Prese 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 Date GIFT OF 
 
 California State Library 
 
 Friun mi 
 
 March 8tA, 1861. 
 
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 GEORGE ELIOT'S NOVELS. 
 
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 the world as a huge mountain,with pigmies crawl 
 ing or scrambling up its rugged sides to inac 
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 or less for their pains. * * * Each and all of 
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 " George Eliot " has Sir Walter Scott's art 
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 as headlong an interest as into the present. For 
 this she compensates by a wider and deeper in 
 tellectual grasp. 
 
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 "George Eliot's" novels belong to the endur 
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 the fashionableness of its pattern, but for the 
 texture of its stuff. 
 
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 JOBS WORTHINGTOFS SAME. 
 
 Nooel, 
 
 BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'MY DAUGHTER ELINOR," "MISS VAN KORTLAND," "MISS DOROTHY'S CHARGE," &c 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
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 TO MY DEAR FRIEND AND RELATIVE, 
 
 MRS. A- S. CHURCHILL. 
 
 FLORENCE, ITALY, 1874.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ROUGE-ET-NOIR. 
 
 THE music swelled joyously out again, and 
 the dancers began their dizzy rounds with 
 the fresh energy inspired by Strauss's most 
 bewitching waltz. The bright toilets of the 
 women, as usual, presented so odd a contrast 
 to the sombre garb in which custom arrays the 
 masculine race on festive occasions, that a fan 
 ciful person might have compared the scene to 
 a troop of gaudy butterflies entangled in the 
 embrace of wicked black wasps, from which no 
 effort of the filmy-winged creatures could set 
 them free. 
 
 It was the ball-room at Baden Baden, so I 
 need attempt no description ; the generality 
 of people in this age of pilgrimages are as fa 
 miliar with it as with their own libraries a 
 good many of them more at home there, per 
 haps ; and those to whom fate has denied the 
 privilege of absolutely standing within the en 
 chanted precincts, know it nearly as well from 
 photographs, and the endless summer tours 
 wherewith travelers insist upon inflicting the 
 public, in spite of loud and prolonged remon 
 strances from that much-suffering body. 
 
 Milly Crofton sat in the shadow of plump Mrs. 
 Lawrence's voluminous draperies, and, with the 
 enviable faculty of eighteen, was able to ad 
 mire the brilliant spectacle, though she was 
 only there for a short time as a looker-on. It 
 was fortunate that she had youth enough to 
 find amusement so easily, otherwise the last 
 half hour might have dragged rather heavily ; 
 for Mrs. Lawrence had stumbled on an old ac 
 quaintance, and the two were so deep in con 
 versation about matters which dated at least 
 twenty years back, that neither the good-na 
 tured lady nor the antiquated beau long re 
 signed to flesh and lumbago remembered that 
 they were scarcely doing their duty by the 
 young woman. But Milly bore the forgetful- 
 ness patiently, in spite of the fact that patience 
 did not rank among her chief virtues, and that 
 she belonged to a nation whereof the youth of 
 both sexes are popularly supposed to enforce 
 their wishes and whims upon their elders with 
 out compunction, and to find a ready submis 
 sion on the part of the antiquated generation. 
 Milly was a charming specimen of the pret 
 
 tiest type of American girl ; dazzling in com 
 plexion, with a profusion of soft blonde hair, 
 eager blue eyes like a child's, a mouth which 
 could pout or smile, perfect as to hands and 
 feet, and with that indescribable elegance which 
 is a more fortunate gift even than beauty. I 
 think she is not exactly my heroine certain 
 dyspeptic critics insinuate that I have a bad 
 habit of not contenting myself with one but I 
 am very fond of her, and could not resist these 
 few words of personal description. 
 
 There she sat, listening absently to the nn- 
 wearied hum of Mrs. Lawrence's voice, and the 
 stuffy tones of the ancient beau, which sounded 
 as if he spoke through layers of turtle steak, 
 and watching the dancers while her tiny feet 
 unconsciously kept time to the music. Present 
 ly two men paused by chance near the spot, and 
 continued an audible conversation in French, 
 which roused another train of thought in Mil- 
 ly's mind. One of the mustached creatures had 
 just come from the gaming-tables, a winner, it 
 appeared, and his companion was endeavoring 
 to persuade him not to tempt Fate further on 
 this occasion, but rest contented with the brief 
 favor she had shown. 
 
 I am sorry to confess it, but straightway the 
 ] Devil put a horrible idea into Milly's soul I 
 wish I could say a new one, but the Devil had 
 whispered that thought on the first evening she 
 set foot in the place, and during the last three 
 days had never grown tired of presenting it 
 to her. Heretofore Conscience had driven 
 the tempter away without difficulty, but now, 
 though a very well brought-up young person. 
 Milly grew a little tired of Conscience and her 
 admonitions you know our best friends, un 
 fortunately, are often somewhat wearisome ! 
 The ill-regulated and improper longing to try 
 her luck at the tables rose once more in Milly's 
 heart, growing stronger as she remembered 
 still the work of the imp, of course that to 
 night would be her final opportunity. In the 
 morning she was to return to the dullness of 
 Vichy and the charge of her rightful chape 
 ron, and the gayety of Baden would appear 
 like a dream. 
 
 Milly did her best to struggle against the 
 temptation, but most of us have occasionally 
 discovered that a prolonged combat with de 
 sires leaves us so weakened, that in the end
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 we are as bad off as if we had not fought at all 
 unless our guardian angels are kind enough, 
 in spite of the failure, to count the effort in 
 our favor. This was Milly's case ; she began 
 to feel really desperate. If she persevered in 
 crucifying her own inclinations, she should cer 
 tainly go frantic with regret when too late. 
 She tried to be shocked at her own wickedness, 
 but did not succeed very well. She remem 
 bered her dignified aunt away off in New York, 
 by whom she had been intrusted to the care 
 of some distant connections for these four 
 months of wandering. The very idea of Mrs. 
 llemsen's horror, if she could see her at this 
 moment, and know what was in her mind, sent 
 Milly into a fit of silent, nervous laughter. 
 The Devil and Conscience strove awhile longer, 
 and once Conscience was near gaining an ally. 
 The ancient beau made an effort to depart 
 Milly saw it, and was half glad in the midst of 
 her disappointment, as she thought that now 
 she should be put beyond the reach of tempta 
 tion. But Mrs. Lawrence unintentionally aid 
 ed the Devil by detaining the decrepit beau. 
 
 "Don't leave us," she said, " we want to sit 
 here ; Milly enjoys watching the dancers don't 
 you, Milly ?" 
 
 " Oh yes," Milly answered ; then Conscience 
 pricked her, and she added, " but don't stay a 
 moment on my account." This was a triumph, 
 but a brief one, for her monitor, because straight 
 way the tempter offered Milly a hurried picture 
 of the green tables, the eager players, the flash 
 of the gold pieces, while the tones of the crou 
 pier rang in her ears, and the chink of the na 
 poleons as they fell on the board, and she said, 
 breathlessly, "though I like being here, I could 
 stay all night." 
 
 Conscience retired in disgust, probably feel 
 ing that nothing further could be done to aid a 
 young woman so hopelessly fascinated by the 
 snares of the enemy. 
 
 "Dear little Milly,"Mrs. Lawrence said, pat 
 ting the girl's shoulder with one hand, while she 
 held the beau fast with the other. " And so the 
 story was true, Mr. Noyse ?" 
 
 The antique sat down again. The pair plunged 
 into a fresh torrent of talk, the more absorbing 
 because it was the raking up of an old scandal 
 about some mutual friend, and had to be whis 
 pered in order that it might not reach Milly's 
 maiden ears. They were good for half an hour 
 the young lady was certain of that. She caught 
 words enough to know of what they were talk 
 ing: it was a fearfully long story; she remem 
 bered having heard it whispered by cronies of 
 her aunt's while she was supposed to be busy 
 with her drawing. Children hear every thing 
 nowadays ; the mercy is that they do not com 
 prehend ; though the freedom with which they 
 discuss all sorts of subjects causes ill-natured 
 people to give them credit for knowledge which 
 they are far from possessing. 
 
 Now or never! If she slipped away at once, 
 she could make her venture and get back by 
 the time the history ended. If she hesitated, 
 
 this grand opportunity of doing something pre 
 posterous and appalling was not likely to recur. 
 She was quitting Baden almost on the eve of 
 quitting Europe, and a return was not probable. 
 It was a misdemeanor so out of the common, 
 and so fearful, that, now the instant for decis 
 ion had arrived, it looked perfectly irresistible. 
 What a horribly delightful secret to confide to 
 her intimate friends when she reached home ! 
 They might be able to tell of stolen interviews 
 mysterious flirtations astute dupings of ma 
 ternal guardians but how tame the records 
 would sound in comparison to her own exploit ! 
 Actually to have gambled at Baden and to have 
 won for she should win, she knew that ! She 
 decided at once that, with the improper gains, 
 she would purchase a bracelet which she had 
 lately admired a marvelous beast with more 
 legs than a centipede, and as many eyes as Ar 
 gus, only composed of rubies, and turquoises, 
 and various other stones, and no two eyes made 
 of the same gems. What were insipid flirta 
 tions, no matter how forbidden, to a wicked 
 ness like this ? 
 
 Oh, she must go she should get wild if she 
 waited another instant that idea of overwhelm 
 ing her girlish friends by the confession of 
 her enormity had been the tempter's crowning 
 stroke! She rose from her seat whispered 
 to Mrs. Lawrence that she must seek the dress 
 ing-room because there was something wrong 
 about her multitudinous tresses. "Don't stir," 
 she added ; "it is only a step ; I can get there 
 and back without any body's noticing me." 
 
 The color flamed into her cheeks, and the 
 words nearly choked her ; for she was a truthful 
 little thing, and had not yet acquired the habit 
 only too common among her elders of acting 
 lies. Mrs. Lawrence nodded, without pausing 
 in her rapid whispers, rather glad to have the 
 girl absent for a time, because she had ai-rived 
 at the most exciting point of her narrative, and 
 it required a great effort to keep her voice suffi 
 ciently subdued, so that no syllable should reach 
 her young companion. 
 
 Milly fled into the dressing-room first, be 
 cause- she knew that from thence she could es 
 cape unperceived. I suppose that, at this junc 
 ture, conscience flew oft' with a shriek from the 
 contaminated purlieus of Baden. It is not 
 probable there could chance to be, at the same 
 moment, two persons worth worrying over in 
 that home of dangerous delights ; so, after this 
 dismal failure, there was nothing left for Con 
 science but to fly away to her celestial home, 
 and weep over the downfall of humanity. 
 
 Milly allowed herself no leisure to think ; she 
 drew her white opera-cloak more closely over 
 her shoulders, and sped on so eager to gain the 
 goal of what she considered her diabolical de 
 sires, that each room seemed a thousand miles 
 long, and the green tables a whole world away. 
 Poor little Milly I mean, wicked little Milly 
 it was very wrong ; but, at the risk of appearing 
 to encourage the younger generation in impro 
 priety, for the life of me, I can not help laugh-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 ing at the importance which the transgression 
 assumed in her eyes. Nor was the freak in the 
 least in keeping with her usual conduct. She 
 had a genuine dislike, growing out of her thor 
 ough delicacy, to any thing that looked "fast," 
 or sensational. She had led the quietest possi 
 ble life, under the care of a relative far stricter 
 in her ideas than modern guardians in general. 
 She had read few of the romances which are 
 only too much in vogue ; daily newspapers 
 those curses of American homes she had been 
 taught to avoid ; indiscriminate intimacies with 
 girls of her own age were even unknown to her. 
 In numberless ways, she was fresher and more 
 child-like than most damsels of eighteen. Even 
 her heart had never, in the slightest degree, 
 awakened, and so helped her on toward the 
 tumultuous season of womanhood. She had 
 never had experience of a single flirtation ; 
 never found a temporary hero, except in books ; 
 and, usually, her heroes were evolved out of the 
 wise histories Aunt Eliza had obliged her to 
 read. I am quite aware that she will appear a 
 very tame, uninteresting animal to young ladies 
 learned in the lessons acquired out of hours, in 
 boarding-schools, familiar with dramatic novels, 
 and accustomed to criticise plays from the Gym- 
 nase. But I must write down the facts as they 
 really were, even at the risk of depriving this 
 one instance of depravity, on Milly's part, of all 
 interest in the minds of the youth of to-day. 
 
 This very visit to Europe had been made un 
 der circumstances which would have denuded 
 the idea of any charm, to most girls, and ren 
 dered the reality an unendurable penance.' The 
 Crittendons were distant connections of Mrs. 
 Kemsen's ; and, the previous winter, Mrs. Crit- 
 tendon had suffered from a tedious illness, dur 
 ing which Milly had so often cheered the inva 
 lid by her bright presence, that when, in the 
 spring, the physicians ordered a sea-voyage, and 
 a sojourn of two months at Vichy, Milly's so 
 ciety had been begged as a great favor. It 
 would be a dull, stupid undertaking, old Mr. 
 Crittendon confessed ; but he pleaded so ear 
 nestly, that Milly could not have refused had 
 the stupidity presented itself ever so strongly to 
 her imagination. 
 
 She had a week's sojourn in Paris, a little 
 wandering about Germany, then Mrs. Critton- 
 don was seized with an acute return of her mal 
 ady, and they hastened at once to the Baths. 
 The time had not hung heavily on Milly's 
 hands ; she had no excitement, made few ac 
 quaintances ; but every thing was so new and 
 strange, that the quiet sojourn did not fill her 
 with the weariness and disgust which they 
 would have roused in the bosoms of many of 
 her sex. 
 
 It was the first week in August now ; only 
 a fortnight before, Mrs. Lawrence, having in 
 dulged in one of her frequent visits to Europe, 
 strayed into Vichy, and proposed taking Milly, 
 for a few days, to Baden. Mrs. Crittendon 
 was much better; and both she and her hus 
 band insisted that the invitation should be ac 
 
 cepted. Milly had private doubts of her aunt's 
 approval if that lady could know she was to 
 be trusted to the care of Minerva Lawrence 
 for, in spite of her wise baptismal appellation, 
 and her forty-five years ; in spite, too, of her 
 having been, from childhood, Mrs. Remsen's 
 friend, that dignified person had a very slight 
 opinion of Minerva's wisdom and prudence. 
 However, it was not a case for Milly's decision, 
 and she submitted with a good grace to that of 
 her elders, wild with delight at the idea of see 
 ing the famous place, and certain that Mrs. 
 Lawrence would prove an agreeable compan 
 ion, if not a trustworthy chaperon. 
 
 And this was the result! In her most in 
 sane visions if a mind so well regulated could 
 be supposed to indulge in such Mrs. Remsen 
 would never have dreamed of Milly's sinking 
 into so deep a pit, even under Minerva Law 
 rence's guardianship. It is difficult to see how 
 the good soul could be blamed ; but this would 
 not have saved her from condemnation, could 
 the appalling scene have been made visible to 
 Eliza Remsen. 
 
 Milly Crofton hurried through what seemed 
 the endless suite of rooms, and at last found 
 herself at the entrance of the apartment down 
 which the rouge-et-noir table stretched its sin 
 uous length. It appeared to her that she had 
 taken so much time to reach the spot, that she 
 should already he missed ; but this thought 
 gave her no inclination to go back. . Many 
 girls, more capable of mad freaks than Milly, 
 would have hesitated on the threshold ; but she 
 was rather an odd compound ; childish as every 
 body thought her, there was a force of will at 
 the bottom of her character which kept her de 
 termined and unshaken, now that she had fair 
 ly yielded to the temptation. 
 
 It was already late, and the room was crowd 
 ed to excess. Of all places in the world where 
 she could have ventured, perhaps there was 
 none in which her appearance, unaccompanied, 
 would have attracted so slight notice. The 
 whole vast throng was too eager and engrossed 
 to give her a single glance. People were ei 
 ther trying to push their way toward the tables, 
 surrounded by rows three and four deep, or 
 they were coming away with faces flushed by 
 success, or hurrying out of sight of the spell 
 which, in many instances, had lured them on 
 to ruin and despair. 
 
 Men and women from every civilized nation 
 under the sun were gathered there ; the near 
 est realization possible to the scene the Tower 
 of Babel must have presented might be gained 
 as one listened to the subdued hum of conver 
 sation, subsiding into a complete silence near 
 the tables ; for even the spectators were too 
 much occupied for speech, and only the crou 
 pier's voice, or the quick chink of gold pieces, 
 interrupted the stillness. 
 
 Nobody appeared to see Milly ; nnd she was 
 equally oblivious of the crowd. To get to the 
 board to throw her stake upon it that was 
 the only thought in her mind. She had put 

 
 10 
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 her purse in her pocket while dressing not 
 with a premeditated intention to play ; but she 
 chanced to see it on her table, where she had 
 carelessly left it her boxes were locked, and 
 .she ready to go so she seized the purse and 
 hurried off in obedience to Mrs. Lawrence's im 
 patient summons ; for the good soul was the 
 most restless woman alive, and never could 
 bear to wait an instant. 
 
 Every thing seemed to favor Milly's wrong 
 doing. As she got near one end of the tables, 
 the circle was broken momentarily by a man 
 pushing his way rudely out of the press, with a 
 muttered curse upon his luck. Milly was too 
 busy to look at him, or she might have started 
 back in horror at the white face, the rigid, set 
 features, and the anguish of the dilated eyes. 
 
 The next morning, when the chill, gray dawn 
 broke over Baden, the guardians of the night 
 found a prostrate body lying in a lonely part of 
 the grounds a pistol by the white hand which 
 still clutched at the turf it had torn tip in final 
 agony a stream of blood oozing slowly from 
 the left temple, and staining the grass. But 
 the tragedy has nothing to do with my story, 
 and it was not a sufficiently uncommon one to 
 cause more than brief wonderment. 
 
 Milly only saw the broken cordon of human 
 beings through which, by a quick movement, 
 she could reach the tables. Another second, 
 and she stood so close, that her hands touched 
 the fatal board. She held her purse in her fin 
 gers poured the gold it contained into her 
 palm. There was not a large store only five 
 or six napoleons but as Milly was far from 
 rich, she knew too well the value of money to 
 have regarded it, at a cooler moment, as a small 
 sum. She was acquainted with the manner of 
 playing ; the morning she arrived, the ancient 
 beau Noyse had shown her the gambling-rooms, 
 and explained the mysteries of the game that 
 is, as well as he was able. 
 
 Milly had no space to reflect, or grow fright 
 ened ; she was elbowed and pushed ; no one 
 seemed to regard whether she was old or young ; 
 then out rang the hoarse voice of the croupier, 
 " Failes votrejeu, messieurs!" 
 
 Milly flung a napoleon upon the red she had 
 won. She was too sorely agitated to remove 
 her winnings to think at all and, somehow, 
 the sight of -the gold gave her a sensation of 
 terror, for the first time since she entered the 
 room. A few seconds more, and her stake had 
 doubled trebled quite a pile of yellow pieces 
 lay before her. She became conscious now that 
 ' those close about her were watching some 
 ' vqice advised her, in French, to retire her gains 
 she could not do it she was too much alarm 
 ed she only wanted to get away but the crowd 
 had closed too thickly for any possibility of re 
 treat. 
 
 A few added instants of indecision, while the 
 table swam before her eyes then she heard 
 the cry, " Black wins," and saw her hoard 
 swept away. She uttered a little exclamation 
 it was a kind of rage that took possession of 
 
 her. If, an hour previous, any body had told 
 her that anywhere in her life she could feel 
 such emotions as beset her now, she would have 
 laughed in scornful unbelief. 
 
 She dashed another napoleon upon the board 
 lost! Still another followed lost! I am 
 ashamed to write it she had two left in her 
 hand ; she flung them both down saw them 
 both swept away ! 
 
 As she raised her eyes she saw a man a 
 young man standing opposite, and regarding 
 her with a cold glance of wonder and disap 
 proval. It only needed this to make her hu 
 miliation complete. How she got out of the 
 throng she could not tell ; but she was free, and 
 trying, with tear-blinded eyes, to find her way 
 back to the ball-room tears of bitter shame, 
 such as it was right she should shed, hut as I 
 fear would have been the case with any of us 
 tears of anger, too. 
 
 She took the wrong turn found herself in 
 an apartment that she did not recognize ; and 
 before she could flee, a tall, black-mustached 
 man was bending over her, and saying in 
 French, 
 
 " Don't be afraid ; we never eat pretty girls ; 
 I'll take care of you, my little one." 
 
 He actually touched her arm ; she neither 
 shrieked nor ran simply waved him off, and 
 said, in a voice which was calm in spite of her 
 terror, 
 
 "Let me pass." 
 
 He was making an effort to detain her ; he- 
 fore she could realize any thing, a strong hand 
 pushed him violently back against the wall ; 
 and when Milly could see clearly again, his 
 face was quite black under that iron gripe which 
 had seized him. 
 
 "Don't, please, don't!" she cried. 
 
 The chevalier released the Frenchman, point 
 ed to the door, and, after an instant's hesita 
 tion, the animal retreated, probably not caring 
 to risk a second embrace from his antagonist. 
 
 In the midst of her alarm, Milly could see 
 distinctly enough to know that the gentleman 
 who had protected her was young, and evident 
 ly either English or American. She was trem 
 bling from head to foot ; past tears now but 
 she said, piteously, 
 
 " I want to get back to the ball-room ; I have 
 lost my way." 
 
 "Allow me to show it you," he said, offer 
 ing his arm with grave courtesy. 
 
 He led her through the chambers in silence. 
 Half dead as she was, a new fear broke over 
 Milly's mind. She stole a second glance at 
 his face it was the countenance she had seen 
 watching her as she fled from the tables. What 
 must he think but she was too cold and life 
 less to care much. She was filled with horror 
 and remorse as disproportionate to the magni 
 tude of her offense as could well be perceived ; 
 besides this, she was sane enough to remember 
 that she had lost the sum put by for the pur 
 chase of a present for Aunt Eliza. 
 
 Milly felt that there was nothing left but to
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME, 
 
 II 
 
 die she certainly had disgraced herself to all 
 eternity she would have liked to confess to 
 somebody, any body tell just what had led her 
 on it seemed as if there would be a kind of 
 relief in putting her dismal secret into words. 
 Again she stole a look at the handsome, grave 
 face beside her perhaps with some wild, child 
 ish thought of telling her story then and there, 
 stranger as he was. But, fortunately, they had 
 reached the ball-room Milly saw Mrs. Law 
 rence and the beau, evidently seeking her. She 
 pointed to them, half whispering, 
 
 " Oh, what will they think ! I I ran away 
 into the other rooms first first I thought I 
 could get back before they missed me." 
 
 The gentleman smiled, half compassionate 
 ly, half in amusement : looking at her more 
 closely than he had before done, he saw how 
 young she was. 
 
 " Is that the lad v you were with ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes I" 
 
 "Mrs. Lawrence is an old friend of mine," 
 he continued ; "I don't think she will scold." 
 
 "But but I wouldn't like her to know 
 about that I was spoken to Oh dear, I 
 want to go home." 
 
 She was half sobbing now, and the stranger 
 appeared a little afraid of a scene. At this in 
 stant the beau perceived Milly, and hurried up 
 with Mrs. Lawrence; and the two began to ex 
 claim and question. 
 
 "Why, Milly Crofton, you frightened me 
 half to death where on earth have you been ?" 
 cried the lady ; while the beau nodded and gur 
 gled, and grew scarlet with excitement. " Good 
 gracious, Mr. Ilalford, I didn't know you were 
 in Baden ! Where did you come from it is 
 ages And you jqined Milly " 
 
 " Miss Crofton lost her way, and I had the 
 good fortune to meet her," he answered, speak 
 ing Milly's name as composedly as if he had 
 been familiar with it for the last ten years. 
 
 "Why, however did you manage, Milly ! Oh 
 inercy, I know you turned out of the wrong door 
 you poor dear! Never mind, we'll go home 
 there, there, don't mind," said Mrs. Law 
 rence, too busy soothing the girl's agitation to 
 wonder how or when she could have known Mr. 
 Ilalford. Milly was horribly angry at her own 
 childishness ; but she could scarcely keep her 
 tears from falling, and words were an utter im 
 possibility. 
 
 "She'll be glad to get away," pursued Mrs. 
 Lawrence, putting her hand on Milly's arm. 
 "And when did you come to Baden, Mr. Hal- 
 ford ?" 
 
 "Only yesterday, and am off early in the 
 morning. I came to spend a day with some 
 friends, but am returning to Paris at once." 
 
 He glanced so meaningly toward Milly, who 
 was shaking from head to foot, that even Mrs. 
 Lawrence discovered he thought it her duty to 
 take the poor child away immediately ; so she 
 hurried the ancient Noyse off, only stopping six 
 separate times, according to her habit, for more 
 last words with Mr. Halford. 
 
 Milly caught a bow from the stranger, a 
 grave, kindly smile, and the next thing she 
 could remember, though she walked on steadi 
 ly enough, was finding herself in the carriage 
 and hearing Mrs. Lawrence and the antique 
 still in animated conversation. 
 
 "But goodness me!" cried the chaperon, 
 rushing back into Milly's chamber that night, 
 after getting partially undressed, "I forgot to 
 ask how on earth did you happen to know 
 Kenneth Ilalford ? He hasn't been in Ameri 
 ca these ten years." 
 
 " I didn't know him ; he he " 
 
 Here Milly's latest shred of composure gave 
 way, and she sobbed until Mrs. Lawrence for 
 got every thing in the necessity of quieting and 
 putting her to bed. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 MILLY'S ADVENTURE. 
 
 Two days later, Milly was safe under Mrs. 
 Crittendon's guardianship; and the visit to Ba 
 den seemed a dream one of those horribly 
 fascinating dreams which are half nightmare, 
 and the more interesting from that touch of 
 the terrible. Milly could not dismiss that last 
 evening's exploit from her mind ; it filled her 
 with shame and remorse ; and she would have 
 given a great deal had there been some one to 
 whom she could reveal her fault, and from 
 whom she might receive the severe lecture and 
 penance due to so enormous a transgression. 
 
 But she kept her own counsel ; to attempt a 
 confession to her friends was a simple impossi 
 bility ; her exaggerated view of the case made 
 her dread their pronouncing it unpardonable. 
 She knew that they were rather strict in their 
 ideas, and had visions of being deserted on the 
 spot at least of their telling Aunt Eliza and 
 what would befall her then was too awful to 
 contemplate. The next winter was to witness 
 her presentation in society ; if Mrs. Remsen 
 were to learn what she had done, there would 
 be an end to that hope. The mildest retri 
 bution she could imagine as likely to happen 
 was banishment to a convent ; and straightway 
 there rose before Milly a picture of herself with 
 her pretty hair cut short, her face half hidden 
 under an unbecoming coif, and the chanting 
 of dreary psalms the chief occupation of her 
 life. Not that the vision had the slightest 
 show of reason for a basis Milly knew that 
 well enough but she had just been reading an 
 old novel where a similar fate befell the hero 
 ine ; and the convent imprisonment suggested 
 itself to her mind as the method of punishment 
 her relative would adopt, though it is probable 
 that even to fancy a good church-woman capa 
 ble of such Papistical wickedness would have 
 offended Aunt Eliza more than the original 
 fault which Milly deplored so bitterly. 
 
 'She might in safety have eased her con 
 science by an avowal to Mrs. Lawrence; but,
 
 12 
 
 JOHN WORTIIINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 in her most tragic moments, Milly could not 
 help feeling confident that the frivolous Miner 
 va would laugh and treat the whole affair as an 
 excellent joke. So she kept her own counsel ; 
 but the secret preyed upon her night and day 
 till she felt like a woman in a. romance going 
 about with a history and a mystery which made 
 an invisible ban between herself and others of 
 her age ; and it was all inexpressibly horrible, 
 though with a certain sensational interest about 
 it which was painfully agreeable. 
 
 It frightened her sometimes to remember 
 that her secret was not wholly in her own keep 
 ing. Mr. Halford had seen her at the tables 
 she was sure of that the recollection of his 
 grave face watching her was clear in her mind, 
 though, at the moment, she had thought as lit 
 tle of him as she did of the crowd around her. 
 If she should ever meet him again! the idea 
 was too dreadful, and she ahvnys got away from 
 it as fast as possible, though it would return 
 with sullen persistency, and she often dreamed 
 of him sitting on a throne, in the traditional 
 stage-dress of Kichard III. only the effect was 
 slightly marred by his always wearing a smok- 
 ing-cap on his head, instead of n. crown and 
 Aunt Eliza dragging her up to the foot of the 
 judgment -seat, to receive sentence. Here, 
 again, the grotesque mixed itself up with trage 
 dy; for Aunt Eliza invariably appeared with 
 Joan of Arc's mailed coat over her crinoline ; 
 and Milly would be conscious, in the midst of 
 her own agony, that her feet were bare, and 
 that her only garment was an old yellow-flan 
 nel dressing-gown, which had belonged to her 
 nurse, and which she had not recollected for 
 years until it thus thrust itself into her visions. 
 
 She seemed so dull and languid, that the 
 Crittendons reproached themselves for having 
 allowed her to .stay so much confined, and, as 
 Mrs. Crittendon's health was fully restored, de 
 cided to make a journey to Geneva. Mrs. Law 
 rence always glad of society and change ac 
 companied them ; and Milly enjoyed the expe 
 dition so thoroughly, that her remorse ceased 
 to torment her so constantly. It was some 
 what late for a visit to Chamouni, but Mrs. 
 Crittendon insisted that the rest of the party 
 should go, while she remained comfortably in 
 the quiet city ; and her husband yielded to her 
 wishes, after the commendable habit customary 
 with American husbands. 
 
 They reached Chamouni in the evening ; and 
 the next morning, at the first peep of dawn, 
 Milly was up, and out, to catch a glimpse of 
 Mont Blanc, and repeat Coleridge's poem, as 
 any girl barely eighteen ought to do an inno 
 cent enthusiasm we wise older people would 
 give the world to be capable of, however much 
 we may laugh at it. 
 
 The day after, they mounted on mules, and 
 rode oft' to the Mer de Glace ; and Milly was 
 in such extravagantly high spirits that her 
 companions caught the infection ; and if Mrs. 
 Remsen could have heard Minerva Lawrence's 
 shrieks of laughter and nonsensical talk, she 
 
 would have regarded that plump body with 
 more pitying contempt than of old. Milly nev 
 er once remembered her dismal secret, and the 
 day was one of unclouded enjoyment until the 
 return, during which her unusual excitement 
 made her a little reckless ; and, encouraged by 
 Minerva's approval, she insisted on urging her 
 mule forward more rapidly than was prudent, 
 in spite of the expostulations of the guides. 
 
 Of course, I brought her out to Chamouni on 
 purpose to meet with an adventure : conscious 
 that my story is not likely to prove very ro 
 mantic, I am glad to crowd all the incidents I 
 can into these opening chapters, consoling my 
 self for their lack of novelty by the fact that 
 thej- actually occurred. So Milly urged on her 
 mule, and Minerva laughed and applauded ; the 
 guides spluttered admonitions in French and 
 German ; and good Mr. Crittendon was too 
 much engaged in keeping himself secure in the 
 saddle, and wondering what could have tempt 
 ed a man of his years, weight, and tender flesh, 
 to trust himself upon such an instrument of 
 torture, to pay much attention. 
 
 On went the willful girl ; and at length the 
 mule, roused out of her customary staid behav 
 ior, either became infected with something of 
 her rider's excitement, or else determined to give 
 the young woman a lesson which should serve 
 as a warning for the future. Two of the guides 
 were occupied with Minerva, who, however 
 much she admired Milly's courage, was far from 
 imitating it, and shrieked dolefully each time 
 either of the men tried to quit her side. The 
 third was busy assisting Mr. Crittendon ; the 
 fourth hurried after Milly, uttering counsels 
 and prayers in French, and breaking them, at 
 intervals, with awful German oaths, each of 
 whicli was "at least a yard long. Away dashed 
 the mule she owned the poetic name of "The 
 Morning Star " and, though she did not at 
 tempt to sing, seemed inclined to emulate the 
 swift motion of that planet. Milly would have 
 checked her course now, but it was too late ; 
 the Morning Star had taken the bit between 
 her teeth, and pranced on down the narrow 
 path. Milly did not shriek : she was fright 
 ened, but glancing back, saw that her guide 
 was in hot pursuit, and tried to believe that 
 he would overtake them in time to prevent 
 danger. The path made a sharp turn the 
 mule stumbled a shriek broke from Minerva's 
 lips, echoed by the guide, which roused Mr. 
 Crittendon to a sense of Milly's peril. It was 
 only the work of a moment, long as it takes in 
 the description. Milly was conscious of a 
 lightning-like thought that this was death her 
 dazzled vision caught the immeasurable depth, 
 with only a few feet of the path between her 
 and it, and that so steep that, once over the 
 side, nothing could stop her swift descent into 
 the chasm. Every thing slid before her eyes 
 as if she had already commenced that terrible 
 fall ; she could not cry out could only remem 
 ber that there was no help watching always 
 the shining snow, while a thousand sights from
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 13 
 
 the old life in her far-off home rose, like phan 
 toms, between her and the great white depth. 
 
 The mule struggled recovered herself 
 dashed on a second turn a quick curve the 
 abyss frowned below, without even a ravine to 
 break the immeasurable distance ! Then new 
 shouts and cries blind, sick, and faint, Milly 
 became aware of a party approaching up the 
 path another instant, and she knew that the 
 animal's speed was checked, and she lifted from 
 the saddle. When her senses came back, she 
 was lying on the ground, her head supported 
 in Minerva's lap ; Mr. Crittendon was fairly 
 wringing his hands ; Minerva in hysterics ; the 
 guides performing a sort of red-Indian dance 
 of craze and fright : the only quiet object that 
 met her eyes was the sad, grave face which 
 bent toward her the face of the man who had 
 witnessed her crazy exploit at the gaming-table. 
 
 The girl's first connected thought was that 
 it would have been better to go with Morning 
 Star straight over the precipice than be saved 
 by this man, and forced to remember the se 
 cret which lie shared. But a second glance at 
 the countenance showed it so full of anxiety, 
 that she rather forgot her longing for death, 
 and was able to laugh, soothe Minerva's hys 
 terics and Mr. Crittendon's distress, and utter 
 a few broken expressions of regret. 
 
 "Ari*d where on earth did you come from, 
 Mr. Halford ? Oh, Milly, Milly ! I believe my 
 hair has turned gray with fright !" moaned Mrs. 
 Lawrence, coming out of her hysterics to grat 
 ify one of the strongest instincts of her nature 
 curiosity. " The first thing I saw was you 
 holding that dreadful beast's bridle, as if you 
 had flown up the precipice." 
 
 "Not exactly," he replied. "I reached 
 Chamouni just after you had started this morn 
 ing, and proposed to these gentlemen to over 
 take you. We should have done so, but one 
 of our partj r was indisposed, and we had to 
 leave him at the last chalet ; but, after all, we 
 reached you at the right moment." 
 
 Milly, lying with her head on Minerva's lap, 
 listened to the explanation, glancing long 
 enough at the other men to perceive that they 
 were three young Englishmen, evidently fresh 
 from the University, and, of course, too youth 
 ful to possess the slightest interest to the eyes 
 of eighteen. 
 
 "There never was anything so fortunate, 
 Halford!" said Mr. Crittendon, shaking his 
 hand warmly. "If our little girl had I mean, 
 if it hadn't ended as it has Bless me, that 
 brute of a mule ought to be killed at once !" he 
 added, finding that to finish the sentence he 
 had begun caused a suspicious gurgling in his 
 throat, and anxious, like most people, to avoid 
 dramatics. 
 
 "At all events, there is no harm done," Hal- 
 ford said, cheerfully. " The next thing is to 
 get Miss Crofton back to the inn." 
 
 " I am not in the least hurt," Milly answered, 
 trying to raise her head, but feeling so dizzy 
 and odd still that she decided to relinquish the 
 
 effort. "I can ride easily enough. Don't be 
 anxious, Mr. Crittendon. Oh, I am so sorry 
 to have frightened you all !" 
 
 " We are very glad to be quits for the fright, 
 Milly," he replied. "But how can we man 
 age, Halford ? We ought to have a litter, or 
 something." 
 
 "Mercy, no!" cried Milly, rather impatient 
 ly, raising herself this time, while the color came 
 back to her checks ; and the three youths, hud 
 dled together at a little distance, like a covey 
 of frightened partridges, wondered that any 
 thing human could look so pretty, and straight 
 way became her victims for the moment. "I 
 can ride perfectly well ; poor old Morning Star 
 was not to blame for stumbling." 
 
 "You sha'n't ride her!" squeaked Minerva. 
 "The awfullest brute why those guides ought 
 to be hanged for keeping an animal of the sort. 
 She's fitter for a menagerie of wild beasts 
 than any thing else." 
 
 Poor Morning Star stood with her bridle held 
 by one of the guides, her ears drooping, her 
 head down, with so ludicrous an expression of 
 shame and wonder on her visage, that Milly be 
 gan to laugh then stopped quickly, lest she 
 should cry also. 
 
 "Miss Crofton can take my mule," Halford 
 said : " a wooden one couldn't be safer. I'll 
 ride Morning Star." 
 
 He ordered the guides to change the sad 
 dles, talked cheerfully with Minerva and Mr. 
 Crittendon, tried to put his three youthful com 
 panions at their ease, and distracted the gen 
 eral attention from Milly with a kindly tact 
 which she fully appreciated. 
 
 "But you were going on up," Mr. Critten 
 don said. 
 
 " No, our friend's little illness hindered us so 
 long that we decided to put off our expedition 
 until another day, and only came on to meet 
 you." 
 
 "We shall be uncommonly glad of your com 
 pany down," Mr. Crittendon replied. " I'm 
 rather old and heavy for these sort of expeditions 
 especially when it comes to taking charge of 
 young ladies." 
 
 "Please " began Milly, thinking that his 
 words implied a slight reproach ; but he inter 
 rupted her. 
 
 " My dear, it was not your fault ; and if it 
 had been, I'm too happy to see you safe to lec 
 ture. All the same, I shall be very glad if 
 these gentlemen will go back with us." 
 
 The three youths came sufficiently out of the 
 bewilderment into which they had been thrown 
 by Milly's pretty face, added to their constitu 
 tional shyness, to express a proper delight at 
 the privilege. 
 
 By this time Milly could stand and walk 
 about, and announced herself quite ready to 
 continue the descent. She did not speak often 
 to Halford, though she was longing to thank 
 him for his kindness ; but she grew afraid and 
 ashamed whenever she recollected their first 
 meeting, and was anxious to depart.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 The ride down passed in the most common 
 place manner. Halford did not even beg the 
 happiness of walking beside Milly, as a man 
 would have done in a novel ; and it was certain 
 that he could scarcely have taken as good care 
 of her as did the chief guide, who stalked stern 
 ly along at the mule's head, and made a move 
 ment to catch the bridle if Milly so much as 
 looked up, apparently suspecting her of an in 
 tention to attempt a second escapade. Mr. 
 Crittendon and Halford kept near each other ; 
 and the youths were able to talk to Minerva, 
 since she was not that (to them) most formida 
 ble of created beings a young girl. So Milly 
 had a rather silent ride, and ample time for nu 
 merous reflections so absorbing, that she for 
 got to admire, as diligently as she ought, the 
 wonderful panorama spread out before her eyes. 
 On reaching the chalet, they found that the in 
 valid had entirely recovered from his indispo 
 sition, and had returned to Chamouni without 
 waiting for his companions. Scarcely a word 
 was exchanged between Milly and Halford dur 
 ing the whole ride ; and before they reached the 
 inn, the feeling of restraint and shyness had 
 arrived at such a pitch that she only sought to 
 escape from his presence. There was a strong 
 probability that, with the usual inconsistency of 
 human nature, she would proceed to hate him 
 because she had placed herself in a somewhat 
 questionable position in his thoughts that is, 
 if he was inclined to pass harsh judgments on a 
 girl of her age. 
 
 Finding that Mr. Crittendon had invited the 
 party of gentlemen to dine with them, Milly in 
 formed Mrs. Lawrence that she was too weaiy 
 to sit up another moment, and retired to her 
 room. She was at once punished for her half 
 fib ; Minerva would not leave her till she had 
 forced several infallible remedies on her, and 
 given orders to her maid to look in upon Miss 
 Crofton every fifteen minutes, lest she should be 
 taken with a fainting-fit, or spasms, or some 
 other feminine malady requiring attention. 
 
 " Spasms !" cried Milly, ungratefully, in great 
 scorn. "As for fainting, I never did such a 
 thing in my life really and I am not likely to 
 begin now." 
 
 She spoke as if she were at least three-score- 
 and-ten, according to the habit of her age. 
 
 " Oh dear me, you were as white and limp 
 as that handkerchief, when they laid your head 
 in my lap," moaned Minerva. "Oh, Elise!" 
 this to the maid "you never saw any thing 
 so dreadful in your whole life ! Did I tell you 
 exactly how it all happened ?" 
 
 She had at least fifteen times since they 
 got up stairs but the well-trained attendant 
 was ready to listen again, and express suitable 
 alarm in voluble French, and such English as 
 she could muster. 
 
 " Of course, you've told her," said Milly, ir 
 ritably ; for her nerves were too sorely disor 
 dered for her to emulate the Parisian's pa 
 tience. 
 
 "You are trembling this moment; you must 
 
 have some red lavender," pronounced Minerva, 
 rushing to the little medicine-chest which she 
 always carried with her, and which was the 
 horror of her friends. 
 
 " I can't swallow another thing," pleaded 
 Milly. "I only want to get to bed I'll have 
 some tea later." 
 
 "Oh, but the lavender would set you up at 
 once," urged Minerva. "You're all of a shiv 
 er; just like a a what is the word? Elise, 
 what is it shakes and shakes always ?" 
 
 "I did not forget for the moment," returned 
 Elise, staring at her mistress as if she thought 
 it was a conundrum proposed for her solution. 
 "There is the how you say in English gle 
 dcs prids de veau that shake and shake ever." 
 
 "No, no, how stupid!" said her mistress. 
 "Dear me, the word is on the end of my 
 tongue." 
 
 Elise looked helpless, but stared at the lady 
 as if trying to get a glimpse of her lingual 
 adornment, in the hope of seeing the desired 
 word. "I was never good at the calembours," 
 she said, meekly. 
 
 " The woman's mad !" cried Minerva, spread 
 ing out her plump hands and laughing hearti 
 ly, then breaking off to add, "Hush, hush, 
 Elise ! you mustn't make a noise ; Miss Crof- 
 ton's nerves won't bear it." 
 
 The Frenchwoman, who always moted like 
 a cat, and spoke in the lowest of monotones, 
 stood aghast at this undeserved charge ; and 
 the whole thing was so ridiculous that Milly 
 began to laugh and sob and shake more vio 
 lently. Minerva flew about in great agitation, 
 knocked over every light object within her 
 reach, upset her medicine-case, and created the 
 confusion that well-meaning people usually do 
 in the presence of an emergency. 
 
 "If you'll only leave me alone for a while," 
 sobbed Milly, throwing herself on the bed. 
 "Please please just for half an hour. I 
 shall be perfectly well then." 
 
 "Why, of course, of course," said Minerva. 
 " Elise, don't worry the poor thing ; how can 
 you? Now here's the lavender, Milly; I'll set 
 it on the table; here's a spoon: don't tease her, 
 Elise." 
 
 Milly was ready to promise to swallow the 
 whole medicine-chest, if her friend would only 
 leave her alone ; and having exhausted every 
 means of good-natured torment that suggest 
 ed itself to her mind, Mrs. Lawrence departed, 
 driving Elise out before her as if the docile 
 woman had been some mischievous animal not 
 to be trusted for an instant. 
 
 The door closed, Milly turned her head on 
 her pillow with a long sigh of relief ; but in an 
 instant the rusty hinges creaked again. Mrs. 
 Lawrence put her head into the room and ex 
 claimed, in an unearthly whisper, 
 
 ".Milly, Milly, I've found the word aspen ! 
 Of course ; I said it was just on the tip of my 
 tongue aspen, to be sure ! Now, Elise, don't 
 make a noise ; step softly; you don't know what 
 weak nerves are."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 li 
 
 This time she absolutely departed, and for a 
 long hour Milly was left to herself, and, having 
 finished her cry, could go comfortably to sleep. 
 Then Elise, the light-footed, brought her a de 
 licious dish of tea and a tiny bird ; and Milly 
 felt much better, though she instructed the 
 maid to tell Mrs. Lawrence that she meant to 
 go to bed at once, and sent her good-night, that 
 she need not be disturbed by a second visit. 
 
 Milly sat at her window, looking out over 
 the narrow valley, and watched the gray twi 
 light settle into the gloom of evening. The last 
 faint glow died from the highest mountain 
 peaks a few stars shot up into the sky a soft, 
 velvety darkness settled about the murmur of 
 unseen water-falls came up through the dis 
 tance, and there Milly sat, and wondered, and 
 dreamed, sorely perplexed between her grati 
 tude to Kenneth Halford for this day's deliver 
 ance and her irritated recollection of the night 
 at Baden, which really seemed to make it her 
 duty to detest him with great energy ; it was 
 the only means of escape from that overwhelm 
 ing sense of shame. 
 
 However, fatigue subdued her at length ; she 
 was forced to put by both remorse and her un 
 settled feelings, where Halford was concerned, 
 until another season, for she was so sleepy that 
 she could scarcely see to undress. 
 
 At her age, and with her perfect health, a 
 night's quiet sleep was sufficient to remove ev 
 ery trace of the weariness left by her previous 
 day's excitement. She rose early, had a cup 
 of coffee in her room, and went out for a long 
 walk, before the substantial breakfast which 
 Mr. Crittendon always expected to have at pre 
 cisely half-past eight o'clock. 
 
 In this world Fate seems to have a special 
 pleasure in confronting us with the very per 
 sons whom we could most wish to avoid ; and 
 the truth of the remark was proved in Milly's 
 case this morning. She walked about the ham 
 let for a while, returned toward the hotel, and 
 took the path up to the field from whence she 
 had once watched Mont Blanc in the gray 
 dawn. Some one had reached the best point 
 of observation before her ; a single glance 
 showed who it was, and she would have re 
 treated ; but, in her reverie, she had walked so 
 close to the spot that the sound of her footsteps 
 roused Kenneth Halford, and he turned toward 
 her with a pleasant-enough smile, though, po 
 lite as he was, Milly fancied she saw in his face 
 that he would have preferred his solitary mus 
 ings to any companionship. 
 
 "I hope you are quite recovered from yes 
 terday's fatigue, Miss Crofton," he said, " and 
 have had a good night's rest." 
 
 " Thanks, yes," she answered. 
 
 "At your age one does not require long to 
 get over fatigue, and sleep comes very easily." 
 
 "Bless me, "thought Milly: "he talks as if 
 I was about ten years old, and he Methuselah, 
 at least." 
 
 "You leave for Geneva this afternoon, Mr. 
 Crittendon tells me," he went on, evidently 
 
 thinking her silence rose from shyness, and 
 wishing to put her at ease. 
 
 That idea made Milly more vexed than ever ; 
 she only bowed carelessly, by way of answer, 
 and turned to study the king of mountains, 
 glorious in the early morning light, with his 
 robe of clouds and diadem of snow. 
 
 " I suppose you have already quoted, 
 
 " ' Hast thou a spell to stay the morning star 
 Oil her swift course, O bald and sovran Blanc !' 
 
 he said, with what seemed to her a sort of su 
 perior smile. 
 
 He had not given the words exactly there 
 was a slight satisfaction in this, as it gave her 
 an opportunity to smile in her turn. 
 
 "I have made a mistake, I suppose," he add 
 ed. " You see it is a long time since I studied 
 Coleridge." 
 
 "And why did you suppose him fresh in my 
 mind?" Milly asked, unadvisedly, still rather in 
 the mood for warfare. 
 
 "Because he is usually a favorite with very 
 young people," he replied ; " not but what he 
 ought to be with us older ones, only, as we get 
 on through the world, there's less leisure for 
 poetry-studying." 
 
 "You speak as if you were old enough to be 
 Mr. Crittendon's grandfather," said she, con 
 scious that the words sounded almost rude, and, 
 worse, that her evident irritation was a convin 
 cing proof of extreme youthfulness, but not able 
 to check either. 
 
 "I am not sure that, at least, I mightn't al 
 most be yours," he answered, with a pleasant 
 laugh. 
 
 "Do you think me about ten ?" she asked, 
 with a small violence which she felt to be very 
 undignified, but could not repress. 
 
 "Perhaps one might add ten or eleven years 
 to it," he said ; and it was plain that he had a 
 certain satisfaction in her vehemence, which 
 made her look prettier than she knew. 
 
 "I am eighteen," exclaimed Milly, trying to 
 speak disdainfully, but succeeding poorly. "At 
 least, I shall be next week," she added, forced 
 on to the concluding confession by a prick of 
 her uncomfortable conscience, that would never 
 let her alone. 
 
 "It's a very nice thing to be eighteen," he 
 said, gravely. 
 
 Milly hesitated whether to reproach him with 
 looking old, or sneering at his claims. She de 
 cided in favor of the latter, as he was a hand 
 some man. 
 
 " I should scarcely suppose it Was long enough 
 since you passed that season to have any great 
 regret," said she. 
 
 He laughed outright a slow, musical laugh, 
 but it irritated Milly's nerves sorely. 
 
 "What age should you give me ?" he asked. 
 
 "Really, we have fallen upon a very Ameri 
 can train of conversation," returned she, with 
 another attempt at disdainfulness. "English 
 people say we can never talk two minutes with 
 out bringing up that subject."
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 " Mayn't we claim our little peculiarities as 
 well as other nations ?" demanded he, in the 
 same teasing way. " But you've not answered 
 my question ! Perhaps you are afraid of hurt 
 ing my feelings, by putting on too many years." 
 
 "You may be twenty-six," said Milly, re 
 gardless of conscience now. 
 
 " What a nice bit of flattery that would be, 
 if I were only fifty, instead of three-and-thirty," 
 he replied, laughing again. 
 
 Thirty-three was exactly Milly's pet age for 
 her heroes ; she felt a little softened toward the 
 man ; besides, though the face was rather sad 
 and worn, it showed no lack of youth ; and, 
 much as Milly detested boys, she hated wrink 
 les worse. 
 
 "And you are going back to America soon," 
 lie said, dismissing the subject of years so sud 
 denly, that Milly, given to fancies, wondered if 
 their conversation had roused some sad thought 
 in his mind. "It is almost ten years since I 
 came away." 
 
 "It must be delightful to travel as you have 
 done," Milly said ; for she knew that he had 
 held a diplomatic appointment in Egypt, and 
 written a rather wise book, which, naturally, 
 she had not read. 
 
 "Still, I should be very glad to see home 
 again," he replied. "I say home, though I 
 have nobody left who could make it such." 
 
 These words, quietly as they were spoken, 
 touched Milly ; she was a sympathetic little 
 soul, and any thing in the shape of sorrow or 
 sadness appealed to her at once. 
 
 "You live with your aunt, Mrs. Remsen, Mr. 
 Crittendon tells me I used to know her years 
 ago, and her eldest daughter I believe she is 
 Mrs. Ramsay now." 
 
 "My cousin Adelaide oh yes," Milly said, 
 rather indifferently ; for it was difficult to at 
 tempt interest where that lady was concerned. 
 
 " Didn't you like my aunt very much ? She 
 is so good ! " 
 
 " A woman to respect and admire greatly," 
 he said. " I believe I used to be rather a fa 
 vorite with her as a boy. I wonder I never 
 chanced to see you in my visits." 
 
 " Oh, aunt never allowed the children in the 
 drawing-room that was her law then, while 
 Adelaide reigned " Milly stopped, remem 
 bering that it would not be nice to find fault 
 with her cousin to a stranger. "Don't you 
 mean to go back to America?" she asked. 
 
 " Some time I have thoughts of returning to 
 Egypt I don't know that there is any thing to 
 take me to my old home." 
 
 Milly was conscious oif a vague feeling of 
 disappointment, though, for the life of her, she 
 could not have told why ; but the feeling rose, 
 and her perception of it, in some odd way, re 
 minded her that she had meant to hate this 
 man. On the heels of that thought came the 
 recollection of their first meeting. The color 
 flamed into her cheeks, a startled expression 
 crept into her eyes. She glanced quickly about, 
 and some wild desire to run away and hide her 
 
 self started up in her mind. While playing 
 with a pretty Alpine weed he had plucked, 
 Kenneth Halford watched her furtively. He 
 was a peculiar man in many respects, and his 
 intuitions were almost as quick and unerring 
 as a woman's. He knew as well as if she had 
 put it in words, what the reflection was that 
 disturbed her. He began to talk of his trav 
 els of a Nile journey of Greece. Milly grew 
 interested, and showed that books had made 
 her perfectly familiar with the scenes of which 
 he spoke. The conversation glided naturally 
 to other subjects pictures the new novels 
 certain old and beloved poets, whom the start 
 ling geniuses of the past ten years have not 
 wholly banished from men's memories. 
 
 They strolled slowly along, talking in the 
 most animated manner; and when they ap 
 proached the hotel, Halford was astonished to 
 find how quickly the time had fled, and what 
 a sympathetic, intelligent companion Milly 
 proved ; for, like many men b'etween thirty and 
 thirty-five, he was given to regarding girls as 
 only a superior sort of dolls, incapable of any 
 thing beyond an interest in their toilets, and a 
 weak attempt at flirtation. One exception to 
 this sweeping condemnation he always made 
 that is, when he allowed himself to recall the 
 solitary instance but that was as seldom as 
 possible ; for stern, old, and practical as he con 
 sidered himself, these ten long years of absence 
 had not wholly obliterated the memory of a bit 
 ter pain and wrong received at the hands of the 
 one girl whom he had weakly believed so differ 
 ent from the generality of her sex. 
 
 While he was mentally wondering at the ra 
 pidity with which this last hour had flown, Mil 
 ly was indulging in a second's reflection too, 
 but a less pleasant one than his. Again the 
 gambling-room at Baden rose before her eyes 
 herself standing by the green table clutch 
 ing her litttle store of gold with one hand the 
 rush, the whirl, the dizziness and this man's 
 grave face watching her. She felt no anger 
 now ; she only remembered that they must part 
 in a few hours, perhaps never to meet again ; 
 and she could not bear to let him go without 
 attempting, if not an excuse for her conduct, at 
 least an expression of her shame. What must 
 he think of her composed and careless as she 
 had been this past hour unconcerned as though 
 their first meeting had been under the most 
 decorous circumstances! She was ready agai i 
 to run away and hide herself; but she would 
 not yield to such cowardice she would do 
 what was right without delay. If she could not 
 change his opinion of her terrible act, at least 
 he should see plainly how bitterly she regret 
 ted it. 
 
 "Mr. Halford!" she exclaimed, stopping 
 short, as they neared the house. 
 
 Her voice sounded so odd and labored, that 
 he turned toward her in surprise. She had 
 grown pale, and her changeful eyes were un 
 naturally bright with pain. 
 
 "You are not well," he said, anxiously;
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 17 
 
 " you have walked too far ! How careless of 
 me to forget that you were not strong just now." 
 
 "No, no," she said, eagerly; "it's not that 
 it's Oh, there's something I want to say, 
 and I don't know how to begin." 
 
 "Come sit down on that bench," he said; 
 "you must not stand any longer." 
 
 "No I'd rather walk about it's easier," 
 she replied, in the same breathless fashion, 
 though never for an instant faltering in her re 
 solve. " I want to tell you I want to say " 
 
 "Take time, Miss Crofton," returned he, 
 smiling kindly. "I am not a very formidable 
 person " 
 
 "I'm a fool, "broke in Milly; "but I will 
 not be so silly ! I Oh, it's too late see ! 
 they are coming." 
 
 Halford followed the direction of her eyes; 
 as usual, an interruption had arrived at a critic 
 al moment. The three young Englishmen were 
 close upon them, and Halford had to engage 
 the trio in conversation, and afford Milly an 
 opportunity to escape. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE EXPLANATION. 
 
 MR. CRITTENDON came down to breakfast 
 somewhat tired, and indisposed for exertion, 
 after the unusual fatigues of the previous day ; 
 and Mrs. Lawrence, who delighted in nothing 
 so much as having a friend at hand with some 
 slight ailment, upon which she could exercise 
 her medicinal skill, insisted on their remaining 
 at Chamouni until the next morning. 
 
 "Your wife will not really expect us before," 
 she said, "and I don't like the idea of your 
 undertaking the tedious drive until you are 
 thoroughly rested. I'll look out some reme 
 dies I've just the thing for you, I am sure." 
 
 He hesitated somewhat perhaps as much 
 from a dread of Minerva's doctoring as any 
 thing else ; but just then, from her seat in the 
 window, she saw Milly conversing with Halford 
 and the young Englishmen, and pointed out 
 the group to the old gentleman. 
 
 "She would enjoy the day, I know," said 
 Mrs. Lawrence ; " and she's such a dear little 
 thing, that one likes to give her pleasure." 
 
 " The best child in the world," pronounced 
 Mr. Crittendon ; " as unlike modern young la 
 dies in general, as if she had been brought up 
 in another planet." 
 
 " Oh, that comes of Eliza Remsen's absurd 
 ideas," returned Mrs. Lawrence, impatiently ; 
 " she always was the most crochetty woman 
 that ever lived. But I'm very fond of Milly, 
 and it would be a kindness to her to stay. 
 The young people can go off on some expedi 
 tion, and I'll go too; and you can rest com 
 fortably." 
 
 The restless body was as eager as a girl for 
 amusement, and enjoyed the idea of remaining, 
 on her own account; though it is only justice 
 2 
 
 to add, that she would have staid as willingly 
 in any case, if it could have obliged one whom 
 she liked. 
 
 "We'll call it settled," said she, triumph 
 antly. 
 
 "Yes, if Milly wishes." 
 
 " Oh, put it on that ground, and she'll say 
 go. You must tell her you need rest, and in 
 deed you do. Let me see Sepia no, scarce 
 ly ;" and she put her head on one side, and 
 contemplated him with an air of as profound 
 wisdom as if she had received her degree at 
 the Sorbonne. "Perhaps Ignatia what do 
 you think ?" 
 
 "Thanks I dare say that would answer as 
 well as the other," he replied, secretly indul 
 ging in an old-fashioned contempt for every 
 thing in the shape of homeopathic remedies. 
 
 "Oh, good gracious, don't speak like that! 
 It's very important to choose the exact But 
 I'll watch you," she added, leaving her first 
 sentence unfinished, after a confusing habit she 
 had. " By the time breakfast is over, I can 
 decide. No sense of fullness in your head " 
 
 "Bless me, no!" 
 
 "Ah, so much the better that might mean 
 apoplexy, you know," said Minerva, cheerfully. 
 "No numbness in your right knee?" 
 
