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BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
(Leisure Hour Series.)
THE WOOING O'T.
WHICH SHALL IT BE?
RALPH WILTON'S WEIRD.
HER DEAREST FOE.
THE HERITAGE OF LANGDALE.
MAID, WIFE, OR WIDOW?
THE FRERES.
LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP.
THE ADMIRAL'S WARD.
THE EXECUTOR.
A SECOND LIFE.
AT BAY; VALERIE'S FATE.


LEISURE HOUR SERIES.-- No. 172.
AT BAY
A NOVEL : CET
اند نه این اے 224
BY
ا ستان
-MRS. ALEXANDER" Lucae.
AUTHOR OF “THE WOOING O'T," " A SECOND
LIFE,” ETC., ETC.
Hector, Mrs. Annie F., [“Mrs. Alexander,”
pseud.] At bay: a novel ; [also] Valerie's fate..
N. Y., H: Holt & Co., i885. 2+308 p. S.
(Leisure hour ser., no. 172.) cl., $1.
A new departure is taken by Mrs. Alexander in the first
of these two stories. While not entirely deserting the
pleasant scenes of English domestic life she describes so
well, she introduces a new and sensational element in the
person of a man Lambert, an American sharper, with a
shady past and a feigned name, who by some strange chance,
is found in good society in London, with a beautiful, refined
daughter who attracts all eyes. The incidents are all ex-
ceedingly dramatic, the story winding up in a very tragical
style. The characters are unusually well depicted, and the
writing is strong and concise.
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1885


BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
(Leisure Hour Series.)
the wooing o't.
which shall it be?
ralph wilton's weird,
her dearest foe.
THE HERITAGE OJLuyster (A.. L.) .^^^^f^^™^.
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LEISURE HOUR SERIES.-No. 172.
AT BAY
:
A NOVEL
PET
ان اداری با 228
کی ہے۔
نے
-MRS. ALEXANDER" Acezas.
AUTHOR OF “THE WOOING OʻT," "A SECOND
LIFE,” ETC., ETC.
dv O
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1885


112577
KC1240
LIBRARY
OCT 8 1941
AUTHOR'S EDI TION
W. L. MERSHON & Co.,
Printers and Electrotypers,
RAHWAY, N. J.


AT BAY.
CHAPTER I.
STRIKING THE TRAIL.
PARIS on a bright April morning. Can any city
make a brighter, braver show under a clear blue
sky and a brilliant sun, the chestnuts in the Champs
Elysees and Tuileries gardens bursting into bloom,
the flower-market of the Madeleine a mass of color,
exhaling delicious perfume, the fair purchasers in the
first freshness of their spring attire, the tide of busi-
ness and of pleasure at the fullest flood. It is a sight
to fill any heart tolerably free from pressing anxiety
with an irresistible sense of youth.
Though the month was still young, the weather was
warm enough to make open windows an agreeable
addition to the comfort of a pretty little salon in the
entresol of Meurice's hotel, where an elderly lady was
seated at a table on which a dainty dejeuner, and a
couple of bottles, inscribed respectively " Moselle "and
"Pomard," were laid out.
She was not handsome, never could have been hand-
some; her face was broad and strong, with small
twinkling black eyes, and a heavy jaw. Her figure
still showed traces of the symmetry for which she had
been remarkable, and the hand she had stretched out
to take another oyster, was fine both in shape and
color. Her rich black silk dress, the lace of her cap,
the jewels on her fingers, all her surroundings indica-


2
AT BAY.
ted wealth,—her expression, comfortable self-satisfac-
tion.
She finished her oyster with an air of enjoyment,
and then looking at her watch, murmured " he is late"
—as she spoke, the door was opened, and a waiter
announced " M. Glynn."
The visitor was a tall, broad-shouldered man, of
perhaps thirty-five or more, with very dark hair, eyes,
and complexion, well dressed and easy in his bearing
and movements, yet not looking quite like a club, or a
drawing-room man.
"This is not your usual punctuality, Hugh," said
the lady smiling benignly, as she stretched out a wel-
coming hand, "but you make your own punishment!
Time, tide, and vol au vents, wait for no man."
"I have a thousand apologies to make! You may
be sure the delay was unavoidable or I should not have
kept you waiting."
"But I have not waited! Take some oysters—and
then tell me what has kept you, if it is a discreet ques-
tion."
"Perfectly. No oysters, thank you. Do not let me
delay the routine of your dejeune". Just as I was leav-
ing the ' Bourse,' I ran against Deering of Denham,
who insisted on walking almost to the door with me."
"Travers Deering? I did not know he was in Paris.
Is Lady Frances with him?"
"She is, for he honored me with an invitation to
dinner to-morrow, mentioning that Lady Frances would
be very glad to see me. I was engaged, however; I
don't find dining with Travers Deering a cheerful
occupation. Though Lady Frances keeps a brave
front there is a profound sadness in her eyes, or I
fancy there is."
"Fancy! yes; I suspect your fancy is tolerably
vivid still. Now eat your luncheon, and we will talk
presently." She proceeded to press various dainties
on her guest, who ate moderately.
"I don't think you care for good things as much as


AT BAY.
i
1 do," said the hostess, leaning back in her chair;
"I am always vexed with people who don't care what
they eat; it shows deficiency of brain power. Now
tell me,—have you succeeded this morning?"
"Yes," he returned with a smile, as he poured out
another half-glass of Pomard; "I have disposed of
all your Honduras shares, not at par, but at a trifling
decrease. Here," drawing out his pocket-book, "are
bills and notes to the amount of fifteen hundred pounds.
I am glad you are out of the concern, you might have
lost double the amount; pray avoid these foreign
bubble companies in future, none of them are to be
trusted, Lady Gethin,—none that offer high interest
are."
"My dear Hugh, I never will do any thing without
your advice again; I have had a perfect nightmare
about these horrid things. I am no miser, but I hate
to lose money; I am very glad you managed to get
rid of these shares so soon, for I want to go back to
London to-morrow; the rooms I have had altered in
that old house of mine, are ready; I am dying to fur-
nish them."
"Well, you had better post this money to your
bankers, and register your letter, than carry it about
with you."
"Yes, it would be the best plan. Shall you stay
here much longer?"
"Some little time; I have a special mission to
execute for the House, which may keep me a few
weeks."
"Be sure you come and see me directly you return;
and do go and see Lady Frances Deering, she would
be a charming woman if she let herself go. I was
always interested in her. Why can't she get on
with Deering? he is good-looking, well-bred, well
thought of, and not very much older than herself."
"Perhaps she does get on with him," said Glynn.
"I used not to care for Deering," replied Lady
Gethin. "He had a quarrel with a cousin whom I


4
AT BAY.
liked very much, and who was killed afterward, poor
fellow. I have forgotten what the quarrel was
about—a woman I think, and I have an idea Travers
behaved badly; but he is quite an irreproachable
personage now, and monstrously civil to me, espe-
cially since poor dear Sir Peter bequeathed me all his
real and personal property. Then, you know, we are
second cousins, two or three times removed."
"Oh, indeed! Well, he is very civil to me too,
and I am certainly no relation but"
"Aha ! you are dearer than kith or kin," interrupted
Lady Gethin; "you can give him financial tips, and
chances of turning, I won't say an honest penny, but
simple hundreds into splendid thousands by the varied
sources of information you command. Ah! were I a
man, I should like to be a financier, which is ' high-
falutin' for stock broker."
Glynn smiled. "I have had very few business
transactions with Deering, or for him. He is wealthy
enough without help from any one. By the way, he
is more inflammable than I imagined; we were at the
Auteuil races together the day before yesterday, and
when sauntering about we were both struck by a girl
who was in an open carriage with two other ladies;
she was certainly pretty—more than pretty—and
Deering seemed quite fascinated, he could not keep
away. It was not like his usual cool, high-bred indif-
ference to all mundane things, to go back again and
again to stare at the young lady, for you know he is
rather a decent fellow as men go."
"You don't say so !" cried Lady Gethin, with keen
interest. "What would Lady Frances have said?"
"The last time we went to look at the bright par-
ticular star, she and her party had left their carriage,"
continued Glynn. "Deering then seemed to pull
himself together, and to remember he was not alone;
but I could see he was desperately vexed to have lost
sight of her, though he tried to laugh at himself, and
said she was wonderfully like some one he used to


AT HAY.
5
know. I was both surprised and amused by his
maneuvers. I left him before the last race, and I
rather fancy he was going to renew his search for her.'
"Ah!" said Lady Gethin; "no doubt, thereby
hangs a tale."
"Perhaps so. The young lady, however, is very
young—little more than seventeen or eighteen, and
she certainly did not recognize him—nor even notice
him." .
"The wisest have their weak moments," observed
Lady Gethin, with an air of wisdom. "I certainly
have never heard any queer stories about Deering.
Did you see any one else you knew at Auteuil?"
"A few second-rate racing men, and George
Verner."
"Oh, he generally haunts the Deerings when he is
not at sea." After a good deal more talk, partly
business, partly wittily told scandal, Glynn rose to
take leave. "I dine at the Cafe de Florence to-day,
with Captain Methvin and Madame Gauthier; will
you join us?"
"I am unfortunately already engaged ; so must
forego that pleasure," said Glynn.
"I shall see you then as soon as you return to Lon-
don, and be sure you tell me any thing fresh about
the Deerings."
"I don't fancy there will be any exciting esdandre in
that quarter. If the weather continues as fine as it
has been for the last few days, you will have a
pleasant journey. Good morning, Lady Gethin."
When Glynn left the hotel he walked briskly for a
few minutes toward the Louvre, then he gradually
relaxed his pace, as his thoughts disengaged them-
selves from his surroundings, and presented him with
a picture they had frequently mirrored during the
last three days.
After making a few purchases at the bookstalls of
the Palais Royal, he made his way down the Rue St.
Honor£, finally coming to a halt at the crowded cross-


6
AT BAY.
ing opposite the Madeleine, where the contrary cur-
rents coming from the Boulevards, meet the tributary
tide of the Rue Royale. He was in no hurry, it
amused him to see the huge omnibuses disgorging
their contents; to watch eager women with parcels,
and refractory children tightly held by the hand, make
ineffectual dashes at the opposite shore, and come
skurrying back again, baffled, but still resolute. To
observe the little flower-girls plying their trade, and
hear the sharp bargaining between them and their
customers.
Suddenly, however, his eyes brightened; the
expression of a lazy looker-on vanished, and was
replaced by one of keen, vivid interest, as his glance
fell on the original of the picture which had haunted
him since the day of the races at Auteuil. A slight
girlish figure, in a pale gray dress; a mantlet or
scarf, edged with black lace, drawn closely round her;
she was crowned by a pretty little hat, also bordered
with black lace, and adorned with a large bouquet of
primroses and tufts of narrow black velvet ribbon.
Under the hat beamed a pair of thoughtful, earnest,
dark blue eyes—large and lustrous; eyes that none
could pass unnoticed; long lashes; distinct, but
delicate eyebrows; a clear, pale complexion; a sweet
though not very small mouth, and abundant light
golden-brown hair, made up a whole that might have
attracted the attention of even a more " potent, grave,
and reverend Signor " than Travers Deering of Den-
ham.
This was the face and figure that had dwelt in
Hugh Glynn's imagination since he had first seen
them. In any case he must have noticed so fair a
girl; but there was something in the effect she pro-
duced on Deering, that impressed him with a curious
sense of interest and uneasiness.
He had laughed at his own condition of mind, as a
silly after-glow of boyish folly, unworthy his experi-
ence and maturity. Yet there was a wonderful charm


AT BAY.
7
in the soft grace of her quiet movements, and, accus-
tomed as he had been to women who rarely stirred out
unattended, he looked round to ascertain if this deli-
cate, refined creature had no companion, no bonne or
chaperon. No ! she was quite alone. Three times,
while he watched her, she attempted to cross the
street, and three times she returned baffled. Glynn
could not lose such a chance; advancing to her side,
he raised his hat.and said, with grave politeness.
"There is an unusual crowd ; will you allow me to
see you safely to the other side."
She raised her wonderful eyes to his with a slightly
startled, but frank expression.
"Yes," she said simply, in exactly the low clear
tones that might be expected from her. "I shall be
very glad."
"Keep close to me," returned Glynn, and seizing a
lull in the traffic, he piloted her to the pavement in
front of the Madeleine.
"The reason of the strongest is always the best,"
she said, quoting La Fontaine aptly in his own lan-
guage. "I should never have had resolution to seize
that opportunity."
"I think I speak to a countrywoman," remarked
Glynn.
"Yes, I consider myself English. I am very much
obliged. Good morning." This decidedly, though
politely.
Glynn felt himself obliged to relinquish an eagerly-
formed intention of drawing her into conversation. He
could not thrust himself upon a lady, and he felt
strongly disposed to believe that his new acquaintance
was thoroughly a lady, though a knowledge of life in
most European capitals disposed him to suspend his
judgment. He followed her at a little distance as she
threaded her way through the booths which shelter the
flower-sellers and their fragrant wares, till she "reached
one where she was apparently greeted as a regular
customer by its wrinkled owner. Then with a certain


8
AT BAY.
degree of contempt for his own weakness he turned
resolutely away, and walked down the new Boulevard
Malesherbes.
He had not gone far, when his attention was at-
tracted by a figure advancing with a somewhat slouch-
ing gait toward him, a man of scarcely middle height,
but broadly and strongly built, well, though rather
showily, dressed ; his trowsers tight below the knee, and
loose above, his cut-away coat, bright-colored necktie,
and low-crowned hat, had a horsey aspect; a broad
sunburned face, with well-trimmed, but coarse, red
mustaches and hair, a blunt, resolute nose, sharp, light
eyes, the lids puckered, as if from trying to look at
strong sunlight, gave him an air of intense knowing-
ness; all these seemed somewhat familiar to Glynn, as
was also a certain expression of lazy good-nature,
which softened the ruggedness of his aspect.
While Glynn was struggling to answer the question
with which we have all puzzled ourselves at one time
or another—" Where have I seen that face ? ".—its
owner stopped suddenly before him, exclaiming " Mr.
Glynn ! if I am not greatly mistaken ; I hope I see you
well, sir."
The voice and accent, which were peculiar, neither
French, nor English, nor American, though a little of
all, with an undertone of something that was none of
the three, brought back to Glynn, as by magic, certain
passages of his life ten years before,—a big, crowded,
gambling-saloon in the Far West, dim with tobacco
smoke, and hot with gas-lights, reeking with the fumes
of strong drink, and echoing with the din of strange
oaths, suddenly rose from out the caverns of memory,
a confusion of struggling figures, a hand-to-hand con-
flict, the man before him gallantly backing him in a
desperate fight to reach the door.
"Mr. Merrick, I had no idea you were at this side
of the Atlantic!"
"I have been more than once at this side of the
Atlantic since we met last. You know all good Yan-


AT BAY.
9
kees hope to go to Paris not only when they die, but
a considerable few times before that event. I'm right
glad to meet you; and, before going further, I beg to
observe that I have assumed " (he said "ashumed ")
"another name since I had the pleasure of seeing you;
or rather, I have reverted to my original patronymic
which was a deuced deal too good for the raff among
whom we were temporarily ingulfed, to mouth.
Allow me"—with an elegant air he drew forth a note-
book, and presented a card engraved, "Captain Lam-
bert, U. S. C. 27, Rue de L'eveque." "Times have
changed for the better with me, and I am now estab-
lished here permanently."
"Glad to hear it, Captain Lambert," said Glynn,
amused by the rencounter. Then glancingat the card,
"you are no longer on active service?"
"No, in a sense, no. Life is always more or less a
battle ; but for the present the bugles sing truce, and
I am enjoying well-earned rest in the society of my
daughter and only child, to whom I shall be delighted
to introduce an esteemed comrade, if you will allow
me to say so."
"You are very good! I shall be happy to make the
young lady's acquaintance."
"And yourself, sir? I fancy you have been
looking up too, there's an air of success, of solid
respectability, eh? worthy of a churchwarden, about
you!"
"Yes, I may say I am now a sober citizen of famous
London—"
"I believe you, and I am right glad to hear it. I
shall yet salute you as Lord Mayor of London, 'Turn
again, Whittington,' hey? Where do you put up? I'll
call and get you to fix a day to dine with us, but for
the present I must bid you good morning, for I prom-
ised to meet my daughter at the flower-market, and I
never keep her waiting. Eh! by Jove, here she is."
Struck by the sudden joyous lighting up and soften-
ing of his interlocutor's eyes, Glynn turned to see the


to
A 7' BA Y.
cause, and found himself face to face with the beauty
of Auteuil.
Seldom had he been so surprised, and it must be
confessed shocked, as when he saw this charming ideal
creature smile back affectionately to the rowdy-looking
nomad who claimed her as his child, whom he remem-
bered as one of an adventurous gang, ready alike with
dice-box or revolver, barely ten years ago.
"I thought you had forgotten me," she said, slip-
ping her hand through his arm.
"Forgotten you? No, faith! you must blame my
friend here, if I am a trifle late. This is an old
acquaintance, my dear ; we have faced death together
more than once, and a better, pluckier comrade no
man need wish for. Mr. Glynn—Miss Lambert."
Glynn raised his hat with profound respect.
"He has already befriended me," she returned, gaz-
ing at him with a pretty, surprised, bewildered look in
her large eyes. "I should still have been waiting to
cross there at Madeleine, had he not escorted me."
Lambert gave a quick, questioning glance at his
daughter's open smiling face, and then exclaimed, " I
am infinitely obliged to you, sir; infinitely, begad! I
tell you what, Elsie, you mustn't be out so late in the
day by yourself. Why don't you take the bonne with
you, or wait till I come in?"
"Oh, it is such waste of time waiting for a chaperon
on a fine day ; but we shall be too late to secure places
if we delay."
"Yes, we had better be jogging. Can you dine
with us to-day? And we'll have a talk over old times,
and my girl will give us a song or two. Pot luck, my
dear fellow, but you shan't starve."
"Many thanks, I am engaged unfortunately," re-
turned Glynn, half-pleased, half-regretful that he had
a real excuse ready.
"Well, to-morrow then, at six, sharp, and we will go
and hear the new operette at the Comique after."
"You are very good. I shall be most happy," said


AT BAY.
II
Glynn, with an irresistible impulse as if some voice,
not his own, answered for him.
"Well, good-by for the present. By the way,
where do you hang out? What's your hotel? Wa-
gram ?—very good." He swept off his hat in continental
style, and his daughter bestowed a bow and smile
upon Glynn which conveyed to him in some occult
manner the impression that it pleased her to think he
was a friend of her father.
How in the name of all that was contradictory did
he come to have such a daughter? From the crown
of her head to her dainty shoes she looked thoroughly
a gentlewoman. More distinguished than fashiona-
ble in style, and so delightfully tranquil in pose and
manner. "I hate chattering, animated women,"
thought Glynn, with that readiness to condemn every
thing different from the attraction of the moment,
peculiar to the stronger and more logical sex.
It was too dreadful to think of so fair a creature,
who looked the incarnation of a high-toned purity,
being surrounded by a swarm of sharpers—for that
Lambert, alias Merrick, and a dozen other names
probably—could have ever settled down to sober, hon-
est work, seemed impossible.
Glynn dived deep into the recesses of his memory,
recalling all the circumstances of his former acquaint-
ance with Merrick or Lambert, and necessarily review-
ing his own life also.
He had lost his parents in boyhood, but was left
well provided for, and had been carefully educated,
taking a creditable degree at Oxford shortly before
coming of age. Then came a spell of wandering, of
high play, of rage for costly excitement, which, with
a love of speculation, beggared him in a few years.
This climax found him in New York, and for a con-
siderable time he was put to strange shifts to make
out a living, for he would not beg, he was too true a
gentleman to stoop to dishonesty; but he was by no
means ashamed to dig, or to do any work worthy an


12
AT BAY.
honorable man. During his desperate struggle with
fortune he joined an exploring expedition, and found
himself among queer companions in one of those won-
derful improvised far-western towns, which spring up,
mushroom-like, almost in a night, having spent the lit-
tle money he had scraped together in his attempt to
reach it, after the failure and dispersion of the pros-
pecting party he had been induced to join.
On the road he had fallen in with Merrick, whom
he found friendly, helpful, and not without gleams of
good and of decency. So for a week or two they kept
together. Fortune befriended Glynn at the gambling-
tables, till the row occurred with which Merrick was
so inseparably associated, and which arose out of
Glynn's extraordinary run of luck, at which the mixed
company of miners, explorers, desperadoes and ruf-
fians took offense. Finding the place rather too hot
for safety, Glynn and his new friend parted company,
the former making his way to San Francisco, whence
he sailed for Australia, where after various adventures
he was agreeably surprised, by seeing an advertise-
ment in the Times, requesting him to communicate
with a well-known firm of solicitors in London. The
result proved that his uncle, the late Sir Peter Gethin,
had left him a handsome legacy.
The late baronet had been a partner in a great
banking and money-lending house; Glynn elected to
let his capital remain invested in the concern. His
varied experience in speculative communities, his
knowledge of modern languages, and his training gen-
erally, made him a valuable acquisition to the firm,
first as an employe, and after a few years as a junior
partner. He was frequently dispatched to conduct
complicated transactions with foreign houses, to inquire
into the validity of distant schemes, to test the prac-
ticality of proposed undertakings. He had thoroughly
sown his wild oats, and had developed ambition, self-
respect, self-confidence; but, unknown to himself, the
spring of imaginative passion which had been the


AT BAY.
13
cause of all his misfortunes, and most of his pleasure,
was only covered in, not exhausted, and lay there,
ready to bubble up and well over into a strong cur-
rent at the touch of the divining-rod.
Perhaps it was some hidden sympathy arising from
this latent warmth that made him so great a favorite
with his uncle's widow,—a shrewd, worldly, voltairean
woman, well-born and well-bred,—who escaped from
poverty and dependence by accepting the position of
wedded nurse to the aged, gouty, city knight, Sir Peter
Gethin.
It was long since Glynn had been so roused and in-
terested, and the acquaintances on whom he called that
afternoon, found him unusually animated and agree-
able. All through a somewhat solemn dinner at the
house of a great French banker, he was buoyed up by
the prospect of the different kind of festivity which
awaited him next day. There was something curiously
stimulating in this encounter with his old Californian
acquaintance thus swept into such incongruous sur-
roundings by the eddying current, life's stream. How
did he come to have such a daughter? What matter!
enough that there would be so charming an in-
gredient in the morrow's pleasure. As for his own
prudence, self-control, worldly wisdom—it never
crossed his mind to doubt them. He would pose as a
calm spectator, study the puzzle offered to his obser-
vation, and if necessary let Merrick or Lambert know
the exact position of Deering should he ever cross
their path.
The weather was still calm, bright, warm, when,
having drawn a light paletot over his even dress,
Glynn left his hotel, preferring to walk as he was in
good time for dinner. At the corner of the Rue Cas-
tiglione he met Deering, who was coming leisurely
from the opposite direction; they stopped to exchange a
few words, and then Deering exclaimed, looking at
his watch, "I did not know it' was so late; I am
to do duty, and escort my wife and her sister to


14
AT BAY.
the Opera Comique to-night, au revoir," and they
parted.
"The Opera Comique," muttered Glynn, with a
strong feeling of annoyance. "He will see his Auteuil
attraction, and recognize me in attendance. The
presence of such a father, too, will dispose him to
believe it's a case of fair game; but, after all, I have no
right to think ill of Deering. There is a curious sort
of fate about the whole affair. I am a fool to worry
myself. I will try to enjoy the passing hour, and let
omens and auguries alone."
On reaching his destination Glynn mounted to the
third Mage, and was admitted by a neat black-eyed
bonne, to a dimly-lighted little vestibule, containing
some oak-chairs and a small orange-tree in blossom,
the perfume of which was almost overpowering.
"Enter then, monsieur," said the servant, throwing
open one of several doors on either side, and Glynn
found himself in a pretty pleasant salon and the
presence of Miss Lambert; who, somewhat to his
surprise, was in outdoor dress.
"My father will be here directly," she said, giving
him her hand. "He has gone to fetch our friends,
Madame and Mademoiselle Davilliers, for we have
changed our plans; not being able to secure places at
the Comique for to-night, we propose to drive through
the bois and dine at the Cafe de Madrid. I hope this
will be agreeable to you?"
"Any arrangement you make will be most agreeable
to me !" said Glynn, indescribably relieved to find
himself and her delivered from the possibilities of an
encounter with Deering, and charmed with the unpre-
tending refinement of her surroundings. The room
was well but simply furnished, and innocent of the
flashy finery which might have been looked for in an
apartment where Lambert was master. Some small but
good water-colors enlivened the walls, which were of a
neutral tint ; an open piano loaded with music; the
stove converted into a stand for flowers; the furniture


A T BA Y.
of carved oak and green velvet; a small basket work-
table, overflowing with bright-colored wools and silk,
some fine old china on the mantle-shelf; a vase or two
on corner-brackets, formed a pleasant picture of com-
fort and occupation.
"You know the Cafe de Madrid, of course?" said
Miss Lambert, when Glynn had taken a seat, as she
put her music together and closed the piano.
"Yes, I know it well; it is a capital place to dine
at."
"On such a fine evening it is delightful to be among
the trees, they are quite green already, and there is a
charming walk down the river. We must try and
persuade Madame Davilliers and the dear father to
walk; do you mind walking after dinner?" She sat
down suddenly while she spoke and looked straight at
him gravely, as if it were a question of the last import-
ance. "Does she think me an old fogey ?" thought
Glynn, and answered with a smile, "I have not yet
reached that period of life when repose after eating is
essential."
"No," still considering him gravely, "you are much
younger than my father. When he spoke of you as a
comrade I thought you must be about the same age.
Is it long since you met?"
"Quite ten years."
"That is a long time. But my father is always
young—I sometimes think he is younger than I am—
nothing depresses him, he is so full of resource; and
enjoys as if he were but five-and-twenty."
"Yes; I was always struck with his remarkable
readiness. Do you remember America?"
"America? I never was in America. I was born
in Australia, but my father Ah! here he is,"
looking out of the window as a carriage was heard to
stop. She took up her gloves, which were lying beside
her sunshade, and began to put them on. In another
moment the door opened to admit Lambert, who came
in with an expression of radiant satisfaction,


i6
AT BAY.
"Glynn, my fine fellow! I am delighted to see
you. Has my daughter • told you we have changed
our plans, and substituted a little dinner at the Madrid
instead of baking ourselves at the Comique? all right,
come along; Madame Davilliers and 'Toinette are
waiting for us below; they have brought the cousin,
young Henri Le Clerc, Elsie, and who should I stum-
ble on just at the corner of the Rue d'Aguesseau, but
Vincent, going to dine all alone by himself; so I made
him jump up on the box. We'll be a nice little party;
you ladies will have a cavalier apiece, and one to spare,
that's myself; I am only a super now-a-days; don't
forget a wrap for coming home." Elsie locked the
drawer of an ornamental bureau, put the key in her
pocket, and declared herself ready; and Lambert led
the way down stairs. Arrived at the entrance, Glynn
was duly presented to Madame and Mademoiselle
Davilliers, in whom he recognized the ladies who were
with Miss Lambert at Auteuil; they smiled and bowed
most graciously, expressing their delight at M. Lam-
bert's change of plans in rather shrill-toned raptures.
After a little confusion it was settled that Mr. Vincent,
a very elaborately got -up continentalized American,
with fair hair, mustaches, and complexion, and rather
sleepy pale blue eyes, should escort Madame Davilliers
and her daughter. While Miss Lambert, her father,
Glynn, and young Le Clerc, a good-looking boy in the
polytechnique uniform, should occupy another open
carriage.
Glynn fancied he observed an expression of decided
relief in Elsie's face as Vincent took the seat assigned
him, and she gave her hand to her father, who assisted
her with careful politeness to her place; it was absurd
to feel pleased by so trifling an indication—yet Glynn
did feel pleased.
The drive along the beautiful Champs Elysees, and
the Avenue de l'lmperatrice, as the approach to the
bois was then called, is exhilarating,—especially when
seated opposite an exceedingly pretty woman, whose


AT BAY.
prettiness possesses a peculiar charm for your own
individual taste, and with whom for some occult
reason you feel in sympathy. Away past the marionette
shows, and Punch and Judys, the well-kept gardens
and fountains, the mansions all sheltered from the
heat by their closed Jalousies ; at the further end, round
the wide sweep which encircles the Arc de Triomphe,
and on past splendid equipages returning from the
afternoon drive up and down Long Champs, their
occupants brilliant in exquisite toilets; on down the
Empress' Avenue, soon to be rechristened under a new
order of things. Glynn could not help a keen sense
of amusement as he compared the present condition of
the man opposite him to his former state ; and the
wonder grew and grew, as to how such a girl as
Miss Lambert came to be his daughter. The embryo
artillery officer (such was Le Clerc's destination) chat-
tered gayly, and was well seconded by his host, whose
French, though fluent and amusing, was not distin-
guished by grammatical correctness, or purity of accent.
His daughter said little, but that little showed she
could express herself pointedly. Moreover, she looked
so frankly and confidingly at Glynn that he felt as if
she accepted him, stranger though he was, as an
hereditary friend. He had to exercise some self-
control to keep his eyes from saying too plainly how
charming he thought her. "•
The gardens of the Chateau de Madrid were gay
and fragrant with lilac and laburnum, mignonette, and
jonquils.
Lambert who loved to do things in a princely fashion
had written to secure a private room and dinner. The
party was therefore received with great politeness and
attention.
The young ladies betook themselves to the garden,
followed by the gentlemen except Lambert, who went
in-doors with madame to order the wines. They were
soon summoned to table, but in the short interval,
Glynn observed that Vincent made a decided attempt


18
AT BAY.
to separate Miss Lambert from her companions, an
attempt which she frustrated with calm, resolute
politeness, remarkable in so young a girl. The dinner
was excellent, the company animated, pleased with
themselves and each other, perhaps slightly noisy.
Madame Davilliers talked well if she also talked a
good deal. Lambert occasionally, often unconsciously,
said good things, and told a story with point and
humor. Vincent devoted himself to madame. Young
Le Clerc to his cousin and Miss Lambert. Glynn was
for some time an observant listener, more and more
amused and puzzled at the incongruity of the whole
affair, and gathering from the conversation that Made-
moiselle Antoinette Davilliers had been Miss Lambert's
dearest friend at the convent school, where they had
spent nearly six years together; that the papa Davil-
liers held some government employment, and that
Vincent was the agent for a New York commercial
house. Lambert's own occupation seemed very indef-
inite. He talked of having been connected with the
press, of having had business interviews with various
artistes, of writing himself on sporting matters. The
symposium was prolonged, and when it was over,
Glynn, observing a piano in a corner of their dining-
room, asked Miss Lambert if she remembered her
father's promise, that she should sing?
"Yes," smiling. "But, it was his promise, not
mine."
"Ah! my darlin'," cried Lambert, overhearing.
"You'll not dishonor your father's draft on your
musical bank!"
"No. I will sing with- pleasure by-and-by, Antoi-
nette will begin."
"And an uncommon sweet little pipe she has of her
own. Mademoiselle is always gracious—and ready to
give pleasure! Open the instrument, Elsie ; I hope it
isn't an instrument of torture."
"It might be much worse," she returned, when she
had played a few chords. "Come, Antoinette," she said,


AT BAY.
as she began an accompaniment, and Mademoiselle
Davilliers, a neat little blonde with a saucy " tip-tilted"
nose, and a pretty toilet of the latest fashion, went over
to the piano, and in a sweet, slightly shrill soprano pro-
ceeded to request some ideal Jeannette to look into the
well, that the reflection of her blue eyes might gladden
the singer. She sang with much piquant expression
and was loudly applauded.
"I think I should prefer looking into the blue eyes
themselves, to searching for a cold reflection," said
Glynn, who had placed himself at the end of the
piano, so as to see the faces of the singers.
"It would be far better," returned Miss Lambert;
"realities are always best."
"Now, Elsie; we are waiting for you," cried her
father. Her reply was to strike a few chords, and
begin a sweet, wild, plaintive air with Italian words.
Her voice was peculiarly rich and sympathetic; its
lower notes were especially fine; she had been
thoroughly well taught, and had besides a degree of
natural expression that sent her tones right to the
heart of her hearers.
"This is indeed music," said Glynn, in a low voice
when she ceased. "Do you feel something of the
delight you give?"
"Do I give you delight? You look as if you liked
my singing,—I am glad."
"It is heaven to listen to you," he exclaimed, almost
in spite of himself. "Your song is quite unknown to
me."
"It is a Polish air arranged by my music-master for
some Italian words. He is Italian."
"I feel as if I were unworthy to ask for another
song," said Glynn, after a short pause.
"Why? I will sing as much as you like; I
can always sing well for those who like my singing,"
and again her deft fingers strayed over the notes,
till they seemed to fall of their own accord into an
undulating accompaniment to which she sang a bar-


20
AT BAY.
carolle—brilliant, playful, but with an undertone of
sadness.
"She can sing a bit, can't she?" asked Lambert,
approaching with exultant looks. "Why, sir, she'd
create afureur, a regular fureur; she'd pick up gold
for the asking, ay, in hatsful, if she'd go on the stage;
fancy her in the ' Trovatore,' or, 'The Figlia ' or
'Martha !'—give us' The Last Rose of Summer,' my
heart;—why, she'd bring down any house ; and the
obstinate little sinner refuses point-blank to appear on
the boards, says it would kill her. Faith, it is a right
royal way to keep life in one, and the devil out of one's
pocket; by Jove, she would hold her own with the
best, when she has a father that can crack a walnut at
fifty paces, and wouldn't mind if it were a skull in a
good cause!"
"Ah, no! the stage would be a miserable failure for
me. You do not take temperament into' account,"
said Miss Lambert, with a sigh, and then stopped the
conversation by trilling out the exquisite air for
which Lambert had asked.
"Now," said the singer, when she had finished,
rising from her seat, "you must do what I ask, dear
father; I want to walk to the river."
"It's a good step," said Lambert; " and it isn't civil
to leave your company."
"But they will come with me. Will you not,
Madame Davilliers ? and you, Antoinette,—you will I
am sure?" raising her eyes with a confiding glance to
Glynn's.
"I shall enjoy a stroll immensely," he replied.
Madame, however, preferred to remain where she was,
and Vincent offered to stay and play a game of piquet
with her to pass away the time.
Evening was fast closing in when they started on
their ramble, and the falling dew drew out delicious
odors from grass, and flowers, and shrubs, as they
proceeded along the avenue which, skirting the bot's,
led to the river-side. It was longer than Miss Lam-


AT BAY.
91
bert thought, and the moon had risen before they
reached the Seine. At first they had kept altogether,
but gradually Glynn contrived to separate himself and
Miss Lambert from the rest. "And so you had not
courage enough for the stage," he said, after a short
pause in their conversation.
"No ; I suppose it is want of courage that holds
me back—a sort of constitutional dislike to such a
calling. Though I greatly admire actresses and
singers, I could not be one. I love quietness, stillness,
—being with a few people I like."
"Then you can not like Paris?"
"Oh, yes! I am very happy here. I enjoy music
and pictures, and my father gives me everything I can
want or wish. I am a most fortunate girl, but—"
"There are 'buts 'in every life," said Glynn, as she
paused. He wanted her to speak on.
"There is scarcely a ' but' in mine. I was going
to say that I seem to want a few months in the coun-
try every year to make life complete."
"Have you been accustomed to the country,
then?"
"Yes. When we came first from Australia I was
rather delicate, and I used to live with the kind
woman who took care of me after my mother's death
at her brother's farm in a beautiful country on the
borders of Wales. It was a delightful place. Then
when I was about twelve my father thought I ought to
learn something, and he put me to school in the con-
vent. I have never been in England since; still I
always fancy I am English."
"And I feel as if you were ; but Mr. Lambert is
American?"
"Not by birth. Tell me, did you know my father
very well long ago?"
"Yes; that is, we ran some risks together. Why
do you ask?"
"Because you are so unlike all his other friends."
"Indeed! Am I too English?"


22
AT BAY.
"No; I can not exactly say what the difference is,
but it is very great."
Somehow these few simple words elated Glynn as
though they contained the highest compliment. He
restrained the reply which sprang to his lips, and
changed the subject by exclaiming, "There is the
river; how fine it looks in the moonlight."
"Yes, there is real harmony there."
"You are right, Elsie," exclaimed her father. "It
gives one the feeling of being in church when the
organ is playing."
"And you and your delightful singing give me the
feeling of silvery light upon a still smooth lake," said
Glynn, in a low tone to his companion. "You will be
forever associated in my memory with moonlight and
music."
Elsie smiled a thoughtful smile.
"I am not sure that such an association of ideas is
a good omen. There is something mournful and
mystic in the moon."
"I could never bring any thing but good to you,"
whispered Glynn, who was strangely stirred by the
charm of his companion, the beauty of the scene, the
curious fatality which had brought him into contact
with Lambert after having lost sight of him for so
many years.
"Dieu!" cried Mademoiselle Davilliers, "I am
expiring with fatigue, and I have all that long way to
walk back!"
"Not at all, my dear young lady," said Lambert,
with a superior air. "I made a few inquiries before
we started, and told them to send on one of the car-
riages after us. There, I think I hear it coming."
The drive back was a fitting end to a delightful day.
Glynn secured a seat next Elsie, and though neither
of them spoke many words, he at least felt that the
electric communication of unuttered sympathy was
complete and sufficient.
"Thank you for a delightful day, Mr. Lambert."


AT BAY.
"My dear boy "—it had been "my dear sir" the
day before—" it is a real pleasure to meet you. Look
in on us now and again. I ani sure my daughter will
be delighted. Elsie! Where is she?"
"Miss Lambert is rather tired; I think she has
gone in. Good night,—thanks, I have a cigar."


CHAPTER II.
PLAYING WITH FIRE.
WHEN Glynn woke next morning to broad day,
the noise of the busy street, and the conscious-
ness of an early business appointment, last night, with
its music and moonlight, seemed to l]im dream-like
and unreal. It was all very pleasant while it lasted,
but in a few days he would quit Paris, and probably
never see Lambert or that wonderfully charming
daughter of his again. What would be the destiny of
such a woman so placed? Not happiness, he feared,
if she were all she seemed. Yet how devoted that
queer fish Lambert was to her. So far as he could
take care of her he would; but what perceptions could
he have of what was right and suitable for a delicate,
sensitive girl!
However, Glynn had other things to think of just
then, and soon hastened away to hold high council on
money matters with a sharp but soft-spoken German
Jew, whose oiliness had not a soothing effect on the
cool, clear-sighted Englishman.
Business hours are earlier in Paris than in London.
Glynn found himself on the Boulevard des Italiens,
and free, while it was still early enough to pay a visit.
With a vague curiosity, arising from very mixed
motives, he directed his steps to the hotel where Mr.
and Lady Frances Deering lodged, and found that
lady at tea with her son,—a pale, delicate, deformed
boy,—and a gentleman of middle height, with a frank,
sunburned face, and a certain easy looseness about his
well-made clothes.
"You are just in time for tea, Mr. Glynn," said


AT BAY,
Lady Frances, in a soft but monotonous voice. "Do
you know my cousin, Captain Verner?"
Yes, the gentlemen had met before, and they ex-
changed a few civil words.
"Is this your first visit to Paris?" asked Glynn,
kindly, as he drew his chair beside the sofa on which
the boy was lying.
"Yes, the very first."
"And how do you like it?"
"Oh, so much! It is so beautiful and bright. I
should like to stay here always."
"Bertie is much better and stronger since we came
here, which partly accounts for his wish to stay," said
his mother, with a slight sigh.
"I wish I could take you to sea, my boy," cried
Captain Verner; "a cruise with me would make you
all right."
Lady Frances turned her pale eyes on the speaker,
and Glynn noticed that they darkened with a look of
intense pain, only for an instant, while she said with
her usual composure, " I have no doubt that Herbert
will be quite fortified by Dr. Lemaire's treatment.
Then the summer is before him, and he will have gath-
ered strength before winter. Winter is very severe
and dreary at Denham."
"You should winter at Palermo," observed Glynn.
"It is a delightful spot—a sort of place to make you
forget troubles."
"I wish you would," said Verner earnestly.
"Say could," returned Lady Frances, and she rose
to ring the bell.
She was very tall and slight, exceedingly dignified
and deliberate in her movements, and would have been
rather handsome but for her extreme stillness, coldness,
and want of color. A pale blonde sounds like insi-
pidity, but Lady Frances was not insipid; she was a
great lady to the tips of her fingers, yet simple in dress
and manner to a degree that bewildered those gor-
geous dames, the wives of her husband's wealthier


26
A T y.
constituents, on the rare occasions when they were
admitted within the sacred portals of Denham
Castle.
"Why are you hurrying away to London?" asked
Verner. "There is nothing to call Deering back, as
he has lost his seat." ,;
"He is not happy out of club-land I suppose," said
Lady Frances, sitting down beside her son. "I must
say I am very sorry he lost the election. He deserved
better at the hands of the Denham men, but it was the
radical mining people that turned him out."
"Do you leave soon ?" asked Glynn.
"On Thursday; I suppose you will not come back
quite so soon? You are fond of Paris, I think?"
"My movements are rather uncertain; I may go on
to Berlin."
"I wish you would come as far as Genoa with me,"
cried Verner. "I am just appointed to the ' Africa,'
on the Mediterranean station. I hate traveling alone.
Poor Dennison who commanded her died of a few
days' fever off the coast of Calabria,—caught it shoot-
ing in some marshes, and—"
The entrance of Deering interrupted him.
"How do, Glynn. You still here, Verner?" He
took no notice of Lady Frances or his son.
"Yes, I want to see the review to-morrow, and will
start by the Lyons train at night," said Verner, in an
apologetic tone.
Deering threw himself into an easy-chair, exclaim-
ing, " It is getting insufferably hot here. Could you
manage to start on Tuesday night instead of Thurs-
day morning ? "—to his wife.
"I should think so."
"Then pray make your arrangements. I say,
Glynn, things look very shaky in Spain. There will
be a tremendous fall in Spanish bonds."
"They will recover, if one can hold on. In fact, if
a fellow can afford to wait, it would not be a bad plan
to buy now," returned Glynn,


AT BAY.
Here Deering's valet brought his master some
brandy-and-soda, with a due amount of ice, a refresh-
ment which both Verner and Glynn declined.
Travers Deering was tall, but not so tall as Glynn,
more conventionally distinguished-looking, with regu-
lar aristocratic features, steel-gray eyes, and nut-brown
hair and mustaches. He was, on the whole, a popu-
lar man, and bestowed a good deal of carefully veiled
cultivation on his popularity. He was considered
rather the type of a proud, manly, English country
gentleman of a fairly clean life, though no saint, and
a little martyrized by being tied to so cold and im-
penetrable a wife. Servants, and insignificant people
of that description, whispered that the steel-gray eyes
could flash with baleful fire, and that Lady Frances
had grown colder and stiller since the deformity and
delicacy of her only child had become perceptible and
hopeless; while Mr. Deering never staid at Denham
alone with her.
Glynn was conscious of an unaccountable sense of
relief when Deering expressed a desire to quit Paris,
even sooner than he had at first intended.
It was absurd to imagine that any evil could arise
out of a mere passing admiration, it could be nothing
more, for a handsome stranger. Yet the expression
of Deering's eyes, the uneasiness, wonder, fire, all
commingled, which had so impressed him, flashed
back vividly across his memory with undiminished
disturbing force. But Deering was talking.
"I have been round Count de Latour's stables this
morning. Have you seen them, Glynn? They are
worth a visit. His stud-groom and head men are all
English. I am very much inclined to back his chest-
nut, 'Bar-le-duc,' for the Derby. He's a splendid
horse, only, of course, it isn't always blood or breeding
that wins. There were a couple of Americans looking
through the stables at the same time, who seemed
deucedly wide awake, and inclined to back both ' Bar-
le-duc' and a filly, ' Etoile d'Auvergne,' about which


28-
AT BAY.
I am not so sure. I have met one of them, Vander-
voort, in London; do you know him?"
Glynn said he thought he did. The talk became,
for a few minutes, of the turf—turfy. And while it
went on the boy rose, and followed by his mother, who
covered his retreat, noiselessly left the room. Glynn,
looking at Deering at this moment, caught an expres-
sion of malignant dislike in his eyes toward his de-
formed son, or his wife, or both, which surprised and
revolted him. It was instantaneous, and he continued
to talk lightly and pleasantly, till Glynn rose to bid
Lady Frances good morning.
Verner left the room at the same time, and the two
men walked toward the Place de la Concorde together.
"Pity that poor boy is a cripple," said Glynn, speak-
ing out of his thoughts. "I fancy Deering is a good
deal cut up about it."
"I don't know about Deering, nor do I care much,"
returned Captain Verner, bluntly; "but it has been a
desperate grief to the mother. Why, when we were
children together—ay, and after—Lady Frances was
the life of us all. I never saw a girl with so much go
in her; and now! "—he broke off expressively. "How-
ever, no one can help her," he added, after a moment;
and then quickly turning the subject, began to talk of
French politics, till they reached the corner of the
Champs Elysees, where they paused to see the Empress
drive by. There Verner turned back to keep an en-
gagement, and Glynn strolled on slowly to his hotel,
resolutely resisting a strong temptation to call and
inquire for Miss Lambert. Indeed, with the help of a
good deal of letter-writing and interviews with sundry
personages of financial importance, Glynn contrived
to keep his mind free from imaginative pictures and
irresistible suggestions. He was not going to make a
fool of himself, or of any one else, either; he was too
old and experienced to be carried away by a romantic
encounter, or the liquid loveliness of a pair of lustrous,
dreamy, dark-blue eyes. "What eyes they are!" he


AT BAY.
29
thought, as he sat at his second dejeune", on Sunday
morning, three whole days since he had enjoyed the
hospitality of his quondam comrade of the Californian
episode. "Mere civility demands that I should call.
I think I have been under fire often enough to stand
this last fusillade without flinching; besides, the whole
thing is deucedly curious." So after looking in at
Gaglinane's, ?iid reading the English papers, Glynn
found himstif on his way to the Rue de L'Eveque.
The perfume of orange-blossoms which came forth
from the opening door greeted him like the prelude of
delight, so vividly did it remind him of the pleasant
hours to which his first visit was an introduction.
"Yes, monsieur was at home, and mademoiselle
also," and the servant, opening a different door from
that through which she had ushered him on the former
occasion, spoke to some one within, and immediately
Lambert himself, in a gorgeous dressing-gown, a fez
on his head, and a cigarette in his mouth, came forth
to greet him.
"Glynn, come along into my den here. I thought
you had left for some other diggings. I was going to
look you up to-day. I've not had a moment I could
call my own since we parted!" While he spoke he
ushered his visitor into a small, very small room, con-
taining a large knee-hole table loaded with letters,
newspapers, small account-books, and all appliances
for writing, and two very comfortable circular-chairs.
These articles of furniture scarcely left room to move.
A looking-glass, surmounted by a couple of revolvers,
completed the decorations. A dim light was admitted
by a long narrow stained-glass window; and a second
door, which stood open, led into a comfortably furnished
dining-room.
"This is my Cabinet de travaille" said Lambert,
wheeling round one of the chairs; "and I am just
taking an hour or two from the Sabbath to clear up
some little arrears of work. Where have you been all
these days?"


