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32X

POPULAR NOVELS.

By May Agnes Fleming.

l.-GUY EARLSCOIJRT'S WIFE.

2.— A WONDERFUL WOMAN.

3.— A TERRIBLE SECRET.

4.— NORINE'S REVENGE.

5.— A MAD MARRIAGE.

6.— ONE NIGHT'S I.IYSTERY.

7.— KATE DANTON.

8.— SILENT AND TRUE.

9.— HEIR OF CHARLTON. (New.)

' Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popu-
lar every clay. Their delineations of character
life-like conversations, flushes of wit, con-
stantly varying scenes, and deeply in-
teresting plots, combine to place
their author in the very
first rank of Modern
Novelists."

All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each,
and Bent/?'ee by mail on receipt of price.

G. W. CARIiETON & CO., Publishers,
New York,

9- t:

THE

■*»■ ■'

Heir of Charlton.

^ i«wi.

MAY AGNES FLEMING,

AUTHOR OF

•GUV EARLSCOURT'S W,FB," " A WONDERFUL WOMAN," "a TERR,B«
SECRET... ..„OR,.E'S RRVK.O.,.. : , „,, >;aRR.AGe .^
ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY," ETC.

NEW YORK:

G. /^ Carleton & Co., Publishers.

LONDON: S. LOW & CO.
MDCCCLXXIX.

I ■ ■ !

-1

/ ,-■• ■!

-/L/

! ) 1 7

Trow's

Printing and I^ooKDiNniNc Co.

205-213 F.ast \7.tk .St.,

NEW YOKK.

CONTENTS.

t
i

PART FIRST.

CHAPTER

I.— Shaddeck Light.. '''''"'''

II- — Charlton Place

III— A Fairy Tale ' * '^

IV.— A Man's Letter... ^^

v.— Before Breakfast

VL— After Breakfast .'.*'" ^^

Vll.-In the Cool of the Evening.' ^^

V^HL-By the Light of the Moon .'.*.'".'.'.'."*" 66

IX.— How the Game was Made ,]]

X.— The End of the Fairy Tale .'.'.'*.*.'.""" g

XI — Shaddeck Light ^

XIL— An Evening at Shaddeck Light. 1°^

XIIL-A Night at Shaddeck Light. ....'*.' ^^

XIV.-A Morning at Shaddeck Light.' ....,[ ['^

XV.— Captain Dick's Wooing ^^'

XVL-IIow Dora Does It '^^

XVII.-A Girl's Letter '^^

XVIII.-The Days Before...." .'.'.' .'.'.'**.*;; ]^^

XIX.— Captain Dick's Wedding. . . * * * .''''' 'g ^

^X.— Post-Nuptial.. . . ' ^

XXr.-.. The Girl I Left'beh'ind M^ " "''

XXII.-.. When Day is Done" '°'

217

CONTENTS.

PART SECOND.

CHAPTER

T -.T PAGE

1. — Vera

224

II.— A Look Behind

•^o4

III.—'' Love Took up the Glass of Time." 242

IV.— At Dawn of Day 258

V. — A Summer Afternoon 270

VI. — A Sununer Night 2S2

VII.—" We Fell Out, My Wife and L" 295

VIII.-- O, We Fell Out, I Know not Why." ./.''. 305

IX.— Charlton Place ^jj

X. — Husband and Wife -gc

XL— A Cry in the Night

XII.— In the Dead Hand 3^0

XIIL— In the Dark Hour 5^

XIV.— Tracked ,

374

XV.— Trapped ^g^

XVI. — Shaddeck Light

THE HEIR OF CHARLTON,

21 Storij or Sl)rtlri)ccli Cijjijt.

PART I.

w.,e u„hand.om.."-M„c„ A.„ A."; Nil";. ""' "" """ """"•' '»■ ""

CHAPTER I.

SHADDECK LIGHT.

where, except now a,ul .hen, a .hirdng seagull ° A hi, fel;

ous, the sea ' '"* '°"'-''^' '""'"' '^^^-^''^f-

"She won't like it, that is a certainty to be,™ with • " so
nmhismusn^s " An,1 if u u , /"=!>'" "''n . so

raise the dev I c;,, '^ ''"^"^ ™"*" ^"''-^ 't °"'. sl'e will

jesy and ra In ^ '.^ " •\"^^^»'"' ««"<! of his infernal ma-
I Lu" T^^}'"" " ""^ P"'"=ipal anu,sen,ent of her life
I suppose ,t ,s ,n accordance with the eternal fitn s f

SHADDECK LI GUT.

things, that the more charming a girl is, the more utterly
detestable her mother must be."

He raises himself to shy a pebble at a saud-marlin, hop-
ping near. He i- a slender, well-dressed, well-looking young
fellow, blonde as to hair and complexion, and wearing, cpiite
honestly and naturally, the listless look of a man bored habitu-
ally by this wicked world, and the people in it.

** Let us see what she says." He pulls out a letter, after
some search — a lady's letter, long, crossed, and in the usual
angular hand. " ' We leave on Tuesday next for the North,'
yes, yes. ' Afother is deliglited ; ' of course she is, mercenary
old screw. * iNTr. Charlton speaks of his son, step-son rather,'
hang Mr. Charlton's step-son. ' You must on no account fol-
lovv me here.' Oh, but that's precious nonsense, you know,
and after eight months' separation, and St. Ann's not three
hours' ride from New York, and as good a place as any
other to kill — " a great yawn cuts short the solilocpiy, and
exhausted by so much mental effort, the thinker closes his
eyes, and, lulled by the warmth and the wash of the tide,
lapses into gentle slumber.

He sleeps about half an hour, then he opens his eyes and
looks about him. Presently his drowsy glance changes to a
stare ; he sits suddenly erect, struck by a peculiarity in the
view.

During his brief " forty winks," a little island, about half a
mile off, has changed as if by magic into a peninsula. No
magic has been at work, however ; the tide is on the ebb,
and has dropped away from the rocky bar that connects it
with the shore. On the small island stands a small house,
and how the house comes to be there would surprise him a
little if it were not too warm to wonder about anything.
He half rises, with the momentary intention of testing the
solidity of this new path which has risen like Aphrodite out
of the ocean. But it is still sultry, and the sea-weed will
probably wet his feet, and it is not worth while ; so he

If a

No
bb,

.■1

5 it

ise,

i a

:he

DUt

nil

■':

SIIADDECK LIGHT. 9

yawns agiwii, and settles back on the j^rass. ('oine to think
of it, how few things are worth while in this world. I'-vi-n
this trip of his down from the mountains, although the
mountains in themselves are a delusion and a weariness — is
it not a mistake ? It will be pleasant to see his fair corre-
spondent, doubly pleasant to outwit her mother, trebly pleas-
ant to do something clandestine and wrong ; but, after
all

The door of the small house on the islet opens, and a fiL,aue
comes slipping and shambling over the rocks. Me breaks
off his train of thought to watch, with the same listless glance
his handsome blue eyes casts upon everything, this ungainly
new comer. He draws nearer and stands disclosed — a long,
lank, tow-headed, ill-favored, half-witted hobbledehoy. He
stares stolidly for a moment out of a pair of "boiled eyes"
at the gracefully indolent figure on the grass, then is shuttling
on his way, when he finds himself accosted.

** I say ! stop a moment. What do you call that ? " He
nods lazily towards the solitary cottage on the rocks, without
moving. " It has a name, I suppose, and a use. WHiat
may they be ? "

"That air," the lean youth responds in a nasal drawl,
"that air is Shaddeck Light."

" What ? "

" Shaddeck Light. Can't ye hear, mister ? "

" Do you mean it is a light-house — that you live there and
keep it ? "

He has no particular object in putting these questions
beyond the one object of his life, to kill his great enemy,
time.

" Mostly, boss ; me an' the cap'n, when he's to hum."

" Who is the captain ? "

A light comes into the dull eyes, a flash of intelligence into
the stolid face.

" Reckon you're a stranger reound here, mister, or you

« 1-

SUA n DECK' LIGHT.

woiiKln't ask that. Captain Dick, I guess thcru ain't many
folks rcoiind Sluuldcck lUy don't knuw Cap'n Dick
i'frciicli."

Up to this point the questions have been asked with lan-
guid indifference. ]iut as this name is uttered the young
man sits erect, and his blue eyes kindle into swift eager in-
terest.

"Ffrench?" he repeats, sharply — '*Cai)tain Ffrench ? —
son and heir of Mr. Robert Charlton ? "

*' Wall, I reckon, mister, that's abeout it."

The interrogator i)ushes up his wide-awake, and takes a
long stare at his con., anion.

*' Antl you — you're Mr. Richard I'Trench, otherwise Caj)-
tain Dick's factotum, 1 sui)pose ? Like master, like man.
Is Captain Dick there now, and at home to callers ? "

He does not wait for an answer, but rises to his feet,
flings some loose change to the lank lad, and starts at once
for the bar.

" Durned if he ain't goin,' " the youth remarks. " Won't he
spoil them swell boots though ! City chai) with store
clothes. I see him yes'day a loafuv reound the hotel."

He [)icks up the pennies — the backsheesh is by no means
princely — and plods along towards the town.

The shiny boots have reached the bar and pick their way
lightly and carefully over sand, and sea-weed, and sli[)pery
rock. It requires some care to avoid stumbles and wet
feet ; but he does both, and stands, at the end of fifteen
minutes, on the grassy slope of the little islet, ui)on which
the small gray house i)vjrches solitary and wind-beaten, a
mark for blistering summer suns, and beating wintry rains.
It possesses two windows like port-holes, and a door; all
three hospitably open to the cool and fresh sea-breeze. On
the threshold he pauses. He sees a small room, the board
floor scrubbed to spotless white, the walls glittering with
whitewash, two or three easy-chairs, a comfortable-looking

SllADDECK iJG/rr.

;ay
)cry
wet
ecu
ich
, a

US.

all
On
ird
ilh

lounge, a table Uttered with books, maps, manuscripts, news-
papers, pens, pencils, and bristol-board, and sitting among
the literary chaos, his back to the door, reading and smok-
ing, a man.

" If that »s you. Daddy," he says without turning round,
" I will break your neck if you come in."

"It isn't Datldy," answers a (juiet voice. "I suspect I
waylaid Daddy about twenty minutes ago. and wrung from
him the information that the master of this hermitage was at
home. Idleness — the parent of all evil — suggested I slvxild
come. I have the i)leasure, I think, of apologizing to Cap-
tain Dick."

lie takes off his hat, and still with his afternoon languor
upon him, leans against the door-post. Tiie strong salt sea-
wind stirs his fair hair whic:h he wears rather long, a strong
contrast in that respect to the gentleman he adtlresses, who
is cropped within an inch of his well-shaped head. Indeed
they are a contrast in other respects, for "Captain Dick,"
turning squarely round in surprise, rises, takes out his i)ipe,
and stands, a tall, broad shouldered, sunburned young man,
wiih a pair of fine gray eyes, under black, resolute brows,
mini! and muscle, brain and body, evidently equally well
develo[)ed--(iuite unlike the slender, elegant, city stamped
individual he confronts.

" Perhaps I ought to have sent my card by Daddy, with a
request for permission, as one does when one visits a show
place abroad," suggests the stranger, plaintively. " I really
fear 1 intrude. You were reading, 1 perceive. I am Ernest
Dane, trying to kill the dog-days, down here by the sad sea
waves, and tinding it consumedly slow. Most things are
consumedly slow, if you observe. Don't let me interrupt ;
it isn't worth while. Being an inveterately lazy dog myself,
1 have the profoundest admiration for industry in others.
We will meet again, I daresay. I stop at the St. Ann's.
Until then ! "

^ '

SHADDECK LIGHT.

He re]:)laces his panama and is turning to go, but Captain
Dick interferes.

"No, no ; " he says, laughing. "Visitors are rare birds in
my rock-bound retreat, and to be treated as such. There is
no hurry as far as the tide is concerned, and, like the tide,
my industry is on the ebb. May I offer you a cigar ? "

"Thanks, no ; I don't smoke. Curious little den this of
yours, but a capital place for hard cramming, I sliould say.
You have rather the look of a hard thinker, by the by.
Never think myself, if I can help it — one of my fixed i)rin-
ciples. Wears a man out, I find, and there's nothing in life
worth wearing out about. Do you mean to say you live
here ? "

" Not exactly, but most of my days, off and on, I spend
in this shanty when I am down in these parts."

" Ah ! not your nights, then. That must be a relief to
your anxious relatives."

*' My nights, as often as not, I s]:)end drifting about the
bay with my friends the fisher-folk ; " responds the captain,
good-humoredly. " 1 am an amphibious animal. I suppose ;
I thrive best in salt water."

Mr. Ernest Dane regards him with languid interest.

" Your days in study — Spanish, I perceive — and your
nights in fishing. You never sleej) if you can help it, I jjre-
sume. But don't you find the everlasting swish-swash of the
sea, down there in the rocks, ratlier maddening ? ' What
are the wild waves saying ? ' and so on, something of a draw-
back to close application ? "

*' 1 never hear it," answers Captain Ffrench. " With my
pipe and my traps here, and my solitude, you behold in me,
Mr. Dane, that vara avis, a perfectly happy man."

He stooi)s to gather up a quantity of papers and memo-
randa that have fallen, and replaces them with care. Order
enters largely into the phrenological development of the
student of Spanish, as may be noted by the perfect neatness

J .^

iny
hie,

no-
li er
Ihe

SHADDECK LIGHT.

of everything in the bare little room. As he assorts his
papers, his visitor rises and crosses suddenly to the chimney-
piece, over which hangs the only picture on the walls. It
is unfranied ; a head in colored chalks — a woman's head,
of course ; a low-browed, fair-faced, serene-eyed, sniiling-
niouthed woman ; and underneath, in pencil, " Mademoiselle
, New Orleans, May — , 1861."

Mr. Dane produces an eye-glass — his handsome blue eyes
are short-sighted — and looks at this picture. Then he turns
and looks at Captain Dick, a look so keen, so suspicious, so
swift, so full of fire, that for one second it alters his whole
expression. For one second only — when the other glances
up from his manuscripts, the habitually negligent and indif-
ferent air returns.

" A pretty face," he says, lightly. " You add artistic ten-
dencies to your other virtues, I perceive. 1 don't know, of
course, but it strikes me 1 have seen a face very like that
somewhere."

" Very likely. I have a portfolio about in some corner,
if you care for that sort of thing. Do you sketch ? There
are some rather good views here and there in the vicinity of
St. Ann's and Shaddeck Bay."

" My dear fellow, I do nothing — nothing — absolutely and
utterly nothing. I am ashamed of myself. I can recollect
no time in which I was not ashamed of myself. 1 have suf-
fered from chronic remorse for my laziness ever since I had
a conscience. But all the same, I never reform. I don't
sui)pose I ever shall. I don't sketch, 1 don't read, I don't
smoke ; 1 have no aims, no mission, no sphere. The world
goes round and I go round with it. 1 drift with the tide,
and am bound to no port. And, apropos of tides, the tide
of our affairs will soon be the flood again, and our peninsula
once more an island. So I think I'll make off. I see you
have no boat here, so I conclude it is nothing unusual for
you to be oceanbound."

V'.

\ I

SHAD DECK LIGHT.

*' A boat is one of the necessities of my existence," Cap-
tain Dick yays. " If yoli are going, I believe I will go also.
I am clue at the house before six."

" Meaning by the house, the residence of the Honorable
Robert Charlton ? "

" Ah ! you know. Yes, Mr. Charlton is my step-father ;
and, by the way, as he is the soul of hospitality, I think I
may tender you an invitation in his naiKC. You must find
time hang ratlier heavily, I should say. at St. Ann's."

Yes, Mr. Dane admits with a gentle sigh. To find time
hang heavily is, he regrets to say, one of the fixed conditions
of his existence. It is the penalty, he supposes, life exacts
from perfectly idle men. Very many thanks for Captain
Dick's friendly offer, which at some future day, he hope^. to
avail himself of Then he lifts his hat and turns towards St.
Ann's while Captain Dick, whistling as he goes, gets over
the ground with long strides, in a directly opposite course.

The sun is setting. The sea lies smooth and sparkling
below, the sky spreads yellow, tieecy, rose-flushed above,
the fields swell green and golden far away, the beach
stretches white and glistening near.

Mr. Ernest Dane turns and watches his late companion
out of sight, a stalwart, strong figure, clearly outlined against
the western red light, with something unmistakably military
in the square shoulders and upright poise of the head, some-
thing bright and breezy in air, and eye, and frankly ringing
voice, something resolute and decided in the very echo of
the firm, quick footsteps. Mr. Dane's face darkens, as he
watches, and his handsome, bored, blonde countenance set-
tles for a moment into as darkly earnest an expression as
though he were a man with a purpose in life which that other
man had crossed. It is but a moment. • He turns away
with a slight, contemptuous shrug, just as the tall captain
wheels round a bend in the white road, and disappears.

CHARLTON PLACE.

CHAPTER II.

CHARLTON PLACE.

lO of
Is he

set-
Ill as

ther
[way
[tain

handsome girl, and yet at first sight there
who do not think so. It is the sort of
owes nothing to bright coloring of hair
to dress, and less to ornament. The
. absolutely without a tinge of warmer
tint, either gold or russet, the complexion, clear and health-
ful, is colorless ; the eyes like a fawn's, soft, thoughtful,
l)eculiarly gentle ; the mouth at once firm and sweet, the
profile nearly perfect. Above middle height, with a figure
well rounded and ilexible, hands long, tai)ering, beautiful ;
dres d in black silk by no means new, but well-fitting, a
touch of fine lace, and a coral pin at the throat — that is Elea-
nor Charlton.

She stands at the open window and looks out ; a wonder-
ful liglit of pleased admiration in the hazel eyes. Honey-
suckle and sweet-smelling roses cluster all about the case-
ment, and fill' the sweet summer warmth with perfume. A
sea of fluttering green leaves and brilliant flowers spreads out
just beneath, and far beyond, with the hot, yellow bla/e of
the July sun upon it, another sea, all a-sparkle as if sown with
stars.

" How pretty ! how pretty ! " she says, a smile of pleasure
dawning on her lips ; " how pretty it all is ! How hap|)y
one unght be — could be — in such a home as this."

The smile dies away, and a faint sigh comes instead.
For all the home Miss Charlton knows, has known for the
past eight years, is the hopeless home of a city boarding-
house.

A breeze comes up from Shaddcck Bay and flutters the

L I

CHARLTON PLACE.

1 I
: I

honeysuckle bells, and swings the pink clusters of the roses.
A bee staggers heavily by, drunk with sweets, booming drow-
sily. Little white-sailed boats glide about over the shining
water, a door shuts somewliere in the sleepy afternoon still-
ness of the house. Then there is a tap, and before Miss
Charlton has time to say come in, the tajiper comes in and
l)roves to be Mrs. Charlton's manniia, a lady of the fat and
fifty order, with a hooked nose, a double chin, a thin, com-
press<^ \ mouth, a hard, cold eye, a false front, false teeth,
a good deal of gold jewelry on hands and bosom — the well-
preserved remains of a "fine woman." •

*' Eleanor," she says, abruptly, and turning the key in the
door.

" Yes, mother."

Miss Charlton's voice is as gentle as her eyes, as sweet as
her smile. Mrs. Charlton's, on the contrary, is of a rasping
and astringent quality, that leaves an im[)ression as bitters in
the mouth.

" I wish to speak with you, seriously, my dear, v-e-r-y
seriously," says Mrs. Charlton, taking a chair, folding her
hands, and fixing her glimmering eyes on her daughter's face.

"I have just been talking to Mr. Charlton, ancj he says

Sit down. " \iP^

She pushes a chair up, and P^leanor obeys. A look of weari-
ness comes over her fair face, as if the ordeal of being
" v-e-r-y seriously " spoken to, was no new one and no pleas-
ant one.

" As 1 inferred from the first, my dear," begins Mrs. Charl-
ton, with unction, " Mr. Charlton had a motive in sending
for us to visit him, other than that he set forth. People may
remember their deceased cousin's widow and or[)han, and
blood may be thicker than water ; but, as a general thing,
they don't send several hundred miles for these relatives to
visit them, without some other motive than pure benevolence
Deing on the cards. That something else 1 have discovered.

CHARLTON PLACE.

!harl-

hding

niav

and

U to
Mice
tied,

and its name is " Mrs. Charlton pauses in triumphant

exjiectation, and Miss Charlton smiles.

" Yes, mother, I know your persi)icacity. It's name is "

" Richard Caryl Ffrcnch."

Miss Charlton lifts her pretty eyebrows, but she is not sur-
prised.

" Captain Ffrench — his step-son ? Well, that is very natu-
ral, mother, only I don't perceive the connection. What
have we to do, what has our coming to do, with this modern
Sir Philip Sidney?"

" My dear, everything, everything ! " Mrs. Charlton
looks about her, glances out of the window, lowers her voice
to a gunpowder-plot whisper, " Mark my words, Eleanor,
Robert Charlton has sent for you with one purpose — only
one — to marry you to Richard Ffrench."

" Mother ! "

" It is perfectly true. He did not say so in so many
words, of course. How could he ? All the same, that is the
hidden meaning of our invitation here. And, Eleanor, mind
what I am saying, it is the best chance you have ever had,
ever will have. I look to you not to thwart Mr. Charlton."

"But, mother "

"You can raise no obstacle — none at all. When you
dismissed Mr. Gore a year ago, you said he was notoriously
dissipated, and I accepted that reason, although I failed to
perceive then, and do still, what a little wildness in a man
with a million can signify. But here it is difterent. Captain
Ffrench, from what I can hear, is all the most exacting
could desire ; handsome, young, brave, clever — everything.
I look to you, Eleanor, to do all you can to please Captain
Ffrench."

"Oh! mother, mother, hush ! " Her color has flushed,
then faded ; a look of pain, of shame contracts her brows ;
htr hands lock and unlock nervously. " You are always
dreaming, always talking, always hoping for this. Why

r I :

I i

I, I

rt'

CHARLTON PLACE.

should Mr. Charlton have meant so absurd a thing ? Cap-, ^
tain Ffrench has no need to have a wife chosen for him, and
thrown at his head. If he is all you say, is he likely to let
any one choose for him ? And besides "

"Well, Eleanor, and besides?" says Mrs. Charlton, aus-;
tcrely ; but Klcanor rises, biting her lip and flushing guiltily.'
She goes back to the window, where the roses hang and the
woodbine clambers, just as sweetly as half an hour ago, but
the soft eyes are only full of impatient, impotent pain now.

"There can be no 'besides,'" says her mother, still more
austerely. "And I have made no mistake in Mr. Charlton's
meaning. It is not my habit to make mistakes. It is Mr.
Charlton's wish that you should marry his step-son, who is a
little, just a little, hair-brained about exploring and soldiering,
and liable to run away at a moment's notice."

" And so is to have a wife tied to him as a sort of drag-
anchor, whether he will or no. Well, mother, I decline be-
ing that drag-anchor."

" You will do exactly as you please, of course," retorts her
mother, angrily ; " as you always do. But, remember this,
if you are perverse, if you take to riding any of your ex-
tremely high horses here, if you refuse the heir of this noble
estate "

"Mother, listen to me," Eleanor Charlton says, and puts
her hand with a tired gesture to her head ; " do not let us
quarrel — oh ! do not this very first day. What you ho[)e
for cannot be ; there must be a mistake. You know — his
letter of invitation said so — that he has also invited those
two young ladies in New York, his distant relatives, as well
as we "

" That but confirms my suspicion, my certainty,"' inter-
rupts her mother, calmly. " Richard Ffrench is to have his
choice — all in the family. Very naturally this great fortune
is to be kept with the Charlton blood, if possible, and in
your veins and in theirs alone does it run. Richard Ffrench

CHARLTON PLACE.

puts

let us

hope

— his

those

well

Inter-
[e his
Kune
kl in
mch

is to choose between you. But you are first in the field, and
to an impressionable young man fresh from wild Northern
regions "

" Mother, hush ! I cannot bear it," Eleanor cries out.
•'Oh ! how many times have I listened to this; how many
times have you not tried to sell me to the highest bidder. How
many times have I not been shamed, shamed to the heart,
by the looks men gave me, after talking to you. Let me
alone, mother. I will work for you, I will give you all I
earn, I will never complain ; but for the sake of our com-
mon womanhood, do not make me blush again before the
master and son of this house. And hear me once for all — I
will work until I drop dead from work, I will lie down and
die of starvation, before I marry any man for his money, and
his money alone."

" Hush-h ! " says Mrs. Charlton, " hush, for Heaven's
sake!" There has been a rap at the door, now there is
another. She smooths her angry face, rises, opens it, and
sees a trim and smiling housemaid.

" Master's compliments, ma'am, and any time you and
Miss Charlton is ready, he is waiting to show you through
the grounds."

''Thank you," Mrs. Charlton responds, suavely. "Tell
Mr. Charlton we will be down in one moment. Eleanor,
my love, if you are quite ready we will not keep our kind
host waiting."

Ik 4c 4c ik t|( 4t >!<

The rose light of the sunset has faded out into opal and
gray, the cool of evening has fallen upon the world, at white
heat all day, when Richard Ffrench turns into the ponderous
iron gateway, between its couchant lions, and goes up the
long, leafy, tree-shaded drive. The old elms and hemlocks
meet overhead, and make green gloom even at noonday.
It is deepest twilight beneath their arching vault now. He
emerges in front of the house, a large, quaint, red brick struc-

CHARLTON PLACE.

'i!|i

ture, set in a great slope of velvety turf and lawn, with wide
halls, and bay-windows, and open doors. Pjiilliant beds of
gladioli, geraninni, verbena, heliotro[)e, and pansy crop up
everywhere, and olV }'onder among a vt'ry thicket of roses,
he catches the sound of ladies' voices, the tlntter of ladies'
skirts.

" Humph ! " says Captain Dick, and sto[)s in his whist-
ling ; "so they have come. I thought they would. I hope
the governor — dear old woman-lover that he is — is happy at
last."

An amused look is in the young man's gray eyes, as he
stands and reconnoitres. I'he trio examine the lloral beau-
ties, unconscious of the mischievous gaze upon them.

"As if 1 didn't see through the transparent ruse — bless his
innocent old soul — and as if they won't see through it too,
before they are an hour in the house ; I only hope the
young lady has some sense of humor. And three of them,
by George ! I should think the Sultan of all the Turkeys
must feel something as I will, when the last lot arrives."

Ca[)tain Dick throws back his head and laughs all by him-
self; a mellow, ringing, thoroughly joyous laugh. Then he
turns to escape into the house, for it will not do, he thinks,
to shock these delicate creatures with a rough jacket and a
slouch hat, when Fate wil^-. it otherwise. The trio turn
suddenly, advance, see him, and retreat is cut off. He
accepts defeat with calmness, and stands and waits. And as
he waits his eyes widen, dilate, with surprise, for the face of
the younger lady is the face in colored chalks over the man-
tel at Shaddeck Light.

A, FAIRY TALE.

CHAPTER III.

A I'AIRY TALE.

ly him-

lien he

hinks,

and a

turn

nd as

ce of

man-

NCE upon a time there was a king who lived in a
lovely castle, and had two daughters. The oldest
was ever "t pretty, and her name was the I'rincess
Snowllake. The youngest wasn't pretty at all, and her name
was the Princess Jkownskin."

The narrator pauses for breath. She is ari extremely
}()ung lady, certainly not more than sixteen. The captious
critic might perchance hnd fault with her grannnar, i)articu-
larly as she is a precei)tress of youth ; but there are no caj)-
tious critics present — only a very small boy and a smaller girl.

Twilight, the witching hour for fairy tales, fills the room.
Rainy twilight, too, for the (lr()[)s patter against the plate
glass, driven by the sweep of sunmier wind.

" Well, after a long time this great, beautiful king died,"
there is a little touch of sadness in the fresh, clear voice ;
" and the two poor little princesses were thrown all alone
on the world. They went away from the lovely castle into

the big, noisy, nasty, ugly, horrid city Flossy ! let

l)ussy's tail alone. Lex ! I am watching you. You are
falling asleep, sir, just as fast as you can fall."

"I ain't!" says Lex, indignantly; "I hear every \vord.
Was the horrid city New York, Vera ? "

" Oh, you stupid little boy ! as if there ever were any
princesses in New York. No, this was in Fairyland. Well,
and then these two princesses had to go to work as if they
had never been princesses at all. Tlie ugly little Princess
Brownskin didn't mind it so much, because she only had to
teach two little children, and that isn't hard, you know, but
the poor pretty Princess Snowflake "

A FAIRY TALE.

1 1

" Vera," says Flossy, opening her baby eyes, *• was the
iidly pwincess j'(^// / "

" Tliere never was," says the young lady despairingly,
" such a ridiculous small girl as you, l''lossy ! Of course
not. Whoever said I was a princess. Well — where was 1 ?
Oil ! at the Princess Snowllake. Lex, you are pulling
pussy's tail now. 1 declare I won't tell another word. I'll
get rigiit up and light the gas."

Jiut at this dismal threat both children set up a cry of
misery that caused their stern monitress to relent.

" Vera, child," says an anxious voice. A door suddenly
opens, and there is a rustle of silk. ** Are you here ? Oh,
you are. 1 want you to go to Madame Lebrun's for me.
What are you doing ? "

"Telling Floss and Lex a fairy tale," answers the ex-
tremely young lady, laughing and rising from the hearth-rug,
upon which she has been coiled. "Shall 1 light the gas,
Mrs. Trafton?"

" Yes, please, and ring for Filomena — it is time those
children were in the nursery. Lex, if you cry, sir, you shall
be whi[)ped."

" I want to hear about the pretty Princess Snowflake,"
pipes little Lex.

" Want hear about pwetty Pwincess Nofake," echoes
little Flossy.

" Here, Filomena," says the lady, calmly, twitching her
silk skirts from Lex's clinging fingers, " take those children
upstairs directly. Vera, my dear, let nurse light the gas,
you will strain your arms if you stretch up like that. Yes,
1 want you to go to madame's directly ; she promised to
send my dress home at five, and here it is after six, and not
a sign of it yet. But it is exactly like her. You must go
and try it on, please ; our figures are so much alike she will
be able to tell. 1 am sorry it rains," walking to the window
and looking drearily out. " 1 would send the carriage, only

^/ F.t/A'V TAl.i:.

those
shall

ake,"

jchoes

ig her
lUlren

Yes,
ed to
id not
St go

will
indow

only

Mr. Trafton is so lirosonie about taking out the liorses in the
wet. liut you can take a stage "

"Oh, I don't mind the rain," says Vera brightly; "I
rather like it, in fact, with water[)roof and rubbers, and I
shall be glad to see Dot. I am to try on, and wait for alter-
ations, if any are needed, 1 suppose, Mrs. Trafton?"

*' Yes, my dear ; and if you have to wait very long, make
madame send some one back with you. Tiresome old thing !
she never does finish anything when she promises."

The gas is lit now, and Lex and Mossy, wailing loudly for
their lost princesses, are borne off by the ]''rench nurse.
'i"he pretty room, "curtained, and close, and warm," is
known as the school-room, but in it there is more of (Irimm's
•joblins than of granmiar, Kans Andersen than horn-books.
Mi-s. Tiafton, a pale, faded, young woman, stanils looking
Out al the fast falling rain, ami in the middle of the room,
directly under the chandelier, is Miss Vera. She is a girl of
sixteen, and hardly looks that, with a soft cut, childish, inno-
cent sort of face, a profusion of short, black hair, a pair of
dark eyes that laugh frankly on all the world, and small,
wliite teeth that Hash forth merrily for very little provoca-
tion. She is thin and dark, too unformed and angular for

> CD

good looks, but a bright brown fairy, and n(»t in the slightest
like any one's ideal of a governess. She Icjoks as if she
iiiighi very well go into the school-room herself foi three or
four years, and be the better for it.

She encases herself in a waterproof, crushes a little straw
hat down on all her soft curls, and trips away as gayly as
though it were a sunlit noonday. It is raining quite heavily,
but she catches an onmibus at the corner, and goes rattling
down town to the great dressmaking emi>orium on Four-
teenth Street. The city lamps are lit, and shine througli
the wet drift of the rain. I'he pavements are greased with
that slimy black mud, dear from long association, to the
heart of the New Yorker. People hurry by with gloomy

;•[

// FAIKY TAI.E.

faces under their umbrclhis. Vera gets out at the corner of
Fourteenth Street, unfurls her parachute, tiptoes with nuich
distaste through the sticky mud, and up die steps of Madame
liCbrun's estabhshment. A colored man in livery opens the
door, and Miss Vera smiles a friendly smile of accpiaintance-
ship.

" De do, Jackson? Dreadful sort of evening, isn't it?
Is my sister in ? "

"1 presume so, Miss Vera. This way, Miss Vera, if you
please ; the reception-rooms are engaged. Step in here one
moment, and 1 will inform Miss Lightvvood."

The gentlemanly Jackson ushers her into a small room,
and leaves her. She has to wait for some time, and is grow-
ing impatient, when the door quickly oi)ens and her sister
enters.

" Vera ! " she exclaims, *' Jackson told me Oh ! here

you are, 1 did not see you for a moment. Mrs. Traflon
has sent for her ball-dress, I suppose ? Well, she might have
spared you the trouble, for it went five minutes before you
came. IJut it is just as well, for if you had not come, I must
have gone to see you. Vera, 1 have such news ! "

She steps and clasps her hands, and looks at her sister
with shining eyes. She is small, slight, and excessively
pretty ; a young woman, not a girl, with a pale, delicate
face, a profusion of light hair elaborately " done," and set
off by a knot of crimson silk. Her eyes are as blue as for-
get-me-nots, her complexion as milky white as a baby's. A
beautiful little woman, but somehow looking every day of
her six-and-twenty years.

Vera opens wide her black eyes.

" News, Dot ? Where from ? Who from ? What about? "

" Look here ! " Dot draws from her pocket a letter, and
unfolds it triumi)hantly. " Do you see this letter ? It came
this morning, and tliat is why I meant to go and see you to-
night. Vera, you never iv;//A/ guess whom it is from ?"

A FMKY TALE.

orncr of
.h nuich

)cns the
inlance-

isn't it ?

I, if you
icrc one

ill room,
is grow-
er sislcr

3h ! here

Trafton

iiiht have

fore you

I must

ler sister
;cssively
delicate
and set
le as for-
)y's. A
day of

xbout?"

Iter, and

lit came

you to-

1?"

" Never," says Vera, with an air of conviction ; " I never
guessed a riddle of nn\ kind in my Mfc. Who ?"

"Front Mr. Charlton — the Honorable Robert ('harlton,
of Charlton I'lace, Si. .\nn's," says Dot with unction, "anil
it is an invitation to both of us to go there and sjjcnd the
sununcr. ]>oth of us. Vera. lie says expressly — wlure is
the place — bring your half-sister, Miss Veronica, with )()U ;
I am sure the \)oor little thing must need a glimpse of
green fields and blue water after her prolonged course of
stony city streets. Come as soon as you can, and enclosed
please fmd check for travelling expenses. Vera, how nuu:h
do you sui)pose the check is for ? Three — hundred — dol-
lars ! "

Vera snatches up her hat and waves it above her
head. " Hooray ! Your Mr. Charlton is a i)rince — long
life to him ! Three hundred dollars, green fields and
blue "

" lie (luiet, Vera. Do, for pity's sake, get rid of your
roin[)ing propensities before we go. Mr. Charlton evitlently
looks ui)on you as a little girl, and I am sure you act like
one, and a hoidenish one at that. A young lady of sixteen
past "

" Oh, never mind that, Dot — don't scold. Read me
some more of the letter — he does express himself so beauti-
fully I ' Inclosed please find check for travelling exp'inses.'
Could anything be more exquisite than that V^

" 'J'here is nothing else in particular," says Dot, folding it
up and replacing it in her pocket. "He mentions that Mrs.
Charlton and her daughter from New Orleans are also com-
ing. He speaks casually, I believe, of his step-son Richard
I'Trench, who has lately returned from somewhere — Lapland,
or Greenland, or the North Pole."

" Lapland, Greenland, or the North Pole," sighs Vera,
fanning herself with her hat, " how nice and cool they
sound. I wonder Richard Ffrench didn't stay there. Mr.

A FAIRY TALE.

m i

I 'ig

Charlton's stepson — uni — is he his o)ily son, his heir,
Dot?"

" I presume so," Dot answers, and a demure smile dim-
ples her pretty face.

" It is a very lucky thing," says Vera, regarding her sister
gravely, "that you are pretty. It would be a shame for
two ugly girls to inflict themselves on one house, and
a rich young man there too. It is not to be supposed
that Richard Ffrench has left his heart's best affections
ith a l^aplander, or a Greenlander, or a North Poler.

And that dress is awfully becoming to you. Dot. Navy-

- Dot, when are we

blue, and dark red in the hair

going ?"

" There is no need of delay. I told madame at once,
and though she regrets, and so on, she has to consent. I
shall use the money of course, and 1 see no reason why we
should not start next week. Now, if you are going home,
you had better go ; it is getting late, and raining hard. Tell
Mrs. 'I'rafton — or, no. 1 will call to-morrow, and tell her
myself, and then we can go down to Stewart's together for
our things."

"To Stewart's together for our things," repeats Vera, in
a sort of dreamy ecstasy ; " it is lovely, it is heavenly, it is
one of my fairy tales come true. Tiie Princess SnowHake
shall go lo St. Ann's, and Prince Richard Cc&ur de Lio?i
shall have the prettiest wife in all the world. Shall you
wear white silk, or a travelling suit when you are married,
Dot, and may I stay among the green fields and blue sea
forever and ever ? Yes, it is a fairy tale, with castle, and
prince, and everytliirg just as it ought to be. Shopping
to morrow at Stewail's ! No, I cannot realize it. Good-
night, Dot."

" Good-night, goose," laughs Dot, and sees her to the
door. This little dark girl is the one thing in all the world
that Theodora Lightwood loves.

A MAN'S LETTER.

his heir,

nile dim-

her sister
haiiie for
)use, and
supposed
affections
th Poler.
t. Navy-
n are we

Vera goes home through the wet, wind-beaten, mud-
splashed city streets, and the world is all rose-color, the
pavements of crystal and jas[)er, the raylcss night sky ashine
with the light of hope. She is living a fairy tale ; the en-
chanted palace awaits, the dashing I'rince Charming is there,
a long golden summer lies before

'* And the Princess SnowHake married Prince Richard,
the Laplander," cries Vera, gleefully, gi'ing wakeful Lex a
rapturous hug, 'and they lived happy forever after."

e at once,
)nsent. I
)n why we
inof home,
lard. Tell
I tell her
wether for

Vera, in

nly, it is

nowtlake

de Lion

5hall you

married,

blue sea

stle, and

Shopping

Good-

kr to the
the world

CHAPTER IV.

A man's letter.

Frfl?n Captain Richard Ffrcnch to Dr. Einil Englchart.

XD so, after a year in Baffin's Bay, a winter in St.
Petersburg, after rinking with London belles, and
after waltzing with Viennese beauties, without risk
to wind or limb, you slip on an innoxious orange-peel in New
York streets, and manage to sprain your ankle. Great is
Allah, and wonderful are the ways of F.mil Englehart ! All
the same, old boy, it must be no end of a bore to be tied up
by the leg, just at this time when there is so nuich to be done
about the expedition which nobody but you can do. As it
is of no use crying over spilled milk, however, you may as
well dry your eyes, cease your howls, put your snapped
ankle under the nearest water-spout, and improve your mind
during the next fortnight by reading hard at Spanish. I am
getting on myself; I have a den out here in the ' vasty deep,'
a little house about the size to hang from your watch-chain,
perched on a rock, and in it I spend my days. My nights,
when the moon is at the full, I devote to the toilers of the

/I MAN'S LETTER.

I \.

sea. Such has been my life for the past six weeks ) peace-
ful, virtuous, studious, monotonous ; but, alas !

*' * Notliing can be as it has been before.
Belter so call it, only not the same.'

" A change is coming, has come ; woman has entered my
Eden, and the bliss of unintcrrui)ted days of reading and
drawing, of smoking peaceful calumets in the best parlor of
the Mancr House, o' evenings of dining in a pea-jacket, is
at an end. If I threw the house out of the window, it would
be good and admirable in the eyes of the dear old governor,
but the delicate female mind, the sensitive female olfactories
must be shocked by no deed of mine. Henceforward free-
dom is gone, and I return to the trammels of civilization and
tail-coats.

" I have never told you about the governor, have I, nor
how I come to have a home hereabouts ? No, I don't think
J have. We always found enough to do, and say, and think,
without going into autobiography. But now the chained
tiger is to be soothed, the sick surgeon to be charmed out of
his loneliness. I am ordered, under penalty of bastinado and
bow-string, to write long letters, amusing letters, and my lord,
the Sultan, shall be obeyed. Long they shall be, amusing
they may be, if you find yourself weakened intellectually, as
well as i)h}'sically, by your sprained ankle.

" P'ourteen years ago, then, I went home one vacation
from school, to find my mother transferred from her cottage
to a handsome home, and to be introduced to a tall, spare,
elderly gentleman, ' frosty but kindly,' as my new papa. I
was about thirteen at the time, with very pronounced ideas
on the subject of step-fathers, and, for the matter of that, on
most other subjects.

*' ' You must be sure to call Mr. Charlton papa, Dick,'
my mother said to me, confidentially. * You don't know how
good he is, and how fond he is prepared to be of you. When

A MAN'S LETTER.

5 ; peace*

itered my
ading and

parlor of
L-jacket, is
,', it would

governor,
olfactories
•ward free-
nation and

lave I, nor
don't think
and think,
le chained
lied out of
tinado and
d my lord,
, amusing
jctually, as

vacation

|er cottage

ill, spare,

papa. I

Iced ideas

)f that, on

)a, Dick,'

aiow how

11. When

you are going to bed, to-night, you will go up to him very
nicely and say, " Good-night, papa."

" I listened, committed myself to nothing, and revolved
the matter all day. Bedtime came, 1 kissed my mother, who
looked anxious, and went up to my new father, who sat
beaming benignly upon me through his double-barrelled eye-
glass.

"'Mr. Charlton,' I began, * mother says you are my
father, and I am to call you so. Now, that cannot be. No
fellow can have two fathers, and I would rather not.'

" Dick ! " my mother exclaimed, in dismay.

" * Never mind, Dick,' Mr. Charlton said, laughing ; * I
like his honesty and his logic. So I am not to be adopted as
father, Dick — what then is it to be ? "

*' ' Thank you, sir. You were governor of a Western State
some years ago, mother says, and if you wouldn't mind, I
should like to call you governor. Lots of fellows 1 know,
call their fathers that, regular out-and-out fathers, you know.
May T, sir?'

" ' Certainly, Dick. Governor let it be, by all means,' re-
sponded Mr. Charlton, still laughing, and so we shook hanils,
and that delicate matter was settled once and for all.

" I need not tell yu.i what sort of father I found ; no man
could have loved his own son better. My poor mother died,
and from that hour his affection seemed to redouble. All
that I have, or am, I owe him. Men don't much talk or
even think of this sort of thing, but the tie between us is one
strong and deep. All the same, I am the plague of his life ;
my Arab propensity for folding my tent and silently stealing
away, my Bohemian instincts when at home, are alike the
botlier of his existence. It came very near being a serious
matter, last year, when I went with you all to the Polar Sea.
The Honduras Expedition he will not even hear of, and that
is why, principally, I have fitted up this Robinson Crusoe
castle out in Shaddeck Bay, to keep my reading and sketch-

A MAN'S LETTER.

I I

; ,1

i!'

il'i

ing out of his sight The place was formerly a sort of bea-
con for fishers and whalers, but long ago was deserved, and
is as isolated as heart can wish. He wants nie to take to
one of the learned profession^, his own for instance — law —
and stay respectably at home. A man ought to settle, he
says, at seven-and-twenty ; and so he ought, I sup[)ose, but
there must be vagabond blood in me, for settling is the last
thing I want to think of 1 tried it once for six months, and
grew restless and cross-grained as the devil. Since he came
into the great Charlton fortune, his monomania for keeping
me at home has grown to giant proi)ortions. He has be-
come rabid — a man of one idea, and that is why he has sent
for but I have not come to thai; yet.

" It ought to be flattering, this rampant affection, and is,
and I love the dear old fellow ; still I cannot reconcile my-
self to the idea of ranging in this dull-as-death little country
town, and settling down to turnips and prize pumi)kins,
short horns, steam plows, and top dressing, militia drill, and
cider drinking. Ungrateful, I know, but as Dr. Watts re-
marks, * it is my nature to.'

" Have you ever visited St. Ann's? It is about ninety
miles from New York, and if ever the doctors send you to
grass, turn you out to vegetate, not live, by all means come
here. It is a finished town. Thirty years ago it stoi)ped
growing, and has never advanced an inch since. And for
that very reason it is a charming place, with old homesteads
embowered in trees, spreading orchards, golden and ruddy
with fruit, old-fashioned gardens, where all sweet-smelling
things run riot, yellow fields of waving grain, long, white,
lonely roads, sleepy, Sunday stillness in perpetuity ; and
at its feet the everlasting sea, wash, wash, washing. And
among its other products. Vestal virgins abound ; the num-
ber of old maids is something pathetic. They muster strong
on Sunday afternoons, up to the white meeting-house on the
hill — one ceases to view polygamy as an evil, when one

nVi

A MAN'S 'LETTER.

t of bea-
:yQ.(\^ and

take to
J — law —
ettle, he
[)ose, but
5 the last
ittis, and

he came

keeping
I has be-

has sent

1, and is,
icile my-
coiintry
umi)kins,
(Irill, and
Vatts re-
ninety
you to
IS come
stopped
And for
nesteads
d ruddy
imelling
J, white,
ty ; and
And
e nmn-
• strong
on the
;n one

watches them on their winding way, as faded and out of date
as the bonnets they wear, with patient hands folded over
unai)propriated hearts.

"Once St. Ann's was a place of bustle and business, and
sent out its lleet of whalers yearly, and in those days John
Charlton made his fortune, built a house, died, and left all

to Ins younger

brolh

er,

^Vh

en my day

comes, 1 am t(?l(l, I

am to have it all, if, meantime, 1 behave myself, settle to law
and monotony, marry a wife, and stay at home.

'* Marry a wife I A[y dear Englehart, do you remember — •
I think you do — that girl who gave lessons at your sister's in
New Orleans ? A tall. Madonna-like maiden, a sort of human
cplla lily, with serene eyes, passionless and pure ? Your little
nieces called her mademoiselle, nothing but mademoi.ielle,
just as they dubbed me 'Uncle Uick' — you remember ? Well,
she is here. Her name is Eleanor Charlton, and she is what
a girl with such eyes should be. Her father was Mr. Charlton's
cousin, once removed, and he has sent for her to come and
spend the summer. Her mother is with her, a majestic
matron ; bland as sweet oil, but with an eye of stone, and a
l)air of cruelly tight lips. I see her daughter wince, some-
times, under that stony glance. They came three days ago,
and I met them one evening in the grounds. There were
mutual exclamations — ' Mademoiselle ! ' ' Uncle Dick ! '
then a bur^t of laughter, a charming blush on the lady's
part, explanations on the gentleman's, and an adjournment
to diuner. After dinner there was music ; she plays l>ach,
Beethoven, Afozart, this poor Miss Eleanor, who is a music-
teacher by profession, I don't affect the piano-forte as a
rule, but I hke such playing as this. The violin came down
after a little, and the governor beamed through his lenses,
shone, scintillated, was radiant, Mrs. Charlton knows how
to keep her dig)iitied face in order, hut I caught more than
once, a 'Bless you my, children ' look, out of the hard,
austere eyes. As for mademoiselle — 1 like her, Englehart,

A MAN'S LETTER.

li |l

i " I

I always knew I should like her if I got a chance, and — I
caught myself revolving, last night, the practicability of life
on land, of tax-paying, land-draiin'ng, stock-breeding, horse-
breaking, cradle rocking, and all the rest of it. If any one
could make it worth while, it would be this young woman.
I know, and she knows, and we all know, what she is here
for. liless the governor! 'Take her, you dog, and be
hapi^y ! ' shines forth in every wrinkle of liis dear, kindly,
handsome old fiice. TUit she holds herself very far off, and I
like her all the better for it. And I don't know. And
don't you fill my place in the scientific cori)S yet awhile —

id He He it !|c 4: ¥

" I left off last night rather abru[)tly, and to-day the i)lot
has thickened. I laugh by myself as 1 write. Two more
have come this afternoon. 1 have not been presented yet,
but look for that ceremony to-morrow. Young ladies of
course, cousins again, but this time so very far removed that
the cousinship will hardly do to swear by. Once upon a
time, a Catherine Charlton — so runneth the legend — married
a Southern planter, and the ' consekins of that manoovre,' to
quote Sam Weller, was a daughter. This is the elder of the
two. The Southern planter died, and in the fulness of time
the widow wedded again, a Cuban, with a yaiH long pedigree
and quantities of blue blood, and another daughter saw the
light. These half-sisters are our new arrivals. Father and
mother dead, wealth lost in civil war, earning their living in
New York in the old weary ways, sewing and teaching.
Oh ! these poor little women who work I It is breaking
buttertlies, putting hunmiing-birds in harness. My soul stirs
with an infinite compassion for them all.

"Yesterday afternoon I went out with my henchman,
Daddy, and diifted about on the high seas, lazy and hapi)y,
my mind a blank, my conscience at ease, my digestion at
its best, until the red sun set, and the white moon rose.
Daddy — not christened Daddy by his godfathers and god-

ii ;,:•

A Af.LV'S LETTER.

:e, and — I
ility of life
ng, horse-
[f any one
g woman,
he is here
J, and be
ar, kindly,
off, and 1
ovv. And
.while —

ly the [)]ot

fwo niore

lented yet,

ladies of

lOved that

;e npon a

— married

oovre,' to

der uf the

s of time

pedigree

r saw the

ther and

living in

[teaching.

breaking

soul stirs

Inch man,

|l happy,

jtion at

)n rose.

lid god-

mothers in baptism, bnt yclept * Daddy-long legs,' by sundry
small boys, for obvious reasons — Daddy took the oars in the
gray of the evenmg and rowed me home. The house was
all alight, the windows all open, music and woman's laughter
floated out into the pleasant summer night. I stood under
some trees and saw them all — a pretty picture. Dinner was
over, the governor and Mrs. Charlton ;^at comfortably in a
corner at cards. Miss Charlton was at a litfle table making
something — point lace I think she calls it. She almost
always wears black, which becomes her, and very few orna-
ments. She needs none, and knows it i)erhaps ; the * flower
face,' the 'stilly tranquil manner,' the coils of silky chestnut
hair — they are enough. She looked a household si)rite, a
fireside fairy, an angel of hearth and home, sitting there. I
declare to you, the old strong instinct, older than original
sin — 'it is not good for man to be alone ' — awoke wilhin me
for the first time. And then a shining vision came between
me and her, something in white and blue, a stage fairy, wiUi
loose golden hair, and a waist like the stem of a wineglass.
I looked for the other and saw a little girl, a bright brosvnie,
with black eyes, and a real girl's bewitching laugh. Strange
to say, 1 felt no desire to intrude my rough masculine pres-
ence among all that fair femininity. 1 stood, I gazed, I
admired, for a while, and then I came up to my room. And
here I am ; and you, most puissant, enjoy the benefits of my
passing misogyny. It is pleasant to have these young women
in the house, it brightens things, and there is always Shad-
deck Light when the sweetness begins to cloy. It is part of
my coarse-grained nature, I suppose, but even as a boy I
never had a taste for loUypops ; and as a man, a litcle, a
very little, of young ladies' society goes a great way. They
so seldom have anything to say for themselves, and if they
are pretty to look at, as they generally are, it is a pity to si)oil
the illusion. Miss Charlton can talk, but mostly she doesn't ;
I find her silent, and have a suspicion that she thinks, and

'Ill '

BEFORE HREAKFAST.

111!

irf"

l!;

'1! |-'l

1 i

li M

I !

rends Ruskin and Stuart Mill. As for the others — one is a
fluffy haired i)eri, an:l the second a dark fairy, 'too low for a
high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a
great praise ! ' Further particulars in my next.

" If there is anything 1 can do for you, old boy, counnand
me. I can run up at any time, there is nothing to detain
me. In spite of all the nonsense I have set down here, the
Central American Expedition is very near this heart, and
the sooner you get that dislocated limb in working order the
better. I hope nothing will occur to postpone things ; Sep-
tember will be a good month for the start. My owe regret is,
the vexation my going will be to the governor ; but to stay
here, idly pottering around, i)laying crocjuet, drinking after-
noon tea, fiddling in time to the piano, driving about in
basket carriages, and waiting for dead men's shoes — that
way madness lies. Drop me a screed ; a man may write
with one ankle, may he not ? And believe me, as ever,

"Richard Caryl Ffrench."

CHAPTER V.

BEFORE BREAKFAST.

r is lovely," says Vera, *' it is delicious, it is all my
fancy painted it, it is the Castle of the Sleeping
Beauty. And that reminds me. Dot, I wonder if
the Sleeping Beauty is still asleep, or whether he came home
at all last night!"

*' Very uncivil of him in any case," responds Miss Light-
wood, " not to put in an appearance even for one moment,
knowing we were expected, too. Mrs. Charlton took care
to impress upon me, with evident satisfaction, that it was his

BEFORE BREAKFAST.

one IS a
ow for a
tie for a

oiiimand
o detain
icre, the
,-art, and
)rder the
l^\ Sep-
regret is,
to stay
ng after-
about in
)es — that
lay write
:ver,

lNCH."

all my

leeping

)nder if

je home

Light-
moment,
jk care
Iwas his

very first absence since their arrival, lint a little rudeness,
more or less, what can it signify to two persons in our sta-
tion in life ? "

Miss Lightwood yawns sleepily as she says it, and turns
over for another nap. She is in bed, and looks rather pret-
tier there than out of it, certain fine lines of discontent that
mar the expression of her waking hours, being effaced by
slumber. Her cheeks flushed rose-pink, her fair hair all
loose and damp, her blue eyes humid with drowsiness. She
does not look as though last night's defection preyed upon
her. Vera, always one of the earliest of early birds, stands
at the window looking out over waving trees, rainbow pas-
tures, velvet slopes of sward, as if she could never look her
fill.

*' After all, Dot, it must be a blessed thing to be rich,
and have a home like this. Do be just as nice to Captain
I'french when you meet him as you know how "

But Dot is serenely asleep, and Vera takes her hat and
makes her way down-stairs, and out of the house. It was
almost dark last evening when tiiey arrived, and in the bus-
tle of welcome and dinner, and the first shyness of meeting
])erfectly unknown peo|)le in a perfectly unknown house, she
has seen very little. But this morning it has broken upon
her, a very dream of beauty. Her Southern home has faded
into a hazy memory ; for years the poor child has known
nothing but tiie stony, unbeautiful city streets. And here are
wildernesses of greenery, here are great stone urns ablaze
with color, here are beds and beds of mignonette, of pansy,
of geranium, here are thickets of roses, and trees of fuchsia,
here are statues gleaming whitely, and gold and silver fish
in mimic ponds. Over her head is rising the dazzling July
sun, afar off she catches the flash of the sea, and smells its
salt, strong sweetness — the sea that she has never looked
ui)on but in pictures and dreams.

"Oh! " sighs Vera, in a rapture of gladness, "it is too

3<3

BEFORE BREAKFAST.

ill> !

I 1

'i '
I

j I i

I >

Mill

iiiii

much. I Tow will we ever go back to New York ? Heaven
must be like this."

She banishes the untimely thought of New York. She is
sixteen, the siunnier is before her, Dot is pretty and Captain
I'Trench is only mortal. Which is Captain Ffrench's window,
she wonders, and is he sluggishly sleeping away this paradis-
iacal morning ? It is joy enough to be alive on such a day.
A thousand little birds are singing around her, the perfume
of heliotrope and rose is everywhere, she breaks off sprays
as she goes and makes a boucjuet, singing without knowing
that she sings :

'• ' Alas ! how easily things go wrong ;
A sigh too nuicl), or a i<iss too long,
And there follows a mist and a sweeping rain,
And life is never the same again.' "

Singularly inappropriate, but she gives no thought to what
she is singing. Nothing could ever go wrong in this Eden.
There would always be the birds, and the trees, and the tlow-
ers, and the sea — Oh ! the sea ! she must go there and look
upon it for the first time.

She goes, and it breaks upon her with a sense of might
and loveliness, that holds her silent and spell-bound.

" It is like a dream — like a dream ! " she whispers, " Oh !
you great, beautiful, fearful sea I " It is better after all, than
the green lovehness of the land, and she goes on and down,
until she stands where the shining baby waves creep up to
her very feet. It is a sort of creek, and a boat is moored to
a stake — a pretty boat, all white and blue, with a smiling,
saucy face painted on the stern, and the name in gilt, The
Nixie.

"Ah, yes," Vera says aloud, nodding to the Nixie, "yon
are very pretty, and very smiling, and very deceitful, just like
the water itself — mermaids, and undines, and keli)ies, and
the rest of you fishy people always are. But I wish 1 could

BEFORE liKEAKFAST.

Heaven

. She is
1 Captain
; window,
s i)araclis-
cli a (lay.

perfume
)(if sprays

knowing

it to what

lis Eden.

the How-

and look

of might

'' Oh !
all, than
id down,
?p up to
)ored to
smiling,
rilt, The

le, "you
liust like
lies, and
1 could

go out in you, all the same, and have a sail before breakfast.
I never had a sail in my life, before breakfast or after."

•' /am going out," says a voice, '* this is my boat. I, will
take you, if you like."

Vera looks around astonished. A man is standing on the
bank above her, a young man, his hands in his pockets,
calmly regnnling her. She is not nervous, nor easily discon-
certed as a rule — she is too much of a child — and she is not
disconcerted now.

*' Was I talking aloud ? I didn't know it. What was I
saying?"

He comes down the bank and proceeds to unmoor the
boat.

" That you would like a sail before breakfast. I am going
for a sail before breakfast, and 1 will be delighted if you will

come.

The boat is unfastened now, the oars shipped, and he
stands waiting. It is a strong temptation — how sunlit, dim-
pled, lovely, the water looks. And it is such a i)retty boat.
And it could not be much harm. And the woman who hesi-
tates is proverbially lost. She lifts her dark child's eyes
with all a child's frank fearlessness, and looks at him. He
is good-looking, he has pleasant eyes, and a smile Vera likes.
He looks like a gentleman. He holds out his hand. " Come,"
he says, and she goes.

" I wonder what Dot will say ? " she thinks, " I wonder
what Dot will do ? It cannot be much harm to go for a sail.
I wonder who he is ? "

Of the world and its ways Vera knows nothing, absolutely
nothing. She is as utterly ignorant of Ics convenances as
though she were six instead of sixteen. This is entirely
new, and beyond measure delightful, that is all she knows ;
it smacks of adventure, and there has been a dreary dearth
of adventure in little Vera's life. And he is very good-look-
ing, she observes, glancing sideways under her thick black

HE I' ORE UREA k'FAS T,

lashes — tall, and brown, and strong, with bright dark eyes,
and a subtle smile. Subtle, in the sense that Vera does not
(luite understand it ; he has rather the look of laughing at
lier, and she is prepared to resent it if she finds it so. lie
ought to say something ; this silence is growing embarra s-
ing. She leans over, as every heroine she ever read of does,
and dips her fingers in the water. It is delighlfiilly cool, and
the summer morning clouds, like rolls of white wool, aie re-
flected in the clear, green depths. Over yonder the sun, just
risen, turns all the east crimson and flushes the girl's face
with rosy gilded light.

"Oh I " she sighs aloud, " it is like being in a new world I
It is like being born again. I never imagined anything like
it. How delicious this breeze is, how salt it smells. How
1 wish Dot were here."

"Who is Dot?"

'* My sister. What island is this? Oh, what a dear little
house ! And some one lives in it actually, out here in the
middle of the ocean. I,ook at the smoke."

*' 1 see. That is Shaddock I-ight, and although a light-
house no longer, some one lives there. I know the i)erson,
and if you like we will sto]) there before we go back."

" Will you though ? I should like it of all things. Such
a dot of a cottage ; I once had a doll's ho'i^e nearly as large.
But it must be lonely, I should think. Who lives there,
please?"

" Richard Ffrench."

" Richard Ffrench ! — Rich — ard Ffrench ! " Vera's brown
eyes open in wide wonder. " Mr. Charlton's step-son ? You
never mean to say it is tJiat Richard Ffrench ? "

Never heard of any other, and he is Mr. Charlton's step-

son.

Vera regards him gravely for a moment. The sail has not
been hoisted, he is pulling steadily against the tide, in long,
strong strokes, as if he were enjoying himself.

BEFORE HKEA KEAS T.

l;irk eyes,
, c'oes not
Lughiiig at

so. He
ml)arr;i s-
d of (loos,

cool, aiu!
ol, aio re-
i sun, just
girl's face

:w world !
thing like
Is. How

dear little
ire in the

h a light-
e person,

;s. Such
as large.
;s there,

l's brown
m ? You

|n's step-
has not
in long,

" You know Richard Ffrench ? "

«« 1 have tlv't honor."

«• Captain I'Trench — he is a captain, is he not?"

"Captain once, captain always, I suppose. He com-
manded a company, I believe, during the late war. He is
generally dubbed Captain Dick."

«« Well, then, Captain Dick, being Afr. Charlton's son,
should live at Charlton Place, should he not ? "

" Naturally, if he were like any one else, which he is not.
All half civilized people have barbarous instincts, and can
never live in decent dwellings. Ffrench, for some such rea-
son, spends most of his time here."

" What does he do ? "

Ca|)tain Dick's accpuiinlance shrugs his shoulders.

"Who knows ? He smokes a good deal, and loafs about
among the fishermen. 1 have never heard that he does any-
thing more useful."

" Is he there now ? " -

" Not likely. He goes home to sbjep, as a general thing,
though I have known him to spend nights at Shaddeck Light.
Your interest does Captain Dick much honor."

" Well, you see," says Vera, nowise abashed, ** I am down
from the city to spend the summer at Charlton, and as I
have not seen him yet, it is natural. One is always inter-
ested in the people one is to live with, you know."

" Undoubtedly. I heard that two young ladies had
arrived by yesterday's late train. Such an event makes a
stir in St. Ann's. Jiut it is odd you have not seen Ffrench.
I know he went home last night ; 1 saw him go."

*' He did not think it worth while coming to the drawing-
room then. Very likely it is as Dot says "

" What does Dot sav ? "

'* Never mind," with dignity ; ** perhaps being half-civil-
ized accounts for it."

" Or, perhaps he was afraid. Two lovely young ladies

! i!

1 I

! ;

• 'I

BEFORE BREAKFAST.

are very formidable sort of peoj^le for one bashful man to
encounter, single-handed and alone."

" Is Richard Ffrench bashful?"

" Painfully so. Depend upon it, he was afraid, and
sneaked ujistairs to bed."

*' At all events," says Vera, resentfully, " he was not
afraid of Miss Charlton. From what her mother said to
Dora — to my sister — last night, he and Miss Eleanor have
got on remarkably well. Not that it matters at all. Cap-
tain Ffrench's comings and goings can be of no consequence
to Dot and me."

" Certainly not. Besides, he is going away almost directly,
and a very good riddance I should say. A great hulking
fellow like that is always a mistake in a household of young
ladies. If /were in his place now "

"Ah!" Vera says, mischievously, "if you only were !
You are not bashful, are you? You wouldn't sneak up
stairs to bed, would you ! " Her joyous laugh rings out
suddenly. " I don't believe one word you have been tell-
ing me. He isn't bashful, he isn't hulking, he isn't half civ-
iHzed, he doesn't sneak to his room. I know all about him,
and 1 mean to like him. 1 like him already. He is a sol-
dier, and I like soldiers ; he is a hunter, and I love hunters ;
he is an exi)lorer, and 1 adore explorers. Now what are
you turning us round for? Are you going back ? "

" We are going to visit the den of your lion. He is not
there, and so we need not be bored by his roarings."

*' But some one is, there he is now."

"That is only Daddy — the lion's keeper. Take care !
let me help you. One jump — ah, capitally done ! In Dick
F'french's name I bid you welcome."

He throws open the house door, waves back curious,
staring Daddy, and follows her in. Vera's quick, bright
eyes dance over everytliing in a second, and pounce upon
the picture on the chinmeyq)iece.

BEFORE BREAKFAST.

ihfiil man to

afraid, and

he was not
)ther said to
Eleanor have
,t all. Cap-
consequence

nost directly,
reat hulk in cr
3ld of young

only were !
't sneak up
jh rings out
ve been tell-
n't half civ-
about him,
Hie is a sol-
ve hunters ;
w what are

He is not

If^'S.

"ake care !
In Dick

:k curious,
ick, bright
II nee upon

" It is Eleanor ! " she exclaims, " it is Miss Charlton ! "

"Is it indeed?" says the young man. " Tiien Miss
Charlton is a pretty girl. Will you sit down ? Don't you
smell coffee ? Amuse yourself with the books, and 1 will
go and get you some."

He goes. Vera watches him curiously. The coffee is a
ha[)i)y thought, it smells uncommonly good, and her water
trip has made her painfully hungry. In two minutes she
has turned over every article in the room — then her escort
enters with a tray and a cup of the fragrant berry.

" I hope it is to your liking," he says, " and strong enough.
AVhat do you think of Ffrench's growlery ? "

" 1 J|iink you are very much at home in it," retorts Vera ;
" whaf do you suppose Captain Ffrench will say to this in-
vasion } "

" Really I have not troubled myself to suppose. He
ought to feel honored — / would in his place. I never envied
ail)' fellow before this morning. As to my being at home,
I mostly am — everywhere."

So Vera thinks. His tall stature and broad shoulders
seem to till the little room. He partakes of no coffee him-
self — he obtains permission instead to light one of Captain
Dick's pipes, two or three dozen of which are ranged on
shelves. He sits on the door-step and smokes. The sun
is high in the sky by this time, and the first crisp coolness is
going off.

The seven o'clock bell rings in St. Ann's for the laborers.
A few little boats float past on the rip|)leless tide. Soft,
limpid waves wash over the pebbles, Sunday stillness is
over all.

" It is heavenly ! " says Vera, with a long-drawn breath.
It is the third or fourth time this morning that she has made
the same remark, but there is simi)ly nothing else to be said.
" I never spent such a morning, but I am ready to go now
whenever you like."

I '

I ! . m

t f

: I

BEFORE BREAKFAST.

Her companion rises.

"Yes," he says, "it will be as well not to let Ffrcnch
catch us here, and 1 suppose he will be on hand shortly."

" Would he mind ? "

" Well, he is something of a bear, but it is not that.
Living m the same house he will see enough of you before
long, while 1 — I wonder if I will ever see you again ? "

" I don't see why not," re|)lies straightforward Vera, "if
you are Captain Ffrencivs friend. St. Ann's and Charlton
Place are not such an inmiensity apart."

" No. And if I come you will be glad to ]iut

there are three young ladies ; I shall not know for whom to
ask."

He says it innocently, and Vera does not see thd mali-
cious gray eyes that are laughing at her, under the straw
hat.

"My name is Vera," she answers, in all good faith, "and
— yes — I think I — shall be glad to see you. And 1 should
like you to take Dot — to take my sister out as well, the
next time. Her chest is not very strong, and it would do
her good. Will you ? "

" Only too happy, if Miss Dot will do me that honor.
But 1 am not sanguine — you will forget me. Ffrench will
monopolize you, the three of you. No one else will have a
chance. You see I know that fellow."

" 1 thought you said he was bashful, mortally afraid of
young ladies."

*' Oh, well, that is only at first. It wears off, and ihon
that sort of people are the worst — always in extremes. Bash-
ful fools, or selfish beasts. And then, you know you like
him, you love him, you adore him, and all the rest of it.
No, 1 have no hoi)e."

"Still I wouldn't des[)air too soon, if I were 3'ou," says
Vera, smiling coquettishly, the instinct awakening in her as
mouse-murder awakes in the playful kitten. "Come just

BEFORE BREAKFAST.

Ffrcnch
ortly."

not that.
3U before
I?"

l^era, "if
Charlton

— But

whom to

the mali-
the straw

ith, " and

I 1 should

well, the

kvould do

honor,
■nch will
have a

ifraid of

nd then
. Bash-
/ou like
,t of it.

the same, and we will see. Two at a time, I should diink,
are as many as even Captain Dick can attend to. Here we
are. 1 never enjoyed anything so much, and I am sure I
am very much obliged \.o yon'^

" The enjoyment has been mine. Let me help you up
the bank. Ah "

The puzzling smile deepens into a laugh. Vera follows
his eye, and sees coming toward them Mr. Charlton, her
sister, and P^^leanor. They are within the Charlton grounds ;
Vera's hat is off, she is swinging it by its rosy ribbons, all the
soft silky curls are pushed off her warm forehead. Dora, in
a pale blue morning dress, she notices with pleasure, is at
her prettiest. Miss Charlton looks amused and surprised, and
Mr. Charlton beams upon her as he draws near. Evidently
she has not done wrong.

" What ! " he says, " my little Vera, and abroad with the
lark — on a lark, if I may say so. Your sister thought you
were lost, but I knew better. And you look like a rose
after it." (Vera's cheeks are as dully sallow as cheeks can
well be.) " No need to introduce jw/f to Dick, I see; he
has done it himself. Dora, my ^loar, you have not met him
— my son, Richard Ffrench. Dick, my boy, Miss Dora
Lightwood."

And then it all flashes upon Vera — the deception, the
shameful deception. He has drawn her out, he has taken
her in, he has been laughing at her all the morning. It is
Cai)tain Dick himself, and no other. She turns ui)on him in
? 'ame of wrath — yes, he is laughing at her even now.

'' You — you are a wretch I " she cries, and turns and runs
headlong into the house.

.1," says

her as

[ne just

i 'I

AFTER BREAKFAST,

f i m

I ' i '

CHAPTER VI.

AFTER BREAKFAST.

T is two hours later, and the hall thermometer stands
at ninety. There is not a breath stirring, the roses
droop their sweet, heavy heads, the great beds of
geranium and gladioli blaze in the yellow glare. The sea
off there looks white and molten, the leaves of the trees
hang motionless. It is the sultriest of July mjrnings, and
Vera, coiled up on the marble of the wide hall floor, has laid
aside her indignation for the present, as she has every super-
fluous article of dress. She projjoses resuming both pres-
ently, when the day cools off a little, for she feels she has
been disgracefully imposed upon, but at present it is too hot
for dignity. The most ferocious Corsican in such a state of
the atmosphere would be obliged to forego vendetta ; so,
though her enemy lounges within a yard of her, Vera is in
too wilted a state for vengeance or reprisal.

Miss Charlton, in a white dress, a white rose in her hair, a
magazine in her hand, looks cool and fresh as a rose herself.
She is one of the fortunate few who ahvays look cool ; she
is never flushed, nor heated, nor freckled, nor sunburned.
She is trying to read, but breaks off with a smile to listen to
Vera's girlish chatter, for, however warm this young person
may be, she is seldom too warm to talk. Dora reclines on a
-lounge, languidly fanning herself and monopolizing Captain
Ffrench. Mrs. Charlton is also 'present, her ponderous form
filling a large wicker chair, her eyes half closed but all-see-
ing, silent but all-hearing, her tight lips sealed, her eyebrows
contracted. She looks uncommonly like a fat fanuly mouser
with eye and paw sharpened, ready to pounce in one sound-
less leap on her victim. This irreverent comparison is

AFTER BREAKFAST.

leter stands
g, the roses
:at beds of
:. The sea
>f the trees
rnings, and
or, has laid
;very super-

both pres-
els she has
t is too hot
\ a state of
detta ; so,

Vera is in

her hair, a
>se herself,
cool ; she
iunburned.
listen to
pg persoh
[lines on a
Captain
irons form
bt all-see-
eyebrows
[y niouser
ne sound-
arison is

Dora's, who with pale, pretty face, slightly Hushed, with blue
eves sliining, with rosy lips thiiipliiig, is, Mrs. C'h.irlton fei;ls,
a foenian worthy of her steel. in the door-waj' the bone of
contention, the stalwart }(Mmg heir presumptive, for whom
all these fair women have tlonned plumes and war-paint,
stands, his masculine vanity elate and tickled, innnensely
amused at tiie situation, and wondering if Abdul Aziz feels
anything like this in the midst of the harem. Miss Light-
wood is certanily doing her best, and Dora's best is pretty
nearly perfect. According to her light, this young lady is
conscientiously determined to do her duty — the very utmost
she can do for herself and her sister. For Dora Lightwood
forms no plans in which that gipsy sister does not share.

" I am a selfish little brute," Dora calmly admits, com-
muning with her own heart. *' I am mercenary, I am unscru-
l)ulous in a good many things, I have a horrid temi)er, I
give my whole mind to my clothes, 1 hate people, as a
general thing, but I love little Vera, I don't know why, I
am sure. I never tried to, 1 never wanted to ; loving any
one is a mistake ; all the same, I am awfully fond of Vera.
And if a rich man proposed to me and made it a condition
that I should part from Vera, why, I wouldn't marry him. I
cannot say more than that."

She cannot. To refuse wealth for the sake of any human
being is, in her eyes, the higliest of all tests of love. As she
lie-, liere, in the " golden bower " of her fair floating hair, in
her pale blue wrapper with its delicate trimmings, she is
busily building castles in Spain — substantial castles, with a
French cook in the kitchen, a French maid in my lady's,
chamber, three toilets per diem, a house ui)town, near Cen-
tral Park, a pew in a fashionable church, horses, carriages,
black drivers in livery, and Charlton Place always, for at
least three weeks every August, after Newport and the
mountains have been "done." Somewhere in the back-
ground, faint and far off, is a tall young man of the muscular

n ,

iii

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Mil iil

11 'I

i i

lii

AFTIR BREAKFAST.

Christianity order, ready to sign unlimited checks, and too
much absorbed in scientific things, and explorations, and
Hugh Miller's books, to i)ush himself unbecomingly forward
in the way of his wife's amusements. And Vera shall go
to school for a year or ;wo, to the most exclusive and exten-
sive school whose portals greenbacks can unlock, and the
child shall walk in silk attire, and currency have to spare.
Then, when she is tlrished, they will make the grand tour — a
winter in Paris, a Carnival and Easter in Rome, they will
climb an Alp or two, and finish with a season in Lon-
don

'* My dear Miss T ightvvood," says the suave voice of Mrs.
Charlton, " how many years is it — I really forget — since
your father died ? Ah ! what a shock his death was to me.
Jn youth we had been so intimate. Is it eighteen or twenty
now ?"

Dora awakes from her gorgeous dream. She looks across
at her kinswoman, more cat-like than ever, with her con-
tracted eyes and feline smile, and is ready for hostilities in
half a second.

" Odd that you should forget, is it not, since you were
such bosom friends ? It is precisely nineteen years. Old
Cat ! " Dora says inwardly, "as if I didn't see your drift. 1
have kept big Dick Ffrench too long, have 1, and your
Eleanor is out in the cold."

"Ah ! " Mrs. Charlton responds, her ample bust swelling
with a fat sigh, "nineteen years. How time flies."

" Very true. That is an aphorism I have several times
heard before."

"And you, dear child, you were — let me see — no, you
could not have been twelve, because "

The malicious eyes contract a trifle more as they transfix
the audacious little flirt on the lounge. Captain Ffrench is
out of his depth, but feels vaguely and alarmedly that this
conversation is meant to be unpleasant.

;

vS, and too
•ations, and
igly forward
ira shall go
! and exten-
ick, and the
e to spare,
and tour — a
e, they will
)n in Lon-

3ice of Mrs.
)rget — since
was to me.
:n or twenty-
looks across
th her con-
ostilities in

e you were

ears. Old

ur drift. I

, and your

|st swelling
»»

reral times

-no, you

;y transfix

iFfrench is

that this

AFTER BREAKFAST.

i*'

"Because that would leave me at the present moment —
I am the worst person at figures in the world — Cai)tain
Ffrcnch, nineteen and twelve, how much is that ? "

" One-and-twenty, I should say, in your case," responds,
gravely, Cai)tain Ffrench.

"My father died, my dear Mrs. Charlton," says Dora,
with a ripi)ling smile, "nine — teen years ago. I was at the
time seven years old, only seven, I assure you ; the family
]iible is still extant. Last birthday I was six-and-twenty.
Six — and — twenty, fully two years older than Eleanor, I do
believe. And then I lost my poor dear mamma so early.
Things might have been so different if she had lived. It
must be so nice to have a mamma to look out for one, to
point out whom to be attentive to, and whom to avoid, in
this deceitful world — to lay plans for one "

" If one is not capable of laying plans for one's self — very
true," says the other duellist, firing promptly. " A mother in
many cases would be a superfluity. To be tossed about the
world and learn one's own sharpness from hard experience
1 beg your pardon, Mr. Charlton, did you address me ? "

" Would you not like to come out and visit the fernery ? "
says Captain Ffrench, hastily, in horrible alarm lest this blood-
less battle shall be renewed, " or — or is it too warm ? "

"Not in the least too warm," smiles Dora; " warmth is
my element. Vera, hand me my sun-hat, please. Nelly,
dear, what are your favorite flowers — I shall fetch you 9-
bouquet."

She ties the broad tulle hat over the loose crinkling hair,
the small, pretty face, and light blue eyes, gleaming with
mirth and malice.

'• It's a very fine thing to be mother-in-law
To a very magnificent three-tailed Bashaw,"

she sings under her breath as she goes, but Mrs. Charlton
hears her and flashes a wrathful glance after her enemy. She

i
I

! I '

II !.l

ill

nil !

' I li >''

i;i

AFTER BREAKFAST.

has been routed tb.is bout, but liostilities have only com-
niiiiced ; she feels she is an old and able veteran, and they
laugh best who laugh last. As she thinks it, Miss Light-
wood's shrill peal conies back to her from out the bla/e of
sunshine into which she goes witli Captain Dick. Dora's
laugh is not her strong point, it is elfish and metallic, and
does not harmonize at all with the rose-hued mouth and
baby prettiness of face.

"That horrid old woman !" she exclaims, " did you ever
hear anything so spiteful, Captain Ffrench ? And all because
you hai)pened to be civil to me. Don't put on that innocent
face, sir, and pretend you don't know."

" J')y (ieorge ! " says Ca]itain Dick, "how uncommonly
flattering. I must endeavor to distribute my civility with
more imi)artiality hereafter. You gave her as good as she
brought, however, Miss Lightwood — that must be a soothing
recollection."

" It is," answers Dora, setting her teeth viciously ; " ever
since I can remember I always hit hard." She doubles up
her small fist instinctively, and Captain Ffrench eyes it with
gravity.

"Yes," he says, " I should think a blow of that battering-
ram would settle almost any sort of combatant. But, perhaps,
it is morally, not physically, that you pitch into people.
Moral whacks are so much easier to bear."

" Do you tliink so ?" laughs Dora. "Judging by your
exceedingly uncomfortable expression a few moments ago, I
would never think it. Honestly, it was in abominably bad
taste this pugilistic encounter in your presence ; but what
was I to do ? You heard yourself — it was she who began it."

"And was defeated with great slaughter I It was a per-
fectly fair fight. Miss Lightwood, and I rather enjoyed it.
I bespeak the office of bottle-holder when the next match

comes off". For I infer this contest for the " He

pauses and looks down ; Dora looks up, and at the mutual

ill Hlli

I m

■"%

AFTER BREAKFAST.

e only com-

an, and ihey

Miss l.ight-

the blaze of

ick. Dora's

netallic, and

mouth and

did you ever
dall because
that innocent

uncommonly

J civility with

good as she

be a soothing

Dusly ; " ever
e doubles up
1 eyes it with

battering-
put, perhaps,
into people.

Ing by your
[nents ago, I
|minably bad
; but what
lio began it."
was a per-
I enjoyed it.
Inext match
— " He
the mutual

glance, so full of meaning, both explode into a frank
laugh.

•' Championship ! " says Miss Lightwood, " for what else
could it be ? Oh ! Captain Ffrench, conceit is the vice of
your sex — beware of it. Is this the fernery ? How cool and
green it looks ; and a fountain — is not the plash of the falling
waters delicious ? That reminds me — if I get up to-morrow,
will you take me to your enchanted island, all unbeknown
to Madame Charlton ? Early rising is not my prominent
virtue, but Vera painted the delights of her water excursion
in such glowing colors, that I think it is worth one's morning
nap — for once."

Captain Ffrench protests he will be only too blessed, too
honored. In reality he is more or less bored. For the past
half-hour he has been sighing inwardly for the sea-girt seclu-
sion of Shaddeck Light, his books, and drawing-board. Not
that he hasn't enjoyed the skirmish too, and the conversation
of this piquant little woman of the world is spicy and novel.
Eut enough is enough — of the first principles of flirtation he is
absolutely ignorant ; he has not had his after-breakfast smoke,
he has not had his every-day, rain-or-shine, constitutional
walk. He wonders what Eleanor is doing. How different
she is from this pert (poor Dot's ready audacity is pertness in
his eyes), forward, sharp-voiced little person, who talks so
much vapid inanity. He can see Eleanor with her slightly
bent head ; her clear face, her large, sweet, serious eyes,
thoughtful and a litile sad. For there is always a touch of
sadness about Eleanor — why, he wonders? Her mother
nags her, no doubt ; she is a hard old vixen, and can be
deusedly unpleasant when she likes ; but somehow he thinks
the trouble lies deeper than that. She has to work hard,
but she has the earnest nature of womc \ who do not shirk
work, who even find in work their greatest solace when life
goes wrong.

*• Poor girl," he thinks, and quite a new sensation stirs
3

I I

■1. Il

! t i'

'il

!llil

41 I

HI''

AFTER BREAKFAST.

somewhere within Captain Dick's broad chest. He is not
the sort of man to fall too easily a victim to the tender pas-
sion, but if he were, and time, and propinquity, and a drowsy
country-house given, a tall serene girl, with genile voice and

ways, all womanly sweetnesses and graces And then

the shrill treble of Miss J.ightwood breaks upon his drean), as
her own was broken in upon a while ago, and claims him for
the time as her own.

In the hall, Mr. Charlton, blandest, suavest of old time
gentlemen and courteous hosts, entertains Mrs. Charlton with
gossip about the neighborhood, and details of the fme old
families, the Huntings, the Deerings, the Hovvells, of the old
Puritan breed, who came over from Connecticut in 1650 ;
and whose fathers made fortunes in the halcyon days from
1828 to 1S45, when St. Ann's sent out her fleet of "blubber
hunters," and dark-eyed foreign sailors reeled drunken about
its quiet streets. Vera nestles near Eleanor's chair, and re-
lates her adventure of the morning, at which Miss Charlton
laughs.

" Was it not a horrid shame ! " cries Vera, indignantly,
" and I never suspected — no, not once — he kept such a vir-
tuous and unconscious face. He knew that fellow ! he was
a bashful fool, and he sneaked upstairs to bed. Yes, very
bashful, I should think ; his modesty will prove fatal some
day, if he doesn't take care ! "

Eleanor laughs again.

" It was unpardonable — it was, really. I hope you did
not commit yourself to any very awful extent, Vera ? "

" I asked him a great many questions about Captain
Ffrench, I know," says Vera, still hot and resentful, and see-
ing nothing to laugh at ; " and he had not a good word to
say of hii iself. I dare say he was right, it is a subject on
which he ought to be informed. Still," with a sudden in
consequent change of tone, " I think he is nice — don't
you?"

AFTER BREAKFAST.

He is not
I tender i)as-
ind a drowsy
,le voice and
• And then
lis dream, as
aims him for

of old time
Charlton with

the fme old
Is, of the old
lit in 1650 ;
>n days from

of" blubber
iinken about
;hair, and re-
[iss Charlton

indignantly,
t such a vir-
ow ! he was
Yes, very

fatal some

)e you did

ra?"

•M^

It Captain

'•'^

il, and see-

)d word to

subject on

■>i

sudden in

►'1

ice — don't

"Very nice."

" And handsome ? "

" Well — rather."

"And awfully clever? Now don't say you don't know,
because it is patent to the dullest observer. He talks like a
book — when he likes."

"Then he doesn't always like, for I have heard him when
he talked more like Captain Dick Ffrench than Emerson or
Carlyle."

" Ah ! I don't know them. All the same, he is clever.
He is a musician "

"He plays the violin tolerably, as amateurs go."

" And he draws beautifully. And you needn't be so criti-
cal. He has your picture over the mantel at Shaddeck
Light."

"Nonsense!" Eleanor's cheek flushes suddenly, and
Mamma Charlton, with one ear bent to her host, the other
turned to her daughter, pricks up the near one to catch
more.

"It is there — nonsense or not — a crayon, as like you as
two peas, flattered if anything. And there is a date. ' New
Orleans, May, 1861.' So it seems, Miss Slyboots, you and
Captain Dick are very old friends."

" Oh ! no, no. 1 never spoke to him in my life until four
days ago."

Vera's large, dark eyes lift and look at her. They are eyes
of crystal clearness, the one be>2.uty at present of her face,
down through which you seem to see into the absolute white
truth of a child's soul.

" I am telling you the truth. Vera," she says, her cheeks
still hot, " though you look as if you doubted it. Some years
ago I met Captain Ffrench at a house in New Orleans, where
I gave music lessons. He came with an uncle of the
children, and they adopted him as an uncle also. The mother
was a French lady. To the children I was simply Mademoi-

i| 'il'l

:] I' ■!

|:.r

1 h T

ll'ill

AFTER BREAKFAST.

selle — he was Uncle Dick. IJiit I never knew his name,
never spoke to him till I met him here."

Vera drops back on the marble. There is a .shade of
annoyance on Kleanor's face, as if half provoked at having
this confession extorted. Her mother is listening, unctuous,
and well pleased.

" You evidently made a silent impression then," says Vera.
" 1 said this morning, ' 'I'hat is Miss Charlton's picture;'
and he said, 'Then Miss Charlton is a very pretty girl.'
Here comes Dot, alone ; I wonder what she has done with
him ? Dot ! Where have you left Ca[)tain '.Trench? "

"Am I my brother's keeper?" replies Dora, sauntering
in, a great nosegay in her hand. " Here is your bouciuet,
Nelly. Captain Ffrench cut the flowers, and I arranged
them. I am a milliner, you know, by profession, and have
artistic tastes."

*' Ever so many thanks — your taste is exquisite."

