r\'. ): 
 
 
 i 4 ' M I, ' ^ 
 
 /B/> r/c: 
 *‘dJ" . / 
 
 
 
 
 vi- C' T'v 0 h T- 
 
 
 
 
 
 A,N B 
 
 

GERALD GRAY S WIFE AND LILY: A NOVEL 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2020 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/geraldgrayswifel01king 
 
Qerald Qrays Wife 
 
 AND 
 
 J^ly: zACNfuel 
 
 BY SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
 With an Introduction by Jane H. Pease 
 
 and William H. Pease 
 
 
 Duke University Press Durham and London /99J 
 
INTRODUCTION © I993 JANE H. PEASE 
 AND WILLIAM H. PEASE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ON ACID-FREE PAPER 00 
 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA 
 
 APPEAR ON THE LAST PRINTED PAGE OF THIS BOOK. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 VII 
 
 lily: a novel 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIF 
 
 I 
 
 E 207 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Susan Petigru King wrote and published virtually all her novels and short 
 stories in the years during which her native state severed its ties with national 
 politics, seceded from the federal union, and endured a bloody civil war. Her 
 fiction, with the exception of a single passage in Gerald Grays Wife, deals 
 with none of this directly. Like those whom Mary Kelley has called the 
 literary domestics. King chronicles courtships and marriages, love and jeal¬ 
 ousy—but, unlike them, provides few happy endings. Almost always fortune 
 hunting triumphs over love; marriage proves to be a “prison house”; and 
 jealousy among women is a fully justified proclivity. She openly criticizes 
 the institution of marriage while her fellow women novelists praised it as 
 woman’s highest calling or masked their criticism as miserable exceptions to 
 the rule. Nor does King preach the work ethic so common in the stories of 
 Godeys Lady's Book editor Sarah Josepha Hale and of her Massachusetts- 
 born Charleston neighbor Caroline Gilman. Indeed, she ignores routine 
 domestic duties and gives worldly advice rather than moralistic instruction. 
 Like most contemporary writers. North or South, male or female, she 
 almost entirely ignores the issues of race and slavery that Harriet Beecher 
 Stowe and Lydia Maria Child tackled. And unlike her fellow southerners 
 Caroline Lee Hentz, Augusta Jane Evans, and Mary Virginia Terhune 
 (Marion Harland, pseud.). King puts no women authors or other bluestock¬ 
 ings into her stories to speak for women’s literary creativity. Indeed, her 
 voice, at its most evident, is that of a hard-headed, somewhat cynical woman 
 educated by experience rather than books. 
 
 In setting almost all her fiction in Charleston, South Carolina, and its 
 
surrounding low-country plantations, King wrote out of her own social 
 experience. Born Susan DuPont Petigru on October 25, 1824, she lived in 
 Charleston virtually her entire hfe. Nonetheless, because her parents were 
 relative newcomers and she, by temperament, somewhat of an outcast, she 
 cultivated the perspective of an outsider while she enjoyed the familiarity of 
 an insider writing about her own social circles. Her father, James L. Petigru, 
 the son of a minimally prosperous farm family in the remote western corner 
 of the state, had, by virtue of his education at South Carohna College, his 
 success as a lawyer, and his engaging personality, risen to prominence after 
 he had moved to Charleston in 1819. Indeed, within three years of his arrival, 
 when he was only thirty-three, he became his state’s attorney general. Sue’s 
 mother, the daughter of a modestly placed low-country planter, had been 
 suitably pohshed by a year at a Charleston finishing school, and as a young 
 woman had been much lauded for her wit and beauty. Nonetheless, as her 
 husband steadily rose in social prestige, Jane Ameha Postell Petigru ever 
 more noticeably declined in health, becoming so emotionally explosive and 
 so eccentric in her behavior that she provoked shame and hostility in her 
 daughter. 
 
 The youngest of the Petigrus’ four children. Sue grew up in a large 
 household, which, after the accidental death of her older brother when he 
 was only eight, stiU included a brother and a sister as well as three of her 
 father’s sisters, the youngest of whom was only eight years older than Sue. 
 Because James Petigru stood so well among the established as well as the 
 aspiring elite, all five girls came to maturity and married in the world of 
 Charleston “high society.’’ Additionally, Sue’s education introduced her to 
 other would-be belles. At home, she attended Mme Ann Talvande’s school 
 with Mary Boykin, who, as Mrs. Chesnut, would write her famous and 
 somewhat fictionalized Civil War diary. When she was fourteen. Sue was 
 sent off to Mme GuiUon’s finishing school in Philadelphia, where she 
 pohshed the French she already knew and with which she would garnish so 
 much of her writing. Just as important, she enhanced her understanding of 
 her own world through the novels that, from her earliest childhood, she read 
 constantly—even, perhaps, compulsively. 
 
 No sooner had she ended her schooling and returned home, intent on 
 following her sister Caroline’s example as a Charleston belle, than her family 
 fell on hard times. The aftermath of the panic of 1837 left her father so deeply 
 in debt, even after he had sold his recently acquired rice plantation, that, in 
 1842, he surrendered to his creditors all his possessions, excepting only his 
 house and his law office. To their father’s financial failure Mrs. Petigru 
 
 viii INTRODUCTION 
 
responded by pressing both daughters to marry money. Caroline complied 
 more readily, marrying William Carson, a man twice her age with whom she 
 had little in common and to whom she felt no emotional tie. Sue, who 
 spatted constantly with her mother, first resisted the “advantageous” mar¬ 
 riage proposed for her, but then, in 1843, at age nineteen, she did marry 
 Henry C. King—short, stout, and physically unattractive. The son of a 
 prominent lawyer of great wealth, Henry had been educated for the law at 
 home and in Germany. But until his father-in-law took him on as a partner, 
 his practice was minimal. Neither he nor Sue met the other’s spousal 
 expectations very well. Their only child, Adele, was born in 1844 while they 
 still lived with Henry’s parents. Not until 1846 did they establish their own 
 home, for which Sue had yearned but which she then left whenever she 
 could—to summer with her parents on nearby Sullivan’s Island, to visit aunts 
 on their plantations, to spend time in Philadelphia and New York, Saratoga 
 and Newport. Usually it was ostensibly to accompany and assist her ailing 
 sister that she traveled in the North. But the prolonged absences of both 
 more often than not openly defied the wishes of their husbands. 
 
 At home. Sue King devised stylish entertainments and had, at least by 
 1850, established her reputation as an outrageous flirt if not the “fast woman” 
 William Thackeray had heard she was. At least once accompanying her 
 father and her by-then widowed sister to Washington, she attracted atten¬ 
 tion in the political society to which her father’s extensive acquaintance 
 introduced her. Wherever she was, she made a point of meeting the notables: 
 lawyers, writers, and scientists, as well as politicians. At the same time she 
 began to write seriously. 
 
 When in 1853 the northern firm of Appleton brought out her first book 
 anonymously, Charlestonians did not wait for Professor Frederick Porcher’s 
 review to conclude that Busy Moments in the Life of an Idle Woman was the 
 production of a fellow townswoman. And it offended others as it did Porcher 
 because it not only “unequivocally condemned” “our Charleston Society” 
 but also taunted the cultural inferiority of “our wives [who] devote them¬ 
 selves to family care.”^ Yet, despite persistent gossip about the real-life 
 models that, so relatives and neighbors believed, underlay her characters, 
 Lily, published by Harpers in 1855, drew greater praise from the local press. 
 Lauding it for its “subtle observation” and “delicate irony,” one reviewer 
 almost perversely deplored tbe theatricality of its ending, that part most 
 clearly inspired by local lore of a “poisoned bride,” Harriet Maclde, who had 
 met her fate in 1804, calling it a decline from “the air and sunshine to the 
 sickly glare of footlights.”^ And in 1859, when Sylvia’s World and Crimes 
 
 INTRODUCTION IX 
 
Which the Law Does Not Reach were issued in a single volume by yet another 
 New York firm, Derby and Jackson, local praise, though sparse, was still less 
 reserved. Whether because each had been previously serialized—the former 
 in the Knickerbocker Magazine, the latter in Charleston’s own Russell’s Maga¬ 
 zine—or because the book came out when Carolinians’ attention was focused 
 on John Brown’s recent raid on Harper’s Ferry, or simply because King’s 
 novelty had worn off, the reviews were short. But one local reviewer, calling 
 the book her best work, now praised King for confining herself to “the 
 domain of social existence, as modified by a peculiar convention,” and to the 
 “character and the philosophy of motive” played out by “inward” rather than 
 “outward” action.^ 
 
 Whatever public acclaim and attention she received. Sue was minimally 
 satisfied with her private life. Henry’s income did not stretch to fund the 
 travel and entertainments she demanded. Men whose attention she cher¬ 
 ished married others. Her sarcasm and arresting style offended both strang¬ 
 ers and friends. Her relations with her mother were downright hostile; 
 controversies with her sister occasionally left even them at odds. Her daugh¬ 
 ter was increasingly alienated, depending on father and grandparents more 
 than on mother for intimacy. 
 
 Then came the Civil War. Henry enlisted in a Charleston militia unit and 
 was fatally wounded at the nearby battle of Secessionville in 1862. But even 
 before that, Susan and Adele had become refugees: in Columbia with a 
 friend who ran a girls school; at the Petigru homestead near Abbeville; and 
 with the King in-laws at Flat Rock, North Carohna. Under these inaus¬ 
 picious circumstances she finished her last novel, Gerald Grays Wife, which, 
 in 1864, was her first to be published in the South. Widowed with a minimal 
 inheritance. King realized at the end of the war that she must now work to 
 support herself When giving public readings in northern cities produced 
 little income, she became a clerk in the Post Master General’s Washington 
 office; and thereafter, except for a single novella published in Harpers Maga¬ 
 zine in 1868, capped her authorial pen. 
 
 In 1870 King married Christopher Columbus Bowen,"* a South Carolina 
 congressman and the Radical Republican boss of Charleston County. Born 
 in Rhode Island in 1832, raised as an orphan, trained as a mechanic, Bowen 
 had moved to Georgia in 1850 where he first wandered from town to town as 
 a journeyman, then farmed land not his own, and, along the way, acquired a 
 reputation as a professional gambler. Court-martialed and dismissed from 
 the Confederate army for forgery and extended absence without leave, only 
 
 X INTRODUCTION 
 
the Yankee occupation of Charleston saved him from criminal prosecution 
 for planning his commanding officer’s murder. In 1871 he was saved from his 
 conviction as a bigamist only by a presidential pardon. 
 
 Whether because her new life with Bowen so far exceeded the scandals 
 connected with her past life and writing or because it cut off all social 
 intercourse with her family and former social equals in Charleston, Sue 
 never again wrote professionally. Totally isolated from the society that had 
 been her world, she comforted herself with Bowen’s spacious Charleston 
 mansion, at least six servants, a carriage, and an elegant summer house on 
 Sullivan’s Island. But they were empty trappings. “The deadly loneliness of 
 my existence is hard to stand,” she wrote in 1874. “Of what constitutes 
 ‘society,’ I have none. My parties are all given by myself; my guests are, for 
 the most part, old & poor & forlorn—less friendless perhaps than I, but a 
 great deal more destitute than I ever was.”^ Worst of all, her daughter, now 
 her “bitterest foe,” refused even to see her. On December ii, 1875, she died of 
 typhoid pneumonia. 
 
 Susan Petigru King set all but one of her novels and most of her short stories 
 in antebellum Charleston and the surrounding low country. In exploring the 
 social life and sexual politics of privileged South Carolinians, however, she 
 largely ignored both the cultivation of rice and cotton that made planters’ 
 fortunes and the trade in those staples that underlay the prosperity of urban 
 merchants and professionals. Nor did she people her fiction with African 
 Americans, although they comprised half the city’s population and up to 90 
 percent of some coastal plantation districts. Those few black people who do 
 appear briefly in her fiction are not, moreover, called slaves; and, with a 
 single exception, they are all domestic servants. Still less visible, except as an 
 occasional vulgar foil for elite gentility, are poor or middling whites. She 
 focuses, in short, on that narrow spectrum so frequently romanticized in 
 tales of the “Old South.” 
 
 Collectively, King’s characters lived in a languishing economy. In 1825, the 
 year after her birth, the bottom fell out of the cotton market and Charleston’s 
 commerce plummeted. Thereafter, except briefly in the 1830s and 1850s, 
 Charleston’s economy remained in the doldrums. The city sank into second 
 and then third place among southern ports and increasingly depended on 
 northern capital to provide the shipping, credit, and insurance that its trade 
 with distant markets required. At the same time, thousands of rural Caroli¬ 
 nians annually deserted their state to plant cotton on the rich, virgin bottom 
 
 INTRODUCTION XI 
 
lands along the Gulf coast and the Mississippi River. Furthermore, many of 
 those low-country planters who stayed faced ever decreasing productivity on 
 both rice and cotton land. 
 
 The anxiety generated by the state’s relative economic decline was further 
 exacerbated by northern abolitionists, whose increasingly vehement attacks 
 threatened the slave labor system on which any remaining prosperity de¬ 
 pended. In response, a unique Carolina pohtics evolved, in which the state in 
 1832 first nullified a federal tariff law and then in i860 led the South in 
 seceding from the federal union. Similarly, the low country’s social style, first 
 shaped when South Carolina was Britain’s richest North American colony, 
 changed markedly after old ties with England had been severed. Until the 
 Revolution no Americans had surpassed the wealth accumulated by success¬ 
 ful rice and indigo planters. No colonial city-dwellers had displayed their 
 wealth more elegantly than the planters and merchants who built their 
 mansions in Charleston. They had filled their houses with locally made but 
 ornate furniture and silver; decked their walls with family portraits in oil; 
 cultivated gardens filled with exotic plants; patronized the theater and 
 concert haU; established a substantial library society; and supported a variety 
 of schools. As open to new wealth as to old, this distinctive upper class had 
 gradually evolved as descendants of families who had migrated directly from 
 England or had come by way of Barbadian sugar plantations had then 
 mingled and intermarried with Scots and French Huguenots. 
 
 As their city’s economic vitality flagged in the early nineteenth century, 
 however, those who already were the upper class began to close ranks. Yet 
 they never shut the gates altogether. Wish though they might to entrench a 
 waning past, they, hke other Charlestonians of European ancestry, realized 
 that in a city where Caucasians were a bare majority sharp class divisions 
 would put at risk the social cohesion needed to control a vast African 
 American slave population. In addition, grand old families stalked by finan¬ 
 cial difficulties positively wooed vulgar new money. And so fortunes made by 
 unpohshed fathers in trade could turn a son into a distinguished planter, a 
 daughter into a sought-after belle. Furthermore, in Charleston, the cous¬ 
 inage that so frequently determined social contacts and marriage partners in 
 the countryside lost much of its power, for in the city the spring and summer 
 social seasons enabled resident and visiting young people to meet and mingle 
 at horse races, parties, and balls where they flirted, courted, and preferably 
 with family consent, often agreed to marry. 
 
 Yet only King’s first novel, “Edith,” and her very last published story 
 
 xii INTRODUCTION 
 
follow the pattern Nina Baym^ described as central to nineteenth-century 
 woman’s fiction, wherein an orphaned and impoverished young woman 
 achieves financial independence through her own efforts but then marries a 
 wealthy and honorable suitor, presumably to live happily ever after. Yet even 
 “Edith,” published as part of Busy Moments, has a subplot introducing the 
 darker theme developed in most of King’s subsequent work, how men exert 
 unfair and deceitful power over women. Here it is the plight of a young 
 widow much in love with a poor man whom, because of the terms of her late 
 husband’s will, she cannot marry without losing the large income she now 
 enjoys. Moreover, the five short stories that complete Busy Moments explore, 
 as the initial novel does not, the physical incarceration and psychological 
 trauma that marriage and husbands inflict on women. Most shocking to 
 contemporary critics was the heroine of “Every Day Life,” Mrs. Mordaunt, a 
 worldly wise widow of forty-three whose mother had pressured her to marry 
 money, whose jealous husband had abused her, and whose wit and determi¬ 
 nation to enjoy life had gained her a scandalous reputation. Sufficiently 
 tough and self-centered to survive all this, she is, in this story, ready to 
 sacrifice herself to rescue a young girl on the verge of a similarly loveless 
 marriage. King’s assertion in this story that “if love be not there before the 
 knot is tied, small is the chance that that capricious blind boy should enter 
 the dwelling afterwards” provoked one reviewer to accuse her of ignoring a 
 wife’s “positive duty of atonement, or of making the best of a bad bargain.”^ On 
 the other hand. King’s adherence to the social norms of her day despite her 
 exposes of domestic wretchedness is played out in “Old Maidism v. Mar¬ 
 riage,” in which the heroine defies the devastating testimony of all her 
 married friends to follow their example. 
 
 The futility of their warnings defines King’s central irony. In real life, she 
 was the constant flirt, reputedly “fast,” drawn especially to younger men, and 
 ready enough to venture a second marriage to a womanizer eight years her 
 junior. Yet her fictions lay bare the sinister motivations of the cads who toy 
 with women for their own amusement or enrichment. But almost as per¬ 
 sistently, Bertha St. Clair, Mrs. Mordaunt’s successor in Sylvia’s World and 
 Gerald Gray's Wife, warns the young women she befriends against the design¬ 
 ing women who would destroy their loves and reputations as well as against 
 duplicitous men. In proffering such help, Mordaunt/St. Clair distances 
 herself from the relationship among most of King’s young women characters 
 that mire down in jealousy and double-dealing and those between other 
 older and younger women—generally mothers and daughters—that founder 
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
on the naivete or selfishness of the seniors just when their juniors desperately 
 need nurturing guidance. Indeed, except for Mordaunt/St. Clair and her 
 many ingenue heroines, King is no more sanguine about women than she is 
 about men or marriage. Among the stories in Crimes Which the Law Does Not 
 Reach, one about a woman’s flirtation with a man whose sole attraction to her 
 is the opportunity it affords her to destroy his fiancee, parallels narratives of 
 male flir ts who, for their own amusement, play on the emotions of innocent 
 girls only to lose interest in them once they are entrapped. 
 
 Although King follows Sir Walter Scott and Charles Dickens in drama¬ 
 tizing differences between dark and fair women, for her it provides a readily 
 visible means to dissect female jealousy in a world more clearly defined by 
 William Thackeray’s Becky Sharp than the reciprocal strengths of dark 
 Rebecca and fair Rowena or the fragility of darling Dora. In Lily the blond 
 heroine’s jealousy of her diabofically dark cousin Angelica, like the jealousy 
 that white Lily inspires in a woman of color, both contribute to Lily’s 
 melodramatic fate. In Gerald Grays Wife, it is tiny and fair-haired Cissy on 
 whom large and brunette Ruth vents her jealousy. Yet, however much these 
 are hostilities among women, they feed and contribute to the deceptions that 
 male characters practice on female. 
 
 As removed from feminist notions of sisterhood as from the many popular 
 sentimental romances that Jane Tompkins believes are rooted in nineteenth- 
 century evangelical rehgion,* King draws far more than other contemporary 
 American women writers on French models of social and sexual intrigue, 
 especially those of George Sand, which she read extensively and repeatedly. 
 Not for her, either, the parochial defense of regional values and institutions 
 that Ehzabeth Moss^ finds central in the novels of antebellum Southern 
 women. After the heroine of her first novel marries her wonderfully wealthy 
 planter cousin to regain her Southern heritage. King’s sectional comparisons 
 value New York and Saratoga ways over Charleston stuffiness and European 
 sophistication above Southern provinciahsm. 
 
 In tracking these themes and patterns, it is easy to connect them with Sue 
 King’s own fife. Her unhappy first marriage, her persistently flamboyant be¬ 
 havior, her frequent faUings-out with friends and relatives doubdess shaped 
 her writing. Family members acknowledged as much as they discussed the 
 limits that King’s restricted experience imposed on her fiction, fictions that 
 all admitted were rooted in her immediate world. Charleston neighbors 
 were alternately fascinated and infuriated as thev identified characters in 
 what all agreed were romans a clef Nonetheless, her novels and stories were 
 
 XIV INTRODUCTION 
 
not just thinly veiled reportage. While Mrs. St. Clair serves frequently as the 
 author’s voice, the character who knows the “real” situation, King vests some 
 of herself, her aspirations, and her interests in each of her young heroines. 
 On the other hand, her first critical attention to the question of women’s paid 
 work coincides with her own experience of government employment and 
 writing more as a necessary means of support than a busy moment for an 
 otherwise idle woman. In “My Debut” a privileged Southern woman, after 
 having lost her wealth in the Civil War, undertakes to support herself by 
 working. While ultimately she finds a romantic solution to her economic 
 problems, a commonplace in so much woman’s fiction, she also expresses 
 King’s frustration with a gender-defined work world. Through Elizabeth 
 Leighton King laments that “working for my living” is “a prosaic and 
 difficult thing.” Her wages are “miserably scant,” less than half what would 
 be paid a man. “To this dead level of presumed inferiority my petticoats 
 alone keep me down. In masculine attire I should have been paid according 
 to my powers; in feminine garb I could form no such pretensions. 
 
 But she also qualifies what might otherwise seem a nascent feminism 
 seldom associated with Southern belles. “Let me pause to say that I neither 
 wish to vote nor preach, nor practice medicine or law, but I should like not to 
 be damned into eternal mediocrity in those few lines where a woman may 
 modestly assert herself”" Here is perhaps King’s strength as well as her 
 weakness as a social critic. She was very much of the society about which she 
 wrote. Hers was a world in which all people were ranked by class and race, a 
 ranking which she never challenged. Except for the variations in fortune that 
 might elevate or diminish the standing of individuals, she assumed an 
 uninterrupted social stability. And when war, emancipation, and efforts to 
 reconstruct a different world had destroyed that stability, she stopped writ¬ 
 ing. 
 
 Yet King also lived in a world and was part of a class that, like most others, 
 restricted women’s lives and personal freedom far more than it did men’s. Its 
 economic and political ideology encompassed a patriarchy in which the 
 husband-father-slaveholder presided over an extended family of his wife, his 
 children, and his labor force. Their wives and daughters, by comparison with 
 their slaves and with most other women, were privileged. They lived sur¬ 
 rounded by physical amenities; they had access to education; they might 
 expand their world by travel or reading. But in the ordered system of their 
 society they were inferior to men. And it was at this juncture and only here 
 that King became a social critic. She attacked women’s dependence in 
 
 INTRODUCTION XV 
 
marriage; she stripped away the pretenses of romantic love. But she still saw 
 marriage as central to women’s lives, their sole access to economic security. 
 
 On the other hand, in the novels reprinted here, the heroine of each is a 
 wealthy woman in her own right,^^ theoretically at least free to choose or 
 reject marriage and to choose among suitors without concern for their ability 
 to provide that security. Lily, the best known of King’s works, follows the 
 courtship and education of a young woman born to “old wealth.” Set first at 
 Chicora Wood, bearing the name, location, and characteristics of a planta¬ 
 tion owned by King’s uncle. Governor Robert F. W. AUston, then in a 
 Philadelphia finishing school, and finally in Charleston, this novel is played 
 out in territory with which King was intimately familiar. But the heroine’s 
 wealth and beauty, hke the novel’s seemingly improbable conclusion, are the 
 author’s imaginative devices for addressing the vulnerabihty even of those 
 women best equipped to assert themselves. LHy Vere is an orphan, devoid of 
 any guidance from a mature woman. Barely fifteen when the novel begins 
 and twenty at its close, she is naive, inexperienced, and left to make her own 
 decisions. Lacking any defenses against the rituals of courtship and her own 
 romantic yearnings, she is weak despite the potential power her extrinsic 
 assets might have given her. 
 
 Ruth Desborough, who is twenty-six when Gerald Grays Wife begins and 
 thirty when it ends, has grown up knowing that only her millionaire father’s 
 money attracts the bevies of men who woo her. Plain in appearance and icily 
 reserved in personality, she is, when Gerald Gray first appears, the apparent 
 opposite of LUy Vere. Her lineage is humble, even crude. She suspects the 
 motives of both the men and the women around her. She maintains a 
 distance from all of them as her surest protection from being exploited. But, 
 like Lily, she has grown up without a mother’s guidance. And in a moment 
 when her defenses are down, she is attracted by the external attributes of a 
 man handsome almost to feminine beauty and preternaturaUy sophisti¬ 
 cated—almost exotic—in bearing. Perhaps most compelling, she wants the 
 love and marriage that both heroines consider the desideratum of a woman’s 
 life. She becomes, when she permits herself to be courted, putty in the hands 
 of her suitor and when married, putty stiU more malleable. 
 
 But the continuity and resemblance end there. Ruth Gray, in a denoument 
 almost as melodramatic as that found in Lily, regains autonomy and uses the 
 power her father’s wealth gives her to make the independent best of personal 
 tragedy, albeit with great suffering. Her choice thus defines less an assertion 
 of power than a return to her earlier defensive shell. It is rather Bertha St. 
 Clair, possessing worldly experience and a “saucy”—as King repeatedly puts 
 
 XVI INTRODUCTION 
 
it—personality rather than either wealth or beauty, who can play and win at 
 sexual politics. And all we know of Mrs. St. Clair’s husband is that at one 
 time she must have had one. 
 
 Technically, we have kept textual editing to a bare minimum. Lily is re¬ 
 produced directly from the 1855 Harper edition. Gerald Gray’s Wife, set in 
 worn type on bad paper by obviously inexperienced typesetters working 
 under wartime conditions, resisted modern copying technology. It had, 
 therefore, first to be transcribed from the original, for which we thank 
 William Manning of the University of Charleston. In proofing that tran¬ 
 scription for accuracy, we have made some silent variations from the 1864 
 copy to make it more readily intelligible. We have inserted quotation marks 
 where they were missing and have adopted current American usage govern¬ 
 ing single and double quotation marks. We have corrected misplaced apos¬ 
 trophes in contractions. We have altered when the original seemed obvious 
 the typesetter’s guesses at the handwritten French in the manuscript from 
 which he worked. But French words transposed in ways we could not fathom 
 we have left as they were but followed them by [?]. On a very few occasions, 
 where an English word that makes no sense is an obvious misreading of 
 King’s chirography, we have made silent corrections. We have also made 
 spelling of proper names consistent with the version most frequently printed 
 in the original. AH else we have left as it is in the 1864 copy. The absence of 
 copy editing will therefore be evident, most frequently in inconsistent punc¬ 
 tuation and the erratic hyphenation and separation of compound words. 
 
 Jane H. Pease 
 
 William H. Pease 
 
 NOTES 
 
 1. Ffrederick] A. P[orcher], Article VIII. “Busy Moments of an Idle Woman. . . Southern 
 Quarterly Review, XXV (January 1854), 212-213. 
 
 2. “[Review of] Lily. . . Charleston Mercury, November 21, 1835. 
 
 3. “[Review of] Sylvia’s World, and Crimes which the Law does not reach. . . Russell’s 
 Magazine, VI (October 1859), 95-96. 
 
 4. Because all her published writing was done before her marriage to Bowen we have not 
 followed common library practice of calling the author Bowen. Also, though she was 
 christened Susan, she was consistently known as Sue, in part to differentiate her from 
 Henry’s sister Susan King. 
 
 5. Sue Petigru King Bowen to Caroline Petigru Carson, February 2,1874, Vanderhorst Papers, 
 South Carolina Historical Society. 
 
 INTRODUCTION XVll 
 
6. Nina Baym, Woman's Fiction. A Guide to Novels by and about Women in America, 1820—i8jo 
 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1978), 11-12. 
 
 7. “Busy Moments of an Idle Woman,” Charleston Daily Courier, January 5, 1854. 
 
 8. Jane P. Tompkins, Sensational Designs: The Cultural Work of American Fiction, iygo-1860 
 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985). 
 
 9. Elizabeth Moss, Domestic Novelists in the Old South, Defenders of Southern Culture (Baton 
 Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1992). 
 
 10. Susan Petigru King, “My Debut,” Harper’s Magazine, XXXVII (1868), 532. 
 
 11. Ibid. 
 
 12. Here King differs markedly from the authors treated in Anne Goodwyn Jones, Tomorrow is 
 Another Day: The Woman Writer in the South, i8yg-igj6 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State 
 University Press, 1981). Their heroines all gain their independence and self-reliance through 
 paid work. 
 
 xviii INTRODUCTION 
 
jQly:(iA CN^vel 
 
 BY SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
"She was not very beautiful, if it be beauty's test 
 To match a classic model when perfectly at rest; 
 
 Said I she was not beautiful? Her eyes upon your sight 
 Broke with the lambent purity of planetary light. ” 
 -N. P. Willis 
 
To L O U I S A , 
 
 who, with a more brilliant mind than 
 
 LILY, 
 
 is yet her equal in purity, sweetness, and gentleness, 
 1 offer this imperfect representation 
 Of a Lovely Woman. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 The droning voice of the lawyer’s clerk slowly continued, 
 
 “—of which I die possessed to my honored friend, Hugh Clarendon, Esq., 
 in trust for my beloved daughter, Elizabeth Vere, sole offspring of my late 
 lamented wife, Mary Elizabeth Vere. Such a sum as the said Hugh Claren¬ 
 don may consider proper shall be yearly set aside for the maintenance, 
 education, and support of my said daughter, who, with the permission of her 
 guardian, Hugh Clarendon, thus appointed, shall reside with his family so 
 long as she desires it. The balance of my yearly income shall continue to be 
 invested, after the payment of such legacies as I shall presently name, until 
 my beloved daughter be of age or marry, at which time she shall come into 
 immediate and entire possession of my whole estate, without restriction. 
 
 “In case of her death before either of these events come to pass, I hereby 
 devise my whole estate to the said Hugh Clarendon and his heirs forever.” 
 
 Then followed numerous legacies to friends and pubhc charities, for 
 Andrew Vere was a man of large heart and immense fortune, with no 
 relations except his only child, and possessing a character so just that he 
 considered it necessary to remrn, in a measure, to the city of his adoption, a 
 portion of that wealth which he had acquired as a successful merchant in 
 Charleston, South Carolina. 
 
 “Right,” he said, in a feeble tone, as the clerk finished his task. “Thank 
 you, Mr. Corbett; you have explained fuUy my wishes. You accept this 
 charge, dear sir?” mrning to the gentleman at his bedside. 
 
 “My dear friend,” answered Mr. Clarendon, to whom Mr. Vere spoke, 
 “you are too generous. I do not allude merely to your legacies to us, which are 
 princely, but the confidence you repose in me is exceedingly gratifying. God 
 
grant that I may be enabled to act a worthy part by your little girl, and my 
 wife’s tenderness and interest in Ebzabeth will, I trust, lead her in time to 
 look upon us as her family.” 
 
 “She win be happy with you,” said Mr. Vere; “and she is so young, that 
 before many weeks are over, my darhng wiU have forgotten that I ever hved. 
 Lift her up. Clarendon; let me see her in your arms; I would like to give her 
 my last blessing there.” 
 
 Mr. Clarendon leaned over the bed, and, drawing down a shawl which 
 was closely wrapped about what had seemed a large bundle, he softly laid 
 upon his shoulder the fair head of a lovely little girl of five or six years. She 
 was not yet awake, and her rosy mouth aU puckered up, her disheveled curls, 
 and flushed cheeks, which showed traces of tears, looked as if she had 
 probably cried herself to sleep. 
 
 The dying father passed his weak hands caressingly over her smooth, 
 chUdish brow. 
 
 “I may weU caU her Ldy,” he said, smiling; “is she not white as any hly that 
 ever grew? Oh, cherish her. Clarendon! deal gently with her. Perhaps you 
 doubt the wisdom of making her so young independent, or of putting no 
 check upon her choice in marriage; but I have every confidence in Lily; she 
 has great judgment. Don’t laugh at that word, applied to a baby. She deserves 
 it.” 
 
 Mr. Clarendon silently pressed his friend’s unoccupied hand, and there 
 was a pause of several moments. 
 
 The lawyer, Mr. Corbett, and his clerk had noiselessly withdrawn to the 
 adjoining room. The solitary candle, burning amid the phials and galhpots 
 on the table near, cast a wavering, flickering light, now illuminating the 
 wasted features of Andrew Vere, then flashing upon the strong, hearty, 
 honest face of Hugh Clarendon, and sometimes gilding with double gold 
 Lily’s light ringlets. 
 
 “She looks hke her mother,” continued Mr. Vere. “Poor Mary! as earnestly 
 as I recommend Lily to your care, did she charge me to watch over her two- 
 weeks-old infant. Mrs. Purvis wished to take the child from me. She will be 
 very angry now that her granddaughter should pass into your hands; but they 
 never liked me, those haughty Purvises, and there is no love lost between us. 
 I can forgive them for despising me as a low-born Scotchman, but I can not 
 forget their persecution of Mary. But these are not proper words for the lips 
 of one who must turn his thoughts to heavenly things.” 
 
 A fit of coughing seized Mr. Vere, and the sound aroused Lily. 
 
 She opened her large blue eyes, slid down from Mr. Clarendon’s arms. 
 
 6 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
and, without bustle or noise, went to the table and prepared some medicine 
 for her father. It was curious to see the tiny hands and grave httle face so 
 absorbed and quiet. 
 
 Mr. Vere swallowed what she gave him, and then, the paroxysm over, laid 
 back upon his pillow exhausted and death-like. 
 
 Lily replaced the glass and snuffed the candle with the composure of a 
 matron, and then, smoothing the bedclothes, took her stand at her father’s 
 side. 
 
 “You are a real little nurse, Elizabeth,” said Mr. Clarendon, kindly. 
 
 “Dr. Barton said I might stay with papa all the time if I would be good, 
 and not cry or make a noise,” answered the child, with a sweet voice, full of 
 tears. 
 
 “When I die, Lily, you will remember that I bid you love Mr. and Mrs. 
 Clarendon, and look upon Willie, George, and Alicia as your brothers and 
 sisters:” this was slowly and with difficulty pronounced by her father. 
 
 “Yes, papa.” The large tears rolled down the child’s face, and she shook 
 with an inward tremor, but no sound escaped her: one small palm was closely 
 locked in her father’s, and she tried to find her handkerchief with the other. 
 Deeply she dived into her little pocket: it was not there; so, lifting quietly the 
 hem of her short white dress, she wiped away the scalding drops, and stood 
 patiently and sadly, ever watchful and perfectly still. 
 
 So the hours wore away. Dr. Barton came, looked at his patient, patted 
 Lily’s head, advised her being sent to bed, but could only persuade her to 
 resume the shawl and the place by her father; and at daylight the spirit of 
 Andrew Vere passed from this earth. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER II 
 
 “Who shall be queen?” 
 
 “Sara Purvis.” 
 
 “Oh no! we must draw lots.” 
 
 “Let the boys choose—let them vote for queen.” 
 
 “No, indeed. This is a fair field, and we shall have no supremacy of men— 
 in round jackets at that. We shall all vote,” said Grace Meredith. 
 
 “Lily ought to be Queen of May. In her own house, too! And see how tall 
 and stately Lily looks! Just hke a queen, as she walks down the steps.” 
 
 “Very well; Lily shall be queen, for all that I care,” said Sara Purvis, 
 curhng her lip. 
 
 lily: a novel 7 
 
“Thank you, Sara,” said Lily, advancing. “And precisely because it is in my 
 own house I would rather not be queen, Nora.” 
 
 “Nonsense,” exclaimed George Clarendon. “Sara, you are always making 
 a fuss. Here is my cap, and there is a sheet of paper and a pencil: each of you 
 young ladies and young gentlemen, without distinction of petticoats or— 
 or—etcs., write the name of any young lady you choose on a scrap of this 
 paper, throw it in the cap, and when you have all voted, we will count the 
 result, and, of course, majority takes it. The elected queen may have a king 
 chosen by herself if she likes, and if she has any sense she will confer that 
 honor on me.” 
 
 “A King of May! what an absurdity!” cried Grace Meredith. “No, George, 
 you shall be chief executioner to the queen, and cut off the heads of 
 rebellious and revengeful subjects. Sara,” she continued, maliciously, in a half 
 whisper, “has so small a throat it will not be a troublesome case, any more 
 than that other poor lady’s of ancient days who wanted to be queen and was 
 not popular enough.” 
 
 George Clarendon, who enjoyed such thrusts at Lily’s supercilious cousin, 
 laughed out. 
 
 “Very well. I resign the office. ‘Uneasy lies the head,’ and so on. Now let us 
 to business. Young ladies, if I might be permitted to suggest one caution: 
 don’t each of you write your own name. It may create confusion, and will 
 certainly be found out. Miss Sara, can you write legibly?” 
 
 “George!” exclaimed Lily, laying her hand upon his arm, while her sweet 
 blue eyes at once implored and commanded him to be quiet. 
 
 “Oh yes, Lily—oh yes, certainly. Miss Purvis, here is my pencil; you must 
 begin.” 
 
 Sara Purvis haughtily took the pencil and scribbled a name. She was too 
 angry by this time to attempt to retort, and surely it was a wise part, 
 unconsciously assumed, for she could not cope with her teasers. A prettier 
 dunce did not adorn all Christendom. 
 
 The balloting went slowly on, for some wrote, and then changed their 
 minds, and wrote again. The halfgrown boys, with all the fickleness of full- 
 grown men, were even more capricious than the young girls, and countless 
 ends of paper strewed the green turf before their decisions were fairly 
 inscribed. 
 
 Meanwhile Lily, after depositing her vote, left the group to give some 
 order in the house, soon returned, and, pausing on the threshold of the door, 
 gazed around and about her. 
 
 Calm, beautiful, and luxuriant was the scene. The sun was just sinking. It 
 
 8 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
was the last day of April, and the growth, the vegetation, the wide-spreading 
 lands in their Southern loveliness smiled back at their fair mistress, as she, 
 with a deep-drawn inspiration, thanked God for having bestowed upon her 
 so much power for doing good and making others happy. 
 
 Chicora Wood was the name of this plantation. Chicora being the melo¬ 
 dious Indian word for mocking-bird, and for these American nightingales 
 every tree seemed as a colony. The house was spacious, built in a rambling, 
 old-fashioned, disconnected manner—very comfortable, but very queer. 
 There were curious little closets of all odd shapes, and a window projected 
 here, and a piazza was added there, without much reference to any fixed 
 plan. But the effect was not ugly, for glorious old oaks surrounded it, and the 
 moss waved its gray banner over the gable ends, a fresh verdure covered the 
 lawn, and beautiful baskets of osier, filled with roses and flowers of every 
 sort, like huge fairy offerings, were scattered about wherever a vacant spot 
 among the oaks gave sunshine enough to warrant their cultivation. Two 
 fragrant beds of violets and mignonnette flanked either side of the broad 
 stone steps, and a woodbine, with its brilliant red blossoms, climbed up the 
 pillars of the piazza. Orangetrees, with their deep amber fruit, and here and 
 there a lingering white flower spoke of poetry and bridal tokens; and far in 
 the distance was seen the forest, now all green, and cool, and sombre. 
 Turning her eyes in the opposite direction, Lily could perceive the gently 
 flowing Peedee (not twenty yards from the house), her own rice-banks, the 
 negroes coming in from their daily task; through a vista cut in the forest, the 
 white gleaming cottages in which they lived; beyond, the barn, the miU, the 
 poultry-yard, kitchen-garden, and other offices. From afar off came a mur¬ 
 mur of life and work (but not of misery nor grinding care); in the empty 
 rooms behind her, not a sound; on the lawn, beneath the largest and most 
 venerable of the oaks, one known as the Traitor’s Tree (from the tradition 
 that on its branches during the Revolution a Loyalist spy had been hanged), 
 laughed, jested, and frolicked her youthful guests, about fourteen in number. 
 
 Lily herself had just kept her fifteenth birth-day. She was well-grown for 
 her years, and threatened to be a tall woman. She was not strictly handsome. 
 Her mouth was large, her nose short, but her complexion was the most 
 exquisite you can conceive; no pastil, which gives such softness, such bril¬ 
 liancy to its pictured beauties, would be exaggerating my heroine’s skin. Her 
 color was variable—tender, but always rich; and the mouth, as I before said, 
 though large, was of the most beautiful carnation, and closed over teeth 
 small, white, and even, like little seeds. The eyes were her decided feature; so 
 deep, so blue, so clear, opening with that honest fearlessness so rarely seen. 
 
 lily: a novel 9 
 
and differing essentially from a stare. You could never fancy Lily a coquette, 
 “making eyes,” as it is called. They were simply to her mind useful articles, 
 kindly given her by that God to whom she was so grateful, for the purpose of 
 seeing. If their lustrous mirror reflected faithfully the thoughts which filled 
 her heart, it was by a process wholly unknown to herself; she merely looked 
 through them. Her hair was no longer worn in childish style upon her white 
 shoulders as when I first presented her to you in the last chapter. A rich roll 
 of it was round about her head, and long, glossy, actually sparkling ringlets 
 smoothly but carelessly framed her face. These glittering “prisoned sun¬ 
 beams” were the only womanish sign of Lily’s advancing years. Her dress was 
 white, and simple in the extreme, gathered in at the throat and waist (which 
 were slight, and girlish, and graceful) with statuesque plainness; her bare, 
 stfll slender, but well-shaped arms displayed no bracelets, nor was there a 
 ring or other sentimental signal upon her fingers. 
 
 Such was Lily: do you like her? Every one called her Lily; she preferred it; 
 and what Lily liked was pretty sure to come to pass. Her father had now been 
 dead nine years, and Mr. Clarendon had spared no pains to make his friend’s 
 loss as lightly felt by the daughter as Nature would allow. Lily’s childhood 
 had been very happy. Mrs. Clarendon was an excellent, worthy Southern 
 matron. She was by no means an ornament to society, but she was a hberal, 
 hard-working housekeeper. Her very soul was devoted to her husband; her 
 children came next, then her house and household duties, finally her reh- 
 gion. She was a strict Churchman, reheved the poor, visited the sick—when 
 she had the time—and tried not to believe the gossip that her old cronies 
 whispered after morning service, or during a very occasional tea-drinking. 
 Though she had been quite a belle, and Mr. Clarendon had carried her off 
 from many competitors, no one would have believed it, she was so plain and 
 fusty now. The pretty, delicate features were embrowned by exposure to the 
 sun; the hands were hardened by washing up cups and dusting shelves; and 
 the once rounded figure had quite disappeared, refusing, I suppose, to stay 
 where it was so put upon by ill-made gowns. The children had been sent to 
 good schools chosen by the head of the family, and Mrs. Clarendon had 
 always been careful about their lunch, and that the doily which enveloped 
 each child’s portion should be clean, and should be regularly brought back 
 every day. They were very fond of her, and though, of course, each year 
 separated their pursuits and pleasures more and more from hers, and though 
 they already began to feel and see that her views of life did not march with 
 the progress of time, and that, consequently, her judgment could not be 
 entirely relied upon, still her ear was always open to their wants and wishes. 
 
 lO SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
and her heart never was closed against their incursions. But the time was 
 approaching for a more active exercise of her affection. Good waffles, 
 excellent corn-bread, and well-mended clothes were all admirable in their 
 way; but the moment had arrived for sympathy. Willie, when he returned for 
 his first college vacation, and began to entertain manly views about society, 
 said one day, 
 
 “Mamma, what will you do when Alicia is grown up? You will surely go to 
 balls and pay visits with her?” 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon, who had not found herself in a ballroom since the winter 
 she was married, shuddered at the very thought. 
 
 “Why, William, I should not know what to do with myself Mrs. Purvis 
 has long since promised to bring Lily out, and I suppose she won’t mind 
 taking Alicia too. One of you boys can always look after your sister, and our 
 own carriage would bring the girls home without ever troubling Lily’s aunt.” 
 
 “But, mamma, you will never know who associates with the girls; you can 
 never become acquainted with their acquaintances; and I have seen so many 
 bad effects from young ladies not having their mothers with them when they 
 are from home—some one who can speak openly and fearlessly when a girl is 
 going too far,” and Willie pulled up his cravat like a dandy who might relate 
 adventures to point his remarks. “Besides,” he went on, “in Europe, you 
 know, girls never are seen without their mother, or some especially and 
 carefully appointed chaperon.” 
 
 “My dear boy,” cried his mother, quite shocked, “don’t speak to me of 
 European women, who leave their own homes to go gadding about as if they 
 had neither homes nor husbands. And my girls are too well brought up, I 
 hope, to need watching. You ought not to speak so before them. Ask your 
 father if he would like to see me out all the morning paying visits to people I 
 don’t care a straw about, and dressing myself up at night just at the time when 
 I ought to be going to my bed. No, indeed; a pretty-looking goose I should 
 be, and a nice house I would have, with every servant gone to rack and ruin, 
 while I was coursing round the town with Lily and Alicia. How should I be 
 up in the morning at seven o’clock to see about breakfast, when I got home at 
 one or two? Nonsense, child! you give me a fever to hear you talk.” 
 
 “Could you not have a housekeeper, mamma, to see about breakfast at 
 that hour? You have always had more servants about the establishment than 
 you knew what to do with, and yet you are always hard at work doing their 
 business.” 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon laid down the coarse seam on which she was diligently 
 sewing: 
 
 lily: a novel ii 
 
“My dear son, where have you got these ideas? Do I look as if I would 
 neglect my duties for parties and visitings? Do I look as if I would give up my 
 time to the world instead of to my family? You surprise me.” 
 
 Willie might have answered that, in this case, she did neglect her duties; 
 that any woman who fancies that by leaving her young daughters to enter 
 upon the stage of grown-up life without the watchful guard of a parent’s eye 
 and presence, is casting away a privilege and disregarding an urgent neces¬ 
 sity; that there can be no comparison between the relative claims of scrub¬ 
 bing, scolding, and housekeeping, and the care of one’s child; but Willie 
 merely shrugged his shoulders, gave up the contest, invited Lily (who was 
 then twelve, and Alicia a few months younger) to take a ride with him, and 
 went whistling off to order the horses, while Mrs. Clarendon resumed her 
 sewing, and wondered why boys were so foolish. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon was a capital planter, an experienced man of business, but 
 had neither literary tastes nor more fondness for society than his wife. He 
 liked a game of whist; he sometimes gave dinners to men, at which Mrs. 
 Clarendon presided (outwardly smiling and inwardly chafing at a bore 
 which, for her husband’s sake, she did not shirk), and from which, so soon as 
 the wine began to circulate after the cloth was removed, she hurriedly retired 
 “to the children,” and was seen no more. He frequented a summer club, and 
 was a first-rate judge of cattle, horses included. 
 
 A portion of the winters was spent in the country; the entire summers in 
 the city. Mrs. Clarendon might have gone north, or she might have traveled 
 in Europe, for her husband was unfaifingly indulgent, but she hated to move; 
 and then the servants, “they get so spoiled when you leave them! and as for 
 hiring out my servants, my dear friend,” this model lady would say to her 
 confidantes, ‘‘'that is out of the question.” 
 
 She could not love Lily quite as she did her own children, but she was as 
 devoted to her as any one could expect; and the little orphan was tenderly 
 attached to all her guardian’s family. Mrs. Clarendon was a timid woman in 
 some things, and Lily’s matter-of-fact, straightforward manner used to 
 startle her. Lily had such a way of putting aside trifles and narrow prejudices. 
 Her heart was so large, so open, and her charity, even at an early age, was so 
 discriminating. When I say charity, I speak in its broad, Bible sense. I do not 
 speak of the mere giving of alms, but that charity which “seeketh not her 
 
 own; thinketh no evd, hopeth all things, endureth all things, and envieth 
 
 ... 
 
 not. 
 
 I do not know if I quote correctly; many of us, besides, can give the letters 
 of the words, but ignore utterly their spirit. 
 
 12 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
As an instance of how Lily practiced charity, she was sitting one day in the 
 drawing-room beside Mrs. Clarendon, learning to darn stockings, while the 
 latter lady was receiving the visit of a friend high in the Church. The 
 conversation turned very soon upon a young girl noted for her imprudences, 
 and whose sayings and doings were liberally reported. At the close of each 
 anecdote, both ladies would exclaim, 
 
 “But, after all, I don’t believe that.” Little Lily listened attentively. At 
 length, raising her eyes with meek wonder, while a rising blush betrayed her 
 modest daring, 
 
 “Why, then, ma’am, if you don’t beheve it, do you repeat it? It must do 
 Miss Jones great harm to have these things said of her.” 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon, quite taken aback, was infinitely shocked at Lily’s re¬ 
 proof, but, being at heart a good woman, she felt the justice of it, while she 
 blamed her ward for bringing her elders to task. 
 
 Mrs. Meredith, the visitor, was not difficult to appease. The heiress. Miss 
 Vere, had a right to speak; and, though she could not promise, either by word 
 or thought, to forego the dear pleasure of picking a rash girl’s reputation into 
 holes, still she was so impressed by Lily’s speech that she determined to 
 encourage a farther intimacy between her own daughter Grace and the little 
 stocking-darner. 
 
 Thus developing in beauty as well as in excellence, Lily’s childhood passed 
 away. She had no airs, no pretensions. If she led, it was by the force of her 
 sweet temper, her unwavering truth, and her indomitable courage to pursue 
 the right. She had very little cleverness, no brilliancy. Industrious and 
 diligent, she acquired with difficulty, but retained what she learned. Alicia 
 Clarendon got through her lessons in half the time, but next week Lily could 
 repeat hers, while Alicia’s task was quite forgotten. 
 
 I have left my heroine too long, however, on the wide stone steps of 
 Chicora HaU; so, after telling you that, by her desire, the family always spent 
 the month of April on this beautiful plantation, which had been her father’s 
 favorite, and that on this occasion they had invited a large number of young 
 people to accompany them, I will return to her as she now is. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 “Come on, Lily!” shouted George Clarendon, impatiently. “Don’t stand 
 like a statue on the steps there. We have aU voted at last, and are now going 
 to see the result.” 
 
 The contents of the cap were investigated, and George, self-appointed 
 
 lily: a novel 13 
 
poll-keeper, counted the number of heads present to see if the slips of paper 
 tallied with the company. 
 
 “How many of us are there?” he asked. “Grace Meredith, one; Miss 
 Leonora Tracy, two; Miss EUa and Miss Kate Jennings, four; Miss Sara 
 Purvis, five (in her own opinion, ten,” he muttered aside to his ally Grace)— 
 “five,” he continued; “Miss Marguerite Melbourne, six; Miss Julia Mel¬ 
 bourne, seven; and you, Lily, make eight young ladies in all. For the gentle¬ 
 men: three in tail-coats, i.e., Clarence Tracy, William Jennings, and Gus- 
 tavus Purvis; and in the round jackets, which Grace Meredith, still in 
 petticoats above her ankles, despises, I think we are four: John and Edward 
 Carroll, Charley Purvis, and myself” 
 
 “Which make,” put in Clarence Tracy, “fifteen.” 
 
 “Just so; and here are fifteen votes. All right. Nobody has cheated, so far.” 
 
 The httle papers were unfolded, and proclaimed “Lily Vere” to have the 
 majority. Sara Purvis looked disgusted. 
 
 “Have you counted right, George?” asked Lily. 
 
 “Yes, my dear: ten votes for you, three for Miss Purvis, and two for Miss 
 Marguerite.” 
 
 “My dear LUy,” whispered Grace, “nobody wanted Sara for queen except 
 Bill Jennings, yourself, and herself I would not be dependent on her humors 
 for half an hour. We should expire to be obliged to ‘follow her leader’ during 
 the whole of to-morrow.” 
 
 “I shall only consent to be queen on condition that I choose my own 
 crowner. May I do that?” inquired LUy. 
 
 “Yes, yes; I suppose you maybe permitted that privilege, although it is out 
 of May-day rule.” 
 
 “Then I choose Sara Purvis,” said LUy, kindly taking her cousin’s hand, 
 whose beautifiU features were overclouded by a deep shade of 111-temper. 
 
 Sara reluctantly smUed, and thanked LUy with indifferent grace; but 
 Gustavus, her elder brother, made some warning remark in her ear, and she 
 graduaUy cooled down. 
 
 The gay group now began discussing the spot on which to erect the 
 throne. 
 
 Marguerite Melbourne, a sensible, pleasant girl of about LUy’s own age, 
 suggested the very oak under which they stood. 
 
 “It has so long been known only in connection with that unfortunate 
 martyrized spy, that, grand as it is, it ought to receive a newer baptism, and 
 be henceforward o«r‘royal oak.’” 
 
 The suggestion was adopted without dispute, and the boys began to clear 
 
 14 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
away the dead leaves around the roots, so as to prepare a living carpet of pure 
 green for the ceremony. 
 
 “How anxious Alicia will be to know the result of the election,” said Kate 
 Jennings. 
 
 “Yes, poor child!” said Julia Melbourne; “she would much have preferred 
 staying with us at home to taking a ride with that solemn Mr. Langdon.” 
 
 “Why don’t Angel ride with her own betrothed?” asked Ella Jennings; 
 “eh, Sara?” 
 
 “Because,” interrupted Grace, “Angelica doesn’t choose to be so selfish as 
 to keep all her happiness to herself.” 
 
 “Because,” said Lily, “Angel does not know the road to the Pineland 
 settlement, which Alicia has so often traveled, and which Mr. Langdon 
 wished to visit.” 
 
 “Then why did not Angel go along with them?” persevered Ella Jennings, 
 who was fond of a little malice. 
 
 “Because,” again pursued Lily, “she can only ride Alicia’s pony, being 
 timid on horseback; consequently, my uncle” (this was the name she gave 
 Mr. Clarendon) “bade Alicia go with our guest alone.” 
 
 “And where is Angelica?” inquired Gustavus. 
 
 “Speak of the devil, and an angel appears,” exclaimed George. 
 
 At this instant a young lady advanced from the house with a book in her 
 hand, and approached the party. She was a very peculiar-looking person. At 
 the first glance you thought her plain, she was so sallow, and the lower part of 
 her face was heavy and coarse, but a nearer inspection brought to light 
 undeniable beauties. Her eyes were very large and deep set, with thick black 
 lashes, which lay in a massive fringe upon her cheek, and through their dark 
 curtain they sent forth fitful rays of dazzling brilliancy, or else of stiU more 
 dangerous softness. Her hair was intensely black, kept with the greatest 
 neatness, and so glossy, that its large bandeaux, which adorned each side of a 
 broad, moderately high forehead, shone like polished jet, and were as 
 smooth and unwrinkled. Her dress of rose-colored barege, with wide and 
 flowing flounces, set off a figure of the most voluptuous proportions, and the 
 sallowness of her face was undistinguishable in the dead whiteness of a pair 
 of arms exquisitely moulded, and a bust and shoulders of corresponding 
 perfection. Over her head she had thrown a long gossamer scarf of white 
 lamb’s-wool, through which gleamed the profuse braids of hair at the back, 
 and which rested like a fleecy cloud around her face, and was wound 
 gracefully about her person. Altogether she was very striking; and besides, 
 the nose and mouth, which I mention as heavy, were of the same cast as 
 
 lily: a novel 15 
 
Lily’s, only the expression was so different that the likeness was not percepti¬ 
 ble at a casual glance. This was Miss Angelica Purvis, or, rather. Miss Purvis 
 par excellence. She was the eldest daughter of Lily’s mother’s brother, and, 
 consequently, a first cousin of my heroine. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon had not rejected the overtures made by Mrs. Vere’s family 
 to his orphan ward. He permitted no interference in her concerns, either 
 personal or pecuniary, but he rather encouraged a friendly feeling from the 
 very beginning. The Purvises were constant guests at his house, especially 
 since the death of the old lady. May Vere’s mother, who had been a mar¬ 
 velously disagreeable and exacting individual. They were none of them very 
 concihatory or particularly congenial companions. Mrs. Purvis was a had- 
 been beauty, with weaknesses, vapors, and a morphine bottle; Mr. Purvis was 
 ostentatious, purse-proud, and stingy, Angelica’s character I shall leave to 
 develop itself; Sara has already shown a few touches of her peculiarities; 
 Gustavus was a weU-meaning, gentlemanly lad of eighteen, two years older 
 than Sara, and two years younger than Angel; and Charley was a quiet, 
 plain-featured boy of fifteen. But Mr. Clarendon, standing in the position, 
 by her father’s will, that he did to Lily (next heir, to the exclusion of her 
 relatives), thought it most prudent and generous to give them a chance of 
 knowing and being appreciated by the young heiress. It was thought by the 
 world generally that Gustavus was to recommend himself to Lily, and many 
 were the scolds that the otherwise spoiled Sara received from her parents 
 touching her behavior to her cousin. 
 
 “Well, jeunesse!” cried Angel, “have you elected your queen?” 
 
 “Yes; Lily is Queen of the May.” 
 
 “Lily! Ah! that is right!” and Angelica kissed LUy condescendingly on the 
 forehead. “What are you all doing now? Is that gnarled trunk of the old oak 
 to serve as a throne?” 
 
 “Yes; it will be wreathed with flowers and moss. If Alicia were here,” 
 added Grace, significantly, “she could go, before the sun sets, to find us some 
 beautiful party-colored leaves which she spoke of, and which we could keep 
 fresh till to-morrow.” 
 
 “No doubt,” said Angel, composedly; “but I fear Mr. Langdon finds 
 Alicia so entertaining that he will not be inclined to let her shorten her ride. I 
 wish that Willie were at home. I wonder if he could enjoy this calm scene 
 and Lily’s royalty instead of his present European views?” 
 
 “Willie’s absence is voluntary,” remarked Grace. 
 
 “Dear Willie!” said Angel, sentimentally: “it is now so many years that we 
 have been intimate with these two families, and with Lily as a sweet 
 
 l6 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
connecting link, I always forget that we are not relations, and I love Willie as 
 if he were my brother.” 
 
 “If you don’t love him more than you do Charley, Angel,” called out 
 George, who was hard at work, “I don’t think he need hurry home to live on 
 your affection.” 
 
 “Poor Charley!” exclaimed the young lady, smiling, and patting his close- 
 curled red hair with the ends of her fair fingers; then turning to Clarence 
 Tracy, who had sidled up to her, and was looking over the book she held, 
 “Master Clarence,” she continued, coquettishly, “do you wish to take me a 
 row on the river?” 
 
 Lily, who had not moved away from her cousin, blushed and started 
 slightly. 
 
 Angelica perceived it, and winding one of LUy’s long gold ringlets around 
 her wrist, where it shone like a bracelet, 
 
 “Let us go to Dr. Hatton’s plantation, Lily’s next door neighbor, and beg 
 some roses for our beauteous queen.” 
 
 Clarence Tracy was the oldest of the juvenile group. He was nineteen, very 
 clever, had already distinguished himself by being “first honor man” at his 
 late graduation, and was the only son of a once rich but now impoverished 
 family. He and his sister Leonora were orphans. Nora lived entirely with a 
 maiden aunt, and was a sweet-tempered, enthusiastic admirer of Lily’s 
 perfections. Since she was twelve years old, a grave friendship had subsisted 
 between Miss Vere and Mr. Clarence Tracy. While he was at college, in 
 every letter to Nora there was mention of Miss Lily. He sent her regularly 
 the “Nassau Monthly,” which was the Princeton receptacle for the overflow¬ 
 ing genius of those hard-working students; and on his final return, after a 
 hurried embrace of his aunt and sister, he flew to receive the congratulations 
 of his cherished friend, the staid little school-girl. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon never noticed the intimacy at all. Clarence was the son of 
 an old friend, and it was natural he should come to the house. Mrs. 
 Clarendon thought them mere boy and girl, and there was the end of it. 
 
 “Oh, Clarence, don’t go off!” cried his sister; “you ought to begin to write 
 Lily’s address. This business has been got up in such haste! We have so little 
 time. And Mrs. Hatton is very precious of her flowers.” 
 
 “Don’t keep him, Nora,” said Lily, gently. “If you wish to row with Angel, 
 Clarence, you had better go at once,” but her eyes said plainly “don’t.” 
 
 Clarence wavered, and William Jennings offered his services. 
 
 “It does not matter,” Angelica murmured, her white teeth just visible in a 
 half smile which parted her full red lips, and she glanced sideways at 
 
 lily: a novel 17 
 
Clarence; “I interfere with nobody, I hope; and I did not know that it was 
 poaching on my neighbor’s manor to ask for a few roses.” 
 
 She hummed a tune and walked away, her dress caught up with one hand 
 to protect it from the stray leaves, her deeply-embroidered petticoat sweep¬ 
 ing the ground, and her little feet, so daintily laced in their tiny brown boots, 
 “peeping out,” as she moved with a firm, elastic, but undulating tread across 
 the lawn. She was so styhsh, and carried herself with such an air, Clarence 
 thought she must look like those dangerous Andalusians of whom he had 
 read and thought so much. How pleasant it would be to float down the river 
 in such delicious company, with a young May moon to light them back, and 
 snatches of song warbled by Mr. Langdon’s fiancee! 
 
 Heavens! 
 
 “I sha’n’t be lopg,” he exclaimed; “Miss Purvis can’t go alone,” and off he 
 darted. 
 
 George shrugged his shoulders; some of them were indignant at the 
 desertion, and this time Lily made no excuses for her cousin. 
 
 ii CHAPTER IV 
 
 Presently two men-servants began to prepare the tea-table in the piazza. 
 The weather was so warm, and the nights so beautiful, that the young people 
 had for the last week petitioned Mrs. Clarendon not to immure them more 
 than was possible in the house, so that recently they had been taking their 
 evening meal only protected by the sloping roof of the piazza and the 
 clustering vines which encircled its pillars. 
 
 Two more footmen, by Lily’s order, placed under the royal tree a large 
 rustic chair, and some benches which had been originally installed in other 
 parts of the grounds; and by the time that these preparations were com¬ 
 pleted, the carriage was seen approaching through the great gate in the 
 distance, meekly followed by Alicia and Mr. Langdon, who had come up to 
 them a few moments before. 
 
 In the carriage were Mrs. Clarendon, and Mr. and Mrs. Purvis. 
 
 They stopped in front of the oak, and Mrs. Clarendon and Mr. Purvis, by 
 their united efforts, dislodged from amid her pillows and disentangled from 
 her shawls the wife of the latter, who sank in her usual state of syncope upon 
 Lily’s destined throne. 
 
 “Sara, dear, how flushed and burned you are!” were her first languid 
 
 l8 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
words. “My dear friend,” to Mrs. Clarendon, “I really can not undertake 
 such a severe drive again. I am quite epuise'e." 
 
 “Did you invite every body, ma’am?” inquired Lily of Mrs. Clarendon. 
 
 “Oh, every soul,” murmured Mrs. Purvis, who, in spite of her weak state, 
 always did more talking than any body else; “we have driven round the whole 
 neighborhood, and I believe fifty people will be here to-morrow, so that the 
 queen, whoever she is, will have a crowd to face.” 
 
 “Who is queen?” demanded Alicia, eagerly, as she sprang from her horse, 
 scarcely touching Mr. Langdon’s offered hand. She appeared to have had 
 enough of his society already. 
 
 The answer delighted her. 
 
 “You win look the queen so nicely, Lily!” 
 
 “Has Angelica been seen?” again prattled Mrs. Purvis. 
 
 “She has gone rowing with Clarence Tracy,” answered George. 
 
 Mr. Langdon’s brow darkened. 
 
 “I thought Miss Purvis had a headache; I was informed—” 
 
 “Oh dear me!” ejaculated Mrs. Purvis, “there is such a breeze blowing up, 
 I must go into the house. Mr. Langdon, might I trouble you for your arm? 
 Mr. Purvis—where is Mr. Purvis? He is always going off. William Jennings, 
 do come on this side. Never mind, Gustavus, stay here and help Lily and the 
 girls. Lily, love, just arrange my shawl. Julia, my handkerchief; thank you— 
 that’s all. Don’t stay out too late; the dew is very unwholesome;” and, amid a 
 general confusion, the invalid got under way for her journey of twenty yards. 
 
 The tea-urn was sending up clouds of steam, and Mrs. Clarendon was 
 dispensing cups of the strongest fragrance, when Angelica and Clarence 
 sauntered in, their hands full of flowers. 
 
 “I trust your head is better,” said IVIr. Langdon, sharply. 
 
 “Much better,” answered Angel, sweetly; and, depositing her bouquets on 
 one of the window-sills, which “gaze,” as our French friends say, into the 
 drawing-room, she removed her scarf, and asked for a cup of tea. 
 
 “Not too much sugar, dear Mrs. Clarendon. I like a fittle sourness some¬ 
 times; it ‘tells’ in the midst of the profusion of sweets which your bountiful 
 housekeeping spreads before us.” 
 
 She looked very handsome. The lamps were lit in the drawing-room, and 
 joined their brflliancy, shining through the open casements and muslin 
 curtains, to the moon’s pale radiance, which shed so picturesque a light upon 
 the landscape and the party. Her complexion, not now exposed to those 
 terribly unflattering sun’s rays, was creamy white; she could do what few 
 
 lily: a novel 19 
 
women accomplish—eat well, and with perfect grace helped herself to 
 various good things which abundantly covered the table. 
 
 “Where is mamma?” she asked, balancing a spoonful of strawberries and 
 cream half way between her lips and the saucer. 
 
 “Quite overcome by her drive, and gone to her room.” 
 
 “Poor mamma exerts herself unnecessarily.” 
 
 “There is her supper-tray; that wiU bring her up,” remarked George, as a 
 smartly-dressed colored woman drawled out to one of the attendant waiters, 
 
 “Missis wants a little of ebery ting.” 
 
 Meanwhile, as this was even a more informal meal than breakfast, most of 
 the girls had carried off their plates to different ends of the piazza, and, in the 
 lingering twilight, were laughing, jesting, sending their boy cavaliers on 
 errands for extra cakes, and making the rafters ring from time to time with 
 their joyous peals. 
 
 Sara, who was rather a gourmand, always grew better tempered when 
 eating, so that now she and William Jennings, her warm admirer, sat 
 peaceably together, chatting about a last winter’s juvenile fancy bah, and 
 disposing of phes of thin bread and butter and sweetmeats. 
 
 Lily was seated on the top step of the piazza, leaning her head against the 
 pillar behind her, with her pure fair brow raised to the sky, and bathing itself 
 in the moon’s rays. A great Newfoundland dog lay at her feet, every now and 
 then thrusting his black nose into her hand, or raising himself on his front 
 paws to a level with her face, and gazing earnestly, with wagging tah, as if he 
 meant presently to say something. 
 
 What were Lily’s thoughts? She could not quite read them herself. She 
 feared Angel was a coquette; and she had noticed for days that Clarence, her 
 friend, her own especial friend, was fond of watching the varied play of 
 Angelica’s peculiar countenance; but what then? She could not be jealous of 
 his admiring Angel, and Angel was almost a married woman. Still, why were 
 they now so much together? And yesterday morning, when she had asked a 
 dozen times for Clarence, to give him a book they were to study together, 
 without being able to find him, at last he was discovered in the little 
 darkened boudoir, reading Moore’s Loves of the Angels to the future Mrs. 
 Langdon, who was half lying on the sofa, with those deep black eyes partly 
 closed, and her taper fingers hstlessly pulling a rose to pieces. Lily did not 
 understand, though, why this should distress her, or make her uncomfort¬ 
 able. It was surely very unreasonable and selfish to require that Clarence 
 should give his whole time to herself He was four years older than she, and 
 so much more clever, it was very kind of him to devote so many hours as he 
 
 20 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
still did to a comparative little girl. Angel was accomplished and interesting. 
 It was flattering that she should notice a boy, for Angel was very fastidious; 
 and—why soon she would be married, and go to her New York home, and 
 Clarence— Here an involuntary sigh interrupted Lily’s train of thought, and 
 Burleigh’s cold nose touched her cheek. 
 
 She roused herself, patted his long, silky coat, and begged his pardon for 
 forgetting him. 
 
 “Burleigh is hungry, Lily, if you are not,” said Clarence Tracy, seating 
 himself beside her. “I have brought him some cake, and a cold chicken patty. 
 Won’t you eat something? Let me get you some strawberries—a cup of tea?” 
 and he put Burleigh’s plate down, and rose again. 
 
 “No, I thank you, Clarence. Get your own supper, and I will feed Burleigh 
 myself Aunt would be horrified if she saw you offering the finest old china in 
 the house to Bur’s paws.” Her tone was light again, her heart beat more 
 regularly. 
 
 Clarence did her bidding, and soon hastened back. While he drank his 
 tea, Lily fed her dog. Often Burleigh’s teeth grazed the little white fingers 
 which presented the cake, and she, with the child-like playfulness she rarely 
 exhibited, scolded Burleigh for his greediness, pulled his ears, and then, 
 suddenly repenting of her make-believe harshness, threw her slender arms 
 around him, and gathered his rough head to her bosom. 
 
 “Isn’t your cousin a flirt?” exclaimed Clarence, presently, with the utmost 
 nonchalance, and a slight laugh. 
 
 Lily looked quickly at him. 
 
 “It is her vocation,” he went on. “I believe she would flirt with me to keep 
 her hand in, rather than be quiet. Look at her now. After getting up a 
 headache to block off Mr. Langdon, when she finds that he is really angry, 
 see how dexterously she is bringing him round!” 
 
 Lily’s kind nature had resumed its sway. No sooner did another judge 
 harshly than her better self regretted a severe thought, and she inwardly 
 blamed the injustice of her late suspicions. Had she the faintest idea that her 
 friend’s indifferent and fault-finding tone strengthened her own good resolve 
 not to pass stricture so hastily again? 
 
 “Look at her, Lily!” pursued Clarence. “1 wonder if you will ever learn to 
 use your eyes in the way that your cousin does execution. How her tricks 
 amuse me! Now she is singing.” 
 
 Sure enough, Angel was at the piano between the two windows, and her 
 highly-cultivated and melodious voice gave exquisite effect to a sentimental 
 French romance. In her shining black hair she had carefully placed a branch 
 
 lily: a novel 21 
 
of some drooping wild flower, and Mr. Langdon, leaning through the 
 window, with his harsh features relaxed, was listening, while her whole 
 battery of charms was brought to bear upon his already badly-protected 
 heart. 
 
 “Clarence,” answered honest Lily, “I do not hke your words and your 
 actions to be so much at variance. If you seek Angelica’s society, it must be 
 because you admire her, and if you admire her, why conceal it? Moreover, to 
 my mind, there is something dis—not right, in allowing people to suppose 
 that they please you, while behind their backs you cavil at their manners and 
 conduct.” 
 
 “What a little Mentor it is!” said Clarence, jestingly; but he was young 
 enough still to show a slight flush of shame. “You do not understand Miss 
 Purvis. She does not ask or require the respect and consideration of any man; 
 she demands only their admiration.” 
 
 “I win not listen to you,” said Lfly, gravely; and she was about to rise, when 
 Clarence caught her hand and detained her. 
 
 “Don’t let us quarrel about this, Lfly. I shaU never say another word against 
 Miss Purvis, if you dislike it.” 
 
 “It is your thoughts more than your words—your opinion more than your 
 conduct, which distress me. To have gone off this afternoon when we wished 
 you to stay, merely for the purpose of amusing yourself with watching 
 Angel’s ‘tricks,’ was scarcely unselfish. When I thought that you preferred 
 her society to mine—to ours, I mean, I was foolish enough to be put out 
 about it,” and the girl’s fair cheek was slightly tinged; “but, now that I find 
 that you went only to study her, and to sneer at her foibles, I am really sorry.” 
 
 Ah! good, but unsophisticated Lily! you never suspected that Angel had 
 whispered to her tractable pupil just after her entrance, 
 
 “You to your dove, I to my bear. Both are sulky. I give you leave to abuse 
 me by way of reconciliation.” 
 
 “Come, come, Lily, I am only jesting. This is almost a first cloud between 
 us. Let us shake hands, and you shall teach me to be as good and wise as your 
 little self, and to think as well of all the world.” 
 
 Clarence’s tone was frank, and there was a great deal of earnestness in the 
 dark eyes which he bent upon hers; so much that she never dreamed of 
 reading the different tale which his thin, sarcastic lips betrayed. 
 
 “7 can not teach you to think well of any one, dear Clarence; but, at least, 
 we all know that, if we have nothing pleasant to say about people, it is kinder 
 to say nothing at all. And that is so easy, we surely deserve no credit for 
 simply holding our tongues, do we?” 
 
 22 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
The truthful, calm, clear blue eyes, unsullied by a single vicious thought, 
 returned the false rays of Clarence’s. 
 
 “We are waiting for you, Lily.” 
 
 “My dear Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Clarendon, “come out of the night air. 
 When I was a girl—” 
 
 “Yes, aunt.” 
 
 And, springing joyously up, the whole party adjourned to the drawing¬ 
 room, where they discussed the final arrangements for the next day; and 
 Grace Meredith, the poetess, and Clarence Tracy, the famous prose writer, 
 were set down to concoct the speeches and addresses of the queen and her 
 court. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER V 
 
 Brightly rose the May-day sun, and much earlier than they were ac¬ 
 customed to welcome its first beams the young people were astir. 
 
 Very soon the garden was rifled of its treasures; the wicker baskets which 
 adorned the lawn were carefully shorn of some of their glowing blossoms, 
 and a party proceeded even into the depths of the woods to gather wild 
 flowers. The shadiest side of the piazza looked as if a flower-storm had 
 passed over it, such piles of gaudy and beautiful leaves and petals strewed the 
 floor. 
 
 The breakfast-bell rang; the horticulturists reluctantly left their perfumed 
 task, and mrned their attention for a httle while to a more substantial repast. 
 
 Angel, always late, sauntered in, with her dreamy eyes and white skirts, 
 and heard, with affected surprise, from Sara that they had all been up for 
 hours. 
 
 “Then, as you have been ‘breathing sweets’ so long, none of you need 
 breakfast. Don’t you all believe in the ‘Islands of Pleasure,’ where people 
 feast and have surfeits on perfumes? So, Charley, give me that bun;” and 
 Angel carried off from beneath Charley’s hungry eyes an appetizing morsel, 
 to which he was about to help himself 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon was getting fidgety. She wished her guests to leave the 
 dining-room free for her housekeeping operations; but Angel dawdled, and 
 Mr. Langdon wished still another cup of tea. Mrs. Purvis’s maid came for 
 more chocolate for her mistress, and George begged that he might have a 
 third “helping” of coffee. 
 
 “I have been so hard at work, mamma, I am as tired as Mr. Conway’s 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 23 
 
negroes, who never have any rest, and he gives them half a fish. Think what a 
 mean man, mamma, to cut a fish in half for ‘allowance!’ 
 
 Mr. Purvis glanced uneasily at his destined son-in-law when George 
 made this revelation, and began to disclaim the fact. 
 
 “Indeed but he does,” said George, swallowing his coffee with eager haste, 
 “and he has a horrid beast of an overseer, who is as bad as himself” 
 
 “My dear George,” said Mr. Purvis, pompously, “our negroes at the South 
 are as well fed and as well treated as it is possible to conceive. Instances are 
 rare of unkindness or neglect; they are, in fact, happier than any body of 
 people in the known world. They—” 
 
 “Excuse the interruption, Purvis,” broke in Mr. Clarendon, with a smile; 
 “don’t ‘talk for Buncombe.’ There are many cases of bad masters, just as there 
 are many instances of bad fathers; but we should scarcely argue for the 
 necessity of doing away with parental control. Newspapers constantly bring 
 to fight horrid tales of ill-used apprentices: do Christian parents of the lower 
 orders consequently refuse to bind their children to trades? And is an unkind 
 father, or a harsh and cruel blacksmith, carpenter, or other mechanic, taken 
 as a type of their class? As for the peculiar happiness of the negro race, I 
 believe it is an understood thing that not one human being was placed in this 
 world to enjoy happiness, but I know that they have as much contentment in 
 a general way and in their way as we have.” 
 
 “You forget that strangers with prejudices, and who look at the gloomiest 
 side—” 
 
 “Strangers with prejudices come with their opinions, and, for the most 
 part, leave us with these same opinions, just as we go to listen to political 
 views given by our opponents, without the least intention of shaking their 
 original faith. We are curious to hear, they are curious to see; but if we 
 applaud the eloquence of the speaker, and appear temporarily impressed, it is 
 only for the moment. We change when interest or when personal conviction 
 demands it, not sooner.” 
 
 “But do not you really think that intelligent men who are inimical to our 
 institutions are often brought to a different conclusion by a personal inspec¬ 
 tion of our system?” 
 
 “I do not. Their views may be mollified, but hardly can we expect more 
 than that. Besides, I entirely agree with a certain clever woman, herself a 
 Northerner, who says that any abolitionist wishing to visit us ought to be 
 forced, if he come at all, to stay at least a year in our midst; for a superficial 
 insight, for the most part, only strengthens his belief It can not graze even 
 
 24 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
the outer coating of human conceit. It is interest which is the great lever to 
 move the weightiest judgment on this point. I will give you a sum, Purvis, for 
 your ‘prejudiced friends’ to make out. Given the fortune of my little Alicia, 
 with her bright eyes thrown in, and in how many seconds would a ‘preju¬ 
 diced friend’ discover that slavery was not so great an evil? unless, indeed, I 
 consented that she should sell out, and invest ‘the price of flesh and blood’ in 
 wholesome, healthy Northern bonds.” 
 
 Lily had stolen round to her guardian’s chair, and now murmured a word 
 in his ear. 
 
 “I beg your pardon, Mr. Langdon. I forgot that probably you have 
 prejudices, and, in fact, if I remembered it at first, it escaped me before I 
 finished speaking. Besides, I am doing what I always condemn. There is no 
 need for us to defend the justice of our position, and nothing gives our 
 enemies a greater advantage than to discuss and argue the propriety of what 
 exists and will exist. Weak writers on the popular topic are the present curse 
 of this country’s feeble literature.” 
 
 “I wish, Mr. Clarendon, that you would finish all this talk in the piazza.” 
 
 “My dear, it is finished already,” and every one rose en masse. 
 
 “Mr. Clarendon no doubt fears that some bloodthirsty New Yorker may 
 snap up more than Alicia,” sneered Angelica; “you, Lily, will be a great mark 
 for fortune-hunters in a year or two.” 
 
 “I!” exclaimed Lily, coloring; “ah! Angel, I would rather die than marry a 
 man who sought me for my ‘houses and lands.’ ” She paused; her slight figure 
 dilated: “How foolish, at my age, to talk of marriage! but still, let the man 
 beware who, when I am older, proves to me, however faintly, that my dollars 
 and cents are my attraction! Angel, I should be without mercy.” 
 
 “Bless the child!” said Angel, affectedly; “how very energetic!” 
 
 Lily’s passion vanished. She glanced unconsciously toward Clarence, and, 
 with a sweet laugh, said, 
 
 “You must think me very absurd, cousin.” 
 
 “No, my dear, only melodramatic.” 
 
 “I wish to explain,” said the girl, coloring still more deeply. “People are 
 constantly talking in a foolish way to me about my fortune, and prophesying 
 an early wedding, and I dislike the idea so much, it really angers me when I 
 hear it, and irritates me more than such a trifle should. If I ever marry, I trust 
 I shall be as fortunate in one respect as you, Angel—that the man of my 
 choice may love me as sincerely as Mr. Langdon loves you.” 
 
 Angelica’s lip curled, and her eyes shot a glance of fierce scorn. 
 
 lily: a novel 25 
 
“Thank you: you appear to have thought a good deal on the subject;” and 
 then, resuming her usual softness, “Is this the topic which Mr. Clarence 
 Tracy and you find so interesting? And when does he have his reward?” 
 
 Ldy was hurt; the tears started to her eyes, and the sight of them touched 
 the not entirely seared heart of her friend. 
 
 “You take Lily at a disadvantage. Miss Purvis; you profit by your years and 
 experience to mortify her. Why not direct her with your taste, judgment, and 
 admirable tact, instead of crushing her by your sarcasm?” 
 
 “Why not make wreaths, young gendeman, and not speeches?” rephed 
 Angel, haughtily; and she waved her white hand toward the busy group 
 among the flowers; “that better suits your years,” and she swept away. 
 Burleigh jumped to catch her. “Down, Burleigh!” she exclaimed, striking at 
 him: “school-boys and dogs should be kept in their places.” 
 
 “Here, Burleigh, come here, sir!” said Lily, as she rejoined her guests and 
 beckoned to Clarence. 
 
 “Confounded coquette!” muttered Clarence, as he followed her. 
 
 A note of preparation now rang through the house. 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon had her hands full of keys, her apron dusted with flour, 
 and her eyes ever)" where. Maum Nelly, her chief captain, was superin¬ 
 tending the beating of eggs and boding of custards. Yesterday’s cakes, all 
 dressed with oldfashioned pastry grandeur—gold leaf and colored sugar— 
 were Maum Nelly’s dehght and pride. She had arranged them in a glorious 
 row on the pastry-room dresser, and took in her favorites, singly and 
 mysteriously, to gaze (without touching) at them. 
 
 “Oh, Maum Nelly!” cried impudent Alicia, “they look just hke a nigger 
 wedding! That is not the way cakes are ornamented now.” 
 
 Maum Nelly, too indignant to reply, took Alicia by the shoulders and 
 turned her out, without offering her either a “Shrewsbur)"” or a “jumble,” 
 which had been her token of approbation to the others. 
 
 The number of these large fruit-cakes would have puzzled a Northerner, 
 who might have fancied that nothing but a nuptial festival, and the necessity 
 for filling white boxes according to the fist of the guests, could have required 
 such pounds and pounds of frosted unwholesomeness; but it is a peculiarity 
 of South Carolina housekeepers of a primitive date that no pro\ision is so 
 important as these cakes. 
 
 A Boston lady, who came once to visit a sister married in Charleston, was 
 amazingly struck by these countless p)Tamids, rounds, and gigantic hearts. 
 When the time arrived for a ball to be given by them, she begged solemnly 
 that one favor might be granted to her. 
 
 26 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Pray, my dear Sarah,” she said, “don’t have any fruit-cakes. I hav'e alreadv 
 seen enough of them at two parties to last my lifetime.” 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon never could have been brought to this. She would ha\'e 
 refused, no matter how urgendy entreated; for she would have considered 
 her guests as defrauded of a just privilege. Accordingly, when, the day before, 
 Lily decided upon this May-day festi\'al, the first idea which immediatelv 
 struck Mrs. Clarendon was the cakes. 
 
 In hot haste, citron, raisins, and currants were sliced, stoned, and washed, 
 and the result shows itself in these wonderful performances, which xVlicia, 
 unworthy scion of so painstaking a mamma, declined commending. 
 
 The gendemen wandered about, at the mill and over the river, then Mr. 
 Clarendon went to write letters for the post (for post-day must never be 
 interfered with); Mr. Purvis buried himself in a book on “Political Econ¬ 
 omy,” yawned, and went to sleep; and Mr. Langdon tried to amuse his idol, 
 who was snappish and impracticable. 
 
 The boy's and girls were busy decking the throne, and making wreaths and 
 bouquets. Every tub which could be begged or stolen from the washer¬ 
 woman, throughout the establishment, was in requisition to keep the flowers 
 fresh, and the clatter of tongues rose louder and louder. 
 
 “Sara, do you know your address?” asked Grace Meredith; “as it is my 
 production, I wish the delivery to equal the beauty' of the lines.” 
 
 “And, Lily, are you perfect in y'our recitation?” inquired Clarence. 
 
 Both young ladies were doubtful, so they' were immediately required to go 
 off to a private rehearsal. 
 
 Ella Jennings assisted with her taste and theatrical judgment. Manv were 
 the discussions and fault-findings. 
 
 “Lily, don’t be stiff.” 
 
 “Sara, be more animated.” 
 
 “Oh dear!” cried Lfly, “I do wish Grace were queen.” 
 
 “Yes, it would just suit me,” answered her Uvely fitend; “but I trust my 
 crowner would offer the symbol of royalty to her gracious, graceful, graceless 
 majesty' of a Grace with suitable ditto, or else I should seize my crown a la 
 Napoleon, and put it on without waiting for Sara’s drawl. Wake up, Sara, 
 dor 
 
 “Lily, dear,” called out NIrs. Clarendon from the adjacent pantry', “do you 
 wish the oldest wine drawn?” and off darted the vouthful queen, thankful of 
 escape, and promising to do better. 
 
 At two o’clock a hasty Itmch was serv ed; at four commenced the toilet of 
 the ladies. 
 
 lily: .a novel 27 
 
At six, carriages began to drive up, and Mrs. Clarendon, in much haste 
 and a black silk gown, received the guests. Mrs. Purvis was radiant in pearl- 
 powder, billows of costly lace, and altogether a costume of such united 
 juvenility and magnificence that the quiet sojourners on the banks of the 
 Peedee River looked at her with never-ending surprise. 
 
 “What a remarkable lady Mrs. Purvis is!” said Mrs. Hatton to Mrs. 
 Adderly. “It must be her visits to Paris which make her dress up in that style.” 
 
 “She is old enough to know better,” said Mrs. Adderly to Mrs. Hatton; 
 “and she is the most stuck-up piece of affectation I ever saw.” 
 
 There was quite a crowd, as Mrs. Purvis had predicted. No engagements 
 are apt to interfere with invitations given even at such short notice; if a 
 shower had threatened, the house would have been empty, no matter if you 
 had prepared yourself and your guests for a month previous; but a fine, 
 bright, cloudless afternoon, with a moon in prospect, insured a full atten¬ 
 dance. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER VI 
 
 None of the younger portion of the ladies residing in the house appeared 
 before the time for the pageant. They wished their costumes and their little 
 theatrical flourish to be a novelty altogether. Grace Meredith was the 
 instigator. She had been anxious for weeks to get up the affair, and now she 
 bewildered her quieter companions by a constant change of programme, and 
 her incessant introduction of some new feature. 
 
 She even tried to impress Miss Purvis into the band; but, though a few 
 adroit flatteries brought that haughty lady to consent to marshal Sara, there 
 was no more to be gained. 
 
 The hour arrived; the sun was setting. The guests were scattered about the 
 grounds, in the piazza, near the throne. The musicians (drummed up from 
 the neighboring plantations) scraped their fiddles, played a march, and 
 forth stepped through the library door, upon the green turf, a charming 
 procession. 
 
 Lily led the way. Her golden curls, worn at their full length, swept to her 
 waist; her white, girlish shoulders shone like polished ivory, and a faint blush 
 stealing over her cheek gave so modest a charm to her prettily assumed 
 dignity, that she fairly eclipsed the positive beauty of her cousin Sara, who 
 walked proudly beside her, bearing the floral crown. 
 
 Grace was on her left, and carried the sceptre; behind them came Ella 
 
 28 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Jennings and Marguerite Melbourne, Kate Jennings and Nora Tracy, Alicia 
 Clarendon and Julia Melbourne. They were all covered with flowers; freshest 
 roses formed garlands for their heads and snowy dresses, and it was like a 
 moving garden that they passed over the lawn. 
 
 Clarence Tracy began the applause which welcomed them, and it was 
 with many clappings of hands that Lily mounted the first steps of her sylvan 
 throne. 
 
 A buzz—a hush—and Sara spoke: 
 
 “With a wreath of simple flowers. 
 
 Gather’d from the spring’s bright bowers. 
 
 Thus we crown thee, dearest. 
 
 While thine eye, undimm’d by sorrow, 
 
 Looketh forward to a morrow. 
 
 Fairest, brightest, clearest. 
 
 “Royalty ofttimes, we know, 
 
 Presseth with a weight of woe 
 On the young heart’s gladness; 
 
 Yet we hope the fealty. 
 
 Which we lowly bow to thee. 
 
 May bring no drear sadness. 
 
 “Thus, gentle one! while resteth now. 
 
 The royal crown upon thy brow. 
 
 We hail thee Queen of May! 
 
 Short though thy present reign may be. 
 
 May joy await your majesty 
 Throughout its gentle sway.’” 
 
 It was very well done. Angel had drilled Sara carefully. At the words, 
 “Thus we crown thee, dearest,” 
 
 she placed on Lily’s magnificent tresses a circlet of white roses and gera¬ 
 niums. At 
 
 “We hail thee Queen of May,” 
 
 her low bow of reverence was artistically managed, and the vain child had the 
 satisfaction of exciting much admiration. 
 
 'Written by Miss Rand, of Philadelphia. 
 
 lily: a novel 29 
 
She smoothed her dark braids, smiled, glanced around proudly, and 
 retired a step back. 
 
 Grace advanced more fully into view. The sceptre was a dehcate ebony 
 cane, completely wreathed with the sweetest perfumed and most brilliant 
 flowers. At the summit a single large white lily reared its snowy petals, and 
 around it a hedge of scarlet geraniums set off its virgin purity, and called 
 attention, by its conspicuousness, to the intended compliment. 
 
 Grace was not pretty, but she had a great play of countenance, expressive 
 eyes, and a voice of unsurpassed modulation. 
 
 “Fair queen!” she said, “we have seen the crown placed upon your royal 
 brow, and to match the only gems which adorn it, fresh and glowing 
 blossoms, we add this other fleeting symbol of your blooming majesty. A 
 moment ago you were our equal; now, our pleasure and our duty is to obey. 
 Wield your sceptre lightly, a hasty touch will cause these buds to fall; and as 
 they droop and perish, so ends your power.” 
 
 She placed the sceptre in Lily’s hand, paused, and then, as if with sudden 
 recollection, continued: “But no! the lily always reigns. Nature has spoken 
 her throne-right; while flowers live, and Flora is cherished, so long will Lily’s 
 pre-eminence be acknowledged. I spoke for other queens of May; ours is a 
 life-long queen!” 
 
 The httle actress bent her knee, and the company applauded. 
 
 “Black is the foundation of this sceptre; Nature’s brightest colors conceal 
 the dark certainty. Thus will your days pass, O cherished queen! Life’s 
 blessings and flowers, perchance Love’s smiles and garlands, will ever banish 
 from view the fate of general humanity. Beneath a repubUcan sky, standing 
 upon this patriotic soU, I cry with loyal heart, 
 
 “Long live our Lily-queen!” 
 
 From mouth to mouth it resounded, 
 
 “Long hve our Lily-queen!” 
 
 Could there be a more popular sentiment? An heiress, a beauty—so 
 young, so sweet, and their hostess! 
 
 Tears started to Lily’s eyes—tears of genuine pleasure. She bowed her 
 rose-crowned head, and spoke: 
 
 “Dear friends! weU-loved companions! dutiful subjects! you have con¬ 
 ferred upon me an honor which fills my heart with joy and pride. I am Flora’s 
 representative—Queen of May! A rosy reign awaits me; a butterfly’s life, it is 
 true, but the recollections die not. 
 
 “In after years, when, with girlhood’s visions vanished, we meet again 
 upon this dewy turf, may our spirits be as light, our steps as buoyant with 
 
 30 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
health and happiness as now! No clouds veil our future. Bright as yonder 
 heaven smiles the pathway of our coming days. May the augury be true! 
 
 “Mutually loving, always united, let this moment serve to cement the tie 
 which long has bound us. 
 
 “Friends! playmates! companions! right royally would I greet you, but the 
 voice of the heart is stronger within me than the voice of position. ’Tis your 
 affection which has placed me here; I see the motive, not the power. Mine 
 shall be a majesty which asks not obedience, but love.” 
 
 Lily’s voice trembled at first, but soon grew stronger, and the final words of 
 her simple address were pronounced with a pathos which gave an air of 
 truthfulness to the whole scene. In the composition itself there was nothing, 
 but the delivery gave it emphasis and originality. 
 
 A gleam of sunlight rested like a halo upon her maidenly brow, her blue 
 eyes looked earnestly forward, and her whole appearance and attitude spoke 
 the pure and clinging tenderness of her nature. 
 
 “Very good, indeed,” whispered Grace, and the plaudits were long and 
 loud. 
 
 Lily, recalled to herself, blushed, smiled, and settled her crown more 
 firmly. 
 
 The musicians struck up a lively air, the young girls scattered bouquets at 
 the feet of their queen, and many of the guests pressed forward to make their 
 homage. 
 
 “Remember, Lily, your dance with me,” said Clarence Tracy. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 “As if I should forget!” 
 
 Angelica came up. She was wrapped in black lace, like the Andalusians to 
 whom Clarence had, in his mind, compared her. I fancy I shall always 
 describe Angel’s dress, for it always seemed a part of herself 
 
 “You spoke very well, Lily. It was a very pretty sight. Quite theatrical 
 though. Do you think it was in good taste, dear? But then you are so modest, 
 and can blush so apropos always, that it covers a multitude of doubtful 
 improprieties.” 
 
 “Did I look like an actress?” asked Lily, quite aghast; “has this seemed too 
 much?” 
 
 “Oh not at all,” answered Angel, carelessly. “An heiress like you may do 
 any thing; and, besides, you are only a child.” 
 
 “I did not feel like a child just now,” said Lily, thoughtfully; “my mind 
 went forward to our future years, and it seemed to me when I spoke of our 
 next meeting here, though the words had been written for me by Clarence, 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 3I 
 
they appeared to be all my own, and a dreamy sensation stole over me; I was 
 not happy, but it was a calm sadness, as if I might be with you but not among 
 you. 
 
 Angelica sneered. 
 
 “Foolish fancies, my dear,” she said; “you are excited—what our French 
 neighbors call un peu exaltee, and you have assumed a httle sentimental air. 
 Come, let me pay my loyal homage with the others, and let us begin the 
 ball.” 
 
 Miss Purvis raised Lily’s hand lightly to her lips, and her face wore its 
 usual haughty indifference of expression. Merrily sounded the fiddles, and 
 gayly the troop flew to form a quadrille. 
 
 Lily’s half-spoken presentiments yielded to the spirit of the moment. She 
 danced with Clarence, and her gentle eyes beamed with satisfaction. She 
 played her part very prettily. Though still so young, she was already an object 
 of attention and interest to more people than her immediate circle. The eyes 
 of the whole parish watched her movements, and many a papa casually 
 mentioned to his son or sons, 
 
 “What a singularly pleasing young lady Miss Vere is, Harry, or John, or 
 Thomas,” as the case might be; “why arn’t you a little more devoted?” 
 
 They danced in the piazza, in the drawing-room, and on the grass. Her 
 majesty was most condescending, and smiled upon her whole court. 
 
 Angelica, Sara, and a few others waltzed. The stricter portion of the 
 society professed to be immensely shocked, but they divided their exclama¬ 
 tions between horror and a desire to have a nearer view. 
 
 “I am glad. Miss Vere,” said Dr. Hatton, pompously, “that you do not take 
 part in this pernicious dance.” 
 
 “Do not give me undue credit,” answered Lily, smihng; “if I danced as well 
 as my cousins, I should not hesitate to do the same.” 
 
 “Surely you do not approve?” asked the doctor, who was the prosiest of 
 elderly planters, and was striving, as he thought, happily, to talk down to the 
 level of his wealthy little neighbor; “an exhibition of such a nature can 
 scarcely suit the purity of your views.” 
 
 “My dear doctor,” replied Lily, “I am not old enough to discuss the subject 
 learnedly, but I think that with waltzing, as with many other things which we 
 do not ourselves cultivate, we have prejudices which are unreasonable; and as 
 lookers-on we adopt ideas that shock the performers themselves quite as 
 much as they shock us. You forget, moreover, that the principal dancers at 
 present are the Misses Purvis.” 
 
 “Yes,” exclaimed George, coming up, quite breathless, “if you abuse the 
 
 32 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
queen’s relations, doctor, I must take you into custody for high treason to the 
 royal family, sir. For mercy’s sake, Lily,” he added in an under tone, drawing 
 her away, “what are you wasting your time on that old fogey for?” 
 
 “He looked so forlorn,” said Lily, deprecatingly. 
 
 “Then set your uncle Purvis at him, and let them mutually bore each 
 other. I declare, Lily,” he continued, affectionately, and throwing his arm 
 boyishly, as became his sixteen years, around her waist, “you are the best little 
 girl in the world. You think of every body. That big-eyed Angelica walks 
 over you whenever she chooses, Sara snubs you, Alicia hectors you, Grace 
 orders you, Clarence leads you like a lamb, and I say whatever I please, and 
 you never get angry. And if old Hatton, or Mrs. Winterday, or any tiresome 
 old soul wants a listener, there you sit with as much good-nature as if you 
 liked it.” 
 
 “That’s because I am so stupid, George,” said Lily, laughing heartily at the 
 catalogue. 
 
 “Not a bit—not a bit,” said George, sturdily. “You are not stupid. You don’t 
 say funny things like Grace, nor cutting ones like Angelica, but you have a 
 deal of sense.” 
 
 “Thank you,” said Lily, still smiling. 
 
 “And, now that we are on the subject, do let me beg you to put down 
 Angelica. She talks to you in a way that makes me very angry. Such a tone of 
 superiority!” 
 
 “Why, George, how can you be so foolish? that is Angel’s manner. She is 
 very superior, and very much admired. It is natural that she should treat me 
 and look upon me as a mere child. She feels above most people, her juniors 
 especially.” 
 
 “And especially Mr. Clarence Tracy.’ 
 
 “Who calls my name? George, you are accused of a wish to monopolize 
 her benign majesty. Fairest sovereign, deign to permit the humblest of your 
 slaves to claim your dignified attention for two moments. To descend to 
 commonplace, Mrs. Clarendon is terribly afraid that the ice will give out and 
 the cream unfreeze if we do not sup early. When will your majesty command 
 the repast?” 
 
 “I wiU speak to aunt,” and Lily hastened away, followed by her compan¬ 
 ions. 
 
 Night had now arrived, and the lawn, bathed in its moonlight glory, lay 
 green and tranquil. Here and there a couple sauntered along, unheeding the 
 evening dew and the cautions about “night-air” and “country-fever.” Some 
 of the “field hands” had come up to the house, and were peeping unchecked 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 33 
 
over the piazza railings to see “n’young missus” and her company; the 
 do'wagers were installed in the drawing-room, the elderly gentlemen in the 
 piazza; occasionally a distant clatter of plates might be heard through the 
 open windows from the dining-room, and a dishonest Paul Pry would 
 have discovered Maum Nelly flourishing about in the tallest of head- 
 handkerchiefs superintending the preparations for supper. 
 
 Here again flowers abounded; they surrounded those time-honored cakes, 
 they encircled the candelabra, they perfumed the room, and adorned the 
 supper-table more than spun sugar or fruits glaces could have done. 
 
 When a respite was needed by the musicians, and even the young ladies 
 wearied of dancing, the doors were thrown open, and in great array the 
 guests were marshaled in. 
 
 A suitable time was given to stay the appetite on sandwiches and salad, 
 then Dr. Hatton rose to propose a toast, and gave, amid stunning applause, 
 
 “The Lily of these waters. May she never be transplanted to bloom on 
 other banks.” 
 
 “You owe that burst, my dear,” whispered George, “to your patience a 
 while ago.” 
 
 Mr. Clarendon, with much humor, replied for his ward: something he said 
 about flowers not being appreciated in that part of the world. Rice-planters 
 had nothing to do with buds or blossoms, and so on. 
 
 “What a mercy that Lily’s name is what it is!” said Miss Purvis, “for it 
 strikes me that it has done all the wit and brilliant allusions of the day.” 
 
 Just as Mr. Clarendon had concluded his little speech, the gray-haired 
 butler touched him respectfully on the arm, and announced the arrival of the 
 post-boy from Georgetown (the nearest post-office), whose delay had occa¬ 
 sioned many inquiries and much uneasiness on the part of his master. 
 
 “You win excuse me,” said the host, turning to the mountainous lady 
 whom he had escorted to supper, and whose size and age had entitled her to 
 that respect; “you know, Mrs. Murray, that gentlemen are always anxious 
 about their letters, and I am on the look-out for some important ones.” 
 
 Mrs. Murray, with her mouth full of pate, nodded her consent. 
 
 “This hog’s-head cheese is so good, sir, that it will keep me busy till you 
 come back.” 
 
 Mr. Clarendon enjoyed the joke, and whispered to his wife as he passed 
 her on his way to the door, 
 
 “My dear, your excellent friend, Mrs. Murray, is running risk of a surfeit 
 on pate de foie, which she takes for your admirable hog’s-head cheese.” 
 
 34 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Well, I am sure, Mr. Clarendon, I shan’t undeceive her, for it would 
 almost kill the poor soul if I were to tell her that she is eating diseased goose- 
 liver. I am sure that I should be very sick if I were to do it. These new-fangled 
 notions don’t suit old-fashioned people.” 
 
 Among the letters which Mr. Clarendon rapidly examined, there was one 
 for Clarence Tracy, marked on the outside “important,” so he carried it in 
 and gave it to Clarence, with the hope that nothing disagreeable was 
 contained in it. 
 
 “But,” he said, “I give it to you now because if there is any thing which 
 requires immediate attention the post-boy can be off again, and catch the 
 mail before it starts at daybreak.” 
 
 Clarence broke the seal, and a rapid flush crossed his brow, an exclamation 
 of delight escaped him, and he crushed the letter triumphantly with spar¬ 
 kling eyes. 
 
 Lily watched him anxiously. 
 
 “No bad news at least,” remarked Mr. Clarendon. 
 
 “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Clarence, his countenance changing, and 
 throwing into his eyes a melancholy look, “my godfather, Mr. Clarence, who 
 has long resided in New Orleans, is just dead, and this letter from his lawyer 
 informs me that I am left a legacy which amounts to fifteen hundred dollars 
 a year. My immediate presence is requisite; and, moreover, it is my god¬ 
 father’s wish that I spend the two ensuing years in European travel.” 
 
 “I congratulate you heartily,” said Mr. Clarendon; “and Henry Clarence is 
 dead! He was an admirer of your aunt Purvis, Lily. I wonder if she will have a 
 fit of hysterics if I announce this suddenly, eh Lily?” 
 
 “Very much indeed, sir.” 
 
 “What, my dear?” 
 
 “I—did you not ask if I congratulated Clarence, uncle? I do most heartily,” 
 said the gentle Queen of May. 
 
 He was busy with his letter. 
 
 “Where is Nora? She must pack my trunk for me. Could you lend me the 
 buggy, sir, to take me to Georgetown to-night? I shall then take the steam¬ 
 boat, which, fortunately, goes to-morrow.” 
 
 “Nora is yonder,” suggested Lily, “standing near Angelica. Do you not see 
 her?" 
 
 Clarence strode across the room, making his way through the crowd with 
 eager haste. He spoke rapidly to Nora. She was filled with surprise, asked 
 questions which he cut short, and, at his bidding, left the room. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 35 
 
Miss Purvis had heard the conversation. She turned round, gave him one 
 of her deep lustrous glances, and offered her condolences on the bereave¬ 
 ment with mocking grace. 
 
 “Can I speak to you?” he whispered. 
 
 She shrugged her bare, creamy shoulders, indicated Mr. Langdon by a 
 movement of her full eyelids, retired a step into the embrasure of the 
 window, and discovered that her gold cassolette was missing. 
 
 “Mr. Langdon, might I trouble you to look behind the bronze pastille- 
 burner on the drawing-room chimney-piece for the little cassolette that you 
 gave me? Now,” she continued, “say your say, for it will not take my future 
 lord very long to hunt behind the pastille-burner for the pretty toy which is 
 in my pocket.” 
 
 “Angel,” murmured the boy, with passionate eagerness, “you hear of my 
 good fortune. I have now two thousand a year, adding this windfall to my 
 original five hundred. It is a pittance—it is comparative poverty; but if you 
 can decide to reject this cold-blooded Yankee, who does not possess one 
 throb of your heart, and wait but a little while till I have made myself a name 
 among lawyers—a power in my native land—you will yet be placed, as my 
 wife, among the richest and most influential women in this country. With 
 you as a hope—a treasure to be gained—this addition to my income to keep 
 me out of debt, I will renounce the European tour, devote myself to my 
 profession, and be the happiest of men.” 
 
 A smile, so transient that it instantly faded, ruffled the broad curve of 
 Angelica’s lip. 
 
 “My dearest Clarence,” she said, with melting intonation, “it can not be. I 
 have too much unselfish love for you to consent to your wild project. I am 
 eighteen months older than you—a vast difference when it lies on the 
 woman’s side. You fancy that you are very desperate about me now, but it is 
 only because you have no one else with whom to compare me, for I do not 
 count these little girls. If I were to agree—to break with Mr. Langdon—to 
 wait till we had enough to marry upon, by that time I should look ten years 
 your senior; and, though your strict sense of honor” (here the sneering smile 
 played again, and belied the soft accents) “would force you to keep up the 
 semblance of devotion, my heart would read the change, and would suffer 
 even more than now. 
 
 “No, my dear Clarence, pursue the destiny which awaits you, as I do mine. 
 Lily loves you. With her immense formne to gild over her deficiencies” 
 (Clarence winced), “you will be very happy, and learn to thank me from your 
 very soul for what I am now saying.” 
 
 36 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Happy, Angel!” 
 
 “Yes, happy. You are yielding to a youthful, evanescent impulse, which fills 
 me with tearful joy, but which I must not encourage. I shall satisfy myself 
 with thinking that I have done what was right, and, though Lily may possess 
 your hand, shall I not have a place in your heart always?” her voice sank, and 
 she looked tenderly in his eyes. “Now you love me with boyish passion; when 
 we meet again, after your Continental experiences, and when you are the 
 heiress’s husband, your fancy will have sobered down to a sweet friendship 
 lasting through all time.” 
 
 “You are cruel. I love Lily, but not as I love you. She is a child. I have 
 listened during these past ten days to your advice about her, and I felt that it 
 was kindly meant, and arose from your interest in me, because every one is 
 aware that your family wish her for Gustavus; but then I had no hope of 
 winning you. It was madness to think of it. Now, it is different.” 
 
 “It is not different,” said Angelica, hastily, and resuming her languid 
 haughtiness of manner. “I told you to-day, when you came to ask an 
 explanation for my crossness this morning, that I was jealous of Lily’s 
 influence, but that you must not allow that to change your intercourse with 
 her. Here comes Mr. Langdon. Give me your address. I will write to you 
 before you sail for Europe. To Europe you must go.” She hurriedly pressed 
 his hand in her velvet fingers while pretending to arrange the flounces of her 
 dress. 
 
 “Your flacon is not there. Miss Purvis.” 
 
 “No?” she inquired, glancing up at Mr. Langdon’s gloomy brow: “then 
 come with me, and we must hunt for it. Some tiresome old woman has it, no 
 doubt, dangling from her glove;” and, while Clarence’s blood was yet tin¬ 
 gling in his veins from the effect of her thrilling touch, she nodded slightly to 
 him, and disappeared in the crowd that was now leaving the supper-room. 
 
 “He shall marry LUy,” were her scheming thoughts, “and will always, 
 through his enormous vanity, think that I am pining for him. Their house 
 will be a better Southern pied d terre for me than if I owned it. No bills to pay 
 for its maintenance, and the doors open to myself and my friends. As if I 
 should decline marrying this rich goose, whom I shall soon reduce to order, 
 for the dear pleasure of being Mrs. Briefless Barrister Tracy on two thousand 
 
 I” 
 
 a year! 
 
 “She is not true; she is not sincere; she is a thorough-going, heartless, 
 unprincipled coquet; but, such as she is, she can make a man forget the 
 whole earth for her. Lily is worth fifty such detestable exponents of worldly 
 wisdom; but oh! LUy is insipid as orange-flower water after the piquant. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 37 
 
scornful, tender, delicious charm of her cousin; and I am sure she does love 
 me. I could master her, fickle and haughty as she is.” 
 
 “Bravo, Clarence,” cried a party of young men, interrupting his soliloquy; 
 “hehold you a man of fortune! Come, old fellow^, let’s drink a glass of wine to 
 your advancement!” 
 
 “For the cause which produced that advancement,” began Clarence, “do 
 you not think that I should retire from this gay scene?” 
 
 “What a humbug!” exclaimed Gustavus Purvis; “do put off that long 
 face.” 
 
 “True,” said Clarence, relenting, “it will not add a sixpence to the legacy,” 
 and they jestingly drank their wine and discussed the heir’s future plans. 
 
 Nora sent to say that she wished her brother to change his clothes, unless 
 he meant to travel in full dress. 
 
 The buggy was at the door, lanterns lit, and the trunk strapped on behind. 
 
 Clarence courteously made his adieus and thanks to Mrs. Clarendon, 
 shook hands with the Melbournes, Jenningses, Alicia, Sara, and Grace, 
 embraced Leonora, and bowed to the remaining guests, whose carriages had 
 not yet come up. 
 
 “Where is Lily?” he asked—“her majesty, I mean.” 
 
 “I am here,” said Lily, advancing from the library. 
 
 “What is the matter, child?” asked Mrs. Clarendon: “your eyes can’t stand 
 the light.” 
 
 “The library door on the lawn is open, and I have been sitting in the dark 
 at It. 
 
 “Good-by, my dear Ldy.” 
 
 “Good-by,” she answered, gently. 
 
 “You will be in town soon—before I sail? Won’t you give me a leaf from 
 your crown?” 
 
 She bent her head toward him without speaking. He separated a bud from 
 the garland, as he thought successfully, but it caught in the bright long 
 ringlets. She hastily drew back, the fastening of the wreath broke, and it fell 
 in a shower of leaves to the ground. 
 
 “Oh, Clarence!” exclaimed the girls. 
 
 “I am very sorry.” 
 
 “It does not matter. You have done mischief, but you did not mean it. My 
 reign is over!” She looked up kindly; her lips trembled; she gave him her 
 hand, and turned away. 
 
 “Good-by, Mr. Tracy,” said Angel’s insinuating voice. “Mr. Clarendon’s 
 
 38 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
frisky horse is dancing a pas seul at the door. This is the occasion on which to 
 ‘speed the parting guest.’ ” 
 
 A hurried farewell, and Clarence was in the bugg\' and dashing down the 
 road. 
 
 Thus ended the May party. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER VII 
 
 The next day was chilly, rainy, and gloomy. One of the changes in our 
 variable climate had taken place, and instead of sunshine, warmth, and a 
 soft, caressing air, the clouds were gray and heavy, the grass was soaked with 
 water, the flowers beaten down, and the young people shivered about the 
 house with shawls and worsted “wraps” thrown over their summer dresses. 
 
 The dissipation and excitement of the previous day had left them listless 
 and dull. Occasionally Grace would break out in one of her hvely sallies, or 
 George would go thundering through the rooms, frolicking with Burleigh, 
 and awaking his mamma’s anxiety for the tables and chairs; but, for the most 
 part, the young folks quietly read, or worked diligently at their tapesm'- 
 frames. 
 
 Angel had another migraine (Anglice, she was out of temper), bathed her 
 eyes with rose-water, requested Sara not to tease her with questions, and, 
 retiring to her own apartment, double-locked the door upon all possible 
 intruders. 
 
 Nora wondered what kind of voyage Clarence would have. Eight hours at 
 sea in such weather was not pleasant, and that was the stinted space of time 
 in which a boat could manage the trip from Georgetown to Charleston. 
 
 Lily was silently busy as usual. Their stay in the country' was drawing to a 
 close, and she began to gather up a few books and personalities which she 
 desired to take with her, this wet day affording an entire in-doors morning 
 which might not again occur, for the young ladies were fond of putting on 
 long sun-bonnets, and dmng into the dark green woods even during the 
 midday hours. 
 
 Ever attentive to her guests nevertheless, she sent for William Jennings, 
 and begged that he would read aloud to the forlorn occupants of the 
 drawing-room; so, while they were listening to some of Dickens’s always 
 amusing old “Boz” stories, their young hostess climbed the steps in the 
 hbrary to the uppermost shelves, and possessed herself of several antique 
 volumes which had belonged to her mother. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 39 
 
Seated on the floor so as to dust them before carrying them off, she got 
 absorbed in one of the old-fashioned tales, and read far into the story before 
 she heard her name gently called. Looking up, Angelica stood at the op¬ 
 posite door to that which led into the drawing-room. 
 
 “Lily,” she said, in an under tone, “I wish to speak to you.” 
 
 Lily threw the books from her lap, and, wondering, obeyed the summons. 
 There was an unusual air of sadness about Angelica, but, as she was at aU 
 times whimsical, this might be only one of the phases of her temper. 
 
 The party in the next room were laughing merrily as Angel softly closed 
 the door behind her, and led the way up stairs, through the corridor, and into 
 her own apartment, which was originally Lily’s, but which the latter had 
 given up during this visit, as the most comfortable of the single territories, to 
 her cousin. 
 
 It was prettily furnished: the walls hung with dozens of water-color 
 sketches and little drawings, the curtains of a bright lively chintz, and the 
 oval glass on the dressing-table reflecting a thousand tiny trifles, such as all 
 girls with feminine tastes attract about them. 
 
 “This is yours,” said Miss Purvis, beginning the conversation by placing in 
 Lily’s hand a morocco case. “You told me I might have the use of that sink- 
 table, and, being a little stupid and uninteresting this morning, I found no 
 better occupation than rummaging in its angular drawers, for which you had 
 give me leave.” She paused. 
 
 “Yes,” acquiesced Lily, gravely astonished; and, touching the spring, she 
 opened the case and reverently displayed her mother’s features. 
 
 “I know it is Aunt Mary’s miniature,” said Miss Purvis, “and it is very like 
 her.” 
 
 “Yes, so they tell me,” said Lily, sadly; “do you recoUect her at aU?” 
 
 “Indistinctly, and yet perfectly as far as my memory goes—like the frag¬ 
 ments we see in dreams, shapeless and yet impressive. I saw her a week 
 before she died; you were ten days old, a little pink and white ball, wrapped 
 in linen cambric and the finest flannel; Aunt Mary was pale and shadowy, 
 with eyes like yours; her hands were royally beautiful. It was the first time I 
 had ever seen her, for family dissensions had long separated my father and 
 herself You know Grandmother Purvis did not like Mr. Vere, and wished 
 Aunt Mary to marry that man who has since turned out such a wretch—John 
 Oakes?” 
 
 Lily bowed assent. 
 
 “I have heard so.” 
 
