io e/^ 4iL m 9 GHARLES GARMOE ^saatowiw m- V R 6013 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF G-. K. Gallagner Date Due APR.2A-959A S PRINTED IN U. a. a, (*?y CAT. NO. 23233 Cornell University Library PR 6013.A79E2 Edna's secret marriage, or Love's champio 3 1924 013 616 598 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/cu31 92401 361 6598 EDNA'S SECRET MARRIAGE Or, Love's Champion By CHARLES GARVICE Author of "The Other Woman," "A Jest of Fate," "The Verdict of the Heart," "Linked By Fate," etc. SSI^^ A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBUSHERS :: :: :: NEW YORK EL Copyright, 190S Bx SinEET & Smith EDNA'S SECRET MARRIAGE A FOREWORD. I share with most readers their dislike — it amounts sometimes to a horror — of the "novel with a purpose"; and I think I can assert unhesitatingly that the reader who honors me with a perusal of this story of the lives of two persons, "the man and the maid," will not be able to discover the slightest sign of any other purpose than to tell a plain, unvarnished tale in such a fashion that he who runs may read and understand it But "moral" is quite a different matter; and I claim for this novel that the moral which it indicates is not to be avoided. And it is the old one which cannot too often be taught and insisted on: that it is never too late to mend, and that the best mender of men's lives is the little doctor who cures as often as he kills with his little quiver of arrows. The callous^ the most worthless of men — and Cyril More is not one of these — have been redeemed by love. Alas ! "beauty draws us with a single hair" — does anyone read Pope nowadays P-^rtoo often down the steep slopes of Avernus ; but sometimes it leads us to the altitudes where virtue, robed in all her purity, holds forth the crown of happiness, with which she re- wards those who kneel at her shrine. CHARLES GARVICE. June 29, 1905. EDNA'S SECRET MARRIAGE. CHAPTER I. PROVIDENCE AND MAN. The great 'banker, John Weston, sat in the library of his magnificent home in Surrey. He was a very old, but a very brave man, for he sat with a smile on his wrinkled and colorless face, the face from which years of brain strain had driven the color, the face in which the strug- gles, the trials, of this transient world had carved wrinkles as deeply as if they had been cut with a graver's tool; a smile, notwithstanding that the doctor who had just left him had told him that he had only a few weeks, per- haps days, to live. When one is as old as John Weston death often comes as a relief, a discharge; the sentry is relieved at his post, and, stretching weary limbs, goes off to his rest. The soldier, scarred in many a battle, takes his discharge and limps wearily to the repose, which to him is sweeter than the glitter of gold or the rustle of fame's laurels. And John Weston had received his death sentence with the equanimity of the brave man, and the tired veteran. He had hosts of friends, he would be sorry to leave them, yes; but sorrier still to leave the young girl, the child of a younger and dearly loved brother. The girl — she was little more than a baby — had wound herself round the heart of the great banker, as the delicate ivy winds itself round the rugged oak; and for nine years past, ever since she had been brought to his house one summer's day, to see him, John Weston had ever held her in his mind. And now he was going to die and leave her. Well, she would not be left friendless. His sister-in-law, the widow 8 Providence and Man. of his elder brother, would take loving care of her; and little Edna would not be left in poverty. As he thought of his vast wealth — how much was it; how long ago was it since he had ceased to count it? — a change came over the old man's face. The smile disap- peared, the brows knit together, the eyes, still bright and keen, became cloudy as if something were weighing on his mind, something were rising from the past to dis- turb him, to remind him that he, who had paid his debts, with this one exception, had left one great claim, one great debt, unpaid. He rang the bell, and, when the footman came noise- lessly, with the air of respect, the bent head and discreet eyes, the master said : "Send this letter to Mr. Burdon — at once." The footman said, "Yes, sir," and waited. Mr. Weston looked up. "Well?" he asked, sternly. "The letter, sir," explained the footman. John Weston started slightly and srhiled. Yes; it was as well he was going, going before his mind — the mind that had governed so many men, saved so many fortunes — and wrecked some — began to wane. He wrote the letter'; it was no more than a note: "Dear Burdon: Please come at once. I mean — at once. Yours faithfully, "John Weston." He sealed the envelope in the good, old-fashioned way, and the footman dispatched a groom with the letter. In two hours time Richard Burdon, the solid, trust- worthy lawyer, was in attendance on his old client and friend. He found Mr, Weston just sitting down to dinner, and the banker genially, affectionately, waved Mr. Bur- don to a chair. They ate of the good things in those times without the fear and trembling which nowadays wait upon our repasts; and the two men enjoyed their turtle soup, fillited soles, curried chicken, roast beef, sweets and cheese ; ^nd washed down this substantial fare with hock, sherry, port and a liqueur of rare old. Providence and Man. 9 Such a menu is calculated to make most of the diet faddists of these more scientific times shudder as they read ; but it was on such food as this — ^and plenty of it — that our fathers and forefathers made England what it is; and, pondering over the degeneracies of these later times, one is tempted to fall to on like provender, ex- claiming, "What was good enough for them is good enough for us!" The two men when they had sipped their liqueur of whisky, lit cigars — ^not cigarettes, be it noted — and then, and not till then, John Weston began to talk on business. "I'm going to die, Dick," he said as quietly, almost as casually, as if he had said, "I am going to get my hair cut." Burdon started, but he knew his friend too well to utter an exclamation. "Who says so ?" he inquired, with a little grunt of in- credulity. "Old Mossop," replied John Weston, "and he's never wrong. Singular that, for a doctor ; for, by gad ! they're seldom right. But I've received the information from another and still more reliable source." He touched his heart and smiled grimly. "I have had my suspicions for some time; that is why I sent for Mossop. And he confirmed them. Pshaw, my dear Dick, don't look so glum. A man must die some time; one can't expect to go on forever ; and for my part Ah, Ivell, life ceases to be amusing after three-score-and-ten, and one rather longs for a change of scene. Cheer up, man ! And fill your glass. Of course I sent for you about my will, Dick." Burdon filled his glass and cleared his throat. "I'm — I'm rather cut up, John," he said, huskily. "We've been friends, good friends, since boyhood. Well, well !" as the great banker pursed his lips and nodded, as much as to say: "Don't make me wegk, old friend!" — "I take it I know your intentions. I have your will in my safe at the office. The little girl " "Ay, Harry's little girl !" murmured Mr. Weston, ten- derly. "Yes, I'd left everything Jo her, Dick; but I wasn't dying then. Now I am, and with the shadow of death on me I — remember a debt I hay" not paid, a debt lo Providence and Man. I must pay, a duty I must fulfill before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Dick, you have not forgotten Charles More, and what he did for me ?" "No, no !" responded Mr. Burdon. "A splendid fellow, a magnificent fellow " "A true and noble friend !" broke in John Weston. "I shall never forget that day he came and stood by my side, faced the wolves — call them, rather, a flock of sheep made frantic by fear — and saved me from ruin and dishonor. Forget ! I think that when I'm in my grave the memory of it will abide with me." Mr. Burdon nodded once or twice in emphatic assent. "Get some paper, Dick, and let's finish this business; you'll find some in the bureau," said Mr. Weston. The lawyer, with his cigar in the corner of his shrewd lips, went to the inlaid writing table and drew a sheet of paper toward him. "Your will, I suppose, John ?" "Yes," said the banker. "You will find it somewhat similar to the old one, so far as regards the legacies to relations and servants. But there will be a great dif- ference in respect to the child. This is what I want you to make out ; and, for Heaven's sake, draw it up so that • there can be no excuse for fighting over it 1" "I will," said Mr. Burdon. "Proceed." Mr. Weston dictated for some minutes, and the lawyer ■wrote slowly and carefully; then suddenly he stopped short and, facing round, exclaimed: "What!" The great banker smiled. "I thought you'd be astonished," he said, calmly, and even with a faint laugh. "Astonished!" echoed the lawyer. "That scarcely ex- presses it. Do you know what you are doing, John ?" Mr. Weston nodded. "Yes ; I think so." "You are playing the part of amateur Providence — a difficult part, John! And one that is seldom played sat- isfactorily." "Seldom, perhaps, but sometimes," said Mr. Weston, as calmly as before. "This may be one of the successful attempts." * Mr. Burdon stared at him with knitted brows. Providence and Man. ZZ "You seriously intend to dispose of this vast fortune- have you any idea how vast it is ?" "No; I suppose not." "In this — this absurdly romantic fashion? Dispose of a fortune! You dispose of the lives, the hearts, of two human beings !" "You put it strongly, Dick," said Mr. Weston ; "but I suppose that exactly describes my intentions. And why not ? This money is my own." He smiled, and his eyes, which had been dulled with thought, flashed with the light of pride. "I made it, how hardly, with what in- finite patience, self-sacrifice and travail, even you cannot - guess. It is mine, and I can dispose -of it how I choose." Mr. Burdon shrugged his shoulders, and slowly swung round to his paper again. "That is true," he said, dryly. "I am your lawyer, your humble servant, and at your orders." The banker rose and, crossing the room, laid his white, wasted hand on the lawyer's shoulder. "And my friend, Dick," he said, gently. "Don't try and thwart me. I have set my heart on this little scheme of mine " "Little !" echoed Mr. Burdon, grimly, "Little or big, I mean you to carry it out, if you will." Mr. Burdon stifled a groan. "I hope to Heaven you may live to relieve me of the task!" he said. "But if you don't — well — I suppose I shall do your behest. You were always a willful man, John, always." "That's why I succeeded," commented the great banker, with a smile. "It is your willful men who bend the world to their wills. Go on, Dick, and set it down plainly. Something tells me — dying men are permitted to indulge in presentiments, /ou know — that my plan will work out as I wish it. Write, Dick, write!" The lawyer jerked his head, and wrote as John Weston dictated. At last they had both finished. Mr. Weston sank into a chair, and the lawyer began to collect the sheets of paper. "ni send you the draft to-morrow," he said, in the tone of a man who is being made to do something against Ij Providence and Man. which his legal judgment and his knowledge of the world rebel. "To-morrow?" murmured Mr. Weston. "To-morrow? Sometimes there is no to-morrow, Dick. I'll sign it now." Mr. Burdon opened his lips to oppose, but with another shrug of his shoulders, said; "Very well. We shall want a couple of witnesses." Mr. Weston rang for the butler and the senior foot- men. In their presence he signed the will, and they duly witnessed it. "Now that's done, light another cigar and let us talk — about matters we can agree upon, Dick," he said. The two men talked for an hour, then Mr. Burdon rose to go. The banker held his hand at parting a moment or two ; neither of them was emotional, certainly not demonstra- tive, but when Mr. Weston said, "Good-by, Dick," a lump rose in his friend's throat and made his responsive "Good-by, John," thick and husky. Mr. Weston retired to bed at his usual hour, and, at the usual hour, his valet went to call him. There was no response to his knock, and, entering, he found his master lying on his side, quite calm and placid ; but deaf to all knockings. The great banker was dead. But the will remained, to influence the lives, to become the fates, of at least one man and one woman. Would that fate mar or make their happiness? The making of this will happened just sixteen years before our story proper commences, and finds our hero at- Lucerne , that most charming and lovely of the towns of the playground of Europe and America — Switzerland, What brought Sir Cyril More to Lucerne ? Had he been asked, he himself would have been, more than anyone else perhaps, puzzled for a reason. He had not come to see the beautiful lake, glittering like an emerald under its circle of hills; he did not care a button for the finest scenery. He had not come to ascend the Rigi by that marvel of modem engineering, the new railway. No, Sir Cyril didn't care so much as half a button for the most marvelous achievements of science. He had not come to gather Alpine flowers, or study Swiss manners Providence and Man. 13 and customs ; Sir Cyril did not care for flowers ; he loved one weed perhaps — tobacco, and, as to the manners and customs of the strange, placid folks who lived under the shadow of the snow-clad hills, tending their silken- haired cows and diminutive sheep — ^he regarded them with an indifference that was almost sublime in its intensity and density. No; the fact was Sir Cyril had heard — in the smoking room of the "Travelers," perhaps — that Lucerne was "a quiet, downy, sleepy sort of place, you know," and being particularly in want of rest — not to say sleep-^Sir Cyril had crossed the Channel, steamed up the Rhine, dreamed through Wiesbaden, Heidelberg and the Black Forest, and, at last, arrived at Lucerne quite prepared to sleep and rest. Yes, certainly he required it. Sir Cyril was thirty, and the last ten years — the last twelve, indeed — had been fast and furious ; they would have been fatal, in addition, to most men, but Sir Cyril had inherited a splendid con- stitution with his fine fortune, and he had come out of his first campaign, in which pleasure and satiety kill more vic- tims than fall in any other warfare, unscathed and sound, if a little weary and despondent. Yes, Sir Cyril had kept his constitution unimpaired, but his fortune ! — where was it? Ask of the exquisitely dressed and painted la- dies, the demi-monde, who add so much to the brilliancy of the Ladies' Mile and the Row ; ask of the whist tables of the Rhododendron Club; ask of the proprietor of the "Star and Garter," and other kindred institutions, and, finally, ask of the Jews, who had kept the game going for Sir Cyril during the last two years ; and they mJ^ht, in the aggregate, have been able to inform you. In their words Sir Cyril had "run through it" at a pace compared with which the sharp spin at Tattenham Corner is as nothing. The money had vanished, every available — ^that is to say unentailed — acre of More Park was mortgaged, the Park Lane House was let, and Sir Cyril was at Lucerne, taking breath after his race through house, and lands, and money. And, now, have you pictured Sir Cyril? A dark, thin, haggard-looicing man, with the mark of the bottle upon his face and in his eyes; a man languid and enervated. X4 Providence and Man. •with eflfeminate smiles, and lazy, elaborated movements? Nothing of the kind. Sir Cyril was the opposite to all tnese; and that, declared the mothers of marriageable daughters, was the worst of it 1 Of what use was it to warn Amelia, or Sophie, or Claribel of the fearfully dangerous ineligibility of the baronet, to hint at this dreadful depravity and wickedness, to call him an extravagant spendthrift and profligate, when the man himself was blessed with an appearance that seemed at once to give the emphatic lie to the charges, one and all. Marriageable daughters, just put through their faceings in the great matrimonial market, used to look forward to seeing just such a man as you have pictured him, dear reader; and then, lo! and behold, one night at my Lady Grover's brilliant ball in would walk, with a light step, the real Sir Cyril. Tall, yes, but not dark, but fair, with close-cropped golden hair; a face almost childlike in its sweet, smiling serenity, and a mouth as delicately cut and classical as Virgil's itself ; with eyes that looked down into a woman's soul ; alas ! with an awful power of enchant- ment, and a voice as deep and musical as Apollo's, So "good" did it look, so serenely handsome, that, but for the firm brow, the few lines at the eyes, and the thick, tawny-gold mustache, the face might almost have been censured and condemned as effeminate. And this was Sir Cyril, who had committed — so the mammas said — ^all the wickedness man was capable of; who was as daring and reckless — so the men said — as Heracles himself, and who, at the age of thirty, found himself a ruined man, with no object in life save that of