaprop, severely. " Will you take a husband of youi friend's choosing? " "Madame," responds Lydia, emphatically, and casts a d© « THE RIVALS"— ON THE STAGE AND OFF. 307 fiar.t glance at the window, *' I must tell you plainly that had i no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion ! " "And what business hs.ve you, miss! " cries Mr? Mala prop, in a fine fury, " with preference and aversion ? IT ey don't become a young woman ; and you ought' to know that as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion." "Larry," says the speaker, descending from the heights of Malaprop, to be Miss Hariott once more, " come in, if you want to. I can't do myself justice with you looking on, and, besides, Lydia doesn't half know her lines. Take your book, miss, and go study. Let me tell you it does not be- come a young woman to only half know her lesson." Reine laughs, picks up her book, and disappears. Long- worth enters and takes his customary chair. " Where is Mrs. Dexter ? " he asks. For two days before Mrs. Dexter arrived in Baymouth, as per promise, and is Miss Hariott' s guest. " Gone to call upon Mrs. Windsor. Like the best and most obedient of little mothers, she has fallen in love with Marie because her big boy has told her to do so. She sings her praises until I grow idiotic, listening. She is the pretti- est creature the sun shines on — so gentle, so sweet, so affec- tionate, and as Mrs. Windsor's heiress, a fitting match even for Longworth's heir. " Laurence,'' she lays down the work she has taken up, and looks at him earnestly, " I wonder if that unfathomable girl means to marry poor Frank i " " Can she do better ? " " No-o. And she doesn't seem the kind to have had prioi attachments. I think if the lovely Marie were vivisected her heart might be put in a filbert-shell. Reine, self-willed, perverse, hot-tempered, is worth a thousand of her. She has a heart of gold for him who is able to win it." " Ah I but the winning is such uncommonly np-hill work,* 308 *^THE RIVALS"— ON THE STAGE AND OFF. says Longwcrth, lazily, but with an amused look in his eyes, •' and the question that naturally presents itself to an inquir« ing mind, is : is the game worth the candle ? " "The man who could ask such a question,'' begins Miss Hariott vehemently. Then she stops and takes up her work. "I won't SECy another word!" she exclaims. "You are ready to sit there and abuse her for the next hour for the pleasure of hearing me contradict you ! I won't do it 1 " Longworth laughs, and silence falls. Outside the faint sea-breeze stirs among the September flowers, bees boom in " wave-swung lilies and wind-swung roses," the sharp crack of the grasshopper pierces the hot, dry grass. Reine appears to have totally vanished. The day is tht day so long expected, so much talked of, and to-night Bay- mouth is to be electrified by the grand amateur performance of " The Rivals." For the last ten days dressmakers have been busy, costumes have been sent for, rehearsals have been going on. A crowded house is expected ; a very little goes a long way in Baymouth. There are daily rehearsals, and dajly squabbles, despair and frenzy on the part of Monsieur Durand, chronic sulkiness on the part of the performers. The manager's task is a Herculean one, the drilling of these raw recruits a formidable and thankless undertaking, but after a fashion he accomplishes it. Among the refractory corps, Frank Dexter is perhaps the most incorrigible, the most maddeningly pig-headed. Frank, who takes umbrage at the manager's most innocent remarks, who stands in the wings and scowls like a demon, daily, during the love pas- sages between Faulkland and his insipid Julia. And perhaps since the character was first performed it was never rendered so utterly flat, stale, and vapid as in the hands of Miss Marie Landelle. Faulkland may rave, may glare, may spout his gloomy speeches as impassionedly as mortal man may, he awak- ens no answering response in that cool bosom. Miss LandellC; her radiant hair falling like a glory about her, her oeautiful " THE RIVALS"— ON THE sfAGE AND OFF. 3O9 eyes fixed upon him, repeats her lines without falter or mis- take, no more emotion in face or voice than if she were a talking doll. And it is a noticeable fact that except when they address each other in character, they seldom address each other at all. M. Durand is scrupulously polite to mad- emoiselle, his cousin ; he has a trick of furtively watching her, too, which Frank seef with silent rage. A sort of restraint is growing up between him and Reine also, which Mr. Longworth sees, and of which he highly approves. The manner of this last gentleman is that of a duelist on guard, coldly courteous, but ever, watchful and suspicious. Frank, on the contrary, makes open war, rebels boldly, and in sight of all, against the self constituted authority of the; stage-manager. " Frank, mon chir" will say M. Dut-and, in his bright eager way, " don't stand in that rigid and unnatural attitdde. Stand at ease. Don't use your legs and arms as if they belonged to some one else, and were made of glass, and you were afraid the slightest movement might break them.'' " Mr. Durand," Frank replies with elaborate politeness, " will it suit your convenience if I have a few of my limbs amputated ? My legs and arras appear to haive ruined your peace of mind ever since this performance began. 