3°
AT BAY.
"Very busy, or I should have paid my respects to
you and Miss Lambert sooner."
"To be sure, to be sure, you are in business your-
self. Any thing in the book-making way? I think I
remember you had a fair notion as to the value of a
horse."
"No; mine is a more sober system of gambling."
"Aha! the share market! I could give you a hint
or two about that new steamship company they are
getting up in Hamburg."
"Thank you, my hands are pretty full already."
After a little further conversation on financial and
sporting topics while Lambert was putting his papers
together with some degree of rough order, he pro-
posed to join his daughter.
"She was out to mass with her friends the Davilliers,
and had breakfast with them; I have scarcely seen her
this morning." So saying, he rose and led Glynn
through the dining-room to an arched doorway, across
which a curtain of rich dark stuff was drawn, and lift-
ing it cried, "Are you there, my jewel? I have
brought Mr. Glynn to see you."
"Come in," said a voice ; and as he entered Glynn
saw Miss Lambert advancing from an open window to
meet him.
The room into which he had been ushered was
small, though larger than the minute apartment Lam-
bert had appropriated. It was prettily and lightly
decorated, the hangings and chair, covers being of
chintz, bouquets of roses tied with blue ribbon on a
cream ground, and had one large window opening on a
balcony full of flowers, which overhung a garden
belonging to a large hotel in a street behind. There
were books and needle-work, a writing-table, and a
sewing-machine about, and it was evidently Miss Lam-
bert's private sitting-room. A stout, elderly woman in
black, with a lace cap and a large apron, who looked
more than a servant and less than a lady, rose as they
entered, and was about to leave the room, when Lam-


AT BAY.
3*
bert exclaimed in his hearty manner and rather pecu-
liar French, " How goes it, Madame Weber? I hope
your cold is better; a summer cold is worse than any
other, for it's out of season."
Madame thanked monsieur, reported herself nearly
quite well, and vanished.
"I thought you had left Paris, at least my father
did," said Elsie Lambert, giving Glynn one hand,
while the other held an open book—a shabby, well-
thumbed book.
"I should not have left without calling to say good-
by, to thank you again for your delightful songs," re-
turned Glynn.
She smiled. "Will you sit down, or shall we go into
the salon, this is such a tiny place?"
"Oh, we are snug enough here. And how are you,
my dear? you haven't said 'good morning' to your
old father yet."
"My old father !" leaning her head against him for
an instant, with inexpressible loving grace; "why, he
is younger than I am, Mr. Glynn. When I have been
brooding over my book or work I always feel as if
some bright, pleasant playfellow had come to rouse
me when my father walks in." %
"Thar !" said Lambert, looking over with infinite
pride and a queer expressive nod and toss of the head
to Glynn, as if to say, " W hat do you think of your old
fighting, gaming, hand-to-mouth comrade now ?" "It's
not every old cuss that can find a nice young lady to
say as much for him, hey ?" he said aloud.
"I quite understand it," returned Glynn, smiling,
his eyes full of tender admiration. What a curious
puzzle the whole thing was. How had Lambert alias
Merrick, or Merrick alias Lambert, found the funds to
keep up this establishment, which, modest as it was,
must cost six or seven hundred a-year? Honestly,
he hoped, though from certain dimly remembered
traits he feared the lively, boyish Lambert was not the
most scrupulous of men. Still, regard for so sweet,


32
AT BAY.
so refined a daughter must, ought to keep him
straight.
"What are you going to do with yourself, Elsie,
this damp, drizzling afternoon? you can't go out."
"Oh yes, I can; I was just asking Madame Weber
if she felt well enough to come with me to the salon;
one can find all weathers in the pictures."
"A good idea, faith. Will you come with us, Glynn?
for I'll be your escort myself, Elsie. Just let me get
into my coat and boots, and I'll be with you in a
twinkling."
"Yes, do come, that will be delightful. And you
too, Mr. Glynn?"
"With infinite pleasure."
"Then I'll make my toilet before you'd say Jack
Robinson," cried Lambert, as he left the room.
"You are fond of reading, Miss Lambert?" asked
Glynn.
"Yes, very fond; and this is such a delight-
ful English book. I like it much better than French
poetry."
"May I see?"
"Certainly," handing it to him.
"Ah, ' The Ladyr of the Lake,' that is a very old
friend; I thought modern young ladies had left such
childish productions far behind."
"Childish! what can you mean? Why, it is so clear
and vivid; I almost feel the mountain air as 1 read;
and that combat between Fitz-James and Roderick,
only a man could have written that!"
"I must read it again," said Glynn, half to himself,
as he turned over the pages; "I have not seen it
since I was a boy."
"Then you read too? that also is unlike my father's
other friends."
"I am afraid your father's friends do not stand very-
high in your estimation; I earnestly hope I may find
more favor."
"I think I shall like you, "—softly—gravely, and


AT BAY.
33
without a tinge of coquetry, looking at him while she
spoke.
He could not have answered her lightly, even had
he been inclined ; there was something imposing in
her straightforward simplicity, and he replied, in the
same tone: "I hope you will try to like me. You
have not read many English books perhaps?"
"Very few books of any kind, and those chiefly
since I left school. It is a great delight, but I read
very slowly ; indeed I am slow about every thing, not
that I enjoy the less."
"I am sure you learned music quickly."
"I can always pick up airs, and even long pieces,
by ear, but I do not think I learned by note quickly."
"Tell me," asked Glynn, moved by a sudden im-
pulse, " did you enjoy the races last Sunday at Auteuil?
I should not imagine racing an amusement suited to
you."
"But I was amused; the crowd and the bright-
ness made a pleasant picture." Then with a sudden
recollection, " But how do you know I was at the
races; they were long ago, before I knew you?"
A strange thrill of triumph shivered through Glynn's
veins at this implied admission that her acquaintance
with him was an event to date from.
"I saw you there, and I feared you might have seen
me, for I was with a man who gazed at you almost
rudely, because you reminded him of some one, and I
did not wish you to associate me with him in your
mind."
"Was he a tall, haughty-looking man, very English,
and rather distingue?"
"Yes."
"Then I did see him, but not with you; it was just
before we came away. He walked up to the carriage,
and looked into my face. I felt frightened. Why did
he do it? Of whom did I remind him? some one he
did not like, I am sure."
"That I can not tell," said Glynn thoughtfully,


34
AT BAY.
while he remembered that Deering had no doubt re-
turned to gaze once more at the face which had so
fascinated him.
"Do you know the gentleman well? Is he—good,
I mean kind, or hard and cruel? He filled me with
a strange fear; but I did not mention it to my father,
because he is so fond, so anxious about me."
"Now then, go put on your bonnet, my darlin';
the sun is trying to come out. We'll take a fiacre, and
have a good look at the pictures," cried Lambert,
breaking in on their discourse.
Elsie was soon ready, and a few hours of simple,
pure, but thorough enjoyment ensued. Lambert
candidly avowing his indifference to art generally,
secured a comfortable seat, and produced a couple of
newspapers from his pocket. To these he devoted
his attention, telling his daughter he would await her
pleasure.
So Glynn was practically alone with Elsie. He
found a new experience in her genuine, though uncul-
tured appreciation of the paintings, in the complete
unaffected reality of her manner, the honesty of her
crude opinions. Then when she found he had seen
many galleries, and knew something of art, the interest
with which she listened to him was flattering and
amusing; not that she was ready to accept his dictum
unquestioned, she tried most assertions by the test of
her own common sense.
The restful charm of her gentle composure, while it
enchanted her companion conveyed an impression of
latent strength which unconsciously piqued him into
an irresistible desire to exert an influence, a disturb-
ing influence over her. He was growing conscious
that at the first sign of discomposure, the first flutter-
ing hesitation in her look or voice, his firmness, pru-
dence, good resolutions would go by the board. For
the present, however, all was safe; he might as well
enjoy himself, in another week he would probably be
far away, and might never see his queer Californian


AT BAY.
35
comrade or his lovely daughter again. Never? Well,
he was not so sure about that. Meantime the severest
chaperon could not find cause to cavil at any of his
words or looks; he was calmly agreeable, and put
forth his best powers of conversation, his memories of
art, of other lands, of all that could lay hold of his
companion's imagination, with intuitive skill.
"Have I kept you too long, dear father?" exclaimed
Elsie, when at last she sought her much enduring
parent and sank into a seat beside him.
"Well, you've been a trifle longer traveling around
than greased lightning. I've finished my two jour-
nals, and had a doze, but you have enjoyed the
pictures, eh?"
"Very, very much; Mr. Glynn knows a great deal
about painting, and he has explained many things
that puzzled me. I never enjoyed the salon so much
before. Will you come with us again, Mr. Glynn?"
"I shall be very glad," he returned with laudable
sobriety. "But I fear I shall have to leave Paris in
about ten days," he added.
"Then pray let us come one day next week," said
Elsie, quite unmoved by this announcement.
"All right, ma belle," returned her father; "but we
must be going now, it's six o'clock, and I asked
Vincent to dine ; we have a little business to talk over."
Elsie was silent, but a distressed look crept over
her speaking face. "If you want to talk of business,
may I not go to dine with Antoinette?"
"Aha! you perverse little puss, you are real unkind
to poor Vincent, who is a good fellow enough; why,
every one likes him but you."
"And I do not like him, nor do I like to sing to
him."
"See that now! and he an old friend of your father's
before—no, not quite before you were born. Well,
please yourself, dear, please—Why," interrupting him-
self, " there's old Monsieur Chauvot; I must speak
to him."


3«
AT BAY.
He went forward and was soon in deep conversation
with a stout Frenchman, through whose arm he
passed his own, and they walked on together, Elsie
and Glynn following.
"So Vincent is one of your father's friends who do
not find favor in your eyes. What has he done?"
asked Glynn.
"Nothing; I can not account for my dislike, but it
is here," pressing her hand on her heart, "and will
not go away."
"And I with as little reason share it," returned
Glynn.
"Do you? I am glad, which is very wrong, but it
comforts me to find some one else unreasonable.
Madame Davilliers and Antoinette think him quite
nice and agreeable."
At the door of Madame Davilliers' residence Elsie
paused. "I may as well go in now," she said to
Lambert. "Will you not come in and say a little
word to madame? and you too, Mr. Glynn, she will
be delighted to see you."
Glynn assented. After a quarter of an hour's lively
talk amid a circle of evidently solid and respectable
visitors he was cordially requested to call again, and
left the house with Lambert, feeling that another link
had been added to the magic chain which was twining
itself round him.
"She's an elegant woman, faith," said Lambert with
the air of a connoisseur, as he left the house with
Glynn, "and so is the demoiselle. I always count it
real good luck that Elsie fell in with them, for between
you and me and the post, none of my acquaintances
were just suited to introduce a young lady into society.
It's been uphill work / can tell you, but Madame D.
has been no end of a help to me. Why, you'd never
have the faintest notion of all the whim-whams she
has put me up to! Wouldn't you think now a girl
would be all right in her father's house with a respect-
able young woman like Celestine to wait on her? Not


AT BAY.
37
a bit of it. Madame says I must have a sort of a lady
to be a companion to Elsie, and so she found Madame
Weber for us. Now they are going to marry Antoi-
nette to a very respectable wealthy young vicomte that
will be another backer for Elsie. I believe prelimin-
aries are nearly arranged, and then he'll be presented
as a pretendant."
"What a hideous system it is," ejaculated Glynn.
"I don't see that at all," returned Lambert; "a
good girl will get fond of any man who makes her a
kind husband, and God only knows the relief it is to a
parent to make sure that all's right, and see too one's
girl safe under the protection of a strong man." He
spoke with feeling.
"There are some better aspects, I confess, to the
mariage de convenance," said Glynn, " but the worse
outweigh them."
"Well, I am inclined for the system, though our
American girls would never stand it."
"Are you American?" asked Glynn, encouraged
by his companion's confidential, regretful tone to put
the question.
"A naturalized American. I was obliged by the
persecutions of a cruel government to quit my native
land as a mere boy, and leave behind me the life of a
gentleman, for I can tell you, sir, the Lamberts of
Ballybough are as good a stock as any in Ireland;
that's five-and-thirty years ago ; between you and me I
have had a hard, sometimes a desperate fight of it since,
but I keep all that to myself. Madame D. there thinks
me a big man entirely; it's all the better for her, and
all I care for is my jewel Elsie."
This brought them to Lambert's door. "Honor
bright," said he, giving his hand to Glynn, "I know I
may trust you."
Glynn shook hands cordially, and went toward his
hotel, musing on the curious contradictions displayed
by his former friend, and the incongruity of being
made a confidant by the adoring father of the girl


3«
AT BAY.
against whose subtle charm he had determined to
steel himself.
* * * * * *
A fortnight had gone by swiftly, too swiftly, and
Glynn was still in Paris. True, the plans which would
have compelled his presence in Berlin were changed,
and he was consequently detained a little longer in
the French capital, but he was now free, and had some
weeks at his own disposal.
For various plausible reasons he was frequently at
the Rue de L'Eveque, and also a welcome visitor at
Madame Davilliers', who declared him worthy of being
a Frenchman. He was always careful to bestow his
whole attention on her when in her presence, and did
not shock her sense of propriety by throwing away any
small politenesses on the young ladies.
His happiest moments, however, were those in which
he found Elsie sitting at her work or at the piano with
Madame Weber and her knitting established beside
her. -Then they talked long and confidentially on
many topics, sometimes in French to include the good
Alsacian, but more often in English; and Elsie would
practice her songs while he sat in a deep low chair and
dreamed, and was lapped into a state of feverish uneasy
delight. Every day the difficulty of tearing himself
away grew greater, and still the quiet unconsciousness
of Elsie, the easy friendly tone which she preserved
toward him convinced him that whatever of pain might
result from their intercourse would be unshared by
her.
Glynn was often Lambert's guest; and more than
once entertained the father and daughter at some one
of the pleasant restaurants, in the bois, or on the Champs
Elysees.
Lambert, though speaking frankly enough of him-
self, never explained very distinctly what his employ-
ment was; nor did he make any allusion to the posi-
tion or occupation of his former friend and comrade,
as he was fond of calling Glynn.


AT BAY.
"I have a wonderful piece of news for you, Mr.
Glynn," said Elsie one fine warm afternoon, when he
had been ushered through the orange-scented vestibule
to the salon where she was sitting beside her work-
table, with a book Glynn had lent her in her hands, and
she motioned toward a chair opposite her.
"Indeed ! what may it be? Good morning, Madame
Weber," bowing. "May I try to divine it, Miss Lam-
bert? Has Mr. Lambert agreed to take you to the
Pyrenees or to England?" looking into her eyes.
"No! then he will go for a month or two to Switzer-
land? No? Then your old friend Mrs. , I forget
the name, who used to take care of you, is coming to
Paris? No? Then I am at the end of my conject-
ures. You see I always read 'no' in your eyes."
"You could never guess! My father has gone away
to Havre, quite early this morning, and will not return
for three or four days. He has never left me since we
came to live here, till now, and I can not tell you how
strange and restless and half frightened I feel; but
Madame Davilliers has kindly asked me to stay with
her, and I go there to dinner to-day; I should have
gone sooner, but I thought you might call, so I
waited."
Her perfect, easy candor was charming, yet mortify-
ing to his amourpropre.
"Thank you very much; I am giad to have an op-
portunity of hearing of your intended movements from
yourself; it would have been an awful shock to have
found every one gone; but," looking keeniy at her,
"what have you been doing or suffering? You are
pale. There is a weary look in your eyes."
"And you are like my dear father, too ready to
think I must be suffering, or unhappy, or something
dreadful, if I look a shade paler than usual. I am
quite well." She smiled, stopped abruptly, let her
eyes droop, while the color rose softly in her cheek,
and her smile was replaced by a serious, almost sad
expression in the curves of her mouth.


40
AT BAY.
"You have something to tell me? something that
disturbs you. Speak, you may trust me."
"I am sure I can. Well, I was foolishly frightened
yesterday. We, Madame Weber and I, had gone to
hear the band play in the Tuileries Gardens. It was
very pleasant under the trees, and we sat a long time.
Just as we rose to return home, two gentlemen came
up from a side walk; one I recognized at a little dis-
tance to be Mr. Vincent; the other, when they came
nearer, I saw was the same man whom I noticed at
Auteuil; you know who I mean? He looked at me
so strangely, I felt uneasy, frightened, and I hurried
Madame Weber away. They must have taken some
shorter path, for when we reached the gate opposite
the Rue de la Paix they came upon us again. Mr.
Vincent raised his hat, and so did the other, and stared
at me with such an odd piercing look of dislike and
doubt—Oh! I can not forget it."
"Yes," said Madame Weber, gathering from Elsie's
expression, and the words "Tuileries Gardens," that
she was relating the events of yesterday, " that gentle-
man there was not at all polite; he glared at made-
moiselle, Mon Dicu! like a savage beast; neverthe-
less he was distinguished, and no doubt noble."
"I think you must be mistaken," said Glynn; "the
man whom you saw at the races left Paris nearly three
weeks ago. I should most probably have seen him had
he returned. You must have been mistaken."
Elsie shook her head. "I could never be mistaken
in that man," she said.
Glynn was greatly struck by the reappearance of
Deering, but he threw off the impression. It was
probably an illusion on the part of Elsie. That Deer-
ing, the proudest of men, should be walking with so
doubtful a personage as Vincent seemed almost incredi-
ble. He would make inquiries however. Meantime
he addressed himself to soothe Elsie's evident uneasi-
ness.
"After all, granting you are right, what have you to


AT BAY.
41
fear? Your admirer can only look; he dare not annoy
you, or any attempt at annoyance could soon be put a
stop to. Indeed, I am sure Deering is too much a
gentleman and a man of the world to outrage good
manners in any way."
"What is his name?"
"Deering of Denham; rather a personage in York-
shire. I know him and his wife."
"He is married?" as if a little surprised. "Yes,
I dare say I am foolish to be afraid of any thing, but
I am sometimes such a coward. I suppose it is the
effect of the terrible terror I suffered when almost a
baby."
"Indeed!" said Glynn, his curiosity profoundly
stirred, and feeling more than ever convinced there
was some very unusual story attached to the sweet
graceful daughter of his former rowdy acquaintance.
"I suppose I ought not to ask you how and where you
encountered such a shock?"
"I do not mind speaking of it to you; it is a sort of
relief, for I have seen you look surprised when I have
started and shuddered at trifles. I do not wish you to
think me silly."
"Silly !—do you know that you seem to me the im-
personation of tranquil, womanly wisdom?"
A laugh so merry and spontaneous rippled over lip
and cheek, and flashed from her eyes, that for an instant
Glynn feared he had erred by appearing to exaggerate.
"That you should think so ignorant a girl as I am
wise, is too funny," she exclaimed.
"Wisdom is a gift that may be improved, not created
by learning," said Glynn; "but as you permit me to
ask, what was the terror to which you allude?"
"It was so long ago that my memory of it is mere
confusion. When I was three or four years old the
blacks came and burned our house, away in Australia;
they killed some people too. Then I remember being
on a horse and clinging to my father. I think I was
quite out of my mind, for I remember being afraid of


42
AT BAY.
my own dear father, and thinking him changed and
different from what he used to be. Oh, it is all so
confused! Then there was a long voyage and great
quiet; yet I used to scream if I were left alone for a
moment. Sometimes it seems true that I had two long
sea voyages, and that my only comfort was to crouch
in my father's arms. Then came a long period—long
and peaceful—in the sweet fresh country, where I grew
strong and fearless, though I always had panics. I had
one the first time I met that gentleman's eyes, and
sometimes I feel afraid with Mr. Vincent. I was very
happy with Mrs. Kellett; she is the good friend who
took care of me till my father put me in the convent.
He used to come and see me from time to time, and
when I saw how much he loved me I grew to love him
with my whole heart. That is all I know about my
own life."
"And it is enough. You must banish all sense of
fear—life promises to be fair and smooth for you."
"I hope so ; but curious thrills of terror steal through
me sometimes. I never like to ask my father about
that dreadful night. I think my poor mother died
then, and he can not bear to speak of it. It was that
fright I suppose that made me a little slow and dull;
but thank God I can and do enjoy a great deal."
"It would be a frightful injustice if you could not;
and you must throw your fears to the winds. You are
formed to win friends; dream only of happiness and
affection! May I wait, and escort you to Madame
Davilliers'?"
This request was prompted by a strange inexpressi-
ble reluctance to leave her alone in her own apartment
during her father's absence.
"I am turning driveler," he thought; "am I on the
verge of making a fool of myself? Not with my eyes
open,—yet I would risk a good deal to insure this fair
delicate creature from shock or real danger,—for
with such a father, such dubious surroundings, her
future is, to say the least, unpromising."


A T BA Y.
43
"Oh yes; I should be very glad if you will come
with us, and then you will come and see Madame
Davilliers while I am with her? My father will be
home on Monday, in the evening. How delightful it
will be to have him back again. Ah! he is so good to
me. I am sometimes oppressed to think how dearly
he loves me. I suppose it is because I was so weak,
so nearly imbecile when a child. Shall we go to
Madame Davilliers' now? I am quite ready."
"When you like; but first do me a great favor, sing
me a song before you go away among a set of strangers,
a song all to myself."
Elsie smiled, and turning to the piano at once, com-
plied, choosing a Latin hymn expressive of faith in
Divine protection, one of those she was accustomed to
sing in her convent school days.
When Glynn had escorted her and Madame Weber
to the Davilliers' residence, he walked to the hotel
where Mr. and Lady Frances Deering were in the habit
of staying, and inquired if Mr. Deering had returned.
"No," the waiter said, "nor did they expect monsieur,
who had left more than a fortnight ago."
"She must have been mistaken," mused Glynn, as
he went on to his own quarters. "Deering could not
endure the companionship of such a man as Vincent,
and what object could he have in following a girl like
Elsie Lambert? She is a sensitive, timid soul, more so
than I imagined, yet there are possibilities of heroism
in her. A most delightful companion, with fresh dis-
coveries of sheltered nooks and mossy dells of charac-
ter at every step of our acquaintance. I will not leave
Paris until I see her safe under her father's wing
again; then, if I have an ounce of common sense left,
I will fly!"
Reaching his own room, he found among others a
letter from Lady Gethin, asking the real reason of his
prolonged stay in Paris. Having a spare half-hour he
replied at once:
"I am trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together;


44
AT BAY.
I am not sure I shall succeed, but am going to give
myself a few days longer, then 1 shall come and report
proceedings. I wonder what solution you will suggest.
Till we meet then, I can say no more on the subject.
Have you seen the Deerings? Are they both in Lon-
don? I assure you I long to bring my doubts and
suspicions to the test of your experience and acumen.
"Ever your devoted Nephew,
"Hugh Glynn."


CHAPTER III.
OLD SCORES.
MADAME DAVILLIERS' was a very pleasant
household. Of course it had not the ease and
freedom that reigns in an English home, at least for
young people. Antoinette and her friend were treated
with the kind of affectionate indulgence suited to
infants of tender years, but watched also and guarded
with the care due to creatures of the same immature
age.
To Lambert and his daughter madame extended a
wide indulgence,—" Americans, you know," in an ex-
planatory tone, was always her comment on any eccen-
tricity of theirs. She was exceedingly anxious to settle
Elsie judiciously, as she felt convinced she would have
a goodly dower, and deeply regretted that she had not
a son old enough to demand the charming mademoiselle
in marriage. Lambert, however, showed himself reluc-
tant to accept any of her suggestions, and she there-
fore concluded that he had other plans in view.
Elsie Lambert was very happy with Antoinette.
They practiced duets together, and traced patterns,
and Elsie read aloud to her friend when she was at
work, or repeated to her the stories and poems she had
lately read in English, on Glynn's recommendation.
Elsie was the master spirit of the two, though Antoi-
nette was by far the braver and more self-possessed in
society.
But amid her contentment Elsie was conscious of an
extraordinary want—a void which nothing sufficed to
fill ; it was the want of those quiet conversations with
Glynn, each of which awoke new ideas, new aspirations,


46
A T BA Y.
new life. He called as he had promised, and was
received most graciously by Madame Davilliers in her
salon. Both girls were present. Glynn, however, knew
well he must not speak more than a few civil words to
them, and even his inquiries for Lambert he felt bound
to utter in French. But Elsie's expressive eyes told
him much. They said frankly and innocently, "I
wish I could talk to you. I wish I dare speak as usual.
This is all rather tiresome." And he longed unutter-
ably to take her out for a long ramble in the bois, her
arm through his own, her sweet candid face uplifted to
his, that she might the better comprehend the meaning
of his words; but he must not think of such things.
He ought to be thankful, especially thankful, that her
feelings toward him were so calm and friendly. If
he were to read any thing of tenderness, of passion, in
those lovely blue eyes of hers, why chaos would be
come again! For to call Lambert father-in-law would
be chaotic!
"How is M. Vincent ?" asked Madame Davilliers,
as Glynn rose to take leave one afternoon; "he has
not presented himself lately. He is a most interest-
ing man, and quite French in his knowledge of life
and character! I shall beg him to give himself the
trouble of dining with us on Wednesday next, and I
hope that you too, monsieur, will do us the pleasure
of joining our little party. Wednesday is the anni-
versary of our wedding-day, and M. Davilliers pro-
poses to make a little fete in its honor. If fine we
shall dine at the ' Grande Cascade ' at six o'clock ; we
hope our good friend Monsieur Lambert will return in
time for our reunion."
"It is also the anniversary of Lodi, and the Grand
Cascade will be illuminated," cried Antoinette. "It
will be superb."
"Yes, do come, it will be charming," said Elsie.
"I need no persuasion," replied Glynn. "I shall
be but too happy to join your party, madame."
During the days which intervened, Glynn kept a


48
AT BAY.
"There are instincts—" began Glynn ; but dinner
was announced, and he was directed to escort a bril-
liant dame, who made a determined attack upon him,
and would not share his attention with any one.
Vincent was placed next Miss Lambert, and
appeared to succeed in entertaining her. Altogether
Glynn felt provoked, and by no means amused, as he
had anticipated.
When dinner was over, Vincent proposed that they
should take their coffee in the veranda, which was
only raised a step above the gardens in front of the
restaurant, and from whence they could see the spray
of the waterfall glittering in the light of- the setting
sun. This was readily agreed to, and in the move-
ment which ensued, Glynn contrived to place himself
near Elsie.
"What an interminable dinner !" he exclaimed.
"Yet you had a very agreeable neighbor?"
"If a forty-horse power of talk constitutes agree-
ability, I had. I hope your father will return to-mor-
row. It seems such an age since I heard you sing."
"But I sang to you on Sunday."
"To.me? no, to a crowd of strangers, of whom I
was one."
"/ do not consider you a stranger."
"Thank you ; you are infinitely good to say so,"
gazing into her eyes. "It is a great additional charm
to hear you in your own room, with only your father
and myself for audience. Do you think me selfish for
saying so?"
"No; yet music is music, wherever you hear
it-".
"Your music is something different from all other,"
began Glynn, scarcely able to keep back the imprudent
expressions which rushed to his lips, so delighted was
he to have a few words aside with Ker.
'; I hope you will not go away until my father
returns," said Elsie, not seeming to heed his compli-
ment; "he would be sorry to miss you,"


AT BAY.
49
"I shall certainly not leave until he returns," said
Glynn, feeling himself in some odd way bound to
watch over Elsie in Lambert's absence. "Don't you
think he will come to-morrow?"
"Mr. Vincent seems to think it probable he may be
delayed."
"Indeed! Vincent appeared to have a good deal
to say for himself at dinner."
"Yes; he seems to be looking for some one," for
Vincent had gone to the edge of the veranda, and
was surveying the various groups standing or walking
about the little lawn in front of the cafe. Presently
he bowed and smiled, saying to Madame Davilliers:
"I see an English friend of mine', apparently alone;
have I your permission to present him to you? He
is a man of fashion and distinction—a Mr. Travers."
"But certainly," cried Madame Davilliers, "any
friend of yours, dear sir—"
Vincent stepped forward, while Glynn felt a thrill
of angry anticipation. In a few minutes he returned
accompanied by—Deering! Vincent at once pre-
sented him to Madame Davilliers, who put on her
most elegant manner to receive so distinguished an
addition to her party; and Elsie's eyes sought Glynn,,
saying as distinctly as eyes could say, " You see I was
right."
Madame's elegancies were thrown away upon Deer-
ing. He understood but little French, and only bowed
with a sort of haughty courtesy to his smiling
hostess.
"Ah, Glynn, you here?" he exclaimed, turning
from her to his compatriot. "I fancied you were at
Berlin."
"And / imagined you preparing for the next general
election, which is.not far off, I suspect," returned
Glynn. ". I hope you left Lady Frances and your boy
quite well."
"They are all right," returned Deering, shortly, and
even as he spoke his eyes were riveted on Miss Lam-


AT BAY.
bert with a strange, watchful gaze, at once admiring
and hostile. The color slowly rose in her cheek, and
she looked away in evident embarrassment, while
Glynn felt an almost irresistible impulse to take him
by the neck and throw him out of the circle into which
he had intruded. But civilization compelled them to
exchange polite sentences instead of following their
natural tendency—to fly at each other's throats.
"Pray introduce me to your English friends," said
Deering to Vincent, with a certain air of condescension.
"The only English-speaking member of our party,
besides Mr. Glynn, is this young lady,-and I claim her
as American. Miss Lambert, allow me to present
Mr. Travers Deering to you."
Glynn noticed that he used both names this time.
Was the omission of one of them at first intentional?
"You must take pity on me, and allow me to sit
beside you," said Deering, in a carefully softened
tone; "for, unfortunately, I can not speak French,
and feel awkward when I am alongside one of our
lively neighbors."
He drew a chair by her as he spoke, laying
aside his hat and taking his place with the easy, well-
bred decision of a man perfectly sure of himself, of
his social standing, and his general acceptability.
Elsie gazed at him as if fascinated,-and Glynn could
not help thinking how handsome and lordly and
thoroughbred he looked, just the style of man to cap-
tivate a girl's imagination
"Do you know, Miss Lambert, I have some very
humble apologies to offer you for my involuntary
rudeness. I can only urge, that when I saw you at
the races, I was so struck by your remarkable likeness
to a very charming woman I knew long ago, that I
really could not keep my eyes in order."
"You did not offend me," said Elsie, with a quick
little sigh, and making a slight unconscious movement,
as if to draw nearer Glynn. "1 am glad I reminded
you of some one you liked."


AT BAY.
"I did not say I liked her, though she was charm-
ing," returned Deering,'with a searching glance and a
somewhat cynical smile.
Elsie did not reply. She looked wonderingly at him
out of her great serious blue eyes, as if at some
curious, dangerous creature.
"So I am to consider myself pardoned?" resumed
Deering.
"I have nothing to forgive." Then turning to
Glynn, she asked, " Do you think the fireworks will
soon begin?"
"Not until it is considerably darker. I suppose we
ought to go out to see them ; we shallonly have a very
narrow view here."
"Yes, we can't possibly stay in this corner," ex-
claimed Deering, looking around impatiently.
"Oh, I fancy madame will make a move," said Vin-
cent, who was hovering about in his character of
sponsor to his aristocratic friend.
"I did not know you had so distinguished a circle
of French acquaintances," resumed Deering, address-
ing Glynn, and glancing with slighty elevated eye-
brows toward Madame Davilliers and her friends. The
glance caught that lady's attention, and induced her
to turn the fire of her conversation upon him. To
which Deering replied, with the assistance of Miss
Lambert and Glynn. On her own account Elsie said
very little, and seemed to have lost the brightness
that animated her before and during dinner.
At length the first rocket rushed toward the sky,
and burst into a cluster of many-colored stars, where-
upon every one jumped up and made for the garden,
the lawn, the roadway.
"Pray take my arm," said Glynn to Elsie the mo-
ment he saw the stampede beginning. "It may not
be easy to keep together in the crowd."
"That is not fair, Glynn," said Deering with a
smile. "You appropriate the only lady who can speak
English, and condemn me to silence for the next hour."


52
AT BAY.
"I am very sorry," said Glynn coolly; "but in
Captain Lambert's absence I consider myself in some
degree responsible for his daughter."
"Antoinette speaks a little English," said Elsie,
"and will be charmed to talk to you—I mean Made-
moiselle Davilliers," looking toward her.
"Pray do not trouble yourself," returned Deering
hastily," I can exist for half an hour in an unattached
condition ; besides, one can always pick up the crumbs
which fall from rich men's tables." This with an in-
solent laugh, which grated on Glynn, as did Deering's
whole tone; it conveyed the idea that he was among
people whom he, did not respect sufficiently to feel
any restraint, and, moreover, that he was in a bad
temper.
Elsie did not require a second invitation. Glynn
was amused and touched by the readiness with which
she took and almost clung to his arm as they sallied
forth and mixed with the crowd. Deering, true to
his avowed intention of "picking up the crumbs,"
kept persistently on her right—her unguarded side—
and mastering his ill-humor, talked lightly and easily,
every now and then planting a query as to her past
life, the drift of which Glynn thought he perceived.
"Is it North or South America which has the honor
of claiming you, Miss Lambert?"
"Neither; I have never been in America, I was
born in Australia."
"Australia! so much for preconceived ideas. I was
disposed to swear that you were English born and
bred."
"I have been more in England than any where
else."
"Indeed ! whereabouts, may I ask."
"Look ! what a splendid effect !" exclaimed Glynn,
who was not too pleased at this acquaintance.
"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Elsie, her attention
quite diverted. A large star of silvery light had sud-
denly appeared over the waterfall, through the spray


AT BAY.
53
of which it shone in varied prismatic colors, and Vin-
cent coming up at the moment to speak to Deering,
Glynn managed dextrously to lose himself and his
companion in the crowd, and for a delicious half hour
had her all to himself.
"It is nearly over," he said at last. "Let us make
our way to the cafe; we were all to assemble there;
you are tired, I am sure, and I am afraid Deering has
bored you."
"I never know what being bored means exactly. I
did not like speaking to him at first, but he can make
himself very pleasant, and he looks well. How did he
come to know Mr. Vincent? really Mr. Vincent scarce-
ly seems fit to be his servant."
"That is rather strong," said Glynn, laughing, yet
with a sense of annoyance at her words ; "but his ac-
quaintance with Vincent does seem inexplicable. I
wonder if he would ask him to Denham and introduce
him to his wife, Lady Frances?"
"Is Mr. Deering's wife a great lady?"
"Yes, thoroughbred, and I suspect with a thorough-
bred's power of endurance."
"Is she not happy, then?"
"Elsie, my child," cried Madame Davilliers close
beside them, " we are going to return home. You
must go in the carriage with monsieur, Henri Le Clerc,
and Madame Dubois; they await you in the veranda.
Antoinette is speaking English quite well, but exceed-
ingly well, to M. Derin. He is really most distin-
guished. He ought to learn French."
"I am afraid he is a little too old, madame," said
Glynn.
They were soon at the rendezvous; the carriages
were ready, and Glynn having wrapped Elsie's cloak
around her, was obliged to let Deering hand her
into the carriage, as he had stationed himself at the
door.
"Good-night, Miss Lambert; I hope to have the
pleasure of seeing you soon again ;"—with a little


54
AT BA V.
ring of triumph in his tone, and she was whirled away
into the soft darkness of the summer night.
"Are you going straight back to your hotel?" said
Vincent to Ueering, when Madame Davilliers had
driven off.
"Yes; I shall return with Mr. Glynn, if he will
allow me," courteously to the latter, then abruptly to
Vincent, " but I shall expect you to-morrow at 10.30
or eleven. I want to hear more about this wonderful
colt."
"Very well; I will wish you good-evening.—Oh, by
the way, Madame Davilliers' address is 14, Rue de
C , in case you think of honoring her Friday
evenings."
"Thank you; good-evening." Then to Glynn,
"shall we stroll toward the lakes? It is such a fine
night, and we shall find a fiacre nearer town."
The two men walked on in silence for a few minutes,
and then Deering exclaimed, " One is prepared to pay
for tips in racing matters, but not quite so high a price
as associating with such men implies ; that is an awful
cad."
"He is; I was infinitely surprised when I saw you
appear in the character of his protege' this evening.
How did you come to know him?"
Deering laughed. "Howdid_>w«?—but I forgot,
he is evidently a popular member of your society. I
—I met him in Count Latour's stables, and found he
was well up in sporting, or rather turf, matters. There
is very little sport in them. He told me a thing or
two, and may be of use."
"I did not know you were going in for racing," said
Glynn.
"I take a certain interest in it, and I thought you did."
He paused, lighted a cigar, and then said abruptly,
"Vincent tells me you know Miss Lambert's father;
in fact, that you are frequently his favored guest. How
does it happen that such a girl can be the outcome of
a society of bourgeois and sharpers? You must pre-


AT BAY.
55
sent me to this father when he appears ; I should pre-
fer your'sponsorship to Vincent's."
"Why do you want to know a set of people so com-
pletely out of your line?"
"I have a motive, not a very high one, I confess,
but sufficiently powerful—curiosity. I want to find
out something about Miss Lambert's people and his-
tory, for I am certain I knew a relative of hers, many
years ago."
"Well, you had better fall back on your sporting
acquaintance for an introduction; he is much more
intimate with Captain Lambert than I am."
"Ha! you refuse to be responsible for me? that's
deuced shabby! So he calls himself captain? He is
rather a queer fish, isn't he?"
"That depends on our respective ideas touching
queer fish. He is not a highly-polished, courtly gen-
tleman, but he is not a bad fellow; and he is devoted
to his daughter."
"Indeed! Well, Glynn, I believe you have seen a
good deal of the world, and it is pleasant to find that
So much faith in your fellow-creatures survives the
experience."
"Faith is certainly a more agreeable sensation than
doubt," returned Glynn, unmoved. "By the way, I
quite forgot I had an engagement this evening. I am
late already; there is a fiacre." He hailed it. "Will
you drive with me, Deering?"
"No, thank you; I shall enjoy my weed and a
stroll, so good night. I'll look you up to-morrow or
next day."
"Curiosity," murmured Glynn, as he rolled away
toward Paris. "Is it only curiosity? I wonder who
Elsie's mother was? It seems too bad that any unholy
mystery should hang round so sweet and frank a
creature ;" and recalling the beautiful eyes which had
looked up into his with clear unconsciousness and un-
hesitating trust Glynn closed his own, and gave him-
self up to some delightful though disquieting reflections.


AT BAY.
"What infernal bad luck!" thought Deering, as he
lighted his cigar viciously. "I did not dream of
meeting that fellow. I never reckoned on such an
obstacle. However, cost what it may, I'll get to the
bottom of her parentage and history. If my suspicions
are right, I must get rid of her or bind her to me
indissolubly; and the last would be the pleasanter
process. There is a wonderful charm about her, and
yet at times I can catch traces of him too! I wonder
who this father of hers is? I must get at him. I
wish I hadn't been obliged to send that cad Vincent
to the right-about so shortly, just to keep up appear-
ances. It is double distilled bad luck to have that
fellow Glynn here. But if he thinks he is going to
make all the running with Miss Lambert, he is con-
siderably mistaken. She is lovely, so lovely that I
almost forgive her for existing."
Glynn waited impatiently for the moment when he
could present himself at Madame Davilliers' weekly
reception. The reasons why he must remain in Paris
multiplied. He could not leave Elsie until her father
returned, and then he must stay until he got some
clew to Deering's schemes. That there was mischief
brewing he felt convinced. Indeed, he was inclined
to believe that Deering did not intend giving his real
name when Vincent introduced him to Madame Davil-
liers and her friends, but perceiving Glynn he had
probably changed his intentions, and telegraphed
accordingly to his associate. Still, considering that
Deering bore a fair character, it was highly improbable
he would be guilty of any overt baseness.
On reaching Madame Davilliers' Glynn found about
half-a-dozen intimates already assembled. Monsieur's
partie at whist had been made up in a small side-room,
and in the salon Mademoiselle Antoinette and Elsie,
assisted by the singing-master, were performing a trio.
Glynn waited till this was over to make his bow to the
lady of the house, enjoying from the corner where he


A T BA Y.
57
had stationed himself an uninterrupted view of Elsie's
face, which had the rapt, far-away look it always wore
when she was singing. How sweet and noble her ex-
pression was. No, he would not leave her, unless he
felt sure she was safe and her father forewarned. The
trio ended, young Le Clerc pressed forward with ani-
mated thanks. Then Elsie looked round, as if seeking
some one ; when her eyes met Glynn's a bright happy
smile sparkled over her countenance, and she made a
movement as if to go to him. He was soon at her side.
"You have some pleasant news, I am sure?" he
said, as he took her hand.
"I have indeed. My father has returned; he will
be here presently, and he looks so well. He is so
refreshed by the sight of the sea that he says he will
take me to Brittany, when it grows too hot in Paris."
"You will enjoy Brittany," said Glynn's voice
mechanically, while the real man was thinking what a
heaven it would be were he alone with her in Brittany,
or Buenos Ayres, or Botany Bay, or any other spot on
earth, provided they were together, away from every
one else. The next instant he was reproaching him-
self for his weakness, his folly.
"I believe the scenery is very fine," Elsie was be-
ginning, when she was interrupted by the words,
"Good evening, Miss Lambert." Glynn had been so
absorbed in her that he had not observed the approach
of Deering, until he spoke. Elsie turned to him, still
composed and smiling, without any trace of the
nervous dread which she had evinced at their first
meeting.
"I am in a strange land here," said Deering, when
they had exchanged greetings, "so I claim your pro-
tection; you must be my guide, philosopher, and
friend." He drew a chair forward as he spoke, and
Elsie sat down. "Are you a frequent attendant of
these soirees, Glynn ?" he asked, after having bestowed
a nod on his countryman. "You are certainly fonder
of innocent amusements here than in London!"


AT BAY.
"It appears that Paris produces the same effect
upon us both," returned Glynn coolly.
"Monsieur Glynn," said Madame Davilliers, sailing
up, " will you come and speak to my old friend M.
Le Colonel Dubois? He is a most interesting person!
He fought at Waterloo in the first year of his service,
and is all the fonder of your nation because they
were gallant foes."
So Glynn was carried off, to his great annoyance,
just as Deering took a seat beside Elsie, and seemed
to settle himself for a long talk.
M. Le Colonel Dubois did not find the most
attentive listener in Glynn, and was not sorry when the
host came to pay his compliments to the octogenarian,
and permitted his English guest to escape. Glynn
strolled into the next room, and found Miss Lambert
still conversing with Deering, with an air of interest
too that surprised him. He did not attempt to inter-
rupt them, but stood watching an opportunity of
begging Madame Davilliers to ask Miss Lambert for
another song. From his position near the portieres
between the two rooms he could see the door leading
to the vestibule. While he looked it opened, and
Lambert came in—Lambert in a gorgeous-colored
waistcoat and a bright necktie, for evening dress was
not indispensable at Madame Davilliers' receptions.
There was a joyous twinkle in his eye, an irrepressible
air of success in his bearing. He saluted madame with
much warmth, and then looked round the room as if
seeking his "Jewel." Suddenly an extraordinary
change passed over his face. The laughing, joyous,
humorous look vanished, and was replaced by a fierce,
startled, angry glare, like a wild creature suddenly
roused to apprehension and defiance, as if, through
the thin, smooth coating of lately acquired domesticity
the savage nature of the untamed desperado had
broken forth all the more vehemently for its temporary
slumber. Glynn saw that his eyes were fixed on
Deering, who was smiling and bending forward as he


AT BAY.
59
spoke to Elsie. She did not heed him, for she had
caught sight of her father, and Deering, struck by her
expression, turned to see what had attracted her. Then
his face changed too, his jaw closed with a look of
rigid determination, his steel-blue eyes lighted up with
a flash of angry recognition. By an involuntary im-
pulse Glynn started forward to greet Lambert with a
vague intention to assist him in recovering his self-
control—to aid Elsie's father in any way he could.
"Glynn," said Lambert, gripping his hand hard,
"who—who is that man—sitting there—by my—
daughter?"
"He is Deering of Denham. Do you object to
him ?."
"No, why should I? Only I knew a Deering once
—not a clean potato by any means! This may not
be the same—Ah, Elsie, my child! Come here, keep
by me."
"What is the matter, dear? You are not like your-
self," she exclaimed, as she came up and passed her
arm through his.
"Not like myself! you are wrong there." Then
with a sort ^f effort he went straight up to Deering
and said audibly in English, "We have met before,
sir, have we not?"
Deering, who was considerably the taller, looked
down on him from the ineffable heights of his social
superiority, and replied deliberately,
"I have certainly had the pleasure of your acquaint-
ance some years ago."
Then they stood silent, eye to eye—silent, yet
exchanging deadly defiance. Deering, the more self-
possessed of the two, was the first to speak.
"I fancy we have seen some changes since we met.
Paris is not a bad place to anchor in after a wandering
life, especially when one has so charming a companion
as—Miss Lambert," adding the name after a slight
pause.
"How do you know my daughter?" abruptly.


A T BA Y.
61
Elsie rose from the piano, and cast an anxious look
on her father. Then she gave her hand to Glynn,
bowed to Deering, presented her brow to madame's
kiss, and slipping her arm through Antoinette's, left
the room.
"Let me see you soon," said Lambert to Glynn.
"You do not return to London just yet?"
"Not this week at least."
"Suppose you breakfast with me to-morrow, Captain
Lambert," said Deering. "We'll smoke the pipe of
peace, and talk over our adventures by flood and
field."
"Thank you," shortly, "I never breakfast away
from home."
"Oh, indeed! Then I shall call on you, and pay
my respects to Miss Lambert at the same time,"
returned Deering in a tone of imperturbable good
breeding.
Lambert, who was making his adieux to Madame
Davilliers, did not seem to hear, but before he reached
the door he turned quickly back, and said in a con-
strained tone to Deering,
"I can not breakfast with you, but I will call at your
hotel to-morrow morning at 10.30."
"That is wiser," said Deering with quiet superiority.
Glynn was greatly struck by the significance of these
words. What hold had Deering over the wandering
adventurer, who seemed as far removed from the
haughty English gentleman as the east is from the
west.
He walked home revolving this question and others.
Every day increased the fascination which Lambert's
daughter unconsciously exercised over him; every
day showed more and more clearly the unsuitability,
nay, from a common-sense point of view, the impos-
sibility of allying himself with so doubtful a character
as poor Lambert.
On reaching his hotel the concierge handed him
several letters, and when safe within his own room he


62
AT BAY.
opened them. One proved to be from his firm on
business which compelled his immediate return to
London.
He had seldom been so annoyed and irritated as by
this unavoidable necessity to quit the scene of the
mysterious drama which interested him so intensely.
He might be prudent enough, mean enough, to shrink
from linking himself for life with a creature who was
probably too good for him, but he would not desert
Lambert in a difficulty. He would return as soon as
possible and see him clear of Deering. Seizing his
pen he wrote a hasty line to the effect that he was
obliged to run over to London for a week, but
would return without fail, adding his private address.
When this had been sealed, stamped, and directed to
Lambert, he rang and ordered his bill and a very
early cup of coffee next morning.
"The first train for Calais leaves at seven in the
morning," said the waiter. "There is an earlier one
about five I think, by the Dieppe route, but you gain
no time, for the trajet is longer."
"Of course I will go by Calais," returned Glynn.
"Do not fail to call me in good time."


CHAPTER IV.
A LAST CARD.
THE first few days after Glynn's return to London
were so crowded by important engagements and
serious consultations with the elder members of his firm
as to the advisability of a new and important under-
taking, to which Glynn was entirely opposed, that he
had no time for deliberate thought respecting Lam-
bert and his mysterious acquaintance with Deering.
Yet the subject was never quite out of his mind. A
vague, unreasonable anxiety about Elsie haunted him,
and he was strangely eager to return to Paris.
The earliest spare moment he could find was devoted
to Lady Gethin.
She was out when he called, but next morning's
post brought him a pressing invitation to dinner, of
which he gladly availed himself. He .would have
liked to take counsel with the shrewd old woman, and
yet he did not think it loyal to Lambert, who evidently
trusted him, to be too confidential.
Her hospitable ladyship, however, was not alone.
A small pleasant party, some writers of light literature,
a traveler, a smart grass-widow from India, a clever
barrister, and his pretty accomplished daughter, to
whom Glynn was already known, were assembled
when he arrived, and dinner was a feast of good things
in more senses than one. Afterwards there was music,
The grass-widow played brilliantly, the pretty young
lady sang very nicely, had a sweet voice, and had
been well trained. But Glynn could only think of
the contrast between her singing and Miss Lambert's;
of the mellow tender richness of the latter's notes,


64
AT BAY.
which seemed to come from the heart to the heart,
compared with the lighter though pleasant timbre of
the other,—the sweet simple earnestness of the one,
and the easy smiling surface good breeding of the
cultivated London girl.
"Don't leave till the others have gone," whispered
Lady Gethin, as she passed him when following her
lady guests from the dining-room.
It was the height of the season, every one had more
engagements than they could well manage, the party
therefore broke up early, its members dispersing to
balls, concerts, or receptions.
"Now then, have a little iced seltzer and cognac, it
is quite warm this evening," said Lady Gethin; "and
let us have a long talk—that letter of yours whetted
my curiosity. What in the world has kept you away
so long ? every one has been asking for you!"
"Partly business and partly curiosity."
"What about?"
"I will tell you presently. Have you seen Lady
Frances Deering lately?"
"I saw her about ten days ago; she has gone down
to Denham, and Deering is off to Vichy—liver or
something wrong, but he didn't look as if he had much
the matter with him."
"Vichy? He is not at Vichy! I saw him in Paris
the night before I left."
"Well, I suppose he must pass through Paris, but
you mean something more; where, and how did you
see him?"
"I saw him saying good night to the young lady
with whom he was struck at Auteuil, and whom I
think I mentioned to you."
"You don't say so! That's the liver complaint, is
it? and the drama into the bargain. Come now,
Hugh, do be candid, and do not worry me with any
attempt to heighten effect. What do you know?
What have you seen? What do you suspect?"
"These are tremendously leading questions!"