killing time, and time very hard at dying. It was a very bad case, all the worse for its having been at one time considered hopeful; for in the years gone by there had been a certain young lady of a noble house who had, so it was whispered, cast her chains around the young savage, and who would bring him, in time, into the pale of civilization again; but it had all come to nothing. Many a bashful debutante had sighed, many a world-worn belle had cast her net and set her snare for the wild young baronet, but in vain. Sir Cyril Iirould come and sit beside them, as gentle as Shake- Providence and MaCo S5 speare's sucking dove — would dance with them "like an angel" — would steal their hearts away — unconsciously and unwittingly, let us hope — and then smile and ride away. And now it was hopeless. Outside the circle of mam- mas he was, of course, extremely popular. Men were as proud of the friendship of Sir Cyril More as they would have been of a prince of the blood; boys fresh from college had the tall, fair-haired scape- grace, with the soft eyes, and the good-natured, serene smile, pointed out to them, and regarded him as a hero and a celebrity. Dressed with faultless care and the most refined taste, and riding his perfect hack down the Row, or tooling his drag, with the four champing, frothing, yet business-like bays, he was one of the sights of London. Even now, when the money had run through the hole in his purse, men looked up to him, and respected his opinion as that of a man who knew the world and was to be depended on ; and in most smoking-room discussions, on almost any topics which concern men, you heard his name and his dicta quoted with confident respect. Men liked him; there was no resisting the good hu- mor of the clear blue eyes, and the good fellowship of the almost boyishly frank smile ; and Sir Cyril's enemies might have been counted upon the fingers of one hand. His greatest was himself, of course; his next was his brother, Edward More. A certain amount of coldness in a younger brother who is next in succession to the elder, who is rapidly and assiduously making ducks and drakes of the available patrimony, is pardonable ; and it certainly was not pleasant for Edward to be obliged to look on at the wasting of tlie estate to which he stood a fair chance of succeeding — to know, day by day, that the fortunate elder brother was cutting down the timber, mortgaging the land, and letting the whole place go to rack and ruin, that he might have the wherewithal to dissipate; but Edward More would have hated his brother Sir Cyril if the latter had been the most con- servative and careful of men — if he added to and ex- tended the estate, instead of impoverishing it. He would have hated him for his stature, for his gol- l6 Providence and Man. den hair, for his fair, handsome face, for his very be- witching aiid dangerous smile; for Edward was born dark and insignificant looking, and the wicked old fairy had cursed him at his christening with that worst of all bans, an envious heart ; and even now, when Sir Cyril was a far poorer man than himself — for Edward had taken to the bar, and had made money at it — he envied him. Envied him all those gifts which misfortune had still left him, though she had bereft him of all else — ^the gift of a goodly presence, a cheerful, light-hearted temper, and that nameless, subtle charm which men and women find irresistible. Though he were as rich as Croesus, Edward knew he could not buy these, and he had a dim and bitter sus- picion that they were more valued by his brother than all that he had lost ; and so, though Sir Cyril was down, and Edward was up, the younger brother still Kated and envied the elder. "Poor Edward, always grim and gloomy," Sir Cyril would say, "the only man I never get on with. Rum, isn't it? Can't be th'e property, you know, because he's well tiled-in now, and it doesn't matter. I suppose it's be- cause I'm such a black sheep, and he is so fearfully square and proper. Poor old fellow 1" And Sir Cyril pitied — yes, pitied him ! While Edward, when he spoke of Sir Cyril — which was seldom — could find no words deep and emphatic enough in which to express his condemnation and disap- proval of the scapegrace. "He has ruined one of the finest estates in England," he would say, "and made his name a byword for every fool in the country. It is very well to call it thoughtless- ness — I give such conduct a sterner and more proper name: it is shameful, sir — shameful! He is no use to himself or to the world" — "to me," that meant, no doubt — "and it would be better if he were dead !" When this — or something like it, toned down a little — was repeated by some candid friend to Sir Cyril, he would look up with a rather puzzled and almost sad smile, and remark: "Poor old Edward! been abusing me again? Hem J Providence and Man. 17 Perhapa he's right, you know; clever fellow, Edward! I'll bet anything he's right." Be sure that the popular Sir Cyril had not come across the Channel without many remonstrances; there were men with yachts and moors who were only too anxious for his company on the deck or across the heather, and there had been invitations both numerous aild eloquent. But Sir Cyril had stood firm; he had made up his mind, he said, to take rest and go in for solitude and meditation. "Too many B. and S.'s, under the canvas, old boy; and I don't forget the whisky nights on your moor last year. No, I'll go and roam about the Swiss lakes and be good." "Be bored, you mean," they had retorted ; and he had responded with a little nod: "Very Ukely; one generally gets that anywhere." So it came to pass that he was slowly sauntering — dropping is a better expression — down the steps of the Grand, on a fine morning in September, with the glorious laka before him, and an anything but glorious Swiss band near his left ear. He stood a moment on the quay, looking at the steam- boat starting for its daily trip round the lake, then — drawing many admiring glances from the women, from 'the fruit-sellers to the lady tourists on the boat, after him — strolled alongside the lake for half a mile, there found a seat. Looked at the water, which was fresh and bright, then at a Saturday Review, which was stale — the week before last's — and dull. Then he got up, stroked his mustache to hide a yawn, lit a cigar, and began to climb the hill. The reader will observe that we are very particular as to this morning's walk, for it was to be about the most eventful of any that Sir Cyril had taken. Halfway up the hill he came upon the quaint cathe- dral ; ■ here he stopped for the space of three minutes and stared at the extinguisher-shaped steeples, and the fearfully ridiculous wood carving on the left side of the door, and then he was almost startled by some children's voices, piping up some kind of secular glee or religious chant. One of Sir Cyril's few virtues being an intense x8 Providence and Man. love for children, he turned to the left, from which direc- tion the sound came, climbing a small hill, and found his progress stopped by a wall, then up to it and looked over. Thereupon he saw a scene, which though common enough to the inhabitants of Lucerne, was novel and picturesque enough to interest him. On the other side of the wall was a little playground attached to an infants' school, and in this little playground the infants aforesaid were gathered together in the form of a ring, acquiring knowledge on the pleasant kinder- garten system — that is to say, they were learning arith- metic by the simple and pleasing method of singing in a kind of chanting chorus the multiplication table. Most of the children were pretty, were cruelly clean, and their voices rose in such a sweet piping conglomeration of childish treble and alto, that Sir Cyril found the effect, taken upon the whole, irresistible. The wall was not very high, and it was the most natu- ral thing in the world for him to clamber up. There the wild scapegrace sat, gravely lit another cigar, and en- joyed himself. For a minute the teacher, a neat little Swiss girl, to say nothing of the children, was slightly disconcerted; but discipline and routine are great things, and after a few minutes Sir Cyril's presence was forgotten, and the multiplication table was completed, and another branch of study attacked. This went on for ten minutes, perhaps, when at a clap of the teacher's hands the circle broke up, and the tiny mites scattered themselves about like ants, or bees. Now was Sir Cyril's time. With the old enchanting smile and gesture he coaxed two or three of the mites toward him. It was a slow and elaborate process, for six feet Sir Cyril looked a giant, and very formidable, for all his handsome face — and the few, soft, coaxing words were English, and lost much of their persuasive- ness ; but at last, much to his delight, one little atom of a child — a little girl, of course — boldly approached near enough, and in five minutes Sir Cyril had three boys and girls on the wall beside him, and a swarm around his feet below him. Then he got out his watch — one of Dent's gold re- Providence and Man. xg peaters — ^and lured a brown-haired little girl to listen to the tick, and spy into the inside; he found a handful of coins and disposed of them, and was just in the middle of a hearty laugh at the audacity of a busy little fellow of six, who was attempting to pull himself up by the aid of his pants — ^trousers — when the little girl who was examining the mechanism of the watch, much to its im- provement and her own delight, suddenly uttered a cry of joy, and clapped her hands, dropping the watch with sublime indiiference. Sir Cyril pocketed his shattered repeater, and then looked up to ascertain the cause of the child's sudden hilarity, and, following the direction of her eyes, saw — well, what he had seen a thousand times before — a girl in a balcony! Yes, many a time had he played the part of Romeo to various Juliets, and survived the passion and the poetry of that sublime balcony scene; but he had never seen a face like this, and he recognized the novelty and the power of it at the first upward glance. Then it rested or shone upon two small, white hands, the dark brown eyes looking down upon him and the children with a grave, pleasant regard, the sweet, ripe lips parted with a smile, the head slanted sideways a little, to avoid the downpour of rhc sun. Sir Cyril looked down again quickly, lest the eyes should turn aside, then glanced up again, and took a long look of unalloyed enjoyment. What a face it was ! — not so beautiful as many he had seen, but how sweet, how pure, how childlike, and yet how womanly ! It seemed to him, sitting there, that one of the pure, lily-faced children had suddenly grown up into a woman, retaining all its childlike innocence and trustful dignity with the gain of a woman's soul and a woman's intelligence. For a moment, Sir Cyril, the scapegrace, forgot every- thing, the children, even himself, and sat looking ab- stractedly upward, with his hand in the tiny paws of a child who was intently examining his rings, with two boys dragging at his legs and another trying on his hat. Then he recovered himself, regained his hat, drew his jewelry out of danger, and with a benedictory pat 90 Providence and Man. on the head to the nearest mite, dropped from the wall— with what intention he scarcely knew, excepting perhaps that of getting a nearer view of the sweet, charmful vision. But by the time he had brushed the dust from his clothes, and made a step toward the house, the balcony was empty — ^the girl had vanished. Sir Cyril pulled his great mustache with so palpable an expression of disappointment, that the little school- mistress smiled, and by that smile gave Sir Cyril an idea. He returned to the wall to the extent of leaning on it, and, in execrable French, complimented the teacher upon the appearance and manner of her charges, then said it was a fine and warm day; and then, in worse French still, requested to be informed who the young lady on the balcony might be. The schoolmistress smiled and shrugged her shoulders. She was sorry she could not inform the gentleman; the young lady was a young English demoiselle staying at the house — ^had been staying there for a week — she was very fond of children, as monsieur seemed to be ; and often stood upon the balcony to watch them; sometimes made them little presents, and At that moment the young lady appeared again, this time with a small basket in her hand. Sir Cyril stood quite still, almost hidden by the wall, and waited in silent curiosity. The girl bent over the balcony, thereby displaying, un- consciously, her neck and golden^hued head to the most graceful advantage, and a short colloquy with the school- mistress ensued; then she stretched over one arm and lowered the basket, the schoolmistress running out of the gate, standing on tiptoe to reach it, and falling back unsuccessful with much pleasant laughter. "Stop," said the girl on the balcony, with a low, musical laugh, which moved Sir Cyril as her face had done ; "I'll get a piece of string and let it down." But here Sir Cyril saw his golden opportunity, and seized it. With two strides he stood under the balcony, and looked up, bareheaded. "Will you allow me to help you ? I can reach it easily." Providence and Man. 21 The clear, dark eyes looked down upon him with a serene, if slightly surprised, gaze, as if weighing the question of his capability of doing what he had offered, and then, with a quiet, simple "Thank you," the white hand was downreached with the basket. Sir Cyril secured it, handed it over to the schoolmis- tress, and then looked up again. "You are very fond of children, I see," he said. The girl, who had been so absorbed by watching the progress of her basket of cakes and sweetmeats among the children so as to have forgotten him, turned her head slowly. "Yes; and you also, I perceive," she added, with a shadow of a smile. Sir Cyril laughed. "I did not know that I had an audience, or the per- formance would have been shorter." The dark eyes were opened a little wider with slight surprise. "Why are you ashamed? Most Englishmen are fond of children. I knew you were English, you see." "You would have learned that just now, all the more quickly if you had heard my French," said he, responding with a smile. "You are English, are you not ?" A week, a day ago. Sir Cyril would not have stopped to consider whether this question was bold or not; and now, after he had uttered it, looking up at the calm, sweet face, it seemed abrupt, rude, almost impertinent. "Yes, I am English," she replied, "but I have not been to England for a very long time ; I do not remember it ;" and she looked across the lake — which she could see, although Sir Cyril could not — and up the great mountain Pilatus, with a strange little wistful look. For a moment again she seemed to have forgotten him, then she looked down again. "You have just come from England?" "Yes," said Sir Cyril. The dark eyes regarded him for the first time with something like interest and curiosity. "I wonder why — I mean, I wonder how you could leave it. I think that I could never have left it of my own free will." Sir Cyril kept down his astonishment at this strange. 22 Providence and Man. candid, unsophisticated declaration, and said quietly—" very quietly — for he was tormented by the fear each moment that this beautiful, grave, childlike creature would grow shy, take fright like a bird, and fly away. "And yet this is very beautiful, all this — Switzerland, Italy, and so on." "Yes, very, is it not?" she responded, with a slight in- clination of the head. "Oh, yes, very beautiful; oh, yes, is not this beautiful;" and she waved her hand slightly toward the scene stretched out before her.. Sir Cyril glanced at the hills for half a second, and gave a whole one to the small white hand and delicate wrist. "I should soon grow tired of looking at it if it were in England. Have you seen the sunset ? — look at that little fellow." She looked up suddenly, her eyes lighting up with a tender and amused smile as they rested on the children. "Do you see, he has given half his cake to that little mite sitting on the stone ; and yet they say that children are selfish!" Sir Cyril hunted about for something to say to prolong the conversation in any way, but before he had found anything to say, the cathedral clock struck, the supple figure of the girl straightened itself; bending forward, she called to the schoolmistress : "Will you give me the basket this afternoon?" and was about to turn into the house, when, evidently re- membering the stranger, she leaned a little over the rail- ing, with a slight bow and a "good morning," and disap- peared. Sir Cyril hastily uncovered, returned the parting words, and with a little shake — just such a one as a Newfound- land gives when he emerges from a swim — ^he strode slowly away. He turned once, as he descended the hill, and, looking back at the house, with its broad gutters and carved bal- conies, its quaint windows and broad green shutters, saw the word "Pension," written in gold, on a board over the front windows. Sir Cyril, as ignorant as Englishmen of his class gen- erally are of all matters of Continental life, was ex- tremely puzzled. "Great Heaven 1" he ejaculated. "Pension I That can't White Muslin. 