 “Aunt Mary was so weak after your birth, and showed so soon that she was 
 
 40 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
not likely to live, that a sort of reconciliation was patched up, and mamma 
 and papa, who had always sided with Grandmother Purvis, determined to 
 go and see their sister. Mamma took me along, I suppose, to cover her 
 embarrassment. All this has been told me, or I have gathered it from vague 
 conversations. My only positive recollection is the pallid, beautiful face, the 
 fine white hand laid upon my head, and the tremulous voice which bade 
 ‘God bless me.’ When I was twelve years old, they gave me a watch which 
 had been given by papa to Aunt Mary at the same age, and which she had 
 requested should be preserved for his eldest girl till that time. You have seen 
 it—a little enameled trinket, with her initials on the back?” 
 
 Lily bowed her head again. These words, spoken with cool gravity, 
 conjured up an image of her mother that filled the blue eyes with moisture. 
 
 “I am nervous and weak this morning, Lily. Pray be calm yourself, or one 
 of my ungovernable fits of despondency will come upon me, and I shall be ill 
 and miserable.” 
 
 “You ill—you miserable, Angel! Impossible!” Miss Purvis looked at her 
 cousin with one of those deep, dark glances, which gave such power to her 
 countenance. 
 
 “You think me—” she said: “no matter; I have, ever since the time I saw 
 Aunt Mary, cherished a kind of mysterious reverence for her. It was not a 
 sentiment strong enough to affect my manner toward you, but it was a sort of 
 personal interest between myself and her memory; just the dreamy notion of 
 which I spoke a while ago, and which never included you. You see I am 
 candid.” Miss Purvis took the miniature from Lily, and, looking steadily at 
 it, went on. 
 
 “This morning, when her face for the second time met my gaze, it was like 
 an electric shock. Again I felt the pressure of her hand; again her almond- 
 shaped eyes looked tenderly at me, and my cold, withered, scornful heart 
 gave one of those throbs which I suppose are experienced (disagreeable 
 things too!) by other young girls. A strong desire seized me to be of service to 
 her child, to show some kindness to her rich, powerful, poor little orphan. I 
 went in search of you. I have brought you here, before this passing emotion 
 should fade from my grasp, and I am going to do you a service, which now 
 you will not appreciate, but which, if you profit by it, years will show its 
 worth. Shall I?” 
 
 “You win give me your confidence—your friendship, Angel? is not that it?” 
 asked Lily, timidly. 
 
 “My confidence! my friendship!” exclaimed Angehca, bitterly; “no, my 
 innocent Lily, that would not be a favor bestowed. My friendship exists for 
 
 lily: a novel 41 
 
no one—my confidence! yes, I will give you a small dose of it. You wiU, 
 perhaps, then understand me a little better. My mother has a sister, the wife 
 of Mr. Oakes’s elder brother, and they have a daughter, Margaret Oakes, 
 whom you know. Margaret is four years older than I, but from my earfiest 
 infancy I loved her with all the energy, all the devotion of which my selfish 
 nature was capable. Very precocious, never chUd-like, I have always been her 
 companion. I was ‘grown up’ and in society at fourteen; vain, conceited, self- 
 satisfied, and exacting, all my claims, nevertheless, were waived at a signal 
 from Margaret or at her approach. She is beautiful, inteUigent, accom- 
 phshed, well-bred, but, though prone to cry down the perfections of other 
 rivals, Margaret’s pre-eminence I never disputed and never envied. What 
 Margaret said must be right; what Margaret did could not be wrong. Sara 
 was too young and too heavily siUy to occupy me; my time, my thoughts, my 
 wishes centred in Margaret. Every pleasure-party, every offered amusement, 
 must include Margaret, or it was to me a failure. The world recognized our 
 friendship with respect, and where I was most abused for haughtiness, 
 insolence, or impudence, stlU truth would utter, ‘But her unwavering love for 
 her cousin, that is a redeeming point.’ ” 
 
 A tear started to Angelica’s proud eye, and her voice was mournfully soft. 
 
 “Yes,” she said, as if she had forgotten Lily’s presence, and spoke more to 
 herself than to her listener, while her clasped hands she slowly raised till her 
 bowed head rested wearily upon them. “Yes, it was the one purely unselfish 
 act and sentiment of my life. Long was I blind! I lavished the best and 
 strongest feelings of my heart upon her. Cold to every one else, haughty as if 
 born a princess, to her I was all warmth, all self-forgetting attachment. I 
 thought her pure and perfect. Religious votaries might lead lives as un¬ 
 sullied, but where could they usurp the credit of Margaret, who, dwelling in 
 the midst of temptations, and pursuing worldly pleasures, stUl preserved 
 herself unscathed from harm! To me her baptism was a prophecy—she was 
 indeed a pearl!” 
 
 Ldy crept closer to her cousin, and laid her cheek upon Angel’s shoulder. 
 
 “Yes, Lily; and what was the result of this? How was my worship, which I 
 believed absolutely reciprocal, requited? Imagine the horror—the stunning 
 shock! to be awakened from the dream that ‘as I loved, loved was I,’ to the 
 consciousness that she was willing, ready, yes, anxious to cast me off; that on 
 her heart I had no hold; that she was supremely indifferent, and wished to 
 give that indifference full sway. It would be tedious to tell all the circum¬ 
 stances. They were slight, and apparently of no weight. Straws indeed. 
 
 42 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
which marked which way this cold wind blew. It roused me from a sentimen¬ 
 tal sleep. There was no reason to be given. I asked no explanations; none 
 were offered. What availed reasons as opposed to facts between us two! I was 
 unpopular—offended people by my sarcasm, and by my contempt for frivo¬ 
 lous conventionalities. She fancied she would get along better alone. The 
 rope was strong which had long united her graceful bark to the sturdy and 
 more uncompromising boat manned by me, as we floated over ‘life’s ocean.’ 
 Cut it! ‘She can drift alone, thump herself into pieces against the jagged 
 rocks and huge billows from which she knows not how to steer clear; my 
 insinuating progress can be carried on better by myself Some day, if this tie 
 be not destroyed, we will swamp together, whereas now I shall be safe.’ It was 
 done. I was eighteen, but an old stager. This storm, of which the palpable 
 breeze could not have ruffled the wings of a humming-bird, passed like a 
 tornado over my sensibility. Margaret Oakes and I are very civil and very 
 amiable cousins. You see us meet—you see us part. Sometimes I sneer, 
 sometimes she retorts. It was a mistake I made, but a mistake which has 
 shriveled up my heart till there is no more vitality in it than exists in this 
 crumpled leaf” She tossed a withered fragment of a rose worn in her bosom 
 on Lily’s lap, and gave a deep sigh. “Ah! the bitterest of life’s burdens is to 
 learn the treachery of one in whom you trusted. To have thought, all besides 
 may be false—one is true, and to be rudely shaken into the knowledge 
 of—” Angel paused abruptly. 
 
 “My heiress-cousin,” she continued, in a moment, passing her hand, on 
 which flashed Mr. Langdon’s engagement ring, over her broad and haughty 
 brow, “you see that after this trial I would not be likely to engage in a second 
 female friendship. I thank you for the offer of yours, and for the sympathy 
 which glistens in the shape of that dew-drop on your cheek; but I am an 
 unlovable person, born to dazzle and to surprise, not to be loved. With a 
 different training and different experience, I might have made an admirable 
 woman. Such as I am, I suit myself, but satisfy no one else. Mamma has 
 always preferred Sara’s unmeaning loveliness to my charms, which owe their 
 power to the mind rather than to feature and coloring. She brought me 
 before the world early, because it was easier to do so than to keep me in; and 
 her pride and interest in me amble an even pace with the admiration that I 
 excite. Papa has grown to—what is the word? love me? yes, that is the 
 comprehensible syllable—love me more after every rich offer for my hand. 
 Mr. Langdon has several hundreds of thousands of dollars. Papa considers 
 me at this time several hundreds of thousands of times superior to his other 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 43 
 
children; Gustavus, Sara, and Charlie hold me in meek respect, and will not 
 be sorry when, on the first day of June, the bridal wreath and application de 
 Bruxelles veil proclaim me Mrs. Archibald Langdon.” 
 
 “Angel,” said Lily, speaking at last, “you are not sincere; you can not think 
 all that you say; and if you do, why encourage such morbid sentiments? You 
 have so many of life’s blessings, dear Angel, why not enjoy them without 
 these terrible misgivings and doubts of those around you? Should Margaret’s 
 treachery cause you to suspect your nearest and dearest, as well as the world 
 in general? Do you think that all are false? Oh!” she shuddered, casting her 
 eyes upon the dreary landscape without, closed in by the brooding gray 
 clouds, “as well say that this melancholy day is a picture of all the days of the 
 year. There is sunlight, Angel; it must come again.” 
 
 Angelica shook her head impatiently. 
 
 “To business, Lily: you forget, in your desire to comfort me, that I have a 
 favor in store for you. Now listen to me. You love Clarence Tracy!” 
 
 Lily blushed painfully, and replied, with evident embarrassment, 
 
 “Of course, I like a person who has been my frequent companion, and is 
 the brother of a dear friend like Nora.” 
 
 “You do not speak with that candor which is your salient charm. You 
 know what I mean, Lily,” said Miss Purvis. “You are very young, it is true, 
 but you know enough of life to understand that with your fortune, position, 
 and looks, your hand will soon be sought as a matrimonial prize; and, though 
 I may be mistaken in my supposition, I fancy that Clarence Tracy has 
 imperceptibly taught you to distinguish him from the crowd of George and 
 Willie’s schoolmates;” and she looked searchingly in the deeply-suffused 
 face which was resolutely turned away. 
 
 But Angelica mistook the cause of Lily’s embarrassment. My innocent 
 heroine blushed more for her cousin than for herself She had been so much 
 interested in Angel’s recital, and felt so much moved by her evident sorrow, 
 that she had quite forgotten her own griefs against her; and the recollection 
 of coquetries of which she could not approve was suddenly brought back by 
 the mention of Clarence—the victim, as she fancied him, of unmaidenly arts. 
 
 To attempt an attack on him, or to suspect her of a sentimental attach¬ 
 ment, aroused her to action. 
 
 “Indeed you are mistaken, Angelica,” she almost retorted; “Clarence is to 
 me only a brother, just like Willie or George. Do you suppose that he has 
 ever talked of hearts or love to me? or that he has asked me to exchange rings 
 with him, or, in fact, to do any of the silly things that some girls and boys 
 think about—dancing-school nonsense? I call him Clarence, just as he says 
 
 44 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Lily, because I have known him so long. He reads with me, and teaches me. 
 We began German during his last vacation, and there is no master I ever had 
 who is stricter and more exact with my lessons than Clarence.” 
 
 “Very good, my dear child, and I have no doubt he expects you to prove 
 always as tractable; and, as matters stand upon so prosaic and friendly a 
 footing, it will cause you less pain to hear and to put aside for a life-time 
 consideration these simple but important truths. Clarence Tracy has inordi¬ 
 nate vanity—Clarence Tracy is utterly false, hypocritical, and time-serving— 
 Clarence Tracy is cold, hard, calculating—Clarence Tracy will try to marry 
 you, and will be careless if, when that is done, your heart breaks from neglect 
 and his indifference—Clarence Tracy is outwardly refined, delicate, gentle; 
 inwardly, he is sensual, coarse, and violent; unhesitatingly selfish, constitu¬ 
 tionally indolent.” 
 
 Lily sprang up indignantly. How those mild, soft summer eyes lightened 
 their anger! 
 
 “Angelica!” she exclaimed, “you are—” 
 
 “What?” demanded the young lady, coolly, throwing back her haughty 
 head. 
 
 “You are mistaken,” said Lily, while the strong feehng which moved her 
 showed in every bursting vein through her pellucid skin. She seemed ter¬ 
 rified at her own unaccustomed passion, and with effort kept down the first 
 rising reply. 
 
 It was a glorious victory, darling LUy! 
 
 “You think, perhaps, that you know this hero better than I do,” resumed 
 Miss Purvis; “you don’t know him at all. His character is as much ignored by 
 your unsophistication as if he had lived in Timbuctoo, and you in Brazil, till 
 this moment. You will not beheve even when I give you proofs of his 
 duplicity. Can you credit me when I tell you that, after his caviling speeches 
 about me two evenings ago—speeches which I recommended him to make— 
 his first thought, his first act last night was to lay his freshly-acquired 
 hundreds, with the addition of his hand and self, at my unworthy feet?” 
 
 “Is that true? oh, Angel, is it true?” 
 
 “I should say, ask him; but that would be an uncertain method of reaching 
 the truth. Lily, this is the favor I bestow on you; I warn you against Clarence 
 Tracy. He is plausible as Lucifer himself I don’t dislike him. The boy has 
 talent, superficial earnestness, temporary passion, which make him eloquent 
 and dangerous even to those few who understand him; besides, he is not yet 
 quite all that he will be. The germ is there, and will develop itself So surely as 
 the playful and pretty tiger-cub grows, not into a soft, sleek Angora, but into 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 45 
 
a fierce and bloodthirsty animal, so surely will the latent qualities of his 
 youth swell into full-grown vices. He will find victims—he will find follow¬ 
 ers—he wdl find believers in his make-believe virtues, who will, on his 
 assertion, testify that he is all that he would have them think he is; but for 
 you, my httle cousin, the only child of my dead aunt, whose sweet face 
 haunts me, be warned, be wise. Who can direct you? Mr. Clarendon is a 
 good, excellent man, an admirable judge of a horse’s points, but I should 
 prefer my own discernment about an individual’s qualities. Mrs. Clarendon 
 is a capable and worthy woman, so far as regards cutting out negro-clothes 
 and making sausages, but she never saw deeper into her acquaintances than 
 the outer cuticles of their skins. George is a lively, hair-brained boy, and 
 Willie is abroad. There ends the list. Accept me on this occasion, and only 
 for this occasion, as your guide.” 
 
 Lily had covered her eyes with her left hand, while with the forefinger of 
 her right she drew cabalistic figures upon the dressing-table without inter¬ 
 rupting her cousin by word or look. Angelica rose, drummed upon the 
 window-pane, and seemed to be weary now of the conference. 
 
 “Lily, are you asleep?” she said, gracefully yawning; then, lifting up her 
 cousin’s head, and pushing back the ringlets which fell over her face, she 
 pointed toward the reflection of both countenances in the mirror. 
 
 “Do you see, my dear, how sallow I am beside you? how old I look for my 
 years? I can not compare with you in beauty; I have not the fifth of your 
 sweetness, and yet my conquests can be reckoned by scores. The world is 
 before you. Miss Vere. You are fifteen: in three years you will make a great 
 sensation. Do not imagine that life has lost its charm, and that, because one 
 is false, all are. I quote back to you your own consofing words.” 
 
 LUy had some faults; she certainly possessed a strong infusion of smrdy 
 Scottish obstinacy. Gentle and docUe as she was, she had an opinion of her 
 own, and hked to keep it. 
 
 “If I remain silent, Angel, you wlU think that I implicitly agree with you, 
 but I do not. The very things that you tell me, which to you are conclusive, 
 only convince me that Clarence has more impulsive feelings than you give 
 him credit for. That he is sometimes carried away by momentary emotions, 
 and that he is not proof against the charms of those—against those charms 
 —” Lily hesitated and broke down. 
 
 Angelica’s cold, scornful look lazily rested upon her. 
 
 “I do not think that he is perfect,” Lily blushingly recommenced, “but he 
 is far from being the odious character that you would make me believe him. I 
 am surprised,” here her soft eyes took a sterner shadow, “about his behavior 
 
 46 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
last night. His forgetfulness of what this legacy might do for a sister like 
 Nora, who has been so devoted to him, gave me then most concern. Her 
 aunt’s home is not a kind one, and I immediately thought of himself and 
 Nora living together on this little income, and was surprised that he did not 
 instantly think of the same thing. But if his mind flew to you and his 
 footsteps followed, you must allow that he had one excuse for momentarily 
 forgetting Nora.” 
 
 “Sweet sophistry!” sneered Angelica. “Lily, I have spoken. Here let the 
 matter end. What do you think of this morning-gown? Is it not pretty?” and 
 Miss Purvis spread out the Oriental pattern of her Cashmere robe, and 
 began, learnedly, to discuss its beauties. She replaced the miniature in its 
 drawer, and wondered when the weather would clear. 
 
 “Is there time for a nap before the dressing-bell? We have gossiped away 
 the morning.” 
 
 Lily consulted the great clock in the corridor, and answered affirmatively. 
 
 “I am much obliged to you, dear Angel,” she said, timidly, holding the 
 door ajar, and preparing to depart; “you have treated me like a woman, and 
 talked openly to me. I shall not forget what you have said; I shall consider it 
 always as a mark of cousinly affection; and your interest in my dear mamma, 
 whom I never saw, will be a pleasing recollection to the last day of my life. 
 Kiss me, and tell me that you believe me.” 
 
 She ran back, threw her arms around Angelica, and embraced her warmly. 
 Miss Purvis quietly returned the embrace without deranging Lily’s collar, 
 took up a book, and began to read. 
 
 A marble statue could not have been colder. 
 
 ii CHAPTER VIII 
 
 In a week after this, Chicora Hall was shut up. Through its wide corridors 
 echoed the trailing footsteps of an old maumer, left in charge of the house, 
 who carefully visited the different rooms from time to time, to see that the 
 wind had not blown open any shutters, and that all was safe. 
 
 The overseer would come occasionally to give an eye to the flowers, by 
 Miss Vere’s order, and to gather a few roses for his children, to whom she 
 granted that privilege. 
 
 Under the “royal oak” the throne still stood, and a withered garland had 
 been left twined about it as a memento of the late event, and “to show how 
 long it would stay there undisturbed,” George suggested. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 47 
 
The Queen of May had “resumed her studies,” like other young ladies and 
 gentlemen, after the April vacation, and she and Alicia were soberly perfect¬ 
 ing themselves in all the knowledge which their different teachers could 
 impart. I forgot to mention that they had not been to school during the 
 whole winter, but took lessons at home from a stern-visaged Englishman, 
 very careful of his ^’s; a httle Frenchwoman, who had des attaques de nerfs, a 
 long nose, and an odor of ether; a music-master, who thought himself Listz, 
 Herz, and Baggioli combined; and a minute dancing-master, who looked 
 like a dirty-faced grasshopper. 
 
 On the first day of June, Angelica was married with all “the pride, pomp, 
 and circumstance of glorious” wedding. Mr. Purvis did not demur at the 
 expense. He thought of Mr. Langdon’s thousands, and permitted his “suf¬ 
 fering” wife to enlarge her party hst, and to bring as many people into the 
 house as the walls could hold. 
 
 The old Purvis mansion, standing in the midst of a beautiful garden, 
 blazed with light. But to those who preferred coolness and a summer 
 evening’s breeze to wax candles and damask curtains, there were the tall 
 French windows opening to the floor, through which one passed into the 
 broad piazzas, dimly lighted. Sofas and chairs of bamboo, with linen cush¬ 
 ions to lean upon; tables spread beneath the colored lanterns (which svmng 
 in the light air, arising in gusts direct from the sea), and on which could be 
 found heaped up crystal baskets icy with frozen fruit; the clean garden- 
 walks, freshly graveled, and leading through a wilderness of hardier sweets to 
 the green-houses beyond; and, above all, the moon shining down with an 
 unusual brightness, as if Miss Purvis had had it mbbed up with chamois, like 
 the family plate. 
 
 As the whole house was thrown open, when the guests got tired of the first 
 story, they could mount the noble, winding cedar staircase to the second. 
 There was another range of piazzas; bed-rooms handsomely furnised en 
 suite, and all inviting admiration and attention. Mrs. Purvis’s apartment 
 looked like a bric-a-brac shop, and a friend could fancy her badgering her 
 unhappy maid within those painted walls, and occasionally hurling a stray 
 objet de virtu at Miranda’s Madras-covered head. Mrs. Clarendon rather 
 liked privately, sometimes, to pity Miranda, and she often pitied Mr. Purvis 
 too, while Mrs. Purvis took it out by just as privately pitying Mrs. Clarendon 
 for her lack of style and fashion, and her faded looks. In fact, it was pleasant 
 for a by-stander to listen to these two excellent ladies—to see how each 
 despised the other, and yet how civil they could be. At heart they were both 
 very good women, but Mrs. Purvis was passionate and fretful, and Mrs. 
 
 48 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Clarendon liked to pass for a martyr to her “duties,” and enjoyed making 
 unnecessary sacrifices. 
 
 In the bride s dressing-room were displayed her presents, and here crowds 
 loitered continually; for Angelica had too superlative a taste in dress to wear 
 jewels in June, so her diamonds lay in their morocco receptacles, and all the 
 company could admire Mr. Langdon’s magnificent homage, and envy Angel 
 her newly-acquired and sparkling ornaments. 
 
 In a white velvet case was an emerald cross. This was Lily’s gift—worthy 
 of the donor’s fortune, and of the recipient’s acceptance. I do not intend to go 
 through the list. It made some young girls think that getting married was a 
 nice way of procuring rings, brooches, and et ceteras, and the diamonds 
 improved Mr. Langdon’s appearance in their eyes somewhat. 
 
 Not that Mr. Langdon was a frightful man by any means, nor an ungainly 
 one; but he was one of those saturnine, dark, unapproachable kind of people, 
 who do not make agreeable impressions upon first acquaintance. His sister, 
 Cecilia Langdon, a younger brother, and two dry-looking friends, had come 
 on to stand sponsors for him during this important business. 
 
 The brother was a perfect specimen of young New York. He was small 
 and thin, slightly knock-kneed, and very carefully dressed. His hair was 
 parted with unwavering regularity; his collars were so stiff that they never 
 yielded a momentary turn-down; his face was pale, his eyes fatigued, his 
 manner nicely divided between indifference and superciliousness, his tone a 
 drawl, and his air rather gentlemanly. He lived on dancing and a little opium. 
 Wine had lost its power to arouse him; so, when he wished to be awake in 
 society, he “brought himself up” with morphine, or red lavender, or ether, 
 like a broken-down actress. He was quite proud of this incapacity to enjoy 
 life. It proved that he had lived “fast,” and he used to boast of how many 
 drops or tea-spoonfuls he had taken of such or such stimulants before he was 
 equal to the exertion of entering a ball-room. Being almost as rich as his 
 brother, Edward Langdon had a great terror of falling into some matri¬ 
 monial net, and his New York life was a succession of attempts upon his 
 hberty, which he labored to ward off—in a faint sort of way. He was a great 
 flirt, liked to dance unlimited attendance upon some demoiselle a marier, and 
 then, when he saw the meshes coming over him, dodge, and escape rather 
 frightened, but ready to start again with somebody else. 
 
 He had warned Mr. Langdon (who was not at all a man of society, but 
 who had lived entirely for and with his business) that the Purvises were 
 “trying for him” the preceding summer at Newport. Mr. Langdon scorned 
 the advice, and had not the slightest objection to being caught, if any young 
 
 lily: a novel 49 
 
lady could catch him. Angelica did, and he gave in without a struggle. The 
 result was this grand wedding which I am trying to describe. 
 
 Cecilia Langdon was, of course, one of the bridemaids, of whom there 
 were four—Sara, Margaret Oakes, Lily, and herself. 
 
 Miss Langdon was as admirable a type of her class—New York belles—as 
 her brother Edward of his. She was tall and showy. Nature gave her a 
 straight, slight figure, and art added the “fillings in.” Her dress fitted 
 exquisitely, cut very low at the back, but quite modestly in front, the skirts 
 falling with a gradual, graceful slope, of a decided outward tendency from 
 the waist to the feet. Her hair was arranged so as most to become a face 
 neither pretty nor plain, but for which fine eyes and dazzling teeth were 
 expected to do the work of beauty. Not an available point was left unculti¬ 
 vated. Cecilia knew in which position her features looked best. A dimple on 
 the shoulder was cherished hke a dear friend, and never forgotten; her very 
 eyebrows were smoothed to a certain shape, and her hand was not seen 
 ungloved unless by mere accident. The effect was worth the care, it must 
 be allowed; for a girl who, “let alone,” would not have been otherwise 
 than plain, produced the notion that she was verging on decided good looks. 
 But then every thing she wore was so fresh, so unhandled—every thing 
 matched—nothing predominated; her costume was like a well-mixed salad, 
 where no ingredient strikingly prevails. And, after all, what is a woman 
 without her dress? 
 
 To my mind, the Venus, in a shabby, short-waisted gown of tawdry colors, 
 would never be an attractive object; but here I entreat that no reader wiU lay 
 down this humble volume, and begin to prate about the absurdity of modern 
 fashions at all for the Venus, and talk of French corsets and her untrammeled 
 waist. I know the whole tirade beforehand—who does not?—and I merely 
 mention the Venus to show how a perfectly beautiful woman might look 
 badly dressed, as compared with one of lesser natural attractions, who knows 
 how to put greens and pinks together, and where ribbons and flowers are well 
 chosen and suit her. 
 
 Now this aptness of toilet Ceciha Langdon had studied and thoroughly 
 understood. There was no other branch of education in which she could take 
 her degree of M.A. except in dancing; but she was a lively, conversible girl, 
 full of the small phrases of society, who made a little talk wherever she went, 
 looked interested in what was said, never dreaded to compromise her dignity 
 by being seen with so and so, decidedly preferred her “own set,” but could 
 chat just as gayly in some one else’s; consequently, though surrounded on this 
 occasion by dozens of young women who surpassed her in beauty, and who 
 
 50 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
were her superiors in solid reading and acquirements, she quite overlaid 
 them by her facility of access, and by her power of using the “small change” 
 of fashionable dialogue. 
 
 Angelica enjoyed her new relations vastly. Edward’s emptiness and self- 
 conceit, and Cecilia’s overflowing bustle and superficialness, with their 
 united pretensions, charmed her. 
 
 I don’t think she ever longed for a confidante more than on that evening, 
 to whom she might slyly indulge in a few remarks about her husband’s 
 brother and sister; but, as Margaret was out of the question in that line, Lily 
 would not have enjoyed satirical laughs, and Sara would have needed expla¬ 
 nations, Angel quietly kept them to herself, and played her part to admira¬ 
 tion. So full of suavity, so dignified, so graceful, she was determined that the 
 last impressions she left of her girlhood should contradict former ideas of 
 insolence and indifference. 
 
 Mrs. Purvis was in her glory; and Mr. Purvis nodded his grizzled head, 
 and winked his eyes under his near-sighted spectacles with delight. He 
 rubbed his large nose, and thought how cleverly he had managed to marry 
 off Angelica to so rich a man without paying down a single cent of dowry 
 more than the ten thousand dollars left her by her grandmother Purvis. 
 
 Clarence Tracy had returned from New Orleans a few days before the 
 wedding, and was invited for groomsman. He had not seen Angelica since 
 their interview on the night of the May party, and he was longing for some 
 indication that she remembered him. 
 
 He had made his congratulations with the others after the ceremony, but 
 no glance, no whisper from the bride betokened that she had him more in 
 her thoughts than any one else. He was restless, uneasy, put out. Lily’s 
 manner to him was uncertain. She had not given him her usual, open, 
 girlish, frank reception on his arrival in the city; and this evening she seemed 
 to avoid him, and, though her words were kind as usual, there was a misty 
 coolness, a flickering cloud between them. 
 
 Toward the close of the party, just before the supper was announced (for, 
 with us, you can not have a buffet, the positive rule being that every lady 
 rushes home immediately after serving refreshments, and with such pre¬ 
 cipitation that one might fancy they only came for the meal, except that they 
 eat nothing, so that why people give parties, and why others go to them, has 
 always puzzled me, seeing that their notion appears to be to get to the house 
 as late as possible, and to leave it as quickly as they can)—but, as I said, the 
 supper hour was near at hand, when Clarence, who was listening to Cecilia 
 Langdon, saw Angelica comparatively alone. Mr. Clarendon was speaking 
 
 lily: a novel 51 
 
to her, and Clarence knew that, being an elderly gentleman, he would beat a 
 hasty retreat so soon as an unmarried youth came near. 
 
 “Are you not going to Sharon or Saratoga?” Miss Langdon asked; “no, to 
 Europe? Ah! how delightful! We shall aU go next year, Angehca and my 
 brother—probably this autumn, to winter in Rome. Will you go to Rome? I 
 do love Rome and the Roman Catholics. There is something so entrainantm 
 their religion. Are you—” 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” said Clarence, bowing profoundly; “permit me to 
 present to you. Miss Langdon, Mr. Alfred Greville;” and he rapidly seized 
 by the arm a young man who was standing near him, and went through the 
 introduction with marvelous celerity. 
 
 Alfred Greville looked amazed, but was quite conformable, and Miss 
 Langdon continued her uninterrupted flow of words as easily to the new¬ 
 comer as to the previous victim. It made no difference. She had come to 
 Charleston to be civil to the inhabitants, and to tell “our set” when she got 
 home how queerly they dressed, and how little they danced—one man was 
 no worse nor better than another. 
 
 Clarence hastened to Angelica. She received him cordially enough, and 
 Mr. Clarendon backed out as expected. 
 
 “You have not been kind this evening,” Clarence began; “you have not 
 tried to cheer me or to comfort me.” 
 
 A wide lifting of Mrs. Langdon’s eyehds brought him to a sudden stop. 
 
 “Did you not promise to consider me always as a friend?” Clarence began, 
 in another key; “and is it not a legitimate source of distress for a friend that 
 you should be on ‘the eve of leaving us forever?’ ” 
 
 “Not forever,” answered the bride, with one of her gravest smiles. “I am 
 not banished from Carolina, I hope. You are going away as well as myself, 
 and I do not think that any wonderful dejection is perceptible in your looks 
 or manner.” 
 
 “Piqued, by Jove!” thought Clarence; and the fact is, that absence and a 
 little gay society had enabled this volatile young gentleman to recover bravely 
 from his heart-attack. He had begun to look upon a renounced voyage to 
 Europe as a terrible calamity, and already thanked Angelica for her rejection, 
 although he desired ardently to keep up a little sentiment with her. 
 
 “Won’t you take my arm?” he said; “let us find a vacant seat more 
 comfortable than this glaring light and heat.” 
 
 Angelica consented. 
 
 On their way out they passed Lily. She was quite surrounded by a group of 
 young men already scenting her thousands, and her prettiness and gentleness 
 
 52 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
aided their admiration. Angelica gave her a kind glance. Lily returned it with 
 one of grave displeasure, and turned away. It was the crisis of her life. Had 
 she not misunderstood her cousin at that moment, probably this story would 
 never have been written. 
 
 Angelica’s bitter smile aged her face for an instant, and her part was taken. 
 
 “Clarence,” she said, when they had found one of those cool, comfortable 
 couches in the piazza, “I was a little cross just now; let us make it up;” and she 
 held out her hand, which he warmly pressed. 
 
 “You are always sweet,” he said; “always more charming than any other 
 woman.” 
 
 She fixed her dangerous eyes upon him, and played with the end of the 
 ^'^application de Bruxelles' veil. 
 
 “And Ldy?” she asked. 
 
 “Oh, LUy is such a mere girl.” 
 
 The beautiful bust, shaded by folds of transparent lace, heaved with one 
 half-sigh, quite audible and perceptible to her companion. 
 
 “It is fate. It can not be avoided, Clarence. You must marry Lily, and 
 before you leave for Europe. When do you go, by the way?” 
 
 “Next year—next week—to-morrow—how do I know? I only know that I 
 am talking to you again.” 
 
 “You will never talk to me again, if you go on in this absurd manner,” said 
 Angel, smiling and putting out her red lip with a pout of assumed dis¬ 
 pleasure. “Before you go to Europe, I say—this very night, if you choose, 
 have a talk with her. You will find her a little impracticable. Shall I tell you 
 why? I was angry with you, angry with myself—nervous and vexed with all 
 the world. I had the blues the day after the May party, and I called up LUy to 
 do—what think you?—to warn her against you, and in a measure 1 suc¬ 
 ceeded.” 
 
 Clarence started, and compressed his thin lips. “Did you tell her—” he 
 asked. 
 
 “That you had laid your new fortune at my feet? Yes.” 
 
 “How did she take it?” 
 
 “Not as 1 would have taken the defalcation of a man I loved,” and 
 Angelica’s dark eyes flashed, and her white hands trembled; “not as I would 
 look if at this moment I could believe—any one—I love—false.” It is impossi¬ 
 ble to render the bewitching softness of her accent as she concluded, as 
 contrasted with the fierce passion of her first words. 
 
 “Lily can never experience your depth of feehng,” said Clarence, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 53 
 
“I told her that she would never he happy with you; that you were 
 inconstant, cold, and unreliable. Now let it he your part to undeceive her. 
 Tell her of your own accord, without a question from her, that you come a 
 penitent to her feet; that you were led astray hy my ‘wicked wiles;’ and I leave 
 it to your cleverness to shadow forth your own failings as I clearly depicted 
 them, in a manner to convince her that, though you have faults, she can 
 make them virtues. Don’t abuse me. Lay the blame of your proposal to me on 
 your own momentary folly, for it is the inconsistency of your words and 
 actions which most grieves her in this business. The little thing loves you, 
 but she scarcely knows it; and her heart speaks very strongly for you. Disarm 
 her criticism by acknowledging your failings, and this step, which I at first 
 intended to be against you, will ultimately end in your favor.” 
 
 “Why did you say such things of me?” asked Clarence, with reproachful 
 accent. 
 
 “That you were hypocritical and false?” answered 7\ngel, laughing; “be¬ 
 cause it is true, though she need not know it.” But, seeing Clarence’s brow 
 darken, and an impatient, angered look in his eye, she continued, “I had the 
 blues— I was cross—Heaven knows what. Don’t question me too closely, 
 Clarence. Perhaps I envied her the happiness which could never, with 
 prudential considerations, be mine—I was ‘dog in the manger’-ish. The 
 bright fruit I could not gather, I did not choose that she should pluck, and I 
 told her the core was decayed.” 
 
 With an exclamation of joy and gratified vanity, the boy caught the 
 beautiful hand which coquettishly was tearing to pieces her bouquet of 
 snowy flowers, while her heavily-fringed lids were alternately raised toward 
 him or tenderly cast down. 
 
 This was a step too far. 
 
 “Mr. Tracy!” she exclaimed, with a tone of wounded pride; and as Clar¬ 
 ence muttered a “forgive me” in the humblest manner, she gravely pro¬ 
 ceeded. 
 
 “If you wish that the friendship that subsists between us should continue, 
 you must learn to put a little more control upon these boyish outbursts; but I 
 pass this over now, and what I wished to say to you must be quickly said. The 
 prospect before you—the prize within your grasp—is one to be envied. You 
 speak of Lily always as a child. She is a child in her worldly notions, her ideas 
 of rectitude, propriety, and so on; but, so far as these are concerned, she will 
 be just such a child always; only, as she grows older, she will get these staid 
 principles more firmly fixed; she will lose her childlike belief that all her 
 acquaintances possess these virtues, to her mind so essential; and soft. 
 
 54 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
yielding, and pliable as you find her now, she will become as adamant to the 
 incursions of those whom she may fancy desirous of throwing down the 
 bulwarks of her character and disposition. We will live to see Lily a strong 
 woman, but strong only in her feminine qualities.” 
 
 “What a picture!” ejaculated Clarence. ‘You either overrate or underrate 
 her. She is sweet-tempered, gentle, dove-like. The only fault I find in Lily is 
 her want of strength.” 
 
 “There lies your egregious mistake. She will not be an insipid companion. 
 Her intellect is not of a brilliant order. She will never admire your favorite 
 authors, nor adopt your sneering opinions, but she will have the charm of 
 namral simplicity. AH that is true, all that is pure, will strike an answering 
 chord in her, and her love of what is right, and her deep religious sentiment, 
 will constantly threaten to sweep away her love of what is ‘pleasantly wrong,’ 
 and her sentiment of physical and mental admiration as set forth in yourself 
 Do not fancy that you are likely to fall asleep holding her hand; you will have 
 to keep wide awake in a year or two, during your time of probation, so as to 
 conceal from those earnest blue eyes a few little discrepancies.” 
 
 Clarence smiled slightly and mused a while. 
 
 “I shall be very comfortable, I suppose,” he said. “There was a time, and it 
 was not long ago either, that I imagined a life with Lily the very perfection of 
 human bliss. I taught her, and she looked up to me: she was so mild, so 
 entirely unselfish, and admired me with such hearty yet timid fervor. It was 
 flattering and very sweet. Now, it appears to me as if it was too sweet—all 
 sugar and water.” 
 
 “The time will come again,” said Angel, rising, and leaning with graceful 
 abandon upon the balustrade of the piazza, “when she will be to you the type 
 of perfect womanhood. Cautious, scheming, gray-hearted women like my¬ 
 self will be too much of your own stamp to be loved. You will seek us as 
 pleasant companions—charming creatures to trifle with, but it is such beings 
 as Lily that men of mark wish to marry. Adieu, Clarence. We wiU meet again 
 in some crowd to-morrow, but this is our last ‘talk.’ Recollect that in 
 marrying Lily you gain wealth, a pretty wife, and cousinship to ‘yours most 
 devotedly.’ ” 
 
 Angelica laughed, and bent her flexible waist in a dismissal of regal suavity 
 and smiling farewell. 
 
 Her companion would have spoken again, but, passing her fingers lightly 
 over her lips as a sign of silence, she entered into conversation with a 
 gentleman who joined them, and whom her quick and ever-watchful eye had 
 seen approaching. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 55 
 
Clarence Tracy walked slowly away, and thought over Angelica’s words. 
 How she puzzled him! She had twisted him around from point to point, till 
 his head was quite bewildered. She liked him, and she didn’t care two straws 
 about him. At one moment, to marry Lily would be a sacrifice to mere gold; 
 at another, it was indeed a thing to strive for. 
 
 But never, for one second, did this promising youth doubt but that Lily 
 herself would gladly accept the favor of his hand. His only fear was lest he 
 should be giving himself up for too small a return. 
 
 After wandering about for a quarter of an hour, he thought he would go 
 and speak to Lily. She was still hemmed in by a little circle of admirers, who 
 were endeavoring to fix her attention. She listened, and smiled, and repfied 
 with courteousness, but occasionally her eyes would travel beyond them, and 
 seek some object out of view. 
 
 Clarence drew near. Her color varied, and she answered absently, but she 
 did not turn toward him, so presently he moved off, saying to himself, 
 
 “I will go to see her to-morrow morning.” 
 
 The looked-for supper arrived—a most elegant, sumptuous, and well- 
 chosen feast. The ladies were duly plied with bon-bons and tiny drops of 
 Champagne, and the entertainment was over for them. 
 
 Mantles and hoods were in requisition; carriages were called; horses, 
 startled out of their stand-up naps, drowsily moved at the summons; their 
 drivers, who had been discoursing each other with eager volubility, and 
 catching pleasing glimpses of the company over the garden walls, tightened 
 their reins; old gentlemen carefully deposited old ladies (their hands full of 
 wedding-cake boxes) into the old coaches, and young gentlemen gallantly 
 and whisperingly escorted young ladies (who went tripping along with 
 modest condescension on the arms of their partners) into the same venerable 
 conveyances; the larger portion of the gentlemen returned to the supper- 
 room for a final glass, and Mrs. Purvis wearily bowed out her last guest. 
 
 One great feat of her life was accomplished. Angelica was married! The 
 bringing up of children in the world generally bewilders my reasoning 
 powers as much as the giving of balls, in Charleston particularly. There is an 
 equally strong desire to have them and—to get rid of them. 
 
 ® CHAPTER IX 
 
 Lily was preparing her French lessons the next morning when Clarence 
 entered the dining-room where she sat. 
 
 She received him with quiet grace, and asked after Nora. 
 
 56 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“You are early and busy to-day, Lily, in spite of the gay doings and late 
 hours last night.” 
 
 “Yes,” she answered; “Alicia is tired out, and has a headache; but I am 
 quite well, and feel fresh as ever.” 
 
 “You look fresh as a rose-bud,” said Clarence, admiringly, as he noticed 
 the fine, transparent texture of lips, cheek, and brow. “You have such a 
 wonderful skin! See your hands! they are hke little rolls of white velvet, with 
 a reflection of a new-born carnation thrown on the palm.” 
 
 Lily laughed, and withdrew her hand. “Will you have some figs?” she said. 
 “I put them there for Mademoiselle Durony, but there are enough for both 
 you and her;” and she offered a plateful of yellow and purple fruit, lusciously 
 tempting. 
 
 “No, thank you, Lily. The fact is, I am come this morning to have a little 
 chat with you; are you at leisure? But I need not ask, for I shall not detain you 
 long. Lily, I have been a great fool, and I wish to tell you about it.” 
 
 “Well,” said Lily, simply, and she carefully placed her Grammaire des 
 Grammaires on the top of Du Verger’s Phrases, supported it on the one side 
 with “Corinne,” and on the other with Bonflly’s “Contes a ma fiUe,” piled her 
 exercise-book on the summit, removed them all again, and then replaced the 
 structure with renewed dfligence and assiduity while Clarence spoke. 
 
 “While we were at Chicora, Lily, I fell in love with your cousin Angelica.” 
 He paused. “You don’t seem surprised. Did you guess it before this?” He 
 sighed. “I suppose you did. She is very attractive and very dangerous. She 
 flirted with me, and I was taken with her beauty and cleverness. I ought not to 
 say that I was ‘in love,’ for the sentiment, the fancy, was too evanescent to be 
 dignified with that title; but I was dazzled by her, and it went farther than you 
 will almost believe. When I received the news of Mr. Clarence’s legacy, I 
 offered myself to her. You know we had gone roving the previous afternoon, 
 and she let me perceive that she was not happy—that she did not care for Mr. 
 Langdon, and I foohshly came to the conclusion that she might be happier 
 with me. I can scarcely regret this, however, for, though it was a mortification 
 at the time, no sooner had I said the rash words than I repented of them. Be¬ 
 fore she answered me I had begun to think that I was hasty, and during that 
 drive to Georgetown I felt as if I had made a luckier escape than I deserved. 
 My heart, in the end, was not to suffer from the heedlessness of my fancy.” 
 
 Lily raised her eyes, and looked for an instant at her friend gravely and 
 silently. 
 
 Clarence left his chair, and seated himself on the sofa which she occupied, 
 but a httle way off. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 57 
 
“Not that I mean, Lily, to say any thing against Mrs. Langdon, but she is 
 not, to my quieter aspirations, the wife whom I would seek. You smile a little 
 at that magic syllable ‘wife,’ but recollect that I am nearly twenty. We are 
 getting old. I never wish to keep any secrets of this nature from you, and I 
 feel as if I acted with duplicity in concealing the amount of my admiration 
 for your cousin during my conversations with you; but truly it was only when 
 I was with her that I felt her power. She has that brilliancy which does not 
 permit you to analyze while under its immediate charm, and it is not till you 
 call upon yourself to ‘define her position’ that you perceive how weak is an 
 influence which passes with the presence of her who speaks. Believe me, she 
 is most dangerous for a life-time devotion, whose gentler qualities increase 
 as you dwell upon them, whose sweet and persuasive excellences act upon 
 you gradually and imperceptibly.” 
 
 Lily’s heart beat rapidly, and Du Verger fell on the floor. Ah! Mrs. 
 Clarendon, instead of being engaged in sunning your pickle-jars, and tying 
 down your blackberry jelly, why are you not assisting at this visit? 
 
 “I am of an excitable temperament, Lily: it has cost me hard study to 
 acquire a cold and cautious exterior. Very often I have forced myself to play a 
 part foreign to my feehngs, lest I should excite ridicule by my fervency. I 
 suppose it is for this reason that I frequently err on the other side, and say 
 more than is strictly true in an opposite direction, so as to mislead indifferent 
 listeners as to what is moving me, eager to elude detection and sneers. A 
 habit such as this brings on an unnatural state, which many would call 
 hypocritical. Heaven knows there is nothing I so much admire as truth. I 
 should like to pass my days in such a circle, and with such surroundings that 
 perfect purity and childlike candor should be our watchwords and our 
 principles.” 
 
 LUy smiled her commendation, and made room for Clarence nearer to 
 her. 
 
 “I said just now that I did not regret having made an idiot of myself by 
 laying my fortunes at Miss Purvis’s feet; it opened my eyes to my foUy. I 
 might have gone on forever fancying her perfection whenever we met, if this 
 plunge into rank stupidity had not brought me up like a shower-bath. I am 
 too impulsive, and think after action. It was an absurd performance—a 
 boyish freak, and, though it worried me at first, now that I have made you my 
 confession, I feel quite indifferent about it. Scold me, Lily, if you choose, but 
 forgive me for my previous want of confidence.” 
 
 Lily’s look was all pardon. 
 
 “I am afraid you were foolish, Clarence. I saw how much you were taken 
 
 58 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
with Angel, and I would have liked to speak to you about it, for I did not 
 think that, even if she were disengaged and cared for you, she was just the 
 person to suit your ideas. You know you are strict in your notions of female 
 propriety, and lecture Nora and me dreadfully. Angel thinks differently from 
 you, and is too strong and proud to change her opinions; but when we were 
 alone, and her name was mentioned, you always spoke with the greatest 
 indifference. I understand it now: you thought I would laugh at your 
 desperate passion;” and Lily’s small white teeth shone between her fresh rosy 
 lips as she smiled mischievously. “I must be equally candid, though, Clar¬ 
 ence; I knew of this offer.” 
 
 “She told you?” 
 
 Lily nodded. 
 
 “Did she abuse me, Lily? What did she say about me?” 
 
 “That is another affair, Clarence. She did not say that our conversation 
 was private, but I don’t think she intended me to repeat it. I shall let her 
 know that, after your confidence, I mentioned my acquaintance with the 
 solitary fact. But one thing I can say, she thinks quite as well of you as you do 
 of her.” 
 
 Clarence Tracy shook his finger at Lily’s sauciness. 
 
 “Well, never mind what she says. I dare say she thinks me a very pre¬ 
 sumptuous youth, and, provided she has not injured me in your opinion, 
 Ldy, I would not give a fig—that purple one, for instance (here is an old case 
 in point)—for her decisions. She is very clever, and she is very handsome, 
 and she will be a very splendid New York matron. By-the-way, I will accept 
 your offer now. Peel the fig for me, Lily fair. You will not much longer be able 
 to do me such services.” 
 
 “When do you go to Europe?” she asked, bending over the plate. 
 
 “I leave for New York next week, and just in time to take the Atlantic 
 steamer.” 
 
 “That is very soon.” 
 
 “The sooner I go, the sooner I shall return,” he said, philosophically. 
 
 “Nora will miss you very much,” handing him his figs. Her eyes were full 
 of tears. 
 
 “Willyoz/ not miss me?” Clarence said, putting down the fruit untouched. 
 “Lily, you are only fifteen. I hoped to leave this country without saying what 
 my heart longs to say. I love you, Lily. I don’t know when I first loved you. 
 Grave, modest, gentle, tender, you have stolen upon me, and filled a great 
 nook in my heart without a recognized wish on my part to secure you there. I 
 never knew how very dear you were to me tUl I found myself uttering those 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 59 
 
mad words to Miss Purvis. I thought I loved you as I cherished Nora—with a 
 brother’s unimpassioned attachment; but I discovered, with a pang of self- 
 reproach, that Angelica was a fancy—a miserable outbreak of flattered 
 vanity; you were ‘the perfect type of budding womanhood’ {he did not put 
 the quotation marks) that I adored with a purer worship. I do not wish to 
 bind you now by any promise—any vow of constancy. I would scorn to make 
 you look upon it as a duty to remember me. I only beg you to accept my vows, 
 without a single promise in return. You are free as air, dearest Lily. If you And 
 that others are more deserving or more pleasing in your eyes, do not 
 hesitate—tell me so—trust me that I shall never advance a claim. I only wish 
 to assure you of my unbounded love—yes, unbounded and unchangeable: a 
 love made up of reverence for your virtues, tenderness for yourself, and a 
 desire for your society. Do you listen to me, Lily?” 
 
 At every pore she listened, and her little trembling heart fluttered, and her 
 bright ringlets hid her blushing cheek, as she dipped her hands in and out of 
 a flngerbowl, and tried to seem quiet and controlled. Clarence took one of 
 the wet hands in his own, and pressed it gently. 
 
 “Do I wrong you, Lily? or do you believe me, and do you accept my 
 unasking devotion?” 
 
 The novice in worldly arts turned her sweet, modest face, with its heav¬ 
 enly eyes and earnest expression, toward her companion. Many an actor (of 
 eminence too) would have paid a high price to secure the recipe for Clar¬ 
 ence’s eager, impassioned, but respectful air. 
 
 “I do believe you, Clarence, if the whole world doubted you. I do not 
 know if I really love you enough to authorize accepting so unselfish an offer, 
 for if I consent to consider you bound to me, I ought to make some promise 
 in return. As you say I am very young, I may meet hereafter with some one 
 who pleases me more. I don’t think so,” she added, with playful tenderness; 
 “but, any way, I am sure that my uncle would object to such a step, and, of 
 course, you had no idea of keeping it secret?” 
 
 “Of course not,” said Clarence, with indignant surprise. 
 
 “Then let us stay as we are. Both are free to all appearances. We alone wfll 
 tacitly understand that both are not.” 
 
 Clarence caught the fluttering hand to his lips. He felt already like a sober 
 married man, for he knew Lily’s truth and steadfastness were firm as her life. 
 
 “It is not an engagement,” Lily pursued; “far from it. We are only going 
 to be better friends than ever, and when you return from Europe, and I shall 
 be a ‘young lady—’ Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” rising hastily, as the French 
 teacher, with her nerves and her ether, entered. 
 
 6o SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Clarence took leave with a smile of open cordiality and affectionate 
 regard. Lily began her lessons. She did not know one word of them, but she 
 was in a happy state of subdued satisfaction, which rendered her oblivious of 
 Mademoiselle Durong’s displeasure. 
 
 Clarence was true—Clarence had been guilty of only a temporary and 
 fleeting infidelity. He was her friend again, and he had told her, with an 
 eloquence which was music to her prejudiced ears, that he loved her, and had 
 never loved but her. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER X 
 
 I do not intend to follow my heroine minutely through all the remainder 
 of her juvenile days. After this conversation, or explanation with Clarence, 
 and his departure, the time moved on with monstrous calm. It is terribly the 
 fashion nowadays to transport the higher regions of sentimental history, as 
 well as all others, into the bosoms and hves of children. Dickens has a great 
 deal to answer for in inventing Little Nell, for his imitators have since 
 flooded the world with a host of “serious girls,” and “prayerful babies,” and 
 unnatural infants generally, which will soon induce the readers and admirers 
 of such tales to fancy that, after sixteen years of age, life ends instead of 
 beginning. Little people who can scarcely talk lisp Methodist sermons, and 
 argue with their elders, and show judgment, tact, and energy which invari¬ 
 ably throw into contempt the strongest efforts in the same line of all grown 
 men and women. 
 
 In fact, their labors are superhuman. They bake, wash, and brew—edu¬ 
 cate, and care for their fathers, mothers, grandmothers, and grandfathers, to 
 the remotest generation, and naturally., after all this, die of extreme old age at 
 fifteen or thereabouts, leaving behind them reputations of unparalleled 
 magnitude. Their conversations are of the deepest theological research, 
 though, for the most part, a little ungrammatical; and, in short, were I 
 capable of portraying such monsters, “which the world ne’er saw,” my book 
 would always lack one important reader—myself I am happy to say that Lily, 
 though a grave, earnest, and, in her way, precocious girl, affords no field for 
 continuous history during the next two years. She studied her lessons and 
 recited them; she kept her things in order; she read improving books, and 
 practiced music and drawing. Clarence wrote to her openly, and told her of 
 his travels, of the places that he visited, and of the people that he knew, with 
 a few reticences. In the course of the following autumn he mentioned having 
 met Angelica, who had gone to winter in Rome. She passed through Paris, 
 
 lily: a novel 6i 
 
and he described their dinner at Very’s with Mr. Langdon, Cecilia, and some 
 other Americans. Lily was very proud of his letters, which came once a 
 month. She kept them in a rosewood box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and 
 lined throughout with rose-colored, scented satin. As a mark of supreme 
 favor, she read them aloud to her favorites, for Clarence behaved with his 
 usual attention to outward observances, and never wrote one line which 
 could not be repeated to her guardian. He understood Lily as far as that 
 went. She would approve of no clandestine nor veiled words. She meant 
 what she had said. It was only to be tacitly an understanding. Both were free; 
 and Lily’s true heart needed no reiterated vows, and could not have been 
 brought to comprehend a doubt existing of her future ratification of the 
 present vague position. Truly, she never thought about the future as regarded 
 Clarence except that he was to come home. She lived in the present childlike 
 contentment; and if Mr. or Mrs. Clarendon had questioned her about 
 Clarence, she would simply have answered, “When I am grown up, Clarence 
 and I will be engaged.” 
 
 Her own letters were frank and girlish. She told him all the news that was 
 likely to be interesting about their juvenile friends; she consulted him about 
 her studies; advised him of her progress in such and such branches, and made 
 her artless comments upon his gay life, and compared it with Willie’s. 
 
 Willie Clarendon was leading a very quiet existence. After a month or two 
 of amusement, he had setded down at one of the German law universities, 
 and was drinking beer, smoking meerschaums, and enjoying shghtly prosy 
 views of domestic felicity among the plump frauleins. Clarence meant to join 
 him after a while, and pursue their legal ambitions together, but he was not 
 ready yet. Paris had so many attractions; he was rapidly acquiring the “true 
 Parisian accent” (the attaining of which is apt to cost so much in more ways 
 than paying French masters), and it would be a thousand pities to leave while 
 on the point of perfecting himself in this useful and agreeable language. 
 
 With these letters, and her unvarying contentment and equable temper, 
 the summer would have passed agreeably even without a change of air or 
 scene; but Alicia’s health failed, and they went to Sullivan’s Island to give her 
 the benefit of sea-bathing. 
 
 The girls had not been at this pleasant ocean resort, situated only six miles 
 from the city, at the mouth of the harbor, and open, consequently, to the 
 broad Atlantic, since a few months after the death of Mr. Vere, when Lily’s 
 thinness, want of appetite, and visible pining had induced a similar pil¬ 
 grimage. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon indulged in a notion that Charleston was quite as cool and 
 
 62 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
far more agreeable than ‘the island,’ as Charlestonians familiarly call the 
 patriotic spot made sacred by its palmetto fort and Revolutionary glory. He 
 complained of the sand, the glare, the monotony, as if the city boasted of no 
 evils in comparison; and Mrs. Clarendon was too good a wife to have a 
 contrary opinion from her husband. Even if she had delighted in this calm, 
 peaceful retreat, with the great waves ever breaking in glorious, church-like 
 music upon the shore, and a three-mde stretch of beach, wide, firm, and 
 glittering, she would have deemed it her “duty” to encourage an opposite 
 sentiment, and to feel and to express her preference for the dusty, stifling city, 
 which only grows endurable when the sea-breeze, after giving its first 
 blessing to the Island and its inhabitants, wafts a faint semblance of its 
 precious comfort to the fevered expectants in mouldy wooden houses and 
 built-up streets. 
 
 But Lily and Alicia delighted in the Island. Through the closed Venetian 
 blinds all day came sufficient air to make them willing believers in the 
 excellence of the climate. They lived in a house hired, with the furniture, for 
 the season. A long apartment, surrounded on two sides by piazzas (those 
 unfailing appendages to Southern buildings), which were covered by jalou¬ 
 sies, served as sitting-room and dining-room. At one end, a piano, books, 
 work, and flowers proclaimed the “dress-circle;” at the other, a sideboard and 
 round-table, with a fly-brush of peacock’s feathers, spoke of meals served 
 and eaten. The mantle-shelf was broad, and held a range of old volumes, 
 with numerous candlesticks, and the tall glass shades under which the lights 
 are protected from the wind. A pantry, and bedroom for George, on the 
 same floor, completed these primitive and unexpensive arrangements, if you 
 except that in the wide entrance-hall, which opened into the sitting-room 
 with a folding-door never closed, there stood a refrigerator, offering iced 
 water and cool bottles of claret to all comers. 
 
 The girls took possession of what they dubbed the “sky parlor,” refusing 
 the second floor of bed-rooms, and preferring this attic, which had windows 
 at every point of the compass, and in which apartment they shifted their 
 beds to which ever quarter the wind blew from. 
 
 Lily would stand for hours, before going to rest, gazing upon the old surf, 
 the white sands, the huge crested billows, the light-house winking in the 
 distance, the indistinct walls of Fort Moultrie, and across the channel, seated 
 as it were upon the waters, the stately pile of Fort Sumter, not yet completed. 
 Alicia would call out, “Lily, do you never mean to go to sleep?” several times, 
 and then my heroine (who was not in the least heroic) would put out her 
 candle (burning in a lantern, which all candles must do, if they burn at all in 
 
 lily; A NOVEL 63 
 
this positive breeze), and would go to bed, lulled on her pillow by the sound 
 she loved—the ceaseless roll of the mighty king of oceans. 
 
 And how delightful they thought the drives, rides, or strolls upon the 
 beach at low tide! With no bonnets nor “last-style” mantles—no gloves nor 
 necessary parasols, they sauntered out toward sunset, scarfs tied around their 
 waists or hanging from their arms, in case they should feel chilly, and thick 
 boots protecting their feet from the disagreeable effects of the salt water 
 upon clean stockings. 
 
 They would meet several young people, bound, like themselves, for a walk 
 upon the beach, and, joining forces, the little regiment of damsels would 
 scamper along, or walk soberly, or run races methodically, just as best pleased 
 them, for “the island” is a spot free from conventional rules, where you are 
 not forced to remember “behavior,” nor to conduct yourself with the stiff 
 propriety and full-dress customs of “fashionable watering-places.” 
 
 The walk over, many of them would adjourn to each other’s houses, and 
 spend the remainder of the evening in mirthful though quiet enjoyment, 
 with cards, music, and chat, parting at a reasonable hour with the certainty 
 that a fair sky would enable them to resume the following evening the like 
 entertainments. 
 
 How sweet to recall those thoughtless, early days! I have spent many, 
 many summers upon this calm old island, which has a rooted, settled look 
 like a place which existed before the surrounding country was made. I 
 suppose it is owing to the weather-beaten, antique appearance of the houses, 
 which no paint can do more than temporarily freshen. There are few 
 attempts at gardens or vegetation; but here and there, around some resi¬ 
 dences, a green patch is cultivated, a pride-of-India gives its sickly, fragrant 
 blossoms to the breeze, or an oleander rises to a superb height in this salt 
 atmosphere, which promotes its growth. Geraniums of the hardier sort 
 flourish in profusion. Within the walls of Fort Moultrie thick hedges of the 
 rose-geranium are seen, and it was a great pleasure for Lily and Micia at high 
 tide to visit the fort instead of the beach; to walk upon the broad grass-grown 
 ramparts, and to carry home with them afterward whole branches of green, 
 perfumed leaves, to dress their hair and the flower-pots. 
 
 It was during one of these martial rambles that I first met and knew Lily 
 Vere. I was then young enough to believe in perfection, and to my eyes Lily 
 was perfect. The matured dignity of her manner, and the entire simplicity 
 and unsophistication of her feelings and conversation, struck me as some¬ 
 thing quite wonderful and very lovable. 
 
 We became sociable and mutually pleased. I received an impression of her 
 
 64 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
beautiful character which has never left me, and this is the reason why I have 
 undertaken to write her little story. A good many of the details which I have 
 already narrated I listened to from her own lips, but the most part I have 
 sought out and learned from others, for I saw Lily Vere but seldom after this 
 summer, which we spent together so joyously and so free from care on 
 SuUivan’s Island. My pathway through life has been very obscure, and we 
 were not likely to meet in the brilliant, sunny, well-beaten high road which 
 was her track. 
 
 She was very fond of talking to me of her father (when we grew well 
 acquainted), and of her mother dying when she was born, and which sad 
 event had certainly impaired her father’s health. She seemed never to think 
 of her acres, her bank stock, her houses, and her general independence, 
 except as a means by which she could always keep her friends together. 
 
 “There are the Jenningses,” she would say; “when I am twenty-one, or if I 
 marry before that”—and I did not then understand the Httle blush and the 
 momentary droop of the well-opened but modest blue eye—“if I marry 
 before that, I will not hear of their teaching and wearying themselves with 
 governess work, leaving us all for distant homes. I know that I am rich, and 
 where is the use of riches if it does not enable you to surround yourself with 
 those whom you love. What is there that money will buy or can procure to 
 equal the pleasure of assisting those whom you have known and cared for all 
 your days?” 
 
 There was no ostentation in this; it was too sincere; and having discovered 
 that, by family reverses, these early companions were to be sent upon the 
 world as teachers, she had taken the resolution to assist them, never men¬ 
 tioning it to her guardian, lest he should oppose it; but I learned afterward 
 that he accidentally discovered her plans that very year, and carried them at 
 once into effect. An annuity was settled upon both EUa and Kate, which they 
 enjoy until this day. 
 
 To return to the girls: they bathed daily in the sea, and Alicia recovered 
 her color and appetite, so that Mr. Clarendon began to respect the Island, if 
 he did not love it as an abiding-place. 
 
 At the eastern end, where but half a dozen houses are built, there stand tall 
 sand-hills, the most glorious spots for romps. A httle creeping vine, with 
 dusky purple flowers, covers the miniature valleys between these hills hke a 
 stiff carpet of prim pattern, and here and there spring up httle branches hke 
 vegetable coral, with hard sprays of a briUiant red, and minute white blos¬ 
 soms. On the summits grow the wild oats and wild fern, which wave their 
 yeUow ears, and contrast with the dark masses of the wild myrtle clustering 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 65 
 
in the depths beyond; but among these last it is not very safe to enter after 
 nightfall. They are unhealthy, damp, and give unfailing promise of fever and 
 chills, arising from the malaria of the “back creek.” 
 
 No such cautions are necessary a few yards in front, amid the hills and 
 facing the ocean. Here Lily and her companions would amuse themselves 
 with games of all sorts, shut out from observation by the intervening heights 
 of glistening sand. The boys of the party, commanded by George Clarendon, 
 would bring from the carriages in waiting jugs of lemonade, and baskets of 
 ice and cakes. They would spread their pastoral refreshment upon those 
 hard, unlife-like vines, and laugh, and joke, and enjoy their youth and liberty 
 with a blue sky above them, richer than satin flutings, and streaks of 
 vermilion shooting up from the western horizon, bidding them “good¬ 
 night” in the sun’s name. 
 
 Then Mr. Clarendon would ride up on his famous bay mare, “Lady 
 Bessy,” and inspect the company; sometimes Burleigh would be with him 
 (having been forgotten at home, or left purposely), and he would show his 
 indignation for the neglect by refusing, at first, to notice any of them, 
 standing close at “Lady Bessy’s” heels, and turning away superbly from 
 confectionary offers; but, relenting presently, he would suffer Lily to pat him 
 and to feed him, expressing his disapprobation of her cruelty or carelessness 
 by one of those grave, concentrated nods which had won him his name. 
 
 Again I exclaim, happy, thoughtless days! 
 
 In October the Clarendons moved to the city, and the winter was spent in 
 uninterrupted calm, but the following spring brought a great change. Instead 
 of going into the country for the month of April, they were to sail for New 
 York early in June, and Mrs. Clarendon could not sanely contemplate 
 additional packings-up; besides, for a five months’ absence, she had a world 
 of preparations to make. It was years since she had gone farther north than 
 the Santee River Plantation, and it is a wonder that the good lady did not 
 break out into open rebellion; but Mr. Clarendon had been pestered with 
 questions as to the wisdom of allowing his daughter and his ward to grow up 
 without fashionable accomplishments from better masters than Charleston 
 afforded. “Was it right,” some officious individuals suggested, “that such an 
 heiress as Miss Vere should not have advantages as great as the daughters of 
 other Southern gentlemen enjoyed?” 
 
 Mr. Clarendon thought it over, and decided that the girls should go to a 
 Northern boarding-school for a year or two, but it was not so easy to fix upon 
 the precise school. Each young lady who had been “finished” beyond Mason 
 and Dixon’s line had her especial scholastic bower, which she cried up as a 
 
 66 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
very fount of learning and propriety; so Mr. Clarendon determined that he 
 would go and judge for himself, place them wherever his choice fell, and 
 reside in their vicinity afterward for a little while, to watch the system, and to 
 see if it answered. 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon groaned and labored, put a double quantity of pepper and 
 camphor into carpets and woolen clothes, as if she knew that the moths 
 would be tempted to extra ravages during her absence, and kept the family 
 on a short allowance of spoons and forks for a week before her departure, 
 because every article of plate was sent betimes to the safest bank. 
 
 At length they were ready, and the luggage was something overpowering 
 to behold. The dear lady suffered under the idea that she could procure 
 nothing so good in Yankee-land as what was purchasable in Charleston, so 
 that one huge trunk held medicines, old linen in case of fractures, superfine 
 tea, some best brandy, a “trifle” of old Port wine, ditto of Madeira, and a 
 general collection of odds and ends, which, had she been going to Europe 
 instead of to New York, would have caused the party much detention and 
 suspicion at the custom house, or “duane,” as bearers of unaccountably 
 strange articles. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon, as was his wont, laughed, and asked “my dear” if she 
 would not carry some more boxes; and, in fact, “as the transportation of 
 boxes was more convenient than the handing about of young ladies, would 
 she object to putting up Lily and Alicia in long French trunks, with iron 
 bands and a few air-holes?” 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XI 
 
 New York was a great surprise and a terrible trial to “the daughter of 
 Carolina,” with her fixed ideas and her objection to novelties. 
 
 The noise, bustle, and confusion only amused and excited the girls, who, 
 finding Mrs. Clarendon positively averse to venturing out, but resigned that 
 they should go, with George as their chaperon, shopping and sightseeing, 
 would walk off daily to Stewart’s and Beck’s, and buy loads of “pretty things.” 
 
 It must be confessed that their tastes were not strictly correct, and An¬ 
 gelica would have held up her hands in just indignation had she seen them 
 laying in their supplies. Fortunately, it was not the season for worsteds, or, 
 with the unfailing mistake of Charleston habits, they would certainly have 
 paid high prices for “full-dress” gowns of bright-patterned mousselines, only 
 suitable for robes de chambre. 
 
 I remember once feeling my cheeks quite in a glow while standing by 
 
 lily: a novel 67 
 
Stewart’s counter, waiting until my unobtrusive appearance should awaken 
 the attention of a dashing clerk. A lady, who was purchasing a silk of the 
 richest lustre, turned over a pile of gaudy mousselines, rather fine in texture, 
 at my elbow. 
 
 “Pray,” said she, tossing her little nose contemptuously, buys all these 
 stuffs?” 
 
 “South Carolina ladies, madam,” announced the clerk, bowing; “they 
 prefer this style for walking and visiting;” and he grinned. 
 
 I recalled the streets of my native place, and felt the truth of the announce¬ 
 ment. 
 
 This reminds me of Mrs. Clarendon’s adventure in shopping. Growing 
 tired, at last, of the little chamber, eight feet by ten, in which she was drearily 
 knitting away her time, she bethought herself that she would purchase a new 
 breakfast set of china, and that was the commencement of her New York 
 walks. 
 
 The young ladies, grown famihar with Broadway, undertook to conduct 
 her safely, and safely she was deposited in one of the great China emporiums, 
 dazzled by the brilliancy, and very fearful of being cheated. 
 
 “Some breakfast sets—tea and coffee cups?” she inquired. 
 
 Half a dozen cups were rattled down before her, and the active salesman 
 was preparing to bring others, when she hurriedly said, “Never mind to get 
 any more; just let me know the price of these first; I am only looking about 
 before buying.” But the shopman continued to pile up plates, to name prices, 
 to dive after others, to draw forward slop-bowls, and to worry his customer 
 dreadfully. He was so polite. 
 
 “Never mind,” she repeated; “I can see them up there. I may not buy these, 
 after all. I hate to give you so much trouble, for I am not sure that I shall buy.” 
 
 The “young man” turned around and looked lazily at her. He laid aside his 
 springy, cat-like motions, and said, with calm dignity, 
 
 “I am put here, ma’am, to show these goods. It does not make the least 
 difference to me whether you buy or not. I receive my salary, just the same, if 
 not a purchaser comes into this store during the entire day;” and then 
 resuming his “store” manner, the accompUshed and philosophical salesman 
 placed a new stock of porcelain under the good lady’s nose, who Hurriedly 
 sounded it with her knuckles, while Lily and Alicia retired a few steps, and 
 were convulsed with laughter. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon inquired about schools; had a preference for Madame 
 Chegaray, discussed Madame Binsse, thought of Madame Canda, and, 
 while making up his mind, discovered that it was so warm it would be better 
 
 68 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
to go to Saratoga; then Newport offered inducements; but Niagara and 
 Canada carried the day. 
 
 They traveled in every direction, enjoyed themselves very much (even 
 Mrs. Clarendon grew a little reconciled), and, meeting some friends now 
 settled in Philadelphia, they came to the conclusion that the city of straight 
 streets and very clean bricks was the favored spot for female education. 
 
 It must not be supposed, meanwhile, that Miss Vere and Miss Clarendon, 
 though very pretty young girls, created, like all heroines of novels every 
 where, and hke all other young Charleston beauties who travel North, an 
 immense and surprising sensation. The fact is, that among the curious and 
 incomprehensible circumstances which make up that hash “common gos¬ 
 sip,” nothing knocks one over with more unerring amazement than the 
 belleship of my ordinary acquaintances. 
 
 A flock of creditable enough girls sail for New York to pass a summer, no 
 one suspecting (unless they judge from foregone conclusions in other cases) 
 that they are going to take the land by force of—fascination, but the very first 
 advices after their departure speak of their “stunning” effect upon the 
 hitherto benighted inhabitants. They are overwhelmed with attentions; they 
 walk the streets with a tail of followers like a Highland chief, and they come 
 home pursued by rumors—I must say seldom by the causes of these rumors. 
 
 These stupendous reputations for agreeability and corresponding charms, 
 which yet, to our eyes, bring them back not different from when they left, 
 always call to my mind an anecdote of a little lady who was describing a visit 
 she had paid in a distant part of the country. 
 
 “Oh!” she wound up, “I was such a belle!” 
 
 “My dear,” said her attentive listener, “why did you ever come back?” 
 
 Lily was often admired in a quiet way, and, had she kept her ears open to 
 every sound, she would have heard her own praises not unfrequently. Alicia’s 
 pretty, innocent look, and her dark-brown eyes, likewise attracted attention, 
 but there was no rush made to know them, and they passed many evenings 
 seated side by side in various ball-rooms, at various hotels and watering- 
 places, enjoying the sight, without any partners to take them on the floor, 
 unless they had danced alternately with George. 
 
 In fact, Mr. Clarendon was much to blame; he ought to have held his head 
 higher, sniffed the air with disgust, refused every thing on the public tables, 
 talked a great deal of “South Carolina,” and given the world to understand 
 that he “was a man, sir, not used to associating with common people, and of a 
 fortune which enabled him to command the best, and to scorn even the 
 second best.” 
 
 lily: a novel 69 
 
On the contrary, Mr. Clarendon kept very dark about himself and his 
 family; w^as open to advances from respectable-looking persons; avoided 
 snobs; uttered no boasts of his pretensions, and didn’t seem to despise any 
 body. They made a few new acquaintances; and, though the novelty of the 
 thing pleased them, the girls were sure that this was not the very most 
 dehghtfiil summer they could spend, and that “traveling at the North” in a 
 humdrum way, and associating principally with Charlestonians, would not 
 make a lively trip, after you had once performed it; and that they must be 
 singularly devoid of capabilities for pleasing strangers, since their career had 
 not in the least corresponded with the triumphal march which Jane Grif¬ 
 fiths, and Susan Fuller, and other young ladies had made through the 
 Northern watering-places. 
 
 In Philadelphia they came to a decided halt, and the ist of September 
 found them inmates of an admirable Pensionnat de Demoiselles, where, 
 after Mr. and Mrs. Clarendon had, from a neighboring boarding-house, 
 kept watch over them during six weeks, they were installed positively for a 
 year at least. 
 
 The “rules and regulations” for their comfort and instruction were based 
 on hberal and enlightened views. They were not forced to rise before 
 dayhght; they did not perform their ablutions in tin basins, twenty at a time, 
 with their dresses “hooked up,” and their shoes and stockings already drawn 
 on, trusting to a Saturday or Friday night’s general wash to bring them up, 
 for Sunday only, all clean; they were not starved at any meal, nor served tvith 
 ill-made dishes; in a word, they were treated like creatures who a few months 
 later were to appear as modest and refined women; and, surely, a regime such 
 as I have hinted at could never, by itself, produce this result. 
 
 I do not think that I am exaggerating when I give this picture of what 
 some schools for young ladies were ten years ago, but it is to be hoped that 
 the march of civilization has destroyed such singular methods of cultivating 
 feminine instincts; for it was never necessary^ in educating young girls, to 
 consider their physical condition as a matter of little consequence, while 
 their mental culture was taxed to the utmost. 
 
 At this rare and model school the youthful Charlestonians made much 
 progress, and profited by their advantages. 
 
 They did not become miracles of accomplishments, but they improved in 
 every respect; wrote home that they were quite happy, and did not pine 
 unnecessarily for the arrival of Alicia’s seventeenth birth-day, which, arriving 
 in the following autumn, was to be the signal of their release from school 
 
 70 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
thralldom, and their entrance into a state of young ladyhood. Lily was 
 seventeen in April, and her cousin Angelica, who returned soon after from 
 abroad, sent her a birth-day gift, and a polite invitation to both to spend their 
 summer vacation with her—partly at her beautiful country-seat on the 
 Hudson, and partly at Saratoga, where she was going to exhibit her Paris 
 finery while fresh from its enticing-looking and every-thing-promising 
 white cartons. 
 
 They actually declined the tempting offer, though Alicia was sorely 
 inclined to forget her promise to her father, who had urged that they should 
 remain quietly at school, and continue their lessons, if possible, during their 
 vacation; but Lily was firm, and studied diligently. 
 
 Three hours a day her fresh, young voice, or her pretty, graceful touch was 
 heard at her piano. She was no great musician, but she had taste, if not 
 execution; sang with sweetness and correctness, though her notes were few, 
 and was, in short, one of those unpretending performers to whom one can 
 listen without an hour’s praying and prelude. 
 
 Alicia did not sing, but she played brilliantly, and read music fluently; was 
 rather indifferent about it, and lacked that love of the art which, though 
 restricted from want of genius, gave interest to Lily’s playing. 
 
 “I know why you plod over your music in that untiring way,” Alicia said, 
 one warm afternoon toward the close of the vacations, when the two sat 
 together in the back parlor at Madame —’s, Lily patiently deciphering a 
 difficult passage in Thalberg, and Alicia lolling back in the easiest chair she 
 could find, fanning continuously with a lazy motion, and too enervated to 
 look into the Italian book she held in her other hand. 
 
 “Why?” asked Lily, pausing, and turning round for a second, with her 
 finger raised over the next note. 
 
 “Because Clarence Tracy has chosen to go mad at Heidelberg over the 
 trombone, or ophicleide, or Jew’s-harp, or Heaven knows what, and you 
 intend to perfect yourself so as to perform duets with him.” 
 
 “Nonsense!” said Lily, bringing down the rose-leaf finger upon the un¬ 
 offending key with sudden force; “instead of talking such folly, help me read 
 this, Alice, dear.” 
 
 “It is so very warm!” said Alicia, yawning; “and if it had not been for you, 
 we should have gone to Angelica, and been comfortable at Arcadia, or gay at 
 Saratoga now. Papa would never have refused, and mamma never cares what 
 we do, if only we keep well.” 
 
 “But, my dear, we should have lost so much time! Next summer we can 
 
 lily: a novel 71 
 
accept Angel’s offer, and, after a winter’s campaign at home, we shall be 
 better able to enjoy very gay society. Think how much we can study during 
 the next few weeks!” 
 
 “What is the use of study?” asked Alicia. “Somehow every one marries so 
 early, and then you give up music and every thing. Look at all the women we 
 know at home. They are taught French, music, drawing, ‘geography and the 
 use of the globe,’ and as soon as they marry, they shut the piano, never open a 
 French book, give their paints away, and might a great deal better have had 
 all the money spent on these accomplishments put in the Savings’ Bank 
 instead. It is a great waste of time and dollars to study.” 
 
 “Oh, Alicia!” exclaimed Lily; then she added, “Do you intend to marry?” 
 
 “I don’t intend to be an old maid,” said Alicia, bluntly. 
 
 “Why not?” 
 
 “Why not?” said Alicia, imitating LUy’s soft voice; “because there is a 
 prejudice in favor of marriage. There is no one I intend at this present 
 moment to honor with my hand, but I have no doubt there is somebody 
 waiting somewhere who is destined to impress me favorably, and to whom I 
 shall one day say, ‘Ask papa.’ ” 
 
 “Well, I can not understand,” said Lily, musingly, “that one should marry 
 any body except a person whom you have known a long while; and marriage 
 in the abstract—^just to think that you will probably marry, no one in 
 particular occurring to you—seems so queer.” 
 
 “Pshaw!” ejaculated Alicia, “you have the most extraordinary notions. I 
 am sure I don’t care to marry. It must be a dull business—almost as dull as 
 these wearisome days, which appear to grow longer instead of shorter. Let 
 us—” She stopped suddenly. A peculiar low whistle sounded beneath the 
 window of the front parlor, and came faintly to her ear. 
 
 She sprang up, and was about to enter the next room, which was darker 
 than the one in which they sat, but, changing her mind, she came toward the 
 piano, and, pushing Lily gently aside, said, 
 
 “If you will practice forever, let me help you with this, and then we can go 
 and take a walk afterward, if Madame will allow us.” 
 
 She struck a few bars rapidly. 
 
 “Why, Lily, what a fiiss about nothing! I declare it is as easy as this;” and 
 she played “Fly notyet—’tis just the hour,” and then broke into “Whistle and 
 I’ll come to you, my lad,” touching the keys with a skillful hand. 
 
 As she paused again, again the low whistle sounded, and this time Lily 
 heard it too. 
 
 72 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Oh stop, Alicia! Some passer-by is attracted by your brilliant perfor¬ 
 mance, and is presuming to answer it. Keep to my piece.” 
 
 “I tell you what, my love,” answered Alicia, striking a few notes at random, 
 “if you will leave this tiresome old music till to-morrow morning, and go to 
 walk with me now, I will teach you every line of it then. The sun is nearly 
 down; I wish some things at Hauel’s, and, if you will ask Madame’s permis¬ 
 sion, and promise in my name that I will be as ‘sage’ as yourself, she will allow 
 us to go out together.” 
 
 Lily was not very loth, so they proceeded to make the request, which 
 Madame granted, adding to Miss Clarendon, 
 
 “Je te conseille, ma fiUe, de suivre I’exemple de ma chere Lily. Promenez- 
 toi en demoiselle bien elevee, et ne regardez point les flaneurs.” 
 
 Oh, Madame!” exclaimed her pupil, casting down her pretty brown eyes, 
 and speaking in French good enough to please and to mollify her in¬ 
 structress, “what makes you think that I look at people in the street?” 
 
 Madame nodded her head sagaciously. “My eyes see every thing, though I 
 do wear spectacles, chere enfant. And where are those same lunettes?” she 
 added, turning round in all directions, while Lily suggested “her pocket,” 
 which, after due search, did produce the articles in question, though Ma¬ 
 dame persisted that they were not there, and had overturned every book and 
 paper on the table beside her before she would consent to follow Lily’s 
 advice. “Les voila!” she exclaimed, placing them on her well-defined nose, 
 and fixing her penetrating, handsome, coffee-colored eyes on Alicia, while 
 she patted the young lady’s smooth-braided hair. “You like to see who is 
 looking at you, ma chere Alice. I do not need my spectacles to find that out;” 
 and her mind reverting to her recent hunt, she ejaculated, “Que Dieu vous 
 preserve la vue, mes enfants,” and dismissed them with a kiss apiece. 
 
 The girls occupied a room together, and thither they now flew to make 
 their toilets. Alicia ran first to the window, and peeped over the blinds into 
 the street. Apparently what she saw pleased her, for a smile was dancing all 
 over her face as she selected her prettiest dress, and laid out her most 
 becoming bonnet and mantle. 
 
 “Pray, Lily, make haste,” she said several times, and at last they were both 
 ready. 
 
 “Why are you so impatient?” inquired Lily. 
 
 “It is late,” answered Miss Clarendon. “I wish to buy several things, and 
 Madame does not let us go out alone so often that we need waste the few 
 hours that we have.” 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 73 
 
“And if she thinks that you look at young gentlemen,” remarked Lily, 
 smiling mischievously, “adieu to future walks, unless we go with the whole 
 troop of our schoolmates when les classes are again in full operation.” They 
 opened the street door as Lily said this, and Alicia, after one quick glance in 
 the opposite direction, called her companion’s attention to the block of 
 houses facing them. 
 
 “Did you know,” she inquired, “that formerly these houses were called 
 ‘Carolina Row?’ such numbers of our country people occupied and owned 
 them.” 
 
 Talking of home and home concerns, they pursued their way and entered 
 Chestnut Street, Lily’s unsuspicious mind never imagining that the saunter¬ 
 ing walk of a tall, handsome man, who was loftily progressing on the other 
 side of the street, had any connection with their promenade. 
 
 Alicia was very demure and very proper. She spoke in a low tone, kept her 
 eyes in their legitimate direction, and behaved in a way to have perfectly 
 reassured Madame’s fears. 
 
 At the perfumer’s they stopped, and Alicia produced a Ust a quarter of 
 a yard in length. She wanted pomade, eau lustrale, hair-pins, perfumes, 
 soaps—you would have supposed that both fire and water had aided to sweep 
 away and destroy the whole contents of her dressing-box with one storm. 
 
 The pretty little Frenchified shopwoman, with graceful empressement, 
 produced samples of the first article, and Alicia commenced her selection. 
 
 Every pot of pomade was turned, twisted, examined, smelt. Alicia’s dainty 
 kid glove first approached the surface of the smooth, perfumed moell de bceuf, 
 then she drew off the delicate gant de Paris, and with the ends of her small 
 taper fingers felt the grain of the blessed unctuous compound destined to 
 assist in the shining structure of her dark tresses. 
 
 At this instant a manly step sounded beside them, and a deep grave voice 
 said, 
 
 “Some pomade?” 
 
 Lily turned almost involuntarily, and was struck with the beauty and 
 stature of the new-comer; but Alicia called upon her to decide “which jar was 
 prettiest, since all were equally good.” 
 
 She had not looked at the stranger, who now was obliged to join them at 
 the same counter, and who was objecting to the strong fragrance of the 
 article which another and still prettier grisette offered him. 
 
 “Give me some a la vanille blanche," he said; “such violent perfumes are so 
 vulgar!” 
 
 74 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
The well-bred Frenchwoman glanced hastily at the elegant young lady 
 who had just laid aside a cut-glass jar of the condemned "fleur d’orange" and, 
 as if accidentally, the gentleman looked in the same direction. 
 
 With a faint exclamation of surprise, he removed his hat, and bowing 
 profoundly, a movement which he executed with peculiar grace and extraor¬ 
 dinary respect, said, 
 
 “Miss Clarendon, I believe?” 
 
 Alicia returned his bow with a momentary expression of uncertainty, and 
 then smiling as if a gleam of recollection had darted through her mind, 
 
 “I beg your pardon; I did not at first recognize you.” 
 
 Lily looked and felt surprise. She touched Alicia’s arm with a warning 
 pressure. 
 
 “Are you alone?” asked the gentleman. 
 
 “No,” answered Alicia; “my friend, I may almost say, my sister. Miss Vere, 
 is with me. Lily,” turning round, “allow me to introduce Mr. Barclay.” 
 
 Once more the hat was removed from the stately brow, and short, black, 
 wavy hair, and the tall, haughty figure bent itself in grave courtesy. 
 
 He was very handsome—what is called “a splendid-looking man”—large 
 and powerfully made, with well-proportioned hands and feet; his eyes were 
 dark and expressive, but the general expression was one which those men 
 whom he eclipsed, and those women whom he neglected, pronounced 
 “disagreeable.” On the contrary, those ladies whom he “adored” considered 
 the eyes irresistible, and would allow them no rival but his mouth, which was 
 of a beautiful but voluptuous cut. His teeth were not of a dead white, but had 
 that slight, unbroken sallow tinge, which, like certain skins and colors, lights 
 up at night to a dazzling whiteness; while his mustache looked like floss silk 
 dipped in India ink, admirably suiting the bronzed shade of his smooth 
 cheek. 
 
 The peculiarity of his appearance was a certain nameless degage, don’t- 
 care-a-straw carriage, which seemed to be the foundation on which he had 
 built the loftiest, most dignified, and yet most insolent manner. Looking at 
 him, you were at a loss to decide whether the first or the last were his natural 
 self—whether he was born and educated for a handsome rowdy, and overlaid 
 it with this assumption of haughtiness, or whether he had chosen on his 
 stately basis to graft these opposite qualities. 
 
 In a word, if you liked him, you could find a thousand charms in his 
 appearance, and if you chanced to dislike him, you could turn every beauty 
 into disparagement. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 75 
 
Before her acquaintance had fiilly accomplished his elaborately respectful 
 bow, which was far from being a mocking one, but which really seemed the 
 expression of his deep consideration for “the sex,” and his personal convic¬ 
 tion of the effect that he was making by showing this respect, Alicia had 
 found time to whisper to Lily, “I’ll tell you about him presently.” 
 
 But Harry Barclay had no idea of allowing those earnest blue eyes to 
 wonder any more, or to permit that calm reasoning power which he (a good 
 judge of character from countenance) saw lay under her feminine exterior to 
 decide for itself about this meeting; so he remarked to Lily, 
 
 “I have not had this happiness before. Miss Vere. I met Miss Clarendon 
 last June at a small tea-drinking, given, I think, to both of you, but from 
 which indisposition prevented your assisting.” 
 
 “Don’t you remember Mrs. Elliott’s invitation, dear?” put in Ahcia; “such 
 a nice party!” 
 
 “Yes, perfectly,” said Lily, smihng; “but I think you told me then that it 
 was rather duU.” 
 
 “Oh! things improve as you look back upon them,” said Harry Barclay. “I 
 trust that I do not interfere with your shopping,” he added, with sudden 
 recollection; “but, if I might be permitted to join you in your walk, and see 
 you safely home afterward, I should feel very proud of the honor. I do not 
 know if Madame — allows such attentions, but Mrs. Elliott wiU be answer- 
 able to her for my good behavior and my trustworthy quahties.” 
 
 “Mrs. Elliott is not in town,” said Lily, gravely disapproving. 
 
 “I beg your pardon; she returned from Saratoga a week ago. I had the 
 pleasure of meeting her in New York, and we reached Philadelphia in 
 company.” 
 
 “Oh yes, Lily,” said Alicia, coaxingly, in a low tone; “where is the harm?” 
 
 Lily could not exactly say where, but she yielded against her better 
 judgment, remarking gently, 
 
 “It is getting late.” 
 
 “Help me, then,” said Alicia, tearing off the half of her paper list, and 
 thrusting it into Miss Vere’s hand; “choose those for me while I am getting 
 these.” And her next purchase required a move to the opposite counter, 
 leaving Lily where she was. 
 
 “So you have come back at last!” were Miss Alicia’s first words, in a 
 reproachful tone, to her tall “acquaintance,” who strode leisurely after her, 
 and stood looking down du haut de sa grandeur upon the pretty, pettish little 
 girl, whose small and graceful figure did not reach his elbow. 
 
 “At last!” echoed Mr. Barclay; “have you wished to see me sooner?” 
 
 76 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
A tender look from the pensionnaire, whom Madame had suspected of 
 such accomplishments, was her only answer. Then she said, 
 
 “I staid here all summer, thinking that you would soon return from 
 Virginia with your health quite restored, otherwise I should never have 
 consented to give up Mrs. Langdon’s invitation—I don’t like this soap: let me 
 see some more—Matilda Browne gave me your message yesterday, and by 
 your whistle under the window and presence now, I suppose she gave you my 
 note in return?” 
 
 “She did, and cross enough it was too. What a little vixen you are! But the 
 winding up was better.” 
 
 “Did you destroy it?” asked Alicia, eagerly, hoping to hear “No.” 
 
 “Certainly; I tore it up, and threw the scraps into one of those horrid 
 American inventions for a people who use tobacco in all shapes.” 
 
 Every fibre in Alicia’s lady-like organization revolted against such a 
 receptacle for the ashes of an almost billet-doux, and Master Harry Barclay 
 was never nearer the loss of a conquest than at that moment; but jealousy 
 saved him. 
 
 “What a lovely creature Miss Vere is!” he went on, noticing Alicia’s 
 darkening brow. “She looks so sweet-tempered!” 
 
 “Have you come here to talk about Lily’s beauty?” 
 
 “No, I have come to admire anew Alicia’s beauty,” said Mr. Barclay, 
 imitating her defiant, spoiled-child tone. “What are you angry about? You 
 are the most difficult creature to please! Here I have occupied two hours of 
 this warm afternoon, first waiting under the windows of Madame —’s select 
 pensionnat de demoiselles, running the risk of losing my character, and passing 
 for a dissipated youth, who flirts with budding school-girls; then sitting in 
 the apothecary’s shop at the corner, drinking minute glasses of soda-water 
 (which might well have served as ‘minute guns’ of distress from a ship fast 
 sinking in despair), while uncertain whether to go or stay—whether you were 
 making a toilet of unexampled freshness, or whether Madame was inexora¬ 
 ble, and you never meant to come at all! After all this, you receive me with a 
 frown that makes a great ridge down your forehead, and frightens that poor 
 shop-woman into fits.” 
 
 Alicia smiled relentingly, and, seeing Lily approaching, began diligently 
 to select her purchases, while Harry stooped to examine some trinket within 
 the counter, and murmured close in the small, curved ear, tucked away in her 
 white chip bonnet, “This is so like you! We meet for half an hour, and you 
 take twenty-five minutes to get through your first scold.” 
 
 “Come, Alicia,” said Lily, her hands full of small packages; and in a short 
 
 LI ly: a no vel 77 
 
time the whole list was gone through, the address given, and the party left 
 Hauel’s, Mademoiselle Cdeste saying to Mademoiselle Alphonsine as they 
 went out, 
 
 “Voila M. Barclay lance une autre fois! Elle est jolie cette petite derniere.” 
 
 LUy felt very uncomfortable. She knew that Madame’s rules were strict, 
 and yet how could she make up her mind to tell this stalwart, lazy, haughty, 
 handsome gentleman, who walked beside them, that he must go, and 
 thereby deeply anger Alicia, who set no bounds upon her wrath when 
 thwarted? 
 
 Mr. Barclay proposed a sorbet at Parkinson’s, but Lily steadily refused. 
 
 “Then I shall go alone, Lily,” said Alicia, decidedly. “We are not babies. 
 This is vacation too. You know that if we were not under Madame’s care, we 
 could go and eat as many ices as we chose, with a regiment of young 
 dragoons to escort us. Although we are still at school, we are old enough to 
 know what is in itself right and proper, and to guide our actions accordingly. 
 Do you think that ice cream is a sin?” 
 
 The result was, that Lily found herself at Parkinson’s, and very silently 
 swallowed her sorbet; but Mr. Barclay was so perfectly well-bred, so much at 
 his ease, so respectful, so deferential, and, at the same time, so agreeable, that 
 she found herself enjoying his society, and forgetting the reproofs awaiting 
 them at home. 
 
 At the corner of the street next to Madame’s establishment. Miss Claren¬ 
 don paused and dismissed their escort, who bowed and withdrew, though 
 Lily longed to catch him by the skirts of his coat, and to insist upon his 
 taking them to the door. This clandestine parting augured badly for a full 
 confession to Madame, and, sure enough, Alicia began, so soon as they 
 resumed their walk, 
 
 “Now, my dearest Lily, you do not intend to mention Harry Barclay to 
 Madame?” 
 
 “Indeed I do.” 
 
 “You are, without exception,” exclaimed Alicia, coloring violently, “the 
 most strait-laced, tiresome girl! Pray teU me, did we not, in Charleston, and 
 during our travels last summer, walk constantly with young men? and did we 
 not, two years ago, on Sulhvan’s Island, run races, and stroll about forever 
 with dozens of youths? That was not thought wrong, why should this be?” 
 
 “It was not forbidden by those in authority over us,” said Lily, gently. “We 
 never concealed it, which proved that there was nothing hurtful in so doing. 
 Depend upon it, my dear Alicia, our own feelings guide us more unerringly 
 in all cases than the reiterated commands and injunctions of our protectors 
 
 78 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
and guardians—our parents, if we have any. From childhood up, we can 
 almost always be sure that those of our actions which we would hide from 
 the knowledge of our elders are tinctured in a more or less degree with 
 impropriety. Sometimes we perform a good deed of which we do not boast, 
 but we would not fear to have it known.” 
 
 “Do join the Quakers, and ‘let the Spirit move you’ frequently to exhort,” 
 said Miss Clarendon, contemptuously. “How you do prose!” 
 
 “Dearest Alice!” exclaimed Lily, using her pet name for her guardian’s 
 daughter, and throwing her arms about her, for they had now reached home 
 and were safe in their own little apartment, “dearest Alice, listen to me. I am 
 not suspicious, I trust, but I am not utterly blind and foolish. At first I 
 thought this afternoon that this meeting was accidental, but too great an 
 intimacy exists between this gentleman and yourself for me to believe that 
 you have only seen him once before, and that at a formal evening party. Your 
 whispers at the opposite counter, the significant smiles exchanged between 
 those two Frenchwomen, and a certain air on both sides, convince me that 
 you have entered into a foolish flirtation, in which you can but gain much 
 discredit. Who is this Mr. Harry Barclay? and where have you seen and 
 learned to know him?” 
 
 Alicia pouted, shook off Lily’s embrace, and trotted her foot angrily. 
 
 “I do not wish to force your confidence, my darling, nor bribe you into 
 being candid with me; but if you will explain this affair, we may consult about 
 it, and probably we can decide to bring it to a more respectable conclusion, 
 without waking Madame’s ire.” 
 
 Still the little Spanishly perfect foot wearied itself, and the proud owner 
 remained obstinately silent. Alicia Clarendon was inclined to sulkiness, and 
 a fit of this most unendurable temperament was upon her. But not Annot 
 Lyle’s magic instrument had greater power over the moody Highland chief, 
 or that more ancient harpist, David, over the fretted soul of his king and 
 predecessor, than Lily Vere’s sweet and soothing accents over those who 
 listened. There was such a spirit of truth, gentleness, suavity, persuasion in 
 her low, heart-seeking voice. 
 
 Her words were like those of an old ballad, sung to an old melody, 
 remembered since the day you lay upon your mother’s knees. Simple words— 
 not eloquent, not poetic, but stirring your inward nature, and awakening 
 your best and least earthly sentiments. 
 
 “You would not quarrel with me for a stranger, dear Alice, and you do not 
 fancy that I wish to be unkind or tyrannical. I am the elder, you know, and 
 ought to assist you to think. It is thoughtlessness and girlish vanity which has 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 79 
 
led you on. TeU me about it or not, as you choose. I shall say no more; and, 
 unless you were to repeat this walk, I shall never mention it. If uncle were to 
 discover that you had been talked about for a Mr. Barclay, he would surely 
 decide that I had ill repaid him for his kindness to myself Not that I consider 
 my own feelings, except as regards you. I could not bear that my darling 
 Alice should lose her own self-respect, which she would do by permitting 
 these clandestine attentions. In a little while you wUl be a ‘young lady,’ and 
 ready to receive the open and undisguised homage of twenty Mr. Barclays. 
 Now it is over, and we are friends again, querida mia.” 
 
 The loving, tender arms stole once more around Alicia’s averted neck, and 
 Lily’s pure, innocent lips kissed her friend on cheek and brow. Ahcia was 
 subdued. She played a second with the ribbons of her bonnet, and then, 
 hastily untying them, and tossing the airy perfection upon her bed, she 
 caught Lily’s hand, who had moved away, and said, “Come here, snow-bird, 
 and I win tell you all about it.” 
 
 Miss Vere gladly obeyed; and Alicia, slowly rolling and unrolling one of 
 Lily’s long ringlets about her fore-finger as she spoke, continued: 
 
 “You know Mrs. Elliott, remembering mamma’s kindness to her at Niag¬ 
 ara last year, asked us to tea in June, just before she went away, and you could 
 not go. You had a headache, and I accepted alone. It was rather dull work at 
 first, just as I told you. The parlors were so dark you could scarcely see your 
 hand; for, after the tea-table was removed, they turned down the gas to a 
 little red bead, so that the rooms might be the cooler for it, and one groped 
 about in a gloomy kind of twilight, with no music, nor cards, nor any thing. 
 The rest of the company did not seem to find it stupid, however, for every 
 body knew every body, and they sat about in corners, or strolled into the 
 garden, and laughed and talked as merrily as possible, while the fans flut¬ 
 tered as if it were a TertuUia of West Indian beauties. Mrs. Elliott talked to 
 me about the school and the girls, and bored me to death, as if I had not 
 enough of them at home. At last she was called off, and I sat quite forlorn till 
 Miss Elliott came to do a little propriety too, and she asked me about the 
 school and the girls all over again, precisely as her mother had done. What 
 makes people who invite unhappy tenants of pensionnats always drive at 
 them about their ‘studies’ and their ‘schoolmates?’ ” 
 
 “What other topic can they choose?” suggested Ldy, smiling. 
 
 “Very true. Well, when Miss Elliott got upon music-teachers, you may 
 imagine how weary I was of the business from my eagerly launching out into 
 praise of Rhinehart, and actually consenting to show what proficiency I had 
 made rather than continue in this agreeable Inquisition-victim chair. So I sat 
 
 8 o SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
down to the piano, and performed a series of things, and, getting sentimen 
 tal, I played a few of your languishing favorites, feeling emboldened by the 
 ‘darkness visible’ around me. When I stopped, Mrs. Elliott brought up a 
 freshly-arrived gentleman and introduced him. I could only distinguish a 
 great, tall creature, who bowed profoundly, and took a place beside me.” 
 
 Alicia gave a mg at the golden curl, and Lily, quietly disengaging her belle 
 chevelure, said, 
 
 “Mr. Harry Barclay?” 
 
 “Just so. He knew Matilda Browne, and she had mentioned me to him. 
 He began a very flirty conversation, though he does not pay compliments 
 except by his manner and look. I suppose I encouraged him, for he kept his 
 seat during the remainder of the evening, except when we took a mrn in the 
 garden, where he managed, by the moonbeams, to find out that I was not di- 
 looking, and where I discovered that he was very handsome. He is handsome, 
 isn’t he, Ldy?” 
 
 “Y-e-s,” answered Lily, musingly and doubtfully. 
 
 “Oh! I know he has not sharp eyes, and a sallow skin, with thin lips; nor is 
 he slight and slender,” said Alicia, laughing, for that was Clarence Tracy’s 
 signalement. Ldy shook her head, and Alicia went on. 
 
 “Several times Mrs. Elliott looked as if she wished to break up the 
 conference, but I had no idea of‘resuming my smdies’ again, and Mr. Barclay 
 stood firm, and the evening would come to an end, and the carriage brought 
 me home. The next Monday (this was on Friday evening) Matdda handed 
 me a rose, with some foolish message from Mr. Barclay, who had been 
 paying a visit to her sister; and after that, when I got leave once to walk with 
 her, and on the two occasions when I dined at the Brownes, Mr. Barclay was 
 there. You know you do not like Matilda, and you always refused their 
 invitations; and, I must confess—” 
 
 “That you never pressed me to accept them.” 
 
 Alicia laughed. 
 
 “Some body must have told Madame about him, for she is so watchful and 
 strict, she will not let me dine any more with Matilda, and looked so 
 narrowly at her yesterday when she came to see me. Now that is all, LUy.” 
 
 “A bad business, my dear;” and Lily looked grave. “I fear Mr. Harry 
 Barclay is a fortune-hunter, and these underbred Brownes his aiders and 
 abettors. He takes advantage of your youth and inexperience; and, if he finds 
 that you have wealth to match your beauty, he will try to secure his prize. If 
 not, it is only a school-girl flirtation.” 
 
 Alicia was scornfully indignant. 
 
 lily: a novel 8 i 
 
“No, indeed. He may be a flirt, but he is not a fortune-hunter.” 
 
 “Very well, darling, as you will,” said wise Lily, pressing the matter no 
 farther, but determined to be very careful of Alicia for the future. “Let us go 
 and show ourselves to Madame, teU her that we have eaten an ice, conse¬ 
 quently do not mind losing our tea, and have been at home half an hour.” 
 
 But Madame, with her usual kind thoughtfulness, had kept their evening 
 meal spread for them in the dining-room, apologizing to herself, as she 
 always did for extra spoiling, that it was holiday-time, never considering 
 that, had it been during any other portion of the year, she would have acted 
 in the like manner, urging that well-worked school-girls should be plen¬ 
 tifully fed. For, strict and positive as she was, never did there beat a kinder or 
 a more judicious heart than in the bosom of Madame —. 
 
 While drinking her cup of milk, cooled with a huge lump of ice, Ahcia 
 washed down any pangs of self-reproach which lingered about her at her 
 shortened and partial confession. Not one word had she said of her note, of 
 the signal beneath the window, of the nearly lover-like terms on which they 
 stood. 
 
 Many persons will doubt the existence of such consummate hypocrisy and 
 finished coquetry in one so young, brought up so quietly; a few wLU decide at 
 once upon the cause—“boarding-schools! those curses, those pests! those 
 terrible abiding-places of iniquity!” 
 
 Patience, my friends—if not, justice! Alicia Clarendon was born a flirt- 
 born with an especial turn for sentimental intrigue. When she was five years 
 old, she cut off a strand of her ebon braid to bestow upon Charley Murray, a 
 youth of eight, and never till she was married did she reveal the secret. At 
 eleven she received and wrote childish love-letters in a big, sprawling hand, 
 and at fourteen she considered herself “engaged” to Bill Jennings, whom she 
 smiled upon simply to draw him away from Sara Purvis, whose devoted boy- 
 attendant he had long been. All these little affairs, and many intermediate 
 ones, she never told, but delighted to know and keep to herself 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Clarendon, good soul! saw that her daughter’s health 
 was excellent, her dresses clean, her face smiling, and, busied with her 
 pantry, her poultry, and her preserves, she asked and looked no farther. 
 While Alicia was an infant, and while, consequently, a good and trustworthy 
 nurse was her principal want, Mrs. Clarendon could not be torn from the 
 child’s cradle; and even a httle later, every step must be guarded by the 
 mother alone. The physical education was perfect, but the mental—ah me! 
 Who can import for us some mothers to watch over the intellect, the 
 
 82 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
budding wishes, thoughts, aspirations, and evil tendencies of giddy, grave, 
 clever, dull young maidens? 
 
 Difficult, dangerous, but necessary task! 
 
 ® CHAPTER XII 
 
 Alicia’s behavior was so circumspect during the next few weeks that Lily 
 had great hopes about her, and was finally convinced that Mr. Harry Bar¬ 
 clay’s reign was over, and this foolish, imprudent affair at an end. 
 
 The time for Mr. Clarendon’s arrival was drawing near, the school duties 
 were in full force, and Madame was alternately urging and encouraging her 
 two favorite pupils (if favorites she had) to waste no moments that were now 
 so precious. 
 
 It was Saturday, and Lily was suffering from a headache, which made her 
 prefer her own darkened room to any scheme of pleasure (such innocent 
 pleasure as the half holiday brings to bread and butter misses), when Miss 
 Clarendon entered their mutual apartment on tiptoe. 
 
 “Are you asleep, dear?” she said, bending over Lily. “Here is an invitation 
 from Mrs. Elliott, who wishes us to dine and spend the evening with her. 
 Madame consents, and the carriage, her servant says, will come for us at two 
 o’clock.” 
 
 “I shall be obliged to decline again,” said Lily, drowsily, and yet noticing 
 through her half-shut eyes a tremulous, eager, mischievous smile, which 
 hovered about Alicia’s face. “Make my excuses, Alicia. I am glad you have so 
 pleasant an invitation offered, and I really regret that my only headaches 
 should occur whenever Mrs. Elliott thinks of us.” 
 
 Scarcely expressing her own regret. Miss Clarendon flew off to give the 
 answer, and on her return, Lily heard her dancing down the corridor, 
 humming in the most joyous key, and making amends by the excellence of 
 her time for the harshness of her voice. 
 
 She moved noiselessly about the floor during the progress of her toilet, 
 and said nothing, except an occasional “Poor dear!” as she would pass Lily in 
 her journeyings to and fro; but Lily was still a little surprised to perceive, 
 when her face was visible, that it was yet dimpling over with the brightest 
 smiles. 
 
 “You do not seem to dread Mrs. and Miss Elliott’s questions about the 
 school?” 
 
 “Not much. I shall insist upon their talking of Saratoga.” 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 83 
 
“They have not given very long notice in their invitation?” 
 
 “Not very. It is nearly two o’clock now. I suppose they have just remem¬ 
 bered that this is Saturday.” 
 
 “You seem to anticipate a pleasant day?” 
 
 “Your head must be worse,” riposted Alicia, turning round, and giving a 
 hasty roll to her luxuriant black hair. “I never knew you put so many 
 unnecessary questions before.” 
 
 Lily was silenced, and presently Alicia went on: 
 
 “Any thing is better than passing the whole afternoon in this stupid place. 
 Every one is gone or going out; you are indisposed; so that even the Elliotts 
 are a relief” 
 
 “How pretty your new silk is!” said Lily; “and you look so high-bred in it. 
 Come nearer, darling. How well it fits you! My uncle will be very proud 
 when he comes. And he will have nothing to hear but praises of you, Alice. 
 That only little folly! you have quite abandoned it?” 
 
 Alice stooped and kissed Miss Vere without answering, except by a smile 
 and a tap on Lily’s cheek. 
 
 “Adieu, ‘airy, fairy Ldian!’ Be quite well when I return, for I hear the 
 carriage rattling to the door, and I must be off.” Waving another kiss to her 
 friend. Miss Clarendon caught up her gloves and handkerchief, and disap¬ 
 peared. 
 
 Imagine Lily’s consternation when, some few hours after, the maid who 
 answered the street bell knocked for admittance, and handed her a card. 
 
 “The lady asks for you, miss. She says she knows as Miss Clarendon is not 
 here.” 
 
 The card bore on its grayish, fashionable, unpolished surface, 
 
 “Mrs. I. Carleton Elliott.” 
 
 “Here? down stairs? alone?” gasped Lily, hurriedly rising, and drawing the 
 strings of her dressing-gown, while her trembling hands next attempted to 
 arrange her collar and smooth her scattered curls. 
 
 In a second she was in the drawing-room, and holding out her arms 
 imploringly, 
 
 “What is the matter with Alicia?” she said. “My dear Mrs. Elliott, tell 
 me. 
 
 A broad and puzzled stare was Mrs. Elliott’s first unmistakable reply. She 
 glanced in amazement at Lily’s costume, and said, 
 
 “Indeed, there is nothing the matter, unless it has happened during the 
 last ten minutes, which can have seriously affected Miss Clarendon. I think 
 just that time has elapsed since I saw her walking in Chestnut Street, and as 
 
 84 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
you were not with her, I concluded that you must be at home, so I came to 
 offer a drive. Will you go? What made you fancy, my dear Miss Vere, that 
 some accident had occurred, or that I knew of it?” 
 
 Lily strove to regain her composure. 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was almost asleep, having suffered during 
 the whole morning from a tedious headache. The servant told me that you 
 knew of Alicia’s absence, and wished only me. I fancied—being aware- 
 thinking— Who is with Alicia?” she abruptly wound up. 
 
 “The eldest Miss Browne—one of the Brownes, of Walnut Street—those 
 dashing ‘men’s beauties.’ Did you not know that your friend was with them?” 
 and Mrs. Elliott’s curiosity overcame her good-breeding, for she narrowly 
 watched Lily’s face. 
 
 A hot blush overspread the young girl’s brow as she stammeringly an¬ 
 swered, 
 
 “I have been stupidly ill to-day, and I have misunderstood what Alicia 
 said. Pray excuse my extraordinary behavior and costume,” she added, 
 wrapping her dressing-gown more closely. “It makes me anxious indeed to 
 dream even for a moment, and with my eyes open, that Alicia is in danger of 
 any sort.” 
 
 “Ahem!” coughed Mrs. EUiott, with a little significant sound. 
 
 “I am not so much older than Alicia in reality, but I feel the weight of years 
 and responsibility more than she,” Lily continued, forcing a smile; “conse¬ 
 quently, while we are here alone, I have a sort of motherly watchfulness and 
 anxiety about her.” 
 
 Mrs. Elliott thought so lovely a young creature had never lived as Lily 
 looked at this instant, her large, light curls hanging in transparent masses 
 about her shoulders, a pink flush, deepening to scarlet, in the centre of her 
 cheek and on her lips, and a feverish light glittering in her blue eyes. 
 
 “You wiU drive with me, I hope? I have a visit to make in the neighbor¬ 
 hood which will just occupy me while you dress; consequently, without 
 excuses, d tantot." 
 
 No sooner were they in the carriage than Mrs. Elliott said, with a little 
 hesitation, 
 
 “I may be taking a liberty, my dear, but will you allow me to ask you a 
 question? How old is Miss Clarendon?” 
 
 “Not quite seventeen—six months my junior,” answered Lily, frankly. 
 
 “Can I put another question? Do you know any thing of Mr. Harry 
 Barclay?” 
 
 “My kind Mrs. Elliott,” said Lily, grasping her hand, “if you wLU be good 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 85 
 
enough to tell me something about him, I shall be very much obhged to you, 
 and if you wiU guide me a little— This is scarcely an answer to your question; 
 but I can guess at what you mean, my own mind being quite occupied with 
 this very subject. I am, perhaps, too candid with an almost stranger, but there 
 is no one here to whom I can apply for advice, and to write to my uncle 
 Clarendon and arouse his suspicions would put an eternal source of disagree¬ 
 able feelings between my dear Ahcia and me. You have either noticed for 
 yourself or heard of his attentions to Ahcia; if he is worthy of her, and wiU 
 wait a few weeks until she leaves school, then he can renew his devotions 
 without their exciting the animadversions of the world. Her father is a man 
 never hkely to thwart his only daughter’s wishes, if she wiU but make a 
 respectable and prudent choice.” A shght smile played around Mrs. EUiott’s 
 starched hps, and she looked a moment out of the carriage windows before 
 she rephed, not wishing to distress her companion by showing her own 
 amusement whUe Miss Vere’s agitation was so evident. 
 
 “You have answered my question very plainly, my dear, by speaking of 
 Harry Barclay in the light of a marrying man. It is evident you know nothing 
 of him. He is a young gentleman who has passed through a series of 
 flirtations and ‘desperate love-affairs’ that have sufficed to give him the 
 character of a downright ‘heart-breaker.’ He has enough money to hve upon 
 comfortably as a ‘young man about town,’ and has proved in so many 
 instances that he prefers his Uberty to no matter what high matrimonial 
 prizes, that it would be a losing bet to stake a sixpence upon any young lady’s 
 serious captivation of him. He is a terrible flirt, and yet takes no trouble 
 about it. There are so many siUy women and girls ready to run after him, 
 ‘tame enough to perch so soon as he holds out his finger,’ that he walks along, 
 gathering a string of victims, like a saunterer through an orchard, with the 
 ripe peaches and pears faffing about his feet. He will let Miss Clarendon 
 receive his lazy homage, and accept her attentions in return, until some 
 newer beauty arises, or until she worries him with fault-findings; then he will 
 take off his hat with profound courtesy, and take likewise his leave.” 
 
 Ldy colored indignantly. 
 
 “What a detestable man!” she cried, with honest disgust. 
 
 “Not so, my dear,” resumed Mrs. Elliott, warming to her subject and 
 doing it justice, for she was really a clever woman, and a kind-hearted, 
 though a little cold and patronizing; “not so, my dear. Harry Barclay is not 
 naturally conceited nor very indifferent; that is, not more so than most men 
 with a quarter of his personal and mental advantages; he is only spoiled and 
 selfish. Your little cousin—excuse me—is just as great a flirt as Harry Barclay, 
 
 86 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
and will be, I think, quite as unscru—quite as—in short,” slurring over the 
 sentence, “she took to him at once, on first seeing him, and was quite ready to 
 flirt too, on his own terms. I am speaking very plainly, but it would be as well 
 to stop this business. Miss Clarendon was so attentive to me during Mary’s 
 illness at Niagara, and hailing, as we both do, from dear old Carolina, I feel 
 as if I might venture to warn you. The Club has taken up the story, and every 
 window on Walnut Street has some lounger who “knows all about it.” 
 
 Lily was in despair. 
 
 “But, after all,” she pleaded, trying to put down the unsparing criticism of 
 Mrs. Elliott, “there is still no positive harm in this. She has walked with him 
 occasionally—” 
 
 Mrs. Elliott gave her little cough again, and passed her thin, neatly-gloved 
 hand over her upper lip. 
 
 “Mr. Barclay’s reputation is not such that I should like a daughter of mine 
 to receive the ‘cachet’ of his admiration. If you were older, my dear Miss 
 Vere, I might teU you of a few of his escapades with married women. But, 
 however,” she interrupted herself, “I have said quite enough. I trust you do 
 not mistake my motive.” 
 
 “What would you advise?” asked poor Lily, quite subdued, while the 
 beating of her temples seemed to her almost audible. 
 
 “Since you prefer not applying to your uncle about your cousin—” 
 
 “One moment,” interrupted Lily. “Mr. Clarendon is not my uncle; he is 
 more to me than that. I owe him more than a mere blood relationship would 
 demand. He is my guardian, and has taken care of me since I was an orphan 
 six years old.” 
 
 “Better stiU,” continued Mrs. Elliott: “you then feel disposed to serve him 
 and his family. Now, from what I have seen of you, your propriety and 
 dignity of manner, your persuasive voice, and earnest tone, I have a plan of 
 my own. I saw you one day at Niagara reduce a set of staring men to modest 
 glances by the mere power of your calm look and womanly bearing, girl as 
 you are. You must speak to Harry Barclay.” 
 
 “I! good Heaven!” exclaimed Lily, starting up, to the detriment of the 
 pretty bonnet (a match to Alicia’s) which she had hastily thrown on for her 
 drive. 
 