 "Never had any sensation of the sort in my 
 life," returned the old gentleman, with indig 
 nation. 
 
 "Good!" pronounced Minerva, still in her 
 doctorial tone. "No danger of paralysis " 
 
 "I wonder if they ever mean to allow us 
 any breakfast, "interrupted Mr. Crittendon, giv 
 ing the bell-rope a vigorous pull, as a slight re 
 lief to his ruffled feelings. 
 
 "Phosphor," muttered Minerva," eying him 
 meditatively. 
 
 ."Perhaps or camomilla though, in case 
 of slow digestion " 
 
 "If those wretches below stairs will only 
 give me some food, I'll engage to digest it," he 
 broke in again, unable, in spite of his moment 
 ary irritation at Minerva's awful hints in regard 
 to possible maladies, to repress a smile at her 
 look and attitude. 
 
 The breakfast-tray fortunately appeared just 
 then ; and Milly's entrance, a moment later, 
 put a stop to the conversation ; though, every 
 now and then, the old gentleman felt Minerva's 
 professional eye upon him, and knew that she 
 did not mean to release her prey. 
 
 " Milly," said Mrs. Lawrence, as the young 
 lady came in, "we're not going back to Geneva 
 until to-morrow." 
 
 "That is, if you would like to stay," added 
 Mr. Crittendon, as he held out his hand, by 
 way of a morning salutation. 
 
 "But you must not do it on my account," 
 Milly answered. 
 
 "No, no, my dear; I'm a little tired after 
 yesterday's jaunt," he said; "and our good 
 friend there has persuaded me I need rest." 
 
 "Aurum!" cried Mrs. Lawrence, in a sort 
 of Eureka tone, looking up at the ceiling as if
 
 18 
 
 JOHN WOHTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 in consultation with some invisible spirit. "No 
 I think not! Hyoscyamus maybe." 
 
 "It sounds as if she were calling up ghosts 
 by their names," Milly wickedly whispered in 
 Mr. Crittendon's ear; and the old gentleman 
 was delighted to laugh at his friend's follies as 
 a return for the unpleasant suggestions she had 
 thrown out. 
 
 "Milly's scoffing at my skill," cried Mrs. 
 Lawrence. " Never mind she can't deny that 
 my medicines always do her good. Now come 
 and pour out the coffee, like a good child." 
 
 Milly was pleased at the idea of remaining 
 another day : now that she had made up her 
 mind to speak to Mr. Halford about her trans 
 gression, she longed to have the opportunity be 
 fore leaving, and his conversation during their 
 walk had banished the feeling of irritation to 
 ward him. He entered the room while they 
 were at breakfast, and Mrs. Lawrence hastened 
 to inform him of their change of plans. 
 
 " So you must propose something to amuse 
 Milly and me," she said. 
 
 "I am quite ready," he answered. "There 
 are several places to visit you'd not mind in 
 viting my friends?" 
 
 "Delighted, of course! The more the mer 
 rier ! Milly, Eliza Remsen vows that all prov 
 erbs and old sayings are vulgar; but she can't 
 hear me ; so, no matter." 
 
 Milly paid no attention ; she was accustomed 
 to Mrs. Lawrence's little flings at her aunt, and 
 Mrs. Ilemsen's open condemnation of Minerva's 
 follies. She knew that neither would let any 
 body else abuse the other it was a privilege 
 of friendship only to be shared between them 
 selves. 
 
 Halford gave the ladies a choice of several 
 expeditions ; but Mr. Crittendon insisted that 
 Milly must not attempt too much. 
 
 "You look a little pale, my dear," he added. 
 
 The color rushed into Milly's cheeks as she 
 remembered the agitation at the close of her 
 morning's interview with Halford, which had 
 brought her into the house so tired and pallid ; 
 but he carefully averted his eyes, and went on 
 talking with Mrs. Lawrence, apparently uncon 
 scious of Mr. Crittendon's remark. 
 
 With much discussion, and numerous impos 
 sible proposals from the namesake of the god 
 dess of wisdom, it was decided that, after an 
 early luncheon, they should ride to a beautiful 
 water-fall several miles from the village. Hal- 
 ford departed in search of his friends, to delight 
 and terrify them by the news that they were 
 to be again thrown into feminine society ; and 
 Milly sat down to read the latest newspaper to 
 Mr. Crittendon. Mrs. Lawrence disturbed the 
 old gentleman frequently by breaking in with 
 exclamations of pleasure at having found the 
 precise remedy to suit his case, and invariably 
 adding, in the same breath, that it would not 
 answer. Finally, she rose to go up to her room 
 and search her beloved medicine-chest and con 
 sult her favorite authority, pausing at the door 
 to ask, abruptly, 
 
 "Your feet are not cold, Mr. Crittendon?" 
 
 "Never, ma'am," said he, with the severest 
 glance over his spectacles that his kind old eyes 
 could manage. 
 
 "I wish they were," sighed Minerva ; " then 
 I'd say aconite." 
 
 "Try it all the same," returned he, curtly. 
 
 "Mercy on us the idea!" shrieked Minerva. 
 "It's by just such carelessness people do harm 
 I'm prudence itself." Then, with a fresh re 
 lapse into her professional voice "Your heart 
 is all right." 
 
 " So my wife says," answered he, resignedly. 
 
 "Oh now, don't jest these are always seri 
 ous matters !" said Minerva, with ludicrous ear 
 nestness. " Just answer me one question you 
 never had a touch of rheumatic gout in the 
 chest ?" 
 
 Mr. Crittendon did not even look up ; he 
 signed Milly to go on with her reading; and 
 Minerva, perceiving that her old friend's pa 
 tience was worn threadbare, wisely took refuge 
 in flight. 
 
 "I've known her, girl and woman, "said Mr. 
 Crittendon, slowly, tapping his fingers on the 
 table, to emphasize his remark, "ever since she 
 was years younger than you, Milly ! She was 
 always the best creature in the world, and the 
 greatest fool my dear, she hasn't changed an 
 iota in all that time." 
 
 He refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff", 
 and recovered his good-humor; while Milly, 
 as soon as she could check her laughter, con 
 tinued her perusal of the newspaper. 
 
 Luckily for Minerva's peace of mind, before 
 the hour of their departure arrived, she was 
 enabled to make her decision in regard to the 
 remedies Mr. Crittendon required. She cov 
 ered his table with tumblers containing a few 
 drops of liquid medicines in water, tiny bottles 
 of infinitesimal pills, and gave him scores of 
 numerous and contradictory directions in re 
 gard to taking them. He promised whatever 
 she wished people always did promise Miner 
 va any thing and every thing where her medi 
 cines were concerned and she set off in high 
 spirits. The expedition proved a complete 
 success. The two ladies rode, and the men 
 walked beside them ; and there was any quan 
 tity of chatter and gayety. Even the shy Uni 
 versity men came out in a surprising manner; 
 and the most venturesome of the three actually 
 perpetrated a compliment to Milly ; but it was 
 afterward agreed between his friends that he 
 had taken too much bottled ale before leaving 
 the inn ; and, indeed, at the time, they did not 
 hesitate to whisper in his ear sundry cautions 
 about exposing his natural imbecility more 
 than he could help. However, he set all that 
 down to the score of envy, and always looked 
 back upon that afternoon as the crowning suc 
 cess of his youth, confidently believing that he 
 had made an impression on the mind of the 
 young American girl which could never be ef 
 faced. 
 
 Masculine vanity is almost without limits;
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 19 
 
 but the vanity of a shy man invariably surpasses 
 that of any other. 
 
 There were several parties of tourists at the 
 
 Jinn, and among them young people of Mrs. 
 
 Lawrence's acquaintance, whom she invited to 
 
 join the expedition ; so that they mustered a 
 
 tolerable company at the moment of departure. 
 
 It was a glorious day, and the water-fall like 
 the scenery through which they passed to reach 
 it so beautiful that no human words could con 
 vey the least idea of its loveliness and grandeur. 
 
 Halford's manner to Milly was simply per 
 fect. She was able, at times, to forget that 
 she had any confession to offer, and, in her en 
 joyment, blossomed into such beauty, that even 
 he, unimpressionable as he considered himself 
 in these days, was absolutely astounded. It 
 was an afternoon that Milly would never forget 
 to her dying day, though, at the time, she had 
 no perception that it was more to her than a 
 thousand other seasons of pleasure. Long af 
 ter, when she was so changed from the blithe, 
 childish Milly of this period that she scarcely 
 recognized herself as the same person, she used 
 to look across the black stretch of storm and 
 tempest which swept between her and that sea 
 son, and marvel why Fate should have been 
 cr.iel enough to lead her blindly out into the 
 glory of that vanished morning. But no pre 
 monition disturbed her now ; she rode on, mer 
 ry, happy, infecting the others with her gayety, 
 until Kenneth Hal ford forgot that he had long 
 cherished a cynical contempt for unreasoning 
 and unreasonable enjoyment, and yielded to 
 the spell of the hour as entirely as if he had 
 been a boy of eighteen, instead of a stoic of 
 three-and-thirty. He regarded her as a mere 
 child; but it was that very childishness which 
 made her society so agreeable, since, as far as 
 cultivation by study was concerned, she was 
 superior to girls in general. 
 
 A pleasant, idle, unprofitable day; bat it fled 
 only too quickly ; and through the gorgeous 
 sunset they journeyed back to the inn, with 
 Mont Blanc flaming in the distance, and the 
 changing hues of the mountain ranges fairly 
 making the eyes ache with a sense of beauty. 
 They lingered so long, that the last marvelous 
 rose-tint had faded and the soft twilight lay 
 about as they approached the inn. Milly and 
 llalford were a goodly distance behind the 
 others. Some slight mishap to her saddle 
 the undoing of a buckle or other trifle neces 
 sitated her dismounting while he arranged it, 
 and he had called to the others to go on, they 
 would not be many moments late. 
 
 He had walked by her side during the whole 
 homeward journey, and their talk had strayed 
 so far from Milly's dreary thoughts of the pre 
 vious night, that no recollection of them re 
 mained in her mind. It had been a rare pleas 
 ure to Halford, this whiling her into conversa 
 tion ; an agreeable surprise that she had ideas 
 strong, vigorous ones, too- and her very sim 
 plicity and Utopian fancies rendered the dis 
 covery more delightful. He smiled sometimes, 
 
 compassionating her childish ignorance ; yet he 
 liked to see it, and thought to himself what a 
 pity that she could not always remain thus 
 that the years must change her till she became 
 like the rest of dull mortality ; till her eyes lost 
 their mistful innocence, her voice its joyous 
 ring ; till, saddest of all, she would live to 
 laugh in bitter scorn at the beautiful fancies 
 which were sacred truths to her now. 
 
 While lifting her into her saddle again, he 
 chanced to say, 
 
 " So you really go to-morrow." 
 
 He was about, man-like, to add some non 
 sensical words of regret ; but the change in her 
 face checked him. His remark had recalled 
 the dark secret she shivered, and grew pale 
 looking at him so like a frightened child, that 
 he longed to comfort her. 
 
 " What is it ?" he asked. 
 
 " I had forgotten," she said, nervously. " To 
 morrow we are going to-morrow I shall not 
 have another opportunity to tell you " 
 
 "I don't think you need to tell me any thing," 
 he answered, kindly. " Perhaps I can imagine 
 what it is I assure you there is no need." 
 
 "I must," she said, hurriedly; and he ap 
 preciated and admired the courage with which 
 she fought down her terror in that determina 
 tion to do what she considered right. " You 
 you Oh, Mr. Halford that night at Baden !" 
 
 " Don't think I mean an idle compliment, 
 Miss Crofton it was a very pleasant night to 
 me, since it gave me your acquaintance." 
 
 "You're very good," she said, with a piteous 
 quiver of her lips, and a trembling in her voice 
 which showed how difficult it was to repress 
 her tears. "I don't deserve it I thank you 
 so much !" 
 
 "Then there's an end," he replied, anxious 
 to spare her pain. 
 
 "No not till I have told you I may never 
 see you again and I couldn't bear to remem 
 ber always that you thought ill of me " 
 
 "I am not likely to do that," he interrupted. 
 
 " But you must you can't help it," she con 
 tinued, struggling hard to keep her voice firm. 
 "I don't know what I can say to set myself 
 right only I didn't think I " 
 
 She could get no further ; she had .to turn 
 her head away for a little, and he saw her clench 
 her hands in rage and disgust at her own weak 
 ness that very weakness which he found so be 
 witching. He still hoped to spare her some 
 what ; so he said, 
 
 " But you were not to blame for missing your 
 way, or for the rudeness of that brute." 
 
 " Oh, it's not that yon know that is just 
 because you are kind-hearted, and want me to 
 believe you didn't see me. But you did after 
 ward I remembered your face so distinctly 
 looking at me in such a grave, disapproving 
 way. Oh, it makes me so ashamed ashamed !" 
 she cried, covering her face with her hands; 
 
 He kept his hold of the mule's bridle, and 
 walked slowly on, saying, in a soft, kind voice, 
 
 "You exaggerate the whole thing so much,
 
 20 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 Miss Crofton ! I don't think I looked any seri 
 ous disapproval at least, I did not feel it.'' 
 
 " Oh, don't try to treat it as a joke don't," 
 she said ; "that makes me feel worse than any 
 thing." 
 
 He saw that the only kindness he could show 
 was to speak seriously of the matter, and allow 
 her to ease her mind by full avowal.* 
 
 " I have no inclination to do so," he replied. 
 " I am sure you would never have gone to the 
 tables, had you thought how it might "appear." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed, I would not! I don't 
 know how it came about - I was bored in the 
 ball-room, because there was nobody I knew, 
 and I thought about playing it seemed to me 
 I should go wild if I didn't ! I never thought 
 about the people or the wickedness it seemed 
 such a mere trifle ! It wasn't till I had played, 
 and was going away just as I saw you that I 
 came to my senses ; for I do think I was crazy 
 I really do." 
 
 " Now is that all ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes you see it's no excuse ! I might talk 
 a week, and I could not make you understand 
 why I did it I don't know ! But oh, I have 
 suffered so it's not the being found out do 
 believe that, though it's awful to appear bold 
 and fast but to have done it !" 
 
 " Your trouble is quite punishment enough," 
 he said ; "the harshest judge could not wish you 
 more. Now let me tell you and I mean it 
 you have brooded over the thing until it looks 
 much more important in your eyes than it real 
 ly is." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "You want to comfort me !" 
 
 " I mean to tell you the exact truth I shall 
 not try to palliate your conduct that would be 
 a false kindness, in your present state of mind." 
 
 "I feel so wicked !" sighed Milly. 
 
 "My dear Miss Crofton, very few people ever 
 go to Baden without throwing a napoleon on the 
 board once your feeling in regard to the mat 
 ter was what every body has. I have many a 
 time seen men let their daughters tease them 
 into permitting one trial. I don't*think you did 
 right " 
 
 "It was awful!" parenthesised Milly. 
 
 "If you had told Mrs. Lawrence, she would 
 have gone with you ; and old Noyse would 
 have played for you it was very wrong- to go 
 alone but, fortunately, nobody recognized you 
 except myself; and I am glad I was there, since 
 it will be better for you to have told some one, 
 instead of brooding longer over your secret." 
 
 " What must you have thought !" 
 
 " I will tell you frankly. I am a rather cen 
 sorious person not fond of young ladies, and 
 given to harsh judgments in regard to them 
 admit that my opinion was likely to be as se 
 vere as possible." 
 
 " Tell me," she said ; "I'd rather know." 
 
 "My first thought, when I saw your face 
 how oblivious you were of the crowd was just 
 this : That little girl deserves to have her ears 
 boxed ; but she has not the slightest idea what 
 
 she is doing ; she is neither bold nor fast ; she's 
 just a child, and has escaped from her friends 
 for a minute to play, they are the ones to blame, 
 in point of fact. There is that very dreadful ?" 
 
 " And are you really in earnest ?" demanded 
 Milly, looking up at him with searching eyes. 
 
 " On my honor," he replied ; "and those are 
 words I never use lightly." 
 
 There were a few sudden tears on Milly's 
 cheek, but her face lost its troubled, frightened 
 expression. 
 
 " I know it was very wrong," she said, hum 
 bly ; " but it's a good deal to think that it didn't 
 make me look so degraded and wicked as I 
 thought." 
 
 He could not repress a smile; she uttered 
 the exaggerated expressions without thinking 
 in the least what they implied. 
 
 " It did not, " he said ; " and if it didn't sound 
 like lecturing, I would tell you that you may 
 be glad to have done it : the remembrance of 
 that night may often keep you from real im 
 prudences, such as so many of us have to re 
 gret." 
 
 "Oh dear, I'll never be bad again!" cried 
 Milly. "Why, it isn't nice a bit." 
 
 "A very happy conclusion to have arrived at 
 so easily," said he, laughing. "Now you don't 
 mean to sit in sackcloth and ashes any longer, 
 I hope!" 
 
 "Indeed, telling you has done me a world 
 of good. Do you think Aunt Eliza ought to 
 know ?" 
 
 "I should say not, decidedly," he replied. 
 " It was an act that can have no consequences ; 
 so, having spoken of it to the one person who 
 was a witness, there is an end." 
 
 He had to look aside to conceal the smile of 
 amusement at his own grandiloquent phrases ; 
 but Milly received them seriously, and drew a 
 deep sigh of relief. 
 
 "I have so dreaded to speak of it," she said. 
 
 " I am very glad you have, since I am able 
 to clear up your ideas a little about the enormi 
 ty of the affair." 
 
 "I shall always be ashamed," continued Mil 
 ly; "but I needn't think about it all the time 
 I really felt I ought, by way of punishment." 
 
 Halford, remembering how humanity in gen 
 eral get away from all recollection of wrong 
 doing, drown it, bury it in any way, could but 
 wonder afresh at the childish creature so ready 
 to accept the penance she considered her due. 
 
 "You have had punishment enough," he an 
 swered. " Promise me that you will forget the 
 whole thing. Come, as I have been your judge, 
 I have a right to insist upon that." 
 
 " If I may if I ought !" 
 
 " You ought, I assure you ; there is nothing 
 so hurtful as to grow morbid by dwelling on 
 errors that have been fully expiated." 
 
 She smiled, dried her eyes, and stretched out 
 her hand impulsively. ' ' I thank you very, very 
 much," she said ; " and I don't mean ever to 
 be wicked again." 
 
 Somehow, in looking at her, there rose before
 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 21 
 
 his mental vision that image which it had been 
 for years the study of his life to shut out the 
 face of a girl not much older than Milly at this 
 moment, but very unlike more matured, more 
 beautiful already, in many things, a thorough 
 woman. But he had loved her believed in 
 her and the end had been that her conduct 
 sent him a wanderer over the earth for a long 
 season, almost depriving him of any possibility 
 of faith. 
 
 Why did that ghost rise now out of his buried 
 past ? For years that season had been only a 
 memory why should Alice Berners's face haunt 
 him now ? Unconsciously, he called her by the 
 old name, then remembered that she had not 
 borne it since her girlhood only a few brief 
 months after listening to his vows, she had ex 
 changed it for another, that ought to have been, 
 he considered, a badge of shame, since she had 
 sold herself, her truth, all that renders woman 
 hood pure and noble, for wealth. 
 
 Milly's voice roused him from his reverie. 
 They were nearing the hotel, and once more 
 she uttered her thanks for his kindness. His 
 mood had changed ; he was glad the day had 
 come to an end ; why should he interest him 
 self in this child, who, innocent as she seemed, 
 would probably live to wring some honest man's 
 heart ? 
 
 "You have given me a very pleasant. day, 
 Mr. Halford," Milly said ; "I am so, so much 
 obliged." 
 
 He bowed silently ; his face looked rather 
 grave and stern. 
 
 "I'm afraid you are tired," she said, a little 
 timidly. "I have wearied you with all my 
 chatter." 
 
 There was no resisting the shy glance, the 
 fleeting smile. Halford came resolutely out of 
 his dark thoughts, and thrust those troublesome 
 memories aside, the more vexed at their resur 
 rection because he knew they were only memo 
 ries. The old love was dead as Pharaoh if 
 to-morrow he were to stand face to face with 
 the woman Alice Berners had become, she 
 would have no more connection with that past 
 dream and pain than the first stranger he met. 
 
 "It is for me to thank you, Miss Crofton," 
 he said; "I have not enjoyed any thing so 
 much in ages as our expedition." 
 
 "Do you stay here long?" she asked, as they 
 approached the inn. 
 
 "Perhaps a week yet. I am rather an idle 
 man just at present, and it is a pretty place to 
 be lazy in unless the recollection of this after 
 noon makes it seem dull." 
 
 "It has been very nice," she said; and he 
 saw that she did not even notice the little old 
 complimentary speech. "How fortunate you 
 are, to be able to travel." 
 
 " You would like to stay longer in Europe ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, and see Italy and Greece ! Still, 
 I shall be glad to get home it seems a long 
 time and next winter will be my first in soci 
 ety," she added, with kindling eyes. 
 
 "I am sure it will be a pleasant one," he 
 
 said. "I wish there was a probability of my 
 
 ng there to witness your triumphs I don't 
 aelieve they will spoil you." 
 
 "I should think not," replied she, gayly ; " I 
 shall get rid of this childishness every body 
 laughs at." 
 
 "I hope not," he replied, seriously; "keep 
 it as long as you can." 
 
 "So you don't think of going back?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "My plans are very undecided at present 
 I can not tell. Will you promise not to have 
 forgotten me, if I should come?" demanded 
 he, with a certain mock earnestness he might 
 have shown had she been in years the child she 
 seemed. 
 
 "Indeed I shall not," she answered, frankly. 
 
 "Ah, but will you be glad to see me?" he 
 persisted. 
 
 "Very glad," she said, as frankly as before 
 and there was not a tinge of added color in 
 her cheeks repeating her words with so much 
 earnestness, that she quite forgot even to be 
 shy. 
 
 "I shall recollect that," returned he, still 
 with the playful voice and smile wherewith he 
 would have listened to and answered a child. 
 "Here we are at the inn our pleasant day is 
 over." 
 
 "It has seemed very short," sighed Milly. 
 
 " Say good-bye now," he urged, holding out 
 his hand before helping her to descend. " The 
 other good-bye will be before all those people, 
 and not count. Remember, you have promised 
 not to forget me, and to be glad if I do ap 
 pear." 
 
 " I shall remember," she replied ; and for the 
 first time her eyes sank under his, and a deep 
 ened pink tinged her cheek. 
 
 She slipped past him as he lifted her from 
 the saddle, and ran into the house the bright 
 day had come to an end. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 THE sun stole through the parted curtains, 
 and lighted the room cheerfully; it quite put 
 the fire out of countenance by its rays, roused 
 sweeter odors from the blossoming exotics, and 
 excited the cardinal bird to a loud, triumphant 
 burst of song. 
 
 It was the brightest possible American win 
 ter's day ; a sufficient suspicion of snow had fall 
 en during the night to bring out the sledges of 
 half the yovfth of New York, and the tones of 
 the bells rang gayly up to the chamber as the 
 fanciful equipages dashed on toward the Park 
 with their joyous occupants. It was the pret 
 tiest room of the prettiest house that Murray 
 Hill could boast charming and luxurious 
 enough to be the home of a fairy princess ; and 
 within its quiet sat the owner and designer of 
 this elegance a woman so beautiful, that, for
 
 22 
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 several years, her name had been in two con 
 tinents a synonym for .loveliness and grace. 
 There she was, leaning back in a low, easy-chair, 
 her violet dress enhancing the delicacy of her 
 complexion ; the luxuriant masses of bronze- 
 tinted hair, banded back from her forehead, 
 catching golden gleams in the sunlight ; her 
 great brown eyes gazing absently before her, 
 and the glorious face, which had worked such 
 havoc in countless hearts, a graver and sadder 
 one than those who were only familiar with it 
 as it looked in the world's sight would believe 
 it could ever become. 
 
 The last room, and the last presence, to be 
 haunted by a skeleton ; yet there was one there 
 a grim, pertinacious skeleton, which had 
 dogged Mrs. Marchmont's footsteps for weeks ; 
 grown so familiar to her vision, that sometimes 
 she wondered how it was possible he could have 
 escaped the observation of others. He followed 
 her home from last night's ball haunted her 
 troubled dreams ; and this morning, when she 
 left her chamber, and came out into this sunny 
 apartment, half dressing-room, half boudoir, 
 there he was, awaiting her, more lively and an 
 imated than ever. He grinned among the 
 scarlet and white flowers, danced about the 
 pure statue of Innocence which some Italian 
 sculptor had sent as a homage to her beauty, 
 and was so jubilant and ubiquitous, that she 
 almost thought he must have hunted up half a 
 Jozen of his bony brethren to disturb her. His 
 companionship transformed the regal chamber 
 into a sepulchre made the sunshine hideous, 
 and the bird's notes a shriek of despair to her 
 curs. She rose at last, and swept the velvet 
 draperies down over the casements, that the 
 softened gloom might leave his society a little 
 less odious than it was in the full daylight. 
 
 The bronze clock on the mantel struck twelve. 
 She had risen earlier than usual this morning, 
 to be ready for the visitor whom she expected ; 
 but he had not appeared no summons had 
 come no one had intruded upon her since the 
 model French maid stole quietly out, wonder 
 ing a little, in her dull fashion, what could have 
 made her lady so very matinal after the fatigues 
 of the previous night, which she knew had com 
 prised a dinner, the opera, two balls, and a sup 
 per at Delmonico's. 
 
 No visit not even a letter and the cloek 
 struck twelve ! This woman had been all her 
 life so petted and worshiped, that a crowned 
 queen could not have been more indignantly 
 surprised that any mortal should venture to 
 keeping her waiting ; and, of all persons in the 
 world, that Richard Faulkner should be guilty 
 of this presumption. She had told him the 
 evening before that she should expect him ; 
 actually motioned him to her side in the face 
 and eyes of the whole ball-room to whisper her 
 commands ; hating herself and him because 
 the order had to be half an entreaty ; shiver 
 ing inwardly, as she had learned to do within 
 the past month, at the smile on his false mouth, 
 and the mockery which she perceived, or fan 
 
 cied at least, under his affectation of respect. 
 Every thing about him was so hateful the very 
 scent of hyacinths which always clung to his 
 dress, rendered the beautiful flowers abhorrent 
 to her. She could tell the sound of his foot 
 steps among a hundred, and no matter how 
 crowded the room, how much occupied she 
 might be, was sure that she felt his odious 
 presence the moment he entered, long before 
 he could bring his bold looks and fulsome flat 
 teries within her reach. How she hated the 
 man! she acknowledged the sentiment to her 
 self, and it was the first time such feelings had 
 ever been wakened in her soul toward any hu 
 man being she had not believed her nature 
 capable of them. But she did hate him, with 
 that most active form of repulsion born out of 
 distrust and dread. She admitted this, too, at 
 last she was afraid ; and the very vagueness 
 of her fears rendered them the more unendura 
 ble to her impatient temperament. 
 
 As if for the express purpose of allowing that 
 dread to assume a tangible shape and increase, 
 he neglected this morning to obey her imperi 
 ous request. This was his reason she felt 
 certain of it and the fears deepened, and the 
 skeleton danced until the suspense and inaction 
 became worse to bear than the blackest news 
 'his deceitful lips could have uttered. 
 
 It was an odd secret which gave those two a 
 certain community of interests during this sea 
 son. People had marveled somewhat that she, 
 coquette as she was, could have taken leisure 
 from the scores of her victims to subjugate Dick 
 Faulkner, in spite of the fact that his successes 
 in Wall Street made him, to a certain extent, a 
 power in these days. Naturally, they attributed 
 lier conduct to her boundless love of power 
 her unwillingness that any man, however doubt 
 ful his position or morals, should escape her 
 thralldom ; but even when she knew him better 
 than now, Alice Marchmont would as soon have 
 dreamed of flirting with a cobra as this monarch 
 of the Gold-room and share-market. Her most 
 intimate friend had no perception of the truth. 
 That she, with her reputation for vast wealth, 
 could be troubled by business embarrassments, 
 did not occur to any one, though her name was 
 a by -word even in Paris for extravagance; 
 and Worth averred, during the last days of the 
 Empire, that when Madame Metternich herself 
 turned ruefully away at the price set on some 
 fresh emanation of his genius, the famous 
 American beauty was ready to seize it, and add 
 a still larger bribe to prevent any sister-woman 
 obtaining a duplicate of the costume. 
 
 She had been running a mad race ever since 
 the days when she threw off her widow's weeds. 
 She had dashed along the road to ruin in a tri 
 umphal chariot, stimulated to increased speed 
 by the plaudits of the crowd that bowed in ad 
 oration about her course. There was no one 
 to exercise the slightest restraint over her ac 
 tions; no one to offer advice; and she had the 
 most delightful ignorance in regard to money, 
 beyond spending it lavishly so long as it could
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 23 
 
 be obtained. Now when a person's ordinary 
 expenses are nearly double that person's in 
 come, and there are a thousand extraordina 
 ry expenses weekly indulged, it is not surpris 
 ing that the unfortunate should at length be 
 brought to understand the fact that there is an 
 end to all things. Mrs. Marchmont found her 
 self overwhelmed with debts ; absolutely bad 
 gered and bothered by the trades-people who 
 had been, at first, so happy to do whatever lay 
 in their power to minister to the petted, luxuri 
 ous life which was regal indeed in its triumphs 
 and glitter. She only knew that she could 
 borrow money, and she did, of course paying 
 exorbitant rates of interest, and adding more 
 and more to the reckoning which loomed be 
 yond. Actually, she did not think of the fu 
 ture. To queen it in society to be noted for 
 her lavish expenditure to have every man she 
 met at her feet to make prudent people's hair 
 stand on end with horror, yet force the whole 
 world to admit that whatever she did was 
 charming she had thought very little beyond 
 these determinations. Very little, save when 
 something in her soul fretted and moaned, and 
 she grew dissatisfied and wretched over the 
 emptiness of existence, and thought how differ 
 ent her destiny might be if she had only grown 
 up under other teachings than those of her girl 
 hood had been left her youth and love, and all 
 that was gone forever. 
 
 But such regrets only rendered her more im 
 prudent. Like the rest of us, she contented 
 herself with blaming her relatives fate any 
 thing and any body instead of trying, so far as 
 in her lay, to set straight the thwarted life even 
 then. She hurried on and on or allowed her 
 self to be carried blindly forward until, during 
 the past summer, she reached the consumma 
 tion of her folly. She was at Newport, and 
 Dick Faulkner and his wife were there Dick 
 Faulkner, grown famous of late through his 
 successes in Wall Street, and so notorious for 
 his vices, that one could not easily understand 
 how husbands and fathers were able to tolerate 
 his presence near their womenkind. But, un 
 fortunately, many of the male guardians afore 
 said were so deeply interested in Dick's bubbles 
 and speculations, that it was not possible to of 
 fer him the cold shoulder in a social way. Mrs. 
 Marchmont disliked the man, and would per 
 haps have set the example of treating him as 
 lie deserved, had not his wife been foolish 
 enough to oppose her on several occasions ; 
 and Mrs. Marchmont could not resist amusing 
 herself at the vicious creature's expense. She 
 tormented her by graciousness to>> Dick ; and 
 though that was bad enough, no harm need 
 have come of her unworthy caprice, had she not 
 been seized with the idea ef making the man 
 useful. 
 
 Several times she had like most people dur 
 ing the past ten years indulged in a little gam 
 bling, done under the pretty and respectable 
 name of speculation in stocks. Some Wall 
 Street broker had taken " flyers " for her, and 
 
 she had called the pleasant gains fairy gold, 
 and, before she was aware, developed a finely- 
 grown taste for the excitement. Knowing less 
 than nothing of business, she had only vague 
 ideas that, if she bought certain stocks, or al 
 lowed Faulkner to buy them for her, and he 
 turned them over whatever that mysterious 
 process might mean she should be certain to 
 win thousands, and all in a moment ; no tire 
 some waiting that was the most satisfactory 
 part of the alluring vision. 
 
 Any terms which placed him on a familiar 
 and confidential footing with Alice Marchmont 
 were pleasant ones to Faulkner. He divined 
 her wishes at the first hint, and entered into 
 her plans with great eagerness. Positively, 
 while still at Newport, he handed her an 
 amount which put her mind at ease for the rest 
 of her stay, by settling a modiste's account that 
 was nearly as long as one of Mademoiselle de 
 Scudery's romances, and showed more imagina 
 tion in embroidering plain facts. And all Alice 
 had done was to "give him an inconsiderable 
 sum. Oh, at this rate, she should soon not 
 only be free from worry, but there was no end 
 to the delightful possibilities which might oc 
 cur. Dick Faulkner certainly was not an 
 agreeable person to admit into her circle ; but 
 in those days he was respectful, almost shy in 
 his manners; and a doubt th'at the time might 
 come when she should find it difficult to keep 
 him in order, never occurred to her ; for Alice 
 prided herself, like so many women, on the fact 
 that no man had ever dared to utter a word 
 however plainly he might betray his feelings in 
 his face which could cause her annoyance. 
 She prided herself on this always, during her 
 married days, as if it presented an excuse for 
 her flirtations. She forgot, as women do in 
 their love of adulation, that to go near enough 
 the verge of propriety for a man to have an op 
 portunity of entertaining wrong wishes, was a 
 degradation, and a stain upon her soul, as real 
 and ineffaceable as if she had listened to vows 
 which ought never to reach her ears. But she 
 did not think of Dick Faulkner in any other 
 light than as a person who might be useful 
 whom she repaid sufficiently by the honor of 
 leading her to her carriage, or holding her bou 
 quet while she danced. 
 
 Of course, she began the season's campaign 
 in the maddest fashion, on the strength of her 
 successes and brilliant visions. Winter was 
 more than half over now, and she discovered 
 that not only were her debts doubled, but loss 
 after loss had followed, until she owed Faulkner 
 a sum so large that she dared not reckon it, and 
 had no more idea how he was to be repaid than 
 she had what was to become of her after the 
 rumbling in every direction burst in one grand 
 earthquake. 
 
 But dreadful as such reflections were, there 
 was a worse fear in her mind, roused by the 
 change in Faulkner's manner as the weeks went 
 on, and day by day she fotlnd herself more 
 deeply involved in the web of his countless
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 schemes. This man, once so respectful, almost 
 timid, had dared to treat her in a way which 
 forced her to contemplate the possibility of 
 reaching a crisis when the charmed atmosphere 
 which had hitherto enveloped her life should be 
 sullied by the disclosure of a disgraceful secret. 
 
 So far she got in her thoughts this morning ; 
 then could endure her solitary vigil no longer. 
 The skeleton leaped higher in his hideous dance, 
 nnd grinned with more appalling malice. She 
 rose quickly and rang the bell Pauline the pa 
 tient appeared in an instant. 
 
 "Are there no letters?" her mistress asked. 
 No letters whatever ; but if madame pleased, it 
 was one o'clock, and Miss Livermore and her 
 sister were below. 
 
 " That is nothing to me ; they are Miss Fort- 
 man's friends," Mrs. Marchmont replied. 
 
 But if madame pleased, Mrs. Townley's car 
 riage had just driven to the door, and Miss James 
 was with her. Evidently it did not please ma 
 dame, for she said, impatiently, 
 
 " I don't know why they come at this unholy 
 hour; it is not my day I don't think I'll see 
 any body." 
 
 "But madame has forgotten I beg ma- 
 dame's pardon they were all invited to lunch 
 eon," returned Pauline in a deprecating voice, 
 which was an annoyance of itself. 
 
 "So they were I did not remember it ; very 
 well, I will go down. And no letters you are 
 sure?" 
 
 "Ah, madame !" cried Pauline. If she had 
 talked a week, she could not so eloquently have 
 expressed her sense of injury at the doubt im 
 plied of her faithfulness by this repetition. 
 
 " Yes you would have brought them at once 
 you never forget any thing," her mistress said, 
 kindly. 
 
 The very depth of darkness to which her fan 
 cies had plunged during the last hour brought 
 a reaction. Faulkner's silence was a good sign 
 this very morning the long-delayed rise in 
 that wonderful stock of which she had hoped so 
 much, might take place. It had been only a 
 matter of time Peep-of-Day was sure to suc 
 ceed it had glittered too famously to be a mere 
 bubble ! At this moment, perhaps, Dick Faulk 
 ner was bidding it up in the Board too busy 
 to recollect her note. Before night she should 
 have news good news ; for if only the expected 
 rise took place she should gain thousands upon 
 thousands. Her debt to Faulkner would ap 
 pear the veriest trifle ; not only that, but her 
 other embarrassments could be cleared away. 
 She would take her fairy gold and rest content 
 nothing should ever tempt her into another 
 speculation. Faulkner would slip naturally 
 back into his rightful place a man to be cav 
 alierly smiled upon invited, perhaps, to her 
 general parties but in no way to have a closer 
 connection with her life. 
 
 She was too variable in her moods for the 
 Frenchwoman to feel the slightest surprise at 
 the sudden change which came over her face; 
 though, familiar as she was with its beauty, she 
 
 could not help wondering at the loveliness of 
 the smile that beamed upon her. 
 
 " I'll go down to the people, Pauline I "hopa 
 I'm not hideous this morning ?" 
 
 The Parisian could only lift her hands again 
 language was too inexpressive just now. 
 Mrs. Marchmont laughed, and passed down into 
 the room where her guests waited, as charming 
 in words and manner as if they had been a group 
 of mien to be subjugated, instead of members of 
 her own sex. 
 
 "This has been the longest morning I ever 
 spent!" she exclaimed ; and there was such sin- 
 jerity in her tone that they believed her, females 
 though they Avere, and actually thought she 
 had been anxiously anticipating their arrival. 
 "Now who has any news I am famished for 
 something in the way of novelty." 
 
 " There's a great stir in Congress over Ham 
 ilton's Bill," said the elder of the two old maids, 
 who prided herself on reading the political jour 
 nals, and liked to present the opinions she glean 
 ed therefrom. 
 
 Mrs. Townley and Miss James looked dis 
 tressed at once if the ancient cat got off on 
 that theme, there was an end to all enjoyment. 
 
 "Is there, indeed ?" demanded Mrs. March 
 mont in the most interested voice, as she gave 
 her two despairing friends a mischievous glance. 
 " You must tell us about it I never find time 
 to read the newspapers." 
 
 The two butterflies showed their trouble still 
 more plainly, and the antique virgin at once 
 assumed her oracular attitude, and prepared to 
 pour forth a flood of eloquence ; but Mrs. March 
 mont had no intention of permitting that. 
 
 "Yes. you must tell us," she continued, 
 quickly ; " your views on political matters are 
 always so lucid and correct, dear Miss Liver- 
 more ; but we'll save them for luncheon. I'm 
 only a silly, frivolous creature, though I do ad 
 mire wisdom at a respectful distance and 
 what I want first is gossip I always mean gos 
 sip when I ask for news I'm insatiable in that 
 line." 
 
 The butterflies brightened into smiles of re 
 lief the present demand was quite within the 
 scope of their powers, and more than a recrea 
 tion the serious business of their lives. But 
 before they could commence either of the half- 
 dozen stories which they always had on hand, 
 Miss Portman, seldom as she spoke, felt it her 
 duty to defend her relative from that self-im 
 posed injustice. 
 
 " My dear," she quavered, "how can you say 
 such things !" 
 
 " Oh, I adore gossip it's of no use for me 
 to deny it ! Do you think I am willing to be 
 lieve people are so much better than I know I 
 am ? It's such a relief to hear of all sorts of 
 weaknesses and lapses on the part of one's 
 friends." 
 
 " I'm sure every body's friends give sufficient 
 opportunity," said Mrs. Townley, laughing. 
 
 " Oh, you feel malicious this morning," re 
 turned Alice ; " now that's delightful ! Among
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 25 
 
 us, we'll not leave a human creature a shred of 
 character by the time luncheon is over apro 
 pos, there's Ferguson to announce it." 
 
 They followed her into the breakfast-room, 
 and she continued 
 
 "Now Miss Portman is just as crazy for 
 news as I, though she does pretend to be vir 
 tuous you know you are, Adeliza." 
 
 The meek, elderly lady was a distant connec 
 tion of the late Mr. Marchmont's, who lived 
 with the beautiful widow and played propriety 
 a creature so quiet and inoffensive, that I 
 niust describe her at once, lest I forget the fact 
 of her existence. Alice was kind to her pale 
 shadow of decorum, and tried often to give her 
 a share in conversation ; but Miss Portman in 
 variably waved off the opportunity with a little 
 nervous gesture, and had nothing beyond a 
 weak smile, and faint ejaculations to offer. 
 She was one of those persons born never to be 
 of any consequence not even recollected ; 
 still, she evidently had a use in the world, since 
 dashing young women without natural protect 
 ors require a show of companionship. 
 
 She was as mild and timid as a mouse ; and 
 indeed she rather looked like one a Chinese 
 mouse at that, if the small animals there fol 
 low the example of Celestial humans, in hav 
 ing their eyes turn up at the corners. Her 
 voice, too, assisted the resemblance a sort of 
 quavering, hesitating squeak, all the odder from 
 the fact that she was tall and straight, and so 
 stiff that strangers often mistook her shyness 
 for dignity, and were afraid of her. I have 
 nothing for her to say or do, because she never 
 said or did any thing ; and perhaps the best 
 idea I can give of her is to repeat an anecdote 
 with which Mrs. Marchmont once convulsed 
 her friend John Worthington. The poor wom 
 an had vexed her one evening by sitting a little 
 party through where every body else talked 
 just a little knot of Alice's agreeables upright 
 and patient as a ghost, smiling painfully at in 
 tervals, but not so much as uttering a strangled 
 squeak when caught in the trap of other peo 
 ple's conversation. 
 
 "Dear Miss Portman," said Alice, "I wish 
 you could help play the hostess rather more 
 it would relieve me a great deal." 
 
 "My love," returned she, in a deprecating 
 tone, " what more could I do ?" 
 
 " You best of old souls ! Look energetic ; 
 go about among the tiresome creatures, and talk 
 to them." 
 
 " My dear," she answered, in a voice which 
 began to quaver ominously, for she was sen 
 sitive to a shadow of reproach, " I am sure I 
 smiled whenever any body told a story ! I said 
 excellent to Mr. Worthington's anecdote, though 
 I did not understand it for I have the highest 
 respect for him and I changed my position 
 twice." 
 
 "So," said Alice, in repeating the conversa 
 tion, " I kissed her, and told her she was a 
 duck, and that her positions were both beauti 
 ful." 
 
 After that, it was a standing joke among 
 Mrs. Marchmont's intimates to ask her if she 
 had changed her position lately ; and dear Miss 
 Portman always smiled when she heard the 
 question addressed to her relative, because she 
 saw that there was a jest intended, though it 
 had no special signification to the placid pool 
 she called her mind. So now, when Alice ap 
 pealed to her, Miss Portman gave the requisite 
 smile, and changed her position immediately. 
 Mrs. Marchmont had done her duty, and could 
 leave the poor soul at peace for a time. 
 
 " The last news I have heard," said Mrs. 
 Townley, " is that you are to marry your 
 French baron." 
 
 "Bless me, that's stale," returned Alice; 
 " people have said it now for ten days ; I must 
 give them something new ! I always feel in 
 jured if the reports about me don't change at 
 least twice a week." 
 
 The idle stream of chatter went on ; but 
 though she played her part admirably, Mrs. 
 Marchmont had leisure to think of other things. 
 Her morning's uneasiness occasionally recur 
 red ; each time she heard the door-bell, she 
 fancied that it might be the expected letter ; 
 but it did not come. The baron's name, too, 
 suggested .fresh thoughts ; for once flung into 
 the conversation, it was bandied about for sev 
 eral moments. The creature had fallen help 
 lessly, dazed at the first sight of her there 
 might be worse fates than becoming a baroness 
 she had never before contemplated the possi 
 bility except in jest ; but with this new fear of 
 Dick Faulkner in her mind, any chance which 
 would take her completely out of her present 
 life possessed a certain charm. 
 
 When she could listen again, a new name 
 had come up she caught it a name no one 
 had mentioned in her hearing for years. How 
 it carried her thoughts back into the past into 
 the days of her girlhood, when she had been 
 full of hopes and dreams rudely dashed out of 
 existence by hands stronger than her youthful 
 will. 
 
 "Is is possible!" the elder Miss Livermore 
 exclaimed. " Kenneth Halford back I won 
 der I had not heard of it." 
 
 " Oh, he only landed yesterday ; I dare say, 
 though, Mrs. Granger has already secured him 
 for her ball she's the most inveterate lion- 
 hunter, that woman," returned Mrs. Townley. 
 
 " So Kenneth Halford has come home," pur 
 sued Miss Livermore. 
 
 "How odd!" added her sister. "Did you 
 hear, Mrs. Marchmont ?" she continued, with a 
 meaning inflection of voice. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont had been busy giving some 
 whispered direction to Ferguson ; she turned 
 now, and said, 
 
 " I beg your pardon ! There's a new plat on 
 my mind that I begged the chef to try ! Who 
 has come back?" 
 
 The virgin sisters replied together, one in a 
 voice that squeaked, the other in a deep bary 
 tone,
 
 26 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "Kenneth Halford." 
 
 "What a resurrection!" laughed Mrs. March- 
 mont. 
 
 "I don't remember him," said Miss James. 
 
 "Oh, he was rather before your time," ob 
 served Mrs. Townley, "and mine too; for I 
 lived in Albany in those days ; but I recollect 
 all about him ; yes, indeed eh, Mrs. March- 
 mont ?" 
 
 " He is a very old friend of mine," she said, 
 as composedly as if the significant tone had 
 been lost upon her. 
 
 The ancient virgins laughed, and Miss Port- 
 man looked distressed. " Dear me, what is 
 it ?" cried Miss James, nearly wild with curios 
 ity at once. " There's some mystery, I'm sure !" 
 
 "None that I know of," returned Mrs. 
 Marchmont. " I said he was an old friend ; I 
 shall be glad to see him again." 
 
 " Shall you, really?" demanded the younger 
 sister, while the elder chuckled, 
 
 " Oh yes! a very old friend ; I think we all 
 remember." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont never allowed any human 
 being to attack her without making the reckless 
 person sorry. She paid a few compliments to 
 the man of whom they had spoken, as calmly as 
 if he had been an indifferent acquaintance, in 
 stead of the one love of her girlhood ; then she 
 asked Miss Livermore, " Is it true that your 
 cousin, Mrs. Grayson, is coming home ?" 
 
 The old maid colored, well tanned as nearly 
 sixty years had left her complexion, and stam 
 mered out such answer as she could find, while 
 her sister choked herself with a glass of water, 
 and Mrs. Townley and Helen James enjoyed 
 their distress. Mrs. Grayson had not set foot 
 in her native country for more than five years ; 
 and this story of her return, which had lately 
 spread about, was misery to every body con 
 nected with her ; for she had long before gone 
 so far over the pale of propriety, that her me 
 moirs would have filled three volumes. 
 
 It was a cruel thrust, and Alice felt ashamed 
 a moment after it was dealt. She tried to 
 atone by overwhelming Miss Livermore with 
 attentions, and actually forced the others to en 
 dure a long recital of the spinster's views in re 
 gard to the political state of the country. Once 
 mounted on her hobby r it was difficult to un 
 seat her. She pranced over into England 
 descended upon humiliated France pointed out 
 the duty of Victor Emanuel and even pene 
 trated into Russia, and galloped a little about 
 Poland, before she could be checked. 
 
 Two or three men called while they were at 
 the table, and were allowed to enter ; the re 
 union was as pleasant and gay as any festivity 
 always was in Alice Marchmont's house, and the 
 morning wore on. It was a terribly long one ; 
 she fervently wished her guests at least in the 
 frozen regions over which Miss Livermore had 
 pranced on her hobby-horse ; but there was no 
 trace of fatigue or preoccupation in features or 
 manner. She laughed aad talked, dazzled and 
 flattered men and women alike, able as ever to 
 
 make either friend or foe admit that she was 
 the loveliest and wittiest of her sex. 
 
 The day drifted on ; but no message came 
 from Faulkner. At one moment she was able 
 to believe it a good omen ; at the next, her 
 dark forebodings would start up with new force, 
 and it seemed impossible to wait in this passive 
 inactivity. So many other thoughts, too, in 
 her mind this new idea in regard to the baron ; 
 and as she contemplated it, his studied manner, 
 his long-winded compliments, appeared more 
 wearisome than ever. And Kenneth Halford 
 back it seemed strange that he should have 
 returned at this precise juncture. But he was 
 nothing to her; it could only be a pain to see 
 any ghost rise out of that dead past which oft 
 en when she had leisure to look back seem 
 ed so beautiful through the mists of distance. 
 
 No message no letter ! The day got on 
 at least she should find Dick Faulkner at Mrs. 
 Granger's ball. There were other duties to be 
 performed before she got there ; a dinner a 
 reception by one of the stateliest of the old 
 Knickerbocker families, people who despised 
 such mushrooms as Mrs. Granger and her set. 
 It was a long time to wait before she could get 
 within the man's reach his detested, odious 
 presence ; and to wait with even a show of 
 patience was a lesson Alice Marchmont had 
 never learned. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AT A BALL. 
 
 MBS. GRANGER gave her ball that night ; 
 and it was one of the most brilliant of the 
 whole season. Among all the faces there, 
 Milly Crofton's was the freshest and the fairest 
 girl-face to be seen, and her enjoyment of the 
 evening something for older people to marvel 
 at, it was so unalloyed. It had been altogeth 
 er a bright, charming winter, though perhaps 
 misanthropic sages would have pronounced it 
 a somewhat unprofitable one ; but Milly was 
 troubled by no such doubts. Very charming 
 it had been, with its balls, its operas, its pretty 
 new dresses, and the pleasant success which 
 her introduction into society proved. Mrs. 
 Remsen was too wise to allow her to rush about 
 until she wore the first freshness off her face 
 and thoughts, as so many girls do, before their 
 opening season is half over, and the experi 
 enced lady understood, too, the wisdom of 
 making her charge a little difficult to get at 
 among the earliest to leave places of amuse 
 ment, and to be carefully guarded from detri 
 mentals who only meant flirtation, instead of 
 serious business. 
 
 Milly had returned from Europe early in the 
 autumn, and brought with her the prettiest pos 
 sible wardrobe, which wise Aunt Elizti had in 
 structed Mrs. Crittendon to purchase in Paris, 
 and to which that lady had made many charm 
 ing addition* on her own account. The elder 
 ly couple were sorry to give the girl up, but
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 27 
 
 it was decided that they must go to Havana 
 for the winter, and Mrs. Remsen would not 
 hear of Milly's accompanying them. She found 
 her niece so much improved and beautified by 
 her foreign travel, that she was anxious to ex 
 hibit her to society, and her old love of mana 
 ging and match-making rose with new keenness 
 in her mind. 
 
 She was a born match-maker, this smooth, 
 plausible lady : it is a firm belief of mine that 
 all women have a genius for something; and 
 match-making was Mrs. Remsen's specialty. 
 She had been at the business for years, yet 
 always managed so artfully that nobody ever 
 thought of calling her by the odious name 
 which less astute feminines receive with much 
 less reason. 
 
 She had married off numberless relatives 
 and friends long before; two of her daughters 
 were already provided for brilliantly, so far 
 as wealth and position went, and fortunate, be 
 sides, in the personal character of their hus 
 bands. One of the pair had been intellectual, 
 and almost strong-minded ; oddly enough, she 
 was the pretty daughter. The other Ade 
 laide Eamsay was ugly, and not over-furnish 
 ed with brains. Things ought to have been 
 differently arranged ; the intellectual young 
 lady should have given up the pretty face to 
 the dunce ; but Mrs. Remsen made the best of 
 matters. The discrepancies between looks and 
 tastes only amused her, and rendered her more 
 determined to outgeneral destiny. She suc 
 ceeded, and people considered her the most 
 fortunate woman in the world, and held her 
 opinions in the highest respect. 
 
 She had still three daughters on her hands ; 
 but two of them were children yet, and Maud, 
 the elder, a year younger than Milly Crofton, 
 and doomed to retirement for the present a fate 
 against which the young lady stoutly rebelled ; 
 for she was the most unpromising charge that 
 Mrs. Remsen had ever possessed. Indeed, the 
 mother confessed to herself that Maud was an 
 idiot ; but she promised to be a pretty one, and 
 there was still the hope left that another year 
 might soften her asperities of character some 
 what, or, at least, teach her to conceal them 
 under a polish of manner which Mrs. Remsen 
 felt to be sadly wanting. But at present her 
 mind was occupied with Milly Crofton. Milly 
 was the only child of Mrs. Remsen's best-be 
 loved sister, and had been treated with the 
 same affection and interest that the lady be 
 stowed upon her own daughters ; indeed, she 
 was fonder of Milly, at the bottom of her heart, 
 than she was of the elder members of her own 
 brood. She had a habit of always looking 
 things straight in the face, and did not try to 
 disguise from herself the fact that Milly, child 
 ish as she was, possessed more head and heart 
 than her two put together ; and she was glad 
 to see that the little ones resembled their cousin 
 much more than they did their sisters. 
 
 She had done her best to make Milly's winter 
 successful j and it had proved so, though Mrs. 
 
 Remsen began to fear that the season would 
 end without the girl's being engaged and set 
 tled, and she had not looked forward to giving 
 her a second chance. Maud's turn must come 
 next year, and she could not afford the expense 
 of two young women to dress and take out. 
 However, she had not opened her lips to Mil 
 ly. If nothing better offered, the child must ac 
 cept an elderly man, as each of her own daugh 
 ters had done, or else resign herself to Charley 
 Thome, a young fellow with any quantity of 
 money and no brains to mention. But the idea 
 was a disappointment to Mrs. Remsen ; cold 
 and worldly as she was, she would have been 
 glad to see Milly live the girlish romance suit 
 able to her age but a wise one, witli a rich 
 man if possible, a famous one for the hero. 
 She felt a little vexed with destiny for not hav 
 ing thrown any such in the way, and sometimes 
 wished that she had been rich enough to take 
 Milly back to Europe for a year. She knew, 
 of course, of the acquaintance with Kenneth 
 Halford ; Mrs. Lawrence had told her how 
 much he appeared struck with Milly ; and it 
 seemed a pity that fate, after commencing the 
 acquaintance between the two in a sensational 
 and poetic manner, should have provided no 
 materials for a closing act. Halford had not a 
 vast fortune, but he was rich ; and, added to 
 that, had already acquired an enviable reputa 
 tion, both as a diplomatist and as a man of let 
 ters. Mrs. Remsen felt that destiny had treat 
 ed her ill, and chafed accordingly. But the 
 very morning of Mrs. Granger's ball, she dis 
 covered that she had been hasty in blaming the 
 much-abused old dame Kenneth Halford had 
 actually returned fate had once more brought 
 him within the sphere of Milly's influence ; and 
 before she returned home, Mrs. Remsen had ar 
 ranged the finale of the romance to suit herself. 
 She did not mention the news that had reached 
 her; she only made sure that Milly wore her 
 prettiest Parisian dress which had been saved 
 for some especially grand occasion and saw 
 that the girl was looking more lovely than ever. 
 
 "Will I do, aunty?" Milly asked, as she en 
 tered Mrs. Remsen's room for inspection, after 
 her toilet was finished. 
 
 Then it was that Mrs. Remsen sun-eyed her 
 critically, and decided that, so far as young girls 
 were concerned, not one who might be at the 
 ball would compare with Milly. 
 
 " I never saw you look so well I am con 
 tent," she said, with a low sigh of satisfaction, 
 which Milly perfectly understood. Mrs. Rem 
 sen must have been in a high state of content 
 ment when she gave that peculiar sigh. 
 
 Maud the rebellious happened to be in her 
 mother's chamber, and, though, not particularly 
 acute, she comprehended the meaning of the 
 long-drawn breath ; and that sign of approval, 
 added to Milly's beaming loveliness, was more 
 than the rebellious could endure. 
 
 "Any body could look pretty in a dress- like 
 that !" cried she-, with an acrimony that made 
 her mother ahiulder. to- think what an. awful old
 
 28 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 maid she would be if some unfortunate man 
 did not prevent the catastrophe. "When I 
 come out, mamma, I shall remember all the 
 things you let Milly get in Paris ; Adelaide says 
 that it's more than you ever did for her. " 
 
 "I hope, at least, that Adelaide said it in a 
 more lady -like voice," replied Mrs. Remsen, 
 calmly. " I beg, Maud, that you will not touch 
 my powder you will ruin your complexion." 
 
 " Oh, I'm of no consequence," cried Maud, 
 spitefully; "nobody is, except Milly." 
 
 "You are cross to-night, Maud," said Milly, 
 laughing, too happy to pay much attention to 
 her cousin's ill humor. 
 
 "I'm nothing of the sort," asserted Maud. 
 
 "If you must contradict, at least do it in a 
 lower tone, I beg," said her mother, resignedly, 
 quite aware that a little quiet contempt was a 
 more effectual way of subduing the young wom 
 an than any assertion of authority. "Also, let 
 me set you right in one particular, and Mrs. 
 Ramsay, too Milly's own money paid for her 
 winter's wardrobe ; we had saved a good while 
 for that express purpose. When your day for 
 ball-dresses comes, I hope you will receive a 
 little of the attention Milly gets so freely on all 
 sides, and I should like to think that it would 
 not turn your head any more than it does 
 hers." 
 
 Maud gave the footstool at her feet a vicious 
 kick; she pretended that it was accidental ; but 
 her mother and cousin knew that if ever a kick 
 was given with malice prepense, this was the 
 time. 
 
 " We will say good-nigh* to you, Maud," said 
 Mrs. Remsen, with awful courtesy ; and Maud 
 departed. 
 
 That silly little Milly could not bear to have 
 her in an ill temper, so kept her aunt waiting 
 while she sought Maud and coaxed her back to 
 amiability a state of affairs only to be arrived 
 at by a present of a large packet of bonbons and 
 a neck-ribbon ; and then Maud grew radiant, 
 only assuring her cousin that the new French 
 dress was not nearly so becoming as mamma 
 pretended to believe. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen and Milly set off for the ball ; 
 and as soon as she entered the rooms, the girl 
 was so beset by partners and flatterers, that the 
 aunt's anticipations of triumph were fully real 
 ized. Kenneth Halford was not present; but 
 before she had been five minutes there, Mrs. 
 Remsen contrived, without asking a question, 
 to learn that he was expected. Mrs. Gran 
 ger had heard of his arrival, and immediately 
 pounced upon him on the strength of an old ac 
 quaintanceship, that she might be the first to ex 
 hibit him since his return to his former friends, 
 possessed of the twofold advantages of wealth 
 and position. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was as kind as ever to Charley 
 Thome ; but as he hovered about Milly, teasing 
 her for more dances than she had a right to give 
 to one man, talking a great deal of nonsense in 
 a merry, happy fashion, that lady allowed her 
 self to think what a poor, weak, frivolous boy 
 
 he was, and how much better it would be if he 
 were compelled to work, instead of being led 
 into numberless follies by his great fortune. 
 