" But where is Captain Ffrench ? " persists Vera, rising on
her elbow, "you are responsible for him — he was last seen
alive in your comi)any. There is no old well out in the gar-
den, is there, that you could drop him into, a la Lady Audley ?
And besides, he isn't a husband in the way "

**Vera, dear," says Dora, sweetly, "you are horrifying
Mrs. Charlton, with your wild talk of husbands. My sister
— she is only sixteen — talks dreadful nonsense sometimes.
Indeed, it is a family failing — not on the Charlton side, of
course."

" But, Captain Dick — Captain Dick ! what has become of
Captain Dick ? " reiterates Vera.

" He has gone to St. Ann's for letters," says Dora, resum-
ing her place on the lounge. " As it stands about one hun-
dred and fifty out in the sun, you may iniagine how fascina-
ting he finds your society, when he prefers to it a blazing
three-mile walk. Now don't talk to me, please, 1 am going
to take a nap."

AFTER BREAKFAST.

US name,

shade of
at having
unctuous,

iays Vera,
picture;*

etty girl.'

lone with

1?"

launtering
bouciuet,
arranged

and have

risnig on

last seen

n the gar-

Audley ?

horrifying
JMy sister
imetiines.
side, of

tcome of

|i, resum-

)ne hun-

fascina-

blazing

ini going

Which she does almost at once, her niitc of a hand under
her rose-leaf cheek, sleeping as a baby sleeps, with softly
parted lips.

" How pretty your sister is," E'c .nor says, gently.

" Yes, is she not? " Vera answers, proudly, " and .so much
admired wherever she goes. People turr in the streets to
look after her, and Madame Le Brun says she never had a
forewoman half so popular before."

" Vou are not in the least like her."

** Oh ! no, not in the least. I am the Ugly Duckling, you
know. There is generally one in every hatching."

**And, like the Ugly Duckling, will turn by and by into a
stately swan," says Eleanor, smiling down on the dark, thin
face, with its great Murillo eyes.

" No," Vera says, shaking her head with a sigh, " such
transformations are only in fairy tales and pantomimes. 1
aui the Ugly Duckling md I shall never be the swan. lUit I
don't mind. 1 would rather have Dot pretty than be pretty
myself."

Here Mrs. Charlton rises, excuses herself, and sails away.
Mr. Ciiarlton departs to write letters in his study, Eleanor
resumes her magazine, and Vera lapses into a day-dream,
still coiled on the floor. The day-dream changes gradually
into a real dream, in which she is floating over sunlit seas
with Captain Dick, past fairy isles all dotted with small gray
houses, until they finally, and rather unexpectedly, come to
anchor somewhere in the npper part of Fifth Avenue, before
Mrs. Trafton's front door. Captain Dick moors his craft to
the brown-stone steps, and is going up to ring the bell,
when ■

"Three for the governor," says the pleasant voice of
Captain Dick, in the flesh, " one for you, Miss Ciiarlton, and
half a dozen for myself. None for you, Miss Lightwood,
none for you. Miss Vera, although I suppose it is rather
soon for your five hundred to begin."

i'i: i

ft ' '

'il i

'■iv I

i ;

■I I

!i i

I'i
ii

>.fi -^'''

AFTER BREAKFAST.

Vera rubs her eyes, and sits up. He hands Eleanor her
letter, and Dora, who is also awake, sees with one quick,
keen glance, that the writing is a man's.

"1 did not expect " Eleanor begins in surprise. Then

her voice falters, fails, she looks at the envelope, and grows
pale. She lifts her eyes, and casts an anxious glance at
Captain Dick, but his countenance is impassive. Her letter
is postmarked St. Ann's, the chirography unmistakably mas-
culine, but there is no curiosity in his face.

" I must deliver the governor's," he says, and goes. Miss
Charlton rises slowly, and goes upstairs. Dora's eyes fol-
low her. The surprise, the falter, the pallor, the postmark
— Dora has seen all. Dora has eyes that see everything.

" Now I wonder what you are about ? " muses Miss
Lightwood, *' aiid who our unwelcome correspondent is?
Are you a fiery Southern lover come to guard your own, or
are you a little bill ?"

Little bills are the bane of Dora's life, but this is no dun.
It is short and affectionate enough to establish the accuracy
of Miss Lightwood's first guess. And it closes

" I know you will resent my disobeying orders, but resent or not,
I must see you. Do not be too hard on a poor devil, Nelly — it is eight
months since we met. See you I simply miist. I will be on the other
side of the boundary wall (where Mr. Charlton's peach-trees flourish)
about seven this evening. I will wait until nine, as I don't know the
Charlton dinner hou*-. Do not fail. I expect a scolding, but a scold-
ing from you, my darling, will be sweeter than words of honey from
another. E. D."

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

anor her
e quick,

I. Then
d grows
;lance at
[er letter
ibly nias-

:s. Miss
eyes fol-
)ostinark
:hing.
ses Miss
dent is?
own, or

; no dun.
accuracy

it or not,

-it is eight

tlie other

flourish)
I know the

a scold-
mey from
E. D."

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

L'JV^JS^AY has passed, evening has begun. It is six o'clock,
and the white quivering heat is s]:)ent, a breeze
rises fresh froni the Atlantic, flutters every lace

curtain, ard blows through every open window and door of
the fine old Charlton Mansion. Over in St. Ann's the noises
of the day are done ; down in the warm-flushed west the sun
• — who has nobly done his duty all day, and baked the earth
to powder — is sinking out of sight. The flowers lift their
hanging heads, there is a rustle and a flutter through all the
leafy trees, the birds chirp as they go to roost, and, revived
by siesta and bath, the ladies of the household in the dusky
seclusion of their chambers are robing for the great event
of the day — of all our days — dinner.

" Dot," says Vera, tiptoing around, and straining her neck
to get a view of the small of her back, where she wishes to
plant a bow, " I am afraid it is of no use. I am afraid it is
to be Eleanor."

" What is of no use ? " asks Dora, for this remark has
been made (like the generality of Vera's remarks) apropos
of nothing. But she smiles too, as if she understood. Their
rooms adjom, the door of communication is open, and both
are before their resi)ective mirrors.

"About Captain Ffrench. Bother this sash! 1 can't get
it to come straight. I think he must be falling in love with
her. Dot. He has her picture, as I told you, over there in
that funny little light-house, and he has a way of looking at
her What are you laughing at ? "

'"At your perspicuity, dear, at your profound knowledge
of the ways and manners of Richard Ffrench. This big,

M J

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENIMG.

x^ -

;! ' .91

'd! ■' :

solemn Dick who thinks we are all dying for him. So you
are convinced I have no chance ? "

" Well," says Vera reluctantly, " you see everything was in
her favor. You did not have a fair start, Dot. Eleanor was
here three days ahead, and a good deal can be done in three
days " Vera breaks off, for Dora is laughing immoder-
ately. The simplicity, the earnestness of little Vera are too
comical.

*' Vera, child, you will be the death of me ! Do you
really think I have come down here to marry Dick Ffrench
— if I can. What a humiliating idea. Not but that it

would be worth while " She glances wistfully out over

lawn and garden, green glade, and dense shrubbery. '* Yes,
it would be worth while, and what I can — I will do."

" Worth while ? " repeats Vera, " I should think so. It
is like the Garden of Eden. Old Mr. Charlton must be
awfully rich. Dot."

" A millionnaire, my child."

" Ah ! " sighs Vera — a long-drawn sigh, " a millionnaire !
What a rich, respectable, beautiful sound that has. And to
be the step-daughter-in-law of a millionnaire, or even the half-
sister of the step-daughter-in-law. What bliss ! "

" Are you not getting things a little mixed ? " Dora in-
quires, but Vera pays no attention. The bow is tied now,
geometrically, on her spinal column, and she is leaning with
folded arms on the sill, half out of the window. A great wis-
teria trails with its purple plumes all about the casement, and
makes a setting for the black curly head and brown mignon
face.

" There he is now ! " she exclaims, involuntarily. Cap-
tain Dick perhaps hears, for he looks up. He takes off hig
hat, tikes out his cigar, and puts on a penitent, an agonized
expression.

"Am I forgiven?" he asks, imploringly. "If you only
knew the day of misery I have passed, with a sin repented

^•

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

So you

ig was in
anor was
in three
mmoder-
1 are too

Do you

Ffrench

t that it

out over

" Yes,

: so. It
must be

onnaire !
And to
the half-

'ora in-
ed now,
ling with
Ireat wis-
:nt, and
mignon

Cap-
off hig
jonized

)U only
[pented

of, but unpardoned, on my conscience 1 And the tocsin of
the soul is about to sound — be merciful while there is yet
time. How am I to consume lamb and mint sauce, wither-
ing under your displeasure ? "

Dora does not catch Vera's shrilly indignant rejoinder —
she is too far out of the window. The conscience-stricken
one down below wears an aspect of desolation, and tries a
second appeal, this time with more success. Vera is relent-
ing, to judge from the softened tone of her voice — the
remorse of the culprit is not without its effect. Then — " I
wish you would come down," says Captain Dick, still mildly
plaintive. " I haven't a soul to speak to, and I am never
more alone than when alone. Come."

*' Come into the garden, Maud," sings Vera ; "it is more

than you deserve, still " There is a swish of silk, a waft

of wood violet — Vera takes the last three stone steps with a
iump, and is at Captain Ffrench's side.

Dora watches them with a vfcll satisfied smile until they
disappear.

"Yes," she thinks again. "It would be worth while.
And then the satisfaction of out-manoeuvring that old double-
chinned witch of Endor. My age, indeed ! The imperti-
nence of trying to make me out thirty-one, in Dick
Ffrench's presence. Eleanor is to be princess consort, and
she is to reign monarch of all she surveys at Charlton. Ah,
well ! " Miss Lightwood nods to her own pretty face in the
glass; " this is to be a drawn battle, and all I ask is a fair
field and no favor. I will back myself to win against Elea-
nor Charlton any day, in spite of the picture in the light-
house, and her three days' start in the race."

Miss Lightwood, looking very charming in one of the cos-
tumes purchased with the three hundred dollars, goes down-
stairs and finds her host and Mrs and Miss Charlton
already there. Vera and Captain Dick are still absent, but
somewhere near, for Vera's joyous laugh com*^ ^very now

1 ■'*

V III

'ill

IN- THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

i (i'1

!^i'

and then, mingled with the boom of Dick's mellow bass.
Presently they appear, a sort of laurel crown adorning the
Cai)tain's hat, and Vera looking like a young Bacchante
with clusters of trailing grape tendrils tangled in her dark,
crisp hair.

" Let us crown ourselves with roses before they fade,"
quotes Captain Dick. '* Miss Vera has given me brevet ^
rank — the laurel wreath which posterity holds in store for
me has been anticipated. Peace is restored, we have
buried the hatchet, we have smoked the pipe — two or three
pipes — of peace "

"Speak for yourself !" retorts Vera. "/don't smoke,
although I am half a Cuban. We have not kept you wait-
ing, have we ? It is all Captain Dick's fault."

Mrs. Charlton frowns. Vera is not the rose, but she
grows near that dangerous flower. And whatever the heir's
sentiments towards the elder sister may be, his liking for the
younger has been patent from the first.

"How admirably Captain Ffrench and Vera get on," she
says smilingly, as she goes into dinner with her host, and
Mr. Charlton laughs in his genial way.

" Oh, yes," he says, " Dick was always remarkably fond
of children. And she is really a bright little sprite."

" She is sixteen years old," says madam sharply, but the
hint is lost. They are in the dining-room, and all other pro-
jects merge themselves in dinner. It is a large apartment,
cool and airy, with a carpet like greenest moss, pictures
of fruit and flowers on the tinted walls, sea-green silk and
frosted lace curtains. The appointments, the silver, the
glass, the courses are excellent. The Charlton cook may
not be a cordon bleu, but she understands her art, and the
result is eminently satisfactory. It is years, Dora thinks,
with a deep sigh of complacency, since she has dined before.
She has eaten to live — no more. Something of an epicure,
in addition to her other virtues, is Miss Lightwood. Her

;"»!'-, ■ ■ i ..i ii Ji^Ji.wi- | -!..jj;jyg

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

low bass,
rning the
Jacchante
her dark,

ey fade,"
e brevet
store for
we have
) or three

t smoke,
you wait-
but she
the heir's
ig for the

on," she
lost, and

3ly fond

3ut the
ler pro-
artnient,
)ictures
ilk and
/er, the
ok may
ind the
thinks,
before,
epicure,
Her

artistic taste takes in with real pleasure the snowy nai)ery,
the tall cpergne of choice flowers, the ruby and amber tints of
the wines.

Mr. Charlton is a very king of hosts, an ideal old time
gentleman, genial and mellow as his own vintages, honoring
all women with old time chivalry, and with an Arab's idea of
the virtue of hospitality. Mrs. Charlton, in the place of
honor, is paying unconscious compliments to the skill of his
chef, and for the moment both eyes and attention are com-
pletely absorbed. Oi)posite sits Eleanor, whom Dora re-
gards with considerable curiosity. She is paler than usual,
she eats little, a more than ordinary troubled expression
saddens the gentle eyes. By Dora's side is Cai)tain Ffrench,
and while he lends a careless ear to her gay sallies, she sees
with inward rage, that his eyes wander perpetually to Elea-
nor. He, too, observes the cloud, but it never occurs to him
to connect it with the letter of a few hours before. It is her
nagging old mother, he thinks, who is fretting the poor girl
to death. He is character reader enough to guess pretty
clearly what sort of a Tartar Mrs. Charlton can be, when she
likes. A great compassion fills him. In the love of some
men, the element of pity is an absolute essential ; the instinct
of protection must be the kindler of the flame. Ricliard
Ffrench is one of these. His passion is not very profound,
perhaps, as yet, but if Eleanor Charlton were the most design-
ing of coquettes, she could not advance her interests half so
surely in any other way. As he sits here he would like to
come between her and all life's troubles and toils, to shield
her from work, and sorrow, and nagging, forevermore. And
Dora's bright blue eyes read his face, and his thoughts, as he
sits beside her, like a printed page. Indeed, less sharp orbs
might, for the print is very large.

" Stui)id idiot ! " she thinks, " these big fellows, all brawn
and muscle, are sure to be besotted about pensive, die-away
damsels, and their lackadaisical airs. As if any one could

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

,f '

: iijir

II 'lii

hi:'ll:-

not see it was all put on with her dinner dress. She has
studied him well enough, it seems, to know that the secret
sorrow sort of thing is safe to go down."

Dessert is over, the ladies rise and go. There is British
blood in the Charlton veins, and Mr. Charlton likes and
honors the ancient custom of lingering over the walnuts and
the wine, after his womankind depart. To-day iie has a
word or two besides for his step-son's private ear.

*' Well, Dick," he says, " and how do you like them ? "

He pushes the claret towards the younger man, who is ab-
stemious by instinct, and prefers, even after dinner, a clear
head to a muddled one. Captain Ffrench, peeling a peach,
lifts his straight eyebrows.

" That goes without saying, does it not ? A man can have
but one opinion concerning three charming girls."

" Let us count out the dowager and the young one," says
Mr. Charlton, good humoredly. " That little Light wood is
pretty as a rosebud."

"Prettier, I think," says Captain Dick.

" But Miss Charlton — ah ! there is dignity, and beauty,
and grace combined, if you like."

Richard Ffrench laughs lazily.

" The precise remark Mr. Vincent Crummies made when
he first saw Mrs. Vincent Crummies standing on her head.
I wonder who she takes it after ? — Miss Charlton, I mean,
— not Mrs. Vincent Crummies. Her father must have been
rather a fine fellow, I should judge. A man may be a good
fellow in the main, and yet write himself down an ass matri-
monially."

Mr. Charlton chuckles.

" Hard on the dowager, Dick. Well ! a great deal of her
would be wearing, I dare say. But you must allow she is a
remarkably well-preserved woman for her years."

' ' Both pickled and preserved, I should say, sir. You
have no immediate intention then, I conclude, from your

"i i uL.Bi.in waiB— — »a»

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

when
head.

imean,
been
good

Imatri-

)f her
|e is a

You
your

dispassionate way of speaking, of inflicting upon me a step-
mother? "

"Hey!"

*' Because I think her ideas run a little in that groove.
Cliarlton is a fine place, and you are an uncommonly fine-
looking elderly gentleman, governor."

This is carrying the war into Africp with a vengeance. Has
Dick foreseen and forestalled his communication { For a
moment he is nonplussed- -then he laughs.

" Rubbish, Dick ! Nothing so absurd could ever enter
any head but one addled over ' OUendorfs Spanish.' But,
speaking of matrimony — what do you suppose I have brought
those girls down here for ? "

" It is plain to the dullest intelligence. To select, at
your leisure, a mistress for Charlton, and a "

•' Wife for you. Exactly, Dick. Now which shall it be ? "

" My dear governor ! "

" Which ? Eleanor you have known a week — knew long
ago, in fact. And Dora you have seen enough of to ascer-
tain "

" That she is an extremely charming girl, with whom I in-
tend to have nothing to do ! Let me offer you this dish of
apricots, sir; they are nearly perfect."

'* Then it is to be Miss Charlton ? My dear boy ; it is
precisely what I would have wished. She is all any man
could desire — well-bred, well-looking, gentle, good, and the
best of Charlton blood. Dick, you are a trump I Let me
congratulate you."

He stretches his hand across the table. His step-son
places his in it, but under amused protest.

" My dear governor ! really this is very embarrassing.
What have I said to commit myself to this serious extent ?
I have a sort of married man feeling already, and upon my
life I don't wish to. Things can't rush on in this summary
way — you mustn't, you know."

C>2

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

( ,

. !

I I'

^ti|!!il

ti ih ijiijij

lliil

" I)ick, listen to me — seriously, I beg. The one desire of
my life is to see you settled."

"Then your desire is gratified, sir. Nothing could be
more flatly settled than I feel at this moment."

'* To see you settled," goes on Mr. Charlton, with some
emotion, " with an estimable wife. Nothing else will do it,
Dick."

"Are you sure that will, governor?" doubtfully. "Of
nujitial bliss I know nothing, but 1 have known married
men, and — well, to escape too much conjugal felicity, I have
known them to rush ' anywhere, anywhere, out of the world.'
My friend P^nglehart has a wife — I say no more."

"Your friend P^nglehiirt has a pernicious influence," ex-
claims Mr. Charlton, hotly ; " but for him you would never
have thought of this wild goose chase to Central America.
It was he that induced you to go with the Arctic Exploration
party. Is the recollection of blubber and seal oil so savory
that yoi! long to be at it again ? "

" No," Dick answers, "as a steady diet, I don't pine for
blubber or seal oil ; but in the Honduras affair "

"Which you will never join, with my consent!" cries Mr.
Charlton, growing red.

" Now, my dear sir," expostulates Dick, " consider. I
stand pledged to Dr. Englehart and the rest of the Scientific
Cori)s. It is true they miglit replace me, but I know they
would rather I went ; and even if I could bear to disappoint
them, like Tony Lumpkin, I could not bear to disa])point
myself. It is uncommonly kind of you, I know ; I appre-
ciate fully the affection that makes you desire to retain me ;
but you see, governor, I am an adventurer, a rolling stone, or
nothing. If I stayed here I would turn into a veritable molly-
coddle, I would spoil in too much sunshine and sweetness. I
am a restless animal by nature. I must have a safety-valve
of some kind, and what could be safer than Honduras and
silver-mining? When I wished to join the Cailists "

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

desire of

;oukl be

ith some
/ill do it,

y. " Of

married

y, I have

e world.'

nee," ex-
ild never
America,
cploration
so savory

: pine for

cries Mr.

sider. I

IScientific

now they

isai)point

|isa])point

I ai)pre-

|tain me ;

stone, or

lie molly-

Itness. I

ty-valve

.iras and

" You gave up that mad idea to please me.. Give up this
other, my boy, marry Nelly, and stay at home."

" Isn't that taking a great deal for granted, sir ? It is one
thing for Miss Charlton to accept your invitation and spend
a few weeks here, (juite another for her to accept wt'."

Mr. Charlton snnles significantly.

•' Is 'hat all ? Try and see. You are a tall and proper
fellow, Dick, an eligible parti, as the ladies put it ; I wouldn't
be too modest, if I were you. Come ! I'm fond of you, my
lad, you know that ; to keep you with me is the one desire
of my life. You are my heir — all I have is yours ; make the
old man happy, and remain with him. When I fell into this
property, it was not for my own sake, my dear boy, 1 rejoiced,
but for yours. Of course, in my will, I shall not forget these
good little girls, who have come here at my bidding — some
of my blood is in their veins ; but you are the heir, you
are my son. You are listening, Dick? And great wealth
brings great responsibilities. 1 am growing too old for re-
sponsibility — stay and lift the load from my shoulders.
Write to this fellow Englehart, curb your roving i)ropen-
sities, cease to be a rolling stone, marry Miss Charlton, or
whomever you please — only stay with your old father,
Dick."

" My dear sir," Dick says, and can say no more. He is
more moved than he cares to show, but touched as he is, the
thought of giving up the Central America project gives him
a keen i)ang. He rises and goes over to the window, impa-
tient with himself. " I must be an unfeeling dog," he thinks.
" Any one else would yield at half this pleading. And yet
what an utterly good-for-nothing life I shall lead here."

"Well, Dick !" Mr. Charlton says, following him with an
anxious countenance.

" I'll try, sir," Dick Ffrench says, turning round ; " don't
press me too hard. I'll do what I can. Nature has made
me a vagabond, and you can't transmute one of that frater-

Iii

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

nity into a respectable family man at once. But for your
sake "

Mr. Charlton grasps his hand, tears in his old eyes.

" (lod bless you, Dick — God bless you. I knew you
would, you have too much of your mother in you to grieve
wilfully any one who loves you. And Eleanor "

" Ah I never mind that, governor. One thing at a time.
And now 1 will leave you to join the ladies alone — I want a
smoke and half an hour to think all this revolution over."

He opens the window, and steps out. The lovely sum-
mer gloaming yet lingers, although the moon is rising. Sweet
scents greet him, utter stillness is around him. He turns
into the entrance avenue, dark already under its arching
trees, with a sense of loss and depression upon him, keen
and strong. To give up a life of bright adventure, of cease-
less change, of scientific research, the society of men bril-
liant of intellect, good comrades, and indefatigable explor-
ers, for an existence humdrum and monotonous to a degree,
without excitement or object from year's end to year's end
— it is no light thing Mr. Charlton has demanded of Richard
Ffrench. As to Miss Charlton — but he is out on the high
road now, and gives up the conundrum for the present.

" It is Kismet, I suppose," he thinks, gloomily, " and
nothing remains but to cover my face, and die with dignity.
I shall be a round peg in a square hole, all the rest of my
life. Well, I will have the majority for company at least —
I wonder if that is the man who called upon me the other
day at Shaddeck Light ? I ought to know that negligently
graceful walk."

The man disappears as he looks, and Captain Ffrench
saunters on. It is past eight ; in the warm stillness of the
summer evening, the ripple of the sea on the shore a quarter
of a mile off, can be heard. Under the peach-trees by the
southern wall the man takes his stand, and looks at his
watch.

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING.

for your

lew you

grieve

a time.

1 want a
ver."
^ly sum-
;. Sweet
ie turns

arching

im, keen

of cease-

nen bril-

; explor-

i degree,

jar's end

Richard

he high

bnt.

, "and

dignity.

st of my

least —

e other

rligently

Ffrench
of the
quarter
by the
at his

*' A quarter after eiglit, by Jove ! " he says ; " but it is
the deuce and all of a walk 1 If any one had told me a year
ago that I would walk three miles on a hot July evening to
see any young woman in the universe, and that young
woman objecting in the strongest way — ah ! well," with a
sigh, " Call no man wise until he is dead."

In the drawing-room the gas is lit, and Vera at the piano
is singing. At a table near sits Mrs. Charlton and her host,
absorbed in chess.

Eleanor, near an open window, holds a book, but does
not read. She is restless and nervous, starting at ^\^xy
sound, preoccupied and distrait. Dora sees it all. Dora,
half buried in a big chair, with a strip of embroidery in her
hand.

A clock strikes eight. Ivliss Charlton rises, lays aside her
book, and passes through the open window. No one notices
except Dora, and Dora glides to the window and watches
her out of sight. Where is she going ? Was the letter an
assignation ? Miss Lightwood feels she must know or per-
ish. She follows Miss Charlton deliberately, unseen, un-
heard, and presently es])ies her at the other end of the
grounds, where the ornamental garden ends and the orchard
begins. A low stone wall and high hedge separate the Charl-
ton grounds from the common land, and on the other side
of the wall, leaning lightly upon it, Dora sees what she
knows she will see, what she hopes she will see — a man.

" Aha ! " cries Miss Lightwood, in triumph, " the pale, the
pensive, the perfect Eleanor, makes and keeps assignations.
The great Dick may be stupid and pig-headed, but I wonder
what he will say to this ? "

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

1 ''

CIIMTKR VIII.

rtY TfTK LIGHT OF THE MOON.

^11 Is moon of the siiinnier night has risen red and
round, while yet in the west the opal briUiance of
closing day lingers. lint even with this warm
after-glow on her face, Dora sees that Isieanoris fixedly pale
as she goes to the place of tryst. Tiie man's face she cannot
see — a broad straw hat shades it, and he stands well within
the shadow of the trees. She herself is hidden among some
clustering evergreens — for fruit trees and forest trees seem
to grow indiscriminately in the Charlton orchard. She
stands here a moment irresolute — curiosity and malice com-
bined, are tempting her terribly. Honorable in any way,
Dora is not ; unprincipled in all small matters, she is, to
an extraordinary degree. As a general thing, eavesdropping
is not worth the trouble — to-night it is. If Eleanor really
has a lover, and is out of tlie race, what remains for her but a
(juiet " walk over." Still this may be some near and obnox-
ious relative ; she has read of such things, and somehow
Eleanor Charlton does not seem the sort of girl to have
clandestine lovers. In Dora's eyes she is at once an artful
coquette, and a prude of the first order. If she could but
hear ! how earnestly they seem to converse — it is too pro-
voking to stand here and lose all that. She will run the
risk — her dress is dark, and soundless — she ;«//j-/hear.

And now you know what manner of woman Theodora
Lightwood is. She tiptoes close, her heart beating with ex-
pectation, draws her drapery closely about her, leans her
head well forward, and deliberately listens.

Eor a moment she can hear nothing but a low nnirnun' —
it is Eleanor who is speaking, and at all times Miss Charlton

BV THE LTGirT OF THE MOON.

I red ami

liance of
lis warm
edly pale
le cannot
ell within
)ng some
COS seem
d. She
ice com-
any way,
>he is, to
dropping
or really
her but a
:l obnox-
;omehow
to have
m artful
)iil(l but
:oo pro-
run the
ir.

leodora
,vith ex-
ms her

irnuir —
Iharlton

has a low voice. It is even more subdut.'d than usual now,
but in its accents Dora knows there is distress.

"'{'hat is all ([uite true," the man says coolly ; " what is
the use of reminding me of it ? You may be a frost-maiden,
Nelly, a marble Diana, with every waywatd Mnpulso well in
hand, but you see I am only mortal — very UK'-.al, my dear,
and 1 could not keep away. Come, forgive me. If I
loved you less I might find obedience more easy."

Eleanor speaks, and again Dora, straining every nerve,
loses her reply. lUit the man breaks in impatiently.

" Dishonorable ! clandestine ! as if 1 came sneaking here
from choice — as if I would not go up to the front door, and
ring the bell, and demand to see my betrothed wife, before
the whole Charlton conclave, if you would but let me. But
there is your mother, and I am detrimental, and Kfrench
is the heir, and son of the house. You might as well yield
first as last, Nelly, njy dear. I am a poor devil, gootl for
nothing, with no prospects for years to come, and this fellow,
Ffrench, is heir, they say, to two or three millions. It is
only a question of time; you cannot hold out. VV , both
know perfectly well why your mother has brought you here.
It would be madness not to take the goods the gods provide,
and Where are you going ? "

"Back to the house," Eleanor answers, indignantly. "I
shoidd never have come. Every word you utter is an In-
sult. If you can think this of me, it is indeed time we should
part."

" Oh ! forgive me," he cries out, a real passion in his
tone, " 1 am a brute. No, I do not doubt you ; you are
true as steel, true as truth ; but when I think of the differ-
ence Nelly, you must despise me — how can you help it,

such a useless drone as I am, lounging through life without
aim, or energy, or ambition ? 1 despise myself when 1 wake
up enough to feel at all. If I had a spark of generosity, I
would force you to accept your freedom — and this Ffrench

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOO.V.

>:lili

1 i

. |:i|

1 ■ i'

1
i

.ill

is a fine fellow too — biif I am not generous ; I love you as
strongly as a stronger man might do, and I cannot. But I
will give up this idle life, I swear it, Nelly. I will try and
make myself worthy of you. Only give me time, dear, try
and trust me, and — and don't listen to Richard Ffrench. He
will ask you to marry him — how can he help it ? He is
fond of you already ; he has your picture over there in that
hut among the rocks. Keep him off, Nelly, don't let your
mother influence you, don't marry him for his money. Wait,
wait, wait, and the day will come "

A branch on which Dora breathlessly leans, breaks. ^ '•
the sharp crash Eleanor starts up hastily, and the culpri;,
stilling her very heart-beats, crouches low. The darkness
of the evergreens protects her, the moonlight flooding the
open with pale glory, does not pierce here. Bu*: she loses
what follows. When she is sufliciently reassured to listen,
it is Eleanor who is speaking.

" No," she says, resolutely, ** no, again and again. You
must not write, you must not call, you must not come here.
You must leave St. Ann's to-morrow. Oh ! if you cared for
me would you compromise me in this way ? If you knew
the shock, the pain, your letter gave me, the shame 1 feel
at meeting you like this. But it must not be, it never shall
be again. You will go and we will wait. You ask me
to trust you ; I have — I do — I always will. If you failed
me, Ernest, how could I live ? You know what my life is,
dreary enough. Heaven knows, but I think of you and the
years to come, and I wait and hope. But I will meet you
no more, and you must go. You need fear no rival in Cap-
tain Ffrench ; if he cared for me I should know it His
heart is in his profession, his exploring mania is the grand
passion of his life. I like him — he is a brave and gallant
gentleman, but I belong to you. I can never belong to any
one else."

" My brave, loyal Nelly ! "

£r THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

>ve you as
t. But I
ill try and
, dear, try
jnch. He
? He is
fre in that
't let your
;y. Wait,

aks. ^ '■
le culpril,

darkness
>oding the
♦; she loses

to listen,

.in. You

pme here.

cared for

you knew

nie 1 feel

ver shall

I ask me

ou failed

ly life is,

and the

meet you

1 in Caji-

it His

Ihe grand

[1 gallant

^g to any

Dora, peeping through her leafy screen, sees him take both
her hands. They are evidently about to part, and she has
not seen him once. The thick drooping boughs that screen
her do the same good office for him. Another moment and
they have parted. Eleanor moves quickly towards the
house, Dora shrinks noiselessly back in her green covert.
The man lingers until she is out of sight, then turns and
walks slowly away.

For a few minutes Miss Lightwood remains in her retreat,
triumph swelling her heart. She has no rival to fear then —
she has only to play her cards cleverly, and the game is her
own. How fair Charlton looks by moonlight, the tall urns
gleaming like silver, the high black trees looking a primeval
forest in the uncertain light. Such a lovely home for her
and Vera, such freedom from toil, such exemption from care,
such a luxurious life. 1 think if Dora could have prayed,
she would have knelt down there, and prayed for success.
But prayer is not much in her way — of the earth, earthy she
is to the core. Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you
die, and death is at the end of all things, in Dora's creed.
Marry rich, and spend his money — these are the two great
duties of every woman's life.

Captain Ffrench has not returned when Miss Charlton re-
enters the drawing room. Vera is still amusing herself at
the piano — she has a sweet voice, and plays cleverly. The
chess-players are engrossed with queens and castles. Dora's
absence she does not notice.

" * I don't pretend to teach the age,' "

sings Vera in a spirited voice

*' ' It's mission, or its folly,

A task like that requires a sage—
My disposition's jolly.' "

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

1 V

•H i ililllHi

\fA

" Oh, Nelly ! " she cries, turning round, " Is that you ?
Have you seen Dot? 1 thought you had both gone out to
be sentimental together in the moonlight."

" Is Dot not here ? " Plleanor asks. " No, I have not
seen her — we have not been together."

" Then perhaps she is with Captain Dick ; he has disap-
peared as well. It is a heavenly night, and 1 would have
gone out too, but I didn't want to play gooseberry. Are you
going again ? "

" 1 am going upstairs. Good-night, dear."

"Good-night, Nelly," the girl responds.

While Eleanor goes up the broad carpeted stairway, she
can hear the fresh happy young voice :

" * And what is, after all, success ?
My life is fair and sunny.
Let other's covet Fame's caress ;
Pm satisfied with money.' "

The old story, Eleanor thinks, even from this little girl's
innocent lips. Is wealth, then, life's highest aim ? At ail
events, the lack of it mars many a life. She goes to her
room, but she does not light the lamp, or go to bed. It is
only ten, as she can see by her poor little silver watch, and
her recent interview has banished all desire for sleep. She
wishes she had never come here, but her mother so insisted
— it looks so horribly like a deliberate attempt to ensnare
Richard Ffrench. Does he think she has come for ti^at ?
Her cheeks burn at the thought. Were it not for this draw-
back, a few weeks in this pleasant country liouse, with its
gracious host, its rest from the weary tread-ijiill of her
teacher's life, would be unspeakably invigoratuig. But if
Captain Ffrench thinks that

Her door opens, her mother enters.

" In the dark, Eleanor ? " Even in her blandest w*oments,
Mrs. Charlton's voice has a rasping quality. " V^Hiat a lovely

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

I at you ?
ic out to

bave not

as disap-
uld have
Arc you

way, she

ttle girl's
At all
to her
It is
Ltch, and
erp. She
insisted
ensnare
bi- tliat ?
is draw-
>vii,h its
^f lier
a I if

(oments,
a lovely

night. Where were you and Captain Ffrench wandering all
evening?"

*' I was not with Captain Ffrench," Eleanor answers, her
heart lluttering guiltily. " 1 have not seen him since dinner."

" No ? " sharply, " where then did you go — alone ? "

" It is such a lovely night, mother. Will you not sit
down ? "

" Was Dora Lightvvood with you ? "

"No."

^^ Not with you. Was she with Richard Ffrench ? "

" I do not know. Very probably."

There is silence — uncomfortable, ominous silence. Elea-
nor feels through every tingling nerve, that a storm is brew-
ing, and braces herself to meet it.

" Eleanor," her mother begins, in a deep, repressed voice,
"what does this mean? Are you deliberately resolved to
thwart me ? Are you mad enough to fling away the one
great chance of your life ? Are you going to give Richard
Ffrench to Dora Lightwood ? Wait ! " as Eleanor is about
to speak, " I do not want any evasions, any shuffling, any
beating about the bush. It is in your power before you quit
Charlton, to quit as the affianced wife of its heir, if you will.
From Mr. Charlton's own lips, to-night, have I learned
this."

Her daughter looks at her. The issue has come, the
truth njust be told. Mrs. Charlton has a fine furious temper,
a bitter bad tongue ; who should know that better than her
luckless daughter? And Eleanor shrinks quivering from the
ordeal, but she never falters in her resolve.

" From Mr. Charlton's own lips," repeats Mrs. Charlton,
emphatically. "It seems he spoke to Dick at dinner, and
Dick gave him to understand that — that ' Barkis was will-
in', ' " with a grim attempt at facetiousness. " He admires
yoti, it seems,, more than he ever admired any one before ;
at the slightest encouragement he is ready to speak. He

■ii

i i

iffK T'HE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

is an excellent young man, a little wild, as I said, about a
roving life, but without a single vice. He has good manners,
good looks, a fine education, and acknowledged talents.
Now what can you — what can any one want more ? "

Silence.

" You will be one of the richest women going ; all your
drudgery will be at an end. You will have a home where I
can close my days in the peace and comfort I always was
used to in other times. Alfred can go to Germany to study
music " (Alfred is a juvenile son and brother, down in New
Orleans), ** and Mr. Charlton says you will make the happi-
ness of his life. Nothing could be more affectionate than his
manner of speaking of you. My dear, it was a red-letter day
in your life, in all our lives, the day we came here."

Silence.

"Eleanor," the rasping voice takes a rising inflection,
*' do you hear ? "

"Yes, mother, I hear."

**And have you nothing to say? In wy youth girls an-
swered their mothers."

" What do you wish me to say ? "

Mrs. Charlton is growing exasperated — always an easy
thing for Mrs. Charlton. Eleanor's voice is full of repressed
feeling, but it sounds cold in her mother's ears, her hands are
tightly locked in her lap, but her mother does not see. She
fixes her hard stare on Eleanor's shrinking face.

" Will you — or will you not," she slowly says, " marry
Richard Ffrench ? "

"I will not I"

" You will not ? "

" I will not. Mother, I cannot. Do not be angry, do
not scold — oh ! do not ! It is impossible."

'« Why— if I may ask ? "

The storm is very near, distant thunder is in every tone,
sheet lightning in every glance.

ids are
, She

marry

fry, do

tone,

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

" I do not care for him. I never can care for him, and I
must love the man I marry."

Mrs. Charlton lauglis — u horrid, rasping, little laugh, full
of rage.

" Love ! Care for him ! Oh ! you fool ! To think that
any girl of three-and twenty, obliged to work like a galley-
slave, should talk such rot. You mean then to tell me,
deliberately and in cold blood to tell me, that when this
young man asks you, you will say no ? "

" I will say no."

She is trembling from head to foot with repressed excite-
ment, but she will not tlinch. There is blank silence for a
moment — then the storm bursts. And such a storm ! Mrs.
Charlton is a virago, a vulgar virago ; she has never curbed
anger or rage in her life ; she has a tongue like a two-edged
sword. Eleanor has seen her in her rages often, but never
quite at white heat until to-night. She bows before the
tempest, she quails, she hides her face in her hands, fear,
shame, disgust, shaking her as a reed.

"Oh! mother! mother!" she gasps once, "for the love
of Heaven ! " but her mother pays no heed. The tornado
must spend itself, and does.

As eleven strikes, she strides out of the room, banging the
door with a last wooden "damn," and the contest is ended
for to-night. For to-night. Alas ! Eleanor knows too well,
that to-morrow, and all the to-morrows, and until the end of
her life, she will never hear the last of this. She lays her
folded arms on the window, and her head upon them, as
though she never cared to lift it again. As she lies, white
and spent, she hears Vera singing, going along the passage
outside :

" ' Alas ! how easily things go wrong ;
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long.'

" I wonder if Nelly is asleep-

the voice breaks off in

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOOJ^.

soliloquy. " Here is a kiss through the keyhole, asleep or

awake.

" ' And there follows a mist and a sweeping rain,
And life is never the same again,' "

The voice, fresh and clear as a skylark's, ceases, a door
shuts. Vera is in her room. Then stillness. Then down on
the lawn below, voices — the shrill treble of Dora, and the
deeper tones of Captain Ffrench.

Coming home at his leisure, a little after eleven, Captain
Ffrench finds Miss Lightwood lingering out of doors, enjoy-
ing the midnight moonlight and coolness. A shadow still
rests on the captain's brow; he has accepted his fate — none
the less he finds it hard.

" What ! " Dora cries, lifting her pale eyebrows, " alone I
Where is Nelly ? "

"Miss Charlton? I have not seen her."

" Not seen her ? " Dora knits her brows. " Oh ! but that
is nonsense, Captain Ffrench. I saw her with you not an
hour ago."

" I assure you, no. I have not seen Miss Charlton since
dinner."

" No ? " Dora repeats, and now the blue artless eyes
open wide. *' Who then could it have been ? 1 made sure
it was you."

" I do not understand."

" She has no gentlemen acquaintances in St. Ann's — she

told me so ; and yet that letter this morning Captain

Flrench, 1 believe you are jesting with me — it w/wj/have been
you."

" Miss Lightwood, I am still * far wide.' Awfully stupid of
me, but upon my word, I don't understand a syllable you are
saying. Something about Miss Charlton, is it not ? She has
not been with me ; 1 have not seen her since we parted after
dinner. Where ii? she ? Nothing has gone wrong, I trust ? "

>'■ «,>v«'

since

eyes
le sure

ipid of
oil are
he has
.1 after
ust?"

IN THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

"Where is she?" repeats Dora, in a puzzled tone ; "in
her room, perhaps. I do not know ; she has not been
with us all the evening. Captain Ffrench, it is the oddest

thing You know that cluster of peach-trees over there

by the orchard wall ? "

He nods.

*' Well, an hour ago, I was roving through the grounds,
tempted out by the beauty of the night. I chanced to
pass near the peach-trees, and I saw Eleanor standing
there, talking across the wall to a man. I was sure it was
you, and "

]iut Captain Ffrench understands her now, and starts up.

•'Not another word I " he says. " I beg your pardon —
but I did not comprehend. Will you not take cold out here
in the dew ? it is falling heavily. Have all the good people
gone to bed ? "

" I suppose so." Dora bites her lip angrily. Fool he is
not, but he has made her feel like one, and she is beginning
to hate him.

"Then, I think I shall follow their example;" he strug-
gles for a moment with a yawn. "At what hour to-morrow
shall I expect you, Miss Lightwood ? I and the Nixie will
be at your service from five o'clock."

For a second she is tempted to decline, but discretion is
the better part of valor. Dora has this advantage over Mrs.
Charlton, she has her pride and her temper well in hand.

" Oh, that is an unearthly hour," she says with her shrill
laugh. "Say half-past six ; I never can be ready sooner."

" Half-])ast six then. Good-night, Miss Lightwood," and
without ceremony he goes.

Dora's work is done ; the beauty of the night has ceased
to tempt her. But she stands a moment, and it is no loving
glance she casts after the tall captain. She follows slowly,
ascends to her room, the sleepy housekeeper Histens doors
and windows, and silence reigns within and without.

isV''->%

HOW THE GAME WAS MADE.

Vera lifts a dark head from her pillow, and opens two
sleei)y dark eyes.

" Is it you, Dot ? at last. What a time you have been.
You were with Captain Dick, weren't you ? Isn't he sj)len-
did ? Oh ! how sleepy I am ! " a great yawn. " And this
is the end of our first day, such a long, delightful day ! Dot,
I never want to leave Charlton as long as I live."

She is asleep as she says it. Her sister stoops and kisses
her.

"And you shall not, little Vera ! " is her answer.

(»:

::1

lllf V

CHAPTER IX.

HOW THE GAME WAS MADE.

FORTNIGHT has passed, fourteen long, sunny,
summer days. One after another they dawn and
darken ; morning after morning the sun rises in
fiery splendor, baking the earth, and sky, and grass, and
human beings, until the eye grows weary of the perpetual
dazzle, and longs for gray shadows, and drifting clouds, and
the refreshing patter of rain. No rain has fallen all the
fourteen days, no clouds, except long white mare's tails, and
billows of translucent white, have floated over the brilliant
blue of the sky. But August is here, the sultriness is inde-
scribable, and as before dawn it is darkest, so at its hottest,
it must cool off. Changes in sky, and sea, and land, pro-
claim that a mid-summer tempest is at hand, and that kindly
showers will soon refresh the quivering earth.

At Charlton Place, life goes on with little outward change
or incident, but each in her way, and very quietly, all these
good people, according to their light, are making their little
game.

HO IV THE GAME WAS MADE.

lange

Ihese

little

The heat prevents much going abroad, but in the early
morning, and dcw}' evenings, Captain Dick devotes himself
to his step-father's fair guests, like the gallant gentleman he
is. There are long rows and sails, in the pink dawn, and
the white night, long drives or rambles in the starry twilight,
a picnic once out in the woods behind St. Ann's, visits to
Shaddeck Light, where lengthy-limbed Daddy reigns alone.
For Captain Ffrench has jjretty well thrown aside scientific
books, and charts, and drawings — if he is to give up Hondu-
ras, what are all these things but bitterness of spirit ? There
has been a dinner party at which the nobility and gentry of
St. Ann's have mustered strong — the Howells, the Deerings,
the Sleights — all the landed proprietors have been bidden,
and have come. There have been a few innoxious high
teas, perpetual croquet, a good deal of piano-playing, and
unlimited flirtation. For during August, young men come
to St. Ann's and fish up in the hill-side tarns, drive fast
horses, play polo and billiards, and recuperate generally,
amid the daisies and dandelions, causing innumerable flutters
among the unapprop'iated hearts spoken of in Captain
Ffrench's letter, and adding insult to injury, when they say
smiling good-byes under the August moon, and depart un-
scathed.

They love and they ride away, these brilliant golden youths,
sons and nephews of the first families mentioned above, and
reck little of the cracked vestal hearts, and sighing autumn
winds they leave behind.

Matters progress smoothly at Charlton. The master of
the manor beams through his double eyeglass, and sees all
things working together to accomplish the desire of his heart.
Dick goes no more to Shaddeck Light. He makes a social
martyr of himself and drinks iced tea and lemonade, loafs
with his hands in his pockets, amid the croquet players, with
no outward sign of the inward disgust that consumes him;
takes Eleanor out for lengthy rambles in the gr:jiy of the July

no IV THE GAME WAS MADE.

'Hiiii
1

evenings, is charioteer of the (\\\w\.y phaeton , andbowls her
over the long, (histy country roads, prevails upon her to get
up mornings and go out with him upon the high seas in the
Nixie. Sometimes Vera is of the party, oftener they are
alone. Once or twice, Mr. Charlton has come upon him
stretched at beauty's feet, in the long golden afternoons,
reading aloud Tennyson, or Mrs. IJrowning, and a muscular
young man must be pretty far gone when he comes to that.
Eleanor's sweet serious face is a book the astute old gentle-
man cannot read — if she suffers, she suffers in silence, and
trains her countenance well. Of the storms, the scoldings,
the reproaches, the coaxings, the tempests of tears, that ob-
tain almost nightly, no one dreams. Perhaps Dora guesses
— those pale, cold blue eyes of hers glitter with maliciously
knowing light, sometimes, but certainly no one else does.
She is forced upon Richard Ffrench, neither he nor she can
avert it — '* who is stronger than his fate ? " — and she accepts
her part almost apathetically. She cannot get away, and
until he speaks she can say nothing. He is not very badly
hurt, and she likes him for his honest, simple desire to please
his father. She looks at him with kindly, half amused, halt
vexed eyes, as he follows her about, moodily sometimes, and
with his heart en route to Central America, but always bright-
ening at her smile.

Captain Dick has quite made up his mind to obey, has
written to Dr. Knglehart to tell him so. Ah ! what a l)ang
that letter cost him. No woman could ever lacerate the
captain's heart as that letter did. Smce he is to obey, he
will obey with a good grace — cheerily given, is twice given ;
and with P^leanor for his wife, and croquet, and afternoon
tea at an end forever, surely he will be an ungracious dog
if he is not happy. At present, the slops, and the balls, and
mallets are part of his duty as a wooer, and Dick Ffrench be-
lieves in facing his duty without tlinching. Every day his
admiration for Eleanor becomes more profound ; it is a lib-

HOW THE GAME WAS MADE.

halt
and

dog

eral education to converse with her. And then she is so
good, so pure, so earnest, so true.

" A man should go up a ladder to look for a friend, and
down a ladder to look for a wife," says the cynical old axiom,
but Richard Ffrench ha? not a grain of cynicism in him, and
does not believe it. Mentally, he holds a man's wife ; hould
be iiis ecjual, morally, his superior. Veneration is an essential
element in his love ; Miss Charlton commands homage and
esteem, wherever she goes. If a man cannot be happy as

her husband 1-ying on his back, on the grass, his hands

clasped under his head, his eyes on the sailing clouds, Dick
breaks off here. What right has he to tliink she will ever
accept him ? Is it likely that so charming a girl has reached
three and-twenty with her heart untouched ? He does not
like the idea of leasing for life a heart that has held former
lodgers, and been swept and garni -.hed after, for him. Dora's
sting has not rankled ; he is the most unsuspicious of human
beings ; her little poisoned shaft has fallen harmless. And
Mrs. Charlton has told the governor, who has told him, that
it will be all right.

Confound the old lady, Dick thinks — it is brushing the
bloom otV his peach, it is desecrating what should be sacred
to Eleanor and himself, this vulgar match-making. Is not
the uncertainty, the doubt, the hope, the despair, half the
delight of wooing ?

No word, no look of hers, have ever held out the faintest
hope ; ihe smile that welcomes his coming, speeds his part-
ing ; she is as serenely unconscious of his transparent meaning,
as that star up yonder, tremulouj in the blue. Well — it is
best so — who cares for the plum ready to drop into his mouth
the moment it is oi)ened ?

No more than the others, can he see the pain, the shame,
the martyrdom, the girl endures for his sake. In her room
at night, the old battle rages, mutely on her part, furiously
on her mother's. It is the great stake of Mrs. Charlton's

I ♦

If; I.,

I/Oiy THE GAME WAS AfAV..

life, all her hopes are in it As the mother of the rich Mrs.
I'french her future is secured. Shall she for a whim, a noi-
sensical, sentimental whim of Eleanor's, yield her point ? VVc
none of us like to be beaten — Mrs. Charlton likes it less
than the majority ; in point of fact, she seldom knows when
she // beaten, and often wins in the end through sheer ob-
stinacy and i)ig luMdednc-ss. So the nightly war goes on.
The field is free to Kleanor, now, even Dora has accepted
defeat gracefully, and retired. 'I'o-morrow or the next day,
Richard FtVench will speak ; it is only for Kleanor to say a
simple "yes," and open paradise to her whole family.

Dora has retired from the contest. With perfect good
humor Miss Lightwood has resigned the prize ; is "scratched,"
in sporting parlance, for the race ; has thrown up the sponge
to Fate ; has lain down her cards before the game has fairly
begun. A smiling change has come over her; she is the
sunshine of the house ; she is gracious even to Mrs. Charlton.
No one of them all is as much at home in Charlton as she. She
inspects the dining-room and table, before each meal, adorns
it with flowers, and tlits about like a sunbeam. In the even-
ings, when Eleanor wanders through the grounds with Dick,
or Vera plays in unison with the violin, Dora takes a hand
at whist, with a dummy, and the dowager, and the master of
the house. She does not know much about the obsolete
game, but she is bright and quick, and learns rapidly. Some-
times her eyes wander away from her trumps, to the pair at
the piano, or to the cool, wide window, and a singular smile
gleams in her eyes. Perhaps that conversation over the
orchard wall has something to do with it ; both these people
are transparent to her.

When the lover speaks, the maiden will say no. And in
his pain, his chagrin, to whom so likely, as to her soothing
little self, is this big blundering captain likely to turn ?
Hearts and rubber balls are best caught on the rebouhd.
Dora is making haste slowly, and meantime is winning

I/O IV THE G^iME WAS MADE.

ung

goltlcn ojjinions from all sorts or people — from the kitchen-
maids below stairs, to the Seigneur of Charlton, who calls
her the sunbeam of the house.

For Vera, the last of this family group, she is fairly puzzled.
To give up anything on which she has once set her heart, is
not like Dora, and yet Dora seems to be doing it here. She
has resigned almost without a struggle. Presently Charlton
will be but a beautiful dream of the past, and life will recom-
mence amid the crash, and turmoil, and din, and dust of
New York. Oh ! dear ! And Dot must go back to the
show-rooms on Fourteenth Street ; poor Dot I who is never
strong, who has a hacking cough in the winter, who has
something the matter with her heart, and who was told long
ago that a life free from care and anxiety was absolutely
necessary to her. It is for Dot, Vera mourns. But, after
all, if Captain Dick cares for Nelly, Nelly he must have.
In all the world there is neither king nor kaiser to be named
in the same breath with this splendid Captain Dick, who has
been everywhere, and seen and done everything ; who has
fought like a hero, who is gentle as a woman, who is strong,
and brave, and good, and kind, and learned, and clever,
and — in one word — i»erfection.

It is simi)ly one of the fixed laws of nature, that Captain
Dick shall have everything he wants, and if he wants Eleanor,
Eleanor he must have, and the loss is poor Dot's — that is
all. Nelly is the dearest, the sweetest of created beings ;
she is almost good enough even for the peerless Richard, and
Vera hopes in her warm little heart, they will be — oh, so
happy. Sometimes, perhaps, in the summers to come, they
may invite her and Dora down, and it is good and magnani-
mous of Dora to give up so ea^dy, and devote herself to the
house, and the card-playing, and refuse to go with then),
even when she — Vera — makes a third, and laugh and stay at
home, and write letters for Mr. Charlton, and superintend
things generally, as if she were Dick's sister, and the little

1 1

1 i m

!, * '■I;;lli

^ 1

•5

ifi

i
1

./i

I/O IV THE GAME WAS MADE.

daughter of the house. Vera is all in a glow of admiration
for her sister, for Eleanor, for Dick. There never were such
lovely people, she thinks, with enthusiasm, nor such a para-
dise of a place before.

^^ "P t* T* T* ^F ^*

But a change is at hand. For the last two days, the sun
has gone down lurid and angry ; coj^per-colored clouds chase
each other over the sky, the surf booms sullenly down on
the sand, a coming storm is near. The moral atmos|)here
is charged with electricity as well, a crisis is at hand. Elea-
nor looks pale and frightened, Richard loses his appetite to
an extent thac alarms Vera. He smokes a great deal more
than is good for him ; he has been out for two successive
nights on the Kay. Vera wonders if everybody has it as badly
as this, and if so, how is it that married men and women look
so dreadfully commonplace and prosy, all the rest of their
lives. She wishes — for Dick's sake — it were well over, she
wishes, for Divk's sake, that Eleanor would put him out of
his misery., and let him have a Christian relish for his victuals,
and a sensible night's sleep once more.

One afternoon — it is drawing close upon dinner-time — she
curls herself up among a pile oi cushions in the dusky draw-
ing-room, and drops asleep. It has been oi)pressively sultry
all day ; the weather is asphyxiating ; to double up some
where and go to sleep, is a necessity of life. Vera sleeps
rnd dreams. She dreams of the person who was last in her
waking thoughts, Captain Dick. She is urging ui)on him a
large slice of bread and butter, and he is gloomily declining.
Can bread and butter, he darkly demands, minister to a mind
diseased ? It is certainly Captain Dick's voice that is speak-
ing, and the tone is more tense and troubled than that in
which one generally declines the staff of life. It is a sup-
pressed tone, too.

** It is reall-y no, then ? " he is saying, " there is no hope ? '*

"It is no," another voice, a distressed voice, this time,

pe?"
time,

IlOiy THE GAME Pf^AS MADE.

answers. " Oh ! Captain Ffrenrh, do yon not think I would
have prevented this if I could ? Hut what could I do ? You
do not know — you do not know "

'* I know that for all the world 1 would not di'^tress you,"
the deeper tone breaks in ; " that you gave me no reason to
hope. I know that I hold you higher than all women, and
that if you could care for me, it would make the ha|>i>iness
of my life. I am not worthy of you — few men could be ;
but as Heaven hears me, I would try. Eleanor ! think aj^in
—must it be no ? "

" It must be no."

And then Vera starts up in wild aifright, and stares about
her. They do not see her, but there they are, standing to-
gether by the window, 'J'heir backs are turned — the door is
near — she must escape. Oh ! how awful if they .. lould
catch her here — a spy ! In a mortal panic she rises, sidles
out of the room, and sits flat down on the hall floor — crushed !

Crushed ! It is all over, the great agony is at an end, he
has put his fate to the touch and lost it all. Eleanor has re-
fused him, refused Richard Ffrench, refused the heir of
(Jharlton, refused the best, the bravest, the most beautiful of
his sex, refused a hero, a demi-god, refused Captain Dick!
Vera sits stunned. There are antitheses ths hmnan mind
declines to take in — this is one. To refuse Captain Ffrench,
for any woman to say no to such a man ! By and by Vera
may get over this ; at present the blow has felled her. She
sits i)erfectly notionless. Captain Dick has asked Eleanor
to marry him, and Eleanor has said no.

And then in Vera's breast a great indignation rises and
burns. How dare she ! To think of her presuming to make
him unhapi)y ; of her presuming to refuse him anything ! If
she feels so crushed, so outraged, how nuist he feel ? It is
as if the regicidal hand of the base-born lieggar Maid had
lifted and stabbed King Coplietua to the heart, in the hour
of his kingly condescension ! She will never like Eleanor

\ t

^ i\wm.

. i •!'

HOW THE GAME WAS MADE.

any more, never. Nothing that can happen to her will ever
be too bad. She deserves to have to teach music to the last
day of her life, she deserves to have such a mother, she de-
serves to be an old maid. Oh ! why has it not been Dot ?
Dot would never have said no. Dot would not have made
him miserable. What will Mr. Charlton say? nnd will Dick
rush away in a frenzy to the other end of the world, to the
torrid or the arctic zones, and become a gloomy misanthrope
forever after ?

A sounil — a '^'oor opens — it is Eleanor coming out. She
nearly stumbles over Vera. Her face is pale, her eyes red,
she has been crying. Good enough for her. Vera thinks,
viciously ; she hopes she will cry her eyes and nose as red
as they deserve to be. She tlashes a glance of anger and
scorn upon her, but Miss Charlton does not seem to see it.
She hurries away, and upstairs. And then through the
open door-way Vera sees Captain Dick, his hat pulled well
over his eyes, striding down tiie garden, and out of sight.
Vera's first impulse is to go after him to comfort him, and
Vara's rule of life is to act on impulse. She is on her feet in
a moment, but before she can dart off, Dora comes rustling
down-stairs, in a dinner dress, as blue as her eyes, and lays
hold of her.

*' Where are you going ? " she asks.

" After him," answers Vera, " don't stop me, Dot. If
you knew how unhap[)y he is "

"Ah !" says Dora, and laughs, "you have overheard then
— it has come ? She said no, of course ? "

"She said no, and I hate her ! " cries Vera.

" I thought it was coming — I have seen the signs and the
tokens before," laughs Dora, still retaining her hold. " No,
my dear, you nnist not go after Captain Dick ; it would not
be proper ; he would not thank you, and he is past all com-
forting of yours. But he will get over it, it is a way men
have. How does my hair look done in this style, and do

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

^»>

not these jiink roses go exquisitely with this shade of blue ?
I am afraid my charming toilet will be thrown away on poor
Captain Dick." Dot's elfish laugh sounds more shrill than
usual. " He snubbed me unmercifully one night, not long
ago — it is my turn now."

CHAPTER X.

THE KND OF THE FAIRY TALE.

1 the
No,
not
om-
men
do

LOOM has fallen upon the Charlton household. It
is so dark at half-past six, the dinner hour, that
they are forced to light the gas. Miss Charlton
has a headache, and do'^s not appear. Cai>tain Ffrench comes
in late, and manfully does his best to seem as usual, but the
effort is not the success it deserves to be. Vera's eyes, in
their wishful brown beauty, rest on him, full of mingled ad-
mirition and compassion. She thinks of the Spartan boy
and his cloak, and the wolf gnawing at his vitals — or was it a
fox ? The race of Spartans is not extinct, for here is Cap-
tain Dick essaying cheerful commonplaces, and sipping veuve
cliqiwt, as though he liked both, bearing himself as bravely
as though his heart had not just been broken. Dora shines
with abnormal brilliancy, her blue eyes flash, her delicate
cheeks Hush, her shrill laugh rings out ; she rallies Captain
Dicic until he burns to shy his dinner-plate at her. She is a
social meteor, quite dazzling in fact, and Mr. Charlton, look-
ing and listening admiringly, wonders what the house will be
like when she is gone.

After dinner Vera goes to the piano. She is fond of music,
and the evening is the only time cool enough for so much
exertion. Mechanically, Dick follows her, and leans with
folded arms upon the instrument, staring in a blank sort of

!^'^

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

way at a picture on the wall above it. It is Cenci ; and the
dusk i)r()])hetic face, with its haunting, wistful eyes, reminds
him somehow of Vera herself. He is glad to get away from
Dora; her covert innuendoes have been stabbing him like
knives.

"What a little devil's doll she is !" he thinks, with very
unusual savagery. *' How does she come to know anything
about it so h>)on ? "

X'era's nmsic soothes him. A dreary sense of loss and
pain ()p|)resses him. If he were only free to go with the ex-
pedition — if the governor had not wrung that half promise
from him. For the jiiesent he must go away somewhere, it
would be horribly uncomfortable for Eleanor to have him in
the house. How nobly she spok ;, how lovely she looked,
with great tears in her eyes, and divine pity in her face. Ah !
he never deserved such a i)ri/e, great rough fellow that ne is,
and yet if she could have cared for him

" The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
Ami tlie clan has a name that is nameless by day^"

Vera's sweet, strong voice rings out spiritedly the stirring
Scotch ballad.

It is opi)ressively close. Sheet lightning is blazing in con-
tinual zig-zags all along the horizon — i)alingthe yellow gleam
of the lamps. Now and then, a great drop plashes audibly
outside ; from the sea comes at intervals, a low, weird moan-
ing, as of a sentient thing in pain. The trees writhe and toss
wildly in the darkness- all nature feels the coming convul-
sion, and shrinks.

" The storm is very near," says Mr. Charlton, lifting his
white head. " AVe will have it to-night."

They do not talk nuich, this evening, the oppression of
the atmospheric change is upon them all. I>ut Dora keeps
brilliant and sparkling to the last ; plays a game of chess
with her host, and going to the piano afterwards, sings, at his

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

con-
earn

ibly
loan-

toss
ivul-

his

. his

request, the old time love ditty of Barbara Allan. Captain
Ffrench does not leave his post, and the malice in the spark-
ling eyes of the singer gleams laughingly out as she looks up
at him.

" Then slowly, slowly, came she up,
And slowly came she nigh him,
And all she said, when there she came,
* Young man, I Uiink you' re dying ! ' "

"It is curious," she says, and laughs, "but Nelly always
puts me in mind of cruel Barbara Allan. I can fancy lier
walking up to the deathbed of some love-lorn swain, and
calmly saying, Young man, I think you're dying ! ' Weith-
er's Charlotte must have been of that type, pale, passionless
— don't you thi.ik so ? You remember Thackeray's funny
version of the tragedy — ' Charlotte, when she saw his body
borne past her on a shutter, like a well-conducted person,
went on cutting bread and butter.' Nelly would go on cut-
ting bread and butter too. What do you think about it,
Captain Ffrench ?"

She is laughing immoderately at the young man's di. gusted
face, and without waiting for reply, returns to the chess-table,
and challenges Mr. Charlton to another game. With the
streaming light of the chandelier full upon her, her gleaming
prettiness looks uncanny. Mrs. Charlton watches her sourly
for a while, then, complaining of the heat, gets up and goes.

"Tell poor dear Nelly how much we have missed her,"
calls Dora, with her mocking smile ; " I do so hojie her
headache is better. To-morrow, you know. Captain Ffrench
and Mr. Fred Howell are to take us over to the Pine Barren.
It would be such a pity if she could not go."

A malevolent glance is the elder lady's answer. Not a
spark of Dora's eldritch malice is lost upon her. AM even-
ing she has been uncomfortable. Eleanor's absence, and
headache — she is not subject to headache ; Dick PTrench's
moody silence — these are alarming tokens. Can it be — (in

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE,

the sultriness of the airless night her bloorl chills at the
thought) — can it be that Eleanor has carried out her reckless
threat, and refused him ? Refused Charlton ! refused the
finest fortune in the State. Her hands clench, her hard eyes
flash. If she has

* ^^ ^M ^M ^M ^0 4* *Mf ^t#

*S* I* ^6 JJ* *(* *J* •!* T*

The gloom deepens with the morning, both within and
without. All night long the rain has poured in torrents, is
pouring still, when Vera comes down-stairs. It hardly waits
to pour, it drives in white blinding sheets of water, over land
and sea, it drifts furiously against the glass, it beats down
flowers and trees. A high wind is blowing outside. Where
she stands Vera can hear the thunder of the surf on the
shore ; it is no child's play down among the white caps, this
August morning. How those white sea-horses must toss
their foamy manes, and churn, and break, and roar about
Shaddeck Light. She hopes Daddy is not nervous, alone
there on that lonely rock, in this shrill whistling storm. How
good of Captain Dick to have rescued that poor half-witted
lad, the butt of the town, half-starved, wholly beaten, and
given him a home in the little island house.

.She wonders how Captain Dick feels this morning, If he
slept last night. People crossed in love do not, as a rule,
sleep over well. Vera has understood. Who would have
thought Eleanor could be so cold-hearted, so cruel, so blind
to hO much i)erfection. But, perhaps, she likes some one
else ; it seems impossible though that any woman could be
faithful to any man, after seeing this king aniong men.
Surely infidelity in such a case would be a positive virtue.
There mus^ be some reason. Mo sane human being could
do so extraordinary a thing, without a powerful motive.

Perhaps P^leanor has a clandestine husband already, down
there in Louisiana — she has read of such things in novels.
Vera's ideas are thrown, so to sjjeak, on their hind legs ; she
is trying with all her might to account for Eleanor's folly.

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE,

he
iile,
Live

ind
one

be
nen.

)\vn

she
)lly.

She finds, upon consideration, that she cannot hate her, that
she is more disposed this morning to look ui)on her in sorrow
than in anger; but the reason that is strong enough to make
her say no to Captain Dick, is beyond all surmise of hers.

As she stands, Eleanor comes down. Her face is start-
lingly pale, her eyes have a wild, hunted, frightened look, all
the sweet and gracious calm, that makes her greatest charm,
is gone. She looks as though she had not slept, her lips
tremble, as she says good-morning.

"You are sick!" Vera exclaims. "You look as if you
had been sick a week. Were you awake all night ? Was it
the storm ? "

She makes a gesture of assent, and coming close to the
window, lays her forehead against the glass, with a sort of
low moan. Vera's eyes fill vvith a great com[)assion. Can it
be that she loves Captain Dick after all, that some reason
obliges her to refuse him, and that she is sutTering all tiiis
anguish on his account ? She softens, the last renmant of her
indignation fades away. Miss Charlton is not wholly har-
dened then, after all.

" Does your head ache still ? " she softly asks, coming
close. *' Poor dear Nelly ! I am so sorry."

Eleanor passes her arm around the girl's slender waist, but
does not otherwise reply. In her eyes there is such hopeless
trouble, such dark terror, that it frightens Vera.

How is the child to know of the horrible scene enacted in
Eleanor's room last night — of the bitter storm of reproaches,
of vulgar vituperation, of fierce threats, under which she
shrank and cowered ? She turns sick at heart now, as she
recalls it. In all her mother's furious rages, she has never
seen the fury of last night equalled. She has not slept at
all ; her head aches, her body aches, her heart aches, she
seems one sickening ache from head to foot. And it is to go
on forever, day after day, month after month, the same
miserable, ceaseless scold> scold, scold, to the bitter end.

rlj^

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( '"

-I 'l ^

T//E END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

Mrs. Charlton docs not appear at breakfast. The truth
is, she has raged herst-lf ill, and into a fit of blackest
sulks. Kleanor is forbidden to enter her room, whether she
lives or dies, to speak to her no more, until she comes
to her senses. One of the luaids fetches her uj) tea and but-
tered toast ; her daughter knows her too well to dare to
disobey.

Cai»iain Ffrench is absent also. Late last night, it seenis,
after the faniil\' had retired, he went to St. Ann's, and now, of
course, is storm-bound. Dora trips tlown, the sparkle of last
night scarcely dinuned. Not all the sweeping tempest of
wind and rain is able to blur one jot of her gay brightness.
Mr. Charlton comes, but less debonair than usual. In point
of fact his old enemy, rheumatic gout, has been shooting
warning twinges for the past two or three days, and this
morning he is barely able to hobble to breakfast. He knows
what is in store for him, doubly trying now, with a houseful
of fair guests, but it is one of the things no fine old gentleman
of his years and habits can hope to escape, and he puts the
best possible face on his affliction.

Dora is full of sweetest commiseration, Eleanor has a far-
away frightened look still in her eyes, and eats nothing at
all. Vera feels that in common sympathy she, too, should
eat nothing, with tiie whole family so to say /// extremis ;
but her appetite remains a ])ainful and powerfid fact, and
will not be said nay. She is ashamed of herself, and con-
sumes mulfins and fresh eggs in a sneaky, apologetic fashion,
and is relieved when the ordeal is over.

And now the long day begins. Rain, rain, rain — oh !
how it pours — it looks as if it might come down for a week.
Mr. Charlton is forced to return to his study, leaning on
Dora's arm which she insists on his taking. They look so
absurd — the tall, elderly involid, and the mite of a woman,
hobbling away together, that Vera's gravity is nearly upsjt.
Certainly she is an unfeeling little wretch, to be able to

\g at

con-
lion,

T//E END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

laugh with everybody else so iniseiahle, so she sternly re-
presses a small grin, and heaves a sigli instead.

What shall she do with herself all this long wet day I
Dora does not return, Eleanor goes upstairs ; she is all
alone in the big, silent house. What a dismal change two
days have made. Perhaps Captain Dick will come back no
more. It is not the rain that detains him in St. Ann's — ah !
no, he is neither sugar nor salt to care for a drenching. He
has been crossed in love, and is d\ing hard over there at the
St. Ann's Hotel. Perhaps he will start {ox Central America,
and never even come back to say good-by.

Vera is absurd, but she is none the less unhappy ; she has
unutterable sympathy for Captain Dick, she h is a mild regret
for Eleanor. She gazes forlornly at the rain, life's troubles
are so much easier to bear, when the weather is i)ropitious.
And then there is sickness in the house, and it will seem
unfeeling to sit down and practice. If one could only sleep
all day I Jkit one cannot, so, with another vast sigh. Vera
gets up, goes for a book, and prepares to devote the long
hours to literature.

Evening comes, and brings little change. It still rains,
the sky looks sullen, the black surcharged clouds good for
two days more of it. Mrs. Charlton descends to dinner, but
Lot's wife, changed to a basaltic column, was never more
frigid, more awful. Their host is unable to appear — he has
been suffering martyrdom all day ; even Dora, ministering
angel that she is, can do little to assuage his anguisli. The
absent heir cometh not, but just before dinner. Daddy comes
with a note. It is for Mr. Charlton, and is of the briefest

" My Dkar Governor : — Englehart came to-day, and is at the St.
Ann's, He means to stay a week or two, to recruit, liaving been laitl
up lately. Knowing your prejudice, I will not, of course, bring him to
Charlton, but shall remain with him here instead. Make my apologies
to the ladies.

"Ever yours, R. C. F."

K-

TITE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

Mr. Charlton's face darkens heavily as ho reads this.
Naturally he is choleric, he hates to be thwarted ; by tem-
per he is iinperious, although as yet his step-son has seen
litth.' of this. A man may be ^ood humored and hot-tempered
easily enough at the same time. He has never very strongly
opposed himself to Richard Ffrench as yet, he has been
comparatively a i)oor man until of late, and never felt justi-
fied in coming between the lad and his whims. \\w\. now it
is different. \{ Dick prefers this wandering Dr. Englehart
to him, why then Dick must take the conse(iuences. Dora
has hinted something to him today, which he finds it diffi-
cult to believe — that Kleanor Charlton has refused him. Is
the girl mad? He hardly knows how, but Dora's talk has
irritated him to a most unusual degree against Richard. Mis
illness, too, has matle him nervous and excitable. The line
must be drawn somewhere; he is prepared to take his stand
here. Dick must pay some deference to his wishes ; all he
has, he is willing, nay anxious to give the boy. It is a noble
inheritance. He loves him as he loves nothing else on
earth, he wants him with him, and he must have him. He
is growing old ; it is only fair his son should stay with him,
that there should be some return for so much lavish gener-
osity and aftection. It is a selfish monologue, partly engen-
dered by irritating pain, partly by wily words of Dora. That
is a charming little girl, he thinks — on the whole he begins
to prefer her to Eleanor. He does not fancy young people
under a cloud — then Eleanor has a mother, and as a perma-
nence Mrs. Charlton is not to be desired.

Outside the rain pours steadily and monotonously — inside
there are silent rooms and some gloomy faces. Dora's
spirits never flag through the whole of it. She appoints her-
self sick-nurse, she writes letters, she reads aloud, her touch
is soft and soothing, she never wearies, she manufactures
her own sunshine, and brings it with her into the dim cham-
ber of torture. If any earthly thing or creature could alle-

.gins
ople
uui-

iside
ora's
her-
)uch
ures
lam-
alle-

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

viate the agony of rheumatic gout — which they cannot — it
would be Dora and her doings.

Night, falls wet and starless — another morning dawns.
Still tliL' rain cc;mes down persistently, doggedly, stiJl the sky
is lowering, still the surf roars and breviks over sand and
shingle. Another long day for Vera to yawn through, and
stare blankly out of blurred window panes, to wander aim-
lessly about the house. She visits Kleanor in her chamber,
but her visi' is a dreary one. Dot is taken up with the sick
seigneur, Mrs. Charlton is like a gorgon, these days, and the
girl Hies at her a|iproach. Vera has heard of the evil eye,
and ponders, whether Eleanor's awful mother has not got it —
a pair of them indeed. And where is Captain Dick ? Oh !
where, in all this world of rain, ami wind, and mist, and mis-
ery, and love-sickness, and gout, is Captain Dick?

Another night, another day, and then her hero comes.

He comes after breakfast, looking little the worse for wear.
His heart may be broken, but he has neither lost vigor nor
good looks. On the contrary, he is brighter than when he
left, and he greets Vera with the old pleasant, half mischiev-
ous smile.

Vera is glad, but a trifle disappointed all the same ; it is
better for him to take it in this way, but it is not the way the
gentleman in Locksley Hall took it, or that other poetical
])arty in Lady Vere dt V^ere. They scowled and gloomed,
and abused their youn5 women (in hexameters) for years
after. If Dick is a hero it is his duty to behave as such.

Captain Ffrench has come to see his step-father, and is
ushered by Dora into that dusk temple of pain, of which she
has elected herself priestess. Mr. Charlton lifts a face all
drawn and haggard with two days of torment.

" My dear governor," the young man says, leaning over
the back of his sof^i, " this is too bad. You so seldom have
an attack of this kind in summer either. How did you rest
last night ? I trust the pain was not altogether unbearable."

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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T//£ END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

" Rheumatic gout is ahvays unbearable," answers Mr.
Charlton, angrily. "You need not ask how I rested, I
never rested at all. 1 have not slept for three nights.
Why don't you come home ? what are you doing over there
at St. Ann's? Is it not enough that 1 must be laid up by
the legs, but you must desert our guests too ? "

*' 1 explained all that, you know, governor, in my note.
Englehart is there "

" Englehart be hanged ! What have you to do with that
wandering Ishmaelite ? Send him to the dogs, and return
home to your duty."

" That hardly sounds like you, sir — I don't think you
quite mean it. He is partly on the invalid list, too, and
only able to hobble with a stick. As to his being a wander-
ing Ishmaelite, that is true enough, but, unfortui-cUely, /am
of the Ishmaelitish tribe as well."

" Have been, you mean. We have changed all that, if
you remember."

"Governor," says Dick, in his most conciliating voice
" that is what I have come especially to speak to you about.
I gave no promise, that evening, you know, I only said i
woidd try. I have tried — and it cannot be done."

Mr. Charlton half rises, and glances angrily at the young
man. Pain and sleeplessness have almost changed his
nature ; he is morbidly irritable, and Dora's hints are rank-
ling i)oisonously in his mind.

" What do you mean ? " he demands.

"Don't be angry, governor. I am going with the Expe-
dition."

Mr. Charlton is staring at him — a glassy stare of amaze
and anger. He cannot for a moment take this in. He has
made so sure of Richard — that half promise extorted, seems
to have made his stay a certainty. And now to come and
tell him deliberately that he is going

" Don't be angry," Dick deprecatingly repeats, ** I hate to

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE. 95

Offend you-on my honor I do, sir. You are so uncommonly
good to me-alvvays have been-I cannot forget it, I never
will forget It. J5ut all the sam(^ I want you to let me ^^o
Say yes, this once, sir," he leans over him coaxingly. "ami
It shall be the last time. I promise you that."

"You will do precisely as you please," Mr. Charlton
answers, suppressed passion in every tone. '* I withdraw
all claim upon you from this hour. You are eight-and-
twenty— you are your own master. Only do not" let us
have any talk of goodness or gratitude ; protestations don't
count for nmch, when every action of your life gives them
the lie."

Dick starts up, his face flushes dark red. He walks away,
and begins j)acing up and down.

-This is rather hard," lie says, after a moment, '' what am
I to do .? I wrote to Englehart resigning my commission,
and he and the rest of the scientific corps refuse to accept.
1 hat IS why he is here. He holds me to my pledge. What
am I to do? I ask you, governor; in honor I stand
bound. I have promised."

There is no reply. Mr. Charlton is so intensely angry
that he is afraid to allow himself to speak.

" I cannot go from my word," Dick goes on, " they can-
not fill my place at a moment's notice, and the Expedition
cannot afford the inevitable delay. Come, sir ! " he stoi)s
before him, and looks down, distressed pleading in his frank,
honest eyes, " be reasonable. Consent to my going— it will
be but for a year or two, at most, and then I bind myself to
devote the whole remainder of my life to you."

" You are exceedingly kind ; I am sixtv-four years of age,
and can count so confidently on many future years of life!
No, sir, I refuse my consent. You must choose between Ur
Englehart and me, between Honduras and Charlton, and
you must abide by your choice. Both you cannot have.
Choose which you please, but remember your choice is for life."

it'' :i

( ^

it.«yii

THE El^D OF THE FAIRY TALE.

The calm young eyes look steadily clown into the fiery old
ones.

" Docs that mean, sir, that when I say good-by it is for
good and all ? That I am to return here no more ?"

"Exactly!" Mr. Charlton answers, and the fiery glance
never flinches.

Dick draws a hard breath, turns, and resumes his walk.
He is sincerely attached to his step-father, and feels this
blow exceedingly.

"If you go with Dr. Englehart," Mr. Charlton says, his
voice harsh with pain, " it will be because you prefer him to
me ; prefer your own roving fancy to my hai)i)iness or
wishes. I make no claim u[)on you, you are free to go if you
see fit. I have never thwarted you before — I am resolute
now. If you go, in every way in which I can forget you, I
will forget you — in every way in which I can blot your mem-
ory out, it shall be blotted out. You understand me, sir — in
every way."

" You talk plainly, governor — I would be a blockhead in-
deed, if I did not understand."

" As to your promise to the scientific corps, that is rub-
bish. There are men who can fill your place, not only sons
whose duty calls them at home. It is not your promise, but
your inclination, that is taking you, and you know it."

Silence. Dick walks up and down, his hands in his
pockets, with downcast and disturbed face. The elder man
watches him keenly.

" And there is Miss Charlton," he resumes, " it strikes me
your honor — this extremely nice and touchy honor of yours,
Dick — is at fault there. You have paid her very marked at-
tention, you have led her and her mother to believe you
meant to marry her. Is it in accord with your high code, to
pay such attention, and then desert the lady at the last
moment ? Or have you spoken and been rejected ? "

Here is a quandary I What is he to say ? If the truth, he

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE. ai

comprcnises Eleanor irretrievably as far as his father's testa-
".entary uuenfons are cccerned, and she is so poor lo
poor. He takes his l,a,uls o„. of his pockets, and run i,ks
"P - ha,r, ,„ a perfeet fever of e„,barrass,nent and d s e s

I. seetns a d.mcult ,,„estion to answer," savs Mr. C r !

on, sarcasttcally. " ^v■ell, don't perjnre yourself, „,y la; I

kno. all about ,t. You asked and she refused-Ithe j de ■ "

Who told you that ? " ■" '

foll7'rt'if"' ™'"-, ''' " •' '"°'' "'" '"-' W for her
lolJy. But If you are leaving on her account "

"Governor," says Dick, anxiously, "do not-do not I
beg, let tins mHuence you against Nf iss Charlton. BVon, first
to ast she never gave u,e the slightest enco.„agen,eut Do
not hold her accountable for her n.other's rash pro,,, for

wo,nan 1 have ever met, and-and you kno«. her life-one

•den,nmon gr,nd' the year round. Do no. punish her for

what she could not help. Be generous .ir \r. ,i

lady I '• beuerous, s,r, to this young

" Miss Charlton has made her choice," Mr. Charlton an-
s vers, coldly ; " she ,00 shall abide by it. We will no, ,',1
o^ ,s poo, young la.iy, if yo„ p,ease-we will sett^ yo
In";?. "'• '"'S'---''^" l'™PO^e leaving' St.

" In a few days— ne.vt week at the furthest."
"And you go with him ?"

" I must. The Expedition starts on the twenty-fourth."

You go with the Expedition ? " -i" '•

" It is inevitable. Be merciful, sir ! I would rather cut

pledged. My word has been given. I cannot retract."

,< c ""m, *i! , "°'' """='' '"""<=>' ''o ro" vvant ? "
^ hir ! Dick reddens through his brown skin.

How much n,oney do you want ? I presu.ne the scien
t.fic corps will not supply .// your wan!s. Hand me my"

.11

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

rlicck-book, if you please — I will give you a blank check
which you can fill up at your leisure. And with it you will
kindly consider our connection at an end. Any intentions
1 may have announced regarding the disposal of my prop-
erty, so far as you are concerned, are from tiiis moment
withdrawn."

Tile flush fades from Dick's face, his lips set, his eyes flash,
he stops in his walk, and regards the older man steadily.

" That taunt was not necessary, sir. Whatever oi)inion
you may have held of me in the past, I do not think you
ever believe the consideration of your fortune influenced any
action of mine. And it never will. Bestow it upon whom
you please — no one in the world has less right to it than I.
1 have but one parting favor to ask — that you will permit me
to return once more to Charlton, and say a friendly farewell
Xo youy

He takes his hat. He is very pale, and his eyes have a
pleading look. He holds out his hand.

"Come, governor," he says, " we cannot part like this. I
am afraid I look like an ungrateful dog, but — but I know
how I feel. A fellow can't put that sort of thing into words,
but by Jove I am sorry "

He breaks off, and draws nearer. But Mr. Charlton,
quite ghastly, betw<;en bodily pain and mental emotion,
waves him away.

" Such a parting would be a farce. Come home to stay,
and you know what sort of welcome awaits you. Go with
your friend, and as my son I renounce you. There can be
no half-way course."

"Then good-by, since it must be so."

He turns, opens the door, lingers yet one moment, in
hope of some sign of relenting, but the invalid lies with
closed eyes, spent and exhausted. And so Dick leaves him.

Is it fancy, or does he hear the rustle of skirts away from
the door ? He is too perturbed to tell, but a second after,

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

Dora's smiling little face looks out at him through another
half-open door.

" CJoing again, Captain Ffrench ? Will you not stay to
luncheon ? iVo ? How unkuid of you ! How long is your
tiresome friend gcjing to keep you over in St. Ann's ? Send
him back to New York, and come home. We all miss you so
much."

Dick smiles at the ])lainlive tone, and runs down-stairs.
He distrusts this little woman — he knows she does not mean
a word she is saying— he knows she dislikes him.

" Where is Miss Vera ? " he asks.

" Waiting for you, somewhere. The child has been mop-
ing herself to death in your absence. In common humanity
to her, you really ought to return. Do come back, Captain
Ffrench ! "

She waves her little white hand gayly, and trips away to
the sick-room. The smile fades from Dick's face, he si-dis
impatiently, as he strides down the hall, and takes a last look
at everything.

" It's uncommonly hard, by George ! " he thinks moodily.
" I hate like the deuce to row with the governor, but what ani
I to do ? Englehart claims me, and he claitns me, and
whose claim is best ? It's a nniddle— ah ! my little Vera !
I was just going in search of you. I,et me look at you.
Why, you are actually looking i)ale. What is the matter ? "

•* Nothing," the girl says, all her great gladness in her
shining eyes, " since you have come ! How lorjg you have
been away, Captain Dick."

He smiles down into the artless child's e>es, pleased and
soothed.

" Has it seemed long I It was the weather and not my
absence, I'll wager a ducat. You would never have missed
me if the sun had shone."

" Ah ! you know better than that," Vera answers, heaving
a sigh of vast content. How good, how pleasant, how com-

100

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

% ii

fortahle it seems to have Captain Dick at home — to hear his
deep tones, to see his lofty stature in this household of
women. It gives the last touch to the perfection of her
P-uadise. " \i the sun, and moon, and stars, all shone to-
gether, I wouUl miss yon just the same."

" Hy Jove ! " he says, and laughs, '' how flattering. I
thought my vanity had received its death-blow the other day,
b,it-l— " ^

" I know what you mean," Vera interrupts, hastily. " Oh,
Captain Dick," clas[)ing her hands, "what will you think of
me ! I was there, I overheard all ! At least I heard you —
and Miss Charlton said — oh ! don't be vexed, please !" im-
ploringly, " I was asleep on the sofa, and the room was so
dark, and you both came in while 1 was lying there, and
didn't see me, and when I awoke you were talking and "

A light breaks upon Dick. His face grows grave.

" And you told the gov — Mr. Charlton, Vera ? "

*' Oh, no, no ! 1 told Dot — no, I didn't tell her — she found
me sitting in the hall, and seemed to know all about it. I
have wanted to tell you ever since. I never said a word to
any one ; I would not do anything so mean."

" Not even to Miss Charlton ? "

"No. I think Eleanor is horrid — I can't bear her ever
since. At least, I don't quite mean that, you know, I think
she is just lovely, only "

Captain Ffrench smiles again. The outspoken honesty
and simplicity of this little girl have amused him from the
first ; her unconcealed fondness and admiration for himself,
flatter him as a matter of course. Captain Dick is emi-
nently mortal, and in no interesting little weakness above
his sex.

" My dear little Vera I " you are the stanchest of friends,
and the dearest little woman, without exception, in the
world. 1 wonder now, if you will writ t to me, when I am
down there among the silver mines. I am sure you write

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

lOI

charming letters — and tell me all about yourself and— yes—
about Dot ! "

Vera's eyes dilate— she stands still and looks u[) at him in
blank, sudden terror.

" Down among the silver mines ! What silver mines ?
You are not going away, Cai)tain Ffrench ? "

** Ah ! but I am, and you will be a tall, fliscinatirj young
lady long before I come back. lint you are not to forget me,

mind. I shall look for those letters Why, Vera, my

dear ! *'

She has turned away from him, and covered her face with
her hands. The blow is so sudden, so sharp.

"Vera," he says, " my dear little Vera!" Hut she does
not look up. " Why, my pet, are you so sorry as this ! I
did not think— Vera 1 " He tries to take her hands away,
but she struggles and resists.

" Oh ! don't," she says, in a stilied voice, " let me be. It
—it isn't that ! " struggling bravely, " I— I think I am ner-
vous. It is the weather "

" Of course it is the weather," he returns, promptly ; " be-
ing shut up in the house so much, is enough to give any one
the horrors. And it is a little— just a little— that you are
sorry, too ? "

" Oh ! I am sorry ! I am sorry ! I am sorry ! " she says,
and breaks down. The last barrier gives way, and she sobs
with all her heart.