 “Yes, you,” repeated Mrs. Elliott, calmly. “I will invite Mr. Barclay to tea 
 to-morrow evening, and you will do me the favor to come with Miss 
 Clarendon. I shall give you an opportunity of speaking to him, and I do not 
 doubt that, in spite of your ‘school-girl’ position, you will impress him.” 
 
 Lily ran over in her mind the pros and cons. Madame was out, and had not 
 
 lily: a novel 87 
 
seen her driving with Mrs. Elliott. She had merely asked leave of a sous- 
 maitresse, which was readily granted. She would frighten Alicia by telling of 
 her discovery, and by dealing gently with her it would perhaps induce the 
 wayward girl to listen once more to reason. She could give Madame some 
 explanation for the second visit, in such rapid succession, to Mrs. EUiott— 
 the true one, in fact, a person to be met, whose presence had not been 
 possible on Saturday. It would be a dreadful thing to talk with propriety 
 while facing Mr. Barclay—to bring him to task—to call him to account, and 
 to ask his forbearance for the future. But Alicia’s name was at stake. It was 
 evident that no one else meant to “do the deed.” 
 
 “Thank you, Mrs. EUiott, for your kind intentions, and I accept gratefiiUy 
 such a mark of interest and consideration for us,” LUy at last warmly said. 
 
 Mrs. EUiott winced a Uttle, for her conscience sUghtly murmured that 
 kindness was less the motive power than her predominant passion for 
 dipping her fingers into other people’s pies; however, her conscience was 
 rather tough on that score, and in this instance, although she reaUy pleased 
 herself by having a little “neighbor’s business” to manage, stiU the action was 
 commendable, and destined, she hoped, to be of use, and eventuaUy to be 
 crowned with success. 
 
 If LUy had been terrified and confounded by the announcement of Mrs. 
 Elliott’s visit at six o’clock, her amazement scarcely equaled Alicia’s when, on 
 that young lady’s return home at ten in the evening. Miss Vere quietly gave 
 her the invitation for the next day, without one syUable of explanation. 
 
 “Mrs. EUiott begs that we wiU take tea with her to-morrow.” 
 
 Miss Clarendon opened her eyes until the long lashes of the upper lid 
 threatened to invade her arched black eyebrows; and the smile which was, on 
 her entrance, irradiating her pretty face, faded and lengthened into uncon¬ 
 cealed wonder. In a moment she burst into a merry laugh, and said au¬ 
 daciously, 
 
 “So I am found out!” 
 
 “You have been with the Brownes?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “You deceived Madame and me?” 
 
 “Yes,” repeated Alicia, defyingly. “I am no longer a child, and both you 
 and Madame wish to keep me in leading-strings!” And this sentence was a 
 text from which she preached a long sermon against tyranny, caprice, preju¬ 
 dice, and a few other “lesser crimes,” which she proved, to her own satisfac¬ 
 tion, had been practiced upon her by Lily and by Madame. 
 
 “My dear Alicia,” Miss Vere said, when the charming vixen had gone 
 
 88 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
through her grievances, ending with a tear or two, provoked by her severe 
 trials, “my dear love, I do not pretend to control you; and unless Madame 
 should discover this business through some other source and question me, 
 she will never get a word from my lips. I have accepted the invitation for both 
 of us; good-night;” and Lily’s milky eyelids closed over her violet eyes like a 
 snowflake settling upon a cluster of blush roses, which simile, introducing in 
 two lines animal, vegetable, atmospheric, and floral beauties, simply means 
 that she went to sleep. 
 
 The next morning Madame was informed of the new engagement, and 
 offered no objections. Alicia remained sulky, but did not refuse to go, and 
 they went. 
 
 Mrs. Elliott’s drawing-rooms were well stored with albums, and etageres 
 of costly knick-knacks; so, while Lily was listening to the prosy details of 
 mother and daughter (who had not precisely that gift which lies in investing 
 trifles with charms). Miss Clarendon wandered from shelf to shelf, or pored 
 over sketches of the Rhine and costumes of Europe, which alternately filled 
 the pages of a richly-gilded and papier-mache-bound volume. 
 
 She was comparing this evening with her last, and inwardly yawning at 
 the contrast; for, of course, it is needless to say that Mr. Barclay had joined 
 Laura Browne and herself in their afternoon walk, and had accompanied 
 them home. His image only was before her eyes, though in reality they rested 
 upon the grim features of a Cossack chief, when, as if in answer to her 
 thoughts, Harry Barclay himself entered! 
 
 “What a clever creature!” she exclaimed within herself “How did he guess 
 that I was here?” and a radiant flush gathered upon her cheek as she bowed 
 without looking up. 
 
 The conversation was general and dull enough. 
 
 “Is this the company I am invited to meet?” thought Harry Barclay. “I 
 never suspected that Mamma EUiott would so amiably consult my tastes,” 
 and he gave a side-glance at the dark little fairy, so demure and so proper. 
 
 In a few moments one of those unexceptionable young men—one of those 
 safe youths, who might be trusted almost with, the flirt dearest to you—I say 
 almost, for you must not reckon without her part in the game—was an¬ 
 nounced. 
 
 He was mild and slim, with straight, light hair, looking always as if it had 
 just been submitted to the most thorough inroads of a “patent, self-cleaning, 
 fine-tooth comb,” and a large nose, which, big as it was, failed to give 
 character to his face. 
 
 Immediately after him followed a quick, jerking, not ill-looking and very 
 
 lily: a novel 89 
 
busy gentleman, whose eyes roamed around as if in search of some hidden 
 object, while his hands rapidly arranged the flossy curls given him by Nature, 
 or drew down and smoothed off the waistcoat, cravat, or coat, for which he 
 was indebted to his tailor, but which seemed equally parts of himself. 
 
 He spoke very quickly, bowing incessantly, and flourishing his hand¬ 
 kerchief now and then; giving you the minutest account of where he had 
 been, and where he was going, and where he would like to go. 
 
 During the bustle occasioned by their entrance, Mr. Barclay caught a look 
 from Ahcia, and moved toward her, seating himself in a huge chair next her 
 low causeuse, and gazing down upon her prettiness and coaxing ways, as you 
 might suppose a great Newfoundland dog would amuse himself with watch¬ 
 ing the graceful beauty of a coquettish littie Blenheim. 
 
 Not long did Alicia enjoy her tete-a-tete; for as to whether Harry Barclay 
 enjoyed it there is no saying. He took every thing so indifferently, that, 
 although he did not show anxiety to exchange her company for any body 
 else’s, yet he seemed to find only a lazy satisfaction in it, which apparently 
 partook more of endurance than of dehght. Be that as it may, Mrs. Elhott 
 interrupted the conversation by bringing up the second gentleman, whom 
 she presented as Mr. Greene, and who, dropping into a place beside Miss 
 Clarendon, despite the frown that lowered upon him, began a voluble detail 
 of the expected brUhancy of the following winter season, and of the past 
 glory of the preceding Saratoga gayety. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. EUiott stood up, talking to Mr. Barclay, who, hat in 
 hand, hstened with profound attention, and gave as many deep, respectful 
 glances to her parchment skin, and light, inexpressive eyes, as he had 
 bestowed languidly admiring ones upon the youthful loveliness of his pre¬ 
 vious companion. The hostess was bhnd to the angry curl of the young lady’s 
 lip, who would from time to time seek an answering look of encouragement 
 from the tail creature far above her head, but who could not snub off the 
 persevering Mr. Greene. 
 
 “You know how anxious I was about my box from Italy, Mr. Barclay? It has 
 arrived, and the cameos are arranged in the cabinet. Let me show them to 
 you. 
 
 Alicia almost cried as she saw Mrs. Elliott thus sweep Harry away, while 
 the intolerable Greene flirted his handkerchief, and launched out into praises 
 of somebody’s horses or somebody’s bouses, she did not care nor hear which. 
 
 She did\\e.2x Mrs. Elliott invite Lily to look at the cameos too, and the trio 
 disappeared behind the folding-doors (partially open) of the inner drawing¬ 
 room. 
 
 90 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
No sooner were Miss Vere and Mr. Barclay busily engaged in admiring 
 the cabinet, than the accomplished Mrs. Elliott was called out through a side 
 “exit,” unseen by those in the other room. 
 
 Poor Lily! how she trembled at the very idea of beginning. Her hands 
 nervously drummed upon the inlaid sides of the buhl cabinet, and Mr. 
 Barclay admired at his leisure her exquisite fairness, the abundant beauty of 
 her hair, the pure outline of her oval face, and the candid modesty that 
 seemed to perfume her very presence, and to be enthroned upon her smooth, 
 gentle brow. 
 
 “I may as well speak,” thought Lily; and, arming herself with a recollec¬ 
 tion of the importance of her duty, she commenced, in the lowest tone, 
 
 “I have seen you but once before, Mr. Barclay—” 
 
 “I beg your pardon?” said the gentleman, bending his ear to catch the 
 sound. 
 
 Lily cleared her throat, and said, more distinctly, 
 
 “I have seen you only once before, but I think I have not judged too hastily 
 in taking you for a person who has a—whose natural kindness of heart and 
 whose gentlemanly feeling will authorize this step—who will willingly agree 
 to my views.” 
 
 Harry bowed, and, much amazed, felt like muttering to himself, accord¬ 
 ing to De Balzac’s hero, “Quoi! cette futeresse aussi!” but in a second he 
 smiled at his own coxcombry. 
 
 “My guardian’s daughter—my dearest friend—is too giddy for her years,” 
 pursued Lily; “she is not aware yet of the difference between childish 
 attentions from boys who have grown up with her, and a flirtation with a 
 gentleman—like Mr. Barclay. Will you not aid me to set her right? She is not 
 conscious that walking with you, being seen with you, while she is still a 
 school-girl, exposes her to unkind remarks. In a very little while we shall 
 return home, and then—” Lily raised her eyes; no lover-like ardor was 
 perceptible in Alicia’s admirer, but, on the contrary, his brilliant teeth shone 
 below his black mustache in a faint smile of amusement, which vanished 
 when he caught Lily’s look. 
 
 “I do not care to mention this subject to Madame, nor to write of it to my 
 guardian. All that is necessary is that you should deprive yourself of the 
 pleasure of seeing Alicia, and that you should not encourage any oppor¬ 
 tunities of bringing you together. You will not think me bold or interfering, 
 but you will do justice to the feeling which has decided me to trust you?” 
 
 “A few words under some circumstances. Miss Vere,” replied Harry 
 Barclay, with real admiration, “show us the true beauties or defects of a 
 
 lily: a novel 91 
 
character better than months will often bring them to light. It is but the 
 second time that we have met, and yet, nevertheless, I feel as if I could draw 
 your inner self with an unerring pencil. You are right—you must always be 
 right—and I promise to act according to your wishes.” 
 
 “Yes; but Alicia?” inquired Lily. “You must explain to her that you think it 
 most proper to await her father’s arrival before renewing—” 
 
 She had made a false step. She had taken for granted that Mr. Barclay 
 wished to marry Alicia, and a surprised look from him showed her mistake, 
 and proved that she had compromised Miss Clarendon. Mrs. Elliott said 
 truly, Harry Barclay was not a marrying man, and Lily hated him for an 
 instant as he executed his well-feigned stare for explanation. 
 
 Tears filled her eyes, and she turned her head away sadly. Her pride was 
 wounded through and for Alicia. 
 
 With a manly tenderness which well became him, and which he rarely 
 displayed, Harry undertook to console her. 
 
 “You are annoyed,” he said. “Let me deal as frankly with you as I would 
 with my sister—if I had one. You are displeased that there should be nothing 
 serious in my attentions to Miss Clarendon, and think that I have been 
 trifling with her. Excuse me; we are to speak candidly, and I wish to correct 
 your mistake. There is no stronger feefing on her side than on mine, take my 
 word for it. I met her by accident in this very house, and recognized her as a 
 young lady who had already attracted my attention in the street, as much for 
 her beauty as because she was walking with a young girl not ‘in society,’ and 
 whose flirting habits I know.” 
 
 “Matilda Browne? People whom we met traveling a year ago, and whose 
 manners I always disliked. They insisted upon knowing us.” 
 
 “Miss Clarendon is very bright, very pretty, and, conscious of her powers, 
 she lays siege to every heart. Finding no one else at hand, she honored me 
 with her smiles; but I am not sufficiently vain to construe her lively salhes 
 and her occasional girlish preference of my society into a ‘belle passion’ for 
 me. Any one would have answered just as well to stand the brunt of her 
 whims and her little playful confidences.” 
 
 “Do you really believe that?” asked Lily, fairly in for it. “She has never 
 confided in me so far as you are concerned.” 
 
 Again the saucy smile brought out a feminine dimple on Mr. Barclay’s 
 brown, rounded cheek. 
 
 “Indeed I do,” he answered, with emphasis upon the “deed.” 
 
 “Why do people call you conceited and spoiled?” asked Lily, naively. 
 
 92 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Harry threw back his head and laughed heartily, whereat Miss Vere 
 blushed, and was shocked at herself. 
 
 “We all have enemies,” Harry said presently, recovering his gravity. “I am 
 better than my reputation; and from your remark I conclude you have heard 
 me spoken of as a desperate ‘lady-killer,’ going about with my hands full of 
 trophies, and breakfasting daily on broiled hearts. I have been fortunate 
 enough, from time to time, to attract the notice of some little girls, who, 
 instead of minding their crochet-work, have looked at me because I chanced 
 to be taller than most men—that is all. Upon my word, I am wo/dangerously 
 fascinating.” 
 
 “You will not let Alicia hear of this conversation?” Lily said, smiling 
 faintly in return, as the gentleman concluded his speech with a bow, and the 
 prettiest air of mock modesty. “She would rebel at my assumed authority, 
 and the whole business would deeply wound her sensibility.” 
 
 “You may trust me. I shall not give myself any longer the selfish pleasure of 
 cultivating the friendship of even so charming a person as Miss Clarendon, 
 since it excites remark. However unfounded I know these remarks to be, I 
 shall unfalteringly respect your wishes, and am even pleased to think that by 
 depriving myself of such happiness I insure your good opinion. Should this 
 little business ever come to Miss Clarendon’s ears, I trust you will do me 
 justice with her; for the present, I shall be very circumspect; later, she may 
 again enroll me among the humblest of her slaves.” 
 
 Lily timidly extended her hand and thanked him. 
 
 “Bravo, Harry!” thought Mr. Barclay. “What a dear little thing it is! so 
 courageous and yet so shy. You can see how much this effort has cost her. 
 But, by Jove! how mad Alicia will be!” 
 
 ii CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LETTER FROM CLARENCE TRACY TO 
 MRS. ARCHIBALD LANGDON. 
 
 “Heidelberg, Sept. 4th. 
 
 “Genevieve! I have been reading Pynnshurst, the book you liked so much, 
 and told me months ago that I should find so congenial. It is a gem! No 
 longer ‘let your name be called’ Angelica, but Genevieve; ‘Angel’ less well 
 suits you. How delightful is the dialogue throughout, and with what delicacy 
 is the strongest passion painted! Every nerve thrills as you bend over the true. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 93 
 
unaffected detail; you feel the mighty throb of Pynnshurst’s noble heart, the 
 intensity of his love; you bathe yourself in the lustrous light of Genevieve’s 
 dark eyes, and you softly press her small, trembling hand as he does, and 
 listen silently to the inward whispers of your full happiness. For those who 
 love, it is a beautiful book, but the denouement is stupid. Do you know a man 
 who, in Pynnshurst’s situation, would have contented himself with tumbling 
 down on a gravel walk? He was quite right to go away, but a very simpleton 
 to go alone; didn’t you think so? And then Genevieve, why need she turn 
 idiot all of a sudden? Didn’t she know that she had a husband who must 
 come to light some day? It would have been far more satisfactory to my 
 feelings had they gone to the magnolia-bowered cottage in the South. But, 
 romance apart, although it sounds very pretty and nice, how long, think you, 
 could two lovers exist by themselves on a plantation at the South as it is? 
 
 “Alice is a poke. She was just fit to make a decent end of herself by 
 marrying some other man; not to live single and bore poor Pynn, nor to die 
 and leave him with remorse on his conscience for having been too agreeable 
 unintentionally to his little cousin whom he had brought up. 
 
 “Well, well, it is all over now. No doubt Pynnshurst is in reality a stout, 
 respectable man, with a buxom wife, and Genevieve is a scraggy French¬ 
 woman, with cafe-au-lait eyes and a nascent mustache. 
 
 “I would rather think of my Genevieve—not Pynnshurst’s. But why 
 should I, pray? She is utterly heartless, and cruelly refused to believe in my 
 sincere attachment. I verily think it would cost me less pain now to put an 
 end to a friendship where the most perfect devotion on the one side meets so 
 little return from the other. But alas! how truly does that famous Frenchman 
 say, ‘The influence of mere personal charms is limited; curiosity forms the 
 great ingredient of this kind of love; but add the fascination of intellect to 
 those attractions which habit and familiarity will diminish each day, and you 
 will find them multiplied tenfold. If, besides intellect and beauty, you 
 discover in your adored one caprice, irregularity and inequality of temper, 
 close your eyes and seek no farther. You are snared for life!’ 
 
 “Apply this as you choose, Madame. Perhaps I love my Genevieve also, 
 because she writes such charming letters, and in so pretty a hand. I admire 
 excessively a pretty handwriting in a woman; it is probably because my own 
 scrawl is so frightful, so boyish, with great, irregular letters, and very uncer¬ 
 tain capitals, like the temper and character of the destined-to-be-loved-ones. 
 
 “Apropos, your last epistle was received by me with heart-stirring joy, only 
 I was tormented by your account of the Saratoga boy-lover with whom you 
 strayed along those ‘green and flowery paths.’ Who is he? Let me pursue him 
 
 94 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
to the uttermost parts of the earth! But perhaps you snub him, and then, 
 poor fellow! I sympathize with and pity him. 
 
 “Why do you drive me frantic, likewise, by telling me how your European 
 breadth of shoulders causes such bursts of admiration? Don’t I know every 
 dimple in them? Can I ever forget that night, last winter, when you dropped 
 a Parma violet from your bouquet? You stooped to raise it; I stooped to 
 prevent you, and my presumptuous lips grazed the dazzling slope of that 
 very right shoulder which you have sometimes turned coldly upon me! As 
 Corinne says, ‘Les plus heureux moments de la vie sont encore ceux qu’un 
 hasard bienfaisant nous accorde.’ 
 
 “But I am really delighted that you have had a pleasant, endurable 
 summer. Have you left the Springs? Will you be in New York in October? 
 
 “That is the eventful month which is to witness our restoration to our 
 native land. William Clarendon and I will make superhuman exertions to 
 leave Heidelberg by the ist of October; sooner, if possible, so as to pass a day 
 or two in Paris. 
 
 “There is nothing to keep us here. We are so crammed with law and learn¬ 
 ing now that we are eager to get to Charleston, lest spontaneous combustion 
 should entirely destroy this work of years before it finds an outlet. 
 
 “There is, besides, a fat and languishing widowed frau, our opposite 
 neighbor, who makes such desperate attempts upon Clarendon’s heart that I 
 tremble sometimes for the result. So far she has failed to impress him. He is 
 impregnable; more’s the folly. I do not understand the philosophy of refusing 
 the gifts the gods provide; however, I have known a duel fought because one 
 man helped another, clumsily, to a very nice dish, and I suppose Willie 
 doesn’t like things thrust at him, even if they are farcis aux trujfes. 
 
 “Good-by! My chief happiness is to think of you, and to imagine, when the 
 shades of evening come on, that I hear in the sighing of this German autumn 
 air your low voice murmur, Clarence. 
 
 “P.S.—Have you seen Lily Vere? She and Alicia Clarendon will be ‘fin¬ 
 ished off’ about the same time as ourselves. How will old Charleston stand 
 such a galaxy at one blaze? Happily, Miss Sara prepared it by slipping off her 
 chrysalis last winter. How do wings unfold, upon the whole?” 
 
 ANSWER TO THE ABOVE. 
 
 “New York, October ist. 
 
 “My Dear Clarence,—You have a fever— I am sure you have. Let me 
 feel your pulse. Yes; how it beats! Pray consult a physician at once; several, if 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 95 
 
your purse will stand it, for I consider you alarmingly iU, and—absurd. I 
 direct this to Paris, paste restante, for I have learned through Lily, whose 
 advices from you are better than mine, that you wiU not sail for America till 
 the 25th; consequently, go to Cazot, or what is the man’s name, and let him 
 prescribe for a common and rather incurable disease, which in this country, 
 you, I am sure, will never be able to conquer. Your malady is too much good 
 luck, producing a chronic case of tremendous conceit and flippancy, and an 
 intermittent fever of complete self-satisfaction and entire belief in your own 
 powers. 
 
 “Your letter was very amusing, I grant you, but rather less respectful than 
 my dignity demands. ‘My sponsors in baptism’ gave me the name of An¬ 
 gelica; after that I was addressed as Miss Purvis; now ‘I come when I am 
 called’ Mrs. Langdon. I am neither Coleridge’s, Pynnshurst’s, nor your 
 Genevieve. A truce to reproof, however, and I wiU teU you a little about 
 ourselves. 
 
 “LUy is here with me. Alicia and herself were to have remained in 
 Philadelphia a little longer, storing their minds, like the busy bee, with the 
 honey of fashionable education (having declined my invitation for the sum¬ 
 mer), and Mr. Clarendon was to have taken them home direct from their 
 ‘Miss Pinkerton’s’; but, from what I can gather in careful cross-questioning, I 
 fancy that Alicia has begun to practice a profession in which she wiU very 
 soon rank as Bacheloress of Arts—coquetry. 
 
 “There is some story which she hinted at, looking daggers meanwhile at 
 LUy, about a certain Mr. Harry Barclay, whom I know pretty well, and if our 
 youthful compatriote has taken her first degree from him, she has weU begun 
 in her especial line. LUy, of course, frowns (as frowningly as LUy can frown) 
 upon such proceedings, and wrote to ask permission that they might leave 
 school at once and come to me, thus kiUing two birds with one stone- 
 separating Alicia from her admirer, and giving her a chance, amid the 
 gayeties of New York, to forget that she missed him. 
 
 “For the first, PhUadelphia is very near New York, and Harry may pop in 
 any day; but for the last, there is some hope of success. My demoiseUes font 
 fureur. I shaU describe them, and, beginning with Alicia, my pen will have 
 accustomed itself to a theme of beauty before I take up LUy. 
 
 “Alicia is smaU, round, dimpled, indolent, brown, graceful, and extremely 
 wide awake. She has those same large eyes which you recoUect, but how Mrs. 
 Clarendon’s daughter got their expression of subdued fim, passion, languor, 
 and diablerie, I never shaU understand. Her nose is piquant and slightly 
 retrousse, just a very little; it seems anxious to catch a glimpse for itself of 
 
 96 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
those handsome eyes and their deeply-marked black brows. She has pale, 
 plump cheeks, and very bright lips, with a shade upon the upper one, which 
 you sneer at in Genevieve-grown-older, but which really adds a great and 
 peculiar charm to Alicia’s face, for the moment, while it is so slight, and she 
 so fresh and unsunned. Her forehead is low, very low, and her cormorant’s- 
 wing hair crimples naturally, independent of nightly plaitings, and needing 
 little trouble to arrange in bandeaux of la derni'ere mode. 
 
 “You wiU recognize in the picture, perhaps, the little ‘girl you left behind,’ 
 and who, from fourteen to seventeen, has progressed as I try to show you. I 
 need not amplify this narrative by giving you her character and temper as I 
 see them. If you can not divine her, as I did, on first view, you are dull indeed, 
 and philosophic pages would not enlighten you. 
 
 “Lily Vere is so different from this pen-and-ink sketch, that I could almost 
 draw her by contraries. Lily is tall, gentle, fair, soft, kind, steady, tractable. 
 Her figure is beautiful; not stiff, though classically regular and perfect. It is 
 like the figure of an angel. Fully developed—yet ‘diaphanous’ is the word you 
 feel best describes it. Her waist sways and bends like a flower on its stalk, and 
 her lovely head is set upon her shoulders with one of those long, transparent, 
 downy throats, with the hair springing from the nuque in three points, evenly 
 divided, and never straying down in ragged ends. (This is a rare beauty, let 
 me tell you, and one that neither bandoline nor creme d’amande will with 
 certainty produce.) This hair is of the same golden luxuriance as ever, but she 
 has been taught to dress it more carefiiUy, and her abundant ringlets are 
 trained to fall so as not entirely to hide the turn of her cheek, which is 
 peculiarly oval and graceful. Her eyebrows and lashes are darker than they 
 were, her eyes unchanged. I never saw such eyes. What the mischief ails the 
 girl? They are so blue, so deep, so confiding, and so unsparing! Not a freckle, 
 not a spot mars the purity of her skin. On her temples, below her eyes, 
 around her mouth, there is the pellucid transparency you might look to see 
 only in a very young child. Her tastes are simple; her dress corresponds to her 
 tastes. While Alicia covers herself with trinkets, and playfiiUy shakes her 
 little fist at you, shining with rings, most of them gifts from Lily, the heiress 
 herself, ‘draped’ in grayish silks or pure white, allows her statuesque arms no 
 ornament but fine lace ruffles. Lace is her only extravagance. Owing to this 
 difference of costume, and Alicia’s curiously evident likeness to me, we are 
 often taken for cousins, and Miss Clarendon for the heiress. But Alicia is too 
 well satisfied with herself to desire that sort of homage which would reach 
 her through her fancied possession of Lily’s gold, and she carefully un¬ 
 deceives every body. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 97 
 
“You see them now, do you not? these young creatures, just stepping into 
 life’s struggles? From my pedestal as a married woman, and my five years’ 
 seniority, I contemplate them calmly. I like the sensation they make. I am 
 proud of Lily. They don’t interfere with me. They attract their own circle, 
 and don’t infringe on mine. Alicia is amusing—full of espiegleri and httle 
 ways. Lily is grave, smiles at Alicia’s follies, spoils her when she thinks she 
 may venture to do so, and floats about the house like a visitant spirit. If it 
 were not for her fortune, she would not be nearly so popular with young men 
 as that naughty Alicia. She is so circumspect, so dignified, and so intolerant 
 of double-entendres, fulsome compliments, and free and easy manners. 
 
 “I have scribbled pages, never stopping to consider the length of this 
 effusion, but I have a double motive. I wished to prepare you to meet your 
 old friends, and I was dying to talk openly about them. Of course, my 
 hostess-ship commands that I should speak of them with equal praise, and it 
 would never answer to teU Charley WiUiams or Percy Patterson just what I 
 have told you. Praise of one’s cousin, and disparagement of one’s guest, is 
 very ill breeding. 
 
 “You ask about Sara. She is certainly handsome—but your anxiety can 
 wait till you see her in Charleston. Mamma and herself went to Virginia this 
 summer, after a flying visit to me in New York in June. Sara fancied that her 
 complexion was out of tone, and mamma’s nerves were shaky; so they have 
 been drinking White Sulphur water, and Sara writes me one of her interest¬ 
 ing letters of a page and a half, to say that they are perfectly restored. 
 
 “In passing through Philadelphia on their way to the Springs (having 
 come here per steamer), they behaved with such characteristic affection to 
 papa’s niece! They paused for the next train of cars, and drove round to 
 Madame —’s. Lily was out walking. They left their cards and compliments, 
 and went on. 
 
 “I shall not say adieu; wind and water permitting, we shall meet so soon. 
 Think about that fever, and be sure to consult the most energetic physician. 
 
 “Still yours confidentially, A. P. L.” 
 
 This was written upon several sheets of note-paper of a tea-green, last- 
 fashion hue; it smelt faintly of Marechale; the initials, in dead gold and in 
 anagram, headed each first page; the envelope was long and narrow; the 
 writing neat, lady-like, and flowing. It was sealed with wax of a darker shade 
 than the paper, and the impression was given by an emerald seal-ring, worn 
 on Mrs. Langdon’s fourth finger, and bearing two words— veux.” 
 
 98 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
^ CHAPTER XIV 
 
 After an unprecedented short run, the finest steamer of the Collins fine 
 was moored at its New York wharf, and among the first passengers who 
 stepped on shore, valises in hand, were two young men. They were both 
 young, and one was strikingly good-looking. He was dark, tall, well-made, 
 and gendemanly, with a pleasant, musical voice, and a laugh which, though 
 not frequent, was joyous and hearty. 
 
 The other was smaller, slighter, and owed what personal beauty he pos¬ 
 sessed more to expression and cultivation of feature than to positive natural 
 gifts. Though still in his “sea-clothes,” they were of a Paris “buUd,” and the 
 rough material showed an artist’s hand in their make. His eyes were flashing, 
 hazel-black, and capable of deep concentration; his forehead high and 
 broad, and the hair grew well around it and parted easily. His mouth was too 
 sarcastic, but a mustache of a dark chestnut color sufficiently veiled its 
 defects, while very white teeth constantly showed themselves in a smile more 
 sneering than gay. 
 
 They got possession of one trunk apiece by superhuman exertions, some 
 coaxing, and a little flattery, and leaving the rest of their luggage in the hands 
 of those most intolerable harpies, the New York custom-house officers (who, 
 in parenthesis be it said, are nuisances of the greatest impertinence, and who 
 truly, harpy-like, ruin every thing which they touch), William Clarendon 
 and Clarence Tracy drove to their hotel. 
 
 It was late in the evening—dinner just over; so they ordered a few scraps to 
 be gathered together, and then, after refreshing baths and fresh toilettes, 
 took their way to No. — Fifth Avenue, losing as little time as possible. 
 
 “The ladies all out,” was the unsatisfactory reply of Mrs. Langdon’s 
 footman, who had a smack of un-American livery on his legs and on his 
 back. 
 
 “Dining out?” 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 “Do you know where?” 
 
 “No, sir. The coachman is laid up. Mrs. Langdon had a carriage from the 
 stables, and I didn’t hear the orders as Mr. Langdon gave the driver. Mrs. 
 Langdon sent me in the house on a message jist as I was a shutting the 
 carriage-door.” 
 
 “We may as well give it up,” said William Clarendon. “We can come early 
 to-morrow.” 
 
 lily: a novel 99 
 
“If you would like, sir, I’ll call Mrs. Langdon’s maid. Miss Rosylee. She 
 mought know.” 
 
 “Thank you.” 
 
 Miss Rosylee came smiling down, and gave a httle shriek of recognition 
 when she saw Clarence, sinking for a moment into one of the moyenage 
 chairs which solemnly adorned the marbled walls and tesselated floor of the 
 entrance-hall. 
 
 “M. Tracy! how surprise will be Madame! She did not expec you and M. le 
 fr'ere of Meess Ahze. until two days more. Donnez vous la peine to walk in.” 
 
 Clarence was always fiill of little absurd gallantries for this class of people. 
 Waiting damsels and shopwomen quite adored him. He used to talk any 
 quantity of highflown nonsense to them, which, as he never carried it farther, 
 only delighted his listeners. 
 
 He complimented Rosalie on her improved looks, on her tasteful cap 
 (which Angelica insisted that she should wear—on it, indeed, her wages 
 rested), and on the grace of her manner. 
 
 Rosalie courtesied and smiled, and, led on by Willie’s evident amusement, 
 Clarence’s French tongue rattled away most untiringly, till he was recalled to 
 their principal business by Clarendon’s remark, 
 
 “I do not think we yet know where we may be likely to And the ladies.” 
 
 “Oh, ces damesR cried Rosalie; “Monsieur must wait till de morning. Dey 
 dine with Mrs. Antony Hardcastle, and will not be back dese tree, four 
 hours.” 
 
 “Very well; then we are off. Rosalie, New York agrees better with you than 
 Paris, where I last saw you, trying to persuade Madame, while you were 
 dressing her hair, that les Etats-Unis was a vilain pays, unfit for Christians 
 and persons of taste. By the way, how is Marquise?” 
 
 “Oh, la petite cheriel she barks at every one still. Elle deteste Monsieur, and 
 snap at his heel as always. Madame en raffole." 
 
 “Clarence, you are a curious specimen!” exclaimed William Clarendon, as 
 they left the gorgeously-subdued haU and superbly-furnished drawing-room 
 behind them, and walked down the broad, white marble steps into the street 
 again. “I never knew a man more particular, more nicely discriminating in 
 his choice of a woman to talk to in society. Many a pleasant enough girl, with 
 some slight inaccuracy of language, and many a handsome woman of doubt¬ 
 ful manners, whom other men would And interesting for an hour or so, you 
 scorn with uncompromising rejection; but place you any where with a 
 humbly-born and under-bred person of the softer sex, old or young, pretty or 
 ugly, and you win her heart instantly with ridiculous speeches and bows like a 
 
 lOO SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
willow-tree blown by the wind; whereas I, who can manage to get on very 
 well with women who are nominally, at least, on the same footing as myself, 
 however deficient in positive refinement, find an absolute lack of something 
 polite to present in an agreeable way to this sort, unless I were to make love 
 to them.” 
 
 “I think it is very simple,” said Tracy. “A lady must, to my mind, be a real 
 lady. Betty or MoUy, whether she wear a cahco gown and scrubs the steps, or 
 a robe depercale, like Rosahe, or waits behind a counter like the little grisette 
 of whom I ordered my last supply of cravats, or brings me my handkerchief 
 like the stewardess of our late steam home, I treat with regard merely to her 
 womanship. I expect nothing from her. I amuse myself and please her with a 
 little frolicsome badinage, or, if she be an ‘elderly,’ with a little sympathy, until 
 the humor passes; then I break up the conference, and there is the end of it. 
 But for an individual passing as my equal, the currency must be pure, the 
 metal ring clearly; and the coin, no matter how dull outwardly, must be 
 sound within. Fast women—under-bred women in silks and satins, who 
 expect you at least to leave cards upon them, I avoid with cowardly terror.” 
 
 “And yet I have seen you doing a deal of grave tenderness to a woman who 
 was certainly not a lady, and as certainly, I think, not one of the naughty ones 
 of the earth.” 
 
 “Where and when?” asked Clarence, wheeling round abruptly, and eying 
 his companion with a fierce spark beneath his dark brows. 
 
 “My dear fellow,” said Willie, laughing, “I met you in the Bois de 
 Boulogne. The ‘object’ was very humbly dressed, and yet your air and 
 manner were deeply respectful. She had your arm, and her veiled face was 
 turned from you. You were gesticulating with energy. She gradually listened 
 with fast-returning confidence and head, when suddenly a winding in the 
 allee swept you both out of sight. Upon my honor I was not watching you. 
 Accident gave me this scene, and that is my whole story. I did not catch a 
 glimpse of her ensnaring beauty.” 
 
 Clarence’s brow relaxed, and he laughed out also; but a short, quick breath 
 showed his relief 
 
 “Yes, that is a poser, Willie. What is the use of going straight to the 
 hotel?” he went on, without farther explanation. “Here is a play-bill which 
 says that Miss Julia Dean will favor the world in general, moyennant seventy- 
 five cents per head, with her reading of‘Adrienne,’ at the Broadway Theatre. 
 Let us join them. I saw Rachel in ‘Adrienne’ the very last time that I 
 witnessed that grand creature’s performance. It will be amusing to compare 
 this Western girl’s acting with the world-renowned tragedienne’s.” 
 
 lily: a novel ioi 
 
“Thank you,” said Willie, yawning; “I shall go to bed. It will be a real 
 comfort to sleep in a real bed once more, which is what all people say if they 
 have been at sea two days or two months.” 
 
 “Good-night, then;” and, nodding to Mr. Clarendon, Clarence threw 
 away the cigar which he had lit on leaving Mr. Langdon’s, hailed an om¬ 
 nibus, and sprang in. He watched Wdlie for a second, the gas-lamps and his 
 stUl burning Havanna pointing him out, while the omnibus rumbled lazily 
 along, jolting at every turn of the wheel. 
 
 “He did not see her, I am pretty sure of that,” Clarence muttered; “and, 
 besides, Lorenza never leaves the house. He wUl be a sharp man who can 
 find her gadding.” 
 
 On paying for his ticket at the box-office, a mysterious door-keeper 
 suggested that the only seat he could get was one on the first bench, 
 immediately next a private box. 
 
 “But you must wait a minute or two. There is a gent as is sitting there who 
 is mighty drunk; he has snored out twice a’ready, and hung his feet once over 
 the railing. When he does that agin, I’U have him out, and you can take his 
 place.” 
 
 Clarence asked if there was no hope but this inebriated one. 
 
 “I reckon the house is chock full,” rephed the man. So Clarence waited, 
 and, sure enough, presently there was a scramble, a scuffle, a cry of “Turn 
 him out,” and in plunged the door-keeper, collared his victim, and winked at 
 Tracy, who, obeying the signal, made his way to the front bench and 
 struggled into the vacant seat. 
 
 Adrienne was on the stage, and, although Rachel was in his mind, he soon 
 felt that the “Western girl” deserved that he should forget unkind com¬ 
 parisons with her great original, and, taking her only on her merits, com¬ 
 mend so praiseworthy an actress. So he listened and looked, as much as 
 possible, without arrieres pensees. 
 
 Presently his attention was distracted. He sat close beside the private box, 
 leaning his head against the pillar of the partition, and a woman’s hand 
 suddenly fell on the cushioned front of this box, just beneath his eyes. 
 
 I do not mean a hand severed from the arm, and lying all bloody and 
 terrible, but a living hand, whose owner was concealed behind the curtain. 
 
 It was ungloved, and white as a magnolia leaf, except just upon the outer 
 edge of the palm, where a rosy tinge appeared, deepening to a henna-like 
 pink as it reached the ends of the fingers, and lying beneath the almond- 
 shaped nails like carnation leaves covered over with the inner lip of a sea- 
 sheU. It was not a “tiny” hand, nor a “little” hand, nor a “fairy” hand, where 
 
 102 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
proportion is sacrificed to smallness; it was like the hand of an antique statue, 
 and, as it rested calmly and silently upon the cushion, the fourth finger 
 naturally divided itself from its sisters with a “line of beauty” which was 
 indescribably graceful. A wrist of dehcate shape, needing no bracelet to give 
 it a borrowed roundness of outline, joined this beautiful hand to the arm 
 which swelled above it. 
 
 Clarence watched the exquisite thing as it lay so pure and so still before 
 him. He dreamily tracked a blue vein which presently struck his gaze, rising 
 like a httle stream from a bed of snow, and slowly he followed its course till it 
 buried itself in the white arm. He almost leaned forward to look after its 
 progress behind the curtain; but the hand moved, and, slightly turning up its 
 roseate palm, with its fingers gathered together hke the petals of an opening 
 flower, gave him a new phase of perfection to admire. 
 
 At length a thought crossed him. The hand seemed familiar. He listened 
 to catch the voice of its mistress, but, except once, when a deep-drawn sigh 
 either proclaimed her attention to the business of the stage or her weariness, 
 no sound but the confused murmuring of the other members of the party 
 reached him. 
 
 The third act was over, and, if I remember aright, it closed with the 
 mournful discovery to Adrienne that the Count de Saxe had left her to meet 
 a rival whom she herself generously protects. 
 
 There was that rustling and settling of skirts which always follows the 
 dropping of the curtain; men scattered out on all sides, as if they had been 
 intensely annoyed, and now thankfully escaped; and Clarence wondered 
 whether he should run the risk of losing his seat by going to the opposite side 
 of the house, and there facing the lady of the hand, or stay where he was, and 
 trust to chance and her exit. 
 
 Suddenly a voice he knew as well as his own spoke in the box, and a 
 sparkling fan touched the hand gently. 
 
 “Why so pensive, dear?” 
 
 “When is the Liverpool steamer due?” said the hand’s mistress, withdraw¬ 
 ing it. 
 
 It was Lily. 
 
 Clarence Tracy sprang over the benches and tapped at the door. 
 
 The box was filled, but his entree was most effective, and very gratifying to 
 his vanity. 
 
 Angehca, Alicia, Lily, an elderly lady very much dressed and excessively 
 red in the face, Mr. Langdon, and some “young men about town,” formed 
 the party. 
 
 lily: a novel 103 
 
He was at liberty now to fold the hand in both of his own, and to gaze 
 unreproved upon the lovely, stately, blushing, shrinking creature, with her 
 “grayish silk” dress, and knots of silver ribbon, partially draped in a huge, soft 
 white shawl, which trailed from her fair shoulders as she rose to greet him— 
 to greet him with tears swimming in her blue eyes, alternate gusts of color or 
 pallor lighting or blanching her cheek, and not a word of welcome on her 
 lips. Joy spoke loudly enough when she looked her happiness. 
 
 Clarence bent his eyes into hers, and a stranger would have sworn that 
 their emotion was equal. The trembling eagerness of his grasp, the effort to 
 tear himself away, the sudden change of manner as he turned with cordiality 
 to Alicia, who was next LUy, was quite a study to witness. It reminded one of 
 the attempts (often successful) of actors, who storm through a line or two, 
 frightfully ranting, and then, reducing their voices to a summer softness, 
 leisurely lisp out the next sentence. 
 
 Angehca enjoyed it. She passed her handkerchief over her mouth, and 
 while her large eyes seemed full of tender sympathy for this happy meeting, a 
 smile was dancing in every dimple. 
 
 “What a consummate hypocrite!” was her muttered comment as she next 
 raised her lorgnette, and looked over the gaping crowd in the parquette, 
 waiting for her turn. 
 
 A flash of amusement showed her appreciation of the scene as she shook 
 hands with Clarence, who was stolidly unconscious, and made no answering 
 signal. 
 
 He was presented to Mrs. Hardcastle, the stout lady in permanent crim¬ 
 son, who had as great “an eye for men” as good Queen Bess, and who seemed 
 only moderately satisfied with Clarence’s spare proportions; then he and Mr. 
 Langdon exchanged remarks, and the young men were duly named and 
 bowed at. 
 
 “But where is W illi e? where is my brother?” asked Alicia. 
 
 “Alas! poor Willie! how little he dreams, as he now lies asleep at the hotel, 
 what pleasure I am enjoying! We hurried to your house,” inclining his head 
 toward Mr. Langdon, “hoping to find you all, and, being disappointed. 
 Clarendon went home to bed, and I strolled accidentally to this theatre. 
 Chance placed me in the very next box, where soon I heard familiar voices, 
 having first been attracted by ... . That reminds me, however, Rosalie 
 informed me that you were dining out.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Angelica; “our visit here is impromptu. We dined with Mrs. 
 Hardcastle en petit comite, and some one proposed encouraging ‘native 
 talent;’ so, despite our evening dresses, we ventured, trusting to these high 
 
 104 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
partitions to conceal our 'grandes toilettes and bare heads from the hoi polloi. 
 But leave ourselves, and tell us about Mr. Clarendon and you.” 
 
 Till the curtain rose again, Clarence talked with few interruptions. His 
 style was easy, full of amusing detail, and interesting. Though he took the 
 whole conversation upon himself, still his egotism appeared more a desire to 
 please his listeners than to show off his own powers. 
 
 When the play recommenced, he turned his whole attention to Lily, 
 whispering close to her ear, and yet not with undue familiarity. She was very 
 silent; her bosom heaved now and then with a happy sigh, and her eyes 
 would sometimes meet his own; but, for the most part, she fixed her absent 
 look upon the stage, with changing color and a subdued beatitude of 
 expression. 
 
 Angelica saw them unmoved. She exchanged remarks about Adrienne’s 
 costume with Mrs. Hardcastle, who was an uncompromising dresser, and 
 occasionally she would cast a word at the youth who leaned over her chair, 
 drinking deep draughts from her intoxicating eyes, and whom Clarence, 
 without looking at him, decided to be “the Saratoga boy-lover.” Adrienne 
 draws off her gloves, and, smarting with bitter and unavenged insult, recites 
 her role from “Phedre,” while her hostess sneeringly suggests that she should 
 give them “the deserted Ariadne.” 
 
 “I am not of those sinful ones 
 Who feel in crime naught but a tranquil joy. 
 
 And bear a brow insensible to shame!” 
 
 Glowing with honest indignation, she peals forth these lines, and pointing 
 with scornful finger at the “sinful one,” typified by the princess, who receives 
 unflinchingly the well-aimed rebuke, while confusion prevails in the courtly 
 circle met to applaud the supposed unmeaning recitations of the great 
 actress. 
 
 “Serves her right!” exclaimed Mrs. Hardcastle, alluding to the princess; 
 “what business has a married woman to interfere with other people’s lovers?” 
 
 Here a discussion ensued, which was learnedly taken up, Angelica insist¬ 
 ing that for her part she objected to such interference simply because it was 
 “such trouble.” “When a woman had a husband to manage, why under 
 heaven should she undertake to battle with other women for the direction 
 and care of their property? Men were only useful and agreeable as whet¬ 
 stones on whom one sharpened one’s legitimate powers of control. No 
 reasonable creature could seriously think that there was any comfort to be 
 gained in exchanging one man for another. They were all alike; their 
 
 lily: a novel 105 
 
envelopes only differed. You were as likely to find contentment, or rather 
 strife, in one man’s society as another’s. Therefore satisfy yourself, if a 
 married woman, with the man whom the law gave you an unlimited right to 
 govern and to lead. Everything else was a humbug.” 
 
 “You appear to forget the morality of the thing altogether, Angelica. Has 
 that no weight?” asked Mr. Langdon, from the background. 
 
 “Did you speak?” inquired Angel, with an impertinent drawl, scarcely 
 turning her head. 
 
 Her husband repeated his remark. 
 
 “Oh!” she answered, shrugging her shoulders scornfully, “I did not know 
 that any one was entering into the haute morale of the business. If this is to be 
 a heavy discussion, as I presume from your taking part in it, I shall withdraw. 
 You will crush my butterfly wings beneath the Juggernaut car of your 
 criticism.” 
 
 Clarence had paused to listen to Angel’s flippant retort, and he inwardly 
 muttered, 
 
 “Handsome, diabolical creature! Is that first speech a taunt at me and a 
 final warning off the premises?” 
 
 While Dick Everett, little conversant with the outward appearance of 
 angels, and proud of his French, whispered to her, stirring as he did so the 
 great diamond solitaire which adorned her little, close-curled ear, ‘‘''Demon, 
 cousue dans unepeau d'anger 
 
 Alicia was busy with two or three admirers, smiling, coaxing, command¬ 
 ing, glancing, Uke a canary-bird of lazy habits, with several lumps of sugar to 
 dispose of at once. She pecked here, and flew off there; now bestowed her 
 whole attention upon one tempting morsel, and then, turning her back upon 
 it, chirped her admiration for another heretofore neglected. 
 
 The last scene of Adrienne’s sad life drew near. 
 
 She took from the box, sent her, as she fancied, by the count, her own 
 faded bouquet, when she had fondly hoped that its contents would offer her 
 a token of his renewed affection. She presses the poisoned leaves to her lips— 
 to her heart; she inhales her speedy death through its fatal agency, and 
 already the work is begun, when Maurice himself appears, and she sees him 
 once more her devoted lover. 
 
 All is forgiven—all is forgotten. She thinks no more of the withered 
 flowers, whose rejection had been her doom, when suddenly the sharp pang 
 of the insidious perfume recalls her from realms of future bliss as Maurice’s 
 bride to the stern present. 
 
 “The flowers!” he cries. The horrible certainty is guessed. They come 
 
 Io6 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
from the jealous, fierce hands of the princess, and Adrienne’s fate is sealed. 
 
 With his arms around her, soothing her last agonies with his love, his 
 touching misery calling upon Heaven to spare her young life, she dies. 
 
 “Better so—better so,” murmured Lily, her low voice drowned in tears; 
 “better to have died believing him entirely true, leaving with him the sweet 
 recollections of her sorrowful fate, her beauty untouched by care or time, 
 dying through his unconscious means, than live to have him again desert her 
 for the flattering smiles of unworthy women.” 
 
 “But do you think he would have done so, Lily?” whispered Clarence, 
 humoring her grave way of witnessing a mimic passion. 
 
 “I fear it,” said Lily, hastily wiping her eyes. “He would always have found 
 an excuse for encouraging or responding to flatteries. He was a vain man; 
 they are weaker than vain women.” 
 
 The party was on the move. 
 
 Little Everett was folding Angel’s shawl around her, and looking as if he 
 worshiped and envied the happy Cashmere. She was languidly “sipping the 
 delights” of his ingenuous adoration. Mrs. Hardcastle, with the air of a critic, 
 was saying, 
 
 “Julia Dean was better in those two last acts—much better. Her dresses 
 were really pretty, whereas in that first scene she was hideous. I never saw 
 such a machine as she wore on her head.” 
 
 Alicia was “making up her book” of polkas and waltzes for a party the next 
 evening, so nobody listened to the poor old lady, for Mr. Langdon had gone 
 to see after the carriage; consequently Clarence, with his usual far-seeing 
 policy and never-failing vision, read “good dinners” to come in Mrs. Hard- 
 castle’s punchy figure, and dissatisfaction at the general neglect in her scowl. 
 
 Turning from Lily, he remarked, with an insinuating smile, 
 
 “Don’t you think she did well? It was extremely effective, that drooping of 
 the chin and the half-closed eyes.” 
 
 “Pretty well—indeed I may say very well,” replied the lady; “she got her 
 train admirably from under the count’s feet. I have an evening reception 
 every Friday, Mr. Tracy, and I shall be happy to see you at dinner next 
 Wednesday. Mr. Hardcastle will leave his card to-morrow on you and on Mr. 
 Clarendon.” 
 
 “Thank you. Should we stay until that time, we should be most happy. I 
 shall do myself the honor of calling, and answering more positively. Prosy 
 old women must be looked after, Lily,” he added, in an under tone, as he 
 offered his arm, Mr. Langdon having returned to take charge of Mrs. 
 Hardcastle, and to report the carriage “driven up.” 
 
 lily: a novel 107 
 
“Come early to-morrow, Clarence,” said Lily from the coach window, 
 kissing her hand. 
 
 “And oh!” cried vMicia, dismissing her covey of beaux, “give my love to 
 Willie, and teU him I am dying to see him.” 
 
 “Don’t forget my invitation,” mumbled Madame Hardcastle, grinning her 
 favor. 
 
 The carriage drove off. 
 
 “Not a word, not a look from Angel!” thought Clarence. “To the last 
 moment she was whispering nonsense to that conceited boy with his curls 
 and his airs, who planted himself in the street mud so as to be as near her as 
 possible till they drove off. She is deuced cool; but she will find her match!” 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XV 
 
 Probably there are some people who will be tempted to exclaim, “False, 
 false—false to human nature, that a man so young as Clarence Tracy should 
 dehberately seek to win the heart and hand of a little girl merely with an eye 
 to her money; that he should be encouraged in this deed by her own cousin, 
 at the same time flirting with this very cousin, who, a married woman (pile 
 up the horror!), listens to his speeches, plays him fast and loose, and, in a 
 word, acts like a real unprincipled demon leagued with a brother spirit of 
 iniquity. If they were older—but so young—it is unnatural, and, conse¬ 
 quently, devoid of interest.” 
 
 I can only answer, it may be so, but, for aU that, it is true. 
 
 Let me take your objections backward, and first reply to the charge of 
 Clarence’s youth. He was certainly but a little over nineteen when I first 
 presented him, but, besides a born talent for deception, he fell into the hands 
 of a woman who never had been young. Do you deny such a proposition? 
 Angelica Purvis reasoned selfishly when she was five years old; planned, 
 plotted, and carried out her plots with a calm reserve which ripened each 
 day. 
 
 She had never had a thought in which Angelica Purvis did not figure 
 largely, save in the case of Margaret Oakes, and, meeting a heart colder than 
 her own in that instance, she applauded her previous sagacity, and only 
 determined that not one exception should exist to the broad, unfailing rule, 
 “Every one for himself” 
 
 Her family she despised—not openly, not with cross words and abuse (she 
 was too well-bred for that), but with inward sneers and outward indifference. 
 
 Io8 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Mrs. Purvis was not likely to command the respect of her gifted daughter, 
 she was so frivolous, so foolish, so fretful. She felt this, and never interfered 
 with nor tried to govern Angelica, who grew up from cold childhood to 
 reserved girlhood, whence she imperceptibly glided into haughty, self¬ 
 concentrated womanhood. 
 
 She was more at home with men than with women. She liked to excite 
 their interest by occasional details of her fancied sufferings—sufferings in¬ 
 vented for the moment, which filled the eyes and hearts of her listeners, 
 induced them to waste most wholesome and excellent sympathy upon the 
 distresses of this syren, whose luxurious home was a wilderness, and made 
 them feel as if they longed to do battle for her, and to die happy if her fine 
 white hand waved them on to slaughter. 
 
 These desperate admirers were the very young ones, of course; for those of 
 an older growth she had half-uttered sighs over a wasted life, regrets that she 
 had not been born where genius alone reigns supreme, and dark glances 
 through her moist lashes which were even more effective than her words. 
 
 Not one could boast of peculiar favor from Angelica Purvis. Her flirta¬ 
 tions, strange as it may seem, were strictly proper. She was too clever by far to 
 permit a familiarity, which, however much it may momentarily increase the 
 admiration of the other sex, eventually leads to their indifference—per¬ 
 chance disgust. 
 
 Her beautiful figure was dressed always so as best to display its perfection; 
 her little foot did not unkindly hide itself beneath her flowing skirts; her 
 hand and arm often gesticulated with ensnaring grace beneath the very lips 
 of her listener, and her wondrous eyes meltingly sought their meed of praise. 
 
 But woe to the man who fancied such theatrical performances were to be 
 applauded nearer than you give your “hand” to a fascinating “Fotheringay” 
 upon the stage. For such a breach of decorum Angelica was inexorable. 
 
 Admire her, sigh for her, die for her—devour her with your eyes, worship 
 her footprints, but keep your distance in word and in action. 
 
 “Z.« vertu base'e sur le calcul est invincible." Angelica, whether as Miss 
 Purvis or as Mrs. Langdon, was invincible. She would flirt to the very 
 borders of positive encouragement, and then retreat with as much ease as a 
 court beauty from the presence of her sovereign. You did not even see her 
 kick her train from beneath her heels. 
 
 Angelica never cared for the quality or duration of the admiration she 
 excited. Numbers, facts, and figures were her rule, principle, and wish; 
 something new to dazzle was always preferable to something old to fix. 
 
 Besides, she had seen enough, and read enough, and knew enough to be 
 
 tILY: A NOVEL I09 
 
aware, when she was fourteen years old, that an object in view, a prize to be 
 striven for, is more valued than an object grasped, a prize won. 
 
 She liked to keep a train of “adorers” always on hand, and at the same 
 point; to make them whirl for her pleasure as a juggler spins his plates; with 
 one touch to set them off, watch their revolutions, give a twirl of her finger to 
 bring up an expiring waltzer, retire a step or two to admire the effect, and 
 then again apply the slight impetus where it was needed. 
 
 She took charge of Clarence Tracy because at Chicora he was useful to 
 practice upon, and, moreover, he was clever enough and well enough looking 
 to amuse her. Gradually he interested her. Instead of dropping him on her 
 return to the city, and when her approaching marriage would afford ample 
 occupation, she thought he might be worth keeping for life. She studied 
 him, looked into him with her discriminating eyes, and recognized a spirit 
 congenial to her own. Soon she perceived his boyish influence over LUy, and 
 her girlish preference for him; a preference that threatened to grow into a 
 passion, and which he would willingly return with all the love of which he 
 was capable. 
 
 Angelica had an inordinate swallow. She was a true “daughter of the 
 horse-leech,” and her cry was always “for more” conquests. She was intol¬ 
 erant of other women’s charms, and if any woman attracted any man, it was, 
 she fancied, because she, Angelica Purvis, permitted it without interference. 
 
 She was willing that Lily should marry Clarence, and was indeed anxious 
 that Clarence should enjoy Lily’s wealth; but, at the same time, it was 
 necessary that Clarence should feel her power, and that her nets should 
 display their accustomed prowess. 
 
 A few hours sufficed to turn the boy’s vain head, and to make him fancy 
 that he had a heart, and that Angelica filled it. Lily was a pretty, sweet, 
 endearing child. Angefica was a haughty, grave, matured woman, whose 
 attentions were the most witching flattery. She never told him that he was a 
 charming youth; she only gave him a glance or two from her repertoire of 
 looks, and a phrase or two from her vocabulary of insinuating speeches. She 
 meant no harm either to Lily or to himself She was amusing herself, and 
 passing the time. Then came the boy’s sudden accession of fortune, and his 
 surprising offer. Angelica did not wound his self-love (his strongest senti¬ 
 ment) by a scornful rejection. No; she secured her future power by a half- 
 uttered regret, and a magnanimous withdrawal in favor of Lily—to benefit 
 him. 
 
 She drew her meshes tighter, and did not leave the hem of her dress in the 
 entangled skeins. 
 
 no SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
By this time, though, with all her real Hieing for his brilliant parts, she 
 thoroughly understood his faults, his glaring defects. They did not interfere 
 with her own fancy, since she meant to rule him merely at a distance, but they 
 were sad qualities for a husband to one like Lily. 
 
 Her heart (?) melted one day; a ray of sunlight thawed the thick slab of ice; 
 the memory of her aunt came over her, and she spoke. Instead of being 
 grateful, Lily opposed and refuted facts. Quickly as it came, the tiny ray 
 disappeared, and Angelica wondered at her own folly in seeking to do good. 
 
 “After all,” she reasoned, “why should I wish to prevent this match? I 
 happen to know Clarence Tracy, and to understand his weakness, his in¬ 
 stability, his hypocrisy. No doubt there are other men quite as bad as he, and 
 worse, who would marry Lily, spend her money, be indifferent to her, and 
 not do it in half so gentlemanly a way as Clarence. She likes him. She is 
 bound to be the prey of fortune-hunters, and if he don’t marry her some one 
 else wiU, who, as I have suggested, won’t consult appearances as strictly. Why 
 should I desire to make little Lily unhappy for nothing? whereas, if I keep 
 Clarence under my own hand, I can stop him, dieu merci, when he goes too 
 fast, and can always prevent his distressing her by running after other bright 
 eyes; for, so sure as there are bright eyes, Clarence Tracy will pursue them.” 
 
 This train of thought, which I have put into regular phrases, visited 
 Angelica pretty often. It occupied her mind on her wedding-night; and it 
 was this feeling, mixed with a sort of feminine revenge, to convince Lily in 
 the future of how truly she judged, that induced that conversation in the 
 piazza. A double motive—a treble motive—to assist Clarence in his wooing, 
 to attach him to herself, and to let Lily perceive, some half dozen years after, 
 that “Angel was right.” 
 
 On the Continent she met Clarence twice; they resumed the old manner, 
 talked in the old way; she riveted her chains instead of loosening them, and 
 continued her half-playful, half-serious correspondence with him. 
 
 But when she received his last letter, there was such a tone of mock 
 admiration that she quickly felt the change, and let him enjoy a touch of cool 
 dignity and matronly indifference, to teach him a lesson; moreover, Lily had 
 really charmed her. It was genuine admiration that Angel now felt for her 
 cousin. Their styles were so different, they could never clash; she had the 
 love for her that she might feel for a beautiful flower, an exquisite statue, a 
 rare painting. She liked to look at her, and to have people acknowledge that a 
 “Southern cousin” was a “joy forever.” Angel would have given up any thing 
 to Lily except—her admirers. 
 
 She poured out her praise of Lily to Clarence with all the nonchalance for 
 
 lily: a novel hi 
 
the effect it might produce on his feelings for Mrs. Langdon that she would 
 have felt had she described to him a heroine in a novel. 
 
 But when he arrived, and, on their first meeting, not content with giving 
 his first look to Lily, he continued to treat her as his first object, Angel 
 inwardly vowed to resume her sway, and to prove herself a match for her 
 fickle adorer. In speaking of Angelica I give you a clew to Clarence, for they 
 were so afike in many points that the only surprising thing was that they 
 never knew it. 
 
 From a child, Clarence Tracy had marked out his line of life; to keep his 
 own counsel, to rise on the backs of his friends, to flirt with little girls, to 
 make a great parade of sincerity, and to bear in mind that there was only one 
 creature living who needed, merited, and demanded his sole care and atten¬ 
 tion—Clarence Tracy! His sister Nora idolized him. From the time that she 
 could first thread a needle, her idea was to hem handkerchiefs and make 
 shirts for Clarence. Later, when she knew Lily, Clarence must enjoy the 
 same privilege; and when it was whispered about among the girls that Lily 
 Vere, with all her quiet looks, was a great heiress, Nora’s head formed her 
 first and last scheme, which she scarcely acknowledged to herself. 
 
 Clarence liked Lily very much. Her gravity, her modest ways, her submis¬ 
 sion to those she thought wiser, quite impressed him. He was yet very young. 
 As Angel said to LUy, “It was only the germ.” But soon he learned to feel his 
 power over LUy, and to give her, in place of an anxious wish to please her, a 
 grand bashaw attention, and he looked down upon her sweet ignorance with 
 superior eyes. Then she made rapid progress under his tuition, and he came 
 to regard her as a possession of his own, and to treat her accordingly. She was 
 almost as deferential to him as Nora, except when he did what she thought 
 wrong, but that was so infrequent. 
 
 He was too sure of her friendship and devotion. It did not excite him. He 
 began to think her insensible; she was so stiU; and with that delicious boy- 
 tyranny which so early betrays itself, he liked to show his command over her, 
 and the more she yielded, the less impression her yielding made, and the less 
 he valued it. But still he was tender of her and kind to her; his behavior was 
 not displeasing to her eyes, for she considered his reproofs as marks of his 
 interest, such as he showed Nora. 
 
 On his final return from college, he was more struck than formerly with 
 Lily’s prettiness and gentle ways; he had learned the full weight of “plenty of 
 money;” and though even to himself he did not say “I’ll marry Lily Vere for 
 her plantations,” still his boyish mind took in the idea, and with greater 
 deference he made his advances to his sister’s friend. 
 
 II2 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
He was the oldest of a group of boys at Chicora that spring. Angelica 
 singled him out; he was flattered beyond measure. She made him read to her, 
 she talked nonsense to him, and enjoyed his nonsense in return. She scarcely 
 understood then her own influence; for, though he was by no means the first 
 youth whom she had captivated, she was the first woman (I do not count 
 college belles) who had made his pulses beat. 
 
 Skillfully she twined her chains about him, and, with all his cleverness, all 
 his knowledge of her cold calculations which instinct gave him, he could not 
 throw off her tightened and tightening clasp. 
 
 He forgot Lily, and became a mere puppet in Angel’s hands. She pulled 
 the wires; he fancied that he was a free agent, whereas he only followed out 
 her plans. He thought she admired, whereas she commanded; and, happy in 
 her languishing looks, he moved hither and thither with a vague idea that 
 she must love him, or why should she trouble herself about him. At any rate, 
 she herself said, “Marry Lily!” so he would; and as for the future—“oh, hang 
 the future!” 
 
 When he was at Heidelberg, away from home, and one of Lily’s pretty 
 letters would come sliding in with its fresh, innocent tone, he would think 
 that he really loved the writer, and that she was indeed a treasure. But then a 
 long, narrow envelope, with its uncompromising seal, “/c veux" would fall 
 into his hands, redolent of mare'chale, recalling by its lingering perfume the 
 very aspect of Angel, and it would be so spirituelle or so sarcastic, with only a 
 word here and there which meant “something,” that he would muse over it, 
 and try to divine a hidden thought, and begin to dream about “those eyes,” 
 till Lily’s little letter would fade in the distance, and be quite forgotten. 
 
 I might prose on for pages, when two lines would amply give the word of 
 this enigma. 
 
 Lily was the speculation ventured, pocketed, and laid aside for future use. 
 Angel was the speculation yet to be decided, which kept the gambler on the 
 alert, and warmed and cooled him with alternate fits of hope and doubt. 
 
 But there was about Lily, as she dawned upon him in her pure loveliness, 
 rising from her chair in that dingy box, a certain halo of almost forgotten 
 boyish dreams, a certain reminiscence of German romance, which was in 
 very truth a foundation for his ardent welcome; and when Angel met him 
 with her amused smile, the recollection of her last letter, and the desire to 
 pique her, aided fully in producing a devotion and singleness of purpose, 
 which caused a like indifference on the side of the really indifferent one, so 
 that Clarence went home to bed dwelling on Lily’s beauty, and wondering 
 whether Angel was absolutely as careless as she looked. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL II3 
 
I do not pretend to write “thrilling romances,” with sudden surprises, 
 mysterious secrets, and dark horrors, nor even multitudinous accidents 
 which bring the strangest things to light. Mine is simply a little tale which 
 seeks neither to dazzle nor to terrify. I try to write of human nature as it 
 passes daily beneath our windows, or throbs beside our own hearts. Many 
 will call me “tame,” and others will cry “unnatural.” It may possibly be both. 
 I only do my best, and write according to my knowledge and convictions. 
 
 I once had the honor of being in company with the greatest living 
 novelist—of course, I allude to Mr. Thackeray—and a lady, celebrated for her 
 wit and beauty, said to him, “I detest your books, they are so false. Why 
 should you always make vice flourish and virtue go to the wall? If one reads 
 you behevingly, one would doubt that there exists upon this earth a really 
 good man or woman, unless he or she chances to be an utter simpleton or 
 poke. I close your books always with a dreary feeling. Every thing is hoUow, 
 hypocritical, selfish. The world is bad enough, truly; why make it worse?” 
 
 “My dear madam,” answered Mr. Thackeray, spreading out his hands, 
 which some Washington belle had told him “looked so nice and English, 
 with their clean nails,” “my dear madam, I write as my eyes see. If I were to 
 invent human nature, depend upon it I should make even stranger pictures. 
 It is not my fault if life appears to me as I show it. I have no imagination—I 
 only copy.” 
 
 From my corner I listened to the great man, drank in his words, and added 
 my humble approbation and conviction. 
 
 It seems quite an act of temerity to mention this world-known name, and 
 to call the attention of a reader to possible comparisons between the author 
 of Vanity Fair and the author of the Busy Moments of an Idle Woman. But 
 my admiration for him is so unquahfied, so sincere, that I feel as if his name 
 might add a dignity without instituting a comparison; and no one, I trust, 
 will accuse me of conceit or imitation when I suggest that, following at great 
 distance the example of this discriminating writer, I endeavor not “to invent 
 a new human nature,” but to paint the thing itself—to sink a shaft in the 
 breast of my neighbor, and to draw thence a living stream—to eschew 
 portraits, but to make “fancy sketches” life-like enough to induce people to 
 say, “Ah! that is meant for so and so.” 
 
 I take no interest in those delightful books which are composed of 
 alternate layers of devils and angels, like the hands of boys and girls laid upon 
 a table for the game of “head and cheese”—now angel, now devil has the best 
 of it, and the “upper hand rules.” I do not beheve in sudden reformations, 
 where the “devU” of the piece is made instantly good by the death of the 
 
 II4 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“angel,” or by his marriage with her, and turns as quickly as you turn the leaf 
 into an excellent and virtuous character, just as if excellence was a coat or 
 gown, and virtue a cap or bonnet, which you purchase or have presented to 
 you, and wear comfortably ever after. 
 
 I believe that every living creature is susceptible of some kind impulse, and 
 liable to some wicked thought or action. Opportunity is more a leading spirit 
 than even education. We must all pray against temptation, dread the work¬ 
 ings of selfishness, and try to do our best. If we undertake to write novels, 
 bear this in mind, that heroes and heroines of the present day must act like 
 men and women of the present day, or else they are mere Marionnettes, and 
 show their rags and wood-work instead of their flesh and blood. 
 
 Angelica seems wicked almost without a reason, but she had never 
 checked her desire for indiscriminate conquest, and for power over those 
 within her immediate circle. She was not positively unkind; after acknowl¬ 
 edging her supremacy, you might be as happy as you could. Clarence was 
 vain, but doubtful; ambitious, but indolent; clever, but vacillating; eager for 
 men’s praise, but fonder of women’s smiles; bent upon conquering them, but 
 always ending in being by them conquered. With decided talent, he frittered 
 it away; always intended to do something, but never did. And, to sum up his 
 character, he was as uncertain as a coquettish woman, for the thing he held 
 was less valuable in his eyes than that which he could not reach. 
 
 I have prosed enough. Let us return to my sweet Lily, who has no shield to 
 oppose to scheming heads and hoary hearts but her good sense, the atom of 
 Scottish shrewdness that she inherited from her father, and an instinct which 
 oftentimes rightly guided the glance of her blue eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 “And when do you go home?” inquired William Clarendon, smoothing 
 down Alicia’s already smooth hair, and looking admiringly in her face. 
 
 It was the morning after their arrival, and they were all sitting in An¬ 
 gelica’s “sulkery,” which barely held the party. It was the tiniest place 
 imaginable, hung with a thick striped silk of pink and fawn color, the ceiling 
 stuffed and bombe'e to look like a tent, with a pointed drapery below the 
 cornice around the walls. A long divan and cushions filled one side opposite 
 the windows, across which and the solitary door there ran, on rings, fluted 
 curtains, so that, when drawn at night, there appeared neither entrance nor 
 exit. The carved white mantle-piece was held up by dancing Floras, who 
 
 lily: A NOVEL II 5 
 
balanced on the tips of their slender fingers the low, broad shelf, covered with 
 deep pink velvet, on which stood two exquisite statuettes—one of Siluria, the 
 other of Bacchus and Ino. Between them, in an elaborately gilded and 
 jeweled frame, arrayed like an easel, was one of David’s finest miniatures, a 
 half-length of Angelica herself, looking like an empress in love, with a 
 bouquet lying in her lap, and from the hand which languidly hung over the 
 console beside her drooped a half-opened letter, while her eyes gazed dream¬ 
 ily ahead. 
 
 She seemed to reign supremely if indolently, and to be the ruhng genius of 
 her dominions. Two huge China vases, enameled with birds, flowers, and 
 Cupids, occupied either side of the chimney. Through the pierced holes in 
 the bottom of one came the hot air which warmed the room; into the other, 
 Angelica threw the invitations, billets d’occasion, and et ceteras which daily 
 beset her path. 
 
 In each of the corners encoignures mounted from the floor to the ceiling, 
 and on the tapering shelves of two of them beautiful Sevres flower-pots held 
 fragrant exotics, which were renewed whenever the close and perfumed 
 atmosphere caused them to fade; on the other two were piled such profuse 
 treasures of rococo trifles that Alicia declared she had not yet been able to see 
 and admire them all. 
 
 Each chair was a “possession,” from the originality and costliness of its 
 design and build; and now seated in the most luxurious of them, a perfect 
 lounge, covered with satin and needle-work, was Angelica, folded in her 
 dressing-gown, and wearing a cap, collar, sleeves, and petticoat of fabulously 
 fine broderie-Anglaise. 
 
 There were but three other chairs; one, of polished satin-wood inlaid with 
 nacre, hke an old-fashioned work-box, with a pale blue velvet lining, Lily 
 occupied, looking in her white Cashmere morning-dress like a pearl in its 
 shell. 
 
 Another, of fine scarlet morocco stamped in gold, showed off as a rich 
 background the sunny beauty of Alicia, while the last, of heavily-carved 
 ivory, cushioned with amber-colored damask, was claimed by Clarence, and 
 the whole sofa and its countless pillows was given up to Willie, who had 
 drawn Alicia’s chair near him. 
 
 “And when do you go home, darling?” 
 
 “That depended upon papa’s coming; but now I fancy be will shirk the 
 trouble, and trust us with you.” 
 
 “Don’t speak of going home,” said Angelica. “Where is the use of it? 
 Charleston is the dearest place to love at a distance.” 
 
 Il6 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Oh, Angel!” cried Lily, “it is a place to live and to die in. I like to visit 
 other cities, but for a home, give me Charleston.” 
 
 Angelica slightly applauded with a gentle beating together of her hands. 
 
 “Bravo, Lily! your color fairly mounts. I agree warmly with one portion of 
 your praise. It is indeed a place to die in, for I know no other which one could 
 leave with fewer regrets.” 
 
 Alicia and the young men laughed, while Lily shook her head. 
 
 “Don’t you really like your native place?” 
 
 “Its bricks and mortar, its trees and stones, and, more than all, its wood¬ 
 work? y-e-s, after a fashion; but its people? no. They are better abroad than 
 they are at home. I recollect often being struck by the agreeability of my 
 townsmen and women when once you get them over that impracticable bar 
 of our harbor. Whether it be that the shallowness of the channel reacts upon 
 their feelings, but they never unbend till they have cleared it. Then, judging 
 them by an ordinary standard, they are sociable, conversible, human. You say 
 reproachfully, ‘The so and so’s are really nice people; I must cultivate this 
 pleasant acquaintance.’ You return home; that hateful bar dips again, and 
 you find your foreign friends ossified again.” 
 
 “But one thing is certain, Mrs. Langdon,” said Clarence, withdrawing his 
 eyes from Lily’s face; “they are unlike most stiff people in one respect: they 
 are as eager to claim their concitoyens out of the city as they are shy in it. I 
 asked a forlorn party once in Paris, whom I met dolefully sight-seeing, if 
 they were enjoying their trip. ‘Oh no,’ they said; ‘there is not a Charlestonian 
 at an hotel.’ Again, I put the same question to another party. ‘Indeed, yes,’ 
 was answered with alacrity; ‘there are at least twenty Charlestonians in our 
 house.’ Now I knew that at home neither of these families cared to see 
 twenty people more than twice in a year, and on both these occasions they 
 must be twenty selected and select individuals.” 
 
 “Yes, they are deliciously inconsistent. They fold you to their hearts in 
 New York, and scarcely bow in Charleston.” 
 
 “But,” pursued Clarence, who enjoyed differing a little from the last 
 speaker, “they are high-toned, chivalric—” 
 
 “Mercy! mercy!” cried Angel, “spare me! I agree. I grant them every thing, 
 and they may take the rest. They don’t boast, they don’t parade—” 
 
 “Oh, Angel!” that was Lily, of course. 
 
 “The women are not old-fashioned, dowdy, nor contracted in mind and 
 body—” 
 
 “Treason!” exclaimed Willie; “they would not appreciate this pretty room, 
 perhaps?” 
 
 lily: a novel 117 
 
“Indeed they should,” said Angel, yawning after her graceful vehemence, 
 and sending back her chair to a lower angle by a touch upon a secret spring. 
 “Indeed they should, for M. de TreviUier says, alluding to its only door, that, 
 after all, 'Ce nepent etre quun boudoir Americain.”' 
 
 “Apropos of American productions: there was such a fiinny little scene this 
 morning in the hotel parlor, while Clarendon was swearing up stairs at a 
 tight pair of boots. A prim httle woman was being evidently bored by a tail, 
 deaf old fellow, who was asking questions without number. She unrolled a 
 package of slippers, and began looking over them. Are those Europee-aw?’ 
 he asked. ‘No, sir, Ammery-can,' she answered, without a smile, though she 
 saw me laugh out. Lily, I have brought you a pair of shppers: by the way, here 
 they are; they were at the top of one of my trunks, and actually we got our 
 luggage this morning.” 
 
 “I believe Clarence made up that slipper story,” said Willie, “to introduce 
 his gift with becoming nonchalance. They are Oriental, Lily; and here is my 
 offering, which I ought to have prefaced with some anecdote about a fair girl 
 dying of a broken heart.” 
 
 Lily received with a bright blush the fairy shppers, which were worked 
 with white lilies in seed pearl, and extended her hand for a little box which 
 Willie gave her. 
 
 “Try the slippers first,” said Willie; “let us set to work leisurely.” 
 
 “I fear they are too small,” said Lily, putting up her foot. 
 
 They were tight. 
 
 “I must give them to Angel,” said Lily, sorrowfully, “unless I can keep 
 them without wearing them.” 
 
 Angel sat up and took the slipper, which slid on like the soulier vert upon 
 Cinderella. 
 
 “You were too complimentary to my foot, Clarence. You forgot that I am 
 only half a Purvis. You must have been thinking of Angel.” 
 
 “She has never shown you her foot, then,” said Willie, laughing, while 
 Mrs. Langdon’s satirical smile played around her lips as she turned the 
 dainty slipper from side to side. “You can never step into Angel’s shoes, Lily, 
 though she may into yours.” 
 
 Lily shuddered involuntarily, and Clarence knelt to remove the slipper. As 
 he did so, Angel said, 
 
 “Have you never acknowledged the supremacy of the Pope?” and she 
 thrust toward him, with a playful gesture, the high-arched instep, with its 
 lofty curve, as if born to plant itself triumphantly. 
 
 “I am willing to do homage to the emblem of purity, the immaculate Lily,” 
 
 Il8 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
said Clarence, gravely, and he touched with his lips the embroidery of the 
 slipper. 
 
 “Pshaw!” said Angel, dropping the pretty thing from her foot; “I have 
 stretched it now, dear; you can wear it. There is very little difference in the 
 size of your foot and mine; one shoe would do for either of us.” 
 
 Sure enough, it was comfortable now, and Lily looked at her new property 
 with delighted eyes. 
 
 “Let us see the contents of Willie’s box,” said Alicia, with a slight 
 inflection of pique; and at that instant a footman brought in a package, 
 which he said had come from the hotel, directed to Mr. Tracy. 
 
 “It was time,” exclaimed Willie, “for I think Lily’s presents were not 
 giving satisfaction to all the company— eh, puss!” 
 
 Lily produced a garnet heart, through which was thrust a golden arrow, 
 and a Venetian chain studded with garnets fastened it around the throat or 
 upon the arm. 
 
 “How very pretty!” exclaimed Alicia; and, although she was presented 
 with a bracelet, and a set of pink coral by her brother, and a fan was offered 
 by Clarence, with any number of bergers and bergeres in hoops and powdered 
 hair, still she looked wistfully at Lily’s trinket. 
 
 “I have lots of flowers and furbelows for you, petite soeur, in the depths of 
 some great boxes,” said Willie, who noticed that Alicia was not satisfied. 
 
 Presently Lily perceived it, and guessed rightly. 
 
 “This heart is too bloodthirsty for me, Willie. What should I do playing 
 off tricks with ‘daggered hearts?’ Alice, would you like to exchange if Willie 
 permits it?” 
 
 Alicia’s eyes sparkled. 
 
 “If you wish it. It is all the same. Willie’s memory and kindness will be just 
 as well treasured. Take my bracelet;” and she drew her chair forward, turning 
 the back of it upon Clarence and Angel, while she and Lily called upon 
 Willie to agree, and to help them decide. 
 
 While they were clasping the turquoise bracelet on Lily’s arm, where it 
 looked so pretty that Alicia’s grasping propensity caused her almost to regret 
 the exchange, Clarence had unfolded another parcel, and brought to light a 
 paper-cutter, which he passed over to Angel, bending upon her one of his 
 most concentrated glances. 
 
 It was of ivory, and the centre of the blade was painted delicately in water- 
 colors, representing a moonlit river, with a boat gliding upon its waters, 
 containing, of course, a sentimental couple. The handle was formed of a 
 woman’s hand grasping a tiny globe. 
 
 lily: a novel 119 
 
Angel smiled, and Clarence begged her acceptance of it. She expressed 
 her thanks, and, without a word more, placed it upon the table. 
 
 “I fancy a likeness existing—” 
 
 “To me, in that blue-gowned female?” said Angel, without affectation. 
 ''Merci du complimentf' 
 
 “More in the allegorical hand,” said Clarence. “Small as it is, it holds the 
 whole world in check.” 
 
 “My hand deals little in checks,” said Mrs. Langdon. “Lily’s will soon be 
 more in that line.” 
 
 “You have learned to pun.” 
 
 “So feebly.” 
 
 “With true French principle, it is the hand of a femme mariee which is 
 symbolized. It is a left hand, and a wedding ring is faintly marked upon the 
 third finger.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Angel, indifferently. “Mr. Clarendon told me, or LUy, or 
 perhaps it was Alicia, that you sing, Mr. Tracy. Young ladies, can not we 
 persuade Mr. Tracy to sing for us?” and she leaned forward and over the back 
 of Alicia’s chair with such an evident determination to encourage no tete- 
 a-tetes, that Clarence bit his lips, while the girls eagerly seconded the 
 request. 
 
 Clarence yielded, and, turning to a small cabinet piano which was niched 
 into the wall, he struck a few bars, saying, 
 
 “I have no voice for operatic music. I do not distress even myself with such 
 attempts. Here is a little ballad which may please you;” and he began a rather 
 monotonous air, to which were set these words, written by I know not 
 whom. 
 
 “Thou hast, left me to my sorrow. 
 
 And withdrawn thy love from me; 
 
 Yet my memory still must borrow 
 All its dearest thoughts from thee. 
 
 Though I know that I am fading 
 ’Neath a cold world’s bitter blast. 
 
 And they tell me ’tis degrading. 
 
 Yet I love thee to the last. 
 
 “Where thy false vows first were plighted 
 ’Twere needless now to tell; 
 
 How this constant heart was slighted. 
 Thou canst still remember well. 
 
 120 
 
 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
But I mean not to upbraid thee— 
 
 May’st thou never feel the smart 
 When some loved one has bereft thee 
 Of thy foolish, doting heart. 
 
 “On thy path of pleasure hieing, 
 
 When joy brightens in thine eye, 
 
 May no thought of him now dying 
 Wake thy bosom’s faintest sigh. 
 
 But should sorrow e’er o’ertake thee. 
 
 And thy dreams of pleasure flee— 
 
 When at night thy griefs awake thee. 
 
 Think of those thou gav’st to me.” 
 
 The spirit of vanity was stirred up within his breast, and, forgetful of Lily, 
 he pursued recklessly for the moment the sneering Angel. His whole charac¬ 
 ter revealed itself in that instant—a worthless object, which resisted him, 
 outvalued the richest prize which was truly his own. His voice was not 
 powerful nor very sweet, but he sang with expression and feeling—too much 
 feeling; for, as he deeply murmured, 
 
 “When at night thy griefs awake thee. 
 
 Think of those thou gav’st to me,” 
 
 the utter abandonment of his reason to his sorrow (seemingly), and the 
 glance he gave Angel, aroused Lily. 
 
 She turned pale, and looked from the one to the other with a quick, 
 searching gleam; then her lids fell over her eyes, and a shadow darkened her 
 brow. 
 
 There was a pause as Tracy finished, and Alicia was the first to thank him, 
 and to compliment him on his performance. 
 
 Angel played with her paper-knife, and assented to Alicia’s remarks. 
 
 “And you, Lily?” he said, turning toward her. 
 
 “I am hut an indifferent musician,” she answered, coldly. “Alicia’s praise is 
 far more important than mine;” and she rose and leaned her elbow upon the 
 mantle-piece, gazing down into the tiny, sparkling little wood-fire. 
 
 “No one has seen my present,” said Angel. 
 
 Alicia admired it, and touching with its sharp point Lily’s hand which 
 hung beside her, 
 
 “Look, Lil,” she said. 
 
 It was not calculated to allay Lily’s fears. She instantly recognized the 
 
 lily: a novel 121 
 
intended allusion, and, to Clarence’s surprise, who had so completely satis¬ 
 fied himself of her want of perception that he almost fancied her blind, she 
 said, with quivering lips, 
 
 “This is a memento of the May-party. Where are the Hatton roses that 
 you brought home that evening after your moonfight row?” 
 
 “Is that the intention? What a pretty compliment to my beaux jours de 
 jeunesse, Mr. Tracy,” said Angel, carelessly. “It is a dear little toy. The hand is 
 like yours, Lily.” 
 
 “By the way, Lily, I knew your hand last night before I knew you,” said 
 Clarence, approaching her with his most insinuating countenance: “zV has 
 changed very httle.” 
 
 “Lily’s hand is perfect,” remarked Mrs. Langdon. “I am rather proud of 
 my own,” holding out a soft, perfumed, dainty cluster of taper fingers, “but I 
 yield to her.” 
 
 Thence ensued a discussion on hands—the true proportions, the relative 
 merits, the requisite beauties, which was kept up by Angel, Alicia, and Mr. 
 Tracy, while Lily was silent, and Willie occasionally put in. 
 
 At length the latter said, 
 
 “But, after all, Clarence, there is one hand you prefer to aU others—a hand 
 at cards.” 
 
 Lily turned quickly and fixed her eyes intently upon Clarence’s face, where 
 the blood was rapidly mounting. 
 
 “Oh! that was long ago,” he said; “now I care very little for cards, except in 
 a friendly game.” 
 
 “Was that a friendly game on board ship?” began Willie, laughing mis¬ 
 chievously. 
 
 “What a tell-tale!” exclaimed Angel, coming to the rescue. “We shall aU 
 be afraid of you, Mr. Clarendon.” 
 
 “Mr. Clarendon!” repeated Willie; “this is the second time you have called 
 me so formally. I used always to be ‘WUlie’ for Miss Angel Purvis. I have a 
 great fancy for hearing that soft dissyllable from you.” 
 
 “Willie, then, will you be kind enough to tell me the hour of this bright 
 day?” she said, with her sweetest intonation. “That valuable time-piece in 
 the drawing-room is sufficiently trustworthy for my purposes, but should 
 you have ‘a man of business’ to meet in Wall Street, or a note in bank to pay 
 up, don’t risk your credit upon it.” 
 
 It was nearly two o’clock, so Angel lazily pronounced herself in great 
 haste. 
 
 “You two gentlemen will of course dine with us. I heard Mr. Langdon 
 
 122 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
naming six o’clock to you as our dinner hour. Just ourselves, of course— 
 perhaps with the addition of poor Cecilia, of whom I am now going in 
 search.” 
 
 “By the way, how is she?” inquired Clarence, who seemed anxious to break 
 his own awkward silence. 
 
 “Did she not marry abroad?” asked Willie. 
 
 “She did; and a miserable business she made of it. This Count Ravel de 
 Montanvert is a little insignificant creature, with red eyes and a red beard, 
 not to speak of a red nose—every thing, in fact—” 
 
 “But read-y money?” 
 
 “Just so; but Cecilia had a rage for titles, like all her countrywomen—had 
 dreams of a coronet and countess-ship, and, being of mature age, in spite of 
 her brother’s advice she married this Comte—de la Boheme, and wrote 
 herself comtesse, after getting up a trousseau fit for a princess. We left her in 
 Paris, looking as if the gilt had been a little washed from her spouse’s coronet, 
 and she very soon was obliged to sell out stock to pay his gambling debts. He 
 had told her that he owned silver mines in Peru, diamond drippings in 
 Brazil, and, I suppose, malachite diggings in the Ural Mountains, but 
 somehow the supplies from these rich store-houses never came to hand, and, 
 rather weary of him, she wandered back home a month ago with a feeble 
 little baby, as red-eyed as its aristocratic papa, and who, I fear, will never be 
 wiser than its clever mamma.” 
 
 “Poor thing!” 
 
 “I have no patience with her. She might have married very well, or, 
 marrying badly, she might have made the best of it; but she allowed this little 
 animal to involve her fortune, and to ill use her, and then she spends her time 
 pining or else boasting. She has herself comtessed to distraction, but abuses 
 the comte as a rascal of the first magnitude—for his size. But what could she 
 expect from a gambler?” 
 
 Lily sighed heavily. 
 
 “I have promised to take her to my dress-maker this morning. My dear 
 girls, you will walk, you said;” and, bowing with her own especial grace, 
 Angel swept away with her magnificent “action” and her voluminous skirts. 
 
 “Trojan women trailing their long shawls,” repeated Willie, following her 
 with admiring looks. “See here, Alicia, doesn’t she do a little of this?” and he 
 touched his cheek as if painting it. 
 
 “For shame!” ejaculated his sister; “wait till you see Cecilia de Montan¬ 
 vert, and then you will know what rouge is laid upon bare bones.” 
 
 “Mrs. Langdon is handsomer than ever; there is no doubt about that. But 
 
 lily: a novel 123 
 
you are all improved. Even you, puss, are very nearly a beauty,” and he passed 
 his arm affectionately around her as they left the boudoir. 
 
 Meanwhile, Clarence was determined to spring the mine or to take the 
 castle. 
 
 “Lily,” he said, softly, when Angel left the room, “you are angry.” 
 
 “Not angry, but mortified and fearful.” 
 
 “Great heaven! about what? I did play cards on board ship; but, unless I 
 had wished to make myself conspicuous and priggish, I could not have done 
 otherwise. Would you really desire that I should give up an occasional game 
 of whist because I lost a couple of hundred dollars six months ago at cards? 
 Whatever you wish seriously, Lily, I would promise to do.” 
 
 “You promised me then, when by a strange accident I heard of this thing, 
 never to play for money. I felt as if it had been providential that you inclosed 
 carelessly within the envelope of my letter the note you had written to send 
 your creditor. It runs in your family, Clarence. Horse-racing, betting, card¬ 
 playing in a gentlemanly way, have, through succeeding generations, helped 
 to dissipate the originally fine fortune of the Tracys. I did not ask a promise, 
 but I thought you implied one.” 
 
 Clarence’s face assumed a mournful look, but within him a kind of 
 suppressed anger seemed to whisper, 
 
 “My canny Scottish fiancee trembles for her father’s hoards. Lily,” he said, 
 aloud, “this is a sad business—but you must not think that I allude to my 
 gambling propensities” (with a bitter smile); “I mean that we should so soon 
 fall out. I am not given to cards or bets. I can not with safety promise to give 
 them up entirely, but I shall only repeat that you may trust me. Your wish 
 would be always stronger than any oath made in my own name. Do you 
 doubt me, Lily? By heaven! if you knew—if you could guess the immense 
 power you have over me, you would be tempted to act the tyrant; for slaves 
 make tyrants, and I am the slave, dearest, of your fightest thought. Wield 
 your influence with care, my own sweet Lily!” 
 
 He took her hand, and poured out his eloquent vindication. The time had 
 come which Angelica had predicted: it was no longer the timid, blushing girl 
 who accepted his decisions. He divined the kindly, resolute young woman, 
 who steadily watched him, and sought to read him before she gave up her 
 point. A word now was not sufficient to convince her. She was not a child 
 except in her child-like innocence. Give her a clew, and she was capable of 
 following it. This was a prize to strive for. He might chafe under the 
 unwavering gaze, but he could not despise the loving dupe she once was. He 
 petted, but it was an occasion for him “to air his vocabulary,” and to bring the 
 
 124 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
machinery of his stage-tricks to the foot-lights, and there conceal wires and 
 trap-doors. 
 
 It was troublesome, but exciting; for, abandoning presently her first attack, 
 Lily calmly spoke of the evident understanding between Angel and him¬ 
 self—spoke calmly, gravely, without tears, without reproaches, without itera¬ 
 tions or repetitions. 
 
 He respected her; he admired her; he began to love her. 
 
 She was as firm as if she had been cold, though her hands trembled, and 
 her white cheeks sometimes flushed, and her voice faltered once. 
 
 “This is not a sudden notion, Clarence; I have had it before. Madame de 
 Montanvert hinted one day before me at Angel, and I fancied her words then 
 the peevish innuendoes of a foolish woman; afterward little circumstances 
 almost forgotten rose up; but this morning a light seemed to break in upon 
 me. You love me as a sister; take a sister’s advice.” 
 
 “As a sister!” cried Clarence, and he hastily brushed his handkerchief 
 across his eyes; “never.” 
 
 They talked long and earnestly, and fierce were the protestations of the 
 gentleman as gradually the girl’s own heart helped to plead his cause. 
 
 Of course, she forgave him; but her suspicions were aroused, and, as they 
 finally rejoined Willie in the farthest drawing-room, where Alicia, with her 
 usual tact, had dragged him off, he said to himself, deep in his own breast, 
 and wonderingly, 
 
 “Take care! I may yet lose her.” 
 
 But still, with minute observance of outward honorable punctilio, Clar¬ 
 ence did not seek to bind her by any promise yet. He must wait till she was 
 beneath her guardian’s roof, and under his immediate protection. The world 
 should never say that he had gained the heiress’s hand by a clandestine 
 engagement, unsuspected by Mr. Clarendon. He knew that she applauded 
 his delicacy, and that she delighted in attention to points of etiquette such as 
 this. 
 
 He was charmed with her. Long and intimately as he had known her, this 
 was a new and startling phase of character. It might grow very troublesome; 
 but he felt all the delight of a game to play—a race to run—and it was with a 
 feeling of excited interest that he had never experienced before in her society 
 that Clarence left that house, after they had aU decided that it was too late for 
 their intended walk. 
 
 lily: a novel 125 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 How grand Mrs. Langdon looked at the head of her dinner-table! 
 
 Owing to the party at which they were to appear that evening, all the 
 ladies were in full dress, and around the sumptuously-served board, and 
 beneath the blaze of the chandelier, whose light was tempered by shades of 
 thick ground glass, they formed a charming group. 
 
 Angelica had assumed for this occasion her most dignified and stately 
 aspect. In a dress of orange-colored moire antique, with a pattern of great 
 roses and cactuses tied together with a loop of gold ribbon running over it, 
 and made with the square front and half-high corsage of our grandmothers, 
 she looked as if she had just stepped from some old picture, particularly as 
 the sleeves and neck were ornamented with lace of wonderful richness, and 
 around her throat was tightly clasped a single row of rubies matching the 
 drops in her ears. 
 
 Nothing could be finer than the mode in which Angelica’s head was 
 placed upon her shoulders. She and Lily equally possessed this distinctive 
 and rare charm. It gives a character to the plainest features, and elevates the 
 commonest figure; but whereas in Lily it was only graceful and high-bred, in 
 Angel it was predominating and imposing. It blended in Lily’s tout ensemble; 
 it was perfectly distinguishable in Angel’s carriage, and immediately called 
 your attention. She had a way of throwing back her head, and toying with 
 the drooping ornaments that usually adorned her coiffure, which was both 
 easy and haughty; or else, while speaking, she would fix her eyes upon her 
 companion, and smooth over and over the lustrous blackness of her ban¬ 
 deaux, as if through careless thought, while in reahty she was considering 
 how pretty must be her white fingers threading these dark masses. Today, 
 long lappets of lace fell from her braids upon her shoulders, and as she would 
 twine the gossamer costliness about her hand, the jeweled butterfly, which, 
 mounted on great pins, fastened her head-dress, shook, and trembled, and 
 fluttered like a living thing. I do not know if there was truth in William 
 Clarendon’s conjecture, but certainly the sallowness of her cheek had given 
 place to a faint color, which was infinitely becoming, while, though she could 
 not compare in fairness with Lily, there was nothing disagreeable in the dead 
 whiteness which alone remained of her once yellow tinge. 
 
 There was a mixture of statehness and languor about Angelica, a softness 
 in her eyes, and a haughtiness around her mouth, which constituted her 
 charm. Every chair or seat which she occupied became a throne for an 
 enamored Eastern princess. 
 
 126 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
She looked passion, and commanded obedience. Compare her now with 
 Lily, and see how possible it was for a man to hesitate in outward admiration 
 between them. The one seemed made up of light and purity, while the other 
 was dark, designing, distracting. 
 
 Both were calm, and had great repose of manner. Both were grave, both 
 smiled more than they laughed, and neither of them were “talking women.” 
 And yet, with these points of resemblance, with a cast of features singularly 
 alike, they were as different as night and morning. So much does mind 
 influence matter. 
 
 Clarence Tracy sat on the right of his hostess, and Lily beside him; 
 opposite to them was the Countess de Montanvert, who had got herself up 
 with tremendous trouble. 
 
 Poor Cecilia! her bones were bared till you could count the vertebrae in 
 her back, que c'etait une douleur a voir. Dark lines were under her eyes which 
 rouge could not conceal; the lids were stenciled, pearl-powder glistened on 
 the forehead, the eyebrows were carefully penciled, and countless yards of 
 curviline swathed her lower limbs. 
 
 She was fidgety, rattling, full of minauderies, imbibed quantities of Cham¬ 
 pagne frappe, made eyes at William Clarendon, and sported a handkerchief 
 with ''applicatiori' a quarter of a yard deep around it, and a two-inch-square 
 centre, just large enough to hold the coronet and the initials. Somehow the 
 coronet corner always was uppermost. 
 
 Presently, however, she deserted William, and directed her fire toward 
 Clarence. As it had often happened before, Willie’s beauty stood no chance 
 against Clarence’s fascinating manner. 
 
 Tracy was so overflowing with kindness to all woman-kind that he never 
 suffered any of the softer sex to be uncognizant of his claims upon their 
 attention. He never wished them to lose the opportunity of appreciating 
 him, provided he considered them worthy of the privilege; and by a few 
 adroit remarks about Paris, and a certain air as of free-masonry existing 
 between them, touching society of la haute volee', he won Madame de 
 Montanvert’s delighted acquiescence and support. 
 
 She leaned eagerly across the table, shrugging her poor, thin shoulders, 
 and flashing her black eyes, talking rapidly with an accent and tongue 
 becoming more French at every sentence. 
 
 “You know Egbert de Montmartre? Quelle joie! et cette cherepetite Madame 
 de Havrecourt? It is a liaison qui dure depuis des anne'es. Sont-ils heureuxl^hy 
 do we never see such things in this country?” 
 
 lily: a novel 127 
 
“Cecilia!” cried her brother, “how can you talk so foolishly? You don’t 
 think of what you are saying. Pray, my dear, speak both Enghsh and sense.” 
 
 “Archibald is really 'moyen-age in his notions,” said Madame de Montan- 
 vert, laughing affectedly; “and yet il sent son Etats-Unis d’une liene” 
 
 Mr. Langdon chose to take the “moyen-age” literally, and answered with 
 some asperity, 
 
 “Let us say nothing about ages, Cecilia. You are only five years behind 
 me. 
 
 “Years!” repeated Clarence, coming to the rescue; “who talks now of years? 
 Alphonse Karr has decided, with all the force of his wit, that years’—a 
 certain number of months and days elapsed—go for nothing. Looks and 
 actions alone proclaim youth or age. A woman of twenty, faded and duU, 
 must always be older than one of forty bien conservee and charming. So, 
 ladies, what a chance for all of you who look toward forty as a bourne beyond 
 counting; and yet at forty you will still plead youth to your budding neighbor 
 if she has not the genius to faire valoir her scanty but withering summers.” 
 
 “Did you ever see Alphonse Karr abroad?” asked Mr. Langdon. 
 
 “I never did; but I did see de Balzac, and Dumas, and Eugene Sue.” 
 
 “I desired very much to meet M. de Balzac,” Angel went on; “and I 
 actually invited Mr. Langdon to procure that pleasure for me, but he seemed 
 to think I might as well request him to move heaven and earth for no 
 purpose but to introduce into our lodgings a wild hyena.” 
 
 “Much more like a very tame elephant was the deceased hon. M. de 
 Balzac was the most ungainly, huge mass! The advocate and defamer of 
 pretty women was not a dangerous man in his latter years, even to the 
 grateful hearts of des 'femmes de trente ans. 
 
 “How did you manage to get on so well in French society too?” inquired 
 Madame de Montanvert; “they are so exclusive.” 
 
 “I was fortunate enough to render a service to a cadet of a noble family at 
 Baden-Baden,” answered Clarence, with an uneasy blush, “and when I went 
 to Paris last winter for six weeks, after you left,” turning toward Mrs. 
 Langdon, “he found me out, and overwhelmed me with civilities, invita¬ 
 tions, and kindness.” 
 
 “Where was I then?” asked Cecilia. “Oh yes, I was in all the horrors— 
 faisant mes couches. As some woman says in some novel, it is indeed un chten 
 de metier'' 
 
 Mr. Langdon groaned at this new demonstration of his sister’s foreign 
 manners, and William Clarendon said. 
 
 128 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“How did you get over Dumas’s kinky head?” 
 
 “I contented myself with thinking that I was not in Carolina. Beranger is a 
 fine old fellow. I succeeded in seeing him by accident and a little strategy.” 
 
 “Afi! if you have recently seen Beranger, I shall introduce you to-night to a 
 gentleman who, on learning this, will, I am sure, take you to his arms enplein 
 salon" remarked Angel. “He has but one French passion, but that absorbs his 
 being. He passes his time translating Beranger, and, while he affiches the 
 fiercest morality and prudery, no author is so simple, so whole, so perfect in 
 his eyes as the laudator of Lisette. He will bore you to death with abuse of 
 French men, French women, French nature, French poetry, French morals, 
 French manners. The men are disgusting, the women devergondees. He has 
 no patience with them—no admiration for them. They are coarse, they are 
 heartless, they are unbearable. But Beranger! he is strong, he is pure, he is 
 honest; and my discriminating acquaintance labors over his stanzas with a 
 zeal, an energy, a love which he might as well bestow elsewhere.” 
 
 “Where?” asked Mr. Langdon, who only spoke to ask questions or to 
 reprove. 
 
 “Eh? any where,” answered Angel, rising, with a half smile, and stepping 
 back with nonchalant dignity, to make way for her lady-guests as they left 
 the room together. 
 
 Tracy was close upon their skirts, and coffee was served as they entered the 
 drawing-room. Madame de Montanvert helped herself to six lumps of sugar, 
 which caused her tiny Sevres cup to overflow, and began feeding Marquise 
 with these impromptu Mocha-drops, discoursing most voluble nonsense. 
 
 “Where did you get your cook, Angel? I have given up in despair. These 
 terrible Irlandaises are utterly incapable. One was recommended to me as a 
 first-rate cook, and I ordered the first day despetits canetons canaris aux jeunes 
 legumes glacees, with a Bavaroise mousseuse a lAnana, and she made me repeat 
 the order three times, and then flounced off, telling me she had not come 
 there ‘to be made game of’ I assured her that canetons were not game; they 
 were the tame ducks hatched by geese, only very small; but she would not 
 stay to listen. Now your cailles bardies aux feuilles de vigne and yoxix grenadins 
 de veau aux petits pois were delicious. I can’t say quite as much for your petits 
 biscuits souffle's a la creme. I am sure Marquise would not have touched them. 
 N'est-cepas une belle auxyeux dores? Angel, why don’t you send Marquise to 
 see Zora? Zora is so lonely; she had a great deal of society in Paris; but here I 
 am afraid of permitting her to visit, the dogs are all so common. Mr. Tracy, 
 do tell me if Marquise’s eyes are not like Madame de Chateauper’s?” 
 
 lily: a novel 129 
 
Clarence was talking to Lily, and he obeyed the summons with rather an 
 ill grace, which, however, soon subsided into his usual suavity and gallantry 
 of manner, and Cecilia immediately pinned him for a “chatter.” 
 
 “Such eyes! Zora has beautiful eyes too, and sometimes she fixes them on 
 me with so deep an expression, that, if she were not Zora, I might fancy that, 
 in the transmigration of souls, the heart of some impassioned prince was 
 beating beneath her long curls. But I suppose male souls always inhabit male 
 bodies. Is it not so? I should like to think that Zora has a man’s heart.” 
 
 “How can you, Cecilia, be so exceedingly absurd?” asked Angel. 
 
 WiUie Clarendon, who enjoyed fun beyond every other sensation, was 
 charmed with the comtesse. 
 
 He did not like to make her exhibit before his host; but Mr. Langdon 
 having remained in the dining-room for a smoke. Clarendon proceeded to 
 draw her out. 
 
 In vain Lily shook her head disapprovingly; but Angel, lazily amused, 
 listened with a glitter in her eye, and Alicia rather encouraged him. 
 
 It would be wearisome to detail poor CecUia’s torrent of foUy. She hopped 
 from subject to subject, with shrugs, and flutters, and glances, and smiles, 
 fancying herself intensely Parisienne, while she was only lamentably foohsh. 
 
 Once she made three of the party wince, however; for, not satisfied with 
 Willie, she continued her hold upon Clarence by addressing him, no matter 
 how abruptly, if he attempted to rise from beside her. Either she began some 
 story about herself, or about some fancied Paris friend of his, whose recollec¬ 
 tions he might have escaped had he chosen to disavow their, his, or her 
 acquaintance; but, with his usual vanity, Tracy was satisfied to be bored if he 
 could produce an effect, and liked to be thought an habitue of many French 
 houses where he had really been only a chance visitor. 
 
 He saw Lily watching him, and tried to glide away under cover of some 
 outrageous compliment paid by William; but Cecilia broke out, 
 
 “As for compliments, it is my pleasure to make them, not to receive them. 
 Mr. Tracy, I made you a very pretty compliment at Rome once. A lady—that 
 Venetian Countess Balsacor—asked me one night who was the young gen¬ 
 tleman in constant attendance upon Madame Langdon. ‘Apparemment c’est le 
 porte-queue de la chere belle-saur. ’ ‘Vous prononcez mal, belle comtesse,’\ replied; 
 'c’est le porte-cceur. ’ Pretty, wasn’t it?” 
 
 With an impatient exclamation, Tracy got up and approached Lily, who 
 abruptly left the room, closing the door quietly in his face. 
 
 “It is time to start, for our soiree is an early one,” said Angelica. “Lily has 
 
 130 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
already gone to smooth her ringlets. Can I offer you my mirror and Rosalie s 
 services, Cecilia?” 
 
 Madame de Montanvert hesitated; but Clarence had moodily picked up a 
 book, with an evident intention to say, and listen to, nothing farther; and that 
 day’s post had brought a letter for Miss Clarendon from home, whose 
 contents she and Willie were now discussing, as it had to be answered by the 
 morning’s mail; consequently Cecilia, quite unaware of the mischief her 
 “pretty compliment” had caused, thought she might as well examine into the 
 state of the enameling on her features, and accepted the offer. 
 
 M CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Mrs. George Beresford had determined to introduce a “new style” of 
 parties. She had enjoyed “new style” dresses, and followed the lead in “new 
 style” bonnets, but she would set a fashion of her own now, and have 
 “conversation balls,” that could incontestably be considered “new style;” so 
 that when her rooms were full, and the rumor went around that there would 
 not be a leg in motion except to walk about, a chorus of vituperations was 
 raised by the dancers of “our set,” and Alicia Clarendon was among the 
 pouters. 
 
 “No music?” 
 
 “Conversation.” 
 
 “Who’ll make it?” 
 
 “What a take in!” 
 
 But the hostess glided about in a brocade so stiff that her tiny figure 
 seemed lost in its ponderous plaits, and her spirituelle head rose above the 
 triple ranges of ribbon, lace, and silk which composed her corsage like a 
 brilliant blossom from the midst of a huge bed of verdure. 
 
 Her diamonds sparkled in their wheat-ear setting, and her wickedly 
 bright blue eyes followed suit, while from the somewhat thin but very red 
 lips flowed a stream of saucy sayings, which her admirers caught up and 
 repeated with delight to those on the outside of her immediate circle. 
 
 Tremendous flirtations became the order of the night. Couples lounged in 
 the conservatory—you “flushed” a “pair” in every nook—and really there 
 ensued a low, murmuring hum of “conversation” that was quite marvelous. 
 Mrs. Beresford labored assiduously. She gave the “ball” a roll whenever it 
 flagged on its course; the buffet stored with the choicest dainties; the big 
 punch-bowl continued full, and all went merrily and most successfully. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL I3I 
 
It was not an easy thing. Constantly a dull silence would reign in one 
 corner, and youthful heroes, teetering on their polka legs, found no words to 
 express their want of ideas to their equally embarrassed partners. Quick as 
 lightning, Mrs. Beresford would dispatch one of her satallites with a newly- 
 invented scandal to rouse them and set their tongues in motion; or she would 
 sail up herself with a jaunty, spirited air, which served to clear the heavy 
 atmosphere like sheet lightning on a summer’s evening. 
 
 There were some very hard novices whom she almost despaired of; but, 
 arming herself with courage, and her memory with recollections, she broke 
 in upon one body of silent, bored, and boring guests, and, aided by two or 
 three choice spirits, began to talk most perseveringly, peremptorily, and 
 persuasively. 
 
 Leaving the dear little soul aux prises with these unamusable creatures, I 
 must tell you what became of our party. 
 
 At the door, on entering, of course little Dick Everett was waiting to meet 
 his stately idol, who smiled on him from the depths of her luxurious eyes, 
 and after making her compliments to Mrs. Beresford, she took the boy’s 
 arm, dismissed Mr. Langdon, and bewildered Dick by a few of her prettiest 
 and dreamiest phrases. 
 
 Alicia gave a half start on being addressed by a well-known voice, and 
 Harry Barclay appeared, to be warmly welcomed by Angel and herself, and 
 timidly by Lily. 
 
 Presently, however, they all changed their positions: Mr. Barclay, with his 
 quiet manoeuvring, took possession of Miss Vere; Clarence sidled little 
 Everett out of the way (who frowned his displeasure till Angel gave her fiat 
 in Mr. Tracy’s favor, and then he submitted); Alicia was flirting with a New 
 York admirer; and the only two who retained their first belongings were 
 William Clarendon and Madame de Montanvert. 
 
 “At last!” ejaculated Clarence, seating himself by Mrs. Langdon. 
 
 “At last!” echoed Angel, with a mocking smile. 
 
 “I began to despair of speaking three words to you. Why have you avoided 
 me? Why do you wish to prevent me from pouring out to you, my confidant, 
 my benefactress, my friend, the happy result of all your teachings? I wish to 
 tell you—to assure you, even before I speak to her, of how deeply I venerate— 
 I adore Lily. She is the sweetest, purest bud that ever bloomed for man’s 
 delight. What a companion! What a gentle hand to guide the helm of a 
 wayward being’s career! Is she not a tender glory? With all her feminine 
 graces, her dove-like virtues, her speaking silence! Who would not trust 
 
 132 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
those loving, meek, and innocent eyes? Ah! dearest Mrs. Langdon, let me 
 thank you over and again for your far-seeing kindness. You bade me watch 
 and wait for this treasure. She is a woman full of every womanly charm. No 
 spark of deceit or cunning lurks in the blue lustre of her starry glance. A man 
 might with unasking confidence place his honor, his life, his hopes in such 
 keeping as hers.” 
 
 Deeply from under the royal lids, with their long, searching, sneering 
 glance, Angel listened. 
 
 “Yes? You think all that of Lily? How very nice!” 
 
 It was like a bucket of cold water suddenly dashed on an excited head. 
 
 With some difficulty Clarence proceeded; 
 
 “I do indeed. She has ripened into a most lovely, most lovable woman.” 
 
 He paused, and Angel played with the lace lappets, and the jeweled 
 butterfly danced among the shining folds of her black hair, while she now 
 looked haughtily and indifferently over the crowd. 
 
 “I fear I am not worthy of so precious a care.” 
 
 No answer but a slight smile. 
 
 “Has she not many admirers here? Does she not, do you think, regret her 
 humble choice?” 
 
 “Clarence,” said Angel, sitting up, which was a sign with her that she 
 meant to speak to the purpose, “it is quite needless to talk to me in this 
 exaggerated, melodramatic style. Lily is very charming, but you will never 
 persuade me that you understand or feel her real charm. You are laboring 
 violently to produce a dreary, famished soft of admiration, which does not in 
 the least impress me. Be natural. Tell me that you find her wonderfully 
 improved, that you thank Heaven for your good fortune, and that you will 
 endeavor to make her happy. Happy,” she repeated, with a deep-drawn 
 sigh—“happy, because she is unselfish, true, devoted, and less anxious for 
 personal preeminence than any creature I ever saw. She has listened to her 
 heart; she means to give her hand where that heart has led the way; and, 
 come what will of this act, she may live some blissful hours yet. She will 
 never love any but you, and, struggling against her convictions, will continue 
 to invest you with a whole catalogue of virtues—happy for that very reason, 
 just as a vivid fancy enables its possessor to enjoy real pleasures more than a 
 matter-of-fact one can attain under the same circumstances. Don’t waste 
 your time embroidering Lily for my benefit. All I ardently desire is that you 
 should seriously appreciate her innocent, unworldly qualities. I am so hard, 
 so old, so worn, I live in Lily’s freshness as the flies do in amber. I let it 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 133 
 
envelop me, and lie dead and withered within its pure transparency.” She 
 smiled her bitterest smile: “We never show to greater advantage than side by 
 side.” 
 
 “Each the other reflecting,” said Clarence, with one of his stereotyped 
 phrases and bows. 
 
 Angel sighed, her eyes drooped, and a shade of pain contracted her lofty, 
 languid brow. She placed her hand quickly upon her side, and then withdrew 
 it as quickly. 
 
 “Are you ill?” asked Clarence, anxiously. 
 
 “A mere trifle; a spasm of that curious article, the heart. I should not know 
 I had one, I suppose, unless these little twitches came occasionally. Velpeau 
 says one great start some day will end my busy life. I don’t mind them much. 
 They rouse me, and set my blood stirring, and my brain thinking.” 
 
 “It is very sad. Can nothing be done?” inquired Clarence, quite moved. 
 
 “Nothing. Don’t you hear me say I enjoy them?” said Angel, impatiently. 
 “Good-evening, gentlemen,” she went on, with her accustomed insolent 
 grace, as two men paused before her chair. “You are fortunate, Mr. Tracy: not 
 only can I make you acquainted with Mr. Oldmeath, the unfailing translator 
 of Beranger, whom I promised, but see! he comes doubly welcome, for he 
 brings my poet, my poetical proser, whose name is fame.” 
 
 “Unkind, ungrateful Mrs. Langdon!” exclaimed the last gentleman, while 
 Mr. Oldmeath was executing his most Englishly awkward of awkwardly 
 English bows. “I have been from the distance adoring you in your grand- 
 dame trappings, longing for powder in your blackest hair, to complete the 
 picture, and come now by easy stages to tell you what an appreciative 
 audience you have this evening, and you receive me in this way!” 
 
 “Have done with your ‘appreciative audiences,’ ” said Mrs. Langdon; “in 
 your paper it always means a very small crowd, of whom you can say nothing 
 farther. Mr. Tracy, know Mr. Parker, and be happy in that knowledge.” 
 
 Mr. Parker was tall, florid, light-haired, with an English expression 
 (partly based on a nez retrousse)^ which he cultivated to the highest degree. 
 His eyes were haggard and worked, and his dress fantastic and dandified. Of 
 himself you saw no more, for his beard, curling in minute ringlets, covered 
 his face. His manner was deferential, soft, and considerate. He made every 
 woman to whom he spoke fancy that she, by herself, could govern a king¬ 
 dom, so complete was her power over him, and if over him—why, the rest of 
 the world was easily managed. 
 