 Milly danced and enjoyed herself greatly ; 
 and at the end of a galop, as her partner led her 
 back to her seat, she saw a gentleman convers 
 ing with her aunt ; and though his back was 
 toward her, and she had no idea that the person 
 of whom he reminded her was within a thou 
 sand leagues and more of the spot, her heart 
 beat fast, and she did not venture to look again 
 lest she should be convinced of her mistake. It 
 was very natural that Kenneth Halford should 
 have been often in her mind, from the peculiar 
 circumstances of their acquaintance; but slie 
 was unconscious how persistently her thoughts 
 had dwelt upon that season, or of how much 
 consequence it was in her life. 
 
 But in another moment the well-remember 
 ed face was bending toward her, and the low, 
 soft voice said, 
 
 "Miss Crofton promised not to forget me ; I 
 hope she has not forgotten her pledge." 
 
 "I am so very, very glad to see you," Milly 
 answered, through her blushes and smiles. "I 
 saw you as I came up, but thought that I must 
 be mistaken." 
 
 "And I saw you, too, while you were dan 
 cing," he said; "but I knew that I made no 
 mistake." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen smiled amiably, and joined just 
 enough in the conversation, until some friend 
 sat down beside her and began to talk, and she 
 was able to leave the pair to themselves for a 
 little, having made sure that Milly was looking 
 and behaving just as she ought. 
 
 " I had been renewing my acquaintance with 
 your aunt," he went on ; " she was good enough 
 to remember me." 
 
 "Oh yes; when I spoke about you to her, 
 she said that she always liked you very much." 
 
 " Then you did remember to speak of me ?" 
 
 "I should be very ungrateful if I had not," 
 Milly said. 
 
 "Oh, I'll not be remembered out of grati 
 tude," returned he, gayly. "But you promised 
 to be glad to see me if I came home." 
 
 " When did you get here?" Milly asked, in 
 stead of replying to the words, though her face 
 rendered an answer unnecessary. 
 
 " Only the day before yesterday. We had a 
 passage as smooth and pleasant as if it had been 
 June. Now tell me what you have been doing 
 have you enjoyed your winter ?" 
 
 "Yes ; it has been very nice indeed." 
 
 "I am glad of that! I imagined that it had ; 
 for I met Mrs. Lawrence this morning, and she 
 told me so much about the admiration you re 
 ceived, that I was half afraid I might find you 
 altered." 
 
 "What a very weak head you must give me 
 credit for possessing," Milly said, laughing. 
 
 " I don't know if that would be a sign, only 
 I liked to think I should find you the same." 
 
 "And I am," she replied; "I'm not very 
 nice, but I don't think the winter has done mo
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 20 
 
 any hurt ; I have been very happy, and they say 
 happiness is good for people." 
 
 " I am sure it is at least for you." 
 
 " Have you come back to America to stay ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " My movements are uncertain ; I shall be 
 here until spring, at least. I must see how I 
 am treated by you and the rest of my friends, 
 before I decide to stay longer." 
 
 Hilly thought how pleasant it would be to 
 meet him at balls and parties to have him visit 
 at the house ; but her reflections did not go be 
 yond those simple details. 
 
 " I have not danced in a long time," he said ; 
 " would you dare try this redowa with me ? I 
 may be very awkward, I warn you in advance." 
 
 But Milly was not afraid, and he led her off, 
 while Charley Thorne, once more trying to get 
 into her neighborhood, watched the proceeding 
 in silent wrath, and decided that, of all prigs 
 with an immense opinion of themselves, this 
 man was the worst. 
 
 "And he must be no end of an age, too," 
 thought Charley, with the natural scorn of an 
 American youth of one-and-twenty for any body 
 who had gone a decade beyond that season. 
 " The idea of his dancing why he's old enough 
 to have the gout ! I can remember seeing him 
 when I wore petticoats; and he was old then." 
 
 But the fossil, as Charley wished to believe 
 him, certainly had not forgotten how to dance ; 
 and when the music ceased, he stood by Milly 
 and talked until somebody came to claim her 
 according to promise, and Charley found no 
 opportunity of getting near. Halford conversed 
 with Mrs. Remsen for a few moments, and then 
 sauntered away through the rooms ; but he did 
 not dance, except that once with Milly. 
 
 Charley Thorne felt it his duty to watch this 
 man, about whom he was inclined to fancy some 
 thing dark and mysterious ; and whether dan 
 cing or uttering the little remarks which he 
 fondly believed conversation, he always had an 
 eye upon Halford. He saw him approach Milly 
 several times in the intervals of the dances ; and 
 at last, when it came Charley's turn to have an 
 other waltz with her, this fellow positively kept 
 near and chatted with her each time they stop 
 ped to rest, and, to make matters worse, was 
 civil and good-natured to Charley himself, which 
 the boy felt was more than he could endure. 
 
 "I don't see what he's here for," Thorne 
 grumbled to Milly, as they were whirling about 
 again like two Dervishes; "he's old enough to 
 have seen the folly of such amusements, you 
 know why, he might have danced with your 
 aunt when she was young." 
 
 "Who old Mr. Edmonds?" asked Milly, 
 innocently. 
 
 " No ; that Halford ! I say, I don't see that 
 he's so very stunning, that they need all make 
 such a row about him." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; I haven't thought," 
 replied Milly, with half - unconscious deceit. 
 "But you arc cross to-night; you don't dance 
 half so well as usual" this last remark a little 
 
 feminine scratch, which she could not resist the 
 pleasure of giving him, as a punishment for his 
 impertinence in regard to Halford. 
 
 Poor Charley had but three strong points 
 dancing, skating, and billiards ; it was rather 
 hard to be accused of falling off in the very one 
 of the brief list upon which he most prided him 
 self. 
 
 "Why, Miss Jones said she thought I was 
 a better stepper each time I took her out," he 
 said, pathetically. 
 
 "Very well ; if you think Miss Jones's opin 
 ion more likely to be correct than mine " be 
 gan Milly ; but he interrupted her with an in 
 dignant gurgle and moan. 
 
 "You know I don't; I think nobody's opin 
 ion of so much importance as yours." 
 
 " But when it comes to hearing Miss Jones 
 quoted in defiance to me!" cried Milly, laugh 
 ing ; for it was all play to her, and she really 
 had no idea that the poor fellow was as wretch 
 ed as his limited capacities would permit. " I 
 really can not allow that ; Miss Jones is the bit 
 terest enemy I have in the world." 
 
 " Oh, by Jove, that's strong, you know !" 
 
 " But true ! Didn't she, the night of Mrs. 
 Lawrence's tableaux, try to spoil my pale blue 
 dress by wearing a bright blue, and ruin my 
 poor little seed pearls or the effect of them 
 with her great monstrous things, that look like 
 so many blisters ? Of course she's my enemy ; 
 I'm astonished that you should ever dance with 
 her or look at her." 
 
 "I won't," gasped Charley, "if you tell me 
 not." 
 
 " Don't be a goose," said Milly ; " of course, 
 I was only laughing at you." 
 
 She had known Charley Thorne all her life, 
 and considered herself much the elder, though 
 he had three years the advantage, in point of 
 fact. It was nice to have him an obedient 
 slave ; but it never occurred to Milly that he 
 could be foolish enough to get in earnest, or 
 expect her to regard him as other than an old 
 playmate and friend. 
 
 "You laugh at me a great deal," sighed 
 Charley. 
 
 " Of course I do ; it's good for you ! But 
 don't you see that the people are all stopping, 
 and the music, too ? We can't hop about here 
 with no accompaniment, for the general amuse 
 ment !" 
 
 Fate was not kind to Charley Thorne to 
 night. They had not taken ten steps, when 
 they met Mrs. Granger and Kenneth Halford ; 
 and that lady said, 
 
 " Oh, Milly, do show Mr. Halford the con 
 servatory; I want him to decide about the 
 Egyptian thing." 
 
 Charley Thorne wished her dead and em 
 balmed along with the Pharaohs ; but, as if not 
 content with having stabbed him to the heart, 
 she turned the knife round and round with 
 fiendish pleasure. 
 
 "I want you too, Mr. Thorne," she said; 
 "you have not been presented to my littla
 
 30 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 cousin from Washington, and I wish you to 
 know her." 
 
 Charley could only bow and grind his teeth. 
 
 " You know what Mrs. Faulkner said, Milly," 
 pursued the lady, " about it's not being Egyptian 
 we can easily settle the question now." 
 
 She sailed away, bearing the unfortunate 
 youth with her, who cast one last backward 
 glance for the express purpose of driving him 
 self to despair by seeing that Milly did not even 
 notice his departure. 
 
 "By Jove," thought Charley, "I feel like 
 one of Owen Meredith's poems ! I'd like to 
 set my bull terrier on this old woman." 
 
 "You are to show me the conservatory and 
 the Egyptian thing ; it's not a mummy, is it ?" 
 asked Halford. 
 
 "No; it's a plant with a dreadfully long 
 name ; but it's very pretty," Milly said. 
 
 So they walked out of the ball-room, through 
 a salon, and entered the conservatory, talking 
 gayly as they went. 
 
 The arrivals had long been over. Most per 
 sons who danced had already worn the freshness 
 of their enjoyment ; and the greater portion of 
 those who had not, had probably grown as weary 
 as people do, night after night, in the perform 
 ance of their duty toward society. It was, 
 therefore, vexatious to hear a name announced 
 with great energy by the domestic guardians 
 outside, and to see Mrs. Marchmont enter, in 
 the full splendor of her beauty. The perfec 
 tion of her dress though, was the greatest inju 
 ry a satin robe that matched, in hue, her am 
 ber ornaments, covered with floating tulle dra 
 peries of the same tint, caught up here and 
 there by diamond sprays, which sparkled like 
 dew-drops among the fleecy folds of lace the 
 whole effect so airy and light, that the costume 
 looked rather as if woven out of sunset-colored 
 clouds, than composed of materials within the 
 reach of ordinary mortals. 
 
 'Naturally, nine out of ten of the women could 
 have strangled her with serene satisfaction, in 
 cluding the hostess, who received the tardy 
 guest with such sweet smiles and rapturous 
 greetings. Straightway there was a crowd of 
 men about her ; for, whatever female nature 
 might think of such wiles and " affectations," it 
 was not to be expected that any masculine fan 
 cy could resist this incarnation of freshness and 
 grace, appearing so unexpectedly in the midst 
 of the heat and turmoil. 
 
 Mrs. Granger's house was large ; at the end 
 of the suite of drawing-rooms there was an 
 apartment extending the whole breadth of the 
 mansion, which, like a sensible person, she called 
 a ball-room forcing the word down her ac 
 quaintances' throats at the point of the bayonet 
 thereby pleasing the young people and saving 
 the expense of a carpet. I did not give you 
 this bit of information with any idea of filling 
 in a page of upholstery items only to show you 
 just where Mrs. Marchmont found her hostess, 
 so that you might understand the position. She 
 stood in fair sight of the dancing world and the 
 
 throng moving about the salons ; there chanced 
 to be a pause in the music as she entered, so 
 that nothing of the effect was lost. 
 
 Of course, the women knew that the late ar 
 rival had been a premeditated business ; but I 
 think that each feminine heart must have bowed 
 in wondering consciousness of defeat and a se 
 cret acknowledgment of a superior power, when 
 she had the audacity to avow it. Mrs. Granger 
 said, in the sweetest possible way, 
 
 " What makes you so late, dear? I had en 
 tirely given you up, and was dreadfully disap 
 pointed." 
 
 " It was quite like an entrance in a play," 
 added Mrs. Faulkner, who chanced to be stand 
 ing close by, with as near approach to a sneer 
 as she ventured to indulge. 
 
 " That was what I wanted, 1 ' returned Mrs. 
 Marchmont, coolly, and in a voice audible to 
 those about. "I had a new dress just from 
 Paris, and knew it would have double the ef 
 fect if I came in when every body was warm 
 and tired." 
 
 She said it with such arch malice, made her 
 greetings right and left, to women and men, so 
 pleasant, that no masculine at least but would 
 have scouted the idea of her confession being 
 serious ; and, as I said, her own sex had to ac 
 knowledge her profound generalship, and ad 
 mire, however much they might detest, her on 
 account of it. 
 
 So there she stood, in that marvelous drcs?, 
 with a group of the best men in the rooms about 
 her, in the very zenith of her beauty and grace, 
 and her witty and terribly heedless tongue more 
 unmanageable than usual. She would not dance 
 yet after a while, perhaps ; really, she would 
 not promise ! She never kept a list, and prom 
 ises always led her into trouble! But as she 
 swept away on somebody's arm, for what she 
 called a tour of inspection, she could not resist 
 giving Mrs. Faulkner a needle-thrust in pay 
 ment for her impertinent speech. 
 
 "Is your husband here ?" she asked. 
 
 " No ; he is coming, though at least he told 
 me he would," Mrs. Faulkner was obliged to 
 answer, as amiably as she might, though suc 
 ceeding so poorly in hiding her annoyance, that 
 the by-standers smiled. 
 
 "I am so glad I think he will come I 
 came on purpose to see him," retorted Mrs. 
 Marchmont, with a cool deliberation which 
 caused the fingers of her discomfited adversary 
 to tingle with an unlady-like desire to attack 
 her then and there. 
 
 Having punished her antagonist a bad hab 
 it of hers Mrs. Marchmont floated off; really, 
 what with the dress and all, it is the most ap 
 plicable word. Mrs. Faulkner solaced herself 
 by whispering to their hostess, 
 
 " She is the most outrageous flirt I ever saw." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," the other replied, of 
 course having hugely enjoyed the defeat of her 
 sharp-nosed ally. "People say that; but she 
 is so frank and open still, I can't make her 
 out."
 
 JOHN WORTIIINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 31 
 
 Neither could Mrs. Faulkner ; for all that, 
 she was excessively jealous of her husband, and 
 had every reason to be ; but though Mrs. Gran 
 ger could not exactly say it to the wife, she was 
 thinking that Alice Marchmont, at the culmi 
 nating point of her popularity and success, 
 would be little inclined to go any great lengths 
 on account of a man like Dick Faulkner. 
 
 The music burst out again, the whirl recom 
 menced, and Mrs. Marchmont was a star of 
 such magnitude tlwit the freshest face of the 
 season paled before her splendor. Perhaps 
 that belonged to little Milly Crofton, who re 
 turned to the ball-room on Kenneth Halford's 
 arm, at the summons of the dashing galop. 
 They had not witnessed Mrs. Marchmont's en 
 trance ; for it was just before she appeared that 
 Mrs. Granger had asked Milly to take Mr. Hal- 
 ford into the conservatory, that be might decide 
 whether the abomination in the way of a huge 
 water-plant was really Egyptian, as asserted by 
 the florist, to whom she had pafd "shekels of 
 gold" for the unsightly thing. Mrs. Faulkner 
 had declared her friend cheated, and there had 
 been several warm arguments between them, 
 conducted with such ill-nature on the part of 
 naughty Dick's wife that the remembrance af 
 forded an addition zest to Mrs. Granger's en 
 joyment of the scene wherein Alice Marchmont 
 Uad so effectually worsted the jealous lady. 
 
 Milly and Halford had staid in the conserva 
 tory much longer than was necessary, so far as 
 their errand was concerned. Had any body 
 peeped in, the pretty picture they presented, 
 standing among the flowering vines, might have 
 suggested a flirtation ; yet nothing could have 
 been farther removed from such dangerous tri 
 fling than their talk. Halford was telling her 
 of his first voyage up the Nile, of a visit to the 
 Pyramids, and other expeditions, which scores 
 of books rendered stale years ago, though, com 
 ing from his lips, the account sounded so new 
 and interesting to Milly that she drew him on 
 to such lengthened details that he was forced 
 to smile at his own egotism. 
 
 The sound of the music floating into the quiet 
 c-f th&Lr retreat reminded Milly that she should 
 inevitably receive a lecture, if Aunt Eliza no 
 ticed her prolonged absence. 
 
 "We must go back," she said, with a little 
 sigh. " I wanted to hear how the day ended." 
 
 " Indeed, I beg your pardon for making my 
 story so long," he answered. 
 
 "I think it's ever so much nicer than any 
 thing in your book," she said, heedlessly. 
 
 "Have you actually done me the honor to 
 peep into that heavy volume ?" 
 
 "I read every word of it," returned Milly, 
 pouting. " Did you think I was too great a 
 baby to understand it?" 
 
 "By no means ; but what with statistics and 
 all, I fancy it must be very tiresome work to 
 wade through it." 
 
 They were in the ball-room now, and Milly 
 did not answer ; she had no mind to tell him 
 with what eagerness she had perused the book, 
 
 not even skipping the figures, though she never 
 stopped to wonder what gave her so unusual an 
 interest in a work of the sort. 
 
 "Am I to have the galop?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh no ; it is promised ; besides, Aunt Eliza 
 never likes me to dance twice in succession with 
 the same person," she answered, with a little 
 accent of regret, which Halford, man-like, ap 
 preciated, though he did consider her a mere 
 child. 
 
 " That is a very wise regulation of Mrs. Rem- 
 sen's, though it might admit of occasional ex 
 ceptions," he said. 
 
 "Do look!" exclaimed Milly, suddenly, in 
 stead of replying. " There is the most beauti 
 ful woman in New York in the world, I be 
 lieve Mrs. Marchmont ! Did you ever know 
 her?" 
 
 Kenneth Halford turned rather quickly, and 
 glanced down the room ; but before he could 
 speak, Mrs. Granger loomed upon them from 
 one side, and Charley Thorne, to whom Milly 
 had promised the galop, rushed up on the other, 
 and carried her oft' with an air of injured and 
 jealous proprietorship which would have amused 
 Halford in a less occupied moment. But he 
 had no opportunity to pursue his scrutiny of the 
 lovely woman Milly had pointed out. Mrs. 
 Granger was eager to hear his decision, and 
 fairly shook his arm in her anxiety to have her 
 twice-repeated question answered. 
 
 "It is Egyptian, isn't it, Mr. Halford ?" 
 
 He recovered a proper sense of decorum 
 actually turned his back upon the glittering vis 
 ion which had startled him, and said, quietly 
 enough, 
 
 "The most Egyptian thing possible Cleo 
 patra herself was not more so." 
 
 "Come and tell Mrs. Faulkner," cried she, 
 in delight. "I knew it was ; but she's always 
 so positive, and so ill-natured." 
 
 She hurried him away in search of that lady, 
 and announced her triumph in eager phrases. 
 
 " Egyptian be it," returned Mrs. Faulkner, 
 with a provoking yawn behind her fan. "Jt 
 is ugly enough to be any thing. My dearest 
 Clara, you really ought to have supper people 
 are saying the most ill-natured things because 
 it is so late old Mr. Yates was just wondering 
 if you had forgotten to order any." 
 
 " After two more dances," said Mrs. Granger, 
 feeling that, since her victory, she could afford 
 to be oblivious of her friend's malice. "This 
 is the young people's night, and they'd rather 
 dance than eat." 
 
 Halford drew their hostess away ; he disliked 
 feminine squabbles ; besides, he wished her 
 countenance in renewing an old acquaintance 
 ship which his pride would not allow him to 
 postpone, because, to his secret self, any hesita 
 tion would have appeared a confession of a 
 weakness which for years he had disavowed. 
 
 Alice Marchmont had been dancing, with 
 due precaution in regard to the marvelous 
 dress, which, as usual in her case, escaped the 
 accidents that befall other women's diaphanous
 
 32 
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 raiment on such occasions. She had walked 
 about, and made her presence duly felt every 
 where ; and now sat in a sort of recess at the 
 side of the middle drawing-room, holding her 
 little court, and queening it with that royalty 
 of an hour which we are all obliged to confess 
 is so absolute, however loudly, out of the pro 
 fundity of our virtue and wisdom, we pronounce 
 it not worth possessing. 
 
 There she sat, and looked down the crowded 
 rooms, wishing herself a world away, while her 
 conversation and repartees dazzled the group 
 about her; wondering, too, why the person 
 whom, of all others, she wished to see, much as 
 she had grown to fear and detest him during 
 the past weeks, did not make his appearance. 
 Suddenly even her weariness, her impatience, 
 faded from her mind ; even the dread which 
 the thought of Dick Faulkner roused, went too. 
 She saw her hostess approach, leaning on the 
 arm of a man the sight of whom took her as 
 suddenly back into her vanished girlhood as if 
 some enchanter's wand had caused the room, 
 the crowd, and all surroundings, to disappear 
 like a scene at the theatre, and brought the lost 
 life up in its place. 
 
 She knew him in an instant. She was stand 
 ing in the wood, back of the old country house 
 where they parted on that autumn day. It was 
 the strangest possible mingling of effects. She 
 could see so plainly each incident of that far- 
 off scene the blue smoke curling lazily up 
 from the trusted chimneys the golden haze 
 that beautified the landscape the carpet of 
 gorgeous-tinted leaves beneath their feet the 
 wild, eager eyes gazing into her own. She 
 could catch the voice of the low breeze as it 
 murmured past, scented with the breath of the 
 late blossoms hear the crows calling idly in 
 the field below the querulous complaints of 
 the thrushes in the trees overhead, loud in con 
 tention over their southward flight : the still 
 ness and peace, making itself so distinctly felt, 
 in such painful contrast to the agitation of her 
 companion, and the dizzy whirl in her own 
 brain, the mad voice crying out in her soul, 
 which she so ruthlessly silenced. Across it all 
 carne the present the throng, the gay music, 
 and Mrs. Granger's voice, saying, 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Marchmont, I have brought you 
 an old acquaintance, Avho fears that you may 
 have forgotten him." 
 
 llalf-mechanically, she extended her hand 
 still with the odd inability to tell where reality 
 began or ended and answered, 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Halford ? Mrs. Gran 
 ger excels in pleasant surprises." 
 
 He replied ; a brief, laughing conversation 
 followed ; then Mrs. Granger carried off sever 
 al of the dandies to- attend to their duty, as she 
 told them ; and the others, one by one, dropped 
 out of the talk, and departed to find partners, 
 or any occupation they pleased, as men are 
 forced to do on such occasions. There the two 
 sat ; and it was like a bit of Alice's girlhood 
 come back, only, all the while, she was looking 
 
 down the room, and wondering why that man 
 did not bring his disagreeable presence and his 
 news, whatever it might be. Bad enough it 
 would prove, she had horrible fears; but nothing 
 could be worse than the suspense which she had 
 endured during the whole of this dreadful day. 
 
 "I feel as if I must be dreaming," Halford 
 said. "That it can be you and I sitting here 
 seems impossible." 
 
 Did he mean to be tender in the very outset ? 
 If so, what was she to do or say ? That was 
 another question in her peculiar position, one 
 that startled her. Before she could answer ei 
 ther interrogatory he spoke again, in the low 
 tone that was like the well-remembered voice, 
 only with a difference. You shall often hear 
 that, and be disturbed thereby, in meeting un 
 expectedly some person who belongs to your 
 past, and, ten to one, for your sake and his, 
 never ought to have intruded into the present. 
 The change which has come over the voice ! 
 the familiar rbnes sometimes making your 
 heart throb like a strain of old music, then dy 
 ing out and the other voice becoming audible 
 the slow, indifferent voice that the world 
 knows ; sounding, as all our voices do as the, 
 years go on, as though the dust had got into 
 them and spoiled their ring. 
 
 But Halford's next speech, following, in spite 
 of my digression, so close upon his first words 
 that it seemed like a continuation to Mrs. 
 Marchmont, only interrupted by her quick 
 thought, showed that, whatever his feelings 
 might be if indeed the lapse of time had left 
 him any he did not mean to indulge in ten 
 derness or sentimental retrospection. 
 
 " Am I to begin by congratulating you on 
 your triumphs?'- he asked. 
 
 "Do you think it necessary?" returned she. 
 
 "How can I tell? Certainly, you have 
 achieved enough to offer the opportunity. 
 Well, triumphs and successes are pleasant 
 tilings ; and I know of none pleasanter than 
 those of a successful woman." 
 
 Did she want him to be tender ? She could 
 not have told. At all events, she was not 
 pleased with that utter obliviousness of the 
 season when he had warned her that their sep 
 aration would blight his whole life. Perhaps 
 the sensation, which there was not leisure to 
 analyze, scarcely to avow, rendered her voice 
 somewhat satirical, as she said, 
 
 "Do you wish to remind me that I have also 
 to compliment you, and on real success and 
 worthy achievements ?" 
 
 " It did sound a little like it," he answered, 
 quietly ; " but it was not what I meant." 
 
 "Still, there is every reason," she continued. 
 "You have been climbling all sorts of difficult 
 heights " 
 
 "Nothing worse than MounfEtna." 
 
 " It was ill-natured of you to spoil my pretty 
 speech," she said, laughing, but a good deal ir 
 ritated. " Besides, as a diplomatist, you ought 
 to know that it is unwise, as well as rude, not to 
 hear people out."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 33 
 
 "Then I beg your pardon for crushing your 
 intended compliments under Mount Etna may 
 I hear them now ?" 
 
 " Too late ! Indeed, though, I would have 
 read the book you wrote while in Egypt, only I 
 came on a lot of horrid figures in the beginning, 
 and they frightened me. Why didn't you write 
 a novel ?" 
 
 "You must remember that the work was 
 written at the request of an archaeological so 
 ciety. I suppose a novel would scarcely have 
 been as satisfactory to them, though you might 
 have found it more entertaining." 
 
 "And did you like living in Egypt bloom 
 ing into a Consul-General at last ?" 
 
 "Neither was particularly agreeable." 
 
 " But the reputation the " 
 . " Yes, I know ; but this is an odd world, and 
 we are such unaccountable beings! Is any 
 body satisfied ?" 
 
 " You should know better than to ask that 
 question of a woman." 
 
 " I thought women easily found contentment. 
 Pleasure admiration " 
 
 " Don't finish, please ! You thought, and 
 think, as most men do, that we are children, to 
 be pleased with any bauble which life may see 
 fit to offer us." 
 
 "Are you reading me so easily, after all these 
 years ?" 
 
 " Only judging you by your sex in general." 
 
 They were drifting into a style of conversa 
 tion which he felt unsuited to the perfect amia 
 bility and self-control he had meant to exhibit, 
 knowing that at the bottom of his heart there 
 was no real emotion to disturb either his good 
 nature or calmness, though it was natural enough 
 that the old memories should flutter a little. 
 He hastened to speak, but, the moment the 
 words were out of his mouth, perceived that 
 they were any thing rather than what he wished 
 to say. 
 
 "All these years," Mrs. Marchmont had 
 half- whispered to herself; the repetition was 
 part involuntary, part because she had grown 
 so consummate an actress that she never could 
 resist indulging in a dramatic point. 
 
 " Some of them have been very dreary ones 
 to me," he said, and immediately became con 
 scious that it was a silly thing to say to this 
 woman, who was nothing to him, whatever the 
 girl she once was might have been to the boy 
 he had long outlived. 
 
 But whether it was or was not an allusion to 
 their buried past, Mrs. Marchmont had no lei 
 sure to discover ; their conversation was inter 
 rupted by a brace of men, each of whom claim 
 ed her hand for a dance ; half a score of others 
 followed, and Halford stood aside, and could 
 watch what the world was ready to give in the 
 way of triumphs, if she thought them worth 
 accepting. Perhaps he did wonder what she 
 thought, for he had loved this woman, loved her 
 with the intensity of a first passion, and, end 
 how it may, that is always a serious matter at 
 least, for the time. 
 
 3 
 
 He had loved her, and life seemed at an end 
 when they parted ; he had gone through the 
 usual round of rage, anguish, contempt, studied 
 indifference ; and had finally settled down into 
 a philosophical view of the whole business ; but 
 he had not forgotten. I beg you will not im 
 agine that he had been pining and moaning 
 during these long years ; people have not lei 
 sure for such amusements in this busy century. 
 Besides, she became a married woman soon af 
 ter his departure, and, according to his some 
 what Old-fashioned creed, he had no right to 
 think about her, only as he might of any other 
 beautiful dream which had gone wholly out of 
 his life. It had been a memory for ages, as we 
 count time nowadays, and nothing more. Still, 
 he was moved at the sight of her, and he could 
 not help marveling if her heart retained any 
 recollection of the summer idyl, or, indeed, if 
 she had a heart left to be touched. 
 
 There had never been any thing original in 
 the story, though in its season it seemed won 
 derfully fresh and new to them. They had 
 loved each other as boy and girl, and Alice was 
 not much beyond eighteen when he was swept 
 out of her horizon by the stern decree of her 
 sage relatives, who very possibly knew the 
 beauty of life's young dream, but knew the val 
 ue of discretion and common sense, and shil 
 lings and pence, still better. He had not known 
 the whole truth until long after ; then it came 
 to him by accident ; but though it could change 
 nothing, it was at least a satisfaction to learn 
 that she had not been so false and cold-hearted 
 as she appeared. Her mother and stepfather 
 had actually employed threats to induce her to 
 give him up ; besides, they appealed to her af 
 fection for her weak little shadow of a maternal 
 parent, and, into the bargain, she had tasted 
 just enough of the excitements of society to be 
 influenced thereby, and had been reared with a 
 horror of poverty, in an atmosphere so artificial 
 and false that the wonder was she had any youtli 
 left, even at eighteen. 
 
 So they parted her from her lover, and the 
 rest followed naturally enough ; but the bargain 
 was a more fortunate one for her, in many 
 respects, than often happens. Her husband 
 proved good and kind ; and though, while he 
 lived, she never appreciated him at his just val 
 ue, she could look back now and see that she 
 might have made a good deal out of those wed 
 ded years, had she been wiser and less selfish 
 less vitiated by the false creeds taught by her 
 former pastors and masters less eager for ex 
 citement and adulation, and the thousand mis 
 erable intoxications which make up a society- 
 life. 
 
 But though Mrs. Marchmont occasionally 
 glanced toward Halford, she could not tell 
 whether he watched her. He was a new ar 
 rival, and a lion of considerable growth, and his 
 hostess expected him to shake his mane and 
 roar a little for the delectation of her guests. 
 He would not do that ; but he was unable to 
 avoid her importunities, or the absurd flatteries
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 of the wild-beast hunters in general ; so he stray 
 ed back into the 'ball-room where the youthful 
 generation reigned, and a "good stepper" was 
 of more consequence than the greatest hero or 
 sage that the world could boast. 
 
 He came face to face with Milly Crofton 
 again pretty Milly, beaming with smiles and 
 girlish enjoyment, so unconscious yet of her 
 own feelings that she received him with the 
 same child-like frankness which had pleased 
 him during their brief acquaintance in Europe. 
 She had seated herself to rest for a few mo 
 ments by her aunt's side ; Charley Thome still 
 hovered about, and rather glared at Halford 
 that is, as nearly as his cheerful boy's counte 
 nance could manage to do ; for the state of 
 his mind where Milly was concerned, rendered 
 him as clear-sighted in regard to the danger of 
 having this elder man intrude, as if he had been 
 the wisest of his sex. 
 
 Mrs. Kemsen a perfect Napoleon in a small 
 way was quite alive to the triumph of having 
 the new lion distinguish Milly by attentions on 
 this first evening of his appearance, and cruelly 
 sent poor Charley off on some errand to the 
 dressing-room ; and Charley turned into a mel 
 ancholy misanthrope at once, but could not 
 avoid going. Milly was too much occupied in 
 listening to Halford even to notice the reproach 
 ful glance Charley darted at her as he turned 
 away, but Halford saw it and smiled, though he 
 was rather sorry for the boy, all the same ; 
 there is nothing so aggravating as the half-con 
 temptuous pity men of thirty always bestow on 
 youths ten years younger than themselves. 
 
 " Did I blunder so atrociously that you are 
 afraid to give me another dance?" he asked 
 Milly. 
 
 "You dance beautifully," she said. "But 
 please don't ask me just because you think I 
 can't sit still." 
 
 " I ask you as a great pleasure to myself. 
 Don't you remember, I told you I never indulged 
 in fibs?" 
 
 Mrs. Remsen had returned to her conversa 
 tion with a sister dowager : she never made the 
 mistake of interfering and trying to aid, as so 
 many chaperons do when desirous that their 
 charges shall produce a favorable impression ; 
 she knew that, with a man like Kenneth Hal- 
 ford, just Milly 's natural manner, her enthusi 
 asm and childishness, would be more successful 
 than the art and worldly wisdom of a score of 
 ordinary women. 
 
 So, when luckless Charley got back from his 
 mission, he saw Milly whirling about, encircled 
 by Halford's arm, to the tones of the very waltz 
 she had often saved for himself; and the gay 
 scene became a howling wilderness at once, and 
 the troop of dancers more ridiculous than a 
 band of maniacs ; and he would have liked to 
 have been Samson, that he might drag down 
 the pillars and crush the whole throng. 
 
 By the time the music ceased, people were 
 making toward the supper-room, and Halford 
 conducted Milly. Mrs. Marchmont was there, 
 
 but so fur off that he only caught occasional 
 glimpses of her through the crowd. Mrs. Rem 
 sen forbore to damp Milly's spirits by speaking 
 until they were ready to leave the apartment ; 
 but then she said, in her smiling way, that they 
 must go home ; and Halford's laughing suppli 
 cations only made her the more determined. 
 She saw, what Milly did not, what he had 
 scarcely thought about yet himself, that the 
 girl had produced an impression ; the surest 
 means of heightening it was to take her away. 
 Milly, who knew that, in spite of Aunt Eliza's 
 pleasant manner, her laws were as unchange 
 able as those of the Medes and Persians, did 
 not rebel, even forbore to plead for one more 
 dance a self-restraint so unusual in a young 
 lady that Halford was filled with astonishment, 
 and admired her the more, as shrewd Mrs. 
 Remsen perceived. 
 
 " I like my little girl to enjoy herself," she 
 said, in an undertone, to the gentleman, "but 
 she will not if I allow her to make balls hard 
 work, and I can't bear her to grow like young 
 women in general." 
 
 " You are quite right," he answered. 
 "Please don't forget that you have given me 
 permission to come and renew my old acquaint 
 ance." 
 
 "We shall be very glad to see you," she 
 said, cordially ; and the smile with which he 
 turned toward Milly at the words consoled the 
 girl somewhat for her banishment. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 "PEEP OF DAY." 
 
 AND all this time there had been but one 
 thought in Alice Marchmont's mind that 
 man, Dick Faulkner, did not appear. She ar 
 gued hopefully from his dilatoriness ; . if he 
 could have brought her bad news, he would 
 certainly have come long before. If the doubts 
 and fears which had been growing each day 
 stronger in her mind during the past month 
 should prove mere fancies ! If there should be 
 a favorable turn, and she found herself free 
 above all, free in every way from him ! 
 
 The bare idea sent her spirits up to fever 
 heat, and she looked more beautiful than ever. 
 It was just at this moment that Kenneth Hal- 
 ford approached her again, and she unscrupu 
 lously deserted her most faithful adherents to 
 bestow her indescribable witcheries upon him. 
 
 "Do you remember that?" she asked, sud 
 denly, as the music burst out anew. 
 
 "Perfectly," he replied. "Such an old, old 
 air it is like a strain coming straight up out 
 of the past." 
 
 " And you still think it pretty?" 
 
 "I remember once hearing it played by 
 some street musicians in Naples," he said ; " I 
 shall never forget how oddly it sounded." 
 
 It had been their pet melody in the far-off 
 dances ; the waltz she had always kept espe-
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 cially for him. There are the merest trifles 
 connected with every body's past, which never 
 cease to move us, however completely impor 
 tant events may have been blotted out of our 
 minds. Certain sights and sounds the scent 
 of a particular flower an ancient proverb the 
 strains of a simple song will stir a chord deep 
 in our souls, so long after the memories with 
 which they are connected have died, that we 
 are forced to search our minds to recall the as 
 sociation. 
 
 "Come dance with me," he said, quickly. 
 
 " I thought you had grown too wise for such 
 follies," returned she, laughing, yet an instant 
 after she sighed. 
 
 lie had been watching her, so brilliant and 
 courted, till, between her present glory and the 
 recollection of the time when those white hands 
 had lain freely in his own, when those proud 
 lips had trembled under his kisses, his head 
 fairly swam, though how much was real feel 
 ing and how much that vague sentiment born 
 somewhere between brain and heart, he could 
 not have told. So they whirled round and 
 round to the bewildering music that possessed 
 such hosts of reminiscences for both, till it was 
 natural enough that, when it ceased, they felt 
 drawn near together again, as if, in some mys 
 terious fashion, the events of the intervening 
 years, which had worn channels in either soul 
 that could never be effaced, had been only a 
 long, dark nightmare. 
 
 "So like the old, old time," he said, as he 
 led her to a seat. " I did not think I had such 
 capabilities of enjoyment left." 
 
 He had not forgotten ; the thought was very 
 pleasant to her for the moment whether be 
 cause her heart was really softened toward 
 him, or the sense of power regained intoxica 
 ting, she did not ask. A mingling of both feel 
 ings, probably. It is difficult enough to tell 
 what really moves other people and inspires their 
 actions, but to discover the motives by which we 
 .ire ourselves actuated is, I think, a problem be 
 yond the skill of the greatest philosopher. 
 
 "You have not told me yet that you are glad 
 to see me," he said, as they sat down to rest. 
 
 "Have I not?" returned she. "Then I 
 will now ! I am very, very glad to see you." 
 
 She said it with a candor that was charm 
 ing, and dangerous, too ; and, as she spoke, 
 she was glad. He began to talk of the former 
 days, not with any distinct reference to feelings 
 or events, but with the recollection of all that 
 had been hanging about each sentence. Mrs. 
 Marchmont listened till the weary present faded 
 out of mind ; the troubles and cares which be 
 set her the waste of time and talents in the 
 mad rush wherein she had lived, which looked 
 so petty and despicable since the clouds began 
 to thicken all vanished utterly under the spell 
 of his voice. Nor was he less moved ; for it is 
 perilous amusement, the going back over past 
 days, the wandering in buried paths side by 
 side with the woman who ought to have been 
 your fate, and was snatched from you. 
 
 "After all," he said, "life has nothing to 
 offer like our first youth." 
 
 Had any body told him, the hour previous, 
 that he would make such an avowal to Alice 
 Marchmont, he would have scouted the idea 
 with scorn. 
 
 "But a man scarcely feels that," she an 
 swered ; " life has so much to give him. It is 
 we poor women, who have nothing but our 
 youth, that may well mourn over its loss." 
 
 "They told me always you were very gay 
 and happy," he said. "I often heard your 
 name, but never except in company with those 
 words." 
 
 " Did you believe them ?" she asked, almost 
 in a whisper. 
 
 She had not meant to utter the question ; 
 it escaped her involuntarily ; she was strange 
 ly softened by this meeting, and coquetry came 
 as naturally to her as breathing. 
 
 "It was best to believe it," he replied; 
 " there were seasons, at first, when I could 
 not have staid away had I believed otherwise." 
 
 He had said more than he intended more 
 than he ought for words were serious things 
 with him. He checked himself immediately ; 
 there had been no space to think, in the sud 
 denness of this encounter; yet he knew that it 
 was the memory of the dead dream, not an 
 emotion growing out of the present, which 
 moved him. Still, having gone so far, it was 
 difficult to retreat, especially as she sat silent, 
 and he could see the color deepen a little on 
 her cheek. He did not recover himself so 
 well, or with so much ease, as a less honest 
 man could have done, but said, abruptly, 
 
 " I did not intend to stray into all this Old- 
 World talk ; I think I am dazed yet with seeing 
 you." 
 
 The first, part of the remark was enough to 
 allow the quick-witted woman to understand 
 his feelings as plainly as if he had put them 
 into words, and she was offended, as any one 
 of her sex would have been. The close of his 
 sentence might be a slight salve to her vanity, 
 unless it was a mere figure of speech she did 
 wish to know whether it was ; she would not 
 go away and end the conversation, as she had 
 three minds to do he should say more. 
 
 "Not dazed enough to come to harm," said 
 she, laughing. "I think you have prudence and 
 discretion sufficient to meet any emergency." 
 
 No man likes to be told that he is prudent, 
 particularly by a woman ; indeed, nine times 
 out of ten, when a woman says it, you may 
 consider it equivalent to a blow if she loves you 
 as a taunt to draw you on, if she does not. 
 Halford felt a sudden rage which fairly lighted 
 the old memories at his heart into a momentary 
 blaze of passion. 
 
 " Would you be better satisfied if I made a 
 fool of myself?" he exclaimed, hotly. "I did 
 not think you would have wished that ! If you 
 are doubtful about my having suffered, be at 
 rest I did suffer, and I am not ashamed to ac 
 knowledge it."
 
 3G 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 " Poor Kenneth !" she said, softly. " And I 
 have suffered too don't you believe it, Ken 
 neth ?" 
 
 "The old voice and the old name," returned 
 he, in a more quiet tone, as if soothed by it as 
 he had often been in former times when some 
 trouble arose. "I like to hear you call me 
 that it sounds very sweet." 
 
 "It makes me feel young again to say it," 
 she said ; " there are so few people left now 
 whom I call by their given names so few to 
 speak mine. Heigh-ho ! how the years fly and 
 drag, both at once. Do you know I am almost 
 eight-and-twenty ?" 
 
 "And I three-and-thirty." 
 
 "But that is young for a man." 
 
 "And you certainly have a decade to live 
 before you will look even your present age." 
 
 "It is pleasant, at least, to be told so." 
 
 "And you know that I never told you what 
 was not true." 
 
 "No; on you I could depend the only per 
 son, almost, on whom I ever could. Oh, the 
 world is very false and hollow ! The worst 
 thing about living in it is that one grows so too 
 perhaps in sheer disgust of wasting truth so 
 uselessly." 
 
 She looked very beautiful as she spoke, with 
 that mournful smile on her lips, and her eyes 
 full of regret for something better and nobler 
 than life had left within her reach. 
 
 "Very young people have a very different 
 world," he said; "and we had ours in our day." 
 
 Truly, the words, and the possibilities they 
 might imply, were sweet ; it was like a new 
 feeling of rest to hear them. But Alice 
 chanced to raise her eyes, glanced down the 
 room, and saw the man whom she had been so 
 anxiously expecting. There he was hand 
 some, bold, bad-looking Dick Faulkner, with 
 a reputation which accorded with the latter 
 part of my description of his appearance. The 
 sight of him brought Mrs. Marchmont back to 
 the present with a breathless sensation, as if 
 she had suddenly fallen out of a balloon from 
 a vast height. What had she been doing? 
 Whither had they two wandered ? They must 
 come down to reality, to stern, hard prose. 
 She could not stop now to play with old feel 
 ings. If he were in earnest, so much the more 
 reason why they should pause where they were. 
 As for her own emotions well, they were so 
 confused that she could not pretend to answer 
 for herself. One thing was certain, she could 
 neither listen, or be in love, or do parlor-com 
 edy, just then ; the harsh exigencies of the 
 present had returned. If Faulkner should 
 bring her good news oh, who could tell what 
 might happen in that case if she might only 
 find herself free ! 
 
 She realized her madness more than ever 
 during that instant of rapid, bewildered thought; 
 it was the only thing clear to her. Yes, one 
 thing besides ; she must speak with Faulkner 
 must hear what he had to say news of some 
 sort was at hand. So, in a breath, at sight of 
 
 this odious wretch, she passed leagues out from 
 the phantom likeness of the glorious world in 
 whose reality she had once dwelt with this man 
 by her side. 
 
 She was very glad that an interruption came 
 at the same moment. A quadrille was over, 
 people were seeking places to rest, and the re 
 cess was invaded. Almost before she had done 
 wishing for him, Dick Faulkner was leaning 
 over her shoulder, and talking in a way that 
 seemed horribly impertinent, with these new 
 fears in her mind, though, in truth, it was his 
 usual manner with all women. It displeased 
 Halford, with his fastidious taste, that she 
 should appear even on friendly terms with a 
 creature like that. He could imagine no rea 
 son beyond her boundless love of coquetry and 
 dominion, and thought somewhat ruefully of 
 the sentiment he had talked, and began to re 
 gard her with a certain bitterness because she 
 had proved sufficiently fascinating to betray 
 him. into such weakness. He sauntered oft', 
 joined a group of old friends, but for the life 
 of him could not help watching her, though 
 now he was thinking what an idiot he had 
 shown himself, and comparing her tutored, 
 guarded face with the innocent girl-loveliness 
 of Milly Crofton. 
 
 "You will break my fan, Mr. Faulkner," 
 Mrs. Marchmont said, irritably, as Halford 
 moved away. 
 
 "Who is that man ?" he asked. 
 
 "A very old friend of mine." 
 
 "An old lover, you mean, I suppose," re 
 turned he, with his harsh laugh. "Nobody 
 wants him." 
 
 "I meant just what I said," she retorted; 
 "and perhaps you will allow me to choose my 
 own society." 
 
 " Oh yes, if you choose me," he said, with 
 that laugh again, which made her shiver, and 
 a glance from his cruel black eyes that filled 
 her with such indignation she longed to strike 
 him. 
 
 " Have the kindness to give back my fan be 
 fore you break it." 
 
 "I was trying to," he said, "that I might 
 have the pleasure of presenting you with a new 
 one." 
 
 "Thanks; I will keep this instead. You 
 are very late in making your appearance to 
 night." 
 
 "Then you did think of me?" he asked, 
 dropping his voice, and trying to render the 
 conversation confidential. 
 
 "I saw your wife," she replied, audibly; 
 "naturally, I thought of you." 
 
 Two or three people heard the retort, and 
 smiled ; for Dick Faulkner and his spouse led 
 an existence, as all the world knew, to which 
 purgatory would have seemed agreeable in com 
 parison. His eyes flashed, and Mrs. March 
 mont remembered that she could not affront 
 him with impunity. She gazed in his face with 
 her sweetest smile and played cai-elessly with 
 her fan the slender, nervous fingers looked so
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 37 
 
 frail and white, as they closed over the ivory 
 bars. She was thinking and it was not un 
 natural that if it had pleased Heaven to make 
 her a South Sea Island queen, and Dick Faulk 
 ner had chanced to be shipwrecked on her do 
 main, and she had her fingers about his throat, 
 just as she had them twisted over that pretty 
 toy 
 
 Well, it was only a second's wickedness, and 
 she did not even finish the thought ; and if you 
 have ever felt yourself in the power of a person 
 whom you knew to be utterly faithless and base, 
 I think it is possible that a likeness to Alice's 
 South Sea Island dream has flitted across your 
 imagination. 
 
 "You promised to dance with me," he said, 
 his countenance clearing under her smile, as 
 any man's must have done. 
 
 "Did I ? Then I will ; partly because I am 
 a woman of my word, partly because " 
 
 Whatever the end of the sentence might be, 
 it was lost to the by-standers ; for he led her 
 away. 
 
 " Partly because ?" he repeated. " Will you 
 finish ?" 
 
 "I don't want to talk nonsense," returned 
 she. "Tell me how I stand I could make 
 nothing out of your note I have waited all 
 day." 
 
 "I can't tell you yet," he said, carelessly, 
 "because I don't know myself." 
 
 She uttered an exclamation of anger. It 
 was too much, after her dreadful morning, af 
 ter this long night of anxious waiting. 
 
 "Why can't you answer me ?" she urged. 
 
 " Because the market has not cleared ! 
 Don't be so impatient one thing at a time 
 what heavenly music !" 
 
 He seized her in his arms ; they were flying 
 up the room to the merriest galop, and more 
 than one person was echoing Kenneth Halford's 
 wonder that she could be on terms of intima 
 cy with that man,. only they said it aloud, and 
 added divers other remarks, which would have 
 stung her to the quick had she heard them. 
 
 " What do you mean by the market not 
 clearing?" she persisted. 
 
 " Oh, I can't explain the commonest term ! " 
 
 "I saw myself that Cumberland was up" 
 
 "Yes, and gold down! My dear Mrs. 
 Marchmont,you are the most delightful wom 
 an in the world, but I never can make you 
 understand the intricacies of the stock-mar 
 ket." 
 
 She was furious. She had tried, during her 
 whole acquaintance with him, to be careful 
 had avoided places where he visited ; and 
 here, in the face and eyes of the whole world, 
 he had deluded her into dancing with him. 
 Nothing but her belief that he had news to 
 give, and her own mad anxiety to hear it, 
 could have induced her to consent ; and not 
 one serious word would he speak her head 
 whirled with anger and fright. To have his 
 arm about her, straining her so close that it 
 was more like an embrace than any thing else ; 
 
 to feel his breath, heated with wine, burn her 
 cheek; to see his bold eyes fastened with a 
 coarse smile upon her neck oh, she should do 
 something desperate, if he did not set her free 
 on the instant astonish the crowd by a shriek, 
 or fairly attack him with teeth and hands, like 
 a raving Bedlamite. 
 
 "I want to sit down!" she cried. "I tell 
 you to stop I'm tired I will sit down!" 
 
 He knew very well why she had consented 
 to dance with him, and that she stopped be 
 cause there was nothing to be gained by going 
 on, and he cursed her in his heart ; while sharp- 
 nosed Mrs. Faulkner looked on from a^dis- 
 tance, and longed, in her turn, to make a scene. 
 There was nothing for it but to lead her to a 
 seat, and she paid no attention when he said, 
 
 " Is it because you are dancing with me that 
 you get so easily tired ?" 
 
 " Mr. Faulkner," she exclaimed, " I came 
 to-night on purpose to see you " 
 
 "That repays me for every thing!" 
 
 She gave him one glance of contempt which 
 sent the blood to his face, callous as he was ; 
 then she remembered growing sick and faint 
 to remember that she dared not treat him as 
 he deserved. 
 
 "I must know just how and where I stand/' 
 she went on. "This uncertainty is more than 
 I can bear ! I have been reckless crazy ! I 
 meant to buy a few shares just to gratify a 
 whim " 
 
 "But you see you developed the taste," he 
 broke in ; "it was natural. Bless me, you 
 needn't be shocked at yourself ; plenty of peo 
 ple indulge in such speculations." 
 
 " I am not talking about that. I have gone 
 on losing here gaining there borrowing on 
 this paying oft' something else " 
 
 "That Peep of Day proves such an awful 
 sell," he said, with a careless shrug of his 
 shoulders, as she paused, from pure inability to 
 articulate. "An awful sell," he repeated : 
 and it seemed to her that he had a pleasure in 
 adding to her torment. 
 
 The anxiety that had preyed upon her for 
 so many hours culminated now in an emotion 
 which threatened to overcome even her won 
 derful self-control. There had been a belief 
 that certain stocks this poetically named one 
 among them were doing wonders ; he had led 
 her to think so ; and she had soothed her wild 
 est fears by the hope that to-night she might 
 find all well ended. 
 
 " You have not sold the shares ?" she asked. 
 
 ' ' Oh, bless you, every thing fell back so flat 
 at noon nothing to be done ! But don't get 
 discouraged a few days " 
 
 She stopped him with a motion of her fan. 
 
 "I would as soon you talked about a few 
 centuries," she said, with a kind of sullen des 
 peration upon her. 
 
 He laughed outright, as if she had uttered 
 the best jest imaginable. 
 
 "Are you trying to annoy me ?" demanded 
 she, with a haughty anger in her face which
 
 38 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 warned him that, if he went too far, she would ! 
 risk any thing to free herself from his toils. 
 
 " How can you think it how can you mis 
 understand me so ? I am as sorry and anxious 
 as a man can he ; but I know that it will end j 
 all right if you can only have patience." 
 
 "I am sick of the word!" she replied. 
 
 " I assure you that the quality must be ac 
 quired, if you mean to have any thing to do 
 with Wall Street." 
 
 " Only let me get out this time " 
 
 She did not fhiish ; she would control her 
 self. Dick Faulkner whispered the incomplete 
 sentence to himself, and added, in his thoughts, 
 
 " Let you get out ah, my pretty lady-bird, 
 you're in a web one doesn't break so easily !" 
 
 "When do you think the other stock will 
 take a turn ?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh, any moment ; it's only that Locksley 
 has cornered it, and the Walton men want to 
 drive him to the wall." 
 
 The experience of the past months rendered 
 the jargon intelligible enough to her. She 
 opened and shut her fan two or three times 
 one of the ivory sticks snapped it was a sort 
 of satisfaction to break something ! 
 
 "Ah, ha, you'll have to let me buy the new 
 one, after all," said he. 
 
 "My first dividends will do that if your 
 belief is true," she replied. 
 
 " I wish you would believe me, and so not 
 work yourself up to such a pitch of excitement ; 
 you will certainly be ill ! Surely, you know 
 how much I have your interest at heart that 
 I would give my right hand, any day, to oblige 
 yon." 
 
 This was the style of conversation in which 
 he had indulged more and more of late ; it 
 made her more afraid than any thing else that 
 their business schemes were a failure this 
 coarse, insolent flattery was so different from 
 the respectful manner of their first intercourse, 
 when she had believed that he could be kept 
 without trouble at a proper distance. She 
 could not endure it another instant ! If she 
 sat there while his watch could tick once, she 
 should inevitably astonish the crowd by some 
 mad attempt to strangle him. She took ad 
 vantage of the first available man's arm to es 
 cape, and left Dick Faulkner muttering certain 
 energetic words between his shut teeth which 
 would scarcely have helped to compose her 
 had she heard them. 
 
 She did not go home ; late as it was, the 
 throng had lessened little, and Mrs. Marchmont 
 seemed in her gayest mood. People called her 
 mildest manners flirting, but to-night she real 
 ly did flirt with any man worth it, or in any 
 quarter where there was a sister-woman to be 
 annoyed, until those who knew her best were 
 appalled by her genius in that line, and her 
 recklessness in exhibiting it. 
 
 In spite of himself, Kenneth Halford hovered 
 about her ; and, with her fears and troubles 
 biting like a nest of scorpions, it was torture to 
 look in his face and recollect all that lav be 
 
 tween her and the time of which his eyes re 
 minded her to look farther on, and see Dick 
 Faulkner scowling at her, and recognize him 
 as a fate standing between her and any pos 
 sibility of happiness which might ever offer. 
 She succeeded, at least, in rousing that latter 
 individual to a pitch of fury, if she did nothing 
 else. But she had become too desperate to 
 care nothing could make any difference now. 
 She was in the state of mind which business 
 anxieties are liable to produce upon a person 
 who understands little of its mysteries, and has 
 become involved in plans which glittered fa 
 mously at first, and shrunk, one by one, like 
 pricked soap-bubbles, when first within the 
 grasp. Added to that were these other emo 
 tions her fear of Faulkner her disturbed 
 feelings at meeting Halford ; either excite 
 ment, by itself, would have been enough to un 
 nerve most of her sex. 
 
 She was a woman, too, and must get rid of 
 her agitation in some way. In her position, 
 certain of her sisters would have been at home 
 tearing their locks, shrieking in hysterical 
 spasms, and making themselves odious in the 
 eyes of any unfortunates doomed, by destiny, 
 to take care of them. Other women might 
 have been able to look the whole matter in the 
 face, already reaching forward to oases of ref 
 uge, in the possibility of pecuniary and social 
 ruin coming closer than was agreeable. Mrs. 
 Marchmont's way of enduring the suspense was 
 different from either. She had an odd feeling 
 ridiculous as she knew it to be that this 
 was her last night in such scenes, and she 
 would at least make it one for the world to 
 remember. 
 
 The consequence was, that she waxed fasci 
 nating and imprudent beyond description or 
 belief up to the last moment; and if the elderly 
 cats who appear to frequent such scenes for the 
 express pleasure of being horrified by coquetry 
 and similar performances in which, since the 
 memory of man there has been no possibility of 
 indulgence on their part had never found rea 
 sons enough for belaboring Alice Marchmont to 
 their heart's content, she certainly gave them 
 ample cause this evening. 
 
 But it came at length a sudden, staggering 
 blow. She had been certain that' some crisis 
 was at hand ; the presentiment bad never left 
 her during the whole day: it was fulfilled as 
 unexpectedly as if she had not believed herself, 
 to a certain extent, prepared. She was on her 
 way out of the drawing-rooms; people were 
 talking to her on her passage ; she encountered 
 a fresh group near the door, and it was all to 
 go over again. She was saying the wittiest 
 things imaginable, still with the odd feeling 
 that it was her closing triumph, and determined 
 to dazzle to the last. Dick Faulkner was hov 
 ering about her, Halford coldly regarding her 
 from a distance, scores of women whom she 
 had roused to mutiny by her reckless poaching 
 on their manors eying her with bitter feminine 
 malice, new admirers rushing up, more chatter,
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 more laughter ; and in the midst of it fell the 
 awful shock. 
 
 Just behind her stood two elderly men, hold 
 ing snatches of conversation not intended for 
 any cars besides their own ; but Mrs. March- 
 mont's senses were in a state of such nervous 
 exaltation that she was able to see and hear 
 every thing going on about her, though talking 
 all the time. She distinctly heard one of the 
 pair say to his neighbor, 
 
 "If she was in for Peep of Day like poor 
 Trevor, she wouldn't be quite so full of life and 
 spirits." 
 
 " No, I rather think not ! They say the 
 whole thing has caved in," returned the other, 
 in the delightfully unconcerned tone in which 
 people usually discuss misfortunes that can in 
 no way affect themselves. 
 
 " Gone down as flat as your hand," was the 
 answer; "and, what's more, it will never come 
 up stock and company were both a humbug." 
 
 "I said so from the first, but people would 
 not listen ! I'd not have touched a share of it 
 as a gift," said the first speaker, in a voice of 
 conscious and satisfied wisdom. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont knew that she kept on her 
 way into the passage, but she was dizzy and 
 blind, and as she reached the foot of the stair 
 case, Dick Faulkner whispered in her ear, 
 
 "I am sorry you heard that two old fools ; 
 but don't you mind in the least." 
 
 He was glad in his heart, glad and exultant, 
 for he was in a frightful rage with her. She 
 knew that he was glad ; her quick perceptions 
 caught the savage ring of triumph through the 
 attempted solicitude of his voice. She turned 
 and faced him ; the rest of her courtiers had 
 dropped a little back ; they stood quite alone. 
 
 "Is it true?" she asked. 
 
 He hesitated ; his features assumed an ex 
 pression of regret and sympathy very tolerably ; 
 but she saw the devilish smile that shone in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Will you answer? Is it true ?" she repeat 
 ed ; and there was more haughty impatience 
 than fear in the tone. 
 
 "Yes perfectly true," he replied, slowly. 
 
 She stood still ; the floor heaved and swayed 
 so unsteadily to her sight that she dared not 
 stir. 
 
 " I am so sorry," he continued. " I did not 
 mean you to hear to-night. Don't you know, 
 I would rather have cut my right hand off than 
 for this trouble to have reached you ?" 
 