1 will cheerfully submit to the operation sooner than that they should continue to cause you the perpetual suffering they seem to do ! " Or it will be this : " M. Dexter," Durand will say, pathos in his voice, de- spair in his face, " donH stand with the back of your head to the audience. I beg of you, I entreat of you, turn a better face to the house." " I haven't got any better face," returns M. Dexter, with sudden smothered fury ; "if the house doesn't like my face, the house needn't look at it. What do I want standing star rng at your audience, and be hanged to them, like a gaby, wlien I've got nothing to' say to them ! " But the evening is here, and a great throng with it. Bay 310 " THE RIVALS''— ON THE STAGE AND OFF. mouth musters well to enjoy the blunders and breakdowns of the amateurs. At eight every seat is filled, and the orchestra is in full blast — silent expectations of fun to come fills thf house. Behind the scenes dire confusion and flutter obtain, people with painted faces and wigged heads rush frantically to and fro, little yellow-covered books in their hands, gabbling idiotically. M. Durand, in the dress of the somber Faulkland, is ubiquitous, gesticulating, imploring, beseeching, tr)ang madly to evoke order out of chaos. In the midst of the con- fusion, worse confounded, up goes the curtain, and on go Fag and the Coachman ! And here the fun-expectant audience are not disappointed. Memory and voice forsake these two poor players instanta- neously, at sight of that sea of eager faces, and twinkling eyes. In vain the prompter roars in a husky and frantic whisper, painfully audible to all present but the two unfor- tunates for whom it is intended. ' ' Come off ! " at last de- spairingly is the cry, and Fag and the Coachman go off wiser and saddder men. The opening scene closes in humiliating and abject defeat, and Baymouth titters audibly and feels that it is getting its money's worth. The next is the room of Miss Lydia Languish — Miss L-. L., in delicate pink silk, her profuse dark hair coiled about her small, shapely head, "discovered" reclining in an easy chair, and Lucy, the maid, in the most coquettish of dresses, and most undaunted of voices, comes briskly forward, and speaks : " Indeed, ma'am, I've traversed half the town in search of it. I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at." The audience feel they are to be cheated in this scene — it 15 going to " go off." Reine speaks, and her rich, full voice ia perfectly distinct to all. Mrs. Beckwith, as the sprightly Lucy, covers herself with renown. Mile. Reine knows her lines, and says them ypith spirit and effect. Presently enters Mane '■'■THE RIVALS"— ON THE STAGE AND OFF. ill as Julia, beautifully dressed, and at sight of that angelic face there breaks forth a hearty and simultaneous round of ap- plause, that is as honest and high a compliment to her rare loveliness as Marie Landelle has ever received. A faint 'flush rises to her cheek, a faint, pleased smile to her lips, as ■jshe ever so ^lightly acknowledges that surprised tribute. But her beauty is the best of her, the audience quickly find ; her manner is listless, her voice low, her speeches long ; and a well-disposed gamin, leaning over the gallery, kindly urges her at last to, " Speak up, miss ; don't be ashamed of your- self." Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute appear — Sir Anthony very tottering as to his knees, very deeply rouged as to his face, but deficient as to his memory, indifferent as to his voice, and stonily ri^d as to every movement. A smile reappears on the face of Baymouth — Mr. Frank Dex- ter, as the irascible Sir Anthony, is going to give it its mone/s worth once more. Mrs. Malaprop, however, goes to the other extreme ; her strong gray eyes survey Baymouth unflinchingly, and she immediately casts into the shade all who have appeared before her, the moment she opens hei lips. In the next act Mr. Longworth, in the scarlet coat and gold trimmings of the dashing and deceiving Captain Abso- lute, appears, and Mr. Longworth is cool and collected, is master of both voice and memory, and Baymouth begins to feel it has really gone to the theater, and is assisting at a play This impression is confirmed when Leonce Durand, darkly handsome, deeply jealous in most becoming black velvet, strides forward to the footlights. Bob Acres, in the hands of Mr. Beckwith, is the dreariest of failures ; but Sir Lucius O' Trigger comes in, is received with rapture, speaks up like a man, and from this moment the performance pro- ceeds with renewed life. Even Sir Anthony forgets for a moment