 Mr. Oldmeath was not possessed of more grace than falls to the lot of 
 most of his countrymen from the white cliffs of Albion. You could never 
 
 134 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
doubt but that he was a gentleman, with all the natural reserve which is their 
 time-honored privilege. He had the bluest eyes, with the merriest twinkle in 
 them—the whitest teeth—the squarest nose. Prim, particular; neat, rec¬ 
 tangular, he professed a taste for the society of the strictest matrons, and 
 somehow managed always to be found courtisant les plus belles, without the 
 slightest reference to the hugely moral nature of their pretensions and 
 principles. 
 
 He worshiped Beranger, he loved himself, and he honored the queen. 
 
 A lively chat ensued. 
 
 “I saw one of your most desperate admirers last night. Miss Langdon, the 
 poet T—,” said Mr. Parker. 
 
 “7 never saw him in my life,” said Angel, quietly. 
 
 “Impossible! you can’t keep the list. They jostle one another, and you let 
 them drop aside, fall, and wither like leaves from your bouquet. You must 
 have known him. He described a certain drop of your eyelid—a bluish shade 
 (nearly a vein) which tracks it—too closely for a street-gazer.” 
 
 “Bear one thing in mind, Mr. Tracy,” said Angel, “Mr. Parker speaks 
 always for print and pay, either in ready money or in ready smiles, from his 
 listeners. He does not expect me to believe him. I am very happy in the 
 friendship of these two gentlemen. Mr. Oldmeath is so rigid in his transla¬ 
 tions, even of his thoughts, that he never tells me any thing which could not 
 be proved by the original on the other page; whereas Mr. Parker—” and she 
 paused, with one of her lustrous, upward glances—“no matter; I call them 
 ‘Fact and Fancy.’ ” 
 
 “That is not so good, my dear Mrs. Langdon,” said Mr. Oldmeath, “as 
 your speech to Parker that night at supper, when you were seated between 
 the millionaire, old Carr, and himself ‘Behold me,’ you said, ‘between 
 Mammon and Gammon.’” 
 
 “For a memory so apropos, and which brings to light forgotten witticisms, 
 becoming, alas! fewer each day, you deserve, Mr. Oldmeath, a reward. Mr. 
 Tracy (my townsman) is fresh from Paris; embrace bim (mentally, I pray you) 
 as one who has lately looked upon your idol. Be—” 
 
 “For pity’s sake,” interrupted Mr. Oldmeath, raising his hands implor¬ 
 ingly, “let my follies be! I have never bored you with my taste—” 
 
 “With your want of taste, frequently,” retorted Angel, laughing one of her 
 rare laughs. 
 
 “We shall not mind Mrs. Langdon’s sneers,” said Clarence, with his 
 sympathizing smile, as he drew Mr. Oldmeath aside in deference to An¬ 
 gelica’s “Pray talk him over,” in a whisper. 
 
 lily: a novel 135 
 
But scarcely had Mr. Parker commenced one of his pretty fairy tales about 
 a princess, whose name was Mrs. Some-one-or-other, and whose magic 
 castle was huilt of bricks and mortar in Brooklyn, or in some such prosaic 
 field, when Mr. Oldmeath called out, 
 
 “But, indeed, Mrs. Langdon, listen to this; acknowledge its graceful turn, 
 its kind and honest impulse. Recite them again, pray, Mr. Tracy, and we will 
 convert Mrs. Langdon.” 
 
 “What is it?” asked Angelica, as Clarence hesitated. 
 
 “I was simply repeating to Mr. Oldmeath a couple of stanzas which were 
 given to me in Paris as 'des vers of Lamartine and Beranger. I do not 
 
 vouch for them as being entirely unpubhshed, but they were so called, and 
 appear new, even to one of Beranger’s most trustworthy admirers,” with a 
 bow to Mr. Oldmeath. 
 
 “Let us have them,” said Angel, languidly. 
 
 “Lamartine wrote in some lady’s album, 
 
 “ ‘Dans ce cimetiere de gloire 
 Vous voulez ma cendre! a quoi bon? 
 
 Tandis que j’inscrits ma memoire 
 Le temps pulverise mon nom.’ 
 
 —Lamartine. 
 
 “Upon seeing which, Beranger gallantly added, 
 
 “‘Si le temps, pour montrer jusqu’ou va son empire. 
 
 Pulverise en effet le beau nom que voila, 
 
 Puisse-t-il sur les vers que j’ose encore ecrire, 
 
 Jeter un peu de cette poudre-la.’ ” 
 
 “Is it not charming?” exclaimed Mr. Oldmeath, in an ecstasy. 
 
 “Df-h-ci-ous,” drawled Angel, with provoking coolness. “I am too impul¬ 
 sive to hsten with proper calmness to such bursts of genius. Don’t recite any 
 more, Clarence—although your accent is very good.” 
 
 “Why don’t you take up the literary line, Mrs. Langdon? You are so 
 difficult to please. Might you not give us something worthy our admiration?” 
 
 “On the contrary, it is you who find only one author—no, two,” she added, 
 with a significant look, and what, in a less haughty face, would have been 
 superlative sauciness. “I would not dare to write even a magazine story. Mr. 
 Oldmeath would praise me too little, and Mr. Parker too much. My reputa¬ 
 tion would be unmeaningly tepid between the two. Besides, I have no 
 imagination. How could I cope with those budding, nursling vestals at the 
 
 136 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
shrine of Poetry and Prose, who incessantly do pour out their sweet and 
 sentimental phrases, and are cried up as ‘graceful and interesting writers;’ 
 stain my fingers with even violet ink to be placed ‘a little lower than these 
 angels,’ well ‘got up’ in Yankee-English, and very strong in the manners and 
 customs of fourth-rate fashionables! I should as soon attempt to quash Mrs. 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe with one of those interminable, tiresome replies to 
 ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ or enter the lists against the Bowery wit and refinement 
 of Fanny Fern.” 
 
 “Do not you admire Fanny Fern?” said Mr. Parker, turning uneasily. 
 
 “Admire her! what a misplaced sentiment! I may be surprised at her— 
 wonder at her for being so heartily coarse—” 
 
 “Oh, Mrs. Fangdon! she is so earnest—she feels so strongly—” 
 
 “Saul among the prophets! What business had you, my sentimental 
 friend, with Fanny Fern? In what does she resemble your Nell Noodles and 
 Poll Poodles, the eternal Rosa Matildas of your weekly journal? And, by the 
 way, I heard some one complaining recently of the worn-out state of your 
 sugar-sifter. You sprinkle the sweet too thickly over your critical notices, and 
 induce this fault-finding subscriber to purchase such cart-loads of trash that 
 he fervently hopes the secret will be soon discovered of making printed paper 
 serve twice. He will gladly dispose of your cried-up volumes at less than the 
 price of‘old rags per pound.’” 
 
 A smile made the white teeth of Mr. Oldmeath visible while Mr. Parker 
 was receiving this reproof, given out in Angel’s laziest manner, with a languid 
 fatigue of gesture contrasting curiously with the vivacity of her words. 
 
 “There is something in the misfortunes of our best friends,” 6cc.; but he 
 was not destined to escape the feather-tipped lash of the scornful lady. 
 
 “And you, my dear sir, since I am in a candid vein, conduct your literary 
 notices (with a difference) very much in the style in which Byron said the 
 great English nation treats improprieties: every seven years it wakes up to a 
 huge sense of virtue, and somebody must be punished, after which it fails 
 asleep again, and nods and winks over far more culpable actions. In tbe 
 reverse of this, you carry the war into every body’s leaves, hitting right and 
 left during at least seven weeks; then, with an amiable feeling ripe within 
 you, or the moment at hand for the necessary layer of‘sweetening,’ you light 
 gently upon some new work, no better nor worse than its predecessors, and 
 talk of it so kindly, and quote it so discreetly, that one might almost think— 
 you had written it yourself” 
 
 Certainly both these unhappy gentlemen would have fled before this 
 devouring sword; but what mattered these sarcastic sentences, when the 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 137 
 
scarlet lips that uttered them were so fresh and dewy, and the great eyes 
 swept through their haughty lashes looks of the most bewildering insolence? 
 
 Mr. Parker only took a mental portrait of his tormentor, to be dressed up 
 as a “Belle of our Days,” and Mr. Oldmeath only thought her handsomer 
 than any American woman he had ever seen. 
 
 How beauty drags all other gifts in its train! Without those eyes, and 
 without her thousand charms, natural, acquired, and modified, Mrs. Lang- 
 don would have passed and been passed over as a rude, disagreeable, snap¬ 
 pish woman. 
 
 So, my young reader, if you have no positive proof of your attractions, 
 cultivate a winning grace of manner; but if you are only sUly enough not to 
 venture beyond the weather and ordinary beau topics, you are safe. Does any 
 man know any thing more delightful than a real fool? a fool pretty to look at 
 and sweetly affectionate? They are feminine—they are lovable—they are 
 earth’s blessings. Amen. 
 
 Clarence Tracy hstened with amazement to Angel. He had no idea that 
 she assumed so uncompromising a stand with every one, and he wondered to 
 see two men, who were both in their way celebrities, bowing delightedly 
 beneath her blows. 
 
 He rushed into the breach, and disputed Mrs. Langdon’s position with a 
 playful fervor that gained him two friends at once. But, even united, they 
 were no match for the Saracenic blade, that cut as far as it intended, never 
 going deeper than the wielder of it calculated; if there was a “graze,” healing 
 the wound with a smile so radiant that you would almost have preferred to be 
 “hit again” for the pleasure of the cure, and in all her fiercest attacks never 
 varying from a graceful languor, which made you sometimes fancy that she 
 only spoke, after all, to please you, for the effort was more a bore to her than 
 otherwise. 
 
 “I am quite hoarse,” she said at length; “no doubt my friend, Mrs. 
 Beresford, has provided unlimited supplies of soothing liquids for her guests. 
 She must know that their unaccustomed throats will tingle after their first 
 essay at conversation.” 
 
 “What shall I get for you?” each gentleman eagerly asked. 
 
 “Nothing. I have a fancy for personal exploration of the buffet. Mr. Tracy 
 is a stranger; he must be taken about and shown the people;” and with a 
 softly-bending motion she arose, her heavy train swelled out behind her, she 
 passed her fair, full arm through Clarence’s, lifted her lofty head, the 
 gemmed butterfly trembled and shone, she put back her impeding skirts 
 
 138 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
with the air of a queen mounting the first steps of her throne, and with a 
 backward glance smiled over her shoulder, and was lost in the crowd. 
 
 “Magnificent—is she not?” said Mr. Parker; “the turn of her shoulders is 
 as natural and sweeping as that of her conversation. Do you know, Old- 
 meath, there is nothing so much neglected, so fooUshly unthought of, as a 
 woman’s back. We go into phrensies about a beautiful face, while we never 
 consider her back. There are lines about a handsome woman’s spine which 
 are constantly uncelebrated. I can not forgive Mrs. Langdon for that dress 
 which covers those delicate traceries. A hand does not so surely define the 
 character as a woman’s back.” 
 
 “And what of her face?” 
 
 “Never attempt to read a woman in her face. They are fitted with alabaster 
 masks so soon as they can run alone, and time never washes off a layer of the 
 composition. He wrinkles it and fades it, makes spots upon it, and worth¬ 
 lessly defaces it with additions, but he can not separate the chnging disguise 
 from the real countenance beneath.” 
 
 Mr. Oldmeath shrugged his own shoulders dissentingly. 
 
 “I am still young enough to believe in the innocence of the female 
 character,” he said, “and in the possibility of deciphering that innocence in 
 the countenance. Nothing can be more detestable than a creature who places 
 a perpetual guard upon her features. Let me see a woman whose sweet 
 thoughts you can follow in the workings of her ingenuous face.” 
 
 “Such a one as Mrs. Langdon, for instance,” suggested Mr. Parker, slyly, 
 being perfectly aware of Mr. Oldmeath’s weakness in that quarter. The latter 
 reddened sUghtly, and with an uneasy laugh began to talk of the last Euro¬ 
 pean news. 
 
 “You recognize those two gentlemen,” Angefica said, as she left them, to 
 Clarence. “I often wonder what unites them in a sort of hesitating inti¬ 
 macy—the one so sentimental, the other so matter-of-fact—except that the 
 one practices what the other preaches. Mr. Parker always talks of the 
 influence of women, and never yields to it. Mr. Oldmeath professes to 
 despise it, and always falls under it.” 
 
 “Perhaps their similar business,” said Clarence; “they are both newspaper 
 editors.” 
 
 “Not at all,” replied Angelica, answering his first proposition. “Mr. Old¬ 
 meath has taken up his editorship without interest in it; abominates the 
 whole concern, and considers himself a martyr to printer’s ink and proof- 
 sheets, whUe, on the other hand, Mr. Parker really enjoys his weekly gossip 
 
 lily: a novel 139 
 
with a circle of ten thousand silent listeners. You and Mr. Oldmeath ought 
 to be good friends, Clarence. I have often noticed points of resemblance in 
 you. 
 
 “Which, may I ask?” 
 
 She looked quietly at him. 
 
 “I am too tired to talk now. I shall hsten a while to my own praises, 
 murmured by httle Dick Everett, who is only waiting, like a pretty Persian 
 fire-worshiper, for one glance from his Sun to fall down and adore it. You 
 had better see after Lily.” 
 
 Clarence started. The name recalled him. 
 
 “What is there about you,” he asked, musingly, “which makes all the 
 women seem insipid? When with you, I forget that there is another being of 
 feminine nature who exists. You are—” 
 
 He paused. 
 
 “Oh, Mrs. Langdon, wield your power gently. You abuse it. What are 
 you? 
 
 “I am original sin,” said Angel, with a soft glance; “no one can quite resist 
 me nor cast me aside.” Then beckoning Dick Everett with a quick motion of 
 her fan, which he instantly obeyed, she left it optional with Mr. Tracy to 
 remain by her or to undertake a solitary survey of the company. 
 
 SB CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Meanwhile Lily, much to her amazement, found herself in close conversa¬ 
 tion with Harry Barclay. 
 
 Instead of talking to Alicia, he had singled out Miss Vere, and Alicia 
 seemed quite indifferent about it. The fact is, this young lady was always 
 bent upon the last object, and as more than a month had elapsed since she 
 parted from Mr. Barclay, his place had been filled over and over again by 
 “eternal” new conquests. She was glad enough to see him, but not very 
 enthusiastic, and her present fancy was for fair men, with light curls and blue 
 eyes, as typified by Charley Newton, who was a genuine specimen of young 
 New York—blase at twenty, and lazily amused by the sprightly sallies of the 
 bright little Southerner. 
 
 He actually thought her more agreeable than all Seracco’s girls, and she 
 “went the reverse step so nicely.” 
 
 Harry Barclay had found himself several times thinking of Lily Vere. At 
 the Walnut Street Club, lounging in his own especial chair at his own 
 
 140 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
especial window, he had frequently neglected to notice a passing pair of 
 ankles, because an image of girlish purity, with golden ringlets, filled his 
 mind’s eye. 
 
 It had not been his lot to meet many young girls whom he considered 
 worthy of a serious thought; and as for marriage—a vision of a wife and 
 domestic felicity—he would have deemed the penitentiary or a lunatic 
 asylum the fitting spot for the honey-moon after such a rascally or mad 
 proceeding. But there was something in his recollection of Lily which made 
 him a little pensive and a little doubtful. He had found out that she was a 
 great heiress: “perhaps, after all—what! marry?” He saw a white hair glisten¬ 
 ing in one of his crow-black curls—he saw Lily’s smile. There was nothing 
 definite in his ideas, but he packed up his trunks and was off for New York. 
 
 See them standing now, she with her ingenuous brow, and Harry with his 
 most captivating expression. Mrs. Beresford was an old flame of his: she 
 tossed him a flower as she passed, and a kiss from her finger-tips. 
 
 It was a beautiful and rare exotic—the gem of Louisa Beresford’s bouquet. 
 He played with it for a second or two while going through the first greetings, 
 and then offered it to Lily. 
 
 She was so abstracted, and thinking so little of Mr. Barclay, that, with a 
 slight bow, her white glove closed upon the “declaration,” and she placed it 
 in her belt-ribbon, where its beautiful petals and deep green leaves glowed 
 upon the snowy ground, and were left to strike her hostess’s eye in the most 
 conspicuous and unconscious manner. 
 
 “You like New York, of course?” said Harry. 
 
 “I am not very sure that I do. It is too restless for me. I can not follow the 
 tide with such quick turnings and sharp angles. I never can remember who 
 are ‘the very best people,’ and who are ‘not in society;’ and it does not amuse 
 me at all to know that Mrs. So-and-so bought four yards of point d’Alenpn 
 this morning, and Miss So-and-so has ordered six bonnets from Paris.” 
 
 “You are severe,” said Harry, smiling. 
 
 “Am I? I don’t intend it. I think such gossip very tiresome, but it is better 
 than slander about people’s tempers and habits.” 
 
 “You prefer intellectual society?” 
 
 “You wish to laugh at me now, Mr. Barclay. I am a very commonplace 
 young lady, and very ‘slow’—is not that the word? This perpetual motion— 
 this constant stirring, depresses me. I can not roll the ball forever, even up 
 mole-hills, and I long for quiet—the quiet of my dear, drowsy Charleston.” 
 
 And she sighed. 
 
 “Your cousin and your friend both prefer New York.” 
 
 lily: a novel 141 
 
“Yes. Angel and Alicia are fitted to adorn wide fields. They enjoy a 
 crowd—a bustle.” 
 
 “Very differently, however: Mrs. Langdon likes a commotion because it 
 serves to throw out artistically her dignified repose, while Miss Clarendon 
 mingles with the flood and joins herself to it.” 
 
 “You read characters well,” said Lily, feeling that she must speak, but with 
 a hopeless, dreary headache that made her long for the absolute quiet that 
 she was lauding. 
 
 “It is my misfortune to do so,” repfied Mr. Barclay. “I read people so easily 
 that I can never deceive myself in them. I can never take them for what they 
 are not; consequently, I find little to admire in my fellow-creatures.” 
 
 “Since you find the rule universal, then,” said LUy, gently, “why not decide 
 that you only see human nature—that you must bear with it as God has 
 created it; and, never dweUing on their ordinary short-comings, reserve your 
 particular dislike for those things which are pecuharly bad?” 
 
 “What a dear little Methodist it is!” ejaculated Harry, inwardly; but these 
 grave words which LUy’s saddened feelings had brought forth, and which, 
 from some old woman, would have disgusted and bored him, came with 
 another effect from the bright lips and earnest eyes of the sweet mentor. 
 
 “I did not say that I found the ‘rule universal,’ ” he continued, aloud; “on 
 the contrary, I appreciate, with more intensity than another could do, real 
 excellence—when I find it.” 
 
 He did not bow, but he sufficiently marked his meaning. 
 
 “The world is all wrong. Miss Vere. Goodness is too dull—vice too 
 pleasant: an idea by no means novel; but it would be an original invention if 
 we could discover a remedy for this evil. How rarely can we find a woman 
 who is both pleasant and proper—who interests and who instructs! Once, 
 perhaps, in a man’s life, he meets with a creature who at the same time 
 delights his mind, and his eyes, and his better nature.” This time a momen¬ 
 tary bend of Mr. Barclay’s stately head attested his intention, but Lily did not 
 heed nor understand. 
 
 She stiU thought him Alicia’s admirer. 
 
 “But,” he went on, “ten to one he ignores his good luck, and passes her 
 over for some vain, selfish, unstable, designing woman, who has more head 
 than heart, and who, as Madame de Genlis said of Madame Agnes de 
 Bouffon, 'N’a rien de bien que ce qui est beau. 
 
 A deep flush deepened Lily’s color. 
 
 “Was her new acquaintance talking at her? Did he allude—” 
 
 At this very moment Angel’s name was pronounced near them. 
 
 142 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Mrs. Langdon will see it.” 
 
 “Oh no; she is busy with a fashionable-looking man, whom she has in her 
 train this evening. Show it to us, dearest Mrs. Beresford.” 
 
 “Come, Lou, produce it.” 
 
 The voices belonged to that whilom silent party whom Mrs. Beresford 
 had been endeavoring to amuse. They were approaching a small cabinet 
 placed beneath a mirror, which filled up the space between two windows. 
 
 Behind the curtains of one of these windows stood Miss Vere and Mr. 
 Barclay. Unless she had stepped decidedly forward, she could not be seen by 
 her hostess, as Mrs. Beresford’s back was turned toward them. To the rest of 
 the party Lily was a stranger, whose connection with Angel was not at that 
 moment uppermost in their minds. 
 
 Louisa, laughing heartily, drew from a portfolio a square of Bristol-board. 
 
 “Now, honor bright,” she said, “this is between ourselves.” 
 
 “ ‘The Lionne and the Lamb,’ ” read out an affected, faded, skinny wo¬ 
 man, with a hooked nose and a very gay dress. “Is it not like? See the large 
 Angelica, with her languishing looks, and little Dick, with his lambkin face.” 
 
 “I wish to have it daguerreotyped; may I not have it for a day or two, Mrs. 
 Beresford?” said another voice. 
 
 “Oh no; impossible. I show it to you as a great favor.” 
 
 “Well, I keep it—as a great favor to all the world,” the second speaker went 
 on, who was a man with a very disagreeable face, not from its ugliness, but 
 from its sneering superciliousness, and whom Lily recognized as a pet 
 aversion of Angel’s. 
 
 Only the week before Mrs. Langdon had said, in answer to an inquiry at 
 the Opera, “Do they let in all sorts of low newspaper reporters to the dress 
 circle?” “Only Frank Sherwood;” and he had heard her, too. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford playfully refused to give up her picture, but with so little 
 determination, that Mr. Sherwood was about triumphantly to pocket the 
 object in question, when Lily came quietly forth from her curtained retreat, 
 and drew the sketch from his astonished hand. At the same moment Mr. 
 Barclay gave him a significant nod, and a profound silence fell upon the 
 group. 
 
 Lily glanced hastily at the picture. It was very cleverly executed in water- 
 colors—had caught all Angel’s peculiarities made offensively glaring, and 
 represented her, with leonine-ish outline, caressing a lamb, who bore just as 
 striking a resemblance to little Everett. 
 
 Lily’s beautiful figure rose and dilated with honest contempt as she fixed 
 her eyes upon Mrs. Beresford. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL I43 
 
“I do not ask your permission, madam, to destroy this picture; I do it at 
 once.” She tore it into fragments. “Beneath your own roof a guest should 
 have been sacred. These ladies will excuse my interference;” and as her blue 
 eyes rested upon each in turn, there seemed an electric light in them, which 
 flashed a momentary shame into their callous souls. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford recovered herself the soonest. 
 
 “I had no idea. Miss Vere, that you were near us; but I must say that this 
 saucy piece of caricature would amuse your cousin as much as it has amused 
 
 US. 
 
 “Perhaps so, madam; you may let her judge for yourself, if you choose; I 
 shall not. I can not regret, however, that I was near enough to prevent the 
 farther spread of so—” She paused, and at that moment Louisa espied her 
 flower gracing the corsage of this repining little miss, who stood so loftily 
 before them. 
 
 Piqued, she cast an angry glance upon Mr. Barclay. 
 
 “I am not surprised,” she said, “to see you appropriating other pieces of my 
 property. Miss Vere;” and her spirited eyes, with their mocking sparkle, took 
 in gentleman and flower. 
 
 Lily, with a wondering stare, was drawn off from the original topic, and 
 might have lost her self-possession had not Angel herself arrived upon the 
 scene of action, with great amazement depicted in her face. 
 
 “What is it, Lily?” she whispered, looking around upon the embarrassed 
 circle. 
 
 “Nothing,” said Lily, throwing the torn bits she still held into a pastiUe- 
 burner on the cabinet, whose dragon’s mouth opened wide enough for the 
 purpose. 
 
 “/ will tell you about it, Angelica,” exclaimed Mrs. Beresford, boldly, 
 determined to take the “bull by the horns,” and she entered into a playful 
 account of the business, slurring it over with her usual tact. 
 
 Mrs. Langdon hstened with a smile, while her indignation rose. 
 
 “You should have shown it first to me, Lou. You know how much I admire 
 your genius in this line. Could you not make a second? My cousin Lily is so 
 provincial that she can not understand the warmth and depth of our city 
 friendships, where we are willing to sacrifice ourselves in every way to faire 
 valoir the talents of those we like. She can not understand that I would be 
 perfectly willing to have myself made entirely ridiculous and disgusting, if, 
 by so doing, your cleverness as a sketcber were bruited abroad.” 
 
 How dignified, how commanding Angel was now, as she spoke these 
 words in her melodious accent! 
 
 144 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Lou Beresford was no match for her, which the httle woman painfully felt 
 as she shrugged her shoulders and shook her head deprecatingly at her 
 offended guest, whose smile had not faded for a moment. 
 
 “Come,” said Angel, taking Mrs. Beresford’s hand, “I wish you to present 
 me to that prosy old woman you wot of, who invites me all the time to her 
 dull dinners, which I never accept. Lily, darhng, there is a gendeman looking 
 for you;” and, as Clarence approached, Angel called to Harry Barclay, who 
 was obliged to join her, and Lily was left with the person whose society 
 could, whether wearied or worried, best console her. She was agitated. The 
 excitement gone, she trembled, and turned first red, then pale, and then red 
 again. 
 
 “What is it?” Clarence urged; and finally Lily told him. 
 
 “Why, Ldy, what a heroine you are! Face that party of strangers, and 
 actually tear a paper from a man’s hand! But,” he added, his own color rising, 
 “this is an impertinence which should be looked into.” 
 
 “Not by you, Clarence. I fancy Angel thinks differently. She has gone off 
 arm in arm with Mrs. Beresford, and, I have no doubt, wishes the whole 
 thing considered as a jest. It would be awkward to take it up seriously. She 
 had her revenge in the sheepish looks of both men and women. I don’t think 
 they will say much about it. Let us talk about something else. When are you 
 going home? Has Willie decided? I wish so much to be at home!” 
 
 “So do I, dear Lily. At home. How pleasant it sounds!” 
 
 “And to see Nora again,” said Lily, with her old childish manner, “and the 
 Jenningses, and the Melbournes. Julia Melbourne is thought to be engaged, 
 Clarence; is not that absurd? And oh, Clarence, Burleigh stLU growls affec¬ 
 tionately when George says ‘Lily sends her love. Bur;’ he has not forgotten 
 me. And the orange-trees, uncle writes, are grown amazingly at Chicora. 
 Beautiful Chicora! Will it not be dehghtful to get among these things once 
 more? to see a Uttle of one’s childhood’s life? And, Clarence, did Nora ever 
 tell you of your Aunt Sarah’s offer? That dried-up Dr. Talbot wished her to 
 marry him!” 
 
 Clarence laughed out; and the two having started a chapter of this nature, 
 they talked on, forgetting the place, the circumstances, the surroundings. 
 Lily’s sweet face was radiant. Passers-by were struck with her tender beauty; 
 and many a man in that gay assemblage paused a moment to envy the dark- 
 browed, grave-aired stranger, with his distinguished carriage, who was lis¬ 
 tening so attentively to the constant prattle of the usually silent and reserv'ed 
 Southern belle. 
 
 There was peace between them, and it was long since Lily had felt so 
 
 lily: A NOVEL I45 
 
perfectly happy as she did that night, when, after she had retired, Angel 
 came to her bedside, and, kissing her warmly, said, 
 
 “Thank you, dearest Lily. I do admire you and love you sincerely. You are 
 worthy to be your mother’s daughter. May God bless you, Lily,” and a tear— 
 a real tear, fell from Angel’s haughty eyes on the upturned forehead of her 
 cousin. 
 
 A tear from Angel! Lily’s heart overflowed. She caught Mrs. Langdon’s 
 hand. 
 
 “Oh, Angel—” 
 
 Angelica placed her soft Angers, heavy with diamonds, upon Lily’s Ups, 
 and, kissing her again, she swept from the room with her stately, languid, 
 luxurious grace. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 A week more, and the trunks were packed ready for their homeward 
 journey. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Clarendon were naturally anxious to embrace their son, 
 from whom they had so long been separated, and William himself had a 
 strong wish to be again under the paternal roof Angelica pressed them 
 kindly to prolong their stay. Madame de Montanvert was wretched at her 
 departure, and Edward Langdon, who had been all this time shooting over 
 on Long Island, condescended to express, in his weariest accent, his distress 
 that the ladies should leave just as he returned to town. 
 
 But this fact rather hastened their start, for Mr. Edward Langdon had 
 filled up the vacuum in his vapid head with an idea of matrimony, and had 
 chosen as its opposite and apposite object Miss Vere, whose fortune, as our 
 French neighbors say, “smiled to him.” This was more than the lady herself 
 did; for if Lily had a positive disflke, it was for her new soupirant. His utter 
 inanity she would have borne unflinchingly, but his conceit, his selfishness, 
 his hardness almost angered her; and for such a creature to break in upon her 
 conferences with Clarence, and to join her daily in Broadway, was a con¬ 
 tinual irritation to her gentle spirit. 
 
 However, she only made matters worse for herself in the end, and thus it 
 was; 
 
 Pestered by Edward Langdon, she gratefully turned for relief to Mr. 
 Barclay, who, flattered by her growing attentions, really began in earnest to 
 recommend himself to his unconscious listener. There was something very 
 
 146 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
taking to a worn-out man of fashion in the freshness and perfect simplicity 
 of Lily. She was so natural, so honestly unsophisticated, he liked to listen to 
 her opinions and sentiments shyly uttered with her sweet voice and her 
 stately manner. The mixture of girlishness and maturity about her was new 
 and singularly attractive. He found himself hanging around her with all the 
 devotion he had ever given to the most dashing woman, but he soon 
 discovered that instinct prompted him not to pay devotion of precisely the 
 same character. 
 
 He never embarrassed her with looks and words; he was calmly attentive 
 and respectful, and Lily fancied him still desirous of recommending his 
 pretensions to 7\licia through her. 
 
 Clarence did not interfere. His confidence in Lily was entire. It was the 
 best trait of his character; he believed in her; whether it arose from belief in 
 himself or not, there was at least that firm conviction. 
 
 He watched her a good deal, and was puzzled about Angelica. 
 
 This last week in New York has ever been a pleasing recollection to Mrs. 
 Langdon. The tear that fell on Lily’s brow did its work. She made a vow with 
 it, and kept it. For once in her life she acted without a selfish motive, and 
 showed herself what she might have been—perhaps. 
 
 There was no more sublime coquetry, no feigned indifference, no feigned 
 interest. 
 
 She was true, frank, honest; and if, in her present gay and brilliant career, 
 when magnificence and dissipation hide the hollow, wearied satiety, she 
 wishes to dwell upon some green oasis in the arid desert of her past life, the 
 haughty Mrs. Langdon, the superb Mrs. Langdon, with her jewels, her 
 Cashmeres, her court, and her dignity, looks back with sad satisfaction to 
 those short seven days, when her gentle cousin said to her at their conclu¬ 
 sion, 
 
 “Dear Angel, we understand each other now. You have made me very 
 happy.” 
 
 For very shame, Clarence could not have renewed his shuffling attentions. 
 He did not attempt it; and there lies Angel’s praise, for the fact of his 
 withdrawal was the incentive for her to proceed. 
 
 A coquette may abandon her prey, while she still leaves him sighing for 
 her; but it is very rare to see one sheathe her eyes, and put her pretensions in 
 rest, when the victim appears willing to retreat. 
 
 Alicia was the busiest of all. She had hundreds of dollars to spend in 
 finery, and an untold number of admirers to dispose of. The last evening 
 came. It was Opera night, and Mrs. Langdon’s box was hemmed in by a 
 
 lily: a novel 147 
 
^ule row of gentlemen. It was the point de mire of the whole house, for 
 New York seldom boasts of three such beauties united, and so attended. 
 
 I should be sorry were I obliged to set down all the platitudes uttered on 
 this occasion. 
 
 There was the usual wonder how Miss Vere and Miss Clarendon could 
 consent to bury themselves in Charleston, anticipations of pleasant meetings 
 the following summer at Newport and Saratoga, and general expressions of 
 regret that they should leave New York. 
 
 Alicia most mourned the balls, Lily the Opera; and the latter begged to be 
 allowed to listen tranquilly to the entrancing notes of “Favorita,” since it 
 might be many months before she again enjoyed such a privilege. 
 
 She leaned back in her chair with a rapt countenance, and Mr. Barclay 
 promised that no one should molest her. But at the fall of the curtain he 
 claimed his reward. She must listen to him. 
 
 Under cover of the incessant tattle around them, undismayed by the 
 threatening looks which hghtened from the brilliant eyes of Mrs. Beresford, 
 who was watching him from her own box, Harry Barclay made his first 
 proposal of marriage. 
 
 It was open, manly, straightforward, like his real self before women’s 
 flatteries and guilty opportunities had contributed to spoil a naturally fine 
 disposition. 
 
 His heart beat more rapidly than it had done since he was sixteen, and he 
 could have recommended himself to ten of the handsomest matrons in that 
 Opera house with less embarrassment than it cost him to say, “I love you” to 
 this young girl, with her gentlest manner and subdued tone. So much for 
 habit. 
 
 It was a painful surprise to Lily. No one could know Harry Barclay well 
 without liking him. Through that foppish exterior, under that indifferent air, 
 disguised by that insolently-carried head, there lurked the germ, the prom¬ 
 ise, the foundation of a noble character, and which, like the single grain of 
 perfume hidden in the mass of deadening cotton, retains its power, and can 
 be guessed at when you come near enough to seek the latent cause of your 
 involuntary approach. 
 
 Clarence Tracy did not possess half the real worth of this dissipated votary 
 of fashion, but a different education had in the two men worked different 
 results. Clarence had never run the gauntlet of vanity and coxcombry which 
 had been the existence of Harry; he had never had his admiring female 
 circle; he was brought up in a strict school, and had taught himself to assume 
 opinions and phrases which were foreign to his thoughts, and yet nature and 
 
 148 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
natural instinct remained strong within him. He talked very finely, but his 
 actions did not keep pace with his words; whereas Harry Barclay, his own 
 master since his boyhood, reverenced inwardly the things at which he 
 sneered outwardly. But, after all, this might only prove that education can 
 not correct nature, so that I had best leave the discussion. I am not wise 
 enough to sift the business. I can only teU the result. I sometimes think that 
 pigs are but the type of people. If you wish to produce a movement toward 
 the right, puU toward the left. If you wish Master Johnny to be a parson, you 
 must rather encourage him to gambel and frohc; if you wish Miss Lucy to be 
 staid and sober, you must early train her to dissipation and beaux. 
 
 How else can we account for the children of pious parents so often 
 proving great rascals, while excellent. God-fearing children take their rise 
 from the household of the most careless thinkers and actors? 
 
 To the eyes of the world Clarence Tracy was a moral and respectable, 
 though fashionable youth, while Harry Barclay was cited as a dangerous and 
 abandoned young gentleman, conversant with every vice. A father would 
 simply have demurred about Clarence’s want of fortune, should he have 
 asked for a daughter’s hand, while Mr. Barclay would have been peremp¬ 
 torily dismissed from any family circle as a firebrand with black eyes and hair 
 to match. Yet the latter possessed the material from which one could extract 
 a tender and honest husband, whereas Clarence Tracy, with his sentiments, 
 his prudery, and his fine feeling, was but an unpriggish Joseph Surface, after 
 all. 
 
 Lily’s kind heart suffered. She was really grieved to be forced to say “I can 
 not promise any thing. Don’t look to the future, and fancy that I shall 
 change.” 
 
 “I do not pretend to be ignorant of your great wealth, Miss Vere; it is the 
 least of your claims upon my sincere admiration; but since I heard that you 
 were an heiress, it seemed to me as if Fate could not provide for mortal man a 
 more perfect future than you could insure him. I am lazy—I am very 
 worthless, I suppose. I have enough to live upon alone, and it would be a 
 difficult matter for me to undertake life in a cottage at my age. I looked at 
 you, and sighed and mourned over my wasted hours. Never had I seen the 
 woman before whom I should have gloried in marrying. You see that I am 
 frank—too candid, perhaps. I heard accidentally that you were rich and 
 independent. It appeared to open a sudden vista of hope and happiness. You 
 will not, perhaps, comprehend my feeling. I never imagined for one moment 
 that I could be accused of mercenary motives in seeking you; my conscious¬ 
 ness of your attractions was too deep to fear a reproach of that nature. If you 
 
 lily: a novel 149 
 
can love me, if you can accept my love, the study of my life shall he to show 
 my gratitude.” 
 
 “It can not be,” said Lily, again, while her heart taught her that these 
 words were true and positively earnest—a consciousness that softened still 
 more her soft voice. 
 
 “I do not wish to weary you or to annoy you,” Harry went on; “I never 
 wanted to marry any body before this—I never offered myself, as it is called— 
 so that probably I do not say the right things. Consider before you answer 
 me, dearest Miss Vere. I do not think I shall poison myself, nor try drowning 
 at the dock, but I feel—” here his voice faltered, and the shght levity which 
 he had assumed to cover its previous tremblings failed him—“I feel that I 
 stand upon the precipice of my Fate. Your hand will draw me with its hghtest 
 touch to wisdom and to safety; without it, I shall renew my old course, no 
 doubt, and be ever—what I have been.” 
 
 No longer with daring eyes and with cynical smde, but with a pleading, 
 honest lustre in the one, and a scarce perceptible quiver of painful anticipa¬ 
 tion about his lips, Harry awaited her reply. 
 
 “I will not trifle with you, Mr. Barclay, nor put you off with unmeaning 
 sentences. I believe in you—I think you better than you care to show yourself 
 to all the world. You say that I may consider your words out of order; what I 
 am going to say may be just as irregular.” She blushed till the crimson flood 
 even darkened her white shoulders. “I have loved the person whom I hope to 
 marry since I was a mere child. I am very young stiU, but circumstances have 
 hastened my years. I like you very much,” she continued, raising her blue 
 eyes ingenuously to his deep gaze; “I appreciate the compliment of your 
 behef in my power, and you will not think me wanting in maidenly delicacy if 
 I beg you to accept three words of counsel from so young and so inex¬ 
 perienced a girl as myself” 
 
 “Any words from you,” answered Harry, gravely bowing, “I must always 
 receive at their proper and highest valuation.” 
 
 “Do not waste your time and thoughts on me,” said Lily, stiU blushing; 
 “but pray, if you do care for me, think better of women for my sake. It hurts 
 me so much to hear you speak slightingly of the whole sex.” 
 
 In her mind she meant Alicia, and was grieving over this proof of the 
 effect produced by Miss Clarendon’s faulty manner. 
 
 “I admit the reproof,” said Mr. Barclay; “it is bad taste to praise one person 
 by running down others, but—” He paused. “This, then, is final. You can 
 leave no hope?” 
 
 150 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“None,” she said, gently. 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 “You are a singular being. Miss Vere. I wonder if you affect every one as 
 you do me. While speaking to you I seem to put off my individuality. I am 
 years younger. I believe in virtue, goodness, piety, excellence. I can not speak 
 to you as one speaks to other young ladies. There is about you a halo of 
 almost unearthly purity, without a shade of prudery or moroseness. You 
 smile with as much joyousness, you enter into passing events with as much 
 playful grace as your neighbors, but you seem, after all, only to lend yourself 
 You are out of the world. If you were nervous or affected, I should fear to say 
 what I am going to do. It seems to me as if you will die young. Heaven will 
 never permit so perfect a whole to crumble away beneath the friction of 
 years.” 
 
 A startled expression crossed Lily’s brow. She shuddered. 
 
 “Don’t say that. I am not nervous, but life is bright to me. I do not wish to 
 die.” 
 
 “Forgive me. Of course, I speak, I can not say jestingly, but with a kind of 
 romantic thoughtlessness. You will not utterly forget me. Miss Vere? In your 
 own sunny home, surrounded by all those mementoes which you so much 
 love”—he would not distress her by alluding to her confidence a moment 
 before—“you will sometimes remember, will you not? that one ‘hardened 
 wretch’ bears you in his mind as a type of what woman can be?” 
 
 Harry’s hand shook as he took up his lorgnette and began to arrange its 
 focus. He was very calm, and had spoken very quietly, but he felt as if he had 
 had a great blow coming from an unknown source: it was overwhelming and 
 unaccountable. 
 
 Lily was silent and uncomfortable. The curtain rose, the hum of conversa¬ 
 tion ceased, and Clarence Tracy, who had gone off to speak to a foreign 
 acquaintance whom he recognized in the parquette, guessed, as he passed 
 her on his return, that the supercilious-looking Philadelphian had met with 
 a rebuff. Human nature is so curiously constituted that Tracy admired Lily 
 the more at that moment because somebody else did too, and he exchanged a 
 familiar look with her, so reliably affectionate and confiding that Mr. Barclay 
 immediately divined his rival. 
 
 He scanned that dark, grave, distinguished face with discerning eye. 
 During the whole of the act he furtively watched its expression. The result of 
 his study was not satisfactory. 
 
 “Hard and selfish!” he muttered. “God help this tender creature.” 
 
 lily: A NOVEL I5I 
 
But is a man just refused by a young lady capable of giving an unbiased 
 opinion upon the merits of another man whom he has reason to suppose the 
 favored hero? 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XXI 
 
 “We are over the bar, Alice, darUng. Rouse up. Here is our dear old 
 Charleston in sight.” 
 
 Lily was animated far beyond her usual state. Her eyes sparkled, her little 
 feet almost danced upon the cabin floor of the steamer as she pulled at 
 Alicia, who lay helplessly in her berth, disgusted with every thing. 
 
 “Well, suppose we are in sight of Charleston, I need not be in a hurry to 
 look at it. We shall see enough of it, I dare say, before we see any thing else 
 again.” 
 
 “But look at the Island! Fort Moultrie! and aU those new houses upon the 
 beach! Fort Sumter is at least six feet higher from the water’s level.” 
 
 “I smell the marsh mud,” said matter-of-fact and cross Alicia, struggling 
 into her sea-gown of dark merino; “and how hot it is! Have we been six 
 months making the voyage from New York, and is this June? What a 
 horribly monotonous climate! and where will be the use, pray, of my beauti¬ 
 ful ermine muff and cape in this eternal summer?” 
 
 Lily at last got her on deck, where Willie quizzed her unlustrous hair and 
 forlorn looks, and even the “courtly Clarence” could not deny that three days 
 of sea-sickness had considerably wasted her beauty. 
 
 Excitement had done the work of rouge, kohl, and pearl-powder laid on 
 by nature for Lily. She drank in the balmy air, she opened wide her lovely 
 eyes, as if to absorb the surrounding view, and she sometimes stretched out 
 her arms, as if to clasp it to her beating heart. Her voice was full of sweetest 
 melody. In every intonation spoke the love of her native soil. The young men 
 watched her with admiration, and Alicia yawningly said, 
 
 “Has Lily aU her life been bottling up her enthusiasm for this patriotic 
 burst? Subside, my dear, or you wiU startle our gentle compatriotes. Fancy 
 Sara presently a victim to your want of equanimity. By the way, I trust she 
 will keep that aristocratic nose of hers out of the house until to-morrow. If 
 she sees me in this pitiable plight, she wiU spread an account of my ap¬ 
 pearance that weeks wiU not undo.” 
 
 “By Jove! I am hungry,” cried her brother. “When you mention Sara, it 
 always makes me think of eating. How that voracious child used to pitch into 
 the victuals and drink, to be sure! She always chose for her sweetheart at 
 
 152 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
dancing-school the boy who had the most pocket-money, and the most 
 liberal disposition for candies and tart. Won’t mamma have a great dinner for 
 us to-day! and the governor will bring out his oldest Madeira.” 
 
 “Is this the season for okra soup? I should like okra soup,” said Alicia, 
 languidly. 
 
 “Alice,” exclaimed Lily, turning round with a merry smile, “you know that 
 okra soup is in season in the midst of summer. You remind me of that girl 
 who had always lived in the country until she went to pay a visit in Savannah. 
 She staid six weeks, and when she came back, on taking her first walk 
 through an old lane, she suddenly stopped and screamed, ‘What is that? oh! 
 what is that?’ ‘Betty,’ cried her sister, ‘are you foolish? Don’t you know a cow, 
 Betty?”’ 
 
 “Thank you, Lily, for a miracle worked in my favor,” said Alicia, with 
 mock anger, when they had stopped laughing at her: “Miss Vere relating 
 personal anecdotes of an absurd tendency, calculated to throw ridicule upon 
 her friends. 
 
 The steamer now neared the wharf, and the dusky outline of Charleston, 
 with its weather-beaten aspect and its dingy coloring, changed from indis¬ 
 tinctness to hard reality. 
 
 There it lay, “with all its faults upon its head.” It is not picturesque; it is 
 not imposing. It neither makes you wonder at its commercial grandeur, nor 
 admire its pleasing beauty; but there is something attractive in its irregular 
 and peculiar construction. Each house is built by itself and for itself Each 
 man’s domicil is indeed his own especial castle, fronting whichever point of 
 the compass suits his taste, and displaying any style of architecture which 
 suits his pocket and plan. The predominating air is respectability. There is 
 nothing flashy, nothing daring, nothing ostentatious. If a parvenu (and there 
 are “a few” now in Charleston) erects a mansion of pretension—bold, 
 staring, and glittering—six months of this atmosphere tones it down to a 
 harmonious shade, which cavilers might call dusty. 
 
 Gardens are numerous—blocks of houses rare. The streets are moderately 
 wide; the pavements irrationally narrow. There is no hurry, no throng any 
 where. Business men walk almost as leisurely as lesflaneurs. They keep early 
 hours in Charleston—still hold to three o’clock dinners; and the “last bell,” 
 which rings at nine o’clock on winter evenings, and at ten during the 
 summer, to warn the negroes to their homes, is the signal for the simulta¬ 
 neous closing of shutters, and barring of doors up and down the streets—the 
 notification of bedtime to this virtuous city. 
 
 There were few passengers besides the Clarendon party on board of the 
 
 lily: A NOVEL I53 
 
steamer, so that but a limited audience assisted at the growing delight of Lily 
 as one familiar object after another met her gaze, as they slowly swept into 
 their moorings. 
 
 What an eager assemblage welcomed the travelers home! Mr. Clarendon 
 and George leaped upon the deck as the boat touched the wharf, and the 
 honest old gentleman knew not which first to embrace. The girls, of course, 
 claimed that right for themselves, and so he simphfied the business by 
 folding his arms around both at once, and extending his hands behind their 
 backs to his eldest boy, grown in five years from youth to manhood. George 
 had to satisfy his feehngs with Clarence, who felt a little forlorn, with no 
 relation to meet him, till he espied Nora making frantic efforts to dislodge 
 herself from a distant carriage, and waving her arms imploringly to him. 
 
 He ran to her rescue, and helped her down the steps of one of those 
 antique coaches, now seen, I believe, nowhere but in Charleston, which are 
 mounted on C springs, in shape like large squashes, and in discomfort 
 indescribable. 
 
 It is presumed that their owners cling to these vehicles with a kind of 
 aristocratic pride, saying within themselves at every jolt, “At least people can 
 see that our carriage was not set up yesterday,” and healing their bruises with 
 this salve. Miss Sarah Tracy would not have exchanged her “family pump¬ 
 kin” for the “thousand doUar” coach which took the prize at the last State 
 Fair. 
 
 “How handsome you are, Clarence!” cried his admiring sister, releasing 
 him for a second from her clasp, “and oh! what a time you have been away!” 
 
 But her attention was now diverted to Lily, and how those girls did kiss 
 each other, to be sure! 
 
 Mutual compliments were exchanged. 
 
 “How tall you are, Lily!” 
 
 “How little and nice you are, Nora! not bigger than Alicia.” 
 
 Alicia protested that she would not be looked at, and, drawing down aU 
 her veils, made a rush for the carriage, and here a surprise awaited them. 
 Beside the comfortable, well-known Clarendon turn-out, which was not of 
 the very oldest type (such as Miss Tracy’s), there stood an elegant coupe, 
 drawn by two fine bay horses, and the reins held by one of Lily’s own 
 servants, whose shining black face was fairly oiled with happiness. 
 
 “Why, Plato!” exclaimed his mistress, as she shook hands with him—not 
 daintily, like one dreading contamination, but a hearty, good shake—“what 
 carriage is this?” 
 
 “ ’Tis youu’n, my n’young missus,” quoth radiant Plato, “and I’m coach- 
 
 154 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
man; and dat is leetle Sambo, what you ’member—big Betsey’s oldest chile, 
 what Mass Clarendon tek in de house now for go wid your carriage.” And 
 “leetle Sambo” stood grinning, and scraping his foot, splendid in his new 
 clothes, and eager for notice. 
 
 It was pretty to see the fair, patrician-looking girl bending her kind glance 
 upon these “persecuted slaves,” giving to each her white hand and her cordial 
 greeting—not only those subject to her own “lash,” but likewise to her 
 guardian’s helpless victims—inquiring after their relations and their health, 
 and understanding their talk and their habits like one who had from child¬ 
 hood lived familiarly among them. It was not only Lily whose good nature 
 and sweetness prompted this behavior, but Willie, and Alicia, and Clarence 
 were cognizant of the claims of these “miserable Africans,” who crowded up 
 to “shake hands” and “bless God” that he had restored the wanderers to their 
 homes. 
 
 “Mamma will be impatient,” suggested Mr. Clarendon, when Lily turned 
 to inquire from him, as he emerged from the steamer, how that coupe was 
 called hers. “Yes, dear, it is my gift to you—my Christmas present, anticipat¬ 
 ing the 25th of December. I did not send you a check for finery, as I did to 
 Alicia, but put it in that shape. Get in, darling; and you. Sambo, leave off 
 staring at your missus. She is not going off again.” 
 
 “It shall be for both of us,” said Lily. “The boys may go in the carriage, but 
 Alice must come with me.” So Alicia, not very loth, was transferred to the 
 well-appointed vehicle; nods, smiles, and “We’ll see you soon’s” were ex¬ 
 changed; and while the coupe dashed triumphantly past the cotton-bales on 
 the wharf, and took its rapid way home, the last view Clarence caught of it 
 showed Lily’s face stiU turned toward him. They passed through King 
 Street, the fashionable walk containing the fashionable shops. 
 
 “How pleasant it all looks!” said Lily. 
 
 “How dull it all looks!” said Alicia; “ah! how different from Broadway! and 
 such bonnets I never did see.” 
 
 “Yes you have, often,” retorted Lily, with her quiet smile. “I think that 
 they are the same we left behind us two years ago. But they seem so like old 
 friends!” 
 
 “You are incorrigible. Miss Vere,” ejaculated Alicia. “I believe you love 
 this dust, because it rises from the earth of Charleston.” 
 
 “Of course I do. But here we are, and there is aunt.” 
 
 Yes, there was the dear old house, with its wide garden, not bare and 
 empty, but filled with shrubs and evergreens. The genial warmth of the 
 Southern December sun had brought out here and there a flower or two, and 
 
 lily: a novel 155 
 
great pots of geraniums and hyacinths bordered the stone steps, on which, 
 crowned with her sunbonnet, stood excellent Mrs. Clarendon. 
 
 A mother’s welcome she gave to both. It was now twelve years since little 
 Elizabeth Vere, the orphan heiress, had been conveyed from her father’s 
 grave to those hospitable arms, and it warmed the good woman’s heart to 
 think that she had done “her best” as weU for Lily as for her own girl. 
 
 If there were faults in “her best,” she did not know it, for, with all her 
 unostentatious qualities, Mrs. Clarendon had no mean opinion of herself; 
 and the fact is, I have seen among the dowdiest, primmest, and most home- 
 staying of our matrons as much perfect self-satisfaction as ever sat enthroned 
 upon the brow or in the secret soul of the most consequential beauty. 
 
 “Come in—come in, children. Your maumer is dying to see you, Lily; and 
 here come all the servants, and there is my WiUie.” 
 
 Such a crowd poured into the entrance hall! old and young, men and 
 women, so that while Mrs. Clarendon was feasting her eyes upon WiUie, 
 straining him again and again to her bosom, and holding him at arm’s length 
 to admire him, the girls were surrounded. 
 
 There was LUy’s maumer, a dignified colored woman, with an immense 
 head-handkerchief, who laid her withered hands upon the light tresses of 
 “her chUd,” and patted her cheek, whUe tears of joy sUently rolled down her 
 face. 
 
 There was Alicia’s maid, a smart, smUing black girl, who claimed the right 
 to stand closest to her “young mistis,” and to keep off intruders. 
 
 The girls had a joke and a remembrance for each one. None of the 
 elderlies were quite weU: “Only so-and-so,” “I day” {Anglice, I am here), were 
 the best accounts; “ain’t so bad now, bless the Lord,” were the most favorable 
 reports. It is a wonderful circumstance that you can not persuade negroes to 
 acknowledge themselves perfectly in health. No inquiries could reach the 
 root of the disease, nor even graze its surface, but it is a point of honor or of 
 elegance to be aUing. With aU their natural gayety, they dote on funerals; 
 with all their love for high colors, they delight to put themselves into 
 mourning. 
 
 No jesting can move their equanimity on these subjects; they let all your 
 strictures and pleasantries roll innocuous, like rain on a goose’s back. 
 
 I might make out quite an interesting chapter by detailing at length the 
 first conversations held between the young ladies and these “slaves,” who 
 were brimfull of the advenmres of the past eighteen months, and who were 
 anxious to call for “Miss Lily and Miss ’Licia’s” sympathy or good wishes; 
 but there have been so many dreary attempts to depict the manners and 
 
 156 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
customs of these “unhappy descendants of the aborigines of that delightful 
 and interesting country—Africa” (as I once heard a distinguished senator 
 say), my “maumer tongue” has been so profaned by those who undertake to 
 transcribe it, that I renounce the task. 
 
 I should only be stigmatized as a follower in their halting footsteps, and I 
 have neither the ambition to fill up their ruts nor to bury myself in them. I 
 may say in passing, however, that the generally-received idea as to the dialect 
 of our Southern negroes is about as correct as the French manage to convey 
 when they relate that their English neighbors write on the tombstones of 
 their wives, “Farewell—adieu; adieu—farewell;” and that the lady-killing 
 Lord Edward Poggins, on being introduced to the daughter of his friend, 
 “Sirr Thompson,” says, “Good-morning, Mees.” 
 
 “It is three o’clock! Dinner—dinner,” sings out Master George. “I must be 
 off to the counting-house;” for be it known that George had determined to 
 make himself a merchant, and he was in training “on the Bay” (which is the 
 commercial part of the city) as a clerk, which humble position is no longer 
 scorned by the most aristocratic scions of the most aristocratic houses. 
 
 How tastefully and prettily were the rooms furnished which awaited our 
 young beauties! opening into each other, so that their occupants might be 
 together as much as they chose, and looking upon the back garden, with its 
 thickets of gardenia and hedges of box. 
 
 But Alicia had no time to examine or to admire. She had a vision of Sara 
 Purvis driving round that afternoon; so she wished her trunks unpacked, her 
 dressing-case opened, her bath prepared, and herself to be “under arms” for 
 the approaching scrutiny. 
 
 However industriously given, there was no counting-house for George 
 any more that day. It was not till five o’clock that Alicia declared herself 
 “ready,” and they sat down to dinner. 
 
 “This is comfortable, by Jove!” exclaimed Willie, with his old-fashioned 
 and favorite juron. “There is nothing like home, is there, sir?” 
 
 And Mr. Clarendon gave a delighted assent. With what beaming looks 
 did this honest gentleman survey his family circle! 
 
 There was not a care in his heart nor on his face. His pretty Alicia, with 
 her beautiful toilet, her saucy smile, her merry words, her indolent attitude, 
 and her good appetite; Willie, with his handsome face, and manly figure, 
 and hearty laugh; and George, with all the amusing consequentialness of his 
 recent advancement to a place of business constantly breaking through the 
 under-current of his boyish frivolity and fim, made a group of his own 
 possessions which had not yet declared its independence, nor given him one 
 
 lily: a novel 157 
 
moment’s serious uneasiness. Then, to complete the picture, there sat the 
 child of his adoption, whom to look upon was to love, so irresistible was her 
 gentle charm. It was indeed a happy dinner. The servants found it difhcult to 
 keep their gravity while waiting, for their state of excitement contributed to 
 make every jest or good story overwhelming; and the “boy” of the estabhsh- 
 ment, who is always the recognized butt in every house, was on this “aus¬ 
 picious occasion” threatened with so many wondrous punishments by “Mass 
 George” if he should venture to laugh out again, that Bob was fain to retire 
 to the entry, and there explode into a perfect fiisilade of guffaws, until cuffed 
 into silence by the majestic “Daddy Jacob,” Mrs. Clarendon’s right-hand 
 man. 
 
 Nowhere in this country, save in one of those cellars such as that of which 
 Mr. Clarendon kept the key, could you find a bottle of Madeira like the one 
 that Jacob placed, when the cloth was removed, before his master. 
 
 Bright-tinted, oily, sparkling with subdued paly lustre, decanted into cut- 
 glass of the old diamond pattern, and drunk in thin, bell-shaped glasses with 
 straw-thick shanks, and little stars sprinkled upon the delicate surface, it shd 
 down the throat indeed like 
 
 “Neat bottled velvet tipped over one’s lips.” 
 
 “This is glorious!” cried Willie. “None of this on the Continent, sir.” 
 
 The Purvises were announced—the ladies only. 
 
 “Show them into the drawing-room,” said Mrs. Clarendon. 
 
 “And, Lily, tell Sara,” cried the eldest hope of the Clarendons, “that I am 
 prepared to fall desperately in love with her, and I shall come presently to do 
 so. 
 
 I can not possibly introduce Miss Purvis at the close of a chapter, so I shall 
 pass over in silence the meeting between the relatives, only mentioning that 
 Ahcia was quite satisfied with the effect she produced. Her costume evidently 
 astonished and dazzled both Mrs. Purvis and her daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 “Mr. Tracy would like to see you, sir.” 
 
 “Who, Jacob?” 
 
 “Mass Clarence,” explained Jacob. 
 
 “Oh, show him in here,” said Mr. Clarendon, putting down his newspaper 
 and taking off his spectacles. “What does Clarence want, I wonder?” 
 
 158 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Great was the consternation of the good gendeman when Clarence ex¬ 
 plained his want. He wanted the sanction of Miss Vere’s guardian to his 
 engagement with that young lady. 
 
 “Good God! my dear boy, this is very sudden. When has this happened?” 
 and Mr. Clarendon got up and paced the dining-room with uneasy strides. 
 “Lily! why she is a mere child. Have you her consent?” 
 
 “I would not have presumed otherwise to ask yours, sir. I am well aware 
 that Miss Vere’s fortune, and even more, her great attractions, make an offer 
 to her a presumption of no ordinary nature. You can not wonder at such a 
 gift falling to my lot more than I do. Should it meet with your approbation, I 
 shall indeed stand in a position to make me the envy of the world.” 
 
 “You may well say so—you may well say so. The prettiest girl and the 
 sweetest temper in all Carolina, not excepting my own daughter, and a clear 
 income of—more thousands than you need spend. But how has this come 
 about? In these two days since she returned? Upon my word, you have 
 improved your time, young gentleman.” 
 
 “We had an understanding before I went abroad—” 
 
 “The devil you did! I wish I had understood it too.” 
 
 “I regret, Mr. Clarendon, that you should show such annoyance,” said 
 Clarence, coldly, and somewhat haughtily. “I know that my own fortune is 
 not sufficient to enable me to consider myself on that level with your ward, 
 but it is scarcely necessary to tell my father’s oldest friend that in birth and in 
 position I might aspire to Miss Vere’s hand, and I trust that my character is 
 sufficiently unimpeachable to warrant the same act of temerity. Lily and I 
 have both acknowledged a preference since we were children; and although, 
 as a lad of twenty, I told the girl of fifteen that I loved her, still I scrupulously 
 would not bind herhy any promise, and in not one of my European letters is 
 there a word which could not have been written to my sister. I found her free 
 on my return, save that she still held to her unworthy regard for me; but I 
 awaited the moment when she should be restored to your paternal care 
 before I renewed, or, I may say, before I ventured to offer her those vows 
 which it shall be the duty and happiness of my life to keep holy, sacred, and 
 faithful.” 
 
 “Very good—very good, Clarence. That was right—that was honorable. 
 But an heiress like Lily must not be married off in this hurried way; it is a 
 great responsibility. By heavens! my dear fellow, I would rather you had 
 asked me for Alicia. I could have found out whether she loved you; you 
 might have lived here in this house all your days, and that would have ended 
 the matter. But Lily—it is a great responsibility.” 
 
 lily: a novel 159 
 
“I grant you, sir, that you may find, at any time, a better parti for your 
 ward. There is her cousin, Gustavus Purvis, or your son Wilfiam—” 
 
 “None of your confounded foreign stuif! your partees, Clarence,” cried 
 Hugh Clarendon, fairly stung. “No, by George, sir! I don’t mean LUy for my 
 son. Who put that notion into your head? I may once or twice,” he added, 
 with an honesty that forced him to speak, “I may once or twice have had such 
 an idea, if the young people fancied each other; and it is true, in sending Will 
 abroad, I thought, in a vague way, that he would come back fresh and new to 
 her; but—Well, well, Andrew Vere would have liked it, I think. Where is 
 Ldy?” he asked, abruptly. 
 
 “I will send her to you, sir.” 
 
 A light step, a soft rustle of a silken shirt, a faint rose perfume, and Ldy 
 stood blushingly beside her guardian. 
 
 “So, my dear, you sent that young gentleman to me?” 
 
 “I did, uncle.” 
 
 “This is a great surprise, Lily; but your father gave me no right to control 
 you. Do you love Clarence Tracy well enough to be sure you wish to marry 
 him?” 
 
 The blue eyes were hidden by their white lids and dark lashes, the head 
 was partly turned away. 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Then I suppose it is ad right.” A half sigh raised Mr. Clarence’s broad 
 chest; with it departed his momentary chagrin. He would have been ashamed 
 to cherish a second longer the innocent plans that, almost unconsciously, his 
 heart had framed during many years. He almost thought himself mercenary, 
 and, wounded by Clarence’s chance shaft, he considered it necessary to 
 further this marriage sooner than be accused of inveigling his ward for his 
 son. 
 
 He folded his arms around Lily with his usual fatherly tenderness. 
 
 “God bless you, my child. Clarence!” he called out. Clarence entered from 
 the adjoining room. 
 
 “Make her happy, Clarence; you have drawn a prize.” 
 
 And so Ldy was betrothed formally; and so are many young girls given in 
 marriage, without an inquiry made into the habits, the principles, the 
 morals, the antecedents of the man to whom she becomes the veritable legal 
 slave. A young girl, brought up with every care, educated in every refine¬ 
 ment, tutored by nature and by association in delicacy of sentiment and taste, 
 becomes the victim of a possible brute, without her family or friends trou- 
 
 l6o SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
bling themselves farther than to know that he has a roof to shelter her—often 
 that but a temporary one. 
 
 He may have debts, he may have mistresses, he may have associates that 
 will ever after cloud her future. Who knows it? who asks about it? His 
 companions know it—his enemies guess if, but it is not surely their place to 
 step forward and turn informer. I knew a girl once who, at an age scarcely 
 beyond childhood, married a man whom her parents thought “an admirable 
 match,” t.e., he had a plantation and some negroes; it mrned out that, besides 
 these advantages, he had a broken-down constitution, a taste for drink, a 
 number of debts, and a vile temper. 
 
 “IVe all knew it,” said his comrades. 
 
 “Why did you not tell her parents?” demanded some pitying souls. 
 
 “Did they inquire into his belongings? Was it our business to enlighten 
 them unasked?” was the natural retort. 
 
 And so was this young creature sacrificed, and so are many young creatures 
 sacrificed here and every where. “Marriage is a defective institution,” cries 
 out a wicked French novelist, and some virtuous people agree to it too; but 
 though the world has been saying this these centuries past, I see no reform- 
 do you? In France, a young aspirant for matrimonial honors is thoroughly 
 sifted, it is true, and they search every recoin of his past history; but these are 
 called “marriages of convenience,” and the bride sees her bridegroom only as 
 a bridegroom; it is their first acquaintance, and if those little defects of 
 character which make up humanity don’t fit and tally, so as to enable them to 
 rough it through life side by side, why, they part amicably to different 
 quarters of the house, and if they make their peace with Heaven as easily 
 after that as they do with the world, so much the better for them. Conse¬ 
 quently, to my mind, neither are “marriages of convenience” just the right 
 thing. 
 
 After all, I don’t pretend to be a sage; and, like many who preach 
 “improvement,” I can’t tell how one should set to work to bring about the 
 said improvement; only of one thing am I certain: had I a daughter, and a 
 suitor came “a-wooing,” I should not look only to his houses and land, and 
 satisfy myself of that superficially, but I should like to know a little of the 
 private life, the inner existence of him who was anxious to rob me of that 
 which I should love beyond “jewels, gold, or fine linen”—the treasure com¬ 
 mitted to me by God, and for which to him am I answerable. 
 
 I can swear to my philanthropic northern brethren that we sell a “slave” 
 with more hesitation to a new owner than we give our girls in marriage. 
 
 lily: a novel i6i 
 
Mr. Clarendon made no inquiries—instituted no researches; his first 
 feeling of disappointment past, he soon grew reconciled to the engagement, 
 and Clarence became a greater favorite than ever. Tracy was so respectful, so 
 attentive, understood every thing so well; he never looked weary when Mr. 
 Clarendon prosed about the “state of the country,” or demurred when Mr. 
 Clarendon assured him that without the South the North would go to the 
 dogs—two things which Wilham sometimes did. 
 
 Tracy was the firmest adherent, he thought, of the glory, rights, and 
 power of Carohna. Tracy firmly swore to those opinions which that great 
 man C—n put out for other people to beheve, and to the truth of which 
 Mr. Clarendon subscribed with as much fervency as he did to his Bible- 
 consulting them, I am sorry to acknowledge, more frequently than he 
 did the latter—and Tracy was as good a judge of horsefiesh as Col¬ 
 onel W—H—himself. 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon was satisfied because Mr. Clarendon was; and at that 
 particular moment her thoughts were bent on sausages. She, however, at 
 once undertook to superintend all Lily’s trousseau in the linen line, and 
 immediately took two extra girls into the house, to be drilled in button-hole 
 stitch, feUing, and seaming, in readiness for the moment when their services 
 should be needed. 
 
 Alicia rather turned up her nose, more than it was naturally, at Lily’s 
 choice. She was prepared for it, but scarcely approved. 
 
 “With Lily’s fortune, I should aspire to a baronet’s eldest son at least.” 
 
 “Pooh! puss, you are a little simpleton,” her father said. “A Carolina 
 gentleman is equal to a nobleman.” 
 
 The Purvises were very angry. They blamed the Clarendons—they vilified 
 the Tracys—they wished to cut Nora—and called upon Angel to help abuse 
 the whole business. “Such a shock to poor Gustavus!” wrote Sara to her 
 sister; “we beheve that Mr. Clarendon is involved, and that Clarence Tracy is 
 to buy off his consent. It is a real case of bribery and coruption." 
 
 “LHy had no more idea of marrying Gustavus,” said Mrs. Langdon, in her 
 reply, “than of waiting for my demise to espouse Mr. Langdon. Don’t be 
 foohshly angry, my dear Sara (to please papa, isn’t it? How many new ball- 
 dresses does he give you?), and pray don’t write corruption with one r.” 
 
 LUy was happily indifferent to all these lamentations. By the time that 
 these letters had been exchanged, they were in the country—not at Chicora, 
 but on Mr. Clarendon’s Santee estate—riding, driving, strolling, boating. 
 Clarence and Nora were both of the party, and how merrily sped the days! 
 
 A Carohna Christmas is generally a beautiful season. The balmy, bracing. 
 
 162 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
delicious atmosphere, cold enough, morning and evening, for fires, egg- 
 nogg, and dancing, warm enough during the middle of the day to discard 
 heavy wraps, and to wander about in the shady woods, with the long moss 
 hanging in huge graceful pendents from the great trees, the red Christmas 
 berries shining like rubies or coral in their green-leaved setting, and above 
 one’s head a blue sky so clear, so bright, so pure, so brilliant, that one almost 
 longs to see a cloud to save one’s dazzled eyes. 
 
 The crunching of the dead leaves beneath your feet sounds pleasant and 
 cheerful. You can not associate autumn, dreary fancies, with this air, which 
 answers to Lamartine’s description, ‘‘‘’tiede et parfume,” and every distant 
 report of a hunter’s gun seems a feu de joie to celebrate Nature’s festival. 
 
 December is almost as gay and joyous an out-door month as April. 
 
 Alicia and Nora did not interfere with the lovers. Sometimes they would 
 go “briding” with William and George, or they would stay at home and 
 practice duets, or they would walk out together, and Alicia would give little 
 Nora (who was the merest mite of a young woman) such accounts of her 
 feats of strength and endurance as a polkense that Nora would lift her hands 
 and eyes, and rise on the ends of her toes with amazement. 
 
 It was at Sunny Hill that the time of Lily’s wedding was decided. She 
 would be eighteen in April, and Clarence urged that she should fix on that 
 month. Why wait? So it was settled they should be married on the 3d of 
 April, spend the honeymoon at Chicora, and sail for a European tour in 
 May. Nora was to go abroad with them, Lily was bent upon that. 
 
 “And may we not take Alicia, dear uncle?’’ Lily urged, when first the plan 
 was spoken of Alicia’s eyes sparkled, and they all pleaded so earnestly that 
 objections were overcome, reasons talked down, and never did a more 
 prosperous, contented, and merry family party eat their Christmas turkey, 
 and, a week after, drive into Charleston—hearty, healthy, happy—dreading 
 no duns, independent of the world, at peace with all mankind. 
 
 Lily paused on the steps to say good-by to her betrothed, while Nora 
 waited for him in the carriage at the door of Mr. Clarendon’s house. 
 
 The servants were jostling and tumbling over each other, unloading the 
 second carriage, answering a dozen different calls, receiving a dozen dif¬ 
 ferent orders. 
 
 “Please, Miss Lily, to take care,” said old Jacob, as he stopped Bill and a 
 basket from carelessly upsetting her. “These young niggers, now a days, hah 
 no sort o’ respec.” 
 
 Clarence drew her out of the turmoil. They stood beside a luxuriant rose¬ 
 bush, as full and fragrant as if December frost was a myth. 
 
 lily: a novel 163 
 
“This has been a happy month, dearest,” he whispered. 
 
 Beneath her bonnet, among her curls, were some clusters of flowers, now 
 faded, which George had stuck there. 
 
 “Do you recollect giving me a bud from your wreath on May-day, when I 
 was leaving for New Orleans? We had then spent just this length of time 
 together, and were to separate for different roofs. My rough hand destroyed 
 your garland then, and we all thought it a bad omen. Has it proved so? I took 
 that flower with a half-formed wish. I have it still. Give me, my own Lily, 
 another blossom to-day which your bright ringlets have adorned.” 
 
 “Not a faded rose,” she said, shaking her head, and tossing George’s 
 tokens to the ground; “but here, I give you this”—and she plucked a just 
 opened bud. “I wish this very flower to be the centre ornament of the 
 bouquet which custom ordains you to present to me on the 3d of April.” 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Race-week is the only one of the flfty-two during which Charlestonians 
 appear to give themselves up to amusement. Of course this does not include 
 the whole population, nor even the half of it; for in many families the races 
 are looked upon with extreme disfavor, and some churches distribute among 
 their congregations about tbis period astounding tracts, headed “Horse¬ 
 racing and Christian duties incompatible;” but, for the gayer (?) portion of 
 the community, the first Wednesday in February is an exciting and often 
 longed-for day. 
 
 The most inert of our fashionables 
 
 “Give themselves a rousing shake, 
 
 and do very truly 
 
 “Just at twelve awake,” 
 
 ready to imbibe a sufficient quantity of dissipation to last them for the 
 ensuing year. 
 
 But the week is always ushered in the evening previous by a ball, which 
 surely demands a eulogium at the hands of those who have danced in St. 
 Andrew’s Hall. 
 
 The St. Cecilia Society can look back to its birth and foundation with 
 justifiable pride. Few societies at all, and none of this character, can so well 
 challenge attention to its age, and to its uninterrupted course and prosperity. 
 
 The date on forks and spoons belonging to this power shows that, some 
 
 164 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
eighty years since, the gentlemen of Charleston first organized a series of 
 concerts, to be given for the amusement of the ladies, and to restrict its 
 members to the elite of the city. 
 
 Thus arose its name. Dedicated to the saint of song, for many winters our 
 grandmothers, after their afternoon drive and their cheering cup of tea, 
 would flock, in brocades and powder, to listen to the sweet strains provided 
 to beguile their weariness by the gallant gentlemen in velvet coats and 
 queues. The hours were very early—they went at seven, and were at home by 
 ten. 
 
 Presently there arose an innovation. St. Cecilia was not permitted to 
 remain sole patroness of these entertainments. A heathen divinity, Terpsich¬ 
 ore by name, divided the honors with the Christian maiden. After the 
 concert, dancing was introduced, and minuets and country reels enlivened 
 the scene. 
 
 Years passed, and, alas! Terpsichore shoved St. Cecilia into the back¬ 
 ground—out of the establishment. They treated her like a married woman, 
 poor thing! They went to parties given in her name, in which she took no 
 part. These assemblies have never been discontinued, nor have they ever 
 fallen into disrepute. The managers have usually been young men of family 
 and fashion; the subscribers to the society are voted for or blackballed by the 
 members at their yearly meeting, and the invited ladies are those entitled to a 
 place in any ball-room. 
 
 They have rules and regulations which are implicitly followed. Strangers 
 (on their first visit), and officers of the army and navy, are always guests. 
 They have the best music to be produced, and the very worst suppers. I am 
 sorry to say this, but truth is my idol. 
 
 It must be allowed that if the St. Cecilia balls are still respectable and 
 properly conducted, they can not boast as uncompromising an attention to 
 the social position of its members as it once did. Almack’s has long fallen; its 
 glory lies only in recollection, and in that charming novel which has always 
 furnished me a hero—(Lord George Fitzallen, with his gilded spurs, was my 
 very first love); but so long as it was a force, a body, it kept up its aristocratic 
 flavor. But it died out. Unlike many aristocratic houses of old England, it 
 refused to prop its failing fortunes by the admixture of plebeian interests, and 
 so the thing came to an end, and no one hears of Almack’s now. Across the 
 wide ocean, our little Almack’s learned wisdom by others’ experience—wise 
 little St. Cecilia Almack’s!—and there are habitues of its boards whom, some 
 time since—well, well. The balls (there are three each winter) are very 
 pleasant balls; but, for my part, I return to the suppers. I should like fewer 
 
 lily: a novel 165 
 
attempts at “woodcock for the million,” and a positive success at scalloped 
 oysters. 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon kept her word. Not to her mind was it necessary to follow 
 her girls to a ball-room; she saw them dressed, admired their toilettes, and 
 when Mrs. Purvis’s carriage stopped en passant, watched them enter the 
 Clarendon coach with Willie, and then went to bed and to sleep. 
 
 Through a crowd of young gentlemen loitering in the entrance-haU, our 
 cloaked up beauties hurriedly passed to the dressing-room. The attendant 
 handmaidens reheved them of their wraps, and Sara put out her small feet to 
 be disencumbered of her overshoes, while she scanned the looks of her 
 companions. 
 
 But, first, I may as well describe Miss Purvis herself. I have been putting 
 off this duty too long. 
 
 Sara Purvis was decidedly a fine-looking, high-bred girl. She was tail, and 
 a little too thin, but so good were her proportions, that one excused her want 
 of plumpness in consideration of the absence of sharp angles. Her skin was 
 like white wax which has taken a straw-colored tint, quite transparent, 
 smooth, and unblushing. She had handsome eyes, if one is not fastidious 
 about a variety of expression, or any especial purpose in them, and her hair 
 was beautifully black and glossy, like her sister’s. She was particularly proud 
 of her mouth, which she fancied to be of a coupe aristocratique, and carried 
 her nose, which her anteadmirers called enormous, with a very lofty air. She 
 dressed with taste and style, laughed a good deal where she wished to pass for 
 good-natured (with young men of fortune), and was unutterably empty- 
 headed, vain, and frivolous. Had she been clever, she would have been a 
 dangerous woman; but, devoid of talent, she was only disagreeably mali¬ 
 cious. 
 
 From her earliest childhood she had disliked LUy, but she was afraid of 
 Alicia, who never hesitated to snap at her, if she gave occasion for it. 
 
 To-night every body was in good humor. That martyr, Mrs. Purvis, had 
 every reason to be satisfied with the youthful becomingness of her gown and 
 other “fixtures,” and Sara knew very well that she was looking her prettiest in 
 a Frenchified costume trimmed with autumn leaves frosted with dew, and 
 mingled with crimson ribbons and gold pendents. 
 
 But how do justice to Lily? In white, of course—such a snow-wreath of a 
 dress, all soft and vapory, hke the clouds that drift across a blue sky on a 
 bright day, with large bouffantes that fell with irregular grace around her skirt, 
 and were looped up with fringes of white bugles and feathery sprays. 
 
 l66 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
She was simple, exquisite, spirit-like, and might have sat for the portrait 
 of la Fee aux Perles. Ahcia sparkled in a yellow silk, with red velvet cactuses 
 drooping on either side of her broad, shining bandeaux. 
 
 “All right,” said Mrs. Purvis, nodding her head approvingly; “very nice, 
 upon my word. I have been so ill all day I scarcely thought that I should come 
 to-night; but, really, I am called upon to make sacrifices of my health which 
 would kill any other woman. Dr. Jobbers says it is my nerve and spirits that 
 keep me up—nothing else. I have eaten nothing this day.” 
 
 “Except a hearty breakfast and a very hearty dinner,” muttered Sara. 
 “Come, mamma,” she faintly continued, “shall we spend the night in the 
 cloak-room?” 
 
 “No, indeed, my beauty. I am ready.” 
 
 How many beating hearts, fluttering in the bosoms of debutantes, have 
 trembled up that staircaise! 
 
 That hall is the first battle-field of our young Amazons who go forth to 
 conquer the male sex. Their success or failure is determined within those 
 walls. She is predestined to rule who finds herself engaged at least “six deep” 
 before she smooths out her skirts for her first quadrille, and she is a wall¬ 
 flower for life who passes her evening on one of those very hard chairs 
 planted around the room. 
 
 Sully’s portrait of Victoria dominates the crowd at the upper end of the 
 hall; a string of likenesses, representing the series of Presidents of the St. 
 Andrew’s Society (to whom the hall belongs), fine the walls, and a carpet 
 upon the floor gives a drawing-room look to this festive spot. 
 
 I went to one of these balls once. Alas! the seats are very uncomfortable, 
 and I had no other experience. My chaperon was very kind, and not satisfied 
 with the small effect that I produced. She varied my position as much as she 
 could, so as to bring out my best points. Sometimes she engaged me in 
 conversation, to exhibit my intellectual expression; then she encouraged a 
 pensive, down-cast seriousness, to show my eyelashes, which are rather long: 
 it was all in vain. No young man flew to secure my hand for the “mazy 
 dance.” 
 
 “Stand up, my dear,” she said, presently. 
 
 I timidly obeyed. 
 
 “Sit down again,” she added, after a whde, and sighed hopelessly. It was of 
 no use. 
 
 Then she signaled a manager and whispered a few words. I felt my cheeks 
 tingle, for I guessed what was coming. 
 
 lily: a novel 167 
 
The manager bowed and hurried off. I could see him earnestly appeal to a 
 dandified youth, who looked at me through an eye-glass, and evidently bade 
 his managerial friend “to go (playfully) to the — 
 
 Then the gentleman in office collared a grave young man in spectacles, 
 with frizzly hair, and lugged him along. My destined partner was too pofite 
 to struggle. He had large, projecting knees, and helpless hands. 
 
 “Miss —, Dr. Lamed.” 
 
 “AUow me the pleasure of dancing with you,” he said, sepulchraUy. 
 
 “No, I thank you,” I answered, hurriedly. He was so unprepared for my 
 reply that he held out his arm, and my chaperon nudged me. 
 
 “I’d rather not. Do, please, let him go,” I said, imploringly, in a low voice. 
 
 The manager released his victim, and with another bow the large knees 
 returned to their former position in the door-way. 
 
 That was my first and last ball. 
 
 I am not courageous and not over patient. From the beginning of that 
 entertainment I wondered who was to take us to supper. The result showed 
 me that a manager took my chaperon on one arm and me on the other. I 
 could not hope for this luck at every ball, and, as I said before, the chairs are 
 not cushioned, so I have never been to a second “St. Cecilia,” and the tmth 
 is, my kind friend, Mrs. —, has never urged me to do so. 
 
 However, I meant to tell about Lily’s ball, not about mine, which had 
 preceded hers by some years. 
 
 “There is Miss Vere! How beautiful she is!” murmured some voices, 
 enthusiastically, as they entered. 
 
 Then Alicia’s eyes flashed from under her black brows a few side glances, 
 and Sara put up her head with the craning motion peculiar to her, and 
 leveled her lorgnon here and there with a disdainful haughtiness she copied 
 from Angel, and the crowd wavered in their first allegiance, and chorused 
 forth their admiration for the two other beauties. 
 
 They were the belles of the room. Lily’s engagement was, as yet, scarcely 
 believed in; it was not so certain, so positive, at any rate, as her thousands, 
 and she was surrounded. 
 
 But, I say it with pride, I believe there are few cities in the world where 
 mere fortune so slightly influences ball-room attractions and belleship, or 
 even solid courtship. It is not the young lady with the wealthiest papa who 
 receives most declarations and is most attended to. Heiresses have often been 
 left to faire tapisserie, while girls in plain white muslins have danced into the 
 hearts of the flower of chivalry and Charleston. 
 
 It used to be said, “in the days when I was young,” that never “had there 
 
 l68 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
been known in our city an heiress who was a belle, nor a belle who was an 
 heiress.” 
 
 They tell me this is changed now, and that “money” rules here as else¬ 
 where. Gold whitens dark faces and brightens dull eyes. “Papa’s plantations” 
 send mademoiselle home danced to death, while pretty Clara, in her cheap 
 tarlatane, has had no chance to cope with her plain neighbor. 
 
 It may be that the “rich girl” was just as agreeable as Clara, and it would be 
 equally hard that her papa’s purse should render her ineligible as a belle: 
 would it not? 
 
 A word to a stranger, though, on this topic. Let not the “cheap tarlatane,” 
 if joined, too, to a pretty face, deceive you. Don’t pass the wearer over as a 
 “losing business.” Many of our “finest people,” with the longest credit at 
 their factors’ and bankers’, dress like dowdies, and wear gowns which fadedly 
 proclaim the worthy endurance of the original stuff. Their income is so well 
 known—they are so thoroughly respectable, that “outward show” is not 
 necessary. 
 
 Let doubtful credit display glistening freshness—established position can 
 spare the expense. They call it “sparing the trouble,” and dye their old 
 dresses. 
 
 Clarence Tracy was a great favorite in his own circle. Out of his own circle 
 he was called a tuft-hunter sometimes, and before he went abroad a few 
 young men used to be very satirical about his boyish preferences; for he had 
 mixed a good deal in society at an early age, and that last winter of Angel’s 
 girlhood he had first learned to admire her statehness in ballrooms, before he 
 met her at Chicora. 
 
 Clarence maintained that he had a right to give his attentions where it 
 suited him to do so, and now, on his re-entrance into the same atmosphere, 
 he again singled out his former fancies. 
 
 Margaret Oakes was one of them. He admired her cold, collected manner, 
 and the unsoftening indifference of her tone. She took no pains, like Angel, 
 to make conquests; she was not popular; she had few favorites, and Clarence 
 liked the distinction of being one of them. 
 
 After dancing with Lily, he sought Miss Oakes, who welcomed him with 
 a smile, and made room beside her for him to sit down. 
 
 “Tell me about Angelica,” she said; “are you good friends still?” 
 
 “Very. I admire her, as ever.” 
 
 “You look foreign, do you know? I don’t like your style much. You have a 
 Frenchy look.” 
 
 “I am very sorry, for I have a young Frenchman on my hands who arrived 
 
 lily: a novel 169 
 
this morning, and for whom I must do the honors of our city. He will be here 
 presently, and I wished to present him to one of our fairest ornaments; but if 
 you dislike a ‘Frenchy look,’ you will frown down my vicomte. What shall I 
 do for him?” 
 
 “Who is he?” 
 
 “Le Vicomte Marc d’Ambermesnil.” 
 
 “Come to marry a fortune? Introduce him to Lily Vere.” 
 
 “Thank you; I’d rather not.” 
 
 “Then your engagement is positive?” 
 
 Clarence bowed. Margaret’s eyebrows contracted. 
 
 “She is very sweet-looking—clever, is she not?” 
 
 “Not what people usually call clever. She has not a brUliant mind, but a 
 great deal of good sense.” 
 
 “Oh, of course she is clever enough for her condition. You are fortunate, 
 Mr. Tracy. You do not like hard work—you are a little lazy; what a pleasant 
 thing to find such a ready-made income, with only the trouble of asking for 
 it.” 
 
 Clarence winced. This was but the beginning of his experience in marry¬ 
 ing an heiress. He thought Margaret Oakes looked old; he was sure she said 
 disagreeable things, but he was too much a man of the world to resent them 
 or to show his pique. 
 
 “There comes my vicomte. Let me introduce him to Miss Clarendon, and 
 then may I return and dance with you?” 
 
 Margaret agreed, and thought within herself, “I shall say something more 
 before I have done with you.” 
 
 She did not even mentally add the reason, which was, that, since Mr. 
 Henry Clarendon’s legacy, she had contemplated keeping his godson for 
 herself 
 
 During his introduction of the stranger, who was rather an agreeable- 
 looking man, to the wilhng Alicia, Margaret said a few words to Sara, who 
 moved with her partner toward the end of the room where the presentation 
 had taken place. 
 
 “Is it a real vicomte, Mr. Tracy?” whispered Sara, insinuatingly. 
 
 “Real, fresh, lively, and just landed. Mon cher'' added Clarence, in French, 
 “permit that I increase your happiness by naming you to Miss Purvis.” 
 
 Sara’s tongue, outside of her own vernacular, was somewhat limited, but 
 she struggled through a phrase or two, and after promising a polka to the 
 vicomte, she left him to Alicia and went off 
 
 170 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Lily’s evening was placid and pleasant. She was enjoying the ball in her 
 own way, when Sara sauntered up and said, in a nonchalant tone, 
 
 “Has Mr. Tracy introduced his Frenchman to you?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “That is singular. They are very intimate. They used to live together at 
 Baden-Baden, the vicomte tells me.” 
 
 Lily, who never forgot what she had heard fall from Clarence, imme¬ 
 diately conjectured that this must be the gentleman who sealed their ac¬ 
 quaintance by afterward launching Clarence in Paris; but Baden recalled 
 play-debts and saddened her face. 
 
 “Maggie Oakes looks very handsome to-night. Clarence is quite devoted. 
 He has danced twice with her.” 
 
 Two thrusts. Lily knew very well what jealousy is. Sara had spoiled her 
 pleasure. Why did not Clarence introduce his friend? Was he afraid of a 
 Frenchman’s indiscreet talk? And why need he hang so earnestly over Miss 
 Oakes? 
 
 But at supper-time Clarence was punctually at his post, spoke carelessly 
 and naturally of Margaret, and when Lily asked him about his foreign friend, 
 said that he was a good, empty-headed sort of a fellow, who would in no wise 
 interest her. He did very well for Alicia to make eyes at. 
 
 And did not Alicia make eyes at her new conquest? This was the moment 
 when Mrs. Clarendon should have been at hand, with her maternal energies 
 brought to bear upon her daughter’s actions and engagements. 
 
 Who was there to direct, to warn, to counsel, or to ward off? Mrs. Purvis 
 had enough to do to take an occasional inventory of Sara’s tablette de bal. She 
 sat in the scanty line of dowagers (of whom there are about three to every 
 thirty young ladies), and gossiped, and bemoaned herself, and boasted of 
 Angel’s New York house, and thought how immeasurably superior her 
 appearance was to her co-mates. For it is amazing to see how economically 
 the chaperons get themselves up. In fact, I have often thought, from what I 
 have heard, and what I have witnessed at my ball, that there ought to be a 
 “theatrical wardrobe” kept in the cloak-rooms, in which the chaperons 
 might be invested each evening. There are so few of them, and their business 
 is such a regular one, that subscriptions ought to be taken up among the 
 damsels whom they convoy to dress these ladies properly for their “parts.” It 
 injures the look of the thing to see, scattered about the walls, a worthy 
 matron or so in shawls and caps of such strict simplicity. 
 
 Willie Clarendon was too busy with his own partners. He saw other 
 
 lily: a novel 171 
 
young ladies going about with “no mammas,” and he supposed it “was all 
 right.” 
 
 Lily dared not interfere with Alicia, and, besides, it was impossible to 
 answer all the demands upon her own time. She was very much hked, very 
 much sought after. Clarence made it a point, and told himself and her that it 
 was a sacrifice, not to hang about his fiancee in society. He had a large number 
 of sentimental friendships—Margaret Oakes headed the band—and he was 
 always deep in talk with one or other of these young ladies. Lily had an 
 uneasy feehng about it, but she would have scorned to be jealous, exacting, or 
 suspicious. The soft eyes followed her lover hither and thither, and she put 
 down the rising thought that she was not necessary to his amusement with 
 irritation at her own unworthiness. It was instinct working within her, and 
 she considered it an ungenerous and unfeminine emotion. 
 
 Strange, is it not? that so often in this world we see this unaccountable 
 fact! It is not the woman most worthy to be loved who is the most loved. I 
 have seen treasures of affection lavished, wasted upon a flirt—a heartless 
 recipient—while a tender, loving creature, fair as her neighbor, and giving 
 her own pure and entire devotion to the chosen one, is looked upon with 
 lukewarm regard. I have seen wives whose past existence has been one series 
 of well-performed duties—and duties, too, which were not only all duty; 
 they have been misunderstood, disregarded, neglected by men who, perhaps, 
 when they bury these uncared-for companions, love, marry, and cherish 
 others, who could in no wise compare with their predecessors. 
 
 Lily, with all her gifts, failed to inspire a love equal to that which she gave. 
 Why was it? I can not teU. Her beauty, her freshness, her sweetness, her 
 gentleness were indisputable. Clarence acknowledged their undoubted exis¬ 
 tence; he fancied himself desperately in love; he would have fought the man 
 who questioned his affection; he would have been plunged in grief bad a 
 quarrel arisen between Lily and himself; but he did not feel for her that 
 yearning, insatiable, unsatisfying sentiment that makes up a love which is 
 worth inspiring. 
 
 And what is more, I say candidly I do not believe that any man would have 
 loved Lily as she ought to have been loved. Let novelists write about the 
 passion called forth by ingenuous, unsophisticated, unworldly beings: it is 
 mere curiosity—a desire to rifle the bud of its untouched bloom. Men marty 
 these girls or these women—for innocence is not a mere matter of age or 
 circumstance, and a grandmother may be more truly innocent, the innocence 
 of the heart, than a maiden of fifteen—men marry these, and have immense 
 respect for them, and “think highly of them,” and honor them as the mothers 
 
 172 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
of their children; but, if they are gay and “fast” men, they soon return to their 
 old, merry, wicked loves—some haughty, worthless coquette, some dashing, 
 daring jilt, or some sighing, sentimental sylph; if they are staid and proper 
 men, with principles and a sense of justice, they try to banish recollections of 
 other eyes and other hands, and they conceal from “Madame” (who is often 
 happily unconscious) that there are nooks in their hearts where lurk buried 
 sighs and hopes, and niches where stand statues that have foreign names 
 upon their base. I take the liberty to lay it down as an axiom that no woman is 
 heartily loved unless she has a spice of the devil in her. Dispute it—you can’t 
 refute it. 
 
 I know that some men will say contemptuously, “it is a different sort of 
 love.” I am aware of the fact, but the most virtuous of her sex prefers “a 
 different sort of love” to the love which she often receives in return for her 
 whole love. 
 
 Lily was one of these women. She had every virtue, every charm; she was 
 destined to be regarded with holy admiration; but Angelica would bind a 
 man to her with chains of iron and clasps of steel, while Lily’s power was no 
 stronger than the circlet formed by her two white arms. 
 
 I am wandering from the ball-room, and prosing unmercifully. 
 
 The last waltz was over; Alicia stood in the entrance-hall, her arch face 
 peeping from beneath her pink nubie as she gave her fan and bouquet to the 
 Vicomte Marc to hold while she crossed the swan’s down of her Opera cloak 
 over her dimpled shoulders. 
 
 “I may offer mes homages to-morrow to Mademoiselle?” said M. D’Am- 
 bermesnil, interrogatively. 
 
 “On the race-course,” assented Alicia, smilingly. “Our bets will be decided 
 there before we can meet elsewhere.” 
 
 “Ah, yes! I had forgotten. In some company one forgets every thing.” 
 
 Mrs. Purvis bustled along, swathed like Gliddon’s mummy, and calling 
 vociferously for her charges. 
 
 “£//e est riche, cette charmante jeunepersonne? n’est ce pas, Tracy f' 
 
 Clarence was thinking of Lily, who had asked where he got the vinaigrette 
 whose odor she perceived as he put her in the carriage. 
 
 "Tmmensement, mon cher" he answered. 
 
 “Voila mon affaire," muttered the viscount, as he lit his cigar. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL 173 
 
^ CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A dark green landau, with servants in bright ohve hvery, with gold bands, 
 and containing three ladies, followed by a light coupe, in which sat two other 
 ladies, took the road for the race-ground. 
 
 What beautiful, cheery weather! Very little dust, a clear sky, an unclouded 
 sun, and no wind. 
 
 Such days are rare, and ought to be remembered with delight, besides 
 being enjoyed at the time. The road was full of horsemen, carriages, buggies, 
 and carts. Omnibuses rumbled along, foot-passengers strode bravely for¬ 
 ward, and the negroes were, as usual, the loudest and most conspicuous 
 partakers in the pleasures of the day. 
 
 Plato and Sambo, on the box, made bets as they drove along, and the little 
 ragged darkies hurraed the finest vehicles, and “chaffed” the comical with as 
 much unconcern as if they had a “paid” part in the procession. 
 
 Under the oaks skirting Loundes’s Grove (one of the prettiest little scraps 
 of a drive in the neighborhood), and through the gate labeled conspicuously 
 “Entrance for Members’ Carriages,” drove the landau and the coupe. The 
 coachmen showed their tickets, and, with a dash, bowled up under the 
 covered doorway of the ladies’ stand. 
 
 Members of the club, with the red ribbon fluttering at their button-hole, 
 and strangers with a white ribbon, marking their position, sauntered about, 
 or talked eagerly, or looked anxious, and bowed to their fair partners of the 
 previous evening with smiles which they hoped hid the tremors they suffered 
 lest Pretty Poppet should be beaten by Colonel —’s filly. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon sported a red and white cockade as one of the stewards. 
 
 “Take care how you bet, puss,” he said to Alicia, as she sprang last from 
 the landau, after Mrs. Purvis and Sara. “You will ruin me with your glove- 
 bill if you trust to Pretty Poppett’s clean legs. She isn’t strong in the 
 pasterns,” he whispered. “Take Colonel —’s filly against the field. Where is 
 Lily?” 
 
 “Here, sir. Grace Meredith is with me,” said Lily from the coupe, as Sambo 
 hastily opened the door, eager to have them out, and to be off himself to 
 secure a good “stand” for the race. 
 
 Our old friend Grace was as lively and frolicsome as she had been at the 
 May party. LUy and she had just met for the first time since they had each 
 leaped from girlhood to young womanhood. Grace had arrived late on 
 Tuesday evening from the country—too late for the ball, which she regretted 
 with great fervor, but not too late to unpack a box of New York finery 
 
 174 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
awaiting her at home, and to make her appearance this morning in “a love of 
 a bonnet,” which Lily had chosen for her, with the assistance of Angel’s taste. 
 
 “Who is that wonderful dandy, looking hke a dyspeptic peacock?” she 
 whispered to LUy as they stepped out of the carriage. 
 
 “A Frenchman—le Vicomte d’Ambermesnil.” 
 
 “I don’t like his looks. And who is that supercilious, black-browed—” 
 
 “Why, Grace!” 
 
 “Heavens! it is Clarence Tracy!” 
 
 She glanced merrily at Lily, and shook hands with Clarence. 
 
 William Clarendon she received with unqualified approbation. 
 
 He offered her his arm as they all went up the staircase. 
 
 “You have not grown much, Miss Grace, in the five years that I have been 
 away,” he said. 
 
 “If I could borrow the ends of your mustache for the top of my head, I 
 should be tall enough,” answered Grace, saucUy. 
 
 “You are all such fairies of ladies! There is Alicia, she is not more than four 
 feet high, and Nora Tracy, and you. I keep on looking at you, and wondering 
 when you will grow up.” 
 
 “Your mind’s eye is filled with stalwart German vrows and big Enghshwo- 
 men, I suppose. But there is Lily. She is tall enough to insure your admira¬ 
 tion. Why don’t you make her your model.” 
 
 “Oh! Lily is an exception to all rules,” said William, gravely. “I would 
 sooner say my prayers to Lily than fall in love with her. She is lovely, but too 
 spiritual for me.” 
 
 “Lovely is the word, indeed, that best suits her,” said Grace, enthusi¬ 
 astically. “Do you know, Mr. Clarendon, I can’t understand her engagement? 
 Is Clarence Tracy worthy of such a prize?” 
 
 “She thinks so,” answered Willie, evasively. “But I could not give an 
 impartial opinion. Miss Grace. Clarence has cut me out with my father’s 
 ward.” 
 
 Grace turned her mutable Irish face toward him. 
 
 “Truly?” 
 
 “No, indeed. I do but jest. Lily was always, in spite of her fewer years, my 
 senior in gravity and wisdom. When I came home the other day, I was 
 dazzled by her peculiar beauty, but, besides seeing at once that she and 
 Clarence were on the eve of an engagement, I was, indeed, only dazzled. She 
 looks to me like a snowbank with the sun upon it. There is a deal of warmth 
 in the earth below, but too much unbroken calm above.” 
 
 “Not to my mind. She is like a bank of violets on a spring day—cool. 
 
 lily: A NOVEL I75 
 
green, modest, refreshing, and giving the perfume of her presence and her 
 kindness to every comer. But we are getting wretchedly poetic and prosaic. 
 Let me do the honors of the ladies’ stand, huilt since you left. How do you 
 like it?” 
 
 This was not Grace’s first winter in society, she had come out the 
 preceding year, and William thought her a very agreeable girl as they strolled 
 up and down the long hall, which opens with many doors upon the covered 
 platform whence the ladies enjoy the race. 
 
 “The horses are saddling!” some one cries; and numerous flirtations, 
 carried on behind parasols in the doorways, or upon the settees scattered in 
 the hall, are hastily suspended for the moment. 
 
 It is a charming sight, these rows upon rows of fresh young faces. With 
 little exclamations at the glare of sunlight, they venture out upon the 
 platform to look at the horses (which, enveloped in their blankets, “wonder¬ 
 fully resemble burnoused Bedouins on all fours,” Grace Meredith said), and 
 consult their cards, and risk bonbons and gloves, and change their minds, 
 and “hedge” shamefully, as it is a woman’s privilege to do. 
 
 Then they consult some knowing old steward, who answers at random 
 and hurries off, being seen presently, whip in hand and hands in pocket, 
 earnestly discoursing turfy-looking individuals on “the ground” below. 
 
 There are a great many children scampering about, who are stuffed with 
 unwholesome tarts, and threaten to precipitate themselves out of the clutch 
 of “mamma” in the stand upon the head of “papa” on the turf. 
 
 The red flag waves from the judges’ “perch;” there is a rush to the 
 members’ stand, which is next the ladies’, and in which congregate those 
 sheepish gentlemen who “avoid society” and frequent dinners; a great deal of 
 confusion, a loud voice dominating the crowd, 
 
 “Keep back! stand back! clear the way, there!” 
 
 The horses are off—and I shall not attempt to describe a race. 
 
 “Is it not exciting?” cries Alicia, clapping her little lemon-colored kids; 
 “mats vous ne regarded, point les chevaux, Monsieur?” 
 
 Le Vicomte Marc’s stake is not on the running horses. He is playing for 
 higher game, and fixes his eyes upon the fancied heiress, and not upon the 
 slender legs of Pretty Poppet. 
 
 “Have you bet much, Clarence?” asks Lily, hesitatingly. 
 
 “A mere trifle.” 
 
 Tis the first heat—here they come. Pretty Poppet wins; the young ones 
 who are against her are in despair, but the older hands know the effect of four 
 miles repeated, and are quite sure stiU. 
 
 176 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
The gentle little Southerners are aroused. Their pale cheeks flush, and 
 they chatter like magpies. 
 
 Every body walks in the long hall, and sweetly unconscious of her superi¬ 
 ority Sara tries to look as she is attended by three gentlemen, while Alicia 
 only has her Frenchman’s arm. 
 
 But put the title in the scale, and Sara kicks the beam! 
 
 The second heat is at hand, and the same performances are re-enacted, 
 only there is a little more bustle in the members’ stand, for many “stifflsh 
 drinks” have been swallowed, and there seem to be more legs and arms in the 
 crowd than there were before. 
 
 Two of the horses are withdrawn, three remain—the contest is over. Pretty 
 Poppet comes in victorious, the knowing ones are “bit,” and Mr. Clarendon 
 wants to be savage, but can’t manage it very well, when Alicia says to him, 
 with charming archness, 
 
 “And how about her pasterns, papa?” 
 
 “Ain’t you sorry it is not a broken heat. Miss Clarendon?” yawns Alfred 
 Greville, who is very blase‘ihonX races, having joined the club the day before; 
 “we consider this a dead failure. A man can’t get up an excitement on so little 
 staple. Going to stay for the next race?” 
 
 “It depends on Mrs. Purvis.” 
 
 “Better stay—aw—I drove up with Gustavus. How mad he is about Tracy! 
 says Miss Vere might as well have married some confounded beggarly 
 Frenchman like that man Tracy—” 
 
 “Mr. Purvis had better choose more discreet confidants,” said Alicia, 
 glancing toward her companion; and Mr. Greville, discovering his mistake, 
 blushed furiously and backed out. 
 
 The drive into town is never so pleasant as the drive out. Every body is 
 tired, and some people have lost money, but it is very gay and bright 
 nevertheless; and with an occasional threat from Mrs. Purvis that she would 
 probably faint from exhaustion (which she did not do), the party got safely 
 home. 
 
 ® CHAPTER XXV 
 
 It could not possibly interest you, my dear reader, for me to procure the 
 minute, uninterrupted detail of this winter’s campaign. 
 
 The young ladies danced at balls, Lily received two formal declarations, 
 and Alicia flirted incessantly with the vicomte. 
 
 One of these declarations was from her cousin Gustavus. This young 
 
 lily: a novel 177 
 
gentleman was considered by his family “the first match in the state.” We 
 have all of us seen a good many such “first matches,” and they seemed to 
 think that Lily could not have thoroughly understood that she might have 
 Gustavus, or she would never have accepted Clarence. 
 
 Gustavus was a weakly, well-disposed youth, with a gentlemanly carriage 
 and pretty features. He made great use of an eye-glass, and very fittle of his 
 tongue. Lily hstened to him with much amazement when he declared 
 himself. 
 
 “But, Gustavus,” she said, with calm honesty, “you know that I am 
 engaged?” 
 
 “Yes; but mother said I had better try.” 
 
 Lily could not help smihng. 
 
 “And, my dear Lily,” Gustavus went on, “I do not feel quite at liberty to 
 explain, but in your present choice you have been hasty. Mr. Tracy is—” 
 
 “It is very unbecoming your position at this moment to attempt to speak 
 against a gentleman of whom you can know nothing, which would be 
 injurious to him,” interrupted Ldy, warmly. 
 
 “I am one of your nearest relations, Lily,” said Gustavus, who had been 
 strongly “crammed” by Mrs. Purvis and Sara, “which is my excuse. I re¬ 
 nounce all hope of recommending my love to you, but I should advise you to 
 make a few inquiries as to how many gambling debts Tracy owes, and 
 where—” 
 
 Lily rose abruptly. 
 
 “Not one word more.” 
 
 “What is the bond between this French adventurer and himself? He 
 encourages his attentions to Alicia Clarendon because he is afraid to thwart 
 him—” 
 
 “Gustavus, you are my mother’s nephew; you have been put up to this; you 
 would never have imagined such insults yourself Our near relationship, 
 which you make an excuse for uncalled-for interference, is my reason for 
 forgiving it. But this conversation ends here, and any attempt at renewal will 
 force me to decline your acquaintance, and to inform my uncle and Mr. 
 Tracy of the cause.” She bowed with dignity, and an angered loftiness most 
 foreign to her sweet face, and joined Alicia, who was lounging on an 
 ottoman near, in the ball-room, which was the scene of Gustavus’s defeat. 
 
 Alicia was whispering and coquetting with the vicomte, and seemed not 
 over-delighted at Lily’s advent; but as another gentleman soon came up to 
 ask Miss Vere for a promised dance, Alicia forgot all about her, and con¬ 
 tinued her flirty dialogue. 
 
 178 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Lily was silent and distraite, worried and ill at ease. The new-comer was 
 fortunately a great talker, so she assumed a listening attitude, and put in a 
 word or two at random. 
 
 “It is now at the close of the season; the weather is growing warm, and the 
 parties few. Miss Vere; have you enjoyed your winter?” 
 
 “Very much.” 
 
 “I believe every body has. And we have had so many new beauties this 
 
 I” 
 
 year! 
 
 “Oh! I am afraid, when it comes to the last,” said Alicia, in a very low 
 voice, and in French. “Papa is very indulgent; his consent would not be 
 difficult.” 
 
 “There is Miss Purvis; but she came out last year. By the way—” 
 
 Lily was listening again to Alicia; she could not hear M. D’Ambermesnil. 
 
 “Why not wait? Even if he refuses at first, I am young enough not to 
 marry so soon, and can bring him round in time.” 
 
 Lily’s heart almost stopped beating. It was not honorable to overhear 
 Alicia, but for worlds she could not have desisted. 
 
 “How lively Miss Meredith is, too!” said the valuable dealer in com¬ 
 monplaces. “She does rattle so!” 
 
 “Ah, monsieur! ah, Marc!” Alicia murmured, “do not doubt me. Well, I 
 promise. To-morrow, then.” 
 
 “Ange!” exclaimed her companion, as the first notes of a waltz sounded, 
 and he arose to offer her his arm. Her skirt was beneath Lily’s foot; she 
 disengaged it without looking up, and went off. 
 
 Lily’s partner prosed on, and Lily felt so ill, so helpless, that at last Mr. 
 Morton’s eyes were opened to her pallid cheeks. 
 
 “You feel badly; you are fatigued. Shall I get you any thing?” 
 
 “Only a glass of water; and will you call Mr. William Clarendon for me?” 
 
 Clarence came up. 
 
 “You look ill, darling.” 
 
 “I am not ill, but bored,” said Lily, smiling faintly. 
 
 “It must be a bad case, if you acknowledge it.” 
 
 “Clarence, do you owe any money to that Vicomte d’Ambermesnil? Has 
 he any hold upon you of any sort?” 
 
 “None whatever,” said Clarence, coldly and decidedly. “You begin your 
 interrogations early.” 
 
 “Forgive me, my love,” Lily said, with disarming sweetness; “why will the 
 world invent scandals against the innocent?” 
 
 “And why will the most innocent of all women believe scandals? Had you 
 
 lily: a novel 179 
 
asked me about Ambermesnil more particularly than you did, I could have 
 added to my previous information, that he is of undoubted good family and 
 position, the fact that he is also too fond of card-playing and dissipation to 
 suit your rigid notions.” 
 
 “And you have allowed him to tie himself to Alicia’s sleeve?” 
 
 “My dear LUy, Alicia tied him there herself I did not warn her about him, 
 but I told Mr. Clarendon that he was not a saint—that he was a gay, good- 
 for-nothing dandy of high family. Willie knows all about him. Sara Purvis 
 has made Gustavus pick his brains of every thing she could get hold of, and 
 Alicia has chosen to dance with him, and to walk with him, and to philander 
 with him, and none of them have interfered. It is the custom in this country 
 for young ladies to make their own associates: it was not my place to snub off 
 from Alicia a man who had been personally kind to me in Paris. Well, 
 Willie, what is it?” 
 
 “I obey Miss Vere’s orders. Speak, queen of this night. Morton says you 
 are the most agreeable young lady in the room, with the finest mind, and sent 
 for me. Was it to enjoy your fine mind that you wished me?” 
 
 “I want to get home. Do see if Alicia is ready.” 
 
 As Clarence told her good-night, Lily whispered, 
 
 “How delightful it is to think that whenever I begin to fancy you have 
 done something wrong, you can always reassure me, and never fail to show 
 that I only am always wrong when I doubt you.” 
 
 Clarence pressed the soft hand which lay so tenderly in his. 
 
 “She is as good as she is beautiful, as beautiful as she is lovable, as lovable 
 as any one woman can be,” thought Clarence, as he buttoned his overcoat; “I 
 was born under a lucky star. Ha, Marc! ou vas-tu? Combattre le tigre?” 
 translating our American slang. 
 
 “Non, mon cher; comme vous, je me range.” 
 
 “Mais, moi, je me marie.” 
 
 “Eh bien!” answered the vicomte, shrugging his shoulders; “perhaps I do 
 as much. Bon soir.” 
 
 “What the devil does he mean?” muttered Clarence. 
 
 ® CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 The clock of St. Michael’s church, which regulates Charleston time, had 
 chimed three quarters past three when Lily opened the door communicating 
 between her room and Alicia’s. 
 
 Alicia’s head was suddenly raised from her pillow, and she called out. 
 
 l8o SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Is that you, Lily? What is the matter?” 
 
 Lily’s hand trembled as she put down her candlestick upon the toilet- 
 table, and then approached the bed. 
 
 “What is it?” asked Alicia, peevishly. “If you wish to play ghost or 
 Somnambula, my dear, pray do not choose a ball-night, when I have danced 
 my feet tired and myself sleepy.” 
 
 “I am going to play, I fear, a very thankless part. Dear, thoughtless, 
 reckless Alice, what is the meaning of that ‘to-morrow’ which I heard you 
 utter as a promise to M. D’Ambermesnil?” 
 
 The blood rushed impetuously into Alicia’s face, as she angrily exclaimed, 
 
 “Upon my honor, Lily, you seem to watch me very closely. Is this to be a 
 Harry Barclay business over again? Is it your ‘mission,’ think you, to dog my 
 footsteps and to pry into my concerns? Your interference annoys me—your 
 questions bore me; have the goodness to let me alone. I presume I may make 
 engagements for a walk without telling you of it. Where are you going now? 
 What is the matter with you?” 
 
 She caught Miss Vere’s hand. 
 
 “I shall consult your mother in the morning. I am no tale-bearer, my love, 
 but circumstances force me to interfere where I could not conscientiously 
 avoid it.” 
 
 “Stop. The fact is—oh Lily!” and Alicia burst into tears. 
 
 With Lily’s kind arms around her, with Lily’s white cheek pressed to hers, 
 as it always had been in Alicia’s childish troubles, so it was now. Her 
 petulance was over, and she confessed the folly she was on the eve of 
 committing. She had promised this Frenchman to elope with him the 
 following day. 
 
 “We were to be married; he had engaged a clergyman to perform the 
 ceremony, and I should have come back to ask papa’s and mamma’s pardon.” 
 
 “Did you think it romantic to do so disgraceful a thing, Alice?” 
 
 “I did not think at all.” 
 
 “Are you in love with him?” 
 
 “Well, I don’t know. He is very agreeable, and then I should like to be a 
 vicomtesse; and he is certainly handsome, and it would be very nice to live in 
 Europe.” 
 
 “Like Cecilia Langdon; you know she is the Comtesse de Montanvert. 
 She has a happy menage.” 
 
 Alicia flouted. 
 
 “I don’t think any man would have a chance of neglecting me, or the wish 
 either,” she added, with a pretty grimace. 
 
 lily: a novel i8i 
 
“Why did not this gentleman ask my uncle’s consent? why must your 
 marriage be secret?” 
 
 “Marc says his family have other views for him, and would never agree to 
 his marrying an American. Papa will require letters and recognition from 
 them, which he is sure they will demure about giving. He thought it much 
 better to have the business over, and then, when it was done, why it was 
 done, and both sides would be obliged to be reconciled to it. Papa would 
 never hold out against me, and his papa would never have an objection when 
 once he looked into the lovely face of his new daughter-in-law.” 
 
 “Those were his reasons?” 
 
 “Yes, and very sufficient ones.” 
 
 “Not to my mind. Trust me with this business. If you and M. D’Amber- 
 mesnil are seriously attached, a little opposition will not destroy your affec¬ 
 tion. If he is worthy of you, he will be willing to suffer a little for your sake. 
 Think for a moment, dear Alicia. You were going to wound, in the unkindest 
 and most careless manner, parents who have delighted throughout your 
 whole life to make you happy. Imagine the mortification to them. In a 
 momentary caprice, you behave with the most cruel want of confidence. Tell 
 M. D’AmbermesnU that it is impossible. If he hopes to gain you, he must 
 strive for you.” 
 
 “I don’t think papa will hke him.” 
 
 “I don’t think he will give papa a chance. There are rumors concerning the 
 vicomte—I do not wish to hurt you, Alice—but I doubt if he will ever come 
 boldly forward to claim you.” 
 
 “Ldy, you are absurd!” 
 
 “Alicia, you are thoughtless beyond belief. Life is to you the veriest child’s 
 game. To one who did not know you as I do, your conduct would appear 
 utterly impossible. A vision of Paris, the jingle of a title, the flattery of a well¬ 
 looking young man, have caused you to forget that this stranger is indeed a 
 stranger; that this step is a step for life. You have not engaged yourself for a 
 dance, for a drive, but for a sacred and ever-enduring tie. You enter into it as 
 lightly as you would put on your baU-dress. When wHl you learn, dear, that 
 this world and its emotions and actions are solemn things?” 
 