There is only one sort of consolation for trouble of this
kind, that Captain Dick knows of, and that is to take her in
his arms, and give her a kiss. Words are failures. He is
pleased, he is touched, he is embarrassed, he feels inclined
to laugh. She is such a child, such a simpleton— not that he
thinks her a simpleton— not at all. Such a tall child, too, up
to his shoulder, now that they stand in this delicate i)rox-
imity.

" Don't, Vera," he says, " please don't. If anybody came.

102

THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

I ' t

1 i:

i^ !l

There! let nie wipe them away;" he takes out his handker-
chief, and i)erforMis this needful office. " Don't cry any
more. And you'll promise to write to me when 1 am gone ? "

" Oh ! yes, yes."

" And you won't forget me ? "

"Oh ! no, no." (A fresh Hood.)

"And you will let Daddy take you out in the Nixie? It
will do both you and the Nixie good."

"No!" Vera cries, "no! 1 will never set foot in the
Nixie again ! Oh ! what must you thhik of me for crying
like this. Hut it is so horrid to have p — p — people you like
go away to hateful places, and n — n — never come back ! "

" lUit I am coming back, my dear, in two years."

Two years ! why not two centuries — in the eyes of sixteen
are they !-.ot the same ? Vera battles heroically, it does not
become her to ci-y, though, to do her justice, the real concern
she sees in Captain Dick's face is the more powerful motive.
And yet that ([uestionable smile of his lingers in his eyes.

" Well, now, Vera, it is all right again, isn't it ? I am
going. No, it is not good-by ' for good ' this time — I shall
be back. Oet up early to-morrow — the rain is over for the
present, and I and the Nixie will be waiting in the old place.
We shall have half a dozen matutinal sails yet, before we
say adieu."

Then he goes, and Vera is alone with her desolation.
What will Charlton be without Ca[)tain Dick ? All its green
beauty will be but a fleeting show, for her illusion given.
The Nixie, the island, the piano, the basket-carriage — all
are filled with poignant memories. Why — why must he go ?
Why did this hateful man at the hotel ever come down ?
\Vhy does not the earth open and swallow Honduras and all
the silver mines in the world ?

She goes slowly back to the house. The trail of the ser-
pent is over everything; all — all recalls the lost one. In.
the hall she meets Eleanor, who starts to see the pale, tear-

Tfrr: end of t/ie fairy tale.

103

bloltcd clijck^ and rcddcnctl eyes of the brii^hl little house
fairy.

*• Why, Vera," she says, and puis her arm about her, " my
dear child what is the matter?"

lUit Vera strikes down the caressing hand, in a very fury
of sudden i)assion.

" Do not touch me ! " slie cries, her black eyes blazing,
" 1 hate you. He is going, and only for you he wouldn't
have gone. I never want to speak to you again, as long as
I live ! "

She dashes away and up to her room, flings herself on her
bed. and cries passionately.

Her great hero is going— after that the deluge. She will
never see him again. Years from now, he may return, but
where will she be. He will have forgotten her, and she
likes him — oh ! she h"kes him ! she likes him

" I wouldn't cry, if I were you," says the placid voice of
Dora. She has entered unheard, drawn by the sound of
vehement sobbing ; " there is not a man on earth worth
blearing one's eyes for, and not one of them all was won yet
by crying. Ho will come back, my dear, and then if you
really are so fond of "

Vera starts up, goaded beyond endurance.

''What do you want here ? Get out of my room. Dot !
How do you know I am crying for— for him ? I'm not /
Go, and leave me alone."

And Dora, laughing to herself, goes. Vera is alone. And
this is the end of her fairy tale. It keeps saying itself over
and over in her mind— "And the prince went away to seek
his fortune, and never, never, never came back."

104

aiiADDECK ijunr.

i I

ill*'

iiB'-

IH''

K^ '

!ii-

CI I APT KR Xr.

SHAD DECK I-IC HT.

HRKE (lays have gone by. 'I'o the casual observer
they have brout^ht httle change, but changes there
art'. I''irst and chief, Mr. Charlton's attack is
going off; in a week he hopes to be about again. Next, the
rain is over, and once niori' there is sunshine, and eaily rising
on Vera's i)art, rows in the Nixie, and visits to Shaddeck.
The agony of parting is inevitable, but it is yet two days o'f,
and Vera never crosses her bridges until she conu.'S to thim.
Cai)tain Dick is still to be seen, to be heard, to be admired
— next Thursday will surely come, but this is only Monday,
and there are yet forty-eight hours, two thousand and eight
hundred and eighty minute.^ between her and desolation.

It is the evening of Monday. P'.leanor Charlton sits in
her room — she s[)en(ls most of her time there, of late, and
looks out with dreary eyes over the fair sununer prospect.
She is at odds, it seems, with all the household, her mother
most of all. For three days Mrs, Charlton has not spoken
to her — she is the sort of i)erson to live in the house with
you, and not si)eak to you for a month. Not that, in a gen-
eral way, this could be looked upon as a misfortune — rather
the opposite — but it is sometimes an embarrassment. Dora
is always pleasant ; it is Doa's role to smile, and smile, and
be a little villain ; but from Dora, P'deanor has instinctively
shrunk from the first. Dora's smiles are spurious currency,
not sterling coin. Between her and Vera, a cloud hovers ;
it is six feet high, and answers to the name of Captain Dick.
Mr. Charlton, on the occasion of I^leanor's only visit, lias
received her with such chilling politeness, that she never had
the heart to go near his study ag:^in. He knows all, and re-

srrADnr.cK' light.

105

sents her refusal. Captain Ifrench is going away, ami she is
responsible, it seems. Cliarllon is no longer a home, even a
temporary home for her. She has thought the matter out,
and made up her mind to go. She had Intended to stay
until the end of the month, but that is impossible now. Oh !
if she could have but foreseen, and never come. Slie is pay-
ing dearly for her fidelity to one whom, deep down in her
heart, she knows to be unstable as water, yielding as shifting
sand. The knowledge is there, but she will not listen. Loy-
ally she forces herself to h()i)e, to trust, to believe in this
man, to whom — how, she knows not— she has given her
heart. She cannot recall the gift, because growing fear is
upon her that he is unworthy, selfish, cowardly, .ielf-iuilul-
gent, lazy. Circumstances are against him— it is not his will
that is in fault— by nature he is indolent and without earnest-
ness of pur[)ose, and nature is an obdurate foe to fmht.
1 ime, age, love for her, will work wonders ; so she forces
herself to believe. She respects, admires, likes, esteems
Richard Ffrench. He is in earnest : with all his mi^ht he
does the thing which his hand finds to do. Life to him is no
vapid, wearisome day, to be yawned through anyhow ; he
has energy, resolution, force of character, strength, all that
she prizes most. Jf Ernest were but like him ! And then,
indignant with herself, she banishes the disloyal thought.
Whatever Ernest is, he is hers. She has chosen, and she
will be faithful to her choice.

It is a sultry and overcast evening. It has been at its
hottest and fieriest all day ; just now black clouds are risintr,
and there is that oppression in the air which betokens a
thunder-storm. There is not a breath of wind stirring, na-
ture stands motionless, bracing itself for the coming shock.
Presently Eleanor rises, and goes to her mother's room. It
is the hour before dinner, and she knows she will find her
there. She is paler than usual, she has lost flesh and strength
in the past week, she feel^ very little like the ordeal before

r l.l

io6

SUA DDE CK LIGHT.

her. But it must be met, and Eleaiwr Charlton is not the
woman to shrink plain duty.

Mrs. Charlton sits hem-stitching a fine pockethandker-
chief ; she does not deign to glance up as her daughter en-
ters ; her dumb familiar still holds possession of her.

" Mother," Eleanor says, plunging into the worst at once,
" I am going away."

No reply ; Mrs. Charlton stitches away with the steadiness
of a machine.

"1 am unhappy here ; I have displeased Mr. Charlton,
offended Captain Ffrench, and angered you. It is impossi-
ble for me to stay. I am sorry I came — sorrier than sorry ;
nothing remains for me but to leave at once."

Silence. An angry red is rising over Mrs. Charlton's large
fleshy face, but her lijjs only tighten into a tenser line.

" I have money sufficient to pay my travelling expenses,"
Miss Charlton steadily goes on. She knows her mother, and
this speechless form of sulks, too well to be surprised. "You
need not necessarily shorten your stay before the beginning
of September ; no one can blame you for my acts. I am
very sorry, mother, sorry that I have pained our kind host,
sorry to have disappointed you ; but I could not have acted
otherwise. I will leave on Thursday morning, and will in-
form Mr. Charlton of my resolution to-day. He will not
object to my going, he will see that it is inevitable."

Still mute. If Mrs. Charlton were deaf and dumb she
could not give less sign that she hears. Words are useless ;
has she not tried again, and again, and yet again, threats,
scoldings, denunciations, commands, entreaties, tears. She
has run up and down the whole gamut — in vain. Of what
use is it to waste eloquence on such a heartless, undutiful
daughter as this ?

" If you would but forgive me, mother," Eleanor says,
wistfully, and at the words, as flint strikes fire from steel, the
spell is broken, and the infuriated woman bla/.es forth :

SHADDECK LIGHT.

107

" I will never forgive you ! " see cries, '* never, so help me
Heaven ! I will never forgive you in life or in death ! "

*********

In her bedroom, Vera stands before the glass putting the
last touch to her dinner dress, and eyeing herself with ex-
treme disapproval. How thin and long her face is, to be
sure, how unnecessarily like black saucers her eyes, how
particularly unlike a rosebud her mouth, how excessively un-
classical her nose, how idiotically low her forehead, how yel-
low, and sallow, and ugly her complexion ! No, her skin

Dot has a complexion, Vera a skin. What a black, kinky,
untidy brush, her hair. Yes ! she is one of the tribe of Ugly
Ducklings, and never, never, will she transmogrify into a
swan. Ah ! no ; sallow skin, thin cheeks, crane neck, tar-
black hair, owl eyes— that is to be the melancholy record to
the bitter end ! With a great sigh she turns away from the
mirror. Hitherto her looks have troubled her very little ;
she has accepted the fact that she is a colored person, and
not a good-looking colored person either, as one of the great
incontrovertible facts of life, but of late this painful truth has
been brought home to her, in an altogether new and depress-
ing light. If she were only the least little bit pretty ! If she
only had the least little flesh on her bones ! Vera is sadly
conscious that she has an abnormal tendency to bones. If
she only had red cheeks, a Grecian nose, anything, anything.
But she has not an atom of prettiness about her. She is
lank, she is bony, she outgrows her clothes, she is dark and
colorless, she always will be, and— and what a homely little
mortal Captain Dick must think her.

" I think I look like Daddy," muses Vera, gazing mournfully
at what she sees in the glass. " I really think I have a
family resemblance to Daddy. Perhaps that is why Captain
Dick takes pity on me, and makes much of me. He does
the same with Daddy. Daddy's wrists and ankles protrude

io8

SNA DDE CK LIGHT.

\ l:

: Ml

unpleasantly from his clothes — so do mine. Daddy has a
complexion like a tallow candle — so have I. Daddy runs
frightfully to joints and knuckles — so do I. Yes, I am
enough like Daddy to be a long-lost sister."

She turns away disgusted, goes to the window, leans her
folded arms on the sill, and gazes disconsolately out. And
yet that Creole face, fran)ed in green leaves, a dark-red ribbon
in the "tar mop," would hardly be pronounce! .ji ugly one
by most observers. Those two velvet, black, soft, deep,
lustrous eyes would redeem any countenance, and despite
the sallowness, and the thinness of a rapidly growing girl,
there are the serene lines of beauty of no common ordei.
In spite of her own opinion, she is exactly the sort of Ugly
Duckling that is certain to grow into a handsome swan.

How hot it is ! That is the only idea she has been con-
scious of all day. It has been a blank day, blank from its
very beginning. For some reason Captam I3ick was not at
the place of tryst, this morning, and Vera and the Nixie were
left at their UKJorings lamenting. The house has been dull
as death, the people gloomy, the day hot. vShe always comes
back to that ; her mind goes round in a circle, and always
returns to its starting-point — the heat.

"Perhaps 1 am falling into my second childhood,'' thinks
Vera, despondently; "I have hrard of such things. If the
weather makes dogs go mad, why shouldn't it make people
idiotic? And oh ! how hot and hateful the whole world uii!
be after Thursday afternoon."

She siglis impatiently, and stares with gloomy eyes over
the prospect. How lovely she thought it three weeks ago ;
what a blank, hollow, unsatisfactory sort of a thing it is to-
day ! What is the use of a place being lovely, if people will
not stay in it ? Why was Central America ever discovered ?
It was some of Christopher Columbus' work, she supposes
— these navigators and discoverers are certainly \cry offi-
cious and much overrated people. Oh ! dear /loztj hot it is)

SHAD DECK LIGHT,

109

and those black clouds up there ; of course it is going to
hghten and thunder, nothing will do it but that.

Vera is mortally afraid of lightning and tliunder, she always
takes refuge in the cellar if there is one available, her eyes
hermetically sealed, her ears corked with her index fm-ers.
As if she were not unhappy enough without having to spend
the evening in a cellar ! Oh ! how hot-then she stops. The
httle basket phaeton, with its blue umbrella top, comes brisk-
ly up the drive, with IJora inside. Dora has been to town on
an errand for Afr. Chariton, and is now returning. How
pretty she looks, Vera thinks, in that white chip hat, and
ostrich tips, and blush roses, a tlimsy white vail strapped
across her delicate morsel of a nose, her rose-lined parasol
casting a warm tint over her too pale face. Ah ! where are
Captain Dick's senses, that he has no relish for golden hair,
pearly skin, azure eyes, and a f^iiry form. Then Dora looks
up, I '^d sees her.

_ ''Oh, Vera ! " she exclaims. There is unusual animation
in Dora a look and tone, " have you heard ? "

" I have heard nothing," says Vera, in a melancholy voice,
" seen nothing, done nothing, and never expect to a^ain
What is it ? " ° '

" Captain Ffrench "

Vera starts up, all listlessness, all mild melancholy gone,
at that magical name.

" Cai)tain Ffrench has met with an accident— I heard it
over at St. Ann's, and is very badly hurt."

There is a cry ; a sharp, sudden cry, as if she had been
struck. Then Vera is motionless, but in that instant every
trace of life and color has faded from her face.

"He was out driving," pursues Dora, airily, *' with that
man. Dr. Englehart, you know, and it seems the horses took
fright at a passing train, and started oif at a gallop. The
carriage was overturned, in spite of all Captain Ffrench's
efforts, and they were both thrown out. Dr. Englehart

S II ADD EC K LIGHT.

escaped scot-free, but the poor overgrown Dick has broken
himself somewhere, his arm, or his shoulder, or his neck — I
really am not sure which."

There is no rei)ly. Vera kneels as she was, the same, yet
different. Rigid now, her hands locked, her face blanched,
her eyes all blind and black with great swift horror. She
does not try to si)eak, she just kneels there, and stares
blankly down at the speaker.

" Vera ' VVh}', good Heaven ! You little idiot ! I be-
lieve you are going to faint ! "

She darts into the house, up the stairs, flies swiftly into
Vera's room, and seizing her by the shoulders, shakes her
with no gentle hand.

" You little fool ! if you faint I will never forgive you. I
tell you he is not dead — more's the pity — such great hulking
fellows as that, in everybody's way, don't die so easily. He
has put his shoulder out, that is all. Now come back to life,
or 1 will shake all there is left out of you ! "

She is quite white with anger and alarm. Vera lifts her
eyes, into which the old look slowly returns.

'' I thought he was killed," Fhe says, in a whisper.

" Oh ! you thought, you thought ! " retorts Dora, crossly,
" a nice fright you have given nie for nothing. My heart is
beating like a trip-hammer. It serves me right for telling
you anything about it. I might have known what a perfect
simpleton you are."

*' Oh ! Dot, don't. Where is he, please ? "

" Where he ought to be — out of everybody's way, in his
hut in the ocean."

"Alone?"

" He has that other lunatic with him — \\\.'ii protege^ Daddy
Long Legs."

** Dot, tell me, is he badly hurt ? "

*' How do I know ? What do I care ? I only hope it
wo.i't prevent his going off on Thursday. Oh ! you may

SHADDECfC LIGHT. i i j

look at me as you please ; I detest your Captain Dick. Now
Im going to tell IVfr. Charlton."

She leaves the roon.. For a little Vera lingers, a wei,ht
li^e lead on her heart. Captain Dick hurt, badly hurt,
sutlenng pa,n, alone there in Shaddeck Light. What if it
IS worse than Dora knows, what if he dies ! At that
hough she starts to her feet and puts out both arms as if
to ward off some direful blow.

c\l\ ^w^' 'rr ''''' '"'•"' '' "°^ ^^^^^ •' Oh ! what shall I
do? What shall 1 do ? "

She stands twisting her fingers, bewildered by pain and
tc ror. Ihe heat, the coming thunder-storm, his departure,
all are forgotten, swallowed up in this new dread disaster.

AV hat shall she do ? Go down when the bell rings and eat
her dnmer? No, that is impossible. Alone there with only
Daddy ! Oh, ,f he were but at home, if she could only do
somethmg only tell him she was sorry. Captain D.ck
helpless and suffering. How strange a thought, how in.pos-
sible to take it in. He so strong, so nunly, so full of life
and vigor; it seejus as if pain, or weakness, or helplessness
could never come near him.

What shall she do ? She takes up her hat mechanically,
and goes out of the house. The closeness of the air seen's
to stifle her ; the lurid sky is shutting down over the silent
world, as the dungeon roof shut down upon the fated p.is-
oner ,n the '' Iron Shroud." If she could but do something
-anything ! To think of his being there alone, with no one
to do anything for him but that stupid Daddy. The thought
gives her a pang of absolute physical pain.

She is out on the high road, now. All the world has come
to a stand-still, the leaves on the trees, the flowers at ner
feet, the birds in the branches, the sea afar off. Is nature
waiting breathlessly for the first crash of the storm, or has it
gone into mourning, like Vera's heart? Dark clouds are
rapidly gathering, but she never heeds them~she who so

; ^ :

i ||;

112

SHADDECK LIGHT.

fears storms — she goes on and on, faster, unheeding the
heat, driven by " some spirit in her feet," without will of her
own, and here at last, breathless, thished, panting, she stands
on the shore, and looks across the mile or so of water, at
Shaddeck Light.

The tide is ebbing. In half an hour — in less — it will be
possible to walk over, but Dr. Englehart is there, and even
in her great trouble, she is shy of facing a strange man. It
is a comfort, a poor one, but a comfort, to stand heie with
longing wistful eyes fixed on that smallest of human habita-
tions. Overhead the clouds are still blackening, the sea
moans dully, now and then, as if sullenly conscious of what
is in store for it. And still Vera stands. She will be
drenched to the skin, she will be blinded by the lightning,
she will be deafened by the thunder, she will be frightened
out of her i^w remaining senses, if she lingers half an hour
longer. And yet it is hard to turn and go. Her anxiety,
her sympathy are so great that in some mesmeric way they
ought to reach him from here. Ah ! here is Daddy ! long-
limbed, blessed Daddy ! At last she will hear of our hero.

Daddy comes shambling over the rocks, looking much as
usual. He is attached to his master, with a dull, doggish
sort of attachment, but he is also of a phlegmatic turn, and
this upsetting of all things works no apparent outward
change. If Vera's eyes were twice as piercing, they could
read nothing in that blank page — his face.

"How is he?" she cries, springing forward. "Oh,
Daddy, how is Captain Ffrench ? "

Daddy eyes her stolidly, and does not quicken his custom-
ary drawl.

" Waal, I guess thar ain't no change to speak on. He's
kinder pooty much the same. Air you a goin' over? Dew;
'twill perk him up quite some."

" Daddy," Vera demands with solenniity, *' Daddy, 1 ask
you — will he, or will he not die ? "

SriADDECK LIGHT.

Thus put upon oath, as it were, Daddy considers with
profound seriousness.

" Waal, 1 reckon not," is his conclusion. - I'm a goin'
for some doctor's stuff over to the town, and kent stay."
" Is Dr. Englehart with him, Daddy ? "
Daddy shakes his head, and shuffles off, and again Vera is
alone. Shall she go ? He is there and suffering ; she can
retm-n before the tide rises. Yes, she will go. She knows
her way over those slipi)ery, sea-weedv rocks, she has crossed
the bar many a tin.e, but never so (juickly, so fleetly as >mw.
Ir. a few mnu.tes she is in front of the cottage, the handle of
the door m her hand. She turns it gently, and enters. The
darkness of the nearing storn. is in the room ; its bareness.
Its lonehness strikes the gul with a sense of pain altogether
new. VV hat a desperate place to be ill in-iU and alone.

Ca,,tan. PTrench is asleep. He lies on the lounge, his
head pillowed on his right arn,, his left bandaged ancfhelp-
fss. It IS his arm then that is broken. Ho\v pale he is ■
how deeply he sleeps. Vera shuts the door, tiptoes ovei'
anxiously and stands gazing at him. He does not look as
hough he were going to die, certainly-nobody dies of a
broken arm, or a shoulder put out. And it may detain him •
a person cannot go to Central America W^^^z^,\ in this way'
A great throb of hope stirs within her; if the accident keeps
hun will It not be a thing to rejoice at after all ^

Her steady gaze disturbs him ; he stirs impatiently, and
mutters to himself. Vera leans down, smiling, to hear what
he IS saying. As she does so, he opens his eyes, stares,
shuts them, reopens them, and stares again.
"By Jove!" he says, in amaze.

" Yes it is me," says Vera, joyously, discarding grammar
inhergluness, "I have just come. Oh! Captain Dick,
how glad I am, how glad 1 am ! "

" Glad ! " exclaims Captain J)ick, aghast.

" Yes, glad that it is only your arm. I thought it was so

BrrI

■TT

f 1' '■

M 1

1 1

' "IL'

' f\

>il

'!i:if

f rl

f! n

I ';

114

SHAD DECK LIGHT.

imicli worse. You don't know how fnglUonod 1 was "

Vera stops with one inipassionate little gesture. Mere
words will tell so little of all that is in the heart.

"You dear little soul ! " says Captain Dick, sitting up and
holding out his hand. "And you came here the moment
you heard of it, I'll be bound."

"Yes," replied Vera, "1 did not know— Dot did not know
— Daddy did not seem to know what it was. And it seemed
so dreadful for you to be alone and in pain here. Is it your
arm, or your shoulder, and oh, does it hurt you very
much ? "

He does not answer for a moment. He smiles, and holds
her hands, and sits looking at her with a look Vera does not
understand.

"You were frightened and sorry, and you ran here at once.
Little Vera ! little Vera ! what a trump yoM are ! "

" And it is not very, very bad ! " persists Vera, sticking to
business, and ignoring compliments.

"Not now; it hurt like the deuce at first, although the
shoulder is only strained, not dislocated. Those horses
pulled like a pair of devils. But it is all right now, or will
be in a day or two, and it would be worth while having a
whole arm amputated for such a proof of fidelity as this.
Find a chair and sit down. Who told you about it in the
first place ? "

*' Dot. She was in town, and heard there."

" Does the governor know ? "

" Dot will tell him."

" How did you come ? But you walked, of course."

" Of course. The tide is out, and I must not stay, or it
will be in."

" Oh, there is no hurry ; it won't be in for hours. I was
confoundedly lonely until 1 fell asleep. Knglehart has gone
back to New York ; had to go — unexpected telegram — so
your visit, a god-send at any time, is doubly a god-send at

Merc

^JV EVENING A T SIIADDECIC UGIIT. , | 5

present. Take off your hat-yes, I insist- Da.Wy will b,.

"1-Me, and he can row yoii ashore "

Vera laughs and obeys. She lakes a chair, throws her hat
on another, and the sin.,,e action is the turning-point ^l ,t

CHAPTER XII.

AN EVENING AT SHADDLCK LIGHT.

UT why did you come here?" inquires Vera, "snch
a^Ioneson>e, lonesonK- place to be sick in, Captain

to Lj,'::,: Velf r '""■■■" C»'«-' ^ick, -and don't intend
" Why did you not go to Charlton?" persists Vera "itk

thit 's-i;!!" '° '°"' ™" ^'"S '° -™"' ^'«1 -ke you nice

"Uon't,"says Captain Ffrencb, "don't Vera I h^„ r

Z^VT\ '""■' ""^""™ '"« byreLlLg a ' IJ

"St. Don , „,ake n,e feel any more like the peri outside of

laradrse than you can help. You are con,i L ,0 ee n^e

every day wh.le I an, here ; yes, and you will rea°d ,0 , c d

sincet' s,r"'.'r"'; ™'"1 "■"^■'" "'""^^^^ D'^l^ -"" - very
since, e s.gh , "I and the dear old governor have had a mi^.

ii6

AN EVENING AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

understanding, and — and, in short, I am not to go back. Still
1 think I shall venture once, to bid you all good-by."

" You will really go then, in spite of all this ?" touching
tlie wounded arm, her heart sinking suddenly.

" In spite of all this. It would take a good deal more
than a crippled arm to keep me from Honduras. 1 sluvU
have tiuie and to spare, to recover, on the way. 1 shall lie
on the deck, Vera, and smoke, and tiiink of you, and wonder
what you are about in the sunny September days."

"Ah ! " says Vera, "I can tell you what 1 will be about,
very easily. 1 shall be back in New York, in the dull old
schoolroom, teaching piano scales, and words of two s)lla-
bles all day long. Mrs. Trafton — 'my missis,' you know —
brings Moss and Lex home early in the month, and, of course,
I must be there."

She pushes all the soft dark rings of hair from Jicr forehead,
with a restless sigh. How hopeless it all looks, that dreary
school-room, up three pair, after the brightness and freedom
of Charlton and Captain Dick. How monotonous the rou-
tine of Second Readers, and " one, two, three, four," after
the sails, the drives, the woodland walks ; how deadly dull
the tiresome gabble of the children, after the brilliant conver-
sational powers of

" Oh ! " she cries out, in a voice full of impatient pain,
" how horrid it all is ; the city, and the noise, and the ugli-
ness, and the dreary old round of lessons over and over, for-
ever and ever."

He looks at her in pity. She is such a child ; it is like
caging a poor little forlorn starling, this cooping her up with
school-books and black-boards.

" What a shame ! " he says, " I wish I could take you
with me to Central America. You would like that, would
you not, Vera?" Like it? Her eyes flash with cpiick de-
light. She laughs, then sighs. "And Moss and Lex," he
goes on, " who are they ! My lady's pair of pet i)oodles ?"

|.^ iV

AN EVENING AT SIIADDECK LIGHT.

117

pain,
ugli-
, for-

like
with

you
tould

de-
■" he

*' Poodles ! " indiLjnantly ; '• they are Alexis and i-'lossilla
'I'lafton, nine and eight years old, and two of the nicest little
things. I suppose it is wicked of me to be discontented ;
Mrs. Trafton is ever so good to me, and the children love
me ; but 1 do not like teaching ; I ought to be at school
myself. I know nothing at all. You see it all happened
when I was so young — only ten, Captain Dick," lifting two
pathetic young eyes.

"Yes, dear," he says, tenderly, "tell me about it. You
lost your Hither, I know."

" 1 was twelve when papa died. He was killed in the
second year of the war. Dot was over twenty then — she is
only my half-sister, you know."

" V>y the by,'' says the captain, struck by a sudden thought,
" what is your name. Vera? Not Lightwood, 1 know. Curi-
ous, that in all this time 1 have never heard your name."

" My father was a Cuban," Vera answers, " his name was
Martinez — Manual Salvador Mardnez. I was christened
after his mother, Veronica Mary."

" Veronica Mary. Then I have the honor of addressing
the Dofia Veronique Maria Martinez ? "

Vera nods.

*' 1 am Vera to everybody, and all who know Dot call me
Vera Lightwood. My grandmother Martinez lives in Cuba
yet, and they say is very rich. She was angry with pa[)a
for marrying mamma, and never would speak to him, or
write to him after. When he died, she wrote for the first
time — such a cold, proud letter — offering to take me.
Mamma had lost her fortune then, it was invested in South-
ern bonds, or something, and our house was burned in Sher-
man's march. Ah ! it was a dreadful, dreadful time. I was
a child, but I remember it all so well. It killed i)oor
mamma. And to think that j'^// were one of those Yankee
soldiers I used to fear and iiate so much ! "

" I was not in Sherman's army, and so never helped to

Ii8

AN EVENING AT S IF AD DECK IJGIIT.

I W^<^A

i A

burn your home, thank llcavcii ! Yos, it was a stirring, glo-
rious, tcrrihlc tinic. And so )our mother woulil nut let y(JU
go to (Irandinannna Martinez and the I'-ver-Faithful Isle ! "

'• No, but I think if she had known she was to die so soon,
she would. We were left so poor, so desolate, so utterly
alone."

"She died suddenly?"

"In one moment. Captain Dick. When they told her
papa was wounded, she went to hn)i, and stayed until he
died. He died in a week — torn all to pieces," Vera says,
in a whisper, her dark eyes dilating, •' by a shell. Then she
came home. We did not see nnich difference, she was al-
ways pale and delicate, like Dot, but she never laughed nor
talked as she used, or took any notice of me, who used to
be her pet ; antl one day as she was talking to Miss Scuddcr,
she just laid her hand on her heart, gave one gasp, and fell
back in her chair, dead ! "

There is silence. Outside the darkness is ever deepen-
ing, around them the sea is sullenly washing, fit background
for Vera's tragic tale.

" It was heart-disease," she goes on, after a moment, dur-
ing which she has covered her face, with a sob, "and (Dot
would not like me to tell this) she will not talk of it, nor
think of it, but she has it too. It is hereditary in our
mother's family, and some day 1 am afraid "

She stops ; her large eyes look larger and blacker, Ffrench
thinks, than he has ever thought them before.

'* 1 would die, I think, if anything hap[)ened to Dot. I
have nobody but her in the world. Captain Dick, you know
so much, do you think — do you think Dot will ever go like
that ? "

"1 think not, I hope not, I am sure not," he answers, " my
poor little Vera ! "

He is so sorry for her, she is such a childish little soul to
be thrown on the world, to fight its bitter battles, to know of

AN EVENING AT S HAD DECK L/U//T.

119

Mich

It. I

mow

lul to

)\V of

such grisly honors as these. He has never hvid a sister,
never thoiiglit whether he wished for one befori-; but he
wishes now that this little girl with the li.irk appealing eyes,
and winsome, innocent ways, were his sister.

" 'I'hen,'' goes on Vera, " we were all alone, and homeless,
and poor. Only for Miss Scudder, an old maid cousin of
manuna's, who ke|)t our house, I don't know what would have
become of us. Hut the next two years passed somehow.
The war was at an end, we were still without a home, and
poor, poor, poor ! "

She breaks off A great Hash of lii^luning bla/es out, fol-
lowed by a dull roaring cannonade. The storm is upon them
in its might. She shrieks, and covers her eyes,

'* DcMi't be afraid," Dick says, reassuringly, "what! such
a little heroine frightened by a thunder-storm ? Come, sit
with your back to the window, and go on. You do not know
how interested I am."

The crash is over ; it is so dark tliey can hardly see each
other's faces. Captain Ffrcnch takes her two hands in one of
his, and holds them fast.

" Now," he says, cheerily, " not all the powers of earth
and air, not all the king's horses, nor all the king's men,
shall harm you. What next ? What did you and Dot do
then ? "

" liefore the war," says Vera, creeping up close to her
protector, " we had had a governess. When it tirst broke
out i)ai)a sent her home North, but she had left us her
address, and Dot wrote to her, asking her to help us. She
wrote back at once, the kindest letter. She had married,
during those four years, a very rich banker, a Mr. Trafton,
and she invited us to her house, and inclosed money to pay
our way. Now was that not kind ? "

"Very kind. The world is not such a bad sort of place
after all as the cynics try to make it out. Now, now, now !
never mind the lightning."

. N»-

120

AN EVENING AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

i i 1

( i

" But it is so awful. Captain Dick, what would we do if
it struck this house and set it on fire ? "

"It wont strike," he laughs, "I am a non-conductor.
Well, you went to Mrs. Trafton's ? "

" VV^e went to Mrs. Trafton's, and nobody could have been
kinder. Mr. Trafton had been a widower, and Lex and
Flossy were two little tots no bigger than that, but they took
the greatest ^ancy to me at once — you can't think ! "

" Can't 1 ? It has been exactly my own case. 1 stood on
the bank, that morning, and looked down on the dearest
little black-eyed fairy in the world, and fell in love with her
on tlie spot."

" Now you are laughing at me. If you are "

" I am perfectly serious. My case and that of Lex and
Flossy are precisely parallel."

" Well, whether you are laughing or not they did, and
Mrs. Trafton proposed that I should stay partly as playmate,
partly as governess, at a small salary. Such a ridiculous
governess, Captain Dick, only fourteen ! "

" And there you are ever since ? "

" Ever since, and likely to be, until the children are old
enough for a governess who knows something. / know
nothing, nothing," says Vera, with a melancholy little shake
of the head.

" What becomes of Dona Martinez, then ? "

" Ah, what ? goodness knows. I have a talent for cook-
ing ; I might go out as kitchen-maid. I suppose Mrs. Traf-
ton will get something for me ; she is awfully good. But I
do hate teaching."

* ' You poor little soul ! " Captain Ff^ench is aware that
he has several times already used this form of consolation,
and that it would be well to vary it, but it seems to fit the
case as well as anything else.

"And Dot hates millinery; I mean she hates being a lav
figure, and trying on, and showing things to vulgar rich peo-

AN E VENING A T SHADDECK LIGHT. 1 2 1

pie, who would be insolent if they could, only Dot never
takes airs nor insolence from anybody, liut it is a stupid
life all round, and in the long hot summer tnne, and the dull

winter days Eut there ! what is the use of talking

about it. Poor we are, and poor we will be till the end of
the chapter. Sometimes I wish Mr. Charlton had not in-
vited us here. It makes the gomg back so much woise."

" 1 wish Mr. Charlton would keep you for good. It would
be a capital arrangement on both sides. If things were as
they used to be between us, I would ask him. Ah ! by
Jove ! that 2uas a crash ! "

A crash indeed. It shakes the light-house, the rocks un-
der it, the mighty ocean itself. And then a blaze of blue
suli^hurous light zig-zags through the room, and Vera screams
and buries her face on his shoulder. He draws her close,
and does his best to soothe her, but he can feel her quiver-
ing with fear.

"It will not hurt you, you are perfectly safe. Vera!
why you poor child, how your heart is beating. How sorry
I am you came."

That rouses her a little.

" I— I am not sorry," she gasps, " it would be just as bad
over at the house. Oh, Captain Dick, I am always fright-
ened to death in thunder-storms. Do you— ^^ you think it
will soon be over } "

" It will be ever in fifteen minutes," returns Captain Dick,
in the positive tone of one who always has his informa-
tion from headquarters, ''and, meantime, neither the thun-
der, nor the lightning, nor twice the hurly-burly will harm
us. Hark ! there is the rain. It is only a summer shower
after all. Our cyclone will be over in a moment now."

And in a very few minutes it is over. There is a torrent
of rain, a few more vivid flashes, a i^ss more rumbling peals,
and then the spirit of the storm draws off his forces, growling
sullenly as he goes. There is but the fuiious pour of the

122

AN EVEN IN Cf AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

iil

rain, and as Vera does not fear thaf, she lifts her diminished
head, and, rather ashamed of herself, looks in a somewhat
crest-fallen fashion at her companion.

" What a goose you must think me, Captain Dick. But
I can't help it. 1 have always been like this. I wonder,"
suddenly, " what keeps Daddy ? "

" The storm, 1 suppose. He doesn't like a wetting any
more than his betters."

" And the tide is turning ! " cries the girl going to the
window, "it must be nine o'clock. Captain Dick, the tide
is turning."

** Let it turn. What is the tide to you and me ? "

" But how am I to get off? how am I to go home ? "

" Daddy will fetch you. He will come off in a boat pres-
ently, and then, after supper, can row you ashore. Come,
don't grow anxious, it will be all right."

"Well — if you think so — you are sure Daddy will
come ? "

"Quite certain."

*' Because if he did not you know I could walk it. The
bar is still clear "

" And the rain is still pouring in bucketfuls. Yes, it is
so likely I will let you walk. I'll tell you what you may do,
little Vera : does my memory serve me, or did I dream you
owned to a genius for cooking ? "

" I own to it. It is my one talent."

*' And you are not afraid of blacking your hands ? "

" Not a bit. Nature has made them so black that art nor
soot cannot spoil them."

" Verv well then. Yonder is the kitchen. In the kitch-
en is a stove, in the stove is a fire, left by forehanded
Daddy. On sundry shelves are various articles of tin and
crockery appertaining to the cuisine. In different canisters
are coffee, tea, milk, etc. Now, suppose, while we wait,
you get up our supper. I am consumedly hungry. And if

A NIGHT AT SFIADDECK LIGHT.

123

you prove to have the culinary skill you claim, when I re-
turn from Central America, with my fortune made, I may en-
gage you as my cook."

_ Vera needs no second bidding. She goes to the kitchen
in high glee. The invalid proposes accompanying her, and
supermtendmg, but this she will not hear of. A true artist
permits no interference— an artist in cooking least of all
He is to remain on his lounge and smoke, if he likes, and
issue no orders, and prepare to be enchanted with the re-
suit.

The lightning has quite ceased ; the rain is ceasing.
Great rifts in die clouds show gleams of yellow light. It is
nine, but still not entirely dark, and by and by there will be
a moon. Daddy can row her ashore by moonlight, and in
si3ite of the storm this will be an evening to dream of, when
Captain Dick— ah ! mournful thought— is far away.

CHAPTER XIII.

A NIGHT AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

HE Dona Veronique Maria Martinez bustles about
among the crockery and canisters mentioned by the
master of the house, making coffee, frying ham
cutting bread and making toast. Captain Richard Ffrench
lies at ease, half smiling as he watches the busy little figure
flitting about. And the August evening wears, and the
August night comes trailing darkly, spangled with stars, over
the world. A cool wind rises, the sea washes up, in steady
deep pulses, the minutes fly, and Daddy comes not. He
pulls out his watch at last. " Nine," he says, with a start.

t' '

1 ::

124

A NIGHT AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

H %

" Daddy should be here. What can keep the fool ? What a
pretty pickle if the Dona should have to stay all nigh*- — if
Daddy does not come at all."

But this catastrophe he does not greatly fear. Daddy
always comes; he is badgered by the gamins of St. Ann's
whenever he shows in the streets ; he will not fail in this
crisis. The druggist and the tempest combined have detained
him. And then /era appears in the door-way freighted with
a large tray, the odors from which are as nectar and ambro-
sia, and twice as substantial. This she places on a table,
wheels it up to the invalid's couch, lights a lamp, and sets it
in the middle. She arranges her edibles, and takes her seat
to preside, issuing her orders with the pretty peremptoriness
of an amateur matron.

" No, you are not to stir. Captain Dick. I can do every-
thing myself and prefer it. Just keep still, and do as you
are told. Here is your coffee — does it not smell deli-
ciously ? "

" The perfume of Araby the Blest — and the taste — words
fail. Consider yourself engaged from this moment as head-
cook of my future establishment."

'* Let me help you to ham, and try this toast. Is your
coffee sweet enough ? How funny it seems, this gipsy supi)er
out here in the middle of the sea, doesn't it ? "

*' Ah ! very funny I " Then mentally : " What the dickens
keeps Daddy ? "

" If Dot only could see us — or Mrs. Charlton. Good gra-
cious ! Mrs. Charlton would be shocked out of her seven
senses."

" Why? We are doing no harm."

" That makes no difference. It isn't the things that are
most harm that shock people most," says Vera, with uncon-
scious knowledge of the world. " Another cup of coffee ? I
knew you would like it."

'' Never tasted its like at the Caf6 de Paris." Half-past

■

A NIGHT AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

125

nine — he piills out his watch surreptitiously. ''Good heav-
ens ! will that half-witted clown never come !"

"By the way," he says, "and apropos of nothing — Dot
knows where you are, of course ?"

" Yes— no— I don't believe she does. I didn't tell her.
I didn't know I was coming. She told me about your acci-
dent, and I forgot everything but that, and ran off. Have
another piece of toast ? Is not Daddy very long about com-
ing ? "

" I should think so," replies Captain Dick, with an ill-re-
pressed groan. He is growing seriously uneasy. More than
once it has happened to Daddy to be belated and kept in St.
Ann's all night — what if this be one of the nights ! The tide
is making too rapidly now for her to think of crossing to the
main land, and if Daddy does not bring a boat

"Any more ham? No? Well, this is a promiscuous
picnic ; I shall never forget it. Now, I will clean off the
things, and then there will be nothing to do but sit down and
wait for Daddy and the boat."

"Nothing to do! Good Heavens!" Captain Ffrench
says to himself again, in direst dismay.

It is close upon ten now, and still only the wash of the surf
on the rocks breaks the dread silence of night and ocean.
The rising moon streams in and fills the little room, for his
cook-elect has taken the lamp to the kitchen. He goes to
the window and looks out.

" Sister Anne, Sister Aftne, do you see anybody coming ? "
cries Vera, gayly. Her work is done, and waiting is begun.
" Water, water, everywhere, but no Daddy visible. Captain
Dick, what if he doesn't come at all ? "

" By Jove 1 " he says, and looks at her so blankly that she
breaks into a laugh.

" Would it not be awful ? And Mrs. Charlton's face when
I go back ! No—it is too fearful to think of ! " She laughs
again— Vera's sweet, joyous laugh, no thought of the real

126

A NIGHT AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

awkwardness, the serious contretemps, breaking on her mind.
" Captain Dick, you should have let me walk home."

" Jiut I thougiit Daddy would come — 1 made sure Daddy
would come ! " he murmurs, helplessly. He goes back to
his couch, and pulls his long mustache in dire perplexity.
"Confound Daddy! — yea, trebly hang and confound him!
What can keep the great softy ? If the child has to stay

all night " He looks at her sitting there with all a child's

unconsciousness in her fLice. "Jt will be the deuce of a
scrape ! And what will they say at Charlton ? What will
Eleanor say ? — and her awful mother ? — and the governor ?
and Dora ? "

Vera is singing softly to herself. The stars are shining
down on the sleeping sea ; the moon is pouring its white,
lonesome light over everything ; nothing but the world of
waters around them — Adam and Eve in Eden were never
more alone.

" The night has a thousand eyes,"

sings Vera, her head thrown back, her upraised eyes fixed on
the glittering sky —

**The day but one,
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

** The mind has a thousand eyes,

The heart but one ;
Yet the light of a whole life dies

When day is done."

Half-past ten I With the moonlight full on her face, she
sits in the old arm-chair, the sea-wmd lifting her short curls,
drinking in the solemn loveliness of the night. There is si-
lence. He lies gnawing his mustache, vexed, puzzled, pow-
erless to help himself. Hovv anxious they will be at Charl-

A NIGHT AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

127

ton. How unconcerned she seems ; singing, too, by George !
He is half inclined to resent that ignorance of innocence.
But, after all, what cannot be cured must be endured— care
killed a cat— it is really no fault of his; she is only a little
girl, and — eleven !

The night is so still; what wind there is, is blowing
towards them, and the clock of St. Ann's Town Hall has a
loud bass voice. Eleven ! Still silence. Vera's song has
died out, Captain Ffrench has given up rhe forlorn hope at
last.

" ^He Cometh not,' she said," quotes Vera, in tones of
subdued tragedy.

" I— I'm afraid not. I'm awfully sorry, little Vera.
What must you think of me ? It is all my fault— you could
have walked. I never imagined it would end like this."

The intense vexation of his tone is not to be concealed.
She looks at him in surprise. Of what he is thinking— of
the way the predicament may affect her— she never dreams.
" But, after all, there is no great harm done. I am safe,
and it is better for me to be here than that you should be
left alone. Dot will guess where I am, and the rest will not
care. I suppose the tide will go out again early in the morn-
ing, and then I can walk ashore."

There is no more to be said. He accepts the situation
as It IS his custom to accept the inevitable, and throws off all
care for the morrow. To-night his duty is to make his
guest as comfortable as may be, to-morrow must take care
of itself. Her sister will understand, and as Vera herself
says, it is no one else's business. No one need ever know
—she can cross about seven in the morning, and be home in
tiine for breakfast. So Captain Dick cheers up, throws off
worry, and becomes hospitably solicitous about her ni^-ht's
rest. "^

'■You cannot sit there until morning, you know,"he says.
" Daddy has a roost under the eaves. 1 will mount, and

128

A NIGHT AT SIIADDECIC LIGHT.

l I

you must try and make yourself as comfortable as may be
down here. You need fear no burglars, and sea-pirates
don't tish in Siiaddeck Hay. After all, it will not be half a
bad adventure to look back on, in the monotony of the
TraftcMi school -room. Don't get nervous ; don't let the
sound of the sea frighten you. Remember there will be a
sweet little cherub up aloft ready to fly down at the faintest
call. And now, as it is high time you were sound, I will as-
cend. Good-night and pleasant dreams, little Vera."

Vera i)rotests — he will hurt his shoulder. She is very
comfortable, thank you, in this chair. She will go up under
the Mansard instead. In vain — on this point he is inflexi-
ble, and goes while she is politely persisting. No need of
shooting bolts or burglars, of locking doors, or barring case-
ments at Shaddeck Light. He is gone, and Vera and the
moonlight are alone.

Alone ! How lonely it is — she has never realized fully
what the word meant before. How awe-inspiring in its sol-
emn, sighing mystery, that sleeping sea, how desolate the
eternal wash of the slow breaking surf, how mournful the
echo of the night wind 1 Now and then there is the disso-
nant scream of a gull — nothing else of life to break upon the
voices of the night. Moonlight and water, water and moon-
light — their dot of an island, their speck of a house ! St.
Ann's, a long, dark line of coast, with here and there a glim-
mering light, and she alone in all the world, as it seems,
alone as Peter Wilkins on his desert island, before the ad-
vent of his wonderful flying wife. But there is that '* sweet
little cherub " up aloft — the thought of him brings comfort
and companionship. How very awful to be here quite
alone, no Captain Dick upstairs. She can hear him mov-
ing about, and there is protection and cheeriness in every
creak of his boots. She feels no inclination for sleep, she is
abnormally wide-awake — that mighty sweep of sea and sky,
that golden, crystal globe up there, all these yellow clusters

A NIGHT AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

129

of stars, absorb her. It is such a night as she will never
spend again, a night to be niaiked by a red stone in her life.
She hopes Dot is not uneasy, but Dot will guess how it is.
So she sits, and softly sings to herself, and the low, crooning
lullaby steals up to the man overhead, and touches all that
is chivalrous and tender in his heart.

" Dear little soul ! " he thinks, " dear little, innocent,
warm hearted Vera I How much younger she is than most
girls of her age — how true and clear she sings ! What a
noble, loving, generous woman she will make in five or six
years. And how little is the fear of Mrs. Grundy before her
eyes I What will Eleanor— what will Mrs. Charlton think
and say of this escai)ade ? "

Miss Charlton's refusal has not altogether, it will be per-
ceived, broken the heart of Captain Ffrench. He feels
considerably better, indeed, than before the ordeal — it is not
certainty, but suspense that kills — Eleanor, conjugal bliss — ■
Charlton vs. Englehart and the rest of these bo7i canianuics —
new discoveries, botanical and mineral, in Honduras — the
die is cast between— it is to be the latter, and in his secret
heart he rejoices.

Twelve by the clock of St. Ann's. Vera is still by the
window, but her croon has ceased, she is growing sleepy,
and a trifle chilly. After all, a person might as well have a
sleep— moonlight and sea effects will keep. So, yawning
very much, she taker, her place on the lounge, and in five
minutes is fast as a church.

Morning ! She opens her eyes, as the first eastern beam
shoots pink and golden into the little room. The window
stands wide open and by it, smoking placidly, sits Captain
Dick.

" Is it to-morrow ? " she asks, rising on her elbow, " it
does not seem half an hour since I lay down. Has Daddy
come ? "

" Good-morning, Doila Martinez. No, Daddy is still

130

A NIGHT AT SIIADDECK LIGHT.

J \

II:

among the missing. How late did you sit up last night ?
Far into my beauty sleep, 1 heard a still small voice chant-
ing, 'We won't go home till morning.' "

" You heard nothing of the sort. How is the tide ? on the
ebb or How ? Can 1 walk ashore ? "

" Here is some one ! " cries Captain Ffrench. On the
instant a boat sweei)s round the curve of the island and runs
sharply up on the sand.

*' Daddy at last," says Vera, with a yawn. " I shall not
have to walk after all."

" That is not Daddy's step," Daddy's master says, quickly.
"There is more than one."

The footsteps draw nearer, the door opens, and four per-
sons enter the room. Dora l.ightwood, pale and breathless,
Mrs. Charlton, austere and grim, Mr. Charlton, hobbling
with a stick, a dark frown on his furrowed face, and the
boatman last of all.

" Vera ! " Dora cries, and rushes forward, and falls on
her sister's neck, and lifts uj) her voice and weeps.

The rest stand still — a dread trio. Captain Dick rises
and removes his pipe, a crushing sense of iniquity upon him
as he meets Mrs. Charlton's gorgon gaze. Then there is
silence. And until the last day of his life that scene is before
Dick Ffrench — his little den all jubilant with the morning
sunshine. Dora's suppressed sobbing, Mrs. Charlton's stony
glare, and the dark frown in his step-father's face. It never
fades. But most of all, he sees little Vera, instinctively
withdrawing from her sister, and with a brave, bright, loyal
smile, taking her stand by his side. The image of Vera as
she stood there will be with him his whole life-long.

'%'

A MORNING AT SHAD DECK LIGHT, I31

CHAPTER XIV.

A MORNING AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

I'-RA is the first to speak.

"It is not Captain Dick's fault," she exclaims,
eagerly. «' Dora— and all of you ! it is not Cap-
tain Ffrench's fliiilt. It is Daddy's. lie never came from
St. Ann's all last night, and so I had to stay."

A sort of smothered groan breaks from Mrs. Charlton. It
says plainer than words, " Worse and worse ! Not even
Daddy to act as cha[)eron."

"And it stormed so, I was frightened nearly to death, and
then when that was over the tide rose, and I couldn't walk
—or swim. And there was no boat. And Captain Dick
had his shoulder hurt, and couldn't manage one if there was.
And I tell you Daddy never came. Dot, whv don't you say
something?" cries Vera, stamping her football breathless
and flushed in her defence. " What do you stand looking
like that for? 1 didn't think you would be uneasy. I
thought you were sure to know. What is the matter with
you all? It was nobody's fault— nobody could help my
staying here last night."

No one speaks. The silence is beyond all telling, tremen-
dous. Richard Ffrench has ridden down on the bayonets
ot the enemy to red death many a time, has faced starvation
more than once last year on the pale frozen deep, has stood
face to face with mortal peril many a time and oft, but never
—no never -has he felt such blank consternation as posses-
ses him now! Conscience makes cowards of us all. He
has been held a brave soldier, a reckless boatman, a fearless
explorer, a daring hunter, but at this moment he is horribly

132

A MORNING AT SHAD DECK LIGHT,

[; 'B I '

afraid of Mrs. Charlton. And Mrs. Charlton's ••glittering
eye " is upon him, and holds him as that other thcad optic
held the trembhng wedding guest.

Vera comes a hllle nearer, draws quite away from Dora, anil
stands close by his side, her ilark face Hushing angrily.

•'Captain Dick is not to blame," she repeats proudly;
"he never sent for nie, he never wanted me to come. Hut
I am glad I came — yes glad I " says Vera, Hinging back her
head defiantly, •' for if I had not he would have been alone
here witii his disabled arm. None o{ you cared! Not that
he wanted anything, but if he had it would have been all the
same. Daddy went to the druggist's, and never came back.
And now, if you are ready," says Vera jiicking u[) her hat,
and flashing defiance on the company, " / am. (Jood-by,
Captain Dick."

** Not good-by just yet Vera, only good-morning," he
answered, and with a smile takes the hand she offers in his
strong clasp. His eyes praise and thank her, but his lips
oidy smile. She knows nothing, except that they are all
angry with her for staying from home last night, and want to
throw the blame on him. She turns to the door, no one
tries to stop her, on the contrary, Dora desires the greedily
listening boatman to go as well.

" Take her to the boat," she says, " and wait till we
come."

They depart and the house door closes behind them.
Then Dora rises in her outraged sisterhood, and faces the
enemy. To the frivolous mind it looks like a little barn-
yard bantam ruffling its white feathers, and challenging to
mortal combat a big Newfoundland. But there are no frivo-
lous minds present, and Captain Dick feels hi? hour has
come ! She is pale, and her cold blue eyes have a strange
dry glitter, that really looks as much like triumph as anger.

" And now, Captain Ffrench," she begins, *' what have
you to say ? "

A MORNIIVG AT SllADDECK LIGHT.

133

ily

■»

*' Nothing whatever," retorts that culprit, promptly.
" Vera has told you all about it, I aiu very sorry if her
absence causi;il you anxiety last night ; but I presume the
storm extended as far as Charlton. As she says, it could
not be helped."

'* You have no more to say than this ? "

" Not that I know of. 1 am very sorry. I am not aware
that there is anytiiing more to be said."

Miss Lightwood turns from him to the others, as if saying:
" You hear ! He adds to the atrocity of his conduct cold-
blooded indifference. And 1 am a poor little unprotected
creature, unable to help myself."

" You must be aware, sir," says Mr. Charlton, coming to
the rescue, his voice harsh with irritating i)ain, '' that this is
an abominable aftair — that people will talk — that — that it's
an outrageous affair — that I wouldn't have had it happen for
a thousand pounds — that — that there will be a devil of a
scandal — that — that, in short, sir, you ought to be ashamed
of yourself."

He strikes his stick angrily on the ground, feeling that
there is more stumbling in his elociuence than is needful, and
thinking how little like the prisoner at the bar his boy looks,
standing erect there, his head held well up, his dark face a
little pale, his frank, honest, fearless eyes meeting theirs un-
flinchingly. For 13ick, a very craven in his secret soul, be-
fore his accusing angels, has a dogged instinct that he means
to die game, outwardly at least.

"Vera Martinez is blighted for life," says Mrs. Charlton,
opening her sealed lips, and speaking in a deep, strong, slow,
rasping, ominous monotone.

" iMadam ! " says Dick Ffrench, savagely, swinging round,
his face flushing red.

•' Blighted for life!" repeats Mrs. Charlton, waving him
contemptuously down — " irretrievably blighted ! She must
live under a cloud all the rest of her days. It would have

i -I'

mvi:

h -f ^;

>. >■ i n

m ifei ^

134

A MORNING AT SHAD DECK LIGHT.

been better for her if you had turned her out in the storm to
perish, than have kept her here. Last night will be fatal for-
ever to the reputation of this most unhappy young girl."

She waves her hand again ; her tone is deep and Siddons-
like ; it freezes the very marrow of this hapless young
man's bones. Her gesture is tragic — indeed, she looks un-
commonly like the tragic muse altogether, grown elderly and
stout. Her stony stare is a blood-freezing thing to meet.
Her words go through him one by one like bullets. Dora
stands pallid, mournful, despairing — life evidently holds noth-
ing more for her.

Mr. Charlton is near her, gloomy, silent, frowning. He
and Dot are the gentlemen of the jury, Mrs. Charlton is the
ji'dge. The black cap is ready ; he has been tried by his peers
and found guilty. If he has anything to say why the sen-
tence of the law should not be pronounced, now is the time I
It is the supreme hour of his life. And he stands, tall,
square-shouldered, upright, looking from one to the other,
the wretched prisoner in the dock, reading no hope of mercy
in either Rhadamanthus face.

" Look here ! " he bursts out at last, " this is all con-
founded rubbish, you know. Blighted ! Under a cloud !
Sent adrift to perish ! By George ! You use forcible
English, Mrs. Charlton I I tell you, governor, I tell you.
Miss Lightwood, I tell you, madam, I am not to blame. It
was simply an impossible thing for Vera to go home last
night. As to sending her out to perishj that is all bosh, of
course."

*' I have no more to say," says Mrs. Charlton, folding her
hands, and turning austerely away. " It is no business of
mine. My daughter knows nothing of it, and shall not. It
is a very delicate and disagreeable subject. I wash my hands
of the whole matter. If the young person herself is satisfied,"
with a short, file-like laugh, '•'■we may be, I think."

*' She is such a child — such a child," sobs Dora, covering

"Ml

A MORNING AT SHADDECK LIGHT. 1 35

her face with her hands, - she does not know. Oh ! why did
we ever, ever come ! "

Dick puts his hands to his head, feeling that his senses are
ree hng. What has he done-what is he to do ? Is it reallv
such a tremendous affair as they are trying to make out, or-
is all this a new version of Much Ado About Nothing ? He
IS not versed in the nicer gradations, the subtler shades of
feniuime propriety, as rigidly required by Mrs. Grundy-he
only knows that he wishes an earthquake would split Shad-
deck Light in two and swallow him bodily. It would be less

ternhc than Dora's sobs, or Mrs. Charlton's death's-head
stare.

" What do you want me to do ? " he demands, turning at
bay upon his tormentors at last.

^ " I ? " She laughs another short, rasping laugh. '* Noth-
ing whatever. It is nothing to me. Vera Martinez's dis-
grace does not touch "

" Disgrace ! " cries Richard Ffrench, with sudden fierce-
ness, facing her.

" There is no other word for it that I know of-no other
the world will call it by."

"The world be "

"No ! " says Mrs. Charlton, lifting her arm -that I will
not endure. Sw'earing or passion never mended a shat-
tered reputation yet. I permit no man to blaspheme in my
presence." ^

" You mean to say . "

"1 mean to say that I have no more to say. You are

neither so Ignorant, nor so innocent as you pretend. You are
a man of the world. Captain Ffrench, and do not need me
to tell you what construction the world-when it knows it-
will put upon Miss Vera's-ahem-eccentricity of last night
It IS a -ery painful and embarrassing subject-I really must
decline to discuss it now or at any other time."

"But, by Heaven! xi shall be discussed," exclaims Cap.

136

A MORNING AT SHADDECK LIGHT.

f\ ' i

■f ,:,

tain Ffrench, fairly enraged. " You come here, and blacken
that child's character, and then tell me you will not discuss
the subject "

"/ blacken her character! You forget yourself, Captain
Ffrench ! Mr. Charlton, I nnist insist upon going. I never
permit myself to be insulted twice."

" I beg your pardon ! " Dick says, hastily, and with a sud-
den total change of tone. " I have no right to lose my tem-
per. If you and Miss liightwood, governor, will leave us for

a few minutes I would like to — to " he is at a dead-lock,

and the sentence is not finished.

Dora's tears upset him beyond everything, and if there is
any grain of truth in ail this rhodomontade he would like to
get at it. Vera to suffer through him ! Why he would not
have a hair of the dear little thing's head hurt for a universe.

They obey — Dora indeed wipes her eyes, and dei)aits with
alacrity. He places a chair for his marble guest, and takes
another.

*' Sit down," he says, briefly ; " let us get at the head and
front of my offending, if we can. In all innocence — in all
inability to help myself, it seems I have blundered. You tell
me I did wrong in keei)ing the little one last night. To do
otherwise was simply impossible, but we will let that go.
Keep her I did. By so doing you say I have blighted her
good name for life. Now there are but two sorts of evil I
take it, the curable, and the incurable. To which does this
belong ?"

"To the curable, decidedly," replies Mrs. Charlton,
promptly. She sees she iS" torturing her victim, and takes a
malignant delight in his writhing. She feels as a cold blood-
ed naturalist may who has a rare and precious beetle im-
paled on a pin.

"That is well. Now what am I to do? "

"Does the 'what am I to do' not present itself unsug-
gested, Captain Ffrench ? In my day when a young man

ill

A MORNING AT SHADDECK LIGHT. 1 3/

seriously compromised a young woman, there was but one
honorable alternative — to marry her ! "

She brings out the word with vicious relish. She has not
the faintest, slightest, most shadowy tiiought that he will en-
tertain the idea, or she would never utter it. Has he not
been but just rejected by her daughter— does he not look
upon Vera as a little girl, as in point of fact she is ? " Pure
cussedness " has more to do with the spiteful suggestion than
any thought of the possibility of its being acted upon.

He sits quite still, looking ac her— his hands deep in his
pockets, after his usual abstracted fashion, profound gravity
on his face.

" This is the one alternative ? " he asks.
" The one alternative," she answers, " and in this case out
of the question."

" Why out of the question ? "

" Why ! " in imitated surprise. "Why ? Because she is
too young ; because she is a great grown up baby ; because
you don't care a pin about her; because you are going
away ; because— oh ! this is nonsense and a waste of time,
and I really must go ! "

He makes no attempt to detain her. He rises, opens the
door politely, and escorts her to the boat. In it is seated
Vera, her little straw hat tilted over her nose, half asleep in
the sun. On the rocks are seated Mr. Charlton and Dora,
in deep conversation— Dora still looking stricken and
mournful, but resigned. Vera starts up at sight of him.
They are making a great fuss about nothmg she thinks, and
badgering Captain Dick for what is no fault of his, with his
hurt shoulder and everything.

" Governor," he says very quietly, " you will be at home
for the rest of the day, I sui)pose ? Some time this after-
noon I shall go ashore and have a talk with you. Ladies,
good-morning."

He t-kes off his hat ceremoniously to dame and demci

138

A MORNING AT SUA DD EC A' LIGHT.

selle ; to Vera he gives a parting smile. That and the fact
that he is coming hiter on, sends her home hapjjy. No one
scolds her, no one asks her questions, the subject is tacitly
dropped. The worst is over ; Cai)tain Dick has been hon-
orably discharged on her evidence alone, and she lifts up
her voice and sings, half in gladness, half in mischievous de-
fiance of grim Mrs. Charlton :

"A fair good morn to thee love,

A fair good morn to thee,
And pleasant be thy path love,

Though it end not with me."

Her high, sweet singing comes back on the morning wind
to Richard Ffrench where he stands, and a smile breaks up
the dark gravity of his thoughtful face.

Id!

h^\

V-.% ■•

il i 5'

»',

" No vows were ever plighted —

We'd no farewell to say ;
Gay were we when we met first,

We parted just as gay.

•' A fair good morn to thee love,

A fair good morn awhile ;
I have no parting signs to give,

So take my parting smile ! "

At all times it comes as naturally as unconsciously, almost
as frequently to Vera to carol as to breathe. The last words
float back to him, as the Nixie turns into her little cave and
disappears.

"A grown up baby ! " he repeats. " Yes, Mrs. Charlton,
you are right, but baby or no baby my poor little Vera, it
seems I am to ask vou to be mv wife."

CAPTAIN DICK'S WOOmc.

139

CHAPTER XV.

CAPTAIN dick's VVOOLMG.

IFTEEN minutes later Daddy appears in a hang-
dog and apologetic fashion, looking sober and
sorry for it. He had been overtaken by the
storm, It appeared, and lying down in a back kitchen he
knew of, had fallen asleep. For Daddy to flill asleep was a
much easier thing than to awake ; the gray dawn was break-
mg when he opened his eyes again on this mortal life

Captain Ffrench waves him away. He might have apos-
trophized hun as erstwhile Sir Isaac Newton did his immor-
tal dog, Diamond : " Oh, Daddy ! Daddy ! little thou know-
est the mischief thou hast done ! " But the case is beyond
all apostrophizing.

" Go in and get your breakfast," he says, resi-nedly •
" don't trouble yourself with excuses. You have imde the
most distinguished blunder of your life, if the knowled<re
will give an edge to your appetite." °

He is leaning over the low wall that incloses the house,
his arms folded, and is preparing to think it out. He had
been annoyed last night for Vera's sake, had thought it an
awkward contretemps for the child ; but the light in which
the situation has been presented to him this morning, stag-
gers him. These women should know better than he, and
if It is as they say, then reparation must be made, as a sim-
ple matter of course. But is it ? It looks absurd to him-
women have a fashion of magnifying molehills into moun-
tarns ; but tor all that they may be very right ; no one knows
less than he. It is certainly true that he was in fault •
Vera would-and wished to-and could easily have walked

It I ,

li* 'i-^S

i'lt.

t\-h

140

CAPTAIN DICK'S WOOING,

ashore half an hour after she came, and he prevented her.
*' You have blighted her whole life ! " The words came
back to him in every surge of ";he surf, in a dread monotone.

Can it be true ? His scierce is at fault here ; all his big
books, mathematical, botanical, geological, cannot help him
out of his fog. '* Under a cloud her whole life-long ! "
Mrs. Charlton must have meant it; she has no motive for
saying what is false. And Dora's sobs, and his step-father's
frown — yes, it must be sc. A horrible blunder has been
made, and the penalty nuist be paid by both. He faces the
situation as squarely as he faced the columns of the enemy
in the rattling charges of his old trooper days. Vera shall
never suffer through him ; if giving her his name can shield
her from the world's slanders, she shall have it. But, poor
child ! what a shame, what a desecration of holy childhood
it seems. Her liking for him is so frank, so open, so inno-
cent, so fearless — it is akin to sacrilege to turn it to some-
thing she must blush for, and shrink from, and fear to show.

For himself it does not so much matter, and yet he likes
his liberty as well as most men, and matrimony, in the ab-
stract, is a subject on which he has never bestowed much
thought. He is not of a susceptible nature : even in his
calf-love days he never had the epidemic very badly. Cer-
tainly he has asked Miss Charlton to marry him — he admires
her, esteems her, for her beauty, her goodness, her worth.
If she had consented, he would doubtless have settled down
into a very admirable married man — as married men go, and
made as humdrum a head of a family as the majority. He
would, no doubt, have been happy, too, not rapturously, nor
excitedly blissful, but with a cool, steady-going, calm con-
tent, that would have spread out thin, and lasted better
than the enthusiastic sort of thing. Hut Miss Charlton has
said no, and he is bearing up under it, and despair has not
marked him for her own. But whether or no, to have to
marry little Vera ! " By Jove ! " says Captain Dick, blankly,

CAPTAIN DTCK'S IVOOING.

141

aloud. The thing refuses to look reasonable, all his think-
ing faculties are at a dead lock. " Afarry little Vera ! "
And then he huij^^hs— something utterly absurd in the whole
thing strikes his sense of the ludicrous. It is the most de-
licious joke —or would be, if he were only a second, not a
principal. Marry little Vera ! Marry the Dona Martinez !
Marry that small girl— only sixteen, by (leorge ! and hardly
twelve, so far as her ideas matrimonial are concerned !
What will Englehart and the rest of them say ?

But his sense of the hiuiior of the thing is not hilarious.
Poor little Vera ! it is a shame ! And in years from now —
six— ten— how will she regard it ? Will such a marriage not
spoil her life far more than the lack of it ? She is not com-
petent to judge for herself; there are misses of sixteen, with
all a woman's maturity of judgment on the two great sub-
jects of female life — dress and husbands ; but she is not one
of them. There are girls and girls. Vera will say yes if he
asks her, because she likes him in her girlish fashion, and
because she does not understand enough to say no. His
face grows grave— he resolves that he never 7vill ask her.
If her life is to be sacrificed, some one else shall ])revail
upon her to sacrifice it. Still his duty— if it be his duty-
must be done.

He stands a long time there, grave, preoccupied, trying
to see daylight, and failing lamentably. It is all a muddle
— and much thinking only makes a bad matter worse. He
gives it up at last, and goes indoors to his big, dusty, grim-
looking volumes. These are friends, at least, that never be-
wilder — that are tried, and trusty, and true. But reading is
not so easy as he thinks. Vera comes between him and
every page ; Vera with her wistful face, as he opened his
eyes, and saw her first last evening, frightened, troubled for
him ; Vera all bright with defiance this morning, taking her
stand by his side, and doing battle in his defence ; Vera
seated beside him, telling him her pathetic little story of

142

CAPTAIN DICK'S WOOING.

clcatli, and loss, and weary work. And he has done her
harm ! He feels as a man may who has crijipled for life
through his blundering carelessness a little child.

Poor little Vera ! dear little Vera ! Either fate seems
equally hard for her. lUit his mind is made up. If Vera is
not old enough, or wise enough to decide for herself, her
sister is both. Shrewd, unscrupulous, keen little woman of
the world that she is. Dora shall be umpire. She loves
the litde one — surely she will know and decide for the best.

It is almost three o'clock in the afternoon when Captain
Ffrench is shown into his step-father's private study. Mr.
Charlton is ensconced in his arm-chair, lying back with closed
eyes, and in a low rocker near Miss Lightwood sits reading
aloud. And very charming indeed Miss Lightwood looks,
in the green twilight of the shaded room, as fair, and fresh,
and pink as a rose. Her dress is white Swiss, and crisp as a
new bank-note, and her pretty arms and neck sparkle
through its gauzy clearness — her fair hair is " done " in a
gilded pyramid on the top of her head, and frizzed down
to her eyebrows. She lays down her book and looks up
with a smile, but the smile fades when she sees the visitor.
She rises, gives him one reproachful glance, says something
incoherently, and hurries out of the room. Evidently she has
not got over it.

" I am very sorry to intrude upon you," Captain Ffrench
says, standing erect, a certain stitTness, both in words and
manner. " I certainly would not have done so, after our
recent interview, but for this unfortunate affair of last night."

"You do well to call it an unfortunate affair. It is that,
and more, and sJic is likely to find out to her cost, poor little
fool ! "

"Not if any action of mine can repair the folly. The
fault of her staying was wholly mine — thoughtlessly, but ab-
solutely mine. She wanted to go home \ she could have
gone home, but I liked to have her with me, and detained

CAPTAIN DICK^S IVOOmC. 143

her I need hardly say I expected to send her home with
Daddy after dark. I failed to do that, and the consequence
I am told IS, that her good name is, or may be injured I
don't know much about these delicate matters myself— I
have no wish needlessly to sacrifice my own future or hers
to the prurient scruples of an old woman-I don't see my
way clearly to what is my duty in this matter. When I do
I am ready to do it."

" You were told tolerably plainly though, this morning."
"Do you mean to say you believe all that rot, about
bl.ghtmg her life, and so on ? 1 ask you, governor, as man
to man-m plain English, do you think I am bound to
marry Vera ? "

" In plain English, then-^^j-, if she will have you ^'
There is a pause. Mr. Charlton looks up under his bushy
brows. In his heart he knows this advice is not disinterested
--m his heart he knows if his boy were not on the verge of
departure for years, he would never give it. Vera is well
enough, but she is too young to be Dick's wife. He wishes
to see him married and settled, but not to a half-educated
slip of a girl. But he too has argued the matter out, and it
stands thus : If Dick does not marry he will go-if he does
marry he must-he ought, in common decency, to stay
Ergo, It IS better he should marry. And then Dora has been
talking to him, and making him see the case with her sharp
httle eyes It is coming to this pass, that Dora can make
him see all things pretty much as she wishes.

''Very well sir," says Dick Ffrench, resignedly, "that is
all. I abide by your decision. Now I will leave you I
trust your coming out this morning has not caused any re-
lapse r

Mr. Charlton re;.lies curtly in the negative. He is dying
to know what is in Dick's mind, .-hat he intends to do, if he
will really propose to Vera, and, pending her growing up
resign Honduras, but he is too proud to ask. Dick mus[

I 1

'i'- i.'!i

w ^ I' !

Ill

!'■ '

|;;.i:: ■

I^lkii '

144

CAPTAIN DICK'S WOOING.

volunteer, he will never again broach the Honduras matter.

"Where am I most likely to find Miss Li^htwood?"
Ffrench asks.

"Miss Lii^htwood ? Do you mean Vera?"

** I mean Miss Lightvvood. I am going up to New York
by the five o'clock train, and have a few words to say to her
first."

*' She is generally in the drawing-room when she is not
here." (ioing to New York, Mr. Charlton thinks. Humph I
that is odd too.

Dora is in the drawing-room, in the recess of a bay-win-
dow, embowered in flowers. At quite the other end of the
room, Eleanor is at the piano, playing one of Schubert's
tender, pathetic pieces. He greets her gravely and passes
on, and stands before Dora. What he has to say he can
say in a few words — to all intents and purposes they are
alone.

"I am going to New York this afternoon," he begins,
" and am not likely to be down again more than once before
my departure, and then only for a few hours."

She glances up quickly ; it is not the opening she has
looked for, but something in his face and tone tells her there
is more behind.

*' I do not forget what you and Mrs. Charlton said to me
this morning — that is not likely. It has made all the impres-
sion either of you could desire. I am here to make whatever
atonement I can make — whatever it is my duty to make. You
are Vera's sister, friend, monitor — older, wiser, better versed
in the world than she. Her welfare must be near to your
heart. Decide for her then. In this evil, that I have in-
advertently brought upon her what is it that you wish me to
do?"

Her cheeks flush hotly. He stands before her, erect, so
masterful, so simple, so earnest, in his strong, young man-
hood, that he puts her to shame. After all, she is a woman,

CAPTAIN DICKS WOOmo. 145

l.e a n,an, and the l,l„nt clirecCc.s of the ,|„es,i„„ ,„akes
l>ei >v,ncc, and a„n l,.,t all over her bo.ly. ' , ,,a,u y„' ,0
-ry™>...er;.i»a,„,o.aU.^^^^

...;,•,:;';::;; ;:;,:"'■"-'" ^'-- ^-^y^- ■^--t peu„a„.,y, a„d

watch I l,ave but httle time to spare. This is a matter I
cannot poss.hly discuss with Vera; cannot broach to a
ail. I «ant n,y answer then from you "
^ ^^;^<Mou n,ea„ to say you >vill not spealc to her at all of-

"I mean to say I will not s|>eak to her at all. Whatever
IS to be sa,d to the poor child, you-her sister-sha sav it
From first to last, the issue and its consequence: Irfes^

ant::iTei^;rmr,tr''-^'^^''''"- ^'""--^•'

«r.in: ;;;":'oice! I'n _:, o::tf::;ri"::r""" "'''-•"

nr. ,Mi r 1 "'^I'oiuiLbsiy I am sure — mean no-

^L'lch I """ '"' '-'" """'•■ '>-•"• S-™- -"«. Ca;S

" So it seen,.,. Now, how an, I to set that wrong ri^ht P ■•

"And that is .?"

"To shield her ,mh yo. r „an,e-to „,ake her your wife '•
He bows h,s head. Eleanor sits with her back t„ I f
Playn,g very softly, so as not to disturb tl ': ve a ',?
A trunge sort of angry, i.npatient pain fills bin, sTt i f
;o ..n,, n, son. tntangible way to 'the n.om^ s^rr^f

146

CAPTAIN DICK'S WOOING.

■H I

■> 1 1

u :■ < J

i i

** Does she know ? " he asks at length.

"She knows nothing." Dora interrupts quickly, "noth-
ing! Do you think I would tell her, Captain Ffrench ?
Vera is as innocent as an angel, as ignorant as a baby. No
one has saiil one word to her."

" That is well. And now the matter simplifies itself. I
am going as I say — I will be down only once more. You
will ask your sister for me, if she will do me the honor to
become my wife. Her answer, you, or slie, or both can
write. Here is my address. If that answer is yes ."

" It will be yes," says Dora, very low.

" You will arrange the marriage for the twenty-third. On
the twenty-fourth 1 will sail with the expedition. My friend,
Dr. Englehart, will come down with me ; and I — if it is all
the same to you and her — 1 should wish the matter kept as
private as may be. lean de[)end u[)on Englehart, and I think
it is best the others should not know. It is a subject you
see on which I should not relish chaff."

She looks up at him. "You will really go then?" is on
the tip of her tongue, but she bites it and bows silently.

" It shall be as you say. If Vera is to be wooed and won
by proxy, I might as well be the ambassadress, I suppose.
Please give me your New York address."

He gives it. And now a sense of the grim humor of the
thing begins to dawn on Dora, She is a designing little
witch, but she has this redeeming point, she knows a joke
when she sees it and can laugh. A faint smile ripples about
her lips now, as with the greatest gravity he pencils his hotel,
and hands it to her.

" You will say to Vera — for me — what you think best.
On the twenty-third I will be here. You will make her
understand that I do not give up the ♦expedition, and that I
may be absent for years. Mr. Charlton will of course give
her a home here, until my return — that I must exact if I
marry. You will mention it to him."

U.a *■■.

IS on

•i

CAP'JAIN DICK'S llOOING,

147

" Anytliing else, Captain Ffrench ?"

" That is all, I think. I will not see Vera just novv-it is
bettor 1 should not. Afake my adieux to her. (Jood-day
Miss r.ightwood." •^'

He bows and departs. LVra looks after hhn a moment,
her bright eyes dancing with laughter.

MVas there ever such a great, sunple-headed, ridiculous
Dick, she thinks. " /am to ,\o his courting, am I ? What
an artless pair he and Vera will make-about five years old,
each of them I "

She laughs softly, as she watches him say good-by to
I'Jeanor. ^

''And what will Nelly say-asking her one day, and mar-
rying Vera the next ? And her mother ! Ah ! Mrs Charl-
ton, you builded better than you knew, when vou took Cap-
tain Dick to task-not for Vera's sake, but to gratify your
own inborn ill-nature. And Charlton is to be the child's
home after all ! '

She sees the young man leave the house, and go down the
avenue with his long trooper's stride. Vera is nowhere
about, and he is glad of it. He feels he cannot meet her
just now. When he has quite gone, Dora rises briskly, and
goes up to her sister's room. Vera lies, indulging in an
afternoon siesta, induced by her sentimental vigil of last
night, all unconscious that the hour is past, and her hero
come and gone.

148

J/OfV DORA DOES IT.

CHAPTER XVI.

« i

I' I

.i!^..:

HOW DORA DOES IT.

ORA stands a moment and looks at her sister, a half
smile on her face. Vera has coiled herself up like
a kitten, in her white cover — sleep and warmth
have flushed her checks — all her. black, short tresses curl up
damp and silky around her forehead. She looks like the
child she is, although tall and well-grown for her sixteen
years, and sh' comes ne; ler being pretty, just now, than
Dora has ever seen her.

" Can it be possible she is going to grow into a handsome
woman ? " Miss Lightwood thinks ; " her father was, I think,
the handsomest man I ever saw, and Vera resembles him.
If she does, Richard Ffrench will not have done so very badly
after all. He is fond of her, too, but not in that way — yet.
Men of his stamp never fall in love with girls in the transi-
tion stage — in the short frock — and bread and-butter epoch —
they require full-grown women. Well ! Vera will be that
before he returns from his silver mining, and then he can
woo his wife at his leisure."

She takes a seat by the window, through which a cool
breeze is blowing up from Shaddeck Bay. She does not
awaken her sister ; there is no hurry. It has been said
already that this girl is the one creature on earth Dora
Lightwood loves. To her mind this thing she is about to
do is a proof of that love. Vera is fond, very fond of
Richard Ffrench ; she admires him beyond everything — he
is her Sir William Wallace, her Sir Folko Montfau9on, her
Sir Launcelot all in one, and a little superior to any of them.

1'. I

HO IV DORA DOES IT.

149

* I
•'1

What can conduce more to her future happiness than to be
made his wife ? Vera has never thought of this, never once,
and Dora knows it— her fondness and admiration are in the
abstract. She would be perfectly satisfied to see him married
to Eleanor or herself— all the same she would like to remain
near him, to be with him always. The girlish fancy which
makes him her ideal hero of romance now, will make him
the man she loves by and by. Vera is of the type whose
destinies are ruled much more by their heart than head— her
love will make or mar her life. Then— taking a more practi-
cal curn— Captain Ffrench is likely, eventually, to be not only
a very rich, but also a very distinguished man. He has
talent of no common order, he has unflinching determination,
a dogged resoluteness to succeed. He is not afraid of hard
work or waiting. Men of that kind are bound, sooner or
later, to go up to the head of the class. Afarried to him,
Vera's toiling days will be over ; Charlton, which she loves
so much, will be her home ; she will have nothing to do, but
grow up gracefully, study the accomplishments, transform
herself into a pretty woman, and win her husband's heart on
his return. On the whole, it is just as well he is going. Vera
is too young ; she needs at least four years of har'd study
then a winter in " the world ;" at the end of that time she

will be fit to be any man's wife. For herself but here

Dora breaks off, and her musing, half smile deepens. She
has hei own dreams, and into them the show-rooms on
Fourteenth Street enter not. She may sweep through
madame's handsome suite occasionally, but it will not be Is
forewoman. The waving trees of Charlton Place cast invit-
mg shadows as she siis and looks. These are pleasant
pastures— why go out from them to crop the scanty herba-e
that grows about the streets of New York ? ^

All in a moment Vera awakes, looks blinkingly about her,
rubs her knuckles into her eyes, and sits up with a gape.
" You, Dot ? Is it morning ? "

ISO

HOW DORA DOES IT.

Ij: ) !

ViV.

i! ■■

I i

" It is five in the afternoon," answers Miss Lightwood.
" I hope you have had a long enough nap."

Five in the afternoon ! Memory comes back to Vera
with a bounce. She jumps out of bed, and stands the picture
of consternation.

'^ Five ! and Captain Dick said he would be here at three.
Has he rot come, then ? "

** Captain Dick is the soul of punctuality, my dear, and
every other virtue. He has been and gone."

" Gone ! "

" Gone — gone to New York. He bade me say good-by
for him to you. He has been gone precisely half an hour."

Vera sits down on the side of the bed, dismay in every
feature. Tears fill her eyes, tears of anger, and reproach,
and keenest disappointment. Her lips quiver.

" Gone ! and you never called me. Oh, Dot !"

*' Did you want to see him so badly, then ? Why, child,
it is not possible you are crying ? Oh, this will never do !
you are as ignorant as a Hottentot of all sense of feminine
decorum."

" I don't care for decorum," says Vera, swallowing a gulp,
"and I do "

" For Dick Ffrench. That is patent to the universe. My
dear, do you know what your Captain Dick would have a
right to think if he saw you now ! "

" That I was awfully sorry he went away without saying
good-by."

"Worse than that — that you were awfully in love with
him."

If Dora expects to galvanize Vera into a sense of her in-
decorum by this abrupt announcement, she is mistaken. Vera
only chews the end of her handkerchief, and looks a tritle
sulky

" I don't care ! He wouldn't think anything of the kind.
As if a person couldn't like a person without bej»g in love

HOW DORA DOES IT.

iSi

with him. I think it wa^ hateful of you, Dot, not to call me,
when you knew I wanted to see him so much."

"You always do want to see him so much, don't you?
And it is such a tremendous time since you saw him last ! I
should think," says Dora, a smile dawning about her pretty
mouth, "you and he could have talked yourselves completely
out of every earthly subject last night."

"We didn't sit up talking all night, and you know it.
And now he has gone to New York, and perhaps will not
come down again at all."

The tears are welling very near the surface again, and
tremble in the voice that speaks.

*' Oh, yes, he will— he said so ; he told me to tell you so.
He is coming down for a particular purpose, indeed. Vera,
come here — sit down. I have a message for you from
Captain Ffrench."
Vera looks eagerly.

"Yes, Dot? But you might have called me, I think.
What is it ? "

" You are very fond of Captain Dick, are you not ? "
" Of course ! " says Vera, promptly, and a little indig-
nantly, at being questioned on such a self-evident fact. '' I
don't see how any one could help it."

Again Dora smiles, laughs outright indeed. It is impossi-
ble to help it — the child is so overpoweringly verdant.

"Well— but it won't do to say so to everybody you know.
You are sixteen. Vera, and tall enough to be twenty. You
are a young lady — not a child."

" Am I ? " doubtfully. " I wish you wouldn't keep my
dresses up to my ankles then, and I should love to have a
crinoline. But the message ! the message ! Captain Dick
didn't tell you to tell me I was grown up?"

"Something like it. Vera, your simplicity, your green-
ness exceeds all belief. Look here ! do you happen to know
what being married means ? "

152

nO^V DORA DOES IT,

■*i

"Certainly I do ! " retorts Vera, indignantly ; "it means
everything dowdy and stii[)id that ever was ! It means scold-
ing the \\iA\>, and slapping the children, and having a horrid
time getting money from your husband "

" Yes, I see you know," says Dora, laughing. " You are
thinking of Mrs. Trafton. But everybody does not of neces-
sity marry a rich old miser. " Some girls," says Dora, smiling
into her sister's large, unconscious eyes, "marry tall, good-
looking young gentlemen — ex-captains of cavalry, let us say
— of whom they are very, very, very fond, and they live in
places they think beautiful beyond telling, and are hai)py as
the day is long. Vera ! Vera ! what a goose you are ! don't
you understand ? Would you not like to be married ? Would
you not like to be married to Richard Ffrench ? "

Vera sits quite still, her eyes so imwinkingly fixed upon
her sister, that she makes tliat eminently self-possessed young
woman wince. Her color rises slowly, and deepens and
deepens, but she looks neither startled nor shy.

*' I don't know what you mean," she says.

" Oh, yes you do ! You are fond of Captain Dick. When
a young lady is fond of a young gentleman she naturally
wishes to marry him."

" Does she ? " says Vera, dubiously. " I suppose so. It
always ends that way in stories. But I am not fond of Cap-
tain Ffrench like — like thaty

" No ? In what way then ? "

"I never thought about marrying," says Vera, the red ris-
ing to the roots of her hair, " and you know it."

" But he has," says Dora, with emphasis : " he is not quite
such a babe in the wood as you, my dear Vera. He has
thought about marrying, not only thought about it, but spoken
about it."

" About — marrying — 7?ie? "

"About — marrying — you ! '^

" But that is all nonsense ! " cries Vera, amazed and in-

;l i

now DORA DOES IT.

IS3

in-

dignant. " He must have been in fun, you know. Why, it
IS absurd ! Only a week or so ago he asked Eleanor. ' I
wish you wouldn't say such ridiculous things, Dot."

" Now, Vera, listen here. It isn't ridiculous. Captain
Ffrench certainly asked Eleanor to marry him, but it was to
please his step-father, not himself; he likes you best. Do
you think he took Miss Charlton's refusal very much to
heart ? Why, any one could see he was glad of it. He likes
you best, and he wants you to marry him, Vera."
" Wants me to marry — jiim ! "

The words drop from her slowly, in vast amaze. She is
trying to take in the idea. It is so entirely new that it re-
fuses to be taken in all in a moment. But a great, slow
light of gladness is coming into her eyes, too.

" Wants you to many him," repeats Dora, watching her
closely. °

The dark eyes flash out a quick, sudden joy.
" Dot, would he stay at home ? Would he stay here al-
ways ? Would he not go to Honduras ? "
^ " Oh, well, I am not so sure about that. He has prom-
ised, you know, and men like to keep their word. But he
would come back all the sooner, and when he came back
you need never be se])arated from him more."