A V BA V.
"Well, I want to get at your drama as soon as
possible."
"Then I shall answer categorically. I know nothing.
I have seen very little. I suspect every thing."
"What a sphinx-like reply. Just go on your own
way, and tell me every thing you will tell, for I have
an idea you will make reservations."
Whereupon Glynn described his meeting with Elsie
and her father, not omitting Vincent, the curious con-
trast between Lambert and his daughter, the reappear-
ance of Deering on the scene, his incongruous acquaint-
ance with Vincent and Lambert, and the evident
astonishment of each on recognizing the other. He
only suppressed or softened the circumstances under
which he had known Lambert, and the fact that he .
had changed his name. When he ceased Lady
Gethin, who had listened with profound attention,
exclaimed:
"A very pretty mystery, upon my word. That
Deering is a fiend! He knows something against
Lambert, and is going to use his knowledge to help
him with the daughter. I never liked Deering. He
is a smooth-tongued, sneering hypocrite, and has
many queer corners in his life, or I am much mis-
taken."
"I never heard any thing against him, indeed, he
he is rather liked among men. Even now I scarcely
think he can be capable of any evil designs against a
girl like Miss Lambert. What struck me at first, was
the sort of fierce, uneasy curiosity he displayed con-
cerning her. He certainly admires her very much."
"So does some one else," returned Lady Gethin,
with a knowing nod. "I trust and hope that the
beautiful eyes, and lovely voice, and attractive mys-
tery, will not draw you into making a fool of your-
self."
"But, Lady Gethin!" cried Glynn, amazed at her
penetration and quite unconscious how much he had
betrayed, "you do not imagine that at my age I


66
AT BAY.
should be so weak as to be drawn into an entangle-
ment,—a marriage, of which my judgment disap-
proves."
"I wouldn't give five minutes' purchase for your
judgment, Hugh. You are just at the age when, if
men are slower in igniting, they burn with a more in-
tense and lasting fire. The frothiness of your enthus-
iasm may have evaporated, but the warm, strong spirit
remains. Take care of yourself, Hugh; connection
with such a man as you describe Lambert (and I fancy
you have made the best of him) would be a frightful
calamity,—no eyes, voice, or angelic nature could
make up for it. You'd soon find that out. There is a
certain degree of disenchantment in marriage, even
under the most favorable circumstances. Take my
• advice, don't go back to Paris, let them manage their
mystery themselves. You will be let in for something
unpleasant and risky—don't go back."
"Oh, I must go back! I promised Lambert I
would ; besides, I want to see the play out; and you
alarm yourself unnecessarily. I admire Miss Lambert,
I think her as good as she is charming; but I am as
averse to a marriage with her as you can be. More-
over, I have a safeguard in her indifference, for she
treats me with frank confidence as her father's old
friend, nothing more."
"This is worse and worse," said Lady Gethin, *
gravely. "How do you know what profound tender-
ness her indifferent airs may mask?"
"Do you think I have never looked into any eyes,
nor learned their language, before I saw Miss Lam-
bert's, that I should be so mistaken?" asked Glynn,
laughing.
"Oh, I dare say you are learned enough in such
matters. Pray be guided by me, put the Parisian epi-
sode out of your head, and make up your mind to
marry that nice, piquant little daughter of Pearson's.
I asked them on purpose to meet you. He will give
her ten thousand pounds, and he is a rising man; he


AT BAY.
67
will be on the bench in a year or two; they are peo-
ple of good family"
"My dear Lady Gethin! I don't want to marry
any one, and so I will bid you good night. A thou-
sand thanks for your good advice."
"Which of course you will not follow! Well, keep
me informed of what goes on. I wish / could see all
your people, I think I should find a key to the riddle.
I never liked Deering."
"I have no doubt you could read between the lines.
As to Deering, now that I am away from him, I am
half ashamed of my suspicions. It is rather absurd
to imagine that a man of his standing would risk his
reputation for a passing whim."
"But he doesn't risk it," said Lady Gethin. "He
is not infringing any social law in England ; unknown,
doubtful Americans, neither rich nor highly-placed are
beyond the pale. If that Lambert had any sense, he
would give his daughter a little money and marry her
to some solid bourgeois. He could easily arrange it, I
fancy."
"Well, good night," said Glynn, with an odd feel-
ing of irritation. "I shall call and see you before I
leave, and do not hesitate to give me any commission
—my taste in gloves and even in ribbons is not to be
despised."
"Take care," was her valediction.
The next day brought Glynn a few lines from Lam-
bert, which struck him as expressing more uneasiness
than was intended.
"I have no right to ask you to return if it does not
suit you," he wrote, "but I hope you will. I feel in
need of your counsel. I have had wonderful luck for
years, and now I'm afraid it's turning. Then I am
not as young or as strong as I used to be ; and one
way or another it would cheer me up a bit to have a
talk with you."
Had Glynn had any hesitation as to revisiting Paris
this letter would have decided him He sent a few


AT BAY.
69
what. But above and beyond all reasoning, he felt
that their companionship, their presence, were omens
of trouble and of wrong.
"Stop where you are, I will descend here," he
called to the driver, and was soon springing up the
familiar stairs. How vividly the perfume of the
orange-blossoms reminded him of the surprised admi-
ration which Elsie and her home had excited on his
first visit.
"Oh! it is you, monsieur !" cried Celestine, directly
she opened the door; "I will tell Madame Weber,
and I am sure mademoiselle will receive you." She
went into the salon, and returned almost immediately.
"Enter, monsieur, but enter; mademoiselle will be
pleased to see you."
Miss Lambert was alone when Glynn found himself
in her presence, and sitting at a writing-table; she
rose quickly, and came forward with outstretched
hands, "I am so glad you have come." Glynn did
not speak immediately—he was surprised at the inten-
sity of his own delight on finding himself once more
beside her, listening to her voice, holding her hand,
gazing into her eyes. He did not know he was so
far gone. She looked paler, thinner, graver, than
when he last saw her. She wore a black dress, and
had a small scarf of delicate lace tied loosely round
her throat. Her bright brown hair looked golden
even in the dull light of a gray day, and there was
something sad in her pose and expression that Glynn
found infinitely touching.
"You knew I should return—at least your father
did," he said, at length.
"My father did expect you ; but I—I thought it
likely that when you were among your own friends,
your own people, you would not care to leave
them."
"I am afraid that you are not so well as when I
left," said Glynn, drawing a chair near her writing-
table, at which she had reseated herself. "It is per-


7° A T BA V.
4
haps impertinent to say that you are not looking as
well, as brilliant as you were."
"Brilliant," she repeated, with a brief sweet laugh.
"That I never could be; but you are right, I am ill,
ill at ease I mean. My father. Ah !—he is so changed!
And he is angry if I notice it; but he is very unhappy,
I know he is. That is why I am so glad you have
come; he can speak to you, he may speak to you.
You may be able to help him; but I am only a help-
less, ignorant girl. Yet I could do much if I were
directed."
"I should be most happy to be of any use to Cap-
tain Lambert," said Glynn. "No doubt your affec-
tionate anxiety inclines you to exaggerate, but—"
"When you see him you will understand," inter-
rupted Elsie, " you will see that I do not exaggerate.
He will not tell me what has happened. He says he
has not lost his fortune. I should not care if he had,
for I could earn money by singing, though not on the
stage. However, my knowing would not help him,
because I have always been shut up and am so ignor-
ant. You do not mind me telling you all this, do
you? Though I have not known you long, my father
has, and—and—you seem like a real friend to him."
She looked full in his face, her great soft eyes all
suffused with tears—like violets laden with dew.
"I am gratified that you confide in me, so far," said
Glynn quietly, with laudable self-control. "I shall
observe your father by the light of your remarks, and
if he is really in any difficulty, or cares to consult me,
I shall be most happy to assist him so far as I can.
Probably his depression arises from some temporary
losses. Believe me," and his dark face lighted up with a
pleasant smile, " money is a most important factor in
existence; I am able to assert from experience that
there is no vacuum so distressing as an empty pocket."
"If it is the loss of money," she returned gravely,
"we ought not to stay here; life is very costly, I
know; I have paid every thing for the last eight


AT BAY.
months. My dear father is too generous ; we ought to
manage as we used when he was trying to save; he
might move about as his business required, and I could
go back to"good Mrs. Kellett."
"Who is Mrs. Kellett?"
"My foster-mother; the only mother I have ever
known : she lost her baby and her husband, and took
me to love instead, at the time our place was destroyed
in Australia. But, Mr. Glynn, it is more than money
that disturbs my father."
. "Let us hope he will speak openly to me; but I
have no right to ask his confidence. Now you must
not worry yourself unnecessarily. I wish it were a
finer day, and I should try to persuade you and Madame
Weber to come for a drive in the dot's."
"Thank you very much; I should have liked it, for
I have gone out very little of late, but Madame Weber
is not in the house, she went to the Halle this morn-
ing early to buy fruit, and has not returned yet."
"Then you have been dull as well as troubled.
How is Madame Davilliers, and Mademoiselle An-
toinette ?" asked Glynn, making a circuitous approach
to the topic uppermost in his mind.
"They are very well, and very busy. Antoinette is
going to be married in August to M. Le Vicomte de
Pontigny ; it has been all arranged since you left. I
should have less to regret, therefore, in leaving Paris,
for Antoinette is going to travel for some time, and
when she returns it will not be the same."
"This seems to have been a rapid act?"
"I dare say Monsieur Davilliers and the vicomte
had begun the treaty long ago," said Elsie, laughing,
"but we only heard of the intended marriage three or
four days ago."
"And Deering, he is still here?" looking keenly at
her.
"Yes ; " all her gravity returning. "He cailed this
morning just before you came; I did not see him, for,
it is very extraordinary, my father has turned against


72
AT BAY.
Mr. Vincent, who is always with Mr. Deering; that I
do not mind; but though he says less about it I think
he is quite as distrustful of Mr. Deering. Now/nave
got over my first foolish fear of him, he is so gentle
and polite, and seems to want to be friends with my
father. I do not understand it all; but I never dis-
pute what my dear father says. He knows more of
life than I can possibly do. Yet I want very much
to hear all about the lady Mr. Deering thinks me so
like. He promised to tell me when he knew me better.
Every thing seems so changed since our pleasant,
dinner at the Cafe de Madrid, not two months ago."
"Such days and dinners do not come often," said
Glynn, with a quick sigh. "I hope all this worry does
not prevent you singing as much as you used?"
"Oh, no! it is the only pleasure I have."
"Is it too presumptuous of me to ask for a song
now?"
Elsie did not answer for a moment; she put her
elbows on the table, clasped her hands together, and
resting her cheek on her interlaced fingers, said very
slowly, " No ; I could not sing to-day, I should break
down,—the tears would come—I had better not try."
"Then I will not ask you ;—but tell me, when shall
I see your father?"
"He will certainly call upon you. I am not sure if
he will return to dinner, or I would beg you to dine
with us."
"Thank you; we will reserve that pleasure for
future arrangement. I am staying as usual at the
hotel Wagram, and have letters to write which will
keep me in till past eleven to-morrow, should Captain
Lambert feel disposed to call."
"I will tell him," said Elsie.
Then Glynn knew he ought to go; but he could not
tear himself away immediately. It was so charming,
this quiet confidential talk ; so intoxicating to see that
her pale anxious face had brightened considerably:
certainly her composure, in the midst of her depression


AT BAY.
73
and uneasiness, left no room for any flattering convic-
tion that he had impressed himself upon her heart or
imagination. So far all was right; she treated him as
a friend, an honorable gentleman, in whom she might
trust, and nothing more.
A little further talk of the books Glynn had left
with her, of her wish to leave Paris, and revisit the
farm-house, where most of her childish days had been
spent, and Glynn felt he must not stay longer.
"Shall you make any stay?" she asked, as she
gave him her hand at parting.
"A week or two, perhaps a month; I am not sure."
"Then good morning—au revoir."
The rest of the day was strange and dream-like.
He wandered through well-known places, seeking
acquaintance to draw him from the puzzle of his own
thoughts, and finding none, till toward six o'clock,
passing Tortoni's, he found himself face to face with
Deering, who was seated at one of the little round
tables eating an ice.
"Hullo, Glynn! I thought you were in London?"
"Well, you see I am in Paris."
"When did you arrive?"
"This morning."
A little ordinary talk ensued, the tone of which
showed a strong desire on the part of Deering to be
civil and friendly. Glynn at once determined to
accept his advances; he might thus detect some indi-
cations of the secret which underlay his acquaintance
with Lambert, and the curious influence he seemed to
have exercised over him. He could not, however,
bring himself to accept his invitation to dinner, though
he agreed to dine with him at one of the luxurious
caffs which abound in the great capital of pleasure.
Deering talked well, of many things, chiefly political;
he also mentioned his wife and home, pressing Glynn
to come down to Denham for the twelfth of August,
promising him good sport.
It was not till they had risen from table, and were


74
AT BAY.
lighting their cigars previous to separating, that
Deering made any mention of the subject probably
uppermost in both their minds.
"Of course you have not seen any thing of Lam-
bert?"
"No, not yet."
"He is a queer fish—a very shady member. I knew
him under another name, and rather doubtful circum-
stances; I am afraid he is not in a very sound financial
position; he is a thorough adventurer. It is a bad
business for the daughter; she is a very nice creature.
I wonder where he picked her up, for one can't be-
lieve she really is his daughter?"
"There is not much family likeness between them,
certainly; but I see no reason for doubting his repre-
sentations. He is evidently devoted to her, and his
surroundings are perfectly respectable."
"Perfectly. Where did you meet him?"
"In America, many years ago."
"Indeed! Oh, are you going? Well, good night."
Hugh Glynn was careful to stay in his room all the
next morning, thinking that if Lambert wished to make
any private communication, they were more secure
from interruption there than elsewhere.
It was barely eleven when Lambert was announced.
Glynn was positively startled by the change in his
aspect. His weather-beaten face was colorless and
haggard, his eyes had a hunted look, as though seeking
a way of escape, his clothes were carelessly put on, his
mustaches no longer waxed and fiercely twisted, his
whole air bespoke neglect.
"Delighted to see you, Glynn," he said, a faint gleam
of pleasure lighting up his restless eyes. "I was
afraid you wouldn't get back again this season; busi-
ness must be attended to. You're in business, ar'n't
you?"
"Yes, but I can attend to it sometimes at a dis-
tance."


AT BAY.
75
"That's fortunate; and you have been all right?"
"Yes; quite right, thank you."
There was an awkward pause. Lambert seemed
unable to approach the matter, whatever it might be,
which filled his mind ; he took up a paper-knife, which
he turned restlessly to and fro, he changed his position,
and then, with a sigh, exclaimed, "You saw Elsie yes-
terday. She was glad you called, but she is not very
bright. You didn't think her looking well,-hey?"
"Not as well as usual, certainly."
"No; she is fretting—fretting about her oid dad.
It's wonderful how that creature loves me. Me!—
sometimes when she is hanging about me, and singing
the songs I like, and making a servant of herself for
me, I just look back and think of the scenes I have
gone through, and the queer scramble my life has
been, and wonder how the dickens it happens that an
angel like her can be so fond of an old scapegrace;
that she doesn't shrink from me; but she doesn't,"
with infinite exultation, "she loves me, sir, as well as
ever child loved father!"
"Of that I can have no doubt," cried Glynn. "And
your affection for her deserves it."
"She has made another man of me," continued
Lambert. "But though I have not been a regular
saint all my days, I am as white as driven snow com-
pared to some blackguards that hold up their heads in
high places. I am rambling on like an idiot. I called
to ask if you'll come and dine with us to-night. It
cheers me up to see an honest face."
Glynn accepted the invitation readily, and after a
pause, during which he drummed on the table, Lam-
bert recommenced.
"I have not had a good time of it since you were
away, Glynn. I have been on the brink of ruin through
the treachery of a man I thought a friend. But I
hope to get over it. I think I'll get over it, and what-
ever happens, Elsie's little fortune is out of harm's
way. I made sure of that. She need never starve."


76
AT BAY.
"Very prudent and proper," returned Glynn. "But
I earnestly hope you will escape the loss you mention.
Been bitten by a bubble company?"
"No! It's a long story; I'll tell it to you some day
and you'll judge for yourself; but not now, not now.
Ah! you are a bright chap, Glynn, strong and steady.
If you had a little capital, now, you'd get along first
rate." He rose as he spoke, and took a turn up and
down.
Glynn did not answer his conjectures as to his—
Glynn's—financial position; he felt terribly disap-
pointed that Lambert had made no confession of tan-
gible difficulties, and yet he was brimful of some
trouble which he could not bring himself to confess.
Lambert resumed his seat, and began talking in a
rambling fashion of ordinary topics; but his thoughts
were evidently elsewhere, and at length he went away,
leaving a most painful impression on Glynn's mind, of
profound despondency, of mental disquietude which he
could not or would not express.
At dinner, some hours later, he either was more
cheerful or assumed a livelier aspect for his daughter's
• benefit. She seemed to accept the improvement as
real, and the evening went quickly. With the help of
music and conversation, Lambert, toward the end,
seemed to forget his troubles, and was more like him- -
self. At parting Elsie gave Glynn an eloquent glance
—expressive of thanks, of mutual understanding, which
sent him away charmed, restless,—longing for their
next interview, yet full of dread for the future.
The next day as he was leaving his hotel he ran
against Deering, who was coming in. "I am off to
Vichy to-day," he said. "I thought I should just let
you know. I ought to have gone a week ago, but I
met some people that amused me, Lady Harriet Beau-
champ and Wedderburn—you know them, I suppose?
Shall I find you here when I return?"
"That depends on the length of your visit."
"Oh, about a fortnight."


AT BAY.
11
"I shall hardly stay so long."
"Good-by, then. Don't forget Denham in August.
Lady Frances will be delighted to see you."
The very atmosphere seemed lighter and brighter
to Glynn when Deering was safe away. Lambert was
visibly relieved, and his daughter reflected her father's
mood. Things went on much as before. Madame
Davilliers' Fridays were more crowded and varied.
They made little excursions to Sevre, and to the beau-
tiful woods of Mendan; sometimes with the Davil-
liers, sometimes only a quartet—Lambert, Elsie,
Madame Weber, and Glynn.
These were delightful days. The quiet harmony of
the present made Glynn regardless of the future. It
was wonderfully interesting to draw Elsie from the
observant silence which was habitual to her into sym-
pathetic talk. There was always something to dis-
cover in her, something to win, of confidence, of self-
revelation, and she was so teachable, with all her
honest clinging to the conclusions of her own clear sense.
There were moments when his hesitation disap-
peared, and Glynn was almost resolved to make her
his wife if she would have him; but that vague cloud
of mystery was a bad accompaniment for married life.
The only discordant ingredient in this happy inter-
lude was the occasional intrusion of Vincent, to whom
Lambert showed a curious ceremonious politeness,
dashed at times with epigrammatic bitterness, of
which the dandified American took no notice. Elsie,
on the contrary, was more friendly to him than
formerly.
It was about ten days after Glynn's return, and he
was debating in his own mind the prudence and
advisability of a retreat while he had still some com-
mand of his own will. Dinner was over in Lambert's
pretty salle a manger. Elsie had left her father and
his friend to talk and smoke for the lazy, comfortable
half-hour which succeeds the evening meal,


7«
A T BA Y.
"Miss Lambert is looking quite herself again,"
said Glynn, his imagination too full of her to resist
speech.
"She is," returned her father. "That is because I
am brighter; but I am not out of the wood yet—not
yet." He was silent for a moment or two puffing
vigorously while he thought. "Ay !—many an
anxious thought she costs me. I'd give a good deal,
—all I possess, life itself, to know she was safe and
in better hands than mine. Glynn, I am going to prove
the confidence I have in you. We are men of the
world, and can talk to each other without fear of mis-
understanding."
"It's coming at last," thought Glynn. "You may
be sure that anything you like to tell is safe with me,"
he said aloud.
"I know it." He rose, lifted the curtain which
hung across the doorway leading to Elsie's little study,
assured himself it was unoccupied and the outer door
shut. Then he resumed his seat, and placing his arms
on the table leaned toward Glynn, and began in a low
voice, which, as he plunged deeper into his subject,
grew clearer and louder. "Look here, now, I don't
see why, when I am in Rome, I shouldn't do as Rome
does. I know you'll meet me in my own spirit. If
you like what I am going to propose, well and good,
if not, there's no harm done. First of all I suppose I
am right in concluding you are not married—that you
are free and independent."
"I am," said Glynn, greatly surprised.
"Then what do you say to settling yourself? You
are old enough. You are six or seven-and-thirty I
guess. Now, if you are so disposed, I'd die happy if
I saw you married to my Elsie!"
Glynn started at this bold proposition; yet gazing
at the eager eyes, the earnest face, the slight nervous
twitch in the lips which' had just uttered it, he felt
strangely moved.
"Pon't answer all at once," continued Lambert;


AT BAY.
79
"I calculate there's a goodish bit more to be said on
the subject. I know this sort of thing isn't our fashion,
but I am too uneasy about—ah! about the future, to
wait for the chance of my jewel meeting the right
man, and life is uncertain—mine especially. I won't
give her to you empty-handed either."
"Why, Lambert, you take my breath away! In the
first place I don't fancy Miss Lambert ever wasted a
thought on me, except as to how far I might be of use
to you."
"I know that; I am sure of it. If I thought she
was in love with you I don't think I could speak out
like this. No, love hasn't come into her heart yet,
and you are too much a high-minded gentleman to
try and rouse it; but she could love well; and look
here, I have saved up and invested nearly five thou-
sand pounds—I'll make it five full—that would be a
nice lift to whatever business you are in. You see
how I trust you. I don't care if you have a struggle;
Elsie is no foolish extravagant doll."
"Pray hear me," interrupted Glynn with difficulty;
"so charming a creature as your daughter wants no
make-weight to recommend her; she would be a
treasure in herself to any man of taste and feeling.
But I do not wish or intend to marry for a consider-
able time to come," he continued, with increasing
firmness, quite determined not to yield to the sugges-
tion of another what he denied to the passionate crav-
ing of his own heart. "j\s you say, we are men
of the world, and can discuss such a question coolly
and fairly without, on my part, the smallest infringe-
ment of the warm respect and regard I feel for Miss
Lambert. There are circumstances—reasons on
which it is unnecessary to dilate—which forbid my
entertaining your flattering and attractive proposition."
"Suppose I guess what they are," said Lambert,
eagerly rolling up a cigarette; and scattering the shreds
of tobacco as he did so. "You're a bit of a swell, I
calculate; you are among a desperate respectable set


8o
AT BAY.
of city bosses. Hear me now; I'm not thin-skinned.
I know I'm not the sort that would go down with
them, and you know I was a queer lot once. Well, if
you take my Elsie, I'll go right away; I'll never ask
to trouble you or her. What matter what becomes of
me if she is safe ?—oh God! safe with an honorable,
kind man, who would give her a peaceful home. Ay,
Elsie, I love you well enough never to ask to see your
sweet face if I could earn peace and security for
you!"
"And do you think she would love a husband who
could part her from such a father as you are ?" asked
Glynn, deeply touched.
"But she should never know,"—eagerly: "I'd just
go away on business, and stay away, and she'd forget;
she would always have a kind thought for me, but the
new love would fill her heart; and if you tried to win
her she'd love you, I am sure she would! Now, can't
it be, Glynn ?—can't it?"
"No. It is with deepest reluctance I say it. If I
can in any way serve you or her, command me; but
unfortunately for myself this can not be."
There was a short expressive silence ; then Lambert
said in an altered voice, "Anyhow there is no harm
done ; I am sure you've some good reason, and we'll
not be the worse friends because we can be nothing
nearer."
"Certainly not; and for my part I have a higher
esteem for you than I ever had before. I trust, how-
ever, that you have no serious cause for uneasiness
about your daughter. If her little fortune is secured,
these are too prosaic times for daring and villainous
lovers, murderous conspirators, or other dramatic
dangers."
"Ay, civilization is just deep enough to hide the
devils that work underneath it. I had one or two
things to tell a son-in-law that, maybe, I had better
keep to myself now."
"I sincerely hope you will not look on me as the


AT BAY.
it
less warm a friend because I can not unfortunately
fall in with your views ; you do not wish me to absent
myself?"
"Far from it," interrupted Lambert; "be true to
me—be true to her; maybe by-and-by you'll have a
good wife that might befriend my girl; she has no
one in the world belonging to her but myself, and I
begin to fear I am a broken reed."
"My marriage is a remote contingency," said Glynn.
"Were you in London, I could introduce Miss Lam-
bert to a somewhat peculiar but kind-hearted woman,
a connection of mine, who would most probably be
interested in her—I was going to say charmed with
her, only it is hard to answer for the impression one
woman may make upon another."
"Every thing is hard," remarked Lambert moodily,
and as if to himself. "Well, let us forget this fruitless
palaver, and be as we were. I am quite sure you are
ready to do me a good turn if you can—if—Ah! I
hear Elsie singing. Come along, let us forget our
troubles for a bit over a game of baccarat."
But Glynn did not attend to his cards, his head was
in a whirl. He was infinitely touched by the uncon-
sciousness of the songstress, who received them with
the soft composure peculiar to her, which had in it so
much womanly dignity. How little she dreamed that
the man who thrilled at her touch, who drank in the
tones of her voice greedily, had refused to share his
life with her—had rejected the chance of winning her,
for Glynn acknowledged there was a " con " as well as
a "pro" in the case. He had survived the age at
which men think they have but to ask and they must
receive.
"Oh! Mr. Glynn," said Elsie, suddenly turning to
him, " Madame Davilliers begs you to take a ticket for
a ball which is to be given at the Louvre Hotel, for
the benefit of an orphanage under the direction of
sisters of St. Vincent de Paul. Madame is one of the
committee."


a t sa y.
"I shall be very happy. Are you going?"
"Yes; that is, if my father can spare me." She
rose as she spoke and turned toward Lambert, who
was sitting in an attitude of deep dejection, his cards
lying on the table beside him.
"Dearest," said Elsie, stealing to his side, and lay-
ing her cool white hand on his brow, " does your head
ache?"
"No, no, not much ;" then with a sudden impulse,
"you love your dad then, though he is a rugged old
cuss?"
Elsie smiled, an exquisitely tender smile. "So well,
that nothing and no one could make up for the want
of him."
Glynn was struck with her words. Could she by
any possibility have overheard her father's proposal,
and his refusal? Such an idea was appalling. But
no, it was quite impossible.


CHAPTER V.
VANISHED.
GLYNN was far from being satisfied with his own
decision. Of course the mere fact of having any
woman offered to him is enough to make an English-
man reject her, were she an amalgamation of the
Blessed Virgin, Florence Nightingale, Venus, and
Psyche in one. That he should decline Lambert's
suggestion was right enough, though the evident sin-
gleness of purpose, the intense fatherly feeling which
prompted him, took from his strange proceeding all
trace of coarse worldliness ; but having congratulated
himself on his own wisdom and firmness, another train
of thought put itself in motion, haunting him with
maddening pertinacity in all his comings and goings
throughout the day which succeeded the memorable
conversation. Elsie's face, her eyes, the quiet grace
of her figure and movements, were perpetually before
him. Her tender gravity, which did not prevent her
from enjoying in brief light flashes of perception the
droll side of things, the generous sympathy, ever
ready to well up when needed—all this was vividly
present to his imagination. Had he done well to turn
from so rich a store of goodly gifts because it was set
in uncouth surroundings? Was it the part of a true
man to count the cost, to shrink from any possible
risk, rather than to brave all things for true love?
When and where should he find a companion so sweet,
so intelligent, so satisfying to heart and sense? Then
again came the doubt—would it be well to plant in the
midst of one's home and its sanctities this branch of a
wild vine, lovely though it was? might not sorrow and


84
A T BA V,
disgraceful associations be the bitter fruit thereof?
How would imperfect human nature—imperfect
human love stand such a test? If Elsie loved him,
then he would dare all things; but she did not. It
would be better for her, as well as for him, to leave
her in the tranquillity of indifference than awaken an
interest that could only lead to trouble. Yes, he
would continue to preserve the tone of quiet friendli-
ness he had adopted. Still he must not leave Paris
immediately. He would not desert poor Lambert,
who was evidently in a mess of some kind. Later on
he would probably make a clean breast of it. So as it
was Friday, Glynn determined to go to Madame
Davilliers' in the evening, for the result of his wise
cogitations was a burning desire to meet Miss Lambert
to assure himself of her indifference.
The gathering at Madame Davilliers' was less
crowded than usual; still a considerable number of
visitors were present, among them one or two pro-
fessional singers and Mr. Vincent, who was talking to
Elsie when Glynn made his appearance. He was soon
called away, however, by the hostess, and Glynn
eagerly took his place.
Elsie greeted him with a bright amused smile, as
though his presence suggested some droll idea.
"I don't see your father here to-night," said Glynn.
"He has been called rather suddenly to Dunkerque,"
she replied, "but will return on Monday. He seemed
in better spirits, and I think the change will do him
good."
"I hope so, especially as you reflect his moods.
You are looking more like yourself than when I first
returned."
"Ah, I was very miserable then. But one reason
why I feel so much brighter is that my father has
promised I shall go for a few months to Mrs. Kellett,
to my old home, Woodburn, and then we shall give up
our itage here."
"And how will you bear the seclusion—the change


AT BAY.
85
from Parisian gayeties?" looking earnestly into her
eyes, and wondering what motive underlay this sudden
scheme.
"I shall like it very much; I should like any thing
that would secure peace."
"Pray, monsieur," said Madame Davilliers, who
came up at that moment, "have you received your
card for the ball on the 20th? Our young debutantes,
Mademoiselle Lambert and my Antoinette, count on
you for one of their partners."
"I am infinitely honored ; but I fear my dancing is
not of the best. However, in such a cause, one would
attempt the impossible."
"It is much to be regretted that the amiable'Mon-
sieur Derin is not in town ; and ce cher M. Vincent
does not know when he will return. Still our party
will be large and distingue"."
Of that Glynn had no doubt. He had received his
ticket, and if still in Paris would certainly present
himself, etc., etc.
Then he felt obliged to offer his congratulations to
Mademoiselle Antoinette, after which M. Le Vicomte
was introduced, and it seemed to him that half the
evening was over before he managed to return to
Elsie. She was by no means solitary or neglected,
however. Antoinette chattered perseveringly at her
side, and various well-dressed employes in sundry
imperial bureaux bestowed fragments of their time
upon her. Vincent came back more than once to her
side, and was tranquilly, if not favorably received. At
last Glynn contrived to obtain a seat beside her.
"Are you not going to sing to-night?"
"No; these gentlemen and Madame d'ltalia will
give us far better music than I can."
"Not in my opinion ; your singing goes straight to
my heart."
Elsie smiled and looked at her fan. Glynn felt
almost irresistibly impelled to tell her how charming
she was, but he did resist.


86
A T BA y.
"I suppose I must not call while your father is
absent," he resumed; "and I have found some de-
lightful volumes in Tauchnitz, which I should like to
give you."
"Can you not send them?" she asked, looking at
him with laughing eyes. "I want books very much;
no one gives me books but you."
"Then I must bring them myself."
"Why not? I shall be very glad to see you, so will
Madame Weber."
"Thank you! May I come to-morrow?"
"To-morrow? No ; to-morrow I go with Antoinette
to visit the good ladies of the Annonciades, the con-
vent where we were at school. But come on Sunday
if you like. On Monday my dear father will be with
me again; then he will be able to tell me when we can
go to England."
"But you will return to Paris?"
"I do not know; nothing is certain."
"I hope you will promise certainly to dance with
me at this ball."
"Shall you be here when it takes place?"
"Yes, certainly; nothing shall prevent me from
being present."
A faint color flickered over Elsie's cheek, as if this
resolution implied a personal compliment, and an
amused smile parted her lips.
"Then you like dancing?"
"That depends. At any rate I want to dance the
first dance with you at your first ball."
Elsie laughed. "Very well. But though I have
never been at a great ball, I have been at several
soire'es dansanies with Madame Davilliers. Whenever
Antoinette went they kindly took me:"
"I suppose you are fond of dancing?"
"I love it," earnestly.
"Does your friend Vincent dance well?"
"I believe he does, most Americans do; but he is
not my friend, and I can not bear to dance with him."


A T BA y.
«7
"You receive him very well considering you do not
like him?"
Elsie paused an instant, and looking up with an ex-
pression of trust, said in a low tone, "I am afraid of
him."
"Why?" drawing unconsciously nearer to her.
"I can not tell,—no, that is not quite true; I begin,
I think to understand why."
"And will you tell me?"
"I should rather like to tell you, but not here."
"On Sunday, then, when I bring you your books?"
"No; I do not want to mention his name before
Madame Weber."
"Is she a friend of his?"
"I am not sure, but it is well to be cautious."
"It gives me a kind of shock to think you are
obliged to be on your guard in your own home."
"That will be all over when I am at Woodburn."
"I wish your father would come and settle in Lon-
don; it would be pleasant and useful for you to have
some English friends."
"It is more likely my father would settle in
America."
"Then I should never see you!"
The words had passed his lips before he could re-
strain them, and he watched their effect keenly.
"I suppose not," very quietly. "I should be sorry,
and my father would be very sorry."
Glynn felt unreasonably irritated. Was this young,
slight, inexperienced girl stronger than himself, that
the tone in which he was conscious his words were
uttered should in no way move her? He was dimly
aware of a change in her manner so delicate as to be
indefinable; it was not less friendly, but more col-
lected, as if she thought before she spoke.
But Antoinette approaching with an elderly cousin
of her fiance", who had requested an introduction to
the belle Americaine, put an end to their conversation,
and not long after Elsie went away.


88
AT BAY.
The days which intervened between Lambert's sud-
den journey to Dunkerque and the ball went rapidly—
too rapidly. Glynn dined twice in the Rue de L'eveque.
Lambert was grave, but less dejected than previously.
He had the air of a man who had escaped from a period
of indecision, and had thoroughly made up his mind.
Glynn, on the contrary, sank deeper into the quick-
sands of irresolution, and felt each day more vividly
how strong an effort it would cost him to tear himself
away; how impossible it seemed to leave Elsie to the
chances of undefined danger, none the less formidable
because it was impalpable.
It was with an unaccountable impression that some-
thing important, something decisive would occur be-
fore the evening was over, Glynn dressed and dined,
taking care to be in the ball-room and near the door
in good time, in order to claim Elsie's promise of the
first dance on her arrival. Madame Davilliers and
her party were rather late, and to Glynn's annoy-
ance she entered the room leaning on Vincent's arm.
Mademoiselle followed, conducted by the vicomte,
and finally Elsie, leaning on M. Davilliers—Elsie in
her first ball-dress, a delicious combination of white
silk tulle and lace, with sprays of wild roses, long grass,
and foliage, a delicate wreath of the same flowers in
her hair, and a simple necklace of shimmering Vene-
tian shells round her throat. She looked a little shy,
a little self-conscious, less composed than usual, and
when she distinguished Glynn's tall figure, and met
his dark, eager, admiring eyes, she colored suddenly,
looking away with a smile so sweet, so glad that
Glynn's heart gave a quick bound, and throbbed with
a triumphant sense of victory, after which reason gave
up the struggle and resigned herself to defeat.
"This is our dance, Miss Lambert," said Glynn,
after a brief greeting to the rest of the party as he
took her hand. "But it is a set of lancers; would
you not like to walk round and look at the decorations
until the next dance, which is a waltz?"


A T BA Y.
89
"Thank you, I should." So Glynn took her pro-
gramme and wrote his own name for several waltzes,
prefacing each inscription with a persuasive " May I?"
Elsie laughingly restricted the number, saying she had
promised some dances to M. Davilliers, Henri Le
Clerc, and M. de Pontigny. "But," she added with
slight graceful hesitation, " if it does not interfere
with your other dances, might I say I am engaged to
you if Mr. Vincent asks me for a waltz. I must dance
with him, but not a waltz,—I can not."
"Yes, I will grant your very serious request," said
Glynn, smiling down upon her. "I shall keep all
waltzes at your disposal, and take care to be within
hail! Is it permitted to a brutal Englishman to say
your toilet is perfect?"
"I am very glad you think so ; it is chiefly Madame
Davilliers' choice. It pleased my father, who never
counts the cost of any thing for me," she sighed.
"Why is Lambert not here to see your triumph?"
"He did think of coming, but felt too tired; he has
been very busy, so it was decided that I should come
with the Davilliers; and if we stay very late I am to
go home with them, for my father always wakes when
I come in."
The decorations were duly admired, and then the
waltz for which Glynn had been longing struck up.
Given good music, a first-rate floor, a partner whose
step suits yours, and waltzing is certainly a pleasant
exercise; but when in addition your partner is just
the very creature that you have felt tempted over and
over again to clasp in your arms, and pour out expres-
sions of tenderness and admiration while your heart
throbs against hers, the pleasure becomes almost
painful.
Glynn, as the hours went rapidly by, felt his power
over himself melting away; there was a soft reserve,
a frequent avoidance of being alone with him on the
part of Miss Lambert, that fanned the long-smolder-
ing fire of passion into a strong, an irresistible glow,


90
AT BAY.
Why should he let himself be cheated by cold caution
out of the delicious, perhaps invigorating draught
which fortune offered him? He was no mere conven-
tional man of the world to turn his back on a woman
worthy of all love because her father was not exactly
eligible to be comptroller of Her Majesty's household!
He would be true to his better instincts, his higher
self.
Meanwhile it was infinitely irritating to be obliged
to give up his fascinating partner from time to time as
other cavaliers came to claim her.
Suddenly, as he was leading her across the room to
Madame Davilliers, he felt her start and press his
arm, a movement which he attributed to Viricent's
approach.
"You have not granted me a waltz yet, Miss Lam-
bert; may I have the next ?" said the American.
"I am engaged for the next."
"Indeed ! to Mr. Glynn? He has been so highly
favored that I think he might permit a change of
partners, as I am obliged to leave almost immediately,
and shall not see you again for some time. I start by
the early mail for Bordeaux to-morrow, or rather this
morning."
"I have less benevolence than you credit me with,"
said Glynn haughtily. "I am not disposed to forego
an iota of my temporary right."
"What would your father say to your desertion of
your old friend for a new acquaintance ?" asked Vin-
cent with an unpleasant laugh.
To Glynn's surprise Elsie made a slight movement
as if to withdraw her arm. Glynn held it tightly
against his side.
"I have not deserted you, Mr. Vincent," she said
quietly, as if recovering her first impulse to leave
Glynn, " for I was not engaged to you."
"Perhaps not; we will discuss that point when we
meet next," returned Vincent with insolent assurance.
"Meanwhile au revoir, Miss Lambert. Good-by,


A T BA Y.
9*
Mr. Glynn; I don't suppose I shall see you again.'
He made a sort of defiant bow and turned away.
"Come and sit down in the ante-room," said Glynn,
"it is cool and quiet; that brute has disturbed you."
Miss Lambert silently accepted the suggestion, and as
a new dance proceeded they were soon alone.
"For heaven's sake tell me what it is that enables
that fellow to annoy you?" said Glynn earnestly;
"you said you would tell me."
"I never liked him, but latterly I perceive that he
has some curious influence over my father, who has
even asked me to be civil to him. Perhaps I ought
not to tell you this, but my father trusts you, and I—I
believe you are loyal. I am still uneasy about my
father. He is so restless, and I imagine he is always
more restless when he has been with Mr. Vincent. I
sometimes think that my father has had a hard, sad
life, though he tries to forget his troubles, and I want
to make up to him for the past. He loves me so much
that I must do every thing for him, and be with him
always."
"The young can not always promise for their future,
and he would be happiest, knowing you were happy."
"But / should not; he deserves all I can do, and it
would hurt me, oh ! cruelly, to think he ever wanted
any thing when I was not there to give it to him."
The sweet soft lips quivered with feeling as she spoke.
"This is a heart worth winning," thought Glynn, as
he gazed on her pensive downcast face.
"I wish he would tell you something about Mr. Vin-
cent before you go," continued Elsie. "I feel op-
pressed with a sense of indefinable mischief."
"Before I go!" repeated Glynn. "How do you
know I am going?"
"I heard my father say you were going, and of
course you will not stay in Paris."
"I can not tear myself from it," said Glynn with
passionate emphasis.
"Why?" asked Elsie, looking up surprised, then


9*
AT BAY.
meeting his gaze a vivid blush passed over her cheek,
fading away quickly.
"Why!" he exclaimed. "May I come and tell
you why? to-morrow you will hear my explanation,
with kindness, with patience?"
"Ah !" she returned, shrinking slightly, " it is late
—Madame Davilliers will be looking for me."
"But, Elsie, may I come,—will you hear me?"
"Yes," she said gravely and softly, "you may
come." Other couples now invaded their solitude, and
Glynn was obliged to take her to her chaperon.
Madame Davilliers was ready to leave the ball, and
observed that the dear child, meaning Elsie, looked
quite tired.
Glynn accompanied them to the door, wrapping
Elsie's cloak round her carefully.
"To-morrow," he whispered, pressing her arm to his
side. She looked up—a serious, searching look.
"You puzzle me!" she said.
"How? but you will tell me how and why! When
may I come to-morrow?"
"In the afternoon."
"You will stay with us to-night, chcre Elsie?" cried
Madame Davilliers from the carriage.
"A thousand thanks, but I should rather go home,
I have caught cold I think." Her voice was unsteady,
and Glynn noticed that she was trembling. He longed
to speak some soothing words to her, but there was
no possibility of doing so. The next moment the door
was shut, the coachman ordered to drive to the Rue
de L'eveque, and Glynn left gazing after the retreat-
ing vehicle.
Bidding good night to young Le Clerc, who was
returning to the ball-room, Glynn lighted his cigar, and
walked slowly down the Rue de Rivoli. It was a
heavy, intensely dark night; but he was too much ex-
cited to feel atmospheric influences. In his own mind
he had passed the rubicon ; and his request to Elsie
for an interview on the morrow had, he considered,


AT BAY.
93
pledged him to offer his future life for her accept-
ance.
Would she accept it? He was too deeply and truly
in love to make sure of the impression he had created
himself, too much in earnest to be humble. Elsie had
been startled, touched; but it did not follow she loved
him. However she decided, he was glad he had
spoken as he did. She must know what his intended
explanation meant; would she have promised to hear
it if she were not disposed to hear it favorably? If!
—what rapture of anticipation shivered through him
at the possibilities thus suggested. Then he almost
laughed aloud at the idea of Lady Gethin's anger and
despair at such a marriage as he contemplated. He
even pictured a future home, so peaceful, so lovingly
home-like, that not even the tolerably frequent visits
of Lambert in his gorgeous array and most anecdotal
mood should disturb its delicious harmony! The first
faint streaks of daylight were stealing across the east-
ern sky when Glynn at length entered his hotel.
The porter handed him his key, and with it a card,
on which was printed, "Travers Deering, Denham
Castle," and written in pencil, " Want particularly to
see you. Will call to-morrow about two."
"What an infernal nuisance!" was Glynn's rather
profane reflection; "he shall not keep me here after
2:30 if it were to save his life!"
Deering was not punctual. It was already two
o'clock when he presented himself, and he at once
asked Glynn to let their interview take place in the
Iatter's private room, as he wished to speak of personal
matters. They therefore adjourned from the general
salon, and Deering quickly plunged into his subject,
which was to ask Glynn's advice as to the organizing
of a scheme for making a branch from the main line
of railway, which ran within eight or nine miles of Den-
ham, to some villages on his estate, and past a certain
quarry he had lately begun to work. This had been


94
AT BAY.
suggested by a shrewd land-agent, and Deering was
anxious to consult Glynn before he left Paris for his
summer wanderings. The conversation which ensued
was animated and interesting; but Glynn did not for-
get to look at his watch from time to time.
"I see I am keeping you," said Deering, observing
his movement; "I shall not trespass any longer. I
shall follov/ your advice, and see the heads of your
firm as to funds on my way through London. How is
our queer acquaintance Lambert and his incomparable
daughter? I have found traces of a curious story
connected with him, which if true ," as he spoke
the door was burst open, and Lambert rushed in—
Lambert in a state of intense, agonized excitement.
His eyes wild with angry terror, his face pallid through
all the deep sunburn of its acquired lint, a slight froth
at the corners of his mouth, his necktie disarranged,
his hands gloveless; both Deering and Glynn started
to their feet at this unexpected apparition.
"My child!" cried Lambert hoarsely, "where is
nly child? Deering, you limb of the devil! have you
helped that scoundrel Vincent to take her away? for
God's sake tell me! have mercy! I'll do any thing!
Glynn, you will help me ? you are an honest, honorable
man. She's gone, and I am going mad!"
"Gone!" cried his hearers together, " what do you
mean?"
"Listen," said Lambert, gasping as if for breath,
and throwing himself into a chair. "She was at the
ball last night. Why did I ever let her from under my
own eyes! It was agreed that if she was late she
should stay at the Davilliers'. When I asked for her
this morning the bonne said she had not returned, so
I thought no more about it, and went to work as usual.
I had some business appointments, and then I turned
into Davilliers', thinking I'd walk home with Elsie—
my jewel! if she was still there. But she wasn't,—
oh ! great heavens! they had left her at her own door,
seen her go in, and heard it close ; and now she is gone!"