83 liave meant anything in the way of almshouses — she i* • — isn't a sort of Greenwich pensioner!" and so, puzzled, and interested more than he would liked to have con- fessed, he got down to the lake. Strangely enough the view seemed suddenly to have grown in beauty; for the first time it struck him that the great solemn range of mountains had something grand and different to Pall Mall about them. For the first time, also, he remembered, he had not noticed it while he had been listening to and looking at her, that the girl with the sweet childlike face had worn a white muslin, with a little touch of dark crimson — a rose or ribbon, perhaps — at her throat. And so he walked back to the house ; and, by way of a refresher or awakener, he could scarcely have distinguished which, he ordered a brandy and soda. But the figure in white muslin and the little bunch of crimson would not be dispelled ; and when the afternoon sun had sunk a little behind the hills, he thought, having nothing better to do, that he would just take a walk round the cathedral and see how the cakes and sweet- meats had agreed with the children. You see he was very fond of children. CHAPTER II. WHITE MUSLIN. Once or twice, as he climbed the hill. Sir Cyril realized the real object of his afternoon walk; and when he did so, he felt decidedly uncomfortable. It appeared to him as if he had changed places with some one else. Could it be possible that he who had run through twelve seasons without a scratch had succumbed to a pair of dark, serene eyes and a white muslin frock? "Of course, it's absurd," he mused, half shame- facedly. "It's this confounded slow place that has been too much for me. It must have been the muslin ; and yet there was a look in the girl's face that, if I never see her again, I shan't forget. Ah! One season in town will change all that — ^more's the pity." 84 White Muslin. Then he came in sight of the house and was half relieved to find the balcony empty — worse than empty — • for an old lady with an obvious "front" and an old- fashioned gray silk dress, was seated knitting there. Sir Cyril laughed, lit his cigar and passed on. The play- ground was still, likewise, and somehow the whole place seemed altered. "Beastly old place," he muttered; "I'm sick of it al- ready; I'll go on to-morrow morning." Then, just for his own satisfaction, he determined to continue his walk, though the real object of it had been missed, and he turned off to the right down a lane that was certainly pretty enough to repay him for greater trouble. He walked on for some time, and was just think- ing of turning when he caught sight of something white in the distance. It might have been a cow, or clothes hanging out to dry, but somehow Sir Cyril decided at once that it was a white muslin and quickened his step. At the end of the lane, just where it sloped toward a valley, was a single block of stone that had fallen from some mason's cart, and on it was seated the girl he had seen in the morning. She was bending slightly forward, her hands clasped on an open book, her eyes fixed on the snow-capped mountains, and so lost in serene, childlike meditation, that Sir Cyril — to whom bashfulness was a sensation un- known — ^paused for half a moment, half decided to turn back after all. But the girl's ears were quick, as well as small and pretty, and as he stopped short the sudden cessation of his footfall aroused her. She looked around and bestowed upon him a half smile of, recognition. Sir Cyril wanted nothing more — ^though nothing less like encouragement could be imagined. He raised his hat, and in another moment was standing beside her with the usual greeting. She returned it with the same calm unembarrassed manner that had surprised and attracted him in the morn- ing, and quietly waited for him to commence a conversa- tion or go on with his walk. "We seem fated to meet," he said, sublimely forgetful Wkite Muslin. 85 of the object of his walk. "Is this a favorite resting place of yours?" "Yes," she said, without raising her eyes, "Have you not been here before?" "No," he said. "Ah," she remarked, "this is not one of the show places, and yet you get a better view here than from many of the better-known points. I found it out for myself." "It was a happy discovery," he said. "It is just the place for one to come and dream in." "Yes," she said. Then she looked at his face, and away again, with a smile; and Sir Cyril knew, as well as if she had said it, that she thought he was not given to dreaming. Sir Cyril, looking down upon her from his six feet of manhood, thought he had never seen a sweeter thing than the little, grave half smile which curved her dainty lips and brought down the long, dark lashes upon the smooth cheeks. He could have looked at her for an hour in silence, for he had suddenly discovered that he had a great ap- preciation of the beautiful ; but that could not be, so he hazarded another remark: "You will see nothing so fair as this in your beloved England, I'm afraid." "No, perhaps not," she replied. "I shall not care; it is England, bad or good, pretty or ugly, that I love." Sir Cyril slipped down gently upon the grass, and covered the movement by a quick response : "It is a thousand pities that you should have been kept from it so long." "Yes, is it not?" she assented, with simple candor. "I have dreamed of it since I was a little girl so high;" and she put out one hand, as people do when they are speaking of their childhood, about a foot from the ground. "You — are you going back soon?" Sir Cyril hesitated. "I am not quite sure — I have not any decided plans. Perhaps not yet a while. Are you ?" "Not for another month, I am sorry to say," she said, with a little sigh. a6 White Muslin. Sir Cyril wondered what was the stumbling blocks — perhaps a disagreeable papa, or an invalid mamma? He chanced it. "I hope none of your people are ill here — that is," he added, as the dark eyes met his with a slight expression of surprise and amusement — "that is, if the expression of such a hope on my part is not an impertinence." "Oh, no," she said, "my people are quite well. I smiled at hearing Aunt Martha classed as plural ; she is the only 'people* I have." "Your father and mother " said straightforward Sir Cyril, then stopped abruptly. "Are both dead," said the girl, in a low, but quite firm. Voice. "I have only Aunt Martha, and Aunt Martha has only me ; and sometimes," she added, "I think I am almost too many for her." And then there came a musical ripple that positively startled Sir Cyril. So childish, so full of tmalloyed and natural merriment was it, that for the life of him he could not help a gruff bass echo. The sound of his voice recalled the girl. "Aunt Martha and I are waiting for the first of September." "The first of September," said Sir Cyril, wondering how on earth partridges could concern two women. "Yes ; we start then for England, and we must not go a day before or a day afterward." "Why not ?" exclaimed Sir Cyril, raising his head from the reclining position in which he had been, with ex- treme surprise and curiosity. The girl, with her eyes upon the snow peaks, answered quietly, almost dreamily, with that same look of having forgotten her companion : "Because my father wished it; because he left it as a dying request, and commanded that I should do so." The answer, so calmly and candidly given, was so characteristic of the childlike faith and confidence of her every word and gesture, that it was robbed of much of the strangeness and improbability which it wears when set down on paper. Sir Cyril felt not a bit surprised by the confiding candor — he only felt a queer sensation of pity, and a desire to protect this simple-minded, pure-hearted child- woman from herself. WHite Muslin. 8/ He changed the subject, though he was full of curi- osity to hear more of her story from the sweet young lips. "Your little favorites have all gone home, I suppose?" She nodded absently, and then turned her eyes upon him reflectingly, "You came from London?" "Yes," said Cyril. "Perhaps you know London well?" "Pretty well — too well," he replied with a laugh. A little eager light came info her eyes. "You know some of the lawyers, perhaps. Do you know one named Burdon — Richard, Grey's Inn?" Sir Cyril raised himself on his elbow, and was about to reply: "Why he is my own lawyer!" but a something, an indefinable something, drove the answer from his lips, and in place of it he said, "Yes, I know the name ; I know the man." "What sort of a man is he?" she asked. "Is he a young or an old — ^but I know he must be old, for he was my father's friend." " "Yes, Burdon is an elderly man," said Cyril. "Is he a good — an honest man?" she asked, her clear eyes fixed on his face. "Good !" said Cyril, with a smile. "Scarcely the term by which to qualify a lawyer; honest — as lawyers go- yes, very," he added, seeing that the lightness of his reply had in some way annoyed or distressed her, for the clear eyes had clouded, as a child's does when it is displeased, or dissatisfied. "Yes, decidedly honest, I should say. You only know him by name?" "Only by name," she assented. "He was my father's lawyer, and on his deathbed my father charged me to go to him on this first of September that we are now coming to, and receive some papers which are to change my whole life. Is there any wonder that I am curious?" "None at all," said Cyril; then there was a moment's silence. "And Burdon; does he expect you?" "Yes," she replied; "my father had written to him — or they had arranged that I should go, if— if — my father could not. So that he expects me." 38 White Muslin. "He Soes not know you?" asked Sir Cyril, interested more than he could say. "No ; he expects to see a Miss Weston — ^Edna Weston, that is my name — and that is all." Cyril remained silent for a moment. "It is a strange story," he said, more to himself than to her, but the words reached her, and for the first time there was a look of slight embarrassment in her eyes, a dash of color in her face ; both heightened her beauty. "Yes, and you think that I should not tell it to you! Perhaps it was wrong," she added to herself, with a little troubled look ; "but you see I am almost al^vays thinking of it — it is not wonderful that I should be — and it came natural to ask you, an Englishman, who knew London. I hope I have not done wrong !" Cyril looked up, with something like a flush on his handsome face, "My dear child — young lady, I mean," he corrected himself, "this stick," and he held up his cane, "will not be more dumb than I shall be " She interrupted him with a smile. "I am sure of that," she said, softly; "but there is no need for secrecy, that I know of ; you see I know nothing myself, and there is no harm in saying that I shall be at a certain place on a certain day I" Sir Cyril nodded. The cathedral clock struck seven. The girl pulled out a tiny gold watch, and rose with some haste. "Seven o'clock! They will have begun tea at the pension !" At the strange word Sir Cyril's doubts and specula- tions arose again. Tea at seven o'clock! Then, perhaps, after all, she was a pensioner, or her aunt lived in an almshouse. Almost unconsciously he repeated the words : "At— the— pension." She turned her laughing eyes upon him. "Yes — how puzzled you look! Ah! I see you dine instead of drinking tea at this hour?" "Yes, generally," admitted Cyril. "But," he added, "I was puzzled over the word 'pension.' Does your aunt live in an ahnshouse?" White Muslin. 29 - She, in her turn, looked puzzled, then once mure the musical laugh rang softly out. "Almshouse! Oh, if Aunt Martha could only have heard you ! Don't you know what a pension is ?" "No," said Sir Cyril, penitently, "I must confess I don't ! Pray don't estimate the intelligence of all English- men by my standard. You'll travel all through the United Kingdom before you find a more ignorant man !" "Shall I?" shfe said, laughing. "Well, I'll inform you on the point at least: a pension is a Swiss — or a French or German, for that matter — boarding house, where for the consideration of so many shillings — or francs — ^per week, travelers, especially unprotected ones like Atmt Martha and I, are lodged and fed." Cyril laughed. "What an idiot I am ! — of course ! And do you all — all the people staying at the house — feed — I mean, have your meals together?" "Yes," she said — they were both standing by this time. The breakfast bell — everything is done by bell-ringing ■ — rings at nine for breakfast, and we all come out of our rooms like the old man and woman in the barometer, and sit at a long table to coffee, fresh butter, rolls and eggs; then the bell rings at one and we get our dinner — and a very good dinner, too! — and at seven we get what Aunt Martha calls 'a meat tea' ! All quite in the Swiss style." "It sounds very nice," said Sir Cyril. "I'm not quite comfortable at the hotel down below," he added, quietly, as the splendor of the Grand's appointments and the per- fection of the chef's dishes rose before him — "not quite comfortable, you know ; do you think they've room at your place to take me?" "Oh, yes I" she answered, innocently, "some people went away yesterday, and you could have their rooms — ^they were very nice rooms, with a balcony." "I'm very fond of a balcony," said Sir Cyril. "But, perhaps," she resumed, doubtfully, "you might find that you had made a change for the worse. What hotel are you staying at ?" "One of them down there," said Cyril, jerking his head in the direction of the town, and not daring to mention the Grand, for she, innocent and unsophisticated as she 30 White MusUn. -was, would know too much of the Grand's fame to le deceived. "Well, perhaps you would be comfortable — at least, it has one recommendation, it is very cheap; but, perhaps," she added, glancing at him critically for the first time, and recognizing instinctively the aristocratic elegance of Poole's cut and Hancock's jewelry, "perhaps that would be no recommendation to you !" "On the contrary," said Cyril, with grim sincerity, "it is the best of all recommendations — oh, I assure you it is of the greatest importance." "Well, then, I should say you had better try it." And though it was just the speech that Cyril wanted, it rather upset him by its matter-of-fact straightforwardness; if she had wanted him to come very much, for her own sake just a little, she would not have been so emphatic. The scapegrace felt disappointed. "Thank you. I think I'll call upon the proprietor, or proprietress, this evening, and see if they will accept me as a member of the family. I hope they will !" "I hope so, too," she said, with the half smile; and then with a little graceful inclination of the stately head, she wished him "Good-evening." Cyril sat down again when she fcad gone, and stroked his mustache with the manner and look which his friends declared he always wore when he was more than ordi- narily puzzled or confused. "Cyril, my poor boy," he muttered, staring at his hat, which he had not yet replaced on his head, "you cer- tainly are bewitched, and by a little girl, barely out of the schoolroom, and with a pair of dark eyes and a muslin frock! Yes, and who evidently looks upon you as a middle-aged party — a sort of elderly uncle or young grandfather — a convenient recipient of her confidences, and as something to laugh at. Yes, by Jove, she looks at me so straightforward a^ if I were an old woman, or an intelligent retriever! Great Heaven, how the place must have aged me! Perhaps, like Rip Van Winkle, I shall wake up and find I am gray-headed and rheumatic about the joints. And the marvel of it is !" he continued, strik- ing a match spitefully, "that instead of reseating sudi Dinner at the Pension. 