 The woman's mettle asserted itself just then, 
 at this crisis wherein even a strong man might 
 have been utterly overwhelmed. She looked 
 Faulkner full in the face ; not a muscle of her 
 own quivered. 
 
 "Will you tell me how much I have lost?" 
 
 Again he hesitated not, she was certain, 
 from any kindly feeling just from the sort of 
 instinct which leads feline animals to worry 
 their prey before killing it. She made a quick 
 gesture: exaggerated as the comparison sounds, 
 I can only liken it to the threatening command 
 
 some Eastern monarch might have given a re 
 bellious slave. 
 
 "Ten thousand dollars, if you will know." 
 
 He had dropped his sentimental tone ; and 
 though he spoke necessarily almost in a whisper, 
 the fierce rage her haughty assurance caused 
 him sounded through it distinctly enough. 
 
 "That is, over and above the other?" she 
 asked, still with her dilated eyes full upon him. 
 
 He bowed his head. 
 
 She passed on up stairs without another word 
 without allowing him the satisfaction of see 
 ing the change which she knew had suddenly 
 come over her face the terror and despair that 
 at length forced themselves through the defiant 
 composure she had maintained. There were 
 women in the dressing-room pausing for a last 
 interchange of scandals; they chattered and 
 poured out a torrent of questions and bitter 
 sweet compliments, and she answered at ran 
 dom, till able to collect her wraps and flee be 
 yond the sound of their odious frivolity. They, 
 naturally supposing that her only reason for 
 haste was because they belonged to her own 
 sex, abused her with additional virulence, and 
 did it well. If there ever is a surgical opera 
 tion neatly and thoroughly performed, it is the 
 flaying of a sister by those gentle proficients. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont hurried into the corridor, 
 and at the head of the stairs met Kenneth Hal- 
 ford. 
 
 " I am just in time to see you down," he said, 
 offering his arm. " I am sure you must be 
 tired to death." 
 
 His voice sounded a little cold. He had not 
 been so much charmed with her during the lat 
 ter part of the evening. Very beautiful and 
 brilliant she might be ; but this woman with 
 the crowd about her, saying careless things, 
 with smiles for any body that came near; 
 worse than all the rest, with more than one 
 man about her whom he knew ought never to 
 be tolerated by any good woman, was not the 
 Alice of the old time had no connection what 
 ever with the innocent girl of that season. 
 
 Had he looked at her now, the pallor and 
 dread in her face might have softened him ; 
 but he kept his eyes averted as they walked on, 
 and she continued a fire of witticisms and non 
 sensical talk which sounded too much like the 
 bonmots of a modern novel to be agreeable to 
 his hypercritical taste, 
 
 " You may come and see me," she said, as 
 they reached the lower floor. "You may 
 come to-morrow, if you like." 
 
 He thanked her. She felt, rather than heard, 
 the restraint and disapproval in his tones. 
 Through all her misery and nervous agitation, 
 her temper flamed up. This man was ventur 
 ing to sit in judgment ; he dared to blame her. 
 In her best moments, Mrs. Marchmont could 
 not have borne that consciousness patiently ; 
 just now it irritated her till she longed to do 
 or say something that would shock him more 
 completely. 
 
 " No, not to-morrow," she added; "I re-
 
 40 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 member, I am going out. The day after no ; 
 what is it I have to do ? Never mind ; we 
 shall meet somewhere in the crowd, sooner or 
 later. Good-bye till then, Mr. Halford ; you 
 needn't take me out to the carriage ; I want to 
 speak with Mr. Duval ; he is one of my favor 
 ite knights." 
 
 She knew he said something she could not 
 tell what and drew aside. She had succeeded 
 in her wish of rousing his censure to a higher 
 pitch, for the man whom she beckoned toward 
 her was of Dick Faulkner's stamp, and nothing 
 but her insane desire to be as reckless as she 
 could manage would have induced her to ac 
 cept his arm. But he led her out in triumph 
 apparently, that is ; for in reality she never 
 addressed a single word to him, or paid the 
 least attention to his remarks. As he placed 
 her in the carriage, and turned away discom 
 fited, Dick Faulkner looked in at the window, 
 smiling still. 
 
 "I will come to-morrow," he whispered. 
 "Don't worry yourself; there is no reason. I 
 have been cross to-night ; you tormented me 
 beyond endurance. Don't think about the 
 money ; it is only to me ; we can arrange it 
 easily enough." 
 
 The carriage was oft"; she thought her 
 senses were so bewildered and stunned that she 
 could not be certain but it seemed to her that 
 he had tried to kiss her hand. She was shiv 
 ering from head to foot, burning with fever at 
 the same time, body and mind alike threaten 
 ing to yield under the awful crisis which had 
 overtaken her; yet, woman-like, all the way 
 home she was not thinking so much of the evil 
 tidings she had heard, of the probable ruin 
 which menaced her, as of the humiliating idea 
 that the lips of that horrible man had brushed 
 her hand. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SHOWING HIS HAND. 
 
 Mns. MARCHMOXT sat the next morning, 
 waiting for her visitor waiting beset by a host 
 of reflections and fears which were by no means 
 pleasant companions for a solitary hour. 
 
 She knew well enough that Faulkner would 
 come ; to refuse him an interview would only 
 be to put off the evil day, and perhaps render 
 any peaceable understanding more difficult by 
 rousing his evil temper and obstinacy. Be 
 sides, she could bear any thing under heaven 
 more easily than suspense ; no words that he 
 could speak would prove half so terrible as her 
 anticipations of the scene. She had contem 
 plated the worst possibilities so often during 
 the past night, her restless fancy had tormented 
 her with so many different aspects of the tete- 
 a-tete, that to face the reality, no matter what, 
 would be a relief. If he were insolent, she 
 could rise and leave the room ; if he Oh, 
 what folly to indulge in such thoughts ! She 
 owed him thousands of dollars, and for the 
 
 present there was no means of raising them in 
 her power. He could not be quite so vile as 
 her fears during three weeks had caused her to 
 dread ; there must be some trace of humanity 
 in his nature ! Whatever his intentions were, 
 she should be able by her tact to keep him 
 from breaking through the ordinary rules of 
 decorum. 
 
 That she should have lived to hold such re 
 flections in regard to any man ! oh, no wonder 
 she clenched her hands and stamped her feet 
 on the carpet, and wished that she had died a 
 year before! But she controlled herself, and, 
 when he was announced, was able to receive 
 him without varying from her usual manner. 
 Skilled in seizing the slightest advantage in 
 the fencing-match of a difficult conversation, 
 she had seated herself with her back to the 
 light ; and both attitude and costume were as 
 perfect as if she had set her heart upon fasci 
 nating the man who, her intuitions told her, 
 would force her to an open declaration of war 
 before the interview ended. 
 
 "Ah, good-morning, Mr. Faulkner," she said, 
 laying down her pen as if his entrance had in 
 terrupted a real occupation, and pushing the 
 gilded writing-table a little away. "You are 
 still alive after last night's fatigues, I see." 
 
 " Oh, I can bear a good deal," he answered. 
 "But you I declare you women work harder 
 going to balls evening after evening " 
 
 By this time the door had closed the stern 
 domestic guardian was out of hearing. She 
 did not wait for the reasonable politeness of 
 letting him conclude his speech. 
 
 "I have been waiting anxiously for you," 
 she said. 
 
 "That is a little consolation at least," return 
 ed he, with the smile which always made her 
 blood tingle. "I was afraid that my visit was 
 unconscionably early." 
 
 "I asked you to come," she said, calmly, 
 ignoring the insolent freedom of his first sen 
 tence. 
 
 "Yes, and I made haste, for fear that you 
 had been worrying yourself all night over the 
 talk of those two fools." 
 
 "I always reserve my powers in that line un 
 til it is absolutely necessary to exercise them," 
 she replied ; and all the while she was thinking 
 loathing herself for the thought how natural 
 subterfuges and falsehoods had grown to her. 
 
 "That's right," said he; "but you are the 
 one woman I have ever seen who really had a 
 head ! So you slept comfortably ?" 
 
 She caught his smile ; she knew perfectly 
 well that he was not deceived by her manner 
 that he exulted inwardly at his ability to pierce 
 through all her pretty pretense of composure. 
 
 "You have brought the papers accounts 
 or whatever is the proper name, I suppose," 
 she said, carelessly. 
 
 "Upon my word," retorted he. with an irri 
 tated laugh, "you speak as if I w r ere the family 
 solicitor, or an agent, or some cad of that sort." 
 
 " I hope the ball has not left you in a bad
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 41 
 
 temper," she answered, hating him the more 
 that she dared not persevere in her tone of in 
 solent superiority. 
 
 " If it had, seeing you would have dissipated 
 it," he said. 
 
 "Ah, that is very pretty; but it is too early 
 in the day for compliments ; like jewels and 
 perfumes, they ought to be reserved for full 
 dress." 
 
 " How neatly you always put things !" he ex 
 claimed, with a coarse admiration that made 
 her shudder. 
 
 "Then let me try to put my first question, 
 which you seemed to think oifensive, a little 
 more neatly, too," she said, leaning back in her 
 chair and playing idly with the bronze paper- 
 cutter she had taken from the table. " Have 
 you come prepared to give me an exact state 
 ment of my affairs ?" 
 
 " How fearfully business-like you are this 
 morning ; I hardly recognize you," he replied, 
 laughing again. 
 
 "It is time for me to be so," she said, quiet 
 ly, though her fingers closed over the hilt of the 
 toy she held till the sharp ornaments cut cruel 
 red creases in her hands. " So there is nothing 
 to hope from our brilliant scheme, A*. Faulk 
 ner ; Peep of Day has vanished ?" 
 
 " There's no good in trying to deceive you, 
 or to smooth matters " 
 
 "The plain truth will be the greatest kind 
 ness you can show ; that is, if the plain truth 
 can be got at in our century," she added, un 
 able, in spite of her dread, to resist this little 
 thrust. 
 
 "I was completely taken in and duped, "he 
 said ; "it's almost the first time such a thing has 
 happened to me since I commenced business." 
 
 " Then you were not one of the originators 
 of the scheme ?" returned she, in a voice nicely 
 modulated between question and assertion. 
 
 " I should think not ; why, I explained that 
 at first. They have let me in finely ; I shall 
 have great difficulty to But that's no matter ! 
 Your affairs are the important thing just now." 
 
 "I am sorry to appear selfish ; but they are 
 so to me, unfortunately, Mr. Faulkner, at this 
 moment. I have lost ten thousand dollars " 
 
 "But only to me ; do understand." 
 
 " Before that I had lost what was it five 
 thousand?" 
 
 " The exact amount is of no consequence " 
 
 "Excuse me; it is of the greatest conse 
 quence ! Please to answer me ; was it five ?" 
 
 "And a few hundreds over," he said, pee 
 vishly. "But it is only to me; you have no 
 doings with any body else ; your name does 
 not appear ! Why on earth will you torment 
 yourself about such a trifle ?" 
 
 "In your vast schemes fifteen thousand dol 
 lars may seem a trifle," she replied, laughing a 
 little, though her lips were dry and parched ; 
 "but it looks a large sum to me." 
 
 "I never want you to think about it," he 
 averred. 
 
 " That is very kind of you ; but you must 
 
 know it would be impossible. From the first, 
 I only meant to go so far as I could give you a 
 margin in safety ; I mean, put securities in your 
 hands " 
 
 "Yes, yes; it's all right!" he broke in, 
 dramming with both hands on the table in a . 
 nervous, excited way, new to her in her knowl 
 edge of him. 
 
 " Unfortunately, during these last weeks I 
 forgot my resolution that scheme showed so 
 fair I have been drawn on and on, till now " 
 she stopped to steady her voice, which had be 
 gun to tremble "I find myself deeply in your 
 debt." 
 
 "No debt at all," cried he. "I Avas duped 
 sold. I'll pay them for it before I'm six 
 months older, as sure as my name is Dick 
 Faulkner!" he exclaimed, striking the table 
 with energy. 
 
 But though he did annoyance and a desire 
 for revenge well enough, Mrs. Marchmont was 
 not deceived. That gleam of infernal exulta 
 tion was in his eyes still ; her woman's intui 
 tions told her that he had a hand in this failure 
 whether to serve some purpose where she 
 was concerned, she should soon know. 
 
 " What I want to do this morning," she con 
 tinued, with her voice once more under proper 
 control, "is to see what arrangement we can 
 arrive at in regard to my debt to you." 
 
 "The easiest in the world," he said, eagerly. 
 
 " You mean you will be satisfied with a 
 mortgage " 
 
 "I don't mean any thing of the sort," ho 
 broke in rudely. " Put the money out of your 
 mind ; call the thing canceled. I'll give you 
 a receipt this moment, if you like." 
 
 She half started forward in her chair ; the 
 proposal sounded so generous, that though she 
 did not dream of accepting it, she almost felt 
 that she had misjudged him. Again she caught 
 the expression in his bold eyes, and knew that 
 some insult lay beneath this offer. 
 
 "You are very kind," she said, regarding 
 him full in the face now ; " but in your desire 
 to spare me uneasiness, you go beyond what 
 you know yourself to be possible." 
 
 " Not a bit," said he. " Come, call it 
 ended!" 
 
 He rose quickly from his scat ; his face 
 frightened her ; but she leaned languidly back, 
 saying, in the gayest way, 
 
 " Sit down, sit down ; you are too impul 
 sive by half for a business man, Mr. Faulkner. 
 Good gracious, if you treat all your creditors 
 in this Quixotic fashion, you will be ruined in 
 a year." 
 
 " Other people must shift for themselves ; I 
 am talking about what I am ready to do for 
 you," said he, doggedly. 
 
 " And I thank you sincerely for your gener 
 ous intentions, but must refuse them distinct 
 ly," she answered. "Now, that point settled 
 only do understand how much obliged, how 
 grateful, I am let us consider the best means 
 of acquitting my debt."
 
 42 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 She had a vague hope that, by appealing to 
 his better self if he had one at least, by this 
 appearance of believing in his sincerity and 
 good faith, she might be able to keep the in 
 terview within the bounds where she had, with 
 such difficulty, managed to retain their inter 
 course during the past fortnight, in which the 
 business troubles had drawn her further and 
 further into the net. 
 
 " I don't want your gratitude," he said, 
 quickly, almost roughly. She might have 
 thought him eager to escape the expression of 
 her thanks, had not the light in those bold eyes 
 burned into her very soul, bringing a sense of 
 humiliation and dread which nearly overpow 
 ered her desperate courage. 
 
 " But you must have it sit down, please ; 
 you make me nervous twirling your chair and 
 you must have your money, too." 
 
 " Confound the money !" 
 
 "Not in my presence, if you please," she 
 said, with that haughty movement of her head 
 which had so often awed him in spite of his 
 effrontery. But he did not mean to be awed 
 now ; he had come to the house with a settled 
 purpose in his mind ; neither her graces nor 
 her histrionics should keep him from revealing 
 it. He sat down, though, as she had bidden 
 him, more at a loss just how to act or speak 
 than he had ever been in his whole life. 
 
 "Well?" he asked, anathematizing himself 
 mentally for his own hesitation. 
 
 " I want to explain. I have not the money 
 to pay you now ; you know that ; for the pres 
 ent, I could not raise the sum " 
 
 She stopped ; she thought, she was almost 
 sure, that he smothered a laugh. Her first im 
 pulse was to rise and leave the room ; but a 
 second's reflection showed her the uselessness 
 of any such show of indignation. She was in 
 his power ; she must submit to an interview, in 
 order to arrange some means of freeing herself. 
 
 " Why don't you go on ?" he asked. 
 
 "I am thinking what security I could best 
 give you," she answered; and her voice did 
 not tremble, though the real thought in her 
 mind was that she had none to offer. 
 
 " Finish what you have to say," said he, sul 
 lenly; "then I have something to say in my 
 turn." 
 
 " The last few weeks have made you tolera 
 bly well acquainted with my affairs " 
 
 " Yes ; tolerably," he said, as she hesitated ; 
 and there was no mistaking the sneer on his 
 face now. 
 
 "But what you do not know is that I have 
 a hope of " 
 
 She stopped again. What she had begun to 
 say was, that she hoped to dispose of certain 
 Virginia lands she owned to a company a 
 tract of coal, lead, and oil lands, which one day 
 would be immensely valuable. There was a 
 probability of her disposing of them retaining 
 percentages becoming really a rich woman ; 
 but, with this new fear of him in her mind, she 
 hesitated to trust him witli the secret. If her 
 
 vague dread of his evil intentions the bare 
 thought of which, in spite of the vagueness, 
 made her abhor herself to think that she had 
 lived to give place to such ideas in her mind 
 were correct, he might find some method of 
 hindering the sale, invent lies to prejudice the 
 company no, she would not trust him. 
 
 "You don't tell me what hope you have," 
 he said. 
 
 "I will; I want " 
 
 "Oh, now, let's have an end of this!" he 
 cried, springing up from his chair again. "I'll 
 not have you distress yourself any longer about 
 this silly business ! Look here, Mrs. March- 
 mont Alice cut my heart out, and stamp on 
 it, if it will do you any good I love you I 
 love you ! " 
 
 He was close beside her, his eyes blinding 
 her with their glow ; and all her tact, all her 
 pride, did not save -her from the unutterable 
 humiliation of having Dick Faulkner hold her 
 two hands fast while he told her over and over 
 that he loved her ; that for months he had 
 thought of nothing else ; that he must speak 
 now, or he should go mad ! Alice felt sick 
 and faint with terror and abhorrence. To flirt 
 to the fetremest verge of prudence was one 
 thing; to make some sister-woman insanely 
 wretched by bewitching her husband before 
 her very eyes, was a recreation full of delight. 
 But a scene like this was very different, and 
 something undreamed of in Mrs. Marchmont's 
 experience as repulsive, indeed, to her whole 
 nature as it could have been to the most rigid 
 puritan that ever lived. As I have said, she 
 had always so prided herself on the fact that 
 during her wedded days no man ever ventured 
 to whisper a single word that could be con 
 strued into a liberty. Since that, during this 
 season of her widowhood, no married man 
 among the many with whose fancies she had 
 chosen to play havoc had ever dared, even by 
 a look, to express any thing beyond knightly 
 courtesy and entire devotion to her slightest 
 wish. Knowing this, she had never reflected 
 that to receive such attentions was in itself a 
 degradation ; but she would hereafter, forced 
 by this insult to regard flirtation truthfully. 
 She had never dreamed how often the world 
 had harshly judged her, or that, as will fre 
 quently happen, among the numerous votaries 
 at her shrine, there had been more than one 
 wretch base enough to atone for his lack of 
 courage and success by meaning smiles and 
 dastardly insinuations. 
 
 It is strange, but you can seldom persuade 
 women that such reports, such cowardly malice 
 on the part of many men, are to be expected. 
 Nor does the inability to believe proceed from 
 the fact that women are so truthful themselves ; 
 it is only that to each woman it seems impossi 
 ble that such slanders should come near her. 
 
 But there Dick Faulkner was at Mrs. March 
 mont's feet ; and his eyes looked straight into 
 hers till they seemed to scorch every pnre feel 
 ing, every sense of feminine delicacy, with their
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 43 
 
 glance. Her first impulse was one of pure ter 
 ror ; her second, a mingled horror and rage 
 that disgrace should have ventured so near her 
 petted life. She forgot what she had done to 
 help on this unpleasant position ; forgot the 
 scenes through which she had gone this very 
 morning with unfortunate trades-people ; for 
 got the debts that overwhelmed her on all sides ; 
 forgot that she owed this reptile a sum which 
 she was powerless to pay, and that her repu 
 tation was at his mercy ; forgot every thing in 
 a burst of wrath and disgust, which, of itself, 
 proved that, in spite of her follies and wicked 
 ness for extravagance is wickedness she had 
 kept her soul womanly and pure. 
 
 "Be good enough to let my hands go, Mr. 
 Faulkner. We are not rehearsing for a French 
 comedy." 
 
 These were the first words she spoke in re 
 turn to the insane tirade which he poured out, 
 and they stung him worse than blows. She 
 might have burst into ejaculations of virtuous 
 rage ; he would only have considered them em 
 ployed to lure him on. She might have treated 
 him to tears and piteous laments that he should 
 insult her weakness ; they would have been a 
 poorer and still more ineffectual refuge. But 
 to meet that cool, quiet contempt ; to hear the 
 indolent voice, as if he really were not worth a 
 scene ah, she had touched him as scarcely 
 another woman in the world could have done. 
 He dropped her hands, and was on his feet in 
 an instant. 
 
 " Now sit down," she said, quietly, "and let 
 me think what is to be done. Well I suppose 
 you want^our money, Mr. Faulkner?" 
 
 She asked the question as indifferently as if 
 there were nothing but the merest business 
 matters to arrange between them as if she 
 were not half out of her senses with shame and 
 passion, thinking that there was no act too ter 
 rible to commit, if it could only free her for all 
 time to come from the sight of this man. 
 
 "Do you mean to insult me?" he cried. 
 " Have you the heart to talk about money, af 
 ter what I have said ?" 
 
 He was trying hard to control his rage, to 
 keep back the threats and imprecations very 
 near his lips, and essay the magnanimous and 
 injured that is, according to his conception of 
 the character. 
 
 "I conclude the money must have been 
 somewhat in your thoughts," she answered, 
 with a contemptuous smile. " It has been, 
 and is, a good deal in mine, I assure yon." 
 
 " I came to beg you not to think of it to 
 say that if the sum you owe me were ten times 
 the amount, I should be only too happy to be 
 your creditor." 
 
 " Yes, you told me that ; I thanked you. It 
 was very pretty and gallant on your part," she 
 said, laughing cheerfully, while her head spun 
 round and round, and the bare effort to think 
 was like having a sharp knife thrust into her 
 brain. 
 
 " It came as my love does from my heart !" 
 
 "Stop, stop! We are in Wall Street this 
 morning, talking over a purely business affair. 
 Wall Street knows nothing about hearts." 
 
 "I was not aware that Mrs. Marchmont did 
 me the honor to regard me as her commission 
 broker," he said, with an ugly sneer.- 
 
 " I considered you my friend," she replied, ea 
 gerly. "As such I have trusted you, presumed 
 upon your good-nature beyond all limits " (here 
 she smiled again), " till I dare say you have 
 many times wished me and my small ventures 
 at the bottom of the Dead Sea." 
 
 Her heart gave a little bound of hope, though 
 she did now fully comprehend his baseness ; 
 but she had been so accustomed to intercourse 
 with gentlemen, that she could not resist the 
 idea of yet touching his generosity, since he 
 must see that the love-making was a failure. 
 
 "I think I have shown myself your friend," 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; no doubt you meant for the 
 best " 
 
 "Ah, you take to reproaches !" 
 
 "No, Mr. Faulkner; but I do think you 
 might have warned me held me back kept 
 me from being so overconfident." 
 
 " I was afraid of your thinking that I wanted 
 to save myself trouble ; indeed, I did not think 
 at all, except about pleasing you." 
 
 She had not expected this speech, after his 
 conduct ; perhaps she had been a little unjust 
 in her thoughts concerning him ; he might not 
 have pushed her on to her present position to 
 hold her in his power ; at all events, so long 
 as he kept to the ground upon which he had 
 shifted she was perfectly at home, and mistress 
 of the position. 
 
 " I am sure of that," she said ; "and it was 
 very kind of you. But you remember that, in 
 the beginning, I told you I wanted to be busi 
 ness-like, if you would only show me how. I 
 wanted to try no ventures except such as I put 
 money in your hands to make a basis for." 
 
 "But that you were only able to do while 
 yon confined yourself to little windfalls for 
 pocket-money. So purely a business arrange 
 ment as you contemplated " 
 
 " Ah, now you are angry ; and indeed I had 
 no intention of being rude. I only meant that 
 I did not wish to place myself under pecuniary 
 obligations to any body ; the kindness and 
 friendship I appreciated you know I did at 
 a high value." 
 
 What to make of this woman was more than 
 he could decide. For years he had not given 
 any human being credit for possessing honesty 
 or principle. He had looked upon her as a 
 woman hard to win never to be won by him 
 unless he paid very dearly for the conquest. 
 That in spite of her coquetry she could be pure 
 and innocent, so far as there was any possibili 
 ty of wrong in her actions; that all this while 
 she had really believed he would content him 
 self with doing her work and receiving a few 
 smiles and pretty words for payment, had nev 
 er occurred to him."
 
 44 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 " I am sure you know this," she urged, when 
 he did not speak, busy studying her, and think 
 ing the words I have set down. " Please say 
 you did, Mr. Faulkner." 
 
 She gave him one of her most dazzling smiles, 
 and she looked very beautiful. The instant's 
 wonder and doubt left Dick Faulkner's mind. 
 Was he to be done by this artfulness, and laugh 
 ed at for a fool worse still, fail signally in what 
 he had believed would be his hour of triumph, 
 in the very sight of the loveliness which moved 
 him as no beauty had ever before done? He 
 had scarcely a decent impulse left in his na 
 ture, and he loved this woman : I must use the 
 word ; it was his sort of love, the strongest and 
 fiercest he had ever felt or could feel, and a pas 
 sion hot enough to have tempted him to any ex 
 treme. 
 
 " This is of no use," he exclaimed. " I love 
 you, Alice ! I'll do any thing you want ; only 
 give me a kind word. My life is such a lonely 
 one ; I want to be loved ! I have purgatory at 
 home ; I " 
 
 She rose from her chair pale as death, her 
 great eyes black with indignation ; she made a 
 gesture which is indescribable unless you can 
 remember Rachel, as Virginia, ordering away 
 the man sent to outrage her by insulting offers. 
 
 "Leave the room !" was all she said ; but she 
 fairly hissed the words from between her shut 
 teeth. Her voice was little more than a whis 
 per, but it would have been impossible for hu 
 man tones to have expressed more loathing and 
 contempt. 
 
 "Take care!" cried he, rushing into one of 
 his furies ; for, once excited, the man's temper 
 fell little short of insanity. " You have chosen 
 to place yourself in my power ; you must take 
 the consequences." 
 
 "Oh, you coward!" she answered, in the 
 same tone as before. 
 
 " Don't you use one more such word ! You 
 told me in the beginning that you couldn't raise 
 this money. You are crippled with debts; I 
 know more than you think. It would be a 
 pretty story that I helped you. Do you sup 
 pose any body is going to believe the truth ?" 
 
 " You will know it," she replied ; " and your 
 knowing the falsehood would be my bitterest 
 revenge, where you are concerned." 
 
 "You have chosen to defy me " 
 
 " Mr. Faulkner, I bade you leave this room ! 
 I knew you were base and despicable ; how ut 
 terly so it remained for you to prove." 
 
 He caught the loose sleeve of her dress as she 
 turned away, she was so beautiful in her scorn. 
 At that moment he would have gone straight 
 down to purgatory for one kindly glance. 
 
 "I'd sell my soul for you," he exclaimed, 
 huskily, " if you'd only let me love you ; I'd 
 ask nothing, if ydu'll only give me one sweet 
 word " 
 
 "Oh, this is worse than your threats," she 
 interrupted. 
 
 " I was mad to speak so. You know I would 
 not harm you. No woman ever had the pow 
 
 er over me that you have ; it is the blindest, 
 the craziest infatuation " 
 
 "I can't put you out of my house," she broke 
 in, feeling that unless she could end this scene 
 she must become a raving lunatic ; " but I can 
 leave you !" 
 
 She had read of desperate creatures of her 
 own sex committing deeds of violence, and won 
 dered if such things were possible ; but at this 
 moment Dick Faulkner's life would not have 
 been worth the purchase, if her hands could 
 have laid hold of any weapon with death in it. 
 
 " Only listen to me," he pleaded. " I'll not 
 stay; I'll not make you angry; but I must 
 speak just a word." 
 
 "Let go my sleeve, then. I don't care to be 
 addressed as if I were taken by a policeman." 
 
 She sat down again ; her limbs were trem 
 bling so that she could not stand. 
 
 " You are so pale ; you " 
 
 "Finish what you had to say," said she. with 
 cold contempt. 
 
 It certainly was not easy to utter tender dec 
 larations, or dramatic remorse, under such cir 
 cumstances. He grew furiously angry again, 
 and it had been many a day since any thing so 
 honest burst from his heart as the curse with 
 which he cursed her through his teeth. She 
 caught the words, though in his rage he had 
 not known that they were more than a thought. 
 
 "I think not," she said. "I am not a good 
 woman, but I don't believe that I shall have 
 any thing so bad as a dwelling-place where your 
 society would be inevitable." 
 
 "So you mean war !" he cried. " You want 
 a battle, do you ?" 
 
 "There will be no occasion, Mr. Faulkner; 
 you shall have your money." 
 
 " That sounds well, but you know you 
 couldn't raise one quarter of the sum to save 
 your immortal soul." 
 
 She did know it, but something kept whis 
 pering to her that she could and should to set 
 the time, even, when the payment should be 
 ready. 
 
 "In ten days you shall have your money," 
 she said, slowly. " In the mean time, for your 
 own sake, if not for mine, you will be silent." 
 
 "Do you think I am likely to tell do you 
 suppose me capable " 
 
 "In ten days you shall have your money," 
 she repeated still, as it seemed to her in her 
 frenzy, uttering words put into her mouth by 
 some invisible power extraneous to her will. 
 " I I am very tired now. Will you have the 
 goodness to go away ?" 
 
 " Shall I come here for it ?" he asked, sul 
 lenly. 
 
 "I want a written statement of every thing 
 you understand what I mean ; I don't know 
 vour business words and I want a receipt. 
 Yes, I suppose you will have to come here." 
 
 " And you mean that is the last time I ever 
 shall, Mrs. Marchmont?" he demanded, while 
 an uglier frown darkened his face. 
 
 "It is very possible, Mis, Faulkner," she an-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 45 
 
 swered, struggling back to her usual indolent 
 voice and manner, and sweeping him a slow 
 courtesy. "Permit me to wish you good- 
 morning." 
 
 There was nothing for it but to go quietly 
 away ; and Dick Faulkner yielded to the neces 
 sity, not trying to add another word. He was 
 gone, and Mrs. Marchmont had not even lei 
 sure to yield to the hysterical spasms which were 
 trying to overcome her the natural conse 
 quence of this prolonged suffering and excite 
 ment. She was obliged to dress and go out ; 
 and it was not a pleasant part of town into 
 which her business led her, though during the 
 past months she had grown only too familiar 
 with its appearance. 
 
 The money she must have the money; there 
 was no other thought in her mind ; the money, 
 the money ! 
 
 But it was not easy to impress upon her Is- 
 raelitish friend whom she went to visit, and in 
 whose escritoire lay so much stamped paper 
 with her dashing signature attached, the neces 
 sity of lending it. Indeed, he pointed out with 
 charming candor, while putting a long ruler in 
 and out of his sleeve, as if doing conjuring tricks 
 on a small scale, the utter impossibility of such 
 a procedure on his part under existing circum 
 stances. He was so very quiet about the mat 
 ter, so smilingly persistent in his refusals, that 
 his manner seemed only the last straw needed 
 to turn her brain. 
 
 Sitting there in the dusty upper office where 
 every thing she touched left its impress on her 
 delicate gray gloves and the small fortune, in 
 the way of lace, that decorated her dress, Mrs. 
 Marchmont was brought face to face with the 
 startling fact that, as matters stood, she had 
 even nothing fivailable left to mortgage, since 
 the negotiations in regard to the Virginia lands 
 had proceeded so far that she could not incum- 
 ber them at this moment. Nothing but some 
 body else's very good name would assist her 
 with her Hebrew, as he frankly, but mildly, as 
 serted. And the money to be raised within ten 
 days ; and, apparently, the only way out of her 
 difficulties to go quietly home and make a last 
 investment in a sufficient quantity of laudanum 
 to send her out of Dick Faulkner's reach, at least. 
 
 It was not strange that some such dreadful 
 thought flitted across her mind if she could 
 be said to have a thought in the chaotic whirl 
 of her senses. She was so near mad, too, that 
 she caught herself laughing at the horror of her 
 maid when her dead body was discovered ; or 
 perhaps the old relative who lived with her 
 prosaic Miss Portman would be the one to 
 stumble over the cold carcass; and she would 
 shriek so dolefully ; and people would talk and 
 marvel. She knew she was laughing, and her 
 child of Israel looking a little oddly at her, but 
 she could not restrain herself. Yet all the 
 while she was listening to his words, and saying 
 over and over, below her breath, the exclama 
 tion that had been the one conscious reflection 
 in her mind during her drive. 
 
 The money the money! She must have 
 the money. 
 
 She was capable of nothing beyond that wea 
 ry repetition till across-her dazed brain struck 
 the meaning of the sole hope held out by her 
 Israelitish counselor. Another name added 
 after hers to the little bill" the leedle pill," 
 Moses's descendant called it might prove the 
 "open sesame" required to free her from the 
 terrible dilemma. 
 
 "A what do you call it an indorsement ?" 
 she demanded, sitting, suddenly, upright in her 
 chair. 
 
 The Hebrew nodded. 
 
 "If I can get that, you will give me the 
 money?" 
 
 " Why not, if the dame is edough ?" he ques 
 tioned in his turn, his peculiarities of pronun 
 ciation rendered more remarkable than usual 
 by an acute attack of catarrh. 
 
 " Somebody to indorse it somebody to in 
 dorse it," she muttered. 
 
 " Just so ! Very leedle ; then we have no 
 troubles wid the pill." 
 
 She left the office, and all the way home her 
 thoughts roamed out among her friends in 
 search of some one who would possibly aid her 
 in this emergency, and fell back as wearily and 
 helplessly as most persons must under such cir 
 cumstances. 
 
 In all the world, among her hosts of ac 
 quaintances, she could only think of one man 
 who would assist her; but she felt that she 
 could easier die than go to John Worthington 
 and make -the confession which would be nec- 
 
 CHAPTEB VIII. 
 
 A HASTY WORD. 
 
 THE season had been an unusually gay one, 
 and from its opening Alice Marchmont had al 
 lowed herself no repose, the leader of every 
 species of fashionable dissipation, till, had there 
 been any person with the right to remonstrate, 
 she must have endured, in addition to her rest 
 lessness, the annoyance of expostulations and 
 reproaches in regard to her reckless conduct. 
 Sometimes her old friend, John Worthington 
 the only creature who ever ventured to scold 
 her did say a few warning or sarcastic words ; 
 but he was not a society man, and at this period 
 his professional duties were so engrossing that 
 he had little leisure to bestow even upon her. 
 
 And this week was worse than all the uncer 
 tainty that had gone before. The days passed 
 with frightful rapidity, filling her with horror 
 and anxiety at their swift flight, though they 
 seemed endless as she looked back across their 
 length. She had herself set the term of pro 
 bation ten days and six of them had already 
 vanished, and she was no more prepared to 
 meet Dick Faulkner than in the hour when she 
 had so haughtily assured him he should have 
 his money.
 
 46 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 How could she stay at home with the horri 
 ble phantoms which crowded about in her lone 
 liness growing more tangible each day! It 
 was bad enough in a crowd ; even then she 
 never knew when a sudden fear might check 
 her laughter and blanch her face when some 
 chance story or allusion might bring the horror 
 of her position to her mind. Worse than any 
 thing, Dick Faulkner haunted her steps with his 
 silky smile, always watching her, she thought, 
 with a certainty of triumph in his wicked face 
 which often made her so wild with dread that 
 the ball-room floor would heave like a sea un 
 der her feet, and the lights rock to and fro in a 
 mist. No wonder that even in those few days 
 she altered rapidly in appearance, growing 
 thin, with deep, shadowy lines tracing them 
 selves under her eyes, that only increased their 
 brilliancy. She was more beautiful than ever, 
 but it was a beauty which would have caused 
 sharp anxiety to any body who loved her well 
 enough to notice the change. 
 
 One man did observe it, and that was Ken 
 neth Halford. Since the first meeting with 
 Mrs. Marchmont his feelings in regard to her 
 had undergone many changes, most of which 
 were so inexplicable that he was often enraged 
 with what seemed his own weakness and fickle 
 nature. .Whenever the memory of the old days 
 came up, he found himself greatly touched by 
 their influence; but he so utterly disapproved 
 of her rush after excitement, he so thoroughly 
 despised half the men by whom she was sur 
 rounded, and his strict sense of decorum was 
 so deeply outraged by the gossip -which her 
 careless conduct caused, that the woman her 
 self was, at times, almost an object of dislike. 
 Often he thought that she wished perhaps out 
 of mere coquetry to subdue him by the power 
 of those old associations ; and then he grew 
 very bitter and hard toward her. Fortunate 
 ly, just now, Milly Crofton was kept a good 
 deal at home by the illness of her cousin, so 
 that Halford ran no risk of being tempted into 
 attentions which could disturb her peace of 
 mind. The pleasure of meeting the child again 
 had been so great, that he was genuinely aston 
 ished. Sometimes it fairly seemed as if she 
 were the innocent creature whose love had 
 made his youth beautiful that this dashing 
 woman, with her ceaseless, painful brilliancy, 
 hard and cold and bright as the diamonds blaz 
 ing in her hair, could have nothing in common 
 with the girl whose image had been so deeply 
 impressed upon his heart. Yet, perhaps an 
 hour after indulging in such reflections, he 
 would meet Mrs. Marchmont, and the weari 
 ness and trouble his quick eyes read in her 
 face, some chance quiver of her voice, some 
 frank appeal to his judgment, or pathetic dep 
 recation of his censures, would bring up not 
 the old love but a feeling of tender compas 
 sion which caused him for the time to believe 
 she was not really false and cold. 
 
 He was in a singular state of mind ; yet it 
 was a phase which many a man of his age 
 
 must pronounce natural. Mrs. Marchmont's 
 manner toward him was the perfection of ca 
 price, and it was not possible to have the slight 
 est clue to her conduct. If this woman had 
 indeed loved him through all these years ; if, 
 in spite of her worldly life, the renewal of their 
 acquaintance had brought the youthful dream 
 back in its freshness, and his conduct the first 
 night they met had helped to do it must he 
 not try to forget the past to have faith in her ? 
 If not if he could become convinced that she 
 was the heartless coquette he had striven in 
 the bitterness of his anger to believe why, 
 then, to love Milly Crofton would only be like 
 going back years and years, and taking up his 
 broken hopes just where they were brightest ; 
 and this woman would have no connection in 
 his mind with that season Milly would ba the 
 realization of his boyish ideal. 
 
 Little wonder that Mrs. Marchmont puzzled 
 him. He could not know how his presence at 
 one instant gave her a feeling of protection, by 
 bringing up the old days ; how in the next 
 some softened look in his eyes, some familiar 
 smile brightening his lips, forced into her mind 
 a recollection of the terrors which surrounded 
 her; and the bare thought that she dared not 
 I love any man filled her with rage and pain. 
 She could not bear to have him leave her, be 
 cause, in her desolation, he was the one link 
 that connected her with the innocent past ; and 
 yet she could not allow him to love her, be 
 cause, even if she lived beyond these days of 
 peril, the memory of their secret would always 
 remain, and leave her afraid of him. She could 
 not endure to lose his respect ; if she had loved 
 him better than in her girlish days, it would 
 have been easier to part than to run the risk 
 of living till the hour when soma chance might 
 make her reckless conduct known to him, and 
 kill his affection outright and forever. And 
 even a knowledge of half the truth would do it 
 she knew him so well so firm, and with such 
 rooted principles of honor; hard, too, toward 
 his own weaknesses and those of others. 
 
 Let him love her? She dared not! With 
 the stain of Dick Faulkner's insulting kiss upon 
 her hand ; with the remembrance that, in her 
 mad extravagance, her craving for social distinc 
 tion, she had bartered with this wretch smiles 
 and coquettish words in return for a share in 
 his Wall Street bubbles, until he actually pre 
 sumed to believe that he was at liberty to pre 
 sent his passion to her eyes ; that she had ex 
 pected that Oh, Alice could never go fur 
 ther in her thoughts! She so hated and ab 
 horred herself that she would strike the hand 
 he had polluted with his kiss fierce blows, over 
 whelmed by a sense of actual degradation and 
 guilt. Besides all this, the fact that her name 
 was attached to scores of bills lying in the 
 money-lender's safe that she was covered 
 with debts, and, worse than any thing, only a 
 few days to elapse before she must raise the 
 money to pay Faulkner. 
 
 She love and be loved ! The words would
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 47 
 
 utter themselves in spite of her not connected 
 especially with Kenneth Halford rousing her 
 to such misery, wrath, and self-contempt, that 
 she would fairly moan in her agony, wrestle the 
 night through, wonder if she should go mad be 
 fore the dawn lying, perhaps, on the floor just 
 as she had returned from some ball, blazing with 
 jewels and costly raiment. 
 
 One night, as she entered her opera-box, Hal- 
 ford chanced to sit where he had a full view of 
 her face ; and the change was very plain to him. 
 She returned his salutation with a slow, difficult 
 smile,andshrunkbackintotheshadowofthecur- 
 tains. Not obliged for the moment to talk, her 
 countenance had not lost the expression which 
 she had brought out of her solitary chamber. 
 
 Kenneth Halford was not that meanest of 
 created beings, a man given to fancying that 
 women were in love with him. But it was not 
 strange, considering the past, and the manner 
 in which she had treated him since his return, 
 that, now perceiving the sudden trouble in her 
 face as she looked at him, he should wonder 
 whether he had any share in the pain which he 
 read there. The idea brought him no pleas 
 ure ; it did not gratify his vanity, as would have 
 been the case with many men ; but his strict 
 sense of honor and justice marie it impossible 
 to put the thought aside. He had committed 
 a score of follies on that first evening they met ; 
 lie must atone for them, if necessary ; he could 
 not retreat from the position which he had then 
 assumed. On the instant up rose a vision of 
 Milly Crofton's girlish prettiness and innocence ; 
 he asked himself why, and found no satisfacto 
 ry answer, since he still regarded her as a mere 
 child to be petted and amused, without any ca 
 pability of rousing a stronger sentiment in a 
 heart so worn as his. He wished heartily just 
 then that he had remained in Europe ; wonder 
 ed testily if he should always be a fool ; but 
 turned to glance again toward the box, and met 
 Mrs. Marchmont's eyes as she once more lean 
 ed forward from among the curtains. It seem 
 ed a sort of invitation to join her one that he 
 could not refuse. He left his seat and made 
 his way through the lobbies to her loge, with his 
 mind in a state of confusion very humiliating to 
 a person who prided himself, during these latter 
 years, on having arrived at such entire self-con 
 trol that he was never to be shaken out of it, 
 able always to analyze his own emotions, know 
 exactly what they meant, and how much they 
 were worth. 
 
 With his hand upon the door-knob, he had 
 three minds to turn back ; but that stern inward 
 monitor of his asserted its power again, and 
 held him fast. It was too late to retreat, he 
 must go in ; if events justified his suspicions, 
 he must continue in the course he had begun. 
 That she had once been false through weakness 
 would offer no excuse for trifling on his part ; it 
 would appear like an unworthy revenge for the 
 pain she had caused him in the old days ; she 
 had suffered enough without having this humil 
 iating idea added. 
 
 " I thought you must have gone to the moon 
 for wonderful discoveries, till I saw you down 
 yonder," she said, as he entered. " Indeed, 
 you look a little as if you had been, and had 
 just returned, and were still dazed by your lu 
 nar expedition." 
 
 As he took her hand he could feel, even 
 through her glove, how icy cold it was, how 
 suddenly its pulses leaped under his touch, and 
 could see the quick rush of color which tinged 
 her cheeks. Certainly he could not be accused 
 of vanity for thinking that his appearance, the 
 pressure of his fingers upon her own, had caused 
 this emotion ; it was true, too. But how could 
 he understand, or dream, what the feelings 
 really were which gave rise to her trouble ? He 
 could not imagine that, when he came in obe 
 dience to her glance, and she felt that he had 
 not been able to resist her influence, there 
 rushed upon her, like a flash of lightning, the 
 thought of all which kept her so far apart from 
 him that this possible awakening of the faded 
 dream must be subdued, crushed, rooted out, 
 just as those terrible recollections quelled it in 
 her own heart. But she could not think ; she 
 would have a little rest, talk of the pleasant 
 things of her youth, and forget the present, and 
 the awful possibilities of the future. 
 
 " Why hasn't one met you for several nights ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "I think I have had my share of balls," he 
 replied ; " and society here seems to mean dan 
 cing insanely from one week's end to another." 
 
 "Now don't be misanthropical or wise; you 
 will have to wait several years yet before you 
 do either well," laughed she. " But why have 
 you not been to see me ?" 
 
 " Are you ever at home ?" 
 
 "What an unpardonable Yankeeism in a 
 man who has lived so long abroad, to answer 
 one question by another. Come, we will have 
 a course of interrogations, since they please 
 you ! Have you been to ask whether I was or 
 not ?" ' 
 
 "It is not very " 
 
 "Take care! Reply as if you were in the 
 Palace of Truth always supposing that any 
 thing masculine could enter." 
 
 "I have not been to-day," he said, finding it 
 difficult, in his present mood, to smile and jest. 
 
 ' ' Yesterday, then ?" 
 
 "Not since the day before." 
 
 She looked troubled again. Her first thought 
 was, did he suspect could any whisper have 
 crept out or had Faulkner in his rage already 
 begun to hint the scandals with Avhich he had 
 threatened her? This was always her first 
 dread now, when she perceived, or fancied, the 
 slightest change in any body's manner toward 
 her. 
 
 "I believe I have been busy," he continued; 
 "at least, I have made a great pretense of 
 work." 
 
 "And so satisfied your conscience," she re 
 plied, growing animated again just from remem 
 bering how ridiculous her fear was. "Make
 
 48 
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 an ample confession, and perhaps we will for 
 give you eh, Miss Portman ?" 
 
 She remembered that she had forgotten to 
 give the spinster any opportunity of waving the 
 conversation away from herself, in her usual shy 
 manner, and it was a matter of conscience with 
 Alice to do that once or twice in the course of 
 an evening. 
 
 So now, hearing her name, the virgin turned 
 from her contemplation of the stage with her cus 
 tomary flutter and nervous gasping for breath. 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; did you speak, my 
 dear?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes ; I'm always talking, you know, though, 
 luckily, it does not amount to much." 
 
 "Oh, my love!" quavered the spinster, who 
 never could bear that Mrs. Marchmont should 
 speak slightingly of herself. 
 
 "I suppose that means you regret my folly," 
 laughed she. 
 
 "Oh, my love!" quavered the virgin anew, 
 raising her voice half a note higher, so that it 
 sounded more than ever like the squeak of a 
 mouse caught in a trap. 
 
 "But where was I?" pursued Mrs. March 
 mont. "I was asking somebody something 
 Oh, it was you, Adeliza." 
 
 "Asking me Oh! yes, you were I 
 mean I heard you pronounce my name," re 
 turned the old maid, struggling, after her hab 
 it, to be perfectly truthful and correct in her 
 assertions. 
 
 " I was asking you if you thought we had 
 better forgive Mr. Halford his numerous sins 
 and enormities." 
 
 The spinster began to wave off the conver 
 sation with more than ordinary haste ; this 
 style of talk was completely beyond her com 
 prehension. She waved, and gurgled, and 
 looked so awfully stately, in the height of her 
 embarrassment, that a stranger would have be 
 lieved her the most formidable old woman one 
 could possibly encounter. 
 "I fear that Miss Portman thinks my enor 
 mities beyond the reach of pardon," observed 
 Halford, unable for the life of him to resist 
 laughing, and desirous of affording himself a 
 decent pretext. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Halford !" was now the squeak of 
 the poor mouse. 
 
 "Never mind," said Alice; "you can't 
 think too ill of him ; but you are not bound to 
 put your opinion in words." 
 
 " Oh, my love my love ! When you know 
 how highly I respect Mr. Halford you are 
 jesting pray, pray state that yon are jesting." 
 
 "I really can not jest on a subject so seri 
 ous," returned Alice; "but, to relieve your 
 mind, I will admit that you like this wretched 
 man very much ; does that content yon ?" 
 
 The spinster sat up straighter than ever, and 
 heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
 "I'm sure I thank you exceedingly, Miss 
 Portman," said Halford. "I wish you could 
 teach your cousin a little of your universal char- 
 ity." 
 
 Poor Miss Portman grew frightened and be 
 wildered again, and waved and shook, to keep 
 from becoming entangled in the web of talk. 
 
 "Don't abuse me to my relations, if you 
 please; that's shabbier than any thing, Mr. 
 Halford," said Alice, good-naturedly coming to 
 the old maid's rescue. 
 
 Miss Portman took advantage of the inter 
 position to lean forward and study the stage 
 attentively, wondering why she could not be 
 let alone. But just as she was composing her 
 mind to be tranquilly deafened by the crash of 
 the instruments, Halford, fearing that his teas 
 ing remark might have annoyed her, felt it his 
 duty to address her once more. 
 
 " They've almost reached the famous duet, 
 haven't they, Miss Portman ?" 
 
 She looked back helplessly ; she had seen 
 the opera at least twelve separate times, but 
 had no more idea to what he referred than if 
 he had asked her to explain a page of Sanscrit. 
 
 " I am sorry I " 
 
 "Don't let him disturb your enjoyment," 
 said Alice ; "go back to your beloved music; 
 he only wants to get rid of my searching ques 
 tions." 
 
 Miss Portman changed her attitude. Real 
 ly, this was likely to prove a very fatiguing 
 night these young people were so thoughtless ! 
 
 "I wish I could be certain," she faltered, 
 consulting the libretto. 
 
 " It is of no consequence," Halford said, sor 
 ry now that he had disturbed her again. 
 
 He spoke to Mrs. Marchmont about some 
 other subject ; and this time the spinster was 
 allowed to resume her listening attitude, and 
 retain it till her head buzzed between the roar 
 of the orchestra and her efforts to discover the 
 hidden meaning which she felt the music ought 
 to possess. 
 
 "Will you confess?" Alice asked Halford, 
 anxious to keep their talk down to the idle 
 nonsense where she felt safest. " Only don't 
 imitate 'Topsy,' and, for fear of punishment, 
 'fess by inventing something." 
 
 " I believe I have been cross," he said. 
 
 " Bravo ! That sounds more probable than 
 men's confessions often do : with the world in 
 general not with yourself, of course because 
 no man ever admits that there could be any 
 reason." 
 
 He was vexed with her trifling. If she real 
 ly cared for him, and was glad to have him 
 once more at her side, why did she treat him 
 as she would have done any dandy who chanced 
 to be drawn into her orbit ? 
 
 " Do you always mean to tease me with per 
 siflage?' 11 he asked, in a tone that sounded al 
 most ill-natured. 
 
 "By which pretty French word you intend 
 to tell me that I talk nothing but nonsense." 
 
 " Not that ; but is one never to be serious, 
 nor in earnest?" 
 
 " Better not," she said ; " much better not." 
 
 "And yet one grows very weary of this sur 
 face life."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "Only experience teaches us that it is dan 
 gerous to go below it," she replied. " Very 
 young people can afford to be in earnest or 
 what they believe so but who would have the 
 courage for a second trial ?" 
 
 "That would depend on how much one had 
 at heart the object to be gained. I don't like 
 to believe there is no possibility of happiness 
 after one's past youth " 
 
 "Ah, don't let us talk about happiness," she 
 interrupted. "One has dreams, delusions 
 what you will until the power of dreaming is 
 lost ; but where are we straying to ? Tell me 
 what you are doing, Mr. Halford ! Do you 
 propose to give us a new book this season ?" 
 
 Miss Portman was temporarily deaf and 
 blind by this time ; so this little dialogue was 
 lost upon her. She was a conscientious old 
 soul, and, though she did not know one note of 
 music from another, always listened diligently 
 to orchestra and voices with an attention which 
 people who considered themselves real lovers 
 of harmony would have done well to imitate. 
 It was the good woman's creed that one ought 
 always to be gaining knowledge ; so night af 
 ter night she listened to Verdi or Donizetti, 
 gaining nothing apparently beyond a severe 
 headache ; but she had constantly the hope of 
 finding out what it all meant, and so did not 
 regard the time or pain as wasted. 
 
 Halford looked eagerly at Alice again. Was 
 she indeed afraid to talk seriously with him? 
 Was there that left in her heart which she fear 
 ed to betray, dreading lest it should meet with 
 no return in his ? Was she conscious that, in 
 spite of her worldliness, her nature still held 
 capabilities of feeling and love, and was not 
 willing to risk trouble for herself a second time? 
 He gazed so earnestly at her while propounding 
 these mental queries that she began to laugh. 
 
 "Are you about to tell my fortune?" she 
 asked. " Some old Frenchman, the other night, 
 professed his ability of reading the future by the 
 lines on one's face. The best of it was, he said 
 it to Mrs. Stuyvesant." 
 
 "I never saw any lines on her face except 
 those made by India ink and rouge," he answer 
 ed, trying to do his part in the nonsense. 
 
 " Now you are malicious ! I left every thing 
 to the imagination ; but so few people really 
 know how to say ill-natured things well." 
 
 She was too nervous this evening to be quiet ; 
 she chatted and laughed until, vexed by the 
 contrast between her light talk and the shadows 
 in her face, he said, abruptly, 
 
 " I wonder I do wonder if you are happy !" 
 
 Mrs. March mont gave him a glance of keen 
 reproach not from wounded sentiment only 
 it seemed so bitter a mockery for any human 
 being to talk to her of happiness, that, coming 
 from his lips, it sounded like an absolute taunt ^ 
 for she forgot that he could possess no knowl 
 edge of the troubles which made her restless 
 and miserable. 
 
 " I would change places with the first beggar 
 I met in the street !" she exclaimed, passionate 
 
 ly. " I, happy ! What do you mock me with 
 such questions for ? Oh, if only men and wom 
 en could have their lives back if there were 
 ever any possibility of bridging the gulf that 
 sweeps between them and their youth !" 
 
 She stopped, and looked away across the 
 house, wondering at her own madness in speak 
 ing like this. She was not thinking, when she 
 spoke, of any connection between her past and 
 his not even remembering that he was the man 
 who had loved her in that youth which she la 
 mented only thinking of the dreariness, the 
 desolation, the horrors, which surrounded her 
 at this moment. But what could he imagine ? 
 He saw her grow deathly pale ; saw the pain 
 darken her eyes ; perceived her stung by his 
 careless words into an utter forgetfulness of the 
 artificiality with which, in general, she so suc 
 cessfully covered her real feelings. It was nat 
 ural enough that he should be hurried by his 
 regret and sympathy his Quixotic ideas, where 
 women were concerned into uttering an avow 
 al which he had not meant to speak an avowal 
 for which he knew perfectly well he should, in 
 a calmer moment, find no warrant whatever m 
 his heart. 
 
 "It is never too late to bring the past back 
 when hearts remain unchanged," he whispered. 
 "Alice, do you remember is the recollection 
 of the old dream sweet to you ?" 
 
 She gave him one startled look, suddenly 
 recalled to a consciousness of the dangerous 
 ground upon which her outburst had led her. 
 But before she could answer, there was an in 
 vasion into the box, and Halford was forced to 
 resign his place to the new-comers. Among 
 the men came Mrs. Marchmom's French baron, 
 and she proceeded to turn his poor head more 
 completely by her smiles and words a hot rage 
 and bitterness took possession of her there was 
 a horrible pleasure in tormenting somebody in 
 her present mood. 
 
 The baron was exceedingly fluttered and 
 charmed by the beautiful woman's marked con 
 sideration, till, between his sentimental mood 
 and the thought of the enormous fortune for 
 which report gave her credit, he regretted that 
 there was no opportunity of securing the prize 
 then and there. 
 
 Alice rushed from her maddening reflections 
 back to the- safeguards of folly ; and at length, 
 sickened by the nonsense in which she appar 
 ently took her part with such enjoyment, Hal- 
 ford made his bow and went away. She was 
 glad to see him go ; any body who reminded 
 her of the past of all that she had sacrificed 
 and lost in her insane chase after excitement 
 and distinction was odious to her at this mo 
 ment. The dandies' absurd compliments the 
 baron's broken English, whispered words of la 
 borious flattery in his own tongue, his glances 
 and sighs were more acceptable than any thing 
 else. The whole was poor and miserable, emp 
 ty as her life ; but it was safest and best. She 
 could gratify her irritated temper by laughing 
 at his tenderness ; and if there was nothing
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 amusing in the dandies' jests, at least there was 
 the satisfaction of helping them to be ridiculous. 
 She did not want such men as Halford or John 
 Worthington about her now ; they were too 
 clear-sighted ; they talked of things which fren 
 zied her, by rousing thought and reminding her 
 what a wreck she had made of her life. The 
 baron was better than that ; he talked as if she 
 were a beautiful doll, without an idea beyond 
 her toilet, or an ability to appreciate a chapter 
 of doubtful morality in a French novel. The 
 dandies were better with their stereotyped dress 
 and appearance, their back-hair elaborately part 
 ed, their attitudes so precisely alike, each bend 
 ing slightly forward, hanging to his hat with 
 one hand, the other fingering his watch-chain 
 all uttering the same interjections, and built so 
 completely on one model that she felt as if there 
 were a puppet before her, which her dizzy eyes 
 magnified into half a dozen. Even young 
 Bramwell's well-known remark, which she in 
 duced him to repeat, was better than Halford's 
 talk. 
 
 "What a beautiful buff rose, Mr.Bramwell !" 
 " Yaas ; I always insist on that color ; it is so 
 difficult to dress a blonde, Mrs. Marchmont!" 
 
 So Halford left her, remembering, as he 
 walked homeward, with a sensation of anger 
 and dread, that he had gone a step too far. 
 Other men might have considered the words 
 which he had spoken the idlest possible figure 
 of speech. Not so in his creed spoken to a 
 woman whom he had once wooed. So he went 
 home, thoroughly dispirited and disgusted, rec 
 ollecting Alice as she looked surrounded by her 
 butterfly admirers, and forgetting the change 
 in her appearance which had lured him on, as 
 he ruefully recalled that whispered question. 
 Besides, Milly Crofton's image came up like a 
 visien of rest, and he could not drive it away. 
 Altogether, Halford retired with an uncomfort 
 able feeling that the world was out of joint, and 
 that he had been doing his best to put his por 
 tion of it in a still more uncomfortable predic 
 ament. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CLOSER AND CLOSER. 
 
 HALFOKD did not go in sight of Mrs. March 
 mont the next day, nor the next ; but he by no 
 means forgot the words which he had spoken, 
 and was wondering how he ought to act. It 
 might have been a relief to him to know. that 
 Alice had forgotten ever hearing his whispered 
 question. She was too busy to give him, or 
 any other possible or past admirer, a mo 
 ment's thought in any way. 
 
 Busy with the graver matters of her life ; and 
 stern enough they were. There was the worry 
 of arranging a new influx of bills holding con 
 sultations in regard to the sale of her lands, 
 from which she hoped so much, and growing 
 sick with horror at the new delays, as she 
 remembered how the time was fleeting away. 
 