 “You are a solemn thing.” 
 
 “I am. I think I feel deeply. I hope I do. I love you deeply. Oh, listen to me, 
 dear one, here, with your head upon my shoulder. Did you say your prayers 
 to-night, Alice? Did you pray for the man you were about to marry? Did his 
 name arise with your thoughts to God? Always mistrust those important 
 events which you do not connect with God’s blessing. It is a simple test. Do 
 
 182 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
not weep so bitterly, my little one. It is only an imprudence now, and we shall 
 set it all right again.” 
 
 “You are so good—I am so naughty,” murmured penitent Alicia. “Brought 
 up together, with the same care, the same attention, you always go right and 
 I always go wrong. I must be very wicked.” 
 
 “Not so very wicked, dear. We have not the same temptations. Our 
 characters and tastes are different. I have no leaning for the things which 
 please you. I am not obliged to conquer fancies and to put down thoughts 
 which arise in you. I am not brilliant; I don’t shine in society. My mind is 
 indolent, and it would give me no pleasure to dazzle people as you do. I 
 deserve no credit for being a little prudent and discreet, because I am 
 naturally quiet.” 
 
 “You are very good,” repeated Alicia. 
 
 “I have been very fortunate in some things,” said Lily, with her gentle 
 smile. “God deprived me of both my parents, but he gave me a kind friend in 
 your father, and he early opened my eyes to my own faults. When I was a 
 little girl I was inclined to be very conceited. You were always in scrapes, and 
 I was always praised for my goodness. I began to tbink myself quite a model; 
 but one day, when you were kept in at school for some freak, and I came 
 home with a ticket of good behavior, my uncle noticed my self-satisfied 
 smile, and he said to me, ‘Don’t imagine, Lily, that you deserve a great deal 
 more credit than poor Alicia. She is too lively, and you are very demure. If 
 you had the same wish to be frisky, you would have found it a hard matter to 
 get that ticket.’ It was an unusual thing for my uncle to make such a reproof 
 I thought of it a long time, and the longer I live the truer I find it. We see 
 people with different natures, different positions, under different circum¬ 
 stances, and we measure them all by the same rule, giving praise to the results 
 without looking into the causes.” 
 
 Lily smoothed Alicia’s glossy hair and kissed her on the eyelids. 
 
 “So it is, dearest, that I blame you less than I would another. You have 
 impulses stronger than principles. I am very sure that, after consenting to 
 this mad step, you felt to-night very much inclined to withdraw.” 
 
 “Indeed I did; and I feel so much happier now, I longed to teU you. If 
 mamma had the habit of looking after us—” 
 
 Lily laid her hand on the daughter’s lips. 
 
 “We measure all by the same rule. My aunt must not be blamed for us, 
 dear. Will you write three lines to the vicomte now? One of the servants will 
 take the note to him in the morning.” 
 
 “What shall I write?” 
 
 lily; a novel 183 
 
“Simply, ‘If M. D’Ambermesnil will call on Miss Clarendon at one 
 o’clock, she will explain why she has broken her engagement.’ ’’ 
 
 “I don’t care much to see him.” 
 
 “Alicia!” cried Lily; “and yet—” 
 
 “You see, dear Lily, it was the romance and the mystery of the thing—” 
 
 “I see, dear Alice, that you are a child who is utterly unfit to use the 
 woman’s privileges with which you are intrusted. Ah! if your heart could 
 really be touched—if you could meet with one for whom a perfect esteem 
 would be the basis of your love, and whom you could with pride present to 
 your parents, then I should have no fears for you. Let this be a warning. See 
 how dangerous it is to be led on step by step in the foolish path of flirtation. 
 Scorn such hackneyed means of being admired, and live for higher aims than 
 ball-room triumphs.” 
 
 Lily’s soft eyes glowed, her voice faltered; she was thinking of Clarence. 
 She saw herself his honored and beloved wife, cheering him in worldly trials, 
 comforting him when Heaven’s blows should fall, aiding him in their mutual 
 path of duty, and supported by him in all and through all. 
 
 A knock resounded upon the ceiling from the bedroom above. 
 
 “Girls,” came Mrs. Clarendon’s voice, faintly, “go to sleep!” 
 
 The note was written and given to Lily; then the thoughtless Alicia turned 
 over for a sound nap, the last thought in her mind being, 
 
 “What will Marc do? Will he really ask papa, or is it as Ldy says?” 
 
 Seeing the fight through her closed shutters, Burleigh, who slept outside 
 Lily’s door, in the garden, scratched upon the panel. She unlocked the door 
 and spoke to him. He sprang upon her with demonstrative joy, and the gray 
 dawn lighted up the picturesque scene: the lovely girl, with her flowing curls, 
 standing upon the threshold; the great dog, with his paws embracing her; the 
 pretty chamber as a background, and the garden stretching out from the 
 steps below. 
 
 “Always watchful, always alert, and loving me as much now as you did 
 before I deserted you for my education" said Lily, playfully, to her pet. “So it 
 is with true affection, Burleigh; absence will not weaken a bond which has a 
 foundation worth having. I would not buy that long-eared Blenheim. You 
 shall have no rival, old fellow. There; down, sir! that’s enough now.” 
 
 184 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
® CHAPTER XXVIl 
 
 The Vicomte Marc D’Ambermesnil left cards of adieu upon all his 
 acquaintances, and Charleston was reft of his presence. So true it is that 
 things are never found out unless people tell on themselves—there was not a 
 gossip who knew the reason of this sudden departure. 
 
 Some inquiring minds, who like to indulge in a liberal and undiscriminat¬ 
 ing curiosity, asked a few questions and suggested a few hints, but the 
 general idea was that he had been rejected by Miss Clarendon, and had 
 consequently retired in disgust. 
 
 Now the fact is, on receiving Alicia’s note, the vicomte, after sundry 
 invectives on woman’s caprice, went to his friend Clarence Tracy, and began, 
 with little prelude, to inquire into the fortune and prospects of la jolie petite 
 Clarendon. 
 
 Mr. Tracy objected to having the young lady spoken of in that light 
 fashion, and his Southern blood was up at the idea of the vicomte’s insinuat¬ 
 ing that she could be had for his asking. 
 
 Very soon it appeared, however, that she was not the heritiere, but that the 
 simply-dressed girl to whom Mr. Tracy was betrothed was the prize in the 
 matrimonial market. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon, Clarence reluctantly replied, was a rich man, but could 
 not, of course, divide his property now among his children. The vicomte 
 came to the conclusion that, far from this being a case where he should enter 
 upon lies by wholesale to invent a tangible income, and to offer what he 
 considered would be a positive requisition—a clean bill of previous good 
 behavior—he might congratulate himself on having escaped a great impru¬ 
 dence. 
 
 He was spared the danger of having brought to light sundry ugly card- 
 stories, and he might, with the passport of currency in Charleston drawing¬ 
 rooms, seek a real heiress elsewhere. 
 
 He had an interview with Alicia, reproached her with her want of confi¬ 
 dence in him, and, with a mutual feeling of relief, they parted. 
 
 Alicia was heartily ashamed, and very pensive and quiet for a week or so. 
 She had liked Marc more than she at first thought, and was inclined to 
 retract her dismissal, and to put him on trial as to whether his attachment 
 was sincere; but he accepted her first words of doubt, looked melancholy, was 
 shocked at her coldness, and took an eternal farewell with a gloomy bow. 
 
 She was young enough to believe in this claptrap until Lily had a conver¬ 
 sation with Clarence, in which, without betraying Alicia’s confidence, the 
 
 lily: a novel 185 
 
former soon discovered the mistake made by the heiress-hunter, and she 
 managed dehcately to convey to the indignant Ahcia the reason of M. 
 D’Ambermesnil’s hurried retreat before difficulties. 
 
 “So my taste for splendor deceived him, and he was in love with my 
 diamond cross,” said Alicia, with flashing eyes. “What an escape I have 
 made! When I look back, I wonder how I could have gone so far and so 
 foohshly. Depend upon it, Lily, many marriages are made with as little 
 thought, and which turn out as complete mistakes as this would have been. 
 But every one has not a Lily near her. I shall never marry now. I shall live a 
 spinster, and raise a monument to you, dear; ‘Sacred to a living Lily, “who 
 toils not, neither does she spin,” and who performs more good deeds in her 
 generation than the ugliest and worthiest of her species.’ ” 
 
 Alicia was very good for fully ten days; and then, on the afternoon of the 
 tenth day, she put on her bonnet, took a sentimental stroll with Alfred 
 GreviUe, and when she came home told Lily he was by no means so stupid, 
 and had very handsome eyes. 
 
 And aU this went on with an unconsciousness on the part of Mrs. 
 Clarendon, which would be incredible had I not seen it enacted a dozen 
 times. 
 
 The third of April was drawing near. Three huge cases had arrived for 
 “Miss Vere” per New York steamer; the trousseau contained in them, and 
 chosen by Mrs. Langdon, was worthy of the bride, and a certain agreeable 
 bustle pervaded the Clarendon mansion. 
 
 Since Gustavus’s curious “bold stroke for a wife,” there had been an 
 increased coolness on the Purvises’ side; nevertheless, Sara accepted the 
 invitation to be bridemaid, and Lily secured all her old friends. 
 
 There were the Jenningses, the Melbournes, Grace Meredith, Nora Tracy, 
 of course, and Alicia. 
 
 Lily was very busy and very happy. Some people may expect to find her 
 weeping, and be disappointed that I do not describe her in some such 
 maidenly act. 
 
 But I write the truth. There was not a tear in her heart nor on her cheek. 
 
 Why should she weep? I distrust weeping brides as much as I do giggling 
 ones. 
 
 A sweet seriousness, a gentle gravity, thoughtfulness but not sadness, 
 should be the natural expression of a young bride’s face. There are cases— 
 when a marriage is to be followed by an instant separation from friends and 
 family—where tears are not unsuitable beneath a bridal veil. A woman 
 
 l86 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
should love the man she is about to marry, but it is not reasonable to suppose 
 that she loses all other love; it is not desirable that she should seem to do so; 
 but, on the other hand, if her bridal vows do not set her beyond the reach of 
 her girlhood’s surroundings—if no recent calamity has made tears familiar to 
 her eyes, I feel them rise to my own when I see the large drops rolling down, 
 or brushed away with passionate energy from a bride’s pale cheek. All is not 
 right there. God help that drooping heart—God still that wild and speech¬ 
 less agony—God keep pure that feeble, helpless, suffering creature! 
 
 LUy was very busy and very happy. Clarence’s manner to her was perfect. I 
 believe he loved her at that time more than he had ever done before or ever 
 could again. It almost surprised himself. 
 
 The moment had come. “She was the type of perfect womanhood.” 
 
 Her consideration for every one, her liberality, her nobleness of mind, the 
 total absence of petty feelings, her large sensibility, her constant thoughtful¬ 
 ness; and, above all, like the white wings of an angel, which appear to brood 
 over and are the motive power of every charm and action, was her love for 
 him. 
 
 Yet, in the midst of these incessant demands upon her attention, it was 
 Lily who first discovered a change in her guardian. It was her watchful eye 
 which saw that something had gone wrong. He was a little fretful and a little 
 cross, seemed restless and anxious. The wife of his bosom thought he was 
 worried at the confusion in the house, and his children did not notice it. 
 
 His ward waited only for a favorable moment to offer her sympathy in 
 some trouble. 
 
 “Those settlements are ready for you, dear,” said Mr. Clarendon, as they 
 arose from the breakfast-table one morning. 
 
 She followed him to the library and closed the door. 
 
 “You must read that paper carefully, Lily; it settles by your wish $5000 
 annually upon Clarence, independently of you, and to be first paid by the 
 estate before any claim of yours. You can not sign it until you are married on 
 this day week. Your father’s will puts you in possession the instant after that 
 ceremony; unless, my dear, you die before then, you make Clarence able to 
 live handsomely apart from you, if he chooses to run away.” 
 
 “I am quite willing, sir.” 
 
 “He had better be very careful of you until this deed is signed. Should you 
 suddenly go off in a fit, or fall out of a balloon before you are Mrs. Tracy, 
 adieu to Clarence’s $5000 per annum. Do you know who would have it all, 
 Lily?” 
 
 lily: a novel 187 
 
“Of course I do, dear uncle; the one who has most right to an estate which 
 he has nursed, and cherished, and improved till he has made me an enor¬ 
 mous heiress—yourself.” 
 
 “God bless you, dear child. Long may you have health to enjoy your 
 wealth.” 
 
 “Uncle,” said Lily, looking with earnest affection in Mr. Clarendon’s eyes, 
 “is there any thing in which I can help you? There is something worrying 
 you—what is it? If it is any thing that I can know, pray tell it to me. I am 
 young, but you have often told me that I have sense for my years. Is it any 
 thing about money? That is the root of all evil—” 
 
 “Nothing is the matter, Lily.” 
 
 “I have watched you for several days—you must forgive it. You used to be 
 very confidential with my dear papa; if he were alive, you would teU him. 
 May I not hear it? It must be some money matter, for,” she cried, a sudden 
 light breaking in upon her, “in Angel’s last letter to me, she says, ‘I presume 
 the Clarendons will scarcely choose, at this time, to make a great wedding 
 parade.’ I thought she alluded to—to—something else she might have heard; 
 but Mrs. Langdon knows aU about ‘failures’ and ‘tightness in the market,’ 
 and all that dreary business; it is something of this sort, uncle, and you must 
 teU me.” 
 
 “I will, Lily, but on one condition: you will let me act as I previously 
 intended; keep this a secret until you hear it from others. It is a very simple 
 story. I have, with blamable folly, endorsed for a man who has left the 
 country heavily involved. The payments must be met at once. I must sell 
 Sunny Hill, or this house. It is a painful alternative. I might struggle on, but I 
 have a horror of borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. I would rather clear 
 myself at once, and be a free man, though a poor one. I have seen too much 
 of this mortgaging, borrowing, shuffling business. Now, not one word, my 
 dear. I see what you are going to say, but it is useless to say it. I hoped to have 
 you in Europe before the affair was blown, for never shall I permit the world 
 to think that Hugh Clarendon took advantage of his ward’s generous offers 
 to cover his own culpable act.” 
 
 “But, my dear uncle—” 
 
 “But, my dear Lily, you should never have known this had it not been for 
 your allusion to Angelica Langdon. I perceive the Purvises have scented the 
 game, and I guessed at once that you would seek and get the information 
 from them. But now I rely on your honor. Had you not been my ward, had 
 your father left his child in other hands, I might more readily have accepted 
 
 l88 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
favors from Andrew Vere’s daughter; but I would rather die in the poor- 
 house than nurse an estate, and then help myself to it.” 
 
 He got up and strode about the room, as was the good gentleman’s wont 
 when excited. 
 
 “See here, child! much as I love you, and would have gloried in having you 
 Willie’s wife, I am glad now that you and Fate decided otherwise. What the 
 devil—No, my dear Lily, you must not press me in this matter.” 
 
 She waited until he talked himself out. 
 
 “Will you listen to me, sir? What are your liabilities? Fifty thousand?” 
 
 “No, no,” he said, shaking his head, “don’t be absurd, Lily.” 
 
 “Forty thousand? thirty? twenty-five? Suppose it twenty-five thousand. 
 You have told me that I have in bank stock and in good bonds nearly seventy 
 thousand dollars of easy-to-be-got-at property. If my father were alive, you 
 would apply to him; if he had left me in other hands, you would probably 
 have applied to me. Here I am, the child of your adoption, the orphan to 
 whom you gave a happy home, the little girl who was placed in your arms on 
 that sad night—I remember it well—the only representative of your nearest 
 friend, and for a mere honorable quibble you refuse to take that assistance 
 which is yours by right. What luxury do I lose by your accepting thirty 
 thousand dollars from me? I shall not buy one gown less, nor eat one poorer 
 dinner for it. Sell this house or sell Sunny Hill, lest the world should say you 
 robbed your ward! Oh, dear uncle, when shall the wisest among us learn that 
 we should only dread the world’s reproof when conscience has given the first 
 sting? And, for the matter of that, how do you suppose I can stand the 
 world’s saying, ‘Miss Vere is too miserly even to aid her guardian. A fig for 
 her gratitude; had she wished it, she could have forced him to accept a few of 
 her loose thousands.’ ” 
 
 She paused, smiling, and Mr. Clarendon silently kissed her upturned 
 brow. 
 
 “My cup of happiness is full,” she went on, with that low, enchanting, 
 persuasive voice; “if I needed but one thing more to convince me how wise I 
 am in marrying early, it would be this. According to what you have told me, I 
 might have wished ever so much to make you the handsomest presents, and I 
 could not have done it for three years unless I were married. But it is all right 
 now.” 
 
 “By the way, and Clarence—a wife’s duty is to consult her husband—how 
 will he like this?” 
 
 “He would never be my husband,” Lily blushingly answered, “if I sup- 
 
 lily: a novel 189 
 
posed that in this case we could differ. I shall bring him to you presently, 
 when he comes, and then you must see about this other deed, uncle. But, 
 apropos, do find out, uncle, if Clarence prefers this regular income to having 
 the Waccamaw place given him instead. Whichever wiU make him less feel 
 that it comes from me.” 
 
 “But this deed is drawn—” 
 
 “Draw and pay for six deeds, sir, rather than let my proud Clarence fancy 
 that he is dependent upon me. Thank you for yielding to my wishes; thank 
 you for your acceptance.” 
 
 She wound her arms around his neck. 
 
 “This is like a scene in a play, Lily. I have been routed and defeated (to my 
 own advantage) by a slip of a girl. The Purvises would swear that I had 
 arranged the whole business.” 
 
 “Hush, sir, hush! let us leave them alone. I can not find fault with any one 
 to-day.” 
 
 “Few people part with so much money, and look gay under it. I verily 
 believe, though, that you rejoice in depriving yourself of your possessions. 
 Would not you like to give away Chicora?” 
 
 “Not Chicora—no; that is my own. I mean to be buried under the royal 
 oak, where I was crowned queen, so that I may always have a portion of that 
 dear place to myself.” 
 
 A bright color glowed on her cheek. 
 
 “Good-by, sir; I hear Clarence’s voice quarrefing with Alicia. I must 
 separate the combatants.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 On the evening of this day, a woman sat in a neatly-furnished room, 
 diligently sewing by the light of a brightly-burning lamp. The street was a 
 quiet and respectable one in a distant quarter of the city; there was no sound 
 to be heard but the quick jerk of her thread, and an occasional sigh, as she 
 looked at the hour marked by a watch which lay on the table before her. 
 Beside the watch a slip of paper was unfolded from its envelope, and the 
 woman’s eyes incessantly reverted to these lines: 
 
 “Expect me, dearest L—, at 9 o’clock. C.” 
 
 She was very handsome—of a passionate, luxurious beauty. There was 
 intellect written on her brow, but it was overpowered by the stronger 
 character of her voluptuous mouth and chin. Her black hair was more 
 
 190 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
abundant than fine; she had a deep shadow beneath her great eyes; and 
 between her thin, nervous nose, and her full, trembling, red upper lip, there 
 was a slight dark penciling, which was more positive than a peach-like down. 
 
 Her simply-made dress of sombre colors fitted closely to an admirably- 
 built form, elastic and powerful, with slender hands, and of a majestic 
 carriage. 
 
 She was not a Spaniard, for her hair had a crisp tendency unseen in 
 Andalusian or Catalonian beauty, and her complexion was neither olive nor 
 fair. In a word, those to whom this race is familiar would immediately have 
 detected her African blood, shaded through many generations, and almost 
 now defying conviction. 
 
 The hands of the watch marked half past nine, and a quick step darted up 
 the stairs, and there was a knock upon the door outside. 
 
 A hasty color mounted to the woman’s forehead; a smile of delight parted 
 her lips, disclosing the whitest possible teeth, and, removing some lines of 
 care from her face, showed her age to be not more than twenty. 
 
 Her arms were folded about the new-comer as the door opened. She 
 murmured in the lowest voice some energetic expressions of joy, and led him 
 to a large chair near the fire, which a chiUy spring evening made agreeable. 
 
 He removed his hat, and she seated herself on a low stool at his feet. 
 
 It was Clarence Tracy! 
 
 “You are later than your word,” she said, tenderly. 
 
 “Oh, Lorenza, you may be glad I am not still later. I am harassed to death. 
 Pray smile, child, for I am miserable, and want consolation. No, keep your 
 smiles; you will need them all yourself presently.” 
 
 “What is the matter? Tell me at once. You know I can not stand suspense. 
 I would rather dare the greatest danger than wait patiently for the arrival of a 
 lesser which is to come. Are you ill? Have you lost any friend? My own love, 
 my life, what is it?” 
 
 “If you speak yourself, how can I? I am in no danger of life or limb, but an 
 event is close at hand which I prefer you should learn from me. I am not rich, 
 Lorenza, and I long for power. What is power? Money. To wait for fat cases, 
 for large fees, is a very slow and uncertain method of getting money. There is 
 but one course open to me. You can guess what that is, dear; can you not, 
 Lorenza mia?” 
 
 She shook his hand impatiently from her shoulder, and with whitening 
 lips, and a growing fire in her eye, said, 
 
 “To rob—to steal, I suppose.” 
 
 “No, my pretty one, not that exactly. I wish it were no worse. There is only 
 
 lily: a novel 191 
 
one safe method of stepping into thousands which are not your own—to 
 marry an heiress.” 
 
 Lorenza sprang from her seat. 
 
 “I guessed it,” she cried, “I guessed it. I feared it long since; not from any 
 diminution in your tenderness, for never have you appeared to love me more 
 than while you were plotting this treachery; but in the house from which I 
 procure work, among the sewing-girls I caught your name mentioned one 
 day as the betrothed lover of one of their customers. I scorn to speak to them, 
 but I asked you that evening if you knew her, and you spoke of her as a child 
 whom you had known from earliest childhood, and whom you looked upon 
 as a sister. Oh base, cruel, deceitful! Was it for this that you brought me back 
 to this hateful city, where at every turn I feel the degradation in which I was 
 born? You found me happy, respectable, and pure in Paris. My mother had 
 repented of her early errors, and had taught me, since we left this place, that I 
 might become an honored woman—that there were no barriers on that 
 continent to a virtuous life for me. She died, but I found a friend. I was on 
 the eve of marriage—that good German, the excellent, the worthy man who 
 was to give me his home, and hand, and protection— I left him desolate for 
 you. You met me in the street. You recognized the little girl whom you used 
 to see years before playing at her mother’s door-step in front of your aunt’s 
 house. I had forgotten those days; I had forgotten that there was slave blood 
 in my veins; I was free—I was contented. Your vile flatteries, your miserable 
 devotion, awakened a love in my breast which overthrew all the virtuous 
 precepts my mother had learned to practice and had taught to me. I deserted 
 my destined husband—I believed in you. Happy in your smile, in your arms, 
 I consented to return here. I knew you could not marry me—you swore never 
 to abandon me—” 
 
 “And I will not, Lorenza. I never said that I would abandon you.” 
 
 “Silence!” she cried. “Who asked you to speak? Do you mean to add insult 
 to insult? Would you insinuate that I should remain a pensioner—a—” 
 
 “Remain as you have been, pretty vixen—my much-loved and beautiful 
 mistress. I shall be absent six months or a year, but I shall not forget you. No, 
 Lorenza; in spite of your temper—of your foolish reproaches now, I have no 
 wish nor intention to desert you. Here is a check for your yearly income. I 
 regret to hear you speak of work that you procure. I had no idea that the 
 roughness I sometimes see on this model of a finger was produced by labor of 
 this sort.” 
 
 She withdrew her hand, and threw back the disheveled dark hair from her 
 fevered cheek. 
 
 192 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Touch me not. And for your money, this is the treatment I give it.” She 
 tossed the paper upon the coals, where it blackened, and shriveled, and died 
 out. “So ends my love. Ah me!” 
 
 A shower of tears and deep sobs shook her frame. 
 
 Clarence watched her with calm eyes. 
 
 “You will get over this first burst, Lorenza. Every woman in your position 
 must come to this, sooner or later. Many highly-born ladies see their lovers 
 marry, and must swallow their tears. They often see them depart without the 
 excuse of marriage. You are not hardly treated. Dry up those glorious eyes. 
 Have I said that I love you less? You will reconcile yourself to an inevitable 
 step; and believe me when I say that you are as dear to me now as when I first 
 told you that that face and figure were worthy of a better destiny than to 
 serve in a perfumer’s shop as dame du comptoir.” 
 
 Lorenza made no reply. 
 
 Presently, with an impatient gesture, she wiped away her tears, and looked 
 full into her lover’s eyes. 
 
 “Since when did you intend to marry?” 
 
 “Strictly speaking, child, I was partly engaged before I went to Europe.” 
 
 “And it is to this man, just God! that they will give a young and innocent 
 girl! I almost find it in my heart to pity her. But no; she will believe in him, 
 she will love him, she will be happy, while I—Give me air—give me air—I 
 suffocate—” 
 
 She tore open her dress from her struggling bosom, and paced the room 
 distractedly. 
 
 “Lorenza, tu donnes dans le melodrame. Calm yourself Your father, you 
 have told me, died mad.” 
 
 “Do you reproach me with that?” she exclaimed, fiercely. “Leave me! ’tis 
 you that drive me mad.” 
 
 “I will leave you now. To-morrow, when I return, I trust to find you more 
 reasonable. Why will you, dearest, be so unnecessarily furious? There is 
 nothing changed—there is nothing to change between us. I shall not see you 
 quite so often as I have done, and for the rest of this year I shall be absent. If, 
 in the course of time, you weary of the monotonous existence you lead in 
 these rooms, and if you sigh for Paris and its gardens, I shall never oppose 
 your pleasure. I love you too much to thwart you. To-morrow, ma mie, I shall 
 bring back another check, since you have seen fit to destroy this one.” 
 
 She was quieter now, and, with knitted brow and firmly-set lips, stared at 
 him. 
 
 “But recollect, Lorenza, that I abominate dl-temper and scolds. You are 
 
 lily: A NOVEL I93 
 
handsome enough to excuse a great deal, but let this be the first and last 
 storm. It is aU over now, is it not?” 
 
 “It is aU over. Farewell.” 
 
 He nodded, and closed the door behind him. 
 
 “Handsome, but the temper of the devil,” he muttered. “Never mind; she 
 loves me too much to break with me, and I have not lost my ground by giving 
 way. She will yield to necessity, as her betters have done before her.” 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 Among the ceremonies of the Episcopal Church, none is more impres¬ 
 sive, without a gloomy tendency, than the rite of confirmation. 
 
 It is beautiful to see that band of thoughtful faces thus dedicating them¬ 
 selves to a virtuous hfe, fulfilling the vows made for them in baptism, and 
 preparing themselves for a yet holier festival which should foUow closely 
 after. I like the white, emblematical veils, the snowy dresses. I like to have 
 the sunshine fall upon the bowed heads. I hke to note that the confirmed 
 ones are young, and seem penetrated by this “outward form,” which is an 
 entrance to a “spiritual grace,” and I always trust and pray that there is more 
 than form in this voluntary acknowledgment that they are God’s creatures, 
 and destined for his service. 
 
 On Wednesday, the 28th of March, Lily was confirmed. 
 
 The venerable bishop who had baptized her, who had always felt a hvely 
 interest in her well-doing, and whose counsels she had recently sought with 
 filial reverence, seemed to hnger fondly in his blessing as his withered hands 
 rested upon her brow. 
 
 She was indeed beautiful with a spiritual beauty as she rose from her knees 
 and returned to her seat. 
 
 There were many who pretended afterward to have noticed that day an 
 unearthly loveliness in her look and manner; but, on the other hand, many 
 condemned, at the time, the glance with which she sought out Clarence 
 Tracy, and seemed desirous to associate him in her mind with the feelings 
 that imbued her countenance with its holy rapture. 
 
 He was in the next pew to hers; and during the sermon, she would 
 sometimes turn without affectation, fixing her eyes for a second on his dark 
 face, as if to assure herself that he was listening. 
 
 On Sunday she communed, and the Tuesday following was her wedding 
 day. 
 
 194 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Brightly, without an April shower, without a cloud upon its blue surface, 
 shone the sky on Monday morning. 
 
 There was a busy hum through the house, and every one wore an impor¬ 
 tant look. Mrs. Clarendon’s voice sounded from every quarter—the wedding 
 breakfast was upon her mind—and drawing-rooms which were to be in¬ 
 spected by daylight needed extra dusting and cleaning to satisfy her scrupu¬ 
 lous demands. 
 
 Alicia had given up her apartment as a dressing-room for the bride. It was 
 now fairly littered with costly feminine adornments, with bridal gifts, and 
 with the bonnets and shawls of the bridemaids, who had come to “see the 
 things” and to chatter. 
 
 How they rattled! Grace Meredith was seated on a table, swinging her 
 little feet like pendulums, and talking at the top of her voice. 
 
 “What a glorious privilege to be an heiress!” she cried. “Oh, Nora, let’s see 
 that love of a mantilla! Point d’Alen^on, I vow, as I am a Christian! Don’t you 
 wish you were an heiress, Sara?” 
 
 “No; I am quite contented to be as I am.” 
 
 “Listen to her!” ejaculated Grace. “A stranger would suppose that senti¬ 
 ment emanated from a humbly tranquil spirit, but we know that it springs 
 from perfect self-satisfaction. Well spoken, Sara. Now I honestly confess 
 that I should like to change places with Lily.” 
 
 “What a compliment to Mr. Tracy!” sneered Sara. 
 
 “Oh! I forgot the drawback. Excuse my candor, Leonora the Little; but 
 were I a young lady of independent fortune, I should not be in such haste to 
 divest myself of my libre arbitre. Not even the dignified devotion of a courtly 
 Clarence should induce me to become a worthy wife. Commend me to 
 Queen Elizabeth’s policy. Reign like a man, and be singly powerful and 
 powerfully single. How many hundreds of thousands per annum have you, 
 Lily?” and “giddy Grace,” as her companions called her, in allusion to her 
 own fancy for alliteration, caught Miss Vere’s skirt as she passed, and drew 
 her caressingly toward her own perch. 
 
 “What a chatter-box!” said Lily; “and is this the way you mean to assist 
 me? Choose me some pairs of dark gloves for country wear from that pile; 
 and recollect that I don’t receive those unlimited thousands until I marry.” 
 
 “By the way, I did hear that if you should die before you are twenty-one, or 
 before you marry, Mr. Clarendon is your heir. Is it true?” 
 
 It IS. 
 
 “And yet Mr. Clarendon consents to your early espousals. Virtuous, 
 exemplary man!” 
 
 lily: a novel 195 
 
Lily laughed. 
 
 “And what is more,” she said, “I believe my aunt rejoices in it. When I was 
 quite a httle girl, I used every now and then to hear her talk about the terrible 
 responsibility. Do you recollect, Alicia, the summer after I came here—our 
 first summer on Sullivan’s Island—when I was seized one day with a desire to 
 watch the fishermen drawing the seine? In my sun-bonnet I ran down to the 
 beach, and, eager for their success, followed them in their course up the 
 island. They were all very good to me, and let me watch the fish, and pick out 
 a string of them for myself They were negroes, so I was not afraid, and 
 trudged along, talking to them about sharks, and porpoises, and stingarees. I 
 had two hours of great enjoyment, and was brought home with a huge string 
 of whiting by old Daddy Peter, to whom I had attached myself from the 
 beginning, recognizing him as Maumer’s husband. I found the household in 
 great alarm. My uncle alternately kissed and scolded me, and my aunt would 
 not look at the fish I offered her, but repeated very often, ‘If Elizabeth had 
 been drowned, people would have said we did it.’ I could not understand 
 this, but I never played truant again.” 
 
 “Why, that is quite an adventure,” said Grace. 
 
 “And one that greatly interests that seamstress,” whispered Marguerite 
 Melbourne. 
 
 In the corner of the room, partly concealed by the white drapery of the 
 window, sat a young girl. On a low chair beside her was spread out the 
 wedding dress, which was undergoing some trifling alteration. She had 
 dropped the waist from her hands, and, with suspended thread and attentive 
 attitude, had listened to Lily’s Httle narrative. On perceiving the eyes of the 
 group directed toward her, she resumed her sewing with a deep blush, which 
 burned under her dark cheek. 
 
 “Who is that girl?” asked Grace, in a low voice. 
 
 “Betsey Ballou sent her to me this morning. I desired her to dispatch some 
 careful hand from her workroom to rearrange the lace on the corsage of that 
 dress.” 
 
 “She is very pretty.” 
 
 “For that color,” said Sara, contemptuously. 
 
 “Hush!” Lily said, gently; “she will hear you.” 
 
 “She is too pretty for a dressmaker,” Grace pursued. “Don’t let Mr. Tracy 
 see her. He admires Spanish beauty, and she is very Spanish.” 
 
 Sara’s lip curled, and Lily said—but, low as her tone was, it reached the 
 girl’s ear— 
 
 196 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Clarence does not admire low-born beauty. I doubt if I could make him 
 acknowledge that she is good-looking.” 
 
 Then, crossing the room, she spoke kindly to the workwoman, who 
 answered in a husky voice, and without raising her eyes to the fair and gentle 
 being before her. 
 
 Gradually the young ladies took their leave, with many laughing exhorta¬ 
 tions to Lily not to be late on the following morning. 
 
 “And, above all, Lily, don’t cry,” pleaded Grace, who was the last to depart; 
 “I am so prone to follow bad examples, that if you whimper I shall sob.” 
 
 “I promise,” said Lily; and, throwing her arms around Grace’s neck, “Dear 
 Grace,” she continued, “if ever the time comes when I shall assist at a Hke 
 ceremony for you, may your light but true heart be able to say with the 
 sincerity that mine does, ‘I love, and I honor my love. I am happy.’” 
 
 Tears sparkled in Grace’s softened eyes. 
 
 “God bless you, dearest Lily.” 
 
 The bride was left alone except the presence of the sewing-girl, who 
 remained like a statue endowed with certain movements beneath the shadow 
 of the muslin draperies. 
 
 Lily came and went between the inner and the outer room. She examined 
 the contents of different drawers, opened an old desk, burned some letters in 
 the empty grate, and remained long in contemplation before a miniature 
 which the workwoman saw was the portrait of Clarence Tracy. 
 
 A balmy afternoon succeeded the early dinner which best suits our spring 
 and summer weather. 
 
 I was driving into the city. A note from Lily Vere had brought me to town, 
 to be present at her wedding, for the care of an invahd relative confined me at 
 this time entirely to the country during the winter. With difficulty I procured 
 permission to absent myself for a couple of days, and joyfully I flew to 
 embrace the dear girl, whom I had not seen for more than two years. 
 
 I was thinking of her, and picturing to myself how she would look on the 
 morrow in that costume which lends beauty often to those who do not own 
 it, and whose graceful appointments are doubly charming when the wearer is 
 young and lovely. 
 
 I examined the bouquet of orange blossoms which, destined for her, was 
 carefully stored away in a corner of the carriage, and their perfume, aided by 
 the dehcious odor of the yellow jessamine which lined the hedges, combined 
 to wrap me in a sort of Mohammedan paradise. 
 
 The horses jogged along, and I dreamed pleasant day-dreams, when I 
 
 lily: a novel 197 
 
perceived, on the opposite side of the plank road, two equestrians, a lady and 
 a gentleman. 
 
 He had just gathered for her, without dismounting, a cluster of jessamine. 
 She placed them in the bosom of her riding-habit. Surely I know those long, 
 abundant, silky, and most beautiful ringlets. A ray of sunhght shot athwart 
 their shining meshes, and kissed the soft, bright cheek about which they 
 played and sparkled. Yes, it was Lily. 
 
 “Lily!” I cried. 
 
 In a moment she recognized me. One bound of her horse, and she was at 
 the carriage window. 
 
 “Dear MoUy, is it indeed you? Let me come in.” 
 
 Her companion hfted her from the saddle, and stood holding her reins 
 and his, while she embraced me with fond delight. How warmly I returned 
 her eager welcome! “Lily, pardon me, but you are beautiful.” 
 
 “You are saucy,” she said, blushing. “Clarence will not permit such flat¬ 
 teries—will you, Clarence? But you do not know him—how thoughtless of 
 me! Clarence, I present you to my dear old friend. Miss Mary —, whom I 
 take the liberty of calling MoUy.” 
 
 I gazed earnestly at the grave, haughty, well-dressed, dark gentleman who 
 was playing groom to my darling, and who bowed to me with perfect grace. 
 He was handsome in a severe style, with dignity enough to fill a throne, and a 
 smile which he could render suave enough to ensnare a heart. I did not like 
 his expression. His eye was not frank, his lips were too thin and too 
 compressed. 
 
 Lily watched me, and I read in her face a desire to know my opinion. I 
 meant to wait a little before I gave it. 
 
 “I have braved a good deal of displeasure to come to you, Lily; I am repaid 
 in this welcome. How fortunate that we should meet on the road! for I 
 scarcely hoped to see you except to-morrow. It would have been indiscreet to 
 break in on Mrs. Clarendon this evening.” 
 
 “By no means. Come to-night, Molly, and we shall have a long talk.” 
 
 “Do not hesitate. Miss —,” said Mr. Tracy. “7 am forbidden the house. It 
 win gratify my philanthropic spirit to know that if an unfortunate man is sent 
 to Coventry, at least so agreeable a person as yourself will profit by my 
 absence.” 
 
 The friendly smile, the genial tone, the kind intention, made me ashamed 
 of my first impression. 
 
 “Then I must not detain you now. Finish your ride; and after I have 
 washed away the dust of travel, you will see me at Mr. Clarendon’s.” 
 
 198 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Clarence Tracy placed her once more in the saddle; she kissed her hand to 
 me with her sweet face turned over her shoulder; he raised his hat with 
 courteous bend, and I watched them far, far in the distance, riding close 
 together, the yellow jessamines showering about them, the oaks casting their 
 lengthening shadows over them, and sunlight and brightness seeming to 
 mark ahead the future pathway of Fortune’s favorite children. Alas! 
 
 Twilight was deepening into night when Lily returned from her ride. 
 
 Beneath the overhanging balustrade, wreathed with vines, the lovers 
 lingered and said good-by. 
 
 There was no moon, and Clarence urged that she might give him a 
 farewell kiss. 
 
 “For shame!” said Lily; “here in the street?” 
 
 “Then at your own door—your garden door. It will be twelve mortal hours 
 before I see you again. You might at least say good-by.” 
 
 Lily protested, but, still protesting, moved round to the side entrance of 
 the house, where the low flight of steps led to her apartments. 
 
 A figure, watching from the window, shrank back as the two approached. 
 
 “Good-night, my beloved.” 
 
 “Good-night, my own love.” 
 
 “This is our last parting.” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Lily, I begin to feel to-night that I have been too fortunate. What has 
 that ‘fickle jade’ in store for me to counterbalance her gifts?” 
 
 ‘“We praise Thee, O God, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord,’” 
 chanted Lily, in a low, solemn voice. “Look above; carry your gratitude there, 
 dearest.” 
 
 '"Petite devote," said Clarence, affectionately; “you are a saint, and I expect 
 you to convert me.” 
 
 A servant came whistling past, and Lily hastily withdrew her hand from 
 her lover’s shoulder. He pressed the little palm to his lips, and with a low- 
 murmured blessing left her. 
 
 She followed him with her calm, loving gaze till the closing clang of the 
 iron gate, as it swung behind him, and the measured tread of his boot down 
 the street announced his departure. 
 
 The light of a single candle upon her toilet showed her the sewing-girl 
 seated upon the floor when she passed into her room. 
 
 The girl’s head was buried in her hands. 
 
 “Are you ill?” asked Lily. 
 
 She raised her head. 
 
 lily: a novel 199 
 
“No; I believe I was asleep.” 
 
 Her eyes flickered in the light. 
 
 “You were waiting to be paid for your work; I am sorry to have kept you so 
 late.” 
 
 “I do not mind it.” 
 
 Lily searched for her purse, thinking, meanwhile, that it was imprudent of 
 her maid to have left this stranger alone with so much of value. 
 
 The girl walked uneasily from the door to the dressing-table. Her fine, 
 flexible figure and restless movements struck Lily’s attention. She thought 
 she looked unhappy, and her kind heart was ready with its sympathy. 
 
 “What is your name?” she inquired. 
 
 Lorenza. 
 
 “Do you live alone?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “You have friends?” 
 
 “I had one. He has left me.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Lily, slightly coloring, and guessing the relationship of that 
 friend, “I am sorry for you; but perhaps it is best in the end that this sorrow 
 should come to you now.” 
 
 Lorenza frowned, and turned aside her face, which worked convulsively. 
 
 “Will you give me a glass of water from the table yonder?” 
 
 While the girl went in search of it, Lily added a gold eagle to the sum due 
 for her day’s work, and wrapped the whole in a stray envelope. 
 
 There was a jingle of glasses, as if touched by a trembling hand, and some 
 delay. 
 
 “Can you not find it?” 
 
 “Here it is.” 
 
 Lorenza gave the tumbler into Lily’s hand. Her dark eyes dilated, and 
 fixed themselves with a strange, wild look upon Miss Vere. Twice she half 
 extended her own hand to take back the fatal glass. 
 
 “Where is that perfume of almonds?” said Lily, carelessly. “Thank you;” 
 and she drank off the water, for her ride had made her thirsty. 
 
 A shiver passed over her frame; a wild thought crossed her mind; she 
 grasped vaguely in the air. 
 
 “Help! Clarence!” and Lily Vere fell dead upon the floor. 
 
 200 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
® CONCLUSION 
 
 My pen almost refuses to add one more line to this sad and simple story. 
 How can I describe—why need I describe—the effects of this bitter blow? 
 
 Can you not see the crazed Lorenza flying from her victim, repenting of 
 her crime, or, reckless and desperate, hurrying to her own death? Escape was 
 easy. She passed through the garden unarrested; the Ashley River ran 
 rippling near; one plunge—and her earthly troubles gave place to God’s 
 judgment. 
 
 We can only conjecture the interview, or believe in the imperfect testi¬ 
 mony of Lily’s maid, who listened a moment at the door before entering 
 from the corridor. 
 
 She saw Lorenza dart wildly through the garden, and, shocked and 
 alarmed at her mistress’s fall, first sought to raise her, and then cried out for 
 assistance. 
 
 They believed her in a swoon. Applications were made—remedies used— 
 physicians consulted. Then came the fatal decision, pronounced with scien¬ 
 tific certainty, “Poisoned by prussic acid.’’ 
 
 Great God! the horror of that moment! Never shall my brain cease to 
 picture the blank despair which followed those frightful words. 
 
 Dead! Lily, who but ten minutes previous stood, full of fife and hope, in 
 our midst! 
 
 A crowd gathered. They could not be kept out. 
 
 There, in that bridal chamber, with its pretty maidenly decorations, sur¬ 
 rounded by all the thousand costly preparations for the approaching cere¬ 
 mony, wandered, wondered, suggested, rough men and careless speakers. 
 
 Glances were cast at Mr. Clarendon—whispers reached his ear. 
 
 He could not give himself up to his sorrow. “Justice”—“legal examina¬ 
 tion”—“black business,” were murmured around. 
 
 Faces grew dark, and threats were uttered. 
 
 Suddenly a voice, loud, deep, dominant, filled the room. 
 
 “I command that these strangers withdraw,” said Clarence Tracy. 
 
 Way was made for him; voices were hushed; the room was cleared. 
 
 “Justice shall be done,” he continued; “look to me for it.” 
 
 Not till this mob had been dismissed did he approach his bride. Not 
 before them would he show his agony—agony not yet complete. 
 
 There she lay, white and beautiful, his faded jessamines still perfuming her 
 modest breast, her blue eyes closed, her snowy hands drooping at either side. 
 
 lily: a novel 201 
 
What a groan escaped him as, on his knees, he took one of those nerveless 
 hands, and pressed it wildly, convulsively to his lips, his heart, his brow! 
 
 Mr. Clarendon, whose honest face writhed with mental pain, grasped his 
 shoulder kindly. 
 
 “Unhand me!” cried Clarence, fiercely. “By whom has this foul deed been 
 done?” 
 
 “Do you suspect me, Tracy?” 
 
 “What enemy had she—so young, so kind, so true? Who would have 
 injured her but the man who profits by her early death?” 
 
 William Clarendon seized Clarence. 
 
 “Were it not for her who lies there in her sweet purity, and whose fond 
 heart beat only for you, I should force your villainous words down your own 
 cowardly throat.” 
 
 “William—my son—respect a sorrow which equals our own. Clarence, I 
 forgive you. I did but wish to show you this paper, to prove to you that her 
 last thoughts were with you. We found this at her feet. LUy—my darling!” 
 
 Clarence Tracy took the paper; he glanced at it; an unspeakable horror 
 glazed his eyes; he trembled, and clutched my dress as I stood beside him. 
 
 “Just God!” burst from his parched hps. 
 
 The paper fluttered and fell. I raised it. 
 
 “Expect me, dearest L., at nine o’clock. C.” 
 
 He turned and staggered toward the door. 
 
 This slip of paper gave the clew to the dark history. 
 
 Let me do justice to a man whose very name I abhor, but whose sins were 
 heavily punished. 
 
 Clarence Tracy spared no pains to exonerate Mr. Clarendon. That very 
 night, much as the effort must have cost him, he revealed the truth. He did 
 not seek to palliate his own course. He knew he had a partisan in every man 
 who thinks that a mistress is an amiable peccadillo. 
 
 The body of Lorenza was found and identified. Whether the unhappy 
 creature bought the poison at first for herself, and afterward was tempted to 
 destroy an innocent life whose last act was one of kindness to her, or whether, 
 in proposing to work for Miss Vere, she did but wish to examine at her 
 leisure the beauty of her unconscious rival, who can tell? 
 
 A heavy gloom overspread the city. The sound of tolling bells, the shocked 
 and grave faces, the universal sadness, seemed to betoken no common 
 calamity. 
 
 A silent and respectful crowd thronged the gate and street of that late 
 joyous house. 
 
 202 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Many asked permission to look once more at the beautiful girl whose 
 gentle dignity and kind demeanor had made her appearance familiar to half 
 the town. 
 
 Softly reposing on her last pillow, as if Death had respected such mournful 
 loveliness, she remained beautiful till she was borne to her grave. 
 
 I can not describe the desolation of her adopted family, nor the over¬ 
 whelming grief of those gay girls who were to have accompanied her to the 
 altar. 
 
 Even Sara Purvis, who had not loved her cousin, remained in mute sorrow 
 at Lily’s side, the large tears rolling unchecked down her pale cheek, and her 
 frame convulsed with inward emotion. She had always heretofore despised 
 my insignificance; this day she turned to me, and her white lips murmured, 
 
 “May she pray for us. She was an angel before God took her away.” 
 
 The glorious sunshine streamed down upon the nodding plumes of the 
 hearse, and lit up the silver plate which bore the name and age of Elizabeth 
 Vere. As we passed from her apartment, Clarence Tracy suddenly appeared 
 and placed himself authoritatively at the head of her coffin. 
 
 The six unmarried men who supported this sad shell made room for him. 
 
 He was so haggard, so worn, so aged in a single day that no one could 
 refuse him the privilege. 
 
 We laid her beside her father and mother, and as the clergyman sprinkled 
 the earth upon her coffin, I let drop upon it, bedewed with tears, her bridal 
 bouquet. 
 
 The gardener had sent it, ignorant of the tragedy, and there, in the midst 
 of its fresh and tender blossoms, was the withered bud which, in a moment 
 of playful coquetry, she had desired should form its central ornament. 
 
 What an emblem of the truth! 
 
 Mrs. Clarendon had waved it aside with horror, but I preserved it. 
 
 “She shall have it,” I said; “let her every wish be fulfilled.” 
 
 Oh the start, the mighty thrill which shook her bridegroom as these 
 flowers fell upon that resounding coffin! 
 
 I told you that this was no spirit-stirring tale; you may close the volume 
 and be weary; it is but a monument raised, a pillar dedicated to one who was 
 too perfect for this earth. 
 
 I do not mourn for her now; I say, in her own words, singularly prophetic, 
 
 “Better so—better so; better to have died believing him entirely true, 
 leaving with him the sweet recollections of her sorrowful fate, her beauty 
 untouched by care or time, dying through his unconscious means, than live 
 to have him again desert her for the flattering smiles of unworthy women.” 
 
 lily: a novel 203 
 
Clarence Tracy left Charleston. He was restless here, and the world 
 looked coldly on him. I think they would have warmed up had they known 
 that Mr. Clarendon insisted upon his receiving the fortune settled upon him 
 by Lily. He refused it, and went back to Europe a miserable if not a repentant 
 man. 
 
 Mr. Clarendon wrote kindly to him. “I can not forget,” he said to his wife, 
 “that Ldy’s heart was bound up in him. I dream constantly of her. Her face is 
 reproachful if I seem to blame him. He suffers; we, who are her representa¬ 
 tives, must console him for her sake, however much I desire never to be 
 thrown with him again.” 
 
 Will you be surprised to hear that, not long since, the Purvises went 
 to Italy for Sara’s health, and that we saw in the papers the marriage at 
 Florence of Henry Clarence Tracy to Sara, second daughter of George 
 Purvis, Esq.? 
 
 Nothing amazes me nowadays. They have a fine hotel in Paris. Mrs. Tracy 
 has her Opera-box, and Mr. Tracy his horses. Of course, you wH understand 
 that Mr. Clarendon had forced him to receive his rightful portion of Andrew 
 Vere’s estate. 
 
 Alicia is not yet married. She is very much courted, and will probably be 
 long in making her choice. William is the husband of Grace Meredith. 
 
 Mrs. Archibald Langdon is still the proud and extravagant beauty who 
 rules supreme in her own circle. I have heard that her attacks of the heart 
 become more frequent and dangerous, but she disregards them, and dislikes 
 to hear them spoken of. 
 
 A month ago I assisted at an interesting and most touching ceremony. 
 
 We were at Chicora Hall. The grass was green and dewy, the flowers grew 
 in such profuse luxuriance that the osier baskets could scarce contain them, 
 the mocking-birds kept up an incessant concert, the old oaks, stately and 
 venerable, stretched out their gray-draped arms, and nothing in nature 
 seemed to say, 
 
 “Let us be sad.” 
 
 But a mournful procession moved with regular tread from the very door 
 whence issued the May-party, across the lawn to the Royal Oak. 
 
 The throne was displaced, and a marble statue now occupies the site. 
 
 It is very like. The sculptor has almost satisfied us. She stands with 
 upward gaze, and with her hands folded upon her bosom, the attitude of 
 hope and resignation. The graceful sweep of her robes and the perfect 
 simplicity of the whole render it a master-piece. At her feet lies a broken lily; 
 
 204 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
the stem is firm and the flower unwithered, but a serpent has stricken it 
 down, and now escapes with hissing tongue, crouching near her skirts. 
 
 On the tablet you read, 
 
 LILY, 
 
 Aged seventeen years, eleven months, and 
 twenty-eight days. 
 
 Spotless, innocent, and beautiful, she died too soon 
 for those she leaves behind; but in our 
 hearts she lives always. 
 
 The rough workmen stood aside to let us draw near. We laid wreaths upon 
 the pedestal, and prayers went up from every sorrowful breast. 
 
 I thank you for your patience, for your sympathy, if you have followed me 
 through these many pages. 
 
 I lay down my pen, and wish you farewell. 
 
 THE END 
 
 lily: a novel 
 
 205 
 

Gerald Grays Wife 
 
 BY SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 A tall, pale, thin woman; she is not very ugly, and she is by no means 
 pretty. Her eyes are large and dark, with thick, long, black lashes, and the 
 shape of her mouth is graceful and classic. These are her only beauties. Even 
 these are only perceived when you study her closely, for the eyes are so stony 
 in their usual expression, so cold, so self-concentrated apparently, so defiant, 
 and so distrustful, and the lips have a way of setting themselves firmly 
 together, from which they rarely relax into the smile which can diffuse a 
 charm over the plain, rigid face. She asks and takes nothing from her dress to 
 redeem her lack of good looks. Her father requires that she should wear rich 
 stuffs, fine laces, handsome jewels. She chooses that she should be a parade 
 for his wealth, just as his houses, and equipages, and plate, and hot-houses 
 are constantly displayed; so to-day on this wild, sandy beach, she wears a 
 costly muslin gown, each flounce heavy with rare mechlin, and about her 
 thin, sun-burnt wrists are great gold bracelets, and in her ears tw'o pearls are 
 hung, with diamonds encircling them, of which, when her father tossed 
 them in her lap, on her last birthday, he said: 
 
 “Here, my girl; these cost a cool three thousand.” 
 
 But the rich muslin is carelessly put on, and the shawl she has wrapped 
 about her (for the evening grows chilly,) is a worn old tarltan plaid thrown 
 over her head, and gathered up about her throat in dowdy folds, and she has 
 shoved the bracelets out of sight, far up her arms, and the pure, lustrous 
 pearls, which would have been so beautiful touching a snowy throat, I wot 
 of, only make her’s browner. So, to see her pacing along this strip of ocean- 
 beaten land, with low dark clouds veiling the setting sun, the white sea-birds 
 skimming the water crests of the angry waves, and a sullen wind murmuring 
 
hoarsely of the storm to come, you might have thought this solitary, sallow, 
 stern woman was some desolate wayfarer, some miserable waif, and stray on 
 Life’s ocean, and not Ruth Desborough, the richest and most courted heiress 
 in the whole State. 
 
 Ruth Desborough’s mother died when she was still a child. She was a 
 gentle, feeble woman, who always seemed to stand in awe of all the luxury 
 which her husband heaped about her. She wore her jewels as if she were 
 afraid of them; Ruth put on hers as if she were ashamed of them. Mrs. 
 Desborough thought wealth a great and glorious thing—something too 
 grand for her to enjoy—she, who had begun life as a nursery governess, and 
 been wooed and won by the stout, jolly, purse-proud Jacob Desborough, 
 long before he made his tremendous speculations, passed for a madman, 
 lowered on the brink of ruin, and then set down his large feet firmly as a 
 millionaire. 
 
 Of course, Jacob Desborough loved his only child. He saw she was not 
 handsome nor stylish, but she was dutiful to him and proud to all the world. 
 He liked the way she carried herself to the “a-n’r-tocrats” as he called his 
 neighbors. He rubbed his huge, red hands, and chuckled when she looked 
 over the heads of the Misses Seymours, and Cecil, and Clare—her compan¬ 
 ions and friends, as such acquaintances are called—and when saucy, smiling, 
 sneering Mrs. Berners asked one day at dinner if the two pictures over the 
 plate-laden sideboard were “family portraits”—they were dame and cavalier 
 in silk and satin, rouge and powder—Ruth fixed her unquailing eyes on the 
 pretty questioner and said calmly: 
 
 “Scarcely. Papa is an orphan house boy, and my mother’s parents kept a 
 httle corner shop. Those portraits were bought for a song, at an auction 
 lately. Their owner was a gambler and a swindler, came to grief, and had to 
 sell his own father and mother. His name was Cressingham.” 
 
 Mrs. Berners dropped her eye glass, and colored scarlet. It was but three 
 years since she used to write herself “Rosaline Cressingham.” She had not 
 recognized her own grand parents, disposed of by her own uncle. 
 
 “Why, you are a Cressingham,” said another guest, as obtuse as some 
 people can be, while the rest of the party were aghast. 
 
 “I beg your pardon for my allusion,” said Ruth, with stately courtesy, and 
 changed the conversation. 
 
 Ruth was now twenty-six years of age. She had had many offers of 
 marriage—but, although more than one of her suitors would have readily 
 been accepted for her by her father, she had never wavered for one moment. 
 
 I often have thought the man bold who dared to address Ruth Desbor- 
 
 210 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
ough. I have often wondered how they went about it. I think all the 
 declarations must have been written ones. I cannot imagine a person of 
 ordinary courage and daring to sit or stand before that steel-faced woman 
 and make pretty speeches—speeches that, spoken, or on paper, always meant 
 to her mind—“you are very rich, and I want your money, so I’ll take you.” 
 
 That, of course, was the curse of her life; there was the secret source of 
 bitter waters that, from earliest childhood, had sprung up within her, and 
 forcing its way into every vein, had mingled each throb of her heart with its 
 acrid tide. From infancy her ears had been made familiar with the idea. Her 
 father, in the kindly coarseness of his nature, constantly said: 
 
 “You mayn’t be as pretty nor as smart as some girls, but I’ll be hanged if 
 you can’t buy as good a husband as the best of them.” 
 
 Her husband was to be bought! As a child the idea amused and pleased 
 her. Her dolls were bought for her. French doUs, with painted cheeks and 
 elaborately dressed hair, tiny corsets, and whole suits of clothes; English 
 dolls, just like real babies, with their fat dimpled necks and infant heads 
 turned on one side, their soft rings of flaxen hair, (not wigs,) and their long 
 robes and caps; then when she grew up, instead of doUs, her papa would buy 
 her a husband—a “true-for-true” husband—yes he would. So she con¬ 
 fidentially said one day to one of her playmates, and this girl, barely ten years 
 of age, answered scornfully: 
 
 “Buy a husband, indeed! I would not have a bought husband.” 
 
 “Why?” 
 
 “Because I heard my mamma say that love can’t be bought; and when I 
 grow up and get married I want to be loved,” and the little precocious wife 
 tossed her little nose in the air. 
 
 Ruth thought over this remark, and soon she went gravely to her father 
 and repeated it. 
 
 Mr. Desborough laughed heartUy, and patted her head, and told the story 
 after dinner to his two guests, and they laughed, and Ruth, who was eating 
 grapes at her papa’s side, grew angry and sullen, and lifted her large dark eyes 
 from her plate, and looked seriously at both of her father’s old comrades, and 
 walked out of the room. 
 
 From that day the word “husband” never escaped the child’s lips. When 
 Mr. Desborough jested, as he had always done on the subject, she kept a sort 
 of wounded silence; and when she was eighteen, and a ball of great magnifi¬ 
 cence proclaimed the fact that she was now about to enter the market to buy, 
 and not to be bought, her resolution was taken. 
 
 She would live and die Ruth Desborough. No purchased love for her. 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 2II 
 
Since even her own father deemed her unworthy to inspire a passion, she 
 would endure no sweet words, to be paid for in dollars and cents; no lover’s 
 vows looking for return in bank stock; no soft glances to match her dia¬ 
 monds. 
 
 And the canker of this thought did not extend alone to her views of a 
 wooer’s motives. All mankind gradually came under the same leprosy. 
 
 She did not reject attentions from men or women, but she decided, with 
 unflinching severity, that every word or action was given to the heiress, not 
 the woman. And what she took she paid back scrupulously. To society she 
 extended an unbounded hospitality. She spared no pains that money could 
 bring about to entertain those who entertained her. 
 
 On her more familiar acquaintances—friends, she had none—she lavished 
 gifts, seeking carefully to choose what was pleasantest to receive; not as her 
 father would have done, with loud voiced disclosure of his reasons for 
 offering, letting himself be guided by the cost in proportion to the intention. 
 No; but with an inborn delicacy of thought and manner, which often won for 
 her affection and respect—unuttered half the time—for few cared to speak 
 of affection, or respect, or interest, to the cold, reserved, repellent Miss 
 Desborough. 
 
 Such were her antecedents. Such was the morbid, unhealthy condition of 
 her mind. No wonder she daily grew less and less sociable to herself and to 
 the world. No wonder that on this evening, when she was restlessly yet 
 earnestly watching the sea and sky, she felt that a dreary scene like this better 
 suited her than the gay party she had left. 
 
 Ruth walked on and on. Fate seemed to lead her, and she was following it 
 blindly. The few houses, scattered at unequal distances along the beach, were 
 aU far behind her. The low sand hills were getting higher and higher, and 
 although she did not heed it, the tide was rising rapidly. 
 
 Suddenly she paused; a boat was making its way through the breakers, 
 crossing from an opposite island. The occupants were evidently trying to 
 land just in front of her. Curiosity caused her to stay and watch it, it looked to 
 be in such danger. Two negroes were laboring at the oars; at the stern a young 
 man held the rudder. The spray dashed over them again and again; now they 
 were on the top of the highest wave—it would surely beach them; but as it 
 receded it carried back the boat, to be tossed to and fro, and to rise again as 
 before. 
 
 At length the work was accomplished, and the little bark lay almost “high 
 and dry.” The helmsman leaped on shore, gun in hand, and gave his 
 directions in a low, clear, rapid voice to his servants. They were short. 
 
 212 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Drag up the boat beyond high water mark, and get home before the 
 storm if you can. Take my gun, one of you.” 
 
 Then he turned and lifted his hat to Ruth. 
 
 “Excuse the hberty I take, madam, but it is a wild night for a lady to be 
 abroad; can I offer my escort to your house? My name is Gerald Gray.” 
 
 “Thank you,” Ruth said, drawing back with surprise, and in her measured, 
 haughty, unmoved tone, “I am not far from my home, and it is not yet night.” 
 
 “Then,” said the stranger, smiling, “you must live with the surf-skimmers 
 in the sand, because there is no habitable roof nearer than a mUe and a half, 
 to my certain knowledge. There is a regular equinoctial gale coming on, with 
 every dangerous accessory, the moon rises in an hour, but two days past its 
 fuU, and this is a springtide. Jack! Jim!” he continued, calling to his boatmen, 
 “come on and keep near us. This lady may need your care as well as mine 
 presently.” 
 
 “You wish to frighten me,” said Ruth, “but now I see that I am further 
 from home than I thought. I do not know how I have managed to wander so 
 far without knowing it.” 
 
 “Nothing easier when there are no especial landmarks to strike your atten¬ 
 tion. I have been after birds on Crane Island, intending to return through the 
 back creek to take the last boat to the city, but I wounded a magnificent white 
 crane, it got off, we followed, lost it after all, and a great deal of time with it, 
 so I thought it best to cross over here and trust to my legs. I don’t hke water in 
 a storm. Any strip of land is better, and a man who has just traversed half 
 Europe on foot must not be daunted by a mile or two of sea beach.” 
 
 Miss Desborough made no answer. She thought her self-imposed com¬ 
 panion was too free and easy. Who was he? She had never heard of Gerald 
 Gray. In this dim light his outline of feature was graceful and gentlemanly, 
 but might not his offers of service, and his persistence in keeping by her side, 
 be more the pushing forwardness of some low bred adventurer, than the 
 genuine politeness and kindness of some well born stranger, who would 
 protect her in spite of herself? 
 
 She had no fear. In the region where she lived such a crime as robbing her 
 or insulting her would have been, is almost unheard of. But she was not 
 disposed to encourage these attentions, and she bit her lips with worried 
 indignation at her own folly in walking so far and in stopping to watch the 
 boat, which had brought on her this acquaintance. 
 
 “Do you see that cloud?” Mr. Gray said, abruptly. “It travels faster than we 
 can. When it bursts— gare! The wind is rising every moment. If you were 
 under shelter I should enjoy this. By Jove! see that wave.” 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 213 
 
He caught her in his arms just in time. The huge billow broke a second 
 later over the point of her last footsteps. The wind was wildly tossing about 
 her shawl, and as he set her down again he drew the cords of the plaid 
 together. 
 
 “Have you a pin?” he enquired, as naturally and famiharly as if they were 
 on the best terms. 
 
 Ruth shook her head; she was getting frightened; she tried to help herself, 
 and dragged the shawl hastily from him. The strong Northeast wind seized 
 it as if it had been a feather, whirled it from her hands, and, a moment more, 
 the old tarltan would have been careering over the sea. Gerald caught it. 
 
 “Look at that; let me arrange it. It will be a shark’s blanket before long if 
 you don’t take care.” 
 
 Tenderly and gently he folded the shawl about her head and shoulders. 
 “Give me your brooch; that wUl do to fasten it.” 
 
 Ruth sUently gave him her brooch; he glanced at the pin to see if it was 
 firm, stuck it in, and then resolutely drew her arm through his. 
 
 “We are losing time, and time is precious. I am sorry to hurry you so, but 
 indeed we must make haste. This breeze wUl take you off your feet if it keeps 
 on at this rate. Don’t hesitate to lean on me; and if you get very tired I will try 
 another plan.” 
 
 He was sUent for a while after this, but, as the storm rapidly increased in 
 its might, he glanced uneasily once or twice around him, and called to his 
 servants to keep close. The sand was scudding before the breath of the blast 
 stinging their feet and faces; the angry clouds almost seemed to touch their 
 heads—so low, and dark, and thick, and close they gathered; the black waves 
 lashed themselves furiously into whitest foam, and a deep, distant, sullen 
 roar sounded fike underground thunder. 
 
 “What is that noise?” asked Ruth; “it frightens me more than anything 
 else.” 
 
 “It is the water coming over the bar—the ground-swell. It has a mysterious 
 sound, and it means mischief But we are nearing the settlement now. I have 
 not the honor of knowing you—where shall I take you?” 
 
 What made Ruth unwilling to tell her name?—anxious to remain un¬ 
 known as the heiress of the great Desborough fortune? and what made her 
 pleased to be able to answer in such a way that she retained her incognita? 
 
 “We shall pass the house presently.” 
 
 She was very, very weary. Had it not been for his support, she would have 
 fallen to the ground long before. 
 
 Mr. Gray felt the arm which had at first reluctantly and lightly rested on 
 
 214 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
his, gradually leaning heavily; then, in spite of herself, her whole figure 
 drooped upon his shoulders—she tried to keep up, tried to walk firmly, her 
 skirts incommoded her; each flounce seemed weighted with lead, not lace; 
 the wind fought her like a strong enemy—she sighed and almost gave up. 
 “I—1—can’t,” she panted. 
 
 “Here it comes!” cried her companion. 
 
 Down poured the rain in sheets—in floods, and yet unconquered, the 
 fierce wind drove it ahead, refusing to be stilled by even a deluge. 
 
 Mr. Gray passed his arm around Ruth’s waist as he spoke, and carrying 
 rather than supporting her, he encouraged her and soothed her terrors, as if 
 she had been a frightened child. 
 
 “This is the house. We stop here.” 
 
 It was a small unpromising mansion. Mr. Gray dashed up the steps into 
 the piazza. 
 
 “Knock, Jim, knock like the Devil. The lady is fainting.” 
 
 “No I am not,” said Ruth. “I feel so glad to get here.” 
 
 The door opened, and a grave old woman’s face peeped over the head of 
 the servant, who tried to close it again, when he found that the wind was 
 affecting an entrance. 
 
 “Oh Ruth, Ruth,” cried the old woman, “what is this? Aint you with—?” 
 
 “Hush,” interrupted Ruth, “I left them and went to walk—very foolishly. 
 Mr. Gray, wont you—?” 
 
 He was gone. She ran down the steps after him—caught him. 
 
 “Surely,” she said, “you will go no farther in this storm. I believe I owe my 
 fife to you. Come in. I can scarsely speak.” 
 
 She was gasping in the rain-tempest. Her voice could hardly be heard in 
 the crash, and roar, and rush. 
 
 “Your servants too. Come in for Heaven’s sake.” 
 
 At last they were housed, at least for the time, but every gust seemed to 
 threaten the wooden roof and walls with instant destruction. 
 
 “My cousin, Mrs. Price, Mr. Gray,” said Ruth, introducing him. 
 
 The old lady courtesied. She was evidently no “high born hostess.” She 
 bustled about noisily. 
 
 “Did you get wet, Ruth? Do be careful. What will your pa say? Where did 
 the gentleman meet you?” 
 
 “Pray be quiet, cousin Frances; you are louder than the storm. What a 
 fusser you are.” Ruth’s voice was kinder than her words. “Make Thomas 
 show Mr. Gray to a room—come with me first. Don’t mention my name or 
 papa’s,” she whispered as they got into the entry. “See that Mr. Gray has the 
 
 GERALD GRAYS WIFE 215 
 
use of all those antique suits of your absent boys, that you keep so thoroughly 
 brushed and aired. Look after his servant; get some brandy—papa’s best— 
 and don’t fidget me to death. Supper as soon as possible.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, dear Ruth—but such a storm—and you are dripping wet, and I 
 can’t find my keys—. Oh, here they are. And why didn’t you stay at Mrs. 
 Clares’? And I believe the kitchen is under water.” 
 
 Ruth was gone. She evidently had the habit of never listening to good 
 Mrs. Price, who pattered away now on her different errands, talking inces¬ 
 santly. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 In a half hour more, Ruth re-entered the parlor to which her new 
 acquaintance had likewise just returned. She had taken off her jewels and 
 wore a plain, darkish dress. Her abundant hair was put back carelessly as 
 usual from her broad, full forehead. 
 
 A lamp was lighted, and stood upon a small table in the corner. Mr. Gray 
 was advancing towards it, evidently in search of one of the numerous 
 volumes which lay scattered beneath the light. Ruth spoke and he bowed. 
 For the first time she saw him distinctly. Singularly handsome was the face 
 that met hers—a straight Greek profile; clustering dark auburn hair; eyes so 
 intensely blue that they seemed almost black; a proud, sweet mouth— 
 feminine in its curves, color, and ripeness, but with a rare strength shown 
 when it ceased to smile, and which disclosed, when the full lips parted, teeth, 
 white, small, and even. The figure was slight, well made, nervous—the 
 attitudes, graceful and unstudied. He had changed his clothes, and said, 
 laughingly, to Ruth, as she greeted him: 
 
 “You see I have obeyed your orders as conveyed through your servant. I 
 did not hesitate to don these respectable habiliments, when he said, ‘Miss 
 Ruth say you must! ” 
 
 “They are old-fashioned, but better than the newer ones which have 
 passed through what we did. What do you think of the night?” 
 
 “It and the storm are just begun. Are you frightened yet? Pray don’t 
 attempt to open that window.” 
 
 “Are we in danger here?” she asked. 
 
 “Shall I answer candidly?” 
 
 “Always, if one answers at all, it should be candidly.” 
 
 “Then, I think we may be after a while, if the wind continues to rise with 
 the tide.” 
 
 216 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
At this moment the parlor door burst open, and a blast shook the house 
 from rafters to foundation. In rushed Mrs. Price, followed by some terrified 
 domestics. 
 
 “Oh, Ruth, the kitchen is gone. I just got out in time. The sea is upon us. 
 Let us go.” 
 
 “Where?” 
 
 “To the Fort.” 
 
 Ruth looked at Mr. Gray. He answered her glance. 
 
 “If you wish to go, certainly. So far, I see no reason for removing. No doubt 
 the Fort is already filled with people; if we can stand it here, you will be more 
 comfortable.” 
 
 “We wont go, cousin Frances, just yet.” 
 
 “You can look out from that Southwest window—it is comparatively calm 
 from that quarter. Would you like to do so?” 
 
 Ruth followed him. What a sight met her view! She had been conscious 
 all this time that the house was rocking, the wind whistling through the 
 Venetian blinds of the piazza, and that a deafening, dull, continuous roar of 
 mingled wave and wind never ceased; but she was quite unprepared for the 
 grand and fearful spectacle before her. 
 
 The Island was at its narrowest width just beyond their house in the 
 direction from which she looked. Billows, higher than she had ever dreamed 
 the storm-god could heave them, now met from North and South across this 
 space. Great logs of timber were whirled like straws in the incessant dash. 
 The wind howled like a living thing, maddened with rage and pain; the rain 
 had ceased; the sky was one unbroken plain of sullen, grey hue—such a color 
 as a light would give if veiled by a thick cloth, which subdued, but did not 
 extinguish. The full moon was behind that dark canopy, helpless to disen¬ 
 gage herself 
 
 A heavy “wind” every now and then told when the mighty force of the 
 waters drove a piece of timber, like a battering ram, against the foundations 
 of the house. 
 
 Ruth shuddered, and yet was fascinated by the angry majesty of the 
 tempest. 
 
 Here and there a straggling group was seen in the space above, where the 
 waters met, huddled together for safety, striving to breast the wind. 
 
 “Are they trying to cross to the Fort? Will they be able? Good God! what 
 madness!” 
 
 “Not so much as you think. It is not deep there; the power of the waves is 
 almost spent before they reach that point. To us it looks worse than it really 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIFE IVJ 
 
is. If our piazza goes, and if these logs keep on pounding away at us as if they 
 owed us some personal grudge, we must take up our line of march to that 
 very spot. This is getting too sublime.” 
 
 “Don’t jest,” said Ruth, gravely. 
 
 “Are you alarmed?” 
 
 “Yes, for the first time in my life. I have never felt powerless and depen¬ 
 dent tin this night. But for you—” 
 
 She paused, and caught his arm. The house fairly reeled, so tremendous 
 was the blow dealt by one of those drifting, mercUess timbers. 
 
 “We had better go,” said Mr. Gray, emphaticaUy and calmly. “If you have 
 any valuables here, put them up in as smaU a bulk as possible. Don’t be more 
 frightened than you can help. Believe me, we wUl not be in absolute danger. 
 Keep your courage—” 
 
 A wading cry interrupted him. Mrs. Price came, weeping, in. “Oh, let’s 
 go; I can’t stay here. Ruth, do you want to murder me?” 
 
 “We are going. Summon the servants. How many have you? Are these 
 aU?” A huddled group of terrified negroes were clustered in the entry. “Jack, 
 Jim, no nonsense now. Jack, hold this lady’s arm firmly when we start,” he 
 pointed to Mrs. Price; “and if you let her go, you may as weU foUow her. If 
 there are any trifles here that you prize, secure them at once.” He spoke to 
 Ruth. “Get your thickest and least cumbrous wraps, and be quick, please.” 
 
 In ten minutes they were ready. A package of sdver-ware was tied up by 
 Mrs. Price, with trembling hands, and she was preparing to move off, 
 dropping spoons and forks at every step, as if she were planting them in view 
 of a future crop. 
 
 Gerald Gray directed a halt; had them picked up, tightly secured, and put 
 them in Jim’s keeping. 
 
 “Oh, Ruth,” whispered Mrs. Price, in the midst of her terror, “your pa’s 
 heaviest Engfish silver—and who’s this gentleman? and mayn’t the boy run 
 off with them?” 
 
 “Cousin Frances, you are too absurd,” said Ruth, sharply. “Stay behind, 
 and take care of the spoons if you wish. We are ready,” she added, turning to 
 Mr. Gray, and giving him a smaU square box; he slipped it in the pocket of 
 Tom Price’s overcoat, which he had likewise been obliged to appropriate to 
 his own use. 
 
 “Now, we must keep together as closely as possible—walking in a body so 
 as to present as large and solid a surface to the wind as we can manage. I wiU 
 lead the way with you,” to Ruth. “You are my charge. Mrs. Price, don’t be 
 frightened. Jack is strong and courageous. You, my man,” addressing one of 
 
 218 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Ruth’s servants, “pick up that child; is it yours? wrap that blanket over head 
 and all. Now forward, and wait tiU I put out the light in the parlor, and we 
 will close the back door as firmly as we can.” 
 
 Perfectly cool and deliberate, Mr. Gray inspired his little party with some 
 courage and energy. 
 
 Carrying a lantern—which the wind immediately put out, and he then 
 abandoned—his right arm firmly wrapped around Ruth’s waist, they left the 
 house. 
 
 “Keep close—no straggling. This way.” His voice sounded clear and 
 strong, and cheering in the wild whirl of desolation and comparative danger. 
 The water was more than ankle-deep where they started, for the huge waves 
 were breaking, as had been shown, upon the very steps of the house in front. 
 It was very hard to keep one’s feet; twice they had to stop to pick up Ruth’s 
 maid, who keeled over from sheer fright; “the wind talked too strong to her,” 
 she said. 
 
 As they neared the most dangerous portion of their journey, the water 
 widening up to them to close with its new ally from the back creek, Gerald 
 spoke almost tenderly to his drooping companion. She clung to him with 
 ever growing confidence. 
 
 Fate favored them—or a kind Providence rather—by causing a lull just 
 then, in the sweep of the blast. And yet, perhaps, the day was coming when 
 Ruth would rather that every element had conspired at that moment to drag 
 her into the mighty flood, and carry her a dead and drifting corpse far away 
 to the great ocean, whose white waves lashed the shore! 
 
 But this was not to be. Safely they forded the perilous path, and safely they 
 passed under the archway of the Fort, to be welcomed by crowds of acquain¬ 
 tances, who were ahead of them in seeking shelter. Everybody was so anxious 
 about Miss Desborough; everybody was so glad to see her; everybody had 
 thought of going in search of her. Ruth stood pale, and cold and silent, as 
 usual, in the midst of this storm of words which she thought more unbear¬ 
 able than the one without. Mr. Gray had left her to see after some possible 
 accommodations. 
 
 The barracks were filled almost to suffocation. The officers and their 
 wives courteously tendered their hospitality, which was necessarily limited. 
 The beds were given up to as many invalids and children as could be 
 accommodated. People wandered about laughing and chatting. There was, 
 as yet, no accident to cause gloom. Within the low, thick walls of the Fort, 
 they defied the tempests, and it was more like an informal, impromptu pic¬ 
 nic, or maroon, than a storm-wrecked party. 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 219 
 
Phyllis Clare, a young lady of the highest fashion and spirits, soon dashed 
 up to Ruth, with her petticoats pinned above her trim ankles, and her hrown 
 curls dishevelled most becomingly. 
 
 “Dear, dear Miss Desborough!” she exclaimed, seizing both of Ruth’s 
 hands, how alarmed we have been for you! Cissy and I nearly cried because 
 papa would not let us go round by your house. He said that he was sure you 
 were here already.” 
 
 “Oh, yes,” put in Cissy, “such a time we had; Phyl and I wanted to bring all 
 our things. I have had just had such a love of a dress made, with a baby-waist, 
 so becoming; not like most baby-waists, but a pointed band coming up hke a 
 stomacher; it just suits my figure—you know I am so full, ordinary baby- 
 waists don’t become me—and this is a choice silk of that delicate peach color; 
 but papa wouldn’t hear of it, and, now, robbers may get into the house and 
 carry off every atom of our clothes. That peach color doesn’t do for every¬ 
 body, for, although I am brown, my skin is so clear,”—and Cissy passed her 
 plump white hand over her lovely face, where if ever “milk and roses,” 
 “strawberries and cream,” found their proper simile, it was there. She was 
 beautiful with that beauty of flesh, and blood, and silkness, which men find 
 so attractive; there were soft dark eyes, and red lips, and soft brown hair, and 
 soft white shoulders, and soft round arms; indeed she was very soft within 
 and without! 
 
 She looked so femininely gentle, too, beside Ruth’s tall, angular figure, 
 and stern, cold, pale face. Phyllis had more sense and less beauty; she went 
 for style, grace and dash. Interrupting, now, Cecilia’s flow of half-lisped 
 words, she offered that Ruth should come and join their party; “all of us are 
 at the other end of the piazza. There are some queer customers here.” “I’m 
 sure,” in a loud whisper, “that’s our butcher, who eats the largest half of his 
 own beef And that’s Madame Butcheress, I suppose, talking to him.” 
 
 “That’s my cousin, Mrs. Price,” said Ruth, with a grim smile. 
 
 “Dear! dear! so it is. But she is very eccentric, I suppose, and likes to—.” 
 
 “She is a very humble person, as are all my family,” said Ruth. “I come and 
 board with her so as to help her live. Perhaps the butcher is my relation, too. 
 I have a great many poor relations, who, strange to say, never thrust their 
 attentions nor their society upon me, although they would have a right to do 
 
 SO. 
 
 Phyllis Clare colored; the stroke was too palpable, and even Ruth seemed 
 to regret her unnecessary harshness. 
 
 “But, as cousin Frances is so taken up with the butcher’s bovine confi¬ 
 dences, I am more at leisure to go with you, only—,” here she paused 
 
 220 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
hesitating, “only—there is a gentleman—She turned to look for Mr. Gray. 
 He was unpacking a basket just behind him. 
 
 “Looking for me?” he asked. “Here am I, getting out some biscuits for a 
 little shaver who is crying from hunger, not having, I presume, tasted one 
 mouthful since his supper, two hours ago—poor, starved thing! Capital old 
 lady, Mrs. Price! In spite of her terror she has put up provender enough in 
 this champagne hamper to last us a week. How I do like a thoughtful woman 
 of the Mrs. John Gilpin stamp! Here, young man, stifle your cries with that,” 
 and tossing a handful of wine-crackers to the child, and receiving a smile and 
 word of thanks from its gratified mother. Mr. Gray rapidly uttered all this, 
 rose from his seat, and presented his handsome face to the astonished gaze of 
 the Misses Clare. 
 
 “Gerald!” 
 
 “Phyllis!” 
 
 “Gerald!” 
 
 “Cissy!” 
 
 “Where on earth do you come from?” asked both ladies. 
 
 “Recently from the hospitable, but at present dangerous, mansion of Mr. 
 Price—just before that from Crane Island, where I went to shoot a white 
 crane to make a fan for Cissy.” 
 
 “Nonsense,” pouted Cissy. 
 
 “TeU us the truth,” said Phyllis. 
 
 “Truth to a woman, dear Phyl! Little ladies like you don’t wish men to teU 
 the truth to them; and even if they do hear it, they don’t believe it, as, for 
 example, now.” 
 
 “And why did you not come to dinner today? Miss Desborough dined 
 with us; but I suppose you desired to make her acquaintance without our 
 help.” 
 
 “Miss Desborough can dine where she pleases, and, as for making her 
 acquaintance, that’s partly as I please, and I have not made up my mind 
 about it; heiresses are not to my taste.” 
 
 “What?” questioned Phyllis, with her eyes and her mouth rounded into 
 surprise, while Cecilia exclaimed, “mercy, me!” 
 
 Ruth had very soon recovered from her surprise. So Gerald Gray was some 
 connection or intimate of the Clares. This was the nephew probably, whose 
 absence at dinner pompous Mr. Clare regretted. If his name was mentioned, 
 it had escaped her memory or only grazed her hearing. She stood quietly by, 
 during the first exchanged sentences, then, when Gerald uttered his doubtful 
 remarks about her, she smiled faintly, and immediately said: 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 221 
 
“7 am Miss Desborough.” She had no idea of making a mystery of her 
 identity, or rather of letting the Clares suppose she had done so. 
 
 Mr. Gray started, laughed merrily, and took ofFTom Price’s hat with a low 
 bow. 
 
 “A thousand thanks for the introduction, and a thousand pardons for the 
 apparently saucy speech just now.” 
 
 Ruth briefly told her story. “After I left your house. Miss Clare, instead of 
 going home, I fancied a solitary walk would do my head more good than any 
 other repose. I never saw the storm coming—walked nearly to the end of the 
 Island, and, fortunately met this gentleman, who, without knowing me, 
 m.ost kindly brought me back. To him I owe, most probably,—,” detesting all 
 expressions of sentiment, Ruth stopped, and “locked his lips.” Phyllis was 
 warmly dehghted, and Cissy said, with just a shade of pettishness, “Very 
 romantic indeed.” 
 
 Then the conversation turned into other channels, and they discussed the 
 storm, which was still, of course, a first object of interest. Ruth was not more 
 communicative nor demonstrative than usual. The high wind could not 
 blow away her reserve, nor the high tide wash a more genial spirit into her 
 manner. It must take more than an outward tempest to shake her serenity. 
 Nevertheless, she joined the aristocratic group of the Southwest corner of 
 the staunch old Fort, where some played cards, some talked of reading 
 prayers, and a few desperately tried to go to sleep, sitting bold-upright while 
 the lamps swung overhead from their iron chains. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER III 
 
 There was a good deal to see, a good deal to amuse. A pretty widow, lively 
 and full of spirits, put her two little boys on a mattress with seven others; 
 charged them to be quiet, and then establishing herself in the piazza, never 
 ceased talking from that time till she went home the next day. She flirted, she 
 jested, she ate sandwiches, she prescribed for one woman’s sick child, and put 
 another mother’s restless infant to sleep. She sang a gay song in an undertone 
 to her group of admirers, and left them to tie up somebody’s head with 
 vinegar; nothing came amiss to her, and her consoling words and light step 
 were encouraging to the most despondent. 
 
 Then there were anxious wives sending after careless husbands, who 
 would come, hsten to all the “I wish you would see about so and so’s;” reply 
 
 222 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
readily, “yes, my dear—certainly,” and walk off to resume the hand at whist, 
 from which they had been torn. 
 
 Gerald Gray had a quick eye for the ludicrous and pleasant way of telling 
 what he saw. He pointed out many things, and told many things to Ruth 
 which made the long night pass more quickly than she could have supposed 
 possible. Then, so singular had been their meeting, so curious its results, that 
 an intimacy sprang up which was stronger than any Ruth had ever owned for 
 mortal being. There was no time to pause, to consider. Gerald’s manners 
 were so high-bred, and yet so easy, he had overleaped all the barriers erected 
 between herself and the world at large. Before her watch told her it was 
 twelve o’clock on that memorable night, her acquaintance of six hours’ date 
 knew her better than those who had visited her for twenty-six years. And 
 then he possessed one attraction, one attribute; he held one trump that must 
 command the game. He had rendered her a service, a service of vital 
 importance, without knowing her. 
 
 Dispossessed of all the prestige of that wealth she held so cheap, and 
 which all others deemed her sole possession, he had come to her relief; she 
 had seen in his eyes, his bold, beautiful eyes, that he did not think her 
 displeasing or repulsive. He had met a plain, quiet woman, unconscious of 
 danger and unprotected; he had come to her assistance; resisted her attempt 
 to get out of his way, and had rescued her from her perilous position. True, 
 any gentleman might and would have done that, but he had done more. 
 However slight the indications, they were clear to her—his manner almost 
 immediately had shown a nearer interest than that produced by the circum¬ 
 stances of the case. Ruth would have scorned the idea that she fancied “love 
 at first sight” had taken possession of this handsome Gerald Gray for her, 
 and, yet, there had been something in his manner; something vague, but 
 meaning in his tone. In a word, he had understood her, he had established 
 between themselves a kind of free-masonry, an electric chain of unspoken 
 thoughts, strange, new, and not yet analyzed by the stern novice. Its charm 
 was great and subtle; its influence she never resisted. 
 
 Phyllis Clare gradually withdrew from Ruth’s side; she likewise carried 
 away Cecilia, not so far as to isolate her cousin and the heiress, but far enough 
 to give Gerald a chance for a tete-a-tete. Once or twice Phyl came back and 
 joined in the conversation; once Cissy came with her and fixed her large soft 
 eyes steadily on Gerald’s face. He smiled affectionately and saucily at her. 
 
 “What makes you so silent, little Cis?” he asked, familiarly taking her 
 white hand. 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 223 
 
She snatched it away and said, “I am listening to you.” 
 
 The tone struck Ruth; it was pettish and reproachful. Phyllis glanced at 
 her sister, and then wound her arm around Cissy’s waist. 
 
 “Cis is cross, Gerald,” she said, laughing, “because I have been scolding 
 her. She flirted outrageously all through dinner with Mr. Taylor.” 
 
 “I did not,” said Cissy, shaking back her curls; “you would seat him beside 
 me. He is a tiresome goose. There! that’s what I think of him.” 
 
 “Oh, Cis,” said Gerald, teasing her, “poor Taylor is dying for you. I am 
 sure, by this time he is roaming the city. I presume he went back at 7 , since I 
 don’t see him here—he is roaming the city, smiting his large forehead with 
 his larger fist and offering incalculable sums to any boatman who will row 
 him across the stormy water. ‘A silver pound’ feebly conveys his bribe, and, 
 yet, cruel ‘Lord Clare WLUin’s daughter’ doesn’t even wring ‘her lily hands’ in 
 sympathy for her absent sufferer! Ah, women! women! our tormentors! our 
 heartless executioners! why have we not the courage to cut our silken chains 
 and be free!” 
 
 “I think you very rude and foolish,” said Cecilia, walking away. 
 
 Ruth looked grave; Phyllis smiled uneasily, and Gerald put his head back 
 and laughed heartily. 
 
 “What little simpletons girls are, to be sure!” he said; “now, there is Cissy, 
 who is as proud of her conquest of Taylor as if she had, single-handed, 
 stormed a fort, or, like Florence Nightingale, founded a hospital; and yet, 
 because I her cousin, to whose attentions she was accustomed, before I went 
 abroad, because I am not sighing at her feet like a good many others, she is 
 peevish at my remarks about this conquest, and put out that I am not one 
 also. These recognized beauties are perfect marauders. Nobody is safe.” He 
 paused. 
 
 “You are silent, too. Miss Desborough, and don’t look satisfied? Did you 
 also think me rude? Shall I go and make peace with my little cousin?” 
 
 “Surely, Mr. Gray, it is not for me to decide that question. I have never 
 seen you with your cousins before. I do not know the intimacy which 
 warrants—; it is no concern of mine.” Ruth spoke as indifferently as if he had 
 asked her opinion about the color of some woman’s gown—dress being her 
 detestation. 
 
 “Oh, pray, try and take an interest in this, for I fancy your judgment is 
 good under all circumstances. What would you have felt if a cousin had so 
 spoken—no, that’s not it, for you and Cissy are not at all alike, nor are at all 
 likely to feel alike—. What do you think about it?” 
 
 “I think that you are making a great deal out of a trifle. I should say—since 
 
 224 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
you will keep on asking me—you had better tell Cecilia that you did not 
 intend to wound her.” 
 
 “And you will not let anybody take this delightful chair, which is ‘as tall 
 and straight as a pop-i-lar tree,’ during my absence? Promise.” 
 
 “I promise,” said Ruth, half smiling. 
 
 Mr. Gray dashed off to his cousin, and, with his back turned to Ruth, 
 spoke a few words. Cecilia listened at first with a pout, then she showed her 
 dimples, and raised her eyes to the speaker’s face—he moved directly in front 
 of her, concealing her expression from the steady gaze of Miss Desborough. 
 Then, with slow-turning head, laughing glance, and graceful motion, he 
 nodded good-bye, and returned to his chair. 
 
 “It is all right,” he said: “Cissy is amiable, with all her pretty weaknesses. 
 The temptation to tease her is very strong, for I confess. Miss Desborough, 
 that I am a tease—an inveterate one.” 
 
 Ruth thought enough had been said on the subject; she did not like, 
 somehow, the manner on either side. Was Mr. Gray frank about his cousin? 
 Was Cissy’s jealousy attributed by him to the true and only cause? Anyway, 
 “it was no concern of her.” 
 
 Wrapped in her plaid, she leaned out and tried to gain some fresh news 
 from the sky about the progress of the storm. Mr. Gray began to tell her of a 
 midnight tempest in Switzerland, during which he had been sorely buffeted. 
 Then he talked of Rome, Florence, Naples, Paris, London—not the hack¬ 
 neyed, every day phrases, but his own fresh, clearly defined views, senti¬ 
 ments, thoughts. A few piquant personal adventures; a few “telling” mots; an 
 anecdote here and there of people high in renown, either from beauty, birth, 
 or position. He prefaced his talk about society, by saying, “I had some very 
 kind letters of introduction to some very great people, and then I had, and 
 always have, that fairy gift—luck. Things generally turn out well for me, 
 which is but right, because no one has a keener appreciation. I do enjoy 
 thoroughly. Now, those who are comparatively indifferent to everything, 
 ought to have snubs and disappointments; the wrong woman always turning 
 up at the right moment, for that walk, or that drive, or that waltz; and the 
 wrong man boring you; and the book you want invariably lent out; and the 
 souffle over baked; and your rival successful in love, war, or politics. They 
 don’t mind it, and you would fearfully; and as suffering is of course properly 
 apportioned, like happiness, also, of course, you should have what you 
 desire—I mean the fanciful—you representing, in this instance, myself—I 
 ought to tread a path of roses.” 
 
 “And do you?” 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 225 
 
“Well—yes—and—no. You see my whole position is so peculiar—I may be 
 a rich man, and may never have a shilling. My uncle, not my uncle Clare, but 
 my father’s brother, hves in New Haven, and has a good fortune—, but I am 
 boring you with all this?” 
 
 “Indeed no, pray go on.” 
 
 “Do you really know nothing about my belongings? for I don’t choose to 
 tell you some rather uninteresting facts, which most people have heard.” 
 
 “I assure you, except having heard your name casually mentioned, and so 
 seldom that, when you introduced yourself it was quite unfamiliar, I knew 
 nothing of you. And don’t be shocked at my confession of such unflattering 
 ignorance. I so rarely take an interest even in the people that I meet 
 habitually! I promise to treat what you say quite differently.” This was an 
 unusual warmth of speech for Miss Desborough. Had one of her “friends” 
 heard it, it would have been considered more encouragement than any man 
 had ever yet heard from those rigid lips. 
 
 Mr. Gray bowed with only a matter of course air, and could not have done 
 a wiser thing. 
 
 “Thank you. My uncle, Mr. Norman Gray’s wife, is a Boston heiress; her 
 very large income is, by her father’s wiU, divided between them equally, but 
 the fortune goes to the long heir; if she survives him, back to her family; if he 
 outhves her, it is all to be mine. They have no children. Her health is, and has 
 long been, deplorable. No change can be effected in this state of things. My 
 uncle is very kind to me, and, hke Edmond About’s twins, of the Hotel 
 Corneille, I have thirty thousand dollars a year, because he has. Strange to 
 say, my dearest college friend and chum is my aunt’s nephew, holding the 
 same place in her affections and intentions as I do in my uncle’s. It is a queer, 
 romantic enough sort of business.” 
 
 “And is your chum likewise your aunt’s sole heir?” 
 
 “Oh, no! he has a brother and a sister to share with him. I have a mother, 
 but neither brother nor sister.” 
 
 “That is so nearly my own case,” sighed Ruth. “It is so very sad to feel so 
 alone in the world. If I had a lovely younger sister to care for, or a brother to 
 care for me, life would have seemed so much fuller and brighter. Papa does 
 not heed me.” 
 
 (Ruth Desborough, confidential!) 
 
 “Yes,” said Gerald, softening his soft voice, “without my mother’s love, 
 and my consciousness of how necessary I am to her happiness, I would be 
 sauntering about Europe now, objectless and dissatisfied. I ought to have a 
 profession, to be earning my own bread; I feel it deeply, but my uncle will not 
 
 226 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
hear of it. My aunt and himself tried to make some sort of compromise with 
 her people, so that, in case of the fortune going legally to them, I might 
 not be entirely penniless; but William Jesselyns (that’s my friend Francis’ 
 brother), by no means adores me, and refuses to sanction any such arrange¬ 
 ment. He prefers to run the risk. So be it. At any rate, I have still youth and 
 health. I can drive, too, and groom a horse. Would you take me as a 
 coachman. Miss Desborough? or even ‘flunkey?’ With a little training, I am 
 sure I should form an impressive innovation upon the usual race of dark 
 footmen who fill our Southern halls. Or, if I come to grief, I may give 
 dancing lessons. You don’t know how well I dance. If there were not so many 
 people about, I would certainly favor you with an echantillon of my prowess 
 in that line. Do you dance?” 
 
 “Dance! no,” said Ruth, grimly; “I used to drag through quadrilles when I 
 first ‘came out,’ because my father wished it, but ‘graceful measures are not 
 mine.’ When did you get back from Europe?” she continued, abruptly. 
 
 “Three weeks ago I landed at Boston, embraced my New Haven relatives, 
 and then rushed down here. I suppose it is about ten days since my return. By 
 the way, how odd our meeting was! It was the merest accident that brought 
 me just—to your feet. And to think that I had been carefully avoiding you all 
 day!” He laughed mischievously. “You are sure you forgive me for my 
 impertinence?” 
 
 “Quite sure. Do you know that to find a person who avoids me is a luxury I 
 have never before wittingly enjoyed?” 
 
 “Alas! alas! for I cannot promise that I shall ever do it again.” He leaned 
 his head upon his strong, white hand, pushing up as he did so the short 
 clustering curls from his forehead, and fixed his lovely, saucy eyes straight 
 upon her. A flush slowly, yet not painfully, rose to Miss Desborough’s sallow 
 cheek. She could not meet his gaze unconcernedly, but managed to say with 
 moderate indifference— 
 
 “Oh, now, you must know you will always be welcomed; my father must 
 thank you for saving me.” 
 
 “No gratitude, if you please; if you mean to establish a private Humane 
 Society, and intend offering me a gold medal, I decline on the spot. But 
 indeed I owe you an apology for all this rigmarole about my ‘prospects,’ 
 which, after all, are anything but gloomy. I believe my poor aunt only too 
 frail and broken in health. Besides, long may they both live, for the death of 
 either would be an affliction that neither positive wealth could console, nor 
 decided poverty deaden the sense of The wind is rising again; do you hear it? 
 and with the breaking of the dawn, will come the next tide.” 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 22 / 
 
The hours had indeed passed most swiftly; it was drawing towards day¬ 
 light, and anxious eyes were again watching the waves, which had scarcely 
 receded at the ebb. Faint streaks of dull light struggled in the East, and the 
 water came pouring in from the back creek. Presently, the whole Island 
 seemed covered like a vast lake; scarcely a foot deep in some places, four feet 
 in depth in others. The poor, drowned poultry floated about on the surface, 
 and horses and cows were led away to the highest ground that could be 
 reached. But an overshadowing Providence mercifully protected man and 
 beast. Seven of the most exposed houses on the front beach melted away like 
 lumps of sugar dissolving in a tea-cup; the roofs settling down upon the 
 wrecks with perfect propriety and great regularity; but not a life was lost. 
 Trees fell here and there, and the picture of desolation was complete, so far as 
 inanimate objects were concerned. About eight o’clock gentlemen wandered 
 to their partially submerged houses, and came back reporting much discom¬ 
 fort but no farther danger. The refugees from the Ocean House beat a retreat 
 from their hospitable military asylum; fathers summoned their households; 
 and, although no sunshine yet illumined the gray sands, and the sullen roar 
 of the wind stiU murmured hoarsely, every one felt that safety was pro¬ 
 claimed. Ruth was among the first to thank the officers and ladies of the 
 Fort, and depart. Her servants reported Mrs. Price’s house as still standing, 
 and not looking much more worsted by the ravages of the blast than it had 
 long been those by time. 
 
 “Cousin Frances” timidly proposed staying where they were until com¬ 
 plete tranquility reigned. She faintly remembered some dreadful newspaper 
 stories of robbers and murderers that had overrun that unfortunate Island in 
 the Gulf, some years before, when the sea overcame the wretched inhabit¬ 
 ants. Her suggestions met with a peremptory refusal; “besides,” added Ruth, 
 “we have already trespassed unmercifully upon the good nature of our 
 entertainers.” 
 
 “You might offer to pay board,” hinted poor Mrs. Price. “Your pa wouldn’t 
 object.” 
 
 Ruth’s great eyes transfixed the culprit, who saw and “wilted.” 
 
 “Money, money,” Ruth muttered, half to her companion, half to herself; 
 “we purse-proud millionaires think that everything can be done for money; 
 and our dependents catch the tone. Will I never be free from such ideas?” 
 
 “A palpable hit,” whispered Gerald, laughing; “very unkind of you to say 
 that, when you recollect that the staple of my talk this night has been 
 money.” 
 
 Ruth smiled and shook her head. 
 
 228 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Mine was a shaft never meant for you. And now, good-bye, Mr. Gray. I 
 see your cousins coming; they probably wish you. Need I say,” she went on 
 hurriedly, “that I hope to see you.” 
 
 Before Gerald could answer, Mr. Clare and his daughters were beside 
 them; the pompous, great man bowing low over Ruth’s quiet hand, which lay 
 in his patronizing grasp. 
 
 “My coachman has been unable to bring the carriage, or I should have 
 been proud, dear Miss Desborough, to conduct you home. Most truly do I 
 rejoice that my sister’s son has had the privilege of serving my old friend’s 
 daughter; the young gentleman may well look happy at having secured such 
 an honor. My girls told me some hours since that you were here with us. I 
 should have come at once to pay my compliments, but my valued friend, 
 Gen. Harris, had persuaded me to form a whist party in the mess room, and 
 there we have passed the night; while, with you young people the hours have 
 gaily sped in mirth up here. You do not seem to have suffered from our 
 protracted vigils, my dear young lady?” 
 
 “Not at all,” answered Ruth, passive and laconic. 
 
 “That is well. My mad cap, Cecilia, rejoices, I think, in what she calls a 
 frolic.” 
 
 There was httle frohcsome in Ceciha’s air or face. Phyllis, with prettv' 
 sisterly earnestness, was smoothing her cadettes curls, and chatting coquet- 
 tishly with an admiring Mr. John Morris. On hearing her name. Cissy asked: 
 
 “What are you saying about me, papa?” 
 
 “I say that this storm has been quite a frolic to you, my pet.” 
 
 “Has it? I am sure I did not know it. I suppose Gerald thinks it high fun, 
 because he never enjoys anything half so much as seeing people uncomfort¬ 
 able.” 
 
 “At me again. Cissy?” said Gerald, setting his teeth together, with a steady 
 look from between his half-closed hds. “Come, be a good little girl. Let me 
 wrap your shawl more closely around your pretty httle shoulders and keep 
 yourself warm—and cool,” he added in a whisper. 
 
 Phylhs began to make a bustle and hurry of preparation, darting a warning 
 glance at Cissy, and taking her papa’s arm. 
 
 “Mr. Morris is waiting for you, Cis; and here is your other glove.” In 
 giving it, she pressed Cis’ hand tighdy. “Good-bye, Miss Desborough; we 
 will send a dove from our ark soon to see how you are getting on. Gerald will 
 take you home, I presume. We will have your room ready, Gerald, for they 
 say that no boat can yet leave the Island, but I would not be surprised if, by 
 night time, we all have to take shelter here again. Anyway, you know where 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 229 
 
you are welcome. Come, papa, Cissy is quite ready. We had better do as the 
 others, and take advantage of this lull to get away.” 
 
 Under cover of PhyUis’ smiles, nods, and words, the party moved off 
 briskly, soon followed by Ruth, Mrs. Price and Mr. Gray. 
 
 Little was said during the short walk; for it was occupation enough to pick 
 their way through the pools of water, and over logs and obstructions. 
 
 The house was undergoing a little sweeping and setting in order; a fire was 
 kindled in one of the out-houses stiU standing, and the savory fumes of a hot 
 breakfast in preparation, were grateful to the nostrils of “Cousin Frances,” 
 who had despatched this avant-garde before she left the Fort. 
 
 “Stay and eat something,” urged Ruth to Mr. Gray. 
 
 But he declined, saying that his Uncle Clare would expect him, and, 
 moreover, if it were possible, he must return to the city and relieve his 
 mother’s anxiety. 
 
 “If I do not get away you wlU not be rid of me, for I must see how you are 
 coming on, if you will permit me.” He held out his hand; Ruth gave hers— 
 they were standing just within the doorway—he, bright and beautiful as the 
 morning star, with his soft glancing eyes, exquisite, mobile lips, soft, glowing 
 cheeks, and all the airy, frank grace which distinguished him; she, pale and 
 worse, careless in dress, looking much older than her years, with the strong, 
 habitual reserve of her manner and face, struggling against the growing 
 interest of this new acquaintance. 
 
 She faintly returned the kind pressure which he ventured, and they parted. 
 
 ® CHAPTER IV 
 
 The storm was over, after three days of discomfort, damp gray sky, and 
 nothing especial to eat. Happy those good heirs whose closets contained 
 stores of tin canisters, from the warehouses Boden 6c FUs, of Bordeaux, and 
 who could consequently regale themselves upon pates and saucisses truffles in 
 place of the uncomestable beef steak and drowned chickens. 
 
 Mrs. Price rejoiced in her ample provision of hams and corned beef, 
 kippered salmon and cariached fish. A box of sardines made the owner 
 thereof very popular, to stray callers during the lulls of the sixty hours’ gale— 
 the housekeeper who possessed a supply of Boston crackers, might have 
 trusted her reputation in the hands of her nearest neighbor, and soi-disant 
 dearest friend. But that was all past now. 
 
 The sunshine glittered over heaps of sedge and rubbish left upon the 
 beaches, front and back, and the waters tranquilly swept up not much nearer 
 
 230 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
to their old landmarks, and looking as innocent as if they wondered what had 
 done all the mischief, in the way of wrecks and ruins, which lay mournfully 
 about. The wind was a mere murmur, soft as thistledown; in fact, it was 
 “wind” no longer—only a gentle breeze, which carefully and slowly lifted the 
 ends of the black lace scarf which Ruth Desborough wore over her head, and 
 tied beneath her chin. She was looking out dreamingly from the window of 
 her own room which faced the sea and the south-western sky. 
 
 Ruth’s bed room did not look at all like a “maiden’s bower;” it had few 
 feminine trifles; a solid book or two, in solid binding, substantial, solid 
 furniture, without one lounging chair, and on her dressing table ivory backed 
 brushes and combs, and a large bottle of lavender or cologne water; not one 
 essence flacon, nor a polissoir for almond shaped nails, no pomade for lips or 
 tresses; nor Bohemian glass jars for powder puffs, or cold cream. All was 
 orderly, neat, cold, uncoquettish. 
 
 The rays of the setting sun streamed in, lighting up the room, and resting 
 on the head of its mistress as she leaned one supporting elbow upon the 
 window sill, and her listless other hand held a small sized open note. Those 
 beautiful, autumn southern skies! Her absent gaze was fixed upon the 
 changing glories of their gorgeous coloring, but her thoughts were with the 
 dozen lines in that note: 
 
 “Dear Miss Desborough,” it said, “I find myself unable to keep engage¬ 
 ment you kindly allowed me to make with you for this evening. You must 
 guess at once that it is a matter of great importance which forces me to say 
 this. Alas! it is most sad, as well as most important. My dear uncle, of whom 
 I spoke to you recently—who was but a week ago a hale and hearty man, died 
 suddenly of apoplexy, without warning of any kind. My poor aunt found him 
 cold and lifeless by her side, on awaking. The shock was too great. In two 
 hours she followed him—her feeble frame being an easy prey to such grief, 
 and such a blow. This double misfortune necessitates that I should leave to¬ 
 night for New Haven. 
 
 Your kind heart will sympathize with me in my great sorrow, and may I 
 hope that, during my short absence, you will not forget 
 
 Your faithful servant, 
 Gerald Gray” 
 
 Ruth read that note more than once. It was simple, unaffected, natural— 
 written evidently in haste, and carelessly composed. Once she drew out her 
 watch and calculated that in so many hours he would have started on his 
 journey. Did he regret, she wondered, the informal engagement made to 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 23I 
 
bring her a book that evening from town? In the midst of his sorrow and the 
 confusion of his sudden departure, it was considerate of him to remember it. 
 
 Then she half smiled. How much more had other young men done in 
 labored proof of their interest in her? Did not Charles Wentworth, while 
 they were setting his broken arm, insist upon his sister leaving his bedside to 
 inform Miss Desborough that while riding into the country to procure for 
 her a certain black and tan terrier to replace a dead favorite, he had been 
 thrown from his horse and seriously injured? But she had simply been 
 disgusted with this “bold stroke for an heiress,” and with civil regrets and hot 
 house grapes, cold enquiries and exotic bouquets, gave Mr. Wentworth to 
 understand that when her dogs died, her father could replace what he had 
 once before given. 
 
 Then she remembered the water party at a famous picnic, and her 
 admiration for some pond lilies, and John Barksdale’s desperate lurch over¬ 
 board in trying to get them. She had been but little touched by this act of 
 devotion, and had severely snubbed the aquatic youth, when, three hours 
 after, he informed her (originally) that he “would go through fire as well as 
 water to serve her.” 
 
 But these were notorious fortune-hunters—men who “went in” for every 
 heiress-plate on the matrimonial turf—whereas Gerald Gray had studiously 
 kept away from his uncle’s dinner, lest he should be drawn into this golden 
 circle. 
 
 “Pshaw!” exclaimed Ruth, at length, aloud, when arising from her seat, 
 “this is too absurd.” 
 
 She heard voices below her window—Phyllis Clare’s sharp but lady-like 
 notes, and Cissy’s incessant laugh. 
 
 They were coming into the house—too late to stop them—the servant had 
 already said she was at home; and moreover, Ruth felt herself inwardly 
 confessing that she rather wished to see the Misses Clare. 
 
 “Oh! Miss Desborough,” cried Phyllis, as she ran forward on Ruth’s 
 entrance, “isn’t this dreadful about poor Gerald? Papa had a note from Aunt 
 Ellen, written in despair. To think of Mrs. Gray not dying first—living just 
 two hours too long! I can’t think of anything else. Gerald would have been so 
 rich and so happy, and now I suppose he has not enough to keep him in 
 patent leather and perfumes. Wasn’t it provoking of Mrs. Gray?” 
 
 For the first time, Ruth recollected what he had told her about the fortune 
 and the disposition of it. 
 
 Phyllis went on: 
 
 232 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“You know, of course, all about Mr. Norman Gray—everybody knows. 
 Gerald has been brought up like a crown prince for expense. To all human 
 knowledge, and everybody’s expectation, he would have an immense estate. 
 That forlorn, horrid Mrs. Gray was such an invalid nobody ever supposed 
 she could possibly outlive her husband, but those two hours have upset 
 everybody’s calculations.” 
 
 “It was very unkind of Mrs. Gray not to have died sooner. I don’t know but 
 that, as her health was so wretched, she ought to have been decently put to 
 death some time back, and thus have relieved the anxiety of Mr. Gerald Gray 
 and his friends,” said Ruth. 
 
 “Oh! don’t put in Gerald. He was absurdly attached to his aunt, and could 
 not bear to hear me wish that the good lady were safely disposed of. It was 
 only this morning, at breakfast, that he reproached me quite angrily for 
 saying something of this sort.” 
 
 “Did he know this morning, last evening, of this loss?” 
 
 “Dear! no. The telegram sent from New Haven came the first day of the 
 storm—after he had come down here, and loomed off again, when I told him 
 that you—that we—had a dinner party. His servant put it in his room—said 
 nothing about it to Aunt Ellen, and there it lay during those two days that 
 the gale lasted, and he could not get back to town. He might have gone up 
 yesterday evening, by the first trip which the steamer attempted, but he says 
 the boat left him, and it was just as well, for when he got back to us, about 
 eleven o’clock, (I don’t know where he had been,)” and Phyllis looked, as if 
 she were trying not to look arch, “and it began to blow again, as if the roof 
 would come off, we were so glad to have him with us. Gerald inspires one 
 with so much courage—he takes every thing so coolly.” 
 
 “Does he take his loss of fortune coolly?”’ 
 
 “Aunt Ellen says, in her note, that he did not appear to give a thought to 
 that; all his grief was about his uncle and aunt, and his being down here, gay 
 and careless, while they were lying dead in the house which has always been 
 more ‘home’ to him than even his mother’s.” 
 
 “An amiable trait,” said Ruth, stiffly, seeing that Phyllis paused for some 
 remark. 
 
 “Gerald w very amiable,” continued Miss Clare, “the most amiable person 
 I ever knew. Cissy and I having never had a brother, have always regarded 
 him as one. While we were in New York at school, Gerald used to come 
 constantly from New Haven to see us. He always brought such lots of 
 presents for us, and took us everywhere that Mrs. C— would let us go. 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 233 
 
Then, when he went to Cambridge, we saw less of him, but his vacations 
 were spent pretty much with us on the plantation, when we grew up, and 
 came home. Cissy and I are deeply devoted to him.” 
 
 “What is that about me, Phil?” asked Cecilia, who had been talking all 
 this time to the inevitable Mr. Morris, the General’s son, and their constant 
 escort. 
 
 “I say that you and I have always looked upon Gerald as a brother.” 
 
 “Oh! yes, he has always looked upon both of us as his sisters." Cissy spoke 
 again with the same asperity and intention that had before struck Ruth, and 
 with great emphasis. 
 
 “You need not be so emphatic, Cis,” Phyllis laughingly rejoined. “But I 
 am forgetting the object of our stopping here—won’t you come and walk 
 with us. Miss Desborough? I am dying to see how aU those houses look that 
 have been washed down. Do you know Miss Fisher declares that her 
 ‘splendid jewels’ were abandoned by her in her midnight flight, and are 
 buried beneath these wrecks of the merciless sea? If we have luck, we may 
 pick up a stray bracelet or so. True, nobody ever saw the ‘splendid jewels,’ 
 which we only now hear of—but of course they are there.” 
 
 Ruth wished to decline, but she had to give way to Phyllis’ polite insis¬ 
 tence; so they took a short walk, found no bracelet, nor did they strike out 
 much that was new in conversation or ideas. Phyllis, several times, alluded to 
 Gerald—his journey—his probable return. She did not ask Ruth how she 
 knew that his relatives were dead, and himself en voyage before her visit. 
 Ruth fancied her too heedless to think about it, and was only glad that no 
 question should oblige her to confess (what she certainly would not have 
 concealed) that Mr. Gray had written to her. 
 
 ® CHAPTER V 
 
 “Don’t turn yet, pray.” 
 
 “Is it not time?” 
 
 1 here is a moon. 
 
 “True; but it was just here a month ago that you quoted the moon as a 
 reason for my turning.” 
 
 “Ah, yes!” answered Gerald; “but then there were clouds fierce and black 
 about us; and when I saw a poor, forlorn ‘unprotected female’ standing here, 
 unaware of her danger, I rushed to her rescue. It was sublime of me, wasn’t 
 it?” 
 
 234 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Well, if not sublime,” said Ruth, smiling, “it was very kind, and ‘the poor, 
 forlorn, unprotected female’ was and is, very grateful.” 
 
 “Of course she is, because she has the kindest and most grateful heart in all 
 the world, and does not consider that by that little act of politeness I gained 
 the dearest of friends. My luck again! Had we met in an ordinary way at my 
 uncle’s that day, you would have ranked me among the herd of young men 
 who dance, talk, dine and die; but that important deity, luck, favored me, and 
 here I am, elevated to the post of chief councillor and unworthy ally of the 
 Great Miss Desborough, with a large G.” 
 
 “The Great Miss Desborough will depose you if you laugh at her.” 
 