31 tr«atment; instead of turning away with disgust at such unnatural coldness and want of appreciation, I rather like it — that is to say, I'm bewildered, persecuted by it; that I feel like a great schoolboy fumed and writhing under his first love affair !" "And nowl" he muttered, as he paced down the hill, "I suppose I shall be mad enough to give up my rooms at the Grand for some half-furnished attic in this con- founded pension ; throw up the eight o'clock dinner, with the clear soup and the capital veal cutlets and cabbage a la Suisse. Yes, I can see it come clearly. I can't re- sist! I'm persecuted! In fact, I'm stark, staring mad, and somebody ought to come out and take me back to Colney Hatch !" CHAPTER III. DINNER AT THE PENSION. It is the dinner hour at the Pension Petre, and on either side of the long table the hungry boarders are awaiting their soup, some chattering, some silent, but all impatient. At the hea3 of the table sits madame herself, arrayed in a black bombazine — why do all keepers of boarding houses, English or foreign, run to bombazine? — and affably anxious. Behind her and about her generally flit the six maid- servants, and the one manservant, Adolphe the ubiq- uitous, also is here, there and everywhere, and is now ladling out the soup. It is rather a motley crew — ^the long lines of men and women who have put up at the comfortable Swiss Pen- sion, and not unworthy of some modem Leech; but at* tractive as their vain and humorous modem character- istics were, the eye of the person who should be fortunate enough to enter at the moment would have been drawn and rivetted to the face and figure of Edna Weston. Pure and maidenly and beautiful as only a good-look- ing English girl can be, she sits at the center of the table fzdng the door, calmly sits listening to the babel around 3* Dinner at the Pension. her, and at times turning her shapely head to speak to a white-haired, handsome old lady who sat at her side. Swiftly and impartially the soup is served; Adolphe, hot and breathless, is prepared to stand at ease, at least for a moment, when the door opens and in walks — with that inimitable air of self-possessed nonchalance which is the birthright of the English aristocrat — no other than wicked Sir Cyril. Madame Petre sees him and nods to Adolphe. "The gentleman, Adolphe — you have a place reserved? That is good!" Adolphe whisks his napkin over his arm, makes an elaborate series of bows, and amidst a dead silence and under the direct and most inquisitive gaze of sixty pair of eyes, conducts the English gentleman to a seat next Miss Weston. Edna looked up with a smile as he entered ; she looks up at his face now with the same smile, full of calm, maidenly pleasure, nothing more. Instantly the soft eyes focus themselves upon her. "You see," says Cyril, unfolding his napkin and taking up his spoon ; "I have come." "Yes," she says ; "I hope you will be comfortable." "There is no doubt of it," he responded ; "I have seen my room, I have stood upon my balcony, and I am con- tent." Edna smiles again, then turns to the old lady by her side. "This, aunt," she says, "is the gentleman of whom I spoke to you yesterday; he was not comfortable at his hotel, and has come to try the Pension Petre." Aunt Martha peers at him amicably and nods. "Very comfortable here, my dear Edna — ^yes, very comfortable. I hope Mr. " There is a moment's pause, Cyril has his spoon to his mouth — ^both pair of eyes, the old and young, are turned to him. Why does he not answer? What is the matter with him? Has he forgotten his own name? It weuld almost seem so, for when he does speak in answer to the looked inquiry, he says : "Mr. Harold— Harold Payne." Dinner at tlie Pension. 33 "I think you will be comfortable, Mr. Payne," says Aunt Martha ; "have you been in Lucerne before ?" Mr. Harold — Mr. Harold Payne — replies that he has not, and a conversation, geographical and discursive, en- sues between them, and Edna sits and listens, so, it must be added, do almost all the rest of the people. Presently Edna is conscious that Aunt Martha has relinquished him, and that he is speaking to herself. "Now that I have come I hope you will play the cicerone, and throw the light on some of my fellow pen- sioners," he says. Edna smiles. "Oh, you must learn to know them for yourself; they are very well worth knowing — some of them." "I don't doubt it," says Cyril, looking down the table. "Who is that stout gentleman at the end — by Jove ! he is never asleep?" "No, not quite, only almost," says Edna ; "but pray be more reverent. That is a baron — a real, live German baron. Oh, we are very proud of him, and, indeed, he is very wise, when he is awake, which is not often ex- cepting at meal times." "And the lady next him?" "An authoress ; she wrote 'The Tears of Hermione,' a volume of poetry — do you know it?" "No," says Cyril. "Can't say I've read much poetry. Has she written anything else? I should like something more cheerful, 'The Groans of Clytemnestra,' or some- thing of that sort, more in my line." Edna represses a smile; she is not ill-natured, but is blessed, evidently, with a keen sense of the humorous. "Please go on," says Cyril, and she runs through the dramatis persona, English, French, German. "That is so-and-so, and those two young ladies are the Miss Robinsons; they are very nice, and so very clever. They paint, and sing, and play beautifully. I tliink you will like them." "Indeed I shall," says Cyril, poUtely; "and who is that gentleman talking to one of them?" and he looks with an unmistakable commingling of horror and amusement at a specimen of the cockney swell; an over-dressed, dandified young man, who, with eyeglass m eye, is fas- 34 Dinner at the Pension,] cinating one of the Miss Robinsons, and "haw, hawing^ lor the benefit of the whole table at the same time. , "That is Mr. Howley Jones," replies Edna. "Indeed," says Cyril, "and who and what is Mr. Howley f ones ?" "He is — ^he is, I don't quite know. I think he is con- nected with the aristocracy — he says so, and talks of so many great people who are friehds of his." Cyril looks across the table and strokes his mustache dubiously. "There is scarcely anyone of any note whom he does not know, and he lives at — ^at Shooter's Hill — ^yes. Shooter's Hill." Cyril sighs. :. "Where is that?" Edna laughs her soft, usual laugh. "You ask me that 1 You, a Londoner ; and I knowing nothing of it !" "I forget," he says, "but upon my word I don't know where it is. Shall we ask him ?" "Not on my account," says Edna; and he fancies that there is a slight touch of color on her cheek, and the fancy makes his next glance across at the young donkey a more marked one. But Cyril hits upon the truth at once. "That young idiot of a shop boy has been trying to make himself agreeable, and she has resented it. Serve him right." The descriptive catalogue, however, is brought to a close ; several other people have cut in and taken his con- versational prize from him, and wicked Sir Cyril goes on with his dinner. It is not a bad dinner, he is compelled to admit — it is more cheerful than the table d'hote at the Grand, with all its silver plate and solemn funereal waiters ; there is a charm about it that he does not understand or account Jor, until the little maiden beside him rises, gives him a quiet, graceful little bow, and leaves with the rest of the ladies. Then he understands it, and although he has half a bottle of excellent Pontet Canet still left, the charm has gone. There remain behind to console him, however, the haroa, two English clergymen, an Italian priest and Dinner at the Pension. 35 Mr. Howley Jones. Babel, for a time silenced by the in- numerable courses, is now arisen again ; but above all the chatter — French, German, Swiss and English — rises Mr. Howley Jones' "Haw, haw! my guv'nor's place at Shooter's Hill, my friend Lord Bottleby, my gun, my horse, my dawgs 1" Cyril looks across at him with quiet amusement and curiosity. He has seen this kind of young gentleman, the mock "swell," only at a distance hitherto, and he de- cides that at a nearer acquaintance he is entertaining — yes, decidedy entertaining — for a time. Cyril finishes his bottle and strolls out, cigar in hand, into the garden. It is a delightful spot, all green and shady, a series of beshrubbed terraces running down to the road that stretches along the hill above the lake, which lies beneath him, glittering in the sinking sun, with that peculiar greeny sheen which belongs to Lake Lucerne and no other. Cyril lights his cigar, and strolls backward and for- ward. For the first time since he can remember, for, oh, a very long time back, he is not bored. What a charm- ing, innocent little child-woman she is — what a pure, truthful — then, at reflection, he pulls up short. Yes, she is truthful enough, but what about himself? He is conscious, as he asks himself the question, of feeling un- comfortable. He has given them a false name. It was all very well to give the name of Harold Payne at the Grand ; there was a fair reason for the concealment of his right one there. His name was too popular, was far too well known, to allow of his enjoying any immunity from tourist friends, if he had allowed it to be posted in the visitor's book at the Grand. It was only wise, perhaps, to give the porter at the Grand the name of Harold Payne, but why had he done so here? — ^what reason was there for such concealment? Surely there was none; he had no right to do it. And yet, he reflected, was it not the better course? He would be gone to-morrow, and there would be an end of it. Why should she ever know that she had poured out her confidence to "Wicked Sir Cyril"? Bat, notwithstanding this specious argument, Cyril did 36 Dinner at tlie Pension. not feel easy; his cigar wouldn't burn; he swore — I am obliged to be truthful — he swore at it, lit another, and walked down by the winding path, resolved to make a clean breast of it next time he saw Aunt Martha and her niece. Alas for good resolutions! what a wide road that must be with which they are paved ! He turned into the first arbor — the garden was as full of them as a hive is of cells — and there sat the two women of whom he was thinking; and where was his good resolution? They are both busy with some kind of fancywork, and Cyril pause, compelled -to gaze at the pretty picture the sweet, downbent head makes in its framework and back- ground of green. It is a strange, really a remarkable faculty Edna possesses — that of looking enticing and picturesque anywhere and everywhere. They look up suddenly ; he is shutting out their light ; and Aunt Martha smiles a welcome. "Is that you, Mr. Payne?" Cyril is almost guilty of a start. That beastly name ! "Yes, it is I, Miss Weston. I mayn't come in, I sup- pose?" Aunt Martha smiles, and makes room for him ; and he is about to fling his cigar away when she stops him, "You are not used to continental ways, Mr. Payne; anybody may smoke anywhere in Switzerland." "You do not mind — you are sure?" he says, and then sinks on to the seat, the picture of handsome content- ment and — laziness. "You are both very busy," he says, watching, with a subtle kind of reverence, Edna's little pink fingers as they ply the needle. "Playing at being busy," remarks Aunt Martha. "You see, we cannot smoke like you gentlemen. I sometimes think it is almost a pity." "It's not too late to learn," says Cyril, and the speech does not sound impertinent, as it would coming fromi most men. j Edna looks up for the first time. j "The Polish countess who lived opposite us in Geneva ; smoked cigarettes all day." t "You have been living in Geneva ?" says Cyril, curious and interested in anything pertaining to them. [^ "LYes," says Aunt Martha, with a little sigh ; "we haye Dinner at the Pension. 37 been living in Geneva for years. I sometimes think that I have forgotten England." "Aunt !" exclaims the girl, vfith the color in her checks, and a soft, indignant light in her eyes. "Well, that England has forgotten us ; and yet we used to be well known, Mr. Payne, Perhaps you may have heard of the Westons ?" As she speaks, one of those odd flashes, indistinct and fleeting, cross his mind. The Westons, the Westons — where has he heard of them? The name seems familiar. But, after a moment's struggle, Cyril, whose memory is terribly bad, and whose eventful career has served to blot out his earlier years from his mind, gives it up as a bad job, "I don't think I can remember, though I seem to have heard the name," he replies. "Just so," says the old lady, with a resigned sigh ; "we are forgotten. Yes, Mr. Payne, we have been living abroad for a very long time — as long as Edna can re- member. Her father was a great student and a recluse, and shunned his fellow countrymen. Give him his books and leave him to his quiet, and always Edna, of course, and he was happy." Cyril listened with an interest which was deeper than he had ever experienced before, with an interest that surprises him; he glances at the sweet, thoughtful face and feels quite uncomfortable at the sight of the one little tear that rolls slowly down her cheek. It may be safely asserted that it is the first woman's tear that has ever touched him, "Edna," continues the old lady, "told you something of our mysterious return to England, I think " Cyril inclines his head respectfully, "She is but a child in the ways of the world," resumes the old lady, who for all her years is quite childishly unsuspicious and ingenuous. "I ought not to have wearied Mr. Payne — 'bored' — that is the word, isn't it?" "You did not bore me," says Cyril, earnestly, his Grows as grave as a judge's. "Don't think that ; if I could be of any service to you " "I thank you so much," says Aunt Martha, warmly, 38 Dinner at the Pension.\ "but I do not think anyone can help us, excepting this Mr. Richard Burdon, and he will not do it — we cannot ask him until the first of September. My brother was a strange man, very reserved ; he knew a great number of well-born people in England ; we are not lowly-bom our- selves, Mr. Payne " "My dear aunt," breaks in Edna, blushingly. "My dear Edna, you are quite right. Mr. Payne need not be afraid I am going to give him the family pedigree. I merely say that there may be some strange history awaiting us concerning other persons as well as our- selves; well, well, I am an old gossip, Mr. Payne, with a legitimate secret to chatter about. Edna, have you any more cotton? — no, dear, I will fetch it myself; indeed, I have a letter or two to write." Edna rises also, but glances at the lake below her wist- fully. It is a shame to leave the open air — the grateful shade of the green arbor for the hot room. She looks at her aunt, and the old lady quite innocently says : "Don't stay out after the tea bell has rung," and dis- appears. Cyril, who has been stretched on wires for the last minute, heaves a sigh of relief and satisfaction as Edna sinks back into her seat. But Aunt Martha seems to have taken all the conversation with her, for there is a profound silence. Now is the time, thinks Cyril, to make his confession, and, if possible, to gain forgiveness and condonement. He looks up at her, it is scarcely necessary to say that he has got his long limbs into a comfortable position, almost reclining on the rustic seat. Cyril never sat up- right in his life where it was at all possible to lie down. He looks at the pure face, so serene in its unsuspecting innocence, so full of that dignity which purity alone can give, and he hesitates. He who hesitates is lost. Before he has time to forn\ another resolution to be broken, voices make themselves heard close at the back, in another arbor, in fact, and Cyril puts off the confession to a more convenient season. The newcomers are of the male sex — that is evident, for if there had been a woman her voice would have been heard, and before a few minutes have passed, one voice. Dinner at the Pension. 39 which Cyril recognizes as Mr. Howley Jones', is above the rest, and silences them. "The garden seems a general rendezvous," says Cyril. "Yes, it is pleasant here," replies Edna; "one can see the lake so plainly, and it is always beautiful. And it is shady ; these arbors keep off the sun." "Yes, they are sun-proof enough; it's a pity they are not sound-proof, also." Edna looks up and smiles. "Ah, yes, one can hear very plainly." "That is Mr. Howley Jones' voice, if I am not mis- taken?" says Cyril, interrogatively. Edna listens a moment. "Yes, that is Mr. Jones. He is rather fond of talking." "So it seems," says Cyril. "I never could understand what fellows who are given to chattering have to talk about." "Their experiences, perhaps," says Edna ; "most people have some more or less varied. Mr. Jones is recounting some of his now." "I don't doubt it," acquiesces Cyril. "May I light an- other cigar?" Edna inclines her head, and he strikes a light. As he does so, Mr. Jones' voice, complacently confidential, comes distinctly through the leaves, and a word or name, falling on Cyril's ears, causes him to raise his head, and almost drop the match; not quite, however, for Cyril has ad- mirable command over his emotions, and is seldom guilty of revealing them. He lights his cigar, leans back into his old attitude of repose, and listens. Edna listens, too — there is nothing else to be done, and there is no eavesdropping in it, for Mr. Jones is only too grateful at all times for an attentive audience; and that he has an attentive audience now is only too palpable, his listeners are profoundly and in- terestedly silent. CHAPTER IV. QUESTIONS AND THE QUESTIONED. "Know Sir Cyril More !" Mr. Jones is saying, "I skould rather think I did! Why, Cyril and I are old chums. We are never apart when I'm in town. I wish he was kere now, dear old fellow !" Cyril leans his head upon his arm and looks languidly toward the back of the arbor. "Mr. Jones seems blessed with a very affectionate na- ture," he murmurs; "remembers his old friends even in 4^istant climes." Edna smiles, but does not make any remark, perhaps because she is interested in Mr. Jones' reminiscences. Cyril fancies that she is listening, if reluctantly, rather intently, as he leans back and watches her. "Yes," continued Mr. Jones, "Cyril and I are great chums, poor fellow!" "What's the matter with him?" asks one of the au- dience, with the true British curiosity and interest in a member of the aristocracy. "What ! don't you know ?" retorts the admirable How- ley, as if he were recounting the misfortunes of a brother. "I thought everybody knew about Cyril More; he's gone completely to the dogs! com — ^plete — ly run down ! Why, it's the talk of the town ; for, you see, Cyril More is as well known as — as — Nelson's Monument, and when a man like that goes to pieces there's a stir." "Ah!" murmurs some one, with a puff at a cigar. "What was the cause of it?" "Oh, the usual thing," replies Mr. Jones. "Nobody has gone such a pace as Cyril More — everybody knew how it would end. No fortune could stand it, however big, and his was almost as large as any man's. I al- ways knew how it would be, I could see from the first. Why, I remember two years ago, when we were yacht- ing together in the Mediterranean " Cyril shifts his position, and remarks that it is very warm; but Edna does not reply. Questions and tlie Questioned. 