AT BAY.
95
"But this is not possible! Mademoiselle Antoinette
is playing some stupid trick. Have you"
"I tell you they are nearly as distracted as I am,"
interrupted Lambert, starting up and grasping the
back of his chair. "I rushed to your hotel, Deering,
for I can not help thinking Vincent has some hand in
it. He is a double-dyed scoundrel. Deering, I charge
you not to screen him!"
"How dare you accuse me of such villainy!" cried
Deering in great agitation. "I am as ignorant of the
affair as you are—more so; don't pretend that you are
without suspicion. She has not been taken away with-
out her own consent; you must have some idea who
it is she has gone off with."
Glynn, in the midst of his own stunning horror, was
struck with the consternation which Deering's face ex-
pressed, and was inclined to acquit him of any guilt in
the matter.
"Have you been to the police? No? for God's
sake let us lose no time." Glynn seized his hat. "\
will go with you."
"I returned to question the concierge in order to get
some clew before going to the Prefecture de Police;
then I felt obliged to question him," nodding to Deer-
ing, "to tell you—to—Oh! stand by me, Glynn, my
head is going."
"You must keep calm for her sake," said Glynn;
"come on, if she is above ground we'll find her!"
"And I'll second you so far as I can," cried Deer-
ing, " though you have attacked me so shamefully."
Lambert, with a dazed, half-stupefied air, stared at
him, till Glynn, who felt his own head reeling under
the shock, passed his arm through his, and led him to
the fiacre which was waiting.
Little was said, except to urge the driver to greater
speed, until they reached the Rue de Jerusalem, where,
after a short parley with one or two lower officials, they
were admitted to the presence of the chief of the de-
tectives, a quiet, simple-looking, iron-gray man, with


96
AT BAY.
watchful eyes, and a clear penetrating voice. He lis-
tened with profound attention to Lambert's state-
ment, scarcely putting a question, only occasionally
restraining the details. Lambert had evidently made
a supreme effort to master his terrible emotion, the
vital necessity for clearness giving him a force beyond
himself.
While Glynn listened with agonized keenness to the
recital, he also heard the whispered terrors of his own
heart. What horror had befallen the tender, delicate
darling whom he had hoped to call his promised wife
that day? To what hideous plot had she fallen a
victim? He scarcely knew how to restrain the wild
impulse to rush forth in hopeless blind pursuit.
Having heard all particulars, M. Claude (the chef)
took a sheet of paper, and demanded a description of
the young lady. This was furnished by both Lambert
and Glynn, the latter eagerly adding some characteris-
tic details of which even the father did not think.
Claude then touched a bell, and ordered the subordi-
nate who answered it to telegraph the description at
once to every seaport and frontier-town in France,
warning the police de sdrcte in each place to arrest any
person answering to it, no matter how accompanied.
"Time has been lost already," said the immovable
chef. "Still, things are always discovered. Have
the goodness to answer my questions."
"Will you say," broke in Deering with his supreme
air, addressing himself to Glynn, " that I shall be
happy to guarantee expenses."
"Damn your money !" cried Lambert, turning on
him fiercely ; "not a penny of it shall pay for the
recovery of my child."
"He doesn't know what he is saying, poor beggar,"
said Deering in an '-..ndertone with contemptuous pity,
and an evil look on his face. "As I don't understand
what is going on, I'll leave you. I have an idea she'll
make for England, if she hasn't gone off with some
Yankee. So I shall write to my lawyers to stir up our


AT BAY.
91
detectives. I will call at your hotel for further news
this evening, Glynn." He left the bureau, and Glynn
gave his undivided attention to the interrogatories,
noting with despair, which increased every moment,
the hopelessness of the search in the face of nearly
twenty-four hours' start.
That the extraordinary finesse of the police should
finally succeed was possible, but in the interim what
crime might not be committed?
The distinct queries of the astute detective estab-
lished—That Lambert had risen at his usual hour;
that on receiving his coffee from the bonne, he asked
if mademoiselle had returned ; and finding she had
not, remarked that doubtless she had danced well and
late, so it was better for her to stay at Madame Davil-
liers' for the night. He also inquired if Celestine, the
bonne, had taken her young lady's morning-dress to
Madame Davilliers', to which she replied in the affirm-
ative.
The concierge had heard the bell about two or half-
past, had pulled the cordon, heard the door shut—it
was a heavy door—and recognized Mademoiselle
Lambert's voice ; after that there was no trace.
"Have you any suspicion? Had your daughter
any admirer to whom you were averse?"
"No ; certainly not."
"Certain you can not be where a young lady is in
question," said M. Claude, with quiet cynicism. "But
is there no one toward whom your suspicion points?
you spoke angrily to the gentleman who has just gone
out."
"There is one man respecting whom I have some
doubts, and that gentleman is his associate." Lam-
bert proceeded to describe Vincent with considerable
accuracy, adding that he had more than once demand-
ed the hand of his daughter; but that the young lady
herself was strongly opposed to him.
Here Glynn, who had been listening with painful,
feverish interest to the dialogue, volunteered an ac-


98
AT BAY.
count of his appearance at the ball on tne previous
night; of his endeavor to persuade Mademoiselle
Lambert to dance with him, and his avowed intention
of leaving early that morning for Bordeaux. These
details were all carefully noted down.
Then M. Claude rising, said, " Now to view the
house." He struck a bell which stood beside his desk,
and while he gave some instructions to the officer who
answered his summons, he put on his gloves, locked
his desk, and directed that a certain commissaire should
accompany him to M. Lambert's residence. "I sup-
pose you will wish to assist in the examination of the
premises ?" said M. Claude ; " you may help to throw
light on the case."
"Of course I will go with you."
"And you will allow me to assist you as far as I
can," urged Glynn.
"But can nothing more be done? no more rapid
action taken?" cried the fevered, agitated father,
letting his closed hand fall heavily on the table. The
chef took out his watch, glanced at it, and remarked
dramatically, "It is forty minutes since I noted down
your description of your daughter, and all egress from
France is closed to her."
Lambert uttered a low moan.
"We must let them work their own way. They
know what they are about; but the suspense is almost
intolerable," said Glynn, whose heart was bursting
with despair and remorse. Why had he not accepted
Lambert's proposition? Had he been Elsie's be-
trothed, this might not have happened!
The drive to the Rue de L'Eveque seemed endless;
Lambert sat immovable and speechless. Arrived, the
chef de la sdret/ and his subaltern immediately pro-
ceeded to examine the house carefully, and to question
the concierge as to the tenants. In the rez-de-chaussc'e
was the magasin of a Patent Stove Polish Company;
on the first //age an old lady with her son and daughter-
in-law resided.—" Persons of high consideration," said


A T BA V.
99
the tearful concierge. The second Mage was vacant;
M. Lambert occupied the third. Then came a Pro-
fessor of Music, Mons. le Captain Galliard, Maitre
d'Armes, and others.
Both Lambert and Glynn watched with quivering
interest the deliberate minuteness of the examination,
first of the concierge, then of the house itself.
The Professor of Music and the Maitre d'Armes
were out, so M. Claude contented himself for the
present by asking some leading questions about
them.
Then he and his attendant commissaire ascended to
Lambert's apartment, and questioned Madam Weber
and the bonne as to the smallest details concerning ihe
missing girl: her character, her habits of life, her
friends, her pursuits, and finally asked for her last
photograph. It sent a sharp dart of angry pain
through Glynn's heart to see the chef de la sdrete" and
his aide-de-camp coolly examining the portrait which
to him had a certain sanctity, to observe the unmoved
composure of the practiced detectives in face of the
father's despairing anxiety, the professional instinct
which subordinated human interest to the keen per-
ception of possible crime, the sleuth-hound scent for
a legitimate prey.
From Lambert's abode they proceeded to the vacant
/iage, which the concierge, in all the tearful yet delight-
ful excitement of such an extraordinary occurrence,
threw open with eager zeal.
It was almost the same as the dwelling above, and
after looking rapidly through the empty rooms they
reached the kitchen. The door was fastened.
"Tiens/" cried the concierge, looking rapidly
through the keys she carried, " this is strange. I do
not remember locking the door, and I have not been
in here more than twice since that day you looked at
the apartment, Monsieur Lambert, for some friends
who thought of coming to Paris."
While she spoke the commissaire had thrust the blade


AT BAY.
101
dered ?" continued Lambert in an agonized whisper,
staring wildly at the lace.
"No, I do not," said M. Claude, apparently some-
what moved by the father's intense misery. "I do not
suppose her life would be attempted by any one, unless
indeed there are some circumstances in her or your
history with which I am unacquainted. But I believe
what may be as bitter as her death to you,—that she
has gone with her own free consent."
"And that I never can believe," cried Lambert.
"She—the sweetest, most loving, obedient child man
ever had!"
"Even so," said the detective with a tinge of sad-
ness.
"The affair might have occurred under chloroform,"
said the commissaire in a low submissive tone. "A
resolute practiced villain meets her ascending the
stairs; a handkerchief saturated with chloroform sud-
denly wrapped round her face renders her helpless.
She is carried through this empty apartment, her dress
changed while she is still insensible." An irrepressi-
ble groan from Glynn made the chef de la sdrete" look
at him. "They carry her down stairs," continued the
commissaire.
"And then," interrupted the concierge shrilly, "they
are caught! how can any one get out without calling
me? My faith! do you think I neglect my duties, or
that a great warrior like my husband, now en retraite,
and employed at the Gare St. Lazare, would permit
half-a-dozen such brigands to pass?"
"Silence !" said M. Claude, impressively. "Feel
along the floor, in that corner beyond the window."
His subordinate obeyed, and discovered a small
square of chocolate, a few crumbs of bread, and two
pins. These last were most carefully examined.
"They are English," said the detective. "But that
is easily accounted for ; the person or persons engaged
in the abduction evidently partook of refreshment;
nor is there any sign leading to the supposition of


IOJ
AT BAY.
violence. The difficulty is to discover how they man-
aged to leave the house. At what hour did you lock
the door and put out your light last night?" to the
concierge.
In reply to his questions she stated that the entrance
door was always locked at ten o'clock, but that she her-
self often sat up till eleven. Last night, feeling weary
she went to bed at half-past ten. Before she slept the
bell rang, and she pulled the cordon. M. Lambert's
voice said who was there, and bid her good night.
Twice after entrance was demanded by different in-
mates; then after what seemed to her a long time
some one rang, and waking completely, she distinctly
heard Miss Lambert's voice. She did not sleep again
for what seemed to her more than an hour, dur-
ing which all was profoundly quiet. She always rose
before six, and after lighting her fire to prepare the
coffee of monsieur her husband, she unlocked the
great door and went to fill her pail with water at a
pump which was in a court on which the entrance
opened at the far side from the street, in order to wash
the passage.
"Can you see the chief entrance from this court?"
"But yes, certainly."
"And the pump, how is it situated?"
"About the center."
"I shall inspect it," said M. Claude. Having care-
fully wrapped up the morsel of lace and ribbon, the
square of chocolate and the two pins, and placed them
in an inner pocket, M. Claude led the way down stairs
to the court mentioned by the concierge, followed by her,
Lambert, and Glynn, who were too penetrated by the
sense of their own helplessness in such an affair to
offer any interference or suggestion.
The court, which was like a well, being surrounded by
lofty houses, was exactly opposite the entrance, and
• the pump, as stated, was in the center, but with its
back toward the doorway, so that any one using the
handle to raise the water would naturally turn his or


AT BAY.
her face from it, especially as it was necessary to watch
the filling of whatever vessel was placed below the
spout. After looking carefully at the relative posi-
tions of the door and the pump, M. Claude requested
the concierge to fill a pail of water as she was in the
habit of doing. She obeyed; he stood behind her
during the operation, and at the end observed, " The
fugitive walked through the open door while you were
pumping; no force or chloroform could have been
used." The concierge burst into tears. "Gentlemen,"
continued the chef de la sdr de", "I shall now proceed to
Madame Davilliers, and the remainder of my inquiries
I wish to prosecute alone. M. Lambert, do me the
favor to call at my office to-morrow morning about ten,
and come unaccompanied."
"And can you do no more to-day?" asked poor
Lambert, his mouth twitching from the nervous strain
of suppressing his cruel anxiety.
"I consider that we have secured a clew. I feel
sure of finding your daughter, if not immediately, at
no distant date."
"At no distant date," repeated the father, as the
chef de la sdrete" left the house followed by the com-
missaire. "But in the mean time !—O God, Glynn,
how can I live on such a rack, and I don't know where
to turn!"
"It is almost unbearable. Can you remember
nothing that might serve as a clew to her extraordi-
nary disappearance?"
"Nothing. If I don't find her, I have done with
life."
"I feel for you, Lambert, from the bottom of my
soul. I'd give all I possess to know that Elsie is safe!
You'll have an awful night of it. Shall I stay with
you?"
"I am best alone," returned Lambert, looking
sharply at him. "I didn't think you cared so much.
Thank ye—I am best alone."


CHAPTER VI.
PURSUIT.
GLYNN had known some rough times in his life,
but a stupendous calamity such as had now over-
taken him can only happen once in an existence.
Little more than twelve hours before he had thrilled
at Elsie's touch, and dreamed of winning her love!
Why had he not accompanied her to her house, and
seen her safely within her father's door? What was
the dim haze of mystery which hung about her, and
had now suddenly deepened into darkness so pro-
found that it defied conjecture? And suppose she
were discovered, might not the discovery be nearly as
terrible as the loss? In spite of M. Claude's profound
conviction that Miss Lambert had gone willingly,
Glynn could not, would not believe that there was a
shadow of duplicity in the soul that looked so can-
didly, so earnestly out of those glorious deep blue
eyes. No; but she might have been decoyed away
by some plausible story; if so, she was not wanting in
courage and resolution; she would probably manage
to communicate with Lambert. But in the mean time
what agonies of terror, what unspeakable distress she
must endure.
After a hideous night, during which he did not
attempt to undress, Glynn was early next morning at
the Rue de L'Eveque.
Lambert looked less terribly agitated than he was
the day before, but he had an exhausted, stupefied air,
as if nature could not hold out much longer. He was
dressed and ready to go out, however, and as he was
too soon for the appointment with M. Claude, Glynn


A T BA Y.
accompanied him to see Madame Davilliers, who with
her husband had visited and condoled with the be-
reaved father more than once during the previous
evening.
They found her still much agitated. She received
Lambert with affectionate sympathy, but talked in a
strain that maddened Glynn. The chef de la sdretd
had evidently communicated to her his own belief that
Elsie had fled willingly.
"Antoinette," she said, " was weeping in her own
room; the poor child could not of course understand
the despair of her elders. To her it was like some
fairy tale of a cruel ogre; the less she heard of so
awful a catastrophe the better. It is not for me to
judge the habits of other nations," continued madame,
"but the result of such freedom as is permitted to
young American girls can not fail to be fatal! That
dear Elsie was an angel of goodness and purity, brought
up by those holy ladies of the convent, and all the
more likely to be led away, because of her extreme
innocence. She" (Madame Davilliers) "was the last
woman to be taken up with egotism; but the disgrace
of such an occurrence would reflect on all who had
come in contact with the unhappy one."
"Do you mean to say that you think my child, my
jewel, my pride, is to blame? that any one living could
lead her astray?" almost screamed Lambert, stung
from his despairing apathy into angry excitement.
"Dear monsieur, I only blame your system, not its
victim!"
"You are premature in your conclusions," said
Glynn with cold displeasure. "Within twenty-four
hours she will no doubt be discovered, and all that
seems inexplicable explained."
"I trust it may be so, monsieur; meanwhile I agree
with the excellent M. Claude that the affair should be
kept as secret as possible; rumor will make every
thing worse than it really is, and for the sake of"
"Adieu, madame; mine is too terrible an affliction


io6
A T BA Y.
to leave room for thought about appearances!" cried
poor Lambert, turning away.
"Poor unhappy father! all things may be pardoned
to him," said madame compassionately to Glynn, who
bowed silently and followed his distracted friend.
Arrived at the bureau de la sAreld, Glynn remained
outside, slowly pacing the street ; and while he waited,
somewhat to his surprise he saw Deering come out
from a different door to that by which Lambert had
entered. He was accompanied by a man in uniform,
and walked briskly away in the same direction in which
Glynn was sauntering; but as they were considerably
ahead of him, it was useless to attempt pursuit. Nor
did Glynn particularly wish to speak with Deering.
He felt that for some occult reason he was Lambert's
enemy, and he entirely acquitted him of any share in
Elsie's disappearance. That he should make independ-
ent inquiries was natural, as Lambert's treatment of
him the previous day almost forbid their holding
further intercourse; probably the man with him was
an official interpreter. Glynn's thoughts were suffi-
ciently painful as he strolled to and fro. He wished
Lambert would voluntarily confide to him the secret of
his enmity to Deering. He felt an unreasoning con-
viction that the extraordinary disappearance of Elsie
was in some way connected with it.
Time went slowly, painfully; but at length a sergent
de ville approaching saluted him, saying, "Will mon-
sieur give himself the trouble to enter? M. Le Chef
wishes to speak to him."
Glynn followed readily, and found Claude alone.
"Monsieur Lambert awaits you in an ante-chamber,"
said the grave chef; "you shall soon be at liberty to
join him. Meantime you will have no objection to
answer a few questions." He proceeded to put a few
leading queries as to Glynn's position and occupation,
the origin of his acquaintance with Lambert, its renewal,
his knowledge of Deering and Vincent, and their con-
nection with father and daughter. The astute chef was


io8
AT BAY.
instant. "He came to seek tidings of the missing
young lady, in whom he seems deeply interested."
There was« pause. Glynn sought in his soul for
some suggestion to keep the inscrutable detective in
conversation. He could not help a conviction that he
was in possession of more information than he cared
to impart; but nothing came to him.
"You do not then believe that any great crime has
been committed ?" he faltered.
"All things are possible; but I hope that before
many days you will hear from the young lady herself.
I believe it is an unusually clever case of elopement.
I have communicated with the English police; but"
—an eloquent shrug—" they have fewer facilities than
we. My telegram yesterday was too late to catch the
Dover mail-boat—not that I think it was of much con-
sequence, for—"
His reason was never uttered; a tap at the door
interrupted him. He rose, took a dispatch from the
hands of a messenger. Closing the door, he read it,
and then with a grim smile said:
"My suspicions are not far wrong. The young
lady is safe and well at Bordeaux, and not alone."
"What does your employe" say?" cried Glynn, not
much comforted by the announcement.
"Read for yourself," said M. Claude, handing the
telegram to him.
Glynn eagerly scanned the lines.
"Young English or American lady answering to
description arrived here last evening; is staying at
'The Lion d'Or,'on the quay. Has been visited by
the captain of an American steamer and another man.
Father must come at once and identify her, or she may
escape."
"This is some mistake," said Glynn, the words
dancing before his eyes. "This can not be Miss Lam-
bert."
"It is most unlikely that my colleague at Bordeaux
should be in error. He is one of the shrewdest em.


A T BA Y.
ployts of the s&retJ. At all events we must inform the
father."
He rang, and desired that M. Lambert should be
recalled. Glynn was infinitely touched by the dulled,
helpless look of the once bright, alert Lambert. He
watched him read the telegram, and observed with
surprise that his face brightened, and an expression of
pleasure gleamed in his eyes.
"This is a chance, anyhow," he exclaimed. "Of
course I'll go. When is the next train?"
The detective watched him curiously.
"But, Lambert," exclaimed Glynn, in English, "you
surely do not believe this can be your daughter? You
do not think that delicate, tender creature would fly
hom you to meet men of whom you know nothing?"
"Maybe I do," said Lambert, " and maybe I don't.
Drowning men catch at straws. I'll go, anyway."
He swayed slightly as he spoke, and caught Glynn's
arm.
"It is more than he can bear," said M. Claude, with
a rare gleam of feeling. "I will telegraph to my col-
league to meet you at the Gare. The mail train
leaves at six. You will be in Bordeaux about noon
to-morrow. You will, I trust, need no further assist-
ance from my department. I wish you good morning,
gentlemen."
He opened the door politely, and they went forth.
"Lambert," said Glynn, as he supported his friend's
unsteady steps, "you are not fit to travel alone; I will
go with you."
"I'm better," returned Lambert, withdrawing his
arm, "and I thank you from the bottom of my heart;
but I'd rather go alone. If—if—oh ! great heavens!
—She mightn't like to see you, Glynn. No, no," with
increased decision, "I would rather go alone, and I
will send you word what I find. You have been
wonderfully good to me, and you know what she was—
is. Why do I despair? If—oh if," with sudden fury,
"J ever get my grip on that infernal villain that drove


no
AT BAY.
her to this, he'll have seen the last of light, and go
down to darkness forever. There, I don't know what
I am talking about. My head seems all wrong."
"You had better let me go with you, Lambert.
Believe me, you are not fit to go alone, and you must
keep well, at any rate, till you recover or rescue your
daughter."
"Recover her! Ay, that I will," standing still
suddenly. "Do you think I'm not proof against
every thing till I find her? and then—and then, when
she is safe, I have done my work, and I'll rest—
ay, rest well and long. But I'll make this journey
alone."
There was nothing for it but to give up all thoughts
of persuading him. Then he seemed to revive, to
master his terrible despondency. He accepted Glynn's
invitation to luncheon, and forced himself to take food
and wine. Then he returned to his desolate home to
make preparations for his departure; finally Glynn saw
him safely into the train.
The hours which succeeded, how slowly, yet swiftly,
they dragged their torturing length! slowly, for the
moments as they dropped into the abyss of the past
seemed deliberately distilled from the bitterest ingred-
ients life could supply; swiftly, for every hour of
delay added to the difficulty of the search, on the suc-
cess of which all Glynn's hopes hung. He exhausted
himself wandering to and fro over the Ruede L'Eveque,
and Rue de Jerusalem, even the Morgue, where he
would rather have found the corpse of her he loved
than know her alive under such circumstances as the
detective's telegram suggested. But this he did not
for a moment believe, though through his long mental
agony strange doubts would obtrude themselves—more
of Lambert than his daughter. He was evidently con-
cealing something. Those vague threats against some
unnamed villain, what did they indicate? Knowledge
of some possible and real abduction, or merely imagi-
native fury?


113
AT BAY.
"Why should you think so?"
"Because he talked to me of Lambert's conceal-
ments as militating against the success of the search,
just after you left him."
Deering's brows met in a fierce, quick frown, and
then resumed their ordinary haughty composure.
"Yes; I thought it well to warn him. I am even now
endeavoring to sift a curious story about Lambert; it
may not be true, but I am a good deal concerned at
this disappearance of his daughter, and, I think, so
are you. She is a fascinating morsel of female flesh,
and it is maddening to see the prize you had marked
for your own carried off under your very eyes. Really
there is no line deep enough to fathom a woman."
"I never marked Miss Lambert as my own," said
Glynn angrily. "I object to your mode of mentioning
her. As to Lambert, no one can doubt the unfortunate
man's despair and distress. I do not believe that
Miss Lambert left home willingly unless decoyed by
false pretenses."
"Be that as it may, I would give a good deal to
know where she is. I believe she is in England; she
was brought up there, I believe. Well, I cross to-night,
and will set the police to work so soon as I get to
London. Shall you be much longer here?"
"My movements are uncertain," returned Glynn
stiffly.
"You'll wait and assist the bereaved father, I pre-
sume," said Deering with an unpleasant smile. "By
the way, Vincent has returned, and is awfully cut up
about the affair. Vincent was, I fancy, a suitor;
might have been a decent match for Miss Lambert;
he is a shrewd fellow. But you are in a hurry, I will
not detain you."
He bid Glynn " good morning" with courteous
friendliness, and left him half-maddened with torturing
waves of doubt, which seemed rising on all sides.
Another long miserable day, its only solace a visit
to poor Madame Weber and Celestine, who talked of


AT BAY.
"5
Back to Paris, where Lambert had not yet returned,
and M. Claude received him with cold displeasure.
M. Claude was growing impatient at the unwonted
failure of his emissaries. It was now six days since
the disappearance of Miss Lambert, and not the faint-
est clew had been found by which to trace her.
The keen-eyed chef de la s&retd threw himself into
the pursuit with all the energy of his nature, all the
professional pride that a high reputation could inspire.
There was not a town of any importance in Europe
where his researches did not penetrate, and yet the
days rolled on, and not a trace was to be found of the
missing girl. For some reasons unknown very little
was said of the occurrence in the newspapers. The
police, always powerful in France, were especially
potent in the later days of the Empire. One or two
journals mentioned the mysterious disappearance of a
young lady, and the matter was dropped.
To Glynn the terrible darkness, which seemed clos-
ing in deeper and deeper with each succeeding day
over the fate of the fair girl he had learned to love so
passionately, was appalling. He chafed against his
own hopelessness, he exhausted himself in conjectures
and restless going to and fro.
When Lambert came back from his fruitless journey
to Marseilles, he seemed sunk in a strange, sullen
apathy, nor did he accept Glynn's well-meant efforts
to comfort and sustain him with cordiality. He de-
clared his intention of remaining in Paris as the place
where the earliest tidings of his missing daughter were
most likely to reach him. He had already given notice
of his intention to leave his apartments, and now dis-
missed Madame Weber and the bonne.
"I do not know where I may go, or what I may
have to do," he said to Glynn. "I'll hang on here till
my time is up, and then I'll take a room somewhere
and just wait. You are very good, Glynn ; you could
have done no more if you had been my poor darling's
affianced lover. I little knew you were a rich man,


A T BA V.
and partner in a great firm, when I offered you her
poor little portion."
"Do not speak of it," said Glynn, with inexpressible
emotion; "but treat me as a trusted friend. Tell me
what conjectures you have formed as to her fate."
"I believe she is dead," said Lambert in a broken
voice, and covering his face. "Had she been in life
she would have managed to communicate with me.
Now I have nothing left to live for, but revenge."
"Have you any idea where to direct your ven-
geance?"
"I can not answer yes or no yet, though if I'd an-
swer any one it would be you, Glynn."
"That means ' Yes,' " returned Glynn.
Lambert did not reply. He seemed sunk in gloomy,
hard resignation to a detested destiny. "You shouldn't
wait on here, Glynn," he resumed, after a minute's
silence. "You can do no good,—as they didn't find
her within the first week it will just be a waiting race.
We'll hit on the truth just by accident, that will be the
way of it."
But Glynn could not tear himself from Paris. How
often he recalled the circumstances under which he
had uttered these words to Elsie; they were almost the
last he had spoken to her. He could almost hear the
soft, tremulous tones in which she promised to listen to
his reasons for not being able to tear himself away. No,
it was impossible that she could have had the smallest
anticipation of the dreadful catastrophe which awaited
her. Yet her very last words—her last look haunted
him. The questioning, wondering glance, the half-
whisper—"you puzzle me!"
Twice during this miserable period of indecision
Glynn encountered Vincent,—once on the stair leading
to Lambert's abode, and once in the Boulevards.
In the first instance he greeted Glynn with the
frankest expression of sorrow and sympathy for the
great misfortune which had befallen Lambert, men-
tioning his own deep grief, and his compassionate


AT BAY.
II?
forgiveness of Lambert's injurious accusations against
himself.
Glynn found Lambert in a state of furious excite-
ment after this visit, and uttering violent half-unintel-
ligible threats against Vincent.
On their second meeting Glynn tried to pass him,
but in vain, and was obliged to listen to a string of
suggestions and conjectures respecting the supposed
fugitive which nearly drove him to throttle his inter-
locutor and fling him into the street under the hoofs
of the passing horses, especially as he felt that Vin-
cent's small, penetrating, watchful eyes were intently,
searchingly fixed on his face while he spoke.
At length letters from his partners obliged him to
quit the scene of so much suffering and disaster.
It was with the deepest reluctance that Glynn bid
Lambert good-by. The unhappy father still wore
the same aspect of helplessness, of sullen submission
to the irresistible. He scarcely heeded Glynn's an-
nouncement of his immediate departure, and merely
answered his ardent request for the earliest informa-
tion respecting any crumbs of intelligence in the
affirmative. He put Glynn's card in his pocket-book,
mechanically. Yet he wrung his hand hard at parting,
and bid God bless him, brokenly—yet heartily.
Glynn, not satisfied with Lambert's promise, ob-
tained an interview with M. Claude, who was even
more curt and immovable than ever. He however
condescended to promise that he would not fail to let
him know should any traces of the missing girl be
found.
Glynn was not perhaps fully aware of the withering
change which the torture of the last three weeks had
wrought in him until he attempted to resume the
routine of his former life. The color and flavor
seemed to have been extracted from existence, nothing
was left worth hoping for, working for, living for, and
the heads of his firm exclaimed at his haggard, worn
aspect.


n8
AT BAY.
The second day after he had resumed his attendance
at the office he found himself, too faint and dizzy to
continue the writing on which he was engaged. His
head ached intensely, his pulses throbbed. He rang,
and began to explain to the clerk who answered his
summons that he felt so ill he must return home ; but
before he could finish his sentence he fell heavily at
the feet of his startled hearer. He was conveyed
carefully to his own residence, which he did not leave
for many weeks, not till he had been brought to the
verge of the grave by a fierce brain-fever.


CHAPTER VII.
will-o'-the-wisp.
ANEW year was opening on the just and the un-
just—the fortunate and the unfortunate. Lady
Gethin had arrived in town after a prolonged Christmas
visit to some attentive relatives in one of the midland
counties.
She was always pleased to be at home; she liked to
exercise a friendly hospitality, and she was by no
means afraid of a lonely evening, of which she never
had too many.
It was the day after her return. Night had closed
in ; her dainty dinner was over, and she was established
in her favorite chair beside a bright wood and coal fire
in the smaller and cozier of her two drawing-rooms,
which was lighted only by the ruddy glow of the fire
and a shaded reading-lamp, by which she was perusing
a new novel. She had laid down the book and was
thinking, with an unusually softened expression on
her strong face, of her favorite Hugh Glynn. She
had been intensely anxious about him during his
severe illness. She had constantly visited his sick
room, and satisfied herself that nurses and servants
were doing their duty. When his life was despaired
of, she was grimly still, silent, and enduring, but she
knew that all the woman in her somewhat masculine
nature had gone out, in maternal affection to her
husband's nephew.
When he was slowly struggling back to life and
strength she accompanied him to a south coast bathing-
place, and. gave him the great benefit of her com-
panionship, for she knew how to be sympathetically


AT BAY
121
"Well, Hugh, and how are you? You look better
and stronger."
"I am! I have turned the corner, and am beginning
to pull mechanically against the collar once more."
Lady Gethin looked earnestly at him. He seemed
taller than ever—gaunt and bony. His dark face was
very colorless, his eyes sunken; yet his attitude and
air had less of lassitude than when they had parted last.
"You have been across the channel?"
"Yes, I ran over to Paris for a little change, just
before Christmas. Paris draws me like a magnet."
"A magnetism you ought to resist. How is the
beautiful city?"
'' Beautiful as ever; but there is mischief in the air.
However, I am no prophet. I wandered about the
old scenes like a troubled ghost, and I saw Lambert."
"Indeed! I wish, Hugh, you would break away
from all the painful associations with that man, you
can do him no good."
"True; but I have the most profound pity for him,
all the more that he seemed by no means glad to see
me. I fancy his terrible misfortune has affected his
brain. He is sullen, and averse to speak of any thing
that leads up to the subject of his lost daughter, and
yet he looks in surprisingly good health."
"He has not had a brain fever !" said Lady Gethin,
significantly. "I suppose no trace whatever has been
discovered?"
"Not the faintest. I succeeded in obtaining an
interview with M. Claude, who reluctantly admitted
that the French police have rarely been so baffled."
"It is a most extraordinary case," said Lady Gethin,
and then hastened to change the subject. "I have had
rather a pleasant time of it at the Kingsfords'. I went
down the day before Christmas and only returned
yesterday. The Deerings put up there for two nights
on their way to Lord Arthur Saville's. Lady Frances
was looking a little more alive; and really Deering
can be very agreeable,"


AT BAY.
123
and low, yet wonderfully distinct; then a highly-
pitched woman's voice declared in French that she
feared some task would be difficult. Again the voice
that made my heart stand still said, ' Difficult, but not
insurmountable; kindness and steadiness will over-
come so much; I would trust them too—' Then I
ceased to catch the words, though the well-known
tones came to me again, as the speakers evidently
turned away. Great heavens! I hear it still, it was
Elsie's voice! I lost my head for a moment, I rushed
to the railing, and thrusting my arms between them,
tried to tear away some of the branches to look through.
My cousin thought I had lost my senses, and begged
for an explanation. I told him I felt certain that a lady
I had been seeking in every direction was at the other
side of the hedge. He said the adjoining grounds
belonged to a ladies' school, and I asked him to ac-
company me to the house, and back me up in my
inquiries, as he was known to the owner and teachers.
At last he consented. The parleying occupied some
time, then we had to walk round by a road which ran
the length of the two gardens, to turn again on reach-
ing the common, and go a little way back to the gates
of Montpellier House ; altogether twenty minutes must
have elapsed from the time I first heard the voice
before I rang the bell at Mrs. Storrer's. As we ap-
proached a cab was driving away. On asking for the
head of the establishment, we were informed that no one
was at home but the head governess and the French
teacher. Heathcote sent up his card, and begged
to be allowed to speak to one or both of the ladies."
"Well," ejaculated Lady Gethin, "what did you
find?"
"After a little delay we were ushered up stairs and
were received by a lady, who recognized Heathcote.
Hs left me to explain myself, which I did as well as I
could, though it was not easy."
"' You heard a voice you recognized speaking in
our grounds,' repeated the lady; 'it must have been


124
AT BAY.
either Mademoiselle Laroche, or Mademoiselle Mop-
pert. They were in the grounds just now.'
"' May I see these ladies?'
"' Mademoiselle Moppert,—yes; but Mademoiselle
Laroche has just driven away. Mademoiselle Mop-
pert has come to replace her as French governess.'
I confess I lost hope as she spoke, still I begged for
an interview with the incoming teacher, and a servant
was sent to request her presence. A glance at her
was enough. She was a short, stout, elderly young
lady, with piercing black eyes and distinct mustaches.
I had to muster my best French and apologize elabo-
rately. Then I begged for some information touching
Mademoiselle Laroche. Was she French ?' Yes,
undoubtedly,—from Picardy.' 'Was she tall, or short?
slight, or stout?' 'She was,' the French governess said,
'about her height, and a little, yes, a very little thin-
ner.' The Englishwoman added that she did not look
in good health. 'Did she sing?' I asked. No, she
had never sung or played while in Mrs. Storrer's estab-
lishment. How long had she been there? About
seven months. She had been engaged in May last,
but did not come till the middle of June. Where had
she gone? It was understood she had made an
engagement to go to India, but she was extremely
reserved. No one knew much about her except Mr.
Storrer, who was spending the holidays with a friend
at Cheltenham. This was all I could extract. Heath-
cote was desperately put out by my eccentric proceed-
ings. I was obliged to return with him ahd to give
some explanation of my conduct. Then I went to the
cab-stand, and found out the number of the cab; and
to the police-station, and commissioned a constable to
ascertain where the cab had taken Mademoiselle
Laroche."
"I think your time and trouble have been thrown
away," said Lady Gethin. "A fancied resemblance
to Miss Lambert's voice was but shallow ground to
build any hopes upon,"


A T BA Y
"5
"It was not fancied," said Glynn, leaning back and
looking straight before him with fixed, dreamy eyes.
"The tones struck my ear, my heart, with instan-
taneous recognition. I can not believe that any two
people could speak so much alike. I must say the
description doesn't tally, nor is it possible to account
for her being in a ladies' school in England; still,
that voice!"
"My dear Hugh, your imagination is so saturated
with the tragic ideas you associate with that unhappy
young girl's flight—I mean her disappearance," for
Glynn turned sharply toward her, "that you can
hardly trust your own impressions. I wish you would
put the affair out of your head. You were quite right
to help the poor father as much as you could ; but
now—let this chapter of your life be closed, and begin
afresh."
"Excellent advice, but useless to me. I can not
forget!"
"Is it possible that on so short an acquaintance you
were so severely hit?"
"Ay, in the first twenty-four hours of our acquaint-
ance she touched my heart as no other woman ever
did, and every subsequent interview added to her
power. There was a sweet gravity about her which
would be as charming in her white-haired age as in
her fair youth! And yet, so miserably faithless is this
human nature of ours, there are moments when doubt
plunges its jagged darts into me ;—and for a hideous
moment I think it possible she may have gone wil-
lingly with some unknown lover, but at any sugges-
tion of the kind from another the doubt vanishes.
It only gathers at rare intervals when I brood alone
and grow morbid. In my saner moments I never
doubt her; but the horror of the thing !—nothing
diminishes that!"
He started up and began to pace the room. The
anguish of his voice touched Lady Gethin, in spite of
her conviction that he was weakly credulous.


126
A T BA Y.
"It is a terrible business altogether. What do you
think of doing now?"
"I shall go down by an early train to Cheltenham
to-morrow and see this Mrs. Storrer. My future move-
ments will depend on what I gather from her."
"Shall you write to the father?"
"Not unless I have something definite to report.
It would be cruel to rouse him out of his apathy by a
gleam of false hope."
"You are a most unlucky fellow, Hugh ; your life
is quite spoiled by this entanglement."
"It is my fate," said Glynn. He rested his elbow
on the mantlepiece and his head on his hand.
"You will return to-morrow night, I suppose?"
said Lady Gethin.
"Most probably. I don't fancy I shall get any
intelligence that will send me further afield."
"You must come and tell me your news as soon as
possible."
"Of course I shall, gladly."
"Then dine with me the day after to-morrow. I
shall not ask any one to break our solitude d deux."
"Thank you. It is an infinite comfort to talk to
you, though I know very well you are skeptical on
some points where I cling to belief."
After some more conversation they parted, and Glynn,
disturbed, but scarcely hopeful, went home to snatch
what repose he could before his early start next day.
While Glynn was making his way to Mrs. Storrer's
temporary abode through muddy streets and a chilling
shower of sleet, Deering sat over a glowing fire in the
particular apartment occupied by him in his town
house. He was in London for a few days on his way
to visit a sporting friend in Leicestershire, and was
utilizing the time by an interview with his solicitor,
who had already risen to take leave, when Deering's
valet entered and handed a card to his master, who,
glancing at it with a frown, said:


AT BAY.
127
"Ask him to sit down; I will see him presently,"
and he continued the conversation with his legal ad-
viser, though his eyes wandered more than once to
the card which lay beside him.
As soon as he was alone Deering rang and desired
that the gentleman who was waiting should be shown
up. In another moment the door closed on Vincent,
who was magnificent in a grand overcoat, with a sable
collar and cuffs, and a pair of sealskin gloves. His
finery, however, was no stay to his self-esteem, for his
light-colored hatchety face had an uneasy, crestfallen
expression.
"Well," said Deering, without further salutation,
"have you any news? There—sit down."
"Yes, I have news, not very satisfactory news," said
Vincent in his nasal, drawling tones. "He's off!"
"Lambert! And to America?" cried Deering.
The other nodded. "I tracked him myself, saw
him on board the New York steamer, and saw her
steam away down the Mersey."
"Then he sailed from Liverpool? What was the
meaning of that."
"Can't tell. I think you are wrong in your conject-
ures. I don't think he knows any more about his
daughter than we do."
"His start for America proves nothing."
"Perhaps not, but for over seven months he has
been watched night and day, as you know, and not a
trace of any communication with any one except busi-
ness men and that woman who brought up the girl
has been found."
"We don't know what his communication with her
may have masked?"
"Well, not more than three letters have passed be-
tween them in all this time, nor has he remitted money
in any direction, or made any expeditions beyond his
daily-round. He has been pretty steady in his attendance
at the Bourse, and done well in a quiet way, but his
life has been visible and regular. He has bothered


128
AT BAY.
M. Claude periodically, and he looks a good deal
changed, but, no! if he knew his daughter's where-
abouts he never could keep from giving some sign.
He is a fiery, impulsive, open-mouthed fellow, who
would be too proud of doing you to keep silent about
it. If he were not within reach of the policemen he'd
give me my quietus."
"No doubt," said Deering, with calm, complete
acquiescence. "What is the name of the woman in
Wales?"
"Mrs. Kellett."
"1 thought we might have got something out of
her.
"Well, I did not," returned Vincent. "Lambert
was so ready to apply to her. Moreover, the man
that went down to the place found she had been ill
in bed at the very time Miss Lambert disappeared."
There was a pause. "It is the strangest case, I
should think, that French detective ever came across,"
resumed Deering. ." I suppose he never was baffled
before. Who has any interest in taking her away?
Have you any theory?"
"Not much of one. I am sometimes inclined to
think she went off with Glynn. He was, I suspect, far
gone about her."
"No," said Deering, thoughffully. "No; he was
with me when Lambert broke in like a madman, and
no one could have aped the horror and astonishment
he betrayed. No, he doesn't know any thing,—or
didn't a few weeks ago; but I wish to heaven he
hadn't got over that fever. Should we ever find the
girl we shall have to reckon with him, and he is a for-
midable antagonist."
"He can be dealt with, I suppose."
Deering did not heed him; he moved uneasily in
his chair. His brow contracted with a look of fierce
resolution. "Have you telegraphed to the New York
police?"
"I waited to see you first."


AT BAY.
129
"You had better do so. They have a description
of Lambert, I suppose?"
"I rather think not."
"Send it then."
"What, by wire?"
"Yes ;—but wait,—do it through the French detec-
tive. I don't want to appear in the matter. They
were rather taken with the notion that Lambert him-
self had made away with his daughter?"
"At first, yes; but the last time I saw M. Claude
he seemed to have quite given up the idea."
"You never know what he thinks. Now, what has
your journey cost you?"
"I don't care to take any money at present; I will
write when—"
"No," interrupted Deering, imperiously, "no let-
ters—I will neither write nor receive them—a telegram
if absolutely necessary. If you have any thing to tell,
come and tell it, you can always find my address at the
Club, and never give up the search. Here are twenty
sovereigns,—I have no more gold about me, and I'll
not give you notes,—take them, I insist. It suits me
better to pay when I have the opportunity. Remember
—the sum originally promised if you can find her dead,
double if you find her alive. Now you may go—stop
—wait till the servant comes." Vincent paused, and
as the door opened, Deering said distinctly in court-
eous tones, " I am very much obliged to you for tak-
ing the trouble to call—I am interested in your search
—and wish you all success. Good morning."
Lady Gethin was restless and expectant until the
hour arrived at which Glynn was due. She was pro-
foundly interested in the mysterious disappearance of
the girl who had made so deep an impression on her
favorite nephew. She would like her to be discovered
safe and well; but above all tilings, married to some
worthy person, and so secure from doing or receiving
harm. Then she should like to see her, perhaps assist


13°
AT BAY.
at her reconciliation with her father. Anyhow it was
a great mercy that she was well out of Hugh's way,
for really the folly and weakness of men were such,
etc., etc.
Glynn was a few minutes late, but was cordially wel-
comed.
"I see you have found nothing," exclaimed Lady
Gethin, as soon as they were alone.
"It was a wild goose chase," he replied with a weary
look.
"You must tell me all about it after dinner. You
seem in want of a glass of wine,—you shall have some
of my best Burgundy, it is a splendid tonic."
The friendly hostess was greatly distressed at her
guest's want of appetite; she pressed him to eat, and
prescribed various nostrums which he rejected. As
soon as the servants had left the room he brightened a
little, and drawing his chair nearer hers, began his
story in compliance with her reiterated entreaty,
"Come, tell me every thing."
He had, he said, found the head of the Clapham es-
tablishment easily enough; she was a composed, cere-
monious, typical school-mistress; civil, but guarded.
She listened attentively to his story, and declared her
willingness to tell all she knew about the young French
lady who had just quitted her service. She had been
recommended by some English friends at Dinan; and
her chief attraction was the fact of her being a Prot-
estant. Hitherto Mrs. Storrer feared the introduc-
tion of a foreigner into her select and sacred house-
hold, but had no reason to regret the entrance of
Mademoiselle Laroche within its precincts. It was
early in May last that negotiations between herself and
the French teacher began; but she did not enter upon
her duties till the 15th of June.
"That," said Glynn, interrupting himself, " was the
day of the ball,—the day before her disappearance."
Mrs. Storrer described Mademoiselle Laroche as
about middle height, inclined to be stout, with hair


AT BAY.
and eyes between dark and fair; not particularly
graceful; and as to age,—well, it was hard to say—
she might be twenty-one,—she might be twenty-five,
appearances are deceptive. As to her voice—yes, it
was pleasant, unusually soft for a French woman;
but nothing remarkable! If he wished for Made-
moiselle Laroche's address, Mrs. Storrer would be
happy to furnish it, though that would not be of much
avail, as the family to whom she had gone were to
start to-morrow or next day for India. She had not
her address-book with her, but would send a note to
the governess to forward it to Mr. Glynn.
"Finally, I showed her Miss Lambert's photograph,
which I always carry about with me. She looked at it
with a slow smile, and then turning it said, ' No, this
is not Mademoiselle Laroche, this is a charming young
lady.' Her quiet unconsciousness of any resemblance
convinced me even more than her words that she could
not know Elsie."
"Indeed," added Glynn, " a quiet young ladies'
boarding-school seems the very last place where one
could expect to find a girl so strangely and tragically
lost. Yet even now, as I recall the voice I heard the
day before yesterday, I can not believe that I was
mistaken! Is it not possible that a visitor might have
entered and walked round the garden with the other
two? unknown to the head governess."
"Of course it is possible, but very improbable. If
Miss Lambert was carried away against her own will
(which I do not believe), her captors would not let her
go visiting; and if she aided in concealing herself,
why she would not seek acquaintances."
"True, and unanswerable. Still, when I think of
the voice I heard little more than forty-eight hours
ago, I can not resist the conviction that if I could have
burst through that accursed hedge I should have
clasped Elsie—the real Elsie—in my arms."
"Good heavens, Hugh! would'you have clasped her
in your arms?"


132
JIT BAY.
"I would! if she had not repelled me! I tell you
I would give life itself,—to find—the Elsie Lambert
I believed in."
"Yes, but can you hope to do so? Must you not
admit that the balance of evidence is against such a
find?" cried Lady Gethin, distressed, yet deeply
interested.
"There are beliefs and instincts," returned Glynn,
"the deepest—the strangest, respecting which one can
not reason! Shall we ever understand the 'where-
fore' that is beyond and above our material sense?"
"Never," said Lady Gethin, sharply. "There is a
something we can not define or fathom that stirs us as
though a second self was being evolved from the
coarser every day serviceable ego; but it will always
escape our ken! Nor will it do to trust these bewilder-
ing, shadowy promptings ; we must act in the living
present by the light of that most uncommon faculty,
common sense. These dreamy tendencies are not like
you! This unlucky business has upset your mental
balance, Hugh. You have done your best to find this
poor girl; she has no claim whatever upon you. You
must try to put her out of your head, and take up your
life again."
"I suppose I must," he returned thoughtfully;
"but it will be hard. Curiously enough, I found a
letter awaiting me when I returned from Lambert,
dated Liverpool, informing me he was to sail next day
for New York, where he had some faint hope of find-
ing a clue to his daughter. He must have passed
through London. I am surprised he did not call on
me. I did not think he would have avoided me."
"It looks odd," said Lady Gethin. "By the way,
let me see the daughter's photograph; I did not know
you carried it about, or I should have asked for it be-
fore."
Glynn took out the little case in which the picture
was carefully inclosed, and gave it to her. Lady
Gethin looked long and thoughtfully at it.


A T BA V.
*33
"A sweet face," she said, " somewhat sad; but a
fine expression; it seems somehow familiar to me.
Photographs are seldom true representations, and she
may be very unlike the idea this suggests; but I wish
I could remember who it is she reminds me of."
"It has not been fortunate for Elsie that her face
suggests memories," said Glynn. "I have a strong
conviction that if she had not attracted Deering's
attention at those Auteuil races she would be still safe
under her father's care."
"You mean to say you think that a man of Deering's
position, character, standing, would give himself up to
such scoundrelism. Hugh! it is too absurd!"
"I know it is, I always dismiss the thought, and
then it gathers again like a mist over the morass of
doubt in which I am plunged. However, if he is
responsible for her disappearance he certainly does not
know where she is now; but he is seeking for her.
Claude, the French detective, let out as much the last
time I saw him."
"Depend upon it the father knows she is in
America."
"You think so? / doubt it."
"I wonder he is not more confidential with you.
Does he know you were in love with her?"
"No, certainly not!"
"The whole affair is incomprehensible !—let me
look at the photograph again! Who is it she reminds
me of?"
Finding no reply in the stores of her memory, Lady
Gethin shut up the case and restored it to Glynn, and
to change the subject began to urge him to resume his
former social habits and mix with his kind. "It will
not render your chances of finding your lost love any
the worse, perhaps better; for if you ever get a clew
to her I suspect it will be by accident. No one was
ever really lost in this small world of ours, unless in-
deed death folds its pall over the missing one."
"Yes, I shall probably find her; but how? and


r34
AT BAY.
where?" said Glynn, with a sound of pain in his
voice. "At any rate I shall follow your advice! I
will try to shake off this despairing apathy; and,
though I can not turn phrases prettily, believe me I
am warmly grateful for your sympathy, your forbear-
ance; indeed, I do not know what I should do without
it."


CHAPTER VIII.
DAWNING LIGHT.
GLYNN was true to his promise. He forced him-
self back to something of his old routine. He
took a deeper interest in business than before, and
found something of relief in the mental effort he was
obliged to make.
Men said Glynn was greatly changed since that bad
fever he had had. Women thought him more inter-
esting. The truth was hardly suspected. It suited
the authorities of la s&reti, that the affaire Rue de
L'Evique should not get into the public prints. The
English newspapers had therefore never got hold of
the story.
One of the chief interests in this new phase of
Glynn's existence was to watch Deering, whom he fre-
quently met.
That gentleman affected some intimacy with Glynn,
and made many visits to the office of Messrs. Ottley,
Hassali and Ince, apropos of his railway scheme.
Glynn did not reject his advances, though never
lapsing into intimacy. Deering often spoke of Lam-
bert, and volunteered the information that the New
York police had their eyes upon him, that he had
arrived all right, landed, and gone away south almost
immediately.
Gradually it dawned upon Glynn that Deering was
watching him, that he suspected him of knowing more
of Elsie's disappearance than any one else. He was
careful not to let Deering see he perceived this, and so
under the fair seeming of friendly acquaintanceship
the two men kept watch over each other with deadly


A T BA Y.
pertinacity and keenness, Glynn keeping profoundest
silence as to his conviction that he had heard Elsie's
voice, a conviction that tormented him in all his silent,
lonely hours. Often he accused himself of stupidity
for too readily believing the stately Mrs. Storrer. But
her quiet disavowal of all likeness in the photograph
to her French teacher, coupled with Lambert's letter
stating that he had some faint hope of finding a clew to
his daughter in America, put him off the idea of hunt-
ing Mademoiselle Laroche further. Sometimes he
felt that he would give all he possessed to shake himself
clear of the haunting horror which poisoned his life.
Then the memory of Elsie's sweet, grave, holy eyes
would rise before him, and he felt that he could endure
all things, hope all things, could he but find her, and
restore her to what she was. On the whole, evil an-
ticipations predominated. He had been greatly dis-
appointed by Lambert's avoidance of him. He could
not bear to think that the unhappy, bereaved father
had withdrawn his confidence.
Thus battling with the fiends of doubt and fear that
lacerated his heart, Glynn dragged himself on from
day to day.
In the last week of February Deering's land-agent
came to town, bringing with him maps, plans and cal-
culations. To Glynn's great surprise he proved to be
a certain Dick Weldon, formerly one of his school-fel-
lows. This recognition led to some intercourse.
Glynn, without deliberate questioning, gathered a good
deal of information, which threw a new light on Deer-
ing's character in some directions. On the subject of
the quest which engrossed them both Glynn main-
tained a profound silence.
His old acquaintance dined with him, and they
talked over bygone days and boyish escapades with
zest, at least on Weldon's side. It was amazing to
Glynn how fresh and full the details of past adventures
-—even small minutioe—dwelt in his old acquaintance's
mind, untroubled as it was by a crowd of varied ex-


AT BAY.
"37
periences. He had, it seemed, led a quiet, busy life,
humbly useful, but unexciting.
One cold, dry, dark evening Glynn had accepted an
invitation to dine with Weldon at the hotel in Holborn
where he usually staid on short visits to town.
Dinner was over and both men were enjoying a
cigar. The host had put one or two queries, evidently
prompted by the curiosity which the contrast between
Glynn's prosperity and his gloomy depression evoked,
but he could draw forth no responsive confidence, and
Weldon, falling back on his own interests, described
his home, his wife and children, pressing Glynn warmly
to pay them a visit, when, to the great surprise of both,
Deering was ushered in. He apologized shortly for
his intrusion, and explained that he had just had pri-
vate intelligence that the member for a borough town
near Denham was dangerously ill, that even were he
to recover it would be long before he could enter into
public life again, and that he (Deering) wished to win
the probably vacant seat. He therefore wished Weldon,
who knew the local population, and was well able to
feel its pulse, to leave town next morning, and put
matters in train for an immediate canvass, as the
retirement of the sitting member would probably be
announced in a day or two."
As soon as he could withdraw without too rude a
display of indifference, Glynn rose to say good night;
when Deering, somewhat to his annoyance, proposed
to go with him.
"I have no more to say now, Weldon. As soon as
the death or retirement is declared, I will go down to
Denham, and we will not let the grass grow under our
feet!"
On reaching the entrance of the hotel, they stopped,
intending to call a cab, and while waiting Glynn's
attention was attracted by two cloaked and veiled wo-
men, who were standing close together just within the
doorway. One was tall and stout, the other barely of
middle size ; her shoulders, even through the rain-cloak


AT BAY.
wrapped round her, showed unmistakable grace,—
unmistakable and familiar; a small hat was entirely
enveloped in a thick veil, which was tied over her face,
the ends being brought loosely round the throat to the
front. Glynn's eyes were riveted on this figure, while
he seemed to be peering into the darkness, and felt
nervously anxious not to direct Deering's notice to
the object which attracted him.
"If he could only hear her speak!" He listened
intently.
"It is useless, we must try an omnibus, it is really
safer," he heard the taller lady say. The other mur-
mured something, and turning her head, displayed, in
spite of her muffling, a morsel of white neck, and a
glimpse of golden brown hair. Glynn's heart beat.
At all risks he must keep that girl in view; any mis-
take was better than to lose the faintest chance. But
Deering must not know his suspicions. Surely the
faint suggestions of a likeness would strike him also?
But Deering made no remark, nor did he seem to see.
At last the taller of the two women said, "Come,"
and went forth into the street. At that moment an
Islington omnibus drove up. She stepped forward
under the nearest lamp, and tried to stop it by waving
her umbrella. The vehicle was full, and the two
cloaked figures walked slowly away toward Oxford
Street.
"Excuse me," said Glynn, abruptly, " I am anxious
to get home. I will walk on and take my chance of a
cab."
"Very well," returned Deering, "I'll come with
you."
Glynn was dismayed. Did Deering suspect as he
did that the cloaked and veiled figure might be Elsie
Lambert? If so, what could he do to save her from
his recognition?
His heart thrilled with pain and delight at the bare
idea of standing once more face to face with his lost
love. What secrets would that meeting unveil?