Never be separated from him more !-never be separated
from Captain Dick ! There is rapture in the thought It
dawns upon her slowly. Always with him, rowing, driving
smgmg-seeing him, hearing him, becoming acquainted with
his numberless perfections day after day. Why the very
thought is elysian.

"Dora," she says, in solemn ecstasy, "I should love to
marry Captain Dick ! "

l^he look that accompanies this is too much for Dora She
leans back in her chair and laughs until the tears stand in
her eyes.

" Oh, Vera, child, you will be the death of me yet ! Oh,

154

HO IV DORA DOES IT.

I i

you simpleton ! You must never say such a thing as
that!"

" Why not, if it is true?"

" liecausc — because the truth, the whole truth, is not to
be told at all times. It is too rare and precious to be used
in common in that way. Why, it would turn this crazy old
world topsy-turvy in no time. You must never, never say
you would love to marry any man. It is simply awful ! "

" Not even Captain Dick ?"

" Not even Captain Dick — least of all Captain Dick. You
must never let a man know you are so fond of him as all
that. It would be ruinous."

*' Would it ? " says Vera, looking dreadfully puzzled. " I
am afraid I don't understand."

" I am afraid you don't. But you understand this — that
Captain Dick wants to marry you ? "

*• What does he want to marry me for ? "

There is something so irresistible in Vera's gravity as she
asks these killing questions, that Dora nearly goes off again.
But she restrains herself.

" Because he is very fond of you, of course. The fondness
is mutual, you see. Why does any gentleman ask a lady to
marry him ? "

" To please his step father sometimes, it seems. But that
cannot be the reason now. Mr. Charlton does not want
him to marry me. Dora, I believe this is all some joke you
have made up to tease me."

*' On my honor ! The last thing Captain Dick said to me,
not an hour ago, was to ask you to be his wife before he
started for Central America."

" Then he was playing a practical joke, and I must
say "

" Vera, don't be an idiot ! I tell you no ! He likes you,
and wants to marry you, and Mr. Charlton is very much
pleased. Why don't you believe me? "

HO IV DORA DOES IT.

155

" Because the idea of anyone wanting to marry me me !

Oh, it is ridiculous ! And if he does, why didn't you

wake me up, and let him ask me himself? " says Vera, still
incredulous and suspicious.

" Why ? Oh ! well, you see he was rejected by one lady
such a very short time ago, that really the poor fellow has
not the hardihood to risk a second refusal. He spoke to Mr.
Charlton about it first this afternoon, and then to me. You
were so young, he sc;id, and he feared to startle you, and all
that, and would I just r.sk you for him. So I said yes, and
that is why he did not wait to see you. He was in a hurry,
too, to catch the five o'clock express. Here is his New
York address, and you are to write to him and tell him your
decision."

Slowly conviction is breaking upon Vera. But it is the
strangest thing— the hardest to comprehend. Captain
Ffrench want to marry her I She knows he likes her, but—
she is fairly puzzled, troubled, afraid to believe, yet longing
to do so. To be always with Captain Dick— always with him
at Charlton. What a heavenly idea !

"If you don't beheve me, come to Mr. Charlton," says
Dora, calmly ; '' he is not in the habit of playing practical
jokes."

But Vera rejects this idea with consternation. Not for all
the world. Is Dora sure he is really pleased?

" Charmed," Dora asseverates.

"■ And Eleanor, and Mrs. Charlton "

" They do not know — shall not know for the present. The
wedding is to be strictly private. That is Captain Dick's wish."

The wedding ! Vera gives a gasp.

"Then — when- "

" Iw about a fortnight," responds Dora with composure ;
" It IS sudden, but it is also his wish. He leaves on the
twenty-fourth, he wishes the wedding to be on the twenty,
third. Those are his words."

156

I/O IV DORA DOES IT.

(Mil

Vera sits silent. Her unusual color Is gone, and the dusk
face and great dark eyes look wistful.

" It is so strange — so strange," she sighs. *' I don't know
what to say "

*• You don't know what to say ! " exclaims Dora, aghast
with suri)rise, "why you inexplicable child, I thought you
would be delighted."

" Yes, yes, so I am. I like oh ! I do like Captain

Dick ! It is not that. There is nothing in the world 1 would
not do for him. ]>ut it is so new, so strange — it frightens
me somehow. To ask me so suddenly, to want to marry
me, and then to go away just the same. When people marry
people they stay at home with them, don't they ? " inquires
Vera, vaguely.

" Mostly," answers Dora, unable to repress a smile, " but
this is an exceptional case. Captain Dick would naturally
prefer to remain at home, but having promised he is bound
to perform. You would not have him break his word, would
you ? "

" I would not have him do anything but what is noble and
right," says Vera i)roudly, '* he could not. If he wants me
to marry him, I will mary him. If he wants me to go with
him, I will go. If he wants me to stay here and wait for him,
I will stay. I will do anything — everything — he wishes."

**Amost delightful state of wifely subjection and duty.
Well, my dear-, it was a hard task, but I have beaten it into
your stupid little noddle at last. Captain Ffrench wants to
marry you on the twenty-tliird of August, and the marriage
is to be as much on the quiet as possible, because imme-
diately after he is obliged to leave you. I was to tell you
this, and you are to send him your answer under your own
hand and seal. That is the case. And now, I will leave
you to digest it at your leisure, for you still look half
dazed."

"And llie letter?"

' » t

A GIRL'S LETTER.

157

"The letter will keep. To-morrow will do." And then
she goes, and Vera is alone. Alone, with a whole new
world breaking upon her, a world of new thoughts, liopes,
plans, possibilities, bliss. Captain Dick wants to marry her
— wants to marry her — this king of men — she, little Vera
Martinez, with the thin face, and long arms, and cropi)ed
hair, and brown skin ! Why, it is wonderful ! The [)rince
married Cinderella, to be sure, but then the fairy godmother
i.ad been to the fore first, and transformed the grimy little
cinder-sifter into a lovely lady. Ah ! why were the days of
fairy godmothers extinct ? Why can she not ilash upon the
dazzled vision of her hero, on the 23d inst. with a complex-
ion of milk and roses, floating tresses of golden sheen (the
lady on the bottles of Mrs. Allan's Hair Restorer, is before
Vera's mind's eye, as she thinks this), not a single project-
ing bone or knuckle visible. And he will come back for her
in a little while — has not Dot said so — and the iairy tale will
end as a fairy tale ought, after all. "And they lived happy
forever after."

CHAPTER XVII.

A girl's letter.

R. CHARLTON comes down to dinner to-day for the
first time since his illness, and looks keenly across
the table at his step-daughter-in-law elect. A
glow of gladness is on the child's face, shining out as a light
througli a transparency. Her great new happiness is there
for all the world to read. She blushes as she catches the old
gentleman's eye— then laughs frankly, and Mr. Charlton
smiles in sympathy with that gay little peal.

" She is too young— too young, but it will be all right by

158

A GIRL'S LETTER.

and by. If the lad will but stay," he thinks, and looks with
a sigh at the empty place.

After dinner, in the drawing-room, he goes up to Vera and
takes her hand.

" And this is my little daughter ? " he says.

She looks at him, and some womanly instinct awakes, and
fills her eyes with tears. She stoops and kisses the wrinkled
hand.

" Jf you will let me be, sir."

" And Dick's answer is yes ? "

"It is yes, a thousand times over."

" Good ! I like that. Have you told him so yet ? "

" You know I did not see him, sir. 1 am to write to-
morrow, Dora says."

"Ah ! Dora says," he smiles, "it will soon cease to be as
Dora says. You are very fond of Dick, are you not, little
Vera ? "

" Very fond, sir," Vera says, fearlessly and frankly, and
without a blush.

" Well, my dear, God bless you. You must grow up a
good, and clever, and accomplished woman, so he may be
proud of you. For you are very young, my little girlie, to
be married."

"I know it, sir. Very young, very ignorant, very un-
worthy to be Captain Dick's wife."

" I don't say that. And time works wonders. A girl with
a head shaped like this, ought to have a brain. Beauty is
very well — indispensable almost ; but brains are well, too —
the combination is excellent in a woman. I am sure you
will have the beauty, I think you will have the brains. And
listen to me, little Vera — keep Dick at home when you get
him."

" I mean to try, sir," Vera answers, half laughing, half
crying, "but, oh ! it seems so presumptuous to think of his
ever giving up anything to stay with me."

l^-«

A G/Rr:S LETTER.

159

" I don't know about that. Don't be too modest. A man
should stay with his wife. You must make yourself so fasci-
nating, so accomjilished, so charming, that he will be unable
to leave you. You must study hard and grow up such a lady
as we will all be proud of."

" I will try — oh, indeed I will try I '' Vera exclaims, clasp-
ing her hands.

r'vmbition is stirring within her. Afr. Charlton's praises
h;' ve elated her. Study, become accomplished, learned,
clover — ah ! will she not ?

That evening passes like a dream — in Vera's after life its
memory is misty as a dream. The restlessness that usually
keejis her Hitting about the room is gone ; she sits quite
still, her hands clasped behind her head, a dreamy smile on
her face, her little high-heeled shoes crossed one over the
otlier on a hassock. Dora is playing chess with Mr. Charl-
ton, as customary ; Mrs. Charlton sits making tatting ; Elea-
nor is reading. Vera lifts her happy eyes and looks at her.
Poor Nelly ! she thinks, a great compassion filling her, how
much she has lost. Does she realize it ? Surely not, or she
never could sit there with that quiet face, reading so steadily.
To refuse — deliberately and in cold blood to refuse Ca[)tain
Dick ! As long as she lives. Vera feels, she will never be
able to understand that ununderstandable wonder.

The steadiness of her gaze magnetizes Miss Charlton.
She looks up from her book, smiles, and comes towards
her.

" How quietly you sit ; how happy you look," she says.
" You are not like yourself to-night. What is it, my Vera ? "

"I am happy," Vera answers, "happy, happy, happy!
So happy that 1 do not think anything can ever give me a
moment's trouble again. I am the very happiest girl in all
the world."

" Indeed ? " Eleanor laughs. ** Permit me to congratu-
late you. Is it indiscreet to ask the cause ? "

tii

it:

i(3o

A GIRL'S LETTER.

" Ah ! T cannot tell you ; it is a secret — yet — but you will
know soon."

" It must be very soon, then, for I am goinr^ away on
Monday."

Vera o[)ens iier eyes.

•* On Monday ? Going away from Charlton for good ? "

" For good. I hn[)e you are just a little sorry."

*' Oh, Nelly, sorry ! indeed, indeed, yes ! But so soon.
Next Monilay? Oh, you must not! Mr. Charlton will never
consent."

Kleanor smiles a little sadly.

" That is your mistake, my dear ; Mr. Charlton has con-
sented."

** But this is dreadfully sudden. Why, we were all to stay
until September. Wliat are you going so long before the
time for ? Are you tired of Charlton ? "

"Tired !" l"21eanor answers, and looks out at the moon-
light, lying in broad, pale sheets in the grass. *' No, little
V<,'ra, it is not that. I am going because 1 must go. So I
am not to know this wonderful secret it seems. And Cap-
tain Dick gone, too ! " smiling down into the eyes that droop
suddenly, " and you and he such devoted friends ! Did you
see him this afternoon ? "

" No, I did not see him," Vera answers, confusedly.
What would Eleanor say if she knew ? How can she sit
and speak of him in that composed way when she has wil-
fully lost him f(M-ever ? Does she guess it was only to [)lease
his step-father he asked her, and was she too proud to accept
a reluctant lover ? Will she not be pained, mortified, hu-
miliated, when she knows the truth? Perhaps it is just as
well for Eleanor's own sake she is going on Monday. It
would be dreadful for her to be here, and see him married to
somebody else. For she ;;///j-/ regret him. It is out of the
order of things for her to help it, and this seeming serenity is
but the fair outside that covers a blighted heart. Something

A GIRL'S LETTER.

l6l

like this goes through Vora's sentimental little head in the
paiue that ensues. Yes, on the whole, althou^jh she will
miss and regret Nelly, it is as well.

" I hce I am to pine in ignorance," says Afiss Charlton.
" Well, I shall take away a picture of a radiant face at least,
aiul, two blissful black eyes. Mow beautiful Charlton looks
tonight. 1 wonder if I shall ever see i igain?"

"Indeed you shall I '' cries Vera, with emphasis; "often
and often ! I mean," as Eleanor looks at her in surprise,
" that l\lr. Charlton will invite you again next summer,
and "

"Mr. Charlton will not invite me next summer, my dear,
and I have a tolerably strong conviction that I am looking
my last on its green beauty. Well ! it is the inevitable, and
at least I am the better for having been here. Come and
sing for me ; I like that fresh skylark voice of yours. I will
play. Do you know, Vera, you have a very fine voice — so
fine, that, projjcrly cultivated, you might leave off teaching,
and distinguish yourself on the lyric stage."

" I don't want to distinguish myself — in that way," Vera
answers, thinking how differently the bolls of ''fe are break-
ing for her ; "but, all the same, it shall be cultivated, and I
am glad, very glad, it is fine."

Again Eleanor looks at her in surprise. She does not un-
derstand the girl this evening. What is this new happiness
that has come to her? Has Mr. Charlton offered to adopt,
educate, and keep her with him here always? And is Dora
to stay, too, as prime minister of the household ? It looks
like it, and seems reasonable. He likes brightness, and
gayety, and youth, and pretty looks, and he is wealthy enough
to indulge in more unreasonable whims. Of the dark doings
cf last night she knows nothing. Her mother is still in a
state of the blackest, silentest sulks ; no one else is likely to
inform her. So she settles it in her own mind that this is the
solution, as she strikes the first chord of her accompaniment.

l62

A GIRL'S LETTER.

I! :!

ill :ii

For a long time that night Vera lies awake, thinking of
her new felicity and of her letter. What is she to say to
Cajitain Dick ? She knows nothing of the forms that obtain
in love-letters, and her reading, copious, light, and romantic
as it has been, gives her very little data to go ui)on. Sir
r'olko is a married man when the admiring reader is first in-
trochiced to him, consequently has no need to indite tender
epistles. Ivanhoe never corresponded with either P.ebecca
or Rowena, so far as Vera can remember — very probably did
not know how to write indeed ; and the Corsair, in all his
piratical meanderings, never so much as sent a single postal-
card to the drooping Medora ! An it chances. Vera has
written but two letters in her life, and these of the briefest',
to the Miss Scudder of her story. She has a melancholy
consciousness that she does not shine on paper, that neither
her orthography, chirography, nor syntax, is above ''eproach.
But then there is Dora — there is always Dora — Dora will
know what to say, and bow to spell the words of three
syllables, if she has to tackle any of these staggerers ;
and with this blissful sense of refuge she drops at last to
sleep.

But, to her surprise and indignation, Dora flatly refuses
next day.

" Write your own love-letters, my dear," she says, coolly ;
" it is a good rule never to interfere between man and wife
— even if they are only man and wife elect. One never gets
thanks in the end. Here is a nice sheet of thick white
paper, a pen I can recommend, and a bottle of ink as black
as your eyes. And here is a dictionary — I know that is in-
dispensable, you poor little ignoramus. Now begin. Only
I shall expect to see this famous production when done In
the annals of sentimental literature 1 am quite sure it will
stand alone."

Dora is obdurate, deaf to all pleading, to the great disgust
of the letter-writer. Thrown thus upon her own resources,

A GIRDS LETTER.

163

Vera, after sitting for a while disconsolate, plucks up heart
of grace, dips her pen in the ink, and begins :

" Charlton Place, Aug ii, 18

" Dear Captain Dick : "

That much glides off smoothly enough. After all people
make a great deal more fuss about letter-writing than it is
ft'orth. Vera feels she would not accept help now if it was
offered — she will do it alone or perish — with an occasional
peep into the big dictionary. So knitting her brows into a
reflective scowl, she goes on, murmuring her sentences half
aloud as she writes :

•'Dear Captain Dick: Dorca has asked me to marry you. I like
you very mucli, I think it would be splendid to be your wife, I am very
much obliged to you for wanting me "

*' It sounds jerky, somehoW;" says Vera, pausing discon-
tentedly, " and it has too many I's. I never let Lex put
three of his I's so close together as that. Dot ! you are
laughing ! "

Dora is holding a book up before her face, and is shaking
behmd it. At this accusing cry she looks over the top to
protest she never was more serious in her life, but in the
effort explodes into a perfect shout. Vera lays down her
pen in deepest dudgeon.

" If you can do better, why don't you come and do it ?
When a person refuses to help another person, and then can
find nothing better to do than sit and laugh "

" It— it is lovely ! " gasps Dora, with tears in her eyes.
" Did I not say it would be unique ? To interfere with that
letter would be to paint the lily. Oh ! go on — go on ! 'I
am much obliged to you for asking me ! ' Oh, my side ! I
shall die if I laugh any more."

"Isn't that right?" inquires Vera, suspiciously. "I am
much obliged to him, and why shouldn't I say so ? "

I
I ■

• if

(fil

164

A GIRVS LETTER.

*' VVhy, indeed ? Oh, proceed — I promise not to interrupt
more."

Vera compresses her lips. She feels that this is hard to
bear, and wcnild scratch out the much obliged, if siie knew
what to [)ut in its place. But she does not.

"You miyht liave knocked me down with a /rt////i?;- when Dot told
me. The idea of bcuig married to you, or anybody. Why, I never
tlioutjht of such a tliuif^. And you must see so many ladies older and
talli'r, and ever so \\\\\<:\\ prettier than 7ne ! I cannot for the lile of me
see what you want me for. ]]ut I would rather wx^xxy you than anybody
in the world. And I tiiink Ffrench ^ beautiful n'xxwQ. Veronica Mary
Martinez Ffrench ! Does it not sound kind of rich and imposinj;? 15ut
Airs. Captain Kichard Ffrench — that is better still. And always to live
liere (Dot says I shall), why it will be just like heaven. At least, I
suppose, that is irreverent, but it will be a sort of paradise on earth —
oidy I wish you were not gomg away — it seems such a j/mwt' just to get
married, and then start off on a tour with Dr. Iuigleha':t, and leave me
behind. Couldn't / go to Honduras, too? But thcie ! I knoio I
would be in the way. and I want to stay at home besides, and study etier
so liard, so that you may not be ashavied of me when I grow up ? The
idea of a gentleman's w//V growing up. Is it not funny ? "

Vera stops, making insnne plunges at the inkstand, her
eyes on the sheet, all in a glow of inky inspiration. Dora,
indeed ! She would like to catch herself asking I>ora to
help her with her letters after this. Why, it is as easy as
talking.

" You must tell me when you come down about the things you WHild
like me to study hardest when you are awjkv. I hope you will not l,*e
rivjP'^iticular .about botany and algebra— i (fer/'t* arithmetic, ami I know
I ne\er can master nine times. Oh ! f nearly lorgot ! I was dread-
fully sorry you went away without speaking to me. but f vnn- asleep up-
stairs, and Dot never woke me. And now I shall only see you oncf
before you go, and then we will be in such a fuss get tin f^ married t]>at
we won't have time to say a single thing. What a lively (Asat we Itarf
at Shaddeck Light night before last, hadn't we? I shall ai<j*ay<* love
that little house, and I mean to take my books there when you hxk gone,

A GIRDS LETTER.

165

TiA

and look after Daddy and the rest of the things till you come back. I
do Iiope you will come back soon. It will be aivfttlly lonesome when
you are gone."

Here Vera falls back in her chair, exhausted, but trium-
phant. She has filled three sides of her sheet already, and
in her very finest hand. She is doubtful whether epistolary
etiquette does not demand that the fourth page be left
blank, but she will die rather than ask Dot.

'* Done, dear ? " says Dora, coming over. " Let me read
it."

Vera yields it up reluctantly. She feels it is more than
Dora deserves, but there may be some bad spelling — she has
not consulted Webster — and it is best it should be as nearly
perfect as possible. She watches her sister jealously as she
reads, prepared to reseiit any symptom of unseemly levity.
]kit Dora holds her risible faculties well in hand, and gets
through without disgracing herself.

*' It is exquisite, my child ; it is all my fancy painted it.
Now I think I would wind up, if I were you ; let him have
just enough to make him wish there was more."

"■ 1 think I have got in pretty much e^""rything," says Vera,
musingly. " I must tell him to excuse mistakes, and to
write soon, and I am his aftectionately. How do you spell
aff-ec-tion-ate-ly, Dot ? I am sure of it all but the * shin.' "

This knotty point is got over, the letter is finished, folded,
enveloi)ed. Vera licks the gum with relish, and sticks it
with pride. Then she writes the address in her largest,
noblest hand,

"Captain R. C. Ffrench."

Was there ever such an idyllic name ? And the letter is
an accomi)lished fact. Her first real letter ! her first love-
letter! She holds it from hf^r, and gazes on it in that glow
of pride and enthusiastic rapture with which a youtliful artist
gazes on his first painting — now in this light, now in that.

1 66

A GIRLS LETTER.

" I shall post this myself," says Vera, with calm determina-
tion. " No mortal hand shall be intrusted with it. I only
hope it may go safe. It would be a dreadful thing if it went
astray. Are letters very often lost. Dot, on the way ?"

" Between St. Ann's and New York ? No, my dear,
they are not. And even if they were, this would be sure to
go — could not fail to go. It is like a sign-board. I could
read that ' L Trench ' if I were at the other end of the
garden."

" A large, bold hand shows decision of character," responds
Vera, firmly ; " and decision of character I mean to have. I
have a cramp in my fingers from making those letters so
large and inky. You might drive me over this afternoon,
Dot ; it is too hot and dusty for walking."

Dora agrees, and Vera, feeling the need of relaxation after
this severe mental strain, whistles to Nero, the house dog,
and challenging that black monster to a race, they are soon
tearing up and down the avenues. It is hot, she says, but
one must have physical exercise after a prolonged course of
writin^;,, else the ai)plication might be injurious to one's
health. She has read that somewhere, and means to store
up all these scraps of useful information, neatly labelled, to
be kept until called for. A very paragon of learning and
wisdom, she is resolved, shall be the future Mrs. R. C.
Ffrench.

Four hours later the letter, big with fate, is posted, and on
its way to New York, and the destiny of two people is
settled for all time.

,»

•;■::«

THE DAYS BEFORE.

167

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DAYS BEFORE.

ND now the days fly. If each one were forty-eight
hours long it would hardly be long enough, Dora
Lightwood thinks. For Vera they fly, too, but
then that is a way Vera's days have always had, only now
they seem doubly winged, and each brings the eventful
twenty-third and Captain Dick nearer. One, two, three,
four — here is Monday and Eleanor is going. Really going,
and Eleanor's mannna, seized at the last moment with a sec-
ond attack of neuralgia, is unable to accompany her — unable
to lift her tortured head from her pillow. P^leanor must go
alone.

*' Neuralgia ! " laughs Miss Lightwood, scornfully. " Left
her window open all night, and the sudden change to cold,
etc. Bah ! What an old liar she is ! " Miss Lightwood al-
ways makes a point of calling a spvade a spade. " She is
very well ofi' here, and here she means to stay. Well 1 we
shall see."

So Eleanor goes alone, and is kissed good-by in her sweet-
est way by Dora, and is driven to the station by that most
dashing of little whips. Vera goes too, and clings to her at
the last, tears in the brown eyes, wistful, imploring, pleading,
in the young face.

•' Nelly ! Nelly ! how sorry I am you are going. Oh 1
Nelly, I thought and said horrid things of you once. I am
sorry now ; sorry, sorry ! Forgive me, won't you, before you
go?"

"Thought and said horrid things of me ? Why, my pet,"
says Miss Charlton, laughing, " what had I done ?"

ir.8

THE DAYS BEFORE.

''■y

■:si t

*' Oh ! I am a wretcli ! A little bad-tempered wretch !
You refused Captain Dick " — in a whisper this, and the hot
face hidden — "and 1 couldn't bear it. And I hated you —
there ! "

**My dear child ! how can you possibly know "

" I was in the room — you didn't see me, but I was, and I
overheard. Wasn't it awful? But I didn't mean to. I told
him about it, and he said the loveliest things of you ! You
are not angry, are you ? "

*' Angry, dear ? Why, no. Only vou must never tell that
you— that I "

" 1 know — I know. Of course not. And, Nelly," — she
has taken hold of a button of Miss Charlton's jacket and is
twisting it round and round — "you are sure — you are not
sorry now — sorry you said no, I mean ?"

" It had to be no, Vera. It could never possibly have
been anything else."

*' And you would not take him now, even if he came and
offered again ? "

"No."

" You are sure ? "

'* I am certain." She smiles, but blushes a little, too.
"Why, what a little inquisitor it is I How fond you are of
Captain Dick."

Ah ! fond. But there is something besides that fondness
in Vera's face, as she stands nervously twisting the button.

" What is it, pet ? " Eleanor asks. '' By the way, I want
you to say good-by for mc to Captain Dick when he comes.
We are never likely to meet again."

" Oh ! Eleanor — are you not sorry?"

"Yes — no — yes, I suppose so. He is a gallant gentle-
man, and 1 like him. Vera, you are trying to say something.
Wliy, how you are blushing, child ! — and here is my button
half oft." She holds the little destructive hand. " Out with
it, quick ! there is the last bell."

THE DAYS BEFORE.

169

..I?

Vera flings her arms around her neck, regardless of the
loungers on the platform, and whispers, with a vehement
kiss :

** In nine days /am to be married to Captain Ffrench ! "

The last bell is clanging — Miss Charlion has barely time
to rush on board. There is not another word exchanged,
she waves her hand from the window, perfectly speechless
with surprise, and then the train steams out, and she is gone.
The first gap is made in the Charlton summer circle.

They drive slowly through the town, taking the post-ofiice
on their way. What a sleepy Sunday stillness reigns — every
green lattice is shut on the white front of each small house,
no one stirs abroad, the wooden pavements blister in the
August sun. The black wharves project into the harbor,
old, decaying, with the ceaseless wash and fret of the rip-
pling tide, slipping in and out forever among their rotting
planks. St. Ann's, always drowsy, lies sluggishly asleep,
this warm, dusty, midsummer afternoon.

A letter av/aits Vera — a note, rather — in a hand she knows
well. She tears it open in a second, and runs her eye over
its three or four sentences. He has received hers. He is
glad that she is glad. He ^"ill do what he can to make her
happy. He hopes she will never regret this step. He will
be with them by ten o'clock on Friday, the twenty-third. Dr.
Englt'hart will accompany him. And he is very affection-
ately hers, R. C. F.

It is a disappointing little billet — it is not in the least what
Vera expects. Such short sentences ! and so few of them.
She could do better herself! And he is used to writincr let-
ters, too — has she not seen them ? — long, learned letters, full
of polysyllabic words that Vera could neither spell nor pro-
nounce if it were ever so, letters that are printed in stupid
scientific quarterlies, heavier than lead. Such a short,
scrubby, unsatisfactory

" And what does he mean by regretting ? " she cries out

tf.1

170

THE DAYS BEFORE.

■'f

resentfully : " as if I was ever likely to regret. When ^ told
liini, too, I was ddii^htcd. I think he might very well have
made it a whole page. Such a nice, long letter as I sent
him. And tiie very first he has ever written to me ! I must
say "

" No, you mustn't. Captain Ffrench is very busy just now,
remember," says Dora, smoothly, "and has very little time
for letter writing. He will not fail on the twenty-third — that
is the main thing."

" Fail ! " repeats Vera, staring ; but Dora only laughs, and
whijis up the ponies.

There is silence. Vera feels aggrieved, and looks it. This
is not the sort of thing she has expected at all. If this is
what they call a love-letter, then she doesn't think much of
love-letters. If he means to send her six mean, stingy sen-
tences every time he writes from Honduras, he may keep
them ! She will tell him her opinion of this effusion the
next time tJiey meet.

But though Captain Ffrench's first note to his bride-elect
is as brief and non-committal as note well can be, he writes
to his step-father, on the same subject, a sufficiently lengthy
epistle.

" The more I think of it," he says, '' the more abundantly convinced
am 1 tliat tliis saciificc is at once absiu-d and imnecessary. In the first
moments of bewilderment, a ad overwhelmed by the tears and reproaches
of Miss Lightwood, I was all at sea., but now I know, I feel, when it is
too late to draw back, that this Quixofic marriage is utterly nonsensical.
Tiie accident of Vera's having remained a night at Shaddeck with me
could never spoil Iier future life as tiiis marriage may — as this marriage
must. Wliat does she know of herself — of marriage ? She is a girl in
years, a babe in knowledge of the world. In the time that is to come
she may bitterly rue this union, into which accident and woman's prudery
are driving me. Of myself I say little. In the future, whatever I can
do to make her happy I trust I shall do. To like her as a child is easy,
to love iier as a woman may be impossible. Who is to foretell what
kind of woman any given girl of sixteen may make ? I have no more wish

,n>i*jiJliu!H*n>^

THE DAYS BEFORE.

171

to sacrifice my life to a scruple of propriety than other men, but having
pledged myself to her sister, at any cost to myself, I shall keep my word.
" Duriny the term of my absence, it becomes a simple matter of ne-
cessity tliat Vera shall remain under your care, eiliier at Charlton with a
competent governess, or some good school. I should naturally prefer a
convent, as we are both Catholics. As you are one of the chief ad-
vocates of the marriage, I have no hesitation in making this claim upon
you. Vera must be your exclusive charge until my return. When that
return may be, it is impossible exactly to say, and if in the chapter of
accidents I should never return at all, I apjieal to your generosity to pro-
vide for the poor child's life. That non-return would probably be the
best thing that could befall ; it would give her back her freedom and the
average chance at least of happiness with a husband of her own choice."

Afr. Charlton reads this letter with compressed lips and
angry eyes. He usually jiasses his corresi)ondence of late
over to Miss Lightwood — he has got into a way of making
her his amanuensis, but for obvious reasons he says nothing
of this. He locks it up in his desk, and does not aiisvw r it.
So after all the headstrong, obstinate fool is going. Will- or
no wife he will keep his word to the expedition and start for
Honduras. Since it must be so, he might as well have gone
free as fettered— so far as Mr. Charlton is concerned the re-
sult will be the same. He chooses Englehart and Central
An. erica instead of his step-father and Charlton. He must
abide by that choice. Fortunes, as a rule, do not go begging ;
he will force no man to be his heir.

But he loves the lad — oh ! he loves him, and it is hard.
It is hard to let him go, hard to feel he may never look in
his face again, hard to feel that his affection is unreturned.
}Ie covers his face with a sort of groan. He is an old man,
he grows frail fast, he has counted on Dick as the prop of his
last years. Now tnose years must be passed alone — not even
a wife can hold the boy back. Well ! well ! at least if he
cannot command his obedience, he can make him pay the
penalty of his self-will. Keep, and provide for Vera. Yes,
he is ready enough to do that ; it will be a pleasure, a com-

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THE DAYS BEFORE.

fort, to keep something young and bright about him, and he
is ready to acknowledge her claim ; but no one can fill his
wayward step-son's place, no one ever can or will.

" Has Captain Ffrench written to i\fr. Charlton?" Dora
asks, one day, as Mr. Charlton remains moodily silent.
*' He sent Vera two or three lines simply to say he would be
here with Dr. P^nglehart at ten on Friday morning, but not a
word of his future intentions. And for Vera's sake I am anx-
ious to know whether he means to go or stay."

" He means to go," is the gloomy answer.

" And Vera, sir ? "

*' Vera is my care ; she remains with me, of course. She
must have a governess, and spend the next two years in hard
study. She will be over eighteen then, and a young woman
— let us hoi)e a clever and accomplished one — amiable I am
sure she will be, and good. His absence — confound him ! —
will not extend over that period. Dick is a good-tempered
fellow as ever breathed, but as pig-headed as the majority
when he sets his mind on a thing. And he seems to consid-
er it a question of honor here," says Mr. Charlton, trying, in
spite of himself, to make the best of it to a third party.

Dora sits silently, ])laying nervously with her watch-chai.;,
which, with its essential appendage, is a recent and expensive
present from her host.

" You need have no fears for Vera, my dear Dora," he
goes on ; "it shall be at once my happiness and my duty to
provide for her. I am glad she is to remain. Charlton will
be lonely enough soon, Heaven knows."

" It is not that, sir," Dora says, and covers her face with
her hands. " I am selfish — I was thinking of myself. She is
all I have — we two are so utterly alone ; and when I go back

to the old life and leave her here " She breaks down,

and lifts two lovely, streaming eyes. " Oh, forgive me ! " she
sobs. " What will you think of me ? But — but "

Mr. Charlton is moved to the depths of his genial, kindly

THE DAYS BEFORE.

173

old heart. A poor little woman in tears is always, he holds,
a pathetic sight ; a pretty little woman in tears is soinethin-^
to subjugate the universe, liut he never (piite knows what
to say on these su|)reine occasions.

" I have known so little pleasure, so little happiness in
my short life," soi)s Dora, behind a perfumed bit of lace and
lawn — very well for this sort of thing, but ridicul )us if taken
in connection with a cold in the head. " It has been all
work, work, work, since the cruel war that robbed us of every-
thing. And now that I have known Charlton and/f //, sir '

Sobs choke her utterance — language fails.

This is llattering — Mr. Charlton feels it so. His amour
propre has just received a mortal wound — the artless con-
fession between the flowing tears of lovely woman is as a
soothing salve. And she is so i)retty — crying does not si)oil
Dora, nor redden the point of her pretty nose. If it did you
may be sure Miss Lightwuod would give idle tears a wide
berth. She is so pretty, so forlorn, so young, so — so every-
thing that can addle the brain of a good-hearted, siinple-
souled old gentleman. He rises and bends above her,
deeply moved, and tries to take away the dampened scrap
of handkerchief from before the [)ale, tear-wet face.

" Dora ! my dear Dora — my dear child, don't — I beg of
you, don't. Why go at all ? Charlton is a large house, and
1 am a very lonely man. Stay with your sister, stay with her
always, stay with me. She will need you — / will need you,
the house will need you. Stay with me as — as my daugh-
ter."

Miss Light wood starts to her feet as if stung. Two blue,
soft, tearful, sad, reproachful eyes look at him a moment.
*' As your daughter ? " murmurs a choking voice ; *' and I

■ — in my madness, have No, no, it can never be ! " And

then she breaks from him with an inarticulate sobbing sound,
and rushes out of the room, and upstairs, and into her own.

** And if that does not open his nonsensical old eyes,"

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174

THE DAYS BEFORE.

says Miss LiglUwood, b iskly, going over to the glass and
adjusting her front frizzes, " 1 will speak a little plainer
next time."

"And be sure it has a tail — train, I mean — at least one
yard long — not a finger-length less, Mrs. Jones, and make
tlie waist as puffy as you can, so that [ may look as if I had
a tendency to embonpoint — which I haven't. And as I am
not to have a bustle, my sister says, 1 want you to fix some
arrangement of stiff muslin that will do instead— you under-
stand ? lUit whatever else you do, make the train a — full —
yard — long."

Thus emphatically Miss Vera Martinez to the dressmaker.
She stands in the middle of the room, solemnly gesticulating,
her face wearing all tlie gravity — the seriousness of the
point at issue demands. A sheeny pile of creamy white silk
lies near the dress in (juestio.i, to which the yard-long tail is
to be appended and is Miss Martinez's wedding robe.

"And do not fail us on Thursday afternoon," says a
second voice, sharj), and a tritle imperious; "the — the din-
ner-party occurs on I'"riday, and there must not be the
slightest delay, Mrs. Jones. We will drive over about four
on Thursday, and fetch it away."

"There shall be no delay, JVTiss Lightwood, I never fail
my customers, and I have no other work just now."

" If this — party dress, is a success you shall have an
abundance of work in future, Mrs. Jones — I can promise you
that," says Miss Lightwood, graciously, drawing on her gloves.
" Come, Vera. Do not forget my instructions about the
point-lace trimming, Mrs. Jones."

" And do not forget my instructions about the train, Mrs.
Jones," says the more youthful voice, " a yard long. Mind
that ! "

She holds up an admonitory finger.

" One — yard — long ! " she reiterates, and then goes after
her sister out to where the pony-phaeton stands.

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THE DAYS liEFORE.

175

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*' And I hope to goodness she wont make a botch of it,"
says Dora, taking the reins. " Put not your faith in country
dressmakers. If there only had been time to order it from
Madame Le Hrun's," with a regretful sigh.

"And I hope to goo(hiess she wont shorten it behind,"
says Vera. ** The rest may go ; but, fit or no fit, a train to
it I must have. To think of a white silk dress like wrinkled
skins on scalded milk, as somebody says somewhere, with a
train trailing a full yard behind !" says Vera, in a sort of
solemn rapture.

" Only four days now — how they do fly I I told Harriet
before I came out, Vera."

*' Yet; ? " says Vera, giving a smart slap to a musciuito
that alights on her nose ; "and what did she say ? Did she
snap your head otT?"

Harriet is the Charlton houschceper, a maiden lady of
uncertain age and temper, and not a person to have house-
hold secrets from.

*' Not exactly. She was snai)pish, though, as usual, and
grumbled about the shortness of the time, and the length of
the coming breakfast. Vera, I shall send that old maid
about her bisiness one of these days."

" You will ! " says Vera. " Upon my word ! You had
better wait until Mr. Charlton can fill her place, I think."

*'Mr. Charlton has filled her place, my dear."

" Has he ? Who is the new one ? I feel interested natu-
rally — a housekeeper can make things dreadfully unpleasant
when she likes. Another old maid ? "

" No — o — not exactly — getting along though. The new
housekeeper will be a married lady, Vera," says Dora, and
laughs. " I think yo'^ will like her. It was I who recom-
mended her to Mr. Charlton's notice. lilit it is a secret yet
— you are not to say a word to him or any one."

" When is she coming ? "

'* Well — that is not quite decided either. But this fall

ill

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THE DAYS BEFORE.

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some time, for certain. I think Harriet will not be the only
old woman in Charlton her advent will astonish." Dora
laughs again at some inward jt)ke.

"I wonder when Afrs. Charlton means to go?" says
Vera, appositely enough.

*• Not a day sooner than she is obliged. Nasty old thing
— she is exactly like an over-fed tabby cat. The idea of her
l)retending neuralgia, and Mr. Charlton taking it in good
faith, until I undeceived him. I mean to tell her on Thurs-
day evening."

** About the housekeeper?"

" No ; about your wedding. How furious she will be,
and how she will try to hide it, and what a death's-head
stare and smile Siie will give me. I expect to enjoy it. She
made so sure of getting that i>oor Dick for a son-in-law. \\y
the way, have you answered his letter. Vera?" •

" 1 would not demean myself by answering such a scrubby
little affair," answers Vera, with dignity. " I never will
write to him if he sends me such notes from Honduras, and
so I mean to tell him. Here we are, and there is Mr.
Charlton waiting for us."

Afr. Charlton is always wa'iing for them of late, for Dora,
at least, and within the last two days seems to have ascended
into the rosy realms of bliss. Perhai)s it is the prospect of a
wedding that brightens him, perhaps it is the joy of speedy
emancipation from the iron rule of Harriet — at all events
the change is there. And IVfrs. Charlton at her window,
like an elderly Sister Anne on her watch-tower, glooms down
upon them, and has a vague feeling that something is going
on from which she is excluded. Mr. Charlton is as plastic
wax in the hands of Dora Lightwood ; there is no vagueness
about that, at least", and his infatuation bodes ill for lier pro-
longed stay at Charlton.

One, two, three — the bright days fly. It is Thursday, and
the eve of the wedding. Vera gets up early, but that is one

THE DAYS BEFORE.

177

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of Vera's virtues. To-morrow Cuptain Dick will come — to-
morrow is her wedding-day — to-morrow^ she will see hitn,
speak to him, belong to him her whole life long. The
thought is rapturous. And how lucky the weather is fine —
quite "queen's weather'' — not a cloud in the sky. Vera
feels it would go near to break her heart to be married in a
rain-storm. Friday is an ominous day, an unfashionable
(lay, an out-of-the-way sort of day to be married on. Cap-
tain Dick ought to have known better Uhan to select it, but
men are dreadfully obtuse about matriiixi>nial matters. So
that the priest, and the bride, and (he bri<'legroom are there,
they actually seem to think other things secowlary. Vera's
state is not one of unalloyed bliss. Captain j^ick is going
away; it may rain ; there is never any tru*<fing the weather
at picnics or weddings. And she has her do^'jbts about that
train ; if Mrs. Jones, possessed by some spi< t malignant,
should curtail it. Such things have been known. Harriet,
too, is still grumbling about the breakfast. No change in her
own ajipearance has taken place, liones and sailowness
are precisel)' as they were ; her hair has not grown percep-
tibly longer ; her forn) has not assumed any observable re-
dundancy ; she is neither handsomer, taller, plumi)er, wiser
than if to-morrow were not her wedding-day. She is afraid,
seriously afraid, Captain Dick may be disaj)pGinted. He
must have seen very many pretty women lately. She knows
what sort of faces are to be seen on the streets of New
York ; it will be a crushing thing if he looks disajipointed.
Vera's musings run something in this way. Of the real
seriousness, of the awful life-long nature of the step she is
taking, she thinks not at all. She is to be married to Cap-
tain Dick ; she likes that. She would like to go wandering
with him over the world — up among the icebergs, down
among tiie cocoa-nut groves, to " Sail the seas over," to see
foieign parts, to be wrecked with him on desert islands, and
live in nice little huts, and eat breadfruit and yams (Vera

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178

r//E DAYS BEFORE.

rather confounds this fruit with small sugar-cured portions
of pig, hung up in yellow bags outside of groceries) and
dried grapes, and bring up goats in the way they should go,
and have a lovely time all by themselves, in some emerald
isle of the Pacific.

Vague, foolish, romantic, nonsensical, are all Vera's
dreams ; but always, clear and bright, strong, noble, tall,
upright, handsome, peerless, her hero stands, the central
figure. Go where she will, Vera knows she will never see
his like.

Breakfast time comes ; luncheon comes ; afternoon comes.
Harriet's brow is lowering ; Mr. CharUon looks fidgety and
nervous ; Vera's pulses thrill and flJ.ltter. Dora alone is
calm, intrepid, cool of head, steady of pulse, clear of eye,
equal to any fate. No one of the household knows except
the aforesaid Harriet, whose gloomy forte is secrecy. No
one outside the household knows, except Father Damer,
pastor of the little white church of the Assumption, on the
hill, and with him silence is duty. Dora professes no relig-
ion whatever in the frankest manner, but Vera is a Cuban,
and a devout little daughter of Mother Church, and jealously
insists on having her nuptial mass, and all the bridal bless-
ings P'ather Damer can bestow. Nothing further has been
heard from the bridegroom, but he will not fail — no one has
ever known the ex-cavalry captain to fail at the post of duty
or danger. This is both.

At four, precisely, the pony phaeton draws up in front of
Mrs. Jones' front door. The dress is finished, the train —
Vera gives one terrified glance that changes slowly to ec-
stasy as it is spread out before her — it is every inch the
train. She draws a long breath of relief, and sits down on a
chair, as though this realization of all the dreams of her life
was too nuich for her.

•' It has preyed on my mind," she says, faintly, " it has
preyed on my mind to that extent — Dot, you know I

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THE DAYS BEFORE.

179

r»s

couldn't take half my lunch this noon. I felt sure it would
be short."

It is not short — it is not a misfit ; it satisfies even Miss
Lightvvood. It is ])acked and put in the carriage, and then
they sweep through St. Ann's to make a few last purchases.
When she drives along these streets next, Vera thinks, it will
be as Mrs. Captain Ffrench — Mrs. R. C. Ffrench — Mrs.
Veronica Mary Martinez Ffrench — Mrs. Dick Ffrench —
Vera Ffrench,

She has rung the changes on this most exquisite cogno-
men over and over again. She has written it in every pos-
sible and impossible siyle of chirograi)hy some five hundred
times ; she h;\s re[>ea ed it aloud, to hear how it sounds.
To-morrow by this time she will have ceased to be Vera
Martinez and becoine Vera Ffrench; and Caj)tain Dick —
her husband — this time to-morrow will be back in New York,
and the long, long separation will have begun. He will
stay with them but a few hours — has he not said so ? — and
the next day he sails. Ah ! no fear of h'ir forgetting that.
Through all the foolishness, through all the childishness,
through all the nonsense, that fact is ever present to sadden
and subdue. He is going away.

An hour later, Mrs. Charlton, on her way upstairs, is way-
laid by Miss Lightwood, a smile on her lip, and malice pre-
pense in her eye.

" Come into Vera's room a moment, will you, please, Mrs.
Charlton ? I have something to show you."

Mrs. Charlton eyes her enemy distrustfully. An armed
neutrality obtains at present, but open hostilities are iuuni-
nent at any moment between these conflicting forces.

"Something to show me, Miss Lightwood '' she is

stiffly beginning, but Dora cuts in :

" Oh, come ! " she says, airily ; ** I will not detain you a
moment. And I think it will surprise even j^«."

Curiosity ha'^ its full share in Mrs. Charlton ; it is stronger

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even than her hearty desire to disoblij^e Miss Lightvvood.
She follows suspiciously.

" This way," Dora says, and leads on into her own sleep-
ing-room.

And then indeed Mrs. Charlton starts, stares, is dumb.
For before the glass stands Vera — is it Vera ? — that grace-
ful figure in trailing white silk, silk rich enough to '* stand
alone," with the cloud of illusion on its head and dropi)ing
to the cari)et, and that virginal orange crown ? Around the
slim neck is a rope of i)earls fit for a Russian princess, in
the small ears pearls, on the slender hands glittering gems,
on the taper feet white satin shoes. It is Vera ; but a
transfigured Vera. IJ)ress does make a difference. In
sweeping white silk and pearls, it is a very different girl from
the romp in short dresses who races, flush.od and breathless,
with Nero up and down the Charlton woods.

" What — ivhat is it ? " she asks.

"It is Vera's wedding-dress," says Dora, and her blue
eyes go like two dagger-points through her enemy's corslet ;
"and to-morrow is Vera's wedding day ! "

Mrs. Charlton can by no possibility stare harder than she
is staring already — if she could there is no doubt but that
at this announcement her eyes would drop from their
orbits.

" Her — wedding — day ! "

" Her wedding-day my dear^ Mrs. Charlton. She has
stolen a march on us older and wiser ones. Only sixteen —
is it not a shame? but Captain Ffrench would have it
And the dress — is it not exquisite ? And those pearls, look
at them, Mrs. Charlton^ nearer please— ryou arc short-sighted
like myself — the finest set in Tifflmy's. Are they not fit for
a duchess ? And this point — but perhaps you are not a
judge of point. Unless one is in the profession, as I am,
one is ai)t to see so little of real point lace. The veil is only
illusion — there was no time to import a bridal veil. Does

THE DAYS BEFORE.

l8l

not white become her, gypsy though she is ? Turn round
Vera, and let Mrs. Charlton see the train — perfeci, is it not ? "

Vera slowly revolves hke a great wax-work. Through the
veil she looks almost ethereal — so slight, so white, so misty.

" Married to-morrow ! " Mrs. Charlton can but just gasp.

"Sudden, isn't it? but he is obliged to go the next day ;
and as I .say, he would have it. It is by his wish, too, that
we have not told you — or any one," after a malicious pause.

" Now that your horrid neuralgia is better — oh ! what an
inconvenient thing is that neuralgia ! you will be able to
come with us to church. The marriage is to take j^lace at
the Assumption at eleven, with a mass and the whole nup-
tial ritual of the Catholic Church. Then we return to a de-
jeuner^ and after that, I regret to say, poor Captain Ffrench
is obliged to leave us. That tiresome expedition you know,
and he is such a man of honor that he would not on any
account go from his word."

Mrs. Charlton is beginning to recover. The suddenness
of the blow has partially stunned her, but now she draws
her breath, and looks at her daring, triumphant, malicious
little foe.

" A man of honor ? " she repeats : ** so it seems, and the
greatest fool under heaven ! Do you really mean to tell me
that "

" Vera dear, we will leave you," says Dora sweetly. *' Be
very cp,reful not to rumple the things taking them off. Now
if you are ready, Mrs. Charlton "

She has her out of the room and into the hall, before Mrs.
Charlton actually knows what she is about. Then Dora
faces her swiftly, fiercely.

" If you say one word before Vera, you will repent it to
the last day of your life," she exclaims, and there is some-
thing so wicked in her eyes that the elder woman recoils.
The next moment she is gone — rustling down the staircase,
and cowed and vanquished Mib. Charlton goes to her room.

X ,.

182

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

! I

Vera does not descend to dinner — Dora orders her ra-
tions to the maiden bower. Mr. Charlton, more and more
nervous as the dreaded hour draws near, sits silent and out
of sorts. Mrs. Charlton is glum and speechless. Dora is
cheerful and chatty, but nothing can lift the ante-nuptial
gloom. In her heart she too is nervous, and worried, and
anxious to have it all over. It is such an abnormal sort of
wedding and even men of honor may fail. Something may
happen, Dr. Englehart may pooh-pooh him out of it — she
will not breathe freely until half-past eleven to-morrow. By
that time, if all goes well .

Dinner proceeds, dessert ends, there is the drawing-room,
more silence, and vague des[)ondency. Darkness falls, the
summer night lies over the world, and restless and worried
Dora goes out under the whispering trees, and looks up at
her sister's windows.

" And if all does go well I hope she may be happy," she
says with a touch of vague fear and compunction, " poor lit-
tle Vera."

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CHAPTER XIX.

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CAPTAIN dick's WEDDING.

NCE more the sun has risen, and shines for the
last time in all the days of its shining on Vera
Martinez. For when it reaches the zenith yonder,
there will be no Vera Martinez any more, but in her place
Vera PTrench, the bride. She has not a very bride-like look
just at this moment, standing by the window, blinking up
anxiously at the rising luminary, to make quite sure there
are no ominous mare's tails in the horizon, with a print

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

183

dressing-gown thrown around her, and her short crop of
boyish black curls standing up on end. It is about five, and
she has just got up, amazed, and a trifle disgusted with her-
silf to find she has slept like a top all night. "I don't ex-
pect to sleep a wink until morning," she had said solenmly
the last thing to her sister, and lo ! before the curly head
was fairly on the pillow, deceitful slumber stole upon her,
and claimed her for its own. After all, how little of a hero-
ine she is — she sighs as she thinks of it ; heroines always
keep awake, and sit by their casements the night before they
are married. Vera has not yet attained the age or expe-
rience that gives us " white nights " — those long, blank, aw-
ful, sleepless hours of darkness, when the rest of creation
snores, and we alone lie with aching eyeballs, feverish, toss-
ing, nervous, cross, wondering if the lagging day will ever
dawn. It is her wedding — her wedding-day ! Now that it
is here she cannot quite realize it. It means something
more than she knows of surely, else why do all girls, hero-
ines or not, look upon it as the one grand epoch of their
lives, the pivot ui)on which their whole future existence is to
turn.

" I am such a little fool," the girl thinks, despondently,
" I don't know anything. I wonder what Captain Dick can
see in me. I am not fit to be anybody's wife, nuich less his.
He is so learned, so clever, so good, he knows so much —
what would lie say if he knew I never did a sum in vulgar
fractions in my life, and couldn't parse two sentences to
save me. I think, after all, I am glad he is going away ; it
will give me a chance to get over being such an awful dunce.
At least I am not glad, and two years is a dreadful time,

but still Oh ! Dot, isn't it just the heavenliest morning,

after all ! "

" After all ? " repeats Dora, coming in. " Who ever ex-
pected it was going to be anything else ? Good-morning,
Mrs. Ffrench — how did you sleep ? "

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184

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

Vera acknowledges shamc-faccdly that she never slept
better in her life, and intiuires the time.

'*' Nearly six," Dora says, looking at her pretty watch.
You must not think of dressing before ten. As your hair
looks rather better uncombed than combed, your toilet need
not take long. Doing one's hair is always the worst. You
shall have breakfast up here. I will breakfast with you if
you like — then yui can take your bath, and after that I will
dress you. As we do not start for church until nearly eleven
there is time and to spare."

*M wish 1 could go out," says Vera, looking wistfully
down to where Nero stands on the lawn, looking wistfully
up, and wondering why his mistress does not come for her
matutinal game of romps ; "and look at poor Nero. I de-
clare if he isn't watching my window. Just one race, Dot —
no one neeil know."

But Dora will not hear of it. Vera is to understand that
her romping days are over. " Resi)ectable married women
(by the way, I wonder why married women* are always stig-
mntized respectable) do not as a rule get up at five in the
morning, and go scami)ering over the country with the
house-dog. We are going to change all that, and for the
time to come Mrs. 1^. C. Ffrench is to behave herself^
Then Dora goes, for she has very much to do this morning,
and hides an anxious heart under her tight French corsets.
There is the sour and surly Harriet to conciliate, if she can ;
there is Mrs. Charlton to keep an eye on, for Mrs. Charlton
looked dangerous last night ; there is Mr. Charlton to string
up to concert pitch, and be put in a proper frame of mind
to meet this contumacious step-son. Vera must be kept
prisoner in her room, partly because it is the proper thing to
do, and partly because there is no trusting her in the com-
pany of Mrs. Charlton. Impossible to tell what that vicious
old harridan may not venomously Hash out, and if W-ra only
knows the truth, or half the truth, silly, and childish, and

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

185

uninformed as she is, Dora knows that all hope of a wedding
to day will be at an end. Vera is woman enough for this,
ahhou;];h she has hardly outgrown hoops and skipping-ropes,
therefore Dora locks her sister coolly in her chamber, and
carries off the key. After half-past eleven Mrs. Charlton
may say what she i)leases, the ceremony once safely over,
and tliough she talks until crack o' doom, she will not talk
the ring off Vera Ffrench's finger.

Breakfast comes. Mrs. Charlton comes. Dangerous! —
no need to look twice to see that. If it is in her i)ower to
do mischief to day, she will do it. Dora stands for a second
and eyes her coolly, steadily, unflinchingly; the elder woman
returns the gaze with eyes that gleam like dull stones. It
is the look of two well-matched duellists just ha^orc en garc/c
is cried. So fiir Nfiss Lightwood has had the best of it, but
the wheel goes round, and she who is on top at nine in the
morning may be at the bottom by nine at night. Mrs.
Charlton smiles, a slow, cruel, unsmiling smile.

"Is not our bride coming to breakfast, Dora, my dear,"
she asks.

" IJrides generally breakfast in their own room, Mrs.
Charlton. \Vhen one has had nothing to do with brides and
bridals for half a century, one naturally forgets. You ac-
company us to church, I su])pose ? "

" I will be in at the death, my dear. Ha ! ha ! Eleven I
think you said? My poor old gray silk will have to do.
And the happy man " — another spectral ha ! ha! here — "at
what hour are we to look for him ? "

"It is not necessary that you should look for him at any
hour, Mrs. Charlton. Pray don't give yourself that trouble.
Young men are so ungrateful, and do so cordially hate to
have well-meaning, elderly ladies look out for them. Ciood-
niorning, Mr. Charlton. We are before you, you see. I
hope you are feeling quite well, sir ? "

"Pretty well, my dear, pretty well," Mr. Charlton answers,

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186

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

iliiiriedly. " Oood morning, ma'am. Tea this morning,
Dora, my dear ; coft'ec makes my liand shaky. How is the
neiualgia, Mrs. Charlton?"

"The neuralgia is very much better, Mr. Charlton. I
trust you feel no twinges of your old enemy, the gout ? It
would be such a i)ity if you could not go to church this
morning and give away the bride. Our dear Miss I.ight-
wood, who can do almost anything, can hardly do that. You
see 1 am informed of the happy event. The notice was
short, but among relatives, and for so strictly i)rivate an
affair, longer was not needed. And i)oor Captain Ffrench
is really going to i)ay the penalty of that rash child's impru-
dence after all ! Dear ! dear ! dear ! "

" How grateful Cajtain Ffrench would be for your sympa-
thy, to be sure ! " says Dora, mockingly. " Such a pity he
is not here to hear it ! So great a favorite as you are of his,
too ! I should think, now, you are the sort of elderly lady
young men \\o\\\^alioays be fond of. And that reminds me.
Do you happen to know a young gentleman by the name of
Krncst, Mrs. Charlton?"

Mrs. Charlton looks across at her, murder in her eye.
It is vulgar, it is lowering herself in the eyes of her host,
Dora feels, this war of words, but for the life of her she can-
not help hitting back.

" I hai^e known a young gentleman by the name of Ernest,
Miss Lightwood. May I ask his other name ? "

But Dora only smiles — a smile that has a volume of mean-
ing.

"He is a very dear friend of Nelly's, is he not?" she
asks. " I wonder why he did not come to the house when
he called upon her instead of "

Mrs. Charlton lays down her knife and fork, and her face
turns to a leaden lividness.

" lUit, there ! " cries Dora ; " perhaps I am indiscreet. I
iiave no business to betray poor, dear Nelly's secrets. No,

CAPTAliV DICK'S WEDDING.

187

ATrs. Charlton, I positively decline to say another word.
My overhearinL? was purest accident. I came upon them
one night by chance. Only" — and here she looks steailily
across at the finious face before her — '* I wouldn't say too
much about Vera's imprudence if I were you. V^era is a
child of sixteen, and her im|)rudence was unpremeditated.
If she were three and twenty, and made and kept assignations
b> night and by stealth down there in the grounds witii clan-
desli;ie lovers, it would be another thing. Mr. Charlton, I
really must beg )our pardon for this. It is in atrocious taste,
I know, niul makes you horribly uncomfortable, but it is
forced upon me. 1 wish to say no more — if 1 am permitted
to keep my own counsel."

She rises abruptly, and quits the room, and ^^r. Charlton,
with a hastily nuittered apology, and in abject terror, follows
her example. And if Mrs. Charlton could drop an ounce or
so of prussic acid in the wine Miss Lightwood expects to
drink when next she sits at table, she has all the good will
in the world at this moment to do it.

There is no more time for recrimination •, it is half-past
nine. Dora hastens up to make her own toilet, and makes it
more exi)editiously than she ever dressed en ij^nifuie tcnue
before. After all it is simple — a pale pink silk, an elaborate
coitfure, with orange Howers and pale roses. Her resolute
little hands shu' e as she fastens buttons and hair-i)ins. Her
encounter with m" enemy has excited her ; she has given
and expects no quarter. If the old wretch waylays Dick

Ffrench, and gets him all to herself for ten minutes .

Dora sets her teeth. Let her try it ! Ffrench is not the
man to listen to innuendoes ; Dora knows that from mor-
tifying experience ; his rebuff will be short and curt enough.
It is Vera she is afraid of. Vera must not be left a moment
unguarded until all is over.

Vera is roaming about her room, restless, fidgety, growing
feverish and excited in turn. How slowly the moments drag.

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

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She is surprised to find she cannot eat. Sleep has been her
faithful friend, but ajipetite has deserted her. What does
Dot mean by locking her up ? She is not going to run
away. What did Mrs. Charlton mean by calling Captain
Dick a fool yesterday ? — " the greatest fool under heaven ! "
Was it because he was going to marry her I Dot says it is
pure spite, and perhaps it is ; she certainly did want him for
Eleanor. How odd and queer it will seem to meet Captain
Dick noiv. Her heart beats at the thought of it. She never
felt shy of him before, but she turns hot and uncomfortable
now at the idea.

Dora comes at last, and dressing begins. Vera watches
her with interest, wondering to see how pale she is, and how
excited her eyes look. This too ends, and it is Vera's turn.
Dora does everything. With deft, skilled fingers she makes
the most of the curly crop, and the soft, shining rings lie
close about the small, shapely head. The trained white silk
is on, and buttoned up ; a bouquet of sweet white blossoms,
all dewy and fresh, is fastened in the corsage ; the pearls are
clasped, those lovely moonlight "congealed tears;" the ear-
rings are going in, when " low on the sand, and loud on the
stone," there comes the quick crash of carriage wheels.

Dora stops in her work ; Vera seizes the table, and for
one giddy, strange moment, the room, the whole world,
swims round in mist. She does not know why, but it gives
her a shock, a shari), blinding shock, and every pulse seems
to stop beating.

"Here they are," cries Dora triumphantly; "here is Dr.
P^nglehart, and here is Richard Ffrench. Vera, come and
peej)."

VtwX. Vera does not stir. Wondering, Dora turns, and sees
her all in a second gone deathly white.

" (rood heavens ! she is going to faint ! Why, you shock-
ing little idiot ! Here, drink this ! What on earth is the
matter with you ? "

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

189

for

" I — don't — know. It was so sudden. Oh ! Dora, I won-
der if he is glad."

"Cilad?"

" Ghid —happy that it is his wedding day. Oh! I am
afraid, I am afraid I Now that it is iiere — 1 don't know why,
it seems so strange, so unreal, so aivful/ Are you sure —
sure, mind — that there is no mistake, that he really and
truly wants me to marry him ? "

Dora stares at her, amaze, anger, consternation in her
face.

" Vera," she says, " I always knew you were a little fool,
but that you were stick a little fool, I never knew until to-
day. Why, you unparalleled goose, did you not get his letter ?
has Mr. Charlton not talked to you ? is he not here now ?
And yet to go at the last moment "

" I won't say another word," Vera says, humbly. "Dot,
how does he look ? "

" Oh ! — like an unfledged arch-angel of course ! big and
brown, and solenm as an owl. I foresee we are to have a
deadly — lively wedding — Mrs. Charlton for the tete de niori,
and the bridegroom for the marble guest. Now draw on
your gloves, and let us go down. There is Mr. Charlton
tapi)ing at the door, and it is ten minutes of eleven."

"Shall — shall I not see him except before everybody ? "
stammers Vera. Her hands feel cold and shaky, her voice
trembles, she forgets even to look at the glass.

" No !" shari)ly. " What need ? you have all the rest of
your life to look at him. Whatever you want to say must
keep until after he comes back from Honduras. Here, come
on, 1 don't know what makes me so nervous this morning.
Weddings are always nervous sort of things I supi)ose.
Come."

Mr. Charlton is waiting, he draws the gloved hand of the
little brown bride through his arm, with a reassuring smile.
And thus they are down-stairs — Vera feels that she is walk-

IQO

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

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ing in her sleep — and in the drawing room, where two gen*
tlemen stand. A mist is before her eyes, she cHngs flist to
the protecting arm, and through that mist sees her hero ap-
proach. She does not look up, in all her bright life she has
never felt so shy, and frightened, and ([ueer— the beating of
her heart seems alone enough to stifle her. One desire, one
wild, desperate, desire, she is conscious of — to run away from
them all, and never stop until she reaches New York. A

• • • » •

smile is breaking up the gravity of Captaui Dick's face — he
holds out his hand.

*' Vera ! " he says. At his voice it all clears away, and she
looks up. It is the old pleasant, half (juizzical look, she
knows so well, and it is the dear, handsome, familiar, smiling
face that bends down. She has no time to speak, for Mr.
Charlton is introducing Dr. P2nglehart, wjio looks at her with
keen, steely, searching eyes. The keen, steely glance ends
in a smile, half-puzzled, half-amused, with an underlying
touch of sarcasm, and then he makes a courtly bow. Then
he is presented to Dora, then to Mrs. Charlton, and then —
still in a somnambulistic state, Vera finds herself in the car-
riage and on the way to church. Not a word has been
exchanged between her and Captain Dick ; he has spoken
her name, given her a friendly look, and a warm hand-clasp,
and is following after. Mr. Charlton, by her side, is recalling,
in a perturbed way, that Dora and Mrs. Charlton are shut up
together, and he wonders helplessly if they will fight. If it
ever comes to blows, Mrs. Charlton will have the best of it !
Now they are whirling through St. Ann's, in a cloud of white
dust, that necessitates closed windows, and more slowly up
the sloping hill, crowned with a humble little wooden church,
the " sign of hope to man" glittering from the spire. Now
they have stopped — not a creature is to be seen, and now
they are out and going up the nave, and the candles are lit
on the altar, and in a moment Father Darner appears, vested
with a little white and red acolyte following. Oh ! how

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

191

strange, how solemn it all is ! She trembles, she is cold and
white, her eyes rest on the priest with a dilated, unnatural
look. " Richard, wilt thou take Veronica, here present, for
thy lawful wife, according to the rite of our holy Mother, the
church ? " She turns upon him a startled glance — if he were
to respond, " No, father — certainly not," it would not sur-
prise her in the least. But he answers instead, " I will,"
and then Father Damer turns to her, and asks the same,
and Dora has to give her an unseen poke before she remem-
bers it is her turn to say " I will." And then her long five-
button glove is drawn off, and Mr. Charlton gives her away,
and with her hand clasped fast in his, Richard Ffrench's deep
voice is saying :

" I, Richard, take thee, Veronica, to be my wedded wife,
to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for
Avorse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till
death do us part, if holy church will it permit ; and thereto I
plight thee my troth."

And now the ring is blessed, and on, and Father Damer is
reading a long Latin pra}'er, and once, before it ends, she
steals a glance at the bridegroom. How grave he is— but
beyond that earnest giavi*:y she can read nothing. He has
taken her, she him — oh ! how gladly — a thousand, thousand
times, for life and death, and beyond death if she may !
Her heart is full of love, of joy, of thankfulness. In all the
world there is no one like him, and he is hers, her very own
for all time ! The last blessing is given — it is all over, they
are man and wife. Some thought brings a sudden rush of
tears to her eyes ; she lifts them to his, and meets the
strangest glance in return ! She does not understand it — is it
sorrow — is it passionate regret ? Surely not — it passes in
that glance, and they are in the vestry, signing the register,
and Dot has kissed her with shining, triumphant eyes, and
Father Damer has shaken hands smilingly, and wished her a
long and happy married life. He has been invited to the

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192

CAPTAIN DrChTS WEDDING.

wedding feast, but duty calls him elsewhere and he cannot
come. And tins, too, is over, and they are out of the church
and hack in the carriages, and it is her husband who is be-
side her. They Hash back over the same dusty road, the
same sleepy streets — the world is the same, yet everything is
changed. She does not spea.k, she is afraid to si)eak, afraid
of him as he sits here, so silent, so thoughthd, so changed.
What is he thinking of? and how little is he like her Captain
Dick ! He was never grave, and mute, and pre-occupied
like this. They are actually half-way home before he speaks
one word. Then he takes the little dark hand, the left, and
looks at the shining hoop.

" It is the smallest 1 could get, but it is too large. Vera.
What a i)retty little hand you have — 1 never noticed before.
So childish a hand, too, to wear a wedding ring ! "

Is it a sigh she hears, a sigh smothered ? She looks up
quickly, he is smiling, but only his mouth, his eyes look
grave.

" You are not sorry ? " she says, wistfully.

" Sorry, dear ? Why should I be ? 1 was always fond of
my little Vera. Have you been talking to Mr. Charlton ?
Has he told you of our arrangements ? "

" 1 am to stay, and go to school, or have a governess. I
need it surely, ' Vera answers, slowly. " I mean to study
very hard, Captain Dick, so that you may not be ashamed
of me when — when you come back."

*' 1 could never be ashamed of you. All the same, study
hard — you have four good years yet before you are a
woman."

*' Are you going to be away four years ? " she asks, a little
tremor in the shy voice, a startled glance in the brown eyes
— " four long years ? "

'* Who knows ? " he says, with an impatient sigh, and the
eyes that look away from her are full of pain. *' Not I.
Very likely not, but in any case you are to write to me, re-

CAPTAIN DICK'S WEDDING.

193

member— tluit is an old compact you know, little Vera, and
>vhenever I chance to be near a jjost town, I will drop you a
line. Grow up, study hard, write me long letters, be as
happy as a queen— that is to be the progrannne until my
return."

" And then ? " the dark, solemn uplifted eyes ask. But
she answers not, she does not get on with Captain Dick to-
day. That odd, unpleasant feeling of shyness will not be
shaken off. Why is his tone so serious ? Wiiy have his eyes
that sad, dark, troubled look, a dreamy far away look too, as
if they saw ever so far off, beyond and above her poor little
schoolgirl life. She has never before felt so utterly apart
from him, so nearly afraid of him, so little at her ease with him,
as on this morning that has made her his wife. They have
taken scores of tete-d-tek drives before, and their hajjpy young
laughter has rung out in unison ; but Captain Dick looks at
this moment as if he had never laughed in his life, and never
meant to begin. Does the marriage ceremony affect all
gendemen in this unpleasant manner ? For the first time in
her life, she wishes the drive with Captain Dick would come
to an end. She has her wish, they are going up the avenue,
they are at the door. He springs out, hands her down, and
draws her gloved hand under his arm.

"ATy wife ! " he says, and for the first time the old smile
flashes forth for a second. " That has an odd sound, has it
not, Dona Vera ? "

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194

POST-NUPTIAL.

:;:f

CHAPTER XX.

POST-NUPTIAL.

ARRIET oF the flat figure and sour temper lias at
least the merit of being competent to tlie occasion,
and the breakfast that awaits the bridal party is
above reproach. But neither the api)etite nor the S[)irits of
the company do any sort of justice to it. A cloud hangs over
the festive board, and though the feast is set, and the guests
have met, there is little eaten and less said. Mr. Charlton, for
the first time in his hosi)itable life, at the head of his own board,
is neither social nor genial — his brows are knit, his glance is
gloomy, his mouth looks stern. The bridegroom retains the
silence and gravity that have wrapped him as a mantle since
his coming. Once or twice, it is true, he makes an effort to
rally, but it is so palpably an effort that it is rather a relief
when he relapses. Mrs. Charlton does not speak one sin-
gle word, except when once or twice directly addressed by
courteous Dr. Englehart — no one else has the courage to
attempt it. It would seem as though she had entered into a
compact with herself to remain dead silent until an opportu-
nity occurs of s[)eaking fatally to the purpose. At least this
is what Dora thinks — Dora watching her furtively and inces-
santly, and determined to balk her, if human vigilance can
do it. It is up-hill work for Miss Lightwood ; she is the
only leaven to lighten the whole mass, and she comes up to
time nobly, and does her best. The one wedding-guest
seconds her efforts, thinking that in all his experience of
wedding-breakfasts, this one stands dismally alone. As for
the poor, little bewildered bride, a great vague terror is tak-
ing possession of her. Something is wrong, something is

POST-NUPTIAL.

195

abnormal and out of the common, something is the matter
with everybody. Why does Captain Dick look like that,
and so very unlike himself? Why is he so quiet, so de-
])ressed ? Wiuit does it all mean? If he really wislied to
marry her, what business has he to look unhai)|)y about it ?
and if he did )iot wish to marry her why has he done it ?
Oh ! if she were not so stupid, so ignorant, so young !
A\'hat is the matter with them all ? Peo[)le drink toasts, and
make speeches at wedding-breakfasts, she has always under-
stood, but no one does it here. Once, Dr. Knglehart, with a
kindly smile at the pale, startled face, proposes health and
hai)piness to die bride, and Ca[)tain Dick responds. But it
is only a flash in the pan, and the cloud settles again. A
slow smile, a slow, cruel, " crawling " sort of smile, as Dora
names it, actually crosses the grim face of Mrs. Charlton.
The deadly oppression that hangs over the party is as " nuts "
to her, in her present venomous mood.

It ends at last, just as Vera is beginning to stifle, and
there is an adjournment to the drawing-room. And then,
for the first time since his arrival, Mr. Charlton goes up to
his step-son, looks him in the face, and addresses him.

" I wish you to come with me to my study for a moment,
Captain Ffrench," he says, stiffly; " 1 will not detain you
but a very brief time."

In all the years he has borne it, Mr. Charlton has never
called him by his military title before. Dick reddens now,
but he also smiles slightly.

*' I am at your service, governor," he says, with a momen-
tary return to his old cheery manner, " for as long a time as
you like."

Dora, standing with Dr. Englehart, sees them go — so, too,
does Mrs. Charlton. She also sees the bride escaping from
among them, and flying out of the house and down the gar-
den, regardless of damage to the white silk train — the apj^le
of her eye and the pride of her heart but two brief hours

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196

POST-NUPTIAL.

before. She sees evcrytliing and bides her time. That red
signal-lani|), " Dangerous," is still u|), and Dora feels that
all her ablest strategy will be needed to out'uanacuvre her
here.

Vera n-akes her way down the gravelled paths towards a
sununer-house she knows of, embowered in a great green
tangle of grape-vine. Fortunately the grass was rolled only
yesterday — it has not rained for a week, so the bridal silk
takes no damage. But bridal silks and sweeping trains have
lost their charm ; once more the world is hollow, and " things
are not what they seem."

She is married to Captain Dick, all fast and hrm ; here is
the ring shining in the sunlight; but Captain Dick looks
very desperately out of sorts over it. What is the matter?
why has he married her ? She sinks down dejectedly on a
low seat, and pushes the soft dark curls off her face with a
hoi)eless, sorrowful sigh. Oh, dear, dear 1 his going away
was bad enough, but this is a thousand times worse. And if
it were not such a dense mystery. She used to think mys-
teries nice, and for that matter she likes them still — in
weekly numbers ; but for everyday, and where Captain Dick
is concerned — no. If he didn't want to, why did he ? She
never asked him, his step-father never asked him — Dot says
so. And if he did it because he liked her, and wished to of
his own free will, why is he so sulky (that is the word Vera
applies to her hero) — so sulky about it now ? It is not like
him, and he used to seem fond of her. Vera feels despond-
ently that being married is not the blissful sort of thing un-
married people make it out. If she had known it was going
to be like this, she would never have said yes ; she would
have seen both him and Dot further, first ! There is some-
thing wrong. If they were good friends as they used to be,
she would go and ask Captain Dick ; but he is unlike him-
self, and she is in awe of him. Slow, miserable, disappointed
tears gather in the forlorn little bride's eyes, and she wipes

•

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POST-NUPTIAL.

197

them away gingerly wilh a bit of handkerchief that cost
thirty dolhirs. She cannot even inchilgc in the hixiiry of a
good cry with such a morsel of lace and lawn as this. She
feels desolate and bereft, very much as Evangeline may when
playing hide and seek wiili the runaway Gabriel, and unable
to catcli up with him.

In the study, a very Stiff, and frozen, and petrified sort of
conversation is going on. Mr. Charlton stands ominously
erect and unbending ; Captain Ffrench, with his elbow on
the chimney-piece, confronting him, wears about as unbride-
groom-like a face as can well be imagined. After all, Vera's
hero is very mortal — like most heroes in i)rivate life — he feels
just at this moment that it is sufficiently hard to have been
badgered into marrying a slip of a school-girl, who may grow
up into a frivolous doll like her sister, without being lectured
and drawn over the coals, about leaving her, as Mr. Charlton
has just been doing. Good Heavens ! he thinks, despond-
ently, what else is there to do, but leave her, and let the
child grow up ? What would he, what would any man in his
senses do with a wife of sixteen, and the education and ideas
of eleven ?

" It is settled then," Mr. Charlton is saying in a slow,
harsh sort of voice ; '* this is your ultimatum ? You start for
Honduras with the expedition to-morrow, and leave your
wife with me ? It would be a pity if we should misunder-
stand each other at the last. You positively go ? "

" I i)ositively go," Dick says, doggedly. " As for leaving
my wife with you, governor, remember she is a wife forced
upon me by you and Miss Lightwood — not one of my own
choosing. She, poor child, is not to blame, and if she finds
out by and by that this morning's work is a fatal mistake, I
will at least have the consolation of knowing /never asked
her to make the sacrifice. I am sorry we must part in
anger ; you have been so generous a friend and father "

Mr. Charlton waves his hand in angry impatience.

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198

POST-NUPTIAL.

**Wc will (Iroj) all that, if you please. Protestations of
gratitude wii^h litth? against ungrateful actions, (lo, if you
will, hut understand this — all testamentary intentions 1 have
ever had in your favor end with your going."

" You mentioned that before, you know, governor," Dick
sa)s, coolly. "It is not necessary to enter into it again.
Leave your fortune to whom you please ; it is entirely besiilc
the (juestion of my regret at your displeasure. And now if
everything is said, with your permission 1 will rejcjin I'-ngle-
liart and the ladies. 'I'he up train leaves St. Ann's at five ;
we must catch it. It s half-past three now."

*' 1 have no more to say," the elder man responds, in
cold, intense wrath ; " do not let me detain you from your
friend. \Ve understand each other thoroughly now."

Dick holds out his hand.

"Come, governor,'' he says, "relax a little, won't you?
Shake hands at least. This is a little too bad, after all that
is past and gone."

IJut Mr. Charlton turns inflexibly away.

*' You have chosen your path, and here we part forever.
We will have no hypocritical pretence of friendship or re-
gret. We part here ; all is said in that."

A Jiioment later, and Captain Ffrench is scanning the
group in the drawing-room. Dr. Englehart has prevailed
upon Miss Lightwood to lift the general despondency a little
by singing for him. Dick Ffrench being safely closeted with
his step-father, Vera having isolated herself from human
ken, for the time being, Miss I.ightwood feels she may relax
her surveillance thus far. Consequently, when the bride-
groom reconnoitres, she is in the midst of an Italian song,
and Vera is nowhere visible. But Mrs. Charlton is exceed-
ingly visible, and on the watch. She rises and ai)proaches
him.

"Captain Ffrench," she says, quickly, "will you let
me speak to you one moment ? I will not detain you

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longer, and Vera is somewhere out there, if you want to find
her."

Captain Dick looks surprised and a trifle bored. This is
the second time to-day he has been privately interviewed,
and informed he will not be detained a moment. He only
hopes the coming it':tc'-ii-tcte may be less personal and un-
pleasant than the past. He bows silently and follows, glan-
cing at her askance in some distrust. It has already been
mentioned that Captain Ffrench is abnormally afraid of this
stout matron, and the eye of stone and brow of malignity
look more stony and malignant at this moment than lie has
ever seen them. Some vcngeanceful pur[)ose is in her mind,
something deucedly uncomfortable is coming, he feels, and
he thrusts his hands in his pockets, and prei)ares himself
darkly for the worst. She has a fixed place as well as pur-
pose in view, it seems ; the place is close to a small, rustic
sunuiierhouse, crowned with a grapery. Close to this she
takes her stand, and faces him.

" Now for it I " thinks the badgered bridegroom, with an
inward groan.

" I cannot let you go, Captain Ffrench," begins Afrs.
Charlton, in a strident voice, which he can feel turning his
skin to "goose flesh" with its rasping vibration — " I cannot
let you go without speaking one word. Your step-father is
so completely under the control of Dora Lightwood — so
utterly infatuated with her, that it is worse than useless to
sj^eak to him. I cannot let you go, 1 say, without lifting
my voice against this shocking plot of which you are the
victim."

"What shocking plot, Mrs. Charlton?" asks Captain
Dick, taking an easy position against the summer-house, and
making himself as comfortable as maybe under the circum-
stances.

" This plot of Dora Lightwood' s, which has just ended in
your marriage. Is it possible — can it be possible — that you

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do not see through it? Do you not know that it was she
who told that silly child, Vera, of your accident — that it was
she who sent her to Sliaddeck Light — that she refused to go
in search of her that night, although urged to do so by Mr.
Charlton ? It was all, with what has followed, a precon-
certed plot. And Vera was in it. Silly she is, childisli she
is, or pretends to be, but she was crafty enough for that.
You are a rich man's heir. Charlton is a home to be de-
sired. They both are working girls without a penny, and I
say that Vera went to Shaddeck Light that night with the
deliberate intention of remaining, and of forcing you to mar-
ry her — as you have done."

*'And I say," says Dick Ffrench deliberately, "it is a
d d lie."

Her words have poured forth so vehemently, he has been
so taken by surprise, that up to this time he has had no
chance to speak. But at this she recoils.

*' Sir ! " she furiously exclaims.

" A lie ! " repeats Captain Ffrench, coolly, '^ a poisonous
and foul lie. You will excuse very strong words, Mrs.
Charlton. You like them, and use them yourself. Vera
Martinez never came to Shaddeck Light with any such pur-
pose, never plotted or wished to marry me. So far as she
was concerned, the whole thing was sheer accident. As for
her sister — but perhaps it will be as well to leave Miss
Lightwood's name out of the question."

Her astonishment and rage are so great, that they keep
her for the mofiient perfectly speechless.

Captain Ffrench eyes her steadily, and goes on.

*' Supposing, for argument's sake though, your assertion
to be true, is it not a little late in the day, my dear madam,
for you to come forward and expose the plotters ? I aui
married now, your revelations will not unmarry me. And if
my memory holds good, you were the first and strongest
advocate of my immediate marriage that morning at Shad-

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201

deck — the only reparation as a man of honor I could make.
Why did you not unbosom yourself of all this on that occa-
sion instead ? It might have served some purpose then — I
confess I am at a loss to see wliat purpose it is to serve
now."

" Sir ! " she cries, " is this my thanks "

" Ladies who expose nefarious plots never require any
thanks, do they ? Virtue is its own reward, is it not ? And
before you say any more, permit me to set you right on
another essenaal point. I am not Mr. Charlton's heir.
Miss Lightwood has not captured a rich husband for her sis-
ter. As to Vera — God bless her — she is my wife remember
— it is at once my honor and my duty to guard her reputa-
tion against slanderous tongues. You will do me the favor
not to repeat this very remarkable fabrication again. It is
difticult, I know, to refute calumnies, circulated by a lady ;
still "

Mrs. Charlton turns from him, baffled, furious.

" It is the truth ! " she bursts out, " and you know it. Say
what you will, Captain Ffrench, it is the truth, and you have
been trapped so easily and speedily that the snare was
hardly worth the ])ains Dora Lightwood took. V«ra was
fond of you ; she made no secret of her bold attachment ;
she followed you like your shadow, or your dog ; she was
with you early and late ; her passion was patent from the
first ; she went to Shaddeck Light with the fixed resolu-
tion of staying and risking all consequences. She is
your wife, as you say. Yes, and I wish you joy of your
bargain ! "

She turns and walks away. Captain Ffrench is alone and
watches her out of sight. What is he to do ? Knock her
down ? What a simi)le and beautifiil solution that would be
if she were a man ; but being a woman — may the demon fly
away with her ! After all it is a privilege to belong to the
unfranchised sex — one can use such fine, strong, nervous
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English when one is in a towering rage, and feels so comfort-
ably secure of not getting a pair of black eyes for it.

]Uit where is Vera ?

Captain Dick glances about him, takes out his watch, and
looks at the hour. It is four. This agreeable conversation
has occupied precisely half an hour. In another he must be
en route. And now he recalls Vera's v/isiful, wondering
face. Poor little soul ! he thinks, it is such a shame to
visit this chapter of accidents on her head. Whoever is to
blame, she at least is guiltless. He feels remorseful — like a
brute — as if he had pushed away harshly the timid overtures
of a shrinking child. Mrs, Charlton has said she is some-
where in the grounds.

"Vera ! " he calls, and, as if in answer, a sob comes from
behind him. He turns quickly, parts the leaves ; the next
instant, with a rush, he is in the summer-house. " Vera ! "
he cries. •' Great Heaven ! is it possible ? "

He is inexpressibly shocked. For she is hefe, all in a
white heap on the damp floor, the wedding robe irretrievably
ruined, huddled together in a strange, distorted attitude of
pain. Her arms are on the seat, her head laid on them ;
she neither moves nor looks up.

" Vera ! '' he cries, and tr'es to lift her ; " Vera, my pet !
my dear little Vera ! "

He is like enough the Captain Dick of other days now,
but Vera is past all seeing or caring. She writhes away out
of his grasp with a strength he wonders at, and only that
dry, sobbing sound answers him.

" Vera ! Vera ! " he repeats, in an agony ; " Vera, look
up ! I did not know — how could I know you were here !
Vera, lift up your head ! Good Heaven ! wliat am I to
say ? Vera ! "

" Let me be ! let me be ! " she says, in a smothered voice,
and again frees herself. " Go away. Oh ! go. Do not
speak to me — do not touch me. Only let me be."

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''But I cannot. You mustn't stay here. It is damp, and

see — you have spoiled your i)rctty clothes. Vera — do

there is a good child— get up. Look at this mud and mould
on your white dress."

" 1 wish," the stifled voice says, " I had been dead before I
ever put it on. Oh ! me. Oh ! me, what shall 1 do ? "

The choking sobs break from her, in a wild, hysterical way,
that completely unmans him. What is he to do ? She has
heard every word the vile-tongued enemy has uttered.

"Curse her!" he thinks, savagely; "such beldames
ought to be shot ! Vera!" hopelessly, " 7t'/7/you get up ;
ivill you listen to me ? What am I to do if you go on like
this?"

He is at his wit's end. Without actual force it is impossi-
ble to lift her, and he cannot bear to touch her roughly. He
i' so sorry for her, and he knows so little what to say. If
she were a woman— if she were Dora or Eleanor and could
be ^^ipealed to rationally — but he is entirely at sea with Vera.
He feels like taking her on his knee, and soothing her with
caresses and sugar plums. And still she crouches there, all
in that disordered white heap, and still the dry muffled sobs
torture his ears.

" Vera," he says at last, in desperation, " listen to me.
It is after four. In fifteen minutes Dr. Englehart will be
ready to depart, and will expect me to go with him. But I
cannot leave you like this. If you will not get up, and lis-
ten, I will go back to the house for your sister, and my friend
must return to the city alone."

He waits for a moment. He has touched the right chord,
the sobs cease, and with a great effort she speaks.

" Oh ! do not," she says ; " do not call Dot. And don't
wait, please don't ! Only leave me alone — only go ! "

" I will never go and leave you like this," he answers reso-
lutely. " Stand up, and let me speak to you, or I will do as
I have said."

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She rises slowly, shrinking from the hand that helps her.
Her head is drooping, her eyes refuse to meet his, she is
frightfully pale, and seems to creep within herself as she
stands. She is so unlike Vera, bright, laughing, fearless,
Vera, that for a moment he cannot speak. He does not try
to touch her — with as absolute a deference as he could pay
to a queen, he stands before her, and tries to set himself
right. It is all Mrs. Charlton's malice and slander ; he
knows it is utterly false, he will never think of her spiteful
words again. Vera must have heard him repudiate all her
insinuations — he knows it was purest accident took her that
evening to Shaddeck — there is no one in the world he cares
for as he cares for her. FAcrything it is possible to say he
says, and says again. Language is, after all, poor and bar-
ren ; he grows impatient with himself as he talks, almost im-
patient with her. For she stands just there, so still, so mute,
so downcast, not looking at him, not hearing half he says, it
may be — that he despairs.

" Vera," he says, *' are you listening ? Why will you not
answer ? Wliy will you no*, look at me ? Why do you stand
like this ? "

'* 1 am waiting for you to go," she says, wearily ; " if only
you would go ! "

He musf go — some one is calling him, is calling her. The
time is up.