41 "I said to him as we were walking up and down the deck one night after supper : 'Cyril, old boy ! take my ad- vice and put the curb on, stop the running a bit, do, there's a dear fellow, for my sake! And he promised he would. Oh, yes, he was always good at promising, but I knew how it would be. He'd have pulled up short to please me if he'd do it for anyone, for I flatter myself I've got more influence with him than any other crea- ture on the face of the earth; but you see it wasn't in him. He must go while he could keep on his legs." There is a sapient murmur of concurrence, and Mr. Jones, thus encouraged, runs on glibly. "Yes, it was a complete smash, and everything has gone. It wouldn't have been 'so bad, but Glitters " "Who is Glitters?" asked the same anxious inquirer into the manners and customs 'of the aristocracy. "Oh, come!" exclaims Mr. Jones, banteringly. "Not know Glitters! Why, she's the best known personage in London, and has ruined more good fellows than you can count on your ten fingers. Not know Glitters, by Jove !" "And this Glitters, she helped to ruin your friend?" "Yes," says Mr. Jones, with a regretful sigh ; "she was at the bottom of it. I've known him give her ten thou- sand pounds worth of diamonds in one week " Cyril raises his hand, knocks the ash off his cigar, and looks at Edna with a curious scrutiny. He need have no fear — she is innocence itself, and Mr. Jones' story. Glit- ters, diamonds and all, conveys no adequate meaning to her; she is simply puzzled, and looks out dreamily to- ward the lake. "Yes, diamonds, carriages, horses, everything she could secure she got," continues Mr. Jones, "and poor old Cyril is left without a cent in the world." "But," says the interested listener, "surely his friends did " "Oh," says Mr. Jones, modestly, "we did what we could, and set him on his legs a little, of course, but " and he shrugs his shoulders significantly. "And where is he now ?" asks some one. "At Hamburg," replies Mr. Jones, with the unhesitat- 42 Questions and the Questione«^ ing confidence of truth itself, "gambling away his few last coins as fast as he can — poor old Cyril !" "Poor old Cyril" has not moved a muscle, has lain back with the serenest and most placid of faces through it all, and now, calm and passive, pushes his hat from his brow, and half closes his eyes, perhaps to enjoy and meditate upon his sad fate as depicted by the truthful and graphic Mr. Jones. The soft voice of the girl beside him roused him. "Do you think — do you believe — do you know this Sir Cyril More, of whom he has been speaking ?" asks Edna. "Do I know him?" echoes Cyril, quietly, and wonder- ing why there should be that little shadow of a shadow on the pure young face. "I have heard of him — yes." "And — and," she asks, looking at him with what he fancies is something like anxiety — "Is it true? Is he so utterly ruined?" ' Cyril looks out gravely at the lake. "Yes, I am afraid there is no mistake about that. Miss iWeston." "And is it all his own fault? Surely it cannot be all his own fault?" "Yes, I'm afraid, from all I've heard, that he has only himself to blame," answers Cyril, quite placidly. "I don't think there is any doubt that he is of no account — an utterly worthless, idiotic sort of fellow." Edna looks at him with, yes, certainly, a deeper sad- ness in her clear young eyes. "I am so sorry," she says. Cyril is almost guilty of a start. As it is, he tak»i the cigar out of his mouth with the air of one who does not quite understand. "Sorry!" he says. "Why should you be — ^you do not know him?" "No-o," says Edna, crossing her hands in her lap, "I do not know him, altiiough I have a dim kind of recol- lection of the name. I cannot think where I heard it," she muses; "perhaps my father- " "Your father ! I never knew your father," says Cyril, off his guard for the moment, but hastening on, as Edna turns her calm, questioning gaze on him, "I mean I did not know that your fathev went into society at all-« Questions and the Questioned. 4% not the sort of society which such a good-for-nothing fellow as this Cyril More is likely to have frequented, you know." "It could not have been my father from whom I have heard the name," says Edna. "Yes, I am sorry; for he could not have been altogether wicked — no one is that Poor Sir Cyril More!" Cyril flushes for a moment. Now is the time ; it would be dishonest, nay, dishonorable, to allow her to remain in ignorance. And yet, if he does reveal himself, it must be to say farewell, to throw away the chance of ever speaking one. word to her again. It is hard, but he will do it. He rises slowly — under the most poignant emotion it is scarcely likely that Cyril would be anything but deliber- ately and carelessly graceful — ^&nd is about to speak, when once more Mr. Jones' voice breaks in: "Going to Hamburg, are you ? Perhaps you'll meet old Cyril. If you do, tell him you've seen me, and give him my fondest regards. Don't forget Howley Jones, you know — always calls me Howley. What's he like? Oh, you can't mistake ; a dark, thickset man, with rather long hair; not a good-looking man, by any means; and that's what makes it so unaccountable, you know !" Cyril can stand no more. With a laugh too low and subdued to make itself heard in the next arbor, he takes out his watch. "We've heard enough of Mr. Jones' reminiscences, haven't we ?" he says. "I'm afraid you are rather bored with his unfortunate friend, and — ^there's the tea bell." Edna looked up with a laughing face. "Confess now that you are hungry " "No, only thirsty, on my honor," says Cyril, laugh- ing too. "It's Mr. Jones' fault ; be was too dry !" Two hours later and the lake is on fire, the town of Lucerne itself, basking in the reflection of the setting sun which casts a glow on land, lake and sky, tingeing the clouds and pouring a warm flood of crimson on the quay, now all alive with promenaders, boatmen and flower sellers. In front of the Grand knots of English tourists, dressed ia the grotesque style which the traveling youths of our 44 Questions and the Questioned. favored isle delight in, are lounging about on balustrade and terrace listening to the band, and staring at the gayly, richly and much overdressed young lady who leans back with the air of an empress in one of the pair-horse flies for which Lucerne is celebrated. This lady, though young, is possessed of undoubted confidence, and sits as unmoved by the direct stare of our youths and the glances of the passers-by as if she were a statue — a painted statue. Now and then she turns her eyes — ^fine orbs, well shown up with penciled lashes and tinted eyebrows — toward the entrance of the hotel, and beats a tattoo with her gloved hand — she wears her rings outside her gloves, by the way ; what is the use of possessing handsome diamond rings if you can't show them? — on the edge of the fly door, as if impatiently awaiting for the egress of some one therefrom. Meanwhile she returns the stares and glances with contemptuous indifference and compound in- terest, and is altogether a very grand and scornful young mademoiselle. But suddenly her wandering eye sees some one in the crowd whom she recognizes, and whose appearance rouses her from her contemptuous indifference; she raises her head, looks intently and then leans forward put of the carriage, with her eyes fixed on a broad-shouldered, stal- wart gentleman, who comes with slow and languid gait down the broad pavement. He is tall enough to tower pretty considerably over the Swiss, who on an average are not tall, and to decidedly top his fellow countrymen ; and he is handsome and distinguished enough to draw the eyes of the loungers even from the interesting young lady herself. Very slowly he comes down toward the parade quite unconscious of the notice he is attracting — quite as un- conscious of the lady who is waiting for him. If some kind angel would but whisper a word of warning in his ear! Poor Cyril! his kind angels have been very few and their warnings far between ; as usual, he comes down upon his fate, or, rather, upon the individual who is to rule his fate, with his usual careless unconcern and in- difference to everything that pertains to the future ; and it is not until the young lady has stretched out her hand and caught him by the arm, not until she has called him Questions and the Questioned. 45 twice, thrice, by his name, that he turns and recognizes her. "Why, Cyril! who on earth would expect to see you here?" she exclaims, showing a dazzling row of teeth and a smile broad and expressive. ^ "Glitters !" says Cyril, "you here ?" and although he smiles and suppresses every sign of the surprise that he feels, there is something in the tone that is anything but indicative of the welcome which so celebrated a person as Miss Glitters, of the Theater Royal, feels that she is entitled to. "Yes, I'm here; why shouldn't I be just as much as you? How long have you been here?" "Not long," answers Cyril, "and you?" "Oh, only came to-day — ^this morning — ^and shan't make a long stay of it ; at least, we didn't think of it, for Jerry says it's the slowest place he was ever in." "Is Lord Jerry Carew here ?" asks Cyril, looking round with anything but an expression of anxiety for his pres- ence. "Yes, he's gone inside to order supper ; we're going for a drive — don't know, what else to do. I never saw such a place; no theater, no concert, no casino, no anything; of course we didn't know you were here, or else it would have been different." Cyril inclines his head with a cynical smile. "Oh, the place would have been everything that is delightful; thank you, Molly." "You haven't forgotten your old teasing ways, Cyril," says Miss Glitters, with a pout; "but, I say, where are you staying — here, of course?" and she nods her head toward the palatial Grand. Cyril shakes his head, with an abstracted air, as if he were thinking hard. "No," he says, "not here." "Not here ! Where then ? I thought this, was the only place fit to stop at!" Cyril smiles. "Oh — ahem ! yes ! Oh, come now, nonsense ; it's not so Bad as that!" says Miss Glitters, blushing; "you're not quite cleaned out — really, Cyril !" "Of course not," says Cyril, lightly. 46 Questions and Questioned. "Well, then, come and stay here, and I'll persuade Jerry to stop another night or two. No — no ? Why not ? Anyhow, you'll have some supper with us to-night?" "No; I think not," says Cyril, taking out his watch. "I think not, Molly." Then he comes a Httle closer, and looks at her fixedly, almost earnestly. "Don't look so cut up; you won't miss me; and, be- sides, I want you to do me a favor." "What!" exclaims Miss Glitters, incredulously; "Sir Cyril More ask a favor! The world's coming to an end!" "Don't hasten its destruction by refusing to grant my favor, then. See here, Molly. I am not stopping at the Grand, and I won't sup with you to-night; and I don't want to see Lord Jerry, because I am here incog., and don't want to be seen myself." Molly put her lips into the proper shape for whistling. "Not as bad as that, Cyril?" Cyril smiles. "No, not quite so bad as that, Molly ; the duns have not followed me to Switzerland." "Then what is it?" queries Miss Glitters, with intense curiosity. "What are you up to — what is the little game ? Come, Cyril; I will keep it a secret — I will, upon my honor! Do tell me — do, there's a good fellow!" Cyril laughs one of his rare laughs. "There's nothing to tell you or anyone else, Molly. I have come here for a little rest and quiet, and I know, and so do you, that I shouldn't get it if I found you and Lord Jerry, apd therefore I want you to do me the favor to keep our meeting a secret. Come, it's not a hard thing to promise. You have only to keep my name off your lips ; you ought to be tired of it by this time." Molly pouts and looks at him with all a woman's balked curiosity and suspicion. "I don't believe that's all the reason," she says; "and if it is, it's all nonsense! Fancy you wanting to keep quiet and all that ! No, it won't do, Cyril ; there's some- tiiing else in the wind, I'm sure of it." "All right," says Cyril, "I'm not going to contradict a A Village Fete. 47 lady — ^bad manners that, Molly ; but give me your prom- ise." "What — that I won't mention your name ? that I won't tell anyone, now or hereafter, that I saw you, or knew you were in this beast of a place " "Exactly," says Cyril. "Well, I'll do that; I'll do more than that, Cyril, for you." "Of course," says Cyril, with polite acquiescence ; "and as that is all I want, you'll do that cheerfully. Good-by, Molly — enjoy your drive; you'll find the supper a good one, or they've, lost their cook since I was there — good- by." "Good-by,, if you will go," she says, with a pout. He takes the begloved and beringed hand, presses it for a moment, and raising his hat turns away. Scarceh has he done so than he sees walking slowly under the trees on the quay. Aunt Martha and Edna. Aunt Martha is looking cheerfully before her, with her amiable gtze on the lake, but Edna — yes, he sees in a moment that she has seen him, that she has still her eyes upon the over- dressed figure and powdered face of Miss Glitters, now she turns them to him ; he raises his hat and passes on ; it is all done in a moment, but Miss Glitters' eyes are sharp and she has seen the recognition — 'the salutation — ^nay, more, the faint flush that colors the lovely face of the young girl, and Miss Glitters colors in her turn. "So, Mr. Cyril — devil — ^that is the game, is it? Quiet and rest, eh ? Quiet and rest, indeed ! As if I was to be taken in by that ! As if I didn't know you too well to be- lieve all that! Now — I — wonder" — with intense curios- ity — "who she is ? Poor little thing !" CHAPTER V. A VILLAGE FETE. The scene is the drawing room, or salon, as it is called, of the Pension Petre. Three days have elapsed since Cyril held his little conference with the overdressed young 48 A Village Fete. lady at the- entrance to the Grand, and he is still in Lu- cerne, still at the pension, and for a wonder, perhaps the first time in his life, neither bored nor wearied. Madame Petre is as liberal in the matter of light as she is in that of diet, and the room is both pretty and cheerful. Some of the visitors whom Sir Cyril saw on the first day of his arrival have gone, but others have come to fill their places, and the room is almost crowded. The baron is still here and sleeps peacefully in a re- mote corner, half hidden by an india-rubber tree that grows in a huge majolica stand.. Near him the author- ess and an old sea captain are playing chess; a whist table is in full swing in an adjoining and smaller room, and through the open windows come floating in the voices of some young people who prefer the moon and the lake to the whist or go-bang. Mingling with their voices, almost dreamily there at times are the strains of a new waltz by Strauss, which the German professor, with all a German's taste, is play- ing at the piano. And last, but not least, Edna Weston sits at a small table near the window, turning over some awful daubs, which the young lady, who has perpetrated them, and is kindly explaining them, calls "sketches." Cyril is nowhere to be seen. "This," says Miss Robinson, the artistic criminal, "is Heidelberg Castle by moonlight. Do you like it? It is considered rather good. Capt. Sparker, who was staying at the pension at Heidelberg with us, admired it im- mensely; do you really like it?" Edna thinks that it would be better if the castle were not quite so much out of the perpendicular, but she smiles her approval, and Miss Robinson turns complacently to sketch number two. "And that is the Bay of Naples," which she has repre- sented in the approved fashion, all pink and green and ultramarine. "Oh, I do so love Naples. And that's the Coliseum at Rome ; oh, isn't Rome lovely? Oh, I dote on Rome ; don't you ?" "Yes, I enjoyed it," murmurs Edna. "We had such a glorious time there," continues Miss Sophie; and she smiles with deep significance as sh« turns to the window ; "didn't we, Josephine ?" A Village Fete. 49 Josephine thus addressed is another Miss Robinson, tall, fair, freckled and gorgeous in a pink dress with an enormous frilled collar. Why will every young lady with red hair and a long neck fancy herself like Mary Stuart, and so be tempted into wearing a huge frill? Miss Josephine smiles with still deeper meaning, and Miss Sophie explains, in an undertone : "You