 “Not she; she has taught me not to fear her, and from the pedestal of my 
 position I only laugh at the envy of the infuriates who are jealous of me. But 
 what a wretch I am to go rattling on in this way, when I have something to 
 tell you which makes me very sad, and which I trust you will not be pleased 
 to hear.” 
 
 “What is it? Pray tell me. I would rather know it at once.” 
 
 “Oh, there is no need to open your handsome eyes at me so wildly,” said 
 Gerald, with playful tenderness, and drawing her arm unforbidden through 
 his. “Don’t prepare for the worst; it is no very great matter after all. You must 
 have conjectured when you first heard of my poor dear uncle’s death, and of 
 the changes that it would bring to me, that I could not stay idly here in our 
 drowsy old city. I cannot live on my mother, who, dear soul, has just enough 
 to keep up the style of existence to which she has been always accustomed. 
 There is enough for her, but not enough for me. I suppose I could manage to 
 eat, drink and sleep at her expense and get a place as a clerk on the Bay, 
 which would ensure me a new dress coat every two years, and cotton gloves 
 for the summer. Picture me, oh, my friend! ‘driving a quill’ under the 
 jurisdiction of old Herbert, instead of driving my black mares under my own 
 eyes! 
 
 “Terrible!” said Ruth. 
 
 “And then marking cotton bales without the cotton gloves, mind you, and 
 doubtful concerning the spending of half dollars, and patronized by atten¬ 
 tions from fellows who have been all this time receiving mine, and worse 
 than all, warned off by the sour looks of mammas who have hitherto 
 encouraged my witticisms to their delightful daughters!” 
 
 “Halt there,” interrupted Ruth, “there I am sure you are wrong, as 
 mammas with us do not discriminate in that way about their daughters’ 
 partners.” 
 
 “Don’t they? Bless your innocent comprehension! Wait till you are a 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIFE 235 
 
young man with fine prospects, and see how popular you will become with 
 the very people who to-day think me an extremely over rated person, and 
 very much changed for the worse since my European trip.” 
 
 There was bitterness in Gerald’s tone, beneath its careless outside ring. 
 
 “What are your plans?” asked Ruth gravely. 
 
 “Rather undefined. California is still a good opening for aspiring youths.” 
 
 “But you don’t believe that you will make a fortune in a year or so and 
 come back powdered in gold dust?” 
 
 “No, indeed; I do not. I expect to pass many years there, and to have many 
 ups and downs, to speculate and lose, speculate and gain many times, before 
 I make one hundred thousand dollars. That is all I want.” 
 
 There was a pause. Ruth’s face was paler even than usual. Gerald suddenly 
 looked at her. 
 
 “You are very kind,” he said. “I believe you really regret my going away.” 
 
 “Most sincerely,” she faltered. “When do you think of going?” 
 
 “In three weeks.” 
 
 “So soon?” 
 
 “Why not; if a thing has to be done, why linger putting it off?” 
 
 Irue. 
 
 “Yes, it is true; and many other things are true, which are as true, but more 
 foolish, and consequently one cannot speak of them.” 
 
 “Such as—?” 
 
 “I said one could not speak of them. Would you be so little like yourself as 
 to be indiscreet in asking questions?” 
 
 He forced a smile which met an answering one still less joyous than his 
 own. 
 
 “Yes, for this once—and because we are friends.” 
 
 “It is because we are friends and nothing more, that I dare not say what I 
 would like to say. It is because your friendship is so precious to me, that I fear 
 to lose it by confessing what you will treat with contempt—it is because we 
 are friends only, that I would desire to make a confession.” 
 
 “You speak enigmas,” said Ruth, and she drew away her arm under 
 pretense of fastening her shawl. 
 
 “Let me do it,” said Gerald, gently drawing her shawl together. “It will not 
 be the first time that I was more successful than you in securing the folds of 
 this plaid of your predilection.” 
 
 He stood facing her; his beautiful countenance quite divested of its usual 
 insouciante expression, and as his hand touched her’s in again taking her 
 brooch to fasten the rebellious shawl, she perceived that it was as cold as ice. 
 
 236 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“It is a ‘plaid of predilection,’ ’’ said Ruth, in a very low voice. “I connect it 
 always with the memory of that day I first met you. I keep few anniversaries, 
 and that is not of very ancient date, but I don’t think I shall easily forget it.” 
 
 Gerald caught her hand. “Ruth!” he exclaimed impetuously. 
 
 She threw up her head. The old instincts were strong in her. No man but 
 her father—few women—had ever called her by her Christian name. 
 
 Gerald dropped her hand gravely and with a low bow. “Forgive me. I 
 forgot myself,” and his small white teeth were pressed against his under lip. 
 He olfered his arm with a stately air—she took it. It trembled for a second, 
 and then grew quite stiU, as he called her attention to a curious cloud of vivid 
 crimson, shaped like a man on horseback. 
 
 “Very strange,” said Ruth; “quite like one.” She was looking far away from 
 what he was pointing at. 
 
 “Does your mother approve of this?” 
 
 “Of this cloud? I doubt if she has seen it, and probably would not offer 
 approval or disapproval about an affair which is palpably beyond her reach.” 
 
 “Your answer, although meant to sneer at my question, is, perhaps, very 
 near the truth?” 
 
 “What truth? What is truth, dear Miss Desborough? Have you ‘a passion 
 for truth,’ as I hear people say, who show their reverence and affection by 
 never approaching their passion. Not that I mean that you never approach 
 truth, or that—” 
 
 “What are you talking about? Why are you going on in this frantic way?” 
 
 “I am frantic too, am I? Impertinent and frantic, and what else?” 
 
 “Unjust,” said Ruth, quietly. 
 
 “Unjust to whom? Not to myself, surely? I give myself credit for being very 
 just to Gerald Gray, Esq. I think him an unmitigated ass, and a very—” 
 
 “Pray, stop; you are unjust to me.” 
 
 “To you! In what, pray?” 
 
 “In believing me to be unfeeling and insincere.” 
 
 “My dear Miss Desborough! when did I accuse you of either of those 
 rather common little vices?” 
 
 “If you do not accuse me of them directly in those words, you do so 
 indirectly by your—. You know that I am deeply grieved by all that has 
 happened to you—by your sorrow, by your loss of fortune, and now, by this 
 necessity, as you consider it, to leave us all.” 
 
 “Well?” He was trying to make her look straight at him. She was turning 
 her head aside like a blushing girl of fifteen. 
 
 “Well?” he repeated, inquiringly. 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 237 
 
“Is it kind, then, to behave so capriciously? To begin a conversation in 
 which I was interested, and break it off with foolish phrases, uttered in a tone 
 of irritation?” 
 
 “Pardon me: it was you that turned the tide of my feelings, and cheered my 
 presumptuous words.” 
 
 His voice was low and full of passionate earnestness. Presently he went on 
 rapidly: 
 
 “I know that I am presumptuous. I know that you wiU probably meet what 
 I dare to say with chiUing looks and haughty words, yet how can I avoid it. 
 You have guessed it already. You know that I love you, and that I must not 
 teU you so. I, a man of broken fortunes, you, a great heiress. The interest with 
 which you inspired me when first I saw you, and which then I had the right 
 to feel, and in time utter, is now—would be now regarded by you as a 
 desperate attempt. Pshaw! forgive me my friend. Forget what I say. Do you 
 forgive me? Speak, dear Ruth—this once I will call you by your name—your 
 gentle, Bible name—tell me you forgive my foUy.” 
 
 “It is foUy,” said Ruth. “How can I believe that, in so short a time, I, a cold, 
 unattractive woman, have inspired you with love for me. No; I do not accuse 
 you, believe me, I do not. I do not accuse you of any such mean motives as 
 you hint at, but I do think that you misunderstand your feeling for me. We 
 are speaking a coeur ouvert—\ initiate the frankness with which you express 
 yourself—your vanity has been flattered by my manner; my manner has a 
 fictitious importance; you have been naturally pleased to be set above every¬ 
 body in the circle which had chosen to make me a person of consequence; 
 gradually you have accustomed yourself to fall into the belief that I am as 
 worthy of admiration individually as—” 
 
 “Pardon me for interrupting you: your feehngs I may not understand—my 
 own, I thoroughly comprehend. I do not deny that I have seen women 
 handsomer than you—more brflliant, more dazzhng, more soft, more gener¬ 
 ally attractive, but you are you. I have never flattered you. I never shall; but 
 when I teU you that Ruth Desborough, with her stern and stately carriage, 
 her frozen look, her icy tone, her repelling air, has for me a mightier charm 
 than the most languid or sprightly, the softest or sauciest of her sex, believe 
 me that I speak a truth as holy and as certain as God and Death.” 
 
 “You have known me so short a time!” said Ruth, gently. 
 
 “How hke all women is that speech! Do men often fall in love with the 
 women whom they have met daily with indifference for years? Is not love 
 always instantaneous, if only in the germ and unspoken.” 
 
 238 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“ What do you love in me?” asked Ruth quickly, and raising her dark eyes to 
 the beautiful face of her lover, with a glance which for the first time in her 
 hfe, revealed the charm they ought always to have had. 
 
 “What do I love in you?” Que sais-je? I love possibly the heart and the 
 inner nature which, if ever you could love, would be revealed to the man of 
 your choice. I love the passionate depth of womanly tenderness which you 
 have beaten down so skillfully, but which will spring up in floods if ever you 
 permit it. I love the outward ice, as contrasted with the inward fire.” 
 
 “I see you do not know me,” said Ruth, blushing and subdued. 
 
 “I see that you know that I do know you,” whispered Gerald. “You may 
 deceive unobservant eyes, but not mine. From the first moment that we met, 
 I never did you the injustice to suppose that you were the ‘statue in lead’ you 
 would like the world to believe you—cool, hard, polished and grey.” 
 
 “Yet you wish me to be the last.” 
 
 “A pun! are the skies falling?” Gerald pressed her arm fondly to his side. 
 “You have not answered me? Will you accept, then, that quahty as your 
 future name?” 
 
 “You have not yet asked me to do so! You told me you would not ask me?” 
 
 “Did I, dear trifler? Then, I humbly ask it now?” 
 
 “Give me time,” pleaded Ruth. 
 
 “Time, again! I have a wise old aunt who is nearly a hundred, and she says, 
 delays are dangerous.” 
 
 “Resolves should go calmly, for repentance gallops; is not that a good 
 saying, too?” 
 
 “No, indeed; for, if resolves went quickly, repentance could never overtake 
 them. Ruth, dear Ruth, you cannot tell what an effort it has cost me to cast 
 aside all those doubts and worldly terrors which I spoke of just now. To have 
 you suspect me, and despise me—to have pitiful considerations of money 
 come up between my heart and yours! You would not put me off with phrases 
 and hesitations if you knew how sore I feel—how differently I would speak if 
 our positions were reversed—how I would sue and plead, and wait, thankful 
 for the merest atom of attention and hope; but now, if you do not pledge 
 yourself freely and fuUy, my pride will rise in arms. You have everything to 
 give—I, nothing. So, conscious of my unworthiness, I must have all, or reject 
 aU.” 
 
 “A first rate reasoner!” 
 
 “You are turning coquettish on my innocent hands. Dear Ruth —my 
 Ruth—answer me.” 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 239 
 
“First, answer me,” said Ruth, suddenly grave. 
 
 She stopped walking, and seated herself on a log, drifted up a month ago 
 hy the tide. 
 
 “Sit here,” she said, “hy me. I do not know if I love you. I know I like you 
 very much; and it may be that my affection for you, which I took to be 
 gratimde and interest, is something deeper. Stay,” she cried, as he caught her 
 hand, “listen to me. I have always (the long always of a month, two weeks of 
 which you were away,) I have always suspected that there was an understand¬ 
 ing—a by-gone, or a present attachment between Ceciha Clare and you. I 
 have been told so—vaguely by some persons—positively by one. I never 
 questioned you about it. I had no right; but I own I would have given a great 
 deal to know the truth. It worried me, this doubt; I, who never cared for 
 anybody’s concerns. It frightened me—the constant dwelling on this thought 
 in my mind. Now, I have the right to ask, and to demand of you, on your 
 honor, has Cecdia Clare any claim upon you? Was there ever any attachment 
 on your side for her?” 
 
 “On my honor, no,” answered Gerald. “Cissy was a pretty child, is a pretty 
 girl; she is a favorite of my mother’s—was a belle among boys of my own age 
 when I was a boy. I have looked upon her, and treated her invariably as a 
 sister, but I used to like to take cousinly privileges with her, and carry her off 
 from other boys, just to tease them and amuse myself. But nothing more— 
 nothing that went beyond this.” 
 
 “She is very pretty,” said Ruth, musingly. 
 
 “Yes, I think her very pretty, and very amiable, and aU that. A good, 
 industrious girl, too, with all her affectations. She has a sewing machine, and 
 works it famously—keeps all those younger ones in the nursery well supphed 
 with petticoats and pantalettes. Somehow the vision of Cissy, at her sewing 
 machine, is commendable, but not attractive. And then her back—I own 
 Cissy’s back has always repelled me.” 
 
 “What is the matter with her back?” 
 
 “Did you never notice it? It is a very defective back. Her spine is threat¬ 
 ened, and her back is very ugly. Not crooked you know, but clumsy.” He 
 shook his head mischievously. “Whenever Cissy’s back is turned, her attrac¬ 
 tions vanish.” 
 
 “But look in her face and you forget her back?” asked Ruth. 
 
 “I did not intend to convey that idea. You asked me about a silly report, 
 which some kind individual has made his or her business to teU you. 
 Without circumlocution I give you the exact and entire tmth. There is 
 nothing to conceal, and I conceal nothing.” 
 
 240 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Then, you do not love her?” 
 
 “Is your question an insult? No; I do not love her—I have never loved her; 
 moreover, and to this, I likewise pledge my honor, I have never to any 
 woman, until this day said, ‘I love you.’ I have had flirtations and follies to 
 answer for, like every man; but I have never felt, nor owned, nor professed 
 love for any woman till now. My passions have been aroused, my tastes 
 gratified, my fancy aroused, but my heart has been my own. I have never 
 dragged those sacred words in the dust of every idle whim, nor whispered 
 them in every pretty ear, nor kissed them out close to rosy lips. They are 
 yours. Heaven nor Hell can not rob you of them. Worthless they may be, but 
 such as they are, I love you.” 
 
 Two days later. Miss Desborough’s and Mr. Gray’s acquaintances learned, 
 with surprise, that they were engaged, with the full approbation and consent 
 of the destined bride’s millionaire papa. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER VI 
 
 Ruth was married on the 24th of November. It was not a long betrothal, 
 but long enough to give time for the lawyers to draw up very hberal 
 settlements, and for all the city to be exultant or despondent, as their fancy 
 suggested, over the unexampled “good luck” of that favorite of fortune, 
 Gerald Gray. Long enough for a magnificent trousseau to be procured, the 
 ordering of which Ruth placed in the hands of her future cousin, Phyllis 
 Clare, who merited this mark of appreciation not only by her rapturous 
 delight at the match, but by her superlative taste in matters of dress. 
 
 St. James’ Church was crowded to excess. Twelve o’clock was the hour, 
 and a large number of those present were invited to the breakfast which took 
 place immediately after the ceremony. 
 
 To many conventional eyes all brides are “lovely,” but Ruth did not elicit 
 this comment from the present audiences. 
 
 Her costume was as superb as lace and diamonds and moire could make it, 
 but the dead white was very trying to her sallow skin; and her eyes, the really 
 fine features of her face, (when permitted to be,) were steadily kept down. 
 She showed no other sign of emotion, and repeated the responses calmly and 
 in a low, measured voice. 
 
 Gerald was quiet, contented, very handsome; his manner and dress were 
 equally correct and admirable. Everything that he had to do was done just in 
 the right way, from the tie of his white cravat and the manner in which he 
 
 GERALD GRAYS WIFE 24I 
 
carried his bride’s bouquet, to the putting on of the ring and the endowing of 
 her “with all his worldly goods.” 
 
 There were no bridesmaids. Mrs. Gray and her brother, Mr. Clare, stood 
 near the altar, on the right side of the groom. On the bride’s left stood portly 
 Jacob Desborough, stout, red-faced, joUy and delighted. His daughter was 
 marrying an “arw-tocrat”; one of those good looking, gentlemanly, highty- 
 tighty youths, who would know now which side his bread was buttered, and 
 behave accordingly; and Ruth wouldn’t die an old maid, as he had begun to 
 fear that she would, with all his money left to charities. 
 
 The large drawing rooms were hghted, with shutters closed and curtains 
 drawn. Porcelain and silver, and glass, and wax lights, and flowers, decked 
 the long table, stretching through the lofty suite. PhyUis, radiant in pink silk, 
 with the greatest love of a bonnet that Laure ever fashioned, fluttered about 
 like a stray sunbeam that had slipped in through the chinks of the windows; 
 and Cecilia looked very pretty and sober in blue; but she did not seem happy, 
 and had little color and a red flush about her eyes; she had a headache from 
 dancing too much the previous evening, she said. Mrs. Gray was a picture of 
 middle aged triumph and mature enjoyment. There was a good deal of her 
 brother’s natural turn for pomposity about her, and as she swept through the 
 rooms in her black velvet and dowager prints, her huge, stately figure and 
 well cut prononce features were no mean addition to the splendors and 
 varieties of the day. 
 
 Liveried servants, marshalled by a grey haired butler, (who might have 
 been serving crowned heads since his infancy, if the dignity of his black 
 countenance was the criterion of his life-long avocations,) were busily en¬ 
 gaged in placing upon the table massive silver dishes, unmistakably Enghsh, 
 and costly in their taste and fashion. Mr. Desborough had made but one 
 stipulation with his daughter about the arrangements for the day—every¬ 
 body must have a seat. 
 
 “None of your standing up, snatchy ‘eolations,’ Ruthy, where, when you 
 gits some oshters you have time to see them grow cold before you can 
 scramble for a bit o’ bread, or a dry sangvitch. No; give everybody a seat, 
 comfortable like, since you new fashioned people won’t have a dance and a 
 setting down supper as folks did in my day. Don’t have all those stuck up 
 Clare and Cressingham; people say I begrudge them plenty to eat and a place 
 to eat it in. They are your relations now; show ’em once and for all that I can 
 give ’em a spread to look at.” 
 
 So everybody had a seat, but for those who preferred a cozy time else- 
 
 242 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
where than at the long board, where Mr. Desborough presided, there were 
 small tables in odd corners, which proved extremely popular. 
 
 But just before Marcus, the magnificent, had bowed his white cravat with 
 an astounding bow, before his young mistress, to pronounce “breakfast 
 ready,” Mrs. Gray led her son into the partial shadow of a brocade curtain 
 and renewed her warm congratulations. 
 
 “Dear Gerald,” she said, “I have always been proud of you; I always knew 
 that you would be a comfort to me; that in you I should find ample 
 atonement for the errors and misdemeanors of others—” 
 
 “Softly, dearest,” said Mr. Gray, “She knows nothing of all that, and you 
 must learn to be cautious about it.” 
 
 “What! she has never heard? you have never told her?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “Ah, my son, was that right—wisest?” 
 
 “I thought and think so. Best ‘not distrust Caminara.’ Why rip up old 
 stories?” 
 
 “And her father! has he never heard anything about it?” 
 
 “I fancy not. He has always had something else to think about. He is not 
 very wise, nor has he a good memory, except for figure and calculations. I 
 think he must have been in China about that time, cheating the sons of the 
 sun on the opium or tea question.” 
 
 “For shame, Gerald,” Mrs. Gray said, half smiling; “he is your wife’s 
 father.” 
 
 “Don’t I know it; am I likely to forget it? I rarely forget anything at 
 anytime, dear mamma, but I don’t talk at any time of much that I remember. 
 It is not a bad rule, that; suppose you try it.” 
 
 He looked a little impatient—just a httle—just enough to give a slight, 
 nervous quiver to his thin nostril. 
 
 Mrs. Gray turned to some other topic. 
 
 “Dear love,” she said, “why have you not worn the studs I gave you, to¬ 
 day? I should have felt pleased to see them glittering in that miraculous shirt 
 bosom. I was so glad, I thought, of having them set for you. Once I came 
 very near giving them to Cissy; poor little Cissy was so dying for diamond 
 earrings.” 
 
 Again the slight quiver was perceptible, and accompanied this time by a 
 momentary compression of the sweet, almost feminine bps, that at once 
 robbed them of the latter expression. 
 
 “Ruth gave me these,” he remarked. “It was a tenchene [?] of hers; one of 
 
 GERALDGRAYSWIFE 243 
 
her few little romantic ideas. She had a watch which had been her mother’s— 
 the only thing I remember hearing her say that her mother had ever saved 
 money enough, out of her wages as a nursery governess, to purchase—the 
 only thing Ruth owned which she valued, and which had not been given her 
 by her father. She went off the other day, sold the watch, and ordered these 
 studs for me, with the proceeds. They are plain and handsome—a double G 
 in the enamel their only ornament. See,” and he turned up the delicate wrist¬ 
 band of the “miraculous” shirt, “these are the sleeve buttons. After this 
 sacrifice of hers, of course, I could do no less than wear them on the most 
 important and sacred occasion.” 
 
 “Of course, of course, my dear, and it was very pretty of dear Ruth, 
 although I confess I don’t quite enter into her motives.” 
 
 “Don’t you?” and Gerald looked listlessly around him. 
 
 “Dearest,” said his mother, “excuse the question: are you very happy?” 
 
 “Intensely, sublimely, emphatically, and I see Marcus patronizingly bow¬ 
 ing to my bride. Time’s up, dear mamma. Any way, this long talk of ours 
 looks suspicious to the eyes of this company. I fancy Mrs. Grundy thinks that 
 you are discussing the marriage settlements with me. Here comes my 
 respected papa-in-law.” 
 
 “I believe, mar’m,” said old Jacob, offering his arm, “ ’tis me that has this 
 honor. Mr. Gray, will you please to lead out some lady. Your uncle has charge 
 of Ruthy.” 
 
 Mother and son were instantly transformed. 
 
 Mrs. Gray lost the affectionate look and intonation of voice, and became 
 gracious, condescending and stately. Gerald smiled and put on an air of 
 irrepressible, yet most becoming joyousness. His lot fell upon a former friend 
 and patroness of Mrs. Desborough, in her early days—a good tempered, 
 excellent, stout lady, of undoubted fashion, large appetite, capital lungs, and 
 a well developed talent for laughter. They formed a merry couple; and from 
 his seat at the middle of the table, Gerald sent his lively sallies right and left, 
 with all the intensity of a school boy and all the good breeding of a finished 
 gentleman. 
 
 Not far from him, but a little out of earshot, was one of those small tables I 
 spoke of, occupied by two ladies and three gentlemen. It was a party in full 
 tide of fun, flirtation and fault finding—but the latter quality spared the 
 eatables. 
 
 “I pronounce this salmi quite worthy of the worthiest chef that ever sported 
 the cordon-bleu," exclaimed Mrs. St. Clair; “try it, Bettina.” 
 
 “I have tried it, but give the preference to these lobster cutlets. Some more 
 
 244 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
champagne, Mclvor,” Mrs. Denham added, languidly holding out her glass 
 to her neighbor. “Don’t be so lazy or I will send you away; and don’t make 
 eyes at Bertha. She isn’t looking at you and I am.” 
 
 “He shall look at me if he chooses,” said Bertha St. Clair, laughing. “Don’t 
 force from me that forlorn old adage about cats and kings. But on the whole, 
 let us look for a moment at the bride, and prepare to drink her health; Mr. 
 Clare is proposing it.” 
 
 “Ladies and gentlemen, my friends,” said Mr. Clare, with one hand on his 
 ample white waistcoat, the other with the seal ring and its large crest, waving 
 his brimming glass—“my very excellent friends, I trust you will not think 
 what I am about to say is out of place or unwelcome. On the contrary, I am 
 firmly persuaded that my remarks will fall upon pleased and sympathizing 
 ears. It is by some deemed unnecessary, by others, inelegant, to propose 
 toasts. I own that I am not of their opinion, in view of which, allow me, 
 before proceeding further, to say a few words about myself” 
 
 “Oh!” groaned Bertha, and down went her head, seeking an unfindable 
 truffle, and discovering what she really needed—concealment behind Mrs. 
 Denham’s shoulder, for the laugh which broke over her saucy face. 
 
 “I am an old fashioned man—a very old fashioned man,” pursued the 
 drawing room orator, warming to his subject, and rolling out his words with 
 unctuous delight, “and I like old fashioned things and habits. I like this social 
 board.” 
 
 “My idea, sir,” put in Mr. Desborough, “Ruth wanted a eolation, but I said 
 to her, says I, ‘yes, and when you git your oshters, where’s your bit o’ bread’; 
 but I am interrupting you, Mr. Clare; excuse me, sir,” nodding his joUy head 
 up and down; “go on.” 
 
 “If those two old fellows keep up this mandarinic performance,” whis¬ 
 pered Bertha, as Mr. Clare bowed his head, and flourished back at the host, 
 “where’s our ‘bit o’ bread’ and as for oshters, the venerable Marcus won’t stir 
 himself, nor permit one of those ‘irrepressible conflicts’ to move hand or foot 
 while it is going on. Ah, here comes Mr. Clare again.” 
 
 “Just so, my dear sir. Your ideas and mine have always been singularly 
 alike.” 
 
 “Except when old Jacob was director in the Mechanics’ Bank, and refused 
 that ‘bit o’ paper of yours,’ ” again interpolated Bertha, softly, to her compan¬ 
 ions. 
 
 “For many years I have watched with interest and delight the progress to 
 womanhood of a young lady whose graces of mind and person none more 
 highly appreciated. If I had a son I should have said, ‘try and win her.’ My 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 245 
 
nephew has succeeded in carrying off this prize. Nay, my dear Ruth,” as 
 Ruth laid her hand gently and rather nervously on his arm, “we are among 
 our friends. I say, ladies and gentlemen, that I hke old fashioned habits and 
 customs, and none better than that of gay and festive scenes hke this when a 
 happy marriage, a suitable marriage, a marriage which we all rejoice in, takes 
 place. And I hke to drink success, and health, and prosperity to the couple, 
 and above ah to this couple, and beyond ah, to my new niece, the bride.” 
 
 “The bride!” was echoed from hp to hp, and Mr. Desborough cried: 
 
 “Git more wine, Marcus; ffU the gentlemen’s glasses; ffh the ladies’ glasses. 
 Ain’t any champagne in the house? Suppose you send around the corner and 
 buy some.” A joke very much appreciated by those who saw the uncountable 
 bottles of the finest vintage, flowing hke water in every direction, not to 
 mention such decanters of Serchal, Amontihado, Tinto and Brown Sherry- 
 such as, alas! the soils of Madeira and Spain no longer can furnish. 
 
 Mr. Clare sat down, and Gerald left off twirling his wine glass and looking 
 annoyed. He smhed at Ruth and she smhed back at him. 
 
 Bertha St. Clair caught both smiles. She touched Mrs. Denham’s arm, 
 saying: 
 
 “Look there! Too late. You missed it. I saw Ruth Desborough beautiful!” 
 
 “Great Diana!” drawled Bettina, “can’t she do it again?” 
 
 “Yes; I imagine that the same cause can again produce the same effect?” 
 
 “What cause?” 
 
 “Gerald Gray threw his whole soul into the blue of his eyes, his heart into 
 the curve of his lips, and made her a present of the investment.” 
 
 The young men laughed, and Mrs. Denham shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 “But how does that change her decidedly plain face into a beautiful one?” 
 
 “Because she fives only in his looks, and draws her existence and her whole 
 appearance from him. She is now, and always will be, what he makes her.” 
 
 “Pshaw! one of your fancies. Mr. Taunton, will you give me some of that 
 biscuit before it melts? Mclvor is star-gazing as usual today.” 
 
 “What a little woman for pitching into innocent people you are, Mrs. 
 Denham,” said Arthur Mclvor. “Here, give me your plate, you shall have the 
 whole biscuit, if you wish it, at once, or by installments, greedy little thing!” 
 This last epithet murmured close to her laughing face. 
 
 “Stop fighting, you two,” said Mrs. St. Clair; “I can’t hear what Mr. 
 Taunton says. I have come to the conclusion that society is ruined by being 
 composed of persons who have lived together aU their fives, been sent to the 
 idle bench in company when they were just out of petticoats, and just in a 
 girl’s school, and then continuing to associate on familiar terms. Witness the 
 
 246 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
abominable behavior of my friend, Mrs. Denham, and that youth beside her. 
 How can we expect them to conduct themselves like grown up people, when 
 they have had their heads knocked together over the same primer so often! 
 What were you saying, Mr. Taunton?” 
 
 “I asked if you thought this a real love match?” 
 
 “Do you wish the truth, as I believe it, without reference to considerations 
 of what is ‘due to feminine delicacy,’ and the ‘propriety of supposing attach¬ 
 ments always mutual,’ and ‘deference to’—fiddlesticks and so on?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Then I proclaim this match to be, on the lady’s side, one of the most 
 insane and unreasoning passions; yet a love as pure, as self-sacrificing, and as 
 devoted as ever filled a woman’s heart and made up her life.” 
 
 “And on his?” 
 
 “Ah, exactly on his! Je bois, monsieur, a votre admirable sante.” 
 
 “Nay, pray answer, dear Mrs. St. Clair. Don’t you think he wished to 
 marry her?” 
 
 “Certainly, or he never would have done it, if the penalty of not doing it 
 had involved the skinning alive of his own mother and every other human 
 being that walks this earth—except himself” 
 
 “Then, you think it is nothing, absolutely nothing, but her fortune that he 
 wanted?” 
 
 “Or a pair of old shoes of Mr. Desborough’s, with pointed toes, that are up 
 the stairs on the shelf, in the right hand closet of the front garret, and which 
 are too worn out for Marcus to accept, and lie there by accident, but couldn’t 
 possibly be asked for by any thing but a whimsical son-in-law,” responded 
 Bertha, quietly and gravely. 
 
 “What on earth do you mean, Bertha?” enquired Mrs. Denham, opening 
 her great brown eyes. 
 
 “Mean, my dear, I mean simply that Gerald Gray wants only what he 
 wants and what he wants he will have, be it great or small, trifling or of 
 consequence, lovely or unlovely, sought by others or universally neglected. 
 He has no rule to guide him, no fixed idea to follow. He wants it to-day—he 
 will scorn it perhaps to-morrow; but while the whim lasts he will have it, if it 
 is a thing to possess; he will do it, if it is a thing to be done. There is nothing 
 too cowardly, too low, too vile in the way of means to accomplish his object. 
 He would lie, steal, cringe, swear, cheat—murder, if necessary. He would 
 trample under foot every tie, every moral obligation, run any risk, dare any 
 possibility with the same calmness and indomitable courage as if he were 
 sustained by an inward power, born of high aims and noble aspirations. He is 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIFE 247 
 
almost invincible, because he is utterly unrestrained and perfectly unscrupu¬ 
 lous; because in his pursuit, be it the countless thousands of an heiress, or her 
 father’s old shoes, or the gratifying of a vanity, or the piquing of his com¬ 
 peers, he puts his whole energies to work, and neither falters nor swerves 
 aside, even should his path be encumbered by rocks of honor or rivers of 
 honesty.” 
 
 The speaker paused; her cheek was flushed and her eye bright; possibly 
 her earnest tone had by its long continuance and the silence of her compan¬ 
 ions, in some way, struck the attention of the very subject of her remarks. 
 Gerald Gray turned and looked towards the table. His glance met Mrs. St. 
 Clair’s; he smiled, bowed and raised his wine glass, without any hesitation; 
 she returned the smile, the bow, and the glance, as easily and with as httle 
 embarrassment as if she had been discussing the hero of a novel. 
 
 “Oh, what a hypocrite!” said Mrs. Denham, laughing. 
 
 “Mr. Gray? Yes.” 
 
 “No, you little wretch, I mean you.” 
 
 “I am not a hypocrite. Why do you call me one?” 
 
 “Because you bowed and looked just now at Mr. Gray as if you admired 
 him intensely.” 
 
 “And so I do; I think him excessively handsome, and excessively clever. I 
 think him so very much both, that my cowardice won’t keep on good terms 
 with him—personally. 
 
 I have but the single way, 
 
 I cannot call him a—field 
 For woman’s defence in open day— 
 
 Man only can weapon wield. 
 
 Woman must ‘only wield’ smiles of an unaUuring and insipid character.” 
 
 Mr. Taunton shook his head. 
 
 “What means Mr. Taunton’s ominous shake of the head?” continued Mrs. 
 St. Clair. 
 
 “I disagree with you. You both underrate and overrate Gray.” 
 
 “As how?” 
 
 “He is by no means so charming, nor so wicked as you describe him.” 
 
 “My dear friend, you reason like a man talking of a man. I reason like a 
 woman talking of a man. I grant you that although very handsome, I have 
 seen men as handsome; and although very clever, I have see many a great 
 deal cleverer; but, he has a sort of charm that, however indescribable, exists. 
 Pshaw! facts speak. Look at Ruth,” turning her head slightly towards the 
 
 248 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
upper end of the table; “no you can’t look at her; she has gone to put on her 
 traveling dress, and it is nearly time for us all to say good bye; so give me 
 some champagne and let me get on with my theory. Look at facts—look 
 (mentally) at the late Miss Desborough. Was there ever a graver, colder, 
 more able-to-take-care-of-herself young woman? How long has she resisted 
 the attractions of Gerald Gray? Is it because he is so good-looking and so 
 agreeable—because he had large, deep, passionate sapphire eyes and is quick 
 at repartee, that he now stands master of this house and of that woman’s 
 heart? No. It is because he is thoroughly unscrupulous. He has found out her 
 weak points, whatever they are, and has taken them as trumps to win the 
 game. I know nothing about it, but I divine it all. Ah!” and the speaker 
 slowly nodded her head, and fixed her eyes on her uplifted bumper of 
 champagne—“I am terribly afraid of him.” 
 
 “You!” exclaimed Arthur Mclvor, who entertained a lively admiration for 
 Mrs. St. Clair; “you afraid, and of Gerald Gray! What an idea!” 
 
 “Young gentleman,” said Bertha, with mock gravity, while her bright eyes 
 danced with suppressed amusement; “if Gerald Gray wished my hand from 
 off my arm, or my nose from off my face, I should feel that they were no 
 longer safe. He would bully me out of them, or persuade me, or lie to me, 
 and I should end by being minus both or [wiser?], and thanking him for his 
 trouble, and apologizing for their being no better!” 
 
 “You are too absurd, Bertha.” 
 
 “You are prejudiced and unjust, Mrs. St. Clair,” said Mr. Browne, the 
 third gentleman of the group, speaking for the first time. “Pardon my saying 
 so; you know my friendship for you too well to put harsh constructions upon 
 such words. I only desire to set you straight about this matter. I have every 
 reason to believe that Gerald Gray is not the man you take him to be. I have 
 but one regret and one fear in this business. He is entirely loyal and true, but 
 I fear that he has thought more of pleasing his mother, whose ambition is 
 great, than of crushing an old sentiment which, although unreciprocated, (by 
 his own confession to me,) was some time back very sincere. The lady never 
 cared for him, but he was once very much in love with that lovely creature.” 
 
 Mr. Browne motioned towards another small table at no very great 
 distance. 
 
 “What a beautiful thing a man’s friendship is, to be sure! Ah, Bettina, if 
 women clung to each other and stood by each other as men do, how much 
 stronger a body would ‘the sex’ be. Now, my love, do you think that you 
 would have rushed to my rescue as Mr. Browne does to Mr. Gray’s? No, 
 indeed, you would have regretted the truth, and wished perhaps that it were 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 249 
 
less widely known. Hush, dear; I know you are going to contradict me, but it 
 don’t signify, and I am dying to see this ‘lovely creature’ of Mr. Browne’s kind 
 imagination and Mr. Gray’s fond fancy. Which is she?” 
 
 “Miss Ceciha Clare.” 
 
 “THAT!” 
 
 Was there ever scorn more expressive than a woman’s face and voice can 
 give! 
 
 “My good Mr. Browne!—my excellent and worthy Mr. Browne! a litde 
 simpering, silly, soft, and giggUng girl! I retract. I take it all back, Bettina. I 
 withdraw all that I said. Better any truth than invention like that. Your idea 
 to Mr. Browne reminds me of a speech I once heard when Wm. Ashe 
 married that forlorn wife of his—that dreadful woman. Somebody said that 
 he had married her for her money—she had money—there was money 
 somewhere floating in the family, besides madness. ‘No,’ contradicted a 
 friend, ‘he is in love with her—really in love.’ ‘Ah, that’s bad,’ said the first 
 somebody—‘very bad. The one would be want of principle, but the other is 
 want of taste, and we all know which is most to be held in horror.’ But the 
 company is dispersing, and here comes the bride again. Let us make our 
 adieux.” 
 
 Ruth had changed her dress—was ready for their short journey to her 
 father’s country-place, where the honey-moon was to be passed. Her cos¬ 
 tume was stricdy elegant and dark, and became her more than her bridal 
 white. She lowered her veil as the doors were thrown open, and the gaudy 
 sunlight flashed in. 
 
 A handsome carriage, stylishly appointed, and with four horses, was 
 waiting for them. 
 
 Ruth kissed her father and her new mother. Mr. Clare led her down the 
 steps and put her in the carriage; Gerald sprang in after her, and gave the 
 order “go on;” while saying it, he waved a final farewell, his last look resting 
 on Cissy’s pale face, as she leaned upon Phyllis’ shoulder in the door way. 
 
 Mrs. St. Clair did not lose this. 
 
 “Pooh!” she murmured to herself; “it cannot be. Come, Bettina, let us be 
 off. The whole thing has been extremely well managed. Those four horses 
 are rather excessive, but then they are necessary, which excuses a little 
 display, even from so well bred a man of such quiet ‘ton’ as Gerald Gray! 
 But—but—depend upon it, no good can ever eventually result from a palpa¬ 
 ble case of‘married for money.’” 
 
 250 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
® CHAPTER VII 
 
 Honeymoons are the proverbial “stupid things, except for the parties 
 concerned,” unless, as in some cases, they are sad and dreary days, never 
 remembered but with shudders, and seldom spoken of. Do you think that 
 when pretty Emilia Jones was “persuaded” by her mother that to marry rich 
 and devoted John Mason, whom she did not care for, was a capital and 
 praiseworthy act, since Louis Martin, whom she loved, had, in a measure, 
 jilted her—do you think Emilia likes to recollect those moonlight evenings 
 of her honeymoon-trip to Philadelphia? Does she like to think of those prim 
 streets and houses, like brick tombs, built for respectable grocers—every 
 shutter a funeral slab, and the only escape for heart and eye up through the 
 linden trees to the magnificent variety, the fitful wealth of color and light 
 above, indelibly associated in her mind with that time? It was not the 
 “stupidity” of her bridal tour that weighed upon that young spirit, destined 
 one would think, for a higher fate, than the virtuous, and decorous, and 
 prudent marriage which Mrs. Grundy applauds to this day. True, Emilia 
 Mason is linked to a fool, an obstinate, jealous, tiresome fool, whom she 
 don’t love and can’t respect; but he is “the father of her children,” and she 
 keeps her carriage, and Mason admires her very much—what more need she 
 ask of this life? But we will pass over her honeymoon, if you please. 
 
 Then, I rather imagine Julius Brodie did not find his honeymoon a dream 
 of bliss, or only “stupid.” He wanted position and some money to keep it; he 
 had a passion for intellect, and grace, and feminine softness, but—he was 
 obliged, by the requirements above named, to win and wed such an ungainly, 
 dull and affectionate young woman! I fancy his honeymoon was an awful 
 trial, until his sturdy shoulders got used to the matrimonial burthen. 
 
 I need not ask that stately, proud, passionate, ambitious beauty, what her 
 feelings were when she had accomplished her noble object, and led captive 
 from the altar the little, insignificant, self-willed, old, ugly millionaire, whom 
 she preferred to the honorable devotion and poverty which might have been 
 her fate; before she had quite entirely put away the past from her well- 
 regulated affections—before she had absolutely accepted diamonds and 
 bankstock, place and power, as the proper substitutes for love and youth, 
 sympathy and congeniality. I think she must have found her honeymoon a 
 frightful experience. 
 
 And there is another style of honeymoon, an old, old story, which always 
 fills my eyes with tears to think of—they were humble people whom it 
 concerns—a pretty country-girl, poor, uneducated, one of many daughters. 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 25I 
 
and her lover was like herself, penniless, but stout-hearted. He left her to try 
 his fate in the West, to rescue from the primeval forest enough land on which 
 to make his corn-patch or to build the little shanty which should call her 
 mistress. Years passed—but they were both young and hopeful; every now 
 and then “a letter came out”—as they expressed it—the spelling far from 
 perfect, the writing anything but beautiful, but the faith and the affection 
 unchanged, to find her the same. Then—of course, you are prepared for it—a 
 long blank. No word, no news, no sign. A stray traveller, who had journeyed 
 on those distant roads, and who had enquired concerning the young man, as 
 they were from the same section of country, was told that his neighbors had 
 reported him as dead; passing, accidentally, that way, this eye-witness saw 
 the deserted log house, with its solitary, small window staring, shutterless, at 
 him, and showing bare ragged walls inside. 
 
 The poor httle girl, who had steadily hoped and waited, had no time 
 allowed her for grief or tears—they were poorer than ever—“mother was 
 sick,” necessarily, and “father had taken to drink;” there were so many little 
 mouths to feed and so many yellow heads to comb! She must help her older 
 and younger sisters, and put aside her sorrow; but the pathetic face, with its 
 paled roses, attracted more than one suitor; she was not only the beauty of 
 the family, but it was well known that she could work as bravely as her 
 plainer sisters. Then came the refrain of “Auld Robin Gray,” and to cut my 
 long episode short, the luckless girl was assured that there was no crime in 
 giving her hand to a very well-to-do young man, who wanted to marry her, 
 while her faithful heart was stiU full of the lost one. 
 
 The Squire tied the knot, and the few guests sat down to the humbly 
 furnished hospitality of this marriage morn. There came a tramp of horses; a 
 child looks out, the bride listlessly raised her head and did the same. A cry of 
 mingled joy and horror broke from her lips. Leading a horse, (upon which a 
 woman’s side saddle was fastened,) mounted himself upon another, there 
 came the dead lover to claim his promised bride, and to carry her away, as the 
 custom then was, to his comfortable home, stiU farther West than his first 
 choice, StiU richer land, but with postal facilities it seemed worse than none, 
 for his letters, telling aU this, had never reached their destination. 
 
 By the law, she was another man’s property. Too late; just too late! Too late 
 by ten minutes or by ten years, what matters it? Those fatal words, “man and 
 wife,” had been spoken. I might moralize for pages on them—so easily said— 
 never to be unsaid, with decency, “until death do us part.” 
 
 He turned his horses’ heads and went back to his dreary forest home. 
 Think of her honeymoon! But there are brighter sides than this—there are 
 
 252 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
first days and weeks of wedded life unspeakable for their full delight, not 
 from their bitter memory. In fact, I recollect meeting a couple once—the 
 gentleman an old acquaintance—who seemed to entertain the most exalted 
 opinion on this subject. He was a small, smiling, rather absurd youth, who 
 lisped slightly, and had fight curly hair, and a taste for painting. 
 
 “And so you are married?” I said. 
 
 “Yes; my wife is here.” 
 
 “I shall be pleased to make her acquaintance, presendy.” 
 
 He bowed delightedly. 
 
 “How long since this charming event transpired?” I went on. 
 
 “Only four months—not quite four months.” 
 
 “Ah! then you are stiU almost in the honeymoon?” 
 
 “Don’t say that; I entreat you, don’t say that; this is not the honeymoon 
 surely? Is not this to be all our fife? Don’t make me miserable by letting me 
 suppose that this must end. I fancied this honeymoon, as you call it, was our 
 existence.” 
 
 He passed his hands through his flaxen curls and seemed ready to cry; so I 
 asked to be taken across the room to the other member of this delightful 
 partnership. He frisked beside me, talking gayly. 
 
 “I am afraid you will find her ‘new,’ ” he said. “She is very ‘new,’ quite 
 young; but you will be lenient, she is so ‘new.’ ” 
 
 The “new” young lady sat at a table, looking over some engravings; her 
 back was to us, and, as her admiring spouse stood beside her, his head was 
 just on a level with hers. 
 
 “Miss Mary!” he called, gently, “Miss Mary!” 
 
 Miss Mary turned round, and the introduction took place. 
 
 The usual preliminaries of how much she had heard of me, from her side; 
 and on mine, of how much I appreciated the young gendeman whom she 
 had so highly honored, were followed by my simple and natural question, as 
 to the length of their stay in this country. I hoped that they would make it 
 their residence, 6cc. 
 
 “We shall stay here about two years and a half,” said Miss Mary. 
 
 “Oh! no! love, three years,” amended her lord. 
 
 “Two years and a half, dear,” persisted the lady, beaming into his face. 
 
 “Three years, my dearest; I think three years.” 
 
 “Two and a half, love, only two and a half,” insisted Madame, smiling, 
 shaking her head, and gazing fondly into the fond eyes beside her. 
 
 “Three years, . . . ,” surely, neither they, nor you, my patient reader, 
 expected me to stand any more of that. I beat a hasty retreat, and have never 
 
 GERALDGRAYSWIFE 253 
 
seen nor heard of the “new” young lady or my old acquaintance since that 
 moment. 
 
 Whether the honeymoon still lasts, or whether it turned acid about those 
 disputed six months, I am unable, therefore, to say. He is the only decided 
 admirer and unmitigated supporter of honeymoons that I ever met. Perhaps 
 it is because people don’t confide in me enough, or I have not sufficiently 
 enquired into the matter. But I fear that many a menage which has since 
 shaken down into shape, consistency, and tolerable contentment, began, 
 perhaps, on both sides, almost always on one, with a restless looking back on 
 what Whittier sings: 
 
 “Of all sad words of tongue or pen,” 
 
 The saddest are, “It might have been!” 
 
 And even in its happiest aspects, and with no such skeleton to teaze or ter¬ 
 rify, how many a woman learns, with sadness and amazement, that the lover, 
 to whom her will was law, has been suddenly transformed, (as he ought ever 
 to be,) into the superior power to whom her feminine fancies must pay 
 homage and deference? Is every young girl taught this necessary lesson? Is 
 she always warned that if her happiness now fairly begins in the double life, 
 for which God destined her, her trials also walk hand in hand with this 
 happiness? She has become the one object of another’s existence; with her 
 rests his earthly comfort, but he is human and a man, he is her head and her 
 master. Has it been earnestly and affectionately recalled to her, by those who 
 first taught her to walk and to pray, that St. Paul writes: “The husband is the 
 head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the Church; . . . , therefore, as 
 the Church is subject to Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in 
 everything?” Surely, if those inspired words, by which we profess to five and 
 be guided, if they mean anything, they do not mean such marriages as are 
 daily made, and urged and commended. Think of it! We didn’t think of it at 
 aU. In no point of really rational view, do we consider marriage, its fearful 
 responsibilities, its awfiil risks, its fierce temptations. 
 
 Men see a pretty face in a ball-room, or a pleasing manner, or hear of a 
 large fortune, and they ask no more; if it were a fine breed of horses they 
 wished to procure, or a pleasant travelling companion for a summer’s jaunt, 
 they would look into the pedigree of the one, and reject “bad blood;” they 
 would hesitate in the other case about the man’s temper, his habits, his 
 capabilities for making things “agreeable.” Alas! alas! when it is only a 
 marriage, only life, only salvation, perhaps, how lightly, how carelessly, how 
 cruelly are these matters managed! 
 
 254 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
The parent who is trustee of his daughter’s fortune, weighs, considers, 
 examines; “he could never forgive himself if he invested Sarah’s money, left 
 her by her godfather, in some losing concern;” what about Sarah’s heart and 
 soul, given into his temporal care by her God? 
 
 Oh! would that my pen were dipped in immortal fire, and had the power 
 to trace my weak words in every parent’s understanding. I renounce the task 
 of touching their hearts, but can I not open their minds to this subject and its 
 importance? I am no advocate for foolish, hasty love matches, as imprudent 
 fancies are sneeringly called; but even such would not be hopeless if both 
 men and women, as boys and girls, were instructed in the duties and 
 requirements and quicksands of matrimony, just as they are in Latin and 
 Greek, modern languages, housekeeping, dancing, double-entry, “Shake¬ 
 speare and the musical glasses.” If girls were not taught that marriage is a 
 necessity, and that “any marriage is better than none!” On the contrary, 
 would that this truth were sucked in, with mother’s milk; “any loveless single 
 life is more respectable than a disunited, unloving, married life.” To my eyes 
 no spectacle is more degrading than the squabbles, the coolness, the mutual 
 (or one-sided) dislike of two people, who, nevertheless, bring yearly a baby 
 to be christened, and are said by their friends “not to live comfortably, but 
 still they get on!” 
 
 I seem to have wandered from honeymoons, also, as I wandered from the 
 thread of my story, but it is often from honeymoons that married disasters 
 chiefly spring. George has been accustomed, perhaps, to see his mamma, 
 who is well broken into harness, trot along calmly and contentedly under the 
 guidance of the conjugal rein; he expects to see “his wife” in these early days, 
 go through her paces as deftly. Louisa, au contraire, has been used to home, 
 perhaps, to recognize “the grey mare as the better horse;” she tosses her saucy 
 head and kicks over the traces when the bridle means right, and she means 
 left. .//"George is a sensible man, he perceives the difficulty, and coaxes his 
 pretty, dearly-loved, spirited little nag. Doesn’t St. Paul tell him too, (for 
 there are two sides to this and every question,) “So ought men to love their 
 wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself;” he should 
 not show temper, but he must show firmness. And she, if her real education 
 has been neglected, if she has never learned, that honorable submission is her 
 lot, and is wisest so; or if, oh, miserable woman! she married with the perfect 
 conviction of a sad truth, known equally to herself and to her friends, that 
 this George, whom so recently she swore to honor and obey, was not capable 
 of inspiring either sentiment—shut the book of their lives. She will learn to 
 “manage” him, (hateful word!) or they will fight for supremacy, or she will be 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 255 
 
sullenly “conquered,” or ingloriously conquer him, and so live, “till death do 
 them part!” 
 
 What, says Phoehe Carey about that tremendous clause in our Episcopal 
 service, murmured every day as thoughtlessly as if it had no more signifi¬ 
 cance than the “very humble and obedient servant” of a formal note? 
 
 “Promise to Love! ^why woman thinks 
 To lose a privilege, not a task; 
 
 If thou wilt truly take my heart. 
 
 And keep it—this is all I ask. 
 
 ''Honor thee! yes, if thou wilt live 
 A life of truth and purity; 
 
 When I have seen thy worthiness, 
 
 I cannot choose but honor thee. 
 
 "Obey! when I have fiiUy learned 
 Each want and wish to understand. 
 
 I’ll have the wisdom to obey. 
 
 If thou hast wisdom to command. 
 
 “So, if I fail to live with thee 
 In duty, love and lowliness, 
 
 Tis Nature’s fault, or thine, or both. 
 
 The greater must control the less.” 
 
 Which is aU very well, if spoken before hand; but one is not permitted to 
 interpolate “ifs” in one’s marriage vows, and, unluckily, it has not yet been 
 satisfactorily decided, that the failure of one party to keep his or her share of 
 this solemn compact, exonerates the other from its weight. And, yet, this, the 
 bargain from which there is no withdrawal, to which no bounds are assigned, 
 never to be honorably dissolved, either by “mutual consent” or the “terms of 
 hmitations;” this is the firm which is most easily arranged—into which either 
 or both partners plunge with a reckless indifference that Satan must smile to 
 see, for it surely brings him, over and again, his richest harvest of human and 
 unhappy souls! 
 
 I turn from the sad pictures, which here present themselves, to a brighter 
 scene. Was there ever so happy a honeymoon as Ruth Gray’s? Did ever 
 bridegroom wear a serener brow, or bend eyes more beautiful and bright 
 upon the woman who worshipped him than did Gerald? Beauchamp is a 
 lovely spot. As its name indicates, the house stands on a fine field of level 
 
 256 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
ground. The river runs between low banks, about forty yards from the 
 marble steps that in a stately double sweep lead up into the large, two- 
 storied, handsome house, of which the servants’ apartments and various 
 offices occupy the ground floor, and you enter through a broad piazza into 
 the drawing-rooms and halls on the first story. 
 
 Of course, there are live oaks, old as the river almost, with great “gnarled 
 trunks,” standing in the informal beauty of their forest growth and not in 
 stiff avenues of cultivated grace. You see no fences nor stone walls; to the 
 right, in the distance, there is a low, broad gate, and stretching away on either 
 side, you can catch glimpses of a hedge, (higher than a man’s head,) of the 
 impervious Cherokee rose; in the spring it will be covered thick with the 
 white four leaved blossoms, mingled with the long sprays of the yellow 
 jessamine. This forms the enclosure; the drive winds prettily in a smooth 
 gravel path, around and about the trees, from that gate to the front entrance. 
 Don’t take the little Gothic building for a lodge; it is the chapel, where, every 
 Sunday afternoon, there is service. The stables are to your left; do you see the 
 small pond on which the rays of the setting sun are shimmering through the 
 boughs of that over-shadowing oak? Mr. Desborough has a fine stud, and 
 the grooms are leading out the horses now in detachments, and watering 
 them; you can hear the tones of those unmistakable African voices, faintly 
 ringing through the clear, crisp air, as the men laugh and joke with each 
 other and lazily get through their tasks. 
 
 Ruth and Gerald are sauntering by the riverside. His arm is around her 
 waist, his other hand holds one of hers. 
 
 They are quite silent; presently she lifts her dark, wistful eyes to his face. 
 
 “What are you thinking of, darling?” he asked, gently. 
 
 “I am trying to discover why you first loved me. It is that old, provoking 
 question; one that I asked you before.” 
 
 “Indeed?” and he smiled and pressed her hand, which clung so fondly to 
 his grasp. 
 
 “Yes. I know that most people would think me a great idiot for not 
 instantly deciding upon the most natural solution—that you don’t love me at 
 all, and that you marry me for my money.” 
 
 “Ruth!” said Gerald, gravely. 
 
 “Don’t interrupt me, dear, / have never doubted you for one instant. If the 
 whole world maintained such or such things against you, from your own bps, 
 only, would I believe them. It is your truth that I love in you. Your frank 
 sincerity; ah, darling, if you could but guess how weary of falseness and 
 hypocrisy and double-dealing my twenty-six years of this hfe have made me! 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 257 
 
No, don’t guess it. You would not like to find me such a withered, wilted, 
 worn-out worldling.” 
 
 “Alliterations’ able ally, I see you are.” 
 
 “Do you recoUect,” pursued Ruth, “that very first evening of your return 
 from New Haven, when papa came into the room, as you were asking me to 
 read that long letter, that dear and precious letter, the diary you kept on your 
 journey and during your absence? He glanced at the voluminous manuscript, 
 and you said, ‘I am asking Miss Desborough to read my college valedictory.’ 
 No sooner had he left us than you started up with an exclamation of pain, 
 and turning to answer my eager demand as to what ailed you, I saw your face 
 as pale as death, and actual anguish working every feature—.” 
 
 “Hush, dear child, don’t recall all that,” said her husband, raising her 
 hands to his lips. 
 
 “But I must; it was then the blow was fairly struck that brought me for fife 
 to your side. ‘I have told a lie,’ you said, with bitter emphasis; ‘I feel it here, 
 like a red-hot mark upon my forehead.’ Gerald, from that instant I adored 
 you. God forgive me! but it is true, I adore you.” 
 
 “My sweet worshipper!” said Gerald, smiling half ironically, and very 
 tenderly kissing the mouth that trembled with passionate feeling. 
 
 “Yours was the jealous love of truth that I had so long been seeking. Now, 
 I was satisfied. Unlovely and unlovable as I know myself to be, when you said 
 to me, ‘I love you,’ on that star-fit beach, I did not for one second doubt it; so 
 it is that I want to know, not if you do, but why you do?” 
 
 “Perhaps it is for your money,” said Gerald, teasing her; “I love your lands 
 and that house and the one in town, and the ‘irrepressible conflicts,’ and— 
 your beauty,” he slowly added in a different tone. 
 
 The tears started to Ruth’s proud eyes—ah, me! with “the full happiness of 
 her double fife had come the trial” of tears. I wonder who ever saw Miss 
 Desborough cry? Why is it? why must it ever be that the fountain of our 
 perfect joy lies always next to that briny source? When she “walked through 
 fife,” bitterly alone, her eyes were as dry as they were cold. 
 
 “You are laughing at me!” 
 
 “Dear child,” said Gerald, pressing her to his heart, “how have I wounded 
 you? Oh, Ruth, what a silly, dear, little goose you are! Of course there are lots 
 of women handsomer than you; it is not for your looks that I love you.” 
 
 “I should hope not, even if I were a red and white beauty, like Cecilia 
 Clare. I should as soon be loved for the land and houses and ‘conflicts’ as for 
 my skin and eyes and hair; at least the former are more lasting usually.” 
 
 “I agree with you entirely, but, at the same time, I must insist on being a 
 
 258 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
better judge than you of your appearance. Can’t you see that your eyes and 
 mouth are beautiful?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “Candidly?” 
 
 “Was I ever uncandid, Gerald?” 
 
 “True; well, then, to impress upon your bewildered understanding that 
 they are, and promising that I should love you just the same if they were not, 
 which, perhaps, will help to answer your almost unanswerable question as to 
 the ‘why’ of my love for you, listen to a little verse that came into my mind 
 just now. You can tack it on to the end of that pretty ancient ballad we read 
 yesterday, ‘Her I Love.’ How does the original go? 
 
 “I know a little hand, 
 
 Tis the softest in the land. 
 
 And I feel its pressure bland. 
 
 While I sing; 
 
 Lily-white it seemeth now. 
 
 Like a rose-leaf on my brow. 
 
 As a dove might fan my brow. 
 
 With its wing. 
 
 Well! I prize all hands above. 
 
 This dear hand of her I love! 
 
 “I know a little foot. 
 
 Very cunningly it is put, 
 
 In a dainty little boot. 
 
 Where it hides; 
 
 Back and fore it glides— 
 
 (No, that’s wrong; help me, Ruth, when I stumble; ah!) 
 
 Like a shuttle it flies, 
 
 Back and fore, before my eyes. 
 
 As it glides. 
 
 Well! I prize all feet above. 
 
 This dear foot of her I love. 
 
 “I know a little heart. 
 
 It is free from courtly art. 
 
 And I own it every part. 
 
 For all time! 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 
 
 259 
 
Ever it beats with music’s tone, 
 
 Ever an echo of my own, 
 
 Holy time! 
 
 Well! I prize all hearts above. 
 
 This dear heart of her I love! 
 
 Now, these lines are very charming; hut listen to what was suggested by the 
 bright smile and your actually speaking lips, as you sat silently beside me last 
 evening, not uttering one word, yet saying a volume: 
 
 I know a little lip. 
 
 Where a bee would love to sip. 
 
 Like the honeysuckle’s tip. 
 
 Is it sweet. 
 
 Parting now with ruby glow. 
 
 Arching, too, like Cupid’s bow 
 Weaving smiles of joy, I know. 
 
 When we meet. 
 
 Well! I prize all lips above. 
 
 This dear lip of her I love! 
 
 “Do you like that, miladiT 
 
 “Very much,” said Ruth, blushing with pleased attention. “So you are a 
 poet, too?” 
 
 '"Comme me voyez! Not exactly destined to be the author of the Great Epic 
 of the Day, nor shall I attempt ‘to snatch at the bays’ of the Poet Laureate 
 over the water—hut enough to he your poetaster in ordinary, and send you 
 ‘pomes’ on your birthday when you are good. And take care that I don’t have 
 to add another verse about ‘an eye, that dearly loves to cry,’ belonging to ‘her 
 I love.’ My darling, tears are my terror! I saw a ‘glistening drop’ trying to 
 make its way from under your long lashes just now. Pas vrai?' 
 
 “Yes, I am very sorry,” said Ruth. “You should forgive it for its novelty. I 
 did not use to be given to the ‘melting mood.’ However, as my smiles were 
 once quite as rare, and you have taught them to me, why you must, I fear, 
 take their sisters along with them. But it is growing cold. Let us go in.” 
 
 The sun had sunk far below the trees, and the twilight had deepened into 
 night. The cheerful blaze of the great wood fire sparkled through the 
 undrawn curtains of the drawing-room windows. How luxuriously comfort¬ 
 able it all looked, as the wedded lovers paused upon the lowest step, and 
 
 260 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Gerald said, resting his arm upon the pillar of the balustrade, and as if to 
 finish the conversation before they entered the house. 
 
 “So it was that fib of mine which won your stubborn heart?” 
 
 “No,” said Ruth, smiling, “it was your agony of remorse for having told it, 
 you obtuse Gerald.” 
 
 “And if I should ever be detected in an unremorseful one, an unconfessed 
 prevarication, would you unlove me?” 
 
 “Yes.” Ruth’s voice was almost as harsh as in her loneliest days, when she 
 uttered this monosyllable after a silence of a moment. 
 
 “Well, you need not fear it,” he said. “But I always fancied that it was the 
 beautiful handwriting of that diary that gave you to me—and the spelling! 
 Dogberry was wrong, it is ‘spelling’ that ‘comes by nature.’ My poor uncle 
 used to be in despair about my erratic mode of vanquishing orthography. I 
 never ‘cave in’ to it, but I make its rules submit to my powerful pen.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Ruth, laughing. “On one page, you appeared suddenly struck 
 with the curious look of some marvelously lettered word. ‘That, I am sure, is 
 not right,’ you wrote, pathetically; ‘do you think, dear friend, that it is ig—, 
 with a dash and a final e, a trouble which makes me play such fantastic tricks 
 with Johnson and Webster?” 
 
 “I am sure,” said Gerald, again drawing his bride near enough to lay his 
 beautiful Greek head upon her shoulder, as she stood on the step above him, 
 “you may as well acknowledge it; you wished for a full-grown scholar, whose 
 knuckles you can rap.” 
 
 “I wished, most earnestly, to show him that I believed in what Pope wrote 
 to Martha Blount, and Mrs. Pioni quotes in her shrewd old age, to her 
 baronet friend—what was his name? She had got a melancholy letter from 
 him when he was beset with family anxieties, and she cites this autographic 
 scrap of Pope’s: ‘My poor father died in my arms this morning; if, at such a 
 moment, I did not forget you, assure yourself I never can.’ Mrs. Pioni 
 concludes that her friend, also, really loved her, to write when he was busy 
 and unhappy; when I read those hasty letters you wrote me, and that longer 
 diary, full of thoughts in which I was present, was it strange that I came to 
 the same conclusion?” 
 
 She softly bent her head and timidly, almost, laid her lips on his white 
 forehead. 
 
 “At all events, Ruth,” he said, “you do not regret your choice, just yet?” 
 
 “My darling! I am too happy. You stand between me and Heaven. I am a 
 new creature with you; there is new blood in my veins; a new sun, moon and 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 261 
 
stars in the sky; all life is changed since I met you. I no longer regret my poor 
 mother, as I used to do. But, on the other hand, I am more tolerant, I hope, 
 of ordinary people.” She paused. “Can you believe it?” she added with a little 
 laugh. “I find Cissy Clare less insipid than skim milk, because I love you.” 
 
 I fear honeymoons are stupid things, except to the parties principally 
 concerned, and that this conversation is no exception to the adage. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Gray bid fair to be the most popular couple in their 
 very fashionable circle. Why not? It was the most natural thing that could 
 happen. Gerald’s indolent, pleasant, gay manners, were always attractive; he 
 had always been permitted to take more liberties, say more saucy things, and 
 be more quoted by men, and petted by women, than anybody. He was good- 
 naturedly selfish. Provided he had everything he wished, he grudged no 
 human being taking their share of the good things of this life; he would even 
 invite them to partake of his own superfluity. If he had four “weeds” in his 
 porte cigares, and the softest-cushioned sofa in the club-room, he would 
 willingly tender one of the Habanas, (his “smoke” never exceeded three,) and 
 point to the next best seat in the room to the first agreeable man that entered, 
 would amuse the new-comer by a thousand funny stories, and leave the 
 pleasantest impression of his social qualities on the mind of his companion, 
 when he sauntered away. He paid his bills scrupulously; however much he 
 was given to jokes against other people, permitted none to be launched 
 against himself; was free with his money, and was called “very high-toned.” 
 
 Their home was gay and hospitable. Mr. Desborough gladly retired from 
 an active share in its honors. Tight shoes, and what he called “his stuck-up 
 manners,” were thankfully and almost permanently abandoned for a country 
 life, varied only by visits to his daughter at quiet seasons, when balls were 
 over and dinners few. He admired his son-in-law vastly; Gerald thoroughly 
 understood what his beau-pere had called “which side his bread was but¬ 
 tered”—he showed no eagerness about spending money, (he knew that Ruth 
 would take the coat off her father’s back, and “put it up the spout,” to supply 
 her idol with a full purse); he was very polite to the old man, and they got on 
 extremely well together. Beauchamp and the town house were virtually 
 theirs already, and Mr. Desborough retired to BeUair, a small place near the 
 city. 
 
 And Ruth! Ruth was the happy victim of the most delicious and soul 
 endearing delusion. She fancied that she had married an angel with a silk)' 
 
 262 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
moustache, a cameo profile, a strong sense of religious duty, (with no great 
 practice about it) shiny boots, excellent principles, the sweetest temper, and 
 the loftiest ideas of truth and honesty. And this perfect being loved her! Had 
 not he, the apostle of that goddess always down a well, had he too not 
 moralized with her, over and again, upon the strange yet beautiful chance 
 which had kept his heart absolutely untouched, until that ever blessed storm, 
 whose driving wind had sent him straight, by so mere accident, to her side? 
 Had he not from the moment when she placed her hand in his, and led him 
 up those ricketty steps of Mrs. Price’s house, had he not felt that virgin heart 
 thrill to the touch of those fingers, unconscious then, of their miraculous 
 power? Oh silly, silly woman’s love! Was there ever anvthing so blind and 
 so foolish as a devoted woman? Ruth Desborough had more sense than half 
 her sex—Ruth Gray was intensely absurd. Ruth Desborough weighed and 
 judged, hesitated and doubted—Ruth Gray looked at everything through 
 her husband’s blue eyes, and placed her reasoning powers in the alembic of 
 his mind, from which her ideas came forth as he willed them. 
 
 But she was very happy. I only can wish to every feminine soul whose 
 earthly comfort I pray for, that they may pass through life with the feefings 
 that made up Mrs. Gerald Gray’s wedded existence. 
 
 Of course there were some clouds in this marvelously blue sky. Its oth¬ 
 erwise monotonous azure would have wearied the gaze, perhaps. Light 
 white, 
 
 “Argosies of summer, wrecked and drifting. 
 
 Floated,’’ 
 
 occasionally up to the zenith, and once or twice a positive thunder-cloud, 
 black and threatening, sent out its “forked tongues” of flame, and the rain 
 drops fell, fast and furious. Mutterings of thunder rolled from marital lips, 
 and the “cloud” was apt to put on its beaver and quit the home in the sky, 
 leaving the shower to dry up, uncrushed. But how lovely the “cerulean vault,” 
 after all this, when the sun shone again—and explanations were given—and 
 Ruth’s proud spirit, having gladly stooped to ask pardon, for his having given 
 her offence—how graciously her imperial master passed over the crime of lese 
 majeste! There was no Vashti in the Gray menage; but Esther was always 
 bending low before Ahasuerus, and praying him to allow her to speak her 
 submission. Jealousy was the skeleton in Ruth’s closet: she scarcely would 
 acknowledge that she saw it. She hid its dreadful old bones as well as she 
 could, and never willingly unlocked the door. She was better off than I would 
 allow Mr. Thackery to give me credit for being, when, one evening, the 
 lower press beneath a book case in the library, where we were supping, would 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 263 
 
fly open with a bang every two minutes, just at my back. Again and again the 
 servant closed it—the key would not turn. I rose up and jammed a piece of 
 paper beside the lock—“you are very anxious about that door,” said Michael 
 Angelo: “is the skeleton there?” “Ah!” I sighed, “that small spot would not 
 hold half of my skeletons.” 
 
 Ruth had but one: sometimes it took the visible shape of one woman, 
 sometimes another. Gerald would spend hours at a ball, lazily chatting with 
 some girl, saying nothing probably that as Ruth’s property he had no right to 
 say, but looking a great deal, and making this young heart, (he hked them 
 young and fresh,) dance with gratified vanity. Or he would devote himself, in 
 an obscure corner, to some old flirt of his, some daring-eyed, gay-spoken 
 woman, and Ruth would, as she passed, catch whispers and low laughs. 
 Then, he would disappear at the theatre, and her anxious lorgnette would 
 discover him in a private box, sitting on a low stool at the feet of some 
 desperately attractive woman, playing with her bouquet, and looking as little 
 like a married man as a perfectly disengaged one could represent. But, oh, 
 bitterest of bitter pangs, was to hear of her beloved from others. To be told 
 that at that ball where she did not go, Mr. Gray was the life of the evening. 
 “He and his cousin. Miss Clare, got up a new dance—what was its name?” 
 
 Ruth did not know: but she knew well the sickening sinking with which 
 she asked, “which Miss Clare? PhyUis?” 
 
 “Oh, no; Cissy. You know Mr. Gray’s favorite was always Cissy.” 
 
 There is no instinct in these things. Ruth had a dread of Cissy Clare. 
 Gerald always spoke of her as frankly as possible: no reticence apparently, in 
 word or action. She was his cousin; his early playmate; his mother’s god¬ 
 daughter. He even made a merit of never noticing Cissy before Ruth, when 
 Ruth commented upon it. 
 
 “Darling,” he said, “I know you have an idea that I was in love with Cissy; 
 I can’t get it out of your precious head—what then must I do? I can’t 
 absolutely neglect poor little Cis, who is a good, amiable, harmless little 
 creature—so, I never dance "with her, or talk to her, where it will wrong you to 
 see me. If you bid me speak just the same, when you are present, I shall do 
 it.” 
 
 Of course, Ruth was ashamed, and begged pardon. 
 
 Then his other flirtations: “What would you have, Ruth, dear?” he would 
 say; “recollect we are married, not lovers. We are living one life now. You 
 would not wish that I should keep on talking only to you in society, and 
 following you around with my eyes, as I did in my courting days? I must talk 
 to other women.” 
 
 264 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Certainly; but you talk to one woman.” 
 
 Cissy, again? 
 
 “No—but all last week, at every party; in the street; at the opera, you were 
 laughing over Eugenia Hopes’ luxurious shoulders.” 
 
 “By Jove! Ruth, they were luxurious. I wonder if anybody will ever rouse 
 that girl. I should like to do it. Stop, darling, don’t go off. Listen to me. Don’t 
 you know that I would rather talk to you than to anybody—but you must 
 learn to understand me. I only care to do what you call ‘devote myself’ to 
 some one indifferent woman at a time. You must learn to understand my 
 temper, and I don’t always wish to do what I prefer doing. That is the key 
 note to my wayward ways that vex you sometimes. And then you are jealous.” 
 
 “I know I am,” said Ruth, gravely and sadly. “I wish I had some vanity; 1 
 think I should be happier.” 
 
 “You are not happy then; you have made me so happy, and I cannot make 
 you so?”—Gerald fixed his eyes upon her troubled, averted face. 
 
 She turned, and threw herself into his arms. 
 
 “I should be an ungrateful wretch, if I said or thought so. No, Gerald; 
 these are but trifles after all, and are my necessary crosses. I must learn to 
 bear them.” 
 
 But there were occasions when such merely passing outbursts were super¬ 
 seded by the dark storm charged clouds of which I spoke. One such occurred 
 about five months after their marriage, and may perhaps be looked upon as 
 the final thunder clap which, severer and longer-rolling than its predeces¬ 
 sors, sounding in our very ears, and seeming to threaten entire destruction, 
 dies away harmlessly after all—echoing from the distance, faintly and more 
 faintly still—till the rainbow is seen spanning the fair sky, and proclaiming 
 that peace has really come at last. 
 
 Gerald had been more wayward, and more obstinately bent upon smiling 
 demonstrations of a disagreeable nature than usual. He had worried poor 
 Ruth as remorsely as a powerful child can torment a helpless kitten. Kitten 
 gets cattish and shows her claws, and the child is then justified in knocking it 
 about the head till it understands that “velvet paws” alone are admissable for 
 the weaker party. Kitty submits, and blows cease; but her fur is rubbed the 
 wrong way, her whiskers are pulled, her tail is pinched—all in fun, you 
 know—just playful nonsense, but the impatient and not perfect-tempered 
 feline specimen darts out the sharp defenses again, to be again summarily 
 dealt with, and so on, and so on, ad libitum. 
 
 Gerald had a select party to play “draw poker,” or “lanquenet,” or some 
 pleasant card deviltry of a delightful nature and gambhng tendency; this was 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 265 
 
rather aggravating, because his wife, like most true women, had a profound 
 aversion to games of chance. He had not exactly promised her to give up 
 such things, but he had distinctly and voluntarily assured her that he meant 
 to do so—and had been very much commended and thanked by her for his 
 virtuous resolve. 
 
 The morning after this party, she casually found out that his pockets were 
 empty, and her mild remonstrance was met by a contemptuous desire to 
 know if she were trembling for her future. Immediately she repented, and 
 felt humiliated at her own want of dehcacy—but to teach her more prudence, 
 Gerald told her carelessly, in the evening, that he was going to a supper, at 
 the house of a lady of whom she justly disapproved, and whose very decided 
 and marked attentions to Mr. Gray formed many a bone in Ruth’s skeleton. 
 
 To ask him to give up going was, she found, a sure method to make him 
 go; but she tried it, and produced the satisfactory result—a distinct assurance 
 that nothing should prevent his keeping his engagement, but hkewise he 
 laughed very kindly at her fears of Mrs. Redbum’s attractions. 
 
 The more affectionate his words, the more she hoped he would change his 
 mind; but off he went, leaving her more irritated than she had ever been 
 against her chosen lord and idolized master. 
 
 The next day she had quite lost her temper; she injudiciously asked him 
 questions about his supper, and tears came to her eyes when, after he had 
 given her vague and thoroughly evasive answers, he left the breakfast-room 
 with a cool “good morning,” and bade the footman tell his mistress that he 
 would dine at the club. 
 
 In the afternoon, when Ruth was taking a sohtary dine, her husband’s 
 drag passed her with Cecilia Clare seated beside him, looking excessively 
 handsome, dressed to perfection, and both in the gayest spirits. Les conve¬ 
 nances escorted them in the same shape of the groom in the dickey; but my 
 unhappy heroine, a prey to the deepest melancholy, ordered the coachman 
 “home,” and passed the sad hours till bed time in restlessly pacing the floor 
 of her drawing-room, alternately indignant against her absent darling, with 
 herself for sending him away by her injudicious behaviour. 
 
 “He is right;” she murmured, “I cannot tie him to my apron string; we are 
 not sighing lovers, but two people who have their separate duties to perform, 
 and who, though united by the strongest bonds to each other, are not 
 disunited from all the world. Because I care for no society but his, it does not 
 follow that he should care for none but mine. And yet—it is cruel of him. Is it 
 my fault—is it a crime that I regret each hour he gives others in needless, and 
 to me most annoying, attentions? Why not have left me where I was? Why 
 
 266 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
awaken in me this overwhelming love for him, this unreasoning delight in 
 his presence, and then forever rob me of it.” A passion of tears followed her 
 almost inarticulate words. 
 
 “How silly!” she thought, recovering her old grimness of expression, and 
 seating herself resolutely in a chair near the reading lamp. “Let me find my 
 old self once more. I’ll read.” 
 
 A few pages were listlessly looked at, and then the book was thrown 
 aside—lo o’clock struck—she drew the buvard and inkstand near her, seized 
 a pen and wrote a few lines: 
 
 “Dearest Gerald,” she said, “great resolutions come sometimes very sud¬ 
 denly. I remember your telling me—oh, so long ago—it was last October, was 
 it not?—that if resolves went as quickly as repentance, the latter would never 
 overtake the former. So, tonight, I have decided upon a great and sudden act. 
 You will hear of it tomorrow. I am so tired of annoying, so helpless to prevent 
 it. The childishness of my love for you, inexplicable as it would be to most 
 people, ought to understand. I was never really young, and certainly never 
 happy, till I knew you. But the penalty I pay for the deep joy of my love, is too 
 much for me. I have hit upon a plan, which I am sure will meet with your 
 approval. And may [it bring] loving peace to both of us—to you, whom I so 
 incessantly disturb with my jealous fears of—I know not what, and to me, 
 who am now, and will be to my last breath. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 Ruth. 
 
 “I lay this on your toilette table; I can’t bear to go to sleep with you 
 fancying, probably, that I am angry.” 
 
 She folded and directed her little note, and went off to her own room, first 
 passing into her husband’s dressing room, and depositing the loving message 
 among the gold-mounted bottles and jars systematically arranged before his 
 mirror. 
 
 Who could have recognized the Ruth Desborough of a year back, in the 
 yearning-faced woman, who paused to look with such a long gaze of 
 tenderness upon the manly belongings of that room? His riding whip lay 
 upon a chair, she took it up and almost stealthily carried it to her lips; a pair 
 of old boots, carelessly left near the wardrobe, were his, and fondly looked at 
 for his sake. 
 
 Indeed, I don’t think that the silliest girl could have behaved more 
 foolishly—human nature is certainly very absurd—and monotonous. 
 
 Her maid was hastily dismissed, and the outer door locked as usual, but 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 267 
 
she did not know that she had carelessly pushed the bolt of the dressing 
 room door—and worn out with the long tension of her mind, the sleepless¬ 
 ness of the two previous nights, and her tears, she presently fell into a deep 
 slumber. 
 
 It was dayhght when she awoke, and her eyes told her that she was alone 
 and that there was a strip of paper pushed under the dressing room door. She 
 sprang up and seized it. 
 
 “My own heart’s darhng, I write this with tears in my eyes. Oh, I have 
 behaved shamefully to-night! I stayed at the club for no earthly reason but 
 because I was angry. When I came home, your door was shut; you had bolted 
 it. I scratched and scratched at the panels, but no answer. I lay down on my 
 sofa really unhappy, and wishing so much that you would wake up. I tried 
 again to make you hear me, you usually sleep so hghtly, but in vain. Then I 
 saw your dear little note, lying so white and still among my things, and a 
 strange shiver seized me; I hardly dared to open it. Darhng, I do and can love 
 you so much; why is it, why is it, we do not get on well? At that stupid party I 
 went to last night, I kept wandering about, caring to speak to no one. I 
 missed my Ruth’s loving look; and yet, this morning, I was cross to you, and 
 continued so all day; but my anger has gone to the winds now. And your 
 poor, little, good note. What plan is it? I am half tempted to arouse the 
 house; you are so still. What should I feel to know that this door—but sleep 
 on, dear child; I put this under the shl. I hope it will catch your eye at early 
 dawn.” 
 
 I don’t essay to describe Ruth’s deep dehght as she read this note; her eyes 
 devoured the contents, and then she flew to her husband, who was lying 
 awake upon the sofa. On her knees beside him, with her happy head upon 
 his breast, she thanked him for writing such a wondrously clever and 
 brUhant production. I fancy no pen, to her mind, ever traced sentences so 
 perfect. 
 
 Never was Gerald more truly her lover than in the grey dawn of that April 
 morning; he had evidently been shaken by a tender remorse for his victim. It 
 was the turning point in their hves. Ruth’s real happiness dated from that 
 day; Gerald had been seriously alarmed; and it had awakened all the best 
 feelings of his nature. He had been vaguely uneasy about Ruth’s note; he had 
 been thinking about her “wealth of devotion,” and he felt how very dear she 
 had made herself to him, over and above the fact which we cannot doubt, of 
 his never having loved anybody but herself, except his own self, probably. 
 
 “And what is that mysterious plan, my darling?” he asked. 
 
 268 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Let us off to Europe for a year or two; we could easily persuade papa to 
 spare us. I think it will do my temper good.” 
 
 Gerald smiled and kissed her. 
 
 “Your’s is a very nice plan, and I have not one objection to offer.” 
 
 In May they sailed. 
 
 ii CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Grays were two years absent. Mr. Desborough did not miss his 
 daughter enough to hurry her back again, nor was she disturbed by any 
 visions, which constantly filled the anxious minds of her fellow-citizens, who 
 more than once provided a step-mother for Ruth, and a fine family of half 
 sisters and brothers to share her patrimony. 
 
 She wrote very regularly to him, and he was very proud of the letters; 
 dwelling with great satisfaction upon her presentation at two courts, her 
 admission into very high circles both in England and France, and accepting, 
 as a master of secondary importance, but still pleasant enough to know, the 
 fact of her conjugal happiness, which, even to his rather obtuse comprehen¬ 
 sion in such matters, was clear enough. 
 
 Gerald wrote sometimes, too; one of his letters from Paris contained the 
 gratifying information of the birth of an heir, and what was not quite so 
 expected, of an heiress also. “Ruth named them at once; and is so determined 
 upon it,” he wrote, “that although you may naturally think, dear sir, that she 
 is too fond of almost perpetuating my cognomen, she will have both of our 
 babies called for me—Gerald and Geraldine; therefore, they will stand in 
 their baptismal record, and very fine little monkeys they are, I can assure you. 
 Ruth is doing wonderfully well,, and will write so soon as her stately profes¬ 
 sional attendant wiU permit her to use her pen.” 
 
 Another letter, some two months afterwards, had best be given in full: 
 
 Paris, April loth, i8— 
 
 My Dear Sir: 
 
 I have the pleasure of announcing a piece of intelligence that is very well 
 worth telling. You may remember to have heard me say that one of my late 
 aunts, Mrs. Norman Gray’s nephews, has been from my boyhood my closest 
 friend. His name is Francis Josselyn; he, with his elder brother, William, and 
 a sister, became heirs to my aunt’s fortune by the terms of her father’s wiU, 
 and her marriage settlements. At the time of that sad blow when I lost both 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 269 
 
of my most kind and most partial relations, Francis was traveling in the East, 
 exploring the centre of Africa for aught we knew, or setting up as a private 
 Arab citizen, with a house, a palm tree, and a tent of his own. It was very 
 long before any intimation could reach him of the change in his pecuniary 
 condition, and when it did, he merely sent word that he would come home 
 after a whUe. 
 
 Since I left America, nearly a year ago, a sort of fatahty seemed to follow 
 the Josselyns; Emily, who had married very well, with as strong setdements 
 as her aunt before her, but only with regard to herself and her possible 
 children, died last December, of typhoid fever, some weeks before her 
 expected confinement; and not ten days after, WLUiam would drive a horse 
 warranted to runaway, which did so, dashed him out of the buggy, and killed 
 him on the spot. 
 
 He was unmarried, and, consequently, my friend Francis became sole heir, 
 and his presence absolutely necessary. He was fished out of the desert, or 
 wherever he was, and got to Boston by some circuitous and eccentric route 
 best suited to his taste. 
 
 In looking over the packages and letters accumulated for him, there was 
 one always considered too weighty to be sent by post to Arabia, Vetria, or 
 Timbuctoo, for it was a desk of our Aunt’s, carefully sealed up, and directed 
 to him. In it he found an earnest and urgent appeal to share his portion with 
 me, if ever fate should put in his power; a duplicate letter to myself, asked the 
 same of me, in the other case. Our beloved aunt added a few joint words to 
 the effect that we were equally dear to her, and she was satisfied that the 
 affection of each would rejoice to serve the other. Now, as Francis had seized 
 the earhest chance to send me from his own generous heart a like proposi¬ 
 tion, when first he heard of our uncle and aunt’s death, he triumphs like the 
 great souled creature he is, over what he considers the legal and authoritative 
 necessity for me to accept; especially as the address of the desk to him was 
 her last living thought. 
 
 He argues that this is a will of our aunt’s, which, if the law ignored her 
 right to make, justice requires us to honour. 
 
 I have yielded to his most generous persuasions, in a measure, leaving the 
 management of our affairs to him; ostensibly, during my absence abroad, but, 
 in reality, never intending to have a division of the property, unless I find out 
 that he lets me draw more than my share. 
 
 It is in vain that I argue with him that by your liberality, Ruth and I “fare 
 sumptuously every day,” and “purple and fine linen” are week day clothes. He 
 
 270 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
says, and it is a truth I have always forcibly felt, that I shall be more satisfied 
 when you are not my sole banker; although the consciousness that I have 
 now a very independent and handsome income, will never make me forget 
 that your generosity of spirit, as well as of purse, has never for one moment 
 caused me to remember with pain that I brought so little in worldly goods to 
 my dearest Ruth. 
 
 As for her, were I a prince, and she a beggar, she could not more 
 systematically, and as if unconsciously, try to make me feel that everything is 
 mine, and she, my dependent. 
 
 The little ones are fat and thriving, they are no longer only snow balls with 
 a dash of red upon them, and Valencienne lace, (I think that is the article,) 
 running all over their small bodies in flounces and frills. They begin to sit up 
 and look like Christians; one of the bairnes almost shook her cap offher head 
 this morning, with a toss of indignation, because I refused to believe that 
 Gerald, jr., can say “mamma,” and Miss Geraldine lisp “papa.” It all sounds 
 bah! bah! to me. 
 
 But I leave this kind of talk for Ruth’s letters. Party spirit runs higher than 
 ever in our State, I see by tbe papers. The — comes occasionally to me— 
 fire-breathing and foolish as usual. The lack of brains and the excess of 
 arrogance that distinguish that journal, fill me with deep delight—that I am 
 not there, and forced to look to its pages for my breakfast-table views of 
 politics, at home and abroad. 
 
 In our obscurer districts are the people still voting for C— for Congress, 
 although his tombstone can be seen any day! Just as in some northern 
 counties, it is said, votes are constantly dropped in the electoral boxes for 
 Washington, maintaining that the report of his death is only got up by 
 jealous rivals anxious to supersede him. 
 
 But my second sheet is filled. Ruth’s love. 
 
 I am, dear sir, yrs. faithfully, 
 Gerald Gray 
 
 Another year passed away without any particular event to mark it; but 
 when the third early spring of their absenteeism began, Mr. Desborougb 
 grew impatient to see bis grand children. Such feelings must be very natural, 
 because we constantly witness them; and parents, by no means doting upon 
 their immediate offspring, are frequently quite wild about their grand chil¬ 
 dren. I suppose that the instinct of paternity, like madness, sometimes skips a 
 generation. 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 2 J 1 
 
The Grays promised to make their arrangements to return in the autumn. 
 The twins needed sea air; they were going to Biarritz. Gerald wanted to visit 
 Baden again, and Ruth had agreed to meet some friends afterwards at Pau. 
 
 Ruth had friends now; she numbered not a few Duchesses and Countesses 
 among her allies, not to mention pleasant English women, and some slightly 
 foreignized 7\mericans, hke herself. But, I will not describe my heroine as 
 she looked to those who only knew her as she was now. I prefer to bring her 
 home, and, let her be framed in the old cadre of the first twenty-six years of 
 her life. However, I will just lift the veil before she leaves Paris, for one small 
 ghmpse of her. 
 
 Rue des Vieux Augustins 
 12 Oct., i8— 
 
 Dear Mrs. St. Clair: 
 
 You guessed as rightly as you usually do, when you decided that to hear 
 from you and to execute your commissions would [give] me great pleasure. 
 Gerald was quite proud of your confidence in my taste. 
 
 I took your measure and your directions to Vegriou; she understood 
 perfectly, of course, but still these people constantly are guilty of mistakes; so 
 I was careful to make her go over everything with me. Your ball dresses I 
 chose of materials as light as a married woman can wear. Gerald can’t bear to 
 see heavy silks dancing, and you know how correct his notions are. We 
 decided that a new shade of that eternal mauve would suit you for a dinner 
 dress, and I have had it trimmed with white lace. I had determined on black 
 chantilly, but Gerald chanced to be struck with the lovely combination of 
 color and a suit of point d’alencon worn by Madame de Boisvoger, and called 
 my attention to it, so I instantly rushed off and countermanded the first 
 order. I am sure you will approve. 
 
 Clara Daix has the honor of furnishing your velvet bonnet, but I prefer 
 Laure for your lighter ones. The maison Gagelin promises me a manteau de 
 velours ravissant for you, and Tilmaun actually has the most elegant coiffures 
 of anybody. In that department nothing would tempt me to try Vegriou 
 again. Last winter, at a birth-day fete at Madame de ViUeneure’s, Vegriou 
 sent home my dress at the last moment; Gerald wanted to be early, and so I 
 had scarcely glanced at myself when I pronounced that I was ready. He 
 screamed out when he saw me, that I looked as if I had been got by Madame 
 R., in old King street! Such a wreath to be sure! 
 
 He dragged it off my head, and scolded at Val[er]ie, who, in vain, pro- 
 
 272 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
tested, as was perfectly true, that Madame would not listen to her assurances 
 when putting it on, que cela allait fut mal, et etait du plus mauvais gout. 
 
 I humbly listened, as in duty bound, to Gerald’s reproaches, while Valerie, 
 almost sobbing from wounded taste, smoothed mv disordered hair and 
 replaced the detestable guirlande v/xth diamond stars. But the next dav I went 
 after Vegriou, and told her that Monsieur would choose another modiste for 
 me if there were a repetition of this crime. “Monsieur!” she repeated, with 
 great amazement, but the fact is, I know so little after all about dress—it was 
 only the dread of Gerald’s railleries that ever made me think of such things. 
 He knows this; so he takes the greatest interest in my toilette, and helps me 
 wonderfully. 
 
 I cannot tell you how lovely my children are; you must forgive my pride in 
 them. Of course, they are very much alike, but still Geraldine is the most 
 beautiful. Already, she is a miniature of her father. I long to show them to 
 you, since you ask so kindly about them. But I fear that they will be terribly 
 spoiled; Mrs. Gray will not be able to help it, because they are Gerald’s; and 
 my father, who seems so anxious to see them, cannot resist, 1 am sure, their 
 attractions. I shall have to be very severe. Somebody (I am really ashamed to 
 mention my husband so often,) says that 1 may as well announce I mean to 
 murder them. He is looking over my shoulder, as you may conjecture from 
 this, and desires to convey his most respectful and admiring homage. 
 
 We sail by next steamer, this day week, from Liverpool, so that mv letter 
 will only be a little in advance of 
 
 Yours, very sincere, 
 Ruth Gray 
 
 When Bertha St. Clair received this letter, she laughed, with genuine 
 pleasure, over its contents. 
 
 “Love, the mighty master!” she exclaimed to Mr. Taunton, who dropped 
 in to see her, (no very unusual thing,) on the evening of the day whose 
 afternoon mail brought this missive. “1 mean to have Ruth’s dissertation on 
 dress framed and hung up! Do you remember what sort of gowns Miss 
 Desborough used to wear?” 
 
 “Perfectly.” 
 
 “Does the mirror of your memory reflect the outline of her bonnets—the 
 hang of her skirts?” 
 
 “I think so, faintly.” 
 
 “Pray try and make it distinct, for by the mere force of contrast, 1 think 
 
 G E R A L n G R A Y S W I K E 2/3 
 
you will enjoy seeing our fresh stepped from the-Journal-des-Modes towns¬ 
 woman. It was a hazardous experiment to rely upon John Hutchinson’s vivid 
 account of Mrs. Gray’s present perfect dressing, and send to her for my 
 winter supphes, when it is comparatively so short a time since the heiress’ 
 awful toilettes used to disturb the eyes of her perforce silent friends; and yet, 
 you dared, at their wedding breakfast, to tell me that I over-rated Gerald 
 Gray!” 
 
 “What has he got to do with it? Can’t his wife put herself in the hands of 
 the French milliners without his being answerable for it, or credited with it?” 
 
 “Oh, out of my decided and misplaced friendship! haven’t you read the 
 lady’s letter? Do you not see that she dresses for Gerald, at Gerald, through 
 Gerald. He is in a hurry to get to a ball and the foohsh creature don’t see what 
 she puts on! At that moment ‘dressing for Gerald’ was secondary to the 
 horror of‘keeping Gerald waiting,’ and the woman, who, I make no doubt, 
 studies combinations of colors, slopes of sleeves, and bavolets of bonnets, was 
 rushing off with some monster of a thing on her head, rather than that her 
 liege lord should ask twice, if‘Madame were coming.’ If you can name to me 
 a greater work performed by mortal man than the transforming of Miss 
 Desborough into a well-dressed woman, taking an interest in her own 
 costume, and careful for the commissions of other people in that hne, pray 
 name it!” 
 
 Mr. Taunton laughed. 
 
 “I stiU believe,” he protested, “that it is the force of surroundings, and not 
 the power of love or Gray.” 
 
 “Very well; let us wait and see. Already we know that her outward 
 ornaments are revolutionized; what strange up-settings of character, man¬ 
 ners and habits, (quite secondary matters!) may we not look for!” 
 
 ® CHAPTER X 
 
 “Half-a-dozen people sup with me to-morrow evening, the ‘objects of the 
 entertainment,’ (unlike those at the wondrous party given by the D—’s ages 
 ago, when we had no tea nor coffee, and Anna counted the ‘forty-legs’ that in 
 some strange way, walked over the mirrors, all evening and we perished for 
 lack of entertainment of every sort, first, and then nearly died afterwards 
 from too much, in the shape of that magnificent feed,)—heavens! what a 
 parenthesis—well! the ‘objects’ of this entertainment are Mr. and Mrs. Gray. 
 
 274 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
I have seen her! 
 
 I say no more; only this, you will not know what to say, when you have 
 seen her too. 
 
 B. St. C. 
 
 Charles street, Wednesday, 6th Nov. 
 
 To Roland Taunton, Esq.” 
 
 “You did not name any hour, so I came early,” said Mr. Taunton, as he 
 entered Mrs. St. Clair’s drawing room. 
 
 “You were right,” she answered, shaking hands with him. “But I ought to 
 have said 9 o’clock, and, in fact,” looking at her watch, “it is very nearly that 
 now.” 
 
 “And how do you find our foreign friends?” asked Mr. Taunton, lazily 
 dropping into a chair beside his hostess. 
 
 “Very pleasant.” 
 
 “Need one ask after the twins?” 
 
 “I advise you, if you wish to stand well with their mama, not to forget 
 them. They are dear little things.” 
 
 “And the papa? How is he?” 
 
 “As handsome as ever.” 
 
 “Looks married?' 
 
 “Very.” 
 
 “Seems happy?” 
 
 “Perfectly.” 
 
 “Are you aware that you are cutting off your slave with strangely laconic 
 replies?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Parceque . . . ?” 
 
 “Parceque —I warned you that I was desirous to let you decide for yourself 
 the great question of my knowledge of character; so not one word more of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gray. Have you been reading Owen Meredith’s poems? Don’t 
 you like them?” 
 
 “My dear Mrs. St. Clair, he says just what everybody has been saying since 
 Solomon, and he does not say it as well as Byron. He howls too plaintively all 
 the while. . . .” 
 
 “And you are too utterly prosaic to appreciate him. Of course, he says what 
 everybody has been saying; how can it be helped? We are all feeling every day 
 just what everybody has been feeling, but is our love commonplace, our 
 
 GERALD GRAYS WIFE 275 
 
sorrow meaningless, our hatred, and envy and malice, alas! of no conse¬ 
 quence, because they are such old sentiments? The feelings of which he 
 writes are as old as the hills, but his words and similes are new, I protest; and 
 then his verses are not transcendental, shadowy, vague, but plainly expressed 
 and human. I don’t know if he is very desolate really, this young Bulwer, as his 
 poems might lead one to believe, (in fact, I have heard that he is a very gay 
 and joUy youth,) but, if the simplest of my friends wished to teU me that he or 
 she had loved blindly or unfortunately, had been deceived and forgotten, had 
 lived recklessly and repented, their hearts could not speak more plainly to my 
 heart than in those pages.” 
 
 “Well! as I have never loved blindly or unfortunately, been deceived and 
 forgotten, had lived recklessly and repented, they are to me, only morbidly 
 sentimental.” 
 
 Bertha turned, and took from the table beside her the little blue and gold- 
 bound volume, and, with her charming modulated voice, read: 
 
 “The more we change, the more is all the same. 
 
 Our last grief was a tale of other years 
 Quite outworn, ’tUl to our own hearts it came— 
 
 Wishes are pilgrims to the vale of tears 
 Our brightest joys are but as airy shapes 
 
 Of cloud that fade on evening’s glimmering slope. 
 
 And disappointment hawks the hovering hope. 
 
 Forever pecking at the painted grapes. 
 
 “Why can we not one moment pause, and cherish 
 Love tho’ love turn to tears? or for hope’s sake 
 Bless hope albeit the thing we hope may perish? 
 
 For happiness is not in what we take. 
 
 But in what we give. What matter tho’ the thing 
 We cling to most should fail us? Dust to dust! 
 
 It is the feeling for the thing—the trust 
 In beauty somewhere, to which souls should cling. 
 
 “My youth has fail’d, if failure lies in aught 
 The warm heart dreams, or which the working hand 
 Is set to do. I have fail’d in aidless thought. 
 
 And steadfast purpose, and in self-command. 
 
 I have fail’d in hope, in wealth, in love; fail’d in the word 
 And in the deed, too, I have failed. And yet. 
 
 276 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Albeit with eyes from recent weepings wet, 
 
 Sing thou, my soul, thy psalm unto the Lord! 
 
 “For now the fulness of its failure makes 
 My spirit fearless; and despair grows bold. 
 
 My brow, beneath its sad self-knowledge aches. 
 
 Life’s presence passes Thine a thousand fold 
 In contemplated terror. Can I lose 
 Aught by that desperate temerity 
 Which now leaves no choice but to surrender thee 
 My hfe without condition? Could I choose 
 
 “A stipulated sentence, I might ask 
 
 For ceded dalliance to some cherished vice. 
 
 Or half remission of some desperate task; 
 
 Now, all I have is hateful. What is the price? 
 
 Speak, Lord! I hear the Fiend’s hand at the door—” 
 
 “No, you don’t; it is mine,” said Arthur Mclvor, entering. 
 
 Bertha put down her book, and proclaimed that both the new-comer, for 
 breaking the speech, and Mr. Taunton for laughing at it, were utterly 
 unworthy of hearing any more poetry then, and of her favour, forever. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards, all the guests had appeared, except the “ob¬ 
 jects,” but before Mrs. St. Clair’s patience and politeness were too much 
 tried, they entered. 
 
 Gerald Gray was the same handsome, Greek-faced, saucy-eyed creature 
 as ever; a trifle more dandified in his air, and perhaps not so boyish in his 
 manners. But his wife! Was it Ruth Desborough? 
 
 Beside him stood a tall and shapely woman, in a magnificent dress of 
 violet velvet, with rich sunset gleams of crimson about its heavy folds. Neck 
 and arms were bare; faUing away from her smooth clear shoulders, masses of 
 lace reheved the solidity of her gown’s material, and were confined over the 
 bust by a bouquet of golden grapes with deep green leaves. Braid upon braid 
 of black and shining hair were rolled about her head, and low at the back a 
 wreath of the same style as the cluster upon her corsage, feU almost to her 
 waist, its long tendrils giving a singularly graceful abandon to every move¬ 
 ment of the wearer. Strictly beautiful no one could call her, but her fine eyes 
 wore a look of such pure and perfect repose and inteUigence. They had such 
 a light of deep thought, passing words! Her Ups, once so colorless and set, 
 were now of a healthy red, with mobile curve playing about the corners. Her 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE ZJJ 
 
complexion had lost its sallow tinge; her figure had gained its natural 
 proportions, and without challenging the sculptor’s chisel, its hnes were full 
 and feminine. 
 
 She was, in fact, what our English neighbors call “a fine woman.” Con¬ 
 versing, as she now was, with Mrs. St. Clair, she had more of the latter’s 
 coquetry or “passional attraction;” her sentences were clearly uttered, calmly 
 composed, with a certain nameless, insaissable coldness of tone; but her 
 husband spoke, and, on the instant, a kind of rosy shadow, more outward 
 than inward, softened and warmed her look and accent. There was a lin¬ 
 gering caress in each word she used towards him, as if her great heart 
 enveloped each phrase destined for those ears in a certain intonation never 
 bestowed upon the public. There was nothing fulsome, nor obtrusive, nor 
 conspicuously affectionate, in either phrase or voice, but to a close observer it 
 was sufficiently plain. 
 
 He was her sun; from him she drew the warmth and radiance of her 
 existence. 
 
 Does any one remember the difference between Ellen Kean’s acting, when 
 she was upon the boards with no matter whom, and when Charles Kean 
 appeared? 
 
 Supper was announced; this was Mrs. St. Clair’s favorite meal. She 
 pronounced suppers infinitely more agreeable and conducive to sociability 
 than a dinner, where the continual presence of servants, and the constant 
 change of courses, interrupt conversation. 
 
 After the first few dishes had been discussed and removed, the “domes¬ 
 ticity” retired, whence the touch of the silver bell beside the lady of the house 
 could easily recall them, and the conversation grew both animated and 
 sparkling. 
 
 Unhke her former self, Ruth took part in all that was going on, and was 
 even betrayed into quite a long speech about the error into which Americans 
 fall, concerning Paris, its manners, morals and customs. 
 
 “I know nothing so behed as French women,” she said. “We are led to 
 beheve that there is no wedded happiness in Paris; that every menage has 
 separate interests and pleasures; that gentlemen habitually neglect their 
 wives, and women care only for dress and flirtations. I assure you it is not so; 
 there are as many happy marriages in France as in England or America. I am 
 not prepared to defend the way in which young people are fiance there, but in 
 consideration for my many charming friends, who are Parisians, born and 
 bred and married, I protest against condemning their entire households. I 
 
 278 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
would not approve of our inaugurating ^marriages de convenance' here, but I 
 cannot let any one say that they all turn out badly. 
 
 “Then you still stake your faith on love-marriages?” asked Mrs. St. Clair. 
 
 “I do,” answered Ruth. “Ours is a love-match. . . . but,” and she colored, 
 with a smile which lent a real beauty to her face, while her eyes glanced for 
 one second at Gerald, who was watching her with evident pride and admira¬ 
 tion, “we are narrowing down this discussion to a very personal one, and I am 
 having it all to myself” 
 
 The light faded from her cheek, and she turned to listen to Mr. Taunton’s 
 question about a Paris acquaintance. But not with the grim and grave 
 politeness, or endurance rather, of Miss Desborough; but, no, with a stately 
 suavity and a quiet attention as charming as it was natural. 
 
 But a certain determined Miss Charlemont, who always enjoyed asking 
 questions, preferred to exercise her mission just here. 
 
 “And you actually believe that there are thoroughly happy marriages, Mrs. 
 Gray?” 
 
 “I should be sorry to disbelieve it,” Ruth smilingly answered. 
 
 “Do you believe in their actual existence, or only in their possibility?” 
 
 “In both, under certain circumstances.” 
 
 “For my part,” put in Mr. Taunton, “I should the more readily subscribe to 
 what Mrs. Gray says if those certain circumstances mean that marriages 
 should be arranged as Dr. Johnson suggested, by the Lord Chancellor. 
 Suitability of fortune, position, and so on, forming the foundation. . . .” 
 
 “For shame!” cried Bertha. “If ever the libre arbitre should rule, it is in the 
 choice of a hfe-time companion. I would trust the choosing of my wardrobe 
 to a judicious taste,” she bowed to Mrs. Gray, “but for a husband, permit me 
 to suggest that I can myself best tell what kind of man I should find it easiest 
 ‘to love, honor, and obey.’ ” 
 
 “Well, a single life for me!” said Miss Charlemont, tossing back her long, 
 fair curls, with all the aplomb of a beauty not yet twenty-five, and sure that no 
 one doubted her power to make it a double one whenever she pleased to do 
 so. “I have known a great many married people, and I hope those present will 
 excuse me for thinking that I consider myself a great deal better off than any 
 of the wives I have studied.” 
 
 “Oh, Lizzie, don’t be so severe upon us poor women!” exclaimed Bertha, 
 putting up her fair hands. 
 
 “Spare us. Miss Charlemont,” said Gerald, “and leave some hope to your 
 adorers.” 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 279 
 
“Oh, I don’t say that either men or women are entirely to blame,” 
 remarked the young lady, with the calm self-possession of an American girl, 
 who belongs to the school called “fast.” “I only mean that—present company, 
 of course, excepted—I should find it difficult to name one couple whom I 
 consider happily married.” 
 
 “What says Mrs. Gray to that?” asked Mr. Taunton, with quiet mahce, as 
 he looked upon Miss Charlemont’s remark as a complete refutation of 
 Ruth’s belief. 
 
 “I regret Miss Charlemont’s sad experience, but can, at the same time, 
 congratulate her that her ideas are not founded upon a personal knowledge.” 
 
 “Such profound discrimination, and such clear proof don’t convince you?” 
 pursued Mr. Taunton. 
 
 “They do not,” said Ruth, who could not help smiling. Then leaning 
 slightly forward with a graceful bend of her stately figure, she addressed Miss 
 Charlemont with sweet gravity. “I do not know, of course, from whom you 
 have drawn such unflattering and such discouraging convictions, dear Miss 
 Charlemont, but, in the name of that time-honored sisterhood to which I 
 belong, let me suggest that if the wives, whose condition you deplore, 
 entered ‘lightly and unadvisedly’ into their wedded state, neither you nor 
 they must be surprised that the result does not bring happiness. Or, if 
 uncongenial elements are brought together by third parties, and are expected 
 to mingle—what then? If I pour that finest oil of Lucca, excellent in itself,” 
 touching with her fan the flask from which Mr. Taunton had deluged his 
 oysters, “and this purest spring water together, shall I make them combine, 
 simply because I imprison them in my tumbler? Scarcely; and yet, all these 
 are perfect of their kind, and, the glass, especially,” lifting with her round 
 white arm and gemmed fingers the beautiful Bohemian goblet, “is exquisite, 
 you must admit. But the oil and the water would make, at their best, only a 
 muddy compound, whereas. . . .” she smilingly extended the glass towards 
 Mr. Taunton, and looked at the champagne he filled for her. She added 
 water from her caraffe, held up the ruddy crystal towards the light, till her 
 hand seemed bathed in the glow, then touched it to her lips with a bow to the 
 young lady, and set it down. 
 
 With all her stately gravity, it was coquettish, and certainly very pretty. 
 
 “I shall never see a tumbler again without thinking of getting married,” 
 said Arthur Mclvor. 
 
 “Only, if you feel as weak as water, be sure about the Champagne, and 
 avoid oil, my little Marquis,” said Bertha, who was much given to making a 
 pet of this boy. 
 
 280 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Well,” said Mr. Aubrey, “even in opposition to Mrs. Gray, I am forced to 
 assure her that I have seen people w^ho seemed as dissimilar as oil and water 
 agree perfectly in the long run, while some spirits which appeared as likely to 
 rush together as Champagne and Adam’s Ale, made a confounded mess of it. 
 Is it the beauty of the glass, the symbolic ceremony that Mrs. Gray considers 
 perfect in itself, which makes occasionally the former miserable?” 
 
 “To drop that metaphor, that illustration,” said Ruth, slightly coloring, 
 “and to speak plainly, I cannot believe that what Almighty Goodness consid¬ 
 ered the highest and last blessing bestowed upon Adam is to us, his children, 
 only a necessary evil. It was that which I disputed with Miss Charlemont, 
 and which she has kindly permitted.” 
 
 “Besides,” added Bertha, swooping down to the rescue, “dangerous exper¬ 
 iments are not peremptorily unsuccessful. I have a friend who prevails in 
 filling a camphine lamp while the wick is still alight. She has not been blown 
 up. I own I always leave the room, and expect to hear the explosion—am 
 prepared to go in afterwards, pick up the fragments, and preach a sermon 
 over the remains, to the text, ‘served her right.’ It has not happened yet, but I 
 am none the less unshakably convinced that she is frightfully imprudent; and 
 when some accident does happen, she shall not have my sympathy, for I will 
 be sure that she got what she deserves.” 
 
 “Which implies, . . .” said Mr. Taunton, who liked to make his hostess 
 talk. 
 
 “That when man or woman with open eyes and without deception 
 practised, marries unfortunately, I give them my heartiest pity, my sincerest 
 wishes, my warmest sympathy; but if some mercenary motive, some unex¬ 
 ampled carelessness, some wilful obstinacy, prompts the step—if it be ‘an 
 establishment,’ a pique, or ennui, which has brought about what ought to be 
 so solemn and sacred a bond, and they find it unendurable, don’t look to this 
 severe speaker for comfort.” 
 
 “Mrs. St. Clair has aptly supported your views, dear Ruth,” said Gerald, 
 “but . . .” and he held up his watch. 
 
 Everyone was amazed at the hour, and they all rose from the table; 
 carriages were called, and the ladies retired to be hooded and shawled. 
 
 “Mrs. St. Clair tells me,” said Mr. Taunton to Ruth, as she waited in the 
 hall for Gerald to find his chapeau gibus, which had gone astray; “Mrs. St. 
 Clair tells me that you have two of the prettiest children that ever made a 
 mother proud.” 
 
 “My babies,” said Ruth, with a bright smile. “They are to my eyes very 
 beautiful, because they look like my husband.” 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 281 
 
“Come, come, Roland,” cried Gerald, “you are going quite too far in your 
 attentions to this lady. She is so insanely vain about those infants, that if you 
 were the most disagreeable of men, she would pass the whole time on our 
 way home now in commending your amiability, your frankness, and general 
 good quahties. As it is, you are far too charming for me to permit such strides 
 in my wife’s good graces.” And Gerald, laughingly, shook hands with him 
 and drawing Ruth’s burnous more closely around her, gayly marched off. 
 
 “Well?” enquired Mrs. St. Clair, with a saucy sparkle in her eye, as Mr. 
 Taunton came to wish her good-night. 
 
 He kissed her hand. 
 
 “Never, oh, puissant princess, will I again dispute your most extravagant 
 persuasion! You are right. I am ready to take off my hat in humble admira¬ 
 tion of Gerald Gray, if, in return, he will permit me in all companies to 
 express my even greater affection of the wife—whom he has created.” 
 
 “Oh! you needn’t testify to my judgment by falling in love with her,” 
 remonstrated Bertha, with a laughing moue. “Fall in love with her! Why, 
 even if I were in that devergonde spot, Paris, in whose devergondage, or disme 
 [?], the radiant Ruth does not believe, I should know that it was ‘mere 
 midsummer madness’ to fall in love with her! I should be like the noble lord 
 who bought Punch and took him home, sans the showman, thinking to find 
 the manimette amusement without the wire-puller.” 
 
 “Yes; or, hke Rosamond, of the ‘Purple Jar,’ the willful little girl of whom 
 Miss Edgeworth tells us, who would buy said jar to put flowers in, and when 
 she had got it all to herself, lo! the lovely color came from the liquid contents 
 which she had had taken out.” 
 
 “Yes, Mrs. Gray is a part of Gerald Gray—and apart from him, she would 
 tumble to pieces, grand as she looks now.” 
 
 “Grand, indeed!” put in Arthur Mclvor; “how the woman dresses too! I 
 recognize her solitaire ear-rings, but they don’t limp in her ears as they used to 
 do, when her father ‘had them out’ on state occasions. And did you see her 
 hands? Such bro^vn, ugly things they used to be!” 
 
 “Oh, 1 fancy she owns and rejoices in pate d’amande and mother-of-pearl 
 nail polishers, and all such daintv' trifles, which, dans le temps, she scorned. 
 But, go home, good people, before I yawn my head off. My politeness won’t 
 permit me to let you see me gape.” 
 
 “One instant, dear Mrs. St. Clair: do you think Gerald is really in love 
 now, or was it all the time?” 
 
 “I think—I think—that I don’t know. Where is that little idiot. Cissy 
 Clare? You needn’t any of you, answer. Good night.” 
 
 282 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
^ CHAPTER XI 
 
 The question asked by Mrs. St. Clair seemed to be one of small impor¬ 
 tance to Mr. Gray. He casually remarked to Ruth, after their first dinner at 
 his uncle’s, that Phyllis was faded, since her marriage, (she was now Mrs. 
 Ralph Fordyce,) and that Cecilia had lost her color, but was very pretty still, 
 and then appeared to think no more about either. 
 
 He had met both of his cousins with the same jesting, half-teasing 
 manner, habitual to him, had rallied Phyl on Mr. Fordyce’s wig without the 
 smallest consideration for her conjugal pride; and had pressed Cissy to sing 
 “The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose,” and then laughed at her absurdly 
 affected style, and gave imitations of it, and he seemed not at all overcome by 
 her telling him that if he had learned to think the ballad foolish, and her 
 singing absurd, he need not tell her so. 
 
 Ruth came to her assistance. 
 
 “What is Gerald doing. Cissy?” she asked. 
 
 “Only teasing, I suppose,” remarked Phyllis. 
 
 “Only asking me to sing a song he used to consider very beautiful and that 
 he now laughs at.” 
 
 “Not the song. Cissy,” said Gerald, saucily. 
 
 “Well, the singing, then,” said Cissy, very good-humoredly; “you used to 
 like it too.” 
 
 Gerald vowed that her present performance was not at aU that of by-gone 
 days. 
 
 “It is just what it always was; it is you who are changed,” remarked Cecilia. 
 
 “Perhaps so; you see the grand opera has made me a connoisseur. But I 
 protest, Cis, that if I have heard better singing, I have not seen better 
 temper.” 
 
 Cissy’s dimples broke over her smiling face at this compUment, and soon 
 after the Grays’ carriage was announced, and they went home. 
 
 A few days more and business called them to Beauchamp, where they 
 were to stay until race week. 
 
 Ruth enjoyed vastly her return to her own home; and even the gayeties of 
 Paris seemed for a time banished from Gerald’s mind by the duties of a 
 planter. 
 