" And we mu^t part like this ! Vera, say once, once only
— you do not blame me ? "

" I do not blame you."

"And you do not think I believe that old harridan's abom-
inable lies ? Say do you not ! "

" I do not."

She repeats her answers like an automaton. If he would
only go !

" And you will write to me ? You will forget this ? Good
Heaven ! how much I want to say to you, and here is the

POST-NUPTIAL.

205

last moment ! Good-by, good-by ! they are coming. Do
not let them see you yet."

He crushes both her hands a second, with unconsciously
cruel force.

" Dear little Vera, dear little pet, dear little wife, good-
by ! " he says, and is gone.

Dora and Dr. Englehart stand just without, waiting. Some-
thing has gone wrong, they see by his face. No questions
are asked. Perhaps Dora guesses ; she is pale, and looks
frightened.

"Where is Vera ?" she asks.

" I have just said good-by," he answers, hurriedly. «' Is
all ready, Englehart? Good-by, Miss Lightwood." He
holds out his hand. *' Take good care of Vera."

And then the leave-taking is over, and half dazed, he is
being driven rapidly out of the Charlton grounds, and away
to the St. Ann's station.

* * * * * * *

Late that night in New York, Captain Ffrench writes a
letter. Vera's white face and crushed look haunt him with
a presentiment of fear for the future he cannot shake off.
The letter begins *' My dear little wife," and is as gentle, as
tender, as hopeful, as warm as a young husband's first letter
should be. It is long, too, and reassures her again and
again of his perfect trust, and affection, and confidence in
her. He incloses it in a (ew lines to Mr. Charlton, and feels
better for having written it. Poor little Vera ! but she will
get over the shock in a day or two. Dora will know what
to do with her, what to say to her ; she will forget it directly,
and be all right again. So, when to-morrow comes, and they
steam gaily away down the harbor, he has thrown off all pre-
sentiments and nervous apprehensions on Vera's account, and
leans over the bulwarks, smoking, glad it is over, glad he is
off, and hoping — misanthropically enough — he may not see
a single woman to speak to until he conies back.

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"r//i!j CT/JZ / LEFT BEHIND ME."

An excursion steamer floats by them, and gives the out-
ward bound three cheers. The Hltle boat is gay with H igs
and streamers, hidies wave their handkerchiefs from the
upper deck, and the band plays. As it chances, the air is
"The Cxirl I Left Behind Me."

Dr. iMiglehart looks at his friend and laughs.

" Ap[)roi)riate," he says. " Do you know, Dick, I never
said good-by to your little bride, after all."

Dick I'Trench sighs. Poor little Vera ! How gay this
pleasure-party seems. Yonder is a girl, in a white hat and
feather, who looks something like Vera, and see ! she is
waving her handkerchief, with her laughing black eyes on hiin.
He returns the salute. Wiiat is Vera about just now, he
wonders, and has she quite got over Mrs. Charlton's brutal
attack ? And so they steam away, down towards Sandy
Hook, in the morning sunshine, to the merry strains of " The
Girl I Left Behind Me."

CHAPTER XXI.

"the girl I LEFT BEHIND ME."

HE is sitting in a rustic chair down among the peach
and plum trees, with idly folded hands, and listless
air. Over her head shines the mellow sun of a
scented September afternoon ; about her blows the soft Sep-
tember breezes ; all around her the fruit-trees temptingly
stand, laden down with their golden and purple globes. On
tiie grass at her feet lies her hat ; near it, on guard, crouches
Nero, casting now and then a wondering, reproachful, sleepy
glance at his apathetic mistress. Further off, the grass is
strewn with windfalls, trophies of last night's storm. But the

«' THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME:'

207

windfalls lie ungathered, plums and peaches hang juicy and
mellow over her head in vain. Their charm is gone ; tliey
tempt her not ; lassitude holds her, as she sits here now, with
the sunlight sifting through the fluttering leaves overhead — so
she has sat for fully an hour ; so she has sat for hours and
hours, in the long fortnight that is gone.

There are girls, simply and wholesomely brought up, tall
and well grown, womanly enough in appearance, who are yet
the veriest children in heart ; who can enjoy a game of puss
in the corner, or blind-man's buff, with as hearty and thor-
ough a zest at sixteen as at six. Vera is one of these — Vera
has been one of these, but a subtle change has begun — is at
work daily, insidiously, and the Vera of two weeks ago is not
the Vera of to-day.

So the grapes hang iinplucked, the peaches drop uneaten.
Nero lies unromped with, and she sits here all the day idle.
She is thinking. In all her sixteen years of life she has not
thought as much as she has done during the last two weeks.
She is thinking for herself. Dora will never be the keeper
of her conscience more. The slow change from frolicsome
girlhood to thoughtful, earnest womanhood has begun — is far
advanced. She has been standing on the hitherward side of
Mr. Longfellow's allegorical brook, and a brutal hand has
pushed her across years before her time. She has eaten of the
fruit of the tree of knowledge, and its taste is bitter. She shrinks
with terror ; she burns with shame ; she covers her hot face
with her hands, as she recalls Mrs. Charlton's words. To the
last day of her life they will ring in her ears, harsh, stern,
merciless — true — to the last day of her life she will see Rich-
ard Ffrench as she saw him then, standing erect and noble,
fighting her battles, defending her fair fame. It is so cruelly
true- — the stab lies there. She ivas fond of him, and thoughit
no more of hiding that fondness than if he had been her
brother ; she had followed him like his shadow, and never
knew that it was unmaidenly or wrong, or a thing to be

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''THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND MEr

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ashamed of; she did go to Shaddock Light, and remain with
him there, with never a thought of what the world might say.
She has thought no evil ; she knows nothing of the world or
its ways — inclosed in a cloister, she could hardly have led a
more hidden, a more innocent life. And through that inno-
cent ignorance a great and cruel wrong has been done, that
nothing in this world can ever set right. Brave, loyal, chiv-
alrous Captain Dick has married her, caring nothing for her,
to stop the wagging world's tongue. Now she knows why he
left it to Dora to tell her — why his note from New York held
only those four cold lines — why he would not come until the
very last moment — why care and trouble darkened his face on
his wedding-day. She knows it all — all. He has stood
yonder and defended her against her foe — yes, but she can
cou'^.t nothing on that ; it is Captain Dick's generous way to
fight the battles of the losing side. He may believe it — he
must believe it. How can it be otherwise, seen as she sees
it now ? Her conduct from first to last has been such as to
make her hate herself for very shame. He has thought her
in love with him — not foolishly fond of him, but in love with
him ; he thinks she followed him that night to Shaddeck on
puri)ose to stay — on purpose to make him marry her. Oh !
even here by herself, it is too shameful. She covers her face
and shrinks from th'e wistful eyes of the dog. Nothing is,
they say, but thinking makes it so. She has brooded over
this until not a doubt remains — all that Mrs. Charlton has
said he believes ; and to save her, and forced by Dora, he has
married her, and sacrificed his whole life.

She sits here thinking this, as she has thought it over and
over again. She is fast becoming morbid, she avoids her
sister, she cannot meet the eyes of Mrs. Charlton, she shrinks
from her host, Mrs. Charlton is still here, for Vera has not
said one word to Dora of all that has passed. Nothing could
mark the change m her more sharply than this. In all her
life she has never had a thought, a secret from Dora, but she

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has kept licr own counsel here. It is partly because she feels
she would die of shame to speak of it even to her, partly be-
cause she knows her enemy would have to leave Charlton an
hour after her revelation.

And Vera is a generous foe. She docs not blame the
woman much. She has thought it her duty to apprise Captain
Dick of the truth, she believes her own story, what does her
going or staying signify ? So she says nothing, and falls after
that first paroxysm of desi)air, into this abnormal state of list-
less moping, and ivanders away by herself, heedless of book,
Oi' work, or dog, or piano, and sits about in damp, green
places, at the risk of premature rheumatism, and broods,
auvl broods over her own deadly sins the long, warm days
through.

She has received Captain Dick's farewell letter, but she
has not read it. She has looked with dreary eyes at the large
" Vera," written on the white envelope, and takes it upstairs,
and laid it away in her work-box unread. She knows what is
in it, or thinks she does. What is the use of going over all
that again ? She takes off the wedding-ring from her slim
third finger, and shuts it up in its pink jeweler's cotton once
more. There, in its pristine glitter let it lie, she will not wear
it. She never wants to see Captain Dick as long as she
lives. He despises her — he has left her, glad to get away,
thinking her everything that is forward, and unfeminine, and
disgraceful. She will never write to him, never think of him,
never care for him, never speak of him, her whole life-long.

Dora sees the dismal change, and tries her best to find out
the cause. But Vera is mute. Dora has betrayed her, it is
all Dora's doing — she will never trust her again. So Miss
Lightwood gives her two or three hearty ratings for her mop-
ing fits, and sets it all down to reaction after excitement, and
the absence of her idol. It will pass and the child will take
no harm. Truth to tell, Miss Lightwood has so much to
think of, and see about, these golden September days, that

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she has no time to exorcise Vera's bhie devils. She is clos-
eted a great deal with Mr. Charlton ; there are long, serious
conversations in the study, long drives, long letters to write,
and to read. "As the bow unto the arrow," so is Theodora
Lightwood to the master of Charlton. What is it all about,
\'('ra wonders, aimlessly, and is Dora going back to New
York, and when are her studies to begin ? Mrs. Charlton
wonders too, and more, perhaps, to the purpose. She shows
no symptoms of speedy departure, and makes herself re-
markably at home in this pleasant country house.

lUit the second week of Sei)tembcr brings a revolution, an
upsetting of all things, and the dawn of a new dynasty. All
of a sudden Miss Lightwood announces at dinner one day,
her intention of going u[) to New York on the next. Mr.
Charlton looks conscious, and la3's open the hidden articu-
lations of the turkey he is carving with something less than
his usual skill. Mrs. Charlton eyes her foe across the table
with a steady, suspicious gaze. Vera looks up with sudden
interest.

" Going to New York ? Take me, Dot. I should like to
go."

Dora glances at her. She is pale and thin, and looks as
if she needed a change. Then she turns to Mr. Charlton.

•' It will do her good," he says ; " I think you will have to
take her. I am responsible, you know," with a smile, " for
her safe keeping."

" Very well," says Dora. " Pack up this evening. Vera —
not all your things, you know — ^just a dress or two. We will
go by the morning tram."

l>y the morning train they go, and Mrs. Charlton is
chatelaine. But her host keeps out of her way ; he si)ends
most of his time in St. Ann's, or about his farms — his avoid-
ance is so pointed, indeed, that she cannot fail to perceive
it. Still, as long as she is not absolutely ordered out of the
house, in the house she is resolved to stay. Miss Lightwood

•' THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME."

211

is gone just five days when ^^t■. Charlton follows. This is
startlinJ,^ Dark suspicions, vague hitherto, begin to take
real and tangible form, and in less than another week arc
confirmed.

One morning the New York Ifcrahl is laid beside her
plate, smelling all damp and nasty of printers' ink, and open-
ing it, the first thing her eyes rest on is this :

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"Charlton— LiciiTWOOD. — On the 12th inst., at the Windsor
Hotel, the I[i)n()tal)le RonicRT Rirnir.RFOKD Cii.viu/rov, ex-Govcrnor
of Iowa, to TiiEuooRA Klizaueth Ligutwoou, of New York."

Married ! The pai)er swims before her — she sits and
stares blankly at the printed words. Married ! actually mar-
ried ! That bold-fLiced little hussy ! that designing little
trickster ' that crafty little cat ! She has secured the step-
son for her sister, the step-father for herself ! Her worst
fears are realized. All has gone to Dora Lightwood —
she and Eleanor are nowhere in the race. And it is all
Eleanor's fault. Charlton is no longer a place for her ; no
house that calls Dora Lightwood mistress can ever for one
night afford shelter to her. If she had had any doubt on
the subject, a note that comes to her that very afternoon
dispels it. It is from the new lady and mistress of Charlton
Place, and is an emphatic writ of ejectment.

"The Crescent City will be looking its loveliest this nice September
weather," writes gayly the britle. "I know how you hate the North —
have I not heard you say so ? Do not sacrifice your comfort any longer
by remaining in it. I quite envy you the remainder of this month in
your native city. How rejoiced Nelly will be to see you ! Give her
our love. At some future time I intend to invite Jur to make a second
visit to Charlton. My hu'^band is well, and joins with me in wishing
you a pleasant return journey to the South. We go home very soon,
and would rather be spared the pain of saying good-by — you understand ?
Between relatives parting is so sad ! And just now we are so happy

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that we cannot bear to think of even the slightest cloiul that will mar
our felicity.

*• Yours, etc.,

*' TiiKonoRA K. Lien rwooL) Charlton."

October, and late in the month. A golden-gray sky, sun-
less but bright, lying low over the gray sea. Orange and
crimson, the hemlocks and maples stand, gorgeous in their
fall dress. Windfalls no longer strew the grounds, peach
and plum trees are stripped. Purple bunches of grapes
tempt Vera no longer, but Vera is here, bright and brown,
and looking jjretly well recovered from her post-nuptial
despair. ].ifc, after all, is not quite at an end at sixteen
and a half, even if one has made a dreadful mistake. Mis-
takes may be mended, one may live and learn, the world is
full of pleasant places, and kindly i)eople. She has found
this out in her month of travel with Dot and Mr. Charlton.
For they have taken her with them ; she is no incumbrance,
and her dark, silently-pleading eyes are irresistible. She has
seen Niagara and the Thousand Isles, and dear old, gray,
historic Quebec, and quaint French Montreal, and absolutely
forgotten more than once that such a being as Captain Dick
Ffrench exists, that she is what Dot calls a ** respectable
married woman." She wears no ring; she is introduced as
Miss Martinez ; she insists upon it so passionately that they
yield. She wears long dresses, lovely light silks with trains,
and every one she meets smiles down frankly into the glad,
bright, eager, beautiful Southern eyes. It is a happy time, a
royal time. Life opens before her in a vista of iniinite pos-
sibilities.

Dora spends money like a queen. Mr. Charlton dwells in
a seventh heaven, and grows young again. He is a hand-
some old gentlemen at all times ; kindly, too, when not
crossed ; he is proud and fond of his young wife, without
making an uxorious fool of himself, and is ready to indulge

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213

ley

Ige

Vera in every whim. So they enjoy themselves all through
September, and far into yellow October. Now it is the last
week of the month, and Vera sits here on the rustic chair
alone. Once more Nero lies at her feet, neglected no longer,
but patted, and made much of, and conversetl with on topics
suited to his doggish intellect, for Vera knows how to adapt
her conversation to her company. A book is in her hand ;
she reads quietly, only looking now and then to follow the
llight of a bird, or the diz/y boom of a laden bee. Her eyes
are bright, a fresh color is in her cheeks, she laughs outright
once at something in her book, and it is the sound of this
laughter that guides another lady to the spot. A lady in a
pretty dinner dress as blue as her eyes, i)erfumed, jewelled,
fair to behold, the lion. Mrs. R. R. Charlton. She smiles
slightly as Vera laughs aloud a second time, a satisfied smile.
Dick Ffrench is well away, and his bride is not breaking her
heart for his sake, that is sure. 15ut for all that Dora does
not {^uite understand the change in her sister since his de-
parture. In many ways she is completely changed. She
never speaks of him — she upon whose tongue the name of Cap-
tain Dick was forever. In her brightest moods she daikens,
frowns, grows silent, if he is recalled. She refuses to speak
of their parting ; she refuses to discuss her marriage at all.

She has grown reticent — she holds herself entirely aloof
from all gentlemen, with a sort of proud, shrinking shyness.
Like Undine on her wedding-day, she seems to have found
her soul.

" Your book appears to be amusing, my dear," says Mrs.
Charlton. "You will soon have to give u[) novels, however,
and take to the nine parts of speech, and trisyllables. Miss
Lansing will be here next week."

Miss Lansing is a very accomplished English governess,
engaged in Canada, perfect in music and modern languages.
Vera looks up with interest.

"lam glad of that," she says, " very glad. It is time I

■M. ' 1

214

" THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME:'

■ t ,• ' !

\A W

^ \

began, and I mean to do my best. No one can be moie
ashamed of her ignorance than I am — no one has more need."

Her voice falters a little, she turns away. Her sister looks
at her keenly.

" It is almost time we were hearing from Captain Ffrench,"
she says, abruptly.

I'here is no reply.

"Vera, what was in that letter he sent you from New
York ? "

*'I do not know."

" W/iat.r'

"I do not know. You need not look incredulous — it is
true. It is upstairs in my writing-desk. I have never
opened it."

" Never opened it ! Never opened Dick P'french's letter ! "

" No. What was the use ? 1 know what is in it — four
formal lines. I would rather keep it as it is. Some day I
may read it. Dot, you — you have not told Miss Lansing
that "

" That her pupil is married — not likely. And no one
here knows except Harriet, and I have given her to under-
stand that if she tells tales slie goes. It is best so, as next
spring you must go to school. Mr. Charlton and I are going
abroad in April to remain the whole year, and Charlton is to
be transformed. I intend to add a wing there, for a billiard
and ball-room — opposite, on the south side, shall be a conser-
vatory. A few more chambers will also be needed. Each
year, from September to Christmas, I intend to fill the house
with guests, and for the iirst time in my life enjoy my life.
Oh, Vera, they m^v say what they like, but only the rich
live. The poor exist, drag out their days somehow, but
wealth is the golden key that unlocks the world, and all
therein. I think I never knew what it was to be really
hapi)y before."

Vera eyes her wistfully.

^I'^'ll ^

" THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.

215

"And you are happy, Dot ? "

"As happy as a queen — I can think of no greater happi-
ness than that. I am proud of my husband. 1 would not
exchange him for your Captain Dick, no, nor for any man I
ever saw. I am fond of my hu:iband — he is awfully good to
me, Vera ; he denies me nothing, and he is richer than even
I sup[)osed. And I am happy, happy, happy ! I would
not exchange places with any woman in America."

And Dora meant it. To the full extent of her capacity
for happiness, she is happy. How this marriage came about,
who is to tell ? It is an idea certainly that never of itself
would have entered Mr. Charlton's head. But if a young
girl, all unknown to herself, gives her heart unasked, and —
and all that sort of thing, and if tearful azure eyes, and lovely
light hair, and a faltering, broken voice, are brought into
play, what is an elderly gentleman, easily fooled and flattered,
to do ? They are married, and Dora is devoted to him, and
means to be a good little wife, and make him happy. She
can wind him round her finger, he gives himself up to the
siren spell of the enchantress, and never dreams of saying no
to his little missis. The gray mare, at Charlton, it is clear
from the first, will be the bttter horse.

" He is late for dinner," says Dora, looking at her watch.
"What detains him, I wonder? He said he would return by
the four o'clock boat, vvithout fail."

" Where has he gone ? "

" To New York, on important business. I may tell you,
I suppose — to make his will. It is always a wise precaution.
He should have been here two hours ago."

"Some one is coming now," says Vera.

Over the hard white road, and up the long sweep of
avenue, a horseman rides — rides, too, at a furious pace.

" It is not my husband," says Dora, " he never gallops
like that."

It is not her husband, it is a man from St. Ann's,

2ib

«' TJ/£ GIRL I LEyr BEHIND ME:'

dusty, pale, excited. She rises from her seat, and calls to
him,

" Do you wish to see me ? " she asks. " Have you a
message for the house ? "

"1 want to see Mrs. Charlton," he answers, touching
his cap and looking anxious. " If either of you young
ladies "

"/am Mrs. Charlton."

He falls back a pace, and is silent. Dora comes up close.

" Something is wrong," she exclaims. " W^hat is it ?
Speak quickly ! "

" Our people sent me," the man says, in a hurried, breath-
less sort of way ; " they are coming as fast as they can. I
was to — to break it to you."

"Break what? Be quick, I say!" cries Dora, stamping
her foot.

" Miss — ma'am, there's been an accident to the steamer —
an explosion — not much of an explosion, but two persons
are hurt, and one is — is "

" Killed ! " cries Vera.

" Killed, miss. And I'm sorry to say, miss — ma'am, I
mean — that that one is "

No need to say it. The feet of those who bear him are
at his gates. He lies on a door, all stark and ghastly, the
dead face covered, who was only this morning a hale and
ui)right gentleman. And Theodora Charlton, six weeks a
wife, is a widow.

" WHEN DAY IS DONE:'

217

CHAPTER XXII.

"WHEN DAY IS DOXE."

OVEMBER is he,e i. here in .a,„, and wind, and
nu.. Overhead there is a leaden, low-lying, fast-
drifong sky-far away there is a sea black toss

^hi: aS:t '?^- "f '-' ^ ^■■^"">«. banshtl;:-

buff ts .L . e ;, " "" ^"""' ^"^ ^"-"- "'■"' -d
iinets ne ti ees. The ram patters, patters aminst the L.ii« •

■t .s chtll, too, with a tonch of winter in the blast ^ '

Vera stands at her bedroon, window and games' out It h
^te tn the afternoon, and the house is as stil a a ton b

Z:z^::t::n'T '"^ ''^-'^'- of raLblat'-

landscape to the far sea hne. Yonder is Sliaddeck I i^hf
nearly blotted out in a whirl of rain and sea-' g t i'tn'
antle s now, even Daddy is no longer there. Sife turn froTr,
. wtth aversion_if she could only blot it out o le e„ ^l
out of ex,ste„ce 1 How the trees are twisting and t3
about w,ld, green ar„,s in the herce embrace of the gajj ^

" A wind that shrieks to the window-pane
A wind in the chimney moaning."

Sh!ddeck° t *""'"'■• """ "'"' '■' ■"-' be out there on

ca, s' Whatlor°"\"T" ^^^^'-'-^ing little white -
cips . What short work they would make of the Nixie
And what a clean white deati, it would be, so n, h ^et'e"
tl^an half what .he world dies of-long, loalhsotne. Ltd"

Death is in the girl's nnnd today-has been the chief

s,ght, and l,fe goes on without hi,n. It is a desolate

2l8

" WHEN DAY IS done:'

thought — they carry us to the grave, and life goes on with-
out us. Just the same to those who held us most dear — a
gap — a missing face and voice for a Httle, then gently ob-
livion, and we are forgotten. But it is too soon for forget-
ting here yet. Vera's mind is full of him. How awfully
sudden it all was ! Hundreds of railway accidents, of steam-
boat explosions, happen, and we shudder for a moment, and
they pass from our memory ; but some time one comes
home to us, and stands cruelly apart forever, from all the

rest. " In the midst of life " By land and sea there

are disasters. By sea ! Does this surging November storm
howl out there on the ocean where he is, and is he in dan-
ger ? A cold, creeping sense of ftar comes over her ; she
has said she never wants to look on his face again — what if
she never does ?

" Vera, my dear," a voice breaks in, " Mrs. Charlton says
she wishes you would go to her. She is in the study, sorting
papers, and wants you to help her, I think."

It is Miss Lansing, the governess. Vera turns from the
window, relieved to find her dreary train of thought broken
up. She descends to what a week ago was the master's
study, and finds her sister sitting at a desk, with bundles of
letters and papers before her. In her trailing crape and
bombazine Dora looks fairer and frailer than ever ; on her
golden hair is a widow's cap, and her pale blue eyes are
faded and washed out with weeping. For Dora has wei)t
real and honest tears of sincere regret. He was so good to
her, so fond of her, so fond of her. As much love as her
poor little flimsy heart has to give, she has given to the gen-
erous gentleman who made her his wife.

His death has been a blow, a bitter blow, softened, it may
be — although she will not own it even to herself — by the
fact that he has left her everything, absolutely everything.
The will has been read, and there is no horde of hungry re-
lations to dispute it, to talk of undue influence, of unsound

♦« WHEN DA V IS done:'

219

mind, etc. It leaves her everything. Mrs. Charlton and
Eleanor are not even mentioned ; to Vera is left ten thou-
sand dollars. All the rest — a noble inheritance — goes to his
beloved wife, Theodora ; and at her decease, to his step-son,
Richard Caryl Ffrench, should he survive her. Will it be
believed ? Some latent sense of justice in the little lady
herself has been the instigation of this, coupled with the
hoj^e that her sister may benefit by it. In her secret heart
she is convinced her life is not likely to be a long one —
when she goes she cannot take all that gold with her, and
has an idea that if what preachers say be true, it might melt
if she could. This is why Richard Caryl Ffrench, vigorous
in strong young manhood, stands a chance of having his own
again, when Mrs. Charlton is done with it. She has cast a
rapid glance over her future, remote and present. She will
not marry again — that to begin with. She is rich and free,
and young and pretty ; she asks no more of life. To many
again would be madness. She will remain at Charlton with
Vera and the governess, this winter, as she originally in.
tended, and go to Europe in the spring. A year or two
abroad, and then, with weeds laid aside, and health improved,
she can return and make the most of life. She is doomed —
that slie knows ; heart-disease, slow, insidious, but fatally
sure is doing its work. Night will come for her more
quickly even than it comes for most, but her day shall be as
sunny as she can make it. A little heatlien is Dora Charl-
ton, though she goes to church respectably enough, every
fine Sunday, and calls herself a miserable sinner, with the
best of them. It is probably the truest thing she says the
week through ; an out and out little pagan she is — Mam-
mon, fashion, dress, pleasure — " these be thy gods, O
Israel ! "

She turns from her work as Vera enters — Vera, looking
long, and slim, and black, in her heavy mourning robe.

" Oh ! Vera, child," she says, fretfully, " you must help

* i :;^

if ( I

r'l -K '^

.; < ■'■ '■■■

220

" ^//SA^ DAY IS DONE.''

me. I grow so tired wading through all tliese dreary papers
and letters, and finding out what to burn and what to keep.
I cannot ask Miss Lansing, a stranger, of whom I know no-
thing. Such quantities of bills and receipts, and old letters
— my head is splitting. All the important papers, deeds,
mortgages, and that, Mr. liennet has. But most of this is rub-
bish — 1 wonder why people will keep old letters. }iere is a
compartment of the desk I have not gone through yet — do
you take them, and tell me what they are. I want to get
through before dark."

She gives Vera her two hands full of papers. The girl
takes them, seats herself by a window, and begins her task.
Some of the letters are yellow with age — she is vividly in-
terested. Here is a small, tlat package from a school-fellow,
dated thirty-five years ago, the ink nearly obliterated. Here
is a bundle tied with blue ribbon — they are from his wife,
from Dick Ffrench's mother. Her color rises, she looks at
them a moment, touched and interested, but she does not
read them. She takes them over to her sister.

" They are from the first Mrs. Charlton, Dot," she says,
and goes quietly back.

But Dot is not sentimental — not in the least. She glances
curiously over one or two, then throws the poor little pile
into the waste-paper basket. Only a dead woman's letters
to a dead man. Why should they cumber the earth, when
writer and reader are dust ?

Bills, receipts — it is as Dot said, the accumulated rubbish
of years. More old letters sere and withered, like autunm
leaves. It is darkening fast outside, but she is nearly
through — only one letter left now. Not an old one this
time ; the writing is fresh, and black, and bold. Her heart
gives a great leap ; she knows that hand. She takes it up
with a curious sort of reluctant tenderness, and gently
touches with her fingers the large, none too legible chirog-
raphy. " New York, Aug. 12th ; " it was written just before

«• WHEN DAY IS DONE."

221

his marriage, '* My Dear Governor " — " Yours affectionately,
R. C. Ffrencii." And here is her own name — once, twice,
four times. Shall she read it — shall she give it to Dot ?
Surely she has a right to read it. Right or not, she will
read it, for her eye has caught something that in a second
turns the balance. She draws nearer to the waning light,
spreads it out, and begins to read.

It is the epistle Richard Ffrench wrote to his step-father,
after the recei[)t of Vera's unique love-letter, and which so
angered Mr. Charlton. It has been thrust here out of sight,
and this is how it has come to light. If Dora had met it, no
harm would have been done ; but Fate, with her usual grim
sense of humor, has come to the front, taken the matter in
her own hands, and here is the result. Alas, and alas ! wiiy
do we ever write letters ? They rise up against us, saying
things we never meant to make them say, writing us down
asses in the face of the world, for our besotted folly in pen-
ning them. Tell your mistress you love her, tell your friend
all you have is his, but tell it not in black and white. In
courts of law, in public prints, on the jeering tongues of
street-gamins, they will stand in judgment against you, and
make you out a liar and a fool.

And Vera reads, and reads on :

*' The more I think of it the more convinced am I that the
sacrifice is at once absurd and unnecessary." "Over-
whelmed by the tears and reproaches of Miss Lightwood."

" Having pledged myself to her sister, at any cost to

myself I shall keep my word." " I feel, when too late to

draw back, that this nonsensical marriage is utterly unneces-
sary." "To like her as a child is easy enough — to love

her as a woman may be impossible." " I have no more

wish to sacrifice my life than other men, but having pledged
myself to her sister, at any cost to myself," etc.

She reads it through to the bitter end^ begins at the be-
ginning, and reads it through again. Then she sits, her loose

f' ",

} I I i ■*

If: ; ^ ^

. . J 1 m

;

^ '"^'^ilU n

•

222

«' WHEN DAY IS DONE:'

hands on the talkie, and stares blankly out at the pattering
rain.

Dora has retreated to another window, gray squares of
light in the rainy evening gloom, still poring over her weary
papers. It is only half-past four, but down in the kitchen the
gas is flaring ; Vera can see it shining out on the wet stones
of the yard. She wonders what they are cooking down in
that hot, bright i)lace.

How it rains, and how the wind blows ! " But having
pledged myself to her sister, at any cost to myself I shall

keep my word " Is it as wild and desolate out there on

the great black ocean, where his ship is tossing, as it is here
to-night ? and if there is a wreck, will it matter much that he
has sacrificed his life to her, after all ?

Right before her hangs a picture ; her eyes wander from
the storm outside, to the canvas. It is a dreary thing ; she
has often thought so, and never liked it ; she looks at it with
an actual sense of pain now. Why will artists j^aint such
gloomy pictures ? is there not misery, and suffering, and
dreariness enough in the world, without their added mite ?
It is a twilight scene, in cold grays and pale yellows. There
is the sunset line ; the last chill red glimmer of light lingers,
but rising fast, and blotting it out, there is a dank, white
wraith of mist. Bare fiel'ds of yellow stubble ; a flat wet
marsh, two or three dismal pollards and willows — nothing
but these, and the low sky line. A broken rail fence, and a
woman leaning over it, with folded arms, her melancholy
white face turned to that last pallid gleam of sunset. It is
mournful ; it is hopeless ; there is a heart-ache only in look-
ing at it. It is called "When Day is Done." What story
of pain and impotent misery is written in that woman's de-
spairing face ? " Overwhelmed by the tears and re-
proaches of Miss Lightwood " " I feel, when too late

to draw back "

" Vera ! " calls Dora, throwing herself back in her chair,

" m/iEAr DAY IS done:'

2.23

with a tired sigh, ** will you never have clone ? I have
finished here. Is there anything worth keeping in that lot ? "

"Nothing worth keei)ing."

As she speaks she folds up the letter, and puts it in her
pocket.

" Is that window up ? " says Dora, rising and coming
towards her. "You are as hoarse as you can be, and — bless
the child ! — she is as white as a sheet."

" I am cold, I think," Vera answers. She shivers as she
si)eaks, and rises in turn. " Is there anything else, Dot. I
— I feel half sick, somehow." She puts her hand to her
head, in a lost, forlorn sort of way. " I will go back to my
room, and lie down."

" Yes, go ; you are as pale as a spirit, or else it is that
black dress and this melancholy rainy night. Do not come
down to dinner ; Harriet shall serve you in your room. Lie
down and get to sleep early."

"Yes, Dot — good-night."

" Oh ! I will run up and see you presently. There is the
dressing-bell, and here is Miss Lansing."

Vera goes slowly upstairs. A fire is burning in the grate,
and casting red, cheery lights over the pretty room. She
walks over to it, takes out the letter, and lays it on the coals.
It crisps, curls, blackens, leaps into a jet of fiame, flies up
the chimney, and is gone. Then she crosses to her desk,
unlocks it, and takes out another, an unopened one this
time. " Vera" on the back in the same large free writing —
no other name. She looks at it a moment, then deliberately
tears it in two, goes back to the fire, and throws in the
pieces. In a moment it is gone. But long after the last
black fragment has vanished, long after "day is done," long
after Harriet lays a temptingly-laden server on the table, she
stands there, her hands clasped before her, looking into the
ruddy coals, as if reading in them the story of a man's sacri-
ficed and darkened life.

i'l

\:t

PART SECOND.

" As through the land at eve we went,
And plucked the ripened ears,

We fell out, my wife and I ;

Oh vff fell out, I know not why,
And kissed again with tears."

CHAPTER I.

VERA.

]HE time is summer, the place is London, the scene
a room in Langham's. A yellow-gray sky, with
now and then a rift of golden sunlight, glimmers
above the million roofs ; it is a London fine day. The win-
dows of the room stand wide, the curtains are drawn back,
all the air and light there are have free i^lay. Under one of
the windows, among the cushions of a broad lounge, lies a
man, his hands clasped under his head, the smoke from his
cigar curling upward, his eyes fixed in dreamy smoker's
content on the world oiitside. The door of the room — a pri-
vate parlor — stands open, as well as the windows, and a
lady, trailing some yards of silken splendor after her along
the passage, catches a glimpse of the recumbent figure and
smiles to herself. " How cool and comfortable he looks,"
she thinks ; " I believe I must learn to smoke cigarettes,"
and so passes on, sending a waft of wood violets to greet the
nose of the smoker.

The parlor adjoining is the lady's, a very elegant apart-
ment, with a litter of books and flowers, and fancy work,
that gives it a harmonized and home-like look. The win-
dovvs here are open too, and she goes over to one of them
and stands looking out. She is in carriage costume — pale,

VERA.

325

flowing silk, some laco drapery, not to be stigmatized as a
shawl, and a bonnet, a Paris marvel, to the uninitiated eye
just a knot of creamy jjoint lace and one pa'e guelder rose ;
but as to price — fabulous. Her whole array, from the dia-
monds twinkling in her ears to the dainty, pointed, high-
heeled shoes, proclaims lavish wealth and excellent taste.
Art, in the shape of a Parisian milliner and mantua- maker,
has done much for her ; nature has done more. She sets
ot^" her dress more than her dress sets off her; you forget the
toilet in looking at the wearer, and that is high art. She is
tall, she is dark, she is handsome — in these three points
there can be no two opinions. The degree of beauty is an
open question — something more than handsome the majority
call her. She has a pair of eyes such as Murillo or Titian
in their day loved to paint, eyes whose lustrous brown beauty
might have redeemed from j)lainness even a plain face. She
has a rich abundance of silken dark hair, worn in a thick
twist high on a shapely head. Modistes and artists pro-
nounce alike the figure simply perfect ; the hand in its
pearl-tinted glove, is long and slim ; the mouth is sweet and
resolute ; the complexion clear and colorless as the leaf of
a calla. It is the ugly duckling transformed into a swan.
It is Vera.

Six times has the earth lain white and dead under the win-
ter snow, six times has it stirred green and living under the
summer grass, since you saw her last. You left her at night-
fall of a drear November day, you find her at four in the
afternoon of a day in June. You left her tall, straight,
black, in her mourning frock ; you find her tall, graceful,
elegant, robed for a drive in the park, in perfumed silks
and laces. You left her a sallow, unformed girl of
sixteen ; you find her a fair and gracious lady of two
and twenty. You left her pale and sorrow-stricken at Charl-
ton ; you find her in blooming health and buoyant spirits at
Langham's. You left her rusticated near the obscure town

i'< '

226

VERA.

of St. Ann's ; you find her a brilliant belle, running the round
of a brilliant London season, thorougiily enjoying her life,
her youth, her position, her pleasures, her beauty. They
are two, yet the same — the moi)ing, forlorn little ** Mari-
ana," deserted in her Yankee moaten grange, and this gay
young lady in her Parisian attire — the same Vera — with a
difference.

She takes a low easy-chair, and sits down to wait. The
window at which she sits adjoins that at which her mas-
culine neighbor smokes. Now and then an odorous waft
greets her. Presently he finishes, and begins to whistle.
Then he rises and starts on a constitutional up and down
the room, keeping step to his own music. Next he goes
to a piano, standing oi)en in a corner, and strikes half a
dozen deep chords with a hand that understands the in-
strument. This seems to inspire him, for it is followed by a
ringing Uhlan song, in a fine mellow tenor voice :

" Der Ilusar,
Trara !

Was ist die Gefahr ?
Sein Wein— flink ! flink I
Sabel blink ! Sabel trink—

Trink Blut ! Tiara I

Dcr Husar,

Trara .

Was ist die Gefahr ?
Sein herzliebstcr Klang,
Sein liebgesang,

Schlafgesang. Trara ! "

Vera listens, and smiles at first — evidently the gentleman
is in fine spirits, and not at all lonely in his solitude. But
after the first voice the smile fades, her dark brows contract,
she has heard that song before, once before. It seems to
her even she has heard that voice. For a moment she is
puzzled to recall where — then, with a start, and a thrill, al-

VERA.

227

most of terror, it flashes upon her. A long lamp-lit drawing-

:oc)i)i, a girl in a short dress, and cropped curls, standing by

a piano, a man sitting at it, striking a spirited accompaniment,

and trolling out this ballad of Nicholaus Lenaun, smiling up

at her as he sings. It is so long ago — so long ago, and yet

— only six years.

"Der Ilusar,
Trara 1 "

He has left the ])iano, and resumed his quick nia'ch ,ip
and down. Vera's heart has started beatin^i with a rapidity
that it has not pulsed with for the two years of her fashiona-
ble life. How plainly the voice comes to her — how like
it is ?

" Sein Wein— flink ! flink !
Sal)el blink, Sabel trink —
Trink Ulut ! Trara!"

She rises quickly, impulsively, and rings the bell. A
French maid appears after a moment-

" Felician," her mistress says rapiilly, " go and get me a
list of all the arrivals at this hotel for the past w«ek. And
be quick."

The girl goes. The voice of her musical neighbor has
ceased singing, and resumed whistling. Vera's brows are
contracted, one dainty foot taps an impatient tattoo.

*' If the carriage comes before Felician ! " she thinks ;
" and Dot so hates to be kept waiting."

But the carriage does not come first — Felician enters tri-
umphant with the list. It is a long one, but the young lady's
eye glances over it in one flash. It drops from her hand —
there it is — the name she has looked for. The voice that
sings is the voice that sang for her six years ago the same
dashing trooper song.

All is quiet in the next room now, he has gone out and
down-stairs. Her sense of hearing has quickened painfully

i V

i -1 ;

228

VERA.

within the last few minutes ; the ringing refrain vibrates in
her ears as though it were still sounding :

•' Dcr Husar,

Trara I
Was ist die Gefahr ? "

" At last ! at last ! " she says to herself, '* and like this ! "

She has known it must come, some time or other, this
meeting — with both living it was inevitable. She has won-
dered often how, and when, and where it might be, and has
tried to bjace herself to all chances. After all, nothing
could be more common-place, less dramatic ; they are both
here in the same hotel, and his Ulilan song has betrayed
him. He is on his way to America ])erhai)s, but that is a
very wide guess perhai)s ; the world is his home, he is of the
nomad tribes, a wanderer, an Ishmaelite, a Bohemian, a
soldier of fortune. He was wounded when last she heard
of hxxn—frotn him she never hears — but that was more than
six months ago. He sounds in very excellent health and
spirits now at least ; a bullet more or less through the lungs
does not seem to impair his musical powers. And he is
here ! Well, the world is full of paper walls, and they hold
men and women asunder as surely as though they were of
iron and adamant. He does not know they are here, of
course ; she ho[)es, drawing her breath quickly, and her
cheek flushing — that he may not. She will not lift one
finger to let him know. If only Dot does not find out !
But that is hopeless ; Dot finds out everything. Luckily
tney go soon, and Enter Felician.

" Madame' s compliments, mademoiselle, and she is waiting
in the carriage."

Vera rises, and sweeps her silk flounces after her over the
carpeted corridor. A gentleman is running upstairs at the
moment — she draws quickly back to let him pass. He gives
her a fleeting glance of grand, careless, surprised admiration,

VERA.

229

uncovers, and pai?ses on. It is too rapid, too indirect, for
recognition ; he has seen only a fair woman, richly robed,
making way for him, and forgets her as soon as seen. She
goes down and enters the carriage, where her sister already
sits, as Felician has intimated. It is Dot, but a fiided Dot,
a pale, thin, aged Dot, with tranjparent skin, and sharp
cheek-bones, and bistre circles under the blue eyes. There
is rouge on the poor wan cheeks, blanc dc perle on the lost
complexion, and a white gauze vail over all. That her dress
is elaborate, is costly, is from Worth, goes without saying ;
the pale gold hair too is profuse — more profuse than ever ;
Dora is rich and regards not expense. Jiut in s[)ite of false
tresses, false bloom, white gauze, and India muslin, Dora
will not bear inspection too nearly, or in too strong a light.
Her pink silk parasol casts a fictitiously roseate hue over her,
but it cannot obliterate the fine lines of care and premature
age between her bismuthed eyes.

" How long you have kept me waiting," she says, queru-
lously, " and good gracious ! how pale you are. Is it that
yellow rose you wear, or is it that you are ill ?"

" I am not ill," Vera answers slowly ; *' it will soon pass.
I am never very red, you know. Where is Mr. Fanshawe ? "

" He keeps me waiting, too — how tiresome everybody
is ! " still querulously. " Oh ! here he is at last."

A gentleman joins them on horseback, an excessively
handsome, fair man, with profuse blond beard, a complexion
as delicate as that of a miss in her teens, and a pair of light
blue, sleepy eyes.

"Not detained you, I hope?" he says, and takes his place
at the side of the carriage where Dora sits. But he looks
curiously at her sister, a half-smile on his bearded lii)s. She
does not notice him ; she is gazing straight before her, with
a certain blankness of expression that shows she sees noth-
ing. He pulls a newspaper out of his pocket and leans
down to Dora.

,•;„-.■
I.

Ik >

230

VERA.

\ I

\ U

''Read that," he says, in a guarded undertone, and points
out a paragraph ; " do not let Vera see you."

She takes it and glances in some surprise. It is headed
" The Cuban League," and is something about a meeting of
the " Executive Committee of the Cuban League, held yes-
terday at the rooms of Dr. Emil Englehart, Langham's Hotel,
at which Colonel R. C. Ffrench, formerly on the staff of
General Morton, in the Sixth Army Corps, of the late Ameri-
can civil war, was one of the notabilities present. The colo-
nel, it may be mentioned, has recently distinguished himself
greatly in ' Cuba Libre,' notably at the capture and destruc-
tion of the city of Las Tunas. On that occasion he was
severely wounded, and left for dead on the field. His health
is now almost entirely restored, and he shortly returns to re-
join the cause of the Ever Faithful Isle. In science, as in war,
Col. Ffrench is equally distinguished ; he was one of the little
band of explorers who, three years ago, returned from the Hon-
duras expedition. His book, 'Among the Silver Mines,' was
spoken very highly of among certain readers at the time."

The article is lengthy, but Dora reads no more. She
makes no sign, except to frown darkly at the printed page,
and hands the paper back to her escort. A glance of intel-
ligence passes between them, then they look at Vera, but
Vera still sits abstracted and silent, and notices nothing of
this little by-play.

" How long has he been here ? " Dora asks at length, in
a low voice.

" Three days, and by the oddest chance his rooms adjoin
ours. He and this Dr. Englehart are there together. They
have a dinner party of the Cuban sympathizers, it seems, to-
night. It is impossible buc that he and Vera shall meet."

She frowns more deeply, the fine lines between the eyes
grave themselves into little furrows.

" It is only a question of time, you know," the gentleman
says, lazily. " What are you going to do about it ? "

VERA.

231

" I must see him," she says, impatiently. "What a bore !
And just as I was beginning to enjoy myself. Why couldn't
he have died respectably in Cuba when he was about it ?
People have no business to go about with bullets in them."

** The bullets were extracted, my dear."

" He ought to die — it would be ever so much more con-
venient every way. And just as Sir Beltran Talbot is grow-
ing so particular in his attentions, too ! The other men of
the expedition caught fevers and died ; why couldn't he .
Other men were shot at Las Tunas and stayed shot, bui liiis
Ffrench "

The gentleman laughs, still lazily, and shows very white
teeth.

"Widow's weeds would be eminently becoming to our
pretty Vera, I think myself. I know two or three men who
would prefer her in them — if they knew the truth. Would
she don weeds and crape, do you think, if this Ffrench really
went over to the silent majority ? "

" Of course not. How absurd, Dane ! After all these
years, and nobody knowing a thing of it. What a mistake
it was — what a stupid mistake, and no one to blame but my-
self ! I must own that. lie didn't want to, and she — but
she was such a little fool in those days ! "

" Was she really ? " he says, and glances over at her with
interest. " I cannot fancy our stately Vera in that r61e, or
any role except the dignified, and uplifted, and gracefully
self-possessed. She was not always the law unto herself,
then, that she is at present ? For even you, my angel, must
acknowledge that hers is the ruling spirit of our menage.
Was she in love with Ffrench in the days when she was a
little fool ? "

"I don't know. No — yes — she was a child, and a simple-
ton, I tell you, and did not know the meaning of the word.
No, she never was in love with him."

" And yet he is a proper fellow, too, to win a lady's favor

232

VERA.

I'k

— better-looking now, I think, than even in those days. He
is tanned to a fine sliade of burnt Sienna — I met Iiiin yester-
day — and looks every inch a soldier. There is no saying
what any of you angelic beings will do in any given case, but
it seems to an outside barbarian like myself an easy enough
thing for any woman to fall in love with this dark and dash-
ing Free Lance."

" Vera is not of the kind to fall in love at a moment's
notice, Mr. Fanshawe ! "

" But sooner or later she is bound to do it, you know, and
very probably make an idiot of herself for her pains. You
were not of the kind to fall in love at a moment's notice, my
Dora, and yet "

"I have done it, and made an idiot of myself for my
pains !" Dora interrupts with sudden bitterness; "is that
what you are trying to say, Mr. Fanshawe ? "

** No, my love, it is not," murmurs Mr. P'anshawe, caress-
ing his blond beard; "far be it from me to stigmatize as
idiocy what has been the crowning bliss of my life. Sir
Beltran Talbot, Guardsman, is an ass, or thereabouts — a
good natured ass, I allow, but still too profoundly asinine to
aspire in any case to the hand of our royal sister. Col.
Ffrench is a fine fellow, as 1 remarked before, only unfortu-
nately he is in the same predicament as the immortal ' Peter,
pumpkin eater, who had a wife and couldn't keep her.'
Joining exploring expeditions and turning soldier of fortune,
does not as a rule put money in your purse. And our lovely
one is a costly luxury. I should think, now, those ravishing
Paris toilets she adorns so well, would cost in round figures
some ten thousand dollars a year."

All this tete-d tete has been carried on on the off side of
the carriage, unnoticed and unheard by Vera. She has her
own life apart, her own day-dreams ; her thoughts are a
sealed book to Dora. Now they are entering the park, and
the conversation of necessity ceases. But all through the

\\\

VE/iA.

233

slow drive up and down the I.ady's Mile, through the bows,
and smiles, and greetings — and Dora has made many friends
— she is still absorbed in the thought that she must and will
see Colonel Ffrench before Vera.

They dine out that day, then follows Covent Garden, after-
wards a ball. Royalty is present at the latter ; it is one of
the most brilliant and exclusive of the season, but still,
through it all, Dora keeps that thought uppermost — she must
see Richard Ffrench first. She watches her sister closely ;
she is not so radiant as usual to-night ; her face looks pale,
her eyes listless, her manner is distrait ; she avoids Sir
Beltran Talbot with a very pronounced avoidance. Dora
bites her lip ; it is such a pity — such a shame ! His " place"
in Dorsetshire is a place to dream of; his rent-roll stands
first in the baronetage ; his infatuation for Miss Martinez is
patent to gods and men. Oh, it is too bad ! And all be-
cause of this Richard Ffrench — this wild, wandering, soldierly,
good-for-nothing She tai)s her delicate fan so impa-
tiently that the frail sticks snap. She must see him ; there
must be some way found out of this muddle. It was all a
mistake — she sees that now, when it is too late. Vera might
be my Lady Talbot to-morrow if she would. And she does
not care for Ffrench — never cared for him in that way.
It is such a pity ! That nonsensical marriage must be set
aside.

" You look tired, Vera," she says, some time in the small
hours. " Would you not like to go ? "

Vera is tired ; she says it wearily, listlessly ; she would
very much like to go, if Dot is willing.

Dot is always willing and brisk, when she has mischief on
hand. So the carriage is ordered, and under the chill morn-
ing stars, they drive home.

"Now go at once to your room, and go to bed," says
Dora, kissing her, " and get rid of that f.igged face before
the garden party at Kew, to-morrow."

234

A LOOK BEHIND.

* t'

Vera smiles, and goes. Dora does not follow her exam-
ple. She hears voices and laughter in the next parlor, and
recalls the dinner-party, of which she has been told. Evi-
dently it has not yet entirely broken up. Prompt decision
is one of Dora's virtues — she does not hesitate now. The
hour is abnormal, but 'here is never any time like the pres-
ent. She takes a card from her card-case, looks at the name,
and smiles. The name printed thereon is " Mrs. Dane Fan-
shawe."

'■^ That will tell him nothing," she says; "he does not
know, of course."

She takes a blank one, and writes in pencil :

'• You have not retired, I know. Will you overlook the hour, and
grant me the favor of an interview in my sitting-room ? "

"Theodora Lightwood.

" I sign the old name, that you may recognize it the more readily."

She rings for Felician, and sends that sleepy damsel to
Colonel Ffrench. There is a cessation of the gay voices,
and a pause. But she is not kept waiting. The sitting-room
door opens, "Colonel Ffrench, madame," announces Feli-
cian, and vanishes. And Dora gracefully comes forward,
and holds out her mite of a hand, all flashing with je\\'els,
and looks up with the old smile into Dick Ffrench's face.

CHAPTER II.

A LOOK BEHIND.

ERA, obediently enough, goes to her room and to
bed, but long after the " sheen of satin, and glim-
mer of pearls," are laid aside, long after the morn-

mg stars wane and set, she lies still and sleepless among the

pillows, and thinks.

'-W.

A LOOK" BE HIND .

235

to
11-
n-
le

Six years is a very fair gap in any life ; it is the record of
six years she goes over now. They have passed quickly,
they look a very brief span, as she recalls them, but they
have brought many and great changes, in her inward, even
more, perhaps, than her outward lite. It is a sufficiently
pleasant retrospect, undimnied by any very dark shadow, ex-
cept in those opening days. But that first autumn is a time
she will ever remember — it stands apart from all the rest ;
graven in pain and cruel shame on her mind.

It changed her, as untroubled years could never have
done. Over all there is an indistinctness ; dark days blend-
ing into dark nights, wintry winds sobbing about the gables
and down the chimneys, sleet and rain, and heavy falls of
snow. To all people it was an unusually cold and stormy
winter — to Vera the sun never shone once. Always the
memory of the words spoken in the garden, of the words
written in the letter ! Night after night, lying in the bleak
darkness, it all flashes back upon her, and the agony of mor-
tification it brings is known only to Heaven and herself.
He thinks of her as a girl sliame fully in love with him, run-
ning after him everywhere, following him to Shaddeck Light
with the determined pur[)ose of remaining, and forcing him
to marry her. Oh ! what a shameful, shameful thing ! she
sits up in the darkness in an agony that makes her shake from
head to foot. He believes all that. She has thought over
it so long, and so incessantly, that not a shadow of doubt re-
mains. She feels that she would rather die than ever meet
him, that she would fall at his feet only to see the cold con-
tempt of his eyes. Oh ! the shame of it ! the shame of it !
and no human being but herself can ever know how it really
was.

She lives two lives in these early days of her trouble — the
night life of childish, unreasoning misery and sleepless pain ;
the day life when she says lessons, and spends hours at the
piano, and in reading French and German with Miss Lan-

Ih f I'

- .SHittMMMi^MMHI

I !

JiF"

mi im \

236

/f ZCJOA' BEHIND.

sing. She grows as thin as a shadow, and Dora begins to
knit her brows apprehensively, as she watches her. Dora
knows nothing of all this.

What is the matter with the child ? Is she still fretting
over Dick Ffrench's departure, or is it that she studies too
hard ? But she studies so easily — she masters every task
with avidity ; it is a keen delight to her, all this new world
of books and learning. Miss Lansing is proud of her pupil.

" She gets on famously," she tells Mrs, Charlton. " Your
sister possesses something more than average intelligence — •
she is highly gifted. She masters music and languages with
a readiness and ease I never saw surpassed."

And Dora, ambitious that Vera shall shine in intellect, if
not in beauty, does not interrupt. It is only that she grows
so fast. Tall already for sixteen, she is shooting up like a
young willow, slender, supi)le, graceful, but woefully hollow-
eyed and wan-cheeked.

" She will certainly be plain," Dora says, with a sigh ;
" she grows thinner and sallower every day, and has no more
figure than a broomstick.. Well, she is married — after all, it
does not so much signify. Dick Ffrench is a bookworm, a
savant^ and — great, blundering simpleton ! — no eyes for good
looks when he sees them."

Mrs. Charlton has a resentful remembrance of sundry arts,
and cunning toilets, and pretty looks thrown away on this
blundering Dick, and of a very decided snubbing adminis-
tered late one night out there on the steps. But Vera likes
him, and as the poor thing is going to grow up so painfully
plain, it is just as well she is safely out of the matrimonial
market.

Mrs. Charlton sweeps her sables a good deal about tb.e
streets of New York this first winter, and by no means im-
molates herself to appease the manes of the late departed.
In a quiet way she manages to spend a good deal of the
Charlton money, and see considerable company. She has

A LOOK DEHINB.

237

no idea of making a suttee of herself, or of being buried alive
more than three months of the twelve down at Charlton.
She is a tritle undecided what to do with Vera in the spring,
whetlier to send her to school or leave her here alone with
her governess. For herself, as has been intimated, she in-
tends to go abroad. Miss Lansing decides the i)oint — she is
about to be married, and tenders her resignation. The die
is cast — Vera goes to school.

In all this time has nothing been heard of or from Captain
Dick?

One day, early in February, Mrs. Charlton enters the
school-room, a letter in her hand. Vera sits there alone
practicing ; she has plenty of piano forte drudgery now. It
is late in the afternoon, but ^vhat waning light there is falls
full on Vera's face. More than ever Dora is struck by its
dark pallor, its thinness, and a certain subdued and repressed
expression that never used to be there. She sits silently
looking at her for a while, until Vera finishes her piece and
turns.

" What is it. Dot ? " she asks.

Dora holds up the letter, superscription outward, and
smiles.

"Do you know that hand ? " she says.

The blood tiiishes up over Vera's face, she catches her
breath. Oh ! does she not ?

" It came this morning," her sister says, "but I have only
had dme to look at it now. It is for me, you see, but there
is an inclosure for vou."

She produces it — "Vera" on the white paper, and no
other name. Vera looks at it with longing, with wistful
pathos, Vv'ith keenest pain. It brings back so vividly that
cruel November afternoon, and all the agony, and humilia-
tion, and shame. She takes it without a word, and puts it
in her pocket. She does not mean to read it, she will never
read a letter of his again — there never can be anything to

rs T"

238

A LOOK BEHIND.

say between them any more — but Dot need not be told that.
She knows what he thinks of her — that is enough. What he
says here, he does not mean. No doubt he i)ilies her ; we
mostly have a sort of comi)assion for what we scorn. No
doubt he means to be kind to her, and do his duty by her,
and go on sending her kindly letters. But she does not want
duty or kindness of that sort. Nothing can alter the past ;
what is done, is done, but there is no need of her lowering
herself still more. She will not read his letters, she will not
answer them, she will never think of him if she can help it,
she will never see him when he comes back, she will never
be his wife. But all that is still a long way ahead, and just
at present Dot need not be told. She will be loyal to him,
as she feels he will be loyal to her, and no one shall ever say,
in her hearing, one word that is not in his praise. With the
letter in her pocket, she sits idly strumming on the keys.
Dora watches her, quiet amusement in her eyes.

" Are you not going to read that letter?" she asks ; "or
is it too sacred to be opened in my presence ? If it is any-
thing like mine, my dear, you need have no hesitation.
Anything more prosaic, or curt, or quietly sarcastic than the
congratulations of my step-son-in-law on my marriage, you
cannot conceive. Of course he has not yet heard of poor
Mr. Charlton's death."

Vera says nothing ; she plays softly, her eyes on the
keys.

"You never told me, by the way," goes on Dora, " what
was in that farewell note of his from New York. You had
not read it, I remember, weeks and weeks after."

Still Vera says nothing, still she plays on, and avoids her
sister's eye.

*' How secretive and reserved we are growing all of a
sudden!" exclaims Mrs. Charlton, pettishly, yet half laugh-
ing. " Don't be a goose. Vera. Read your letter, and see
what our dear Dick says. I have a right to know what my

;fi.'

A LOOK' BEHIND.

239

Step-son is about, remember. Apropos, though—what shall
we do with his letters when you go to school ? "

Vera lifts two inc^uiring eyes.

" You see you are going, of course, as an unmarried girl—
as Vera Martinez, (by the by, Captain Ffrench does not
do you the honor of putting his name on your letter,) and it
will never do for you to receive epistles beginning ' my dear
wife,' as I suppose they do begin. What had 1 better say to
him about it ? "

" Vou had better say to him," answers Vera, speaking at
last, and speaking with quick decision, " not to write at all "

*' I mean it. Dot ; it will be much the best. As you say
the truth would come out if I received letters from him and
-and I could not bear it. I shall have enough to do besides
without answering letters. I have nothing worth writing of
either, and— and in every way I shall prefer it." '

Her sister sits amazed, and looks at her.

" Vera, do you really mean this ? "

"I really and truly mean it."

"You do not want to receive letters from Captain
Ffrench ? " ^

" I do not."

" Do you mean to answer this one ? "
*'No."

*' Because," Dora says, -you could explain all that you
know. U I write and tell him, he will think it is my doing.
Not that I care, for that matter, what he thinks."

" 1 shall not answer it."

Again silence. Dc ra sits fairly puzzled.

''Well," she says, getting up at last, " I must say you are
very much altered. Sometliing more than I know of has
wrought the change ; but keep your own secrets, if you like.
I think, on the whole, it will be just as well to drop the cor-
respondence until you leave school. By that time both you

^■%

240

A LOOK' BEHIND.

i) , I »T

and he will be old enough, let us hope, to know your own
minds. The more you learn, and the cleverer you are, the
better your chance will be of pleasing this scientific husband
of yours. 1 am to write to him then, and lell him you de-
cline any more letters for the next two years — until you have
(juitted school. What else am I to say to him for you ?"

" Nothing else, thanks."

*' 1 shall send him your love, of course ? " Dora says, care-
lessly, going to the door.

"A^f /" Vera exclaims, so sharnly and quickly that her
sister starts. " No ! Remember that. Dot — no sending of
love. I send none. I am well, and do not wish to write.
Nothing but that."

" Oil, very well," says Mrs. Charlton, slirugging her shoul-
ders, "just as you please. Only my lord will not believe
it, you know. You never made any secret before of your
open affection for him."

Vera buries her face in her hands. Dora does not intend
that last as a Parthian shaft, but it goes home just as surely.
Oh ! how true it is — how shamefully true ! He thinks she
is dying for him, no doubt, and sends her this sugar-plum to
solace her in her love-lorn misery. But some day or other
her turn may come, and if it ever does, he shall see !

Early in May Vera goes to school, a school of her own
choosing — an Ursuline convent. Mrs. Charlton sees her
safely domiciled with the nuns, and then departs gayly for
the other side of the world in company with Mr. and Mrs.
Trafton. She has been eight months a widow now, and is
looking forward to a speedy shedding of her sable plumes.
Slie has grown tired of the pretty widow's cap, and black,
though not unbecoming, is di:-mal sort of wear. She is look-
ing forward, also, to a right gay time, for the Trafton' s have
been abroad before, and know many desirable peo[)le.

Life is commencing for Dora Charlton at the mature age
of seven-and-twenty. And she is not disappointed. She

A LOOK HEIIlXn.

241

own

her

"]y for

Mrs.

nd is

lines.

lack,

look-

Ihave

age
She

thoronglily enjoys her new existence as a queen bee, where
hii hello she has been a woiker.

They speml M.iy and |une in I,(Miilc)n, and niakc niiny
acfiuainlances — then ihi.-y go to Swii/i-rKuid. l''.\oi\ wlu'ie
the fame of the Charlton niiUions is wafted niysleiiuu:.ly be-
fore, and the pretty, passt'c htile gohlenhaireil American
\vitU)W is made nuich of wherever she goes. It is charming,
it is intoxicating, this homage, this flattery, this admiration,
this deterence she inspires. She sjjends money hke a royal
])rincess — perhaps she is a trifle vulgar in iicr prodigality —
but as she spends it all on herself and her whims, and con-
sidering her time of life, and that she has to make up for a
do/en wasted years, she is not so greatly to be blamed. To
see, to fancy, is to have. The jjossessions she accmnulates
would freight a small vessel. Suitors are not lacking — be-
fore she has been two years a widow Dora might have been
thrice a wife, if she had had a taste for polygamy. Hut she
says no gayly, even though one of the rejected is a (lerman
(jraf, with two score quartering, a castle on the Rhine, a
legion of dead ancestors, and not a penny in his purse.

She has everything her heart desires — money, freedom,
admiration — the world is all before her where to choose.
Marry ! not she. Her wealth will swell the empty coffers
of no roly-poly German baron, or needy Italian, or fortune-
hunting foreigner of any kind. A wealthy voung widow is

the freest of all created beings. I.ove ! V>\\\ ! she is nine-
and-twenty and has never felt it ; only fools and beggars fall
in love. She has never lost an hour's sleep or a single din-
ner for the sake of any man, and she never will. No man
on earth is worth one's freedom. Marry ! she laughs at the
notion — the old, shrill, eldritcii lautrh. And still laughing

gayl)', an

d say

mg no

10 the (lerman, who follows her like a

fair-haired, fat shadow, she dances on to Brussels, and ther(
meets Afr. Dane Fanshawe.
II

242 'LOVE TOOK UP THE CLASS OF TIMEr

CHAPTER III.

LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME.

MR meets him in a commonplace way enough, Brad-
shaw in hand, and eye-glass on nose, one of a
crowd of other American sight-seers. He is a
Cook's tourist, doing Europe with a lot of other " Cookies,"
but some bond of union must exist in their souls, for they
frateri i/,e at once. Then they meet again at the o[)era, then
at a dinner of the American Legation, then at a ball, where
Dora finds out that as a waltzer he is simply one's ideal man.
Not that she lias ever had an ideal man, but if she had she
rather thinks he would have possessed a beautiful blonde
beard, handsome, short-sighted blue eyes, a faultless taste in
dress, a low, lazy pleasant voice, and be past-master of the
art of waltzing. Not a very high ideal, you perceive, but
Dora never mounts among the stars, and the virtues, the
ball-room gas jets, and the ball-room accomplishments are as
high as she can look.

Mr. Dane Eanshawe is a gentleman, whose voice lingers
l)lfca'^i;ntly in her memory, whose smile she recalls with
another smile of sympathy, whose compliments come back to
her with a small thrill of satisfied vanity that is ciuite new in
her e\i)erience of herself. And why, she wonders ? He is
handsome, but others are handsomer; he is agreeable, but
others have been s" before him ; he waltzes well, but so did
that tall Austrian who was so very attentive only a few
months ago. Dora is puzzled, but pleased ; she is on the
edge of the precipice she has laughed at, but the edge is
Hower-strewn, and the pitfall hidden in roses. AEr. Ean-
shawe takes no especial pains to please her ; it is not his

with
k to
|w in
e is
but
did
few
the
le is
''an-
his

''LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME:' 243

way to take especial pains about anything ; the weather is
hot, sight-seeing, galleries, churches, and all that, fatiguing — ■
he has enough to do in six days of Brussels without the
added labor of trying to win a lady's favor. He is not half
so assiduous as some of the other men ; she is rich, she is
not bad-looking, but he has heard she has forsworn marriage ;
and what is the use ? He thinks this languidly one day as
he watches the devotion of those other men, and meanders
by himself with bored patience among the Vandycks and
Rubens. Perhaps it is this very indifference, which she
sees is thoroughly genuine, that keeps him in her thoughts.
It jjiques her. What business has he to stand yawning
there, three yards off, putting up his glass to scrutinize one
of Paul Peter's painted women, and heeding no more the
other painted woman so near him than the pillar against
which he negligently leans ? Then they part ; the
*' Cookies " go one way, the party Mrs. Charlton is with
another.

It is now close upon the third year of her widowhood and
the Traftons have long ago returned to New York. But the
world is small, and i)eople come together somehow in the
changing revolutions. They meet a second time in Paris, and
visit more galleries and churches, and drive in the Bois, and
walk tiirough the gardens of the Luxembourg, and dine, and
waltz together once more. He s/iall be like the rest, Dora
vows ; he shall feel her power ; he shall bow down and do
her homage ; he shall lay aside that languid Dundreary air,
and wake up to the knowledge that she is still a young
woman, a pretty woman, a free woman. Of the result to
herself she does not stop to think. Paris is pleasant, and
both enjoy it ; they have a community of tastes — they are
kindred souls. They cross in the same ship, and are in com-
mon pathetically sea-sick. They walk the deck, they sit in
sunny nooks, they compare notes, they learn each other's
histories, they run up and down the old threadbare gamut

244 ''LOVE TOOK' UP 7 HE GLASS OF T/ME.''

M •:

of flirtation. Then they land, and once more their paths
swerve asunder.

" How is it that love corner ?
It comes unsought, unseiit."

Dora wakes up to the discovery that hfe without Mr.
Dane Fanshawe is a blank. She wakes up to the knowledge,
and is thoroughly disgusted. At her time of life, too — she
tells the truth to herself — nearly thirty, and he — he is just as
languid, just as gracefully indolent, just as Dundrearyish as
ever ; not one whit, she is positively sure, in love with her.
I^et a woman be never so vain, there is an instinct in these
things that tells her the truth if she will but listen. He is
poor, too ; he owns it with a delightful frankness that char-
acterizes everything he says. He has no prospects, no pro-
fession, no ability; he is just a well-looking, well-dressed,
well-Miannered nonentity, drifting along on a legacy lately
left him. liut what is all that ? She cannot forget him, she
misses him exceedingly, there is no one she meets who suits
her so well. She is impatient and angry with herself, and
])lunges into the "vortex" of fashionable life, determined to
forget him. J3ut after New Year Mr. P'anshawe reappears
on the surface, and jilunges into the vortex, too. Not
plunges exactly — to do anything violent or muscular is not
in Mr. Fanshawe, and the verb "to i)lunge " implies both.
He glides in, and floats round and round, in the old pleasant,
lazy, aimless way. Naturally they meet often, and it comes
to pass that the little victress pulls down her colors and lays
them humbly, and yet regretfully, at the feet of the con-
queror. Perhaps no one is more honestly surprised than the
conc^ueror himself. He has not done nuich to bring about
this consunnnation — he is not aware that he has ever desired
it very heartily ; still — she is I't'ry rich, a .'1 not so old, and
not so bad-looking, and — Mr. Fanshawe r<;ceives the con-
gratulations of his friends with that calm su[)eriority to all

''LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME:' 345

earthly emotion tliat sits upon him so naturally and becom-
iii.gly, wears his blushing honors cahnly, and proposes. He-
fore the spring buds are green in this third year ot' her widow-
hood, Mrs. Charlton stands i)ledged to become speetiil)' .Nfis.
Dane Fanshawe.

And Vera ?

Ail this time Vera lias i)een in her convent, and Dora has
not seen her once. But she goes now, antl V"era is sent ior.

"Wonderfully imi)roved, my dear NTrs. Charlton — won-
derfully improved," says the smiling lady su[)erior, " both
physically and mentally. Her capacity for study is excel-
lent ; her application beyond praise ; her deportment in
every respect a model of obedience and pro[)riety. Her
musical nbility is quite out oi the CMumon — her voice really
remarkable. 1 think you will hnd the result of Miss Marti-
nez's three years with us eminently satisfactory,"

She does. Vera descends — at least a tall voung ladv Hies
down-stairs after a headlong fashion that betokens anytliiig
rather than the repose of Vere de Vere — cries out in a
laughing, sobbing, delighted cry " Dot ! " and tlings herself
into that lady's arms. It is Vera, but a Vera so changed, so
grown, so improved out of all knowledge that Dora ga/.i.vs at
her with eyes of wondering delight. Plain I Why she is ahnost
beautiful. Thin I She is as [)lump as a partridge. Her
com[)lexioii has cleared u|)— from dull sallow it is [)ale olive ;
her cropped hair is long and in shining abundance ; her
waist and shoulders leave nothing to be desired ; her hands
are slim, white, and tai^n- ; her air is self poised and self-|)Os-
sessed. She can talk easily and well ; she has not in the
least the manner of a school-girl. She is nineteen now, and
is to graduate this commencement. Dora is charmed, is
enchanted.

"Why, you pretty child!" she cries; "how you have
grown, and how ama/cirigly . "u have impicjved. I should
never have known you. So womanly, so well rounded, every

246

''LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME:'

I" I

bone, and joint, and angle gone ! and you did so run to
bones and angles in the old days," says Dora, i)laintively, her
head a little on one side.

Vera laughs, the old, joyous, sweet girl's laugh. That,
and the Muiillo e}es, at least have not changed.

" Ah ! do 1 not know that ? How often 1 have mourned
over those same joints and angles ! Yes, they have not starved
me. My one terror is now that 1 grow fat. But I banish
the thought — that way madness lies. You, too. Dot," gazing
at her searchingly, "have changed."

The light of the spring afternoon falls on Dora, on the rich
black silk costume and costly India shawl, on the piquant
little Paris bonnet, and, alas ! on the lost complexion and
pearl powder. Dora laughs, but shifts uneasily under that
clear, searching gaze.

" Dissipation tells after a while, I sui)pose," she answers,
" and I really have been frightfully dissipated this winter.
It excites me, and I don't sleep well, and then — and then I
take to chloral, you know, and that is bad. 1 must go down
to Charlton early this year, and be very quiet, and try if 1
cannot recuperate."

She sighs impatiently, and turns away from the mirror into
which she has glanced. The tale it tells is not flattering.
Those crow's-feet, those fine sharp lines between the eyes,
those silver threads among the gold, the yellow pallor of the
skin, the small, transparent hands ! Dissipation, excitement,
chloral — something is telling on [)oor Dora. She is growing
old fast — awfully, horribly fast. She is but little over thirty ;
one should have no crow's-feet or white hair at thirty, and yet
here they are. To grow old — it is Dora's nightmare, her hor-
ror — it turns her small, frail body cold and shivering from
head to foot only to think of. She is faded and aged ; she
has never realized it so a|)pallingly as at this moment, when
she looks into her sister's fresh, fair face, with every youthful
curve and soft line in iirst bloom.

''Lor/-: TOOK' rr the class of iiMi-.r 247

^ ''You look a li'tle worn, J think," Vera says, tomkMiy,

pityingly. " You need quiet and a long sunnner down at

Charlton, Dot. And I would give up chloral if I were you.

(lo to Charlton, drink fresh milk and eat strawberries, drive

about the country roads, try sea-bathing, and going to bed at

nine o'clock. You will be all right again in July, when I

join you— to part no more this time. Dot." She throws her

arms about her, and gives her a second hug. " You dai'-

bng : " she exclaims, " it seems so good to be with you again.

Oh, Dot, 1 have missed you— missed you in those last three

years."

"So I should hope, dear," laughs Dot, herself again.
" What a little wiseacre you grow ! ' Drink fresh milk and go
to bed at nine o'clock ! ' Is that the secret of your radiance,
1 wonder? And so you have missed me a little, in spite of
all the ologies and dead and living languages ? "

" More than I can say. I used to be frightfully Dot-sick
the first year, and it never quite wore away. Your long, gos-
sipy letters were such a comfort."

"1 thought you expected to have no time for letters.?"
says Dora, mischievously. " Did 3-ou miss any one else, I
wonder ? "

Vera's color does not rise. Her large, dark, solemn eyes
look gravely at her sister.

" Where is Captain Ffrench, Dot ? "

" No one seems to know. He and I have not corre-
sponded—oh ! for ages. I wrote him, you know, that you
did not wisli to receive letters from him, and, as I warned
you, he did not believe me. 1 managed to convince him,
however; since then 1 have heard from him no more. He is
probabl}'in Central America still."

"Not unless he remained after the expedition. J read in
a paper more than a week ago that Dr. Knglehart and his
band of scientific explorers had returned to New York."

" Indeed ! " says Dora, startled. She looks at her sister,

. 1!

i-^f.

t:t

Hi r-

" LOl'E TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIME:'

but the pretty seriousness of her face tells nothing. " Have
you tliought — have you made up your mind "

" I have made up my mind to one thing," says Vera,
throwing back her head with a rather haughty gesture, " that
I am nothing to Captain Ffrench, and never can be. Mar-
ried to him 1 am — that caiuiot be undone — but that marriage
shall never force me upon a man who clearly enough gave
me — you all — to understand from tlie first that he did not
want me. T/iat at least has been plain to me for a very long
time."

" It is such a }nty ! After all, it was not necessary, as
things turned out. Xo one need ever have known of tliat
night at Shaddeck — and you were such a young thing — too
young to be compromised. I think the marriage was a mis-
take."

" 1 think it was a frightful, an irreparable mistake, Dot — •
a mistake that will utterly spoil two lives. No, not si)oil —
I shall never let it do that for me, but for him — poor fel-
low "

" Ah ! you pity him, and we all know to what pity is akin.
Who knows ? it may come all right yet, and you used to
be "

" Oh ! Dot, my sister, do not say it — do not ever say that
again. 1 have suffered — I have suffered, I have been fit to
die of shame ; I am still, when I think of it. To know that
I was forced upon him, that he was obliged to marry me ; to
know how he nuist have despised me, as half fool, half knave !
Dot ! J)ot ! I go wild sometimes ! If I could die to give
him back his liberty, to undo that day's work, I would die
this hour ! "

She walks up and down the room, and wrings her hands.
Her gray school-dress hangs in straight folds about her, with
something of a classic air — her j)ale face, her wild words, the
intense expression of her eyes, give her the look of a tragedy
queen. It strikes Dora in that light and she laughs.

''LOVE TOOK UP THE CLASS OF TIME." 24Q

"My dear child, if you do it lialf as well when you gradu-
ate, you will bring down the house. You look like Ristoii
in Marie Stuart. It is never of any use regretting anything
in that tragic manner ; hightlown feelings are out of place ia
the age we live in, and passions, you know, were never made
for the diawing room. We will see what can be done. If
you wish it, and he wishes it, and, considering everything,
that sort of marriage should not be irrevocable. If he is in
New York I will see him, and talk it over. Now 1 will say
good-by until July.''

So Dora goes, and returns to the city, and that very night,
as it chances, at Wallack's, sees Captain Ffrench. He comes
in with some other men, and takes his i)lace in the stalls.
Dora leans from her box and gazes at him. How brown
and manly he is, how silently and gravely he watches the
})rogress of the play. He has not changed at all, except that
three years under a Southern sun have dee[)ened the tints of
his already brown skin.

"Who is that tall, distinguished-looking man?" a lady
near her asks, and she listens curiously for the answer.
"That is Cai)tain Ffrench, of the Honduras Expedition,
famously clever fellow. Have you seen his new book,
'Among the Silver Mines ?' But you don't read that sort
of thing."

So Fame has found him out — has Fortune ? But it is not
likely ; she is nuich slower of foot than her vapory sister.

Next day Captain Ffrench receives a note from the widow
of his step-father. The result is that he presents himself in
the middle of the afternoon, and is ushered into her pres-
ence. Dora winces a little under the steadfast gaze of those
strong gray eyes, and is acutel) conscious that she is redden-
ing under her rouge. She tlings back her head, defiantly —
somehow she is always belligerent with this man. It is not
exactly a pleasant interview, although a silent one on the
gentleman's part. He lets her do pretty nearly all the talk-
u*

^T-W

! .ill

ii iii

250 *'LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TIMEV

ing, sitting toying with a paper-knife, and keeping throughout
the same silently grave look that struck her last night. After
all he /.$■ changed, too; that old easy, insouciant dash of for-
mer days is gone. It is a very thoughtful, earnest-looking
man who sits before her.

" I have just come from Vera," she says, that defiant ring

still in her voice ; "it is from her I learned that the expe-

. i

dition had returned. She saw it by chance in the news-
papers."

" She is well, I trust ? " he says, quietly.

"Quite well, thanks, and so grown, and so different from
the Vera of three years ago. In every way — in — every —
way, Captain P'french ! "she says, slowly and emphatically.

He looks at her c^uestioningly.

"She was a child then, younger than her years. She is a
woman now, and older than her years. She has learned to
think for herself. And the result of that knowledge is that
the memory of her marriage is spoiling her life."

*' I never doubted that the result would be otherwise," he
responds, in the same quiet tone.

*' It was a mistake, a fatal mistake — I see that now. She
did not know what she was about ; she regrets it most bit-
terly. She would give her life — she told me so — to be free."

"I do not doubt it."

"You take it very coolly," Dora says, stung to anger.
" Have you nothing more to say than this ? "

He recalls that morning at Shaddeck Light, when she
stood before him, flashing angry defiance, as she is doing
now, and asking him the very same question. A slight smile
dawns on his face at the supreme inconsequence of the female
mind.

" Permit me to remind you, madam, that from first to last
I am not to be held responsible in this matter. It was you
who insisted it was my duty to marry Vera; it was you who
asked her to marry me. Whatever comes of that marriage,

''LOVE TOOK UP TirE GLASS OF TIME^' 25 I

it is you who shall look to it ! I positively decline to have
the blame shifted on niy shoulders. Why you insisted upon
it, Heaven only knows. In the light of later events— your
marriage "—the strong, steadfast eyes bring the angry blood
to her cheeks once more—" I confess 1 cannot see your
motive. I ani in no way a desirable parti. 1 am a i)oor
man, and likely to remain so. I have no time to make
money, if I had the inclination. I lead a wandering life ; I
have no prospects. No, .\[rs. Charlton, I am at a'' loss 'to
understand your object in insisting, as you did, on this mar-
riage. And, after having insisted upon it, to try to shift the
blame of spoiling your sister's life ui)on me, is a little too
much. You made the match, Afrs. Charlton— you must bear
the blame."

She sits silent, beating an angry devil's tattoo with her
foot, two hot, red spots on her cheeks. What he says is so
bluntly, hatefully, uncomi)romisingly true.

•' I should like to see Vera," he suddenly says.

"You cannot see her," Dora answers, angrily, glad to
thwart him ; "she does not wish to see you. She is still at
school, and studying hard to graduate. She refused to write
to you from the first— you may infer from that how her sen-
timents have changed."

"Yes," he says, coolly; "the change is remarkable,
indeed."

" You intimate that she was in love with you," Nfrs.
Charlton goes on, still more angrily ; "well, she never was !
It was a girl's foolish fancy for the only young man she
knew." A sarcastic sn)ile curves Captain Ffrench's mus-
tached mouth. "She was not in love with you. Captain
Ffrench, either then or ever."

He rises.

" I have an engagement at five," he says, still with perfect
composure. "Is there anything more, Mrs. Charlton ? "

Are

you going to remain in New York ? " she asks.

253

**LOVE TOOK rr 7//E CLA.'iS OF T!ME:'

It ■ J^

\% !

■k

" I'or this inonlh, yes."

"And then?"

An amused h)()k ccMnes into his face.

" Your inti'iesl does nic honor. Then I go to Cuba."

"To join the war?" she cries, eagerly, "to fight for
Cuba r'

" To fight for Cuba. Figiiting and engineering are my
trades, you know."

Her face clears up. \\'hat a short cut this is — how easy a
way of severing the (iordian knot. A man goes to the wars,
and the chances are live to one against his ever coming
back. And to Cuba of all places, where malaria lays more
low than Spanish bullets. Climate and bullets he cannot
both escape, a beneficent Providence will never permit it.
This Ffrench is just the sort of reckless dare-ilevil to lead
forlorn hopes, and storm breaches, and head mad cavalry
charges.

Co to Cuba ! wliy it is the very thing of ail things she
would have desired. Her face liglUs up so swiftl)' and
brightly that he laughs outright as he turns to go. He reads
every thought she thinks.

" Cood-by, Mrs. Charlton. Say it to Vera for me, will
you, and tell her not to make herself unha[)py about the
foolish past. A ball, or a fever may end it all, and will be
better everyway than the divorce court. Once more, adieu."

So he goes, still laughing, but in his secret heart, hiu t,
sore, impatient. He does not blame Vera — the change was
inevitable ; only that she should blame him, should hate him,
is not so easy to bear.

"She was such a dear little soul, too," he thinks, regret-
fully ; " so frank, so true. Why, her very name means
true, ' found faithful.' And she has grown up like her sister,
no doubt with powder and paint on her face, shallow of soul,
and artificial of manner ! Yes, Cuban fevers or Spanish
bullets are better than that,"

*'Lor/-: TOOK UP the glass of time:' 253

July comes, and with it Voia back to Charlton, for the
first time since she h-ft it. (ireen and lovelv it lies under
the midsummer sun, its roses in bloom, its trees in leaf, its
fruits ripening on the laden branches. Dora has changed
and enlarged, and improved, but nothing she sees is so nnich
changed as herself. St. Ann's, sleepy as ever, lies blistering
in the white heat, t!ie black water slii)i)ing about its rotting
wharves, and Sunday stillness in its grass-grown streets, as
of yore. Yonder is Shaddeck Light. 'I'he tide ebbs, and
the tide (lows, and the little gray cabin stands lonely, and
dropping to decay on its wind-beaten, wave-washed rock. Lip
there is the white church on the hill, with its tall gilt cross
flashing in the sun, where she drove one August morning,
and Captain Dick put a wedding-ring on her tinger— the ring
she has never worn. Mere is the summer-house where she
crouched in her agony of shame, and heard the truth from
merciless lijis. Here is his room, or the room that used to
be his — it is Mr. Dane Fanshawe's now — and the litter of
pipes of all sorts, the litter of side-arms and hre-arms of all
nations, the litter of books, scicntitic, mathematical, with
here and there a Dickens, or a Thackeray, or an Irving
])eeping out — have all been swept away to the attic. Only
Eleanor Charlton's portrait, oddly enough, remains, the head
in crayons, brought from Shaddeck Light. It hangs over
the mantel, and smiles with grave sweetness on the slumbers
of the man Dot delights to honor. Vera visits the room
shortly after her arrival, a muscular chamber-maid playing
propriety and making the bed, and looks at it musingly.
Poor Nelly, gentle Nelly, jjatient Nelly, where is she now ?
When last Vera heard from her she had gone with a family
to travel in Europe, and perhaps has not returned. She
stands abstractedly gazing at the picture, and, still before
it, Mr. Dane Fanshawe finds her, as he unexpectedly
appears.

*' 1 thought you had gone with Dot," Vera says, with a

- I

254

''LOVE TOOK UP 'I HE (;i..tSS OE TIME:'

!• I i

iHTvoiis little laugh, ;uul moving away. ** Shall I apologize
loi this iiUriisioii ? "

" Xol at all — my apartment is honored. I am going with
Dot-— I mean AFrs. Ciiarlton — but I foigot my gloves. You
are looking at that [)ortrait ? " he says, suddenly. "You
knew her ? "

"(), very well — dear, quiet, pretty Kleanor ! Is it not a
sweet face, Mr. Fanshawe ? "

lie does not answer at once. He stands and looks at it,
and souiethiug like a moody shade darkens his face.

" It is very well done," he says, after that [)ause. " Who
was the artist ? "

" An amateur, I believe," Vera answers, moving to the
door. " Yes, it is very like."

" 1 wonder why they left it here ? "

Something:; odd in his tone makes her look at him. His
face is generally most gracefully blank of all expression, but
at present it wears an expression that pu/./des Vera.

" JU'cause, 1 sup[)ose, it seemed to belong here of right.
The gentleman who sketchetl it lodged in this room. Jf you
object to it, Hetsy can take it away — / should very much
like to have it."

" Jiy no means," he says, hastily ; " I prefer to see it
here, A pretty face, on IJristol board or oif, is always a de-
sirable possession. And 1 like the room as Mrs. Charlton
has arranged it."

Vera frowns, and goes. His old manner has quite re-
turned, and she does not like that old manner nor the man
himself. He is here with half a dozen other summer guests,
but he is here with a difference. She knows all ; the mar-
riage is to take plate in September, and she is jealous and
provoked. The hrst shock of surprise is over, but she can-
not reconcile herself to it. Why need Dot marry ? Why
can they two not live together all their lives, and be all in all
to each other, without any obnoxious husbands coming be-

''LOVE Toorc r;p rr/E or ass of Tr^rE:

255

twecn ? And it' lu; were tlu' ii;;ht sort of ;i man, a manly
man, not an idle 7'aurh'n^ caring only tor l)()i's fortmio !
Vera has aix image in her mind, her "man of men," once and
always, and very unlike this languid, handsome dandy. 'I'o
think of Dot's falling in lo> ; with a perfumed coxcomb, with
golden locks, parteil down ..le middle, eyes that look half
asleep, and an everlasting lassitude and weariness upon lum
that makes her long to box his ears !

" I wonder if a sound box on the ear 7i<ould rouse him ? "
she thinks, irritably ; "we would both be happier and better
if 1 could administer it. What can Dot see in a scented t'o[)
like that ? "

Dot sees in him not a whit more than there is to see — his
thoughts are her thoughts, his world her world, his intellect
hers. She idealizes liim not at all, \n\\ he suits her. And
she means to marry him.

"Does he know about the will?" Vera asks one day ;
" about the estate going to — Captain FtVench at — your —
when you "

" No ! " Dora says, sharply " Why should 1 tell
him ? What a fool 1 was, to be sure, in that, as in the other
thing."

" I think he ought to know," Vera says, slowly.

"And why? It is no business of ius. 1 am rich, and I
am going to marry him — that is enough for him. Do you
think he is marrying me for my money ? "

Vera is silent — there are times when truth need not be
put in words.

" He is not ! " Dora exclaims, irritably ; " he is no for-
tune-hunter. And if he is, it serves him right to — not to
know. I shall not tell him. Let him find out for himself.'

Mr. Fanshawe does fnnl out, and very quickly, naturally,
after the marriage. Me makes the discovery during the
honey-moon tri|), and what he thinks his bride knows not ;
that expressionless face of his stands him in good stead. lie

i, Y'

mmm

256

''LOVE TOOK UP THE GLASS OF TDIE.''

is too indolent to exercise himself much over the inevitable
at any time.