know, it was at Naples we met Mr, Slasher from Oxford." And Edna, poor Edna, who has been already made re- cipient of the records of the many Robinson conquests, nods acquiescently. "And that reminds me," goes on Miss Sophie, with a sudden eagerness, "we meant to ask you if you knew any- thing about Mr. Payne?" Edna raises her eyes from the particular abomination in water colors which she is contemplating, with calm inter- rogation. "Know about Mr. Payne?" "Yes," nods Miss Sophie, dropping into the chair be- side Edna, and twining her long, thin, grenadine-cov- ered arm round Edna's waist, after the fashion of a schoolgirl, which Miss Sophie long since ceased to be; "yes, he always seems to be with you, and you appear to be so friendly, and to know him better than anyone else here," Edna's clearly penciled brows come together, as is their wont when she is thoughtful, and then she shakes her head. "No, I don't know anything about him, excepting that he is very kind and attentive " "Oh, do you think so?" interrupts Miss Sophie, with an upheaving of her eyebrows. "Why, it was only to- day that Josey and I agreed that he was almost rude!" Edna turns to the sketches with a smile that is rather abstracted and incredulous, as she remembers Cyril's pointedly respectful manner to her — how he has turned from her side to fetch some trifle that Aunt Martha or she herself had forgotten or required — how he never let them leave the room without opening the door for them — ^how, ah ! in countless ways, how polite and high-bred he was. "Do you think so ?" she says, incredulously. so A Village Fete. "Oh, yes," says Miss Sophie, decisively, "not at all polite. Why, it was only yesterday that he passed us without raising his hat, just as if he didn't know us I And then he's so unsociable ; he never says a word to any of us, excepting you, unless he's spoken to. Not that I dislike the high-and-mighty style, but I do like to know whether people who've got it have anything to give them- selves airs about. Josey stands up for him, but then that's because she admires him. He is very handsome, isn't he?" Edna, who has listened in a sort of dreamy inattention, rouses with a little start. "Handsome !" she repeats, and then turns her thoughts inward. It is not too much to say that she has never asked herself the question Miss Sophie has put to her ; she has never considered whether he was handsome or ugly, short or plain ; she knows that he is kind, that he never comes near her without giving her an indefinable, calm kind of pleasure — ^that there is something in his voice which makes it different to the voices of all the other people about her. "Why, what a time you are deciding! Can't you de- cide? Do you think him better-looking than Mr. Jones?" and Miss Sophie smiles across the room at that gentle- man, who is lounging against the wall, eying himself in the glass approvingly, while he drawls and minces through a feeble flirtation with a young lady who has just arrived with papa and mamma from London. A smile, light and spontaneous, floods, yes, literally floods, Edna's pure face as she looks at Mr. Jones' com- monplace countenance with its turn-up nose and insipid eyes. Now she knows, and her smile is sufficient answer. "Ah, I see," says Miss Sophie, sapiently, "Mr. Jones is no favorite of yours — oh, yes, I've seen you snub him often. Now, we think he is very nice — quite the aristo- crat." Before Edna can confirm or contradict — neither of which she would do — ^by the way, the door opens and the Other subject of Miss Sophie's criticism enters. %^ Surely no one could hesitate a moment over that que*- A Village Fete. SI tion of good looks as the fair-haired giant comes in with the quiet, high-bred air of self-possession. Edna looks up and sees his eyes go round the room searchingly and then light up for an instant as they rest on her, and for the first time a litfcle tinge of extra color mounts to her cheeks, and her pure, clear eyes drop. With his light, commanding step he comes up to the table and stands before them. "Good-evening, Miss Robinson — good-evening. Miss Weston. Sketches, eh?" and he takes one up, to turn, after a momentary examination, to Edna. "Did you do these?" "No; they are Miss Robinson's," says Edna. "Very pretty," he says, politely, but with an evident sigh of relief. "Are you fond of art, Mr. Payne?" says Miss Sophie. "Very," was the reply, in a tone which would be ap- propriate to "not at all" equally well. Miss Sophie rises and collects 'her sketches. "I'm going on the balcony, dear Miss Weston ; will you come ?" Edna, always amiable, half rises, but a hand, firm yet pleading, catches secretly at her skirt, and with a little blush she changes her mind, and Miss Robinson hurries off alone. Then, very humbly, the audacious Cyril pleads for for- giveness. "It was awfully cool of me, but I was filled with de- spair; I knew if you got on that balcony we should see no more of you to-night, and this place is so dull, and" — he stops and feels in his pocket — "I've been for a stroll in the town," he goes on. "Quite a nice old town, full of rum shops and quaint old houses. Funny thing, but just as I was passing one of the old places I came upon one of those Swiss carvings you spoke of yesterday — ^the chamois, you know," and with a timidity, which is most absurdly comical in the usually self-possessed Sir Cyril, he extends a delicate little carving of a chamois upon a piece of rock. It is a pretty little toy, of very little value, but Edna is delighted. "How strange," she says, "that you should kave hap- S3 A Village Fete. pened to see it to-day, after our mentioning it yester- day " "Isn't it?" says Cyril, ignoring, or oblivious of the fact, that he had searched every shop in the town for one. "I thought you would like it." "Is it for me?" she asks, with the childish delight of possession. "How kind you are !" and her eyes rest upon his face for a moment, and makes Cyril's heart throb. "Are you sure it is for me ? WonJt you keep it for some one else — your sister?" This rather doubtfully, remembering suddenly that she has not heard of the existence of such a relative. "Haven't got one," says Cyril, smilingly; "I wish I had. One like you!" he adds, wistfully regarding the childish figure, clad this evening in some dark, soft, cling- ing material, that drapes the graceful outline to simple perfection. "Perhaps if I had I should have been a better man." "Would you?" she asks, with that old intent gaze. "Would you like to have had a sister? I am sorry you have not," abstractedly. "Indeed ?" he asks, with a smile. "Why are you ?" She opens her eyes. "Oh! didn't you just say you would have been better, you know ? Have you a brother ?" "Yes," said Cyril, slowly. "That is nice," she remarks, cheerfully. "Oh, yes, it must be nice to have a brother — a second self " "Oh, must it?" says Cyril, grimly, so comically that she looks up and laughs again. "How curiously you said that ! Do you know, there is something strange about you that I cannot understand. Oh, have I said anything rude?" she adds, quickly, anx- iously, as Cyril's face falls and flushes. "I didn't mean to — ^indeed, I did not!" "No — no," says Cyril, smiKngly reassuring her. "There is a great deal about me you don't understand. How I hope that you may know me long enough to under- stand " Then he stops. How can he put it to this child-woman, whose eyes fix him with such innocent »'>- tentness ? She nods. A Village Fete. S3 "Perhaps I shall. I am going to England, you know, and we shall meet. Who knows?" and she smiles up at him, past him, in her strange fashion. "Perhaps in Lon- don, at some party, or at one of the theaters you told me about last night, or perhaps in the country, at some friend's house. Is it likely?" "I don't know — I hope so," says Cyril, earnestly. Then she sighs suddenly, and laughs. "What's the meaning of that contradictory combina- tion?" exclaims Cyril, amusedly. It is noteworthy that he watches everylook of her face, and takes note of every tone of her voice. "What did I sigh for? — how quick you are! I don't know. It is all so dark, the future, isn't it? One never knows what may happen." "I know one thing that will happen, and that in the very immediate future, if I stay here much longer I shall be suffocated — it is fearfully hot. Will you come outside.? A shawl — please don't go without a shawl. Here, will this do?" and he takes up an antimacassar and adjusts it round her shoulders with reverential care. The laughing face, framed in the thick white fringe which he has ventured to pull over her smooth, sleek head, looks up at him merrily. "What would Madame Petre say?" she laughs, and laughing together, they pass out upon the balcony. But the balcony is too full, there is too much chatter of the feminine gender for Cyril, and he whispers audaciously that they should "get out of this" into the garden. Edna is not given to small talk, hates scandal, and, childlike, is bored by the petty personalities of the gossip of such women as the Robinsons, and is nothing loath to escape. So they go into the garden, picking their way down the little paths and stumbling occasionally over a border of box. Cyril once blundering straight into a vine, but being helped thereout by the firm clutch of a tiny hand, 'doesn't seem to mind it much. When they have reached the road, and after a stare at the lake, prepare to climb up again, suddenly the heavens are lit up as if by magic, there com"" a loud explosion, and a rocket soars sky- >vard. 54 .'A Village Fete. "Hello!" exclaims Cyril, "what's the matter?" Edna laughs. "Oh, fireworks — and there need not be much the mat- ter. Don't you know how fond the Germans and the Swiss are of pyrotechny? English mobs are given to bands and banners, aren't they ?" "Yes, and processions," nods Cyril. "They had such a big one in Trafalgar Square last year, that Nelson, on the monument, you know, turned quite pale with alarm." Edna laughs — she is always ready with her soft, mu- sical laugh, with or at this new friend of hers — and they stand for a few minutes watching the fireworks. "That's not a bad one," says Cyril — some particularly bright and savage specimen of the pyrotechnic art bursts in the sky with a whiz, and showers down a myriad of colored balls — "not at all bad." "Oh, look at the lake !" exclaims Edna, enthusiastically, as the whole scene is encrimsoned by a blaze of red fire. "It is beautiful, is it not? — though one is always inclined to look upon fireworks with contempt. I wonder where it is?" she adds, slowly and wistfully. "Not far," suggests Cyril. "No; and there's the band. It's at the National — the Yankee's Paradise, as they call it. I dare say the whole of the quay is illuminated." "Pity we can't see it from here," remarks Cyril. "If we were a little lower down " Edna looks wistfully down the road and into the dim distante. "Just at the bend we should see everything," says Cyril. "Hadn't we better go?" Edna looks back at the house eagerly, hesitatingly. "Do you think aunt would mind?" she asks, with the wistfulness of a child and the gravity of a woman com- bined. "I should think not. There are some of the others go- ing, I should think. Hark! They're scrunching down that beastly path now ! Come along — just to the corner !" "But this antimacassar " exclaims Edna. "Tuck the fringe in," says Cyril, with all a man's indif- ference. "That's it — there's a bit out ; may I " And be turns in half an inch that has escaped her with alrrosi A Village Fete. 55 unnecessary nicety; but though his fingers tremble and thrill as they come in contact with her soft, warm! neck and silky hair, she stands quite serene and unconscious, her glorious eyes turned with wistful eagerness toward the fireworks, her whole thoughts upon them. "Come along," says Cyril, having made the antimacas- sar look as commonplace and proper as possible; and, without further parley, they run — yes. Sir Cyril, the blase, finds himself running like a schoolboy !— down the hill. "Here we are," he says, as they gain a point of view. "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it really grand?" exclaims Edna, as she stands on tiptoe, unconsciously clinging to Cyril's arm to do so with ease. "They've surpassed themselves." "Nobody more surprised than the striker, as we say at billiards," says Cyril. "Who'd think sixpen'orth of red fire would so alter a scene?" "Sixpennyworth !" exclaims Edna, indignantly. "This will cost the town pounds — oh, ever so many pounds! Look at that fountain! And — yes, I declare! I thought so ! They're dancing on the terrace !" "So they are," says Cyril, with exasperating coolness. "It's a regular carnival." Edna watches and listens breathless. The band is as good as the fireworks, and the strains of Strauss' last and best waltz float up with the red lire. Her little foot beats time unconsciously. "How I should like to be down there — to see them!" she murmurs, almost inaudibly. "Nothing easier," says Cyril, moving. "Oh, no !" she says, drawing back. "Why not?" asks Cyril. "No one will see us — all the rest of the people have gone down, I expect. And look there!" he goes on, pointing below, "there's a dark cor- ner there, where the light doesn't get. An elephant might stand there and not be noticed. Come along! Surely you can trust yourself in the crowd with me?" Edna laughs as she looks up at him towering above her. "If I had only told aunt." "Tell her when you come back," suggests Cyril. 56 A Village Fete. "Yes, I'll do that," returns dej:r friend's — your brother's — wish. Exactly, Yes, this is the first of September, and we are met here by the ap- pointment of one whose wishes and instructions I trust, I sincerely trust, we may all be able to carry out." As he spoke, he glanced with mingled curiosity and admiration at the pale face opposite him. Edna's eyes, which had been fixed on him, dropped a little under his glance; she raised them again a moment afterward with an expression of wistful but patient at- tention. If Mr. Burdon had expected to hear her speak, he was disappointed. "As you are aware, Mrs. Weston, we have met to-day to consider a deed, which, to all intents and purposes, is the will of this young lady's uncle, John Weston." Aunt Martha looked up and nodded nervously. "Yes, I think I knew that; but Edna knows nothing." "Just so; that, I think, is exactly in accordance with her father's and her uncle's wish," said Mr. Burdon. "It is not for us to question the wisdom of that wish; it is our duty to respect it — in this case I think we have all done our duty," and he bowed slightly to Edna. "I may say, for myself, that, until to-day, I was as ignorant of the motive that actuated your brothers in their desire for concealment — ignorant also of the purport of this deed — as you yourselves were." Aunt Martha inclined her head again, and stroked Edna's hand, which she had, somehow or other, managed to smuggle into hers, nervously. "My first duty," continued Mr. Burdon, "is to read, from begining to end, this rather long document; but" — and he raised the deed from the table and turned the leaves over with a smile — "I am afraid if I do that with- out explaining its purport first, that it would not enlighten you much. The language of the law is not, I deeply re- gret to say, as plain and simple as we lawyers could wish it to be " Here Edward More, who had been nibbling and fidget- ing at his nails, barked out a low, sharp laugh of sarcastic incredulity, which brought Edna's large, expressive eyes upon him with a look of startled surprise. Mr. Burdon, not a whit put out by his friend's little commentary, smiled urbanely. io8 Reading tlie Will. "Mr. More thinks that if there was nothing to explain in the law, there would be no need for lawyers, and considers me guilty of a little humbug. Well, well, per- haps I am. However, shall I explain it to you?" He looked so directly at Edna that for the first time she spoke, but it was only a simple: "Thank you." Mr. Burdon turned round in his chair and took his leg upon his knee. "I ought to begin, as they do on the stage, I think," he said, "with 'It was twenty years ago' — for it is quite like a romance; but I shall confine myself to a very meager outline of the matter, and your aunt" — and he smiled toward Mrs. Weston — "will furnish all the details from her own knowledge. It is just this, then: Your uncle, John Weston, my dear young lady, was an ex- tremely wealthy man ; he was also a very eccentric one, as the uncommon and extraordinary nature of this deed sufficiently proves. Some portion of this wealth he in- herited, but the greater part of it he amassed during' many years of hard toil. He was a merchant, a mine owner, a ship owner, and what is called a financier; he was, in fact, what is called a merchant prince — a man of extraordinary talent and acuteness, a man universally re- spected, and a man of vast — yes, vast influence. I don't suppose any man of his day had a greater number of friends, or more powerful ones. Nothing was too great for the scope of his mind, nothing too intricate for his extraordinarily acute business intellect. Persons of all grades, high and low, trusted him to an extent which nowadays seems incredible. It is not too much to say that for many years of his life he held the fortunes of a score of families in his hands, for he was a banker as well as a merchant, and traded with other people's capital as well as his own. You see, my dear young lady, that I have been tempted into a panegyric of your uncle; well, he was worthy of a higher' tribute than any humble man like myself can pay. But to proceed — at a certain period of his career — when things were generally black and un- promising — when we had wars and rumors of wars, a great decline of trade, there came a general panic. Houses Ifailed, fortunes were lost, everybody suspected everybody, Reading the WilL 109 else, and John Weston even did not escape the general distrust and want of confidence. Nearly all the people who had hitherto reposed with the most absolute faith upon his honor and ability, suddenly grew cautious and distrustful, and — I am putting it into unbusiness-like and simple words — came upon him and demanded their money. Had they come one at a time, and gave him time, he could have met them with an easy mind and a full cash box, but unfortunately they came all at once — just as if your uncle had kept all their money in a strong box and could give it to them at any moment they wanted it — and he was unprepared. What happened, or what would have happened on any ordinary or anything but a most extraordinary case? The great, influential millionaire would have been ruined. Tt was a dreadful time ! I remember it — I remember it !