 Mr. Desborough came to spend a week or two, especially to enjoy the 
 society of his grandchildren, whom he considered the most marvelous 
 specimens of juvenile humanity. He would walk about half the morning 
 leading each stumbling little baby, and followed by the bonne, or sitting 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 283 
 
under an oak tree, would alternately help to dress Geraldine’s doll or set up 
 Gerald’s tin soldiers. He wished to have these two-year-olders “assisting” 
 during the whole ceremony of dinner, but the wise mamma forbade their 
 appearance until dessert, when he was allowed to administer an occasional 
 bit of preserved ginger, or a savory biscuit, to the youthful tyrants of his old 
 age. 
 
 One morning towards the middle of January, Gerald received a letter 
 which seemed to fill him with anxiety and concern. It was brought by a 
 messenger on horseback from his mother. 
 
 He went off with it to the library, wrote a hasty answer, despatched the 
 servant, and returned to find Ruth, who was eagerly waiting for him in her 
 dressing-room. 
 
 “I have something to tell you, darhng,” he said; “something that is grave 
 and terrible.” 
 
 She started up with a smothered cry. 
 
 “Have vou time to hsten to me?” 
 
 “Time to hsten to you?” she repeated; “oh, Gerald, what a question! What 
 is it? I would not go out of this house, after seeing your look a httle while ago. 
 I fancied that you had something to teU me; what is it?” 
 
 He sat down, and drew her back to the sofa beside him, holding her hand. 
 
 “Dear Ruth,” he said, “do you recoUect my telhng you once that there was 
 something connected with my life that I might one day be forced to reveal, 
 but I thought it best to let it alone and unsaid, until there was a necessity for 
 doing otherwise?” 
 
 “Yes; it was long after our marriage, and I told you then, that I ought to 
 know all that concerned you, and had hoped that I did.” 
 
 “Just so, dear, but I thought differently. The moment has come when I 
 must tell it. Ruth, did you never hear of my father?” 
 
 “Your father?” repeated Ruth, with astonishment; “Your father! yes; I 
 heard—I always supposed—I took it for granted—that he died when you 
 were a child.” 
 
 “He did not, but I have not seen him since I was a child. Yowr father was in 
 the East Indies, I beUeve, when the event happened which Hrtually widowed 
 my poor mother, and he was reported to have died; and the scandal of the 
 whole thing passed away in fresher tales, and as you never hstened to gossip, 
 and Mr. Desborough’s acquaintances are business men, and cautious men, 
 and our engagement took place almost before we were known to be ac¬ 
 quainted, no one had then the hardihood to speak of it before him or you.” 
 
 284 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Ruth’s face grew into a faint semblance of its old lines. 
 
 “Was it absolutely necessan’ to hold back this mvsten-, whatever it is, from 
 me? 
 
 “I told you just now that I thought so.” 
 
 She toyed with her wedding-ring, twisting it round and round upon her 
 finger with the thumb of the same hand—a motion familiar to her when 
 annoyed, and her eyes gazed straight ahead. She e\'idendy was thinking 
 more of the concealment than of what was concealed. 
 
 “Do you not take an interest in what deeply concerns and distresses me, 
 darling?” 
 
 “Do you doubt it? I am waiting till it is your pleasure to speak.” 
 
 “My father,” he went on, and as Gerald spoke, he placed his wfe’s head 
 with gentle force upon his shoulder, and made her look up at him; “m)' father 
 was a ver\' handsome, dissipated, reckless man—a careless husband, and an 
 indifferent parent. He gambled and did everything a man can do, and still 
 keep his place as a gendeman, till, one day, his eNtl star brought him, face to 
 face, with a person whose home he had made desolate, and then abandoned 
 his victim. They say it was a fair enough fight—both were armed—but one 
 fell forever, and the other escaped. 
 
 Ruth started up—“and my children,” she said; “vou have given my chil¬ 
 dren such a lineage as that?” 
 
 “They are my children, Ruth; are you ashamed of their father?” 
 
 “I should have known this; you should ha\’e told me: you spoke openh' 
 enough even on the first day we met, of puerile, pitiful money matters; this 
 you withheld—not only then, but always.” 
 
 “I did it, darling, for the best. I did it to spare vou a knowledge which 
 could only grieve.” 
 
 “You knew then, as you know now, that there is no grief which, to my 
 mind, ought to be spared with the one vou lo^■e. .\nd was it to spare me a 
 grief, or to spare yourself a refusal, that this was withheld?” 
 
 Gerald set his teeth together, and the dark flame burnt in his blue eyes. 
 
 “As you please,” he said, and turned awav. “I come to vou beset wth 
 troubles of no common order, and vou talk to me of vour feelings, wth 
 neither sympathy nor interest for mine.” 
 
 “They ought ever to have been the same,” answered Ruth, more gently; 
 “our feelings, should have had no divided line. But go on.” 
 
 “My father escaped from the hands of justice, and four years ago, we did 
 think that we had tidings of his death—this time positively, and not like the 
 
 G E R .■V L D gray’s WIFE 285 
 
rumors which were skilfully put about in the first instance, that he had been 
 drowned in one of our own rivers, just after he got away. But we were wrong 
 then, as the world was fifteen years ago; he has come back to his native city.” 
 
 “Oh!” groaned Ruth, and she moved nearer to him. 
 
 “The letter from my mother is written in despair; he has been to see her; 
 he trusts in his changed appearance, and in the lapse of time that has passed 
 since the — death I spoke of But we know the Jernigham’s brother avowed 
 solemnly, on the dead man’s body, to avenge him—he will be recognized— 
 the whole wretched history brought to hght again—another murder, or a 
 trial—God knows what.” He started up and paced the room. 
 
 “My poor darhng,” said Ruth; she had put aside her displeasure, and the 
 sense of broken confidence. “See,” she continued, “I will say no more about 
 what you ought to have done. Let us talk now of what you ought to do. What 
 are you going to do?” 
 
 “I have ordered my brougham [?] wagon and ‘Midnight.’ I shall drive at 
 once to town, see my mother, and decide upon my plans. So far as I can judge 
 by her hasty, unhappy note, he has come back penniless, attracted by the 
 news to him of my uncle’s death and my marriage. He has been in Austraha, 
 Cochin China—the devil knows where! God be thanked, Francis’ hberality 
 of heart and means enables me to provide for him; but it shall be on one 
 condition—that he returns whence he came. If he refuses now or breaks his 
 word afterwards, I shall put him in the clutches of the law without hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 “Then, you don’t require to consult with me?” 
 
 “No, darling, I seldom need to consult with anybody. Even if their ideas 
 are better than mine, I prefer my own. Didn’t you know that? Need I remind 
 you that ‘my own’ is better than anybody’s ‘own’—my own wife, for instance, 
 my own love, who began just now, by tormenting me, and ends by putting 
 her two dear hands in mine, and accepting all I say, as ‘wisest, virtuousest, 
 discreetest, best.’ ” 
 
 He bent his lips to hers; all was peace again. 
 
 “I will give you this undeniable praise, darling: you never oppose me, nor 
 dispute with me, nor assert yourself, except just long enough to show that 
 you have a will of your own, and ideas of your own, but that they always give 
 way to mine. There comes the waggon—ring for Valerie and let her put a 
 couple of shirts, and so on, in my valise. I will run off and kiss the babies.” 
 
 In five minutes he was back, as lively as if he were starting on a pleasure 
 excursion. Ruth could not help saying, when Valerie had disappeared with 
 
 286 SUSAN P E T I G R U KING 
 
the valise, and was heard in her shrill French accents, do\%Ti stairs, ordering it 
 put under the seat of the voiture: 
 
 “My dearest Gerald, what wonderful spirits you have! How do \x>u 
 manage it?” 
 
 “They manage me, darhng. If it were not for this eternal spring of 
 nonsense and hghtness that I have wthin, such an errand as this would be 
 fearful. Instead of wondering about my spirits, vou ought to be thanking 
 God that I have them.” 
 
 “I do, but when will you be bacL” 
 
 “My child, do I ever answer a question like that, even if I knew the answer 
 mvself?—which, in this case, I do not. I shall write continuallv, and return 
 just as soon as I can— of that rest assured. Good-bye, darhng, mv good little 
 Ruth; God bless you; keep up a brave heart. Take care of mv namesakes, thev 
 are both asleep; and, oh, by the way, make some e.xcuse to your father for me. 
 Giv'e him amthing but the true reason, steer clear even of mv mother in 
 speaking, and don’t fret. Once more, good-bye.” 
 
 She saw him off, so handsome he looked, so brave, so bright; he was just 
 gathering the reins from his ser\'ant’s hand, and casting a laughing, cheering, 
 lo\ing, last glance at her, when the spirited horse gave a bound and a prance. 
 How the beautiful lip lost in one instant its playful smile, as it proudly cur\ ed 
 over the white teeth, and he tightened the rein, and showed "Midnight" that 
 a master’s hand was on the bridle. 
 
 And Ruth gazed after him till the great gate clanged behind the waggon 
 wheels, and the waggon and the loved one, and the black horse and the 
 groom in the rumble all swept behind the hedge and were lost to her view. 
 
 Left alone, she began to think over this most unhappv resurrection of 
 what she had supposed to be a long buried father-in-law; but the first shock 
 passed, did she greatly blame Gerald for its being an entirely new source of 
 disquiet? 
 
 Not in the least; she was busy considering if he had taken clotlics enough, 
 if he would find the sun very warm in his long drive, if he would be able to 
 succeed in getting his father quietly and safely away, if it would keep liim 
 many days from Beauchamp, if she had best go to town herself, what she 
 should say to her own father, so as to protect the secret, and yet not be a 
 falsehood. All this she pondered about long and silently, walking, as was lier 
 habit, when in thought, up and down her room, with folded arms and 
 downcast eyes. Not once did she remember the possible agony of poor Mrs. 
 Gray, not one thought of pity for the once brilliant man of fashion wander- 
 
 G K R A l. 1 ) gray's W 1 I' E 287 
 
ing back to his home, repentant perhaps, but destined to be thrust forth 
 again among strangers and to a foreign, far-distant land. 
 
 Was she not selfish? Her whole heart, its s\Tnpathies, its affections, its life, 
 were given to Gerald only. Why? Because she hoped for his in return, in the 
 first place; and because she couldn’t help it, in the second. 
 
 She loved her children because they were Gerald’s children, far more than 
 because they were her own; but had he seemed fonder of them than of her, I 
 should not like to answer for the consequences. 
 
 Alas! alas! here was a great-hearted, honest, thorough woman, the first 
 part of whose life had caused the stream of that life’s human hopes and fears 
 and wishes and aspirations to be dammed up by the bitter curse of suspicion 
 and lonely wealth; and the latter part, by the sudden flood pouring impet¬ 
 uously without check and without reason into one man’s keeping—lies 
 absolutely at his mercy. 
 
 Her heaven was here; she asked no other fight now or hereafter than that 
 which beamed from his dear eyes; she wanted no guide but his firm hand; 
 she needed no support, no counsel, no help but from that wayward, strong 
 man, whom she had sworn to love, honor and obey. And she was happy. She 
 thought herself very, very happy. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 My Darling;—I got to town safely; Midnight went the distance like a 
 trump, never turned a hair, and landed me in Locust st. in time for dinner. 
 Pretty good work, that! But you know nothing about horses, you dear little 
 goose, and I make no doubt fancy that your fat bays could do the same, if you 
 would let them. Mamma is awfully cut down; looks ten years older. I shall 
 sec him this evening. I write this to send by the morning’s mail, and to relieve 
 your anxiety. Kiss the toddlekins for their precious papa, and don’t let that 
 young man take everything away from my young woman as you constantly 
 permit; it is not you and me, all over again. 
 
 God bless you. Your G. 
 
 Wednesday evening, Jan. 23 
 
 January 28th. 
 
 Dkak Ku ril:—Got your letter safely. Matters progress more slowly than I 
 like. Write to me every day if you can; 1 miss you dreadfully. Since my last of 
 the 25th, dodged us, hut now 1 have been obliged to take detective Shorter 
 into the .secret; he found him, and I have a bail piece of news tor you—I must 
 
 288 S U S A N l> K r I <; K II KIN c 
 
go to New York and see him off. We have discovered a man who is 
 trustworthy, and wants to go to Austraha. I settle a pension of S500 a year 
 upon this man so long as he keeps him abroad. Dallas (the man), seems 
 honest and reasonable. It is the best we can do. My father—well, he is mv 
 father, and still so handsome and. Lord! how clever he is, sharp, quick—well, 
 he does not want to go, and we have got to make him. Go he shall, never to 
 return while my head is above the sod. I settle Si,ooo a year on him, and we 
 all four, Dallas, Shorter, he and I sail from Savannah on the ist of Februars’ 
 for New York. 1 feel gloomy about it. I know you will be thoroughly 
 wretched, and I don’t intend to trust myself to come and tell you good-bye, 
 because it would end in my letting D. and S. go without me. Duty, darling; a 
 thousand thanks for the draft you so thoughtfully enclosed in your last. It is 
 very acceptable, for I don’t wish to attract too much attention to myself by 
 doing too much bank business. My regards to your father. Be sure to switch 
 Gerald if he imposes on Geraldine. I see you doing it! 
 
 God bless you, little woman. Your G. 
 
 Savannah, Feb. ist. 
 
 It is very late, my darling, and I have had a long drive, and must in a very 
 little while go on board. We were told that the steamer could not leave till 
 tomorrow, and as I met Tom Albyn, who invited me to go out and dine at his 
 place, and seemed surprised at my journey North, and inclined to ask 
 questions, I thought it best to go with him, and by my usual degage manner 
 put him off the scent. He is not at the hotel with me, but is with D. and S., 
 some where else, of course. 
 
 We had not been an hour at Montcalm, Albyn’s plantation, when, who 
 should come tearing out but Shorter, with the news that the steamer would 
 sail this evening; so they scrambled up a hasty sort of lunch for me, and 
 Albyn had out another bobtail, and drove me back to the city in fine style. A 
 cool evening, a rising moon, a song or two, some poetry and a couple of 
 Havanas, made it pleasant enough. Speaking of bobtails, do, my darling, 
 make Jim attend carefully to my poor nag, with that cut on his eye. Hut 1 
 need scarcely worry you about that, for Jim was in tears on the subject when 1 
 left mamma’s house. I heard him mournfully saying to her coacliman, 
 “T’aint the cost, but the style of the animal, I regret, sir.” 
 
 Shorter reports him as pretty quiet. We have had some funny times, which 
 I will relate if I escape the dangers of the sea, &c., and return in safety to the 
 heaven where 1 would be. 
 
 Recollect my last urgent advice to you. Come to the city, at the appointed 
 
 (; K R A I. 1 ) (; R A Y ’ S W I I' I'. 2 H() 
 
time, go to the races, See., look cheerful, happy, if you can, my poor darling, 
 enjoy it all,—good-bye to such things for me, forever. 
 
 “The day wears on, the storms keep out the sun. 
 
 And thus the heart,” and so forth. 
 
 This northern visit of mine will grieve you terribly. I think my mind dwells 
 more on that than on amthing else. There is no use for you to deny that you 
 have \dsions of (by me) long-forgotten New York belles, whom your vivid 
 fancy will pictirre, knowing by instinct of my arrival, and waiting on the 
 wharf with siren arms to welcome me. Well, I am grave now, have no fears; 
 independently of the sad errand I go on; my heart and fancy are irrevocably 
 fixed, and it seems humUiating that I should be obliged to swear to her 
 whom I so passionately love and respect, that I am hers only. 
 
 But time is up. Good-night, darling; kiss our babies for me. Think of me 
 all the time, and, oh, should vou be tempted to say harsh things of people, or 
 to be suspicious, and to relapse into your old severity of look and manner, 
 remember you are so dear to me. I am so unwilling that you should do 
 amthing or say anvthing unworthy of the real sweetness and nobleness of 
 your character. And if these should be my last words to you, which heaven 
 forfend, remember what I say tor the sake of your 
 
 G. 
 
 And so Ruth Gray did as her absent lord desired, and to the delight of 
 many voung ladies who feared that there would be no ball at the Gray’s in 
 consequence of Mr. Gray’s absence, the great windows of the drawing rooms 
 were punctually opened four days previous to the Wednesday of race-week, 
 (the commencement of “the season” in that Southern capital of which I 
 write), and Mrs. St. Clair, Vamie de la maison confidently predicted that there 
 would be plenty of pleasant doings in that spacious mansion. 
 
 “And what has taken your cousin away just at this time?” asked Arthur 
 Alch'^or of Cecilia Clare, with whom he was waltzing at a ball and discussing 
 dancing prospects. 
 
 “To meet Mr. Jossehm, of Boston, whom he has not seen for vears, and 
 who behaved so beautifully about Mrs. Norman Gray’s estate, I beheve.” 
 
 “How beautifully?” 
 
 “Don’t vou know? Why, he insisted upon sharing the fortune with Gerald, 
 although he wasn’t at all obhged to do so.” 
 
 “Well, by Jove! some people are born to too much luck. Look at Gerald! 
 No matter what happens, he always falls on his feet. Old uncle drops olf wth 
 
 290 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
apoplexy and leaves him penniless; the richest woman in the State, who 
 turned up her nose at e\'er)' man in it, marries him as soon as he asks her— 
 instantly.” 
 
 “’^es, he is ver)- fortunate, especially in his marriage.” 
 
 “Exacdy, especially in his marriage,” pursued Mclvor, who was quite 
 unconscious of CissA S hall-sneer, “most men marr\' a prerrv AN-oman, and 
 before you can say what a lucly dog he is, As hat happens? W’^hA; she is old and 
 faded and forlorn. On the contraiy, Gerald marries a doAs-nright, plain 
 woman. Don’t I remember hoAv Miss Desborough used to look? the Avoman 
 couldn’t dress.” Mr. Mclvor was great on dress; “she couldn't dress, she 
 AAouldn’t talk, she was sallow, and pale, and thin; she had nothing to m.ike 
 her endurable but her money, and as I didn’t Avant her moneA’, I couldn't 
 endure her. He carries her off, and look at her noAv. She is a handsome 
 Avoman.” 
 
 “Handsome?” said Ceciha, Asith a httle laugh of disdain, and shoAA-ing ;ill 
 her loA'ely, soft dimples. Cissy alAvays laughed outAvardly if there Avas no 
 corresponding merriment Avithin. 
 
 “Well, if she is not regularlv handsome, she is a grand-looking Avoman. 
 Here she comes, let’s speak to her. What a superb silk that is, and hoAv it tits! 
 Good CA'ening, Mrs. Gray. Will you alloAv me to tell vou that I have been 
 admiring your dress?” 
 
 “I feel A'erA' much flattered, Mr. Mclvor,” said Ruth, smiling genth’. “Good 
 CA'ening, Cecilia; is Phyllis here?” 
 
 “No, I came with papa.” 
 
 “When will Mr. Gray be back?” asked Arthur. 
 
 The rather indifterent expression gaA-e place to a bright look. "Thank you. 
 in two days I hope to [see] him.” 
 
 “Where is he?” 
 
 “In Boston, I fancy. Our cousin, Mr. Josseh'n, was at the West when wc 
 came home from Europe, and it was necessary that Gerald should gi> North 
 noAv. He will probably induce Francis to return with him—a conquest for you 
 to make, Cecilia. 1 have often heard Gerald say how handsome and charm¬ 
 ing he is.” 
 
 Cissy gave her the usual twittering laugh, and Mr. Taunton, on whose arm 
 Ruth leaned, said something about the impropriety of Miss Clare being 
 allowed further pasturage for her inhuman treatment of the ruder sex. I hen 
 they all four bowed and parted, and Ruth went to speak to Mrs. St. Clair, 
 who looked very brilliant in one of the Paris dresses ot Mrs. Gray’s selection. 
 
 “Don’t come near me,” cried Bertha. “1 am making a great etlect while you 
 
 H)\ 
 
 t; K K A 1. n C, RAY S W 1 !• K. 
 
keep on the other side of the room. I don’t wish to have my toilette elegante 
 crasse by your magnificence. Quelle est sublime cette ariane, with her Theseus 
 departed!” 
 
 “Very well,” said Ruth, laughing; “if you talk in that way, I shall grow 
 malicious, and ask if your friend, Mr. Berrian, is near—he who wanted to 
 know if that lady spoke English with French quotations, or French with 
 English quotations?” 
 
 “That lady is far too amiable, or she should have made one of her admirers 
 brain Mr. Berrian with his own ledger. But if I say that you look hke 
 Penelope pining for Ulysses—” 
 
 “No, thank you, my Ulysses has found no Calypso, I trust, and I just look 
 like Ruth Gray, who wants to know if you will take a seat in her carriage to¬ 
 morrow for the race course?” 
 
 “Certainly, and be delighted, provided you don’t array yourself like the 
 Queen of Sheba. How I hate diamond necklaces!” pursued the saucy crea¬ 
 ture, drawing up her white neck, and looking in her friend’s eyes, as she 
 whirled off in the waltz. 
 
 “What a light heart she has!” exclaimed Mr. Taunton. 
 
 “Do you think so? I should say she had light spirits. But I never talk of 
 Bertha. It is a rule with me, and one I wish her other friends would follow. If 
 one praises her, it seems somehow as if the most flattering words get turned 
 into a different meaning when repeated, as they always are, and if one 
 hazards a syllable, ever so slightly indicative if dispraise, it grows into a 
 monstrous slander an hour after its birth from one’s unconscious lips. I have 
 learned to know this, and I love her too well, therefore, to talk about her.” 
 
 “But to me? There is no one who cherishes a kinder regard for Mrs. St. 
 Clair. I see her faults, of course.” 
 
 “Just so,” put in Mrs. Gray, gently; “and even if you did not see them, I 
 should stLU keep to my rule.” 
 
 “Have you always been so partial to her?” 
 
 “No, I remember, years ago, disliking her very much. But I found out her 
 best quality.” 
 
 “And that is—” 
 
 “You know her faults so well, and don’t know her best quality?” 
 
 “I had no idea that you could tease,” said Mr. Taunton, laughing; “You 
 have caught that from Gerald.” 
 
 “Perhaps I have, but I caught my liking for Mrs. St. Clair through Gerald, 
 
 ... 
 
 too. 
 
 “Indeed!” and Mr. Taunton remembered the wedding breakfast and Mrs. 
 
 292 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
St. Clair’s not very flattering comments upon the bridegroom, and the idea 
 passed rapidly through his mind, how often it was that those appreciated us, 
 of whom we think least. 
 
 “Yes,” continued Ruth, “and since you are a friend of Mrs. St. Clair, I will 
 tell you something which I got from my husband, and which first turned the 
 tide of my feelings toward Bertha. He—a gentleman of his acquaintance had 
 a vast admiration for Mrs. St. Clair—hked to talk a great deal to her, dance 
 with her, visit her, and pay her much attention, privately and publicly. The 
 gentleman had a wife who adored him—she was, what you know is very 
 shocking, but still—” 
 
 “She was jealous.” 
 
 “Very. Mrs. St. Clair saw it. The next time this gentleman approached 
 her, she fixed her true yet laughing eyes upon him and said, “That idle and 
 disengaged young men should entertain me and amuse themselves, by 
 sending me bouquets and turning around the circle of my crinoline; very 
 well! As the navvy said to his neighbor who wondered why he allowed his 
 wife to beat him with a spade, when he could so easily master her, ‘It pleases 
 she, and it don’t hurt I.’ ‘All baggage at the risk of the owner,’ is my motto 
 with such butterflies. But, that a woman should be made unhappy through 
 me, however unreasonably; and that I should lay unconscious or violent or 
 gentle hands upon other peoples property, heaven forbid!” She made him 
 one of her sweeping courteseys and—that is all.” 
 
 “And who told this; she or he?” 
 
 “Gerald told it to me!' 
 
 “And the gentleman’s name is—?” 
 
 “So intimate as you are with Bertha, ask her,” said Mrs. Gray, with a 
 polite, slight sneer. 
 
 But Mr. Taunton smiled so good-naturedly, and began to praise Mrs. St. 
 Clair so warmly, and Gerald’s words coming forcibly into her mind about 
 “her old severity of manner,” she resumed her suavity, and talked of the next 
 day’s races. 
 
 Mr. Clare came up to greet her, and she dropped Mr. Taunton’s arm with a 
 cordial yet stately bow, and gave her uncle-in-law the supreme satisfaction of 
 walking her up and down the room. Mr. Clare flattered himself that they 
 made a magnificent display, and that the finishing touch was given to Mrs. 
 Gerald Gray’s grandeur of appearance when she had his support. 
 
 Mr. Taunton came to a conclusion extremely shrewd, very commonplace, 
 and entirely wrong. 
 
 “Gerald has made a merit,” he thought, “of Mrs. St. Clair’s verbage, and 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 293 
 
under cover of this confidence, they mean to flirt as much as they choose. Of 
 course, ‘he is the gentleman,’ and she is laughing with him, and twisting the 
 wife round that remarkably pretty httle finger of hers.” 
 
 Decidedly Mr. Taunton was a great friend of Mrs. St. Clair. Did he not 
 dine with her twice a week? And was not her pleasant chat and saucy ways 
 the chief things that kept him ahve at duU times? But then, you see, he knew 
 her faults. From our intimate friends, who know our faults, and so defight in 
 mentioning the fact; and the faults, good Lord dehver us! 
 
 Before the short season of ball room gayety was over, Gerald was back, 
 looking particularly well, and quite ready to dance at parties, or play billiards 
 at the club, or toss his children higher than his head, or watch Ruth, as she 
 allowed her two small darhngs to crush every atom of friandise [?] out of the 
 toilette which Valerie had just superintended; and then—go and make it aU 
 over again, lest her large darfing’s eyes should be afflicted by the sight of a 
 chiffonne collar and crumpled sleeves. 
 
 “And you have told me so httle about Francis!” said Ruth, the evening 
 after his return, when the romp was over and the children were in bed. “How 
 glad I am, that we are going no where to-night!” 
 
 “And so am I,” Gerald said, as he threw himself lazily on the sofa, and she 
 took a low seat close beside him. “But I will tell you what I am more glad of: 
 to be back with you—to be quiet in my own house, with my faithful, loving, 
 loyal love.” 
 
 The tears swam in Ruth’s eyes; dehcious tears, tears of gratitude that he 
 should so care for her, this great, beautiful, wayward creature! 
 
 She took his hand and pressed her lips to it, the tears gathered and fell. He 
 lifted her head caressingly. 
 
 “My darling, we don’t behave ‘like married folk;’ one would suppose that 
 we were lovers stiU, only, in those days, it was I that sat at your feet, and 
 kissed your hand, as I do now. But I like these days best—it is very comfort¬ 
 able to play ‘grand seigneur,’ and have you think of nothing but pleasing me. 
 Particularly, as that seems to be your idea of happiness too.” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “That being the case, let me remind you that you are positively forbidden 
 to show one tear.” 
 
 “But I am not crying,” protested Ruth. 
 
 Gerald shook his head. 
 
 I know a little eye. 
 
 And it dearly loves to cry. 
 
 294 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
God knows the reason whv. 
 
 All the dav! 
 
 “For shame, Gerald; I nev'er cr\' now. What an idea! I did indulge in such 
 follies when I was first ver>' happy—and ver\- unhappy—but we have gone 
 through that stage.” 
 
 “Have we? Then I am sort)', because in my mind and thought, the verse 
 goes on, 
 
 “From her heart the tear-drop wells. 
 
 To my heart its stor\' tells. 
 
 And it holds me in its spells 
 Bv this way! 
 
 Well! I love all eyes above 
 This dear eye of her I love.” 
 
 “Oh, dearest Gerald, that is the same ballad you quoted and added to in 
 our honeymoon— let me write it down.” 
 
 “Write down Mother Goose, you ditto!” cried Gerald, catching her bv the 
 sleeve as she sprang up. “Sit down you unreasonably vain woman! eager after 
 amthing that praises you. Proud now of your power to cr\—Nvhv, the twins 
 could beat you at that any day.” 
 
 “Let me thank you, then,” and she bent over and kissed him. 
 
 “Don’t crowd the monkeys,” said Gerald playfully, and putting up his 
 hands before his face, after tenderly returning her kiss. “Do you know, Ruth 
 dear, that I don’t think cart ropes could have kept me longer away; and it was 
 so hard to act upon your nice suggestion and take a row to Boston, which 
 simplified my Northern visit to all enquiring minds.” 
 
 “Yes; it was effectual, too— for no one appears to trouble themselves 
 further about it. And Francis?” 
 
 “Will you be so good as not to interrupt mv train of thought? 1 was so 
 glad, too, that you should not know exactly the dav of my return—to come 
 home, when you were at that ball and slip snuglv into my dressing rt>om, 
 chargingjoe and Valerie not to tell you, when they let you in. 1 watched your 
 quiet, indifferent face, through the door, which 1 left ajar, on purpose. 
 Valerie kept her counsel with all the tact of her nation, and was proceeding 
 quietly to unlace your dress, without a word. You were listlessly unclasping a 
 bracelet, when your eyes fell upon my gloves and penknife, that 1 had laid on 
 your pincvishion. Ah! then came the flash of marvelous light into your great 
 eyes, the bright, overwhelming joy of vour expressive face. Tvvi) quick 
 
 C I'. U A I. 1 ) t: K A Y S W 1 K K 2 US 
 
words—‘fW assez,' to Valerie, and you almost thrust her out of the room, as 
 she was smilingly and respectfully disappearing. In one bound, you were 
 beside me, close to my heart, dear treasure, speechless and panting, and as I 
 folded you in my longing arms and sat down, though you were in your 
 favorite attitude, on your knees, with as little concern for your beautiful blue 
 and white crepe as if it had not been the dress of the evening.” 
 
 “And you?” 
 
 “Oh, I was not much better; I had not seen you for a month, remember, 
 and I was pining for you. It is, indeed, when sorrow and trouble come, that a 
 man learns fully to understand his dependence upon the single-hearted 
 woman who loves him. I thought I loved you very dearly before—I only seem 
 to know it now.” 
 
 “The world is filled "with folly and sin. 
 And love must cling where it can, I say. 
 For beauty is easy enough to win— 
 
 But one isn’t loved every day,” 
 
 quoted Ruth. 
 
 “Ah, Mrs. St. Clair has taught you to read Owen Meridith, has she? How 
 is that fair creature?” 
 
 “Very well.” 
 
 “Who is she victimizing at present?” 
 
 “Mr. Taunton, I believe.” 
 
 “Oh, that’s an old story. Francis says—” 
 
 “Ah! Francis at last. A la bonne heure, pray go on about Francis.” 
 
 “Isn’t that like you? Interrupting me to ask me to go on. Francis says—” 
 
 “Dear Gerald, won’t you tell me what Francis looks like?” 
 
 “Go away, Mrs. Gray—Gooseling. I won’t say another word. I am fast 
 asleep.” 
 
 “Please forgive me,” said Ruth laughingly, “I was very stupid, that’s the 
 truth.” 
 
 “Well, Francis says—that when he comes on this spring to see us, we must 
 make up a pleasant party at Beauchamp and have Mrs. St. Clair. He 
 understands that she is more charming than ever, and he caught a flying 
 glimpse of her years ago, and liked her hugely.” 
 
 “So Francis is really coming on? I am very glad.” 
 
 “If he does not start for Central Africa or Central America—if he does not 
 propose fitting out a new expedition to the North Pole, or a sail of observa- 
 
 296 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
tion to the Southern Seas, I think he is booked in his own mind for a visit to 
 us. But you must not reckon on him without those contingencies.” 
 
 “And may I ask, now, how he looks and how he seems?” 
 
 “You may, my love. He is a great six-foot-two, splendidly built man. I 
 think he has grown several inches since I saw him last, but as you never saw 
 him at all it will be easier for you to credit his assurance that he has not. He 
 has ordinary features, of the usual number, with a great mustache, at which 
 he pulls constantly in a sort of savage way, and his eyes being of very light 
 grey, and his skin and hair so dark, it gives a peculiar look to his face; but he is 
 a handsome, bold type of a traveler.” 
 
 “He never means to marry?” 
 
 “What on earth would Francis do with a wife? Unless she were an Indian, 
 and used to the tramp, or would like a husband whom she saw for ten 
 minutes every ten years, I don’t think he would suit her.” 
 
 “And who is going to look after your common fortune?” 
 
 “Ah! that’s the point; as I live at the South and he lives in spots, we are to 
 have an agent, who, I presume, will live on us.” 
 
 “How shocked papa would be at such recklessness!” 
 
 “Of course, my darling. At college we used to be called Sir Francis 
 Reckless and Sir Gerald Wayward, and college sobriquets have a deal of keen 
 sense in them always.” 
 
 “I wish you would not pride yourself on being wayward, Gerald.” 
 
 “Well, I won’t, dear. And about this party to Beauchamp. Shall it be as 
 Francis says?” 
 
 “As you wish, of course. When do you think he will come, if he comes?” 
 
 “In about three weeks,—middle of March.” 
 
 “To stay—?” 
 
 “As long as he finds it pleasant; but I think we had best appoint the second 
 week in April for the party, and ask them to spend a week—who shall it be? 
 Mrs. St. Clair, Mclvor, Taunton—who else?” 
 
 “Your friend, Mr. Browne?” 
 
 “Oh, Browne is such a muff-but he is a good fellow—swallows any¬ 
 thing—let’s have him.” 
 
 “Shall we invite Mrs. Denham?” 
 
 “Yes, she will do very well—talk to Browne. She don’t mind who she 
 talks to. She will rattle away with that beautiful face of her’s all aglow, 
 and her straight black brows giving such decision to her regular features, and 
 not caring a button whether it be Tom, Dick or Harry who is listening to 
 her.” 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 297 
 
“Well, those are enough, I suppose,” said Ruth. “If any decline, we will fill 
 up. 
 
 “Not half enough, my child. You ought to have some ‘demoiselle’—some 
 girl to make music. Think of somebody.” 
 
 “I know so few girls at aU intimately or socially,” said Ruth. 
 
 “Why, there is Cissy—why not ask Cissy? And Phyllis and Fordyce. They 
 haven’t been there yet, and ought to be invited sometime.” 
 
 “My darhng. Cissy is so affected and so duU!” 
 
 “Better then take her when she can be diluted with others.” 
 
 “Diluted! Can we dilute insipidity? Dilute cistern water?” 
 
 “Ruth, dear, what did I ask you? Not to be harsh, was it not! And Cissy is 
 my cousin—a favorite niece of mama’s—a httle inoffensive, sweet tempered, 
 good girl—whom I look upon as my sister.” 
 
 “Did she look upon you as her brother, do you think, Gerald?” 
 
 “Are you going to open up that old question? My love, have I ever 
 deceived you?—^judge by what I say now. I verily believe that Cissy ‘did’ care 
 for me more than I dreamed of—I fear that she has never married because 
 she was disappointed. I fear mamma encouraged an idea in her mind that my 
 attentions to her were other than Cissy herself, of her own knowledge, knew. 
 Can you suppose for one instant that I would, by word or action, re-awaken 
 in that innocent-minded girl an interest in me, when my life and heart are 
 irrevocably and happily and fuUy engaged elsewhere! Do you think so 
 meanly of me? Can you love me as you do, and think me so vde? It seems to 
 me that if you were to see or hear me showing or expressing the utmost 
 attention to Cissy, you would understand that my reason for so doing had 
 nothing unworthy in it.” 
 
 “I believe you, Gerald,” said Ruth; “I was wrong. We will write Cissy and 
 Phyllis and Mr. Fordyce. And never will I again utter such suspicions.” 
 
 “That is my own perfect darling.” 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XIV 
 
 It was a gala-week at Beauchamp. The old home—once belonging to an 
 Enghsh master, who had built it in those first days, when the lordly British 
 gave that aroma of good birth and breeding to our State, on which we still 
 pride ourselves, with or without cause—often added to and renovated, but 
 now quite divested of its gentlemanly air of antiquity, was ringing now with 
 gay laughter and made the scene of genuine and gracious hospitality. 
 
 298 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
The weather was beautiful; just cool enough to permit a little fire in the 
 morning, but necessitating open windows all the day long. Not too warm to 
 be out of doors; yet with a sun so bright, and a sk\' so blue, and an air so 
 balmy, that it was no wonder that Francis Jossehm proclaimed Italy a 
 humbug in comparison, and vowed that if ever he had the patience or power 
 to settle himself amwhere, it should be on a neighboring plantation, \vith 
 just such trees, just such a Cherokee rose hedge, and just such an out-door 
 canopy, as those of Beauchamp, exquisite Beauchamp! 
 
 “Pooh!” exclaimed Mrs. St. Clair, as she sat upon the low balustrade of the 
 stone steps, and switched with her riding whip at the violet bed on her right 
 hand. “You are so impetuous! Such a ridiculously impulsive creature! and the 
 worst of it is, you really believe what you say and fanck' for about two days, or 
 two hours, or two minutes, that you are eager to be what you say—the lord of 
 a Southern domain, for instance.” 
 
 “Why is that the worst of it? It ought to be the best of it.” 
 
 “No; because some day you may set your fanc\’ upon something where 
 others are concerned, and it may not suit them to change their minds as 
 quick and as easily as you do.” 
 
 “Then — they have a safeguard against one, as I would have against mv- 
 self—my sense of honor. If I carried off man or woman on the whirlwind of 
 my fancy, as you are pleased to call it, the fact that I implicated anvbodv else 
 would steady my resolve, instantly, and fix my plans.” 
 
 “A—a — h!” drawled Mrs. St. Clair, bending dowm her head, and taking up 
 the train of her amazone to examine a speck of dirt upon it. “You and Mr. 
 Gray are really not cousins, are you?” and then she suddenly lifted her eyes 
 and fixed them on the face of her companion. 
 
 He smiled in the most unconcerned manner, and folding his arms upon 
 the same balustrade, and resting his chin upon his \sTists, as he seated 
 himself so as to bring his eyes almost on a level with hers, he said, slowly. 
 
 “You mean something by that veiy- ‘inconsequente’ question. WTat is it?” 
 
 “I never meant an)thing in my life,” answered Bertha. “Here come Mrs. 
 Denham and Mr. Browne; he has out-gaUopped vou this time, my friends; 
 where on earth were you lingering? What a magnificent leap, Bettina. 
 Indeed, it « a frightful pit\' that you were not permitted to follow the bent of 
 your natural genius and be a circus rider.” 
 
 “It is so,” answered the prem- widow, patting her horse’s glossy sides, as 
 the groom came to lead him off. “Good-bye, mv beaurv'. You went like a love 
 to-day. Fancy me, Bertha, fl>ing round ‘the ring’ with Festus as a ‘trained 
 
 G E R A L D G R .A Y SWIPE 299 
 
animal’—saw dust in profusion—brass band blowing its curses away—and I 
 butting my head through six successive hoops of coloured paper, amid the 
 acclamations of a bewildered audience!” 
 
 “Won’t you try it some day for a limited but most enthusiastic crowd?” 
 asked Francis. 
 
 “Unfortunately, as you heard Bertha remark, I was not permitted to go 
 into that hne. But you asked what kept us—I saw some dehcious duckweed, 
 and I persuaded Mr. Browne to gather it for my parrot.” 
 
 “Oh, that parrot! didn’t I msh wildly into your room this morning, 
 thinking I heard you say ‘come here, Bertha, come here,’ as if an assassin had 
 you by the throat; and behold! it was that wretched bird sidhng up and dotvn 
 your dressing table, and looking at himself in the mirror like a hooked nose 
 demon.” 
 
 “Did you?” laughed Mrs. Denham. “Why, he is improving.” 
 
 “Do you travel always with a parrot for a protector?” asked Mr. Josselyn. 
 
 “Make her tell you how she tamed this one—a series of pitched battles. 
 Bettina, with two pairs of beaver gloves and a crooked poker, to help her, 
 always managed to come off victorious.” 
 
 “I should like to have seen it,” said Mr. Browne, gravely, “it must have 
 been very pretty.” 
 
 “Here comes something pretty,” said Mrs. St. Clair. “I think you told me 
 that you and Mr. Gray are not really cousins, Mr. Josselyn,” she added in a 
 half whisper. 
 
 Advancing from the woods, where they had been strolling, Gerald and 
 Cecilia Clare now emerged through the great gate and sauntered towards the 
 house. He was in his shooting jacket and carried his gun; her face was almost 
 hidden by the broad brim of her garden hat—her hands were full of wild 
 flowers. He did not notice his four guests till he had nearly come up to the 
 steps, but his cheery voice saluted them as soon as his eyes saw them. 
 
 “No birds today, Mrs. Denham!—I am very sorry—but I did my best.” 
 
 “Did Cecilia go to bring home the game bag, and sing of your prowess?” 
 asked Mrs. St. Clair. 
 
 Cissy looked up blushing and very pretty; her light curls were stuck full of 
 blossoms and leaves. 
 
 “No,” answered Gerald; “I met Cissy all alone, poor thing, as I was 
 coming home.” 
 
 “So you pocketed her, determined not to return witliout something to 
 show as your morning’s work.” 
 
 “Yes; and I think a man who could bag Cissy for life, and show her off as 
 
 300 SUSAN P !•; I I G K U K I N (; 
 
the captive of his bow, would merit to be crowned himself, instead of 
 crowning her—as I did, with all these jessamines and things.” 
 
 Gerald spoke as openly and as unconcernedly as if Cecilia were his sister. 
 Not a shade of discomposure, not the smallest vestige of a “flirtation” in his 
 tone. 
 
 “Has Ruth not got back?” he went on. “It must take Fordyce a long time to 
 embrace that relation of his that Phyllis and himself carried off Ruth to 
 visit.” 
 
 “It is nine miles to Mrs. Armstrong’s,” put in Cissy, “and, of course, thev 
 had to eat lunch, and all that.” 
 
 “Of course, and spoil their dinners by lunching at three o’clock, when we 
 dine at five, having previously eaten something here. Well, it is now after 
 four—and there goes the dressing bell.” 
 
 “Where are the other gentlemen?” asked Mrs. Denham. 
 
 “Gone in by the back way; Mclvor returned hours ago; Taunton and 
 Aubrev left me to come back and take a sleep.” 
 
 “Lazy wretches!” 
 
 “Were you up at six o’clock, fair lady?” 
 
 “Not more than I credit that they were; but we must go and dress; what a 
 dawdling way one gets into!” 
 
 “And here comes the carriage now.” 
 
 In a few moments it drew up, and Gerald was helping out his wife, and 
 asking Phyllis for how much she expected to be set down in Mrs. Arm¬ 
 strong’s will, after this superhuman effort. 
 
 “Oh, Gerald! such a dear old lady!” said Ruth; “I am e.xcessivelv glad 1 
 went. She asked so kindly after you.” 
 
 “What a stretch of goodness!” 
 
 “And she makes so much of the twins!” 
 
 “Of course she does; the whole country is crazed with a desire to sec 
 them!” 
 
 Ruth laughed; “well; I wish to see them now, at any rate; and as we have 
 but little time to spare, I shan’t lose a second, or dinner will be ready before 1 
 
 n 
 
 am. 
 
 “Don’t you believe that Gerald and 1 ought to be ‘real cousins’?” asked Mr. 
 JosselvTi, following Mrs. St. Clair up the staircase. 
 
 “Wait till 1 know you better, and sec if you deserve—to be so traduced,” 
 said the smiling lady, as she nodded and closed tlie door. 
 
 While he dressed, Francis was turning over these scraps of remarks in his 
 mind. 
 
 (; K R A L n C R A Y S VV I !• K. tOl 
 
“Does she mean anything?” he thought. “Pshaw! I see what she means— 
 and it is nonsense. If women are not just at the moment bent on mischief 
 themselves, they are always fancying that others are. That is why the bitterest 
 scandal always comes from the ugliest and most uninteresting women. A real 
 belle has her hands too full of her own affairs to be concocting stories about 
 her neighbors. Positively, if I were of the softer sex and wished to lead a quiet 
 life, I should estabhsh myself among the flightiest and giddiest of the lovely 
 beings—with not the smallest reference to their ‘reputations.’ The worse 
 they are, the more chance for mine.” 
 
 He tied his cravat, and settled his chin comfortably in the shirt collar. 
 
 “Ergo—if I wish to keep Mrs. St. Clair’s eyes from following Gerald, I 
 must try and make them follow me—for a different motive. Can’t I persuade 
 her that I am madly in love with her! No. Not unless she first falls in love 
 with me—and that don’t appear to be in the least likely.” 
 
 The coat was now put on. 
 
 “It is an abominable thing, to get up such ideas—put such notions in one’s 
 head. I think very badly of the St. Clair for doing—but stop!—what did she 
 put in my head? What did she say? What thought did I already have, 
 however vague, which made me guess at once what she was driving at? I’ll try 
 and have a quiet talk with her this evening. Upon my soul, I think Ruth is the 
 finest woman in the world, and she is more thoroughly in love with that 
 fortunate rascal that I ever supposed a woman could be. For it is only men 
 who really love once and forever.” 
 
 He sighed deeply, and walked down stairs. 
 
 ® CHAPTER XV 
 
 “We are tolerably punctual, after all,” said Ruth, looking at her watch, as 
 they took their places at the dinner table. “Only eight minutes after five 
 o’clock.” 
 
 “What is this reason for this eager pursuit of punctuality, may I ask?” said 
 Francis. “Is there to be an execution immediately after the meal, that we are 
 not to lose?” 
 
 “Oh, no!” answered Ruth, “but Gerald can’t bear to wait for his dinner.” 
 
 “You spoil him,” remarked Phyllis, from her side of the table. “Don’t let 
 Mr. Fordyce hear you.” 
 
 “Since when, Gerald, have you grown such a martinet about hours?” asked 
 Francis. 
 
 302 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“I’ll tell you,” cried Mr. Aubrey; “since Mrs. Gray humors all his caprices.” 
 
 “Go on, my friends,” said Gerald calmly. “I like this sort of thing. I 
 assemble you together and you preach insubordination to my wife.” 
 
 “I have a personal spite in this matter,” said Mr. Aubrey, sending away his 
 soup plate and helping himself to wine. “One day Gerald was engaged to 
 dine with me—a select party—two very precise Enghshmen—and we had to 
 wait three quarters of an hour for this punctual young prince, who finally 
 stroUed in, as calmly and as composedly as possible—had been playing 
 billiards, or driving a new horse, or amusing himself in some way—and ‘there 
 he was at last,’ he seemed to say, and we ought to be so glad to see him at all, 
 that he should be made much of, not abused.” 
 
 “Well, that was very bad, I admit,” said Gerald;” quite unpardonable, and 
 now that I have eaten that dinner, and have this one in prospect, I can 
 venture to hint that I ought to have been turned away from your festive board 
 and put into the hall, just where I could see what was going on, but not 
 partake. Could vengeance go no farther?” 
 
 “Oh, nothing can be more just and formidable than your strictures upon 
 yourself, after the mischief is done, and the penalty impossible.” 
 
 “Did you ever hear of an adventure I had once about a dinner?” asked Mrs. 
 St. Clair; “if not. I’ll tell it.” 
 
 “You might as well, being Jenny Lind, ask if, having heard a certain song, 
 we wished to hear it again,” said Mr. Taunton, gallantly. 
 
 “I consider your question too vague, Bertha,” put in Mrs. Denham; “You 
 have had more than one dinner adventure, have you not?” and she looked 
 mischievous and meaning. 
 
 “Tell it, any way,” half whispered Ruth; “the next course seems dilatory; 
 une histoire, madame, les plats nous manquent." 
 
 “After that, I almost dare not,” said Mrs. St. Clair, bowing to her hostess, 
 and raising her finger threateningly at Bettina, “but aU I had to tell was this. 
 It was the last day of race week, and I was to dine with the Everards to meet a 
 certain distinguished lecturer, whose name is very familiar to us all. I had 
 engaged my cousin. Miss Turner, to send her carriage back for me after she 
 got there, and had invited a ‘really’ punctual gentleman to take a seat with 
 me. Tired and dusty when I got back late from the course, I nevertheless was 
 ready in time, and as the five minutes to the hour arrived—with it, in walked 
 my friend, Mr. Mayne. No carriage—five o’clock struck—five minutes past. 
 Mr. Mayne grew impatient in a gentlemanly way—said he wasn’t, but looked 
 pitifully at his watch. He would not desert me, and the carriage would not 
 come. Useless to think of sending for another—everything that had four legs 
 
 GERALDGRAY SWIPE 303 
 
had been occupied in conveying everything human to the races; before I 
 could get tired horses harnessed up again it would be an}way too late.” 
 
 “Were not they dining very early?” 
 
 “That’s the worst of it. After appointing his own day, our Humorist friend 
 had agreed to give another lecture that very evening, which would necessi¬ 
 tate his leaving the table at half past six; from the beginning, therefore, it was 
 all wrong—but to cut my story short, (for here come the dishes, she said 
 softly to Ruth,) I decided to start on foot. Picture me, then, at twenty 
 minutes past five o’clock on a bright afternoon, in an apple green satin with 
 black lace flounces, a white opera cloak, and a white ‘mohe’ thrown over my 
 otherwise bare head—said green satin held up out of the dust—trotting along 
 beside Mr. Mayne, in his dress coat and white kids! We took every bye-street 
 that we could, but I think we met everybody I ever saw. One woman that I 
 had gone to school with, and had not laid eyes on since, passed, and stared at 
 me—as well she might.” 
 
 “Well, I suppose you were received with acclamations, when you did get 
 there?” 
 
 “I am not so sure; Mary Turner was miserable, I am happy to say, because 
 there had been such a mistake about the carriage—but the lecturer towered in 
 his wrath! I think if he could, he would have had me sacrificed on the door sUl! 
 You see he had an uneasy consciousness that his after thought about another 
 lecture, was not polite to his entertainers—then, by my absence, he was losing 
 still more of his possible dinner; but, unluclg^ me! it was destined to be a day 
 ever memorable for its contretemps. What possessed me to be so tactless, those 
 gods alone know that preside over the conversations of foolish women!” 
 
 “Why should such deities interfere withyo«?” 
 
 “Listen: 1 mentioned with all the exaltation of the Lady Castleton, who 
 was so proud of knowing a literary dessous des cartes, that the Harpers had just 
 written me that no greater proof could be given of the poor standard of 
 public taste, than the fact that the ‘Wide, Wide World,’ sold better than 
 ‘Vanity Fair.’ It was all up then! How glad we were when ‘Charity and 
 Humour’ left for his ‘estrade.’ [?] We were charitable enough to forgive his 
 ill-humor—when we ceased to suffer from it—but he has never forgiven me, 
 I fear—if he remembers me at all—to this day!” 
 
 “What a cross creature he must be!” said Phyllis. 
 
 “Cross or not, he is my author,” said Bertha, “and there are some books of 
 his—some words of his—that ought to be framed—taught in schools, hung 
 up at cross-roads, switched into boys and pounded into girls. 1 drink to his 
 health!” 
 
 304 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“You are so enthusiastic,” drawled Mrs. Fordvce. 
 
 “I should hope I am,” said Bertha, curtlv. 
 
 “Enthusiasm in a woman so often leads into mischief," said Phvllis. 
 pensively, “it is a great responsibihu'. I admire it \ erv much, but 1 shouldn’t 
 like to have it.” 
 
 “.Anvbody would suppose, Phyl, that enthusiasm was a gowt or a new¬ 
 fangled ornament, or an animal to care of,” said Gerald. 
 
 “Indeed, I appeal to the gentleman,” said Phvllis; “we all know that Mrs. 
 St. Clair can do amthing, and be trusted with anuhing. She has gifts that 
 few women could manage; but for us,—the majorin' of us—is it not best that 
 we should have less enthusiasm—be less impressible?" 
 
 “Ah! pattes de reloin [?]!” said Mrs. St. Clair, in an under tone, to Mr. 
 Josselyn. “The malicious meaning there! Shall I thank her and pretend 1 
 don’t see?” 
 
 “If vou ask my opinion, Mrs. Fordyce,” said Mr. Taunton, “1 should sav 
 vou are perfectly right. Weak women had better have weak qualities, but 
 Mrs. St. Clair should be enthusiastic; and when vou get to more names, 1 
 shall continue to answer yes or no, as long as 1 am permitted." 
 
 “I like everything that is genuine,” said Gerald. “Genuine enthusiasm, 
 genuine simplicity, genuine—” 
 
 “Wickedness?” asked Mr. Aubrey. 
 
 “Not exactly. But even genuine wickedness is better than disingenuous 
 goodness. I hate pretenses of all sorts. 1 would not care to be, for one 
 moment, other than I seem to be. 1 would not—” 
 
 Mrs. St. Clair was looking steadily at him. 
 
 “Did you speak, Mrs. St. Clair?” 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 “Oh! you were a theoretical man always,” said Aubrey. “1 low much 
 religion have you, pray? and yet, would not any one think, to hear you talk, 
 that you were of the most strictest sect.” 
 
 “Of the Pharisees,” said Francis, laughing. 
 
 “For shame!” exclaimed Ruth. “1 low can you say so, l-'rancis? Gerald don’t 
 laugh when he talks so.” 
 
 “You and 1 have not been asked our opinions. Miss Clare,” said Arthur 
 Mclvor. “Shan’t we put in one won.1?” 
 
 “Oh, dear, no!” said Cissy, with her eternal simper. “1 never dispute witlt 
 gentlemen, and in fact, I know my opinion is (|uite worthless.” 
 
 “Why?” 
 
 “Oh, 1 have never thought about enthusiasm, either as a pretence or 
 
 (; i'. K A I. 1) t; K A Y s W 1 I' K }OS 
 
otherwise. I take it for granted that people are just what they seem to be. 
 And some things suit some women and wouldn’t suit others. You know 
 that,—in short, Phyllis and I think exactly ahke.” 
 
 “Most satisfactorily reasoned,” said Gerald. “You have only contradicted 
 yourself and involved your statements, Cis, in the most bewitchingly, unrea¬ 
 soning manner. Never mind, you are not a strong-minded woman, and don't 
 care a button for all this. Let us leave it to Phyllis and Mrs. St. Clair, and 
 follow Mrs. Denham’s example; she has been eating her dinner and ‘talking 
 horse’ with Brotvne, like a sensible creature. Won’t you ride Mountain JVIan’ 
 to-morrow? And shall I make them give you some of this duck with ohves?” 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 “Mr. Josselyn, pray come here,” said Bertha, as the gentlemen joined the 
 ladies in the drawing room. “I want to say something disagreeable. Not 
 about you; don’t start back and scream!” 
 
 “Oh! I am infinitely refieved, and you may make it as disagreeable as vou 
 choose.” 
 
 “Thank you. I think Phyllis Fordyce the most intensely atrocious 
 woman—so manure, so false, so thoroughly pretentious, and so absurdlv 
 humble-minded!” 
 
 “Well, that is a mild, friendly sort of criticism. How gentle you are in your 
 strictures!” 
 
 “Am I not? I knew you would think so. And now, having said it, I feel 
 much better.” 
 
 “What do you think of her sister?” 
 
 “Cissy? Oh, she is a little gabby, that’s all.” 
 
 “Gabby? Shall I marry a gabby? for I am thinking seriously of trying to 
 win Cissy.” 
 
 “Are you?” said Bertha. “I think it a capital plan. I am sure you will like it 
 very much.” 
 
 “1 am very glad you approve. When do you think I had best ask her?” 
 
 “Oh, 1 wouldn’t ask her at all, if I were you. Get Mr. Gray to ask her for 
 »» 
 
 you. 
 
 “Well, that is not a had idea cither. I Ic has known her so much longer than 
 1 have—seen so imich more of her. 1 le thinks so highly of me, too, that he 
 could pul my (|ualities in a more fa\orahle light than 1 could myself” 
 
 tot) SUSAN !• !■ I 1 c u n k 1 N c: 
 
“Exactly. I am sure he would plead your case with ardor, and then I think 
 the less you see of her the greater your ardor would be.” 
 
 “She is so pretty— Cissy!” said Francis, pulling at his moustache; “such a 
 simple-minded, beautiful girl; not clever you know.” 
 
 “Oh, dear! no! no such evil quality as that about Cissy!” 
 
 And then these two began to laugh, and both sipped their coffee, till 
 Francis resumed: 
 
 “Mrs. St. Clair, 1 am going to be serious now.” 
 
 “Seriously serious, or playfully serious?” 
 
 “Seriously serious. Without circumlocution, 1 think Gerald is making an 
 ass of himself, and I wonder who else sees it besides ourselves?” 
 
 Mrs. St. Clair drained her cup, set it down, leaned her head upon her 
 hand, and bit her lips. 
 
 “Not Ruth, certainly,” she said, at last. 
 
 “Shall we try to stop it, before she does see it?” 
 
 “Can we?” 
 
 “At least, we can try.” 
 
 “You can command my services. What do you think of doing?” 
 
 “I am going to flirt with Cissy.” 
 
 “5o«.'AndI?” 
 
 “You must flirt with Gerald.” 
 
 “Pleasant, but very dangerous. My dear Mr. Josselyn, don’t you know that 
 I am terribly afraid of this delightful Gerald? Ah! you ought to have heard 
 me hold forth on the subject at his wedding breakfast. Really, my own 
 eloquence quite filled me with surprise./e me admiral tant that I was quite 
 shocked at the feeling.” 
 
 “You must not find fault with doing yourself what all the rest of the world 
 does.” 
 
 “A tmce to fadaises. Conspirators don’t waste their time paying each other 
 compliments. When are we to begin our arduous undertakings? I am un- 
 fiegnedly sorry ior you” 
 
 “This very minute.” 
 
 “Very well; like a true Knight, posting to the battle-field or the Tourna¬ 
 ment, I shall put on my armor at once. Is my hair smooth—quite smooth?” 
 Francis nodded. “And how are my eyes? Clara Wheeler has a way of blacking 
 the lids with a hairpin held over the smoke of a candle. Shall 1 try it? It gives 
 an oriental languor and brightness. Or shall I borrow a little of Phyllis’s rou}>e 
 that she never uses?” 
 
 G E R A I. IJ gray’s wife 307 
 
“What makes you so malicious this evening?” 
 
 “I don’t know. Evil associations perhaps. Well, we have no especial 
 programme, but we are to compare notes, I suppose, and carry on the war 
 vigorously.” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Then, let us begin. Goodbye. Spread your nets, and I mine.” 
 
 Bertha sauntered off, looking bent on mischief, but, as she left, Ruth took 
 her seat. 
 
 “What are you and Bertha talking about? both looking as wicked as 
 possible.” 
 
 “Floating in a sea of smaU-talk.” 
 
 “You like Bertha, don’t you?” 
 
 “Very much. She is what Gerald talks about—genuine. Her defects are 
 genuine, but so are her virmes. Her likes and dislikes, her figure and fancies, 
 her feelings and complexion. She is genuinely pleased and genuinely dis¬ 
 pleased. She is genuinely naughty, when the humor is upon her, and gen¬ 
 uinely good, when she is good.” 
 
 “She is perfectly sincere,” said Ruth. 
 
 “Too sincere, for she can’t conceal anything. I never saw such an ostrich, 
 nor ever heard a greater misnomen than to call her ‘a thorough woman of the 
 world,’ as some people do. She would be a vastly more popular person if she 
 were a woman of the world. But if she is hurt, she hollers, like a baby, and if 
 she is glad, she enjoys it, like a child.” 
 
 “Yes, she lets people see that they worry her.” 
 
 “Which, of course, in a Christian land, is an invitation to everybody to 
 worry her.” 
 
 “And they drive her wild sometimes, with their stories, and comments and 
 injustice.” 
 
 “And they wiU continue to do so, till she is indifferent to it.” 
 
 “That will be only when she is in her grave,” said Ruth. “Poor Bertha!” 
 
 “Not a bit of it. She wiU have the sense some day to turn where such things 
 can’t pursue her.” 
 
 “Right,” said Ruth, gravely. 
 
 “Ruth, why don’t you ask Miss Clare to sing?” began Francis, after a pause. 
 
 “Oh, Francis! do you like to hear her?” 
 
 “Excessively. She is so pleased with herself when she is at the piano. It 
 does one good to see the air of triumph with which she seats herself—gives a 
 sort of hump to her back, turns up her eyes, opens her mouth, and ‘wobbles,’ 
 as Mr. Yellowplush says.” 
 
 308 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“For shame! I don’t think it is proper to ask the poor girl to make her| 
 ridiculous.” 
 
 “She won’t thank you for not giving her the opportunity.” 
 
 “Very well; I’ll ask her.” 
 
 Mr. Josselyn followed Mrs. Gray, and added his entreaties, which were 
 not needed, to Cissy. She was knitting a purse, seated near the lamp. At the 
 table next her, Phyllis was reading, and on the other side, Gerald was in his 
 usual lazy, lounging attitude on the sofa, talking to both his cousins, for 
 Phyllis’ book did not seem to be very engrossing. 
 
 As Cissy went off, Bertha sauntered up to look for something on the same 
 table, and a merry interchange of nothings took place between herself and 
 her host, which ended in her ordering him to the other end of the sofa, with 
 all the cushions if he choose, but to give her the side nearest the light and 
 between him and Phyllis. 
 
 Before Mr. Fordyce had been dislodged, with his candlestick and news¬ 
 paper, from the piano, and required to go and take refuge beside his wife, 
 which at once entailed upon her the privilege of listening to scraps of news 
 she had already read, and not hearing what Gerald and Bertha were saying, 
 these two had embarked in a jesting conversation, which sank into lower and 
 lower tones, as Cissy began to sing. 
 
 On she went, from one bravura to another, plied with flatter)' by Francis, 
 and amazing him with the variety of grimaces and blunders that she ex¬ 
 ecuted. 
 
 But presently there was a laugh from Gerald in the vety midst of some 
 pathetic note. Cissy colored and looked around. Bertha was holding up her 
 finger, as she looked at Gerald’s outburst. The song came to an abrupt 
 conclusion. 
 
 “Have you not skipped?” asked Francis. “Don’t cut me off in that way.” 
 
 “I will sing something else,” said Cissy, turning over the leaves of her 
 music-book. “I don’t know the Italian words. The person who copied the 
 notes for me only put the English ones; but they are vety prett)', Rossini’s 
 music. 
 
 No loving word was spoken. 
 Calmly and coldly we parted; 
 I knew thee too false-hearted 
 To waste regret on me! 
 
 I felt the chain was broken. 
 To bind us more, ah! never! 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 309 
 
And parting e’en forever, 
 
 Sought no farewell of thee! 
 
 In vain my heart, forsaken. 
 
 Thy treachery now remembers. 
 
 For love’s undying embers 
 StiU burn for thee alone! 
 
 Ah, yes, for thee alone! 
 
 A dead silence fell upon the room. Cissy got up and walked away from the 
 piano. There had been something too marked in her voice and the words not 
 to attract attention. Phyllis colored, looked intensely annoyed, and then said: 
 
 “How absurd English words to Italian music always sound.” 
 
 “Do you think so, Phyl,” asked Gerald; “now, I think there is a good deal 
 of sense in Cissy’s song. I wish to learn them words; I shall keep them to 
 launch at Ruth’s head, if ever she purposes to run away from me. Or shall I 
 sing them to you, Mrs. St. Clair, when you leave Beauchamp? How do they 
 go? 
 
 And then he set up an imitation, and shaking himself out of his lounging 
 seat, he went after Cissy, making grotesque roulades. 
 
 “Cis, my dear, I admire that vastly; I want you to teach me the words.” 
 
 “Go away, Gerald,” she said, a little pettishly; “you always tease me.” 
 
 “But you don’t mind being teased, do you?” 
 
 Her back was turned to him, and she seemed deeply interested in some 
 engravings. Conversations recommenced. Mrs. Denham began playing 
 waltzes; the chairs were pushed aside, and they began to dance. Francis went 
 up and invited Cissy. 
 
 “Mrs. St. Clair is waiting for you, Gerald,” he added. 
 
 Ruth was leaning back in a great chair, tapping her Ups with a paper- 
 folder; she seemed watching the dancers. 
 
 Bertha stopped near her, and then offered a mrn to Mr. Mclvor. Gerald 
 leaned over the high back of the chair and spoke to his wife: 
 
 “Do you feel badly, darling?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “You look worried.” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “All this row bothers you, and Cissy’s music.” 
 
 “Yes, Cissy’s music.” 
 
 “It is rather poor. Has it given you a headache?” 
 
 “No, a-” 
 
 310 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Heartache, perhaps?” 
 
 Ruth was silent. 
 
 “You silly Ruth! Are you going to allow Cissy Clare to annoy you?” 
 
 “No; Gerald Gray annoys me.” 
 
 “At least, you are candid. Most women would conceal absurd and un¬ 
 founded jealousy.” 
 
 “I don’t compare myself with most women, any more than I do you with 
 most men.” 
 
 During this colloquy, Bertha rapidly whispered to Francis: “The storm is 
 brewing.” 
 
 “All hands to reef sails, then,” he answered. “Who is tired of dancing?” he 
 called out. “I am. Let’s play some jeu innocent. Mrs. Denham will thank me, 
 for I am sure her fingers are stiff.” 
 
 “Yes; what shall it be?” 
 
 “What were we playing two nights ago?” 
 
 “Oh! something new, let’s have,” said Bertha. “Suppose we try that game 
 that is mentioned in ‘Daisy Chair’—that High-Church novel that you were 
 pouring over, Ruth? One goes out, we choose a word, which each must insert 
 into a story that each must tell.” 
 
 “Original story?” cried Mr. Aubrey. “I have no invention.” 
 
 “Then remember one; only be sure to bring in the word. Who shall go 
 out?” 
 
 “Let two go out together,” said Francis; “it makes it easier for the guesser. 
 I vote that Mr. and Mrs. Gray retire to the dining-room and be the first 
 victims.” 
 
 “Carried unanimously.” 
 
 “Choose something easy: recollect we are dull,” said Gerald, as they left 
 the room. “Bless Francis for that idea, my darling. Look at me. What 
 troubles you?” 
 
 “That silly song of Cecilia’s.” 
 
 “Confound Cecilia! Can I prevent her from being silly? She doesn’t know 
 what she is doing. She sings die-away ditties with the air and tone of a 
 victim. For heaven’s sake, don’t notice her. I don’t know what possesses her to 
 be so foolish. I don’t like to startle her innocence by letting her or anybody 
 else see this sentimental set at me; and you observe how I treat it. Instead of 
 helping me, it worries you.” 
 
 “But ought not Phyllis to interfere?” 
 
 “Phyllis did speak to her, and poor Cissy was quite shocked, and really has 
 no idea of how much nonsense she shows. She really don’t care two straws 
 
 GERALD GRAYS WIFE 3II 
 
for me. She is a pertectlv good, well-principled girl; but you know,— 
 mamma’s ideas,—all that—she fancies that I;—in fact, poor child! this is her 
 notion of revenge for my short-comings.” 
 
 “We ought never to have asked her here,” said Ruth, decidedly 
 “It was my fault,” said Gerald, “and it will be mine if it is ever repeated. 
 Now, you are all right, my nonsensical darhng, ain’t you?” 
 
 i.<\T yy 
 
 les. 
 
 “Ah! there’s a monosyllable that I hke.” 
 
 “Come in! come back!” called out the voices from the drawing-room. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 “Who begins?” asked Gerald, entering. 
 
 “IVIr. Fordyce.” 
 
 “I heard,” said Mr. Fordyce, “that there were excellent mushrooms to be 
 found m the old field—” 
 
 “Dear Mr. Fordyce,” Interrupted Phyllis, “what sort of story is that?” 
 
 “Mrs. Fordyce to pay a forfeit if she interrupts Mr. Fordyce on tits 
 occasion,” said Gerald. 
 
 “In the old field adjoining the next plantation,” went on Mr. Fordyce. “I 
 knew that my amiable host would not object to having some, nor throw any 
 obstacle in my way, if I even carried off Plato from some knife-cleaning duty 
 to help me in the search. I started when I first got up, armed with faith, 
 perseverance and a stick, not to mention Plato. I walked myself tired and 
 hungr}^ and came back, without seeing a single mushroom!” 
 
 “Perseverance!” said Ruth and Gerald, both together. 
 
 “Oh, no! no!” they all cried. 
 
 “Vert" well done, indeed, Mr. Fordyce. Now to the next.” 
 
 “Some people think,” said Mrs. Denham, “that everything is to be accom¬ 
 plished by faith in your own powers. I will relate a small anecdote that upsets 
 such ideas. This winter I had set my heart or my head, I don’t know which, 
 on the conquest of a young gendeman, and I fancied that if I only believed 
 that I could,—had faith in myself—it would be an easy matter. There seemed 
 to be no obstacle to interfere. He was young, and foohsh, and conceited. I 
 talked to him, laughed with him, flattered him, and was rewarded by his 
 saying one day: Mrs. Denham, you are a charming woman. Faith! if I wasn’t 
 so much younger than you, you would have great trouble in getting rid of 
 
 312 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Oh, that’s too easy,” said Gerald. “Faith! Mrs. Denham, you might have 
 done better. Take my place.” 
 
 The answer was a burst of laughter. 
 
 “Mrs. Denham has treated you as the toreadors treat the bulls, Gerald,” 
 said Francis; “she shook the red rag in your eyes, and held the dagger in 
 reserve.” 
 
 “What is your guess, Ruth?” asked Bertha; “only one for each permitted.” 
 
 “Heart?” 
 
 “Your head runs on hearts. Do you remember any mention of hearts in 
 Mr. Fordyce’s mushrooms?” 
 
 “His heart was in the business, but he did not say so,” said Arthur Mclvor. 
 
 “Now, Francis, ’tis your turn.” 
 
 “Once upon a time there lived in a city, which shall be nameless, a youth, 
 who madly loved a maiden. That’s a famous beginning, but it doesn’t go on 
 so well. He was poor; she wasn’t rich. Those are obstacles to the course of all 
 true love. He went away; not to forget her, but to work for her. That is an 
 everyday occurrence. They wrote and wrote to each other. He was as true as 
 steel and thought her truer. On the last page of her last letter, she said: 
 
 ‘And so I write to you; and write and write 
 
 For the mere sake of writing to you, dear. 
 
 What can I tell you that you know not?’ 
 
 “He didn’t know that with the same pen that traced those lines she 
 answered ‘yes’ next day, to the booby with ten thousand a year, whom she 
 married in a month, and who asked her that evening to do so. But she took a 
 night to consider about it—twelve hours; in fact, sixteen, to consider whether 
 she should cast off the man who loved her so deeply and passionately. That 
 was a hesitation he should have been proud of; and so I told him, for 
 
 Women’s hearts change lightly; 
 
 (Truth both trite and olden;) 
 
 But blue eyes remain blue. 
 
 Golden hair stays golden, 
 
 and there are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught or lost. Now, guess 
 the word.” 
 
 “Obstacle,” said Gerald, a little gravely. 
 
 “You have guessed it,” Francis said. “Take my seat. Come, Ruth, you are 
 not released until you guess for yourself.” 
 
 “Do you think that is a true story?” enquired Phyllis, as the door closed on 
 Francis and Mrs. Gray. 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 313 
 
“My child, all stories are true about something. There is nothing new 
 under the sun. We may read of an imaginar}' Mr. Johnson’s sufferings, but 
 depend upon it, a real Mr. Thompson has had something very like it to 
 experience. What some Margery in a book is said to have felt, depend upon 
 it, a Mart’ in actual hfe is undergoing and suffering, or feeling and enjoying. 
 We can’t strike out new sensations to wring us or make us happy, any more 
 than the book makers can. ‘Ever}T:hing is new; everything is old,’” said 
 Gerald. 
 
 “But,” persisted Phyllis, “do you suppose that this story of Mr. Josselyn’s 
 has any relation to himself?” 
 
 “No more that through his relationship to Adam, and consequently the 
 whole human family.” 
 
 “Ah! I thought-’’ 
 
 “Phyl, thinking is the most dangerous thing anybody can do. Nothing 
 would induce me to think.” 
 
 “Well, it strikes me it would be as well to think about the word we are 
 going to choose,” said practical Mr. Browne, “and not keep those two 
 waiting all night.” 
 
 So the word was chosen, and Ruth and Francis summoned. 
 
 “Begin, now, at Mrs. St. Clair,” said Mr. Aubrey. 
 
 “Eighteen months ago,” began Bertha, “I got a note from a friend of mine, 
 (she glanced at Mrs. Denham,) telling me that she was, at the ver}^ moment 
 of wTiting it, undergoing the pleasure of a visit from a widowed ‘landed 
 proprietor’ of our common acquaintance, who had come with an extraordi- 
 narv praver—a plan to propose for our approval. That we should select a 
 pam' ot ten ladies and ten gentlemen, to go into the country on the Monday 
 week following. We were to carry^—” 
 
 “How long were you going to stay?” broke in Gerald; “for I suggest 
 cradles.” 
 
 “Gerald!” cried Ruth, reprovingly. 
 
 He held up his hands, and looked provokingly handsome, while the young 
 men laughed, and Bertha went on, vainly tiydng not to smUe. 
 
 “We were to carrv horses and fishing lines, and ball dresses, and to stay a 
 week. I \vrote in reply, that unless the plague were to break out, 1 feared we 
 could have no excuse for this httle entertainment, and so, I suppose, by way 
 of revenge upon my lukewarmness, when these Bo—, when these unlimited 
 ideas resolved themselves into a fete, given by said landed proprietor, at his 
 ancestral Hall, he never invited either of us at all.” 
 
 “I can’t guess amthing,” said Ruth, puzzled. “Gerald put me out.” 
 
 314 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“I was listening to Mrs. St. Clair’s story, not picking at her words,” said 
 Francis. 
 
 “Which only means,” said Bertha, “that you both wish to conceal your 
 dullness. The word came—” 
 
 “You mustn’t tell,” exclaimed Mr. Aubrey. “You spoil my chance of 
 escaping detection. I am going to quote. I warned you I couldn’t invent. 
 Listen to moon-rise from Fort Sumter: 
 
 Slow-climbing from the abyss of dread. 
 
 Beneath the horizon’s mystic line. 
 
 The August moon begins to shine, 
 
 A sullen orb of angry red! 
 
 Still upward! Lo! the lurid glare 
 Commingles with a purer sky. 
 
 And softlier on the gazing eye 
 A shield of rose illumes the air! 
 
 Up to the Zenith!—Silver bright 
 The stainless splendor swims, below. 
 
 The tremulous ocean seems to grow. 
 
 One pathway of celestial light! 
 
 From doubt and anguish, and despair, 
 
 I watch my clouded future climb!— 
 
 Look up! from yonder arch sublime 
 Its glory floods the gaze of prayer!” 
 
 “Very pretty and proper;—whose?” asked Gerald. 
 
 “I found them in Mrs. St. Clair’s album,” answered Mr. Aubrey. 
 
 “Did you, indeed? They evidently emanate from the pen of a virtuous and 
 right-thinking young person. Name the author, Mrs. St. Clair, and if he is 
 present let’s crown him.” 
 
 “Oh, there are other verses in Mrs. St. Clair’s album,” said Mr. Aubrey. 
 “What do you think of these, surmounted by a bunch of faded hearts-ease? 
 
 See! faded my flowers low dropping in sorrow. 
 
 Afar from the bosom they die to adorn; 
 
 Let thy sweet lips but press them. 
 
 Thy fair hand caress them. 
 
 And the grief of the night beams with joy in the morn. 
 
 Sweet flowers! go, tell her my heart’s ease has faded, 
 
 GERALDGRAY SWIPE 315 
 
Like you, on that bosom I die to recline; 
 
 But the sweet lip disdains me, 
 
 The fair hand restrains me; 
 
 Alt! sleeping or waking, but sorrow is mine.” 
 
 “Mr. Aubrey! Mr. Aubrey!” cried Mrs. St. Clair, as well as she could for 
 laughing; “what do you mean by this? You interrupt the game and wish to 
 throw my little Marquis into confusion, by quoting the verses he sent me 
 vTapped in sugar-plums at Christmas!” 
 
 Gerald’s color had risen, and he darted an uneasy look at Aubrey. 
 
 “J rvrite verses!” exclaimed Mclvor. “It’s my opinion that Aubrey wrote 
 the first and—” 
 
 “Hush, hush, my child; you needn’t be ashamed of them, and if you put 
 in another disclaimer, I’ll smother vou with wreaths myself;” and Ber¬ 
 tha launched into a laughing, jesting skirmish with her boy-admirer, and 
 drotvned his protestations in a torrent of nonsense. 
 
 Jossehm understood at once that Aubrey had quoted himself, and that 
 Gerald had wTitten the sentimental madriml. 
 
 o 
 
 “This is aU ^"erv well, and Mr. Aubrey recites admirably,” he put in; “but 
 what is the word? Do you guess, Ruth?” 
 
 “Not in the least. They must condense more.” 
 
 “And not deal in episode.” 
 
 “Go on to Brotvne—he may help you,” said Gerald, who seemed in no 
 wise anxious to descant on the merits of albmn poetry. 
 
 “Pra}'er,” said Air. Browne, clearing his throat. 
 
 “Oh! prayer,” exclaimed Ruth; “that is it! Bertha spoke of the landed 
 proprietor and his extraordinary pra^'er.” 
 
 “Yes, I thought you would guess it then; but Mr. Browne is more consid¬ 
 erate in his aid than myself” 
 
 “Well, I thought we never would guess it at all,” said Francis. “I am not 
 good at guessing, and things must be txrv plain to strike me. Nothing more 
 obscure than what I ha\"e just heard hits the range of my intelligence. 
 Brovme’s help was absolutely required.” 
 
 The entrance of the supper tray caused a cry of surprise—no one had 
 fancied it half so late. 
 
 Francis poured out a glass of curacoa for Bertha, and smiled meaningly as 
 he handed it to her. 
 
 “That dates five years back,” she said, answering his look; “but I had not 
 
 316 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
supposed that Mr. Aubrey knew its origin, and would seize it as a weapon. 
 Did I not tell you that I knew how saucy Mr. Gray Could be? It is for this 
 reason that I want you to let me off. The creature has such eyes! and is so 
 fearfully saucy. I think I could always resist the encroachments of his beauty 
 upon my peace of mind, but I am powerless against his impudent nonsense.” 
 
 “But you know you are not really to attend him—only district him from 
 feeding his vanity and tormenting Ruth.” 
 
 “What a monster you are! Then you don’t consider my feelings at all. 
 Seriously,” she went on, ceasing to smile, “I wonder if we shall do any good?” 
 
 “We can’t do any harm, and our object is certainly commendable. I trust 
 implicitly to your tact. Just get this girl out of the house without letting Ruth 
 see that— ” 
 
 “That what?” 
 
 “That Gerald has not been frank with her. I sincerely believe that he loves 
 her now; but, I fancy — and so you have not finished reading 'Rouge etNoir? 
 Ruth”—she was beside them— “send me something to read, please. I can’t go 
 to sleep before the small hours as you primitive people do. Good night.” 
 
 “Have you and Gerald talked yourselves out?” asked Ruth, “and will you 
 read a sober book of my choosing?” 
 
 “You had better come and take a hand with us,” suggested Mr. Aubrey. 
 
 “Oh, these cards— detestable cards,” cried Bertha. “Why will men so 
 waste time and money—sitting up all night shuffling and dealing? If I were 
 you, Ruth, I should forbid the ‘devil’s books,’ after a certain hour, in my 
 establishment. Wait till I get a country seat.” 
 
 “Then you would never have your friend, Mr. Leonard Germayne, as a 
 frequent guest, Mrs. St. Clair.” 
 
 “Why not, pray?” 
 
 “He would not like to go where limits are set to turning up the king—and 
 a mighty pretty way he has of doing it too. The only thing he does better is— 
 turning up the ace.” 
 
 “For shame,” said Bertha, indignantly. 
 
 “Well! ask Browne. Browne is our informant.” 
 
 Mr. Browne shook his great Teutonic head, (his mother was a German,) 
 and smiled meaningly. 
 
 “Come, out with it, Mr. Browne. If what you hint is true, say it—if it is 
 false, deny it. Don’t stand there looking as if you might disclose volumes— 
 and then after all have a mouse exit from your mountain.” 
 
 “God bless me! Mrs. St. Clair, you are so hard upon a man.” 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIFE 317 
 
“No, I am not; but I hate innuendoes, half-words, which are meant to 
 mean whole sentences of condemnation, and so on—stabs in the dark from 
 those who would not scratch with a pin by dayhght.” 
 
 “Bertha,” said IVlrs. Denham, warningly. 
 
 “Oh, nonsense!” cried Bertha; “Mr. Germa}Tie is my friend. I hke him—I 
 hke his wife, and I should scorn to sit quiedy by and hear slanders of him— 
 none the more fatal because half-syUabled. If Mr. Browne means that he has 
 seen ISIr. Germatme cheat at cards, let him proclaim it. If he is not sure of it, 
 let him never hint at it again. It is dis— it is outrageous.” 
 
 “You take up a fellow so quickly, Mrs. St. Clair,” said Arthur Mclvor. 
 
 “Yes, I do,” said Bertha, shordy. “I despise underhand dealings. It is not 
 the first time that I have heard such talk as this, and I don’t like it, and in my 
 presence it shall never pass unnoticed.” 
 
 “Why, my dear creature,” said Bettina, “you don’t imagine, do you, that 
 the Germa\'nes don’t know that such things are said, and that it is quite 
 useless for vou to break lances in this manner for them?” 
 
 “I know nothing but this,” answered Mrs. St. Clair, “that they are my 
 friends, and, as such, I owe them a sacred dutv'—” 
 
 “Thev 'v\'ill fall off from you, just like others.” 
 
 “So be it; truth is truth. Fais ce que doit, advienne ce que pouvra. I don’t 
 beheve what had been said; that is sufficient for me. Am I not right, Ruth?” 
 
 ‘Yhs,” and Ruth then whispered, “but a httie fierce.” 
 
 Bertha broke into a light laugh and held out her hand to IMr. Browne. 
 
 “Pardon me,” she said, with her softest air of contrition; “and of our 
 conversation only remember this, that were I to hear you accused behind 
 your back, I should be just as energetic to the speaker.” 
 
 Mr. Bro\vTie took the fair hand, bowed and said something unintelligible, 
 but the cloud remained sulkily on his brow. 
 
 Ruth, Bertha and Francis stood together in the haU. Francis shook his 
 head, with a look half amused, half sad. 
 
 “Don Quixote, en jupes, Airs. St. Clair.” 
 
 ‘lAnd after all,” said Ruth, vert' low, “I fear Air. Browne is right. Gerald 
 has a horror of gambhng; he never touches a card now, unless obliged to play 
 for pohteness, and he says that Air. Germayne’s society is not agreeable to 
 him, because that gentleman is so devoted to play, and is too—lucky always.” 
 
 Bertha’s upper lip trembled with suppressed amusement, and then a 
 shadow of sadness darkened her expressive eyes. 
 
 She looked earnestly for a second in Ruth’s calmly happy face, but only 
 said, “Good night, dear.” 
 
 318 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Francis Jossehn kissed Berthas hand. “True, reckless aixi doubtini:'' \ras 
 his thoughts, and then he took Ruth s. "True, cautious and unsuspicious," he 
 went on. “And there is a deal of semblance between these rv^'o w\>tnen. and 
 neither thes' nor the world will es er know it.” All he S 42 iJ was: 
 
 “Good night, sweet ladies.” 
 
 Si CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 “^^ell, this is our last day here,” said Mrs. Denham, as she drew her chair 
 to the breakfast table. 
 
 “\'es, and it is fortunate that it is so bright a one, for we will take advantage 
 of it to go and see the old Church, shall we not?" asked Mrs. St. Clair, 
 turning to her hostess. 
 
 “I wish you would all consent to remain a Uttle longer with us," said Ruth, 
 politely. 
 
 “I don’t see why you huny otf in this veiy punctual manner," Gerald said, 
 taking up the strain. 
 
 “Of course,” said Bertha, laughing, “you have done now the right and 
 proper thing—we are pressed to stay, and 1, for one, decline, but with the 
 pleasant feeling that I have not overstated my welcome." 
 
 “I would gladly remain,” remarked Phvllis, “but we are e.xpected at m^■ 
 mother-in-law’s by to-morrow afternoon’s train, and she would think it a 
 breach of decorum for us to put her off.” 
 
 “Does Cissy go with you to Mrs. Fordyce’s?” asked Gerald. 
 
 “Yes; some of the Rutford girls are asked to meet Cissv. She is such a 
 favorite with every one, that 1 was not surprised to have Mrs. Fordvce urge 
 me not to let her forget her promise to come, with the suggestion that the 
 dear old lady would do everything in her power not to make it tr>o great a 
 sacrifice, for one so young and so much admired." 
 
 Nobody took up the strain, or expressed the natural desire of evetybody tii 
 secure Cissy. Mr. Browne did say something, which was swallowed with the 
 mouthful of waffle that he was at that moment mastering, and a second after. 
 Cissy herself entered, looking very fresh and fair. 
 
 “Now let us discuss our plans,” said Taunton, who had had a heailache the 
 previous evening, and retired very early from the companv. "Are we going to 
 the Church?” 
 
 "Yes.” 
 
 “Nice road?” 
 
 (; l- K A I. I) c u A Y ’ s w I I I', {in 
 
“Well, it is rather shady, which will be an advantage with so warm a sun. 
 Those who don’t like rough travelling had best go on horseback, perhaps. 
 Mrs. Gray will take the carriage, for she never rides.” 
 
 “Who win go with me?” asked Ruth. 
 
 “I wiU,” said PhyUis; “my riding dress is not with me, and I hke the 
 carriage just as well, and don’t mind jolts.” 
 
 “I shall ride,” said Bertha. 
 
 “And I,” added Mrs. Denham. 
 
 “Are you going to try Mountain Mary, Cis?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, if she is very' quiet.” 
 
 “Quiet as a rocking-horse, and it would be just as hard to make her 
 runaway.” 
 
 “Then that is settled,” said Mrs. Gray, rising. “We had better start about 
 —” and she looked at Gerald. 
 
 “About II o’clock.” 
 
 It was a gay and froUcsome party which took its way through Beauchamp 
 woods to the deserted and dilapidated Church. 
 
 Mr. Browne had finally decided to drive Mr. Fordyce in the trotting- 
 waggon, which came to the door, with Midnight in such prancing spirits, that 
 the timid elderly lawyer, was half inchned to back out, and take refuge in the 
 carriage with his wife; but being earnestly assured that “it was only his fun,” 
 by the admiring groom, who held the head of the handsome “fast-trotter,” 
 he, a httle reluctantly, hoisted himself up to the seat, beside Mr. Browne. 
 
 “I say, Ruth, do you ever trust yourself in that wagon with Mr. Gray?” 
 asked Bertha. 
 
 “Frequently,” answered Gerald for her; “but I have to take her again. 
 What is the use of driving so insensible a woman behind such a nag as that! 
 Do you know, Mrs. St. Clair, that one afternoon, after having recently 
 exhorted my wife to pay a little attention to Midnight’s good points—after 
 having forced her to confess that he was the most splendid horse she had ever 
 seen, what do you suppose she did? I had some thoughts of buying Tom 
 Trenton’s milk white mare, and had her to try, and asked Ruth to go to drive, 
 without mentioning the mare. We got in and went off. Ruth gazes at Snow 
 with the air of a connoisseur, and says to me in a little patronizing air, assumed 
 tone, “It must be admitted that Midnight is a superb creature; I never saw 
 him better?” 
 
 “Of course that story is true!” said Ruth, joining in the laugh against her. 
 
 “Of course it is,” said Gerald. “Now let us be off The carriage had better 
 
 320 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
go ahead, for Jackson knows the road better than any of us. Aubrey, you go in 
 the carriage, I believe?” 
 
 Mrs. Denham had Mr. Taunton for an escort, and Mrs. St. Clair, seeing 
 that Gerald was determined not to quit Ciss\’s side, exchanged a rapid 
 glance with Mr. Jossehn, which ended in the latter falling back to form a trio 
 with the two cousins, while Arthur Mclvor escorted Bertha. 
 
 Bertha could not help enjoying the sight of Gerald s provoked counte¬ 
 nance, when he found Francis persisting in helping him to teach Ciss\' in 
 which hand definitively she should hold her reins. Mr. Gray could find no 
 excuse to get rid of Francis, who was so placid and so pleasant, paving 
 outrageous comphments to Cissy, who smiled and simpered and colored, 
 and was as inoffensive and prettv' as a large wax-doU. 
 
 Through the grand old primeval forests, which, e.xcept for the worm 
 fences here and there, and a veiy- indifferent road, looked as if neither the 
 hand nor foot of man had ever come near them before, they went for several 
 miles. 
 
 “Who does all this land belong to?” asked Francis. 
 
 “I don’t know exactly where Mr. Desborough’s interest ceases, or Taun¬ 
 ton’s begins,” said Gerald. “The dividing line is not of verv- great conse¬ 
 quence. It is not cotton land; and it is verv' poor corn-land. Take care. Cissy; 
 don’t jerk her so.” 
 
 “Of course; that is always the crv—com or cotton; and now the introduc¬ 
 tion of the first named article is an innovation on i gentlemans consideration. 
 You Southerners never will be the people you ought to be till you leav'e off 
 thinking it derogatorv to your dignitv to cultivate anvthing but cotton or 
 rice. When some of you planters turn farmers, it wiU be a great thing for vx>u 
 all.” 
 
 “I make no doubt; and I have not the smallest objection to their doing so.” 
 
 “Miss Clare, would you refuse to dance with me if I grew and sold 
 potatoes, beans and turnips? That only will deter me from it. when I settle as 
 Gerald’s neighbor.” 
 
 “Oh, well, I don’t know. It is not the custom, you know.” 
 
 “That decides me,” said Francis, firmly. “Adieu, ye shades of gathered 
 ‘produce,’ that have never yet been planted! Miss Clare disclaims ye, and I 
 disown ye!” 
 
 “Did the first settlers here, the English gentlemen who owned these 
 lands,” asked Cissy, “did thev plant beans and things for market?” 
 
 “No, I fancy not; they were for the most part men of fortune, and the chief 
 
 G E R A L D G R .V Y S VV I F E 32I 
 
of their time was given to lading out their grounds and digging fish-ponds, 
 instead of ditching and draining their lands. There was an immense amount 
 of labor given to ornamental work. As Tom’s father, old Trenton, says: ‘You 
 can see that niggers then only cost fift)' dollars apiece, when their ser\dces 
 were wasted in that way!’ ” 
 
 “These places have all passed into other hands, have they not?” persisted 
 Francis, obstinatelv bent upon being agreeable, and making Gerald instruc¬ 
 tive. “The descendants of the first colonists have not kept to the old sites?” 
 
 “No, there are strange enough places to be seen about here; not very long 
 since, there was a house which had remained for years and years deserted. It 
 belonged to the M— family. The young Enghsh bride brought over by the 
 last occupant from her cheert" British home, was miserable in the midst of 
 the black faces and the sohtude. They seemed to have rushed off one day, 
 with scarcely any preparation or packing up. Mr. Desborough told me that 
 when first he bought Beauchamp, twenty years ago, he went over to visit this 
 queer, neglected place. Two ancient negroes still tottered about the premises. 
 There was a harpsichord open, a book turned down upon its leaves, as if just 
 being read, pictures upon the walls, faded carpets on the floors—a strange 
 haunted, weird look evervwhere. The old negroes didn’t ‘know rightly’ who 
 owned the place. Roses still bloomed in the ragged garden, and the fish pond 
 was choked up. Not long after the woods were on fire, and the house was 
 burned doAvn, and the old negroes straggled off and died.” 
 
 “And who owns it now?” 
 
 “What? the house that was burned down? My dear Francis, I have been 
 amusing you enough. Cissy don’t care a straw for old burned down houses.” 
 
 “Yes, I do; and I think that a very interesting account. Tell us about 
 somewhere else.” 
 
 “No, I won’t, because while fistening, you have let Mountain Mary puU 
 and puU at the bridle until she had got her head between her forelegs and 
 looks hke a cart-horse.” 
 
 “Ah! there we are,” cried Francis, “arrived! There is the carriage, and the 
 ladies have got out.” 
 
 Under the porch, through the always open door into the old Church, 
 where the British arms above the altar saved the building in the Revolution- 
 an' days. The Lion and the Unicorn had been freshly gilded and touched 
 wth red, a year or two before, when an attempt had been made to get up a 
 congregation and a clergyman, which failed through lack of funds, fervor 
 and farmers. Gerald suggested the first reason, when said attempt was soon 
 discussed, Ruth hinted at the second, and Francis boldly stuck to the third. 
 
 322 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“W'^ho was to make your congregation?” he enquired. “It all this waste 
 land were in the hands ot tenants, broad-shouldered, hard-risted, working 
 men, planting com and beans and turnips, do vou hear Gerald? com and 
 beans and turnips; how much better it would be.” 
 
 “For country doctors, \^s; for vx>u are reckoning without fevers and such 
 things. You Northern people never cease being afraid of our climate, and vet 
 never consider that it is this peculiar soil and climate which keeps us tfom 
 spreading over our country and tilling it up, as you do with vours.” 
 
 “The ground would be tilled up with the bodies of victims fast enough,” 
 said Mr. Taunton, quietly. 
 
 “Not here—I don’t believe it. In the swamp lands, necessarilv,” said 
 Francis. “But, take this land into cultivation, drain, manure, clear —. You 
 would soon see.” 
 
 “Whoever saw an a-c-h-i-e-v-e-m-e-n-t pronounced hatchmen, and 
 much mentioned in Mrs. Gore’s novels, and other instructive works? ” cried 
 Mrs. St. Clair, from the galleiy over the door. “Not vou travelled people, but 
 we republicans and sinners?” 
 
 “Not I! nor I!” answered several voices. 
 
 “Then mn up here instantly.” 
 
 There was a scrambling for the narrow stainvav, and a clambering over old 
 worm eaten seats, till they stood before the black wooden board over which 
 was painted the coat of arms, ixc., of perhaps the last person in this cvnintiy 
 who followed the lugubrious and vet time-honored custom. It had been 
 hidden away behind a bench. 
 
 “How queer and distant this little nook of a place seems from our times 
 and people?” said Bertha, as she leant over the railing of the gallery and 
 talked to Francis. “We are so new; those monuments vonder, on either side 
 of the chancel, would be almost modern in an English Church; thev have 
 only been there a little over a hundred vears, to us thev are antiquities; yet, 1 
 don’t think ten people care about them! If one could dip up this small, grey 
 and to me perfectly interesting old Chapel, and plant it safely where it could 
 be entirelv renovated and used, half the vvi^rld t>f our world would prefer a 
 staring, just-built edidce with not an association about it.” 
 
 “Progress, dear Mrs. St. Clair! This Church is not comfortably built; and 
 what awkward little pews!” put in Mr. Aubrey, joining them. 
 
 “Precisely,” said Mrs. St. Clair, saucilv; “vou are one of the world 1 speak 
 of” 
 
 “New things for a new countrv, ” suggested Francis, languidly. 
 
 “But eternal newness is immortal vulgarity, ” said Bertha. 
 
 i: K R A l O U KAY S W 1 K K 
 
“That sentence is so much like you, Bertha,” said Mrs. Denham, laughing 
 at her. “Sounds so fine and means nothing!” 
 
 Bertha made a rush at the speaker, who caught up the folds of her riding 
 habit, and disappeared down the staircase, followed by Mrs. St. Clair, and 
 when the gentleman came up with them, Bertha had revenged herself by 
 taking possession of a superb wreath of jessamines which Mr. Taunton had 
 gathered with great difficulU' for Mrs. Denham, and winding it around her 
 own black plumed grey mousquetaire hat. 
 
 They passed an hour deciphering inscriptions, and making wonderful 
 discoveries about family connections. 
 
 “Whv,” said Phyllis, “who ever dreamed that Mrs. Turner, that red-faced, 
 horrid woman, (however, she is dead, poor thing!) who ever dreamed that 
 she was a niece of the Rutfords?” 
 
 “I didn’t dream, but I knew it,” said Mr. Fordvce. 
 
 “Why didn’t you teU me? I never would have snubbed her so, if I had 
 known it, and when we were at Catoosa Springs together. Here is her 
 tombstone.” 
 
 “See how important it is for us to get up our Debrett!” exclaimed Mrs. St. 
 Clair. “How much more easily poor Mrs. Turner would rest now under that 
 stone, if Airs. Fordyce had only known that her mother was a Rutford!” 
 
 “I don’t think we ought to jest about a death so recent,” said Ruth, gravely. 
 “Let us go farther off.” 
 
 “You are right, Ruth,” whispered Airs. St. Clair, “and it was ver}" naughty 
 of me, but Phyllis does put me out of patience. I think she would strike 
 sparks of indignation from a cold potatoe!” 
 
 “Has Airs. John Gilpin brought amthing to eat?” asked Gerald, as he 
 came towards them. 
 
 “Yes,” said Ruth, “our lunch is in the carriage; but let us get outside of the 
 enclosure. This is consecrated ground.” 
 
 “Right again,” said Bertha. “I fear we have shown more curiosity than 
 reverence in our Hsit, so far.” 
 
 Presently they were all sitting under a great tree, and the contents of the 
 hamper were happUv brought to fight. 
 
 Old jests and new were bandied about, and Bertha began to moralise in 
 her usual flightv' fashion. 
 
 “Don’t you think,” she said, “that people really grow better if they five in 
 the countn'?” 
 
 “They grow fatter, usuaUv,” said Airs. Denham, helping herself to some 
 more pate. 
 
 324 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“But,” persisted Bertha, “do they not grow better? How httle excuse one 
 can make to one’s self for evil thoughts of one’s neighbors, malice, and 
 uncharitableness, when one Uves away from all the petty annoyances and 
 invitations of society.” 
 
 “On the contrary,” said Mr. Taunton; “they grow self-satisfied and intol¬ 
 erable, from having nobody to rub their own opinions against; they form 
 erroneous judgments of people and things.” 
 
 “They become intensely selfish,” said Gerald. 
 
 “I thought you had never hved in the country' till now,” cried Bertha, 
 innocently. 
 
 “Mrs. St. Clair, your remarks are personal. Do you think me selfish?” 
 
 “I am no judge,” said Bertha; “I am so selfish myself;” smiling into his eyes 
 with mock humihty. 
 
 “Who says you are selfish?” broke in Arthur Mclvor; “I don’t think so at 
 all; 1 think you are a veiy nice woman, which you wouldn’t be if vou were 
 selfish.” 
 
 “Young gentieman, come hither,” said Bertha, solemnly. 
 
 She took off the jessamine wreath from her hat and wound it round 
 Arthur’s curly head, as he knelt before her, taking care not to derange the 
 perfect “parting” right in the middle of his forehead. “I crown vou my knight 
 henceforward and forever. Rise, Sir Arthur, and give me some chicken.” 
 
 “Bertha, what is the use of abusing yourself?” asked Bettina; “there are so 
 many to do it for you.” 
 
 “I like to follow la mode," said Bertha. 
 
 “Is it the fashion?” asked Francis; “alas! can I never hope to be fashionable 
 here? What is your crime, dear Mrs. St. Clair?” 
 
 “Upon my word, I have never exactly found out,” said Bertha, carelessly. 
 “Sometimes I hear it is because I am so satirical — because I say sharp things. 
 But I have set traps occasionally for my best friends, hke the lawver and his 
 client, and have found out that once more it makes all the difference in the 
 world ‘whose ox it is that was gored.’ ” 
 
 “I don’t quite understand.” 
 
 “Shall I explain? Well, for instance, 1 am embarked in an encounter with 
 somebody, and a skirmish of words ends in a mutual drawing off, which is 
 called ‘one of Mrs. St. Clair’s quarrels’—all the odium rests on me. In vain I 
 protest that the provocation came from the other side. ‘Oh, impossible!’ My 
 fault has only been to resent. ‘Oh, that cannot be!’ At last 1 tell the stort', 
 reversing the actors, attributing to the other partv my speeches and my 
 actions, and endossee-in^ theirs. A chorus of e.xclamations: ‘Of course, don’t 
 
 G E R .\ L D G R A Y S W I F E 325 
 
you see? You were palpably wrong; nothing was done to you; you were 
 needlessly fierce! poor so and so, no wonder that they are wounded.’ ‘You 
 think so, really?’ I say. ‘Most assuredly, nothing can be plainer,’ ‘I am heartily 
 glad,’ I answer; ‘because I have exactly reversed what happened; ’twas they 
 that did such and such things, and 1 who had the other side.’ ‘Ah! well, let’s 
 hear it all over again,’ if I am weak enough to accede.” 
 
 “What?” 
 
 “I find out that ‘it makes aU the difference in the world whose ox is 
 gored.’ ” 
 
 “From which state of things you conclude—” 
 
 “Two. First: that Aesop is ever fresh, and that naughty wolf, my world, is 
 always having the stream at which it drinks seriously muddied by this 
 innocent fittle lamb far below the current; and, second: that it is the fashion 
 to think me always in the wrong;” and then she made a courtesy a la 
 Fontanges, and proposed that they should all go home. 
 
 ® CHAPTER XIX 
 
 “Mrs. St. Clair, may I come in for an instant?” said Ruth, tapping at 
 Bertha’s door. 
 
 “Certainly,” cried Bertha; “is anything the matter? Sit down.” 
 
 “Nothing very alarming, only I will venture to consult you. I have just got 
 a note from my father, as we entered the house—but don’t stop arranging 
 your hair, you can listen just as well, and it is near the dinner hour, and I 
 know you don’t like being hurried.” 
 
 “Thank you, your father is not iU, I hope?” 
 
 “No, not exactly, but he writes that his head gives him some uneasiness, 
 and adds,” reading from the note in her hand, “unless I grow worse, I will 
 start for Beauchamp on Wednesday morning.” You see, he has not come; 
 this note ought to have been here yesterday. Of course, had anything very 
 serious been ahing him, my cousin, Mrs. Price, with whom he stays now, 
 when I am not in town, would have sent for me; but still I am a little 
 worried.” 
 
 “Of course. Are we in your way this evening? Would you go at once if we 
 were not here?” 
 
 “Oh, not to-night; it is already after four o’clock. But you and Mrs. 
 Denham meant to go to town by the twelve o’clock train; would you mind 
 going instead with me in the carriage very early? It is now later in the day, but 
 
 326 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
by starting at six o’clock—can you calmly contemplate six o’clock?—we shall 
 have a pleasant drive, and I can return when I please.” 
 
 “It win suit me perfectly. But the luggage?” 
 
 “That and your maids can stiU take the train.” 
 
 “If we are not in your way, I think the plan a very agreeable one, and I am 
 glad you have spoken so promptly and without hesitation.” 
 
 “Thank you, my dear Mrs. St. Clair, it was exactly what I knew you would 
 
 n 
 
 say. 
 
 “Well, it is exactly what I wish you wouldn’t say, when you address me as 
 Mrs. St. Clair. Pray call me Bertha, as you sometimes do, and as everybody 
 else always does.” 
 
 “Bertha, then,” said Ruth, smiling, and stroking the bright dark hair 
 which her guest was rapidly braiding; “I am by nature very formal and stiff, 
 you know.” 
 
 “By education you are growing very much the contrary,” said Bertha, as 
 she looked up at her. 
 
 “Yes, Gerald is my teacher, and it is easy to learn from one who practices 
 what he teaches. You will pardon my foolish admiration, when I say, that his 
 graceful ease of manner is to me perfectly charming; but I always think that 
 my efforts to imitate him are very like the donkey’s labors in the lap dog 
 line.” 
 
 “I think you are getting a style of your own which is even more attractive 
 than his.” 
 
 “Oh!” said Ruth, blushing faintly: “I shall make you one of your own 
 courtesies for that. But the fact is”—she paused; “the fact is, my present 
 anxiety about papa is a little based on an evil conscience. I fear I am too much 
 taken up with the study of Gerald and his perfections to be able to pay the 
 attention I ought to papa. I have an uneasy, vague presentiment of some 
 coming evil connected with my dearest feelings. Have you ever had such silly 
 fancies?” 
 
 “Dozens of times; very seldom with any result. It is quite reasonable that 
 you should wish to go to Mr. Desborough, and I think it is right, but I make 
 no doubt you will find nothing to alarm you. Either he is only stUl ailing, or 
 else he has changed his mind about coming. Perhaps he has heard that you 
 have a house full of noisy, chattering people, and keeps out of their way.” 
 
 “Perhaps so,” smiling. “At all events, I think I had best go; and you are sure 
 that Mrs. Denham will not object?” 
 
 “Quite sure. What becomes of the gentlemen?” 
 
 “Phyllis takes Mr. Browne with them to the Fordyce’s, by the up train in 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 327 
 
the afternoon. Mr. Aubrey and young Mclvor go over to the Tauntons’ to 
 hunt, and pass a few days. Mr. Taunton goes in his own waggon, after 
 breakfast, to his sisters, whose place is sixteen miles across the river. Francis 
 remains here with Gerald.” 
 
 “Mr. Gray does not go to town with us, then?” 
 
 “Oh, no! he stays to see the Fordyces off, and, of course, I leave him to 
 look after the children.” 
 
 “Of course.” 
 
 “Twas his proposition that I should suggest your going with me, and thus 
 reach town so much sooner. Now, good-bye; I must hurry up Valerie. Your 
 hair looks like plaited satin, and to think that I can do nothing with mine, 
 except put it in Valerie’s hands! Gerald always says when I attempt to arrange 
 my hair myself that it looks as if I had invited the furies to pass a leisure 
 moment in brushing it.” 
 
 “So ’twas Gerald’s proposition, was it?” murmured Mrs. St. Clair, as Ruth 
 closed the door. “Humph!” 
 
 In half an hour there was a rustling of silks down the stairs, as the la¬ 
 dies assembled in the drawingroom, and immediately after dinner was 
 announced. 
 
 The variable climate! This evening it was like the last of May; windows 
 were thrown open, and in the coming twilight without, everything looked so 
 cool and still, while around the plate-laden table, where flowers in profusion 
 bloomed, the tall silver candlebra were not yet put to use. When the dessert 
 and the children appeared, the candles were lighted; and if among the many 
 stereoscopic views which flood the civilized world, this room could have 
 been transferred to cardboard, the result would have had a great sale. 
 
 The women were aU in their different styles, worth of admiration, from 
 stately Ruth to smiling Cissy. The gentlemen were, some of them, singularly 
 handsome. Mr. Fordyce would only have lent a little shade to the colors. 
 Then the two lovely babies in their white embroidered dresses, and shoulder 
 knots, and sashes of bright, broad ribbon. They had mignonnes heads with 
 long curls, and such pretty, foreign-accentuated voices and ways; their skins 
 like ivory and roses, and their plump little bodies so well shaped. 
 
 Gerald at first clung to his mamma, burying his fair head on her shoulder, 
 and refusing to look up, while Miss Geraldine, standing on her papa’s knee, 
 had seized his face between her two little chubby hands and was kissing him 
 without ceasing, coquettishly pretending utter uncognizance of Mr. Taun¬ 
 ton’s efforts to draw her attention towards him. 
 
 328 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Presently, however, she let her large, blue eyes wander in that direction, 
 and before very long, was sharing an orange with him, and chattering away 
 in her little half French, half English jargon. 
 
 “Did you see the papers, Mr. Fordyce?” asked Gerald. “They were late in 
 coming to-day, and I had no time to skim them over before the dressing 
 beU.” 
 
 “Yes, I read one or two.” 
 
 “Anything new?” 
 
 “A fuller report of the X— case.” 
 
 “Ah, indeed! Is it decided?” 
 
 “Yes; verdict against him—marriage pronounced vahd.” 
 
 “From what paper do ours copy?” asked Mr. Aubrey. 
 
 “From the London Times.” 
 
 “Didn’t you read it?” enquired Mr. Mclvor; “I did.” 
 
 “What case is this?” Mrs. Denham asked. 
 
 “A case to prove a marriage,” answered Mr. Aubrey. “A certain dashing 
 British officer, wishing to put off a lady’s claim to bear his name and possible 
 title—not to mention that he has performed the ceremony recently with a 
 No. 2.” 
 
 “Ah, yes! I remember seeing something of it. Poor woman!” 
 
 “Poor woman, indeed!” said Francis, quietly. “Don’t waste your sympathy 
 on an adventuress, dear Mrs. St. Clair.” 
 
 “Don’t be harsh in your judgments, Mr. Josselyn. Why call her an adven¬ 
 turess?” 
 
 “Read her own confession; she followed him to the Crimea; she ran him 
 down, she — ” 
 
 “Stop; she may have done so, and that was very naughty, and unfeminine, 
 and there I abandon her. We all of us will admit, won’t we, madames, that a 
 woman who runs after a man is an unnatural monster? So far, we have not a 
 word in her defence. But he, he acknowledges, does he not, that she would 
 not hve with him on his own terms, however much she may in the first 
 instance have run after him?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Then she had principle, if not great modesty and decorum of manner?” 
 
 “Not she; she wanted his name, and the position that it would give her.” 
 
 “How do you know?” 
 
 “Let’s hear the story,” said Bettina. 
 
 “The bare story is very simple,” said Francis; “a pretty and attractive girl 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 329 
 
meets a handsome man above her own station in life; he is struck; she is 
 flattered, still more by his rank than by his admiration.” 
 
 “Recollect this last is Mr. Josselyn’s own conclusion. Stick to facts, oh, 
 prejudiced traveller! and tell her story, not his.” 
 
 “Very well. They part; they correspond without meeting, till he gets to the 
 Crimea, and there she goes at once as one of the band of volunteer nurses; 
 sends after her admirer, and he falls again at her feet, but tells her he can’t 
 marry, first, because he had no money, and secondly, because his relations 
 won’t hke it. So she then proposes a Catholic ceremony, not binding in law, 
 but comfortable for her conscience, and it takes place.” 
 
 “He assuring her,” interrupted Bertha, “in every possible way of his 
 affection, and now pursuing her as steadily and as persistently with his 
 devotion, as she ever did him in her thoughts, discussing with her the 
 impossibihty of legal marriage, but ready to go through any religious cere¬ 
 mony she choose. He gave her a ring—” 
 
 “He gave her a ring, and a priest blessed them, that’s true.” 
 
 “But the gallant Major don’t believe in priests. In a year or so, when he 
 grew tired of her, he left her, and without explanation or preparation, or 
 apparent change of feeling, he marries a rich widow, doing it all as secretly as 
 possible at first, so as to prevent the interference of his real wife.” 
 
 “But, my dear Mrs. St. Clair, what sort of woman can she be? That speech 
 to the Irish mob after the verdict in her favor!” 
 
 “My dear Mr. Josselyn, I am not defending the woman; I am indignant at 
 the deed. Were you to murder the meanest man in the world, I should not 
 the less consider you a murderer. The honorable Major had to pay a certain 
 price for a certain piece of property, and it matters not whether the value 
 received were at all proportionate to the sum disbursed. It was a prendre or a 
 laisser on positive conditions. He didn’t wish to laisser it, and when the 
 payment grew burthensome, he denied the debt.” 
 
 “Come with me, Gerald; I’ll show you the pretty picture,” said Cissy to 
 the little boy. Cissy’s feelings were in the process of laceration from this 
 discussion. 
 
 “What is your opinion, Ruth?” asked Mrs. St. Clair. 
 
 “Entirely with you. There is no excuse for him. I agree with the sergeant, 
 who, when he answered a question ‘upon his honor,’ cried out ‘upon your 
 oath, sir; I do not want your notions of honor.’ I am heartily glad to see her 
 righted.” 
 
 “Why, Ruth, where have you been studying the X— case?” asked Gerald, 
 smiling. 
 
 330 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“The papers came before we left; while waiting for all of you in the hall I 
 saw them.” 
 
 “Dear Ruth,” said Francis, “how can you be so hard upon the rougher sex? 
 Indeed I thought you would come to my assistance against Mrs. St. Clair.” 
 
 “In the cause of strength and his, against weakness and truth, never! I may 
 have thought Major X— unfortunate, if his fancy, being his master, had led 
 him bhndly to sacrifice his life and fortune to an unworthy woman; but a 
 gentleman’s plighted word, his sworn faith, can never be gainsayed, simply 
 because he wearies of his bargain.” 
 
 “Do you recollect that beautiful sentiment in the Roman d'un Jeune 
 Homme pauvre?' said Bertha; “// vaut mieux outre passer I’honneur que de 
 raster en deca; en matiere de serments, tons ceux qui ne nous sont pas demandes 
 sous lapointe du couteau ou a la bouche d'un pistolet, il ne fautpas les faire, ou il 
 faut les tenir." 
 
 “'Voila mon avis," added Gerald, finishing the quotation, and bowing at the 
 lady. 
 
 “What, you too, old fellow? I thought you would be with me,” said 
 Francis; “well, I suppose I may as well give up the defence, which I was, I beg 
 Mrs. St. Clair to beheve, only doing to bring out her ‘enthusiasm,’ and I am 
 glad to proclaim in my natural character, that the honorable Major X— is a 
 dishonorable scoundrel.” 
 
 “Why should you suppose, Francis,” enquired Ruth, “that Gerald would 
 side with you? Why suppose that any gentleman would uphold a creature 
 who is a disgrace to his name and position?” 
 
 “Ah, here comes an avalanche,” cried Francis, playfully, holding up his 
 hands. “Don’t throw your plate at my head, dear; you will certainly break the 
 plate. Don’t you know men always stand by each other? Airs. St. Clair says 
 so, and I say ditto to every thing Airs. St. Clair says.” 
 
 “Gerald would never stand up for deceit and falsehood in any shape. I 
 should disown him if he did,” Ruth said, smiling proudly. 
 
 “Well,” put in Phylhs, “I think allowances should always be made for 
 gendemen when they fall under the influence of designing women.” 
 
 “Yes, poor things!” said Bertha contemptuously; “poor, helpless men! I am 
 so sorry for them. They go through a great deal of danger.” 
 
 “I shall be very much obfiged, therefore, to you two excellent ladies if you 
 will kindly protect me, a tender creature, from the vengeance of that ‘design¬ 
 ing female,’ my cousin. Airs. Gray, who will perhaps poison my coffee 
 presendy,” said Francis, laughing. 
 
 “Don’t you know, Francis, that Ruth permits no slur [?] on my perfections 
 
 GERALD GRAY S WIFE 33I 
 
except from her own tongue? There is written upon me, invisibly but 
 indebbly, a ‘notice to quit,’ addressed to all human kind. ‘Stick no bills 
 here.’ ” 
 
 “I see it,” said Bertha, “on your noble brow,” raising her hand. 
 