'•1 must make all the more hay while the sun shines," he
thinks, if he thinks at all. " She is rich, and she is my wife
now. I do not think she is likely to live long, and after that
— well, after that, I shall be able to say at least, ' Come
what will, I have been blessed.' If she will have luxuries,
she must |)ay for them."

This sounds heartless, put into words, but Mr. Dane Kan-
shawe is by no means a heartless sort of fellow — no*- "obustly
bad indeed, in any way, not unkind, not inattentiv;. not, for
the matter of that, without a sort of liking for the rich widow
he has made his wife. That is to say at tirst, for w ith time
comes change. Dora is exacting, and Dane is not disposed
to inconvenience himself to please her. He si)ends too
mucii money, he stays out too late, he comes home in the
small hours, reeking of cigars and wine, he gives champagne
suppers, he pla)-s monte and faro, he gambles horribly in
fact. He has just one passion outside his intense love of
self — gambling. She is not long in fmdingit out, and money
he will have. I.ove spreads his rosy pinions and takes to
Ihght. There are scenes, recriminations, tears, hyste»ics, in
the nuptial chamber. Dora scolds shrilly, passionately ;
calls him a brute, stamps that tin\' foo: of hers, and protests
she will desert him, will divorce him, hates him, wishes she
had been dead before she ever married him. Mr. Kanshawe
listens, coolly sometimes, smilingly often, pleasantly always,
and when very much disguised in — cigars — laughs, a feeble,
maudlin laugh, or sits down on the side of the bed and sheds
tears, or drops olT, in a limp and imbecile way, asleep widi
his boots on, according to the strength and quantity of th j —
cigars. lUit these arc the intervals. For months together
sometimes things go snioothly, and Mr. Fanshawe is the
lazily-graceful, languidly-agreeable gentleman of tourist days,
as polite to Dora as though she were ^ome other man's wife.

• !i t

**LOVE Tooh' rr the glass of TiMEr 257

And throucrh it all Mis. Fanshawc hides the dis^raccful truth
from her sister, W-ra has always disliked the man and the
marriage, and that " I told )()ii so'" look is about the most
discon erliiiL^f any human face can wear. Dora lias a jiro-
found respe'ct for her stately sister, so sensible always, as
sensible indeed as though she were not a i)retl\- woman, and
who does not look as though, under any combination of cir-
cumstances, late hours, or heady cigars, she could scold, or
stamp, or go into hysterics. She is very much admired in
Washington society, that first winter ; has a number of ad-
mirers, and one ofter. They go to Europe in the spring — Vera
is a good American, but she feels she must see Paris before •>\\c
dies — must see Venice, Nai)les, Vienna, Rome — most of all
Rome. It is the dream of her life, and Dora indulges her.
Dora indulges her in all things ; that old sisterly love, the one
pure, unselfish thing in Dora's meagre, selfish life, is stronger
than ever. It rests and comforts her to come to Vera after one
of these stormy scenes with her indifferent husband. Mer
health is failing, too, she needs travel and change ; the heart
trouble of her vouth is more troublesome than ever. So
they go, and Vera, happier than most of us, has the desire
of her heart, and does not find it turn to dust and ashes in
iier mouth. I'aris, Venice, Rome, she sees them all — she
grows brighter, healthier, handsomer, every day. Jf the
memory of the man to whom she is married ever crosses her
thoughts Dora does not know it. She never s[)eaks of him.
Jiut taking u[) a home pai)er one day she reads there of the
capture of Das Tunas, and among the list of mortally wounded
is the name of Captain Richard Ffrench. He had fought
like a lion, and had f.dlen with a bullet through the heart.

There is a grand ball to be that night, antl a superb toilet
has come home for Vera, but -le does not wear it, does not
go. She is deadly pale when Dora meets her next, but if
she suffers she makes little sign. Shi; goes on with Iut lite
just the same, and hides her heart jealously from all the

f i

258

AT DAIVN OF DAY.

world. But the next mail contradicts the report — it is not
(Irath, only a bad wcjund — a ball through the lung, not the
li Mil. Richard I'Trench is not dead, or going to die. Dora
Nv:i;( hes her with great inti-rest and curiosit)^ but is baffled.
l)}ing or li\iiig, they can hardl\- be more asunder than they
are ; but \\\\\ did he not die? It would be so much m(^re
comfortable every way I

In the si)ring of the second year they return to London,
intending to remain until July, and then go home. And this
June night — morning rather— Dora Kanshawe stands smiling
under the ciiandelier, and holding out one diamond -ringed
hand to Colonel Richard Caryl J^Tiench.

CHAPTER IV.

AT DAWN OF DAV.

HE comes irairmg her rich dress over ffie carpet,
and holding out her jewelled hand " in her lovely
tsS^ silken murmur, like an angel clad with wings," he
thinks, some misty memory of his Browning reading in the
olil Eleanor Charlton days, returning to him. Oidy after all,
Dot is not the sort of little woman in any attirr to sug^st
angelic metaphor — rather she is like an opera fairy in that
shining jiink silk, and all those milk\' jj-earl ornaments. He
wonders as he looks at her — such ripple, and rimglets, and
twists and i)uffs of Huffy gold hair '. On whose hea'! did it all
grow ? Such glinnnering small shoulders, ha4f 'trailed in
frosty lace ; such, a dazzling small face, iiJi !b«»ow-u ite and
rose-red ; such gleaming blue eyes, and ftijch a ihin, thin
little hand. He could span the fragUe '"dry with one hand,
it seems to him — such an old fairy, too, when one is near.

A 7' DAIVN OF DAY.

259

Out of his dark, wondering eyes a sudden compassion looks.
Poor little Dot ! It is a hard life, tliis treadmill of fashion,
and it is telling on her. And is Vera a younger copy of
this, he wonders, as he holds for a second those tiny, ringed
lingers, and if so what a pity, what a pity !

For Dora, she looks upon the stately figure of a tall otti-
cer in undress uniform — it has been in order, it seems, to be
semi-military to night ; she looks at tiie " burnt sienna "
comi)le.\ion, the dark, resolute eyes — but from the fixed gaze
of tiiese latter rather shrinks. They give her, they always
r//V/ give iier, an unromfortal)le sense of being transj^arent as
clear glass to this man ; they seem to look straight through
the jMiik and white so artistically laid on, and read the
empty heart, the hard little soul below. He disconcerts her
before lie has o[)ened his li[)s, but siie laughs gayly, and
greets him after the airy fashion he remembers so well.

" Ever so many a[iologies for inf;erru[)ting your gay party,
and at this hour. How surprised you iimst have been at
receiving my card. And at three in the morning ! As if it
were a matter of life and d ^th. Hut vni know how ini-
pulsive I always was, and I grow worse e'- .'ry day. And
really, I wanted to see you so much. Take a seat."

She waves him gracefully to a chair, and sinks into an-
other, the i)ink silk dro[)[)ing into flowing folds, and the point
of a tiny kidded foot peeping out effectively.

" Let me see — it is two, yes, three years, actually th.ree,
since I saw you last. You do not change much with the
revolving seasons. Captain — I beg your i)ardon — Colonel

know-

-yi

and your wounds, and your promotion. Ah ! how terrible
it was — the wounds I mean. Report said you were dead.
And then, again, \\e read of your being surrounded, and ca[)-
tured, after prodigies of valor, and sent a i>risoiier to the
Moio. And how once you were sentenced to be shot at
daybreak, and only were rescued at the eleventh hour. We

11 i

260

A r DA \VN OF DA Y.

know all about yon, you see ; we have followed you through
all yoiu' deeds ot" ' deirini^ do.' What a charmed life you
nuist bear, Colonel I'french."

lie smiles ever so slightly. She runs on so ra])idly that
she gives him no time to speak, even if lie were so inclined.

" I only found you out this afternoon through a paragraph
in the Times,'' she continues. " How long is it since you
came to London ? "

" Three days."

" Did you know we were here? But of course you did
not. Do you remain long in England ? "

•' That is uncertain."

His curt replies are in contrast to her easy volubility, but
they do not disconcert her. She has got over her tirst awk-
wardness, and is quite herself once more.

" You return to Cuba, I supi)ose ? Ah ! you fire-eaters
are never satisfied away from the field of glory. And how
about that shot through the lungs ? Quite convalescent, are
you not ? So far as appearances go, I think I never saw
you looking better."

It is a comi)liment he feels he cannot honestly return.
Certainly those steadfast eyes of the Cuban colonel see
more than Mrs. Fanshawe intends they shall see — paint,
powder, perfume, pencilt-d brows, darkened eyes, false hair,
false shape, fidse tongue, fiilse heart — he sees all. And
Vera is like this — poor little Vera !

" You did not know we were here — how could you ? Our
names would tell you nothing. To think you should be our
very next door neighbor ! how odd. Did you visit New
York before crossing over ? "

"I did not."

It is as hard to extort an answer from him as though he
were in a witness-box, and she the counsel for the other
side. Jiut she will make him speak before she is done with
him.

Ar DAIVX OF DAY.

261

" Then you have not heard of my marriage ? "
She smiles with perfect ease as she says it, and nhivs co-
quettishly with her fan. lie looks at her, but not in sur-
prise.

" Your marriage, Mrs. Charlton "

" Ah ! " Dora laughs. " J knew you had not. Afrs. Fan-
shawe, i>lease— Mrs. Dane Fanshawe. It is nearly two years
ago now, and we were married in New York. I sent you
cards, but of course you did not get your mails regularly,
out there among all that fighting. It is late in the day for
congratulations, but they never come amiss."

*' You have my best wishes for your happiness, Mrs. Fan-
shawe."

" Almost immediately after our marriage we came abroad,
and have been travelling ever since. We are merely stop-
ping here for a few weeks of the season, and— and because
we cannot induce Vera to leave."

Her name has been spoken at last. But Colonel Ffrench
takes it very calmly. He does not speak— he sits cpiiefly,
and a little coldly, waiting for what is to come. He has
always distrusted this woman ; he distrusts her more than
ever to-night.

"Vera is with us, of course, and— need I say it? it is

entirely on her account that I have asked for this interview.
Living in the same hotel, it is quite impossible but that you
and she shall speedily meet. And before that meeting takes
place, for her sake, for your own, it is best I should speak
to you."

She is warming to her work. He is not a very i)romising
looking subject, as he sits there with that impassive counte-
nance, but Dora's faith in herself and her strategic abilities is
boundless. She is one of the class to whom all success is
possible, because they believe in th^ , -selves. She is resolved,
by fair means or foul, to give Vera back her freedom. If
sisterly tact, and a few sisterly lies, can do it, she is resolved

262

AT DAIVN OF DAY.

that Vera shall be Lady Talbot. This man is the only ob-
stacle in the way, and this man, though he were twice as big,
and brown, and determined-looking, shall soon be an obstacle
removed.

" Colonel I'Trench," she says, leaning a little forward, and
tapping emphatically with her fan, "six years ago a great
mistake was made, one that I have never ceased to regret.
The fault was mine, 1 freely admit that. All the same,
it was a horrible mistake, but I trust not an irrei)arable
one."

She pauses, but the calm, attentive face before her is im-
passive as a handsome mask. What she has said needs no
rei)ly, and receives none.

" From the day of that marriage Vera changed — from a
frolicsome, heedless child she became silent, dispirited, almost
moody. She had fancied you in a wild, childish fashion, as
little girls almost always do fancy young men. She consented
heedlessly to the marriage, and the moment it was over re-
pented of it. That repentance has deepened with every
passing year. She refused t ) write to you, though I urged
her to do so ; she refused to see you on your return from
Honduras ; she has never — no, not once — spoken your name
voluntarily in my hearing since that time. Unjust to you
this undoubtedly is, but women do not reason, you know,
they act from their feelings. And Vera's feelings, so far as
you are concerned, and so far as I can read them, for she is
sensitively secret on this point, have undergone a total re-
vulsion. From a girl's foolish fancy they have changed to a
woman's unreasoning aversion. Pardon the word, but the
truth is always best."'

The shadow of a smile dawns and fades on the soldierly
face. Truth from the lips of this glib little liar ! Slight as it
is, Dora's quick eyes catch it, and she bristles up defiantly
at once. She sits very erect, her gleaming blue eyes flash-
ing upon him.

AT DAWN OF DAY.

263

" Pardon me, Colonel Ffrench, do you doubt what I tell
you ? If so "

" Tray go on, Afrs. Charl — , excuse nie, Mrs. Fanshawe.
Why should I doubt it ? it is perfectly natural, and precisely
what was to be exi)ected. So Verj detests me. Ah ! I am
sorry for that."

" Detest is perhaps too strong a word ; her liking changed
to dislike, to intense annoyance at finding herself bound, bon
gre null gre^ to a man she did not care for. But it is only of
late "

Dora breaks off in pretty embarrassment — the subject is
evidently growing delicate. Colonel Ffrench watches her,
and despite his seriousness, there is an unmistakable gleam
of amusement in his eyes. The farce is well played, but what
a farce it is !

" 1 scarcely know how to go on," pursues Dora, that kit-
tenish confusion still upon her, " the subject is so — is so

Colonel Ffrench, you must not blame my sister too nuich ;
remember, our feelings are not under our control ' to love or
not to love.' And Vera is so young, so attractive, so -"

" Pray do not distress yourself to find excuses. Afrs.
Fanshawe," says Colonel Ffrench coolly. " A[y wife has
fallen in love with another man — that is what you wish me to
understand, 1 think?"

She laughs a short, uneasy, angry laugh.

" You put it in plain English at least ; but that was always
one of your virtues, I remember. Yes, Colonel Ffrench,
unconsciously to herself, with pain, witii remorse, with fear
for the future, Vera's heart has gone from her — her woman's
heart, for the first time."

" Let us hope at least it has gone into worthy keeping.
Might one ask the name of one's favored rival ? "

" Presently — all that in time. Would that every husband
were as amenable to reason as you, my dear colonel ! But,
then, every husband does not marry and desert his bride

w^^

261

AT DAIVN OF DAY.

under the; same excei>tional circumstances. She has given
lier love Id one in every way worthy the gift, to one who
centres in himself high rank, great wealth, ancient lineage,
talent, and title."

"Tillt; ! '' int(,'rrui)ts Richard Ffrench, and smiles. "You
rank the gentleman's perfections in the order of ecclesiasti-
cal processions, 1 see — the greatest comes last."

" And," goes on Mrs. Fanshawe, the angry glitter deepen-
ing in her eyes, "to one who loves her truly, i.leei)ly, greatly.
Tiiere is but one obstacle to their perfect happiness, and
that "

" A by no means uncommon one, I believe, in those up-
lifted circles — an obnoxious husband. All this time, my
deal madam, 1 sit in ignorance of the name of this iiaragon —
this rich, highly born, highly bred, titled gentleman who as-
pires to the hand — no — the heart, of the latly at present my
wife."

"To both hand and heart, Colonel Ffrench, with your per-
mission. The gentleman is Sir Beltram Talbot, }iaronet ;
his devotion to my sister has been from the first the talk of
the town."

" Ah ! and she returns this very ardent devotion, you tell
me ? And I am in the way. But to so clever a lady as
yourself, Mrs. l''ansha\ve, what does an obstacle more or less
signify ? I am in your hands. What am 1 to do ? You
made this match — how do you propose to unmake it? "

" Sir, if you treat this subject as a jest "

" Not at all ; I am profoundly in earnest. Far be it
from me to show unseemly levity where the ha4)[)iness of a
young, rich, and titled heart is concerned ! And Vera's
welfare — for old time's sake — is necessarily dear to me. 1
merely ask for information."

" There is such a thing as divorce," begins Dora, but she
has the grace to redden under her rouge; "the marriage
was so exceptional, and — and considering everything — the

AT DAWN OF DAY.

265

years of your absence — desertion^ perhaps, we might call
it "

It
If a

[•a's
i

she
the

((

It will be the better word certainly," he says, with gravity,
" for a divorce court. Pardon me — is tiiis your idea, Mrs.
Fanshawe, or Vera's ? "

" Vera has grown up with some very strange ideas,"
returns Dora, with acerbity ; " caught from her Urniline
nuns, I suppose. It is «<;/ Vera's. She has notions of duty,
and the sanctity of the marriage tie, and all that — romantic
and nonsensical ! It was a mistake to shut her up for three
years in a convent ; I cannot imagine where else she can
have acquired them,"

" It is indeed singular, and with the benefit since of your
excellent training, too. On the whole, though, it is a relief
to hear she has those romantic and nonsensical ideas. They
are old-fashioned, I am aware, and almost obsolete in fash-
ionable life ; but I am such an old-fashioned fellow myself,
that 1 believe I prefer them. Still, no doubt you can talk
her into a more advanced and practical frame of mind before
long.'

" I shall certainly do my best," says Dora, with dignity.
** She shall not sacrifice her life for a sentiment. As the
wife of Sir Keltram Talbot she will be a perfectly. hai)py
woman ; as your wife — luhat will she be, Colonel Ffrench ?
A poor woman, an unloved wife, an unloving wife, a widow
during the best years of her life, in the abnormal and doubt-
ful position a woman always holds who is separated from her
husband. Yet such are the notions she has imbibed that I
am positive if you went to her to-morrow and claimed her as
your wife she would go with you. Such are her stringent
ideas of duty that she would go with you loyally though it
broke her heart. But will you demand this sacrilice, Richard
Ffrench ? "

He is grave enough now ; the amused gleam has left his
eyes, the sarcastic curl his lips.

266

AT DAIVN OF DAY.

'Hi

^lii.

^ii' ■

%i '

= 1 ' ^ ■

'Sell

''God forbid!" he answers; *' I demand no sacrifice.
Vera was my little friend once — she shall never break her
heart by act of mine. If she can get her freedom, let her
get it. If she can marry Sir Heltram Talbot, let her marry
him. lUit — I hope she will not !"

•* You hope she will not !"

" J^'rom the bottom of my heart. I, too, Mrs. Fanshawe,
am one of the sentimentalists who believe in the sanctity of
marriage. I made your sister my wife — if I gave her little
love, I have given her at least perfect and unbroken fidelity,
in thought and deed. That she has not done the same is a
fact that, though it may grieve, does not surprise me, and
for which I cannot greatly blame her. All things considered,
it is, though wrong, natural. If she is capable of seeking
a divorce, I shall not lift a finger to prevent it ; if she is
capable of marrying Sir Beltram Talbot, she is certainly not
fitted to be wife of mine. IJut 1 say again, I hope she will
not."

** If you mean to tell her this when you see her," says
Dora, angrily " we may as well end the matter at once.
That ' 1 hope she will not ' will turn the scale. She will
not."

" I shall not try to influence her," he says, coldly ; " no
word of mine shall turn the scale. But on what ground
shall you apply for your divorce ? "

*' On the ground of desertion — it is sufficient," says Dora,
her resolute little face hardening ; " there are States in
which it is amply sufficient. It will be necessary for her to
return to America, of course, and if you do not defend the
suit "

She pauses ; in spite of her hardihood she winces under
the chill contempt of his eyes.

" There need be no publicity unless you make it," she
begins again, rapidly ; "no one in England need ever know,
Sir Beltram need not know "

AT DAIVN OF DAY.

267

nder

she
low,

She breaks off again. She is enraged with herself for her
weakness. Down to the depths of her vapid soul he is mak-
ing her bhish. He breaks the pause.

"And Vera will marry any man like this ! Well ! she is
changed of course, but what a chaiiLje it is ! She used to be
true as truth, brave, honest, pure. Mrs. Fanshawe, I am
going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer it —
ivhy did you insist on my marrying your sister? "

" You were told at the time —to condone, to repair her
imprudence in staying with you that night at Shaddeck
Light. Why do you ask again ? "

*' Because 1 no more believe that than you do. Just at
first, assailed by you, by Mrs. Charlton, by my step-Hithcr, I
did for a little accept the idea. But a few days' reflection
convinced me of its absurdity, I thought at the time that I
knew your motive, but since you became mistress of Cliarl-
ton I confess 1 am all at sea. Possessing the Charli" 1 for-
tune, you had absolutely nothing to gain from the prcjio^ter-
ous marriage you so strenuously insisted on."

** Shall I tell you, then ? " says Dora, and flings back her
head. A sort of reckless, defiant audacity flashes out of
the blue eyes. She knows it is absolutely impossible for
him to think worse of her than he does, and her very dislike
of him spurs her on to outrage the last remnant of his good
opinion. " I will. Listen ! " She leans forward, a fine
smile on her thin lips. " When I first came to Charlton, it
was with the deliberate purpose of mavry'm^ you. I tell you
this, for your vanity will not be elated; you personally I
never liked, but I did like the heir of Charlton. 1 very soon
saw what lovo you had to give — and it never was worth much
— was given to Eleanor Charlton. But she refused you —
she had another lover, \ ou know, whom she met by stealth
in the grounds after night, and then a new hope dawned.
You and Vera were fast friends, but you only cared for her
as a little girl who amused you, aud the hope was not a

> I

268

^r DAhVN OF DAY.

ft: I

4:: !

strong one. Then came that night at Shaddeck, and the
Wily v\ js made easy. I know you had Quixotic notions of
honor and all that, and simply worked on them. Mrs.
Ch.irlton ahclled me through sheer malevolence, and — you
married Vera. My motive was to remain at Charlton ; as
the sister of its mistress I coukl do so. If you had remained
at hoMie, instead of running off on that wild-goose chase to
Central America, a sister of its mistress I would be to this
day, and no more. Mr. Charlton would never have married
me had you not forsaken him, but you did forsake him, and
— never mind wiiy — he married me. How could I foretell
you would go — how could I forecast he would make me his
wife and heiress ? Could I, rest assured you would never
have been troubled with all that talk and tears, and Vera
would still be free. But I acted for the best — I never was
among the prophets. As it is, I regret my mistake, and
will do all I can to set it right. It will be best for you, as
well as Vera, to get your Ireedom back — some day I pre-
sume even you may marry again. There ! for once I have
told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

He rises. Of the profound disgust he feels his face tells
nothing, but he must go, or stifle. Is it the heavy pastilles
that perfume the room, or odor of ess. bouquet that hangs
about her, or the unwomanly confession she has made, that
suti[bcates him ?

*' Are you going ? You will say nothing of this to Vera
should you meet. She does not wish to meet you, remem-
ber that, but if you ask for an interview she will grant
it. On the whole, perhaps, it will be better not to ask for
it."

He replies nothing, bnt turns to the door. Dora rises in
turn, and follows.

•' You will not interfere, then, in the matter of the di-
vorce ? " anxiously.

((

1 have said so.

AT DAiyy OF DAY.

269

"And you will make no claim upon her? Inlluencc her
in no way at all ? "

" In no way at all."

** We go into lodgings to-morrow," Afrs. Kanshawe con-
tinues. " I'erhaps, after all, she may never know you are
here. It would be so much better. Very many thanks for
granting me this interview, and your generous renunciation
of all claims. Hut generosity was always one of your most
striking traits, I remember."

" Cloodinorning, Mrs. Fanshawe."

" (rood-morning, Colonel Kfrench. What! will yon not
shake hands ? Should you meet Vera, remember all this is
strictly entre nous. Ciood-morning, and good-by."

He escapes at last, and makes his way down-stairs and
out, to where a clannny morning fog wraps the world, and a
sky like drab paper hangs dismally over London. It is
dawn, a dawn of mist and darkness and coming rain, but it
is fresher, purer, clearer than the sweet, fetid atmosphere he
has been breathing. He lights a cigar to clear away the
vapors, and help him to see daylight.

"In love with Sir Heltram Talbot, and married to me.
Wooed by a baronet, and wedded to a penniless soldier of
fortune. A woman without womanly truth, or delicacy, or
honor. Ay de mi / my poor little Vera, it is hard lines for
you."

:s in

di-

4^'

\h, 1 1

W:ji

(

\ '
t

A SUMMER AFTERNOON,

CHAPTER V.

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

HE threatening rain is but a threat. W!ien Mrs.
Fanshavve opens her eyes on this mortal life, the
sun is slanting in long golden bars through the
closed Venetians, It is high noon, Mrs. Fanshuiwe's usual
time for rising. It was four this morning when she went to
bed , it is almost always four when she goes to bed, and even
at that hour, and even with the aid of a chloral punch, slum-
ber does not always come. For she has her worries, this
pool little Dora ; she is troubled and anxious about many
things, more so perhaps than in the old days, faint as a dreaiii
i.'ow, in the show-rooms in New York. There is her husband
— her brows contract always when she thinks of him, and the
fine lines she hates to see deepen. There is her health — in
the garish morning light you may see that the fair, blonde
skin is growing dull and sallow, you may see sharp iittle
cheek bones, and dark-circled, deep-sunken bli'e eyes. Dora,
who half a dozen years ago never shrunk from the brightest,
most searching sunshine, shrinks from it now with absolute
terror — it is always truest kindness to place half the room be-
tween yourself and her when you talk. There is Vera and
her future which she has marred, but not irretrievably marred
it may be. With a little judicious weaving of the web, a little
judicious talk with her sister, a few insidious hints thrown out,
her womanly pride aroused, all may yet be well. Latent in
Dora's mind is the unpleasant conviction that Vera the wo-
man cares as much, cares more for Richard Ffrench than
Vera the child. From first to last he has been her hero, and
now that he is her husband — and exactly the sort of man a

lie

est,

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

271

girl of Vera's stamp is most certain to admire — why, her task
will be no child's play, in all these years it has been the
rarest of rare things for Vera to speak of bun, and no syn^)-
toni could be more dangerous — it shows hf has never been
out of her thoughts, and is too tender, too sucred a subject to
be profaned by words. Now he is here, and they will meet,
and with the child's sentinienta' ideas of wifely love and duty,
too— and Sir Bel tram's place down there in the green heart
of rustic England is more liJcf one's 4ream of i)aradise than
an every-day baronet's country seat, and his magnificent
rent-roll — so old a family, too, every one knows the pedigree
oi a Talbot — and his passion for Vera is the talk of the town.
All London considers it a settld thing. And to think — to
think a foolish act oi hers should .>* md in the way of all that.
It is true she did it for the best — how was she to foretell that
Mr. Charlton would marry her, and be so easily influenced in
the matter of the will ? To-day Richard Kfrench is without
fortune or home to offer his wife — a name he has, it is true ;
but what is in a name? It is her duty — Dora sees it clearly,
sitting under the hands of her maid — her sisterly duty to undo
what j^he has done. She warms to her work as she thinks of
it, its very difficulties stimulate her — a little skilful manoeuv-
ring, a few clever little fictions, with just the least grain of
truth for groundwork in her ear, and the thing is done. Vera
is [)roud — is acutely, is morbidly sensitive about her marriage,
and would die sooner than let him know she still cared for
him. It is the only thing she can count upon — that pride ;
she will work on it, and he has promised not to interfere. She
so seldom fails in anything she resolutely sets her heart on —
she will not fail nov.-. There will be that quiet divorce in
some out-of-the-way State, no scandal, no publicity. Or
perhaps Ffrench may return to Cuba, and there are always
the chances of war — no man can ( ai ry a charnied life forever.
It would be even better, as he himself said, than the divorce.
Dora has no idea of being blood-thiisty at all, but she sits

2/2

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

X I

' !

iii

and calmly counts the possibilities of Richard Ffrench being
shot over there — sighs for it indeed while Feiician does her
hair. It would simpHfy matters so ! And then there would
be a marriage with which New York would ring, and next year,
a tall, (lark-eyed, Spanish-looking Lady Talbot would be pre-
sented at court

" A note for niadame," says Feiician, answering a tap at
the door, and Dora's dream of the future fades out suddenly,
and she comes back with a start to the present. The. note is
*.i her husband's hand and is a careless line to say he is not
to be expected to do escort duty that afternoon. He is going
with a party of Americans — old friends of his — nobody his
wife would care about — to Hampton Court, and he is hers,
D. F.

A frown knits together Mrs. Fanshawe's forehead. It is a
common enough thing — it is altogether too common a thing
for ^^r. Dane Fanshawe to absent himself at the last mo-
ment from dancing attendance on his wife and sister-in-law.
A party of Americans to Hampton Court ! She crushes
tile note viciously and llings it from her; she does not
believe one word of it. Innocent sight-seeing is not much
in Dane Fanshawe's line — it is so likely he will si)end all
this long, warm afternoon staring at the dim old court
beauties, hanging there in the dreary palace rooms. His
wife knows better, and she forgets her sister, and her i)lottings,
and her eyes flash fire. Every day he neglects her more and
more, and his marked attentions in other quarters — does she
not see it all ? Last night he left her at the opera, and has
not since returned. Hampton Court indeed ! Dora knows
better, and a passion of impotent, jealous wrath sweeps
through her. As if gambling were not bad enough, but that
this last insult must be offered ! Neglecting the wife to whom
he owes everything, and devoting himself to the wives of
other men ! A fool she may have shown herself in her sis-
ter's marriage, but not half so great a fool as in her own.

I'-

A SUMMER AFTERNOOIV.

2/3

" Freedom — men's homage — happiness — what did I see
in him to resign all that for his sake?" she thinks, bitterly.
•' Truly, while 1 am about the divorce business it might be as
well to seek for two. It will come to it some day. His
gambling debts I will not pay, his insolent neglect I will not
bear. Let him look to it, if he tries me too far !"

Her maid brings her breakfast — chocolate, a roll, and
a little bird. Mrs. Fanshawe has no appetite ; that is why,
])erhaps, she grows so fearfully thin. All the art of dress and
corset maker is required to hide it, and even made up with
the best skill of these artists, and an accomplished Paris
maid, used to making the most of very liitle, it is a small,
fragile-looking creature she sees in the mirror. She grows
worn and old — a shudder creeps all over her small body as
she realizes it. It never comes home to her so sharply as
when she stands beside Vera, so fresh, so strong, so full of life,
so beautiful in her young vitality. That reminds her — where
is Vera ? Her good-morning kiss generally awakes Dora from
her feverish forenoon slumbers, but it is now one and she h;is
not appeared. She glances languidly at Felician and incjuires.

" AfaiSy madame. Mademoiselle Vera departed more than
two hours ago with the groom, for her morning canter in the
park, and has not yet returned."

This is nothing new, and Dora thinks no more about it.
But something new has occurred during that morning canter
along the road after all. As she sweeps along, her servant
behind her, glancing carelessly at the faces along the railing.
Vera suddenly sees one that sends the blood with a cole',
startled rush to her heart. It is the face of a tall, sunburned,
soldierly man, leaning lightly against the rail, and talking
with two or three others.

Their eyes' meet — in his, surjirised admiration, but no rec-
ognition ; in hers — but those brilliant eyes keep their owner's
secrets well. One of the men lifts his hat as she f.ashes by,
and looks after her with a smile.

12*

274

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

■')

' -v

"The handsomest woman in IvOndon," he says. '' In all
your wanderings, under Oriental and Occidental suns, Colo-
nel Ffrench, you must have seen some beautiful faces.
Have you ever seen fairer than that ? "

"She is a pretty woman, and she rides well," is the Cuban
colonel's careless answer, "and much more like a Spanish
Dofia than one of your fair countrywomen." ,

'* She is not my countrywoman ; she is yours, I fancy.
Well, and how did you manage to give your guerrillas the slip,
colonel ? It must have been an uncommonly close finish."

He resumes his interrupted anecdote, and Vera quits the
park, and returns honie. He does not know her. It gives
her a pang, so keen, so hot, so sharp, that she is indignant
with herself. He does not know her, her very face is blotted
out of his memory ; while she — meet him how, when, or
where she might — she knows she would instantly recognize
him. She has changed, it is true ; six years have wonder-
fully transformed her, and yet, if he cared for her, if he ever
had cared for her, would not some subtle intuition tell him it
was she ? He has not altered much ; the deep gray eyes
look graver, she thinks, than of old ; he is browner, more
resolute, and more soldier like than the Captain Dick of
Shaddcck Light. Old days, old thoughts, old memories,
ciowd back upon her — she lives over again that brief bright
summer that transformed her whole life. That wild August
night, that night of lightning and rain, returns to her ;
that night she can never forget, that she would blot forever
from her life if she could, is before her. To atone for her
folly, driven to it by Dora, he made her his wife, despising
her all the while, and now he is here, and he looks in her
face with calm, unconscious, unrecognizing eyes. Her
heart has not ceased its quickened beating when she stands
before her sister, and Mrs. Fanshawe's searching e^^es read
something more than usual in the excited gleam of Vera's

dark

eyes.

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

275

|lier ;
tever

her
ising

her
iHer

Liids
iread

" You have been in the park," she says. " I don't see
that it has benetited you much. You are pale, and your
eyes look strangely. Has anything happened ? "

'* Nothing has happened," Vera answers, a little tremor in
the clear voice. " It is time to go and dress for the garden
party, I suppose. 1 wish we were not due, Dot — must we
really go ? "

" Since when has it become a grievance to go to garden
parties, my dear," inquires Dora. " If my memory serves,
no longer ago than yesterday you were looking forward with
pleasure to an afternoon spent in Lady Hammerton's lovely
gardens. And Sir Beltram is sure to be there."

Vera turns away, the color rising over her dark face.

" Dora," she says, imperiously, *' understand me ! Once
for all, J want you to dr&[) the subject of Sir Beltram Talbot.
If I were free, it would still be — but I am not free — who
should remember that better than you ? "

It is the first time in all these years, that anything like a
rei)roach has passed Vera's lips. But she is full of irritated
pain, longing, impatience — she hardly knows what, and the
mention of the baronet's name is as " vinegar ui)on nitre."
Dora shrugs her shoulders.

" The more's the pity ; it was a horrible blunder, but even
the best of us will make blunders. As to your freedom,
why, freedom is a thing that may be regained. Vera," she
leans forward, *' do you know who is here ? "

There is a pause. Vera is standing, her back turned, look-
ing out at the sun-lit London street.

" Do you know who is here ? " iMrs. Fanshuwe repeats.

" Yes, Dot, I know."

The answer is very low, the f\ice Dora cannt)t see. There
is another momentary pause. Dora is rather surprised.

'* Since when have you known ? "

" Since yesterday afternoon, before we went to drive. I
have seen him twice,"

w •

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276

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

Once more a pause. " So," Dora thinks, ** the murder is
out. And she has seen him twice. Now I wonder if I am
going to have more trouble than I expected with this busi-
ness. Vera ? "

"Yes, I hear."

"Turn roimd then; I hate talking to people's backs.
Where have you seen Colonel Ffrench ?"

*' Once — a glimpse — yesterday in passing his room, with-
out knowing it was he, and this morning in Hyde Park."

" Did he see you 1 "

"Yes."

*' Did he know you ? "

" No ! " says Vera, and turns abruptly away once again.

Dora sits silent. Shall she speak now ? She glances at
her watch — after two — and they have to dress. No, there is
no time.

"Vera," she says, and rises and goes over to her sister
and clasps her hands on her shoulder, *' tell me this — you
never used to have secrets from Dot — do you still care for
Richard Ffrench ? "

But Vera frees herself, turning very pale.

" Pardon me. Dot," she answers, coldly and proudly ;
** that is a question even you have no right to ask, a question
I certainly shall not answer. What is done is done — I have
never reproached you for your share in it, and I never mean
to. You acted for the best, I am sure. But one thing, two
things I must exact — that you will let me alone about Sir
Beltram Talbot, whom from tirst to last I have never by one
word or look encouraged, and that you will from this hour
drop all interference between Richard Ffrench and me. On
this I insist, anil you will i>ardon me, Dot, if I seem to speak
harshly. Harsh I have no wish to be, decisive I must be.
I know it was you who forced him — against his will — to
marry me, a poor little ignorant half-grown girl, too young,
and far too much of a child, to understand either your mo-

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

277

tives or his. Oh ! Dot, Dot, why did you do it ? I turn hot
with shame from head to foot when I thinic of it. Hut all
that is past j I am no longer too young or too ignorant to
judge for myself, to decide for myself, and I say to you, inter-
fere no more. Bring about no meeting between Colonel
Ffrench and me, leave him to himself. If he wishes to seek
me, if iie has anything to say to me, I am to be found ; but
I tell you honestly, Dot, if you seek him out, or try to inlhi-
ence him in any way, J. will never, to the last day of my life,
forgive you."

She turns to go as she says it. Her eyes flash, her voice
rings ; there is resolute decision in every word she speaks.
On the threshold she pauses. "When you can spare Feli-
cian," she says, in a different tone, "send her to me, please ;
I will be ready in about an hour."

Then she goes. Dora shrugs her shoulders, and smiles
sarcastically.

" High-tlown as usual. The chance encounter this morn-
ing has evidently upset her imperial highness, or is it [)i(iue
that he did not recognize her ? I foresee 1 shall have no
easy matter to manage, and there can be no shadow of doubt
but that she is as fond of him as ever. liut 1 never fail in
anything I set my heart on, and 1 have quite set my heart
on seeing you Lady Talbot, my dear, ridiculous, tragic Vera,
and Lady Talbot you yet shall be."

Something more than an hour after, the sisters are rolling
along behind a pair of black, higti-stepi)ing, silver-harnessed
horses, to Hammerton Park. Mrs, Dane Fanshawe, under
her white gossamer veil and rose silk parasol, looks about
three-and-twenty, some yards otf. Miss Martinez in white
muslin, all delicate needlework and lace, the sort of dress
which all the gentlemen who see her this afternoon will ex-
tol for its charming simplicity, and which none but a young
duchess or an American heiress, could afford to wear, looks
beautiful, high-bred, and rather bored. All dangerous topics

» >

2/8

A SUMMER AFTERNOON,

- 1 !

1 J

are ignored, it is not well to begin a garden party on a July
afternoon by losing one's temper, and Dora foresees she
is likely to lose her temper more than once before the affaire
Ffrench is adjusted to her liking. On their return she will
open the siege, and meantime here they are, and here is Sir
Keltram, wi'h all a lover's eagerness and glad delight in the
greeting he gives them. Vera bites her lip as she meets
that glance, and reads the story it so plainly tells. She feels
pained, angered, humiliated by her false position. She
seems to herself a living lie, the wife of a man whose name
she does not bear, who cares nothing for her, who looks at
her with cold, unrecognizing eyes. Time, that can help most
ills, only intensifies this ; every day she feels the deception,
the falsity, the absolute disgrace of her position, more and
more. That fatal night at Shaddeck, that fatal forced mar-
riage. For a moment she feels as if it were impossible to
forgive Dora for what she has done — she breaks off suddenly
with a great start. A man has just passed her. Lady Ham-
merton on his arm, and she recognizes him instantly — Dr.
Emil Englehart.

*' Do you know him ? " Sir Beltran asks in surprise ; '* he
is one of the Cuban patriots. They seem to be Lady Ham-
merton's latest hobby, very fine fellows too — dined with them
last night, this Dr. Englehart, Colonel Ffrench — Ah ! here is
another, General Lopez. By the by, you are a Cuban, are
you not, Miss Martinez ? Curious I never thought of it
before."

" My father was a Cuban," Vera answers, and looks with
a smile at General Lopez. He is a mahogany-colored little
officer, the centre of a listening group, and is evidently deep
in dramatic narrative. He gesticulates wildly as he talks,
shoulders, eyebrows, hands, all in motion together.

"The gallant general is fighting his battles over again,"
says Sir Beltran ; " he is rabid in his hatred of Spain and
Spaniards, is as brave as a small lion, and has had no end

A SUMMER AFTEKMOON.

279

of hair-breadth escapes. So have they all, for that matter,
especially Ffrench, who is more like a paladin of the chivalric
era, than an every-day soldier. Hear the general."

" The Spanish warfare upon the Cubans has, throughout
the contest, been a reproach to civilization in its devilish
brutality," the Cuban general is excitedly exclaiming ; " it
consists, on the part of the Spaniards, in the fiendish murder
of any hapless prisoners they may take, brutal, coldblooded,
atrocious murder. Witness the massacre of the Virginius.
Spain will never conquer Cuba ; the very stones will rise and
fight for freedom, if we lay down our arms."

" Yes, general," a pensive voice says, "all that is a matter
of history, but it is a digression at the same time. How did
you and Colonel Ffrench escape ? You were kneeling in
the trench a moment ago, your eyes bandaged, waiting to be
shot, you know."

There is a slight laugh, and the fiery little general comes
back to his story. All listen intensely. Vera listens breath-
lessly. It is a story of dreadful danger, of mortal peril, and
Richard Ffrench and himself are the heroes, a story of death
and daring, of cruel suffering and invincible "pluck." And
as Vera stands and hears, the old passion of pity and tender-
ness that sent her flying to Shaddeck Light that memorable
evening so long ago, stirs within her again. An unspeakable
longing to meet him, to speak to him, to see recognition in
his eyes, thrills her. Is he here this afternoon ? It seems
likely enough since Dr. Englehart and General Lopez are.
What if they meet ?

She breaks otf and falls into a day-dream, long, sweet, and
full of wonderful possibilities. Afar oi^" a band is playing,
the charming music floats to her, softened by distance, and
blends with her dreams. Many people move about her, but
for the moment she is quite alone, even the ubiquitous Sir
Beltran is nowhere to be seen. Presently voices reach her,
and she awakes, and moves on. She is passing down a

1 1

280

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

narrow walk, lined with briery roses, and one of the long
spiky branches catches her dress. She tries to disentangle
it, but in one hand she holds her parasol, in the other a
boiHiuet, and the thorny branch holds her fast. The voices
draw nearer, men's voices. " Permit me," one says, and with
a slight smile stoops and frees her. He lifts his hat, gives
her a slight glance, and i)asses on.

Is there a fatality in these things? This is twice to-day,
and this time they aie so near that they touch, and still the
same indifferent glance of a total stranger. I^r. Englehart is
with him, and it is he that turns and looks back, a puzzled
expression on his face.

"Where have I seen eyes like those before?" he says.
'•Who is that young lady, Dick ? "

" Haven't an idea. 1 have seen her before, though — this
morning in the park. A compatriot of ours 1 believe, and
handsome enough for a duchess."

" Handsomer than any duchess I have seen yet, and — by

Jove ! I have it. Ffrench, is it possible iv?// don't see it ."

He stops and looks back again in sudden excitement. *' By
Jove ! " he exclaims and laughs, " here is a romance if you
like. Difk, does diat lady remind you of no one you have
ever seen ? "

** Of no one," calmly responds Richard Ffrench. " Of
whom does she remind _)'<?/// "

*' Of your wife, by Jove ! of the little black-eyed girl you
married six years ago. On my soul, 1 believe it is the same.
They are in London, are they not ? "

Richard Ffrench stops and looks at his friend. Then he
looks back. She has gone on, but is still in sight, walking
slowly. His dark face pales under its bronze. On the instant
conviction flashes upon him. Changed, changed out of all
knowledge, grown from slim girlhood to statel3i womanhood,
but the eyes, the deep, lustrous, lovely eyes, are the same.
Can it indeed be Vera ?

)

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

281

He turns to go after her, has gone half a dozen paces,
when he as siuhionly stops. For at the other end of the
walk, appear Mrs. Dane Kanshawe and Sir Hcltran Talbot.
All that Dora has said to huii Hashes back ; she has fallen
in love with this man, she seeks a divorce to free her froni
him, that she may marry the baronet. See her he must, but
not now, not here.

He rejoins his friend. Enjjjlehart looks at him keenly.
He thinks Dick has been rather a fool in the affair of his
marriage ; but as his marriage has never interfered with his
freedom or made him the less a bon camarade, he has hith-
erto overlooked it.

*' You — you are sure it is she ? " he asks, hesitatingly.

"Quite sure."

"And you did not know until I spoke?"

"I did not."

" Why did you not join her ? Oh ! I see. Dick, your
little wife has grown into a very b>iaiitiful woman."

" Very beautiful."

He echoes the words of his friend automatically. He
feels bewildered. To have met Vera and not known her !
Has she known him? Yes, he is sure of it. He recalls the
glance she gave him this morning, and just now as he freed
h> • dress and turned away. She was very pale, too. And
shv 'oves Sir Beltran Talbot and wishes to njarry him.
Last night, listening to perfumed, painted Dora Fanshawe,
it had seemed to him he did not care — much, but he is con-
scious of a sharp, angry contraction of the heart now. Dear
little Vera ! how frankly, fearlessly fond she was of him once.
He recalls her as she stood by his side that morning at Shad-
deck Light, and defietl them all for his sake. He recalls her
as they parted last, crushed, humiliated, trembling with pain
and shame. And thi^ is little Vera, this tall, j^roud-looking,
calm-eyed, brilliant woman, who knows him and makes no
sign. It may be Vera, but not the Vera he has known.

IMAGE EVALUATION
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Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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282

A SUMMER NIGHT.

I I

Colonel Ffrench is very distrait and silent all the rest of
that day. His eyes wander everywhere, but they do not see
what they search for. For a lion, he roars very little, to the
silent indignation of Lady Hammerton and her fair friends.
He is so handsome, so like a hero of romance, he has the
true air noble, they arc so generously prepared to admire
everything he says, and behold ! he says nothing, is grave,
silent, preoccupied. The Fanshawe party have gone, he
discovers presently — Sir Beltraii Talbot with them. Miss
Martinez bad a headache, they have left thus early on her
account. Colonel Ffrench listens, and says little, but he
thinks he understands. It is to avoid him, lest he should
seek her out, and make a scene, and the baronet perhaps
discover the truth. Well, they know hiui very little if they
fear that. In all these year? her image has been with hini,
but always the image of a wild-eyed, black-haired gipsy, the
Vera who rowed with him in the Nixie, who sang for him in
the lamp-light, the Vera who cooked his supper at Shaddeck
Light. He smiles as he tries to reconcile that Vera and
this — that Vera whom he stands pledged to engage as his
cook, this Vera, exquisitely dressed, proud, and silent, a fair
and gracious lady. Little Vera ! little Vera — his wife, and
this is the way they meet at last 1

CHAPTER VI.

A SUMMER NIGHT.

!'i

IS it chances it is not Miss Martinez's headache that
sends the Fanshawe parly home, although Miss
Martinez's sister makes that the pretext for a sud-
den retreat. Superb in her fine young vitality, Vera never
has headaches, nor aches of any sort, but Dora has caught a

A SUMMER NIGHT.

283

that

Miss

sud-

lever

ht a

glimpse of a certain sunburned Cuban colonel, and scents
danger afar off. He here, of all people, and the hero of the
hour, his name on many lips. He and Vera will meet, and
that meeting is the very last thing Dora wishes to take
place. Some time or other it is inevitable, but she will ^et
ahead of fate itself, she will bring Vera to a proper frame of
mind, by a httle judicious, sisterly chat. So she is seized all
in a moment with sudden and serious indisposition, lays hold
of Sir Beltran, and on his arm goes in search of her sister.
To Dora's eye it is rather a striking tableau that greets her
as she enters the rose path. Vera coming slowly towards
her, a sort of cold pallor on the dusky warmth of her face,
and following her, Richard Ffrench. Have they then
sjjoken ? has the dreaded meeting taken place ? Is she too
late ? One hurried glance tells her no. He stops at sight
of them, Vera never turns around, and in a moment she is
borne out of danger, but Mrs. Fanshawe does not breathe
freely until they are safely in the carriage, and driving rap-
idly homeward.

They are a silent trio, even Dora can be silent when there
is nothing to be gained by talking. She lies back among
the cushions, and under the rose silk parasol watches Vera
askance. But there is not much to be read in that still,
thoughtful face — in those large serious eyes — Vera will never
wear her heart on her sleeve for daws to pick at. The
baronet is silent, too ; he is beside Miss Martinez, and suffi-
cient unto the hour is the bliss thereof.

Mr. Dane Fanshawe, recHning negligently among the
cushions of a divan in his wife's dressing-room, lays down
the paper he is reading, and looks up with a friendly and
conciliatory smile on his listless, handsome blonde face.

" l^ack so soon, my angel ? You must have left Lady
Hammerton's uncommonly early. I trust you found it
pleasant ? "

" And I trust _jw^ amused yourself well at Hampton Court.

■■■ i

I h

1 1

■! %

.|;

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284

// SUMMER NIGHT.

Are there any new beauties on the walls or — off? Are there
any new trees in Bushy Park ? And you lunched at the
'Mitre,' no doubt, with your unsophisticated backwoods
friends. Did IVIrs. EUc-rton make one of the party ? ' de-
mands Dora, changing suddenly from the intensely sarcastic
to the spitefiill}' jealous.

Mr, Fanshawe ])ulls his long light mustache, and lifts his
fair eyebrows wearily.

" No, my angel. Mrs. Ellorton was not of the party, I re-
gret to say. You do that very charming actress the honor of
being jealous of her, don't you? 1 wonder why ? 1 have
never paid her any very pronounced attention, and beyond
dining with her once or twice at the *Star and Garter' "

Mrs. Fanshawe turns her back upon him, and sweeps out
of the room. Mr. Fanshawe watches her for a moment, with
amused, sleei)y, half-closed eyes. Then he rises on his elbow
and calls.

« My love."

No reply.

" My dearest Dora."

Silence.

" My angel."

Dora removes her bonnet, gloves, and lace drapery with
compressed lips.

" Do look here one moment please," says Mr. F^anshawe,
plaintively, "don't be angry. I really have been boring
myself to death, at Hampton Court, with the people I men-
tioned. Met them by chance, and couldn't shake them off,
I assure you — awful bore, you know. On my word I should
greatly have jireferred going with you and our lovely sister
to the garden party, because you see I discovered that
FYrench and Lopez, and all those Cuban fighting fellows
were to be there, and you were sure to meet. And the
meeting could not fail to be more amusing to a dispassionate
looker-on in Vienna, like myself behind the scenes, than any

\re there
d at the
ckwoofls
y ? ■' de-
sarcastic

A SUMMER NIGHT.

285

vaudeville ever ])layed. Come petite an^^e, chase away those
clouds, smile once more u[)on your slave, and tell me all
about it. Did the bride and bridegroom meet?"

Dora relents. After all, she is very fond of jier husband,
why else has she married him ? and siie is dying to make a
confidant of some one. And if he really has not been with

that odious actress

" I see you have brought Sir Eeltrad Talbot home to din-
ner," resumes Mr. Fanshawe in his slow trahiante voice.
"He dined with the Cubans here last evening — told me
about it — admires PTrench beyond everything. Believe me,
my angel, when I say 1 laughed. It is really the richest joke
of the season."

"1 can quite believe it," retorts Mrs. Fanshawe; "the
misfortunes of our neighbors are always the richest of jokes,
I understand. As it chances, however, even your keen
sense of the ridiculous would liave been at fault here. There
has betn nothing to laugh at ; so you see you have lost noth-
ing after all by being a martyr to your country, and escort-
ing your American cousins to Hampton Court."
"They did not meet then ? "

" They met, yes, that is to say she has seen him twice, three
times. But she has not spoken to him. /, however, have."
•' Ah ! " says Mr. Fanshawe with more interest than he
generally shows ; "when?"

"Last night, after our return. The dinner-party you
speak of was still in progress. And I sent for him here."
" Ah ! " Mr. Fanshawe, repeats, " and he came ? "
" He came at once, and we had a long and very serious
talk. I laid the case before him. I spoke of the change in
Vera ; and, by the by, Dane, you who never knew her six
years ago, have not the faintest conception how greatly she
is changed. I spoke of Sir Beltram Talbot, and his love for
her, of the dreadful blunder of the marriage, of Vera's love
for Sir Beltran "

i'^*'

f. ^3

(•

♦ •

286

A SUMMER NIGHT.

;! i

'..I

Mr. Fanshawe lies back among the pillows, and laughs.

" You told him that ! What a plucky Amazon you are,
my Dora, and, by Jove ! what a pleasant thing to tell a man
— that his wife is in love with another fellow, and * please
may she have a divorce and marry him?' By Jove, you
know ! " Mr. Dane Fanshawe laughs in his lazy pleasant
way again.

" 1 see nothmg to laugh at," says Dora, austerely ; " nei-
ther did Colonel Ffrench."

" I should think not, by Jove ! " parenthetically from the
gentleman on the divan,

*' We discussed the matter in all its bearings, and I will do
him this justice : no one could have been more amenable to
reason than he. He acknowledged the justice of all my
remarks."

'• My angel," says Mr. Fanshawe, and looks at his wife
with anuised eyes, " tell me this. Do you mean to say
Colonel Ffrench — this fire-eating free-lance — sat before you
while you told him his wife wanted to marry another man,
and acknowledged the justice of your remarks ? My hear-
ing is not usually defective, but I really think it must have
deceived me just now."

"What is there extraordinary in it if he did? It was an
exceptional marriage, it is an exceptional case all through.
He admitted that nothing I told him surprised him ; he said
it was exactly what he had expected, and that if Vera wanted
a divorce, he would not lift a finger to prevent it."

"Ah !" remarks Mr. Fanshawe, for the third time, " //"
Vera wants a divorce. But if I am any judge of my nearest
and dearest, it is not Vera who wants the divorce, but Dora.
I am rather short of ready money at present, but I don't
mind laying you a sovereign or two that when you propose
the D. C. to Vera, she refuses. Come ! I'll give you five to
one on it."

" Excuse me, Mr. Fanshawe, I neither bet nor gamble ;

A SUMMER NIGHT.

287

((

nei-

iiible ;

one of that kind is enough in any family. It is very possi-
ble she may refuse, just at fust — all the same, it shall be an
accomplished fact by this time next year. Now as I sec you
are dressed, suppose we drop this discussion, and you join
Sir Beltran in the drawing-room," says Dora, decisively.

Mr. Fanshawe rises negligently, and still vastly amused.
To him the whole thing is a most capital joke.

" I only w^ish I knew this Cuban colonel, I would most
certainly have invited him to join our select little family
party to-day. He, and Vera, and the baronet, would make
a most interesting and unicpie group. I wonder if he knew
her when they met ? She must have changed a good deal
in six years."

Mr. Fanshawe saunters away, after his usual indolent fash-
ion, to the drawing-room, where he finds Vera, and Vera alone.

"Oh! sweetest, my sister," is Mr. Dane Fanshawe's
greeting, " what have you done with our guest ? I am
under orders to entertain Sir lieltran Talbot, and was told
I should find him here."

" He has been called away for a moment," Vera an-
swers, coldly. She does not like her brother-in-law, she
never has liked him. The " languid swell " is a species of
biped she especially detests, and a languid swell Mr Fan-
shawe is, or nothing. Why Dora ever married him is the
chronic wonder of her life ; she wonders now for the thou-
sandth time, as he stands smiling, complacent, self-satisfied,
here beside her. Compare him with other men, with Sir
Beltran Talbot, who enters on the instant, with Richard
Ffrench, but no, even in thought there can be no comi)ari-
son there. There are times when she hates him, this self-
sufficient, shallow, empty-headed coxcomb, who makes Dot
so miserably unhappy with his vices and follies ; who drifts
through life, aimless, purposeless, lazy, caring for himself,
and his own comfort and pleasure, and fornothing else under
the sun.

288

A SUMMER NIGHT.

I i <i

They look a cozy little family party enough, sitting in the
pleasant after-glow of tlic sunset, over a most excellent din-
ner, two pretty, richly dressed women, two well-looking,
well-bred men. liut perhaps of the cpiartet, Mr. Dane Fan-
shawe, with his subtle sense of humor, is the only one who
really enjoys himself. It is not half a bad joke to sit here
and watch the admiration in poor Sir Heltran's eyes, Dora's
smiling graciousness and encouragement, Vera " keeping
herself to herself," hundreds of miles away in spirit, with
Ffrench no doubt. It is almost better in the drawing-room
after dinner, with Dora at the piano, interpreting Chopin
and Strauss, Sir Beltran beside Colonel Ffrench's wife, and he,
the amused looker-on and listener, lying in silent enjoyment
of it all. If his wife brings about the consunmiation she so
devoutly wishes, in the face of all that chill, delicate frosti-
ness, why then his wife is a cleverer little person than he
gives her credit for. Miss Martinez is one of those uplifted
sort of people who are a law unto themselves ; she is very
fond of her sister ; but where her heart or her conscience is
concerned (and she is the sort of a woman, unfortunately
rare, to possess both), there will be a line which that sister
must not cross.

Two hours later. Vera sits in her room, glad it is over,
glad to be alone, glad to be away from Sir Beltran Talbot's
too ardent glances, from his too tender words. The lace
draperies hanging over the windows flutter in the damp
night wind, for a fog from the river is rising. Two or three
wax tapers light the room with a soft glow, and reveal her
face, pale and more wearied than Vera's bright face often
looks. But a tender musing half-smile is there too, and her
thoughts are not of Sir Beltran Talbot. He does not know
her — well, that is not strange ; there is not much resem-
blance between the girl of sixteen and the woman of twenty-
two. But he wll find her out, she feels sure of that; to-
morrow, at the latest, he will come, and then a tap. Dora,

!»«.—-

A SUMMER NIGHT.

289

^ in the
lent din-
looking,
me Faii-
one who

sit here
, Dora's
keeping
irit, with
ng-room

Chopin
, and he,
joyment
1 she so
,te frosti-

than he

uplifted
; is very
ience is
tunately
It sister

is over,

;aU)ot's

le lace

damp

»r three

real her

e often

and her

t know

resem-

twenty-

lat ; to-

Dora,

in a white dressing-gown, all her floss silk fair hair undone,
and hanging over her shoulders, enters without ceremony.

" What ! " she says, " not begun to undress. What are
you mooning about, I wonder, as you sit here, with that
ridiculous smile, all by yoiu'self ? You used never have any
thoughts or secrets from me, but now — Vera. 1 wonder if
any one in the world ever changed as utterly in six years as
you? 1 don't mean alone in looks — in everything."

She seats herself in a low chair, and ga^ces curiously at
her sister.

" They say we all turn into somebody else every seven
years, don't they ? You certainly have, and I don't like that
somebody else half as well as your former self. What a wild,
silly, ignorant child you were ; what a dignified, wise, self-
repressed young woman you are ! I wonder what has done
it — your marriage ? "

"Perhaps," Vera says, slowly. "Yes, my marriage and —
what followed. The revelation of how and why Richard
Ffrench made me his wife came so quickly, stunned me so
utterly — 1 think 1 have never felt quite the same since."

Her face darkens as she recalls it. Has there ever been
a day since that that parting scene has not been before her,
that Mrs. Charlton's harsh and false words have not sounded
in her ears ?

" A more venomous old toad never lived," says Dora,
trenchantly; " what a happy release it must have been for
Eleanor when she died. By the by, I wonder where is Elea-
nor? And that reminds me — do you know what I found the
other day hidden among some things of Mr. Fanshawe's ?
A portrait of Eleanor Charlton."

Vera looks up silently. Nothing that Dora can find in
Mr. Fanshawe's possession will greatly surprise her, but this
comes near it.

" Eleanor's portrait ? Are you sure ? "

"Perfectly sure — do you think I could be mistaken?
13

290

A SUMMER NIGHT.

■%A

'■i *.

■W-:^

i'- -

■

^^,

■ji

And there were her initials ' E. C.,' New Orleans, and the
date of the year — the very siunnier we spent togetiier at
Charlton."

Vera is silent. Where Dane Fanshawc is concerned
silence is always safest anil best.

** 1 taxed him with it, of course," pursues Dora, in an irri-
tated tone, " and, of course, also got a few plausible lies in
return. He couldn't for the life of him remeniber how the
photograph had come into his possession — he had never
known the original. Bah ! 1 never believe a word he tells
me."

Mrs. Fanshawc allows no sentiment of false delicacy to
prevent her pouring her marital grievances into her sister's
reluctant ears. She feels she must tell or die.

" Where is Mr. Fansnawe ? " Vera asks, after a pause.

*' (jone out," his wife answers with a short, contemptuous
laugh. "When is Mr. Fanshawe //^/gone out? I dare say
his man will help him ui) to bed somewhere in the small
hours. Vera, what a fool I was ever to marry that man ? "

The small, worn face looks woefully pinched and pale,
haggard and gloomy as she says it. It is a very aged fairy
that sits here in the glow of the wax lights, making this
wifely confession — a very old and faded fairy. Vera looks
at her, tender pity in her eyes.

" Yes, Dot," she says, compassionately, " I think myself
it was a — mistake. Do you know I have often wondered
la/iy you married him. You are not of the sort to ftiU in love
easily, and if you were, what is there in Mr. Fanshawe to fall
in love with ? "

"Ah! what?" Dora says, bitterly. "Do you think I
never ask myself that question ? He has neither brains nor
ability, heart or feeling for any human creature. He has a
handsome face and wears his clothes well," with a short,
mirthless laugh ; " I suppose it must have been for those two
excellent reasoris. People conimit suicide under temporary

A SUMMER NIGHT.

291

mcl the
;lhci at

iicerncd

an iiri-

lies in

how the

1 never

he tells

icacy to
r sister's

ause.
inpluous
dare say
le small
nan?"
k1 i)ale,
red fairy
inn this
a looks

myself
ondered

in love
e to fall

think I
lins nor
e has a
short,
ose two
nporary

aberration of mind — do you suppose they never marry under
the same ? "

A smile dawns on Vera's face — a sort of wondering, scorn-
ful smile.

"' And Alnlallahgrew to l>e a man,' " she ([notes from the
Turkish Kgenil, " ' and was so handsome that a hundred
maidens died for love of him.' Well ! it is done I know, but
I never shall understand it — why any woman in her senses,
and past sixteen will marry a man for his face alone. At
sixteen," says Miss Martinez, retrospectively, "we are
fools enough for anything. When a man sjjoils his life
for the sake of two blue eyes and a i)retty complexion, we
take it as a matter of course — he belongs to the privileged
sex, to whom all folly is possible and pardonable ; but for a
woman "

" And a woman of thirty — don't forget to add that,'' puts in
Mrs. Fanshawe, with intense self-scorn. *' I don't wonder
you wonder. And to add bathos to folly I am besotted
enough to be fond of him yet. Wliile he — but there ! it is
just one of the things that won't bear talking of, and I did
not come here at this hour of night to discuss my madness
or my husband. 1 came, Vera, to talk of — yours."

A shadow of annoyance passes over Vera's face. Of all
subjects this one, as discussed by Dora, isanost distasteful to
her.

" I wish you would not," she says, her dark brows con-
tracting. " Believe me. Dot, it is better not. I thought we
had said our final say on that subject this morning."

" You did, you mean — I said nothing, if you remember.
It is my turn now. Vera, your warnmg came too late.
Last night, after we returned from the ball — after you were
in bed and asleep, 1 sent for Colonel Ffrench and had it
out."

" Dot I at that hour ! three in the morning ! "

" Improper, was it ? " laughs Dora. "You are not jealous.

! 1

Jf^T

^t! J:

;•!

ir^

'iik

'4lli

■'fill

'i.:'l

292

// SLWfMEK NIGHT.

I hope. Wc don't stand in the nicer shades of propriety
where vital interests are at stake. And one's broth(.'r-in-la\v
and ste|)-son combined is privileged. Yes, I sent for him —
they were having a dinner parly, and keeping it up until
morning, it seems ; antl he came, and, as 1 say, we had it
out."

*'IIad what out?" Vera's voice is thorougidy iced, and
impatient also. " (rood Heavens ! " she thinks, " will Dot
never let other people's business alone ? "

"The subject of your marriage, my dear — I don't mind
admitting that I began it. Vera, it is of no use your mount-
ing to the tops of High and Mightydom witii me. It is I
who made the mistake — it is I who am in duty bound to re-
pair it. Colonel Ffrench thinks as I do, that it was a
horrible blunder, and the sooner it can be set right the
better."

Vera turns to her, a slight color rising and deepening in
her face, a slow angry light kindling in her eyes.

"Yes," she says, steadily, "a horrible blunder, and the
sooner it can be set right the better ! How do you and Col-
onel Ffrench purpose setting it right ? "

*' There is but one way — and here he agrees with me, too,
tliat no time should be lost — a divorce I "

A flash — swift, dark, fierce — leaps from Vera's eyes. She
half rises.

'' Dot ! "

** A divorce," goes on Dora, steadily. " Sit down Vera.
There need be no publicity, he says ; you can apply for it in
some obscure State when we return to America ; he will, of
course, interfere in no way with the action of the law — he
pledges himself to this. ' I will not lift a finger to prevent
it ' — those were his words. ' I should be sorry to stand in
the way of your sister's accession to fortune and rank' —
those are his words too. Of course he has heard of Sir Bel-
tran "

ropriety
r-in-la\v
r him —
up until
; had it

;e(l, ami
kill Dot

I't mind
mount-
It is I
id to re-
; was a
ight the

,'ning in

and the
.nd Col-

me, too,

. She

n Vera,
or it in
will, of
aw — he
jrevent
tand in
ank'—

■Sir Bel.

A SUMA/ER xiG/rr.

293

She sto[)s. Vera has risen in a sudden flame of wrath to
her feet.

"Dora!" she cries, "look at me 1 tell me the trufh !
Do you mean to say Richard Ffrench said that — urged a di-
vorce — spoke of my marrying another man ? "

The words seem to choke her — she stops, gasping.

" 1 mean to say he said every word I tell you," Dora
answers with dignity, and meeting the blazing black eyes full.
"Do you think I tell lies? Those were Richard Kfrench's
exact words ; ask him, if you like. He looks upon his mar-
riage as the bane of his life, he looks upon a divorce as the
one atonement that can be made. Will you kindly sit down
again, or do you intend doing a little high tragedy for my
exclusive benefit ? "

Vera sits down. The flush fades from her face, and leaves
it grayish pale. She even laughs.

" 1 beg your pardon, Dot ; I won't do high tragedy any
more. Pray go on. I should like to hear a few more of
Colonel Ffrench's forcible remarks."

" We discussed the matter fully," goes on, obediently,
Mrs. Fanshawe, " in all its bearings. You cannot blame
him, Vera, that he is most anxious to regain his freedom.
Any man would in his place. And — he did not say so in
express words, remember — but 1 infer that in Cuba there is
some one — a lady "

"Yes. Goon."

"Well — perhaps I had better not, and he really did not
say so directly. But one can always tell — men are so trans-
parent in these things. He has heard of Sir Beltran's atten-
tions, and he spoke very handsomely — said he need never
know — of the divorce, I mean."

"Yes."

" He leaves England shortly, and will soon after return to
Cuba. There is every possibility, he thinks, of his remain-
ing definitely there."

it i

294

A SUMMER NIGHT.

»*J t

n? :

I '

I III

'•Yes."

" And he said he thought it best under the circumstances
not to seek an interview with you. It could only be painful
and embarrassing to you both. That is why to-day — I am
almost sure — he feigned not to know you when you met.
P\)r, of course, he knows you — you have changed, but not
so utterly as that."

"Yes."

Mrs. Fanshawe smiles.

*' How long do you intend to go on saying ' yes,' like an
automaton ? Turn round. Vera, and let me see you. Tell me
you agree with what I say about the divorce. Believe me,
child, it is the only thing to be done, for you and for him.
And then you can become Lady "

Vera turn? round, turns so suddenly, so imperiously, that
Dora recoils.

" That will do, Dot. I have not much to say ; I will not
be tragic or high-flown if I can help it. Hear me, and hear
me on this matter for the las', time. Neither from you nor
any other human being will 1 tolerate a word on the subject of
my marriage more. I will never apply for a divorce — I will
never marry again. If Sir Beltran Talbot were one of her
Majesty's sons, and I were free by law to-morrow, I would
not marry him. Colonel Ffrench may free himself or not, as
he pleases, and as he can — for me tliere shall be no divorce, no
lovers, no marrying ! As 1 am to-night 1 will go to my grave.
And if ever you. Dot, see him again and discuss me with him
as you did last niglit, as surely as we both sit here, I will leave
you ! I will leave you, and will never return ! "

Dora sits mute, shrinking, startled, confounded.

" Let us not quarrel," Vera says, after a moment, in an
unsteady voice, " let us finish with this now, and forever.
It is a miserable affair from first to last. Oh ! a niserable,
miserable affair ! I am tired, my head aches I think, and—
and — good-night, Dot ! "

«• IVE FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND /."

295

istanccs
; painful
^ — I am
ou met.
but not

like an
Tell me
2ve me,
for him.

Dora rises, dignified but disgusted, and without deigning
to notice the hand her sister holds out, sails in silence from
the room. The door bangs behind her, and Vera is alone.

But not the same Vera. She sits where Dora has left her,
and she knows her fate. She believes what she has heard.
She sits quite motionless a long time — her hand over her
eyes. A long time — so long that the rain is pattering
sharply against the glass, and the raw London fog floating
dankly through the open windows before she stirs. But she
rises at last, and as she turns to the light, both hand and
face are wet with tears.

, ♦•

sly, that

will not

,nd hear

you nor

bject of

-I will

of her

would

not, as

Dree, no

grave.

ith him

11 leave

m an

orever.

erable,

and—

CHAPTER VII.

"we fell out, my wife and I."

HERE ! Look to the left, Colonel Ffrench, it is the
Countess of Davenant — she is bowing. Do you
not remember meeting her ? Ah ! yonder is Mrs.
Fanshawe ; how pretty and — yes, youthful she is — at this
distance. Those petite blondes make up so admirably.
That is Miss Martinez beside her, of course, and also of
course that is Sir Bcltran Talbot with them. You do not
know Miss Martinez ? She was at Lady Hammerton's gar-
den party last week. She is an American, or Cuban, I
really do not know which, but a compatriot of yours, mon
colonel, in any case, and one of tlie most Q\\'Axx\\\x\g debutantes
of the season. They tell me all your American women of
the best type are like that, pale, spiriti/clle, haughty. She
makes one of our party to-day at Richmond with the Damie
Fanshawe's, She is (.piite the fashion, and asked everywhere.
They leave almost immediately, to-morrow or next day, for
New York. No doubt Sir Beltran will get leave of absence

296

u r

WE FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND /.'»

A ?:

Si'

l| \>-U^

',1:

l.'i

and follow. They say she is an heiress, but even for one of
your rich country women it will be a brilliant match. He is
the parti of the season, and — ah ! "

Mrs. De Vigne pauses — she looks, first at the Fanshawe
party, then at the Cuban colonel, who sits beside her. The
scene is the Park — the liour five in the afternoon. The
crush of carriages has come to a dead lock. Directly oppo-
site her pretty Victoria, is a barouche ; seated therein Mrs.
Dane Fanshawe, Miss Martinez, and beside them, curbing,
with some difficulty, his impatient horse, Sir Beltran Talbot.
Colonel Ffrench's quick eyes have seen them even before
those of his fair companion, and his dark brows bend, and
his resolute lii)s compress as his gaxe rests on Vera and her
attendant knight. What all the world says must surely be
true, and seeing, the universe over, is believing. Sir Bel-
tran' s story is written in his frank English face, for all the
Lady's Mile to read, if it listeth.

For Vera, she lies back listlessly enough, a trifle bored,
but very handsome — so handsome that a thrill of wonder, of
recognition, of pleasure, of pain, goes through the heart of
the man who watches her. His wife ! He is amazed at
himself that, in spite of all changes, he has not recognized her
from tht first ; for, despite all its beauty, lie sees now it is
the very face of little Vera, and the deep, large, lustrous
eyes — they are unchanged. Sir Beltran is talking — she is
listening — answering — smiling, too, but in an absent and pre-
occupied way, and with a i)roud indifference she takes no
pains to hide. A sharp pang of angry jealousy knits Richard
Ffrench's brows. She is his — his wife — what has this man,
any man on earth to do with her but himself? His resolu-
tion is taken on the instant — there shall be no divorce — his
wife she is, his wife she shall remain — no man shall win or
wear what belongs to him. She may have forgotten, but she
loved him once — child or woman, it matters not, she loved
him. She shall love him again. She may be ambitious, she

':■;

*w«iiwa5t

*' l^E FELL OUT, MV WIFE AND /."

297

bored,
ider, of
eart of
zed at
;ed her
w it is
strous
she is
d pre-
kes no
ichard
s man,
resolu-
e — his
win or
lit she
loved
s, she

may be worldly — she may be like her sister, and yet he can-
not believe it. That is a noble, a true, a pure, a womanly
face, if he is any judge of faces. And little Vera cannot
have changed her whole nature. How beautiful she is — not
one of these fair, delicate patricians he sees about her, are
half or quarter so lovely. And she is his wife

Sir Beltran Talbot glances at him, and salutes Mrs. De
Vigne. Then he stoops with a smile, and speaks to Vera.
She looks up, her eyes and the eyes of Richard Ffrench
meet. He knows her now — at last ! — and there flashes from
hers one passionate gleam of anger, and scorn, and con-
tempt, that even Mrs. De Vigne cannot fail to see. She
turns to him in wonder.

" She knows you," she says, almost involuntarily, " I
thought "

She checks herself and looks away. But in that moment
she had divined with a woman's quickness in these things,
that the dark, dashing soldier of fortune by her side, has had
his romance, and that the end is not yet. And Miss Mar-
tinez — is this the secret of her proud indifference to all men,
of her coldness to Sir Beltran. Colonel Ffrench is the sort
of man to win a woman's heart and keep it. They have
known each other in America — been lovers, perhaps. And
now they meet as strangers, and Miss Martinez's superb
black eyes blaze as they look on him. Mrs. De Vigne
makes up her mind that she will watch them this afternoon,
and find out something of this interesting little rciuance if
she dies for it. They were to have staid — the Dame Fan-
shawe's, until the end of the season. Now they depart
abruptly this week. Has the unexpected advent of the
Cuban colonel anything to do with this rapid exodus ?

Nothing is said — there is a break in the line, and the car-
riages pass. But in Colonel Ffrench' s face there is a change
which his fair friend is quick to see. She is a pretty little
woman, a married flirt of the most pronounced order, and
n*

298

•« WE FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND /."

1- I

r ♦

< }'

1 1 'i

1 I I

his handsome, free lance, has caught her inflammable fancy
from the first. He is due to-day at her villa near Richmond.
The Datne Fanshawe's and Sir Beltran Talbot are also to
be guests. It is the last invitation the Fanshawes will
accept, as Mrs. De Vigne gayly puts it to her companion —
positively the last appearance of Miss Martinez. No doubt
the engagement will be announced almost immediately. It
will be a most brilliant match for Miss Martinez. Beautiful
she is — of that there can be no question, but mere beauty
counts for so little, and Sir Beltran, with his rent roll, and
his pedigree, might have won the highest in the land. Still
he is absolutely untrammeled, and his passion for la belle
Americaine is a thing to marvel at, in these degenerate
days.

Mrs. De Vigne's gay little tongue runs merrily all the way
during that drive to Richmond. Her companion says very
little — as a rule he says little — but he is more silent to-day
than she has ever known him. A total revulsion of feeling
has taken place with him at sight of his wife and the man
beside her. Shall Dora Fanshawe, ambitious, scheming, un-
principled, rule his whole life ? Once she found him plastic
as wax in her hands ; shall she find him so forever. And
yet, was it altogether her tears, Mrs. Charlton's bitter words,
his step-father's decree, that caused his marriage? Even in
these far-off days was not little Vera dear to him, was it not
to save her possible pain ; was it not because she cared for
him, and it would make her happy ? He does not know, he
cannot tell. Tiiat distant time is as a dream — it seems to
him just now as if he must have loved her all his life. She
is his wife — his wife she shall remain. What was it Dora
said about her notions of wifely duty and honor? he had
paid but little heed that night. What if Dora is at the bot-
tom of it all ? if that talk of divorce, and unhappiness, and
love for Sir Beltran be but a little skilful fiction of her own ?
He knows Mrs. Fanshawe of old, knows that most of her

M.I

«' fV£ FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND /."

299

e fancy
liniond.
also to
es will
mion —
doubt
ely. It
eautiful
beauty
oil, and
\. Still
la belle
generate

the way
lys very
t to-day
f feeling
the man
ling, un-
plastic
And
words,
Even in
it not
B,red for
now, he
2ems to
She
it Dora
he had
he bot-
iss, and
:r own ?
of her

glib chatter is to be taken with a pinch of salt. What if the
old girlish flmcy be not quite dead despite six years of Mrs.
Fanshawe ? What if life holds other possibilities more
blissful even than fighting for freedom and Cuba ? To-day
they will meet. He will seek her out, and put his fate to
the touch, to win or lose it all. They go so soon, and when
once apart who knows when they may meet again ?

" W'elcome to Richmond," cries the gay voice of Mrs. De
Vigne. " Come back, please, Colonel Ffrench, from — I
wonder where you have been for the past fifteen minutes,
as you sat there staring straight before you, with that dread-
fully inflexible and obstinate look ! Wherever you were, re-
turn, for here we are at last."

V *p 1* •!• "1* ^ T»

" I wonder," Dora says, in a low voice, that Sir Beltran
may not hear ; " 1 wonder. Vera, if Colonel Ffrench is really
en route for Richmond, and makes one of the guests ?
Mrs. De Vigne's flirtation is certainly more pronounced than
even Mrs. De Vigne's flirtations are wont to be, and that is
saying a good deal. Shall you mind, dear ? "

" If Richard Ffrench is there ? Not in the least," says
Vera, coldly.

'* He saw us, but I did not see him. People imagine we
are strangers, and a recognition here in the Park would in-
volve so many disagreeable explanations. If he is introduced
he will have tact and good taste enough to see and under-
stand. I am afraid it will be awkward for you, Vera ; and
with Sir Beltran present, too. If we only need not go."

"Why need we?" Vera asks, in the same frosty voice.

" Well, we have accepted, you see, and we cannot i)lead
sudden indisposition, now that she has seen us, and besides,
as it is our very last Still, dear, if you wish "

*' I have no wish in the matter. It can make very little
difference whether Colonel Ffrench is present or not. I
tliink, indeed, on the whole, I should prefer it."

, i~ (

'.{'':'!

■■ it

I '!!'

300

" l^FE FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND /."

" Prefer it ! " Mrs. Fanshawe repeats, startled.

"Prefer it," Vera iterates. Her lips are set, her eyes
quite flash, there is a look of invincible resolution on her
face. "There are just two or three things I should like to
say to Colonel Ffrench — to disabuse his mind, if possible, of
one or two little mistakes he may have made in the past.
Fate shall settle it. If we meet, I shall si)eak to him ; if we
do not, why, we will drift asunder in silence. Now let us
drop the subject. As I told you before. Colonel Ffrench is
a topic I decline henceforth to discuss."

When Vera's face takes that look, when Vera's voice takes
that tone, Dora knows there is no more to be said. She is
wise in her generation — beyond a certain |)oint it is always
best to let things take their course. She has done her work,
and done it well. Vera is proud, and her pride has had its
death-blow. She is sensitively womanly and delicate, and
that delicate womanliness has been stung to the quick.
Dora has seen that flashing passing glance — those two may
safely meet, and in all probability it will be for the last time.

A week has passed since that rainy July night. All in a
moment Mrs. Fanshawe makes up her mind, and issues her
imperial ukase — they are to go home at once. London is
not habitable after July, she is fagged out, she is homesick ;
a month's perfect repose at Charlton is imperatively neces-
sary to her health and hajjpiness. Vera looks at her with
real gratitude ; she will be glad, unutterably glad to get mvay.
She is so tired of it all, there is so much sameness, so mu-^-.h
monotony, so deadly a weariness in it all. Something lies
like lead on her heart ; she does not care to ask what. To
be back at Charlton, under the fresh greenness of the trees,
to look once more on the blue brightness of ihe sea, to be
away from Sir Beltran Talbot, to begin all over again, to
feel once more alone — it is the desire of her heart."

"Thank you, Dot," she says, gratefully, wearily. "Yes,
let us go ; let us go at once."

•r eyes
on her

like to
ible, of
e past.
1 ; if we
let us
-ench is

:e takes
She is
; always
;r work,
) had its
ite, and
; quick.
wo may
Lst time.
All in a
ues her
ndon is
|nesick ;
neces-
ler wirh
t i'way.
) munh
ing lies
It. To
trees,
I, to be
;ain, to

Yes,

♦' IFE FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND /."

301

So it is settled, ^f r. Dane Fanshawe shrugs his shoulders,
smiles under his blonde beard, glances at his handsome sis-
ter-in-law, and assents. "As the (jueen wills" is after all
the law of the household, although Mr. Fanshawe does
pretty much as he pleases in the main. Mrs. Ellerton is a
pretty woman and a charming actress, but pretty women
abound, and charming actresses are everywhere, and he has
known her six weeks, and Dora is growing jealous, poor soul,
and Mr. Fanshawe struggles with a yawn, rises languidly, and
departs to see about state-rooms. He is not at the Rich-
mond villa to-day ; he is dining with Mrs. Pvlicrton and a
select few not on his wife's visiting list, at the " Star and
Garter."

Sunset lies low, translucent, rose, and gold, over the
world. It is neither classic Tiber, dreamy Nile, nor tlowing
Arno — it is only the Thames above Richmond, but the river
glides cool, blue, bright between its green wooded banks — a
strip of silver ribbon between belts of emerald green.

Mrs. De Vigne's place is a dream of delight, of all rare and
radiant flowers, of ancestral oaks, elms, and cop[)er beeches,
slanting down to the river-side, and Mrs. De Vigne is a very
queen of hostesses. The house is cool and breezy, the din-
ner the master[)iece of a chef, the guests select, well chosen,
and not too many. Removed from him by nearly the whole
length of the table, and on the same side, sits Vera, so Colo-
nel Ffrench, seated near his hostess, catches but one or two
fleeting glimpses of her during the ceremonial. She is
dressed in pale, gold- colored silk, with black laces, and she
wears diamonds. He has never seen her in jewels before,
and the flashing brilliants and rich-hued silk become her
magnihcently. She looks regal, he thinks — more beautiful
than he has even imagined her, and as unapprunchable as a
princess. Sir Beltran is not quite by her side, but he is
sufiiciently near to pay her much more attention than he
pays his dinner.

'fill;

:\3 iff-'

i: 'i'''!

302

" IV£ FELL OUT, MY WIFE AMD /."

"The Martinez is in capital form this evening," drawls a
man near him to his next neighbor; " handsomest woman,
by Jove, in England. Pity she goes so soon. Never saw
her look half a (quarter so su[)erb before."

" It is a way of Miss Martinez's," is the answer, " to look
more bewildering each time than the last. And to-day, as
you say, she is dazzling. Like the sun, she Hashes out most
brilliantly just before setting. Lucky fellow, Talbot — con-
found him I "

" Ah ! you may say so," the first speaker responds
gloomily, and Richard Ffrench turns with angry impatience
away.

How dare these men discuss his wife — link her name with
Talbot's. He feels im[)elled to turn savagely U[)on them,
and annihilate them and all present with the truth.

}5ut he does not — he chafes with irritated impatience and
restrains himself. As yet no presentation has taken place —
he has no desire for a formal [)resentation ; he will seek her
out in the drawing-room and speak to her, if he can, alone.
And if the Vera of old is not dead and <Tone forever, the
dear little Vera of Shaddeck Light, he will claim his wife
before the world ere it is a week older.

The ladies, at Mrs. De Vigne's telegraphic bow, rise and
depart, and he watches in their train that one slender figure,
with the mien and grace of a (pieen. Sir Beltran watches
also — he, too, is silent, preoccupied, absent. Ffrench notes
it jealously. The interval ends, and they are in the drawing-
room, where fair women flutter about like bright-plumaged
birds, and there is music, and the subdued tumult of gay
voices and laughter. Outside, day is not yet done — the
lovely after-glow still lingers, a pearly sickle moon is cut
sharply in the sapphire blue, and down in the copse a night-
ingale is singing. A faint hay-scented breeze stirs the lace
window draperies — one or two stars come out in their
golden tremulous beauty as he looks. It is a picture he

.1 1

1 1 tl

;," drawls a
est woman,
Never saw

•, " to look

I to- clay, as
js out most
ilbot — con-

• responds
impatience

name with
.il)on them,
li.

itience and
:en place — ■

II seek her
[can, alone,
brever, the
im his wife

w, rise and

der figure,

m watches

nch notes

le drawing-

-plumaged

ult of gay

done — the

3on is cut

se a night-

rs the lace

in their

picture he

«' ^VE FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND /."

303

sees to the last day of his life — photographed sharply as a
vision on his brain.

"It is so warm," says some one; "come out and let us
hear the nightingale."

A little jewelled hand is [lUshed through his arm, a pair of
soft eyes look u^) at him, a plaintive voice makes the senti-
mental si)eech. IJut it is only Mrs. De Vigne, and Mrs. De
Vigne on mischief bent.

" Do you ever hear nightingales in Cuba or in New York ?
Look at that moon, Colonel Ffrench, and wish — it is the
new moon. What was it you wished for ? Ah ! Miss Mar-
tinez !"

The interjection is at once malicious and apposite, for at
the moment Miss Afartinez comes in view, and Sir Beltran
is with her. They stand in the shadow of the trees, he has
both her hands in his, his face is Hushed, eager, im|)assioned.
The hour has come ! Vera's they cannot see — it is in
shadow and averted, but the attitude, the look of Sir Heltran
tells the whole story. Mrs. De Vigne glances up at her
comi)anion and laughs.

" Only now ! " she says, *• and I thought it was all settled
ages ago. I wanted to introduce you to Miss Martinez, but
I suppose it would never do to interrupt that tableau. We
shall have to go and listen to the nightingale after all."

He stands still, his face dark, his brows knit, his eyes
glowing. He neither hears nor heeds. Mrs. De Vigne
looks at him with even more interest than she has looked
yet.

"Colonel Ffrench," she repeats, incisively, "shall we go
and listen to "

She pauses. Miss Martinez has suddenly drawn her
hands away, and turned resolutely from her lover. In turn-
ing from him, she turns to them. She sees them — liim —
stands, and lets them approach.

" JVfy dear Miss Martinez," says the bright voice of little

304

" /r/{ FELL OCT, MY WIFE AND /."

I M::

i' ' I

Mrs. De Vigne, " lot iiil* make two of my most especial friends
ac(iiuiintecl — let me present to you Colonel Ffrench."

Vera looks at him — fully, steadily. Instinctively he holds
out his hand —she docs not seem to see it.

" I have met Colonel Ffrench before," she says, in a voice
as steady as her look. All that Dora has told her, all her
outraged woman's pride, all the words of that fatal letter of
long ago, rise and burn in passionate pride wilhin her. She
would rather fall dead here where she stands than let him see
his presence has power to move her.

His hand dr()[)s by his siile — they turn as by one impulse,
and move on together. lUit in dead silence, until Mrs. I>e
Vigne, pulling herself u[) with an effort, breaks out with a
sort of gasp, to fill up the awful hiatus. No one knows what
she says — it is doubtful if she does herself. Only she is say-
ing something — this blank silence is quite too horrid. Where
is Sir Heltran Talbcjt? She glances behind — he has disap-
peared. She looks at Miss Martinez — her face is marble in
the pale shimmer of the moon. She turns to the Cuban col-
onel — his has set itself in an expression of invincible resolve.
Something wrong here, something seriously wrong — she is
playing gooseberry — she will get away, and let them have it
out by themselves. Some guests approach — a word of apol-
ogy, and she is gone. Then he turns to her.