AT BAY.
139
Meanwhile he never lost sight of the figures going on
before them, and Deering spoke at intervals.
"There's an empty hansom at last," he cried.
"I am going on a little further," said Glynn. "But
don't let me interfere with you."
"Oh! I don't mind walking with you; I have no
engagement I care to keep," he replied.
"Why does he persist?" thought Glynn. "I am
going to look in on an artist friend near Tottenham
Court Road," he said aloud.
"Oh ! very well; queer places these fellows put up
in. By the way, I have had another report from our
mutual acquaintance, Lambert. He is at St. Louis,
and has changed his name for the third or fourth time."
"Indeed! then you must have had a telegram?"
"Yes, that is, our friends, Claude and Co., have
communicated theirs to me. If Lambert begins to
try concealment we'll find out something."
"I trust we shall," said Glynn mechanically, his
eyes greedily following the two figures, lamp after
lamp shedding its light upon them as they passed.
"Will he never go?" he thought, quivering with
excitement.
It was an extraordinary situation to be thus dogging
the footsteps of the quarry you wished to preserve
from your fellow-hunter, and yet to be unavoidably
leading that hunter on her track.
"I fancy you don't want me," said Deering at last.
«If so—"
"Why should you think I do not?" interrupted
Glynn, nervously afraid to betray his burning anxiety
to be rid of him.
"I can't exactly tell why," said Deering, laughing,
"but I am sure I am right."
"Well, do whichever you like," said Glynn with
well-assumed indifference,—" come on with me to Tot-
tenham Court Road, where you will be sure to find
plenty of cabs, or pick up the first empty one we fall
in with, and leave me to my fate."


14°
A T BA Y.
Glynn was almost beside himself with hope, dread,
and nervous tension.
Another Islington omnibus drove past and stopped.
The two ladies darted tp it, exchanged a hasty hand
pressure, and then the shorter of the two mounted
swiftly, and vanished into the interior.
"Good night !" cried Glynn, abruptly; "the hum-
ble 'bus will suit me admirably."
Before his astonished companion could reply he was
beside the vehicle, which was still standing, as a stout
and irritable elderly gentleman was painfully disen-
tangling himself from among the tightly-packed pas-
sengers.
"If you had only let me out first," he exclaimed
angrily as he alighted.
"Trouble you for threepence," interrupted the con-
ductor.
"Threepence! why, I only got in at Leather Lane."
"All right!—Islington!"
Another instant and Glynn occupied the stout man's
place—nearer the door, but on the opposite side to the
lady he was following—and they were rolling rapidly
westward.
At first he would not let himself seem to see her,
and by the light of the omnibus lamp he could hardly
make out her features, so thick was the lace which con-
cealed them. Suddenly he saw her start and draw
her cloak closer with a nervous movement. Had she
recognized him?
Gradually, his eyes growing familiar with the light
and the texture of the veil, the conviction grew upon
him that he was not mistaken, that it was indeed Elsie
Lambert. It was by a powerful exertion of will that
he controlled the burning impulse to address her, to
take the place beside her vacated by an old lady. She
could not leave the conveyance without passing him;
he would be quiet and careful. But if her father was
seeking her in America, how came she here, alone, and
evidently disguised? What frightful confession of


142
A T BA Y.
well-remembered expression of thoughtful candor to
his. How lovely they were! With what rapture
Glynn read in them the confirmation of her assurance
that she was the same Elsie he had loved and lost.
But she was changed; the sweet eyes were unuttera-
bly sad, and the delicate cheek was less rounded. The
soft lips were pale, and quivered nervously, and the
hand he still held was thinner. She seemed unable
to suppress the excessive trembling that had seized
her. Glynn's whole soul went out to her in love and
trust; he could hardly resist the impulse to clasp her
to his heart, to shelter her against all ill in his bosom.
But might she not be the wife of another man? Any
thing might have happened during the terrible blank;
and, above all, he must win her confidence.
"Ah, yes, you are indeed the same. Why—why
have you given us all this sorrow, this fearful anxiety?
Think of what your poor father has suffered! Do
you know that he has gone to America to search for
you?"
"My father !" she repeated, " my poor dear father!"
Then she paused, as if resisting the inclination to speak.
"I must not keep you here in the cold, dark street.
I can not let you go alone. May I not come with you!"
"Oh, no, no, no," she repeated; "you must let me
go. I can not, dare not let you come with me. I must
not tell you any thing."
"Now that I have found you, do you think I will
lose sight of you again?"
"You will, I am sure, do what is best for me and
kindest," said Elsie, trying to be calm, and wrapping
the veil around her face again. "Let us move on ; we
shall attract attention."
She did not resist when he drew her arm through
his own, and they slowly paced up the street in which
he had overtaken her.
"Do you think me capable of betraying you?"
asked Glynn.
"No," after a pause, as if to plan her speech ; " but


AT BAY.
143
I have more than myself to think of. You must not
ask me any questions."
"Can you say nothing? Is there no way in which
I can help you?"
"I fear not—I do not know—I—" she stopped, and
drew a long, sobbing breath—" I dare not speak. Any
word might betray more than I ought."
"For your father's sake !—think of all he must
endure. Have you any duty to come before what you
owe him!"
He waited for her reply as for a sentence of life or
death.
"Think of him! do I not think of him? My love
and duty are his only. But "—she tried to withdraw
her arm—" you must let me go ; I dare not stay."
"I can not let you go unless you promise to meet
me again, or tell me where I may see you. No, I will
not release your arm. Elsie—Miss Lambert, I have
been seeking you for seven months; my brain has
reeled at the horror of its own picture of your fate; I
can not let you go now. Why do you distrust me?
Let me take you home. How Could I leave you here
in the dark alone?"
"Oh, do not torment me !" she exclaimed, and her
voice expressed such pain that Glynn almost hesitated
to persevere in his efforts to detain her. "In truth I
long to take you with me, I am sure you are kind and
true, and I fear to be alone; but I will brave any thing,
endure any thing rather than say whence I came and
whither I go. Do not be angry with me."
She burst into an agony of tears, leaning against him
as if from sheer inability to stand alone.
"Good God! Elsie, what can I do to comfort and
help you? I implore you to trust me. If I let you go
now without retaining some clew by which I can find
you, I can never forgive myself."
"I long to tell you much, all, but I must not. Yet I
might get leave ; I might write. Give me your address;
I may write to you,"


144
AT BAY.
"Will you promise this, solemnly, faithfully?"
"If I do, will you let me go? I am late already. He
will be so anxious."
"He! who?" A throb of fierce jealousy vibrated
through Glynn's heart. "If you promise to see me
once more, when and where you will, I will trust you
and let you go. You see, I have more faith in you
than you have in me."
"No ; you are free, I am not. I have faith in you,
but—Well, promise for promise. I will promise to
write to you before Friday night, if you will promise
not to make any attempt to discover me until after I
have written."
"Good ; then promise for promise."
"I promise to write to you, and—and if possible to
see you."
"There must be nothing about possibility," said
Glynn, sternly. "Give me an unconditional promise,
or I shall not leave you!"
She hesitated, and then said solemnly, " I promise."
"And I trust your promise," returned Glynn. "On
my part I promise not to make any attempt to track
you until I have received your letter, or rather until I
have seen you."
There was a moment's silence, then Elsie, who
seemed to recover herself a little, said softly, "Then
good night!"
"I can not part with you yet," cried Glynn passion-
ately; "I can not bear to let you go alone. Tell me,
did you recognize me in the omnibus?"
"Not all at once, a little while after I had got in.
At first, for some time, I thought you did not know
me—I hoped you did not."
"I knew you at the door of the hotel, and followed
you."
She started. "I must go now, I have staid too
long. Call a cab for me, and tell the driver to go to
the Great Northern Station. I will direct him after."
"J can not bear to let you go alone,"


AT BAY.
*45
"You must!" impressively. "I am braver than I
used to be."
"At least hold my arm till we find a cab," said
Glynn, pressing hers to his side, as they turned back
to the thoroughfare from which the street led. Elsie
submitted to his guidance silently. Glynn's heart beat
str<?ngly with mixed emotions. The rapture of meet-
ing her was great—the fear of losing her still greater.
His promise forbade his following her, and he seemed
as far from solving the mystery of her disappearance
as ever. She was moved at the mention of her father,
yet not in the way he expected ; she had evidently
suffered. Was he culpably weak in letting her go?
But he had no choice. He could not resist her tears,
her distress.
Soon, too soon, they found a cab. Glynn scrutinized
the driver; he did not look like a ruffian. With an
effort he subdued his reluctance to part with her, and
assisted her into the conveyance, remembering with a
pang how he had handed her into the carriage after
the ball and sent her forth to—he could not tell what
wretchedness and wrong.
"You will be true to your word," he said, pressing
her hand as he gave her his card.
"I will," she whispered. "Perhaps it may prove
fortunate that I have met you."
"God grant it," he returned ; then drawing back,
said aloud, for the benefit of the driver, "You will let
me know if you arrive all right; " and waited till the
man had ascended the box, when he asked and obtained
his ticket. That at least was something to have
and to hold. Elsie drew up the window and leaned
back well out of sight. The cab rolled away into the
darkness, and Glynn was left standing alone. Collect-
ing himself, he walked briskly away in a southwesterly *
direction. Lady Gethin was right, a mere accident
brought him the fulfillment of his passionate desire—
that which he had sought for with such agonizing
eagerness. How strange that Deering should have


146
AT BAY.
been with him when he caught sight of something
familiac in the neck and shoulders of the cloaked
figure! He would not soon forget the torment of that
walk along the dusky street, the dread of drawing
Deering's attention to the object of his own intense
observation, the difficulty of getting rid of him. Surely
the stars in their courses fought for him (Glynn).
Good must come out of so strange a turn of fortune's
wheel. At least he had found Elsie safe—safe appar-
ently from any pressing danger, and though looking
ill and worn, comparatively well. He had therefore
room for hope.
But she was evidently under the influence of some
strong will, the pressure of some great necessity.
Would she be true to her promise? Yes, a thousand
times yes! With the sight of her fair, sad face, the
sound of the tremulous voice, all his faith in her returned.
It was marvelous the sort of tender reverence she
inspired in him—this inexperienced creature, who was
almost young enough to be his daughter, and utterly
unlearned in the world's lore which was so familiar to
himself! She was not even a highly-accomplished,
deeply-read young lady. There was an old-fashioned
charm of sincerity and earnestness about her infinitely
attractive. But she must have undergone some severe
shock, or trial. Her nerves seemed shattered. When
should he know all? Would any blame attach to her?
And Glynn answered his own question with a resolute
"No." Then giving himself up to the first real intense
passion he had ever felt, he resolved to win her, to wed
her, to know even a few months entire happiness—if
she would share that happiness—unless the secret to be
revealed hid some insurmountable barrier.
So far sure of his own consent, Glynn felt more
composed; but the hours dragged fearfully.
The next day he had a visit in his private room from
Deering, who was at the office on business, and said he
was going to Denham for a few days. He then added
that Vincent had presumed to call on him, to his great


AT BAY.
147
surprise, his excuse being, that he had heard from St.
Louis that Lambert was there under another name, and
had a wife and daughter with him ; that the police were
following him close, but could find no pretext at pres-
ent for arresting him.
Glynn said very little in reply. He watched Deer-
ing keenly as he spoke, and came to the conclusion
that he had no suspicion that Elsie was so near.
"I don't suppose we shall ever get to the bottom of
the affair ' Rue de L'Eveque,' as the French detectives
call it, till the law has got its grip on that scoundrel
Lambert."
"I think he is more an adventurer than a scoundrel,"
said Glynn coldly; "and I confess I see no reason for
supposing he is in the secret of his daughter's dis-
appearance; but perhaps you know more than I do."
Deering looked at him with a quick, keen glance—a
glance of dislike and distrust. "On the contrary, you
were the intimate friend, the favored guest of Lambert,
and of his charming daughter, of whom I suspect he
made a profitable investment."
"It is blasphemy to say so," exclaimed Glynn indig-
nantly. "Lambert may have a queer history, but no
irreproachable member of the best society could be a
better guardian of his daughter than he was! Do not
let him hear you utter such an insinuation, should you
ever meet again, or you might not like his reply!"
Deering elevated his eyebrows contemptuously.
"You are remarkably loyal," he said. "Well, good-
morning; I shall probably see you next week."
Thursday passed and no letter; well, there were
twenty-four hours yet to spare. Glynn dined that day
with Lady Gethin, and as usual outstaid the other
guests.
"I haven't seen you for an age, Hugh," she said,
settling herself in her favorite chair. "You are look-
ing better, as if some life was waking up within you;
but you are very restless and distrait; at dinner you
did not seem able to attend to any one or any thing for


'So
AT BAY.
King's Cross, and then hailed a cab, desiring the
driver to put him down in Towers Road. This proved
a long, dusty thoroughfare. Nor did he find Garston
Terrace till after many inquiries and walking some
distance. It was a little crooked lane, where some
exceedingly new houses looked over a field and a few
trees. The door was opened by a fresh-colored,
countrified-looking old woman, in a beautifully white
cap. Glynn was utterly at a loss, he did not know for
whom he should inquire. He feared to mention a
young lady; he thought of asking if there were rooms
to let in the house—of a dozen things for the instant
or two, during which they stood gazing at each other.
At last the servant or owner of the house said, in a
broad accent—
"You'll be the gentleman to see Mr. Smith?"
"I am," returned Glynn, infinitely relieved.
"Walk in, please." When he obeyed, she opened
the door of a tolerably large room at the back of the
house, which looked into a small garden, behind which
was a high, dead wall, separating it from a manufac-
tory of some humble sort.
It was very simply furnished—simple to plainness—
yet neither ugly nor uncomfortable. Here his con-
ductress left him, and disregarding her invitation to
take a " cheer," he stood by the fire, his eyes fixed on
the door in a state of painful expectancy. The sound
of footsteps overhead, the murmur of voices made
themselves heard, then the door slowly opened, and
Elsie herself came in softly. She was dressed in
black, but not in mourning, and looked deadly pale;
her eyes seemed larger and darker than they used.
She made a step or two into the room, and then
stopped, holding out both hands, a smile curving her
lip, which yet trembled, as if on the verge of tears.
Glynn seized the hands she offered, and in the rap-
ture of seeing her again, kissed them more than once.
"I have imagined such horrors that I can not restrain
my joy at finding you," he exclaimed, his voice broken


AT BAY
with intense feeling. "Why have you caused this
cruel anxiety?"
"How good you are to care so much," she said,
looking at him with a wondering expression. "You
will find I am not to blame. Oh! I feared I should
never get leave to write to you, that you would think I
had broken my promise! I wished to send for you
long ago. I know we can trust you."
"We!" Good heavens? was she married then?
"We!" he repeated hoarsely,—" who—who do you
mean ?—your husband and yourself?"
"My husband!" a smile gleaming over her face.
"I am not married! No—my father."
"Your father!" letting her withdraw her hands.
"He is in America, is he not?"
"He is here—here in this house."
"I feel bewildered," said Glynn, taking the seat she
pointed to and drawing it near her. "Will you not
enlighten me?"
"I know so little, and my father wishes to tell you
every thing himself. Ah! you will see him so
changed." A quick sob caught her breath, but she
went on calmly: "He was changed enough when he
first came, but he has been seriously ill. He caught a
bad cold when traveling here, and has had inflamma-
tion of the lungs. He is so weak ; will you come to
him? Now he has agreed to let you come he is quite
anxious to see you."
"In a moment. Tell me how you are yourself?
You look weary, as if you had suffered."
"I have. It has been such a wretched, miserable
time, almost unbearable, until my father came—always
hiding, always a mystery."
"And how did Lambert—how did your father find
you?"
"My father find me?" with an air of astonishment.
"Ah! he will tell you every thing. Come up stairs to
him."
Glynn rose to follow her with a faint feeling of dis-


AT BAY.
appointment. She was evidently delighted to see him,
full of faith in him, but utterly devoid of that delicious
consciousness which no woman in love can quite con-
ceal; and grief for the supposed loss of this girl had
almost cost him his life !—while for the present the
mystery was more mysterious than ever. -
Elsie led the way up a narrow stair to the upper
story, the same look of neat simplicity characterizing
the rest of the house, and opening the door of a good-
sized bedroom, she said, "Here is Mr. Glynn, dear."
In a large arm-chair, his feet on a foot-stool, and
covered with a warm plaid, propped by pillows, and
close to a good fire, sat, or rather inclined, Lambert,
a small table near him, on which stood a medicine
bottle and glass. A door leading into another room
stood open.
Elsie was right. Her father was wofully changed.
His cheeks were hollow; his skin yellow and wrink-
led; his once half humorous, half-defiant expression
was gone, and replaced by a watchful, pitiful look, like
a creature always expecting a blow, pathetic too in its
wistfulness. One thin, claw-like hand grasped the
arm of the chair. As he turned to gaze eagerly toward
the door, a smile of pleasure, a sort of relieved look,
beamed over his face as Glynn advanced. "Ah! this
is kind—this is like a good fellow, as I always thought
you were," he whispered in a weak tremulous voice.
"I have just been wearying to see you, but afraid,
afraid!" He sank back on his cushions, still holding
Glynn's hand, and gazing at him imploringly.
"You know, Lambert, I am worthy of some trust,
and desire nothing more than to be of service to you,"
said Glynn, suppressing all token of his immense sur-
prise, and speaking with studied calmness. "You
must not fatigue or excite yourself. Now that you
have allowed me to know your address, I can come
often to see you, and do any thing you want in the
way of commissions."
"Ah ! but we must take care—we must take care."


A T BA Y.
'53
He sighed deeply, raising and letting fall his poor
wasted hand with a despairing gesture.
While he spoke Elsie had measured out his medi-
cine, and now gave it to him, saying, " Try not to
speak too much, dear father. I will leave you to have
a nice visit from Mr. Glynn all to yourself," with a
sweet, kind smile and thankful look. "I shall see you
before you go." She closed the door between the two
rooms.
"Lock the other one, lock it, Elsie," said Lambert
eagerly.
"Yes, I will." She disappeared.
"Come near me, nearer; we must speak low," said
the invalid.
Glynn brought a chair close to his.
"Tell me," said Lambert, more calmly than he had
yet spoken, " do you think your old comrade a male-
factor? do you think I am dodging the police because
I hide away from every one?"
"No! There is something wrong, of course, con-
cealment always implies that ; but I suspect you are
more sinned against than sinning ; at any rate I repeat,
if I can serve you—"
"Ay!" interrupted Lambert; "but to serve me
you must know all, and that is more than I can tell
to-day ; but I have broken no law—1 don't know that
I ever did, though I have done queer things—not for
thirteen years though, for all that time I have led a
decent life ; and now it's for the good as well as the
evil I have done that I am persecuted! Glynn, all I
can find strength to say is, will you help me to save
my Elsie? Will you be her guardian, and take care
of her little fortune?"
"I will," said Glynn; "but I trust and see every
reason to hope that you will be her guardian yourself
for many a year!"
"That has nothing to do with it," impatiently. "I
want you to take charge of her money, without deeds
or papers, or lawyers, for I can see no one. Just give


r54
A T BA Y.
me a written acknowledgment. Her money stands in
the name of the good woman who was my darling's
foster-mother, and she is not fit to manage it, and is
afraid to keep it. But I trust you, Glynn! O God!
I must trust you ! and when the money is transferred
to you, then you must settle it on her, and appoint
trustees." He paused, much exhausted.
"I will do exactly what you wish in the matter,"
said Glynn, anxious to soothe him, "and do my best
to deserve the high confidence you place in me."
"Thank you, God bless you ;" with a sigh of relief,
laying his hand on Glynn's; "and you will lose no
time about it. Mrs. Kellett shall call on you on Mon-
day, and go with you to the brokers. The money is
in Spanish bonds and Australian railways; it can be
handed over to you with the stroke of a pen ; but you
know all that better than I do—ha, ha!" He laughed
feebly. "I didn't know what a big boss you were
when I wanted to make a match between my dear
little girl and you."
"Miss Lambert deserves a better man than I am,"
said Glynn.
Lambert looked at him sharply. "There's one
thing more, important enough, but not so pressing as
the money. Do you know any lady that would be
kind to Elsie, and look after her? she hasn't a lady
friend in the world—those French women are no use.
But mind, she must be strong, with either money or
rank, and a resolute woman, who knows the world.
Lord! it can't be easy to find a clever, well-placed,
kindly woman."
"Far from it, yet not impossible. I will undertake
to search for this rarity ; but before I do I must know
more. I can not ask another to put the faith in you
that I do."
"Fair enough, fair enough! Well, I'll tell you a
lot in a few days ; I daren't begin now, it would kill me."
"You must keep up your heart, Lambert, you must
live for your daughter,"


AT BAY.
155
"Live for her! I'd serve her best by dying for
her!"
"She would not think so."
"No," cried the sick man with a burst of emotion,
sobs that shook his frame, and tears for which when
stronger he would have blushed; "she loves me! she
believes in me ! and come what may, here or hereafter,
nothing can rob me of the fourteen years of happiness
and redemption she has given me. May God reward
her."
"Amen," said Glynn softly. "I think you have
talked enough; I will be ready for your friend on
Monday. How shall I know her?"
"She shall bring a word, a line. Settle it with
Elsie."
"May I come to-morrow?"
"Yes, if you can manage it safely! The one man
that must not find me is Deering, and he is spending a
fortune tracking me."
"This is most extraordinary."
"I dare say it seems so."
"May I put any question to Miss Lambert?"
"As many as you like; but she knows very little."
Here there was a tap at the door, and Elsie entered.
"I think I must ask you to come away," she said.
"I fear I have staid too long," returned Glynn.
"Will you come to-morrow?"
"Yes, without fail ; at the same time."
Then followed a delightful half-hour with Elsie, who
gave him a cup of tea in the sitting-room below.
"I can tell you nothing of my father's reasons," she
said in reply to his queries. "I have simply obeyed
him, for I am sure there is some great necessity, and
he promises to explain all to me later. I can not de-
scribe the state of despair my father gets into occa-
sionally; his terror at the idea of our being discov-
ered! but now, perhaps, he will tell you! You will
come again, will you not?"
"I shall come to-morrow,"


A T BA Y.
"I am so glad, so glad." Her voice trembled ; she
strove to keep her self-control; then resting her elbows
on the table, she covered her face in her hands and
burst into irrepressible tears.
"It has been all so terrible," she sobbed ; "this con-
cealment, this fear of I know not what; this shameful
changing from one home to another. Shall we never
be free and happy again?"
"You shall, you must," whispered Glynn. "Your
father exaggerates his troubles, I am sure; he has
promised to tell me every thing, and I will never leave
him till he is reinstated. You can not live on under
such horrible conditions."


CHAPTER IX.
THE SECRET OF THE PRISON HOUSE.
IT was many a month since Glynn enjoyed such re-
freshing sleep as soothed his weary brain that night.
To have found Elsie safe, unharmed, even though sur-
rounded by a haze of doubtful circumstances, of pain-
ful mystery, was a blessed relief. All must turn out
well, while Elsie was the same, untouched, unchanged.
To him she seemed more charming in her grief and
terror than in the freshness of her beauty, which first
attracted him. Though full of passion, his love was
pure and true. To save its object from harm, or spare
her suffering, he would even sacrifice himself. Some-
thing in the unconsciousness of her manner, her look,
her words, warned him to keep the lover in the back-
ground for the present,—only for the present,—for
deep in his heart be registered a vow to win her if
tenderness, and loyalty, and perseverance could. He
counted the cost, and decided that in winning her he
should win all that would make life worth living. Glynn
was not a conventional man. He liked society, but
was not its slave. A quiet home, with such a com-
panion, what could be a fairer lot? Would the day
ever come when she would let him hold her to his heart,
when her soft arms would steal round his neck, and
her sweet, sad, tremulous lips return his kisses? What-
ever Lambert's circumstances, misdeeds, crimes, Glynn
resolved to give his life to the tender, blameless
daughter.
He started in good time next day, and spent a long,
entrancing, disturbing afternoon with Elsie and her
father.


AT BAY.
With the latter he had not much private conversa-
tion, and in that little Lambert told him he had dis-
covered early in their renewed acquaintanceship that
Deering had fallen in love with Elsie, that he knew
him to be a daring and unscrupulous man, and that,
moreover, he had a very strong hold over Lambert
himself, which made it exceedingly difficult to protect
his daughter, without running certain risks, and to cut
the gordian .knot, he determined to hide her. This
was so far successful, but the conviction that it was
impossible to keep up the game was pressing on him,
and, with the consciousness of failing health, almost
drove him mad.
"May I dine with you tete-h-Ute the day after to-
morrow? I have much to tell." This request reached
Lady Gethin one morning at breakfast, and threw her
into a state of delighted anticipation. She dispatched
a warm invitation, and wrote to decline one or two
engagements for that day.
"You are looking a different being," she said, when
they had settled into their places for a long talk after
dinner. "But what has become of you? I have not
seen you for the last ten days. What have you been
about? Have you found your young woman?"
Glynn looked straight at her, and to her amazement
replied, " I have."
"You are not serious. Here? in famous London
town?"
"I have."
"Well, I always said you would. Do tell me all
about it!"
And Glynn began at the beginning, and did tell her
every thing.
"This is indeed extraordinary !" she exclaimed with
unusual gravity, at the end of his narrative. "But after
all, they have told you very little; there is some ugly
secret behind."
"I suspect there is," very gravely.


AT BAY.
159
"Now that you have found your fair Helen, what
are you going to do with her?" asked Lady Gethin,
looking sharply at him.
"Marry her," was the unhesitating reply.
"Good heavens, Hugh! you are not in earnest?"
"Very much in earnest, I assure you."
"But your father-in-law may be a murderer."
"But my future wife is not a murderess." *
"Not yet "—emphatically. "Remember crime is
often hereditary. I never heard of such madness.
Why, you will spoil your life."
"I would be ruined without her."
"And while the noble father is taken to Newgate,
the happy pair will start for the continent and return
in time for the execution! I could shed tears over
you, Hugh."
"Instead of hurting your eyes, do me a very great
favor. Come with me to-morrow, and let me intro-
duce you to Miss Lambert?"
"I shall do nothing of the kind! How can you ex-
pect me to encourage you in such insanity?"
"Because your encouragement or discouragement
will not affect my decision. I have a sincere respect
for your opinion. You are a shrewd, far-seeing
woman, and I think your view of the case perfectly
natural, but I feel that my wisest course in -this in-
stance is to throw prudence overboard. Do, my dear
aunt, grant me this petition! I am old enough to take
the responsibility of any step upon myself, and I have
no near relative to consider. Be my friend in this
crisis; come and see the girl who has drawn me to
her so magnetically; help me to save her, for as
she possesses my soul I am resolved to give her my
life."
"I protest, Hugh, you are a lover worth having. I
hope she values you as you deserve."
"I do not think she has an idea I am a lover."
"Then you have not asked her to marry you?"
cried Lady Gethin, visibly brightening.


i6o
A T BA Y.
"I have not ventured as yet; I am trying to pre-
pare the way."
"Then," said Lady Gethin, " I will come, and you
must agree to listen to any objections which may occur
to me, rationally, without snapping my nose off, be-
cause I shall see things which would never strike
you."
"Agreed."
"When shall I go?" resumed Lady Gethin. "I
confess I am dying to see this lady-love of yours, this
heroine of a still unsolved mystery. May I go to-
morrow?"
Glynn took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you,"
was all he said, but there was that in his voice which
made a troublesome lump rise in Lady Gethin's
throat.
This entire and disinterested devotion touched her
infinitely, and gave her an instant's glimpse of the
loveliness life might have if tenderness and loyalty and
self-forgetful generosity could only share and share
alike, with science, statistics, and political economy.
"Not to-morrow," resumed Glynn after a pause.
"I must give Lambert warning, for he is very nervous
about any one coming near him. He is so possessed
by the idea that he is being watched. It is an awful
feeling, I had no conception what it is till I saw a man
under its influence. I will settle with him and Elsie
when they shall receive you. At present I am not
quite so uneasy about them, for Deering is out of
town. I am afraid he has some very strong hold on
Lambert."
"Deering is not out of town; I saw him at the
opera last night."
"Indeed!" Then after a pause, " It is amazing
how Lambert has escaped detection so far, but it is in-
evitable. Why he dreads it, and what he is afraid of,
remains to be told. I think he is longing to tell, yet
dreads to do so, which is inconsistent with his asser-
tion that he has broken no law."


AT BAY.
161
"Hugh," said Lady Gethin, "I wish you would
give me a promise, not to declare yourself to Miss
Lambert until you know the whole truth."
"No, Lady Gethin, I will not pledge myself to any
thing," returned Glynn, smiling; and soon after he
took his leave.
Things were looking brighter, he thought. If Lam-
bert would only make a clean breast, something defi-
nite might be arranged.
The next day, glad of an excuse to present himself
at Garston Terrace, Glynn was making his way toward
one of the Metropolitan stations, when he met Deering
coming to the office.
"I was going to call on you," he said.
"Sorry I can't go back with you," returned Glynn,
"but I have a special engagement. You will find
Mercer, which will answer your purpose even better."
"No doubt. By the way, do you ever hear any
thing of the Lambert business ?" looking searchingly
at him.
"Never," said Glynn steadily.
"And I presume you take no further interest in it."
"Yes, I do. I would give a good deal to get at the
bottom of that affair," and Glynn returned Deering's
gaze with equal keenness.
"Are you so ignorant, then ?" asked Deering with
a sneer. "Well, I heard this morning from a man I
have employed (for I confess I am determined to trace
that scoundrel Lambert), that those stupid Yankee de-
tectives have been on a false scent altogether. The
man they have been following proves not to be Lam-
bert, and they now suspect that while they have been
dodging his double in St. Louis and other places, the
real man has escaped to Canada. But he is certain to
be found."
"I suppose so," said Glynn, with such equanimity
that Deering's brows contracted, and he nodded a
hasty adieu.
"I wonder how the mistake arose," thought Glynn,


162
AT BAY.
as he strode along; "but having found it out I fear
they may get on the right track."
He took a longer detour than usual before approach-
ing his goal. Arrived there, he found Elsie waiting to
see the doctor after his visit to her father.
She looked very anxious. His nights, she said, were
so feverish and restless that it was impossible he could
make any real progress. Sometimes he was quite
cheerful ; then the cloud of nervous depression would
settle down upon him, and nothing seemed to rouse
or cheer him.
Glynn took care to speak to the doctor himself, and
he gave the same account. He said the bronchial at-
tack was cured, but an extraordinary degree of mental
depression continued. Was Glynn aware of any her-
editary tendency in that direction, which might account
for much? It might be well to have a second opinion,
but Mr. Lambert was averse to call in any other medi-
cal man, he did not like to press it, etc., etc.
As soon as he had gone Glynn was summoned to
the invalid, who was more than usually querulous and
uneasy, until his visitor broached the subject of Lady
Gethin's visit, describing her as the embodiment of
all Lambert desired in the shape of a female friend for
Elsie. Her father caught at the idea, but shrunk from
his friend's proposition that he should be presented to
her by his real name.
"Believe me, Lambert," said Glynn impressively,
"it is useless to hope you can remain concealed much
longer. If you would tell me all, I might be able to
advise you; at present I can not for want of knowl-
edge."
"Well, look here, then," said Lambert, after a min-
ute or two of profound thought, " you bring this lady
to us; let her see what a sweet, elegant creature my
Elsie is; maybe she will take a fancy to her. I'd
like to see this aunt of yours too, Glynn; and as the
doctor says I am to change the air and scene, I'm
going down to the drawing-room to-morrow, so let


AT BAY.
163
her come the day after. I'll put on my coat, and get
myself shaved, then I'll be fit to be seen. Do you
think she will come the day after to-morrow?"
"Yes, I am sure she will. She can not fail to
be charmed with Miss Lambert, and may be a very
useful friend."
"Then bring her, in God's name," ejaculated Lam-
bert, leaning back wearily; and Glynn, seeing he was
inclined to sleep, stole quietly away to Elsie's sitting-
room down stairs.
He found Mrs. Kellett with her, and on hearing him
say that he thought her father was sleeping, Elsie went
away to see if he was wrapped up and comfortable,
and for a minute or two Glynn felt at a loss what to
say to Mrs. Kellett.
She was a tall, thin, dark-eyed woman, with gray
hair, high cheek-bones, and a severe expression;
but her smile was kind, her eyes steady and honest.
She spoke very little, and her manner was guarded.
Glynn had been favorably impressed on the only
occasion when he had met her—their visit to the stock-
broker's and the transfer of Elsie's money to Glynn's
care.
"I find Miss Lambert by no means so well as I
should like to see her," he said at length.
"No, sir; and I am surprised she looks so well.
Her life has been a very trying one for many months."
"It has. I trust its trials will soon be over."
"There seems little prospect of that unless Mr.
Lambert will speak."
"As an old friend, Mrs. Kellett, you ought to beg
him to explain his position, or, if the effort be too
painful for him, to let you do it for him."
"But I do not know the whole story!" said Mrs.
Kellett. "It is fourteen years since he gave that dear
child into my care, and though I always suspected he
had a history, and a strange one, I never knew it. He
has always been a loving father, a just and generous
paymaster. I know no more."


AT BAY.
l65
kind, and helped to nurse me. She is a sort of aunt of
mine."
"If she took care of you I shall like her. You have
been such a true friend to my father," cried Elsie,
with sudden warmth, and stretching out her hand she
placed it in his.
Glynn was greatly surprised, and not altogether
pleased by her extreme unconsciousness, but he
gently retained the hand for a moment while she
went on—
"Is it quite safe her coming here? I do not under-
stand our extraordinary position, but it seems to me
that our hiding place is becoming too generally known.
Does the lady know we are hunted fugitives?"
"She does, and I will answer for her good faith."
"There must be some very strong reason for my
father's strange life!" and she lapsed into thought.
Then they spoke again of Lady Gethin, and the
extraordinary chance which had brought them to-
gether. At last he was obliged to tear himself away.
He never left her without an unspeakable pang, a
dread of some crime being committed before he saw
her again.
The dusk of a blustering March evening was
deepening, and Elsie was struck by the minute direc-
tions he gave the old landlady to fasten the shutters,
and lock the doors, to admit no stranger, and put out
the lights early.
"You are as fearful as my father," she said; "but I
think we are very safe in this quiet neighborhood."
"Good-night. I suppose I must not come to-mor-
row? Well, the day after I will with Lady Gethin. If
you want me in any way, telegraph."
Glynn was surprised to find Lady Gethin not only
ready, but in a state of impatient expectancy when he
reached her house on the day appointed.
"I suppose my kinsfolk and acquaintance would
consider me insane if they knew I was thus encourag-


AT BAY.
167
moment of graceful hesitation, Glynn's heart throbbed
with tenderness and pride, and he thought it must
puzzle Lady Gethin to find fault with so fair a
creature. He turned to read her opinion in her
countenance. She was gazing at Elsie with a curious
expression of startled surprise, almost of recognition,
and seemed too absorbed to remember the ordinary
observances of a first introduction.
"I have brought my aunt, Lady Gethin, to see you,
Miss Lambert," said Glynn, shaking hands with her.
"She is very kind to come," returned Elsie, with a
slight pretty courtesy, expressive of respect to the age
and position of her visitor.
"And I am very glad I ca*me," said Lady Gethin,
rising and holding out her hand gravely, but cordially.
"Mr. Glynn's interest in your father and yourself has
induced me to offer a visit, even though not quite sure
it will be acceptable."
"Oh, yes! it is most acceptable," cried Elsie, her
eyes filling with tears, and feeling strangely fascinated
by Lady Gethin's gaze.
"I am pleased to think so," said Lady Gethin,
with more of her usual manner, as she resumed her
seat.
"In a few minutes my father will be ready to receive
you, if you will be so very good as to visit him—he
has been so ill!"
"Yes, certainly, I want to see him very much. You
do not look particularly well yourself! too much con-
finement in a sick room, I suppose." A pause and
long searching look.
"I have gone out very little for months."
"Excuse me, my dear, you will think me an intru-
sive old woman, but what is your name? Elsie, Elsie!
that is quite strange to me. Do you remember your
mother at all?"
"No—that is, like a faint far-away dream!"
"What was her name?"
"I think I was called after her. I never speak


i68
AT BAY.
about her, for my father can not bear it. His sorrow
must have been great."
"I suppose so—I suppose so," thoughtfully. "You
will forgive my abruptness, I am not asking from idle
curiosity."
"I have nothing to forgive." Here the tinkle of a bell
was heard. "My father is ready; will you come?"
said Elsie, rising. She conducted them into the draw-
ing room, where Lambert, shaved and smartened up,
sat in his large chair, which had been brought down
stairs; a few flowers and some books gave an
inhabited air to the room, while the exquisite neatness
of the invalid and his surroundings bespoke loving
care.
Lady Gethin's quick eye noted every thing. Lam-
bert brightened a little as he thanked her with simple
courtesy for her visit. Glynn saw that she scrutinized
him with profound attention, and drew him out rather
than spoke to him.
Glynn himself had various matters to speak of with
Elsie, who looked more like what she had been in
Paris than she had since they had met again.
After some little time Lady Gethin turned to Elsie
and said, gravely, "Will you forgive me, my dear
young lady, if I ask you to leave me with your father
and Mr. Glynn? I have one or two matters to speak
of." She paused.
"Certainly," said Elsie, rising; ." you will send for
me when you want me," and with a smiling, wonder-
ing look at Glynn she left'the room.
The door being closed, Lady Gethin, turning to
Lambert, said, "At the risk of awakening painful
memories I must ask you a few questions! Your
daughter so resembles a dear friend, or rather one who
was a dear friend of mine long ago, that I can not
refrain. Pray has she any relations named Acton?"
"No," said Lambert, eying her suspiciously; "she
has no relation in the world but myself."
"She must have some others, Captain Lambert!"


A T BA Y.
169
persisted Lady Gethin. "Strange ideas rise in my
mind, coupling the likeness with Deering's efforts to
find her. The friend Miss Lambert resembles, and
whose daughter she might be, was Isabel Acton, who
married Gilbert Deering against the will of her people,
and went away with him abroad, where she died."
"My God !" cried Lambert, turning ghastly white,
"this is incredible!" He remained silent for a minute,
his hands clasping and unclasping the arms of his
chair, his mouth twitching, some strong emotion evi-
dently working within him. "Ring the bell!" he
said at length to Glynn. "Get me some brandy-and-
water. I will tell you my whole story, and I'll want
something to help me through. You look like a
strong, good woman, Lady Gethin. You will not
turn against my girl, though her father has been a bit
of a blackguard in his time."
"I will not," said Lady Gethin, stoutly.
"Do you wish me to leave you?" asked Glynn.
"No; my confession is as much for you as for my
lady here." He paused while the servant placed the
brandy-and-water beside him. "I must go a long way
back," he resumed, when she had left the room. "It
was about fifteen years ago when, after knocking about
in Texas and California, I found myself in Chili in a
very low condition, both as to money and prospects.
Just at that time a railway had been begun by a clever
adventurer who had been kicked out of Frisco, but
persuaded the Government of Chili to take up his
scheme. This railway was to a village up in the
mountains, in the middle of a rich mineral district,
teeming with wealth. The difficulty was to find ready
money to pay current expenses, they were never more
than a week ahead of the men's wages. To provide
for this outlay, Jeafferson, the Yankee promoter, got
together three or four gamblers to meet the men at
the village where they were paid, and win back the
cash just given out, and have it ready by the next pay-
day. I was one of these fine gentlemen," bitterly.


170
AT BAY.
"We had a percentage on our winnings, and lots of
food and drink at the bars, kept by the company,—
that is, Jeafferson. It is curious how little I minded
it all then, and what a rascally business it seems now!
Among the employe's there was a certain Deering, a
cold, stern Englishman, an engineer. He was a silent,
self-possessed fellow, proud and plucky as the devil.
We all hated him, for he looked down on us. He
seemed to see through the gambling scheme: he was
always interfering, and warning the men against us,
and making enemies on both sides. He had had a
wife with him, but she was dead. I never saw her."
He paused. Both Lady Gethin and Glynn drew a
little nearer with breathless interest.
"Well," resumed Lambert, " one night I met Deer-
ing in a hotel in Lima with a tall Englishman not un-
like himself, only fair, with whom he was talking over
a bottle of wine; and they had papers and money
lying on the table between them. They seemed greatly
occupied with their conversation. I had had a hard
ride, and a hard drink (I did drink then), and I
couldn't resist getting up a quarrel with Deering, so
I broke in on him and his friend and offered to stake
as much as lay there and play him for the whole at
poker, euchre, any thing he liked. He answered me
contemptuously, and rising, left the room. I was in an
awful fury, and swore I'd have his life and a deal more.
The tall friend who remained laughed and taunted me,
and gave me more drink, so we grew a bit familiar.
The upshot was, I went to see him in his private room;
there we got abusing Deering to dirt, and I swore I'd
have his life. When this man had listened awhile,
says he: 'If you are in earnest, I know a party as
would give a bigger pile than that' (meaning the
money that had been on the table) 'to know that he
was safe under the sod, and not only the serpent but
the spawn too ; for,' says he,' he has a child, who may-
prove worse than the father.' This sobered me. Ay,
you may look hard; it had an ugly sound, and black*


AT BAY,
171
guard as I had been, I was no cowardly assassin."
He stopped, and signed to Glynn to give him some
brandy and water.
"I parleyed with him a bit. However, I could get
little out of him, except that there was a good sum to
be mine if I would shoot my enemy. VV'ell, I kept
- quiet. I felt somehow desperately disgusted, and ail
my fury against Deering began to die away. I said to
my new acquaintance, that he should hear from me,
and next day I mounted my horse, and rode away to
find Deering; not to challenge and shoot him, but to
warn him against the treacherous devil that was thirst-
ing for his life. It's truth I'm telling you. Do you
believe me?" interrupting himself feverishly.
"I do," said Glynn, earnestly.
"Pray go on," urged Lady Gethin.
"Deering lived away at one of the stations in the
mountains, an awful wild place, with a lot of Indians
and half-breeds around him; the railway was pushed
so far, and the next payments were to be made there.
So men were busy rigging up a bar and a gaming
saloon, with logs and what not, when I rode in. Lord!
what a beautiful place it was! Just a strip of heaven
peopled by fiends! I got in there a little after sun-
down and found Deering kicking up a row, wanting to
prevent the saloon being finished and opened. I spoke
to him, as I hope—no! I don't hope any thing—but
as I live, full of the best intentions. I asked him to
come away out into the open with me a bit. There I
• tried to speak friendly to him, but it was no use. He
turned on me and abused me like a pickpocket, for one
of a gang of sharpers. He stung me to the quick; I
lost all control of myself, and pulling out my revolver,
I challenged him there on the spot. He said some-
thing about ridding the place of a pest. Just then a
boy—oh, of about nineteen or twenty, a factotum of
Jeafferson's—came up. We both asked him to see
fair play. O God! it was soon over! He fell at my
first fire. I had winged my man before, and didn't


172
at bay:
mind much. But somehow I felt sorry for him. Vexed
with myself, I threw away my revolver, and kneeled down
beside him, calling to the boy to help; but a confused
sound of shouting and a loud hum came from the vil-
lage or camp, and the boy said, ' They are up to mis-
chief there,' and away he ran. Deering seemed to
hear it; he opened his eyes and muttered something
—I could only make out the word ' destroy.' Then he
caught my hand, and with a despairing, imploring look
in his eyes—I see it still—groaned, ' My child—save
her.' And holding his hand, I swore I'd take care of
her so long as I had breath. He pointed to a ring on
his little finger, and muttered, ' Take ;' then he said,
'My child,' turned sharp, as if in pain, and was gone.
I took the ring (I'll show it to you presently), then I
made away to his shanty. The devils of miners, and
navvies, and half-breeds had risen to revenge them-
selves, and were wrecking his place. One fellow called
out that there was a pile of money in the house, that
Deering had got down in the town yesterday. The
lot of them were raging like furies and had just set
fire to the hut when I got up. There wasn't a sign of
the child. I hunted through the place. The men all
thinking I was dead against Deering, didn't interfere
with me. At last, crouching in a corner behind a door,
quite stupefied with fear, I found a little golden-haired
darling, of three or four years old—all alone."
•' Had she no nurse—or did the old nurse forsake
her?" asked Lady Gethin, as he paused. "How did
he come to keep her in such a place?"
"That I can not answer. I think Deering must
have been desperately poor, or he would not have
taken service with Jeafferson. Any how I took the
child, who screamed at me in an agony of terror. I
told her I would take her to her father. I wrapped a
cloak that hung on the wall round her and got out.
She was quite still—so still that I feared that she was
dead. So I managed to saddle Deering's horse, which
was fresh; and as night was falling I rode away,


AT BAY.
173
while those mad devils were shouting and dancing
round the burning wreck." He stopped, quite ex-
hausted.
"You had better not go on now," said Glynn. "I
begin to understand your position. LadyGethin will,
I am sure, return to—"
"I must go on," interrupted Lambert. "I can't rest
till I have finished ; and there's a lot more to tell."
"He had better get through it," said Lady Gethin.
"When I got down to Lima, I went to an out-of-
the-way eating-house, where I sometimes put up when
funds were low. The woman who kept it was a good
soul when sober. I got her to take care of the child
for a day and a night. She didn't ask questions.
Then I thought what to do, for I was at the end of my
cash. It struck me as a grand 'ploy,' if I could get
the price of poor Deering's life out of the long fellow
at the hotel, and build up a fortune for the child. So
I went to him, and told him what had happened, and
a good deal more—faith! I said I found the child
suffocated with the smoke, and just squeezed my hand
round its throat to make sure. He took it all quite
easy. 'You are a handy scoundrel,' he said ; and I
answered, ' You are an unhandy one. Now are you
going to keep your word, and give me over what you
wouldn't give poor Deering?'
"' What he wouldn't take,' says he. 'How do I
know you are speaking truth?'
"' Send and see,' said I. 'If you cheat me, I'll
raise the hue and cry against you.'
"' Who will believe you against me ?' said he with
a sneer. 'I am an Englishman of unblemished char-
acter. What would your assertion be against mine?
However, I don't want to cheat you. Come here to-
morrow.'
"To make a long story short, the woman who had
had the care of the child came roaring and crying to
this man, who was another Deering,—he never dis-
guised his name,—and said the child had been killed,


174
AT BAY.
or at any rate burned to death, and Deering was
killed too while she was away taking some food to her
husband. Any how that long devil was satisfied and
gave me the money. I must hurry a bit.
"I had agreed to quit South America, and so I
took a passage to MelDourne. I never thought the
child would live, she pined and seemed silly. There
was a good woman on board the vessel we sailed in
who took to my little darling. She had lost her baby
and her husband. He was the skipper of a ship that
traded between San Francisco and Callao, and some-
times to Melbourne. She was wonderful fond of Elsie.
I called her Elsie after a little sister of my own; I
never knew what name she had been christened. This
good woman is Mrs. Kellett. She was going to join a
sister who was married in Melbourne, and intended
getting work of some kind, as she had little or no
money.
"Well, the upshot was, that she agreed to take
charge of Elsie. I paid well; and then I took to
breaking horses, then I bought and sold them, and
made a good bit, and saved—Lord, how I saved!
I left off drink,—two glasses of beer in the day was
my allowance. If I could only make up to that child
for all I had robbed her of !—and she began to know
me. The day she first put her little arms round my
neck, and stroked my face, and wouldn't let me go, I
made a darned fool of myself, and cried. Mrs. Kellett,
not understanding, says, ' She'll be as sensible as any
child yet.' Ah! so she is. One time I wasn't lucky,
that is, I got next to nothing for myself, for I kept the
profits of Elsie's money separate from my own, and
it's wonderful how every thing I undertook for that
child prospered. It was then I went over to Califor-
nia, and scraped around a bit, and collected gold-dust
and nuggets; some I bought, some I dug myself. It
was there I fell in with you, Glynn. I seemed a penni-
less adventurer, didn't I? Aha, my boy !—I had nigh
a thousand pounds' worth stitched in my belt. I kept