the depressing superfluity of legs and arms he has 312 " THE RIVALS^— ON THE STAGE A.VD OFF. been laboring under, and stamps up and down, memory and voice restored. There can be no doubt, however, well as Longworth, O'Sullivan, and Miss Hariott acquit themselves, that Du- rand is pre-eminently the star of the night. There is a real and passionate earnestness in his morbid jealousy and tortur- ing love that Baymouth has not expected^ and that holds xi silent and surprised. "Gad you know," as Mr. Beckwith remarks at the wings, " he goes at it as though he had never done anything else but make lo/e to, and be jealous of, Miss Marie. By George, you know, he does it as if he meant it.'' When the fifth act opens with the impassioned scene between the lovers^ — Julia's renunciation of him and Faulk- land's despair — there is something almost painful in the real- ism, the intensity with whiclr Durand goes through it. Marie, too, for the first time draws up her tall, slender figure, her eyes kindle, she extends one handv her voice rises, her gaze tra;nsfixes him — in that gaze anger, scorn, contempt. " Bat one word more ! " she says, and her voice rings clearly, sternly out, as though that word were not acting, but inexorable reality. " As once my faith has been given youy i will never barter it with another. I shall pray for you) happiness, and the dearest blessing 1 can ask of Heaven to send yoii, will be to charm you from that unhappy temper which alone has prevented the performance of our solemn engagement. And let it not be your least regret that it has lost you the love of one who would have followed you in beggary throughput the World ! " She goes with a sweep of the hand, and something in her ' face that is not acting. Faulkland's burst of despair thrills every heart. "She is gone, and forever! Oh! fool, dolt, barbarian ! " Baymouth stares — this is not 'he sort of thing they paid Bevertty-five cents to see. An njured sense comes upon " THE RIVALS"— ON THE STaGe AND OFF. 313 them of haVitig been swindled-^where does the laugh they bargained for come in here ? But the duel scene begins, and Bob Acres is funnier than ever was Bob Acres before, without intending it in the least, and Sir Anthony is suddenly sulky, and doesn't care whether he blunders or not, and Baymouth is in a broad grin once more when the curtain falls. The Rivals ends. Altogether it has not been such bad fun Baymouth decides, if that Frenchman had not played so absurdly well. A storm of applause greets the finish — ^Mrs. Malaprop is called for. Captain Absolute is called for, and when he appears holding his father by the hand, there is some danger of the roof coming off. The young ladies are called for, but decline to come. Sir Lucius O'Trigger is called for vociferously, and to him there is flung a bouquet of size and beautyj With emotion and gratitude beaming from every feature, Mr. O' Sullivan stoops to pick it up, when lo ! it slowly but surely evades his grasp, and ascends majestically to the regions whence it came. A blank stare from the great Sir Lucius, a roar from the audience, and then the curtain is down. Baymouth is departing, and the amateur performance is at an end. The conclusion of the entertainment is to be celebrated by a little supper at Miss Hariott's. Thither the whole com- pany, in high good humor (with one exception), repair. Need it be said that exception is Mr. Dexter, who off the stage seems to exchange the bluff and blusterous character of Sir Anthony for the moodly misanthropical one of Faulkland The real Faulkland is in the wildest of wild high spirits, the excitement of the evening seems to have flown to his head /ike champagne. Perhaps it is that he still fancies himself performing the r61e of Marie Landelle's lover, that makes him keep so persistently by her side,, makes him talk to her so incessantly, and laugh so feverishly and often. Reine iva,tches him, that terror Longworth has seen there before rising in her eyes. Longworth watches her, she watchei 314 " THE RIVALS"— ON THE STAGE AND OFF. Durand, Frank watches Marie — Marie whose face looks cold, and pale, and fixed almost as marble in its chill displeasure All through the supper Durand's spirits keep at fever heat. He tells stories and leads the laugh, pays voluble compli ments to all the ladies upon their acting, but chieily to Marie. " She cast me off with withering scorn, as if it were reality, not acting, did she not. Frank, trh cher 1 " he cries, gayly. "I stand renounced and rejected forever." " You bear it well, at least," says Frank, coldly. He is looking with angry contempt at his rival, but Vie sees, too, the fiery flash of Reine's dark eyes across the table. For Marie, who is next him, she turns deliberately to Long, worth, her neighbor on the left, and looks at Durand no more. Supper ends — all rise and disperse through the rooms, for Miss Hariott has thrown open every apartment. A mo- ment later Longworth sees Reine approach, say a few words to