"Vera!"

" Colonel Ffrench ! "

Her eyes Hash out upon him, but despite the fire of her
eyes, two words kept in a refrigerator for a year could not be
more thoroughly iced.

*' You are about to leave England ? "

" The day after to-morrow — yes."

" 1 wish to see you before you go — I must see you ! " he
says, in a tone that makes a second flash leap from the South-
ern eyes J " I must see you alone. Here is your sister. At
what hour to-morrow may I call ? "

il friends

he holds

n a voice
;r, all her
[ letter of
ler. She
t him see

impulse,
Mrs. I>e
mt with a
lows what
he is say-
. Where
las disap-
narble in
uban col-
resolve,
—she is
n have it
of apol-

Ire of her
Id not be

[Oil

" he
e South-
ter. At

"0, /r/s FELL OUT, I K'NOIV NOT 117/ Vr 305

" You take a remarkably authoritative tone, do you not,
Colonel I'french ? However, as 1 have a few words to say
to you in turn — if you call at four to-morrow you will lind me
at home."

She turns swiftly to Afrs. I'anshawe, bows slightly and for
the first time, and so leaves hhn.

CHAPTER VIII.

" O, WK FELL OUT, I KNOW NOT WHY."

QUIET scene — a i)retty picture. A handsomely
api)ointed parlor, the too ardent afternoon sun-
shine shut out, a young lady sitting alone. She
sits in a low chair, the absolute repose o( her manner telling
of intense absori)tion — her hands clasi)ed in her la[), her eyes
fixed on the door. She wears black — a trailing black silk up
to the throat, down to the wrists, that falls with the ■aohfroK-
frou dear to the feminine heart, whenever she moves, unlit
by rose, or ribbon, or gem. It is tiiat consummation, so im-
possible to attain except by the very rich — elegant simi)li-
city.

She has been waiting here for ten minutes. There is
always something in waiting, in expectation that makes the
heart beat ; Vera's heart is going like a trip-hammer, her eyes
excitedly gleam ; she is bracing herself for the most trying
ordeal of her life. It moves her to the very dei)ths of her
being, but it simply must be, and she is wise enough in her
two-and-twenty years to know the folly of fighting Eate.

Perhaps of all the trying positions in which a woman can
be placed — and life holds many — there can never be any so
thoroughly humiliating and crushing, as the knowledge that
she has been forced upon the acceptance of a man who does

■< J. If

306 ''O, IVE FELL OUT, l hW'OlV NOT irZ/V."

not want licr. 'I'o Vera it is a clear case. Slie has been
guilty of a foolish fondness for a man who gave her in return,
the sort of amused regard he might give the gambols of a kit-
ten, but who, forced by his friends and his own overdone sense
of chivalry, has married her.

And now he is here ; he comes to-day to plead for his legal
freedom th.it he may marry that *' some one " in Cuba, and
she must stand and listen to the cruelest, most humbling words
that ever were spoken l)y man to woman !

A tap — I'elician gently o|)ens the door.

"Colonel FtVench, mademoiselle," she announces, and
goes.

Vera starts up. He stands before her, and something she
might have thought wistful pleading, if seen in other eyes,
looks at her out of his. He holds out his hand.

" Fi'm ! " he says, in a tone that matches the look.

She makes a rapid gesture and passes him, and once more
his hand falls. She is excited as sl""^ has never been excited
before in her life. She trembles through all her fran)e, so
that she has to lay hold of the low marble mantel for support.
Her voice, when she speaks, is not like the voice of Vera.

" Oh, wait ! " she says, in a breathless way, "give me time.
I know what you have come to say, but wait — wait one mo-
ment. Listen to me first. It has all been a mistake — from
first to last, a mistake that can never be set right, but I am
not so much to blame — so much — to "

She breaks, words will not come, the words she wishes to
say. She tries to catch her breath to stop the rapid beating
of her heart.

" Oh ! " she cries out, " what must you have thought of me
in that past time — what must you think of me to-day ! How
bad, how bold — Colonel Ffrench ! " She turns to him, pas-
sionately, and holds forth both hands, " for Heaven's sake
try to believe me if you can ! All Mrs. Charlton said to you
that day was false — false every word. It seems hard to cred-

1.*

has been
r in return,
jIs of a kit-
done sense

'or his legal

Cuba, and

bling words

unces, and

nething she
other eyes,

look.

1 once more
•een excited
r frame, so
for sui)port.
of Vera,
^e nie time,
ait one mo-
ake — from
, but 1 am

e wishes to
)id beating

3Ught of me
ay ! How
o him, pas-
ven's sake
said to you
ird to cred-

"0, n'f. FELL OUT, I KNOW NOT WHY.'' 307

it, I know, but, indeed, indeed, indeed, wlien I went to you
that evening, when I staiil with you that night, I had no
thought, no wish, that you — would — make me your — wife ! "

'I'he words that nearly stitle her are out. She turns from
hini again, and bows her tace on the hands that clasp the
marble. In all her life it seems to her she can never suffer
again the pain, the shame she sutlers in this hour.

For Colonel I'Trench he stands and looks at her. The
whole scene, her excited manner, her rapid words, seem
literally to have taken away his breath. Is this the dignified,
haughty, self-possessed princess of last night — this passion-
ately-speaking woman, shaken like a reed by the st(jrm of
feeling within her ? He simply stands mute ; he has ex-
pected somethmg so entirely different, and looks and listens
like a man in a dream.

"You defended me from my enemy, I know," goes on
Vera, still in that agitated voice ; " every word of that inter-
view is stamped on my remembrance. It was like you — you
would have done it for any one maligned. She wronged me
— try and believe me when I say she wronged me cruelly. I
went in all innocence that night, try and believe that too,
with no thought in my child's heart but that you were suffer-
ing and alone, and that — I liked you so much. And from
that hour, until I sat and listened to Mrs. Charlion, no
thought of the actUiU truth ever crossed my mind. Dora
told me nothing — nothing tliat was true. Neither did you.
Oh ! Richard Ffrench, neither did you I She told me you
wished to marry me before you went awa}', that you — lu)\v
shall I say it ? — cared for me as men care for the girls they
marry. And I believed her, and was glad ; how am I to
deny it? and I wrote you that poor, foolish, fatal letter, and
you came, and in spite of your coldness, your gloom, I never
read the truth. Until Mrs. Charlton spoke I knew nothing,
and then — Heaven help me — I knew all ! "

She catches her breath with a dry, husky sob, and stops for

rJ:

Is
i

308 *<0, WE FELL OUT, I KNOW NOT W/IVJ'

a moment. Her hands are locked in their grasp to a ten-
sion of pain. It seems to her that if she lets go her hold she
will turn dizzy and fall.

"You went away," she hurries on, "and I was alone, and
had time to think. Your letter came, but I would not read
it — then. I laid it away, and waited until the muddle would
grow clearer. Time might have soothed and softened even
what I felt then, if something else had not come. That
something else was a letter of yours. Colonel Ffrench, do
you recall a letter you wrote to Mr. Charlton just after my
accei)tance of you ? In that letter you spoke your mind —
how, overpowered by the tears and reproaches of Miss
Lightwood, to save my honor, to shield me from the conse-
quences of my own act, you would marry me, although you
knew that marriage to be utter folly and insanity — although
I would be an incubus to you for life. I remember it all
■ — so well ! so well ! I found it among some papers given
me by Dora to read. Mrs. Charlton's surmise might be false
or true — that mattered little ; but I held in my hand that
day your own thoughts, your own words, and knew at last,
for the first time, the full extent of the dreadful mistake that
had been made. If you had but told me — if Dora had but
told me ! You were my friend, she my sister — but you
would not. I was a child, I know, but I would have under-
stood, and the sacrifice might have been spareci. Colonel
PTrench, your life may have been spoiled by a forced mar-
riage, but tell me, if you can, what do you think of mine ? "

He cannot speak if he would, but she gives him no time.
Carried away by the excitement of all she has hidden so long,
siie is unconscious that he has spoken but one word — her
name — since he has entered ; that he still stands mute and
motionless, borne down by the whirlwind of her passion of
grief and regret. That rainy twilight is before her — she is
back at Charlton, with the wind tossing the trees, the shine
of the rain on the lamp-lit flags. Dora in her trailing crape

M iiii;,

BBc^^zaa

O, IVE FELL OUT, I KNOW NOT WHY:' 309

o a ten-
hold she

one, and
not read
,le would
led even
2. That
ench, do
after my
r mind —
of Miss
[le conse-
ough you
-although
iber it all
irs given
It be false
pand that
,v at last,
ake that
lad but
jut you
TO, under-
Colonel
;ed mar-
liine?"
no time.
so long,
ord — her
ite and
ission of
— she is
he shine
ng crape

and sables, and small, ])ale face, and she herself a wan, for-
lorn little figure enough, in the recess of the window, read-
ing that cruelcst letter, it seems to her, that ever man wrote.

"Well," she says, "all that is past. What is done is
done ; your wife you made me, your wife I am. But, Rich-
ard Ffrench, as I stand here, 1 would give my heart's blood
to blot out that d.:y — a hundred lives, if 1 had them, to be
free once more ! "

He makes no sign ; he still stands hat in hand, and listens
and looks.

" I liked you in the past, in those Charlton days. Oh ! I
know it well ; as a child may like, with no thought of love
or marriage, so hear me Heaven, any more than if I had been
fiix instead of sixteen. Dora spoke — you were silent, and I
consented to marry you. You thought I was in love with
you, and you pitied me ; I had endangered my reputation
for your sake, and you made me your wife. But, Colonel
Ffrench, listen here ! I was not in love with you, either
then, or ever, or now — there have been times when it has
been in my heart to hate you since, as it is in my heart
to hate you as you stand before me now. You did me a
cruel wrong when you made me your wife, and, as 1 say, I
would lay down my life gladly, willingly, this hour to be
free!"

She has never intended to say this, to go so far, but the
force of excitement that shakes her, carries her away. She
sees his face turn slowly from its clear, sunburned brown to
a dead, swarthy white, which makes her draw back, even
while she speaks.

" Understand me," she says, in a steadier voice, " I knew
you meant well, honorably, chivalrously, but, as 1 tell you,
it was a mistake, a cruel, dreadful, irreparable mistake. No,
not irreparable — my sister tells me otherwise, and if the law
will give you back freedom, take it ! tJicn indeed I may
learn to forgive and forget. As I said to you when I came

310 "0, PF£ FELL our, I KNOW NOT W/IY.'* ^^,^

in, I think I know why you have asked for this interview —
what it is you wish to say, but do not say it — I would rather
not hear. Dora has told me all that is necessary for nie to
know. For the rest, I wish you well and happy, but after
to-day I see no reason why we should ever meet again. \Ve
have managed to spoil each other's lives — if you can set your
own life right, no one will rejoice more than 1. iiut what-
ever the future may bring you. Colonel Ffrench, let it bring
you other thoughts of me than those you must have had in
the past. Think of me no longer as a girl who cared for you
so much that she forgot modesty and delicacy and ran after
you wherever you went ; but think of me as a poor, igno-
rant child, who knew no better than to like the gentleman
who was kind to her, and tried to amuse her, and who never
knew there could be harm or shame in that liking. Think
of me as I am — so ashamed of that past, so sorry, so hum-
bled, that never for one hour is the sickening memory absent
from me. Thmk of me as a woman who would give you
back your freedom by the sacrifice of her life, if she dared —
as a woman whose own existence is marred and darkened by
that insane marriage. Let us meet no more, let us speak of
it no more. Our ways lie apart — let us say good-by, here,
now and forever."

She turns from him as she says it, still hurried, breathless,
scarcely knowing what she does. He makes no answer, he
makes no attempt to, he makes no effort to set himself right
— the rush of her rapid words has carried him away as on a
torrent. But the picture she makes as she stands there, is
with him to the last day of his life — beautiful, impassioned,
erect, noble, vindicating her womanhood, a memory to be
with him when he dies.

As she turns to go, another door opens, Dora comes in,
and stands stricken unite on the threshold, a gorgeous little
vision, all salmon-pink, silk, and pearls. He glances at her
a second, then looks back, but in that glance Vera is gone.

auli(L'

lii!:i;

T'T"

;rvie\v —
id rather
jr me to
Kit after
ain. We
I set your
^ut what-
t it bring
e had in
d for you
ran after
JOY, igno-
rentleman
vho never
r. Think
, SO hum-
ory absent
1 give you
le dared —
rkened by
s speak of
-by, here,

)reathless,
LHSwer, he
Inself right
ly as on a
Is there, is
[passioned,
)ry to be

Icomes in,

feous little

Ices at her

is gone.

CHARLTON PLACE.

311

CHAPTER IX.

CHARLTON PLACE.

CTOBER. The yellow after-light of a lovely day
lingers over the world, glints through the brown
boles of the maples and hemlocks, burning deep
ruby and bright orange in their autumn dress ; flashes away
yonder in a Uiillion ripples and stars of light on the mirror-
like bay, and turns the western windows of Charlton Place
into sparks of fire. Charlton in its fall splendor of rubies,
and russets, and yellows, and browns, as we saw it once be-
fore with Dora Charlton and Vera Ffrench sitting beneath
its waving trees. Six years, with their numberless changes,
have conie and gone since then, and the sisters are here
once more, with life wearing a newer, sadder, stranger face
for each. Those six years have changed Vera into a beauti-
ful woman, wise with the wisdom that is twin sister to sorrow,
w. . a wearier light in the large, dark eyes, a graver sweetness
in the smile than of old. Those six years have changed Dora
unutterably for the worst — harder, colder, more selfish, more
wordly beyond measure she is than even the hard, selhsli little
woman who made herself Robert Charlton's wife. Robert
Charlton lies, with folded hands and the daisies above him,
over in St. Jude's church-yard, a monument of granite and
gilt bearing him down, and setting forth, in glowing record,
his virtues. Dora is the wife of another man — a man who
never, at his best, was worthy to tie the latchet of Robert
Charlton's shoes. At his best if a man thoroughly shallow,
conceited, and vain can ever have any best. Two years and
a half the husband of the rich Mrs. Charlton have left him at
his worst. Dora's greatest enemy could hardly wish her a

! \i

i":

312

CHARLTON PLACE.

more wretched fate than is hers as Dane Fanshawe's wife.
If Richard Ffrench had ever desired retributive justice to
befall the little usur[)er who stands in his place and rules it
at Charlton, he need but look at her as she paces up and
down her room this October evening, waiting for the sound
of carriage wheels that will tell her her nusband has come.
Her small face, pale at all times, is bluish in its pallor now ;
the rich dinner-dress, of black lustreless silk and velvet, that
trails after her, increases that pallor ; her olue eyes tiash
with that lurid light of rage blue eyes only can flash ; her lips
are set ; her little hands are clenched.

" The villain ! " she breathes. " The scoundrel I tne liar !
the forger ! After all I have done for him — all he has made
me suffer — the position in life he has attained through me —
to return me this ! Oh, 1 hate him ! I wish I had been
dead before I ever married him 1 But 1 will desert him — I will
tell him so this very night ! He shall learn whether 1 am to
be robbed and outraged in this way with impunity ! "

She clenches her hand more viciously over a crushed
l)aper she holds, and walks e.Kcitedly up and down the room.
Now and then she puts her hand over her heart, as a sharp
spasm catches hcv breath. Oh ! these spasms, daily increas-
ing, daily growing sharper — harder to bear. Is it not enough
to be a martyr to them, to feel with an a"'ful thrill of horror
that at any moment one of these spasms of the heart may stop
that heart's beating forever ? Is not this enough that she
must also bear the endless misery and wrong inflicted upon
her by her heartless husband ? If she only did not care for
him I But is it not in the spaniel nature of woman to love
best the hand that strikes hardest ? And she knows she
cares for him — that she could not leave him if she would, in
spite of infidelity, coldness, indifference, slight — or may it be
said, because of them ? She cares for him, and that is why the
blows fall so bitter and hard to bear. It is only those we love
who have power to wound our hearts. Others may stab our

I I i'lii;

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CHARLTON PLACE.

313

sh awe's wife,
/e justice to
c and ruiL-s it
oaces UP and
for the iound
nd has come.
s pallor now ;
id velvet, that
lue eyes flash
flash ; her lips

drel ! tiie liar !
.11 he has made
through me — ■
sh I had been
;ert him— I will
hother 1 am to
mity ! "

iver a crushed
lown the room.
:art, as a sharp
s, daily increas-
s it not enough
thrill of horror
heart may stop
kough that she
inflicted upon
;Ud not care for
woman to love
she knows she
i she would, in
t — or may it be
that is why the
^' those we love
■s may stab our

vanity, our amour propre, but love no one and the whole world
combined will never break your heart. She is in the white heat
of rage just now, and in that rage is capable of saying and
doing pretty much anything ; so the lookout tliat awaits Mr.
Dane Fanshawe is not a \)leasant one, did he but know it.
He is used to warm receptions, though not in tlie endearing
sense, and the knowledge that he richly deserves every rating
he gets, and a good many he does not get, enables him to
endure them with philosophy. Indeed, this gentleman is a
philosopher, or nothing. There is nothing new, and nothing
true, and it doesn't signify, and it is the Song of the Wife,
the world over, this tune Dora loves to sing. He is a Sy-
barite, and never lets life's rose-leaves crumple beneath him
if he can ; worry glides off his mind as dew off a cabbage-
leaf, never a drop sinks in. It is one of his principles, and
about the only principle he is conscious of.

Two months have passed since the return of the Dane
Fanshawes and Miss Martinez from their prolonged Euro-
pean sojourn — two months spent alternately at Newport and
in New York. Mrs. Fanshawe left Newport in haste, be-
cause Mr. Fanshawe became suddenly and violently epris of
a certain dashing young widow of two-and-twenty, which gay
little fisher of men netted all alike, married or single. They
spent September in New York, and the transition realized
the truth of the old saw — " out of the frying pan into the
fire." Mr. Fanshawe's excesses were simply maddening to Mr.
Fanshawe's wife. The green-eyed monster laid hold of Dora's
poor little heart, go where she would, and never — let it be
said for Mr. Fanshawe — never once without good, solid,
substantial reason. Tlie latest reason was a popular oi)era-
howH^ prima-donna., substantial in the sense that she weighed
well on to two iiundred avoirdupois. The bracelets, diamond
rings, bou(iuets, and poodles — this last melodious luxury had
a passion for poodles — that found their way to Mile. Lalage's
hotel, and that Dora's money paid for, would have driven
14

314

CHARLTON' PLACE.

'k-

'if !!'•

: . "

Dora mad had she known it. What she did know was, that
Mr. Fanshawe Hved at the rate of about twenty thousand
dollars a year, and that even the Charlton ducats would not
hold out forever with a double, treble, fourfold drain upon
them. The paper she holds in her hand to-day is the last
straw that breaks the < unel's back — it is a forged check for
the sum of five thousand dollars, and Dora is white with
passion to the very lips. Large as her income is, she lives
beyond it — doubly beyond it, as Mr. Fanshawe draws ui)on
her. She dresses herself and Vera superbly, she denies her-
self no pleasure, no luxury that money can buy ; but if the
forged check system begins, before five years more she will
be as she was in the Dora Lightwood days — penniless. And
it seems to her now, after these years of wealth, that sooner
than go back to that phase of existence, she would glide
quietly out of life in a double dose of morphine.

Hark ! Carriage-wheels at last, driving as Mr. Fanshawe
drives always, recklessly fast. She pauses in her walk, her
eyes glittering with passionate excitement, and waits and
listens. She was ill when he went up to New York two days
ago — surely common decency will send him first of all to her
side. But common decency and Dane Fanshawe long ago
shook hands and ])arted — he does ?iot come to his wife. She
hears him run upstairs whistling cheerily, pass on to his own
rooms quite at the other end of the passage, and the door
close after him with a bang. She waits two, four, ten min-
utes, then patience ceases to be a virtue. She flings wide
her door, and raises her voice— always of unsuitable compass
for her small body, and shriller now and more piercing than
ever, sharpened as its edge is by anger.

"Mr. Fanshawe."

" My angel ! " promj)tly and pleasantly comes the re-
sponse. Mr. Fanshawe knows better than to feign deafness
when Mrs. Fanshawe calls in that tone. His door opens, he
stands half diyested of his dusty travelling suit just within it.

Si =n:>

■P*^*!

CHARLTON PLACE.

315

\r was, that
\j thousand
would not
haul upon
is the last
[ check for
white with
s, she lives
[raws ui)on
denies her-
; but if the
)re she will
iless. And
that sooner
kvould glide

•, Fan sh awe
er walk, her
i waits and
rk two days
of all to her
ve long ago
wife. She
to his own
d the door
ir, ten min-
flings wide
3le compass
ercing than

lies the re-
s:n deafness
iar opens, he
St within it.

"Come here, if you please," commands Dora in a voice
that would go very well with a box in the ear, and to toll
the truth it is the very endearment Dora's little fist is tingling
to administer.

Mr. Fanshawe looks in plaintive api)oal from his wife to
his dishabille.

"My angel," he murmurs, "if you could wait, although
I know you won't, until I have had a bath, and dressed
for "

" Never mind your dress. Such wedded lovers as we are
need not stand on the order of their costume surely. Come
here at once."

" Now I wonder what is the latest indictment," says Mr.
Fanshawe to himself with a gentle sigh, but obeying. "My
lady looks as if the jury had found a true bill."

He enters his wife's room, deprecatingly, submissively. If
a few gentle looks, a few pleasant words, even a few off-hand
husbandly caresses will soothe her down, he is willing, most
willing, more than willing indeed, to administer them. They
cost so little, and he has known them to go so far. Like
penny buns, they are cheap, and very filling at the price.
Fine words may not, as a rule, butter parsnips, but from a
neglectful husband to a weak-minded wife they do wonders.
Mr. Fanshawe has tried their power and knows. So he gives
Dora a pleasant look, a pleasant little smile, and holds out
his hand to draw her to him. But Dora waves him off and
back, standing like a small, furious, tragedv-queen \\\ her
sweeping silks and velvet, and thread lace, her blue eyes
alight with rage, her little figure quivering in the intensity of its
passion. Her husband has done as much, and more than this,
many a time before, but she is smarting under a long course
of slight and wrong, and pain and affront, and this is just
the last drop in a brimming cup. He sees that it is a hope-
less case, the coming tornado is not to be averted ; so, with
a gentle regretful sigh, he sinks wearily into the softest chair

;- , t

■% '

316

CHARLTON PLACE.

the room contains. There is to be a scene ; it is inevitable.
Poor soul ! it is her greatest failing, this tendency to make
scenes. They bore him horribly ; reproaches tire him ; and
it is so foolish of poor Dora, too, for they do no good ; they
never by any possibility can do good, and it is bad for her
health and everything. He really wonders at her. It would
be so much more pleasant all round, if she would but take
things easily. He never finds fault with her. What is it
now ? Can his having escorted Mile. Lalage to Rockaway
yesterday, and given her those diamond ear-rings, have come
to

Mrs. P'anshawe saves him all further surmise. She holds
out the crumjiled paper, in a blaze of wrath.

*' Dane Fanshawe ! " she cries ; "do you see this ? "

The question is pertinent, for Mr. Fanshawe lies back in
his soft chair, his handsome blonde head lying against its
azure silk back, his handsome blue eyes closed, apparently
sinking gently into sweetest slumber. But at this ringing
question he looks up.

" That, my love ? " He deliberately puts up his eye-glass,
and inspects it. " Well, really, you know, one piece of
paper looks so much like another, that "

" It is your forged check for five thousand dollars ! "

" Ah ! " says Mr. Fanshawe, and drops his glass. " Yes,
the forged check." He looks his wife steadily, quietly, de-
liberately, in the eyes. "Yes," he says again, "it has a
familiar look, now that I see it more closely. Well my love,"
— a sneer, devilish in its calm, cold blooded malignity —
" what are you going to do about it ? "

She lays her hand on her heart, and stands panting, look-
ing at him. One of these ghastly twinges has just grasped
her, her lips turn blue, her breath comes brokenly ; she ab-
solutely cannot speak, so deadly is her anger.

He sits and regards her unmoved, his face hardening
slowly until for all feeling it shows, it might be a handsome

I ^■*.

'-^tMk

CHARLTON PLACE.

317

2vitable.
;o make
in ; and
)d ; they
for her
It would
but take
hat is it
ockaway
,ve come

he holds

s?"

; back in
^ainst its
[jparently
s ringing

eye-glass,
piece of

k ! "

" Yes,
lietly, de-
it has a
ny love,"
ilignity —

mg, look-
t grasped
she ab-

lardening
landsome

mask of white stone. Not one faintest touch of compassion
for *the woman before him moves him. An evil life has
thoroughly brutalized and hardened him ; under all his soft,
society languor, half real, half affected, there is the pitiless
heart of a tiger,

" This — this is all you have to say," she gasps.

" All," says Mr. Fanshawe, and watches her unflinch-
ingly.

His hard, pitiless gaze, something in the cold, cruel steadi-
ness of his face frightens her — appalls her. She realizes for
the first time that she is talking to a man of flint — that
beneath those sleepy blue eyes, that low trainante voice, that
silken smile, their is neither heart to feel, soul to pity, nor
conscience to know remorse. Her hands drop ; for the first
time she has found her master. In all their marital battles
hitherto she has stormed on to the end, and he has listened,
bored, wearied, but resigned. " I have drank the wine — 1
must take the lees," his patient silence has said.

But this is different — something, she cannot define what,
in his face, in his eyes, turns her cold with a slow, creeping
sense of fear. She shrinks from him and turns without a
word. There is a blank, thrilling pause. Not even when
she goes to the window and looks out does he avert that
basilisk stare. P'or Dora — her transport of rage is gone, the
whole world seems dropping away from under her feet. She
is realizing, in a strange, appalled sort of way, that this man,
nearer and more to her than any other human being on
earth, is a villain, and a villain without one redeeming trait
of love or pity for herself. Heaven help the wife to
whom this truth comes home — good or ill she may be — but
Heaven help her in that hour, for help on earth there can be
none.

" Is this the end ? " asks the deliberate voice of Mr. Fan-
shawe, at last. ■ **May I go and dress, or haii more got to be
oaid?"

3i8

CHARLTON PLACE.

I';

1 1

■If

*'Go!" she answers, in a stilled voice, "and I pray
Heaven I may never see your bitter, bad face again." •

She covers her own with her hands, crushed as he has
never seen her crushed in their married Hfe before. She
sinks down on her knees by the bed, and hides her white,
quivering fiice upon it. For him, he rises and stands gazing
down upon her, not one trace of the hard maHgnity leaving
him.

" Listen to me," he says, *' / have a word or two to say,
and as I don't speak often — in this way — 1 hope it will have
weight. There comes a time in the lives of most men, I
su[)pose, however long-suffering, when curtain-lectures fall
and conjugal tirades weary. 1 have borne them for two
years and a iialf. I decline to bear them longer. I married
you for your money — you are listening, 1 hope, Mrs. Fan-
shawe ? — and you know it, or if you do not, the fault is
your own. It was not worth while to try double-dealing ; I
never strove to deceive you, or — if you will pardon me — to
win you. J married you for your money, and your money I
mean to spend, if not by fair means, why, then by foul. I
asked you for one thousand dollars a week ago ; you refused,
and V ere abusive, according to your amiable custom. I
said nothing ; I took the easier plan— 1 went and drew the
money. I am disposed to be agreeable myself; I like peace,
and pleasant smiles, and friendly words, and I mean to have
them — if not at home, wiiy, then abroad. If you raged till
the day of doom you could not change me or my intentions
one iota. It is foolish on your i)art — it is telling on you, my
angel ; you are growing i)rematurely old and disagreeably
thin — scraggy, indeed, 1 may say — and if there is one creature
on this earth I abhor it is a thin woman. Take my advice,
Mrs. Fanshawe — it is the tirst time I have proffered it, it
shall be the last — while we live together let us sign a treaty
of peace. What I am I intend to remain. Money I must
and will have ; amusement I must and will have also. The

I I Hi!)

mma

CHARLTON PLACE.

319

1 I pray
1." •
I he has
re. She
:r white,
Is gazing
' leaving

) to say,
vill have
men, I
iires fall
for two
married
Irs. Fan-
fault is
aling ; I
me — to
money I
foul. I
refused,
;tom. I
Irew the
e peace,
to have
iged till
tentions
you, my
^reeably
creature
advice,
ed it, it
a treaty
J I must
3. The

check I admit. It is tlie hrst time ; if you loosen your
piusestrings a little, it may be the last. Pardon me for
having inflicted this long speech upon you, but a man must
strike in self-defense. Are you quite sure you have no more
to say ? I am going."

She makes a gesture, but does not speak — a gesture so
full of stricken despair that it might have moved him, but it
does not. Tliere is absolutely a smile on his lips as he
turns to go. He is victor.

"A new version of tlie 'Taming of the Shrew,'" he
thinks. ** I'oor soul ! she dies hard, but it will do her good
in the end."

" He ain't never a comin' back I s'pose. Yer don't know
nothin' 'bout him, do yer ? Yer hain't never seen him no-
where, have yer ? It's pcnverful lonesome — oh ! lordy,
powerful lonesome — sence Cap'n Dick went away."

It is Daddy who thus delivers himself. He stands shuffling
from one foot to the other, as if the sand burned him, twist-
ing his old felt hat between his hands, his dull, protruding
eyes fixed wistfully on the lady who sits on the grass. She
looks ui), lifting two lovely, soft, dark, tender eyes to his
face.

" No, Daddy," she answers ; " I am afraid — I don't think
he is ever coming back."

Her eyes wander from his face, and look far away across
the gold and rose light of the sunset. Tliose large dark eyes
have aM wistful a light, as pathetic a meaning, as poor
Daddy's own, and she stretches out one dusk, slim hand, with
brilliants lighting in, and touches gently the grimy one of the
" softy."

*' You are sorry ?" she says softly.

"Oh! ain't I just!" responds Daddy with a burst. "Lor!
how I hev gone and missed him. Why, lordy ! it seems like
a hundred years sence he went away. 1 ain't had the life of
a dog sence then. He was good to me, he was," says Daddy,

320

GHARLTON PLACE.

' 1

drawing one grimy sleeve across his eyes; "he was most
awful good to me allers."

'* Poor fello'" !" Vera says, with a pity deeper than Daddy
can comprehend.

" 1 ain't had no peace o' my life ever sence," he goes on,
crying, and smearing his dirty sleeve across his dirty face.
" I'm kicked about, and half starved most the time, and took
up the rest. I'm took up so continiwal," cries Daddy, "for
wagrancyand no wisible lueans o' s'[)ort, that I a'most wishes
they would keep me took up altogether. Nobody's never
good to me now anymore, and he was — oh, he was most
uncommon ! And he ain't never a comin' back no more ?"

"No more," Vera repeats. "Oh, Daddy, no more!"
And then she, too, breaks down, and for a while there is
silence. She sits on a green knoll just above the shore, the
long marsh grass, and rank llame -colored Howers, nodding
about her, the sea wind blowing her dark, loose hair as she
sits, her hat on her lap. At her feet stretches away the long
dreary sweep of sand dune, before her lies Shaddeck ]?ay
with the amber glitter of the sunset in it, to the left Shaddeck
Ligiit, falling sun-brown and wind-beaten, to rottenness and
decay. To the right lies St. Ann's, a few sounds of life
coming from it fain^ md far off — the rumble of a passing
cart over the :till streets (juite audible here. I'oats glide
about with the led glare on their sails. Daddy lingers near,
ugly, dirty, ragged, as unpicturesque an object as eye
could see, with a handful of currency in his [)ocket, and
wondering admiration for the beauty of the lady before him,
staring vaguely in his untutored, masculine soul. She looks
up with a start from her reverie at last.

" I won't detain you any longer," she says, gently. " Re-
member, whenever you are in trouble, or in want, come to
me. Do not be afraid. I will see you always, help you
always. I intend to find you a home somewhere ; you shall
be starved and beaten no longer, my poor, poor Daddy ! I/e

ras most

11 Dackly

goes on,

irty face.

:uul took

Idy, "for

St wishes

-'s never

'as most

more ? "

more ! "

there is

lore, the

nodding

ir as she

the long

eck ]?ay

haddeck

ness and

s of life

passing

Its glide

irs near,

as eye

ket, and

re him,

\e looks

"Re-
ome to
2lp you
ou shall
y! He

CHARLTON PLACE.

321

was good to you — I cannot take his place, but I will do
what I can."

"Thanky," Daddy says, with a last wipe of the coat-sleeve
across the bleared eyes. ** Yes, he were most uncommon
good to mc, he were."

So he shambles away, and Vera sits still a long time,
her eyes full of fathomless pain and regret. It is a month
nearly since their return to Charlton— a week since that
interview between Mr. and Afrs. ''ansha.vc, jf which Dora
has not told her. Dora has been strangely cpiiet since that
time. Mr. Fanshawe has iliictiiated between New York and
St. Ann's in his usual inconsecjuent fashion, and Mrs. Fan-
shawe has com))ressed her lii)S ominously, and said nothing.
Perhaps she has an object in view, her birthday is near —
her thirty-third, alas ! She gives a large party, the house is
filled already with guests from New York, others are coming,
the ** fn-st families " of St. Ann's are bidden, Mrs. l''anshawe
means to outdo Mrs. Fanshawe. And she determines her
husband shall be present.

It is the rarest of rare things for Mr. Fanshawe to grace
his wife's festivities. No one is more rarely seen at Charlton
than its nominal master ; but on her birthday he must, he
shall be present. The world is beginning to talk of their
connubial infelicity, ladies to smile and shrug their shoulders,
and comment after the usual charitable fashion of the sex.
What would you ? She is fully six years his senior ; she
looks fully six years older than she is ; she is faded, soured,
sickly, peevish, jealous ; and gentlemen, you know, will be
gentlemen, etc., etc. He never cared for her, he married
her for her money — he admits it ; no one ever sees him
with her ; no one ever meets him at Charlton. And they
do say he and Lalage— dreadful creature ! — are out in the
park every fine afternoon, and that he drives four-in-hand with
the coaching-club to High Bridge, Lalage beside him on
the box, smoking cigarettes all the way.
14*

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if = ^

322

CHARLTON PLACE.

Dora knows it all, and sets her small teeth in impotent
anger and despair. Ikit he shall attend her birthday ball —
common decency requires that. She has asked him calmly,
with forced composure, and he has assented carelessly.

** Oh, yes ; of course ; that will be all right ; he will be
on hand. The twenty-second or twenty-seventh — which is it ?
He has the deuce and all of a memory for dates."

He pulls out a little betting-book, and looks at her with
his pleasant smile. Dora's lip quivers ; she is strangely sub-
dued those last few days, and is looking wretchedly ill.

" The twenty-third," she answers, and turns from him
abruptly. There are husbands who remember their wives*
birthdays, and their wedding-days, and such domestic foolish
anniversaries, but Mr. Dane Fanshawe is not of their order.
Still he makes a memorandum of it, ai;d that night asks his
wife for more money.

Her eyes Hash, but she retains her calm. She has no
money to s[)are. They have been horribly extravagant ; she
has purchased a diamond collar, and this party is costing en-
ormously. It is quite impossible. She looks up at him in-
flexibly as she says it. He smiles slightly, returns her look,
and moves away, humming a tune.

Vera sits on her grassy seat, and watches the crimson, and
scarlet, and orange splendor of the sunset fade into pink, and
primrose, and fleecy white, then into pallid gray, slowly lit
and gemmed with golden stars. The gray deepens to gloom ;
a chill night- wind rises, a cold, sad sigh from the great Atlan-
tic. The tide ebbs away, and the long, black bar is bare —
that bar over which she walked to Shaddeck Light and Rich-
ard Ffrench. How lonely is the night, and the sea, and the
stars ! — the night with its long, low, lamentable wind ! the
sea with its mighty monotone, its deep, eternal, melancholy
plaint ! the stars so far ofl" in their tremulous, mysterious
beauty ! " The stars were called, and they said, * We are
here,' and they shone forth with gladness to Him who made

wmmmm

CHARLTON PLACE.

323

impotent
lay ball —
m calmly,
i5sly.

le will be
'hich is it ?

: her with
ngely sub-
^ill.

from him
leir wives'
itic foolish
leir order,
it asks his

le has no
Lgant ; she
costing en-
at him in-
; her look,

imson, and

) pink, and

slowly lit

to gloom ;

reat Atlan-

r is bare —

; and Rich-

2a, and the

wind ! the

nelancholy

mysterious

1, ' We are

who made

them." Something stirs in Vera's heart with a great and sol-
emn thrill— after all, one may live for others, and to win a
place beyond these golden clusters, even when one's own life
has come to an end.

Where is Richard Ffrench ? Vera does not know. She
has neither heard from him, nor of him, since that summer
afternoon in London. He is in Cuba, perhaps— fighting
once more, or wounded, or ill, or dead. She kno.vs nothing.
She reads all the Cuban news, but she never sees his name. Of
what followed after her interview, between him and Dora, she
does not know. Dora has never said, she has never aske ^
What does it matter ? All is dead and done with, the story
is over, the book is closed, her romance is ended ; there is
nothing left but to begin again, with all life's sweetest possi-
bilities shut out.

Darkness closes down, darkness braided with sparkling
stars. The sea lies a great, sighing, black mystery; the
wmd has the icy breath of coming winter in its sweep. Shad-
deck Light is only a darker shadow among the shadows,
desolate, forsaken, forlorn— something to shudder at. How
strange to think she ever si)ent a night there ; no one will
ever si)end a night th^re again. She rises, chill in the frosty
wind, puts on her hat, wraps her shawl about her, and turns
to go home. Dora's guests will miss her, and her life belongs
to Dora now.

Poor little Dot ! how sorry she is for her— how thin and
worn she grows— how frightfully frequent are those terrible
heart-pangs. It is all she can do not to hate Dane Fanshawe
—this cruel, smiling, suave fine gentleman, who breaks his
wife's heart as coolly and with as little compunction as he
shoots a sea-gull. In every human face there lies latent a
look of cruelty— circumstances may or may not bring it out,
but it is there— in his, though, more markedly than in most.
Hut she is i)Owerless— it is simply one of the things that must
be left alone— the less said to Dora the better. He is always

324

CHARLTON PLACE.

' 1 »

!>'

especially attentive and deferential to herself-— she is a young
and handsome woman, and she is net his wife. What a tre-
mendous puzzle life is — the truth comes well home to Miss
Martinez this evening, as she flutters swiftly homeward in the
black night breeze — hard to enter, h^irder to live through, and
hardest of all to end !

The house is all lit when she draws near, its whole front
sparkling with light. She enters and passes upstairs to her
room. Every one is dressing for dinner — it is a full-dress cer-
emonial every day now, and then there follows the long
evening in the drawing-room, with music, and flirtation, and
carpet dances, and cards. Vera wearies of it all, not that life
has grown a bore, or pleasure begun to pall, but satiety does
beget disgust. She taps at Dora's door on her way.

" Come in," says Dora's voice.

Vera enters, and stands in wonder.

What is the matter with Dot ? There is a fierce, wild fire
in her eyes, her pale face is excited, she sits writing rapidly
at her desk. A buff envelope lies on the floor, a paper — a
telegram near it.

" Read that," Dora says.

She spurns with her foot the paper, and writes on. Vera
stoops and picks it up. It is from xVIr. Fanshawe, and is dated
Philadelphia.

" Cannot come on twenty-third. Must manage the high jinks without
me. Obliged to go to Baltimore. Wish you many happy returns all
the same.

** Dane Fanshawe."

Vera drops the telegram as if it had stung her ; she knows
how Dora has set her heart on his being present iX the ball.

" Oh, this is too bad, too bad ! " she cries out.

Dora looks up ; to the last day of her hfe Vera never for.
gets that look, nor the slow, weird, icy smile that goes with
it.

'•s^.

^""""^T

HUSBAND AND WIFE,

325

" Lalage is in Philadelphia," she says.
"Dot!"

" He has gone after her. How do I know ? I have em-
ployed a detective ! "

_ She laughs aloud at her sister's start and look of consterna-
tion—Dora's wild, eldrich laugh.

" A detective, my dear ; it has come to that. The tele-
gram has just arrived ; here is my answer. Read it."
Vera takes it, stupefied.

" As you have gone with that woman, st.y with her. Come here no
more. I will never hve with you a-ain, so help me God ! "

An hour later Mrs. Fanshawe sits among her g.iests
beautifully dressed, painted, perfumed, suuling, radiant with
life and pleasure. Her shrill laugh rings out, oftener and
shriller than any one ever has heard it before.

"What a very dissonant laugh Mrs. Fanshawe's is ? " one
sensitive lady says, shrin kingly, -and how wildly her eyes
glisten. I hope she does not use opium."

Vera sits silent, pale, frightened, distressed. And far
away, as strange a message, perhaps, as ever flar^ed over
the wires, is speeding on its lightning course to Mr. Dane
1* anshav/e.

CHAPTER X.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

T is the night of the birthday, ball, a dark, windy,
overcast night, threatening rain. The Charlton
mansion is ablaze with light, from attic to cellar
all IS bustle, preparation, expectation. Ix, their rooms
the guests of uie house are dressing. In hers sits the mis^

i I

tff'1

11^

111

i?i

iili!;;

326

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

tress — she whose natal day all the splendor of to-night is to
honor.

Felician is busily and skilfully at work ; the result is to
surpass every previous effort.

" Make me young and pretty to-night, Felician," her
mistress cries, with a gay laugh, " if you never do it in your
life again ! "

And Felician is doing her best. The golden hair is
frizzed, and puffed, and curled, and banded in a wonderful
and bewildering manner to the uninitiated. Not much of all
that glittering chcvclure dor'ce grows on Dora Fanshawe's
head, but who besides Felician is to know that ? Her
dress is one of Worth's richest and rarest — a dream of
azure silk and embroidered pink rosebuds, point lace more
costly than rubies, and diamonds — such diamonds as will
not flash in her rooms to-night.

She wears brilliants in a profusion indeed that is almost
barbaric — they flash on her fingers and arms — woefully thin
arms, that it recpiires all Felician's skill to dra[)e so that
their fragility may not show ; they sparkle in her ears, in
her hair, and run like a river of light round her neck.
But her blue eyes outshine them ; they are filled with a
streaming light, her cheeks are flushed, her dry lips are
fever red.

" Make me pretty to-night, Felician — make me young
and pretty to-night ! " is again and again her cry, until
even Felician looks at her in wonder.

Perhaps after all the hint of the lady last night concerning
opium is not entirely without foundation. She is in a state
of half delirious excitement, she hardly feels the floor beneath
her — she seems to float on buoyant air.

Life looks all rose-color and radiance — pain, poverty,
shame, sorrow, things blotted out of the world. She is in
the dawn of a new life, she is on the verge of a complete
revolution of all that has hitherto made up her existence.

til

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

327

night is to

•esult is to

:ian," her
I it in your

en hair is

wonderful

nuch of all

i'anshavve's

at ? Her

dream of

lace more

ids as will

it is almost

aefuUy thin

le so that

.'r ears, in

her neck,
led with a

y lips are

me young
cry, until

concerning
in a state
3or beneath

n, ])overty,
She is in
a complete
: existence.

No one is old at three and thirty ; Ninon de I'Enclos won
hearts at eighty, notably her own grandson's among them ;
and she is still pretty — where are the crow's feet, and the
bluish pallor of cheeks and lips to-night ? No one shall spoil
her pleasure, no one shall darken her life ; freed from Dane
Fanshawe, she will begin anew, and eat, drink, and be merry,
and hold black care and blue devils at bay forevermore !

The sound of singing reaches her, it comes softly and
sweetly from Vera's room. Vera dresses always with a
rapidity little short of miraculous in Mrs. Fanshawe's eyes.
It is only on the sad side of thirty, that women stand for
wistful hours before their mirrors, gazing ruefully on what
they see. Dora has an innate, inborn, ingrained passion for
dress ; Vera forgets what she wears five minutes after it is
on. Her sweet, fresh, young voice comes from across the
corridor to Mrs. Fanshawe's ears.

" Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

'* No light had we, for tliat we do repent ;
And learning this the bridegroom will relent.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now."

It is the song of the Foolish Virgins. There is profound
pathos in the words as Vera sings them. Dora lifts her eyes
to a picture that hangs on a wall opposite, a picture she has
brought from Florence, and that tells the same mournful
story her sister sings. It is a weird, melancholy thing enough,
but it has struck Mrs. Fanshawe's capricious fancy. It is a
night scene; the " blackness of darkaess " shrouds the sky
like a pall, and faintly through that dense gloom you catch
the shadowy outline of a fair white mansion — faint gleams
of light coming from its closed portals. Outside that closed
door the shadowy forms of women crouch — the whole picture
indeed is shadowy and indistinct, in distorted positions of

iTT^

328

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

iii«

•11*

I I

!i M

suffering and despair. Their unlit lamps hang from their
nerveless hands, their faces are shrouded in their fallen hair.
One alone lifts her face to the rayless night-sky, and a glim-
mer from the door falls on and lights it. It is a face not
easily forgotten ; some deadly horror, some awful fear, loss,
lo>'e, laughing — all are in that white, uplifted, tortured face.
"And Tiie Door Was Shut," is the name of the painting.
A singular and spectral sort of picture for a lady's chamber,
but it has a fearful sort of a fascination for Dora. She knows
that solemn, beautiful story, although she never opens and
makes a scoff of the Book wherein it is told. What — she
thinks it now, a dread thrill shuddering through all her wild
exultation of feeling — what if all that liook tells be true,
what if after this life of purple and fine linen, and feasting
sumptuously every day, another begins, that tremendous
other preachers preach of — of darkness and torment, and
the eternal wailing of lost souls ? And if there be that other,
what place does it hold for all those awful eternal years for
such as she ?

*' No light ; so late ! and dark and chill the night ! "

The sweet pathetic voice comes across the hall again :

*' O, let us in that we may find the light !
Too late, too late ! Ye cannot enter now.

" Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?
O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss 'lis feet !
No, no, too late ! Ye cannot enter now."

Dora's excited nerves cannot bear it. She puts her hands
over her ears with a sharp, sudden cry.

" It is horrible ! I hate it I Go to Miss Vera's room,
Felician, and tell her to stop singing that wretched song, and
if she is dressed to come and talk to me here."

One hour later. Over the road leading from St. Ann's to

rom their
lUen hair,
id a gliiM-
L face not
fear, loss,
.ired face.

painting.

chamber,
She knows
Dpens and
^Vhat— she
1 her wild
s be true,
id feasting
remendous
•ment, and
that other,
,1 years for

again ;

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

329

her hands

[ra's room,
song, and

Ann's to

Charlton Place, two men walk, one rapidly, in long, steady
strides, the other more slowly, and keeping well out of siglit.
They are not together — the lagging wayfarer lags purposely
to avoid the rapid walker before. It is a lonely road on a
sunlit noonday. It is a desolately lonely road on a starless
night. The trees nearly meet overhead, beneath is a gulf of
darkness. A tine drizzling rain is beginning to fall, a high
complaining wind, with a touch of November in its quality,
swirls through the tree-toi)s, and whistles sharply past the
ears of the wayfarers. The surf cannonades the shore in
dull, heavy booms, and the sun-charged sky gives promise of
a wild fall storm before morning.

"Bad for the coasters and the fisher folk," the first pedes-
trian says to himself, struggling with a fiercer blast than
before. " A wild night at Shaddeck Light ! "

A wild night at Shaddeck Light — a wild night everywhere,
a wild night for belaced pedestrians, a wild night for Mrs.
Fanshawe's guests. But in Mrs. Fanshawe's brilliantly-lit
parlors, heavy curtains shut out of sight the blackness, out
of hearing the wind. \ tine band of music, down from the
city, drowns with resonant waltz music the beat of the rain
on the glass, and the dash of the surf on the shore. Mrs.
Fanshawe, a vision from dreamland or operaland, in her
Paris dress and diamonds, her gilded hair and rose-bloom
cheeks, receives her guests like a queen. Men look at her,
stricken with sudden wonder and admiration — very young
men particularTy, whose way it is invariably to fall in love
with women a dozen years their elder. It is so safe, too,
to flutter about this gorgeous moth, who showers smiles on
all with dazzling im[)artiality. " The greatest charm of a mar-
ried woman is invariably her — husband." Dora Lightwood,
(Btat three-and-thirty, would be a shari)-boned husband-hunt-
er, to be feared and shunned — Dora Fansliawe, married and
brilliant, eclipses every young maiden present \yith her auda-
cious beauts du diable. Not one fair virgin of them all — not

330

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

stately, dark-eyed Miss ATaitinez herself, will receive half the
adulation to-night that will Dane Fanshawe's neglected wife.

The foremost of the two men reaches the open entrance
gates, and the strains of the " Heautiful Mine Danube " float
out and welcome him. A look of annoyance passes over
his face.

*' A party," he mutters; "have I come in vain then after
all? No!" he adds, suddenly, "let who will be here, I
know she will see me."

lie draws near the house, bright with illumination, and
pauses. The music sinks and swells, Hitting forms pass
rapidly. He stands irresolute a moment and gazes at the
picture. Around him the darkness, the drifting rain, the
surging trees, the long lamentable blast, himself, a solitary
figure — within there, floods of gas-light, crashes of music, a
wilderness of flowers, and the "dancers dancing in tune."
The contrast strikes him with a jarring sense of pain, he turns
impatiently away, and goes round to the side of the house,
with the air of one who knows his locality well. A door
stands slightly ajar — he enters a hall, and a woman-servant
passing through with a tray of ices stops and stares.

"Can I see Harriet Hart?" he asks. "Is she house-
keeper here still ? "

" Miss Hart is housekeeper — yes, sir," answers the woman,
still staring.

He is a gentleman evidently, also, evidently he is not a
guest.

"Who wants Miss Hart?" calls a sharp voice, and Har-
riet herself appears, superfine in brown silk, a shade or two
lighter than her complexion, her little black eyes as sharp,
her flat figure flatter, her acrid voice more acrid, if possible,
than of old.

The stranger takes off his hat with a smile, and stands re-
vealed. She gives a little shriek and recoil.

" Lord above ! " she cries, " Captain Dick I "

j f

HUSBAND AND IVTFE.

ve half the
ected wife,
n entrance
lube " float
asses over

1 then after
be here, I

lation, and
forms pass
izes at the
g rain, the
, a solitary
of music, a
g in tune."
in, he turns
the house,
1. A door
nan-servant
;s.
she house-

the woman,

le is not a

;, and Har-
ade or two
;s as sharp,
if possible,

\ stands re-

331

'Bad shillings always come back, do they not, Miss Har-
riet ? I see you well, 1 hope, after all these years ? "

She does not reply ; she stands silently staring at him
aghast. '

" I have given you a shock, I am afraid. It is I in the
flesh, r assure you, and no apparition. What is gouig on—
a ball ? "

** A birthday-ball— missis' birthday. Good Lord ! Captain
Dick, what a turn you have given me ! Who'd ever a thou'dit
it?" *=

•' So it seems," he says, half laughing, half impatient. '' It
IS a mistake, I {\\m\, taking people by surprise. We used to
be tolerable friends, I believe, bat you really do not seem
over glad to see me. Well, it is the way of the world, out of
sight out of mind."

" It ain't my way, though," says Harriet, grimly, and stretch-
es out her hand.

Six years ago, if any corner of Harriet's vestal heart could
be said to be bestowed on obnoxious man, bright, debonair
handsome Dick Ffrench, sunny of glance, sunny of smile, gay
of voice, dashing of manner, had that corner, and no rival has
ousted him since.

" Welcome home, Captain Dick, to the house that ou-ht
to call you master instead o' them that ain't fit to wipe your
shoes. I'm glad to see ye, and there ain't many men folk
on airth Harriet Hart would say that to. When did you
come ? "

" To-night from New York. Harriet," abruptly, " I want
to see — Miss Vera."

He pauses before the name, and flushes as he says it
Harriet's sharp, beady black eyes seem to go through his
rough overcoat, straight to his spinal marrow, as she stands
and transfixes him.

'' Yes ? " she says, shutting up her thin mouth like a trap
''Miss Vera !— h-m-m ! Mrs. Fanshawe, too? »

•■I

I p*l

332

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

I' ■■ n

%'Mi

"No, Mrs. Fanshawe need not be disturbed. Tell Miss
Vera "

" Come this way," cuts in Harriet, and leads him to her
own sitting-room.

It is a cozy apartment, as befits a housekeeper of Miss
Hart's temper and long-standing at Charlton. A bright red
coal fire burns in the grate, a cat curls up comfortably before
it, a rocker sways by the hearth-rug, china dogs and vases
are on the mantle, red moreen shuts out the rain-beaten
night, and shuts in the glowing fire-lit "interior." A flash
of recognition comes into her visitor's eyes as he enters — a
flash half i)leasure, half pain.

" It is like old times to be here," he says, standing before
the fire.

•'Ah, old times," responds Harriet. ** I wish to goodness
gracious mercy old times would come back. We had some
l)eace and comfort of our lives then. I'm old myself, and
new times don't suit me — lazy fine gentlemen a loafin' about,
and chuckin' of the chamber-maids under their sassy chins ;
cross missises that an angel would have to give warn in' to
every other month ; eatin' and drinkin' goin' on perpetual
from nine in the mornin' to nine at night ; a rush o' peoi)le
fiUin' the house and draggin' the help off their feet ; wimmin
with their clothes hangin' off their bodies, only a straj) of lace
across their nasty shoulders to keep 'em on ; playin' billiards
and crookay, and gaddin' about with the men folks, and they
makin' the whole place beastly with their cigars. Faugh ! if
it wasn't for Miss Vera, I'd a left long ago."

He lifts his head at the sound of her name ; the rest of
Harriet's valedictory has been lost.

" Miss Vera," he repeats ; " yes, Harriet, tell Miss Vera I
am here. Tell her I have come from New York on the eve
of my departure for Cuba to see her, and will detain her from
her friends but a few moments."

He leans his elbow on the low chimney-piece, and seems

Tell Miss

im to her

r of Miss
bright red
ibly before
and vases
•ain-beateii
• A Hash
enters — a

ling before

o goodness
had some
nyself, and
lafin' about,
issy chins ;
warnin' to
perpetual
o' people
wimniin
rap of lace
n' billiards
, and they
Faugh ! if

he rest of

liss Vera I
on the eve
in her from

and seems

IIUSBAXD AND WIFE.

333

to relajjsc into reverie. Harriet gives him one last kin-n
glance as she turns to go. \'cra is his wife — at least they
went to church one day to be married — why then does she
not behave as such ? It is part and parci'l of the new state
of things going on at Charlton, of the topsy-turvy sort of life
these people lead, dining until nine, dancing until one, break-
fasting in bed near noon, married women making eyes at
unmarried men, a few of the fastest and friskiest young mat-
rons smoking !

Deep disgust weighs down Harriet's soul, speechless wrath
flames upon them out of her needle eyes. Miss Vera is the
leaven that lightens the whole mass. She never carries on
like a skittish young colt in a paddock, she never makes a
fool of herself and disgraces her sex with these slim-waisled,
cigar-smoking, mustached young dandies, who part their hair
down the middle, and stare at her (Harriet) as though she
were some extinct species of the dodo. But she is a married
woman, and she does not live with her husband, thus much
she conforms to her world and her order.

Harriet goes to the different doors and scrutinizes the dan-
cers. Scorn inexpressible sits on her majestic Roman nose
as she looks at the waltzers — half-dressed waists clasjjed so
closely in black broadcloth arms. She is not there. " For
which, oh, be joyful ! " says Miss Hart, turning away. Yon-
der is her missis, looking as if a rainbow and several pink
and blue clouds had been cut up to make her gown. "We'd
a scorned to put red and blue together in my time," she solil-
oquizes ; "we'd better taste." Among all the reeling,
swaying, voluptuous-looking throng Mrs. Fanshawe whirls
and wheels, the bright, particular star of the night, waltzing
as if her feet touched air.

Vera is not here. Harriet visits the music-room, the con-
servatory, and finds her at last actually sitting out the waltz,
talking to a popular poet down from New York, and looking
as if she preferred it.

334

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

'■;i '

** Miss Vera," in a raspinijj whisper.

She turns from her long-haired poet with a smile.

♦* Yes, Harriet," she says, in her gentle way.

" There's a visitor for you ; he's in my room, a-waitin'.
He's down from New York, and wants to see you."

*' A visitor," Vera says, in surprise, "for me? Not a
guest ? Who can it be ? It is not," laughing slightly — '* it
is not Daddy?"

"Daddy!" retorts Harriet, with scorn. "Well! it's the
next thing — it's Daddys master, leastways as was. It's Cap-
tain Ffrench."

Vera rises to her feet. She fc^rgets poet and party, she
stands confounded and looks at the speaker.

*' It is Captain Ffrench — Captain — Dick — Ffrench," says
Harriet, tersely, " and he's a-waitin' in my room a purpose
to see you. " He wont keep you long; he told me to tell
you so, and he's goin' to Cuba, he told me to tell you that,
too."

She puts her hand to her head. The shock of suri)rise is
great, but the shock of sudden, intense joy is greater. Colo-
nel Ffrench here ! Her heart gives one great, glad bound,
and then pulses on, a hundred a minute. It is with some-
thing less than the usual high-bred grace and ease, for which
Miss Martinez is justly famous, that she turns to her poet
and makes her excuses. Then without a word to Harriet
she follows her to the door of that lady's boudoir. There
Miss Hart unseals her lips.

" He's in there a-waitin' ; you don't want me to introduce
you, I reckon," she says, with grim humor, and goes.

Vera stands a moment. In that moment a change comes
over her ; she is the Vera the world knows again. The
shock is past ; there is no need for her to be glad to see this
man. He has mistaken her once, he shall not again. Dora's
words return to her ; whatever the business that brings him
here, it is quite unnecessary that she should show gladness

a-Nvailin .

? Not a
^htly— " it

1 ! it's the
It's Cap-
party, she

nch," says
a purpose
me to tell

,1 you that,

surprise is
ter. Colo-
ad bound,
with sonie-
for which
her poet
o Harriet
r. There

introduce
)es.

inge comes
e;ain. The

to see this
in. Dora's

brings him
w gladness

HUSBAiVD AND WIFE.

335

at his coming, or trouble him with an etTusive welcome.
There is not a man dancing there in the ball-room who is
not as nuich to her as this man is ever likely to be. She
takes herself well in hand, then opens the door and goes
in.

He turns rjuickly. Miss Nfartinez's taste in dress has the
effect always of looking simple, and gives beholders — male
beholders — the idea of beauty unadorned. In reality, her
wardrobe rivals in expense Dora's own. She wears white
to-night — creamy white silk, with ornaments of dull yellow
gold, some touches of rich old lace, and a crimson rose in
her hair. Her splendid eyes light like brown stars the dusk
pallor of her Spanish face. That pallor is deeper than usual,
the laces rise and fall with the rebellious beatings of the heart
beneath them, but he does not distinguish the pallor, does
not hear the heart-beats, so no harm is done.

"This is a very unexpected pleasure," she says, smilingly,
and with the instinct of hos[)itaIity holds out her hand.
" Let me welcome you back to Charlton, Colonel Ffrench."

He holds for a second the slender unresponsive hand, then
drops it, and places a chair for her.

♦' Will you not sit, too ? " she asks.

" No," he answers, and resumes his place by the chimney
and his former position. She has not said much, but some-
thing in her tone, in her eyes, chills him, as the cold night
wind sighing about the gables could never do. In her
beauty and her pride, her rich dress, the gleam of yellow
gold, as she sits in the ruby shine of the fire, she seems so
far off, so high above him, that he turns his eyes away with
a feeling akin to despair.

He realizes, as he has never realized before, that the Vera
of six years ago is as utterly gone out of this world as though
the daisies grew over her grave. This beautiful, reticent,
graceful, chill-voiced, fine lady, is no more his black-eyed,
laughing, romping, loving, madcap Vera t'^n

336

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

i \ :;i

1 •

^ 11

1 '

1 ;

1:1 i

V'k

The brown eyes flash up their golden light suddenly upon
him.

"When did you come?" she asks — "from England, I
mean ? "

" Three days ago."

" I trust you left all our mutual friends very well ? "

He turns his eyes, fixed moodily on the fire, with a swift,
passionate glance to her face.

" I saw Sir Beltran Talbot before I left ! " he says,
abruptly.

" Yes ? " Her voice does not change, but a faint color
rises, and the hand that holds her fan is not quite steady.

" And I know that you refused him. Vera, why ? "

She meets his glance steadily — slow, intense f,urprise and
anger in her eyes.

" I decline to answer that question. I deny your right to
ask it."

" I claim no right," he says, steadily. *' It should be
ample enough. Heaven knows ; but a right enforced — in this
case — would hardly be worth the claiming. Vera, I wonder
if any other human being ever changed so utterly in six
years as you have done ! There is not a trace, not a tone,
not a look, of the little Vera of that past summer left."

A smile breaks the proud, set gravity of her face — a smile
of triumph.

" You preferred that other Vera ?" she says.

He looks at her again, and the story his eyes tell, is the
story told since the world began — to be told till the world
ends.

" T liked that other Vera," he answers ; " 1 love this ! "

She is lying back in the chair ; now she sits suddenly
erect. The words give her an absolute shock. She believes
Dora's fiction ; she believes implicitly in that " some one "
in Cuba ; she has never dreamed herself other than a drag
on his life, not easily gotten rid of, and now, to hear this !

Idenly upon
England, I

ell?"

fv'ith a Kwift,

" he says,

L faint color
J steady,
hy ? "
-urprise and

our right to

: should be
ced — in this
a, I wonder
terly in six
not a tone,
• left."
ce — a smile

; tell, is the
1 the world

^'e this ! "
ts suddenly
)he believes
5onie one "
han a drag
ear this !

:i USB AND AND IVIFE. yj

vJa ;:" :t:: Eo'^ t::-, " '^^, "-^^^^ -^ ■"- ""■^-

1^31 " ^''''^ '""■ "'"''^y* a'' ' saw her

He stops abruptly at a gesture fro.n her

"As you saw me last," she repeats slowly. "Yes neither
of us ,s hkely ever to forget //,„/ " '

turn?r 1°^ "" "''' '"'"' "'' °''' '"""'■'i="ion of that day re-
ur s to her now aeross the years. Again she is croucin'n.

ankw '"',"""??'"' '" ^^«*''"S "--» crushed amid th^
rank weeds and da.np grasses, listeuing ,o the strident voiee
that denounces her as a bold creat„re:i„st to all n,o s^v or
.na,denly pr.de. A flush passes over her face, a ligh coL
."to her angry eyes, her fluttering hands grow stea ly e
swtft heart-beats cease. So„,e perverse spirit enteral to
he ■ that s, T ^^l^nowledges to this man, forced to marry
toTht'saa'"^^^ """' ''^"^^^ ''— ^^ ^^-Charl-
" I saw always the little Vera I had left," he goes on-
' my dear, httle, bright-eyed chil.l-bride ; I came back and
found her a woman, more beautiful than I had ever thoult
T ""h1 ^'^''T'" """' ^"^ f™™ 'h^ fi-t hour I k ovh

stood bt"- T '" '^'' '°'-^°"™ '-' -"P' - one^!;:
Stood be ween her and happiness, I was told, and did not
doubt It seetned natural enough. But I begin ,o doubt

fal elood . You reft.sed Sir Beltrau Talbot-you could
not do o herw,se, of course, but it is the knowledge of t„
refusal that has sent me here Vera F !,,„„ .■„!
world will f.n ,. °''^' ' have little— your

world v,l: tell you nothing, to offer-but my love dee,,
change ess, true r ,rii/» it, ■ . ' ' '

6 », iiue, 1 give ! Is our marriage ndeed to 1.,.

tahtrr "ir ""'""""^^ ^"^" ^™ "-- »« "> >v

in reality, as well as in name ? "

hea"t'irfnn' ?',f"'? "" ''^"^ '■^"■'*' '' '-^ "<" -hen the

L; d ^r ''' '■"■' ""'^' '-■'"•l"^"- -'-he proudly

hai,ds.n,e face before him does not soften one whit, for

hMK

t 1

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•!■ i'.

'I i

.. 1

HUSBAXD AND WIFE.

the first time she doubts Richard Ffrei.ch's word. She is in
a false position — is it to ^ave her from it he speaks now ?

" I know of old," she answers, " how romantic and chiv-
alrous is Colonel Ffrench's sen-e of duty. It led him once
to niarry a foolish, jlighty school-girl, when he would have
done nuich better to have rated her soundly for her folly in
running after him, and gone and left her. If I had loved
Sir iJeltran Talbot, perhaps not even the fact of that non-
sensical marriage would have been strong enough to prevent
my telling him so, at least. I am not a very i)erfect person ;
no one knows that better than I. liut my marriage had
nothing to do with my refusal — understand that. As to the
sacrifice you i)iopose to make, in accepting the wife thrust
upon you six years ago, while deeply grateful, I yet decline.
Afy life suits me very well. I am not a blighted being. I
can dispense with lovers in the present, and a husbard in
the future, extraordinary as it may seem. Your friend 1
shall always be. Colonel Ffrench ; your wife, other than I
am now — never ! "

Her pride is strong within her, it rings in her voice, it
Hashes in her eyes. Surely she has vindicated herself at
last.

For a moment he does not speak. In that pause a great
burst of music comes from the ball-room, the first bars of a
grand triumphal march. He speaks first.

'' You mean this .? " he slowly says.

" 1 mean this," she answers, and meets his eyes full.

" Then there is no more to be said. Pardon me for hav-
ing said so much, for having taken you from your friends.
Good-niglit, and good-by."

An impulse is upon her, thoroughly contradictory, and
thoroughly womanly, to call him back, to claim him, keep
him, love him. Vera is a very woman, and consistently in-
consistent. A fiush sweeps over her face, to the very tem-
ples.

II iint'-'iriiii

^ CRY AV THE NIGHT.

She is in

now ?
and chiv-

him once
3ukl have
er folly in
had loved

that non-
:o [)rcvcnt
:t person ;
•riage had
As to the
vife thrust
.'t decline,
being. [
lusband in
r friend I
er than I

r voice, it
herself at

:se a great
bars of a

'Oh, come back ! do not go ! " is on her lips, but h.-r lips
refuse to speak. She stands so a mo.nent, battling with her
pride, and ni that nionieut he goes. The door clones behind
linn ; the sweep of the triumphal march speeds him ; he is
gone wuhout even the poor return of an answer to his .^ood-
night. Pride has fought and v.'on. "^

A wise general has said, that next to a great defeat a great
victory ,s the most cruel of all things. Perhaps Vera real-
ises this now. She sits where he has left her, feeling faint
and sick, her face hidden in her hands.

The crashing tide of the music comes down to her • the
feet of the dancers echo overhead. She must go bock to
theni, make one of them, wear a smiling face to the end.
SI ^ oves Richard Ffrench, and she has sent him awav • in
the last half hour she has done what she will re-ret her
whole life long. '^

_ Meantime the unbidden guest is gone. Once more he is
in the outer darkness, in the night and the storm. Tiie mel-
ancholy rain still drips, drips ; the melancholy wind blows in
long, sighing blasts ; the black trees toss about like tall
specters against the blacker sky. Aud a figure sheltered
beneath thein-the lagging pedestrian of an hour before-
watches him with sinister eyes until he is out of sight

full.

le for hav-

ur friends.

:tory, and
him, keep
stently in-
very tern-

CHAPTER XI.

A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

RS. FANSHAWE'S ball is what Mrs. Fanshawe
has meant it to be— a brilliant success. Her own
_ spirits never flag ; she dances incessantly, the red
oi her cheeks redder, .e light of her eyes brighter, as the
hours wear on. Who shall say that this radiant httle hostess

■','

nF!

340

A C/^Y IN THE NIGHT.

V 1

dcncing like a Bacchante, wild with high spirits, flirting with
the men about her with desperate recklessness and levity, is
a neglected, slighted, supplanted, unloved wife ? At sup|)er
she drinks iced ghanipage as if parched with fever-thirst,
until Vera's brows contract with wonder and alarm. She
keeps near her sister through it all ; something in Dora's
wild excitement startles her ; she dances scarcely once after
her return to the ball-room.

"Where have you been?" Dora asks, hitting her a per-
fumed blow with her fan. " Why do you wear that owl-like
face ? This is no place for owlish faces. Why do you not
dance ? Everybody has been asking for you. What is the
matter with you to-night, my solemn Vera?"

Her elfish laugh rings out — she flits on. A gentleman
p.issing smiles to the lady on his arm.

"A case of twinkle, twinkle, little star!" he remarks.
" What a radiantly happy woman our charming hostess
must be ! "

The lady shrugs her shoulders, and puts out a scornful
little chin.

" She is half crazy to-night, or — tipsy with her own cham-
pagne ! Did you not see how she drank at supper ? It
was perfectly shocking. See her sister watching her.
Beautiful girl, Miss Martinez — do you not think? — a perfect
type of the handsomest sort of brunette."

The gentleman smiles slightly, knowing better than to ac-
cept this artful challenge ; but the eyes that rest for a mo-
ment on Vera have in them a light that makes his fair friend
bite her lip.

" Some romance attaches to her — it does not seem quite
clear what — but something connected with Dick PYrench.
You remember Captain Dick, of course. I have heard, but
that I do not believe, that she was privately married to him
before he went away."

"Fortunate Dick Ffrench ! "

ting with
levity, is
it supper
/er-thirst,
•m. She
in Dora's
nee after

ler a per-
t owl-like
D you not
bat is the

entleman

remarks.
y hostess

L scornful

\vn cham-
jper ? It
ling her.
-a perfect

mmmmmmmm

lan to ac-
for a mo-
fair friend

sem quite

Ffrench.

leard, but

ed to him

A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

341

" Oh, it is a myth of course — they say being the only
authority. It is added that she was very desi)erately in love
with him, but that statement also is fo be taken witii a pinch
of salt. She was little better than a child at the time— I
recollect her well ; a tall, slim girl, with a thin, dark face, big
black eyes, and hardly a trace of the stately beauty we all
admire now. Look at Mrs. Fanshawe with Fred Howell 1
Really, Mr. Fanshawe should be here to keep his wife in
order. No one advocates matrimonial freedom more than
I do, but there is a line, and she oversteps it. Upon my
word she is quite too horrid."

Such comments, from ladies principally, run the round of the
rooms. The gentlemen, more indulgent, only glance at each
other, and smile. All recall afterward, when the trau^edv of
this night rings through the country with a thrill, her brilliance,
her flashes of wit, her reckless spirits, her incessant dancing,
her flushed cheeks, her streaming eyes, her flashing dia-
monds. Censorious tongues stop then appalled, fair censors
falter— they recall her only as a bright little butterfly, look-
ing hardly accountable for her acts, so fair, so frail, so almost
unearthly. But just now, before the curtain falls on that
last act, and the intoxication of music, and waltzing, and
wine is at its height, they do not spare her. One or two
words fall on Vera's ears, and her eyes flash out their indig-
nation on the speakers. They are ner guests, they break
her bread and eat her salt, and sit in judgment on her. Eut
oh I what ails Dot ? How rash she is — she has never gone
to such extremes before. It is more of Dane Fanshawe's
work ; he has goaded her to madness ; this is her reckless
revenge.

Perhaps it is as well for Vera's peace of mind that no
time is left her to think of herself or her own wayward folly.
She has acted like a fool in one way — Dora is acting like a
fool in another ; there is little to choose between them, that
she admits bitterly. She keeps as close to Dora as may be ;

342

A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

jii

she tries to restrain her unj 'erceived ; i-he resolutely refuses
to (Umee.

" I'or pity's sake, Dot, do not go on so — everyone is look-
ing at you," siie wiiispers, angrily, once. '"You are insane,
1 think, to-night. Do not dance with I'red Mowell again.
He ought to be asiiamed of himself "'

But Dora interrui)ts with one of her frequent bursts of
laughter.

" Oh, Fred, listen here ! " she calls ; " here is richness !
Look at Vera's owlisli face ; listen to her words of wisdom.
' Do not dance witli Fred Mowell again. He ought to be
ashamed of iiimself ! ' Are you ashamed, Fred ? You ought
to be, if my sol)er sister says so — she is never wrong."

Mr. Howell stoops and whispers his answer. He glances
at W-ra with a malicious smile, he owes her a grudge for
more than one cut direct, and he cordially hates sui)er-
ciUous Dane Fanshawe. He is paying a double debt to
night, in comi)romising his hates. Vera draws back, indig-
nant and disgusted, and sees them go, Dora clinging to his
arm. l'"red Howell's tall, dark head bent over her blonde
one - the most i)ronounced flirtation possible.

JUit it ends at last. Mrs. Fanshawe, foolish though she be
in many things, is wise enough never to let daxlight sur-
prise her well-bred orgies, and stare in on haggard faces and
leaden eyes. A little after three the guests begin to depart,
at half [)ast the roll of carriages is continual, at four all but
the guests are gone. And when the last good-night is said,
Dora Fanshawe drops into a chair, and lifts a face to her
sister, a fnce so drawn, so worn, so miserable, that all her
sins and follies are forgotten. As by the touch of a magic
wand, every trace of youth and prettiness departs in a
second.

" I am tired to death ! " she says. " 1 am tired to death ! "
She draws a long, hard breath, and Hings up her arms over
her head. " 1 am tired to death — tired — tired — tired ! "

J., v^-jif.

y refuses

L' is look'
,' insane,
11 again.

.Hirsts of

ichness !

wisdom.

It to be

HI ought

: glances
Lidge for
i sui)er-
debt to
k, indig-
g to his
■ blonde

ii she be
ight sur-
ices and
) depart,

all but
: is said,
i to her

all her
a magic
rts in a

death ! "
ms over
;d!"

■—I

A CA'V AV 77//;- NIGHT.

343

Tiiere is weariness unspeakable in the gesture, htjarl-sick-
ness so utter, so desperate, tliat Vera's anger melts like
snow. She has meant to scold I )ora for her madness, but all
words of leproach die awa}- in a passion of pity and love.

"My poor little dear!" she says. Asa mother might,
she gathers the llower-decked, jewel-crowned head to her
breast. " Ob ! my Dot, you have not been yourself to-
night. I have been frightened for you. I am so glad it is
all over, and that you can rest. No wonder you are tired—
you have danced every dance. Let me take you to your
room, and help you to bed."

Without a word Dora rises, and trails her rich ball-robe
slowly and wearily u]) the stairs to her own room. Here
she sinks in a powerless sort of way again into the first chair.

"1 am dead tired," she repeats, mechanically. " If I only
could sleep and not wake for the next forty-eight hours,
I might be rested by the end of that time. Nothing less will
do."

She lifts her heavy and dim eyes, and they fall on the
dreary picture of the '' Foolish Virgins." There they remain
in sombre silence for a long time. Vera sends aw.u- l\Mi-
cian and disrobes Dora herself with swift, deft Tn .;.m'-,, with
soft, soothing touches.

"Do you know," Dora says, at length, " that through it
all— the crash of the band, and the whirl of the German,
and the talk of those men— the face of that woman there
has haunted me like a ghost ? I can understand now how
men take to drink to drown memory or remorse. All these
long hours it has been beside me. Sometimes when I looked
in Fred Howell's face— faugh ! what a fool he is !— it was
the deadly white face of that crouching woman 1 saw. And
the words went with the vision— < Too late, too late ! ye
cannot enter now I' They have been ringing in my ears
like a death-knell."

*' You are morbid ; your nerves are all unstrung," is Vera's

344

A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

,1 ■•(
111

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i^''j

*■ i

l-^'l

answer. " I wish I had not sung it. It is a weird picture —
gloomy enough to haunt any one. Do not look at it any
more. Shut your poor tired eyes while I brush out your
hair ; it will quiet you."

But the sombre blue eyes never leave the picture, and,
when she speaks again, her question startles her sister, so
that she nearly drops the brush.

*' Vera," she says, " are you afraid to die ? "

"Dot!"

"Afraid of the awful loneliness, the awful darkness, the
awful Unknown. Vera, Vera 1 /am. I am afraid to grow
old ; but I hope — J hoi)e — I hope I may be seventy, eighty,
ninety, before I die ! I am afraid of death — horribly afraid !
If one could come back from the dead and tell us what it is
like — where all this that aches so in life, heart, soul, con-
science, whatever you call it, goes after that ghastly change.
But they never do, and we go on blindly, and then all at
once the world slips from under us, and we are — where 1 Or
is it the end, and are we blankness and nothingness, as be-
fore we were born ? That would be best. I do not think I
would fear that — much ! "

Vera kneels down beside her, and puts her arm around
her, every trace of color leaving her face, her eyes dark and
dilated with sudden terror.

" Dora," she says, " Dora, what is this ? Are you in pain ?
Does your heart hurt you ? Is it the spasms again ? "

•'Oh, no!" Dora answers, wearily, "nothing of that.
I feel well enough ; I never felt so well or happy in my life
as I did to-night. I am dead tired now, that is all. And
that picture troubles me like a bad dream. And your song
— I cannot get that despairing refrain out of my ears. I
wish I were a better woman, Vera, I wish I were as good,
as wise as you "

" As I ? " Vera interrupts, almost with a cry " Oh, Dot
Dot, as I ! "

A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

345

icture —
,t it any
3Ut your

ire, and,
iister, so

less, the
to grow
', eighty,
y afraid !
vhat it is
oul, con-
' change,
in all at
V r 1 Or
ss, as be-
t think I

around
dark and

in pain ?

of that.

n my life

And

our song

ears. I

as good,

Oh, Dot

" Yon never carry on with men as the rest of us ilo.
They have to respect you. You would not make a fool of
yourself with Fred Howell as I did, come what might. You
go to church every Sunday, rain or shine. You have pious
little books, and you read them, and you believe in Ooil and
heaven, and all good things. Vera," she breaks out, and it
is a very cry of passionate pain, of a soul in utter darkness,
" is there a God, and must I answer to Him for the life 1
lead ; and when I die will He send me forever to "

But Vera's hand is over her mouth. Dora is certainly
mad to-night — her husband's cruelty has turned her brain !

"Hush! hush! hush!" she exclaims, in horror. "Oh,
my Dot ! my Dot ! "

What shall she say to this blind, groping soul, lost in the
chaos of unbelief? What shs does say is in a broken voice,
full of pity and pathos ; Dora is too worn out to listen to
much. But she speaks of the infinite goodness and love of
Him whose tender mercies are over all His works.

"If you would but pray," she says, imploringly, "it is all,
it is everything, the ' key of the day and the lock of the
night.' Only this morning I was reading a book of Eastern
travels, and the writer says a beautiful thing. He is si)eak-
ing of the camels so heavily laden all the weary day, who
kneel at its close to be unstrapped and unladen. And he
says, we, like the camels, kneel down at night, and our bur-
dens are lifted from us. If you would but kneel. Dot, and
believe and pray, our loving Father, wlio hears the cry of
every hopeless heart before it is spoken, would help you to
bear it all."

Dora does not answer — she lies back with closed eyes,
white, spent, mute. Vera rises and resumes her work ; in a
few minutes an embroidered night-dress has replaced the
rainbow costume and jewels, and Mrs. Fanshawe lies down
on her white bed with a long, tired sigh.

"It is good to rest," she says ; "I hope I may sleep until
«5*

346

// C/v'K IN THE NIGHT.

ini I

^11 '.

■ fci

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i H

sunset tomorrow. See that I am not disturbed, will you ?
1 want to sleep— to sleep — to sleep."

'I'lie words trail off heavily — the last these pale lips will
ever utter — and then, with closed eyes, she lies ([uite still
among the pillows. Vera hastily replaces the jewels in their
caskets, and arranges them on the table near the bed, llings
the ball costume over a chair, turns down the gas to a tiny
point, kisses her sister gently, locks ihe door on the inside,
and leaves the bedroom. She goes by way of the dressing-
room adjoining, the door of which she also locks, and takes
the key. l-'elician may enter in the morning, according to
custom, with her lady's matutinal chocolate, and Dora's sleep
must not be disturbed.

In her own room, she throws open the window, folds a
wrap about her, and sits down, glad to be alone. She feels
no desire for sleep ; her mind is abnormally wakeful and
active. Mow dark it is ! and how heavily it rains ! The
scent of wet grasses and dripping trees ascends ; there is
not a ray of light in the black sky ; the whole world seems
blotted out in darkness and wet, and she the only living
thing left.

Is Dora asleep, she wonders — poor, poor Dora ! Thank
Heaven, it is not yet too late ! thank Heaven, there is yet
time for faith and repentance, and the beginning of a better,
less worldly life ! It has been a great and silent trouble to Vera
during the past six years, the cynical, scoffing unbelief of her
sister, so hateful in a man, so utterly revolting in a woman.
But it is not too late, it is never too late for penitence and
amendment this side of eternity. Then her thoughts shift,
the face of Richard Ffrench rises before her in the gloom, so
full of silent, sad reproach. She loves him, and she has sent
him from her — oh, folly beyond belief ! and yet so thorough-
ly the folly of a woman. " I liked that Vera — 1 love this ! "
— the bound her heart gives as she recalls the words ! They
are true, or he would not speak them. No sense of loyalty

.4 CA']- IX Tin: NICIIT.

347

ill you ?

lips will
lite still
\ in their
;(1, niii.i;s
o a tiny
t inside,
Jressing-
ul takes
rcling to
a's sleep

', folds a
5he feels
etid and
s ! The
there is
Id seems
ily living

Thank
e is yet
a better,
e to Vera
ef of her
woman,
nee and
hts shift,
rloom, so
has sent
horough-
l/e this ! "
They
)f loyalty

to her would make him tell her a thing that is false. lie
is true as trutli, true as steel, good, brave, a noble man. And
she has sent him away! — the thought stings her with keenest
l)ain and regret. Oh, this pride that exacts such a price!
Is it too late to retract ? He is going back to Cuba, to his
death it may be ; no mm can carr}- a chaiined life forever,
and he will never know she loves him. No ! a sudden, glad
resolution fills her, f(^r her, no more than for Dot, is repen-
tance too late. He cannot leave St. Ann's beiore seven to-
morrow — there is time, and to spare, yet. She will write to
him, and tell him all — the whole truth ; one of the men shall
start with the letter at six o'clock, aiul give it to him at the
station. And then — a smile and blush steal over her face —
he will return to her, and then •

She leaves the winch^w, turns u[) the gas, sits down, and,
without waiting to think, commences to write. The wortls
flow faster than she can set them down — not very loving,
perhaps ; she cannot show him all that is in her heart just
yet, but good wifely words, that will surely bring him. It is
not long ; little will suffice ; she signs, and seals, and directs.
Then, as she sits looking at the familiar name, a thought
strikes her ; it is the second time in her life she has written
to Richard Ffrench. She recalls that other letter, ami laughs,
in the new hope and happiness of her heart. Was there
ever such another absurd epistle penned? No wo.kKm- Dot
was amused — poor Dot ! who declared that in the annals of
sentimental literature, it would stand alone. She is well
disposed to forgive Dot to-night for her share in her marriage.
If she were still free to choose, he is the man of all men she
would give herself to. Many men she has met, known, es-
teemed, liked — loved not one excei)t this man whose wife
she is, and him she loves with her whole heart.

Five strikes somewhefe down stairs. She is not sleepy,
but it is best to lie down and rest. So in a few moments
she is amid her pillows, and, very soon, the deep, tranquil

ri wi^M

;*i;

mi$

4«

// CAT /y TiiK xrc/rr.

s1l'c'|) of fust youth and pcifci [ healll\ falls upon her, and she
shnnbcrs (itiietly as a little child.

What was that I She sits up in sudden terror in the dark-
ness. Was it a cry — a cry for help? She listens, her heart
beating fast. Dead silence reigns, deep darkness is every-
where, lias she been dreaming, or was it the shriek (;f a
night bird, the scream of a belated gull ? No second sound
follows, and yet, how like a cry it was, a human cry, of fear,
of pain I

She rises hastily ; she must make sure ; perhaps Tioi —
she dare not finish the sentence. She throws on a dressing-
gown, and hurries to Dora's room. A dim light burns in the
corridor ; she inserts the key softly in the dressing-room door,
enters, approaches the bedroom, and looks in. All is peace.
The gas burns, a tiny star of light ; on the bed Dora lies,
faintly to be discerned, quite still, sleeping deeply.

"Thank Heaven I " Vera breathes, " it was a dream or a
night bird, after all."

aK >K ♦ 3|( « )« H:

I,eft alone Dora Fanshawe drops asleep almost at once —
the spent sleep of utter exhaustion. The loud beat of the
rain on the windows does not break her rest, the heavy
surging of the trees is unheard. She sleeps heavily, dream-
lessly, and then, without sound or cause, suddenly awakes.
And yet there is a sound in the room, a sound faint, indeed,
but terrible, the sound of a man stealthily opening the jewel-
cases. She springs up in bed, and a shriek, wild, piercing,
long, rings through the house.

He turns with an oath, and puts his hand over her mouth.
But Dora is a plucky little woman, and struggles in his grasp
like a tiger-cat.

" D you ! " he says, betwee^^ his clenched teeth, " I'll

shoot you if you don't be still ! "

A crape mask covers his face. With one hand she tears
it off, with the other she grasps the heavy whistters he wears.

r, and she

the (lark-
licr heart

is every-
irick of a
11(1 sound
I, of fciir,

ps Dot^
dressing-

rns in the

3oni door,
is peace.

)oia lies,

roam or a

at once — •
-at of the
he heavy
y, dream-
y awakes,
t, indeed,
;he jevvel-
piercing,

IV mouth,
his grasp

wmmm

A CRY IN THE NIG JIT.

349

Their eyes meet— the light of the gas-jet falls full upon him
— the struggle ceases— for one awful instant she stares up at
him, he down on her. Then with a dull, inarticulate sound
she falls back, still retaining her hold. He tears himself free,
violently, and, with m-c giving her a second glance, thrusts the
last of the jewels into his pockets, unlocks the chamber
door, and (lies. He is out in the pitch darkness of the wilil
wet morning before Vera looks into her sister's roou).

And Dora lies still and sleeps on, but with wide open,
gla/.ing eyes, fixed in some strong horror. .She lies motion-
less, and the open eyes staring blankly at the ceiling tlutter
not, nor close. She has her wish ; she will sleep, and on
this earth that sleep will never be broken. The splendor
and the glory of the world spread at her feet woidd fail to
win one glance of gladness from those sightless eyes. The
mighty problem is solved— of Time and Eternity— the soul
that has tied in the darkness and silence of the night has
looked upon the holy and awful face of Cxod.