* And Mr. Burden rose under the excitement of the reminiscences, and walked to the fireplace, though there was no fire. "I think I can see your uncle as he stood in his office — just as it might be here — tall and thin. He was very much like your father. Miss Weston — pale, but as cool and composed as — as — I am !" and Mr. Burdon rather in- consistently wiped the perspiration from his brow. "There was a crowd outside — a crowd of people clamoring for their money, and threatening to pull the house down ; ah, and worse, if he didn't give it to them. The clerks were standing behind their desks white and trembling, expect- ing the great doors to give way every moment and let the gasping, anxious crowd in, to wreck the place. And there stood your uncle, as calm and composed as Napo- leon himself might have been. I think I see him now !" And Edna, listening with pale face and intent eyes, fancied that she also could see him. "He had sent for me," continued Mr. Burdon, wiping his eyeglass mechanically, "but, of course, I could do nothing. 'Richard,' he said, 'you hear that crowd. Those are the voices of men and women who have trusted me with their money — some of them have confided their all to me. Up to this time I have dealt honestly with them, as they would testify if they were not frightened out of ^eir ser^e of juslicf , If they would give me time I no Reading the Will. could pay them back — deposit and interest, to the utter- most farthing. They will not do so. I have sent for all the available money — I have realized all it is possible to do. I shall wait one hour longer, and then I shall declare the bank broken, and blow out my brains.' " A low cry of pity and horror escaped Edna's lips. Mr. Burdon made a gesture of sympathy, and hastened on. "He looked at his watch as he spoke, and laid a pistcJ on the table before him, and then he sat down and waited, while the crowd got noisier and angrier. They were calling for him now, and threatening — well, well, half an hour passed, and I was about to call for assistance — for I was young to such scenes, and quite unable to cope single- handed with such a calm, desperate man — when the door opened, and a tall, handsome-looking man came in. It was your uncle's old schoolfellow and best friend — Sir Charles More." Edna looked up quickly at the certainly not noble- looking face of Mr. More in the room, and wondered breathlessly what was coming. "I see him now," said Mr. Burdon, "straight as a dart, handsome as — as — all — almost as a woman, with golden hair and bright blue eyes, that were laughing — actually laughing, though the roar of the crowd was in his ears — a black bag was in one hand and his hat in the other; he tossed the hat on one side and hurried across the room. 'Hello, Jack!' he said. 'Here's a pretty kettle of fish ! Why, anybody would think you were giving sov- ereigns away by the crowd of hungry fools outside. You didn't expect me ! No ! I'm just in time — landed at South- ampton last night, and ran up to town posthaste.' All this, my dear young lady, in a breath. Your uncle could not get a word in, but at last he managed to stammer out — it was the first time his voice lost its firmness : " 'Charlie, the panic has touched me, and I'm ruined !' "Sir Charles laughed outright; with a flushed face and a flashing eye : 'Ruined ! Not you, Jack, while you've a friend left ! "Ruined !" that word will never be tacked on to John Weston's name. Here, Mr. Burdon,' turn- 'ng to me, 'have the goodness to call in some of the white-chokered clerks in the office — never could make out Reading the Will. Ill why you make the poor devils wear white chokers, as if they were parsons, Jack ! — and tell 'em to count this out and give it to the hungry dogs outside, and by the time that's gone the people from the Bank of England will have sent some more for 'em,' and he took the bag and turned out a heap of Bank of England notes and rouleaus of gold." Edna's face flushed, and her little hand tightened upon her aunt's. "Your uncle gave a gasp as if he had been shot, then sank into his chair and covered his face with his hands. All his pluck went out of him in a moment, and he sobbed like a child." And Mr. Burdon took out his large silk handkerchief, and blew his nose two or three times with a most sus- picious vehemence, as the tears rolled slowly down Edna's cheek. "He was as good as his word. Miss Edna ; the cashiers paid out the money as fast as they could, and before it had gone a second lot came in, and a third after that; there was more than enough, for the idiots, when they found the bank was saved, paid the money back into it as fast as they drew it out, and instead of howling and cursing, clustered round the house cheering and hurrah- ing to such an extent, that your uncle had to go out and show himself, dragging Sir Charles by the hand, and calling to the people to look on the man who had saved their money and his honor." Mr. Burdon drew a long breath, wiped his forehead, and looked round with an apologetic smile. "I've allowed myself to be tempted into a long story," he said; "but I trust you will admit the temptation was strong. I won't do it again. Of course after this your uncle and Sir Charles became greater friends than ever. Your uncle was not a man to forget such a service, and was not at all satisfied with simply paying back to Sir Charles the money he had lent. He did more than that, he solemnly vowed that all his money should go to Sir Charles or his descendants. But this Sir Charles would not hear of. Your uncle had a younger brother to whom he was deeply attached, that younger brother had a daughter, a sweet-faced little girl — pardon me, Miss 112 Reading the Will. Weston — that little girl was yourself. Sir Charles very properly would not consent that he or his should gain by your loss, and your uncle, who was a determined man, was compelled to give up his generous intention in part. Only in part, for here comes the pith and substance of this remarkable deed." Mr. Burdon tapped the parchment impfessive?7. "Determined not to be wholly balked, your uncle hit upon a scheme by which he hoped to provide for you and enrich Sir Charles' descendant; that descendant war nephew, a favorite of both Sir Charles and your uncle — a young man strikingly like Sir Charles in appearance — and — and" — here Mr. Burdon paused, and looked across at Edward More's face, which had assumed an angry scowl — "well, resembled him in the matter of a generous, careless, reckless disposition. This nephew is now Sir Cyril More " Edna started, and a sudden flush sufjfused her face; it was gone in a moment, but both the men had noticed it, and Edward More fell to biting his nails suspiciously. To Edna the name had brought back, with a painful vividness, that afternoon in the arbor, when she had sat with the man whom she would never see more, and lis- tened to Mr. Howley Jones' idle boasting. How the name had impressed her then, awaking a strange kind of indefinite memory; she remembered how she had asked about this Sir Cyril, and now she was to hear that this same man was in some way linked with her past, and possibly with her future. The flush passed away, and she listened more intently, if that were possible, than before. "Sir Cyril, at the time of your uncle's death, was a promising lad some few years older than you. He was often at More Park, and though he has no doubt forgotten your uncle and all connected with him, used as a boy to be very fond of him. I have seen your uncle nursing him on one knee, while you, my dear Miss Weston, were on the other." Edna's eyes dropped, and a little thrill, whether of pain or pleasure she could not say, ran through her. For the first time the lawyer seemed long-winded. Why HM he not go on? What was he leading up to? Reading the Will. 113 "Your uncle then hit upon a scheme which should con- duce to the good of both families. He left a certain sum of money to your father, another set sum to your aunt" — and he bowed to Mrs. Weston — "and the remainder of his fortune he placed in the hands of trustees to take care of, and increase by the accumulation of interest, until you should have reached the age of twenty. You are* twenty to-day, if 1 am not mistaken?" Edna, open-eyed, pale again, but calm, though rather perplexed and troubled, inclines her head in assent. "Just so," said Mr. Burdon, rubbing his eyeglass, and warming to his theme. "The trustees have taken care of the money; it has bred — if I may use the term — and increased, and is now a fortune, almost princely in its ex- tent, and it now remains to be seen to whom it belongs." Edna drew a sigh that almost seemed one of relief; Aunt Martha, pale and agitated, murmured the words, "Fortune — princely !" and nervously clasped and un- clasped her hands. Edward More got up from his chair and took two or three impatient turns across the room, then sank, with something between a groan and a snort, into his seat again. "That immense fortune — every penny of it — will belong to either you vr Sir Cyril More, or perhaps to both of you. It will belong to both of you, in equal shares, on one condition. "On one condition," repeated Mr. Burdon, emphasiz- ing the words by tapping the deed with his forefinger after each ; "and that is, that you become man and wife." Edna stared with startled eyes for a moment, then went deadly pale. "Man and wife!" she murmured, her head drooping, until her face was hidden. Mr. Burdon nodded emphatically. "It was your uncle's dearest wish ; it was Sir Charles' dearest wish, that you and his nephew should marry, and so make the houses of More and Weston — united for so many years by so firm a bond of friendship— one in fact and law. With that wish in his heart and on his lips your uncle lived and died." There was a moment's pause after these words, almost 114 Reading the Will, solemnly delivered, and it was in a still slower and more emphatic manner that the lawyer resumed: "But we know that your uncle was too just and acute a man to attempt to wrest fate to his own incUnation ; he only tried to guide it. He has proved his wisdom and justice by a stipulation which stamps him at once as a man of no common mind. He has left, so to speak, each of you free to decline or accept his fortune without de- priving the other of his, or her, chance of it. To Sir Cyril the first word is given. It is for him to say, when the whole matter has been laid before him, whether he will follow the course set out in the deed, and propose for your hand. Should he do so, and you accept, well and good, the money is secured to you both. Should you reject him, the fortune goes to him — lands, houses, gold. So much for your part in the matter; now comes his. Should he be mad enough to throw away such a chance of securing a beautiful and charming bride — forgive me if I am plain-speaking, my dear Miss Weston — and an immense, a princely fortune, should he do this, then the whole of the money, lands, houses and gold comes to you; to do with as you will — yours wholly and uncondi- tionally; unfettered by a single claim or drawback. "Such is the story which the deed sets forth, and sucH are its commands and requirements." Mr. Burdon having paused, impressively looked at Edna. She was surprised and agitated — one moment pale, the next a vivid crimson. Aunt Martha, still hold- ing her hand, crushed that hand one moment and patted and soothed it the next. Edward More sat and glanced at one and the other, dissatisfied with everything, and quite prepared to break out into lamentable complainings whichever way the matter should be settled. Neither of the three spoke a word. Mr. Burdon, hav- ing waited to see if anyone felt inclined to speak, rose again, and stood with his back to the empty fireplace, and addressing Edna, said : "Practically, my dear young lady, the matter rests in your hands." Edna started from a painful reverie, and looked up with vague alarm. Mr. Burdon, answering that look, added: Reading the Will. II5 "Yes ; for I am not indulging in a perhaps pardonable flattery when I assert that Sir Cyril, not being insane, is not likely to refuse either you or this immense fortune — certainly not both together. Therefore it rests with you whether you accept a husband, young, handsome, and a general favorite " Edward More grunted audibly. "A general favorite," repeated Mr. Burdon, emphatic- ally, as if he would not be contradicted on that point. "Of course any conjecture is at present premature, but I think I may answer for Sir Cyril; I think I am suffi- ciently in his confidence to promise that he will throw no obstacle in the way of the fulfillment of your uncle's wishes." There was another pause. "As I have said, the choice, if choice it can be called, rests with Sir Cyril, as it should do, very properly giv- ing you two choices, if I may call them so; and I have dispatched a clerk, a special messenger, for Sir Cyril, that the preliminaries may be got through without any loss of time. I trust, I do trust, that we may succeed in finding Sir Cyril; his movements are just at present very uncertain." "Very uncertain!" echoed Edward More, sardonically. "May I ask if you have ever seen Sir Cyril?" asked Mr. Burdon. Edna raised her eyes, half frightened, wholly troubled, and shook her head. "No, I have not seen him," she said, in a low voice. "No doubt you have heard of him ?" "Oh, no doubt!" echoed Edward More, again, with increased bitterness. Edna looked from one to the other. "Yes, I have heard of him," she said, and her face grew crimson. "And heard no good of him ?" grunted Edward. "We can't say that," broke in Mr. Burdon, quickly. "As I have said. Sir Cyril is a general favorite and — and — ^well, he has no worse enemy than himself." "And that is enough to ruin him," added Edward, spitefully. Edna looked with pained surprise at the malignant Xl6 Reading the Will. face of the speaker, and for the first time a gleam of pity for this Sir Cyril crossed her heart. "Well, well," said Mr. Burdon, with a touch of impa- tience. "Brothers are inclined, too often, to judge each other too harshly. It is a pity Sir Cyril is not here to speak for himself. Meanwhile, my dear madam," he said — "that is, until he arrives — I think we had better sus- pend all decisions and even discussions. Where are you staying ?" "We are staying at Moflfat's Hotel," answered Aunt Martha, nervously. Mr. Burdon bowed and glanced at Edward. "Is there anything else that we ought to say, Mr. More?" Edward More shook his head. "Except to hope that that precious brother of mine will be persuaded to put in an appearance. I don't suppose Miss Weston will be sorry to have the matter cleared up," Edna looked up quickly, and her bright eyes flashed upon him with sweet indignation. "I think," she said, with a little tremor in her voice, *'that it could be settled now at this moment " Mr. Burdon stopped her with upraised hands. "Softly, softly, my dear young lady ! I cannot permit you to say — ^what I think you were going to say. The choice, remember, rests in the first instance with Sir Cyril. Do not be hasty! I implore you to remember that the fate of an immense estate rests upon the issue of this question. Come, you will forgive me," he said, bend- ing toward her with infinite respect; "indeed, I should never forgive myself if I allowed you to put yourself at a disadvantage, and, believe me, you would be doing so if you expressed an opinion at this time." Then as Edna hung her head and closed her lips, he ejaculated, irritably : "I would give a hundred potmds if Sir Cyril were here now !" As he spoke, almost before the words were otrt of his lips, there came a knock at the door, and the discreet clerk appeared in answer to the impatient "Come inl" and handed a card to Mr. Burdon. Sir Cyril's Choice. 