 Besides these affairs, rushing about in a vain 
 attempt to raise the money she had promised to 
 pay Dick Faulkner, circumscribed in her efforts 
 by the fact that she dared make no trials in 
 quarters where a suspicion could intrude into 
 her world. Two days passed, in which she 
 lived through mental anguish enough to have 
 lasted a lifetime. Indeed, the second evening 
 she was ill ; she came home only in season for 
 dinner, having been again to her Jewish friend, 
 with no better result than on the first occasion, 
 having tried to soften the hearts of sundry of 
 his fraternity with whom the experiences of 
 the last year had made her acquainted, but 
 failing as signally as she had done with him. 
 No effort was of any use; she had turned in 
 every direction, and was fairly brought to bay. 
 Even to raise the sum required upon her jewels 
 was out of the question ; her Israelite already 
 had a lien upon them, and twice a week made 
 himself certain that such as he left in her pos 
 session were safe, and the original stories. She 
 had seen him, and his petticoated associate 
 who good-naturedly allowed herself, in her vis 
 its, to be supposed, among the domestics, a wor 
 thy widow in deep distress so often examine 
 the gems and settings touch them with their 
 tongues, or attempt other tests familiar to the 
 initiated that she fairly loathed the sight of 
 the glittering baubles, and would never have 
 put them on only she feared that to appear with 
 out them would occasion remark ; and she had 
 grown so afraid of rousing the least suspicion, 
 that it was almost a monomania with her. 
 
 Kenneth Halford need not have feared that 
 she spent the time dreaming of his imprudent 
 words. Her reflections would have been as 
 prosaic as those of the most determined money- 
 worshiper in Wall Street, had not the dreadful 
 skeleton dogged her footsteps all day, and kept 
 watch over her pillow through the whole night. 
 No hope, no gleam of light, and the time she 
 had set for Dick Faulkner to claim his money 
 drawing closer and closer, and she helpless as a 
 blind man bound in a dungeon ! Three days 
 more, three short days ; if at their expiration 
 she had not the sum in her hands, what would 
 follow ? It was the persistent iteration of that 
 question in her ears as she drove home, while 
 the skeleton grinned beside her on the seat of 
 her clarence, which overwhelmed her so com- 
 ! pletely that she had to throw herself on her bed 
 and admit the plea of illness. 
 
 Poor Miss Portman was terribly alarmed, 
 and forced numberless potions upon her, which, 
 j in her bewilderment, the old lady offered rath- 
 ! er indiscriminately from any bottle she chanced 
 ! to lay hands upon. Suffering as she was so 
 ' near nervous spasms that she dared not attempt 
 ! to speak Alice was conscious of tasting red 
 lavender, cologne, sherry, Miss Portman's fa 
 vorite Mohawk bitters, not to mention tea, sal 
 volatile and various other remedies, in quick 
 succession. For an hour Mrs. Marchmont her 
 self almost believed the illness a warning that 
 a speedy means of relief out of her troubles
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 5t 
 
 was at hand, and endured the agonies which 
 only diseased nerves can produce agonies of 
 which no human being sound in body and mind 
 can form the least conception. But the utter 
 collapse of force and will did not last long. 
 The instant she could rise, it became impossi 
 ble for her to lie there, and wait even for death ; 
 and with the return of volition came the sense 
 of her own absurdity in believing that such a 
 boon would be granted. The mere physical 
 restlessness induced by her state would have 
 made it a relief to run, dance, scream, until 
 Bhe fell blind and insensible. 
 
 Toward midnight she got up, and, in spite of 
 Miss Portman's tears, her maid's expostula 
 tions, she insisted on dressing and going to 
 Mrs. Lawrence's party. 
 
 " I will go, my best of women," she said to 
 her friend ; " so you needn't waste your breath 
 in words." 
 
 "You will kill yourself," moaned Miss Port- 
 man; and Alice burst into a fit of hysterical 
 laughter which increased the good soul's distress. 
 
 " You shall stay at home," Mrs. Marchmont 
 said ; "I'll not drag you out, but go I must; 
 it is the best thing for me ; I am not ill, only 
 nervous no reason for it, either." 
 
 " Not ill !" squeaked the poor Chinese mouse. 
 " Look at yourself in the glass." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, a little rice-powder will hide 
 that! Now don't tease me; that's a darling! 
 Pauline, I am awfully pale to-night ; so we'll 
 intensify it ; then people will think I did it on 
 purpose. Get out that new dress from Paris 
 the black one and I'll wear a few dia 
 monds ; I'll get those myself. You are always 
 calling me careless, my Portman ; admire my 
 attempts at improvement I don't even let that 
 faithful Pauline keep the key of the safe where 
 I have my ornaments and papers." 
 
 She laughed and jested while her toilet went 
 on, and, in less than an hour from the time when 
 she lay writhing on her bed in the last of those 
 nervous spasms, entered Mrs. Lawrence's draw 
 ing-rooms, more peculiar-looking and beautiful 
 than ever, though with a face to have excited 
 any body's pity who had time or discernment 
 to read it. Her dress added to the effect of 
 Mack lace, heavily trimmed with jet ornaments ; 
 no trace of color except a broad green scarf; 
 bands of black velvet about her neck, and arms 
 upon which blazed diamonds of great value it 
 was odd and striking as possible, but utterly be 
 yond criticism, even to feminine eyes. 
 
 One man at least noticed and read her coun 
 tenance aright that was John Worthington, 
 the man whom, of all the world, she most re 
 spected, and whose judgment she most feared. 
 He considered the gravity of his forty years 
 somewhat out of place in such scenes as the 
 present, but he had come to-night to gratify 
 his niece. When he saw Mrs. Marchmont, he 
 looked straight through the glitter and the brill 
 iant smiles, and knew that she was either suf 
 fering mentally or was very very ill. He went 
 up to her, and the first words he spoke were, 
 
 "In the name of Heaven, what have yon 
 been doing to yourself?" 
 
 "Putting on my prettiest new dress, and 
 marking under my eyes with India ink," she 
 answered. 
 
 "India ink never made those lines," retort 
 ed he ; " nothing but sleepless nights and hard 
 pain ever did it." 
 
 " That is all the gratitude one gets for frank 
 ness in this wicked world ! I don't suppose 
 there is another woman here who would have 
 made the confession." 
 
 "Will you tell me what you have been do 
 ing?" 
 
 " I thought I had just done you that honor." 
 
 "Nonsense ! I have not seen you for near 
 ly a fortnight, and I never saw any body so al 
 tered." 
 
 '"Very well; you have always told me I 
 was the most capricious creature in the world ; 
 what do you expect ?" 
 
 " I believe you would jest in your coffin," 
 he said, rather severely. 
 
 "After I had seen whether my shroud was 
 becoming," she answered, unmoved by his 
 gravity, and laughing in a way which caused 
 his stout nerves to quiver with anxiety. 
 
 " Have you had a doctor?" 
 
 " No ; and I'm not going to make my will, 
 so I don't want a lawyer. Keep your horrid 
 questions for the court-room, and tell me why 
 I have not seen you for an age." 
 
 "I wish I had taken time to go and see 
 you," he said, regretfully. "I would have 
 made sure that you did something for your 
 self." 
 
 . " I have done my best to-night in the way 
 of dressing, and it's wicked of you to destroy 
 my confidence by abusing my appearance as 
 soon as I arrive. But how on earth does it 
 happen that you are here ?" 
 
 "Partly to oblige Constance, partly that I 
 remembered I had not seen you for some time, 
 and I wanted to know what you were doing. 
 I felt certain of finding you in tMs Babel." 
 
 " Don't come to people's houses and call 
 them bad names; it's not polite! Doing? 
 nothing, as usual." 
 
 "Then it is time you did something, if this 
 is the effect that a lack of occupation has upon 
 you." 
 
 " Ah, now, let my looks alone," she pleaded, 
 with a smile that it was difficult to resist ; 
 "please be amiable." 
 
 But though he smiled, he would not relinquish 
 the subject, and said, with gravity, 
 
 "I thought you would treat me differently; 
 I thought you would be frank and honest " 
 
 " Don't go taking away my character ! Yes, 
 you may, on second thoughts ; like most people, 
 I'd be glad to get rid of it." 
 
 "Alice," he said, calling her by the familiar 
 name, as he had been in the habit of doing from 
 her childhood, "there is something the matter! 
 Either you are ill, or some trouble has come 
 upon you."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "Trouble! Always the first thought with 
 a lawyer! I have neither near relations nor 
 a mother-in-law. May I ask, what trouble 
 would be likely to have the impertinence to 
 assail me ?" 
 
 " Then you are ill !" 
 
 "How you do ring the changes ! Oh, John 
 Worthington, John Worthington, you've buried 
 yourself among your law-books till you are al 
 most daff." 
 
 He would have been vexed with her, only his 
 anxiety prevented any such feeling. 
 
 "Alice," he said, "I thought you considered 
 me your friend." 
 
 "Dear soul, don't get sentimental! The 
 baron gave me his arm up stairs, and he has 
 exhausted that style for the evening. You 
 know my baron, don't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know him, and he's an ass! But 
 don't you feel alarmed about my growing senti 
 mental." 
 
 "He resents the bare idea as a slanderous 
 aspersion upon his legal character; what a de 
 lightful collection of long words ! " 
 
 "I do think that a friendship which dates 
 back to your childhood " 
 
 "There's no such word!" she interrupted, 
 for an instant breaking down in her part, and 
 giving vent to the bitterness in her soul. "Who 
 has any friends what does friendship mean? 
 Pleasant words an exchange of dinners ! 
 Suppose trouble came nonsense, Mr. Worth 
 ington ; I am not a girl to believe in romances ; 
 I am a woman a coquette I have no heart, 
 no ability to feel." 
 
 " Yes, you have," he answered. " Ah, child 
 I may call you child tell me if you have any 
 real anxiety or care ?" 
 
 "Yes; my bracelet is too tight! Didn't I 
 do my bit of tragedy well ?" 
 
 She could not tease him into anger or drive 
 him away. 
 
 " You shall not vex me," he said. 
 
 " Wouldn't do it for the world ; I should have 
 to beg your pardon. But now tell me I've a 
 question to ask a grave, legal question." 
 
 He almost thought her serious for an instant, 
 her face and eyes grew so earnest. 
 
 "Ask it," he said ; " I will answer." 
 
 She hesitated a second longer ; the half-form 
 ed determination to speak freely which he had 
 seen in her countenance gave place to a provok 
 ing smile. 
 
 "Shall I become a baroness? That's the 
 question! Bless me, I do believe I'm talking 
 Shakspeare." 
 
 "I thought you never boasted of your con 
 quests," said he, sternly. 
 
 "For shame, as if I were likely to! But it 
 is my creed that a woman may marry whom 
 she wishes; so I might be a baroness." 
 
 "Very well, be one, if you can, and the idea 
 pleases you." 
 
 "I declare, he is downright crabbed about 
 it! After wanting me to ask advice, and all." 
 
 "I'll not be vexed," he said. 
 
 "But I shall," laughed she, certain that he 
 was about to speak seriously, and longing to 
 prevent it. 
 
 " When I promised to be your friend when 
 I promised your husband that I would be I 
 was in earnest. I should poorly prove my claim 
 to the title, if I did not expostulate with you 
 upon your conduct." 
 
 "I don't want a friend," she cried, her nerves 
 exasperated to a pitch where she could no long 
 er control herself. Her haunting fear that some 
 whisper had crept out returned, and drove her 
 so nearly wild that she hardly knew what she 
 said. " What do you mean, Mr. Worthington, 
 by questioning and watching me like this? 
 What do you want to accuse me of ?" 
 
 " Questioning and watching, Alice !" 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon ; I did not mean it ! 
 I do believe I am mad. Please let me alone ! 
 You are the only friend I ever had ; don't hate 
 me." 
 
 " What an exaggerated word ! As if I could 
 lose my interest in you my liking, which dates 
 so far back." 
 
 " You might ; nobody can answer for himself; 
 you might." 
 
 "Alice, you have some trouble; don't deny 
 it." 
 
 " No, no. Come away ; we are too near the 
 conservatory ; the flowers make me ill. Yes, 
 that's it ; I am ill I mean I was ! Mr. Worth 
 ington, I thought a while ago that I was dy 
 ing." 
 
 He gave a sort of groan. 
 
 " Don't be frightened ! It was pure nervous 
 ness hysterics but it was like dying. It's 
 the life I lead ; why, I work harder than a fac 
 tory-girl." 
 
 "You must be quiet; you are completely 
 worn out, and can not go on as you have been 
 doing." 
 
 " Yes, I know. I will be quiet, but not yet ; 
 I can't yet. There comes the baron for his 
 redowa Oh dear ! Where is Constance ? 
 Oh, I see her yonder ; how pretty she looks." 
 
 Her partner came up, and she floated away. 
 Mr. Worthington saw her dancing with a smile 
 on her lips, and the fools staring at her. 
 
 When Mrs. Marchmont was able to think, 
 she remembered how wildly she had talked to 
 her friend, making an idiot of herself, as she 
 called it in her thoughts. To have him, of all 
 people in the world, watching and suspecting 
 her; and she to give him added grounds for 
 believing that she had some trouble, by talking 
 in that crazy fashion. She could only comfort 
 herself by thinking that what she had said 
 would not sound as it might have done from 
 another person's lips. She was so much in the 
 habit of indulging in every extravagance in 
 the way of language, appearing as whimsical 
 and capricious as she saw fit, that perhaps the 
 painful impression would speedily leave his 
 mind. 
 
 The baron was talking to her, inclined to be 
 tender and pathetic, and she had great diffi-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 culty to keep him from a downright declara 
 tion ; and she did not want that, at least now. 
 Whom could she tell what might happen ? Ev 
 ery possible or impossible way out of her dilem 
 ma occurred to her. If stories did get abroad ; 
 if Faulkner did sully her name with his vile 
 aspersions, so as to make a residence among 
 her old friends unpleasant, then she might mar 
 ry the baron at once always supposing she 
 sold her lands and recovered her fortune and 
 get away forever. But if she did not ? And 
 in two days more the period for redeeming her 
 pledge to Faulkner would arrive. Good heav 
 ens ! she should be a raving lunatic before 
 then. At least that would settle matters ; and 
 she laughed again, till the baron asked what 
 amused her. 
 
 "Only Mrs. Stuyvesant's turban," said she; 
 " what a flamingo she looks!" 
 
 " I do not know the flamingo," he answered, 
 in his hesitating English. "But you are of a 
 great gayety to-night." 
 
 "Yes; I never was in better spirits." 
 
 " Hilass ! and you have not the pity for me, 
 and I sigh ;" and here he did it elaborately. 
 
 " I wouldn't ; it's bad for digestion ! There, 
 the music is stopping ; take me to a seat." 
 
 She caught sight of herself in a mirror as 
 they passed down the room : her cheeks were 
 flushed, and she looked quite a different crea 
 ture from what she had on entering. She 
 could endure scrutiny now, even that of John 
 Worthington ; only for the present she would 
 avoid him, if possible. She was so near mad 
 to-night that there was no telling what she 
 might do or say to rouse fresh wonder in his 
 mind. A group of men gathered about her, 
 and rather crowded the disconsolate baron into 
 the background. Looking out from the circle, 
 Alice perceived Kenneth Halford at a distance, 
 talking with Milly Crofton and her particular 
 friend, John Worthington's niece. A sharp 
 envy of the youth and innocence of the two 
 girls filled Mrs. Marchmont's soul ; she could 
 have shrieked in agony as she reflected upon 
 all which lay between her and the season when 
 she had been like them. 
 
 Presently Dick Faulkner thrust himself in 
 among the group about her, and she thought, 
 
 "You are the cause of every thing oh, you 
 reptile ! How I do lie to myself; it was not 
 his work ; just my own recklessness, my own 
 wickedness, has done the whole." 
 
 Undeterred by her cool obliviousness of his 
 presence, he got closer to her, joined in the 
 conversation, and at last absolutely asked her 
 to dance. He knew that she would refuse ; 
 still he could not resist working himself into a 
 passion by running the risk of being snubbed, 
 as he called it. He was obliged to repeat his 
 question before she vouchsafed any conscious 
 ness of his having addressed her. 
 
 "Won't you dance with me? You never 
 did but once." 
 
 "And once was quite enough," she replied, 
 indifferent to the fact that there were a num 
 
 ber of people listening. " I heard the other 
 day that your wife said I flirted with you." 
 
 "Oh, I think not," said Dick, looking rather 
 sheepish. 
 
 " Yes, she did ; and it was ill-natured of her 
 very! Why, good gracious! I never said 
 she flirted last summer, when she danced every 
 night with Howard Conyers." 
 
 Now every body knew that Howard Conyers 
 was the only man ever known to get an advan 
 tage of Faulkner in a bargain ; but he did let 
 Dick in for a large amount of money, and then 
 failed ; and people said that Dick had been 
 friends with him in the hope that Mrs. Faulk 
 ner would flirt until she compromised herself 
 enough to render a divorce possible. Mrs. 
 Faulkner said it louder than any one else, and 
 of course the world was ready to believe it ; 
 consequently, Mrs. Marchmont's little retort 
 caused Dick nearly to burst a blood-vessel 
 with rage. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont turned, and saw Kenneth 
 Halford standing near, and looking at her very 
 gravely. It was the style of speech to offend 
 his sense of delicacy. John Worthington 
 would have said that she had served the scoun 
 drel right, and have liked her the better for 
 her unmanageable tongue. 
 
 "I suppose he is disgusted," she thought; 
 " so much the better." Then she remembered 
 that he was the last link which connected her 
 with her youth to the beautiful past ; and 
 with her usual inconsistency, her heart cried 
 out, " I can't let him go ; I can't have him hate 
 me ; I can't !" 
 
 She smiled at him, and made him come near 
 er ; then she said, 
 
 "I promised to promenade with you while 
 they are doing the quadrille ; we will go now." 
 
 So she took his arm and got away from her 
 admirers, the baron sighing dolefully to the 
 last, and Dick Faulkner treating her to a part 
 ing menace from his black eyes which made 
 her shiver, desperate as she was. 
 
 "You are thinking me the rudest woman 
 you ever saw," she said, abruptly, as they passed 
 on. 
 
 " Not that," he answered ; " you could nev 
 er be that." 
 
 " And a story-teller into the bargain." 
 
 " But since just now it was in my favor !" 
 
 " I was dying to get away, and I knew those 
 tiresome wretches would hang about unless I 
 said I had promised to promenade with you. 
 One has to tell so many falsehoods it is loath 
 some ! Ah me, what are you thinking ? That 
 I am not -like the Alice you remember ?" 
 
 He had been thinking that, and as he hesita 
 ted, she went on 
 
 "Oh, very unlike her. So that was your 
 thought, Kenneth ? Well, well, Heaven knows 
 yon were right." 
 
 It always softened him when she spoke the 
 old name ; and she knew it. Just then, her 
 wish was not to lose her power over this man 
 the one living memory of her vanished life.
 
 JOHN WOHTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 " Sometimes 1 wonder if you are as much 
 changed in reality as you seem," he said. 
 
 " Then I seem changed ?" 
 
 "You must feel it, I think." 
 
 "Do I not? Sometimes I wonder too! 
 Oh, Kenneth, life hasn't been kind to me it 
 hasn't been kind." 
 
 The familiar pathetic voice, the same mourn 
 ful droop of the head how it brought the old 
 time back ! But even as he remembered, he 
 chanced to glance toward the spot where Milly 
 Crofton was seated looking the fresher for 
 her brief seclusion and she seemed more like 
 the dream he had lost, than this woman with 
 all her witcheries. Then he recollected some 
 what ruefully the words which he had spoken 
 two nights before ; and even with Mrs. March- 
 mont's hand resting on his arm, her wonderful 
 eyes fixed upon his face, he acknowledged to 
 himself that if it were not for those hasty words, 
 he would go straight to Milly and rest in the 
 peaceful influence she cast about her, and so 
 make amends to his fancy for the stern manner 
 in which he had forced himself to be only civil 
 and polite on this first meeting after her tem 
 porary retirement. 
 
 But Mrs. Marchmont was speaking again ; 
 she had seen his attention wander, and she 
 wanted to fix his thoughts upon herself. It 
 was partly because, in her excited state, she 
 felt a wild yearning for some human sympathy 
 partly that peculiar dramatic talent, which 
 often rendered it difficult, even for her, to de 
 cide how much she felt or how far she was 
 really in earnest. 
 
 "Living is dreary work, Kenneth oh, such 
 dreary work! I am so tired sometimes ! Do 
 you ever feel like that I mean, feel that 3~ou 
 would like to lie down and sleep forever, with 
 out a dream to trouble you ?" 
 
 Here was an opportunity to say pretty things 
 serious ones too ; conscience told him that he 
 ought to say them, considering what had pass 
 ed on that night in the opera-box. But he 
 could not do it ; whenever he saw Milly 's girl 
 ish face, he knew that the faded dream could 
 never be taken up again by his heart, though 
 he did not really believe that it was Milly who 
 stood in the way ; only that to look at her, and 
 then look back at the woman by his side, was 
 like comparing her present self with the bright 
 creature whom he had loved, and showing how 
 little she now had in common with his ideal. 
 Still, the words he had spoken held him fast ; 
 they could not be recalled ; and never in his 
 whole life had he broken even an implied pledge. 
 
 "You don't answer me, Kenneth ! Do you 
 think it is silly did you never have such a 
 fancy ?" 
 
 "Sometimes, perhaps," he replied, and was 
 ashamed to think how commonplace and prac 
 tical both voice and speech sounded, but, for 
 the life of him, could do no better. " But one 
 fs never well when one feels in that misanthrop 
 ic mood. You have been exerting yourself too 
 much ; you need rest." 
 
 "Are you going to deliver a discourse on 
 medicine for my benefit?" she asked, laughing 
 almost harshly. "Mr. Worthington has al 
 ready given me one. What a nice girl his 
 niece is I saw you talking with her and that 
 pretty Milly Crofton. Ah, there is a lovely, 
 happy child." 
 
 "She seems very happy and fresh." 
 
 "And lovely?" she persisted. 
 
 " Very pretty, at least," he answered ; and 
 the tone was so studiously careless that Mrs. 
 Marchmont perceived the effort. 
 
 He was going from her too; she could not 
 keep him ; she was to have nothing of her old 
 life left. She knew perfectly well that, in the 
 present chaos she had made of her fate, she 
 dared not claim even his friendship she could 
 not stop to think whether, if her life had held 
 no secret, she could have loved him, had he 
 come back with the old look in his eyes ; but 
 to lose him, the last tie to the broken past to 
 be utterly alone in the darkness which had 
 closed so hopelessly about her that was the 
 pang ! Her heart ached so keenly for an instant 
 that, could he have seen its workings, he might 
 reasonably have thought that it was absolute 
 tenderness and love which moved her ; but she 
 knew well enough that it was nothing of the 
 sort. She wanted comfort, sympathy, and could 
 ask neither; besides, her illness and agitation 
 gave her fresh craving for excitement, and 
 these dramatics had just sufficient foundation 
 in reality to give them an interest. 
 
 "You don't want to talk to me," she said, in 
 a pretty way she had, when it pleased her al 
 most as childish as Milly Crofton's, and not all 
 acting either. "You may go away, Kenneth ; 
 you don't care about me to-night." 
 
 " You have not been like yourself," he re 
 plied. "I don't know the brilliant, witty Mrs. 
 Marchmont, you must remember." 
 
 "Ah, you hesitated over the adjectives ; you 
 had a mind to apply harsher ones," she said, 
 piteously. 
 
 " Indeed, I had not ; don't misjudge me." 
 
 "And be as forbearing with me, Kenneth." 
 
 " I will ; I promise." 
 
 " That is good and kind like yourself. So 
 you- don't know me as I am ? Oh, there's little 
 wonder ; sometimes I don't know myself. And 
 Alice is dead, you think poor Alice ! Do you 
 believe she is quite dead, Kenneth !" 
 
 "Heaven help me, I can't tell," he fairly 
 groaned, in his bewilderment and distress, una 
 ble to decide what was acting and what real 
 whether she loved him or was coquetting but 
 remembering always the words which he had 
 spoken, and that they held him fast. 
 
 "And I can not always tell," she replied. 
 
 She was herself too much excited to remark 
 any thing peculiar in his manner. Her nerves 
 had been so strained during these past days, 
 that the wildest ravings of tragedy would have 
 sounded like natural conversation to her. 
 
 "Why don't you speak, Kenneth?" she went 
 on.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 55 
 
 " I think I was waiting for you to finish," he 
 said. 
 
 "What was I saying? One forgets so. 
 Well, never mind ! Something about myself 
 always a tiresome subject." 
 
 "Ah, that little attempt at humility will not 
 succeed, "returned he, trying to get back to the 
 snfe ground of jests and badinage. "The 
 world too long since accorded you your right 
 ful place." 
 
 "The world why do you speak to me about 
 that? How I hate it! and what nonsense I am 
 talking," she added, making an effort to appear 
 less exalted and odd. " You are cold and 
 stiff to-night ; I suppose you are vexed with 
 me." 
 
 "No; why should I be?" 
 
 " But you are," she persisted still, with the 
 absurd desire she told herself it was absurd 
 to make him feel, when, if she were to succeed, 
 she knew perfectly well that she should flee in 
 terror. "You are not the old friend to-night 
 and we can be friends, can't we, Kenneth ?" 
 
 "I trust that we are so." 
 
 "Only the other evening you were so good 
 and gentle !" , 
 
 She did remember what he had said she 
 expected further explanation; then he could 
 not go back ! And all the time she without 
 the slightest recollection that he had uttered 
 more than words of the commonest compli 
 ment! If he had followed the dictates of his 
 conscience, and tried to speak, she would have 
 stopped her ears and run away, afraid to hear 
 somebody cry out the exact truth in regard to 
 her position, just as she heard voices do in her 
 dreams. This was neither a fit time nor place 
 for the question which he must ask a ques 
 tion against which his soul rose in rebellion 
 at this moment ; but it was too late to think 
 of that. He was about to inquire if she would 
 be at home the next day, when she spoke again 
 suddenly 
 
 "I have just been thinking, Kenneth! Do 
 you know, I believe that sweet little Milly Crof- 
 ton is more like the ideal you made of me than 
 I was, even in the old time. Were you think 
 ing that do you know what I mean ?" 
 
 "I don't find your sentence very clear," he 
 answered, annoyed by the pertinacity with 
 which she brought the girl's name into the 
 conversation, but trying to treat her words as a 
 jest. 
 
 "Don't laugh!" she exclaimed. " Yes, do 
 on second thoughts. I want to dance. Will 
 you dance with me ?" 
 
 He looked at her in utter astonishment, and 
 asked, 
 
 "What ails you to-night? You are a per 
 fect chameleon." Then he perceived how 
 deathly white her face was, its pallor only 
 broken by a scarlet spot on either cheek. 
 " You are certainly ill," he added. 
 
 "111? Nonsense! I am only making you 
 acquainted with Mrs. Marchmont you said 
 that you did not know her. Don't you mean 
 
 to dance with me after my asking you, too ? 
 Have you forgotten that it is leap-year, Mr. 
 Halford ?" 
 
 Then she sat down, for the simple reason 
 that she could not stand another instant; and 
 he wondered if she were really offended with 
 him. Not strange if she were, he thought, 
 after his cowardly hesitation to follow up his 
 half-avowal; and he tried to think how he 
 might set matters straight. As for Mrs. 
 Marchmont, she was only thinking that, if she 
 remained there quiet any longer, she should in 
 evitably scream, or indulge in a nervous spasm. 
 When Halford raised .his head, after that mo 
 ment's preoccupation, she had left her seat, and 
 was taking the arm of some man who had come 
 up to claim a dance. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mr. Halford," she said, with a 
 light laugh. "Let me know when you come 
 back from the moon." 
 
 She was angry, he thought ; he must speak 
 at the first opportunity. He went and stood 
 near the dancers, to wait until she should be 
 at liberty again, and found himself beside Mr. 
 Worthington. 
 
 "Come and dine with me to-morrow," that 
 gentleman said ; "I have asked a few people. 
 I am so busy in these days that I have scarce 
 ly seen you since your arrival." 
 
 Halford absently accepted the invitation, 
 still watching Alice Marchmont; and though 
 he did not perceive it, Mr. Worthington's eyes 
 were fixed upon her too. She and her partner 
 paused for an instant's rest. Dick Faulkner 
 seized that occasion to approach ; he wanted a 
 little revenge for the blow she had dealt him 
 earlier in the evening. 
 
 " It seems an age since I have seen you," 
 he whispered, while her partner was answering 
 a question addressed to him by some person 
 standing near. "This has been the longest 
 week I ever spent." 
 
 She never turned her head or vouchsafed 
 the slightest consciousness of his neighborhood ; 
 not a line of her face changed, not an eyelash 
 quivered a marble woman could not have 
 been more utterly regardless of his presence. 
 Her calm contempt enraged him to an extent 
 that the harshest words could not have done. 
 
 "At least I have not much longer to wait," 
 he continued ; " the day after to-morrow will 
 give me the pleasure of an interview. I shall 
 be able then to see you without all these tire 
 some people about." 
 
 Her partner turned to her at this instant; 
 she made a sign that they were to join the 
 dancers, and left Faulkner uncertain whether 
 his taunt had produced the slightest effect. 
 
 Another moment, and Mrs. Marchmont and 
 her partner whirled past the spot where the 
 two men stood watching her, and they heard 
 her say, in a broken voice, 
 
 " Stop ; I am faint stop !" 
 
 Just as she was slipping slowly from the 
 young man's hold, John Worthington caught 
 her in his arms.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "It is nothing," she said; "let me sit 
 down." 
 
 Then, with one long, shuddering sigh, she 
 fainted completely away, for almost the first 
 time in her life. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE OLD QUESTION. 
 
 THE next morning early Halford sent to in 
 quire after Mrs. Marchmont's health, knowing 
 the Chinese mouse was always visible at the 
 most preposterous hours. Miss Portman sent 
 back a string of old-fashioned compliments and 
 thanks, and the information that her cousin was 
 quite well. The good soul had not even been 
 told of the fainting-fit. 
 
 A message from John Worthington also 
 reached Mrs. Marchmout before she had left 
 her chamber ; but he was himself waiting be 
 low, having called on the way down to his of 
 fice. She scribbled a pretty little billet, prom 
 ising to dine at his house that night, and giv 
 ing him an opportunity to see with his own 
 eyes that she was entirely recovered, though 
 only a few moments before his name had been 
 taken up stairs she lay on her bed staring out 
 at the. streaks of light which crept through the 
 silken curtains, loathing the sight of the new 
 day, and wondering where she was to find 
 strength to rise and recommence her wild 
 chase in search of means to free herself from 
 Faulkner's toils. 
 
 Kenneth Halford had not spent a tranquil 
 night, but never once during the long hours 
 had he wavered from his resolution. He was 
 going to-day to ask Mrs. Marchmont to be 
 come his wife. Argue as he would, he could 
 not feel himself at liberty to do otherwise, 
 whatever another man might have felt under 
 the circumstances, though there was no gla 
 mour before his eyes which could help him to 
 believe that her consent could afford him a mo 
 ment's happiness. This woman of society, ea 
 ger for adulation, with all freshness of feeling 
 worn out of her heart this woman, who had 
 been the idol of scores of men ; who had smiled 
 at them, listened to their flatteries, allowed 
 them to love her just for a gratification to her 
 desire for power ; whose name, he had learn 
 ed, even in the brief season which had elapsed 
 since his return, was a by-word for coquetry 
 and extravagance this was not the wife he 
 wanted. He detested society could he hope 
 that she would be satisfied without its plaudits ? 
 Why, in her girlish days she had allowed her 
 self to be separated from him because she 
 adored this hollow world could he expect her 
 now to relinquish the excitements on which she 
 had fed for years ? There might be moments 
 when her fascinations would carry him back 
 into the past, but they would be brief ones, and 
 their pleasure marred by the recollection that 
 his ideal of that season existed, though possess 
 ing no connection with her. 
 
 This idea brought Milly Crofton again be 
 fore his mind ; and the position in which he 
 found himself in regard to Mrs. Marchmont 
 showed him plainly what his feelings were to 
 ward the young girl, child as he had tried to 
 consider her. He thanked Heaven the time 
 had been so short that he had kept aloof from 
 Milly ; so neither by word or look could he 
 have troubled her j^mthful peace. Pretty Mil 
 ly ! what an image of rest her memory seemed ! 
 He went over and over each incident of their 
 acquaintance in Europe recalled her child-like 
 frankness and innocence ; and they appeared 
 more beautiful than the charms of the most el 
 egant woman that ever lived. It would have 
 been so sweet to teach her to love him to 
 watch that pure nature develop in the sunshine 
 of a first dream and by his own folly, by a few 
 hurried, unworthy words, he had put that hap 
 piness out of his reach. 
 
 He would go and see her first this morning. 
 It was a silly thing to do weak and boyish ; 
 but after his long season of faith in himself, he 
 found his confidence so misplaced that he might 
 as well admit his own shallowness, and be done. 
 He had never paid but one visit to the house ; 
 he would allow himself that pleasure a second 
 time. It would be a sort of righteous penance 
 to torment his soul by the sight of the peace and 
 rest which he might have gained had he been 
 true to his own manly dignity and self-control. 
 
 He found Milly seated at her embroidery, in 
 the morning-room, the prettiest object in all 
 Mrs. Remsen's belongings a little surprised at 
 his appearance, but all the more pleased on 
 that account with the softest blush on her 
 cheek as she gave him a quiet greeting, dou 
 bled in warmth by the sudden brightness in her 
 eyes. Aunt Eliza was just going out, and, as 
 a friend was waiting, she could not linger. 
 
 "I must leave Milly to entertain you," she 
 said. " I've only time to say that I hope you 
 will not be such a stranger as you have been 
 since you got back ; one never sees you except 
 at parties." 
 
 He bowed and thanked her, but, as he replied 
 in some fitting words, remembered, sadly, that 
 his visits could not be made more frequent ; 
 no gradual gliding into familiar intercourse, no 
 pleasant study of Milly's mind and character, 
 would be possible now. 
 
 He gave Mrs. Rernsen his arm out to the 
 carriage, and she said, very_graciously, 
 
 " It is not my habit to allow my girls the 
 American liberty of receiving visits without 
 my presence ; but you are so old a friend, and 
 I am so glad to see you in my house, that I 
 can't remember rules." 
 
 Again he thanked her, and wished that he 
 had gone straight on to his duty, instead of 
 coming hither to torment himself by a picture 
 of contentment which could never be realized. 
 The carriage drove away, and he returned to 
 Milly, fully determined to be staid and sage, 
 and leave her with the feeling that he was 
 verv elderlv indeed.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "I am an idle man just now," he said ; " so 
 I thought I might allow myself the pleasure of 
 seeing you here in the quiet, where you look 
 most at home." 
 
 "Where I am most at home, too," she an 
 swered, with her sunny smile ; " though I like 
 going out very much. But I can't get over 
 feeling a little shy and awkward." 
 
 "Those are not just the words I should have 
 used," he said, in a gentle, caressing voice he 
 had if I may employ the expression it is the 
 only one that serves ; and, somehow, that voice 
 made common words sound sweeter than the 
 elaborate compliments of most men. 
 
 "My aunt laughs at me," Milly continued, 
 with the blush a little deepened on her cheeks. 
 " She says that another season will quite cure 
 me of the shyness, at least." 
 
 " It will not change you much, I fancy," he 
 replied, and then remembered that these im 
 plied flatteries did not agree well with the rep 
 utation for wisdom wherewith he meant to im 
 press her. "Your cousin is quite well again ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Yes ; it was only a severe cold ; but Maud 
 is so seldom ill that aunty and I were fright 
 ened ; and Maud can't bear to be left alone 
 when she is out of sorts." 
 
 He looked about, and he looked at her. The 
 room was very pretty, and suited to her appear 
 ance ; and she gave it an air so home-like ! sit 
 ting there with her work-basket and her book, 
 sharing the footstool with her pet cat. Halford 
 felt that it would be dangerous for him to sit 
 long in silent contemplation. He began to talk 
 of whatever came uppermost and easiest of 
 the story she had been reading her stand of 
 flowers the veriest trifles which make up or 
 dinary conversation. But gradually, in her 
 pretty way wholly different from the artful 
 tact of a practiced woman she drew him on to 
 talk of such things as she liked to hear about : 
 his travels the strange countries of which she 
 dreamed forgetting the restraint she some 
 times felt in his presence, and unconsciously 
 revealing her simple tastes and pure fancies to 
 the world-worn man. 
 
 He gazed into her stainless soul until he had 
 the sentiment of reverence come over him such 
 as one sometimes feels in a foreign land, when 
 stepping suddenly from the crowded, bustling 
 street into the shadowy recesses of a cathedral, 
 with the voices of unseen choristers, and the 
 veiled tones of the organ, stealing through the 
 stillness. It was a brief hour of rest to Ken 
 neth Halford ; then she herself uttered the 
 words which brought him back to the reality, 
 and its cares. 
 
 "I think you must be quite worn out with 
 my ceaseless talk," he had said, suddenly. 
 
 " I like it so much ! Nobody ever talks at 
 all in that way unless sometimes but no ; 
 she is so restless, and her wit blinds me like 
 lightning " 
 
 " Who is that ?" 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Marchmont ; she comes to see us 
 
 occasionally. I think I admire her more than 
 any woman in the world , and so does Con 
 stance that is my dearest friend Mr. Worth- 
 ington's niece, you know." 
 
 " Yes, and a very lovely girl," he said, pre 
 ferring to lead the conversation away toward 
 her. " So she is your special friend ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed. We so often wonder if we 
 shall ever learn to be in the least like Mrs. 
 Marchmont. Mr. Worthington says she has 
 talent enough to write books or paint pictures, 
 if she would only have used it, but that she 
 makes herself charming instead, by bringing 
 all her gifts into conversation." 
 
 She had brought him back ! He must not 
 sit there any longer above all, he must not 
 hear her talk about Alice Marchmont. 
 
 " I have to thank you for a very pleasant 
 morning," he said; "but I ought to apologize 
 for my unconscionable visit." 
 
 His face looked gray and changed ; Milly 
 gazed at him with her eyes full of innocent pity 
 and wonder ; then a sudden pang crossed her, 
 which, if she had been older and wiser, would 
 have shown her at once how it was with her 
 heart. Was it the mention of Mrs. March- 
 mont's name which had caused this alteration 
 in him? Did he, too, care for this woman, 
 who had the whole world at her feet who 
 seemed able, by a single smile, to bring any 
 man under her spells? Somehow, the idea 
 struck Milly unpleasantly ; her lips retained 
 only a very pale reflection of the smiles with 
 which she had listened to his conversation. 
 Something, that almost approached haughti 
 ness, gave a new piquancy to her manner : with 
 the inward question in regard to Mrs. March 
 mont had come the sudden knowledge that he 
 only considered herself a pretty child : and 
 just at this moment Milly was not in the mood 
 for such treatment. 
 
 It was not possible that, after her two ro 
 mantic meetings with Kenneth Halford, he 
 should have occupied the same place in her 
 mind that other men did. She had dreamed 
 a great deal about that last pleasant day at 
 Chamouni, though she had scarcely spoken his 
 name even to Constance. She was perfect 
 ly unconscious how frequently his image had 
 been in her thoughts. Fluttered and pleased 
 as she was when he so unexpectedly appeared 
 again in her life, she had not been disturbed by 
 any idea of the truth ; but it would only re 
 quire a few annoyances like this to teach her. 
 
 "I hope you will forgive me for interrupt 
 ing your quiet morning," he added, before she 
 had finished her swift reflections. 
 
 " Oh yes ; it has saved me the trouble of 
 reading that tiresome book I had begun. You 
 have given me the cream of it without the tedi- 
 ousness." 
 
 Was she trying to make speeches and in 
 dulge in epigrams, like the woman whom she 
 admired to be satirical and witty? Halford 
 would have liked to ask her not to do it to 
 be always her simple, natural self. Then he
 
 58 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 remembered that lie had no right to ask any 
 thing of her no right to give himself in any 
 way a prominent thought in her mind. He 
 had risen, but still lingered, though he knew 
 that he ought to be gone. 
 
 " What beautiful weather we are having," 
 he said ; " it reminds me of Italy. Do you 
 recollect how lovely the sunshine was at Cha- 
 mouni ?'' 
 
 The words uttered from sheer idleness 
 recalled to Milly's mind all his kindness upon 
 their first meeting the debt of gratitude which 
 she owed him for what followed in Switzerland. 
 She felt ashamed of her momentary, vague ir 
 ritation, and wanted to make amends. 
 
 " That was the pleasantest day I ever spent 
 in my whole life," she said, with a return of 
 her pretty frankness. " I have not forgotten 
 how kind you were to me, Mr. Halford." 
 
 " I wish it could have deserved the name," 
 he answered, smiling to see how the brightness 
 and animation came back to her face. 
 
 So they talked a little longer ; then he went 
 sadly away, and, as he descended the steps, be 
 thought him of his self-appointed duty. He 
 would not go to Mrs. Marchmont's house yet ; 
 he wanted an hour's solitude, and a brisk walk. 
 He had done a foolish thing in venturing into 
 Milly's presence ; but he had grown idiotic of 
 late : there could be no doubt of that. 
 
 He walked on, thinking what a disappoint 
 ment and failure life was -^thinking that he 
 had no aim in view which would make the 
 world's choicest honors worth winning: all 
 vain, morbid reflections ; but they are common 
 enough to all of us, after the first glitter has 
 rubbed off existence, and we see in their full 
 barrenness the rocks over which our pathway 
 must lead the path which years before showed 
 bright and glorious under the beautiful mists 
 of youthful illusions. 
 
 It was late in the day before Halford found 
 himself at Mrs. Marchmont's house ; but he re 
 ceived the information that she was out. Her 
 absence seemed a sort of reprieve. He felt 
 that the sensation was an added weakness, but 
 could not repress it. Fate, however, had no 
 intention of indulging him in his desire to pro 
 crastinate. By the time he reached the street, 
 Mrs. Marchmont's carriage stopped in front of 
 him. He stepped forward, helped her out, and 
 said, 
 
 "I had just been sent away with the news 
 that it was only known that you were absent 
 the time of your return was beyond the fore 
 knowledge of your Mercury." 
 
 " My movements are always uncertain," she 
 replied, languidly ; for it was not easy to speak 
 at all. "You may come in now, if you choose 
 to endure the society of a very stupid woman." 
 
 She did not want to be left alone ; she felt 
 like a child forced into the dark any compan 
 ionship was better than solitude ; even the ef 
 fort to control herself would do her good, for 
 when the carriage stopped she was very near 
 past the possibility. Since early morning she 
 
 had been out on ths errand in which she had 
 wasted so much time during the past week. 
 To-day's efforts had proved as useless as those 
 which went before, and there was no more 
 space left for her to struggle. 
 
 To-morrow Faulkner would present himself 
 to-morrow ! On her way home she had act 
 ually counted, watch in hand, the hours which 
 lay between her and the crisis of her fate ; it 
 had become an affair of hours! One faint 
 hope left still wherewith, until evening, she 
 could keep her brain somewhat steady that 
 of receiving news that an agent had succeeded 
 in procuring the money. He had not been 
 sanguine in her heart she knew that it was 
 the merest, the most improbable chance but 
 she held fast to it as the one slight barrier which 
 kept despair aloof. 
 
 So she was glad to meet any mortal visage 
 at this moment ; it was only half-past four now, 
 and she could not have an answer from her bus 
 iness man until six. It was better that Hal- 
 ford should think her ill or crazy, than be left 
 face to face with her own soul. 
 
 She preceded him into the library and sat 
 down tossed her bonnet on the console ; and 
 the one glance into the mirror which she must 
 have taken had she been called to listen to her 
 death-sentence, showed that her hair was not 
 disarranged, nor her features any paler than 
 she had grown accustomed to seeing them. 
 
 "Are you quite recovered from last night's 
 attack?" lie asked. "It seems a little impru 
 dent to have gone out." 
 
 "I am perfectly well; I can't imagine what 
 made me faint indigestion, perhaps. One al 
 ways has dyspepsia at this season." 
 
 "Miss Portman sent me word that you were 
 better." 
 
 "Yes, she told me of your message; it was 
 very nice of you. My poor old cousin is a ten 
 der-hearted goose, who thinks that the wind 
 mustn't blow over me." 
 
 " You look very pale yet," he urged ; " I am 
 sure you can not be well." 
 
 "Never rnind my looks," returned she, im 
 patiently, " I am not ill." Then hearing the ir 
 ritation in her voice, she added, with one of her 
 magical smiles," What a temper you will think 
 I have grown ! Never mind ; I mean to give 
 up my caprices. Admit that you find me 
 dreadfully gatei excuse the French word it 
 softens it a little to my vanity." 
 
 " Would you be satisfied, if I made the ad 
 mission ?" 
 
 " No ; don't say it, if you do think so. 
 Please don't find me changed ; I like to be re 
 membered just as I once was," she answered, 
 rushing, in spite of herself, straight to the verge 
 of a dramatic scene. 
 
 " But are you the same ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, don't ask me ! Is any body the same ? 
 They talk of a physical change once in seven 
 years, that makes new creatures of us ; why 
 not a mental, moral, or immoral, as you please ? 
 There's a question for the doctors ! When I
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 59 
 
 get leisure I shall study tii3 matter, and write 
 a magazine paper on it." 
 
 He laughed a little ; but there was no light 
 ness in his thoughts. He could not decide 
 whether she was all sparkle and hardness, like 
 the diamonds for which she had allowed her 
 self to be sold years before, or had learned 
 completely to smother her feelings, because it 
 was her only chance of peace and safety. 
 
 "And talking of magazine papers," she con 
 tinued; ."do you mean to give us something 
 else scientific, and learned, and awful?" 
 
 " Indeed, I do not know ; I am growing fair 
 ly ashamed of my own indolence and waste of 
 time." 
 
 " Take care ! I'll not have you give me 
 covert thrusts under the guise of reproaches 
 to yourself. Wasting time what is that line 
 about rendering an account for each idle word 
 and hour ? Clel ! what a list there must be ! 
 Oh, that sounds irreverent." . 
 
 "And that you would not be." 
 
 "I hope not ; it is doubly odious in a wom 
 an. But one gets in the habit of laughing at 
 every thing, just to make people stare, or to be 
 thought witty. It's a dreadful habit." 
 
 "It is, indeed," he said; and knew that his 
 voice sounded priggish and sententious, but 
 could not change it. 
 
 "I'll not be lectured," cried she. " If I abuse 
 myself, it is with the expectation that you will 
 contradict me." 
 
 " I fancy it will be necessary for you often 
 to give me a hint, that I may be sure what you 
 really do mean." 
 
 She did not notice his words, saying, sud 
 denly, 
 
 " Do you know what our talk about right 
 and wrong brings up? The country- place 
 where we were that last summer. Don't you 
 remember the little church down in the village ? 
 Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, how pleasant it was to 
 go there! don't you remember?" 
 
 How often during the first years of separa 
 tion, while remembrance was still a bitter pain, 
 he had thought of those visits to the quiet 
 chapel, and repeated Longfellow's pretty lines 
 about the lost girl who looked like gleaning 
 Ruth repeated them, and stamped his feet on 
 the hot Egyptian sands in rage and anguish. 
 But the reality to which he had returned was 
 not the old dream ; he could not speak of those 
 recollections to this woman with the flashing, 
 restless eyes, so unlike the light which they 
 poured on him once this chameleon, vexing 
 him by her quick changes and brief glimpses 
 of the girlish creature whom he had loved. 
 
 " But, somehow, I hate our churches in 
 town," she was saying, when he got his 
 thoughts back from that mental view of him 
 self, gazing off at the pyramids through the 
 white distance, and moaning his grief out in 
 poetry. " Besides, one is always too tired to 
 go! Just think, those Spanish people next 
 door always dance on Sunday night ; and I 
 have been to them sometimes how I hated 
 
 myself for doing what I thought wicked ; but 
 one does so many hateful things ! Dear me, 
 don't sit looking so grave." 
 
 " Was I looking grave ?" 
 
 "A perfect monument of reproach; and I 
 don't liked to be reproached." 
 
 " I have never done it," he answered, slow 
 ly " never." 
 
 "You had no right no reason!" she cried, 
 with sudden passion. "I could not help my 
 self; you know that. Every relative I had in 
 the world setting at me ! Oh, you never can 
 understand what I endured !" 
 
 His face had looked so like the old time, that 
 she could not forbear crying out, in the quick 
 rush of memory, without thinking how her 
 words might sound. 
 
 " I always knew," he replied, in a kind voice. 
 " Even in the height of my anger, I always pit 
 ied you as much as I did myself." 
 
 "That was like you such a good, patient 
 Kenneth ! Ferhnps I might have behaved dif 
 ferently ; but I was always a coward. I could 
 not bear to be frowned at ; and you will never 
 know half the means they used even my own 
 mother against me ! Oh, my mother, my moth 
 er ! if she had only been another sort of wom 
 an ! I never cease to be thankful that I have 
 no children ; at least, I can not make their ex 
 istence such a curse as she did mine." 
 
 " Hush, hush!" he said, inexpressibly pained 
 by her wild looks and words. "You don't 
 know what you are saying." 
 
 "Let us talk of something else," she cried ; 
 " it is not well to think. Have you heard tho 
 new opera they are to give next week, for the 
 first time here ? One can always talk about 
 the opera Oh, Kenneth, don't watch me 
 like that ! I know I am frivolous and wicked ; 
 but don't look so disappointed !" 
 
 She could not help it; all sorts of insane 
 speeches would force an utterance, in spite of 
 her. She could not lose this friend she did 
 not think about his making love to her she 
 did not want it only, in her misery, she could 
 not bear to see disapproval in any countenance ; 
 her own thoughts and condemnation were 
 enough. Perhaps a little longer, and even her 
 good name must go ; she would hold fast to 
 every precious thing while she could. For the 
 present, the scorn and contempt must lie be 
 tween her and her own soul ; she could not 
 support even disapproval from him. 
 
 " Don't look disappointed, Kenneth," she re 
 peated. "Wait a few weeks; who knows 
 perhaps I shall be less restless and changea 
 ble" 
 
 She stopped short. A few weeks she might 
 as well ask him to wait and see what she would 
 be like in eternity ! She to talk of weeks, when 
 only brief hours hung betwean her and ruin ! 
 She could fairly hear Dick Faulkner's odious 
 step, that she knew so well those firm, quick 
 footfalls, the sound of which had so often sick 
 ened her during the weeks which led to this 
 awful moment. She could absolutely see hi
 
 CO 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 loathed face peering into her own, with its 
 smile of triumph ! and she had nothing to pro 
 pose just as unprepared as the day he was 
 last there ; and yet she must meet him. The 
 picture her vivid fancy drew so completely 
 overpowered her that, before she was aware, 
 she had cried out bitterly, 
 
 " Oh, pity me, Kenneth, pity me !" 
 
 It was spoken ! She had broken down at 
 last ; her whole secret had nearly escaped in 
 that appeal. She was close to a burst of fren 
 zied sobs, and an hysterical scene that would 
 have appeared like insanity or play-acting to 
 a well-regulated person. 
 
 What could he think ? Only that this wom 
 an loved him that she feared, in spite of his 
 previous words, he did not mean to take up the 
 thread of their destinies from the point where 
 stronger hands had torn it out of their grasp. 
 It was impossible to think any thing else, and 
 not to believe, also, that she suffered so horri 
 bly at the dread of his not forgiving her, that 
 it overcame even her pride and feminine reti 
 cence. Yet, even as he admitted it to himself, 
 some perception struck him that this was not 
 the conduct of a woman who loved. It did 
 not, it could not, occur to his mind that any 
 terrible secret burdened her soul, and made 
 her long for sympathy ; he could only believe 
 that, if she did not care for him, she was lead 
 ing him on from an impulse of fiendish coquet 
 ry; but in either case he must speak. He 
 must speak, though he, too, was haunted by a 
 quick vision of the pretty room where he had 
 that morning sat with Milly Crofton, her pure 
 girl's face gazing at him, so free from worldly 
 emotion even from the common cares which 
 must leave their impress upon any countenance 
 after twenty-five. 
 
 " I came here to-day to talk seriously with 
 you," he said, and knew that his voice sounded 
 hard and cold. 
 
 She thought he was about to remonstrate 
 upon the folly of her life to reproach her for 
 wasting it perhaps, to tell her of vague ru 
 mors which might have fallen from Dick Faulk 
 ner's venomous lips. 
 
 "No, no," she exclaimed, trying to smile; 
 "don't talk seriously; we are safest on the 
 surface." 
 
 "You and I can not stay there," he contin 
 ued. " Do you remember what I said to you 
 the other night ?" 
 
 She shook her head, making a vain effort to 
 recall any special words that he might have 
 spoken. What could they have been about ? 
 Had lie heard vaguely of her difficulties, and 
 come to help her? Oh, if he could if he 
 would ! She might better tell him the whole ; 
 even if it cost her his friendship and esteem, 
 she could, at least, have her life free from Dick 
 Faulkner. It was only a second's wild thought 
 she remembered that he was powerless. He 
 was not rich enough at so short notice to raise 
 the amount she required. If he could, if he 
 were able to borrow it, she must not ask the 
 
 favor ; ten to one, she should not be able to re 
 pay it in time, if ever, and he might be ruined. 
 So that quick hope died out like those which 
 had gone before. She sat looking straight at 
 him, yet not seeing a line of his features in the 
 blinding pain which made her head reel till 
 sparks of fire danced before her eyes. 
 
 He could not tell from her words what he 
 believed her pretended forgetfulness whether 
 she was afraid of betraying herself, or was only 
 coquetting with him. He grew very angry at 
 that suspicion there was a bitter pang at his 
 heart all the while but he must go on. 
 
 "You can not, I think, have forgotten what 
 I said," he began again. 
 
 " Oh, I dare say " She stopped short, 
 conscious that she was making some irrele 
 vant reply, though not certain what he had 
 said. " I beg your pardon did I interrupt 
 you ?" 
 
 "I said you had not forgotten," he repeated, 
 rather sternly. 
 
 "I wish I could," she muttered, too low for 
 him to catch the bitter complaint; "I wish I 
 could !" 
 
 " We were talking of the past " 
 
 "Then we had better have left it alone," she 
 broke in, passionately. "I want neither to 
 look forward or back ; let me rest where I am, 
 while it is possible." 
 
 " I must finish ; I must tell you what is in 
 my mind," he persisted, more and more con 
 vinced that she was trifling, and feeling his 
 heart harden toward hei'. 
 
 "Oh, tell me then," she said, impatiently, 
 throwing herself back in her chair, and trying 
 to fasten her attention upon his words, though 
 the effort made her head ache worse than ever, 
 and she still dreaded reproaches or remon 
 strances upon her wasted life. " You want to 
 scold me no wonder ; but I wish you wouldn't ! 
 You couldn't say any thing half so bad as I 
 have said to myself not a thousandth part so 
 bad as I deserve." 
 
 "I did not dream of doing any thing of the 
 kind," he answered. "I only wanted you to 
 remember our conversation in the opera-box 
 the other evening." 
 
 "Then I can't do believe me. I am not 
 always false what object could I have ?" cried 
 she, angrily not because she felt in a rage ; it 
 was pure nervousness that rendered her voice 
 sharp. 
 
 "I said that it would still be possible to 
 bridge over the gulf which separates us from 
 our youth " 
 
 " Never, never !" she interrupted, dimly com 
 prehending now what errand had brought him, 
 yet not trusting her own intuitions. "We 
 could not do that ; it is impossible." 
 
 "Not if you will be my wife," he said, slow 
 ly, conscious that never was woman wooed in 
 such a cast-iron sort of fashion, but not able to 
 make either tone or manner one whit warmer. 
 
 " Your wife !" she repeated, in a bewildered 
 wav. " I be vour wife ?"
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTOX'S NAME. 
 
 61 
 
 "I came here this morning to ask you," he 
 continued. 
 
 "You don't mean that;" she exclaimed, still 
 too much confused to believe him in earnest. 
 "That is carrying nonsense too far, even for 
 amusement. Don't say such things." 
 
 "I am speaking seriously," he said; and a 
 second glance showed her, blind as she was, 
 that he meant it. 
 
 "Oh, Kenneth !" she faltered. 
 
 "I come with the old question, Alice," he 
 said, for the first time calling her by the famil 
 iar name, and painfully aware, as he uttered it, 
 that it no longer possessed the slightest music 
 to his ear. " Will you marry me ?" 
 
 "I marry you?" she echoed. 
 
 " I said I came with the old question," re 
 turned he, not perceiving until he had spoken 
 that he was only repeating himself to her 
 whose presence had once been a spell to rouse 
 him easily into eloquent speech into the pas 
 sionate utterance which ought to come natural 
 to a lover. 
 
 "But do you come with the old heart?" 
 cried she, suddenly. " Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, 
 why do you talk like this ! It can not be it 
 can never be you feel, you know, that it ought 
 not." 
 
 " Tell me why, Alice ?" 
 
 " Even if you came with the old love warm 
 in your heart, it could not ! We are worlds 
 and worlds apart ; I would not dare let you 
 approach nearer. But you don't, Kenneth ; it 
 is only the memory of the dead dream the 
 dear, sweet dream." 
 
 " Not dead " 
 
 "Yes, and the girl you loved dead with it ! 
 It is only that you are attracted to me by the 
 occasional likeness I have to her ; but I am not 
 she O Heaven, how different!" 
 
 "Alice," he said, "I come to you in ear 
 nest ; I don't understand your words or man 
 ner; this is a serious moment. Surely you 
 would not coquet with me now ; you can not 
 be so changed as that." 
 
 "Changed in every way," she cried. "I 
 am not the Alice you knew ; do understand 
 that! But I would not coquet or trifle; you 
 are right there ; try to comprehend." 
 
 " Surely, you arc not surprised " 
 
 "Yes, yes!" 
 
 "But you must have expected me to speak." 
 
 " Never ; indeed I did not. I thought you 
 liked to recollect the pretty dream that it 
 pleased you to stray toward the old time that 
 there might be occasional vague regrets over 
 the vanished hope ; but not this nothing like 
 this." 
 
 "You might have known me better." 
 
 "And that is what it is," she went on 
 "just an unreal sentiment born out of old 
 memories ; nothing else." 
 
 "And and you have felt so, too?" 
 
 He could scarcely have put a question so 
 misplaced, or in a more awkward fashion ; but 
 it was all he could say. 
 
 " What have my feelings to do with it ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "If you remembered if you cared " 
 
 "Why, you thought I loved you!" she 
 broke in. 
 
 " Don't accuse me of being vain and unman 
 ly," he exclaimed. "At least, you know that 
 I am not mean and base." 
 
 She started from her chair, then as quickly 
 resumed her seat : a sweet, womanly smile 
 came across the trouble in her face. 
 