A T BA Y.
out a little just to throw away and keep up with the
others, but did you ever see me forget myself in drink?"
"I was always struck by your extreme temperance,"
returned Glynn.
"Ah! well, those were happy days," resumed Lam-
bert. "After that spurt I went back to Melbourne.
Presently Mrs. Kellett wanted to go home; her
brother had come into his uncle's farm; he was a
widower, with a lot of boys, and wrote for his sister to
keep his house; so I came with her, and saw the
place, and left my precious child there, where she
throve like a lily for near five years. I settled in
Paris, always working her money and my own very
cautiously, and looking forward to the day she'd come
and take care of her father. I declare to God, I used
to forget she wasn't my own child! When she was,
as I reckoned, about twelve, I put her into the con-
vent, and used to have her out on holidays. She
never enjoyed them more than I did, and she grew
fonder and fonder of me. Then I made a snug little
nest for her, and took her home for good. Then I
met you, Glynn, and now I'm coming to the trouble.
You remember Vincent. Well, when I first met him
with some very respectable Americans in Paris; I was
puzzled with the notion that I had seen him before,
and I told him so. Then he grinned, and said he was
the boy that had witnessed my duel with Deering.
We agreed to bury the past, as it wasn't exactly a let-
ter of recommendation. I wasn't over-pleased with
him, but he was uncommon civil, and used to come to
the house, and I got accustomed to him. Then he
proposed for Elsie, and I refused him; still he hung
on, and asked a second time; after that he got spite-
ful. You know all about that time, Glynn! Wasn't
it a slice out of heaven? It didn't last long. You
were at the Davilliers' the evening I came in, and saw
Deering talking to Elsie, and looking at her. By
Heaven, I understood his looks! and if I had had my
knife in my belt, as in the old days, he'd have looked


AT BAY.
his last. I thought the sight of me would have
frightened him."
Lambert paused, and lay back in his chair.
"Did he recognize you?" cried Lady Gethin with
breathless interest.
"Ay, that he did. He was calm, and civil, and
damnably superior, and came the next day to call, and
sat talking so softly and elegantly to my blessed child.
At last he begged for a private interview with me,—
said he had something of importance to say. I was
obliged to go to his hotel, there was no use refusing."
Lambert stopped, took a little more brandy-and-water,
drew a long breath, and began again. "As soon as
the door was closed he asked me to come up by his
writing-table. Then looking straight at me he
exclaimed, ' You lied to me. You did not strangle
Gilbert Deering's infant! I recognized the girl's
likeness to her mother at the first glance.'
"'What's that to you?'said I. 'There's a crime
the less on your conscience.'
"He laughed harshly. 'I confess she was worth
sparing; she is a charming creature. You seem to
have brought her up remarkably well, but I think you
have done enough. I propose to assume her guard-
ianship in future.' Then he went on to offer me
money—me !—to give up my child. I saw his infernal
scheme, and I burst out in a fury. I threatened to
expose him. 'Try,' he replied, ' and see what will
become of it. I shall simply tell my story. I went
out to Chili to find my cousin, who had succeeded to
the family estate of Denham. I had a considerable
sum of money with me for his use. A desperate
scoundrel sees us discussing business matters, and
the money on a table before us. He follows
poor Gilbert, murders and robs him; incites the
ruffians of the place to fire Deering's house. In
the scuffle Gilbert's little girl is supposed to be
burned—years after I discover her in Paris. I
denounce the murderer, save my young cousin, unveil


AT BAY.
177
the monster on whom she has lavished her filial affec-
tion—and—'
"' Lose your estates,' I interrupted. 'You didn't
want to murder Gilbert Deering for nothing. How
would my story tell against yours?'
"' My good friend, not a soul would believe your
word against mine. Your antecedents would put you
out of court!'
"' You would need a witness or two,' said I.
"' I might find one,' he said, with an air of careless
security that thrilled me with fear. I thought of his
strange intimacy with Vincent. But he wouldn't be
such a villain as to forswear himself? 'I'll give you
a few days to reflect,' he went on. 'This is my prop-
osition. Hand over the girl to my custody. I will
find her a good husband, and generally take care of
her. You make yourself scarce; be off to America,
and drink yourself to death. I'll give you two hund-
red a year while you are above ground: Refuse,
and I'll lodge information against you in consequence
of revelations made to me by your friend Vincent.
Now take your choice. My position is impregnable;
every one knows Gilbert Deering was murdered; it
only remains to discover the murderer. If I am
driven to this, I shall stand out in bright colors as a
just and chivalrous kinsman, and no doubt some com-
promise beneficial to me can be arranged. Of this I
am resolved,—to get rid of you.' He would not say
another word, and I left him, feeling more than half-
mad with helpless rage—ay! and terror! I am no
coward, I could face death as steadily as any man;
but to leave my Elsie at the mercy of such a villain,
with the stain of my public execution on her life, with
the bitter knowledge that I had killed her real father,
to blot out all tender, kindly recollection of me—no, I
could not face that. Then to hand her over to a
wretch who would destroy her if he could: that idea
drove me wild. I tell you in my agony I half deter-
mined to put an end to her and to myself, as the best


i78
AT BAY.
and most merciful mode of cutting the knot." He
paused, shuddering. "No poor words can tell the
horror of those days. I had more than one interview
with Deering, and the calm way he affected to believe
his own lies drove me wild. I urged that the disap-
pearance of the large amount of money with which
he was intrusted to give his cousin would tell against
him. He said he had given the money to Gilbert, and
that I had robbed him of it. I appealed to Vincent.
Vincent coolly told me that I had shot Deering in the
back. I was utterly powerless; all I could gain, was
time.
"I pretended to take the proposition of giving her
up to Deering into consideration. They thought I
was going to yield. Then you came back, and I
played a last card. I asked you to marry my Elsie. I
thought she would be safe, and I'd go away and hide.
But you couldn't, or wouldn't."
Glynn started up. "I don't know," he began.
"Let me finish," interrupted Lambert; "I have
nearly done. I was desperate, and at bay. The
thought came into my mind to hide my darling. I
ran over to England, telegraphed to Mrs. Kellett to
» meet me at a neighboring town, and told her some-
thing of my difficulties. She knew my love for my
child, and obeyed my instructions. I transferred all
the money I could to her name. I took counsel with
her as to where Elsie should stay, and when she (Mrs.
Kellett) should come to Paris, and many details I
haven't time to tell. A day or two before the ball
Mrs. Kellett, down at her brother's place, was laid up
with a severe cold, and was waited on by a faithful
old servant who was partly in her confidence, and let
no one else into her room: whereas in the night she
had slipped out of the house and walked to the nearest
station, where she caught the first train to London,
and came through to Paris, bringing with her some
English-made clothes to dress Elsie in. I did not
warn my jewel, lest she should betray any uneasiness,


AT BAY.
179
but at the last moment I made her promise to come
home from the ball,—not to go to madame's. This
between ourselves.
"Then I met her, and took her into the kitchen of
the empty Mage below us. I had to contrive to get
hold of the key. She was terribly startled; but I
made her believe her hiding was essential to my safety.
She changed her clothes and tried to eat something.
We waited till I heard the concierge moving about, for
the danger was in going out. I had brought Mrs.
Kellett in with myself the night before as soon as the
house was shut up, so that no voice but mine was
heard when the concierge asked, 'Who was there?'
Well, they got out exactly as that thief of a detective
guessed, while the concierge was at the pump. They
walked quietly along over the Pont d'Alma, where
they got rid of the ball-dress, and near the Invalides
took a fiacre: thus they got off by the first train.
"I was careful to make no discovery, till I thought
they would be safe on board the Calais boat. Once
landed safely in England, and steaming to London, it
would be next to impossible to track them. In Lon-
don they drove to the Great Northern, and thence,
late in the evening, to the South-Western; from that
to a lady's school at Clapham, and kept by a cousin of
Mrs. Kellett's, where Elsie was to go as a teacher with-
out salary.
"I made up my mind to do without letters for
months; only one I must have, to say she was safe:
that was sent to a false name at Marseilles, where I
journeyed to get it. I had given Mrs. Kellett a cer-
tain set of advertisements to be inserted week after
week in the Daily News, on Wednesdays and Fridays,
which informed me that all was well; and one which
was only to be inserted if my presence was required,—
a danger signal, in fact. I knew the shrewd devils I
had to deal with ; the money power that Deering
wielded. Nothing gave me a chance but the eight or
nine hours' start before the police were on the track.


i8o
AT BAY.
"So I waited and waited, never writing to England
except to Mrs. Kellett now and again, letters composed
for inspection; never remitting mbney; waiting,
watching for a chance of seeming to go back to
America, really, of joining my jewel; and I found it
at last; but, there, I can't say another word. If it
hadn't been for this unlucky illness, we'd have been
on our way to Australia. There, give me some more."
He lay back profoundly exhausted. Glynn held the
glass to his lips, while he exchanged a look of wonder
and sympathy with Lady Gethin.


CHAPTER X.
A TRUE LOVER'S KNOT.
LAMBERT'S hearers were silent for a few minutes.
Both perceived the danger and difficulty of his
situation. If Deering stuck to his text, and could trust
Vincent to show equal pertinacity, all probabilities
were on the side of the man of high character, fortune,
and position.
Lady Gethin and Glynn might believe his story,
from the internal evidence of sympathy and sentiment,
but to the legal mind that would not be worth a straw.
If Deering chose, he might obtain Lambert's con-
demnation as a robber and murderer, and purchase
revenge by the sacrifice of his estate. Thus a blow—a
fatal blow—would be dealt to Elsie, whose tender,
faithful nature would suffer intensely from the shock
of such knowledge.
To Glynn there seemed but one means of security
to both—one he was most ready to adopt. As his wife,
Elsie would be out of Deering's reach, and with such
a champion of her rights, he could not hope to make
very favorable terms; still, for character's sake, he
was almost bound to support his assertions should a
whisper of them reach any ears save Vincent's and
Lambert's. While he thought, Lambert seemed to
revive.
"I never heard of such an utter villain !" exclaimed
Lady Gethin. "I perfectly remember the death of
old Deering. The next heir had been carried off by
fever just before, making way rather unexpectedly for
Gilbert.
"This man, Travers Deering, who had had a quar-


i8i
AT BAY.
rel with his cousin, was in the office of the family
solicitor, and was sent out to look for him in South
America, as he had not been heard of for some time.
The story goes that he met him and gave him rather
a large sum of money for his expenses, which Gilbert
took away up to some barbarous place, where he had
left his baby girl. He was murdered and robbed in
an outbreak of roughs, and the child was burned, they
said, in the fire which consumed Gilbert's hut or house.
It was all in the papers at the time, and Deering made
search for the child, offered reward, etc., and did not
take possession of the property for some little time."
"That lynching business was a stroke of luck for
Deering," said Lambert feebly.
"If not inconvenient, I should like to see the ring
you mentioned," said LadyGethin.
"Certainly," said Lambert. "Glynn, ask Elsie
to bring the little dispatch-box from the table in my
room."
Glynn went to deliver the message, and Elsie, who
came down stairs, inquired anxiously if her father was
not over-tired. Glynn assured her that he seemed
better for the relief of complete confidence. "I trust
we shall be able to find a way out of all his difficulties,"
he concluded.
Elsie brought the box, and placing it in his hands,
looked up in his eyes with a sweet, frank smile. "If
his mind is at rest, he will soon be better."
"I am sure he will," said Glynn, his heart swelling
with infinite compassion, as he thought of the tangled,
villianous mesh which had twined itself round her
pure and simple life. To him belonged the task of
protecting and delivering her. "And you too," he
added, " you need rest and a sense of security."
"When I see htm well, I too shall be myself again."
Glynn took her hand, and kissed it reverently.
Something of consciousness called the color to her
cheek at the touch of his lips, and it was with a faint,
delicious glow of hope that Glynn went back to Lam-


AT BAY.
i83
bert, who, drawing out a key which hung to his watch-
chain, unlocked the box. After a little search he pro-
duced a small case from which he took an old-fashioned
gold ring, two hands clasped, and a bracelet of tiny-
turquoises on each wrist. "There," said Lambert,
"that is the ring I took from the poor fellow's hand
after he had breathed his last."
Lady Gethin took it, and sat looking at it for a
moment or two, her keen black eyes suffused with tears.
"This is indeed a message from the grave," she said,
with much emotion. "I gave this ring to Isabel Acton,
a few days before she married my relative, Gilbert
Deering. I was very poor at the time, and had little
or nothing to give, so took this quaint old thing from
my ringer to put on hers. I never saw the poor girl
again."
"What an extraordinary piece of evidence!" ex-
claimed Glynn.
"It corroborates the effect of your daughter's re-
markable likeness to' her mother. 'There is a provi-
dence that shapes our ends,' " said Lady Gethin in a
low tone, and silence fell upon them, from which she
was the first to rouse herself.
"There is no time to be lost in making some
arrangement that will relieve you from this horrible
condition of fear and concealment. Let us consult
my lawyer."
"A lawyer !—no, no!" cried Lambert. "That
would be dangerous."
"We must proceed with infinite caution," observed
Glynn. "Deering's position is a strong one. You
have only your own word to weigh against his. If we
could get hold of Vincent!"
"There is little chance of that," said Lambert. "If
I could only be sure my precious Elsie were safe."
"She shall come and stay with me," cried Lady
Gethin with enthusiasm.
"That would be going into the lion's jaws," said
Glynn. "This is my plan : I have learned to love


184
AT BAY.
your daughter (as I still consider her) : let me try and
win her; and let us keep all dark till she is my wife."
Lambert stretched out his hand to grasp Glynn's;
he tried to speak in vain, and burst into a fit of
hysterical weeping.
"Moreover," continued Glynn solemnly, " I promise,
that if Deering resigns his bold attempts at revenge,
no love of mere wealth shall induce me to open up
the question of Elsie's parentage or your past life."
The sound of her father's sobs brought Elsie into
the room, and broke off the conversation.
******
"It is altogether the most extraordinary romance I
ever heard of," said Lady Gethin, when Glynn called
a few days after these exciting disclosures. "I have
been thinking what is best to be done. Suppose I
take Elsie abroad with me, and you follow. You can
.be married quietly, and then snap your fingers at
Deering. Lambert alone he could easily crush, but
Lambert as ' father-in-law to a very magnificent three:
tailed bashaw' is a different matter. I am deeply
interested in your little lady-love, and I am by no
means disposed to give up her inheritance to that
double-dyed traitor."
"You must remember I have not yet been accepted.
I have not even tried my chance."
"Pray do not lose any more time. She would
never be such a fool as to refuse you! You are really
a very acceptable sort of man."
"Thanks for the compliment. But I hesitate;
because I dread the complications which would ensue
if she refuses me!"
"Fiddle-de-dee. She won't refuse you! / would
not refuse you were I a young lady."
Glynn laughed and then grew grave. "I was
rather annoyed yesterday to hear from Mrs. Kellett,
who is staying at her cousin's school at Clapham, that
she is afraid she is being watched—she is not sure;
but of course she is nervously on the qui vive. She


AT BAY.
• 85
rarely ventures to Garston Terrace; and the blessed
day I found Elsie they had met at that hotel in Hol-
born to arrange some money matters, as Mrs. Kellett
is afraid to write."
"What a dreadful state of things! So it was
Elsie's voice you heard at Clapham! Was that Mrs.
Storrer in the secret?"
"Not altogether. When Elsie first went she thought
she was French; afterward Mrs. Kellett partially
confided in her, and between them they prepared the
story of her having gone with a family to India, in
case of inquiries."
"Well !" said Lady Gethin, " I shall make my prep-
arations for going abroad; and you go and settle
things with Elsie and her father. By the way, have
you found out how he escaped from the steamer where
Vincent absolutely saw him en route for America?"
"By a very clever dodge. Lambert waited and
watched till he found a needy countryman something
of his own height and color, who wished to go to
New York. He offered to pay this man's passage
from Liverpool if he would go under the name
of Lambert. This he readily agreed to. Lambert
went to see him off. His representative wore a mack-
intosh of a peculiar cut, a chimney-pot hat, and a
large white comforter muffling the lower part of his
face. Lambert had a brown cloth overcoat, and fur
traveling-cap. He and his friend talked together on
the deck till the last moment, and then seeing Vincent
(of whose presence he had been aware) move off, he
slipped behind some shelter with his friend, and
changed hat and coat in hot haste; Lambert twisted
the comforter round his throat and face, and joined
the crowd on the gangway a little behind Vincent.
The fellow paused on the pier to watch the rest go
by; and Lambert passed him with the utmost sang
froid, even stopping to wave his hand to his friend on
deck, and then walked smartly on, jumped into a cab,
and caught the London train."


AT BAY.
187
in return! be my own dear wife. I swear, whether
you are or not, that accursed American shall do you
no harm. Elsie, beloved! will you be mine?" He
grasped her hands tightly, and held her eyes with his,
as if he would penetrate her heart's secret. At first an
expression of profoundest amazement flitted over her
face, succeeded by a deep burning blush as she shrank
back from him.
"Are you sure this is not compassion?" she asked
in a very low voice.
"Compassion? No; why should it be compassion?
Do you not feel, do you not see, that I love you, as
men rarely love?" A curious amused smile stole
round Elsie's lips, and her eyes sunk to the ground.
"What do you smile at?" asked Glynn, surprised in
his turn.
"At your change of mind. Some seven or eight
months ago you refused to marry me!"
"How do you know?" cried Glynn, feeling as if
the glowing currents in his veins were arrested and
turned to ice.
"By means of which I ought to be and am
ashamed."
"Tell me!"
"You were sitting after dinner with my father, and
I came into my own little room. The curtain was
down, but I heard him say something about 'my
jewel,' as he so often called me, and," hesitating, "I
listened. I know it was shameful, but I could not
resist. What struck me most was that he offered to
go away, not to see me. I wondered what kind of a
man you could be to need such an assurance!"
"What could you have thought of me?" cried
Glynn. "Can you ever forgive my insane folly?"
"Oh! I did not mind! These plans of marriage
are often made by thoughtful parents. You hardly
knew me then; it would have been foolish to agree to
what might not have been suitable. I did not dream
of marrying you. You seemed to me too ,"


AT BAY.
"Old?" suggested Glynn, more charmed than ever
with her sweet, grave simplicity, and thirsting to kiss
that lovely mouth that spoke so melodiously.
"No," with a smile, " not old, but grand; I can not
exactly express what I mean. I did not want to
marry you. Indeed I was so taken up with what my
father said about keeping away from me, that I did
not think much about you."
"Will you think of me now?" exclaimed Glynn.
"Look at me, dearest! read my heart in my eyes.
Believe me, there is nothing in heaven above, or earth
beneath, that I desire as I desire your love!"
Elsie grew a little pale.
"I am half-frightened at the idea. It is not good
for you; it is not wise of you ; though I am ignorant
of the world, I know it must be bad for any man to
marry a girl who has been obliged to hide away as 1
have been—who is surrounded with mystery and fear,
and who could never, never forsake her dear father
even for you!"
"Even for me! then you love me a little, Elsie?"
"I do!" with a slight sob. "I love you, for your
loyalty and goodness to my father. I love you,"—.
she stopped and added with gentle solemnity—" for
yourself." Yielding to his passionate embrace, she
clung to him and burst into a fit of wild weeping that
surprised and disturbed him. "I hope it is not wrong
to let you love me," she murmured brokenly; "I do
not know what is behind, and if we must part—"
"We never shall unless by your special wish, my
own, my life. I know every thing, and you shall know
every thing by and by. Will you not wait and trust
your father and me?"
"I will," she returned, and Glynn felt her "I will"
was equal to another's oath. She disengaged herself
from his arms, and stood for an instant with clasped
hands in silent, prayerful thought. Glynn waited till
she stirred, and then taking her hand, began softly to
explain to her the necessity of a speedy marriage, and


AT BAY.
189
Lady Gethin's wish to take her abroad at once. This
Elsie demurred to; she could not leave her father,
who, though wonderfully recovered in health, was
greatly depressed and despondent.
"Let us go and consult him," said Glynn.
"Oh, yes; I have forgotten him too long. Shall
we tell him that I saw Vincent?"
"No, certainly not. The knowledge will not add
to his safety, and may injure him. He must leave
this—"
"He is very safe here. The house is really ours.
Mrs. Kellett took it furnished for a year. The land-
lady is really her old servant, who knew me as a child.
She was here for two months before we came. She
will never say any thing that could betray us."
"Ah! an excellent plan. But come to your father
—we must consult him."
Lambert was reading a newspaper when they
entered his room. He was looking stronger and more
like himself than Glynn had seen him since they had
met in London. He welcomed them cordially, glanc-
ing from one to the other, as if perceiving traces of
unusual emotion. "Lambert," said Glynn, " we have
come to ask your consent. I am so infinitely happy as
to have won Elsie's; you will not withhold yours?"
"My God, I thank Thee!" murmured Lambert.
"My child—my Elsie, you will be safe now, and I have
done with life."
Elsie ran to him, and putting her arms round his
neck kissed him over and over again, exclaiming,
"No, my own dear father, you will begin life anew;
the best of it is to come. He loves you too; he will
help me to make you happy."
When they were a little calmer Glynn began to
speak of Lady Gethin's plans, and rather to Elsie's
surprise Lambert was eager to adopt them. He
declared that it would make his mind quite easy to
know that his daughter was under Lady Gethin's care;
that he would soon be able to travel, and join them


AT BAY.
with Glynn. He seemed eager that this plan should
be carried out.
"Father," said Elsie, taking his hand in both hers,
"will you not trust me ?—will you not tell me the
secret?"
"Well, not quite all of it," said Lambert, with a
peculiar look at Glynn. "You see, my dear, a long
time ago I was foolish enough to get mixed up in a
political plot to upset the Government in Ireland.
Well, it never came to any thing: a blackguard con-
nected with it betrayed every thing, and he was mur-
dered out—oh, out in California. Well, unfortunately
I was the last person seen with him, and Deering has
got evidence that might hang me. Now I don't want
a row until I have the means of disproving his asser-
tions. Of course he has an object in all this, and of
•course you don't believe / would take a life?"
"You, dear, dear father! No, indeed: but why—
why were you obliged to hide me? Would it not be
better to face it all?"
"I hid you, my darling, because that red devil had
a design to remove you from my guardianship on the
plea that I was a criminal; and as to facing it, I'll do
that when I have counter evidence, which I hope to
get."
"Which is only prudent," put in Glynn.
"It is all very strange," said Elsie, trembling visi-
bly. "They can not hurt him, can they ?"—to Glynn.
"They shall not. And you," she continued, turning
to him, " you wish to marry me in the face of all this?"
"As ardently as if you were the daughter of the
proudest potentate in Europe."
Elsie was silent, her bosom heaved, tears hung heavy
on her long lashes, and it was only by a strong effort
of her habitual self-control that she resisted an out-
burst of tears.
"You are fit for the best king that ever sat on a
throne," cried Lambert; "and Glynn is worthy of
you. Now, my darling, go—go write a letter to Mrs.


AT BAY.
191
Kellett and tell her every thing; Glynn will post it
(we are desperately cautious about communicating
with Mrs. Kellett), and I will have a little talk with
Glynn."
Elsie, who looked shocked and shaken, kissed her
father's hand lovingly, and exclaimed:
"You can never be accused seriously. Surely there
is no danger? Why does Mr. Deering hate you? I
did not believe there was such wickedness except in
books."
With an appealing look at Glynn, she left the
room.
"It was a good thought," said Lambert, leaning
back with a deep sigh, " a very good thought, to make
her believe I was mixed up with the rebel Irish; so I
have been, -but not much. Any thing rather than the
truth. I tell you, Glynn, she must never know that I
killed her own father, of whom she has still a confused
memory, for she has let out that I sometimes seem
different from the picture her early memory presents
of me. I'd die outright rather, Glynn. The toils
press me closer and closer, but my Elsie will be safe
with you."
"As safe as love and care can make her," said Glynn
in a low, solemn tone.
"Then it matters little about me," said Lambert, and
remained silent for a few minutes with a look of deep-
est despondency.
"Suppose you let me see Deering on your behalf?"
suggested Glynn. "I might—"
"No, no," interrupted Lambert vehemently; "none
must meddle with him but me. Once Elsie is away,
I will go and see him. If he knows she is safe out of
his reach, the black villain, he may come to terms.
But he'd do any thing for revenge. I believe he could
hang me; and he might choose to destroy me, and
through me my darling. No; I will see him myself
as soon as I am a trifle stronger." Lambert rose, and
walked up and down the room with a sort of feeble


192
AT BAY.
energy very touching. "If I could get out," he said,
"I'd gather strength, and I don't want to face that
scoundrel till I have the pluck to stand up to him. Oh,
Glynn, Glynn, I feel as if he would get the better of
me!"
"You must keep up your heart, Lambert, for her
sake. If Deering knows that Elsie is, or soon will be,
my wife, and that you will not press any claim upon
him, he will be glad enough to keep quiet."
"May be so, may be so; any way you lifted a great
load off my mind by making it all right with my jewel.
I'll let you go now, I am desperate tired. You go and
have a little talk with Elsie while I rest and think
what's best to be done. You tell Elsie to get all ready
to start with Lady Gethin; and, Glynn, promise me
one thing—never let her know that I shot her father.
Your hand on it."
"I promise you," said Glynn gravely.
Another delightful hour with Elsie, and he was
obliged to go. He had persuaded her to accompany
Lady Gethin, and had undertaken not to lose sight of
her father until he conveyed him safely to Lausanne.
The idea that Deering was plotting against his life had
greatly affected her.
"There must be much you do not tell me," she
said. "The whole thing seems so strange and terrible."
"No doubt it does," said Glynn. "Later, I am
sure, your father will tell you more. Now, my love,
my darling, I must leave you."
"Before you go," said Elsie, raising her eyes to his
with a grave smile, "tell me your name! I never
heard it, and I want to know; I want to call you by
some name more familiar than Mr. Glynn in my
thoughts."
"I hope you will, dearest. I am called Hugh."
"Hugh! I do not know that name. I like it. It
sounds strong." Then, with a vivid blush, but a cer-
t iin steadiness, as if she had made up her mind, she
said, " Good night, dear Hugh."


AT BAY.
he no doubt counts on a compromise, that he would be
left the life-use of the property."
"To which I hope and trust you would never con-
sent, Hugh! I'd take that wretch's skin off, if I could!
In fact I have set my heart on seeing you master of
Denham one of these days. It is infamous that
wickedness should flourish in high places."
"I prefer keeping my word to Lambert that Elsie
should never know how her real father died, to pos-
sessing the finest property in the kingdom."
"Well, you need not break your word, neither need
you be Quixotic."
These sentences were exchanged in the dining-room
from which Lambert and Elsie had retired to have a
few words in private in Lady Gethin's boudoir.
Thither she and Glynn followed them, the latter draw-
ing Elsie into the conservatory adjoining.
"The next fortnight will be awfully blank," he ex-
claimed, when they were out of earshot. "By that
time 1 trust all difficulties will be surmounted, and I
shall be able to start with your father for Lausanne;
then I trust there will only be peace and love for you
both in the future."
"Would to God this terrible interval were over!"
said Elsie, with a quivering sigh.
"I intend to insist on your father staying with me
in my chambers until he is free to join you! Trust
him to me, dearest," replied Glynn.
"How good you are! How can I ever thank you
enough?" cried Elsie, and carried away by tenderness
and gratitude her arms stole round his neck, and she
kissed him repeatedly in all the simple sincerity of un-
hesitating affection.
Soon after, as it was growing late, Lambert proposed
returning to his lodgings. He had said good-by to
Lady Gethin, and tenderly embraced Elsie. He had
even gone halfway down stairs when he suddenly
paused, and turning back exclaimed, "I must take
one more look at her," and ascending to the drawing-


A T BA Y.
*95
room, took her hand in both his own. Gazing intently
into her face, he said softly, "My own jewel! Have
I made you happy? Will you pardon me any wrong
I may have done you?"
"Wrong!—you have done me nothing but good.
No father ever made a daughter happier than you
have made me."
"Then give me a loving thought now and again.
God bless you, my darling. Good-by, good-by."
"Only for a little while, dearest, best!" she ex-
claimed. "Be careful, and come to me soon!"
Lambert made no reply. He hurried into the cab
which waited below, and accompanied by Glynn
returned to his lodgings in safety.
******
There was little or no difficulty in persuading
Lambert to accept his future son-in-law's invitation.
Though greatly pleased to know Elsie was with Lady
Gethin, he evidently shrank from being alone, and
was in so low and nervous a condition that Glynn
insisted on carrying him off to his chambers the day
after Elsie's departure.
Here he revived considerably, and was able to
receive a visit from Mrs. Kellett. Letters from Elsie
and Lady Gethin also cheered him. Still he was not
himself, and his restlessness was painful at times.
Glynn carefully avoided any appearance of change
in his habits, and went out to dinners and parties as
usual. At one of these he encountered Deering, and
took the initiative by asking if he had been all this time
in the country, as he had not met him any where lately.
"I staid longer than I intended at Denham, put-
ting matters in train for the election, and now that
radical fellow Smithson will neither die nor retire. But
you have been rather scarce lately. I haven't seen
you in the haunts of men."
"I think I have been as much about as usual. By
the way, is your American friend Vincent in town? I
fancied I saw him the other day in Bond Street."


196
AT BAY.
"Vincent! yes; at least he was last week. The
fellow is a born detective. He will not give up the
chase after Lambert and his daughter. It seems he
found out that the woman who brought Miss Lambert
up is staying at Clapham, and he has been dodging
her, thinking he will track the Lamberts through her.
By the way, the American police are duffers: they
have at last found out that they have been hunting the
wrong man. My own belief is that Lambert never
quitted England."
"Perhaps not," returned Glynn. "Are you to be
at the Milton wedding next week? Lady Agnes is
your sister-in-law, is she not?"
"No, only my wife's cousin ; she is not very well—
Lady Frances I mean—and I have begged off the
festivity. I go down to Denham on Wednesday for a
few days. I am making some alterations there, and
want to look after them."
"Well, good night."
Glynn returned with so much information for Lam-
bert, who was evidently stirred by it. "I am better
and stronger," he said, rising and stretching himself:
"I'll take heart, and go talk to him in the midst of
his ill-gotten property ; maybe he'll hear reason. If
not—"
"If not, let me see him and remonstrate."
"Any way, I'll not bear this state of misery any
longer; I'll find freedom somehow !" cried Lambert,
with an air of determination.


CHAPTER XI.
PAID IN FULL.
T FEEL like myself," said Lambert to his host,
I a few days after the encounter above recorded.
"I'll go down to Denham to-morrow, and get my inter-
view with Deering over."
"I am not at all sure you are equal to it, Lambert;
you are feverish and excited. Why not wait till he
comes up to town?"
"Because I'd feel safer in the country. That fel-
low is just traitor enough to keep me in talk while he
sent for a constable, and made a charge of murder
against me. Constables are not so near at hand in the
country."
"I think you are mistaken; I don't fancy Deering
will cut off his nose to spite his face."
"It's hard to tell. Any how I'll try him. I suppose
there is some village or town near where a man could
put up ? ".
"There is a village at Denham, I believe, but the
railway-station is five or six miles off, 1 am told, at a
town called Earlshall, where no doubt you will find
accommodation. I wish you would leave the matter
in my hands, Lambert."
"That I can not; but I think I am sufficiently
backed up now to make terms with him."
"I wish you could carry the .war into the enemy's
country, but that without witnesses would be impossi-
ble," returned Glynn. "Make the best terms you can.
I agree with you in thinking that no amount of wealth
could atone for shocking and grieving Elsie."
"Nothing could!" ejaculated Lambert. "And


i98
A r BA Y.
suppose I am hanged, will you be true to my dar-
ling?"
"Yes, even if I believed you guilty of murder, I
would stick to her!"
Lambert seized and pressed his hand, and after a
moment's silence resumed:
"111 go and sleep at my own place to-night; it's
nearer the Great Northern, and I'll start off to-morrow
morning. May be I'll be lucky, hey?" He pulled out
Elsie's last letter and read it through in silence. "She
is happy any way, but she's wearying for her old dad!
God bless her! God bless her, and watch over her!"
with a burst of feeling. "The blessing of a vagabond
like myself isn't worth much, but there it is. May
be but for me she'd be a great lady now, and holding
her own in the sight of all men."
"And perhaps but for you she would be in her
grave, or struggling in poverty and degradation,"
said Glynn.
"Who can tell ?" rejoined the other, and he left the
room to prepare for his return to his own abode.
"I'll not write to you, Glynn," were his last words
at starting; "I'll just come straight back and tell you
every thing."
"Do; and remember that the bolder front you can
show the greater the chance of his yielding. Speak
as if you had a cloud of witnesses to back you."
"Ay, that's the plan! I'll try it, if only my nerves
keep as steady as they feel to-day."
The chief inn of Earlshall, a small town on the
borders of Northshire, was full and busy one morning
in May, more than twelve months from the opening
of this true history. It was market-day, and the cof-
fee-room resounded with the loud voices and creaking
boots of the neighboring farmers, who had looked in
for a mouthful and "a drop of drink" somewhat
stronger than coffee.
The stables were full of strong, serviceable nags,


AT BAY.
199
worthy of the shire which bred them, and the busy
hostlers had scarce time to attend to the demand of a
stranger, who had been staying for the last two days
at the inn, that one or other of them should saddle the
horse he had ridden each day since he arrived.
"Hand it over to me, and I'll saddle him myself,"
he said, at length. "I am no fool about a horse, and
can generally manage all I want with my own hands."
So saying, he proceeded to saddle the steed he had
selected, and soon trotted out of the yard.
A stranger was a novelty at Earlshall, and several
inquiries were addressed to "mine host," who mixed
on pleasant, easy terms with his guests. "The visitor
was from 'Lunnon' or from furrin parts." But he
knew a horse when he saw one; he had been over to
Denham all day long ; the landlord's opinion was that
likely he came from a newspaper, and he hoped as how
he would write up the "Black Horse." There was a
letter for him that morning from Denham. "I know
the paper and the crest stamped outside," added the
host; "I dare say he's an electioneering chap."
Unconscious of these comments Lambert rode on,
with a gray, set face, and firmly-closed mouth. The
letter he had received that morning had been brief;
—" I will hear what you have to say, but I do not wish
a criminal to cross my threshold. You must meet me
by the Deer's Barn, in the Beech Wood, about a mile
from the village. Any one will direct you." This had
no signature, and was addressed to "Mr. Smith."
Lambert took it out and read it, gnashing his teeth as
he did so.
"The insolent, daring villain," he muttered; "can
I do nothing to turn his flank? If he had a gleam of
conscience he would be less daringly unscrupulous,
but he hasn't enough to make a coward of him. Glynn
is my best card, but Deering knows his strength; he
has only to lie boldly, and I am at his mercy. But
he'll never get hold of her; she is safe from him."
Then his thoughts wandered away to a bit of country


200
AT BAY.
near Mrs. Kellett's home, where in some of his many
visits to his darling daughter he had led her little
Wel'sh pony, while she talked to him of her own sim-
ple fancies—of her dearly loved pets, of the wild flow-
ers, and birds, and insects, all of which were so famil-
iar to the country-bred child. What a foretaste of
heaven it all was! No soiled sinner purified by pur-
gatorial fires and admitted into the divine calm of celes-
tial joy could have felt more keenly the sense of
regeneration and revival than the poor, battered wan-
derer who had devoted himself to the care of his
enemy's orphan; and now, as he reflected that he
had brought misfortune to the creature he so fondly
loved, that he had unconsciously put her and himself
into the power of a bold scoundrel, his heart throbbed
with fury so wild, so overpowering, that he was almost
alarmed at himself.
"I must keep my brain clear," he muttered. "I
wish I could get quit of this mad desire to shoot Deer-
ing,—it wouldn't do,—it wouldn't do. I could never
stroll through cool country lanes with my Elsie again; I
never could stroke her bright hair with this right hand
if it had committed murder. That I have never done.
No, Deering, you infernal liar, never !—only in fair
fight have I killed my man."
He stopped with an odd sense of confusion, finding
that he spoke aloud. His horse stumbling at the
same time the current of his thoughts changed. He
began to look forward. Elsie and Glynn were mar-
ried ; they had a beautiful home in London, and he
(Lambert) a snug little apartment in Paris—he was
more at home in Paris—and they visited each other.
Then as years stole on, and he didn't care to move
about much, he would sit in his chair, and Elsie would
soothe him with her heavenly songs, her delicious
voice. Ah well, he might bring Deering to reason;
if not, well, he could never meet Elsie's eyes when
opened to the knowledge of deeds hidden away in his
past life. Any how he must commit no act of violence;


202
AT BAY.
"For various reasons, chiefly because I could not
wait."
''Then you have something important, something
favorable for yourself to propose. First, where is
Elsie. You know?"
"I do."
"Is she in England?"
"No."
"Will you tell me where she is?"
"I will, further on."
"Very good. Let me hear what you have to say,"
taking out a cigar, and striking a fuse, he lighted it
with elaborate composure.
"I succeeded in hiding myself and my child from
you and your devilish designs," began Lambert, in a
voice that vibrated with the anger he could hardly
control ; "and if I had not been struck down by ill-
ness, my girl and I would have been out of your reach
at the other side of the world. However, I couldn't
carry out my plans, and I know one can not keep out
of sight forever, so I made up my mind to see if we
can't come to an agreement. Let us go, and I'll never
say a word against you, or meddle in any way."
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" returned
Deering, contemptuously. "I thought you had some-
thing new."
"So I have! I have found a man who believes my
story, and he is a backer not to be despised."
"And he is?" asked Deering, without taking his
cigar from his lips.
"Glynn! You know him."
'I Ha! and he believes your little romance ; "—a
look of concentrated fury contracting his brow.
"Satisfactory to you; but unfortunately men's beliefs
are not evidence. Now I have positive evidence."
"Deering!—you are the most accursed scoun-
drel that ever disgraced God's earth! Were it not for
my child, I'd gladly pay forfeit with my life for the
pleasure of killing you."


A T BA Y.
"I dare say! Knowing my man, I am not such a
blockhead as to come here unarmed," and he made a
motion with his hand toward his breast-pocket.
"Good," cried Lambert, and he laughed a peculiar
wild laugh. "But this is nonsense," he resumed;
"let us talk like reasonable beings. Just see what
folly it is to throw away fortune, and all this "—wav-
ing his hand toward the trees and upland—" for what?
—a whim, a bit of revenge! When you have
destroyed me, and planted a thorn in Elsie's heart
that'll pierce her through her life long—for you can do
that, though she's beyond your power to harm more—
how will you like to turn out of this grand place and
count every penny in your pocket?"
"I don't intend to do either; I shall be rewarded
for my disinterested honesty by keeping the estate for
my life. My son, a mere helpless cripple, can exist on
a trifle; my lady wife is only half alive as it is, and
probably may resign the frail half she possesses before
long, then I may marry my sweet cousin, and all will
go well and happily when we have hung you, you
blundering blackguard "—with a sudden flash of rage
and hatred.
"Gently," said Lambert, thinking the moment was
come to play his trump-card. "You'll not be able to
carry out your neat little scheme. My Elsie is
engaged to Glynn, and will be his wife before three
weeks are over. She is staying with Lady Gethin
until the wedding takes place!"
Deering was moved at last; he started back.
"What! has Glynn known your secret during"
"The last month, and more," interrupted Lambert.
"And Lady Gethin ?—is she equally well informed?"
"She is."
Deering grew deadly white ; his sharp, cruel-looking
teeth pressed his under lip for a moment of silence
before he burst out:—" Infernal' idiot! you have
driven the last nail into your own coffin. Elsie,
Glynn's wife! I'd strangle her with my own hands


204
AT BAY.
first! You have left me no alternative. I must in
mere self-defense attack you. You have shattered
your own safeguard! If you have told Glynn and
that sharp-tongued old woman, I must not keep quiet
any longer. Their credulity does not weaken my
position ; it is impregnable, if I have pluck enough to
stand to my guns, which I have! You have left me
nothing but revenge, and I'll have that. Who will
believe a word you utter? I will make your visit here
the starting-point of my accusation. You have come
to extract money! and threaten me with the claims of
Gilbert Deering's daughter. I, having always sus-
pected you, and having recently met Vincent and
ieard his story, I lay the matter before a magistrate,
both to obtain and bestow justice. Then let Glynn
marry the protegee of a disgraced, detected criminal if
he will, nothing shall save you from appearing in Elsie's
eyes as the murderer of her own father, the destroyer
of her life. There! I tell you my plan; repeat it or
not as you choose. Your words, your story, your very
existence are in vain. I have but to be firm, and you
go to a dishonored grave, followed by the horror and
disgust of the creature on whom you spent your life!
—ay! who, rejected by Glynn, will yet be mine."
Lambert had listened with a wild mingling of fury
and despair. He gazed at Deering to see if there was
any sign of faltering, of hesitation, but the leader of
the rebel angels himself could not have looked more
determined to' "make evil his good." Contempt as
well as hatred gleamed from his fierce light eyes, a
sudden sense that all hope was over, that a dark cloud
streaked with blood was already rising between him
and his darling, his jewel, pressed with maddening
force upon Lambert.
Deering misunderstood his momentary, stunned
silence, and added with a sneer: "I am master of
your fate. Find a way out of the dilemma if you
can."
"There is one way left," cried Lambert hoarsely;


AT BAY.
and snatching a revolver from his breast-pocket, he
fired almost before he ceased to speak.
The ball pierced Deering's right temple. With a
groan he fell to the ground, dead, helpless, harmless.
Lambert stood quite still for an instant, his pistol
still held out, waiting lest Deering might rise and
attack him, but his enemy was quieted forever. Lam-
bert then put up his own weapon carefully, and bend-
ing over the prostrate form, took out the pocket-
revolver to which Deering had alluded. Examining
it he found the six chambers loaded, then aiming low
into the brushwood, he discharged one of them, and
laid the pistol at a short distance from the dead man's
outstretched right arm, as though it had fallen from
his hand : all this with singular mechanical deliber-
ateness. Then he turned and walked briskly, not
hurriedly, back to the little inn.
A great deadly calm had fallen upon him. There
was no more danger from Deering, nothing to fear
from his vile projects; but he, Lambert, had died too,
he had done that of which he dreaded being falsely
accused. He had done with life, but at least he had
cleared a venomous beast out of his darling's path:
nothing now remained but to efface himself.
"None will ever know the exact truth, and my jewel
will always believe the best of me; time will heal up
her wounds, ay, soon, soon." He paused and looked
round him. How beautiful the country looked; how
sweet the air, laden with the odor of violets and fresh
grass! He had loved life, and enjoyed it, and done
his best in his own rough way, and now he firmly be-
lieved he was doing his best still. No horror at his
own act thrilled him; he had but executed wild jus-
tice. His thoughts grew strangely confused. He
fancied at intervals he was going back to Paris to his
little home there, and that he would find Elsie at the
piano, and Madame Weber knitting. Then he would
pull himself together, and think hard of a certain plan
he was trying to mature,


2o6
A T BA Y.
Reaching the little inn he called for his horse, and
asked for a glass of ale.
"You'll have to ride sharp," said the landlord as
Lambert paid his bill. "I thought you wouldn't be
back in time; that's what you artist gentlemen don't
think of. We've lots of 'em sketching about Denham
woods in summer time."
"Ah! few have done so complete a bit of work as
I have," returned Lambert grimly, as he started at a
quick trot.
His horse was fresh and free, and did the distance
to Earlshall within the time allowed by his rider. The
hostler remarked that the gentleman must have been
took ill or summat, he had such a ghastly, dazed look
on his face. "Any way he did not forget to tip me
handsome afore he ran off to catch the train."
Meantime the first and second dressing-bells rang
in Denham House, but the master did not come in
from the walk he had evidently prolonged. Weldon
had come over to dine and discuss business with his
employer, and endeavored to keep up a conversation
with Lady Frances, sitting in state in the grand, solemn
drawing-room. The dinner-hour was long past, and
Lady Frances grew uneasy. Deering's valet was called,
but could give no explanation of his master's absence.
Night closed in when search was being made, and then
a cold and rigid figure, that a few hours ago was the
lord and master of Denham, was brought reverently
back, carried by the gamekeepers and gardeners, and
followed by the awestruck men who had assisted in
the search. The revolver, which had apparently fallen
from his hand, was recognized by the valet as belong-
ing to his master; indeed he saw it in its accustomed
place that very morning. Yet neither Lady Frances
or Weldon could accept the idea of suicide. He was so
active, so full of schemes, so instinct with life. But there
was the incontrovertible fact—Deering of Denham
was no more, and Bertie, his son, reigned in his stead,
* * * * * *


AT BAY.
209
"Oh Hugh ! what an awful business," exclaimed
Lady Gethin.
"A profound tragedy," he returned. "To you I
may venture to confess my belief that Lambert first
shot Deering and then blew his own brains out. He
couldn't have been recognized, poor fellow! His head
was so shattered, and the curious thing is, he had on
different clothes from any I had ever seen him in. I
suspect he bought them somewhere between Earlshall
and London. It was the day after Deering's murder
that Lambert destroyed himself. I have been expect-
ing every day to find that he has been identified in some
way with the artist who spent a couple of days sketch-
ing at Denham. Of course the watch and a ring, and
the man's figure generally, were enough for me. I
knew who he was fast enough. I attended the exam-
ination, and gave my evidence frankly. Nothing was
said about Deering. Now let me go to Elsie! I both
long and dread to see her."
Lady Gethin led him up stairs to their private sit-
ting-room, and said, " Elsie dear, here is Hugh sooner
than we expected him," and discreetly closed the door.
Glynn paused just within it, and gave himself one
moment of delighted contemplation, as Elsie sprang
forward to greet him. She wore a dress of soft gray,
and a deep red rose, with its green leaves, at her
throat. The evening sun lighted up the golden sheen
of her hair ; she had color in her cheek ; the light of joy
in her eyes; and he had come to darken all.
"Oh ! you have come at last!" she cried, forget-
ting for one brief moment even her father.
"My Elsie, my love, my life!" he exclaimed, clasp-
ing her closely to him, while his heart throbbed with
sympathy and sorrow. At the sound of his voice she
drew back and looked intently in his face. "Ah ! you
have brought bad news. My father—he is ill ?—he is
dead?" A short breathless pause between each ques-
tion.
"He is," returned Glynn, solemnly gathering her


210
AT BAY.
again to his heart. "He is at peace, and. I must be
husband and father both to you, my darling."
"Oh, no, no! not dead!" she cried piteously. "I
may see him once more. He will speak to me again.
Take me to him, dear Hugh!" Breaking away from
him: "Let us go at once."
"It would be of no avail, dearest !—you could not
even recognize him!"
"How! why! Why did you not send for me when
he was ill?"
"But he was not ill, darling! He was killed on the
railway; he must have leaned against the door of the
carriage, and it probably flew open. He fell and it is
supposed was instantaneously killed."
"Shall I never, never see him again! It is too
cruel!" She wrung her hands and looked despair-
ingly around her; then with a sharp cry threw herself
into his arms, and an agony of tears came to her relief.
Ht 4c 4c 4c 4c 4c
With infinite care and tenderness Glynn soothed the
poignancy of her first grief, and soon persuaded her
that she could show no better respect for the dear dead
than by fulfilling engagements to which he had agreed.
Some months later, therefore, a very quiet wedding
took place at Lady Gethin's residence. Glynn's cler-
ical cousin from Clapham and the faithful Mrs. Kel-
lett were the only guests, and gradually time and
tranquillity healed the wound which death had inflicted.
But Lambert lived ever tenderly cherished in his
daughter's memory, and Glynn found that the best
comfort he could give his young wife was by describ-
ing the cheerfulness and returning sense of enjoyment
displayed by her father during the time he spent with
his intended son-in-law. The mortal agony that dark-
ened his last hours she never knew. Even when in
the course of time she was obliged to believe she was
not his daughter, her sense of loving gratitude was
only deepened and exalted.