1x7 No sooner had he glanced at it than he turned with a short laugh of surprise and satisfaction. "See how rash it is to make monetary vows — or vows of any sort! Sir Cyril is here!" "What !" exclaimed Edward More, starting to his feet with a surpi-ised scowl of repugnance; "do you mean to say he is here, in this house?" "Yes," said Mr. Burdon, "and wishes to see me alone !" Edna, pale and trembling, rose. "Let us go, aunt!" she said, in a hurried whisper. "Not yet," pleaded Mr. Burdon. "If you can be per- suaded to stay until I return, I promise not to be long. Please let me persuade you. Come, my dear young lady, this is a matter of business as well as sentiment. I can understand and appreciate your feelings in the matter, but while I respect them, pray let me beg you to reflect on the lamentable results that would attend any mistake or misunderstanding. Give me five — ^ten — min- utes !" Edna sank back into her chair trembling visibly, but otherwise calm and self-possessed, and the lawyer hur- ried from the room. CHAPTER XII. SIR CYRIL'S CHOICE. "My dear Sir Cyril !" exclaimed Mr. Burdon, entering his chief clerk's room, into which Sir Cyril had been shown, "this is the luckiest coincidence in the world;" and he laughed a legal laugh of satisfaction, which died away rather suddenly as he came near enough to take his client's proffered hand and see his face. "I — I hope nothing has happened," he said, with an air of concern, "and that you are quite well." "Nothing has happened, and I am quite well, thanks !" replied Cyril, with most unusual impatience. "I am glad to hear it. Sir Cyril," responded Mr. Bur- don, still eying with a covert scrutiny the pale, handsome face, with its strange, wan and weary look, so very strange upon the face of careless, light-hearted Sir Cyril. ii8 Sir Cyril's Choice. "Singular !" though the keen lawyer. "He « taking his bad luck to heart. Who would have thought it?" Then he drew a chair to the table and seated himself. "I'm glad to hear you are quite well. Sir Cyril. Can- didly, you are not looking at all yourself " "And who the devil would ?" said Cyril, with a mingled haughtiness and impatience so strange and uncommon to him that Mr. Burdon could not help staring. "You forget that your confounded clerk has been at my heels for the last three days, badgering me to get on, get on, and reach here. What on earth do you want with me? I thought, when I was here last, that I'd done with lawyers — that I had nothing left for the law to trouble itself about." "So did I, Sir Cyril," replied Mr. Burdon, dryly, but still respectfully, "but it seems we were mistaken. Will you not take a seat ? — and let me offer you " ' "Nothing," said Cyril, dropping into a chair; then he leaned his head upon his hand for a moment, and Mr. Burdon sat too astonished to proceed to business. "See here, Burdon," said Cyril, looking up stiddenly, and frowning across the table, "I have come over to England very much against my will, and to this place, which I would have avoided, if I could have fought against a strange kind of impulse and attraction, and I am anxious to leave it again as quickly as possible. I don't wish to offend, but, there — there," and with a move- ment of his hand he swept away whatever explanation he was about to give. "Your time is too valuable to waste on me; you have wasted quite enough already. Heaven knows ! Now, what is this business ?" As he spoke he made a palpable attempt to give his at- tention, and succeeded in doing so — after a fashion. Mr. Burdon bit his lip, puzzled and curious, but he knew the More peculiarities and idiosyncracies too well to trifle with them, and proceeded to obey his client's direct injunctions. "Well, Sir Cyril, I am quite ready ; I hope I have never been dilatory where your interests are concerned. It was your interest that forced me to send my man for you, and I think you will be more ready to pardon me for the Sir Cyril's Choice. 119 liberty after you have found my reasons for so doing than you appear to be now !" Cyril, whose good humor no amount of ill luck and trouble could altogether destroy, looked up without the frown, and with a smile which was, however, very dif- ferent from his old, light-hearted one. "Forgive me, Burdon," he said; "as you see, I am rather knocked up — a good deal of traveling, and — that sort of thimg; I am a little out of sorts, too; in fact, as you said, not quite myself. I know you mean well, you always have meant well to me and mine. Don't think I am ungrateful — don't think anything about me to-day; in fact, try, after I am gone, to forget that you have seen me. I shall leave England again to-night," he added, gloomily. Mr. Burdon smiled with complacent satisfaction. "I think not. Sir Cyril; I think not!" he said. I've news that is good enough to keep most men at home, and I don't think even you will turn your back on it." "Good news !" said Cyril, abstractedly, and with a grim smile. "Judge for yourself," said Mr. Burdon, and he took up from the table the deed which he had brought witls. him. Cyril put up his hand wearily. "For Heaven's sake, Burdon, spare mc ! Tell me what you have to tell in plain English." Mr. Burdon laughed. "You are like my other client — ^the other party to the deed. Well, Sir Cyril, what do you say to a large fortune —another fortune?" he added, with a slight emphasis. Cyril looked up with a faint expression of interest. "Is that it ?" he said, nodding his head absently. "Then, •why on earth didn't you write and tell me, or let your man tell me, instead of dragging me from one corner of the earth to the other ?" Mr. Burdon certainly bore his burden well, for though he leaned back in his chair and gave vent to one or two ejaculations, they were not profane. "Come, come !" he said, "is this fair. Sir Cyril ? How was I to know that you had suddenly grown indifferent 120 Sir Cyril's Choke. to money and all its advantages ? Besides, there are c«n« ditions to be complied with before you can claim " Cyril made an impatient movement. "Hadn't you better write to me, Burdon ?" he said ; "I leave it all to you — do what is proper in the matter, and let me go. I will send my address." And he actually rose to go with wistful weariness which astounded and distressed the lawyer. "Stop!" he said; "one moment. Sir Cyril. Great Heaven ! you surely cannot be so indififerent — I can't let you go. Sir Cyril, until I've explained this matter; be- sides, I've got Miss Weston upstairs and " "Miss Weston !" exclaimed Cyril ; "do you tell me she has anything to do with this?" and he stopped full short and stared at the bewildered face of the lawyer. "Yes ; do you know her, then ?" asked Mr. Burdon. "One question at a time," said Cyril, gravely; "you have not answered mine fully yet." Then he sat down again and waved his hand. "Tell me all — why don't you tell me all?" Mr. Burdon, with a patient sigh, resumed his seat, and with a good deal less prolixity than he had indulged in upstairs, went over the same story. When he came to the condition he paused a little and watched his client's downcast and firmly set face with anticipatory enjoyment. "There is only one condition. Sir Cyril — only one, and John Weston's money is yours, and that is that you marry his niece, Edna Weston." "What!" exclaimed Cyril, springing to his feet and confronting, the astonished and somewhat alarmed lawyer, with a face on which conflicting emotions struggled for expression. "What! I — marry — Edna Weston?" and his face flushed a bright crimson that almost restored to it its old, light-hearted expression. "That is it," said the lawyer, "and it is not a very hard condition, Sir Cyril, as you will admit when I have the pleasure and honor of introducing you. I may say, with all respect and sincerity, that a more charming, a more beautiful young girl I never saw ! Ah !" — and he rubbed his hands slowly — "many a man would deem her hand Sir Cyril's Choice. 121 alone, without all it carries with it, a fortune good enough for the gods. Sir Cyril, may I be permitted to congratu- late you?" And he turned with a congratulatory smile of the most pronounced type. But Sir Cyril did not appear to hear him ; he was lost in deepest meditation, his head resting on his hand, his lips set tight. Presently he got up and paced to and fro, and at last stopped before the lawyer, his face quite pale and stem, as if he had come to a resolution that had cost him much to arrive at, "Burdon," he asked, in a quiet, constrained voice, "has she — Miss Weston — seen me?" It was a strange question, and Burdon, looking hard at the haggard, resolute face, which a few months, it seemed, had been sufficient to rob of all its freshness and characteristic levity, grew more bewildered than ever. "Has she seen you? How can I say? Ah, yes, I re- member. No, certainly she has not seen you; but what has that to do with it ? The choice, as I tried to explain, is with you. You propose to her, declare yourself agree- able to conform to the conditions of the deed, and in any case, whether she refuse or accept you, the money is yours. Should you refuse to do so, the money goes in its entirety to her. But of course, you will allow me to say, as an dd and faithful adviser, that that is out of the question. Will you come upstairs? One glance at her will do more to convince you of your great good fortune than any talk, legal or otherwise. Will you come up- stairs. Sir Cyril?" Cyril paused in his pacing, and leaned against the man- telpiece. "No, Burdon," he said, quietly, "there is no need for that — I have made up my mind." "Sir Cyril, I am delighted to hear it !" exclaimed Bur- don, with a sigh of relief. "I — 'pon my word — I said upstairs to your brother " "My brothers-Edward here, too!" Mr. Burdon nodded. "I said that you would decide at once. But come up- stairs, Sir CyrilJ." Cyril frowned. 122 Sir Cyril's Choice. "I think you have misunderstood me, Burdon," lie said, coldly ; "I have decided to decline the honor of be- coming Miss Weston's suitor." Mr. Burdon, the long-suffering, fell back in his chair and gasped for breath. "Great Heaven !" he exclaimed. "But — Sir Cyril — you cannot have understood !" "Yes, yes!" said Cyril, with grim impatience, and a dark cloud settling on his brow. "I understand that by consenting to marry Miss Wes- ton I take the money with her — or without her. Well — I decline to marry her, and I relinquish any and all claims to the fortune that should in all justice be her in- heritance !" Mr. Burdon groaned, and dashed his hand upon the open deed. "Sir Cyril ! Sir Cyril \" he implored, "do consider this thing! Don't decide so hastily! Great Heaven, you are throwing away a fortime — an immense fortune! — ah! and a lovely girl, as if they were so much dirt! Take time — go abroad — the deed gives six months !" "I do not want one month, or one week," said Cyril, with a sigh ; "I have quite and finally made up my mind. I decline to fulfill the condition." Mr. Burdon rose and pushed the deed from him, and confronted the pale, resolute face. "Sir Cyril !" he said, "I and my father before me have been the legal advisers — the humble friends-^f you and yours; we have served you faithfully and to the best of our poor ability, and you ask me to carry out such an in- struction as this, to sit by and look on while a fortune slips from you — ah, and worse, to help you legally and irrecoverably to throw that fortune away from you! I can't do it !" "I will not ask you," said Cyril, after a moment's si- lence, during which he walked to the table. "Give me pen and ink." Mr. Burdon, with a reluctant and suspicious groan, put them befpte him, crying: "Don't do anything rash, Sir Cyril I" Cyril smiled, and quietly but rapidlj^ wrote a few lines Sir Cyril's Ctoice. laj "Upon a sheet of paper. This he folded and inclosed in an envelope, addressed to "Miss Edna Weston," and held it out to Burdon. "All you have to do is to hand that to Miss Weston," he said. Mr. Burdon took the note gingerly between his finger and thumb, and looked at it as a child might look at a dose of medicine. "We lawyers don't like doing anything in the dark. Sir Cyril." "What is to be done if you won't do anything in the light?" retorted Cyril. "Come, Burdon, you had better do as I wish ; it will save you a world of trouble. Take my note — if you don't care to, I can send it through the post," and, with a grim smile, he took up his hat. "Stop!" said Burdon, in despair. "I'll take it; you will wait to see if she sends any answer?" "No answer is possible," said Cyril, "and I am in a hurry." "In an uncommon hurry to fling away a fortune !" ex- claimed Mr. Burdon, his patience quite exhausted. "Good- by. Sir Cyril, if you will not listen to reason. Perhaps you will give me your address?" "I will when I get one," said Cyril. "Good-by," and he held out his hand. As he turned to leave the room he looked up at the ceiling with a singular wistfulness, which Mr. Burdon remembered years after. "Miss Weston is up there still?" he said. "Yes," said Mr. Burdon, eagerly. "Will you see her?" "No," said Cyril, shortly, and immediately disappeared. A moment after Burdon heard a cab door, shut with the usual bang, clash and the rattle of departing wheels. He turned the letter over in his hand and looked at it with a grimace of distaste. "I wonder what it all means — what he has said?" he muttered. "I've a great mind " Not to give it to her, he was going to say; but Mr. Burdon, like Brutus, was an honorable man, and marched upstairs with the letter in his hand, and anything but an amiable look upon his face. "WdV" exclaimed Edward More, with ill-temperec' .:u.-ioiity ; "wiiere is he ?" 124 Sir Cyril's Choice. "Gone!" said Mr. Burdon, almost curtly. Edna, who sat waiting with a pale, troubled fac^ flushed and lowered her eyes. "Gone!" repeated Edward More. "What for— where to?" "That, Sir Cyril declined to inform me," said Mr. Bur- don, leaning against the mantelshelf and eying the hearth rug moodily. "Yes, he has gone, Miss Weston ; and, for reasons best known to himself, refused an interview which, at least, might have paved the way to a settlement of this ques- tion." "What's that in your hand?" asked Edward, whose eyes were sharp and nature suspicious. "A letter," said Mr. Burdon, reluctantly, "for Miss Weston." And he gave it to her. "For me!" said Edna, taking it. "From '* "Sir Cyril," nodded Mr. Burdon. There was an intense silence of suspense. Edna opened the envelope and read the short note, and her face went from pale to red, and back to pale again. The three pairs of eyes watched her closely. For a minute she sat with the letter in her hand ; then, with a little start, she rose and held it to Mr. Burdon. "Am I to read it ?" he asked. "Yes — aloud, if you please," she answered, in a low voice. Mr. Burdon put up his glasses, and his voice actually quivered as he read: "My Dear Miss Weston: Mr. Burdon has informed me of your uncle's strange will, and it only remains for me to state, at once and without equivocation, that it is impossible for me to conform to the condition which is stated therein. I, therefore, withdraw any claim which I may have had, or may still have, to any part of the money accounted for by that deed ; and I in no way in- tend to stand between the fortune and the rightful in- heritor — yourself. (Signed) "Cyril More." Edna Comes Home/ 125 Edward More sprang from his chair, and stood grasp- ing the back of it and gasping for breath. "What!" he cried; "the idiot, the mad fool, actually refuses — yields up all claim! Then the money is hers!" "By virtue of this little note," said Mr. Burdon, "Miss Weston, allow me to congratulate you upon the inherit- ance of a splendid fortune." CHAPTER XIII. EDNA COMES HOME. Could it be true ? It seemed so strange, so unreal, that Edna — little mountain flower, as Cyril had once lovingly called her— could scarcely persuade herself that she was awake and not dreaming, although Mr. Burdon — tall, ro- bust and grave — and Edward More, stern, thin and irri- tably fidgety, looked anything but visionary. Yes, it must be true if they said so, and she, Edna, who had entered that room so poor and helpless and insignificant, woul^v leave it rich beyond her wildest dreams, powerful, and, alas ! with too many so-called friends anxiously waiting to pay their devoirs. She looked from Aunt Martha, who was crying, to Mr. Burdon, who was beating his right hand with the letter he held in his left, with a questioning, almost terrified gaze ; then suddenly her eyes grew dreamy, and a subtle change came over her face — a change that made her look sad, wistful and abstracted. Of what was she thinking? It was a strange look for so young a girl, with all youth's innocent bloom on her, still more strange for a lady who had just heard of such an accession to wealth. Edward More stopped biting his nails to stare at her; then, as she raised her eyes and sighed, he fidgeted forward — the first to pay homage. "Very sudden, this news. Miss Weston — takes you quite by surprise, of course ; so it did me. Er — er, I think you said you were staying at Moffat's —