Durand, sees him listen attentively, nod silently, and presently disappear altogether. Mrs. Beckwith flutters up, addresses him," claims his attention,- and five minutes latter, when he looks again, Reine too is gone. "Where is Durand ?" he inquires carelessly of his hostess. " Gone out to indulge in a cigar," ^he answers ; " finds in- doors too close. He has found something to upset him, certainly ; he is altogether unlike himself to-night." " Still the smoking idea is a good one. The house is close. I think I will step out and blow a cloud myself." He goes. The night is dark, starless, and sultry for Sep*. tember ; the little rooms are unpleasantly heated. He is vaguely uneasy ; the sense of something being wrong and se- cret between Durand and these sisters is upon him more strongly than ever. There is a meaning under the manner of all three that irritates and baffles him. Why has Reine made him quit the house and go home? Is she afraid ol some reckless disclosure ? And where is Reine ? Has shff ''THE RIVALS"— ON THE STAGE AND OFF. 31 S gone with him ? He lights his cigar with a savage feeling upon him of being plotted against and tricked, and stands leaning upon the porch, hidden in the obscurity of the night. Presently as he stands motionless he see two figures ap- proaching from the opposite end of the walk. His sight is keen ; it is a man and a woman — it is Durand and Reine, and it is Reine who is speaking in a vehement, passionately angry undertone. In the stillness he hears every word, "I have told you again and again, and yet again, L6once, that this rashness will be fatal — you will ruin us alL Already people look at us with suspicion and curiosity, to- night more than ever. I entreat you, J implore you, to go before it is too late." "I will not go,'' he answers, doggedly. " I had the right to come, I have the right to stay. What care I for people's looks or suspicions ? Let the worst come if it will; nothing can be worse than leaving my wife to be made love to by another man. You may jjreach prudence, but I am not a stock or a stone. I can't endure this much longer. There are times, I tell you, when I am almost mad. The end will be that I will go to Madame Windsor and tell her alt" " Then hear me ! " Reine cries, still in that passionate undertone, " on the d^y you do, I give you up forever ! I will never forgive you, nor see you, I swear it, as long as I live. What ! are you a coward and a traitor, as well as ' " Go on," Durand says, with a jeering laugh. " Was it not enough," she vehemently retorts, but always in that passionate whisper, " to entrap a girl who loved you, who trusted you, into a secret maniage, but you must break your solemn promise and come here and blight her every prospect in life ? L6once ! L6once ! " she cries, and all at once the hot anger dies out, and her voice breaks into a sob. " You must indeed be mad." They pass on. Durand lingers for a moment in the porch, holding both her hands and speaking earnestly. Then h« 3l6 " THE IiIVALS"—dN THE STAGE ANB OFF. bends and kisses her^ and both pass Out Of sight and hearing into the house* For I^ongwOrth^he stands stunned ; it is no figure of speech — Hterally and absolutely stunned. He takes off his hat, a sort of giddiness upon him for a moment. His wife ! Durand's wife ! The words keep beating themselves out in his brain oveij and over and over. This, then, is the secret at last. He does not know how long he stands. H6 hears the company- breaking upj but he does not stir ; he heats him- self inquired for, but it never occurs to him to move. Pres- ently they cottie flocking out, and there is a confusion of tongues, many voices speaking at once, and wondering where he can be. The angle of the porch screens him completely, his cigar has gotie oiit and does not betray him. He can distinguish the voice of Reine, then Marie speaks, then Frank, then Durand. " He only stepped out to shioke a cigat," says Miss Har- iott, perplexedly, " the earth cannot have opened and swal- lowed hitn, can it ? " " You haven't an Old oak chest anywhere about, have you ? " says little Mrs. Beckwith, laughing. " If so, open it before you go to bed and you will find his mqldering remains." " Shouldn't wonder if he got tired of us all and went home promiscuously," says Mrs. Beckwith's lord and tnaster, " Odd fellow Longworth, played uncommon well tO-riight. Went down on his knees to you, Ma'amselle Reine, as if he was used to itj bless you, and liked it. Well, good-night — • good-morning rather, .Miss Hariott, for there goes two o' clock. Come, my dear." They go down to the gate and disappear with many good- nights, many Wondering comments where Mr. Longworth can be. As Miss Hariott returns he steps out of his con- cealment, and follows her into the house. She turns round and recoils from him with a screarn. BY rff£ GARDEN WALL. 317 " Laurence ! Good Heaven ! What is the njatter i " " What do you see thq matter ? " he says, ia a voice that does not sound hke Longworth's, " I