 " I don't think so ; you know I could not. 
 It all comes to me now; I understand every 
 thing. You thought I loved you don't say a 
 word ! Kenneth, you are a good man a no 
 ble heart. You came to me because you 
 thought that some idle words you had spoken, 
 made it your duty ; but you don't love me." 
 
 " Have you not believed that I did ?" 
 
 "No; it was impossible." 
 
 "But after what I said " 
 
 "I did not even remember it. If I noticed 
 it at the time, I only supposed it a mere com 
 pliment I am so used to sentimental talk! 
 Stop, Kenneth ; don't interrupt ; don't try for 
 pretty words ; we must be perfectly frank and 
 honest now." # 
 
 " Yes, whatever comes." 
 
 "Dear old friend, if you loved me ever so 
 well, I would not marry you ; yet you are good 
 and noble to have come. I could hate or laugh 
 at another man who fancied that I cared for 
 him, and so offered me his hand ; but it was 
 generous of you." 
 
 " Then my my loving you would make no 
 difference ?'' 
 
 "None! Nothing could make any differ 
 ence nothing under heaven. Kenneth, Ken 
 neth, if we were in different worlds, we could 
 not be more completely separated ; if I were 
 dead and buried, we could not. Yes, that's it 
 think of Alice as dead ; think of her kindly, 
 and pity me. I could bear your pity; and 
 oh, Kenneth, I am the most miserable woman 
 alive !" 
 
 She buried her face on the arm of her chair, 
 and for an instant sobbed uncontrollably, though 
 she shed no tears. 
 
 " You drive me wild ! " he exclaimed. " You 
 say that we are separated forever, yet in the 
 same breath you talk of your misery." 
 
 "Yes," she said, raising her head and for 
 cing herself back to a sort of composure. " I 
 forgot how it would sound ; it seems as if I 
 meant that I cared for you. Then I must tell 
 you this you have no part in my trouble." 
 
 " Is there in your mind some scruple, some 
 fancy, that, because my heart is not the boy's 
 heart, you must refuse it?" he questioned, de 
 termined, at least, to be sure that he had done 
 no wrong. 
 
 " Not that. Oh, it is impossible to explain 
 not where you are concerned, though. I 
 don't mean to speak rudely, but I have scarce 
 ly had time to think about you since you re 
 turned. I was glad to see you I am glad
 
 C2 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 but it has no reference to the past ; I couldn't 
 think of you in that way you're not vexed?" 
 
 " No, no ; speak your thought out." 
 
 "You can listen, because your heart is not 
 touched either. Why, if 1 had that added to 
 all I bear, I should go mad. I caused you 
 trouble enough in the old days ; thank Heaven ! 
 I am powerless now. As for the rest, what 
 worries me I can not tell you only so much ; 
 and believe me now it has nothing in common 
 with thoughts of you. Don't ask me any ques 
 tions; only be my friend. Promise that." 
 
 "I do always your friend; nothing could 
 ever happen which would make me otherwise." 
 
 She felt herself growing very faint ; his words 
 roused anew the thought of what dire mischance 
 tarried just beyond. Her lips were so dry and 
 parched that she could With difficulty articu 
 late, yet she went on speaking; any thing was 
 better than to sit silent with that horrible dread 
 in her soul the skeleton grinning between her 
 and this generous-hearted man, who, in spite 
 of his kindness, was as powerless to aid her as 
 if he had been an indifferent stranger. 
 
 " Some time you will really love, and marry," 
 she said "perhaps some pretty creature like 
 Milly Crofton. I often watch* her, and think 
 she is like the girl you used to know the heart 
 they killed, Kenneth." 
 
 " My poor Alice!" he murmured, involunta 
 rily giving voice to the great pity which stirred 
 his soul ; for he knew that, whatever might be 
 the secret of her suffering, it was real. 
 
 "Yes, call me that; think of me so," she 
 said ; then the faintness against which she had 
 been struggling for many moments grew so 
 strong, so like the chill of death, that she was 
 forced to add, "I think you must go away now, 
 I am so tired." 
 
 He saw that her very lips were blue-white ; 
 the face leaning back against the cushions of 
 the chair was so ghastly that he could scarcely 
 repress a cry of alarm. He hurried to a table 
 where there sat a carafe of water, poured out 
 a glass, brought it, and obliged her to drink. 
 In a few moments she was better, could sit tip, 
 smile and speak. 
 
 " I ought not to have worried you when you 
 were ill," he said, remorsefully. 
 
 " No, no ; I am glad you came. We shall 
 be friends, Kenneth always friends?" 
 
 "Always, Alice." 
 
 " Yes, whatever comes. I believe you would 
 pity me Don't look at me so, Kenneth ; are 
 you thinking that I am half mad ? Sometimes 
 I think so. It's only my absurd life; I have 
 had no rest for weeks ; but it will soon be over 
 now very soon." 
 
 "What, Alice?" 
 
 She was thinking of the one way out which 
 presented itself the one hope of freedom; 
 the horrible thought which had been growing 
 stronger in her mind as these last awful days 
 drifted by. Nothingelse left but she could die ! 
 She had tried to put it from her, this crowning 
 wicked impulse, but it would not go ; and as 
 
 she glanced at the clock, saw that the hour was 
 near when her last vague chance of relief must 
 prove vain as the rest, it started up in her soul 
 so like a full-formed resolution that it broke 
 through her words. 
 
 "What will be soon over what do you 
 mean?" she heard him ask. 
 
 " Why, all the trouble I mean the season 
 will end, spring come, and I shall go into the 
 country. Indeed, I am so worn out that I 
 don't know what I say." 
 
 "I shall go, that you may lie down and 
 sleep," he said, extending his hand. 
 
 She caught it, and held it fast in her cold 
 fingers; it was dreadful to be left alone! 
 Then, with her usual inconsistency, her ability 
 to think a dozen things at once, came the idea 
 that she might have had his support ; he would 
 never have gone back, once pledged. Nothing 
 could have induced her to drag him down in 
 her fall ; his love, if she could have had it, 
 would have proved an added terror; yet her 
 heart grew bitter to think that she had lost it. 
 More than all, she could not bear to part with 
 him because he was connected with her lost 
 past. 
 
 "You will think of me at my best," she 
 said. "You'll not see me like this again. 
 Will you remember me sometimes when you 
 are happy with pretty little Milly ?" 
 
 " Why do you talk so much of her ? I 
 scarcely know the child." 
 
 "But you love her I mean you will ; I feel 
 it. She will make you happy ; oh, I am glad 
 of that. She will be like the old dream to 
 you as if these years had not come between. 
 But no ; I can't have that. You must not for 
 get me. Think of the Alice you knew as dead. 
 I must have my place." 
 
 "You torture me !" he cried. " I can't un 
 derstand you ! If you could love me, let me 
 try to make you happy. We will go back to 
 gether to the old dream, away from this weary 
 bustle, and look for our lost happiness." 
 
 "We couldn't find it, Kenneth ! Don't be 
 vexed with me ; no wonder I puzzle you. I 
 can't tell, myself, how much of me is real. But, 
 indeed, I don't want your love. You may be 
 lieve that." 
 
 " But you will have my friendship ?" 
 
 " So thankfully ! There, go now, before I 
 say something else silly or insane." 
 
 He took her hand again with a feeling of 
 profound pity, and was raising it to his lips. 
 She snatched it away, startling him anew by 
 her vehemence it was the hand Dick Faulk 
 ner had kissed ! 
 
 " Not that !" she exclaimed ; " not that, for 
 the world!" 
 
 Then, even in this moment of acute suffer 
 ing, with the consciousness full upon her that 
 soon she must make a choice between disgrace 
 and death, the coquetry ingrained in her na 
 ture came up. At least, it seemed such to her 
 self, only she was in a sort of earnest all the 
 while, giving way to the emotion only excita-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 63 
 
 ble people can understand, which is neither ex 
 actly of the head nor heart, yet belongs to both. 
 
 "You shall kiss the other," she said, and 
 held it up with a gesture and glance which 
 made her a very Circe. 
 
 He kissed it gravely : this was not the kind 
 of spell to fascinate him, because it was not 
 like the Alice of former days. 
 
 "The last kiss," she added; "but your 
 golden -haired ideal need never be jealous, 
 though no other men's lips shall blot out the 
 touch of yours, Kenneth." 
 
 So he went away, conscious that he left be 
 hind him forever tbe latest memory of the old 
 dream. He was naturally enough a little sad 
 dened for the time, but could not resist a feel 
 ing of self-gratulation that he had proved true 
 to his own sense of honor. How hard the 
 struggle to go to that woman with his ques 
 tion, he fully now appreciated by the sense of 
 relief which came over his mind. He was sor 
 ry for her ; he saw that she suffered ; yet he 
 could not decide whether she was the most con 
 summate actress that ever lived, the creature 
 of some passing impulse, or indeed oppressed 
 by a secret trouble under the excitement and 
 brightness of her life. 
 
 As the door closed, Alice Marchmont sunk 
 back in her chair, and sat with her eyes fixed 
 upon the clock. The room was quite dark 
 now, except where the bright fire-light illumi 
 nated it, reflected upon the face of the pretty 
 pendule so that she could see where the hands 
 pointed. 
 
 Twenty minutes to six twenty minutes! 
 She sat still and waited, counting the seconds 
 ns they dragged by, yet with scores of varying 
 thoughts in her mind all the while. At last 
 the bell-like chime sounded the hour ; a mo 
 ment after, the door-bell rang. She did not 
 stir ; she had a feeling as if she were dead and 
 cold, and must sit there staring out through the 
 darkness till the Last Judgment. 
 
 The door opened a servant with a salver in 
 his hand. 
 
 . " I beg madame's pardon ; I only just learned 
 that she was here, else I should have lighted 
 the candles ; I was out on madame's service." 
 
 It was a caprice of hers never to burn gas 
 in her rooms : there was no possible expense, 
 great or small, she had failed to incur. 
 
 " Who rang, Ferguson ?" 
 
 "Only a person with this letter, madame. 
 Shall I light the room?" 
 
 " No ; go away, please." 
 
 The model domestic departed ; she tore open 
 the envelope only another failure ; but it was 
 the last ! 
 
 She sat still for a few moments longer not 
 faint not suffering acutely her powers seem 
 ed deadened ; then she rose and walked quietly 
 away to her chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE POTENT NAME. 
 
 ALL that had happened, and was still to 
 happen, did not alter the fact that Mrs. March 
 mont must dress and go out to dine ; for, at 
 all events, she had not yet left the world. To 
 send a refusal and remain at home was out of 
 the question. She would have rushed into the 
 society of a coterie of ghosts beckoning with 
 spectral fingers to worse than the horrors of n 
 German romance, rather than keep herself com 
 pany. 
 
 She dared not stay at home, that dreadful 
 idea of self-destruction so pursued her. It 
 might come to this ; she expected now that it 
 would ; but it was not time yet, and solitude 
 would drive her so mad that she might attempt 
 her own life before she knew really what she 
 was doing. 
 
 As she entered her dressing-room Pauline 
 the faithful gave her one glance, and uttered a 
 little cry of alarm. 
 
 "Are you growing hysterical?" asked her 
 mistress, coldly. 
 
 "I beg madame's pardon," apologized the 
 woman; "but if madame could see how pale 
 she is she would be herself startled." 
 
 " I am not so easily alarmed," she replied. 
 " But I suppose you can make my cheeks red ; 
 you have something that you put on your own." 
 
 " Oh, pardon ; I could do it beautifully, if 
 madame permits, just by rubbing the cheeks 
 with a peculiar red ribbon. Nobody could ever 
 suspect." 
 
 "I don't care how you do it, or who sus 
 pects," she answered, sitting down in a chair 
 by her dressing-table, though not glancing to 
 ward the glass. " I am very cross, Pauline, 
 but don't mind." 
 
 "Never; madame is never that! She is 
 not well just now ; but cross ? she is like the 
 angels." 
 
 " Very like," returned Mrs. Marchmont, 
 with a bitter laugh, and added, to herself, 
 "there are two sorts." 
 
 "Madame shall dine out?" questioned Pau 
 line. 
 
 " Yes ; where is Miss Portman ?" 
 
 " She have gone to her old friend's, Miss 
 Livingston's." 
 
 "Yes, I know. What time is it ?" 
 
 "Not quite seven, if madame pleases." 
 
 "Dress me, Pauline. Don't ask me what I 
 will put on ; pull my chair away from the glass. 
 Be sure you make me handsome, very hand 
 some ; I have a special reason." 
 
 If it should be the last night any human be 
 ing connected with her society world ever saw 
 her among them again ; if, on coming from 
 John Worthirigton's house, she knew that noth 
 ing remained for her but death, at least let 
 them remember this evening. Ah, he would 
 be sorry, that good, tried friend ; and Kenneth 
 too : there was nobody else to get beyond hor 
 ror or wonder. And she had come to this !
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 she, Alice Marchmont ; and the time had been, 
 in her girlish days, when, in spite of worldly in 
 fluences, in spite of a frivolous mother's exam 
 ple, she had said her prayers and read her Bi 
 ble, and allowed the one sensible woman who 
 ever approached her at that season a govern 
 ess, of whom Mrs. Bemers got rid of as soon 
 as possible to teach her the blessed doctrines 
 of the Catholic faith ; when the Church serv 
 ices were familiar to her, and the thought of 
 Confirmation a pleasant one, and no shadow 
 troubled her soul of the season when she, in 
 her turn, should crucify the Christ anew by 
 willful departure from his teachings. 
 
 She sat motionless as a stone image under 
 Pauline's skillful hands, till at length an excla 
 mation from the French woman, who could not 
 longer support the silence, made her look up. 
 
 " Well ?" she asked. 
 
 " Madame is so beautiful ! if madame would 
 only take one little peep in the miroir." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont rose, walked to the cheval- 
 glass at the end of the room, and surveyed her 
 full-length image. The dress was some mar 
 velous tint of green, so pale as to look almost 
 white, with long hanging sleeves, showing the 
 white arms ; precious old cameos encircling 
 her neck, spots of vivid rose-color tinting her 
 cheeks, and the great brown eyes almost black 
 with the pain which cut, like icicles, across her 
 heart a sharp, physical pain, added to her men 
 tal distress. 
 
 " I shall not leave the house till eight," she 
 said, turning 'away after one glance. "How 
 much time yet ?" 
 
 "Twenty minutes," replied Pauline, in a 
 tone of mortal injury which struck the other's 
 ear. 
 
 "You have done wonders," she said; "I 
 thank you very much. Come and tell me 
 when it is eight o'clock." 
 
 Pauline went softly out ; there was some 
 thing very odd about her mistress to-night, 
 something which she could not understand ; 
 but she was a silent creature, and did not even 
 express her thoughts to the band below stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont walked slowly up and down 
 the room several times, her hands crossed be 
 hind her back, her head drooped. At length 
 she unlocked the safe where she kept such of 
 her jewels as were in her possession, and took 
 out a tiny phial. It contained opium. It had 
 lain there since an illness she had in the au 
 tumn. Why she kept it she had never known. 
 As she held up theflacon to the light, shaking 
 it slowly, she felt that now she did understand. 
 An instant after, she asked herself was she ca 
 pable of doing the deed ? Of physical pain she 
 had a great dread ; but the death that this dark 
 liquid would bring was so easy ! And she had 
 come to this ! she, who even a month before 
 would have said that she believed in God, and 
 trusted him, believed in the Bible too, reckless 
 as she was, page for page and word for word, 
 weak and superstitious as the faith might ap 
 pear to modern philosophy. 
 
 This was the point to which life had brought 
 her, the life she had willfully, determinedly 
 chosen, as she thought now, though, in reali 
 ty, once drawn into the vortex, she had been 
 whirled on and on without space for reflection. 
 The bitterest remembrance in her mind was 
 the reason which obliged her to contemplate 
 this last step, this irremediable sin. Dick 
 Faulkner's kiss still burned upon her hand; 
 his shameful words yet rang in her ear. She 
 had lived to have an avowal of degrading af 
 fection forced upon her: worse than that, she 
 had arrived at a crisis where her good name 
 must be utterly ruined by the slanders of this 
 wretch, or she end her mortal career with a 
 dose of the poison she held in her hand. Yes, 
 one other way out she had to repeat it to her 
 self dishonor! 
 
 And now she saw what had really brought 
 her to this strait : it was rather what the world 
 calls flirtation, permits and approves, than the 
 business exigencies of the case. Had her con- 
 duct been always circumspect and guarded, 
 Faulkner's power to harm her would be con 
 fined to their moneyed relations ; but pecunia 
 ry ruin was the least misfortune which menaced 
 her now. She had allowed herself to be drawn 
 into receiving his attentions ; she had gone on 
 and on, as scores of women have done before, 
 and now she stood face to face with the loath 
 some, abhorrent truth, stripped of the disguises 
 in which she had so enveloped it that she had 
 never perceived its real shape. 
 
 There is an old-fashioned, almost an anti 
 quated, Book wherein are set down these words, 
 from the lips of the one Preacher whose every 
 syllable is truth : "The man who looketh upon 
 a woman to lust after her hath already com 
 mitted adultery in his heart." The married 
 woman who indulges in flirtation, the woman 
 who receives tender looks and whispers from a 
 married man, is a woman who has been sullied 
 by such thoughts in the man's mind. This 
 sounds coarse ; but this is a coarse world, and 
 ours a coarse century, in spite of the fine names 
 under which we clothe our vices and our crimes. 
 These things look very differently set down in 
 the language they deserve, instead of dressed 
 up in the glowing paragraphs of sensation nov 
 els or French plays ; but we have trifled with 
 the glittering exterior long enough ; it is time 
 to make ourselves see the blackness and the 
 rottenness under. 
 
 In this hour Alice Marchmont saw it plainly 
 enough, and felt that nothing could ever free 
 her soul from the degradation of all that she 
 had brought upon it. If she could be liberated 
 to-morrow, the horrible fact would remain that 
 she had rendered it possible for a bad man to 
 speak vile words ; she could never wash that 
 memory out, and there could be no punishment 
 equal to it. 
 
 A rap at the door roused her from her mad 
 dening reflections. She hid the phial, and 
 when Pauline entered was throwing her ope 
 ra-cloak about her shoulders. It was eight
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 o'clock, and the carriage had been waiting 
 some time. She went her way. 
 
 Among the circle of guests gathered in Mr. 
 Worthington's library, until such time as Mrs. 
 Marchmont's arrival should enable them to eat 
 their dinner, were Halford and Milly Crofton. 
 
 "I supposed you would be late," her host 
 said, hurrying forward to the door to meet her. 
 
 " Of course you thought something bad of 
 me," she replied, gayly ; "you always have a 
 liberty that comes of old acquaintance." 
 
 " You like it," said he ; " you know you do ! 
 You get fed with so much sugar that it suits 
 you to come, now and then, and let me say 
 sharp things to you." 
 
 " They keep my mind in tone," she answered. 
 " But really, I think you look more wicked than 
 usual to-night." 
 
 " And you are you well again ?" 
 
 "Look at me," she said, smiling. 
 
 " Oh, this is your company face ; I'll study 
 it later. " 
 
 He laughed, and passed her on to his niece, 
 a pretty girl of about Milly Crofton's age, to 
 whom Mrs. Marchmont said a dozen charming 
 things in a breath, and thought, 
 
 "I dare say you think what would you give 
 to be like me. Ah, if we could change. ' Oh, 
 my youth, my youth!" 
 
 But neither despair nor sentiment could be 
 indulged just then ; she had only time for a 
 word with Halford, a flattering greeting to Mil 
 ly, who had forgotten her momentary annoy 
 ance of the morning, and was as enthusiastic 
 as ever in her admiration of the beautiful wom 
 an. Dinner was announced, the guests mar 
 shaled in their proper order, and Mrs. March 
 mont was led away by her host. 
 
 It was a delightful party ; there were not 
 more than a dozen people, but chosen with the 
 tact Mr. Worthington displayed on such occa 
 sions a dinner to be remembered by any quiet 
 person, who had leisure to think and to recol 
 lect. Mrs. Marchmont as far outshone her or 
 dinary self as, in her mildest moments, she out 
 shone ordinary women ; and all the while she 
 was marveling whether it was only a dream, 
 every thing seemed so far oft' and unreal. 
 
 She saw Kenneth Ilalford seated by pretty 
 Milly at the other end of the table, looking at 
 her occasionally in a kind of wonder, then 
 turning back to his neighbor with an expres 
 sion of rest on his face. She saw how it would 
 be he might not think it now but he would 
 marry that young girl. It did not matter, so 
 far as she was herself concerned ; nothing mat 
 tered. There was no man living whom she 
 would dare to wed. Oh Heaven ! in all her list 
 of adorers and friends, not one but would shrink 
 away in horror at a perception of the truth. 
 
 The money the money ! 
 
 Somebody else's name some help ! 
 
 All these wild thoughts in her mind while 
 the conversation went on, while she was talk 
 ing and laughing, wondering vaguely if she 
 should lose her last gleam of reason, scream 
 5 
 
 suddenly, stab herself with the carving-knife by 
 Mr. Worthington's plate, and make an end of 
 it and in the midst scenes from the old days 
 rising whenever she looked at Kenneth Hal- 
 ford. The gray autumn afternoon in its quiet ; 
 the blue smoke curling up among the trees ; 
 the countenance which she saw across the 
 lights, so calm and grave, gazing into that 
 young girl's eyes she could see it as it looked 
 on that still afternoon when he had said fare 
 well to that other girl, as much a stranger now 
 to Alice Marchmont as the pretty, innocent 
 creature before her. The recollection, too, of 
 what awaited her return home that came in 
 the jumble of her thoughts also. She could 
 see the phial of nauseous black liquid where 
 she had hidden it, and catch the sickening odor 
 of the poison, growing faint and weak as if the 
 fatal draught already stupefied her senses. 
 
 There was nothing spared her, for somebody 
 began to talk of a recent venture in stocks 
 which had astonished Wall Street some bold 
 outsider who had accumulated a vast fortune 
 in a few weeks. 
 
 "To lose it, probably, in as short a time," 
 John Worthington said, when the story ended. 
 "The taste for gambling, once formed, is not 
 easily subdued ; the man will go back." 
 
 "Gambling is a rather harsh word," some 
 woman said. 
 
 "I don't know of any other that applies," he 
 answered ; " do you ?" 
 
 " Please to recollect that my husband is a 
 Wall Street man," laughed she. 
 
 " Your husband is a regular commission-bro 
 ker, doing a legitimate business, and never by 
 any chance going outside of it. That is one 
 thing an honest, honorable occupation. The 
 man who goes into Wall Street to throw his 
 money upon some stock is a gambler as much 
 as the man who sits down at the green table 
 and risks his substance." 
 
 "I don't think those would be very popular 
 doctrines in our day," Kenneth Halford said. 
 
 " Is the truth ever popular ?" demanded 
 Worthington. 
 
 "And what do you call the woman who 
 ' dabbles in stocks ?' " asked the lady who had 
 just spoken, only too familiar, like the rest of 
 us, with the cant phrases used to express such 
 transactions. 
 
 "I call her a very unwise person," Mr. 
 Worthington answered, laughing, unwilling to 
 be drawn into a serious argument upon the 
 subject at his own table. 
 
 " He shall not get out of it in that way 
 shall he, Mrs. Marchmont ?" persisted Mrs. 
 Townley. 
 
 "No, indeed," returned she, feeling herself 
 shiver from head to foot. "We will know 
 just how bad things he dares think of us in his 
 bachelor mind." 
 
 "The queen has spoken," some man said. 
 " Out with it, Worthington." 
 
 " I call her a gambler too, if you will have 
 plain words," he replied, trying to speak jest-
 
 CG 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 ingly, though it was difficult upon a matter 
 where he felt so keenly "a gambler, and 
 with less excuse than a man, because she for 
 sakes her sphere to reach the temptation." 
 
 A chorus of laughing expostulations greeted 
 the remark ; then Mrs. Marchmont said, gayly, 
 
 "Please to remember how much woman's 
 sphere has widened ; it takes in every thing, 
 even to Wall Street." 
 
 "I'll not jest upon the subject," he said, 
 pleasantly. " Suppose we talk of something 
 else, for I have a bad habit of calling a spade 
 \)f its name." 
 
 "Oh, I insist on knowing what makes you 
 severe," continued Alice. " Upon my word, 
 Mrs. Townley, I believe he has been wandering 
 from the path of rectitude, and has suffered for 
 it." 
 
 "I?" he exclaimed, with a genuine horror 
 which made them all laugh again. " I would 
 as soon put my hand in the fire." 
 
 "We all know that a burned child dreads 
 it," cried she, teasingly. 
 
 He laughed, and attempted to change the 
 conversation ; but some reckless impulse, which 
 she could not resist, forced her to annoy him 
 by persisting in the discussion, and Mrs. Town- 
 ley joined her from mere frivolity. The din 
 ner had lasted an unconscionable length of time. 
 It seemed to Mrs. Marchmont that the morrow 
 must have come, it appeared so long since they 
 sat down at the table, glittering with plate and 
 delicate Sevres, and odorous with flowers born 
 in warm Southern lands. 
 
 " We insist on having the truth ; don't we, 
 Mrs. Marchmont ?" cried Mrs. Townley, in her 
 affected way. 
 
 "Yes; either he shall make a full confes 
 sion, and admit that he learned his scruples 
 from a severe lesson, else he shall give his rea 
 sons for flying in the face of popular opinion in 
 this savage fashion," she said. 
 
 " There is no way out, Wortliington, "laughed 
 a male guest. 
 
 At this instant a message was brought Miss 
 Constance by one of the servants. 
 
 " Oh, uncle," she said, in the deep distress 
 which trifles cause at her age, " we are so late 
 with dinner that some friends I invited for the 
 evening have already come." 
 
 "What a terrible catastrophe," he replied, 
 smiling. "Very well, dear, you and my little 
 Milly shall run away to them ; we will all come 
 presently. " 
 
 Halford rose to open the door for the two 
 girls. Milly gave him a shy, inquiring glance, 
 which caused him to follow them out, wonder 
 ing a little at such folly on his part ; and Mrs. 
 Marchmont observed him go. 
 
 "If you will promise not to make me argue, 
 and will leave the subject after," Wortliington 
 said, "I'll tell you a story, now that those two 
 children are gone. Perhaps, then, none of you 
 will marvel at my severity." 
 
 "Is it very sensational and exciting?" de 
 manded Mrs. Marchmont, with a pretty eager 
 
 ness, while it was all she could do to keep from 
 springing up and running away, to escape this 
 new torture. 
 
 "Yes; and the best, or the worst, of it is, 
 that it is true." 
 
 "How delightful!" cooed Mrs. Townley. 
 
 "Fill my glass with Champagne first," laugh 
 ed Alice ; " I'm an impressionable young per 
 son, and may faint before you finish." 
 
 "It was only a year ago," John Worthing- 
 ton said, trying to keep his voice quiet and un 
 moved, ' 2 that I went home to dine with a friend 
 who had been at my office on business. It was 
 very late : when we got to the house, the serv 
 ant told us that his mistress had started for Al 
 bany an hour before ; a telegram had come 
 announcing her mother's illness. He gave his 
 master a letter, and went out. I stood and 
 looked at my friend as he opened it and began 
 to read ; before he had finished the page, he 
 fell at my feet in a sort of fit " 
 
 " Oh, go on!" pleaded Mrs. Townley, while 
 Alice Marchmont leaned back in her chair, 
 smiling still. 
 
 " This man had been enduring terrible busi 
 ness anxieties for months," he continued; "I 
 had succeeded this very day in assisting him ; 
 we had gone to the house together to gratify 
 his wife by the news, for he loved her." 
 
 "She was not to blame for her mother's ill 
 ness ; relations are always committing some in 
 discretion," said Mrs. Marchmont, with a flip 
 pancy so out of place that it shocked her own 
 delicate sense of tact, though she could not 
 keep silent. 
 
 "This letter was to tell her husband that 
 for the past year she had allowed a man of 
 their acquaintance to buy stocks for her," pur 
 sued Worthington, slowly. " He had led her 
 on and on, deceived her, lied to her at last 
 came with the news that she owed him a large 
 sum either she must run away with him or 
 he would expose the whole affair, and prosecute 
 her husband : she had gone." 
 
 There was an instant's silence, broken by ex 
 pressions of horror. 
 
 "But he could not have been a man of busi 
 ness or respectability, since he was willing to 
 ruin his own future," Mrs. Townley said. 
 
 "Both ; that is, he was received in society ; 
 every body knew him for a bad man," Wortli 
 ington said. 
 
 "Go on," Mrs. Marchmont urged, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Yes; what did the husband do?" asked 
 Mrs. Townley. " Left the creature to the fate 
 she deserved, I suppose." 
 
 "He found the route his wife had taken; 
 she was to meet this man in a Southern city, 
 and go to Cuba from there to South America. 
 He reached the rendezvous before the villain 
 who had helped her to this, and he took her 
 home with him." 
 
 "What! he forgave her?" 
 
 "Yes, he forgave her paid the debt, and 
 was ruined."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 G7 
 
 ' ' And did he kill the man ?" demanded some 
 one. 
 
 " No ; because that would have disgraced 
 his wife," Worthington replied, playing with 
 his fork in an absent way. 
 
 "No wonder you have a horror of stock spec 
 ulations," said Mrs. Townley, with a shudder. 
 
 "Mr. Worthington!" 
 
 It was Alice Marchmont who spoke his 
 name. He looked up at her, and waited for 
 her to go on. 
 
 "Would you have forgiven the woman?" 
 
 The answer rang out slow and ominously 
 firm, 
 
 "No." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont arranged the lace upon her 
 bosom, and looked already a little weary of the 
 subject. 
 
 "Oh, you hard-hearted man!" cried Mrs. 
 Townley ; and the men added one thing, most 
 of the women another. 
 
 "I might forgive a woman who was unfor 
 tunate enough to love where she ought not," 
 John Worthington said. "I would never for 
 give one who placed herself in the position this 
 woman did, from coquetry, or a cold-blooded 
 design to make a merchandise of her smiles, 
 and go to the extremest verge of decency and 
 dishonor without going over." 
 
 As he ceased speaking there was a move 
 ment to rise. It was so difficult for Alice March 
 mont to get out of her chair, it seemed to her 
 that her limbs were half paralyzed ; but she 
 struggled to her feet, took Mr. Worthington's 
 arm. and her laugh rang out gay and uncon 
 cerned. 
 
 They went up to the drawing-room. She was 
 still the centre of attraction ; they made her 
 talk, they forced her to sing ; and each instant 
 she grew more brilliant and beautiful, as the 
 fever in her veins drove her nearer and nearer 
 absolute insanity. Then there was a brief 
 space of quiet for her ; she knew that Halford 
 had come to her side while she sung, at some 
 body's request, a song of the old, old days. 
 She glanced down the room, and saw pretty 
 Milly looking at them, and thought, drearily, 
 
 " She loves him ; let him go to her. I can 
 not give him the girl he lost, but this pure 
 creature is more like her than I ; let him go. 
 I dare not even have his friendship, which he 
 promised; I can keep nothing; I am alone." 
 
 All the while there was a sharp pain beyond 
 her bitterness, beyond the insane whirl of her 
 thoughts. A year before she might have taught 
 this man to love her anew ; she might have had 
 her girlhood back ; but now ? Oh, now she re 
 garded the possibility as a lost soul in the depths 
 of purgatory might look back over the records 
 of its earthly existence, and see where sin 
 avoided would have led it far from the present 
 agony. 
 
 " You must go and talk to those young girls," 
 she said. " I have been looking at Milly to 
 night ; she reminds me more than ever of the 
 girl we used to know. Go to her, Kenneth ; 
 
 pray God that she may never change so that 
 j she shall look back on herself as she is now, 
 and wonder if she can be the same." 
 
 "Your voice sounds so mournful," he said; 
 " I am sure you are ill." 
 
 "111? I have no time to be! Don't yon 
 know that I am a star-actress ? I never forget 
 that I am before the foot-lights." 
 
 The interview of the morning left no trouble 
 or constraint in either of their minds. He was 
 glad that he had spoken glad that it was 
 over ; but his sympathy was profound, and she 
 would always possess for him an interest pe-, 
 culiarly her own occupy a place in his thoughts 
 which no other woman could usurp. Her laugh 
 jarred upon his ear; after what he had seen 
 that day it sounded forced and unnatural. He 
 glanced, too, at Milly sitting there in her girl 
 ish innocence truly, an image of rest. He 
 was worn and weary glad to be done with 
 worldly women and their ways. At this mo 
 ment Mr. Worthington came up, and Halford 
 moved to Milly's side ; it was pleasant to see 
 the smile which lighted her eyes, and to think 
 that it might be possible to win her love and 
 be ministered to by her tenderness somewhat 
 selfish in his fancies after the habit of men 
 who have reached his age. 
 
 "I want you to come and sec the alterations 
 I have made in my study," John Worthington 
 said. " You abused it for a den the last time 
 you were here. I consulted Constance's taste, 
 and now I suppose you will say that it is much 
 too fine for a crabbed old bachelor." 
 
 "I shall certainly find fault because you con 
 sulted any feminine authority besides mine," 
 she said. 
 
 He smiled at her pleasantly; she had no 
 idea of a certain secret which had lain in his 
 heart for years. 
 
 " I did remember the color you said I ought 
 to have, but I was afraid of boring you by ask 
 ing your advice." 
 
 "The excuse is worse than the offense," she 
 replied. " But, indeed, to-night you seem de 
 termined to add enormously to your catalogue 
 of faults." 
 
 " Why don't you say crimes, and be done 
 with it ?" laughed he. 
 
 " Don't use such a horrible word," she ex 
 claimed, quickly, and as quickly forced her 
 voice back to the indolent quiet proper to the 
 occasion. "You've not said a single compli 
 mentary thing to me this evening." 
 
 "But I never do." 
 
 " Then it is time you began. Your educa 
 tion has been dreadfully neglected ; I really 
 must take you in hand." 
 
 " Very well ; I promise to prove a docile, if 
 not an intelligent pupil." 
 
 "Oh, don't be so horribly correct even in 
 your language ; at least, show your claim to 
 humanity by making a few lapses there." 
 
 " I make them often enough, in every way ; 
 you don't think I set myself up as a criterion, 
 or a judge ?"
 
 68 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 " You are hard on people's failings don't 
 deny it. Because you can be stately and de 
 termined, don't blame weaker mortals for not 
 attaining to your pitch of perfection." 
 
 " Upon my word, you are downright ill-na 
 tured ! What a disagreeable old fossil you 
 make me out." 
 
 " I think you the best man in the world, but 
 I am horribly afraid of you," she replied, light 
 ly, yet with a certain earnestness in her voice. 
 
 It was dangerous, but she found a relief in 
 going as near the truth as she dared. 
 
 " Afraid of me, indeed ; you were the most 
 impertinent critic I ever had, even as a child." 
 
 " Was I ? Tell me ; was I a nice child ?" 
 
 "The most spoiled little monkey " 
 
 "But nice?" 
 
 " Well, one couldn't help loving you, and 
 giving way to your whims ; you made every 
 body do that." 
 
 "And as a girl?" 
 
 " Why, you know I was absent for two years 
 my one holiday, nearly. You were married 
 when I got back." 
 
 " Oh yes ; I remember." 
 
 She took his arm, several people followed, 
 and they passed down stairs to the ground- 
 floor, and entered the pretty apartment of which 
 he had spoken. They all stood there chat 
 ting for a few moments ; then two of the men 
 elderly bachelors took that opportunity to 
 steal away into Worthington's snug smoking- 
 room, and enjoy a surreptitious cigar. The 
 other pair, being birds of opposite sex, and 
 having a very interesting flirtation well under 
 way, chose to walk up and down the passage 
 for a few moments. In John Worthington's 
 house people were really at liberty to enjoy 
 themselves, and it was his habit, in general, 
 only to invite people with brains enough to 
 know how to do it in a sensible fashion. So 
 he and Mrs. Marchmont stood chatting by his 
 great table, loaded with books and papers. 
 
 "Such frightful disorder," she said, begin 
 ning to toss over the volumes. 
 
 " May I write a note ?" he asked. "I have 
 just remembered one that I promised to an 
 swer." 
 
 "Write, and don't apologize," she said, seat 
 ing herself in his favorite chair. "You have 
 been persistently rude to me for ten years ; it 
 is only cruel now to attempt an affectation of 
 ceremony." 
 
 "And you must get a little tired, occasion 
 ally, of always wearing state robes, and playing 
 queen," he replied, searching among the piles 
 of manuscript for the letter he needed. 
 
 " I'll not have you laugh at me and my poor 
 little life, just because you happen to be a dis 
 tinguished man, and as wise as all those books 
 up yonder," she said, pointing to the well-filled 
 shelves which lined the walls. "I wonder if 
 you really read them ! " 
 
 "So, after all, you doubt my claims to the 
 wisdom you just complimented me on possess 
 ing." 
 
 "I believe the man wants another compli 
 ment!" 
 
 "Yes; I retain my innocent tastes; I rath 
 er like bonbons." 
 
 "Then you'll not get them; write your 
 note." 
 
 " Time enough : one does not often catch 
 you alone. I wonder sometimes if each of 
 these years that slip so rapidly away finds you 
 a happier woman." 
 
 She shivered at his words, but laughed out, 
 partly from the recklessness grown natural to 
 her, partly to hide her emotion. 
 
 "Don't wonder about such things, you 
 dreadful book -man! Don't you know that 
 civilized people keep such wonderings for their 
 own private delectation ?" 
 
 "But I don't pretend to belong to civilized 
 people." 
 
 "Oh dear, I wish we did not, any of us. 
 How nice, if we could only live on an island in 
 the Indian Ocean wherever that may be and 
 care for nothing, but pick our enemies' bones 
 in peace behind the doors of our well, what 
 ever one uses there in place of a house." 
 
 "I have been thinking of reading you a lec 
 ture," he said ; "it has troubled my mind for 
 a good while." 
 
 " Don't then, please ; I hate to be lec 
 tured." 
 
 He looked grave, in spite of returning the 
 smile with which she strove to soften him. 
 
 " We are such very old friends," he said. 
 
 "You are very rude to remind me of my 
 age." 
 
 "You used to come and talk freely to me," 
 he went on, notwithstanding her efforts to shake 
 his gravity ; " but you are always in the world 
 now. Don't be angry your extravagance, of 
 which I hear so much, is your own business, so 
 is your flirting but don't flirt with Dick Faulk 
 ner. There, it is off my mind at last." 
 
 "I hate that man!" she exclaimed. 
 
 " So you ought," he answered. " But they 
 tell me he visits you that he boasts of your 
 acquaintance." 
 
 "I meet him I " She stopped short iu 
 the prevarication. 
 
 " I suppose you wanted to tease his wife," he 
 continued, beginning anew his search for the 
 letter. " But just let that man alone altogeth 
 er ; I know him." 
 
 A wild longing came over her to tell him 
 the whole story to go on her knees and beg 
 him to save her. But to lose his respect and 
 affection she had such a craving for both to 
 hear words of reproach, read her condemnation 
 in his face, in the first sound of his voice how 
 could she do it? What would life be worth 
 when she had lost these from him, and the ad 
 miration of her world ! better die and be done, 
 than confess, or live deprived of them. Per 
 haps she might have tried though, might have 
 yielded to the voice of the good angel that 
 pleaded with her Heaven only knows but 
 his next words rendered it impossible, by re-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 G9 
 
 minding her of the verdict he had passed upon 
 a weak woman only an hour before. 
 
 " One other thing ; I must say it, even if you 
 never forgive my impertinence ; long ago you 
 gave me the right to meddle about stock 
 speculations, which we were talking of at din 
 ner. Only yesterday I heard that fool of a 
 Mrs. Doane boast that her brother let her take 
 ventures ; don't you ever be deluded into such 
 schemes." 
 
 " But Mrs. Doane did make a lot of money." 
 
 " Never you mind ; so much the worse, if she 
 did. Gambling is gambling ; nothing can make 
 wrong right. It is sure to end ill for a wom 
 an particularly a woman alone in the world. 
 Ten to one she gives some rascal power over 
 her which he is not slow to use in any way. 
 You are not angry ?" 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 " I see you hate the bare idea connected with 
 yourself: no wonder. I vow, if I caught my 
 niece at such performances, I would disown her ; 
 it would be the one thing I never would for 
 give." 
 
 No hope! She could not appeal to him 
 could not tell him even a portion of the truth. 
 Before she left home she had told herself that 
 every thing was at an end ; still it seemed as if 
 there had been a door partially open whereby 
 she might escape, and he had just shut it in her 
 face. She was away off in the blackness again ; 
 the night was deeper, more impenetrable, than 
 ever no guide, no help, no loop-hole ; his stern 
 words had flung her off the last halting-place 
 where she had clung ; she was sinking down 
 down ! 
 
 " There," he said ; " I believe I have finish 
 ed my lecture and my cautions. I wish you 
 would be more quiet, give yourself a little rest ; 
 but I have not the heart to scold further ; you 
 always disarm me by your patience. " 
 
 "It is very good of you to care " 
 
 "I do care; I always shall. Now, then, I 
 will write my note, and will go back to the peo 
 ple. So you like my room ?" 
 
 "It is very pretty," she answered, quietly; 
 a strange composure had succeeded the whirl in 
 her brain. 
 
 Mr. Worthington seated himself at the table 
 and wrote a few lines held up the paper so 
 that she could see the signature, in the great, 
 sprawling, irregular hand. 
 
 " I don't improve in my writing," he said. 
 "Do you remember the summer we were all 
 at Lake George, when you used to amuse us by 
 imitating my signature ?" 
 
 " Did I ? One forgets so." 
 
 She felt so dizzy that she had to grasp the 
 arms of her chair for support. Just as if the 
 devil had whispered it audibly in her ear, came 
 the first intimation of the one possible way out 
 of Faulkner's power. 
 
 " Oh yes ; Marchmont said you must have 
 been meant for a forger, you were so successful. 
 Indeed, it was wonderful ; I couldn't tell it from 
 my own ; I always promised not to prosecute 
 
 you when you forged my name in earnest," he 
 added, laughingly. 
 
 She shrunk back in mortal terror ; that dread 
 ful word seemed to snatch her from the preci 
 pice where she had stood for an instant. She 
 saw him look up in surprise at her sudden move 
 ment. She knew that she must speak, must 
 say something. 
 
 " One forgets so," she repeated. " It seems 
 ages ago." 
 
 " It was a very pleasant summer : I remem 
 ber it distinctly," he said. 
 
 There was no further opportunity for conver 
 sation : more people entered the room, and the 
 stream of idle talk and laughter went on until 
 Mrs. Marchmont could endure it no longer. 
 She ordered her carriage and made her adieus, 
 sparkling to the last, and left them wondering 
 at her spirits, speaking of her as one of the few 
 persons in the world really to be envied. 
 
 She was at home, up in her room, and there 
 on her dressing-table lay a note directed in a, 
 hand with which she had grown only too famil 
 iar during the past weeks. 
 
 She tore it open ; it contained but a few 
 words. 
 
 "Have you forgotten that to-morrow makes 
 the tenth day ? Admire my patience ; I have 
 not even been near you. It has seemed an age, 
 but you will let me come in the morning ; you 
 will let me arrange the affair without trouble to 
 yourself. DICK." 
 
 Oh the insolence the cool sense of power ! 
 it drove her, for the time, beyond the verge of 
 reason upon which her brain had tottered so 
 long ; she went wholly mad. 
 
 She could not die she dared not ; she told 
 herself that. Then she knew what lay before 
 her disgrace, in one form or another. Only 
 one way out one ! He had pointed it to her 
 himself; John Worthington had shown her the 
 one way. She must seize it she could not die 
 she must ! She would be free at any cost 
 be able, when the morrow came, to fling that 
 wretch's money in his face, and have done with 
 him forever. 
 
 Are you pronouncing it unnatural? Think 
 a little of the circumstances the awful strait 
 which she had reached and see if there would 
 have been no temptation for you. I do not 
 mean to palliate her sin, yet I aver that she was 
 not a bad woman. I can at least say that she 
 did not realize what she was about to do ; nev 
 er stopped to think of the consequences in case 
 of discovery ; thought of nothing only to free 
 herself from that man. 
 
 I can not make a sensational scene ; I can 
 only describe exactly what this woman did. 
 She believed afterward that she was mad ; in 
 many instances crime and insanity are so close 
 ly connected that it is difficult for human judg 
 ment to separate them ; but no metaphysical 
 discussions could change the matter this was 
 what she did.
 
 70 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 She had been sitting in the chair where she 
 threw herself on entering the room, going over 
 the events of the last few days, her utter failure 
 in every quarter to obtain assistance bringing 
 the review up to the words John Worthington 
 had this night spoken. The scene that must 
 take place on the morrow rose in her mind; 
 she could see Faulkner's devilish smile again. 
 Ruin disgrace ! Either the ruin of her wom 
 anhood and her soul, or disgrace and exposure 
 before the world. If she could die ! if she were 
 not so utterly weak and despicable ! She act 
 ually held the poison in her hand, and tried to 
 raise it to her lips ; she could not do it. Her 
 hand fell to her side as suddenly and powerless 
 as though some invisible strength grasped it and 
 would not let her go. She thrust the bottle 
 out of sight ; it was useless to struggle with her 
 own cowardice. 
 
 She ran to the safe, unlocked it, and took out 
 a paper came back to the light, and studied 
 it the paper which she had twice presented in 
 vain to her Hebrew friend. It was a bill for the 
 amount needed, with her signature attached 
 worthless ! It only required another person's 
 name an indorsement on the back ; that was 
 all and her Jewish friend would be happy to 
 further her wishes. 
 
 She searched among her letters for speci 
 mens of John Worthington's writing. There 
 were numerous notes from him ; he was always 
 inviting her to his house, or sending her rare 
 flowers, with notes scribbled in his trenchant, 
 amusing vein. She sat down at the table again, 
 and began to copy the name John Worthing 
 ton. She covered a whole page with those 
 two words ; you could not have told the signa 
 ture from the original before her. 
 
 She drew toward her the paper which she 
 had offered to the Israelite. There was an in 
 stant's pause ; her white face glared upward 
 and about ; her wild eyes seemed, at that last 
 moment, searching some refuge, some aid. She 
 made a movement to fling the pen away her 
 hand touched Dick Eaulkner's note ; she gave 
 a low moan, more painful than a shriek of the 
 keenest agony. 
 
 Again she seized the pen ; this time there 
 was no hesitation. The potent name John 
 Worthington's name was on the paper when 
 she laid it aside. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE FIRST WALK. 
 
 THE next morning Milly Crofton went out 
 for an early walk. A former servant of Mrs. 
 Remsen's was dying of lingering consumption, 
 and Milly always found leisure to go and see 
 her once or twice a week, though it never oc 
 curred to her that she was doing a meritorious 
 work, and she had not the slightest idea how 
 much pleasure her -bright presence afforded the 
 desolate woman. 
 
 She turned into Fifth Avenue, almost de 
 
 serted at that time, and walked rapidly on ; for 
 the invalid lived in a narrow street so far up 
 among the sixties that it was quite beyond the 
 pale of civilization, and required a good hour's 
 march to reach. It had been an effort for Mil 
 ly to go out this morning ; but she had some 
 money to give their protege'e her own and Con 
 stance's savings, largely increased by a dona 
 tion from Mr. Worthington and she was anx 
 ious that poor old Abigail should have it at 
 once. This sacrifice of her own inclinations 
 met with a very unexpected reward all the 
 pleasanter, for that reason. As she stopped at 
 a crossing until a butcher's cart, which threat 
 ened instant destruction to the unwary, dashed 
 past, followed by the butcher's dog, looking so 
 fierce that Milly felt grateful he had not time 
 to pause in his chase, Kenneth Halford ap 
 peared up the side street, and was close to her 
 before she perceived him. 
 
 "Miss Crofton! is it possible?" said he. 
 " I did not suppose you had wakened yet, af 
 ter last night's fatigues." 
 
 " Wakened and out, as you see," she replied, 
 with the quick blush and the smile rather of 
 the eyes than lips which he thought so pretty. 
 
 "You are as energetic as an English girl," 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh dear!" returned Milly; "all the slan 
 ders about American girls' indolence and ill 
 health may have been true of the past genera 
 tion, but we can walk as far and wear as thick 
 shoes as any of the English women, I assure 
 you." 
 
 " I really believe you must have run away," 
 said he, jestingly ; " I think it will be my duty 
 to take you in charge." 
 
 " Have you lived so long abroad that you 
 consider it improper for a young lady to walk 
 out alone ?" she asked, pouting. 
 
 "Not a bit of it; I am proud to think that 
 my young countrywomen don't need watching." 
 
 "Indeed, aunty doesn't let me go by myself 
 during promenade hours ; but so early as this 
 one doesn't expect to meet any human being 
 but the brick-layers, and they are always civil." 
 
 " I will promise to be as civil as a brick-lay 
 er," laughed he, "if you will let me accompa 
 ny you ; I had set out for an early walk too." 
 
 " But I am going ever so far, and over to the 
 east side of town," she replied, naming the 
 locality to which she was bound ; but he had 
 been so long absent that he knew nothing about 
 the neighborhood. 
 
 "And I want to walk ever so far," he said ; 
 " so, unless you will find it a bore, pray let me 
 go with you." 
 
 Milly wisely said nothing except, "It won't 
 bore me." 
 
 He caught a glimpse of her face, however, 
 and it spoke as eloquently as the most exi- 
 geant person could have desired. She looked 
 like an English robin, in her simple brown 
 dress, with a bit of bright scarlet at her throat ; 
 and her step was as springy and light as if she 
 trod in time to music inaudible to other ears.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 71 
 
 He walked on beside her, having first offered 
 his arm ; but that Milly refused with another 
 blush and a laugh. 
 
 "Is it improper?" he asked. 
 
 "No but I mustn't take it," she said, un 
 hesitatingly, though he could see that it was an 
 effort for her to be courageous enough to speak. 
 " Here, no young lady takes a man's arm in the 
 day-time unless he is her brother, or she is en 
 gaged to him." 
 
 "I did not remember that," he replied, too 
 delicate to disturb her by a jest, as many men 
 would have done. 
 
 So they went on through the bright sunshine ; 
 for it was a beautiful morning, the weather al 
 most unseasonably mild, though with a suffi 
 cient sharpness in the soft air to keep it from 
 being heavy or oppressive. They were at no 
 loss for subjects of conversation, and Halford 
 had the art of making people talk ; indeed, af 
 terward Milly was rather startled to remember 
 how freely she had spoken her thoughts out, 
 only consoling herself by the reflection that, 
 though she had not known him long, the cir 
 cumstances of their first acquaintance prevent 
 ed her regarding him as a stranger. 
 
 The church clocks were striking nine as they 
 passed Mrs. Marchmont's elegant house, and 
 they both looked in astonishment at the unex 
 pected sight of her brougham before her door. 
 
 " I didn't know that she ever stirred out till 
 noon," Milly said. 
 
 "I think the coachman must have fallen 
 asleep there after bringing his mistress home 
 last night, and forgotten to drive to the sta 
 bles," replied Halford. 
 
 Then they both forgot the circumstance in 
 a renewal of the conversation which the sight 
 of the carriage had momentarily interrupted. 
 Bright and pleasant as the winter had been to 
 Milly, this early ramble seemed the brightest 
 and pleasantest occurrence of tae whole sea 
 son ; she remembered it long after, when be 
 tween her and that time swept a tempest of 
 pain, wrath, and trouble, such as yet her young 
 life held no perception of. 
 
 When they reached old Abigail's house, 
 Milly said, 
 
 "I shall have to stay here a little while ; so 
 I must bid you good-morning ;" and there was 
 a shadow on her face, bravely as she fancied 
 herself speaking. 
 
 "Why must you ?" he asked. 
 
 "Because you will want to walk farther, or 
 go back." 
 
 "I have promised myself to see you safe 
 home to your aunt," he replied; "so I shall 
 wait for you. Don't think to escape in that 
 way. " 
 
 " Oh, that is very good of you ; but Abigail 
 always keeps me so; and I shall be uncomfort 
 able to remember that you are waiting." 
 
 "Unless you really want me to go, I shall 
 wait. I see a little open square yonder ; I shall 
 find a bench, and smoke my morning's cigar 
 while you are doing the amiable to your old 
 
 woman. But don't let me stay, if you would 
 rather have me away," he added, for the ex 
 press pleasure of seeing her face grow earnest 
 in her protestations. 
 
 But she disappointed him ; her head was 
 turned, so that he could not see it as she an 
 swered, demurely, 
 
 " I shall like to have you wait very much, 
 if you don't mind." 
 
 Then she ran into the house, and Halford 
 strolled on to the square decorated with two 
 trees and a hideous pretense of a fountain, and 
 sat down to smoke. About as unfavorable a 
 spot for day-dreaming as one could well con 
 ceive, but he managed to lose himself, never 
 theless, in a reverie more agreeable than any 
 that had visited him for a long time. 
 
 It was not more than half an hour before 
 the green door opened again, and his unfash- 
 ionably far sight perceived Milly descending 
 the steps. He hurrried forward to meet her, 
 saying, 
 
 "I am afraid I forgot myself, and smoked 
 more than my regulation cigar ; now will that 
 small sin lie at your door, or Mrs. Abigail's ?" 
 
 "Neither," said Milly; "you can't shift 
 your sins off on other people in that fashion, 
 Mr. Halford." 
 
 " You are discouraging, with your straight 
 forward, uncompromising orthodoxy," he an 
 swered. " I thought you would quiet my 
 conscience by at least offering to share the 
 blame." 
 
 So they walked back, chatting gayly, and 
 Halford rather wondered at himself for the 
 pleasure he found in this child's talk ; but it 
 was so different, in its artlessness, from that of 
 old women, it possessed all the more charm. 
 
 They found themselves within reach of civ 
 ilized regions again, and turned once more into 
 the Avenue. As they went by Minerva Law 
 rence's mansion, that namesake of the Atheni 
 an goddess chanced to be standing at a window 
 of her breakfast-room, and, as soon as she saw 
 them, thumped vigorously on the glass, regard 
 less of etiquette, or the risk she ran of having 
 a glazier's bill to pay. 
 
 "Let's pretend not to see her or to hear," 
 said Halford ; but Milly shook her head. 
 
 " She's always so good to me," she urged ; 
 " and I half promised to go out with her yes 
 terday, but Aunt Eliza wanted me." 
 
 " Then we will be conscientious, and go in," 
 said Halford, " especially as I see the man al 
 ready opening the door ; it is as well to do 
 right, when you can't help it." 
 
 Milly ran up the steps, laughing at his re 
 mark of doubtful morality, and he followed. 
 Mrs. Lawrence met them in the passage, volu 
 ble in her astonishment and pleasure. 
 
 " Where on earth have you been ? why, you 
 must have started at daylight. I had just 
 come down to breakfast, and one never has any 
 appetite alone. Oh, you naughty Milly, not to 
 have remembered yesterday ! But come into 
 the breakfast -room, and have some coffee.
 
 72 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 Dear me, Mr. Hulford, you aren't running away 
 with the child, I hope." 
 
 " I am taking her safely home ; or was, 
 when you stopped us, Mrs. Lawrence. Coffee 
 indeed! why it is almost luncheon-time," he 
 added, as they entered the breakfast-room, and 
 then began to ask her numerous questions, lest 
 she should disturb Milly by some attempts at 
 raillery ; and her efforts in that line were not 
 always discreet. 
 
 " I am late," she said ; " but I was at Mrs. 
 Philips's last night, and not a soul of you there ; 
 it was a failure : poor thing, it's too bad, when 
 she works so hard to get people to notice her. 
 And, Milly, why didn't you come to me yester 
 day as you promised, you bad child ?" 
 
 "I said if I could, but Aunt Eliza wanted 
 me." 
 
 "She always wants you if you are coming 
 to me," grumbled Mrs. Lawrence, in a comfort 
 able way ; she could not even grumble in ear 
 nest. "That's just like Eliza; she must rule, 
 or she's not happy ; but I'm very fond of her, 
 for all that. Here's chocolate, if you won't 
 have coffee, Mr. Halford ; or they can make 
 tea." 
 
 He chose the chocolate, in order to get rid 
 of her persuasions, and she forced a cup upon 
 Milly : nothing made her so happy as to have 
 an opportunity of gratifying her hospitable in 
 stincts. 
 
 "I've not seen you since my ball, Mr. Hal- 
 ford, though I found your card. How Mrs. 
 Marchmont frightened me ! I never knew her 
 to faint before in my life." 
 
 " I can scarcely fancy it being any body's 
 favorite recreation," said Halford. 
 
 " But she is quite well again ; I had a little 
 note from her yesterday," pursued Mrs. Law 
 rence. 
 
 "Oh, I saw her at Mr. Worthington's last 
 night," added Milly; "we had such a charm 
 ing dinner ; I like her so much." 
 
 "Dear me !" cried heedless Mrs. Lawrence ; 
 " and only last week I heard Eliza Remsen 
 say, with my own ears, that Mrs. Marchmont 
 was so careless in her conduct no, she said 
 reckless " 
 
 " Ah ! you see," interrupted Milly, mischiev 
 ously, " Mrs. Marchmont has rather forgotten 
 us all winter, except for her large parties ; and 
 after all, aunty is only human ; but she does 
 admire Mrs. Marchmont ; who could help it ?" 
 
 "Nobody, of course; but la, my dear, the 
 way people talk ! But then, they would talk 
 about an angel ; and the whole world is ready 
 to lie down and let her walk over them." 
 
 "How nicely your flowers look," Milly said, 
 not having yet developed any taste for scandal 
 or gossip. "The bigonia you gave me is in 
 full blossom ; you can't think how lovely it is. 
 And now I really must go home ; I promised 
 Aunt Eliza not to be gone any longer than I 
 could help." 
 
 " She's the sweetest child in the world," Mi 
 nerva declared, pointing her plump hand at 
 
 Milly, and addressing Halford. " I'd give half 
 I'm worth for a niece like her. Come straight 
 here and kiss me this instant, you little witch ; 
 you've no business to be so pretty." 
 
 She allowed them to go away, at length, and 
 they walked on past Mrs. Marchmont's house, 
 and soon turned down the street in which Mrs. 
 Remsen resided. 
 
 "You must not forget to ask me in," Hal- 
 ford said, not above artifices to prolong this 
 pleasant morning ; " you know I promised my 
 self to see you safe in your aunt's guardianship." 
 
 "She will be very glad to see you," Milly 
 answered. 
 
 "As far as you are personally concerned, I 
 dare say I have wasted as much of your time 
 as you can bear for one day." 
 
 "Indeed, I have enjoyed my walk so much !" 
 
 "Then may I ask the aunt if the experi 
 ment may not sometimes be repeated ?" he in 
 quired. 
 