The hours wear on ; ins. 'e the sleepers sleep, and quiet
reigns ; outside the wind veers, and drives the storm-clouds
before it ; a few stars palely usher in the dawn. Sounds of
life begin in the house, servants still sleepy and tired drag
themselves down stairs. Scarlet and crimson clouds push
away with rosy hands the blackness, and presently the sun
rises like the smile of God upon the world. But Dora Fan-
shawe rises not, will rise no more until the resurrection day.

;th, "I'll

she tears
he wears.

3S^

IN THE DEAD HAND.

CHAPTER XII.

IN THE DEAD HAND.

I IK first gleam of that jubilant sunshine awakes
Vera, and she gets uj). It is half-i)ast six ; pro-
found (juiet reigns, no one is yet stirring. Her
letter is her Hrst thought, and with. ■ conies a second that
did not present itself last night — nuue of" the men are yet
down, coachman, gardener, stable-boys, butler — how then is
she to send it? A third difficulty presents itself, these men-
servants are all new — Fan^juawe retainers — who know noth-
ing of the Charlton dynast}', or of Captain Dick. The re-
sult is her letter is a faiuire. her penitence too late, it can-
not be sent.

An intolerable sense of annoyance and disappointment
fills her. She has hoped so much only for this. The fault
is all her own. but it is doubtful if that knowledt^e ever made
any failure the easier to bear. It is inevitable, however ;
the letter cannot go.

She has dressed hastily, and stands by the window looking
out over the grounds, intense vexation in her face. No one
is to be seen, none of the usual morning sounds are to be
heard, although far upstairs doors and wintlows begin to be
opened, \\niile she stands an.d looks, a man suddenly ap-
pears, emerging from the summer-house, at sight of who.n
she gives a great and sudden start. P'or, extraordinary to
relate, it is Colonel Ffrench himself. At .first she cannot
believe her eyes, but they are far-sighted .ind seldom deceive
her. It is Colonel Ffrench himself, walking with the long,
military stride she knows so well, carrying himself after his
usual resolute and erect fashion, his nat pulled well over his

mn'

IN THE DEAD HAND.

351

e awakes
six ; pro-
ng. Her
2cond that
;ii arc yet
o\v then is
hese men-
no \v noth-
The re-
ite, it can-

)pointnient
The fault

ever made
however ;

)\v hook in '4

No one

are to be

L^in to be

Jdeiily ap-
of v.ho.a

rdinary to
le cannot
n^ deceive
the long,
f after his
II over his

eyes, going rapidly toward the gates. He docs not once
look back — if he does he must see her — but he does not.
He has not gone then, alter all, he will not catch the early
rain, she will be in time perhaps yet.

Sudden delight takes the i)lace of amaze, to give way to
amaze again. Why is he here ? Where has he been all
night ? Surely not yonder in the rain ? If he stayed in the
summer-house he escaped the storm of course, but why has
he stayed ? He neither fears a night walk nor a wetting.
How cruel she was, how inhos[)itably cruel to let him go as
she did, to turn him from his own house. For his right to
Chailton is better than Dot's, in justice, if not in law, two
tilings by no means synonymous. How keen his pain and
disappointment nuist have been, how bitter his thoughts
tlure in the darkness, and the loneliness, and the pelting
storm, while they danced and feasted witiiin. And he
loves her ! How merciless siie has been, how merciless !
and all the while the whole w'orld is not half so much
to her as he. Her eyes fill with slow, remorseful tears, a
passion of tenderness and regret .swee[)s through her. She
lias thought Dot craz\' last :iight, but never in her wildest
moments has i)oor J^oL been half so insane, half so inconsis-
tent as she.

Tiiat reminds her — she must go to Dot. Colonel Ffrench
cannot leave St. Ann's now before five in the afternoon. A
long day lies before her. Just at [)resent her duty is to her
sister, so she |Hits her own solicitude aside and hastens to
Dora's chamber. On the bed Dora lies motionless, sleeinng
still. Closed shutters and drawn curtains shut out the sun-
sliine, the gas )et flickers feebl}', and, to her surprise. Vera
sees that the bedroom door is ajar. It was locketl on tlie
inside when she (juitted ti j room at iialf-i)ast four this mom
ing. She >.ees something else — the empty antl rilled jewel-
cases. One lies on the tloor, two others on the table, but
all empty and despoiled. And now, in great and sudd.-n

35:

IN THE DEAD HAND.

1 I'll,

■11

tenor, she looks again at the bed. Dora is there — yes — but
oh! what is this? The rigid face, the upturned, staring,
sightless, glazed eyes, the fallen jaw, the ice-cold hands. For
a moment, two, throe, four, she stands paralyzed, stricken
dumb ; then a sliriek [)ierces the air, goes through the house,
another and another, until in five seconds as it seems, the
room is filled with frightened, half-dressed people. Guests
and servants tlock in terror.

" Oh ! what is it ! " is the cry on every side. What they
see is Mrs. Fanshawe lying dead on her bed, and her sister
kneeling beside her, clasping her hands, frantic, beside her-
self with fright and grief.

" Dot, speak to me ! Dot, look at me ! Dot, my sister, it
is Vera! Do you not hear? Oh ! great Heaven I no, she
does not hear. She will never hear ! She is dead I She is
murdered ! "

She throws herself upon her, she gathers her in her arms,
wild with the shock, the horror of her loss. " She is nuir-
dered, she is nuirdered ! " she cries again and again in that
piercing voice, and at the dreadful word all recoil.

" Murdered ! " pale lips echo, and terrified eyes meet in
dismay. One man approaches and touches Vera gently on
the shoidder.

"Miss Martinez, my dear Miss Martinez, be calm. Let
me see your sister ; I am a medical man, you know. She
may not be dead, it may only be a fainting fit. Do let me
look at her ; lay her down. My dear Miss Vera, listen
to me."

She looks up at him — a look ^ agony that haunts him for
many a day, a look of unutteiable horror and fear.

*' She is dead," she says in a whisper, " she is dead.
While we all slept she ^as l>een Fobbed and murdered ! "
rhe light leaves hwr eyes ««4i the last word, her arms relax
their hold. Dr. Vanderhoff catches her as she falls.

"Thank Heaven ! she has fainted. Here, take her away.

— }'es — but
id, staring,
ands. For

d, stricken
1 the house,
seems, the

e. Guests

What they
1 her sister
beside her-

ny sister, it
in ! no, she
id ! She is

1 her aril IS,
5he is nuir-
;ain in that
il.

;s rncet in
gently on

;ahn. Let

now. She

Do let me

era, listen

nts him for

is dead,
urdered ! "
arms relax

her away.

/iV 77/E DEAD HAND.

353

Get out of the room all of you ; let us see if anything is to
be done."

Somebody carries Vera away, one or two weeping women
follow. Restoratives are sent for, but she lies for many
minutes as death-like as Dora herself. P'or Dora — Dr. Van-
derhoff stands high in his profession, but the whole college
of surgeons would be unavailing here. Mis tirst glance has
told him as much, but he is bound to do all he can. A few
of the frightened guests remain in the room, the shutters are
flung wide, the glorious golden sunlight floods the room,
floods the G2ad face, the tixed, wide-open eyes ; a grisly
siiiht to see.

" Oh ! doctor, is it true ? is she dead ? " one lady asks,
with a sob.

" She is quite dead, madam, stone dead, and has been for
hours. vShe is already cold. It is heart disease."

He rises from his hopeless task, and tries to close the lids
over those stony eyeballs that only a few hours ago, so aw-
fully few, flashed with life and joy.

"It was only a quv-jtion of time," Dr. Vanderhoff says,
quietly. He is her guest and old fiiend, but he is also a
])hysici:in of many yeirrs' standing, and all the professional
phlegm is in his face and tone. *' I have known for the
last three years that one day it would come to this. A
shock might have done it at any moment. Poor little
woman ! "

He stands looking at her, a touch of pity mingling with
the i>rofessional composure of his face. The eyes will not
close, they still strain upward, and on the white dead face
is frozen a last look of unutterable fear.

" What did Miss Martinez mean by murder ? " somebody
asks. Dr. Vanderhoff shrugs his shoulders,

" A woman's first natural thought in a case like this.
They were very much attached to each other, unusually at-
tached. It will be a sad blow to her."

^^^*pi

\- i

■ ■ 1

ill

Nil

ii 1

mtvR, ;

HW,

ri :

■

kI'V

i't

P'^

111

ilMi

[Mil

■

"<.-

354

LV '/■///■ DEAD lIAiVD.

" She spoke of robhcry, too," says another ; " and look
lieie — l(;ok at these t-nipty jewel-caskets. Can it hu "

" And look at ihe awful expressic^n of her face," exclaims
a third ; " as if her last look in life had been one of dread-
ful fright or iKiin. Perha[)s robbery and — and murder have
been done after all."

" Not murder," says Dr. VanderhofT, incisively. " Mrs.
Fanshawe has died of heart disease. Robbery there may
possibly have been — not murder."

Strangely enough no one s|)eaks of her husband, or seems
to think of him in this ai>i)alling hoiu". Tiie infelicity of the
Fansliawes is well known, the notorious neglect of the hus-
band has become an accepted fact. Silence falls on all, and
in that silence. Vera, with two or three ladies, re-enters the
room. All make way ; her face is white to deathliness,
her eyes all wild and black. She comes forward as if she
saw no one, and kneels beside the bed. So kneeling, with-
out a word, she looks on the face of the dead.

" My dear Miss Vera," says Dr. Vanderhoff. There is
feeling in his voice: this is outside the profession. "My

dear Miss Vera '' and here he stops and ta[)s his gold

eye-glass against his palm. It is not so easy to find words
for the shock of a sorrow like this.

She does not weep, she is strangely, stonily still ; she
looks up at him, and her voice when she speaks, though
hoarse and hurried, has no trace of hysterics or tears.

'• She has been robl)ed," she says, and points to the
empty jewel-cases, "and murdered while we all slept."

" Not murdered, my clear child ; do not think anything so
dreadful. Your pocjr sister has gone, as I knew she one da\-
must go, of heart-disease. It is a shock, but it should not
be a sur|)rise. She was liable at any time. lier death was
instantaneous and free from i)ain."

" Slie has been murdered," Vera repeats ; "it is the same
thing. She was robbed, and the terror of seeing the robber

I Uli

and look

he "

exclaims

of dread-

irder have

Mrs.
;here may

, or seems
:ity of the
if the hus-
)n all, and
enters the
eathliness,
I as if fche
ding, with-

There is

m. " My

s his gold

ihnd words

still ; she
;s, tiiough
.rs.

Its to the
Icpt.

livthing so
le one day

lould not
Ideath was

the same
he robber

/.V 77/A' DEAD J/.LVD. 355

killed her. If he had sliot her he could not hav.. si, in ht-r
more surel)'."

" My dear young lad}' "

''There are the em|)ty cases," she cries, passionately;
"they were filled this nv^rning when I left her. They were
worth over ten thousand dollars. And look here, lock at
this/'

For the first time she sees the crape, crushed into a ball
in her sister's hand, (lently she disengages it, quivering
through all her frame as she feels the icy toucli. She holds
it up.

" Look ! " she says, in a stifled voice. He takes it in si-
lence. It seems a clear case, there has been a struggle,
and she has torn this from the face of the robber. It is a
mask, with holes for the eyes and niouth.

" The other liand is closed too," says Dr. Vanderhoff,
in a subdued tone.

She takes it. " Oh ! my little Dot ! my little Dot ! " she
says, and breaks down. It is but for an instant; she lifts
her [tallid face and slowly and with ditficulty separates the
stiftvjned fingers. " Oh ! look ! look ! " she cries out, " sae
this. Oh ! my little love ! my little love ! "

It is a sight that sends a thrill through every heart ; a
sight th.it shows while they all slept poor little Dora has
fought for her life. And yet it is only a little tuft of hair,
torn from the head or beard of the burglar.

"Let me secure this," says Dr. Vandeihoff; "it may be
necessary."

Vera shrinks back and covers her face, trembling all over.
Oh ! Dora ! Dora ! Oh ! the agony that must have been
hers in that ghastly struggle, face to face with death — that
dark death she fearixl so much. And slie, the sister who
loved her, slept through it ai'. There flashes upon her the
memory of that cry in the niglit. Dora's death-cry. W'lule
she stood in yonder doorway, while she fancied she slept,

T^W

356

IN' THE DEAD HAND.

\ I

"U\

\ i:

Dora was already dying or dead. vShe breaks out into wild
weeping, frantic hysterical weeping, all unlike Vera. Oh !
my sister ! my sister ! my sister ! " is her cry.

And meantime Dr. Vanderhoff has carefully gathered up
every hair from the palm of the dead hand. The small, pale
lingers have clenched over tliem, as if even in death unwil-
ling to let them go. He puts u[) his glass to inspect his
pri^e ; the last doubt is removed. Violence has been here,
robbery has been done, the shock has caused death. Tiie
others crowd about him and look with intense, morbid in-
terest. The liair is short, some of the longest perhaps three
inches, and pale-brown or chestnut in color.

"Torn from a man's beard," says the doctor, "not his
head. There is a marked difference in the texture. Poor
little woman ! "

And now the shock is over, and people come back to the
inevitable "What next?" What next is to inform the
authorities ; notify the coroner. There must be an inquest,
he supposes, Dr. Vanderhoff suggests, with a deprecating
shrug and pijying look at Vera. And they must get on the
track of the burglar ] he is half way back to New York by this
time, no doubt. It seems clear enough to his mind. It is
not the work of a local thief; some tramp has given informa-
tion to the skilled city fraternity of the jimmy and skeleton-
key, and one or more have lain in waiting for these valuable
jewels. How rash not to have had the constabulary on guard,
or so much as a safe in the house. Bat it is so like a lady.

"Poor little thing," says the physician, for the third time.
'•' I never saw her look so pretty, or seem in such high
spirits as last night. Those unlucky diamonds, too ; I
remember being struck by them at the time. That fellow, her
husband," says Dr. Vanderhoff, lowering his tone, " what
about him ? Where is he ? He ought to be apprised, I sup-
pose. Not that it matters much ; a worthless vagabond. Who
knows his address ? "

«n

)ut into wild
Vera. Oh !

gathered up
e small, pale
Jeath unwil-
inspect his
> been here,
death. The
, morbid in-
)erhaps three

or, ** not his
ttiire. Poor

■ back to the
inform the
t an inquest,
deprecating
it get on the
York by this
mind. It is
ven informa-
nd skeleton-
ese valuable
iry on guard,
Ice a lady.
e third time.
1 such high
nds, too ; I
t fellow, her
)ne, " what
rised, I sup-
bond. Who

IN THE DEAD HAND.

357

No one knows it. Miss Martinc/. very likely may, but no
ones feels like asking her just at present.

*' In his absence, as the oldest man, a friend of the fam-
ily, and poor Afrs. Fanshawe's medical adviser, 1 shall take
it upon myself to direct proceedings for the present. Here,
my man, do you go to the village and send Mrs. Fanshawe's
attorney here ; lose no time. Lodge information of this sad
affair with your leading local magistrate. For you, my dear
ladies, I think it will be best to clear the room ; the women-
servants will wish to prepare our poor friend, etcetera. And
do take away this poor child, if you can."

But they cannot ; no one can remove Vera, and they go
and leave her. It is nine o'clock now, and the guests dis-
perse to talk over, in excited whisi)ers, what has been done
and what is to be done. The first thing is, that by the train
to-morrow they must depart. Charlton Place from a house
of feasting has become a house of death and mourning ; they
must leave it. They can do nothing here, and poor Miss
Martinez will prefer to be alone. Ah ! what a blow for her.
But no doubt Mrs. Fanshawe has made her will and pro-
vided for her well, left her everything very likely, and cut
off her profligate husband with a shilling. It will serve him
right, the wretch, cry the ladies who were hardest on Dora
last night. He is in New York, no doubt, the close friend
still of thai horrid Lalage.

The day passes, many people come and go ; the news
rings through the town like wild-fire. St. Ann's is a place
where literally nothing happens. Since trade, and whalers,
and Portuguese seamen became things of the i)ast, no violent
death has ever been heard of within a radius of thirty
miles. People grow up, many, and live happily forever
after. A burial is a rarity, a wediling a marvel, a birth a
a thing to be discussed, in all its bearings, for a fortnight. A

^^^f^irm

358

/X THE DEAD HAND.

\ .i

murder is unprecedented. All the circumstances tend to
lend romantic interest and gloom to this tragedy. The bril-
liant birthday 1)all, the awful ending.

The authorities cannot believe their responsible ears ; the
coroner — peo[)le have almost forgotten that potentate exists
— stands aghast. lie awakes to I'uul sudden and unwelcome
greatness thrust upon him.

People come with stealthy steps into tlie darkened room
where the pale little lady of Charlton lies, and look wiiii
bated breath into the rigid face and staring eyes that no hand
is strong enough to close, at the silent black figure sitting
motionless beside it, and steal unconsciously away. Vera
sees none of them, she sits there in stupor, her hands locked
together, her eyes on the face of her sister. She " cannot
wake her dead ; " it is not her Hot that lies here, it is some
white, nuite thing, some pale,dreailful image, that fascinates
her, and that she cannot leave. Absolutely her mind seems
to wander sometimes. It is not Dot, this ghastly face and
rigid form. Dora dead ! — Dora, who was the gayest where
all was gay only a few hours ago ; whom she undressed and
kissed good-night such a little time back ; whose sleepy
words still sound in her ears. Why, no, it is not Dot ! Dot
dead I How strangely that sountls ! She puts her hand to
her liead in a dazed sort of way ; her thoughts seem all dis-
connected, everything about her unreal. People touch her,
speak to her ; she never knows who, nor what they say.
Some one — Harriet — presses her to eat, and she looks at
her m dismay. Eat ! and this white, solemn wonder lying
here ! — this face of stone that they say is Dot ! Sometimes
slie turns two dull, half-sightless eyes across to where the
gloomy picture hangs, and at last a resentful feeling — 'the
first feeling of any kind she is conscious of in her numbness
— rises within her. // has IkuI something to do with this
dreadful thing that has fallen u[)on her. " Take it away ! "
she sa\s, angrily, to Harriet, who hovers about her constantly.

*li,.

,T .»i\ » '.VMM

IN THE DEAD HAXD.

ices tend to
y. The bril-

ble ears ; the
entato exists
d unwelcome

rkened room
id look with
that no hand
figure sitting
iway. Vera
lands locked
She " cannot
■e, it is some
lat fascinates
■ mind seems
tly face and
jayest where
idressed and
diose sleepy
•t Dot ! Dot
her hand to
ieem all (lis-
le touch her,
lat they say.
she looks at
vonder lying
Sometinies
) where the
feeling — •the
er numbness
do with this
; it away ! ''
r constantly.

I hate it !— so did she ! It frightened hor last ni-Iit. T ike
It away I " °

Without a word, Harriet removes the picture, and tiie
dreary ga/e goes back to the dead.

"If she would only cry a spdl ! " said Harriet, crvin-
copiously herself, "'twould do her a sight o' good. I't's a
drefful thing to see her a ...ain' like that. 1 declare it skcers
me, and I ain't of the easy skeert kind nulher."

Karly in the aflernooii a visitor comes, whom Harriet re-
ceives with distinction. After a moment's whispered collo-
quy, she g(;cs up to the dark room with a glimmer of new
hope. ''\{ any one can perk I,cr up, 'twill be him. She
allers set a Mght o' store by Captain Dick," she thinks.

She bends above her wuh wonderful gentleness for grim
old Harriet.

"Miss Vera, honey, here's Captain Dick, your own Cap-
tain Dick, deary, and he wants to see you. Won't you coiue
down to him just a minute?"

Wra looks up, with a certain angry impatience that is
singularly unlike her. Even this name is powerless to move
her.

" I want to stay here. Do let me alone. So many peo-
ple come ! I wish they would not. Why can't 1 be quiet ?
Go away, Harriet ! "

" But, lovey. Captain Dick "

" Oh ! what does he want ? I thought he was gone. T
can't go. 1 don't want to talk. Do leave me alone— do-
do ! "

It IS of no use ; nothing can arouse her, and Harriet goes.
Colonel Ffrench listens, profound trouble and anxiety on his
face.

"Poor child!" he says. " xVo wonder she is stunned. I
shall reuKim, Harriet, until the end. Do what you can for
her — poor child, poor child ! "

Night closes over the gloomy house, wears away, and a sec-

SCio

IN THE DEAD I/AND.

Olid inorniiig tlawns. There is little change in Vera. They
cannot force her away, but she has fallen heavily and exhau^t-
cdly asleep at her post, and Dr. Vanderhoff lifts her and lays
her on her bed. The guests go, glad to be gone. An ofticer
or two are down from the city, and search has begun for the
burglar. As yet little trace has been found. In the soft
gravel and clay footprints have been discovered, but so
many have come and gone that that amounts to lutle. A
man has spent the night in the summer-house, for the stable-
boy, looking out about seven o'clock, from his attic winc'ow,
saw him hastily de[)art. But burglars do not, a, a rule, for
fear of a wet jacket, take shelter in the grounds of the place
they have robbed. Still a note is made of it, the summer-
house searched, and nothing found. The inciuest is to be
on the third day ; something will come to light then. The
robbery and the death, alone, are talked of everywhere. Who
is to inherit Mrs. Kanshawe's fortune ?

And then it leaks out — no one knows how — that the late
Mr. Charlton's step-son, Richard Kfrench, is sole heir. Some
one has seen him, and tells some one else. Richaid Ffrench
is here, and for the first time in six years. What is he doing
here ? No one knows. Is he — was he — -a. friend of Mrs.
Fanshawe ? Not likely, or he would have been at the
house. But he was at the house, late last night, though he
was not at the ball. How this last fact gets wind it is im-
possible to say — you might as well hope to wring secrets
from the tomb as from Harriet, but get wind it does. Tiu
very birds of the air seem to carry news to-day. He was at
the house last night in secret and uninvited. He and Mrs.
Fanshawe were not good friends. He is the heir — sole heir,
the only cue to profit by her death ! Men look at one
another. Men stare at him in the street as he passes by.
Silence falls on talkative groups when he appears. Suspicion
— that most awful thing that can look out of human eyes —
suspicion looks at him out of all the eyes he meets. In

IN THE DEAD HAND.

361

ra. They

k1 exhau^t-
jr and lays
An officer
run for tlio
\w the soft
icl, but so
little. A
the stable-
:ic window,
, a rule, for
)f the place
ic sunniier-
ist is to be
then. The
/here. Who

ihat the late
lieir. Some
lard Ffrench
is he doing
|nd of Mrs.
leen at the
, though he
ul it is im-
Iring secrets
Idoes. The
He was at
le and Mrs.
|- — sole heir,
)ok at one
passes by.
Suspicion
[man eyes —
meets. In

what manner the truth comes to him it is difl'icult to tell, but
it does come in a slow, creeping amaze and shoe k, that turns
him cold. It is not the shock of pli)si{:al fear — that he has
never known ; it is something ipiite different anil unspeaka-
bly more terrible. It takes to itself wings, the breeze carries
it, the birds sing it — it i)enetrates every corner of St. Ann's.
And on the evening of this second day it reaches Charlton
I'lace and is breathed in the ear of Harriet Hart. Who the
audacious tale-bearer may be is unknown — Haniet's glance
of wrathful scorn must have annihilated him forever. Hut
she sets her thin lii)s and marches straight to Vera. She
must know this.

The dark, hopeless eyes look up at her pathetic illy. If
only for one hour they would leave her alone !

"Miss Vera," says Harriet, resolutely, "you must rouse
yourself and listen to me. It is time. Captain Ffrench is
here, and "

" Again ! " Vera breaks in with a tired sort of cry. " Oh !
I cannot see him ! Why do you torment me ? I thought
he had gone."

" He is not gone — he is not going — he will not be let go,
mebbe, if he wants to. Are you so took up with the dead
that you have no feelin' left for the livin' ? I tell you a hor-
rid thing is goin' about, and you've got to hear it if you
should take on ever so. The man's your husband when
all's said and done, and a live husband is more'n a dead sis-
ter, I reckon, any day. Captain Dick is here, and — look ac
me, Miss Vera — listen to me — the folks is a sayin' as he is
the thief that broke in and stole Miss Fanshawe's dia-
monds ! "

^ fl

i '

t;i

;'?is i

jii

3<52

/iV rZ/y^ /^z/A-A' //(^d/A*.

chaptf:r XIII.

IN THK DARK HOUR.

r is the third day, and the in(|uest is about to begin.
Very many people are present — it is rumored that
Miss Marline/, is to testify, and that the suspected
iiKin will be there. It is rumored, too, that Colonel Ffrench
and Miss Martinez are more to each other than the world
knows, and that it was to see /lerhc visited Charlton on the
nigiit of the robbery. The interest in the tragedy deepens
with every hour. The military rank and romantic history of
the dashing soUlier of fortune intensify it ; the runior that he
is positively the husband of Miss Martinez, and has been so
for u)any years, adds a zest beyond belief. It will be curious
to see them together — to hear her testify against him, it may
be. She is hardly likely to spare a husband she will not live
with, where a sister, beloved beyond the love of sisters, is
concerned. Mr. Dane Fanshawe has not yet been notified
of his bereavement. Vera does not know his address, it ap-
pears, and fires up with sudden passion at the bare mention
of his name.

"It is his fault !" she cries out, vehemently — "it is his
doing ! If he had been here, it would never have happened 1 "
More than this she declines to say. ** I hate him I " she
breaks forth, when the question is pressed — " I never want
to see his face or hear his name ! I would not tell you if I
knew!"

So Mr. Fanshawe is still absent, and people are a little
shocked at Miss Martinez's vehemence. It is all the more
striking as her general manner is all that there is of high-bred
repose. Still she is perhaps excusable, poor thing ; she has

t to begin,
nored that

suspected
lel Ffrencli

the world
on on the
:ly deepens
; history of
nor that he
as been so

be curious
him, it may
vill not live
sisters, is
;en nolifieil

ress, it ap-

•e mention

" it is his
appened ! "
lim ! " she
never want
ell you if I

ire a little
the more

if high-bred
; she has

IN THE DAKK- HOUR.

3^'3

lost everything, and, apart from that, she really loved her
sister very dearly. They stood (iuite alone in the world, and
poor Mrs. l-'anshawe has been as a mother to her. What a
singular will that of old Mr. Charlton is ! Still, considering
how infiituated he was about Dora, and how very fond of
Dick in those days, natural. And Dick I'french inherits
everything ! Humph ! say the gossips, and look at him cu-
riously — it is hoped he will clearly account for every hour of
that fatal night, from the time he [larted with Miss Martinez
until after the discovery in Mrs. Fanshawe's room.

The jury and coroner take their places, looking uncom-
fortable ; they are rustic gentlemen, and the coroner has
known and liked Dick I'french ever since he first came to
Charlton. The ofticers of the detective force, and the local
constabulary, are also i)resent. The crowd is great, it fills
the long ballroom where the incpicst is held. Every onr .-.uires
about curiously. It was in this room she danced aw i\ die
last hours of her life. The serious nnnded shudder ; tli ii was
a dance of death indeed, a dreadful way to go down to the
grave — one's last act a crazy cotillion. IJut up stairs, in her
costly, silver-mounted, satin-lined casket, Dora lies, with
face of marble and frozen eyes, and hears nor heeds not.
And into the long, thronged apartment Miss Martinez comes
presently and there is a flutter, a hush-h-h ! from all, and
every eye turns ui)on her.

How white she is in her long, straight, black dress, with its
great folds of crape ; how tall, how solemn. She has grown
thin, and her big black eyes look unnaturally large and weird.

She goes straight to where Colonel Ffrench sits, and holds
out her hand.

" I am glad you are here," she says, steadily. " It is kind
of you to stay."

A dark flush mounts to his forehead — he rises and takes
in both his, the hand she extends, and does not quickly let
it go.

i.illl

364

IN THE DARK HOUR.

Greedily the crowd strain eyes to see, and ears to listen.
They are friends then, these two, after all. But Richard
Ffrench understands — she has heard the truth, the suspicions
afloat have reached her. This is her vindication. It is fhe
same true, brave instinct that sent her to his side that morn-
ing at Shaddeck Light, with her head thrown back, her eyes
flashing, and her defiant "Captain Dick is not to blame ! "

God bless her ! she is the same dear little Vera after
all!

Miss Martinez is giving her testimony with wonderful clear-
ness and conciseness, considering the effort it cost her to be
here at all. Harriet's words have roused her, thoroughly
and effectually ; she will relapse into stupor no more. To
suspect Richard Ffrench of so ignoble a crime ! of so dastardly
a deed ! Richard Ffrench, brave as his namesake of old,
without fear and without reproach, to steal in, and rob a
woman ! How dare they ! Her splcnd'.;^ eyes blaze on
these people — if looks were lightning it would go ill with
some of the St. Ann's gossips. wShe tells her story without
breaking down once, and is allowed to depart. On her way
uut she turns to Colonel Ffrench again.

" Come back this evening," she says, "it is so lonely;"
her lip (piivers. " Come and share my watch — my last."

" 1 will come," he answers, more moved than he dare
show, and he clasps her hand once more a moment, and sees
her go.

Dr. Vanderhoff gives his testimony — he is positive no
violence has been used. Mrs. Fanshawe died of heart-
disease. The shock of seeing the robber, and struggling
with him, as she evidently did, was the immediate cause,
but by any act of violence on his part — no. The hair and
crape are produced ; they go to prove that the thief was
masked, and wore whiskers, either real or false. All eyes
at this point, turn instinctively to the Cuban colonel, sitting
with folded arms, and coldly resolute face. He wears no

*i-Jc

mmmm

IN THE DARK HOUR.

365

s to listen,
^ut Richard
e suspicions
. It is Hie
: that morn-
:k, her eyes
I blame ! "
Vera after

iderful clear-
[)st her to be
•, thoroughly
I more. To
: so dastardly
isake of old,
n, and rob a
^es blaze on
d go ill with
ptory without
On her way

so lonely ; "
•my last."
lan he dare
lent, and sees

positive no
ed of heart-
id struggling
:diate cause,
The hair and
le thief was
e. All eyes
lonel, sitting
'e wears no

whiskers ok beard, a heavy, dark mustache alone shades his
mouth, but does not conceal its fine, determined contour,
nor the shai:)ely, well iounded, obsiinate chin. A man
whose reputation is not lightly to be tnrlcd with ; a man not
to be too (piickly or easily accused; a man who knows h(nv
to defend his own honor and g('X)d name, or that mouth aiul
chin, those dark, detenniued eyes, belie him.

Dr. Vanderhoff goes, and the servants are examined.
Have any of them seen tran.^ps or suspicious characters lurk-
ing about lately ? And then A comes out that the stable-boy
has. Johnny, the stable-boy, appears, looking frightened
and irresolute. He stanni*r;rs a great deal, and what he has
to say is not easily got at. ''/ot at, however, it amounts to
this — at seven on the morning of the death, he saw a man
coming out of the summer-house in the grounds, and hurry-
ing away toward the gates. Did he know the man ? No,
Johnny does not know him, but — more frightened than be-
fore — he breaks off, and looks askance at Colonel Ffrench.

"'Twas ////// /" Jtihnny says, with a burst.

Then there is a thrill, and a hard-drawn breath, and a sen-
sation through the crowd, if you like ! And in the midst of
it Colonel Ffrench rises, as calm as he is wont to be when
he leads his men to the hottes^ of the fight, but perhaps a
trifle more pale.

"The lad is ([uite right," he says, "it was I he saw. I
left the suuimer-house about seven on that morning."

"You are not obliged. Colonel French " begins the

coroner, nervously, but Colonel Ffrench goes cjuietly on :

" 1 had been here about ten the i)receding night. Pri-
vate business, concerning only myself and Miss Martinez,
brought me. It was not necessary to disturb Mrs. Vxw-
shawe by my presence, so I did not see her. I remained
conversing with Miss Martinez over iuUf an hour. Tlien [
left. It was raining heavily, and blov/mg a gale. 1 did not
care about facing the two-mile walk to St. Ann's in the teeth

■^■^^

r s! '

366

IN THE DARK HOUR.

of the storm, and knowing the place well, I went to the
summer-house. 1 sat there for some hours, but the storm
did not abate, and finally I fell asleep. I left as soon as I
woke, about seven, and so missed the first train to New
York, which I had intended to take."

There is silence — extremely awkward silence. Dr. Hun-
ter, the coroner, has never felt so embarrassed and non-
plussed in his life. It has an ugly look — a devilishly ugly look,
he thinks, for the colonel. What the dense made him stay in the
summer-house ? Confound the summer-house, and confound
Johnny's prying eyes. He gives that youngster a savage
glance that makes him quake. There is not much more to
be done. The whole thing is hasty and informal, the jury
feel as uncomfortable as the coroner, and about noon a ver-
dict in " accordance with the facts" is returned. Mrs. Fan-
sliawe has died of heart-disease, induced by the shock of the
robbery committed by some i)erson or persons unknown.

The detectives down from New York look at one another
and grin. Men exchange looks, and shrug their shoulders,
coroner and jury look unspeakably relieved, and de[)art with
stolid faces. They have done their duty — now let the de-
tectives find out the robber if they can. Tlie throng dis-
perses, and Colonel Ffrench follows, amazingly erect and
upright, cool and unflinching for a suspected criminal.

That evening brings Mr. Dane Fanshawe, pale, breathless,
horror-stricken. Vera looks at him in honest surprise, as
she sees the grief, the real regret in his face, and softens to
him ever so little.

After all, perhaps, some men cannot help being half fool,
half knave — it seems born with them — and he has reason to
be sorry, for he has killed the goose that laid the golden
eggs. Vera cannot refrain from telling him so.

" All that will not bring her back," she says, with a touch
of scorn ; " if you had been here, it need never have hap-
pened. 1 say it is your doing as much as the burglars' ! "

IN THE DARK HOUR.

367

'ent to the
t the storm
3 soon as I
in to New

Dr. Hiin-
d and non-
y ugly look,
11 stay in the
id confound
r a savage
icli more to
al, the jiny
noon a ver-

Mrs. Fan-
hock of the
iknown.
3ne another
r shoulders,
depart with

let the de-
throng dis-

erect and

inal.

breathless,

surprise, as
softens to

g half fool,
s reason to
the golden

ith a touch
• have hap-
■glars' ! "

" But, good Heaven ! Vera, how could I tell ? " Me is
so pale, so piteous, so tremulous, as he says it, that she re-
lents. " I did not think — how could any one ever think it
would come to this ? "

" She showed me your telegram ! " Vera exclaiins, her
eyes flashing. '* From first to last, Dane Fanshawe, you
have acted toward her like a brute, and — oh, my poor lit'.le
Dot, she was fond of you ! "

He lays his face on the mantel with a groan. He is
actually crying, the weak, poor creature ; but it is more
than Vera, than any one would have given him credit
for.

" I would give my life, so hear me Heaven," he says, " to
bring her back ! "

Perhajis at the moment he means it. She sighs drearily,
and lays her tired head down upon the casket.

"Bring her back !" she repeats, with a sob ; "bring her
back ! Oh, Dora ! my dear, my dear ! "

She has not wei)t much, but some subtle chord is touched
every now and then, and a rain of tears follows. She cries
now silently and long. ** My dear little love ! my dear little
love ! " she repeats over and over. Never once has one
unkind or harsh word fallen from Dora's lips to her. Dora
has loved her, cared for her, made sacrifices for her, and in
Dora's dying hour, in her desperate death struggle, she was
not there to save or help.

Richard Ffrench comes, and she lifts two sLreaniing eyes
for one moment in appeal to his face. " You are all 1 have,
do not leave me ! " that glance says, if he could but read it.
He takes his place near her in silence, but a silence that is
full of sympathy, and that sootlies her. It is good to have
hiiii here, it is a comfort, a protection, something to cling to
in her great and sudden shipwreck.

The funeral is to be next day, and the concourse will
be unprecedented. The whole country side means to liuii

Illfi

'< !

■J

368

IN THE DARK HOUR.

out in sombre force. Friends come down from the city — no
such funeral has ever taken place in St. Ann's. Many per-
sons i)ass in and out in the room of death ; Vera is there
constantly, worn and wan to a degree. Once, as she sits at
her dreary and solitary post, a small, common-looking man
comes up to her, and makes an awkward bow.

*' Ask pardon, miss," he says, in an apologetic, guarded
undertone. "I'm Daggit."

Vera stares blankly.

" Daggit, miss," repeats the small man, in a whisper, " of
the detective force — private. Empl yed by your sister —
party lately deceased. Down here on my own hook, in this
un[)lcas;.nt business. Would you mind telling me, miss, who
that nice-looking, lady-like young gentleman is?"

lie points straight at Dane Fanshawe.

" Him, miss, with the wipe — ask pardon, the handkerchief
up to his face. He's the husband, ain't he, miss ?"

*' Yes," she says, mechanically; " it is ATr. Fanshawe."

Mr. Daggit's light eyes seem to bore two holes through
^fr. Fanshawe's anatomy on the spot.

" 'I'hanky, miss. Yes, 1 knovved it was. Not on good
terms, was they, miss — him and the deceased party ? S|)eak
up, miss, if you please. Fve tackled this job on my own
hook, and mean to see daylight."

" No, not on good terms," answers Vera, still half bewil-
dered as to his drift.

" Hard ap, wasn't he, miss ? Running after a ])lay-actor
— ask pardon for naming her. They're expensive, that lot — •
uncommon! Deceased party — ask pardon, lady wouldn't
pay his debts ? Hem-m ! "

Mr. iXiggit bores another hole through Mr. Fanshawe, and
passes his liand nuisingly over his mouth.

'• Was in Philadelphia at the time, wasn't he?"

" i\\ rhiladelphia."

*' Only saw it in the Herald by chance — rum start that, for

/N THE DARK HOUR.

369

e city — no
Many per-
■a is tht;re
she sits at
(king man

:;, guarded

Isper, " of

ir sister —

ok, in this

miss, who

ndkerchief

ihawe."
;s through

on good
? Si)eak
1 my own

alf bewil-

)lay-actor
hat lot —
wouldn't

lawe, and

that, for

a man ! The coroner's got the hair ? " he says, so abrup'.ly
that Vera stares at him once more.

"Yes," she says, wonderingly.

The light eyes are on Mr. Dane Fanshawe's Dundreary
whiskers, as if counting every separate hair.

" Hum-m ! " he muses again. " And that tall gent, with
the broad shoulders, and his head up, is he heir ? — him as
they — ask pardon, miss — him as they suspect ? "

*' I don't know what you mean," Vera says, shrinking from
him in sudden terror, " I don't know who you are."

**Ask pardon, miss, for troubling you. Won't ask any
more questions. I'm Daggit, miss, as your sister employed
to look up that i)recious husband of hers, and that singing
hussy — ask pardon. And I /niTe looked him u[), and I moLUi
to keep on looking him up, and see daylight if I'm shot for
it ! "

That is the last of Mr. Daggit. Vera sees him no more,
and forgets him in a moment. For the metallic case incloses
the rosewood casket — she i-^ taking her last look at tiie dcail
face, her last kiss of the dead lips, the last farewell of the
sister she loves. This side of eternity they will meet no
more.

" Oh, my love ! my love ! " she cries out wildly, struck
witli sudtlen horror and panic. Some one comes at that
frightened, helpless cry, and puts his arms about her before
them all, and holds her.

" Vera, my own love," says a voice she knows well.
''Vera, my dear, my dear!" And '^he clings to him and
hides her face on his shoulder, quivermg all over, while the
case is screwed down, and the dead woman taken away. In
these sublimated moments we forget ourselves and the world
outside of us, but never for long. He lets her go, consigning
her to the care of Harriet, who looks on, tearful hut approv-
ing, and goes with the rest. And Mns. Grundy does not say
much — consid'-ring she has known him so long, and been
16*

HIi

370

IN THE DARi^ HOUR.

always attached to him, and the occasion and everything.
And he is a splendid fellow ! the ladies declare in an irrele-
vant burst. On the whole, some of them would not mind it
themselves.

They lay Theodora Lightwood Fanshawe in the Charlton
vault, where John and Robert Charlton already lie, and go
and leave her. She is dead and buried. The interest
centres in Colonel Ffrench now. Things look badly for
him — very badly. Murmurs are rising, swelling, growing
louder. He is the heir, the only one to benefit by her death,
he was there that night, no one knows why ; he s])ent it in
the grounds, by his own showing. He and Mrs. Fanshawe
were not good friends — it looks badly. If he was a poor man
he would not be let off scot-free in this way ; he would not
be at large with a cloud of robbery and sudden death upon
him. The rumor grows and ^;,rows, louder and more threat-
ening, and reaches Charlton. It reaches Harriet, and Har-
riet carries it to Vera. The end will be that Colonel Ffrench,
before a week, will lie in prison.

'l\vc days have passed since the funeral ; it is the after-
noon of the third. Colonel Ffrench sits in his room alone,
at the St. Anns llotel. No public demonstration has yet
been made, but no one sees the gathering storm more
clearly than he. He is strongly susi)ected, he cannot clear
himself; before another day a warrant may be out for his
arrest; he may be lodged in the town jail. The first shock
is over, and he has braced himself to face his fate, to meet
the blow. What must be, must be — he is a fatalist, more or
less — if it is written, it is written. Of course, he vvill do
what he can, but the prosi)ect looks gloomy. He must resign
his commission, inform his friends, put his affairs in order,
leave Charlton Place in the care of the lawyers and of Vera,
and fight for what is dearer to him than life — his honor.
Will Vera believe him guilty ? That thought is the hardest
to bear of all.

IN THE DARK HOUR.

371

iverything.

an irrele-

lot mind it

; Charlton
ie, and go
le interest

badly for
5, growing
her death,
spent it in

Fanshawe
, poor man
would not
eath upon
ore threat-
, and H ar-
il Ffrench,

the after-

om alone,

1 has yet

)rm more

inot clear

ut for his

rst shock

, to meet

more or

will do

ust resign

in order,

of Vera,

is honor.

e hardest

It is a gusty, overcast evening, almost the last of the
month. A fire burns in the grate, the last yellow glimmer
of the frosty fall sunshine steals in and lights his writing-table.
He is busily writing letters, making the most of the dying
daylight, when there is a tap at the door.

" Come in," he says, without looking up.

Some one comes in, and stands silent, some of the hotel
people, of course.

" What is it ?" he asks, without turning round.

There is a rustle of woman's garments. He turns (juickly ;
a long, black, vailed figme stands before him — a ghost in
crape and bombazine. But desi)itv'^ the heavy crape vail he
knows her.

" Vera ! " he says, and rises in vast amaze.

She throws back her vail and lays hold of the table as if
she needed support. She is paler than he has ever seen her
— pale to the lips — and her eyes shrink and fall before his.

" Sit down," he says, and places a chair ; *' how ill you
look 1 You are not fit to stand."

She stands, however, and makes a motion to speak. Slie
is greatly, strongly agitated, that he can see. Once, twice,
she essays before the words will come.

" I have heard — that you are — suspected of — of what has
been done. I have come to say that — that I am sorry."

It is with the utmogt ditiiculty she says this much. Some
inward feeling moves her profoundly. liut his whole face
lights.

" Thank Heaven ! " he says ; " it is like you. You do
not believe it — you will not believe it ? say that."

"I do not — 1 will not — 1 never can."

" Thank Heaven ! " he says, deeply moved ; " it is like you
— it is like you ! I do not care half so much now. I am inno-
cent, Vera, need I say it ? When I left you I went straight to
the sunnner-house — I was nearer you there than elsewhere.
It was for the last time, and I stayed. Believe me guiltless,

372

IN THE DARK HOUR.

,i,ili '

and it will matter little who believes ine guilty. Men have
suffered unjustly before — I can bear it as well as they."

She makes a second effort, greater than the first. He
wonders what it is she is going to say.

" 1 want to tell you — I have come to tell you — that

if " a pause, " that if the announcement of our marriage

will help you, 1 will announce it. I — 1 will stay with you —
I will be your wife."

The last word is a positive gasp. No words can tell the
effort it costs her to say this. She turns from him as she
does say it, and walks suddenly to one of the windows. It is
not alone the offer itself, hard as it is to make — it is the con-
struction he may put upon it. As the sister of the rich Mrs.
Fanshawe, only a week ago she rejected with scorn and
pride the offer of being his wife. As the impoverished sis-
ter of the dead Mrs. Fanshawe sh<? comes to him — the heir
— and renews the offer herself. How hard .she has found it
to come — to say this — only Vera's proud and sensitive heart
can ever know. Let him misunderstand, if he will — it is all
a misunderstanding from tirst to last. She will make it if
she dies in the effort to say the words. But he does not
misunderstand, he is unutterably touched — moved to the
very depths of his soul.

" What shall 1 say ? " he answers, brokenly. ** I cannot
thank you, I have no words. It is like you — I say that
again — to come to me in the darkest hour of my life, and
offer me the sacrifice of yours. But I cannot accept it.
The name I give you must be a clean one, the hand I
offer free from all suspicion of crime. I would, indeed,
be a dastard if I accepted your heroism to help myself. I
would not accept it if it could help me — but it cannot.
Nothing now but the discovery of the real criminal can
do that. For all the world I would not have it known
that you are my wife now — the wife of a suspected thief.
No, Vera, I love you with all my heart — a hundred fold

IN THE DARK HOUR.

373

len have

It'V."

list. He

^011 — that

marriage

ith you —

n tell the
in as she
vvs. It is
s the con-
rich Mrs.
corn and
ished sis-
— the heir
s found it
tive heart
, — it is all
ake it if
does not
J to the

cannot
say that
life, and
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hand I

indeed,
^self. I

cannot.
|nal can
known
td thief.

red fold

better in this hour than ever before. And for that very
loves sake I say no. If the day ever conies when I stand
clear and free, I will go to you then, and "

lUit she turns fron» the window as hastily as she has turned
to it, and pulls her vail once more over her face.

" Say no more ! " she exclaims ; *' let me go ! It is so

warm here — I am faint " 'The words die away, but she

rallies in a moment, and pushes aside the hand he holds out.
*' 1 am better — let me go ! "

Something in her strained, unnatural tone checks the
words he would S[)eak. He goes down with her to the door,
where Johnny and the phaeton wait. He helps her in, but
she seems to shrink from his touch.

'* Good by," she says. " Drive fast, Johnny — it is nearly
dark."

*' Not good-by," he answers, cheerily ; " good-night. I
will see you early to-morrow. I have much to say."

" Drive fast, Johnny," is her sole reply.

She shivers, and draws her wrai) closer about her. How
dark it grows, how windy it is, how deathly chill 1

He stands in the doorway until she is out of siglit, then
slowly and thoughtfully returns to his work with a new, glad
hope stirring witliin him that all his gloomy prospects cannot
darken. And Veri is driven rapidly home through the gusty
gloaming, and ascends to her room. How still the house is,
how empty, how lonely ! How empty is the whole world !
Every one seems to have died with Dot — life has come to an
end. It is like a tomb — like the vault where they have laid
her, these echoing, unoccupied rooms. Is it a sin to wish
she were dead, too ? What in all the weary world is there
left to live for ? She is tired out, her head aclies — or is it
her heart ? — she feels numb and stricken, lost, forsaken, and
full of pain. '• Oh, me ! oh, me ! " she says, pitifully, and
lays her folded arms down on the table, and her face upon
them, with a long, sobbing sigh.

374

TRACKED.

The wind cries like a banshee about the gables, the trees
rattle stripped, bleak arms, the ni^ht falls cold and starless.
And still Vera lies there long after the last light has faded,
her head on her arms, as if she never cared to lift it again.

CHAPTRR XIV.

TRACKED.

! S

r is not quite ten the following morning when Colo-
nel I'Treiich presents himself at Charlton, Har-
riet is the first person he encounters, and Harriet
is struck by the bright eagerness of his Hice, the happy glad-
ness of his smile. He is more like the Captain Dick of six
years ago than she has seen him yet, but for some reason the
change strikes her as out of place, and she frowns it down
resentfully.

" Where is Miss Vera?" he asks. "Just tell her I am
here, Harriet, will you, and i)articularly desire to see her."

Harriet's brow lowers a little more, and she does not stir.
He looks at her in surprise.

" Is she not up ? " he asks.

Harriet does n3t answer.

" Surely," he says, and comes suddenly nearer, " surely she
is not ill ?"

Still Miss Hart maintains gloomy silence. In real alarm
he speaks for the third time.

'* For Heaven's sake, Harriet, what is the matter ? Why
don't you speak ? , I wish to see my — my wife. Where is
she?"

Harriet's sealed lips slowly and grimly unclose. She may

gSE

TRACKED.

375

the trees
I starless,
las faded,
t again.

hen Colo-
on. H ar-
id Harriet
appy glad-
)ick of six
reason the
s it down

ler I am
iee her."
;s not stir.

surely she

•eal alarm

ir ? Why
Where is

She may

answer now — her dismal reticence has effectually banished all
the buoyancy from her visitor's look and manner.

"Ay," she says, *' where is she? that is what I would like
to know. Your wife ! You've come to it at last, have you ?
It's time, too, after six years."

*' What do you mean ? "

" I mean that Miss Vera's gone — ^one — went away this
morning at half-past six. Johnny drove her to the station,
and where she's went, or what she's goin' to do, the Lord
knows, I don't."

He falls back a step — the surprise, the blow, literally hold
him dumb.

'* She's left a'most all her things — her fine dresses, heaps
and heaps of 'em upstairs, and took nothin' but her mourn-
in'. All her jewels and that she sent to the bank yesterday.
One trunk's all she's fetched, and not the biggest nuther.
You needn't ask me questions — I don't know nuthin'. She's
gone up to York first — she's friends there, I reckon — more'n
she's got here, from all I can see."

Harriet shoots this Parthian shaft at the culprit, standing
pale, and startled, and silent before her, with a baleful glance.
It is not that she likes Captain Dick less, but that she likes
Miss Vera more.

"She's going to look for work when she gets settled in her
mind," she goes on ; " that's all I know, if you was to stand
starin' at me there till crack o' doom. She went to see you
yes'day afternoon — if you'd care to know, you'd orter asked
her then. She'd no money, as you might a-knowed, now
her sister's gone, poor thing, AwiS yoiive got all. I never did
think much o' men folk, at no time," said Harriet, bitterly ;
"and the more I see, the less 1 think."

With which she goes. Nothing more is to be got from her j
no note, no message has been left. He hunts up Johnny,
who corroborates the housekeeper's story. He has driven
Miss Vera to the station, and seen her on board the train,

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TRACKED.

her trunk checked, and the ticket taken for New York. Be-
yond that he has nothing to tell.

The difiference half an hour can make in a life ! Colonel
Ffrench walked over the road to Charlton, every pulse beat-
ing high with hope and expectation, full of intense longing to
see Vera again — he walks over the road from Charlton full
of consternation, regret, keen disa[)pointuient, and dread.
Has his refusal to accept her offer, her generous sacrifice yes-
terday, given her offense ? Has she again misunderstood
him ? Has she thought — good Heaven ! can she think he
does not want her? VVlierecan she have gone ? What does
she mean to do ? Work for her living ? The thought is a
blank terror to him. He has not the fliintest idea as to who
her friends in New York may be, or where he must look for
her. Look for her, of course he must, if he is not arrested
before he can do it. He strides over the ground full of pas-
sionate impatience and wrath with himself. What a stupid
blunderer he is to have let her go as he did last evening, to
have refused her noble offer in that abrupt way — the offer
that it cost her so much to make. He has taken it for granted
that she would continue on at Charlton — the idea of her
leaving, of her working, is an idea that has never once
occurred to him. Of course, she must be found, and at once ;
it will not be a difficult matter to trace her in the city.

He is close upon the hotel, when a man, a stranger, a
short, commonplace-looking person, steps up to him and
touches his hat.

'* Ask pardon — Colonel Ffrench, if I ain't mistaken?"

•' That is my name."

*' Thanky. Could I have a few minutes' private conversa-
tion with you, colonel ? It's important, and 1 shan't keep
you long,"

'* My good fellow, no — not at present. I am in the dense
and all of a hurry. Come this afternoon — say at three. 1
cannot stop now."

TRACKED.

Z77

Be-

and

■ Ask pardon, but it's your own business, colonel — least-
wise, it's both our business at present. It's about this here
little job over at Charlton."

Colonel Ffrench stops and stares at him.

" Who are you ? " he demands.

" Detective Daggit, of New York ; down here on my own
hook, a.id a purpose to get at the bottom of this here affair.
I've a word or two I'd particularly like to say, if so be you're
as much interested in this matter as n)ost folks would be in
your place."

'• Come with me," says Colonel Ffrench, and leads the way
to his room. Here he points out a chair to his visitor, and
seats himself squarely in front of him.

" Now, then, Detective Daggit, what is it you have to say ? "

"Thanky, colonel," says polite Mr. Daggit, wiping his
already very dry mouth with his hand : " first of all there's a
reward out — offered by you — for the ajjprehenhion of the
Charlton burglar. A handsome sum— five thousand dollars."

Colonel Ffrench nods.

" Very well — 1 luean to earn that money, and I don't think
it's goin' to be sech a tough job nuther. I've been emj^loyed
by the late lamented party this some time back to keej) an
eye on her husband— a very nice gentlenian, indeed, but a lit-
tle wild or so, about ladies and such ; and when it came out
about this here robbery, I tackled the job at once. Now,
colonel, there's them as suspect _>'^w— ask pardon — but it's
like folks to do it. You being next heir and that, and if you
attempt to leave this here little town you'll be arrested— ask
pardon — it ain't a pleasant thing to say, but you will."

" I know it," Colonel Ffrench says, sententiously.

" Then what you'd better do, colonel, is to lay by here a
bit and wait, and hand the matter over to me. I've ferreted
out gentlemen of this kidney before, and I'll do it again, or
my name's not Daggit. I'll lay you a fifty that I have this
fellow safely under my thumb before another fortnight."

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378

TRACKED.

Colonel Ffrench looks at him keenly.

" You suspect ' he begins.

" Never mind who I suspect just now. I'll make my sus-
picions sure before I name names. Just 'answer me a few
questions first, then I'll take myself off."

He pulls out a note-book and pencil, and proceeds to pro-
pound sundry questions. They have little bearing on the
case in hand, so far as Colonel Ffrench can see, but he an-
swers them. Afr. Daggit is rising to go when a visitor is an-
nounced. He enters and proves to be Daddy. Instantly
Mr. Daggit's bright eyes bore two holes through him.

"I've been to Shaddeck Light, Cap'n Dick," says the
softy, shifting from one foot to the other in his usual way.
*' I was here last evenin' to see you, but you was eout.
Somebody's been a stop|)in' at Shaddeck, and forgot suthin',
and 1 fetched it right along to you."

He produces, after much fumbling, a little flat package,
wrajjped in a piece of newspaper. Detective Daggit waits
and watches with keen professional interest.

" Why do you bring it to me ? " asks Colonel Ffrench.

Daddy does not know why ; he shifts from foot to foot,
and gapes vacantly at the ceiling. He found 'em and he
brought 'em ; he don't know why ; they might belong to
Cap'n Dick, mebbe — nobody else gees thar. He found 'em
yes'day ; the pieces o' paper blowed inter the rocks, the pic-
ter on the floor of Cap'n Dick's room. Thought they might
be his'n' and so — he stops. Colonel Ffrench has uttered a
sharp exclamation of surprise.

" Miss Charlton ! " he exclaims.

He has opened the flat package, and finds a card photo-
grai)h and two or three scraps of a letter. It is the photo-
graph of a lady ; it is the face of P^leanor Charlton. Detec-
tive Daggit pounces upon it, and looks at it over his shoulder.

"An uncommon good-looking young woman," he says.
" Ask pardon, but you know her, colonel ?"

TRACKED.

379

" Know her? Yes," Colonel French answers dreamily.

Eleanor Charlton's picture and true ! He looks at it
again ; she has changed ; the hair is dressed differently, she
looks older, graver, more careworn, he fancies, than as he
remembers her. He looks at the back ; there is the photo-
grapher's name and the place— New Orleans — and a date in
pencil.

"Why, it was only taken two months ago," he says, in
surprise.

He looks at the torn scraps of writing ; they have been
wet, and are blotted. They are fragments of a letter, but
contain little that is legible. There is a name, however, on
one : ** Yours ever — yours always — Ernfcst.'"

"Jest step back, young man," says Detective Daggit, brisk-
ly, to Daddy; "you're a treasure, my lad, that's what you
are. Now, Colonel Ffrench — ask pardon for bothering you
in this way, but I must ask a few more questions. Tell me
all you know about this here pretty young lady. It's the clew
I've wanted, as sure as I'm Dago;it."

Colonel Ffrench tells hiui. How Eleanor Charlton came
from New Orleans six year.^ before, and remained a few
weeks with her mother. This i>hotograph does not belong to
him ; he has never seen her, nor heard of her for the past
four years. Then she was in Europe, traveling with a lady.
It is not much he has to tell, but ]V[r. Daggit asks a number
of adroit questions, again apparently wide of the mark. Now
and then Mr.Fanshawe's name crops up, but in an off-hand
sort of way. At length he rises, satisfied, and puts up his
book.

"I'll take that picter, and these pieces of paper," he says,
"and I'll go with you, young man, to Shaddeck Light, and
have a look arountl. I've no doubt, from what you say, the
burglar took a walk there after he'd done the job, and kept
dark there all next day. He's dro[)ped the picter in
pulling out his handkerchief or watch, and he's tore up the

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380

TRACKED.

letter, and the wind's blowed these scraps back. That's
how."

'* Do you mean to say you connect the finding of this
pliotograph in any way with "

"Yes, 1 do. I'll not tell you why, so you needn't ask. It
isn't goin' to be a hard job — not half so tough as if a profes-
sional cracksman was in it. Lord ! these amateurs are trip[)ed
up as easy as nothin' at all. Good-day, colonel ; jest you keep
(piiet here until you hear from me again. I'm oft' this after-
noon, but before I go, I'll drop a hint in a quarter I know of,
and there won't be any warrant got out. I've my eye on the
right man, and I'll have my hand on him before you're two
weeks older. And once I've got him," cries Detective Dag-
git, his light eyes flashing out, his wiry fists clenching, " I'll

hold him while he has a body to kick or a soul to d !

Now, Daddy — rum name. Daddy — let's go and get a boat."

So Detective Daggit departs, and goes to work with a will.
He visits Shaddeck Light, and inspects every cranny and
corner. He visits Charlton Place, and investigates the late
Mrs. Fanshawe's bedroom minutely. He even spends half
an hour in Mr. P'anshawe's apartments. His face beams as
he bids Harriet good-day and receives her parting glare as a
benediction.

Colonel Ffrench, remaining behind with what patience he
may, is compelled perforce to give up the pursuit of Vera.
But a week or two can make little matter ; she will not leave
New York so soon. Even if he found her, as things stand,
what is there he can say that she will listen to ? His hands
and tongue are tied until the Charlton criminal is discovered.
He will wait as i)atiently as may be, and trust in Providence
and Detective Daggit.

The first week brings him a note. D. D. is on the track ;
his bird is in New York ; he has caught him sure, but doesn't
mean to lay hands on him just yet. He is going South — to
New Orleans ; D. D. means to go, too.

TRACKED.

381

U I'

I'll

Colonel Ffrench waits in feverish impatience for a second
dispatch. The restraint, the surprise are unencUirable. His
longing to see Vera is becoming more than he can bear.
People still whisper, but not so UkuU}' ; it is understood that
the real burglar is found, or on the eve of being found, and
that the Cuban Colonel is simply wailing here until that dis-
covery can be officially announced. The close of the second
week — the middle of the third conies, and brings no letter.
It does better, however ; it brings Detective Daggit himself,
tired, travel-stained, dusty, but triumphant.

" I only waited a nnnute to order up a nip of brandy in the
bar " he says. " You expected a letter, didn't you ? I didn't
write — writin' never does no good — I came. I've got my
man, as safe, and sure, and sound as I've got this /"

He lays hold of the brandy and water brought by the
attendant, and tosses it off exultingly. Colonel Ffrench
leans forward pale with excitement, and waits.

" 'Twas him — the one I had my eye on from the first.
Oil ! he's a precious lot, he is ! When he left the house with
the jewels, he took the shore road, and walked out to the
rum little shanty you call Shaddeck Light. There he stayed in
hiding all next day, and there he dropped the picter and tore
up the letter. His given name's Ernest — sweet, pretty name
for a burglar, ain't it ? At dark he crosses to land, walks to
St. Ann's, takes the tirst boat he finds (one was picked up
adrift a day or two after, you remember), and rows himself to
Green [)ort. There he got aboard the cars, and went to New
York. He stayed there a day, hid the epoils, and came
straight back."

" Back ! "

" Straight back — straight as a die — to this place. Was at
the funeral, and everything, as large as life. The morning
after the funeral he left again, this time for good, taking all
his traps with him — a cozy lot. No, don't ask questions — >
wait awhile. He went up to New York, and the first thing

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382

TRACKED.

he did was to shave off his whiskers — splendid whiskers — all
the ladies loved 'em ! 'Twas an iincomnion pity, but they
had to go. I was there at the time, havin' my hair cut, and
1 got a lock. 1 reckon when the trial comes on, 'twill fit
that other little lock the coroner has. Then he went South."

Mr. Daggit is thirsty, and takes another pull at the brandy
and water. Colonel Ffrench waits, silently but excitedly.

"There he sold some of the jewels — taking them out of
the setting, of course — some in lialtimore, some in Washing-
ton, and so on until he got to New Orleans. Then he went
to see the young lady — Miss Charlton. Shu's princii)al of a
school there, very high-toned, and fashionable, and all that.
There, too, he changed his name. What does he call him-
self? Why, Mr. Ernest Dane."

Ernest Dane ! Colonel Ffrench knits his brows. Ernest
Dane ! Where has he heard that name before ?

" Sounds familiar, does it ? Well, it seems he's a very old
lover of this Miss Charlton — been keepin' company for seven
years, and in a few weeks they're to be married. There he
is still, and theie he'll stay until we get back, for I want you
to come with me this time. You'll like to be in at the death,
besides being a friend of the young lady's, and being on the
spot to break it to her easy. He's all safe — no fear of that
— watched night and day, and hasn't an idee any one suspects.
Eord ! it's as neat a job as ever was done, and as easy."

"But wlio is he ? " Colonel Ffrench asks ; '* you have not
told me that. An old lover of Miss Charlton's, and about
to be married to her ! Why, this is horrible ! Who is the
fellow ? "

" He calls himself Ernest Dane now, and I reckon it's his
name fast enough, though he had another tacked to it when
he was here. Who is he ? " Detective Daggit strikes the
table a blow that makes the brandy and water jump. " It's
Mr. Ernest Dane Fanshawe ! It's tht dead woman's own
husband, by the eternal jingo ! "

■■■■I

TRAPPED,

383

CHAPTER XV.

TRAPPED.

N old-fashioned, Moorish-looking mansion, not far
from the Rue des Ursulines— a great wilderness
o^ garden, where all luxuriant Southern flowers
bloom and run riot in their own sweet superabundance ;
orange-trees, magnolas, golden rods, and roses, everywhere
roses. A high wall shuts it in— high gales shut the world
out. It is a young ladies' seminary. Miss Eleanor Ciiarlton,
principal.

It is late in the afternoon of a lovely October day. The
pensionnat is very still ; the young ladies are at study ; the
jingle of two or three pianos alone breaks the silence. lx\
her sitting-room Miss Charlton is alone, busily writing. The
bowed head, the stately figure, the deep, sweet, serious eyes
are those of the Eleanor Charlton of six and a half years ago.
There is hardly any perceptible change. She hardly looks
older ; she certainly looks happier. She is dressed in black
silk, a touch of fine lace and a knot of crimson silk at the
throat— fair, and gracious, and good, and a gentlewoman to
her finger-tips. She looks a strong and self-reliant woman
sitting here, brave as well as gentle, sufficient unto herself,
one who has, unaided, made a niche for herself in the world,
and fits it well. She has the look of one who need not merge
and lose her own individuality in that of any man. But it
is not so. Despite her nine and twenty years, her amiable
self-poise and reliance, her well-established and popular
school, Miss Charlton is about to go the way of all woman-
kind, gentle and simj^le, learned and unlettered, and be mar-
ried. It is a very old affair ; more than seven years have

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384

TRAPPED.

jiassed since she and F'rncst Dane first met. He is not
at all the sort of a man any one woulil imagine a woman
of Kleanor Charlton's stam|) — i-arnest hearted, \)ure-souled,
falling in love with. In no way is he lu-r eciiial, in no way
worthy of her, but the fact remains, she loves him. I'or
over six years tiicy have been apart. Fate, with a strong
hand, has held them asunder ; but through it all, through
time, absence, silence, doubt, she has loved him, hoped in
him, waited for him. And at last. Fate, contiuered by fidelity,
has brought them together. He has urged an immediate
marriage, and she has consented. In two weeks she will be
his wife.

Some one taps at the door. It is a black boy with a
card. Miss Charlton looks up from her writing, and glances
at it. A look of surprise, then of gladness, lights her
face.

*' Colonel Ffrench ! " she exclaims — " what a pleasant sur-
prise. Show the gentleman into the reception-room, and
tell him I will be there in a moment."

She rises, and with the womanly instinct that never fails,
goes first to the glass. But the shining coils of silken chest-
nut hair are smooth ; lace, bow, cuffs, all are in order ; so
she shakes out her dark skirts and goes to meet her guest.
She has never seen him, and but very indirectly heard of
him, since that long past summer. It is with very genuine
pleasure she goes to meet him now.

He rises at her entrance. How distinguished, how fine-
looking, how soldierly he is ! is her first, instinctive, feminine
thought — and yet so exceedingly like the Captain Dick of
old. She comes forward and holds out her hand, with the
smile he remembers.

" Colonel Ffrench ! How very, very glad I am ! What
a great and delightful surprise ! "

He does not answer, although in look and warm hand-
pressure his greeting is cordial enough. But — it is a curious

3 IS not

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What

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curious

TRAPPED. 385

fancy— he absolutely looks embarrassed as they both sit
down.

"I scarcely dared hope," she says, «« we would ever »nect
again. What a wanderer you have become — now in Ceiitial
America— now in Cuba— now in i^urope. And such a
Taladin, too! I have heard it all, you see. It agrees with
you, I think, the wandering and the fighting. You are look-
ing wonderfully well."

"That is a compliment I can honestly return. Do you
know where I came from last ? "

" Yes," she answers, and her tone is grave and sad. " I
saw it all in the papers. You were at Charlton when poor
Dora Lightwood died. Poor, bright little Dora ! Has the
burglar yet been found ? "

He looks at her gravely, with something, oddly enough,
like compassion in the gray darkness of his eyes.

" Yes," he says, " I believe he has."

That odd look makes her regard him questioningly; but
he says no name. There is a pause.

" And Vera ? " she says, with some hesitation—" how does
she bear it ?"

" I can hardly answer that question," he responds slow-
ly. " Vera has left Charlton, and is at present, I believe,
with some friends in New York. Naturally, it has been
a terrible blow to her; no sisters ever were more at-
tached."

" Dear little Vera ! what a bright, joyous, frank little fairy
she was ! She has become a brilliant society belle since, I
have heard; but under it all, I am sure, the same true,
brave heart beats. I should like, I should greatly like, to
see her."

" I think I may promise that much in Vera's name," he
says ; " she will come to see you soon."

That fleeting look, as if of pity for her, is in his eyes again.
What does it mean ?— or is it only her fancy ? She takes
17

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386

TRArPF.n.

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luT courage in both hands, and h)()ks at him, a smile in the
fawn eyes, a flush on the dcHcate cheek.

"Colonel I'Trench, do tell me — 1 am dying to know — are
you really married to Vera ? "

*' I am married to Vera, and have been for over six
years."

Here is silence. The wistful, hazel eyes linger on his
face, and ask the questions her lips cannot frame.

*' All that is too long a story for to-day," he says, with a
smile. " Vera shall fell you everything when you meet.
Now let me ask a quesiion in turn, and do not think me im-
pertinent. Vou are about to be married ? "

"Yes," she answers, frankly, but flushing.

"To Mr. Ernest Dane?"

" To Ernest Dane. Do you know him. Colonel Ffrench ? "

" I — think so. I am not sure. 1 fancy it was he who
called upon me once at" Shaddeck Light, the very afternoon
of your arrival at Charlton. He was at St. Ann's that week,
was he not ? "

"Yes," she answers, embarrassed; " he was there. But
it is curious he has never spoken of knowing ^(??/. I was en-
gaged to him even then," she says, in a very low voice.

She is thinking, and so, perhaps, is he, that but for that
engagement she might long ago have been Richard Ffrench's
wife.

" We were poor," she goes on, simi)ly ; " he did not seem
to succeed very well at that time, and my poor mother was
greatly opposed to him. So our engagement was a strict
secret. He visited me once — one evening at Charlton, and
from that night until a fortnight ago we never met. He has
been in business out West, and working hard, poor fellow.
I have been, as you may have heard, traveling with an invalid
lady pretty nearly all over Europe. It is owing to her gen-
erous liberality that this place and this school are mine —
that I am, I hope, securely established for life. At intervals

lile in the

now — are

over six

?r on his

I's, with a
ou meet,
ik me im-

french ? "
; he who
ifternoou
lat week,

;re. But

I wasen-

)ice.

t for that

Ffrench's

not seem
)ther was
3 a strict
Iton, and
He has
)r fellow.
,n invalid
her gen-
: mine —
intervals

TRAPPED.

387

Krnest and I liave corrcspondi-d, but at lonj:; intervals and
very irregularly. Now he has secured, not wealth but a com-
petence, and he has come to claim me. In two weeks we
are to be married. Vou will stay and be present, will you
not, my friend, and — if it may be — bring Vera?"

liefore he can reply, the black boy rea[)pears, and ushers
in a visitor, Mr. Krnest Dane.

" I am so glad ! " I'lleanor says, rising quietly, her whole
face ligining. *« Now you will meet. Ernest," she passes
Colonel Ffrench, and goes forward gladly to meet her lover,
" there is a very old friend here who thinks he has met you
before. Colonel Kfrench, Mr. Dane."

Colonel Ffrench rises, his dark brow bent, his gray, reso-
lute eyes stern, his lii)s set, and stands soldierly, inflexible,
commanding, confronting the face he knows. But is it the
man he seeks? the slayer of his wife, the midnight thief, the
cowardly robber of a woman ? Where are all the long,
blonde, Dundreary whiskers, and can their loss alone make
such a change in a countenance ? How weak is that woman-
ish face, now that its hirsute disguise is gone, and what an
excellent thing is a beard to hide a weak mouth and a fool's
chin.

*' I was not mistaken," says Colonel Ffrench's deep tones.
" I have met Mr. Dane before."

Mr. Dane is deadly pale— is frightfully pale. His blue
eyes shift and fall from the strong, stern, relentless gray
ones — the irresolute lips tremble. Mr. Dane is horribly
frightened, and shows it.

"I — 1 think not. I — I think there must be some mis-
take. I have never met Colonel Ffrench before."

"Your memory fails, Mr. Dane — we have met," says
Colonel Ffrench, keejnng his relentless gaze immovably
fixed upon him. *' Call to mind— if you can— an afternoon,
over six years ago, when you honored me by a visit in my
den — Shaddeck Light."

388

TRAPPED.

A-

;i'i

;tl

V r'

Mr. Dane, still white to the lips, makes the effort, and
manages to recall it. But his pallor is so great, his alarm
so apparent, his embarrassment so intense and real, that
Eleanor looks from one to the other, in sudden terror and
disniay. Iji,'fore she can speak. Colonel Ffrench rises.

"I will call to-morrow," he says, and once again that pro-
foundly pitying look is in his eyes. "1 leave New Orleans
in the afternoon, but I will call and see you b.efore I go."

He departs. As the street-door closes behind him, a man
looks out stealthily from behind some espaliers.

" Well, colonel, what d'ye think ? " a voice asks.

" It is all right, Daggit, you have your man. He will
give you no trouble. Y)o not approach him until he is well
away from the house. The lady must not be alarmed."

He goes, and Detective Daggit resumes his watch. It is
a long one. The sun sets, the night falls, the moon rises
long before Mr. Ernest Dane quits the house.

But he comes at last, walking rapidly, looking about him
nervously, and still startlingly pale. Mr. DagiIi^ follows
with the tread of a cat, shod at once with the shoes of silence
and swiftness. A square or two is passed, the seminary is
out of sight, then at the corner of a quiet street Detective
Daggit lays his hand on the shoulder of Mr. Ernest Dane ;
lays it so suddenly, so sharply, with so strong and steely a
clasp, that it extorts a cry from the startled man.

"None o' that," says Mr. Detective Daggit; "it'll not
do a mite of good, and will only raise a crowd, which would
be unpleasant, I should think, to a gentleman of your hne
feelin's. None o' that, either'" as Mr. Dane instinctively
strikes out to wrench himself free. " I'm the strongest man
of the two, and if you do do it, why I've a seven-shooter
here, and by the Lord above ! I'll shoot you like a mad dog
before you get round the corner."

*' What do you mean ? Who are yo • -* Why is this out-
rage?" demands Mr. Ernest Dane. The moonlight, the

au.

It is

TRAPPED. 389

white, piercing, brilliant Southern moonlight, is full on his
face, and dead and in his coffin, it will never be whiter.
His voice chokes and breaks as he speaks — a coward Mr.
Dane is, to the depths of his white-livered soul.

" What do I mean ? " repeats Detective Daggit ; " why,
I mean you're my prisoner ? Who am I ? Why, I'm De-
tective Daggit of New York. Why is this outrage ? Why,
because you've robbed and killed your wife, and we're going
to see what an enlightened jury of free-born fellow-citizens
will say about it, Mr. Ernest Dane Fanshawe ! "

He makes a sudden desperate break and frees himself,
but, before he has run ten steps, the fingers of steel clutch
his collar again, and the cold muzzle of a revolver is at his
temple.

" You would, would you ? " says Mr. Detective Daggit.
" You'd give me the slip after all the trouble I've had run-
ning after you, would you ? Hi, there ! McFarlan ! " A
second man appears, as if by magic. " On with the brace-
lets ! Safe bind, safe find — and there's a little matter of five
thousand dollars at stake. Ask pardon, Mr. Fanshawe—
click ! that's on— now the other— click again ! Lo ! that's
what I call lovely and comfortable — now we can jog on to-
gether in peace. Take the other side, Mac. I hoi)e you
don't find 'em too tight, Mr. Fanshawe? I wouldn't hurt
your wrists on any account."

Handcuffed, and between his captors — white as death, he
walks on, livid terror on every feature of his ghastly face.

"Ask pardon for being so rude and sudden like, but
you'll have to postpone that wedding of yours a few years,
Mr. Ernest Dane Fanshawe. Ain't it uncommon soon, too
— only three weeks since your first was buried ! It was
neatly done, Mr. Fanshawe— wait a minute ! don't interrupt
—your counsel will tell the jury all about your innocence
by and by. You stole in about the middle of the night-
wait a minute, I say— and hid in a closet in your wife's

1 ■ !

390

TRAPPED.

room. As soon as she was asleep you stole out, pocketed
the jewels, and in some way woke her up. She struggled
with you — wait a minute, can't you ! — tore off the crape,
pulled a handful from your whiskers — beautiful whiskers,
Mr. Fanshawe — I wonder at you for shavin' 'em off. You
broke away, got out, and made straight for Shaddock Light.
You droi)ped a few little things there, but riever mind, I'll
let you have the picture again when sentence is passed.
It'll be a comfort to you, mebbe, up in Sing Sing or Auburn.
And you come back for the funeral ! Now tJuif s what I
call showin' the highest-toned sort of feelin' and respect for
the dead, and all that, and very well you looked, Mr. Fan-
shawe, in your mournin' clothes. And then you come dowr^i
here and make love to the school-marm — oh ! darn it, wait
a minute ! — and are goin' to marry her, too. in a fortnight
in the most honorable manner. I've seen a good many
sharp games in my time, and met a good many sharp cards^
but if ever I met a sharper, or see a sharper, then I'm ever-
lastin'ly darned ! But others is sharp, too, and Joe Daggit's
one of 'em, though he says it as hadn't ought to. And I've
got you, my buck, and I mean to keep you, and I've got the
five thousand reward, and I mean to keep that ! And we'll
send you up for half a dozen of years at hard labor, by the
living Lord ! "

^^ ^^ ^^ ^* •i* •I* ^v

As Mr. Ernest Dane Fanshawe passes with Detective
Daggit on this moonlight night forever from this story, it
may be mentioned here that Mr. Daggit was among the pro-
phets, and that at this moment Mr. Fanshawe, the elegant,
the languid, the handsome, the super-refined, is doing the
State some service in the pleasant rural village of Sing Sing.
No doubt you read the trial — it produced a great sensation,
and is still fresh in your memory. The reason of Mr. Dane's
change of name came out with many other interesting items
of that gentleman's dashing career. It was the name of a

SHADDECK LlG/iT.

391

maternal grandparent, who had left him the legacy which
took him to Europe, and he had assumed it simply to escape
disagreeable duns. He has learned a useful trade— shoe-
making, it is understood— and has had the widespread sym-
pathy of all the young ladies in the country. He was so
handsome, poor fellow, and so interesting, and it was such a
pity to sentence him for six years' imprisonment to hard labor
for simply taking his own wife's jewels.

*******

For Eleanor. Well, there are 'iimply some things that
cannot be told, some griefs that mere words are powerless
to paint. So far as this world's ho[)es are concerned, her life
came to an end in the hour when Richard Ffrench, unutter-
ably distressed, broke to her the news. But she will live and
go or with her life-work, bravely, nobly, to the end, the true
woman Heaven has made her, with steadfast eyes fixed on
that ot. ^r world, "the world that sets this right."

CHAPTER XVI.

SHADDECK LIGHT.

GUSTY November day. Dead leaves swirl in wild
brown drifts through the streets of St. Ann's be-
fore the wind, a wind that bufifets, and tosses, and
shouts like the lusty young giant it is, that wrenches and
twists the tree-tops, that rattles the sundry vine-stalks which
a few months ago hung heavy with great drooping clus-
ters of roses, that flings dust by the handful into the eyes
of the unwary, and then whooping in gusty glee, tlics off
to Shaddeck Bay.

It is the middle of the afternoon when Richard Ffrench

■ill

1 ■<,

: I ,

i(:!\\m

.lii,

rliii ••

it
If

392

SHADDECK LIGHT.

turns out of the great elm avenue of Charlton Place, and pre-
pares for a windy walk to town. He only came yesterday
and departs again this evening. His work is done, his
name is cleared, the real culprit lies in prison — Fate itself
cannot hold him and his wife apart longer. Never has
debonair Captain Dick, in the brightest, most spirited, most
sanguine days of his youth, looked more hopeful, more buoy-
antly happy than does the ex-cavalry colonel to-day. He
is going for Vera ; no misunderstanding, no foolish scrui)le
shall keep them asunder longer. She has all the pride of
— a fallen angel where he is concerned, but love shall tri-
umi)h over pride, and in his heart he knows as well as he
lives that Vera cares for him yet. So — free, cleared, trium-
phant, rich, loving, hopeful — he gets over the ground at his
usual swinging pace, whistling cheerily as he goes, " My
love is but a lassie yet." He has discovered this much :
when Vera left Charlton she went direct to her old friend,
Mrs. Trafton, and has remained with her ever since. Before
this time to-morrow he will be at Mrs. Trafton's door to
claim his own, through life and beyond death if he may.

How it blows ! and how the great stripped trees wrestle
with the blast in a fierce embrace ! He bends his powerful
figure before it, as it comes swooping down upon him, Hing-
ing spiteful siroccos of dust in his eyes, and sending the
blood bounding through every strong vein. His spirits, al-
ready high, rise higher as it buffets him. It is like strong
wine, this exhilarating autumn gale, with the saltncss of the
sea, the fragrance of the pine woods in its breath at once.

The tide is out, as he turns into the shore road, the long
black bar is bare thi.t leads to Shaddeck Light, and crossing
it he sees Daddy. The old den looks battered, wind-blown,
weather-beaten and tumble-down. He has half a mind to
cross over, and take a look at it before he goes — he has not
been ther^ for many a year. As he approaches Daddy espies
hhii, and comes to a halt.

E?HaH5"

SHADDECK LIGHT.

393

" Hallo ! " cheerily says Colonel Ffrench.

" Hallo ! " Daddy stolidly returns ; and then Dadrty stands on
the other foot and eyes his master. " Yer ain't seen her, hev yer ?
Yer don't know she's here, do yer ? " he vaguely intjuires.

"Seen her? What her?"

"Yer didn't hear she'd come back, did yer ? Said so her-
self. Told me not to tell nuther. A-goin' back in the keers
to-night. Come to take a look. She's thar yet."

Daddy jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction
of the ocean. But Colonel Ffrench begins to understand.
His dark face flushes and lights.

" Are you speaking of Miss Vera ? " he asks.

"Ah!" says Daddy, nodding— " her. She's thar yit.
Come to take a last look at the dear old place. That's what
she said. Blessed if he ain't gone!" says Daddy, as his
master turns from him, and in a minute is crossing the
bar. A dim perception of the truth stirs vaguely in the fog
of Daddy's mind. " Blessed if he ain't goin' ter her ! Blessed
if he ain't sweet on her ! " says Daddy to himself, as he lum-
bers heavily away.

She is sitting on the little sea-wall, her fingers locked to-
gether, her hands lying listlessly on her black lap. Her long
crape vail is thrown back ; the clear face is like a star set in
jet. The great, dark eyes, the loveliest the wide earth holds,
this man thinks, have all the sadness of farewell in their
depths. She hears his footsteps, and turns ; then rises and
stands, pale, startled, surprised, before him. But a light
comes into her eyes — the quick light of irrepressible gladness
and welcome. And he sees it.

" Vera ! " he exclaims, and holds out both hands.
" Captain Dick ! " she answers, and gives iiim hers. Tlie
name, the look, the manner, have swept away six long years,
and it is the Captain Dick of Charlton days, her hero, that is
here. It is but for an instant ; then she laughs faintly, and
draws away her hands.
17*

t^f^l"'

394

SHADDECK LIGHT.

! t

Ea» •

" I thought for a moment I was a little girl again. You
looked so like the Captain Dick of those far-off days.
But I thought you were in New York."

"And I thought _)w/ were in New York."

He seats himself beside her, on the stone wall, and looks
with loving, longing, happy eyes into her half shrinking face.

*' 1 was in New York ; I have been ever since I left "

" Why did you I jave ? " he breaks in. " That was cruel,
Vera. I went back early next morning, full of all I had to
say, all one heart could hold — and you were gone !"

She looks away from him, and out to where the angry
red of the sunset beams through gathering clouds.

" It was best I should go — it was inevitable, and Mrs.
Trafton's house has ever been a second home. I went to
her in my trouble and my loneliness, and she was good to
me, better than I can say. Colonel Ffrench, 1 have read it all
— the dreadful truth, that vindicates you, and condemns that
wretched man. And I hardly think it surprised me, although
it was a profound shock. For she loved him — oh ! my dear
little Dot ! she loved him. I always knew him to be weak
and wicked, but of this I feel sure — he never intended to go
beyond the stealing of the jewels — he never intended to
injure //^r."

"No, he came to steal, not to murder. If she had only
not awakened. But why should you ever think of him ? "

" I think of Eleanor, poor, noble, great-hearted Eleanor !
She haunts me like a ghost. Some day I hope to see her."

" I have ventured to promise that much in your name," he
says. " You will let me keep my word, will you not ? "

"I shall see her, certainly," Vera answers. "In a week
or two I start with Mrs. Trafton to spend the winter in Flor-
ida, and we shall take New Orleans on our way. She is fall-
ing into a decline, Mrs. Trafton, and has been ordered South.
I go with her as companion. That is why I am here. I have
conie to take a last look at poor Dora's grave."

SHADDECK LIGHT.

395

" And you think I will let you go ? " he says. " Vera, turn
round, look at me, instead of the sky and the water, and tell
me, if you can, how long this is to go on. For six years
you have been my wife, in name. In all that time we have
been held apart, by my own act in the first years, by misunder-
standings and mutual pride in these last. It is time all that
should end. I love my wife, I want my wife, and I mean to
have her. No," as she flashes upon him one of the old im-
perious glances, and tries to free her hands, " I am not to
be annihilated even by the fire of your eyes, my Vera, eyes
I have thought the most beautiful on earth, the truest, the
dearest, ever since I saw them first. I know you cared for
me a little once ; I think you care for me a little still ; I
know that I love you with all the strength of my heart. In
my trouble you came to me, you offered to stay with me, to
be my wife. Vera, I claim that promise now — I claim you.
I am going to Cuba in a week — not to rejoin the :iriny.
I have done with that, but political purposes, all the same.
Vera, will you come with me to Cuba, instead of to I'lorida,
with Mrs. Trafton ? "

She looks up, and the dark, sweet eyes that meet his are
full of tears.

" I will go with you to the end of the world," she answers.

•I* V "p 'p T» l^ *

There has been a hiatus here, you understand. The wind
shouts as if in derision at this pair of lovers, and the sea,
daslung higher and higher over the rocks, sends its flaky
spray in their faces.

"And it is not from any sense of duty, such as sent you
to me at the hotel, but because "

"Because I love you," says Vera, speaking the words for
the first time in her life; "because I have loved you from
the very first."

« 41 ♦ * He iH «

396

SHAD DECK LIGHT.

The tide is rising ; if this ecstatic pair h'nger much longer,
they will have a chance to jxass the night tcte-d tete on the
sea-wall. The crimson and fiery orange of the strong sunset
is i^aling rapidly before grayness of coining night and gather-'
ing storm. The wind still shrieks about them like a wind
gone mad; sea-gulls whirl and whoop startlingly near; the
flashing spray leaps higher and higher.

" The tide is rising," he says, " let us go. If we sit here
longer we will have to stay here till morning, and one night
you may think quite enough to spend at Shaddeck Light ;
although I shall look back to that night with the deepest
gratitude, for to it I owe the happiness of my life."

He offers his hand and she takes it, and so, clinging to it,
passes over the wet, weedy, slippery kelp and shingle to the
shore. I'here, as by one impulse, both pause and look back,
liefore them lies the new life, behind, the old, and they linger
for a second to bid it farewell.

One last yellow gleam of sunset breaks from behind the
wind-blown clouds and lights palely the solitary little brown
cot. Falling fast to decay, with broken windows, hanging
doors, settling roof, it stands waiting for its death-blow, in
forsaken and bleak old age — a desolate picture. While they
look the light fades, swift darkne^j falls, and night and lone-
liness wrap Shaddeck Light.

THE END.

.. %