AT BAY.
ill
Ten years later. Scene: a reception at Lady Fran-
ces Verner's. Speakers: a well-known dowager and a
nephew just returned from India whom she is lion-
izing.
"Yes; Lady Frances is very handsome, and has a
good deal of quiet animation. She was the widow of
that poor Deering of Denham, who shot himself some
years ago. That stout, broad-shouldered man with
the blue ribbon is Admiral Verner, and the pale deli-
cate-looking lad—talking to Madame Ronika, the great
violinist—is young Deering, who writes such beautiful
poetry."
"Who is that distinguished-looking woman—the
smaller of the two talking to Admiral Verner? She
has such a sweet, pensive face, and great blue eyes."
"Oh, you mean Mrs. Glynn. She is greatly admired
by artists and that sort of people, and has such a
romantic history. Her father was murdered by the
Indians or Kaffirs; she was saved by a Yankee gold-
digger. He brought her up in the Rocky Mountains
among an awfully lawless set of men. Then he took
her to Paris, and I believe she was to come out as the
daughter of the Incas, in a ballet or some such thing,
when Glynn saw her and married her, which seemed
rather idiotic. However, old Lady Gethin recognized
her remarkable likeness to a dear friend who married
Gilbert Deering, and whose daughter she proved to
be. Then they found the nurse to whom the Yankee
had given her, so the Deerings thought it better to
come to an amicable settlement. Lady Frances keeps
her dower, and young Deering the estates for his life;
but this charming Mrs. Glynn, or her son, will succeed
him. They are great friends. What splendid dia-
monds she has!"
"Well!" exclaimed the Indian nephew, "truth
is really stranger than fiction."


VALERIE'S FATE.





VALERIE'S FATE.
CHAPTER I.
THE broad bare Avenue de Neuilly with its baby-
sycamore trees, its incongruous array of big five-
storied houses, mean diminutive cabarets and retiring
railed-in villas, was basking in the light of a glorious
autumnal morning at the close of October. The long,
straight road stretched away visibly down to the river
and up again to the unoccupied granite pedestal with
its sculptured laurel wreath and big "N" which
crowns the hill above Courbevoi^, and even the distant *-
higher ground beyond might be discerned, while in
the opposite direction the "Arc de Triomphe" could
be seen rearing its effective mass against the deep,
clear blue sky. The bright though thin autumnal
sunshine was vivifying the many-tinted trees of the
Bois de Boulogne and bestowing beauty even on the
rather ragged stalls of the Sablonville Market. The
air was fresh and life-giving with a tinge of crispness,
and business was at its fullest tide. A very noisy
business it was, as work of any kind is apt to be in
France. The marchandes de legumes strove to out-
scream their sisters in fish, flesh and fowl trade, and
even the venders of human hair unblushingly besought
the passers-by to add to their charms by purchasing
the long tresses hanging from a string like so many
red Indian trophies.
"Tenez, ma petite dame," called out a big burly
fishwife, the wide expanse of whose white apron was
covered with unmistakable "trade-marks." "Will you


2l6
VALERIE'S FA TE.
not buy some soles this morning ?—beautiful soles, of
superb freshness ?—a franc twenty each?" then, in-
sinuatingly, in a lower key, "a franc ten to you, ma
petite dame?"
"Why to me?" asked the lady addressed with a
smile. She was by no means " a petite dame." Above
the common height and still upright, slight, almost
youthful in figure, though a rather strong face, iron-
gray hair, and certain lines about the mouth bespoke
middle age. She was well and suitably dressed in
black silk, and from the crown of her head to the sole
of her low-heeled boots looked an English woman of
the upper class.
"No, thank you; not to-day—nor any day. I am a
stranger," she continued to her vociferous interloc-
utor.
"N'importe! Madame will recommend me to her
friends. She must have many friends!"
The lady nodded and moved on to the flower stalls.
"Is it possible," she said to the young lady who
walked beside her, "that woman imagines any one
would believe her offer of a reduction to be a special
favor? It seems to me a waste of breath."
"Not quite," returned the other. "It is a sort of
announcement that she is willing to bargain or mar-
chander."
"They have tact though, your people. How gra-
ciously she met my refusal to buy!"
"Yes, they can be very charming and sometimes
very brutal! And you must remember I do not con-
sider myself French."
The speaker was also tall and slight but quite
young. Her walking costume of dark green Indian
cashmere showed a pretty rounded figure. A fringe
of chestnut brown hair curled over the edge of a black
velvet toque, and a pair of large, dark, gray, thought-
ful eyes looked through a black gauze veil or scarf
crossed at the back of her head and brought round
again to tie in a large bow beneath a small but firm


VALERIE'S FA TE.
217
chin. Her companion did not reply. She was busy
choosing some flowers, heliotrope, mignonette, and a
fern or two. A lively contest ensued, the elder lady
speaking French easily if not grammatically. Finally,
after a due advance and retreat on either side, she
became the possessor of three or four plants.
"I am afraid they are rather heavy for you," she
said, as her young friend presented a basket to receive
them.
"We have such a short distance to go it is no
matter."
"I can take one myself—there, you shall have these
three."
"Indeed, dear Miss Riddell, I can manage all."
"Just do as you are bid, my dear. Come, let us
leave them at the house and we shall have time for a
little stroll on the Bois before dejeuner." They pro-
ceeded a few steps down one of the alleys, Miss Rid-
dell's keen black eyes glancing from side to side and
gathering, if not honey, at least a fair crop of observa-
tion from each stall and group she passed.
"Here is Madame Rosambert," exclaimed the young
lady suddenly, while the soft color deepened on her
cheek. "I wish we had gone the other way. She is
still quite cross with me, and will be sure to say some-
thing disagreeable."
"Don't be weak," returned Miss Riddell. "If your
conscience is clear why should you heed her? If it is
not, take your punishment bravely and do better in
future."
As she spoke a little woman in a dark brown cloth
mantle and a black velvet hood tied closely over her
ears turned away from a counter well heaped with
tempting fruit and vegetables, and came toward them.
She was a plump, round little lady, with beautiful
fluffy, nearly white curls accurately arranged at each
side of a still pretty face. Her complexion had not
yet lost its delicate red and white, nor her step its
briskness, and she was altogether a charming picture


VALERIE'S FA TE.
219
she took them. "I have come to the age not to be in
a hurry for letters, and if I stop to read them I shall
lose my walk."
"Let me take them away again," returned Valerie.
"No, no! I can not quite do that," laughing and
putting them in her pocket. "Come, let us go."
They turned into the boulevard, and passing the
"Jardin d'Acclimatation " took the path that leads to
the " Isle des Cedres."
For some way they walked in silence, enjoying the
delicious air, the rich mellow tint of the trees, the
silence and solitariness rare except at that hour. At
length Miss Riddell said with a smile as she drew one
of the letters from her pocket. "I confess that I am
puzzled about one of these letters. The writing is
like some I never expected to see again, at least ad-
dressed to myself, and yet "—
"Why do you not open it, and ascertain whom it is
from?" returned the other, as she paused. "Here is
a nice seat, and it is yet warm enough to sit out of
doors."
Miss Riddell accepted the suggestion, and opening
her letter was soon absorbed by its contents. Not
more, however, than her companion appeared to be in
her own thoughts. She untied and removed her veil,
as if she wanted to breathe more freely, and her eyes
darkened and dilated as she gazed away straight
before her, seeing nothing of what was present. At
last Miss Riddell folded up her letter with a smile,
rather a hard smile. "I was right about the hand-
writing," she said, "but," interrupting herself, "what
is the matter with you, Valerie?" For two large tears
hung on her eye-lashes. "You surely are not such a
goose as to cry because that well-meaning fidgetty
little Madame Rosambert has scolded you off and on
for a day or two?"
"No, not exactly," replied Valerie, laughing while
the tears dropped, "but it has something to do with
it, I have been very miserable for a few days, nothing


2 20
VALERIE'S FA TE.
really important, but just an accumulation of trifles.
I sometimes feel so oddly worn out! I dare say it is
weak. You will think so I know, yet it does me so
much good to talk to you!"
"Well, child! take your troubles out and air them!
It is wonderful how they evaporate in the light. First,
why is madame so angry with you?"
"It is rather a long story, but I really do not de-
serve it! You remember we went to see the great
funeral at the Madeline, on Wednesday: Sybil and
Miss Green, Madame Dupuis and myself. It was a
tremendous crush going in, and somehow I was sepa-
rated from the others; indeed, I think I should have
been flattened against the base of one of the columns
but for the kindness of a gentleman (an Englishman)
who stood behind me, and managed to keep off the
pressure wonderfully. Well, I tried to find them, Sybil
and the rest I mean, and made myself quite ill with
anxiety and vexation; at last I took a Porte Maillot
omnibus, and so got back very late, quite two o'clock,
and found them all here. Madame was so vexed with
me for having missed them, as if she suspected I did
it on purpose! She is always suspecting something."
"Her anger certainly seems unjust, but she will
come all right. Now go on."
"I have really not much else that is tangible to tell.
I feel the routine of my life a little oppressive. My
uncle, too, has not been well, and I have so little time
to attend to him or to matters at home. Don't you
think it was very ill-natured of madame not to let me
know the girls were going to the Hotel Cluny with
Mrs. Meyrick, this morning? I should have been so
glad of these hours for my own work; now I have lost
the whole day, for I must wait here, in case Sybil re-
turns in time for her afternoon practice. However, I
have had the comfort of a talk with you—that is always
a pleasure ; " and she looked with so sweet an expres-
sion into the face of her listener, that a kindly, almost
tender smile relaxed Miss Riddell's rather grim mouth.


VALERIE'S FA TE.
221
"Yes," she said, " it was inconsiderate of Madame
Rosambert not to let you stay at home this morning.
I suppose Sunday is your only free day?"
Valerie made a little " moue."
"Yes, if it be freedom to look over my uncle's ac-
counts and the femme de menage's book (we are
obliged to have a femme de menage, you see, because
I start so early). Then my uncle likes me to read
to him, but I generally manage a little walk on
Sunday."
"Alone?"
"Not always, sometimes with the daughter of our
landlord."
"Valerie, my dear, we must go back now or Madame
Rosambert's wrath will be increased fourfold, but
after dejeuner come and sit with me in my room; we
can have a long talk quite by ourselves, then I shall tell
you a scheme I have thought of for you ; meanwhile
we have only ten minutes left for our walk back."
While the inmates of the Pension Rosambert are
discussing the good things set before them, let us
ascertain the position of the dramatis personce in the
following tale:
Madame Rosambert's select Pension admitted a few
young ladies who wished to perfect themselves in
French and study music under Parisian masters, as
well as ladies of more mature years, who wished for
the comforts of a house which united, said madame,
English solidity and French elegance.
At present the house was not quite full. Miss Rid-
dell, whose young niece was a pensionaire and student
under Madame Rosambert's protection, an English
widow, a couple of English girls and two French ladies
of a certain age, made up the party.
To teach French, to direct the practice of music, to
walk out with the girls and be present during the les-
sons of the masters, Madame Rosambert had secured
the services of a certain young lady, Miss Valerie
Trevor, the orphan daughter of an English clergyman;


222
VALERIE'S FA TE.
she resided with her maternal grand uncle, a retired
militaire, and the only relative whom she knew, as her
mother (after her widowhood) had resided in Germany
and France, latterly with her uncle, who had some
small income besides his pension. Madame Rosam-
bert was distantly connected with M. le Capitaine, and
thought she was bestowing no small benefit on his
grand niece by engaging her to come over every morn-
ing from Passy, by ten o'clock, and remain till five, so
that the dear and venerable uncle should not be left
alone in the evening.
Miss Riddell, albeit not much given to Pension life,
had taken up her abode in the Boulevard Sablonville,
in order to watch over her only sister's only child, who
had proved herself not too amenable to reason and
discipline in previous establishments where she had
been sent to acquire European polish and rub off the
roughness of her Canadian training; for she had
been born and brought up under rather wild surround-
ings.
Miss Riddell was a type of old maid rarely to be met
with, save among English women, and not frequent
even there; cultivated and even refined, yet with a
certain exterior ruggedness; a gentlewoman to her
fingers' ends, yet simple to plainness, severe and con-
temptuous to weakness, yet carefully hiding the tender-
ness of heart for which she despised herself; a woman
of the world in the best sense of the term, and strong
enough to exact respect and attention from the
various members of a family nearly all of whom were
better off than herself; she led a very independent
and wandering life, generally returning for some part
of the year to London, where she always had a "pied
a terre."
The dejeuner was somewhat prolonged, owing to an
animated discussion on the respective merits of the
English and French matrimonial systems, between
Madame Dupuis and Mrs. Meyrick, the English
widow, which at one time threatened to become too


224
VALERIE'S FA TE.
"Seventy-five francs a month."
"What an unconscionable old slave-holder!" cried
Miss Riddell. "Why do you submit to such an impo-
sition?"
"Because," said Valerie, leaning her elbow on the
table and her head on her hand in a pretty pensive
pose, " I doubt if I should do better elsewhere. You
see I have no one to put me forward—no one but my-
self to rely upon, and then my poor old uncle is a tie;
I must take care of him."
"What is his claim upon you?" asked Miss Rid-
dell, twisting her thread round her needle rather
viciously.
"What claim has he? Oh, of course every claim!
After my dear mother and I had been at various
schools in Germany (she always went to school with
me and used to teach English and music, the dear,
dear mother! Ah, if she had been spared to me life
would always have been bright !) Well, after that we
came to Paris, and her uncle offered to come and live
with us and pay his share of the housekeeping. My
mother was delighted, because she thought it would
be such a protection. We got on pretty well for more
than two years, then she took a fever, and "—Valerie
broke off abruptly—" nothing has seemed the same
since. I am glad however to have my uncle to live
with and for! My mother had left a little, a very
little money to me, some she had had, a trifle she had
saved, and my uncle thought to make a fortune with
this for me, so he gave it to some one to speculate
with and it was all lost. Since then he has been very
miserable, and says his efforts to serve me have imbit-
tered the remainder of his days. You see then that I
am really bound to look after him, and I know my
mother wished me to do so."
"Do you know, Valerie, it strikes me this uncle of
yours is a selfish old man."
"Don't say that," said Valerie, shrinking as if from
a blow. "He is growing very old now, and does not,


Valerie's fa Te.
227
brave she is! Do not be angry, but I can not help
fancying that you must have been very like her when
you were a girl."
"How dare you say so ?" cried Miss Riddell, laugh-
ing. "I assure you I had always some sense, some
taste for self-improvement. She is a mere tomboy."
"Consider her rough up-bringing. If you knew
how she brought life and color and kindliness into the
dull routine of my existence before you came to com-
fort me, dear Miss Riddell, you would not wonder at
my liking her. If she thought you loved her you
would find her quite different. Wait till she marries a
man she loves, and you will see what a capital wife she
will make."
"You really think so? Curiously enough, that
letter which puzzled me this morning contained an
offer of marriage for her. Not from the principal, but
from his father, an old acquaintance, in short, an old
sweetheart of my own, whom I have not heard of for
years. Sybil was brought up a good deal with his
children, and he knows she has a fortune independent
of her father. Now his eldest son is coming to Paris.
He has established himself in a farm or a territory
somewhere at the 'back of Godspeed,' in Canada, and
is coming to have a peep at civilization for once in his
life, and the father has the impudence to ask me to
throw him and Sybil together. I shall do nothing of
the kind. He may come and see me—I should rather
like to see him—but——"
"But do nothing against him," interrupted Valerie
eagerly. "I imagine I have heard her speak of this
gentleman. He has rather an odd name, has he
not?"
"Yes. Eric—Eric Floyd. Preposterous nonsense
to christen an English boy by such a heathenish
name."
"Do you know I think Sybil makes rather a hero
of"
Here the door was burst open boisterously, and a


VALERIE'S FA TE.
229
"I really wish you would not spoil Valerie's name
by that horrible contraction."
"Don't you like Val ?"—innocently. "Oh, I do!
It sounds like ' ein guter Kamarade.' You can't think
how beautifully Captain Grey was dressed—such a coat!
He looked as if he had been born in it—and such
gloves! and not a bit of a dandy withal. Oh, there's
nothing like an English gentleman, though they think
too much of themselves! Aunty, the Hartwells are
coming to call on you ; they have an apartment in the
Rue de L., just off the Champs Elysees. I think old
Hartwell must have come into money, for the girls
were no end of swells, such lovely sable trimmings to
their jackets! I will look up my sables this very
afternoon; you must help me, Val. No, I'll not prac-
tice one note! Nor Miss Green, either; she has
agreed to have headache and go to bed with a novel
of Ouida's: she bought it on the sly. Mrs. Meyrick
thinks it is a religious work because it is called ' Held
in Bondage ;' and Carrie Smith hasher drawing to do,
so we will turn out all my boxes. Madeleine! Made-
leine !' je meure de faim,' " running to the door, and a
voice from the depths answered, "Tout de suite,
mademoiselle."
"Your greatest danger is that you will talk yourself
to death, Sybil," said her aunt grimly.
"Oh, I am equal to a lot of that," said Sybil, with a
knowing look. "There, I hear the sound of plates. I
will gobble up all I want in a quarter of an hour. Val,
dear, would you mind going across to Chauvot's for
some chocolate? I do love rummaging my boxes and
eating chocolate; get a piece for aunty too; I know
she likes it. Will you mind my leaving my hat here?"
She threw it and the little cape which transformed her
dress into an outdoor costume on the sofa and ran out
of the room.
"Good heavens, what a hurricane!" exclaimed
Miss Riddell, leaning back in her chair as if ex-
hausted. "Do, pray, spend the rest of the afternoon


VALERIE'S FATE.
with her, or I shall be only fit for a lunatic asylum at
the end of it."
******
The fast falling shades of night only put an end to
Miss Owen's strict examination into the condition of
her reserves—an occupation which, it must be con-
fessed, was by no means uncongenial to Valerie
Trevor, who was a true woman in her love of pretty
things and fine materials. It required some resolution
to resist being loaded with gifts old and new by her
impetuous friend, whose delicacy was not of the high-
est order, and who could not understand Valerie's re-
jection of what suited her, and was no great loss to
the giver. "You are too queer and fanciful," she said.
"I'm sure if you were to offer me the gown off your
back, and I thought I looked pretty in it, I couldn't
bring myself to refuse. I don't think I am a fright,
Val; any how Captain Grey didn't seem to think so"
(she gave a funny little click with her tongue, expres-
sive of much satisfaction), "and he is quite a man of
the world! I am going to dine at the Hartwells', and
I am sure he will be there; I must have a new dinner
dress. Oh, there is that abominable dinner bell, and
you must go. Here, then, take the rest of the choco-
late, and come, early to-morrow."
"Good-by," said Miss Riddell, meeting Valerie on
the stairs as she went down to dinner. "How late
Sybil has kept you, and it has turned very cold. You
are not sufficiently clad. I must insist on your taking
my shawl again."
"I have only just brought it back, Miss Riddell, and
I fully intended bringing my cloak also, but forgot it.
I am ashamed of taking your shawl so often."
"Nonsense ! your health is of the last importance to
you; think of what a business even a bad cold would be!"
She turned quickly back to her room, and returning
with a large soft shawl of shepherd's plaid, wrapped it
carefully round her protegee. "There, good-night!
do not quite give up our English plan yet."


CHAPTER II.
MRS. HARTWELL lost no time In performing the
promise made in her name by her daughters.
The day after Miss Owen had met them at the Hotel
Cluny, Miss Riddell on her return from a severe day's
shopping at the Louvre, in performance of sundry
commissions for her sister-in-law (she never entered
that emporium on her own account), found their cards
with a few penciled lines, begging her to come on the
following Tuesday and partake of afternoon tea in the
Rue de L. Sybil Owen grumbled a good deal because
her music lesson occurred that day at an hour which
interfered with the visit. But her aunt made short
work of her murmurs. "You will have plenty of time
to chatter nonsense with the girls," she said. "Try
and get some profit of these costly lessons. You have
really some ability for music, which is more than I can
say of other things."
Tuesday was cold and raw. November was upon
them.
"It is quite miserable out of doors," said Valerie
Trevor to her patroness, as she was about to sally
forth. "I advise you to take that delightful shawl of
yours to wrap up in on your return, for I have finally
restored it. I am sure I have worn it for a week."
"And what have you now?"
"Oh, I have had my last winter's cloak done up ; it
looks very nice."
"Very well," returned Miss Riddell. "I will take
your advice, for my last winter's cloak is by no means
smart enough for a prim visit, and I am not going to
buy a new one this year."
Although a clever, indeed an intellectual woman,


232
VALERIE'S FA TE.
Miss Riddell was by no means above being amused by
a little general gossip, especially if it touched on public
characters and events.
As the Hartwells were fresh from England, and had
spent the season in London, they had much to tell
which was new to Miss Riddell, who had wintered in
Munich and stopped in Paris, in order to oblige her
brother by looking after their niece, who had been con-
signed to his care.
The minutes sped on unheeded in the agreeable oc-
cupation of drinking tea and talking; the outside cold
and drizzle forgotten in the pleasant flower-scented
room and the glow of a noble fire mingled of wood
and coal.
Miss Riddell was a good talker. She had a touch
of originality in her views, a pleasant piquant acidity
in her expressions. Moreover, she could listen as
well as talk, and if not rich, she never wanted any
thing from any one. She was always welcome to
those who liked to have their ideas stirred, though
considered a little formidable by mediocre philistines
and the " goody goody."
"It is quite reviving to have a talk with you, dear
Miss Riddell," said Mrs. Hartwell, as her guest ex-
claimed on finding it was six o'clock: "Do not be in
a hurry; we all dine at seven I suppose, and it is not
so far to your Pension. What induced you to banish
yourself to such a wilderness as Neuilly?"
"My niece, you know "—
"Ah, yes, I had forgotten. I am sorry she could
not come with you to-day. She is greatly improved,
really a very pretty girl. I hope we shall see a good
deal of you both this winter."
"You are very kind. I hope so too."
"Can you and Miss Owen dine with us on Thurs-
day? We shall be alone, but in the evening some
friends are coming, among them a man you know,
Captain Grey."
"I used to know his mother, and I am afraid he


VALERIE'S FA TE.
233
gave her a great deal of trouble. He has been very
wild."
"Not worse than other people, I fancy. He is a far
away cousin of ours, and is quite steady now ; they
say he has exchanged into a regiment in India."
"Well, I must be off, and on Thursday I shall be
happy to dine with you, and Sybil also. The Pension
is not lively. Pension life is generally odious, and our
Presidentess worries frightfully about punctuality."
It was a very miserable evening when Miss Riddell
turned out into the damp streets, raw and misty, the
lamps showing like little blurred stars, only making
darkness visible.
"I hope Madeleine has not forgotten my fire," mur-
mured Miss Riddell, as she walked with a swift and
still elastic step down the Champs Elysees. "Such
evenings as these one wants a welcome home. Mark
Tapley himself could scarcely be jolly in such weather.
I hope Sybil Will not think it necessary to keep me
company," she mused, reflecting that a fresh Fort-
nightly awaited her ; "she can not hold her tongue. I
hope that poor child Valerie got away in time. It
must be rather hard after a day spent in that magpie's
nest of a Pension to amuse or attend to her crotchety
uncle all the evening. I am sure he is crotchety. Men
are selfish wretches. I must see if I can bring him to
reason. I would not mind having a daughter like
Valerie." So cogitating, she reached the Place de
l'Etoile to find a steam train just starting, and the one
succeeding already complet.
"What a nuisance," exclaimed Miss Riddell, " I
shall be late after all."
She wrapped her warm shawl round her, and took a
turn to and fro, not liking to wait in the stuffy,
crowded bureau, and watching eagerly for the green
light of the up train.
"Although I am half afraid to disobey your com-
mands I can not resist the temptation to speak to you
again," said a deep but pleasant voice close to her.


234
VALERIE'S FA TE.
"Is he talking to me ?" thought Miss Riddell, turn-
ing to look at the speaker—a very tall man in a huge
loose overcoat, and a fur cap, from under which a pair
of very fine eager brown eyes gleamed brightly. "I
grant,''he continued, "that my conduct must prove
eccentric, but you leave me no other means of approach-
ing you ; if you would give me the slightest clew to
your name, your surroundings, I should find some
more orthodox means of making your acquaintance; I
am tenacious by nature and I can not relinquish the "—
"Sir! you mistake me," interrupted Miss Riddell
very quietly, and lifting the thick veil she had drawn
over her face she stepped under the nearest lamp.
"A thousand pardons !" he exclaimed, smiling yet
flushing through his bronzed cheek; "it is strange
that I should be mistaken! I entreat you to foigive
me."
Miss Riddell bowed, and the stranger turned quickly
away into the gloom among the trees behind the
bureau. "This is curious," thought Miss Rid-
dell ; " I wonder who he is? He is not a foreigner,
yet he does not seem quite English. He has a charm-
ing voice—the obdurate fair one must be unusually
hard for a Parisienne ! Perhaps she is not French! " and
Miss Riddell dwelt on the occurrence in a vague, half
unconscious way till the tardy train came up and she
found a place therein.
On reaching the " Maison Rosambert," as madame
usually termed it with much majesty, Miss Riddell
found she had barely time to prepare for dinner, but
noticed with pleasure that her fire was bright, her
hearth swept up, her lamp lighted, a little vase with
some fresh wall flowers set on her writing-table and
her neat house shoes put to warm.
"This is more than Madeleine would think to do,"
she said to herself as she made a hasty toilet; "I
fancy Valerie has been here." On her table she per-
ceived a little note—" I must not wait longer," it said;
"I wished much to know if you could come with me to


VALERIE S FATE.
235
see my uncle on Thursday; I am free after dejeuner;
I leave you a few flowers.—Valerie."
Miss Riddell's keen dark eyes softened. "I really
believe that child likes me; at any rate she under-
stands me. Of course I will go and see the uncle.
Not that it will do much good. There is no one so
hard and selfish as a sentimental Frenchman."
So soon as dinner was over Miss Riddell escaped to
her own room, assuring her niece that she wanted no
company, and settled to the enjoyment of a biting arti-
cle in the Fortnightly. "Company indeed !" she said
to herself; "as if the thoughts in this were not worth
all the mere prate in Christendom." Yet is it not from
the prate, the follies, the impulses, the errors of mere
ordinary man and womankind that matter accumulates
to furnish poets and philosophers wherewithal to build
their theories and deduce their reasons, as the earth-
worm's labor creates the substratum on which so much
of nature's loveliness rests. Miss Riddell read and en-
joyed in a leisurely manner, pausing now and then to
digest the mental pabulum. But through all her interest
and attention she did not and could not forget the eyes
and voice of the stranger who had addressed her that
evening. There was something in both that captivated
her imagination. "I suppose the weakness of sex
never quite leaves one," she thought; "I can't help
fancying the unknown is an honest fellow, his tone was
so natural and hearty. But Heaven only knows ! the
heart of man is desperately wicked, and I am not sure
that woman's is much better." Turning to draw her
lamp a little nearer her eyes fell upon her shawl which
she had thrown over a chair; with a flash of sudden
inspiration the idea came to her: "Was I mistaken
for Valerie? We are about the same height and she
has been wearing my shawl. Could it be the man who
spoke to her in the Madeleine? If so, there may have
been reason in madame's wrath. She may not have
sought for her companions! It is strange her not hav-
ing told the whole circumstance to me. I fear she has


236
VALERIE'S FA TE.
been less prudent than she ought! I must question
her. Without being absolutely pretty she is what
may truly be called attractive. I always believed her
to be so steady. Were it Sybil now, I could imagine
her chattering away to any chance acquaintance—but
Valerie! I must question her; girls are all geese
together ; yet after all I may be quite wrong."
The notion worried and distracted her and spoiled
the rest of her evening, so much so that she made her
appearance again in the salle a. manger where the
evenings were generally spent, and even played a
game of piquet with monsieur, a diminutive gentle-
man with a grizzled beard and rather handsome little
face, who lived in a braided dressing-gown and smok-
ing-cap (though he never smoked). He devoted him-
self to a very infirm, snuffling, shabby little white lap-
dog called Lulu, much troubled with indigestion and
doubtful of every one save monsieur and madame.
Monsieur, when allowed to talk, was not unintelligent
or uninstructed, and he was always flattered by any
notice from "Mees Riddell," while the game fur-
nished her with a good excuse for silence.
Miss Riddell resolved to keep her queries for the tete-
&-tete walk on Thursday, and saw little of herprotigfa
in the interim, but when they did meet she imagined
she observed an air of depression, a pallor, a languor,
not usual in her favorite. Thursday, the usual half
holiday in France, was dull but dry, and soon after
dejeuner the inmates of the Maison Rosambert scat-
tered to their various engagements. The Miss Hart-
wells called at two to take Sybil for a drive to Sevres
and then to their house for dinner—a letter received
that morning having obliged Miss Riddell to excuse
herself from keeping her promise, as she found she
was obliged to meet a friend from England at the
Gare-du-Nord, and as the friend's health and French
were equally weak, Miss Riddell felt she could not
desert her.
"Come, my dear," said Miss Riddell, as Valerie


VALERIE S FA TE.
long has this vulgar nonsense been going on? Why
did you not tell me? How did this man come to
speak to you?"
"I have been ashamed to tell you," cried Valerie;
and I thought too it was a mere passing whim, that
each rencounter would be the last, and so it has gone
on; then I feared you would blame me for not speak-
ing before; now I will tell you the whole story."
And she proceeded to relate that on the morning they
had gone to the funeral at the Madeleine they had
been caught between two contending streams of in-
goers and she was separated from her companions. To
her great alarm she found herself borne against the
base of one of the columns and dreaded every
moment some serious injury, when much to her relief
she felt an arm passed above her shoulder, and per-
ceived that some gentleman had thrust his hand
against the stone work so as to hold off the pressure
of the crowd. "If you keep quiet for a few moments,"
said a voice behind her, "I can save you from any
hurt, and the crush will soon be over." While still in
that position he spoke to her from time to time, and
she answered frankly, unhesitatingly, attracted by
something kindly and strong in the tone of his voice.
When at length the crowd had thinned enough to per-
mit of her turning to thank her protector she was sur-
prised to see so young a man—why, she could not
say. He was very tall and brown and bony. His
clothes were certainly not Parisian, and his whole
aspect grave and massive. He received her thanks
with much composure and a sort of indulgent smile,
that somehow induced her to tell him with complete
confidence that she had lost her friends and must not
return without them. "I had better stay with you till
you do find them," said the stranger. "It is not very
nice for a young lady to be alone in such a crowd."
And when (not sorry to have his companionship) she
murmured something about trespassing on his time, he
replied with an air of great sincerity that he had noth-


240
VALERIE'S FA TE.
"Can you reach it before nightfall? because if you
can not I will certainly come with you."
"I can reach it in an hour."
"Good ! then at any rate I will see you into an
omnibus."
"Thank you, even that is not necessary."
"Must you walk so fast ?" he said presently. "You
are not afraid of any thing?"
"Of course not," said Valerie loftily, " unless indeed
a scolding."
"Who will scold you? Your mother?" Valerie
shook her head. "Not your husband. No—I do not
fancy you have one; if you had, he would not let you
go into such a crowd without him."
Valerie could not help laughing, there was some-
thing so strangely familiar, yet not in the least pre-
sumptuous in her companion. They had now reached
the corner of the Rue Royale.
"There !" cried Valerie, " there is my omnibus, that
great white one." The stranger hailed it and at that
hour there was more than one vacant place. "Once
more good-by and many thanks," exclaimed Valerie,
springing on the step; an old woman next the door
had placed her basket at her feet, and Valerie could
not get to her seat until it was removed, by which
time the lumbering machine ivas in motion and had
swung around the bend of the Place toward the
Champs Elysees, so Valerie could see no more of her
brown friend. This was of course far better, and yet
she was a little sorry.
Arrived at Porte Maillot, what was Valerie's sur-
prise and dismay to find her protector of the Madeleine
waiting to hand her down the steps. "I hope you are
not vexed," he said earnestly, "but I am quite sure
your father, or your aunt, or whoever you live with
will be better pleased to find you have been taken care
of than allowed to come home alone."
"But I have no aunt or father or any one to care
about it, and I shall only get into a scrape," cried Valerie.


Valerias faTe.
243
good fellow ; and somehow since he asked me so often
if I had this or that relation it makes me feel wretchedly
sad and desolate and— Dear, dear Miss Riddell, do
speak to him and tell him never to address me again,"
she burst out passionately.
"Valerie Trevor," returned her companion, "I
begin to think you are in a very bad way."
Valerie laughed at this, even while she was obliged
to press her handkerchief to her eyes.
They were now in the main street of Passy, and
Valerie began hastily to give Miss Riddell a few hints
how best to manage her uncle. "He is an intense
Bonapartist," she said. "You must let him talk away
about the great Napoleon and 'La Gloire.' His
father was an officer of the Grand Armee and died in
Russia. Talk of my going to England as only for a
short time. God knows I will never desert him! I
will come back to him faithfully, only I do want to get
away more than ever."
"I have no doubt you do," replied Miss Riddell.
Valerie now turned into a narrow street on the right
that led down a steep descent, and stopping at a large
old-fashioned house which stood end to the road en-
tered a tolerably well-kept garden, where a feeble old
man in a blowse and red cap was collecting the fallen
leaves of some large chestnut trees which adorned it.
He raised himself stiffly and lifted his cap to Valerie
with a smile.
"Bon jour, Monsieur Claude! Is my uncle in the
house?"
"Mais oui, Mademoiselle Valerie, he has just come
in."
"They are all monsieur, madame, and mademoi-
selle here," growled Miss Riddell; "really republic-
anism is very ridiculous."
"It does no one any harm and pleases the people,"
said Valerie.
"It is a preposterous perversion of terms."
"I am afraid," returned Valerie, not caring to


246
VALERIE'S FA TE.
—and as Valerie entered—" thou wouldst not like to
desert thy poor, old uncle, even for the gold of En-
gland. This dear lady wishes to rob me of thee, my
beautiful Valerie—thou wouldst not leave me to die
alone?"
"No—no—certainly not, dear uncle. I will never
leave you; still London is but nine hours from Paris,
and if I could do better there, might you not come to
me?"
"What! live in London! Where they can not
make an omelet or a 'petit plat au choix' or—grand
Dieu! Valerie, I trust thou hast allowed no impos-
sible follies to take possession of thy mind. London!
Dieu m'en garde!"
"Let us say no more about it," said Valerie, gently,
with a little nod to Miss Riddell, who took the hint,
and by a judicious question or two, started the old
gentleman on one of his favorite topics, the infamy of
the Republican government. After a little inspection
of Valerie's fancy work, the portrait of her mother,
and one or two little treasures of china and lace, M^s
Riddell took leave, as she wished to dine before gomg
to the Gare-du-Nord, and Valerie proposed to accom-
pany her to the Passy-Bours omnibus.
M. Le Capitaine wished Miss Riddell a very elab-
orate adieu and excused himself profusely for not
escorting her personally, but he was slightly " enrhume,"
and bound to take care of himself for that dear child's
sake.
"I am afraid there is no chance of your uncle con-
senting to my plan at present, but I shall try
again."
"It will be very hard to persuade him. But I feel
desperately inclined to run away." She stopped
abruptly and caught Miss Riddell's arm.
"What is the matter?" asked that lady, startled.
"There—there—walking away toward La Muette—.
there he is!"
"The man of the Madeleine !" cried Miss Riddell.


VALERIE'S FA TE.
247
Looking eagerly through the gathering gloom, she
dimly discerned a tall, stately figure, in a loose over-
coat, walking away from them. "Are you sure? I
only saw him for an instant, and could not recognize
his back."
"I am quite sure," said Valerie gravely. "It is the
second time I have seen him down here."
"Never mind, I will attack him to morrow. I am
she that will bell the cat," exclaimed Miss Riddell,
laughing. "I wish you were coming with me, Valerie.
What shall you do when you have cooked your uncle's
poulet?"
"Oh, I have plenty to do, needle work, or rather
machine work, if my uncle .can bear the noise.
Good-by, dear Miss Riddell, a thousand thanks: a
demain."


CHAPTER III.
BUT Miss Riddell was not destined to "bell the
cat" on this occasion. Valerie, who was a little
behind time, met her issuing from the door as she
reached it. "I am obliged to change my plans, Vale-
rie," she said. "My poor friend is very suffering and
anxious to press on to Mentone. So I have promised
to spend the day with her and see her off by the night
mail. I wish you would tell Sybil for me that I am
excessively vexed with her. I had not time to scold
enough and she is only just up; she will tell you all
about it." With a friendly nod Miss Riddell walked
briskly away.
"Much effect that scolding will have," thought
Valerie as she looked after her and then entered the
house.
It was the morning on which Valerie (for her sins)
gave a lesson in composition and litterature to the three
young ladies at present grinding at the Pension Rosam-
bert. The task was uncongenial, for the tastes of her
pupils were by no means conducive to progress, and the
slight difference of age between herself and those she
taught somewhat weakened her authority. Moreover,
though all three, especially Sybil Owen, could talk
French fast enough, the writing of it was another
matter.
Not a little cast down in consequence of Miss Rid-
dell's defection she was greatly disturbed by the fear
of not being discreet in her conduct toward the brown
stranger and yet anxious not to seem ferocious in her
rejection of his advances. "If he could but be made
to understand," she said in her heart as she crossed


VALERIE'S FA TE.
books to the four corners of this noble chamber." Miss
Green and Miss Smith looked aghast. "I am just
full of the most delightful ideas—get along, will you,
with the lessons? Here, I will do what I can, and after
dejeuner I will tell you my plans. Mind what you are
about," with sudden sharpness to her fellow-students,
"I am not going to tell you. You go in for work. I
don't. If I did I would work."
"You are very polite, I am sure," said Miss Smith,
a stout, stolid girl who breathed audibly, but was
otherwise inoffensive.
"These are Canadian manners," sneered Miss
Green, who was tall, thin and huffy.
"Whatever they are you must put up with them. I
am not ill-natured and I am going to give you both a
treat if you behave yourselves. They say we are to
have a great frost, and you shall come and see me
skate."
After this outburst the lesson went on but lamely
and all parties were relieved when the bell rang for
dejeuner. That meal over there was an hour's rest.
Sybil swept her much-enduring instructress up to her
room, which adjoined that of her aunt. "I am just
dying to have my say out," cried the irrepressible
Canadian.
"Well, before you begin hear me," said Valerie.
"I am commissioned by Miss Riddell to give you a
scolding. I do not exactly know why, but she is
extremely vexed with you."
"Oh, I know well enough. I have not done one bit
of harm. I will tell you all about every thing. I had
the most delightful day with the Hartwells. The drive
to Sevres was nice enough. I was soon sick of look-
ing at the cups and saucers and the vases and things
in the museum. Then we had a turn in the Bois and
went to dinner. I nearly laughed myself sick talking
over our old jokes at Fraulein Baumgarten's school in
Dresden. But in the evening about twenty people
came in. We had music and then pushed away^ the


VALERIE'S FA TE.
tables and chairs to dance. Captain Grey was there,
and who do you think came with him? Why, my old
friend Eric Floyd. He has just come from London,
where he has been staying with the Riddells. He was so
glad to see me and says I am just as pretty as ever.
He did not say it out like that, but I knew what he
meant. He is handsome in a way—not elegant and
soigne like Captain Grey, but there is something about
him—Oh, you would have been amused to see how
Captain Grey tried to cut him out! But I stuck to
Eric. We had such lots to talk about. I could have
cried to think how far I was from the beautiful lakes
and mountains and the snow and the skating and
sleighing of my home—not that I have much of a home.
Well, I danced and flirted to my heart's content. I
did not mind any of the other men much, they were
rather poor creatures, and at last when I saw Eric
yawning in a corner and stealing a look at his watch,
I said to Mrs. Hartwell I must go home, though it was
not at all late, so she said she would send her maid with
me and that the man would fetch a fiacre. Well, I put
on my hat and my big woolen shawl—I don't look bad
in that red hat !—at the bottom of the stairs whom
should I find but Eric and Captain Grey lighting their
cigars. Eric said, 'Where do you put up? I ought
to have called on your aunt, who is with you, but I
lost her address.' I told him and then Captain Grey
said imploringly, 'May I not come too, Miss Owen?'
So I invited them both on the spot to afternoon tea on
Saturday (to-morrow). Lord have mercy upon me,
what will Aunt Hetty say! Stop," for Valerie made
an attempt to speak. "Do let me finish. They accept-
ed, indeed I may say jumped at the invitation, and then
Captain Grey said, looking up at the stars, 'It is a
downright sin to shut yourself up in a stuffy fiacre
such a lovely night. Suppose Floyd and I walk home
with you after our old Canadian fashion.' 'By all
means,' said I, so he dismissed the fiacre and then to
my disgust Eric says, 'Two are company, three are


VALERIE'S FA TE.
none; I'll make my adieux.' I was horridly vexed and
cried, 'Oh, we can be a partie carree. You can walk
behind with Louise; she looks very nice.' He just
laughed and walked off. It was so careless and un-
friendly of him. However, it seems he had an engage-
ment somewhere. At all events I had a very nice
walk with Captain Grey all up the Champs
Elysees and down the Avenue de la Grande
Armee. I do not think Louise liked it, but
Captain Grey made me say he would give her a drive
back (he can not speak French a bit), for he said that
the stars would not look quite the same when / was
not there. Stupid fellow! Wasn't it nonsense? Now
I should like to know what was the harm of all that.
Yet when Aunt Hetty came into my room this morning
and I told her right out she threw herself into such a
fury and said I was culpably careless of appearances
and too great a flirt, and that I must have disgusted
Eric Floyd. Then she fell on him and said he was a
good-for-nothing, conceited jackanapes and ought to
have called on her long ago, that he had no business
to let me walk back alone with an unprincipled ne'er-
do-weel like Captain Grey, and a lot more. I just
told her that Eric and Captain Grey were the dearest
friends, they were perpetually out bear-hunting and
goodness knows what together. I dare say one is as
good as another; at any rate she was in a hurry to go
out, and as we both talked together I had no chance to
tell her I had asked both to tea to-morrow. I had better
arrange every thing with madame before she comes
back. Aunt Hetty will not like to say I have done
it all without her knowledge. Now isn't that a
history?"
"It is indeed, Sybil; Miss Riddell will be awfully
cross when she knows how you have used her name."
"Well, she generally is, so it does not much matter.
She can not bear me. I know I just set her teeth on
edge like a discordant note. She is in a fidget from
the time I come into the room till I go out again.


254
VALERIE'S FA TE.
"Sybil dear, don't you think and talk too much
about the gentlemen. You must be perfectly exhaust-
ed. You have scarcely drawn breath for the last ten
minutes."
"Exhausted! Not a bit of it. You don't know all
I can talk. Then it is delightful to meet some men
friends after being shut up with a parcel of old women
and girls. Val!" solemnly, "is there any amuse-
ment on earth so delicious as flirting—with a nice
cavalier, I mean?"
"I dare say there is not, but I have had no expe-
rience," replied Valerie laughing.
"Have you never, never had even a little bit of
flirtation? What a dreary existence!" cried Sybil
gravely. "You come in to-morrow and try your hand.
Yet I am not sure I should like to give up either of
them—Eric or George Grey I mean. If you do go in
for a little 'coquetterie' let it be with Captain "—
The rest of her sentence was lost, for Madame
Rosambert suddenly appeared.
"Passing your door, mes cheres enfants," she said,
"I did not hear the sound of the piano. I fear Made-
moiselle Valerie does not enforce that amount of seri-
ous study "—
"Oh, Madame Rosambert," interrupted Sybil, draw-
ing the sedate head of the establishment with no gentle
force into the room, " I will practice directly, but I just
have a word or two to say to you. Did my aunt tell
you she expected two gentlemen, old Canadian friends,
to call here to-morrow and would like to give them a
cup of tea?"
"No, your bonne tante did not mention her wishes."
"Ah! she went out in such a hurry, you see," cried
the audacious Sybil. "But I am sure you will let us
have cups and saucers and milk and things about four
in the salon. Valerie and I will make the tea if Marie
will let us go in the kitchen, and I will go out with
Valerie presently and buy cakes and biscuits and tea.
Oh, madame, where can we get tea—really good tea?"


VALERIE'S FATE.
*55
"Ma foi! Mademoiselle, I imagine chez Chau-
bot "—
"It is abominable stuff. I have tried it. No, we
must go to Potin's. But I will see to all that; and
you won't mind opening the volets for once, dear
madame! I know my aunt especially wishes the
volets to be opened."
* # * • # *
Miss Riddell was in deep but by no means speech-
less indignation when Valerie saw her next day, and
that was not till a'fter dejeuner, for she had to escort
Miss Green to a drawing class in the morning.
"I do not know what tempted me to undertake any
share in the guardianship of such a girl," she exclaimed
when Valerie came to her room by her own request.
"I believe she has deliberately asked that Captain
Grey to annoy me. I should not mind her inviting
Eric Floyd, for I agree with his father that it would
be well if she were settled under a husband's care.
This E ric is the man I told you about. But that
flighty spendthrift young rifleman—I do not want him.
He will spoil all the schemes my brother and Mr.
Floyd have pieced together for her benefit. I never
was so provoked by any one as* by Sybil Owen, and
she knows it."
"Believe me it is her overwhelming sense of fun
and the honesty of her nature that make her so wild.
Do have faith in her yet awhile."
"Faith indeed," cried Miss Riddell. "I wish, my
dear, you would join us at tea. You would be a help
to me, and see how that hair-brained girl behaves her-
self. I will walk with you to the Place de l'Etoile
after. By the way, how did you get on last evening?"
"Very well indeed. I saw no sign of my friend, or
rather my persecutor."
"So far so well. To-day we will see"
"Comealong, Val," cried Sybil, rushing in with her
usual empressement. "Come and put your hair
straight. I will tie your cravatte for you. Aunt


VALERIE S FA TE.
Hetty, I wish you had a less doleful cap. Do let
me put a bunch of poppies I have into it. They
would suit you so well—wouldn't they, Val?"
"Have the goodness to let my toilet alone," said
Miss Riddell sternly, and taking up her crewel she
descended to occupy the salon.
"I think my dress is pretty," said Sybil, surveying
herself in a cheval glass. "A jersey rather suits me."
She wore a dark blue jersey, with a prettily draped
serge skirt and a silver collar lockjst and bangles, a
ribbon of a lighter shade tied among her abundant
curly fringe.
"I will not flatter you, Sybil. I will not even agree,"
returned Valerie, laughing. "Pray am I not looking
well dressed and altogether charming?"
"I am not sure that you don't," said Sybil gravely.
"That green cloth becomes you, and that is a lovely
bit of lace you have wisped round your neck. I have
nothing like it. Have a piece of old-gold satin ribbon
to tie up your bonnie brown hair?"
"No, dear; it is not worth while to go up stairs
again."
"There is the bell," cried Sybil.
"Go find your aunt," said Valerie. "I will see
that the water is boiling and the tea made."
A few minutes after Valerie glided quietly into the
sacred salon, with its buhl cabinets, inlaid tables, fur
rugs and velvet sofas—that shrine of elegance seldom
desecrated by the foot of man or woman either. She
was followed by Madeleine, who carried the teapot,
and directing her where to place it Valerie, feeling a
little shy, raised her eyes to take a look at the gentle-
men of whom she had heard so much.
In one of the windows, talking and laughing with
Sybil, stood an upright, soldierly-looking man of about
thirty or thirty-two, above middle height, fair-haired,
with a tawny mustache and a cool " man-of-the-world
aspect," as though he knew his own value and that of
his fellow creatures; while standing on the hearth-


VALERIE'S FA TE.
257
rug and bending to speak with Miss Riddell, who was
smiling with an air of some embarrassment, was a tall,
a very tall gentleman, with well made but loosely-
fitting clothes, abundant red-brown hair, beard and
mustaches, and a pair of fine, large, dark eyes that
lighted up with a pleasant smile as they met those of
Valerie, who turned dizzy with wild surprise and a
mixture of varied feelings as she instantly recognized
the dreaded man of the Madeleine.
The mutual recognition however was a silent one,
and Valerie's entrance attracting Sybil's attention she
turned quickly to introduce her visitors.
"My old friend or enemy (which is it, Eric ?), Mr.
Floyd, Valerie. And Captain Grey, Miss Trevor. I
never do any thing ' selon les regies,' and I had almost
forgotten your surname. Miss Trevor is the only bit
of comfort I have had in this detestable pension, and
I flatter myself I have kept her alive, if it was only by
the series of electric shocks she has sustained at my
hands."
"That I can quite believe," said Eric Floyd in his
deep, tranquil voice. "How long have you been here,
Sybil?"
"A whole year. Fancy my being put here at eight-
een to learn lessons and improve myself! It is too
cruel! I tell you if I am left much longer I shall run
away."
"Yes, I certainly would were I you," remarked
Captain Grey, half closing his light and somewhat
steely blue eyes. "I imagine you want to improve
yourself by a series of soirees, balls, races and picnics,
according to the season."
"Exactly," returned Miss Owen, going over to the
tea-table to which Valerie had retreated without speak-
ing. "Eric does not take sugar, Val!"
While Miss Riddell was talking to Floyd about Paris
and his first impressions, Valerie was schooling herself.
She was a girl of a somewhat complex nature, full
of kindly impulses, of warm affection, of slumbering


VALERIE'S FA TE.
passion, all suppressed by a life of self-surrender, to
the severity of which she was scarcely alive, so hidden
had it been by her sympathy for those she served.
But its training strengthened and developed the reflect-
ive side of her character, and she now strove to
reason herself out of the confusion and embarrassment
that overwhelmed her when she found herself face to
face with the brown stranger. "I am making too
much of it all, treating it too much au grand serieux.
Now that he finds me among people he knows the
oddity of the adventure will pass off, and he will not
think so much about me." And as she argued with
herself her color subsided, and she grew more com-
posed, much to the satisfaction of Miss Riddell, who
watched her closely, and thought as Valerie stood
beside the tea-table in the first moments of the embar-
rassing rencounter that a sweeter picture of shrinking
consciousness—half fear, half pleasure—had never
riveted the admiration of man, and that her old
friend's son drank it in she did not doubt, though his
attention seemed still given to herself.
"My chief impression of Paris," Mr. Floyd was
saying when Valerie again listened to what was going
on, " is disappointment. It is so hopelessly new—all
old landmarks have been swept away—one can not
realize that the scenes we have read of, the events on
which modern history hinges, have happened here.
For my part I have an extravagant love for old build-
ings, old streets, tumble-down places of all descrip-
tions. I don't suppose," advancing to the table to
take a cup of tea from Valerie, and addressing her, "I
do not suppose you, who have been born and brought
up in an old country, can realize the sort of wonder
and reverence these traces of the past create in us
frontiersmen of the Nev; World."
"I can imagine it," said she softly, and raising her
eyes to his she could not control a bright amused
smile that spread " from the lip to the cheek, from the
cheek to the eyes."