 Milly gave him one of her demure little an 
 swers as the door opened ; but this time he 
 did catch the expression of her face, and saw 
 that it was much more enthusiastic than her 
 words. She conducted him at once to the 
 morning-room, certain that Aunt Eliza would 
 be there, and as well prepared to receive visit 
 ors as if the hour were a reasonable one ; for 
 Mrs. Remsen never indulged in careless cos 
 tumes, or allowed her young people to acquire 
 the bad habit either. 
 
 She received Halford cordially, but there 
 was no sign, in voice or manner, of the satis 
 faction which the sight of the two together af 
 forded her. 
 
 " You see I have brought this young lady 
 safely home, Mrs. Remsen," he said. "I 
 chanced to be setting out for an early walk 
 too, and was rewarded for my good habits." 
 
 "It certainly was very nice for Milly," she 
 answered, quietly. "How was poor old Abi 
 gail, dear ?" 
 
 "About as usual; she had passed a very 
 comfortable night," Milly said, sitting down, 
 her face so animated and her color so bright 
 that her aunt saw with delight that she was 
 looking her very best. 
 
 " Are you given to early walks, Mr. Hal- 
 ford ?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, as spring comes on. Miss Crofton 
 tells me that it is her habit too; will you let 
 me join her sometimes? She has promised 
 not to refuse, provided you permit." 
 
 " Oh, of course ; indeed, I don't like her go 
 ing out much alone ; but I am always busy of 
 a morning, and my daughter Maud still has 
 her lessons to occupy her." 
 
 "Then, Miss Crofton, you will not forget, I 
 hope, that I am always at your service," he said. 
 
 Milly had risen, and was busy about the pa 
 goda in which her birds lived ; so, again, she 
 only said, 
 
 " Oh no," and went on with her task. 
 "Aunty, I think Maud has forgotten the fresh 
 water : she said she would put some in."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 73 
 
 " Oh, my dear, if you trust to Maud !" re 
 turned Mrs. Remsen, lifting her hands to sig 
 nify the vanity of any hope where that young 
 lady was concerned. 
 
 The aunt and Halford talked for a few mo 
 ments, while Milly flitted about her bird-cage, 
 joining in the conversation occasionally ; and 
 at length Halford rose to go, feeling that he 
 really could not decently intrude any longer 
 at this hour. Mrs. Remsen was just cordial 
 enough in her manner, said exactly the right 
 words, and he went away thinking her a very 
 agreeable woman, and a very wise guardian 
 for a young girl. 
 
 Once in the street, he remembered a maga 
 zine paper that he had promised an editor to 
 send to him this morning, and turned his steps 
 homeward to attend to the forgotten duty. As 
 he neared Mrs. Marchmont's house, he saw her 
 carriage again in front of the door, and the 
 lady herself just descending from it. Before 
 he reached the spot she had entered her dwell 
 ing, and he went on, wondering anew, as he 
 and Milly had done, at such matutinal exertion 
 on her part. 
 
 It was odd enough ; but Alice Marchmont 
 had gone to bed and soundly to sleep after her 
 work of the previous night so completely worn 
 out by the fears and emotions of the past days 
 that not even a dream disturbed her repose. 
 She woke early, and at first could not realize 
 what had happened. Gradually the whole truth 
 came back ; but with it came, also, the recol 
 lection that by noon Dick Faulkner would seek 
 her presence ; she must be ready to meet him ; 
 she must complete the task she had begun. 
 
 She did not falter ; she positively did not 
 think. She was burning up with inward fever ; 
 her head ached and swam so that she could 
 scarcely get out of bed ; but she must rise ; she 
 must go in search of the Jew as early as possi 
 ble. She kept in her room to avoid meeting 
 Miss Portman, replying so coldly to Pauline's 
 first expressions of wonder at finding her up at 
 so unusual an hour, and partially dressed, with 
 out assistance, that the polite Frenchwoman did 
 not venture to add another word. 
 
 " Bring me my coffee and order the carriage," 
 she said; "I must go out at nine o'clock. I 
 have to meet some people on business down 
 town." 
 
 "Madame is overwhelmed with affairs," the 
 Frenchwoman said, sympathizingly. 
 
 "Yes ; but I am through now ; I shall settle 
 every thing this morning," returned Mrs. March 
 mont. 
 
 She was astounded at her own calmness ; she 
 could not reflect upon what she had done, or 
 was about to do ; it literally conveyed no mean 
 ing to her mind for the time ; she could only 
 remember that she was free of Dick Faulkner 
 free to draw her life back from the horrible 
 shame which had menaced it. 
 
 She drove away to the dirty, crowded portion 
 of the city where the small Hebrew had his den. 
 On the ground-floor was a shop in which were 
 
 displayed the wares that comprised his ostensi 
 ble business.' There was a huge collection of 
 rococo things, tempting enough in this day, 
 when there is a rage for impossible old traps in 
 the way of ancient cabinets, uneasy chairs, in 
 sane-looking ornaments of all sorts ; so that she 
 ran no particular risk of exciting surprise in 
 the mind of any body who chanced to see her 
 in this neighborhood. 
 
 The little Hebrew was visible, as innocent as 
 ever of clean linen or acquaintance with soap- 
 and-water. He received her in his usual wood 
 en manner, showed her a marvel of ugliness in 
 the way of a carved table that had lately come 
 into his possession, and finally conducted her 
 up stairs, that she might see some wonderful 
 vases which had only just been unpacked, and 
 not yet exhibited to any customer. It was 
 doubtful if this bit of acting imposed upon the 
 shrewd Hebrew clerks, as greasy and soiled as 
 their master ; but he knew that it would be a 
 consolation to the lady to go through the pre 
 tense, and he was always willing to oblige his 
 clients, even to the keeping up of appearances, 
 provided he was paid for it. 
 
 The fat, untidy wife, who made regular visits 
 to Mrs. Marchmont's house, in the character of 
 a distressed, but virtuous, widow woman, was 
 as careful as her husband to preserve the de 
 meanor suited to the occasion. She was busy 
 at a lofty desk, with huge account-books, seat 
 ed upon a high stool, with her legs hanging 
 down, and displaying an extent of black stock 
 ing and an amount of yellow garter which was 
 really astounding. There Avas not even specu 
 lation ?.n her fishy eyes, as she looked at Mrs. 
 Marchmont not the remotest gleam of ac 
 quaintance with that lady's private affairs, oi 
 lier diamonds. 
 
 Once safely up stairs and seated in the den 
 of an office, oppressive with a stale smell of 
 smoke and Bologna sausage, a sudden faint- 
 ness came over the desperate woman, but she 
 did not lose her self-control ; the dire exigen 
 cies of the moment nerved her. 
 
 "I wish you would open the window," she 
 said ; " it is very close here." 
 
 The little Hebrew obeyed, though now there 
 was an expression of surprise in his face ; that 
 any human creature could desire fresh air filled 
 him with astonishment. 
 
 The cool rush of wind steadied Mrs. March 
 mont's reeling brain a little. She leaned back 
 in her chair, looking languid, and careless, and 
 stately all at once. The little Hebrew was 
 watching her keenly enough from under his 
 bushy eyebrows ; but there was nothing in her 
 appearance to excite either wonder or suspi 
 cion. 
 
 " I have arranged my little affair," she said ; 
 "I think even to you the paper I offered the 
 other day will be perfectly satisfactory." 
 
 "But if you please not to say 'even,'" re 
 turned the Hebrew. " Surely, the madam 
 never found me hard to deal with;" and he 
 looked quite a picture of injured innocence.
 
 74 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "I did not only ask a name ; that is not much ; 
 and the lady knows business is business to a 
 poor man." 
 
 "And I have the name," she said. "Of 
 course, I could have obtained it in the begin 
 ning ; but I hated to expose the state of my 
 affairs even to so dear a friend as Mr. Worth- 
 ington ; however, you obliged me to do so by 
 your obstinacy." 
 
 "That is a good name a very good name," 
 replied the Jew, rubbing his hands softly to 
 gether. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont took the bill from her pock 
 et and laid it on the table. He examined it, 
 but with no show of suspicion, though the mo 
 mentary delay was more than she could' en 
 dure. 
 
 "Have you some new scruple to satisfy?" 
 she asked, impatiently. 
 
 "No, no. A good name; I know it very 
 well ; many a time he has give me a check for 
 the things he bought here." 
 
 "Very well; then that is all you want, I 
 suppose." 
 
 "Yes ; yes. Now I have to think if I can 
 raise the moneys next week would not be 
 soon snough?" 
 
 It was not a wish to annoy her which caused 
 him to speak, only the magpie fondness for 
 hoarding which made him hate to give up his 
 treasures, or admit that he had them, as long 
 as he could avoid it. 
 
 "Give me back that paper," said she, rising 
 angrily. " You know rery well that I have a 
 large payment to make at noon ; it is simply 
 impertinent to ask if I can wait." 
 
 " If the lady will not be impatient," he 
 said, in a deprecatory manner, holding fast 
 to the bill. "This morning? then she must 
 have it." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont sat down again. 
 
 "Now understand, "she said, "this bill is not 
 to leave your desk not to be seen by any body 
 till I take it up. Mr. Worthington has no idea 
 that it is to go into your hands ; he would be 
 furious at my putting myself in such a position. 
 He thinks it is to be in the hands of my agent ; 
 he does not dream that I know you." 
 
 "Just so; just so; I know how to keep a 
 secret : the lady can certify to that. I am not 
 hard, like some beobles." 
 
 " I shall be ready to take it up before the 
 three months are over " 
 
 "The ninety days, "corrected the Hebrew. 
 
 " Very well. This is the last of my business 
 annoyances. You will have your other money 
 too, and I shall take my jewels." 
 
 "As the lady wishes." 
 
 " Come, don't keep me ; that's a good soul. 
 I have a great deal to do." 
 
 " I count the interest ; we must take that 
 out." 
 
 " Oh, I shall not dispute over the amount ; 
 it is terrible, the usury you demand ; but I 
 can't help myself." 
 
 The Jew made his calculations upon a bit 
 of dirty paper, and showed them to her." 
 
 "That is it." 
 
 "You told me the other day; I drew the 
 bill for a sufficient amount to cover it and leave 
 me what I want." 
 
 "It is a large sum " 
 
 "Are you hesitating? If you haven't the 
 money, after all, say so, and let me go else 
 where," she cried. 
 
 "My bank is the Shoe and Leather, in the 
 Bowery," he said. 
 
 " What do I care about your bank ? Am I 
 likely to go there, or anywhere, and present a 
 check with your name attached?" she asked, 
 haughtily. " 1 could have had the money from 
 Mr. Worthington, but I would not take it ; I 
 can't bear to borrow from my friends. I know 
 that he runs no risk in lending me his name; 
 I need only a few weeks to get all my matters 
 arranged." 
 
 "Just so; just so," he answered, in his mo 
 notonous voice, which irritated her beyond en 
 durance. 
 
 "Do you mean to give the money ?" 
 
 "Why not, with a good name? but if the 
 lady will not take a check I must go to the 
 bank ; a poor man like me doesn't have such 
 sums in his safe." 
 
 " How long will it take you ?" 
 
 "I am back in ten, fifteen minutes. Will 
 the lady wait here ?" 
 
 " No ; can't you send it to my house ? Yes, 
 I'll wait ; only be quick that is, I'll wait down 
 in my carriage ; one can't breathe here. I'll 
 drive to the corner of the street. No the 
 coachman I'll look at the things down stairs." 
 
 "And the vases; I am sure the lady would 
 like the vases, if she will only take a peep at 
 them." 
 
 " You can't delude me into a purchase this 
 morning, Mr. Herman," she said. "Do go 
 and get the money ; I don't wish to be kept 
 here all day. Where are the vases ? I'll lock 
 at them while you are away." 
 
 "I shall call Mrs. Herman to show them," 
 he said, hurrying off. 
 
 He disappeared, and presently the jointed 
 wooden doll of a woman came up, wiping her 
 nose on a red silk handkerchief. She was a 
 taciturn bodv, and scarcely spoke as she con 
 ducted Mrs. Marchmont into the chamber where 
 the vases stood. 
 
 They were old enough, ugly enough, rare 
 enough; but all Alice Marchmont saw, as she 
 looked at them, was a vision of Rome, which 
 she had visited when a very young girl. Some 
 how the vases brought it all back, and there she 
 stood, lost in her memories, while the wooden 
 woman stared at her furtively, perhaps wonder 
 ing, in her dull way, if it was possible that they 
 belonged to the same species and sex. 
 
 The quarter of an hour passed ; the Hebrew 
 returned panting the package of bank-notes 
 was in Mrs. Marchmont's hand.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BAFFLED. 
 
 THE deed was done, and could not be un 
 done ; for the note lay hidden among the mys 
 terious documents in the desk of the bland but 
 unimpressionable Hebrew, and the money had 
 soiled Alice Marchmont's hand. 
 
 It was done, and could not be undone ; and 
 from that hour the real torture and suffering 
 began. For the morning she put thought res 
 olutely by, with a brief return of the ability so 
 to do which had of late deserted her. There 
 was great triumph in her heart when she re 
 flected that she was out of Faulkner's power ; 
 but even under the first gladness a sense of 
 self-abhorrence, a consciousness of guilt, coiled 
 about her soul, and stung it with a nameless 
 pain, which must increase to an agony beyond 
 any thing she had yet endured. 
 
 They came, and said that Mr. Faulkner was 
 waiting to see her ; and she went down stairs 
 to go through this interview the last, she kept 
 thinking, which he would ever have with her, 
 except in the eyes of the whole world. Back 
 came the reflection of all from which she had 
 been saved ; her vivid fancy pictured the con 
 trast to her present feelings, supposing the re 
 quired sum were not in her possession ; and 
 again she was glad, horribly glad of what she 
 had done. She would have rejoiced to enter 
 and overwhelm him with a burst of indignation 
 and scorn, to tell him exactly the sort of man 
 lie was, and how thoroughly she understood 
 and despised him ; but the restraints of her 
 life were too strong upon her to render that 
 possible. She did so love her position, the 
 verdict of the world was so much to her, that 
 she could not afford to indulge in the truth 
 even now; she must still keep on terms of ci 
 vility with Dick Faulkner, and with Dick 
 Faulkner's wife. She could not allow a mark 
 ed change in her conduct to lead any body to 
 suppose that he had been on terms with her 
 where he could have a possibility of giving of 
 fense. 
 
 "How I hate it," she thought, as she de 
 scended the stairs "all the deceit, the lying. 
 I don't believe that I was naturally artful. Oh, 
 if they had only left me alone ten years ago, 
 what a different woman I should be to-day ! I 
 can hear him walking up and down ; if I could 
 only go in and trample him under my feet ! I 
 wish the man lived who loved me well enough 
 to hear the whole truth, and " 
 
 She did not finish her reflection, called her 
 self a fool for raving in that absurd fashion, and 
 walked on into the morning-room, so calm and 
 self-possessed, receiving Faulkner with so en 
 tire a forgetfulness of their last interview in 
 this very apartment, that he was absolutely em 
 barrassed for an instant. She had freed her 
 self he understood that; how, he could not 
 imagine ; but his prey had slipped through the 
 toils which lie had so cautiously woven during 
 the past months. She saw the confusion and 
 
 wrath in his face, and exulted, though her man 
 ner was very quiet, and her voice delightfully 
 languid and disdainful. 
 
 " Business is the order of the day," said she, 
 without giving him time for more than such 
 greetings as he could utter in the first instant 
 of his disappointment. "I will not detain you ; 
 I am growing business-like, you see." 
 
 She motioned him to a seat, sat down her 
 self opposite, with a table between them, where 
 on she laid the great pocket-book which he had 
 noticed in her hand as she entered. He did 
 not speak ; he was watching her, with that 
 murderous frown on his face, wondering, while 
 he cursed her in his heart, how she had man 
 aged to compass her deliverance. She took 
 out the packet of crisp, new bank-notes, each 
 of them for a thousand dollars, and, as she 
 touched them, shuddered to see what a pile 
 there was, remembering how she had stained 
 her soul to obtain them. 
 
 "I suppose you did not think a check would 
 serve the same purpose," he said, speaking for 
 the first time since his confused salutations. 
 
 "I did not," she replied. "I believe you 
 will find the amount correct. Now, if you will 
 give me those troublesome papers I asked for, 
 I think the matter will be arranged." 
 
 She pushed the pile of notes toward him, but 
 still kept her hand upon them until he tossed 
 rudely down the receipts, at which she glanced 
 for an instant. 
 
 "Are they satisfactory?" he sneered. 
 
 " Perfectly," she answered, with a courteous 
 bow, and signed him to take up the money. 
 
 He crumpled the package into his pocket, 
 and sat irresolute. 
 
 " Now," thought Mrs. Marchmont, "if he is 
 not an utter idiot, he will say a few common 
 places and go. There's not the slightest ne 
 cessity for 'a scene ; I don't want to be obliged 
 to turn him out. Good gracious, I couldn't 
 live to own that Dick Faulkner had insulted 
 me !" 
 
 ' But he was an utter idiot that is to say, a 
 man ; and he must needs air his penitence and 
 remorse, really supposing it necessary in order 
 to have any hope of her ever speaking to him 
 again. If he could only have gone away with 
 out the slightest allusion to what had happened, 
 she would at least have been forced to admire 
 his tact and coolness. 
 
 " I don't know what to say to you," he be 
 gan. 
 
 "Better say 'good-morning,'" she replied, 
 laughing. " I know these are business hours, 
 and you want to be gone. A thousand thanks 
 for having taken the time to come up to-day." 
 
 "I think I must have been mad that last 
 time " 
 
 "And one never notices the ravings of de 
 lirium," she interrupted, gayly, and thought, 
 "Oh, will he have it?" 
 
 Yes, he undoubtedly would ; his next words 
 convinced her of that. 
 
 "I want to know if you have forgiven me,"
 
 76 
 
 JOHN WOKTHIXGTON'S NAME. 
 
 he continued, awkwardly "if we may be 
 friends still." 
 
 He would have it out ; well, perhaps it was 
 better; at all events, since he forced her to 
 speak, she would treat him to as much plain 
 truth as might leave civility in future possible. 
 
 "I can at least forget, Mr. Faulkner," she 
 answered ; "and as long as I am not. obliged 
 to remember, there will be nothing to forgive." 
 
 " You don't know how much I thank you," 
 he exclaimed. " Indeed, I am not so bad a 
 fellow as people say ! If you could only know 
 what my life is; if you could understand half 
 its wretchedness but why should you be trou 
 bled." 
 
 He had recovered his wits sufficiently to try 
 what he imagined would be the most effective 
 way of softening her. He was a handsome 
 man in a bad style and he looked particu 
 larly picturesque and interesting then, flinging 
 his curls impatiently back from his forehead, 
 copying an attitude of a favorite jeune premier 
 at the French theatre, and speaking in the 
 same monotonous tone, with a little quiver in 
 the voice which is popularly supposed to give 
 strong evidence of repressed emotion. The at 
 titude and the tremulous accents might have 
 been very .telling with many women, but, un 
 fortunately, Mrs. Marchmont had studied the 
 jeune premier quite as closely as he, and was 
 too much in the habit of essaying private the 
 atricals herself to be in the slightest degree 
 moved. She was so much an actress, knew 
 every dramatic trick so well, and had studied 
 men so thoroughly, that the most awkward 
 bluntness would have been more effective, and 
 stood a better chance of deceiving her. 
 
 "Absolutely, he is posing," she thought, " as 
 if I were a girl of sixteen. Ugh, you great sil 
 ly, ugly, black spider ! does the woman live id 
 iot enough to be duped by your borrowed airs 
 and graces ?" But when he had finished his 
 little speech, she said, sweetly, " I suppose ev 
 erybody's life has its trials, and we must each 
 bear our own ; mine to-day must be a struggle 
 with my modiste, for I need a new dress, in a 
 great hurry, for Mrs. Kosevelt's ball." 
 
 How Dick Faulkner would have liked to 
 strangle her ! He fairly hated her as he look 
 ed covetously at her disdainful loveliness, all 
 the while a fierce passion glowing in his heart. 
 Still, he must -cling to the sentimental role; 
 he knew no medium between that and at 
 tempts to frighten her ; and those were useless 
 now. 
 
 " So you will not be friends ?" he sighed. 
 
 " With all the pleasure in life," she answered, 
 " as one has friends in this busy Vanity Fair." 
 
 " I don't understand you," he said, with a 
 studied gloom which made her long to tell him 
 she could herself get up a much more truthful 
 imitation of the admired jeune premier. 
 
 She began to grow irritated at his determi 
 nation to be sentimental ; since she could not 
 deal him one honest blow full in the handsome 
 face which she had last seen so insolent and 
 
 wicked, she would punish him by making plain 
 her appreciation of his histrionics. 
 
 " Then you shall understand me, Mr. Faulk 
 ner !" she said ; " and we will have done, if you 
 please, with this foolish talk, which is pretty 
 enough on the stage or in novels, but very tire 
 some in real life." 
 
 She had the best of him every way ; she had 
 slipped out of his clutches just as he believed 
 her hopelessly in his power ; it was hard work 
 to keep the devil under. 
 
 " I am sorry if I have been tiresome." 
 
 " That is good of you, at all events," said 
 she. " You remember what the clergyman 
 said to Canning? But I suppose you don't 
 know much about clergymen." 
 
 "As much, perhaps, as my neighbors," he 
 retorted, allowing his natural voice to be audi 
 ble. 
 
 " That is not pretty of you. But this par 
 ticular clergyman said to the statesman, in 
 speaking of his own sermon, ' I tried not to be 
 tedious.'" 
 
 "And Canning?' 1 
 
 "Answered mildly, but with a sense of in 
 jury, 'And yet you were.' " 
 
 Dick Faulkner showed his white teeth in a 
 grimace which he believed a smile, but the 
 devil did so break out in his face that Mrs. 
 Marchmont's blood ran cold as she remember 
 ed what she had escaped. 
 
 "Now let us put sentiment aside ; it is dread 
 fully antiquated in our century," she continued, 
 gayly. "I shall be glad to see you and your 
 wife at my parties, Mr. Faulkner glad to meet 
 you in society ; and more I could not say to any 
 one. The life I lead leaves me no leisure for 
 any closer acquaintance." 
 
 He returned to the monotone and the re 
 pressed agitation. 
 
 " But you will forgive " 
 
 " Don't remind me ! I said that I had for 
 gotten you may believe that ; but never trust 
 to a woman's forgiveness." 
 
 " Can one trust to a woman at all ?" 
 
 " Oh, that is the grand question with poets, 
 from Byron down. I was to be trusted, you 
 perceive in business matters. Let me thank 
 you again for worrying yourself with my little 
 affairs." 
 
 " If you would allow me to do more I have 
 something on foot now that is sure to be suc 
 cessful." 
 
 " No ; thanks. I will take my little losses 
 and my little lesson." 
 
 Was there no way in which he could sting 
 or hurt her leave her with a certain dread in 
 her mind that the affair might not be so com 
 pletely ended as she believed ? He would have 
 sold his soul at that instant to give such threats 
 a foundation. 
 
 " You are quite sure that I shall never men 
 tion your having made ventures in crooked 
 Wall Street?" he asked, meaningly. 
 
 " Perfectly," she answered, with composure, 
 and a softly ironical ring in her voice. " You
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 77 
 
 don't suppose that I could accuse you of any 
 thing so ungentlemanly ? What an unmiti 
 gated villain a man would be considered on 
 all sides who betrayed a confidence of the 
 sort ! Don't be astonished, though, if I tell the 
 story to your wife some day, when I am bored 
 or cross." 
 
 That would be pleasant ! His wife happily 
 for her had money that Dick Faulkner want 
 ed, and always hoped to obtain ; and besides 
 this, he had no wish that their quarrels should 
 come to an open outbreak. He had trouble 
 enough now at home trouble enough to keep 
 his place in society; and a hint of this busi 
 ness might drive the jealous woman to ex 
 tremities. "And this one would do it," he 
 thought. "What a born devil she is! I do 
 believe she'd tell my wife just for the fun of 
 the row, however much she suffered by it." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont perceived that her final 
 shot had told ; and it so lightened her spirits, 
 under the rage and disgust which she felt for 
 the man, that she bowed him out of her pres 
 ence with the utmost graciousness. 
 
 Dick Faulkner went away thinking, "The 
 woman has done me ; what an ass I have 
 been ! I might have drawn her on got her 
 to invest in some stock company till she hadn't 
 a penny she was crazy enough over it and 
 then" 
 
 He ground his teeth with rage, to think how 
 he had defeated his own game by his inability 
 to wait. 
 
 " How ever did she raise this money ? She 
 is dreadfully crippled. Never mind, madam ! 
 The game is yours this time ; but if ever I do 
 get a chance to turn the tables ! I don't 
 know whether I love her or hate her. I know 
 I'd like to carry her off in the face of the whole 
 world, and let every thing go to the devil to 
 gether." 
 
 He was gone, and Alice had leisure to think 
 I should have said, she could no longer keep 
 thought at bay. It came like an audible voice, 
 crying out to her what she was a criminal a 
 forger ! 
 
 She ran up and down the room like a wild 
 animal in a cage ; the full horror and degrada 
 tion burst upon her. It seemed to her that 
 before the day was gone she should be discov 
 ered, her guilt published, and she dragged out 
 to face it. Where ? To prison ? Yes, to pris 
 on, along with thieves and murderers, and hor 
 rible women, such as she had read of, and nev 
 er been able to realize as absolutely belonging 
 to the same sex with herself. This was where 
 her life had ended. It must be a dream ; it 
 was impossible that she could have committed 
 a crime : she did not believe it ; she would not. 
 Women committed sins, but not of that sort. 
 There was Sybil Ansley, who ran away from 
 her husband with the lover of her girlish days. 
 Only a short time before, she read of a woman 
 who shot the man that had deceived her, and 
 killed herself afterward. Such sins women 
 were guilty of sometimes. But a crime that 
 
 could lead to arrest, a trial, imprisonment ! 
 No, it was not possible. 
 
 She had seen the Tombs once ; a party of 
 country friends had persuaded her to go there 
 with them. She saw all its dreary horrors anew 
 at this moment the dark corridors, the narrow 
 whitewashed cells ; she scented even the in 
 describably loathsome prison odor ; and worse 
 than all, the women's faces looking out at her 
 from between the bars the dreadful, dreadful 
 faces ! Now she was akin to them. It grew 
 too horrible ; she buried her face in the cush 
 ions of her chair, and sobbed and shook in an 
 hysterical spasm which made her almost be 
 lieve that she was dying. 
 
 When that was over, other thoughts came ; 
 she began trying to cheat herself, to lie to her 
 self. She had not meant to commit a crime ; 
 it was not one in reality. Before the three 
 months were over she could return the money ; 
 that long -delayed sale of her Virginia lands 
 might any day be concluded ; she should be a 
 rich woman then. There would be the divi 
 dends from those railway stocks ; and she had 
 property to sell oh, a hundred things, with a 
 little time she was not ruined. Oh, she was 
 sick of it the hollow life, the foolish whirl ! 
 It would not have been worth even the time 
 she had lost upon it. Just to be petted, and 
 flattered, and wondered at ; and there was no 
 one she cared about, after all. Where were 
 her friends? Women hated her, in spite of 
 their smiles. There was John Worthington 
 yes, he had been her friend ; and he was the 
 very man against whom she had sinned. 
 
 But it was not a crime ! If he could only 
 have known the strait she was in, he would 
 have helped her ; only she could not tell him. 
 She could more easily have died than meet his 
 look of reproval and contempt. She tried to 
 think how she could have wasted so much mon 
 ey ; and one extravagance after another came 
 before her mind to reproach her. The parties 
 she had given, the unheard-of expense and lux 
 ury oh, she could not think about it; she 
 would not. Every thing should be right again ; 
 she would take up the note, and no one need 
 ever know. She must not think of it in that 
 light, or she should go mad. She must not 
 think about it at all ; she must put it aside like 
 a horrid dream. And just as she had reached 
 the refuge of her chamber, and was looking in 
 silent dismay at the haggard face which stared 
 at her in return from the mirror, they came to 
 tell her that Constance Worthington was be 
 low. 
 
 She, of all persons ! The very name made 
 her heart stop beating. She was afraid of fall 
 ing on the floor, or doing something unheard 
 of and ridiculous, before the servant could get 
 out of the room. Then she remembered how 
 necessary it was that there should be no change 
 in her manner. She must see the pretty girl 
 often, as had been her habit see John Worth 
 ington, and learn to hide her remorse while list 
 ening to his friendly words. Oh, existence had
 
 78 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 been hard enough upon her, but nothing like 
 this ! 
 
 " When they obliged me to give up Kenneth, 
 I believed I should die," was her thought. 
 " During that short season of my married life, 
 I fretted and moaned, and it seemed very 
 dreary; and these past weeks but now 
 Oh, there was nothing so bad as this !" 
 
 She wrung her hands, she beat her face, she 
 did a variety of insane things, at which we laugh 
 in romances and call stage effects ; yet some 
 times, in each of our lives, we have, perhaps, 
 committed the same insanities when trouble 
 met us and drove our poor wits before it. At 
 last she got her senses back ; bathed her face, 
 and looked to see that the puffs of her hair 
 were properly arranged ; wet her eyes with 
 soothing liquids, to do away the redness left 
 by her tears, and rubbed her face with numer 
 ous other things, hoping to hide the 'traces of 
 emotion. By this time she was herself again. 
 She rang for Pauline, and made a lovely car 
 riage toilet ; for she meant to take Constance 
 out-of-doors ; there would be a certain relief in 
 escaping from the house. She was ready, at 
 length, to go down and behave decorously, and 
 utter her polite falsehoods, as one must, what 
 ever crisis may wait beyond. Constance found 
 her more bewitching to-day than ever, and was 
 herself as pleasant and cheerful as possible. 
 
 She meant to be agreeable, even when speak 
 ing of her uncle, she said. " He is busy over 
 the Gordon case the forged will, you remem 
 ber." 
 
 Alice had reason to rejoice that, trusting to 
 the shelter of her veil, she had touched her 
 pale lips with a little red for the second time 
 in her life. 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "The will case they were talking of last 
 night oh, it was after dinner. Well, you 
 must have read about it ; uncle is on the neph 
 ew's side ; he thinks there is no doubt of Jor 
 dan's guilt." 
 
 " No doubt oh ! And your uncle is against 
 him? And he'll go to prison for years and 
 years ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't pity him !" cried Miss Constance, 
 with the fierce decision of youth that has nev 
 er suffered or been tempted. " Such a wicked 
 man, to cheat that poor brother and sister !" 
 
 Alice felt as if she must scream, or throw 
 herself under the carriage wheels, or do any 
 thing to get beyond the sound of that young 
 voice. 
 
 "Uncle says that crimes of the sort seem to 
 increase of late ; and then he scolds about the 
 wicked extravagance of the age, and " 
 
 A sudden fright that the horses took at the 
 instant fortunately so distracted Constance's 
 attention that she never remembered to fin 
 ish her sentence, and did not notice Mrs. 
 Marchmont's face. A huge van, piled with fur 
 niture, dashed across the street, appearing so 
 unexpectedly close to the animals' heads that 
 they forgot their customary good behavior, and 
 
 bounded into the air in a way that would have 
 been becoming enough in a pair of unicorns, 
 but was not a satisfactory performance on the 
 part of two well-trained carriage steeds. Con 
 stance was not strong-minded, and uttered a lit 
 tle cry of terror, catching her companion's arm ; 
 but Mrs. Marchmont did not stir, or attempt 
 to re-assure her. The disturbance only lasted 
 a moment: she was conscious of wishing that 
 it might end in death. 
 
 " Oh, weren't you frightened ?'' cried the girl, 
 as John succeeded in soothing the horses so 
 that they decided to forsake their statuesque at 
 titudes, and plant their fore-feet on the ground ; 
 "I am sure you were; you look pale." 
 
 "Oh, frightened out of my senses," returned 
 she. "Let me see what was I going to tell 
 you when those wretched animals began doing 
 circus ? Oh, I know ! I'll not be cheated 
 out of my witticism." 
 
 She took the conversation into her own 
 hands, and sparkled so bravely that Constance 
 laughed until Mrs. Marchmont marveled if the 
 time had ever been when she, too, could laugh 
 like that. 
 
 "I want you and your uncle to go with me 
 to the opera to-night," she said. "You may 
 tell him that he promised last evening." 
 
 " No, I'll not tell him that ; for he hates fibs, 
 even in fun," said Constance ; then began to 
 look remorseful, for fear her speech was rude. 
 
 But Mrs. Marchmont patted her hand re-as- 
 suringly, as she said, "A lawyer with a ten 
 der conscience what an anomaly !" Then she 
 wondered to herself if she would be different 
 had there been any body in her girlish days to 
 reprove her kindly, as this good man did his 
 niece, and added, "He is right, Constance! 
 And women do lie so don't let yourself get 
 the habit ; besides, it does no good. Where 
 was I? Oh, you are to go and have supper at 
 my house after, with such available spirits as 
 we chance to lay hands on." 
 
 "That will be delightful! Uncle always 
 says that your impromptu suppers are enchant 
 ing." 
 
 "Then he shall be enchanted," said Mrs. 
 Marchmont. 
 
 It was not that she wanted them, or any body, 
 near her ; but somehow she should have a sen 
 sation of safety to-night, if she could only bring 
 John Worthington within the spell of her smiles. 
 Would she ever feel safe in any other way dur 
 ing this season of suspense which must ensue ? 
 Three months to pass before the money need be 
 returned this was the manner in which she 
 phrased it in her thoughts and her only hope 
 was that at the expiration of half the period 
 she should have it in her power to retrieve her 
 sin. 
 
 Retrieve her sin : could she ever do that ? 
 
 Thus she went thinking again ! Was she 
 never to get her mind away from the dreadful 
 subject ? 
 
 "I'll tell you what we will do, Constance," 
 she said, suddenly. " I have owed Mrs. Rem-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 79 
 
 sen a visit for an age : we'll drive there, and ' 
 ask her to let your pretty little friend, Milly, 
 join us to-night : we don't care about the elder 
 lady, but Milly is very nice next to you the 
 nicest girl I know." 
 
 " Oh, she is lovely !" cried Constance. " She 
 will be delighted ; for she admires you so 
 much." 
 
 " Very well ; then we will go and ask her. 
 But your uncle must come ; I will take no ft- 
 fusal, remember." 
 
 The more she thought, the more anxious she 
 grew. It seemed of vital importance that she 
 should have John Worthington in her sight dur 
 ing these first hours of unfamiliarity with her 
 present self. 
 
 "He will be sure to come," Constance said. 
 " You can depend on him. For that matter, 
 he never refuses your invitations, though he 
 hardly ever finds time to go anywhere else, un 
 less as a kindness to me." 
 
 "Yes, he is always kind," Mrs. Marchmont 
 said, slowly. 
 
 "But he likes to go to you, and he is always 
 delighted when you come to our house," con 
 tinued thoughtless Constance. "He is never 
 so particular about every trifle as then, and he 
 talks about it for days afterward." 
 
 It was odd that these unconscious revela 
 tions, by no means uncommon on the girl's 
 part, never helped Alice Marchmont toward a 
 perception of the man's secret, quick as she 
 usually was to perceive her full power over 
 those about her. But John Worthington had 
 always held a place in her mind quite apart 
 from other people : that he could possibly care 
 for her other than in a friendly, elder-brother 
 spirit had never entered her mind. Now, 
 Constance's artless words only filled her with 
 fresh horror, as she remembered how unworthy 
 she had proved of this friend's confidence 
 how basely she had repaid his trust. The rec 
 ollection of his unvarying goodness was too 
 keen a torture, in these first hours of remorse : 
 she must get away from it away from the sol 
 itary companionship of this happy creature. 
 
 She gave the order to drive to Mrs. Hem- 
 sen's house a commodious dwelling in a fash 
 ionable quarter of the town. Though not rich, 
 Mrs. Ilemsen never did things by halves, nor 
 committed blunders. When she had a young 
 lady to present in society she allowed no neg 
 lect of appearances to interfere with success. 
 
 She was at home this morning, and more 
 flattered by Alice Marchmont's visit than she 
 would have cared to acknowledge. Milly was 
 in the room, and Hortense Maynard the sec 
 ond daughter chanced to be honoring her 
 mother and cousin by a half-hour's utterance 
 of wisdom and philosophy. 
 
 "This is as unexpected as June weather in 
 midwinter," Mrs. Remsen said, as she came 
 forward to meet her guests ; and she had a very 
 nice manner of doing and saying things, though 
 she was liable to attacks of overdignity. 
 
 " Now that sounds a little like a reproach, 
 
 pretty as it is," returned Mrs. Marchmont, pre 
 pared to try as hard for the general approba 
 tion as if there had been a man present. Peo 
 ple always said that she flirted as desperately 
 with women as she did with the opposite sex. 
 " But if you could know how busy I am, you 
 would not wonder at my finding little leisure for 
 morning visits. I hope you are quite well, Mrs. 
 Maynard ; I've not forgiven you for not coming 
 to my last party ! Ah, small Miss Rosebud, I 
 needn't ask how you are. Where on earth 
 does she find such color, Mrs. Remsen ? Bless 
 me, child, you needn't make yourself prettier 
 by blushing like that !" 
 
 " I have wanted to see you and offer my ex 
 cuse," Hortense Maynard said, in her voluble 
 fashion. ' ' I always hate to miss your evenings, 
 but I was engaged every night that week. I 
 had three lectures, a meeting at Professor Driv- 
 ler's, the new somnambulist, the society for the 
 universal language, the " 
 
 "And you are still alive!" said Mrs. March 
 mont, in a wondering voice, that convulsed the 
 two young girls with silent laughter. 
 
 " I shall live, I trust, while I have a duty 
 still left unperformed," replied Hortense ; and 
 there was something piquant, absurd as it was, 
 in the contrast between her pretty face, elegant 
 dress, and the sort of conversation in which she 
 indulged. " Dear Mrs. Marchmont, I want to 
 interest you in the new hospital." 
 
 "I can't be interested, but I'll give all I 
 can." 
 
 "Now, Hortense," cried her mother, "I'll 
 not have you make a trap of my drawing-room 
 to catch people in and frighten them out of 
 their money." 
 
 "Mamma can't understand," sighed Hor 
 tense, resignedly ; " Adelaide can't even Mil 
 ly does not really, though she is better than the 
 others." 
 
 "Thanks," laughed Milly. 
 
 "What I want you to do, Mrs. Marchmont, 
 is to take an actual, personal interest in these 
 things ; it would do you good, ennoble your 
 life, lend a fresh enjoyment to existence " 
 
 " Hortense, do you know what you are say 
 ing ?" interrupted her mother. 
 
 "I am obliged to come to this house to have 
 that question asked," said Hortense, addressing 
 Mrs. Marchmont, with sad patience. "Do T 
 know what I am saying ? And only last night 
 Professor Drivler said that the expression of 
 my ideas was something so precise and exact 
 that each sentence was ready to stand in a book 
 as I uttered it." 
 
 " But you know we poor ordinary women 
 have so few ideas," said Alice ; "and mine, at 
 least, are always in a sad jumble. It's of no 
 use, Mrs. Maynard ; we have each our mission, 
 and must fulfill it." 
 
 "And yours is to be charming," said Mrs. 
 Remsen, with a severe glance at her daughter. 
 
 "That's very nice. But, indeed, I reproach 
 myself for not doing a host of things ; but. be 
 sides the society work, I have a good deal out-
 
 80 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 side. You know I am a solitary female, and 
 must attend to my own business ; Mrs. May 
 nard is spared such worries." 
 
 Hortense shook her head, and looked unut 
 terable things. It really was useless to waste 
 her wisdom ; these butterflies would not be lift 
 ed out of their frivolous ways either by per 
 suasion or example. At the same time she 
 was wondering if Mrs. Marchmont's elegant 
 costume was from Worth, and what it cost. 
 
 " I came partly to beg a favor of you, Mrs. 
 Remsen," Alice said, taking advantage of Hor- 
 tense's momentary silence. 
 
 "It is granted in advance, I assure you." 
 
 " I want to beg your Rosebud for the even 
 ing. Miss Constance and her uncle are go 
 ing with me to the opera, and home to supper 
 afterward ; they will call for your niece, and 
 bring her back." 
 
 "Milly will be delighted, I am sure," said 
 Mrs. Remsen, secretly flattered by this atten 
 tion on the courted woman's part, though only 
 the day before she had told an intimate friend 
 that she did not and could not approve of the 
 way in which Alice Marchmont " went oji" 
 that vague term of condemnation so much in 
 vogue with women. 
 
 "And it's the first night of 'Favorita,' and 
 I never saw it but twice!" cried Hilly, ecstat 
 ically. "Oh, Mrs. Marchmont, how good of j 
 you to think of me !" 
 
 " How good of you to like to go with me, 
 you mean !" said Alice. " Mrs. Remsen, you'll 
 not be afraid to trust her ? Mr. Worthington's 
 presence will be a surety that I shall have none 
 of my ineligibles about." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen agitated herself with protesta 
 tions and assurances that no guardianship for 
 her niece could be more acceptable than that of 
 the lady whom she addressed ; and Alice smiled, 
 graciously, and thanked her, and said sweet j 
 tilings in return, perfectly well aware of every 
 word of censure the speaker had ever uttered 
 in regard to her. 
 
 "I wish you could be persuaded to come to 
 one of the meetings of the Earnest Workers for 
 Japan, Mrs. Marchmont," said Hortense, dash 
 ing into the conversation again. "The other 
 night we had a speech from a real Japanese. 
 It was so interesting." 
 
 "Highly lacquered, I suppose," said Alice; 
 but Mrs. Maynard was too busy talking to no 
 tice. 
 
 "Just now I am greatly occupied with the 
 society for the promotion of a universal lan 
 guage," she continued. " When one thinks of 
 the benefit to civilization ; when one reflects 
 upon the countless myriads in heathen lands 
 talking an incomprehensible jargon, which ren 
 ders it impossible for the snn of knowledge to 
 illuminate their darkness " 
 
 She held up her hands to express the weak 
 ness of words where such reflections were con 
 cerned, and added, in the same voice as before, 
 
 " You have every thing over from Paris, 
 don't you ?" 
 
 "Usually; I find it cheaper in the end, and 
 so much less trouble." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen plunged eagerly into c7fiffons,'m 
 the hope of getting Hortense off the pedestal 
 which she had mounted ; and indeed the wise 
 lady showed as much excitement in the discus 
 sion as if she had been the weakest of her sex. 
 
 At length Mrs. Marchmont rose to go. Much 
 as all the idle talk wearied and irritated her, it 
 h*d helped another half-hour to pass ; she was, 
 at least, a little nearer the end of this dismal 
 day. It seemed so strange to be sitting there 
 among innocent women, talking of the petty 
 affairs which interested them, with this new 
 ban which separated her life from theirs rising 
 before her mind. Often, in reading novels, she 
 had wondered how people felt when some se 
 cret crime haunted their thoughts, and they 
 were obliged to go calmly through the details 
 of existence, repressing every evidence of care. 
 And now she knew ; she was like them an 
 outcast a criminal ! She thought this while 
 taking her part in the conversation, while the 
 idle talk went on, and the laughter of the two 
 girls rang hi her ear ; they laughed so easily, 
 the joyous creatures ! 
 
 " You will come and see me soon, Mrs. 
 Remsen?" she said, rising. "And don't give 
 up my next evening in favor of the Japanese, 
 Mrs. Maynard, else I shall throw my influence 
 in the opposite scale, and vote for leaving them 
 heathens." 
 
 "My life has so little leisure for the amuse 
 ments of society," sighed Hortense. "Some 
 times I wonder myself how I get through all 
 I have to do." 
 
 "Weren't you at Mrs. Morford's dance last 
 night?" asked her mother, rather given to pull 
 ing her off her pedestal. 
 
 "Yes ; she fairly insisted ; but my mind was 
 far away," returned Hortense, with unshaken 
 dignity. 
 
 " One can dance very well without it," said 
 Alice. " So next time send your mind to do 
 duty among the Workers for Japan, and let me 
 have your bodily presence. Come, Constance, 
 we are making an unconscionable visit." 
 
 So she went away, left Constance at her own 
 door, and drove on home, sitting face to face 
 with the terrible secret which had usurped the 
 place of the skeleton, and was a more awful 
 sentinel still. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 UNDER THE YOKE. 
 
 LOOKING across the "glittering horseshoe," 
 Mrs. Marchmont saw Dick Faulkner in his 
 wife's box, nearly opposite ; and when she re 
 membered that the time had gone by for her to 
 shiver at the sight of him, her excitable na.- 
 ture found its first feeling of relief since her 
 solitary communion of the morning. She was 
 glad, horribly glad ; she had been right to free 
 herself from him. She would never think about
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 81 
 
 the matter again ; and the sensation of rest and 
 security grew stronger as she turned and met 
 John Worthington's smile. 
 
 " It was very good of you to give up two 
 nights in succession to folly and idleness," she 
 said. 
 
 "I have got in the way of yielding to your 
 caprices," he replied. "Now, Constance, I 
 could have put off easily enough ; but when she 
 said that you wanted me, I resigned myself at 
 once." 
 
 "You knew that I would be capable of com 
 ing to capture you?" 
 
 "Quite; even the sight of my law-books 
 would not have driven you away. You lack 
 reverence." 
 
 "And you have humored my caprices so 
 long!" 
 
 "For which I ought to be ashamed. Every 
 body spoils you, but I don't wish to help, I as 
 sure you." 
 
 " Your conscience may be at ease ; at least 
 you have done your duty in the way of reprov- 
 al. You are the only person who has ever ven 
 tured to scold me ; admit that I always listen 
 patiently." 
 
 John Worthington was forty, and one of the 
 most famous lawyers of the day ; but such geese 
 are men up to the last, that I think to hear 
 this queen of society make such acknowledg 
 ments was pleasanter in his ears than the loud 
 est plaudits he had ever received in a court 
 room. 
 
 They were seated at one side of the box, quite 
 by themselves ; Miss Portman, as usual, was 
 conscientiously following the scene, libretto in 
 hand, and resigning herself to the invariable 
 headache produced by the crash of the instru 
 ments ; the two girls were holding a whispered 
 conversation about some trifle which they con 
 sidered of vast moment ; and none of Mrs. 
 Marchmont's satellites had as yet appeared 
 upon the horizon : so the friends were able to 
 converse unrestrainedly. 
 
 "I scold you," Worthington went on, "be 
 cause I really think you have a little mind and 
 soul at the bottom of your nonsense and way 
 wardness." 
 
 " Your gallantry is overpowering ! But had 
 you finished?" 
 
 "No; you interrupted me, as usual." 
 
 "Then don't make periods in your voice till 
 your sentence is finished. What comes after 
 waywardness ?" 
 
 "And most women have neither mind nor 
 soul, I meant to say." 
 
 "Such a stale libel such an old, worn-out 
 charge ! But after all, I am no better than the 
 rest." 
 
 " I should think not, indeed ! I hold you 
 worse, a great deal." 
 
 She gave him an odd, frightened glance. 
 
 "Now I don't know what you mean." 
 
 " Because they are not accountable beings a 
 set of dolls while you, pushed to extremities, 
 could show character enough of some sort." 
 G 
 
 The talk was drifting in the direction of all 
 others most terrifying to her ; but she could not 
 resist an impulse to continue it. 
 
 "Upon my word, Mr. Worthington, one 
 would suppose you thought me capable of mur 
 der. " 
 
 " Under certain circumstances, possibly," he 
 replied, coolly. " The truth is, Alice, you have 
 more brains than heart " 
 
 "Now I take that as a compliment !" 
 
 "Because your heart has never had fair 
 play ; at the same time, you are as impulsive 
 and irrational as a child." 
 
 "Always remember that!" she exclaimed, 
 with a feverish earnestness under the laughter 
 in her voice. "Promise me always to think 
 it!" 
 
 "I can safely do so." 
 
 "And would, even if I committed the mur 
 der ?" 
 
 He grew suddenly grave ; her reckless words 
 jarred upon him somewhat. 
 
 "Don't talk in such extremes," he said. 
 
 She laughed, gave him one of her quick, be 
 wildering glances, and added, 
 
 "You will always like me ? I need not feel 
 afraid of losing you ?" 
 
 I think I have said somewhere that for years 
 John Worthiugton had guarded a certain se 
 cret, and it was one which he meant never to 
 betray. He believed that it would be only folly 
 to break the silence so long preserved ; to do 
 it might even bring to an end the pleasant, in 
 timate intercourse that brightened his life in a 
 Avay of which no one dreamed. But the desire 
 to speak rose powerfully in his soul as she asked 
 that question ; it was quickly repressed, howev 
 er, and he said, 
 
 "It is too late to try making you afraid. 
 But see, the girls have ended their talk, and 
 Constance is looking reproachfully at us for not 
 paying any attention to her favorite duet," 
 
 "Ah yes, it is all new to them both," sighod 
 Mrs. Marchmont. " Only think of being still 
 in one's first season !" 
 
 She could not keep quiet ; she wanted to talk, 
 and drown the tones of the thrilling music 
 which wakened strange echoes in her soul. 
 
 "I hope I frightened you the other night 
 when I fainted," she said. 
 
 "Indeed you did." 
 
 " I am so glad : that was what I wanted." 
 
 "I suppose you fainted on purpose ?" 
 
 " Of course just to make a scene. I had 
 done every thing else that evening to astonish 
 you ; so I tried that. Was it effective did I 
 do it well ? You caught me, I believe gal 
 lant man ! But you couldn't call me a heavy 
 weight." 
 
 " Now take breath and begin again," he said, 
 rather grimly, disturbed by the recollection of 
 her singular manner and illness. 
 
 "Thank you no, I'll not speak at all ; you 
 may listen to the music." 
 
 " That is your gratitude, I conclude, for my 
 caring whether you are ill or well, alive or dead !"
 
 82 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "Oh, I am grateful; I make you my best 
 courtesy, metaphorically. Laura Keene was the 
 only woman I ever saw who could courtesy like 
 an angel and not step on her train. I declare, 
 if I was Madame Rothschild, or the Princess 
 Marguerite, or somebody who could afford it, I 
 would give her a fortune if she could teach me 
 to act off the stage half as naturally as she does 
 on." 
 
 " I never thought you could be improved." 
 
 "In the way of acting ?" 
 
 " Of acting, certainly." 
 
 " But do you know, Mr. Worthington, I am 
 very weary of it I I am glad Lent is near. I 
 wish it was time to go into the country. I 
 want to get away. I don't believe I'll come 
 back into the world any more." 
 
 "You are not well yet; don't let me be so 
 unpardonably rude as to remind you of the old 
 proverb." 
 
 "I would not prevent your being rude for 
 the world ;" and she laughed heartily. " 'When 
 the demon was ill,' et cetera. I read once in a 
 book on good-breeding and morals that it was 
 unlady-like to say devil." 
 
 But her face had grown too haggard and 
 worn for her fun to be agreeable to the man. 
 
 " Are you sure that you are quite well yet ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " As well as I shall ever be." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked, anxious 
 ly. " There is not really any thing serious the 
 matter ? You are not hiding some illness from 
 from your friends ?" 
 
 She looked at him in surprise for an instant, 
 and the tears rose in her eyes. 
 
 "I believe you would actually care!" she 
 said, wonderingly. 
 
 " Care ?" he repeated ; and words which he 
 did not choose to utter started to his lips. 
 
 "I didn't know there was any body left who 
 would think twice about it," she said. "No, 
 there is nothing the matter unless my mind 
 has a crook in it; but I think it always had." 
 
 "And something has been troubling your 
 mind ; of that I am sure." 
 
 If she could tell him! The insane thought 
 presented itself if she could reveal, word for 
 word, what she had done ! 
 
 "I was thinking, after you went away last 
 night, that I ought to have told you, if there was 
 any thing I could do, you had only to speak ; 
 but I think you know that." 
 
 "You would do it?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, very quietly ; " if it were to 
 go against my creed, my principles no matter 
 what I should do it, if necessary." 
 
 Great Heaven, and she had doubted this 
 man's friendship had preferred guilt to trust 
 ing him ! 
 
 "Dear friend," she said, "I need no help. 
 I beg you to believe that. I am in no difficul 
 ty, except the one that troubles most people 
 the inability to get away from myself." 
 
 "You would tell me?" 
 
 "I think so if you could help me. Mr. 
 
 Worthington, I believe I never understood you 
 before ; I wish " 
 
 " What, Alice ?" 
 
 " That was not what I meant to say. We 
 have been on familiar terms from habit ; after 
 all, we have seen little of each other's real 
 selves." 
 
 It was so difficult to keep back what he would 
 fain have said, that any made words sounded 
 poor and weak. 
 
 " I mean what I say. I am your friend ; I 
 shall always be. It is not only that I admire 
 you more than any woman I ever saw pshaw, 
 I needn't be stagy !" 
 
 If he had only spoken like this last night ! 
 Yet no ; she knew that her lips would have re 
 mained sealed. The more he showed his fond 
 ness, his admiration, his faith, the less possibil 
 ity there would have been of destroying them 
 by her avowal. 
 
 "No, no," she replied, hastily; "we'll not 
 indulge in a scene. Hereafter, I don't mean to 
 have bothers of any sort. I want to try and be 
 less frivolous and absurd." 
 
 "You have never been either the one or the 
 other." 
 
 " Such an empty,aimless life, with no thought 
 beyond the little worthless success of an hour." 
 
 "I don't agree with you, nor with all the 
 things wise people say and write about such 
 matters. I don't consider it a poor ambition for 
 a woman to make herself a leader in her world 
 a power in society." 
 
 "It isn't worth the trouble one takes." 
 
 "It isn't worth rushing into such follies as 
 womendo,"he said "extravagance, debt, and 
 that kind of thing." 
 
 "My days of extravagance end with this 
 season," she replied. "My debts I mean to 
 pay ; so I'll not take your axioms to myself." 
 
 " I should be sorry to think you had any real 
 cause." 
 
 "Don't you ever be sorry for me in any way, 
 Mr. Worthington ! I'll not tell you all my fri 
 volity. I'll not confess my sins to you, because 
 I can't live without the respect of the few whom 
 I really esteem ; but don't be sorry." 
 
 "And don't you .use such strong words." 
 
 She laughed if he could know the truth ! 
 
 "I was speaking as if you were my con 
 science," she said ; " I always try to coax 
 that." 
 
 " Not if there were real reason why it should 
 condemn you ; then you would never try. I 
 should pity you very much if there had been 
 any possibility in your life of meeting as so 
 many unfortunates do a place where to go 
 wrong was easy, and the right so hard that you 
 yielded." 
 
 "You think I would suffer?" 
 
 "Suffer! You would make each day an 
 eternity of torture ! You have great capabili 
 ties for suffering in that high-strung nature of 
 yours ; don't ever give them an opportunity to 
 have the upper hand." 
 
 " But no troubles come to women except
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 83 
 
 through their hearts ; and I have none, you 
 know." 
 
 " I suppose you had once." 
 
 "I can't tell only a flirting machine, I 
 think. But do you know that is more like the 
 real thing than people imagine ? It can ache, 
 and be in earnest, and simulate all sorts of feel 
 ings." 
 
 "You must be somewhat tired of that?" 
 
 " So tired ! I tell you, I'd like to be a shep 
 herdess and tend sheep. Heigh-ho ! I wish I 
 was in the forest of Ardennes." 
 
 "And very miserable you would be in a 
 week." 
 
 " I suppose so, unless I found such a satir 
 ical old Jaques as you are somewhere about." 
 
 "You'll marry " 
 
 " So people have said for quite a number of 
 years ! No, Mr. Worthington, I would not let 
 a good man marry me a bad one I would not 
 take." 
 
 "What do you mean by saying that you 
 would not let a good man marry you ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Because lam not worth such a man's love. 
 There, I'm not acting it is the honest truth." 
 
 He turned and faced her. 
 
 " What will you say when Kenneth Halford 
 asks you to marry him ?" 
 
 "I never shall be obliged to say any thing, 
 for he'll not ask me." 
 
 " I thought he had been in love with you 
 once." 
 
 "Nonsense; I have arranged his destiny in 
 my own mind ;" and she glanced toward Milly, 
 who was eagerly watching the stage. 
 
 "Indeed! And what shall you say?" 
 
 "Congratulate them." 
 
 " And what shall you think ?" 
 
 "Mr. Worthington, nothing could induce me 
 to marry Kenneth Halford, if he wanted me ; 
 and he does not. He will worship an ideal all 
 his life, and moan because no woman fulfills 
 it." 
 
 " Oh, if he wants an angel, he must go where 
 most people won't go in a hurry ; and I don't 
 know that he deserves so much better than his 
 neighbors. " 
 
 She noticed the tone of relief in which he 
 spoke, but did not attach any particular mean 
 ing to it ; for not the slightest perception of 
 his real sentiments had ever reached her, keen- 
 sighted as she usually was to discover when a 
 man's heart or fancy was touched. 
 
 "Now we have settled every thing," she said. 
 "Just in time, too; for here come some tire 
 some men. Ah me !" 
 
 There was no further opportunity for uninter 
 rupted conversation ; the curtain had fallen, and 
 there was a constant succession of dandies flut 
 tering in and out of the loge. Mrs. March- 
 mont called the girls to her side, and found a 
 pleasure in making them talk, looking at them 
 the while with a sharp pang of regret rather 
 than envy. John Worthington leaned back in 
 his seat, and allowed the stream of idle chat to 
 
 flow on, without discomfiting any body by sharp, 
 quizzical speeches, such as he sometimes per 
 mitted himself, and which were not easily par 
 ried by people in general. 
 
 So the evening wore on, and Mrs. March- 
 mont made the two or three additions neces 
 sary to fill up her supper-table. They were all 
 for the benefit of the young ladies, however, as 
 she intended to keep herself free to engross Mr. 
 Worthington. 
 
 Dick Faulkner irritated his wife by his per 
 sistent staring at the opposite box, and the pair 
 managed to get up one of their fierce quarrels 
 before the opera was half over. Faulkner did 
 not venture to intrude into the loge; for he 
 knew that if he did Mrs. Marchmont would 
 make him repent severely ; and he cursed her 
 anew at the thought, as he had done many times 
 since the morning. And Alice, reading his 
 discomfiture in his face, knowing that he dared 
 not come, exulted from the bottom of her heart, 
 and again, in her delight at feeling once more 
 free from the nightmare of his influence, almost 
 forgot the price which she had paid for this 
 liberty. Under the circumstances, Dick could 
 do nothing but abuse his wife ; and he made 
 her suffer not only on her own account, but 
 vicariously for Alice Marchmont's contempt. 
 However, she was quite able to take her own 
 part, and the presence of other people did not 
 in the least interfere with the energy of the 
 matrimonial battle. 
 