 Range undisturbed among the hostile crew. 
 
 But touch not Gerald, Gerald is my due.” 
 
 (Signed) RUTH GRAY 
 
 Ruth laughed and said that she supposed there was no use to disclaim; so 
 all rising thev adjourned to the drawing room. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Passing through the hall, they stopped to look at a large trunk. 
 
 “Oh,” said PhyUis, “that is from dear Mrs. Armstrong, for me. From your 
 aunt Charlotte, Air. Fordyce. It is full of old brocades—things ever so old. 
 Dresses and coats, and all sorts of head gear. See, how beautiful!” She hfted 
 the hd, and presently evertBody was upon their knees examining the rich 
 silks and embroidered velvets of an ancient date. 
 
 “Wasn’t it good of her to give them to me? Here is the lovely pink and 
 silver which she selected for you. Cissy. I wish we were going to have a fancy 
 ball to wear them.” 
 
 “Why shouldn’t we have a fancy ball to-night, all to ourselves?” said 
 Arthur. 
 
 “Yes, that would be great fun.” 
 
 “Would you be wiUing to lend these treasures, PhyUis?” asked Ruth. 
 
 “Oh, certainly.” 
 
 Then began a scene of fun and laughter quite indescribable. Cissy, of 
 course, had her pink and sUver, and PhyUis set her eyes and hands firmly on a 
 certain gorgeous yeUow, covered with humming-birds. But to choose for the 
 others was no easy task. The men especiaUy were bent upon getting the best 
 of the habiUments, and as there were but two handsome coats, there was 
 quite a scramble for them. 
 
 FinaUy, a moderately just division of the spoUs was made, and after a 
 whispered coUoquy between Airs. Denham and Arthur Mclvor, every one 
 went off to dress; each promising not to be more than an hour in the robing 
 process. 
 
 “But rouge!” exclaimed Bertha; “where shaU we get any rouge? and if we 
 powder our heads without rouge, we shall aU look like grey owls.” 
 
 332 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
"Mrs. Forchxje eagerly joined in; “Ah. )-es! rouge! that i> a great diniciilrv . 
 \Miar shall we do? Of course nobod}- has anv.~ 
 
 “1 ha^e," said Ruth. 
 
 “Mv dear Ruth, don't expose the secrets of ^■Du^ dressini^-case.” said 
 Gerald in a loud whisper. 
 
 “And of }-our color." said Bertha, reproachfiillv. 
 
 “I del}- }X>u all," an5^vered Ruth, “but I condescend to explain that I saw 
 only \esterday a pot of Lubin's finest bloom, still among m^• eti'ects.' where it 
 has been since I went <m marquise to a French ball last ^ear." 
 
 “•\h! honorably acquitted!" 
 
 “\ alerie shall start on an excursion around the house \N-ith the article in 
 question, tor the use of both ladies and gentlemen. Oh, Geraldine, what a 
 little monkey!” 
 
 Miss Geraldine came running to^^•ards her mamma, dressevl up in a 
 ^%•aistcoat, of which the flaps made a train for her, hotlv pursued bv Mr. 
 Taunton, who was destined to appear in it presently himself 
 
 Such peals of laughter began now to resound through the house; sudden 
 dashes were made from room to room, and loud c;ills for curling-tongs, and 
 \ alerie, and rouge. 
 
 \^alerie was in her element; so full of importance and suggestions, and 
 pearl powder; modestly yeiling her coffee-colored French eyes, and mincing 
 her words; whisking through the passage with her cap strings streaming 
 behind her, and her trig little figure darting in and out where\ er sumnroned. 
 
 .\t length, about nine o’clock, they beg-an to re-assemble. Ruth, haying 
 been depriyed of her maid’s sen-ices, was almost the last to appear. .\s she 
 entered the drawing room, she was greeted with quite a burst of admiration. 
 Her dress, being one she had already worn, was more soignee in its appoint¬ 
 ments than the others. The powdered hair had artiheial curls—the /'iinJenu 
 of brilliants and the graceful plumes became lier yastlv; so did the yery ricli 
 colors of her skirts and train. The lace she wore was magniricent; her stately 
 carriage suited the sweeping robes; her dark eyes were doubly lustrous from 
 the effect of the softly tinted cheek. Tltree black patches g.u e a coquettish 
 charm to her smile, and she wielded her tan with the perfect nonchalance 
 benefitting her toilette. 
 
 She was essentially of the type gmnde tiiinie. 
 
 “Why, you are loyely, ” cried Bertha, sailing up in red and white, with 
 oceans of old hlonde flowing oyer her, and large ctual beads around her white 
 throat. 
 
 “The same to you,” said Ruth, smiling. 
 
 i; K RAID O R A Y S W 1 I' 1 , ? tt 
 
Phyllis looked very handsome with her humming-birds, and her darkened 
 eyehds, and Cissy was charmingly pretty in the pink and sUver. 
 
 “But where is Mrs. Denham?” 
 
 “Not down yet,” answered Mr. Taunton, who was admirably got up. 
 “Both she and Mclvor are missing stiU.” 
 
 Messrs. Fordyce and Aubrey now came forward, leading between them 
 Mr. Browne, whom they protested they found tr}dng to hide from his own 
 knee breeches. 
 
 Of course this was fair game for Gerald, who joined in the comments for 
 and against Mr. Browne’s legs. 
 
 Francis touched Ruth’s arm; she was gazing intently at Gerald, and 
 started. 
 
 “Own that you think him perfection and nothing more,” said her nominal 
 cousin. 
 
 “Certainly I do,” she answered frankly. 
 
 “I think Browne should petition the government to force everybody back 
 into tights,” said Gerald. “I predict that Browne would make a brilliant 
 marriage if his calves had a chance.” 
 
 “He would be a greater lady-killer than our friend X—, whose case we 
 have been discussing.” 
 
 “I go for what is in my head, not for what carries it,” said Mr. Browne, 
 good-humoredly. 
 
 “I protest against resuming the discussion of Major X—,” said Bertha; 
 “unless every body agrees that he ought to be hanged.” 
 
 “I don’t at all agree,” said Mr. Bro%vne; “I think he is a plucky fellow, and 
 behaved ver}' naturally.” 
 
 “Indeed!”* 
 
 “Yes, no man can love a woman long, to whom his is not legally united;” 
 and Mr. Browne rounded his eyes and looked solemn, “Every woman ought 
 to feel that.” 
 
 “That is your opinion, is it? But you hkewise beheve the converse case, 
 that he always loves one to whom he is legally united?” 
 
 “Of course.” 
 
 “How astute! I wonder from what you argue? Not from anything you ever 
 said, surely. It never occurs to you that because marriage forces a man to 
 stand outwardly by his word, inwardly he is not any the truer? Beheve me, 
 one who would be false to a love only binding in honor, and which, by your 
 creed, can be broken, will never keep any better the vows legally sworn, and 
 which, in a measure, therefore, he must seem to respect.” 
 
 334 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Not my creed; God forbid!” said Mr. Browne, backing down before 
 the indignant flash of Mrs. St. Clair’s eyes; “I ha\-e no opinion on the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 “No experience, tou say,” said Gerald mischievously. 
 
 “A/y opinion is,” said Bertha, “that you had better leave otf being proud of 
 either your head or your heart, and accept even vour legs instead!” turning 
 her look upon him. 
 
 “That is one of Mrs. St. Clair’s hard speeches,” whispered Francis. 
 
 “I know it,” said Bertha, candidly. “Poor Mr. Browne is not aware that he 
 is taking part in a comedy, and getting the sort of treatment, mentally 
 administered, which, in Ravel pantomimes, passes for wit—hard kicks.” 
 
 “Do vou think that Gerald suspects that we are lecturing him over 
 everybody’s shoulder?” 
 
 “Not in the ver\' least. I do beheve that he is sweedy unconscious, or else 
 he play's into our hands with calm impertinence.” 
 
 “Yes, he helps us more than anybody.” 
 
 “I think Mr. Fordyce will have a fit, if I launch any more plain phrases at 
 the X— case. He looks upon me now, whv—see that.” 
 
 The door was thrown open with a flourish and two figures entered. The 
 first was a Uttle old ladv, with a cap and wrinkles and black mittens and 
 powdered hair and spectacles, and eyebrows hke two strokes ot Indian ink. 
 She leaned one hand on her gold-headed cane, and the other was firmly 
 hnked into the arm of a tall voung creature who swam vivaciously by her side 
 with a huge fan and innumerable graces and airs. 
 
 The old ladv stumped her way up to Ruth and introduced her daughter. 
 “Mv belov'ed Adeliza,” she said, “an unsophisticated bud, of which in me you 
 see the full blossom.” 
 
 Then groaning and puffing she sank into a chair, while the “beloved 
 Adeliza” bv turns fanned her afflicted parent and made wondrous eyes at the 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Of course they were immediately recognized—and Arthur Mclvor as the 
 “bud” played his part as well as his venerable mamma, Mrs. Denham. 
 
 His prettv', bovish face, with its short curls and wreath of K>ses, was 
 infinitely funny; and the wav in which he managed his petticoats and hoops, 
 and bridled and smiled, and looked and hesitated, did great credit to his 
 powers as an actor. 
 
 Presently was heard the tuning of a violin, and in the entry appeared the 
 plantation fiddler assisted by a friendly tambourine player from an adjoining 
 estate—while at the open windows “gt>ing” upon the piazza, sundry heads 
 
 ■> 
 
 G E R A L D G R A Y S VY I F E 
 
with bandanna handkerchiefs proclaimed that the trimly maids were enjoy¬ 
 ing a sight of the fruit of their labors. 
 
 The evening grew into quite a frolic. Gerald’s gay spirits, never needing 
 much impetus to set them going, were at their highest pitch. Mrs. St. Clair 
 was not far behind him, and Francis matched them both. 
 
 “No quadrilles to break the ‘proprieties’ of your brocades and powder!” 
 exclaimed Ruth. 
 
 “Of course not,” said Gerald, “may I ask the favor of the fair Adeliza’s 
 hand for a minuet?” 
 
 “Who knows the minuet?” 
 
 “Oh, it is all bows and courtesies and any time,” said Gerald recklessly. 
 
 “Well, it will be so for this evening. Mrs. St. Clair and I will ‘lead the 
 measure,’ and make the figures as we go; but I think the ‘Lancers’ danced 
 very slowly with extra salaams will save our time.” 
 
 “I don’t think old Joe is up to the ‘Lancers.’ Can you play the ‘Lancers,’ 
 Joe? 
 
 “Nebber year of such a ting, Maussa,” responded Joe; so he was then 
 requested to perform his slowest and best known tune, and Gerald led out 
 the young belle, who tripped back several times to her mamma and whis¬ 
 pered, and trembled with modesty before she could make up her mind to 
 leave the maternal side. 
 
 Phyllis fell to the lot of Mr. Aubrey, and Mr. Taunton danced with Cissy. 
 
 In the midst of the gay laughter, and the many absurdities, Ruth gradually 
 forgot the anxiety which had weighed upon her since receiving her father’s 
 note. 
 
 Her voice frequently joined in the lively sallies which flew from side to 
 side: the sage sentimentality of Adeliza’s mamma and the daughter’s affecta¬ 
 tions; Gerald’s bright and saucy face was by itself enough to amuse her. 
 Unconsciously, she, after a while, ceased speaking to Mr. Fordyce and just 
 watched the dance with happy eyes and a half smile. Mr. Fordyce finding 
 that she was silent and inattentive to him, began to fidget about the table 
 near which they were sitting. He had quite a taste for drawing, and thought 
 he would sketch the scene. Ruth grew alive to her neglect of the little lawyer, 
 and opened a drawer to find a sheet of thick paper. She gave it to him, and 
 beneath was an envelope with “good advice” scrawled on it in Gerald’s hand. 
 Taking it out, she found a slip cut from a newspaper, and reading the title 
 “Jealousy,” remembered the very evening on which her love had given it to 
 her. The smUe deepened as her thankful heart recalled how sad she was in 
 those early days when Gerald and she were first learning to understand each 
 
 336 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
other. “Did I ever need such advice in very truth?” she thought, quite 
 forgetting that only on the previous evening there had been a slight spasm of 
 the malady—but then it was but slight, whereas in those bye-gone days the 
 case seemed fierce and chronic. Yet she sighed, too, as she glanced over these 
 words of Dickens: 
 
 “Jealousy is as cruel as the grave: not the grave that opens its deep bosom 
 to receive and shelter from further storms the worn and forlorn pilgrim who 
 ‘rejoices exceedingly and is glad’ when he can find its repose; but cruel as the 
 grave is when it yawns and swallows down from the lap of luxury, from the 
 summit of fame, from the bosom of love, the desire of many eyes and hearts. 
 Jealousy is a two headed asp, biting backwards and forwards. Among the 
 deadly things upon the earth, or in the sea, or flying through the deadly night 
 air of malarious regions, few are more noxious than is jealousy. And of all 
 mad passions, there is not one that has a vision more distorted, or a more 
 unreasonable fury. To the jealous eye, white looks black, yellow looks green, 
 and the very sunshine turns darkly lurid. There is no innocence, no justice, 
 no generosity, that is not touched with suspicion, save just the jealous 
 person’s own. And jealousy is an utter folly, for it helps nothing, and saves 
 nothing. If your friend’s love is going, or gone, to another, will your making 
 yourself hateful and vindictive stay it or bring it back? If it is not leaving you, 
 is there no risk in rendering yourself so unlovely? 
 
 Commend me to all bereaven bears rather than to a jealous person, 
 especially a jealous woman. There is neither reason nor mercy in her when 
 once thoroughly struck through with this fearful passion. She renders herself 
 altogether repulsive by it—an object more of dread than affection to those 
 who have loved her best. And if she regain not her self command and return 
 not to her senses, she frequently destroys utterly the attachments she most 
 prized. Her friend may, indeed, refuse to forsake her, but it will be duty that 
 bids him stay; and never will he be able to forget what an abject thing she has 
 once appeared. 
 
 But let not any too rigorously judge the conduct of a jealous woman or a 
 jealous man. Remember that the maniac suffers. To be sure, the suffering is 
 from selfishness—often it is without a shadow of a cause; but still it is 
 suffering, and it is intense. Pity it—bear with it. You may yourself fall into 
 temptation. It is a sorer curse, a more certain and fatal blight to the heart on 
 which it seizes, than it can be to those against whom its spite is hurled. Then 
 while none should bend too far to the whims of jealousy, all should be patient 
 with its victims; and also should be watchful and careful that it enter not 
 their own heart.” 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 337 
 
The music—if the scraping of Joe’s fiddle and the clatter of the tam¬ 
 bourine can be called music—had ceased. Some one laid a hand on Ruth’s 
 shoulder—she looked up, and Gerald enquired: 
 
 “What are you studying, darling?” 
 
 “A mastered science—the symptoms of a cured malady—the ‘diagnosis’ of 
 an almost forgotten case.” 
 
 He looked at the paper. 
 
 “You remember it?” she asked. 
 
 “Oh, yes, perfectly; weren’t you naughty in those days? And haven’t you 
 improved since!” 
 
 “In ever}1:hing?” 
 
 “Ever\1:hing; vanity especially. I see why you so readily gave in to the 
 notion of this travesti. That dress is charming—it suits your figure, style, 
 face, air! And do you know that you were never so handsome in your life, my 
 love, as to-night?” 
 
 Ruth’s eyes sparkled with a tender lustre, she said, almost shyly: 
 
 “Thank you. I think the angels in Heaven are not more beautiful than you, 
 Gerald.” 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 “I think you are as great a goose as usual,” he said. “But we must not stand 
 flirting here in this outrageous way.” 
 
 As he nodded at her and went off, she rose and stood for a second 
 motionless beside her chair. 
 
 In that moment there came a great rush of thought through her mind— 
 her lonely childhood, her solitary girlhood, the luxury and the lack of 
 sympathy in which she had passed her days till he came. But for him, what 
 would she still have been? His sweet and dear affection had made a new 
 world for her. Could she love him enough? But there was a weight upon her 
 spirit, nevertheless. What could it be? The dark cloud that rested upon her 
 was almost inexplicable. “Is it papa?” she thought. “Is he iU?” 
 
 “Why, Ruth, you should have an artist here to sketch that pose," said 
 Francis. 
 
 “What is the matter?” 
 
 “Don’t move; put back your hand where it was, now look in that mirror 
 and teU me what you see?” 
 
 She saw a magnificent figure, gorgeously arrayed; one full, round arm 
 resting with drooping hand and pendant fan upon the back of the chair; the 
 head partly mrned over the shoulder, and the small throat proudly rising 
 above a beautiful bust, closely imprisoned in its jewelled stomacher. The 
 
 338 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
large, bright eyes looking steadfastly clear, and the softly chiselled lips just 
 parted, broke now into smiles as she saw what he meant. 
 
 “You and Gerald wish to make me quite foolishly conceited, I think,” she 
 said. 
 
 “You win be petitioning the legislature, too, as well as Browne. Certainly, 
 powder, patches, trains and rouge are your slaves, and you were better than a 
 Watteau as I first saw you standing there. It was a delicious tableau vivant, 
 and might have been lithographed as 'La Reverie.' Of what were you 
 thinking?” 
 
 Before she answered, Mr. Aubrey, who was hovering near, caught at the 
 idea of tableaux. He proposed that they should get up a few, then and there. 
 
 “But we should have no audience,” said Phyllis. 
 
 “No gauze screen,” said Mrs. St. Clair. 
 
 “Oh! we shall not be so fastidious as to demand all the accessories of 
 preparation,” said Mr. Aubrey. “And the audience will consist of those who 
 are not at the moment acting.” 
 
 “That is, some of us will look our prettiest to be gazed at by the others till 
 their turn comes to do likewise.” 
 
 “Just so; and that bow window will be a capital spot. Let’s arrange the 
 curtains so that they can drop across the entrance, and be withdrawn 
 immediately; pieces of string will do it.” 
 
 In a very short time the tableaux were formally inaugurated by the simple 
 process of congregating all the lights upon an etage within the curtain of the 
 bow window, and thus darkening the drawing room. 
 
 “Mrs. St. Clair was deputed to lead the way and perform the first picture. 
 She thought a few moments, and then selected Josselyn and Mr. Taunton to 
 accompany him. 
 
 Gerald and Ivir. Aubrey stood at each side, ready at a given signal to draw 
 back the curtains. The word was spoken, and with only a slight hitch, the 
 draperies parted and disclosed Bertha sitting in one of the high-backed 
 fauteuils, Mr. Taunton kneeling at her feet and in the very act of kissing her 
 right hand; while the left was receiving from Francis (who peeped cautiously 
 from behind the chair) a very palpable love letter. “A coquette to the life!” 
 was exclaimed, and warm plaudits, of course, were duly given; twice was the 
 scene exhibited, and then Mrs. Denham being called upon asked for the aid 
 and presence of her “daughter” and Mr. Aubrey. 
 
 The venerable dame was soon seen in a state of evident anxiety about this 
 young creature’s occupation. The hstening attitude with partly bent head 
 and uphfted hand, showed that her eyes no longer did their office, for very 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 339 
 
near stood the culprit—her waist encircled by Aubrey’s presumptuous arm, 
 and only half defending herself from the kiss which was threatening her rosy 
 cheek. It was perfectly apparent that the blind grandmama suspected the 
 smuggled presence of the young lady’s lover. 
 
 This picture was succeeded by the “Dull Lecture;” in which Phyllis 
 figured as fallen asleep while listening to Mr. Fordyce reading. There was a 
 general smile at the aptness of the representation, and Phyllis took the 
 occasion to inform her lord that her choice was intentional, to signify that 
 political news and law cases always wearied her. 
 
 Lastly, it was Cissy’s turn; “what should it be? She had no sort of 
 invention. Would not Ruth take her place?” 
 
 “No; Ruth had from the first begged off—she was so stupid at such 
 things.” 
 
 A general dearth of ideas seemed to fall upon the company; at last 
 somebody said “The Inconstant,” that’s a pretty picture and very easy. 
 
 “Oh, yes: the old story—you know, a fair and dark beauty, and a man,” said 
 Ruth. 
 
 “Extremely comprehensive!” said Mr. Aubrey. “It is Gray’s turn or 
 Browne’s.” 
 
 “Not mine,” said Mr. Browne; “I plead my right to choose, and I have a 
 private tableau to finish off with.” 
 
 “Very well, then I will sacrifice myself,” said Gerald. “Take this cord, will 
 you, Browne, and play scene shifter,” then turning to his cousin: “Cissy, who 
 will you have?” 
 
 “Ruth, if she wlU consent.” 
 
 Ruth again declined, but there was an outcry against her; so she yielded, 
 and the three retired behind the curtain. 
 
 In a few minutes they were disclosed; Gerald was in the foreground 
 whispering to Cissy and holding her hand to his heart; behind them, with a 
 look of dismay and indignation, and anguish, Ruth stood transfixed. It was 
 the best picture of all, yet it gave least pleasure to some of the lookers-on. 
 
 “La reste nest pas toujours bon vin’’ said Bertha in a low voice to Mr. 
 Josselyn. 
 
 “Let us hope that it is only a ‘might have been,’ ” he answered. 
 
 As the applause died away, and the trio emerged, Gerald said laughingly 
 to Ruth, drawing her close to him in the darkness of the drawing room, 
 “Darhng, did you feel as fierce as you looked?” 
 
 “Not quite,” she said. “I am cured of all that, I trust, forever. Although I 
 
 340 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
heard them saying ‘Mrs. Gray’s expression is capital,’ I could not but feel that 
 some time back I could have better looked the character of a jealous wife.” 
 
 “What a trump you are darling! But you leave me now not a fault to peck 
 at!” 
 
 He dropped her hand as the curtains parted once more, and Mr. Browne 
 was seen kneeling on a cushion, with a telescope to his eye, pointed at the 
 group, while a large placard on his breast proclaimed him “The real, original, 
 drawing-room astronomer.” 
 
 The lights resumed their places, and supper was declared inevitable and 
 necessary after aU these varied efforts. 
 
 “This is our last regular meal under this hospitable roof!” exclaimed Mr. 
 Aubrey, as his glass was abrim with sparkling moselle. “I devote this bumper 
 to the happiest wishes, Mrs. Gray! May we all meet again here some day.” 
 
 “It rests with yourselves,” said Ruth courteously. 
 
 “Yes; since we have proved that you can spend a week in so dull a spot as 
 this without cutting your throats in despair at so wasting your time, or ours, 
 for bringing you here, let us trust that Beauchamp wiU get up a good name 
 and become really popular.” 
 
 “Become! you are too modest, Mr. Gray,” said Bertha. “It is popular.” 
 
 “It has been one of the pleasantest weeks of my life,” said Mr. Browne 
 soberly. 
 
 “Well, mesdames,” remarked Mrs. St. Clair, rising, “I don’t know what 
 your sentiments are about the hour, but I know that I start for town at six 
 o’clock, A.M., and I have at least six pounds of powder to brush out of my 
 hair—so, very reluctantly, I say good night, wishing you all the luck to get rid 
 of this beautifying, but very troublesome adornment, as quickly as possible.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 “I will say goodbye to you here,” Ruth said as she put in her head at 
 Gerald’s door. 
 
 “Come in, my child; why that doleful tone? Any one would suppose that 
 we were parting for several years. Tie this cravat, there’s a love; I never saw 
 such an obdurate piece of silk. Oh, what a bow! Get away, you worthless 
 woman. There! how do you like that?” He turned his head round to her with 
 his chin in the air. “But, what ails you, Ruth?” 
 
 “I don’t know that anything ails me; what is it?” 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIFE 341 
 
“Why you look at me as if you were taking an inventory of my features. 
 You will find them just the same to-morrow, believe me.” 
 
 “I hope I shall. Kiss me, dear, and let me go.” 
 
 “I am sure you are not well, Ruth. You had better give up this journey, 
 even if your father is ill.” 
 
 “I wonder which of us is more absurd; I, for feeling as if we were parting 
 for years, or you, for talking of my drive as a journey.” 
 
 “As if anybody could ever be as absurd as you! But don’t stay longer than 
 you can help; if you don’t return to-morrow, I shall come for you. You know 
 how I will miss you.” 
 
 “Do you really, really miss me?” asked Ruth. 
 
 “Do you really, really need to inquire?” said Gerald affectionately. “You 
 know, darling, how I dislike to be forced to express my feelings; but this I will 
 say, that never was man blessed with a love more true than yours for me, and 
 never was love more thoroughly appreciated. How then can you doubt that 
 your presence is absolutely necessary for my complete contentment? And it 
 seems so strange for you to ask me such a question in this gray morning 
 apropos of nothing. 
 
 “And feeling perfectly sure as I do—never so sure—in all our wedded fives 
 as now, of the wise provision which made me fink my fife with yours! But I 
 hear Mrs. St. Clair’s voice in the corridor. Goodbye my own darling.” 
 
 He folded her in his arms and strained her to his breast. Her whole soul 
 was in her eyes as she bent back her head and looked with tenderness 
 unspeakable into his face. “Oh, my God! how I love you!” she murmured 
 passionately. In the dim fight her countenance was radiant yet solemn. 
 “Goodbye,” and she was gone. 
 
 When Gerald followed to the dining room, the early party were hastily 
 breakfasting. Mrs. Denham was feeding her parrot on toasted waffle, and 
 exhorting him to eat like a Christian, and Mrs. St. Clair was descanting 
 eloquently on the delights of rising with the dawn. 
 
 “It is such a cheap and easy to be had pleasure,” said Francis, “why don’t 
 you oftener indulge in it?” 
 
 “Simply because it is a habit which renders the possessor insufferable! How 
 entirely I agree with Elia in his view! An early riser thinks that in performing 
 that virtuous act he exonerates himself from doing any other, and is at liberty 
 from that pedestal to lash the vices of all mankind—and spare his own.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Francis, “just as severely virtuous women think that the ex¬ 
 ercise of that decency puts them at liberty to commit any other excess.” 
 
 “Not to mention,” said Gerald, “that half the vinegar-faced females who 
 
 342 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
are so hard upon their sisters, and so soft upon themselves, had better 
 remember the Spanish proverb and be humble: ‘Impregnable is the castle 
 that never has been stormed!’ ” 
 
 “Scandal before sunrise!” exclaimed Bertha. “What a picture to carry away 
 of life at Beauchamp.” 
 
 “Is this what is called scandal?” asked Francis innocently; “upon my word, 
 the devil is not by any means so black as he is painted. Have I been 
 scandalous, Ruth?” 
 
 “Scandalously brilliant for such early hours. Don’t keep it up, or Bertha 
 will run down before we start, and Mrs. Denham and I expect her to be very 
 entertaining.” 
 
 The carriage came to the door at this moment, and there was a general 
 move. 
 
 “I trust, Gerald, you will not forget to have lunch at 12 o’clock for your 
 cousins. Pray, Francis, remember that Mr. Fordyce always takes brandy and 
 water, and always requires to be pressed about it—make Gerald think of it. 
 And when you dine by yourselves to-day don’t let Gerald give the children 
 anything at dessert that they should not have,” said Ruth, “and”— 
 
 “And be sure, Francis, that you pin my napkin well over my shoulders, and 
 see that I don’t drink more than—how many glasses of wine, Ruth?” broke in 
 Gerald, catching his wife by one end of her shawl. 
 
 “I understand, my dear,” said Francis. “This precious creature shall be 
 made to do all that is proper, so you can leave him with a tranquil con¬ 
 science.” 
 
 “Adieu Beauchamp!” cried Mrs. St. Clair, stretching out her arms towards 
 the fair lawn and the old oaks. 
 
 revoir, you should emphatically say, dear Mrs. St. Clair. May we hope 
 often to see you here.” 
 
 “What! are you really off!” exclaimed Arthur Mclvor, rushing down stairs. 
 “Am I not to be permitted to embrace my honored mamma at parting?” 
 
 “You lost your filial privileges when you doffed your skirts,” said Mrs. 
 Denham, springing into the carriage, and looking excessively coquettish. 
 
 “Ah! then he had them when he wore crinoline?” asked Gerald impu¬ 
 dently. 
 
 “Did I positively imply it?” retorted the pretty widow. 
 
 “Don’t forget me, Mr. Josselyn,” said Bertha, meaningly. 
 
 “Is this a spot for such tender suggestions?” ejaculated Gerald. “Hide your 
 blushes behind me, Francis, while I whisper your reply to this imprudent 
 lady.” 
 
 GERALD GRAYS WIFE 343 
 
“Not a bad idea that the answer should come through you,” said Bertha, 
 glancing at Francis, who with bare head and pulling at his moustache, stood 
 smiling beside their host. 
 
 “Well, there is nothing more to be said, drive on.” 
 
 Scarcely had the carriage rolled twenty yards upon the smooth gravel than 
 there came a cry of “stop,” and Gerald arrived breathless at the window. 
 
 “You did not say, Ruth, whether Francis was to send a boy with me to 
 carry my gun when we go shooting to-morrow morning—what do you 
 decide?” 
 
 He looked so handsome and so merry. His wife, as if involuntarily, 
 touched his head with her caressing hand, and then blushed intensely as his 
 laughing eyes reproved her. 
 
 “Decidedly, have the boy, unless you promise not to load the gun,” she 
 jestily replied. 
 
 “Certainly, Mrs. Gray,” Bettina said, as they once more drove on, “you can 
 boast of owning the handsomest creature in the world!” 
 
 “Yes, he is very handsome,” Ruth agreed frankly, “but he has more than 
 looks. Seldom has there lived any one with such a temper and such spirits. 
 Don’t let me speak of Gerald. You know how foolish I am.” 
 
 ® CHAPTER XXII 
 
 “Well, Gerald!” exclaimed Francis, lighting a cigar and setting himself 
 into his chair; “do you know I think you a monstrously happy fellow?” 
 
 “I am not complaining of my lot, am I?” responded Mr. Gray, leaning 
 across the table for the decanter of Madeira. “But what at this instant ehcits 
 your remark, may I ask?” 
 
 “It is by no means the first time that it has struck me, but I feel in the 
 humor for confiding to you my sentiments on the subject, and it is the sort of 
 weather in which one feels like airing one’s private convictions. Besides, 
 except for that hasty day in Boston, it is, I verily believe, the first occasion of a 
 tete-a-tete that we have had.” 
 
 “It is so. We have had no chance for one of our long, by-gone talks. Ruth 
 and you are such cronies, and she has learned to endure smoke so patiently, 
 that it has been a vie a trois ever since you have been here.” 
 
 “God bless her!” said Francis, heartily. “What wouldn’t she endure with 
 patience?” 
 
 “I think / know a thing or two that she wouldn’t endure,” said Gerald, half 
 smiling. “Throw away that cigar, Francis, and try one of these of mine. You 
 
 344 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
always are torn by conflicting emotions, between your love of good tobacco 
 and your natural economical propensities. Upon my word, if I were not 
 afraid to speak plainly, I should say that you are the d—dest stingiest fellow, 
 to yourself, in the world.” 
 
 Francis playfully made a dash at him with his fist, which Gerald parried 
 with the extended cigar case. Josselyn helped himself and walked to the door, 
 which opened on the piazza, to throw out the maligned Havannah. 
 
 “You were always extravagant, and I have always felt obliged to save for 
 both of us. The fact is, I have been taking care of you so long, and feel such a 
 property-right in you, Gerald, that it would be very hard to bring myself to 
 the consciousness that to seek to guide you, and scold you, is an inter¬ 
 ference.” 
 
 “An interference! why you are in a condition to need a straight waistcoat, 
 young man, when you bring forth such nonsense as that. What are you 
 diving after?” 
 
 “Gerald the second’s top, which you were quite willing to let him set as a 
 pinnacle to that mould of jelly just now, had I permitted it. He must have 
 dropped it when his bonne carried him off.” 
 
 “Geraldine filled my coffee cup with a whole tea set of ancient acorns I 
 think.” 
 
 “They are beautiful children.” 
 
 “Yes, pretty little monkeys.” 
 
 “I like that. You are as proud of them as their mother is. You don’t deserve 
 to have such babies, if you undertake to speak so dispassionately.” 
 
 “/like that" retorted Gerald. “In the name of Malthus, are you setting up 
 for a connoisseur in children? Since when have you been seized with this 
 mania?” 
 
 “Since I began to envy you the possession of such a wife and such 
 children.” 
 
 “Envy is an evil passion,” said Gerald solemnly. 
 
 “Seriously, Gerald, I wonder if you comprehend the extent and value of 
 your blessings?” 
 
 “Seriously, Francis, I do,” said Gerald, yawning. 
 
 “Look at your position,” Francis went on. “What more could earth give 
 you? You have youth, health, wealth, friends, intellect, good looks, edu¬ 
 cation,—” 
 
 “No corns, and never a headache.” 
 
 “A wife, who is the most admirable of women, and two children—” 
 
 “Who seldom cry.” 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 345 
 
“What more could you have? What is there for you to wish for? Answer 
 me, and don't look so doubting.” 
 
 “Contentment,” said Gerald, shortly—“forgetfulness.” 
 
 “Contentment? Forgetfulness?” repeated Francis, with surprise. “Ah! true! 
 That sad business across the water. Yes, that is a bitter drop in your cup; but I 
 did not think it enough to spread its taste through all the draught.” 
 
 Gerald was silent. 
 
 “You have had no bad news recentlv?” 
 
 “No news at all. I presume all is right. There has been scarcely time to hear 
 amldiing.” 
 
 “I ferv^ently trust that neither vour mother nor you will be made further 
 unhappy in that quarter. Do you mean, Gerald, that—” 
 
 “Don’t let us talk about it,” said Gerald. “You know me of old, and my way 
 of taking things. I never speak of what weighs upon me; nor do I ever let any 
 one see its effect upon me. Do you recoUect that time at school, when I was 
 unjustly punished and accused—when for so long I had to bear averted looks 
 from our uncle, who believed me guiltv^, and I was denied every possible 
 pleasure. I felt readv to murder everybody, except you, and yet, did I not look 
 as placid and cheerful, and didn’t I play as many pranks, and seem as 
 unconcerned as if I had not a care?” 
 
 “True. And when I wanted to condole with you and comfort you, you 
 drove me awav from the subject, with sarcastic sentences and practical 
 jokes.” 
 
 “Precisely. I don’t understand the thing which is called ‘sympathy in 
 trouble.’ The way I behave to my troubles, is to ignore them utterly, or treat 
 them, if possible, as a sort of gloomy fun.” 
 
 “Let me ask one question about this: How did Ruth take his coming 
 back?” 
 
 “She had never heard of him till he returned.” 
 
 “Good God! And what did she say to vou?” 
 
 “Three syllables of reproach, and three hundred of tenderness.” 
 
 “She is a trump!” 
 
 “She is a verv noble woman,” said Gerald, calmly. “Shall we have candles? 
 They win not bring them tiU I ring, and it is quite dark.” 
 
 “No; I hke this soft twilight.” 
 
 “As you please. I wonder if we shall have good sport to-morrow in the 
 Taunton woods. You will find it hard riding, Francis, and yet you get so 
 restive at the idea of keeping to your stand. The underbrush is perfectly 
 uncleared. Old Josiah Taunton is a curious specimen of the uncultwated 
 
 346 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
aristocracy. Just before you came, his brother, (Louis’ father) and himself, 
 had a dispute about the hunt, and Josiah vowed that his idea was the best as 
 to the course they should pursue. ‘Drive the deer through them woods!’ he 
 said, scornfully. ‘Do it! I swear, Bro. Tom, no use for skin ’em after you git 
 them through.’ ” 
 
 “Young Tom Taunton is an admirer of Cissy Clare, isn’t he?” asked 
 Francis, carelessly. “She was engaged to him?” 
 
 “Not she,” replied Gerald. “She refused him.” 
 
 “I doubt it.” 
 
 “What can you know about it?” 
 
 “Rather more than you do it seems.” 
 
 “Pooh! nonsense! I tell you she refused him.” 
 
 “I tell you she accepted him, and she would have married him, but Phyllis 
 did not think him rich enough, and made her father make Cissy give back his 
 ring, and ask the return of her heart.” 
 
 “It is an infernal lie that somebody has been foisting upon you,” said 
 Gerald, angrily, “and I don’t believe a word of it.” 
 
 There was a silence of some few minutes, and then Francis said: 
 
 “Gerald, you and I are more than brothers to each other. If you saw me on 
 the edge of a precipice, would you not risk your life to point out my danger to 
 mer 
 
 “I suppose I would.” 
 
 “Shall I not, then, risk your anger in pointing out a moral precipice to 
 you? 
 
 “Francis,” said Gerald, with closed teeth, an unfailing sign that the devil 
 within him was rising; “it is a dangerous thing to meddle too much with even 
 a brother’s affairs, unasked,” 
 
 “I am silent then,” said Josselyn; “but I am bitterly mortified. Pray pardon 
 my intrusion.” 
 
 “Oh, hang it aU!” exclaimed Gerald, impatiently, but more good- 
 humoredly: “say your say; have it out. You know I never could oppose you.” 
 
 “Thank you, old fellow,” and Francis grasped his cousin’s hand warmly for 
 a second. “Let’s get it over quickly. I think you are going too strong with 
 Cissy Clare, and she—” 
 
 “Don’t breathe a syllable against her if you wish me to listen to you. She is 
 just as good, and as innocent, and as child-like as—” 
 
 “As she can be. My dear Gerald, I don’t blame her in the very least. I blame 
 you. 
 
 “For what, pray?” 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 347 
 
“I will go no farther back than this morning: Your manner, from the time 
 they breakfasted at 8 o’clock, tUl they left at 2. Had you chosen to look at 
 your cousin, Mrs. Fordyce, you would have seen plainly her disapprobation.” 
 
 “Phyllis had grown fretfully impatient of the attentions that Cissy receives 
 from anybody.” 
 
 “You are mistaken. Mrs. Fordyce is a perfectly prudent, proper woman, 
 and you may be sure that she wlU never bring her sister back to Beauchamp, 
 to be exposed to your very compromising although it may be perfectly 
 innocent, devotion.” 
 
 “Well, perhaps she is right.” Gerald jerked out his words, and filled his 
 glass. 
 
 “Then, another thing,” Francis went on, not heeding, apparently, what 
 the other had said. “You were gambling with Taunton and Aubrey almost 
 every night while they were here, after the ladies had gone to bed, and I 
 found out unintentionally and accidentally from Ruth, that she beheves that 
 you never play, and that she supposed you to have been sitting smoking and 
 talking with me, instead of being engaged in interminable games of ‘draw 
 poker’ and ‘faro’ with those men.” 
 
 “She chose to think so, and I did not contradict her.” 
 
 “My dear fellow, why take to so fast a pace? You have the brightest pres¬ 
 ent, the most unclouded future, the least embittered past—” 
 
 “Fair and softly Francis. What if I tell you that I am utterly and irretriev¬ 
 ably wretched.” 
 
 “I will tell you that you are entirely mistaken.” 
 
 “Very well, then; listen to me. You talked just now of this being an evening 
 for unrestrained confidence. You shall have mine. Much good may it do you, 
 since you will persist in knowing my faults and follies. Where shall I begin? 
 Oh, yes! You know as a boy, I was spoony about Cissy Clare.” 
 
 “To my amazement, always.” 
 
 “That is neither here nor there. I don’t think any of us ever fail to be 
 amazed in some way at our neighbor’s infatuation, while our own is possibly 
 no better. I don’t think that Julia Otey was much cleverer than Cissy, and 
 certainly she is not as pretty. You need not start up! We are fencing without 
 foils, and you began it. Well, I played fast and loose with Cissy for years. I 
 liked her well enough to like nobody better, and yet not sufficiently to give up 
 my liberty, for her. She is about my own age, you know, so we had a long 
 siege of it. Just when I found that I was getting too nearly caged, I would 
 haul off; but then, if any man came about her, I would immediately cut in 
 and drive him from the track.” 
 
 348 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Extremely creditable conduct,” said Francis. 
 
 “Wasn’t it? Tom Taunton’s attentions carried me further than anything 
 else. I did get jealous of him and questioned Cissy pretty closely. It was then 
 she assured me that she had never been engaged to him; that she had refused 
 him instantly. Had she ever thought of accepting him, I should have lost all 
 faith in her.” 
 
 “She knew that very well, and answered accordingly.” 
 
 “Francis!” 
 
 “My dear Gerald, you are surprised that you, who could deceive her, were 
 deceived by her.” 
 
 “I did not deceive her. I never have deceived her. I behaved atrociously, but 
 I was only too open, with her, poor child!” 
 
 Ljo on. 
 
 “Not long after this conversation with Cissy, I went abroad. (When we 
 crossed together, you remember, and you started for the East, and we parted, 
 to meet under different circumstances!) I was absent twenty months, and 
 came home in August; it will be four years this summer. Mamma wanted to 
 see me, so I only staid a day or two at New Haven, and then came straight 
 home. The Clares were on the Island. Uncle Clare had lost some money, and 
 was economizing, and cutting the girls down in their expenditures; and 
 Phyllis was thinking that some of them ought to marry, and as Cissy’s 
 chances that way were greater than hers, and she was always a capital 
 manoeuverer, she took the earliest chance of consulting me, and asking me 
 to make Cissy marry a Mr. Taylor, who was dancing attendance about her. I 
 told Phyl that I was the last person to whom she should apply for such a 
 purpose, as she knew my feehngs, &c. I don’t know whether I was quite in 
 earnest when I began, but between teasing Phyl, and my real fancy for Cissy, 
 I ended by saying a good deal. 
 
 “ ‘Gerald,’ said Phyllis gravely. ‘This must cease. You must make up your 
 mind one way or another. It is no use to keep up this sort of thing. Between 
 your own behaviour and aunt EUen’s encouragement. Cissy is acting very 
 improperly. She will never marry while you are unmarried, and you are never 
 going to ask her to marry you.’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘do you wish to make me believe 
 that Cis wants to marry me?’ PhyUis nearly grew angry. ‘I only mean that you 
 are treating her shabbily, and that she is very foohsh to permit it; and I intend 
 to put a stop to it.’ ” 
 
 “She was very right and I commend her,” put in Francis. 
 
 “Of course she was right, and I knew it, too; but 1 did not wish to put a 
 stop to anything, so I took Cis to drive that afternoon, and laughed and 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 349 
 
talked nonsense to her, and enjoyed her pretty feminine folly, and thought 
 her dimples, to look at, better enjoyment than the cleverest woman’s conver¬ 
 sation. PhyUis’ face was dark as a thunder cloud when we came in, but she 
 smoothed it off and began to talk about a dinner party they were to have the 
 next day, and—Miss Desborough.” 
 
 Gerald’s voice lowered at the name, and he drank another glass of wine. 
 The pale moonlight stole in through the open doors and windows, otherwise 
 the room was dark. 
 
 “Ah!” said Francis. 
 
 “Phyllis first gloated over the riches appertaining to that lady; then she 
 spoke of her hauteur and her indifference to everybody. ‘There is a conquest 
 worth making, Gerald,’ she said, as we sat apart and together, after tea; (for 
 she settled poor Cis down at backgammon with uncle Clare, and out of my 
 reach.) ‘If you could carry off that prize, you would do well; but not even you, 
 invincible as you think yourself, could storm or undermine that castle!’ 
 
 “I was highly entertained at this effort to pique me, and showed Miss Phyl 
 that I was too old a bird for such chaff; but, nothing daunted, she went on 
 with shrewd hints about Ruth’s weak points and habits, introducing them as 
 if merely in discussion of her character, and saying nothing further about my 
 having an interest in the possibifity of bringing them to bear upon the person 
 in question. I was to go to town in the early boat; so, on bidding good night. 
 Uncle Clare hoped that I would return to dinner and be introduced to Miss 
 Desborough. ‘An excellent match for you,’ said my venerable relative; ‘and 
 with your expected fortune, she could not suppose you actuated by merce¬ 
 nary motives, which is her hobby.’ 
 
 “Cissy looked so sadly and sweetly at me that I answered, very decidedly, 
 that I did not think it at all possible for me to dine with them, and finding an 
 opportunity, I said to her, at the foot of the stairs: ‘Miss Desborough and I 
 may one day be good friends, for I like strong characters; but I shall never try 
 to marry her, Cis; of that, rest assured.’ ” 
 
 Gerald paused, and buried his head in his hands. 
 
 “Now, I am going to tell you something horrible, Francis.” 
 
 “Out with it. Better make a clean breast at once, and forever.” 
 
 “Better bury it forever, and not dig up the body, as I am doing now. 
 Francis, we shall both repent this conversation. You will think worse of me 
 than you ever dreamed of doing, and I may begin to dislike you for knowing 
 my weakness.” 
 
 “Not a bit, Gerald, and you know it. Nothing could make me think ill of 
 you. I might mourn, sincerely, over some unexpected escapade of yours, and 
 
 350 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
sing penitential psalms with you, and wear a mental white sheet, sprinkled 
 with the ashes of a repented error, hut that is all. I could no more quarrel with 
 you than I could with my own right hand.” 
 
 “We are told to pluck off our right hand if it offends us.” 
 
 “If said right hand, by its offenses, leads us into sin; but I want to lead this 
 right hand out of sin and folly.” 
 
 “Probably it does not wish to be led,” said Gerald, shortly. 
 
 “Let me judge,” Francis rejoined. “Tell me the story, just as it comes. Just 
 as you used to pour out all your college and school deviltries to me, easing 
 your mind of the burthen of them, and putting me under the necessity of 
 setting all straight.” 
 
 “You can’t set this straight.” 
 
 Cjo on. 
 
 “Well,” said Gerald, in a harsh, rapid voice, and striking upon the table as 
 he spoke, with the handle of his fruit knife; “I got to town very early—before 
 breakfast. I went to my room. There lay a telegram on my dressing table. I 
 opened it. It was dated the previous day. It contained the news of our double 
 loss. It was from Mr. Lord,—short as telegrams usually are, and distinct as a 
 lawyer generally is. But three lines, and yet, I entered that room a man with 
 the world before him, and the contents of that brown envelope told me that I 
 was irretrievably a beggar, or very near it. You guess the rest, don’t you?” 
 
 C_jO on. 
 
 “For a moment I was stunned; but I swear to you, Francis, that my first 
 thought was not the fortune—my second was. My third, the devil whis¬ 
 pered!—it was a woman’s name,—. How soon my plan matured itself, I don’t 
 know. I think it was done in half a second. I deliberately sealed up the 
 telegram in another envelope—made a moderate imitation of my own name 
 from the back of the original for the address, and put it my pocket. We 
 breakfasted, and I told my mother that I was going again to the Island, but 
 not to dine with the Clares, who were to have a party for Miss Desborough. I 
 borrowed her coachman, and took my own boy, Jim, put on my shooting 
 clothes, and started for rice birds at Hutter’s point. You wonder what that all 
 meant? Phyllis had told me that Ruth’s habit was to walk always late and 
 alone on the beach. I had two notions: one was to come in and find her still at 
 the Clares, and pique her, if possible, by my indifference of costume and 
 manner, or to make her acquaintance in some accidental fashion, during her 
 walk, if she took one that evening. On the way to the row boat, in which I 
 intended going to Hutter’s Point, I stopped a small boy; pointed out the 
 house, bade him ring the bell, and deliver the re-sealed telegram. I knew it 
 
 GERALD GRAYS WIFE 35I 
 
would not be opened till mv return. Confess, Francis, that vou are dis¬ 
 gusted?” 
 
 “Not in the least,” said Francis, calnilt’. “I wash to know" how" it all turned 
 out.” 
 
 “As most things do w'hen satan takes them in hand, and so long as he is 
 permitted to guide events, detilishly w'ell. I killed some birds and cooked 
 them for mt" dinner in a lovely grove of live oaks, with tangled swings of tvild 
 grape \ines interlacing their old trunks, and then I took a fancy to see if I 
 could find a crane on one of those uninhabited islands opposite Rudedge- 
 super-mare. By this time the wind w"as prett\' high, and I thought things 
 began to look unpromising. No w"oman w"ould venture to w"alk out under 
 such a sk\*, but I preferred not being on the sea mvselfi so, feehng anything 
 but gav, and full of dissatisfaction with mvself and everybody, finding great 
 difficulty in making the passage, and decidedly as much out of sorts with the 
 world, and as melancholy and as wTetched a rascal as ever breathed, I landed 
 on the beach, far up at the east end. By Heaven, Francis! there came a rush of 
 amazement and audaciu' over me, such as successful \illains in even' fine of 
 crime must feel, wtien the most sanguine and unlooked-for hopes are 
 fulfilled by that tmseen agency wffiich often baffles our comprehension, bv its 
 strange plating into our hands. A figure stood three yards firom me, motion¬ 
 less and silent. I approached it, and recognized a person, w"hom I had often 
 seen, but who, it appears, had never noticed me—Ruth Desborough.” 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 As Gerald here paused, Francis fit another cigar from the stump of the old 
 one, and asked tranquiUv: 
 
 “You spoke to her?” 
 
 “Of course. And then something infernal and powerful stirred within my 
 breast—a recklessness surpassing every sentiment of the kind I ever before 
 e.xperienced. The part I had to play became a real pleasure to me. I was 
 interested in mv owm acting and—I did it to perfection. Knotving Ruth as I 
 since have done, I see that it w'as a w"onderful effort. Phyllis had given me 
 instructions that w’ere very useful, but with luck favoring me, I w^alked over 
 the course in a manner that surprised even mvself; although, without mod¬ 
 esty, you w'ho know a little of mt' career, I may say that I am not unused to 
 facile conquests. But eventhing w"ent for me. This was the evening of the 
 
 352 SUS.A.NPETIGRUKING 
 
last ‘great storm’—an equinoctial gale that lasted three da\-s, tearing down 
 houses and frightening the people more than they were hurt." 
 
 “But you did not stay on the beach?" 
 
 “Scarcely. On the contrary' I offered my escort to the unknown lad^ 
 immediately, and urged her to hasten home. Poor Ruth! fK^Kir dear Ruth! 
 how stately and indignant she was when I accosted her! She has told me 
 since how unspeakably impertinent she thought me! and in tact but tor the 
 tierce wind and the furious rain, I don’t think I should have made anv 
 progress at aU—but she grew gratetul when she saw her danger; and, tinalU', 
 the cards of our game were death, and I seized the four honours, and made 
 the odd trick besides.” 
 
 “Your game, not hers.” 
 
 “Oh! she played her part too, poor soul, although comparatively a verv 
 innocent one. I soon perceived that she did not wish to be known; she was 
 keeping dark as to her name—my own, 1 had instantly disclosed; but it was 
 plain that to her it was the name of a stranger.” 
 
 “Perhaps she had her concealments, too?” 
 
 “Who? Ruth? My dear fellow! she said that she had never heard of n\e 
 before. You understand her very little, if you suppose that anv statement, the 
 most seemingly problematical, could be false when coming from her lips! 
 No! her morbid suspicions were swept away bv mv admirably performed 
 ignorance of herself, and my interest in this unknown woman. We were 
 obliged, finally, to take refuge at the Fort, and there, as 1 expected wonUl be 
 the case, came the dcnoument of the drama. 1 found myself in the presence 
 of my two cousins, and Ruth discovered that this was the young gentleman 
 who had refused to make her acquaintance at their dinner that day.” 
 
 “Mad Phyllis told her of your refusal?” 
 
 “Not exactly; but it transpired in a manner not unpriwoked by me, and 
 helped on by Phyllis, who looked like a triumphant conspirator when she 
 saw me. To this day, Phvl has never guessed the truth, but thinks that to her 
 skillful innuendoes and her wise provisions, are owing the circumstances ot 
 that evening. You may well imagine that her ilelusion has never been nuule 
 clear to her, and when the blow of my uncle's death fell upon them, Phyl’s 
 excessive delight in her prophetic juilgment was really amusing.” 
 
 “And Cissy?” said Francis, iiulillerently. 
 
 “Poor Cissiy!” (lerald repeated with a soltenetl voice, “1 was cruel to her as 
 only a man can be cruel. 1 diil not spare her one pang. Betore her eyes 1 threw 
 myself headlong at Ruth’s feet, and treated Cissy with a careless imperii 
 
 (; i: It A I I) t; u A Y s w i r i is I 
 
nence that was disgraceful, but necessary. This was my most difficult part. 
 Ruth suspected the existence of some understanding between Cis and my¬ 
 self, for it must be confessed that the poor child scarcely concealed her 
 jealousy and her indignation. Phyllis tried to carry it off with a high hand, 
 but the mine was nearly sprung once or twice. A word of indiscreet explana¬ 
 tion would have shattered my hopes, for I read Ruth thoroughly even then. 
 An unoccupied heart she might believe herself capable of filling, but to 
 suppose it possible, for a man attached elsewhere, to seek her, except for her 
 fortune, she would never credit.” 
 
 “What did Cissy do?” 
 
 “Oh, a dozen silly things, and she looked so sweet and mild and fair—it 
 was abominable of me—but the die was cast, and I was bound to conquer my 
 own feelings and Ruth Desborough’s. My pride was aroused, too, in a very 
 little while—almost instantly. My attentions were public—it would not suit 
 me to pass for a baffled wooer of the heiress.” 
 
 “And had you no pity for Ruth?” asked Francis. 
 
 “She had and has no need for pity,” said Gerald, “she has never known, she 
 shall never know, by what dubious paths her happiness came to her. Miser¬ 
 able I may be, but she is happy.” 
 
 “It will not last. Sooner or later such a deception must come to an end, 
 especially when you bring Cissy beneath her very roof, as if to invite her 
 observation. Has Ruth never been jealous of your attentions to your cousin?” 
 
 “Dozens of times!” 
 
 “In the beginning?” 
 
 “From the beginning.” 
 
 “Did she question you?” 
 
 “Ah, there it is! Before she would engage herself to me—when I saw that 
 she loved me—she made her acceptance hang on the balance of that ques¬ 
 tion. That came hard upon me, Francis. There is something in a downright 
 lie that goes against the grain dreadfully. But she asked me, ‘on my honor,’ 
 had I ever been in any way plighted or entangled with Cissy.” 
 
 “And you answered—?” 
 
 “You see, things were desperate with me. Without being in love, I ardently 
 desired to marry Ruth; I liked her. I had determined never to think of Cissy 
 again, and those grave uncompromising eyes of hers which permit no 
 halting, were upon me, I answered, on my honor, no.” 
 
 “Humph!” said Francis. “She believed you?” 
 
 “She believes in me with the simple faith of the child in its mother, of the 
 Christian in his God.” 
 
 354 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Gerald, how can you help loving her?” 
 
 “I do love her. I love her very dearly; I respect her nobleness of character, 
 her singleness of purpose, her truth, her faithfulness—but she never was and 
 never can be, not the woman I love, but the woman who is my love.” 
 
 Gerald did not see the curl of contempt which settled on Josselyn’s lip, but 
 gave no shade to his tone as he enquired: 
 
 “And in all this time she has never grown on you?” 
 
 “Sensibly; in fact, I lost myself during those two years, and more, that we 
 were abroad. I think I had no regret, no remorse, no recollection while we 
 were absent. It is on coming back here, it is on seeing again that faithful and 
 unhappy child that I am overwhelmed by the thought of my fatal rashness! 
 Had I but been patient. Think of it! Situated as I would have been—with the 
 comfortable fortune, which I owe to your generosity, Francis—and with that 
 pretty creature whom I loved since my boyhood, what a different man I 
 should have been!” 
 
 “Very different, I think!” exclaimed Francis, significantly. “Do you mean, 
 old fellow, that you are really in love now with Cissy Clare?” 
 
 “I mean that she has a place in my heart that nobody has ever filled.” 
 
 “Allow me to say that it is the most unhealthy sentiment I ever heard of—I 
 believe as utterly unreal.” 
 
 “As you choose.” 
 
 “And do you confide your feelings to her?” 
 
 “Certainly not. I respect Cissy as much as I love her. And—” 
 
 “Do you, for one instant, fancy that she could ever love you with the 
 intensity and utter unselfishness of your wife?” 
 
 “Unselfishness! surely Ruth’s love for me is selfish. Would she be willing to 
 give me up, do you think, to secure my happiness at the price of her own in 
 me? 
 
 “My dear fellow, that proof of her love would be as supremely unhealthy 
 and unreal in your present mutual conditions as the sentiment you think you 
 have for your boyish fancy. But answer—do you for one moment suppose 
 that Cissy Clare cares for you, or could care for you, as Ruth does?” 
 
 “No; I believe no human being could be more utterly devoted to another, 
 soul and body, than Ruth is to me. Tis her own fault; I had loved her better 
 had she less loved me. She is always on her knees to me—now, I adore the 
 woman who requires you to be incessantly on your knees to her. My spoiled, 
 petted, capricious Cissy, good natured and sweet-tempered, but used to 
 adulation and loving me, would have made just the little household idol that 
 I should have worshipped.” 
 
 GERALDGRAY SWIPE 355 
 
“And the agreeable and sensible companion, and the judicious mother of 
 your children—” 
 
 “Yes,” said Gerald, shortly and decidedly, “Cissy is not brilhant, but she is 
 perfectly sensible and judicious. If I want brilliancy I can seek it in books or 
 out of doors—but this is idle talk. What is, is. What has been done, can’t be 
 undone. I made a mistake—I acted with duplicity, and I bear the conse¬ 
 quences.” 
 
 “You donthtiii the consequences, and ah! how many men would give their 
 right hand to have your consequences to bear! Don’t regret your confidence, 
 Gerald, it has taught me a lesson, it will teach me to endure my lot. Our 
 happiness hes within ourselves most truly, since a position such as yours is 
 not by itself capable of making one so. But I entreat you, by virtue of our long 
 intimacy, put aside this foolish fancy, which [is] the most utterly unreason¬ 
 able source of disquiet. Would that you could see Miss Clare with my eyes, 
 then I could be quite content to let you see Ruth with your own. That she 
 should be overshadowed by such a shape as that!” 
 
 “We have said enough,” said Gerald, rising, “more than enough.” 
 
 “One word more; for God’s sake conceal from Ruth forever aU that you 
 have told me. You do blind her successfully, but ’ware the day she discovers 
 the merest suspicion of the truth.” 
 
 “To whom do you teU it! My life would be a pleasant and tranquil one!” 
 exclaimed Gerald, laughing and stretching his arms. “Come, I am tired by all 
 this gloomy retrospection. I hate talking about disagreeable things which 
 can’t be bettered. If I were being led to the gallows, you know I should jest 
 with Jack Ketch. Let’s have a game of billiards.” 
 
 “Your life a tranquil one! Yes, I think so,” said Francis, “a very tranquil one 
 so far as Ruth was concerned. You should know her best; but it strikes me 
 that were she to find out for herself that she has been the victim of this long 
 series of deceptions, her course would be plain and undeviating.” 
 
 “In what way?” 
 
 “She would never forgive it, and she would leave you.” 
 
 “Ridiculous!” said Gerald, laughing disdainfully. “Nothing could separate 
 Ruth from me—but I should have a wearisome time, striving to set things 
 straight again. And I should be very seriously sorry to make her unhappy.” 
 
 “Oh, Gerald! you say so, and yet you run the risk every day of your life. Be 
 just, be generous. I scarcely know what to advise—perhaps to tell her all 
 would be the best—even to the length of confessing your sin from the first 
 guilty beginning—even to telling her the truth about the telegram, and aU 
 that—and pouring into that faithful heart all your foUies—telling her how 
 
 356 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
you have learned to love her and to mourn the unworthy commencement of 
 your acquaintance. She would be, perhaps, your best help against any 
 renewal of this sentimental nonsense. . . .” 
 
 “Tell her then what is just as untrue as anything I have ever told her,” 
 interrupted Gerald. “You don’t know, Francis, how much it will cost me to 
 pursue the path I have marked out as the right one—but although I never 
 intend to see Cissy again—never intend to trust myself in her society, I 
 cannot forget her, nor speak of her to Ruth as you would have me. It would 
 be false—false as all the rest. Don’t you see now that I am driven into all kinds 
 of dissipation by the misery of my position? What but this has made me 
 spend hours with those men, gambling? What but this makes me drink a 
 vast deal more than is good for me. . . .” 
 
 “Oh, by Jupiter! Gerald, that is coming it a little too strong! You have a 
 natural turn for gentlemanly potations. You know that two glasses of whisky 
 punch, judiciously administered, would make you confess a murder—or 
 commit one; and as for cards, my dear fellow! . . .” 
 
 Gerald broke into a laugh. “Yes, I am afraid if I were at the gates of 
 Heaven, and St. Peter looked agreeable to the notion, I might pause to 
 propose a hand at ‘poker’ before entering. But for all that, it is only too 
 seriously true, that when I remember where I am, and where I might have 
 been, I am ready to hang myself, and as a solace, fly to Barclay’s or the 
 bottle.” 
 
 “Very well,” Josselyn said, heaving a great sigh. “If a man is bent upon 
 making a fool of himself. . . . Let us take a game of billiards, as you 
 propose.” 
 
 “What a beautiful night!” said Gerald, going towards the piazza. 
 
 “Promise me, old fellow,” said Francis, following him, and laying his hand 
 upon his shoulder just as they reached the doorway, “promise me that no 
 inadvertence on your part, no more foolish attentions to Cissy, will awaken 
 Ruth, by any chance, from her happy slumber.” 
 
 “Your warning comes too late, Francis. I am here,” and Ruth stood before 
 them. 
 
 “Ruth!” cried Josselyn, springing to her side. He took her hand and looked 
 her into her face. The hand was cold and rigid, and lay passive in his grasp; 
 the face, seen by the pale moonlight, was set like the face of a corpse; like the 
 face of one who had passed away in agony and in despair. 
 
 Gerald leaned against the door post, motionless and haughty; a slight, 
 contemptuous smile played about his lips. Lucifer was unchained and de¬ 
 fiant. 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 357 
 
Ruth’s great eyes were fixed upon Francis, and slowly, deliberately, harshly, 
 her voice broke the silence. 
 
 “Why did you beckon to me, Francis? I do not regret it, but I don’t 
 understand it.” 
 
 “Beckon to you!” He thought her reason had gone. 
 
 “Yes,” she said. “The horses were restive. I got out and sent them round by 
 the stable entrance, and walked up the avenue. You came to this door, looked 
 at me, and signed to me to come here, instantly disappearing. I fancied some 
 plot of yours. I knew not what—I felt so gay, so joyous; my visit to town was 
 all a mistake; my father wrote Beauchamp when he meant BeUair; it was a 
 slip of his pen. ’Twas to BeUair he went on Wednesday; I hurried back from 
 town; I—I did what I supposed you intended. I stole quietly into the piazza— 
 Oh, God! Oh, God!” 
 
 The cry of anguish seemed wrung from her against her wiU. Gerald 
 advanced towards her: 
 
 “Dear Ruth,” he said, “this is—” 
 
 “Don’t let that man speak to me, do not let him touch me!” she exclaimed 
 hoarsely and fiercely. “Protect me from him, Francis. You are of his sex, but 
 not such as he. This house is mine: he must quit it.” 
 
 “Let him speak to you—let me leave you together,” whispered Francis 
 imploringly. “This is most unfortunate—” 
 
 “Unfortunate!” repeated Ruth scornfuUy. “That is the word you use! Yes; 
 even you an honorable and God fearing gentleman, you find no word but 
 unfortunate to bestow upon such an act as this. Had this person been 
 detected concealing an ace at cards, or had his hand shaken with terror if 
 standing up to be shot at, you would have turned your back upon him, 
 disowned him, loathed him, but it is only unfortunate that he should be a liar, 
 a schemer and a smooth-faced, smooth-tongued villain—because I am a 
 woman.” 
 
 Vehement and energetic as were her words, her voice was not raised nor 
 did she move. Slowly she uttered them, as if each were a sword thrust sent 
 deliberately to its mark. 
 
 “Ruth, I beseech you to listen to me—to listen to Gerald. You throw away 
 your whole life at this moment. It is my fault, it was my fault. I insisted upon 
 an idle confession of an idle fancy. There is no reality in all this. For God’s 
 sake, speak Gerald—” 
 
 “I threw away my life when I thought I had found it, on that 24 th of 
 November, when I stood at the altar.” 
 
 358 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Those whom God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,” said 
 Francis softly. 
 
 “Aye! If God hath joined them together. But as well say that if you ask a 
 blessing on a murder it becomes a sacred act, as say that such—. Let this end 
 at once and forever. I am no child, no idiot pining away in grief Look at me, 
 Francis. Is there sorrow in my face?” She brushed back the dark masses of 
 hair from her ghastly white cheek and brow. “Is there any soft influence at 
 work, think you in me? You have heard of me as cold, hard and flerce; you 
 met me—what I shall never be again. My old self has arisen within me. I 
 thank God for it. No gentle word nor thought shall ever again have the 
 mastery. I leave such things to my fair rival—xo the beauty whose image has 
 never left the faithful heart—oh! that such ‘a mere white curd of asses milk’ 
 should have such power! Power to rob a man of decency and honor!” 
 
 She mrned and left them. Her steps echoed down the piazza, and a great 
 silence followed. 
 
 “What will you do?” asked Francis at length. 
 
 “Nothing.” 
 
 “Leave matters as they stand? how can you?” 
 
 “I think I have already informed you this evening that I never yet saw the 
 earthly good of interfering or ripping up old things. Your diplomacy has had 
 a good result. I don’t know what you contemplate. By the way, Ruth says you 
 beckoned to her; perhaps you have prepared all this, and wish to bring me on 
 my knees to my wife?” 
 
 “Gerald, you need not try to quarrel with me. You need not knit your 
 brow, nor set your teeth. No insult you could offer me would move me now. I 
 am too profoundly wretched. I try to understand what she means—ah, yes! I 
 went to throw out my cigar, it must have been then that the motion of my 
 hand and arm she took for a signal. Great Heaven! don’t stand yawning and 
 stretching yourself there. Of what stuff are you made?” 
 
 “Flesh and blood and bones, I fancy. At least it looks so.” 
 
 He rang the bell for lights. “WiU you go to the billiard room now, 
 Francis?” 
 
 “No,” said Francis vehemently. 
 
 “My dear fellow,” said Gerald, after a moment, and leaning his elbow 
 upon the chimney piece of the empty grate, “You have brought an immense 
 ennui upon me, have the goodness not to increase it by looking as if the 
 world had tumbled to pieces, and the accident was destroying your comfort 
 entirely.” 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 359 
 
“Are you mad, or simply unfeeling?” asked Francis. 
 
 “Neither. I regret what has occurred more than you can do. When Ruth is 
 cool, I will make it straight—but I have tough work before me.” 
 
 “Very. So tough that—. I teU you Gerald you over-rate your power with 
 your wife, and you shock me by your indifferent air. For God’s sake go to 
 Ruth, try to console and reassure her; yet—” 
 
 “Yet what?” 
 
 “I fear it will be unavailing.” 
 
 Gerald slightly smiled. A servant entered, brought more candles, and 
 stood expectant before his master. 
 
 “What the devil do you want? What are you loitering for?” 
 
 “The coachman sent to know when you wanted the carriage, sir?” 
 
 Gerald bit his lip, and the dark flush of his cheek and bright flash in his 
 eye were dangerous to see. 
 
 “In a half hour,” he answered, and as the servant left the room he brought 
 his clenched fist down upon the marble of the chimney with a heavy blow. 
 “She orders me from her house—she will find it difficult to bring me back. It 
 is a false move, for she must make the next herself, and that must bring her to 
 my feet.” 
 
 Francis slowly shook his head. 
 
 “Are you for a midnight drive with me?” 
 
 “No; I stay with Ruth. I shall not desert her.” 
 
 “Try and bring her to reason, then,” said Gerald sauntering out of the 
 room. 
 
 “Is this my life-long friend,” mused Francis; “is it thus that the light 
 hearted, a fittle selfish, but noble boy ends in the man? Is this what I called 
 his insouciance, his happy temper? 
 
 “Heaven have mercy upon this household, for Satan’s clutch is upon it just 
 now! 
 
 Restlessly he paced the piazza. “How will it end? How will it all end?” 
 And the gentle moon looked down upon the placid scene; wealth and nature 
 combined to make Beauchamp a residence for a prince, and all evil passions 
 were at work to render it a desert. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Ruth Gray’s bedroom was a luxurious and charming one—with its lace 
 lined curtains, the rose colored silk flushing through the delicate meshes— 
 the white enamelled walls almost panelled with pictures—pictures of flowers 
 
 360 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
and children, and shepherdesses. The Duchesse mirror had upon its draped 
 toilette-table the gold topped contents of a superb dressing box. Large 
 armoires a glace flanked it on either side—deep comfortable chairs and low 
 cushioned seats were in every direction. The basin and ewer were marvels of 
 porcelain beauty—within the draped curtains of an alcove beyond, was the 
 bed with its couvrepied of lace likewise, and its great French pillows in their 
 richly bordered cases. 
 
 It was the apartment of a Parisian coquette transferred to the banks of a 
 Southern river, a view of which might be had from either of the two windows 
 which opened upon the piazza. The Venetian bhnds were closed now—the 
 room was darkened—not a sound was heard—yet it was not unoccupied. 
 
 Ruth was seated motionless and alone; her hands were tightly clasped 
 around her knees—her eyes were fixed and tearless. So had she sat for 
 hours—since she had silently given breakfast to Francis, and looked to her 
 children. She was not restless, nor impatient, nor angry—she was only stony. 
 She did not seem to feel sorrow or regret, or anxiety—she seemed to feel 
 nothing. The life was taken out of her—it was the shell of a woman. 
 
 There came a low knock on the door—twice repeated. She rose and 
 opened it—Francis stood there, with his kind, manly face. 
 
 “I fear I am in your way, Ruth,” he said; “I shall go to town, and have come 
 to bid you goodbye.” 
 
 She held out her hand without a disclaimer. “Goodbye,” she said, as if 
 mechanically. 
 
 The light in the corridor fell full upon her haggard eyes, her wretched, 
 blank face. 
 
 Francis paused. “May I come in?” 
 
 She hesitated, then moved aside and made way for him to enter. He sat 
 down. 
 
 “My dear Ruth, let me be a peace maker—it is my right—it was I that 
 made the mischief—” 
 
 “You!” she repeated, “you made the mischief? ’Twas you that made him a 
 liar and a dastard?” 
 
 “Hush, my dear, dear Ruth—you are his wife—” 
 
 “No!” rang out her harsh, metaUic voice. “In the sight of man, I am his 
 wife, but in the sight of God I have never been. No miserable wretch who 
 parades her painted charms in the pubhc street is less the wife of her 
 temporary companion, than I am the wife of Ceciha Clare’s husband. His 
 heart, his thoughts, his wishes, his hopes, his life were hers—what makes a 
 marriage?” 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 361 
 
“Ruth, you are not reasonable—” 
 
 “Spare me,” she interrupted. “I respect and admire you—spare me com¬ 
 monplaces. Gerald Gray,” she shuddered as she spoke his name, and how 
 could Josselyn but remember the lingering caress with which she used to 
 utter it! “Gerald Gray is the father of my children. God have mercy on them, 
 innocent sufferers by another’s crime! They are mine, but they have no 
 longer any parent but me. He will not dare take them from me—if he does, 
 the law shall judge between us.” 
 
 “Will you not let him justify himself—speak for himself—?” 
 
 “Are you mad? or do you think me so! Is there any peace or Ufe possible 
 between two people—and have you forgotten his last reply to your urgent 
 request? Am I so abject in your eyes that you see no bounds to my weakness? 
 Cease to urge me. The man for whom you plead is unworthy of your 
 pleading, and I am not so unworthy as to be touched by it.” 
 
 “Do you really think that Gerald does not mourn this fatal secret coming 
 to your knowledge as it did? Do you not know that he feels it bitterly? That 
 pride alone keeps him from you now?” 
 
 “Have you forgotten Major X?” said Ruth bitterly. “Had my marriage 
 been illegal, how long since would it have been disowned and annulled? 
 Question for question, Francis; and now leave me, I implore you.” She 
 looked hke some wild animal at bay; her head turned restlessly from side to 
 side, and she half rose from her seat. 
 
 “Oh! dear Ruth, be the true woman that you are—the woman who always 
 forgives quand meme!' 
 
 “You remind me of what I would give worlds to forget,” cried the poor, 
 tortured creature, springing to her feet. “Forgive! what have I not forgiven? 
 What would I not forgive save the knowledge that he sought me without 
 loving me, and bed to me from first to last! Oh, Francis! I could reveal such a 
 tissue of systematic falsehood—such a dark record of unflagging deceit! such 
 blind worship on my side! such unutterable tenderness lavished on the man 
 who endured my affection, and pined for the caresses of Cecilia Clare! I 
 thought I had no vanity—and I am one throb of wounded self-love to the 
 core of my heart. I would grieve for my lost lover, for my wasted passion— 
 and I can only think how I loved him! I ought to be overwhelmed with 
 sorrow, and I am fierce with anger. In a word, I have been duped—duped 
 from first to last—duped in my only belief—duped by the only thing I 
 absolutely trusted! Don’t pity me—I am not entitled to pity or sympathy, for 
 it is my pride which is in the ascendant—my pride which has been humbled. 
 I am not a deserted wife—I am a tricked woman!” 
 
 362 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Dear Ruth, I know what you suffer—only too well I know it. But have pa¬ 
 tience—every thing will come right. I don’t believe in this retrospective admi¬ 
 ration of Gerald’s—don’t tear your hand from me—think of what she is, and 
 can you believe that any man in his senses could sincerely prefer her to you?” 
 
 “He may be a madman then—it matters little to me, but—so much the 
 worse for my children.” 
 
 “Think of the esclandre. For those children’s sake, be patient.” 
 
 “Enough,” cried Ruth; “you speak as a man. You speak by the rules of your 
 caste. Further words are useless; you do not understand me; you do not 
 comprehend that were he to begin to love me from this hour, I could never 
 love him again. What did I love? The truth, the honor, the nobleness of his 
 character. I saw a shadow in the water and caught it to my heart of hearts. I 
 loved what never had a substance within my reach. I held intangible, unexist¬ 
 ing air. I crowned myself with a breath of idle wind, and fancied I was a 
 queen. Is there anything to love in that man? I don’t know what it is! He has 
 blue eyes—but there are plenty of blue eyes in this world; he is amusing—but 
 any actor of a French theater is more so; ’tis a bundle of rags on a scare-crow 
 at which for four years I have looked with reverence. Your hand gave the 
 flaunting deceit a fillip, and lo! I am cured.” 
 
 “Yes, my hand! I wish it had been withered ere it performed so senseless an 
 
 ... 
 
 act. 
 
 “Why so?” asked Ruth, sinking into her chair, and speaking with a 
 monstrous hard tone; “recollect what you said, sooner or later it would come. 
 So desperate a passion could not be long concealed or controlled. A man 
 could not live in the same atmosphere with such a syren without succumbing 
 to her charms. True, he concealed it well. How he has spoken slightingly of 
 poor Cissy to me! Francis, you see how weak I am—I am sneering at that 
 insignificant girl who has had the luck to blast my life. Listen to my 
 request—don’t draw me on to further folly. Farewell; you are—” 
 
 “Dearly attached to you, Ruth; your warm and faithful friend.” 
 
 “If I ever believe in anything again, I will believe that.” 
 
 “Believe it now, I entreat you, and give me one word, one token to carry to 
 Gerald, that may guide him through his darkness.” 
 
 Ruth looked fixedly at him, partly opened her pale lips, closed them, 
 turned away and walked to her writing table. Her back was to him. She 
 placed her left hand before her. There was her wedding ring. Twice she 
 turned to take it off and her courage failed—one wrench and it rolled on the 
 desk. With firm pen and steady fingers she wrote: 
 
 “I wore this ring as a pledge of the sworn love, honor and faith of a 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 363 
 
gentleman; I return it to the giver knowing him now to be a liar, a trickster 
 and a scoundrel.” 
 
 It was soon done, the ring enclosed, the envelope sealed. 
 
 “Should he ever wish to explain himself, this will assure him of my 
 reception,” she said to Francis. 
 
 He took it doubtfully. Like a brother he folded his arm about her and 
 pressed a kiss upon her forehead with a murmured “God bless you and 
 comfort you, my child!” 
 
 A slight shiver ran through her whole frame; she said nothing more, and 
 stood there like a statue; cheek, brow and hands deathly cold. 
 
 As Francis closed the door she sank upon her knees, and with her left and 
 ringless hand passionately held to her lips, she tried to stifle the great sobs 
 which convulsed her. 
 
 ® CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Francis was extremely unhappy and uncomfortable when he left Beau¬ 
 champ, his first thought, of course, was to hunt up his cousin. He found 
 Gerald at his mother’s, with the most provoking look of calm indifference 
 upon his very handsome face. No trace of a sleepless night nor an evil 
 conscience disfigured those regular features and beautiful eyes. 
 
 He welcomed Francis as unconcernedly as possible. Josselyn was not 
 gracious nor amiable. 
 
 Mrs. Gray was evidently quite unaware of anything unusual having hap¬ 
 pened, and enquired why he had left Ruth and the children? 
 
 “Gerald told me that he had to come away on account of some business—” 
 
 “Because I had to come, mamma. I did not teU you why,” Gerald put in, 
 smihngly. “How women will jump to conclusions and fill up sentences.” 
 
 “Yes, my child, but of course, some business brought you, and you were 
 quite content to leave dear Ruth under Francis’ care, and now, here is Francis 
 running to town, too! I have a great mind to go to Beauchamp myself, since 
 you outrageous boys are so careless.” 
 
 “Better not, you will meet Mr. Desborough, perhaps, and that will bore 
 you intensely.” 
 
 “Ah! Mr. Desborough is there! Why didn’t you say so at once, and save me 
 all my conjectures?” Upon which, Mrs. Gray rose to leave the dining room, 
 adding, “Really, Gerald, you have a way of keeping back things that is 
 perfectably unaccountable.” 
 
 “Gerald,” Francis exclaimed, as the door closed behind Mrs. Gray; “what 
 
 364 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
are you going to do? It is useless trying to put me off. I brought on this 
 business and it is my place to get it all straight as possible.” 
 
 “When Ruth sends for me, I will return—not sooner.” 
 
 “She will never send.” 
 
 "Tantpis pour elle." 
 
 “Do you think it will be tant miserepour vousf" 
 
 “Perhaps.” 
 
 “Pray let me understand you. Are you pleased at the prospect of a rupture 
 between yourself and Ruth? Is it this which gives so bright a look to your 
 countenance?” 
 
 “I am intensely pleased to leave off acting—to be myself. I never could 
 have had the hardness to tell Ruth, but since she chose to go eaves-dropping, 
 and you chose to go prying, and you both heard the exact truth. I feel hghter 
 at heart than I have done for years. I am very much attached to Ruth; I don’t 
 desire to quarrel with her; I regret most intensely that I ever deceived her 
 about the reality of my feehngs, and I am quite determined to avoid the 
 society of other people. If all that doesn’t satisfy her, why she can sulk as long 
 as she pleases.” 
 
 “And you are not grieved, not sad?” 
 
 “Not in the least. I can look men honestly in the face to-day, a thing I have 
 not been able to do to my own satisfaction, this long while. Moreover, I 
 wonder you are not surprised as I am, at my gentleness. If I were not full of 
 kindness towards Ruth, I should find it difficult to pass over her words and 
 manner and actions last night. She counted upon my good temper, or she 
 would never have dared to order me out of the house, and this will show you 
 how much inclined to bear with her I am, that I should soon pass over such 
 an outrage.” 
 
 “You should write to her, at least.” 
 
 “Francis, have you never heard the old proverb about coming between the 
 bark and the tree?” 
 
 Josselyn sighed and said no more. 
 
 Days passed and not one word or sign came from Beauchamp. These were 
 miserable times for Francis, who felt restless, uneasy, unoccupied. He 
 watched Gerald and discovered no visible mark of unhappiness or relenting. 
 Mrs. Gray spoke constantly of Ruth and of the children; wondered that she 
 had not heard from her daughter-in-law, and returned to question Gerald as 
 to what was said in his letter from home. As usual he gave her evasive 
 answers. Josselyn did not dare to enlighten her, and did not care to press 
 Gerald further. 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 365 
 
Frequently he thought of going back to Beauchamp and seeing if he could 
 effect any change there, but he felt that such a step was utterly useless. 
 Everything must come from Gerald and one might as well have tried to melt 
 a sea of ice by talking to it, as try to make an impression upon that serene 
 young gentleman. He did not like to deliver up the envelope with which he 
 had been charged; the contents were plain enough to the touch, and he 
 feared the words were not conciliatory. He had a natural dread of precipitat¬ 
 ing matters in a final outbreak, and fingered from day to day, hoping that 
 Gerald’s paternal affection might bring about a change in his intolerable 
 cheerfulness. He encouraged Mrs. Gray to talk about the twins, and Gerald 
 joined in with animation and delight; then the grandmother hinted as 
 grandmothers sometimes will do, that a few details in their bringing up 
 might be altered to advantage; but Gerald instantly took up the cudgels for 
 Ruth, and protested that the children were perfectly managed. 
 
 Francis caught himself looking gratefully at Gerald, and could not but 
 consider how absurd was his position—thanking the husband and his oldest 
 and dearest friend, for speaking justly of the wife whom he had never seen till 
 a month ago. 
 
 A week had gone by and Francis had almost fixed upon a day for leaving 
 the South. He was carrying a heavy heart with him, and felt that his visit had 
 been the cause of a misfortune that the laying down of his fife would not now 
 avert or conjure away. He and Gerald had ceased to speak on this all- 
 important topic. He began to fear that perhaps he had already spoken too 
 much. Left to themselves this couple might come to an understanding. He 
 trusted to those holy voices healing the wounded depths of poor Ruth’s 
 heart; the desire to see them might exorcise the demon of pride from the 
 mind of the offending party. 
 
 Francis could not blame Ruth. He could not think any step she might take 
 too harsh or too hard, he might pray that she should be all softness and 
 forgiveness, but he felt that she had been tricked, outraged, insulted. 
 
 If the confidence he had forced from Gerald had remained only with 
 himself it would have appeared a fighter crime. Things that are not widely 
 known, will, to the best of us, seem less damaging, than a smaller matter 
 more generally circulated. We are called upon to bear the indignation of 
 others, as well as to air our own. 
 
 Francis, however, (shocked as he was) while listening to Gerald, did not so 
 ftiUy appreciate the cowardice and meanness of his friend’s action, till he 
 found expression in Ruth’s lips. But Gerald was correct in saying that this 
 unhappy conversation would bring disunion between them. Never could 
 
 366 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
their intimacy be again what it had been. Francis felt himself Ruth’s cham¬ 
 pion—her sincere partisan. If their marriage no longer united Mr. and Mrs. 
 Gray, there could be no question in Josselyn’s mind as to the side on which he 
 must range himself If he must choose between them—^justice and inclina¬ 
 tion were equally in the balance of the duped and unloved wife. 
 
 He was very sad about it; the genial, boyish, frank brightness of Gerald 
 was irresistible and charming. His saucy fondness for Francis apparently 
 untouched and unaltered, (unless they grazed the now tacitly forbidden 
 ground), had always been Francis’ delight. The gay nonsense and shrewd 
 good sense, the sparkling foUy and keen satire, the outward carelessness and 
 the apparent under-current of affection in Gerald were rare and great gifts. 
 Left early an orphan with an elder brother, morose and indifferent, and a 
 sister as uninteresting as she was selfish, Francis had from their earliest days, 
 attached himself to his “sort-of-cousin.” 
 
 With the exception of one woman already hinted at, Gerald was the single 
 being that his affectionate nature had fastened itself upon. And there was no 
 possibility for him to respect Gerald as he had done. It is wonderful that he 
 felt his Southern visit a failure—wished to end it, and hoped that apart, the 
 old feelings would settle back after awhile to their former condition every¬ 
 where. It was evident that his presence did no good to himself nor to any 
 body—his absence might be more serviceable. 
 
 He announced his intentions to Gerald, who urged him not to go. 
 
 “I win stay on one condition,” said Josselyn, hastily. 
 
 “My dear Francis, living among those woods so long has blunted your 
 perception; you used to know me, once upon a time.” 
 
 A servant entered with a note, which he handed to Josselyn; “From Mrs. 
 St. Clair.” 
 
 Gerald looked at his cousin and smiled knowingly. 
 
 “TeU Mrs. St. Clair’s servant to wait, Tom. Ah, has the bewitching Bertha 
 returned? She left town in another direction just after the visit to Beau¬ 
 champ. Any secret?” 
 
 “None, whatever; she wishes to see me.” 
 
 “Wishes to see you! What the devil does she wish to see you for? That 
 woman runs every man—” 
 
 “Well, at least she never ran after you. I think the running was the other 
 way, wasn’t it, Gerald?” 
 
 “What do you mean, you smiling serpent?” asked Gerald, smiling himself 
 
 “You can ask her,” said Francis, pocketing his note and walking off with a 
 nod, while Gerald laughed and aimed a book at his head, dropping it as his 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 367 
 
cousin disappeared and letting the gayety die out of his face, like a mask 
 suddenly discarded. 
 
 ® CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Bertha looked unusually grave and worried as she welcomed her guest. 
 
 “Tell me what this means?” she asked. 
 
 She put in his hand a letter directed Francis Josselyn, Esq., and with it a 
 note to herself. 
 
 “May I ask of your kindness, dear (“Mrs. St.” lined out, and Bertha 
 written over it,) to give the enclosed, with your own hands to its address. He 
 may explain if he will—all that he chooses. If he does, don’t be grieved for 
 me—any more than you would be for yourself, had you dreamed a pleasant 
 dream, and then waked up to life.” 
 
 “There is no signature—but I know the hand as Ruth’s—of course. It came 
 yesterday—I only returned late last night. I could not guess where you were— 
 I had supposed at Beauchamp—and I sent to the town house and found that 
 both you and Mr. Gray were in Locust street—so I immediately wrote in 
 search of you. What does it all mean?” 
 
 Josselyn opened the letter, while his impatient companion sat watching 
 him eagerly. Having finished reading, he told her all that had passed. 
 
 Bertha was shocked, indignant, distressed; not so much surprised as he 
 anticipated, for she said at once, “I guessed from the beginning that there 
 was foul play somewhere—I never quite believed in Gerald Gray’s disin¬ 
 terested attachment. I am not amazed to find that he married her for her 
 money, and that alone—but I am astonished at his fancying himself in love 
 with such an empty-headed insignificant doU! Truly, you men are strange 
 beings!” 
 
 “Have you no hope of an adjustment of all this wretched business?” she 
 went on presently. 
 
 “None. I fear that Ruth has taken her stand firmly, and I cannot find it in 
 my conscience to urge her farther. How can I ask of her what in my own 
 case—Mrs. St. Clair, these matters have brought us very near each other. By 
 Ruth’s implied request I have told you the whole story—it is her secret more 
 than anybody’s. She is the real sufferer, and has the right, therefore, to make 
 what confidante she pleases, if by so doing it can ease her weary lot of one 
 future or present pang. I will go beyond this.” He got up and walked twice 
 around the room. “You remember that evening we were telling stories— 
 playing that game at Beauchamp; you recollect what I said perhaps—the 
 
 368 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
man who went away to make a fortune, and was so cruelly jilted and deceived 
 by the woman he loved—it was part of that programme you and I had laid 
 out to open Gerald’s eyes and close Ruth’s. It was a tale commonplace 
 enough, but Gerald knew both the hero and the heroine. I wished to recall to 
 him the misery he knew that I had endured—to awaken some consideration 
 lest he should plunge his wife into the same sort of grief [from] which he had 
 sought six years ago to arouse me. I was the man of whom I spoke. That lady 
 I found on my return last year, a rich widow, childless, handsomer than ever, 
 wondrously improved in manner and person from the young girl to whom I 
 was engaged when I was a college boy and she, a bright-eyed, unformed, 
 simple little creature. She speedily succeeded in meeting me. My heart leapt 
 with a momentary joy and triumph when with modest and yet passionate 
 words, she continued to let me see that she could yet be mine—that she 
 mourned sincerely a rash and foolish act—that my absence and her mother’s 
 persuasion had overcome her constancy and truth. Did I waver? Not for half 
 a second. She had been false—she had lied—she had deceived me—there 
 could be no trust again between us two. I believed her to be sincere now—but 
 that did not wipe out what she had been. Her vanity can be content to know 
 that I love nobody else, that I am true to the innocent and dear child to 
 whom I plighted my faith so many summers since, but the lofty and lovely 
 widow who usurped the nature of my lost love, shall never replace her. We 
 could not be happy; I should make her miserable, for she could never 
 command my esteem.” 
 
 “Ah me!” sighed Bertha. 
 
 “You see,” pursued Francis, speaking quickly, “it is a grievous thing to say, 
 but Ruth no longer respects Gerald—she can no longer believe in him, nor 
 trust him. The most that they could do would be to drag out a wretched 
 existence of external politeness and inward chafing.” 
 
 “He would not care,” said Bertha shortly. 
 
 “No—he would not care,” Francis repeated. “I am thinking of her. She 
 will be like a machine with some damaging rust, some obstructing object 
 introduced among its wheels and works; it will run awhile longer, but only by 
 jerks and starts, and presently the whole thing will break with a crash, or just 
 come to a dead lock and stop.” 
 
 “Yes; as you first saw her, he has made her; now, she will neither go back to 
 her former self, nor yet remain as she is.” 
 
 “Perhaps her children may do her a world of good.” 
 
 “Perhaps so,” said Bertha, despondingly. “And her letter to you? What is 
 it?” 
 
 GERALD gray’s WIFE 369 
 
“You can read it,” Francis said, handing it. 
 
 MY DEAR FRANCIS: 
 
 Briefly I would thank you for your kindness and sympathy. Never fancy 
 that I reproach you for what you consider your unhappy interference. 
 
 My father is with me; he consents (without entirely approving,) to my 
 plans and wishes. I shall endeavour to be a better daughter than I ever yet 
 have been. My children are well. 
 
 I have received this note; have the goodness to return it to the writer. It is 
 evident that you have not executed the commission with which I charged 
 you. It is my deliberate intention never, so long as life last, to exchange 
 speech, look, nor written word with him. 
 
 For the future, my lawyer shall be my medium, if annoyed. 
 
 God bless you, Francis. When I believe in any human creature, I shall 
 believe in you. Farewell. 
 
 Ruth. 
 
 “So he has written to her,” said Bertha. 
 
 “So it seems; the letter is unopened. It appears to be short.” Josselyn shook 
 his head sadly. “It is a miserable business. Would to God that my conscience 
 could acquit me of having aided in it!” 
 
 “Would to God that Gerald Gray had been less a scoundrel!” cried Mrs. 
 St. Clair, indignantly. “And to think that she, the sufferer, will be blamed, 
 canvassed, discussed, picked to pieces, and condemned, while that wretched 
 creature will get off with hardly a word of remark.” 
 
 “I cannot think so,” said Josselyn. 
 
 “Perhaps not,” Bertha added more quietly. “After all, Ruth is very rich, 
 and that does cover such a multitude of sins!” 
 
 “You have not a very high opinion of your fellow beings, Mrs. St. Clair,” 
 said Francis, half smiling. 
 
 “I have the most ardent desire, believe me, to think well of them, but upon 
 my word I can’t And the opportunity to do so. AH these weary years that I 
 have plodded through this wicked and beautiful world of ours, I have tried so 
 hard to find people whom I could admire, esteem, love. Is it my fault? is it 
 theirs? I don’t discover any that I can do more than put up with—very few 
 even of these.” 
 
 “You are not misanthropic, pourtant?' 
 
 “Very far from it—I have such credulity and such unfaltering ‘faith in 
 goodness some where,’ that I am forever in pursuit of what I ought by this 
 time to know, that I, at least, will never find.” 
 
 “Happily, you please others more than they can please you.” 
 
 370 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
“Do I? I doubt that extremely—and so would you if you knew better, not 
 me, but those who surround me. For instance, I am called presumptuous and 
 inconstant, because I have an opinion of my own on most points and because 
 I cannot choose but give up the society of those whom I find to be false or 
 treacherous. I have no doubt I appear to be both presumptuous and incon¬ 
 stant in the eyes of that majority with whom conformity passes for modesty 
 and a fluent egotism, for constancy. Besides, let us admit a sad truth. If I 
 wished to be, not exactly understood, but considered reasonable and right, I 
 need only get in a decently honest way, twenty thousand dollars a year! Even 
 the wisest and noblest, most just and generous people are liable to this moral 
 affection. It can’t be helped. If I were wise I would not quarrel with it—if I 
 were very cool, I should perhaps admit its justice—being only what I am, it 
 chafes and angers me. But it gives me hope for Ruth. She can never fall very 
 low in the estimation of her fellow-citizens, and of the world at large so long 
 as Mr. Desborough pays such an enormous State and city tax.” 
 
 “You are bitter.” 
 
 “Very—but consolatory, am I not? Think what a chance you run of always 
 running right in your neighbor’s eyes, no matter how zig-zag your path! I see 
 you know, you and all the rest of les gens riches, doubling and twisting, now 
 here, now there—now making a curve, and now flying off at an angle, but 
 followed by admiring looks and the cheerful cries, ‘How straight he walks!’ ” 
 
 Josselyn smiled. 
 
 “Oh, how frightfully matter-of-fact you have driven me into being. Dis¬ 
 claiming against money-worship! I shall owe you a grudge for ever and 
 forever.” 
 
 “Pray don’t. I am to tell you good-bye for a great while now,” and be rose. 
 
 “You are leaving the South?” 
 
 “Yes—leaving it sadly, reluctantly and yet willingly. You will not desert 
 Ruth? She likes you—?” 
 
 “Desert her, never.” 
 
 “She may take this blow quietly after aU, and settle down into a calm, 
 woman-of-the-world.” 
 
 “How well do you understand ber,” said Bertha, a little scornfully. “I 
 should recover from such an experience, and in time wonder at my folly— 
 give balls, ride over people’s heads, travel, educate my children, and be a very 
 important member of society. But Ruth—her life is ended here. You see 
 Heaven’s gifts are equally apportioned. The gay coquetry, the sparkling wit, 
 the imperious attraction of some women”—here the speaker slightly colored 
 and turned away her eyes, for Josselyn, with half sad playfulness, bowed to 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 37I 
 
her—“are wanting in our Ruth; but en revanche she has what is much rarer—a 
 steadfast heart,” and Bertha, in her turn, bowed to her companion. “A heart 
 like Ruth’s loves but once, and in ceasing to love it almost ceases to live. It has 
 pleased Providence to give over this treasure to the keeping of a man who has 
 acted very much like the cock in Aesop who found the diamond when he was 
 seeking for a grain of corn. Gerald Gray don’t care for this sort of diamond. 
 He scratched and scratched in that tas defumier, this world, till Fate brought 
 the luck, he could not appreciate. True, he clapped his wings and crowed 
 mightUy at first—but—well! if ever he gets his grain of corn, I hope she will 
 choke him in the swallowing thereof.” 
 
 “I hope he will never have the opportunity.” 
 
 “Amen,” said Bertha. 
 
 “I wiU ask a favor of you. Will you grant it? Should anything occur, 
 however slight, in this matter, write me. Here is my address at Boston— 
 wherever I may be, your letter will follow me.” 
 
 Bertha promised, adding, “We are baffled conspirators, but at least we do 
 not throw the blame of our failure upon each other.” 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XXVII—AND LAST 
 
 Mrs. St. Clair to Francis Josselyn: 
 
 Beauchamp, April 20, i860. 
 
 My Dear Mr. Josselyn: 
 
 I wonder where these pages will travel before you open them! I might 
 speculate for a while upon their possible journeyings, and almostwrite, “The 
 Adventures of a Letter” in anticipation, were it not that I seldom guess 
 aright, and so, might simply expose myself to your ridicule, instead of 
 awakening your amazement at my prophetic genius. 
 
 Ah me! you wiU be as little of a wizard as I am of a witch, should you 
 conclude, from this commencement, that I am in a gay mood and have 
 bright news to teU. You see my date—Beauchamp—“beautiful Beauchamp,” 
 as we caUed it last year, when mirth and music echoed through its stately 
 corridors, and charming women dotted the lawn towards sunset, making the 
 old oaks bright with their presence and their sweeping skirts. How like a 
 dream of long ago, seems that time, as I stand now each evening watching 
 the slanting rays coming through the low-hanging boughs, and feeling sad 
 and sick at heart. 
 
 What a changed spot it is! Ruth has been very ill—so ill that it is a matter 
 of wonder that she should stiU be alive, and likely to live. Her cousin, Mrs. 
 
 372 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
Price, an elderly, well-meaning sort of woman, very considerately let me 
 know of her danger. I came up at once, and have been here more than six 
 weeks. It has been an anxious, wretched time. Mr. Desborough is not a man 
 of much sensibility nor of very strong feeling, nor of any delicacy. His 
 returning to live permanently with his daughter, has I make no doubt, been a 
 terrible ordeal to her, patiently borne but very wearing to soul and body. His 
 incessant allusion to her domestic misery, his rough ideal on the subject, his 
 efforts to bring about a reunion, have, I fancy, done more to produce this 
 fever, than she would admit, or he understand. 
 
 How strange it is that among some of the noblest men, and some of the 
 otherwise purest-minded women, there should exist such extraordinary 
 ideas of marriage—ideas so foreign to common decency of thought and life, 
 that one listens with never-ending surprise to their words, and watches with 
 something very like disgust their actions! Knowing this, why should I 
 wonder that poor Mr. Desborough, who is so scantily gifted as I hinted 
 above, should urge his daughter to live with a man whom she has long ceased 
 to love. My limited acquaintance with human nature has taught me, there¬ 
 fore, a fact, which does not raise said nature in my estimation—viz. that 
 almost all men, and very nearly all women, think that if a husband is content 
 to endure the society of a wife, no matter in what light she holds him, she 
 must thankfully accept her position, and consider herself highly virtuous and 
 respectable while occupying it! Heaven help such virtue and such respect¬ 
 ability! I’d rather see myself breaking stones upon the roadside—or, what is 
 nearer my views of the fit depository for such pinchbeck qualities—beating 
 hemp in Bridewell! (Is hemp still beaten in Bridewell?) 
 
 For the honor of womankind be it said, our dear Ruth was never likely to 
 accept such sentiments, nor to model her life upon the soi-disant proprieties, 
 as set forth by Mrs. Grundy. She had in honesty and truth given herself to a 
 man utterly devoid of principle; it was a fatal mistake, but remediable so far 
 as her honor lay. Her happiness had gone, but not her sense of decency; and 
 although her father might urge every possible reason of policy and prudence, 
 and although Mrs. Gray wrote her long strictures on a wife’s duty (!), and 
 although Mr. Clare once undertook to appeal in his most grandiloquent way 
 to the fact of her children, threatening her with the terrors of “society,” and 
 winding up with that original phrase of exhortation, “let the dead past bury 
 its dead”—they only had the power to harass and annoy, not to shake her 
 firm resolve. 
 
 And Gerald, you will naturally ask, what of him? Probably he writes to 
 you, possibly his letters are as frolicsome and gay as—the beUs which dance 
 
 GERALD GRAY SWIPE 373 
 
on the top of a fool’s cap. If so, they are perfect exponents of his countenance 
 and manner. It is delightful to see so happy-looking a creature! “His good 
 conscience,” say his friends. Surely “the devil does take care of its own tiU—.” 
 I mean to write a moral tale with that title some day, and Gerald Gray shall 
 be my hero. I used to think once that he mustwAVs. up to the value of what he 
 has thrown away. 
 
 Leprix d’un coeur qui nous comprend; 
 
 Le bien quon trouve a le connaitre 
 
 Et ce quon souffre en leperdant. 
 
 But any such fancy soon melted away before the fact of that cameo profile in 
 its smding calm. He may suffer sometimes, but it would be from indigestion 
 not remorse; and I think he feels—a long run of ill-luck at faro. 
 
 I have never heard that he has made any especial effort to be reconciled to 
 his wife. I am told that he “speaks forgivingly and kindly of her, and never 
 suffers a harsh word against her to pass his lips!” Heaven does not grant me 
 patience, when I am forced to Usten to such speeches as this. (You were 
 always so amused when I exclaimed “Heaven grant me patience!” You said I 
 went so far from my actual condition with my petition,) and certainly among 
 the preposterous, enraging things of this age of simulacres nothing surpasses 
 the humbug of such remarks. Oh! the dehcious satire of Thackeray when he 
 writes, “What more can one say of the Christian charity of man, than that he 
 is actually ready to forgive those who have done him every kindness.” But so 
 it is, and I make no doubt that there are plenty of people who look upon 
 Gerald Gray as a martyr of mildness, because, after having bed to and 
 cheated an unoffending woman—after having gone out of his way with 
 infernal skill to break her heart and ruin her life, he does not sum up his 
 career of successful villainy for has he not still the fortune she gave him?—by 
 abusing her at street corners, or taxing her with infidelity. 
 
 Ruth’s illness was slow in developing itself; it is still slower in leaving her. 
 She is wrecked soul and body—the former, I still fervently trust, will recover 
 its healthy tone, the latter is gone forever. It is pitiable to see her; I am sure 
 you would not recognize her. Her beauty of expression, her clearness of skin, 
 her roundness of proportion, have disappeared. Two great desperate eyes 
 look out on vacancy from a ghostly white face—two poor thin arms are 
 crossed over her sunken chest, and the bony fingers pluck restlessly at her 
 sleeves, or else hang drooping and listless beside ber. This physical change is 
 painful enough to witness, but it sinks into nothingness when one studies the 
 fearful ravages of her grief as shown in the deep lines which furrow a face 
 
 374 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
that one year since, was bright, soft, feminine, and so happy. Do you 
 remember—did you ever notice a certain sunny-sweet look, a kind of earnest 
 radiance with which Ruth used to glance up into the eyes that were, alas! the 
 eyes of her idol? It was, I think, the most beautiful, imploring, confiding, 
 touching, loving look that ever lived under human eye-lids. It pleased me to 
 watch for it, as I would for any perfect thing in nature or art, but several times 
 then I caught myself murmuring, “Little children, keep yourselves from 
 idols.” I often recur to that all-absorbed look when I sit by Ruth now. She 
 seldom speaks—she hardly seems to breathe. Gradually under one pretext or 
 another, she has divested her bedroom of its pretty, coquettish air and there 
 she lives, with bare walls, and a still, solemn tomb-like primness hanging 
 over everything. I always feel on entering, as one does when the extreme 
 hour has passed and he or she lies in the last sleep, while we, with “baited 
 breath” and slow step come in gently and reverently, as if we feared to awaken 
 or disturb the dearly loved whom no earthly sound can now reach. There is 
 the same stillness and hush ever present in Ruth’s room—not the quiet bustle 
 and noiseless movements of a sick-chamber, but the silence which is felt only 
 in the presence of Death. 
 
 Her children seem puzzled about her and half afraid of her. When 
 Geraldine—over coming the first awe which always appears to paralyze them 
 on visiting their mother—when Geraldine begins to speak, and says saucy 
 things with all her wretched father’s careless grace, his merry laugh, and a 
 certain indolent shrug of her plump shoulders, I have seen the unhappy 
 mother shrink from her with a sort of horror; while the little one, startled 
 and half-crying, runs to me for protection. 
 
 Gerald has more of Ruth’s own disposition and I fear may grow into a 
 morose and reserved man, under the sad influence of his home. He has her 
 eyes too, and is less like his father than the girl; and yet, of course it is so, I am 
 sure she loves best the one whose appearance affords her the most constant 
 pang, the keenest dart of memory. 
 
 The only change ever visible on this human mask, is when she sometimes 
 fixes a gaze of agony upon the unconscious baby sitting at her feet, and then 
 perhaps a single tear will roll down the poor wasted cheek. 
 
 Fortunately, their real names are not often mentioned—they have been so 
 long called Mimi and Petit Gros. I would not dare utter the disyllable Gerald 
 before her. Once only has Mr. Gray threatened to remove these children; he 
 was met by a perforce peremptory announcement from Mr. Desborough 
 that Ruth would apply to the law for her protection. The court might decide 
 against her, but the scandal and the exposure he did not care to face. 
 
 GERALDGRAYSWIFE 375 
 
So matters stand, as well as I can see them and read them. Dreary enough 
 they are, and detailed as I have made them, I fear they are not clear. 
 
 How can I describe the desolate look, the weary restlessness, the stony 
 calm of this tortured and stricken woman. No one could thoroughly com¬ 
 prehend it, unless they had in some degree suffered as she suffers. If she 
 would only be angry, or cross, or indignant—be something—\:>\>X she simply 
 seems to have no hfe except a consciousness that—. I was interrupted here by 
 a message from Ruth—a circumstance so rare that I hastened to her, throw¬ 
 ing down my pen in the middle of my sentence and not resuming it till two 
 days after. With a lighter heart, I take it up to teU what has transpired. We 
 are going abroad, to Switzerland for the summer, Italy for next winter. Dr. 
 Meadows orders the change imperatively. I hope many things from it. Ruth 
 was very obstinately opposed to moving and sent for me, trusting, I believe 
 that my unwillingness to quit her would induce me to be on her side—but 
 she argued incorrectly. I offered to accompany her. Perhaps others of us wear 
 shoes more or less tight, and hope to ease the pinching by walking on new 
 roads. 
 
 I told her that I was writing to you; a faint color flushed into her face as she 
 raised her sad eyes to mine. “Give him my—,” she hesitated and added 
 slowly, “tell him I have not forgotten him, and hope that he is well and 
 happy. He is kind and good,” she went on in an undertone. Then turning her 
 head half impatiently, as if forcing herself to speak what she did not wish to 
 utter, “TeU him I valued his letters, although I never answered them. When 
 last he saw me,” and a shiver ran through her wasted limbs, while the flush 
 grew and settled into a dark red spot on each cheek, “I was mad and fierce. 
 My pride and anger must have shocked him by their unbridled expression— 
 it was not sorrow he saw, but frenzy.” I stooped and kissed her without a 
 word; she caught my hand and whispered, “Tell him I wiU try to pray—to 
 forgive my enemies—some day—but not yet—not yet.” 
 
 The flush faded, and a deathly paUor over-spread her face, she fainted in 
 my arms, and was very iU aU that night. Yesterday, she raUied again, and to¬ 
 day she is decidedly better. 
 
 Our preparations have begun. I leave Beauchamp to-morrow to arrange 
 my own affairs—a troublesome business, for we do not know how long our 
 exile wiU last. There are dark mutterings in the political heavens, and some 
 wise people talk with apprehension of “secession” and “civil war.” God avert 
 such calamities! but if the North forces them upon us, we will meet the 
 storm, and quit ourselves like men—like the descendants of those great and 
 glorious spirits who won our first independence. Abolitionism has “waxed 
 
 376 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
fat and kicketh.” “The negro” is found to be as good political capital as any 
 other whim or ism, for unscrupulous demagogues, and I greatly fear that 
 even among those to whom we might naturally turn for wisdom and sound 
 policy should such a crisis arrive, we will discover that there is something 
 stronger to their minds than honesty—something mightier than real patrio¬ 
 tism. To go with the tide is so much easier than to stem it. When madness 
 rages at the North, who will be found to breast the tempest? Assuredly not 
 your admiration, Hon. E.E., of whom one of his and your Boston fellow- 
 citizens wrote me some time since: “You people of the South may think as 
 much as you choose of the ‘Pet of the Ledger,' but I advise you not to trust in 
 him. We don’t. He has no back-bone.” But I hope no such frightful con¬ 
 tingency will arise. Should the South secede, it cannot be but that there will 
 remain enough common sense among our ex-brethren to understand that 
 gunpowder will not cement a Union, nor the bayonet bring about fraternal 
 relations. Meanwhile Mr. Desborough has transferred large sums to En¬ 
 gland and France. He is a very prudent man, and if these United States 
 becomes one vast lunatic asylum, we shall not starve abroad. Recollect, 
 however, that I am intensely Southern; and as you value my good opinion 
 hold yourself aloof from the (truly) “vain doctrine” of coercion. The society 
 of my native State is not congenial to my feelings nor my taste—how should 
 it be? Is there a spot where a fierce crusade could be waged unceasingly 
 against this poor little woman who answers to my name?—but, nevertheless, 
 I am proud of my people as a people, and I will stand up for them to the last 
 hour of my life. I could not understand the existence of a traitor to the soil; 
 and man or woman, born among us, who lifts sword or voice in defense of a 
 dissolved Union, against my, his or her State, I should look upon as a blot, a 
 renegade, a wretch not worth the cord with which I should like to see all 
 such hanged! But I do not believe in the possibility of this winding-up of our 
 model Republic. Separation may take place—war, never! With every confi¬ 
 dence in the folly of the Northern Demos, he can scarcely push it so far as 
 that. Qui vivra verra. 
 
 One word in conclusion now, of your friends in this part of the world. 
 Bettina Denham is married. Mr. Browne is the happy man, and she looks 
 very handsome and perfectly contented—but he has already suppressed the 
 parrot and pronounces Arthur Mclvor to be a dandy, and very uninteresting. 
 Messrs. Taunton and Aubrey are as well dressed and as agreeable as usual. I 
 trust that one of them, at least, will be profoundly overwhelmed by my 
 departure. I am indifferent as to which, but my vanity demands the inconsol¬ 
 able condition of one. Mrs. Fordyce is the proud mother of a son—I can’t find 
 
 GERALD GRAYS WIFE 377 
 
out if it is “the softened image of its sire,” but I presume that it is as yet 
 wigless. 
 
 The fair Cecilia is fairer than ever; but has the trumpet of Fame been 
 silent about her? do you need me to inform you that she has at length 
 rewarded the constancy and courage of Tom Taunton? Even so; a year ago 
 when this business was first whispered in pohte circles, some eyes looked 
 askance on smiling Cissy, and prudent Phyllis brought her powers to bear on 
 matters generally. 
 
 The doors of Castle Clare were virtually and virtuously closed upon their 
 cousin, and much fierce skirmishing took place, I make no doubt, both 
 inside and outside of those respectably painted portals. But Cissy soon dried 
 her tears. In the first place such an innocent young thing (only twenty-six 
 years of age,) could not but feel horrified at meeting a man who was 
 separated from his wife, although necessarily her pure mind could not take in 
 the idea that she had had anything to do with it. Mr. Clare played the role of 
 the “indignant father,” when it leaked out, as such things will, that his 
 hopeful nephew fancied himself in love with Cecilia, and acknowledged to 
 having married Ruth simply for an establishment. I could not help speculat¬ 
 ing as to what would have been his behavior if the news had been followed by 
 Ruth’s death, and the liberty of the afflicted widower to choose her successor; 
 for I am afraid even a divorce would not have been considered a fatal and 
 insuperable divider of these two faithful hearts, in the opinion of that 
 respectable old humbug. 
 
 But Ruth’s grief did not kill her, and divorce was not possible, so Tom 
 Taunton was encouraged and swallowed the bait. To do the bride justice, she 
 looked like a white lily, and had more dimples than I could count, when I 
 saw her in her white and silver finery. She was simpering and giggling with 
 all the intelligence of one of Maelzel’s automata, and from a distance Gerald 
 was watching her, when my eyes intercepted the glance. He had the grace to 
 color slightly and turn away. I did not see him speak to the fair, the 
 inexpressive “she,” who seemed serenely satisfied and deliciously inane. I do 
 not doubt but that she wLU be a very admirable wife. Her feelings could never 
 prey upon her looks, nor interfere with her duties. She was born to marry 
 somebody—she meant to make a good match—she has done very creditably 
 after all, and will settle into a comfortable, well-disposed matron. 
 
 I wish her much happiness and a great many children. 
 
 Mr. Desborough speaks of joining us when we are settled. Dr. Meadows 
 goes with us now. In spite of his sixty years, he has all the vivacity and energy 
 
 378 SUSAN PETIGRU KING 
 
of a youth, and we shall fare admirably under his guidance. Without him, 1 
 should have feared to undertake so responsible a charge. 
 
 Looking back over the many pages of this letter, I am shocked to see their 
 number; but yet if you will consider them as the winding up of a story in 
 which both you and I have been actors, you will acknowledge that it could 
 not have been shorter. It is almost a romance, is it not? the history of this past 
 year, since the day we first met at Beauchamp, until this one, when I am 
 telling you good-bye before quitting my country for an uncertain period. 
 What will be the ultimate fate of the heroine? Neither you nor I can guess. If 
 I dream a future for her, I cannot but reject the solitary life it naturally 
 promises; and in spite of the useless foUy of such retrospection, I think of the 
 only man worthy of her, and sigh because they never met, when meeting 
 might have secured their mutual happiness. How useless indeed! Just be¬ 
 cause they are suited to each other, they never would have found it out. 
 Adieu. In all sincerity. 
 
 Your friend, faithfully, 
 
 Bertha St. Clair 
 
 THE END 
 
 GERALDGRAYSWIFE 379 
 
Jane H. Pease and William H. Pease are Professors Emeriti, 
 University of Maine, and Associates in History at the 
 University of Charleston. They are the co-authors of Black 
 Utopia: Negro Communal Experiments in America; They Who 
 Would Be Free: Black’s Search for Freedom, i8jo-i86i; The Web of 
 Progress: Private Values and Public Styles in Boston and 
 Charleston, 1828-184J, and Ladies, Women, and Wenches: Choice 
 and Constraint in Antebellum Charleston and Boston. 
 
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 
 King, Susan Petigru, 1824-1875. 
 
 [Gerald Gray’s wife] 
 
 Gerald Gray’s wife ; and LUy : a novel / by Susan Petigru King; 
 with an introduction by Jane H. Pease and William H. Pease. 
 Includes bibliographical references. 
 
 ISBN 0-8223-1407-X. — ISBN 0-8223-1411-8 (pbk.) 
 
 1. Women—South Carolina—Charleston—Fiction. 
 
 2. Charleston (S.C.)—Fiction. I. Pease, Jane H. II. Pease, 
 
 WUliam Henry, 1924- . III. Title: Gerald Gray’s wife. 
 
 IV. Title: Lily. 
 
 PS2179.K36G4 1993 
 
 8i 3'.3—dc20 93-15632 cip 
 
DUKE UNIVERSITY 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GAYLORD