260
VALERIE'S FA TE.
speech, into which she contrived to introduce the mer-
its of her pension, its situation, the excellence of her
table, the study of the "comfortable" to which she
devoted herself, and finally mentioned that although
it was contrary to her rules to receive even gentlemen
so distinguished as those she had the honor to address,
they might recommend it to " their sisters, their cous-
ins and their aunts," etc., etc.
While the conversation became general, Eric Floyd,
who had kept his place beside the tea-table, said in an
undertone to Valerie: "I trust yet to win your for-
giveness. Will you try and forget what must have
seemed audacious and intrusive to you?"
"Yes," returned Valerie quickly, " if you promise to
let me do so."
"Agreed," he rejoined; "let us bury the war
hatchet. Do you find Sybil Owen very unmanage-
able?" he asked after a short pause. "She was con-
sidered so at home, but she had not much of a chance
there."
"I never attempted to manage her," replied Valerie.
"But I am sure any one who loved her would have no
difficulty with her; she is sound and true of heart."
"I believe it," said Floyd, looking over at her with
a kindly smile. "It seems so strange to meet little
Sybil Owen here in Paris."
"You are talking about me, I know you are," cried
Sybil, breaking away from Madame Rosambertto come
across the room. "What was he saying, Val?"
"That you were a troublesome girl, and that I was
sorry for Miss Trevor's task," said Floyd.
"Why? Do you suppose it's Val's business to keep
me in order? I assure you it is not. Nevertheless I
am not sure that she doesn't. It is quite amazing how
a prim thing like her avoids being disagreeable!"
"You speak French, I suppose, Mr. Floyd," said
Miss Riddell.
"Yes, after a fashion. All the 'habitants' about
me speak French—rather patois French; but I learned


VALERIE'S FA TE.
it grammatically," and he was drawn into a conversa-
tion with Madame Rosambert.
"I must go away now," whispered Valerie to her
friend. "It is still so light and fine that I shall walk
across the Bois to Passy."
"And I will come with you and bring them," with a
nod toward Captain Grey; "it is getting slow here."
"You had better not, Sybil. I would much rather
not."
But Sybil had already exclaimed, "Miss Trevor is
going home, and I am going to walk with her part of
the way. Who will come?"
"I will !" and " I will!" from both gentlemen.
"And you, dear Miss Riddell," said Valerie, ap-
proaching her with imploring eyes, " will you not come
too? I am sure a walk will do you good."
"I am not sure of any thing of the kind," said Miss
Riddell crossly; "but Sybil leaves me no choice."
And turning to madame she explained their intentions,
and made the necessary excuses, while madame smiled
complete approbation. The fire was getting low, and
there would be no need to replenish it. The light
would soon fade, and there would be no need of extra
bougies, so she wished them very heartily farewell.
The pedestrians were soon equipped, and sallied
forth into the dry clear air ready to enjoy a quick,
invigorating walk. Valerie offered her arm to Miss
Riddell, who, though she usually rejected such aid, on
the present occasion at once accepted it. And Sybil
called out: "Come, Eric, you must walk with me."
After which command Captain Grey attached himself
to Miss Riddell. Valerie, who was very silent, found
their conversation amusing, and was not surprised that
Sybil thought Captain Grey charming and delightful.
He was the first specimen of a polished, traveled monde
Englishman she had ever met, and she was agreeably
surprised. After walking thus for some quarter of an
hour Eric Floyd paused to put some questions to Miss
Riddell, then all went on together. Finally Captain


CHAPTER IV.
VALERIE, however, found that she had congratu-
lated herself prematurely on her probable deliver-
ance from the mysterious link which seemed to have
been forged between herself and Eric Floyd. For a
week or ten days after this visit he appeared almost
ubiquitous. Whenever Valerie accompanied Sybil to her
singing lesson or to any of the lectures, etc., which her
aunt insisted on her attending, they were sure to meet
Mr. Floyd, occasionally alone, but generally accompa-
nied by Captain Grey. There was really little to com-
plain of in these meetings, and Valerie had very little to
say to Eric Floyd, for Sybil had always insisted on his
walking beside her, though he usually contrived to
make the conversation general. Moreover, he managed
to leave the impression on Valerie that he watched
her looks and words with a quiet persistence which
disturbed and alarmed her, more particularly as Sybil
confided to her her romantic attachment to her old
friend, confessing at the same time that she would have
considered Captain Grey the most charming person in
the world had not Eric appeared; and even now, if
she were more sure of Mr. Floyd, she would care less
for him. "He is so cool and quiet and indifferent.
I must stir him up somehow. And how handsome he
is! There is so much strength in his gentleness. Do
you know, Val, he is the best shot, the most daring
hunter in our side of the country. All the 'coureurs'
know him. He seems quite out of place here. I am
sure he only pretends to be so indifferent to me, for
after all I am not ugly or disagreeable."
And Valerie would answer soothingly. Meantime
a restless uneasiness grew upon her, and was increased


VALERIE'S FA TE.
265
"I am sure she will," said Valerie. "I must leave
you now, for it grows late. Can I fetch you a book
or do any thing for you before I go?"
"N-no, thank you. You are very good to me, child.
It is long before Sybil would think of me as you do."
"Indeed you do her injustice. She said when she
was going out that she would walk as far as the
Champs Elysees to get Daudet's 'Rois en exile ' for
you."
"Did she ?" said Miss Riddell, mollified. "Well,
good-night, my dear. Does that tiresome Canadian
molest you at l'Etoile now."
"Oh ! never, never. All that folly is gone by "—
"So much the better. Now get away—it is quite
dark."
These remarks then added considerably to the vague
depression which weighed upon Valerie. In spite^ of her
brave determination not to treat Floyd's " engouftient"
au grand serieux, she was more and more haunted by
his eyes, his voice, his words. Never had her heart
spoken before. There was something she could not
account for in the strange fascination of his quiet
watchfulness, his unobtrusive attention, the delicacy
implied by his patience. If she dared yield to the
great longing which grew up within her stronger and
stronger every day, to accept the love that seemed
wrapping itself irresistibly round her, life would be
too heavenly. Could it be that all these delicious
possibilities would fade away and leave her to the pale
gray tints of her former existence? Alas! she dared
not be false to the loving, trusting friend who daily
poured out her hopes and fears to her.
She measured Sybil's feelings by the deep and
absorbing passion which was gradually mastering her-
self. What a return to make both to aunt and niece,
her only true friends, who were even now planning her
welfare ; to cross their plans.—to blight her own dear
companion's happiness! If she could but avoid him,
and cure herself of that terrible longing to see him


VALERIE'S FA TE.
269
herself to the pleasure of this unexpected meeting;
she must be faithful and true. Meanwhile she could
think of no other phrase, save the not very original
remark that it was cold and threatened to be colder,
and then she found some needlework and sat down
beside her uncle, who continued the argument he had
been pursuing, viz. : Whether it would not have been
wiser to attack Sebastopol from the north, and if so,
did the blame of not attacking rest with Marshal St.
Arnaud or Raglan? Here there was a slight differ-
ence of opinion, but Floyd said little and allowed M.
le Capitaine to hold forth to his heart's content.
After considerable noise, explanation and assertion
there was a slight pause, when Valerie said gently, as
if out of her thoughts, " I did not know you had been
in Germany."
"Yes; after a short visit to friends in England last
spring I went to Berlin, then away south to Vienna,
the Bavarian Highlands, Munich, Dresden "—
"Ah, Dresden! I have passed some happy days at
Dresden."
. "Do you speak German, then?"
"A little—I enjoy reading it."
"That astonishes me," cried M. Latour. "It is a
barbarous people, and their literature can not have the
refinement, the grace which we French possess."
"It has a certain ruggedness," said Floyd.
"But what depth and richness !" added Valerie.
"Ruggedness does not then repel you?" asked
Floyd, turning to look at her.
"Not when I feel it is only exterior," returned Val-
erie with a little sigh.
The daptain rolled up his map and went to put it
away.
"You did not come first to Paris," continued
Valerie, feeling a curious, sad restfulness in his
presence.
"No, I kept Paris for a bonne bouche; it remains to
be proved if it leaves a sweet or bitter after-taste,"


270
VALERIE'S FA TE.
Valerie fancied she perceived a double meaning in
this.
"Have you been on the ice to-day ?" she asked.
"Yes, for about an hour, but too early for my little
friend Sybil Owen. Indeed I do not think she skated
this morning. She was to dine at Mrs. Hartwell's and
they are going to the Francaise after. I did hear you
were to be of the party."
Valerie shook her head. "Miss Riddell kindly
asked me to go with them, but no, it would be too late
to return. Are you going?"
"I am not sure."
"Sybil will be disappointed if you do not," returned
Valerie, raising her eyes with some effort to his.
"You remind her of her home and "—
"I do not think she will miss me much when
George Grey is of the party," said Eric Floyd, laugh-
ing. "He is a very captivating fellow, I am told."
"Perhaps so, yet she will miss you."
Floyd shook his head. "The Hartwells are to give
a dance on the 20th; a regular dance, carpets up,
auxiliary music, etc. Sybil says she is determined to
carry you there nolens volens."
"She will not," returned Valerie, smiling. "She is
always good and thoughtful for me, but she does not
think of the difficulties. How could I return home at
perhaps two or three o'clock?"
"I should be most happy to escort you home,"
exclaimed Floyd eagerly, his large brown eyes light-
ing up.
"You ought to know by this time that such a thing
is impossible."
"I begin to fear it is," he returned.
"What are you talking of ?" asked Captain Latour,
coming back to the salon.
"A friend of Miss Riddell's gives a soiree dan-
sante," replied Floyd, " and she, Miss Riddell and her
niece—are most anxious Mademoiselle Valerie should
accompany them,"


VALERIE'S FA TE.
271
"They are infinitely kind," said M. le Capitaine.
"But young ladies are better at home, especially when
like this poor dear child they have no mother to guide
them. When she is married she can go to balls with
her husband."
"Are you going to be married?" said Floyd, with
sudden, almost fierce, interrogation.
Valerie laughed. "Not that I am aware of," she
returned.
"I fear you must think me very unmannerly, very
rude," said Floyd, penitently—and, in English, " If I
ever have a chance of explaining myself "—
Here M. le Capitaine broke out with a high eulogium
on the matrimonial system of France, from which
Floyd slightly demurred and Valerie was again reduced
to a listener. After some further conversation, partly
about Canada, partly on the prospects of the Bona-
partist, Mr. Floyd took leave. "I must make the
opportunity for an explanation," he said, in a low
tone. "I seeyou will not help me."
"It is impossible I should," returned Valerie,
gravely.
"Why not ?" he rejoined quickly. "But that, too,
remains to be discussed."
"Good evening, M. le Capitaine. I have to thank
you for an agreeable hour, and trust I have your per-
mission to return."
"My dear sir, you are at all times most welcome.
The society of a man so distinguished, enlightened
and cultivated as yourself, etc., etc., etc." With much
empressement M. le Capitaine bowed him out and con-
tinued a running fire of praises all the while that Val-
erie went to and fro to her own room to put on her
large working apron, to the kitchen to warm up an
appetizing little dish prepared by the femme de
menage, and back to the salon to serve the ancient
warrior's evening meal.
How wonderful it would be to know the silent
tragedies that are accomplished in the hidden depths


272
VALERIE'S FATE.
of inner life, while the exterior mill-wheel round of
commonplace materialism, of every day ordinary work
and duty goes on unceasingly!
Valerie spread her grand-uncle's little table and
placed his food before him with her usual neatness
and observance, yet all the time the pulses of her heart
were beating a funeral measure over the happiness
she was obliged, or thought she was obliged, to
trample under her feet, as she resolutely trod the
thorny way of honor and of duty. She could have
cried aloud for mercy to the inexorable destiny that
held her in its iron grasp, while she smiled and lis-
tened and replied to her uncle's babble and attended
to his many wants, and then, when she had fed and
comforted him and given him his spectacles and his
cigarette and his Figaro, she went away to explain the
mysteries of the chromatic scale and the doctrines of
six crochets in a bar to two fidgety nasal American
children, just about the time that Sybil Owen and the
Miss Hartwells, escorted by Major Hartwell, Captain
Grey and an artistic young Englishman of independ-
ent means, who played at painting, were stepping
into the carriages that were to convey them to the
Francaise.
* * * * * *
Yet, the next morning, Sybil was much the more
downcast and depressed of the two friends. If Val-
erie was pale and quiet she was self-possessed, clear-
headed and ready for her duties, while poor Sybil was
"all abroad," and, to use her own favorite expression,
"cross as two sticks."
"I really do not know what is the matter with the
child," said Miss Riddell to Valerie after dejeuner.
"Try and find out as you walk along—you are going
to the singing-class, are you not, to-day?" Valerie
assented. "I do not like to see her so out of sorts.
Troublesome as she is, there is a look in her eyes that
reminds me of my poor, dear sister. If she had lived,
Sybil would have been different—a mother is such a


VALERIE'S FA TE.
273
loss! and to think of that husband of hers marrying
again before she was cold in her grave! Really most
men are worthless !—and women are so weak! Here
is Sybil. Try and draw her out."
Miss Owen had put on an old black dress and her
shabbiest hat. Moreover, she looked as if she had
thrown them on with a pitchfork.
"Good gracious, Sybil, what a fright you look!"
exclaimed her aunt, with the amiable frankness pecu-
liar to near relations.
"I may just as well be a fright as a carefully-dressed
pretty girl, aunty, for all the good it does me. I do
wish you would come away from this horrid, detest-
able place. I am sure it disagrees with me. I feel
exceedingly unwell. Just talk to madame and settle
to start next week and eat our Christmas dinner in
England—and let us carry off Valerie! Val is the
only sensible, reasonable Christian among us. I will
go and talk to your uncle about it myself. Come
along, Val, do—you have just been half an hour tying
that bow under your chin."
It was excessively cold when they sallied forth.
The ground was like iron, and the trees and railings
and few evergreens near the houses sparkled with
frost; the horses toiling along with carts or fiacres sent
forth clouds of mingled breath and heat into the
intensely-clear air; but as yet very little snow had
fallen.
"What a splendid day for those who are strong and
active!" exclaimed Valerie, " but trying to the weak
and old. My uncle will be quite ill this evening, I fear."
"Why? is he very infirm? But you Europeans are
a miserable set. We are jolly as can be—full of all
kinds of fun, when we have several more degrees of
cold than this."
"I do not think I should like it."
"Sometimes I think I should like to go back to
Canada, and sometimes I don't," resumed Miss Owen,
after a pause. "In short, I am miserable!"


VALERIE'S FATE.
275
Owen. That horrid, horrid Captain Grey, too, kept
watching me with his detestable green eyes—they are
quite green, Val,—with a sort of pitying expression till
I longed to slap his face. And what do you think?
Just as we were coming away and I had taken his
arm, he had the audacity to give it a squeeze and
say, ' Thank you for wearing my flowers. I did not
know how pretty they were till now.' I was so mad I
just snatched them out of my bosom and flung them
into the road. He said very quietly, 'Thank you
again. Can I assist you to take out those in your
hair also?' I felt rather silly, and I am sure I do not
know how I got home. Was it not rude and unkind
of Eric Floyd to break his promise in that way? If he
goes on like this he will break my heart, and force me
to marry the first man that asks me! Why, as an old
friend and a kinsman (I believe he is a sort of a
cousin) he ought to be more attentive and considerate.
Then those nasty stuck-up, ill-natured Misses Hart-
well, I am sure they enjoyed my disappointment.
Where could Eric have gone?"
Valerie hesitated and the moment for speaking
was gone. She could not bring her tongue to form
the words, " He was visiting my uncle," and having
lost the opportunity it was doubly difficult to broach
the subject. While Sybil talked on she tried to re-
member at what hour Eric Floyd had left there. He
might have been in time for the theater had he gone
straight to his hotel and dressed, but—. "And you
may say what you like, I am unlucky," Sybil was saying
when Valerie again gave attention to her.
"Sybil, Sybil, I am quite distressed and uneasy
about you. Why do you let such fancies fasten them-
selves upon you? If Mr. Floyd is inclined to love
you nothing will prevent him, and if not, why, you can
not help it. Do you not see how miserable and—and
I must say degrading—all this craving for what you
can not be sure about is? Do, do try to turn your
thoughts away and call up your pride and "—


276
VALERIES FA TE.
"You have no business to lecture me !" cried Sybil
angrily. "Do you fancy it is your duty to keep me in
order? Why I am nearly as old as you are, and I
know twice as much of the world. I don't understand
your stiff nature. I like Eric and I want him to like
me. I do not see any harm in that. Why he is not
as old nor as distingue as Captain Grey, who thinks
so much of me, and yet he gives himself these airs of
indifference. You are a cold, disagreeable cat. I
thought you were my friend, and you scold as if—as
if you were Aunt Hetty herself, instead of sym-impa-
thi-izing in my troubles," and the speech ended in a
sob.
"If I am a cat you are a goose, a great goose, Sybil,"
said Valerie with much composure. "It is because I
do love you, because I know what a true, warm-hearted
dear you are, that I can not bear to see you making a
fool of yourself. Never talk to me about Mr. Floyd
again till you come and tell me he has asked you to be
his wife, and then I should not be a bit surprised if
you refused him."
"It would be great fun to punish him," cried Sybil,
smiling through her tears. "But do you think he ever
will ask me?"
"How can I possibly tell? I know scarce any thing
of the world and nothing at all of men. I have only
associated with my uncle and the professors with whom
I studied."
"Well, we are nearly at Madame Rakoffski's. Are
my eyes very red?"
"No, not very. Try, dear Sybil, to start some fresh
train of thought—Mrs. Hartwell's dance—your jour-
ney to England—your dress—any thing but Mr.
Floyd."
"Well, wait till after the Hartwells' soiree then;
then I will settle down to a sedate old maid, unless,
indeed, I have to buy my trousseau. I say, Val, you
do not mind my calling you an old cat."
"Not the least, dear. I quite understand you."


VALERIE'S FA TE.
*77
"You do! and really and truly I never loved any
one—any girl, I mean—so much as I love you, and
yet, would you believe it, there are times when I could
slap your face?"
"Do not, I would advise you," said Valerie laugh-
ing, " because I should give you a good shaking and I
am much stronger than you are."
"You would serve me right. Do you know, Val,
Aunt Hetty and I are going to attack your uncle to-
gether to get his consent for you to come to England
with us. It would break my heart to leave you behind
to drum French history and literature perpetually into
the sandy brains of all the Miss Smiths and Greens of
Birmingham and Manchester who may succeed the
present ones. Would you not like to come?"
"Yes, more than I can say. I feel awfully weary
here."
"I wonder you are alive !" with deepest feeling. "I
say, Val, you know that brown dress I bought last week
with the velvet collar and cuffs? It is a good deal too
long for me and a little tight across the chest. I wish
you would take it. Do, like a darling. It would just
be a blessing to feel it is not lost. Will you, Val?"
"No dear, I will not. The essence of friendship is
equality and I will not let you swamp ours with favors."
"Well, you are a proud, cold, disagreeable, odious
cat. There now! I must stop, but I shall not be
able to sing a note."
"Please remember too that you have outrun your
allowance and are in debt."
"What of that? My guardian must pay every
thing. I have more money than you think and they
are abominably stingy to me."
Valerie flattered herself, however, that her remon-
strance had not been quite thrown away, for though
she had some private interviews with Sybil during the
next two or three days she scarcely mentioned the de-
linquent Floyd, and then with some favor, as he had
come out alone to call on Aunt Hetty, and the salon fire


278
VALERIAS FA TE.
not being alight he had been shown up to Miss Rid-
dell's private sitting-room, where Sybil said they had a
real comfortable talk.
He came the next day and accompanied her and her
aunt to the ice, but on neither occasion did Valerie
see him. It was fortunate, she told herself, that she
was employed and had a good excuse for keeping
away; time, she hoped and prayed, would bring her
strength and peace. Meantime she clung to the
glimmer of hope for the future promised by Miss
Riddell's intention to try her powers of persuasion
once more upon the gallant and venerable ex-captain.


CHAPTER V.
HE intention of her uncle to breakfast with the
widow of his former comrade excited a vague sur-
prise in Valerie's mind. It was quite a year and a half
since the old soldier had deserted his favorite restau-
rant, and Valerie was somewhat amused at the mystery
and importance which he evidently attached to his
excursion.
His toilet was a lengthy affair. Then he had to
be wrapped up against the cold and further fortified
by a cup of black coffee and a " petite verre" before
starting, but got off at last, and Valerie settled herself
to write a letter to the lady at the head of the Dresden
School, where her mother and herself had resided for
what had been a very happy bit of Valerie's life. She
had risen that morning with a fresh resolution to be
brave and strong, to leave no chambers of heart or
brain empty, swept and garnished for weak and
treacherous spirits to enter and dwell in. So she was
very busy. She dusted the salon carefully, and as a
treat made a good fire in addition to the little round
green brasier. Then she made her own toilet. That
was always a pleasure, though she shook her head at
her own image in the glass as she noted the dark shade
beneath her eyes, an evidence of mental struggle ; and
finally drawing the largest table near the fire-place she
tried to absorb herself in her letter.
The old femme de menage was still pottering about
in the kitchen, but her hour of departure had already
come. Valerie had covered one side of her paper
when the little cracked bell at the entrance jingled
and a short parley followed. "It is a letter," thought
Valerie. "Perhaps from Frau Schrceder. It is curi-


282
VALERIE'S FA TE.
speaking out, what has grown in a few weeks to be
the one supreme desire of my soul. Valerie, will you
let me try to win you? Will you try to love me? I
know I am a rugged sort of fellow, but if—if you
would trust me and care for me, I know I could make
your life a happy one! Do hear me! I have often
thought what a crazy notion love at first sight is, and
yet from the moment I met your eyes and heard your
voice, I loved you! and I can not lose you."
"I do wish you would not speak to me in this way,
Mr. Floyd," exclaimed Valerie, trembling and hesitat-
ing. "I am sure you are very good and—true; but
it is all so strange, and—there are obstacles, and I
hardly know you "—
"I do not ask you to decide, only give me a chance,"
he said, his voice carefully subdued yet touching in its
intense earnestness. "If you are free—if you will
hear me, I think—I think I could make you love me,
though it may sound bold. Yet, it is not boldness, it
is the strength of my feeling for you that gives me this
consciousness of power."
Valerie made a gesture of dismay, but could find no
words.
"You see," he went on more hurriedly, with increas-
ing fire, " I have led such a free, natural, open-air life,
that I know nothing of cities and their conventionali-
ties; and I do not see why I should not avow that you
have a charm for me I could not resist even if I would.
Why should I? You are, I can see, as good as you
are fair and sweet, and I who have nothing to hide in
my past or fear in my future—why should I not strive
to gain so dear a companion to share my life? You do
not know how fondly I could love! I did not know
it myself \ you taught me, Valerie! It is so delight-
ful to call you Valerie," and he laughed a low soft
laugh full of deepest, warmest feeling.
"But you must not, indeed you must not," said
Valerie, terrified at the glamour she felt stealing over
her, and summoning up the recollection of all the


VALERIE'S FA TE.
kindness and confidence lavished on ner by Sybil
Owen to strengthen her resolve. "You do not know
how impossible all this would be. Every one would
be angry. Your father no doubt expects you to marry
some very different person from me, an insignificant
bread-winner."
"My father's opinion would not affect me; I have
made my own place, and earned my freedom."
"Then my uncle would be vexed, and—and in
short—"
"Leave these objections aside," he interrupted,
"and tell me your own views! Remember, I can give
you a fair if a remote home, and yet not near so out
of reach. Ah, the dream of seeing you beside me
among the woods and hills of my beautiful country
haunts me continually. Tell me, how do I stand with
yourself? Do you feel no leaning toward me—no
shadow of reciprocity?"
"Mr. Floyd," said Valerie, rising to dismiss him
while she grew deadly pale and trembled in every limb,
"this is too painful. I am deeply touched by all you
say. I shall always remember you, always with kind-
ness; but there is an obstacle I can not explain which
is insurmountable. I entreat you do not distress me
any more!"
"You love some one else," he exclaimed in a harsher
tone. He had also risen, and now took her hand,
holding it with an increasingly close pressure, looking
into her eyes, which were fascinated by his gaze." No!"
he exclaimed. "I do not believe you have any one,
but you may be affianced! If so, and if it is not with
your fullest, freest consent, break your bonds! There
is nothing so awful, so unholy as a mere marriage of
expediency, and it would kill you. Why, why do you
turn from me? / will take you from all constraint
and hardship and struggle, if you but trust me and
say, ' Eric, I will be your wife !'"
And Valerie, lifting a very cold, white, despairing
face, said in a whisper, but distinct and firm, " lean not,"


284
VALERIE'S FATE.
Floyd slowly released her hand. "That is enough,"
he said; "my own eagerness has deceived me. I am
not acceptable to you, and I have to apologize for
forcing myself, my hopes and feelings upon you as I
have done. You have opened a new page of life to
me, and if the lesson is bitter, you are not to blame!
Give me a kind look, and bid me God speed, I will
trouble you no more."
"I do indeed bid you God speed," said Valerie,
bursting into tears and covering her face with her
hands. "May you find a companion better in all ways
than I could have been!"
"Is there indeed no chance for me?" said Floyd,
still lingering.
"None, none! I beg of you to leave me."
Her eyes were still hidden, but she heard his retreat-
ing footsteps; the outer door was shut, she was alone,
and how unspeakably desolate.
4c 4c 4c * * 41
Mrs. Hartwell's dance was to take place about a
week after this interview, and in the interim Sybil was
too much occupied with her dress, with the mysteri-
ous disappearance of Eric Floyd from his accustomed
haunts, and by the pleasant, flattering attentions of
Captain Grey to notice the silence and stillness of
Valerie. Even Miss Riddell was unusually unobserv-
ant; she was taken up by her negotiations with Ma-
dame Rosambert as to the terms on which she could
compound for withdrawing Sybil without the ordinary
three months' notice. She had come to the conclusion
that Miss Owen derived much more harm than good
from her sojourn in Neuilly, and had decided to place
her under her uncle's personal care for the remainder
of her stay in Europe.
"I must try and carry off Valerie Trevor with us,"
she thought; "she would be an excellent companion
for Sybil and it would do the poor girl good too. I
have hardly seen her for the last week. I wonder she
does not come up as usual to pay me a visit. I pro-


VALERIE'S FATE.
test it must be trying to a young creature like her to
hear Sybil's perpetual chatter about dress and amuse-
ment and to share none of it." She rang and asked
the servant who answered her summons if Mademoi-
selle Valerie had gone yet.
"Non, madame, pas encore."
"Beg her to pay me a little visit before she leaves."
"Bien, madame."
In a few minutes Valerie presented herself.
"What has become of you for the last week ?" cried
Miss Riddell when she entered in her hat and gloves,
with her cloak over her arm. "Good heavens, child,
you look like a ghost! What have you been doing
with yourself? Sit down there by the fire. I shall
insist on your taking a glass of port wine; I always
keep some for medicinal purposes. What is the mat-
ter with you, my dear?" And Miss Riddell went
rapidly to one of those invaluable " placards" (cup-
boards in the wall) so common in French bedrooms,
and took thence a small decanter and wine-glass and
administered a dose on the spot, the potency of which
made Valerie cough.
"There is nothing the matter with me, I assure you,"
she said, laughing at her friend's disturbance. "I
have been working a little hard, for I have found
another music pupil at Passy. It will not be for long,
so I do not like to refuse."
"My dear, you are just killing yourself. This won't
do. I am going to attack your uncle again. We are
trying to arrange to leave on the 23d of December
if I can get Sybil off without forfeiting too large
a sum, and we have set our hearts on taking you
with us."
"And I on accompanying you, dear Miss Riddell,"
returned Valerie, promptly and earnestly. "I have a
new reason for desiring to leave my uncle."
"Aha !" exclaimed Miss Riddell, all alive to the
coming revelation. What is it, my dear?"
"My uncle has seen fit to plan a marriage for me,"


286
VALERIE'S FA TE.
continued Valerie, laughing, yet evidently annoyed.
"A marriage with the son of an old comrade of his,
and is exceedingly displeased that I can not see the
advantages of marrying a man as poor as myself and
for whom I have not the least penchant. Of course I
consider myself perfectly free to do as I like in the
matter, but I foresee a good deal of worry, so I mean
to tell my uncle, who, no doubt, poor old man, thinks
he is doing his best for me, that unless he renounces
his project I will accept your offer and accompany you
to England."
"Right, quite right, Valerie; but who is this man?
what is he like?" asked Miss Riddell with the undy-
ing interest ever felt by kindly women in a question of
love or marriage.
"He is a very good sort of man, a musician by
profession, and doing very well."
"You could not like him, I suppose, Valerie? It is
not his poverty only you object to?"
"I object in every way to him."
"Ah, my dear child, I understand your pallid looks;
you are tormented out of your life. We must put a
stop to this. When can I see your uncle?"
"When you like, only suppose you wait till after
Wednesday, after Mrs. Hartwell's party. I know
Sybil wanted to come. She would manage my uncle,
I am sure, and I do not want to vex him more than I
can help. She goes to-morrow to stay at Mrs. Hart-
well's till after the soiree."
"Yes. I really do not feel well enough to dress and
go out, and were I there I should be no sort of check
on Sybil, so "—
"Un Monsieur Anglais veut parler avec Madame,"
said Madeleine entering.
"Faites l'entrer. I suppose it is Eric Floyd. We
have not seen him for days."
"I must go," cried Valerie starting up. "I am
fearfully late already; to-morrow—I will see you to-
morrow," and she darted to the door, hoping to escape


VALERIE'S FA TE.
287
into Sybil's bedroom, which was opposite, but in vain.
She nearly ran into Floyd's arms as he came in.
"Good evening," exclaimed Valerie hastily as she
drew back. He bowed, stepped aside to let her pass
and she was gone.
"Well, Mr. Floyd, and pray what has become of
you? Where have you hidden yourself?"
"Oh, I have been rather busy sight-seeing, for I am
going to leave next Thursday. I am going to London
for a few days, then on to Liverpool to embark for
Canada."
"But, my dear sir, this is very sudden. I under-
stood you were not to return till the spring. I trust
you have no bad news from home?"
"No. There is no absolute necessity for my return,
but I am sick of the conventionalities and littleness of
Old World life, and especially sick of Paris; so if you
have any commands for London I shall be happy to
take them."
"You surprise me greatly. No, thank you, I have
no commands. In fact I hope to be in London before
Christmas myself."
"Indeed ! and Sybil?"
"And Sybil also. I shall certainly not leave her
here alone."
There was a pause. Floyd rose from the seat he
had taken and walked over to the fireplace. "Miss
Trevor is late this evening, is she not?" he asked,
with some hesitation ; "and isn't she looking—not
well?"
"She is looking very ill, and I do not wonder at it,"
began Miss Riddell, and then checked herself. Per-
haps it would be as well to quench any remains of
Eric Floyd's whim for Valerie by giving him a mislead-
ing half of the information she had just received.
"There is some matrimonial project on foot for her,"
she said, "and that is naturally disturbing."
Floyd looked at the fire moodily for a few minutes
in silence and laughed somewhat harshly. "They


288
VALERIE'S EA TE.
manage these matters very commercially in France,"
he said. "I wonder do any of their marriages turn
out well."
"No doubt of it," replied Miss Riddel], tartly;
"quite as well as many of our English soi-disant love
matches, which begin in headstrong selfish fancy and
end in impatience and estrangement."
"Long may we keep our system nevertheless," he
returned. "Where is Sybil? I should like to shake
hands with her."
"She went out shopping this afternoon with one of
the ladies who are staying in the house and has not
yet returned."
"Then you must say good-by for me to her."
"Shall you not see her again at the Hartwells'
dance?"
"I think not. I am not going."
"She will be sorry to have missed you."
"I suppose we are pretty sure to meet in Canada?"
"Do not be too sure. Some one may persuade her
to stay at this side of the Atlantic."
"Not at all improbable," returned Floyd absently;
and after a few more disjointed attempts at conversa-
tion he made his adieux.
"I wonder what has happened to that young man,"
mused Miss Riddell, as she changed her cap for
dinner. "Has he been losing at cards or gambling in
any way? What a state Sybil will be in! I am sorry
he is going, for he is a counter-irritant to that Captain
Grey. I do wish Sybil were safe with my brother and
off my hands. Never again will I undertake so ter-
rible a task as to guide and direct a young lady who
is aware of her own independence. What a half year
I have had of it! Really Valerie has been my only
comfort. Poor child, we must do something for her."
Miss Riddell was a little puzzled by the way in
which Sybil took the startling intelligence of Eric
Floyd's intended departure. She first almost screamed
out a torrent of exclamations expressive of the most


VALERIE'S FATE.
It was an uncomfortable evening to Miss Riddell.
She had made all her arrangements for Sybil to spend
a few days with Mrs. Hartwell, in the full certainty
that Eric Floyd's presence would neutralize any danger
from Captain Grey, against whom she had been per-
haps unjustly prejudiced. Now Floyd's unexpected
retreat had left the coast clear for Grey's machinations,
and moreover she had vague fears that Mrs. Hartwell,
to whom he was distantly related, would favor his
schemes. She therefore resolved to seek her niece a
day sooner than was promised and endeavor to carry
her off to the Neuilly, and dispatched a note to her to
that effect.
The day but one after the dance Mrs. Hartwell and
her daughters had agreed to spend a long afternoon
at the Louvre, the Gallery, not the Grands Magasins.
The arrival of Miss Riddell's note, however, and some
unwonted fit of obedience or depression, or desire for
a patient listener in Valerie, induced Sybil to await her
aunt instead of accompanying her friends, who had
appointed to meet some newly arrived acquaintances.
Major Hartwell staid at home for awhile and tried
to amuse his young guest, which proving more of a
task than he expected, he discovered he had letters of
importance to write, and giving her the last Times left
her to her own devices. These were limited to sitting
by the fire on a low chair with her hands clasped
round her knee gazing at the glowing logs, and deeply
sunk in what she would herself have termed "the
doleful dumps." How long she had thus sat she did
not know when the drawing-room door opened and
the femme de chambre ushered in a gentleman, saying
as she did so, "I will tell monsieur that you await
him."
The gentleman was Captain Grey, well-dressed,
erect, keen, cool as ever.
"Ah, Miss Owen, I did not expect to find you here,"
he said, advancing to shake hands with her. "I was
in hopes of joining the party to the Louvre, and being


292
VALERIE'S FA TE.
"Ah, he did not tell me."
"Have you no idea?"
"As to that, I may have my ideas, but they are
pure conjecture."
"Do tell me!"
"I really have nothing to tell."
"You said you conjectured something. I wish you
would tell me."
"Can I trust you? Will you keep what I am going
to say entirely and completely to yourself?"
"Yes—entirely, completely, utterly," cried Sybil,
blazing with curiosity.
"Well, I have only my own ideas for a guide, re-
member. Eric never said a syllable on which I could
found my theories. He can hold his tongue."
"Never mind! do tell me what you think."
"Well," resumed Captain Grey, watching her
closely, "my theory is that he is madly in love with
your graceful friend Miss Trevor, and that she has
rejected him."
Sybil's dark eyes opened wide as this new idea pene-
trated to her mind.
"In love with Val! Why do you think so?"
"My conviction is drawn from a mass of minute
observations," returned Captain Grey, laughing. "It
would take me a week to tell them all."
Sybil sat quite still for a moment or two, then
started to her feet and caught the back of a sofa which
stood near with both hands. "What a vain, silly, self-
ish wretch I have been!" she exclaimed with vehe-
mence. "I see it all now."
"What do you see ?" asked Captain Grey, a good
deal surprised.
"That I have done mischief—perhaps irreparable
mischief. What shall I do? What can I do?"
"How can I tell unless you explain yourself?"
"I understand why Valerie—poor, dear Val—has
been so still and pale and silent. She has refused him
because she thought I—I was in love with him. Why,


VALERIE'S FA TE.
293
I thought so myself, and he really loved her all the
time. What a fool I have made of myself! I am
ashamed to see you, or that you should see me. Do
go away, Captain Gray!"
"No, you must not send me away," he returned gently.
"Come, sit down, and let us see what is to be done."
He took her hand and tried to draw her back to her
seat, but she snatched it away, and covering her face
burst into tears. "My dear Miss Owen—Sybil! I
can not bear to see you distress yourself in this way,"
cried Captain Grey. "What have you done? Noth-
ing but coquette with your old friend in a very inno-
cent fashion, though rather distracting to the lookers-
on, at least to one of them. Why should this call forth
such poignant self-reproach?"
"You do not know what a thoughtless, heartless
stupid I have been—thinking of nothing but my own
vanity. I have chattered continually of Eric Floyd
till Valerie no doubt thought I was quite wrapped up
in him."
"Then you are not?" put in Captain Gray,
quickly.
"Just now, no! A thousand things come back to
me. I am sure you are right; Eric was—is—in love
with Val, and I fancy she must like him, and—and my
nonsense has broken it all up. Poor dear Val! she is
so good, and she has had such a miserable life, and
now to lose a chance of happiness! Oh! oh! don't
you see what a mischievous wretch I have been?
Don't you think me hateful?"
"May I say what I think?" said Captain Grey,
again taking her hand and this time drawing her to
the sofa, where he sat down beside her.
"Yes, do; I wish you would abuse me—I deserve
it."
"Sybil, I have always found you a fascinating, pro-
voking, piquante little witch. I now see you have a
true, honest heart that any man might be proud to
win. Put Eric Floyd out of your head, or rather put


VALERIE'S PA TE.
*9S
"She will think I did it just to bring Eric and her-
self together."
"Come, this is rather an overdose of magnanimity,
is it not?"
"Not a bit. Do not be disagreeable, and—and,
Captain Grey, when you come to speak to Aunt Hetty
and Uncle James about me there will be an awful row.
They think you—oh, I do not know what they think
"I am sure I'm much obliged," and Captain Grey
was silent for a few moments of very deep thought,
from which he roused himself to exclaim, "Sybil, my
darling, I have hit on a plan by which we can remove
some difficulties and convince Miss Trevor of your
indifference to Floyd if"
A loud ring interrupted him.
"Oh, good gracious! it is Aunt Hetty. I must run
away and put on my hat. Do not say a word to her
of—of any thing," and Sybil hastily beat up the sofa
cushion against which she had been leaning.
"One word : contrive to be at the seals' pond in the
Jardin de Acclimatation to-morrow morning between
ten and eleven. If not there to-morrow, I will look
for you next day at the same time."
"I suppose it's awfully wrong, but I—I will go,"
whispered Sybil, flying through the door which led
into the next room, in the delightful foreign fash-
ion which never leaves one without a means of re-
treat, and the next moment Captain Grey was under
fire—that is, bowing before Miss Riddell's awful
presence.


CHAPTER VI.
MISS RIDDELL was much impressed by the
change which seemed to have come to Sybil
Owen since Mrs. Hartwell's party and Eric Floyd's de-
parture. She was quieter, kinder, more attentive to
her aunt, who began to admit that possibly she might
have some good in her after all; and Valerie, though
taken up with her private griefs, to say nothing of the
special worry respecting his project of marrying her
to his old friend's son, instituted by her uncle, could
not help observing that Sybil was unusually silent and
tender in her ways, bestowing frequent sudden uncalled
hugs and kisses on her friend, and that sometimes she
appeared on the point of uttering something which
she checked with abrupt transparent suppression.
Nevertheless the alteration was for the better, and
Valerie imagined that she had come to some secret
understanding with Eric Floyd, especially as she never
mentioned him or Captain Grey, nor did they ever en-
counter the latter gentleman in their walks to and
from lecture or lesson.
"I think Captain Gray must have gone with his
friend Mr. Floyd," said Valerie one afternoon about
ten days after the Hartwells' dance. We never see
him now."
"Oh, he has gone to see his mother, Lady Grey,
at Dover," said Sybil absently. "As to Eric, are you
sure he has left Paris?"
"I know nothing about him except what you and
Miss Riddell tell me," returned Valerie, rather sur-
prised.
"Ah, well, / am not sure about any thing. I
mean "—


298
VALERIE'S FATE.
to meet Miss Riddell and Miss Smith, to whom Miss
Green had joined herself.
"Existence is a positive pleasure in such weather,"
exclaimed Miss Riddell, stepping briskly forward.
She had quite recovered from her cold and was in
unusually good spirits. "One believes and hopes on
a day like this ! I want you to hope too, Valerie. You
must arrange with your uncle to see me the day after
to-morrow; it will be better to pay my visit in your
absence. Sybil may not be back in time to come with
me; but that is no matter. I have settled with Mad-
ame Rosambert. We are to leave in a fortnight.
Sybil will go to my brother's ; but I have a snug little
pied a terre of my own in London, where you shall
come and stay with me."
"You are indeed kind," cried Valerie. "Yes, I
must go with you. I feel as if I could not bear to stay
behind!"
"And I am determined you shall not," said Miss
Riddell resolutely. "Now we must talk to those two
girls! Will you undertake Miss Green?"
A fall of snow during the night had cleared and
softened the air, and nothing could be brighter or
more cheering than the aspect of the lake in the Bois
de Boulogae. A large space between the island and
the right bank at the upper end of the lake had been
well swept, the trees on the gently shelving banks
were lightly strewn with frozen snow, which glittered
and sparkled in the clear wintry sunlight as if some
fairy had scattered jewels broadcast. The sky spread
out a boundless space of deepest blue, free from the
smallest cloudlet. The snow, crisp, dry and beaten
down by the many pedestrians, offered a pleasant path,
and below on the lake skimmed and gyrated a varie-
gated crowd—red skirted, sable-mantled ladies with
bright tinted feathers in their hats; here a uniform
and there a gayly-painted sleigh pushed by the gentle-
man in attendance on its fair inmate.
Miss Riddell and her companions walked quickly to


VALERIE'S FA TE.
299
and fro on the path beside the ice, admiring the per-
formances of some, laughing at the awkwardness of
others. Poor Valerie smiled and spoke mechanically,
looking wistfully at the animated scene, grieving with
a strange numb pain, that she could not enjoy it—
that life, the world, her whole outlook was changed
and shrouded in a dull gray mist of hopelessness and
indifference.
"Look!" cried Miss Riddell suddenly. "Isn't
that Eric Floyd skimming away like lightning, going
toward the bridge between the two islands?"
"Where ?" cried Miss Green. "Is he the gentle-
man that used to skate so beautifully with Miss Owen?"
"I thought he had left Paris," said Valerie, her
heart suddenly waking from its torpor to beat wildly,
suffocatingly.
"So did I," returned Miss Riddell. "In fact he
seemed too disgusted with Paris to remain another
hour."
"There—there is the Canadian who skates so
wonderfully," said one of two French gentlemen who
paused beside them. "I thought he was no longer
here."
"But where is the ' mignonne Anglaise ' who used to
skate with him always? He is alone, n'est ce pas?"
How eagerly Valerie strained her eyes to catch a
glimpse of the figure she knew so well! How bitterly
she regretted her own stupidity that missed seeing him
as he passed? Surely she was unusually dull and un-
observant! Meantime Miss Riddell looked about her
with considerable curiosity, and uttered a good many
exclamations expressive of her surprise, her bewilder-
ment at Mr. Floyd's sudden reappearance. "I dare
say he is looking for Sybil and myself," she said. "I
will stay here awhile, as he may return."
"Then I must say good-by," said Valerie. "My
uncle no doubt already expects me."
"I will not keep you then," returned Miss Riddell,
"and I shall make my way to Passy on Saturday."


VALERIE'S FA TE.
fully. "Six weeks ago I did not know you existed,
and now, in spite of your coldness, your rejection, you
have grown part of myself. Valerie, you must not
play with these fantastic notions of honor any longer.
Look at me, dearest, and let me read the truth in your
eyes."
And Valerie in some inexplicable way found herself
compelled to raise her loving, pathetic, gray eyes
to his.
What he read there at any rate seemed to give him
strange delight. He murmured something like a
thanksgiving, and after a short expressive silence ex-
claimed: "Come, I must not let you stay here in the
cold. You are shivering already. A quick walk to
Passy will warm you." He rose and offered his arm
to her.
"Are you coming with me?" asked Valerie, half
frightened.
"Of course I am," said Floyd, laughing—such a
happy laugh !" The sooner I have it out with your
uncle the better. I hope to make it all right, though
you will be an awful loss to him."
Even among the sorrows and struggles and imper-
fections of this life there are rare moments of rest, of
unspeakable blessedness, which, could they last, would
leave nothing to imagine of heaven, and those which
followed while Valerie and her lover traversed the
short interval between the lakes and her abode dwelt
forever in the memory of both as supremely blissful.
Valerie said very little, but Eric Floyd poured out his
heart; his hopes, his plans, his whole scheme of life,
and behold, it was very good.
Arrived at the ex-captain's quarters Valerie was sur-
prised to find he had gone out. So the concierge in-
formed her with "le petit Monsieur," which Valerie
understood to mean the gentleman intended by her
uncle for her husband.
"My uncle is out," she said to Floyd. "I am very
sorry."


VALERIE'S FA TE.
3° 7
in all England," said Miss Riddell, with an air of con-
viction. "Just listen to this, Valerie. It is dated
from Dover:
"My Dear Aunt: You will be surprised to see
where I am, but I can not make a long story of it.
Captain Grey persuaded me to come here to stay with
his mother, Lady Grey, and, as he seems fonder of
me than any one else ever was, I am going to marry
him to-morrow morning! Then we go, I really do
not know where, for a few weeks, before coming to
London. You see, he is obliged to join his regiment
at Lahore, early in February. This was the reason
he wanted to marry at once, for, by the time he had
got over all the trouble you, and Uncle James, and
papa would have been sure to make, it would have
been too late, and he feared losing me if he went with-
out me. But I should have stuck to him through
thick and thin. Do not be too angry, dear aunty. I
am really fond of you, though you can be so disagree-
able, and you did not like me a bit. No one did,
except Val and George. You see if I am not a first-
rate wife. Tell Val, with my love, to make haste and
marry Eric. He was dying about her, and he really
is a good fellow. Good-by, God bless you. I hope
to give you a hug and kiss in London. Before you
read this, I shall be Sybil Grey."
"Now can you forgive me," cried Valerie, "and
may I call Mr. Floyd, and tell him the news?"
"Why, where is he?"
"Down stairs; he walked over from Passy with
me."
"Good heavens! Yes, call him. But this is a
blow," and Miss Riddell sat silent for a moment or
two, till she had greeted Eric. "I am horribly angry
and ashamed," she said, with the sound of tears in
her voice, "Sybil has disgraced me and herself."
"Do not be too hard upon her," said Eric, kindly,


308 VALERIE'S FATE.
•
"I am certainly very angry with Grey; he ought not
to have persuaded her to such a step, but he is a man
of prompt and resolute action, and very much in love.
Still he ought not. As to Sybil, remember her wild,
impulsive nature, and that she has no mother or home
to leave, and till very lately, you were a stranger to
her."
"At any rate," observed Miss Riddell, crossly, " I
see it is a vain task to try and play Providence to
headstrong young people. . I only hope none of you
may repent the part you have chosen."
******
Parents and guardians intending to send young
ladies to perfect themselves in French "acquired in
Paris" may like to know that Madame Rosambert has
furnished herself with a resident Institutrice of the
severest morals and forbidding aspect; also that in
addition to the former advantages of her Pension, she
can offer the constant presence of a venerable relative
and distinguished officer, whose noble and elegant
manners, cultivated conversation and pure French are
of the greatest importance to her pupils.
Indeed, M. le Capitaine Latour, who now occupies
Miss Riddell's rooms, is one of madame's best paying
pensionnaires, immensely petted by the young ladies,
looked up to by all, lapped in a perfect paradise of
gratified conceit, and successful, as consistent selfish-
ness so often is, to the last.
THE END.