 At length Kenneth Halford came and paid 
 his salutations, after a long season of furtive 
 watching of the two the elegant woman and 
 the rose-bud of a girl by her side. At first Mrs. 
 Marchmont was gratified by the complete ig 
 noring, in word or manner, of any remembrance 
 of their conversation of yesterday ; but sudden 
 ly there rose in her mind the recollection of 
 what had happened since the memory of the 
 past night's work and her mood changed. It 
 was utterly unreasonable and unfounded, and 
 she knew it, but she was ready to blame him in 
 a measure for what she had done. If he had 
 been true to his ea'rly dream if he had ever 
 really loved her he might have saved her in 
 those closing hours. And now where did she 
 stand ? What had she become ? 
 
 She was ready to spring from her chair and 
 rush out of the box, as the dreadful answer 
 hissed through her soul. Then she reproached 
 herself for being so miserable and weak a fool 
 that she was not able to bear quietly even the 
 first hours of acquaintance with her sin. She 
 must conquer this absurdity, at any rate ; she 
 could not take to making a high tragedy of her 
 self, and discomposing people by sudden starts 
 and suppressed moans at any chance word 
 which touched her secret, or each pang of re 
 morse that stung her. 
 
 She consoled herself by saying several in 
 tensely disagreeable things to Halford, as most 
 women or men, for that matter would have 
 found a consolation in doing. He looked, not 
 hurt, but as if he were pitying her ; and then
 
 84 
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 she fell in a hot rage. Of all the old passion, 
 the old love, there was only this sentiment left 
 pity ! It was more than she could endure,, 
 just then, and she as nearly turned her back 
 on him as was lady-like. 
 
 He went and leaned over Milly's chair, and 
 she was frankly glad to see him, and talked in 
 her girlish way, though not after the fashion of 
 ordinary girls ; and once more Halford thought 
 what a rest and quiet her society gave. Mrs. 
 Marchmont saw it ; if he had put his feelings 
 into words for her benefit, she could not have 
 understood them more clearly ; and to-night, in 
 her new mood, she did not approve. She had 
 of her own accord sent him away had herself 
 pointed out Milly as capable of offering the love 
 which he craved and needed, and had felt will 
 ing to aid them both, instead of trying to be 
 wilder his fancy by her own smiles and arts. 
 
 She had thought so, and, remembering who 
 and what she was, had sent him away hurried 
 ly, frightened at the bare idea of loving and 
 being loved. But to-night she was not pleased 
 when she saw him bending over the girl and 
 talking, with such a quiet, rested look on his 
 countenance. Her heart was very bitter, and 
 sad ; she wanted to be truly loved. She had 
 scores of adorers, and adulation enough lavish 
 ed upon her to satisfy a dozen women ; but she 
 had never been loved but once, and then it had 
 not been her present self, but the girl she used 
 to be, and of whom she had thought for years 
 with such regretfulpity ; and it was Kenneth 
 Halford who had loved her. 
 
 She felt a sudden rage at Milly's youth and 
 Milly's face, with its beautiful promise of 
 development when her heart should be fully 
 awake, and her mind in the maturity of wom 
 anhood. She called Kenneth Halford to her; 
 she could not sit there just then, with others, 
 and see him placid and content in Milly's pres 
 ence, while she had such an ache at her heart 
 and such a troop of confused and conflicting 
 thoughts in her mind. Not aching for love of 
 him, this heart. Let me see if I can make 
 plain the feeling by which she was possessed. 
 Alice knew that the woman she had become 
 was a world away from Kenneth Halford ; she 
 could not have dared let him approach nearer ; 
 but she pitied the girl that she once was the 
 girl they had sacrificed so remorselessly to their 
 Moloch, the world and she could not bear to 
 see him bending over this other young crea 
 ture, as if able to forget every past dream or 
 suffering in that calm presence. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont called him to her, and sent 
 the dandies over to Milly, for which neither she 
 nor they were thankful. John Worthington 
 had left the box to speak with some friend ; so 
 Alice had an opportunity to talk with Kenneth 
 Halford. But, in spite of her efforts, she felt 
 impelled to say the precise things which she 
 knew would annoy him, and so hurt herself, 
 by reading disapproval in his eyes. In a few 
 moments, however, as other people came and 
 went, she allowed him to pass from her, and 
 
 paid him no further attention. Indeed, when 
 he took his leave, she was so much occupied in 
 listening to some man's nonsense that she could 
 scarcely accord him a parting smile. Her first 
 intention had been to ask him to accompanv 
 them home, but she had not done so, and she 
 was not too much engrossed to notice Milly's 
 look of disappointment as he was allowed to go 
 away. Mrs. Marchmont noticed it, and for an 
 instant almost hated the girl. Then a feeling 
 of regret crossed her mind of shame, too, for 
 her own pettiness. 
 
 She called herself hard names, and would 
 have made any atonement to Milly, even to 
 uniting her and Halford, whether they desired 
 it or not, and attempting any number of sacri 
 fices and expiations for her own part. Indeed, 
 she sent in search of him ; he should come to 
 supper ; pretty little Milly should be gratified. 
 But her good resolutions awoke too late ; Hal- 
 ford was not to be found by her messenger, 
 having gone straight out of the house on leav 
 ing her box. 
 
 Before long the curtain fell on the last act : 
 the two girls had wished to see the closing 
 scene, and they were gratified. Passing through 
 the lobby on John Worthington's arm, Mrs. 
 Marchmont encountered Dick Faulkner,so close 
 that her white mantle brushed him as she pass 
 ed. She had to bow and smile, shivering in 
 wardly because so much as the folds of her gar 
 ments had touched him, loathing the sight of 
 the handsome face, whose wickedness was so 
 plain to her now under its smiles, and shud 
 dering again as she remembered how hopeless 
 her fate were it possible that she should ever be 
 put a second time in his power. 
 
 "I do so cordially abhor that man," Wor 
 thington said, as they moved on, regardless 
 whether or not his words were audible. "I 
 can not understand how it is that decent peo 
 ple tolerate him." 
 
 " I'll not have you abhor any body just now," 
 she answered ; for it gave her a sensation of 
 fear to listen to his words. "I want you to be 
 agreeable ; the man is nothing to you or me." 
 
 "Thank Heaven for that!" he said. 
 
 In the depths of her heart Mrs. Marchmont 
 fervently repeated the thanksgiving. She was 
 free at least she was free ! She cast one 
 glance back through the crowd ; Dick Faulk 
 ner was leaning against a projection of the 
 wall, and looking after her with an expression 
 which made her shiver afresh, till Mr. Wor 
 thington asked if she were cold, thereby bring 
 ing her down to the necessities of the moment. 
 
 The supper was very gay and pleasant ; even 
 Miss Portman warmed so much under the wit 
 and merriment, or the Champagne which Wor 
 thington persuaded her to drink, that she pos 
 itively laughed aloud, changed her position 
 three times, and twice volunteered a remark, 
 so astonishing those who knew her best by this 
 unprecedented display of animation that they 
 absolutely forgot to answer. Constance and 
 Milly found the evening delightful, though the
 
 JOHN WORTIIINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 85 
 
 latter had leisure to miss Halford ; yet at the 
 same time she was glad not attempting to ac 
 count for the feeling that he and Mrs. March- 
 mont were not on such intimate terms as she 
 had at first fancied, for Alice had said, 
 
 ' ' I only ask my very, very special friends on 
 occasions like these ; so you see I have adopted 
 you into my heart, Miss Milly." 
 
 She was in a charming mood, which lasted 
 almost up to the time that they were ready to 
 leav.e the table ; then something Worthington 
 said, some chance words which struck close 
 upon her secret, gave her again the desire to es 
 cape to get away from every one of these fa 
 miliar faces above all, from the man whose 
 friendship she had returned by such awful 
 treachery. 
 
 "You will have an opportunity to find out 
 whether you miss me," she said, suddenly, ad 
 dressing him, but speaking aloud. 
 
 "Do you mean to go into retreat for Lent ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " The next thing to it I am going to Wash 
 ington." 
 
 "Now please to explain this freak," said he, 
 while the other men uttered exclamations of 
 horror, and Miss Portman turned into a statue 
 of astonishment at once. 
 
 "No freak whatever," replied she, as decid 
 edly as if the idea had been a long time in her 
 mind, instead of having just entered it, born of 
 her sudden dread of the constant dissimulation 
 needed in his presence. " I have business 
 there, and I must go." 
 
 " Are you going to settle the affairs of the 
 nation ?" he asked, smiling. 
 
 "To settle my own, at least," returned she. 
 "I have developed a fine taste for business, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Now I believe this is as new to you as to 
 the rest of us," said he. 
 
 "She says it to frighten us all," added some 
 man. 
 
 "Not I," she answered. "If I must give 
 reasons, every body knows that I own a tract 
 of land away off somewhere I don't exactly 
 know where. Is West Virginia near China ?" 
 
 " Oh no, my dear ! surely you know better," 
 said poor Miss Portman, with a sad earnestness 
 which made every body shriek. 
 
 "Very well; I'll not expose my ignorance 
 by trying to tell where it is," said she. "At all 
 events, I am going " 
 
 "Not in search of it?" asked Worthington. 
 
 " No ; to Washington, because " 
 
 She stopped again, remembering her fear 
 that Faulkner might learn something of her 
 plans, and attempt to balk them. 
 
 "I intend to .delude Congress into making 
 it an independent county for me," she added. 
 "Now this is a profound secret ; so all of you 
 rush off and tell it as soon as you can." 
 
 "I've no doubt you'll succeed," said Wor 
 thington. 
 
 " I assure you I am perfectly serious " 
 
 "Have we doubted it?" 
 
 "At least about going. I leave the day af 
 ter to-morrow." 
 
 " Is this news to you, also, Miss Portman ?" 
 asked John Worthington. 
 
 " Oh yes ; and so sudden; really, Alice, it is 
 very confusing," groaned the old maid. 
 
 "My dear, you adore Washington ; you wor 
 ship the President, and regard Congress as an 
 immaculate body, that ought to be immortal 
 ized in statues of brass." 
 
 "And Congress could easily furnish the ma 
 terial," said Worthington. 
 
 "It is entirely on your account that I am 
 going, Adeliza ; so don't be ungrateful," pur 
 sued Alice. " You know you have been sigh 
 ing all winter for a sight of well, I'll be mer 
 ciful, and not give the Senator's name." 
 
 "Oh, my dear!" squeaked Miss Portman, in 
 deep distress. 
 
 "Kit is a case of attending to Miss Port- 
 man's happiness, there is nothing to be said," 
 observed Worthington. 
 
 "And it is," Alice averred. 
 
 " Oh, my dear !" repeated Miss Portman, on 
 an ascending scale, and looking more like a 
 Chinese mouse than ever. 
 
 "And you really are going?'' Worthington 
 asked, as soon as the laughter had again sub 
 sided. 
 
 "I really am, and for a long visit," she re 
 plied, rising from the table. "Mr. Worthing 
 ton, set the example of going home. Remem 
 ber that I am an unprotected widow, and it is 
 past one o'clock. What will my neighbors say 
 of such dissipation?'' 
 
 "Going to Washington!" murmured Miss 
 Portman, despairingly not that she objected 
 to the journey, but any sudden proposal always 
 filled her with confusion and dismay. 
 
 "I am so glad to have had you here this 
 evening," Mrs. Marchmont said to Milly, pass 
 ing her arm about the girl's waist for an in 
 stant, and speaking in a low tone. " You're 
 a dear little thing, and I fancy that I shall grow 
 very fond of you. Be sure to like me." 
 
 "Indeed I do," said Milly; and meant what 
 she said. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont gazed earnestly, regretful 
 ly, in her face for a little ; then let her go. 
 
 "I wonder if I was ever like that," she said 
 to herself. 
 
 John Worthington did not catch the words, 
 but he read in her countenance the fancies call 
 ed up by Milly's youthful happiness, and drew 
 close to Mrs. Marchmont's side. 
 
 "Will you write to me sometimes?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes. Don't I always when I am away ?" 
 
 "And if you want me if there is any thing 
 I can do only send, and I will come at once." 
 
 She took his hand, dropped it as quickly, and 
 said, 
 
 " Good-bye, every body. Miss Crofton, Mr. 
 Worthington and Constance are to take you 
 safe home." 
 
 She detained them all still for a few last
 
 86 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 words gay, laughing to the last. "Worthington 
 left the room behind the others. As he reach 
 ed the threshold she ran forward, seized his 
 hand again, shook it warmly, saying, 
 
 " You promised always to like me ; don't for 
 get." 
 
 He turned and looked at her, his grave fea 
 tures stirred into unusual emotion. 
 
 " God bless you !" he said. " Good-bye." 
 
 As the outer doors closed behind her guests, 
 Mrs. Marchmont flew off to her chamber before 
 Miss Portman could utter a syllable. Human 
 companionship was not to be borne an instant 
 longer. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ELF-LAND PATHS. 
 
 THERE commenced for Milly Crofton a suc 
 cession of weeks, in the very beginning of which 
 her feet strayed into elf-land, and each day only 
 led her further along the mazes of that enchant 
 ed realm. Her dreams heightened the com 
 monest objects and the commonest incidents 
 into absolute beauty and perfection. Never 
 was there such sunlight before as played about 
 her way never such music as she listened to 
 at balls or opera. Oh, it was the old, old story, 
 but always new, always sweet, and will remain 
 so while this world holds fresh young hearts like 
 hers in the midst of its dreariness. 
 
 Alice Marchmont departed on the day she 
 had named, and the season hurried toward the 
 soberness and quiet of Lent. People seemed 
 determined to crowd all the gayety possible into 
 the short weeks before Ash-Wednesday should 
 usher in its period of penitence and reflection. 
 
 Milly enjoyed the festivities more and more, 
 and wherever she went she met Kenneth Hair- 
 ford ; and his presence brought the charm 
 which brought this new brightness over her life. 
 She did not think much in these days ; she did 
 not question her heart indeed had grown ter 
 ribly shy of herself but she did know that she 
 seemed lifted above the common earth, and 
 wondered if such sunshine had ever been grant 
 ed any other mortal. 
 
 Halford was a great deal at the house, and 
 he did .not forget Mrs. Remsen's permission in 
 regard to morning walks, with Milly. That 
 lady watched the progress of events with the 
 most unconscious air, and never troubled Milly 
 by word or look. She knew the man with 
 whom they had to deal, and was perfectly cer 
 tain that these attentions to the girl were nei 
 ther idle nor unmeant. He was not a man to re 
 treat from any position that he had assumed, or 
 amuse himself at the expense of any woman's 
 happiness. So she waited composedly, certain 
 that an agreeable denouement to Milly's pretty 
 romance would come, sooner or later. 
 
 Fortunately, Adelaide Ramsay was absent all 
 this month ; otherwise she would certainly have 
 found some means of troubling Milly's peace, as 
 her envious dislike of her cousin had reached a 
 
 tolerable pitch of hatred in these days of the lat- 
 ter's little triumphs. The old story of the en 
 gagement which once existed between Halford 
 and Alice Berners was not generally known 
 among their present acquaintances ; so not even 
 a whisper in regard to the past intruded to cast 
 a shadow over Milly's way. It was a season of 
 unalloyed happiness ; but she was too young 
 and too undisciplined to know how seldom jt is 
 that a long season of uninterrupted contentment 
 is granted to any mortal. No romance or poem 
 ever pictured an idyl half so beautiful as Milly's 
 life during those charmed days, though the de 
 tails would be slight enough if put into words. 
 
 So the beautiful days floated on, and each 
 successive one lured Milly farther and farther 
 into the Eden from whence a return to the old 
 life became always more impossible. The gold 
 en dream must either widen into realization, 
 or, when it faded, leave her wounded and faint 
 upon the bleak rocks of the desolate desert in 
 which so many hearts like hers have wakened af 
 ter a brief wandering in that fairy-land of youth. 
 
 The pleasant walks, the daily visits, took 
 their course ; there were frequent invitations 
 to the opera, with only Aunt Eliza besides 
 themselves in the box, when the music was, in 
 Milly's ears, a joyous pa:an that no instruments 
 of mortal invention ever played, the passionate 
 arias and duets thrilling her soul with melodies 
 which no human voice ever expressed ; there 
 were evenings at the French theatre, which 
 were hours of such enchantment as no dram 
 atist's eloquence or actor's passion could ever 
 evoke ; occasionally quiet hours at home, when 
 no visitors were admitted, and Aunt Eliza read 
 her newspaper, or made a pretense of embroid 
 ery, or wrote letters, while Milly sat at the piano 
 and sung old ballads, often interrupted by long, 
 low-voiced conversations, not containing a word 
 which would merit to be set down, but deeply 
 engraven in her heart, as if they held all this 
 world's wisdom in their length. 
 
 So little to tell a story so old, so worn out ; 
 yet I would gladly linger over it ; and you who 
 should read, though you might pretend to smile 
 in scorn, would feel your own hearts stirred to 
 their inmost depths not by my poor words 
 but by the spell of memory carrying you back 
 to the enchanted realm where each has wander 
 ed in his turn. But let the details go ; there is 
 no need to picture them ; and sneer as we may, 
 not one of us ever grows hard enough or world 
 ly enough to forget, when we watch the prog 
 ress of a romance like my pretty Milly's. 
 
 "Do you think I am wearing out my wel 
 come ?" Halford asked, one day, as he returned 
 to the house with Milly, from an expedition to 
 a private picture gallery. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen had accompanied them ; but on 
 leaving the gallery Halford had begged that 
 Milly might be allowed to walk back with him, 
 as she had taken no exercise that day. He had 
 assumed a great deal of responsibility about 
 similar matters so naturally that nobody thought 
 of questioning it.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 87 
 
 "You must ask aunty about that," Milly an 
 swered ; " she has not hinted to me that she 
 was tired of your visits." 
 
 " So I will ; that gives me an excuse for go 
 ing in," he said. "I was wondering what one 
 I could manage ; now I can enter boldly ; in 
 deed, it really is my duty to know at once if she 
 is weary of the sight of me." 
 
 It had been four o'clock when Mrs. Reinsen 
 left the pair at the entrance of the picture-gal 
 lery, and it was somewhat past five, and nearly 
 dark, when they entered the room where she 
 sat. But she did not ask how they had man 
 aged to consume a whole hour and more in a walk 
 which a tortoise would have accomplished in 
 less than half the time ; nor did she make any 
 remark when, later, some chance words of Milly's 
 revealed the fact of their having come round by 
 Madison Square to accomplish which feat they 
 must have gone at least a mile out of their way. 
 
 " Mr. Halford has come in on purpose to ask 
 you a question, aunty," said her niece, as the 
 two appeared before the matron, and interrupt 
 ed a little vision in which she had been indul 
 ging as freely as if she had not lived long past 
 the period when such weakness is permissible. 
 
 "What is this important question, Mr. Hal- 
 ford ?" she inquired, suavely. 
 
 "But you are not to hesitate just for the sake 
 of politeness, aunty!" cried Milly, before he 
 could explain. "Aunty does sometimes, Mr. 
 Halford. She hates to tell fibs ; but she has 
 very stately ideas in regard to civility and hos 
 pitality." 
 
 "Now you are throwing out base insinua 
 tions," he said, gayly. " You want me to think 
 that, if she denies being tired, it is only because 
 she is too kind to mortify me." 
 
 "Has Milly been hinting that?" asked Mrs. 
 Remsen, entering into the badinage gracefully 
 enough, thinking the while, as she glanced at 
 Kenneth Halford, how much these quiet weeks 
 had changed him. He looked younger, more 
 restful and content ; and it was pleasant to her 
 to see it, and then turn to the radiant bright 
 ness that grew each day more lovely in Milly's 
 face. " Has she been slandering me, Mr. Hal- 
 ford ? But you and I are too old friends for her 
 wicked little tongue to make mischief between 
 us." 
 
 " I did not say a word ; it was his own con 
 science that accused him," Milly averred, in 
 laughing self-defense. 
 
 "What have you done, Mr. Halford, that 
 your inward monitor has become troublesome ?" 
 demanded Mrs. Remsen. 
 
 " Upon my word, I am afraid that even in 
 this statement Miss Crofton is not correct," he 
 replied. "My conscience refuses to blame me 
 as it ought " 
 
 "It must be made of gutta-percha," put in 
 Milly, parenthetically. 
 
 " I only asked her if you were tired of the 
 sight of me. I have bored you so constantly 
 of late that it occurred to me that I might wear 
 out my welcome." 
 
 " I am always glad to see you," she replied. 
 " As a proof, I was meaning, when you came 
 in, to ask you to stay to dinner a very uncere 
 monious one ; for Maud has gone to her sisters ; 
 so Milly and I must dine alone, unless you will 
 give us your company." 
 
 "But his conscience!" said Milly, mischiev 
 ously." 
 
 "I shall reward it by staying/' Halford de 
 clared. " Thanks, a thousand times, Mrs. 
 Remsen ; for I should have been doomed to a 
 solitary dinner at my club." 
 
 " A meal prepared for feminine tastes may 
 not be very tempting, I warn you," she said. 
 "But at least I have always a very tolerable 
 glass of claret to offer my male visitors. Mr. 
 Crittendon brought me a huge case from 
 France." 
 
 "I shall prove the innocence of my taste by 
 hugely enjoying the dinner prepared to suit fem 
 inine palates," he answered. 
 
 In truth, Mrs. Remsen was not in the least 
 troubled about the dinner. She had foreseen 
 that Halford would enter the house, and had 
 already instructed the cook as to the changes 
 and additions which were to be made in the re 
 past. 
 
 Milly went away to get rid of her out-door gar 
 ments. There was to be no dressing; her aunt 
 had said ; but she could not resist induing her 
 self in a white cashmere, with a blue over-skirt, 
 which was as becoming a thing as she could 
 have put on ; and Aunt Eliza did not remark 
 the change. 
 
 The dinner was a complete success even to 
 the venison which had been sent by an acquaint 
 ance gone to the Adirondacks for a week's win 
 ter sport ; and the claret was beyond reproach. 
 
 "The chef at the club couldn't equal this," 
 Halford averred ; and Mrs. Remsen did not 
 think it necessary to admit that she neither 
 possessed one of those troublesome French 
 treasures, nor even a cordon bleu, though, in 
 deed, her wonderful old black woman, who had 
 lived with her mother before her, deserved the 
 latter badge if ever a female did. 
 
 The evening was not quite so pleasant as the 
 dinner, because Hortense Maynard was seized 
 with the idea of visiting her parent on the way 
 to some learned reunion ; and poor Charley 
 Thome and a brace of other youths strayed in 
 likewise. But Milly was too happy to feel an 
 noyance at the interruption, and greeted luck 
 less Charley with so much kindness that for an 
 instant he brightened out of the gloom into 
 which he had been thrown by the sight of Hal- 
 ford so comfortably established by the young 
 lady's side. 
 
 These had been troubled weeks to Master 
 Charley, and he really suffered in his little way, 
 since it was to the full extent of his capabil 
 ities. I suppose he found it just as hard to bear 
 as people of a different calibre do their miser 
 ies. He was a perfect model of the youth of 
 New York ; the parting of his back hair was al 
 ways irreproachable, his neck-tie a marvel, and
 
 88 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 his trowsers real works of art. He had not 
 much more to say for himself than his species 
 in general ; but at least he was free from af 
 fectations and vices, and Mrs. Remsen was al 
 ready precipitating her soul into futurity, and 
 regarding the possibility of Maud, some months 
 later, catching his poor little heart at a rebound. 
 
 "I never see you any more," he began, as 
 soon as he could get near to Milly and make his 
 small moan, Hortense Maynard having uncon 
 sciously afforded him the desired opportunity by 
 taking instant possession of Mr. Halford. " I 
 might as well be off in the the desert of Sa 
 hara, or up with those fellows in the Adiron- 
 dacks." 
 
 "I saw you only night before last, at Mrs. 
 Morrison's concert. If you forget as easily as 
 that, I don't think much of your friendship," re 
 turned Milly, cruelly, though she did not mean 
 to be unkind. "And I wonder you did not go 
 np to the Woods. ,1 should think an expedi 
 tion there in the winter must be delightful." 
 
 Charley went down into the depths of black 
 despair at once. Even Mrs. Maynard was mak 
 ing a grand display of her acquirements and 
 the incessant duties of her life for Halford's 
 benefit ; and at last she got upon one of her fa 
 vorite hobbies the praiseworthy efforts of a 
 bandcallc* "The Earnest Workers for Japan," 
 among whom she ranked as chief; and she did 
 not leave the subject until she had deluded Hal- 
 ford into putting his name on her subscription- 
 book. 
 
 "You are incorrigible, Hortense," said her 
 mother, coming tip at the moment. "Don't 
 pay any attention to Japan, Mr. Halford. It 
 is too far off for sympathy." 
 
 "Oh, that is its chief charm," returned he; 
 but Mrs. Maynard was too serious to notice the 
 raillery. 
 
 "I wish you could persuade mamma and 
 Milly to take some interest in the good work," 
 she said. "Now Milly is a nice, dear little 
 thing, but so childish ; and mamma only en 
 courages her." 
 
 "I hear you, Hortense," said her mother, 
 laughing. " Say what you like of me, but don't 
 ask for any change in my Milly. Besides, we 
 can afford to be lazy and selfish. You are so 
 determined to do good till people hate you that 
 you leave us no chance." 
 
 " You always turn serious conversation off 
 with a jest, mamma," sighed Hortense. "I 
 have ceased to hope for any impression on you 
 or Milly either." 
 
 " So much the better for us all," returned 
 Mrs. Remsen, gayly. " You will not need to 
 distress yourself, and will leave us to our fri 
 volity in peace." 
 
 Hortense shook her head and lifted her hands 
 such pretty hands ! She was altogether so el 
 egant and fine-ladyish, so totally unlike the re 
 ceived ideas concerning strong-minded wom 
 en, that Halford could not avoid a smile at the 
 contrast between her appearance and her much- 
 vaunted pursuits. 
 
 "I wonder you don't wear yourself out," he 
 said. "You never give yourself a moment's 
 rest." 
 
 "At least I should exhaust myself in the 
 cause of duty," she replied, with a reproachful 
 glance at her mother. 
 
 "I see the look, Hortense, but I am too 
 thoroughly hardened to be affected," that lady 
 said. She always consoled herself, when Hor 
 tense talked stilted trash to any man, by the 
 fact that the creature was pretty enough to 
 make any sort of conversation endurable to 
 masculine ears. 
 
 "You were at Professor Drivlcr's lecture the 
 other night?" asked Halford. 
 
 " Yes ; I would not have missed it for the 
 world. The crowd was frightful, and the heat 
 beyond description ; but it was suffering in a 
 good cause. Mamma, my new velvet polonaise 
 was absolutely ruined ; the lace was in rags." 
 
 " Now that does touch me," said her mother. 
 " If you must run the risk of suffocation, or 
 being trodden to death by a learned mob, you 
 might at least wear something plainer." 
 
 "It was a marvelous effort of genius," pur 
 sued Hortense. "I never listened to such fer 
 vid eloquence. He spoke for two hours and a 
 half, and it seemed only a few moments." 
 
 "It tires me to think of it," said Mrs. Rem- 
 scn. 
 
 "I confess to running away," added Hal- 
 ford ; " the heat was unendurable." 
 
 "Take care," said Mrs. Remsen. "Hor 
 tense will accuse you of encouraging Milly and 
 me in our frivolity." 
 
 "If my efforts everywhere were as useless 
 as they are among my own relations, I should 
 call my life a wasted one indeed," she said, 
 playing with her bracelets, and looking very 
 handsome in her melancholy. 
 
 " Fortunately, your constant exertions are too 
 fully crowned with success for you to become 
 discouraged," Halford said. 
 
 "You are very good; I hope they are not 
 quite thrown away," she replied, with a sweet 
 self-complacency. " I have always wished that 
 mamma had left Milly more to me since my 
 marriage ; I am growing a grave old woman " 
 
 "At twenty-six," interrupted her mother. 
 "Hortense, it's lucky Adelaide docs not hear 
 you, and I don't mean to be made out quite as 
 ancient as the Pyramids, either." 
 
 "Age does not count by years," returned 
 Hortense. " But you do fly about so " 
 
 "Naturally, being a frivolous young thing," 
 again broke in Mrs. Remsen; for her spirits 
 had been unusually high all the evening. 
 
 "I would have taken Milly with me in my 
 studies," pursued Hortense. " At this moment 
 I am deep in Sanskrit " 
 
 Here there was a general outbreak. Milly 
 gave a little shriek of horror ; Charley Thorne 
 groaned ; and Halford could not keep from 
 laughter at the idea of poor little Milly doomed 
 to Sanskrit. But Hortense pursued her theme 
 composedly, and Halford drew a pencil and pa-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 89 
 
 per toward him, and made a sketch of Milly 
 trying to study a Sanskrit manuscript, which de 
 lighted Mrs. Remscn beyond measure. 
 
 "You have studied the Eastern languages, 
 Mr. Halford ?" continued Mrs. Maynard. " You 
 know how delightful the labor is a positive rec 
 reation to a well-disciplined mind." 
 
 "I have battered my head a little against 
 Arabic," he replied ; " but I am afraid that my 
 mind is not in a proper state of discipline, for 
 I found it terrible work." 
 
 Milly laughed, and Hortense shook her head 
 again. 
 
 "Why will all men, even wise ones, students 
 like yourself, encourage the frivolity of the wom 
 en of this age by such remarks!" sighed she. 
 
 " You speak as if you belonged to some oth 
 er century," said her mother. 
 
 "I feel sometimes as if I did, mamma; at 
 least, I am glad that I find something in this 
 to occupy my powers." 
 
 At this juncture Charley Thome managed to 
 get near Milly again ; and, as Mrs. Remsen had 
 no mind that he should distress the child at 
 present by an untimely disclosure of his pas 
 sion, she was obliged to leave Halford to Hor- 
 tense's tender mercies, while she went to pro 
 tect her niece. The two youths, who had been 
 undergoing a voluntary and embarrassed ban 
 ishment at the piano ever since Milly deserted 
 it, were called out by the hostess, and she as 
 sisted Milly to keep the conversation general 
 among their group. All Charley Thorne could 
 do was to sigh prodigiously, and nibble so reck 
 lessly at the fingers of his gloves that Mrs. 
 Remsen longed to tell him he would bring on 
 an attack of indigestion. Milly was really and 
 truly quite unconscious of his deplorable state, 
 and teased him, as she had always been in the 
 habit of doing, until he turned misanthropical, 
 and took refuge in " Owen Meredith." He an 
 nounced, suddenly, that the Queen of the Ser 
 pents was a truthful picture of woman, and only 
 frowned and tried to look as much as possible 
 like Lester Wallack in "The Stranger," when 
 Milly laughed, and his two male friends fullow- 
 ed her example. 
 
 "It must be dyspepsia," Milly said; and 
 Charley half rose to his feet, meaning to depart ; 
 but the idea of leaving Halford master of the 
 field was more than he could endure, so down 
 lie sat again. Even the sight of his gorgeous 
 new shirt-studs, that shook under the tremen 
 dous sigh he gave, did not console him. 
 
 "You don't treat me well," he moaned; 
 " and it's too bad when I've known you all my 
 life ; and to slight me without any reason." 
 
 "You always quarrel with me nowadays," 
 replied Milly ; " and you're not half so nice 
 as you were once. It all comes of that set of 
 young men you go with so much. But there's 
 Cajsar offering you tea. Will you have a cup ?" 
 
 But Charley waved off the elegant coffee-col 
 ored servant and his tray with a tragic gesture. 
 
 "I'd take some if it was poison,'' he said, 
 dolefully. 
 
 "It's good Orange Pekoe," returned Milly ; 
 "and I wish you would give me a cup. Put 
 but one lump of sugar in it, and oh, you've 
 ruined it with milk!" 
 
 For Charley had seized the jug and trans 
 formed the dish of tea into a, white pool, with 
 one reckless dash. 
 
 " I never can do any thing right !" he sighed. 
 . " Now you must drink it," said Milly, severe 
 ly ; " we can't have cups of tea wasted in these 
 expensive days." 
 
 "But I don't like tea; I never touch it," 
 pleaded the poor boy. 
 
 " So much the more reason why you should 
 drink every drop. I dare say it will be your 
 first attempt at penance. Now don't hesitate; 
 it will only get cold and taste the worse.". 
 
 "And I hate it with milk," urged Charley. 
 
 " I am very glad of it," replied pitiless Milly ; 
 " another time you'll not deluge my cup when 
 I don't like it, either. Now drink it at once, 
 without any more words. Aunty is looking at 
 you ! She is very peculiar about certain things, 
 and nothing vexes her so much as to see peo 
 ple waste her Orange Pekoe." 
 
 Halford, sitting near enough to catch the dia 
 logue through the monotonous hum of Mrs. 
 Maynard's voice, smiled at Milly's nonsense, 
 and the unconscious way in which she display 
 ed the feline instincts of her sex by tormenting 
 her victim. . Luckily, he thought, she was still 
 a kitten, and the velvet paws gave no vicious 
 scratches. . 
 
 "I'll not have you tease Charley Thorne," 
 Mrs. Remsen said, coming up at the instant 
 that Milly was sternly ordering him to swallow 
 the nauseous draught. " Mr. Carrolton wants 
 you to sing, Milly. I shall stay here and pro 
 tect you, Charley, from such treatment," she 
 added, by her frank manner making the miser 
 able youth feel younger and more helpless than 
 ever, 
 
 "I doubt my having a suspicion of a voice," 
 M illy said, rising, as the Carrolton youth am 
 bled up. There is no other word which ex 
 presses the peculiar style of ' locomotion' which 
 the youth of Gotham invariably affect. " I 
 will do my best, though. What shall it be ?" 
 
 She looked at Halford rather than at the per 
 son whom she addressed ; and as Mr. Carrol 
 ton seemed incapable of any thing beyond twirl 
 ing his watch-chain and swaying gracefully 
 back and forth on his heels and toes, that gen 
 tleman begged for "TheKingofThule." Milly 
 sang it exquisitely. Her voice was not very 
 powerful, but thoroughly cultivated, and her 
 taste perfect ; and there was, too, that pathetic 
 ring which one often hears and wonders at in 
 the voices of young girls sometimes almost 
 saddening one by the thought that it is like a. 
 premonition of experiences still undreamed of, 
 which shall yet render that piteous tremor a 
 settled and ordinary tone. 
 
 Some such fancy occurred to Halford as he 
 listened ; but he said to himself that in Milly's 
 case the fear should never be realized ; it
 
 90 
 
 JOHN WOETHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 should be his care to prevent this ; for though, 
 when these weeks began, he had no thought 
 how far they would lead him, he had no mind 
 to regret their course as he looked back. This 
 child possessed an absolute fascination for him. 
 There was a rest and peace in the idea of win 
 ning her love sweeter than any sentiment which 
 had touched him for many a day.' He did not 
 perceive the leaven of masculine arrogance and 
 selfishness in his reflections. That any trouble 
 could ever come to her through him did not oc 
 cur to his mind. That this very love which it 
 pleased him to see so unconsciously taking a 
 deeper hold upon her heart might transform 
 her from a child into a woman, was a fact which 
 he forgot likewise, as the wisest of us overlook 
 truths which concern ourselves, though they 
 would be plain enough to us in the case of an 
 other. 
 
 Charley Thome looked and listened too, and 
 indulged in his own little attempts at sentiment 
 and reflection ; but his mood was by no means 
 so tranquil as Halford's. He had three minds 
 to make a confidante of Mrs. Remsen on the 
 spot ; but that astute lady perceived his desire, 
 and took measures to prevent its expression. 
 When the time came that Milly was actually 
 engaged, she would play the part of consoler 
 to Charley with great satisfaction, and do her 
 best to teach Maud to help in the charitable 
 work of soothing his wounds ; but at present 
 any confession would be an embarrassment, 
 since she could not positively affirm that Milly 
 was out of his reach. So she kept up an an 
 imated conversation upon such subjects as he 
 could best talk about his wonderful breed of 
 dogs his horses his genius for billiards his 
 athletic feats at the gymnasium. And even af 
 ter Milly had left the piano, she contrived art 
 fully to keep the wretched boy from the tete-a- 
 tete he desired. 
 
 Except to him, the evening was not an un 
 pleasant one, for Hortense Maynard was obliged 
 to leave before she had utterly reduced Halford 
 to a state of coma by her long words and elo 
 quent periods. One of the youths accompanied 
 her for the express pleasure of attending on a 
 pretty woman. But he was sorely punished for 
 the weakness by what he endured at the learned 
 party. Charley Thome told Milly afterward 
 that the unfortunate wretch was ill for a week 
 in consequence of the sufferings of that night, 
 and he vowed to Charley that henceforth, to 
 the day of his death, he would never so much 
 as read a newspaper, and had burned every 
 thing he owned in the shape of books as soon 
 as he reached home, while the memory of his 
 wrongs was fresh in his mind. 
 
 It was soon time for every body to go, and 
 Halford set the younger men the example by 
 rising to take leave. Charley Thorne would 
 have sat there till daylight at least, he told 
 himself that he would sooner than leave Hal- 
 ford to profit by his departure ; but under pres 
 ent circumstances he could do nothing but fol 
 low in the wake of the others. He made his 
 
 farewells lugubrious in the extreme ; but his 
 misery, deep as it was, would have been in 
 creased tenfold had he dreamed that Milly did 
 not hear a word that he said, in the pleasant 
 confusion which Halford's parting sentences 
 created in her mind. 
 
 Poor Charley was any thing but an agreeable 
 companion to his friend after Halford left them: 
 he loathed the idea of billiards, treated with 
 contempt the proposal of broiled oysters and a 
 bird at Delmonico's, and scouted with still more 
 scorn the idea of lounging into the club and 
 finding out what the other fellows were at. 
 
 "No, no, Jack," cried he; "there's a a 
 what-you-call-it between us a gulf a desert, 
 you know!" 
 
 " I don't know," retorted Jack, naturally a 
 little nettled in spite of his good temper by the 
 contempt which his friendly proposals had met 
 with from his chosen comrade. " I've crossed 
 the Desert of Sahara, and I've been up the Ar 
 chipelago no, the Bosporus ; but never mind 
 and I'm blessed if I understand what you're 
 driving at, old man, or what's huffed you." 
 
 "I'm not huffed," moaned Charley. "I'm 
 but never mind, Jack ; you wouldn't under 
 stand." 
 
 "Now see here, Charley," returned the oth 
 er, "you've been regularly knocked off your 
 perch lately. You just come along with me to 
 Delmonico's, and let's have it out over a bot 
 tle of Rudesheim and a broiled bone or some 
 thing. Now we've been pals too long for us to 
 fight shy of each other ; so come along." 
 
 The youth's brain was not immense, nor his 
 slang very intelligible, but he meant, perhaps, 
 more kindly than a superior animal would have 
 done. Charley allowed himself to be persuad 
 ed, though he did not disclose his secret even 
 to the faithful Jack he could not do that but 
 he managed to ' pick a bone,' and ' get outside ' 
 of a flask of wine to employ the elegant ex 
 pressions of the youth of our day, and felt re 
 lieved, momentarily, by the performance. 
 
 The Lenten weeks drifted on, and Easter 
 came the most beautiful Easter, Milly thought, 
 that had ever gladdened the earth. Two or 
 three days afterward there was a little break in 
 her dream Kenneth Halford was obliged to go 
 to Baltimore for a time. But Milly was not 
 unhappy or restless ; only, instead of being an 
 affair of each moment, her happiness was made 
 up of memory and anticipation. 
 
 The night before his departure Halford was 
 at the house. There was no opportunity to 
 have much private talk with Milly, for there 
 were two or three people present. But he was 
 not sorry for that ; he meant fully to speak the 
 words which he had promised himself to utter ; 
 but he was, unconsciously, somewhat selfish in 
 his new contentment, and had no mind to break 
 the silence until his return. He wanted Milly 
 to miss him ; she was not half enough aware of 
 the secret which he read so plainly in her face. 
 This week of loneliness would show her plainly 
 whither her heart had strayed, and her joy at
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 91 
 
 seeing him again add to the pleasure of the 
 avowal he should then utter. 
 
 Milly was sorry to have him go, but she had 
 not thought enough to expect a declaration ; 
 and his manner was too kind and tender up to 
 the last for any feeling of disappointment to 
 trouble her. 
 
 "You will be sure to miss me?" he said, as 
 he stood beside her at the piano during the 
 latter part of the evening. She had been sing 
 ing, and he thought that he had never heard 
 any thing half so sweet as the ringing tones of 
 her fresh young voice. "You will be sure to 
 miss me?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; I shall have to walk alone or with 
 Maud," she said, woman enough to try for any 
 subterfuge that should keep her words from be 
 coming too earnest. 
 
 "What a selfish little Miss Milly!" he whis 
 pered. 
 
 "Indeed, indeed, I am not," she said, eager 
 ly, so moved by his laughing reproach that she 
 forgot her evasions. "I shall miss you very 
 much you have been so kind." 
 
 "To myself," he replied. "And you'll be 
 glad to have me come back promise!" 
 
 "I do promise," she said, rather unsteadily, 
 letting her fingers stray softly over the keys. 
 
 " Say it in so many words you will be glad," 
 he urged. 
 
 "I shall be very glad," she answered, almost 
 inaudibly. 
 
 " The week will seem a thousand years long 
 to me," he said. 
 
 Just then some wretch approached the instru 
 ment, and there was no opportunity for further 
 conversation. Halford perceived that these 
 weeks had drawn him on further and more rap 
 idly than he had meant so soon to go ; but he 
 could not be sorry. Life could offer nothing 
 brighter than the love of this beautiful child 
 no higher pleasure than to watch the develop 
 ment of her mind and heart. He was more 
 satisfied with existence than he had been in 
 years, and rather wondered at his own capa 
 bilities for enjoyment as he looked back over 
 the past month. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Remsen came up and spoke 
 to him. He had promised to attend to some 
 business for her in Baltimore, and she wanted 
 to give him the necessary papers and direc 
 tions. 
 
 "I am ashamed to bother you," she said; 
 " but as you kindly offered to save me the trou 
 ble, perhaps, of a journey " 
 
 " It will be a pleasure to oblige you," he an 
 swered, as she left her speech unfinished, as 
 people do about half their sentences in real life. 
 
 " I have written out plainly all that is nec 
 essary to do," she continued, "and will send 
 you the letter and papers to-morrow." 
 
 "But I leave by the early train," he replied. 
 "You must give them to me to-night." 
 
 " Then, as there is no one here with whom I 
 need stand on ceremony, if you will come into 
 the other room, you shall have them," she said. 
 
 So he followed her ; and, after the business 
 matter was arranged, they still stood talking for 
 a few moments. 
 
 "You will only be gone a week?" she ask 
 ed. 
 
 " Not longer," he answered, rather absently. 
 He was thinking that, though he could afford 
 to please himself where Milly was concerned 
 by not putting his intentions into words till af 
 ter his return, he had no right to exercise the 
 same reticence toward Mrs. liemsen. To speak 
 even vaguely would settle his fate at once ; 
 but the thought was not unpleasant. He said 
 to himself again that life had nothing pleasant- 
 er or brighter than the chance of taking into his 
 own guardianship this girl-heart, and teaching 
 it to throb and glow into a woman's power of 
 affection, while still preserving all the freshness 
 and innocence that it possessed in this season 
 of girlish dreams. 
 
 "We shall be glad to have you back," Mrs. 
 Remsen said, graciously, breaking in upon his 
 thought. 
 
 "Thanks ; you are very good. I hope, though 
 it is not very long since we renewed our ac 
 quaintance, you have learned to consider me an 
 old friend and to like me a little ?" 
 
 "Indeed I have, Mr. Halford." 
 
 " And to trust me ?" he asked, smiling. 
 
 "I have proved it," she replied, with an an 
 swering smile, which told him she had been by 
 no means blind or unobservant during these 
 weeks which had been allowed to take their 
 course unchecked. 
 
 "And I shall try to be worthy of it," he 
 said, earnestly. 
 
 " You don't need to tell me that, Mr. Hal- 
 ford." 
 
 " When I come back, I shall have a favor to 
 ask of you. I think you know what it will 
 be!" 
 
 1 "I will tell you when you come to ask it," 
 she replied, pleasantly. 
 
 " I want to steal the very prettiest of your 
 treasures," he said. "I want you to give me 
 your little Rose-bud." 
 
 " But the favor will not be for me to grant ; 
 you will have to ask in another quarter," she 
 said, not affecting the slightest surprise, for she 
 knew the man well enough to be certain that 
 any such common feminine artifice would an 
 noy him, and, perhaps, rouse suspicions in his 
 mind that he had been angled for and led on 
 to this moment. 
 
 " I have not spoken ; you may be sure I 
 would not until I had your permission," he re 
 plied. 
 
 "At least you have that," she said ; and her 
 heart swelled high with gratified vanity and 
 pride, though, to do her justice, there was a 
 better feeling mingled she rejoiced honestly 
 in the prospect of Milly's happiness. 
 
 "Of course, I can't be certain what my fate 
 will be," he continued ; " and I have a fancy 
 to leave it undecided till my return." 
 
 "You must choose for yourself; I've nothing
 
 92 
 
 JOHN WORTHIXGTON'S NAME. 
 
 to do with the time or reasons," she said. "I 
 don't think I need to tell you, Mr. Halford, that 
 no word of explanation has passed between Mil 
 ly and myself. I really believe she is not con 
 scious what it is has made her so happy during 
 these weeks. She's an odd compound artless 
 as a child, but with a heart that any man might 
 be proud to win." 
 
 " And if I find I have won it, she shall be a 
 happy woman," he answered, with the self-con 
 fidence only too common with all of us. 
 
 "I am certain of it. Yon shall have her 
 without a scruple or fear on my part, Mr. Hal- 
 ford." 
 
 "Then we will leave every thing just as it is 
 tintil my return," he said, " I want her to find 
 out that she misses me ; I do think she will." 
 
 " I fancy there is little doubt of it, you have 
 been making such a little princess of her all 
 these weeks. Certainly I shall give her no 
 hint of this conversation ; I have left her to her 
 self, and shall continue to. I did it because I 
 knew the man with whom I had to deal, not be 
 cause I am a careless or unobservant guardian." 
 
 " And I thank YOU for vour confidence in 
 me." 
 
 " So this ends all we need say about the mat 
 ter at present. I suppose I must go back to 
 those people." 
 
 He put into his breast pocket the papers 
 which she had laid on the table, and followed 
 her back to the drawing-room. Mrs. Remsen 
 was a proud and triumphant woman, but she 
 gave no sign ; she was too acute for any such 
 weakness. Perhaps there was an added cordi 
 ality in her manner to every body ; she really 
 felt amicably disposed toward the whole world. 
 
 The time for leave-takings arrived, and Hal- 
 ford had only space for a few whispered words 
 to Milly. 
 
 " You will not forget your promise ?" 
 
 " I shall not forget." 
 
 "It is not good-bye, you know, though it 
 seems a long time." 
 
 He held her hand for an instant in his own, 
 made her heart throb tumultuously by the ear 
 nest look in his eyes then he was gone. 
 
 As soon as she could, Milly ran away to her 
 own room, that she might be alone with her de 
 licious fancies, free to listen to the voice in her 
 soul, which sounded more sweet than the song 
 of a Southern bird. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " IXTO THE MAGIC REALM." 
 
 THE week of Kenneth Halford's absence got 
 by, but the waiting had not seemed very long 
 to Milly, for constant reminders came to assure 
 her that he by no means forgot their acquaint 
 ance Milly called it that to herself, and had 
 grown conscious enough to blush a little as she 
 did so in the engrossing cares of the business 
 which had caused his departure. Bouquets of 
 
 choice flowers, for which he had left an unlim 
 ited order, reached her daily ; he sent such 
 books as he chanced to read and like, and there 
 were occasionally marginal notes on the pages 
 in his writing. Even a few tiny billets came, 
 also, inclosed in certain epistles to her aunt, 
 which were rendered necessary by the affairs 
 he was arranging for her. All these things 
 were trifles, perhaps, but they served to keep 
 up the brightness of her dream undisturbed. 
 
 The week ended, but he was not able to re 
 turn on the day he had appointed ; forty- eight 
 hours more absolutely went by, and their length 
 roused Milly at last to a full perception of tlic 
 new world into which her heart had strayed. 
 She was almost frightened at first, ready to re 
 proach herself as unfeminine and bold, and shed 
 a few tears in the solitude of her chamber. 
 Finally, she opened the box in which she treas 
 ured his notes, read them again, went back in 
 fancy over the events of those charming weeks, 
 and by the time her reverie ended, the fear, the 
 sense of shame, were forgotten in the delicious 
 thrill which stirred her soul to its inmost depths. 
 
 The night after was Mrs. Lawrence's ball, the 
 very last of the season ; for on the next day but 
 one Lent would begin. Halford wrote Mrs. 
 Remsen that he should certainly be back for 
 that occasion, and begged, as the greatest pos 
 sible favor, that Milly would keep her first red- 
 owa for him he deserved so much show of 
 consideration after his banishment. Mrs. Rem 
 sen gave the letter to Milly without any re 
 mark, apparently unconscious that the half-jest 
 ing lines were more than a bit of ordinary gal 
 lantry. In all this time, never, by word or 
 look, had the wily matron betrayed the least 
 knowledge that Halford's attentions to her niece 
 had any special meaning ; and though she talk 
 ed of him frequently, and lauded him to the 
 skies, she appeared to consider his friendship 
 as belonging to her rather than Milly. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen and her niece were very late 
 in ai.lving at the- ball; in fact, Milly began to 
 despair of ever getting there; and, though she 
 said not a word, Mrs. Remsen was almost as 
 impatient as her niece of the delay. But one 
 of the children chose this opportunity to indulge 
 in an attack of earache just as they were dress 
 ing, and could not, of course, be left until rem 
 edies had been found to soothe her pain. She 
 must have Milly by her, too ; lay her poor little 
 head on Milly's lap, and be coaxed and com 
 forted by her alone. The girl bore the wait 
 ing wonderfully well, not evincing the least 
 show of impatience, even sitting by the child 
 after the pain had ceased, and lulling her to 
 sleep with the strains of a quaint old melody 
 made doubly sweet by her fresh young voice. 
 Mrs. Remsen more than ever inclined to be 
 fond of her niece during these days said to 
 herself that this certainly was the most charm 
 ing creature that ever existed, and was delight 
 ed to find that she looked prettier than ever in 
 the new dress which had been prepared for this 
 important occasion.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 93 
 
 But late as it was when they entered Mrs. 
 Lawrence's rooms, Halford had not appeared, 
 and Mrs. Remsen half feared that the new gown 
 would prove a useless expense. Somehow, dis 
 appointed as she was, Mill}' could not help feel 
 ing certain that he would arrive before the night 
 was over ; and this inward assurance kept her 
 in a state of pleasurable restlessness which 
 only heightened the bloom on her cheeks, and 
 added a new brilliancy to her eyes. She was 
 beset by partners, poor Charley Thorne the most 
 persistent, of course ; but, though she gave him 
 and others galops, and even stupid quadrilles, in 
 abundance, nothing could induce her to a red- 
 owa, even Strauss's loveliest waltzes; and at 
 last her cruel refusals quickened Charley's jeal 
 ous mind into a suspicion of the cause. 
 
 "I know," he whispered, going up to her at 
 the close of a dance during which he had watch 
 ed her from a distance with a bitter envy of the 
 man who happened to have the bliss of support 
 ing her, "I know why you have refused every 
 valse." 
 
 "Do you?" returned Milly, fanning herself, 
 anxious to make it appear that it was the heat, 
 and not his question, which deepened her color. 
 "Well, why shouldn't I be capricious the same 
 as other people ?" 
 
 "You've promised not to vaZse with any body 
 while that man is gone," asserted Charley; 
 and his angry tone made the innocent appella 
 tion sound more like an opprobrious epithet 
 than the general term applied to the male spe 
 cies of humanity. 
 
 "I remember giving you at least half a doz 
 en valses last week," said Milly ; " and I think 
 you are very rude." 
 
 " I didn't mean to be," replied Charley, 
 growing humble at once, not so much from hon 
 est contrition as because he feared that, if he 
 did not attempt a show of it, she would treat 
 him to cold looks for the rest of the night. 
 "But it's awful to think that's the reason, and 
 it makes me wretched." 
 
 " Then I would advise you not to think of it," 
 said Milly, with a dignity quite overwhelming. 
 "You always quarrel with me nowadays, and 
 I shall end by not liking you a bit unless you 
 stop this absurd way of talking." 
 
 "Oh!" gasped Charley, catching the lapels 
 of his coat in both hands, as if to hold himself 
 up. 
 
 "Yes, indeed. Now don't talk any more 
 nonsense, and I'll walk the next quadrille with 
 you. I am sure I don't know why you are so 
 ill-tempered all the time, and it annoys me very 
 much ; so I wish you would stop it." 
 
 "If you'd only be as you used !" sighed Char 
 ley. 
 
 "Oh deaT, you have told me that so often 
 as if I had lately turned into ti Gorgon, or some 
 thing else dreadful !" said Milly. 
 
 "I don't mean your looks," Charley began ; 
 but she would not listen. 
 
 "I shall send you away if you don't stop this 
 instant ; my aunt would be angry if she heard 
 
 you," menaced Milly; so he had to content 
 himself with looking as gloomy as his youthful 
 face could manage. 
 
 The evening flew on, supper-time came and 
 passed, and still Halford did not appear. Mil- 
 ly's pleasant anticipations began to fade ; she 
 was vexed at herself for having expected him. 
 The ball, after having been so agreeable, sud 
 denly appeared tiresome, and she almost wish 
 ed that her aunt would signify her desire to de 
 part. She had just finished a tedious quadrille 
 with an elderly beau who still ranked himself 
 among the dancing men ; he was leading her 
 back to her aunt, when, as Milly raised her eyes, 
 she saw Kenneth Halford standing by that lady. 
 She was near the doors into the passage she 
 did not wait to think that Halford. might have 
 seen her she made some rapid excuse to her 
 partner, and darted away up the stairs, anxious 
 only to escape for a few moments before meet 
 ing him. 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence's house was an immense one, 
 divided in the middle by a great corridor, and 
 besides the suite of drawing-rooms (situated on 
 the ground-floor, after the arrangement in most 
 New York houses) there was a succession of 
 pretty apartments on the upper story, always 
 thrown open for the convenience of such elder 
 ly people as preferred whist or conversation to 
 dancing, and ending in the prettiest little bou 
 doir imaginable. Milly passed through the first 
 card-room, where turbaned dowagers and an 
 cient masculines squabbled over the card-ta 
 bles, and on into the second, which chanced to 
 be empty. She sank down into a seat in the 
 corner, and, catching sight of her face in a mir 
 ror, Avas startled by its color ; but, before she 
 had time to confuse herself with further thought, 
 the draperies were flung back from the door 
 way, Kenneth JIalford entered, looked eagerly 
 about, and, catching a glimpse of her in her 
 retreat, hurried forward with words of delight, 
 which caused poor Milly's heart to flutter more 
 helplessly than ever. 
 
 " I have been looking everywhere for you," 
 Jhe said. "Didn't you sec me? Why did you 
 run away ?" 
 
 "I I was tired ; I came up here to rest for 
 a moment," Milly said. 
 
 "And aren't you in the least glad to seo 
 me ?" he asked, though to a man of his years 
 and experience the question was unnecessary. 
 "Won't you say a single word ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I am glad," returned Milly, try 
 ing to speak carelessly. "We had given you 
 up, it is so very late ; but I suppose you forgot 
 about the ball dining with friends or some 
 thing." 
 
 "I have only just had time to dress and get 
 here," he replied. "Late as it was, I deter 
 mined to come ; but, if you are not glad to see 
 me, I might as well have staid away." 
 
 Milly had risen as if to go down stairs, but 
 he drew her hand through his arm, feeling it 
 tremble under his touch, and led her on into 
 the little boudoir, letting the draperies fall back
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 over the entrance, so that they were concealed 
 from the view of any person entering the outer 
 rooms. 
 
 "Do come in and sit down," he said. "It 
 is cool and pleasant here, and you must need 
 a breath of fresh air after the heat down stairs." 
 
 "No, lam not in the least tired," she an 
 swered, forgetful of the declaration she had 
 made a moment before. "Besides, I remem 
 ber now, I promised the next dance to Mr. 
 Thorne, and I must not hide myself." 
 
 "Sit down just for one minute," pleaded 
 Halford. 
 
 Milly still hesitated. She was so troubled 
 by the inexplicable nature of her own feelings 
 that she felt almost afraid of him, and her very 
 agitation annoyed her into a sort of vexation 
 toward herself and him. 
 
 "Just one moment; it's not much, when I 
 have been away so long," he said. 
 
 She allowed him to lead her to a seat, turn 
 ed half pettishly, half timidly away, and began 
 pulling her bouquet to pieces as carelessly as if 
 the violets had been found under a hedge for 
 the picking, instead of having drawn a large 
 bank-note out of poor Charley Thome's pocket, 
 unaware, as he was, in his youthful inexperi 
 ence, that his offering gifts and attentions, and 
 showing himself ready to play Sir Walter Ra 
 leigh, if necessary, that she might keep her lit 
 tle feet unsullied, would -never win from her 
 more than a few capricious smiles when there 
 was no more important person at hand. 
 
 Kenneth Halford stood watching her, think 
 ing how pretty she looked, how useless it was 
 for her to attempt this show of indifference, and 
 how bewitching she was altogether, with her 
 whole face gaining a new depth of expression 
 under these first struggles of her girlish heart. 
 
 "Won't you speak at all to me ?" he asked. 
 " I had been flattering myself that you would 
 be pleased to see me come back, and now you 
 receive me as if I was your deadliest foe. At 
 least, if you are angry, tell me what I have 
 done." 
 
 "I am not angry," she said, flinging away 
 half a dozen more violets. " But but I came 
 up to rest, and you came in so suddenly ! " 
 
 "When I hurried back on purpose to see you 
 to-night ! What a silly animal I was I actu 
 ally thought you in earnest when you asked me 
 to be here for this ball ! But you show plain 
 ly that I might as well be at the North Pole, for 
 any thing you would care !" 
 
 "I said I was glad," she replied. 
 
 " Oh yes ; but you'll not talk ; you'll not look 
 at me!" 
 
 "I am talking now, and I am looking at 
 you," returned she, attempting that last effort 
 as she spoke ; but the little coquettish effort at 
 composure which would have been easy enough 
 to an older woman was a pretty failure. Mil- 
 ly's voice faltered, and her eyes sank shyly be 
 neath his, while her dainty fingers again work 
 ed sad havoc among the odorous blossoms they 
 held. 
 
 " Did Charley Thorne send you that bou 
 quet ?" he asked. 
 
 "It doesn't make any difference who sent 
 it," said she, so near crying outright from her 
 varied emotions anger at her own absurd be 
 havior among them that she was obliged to 
 take refuge in rather sharp speeches. "Any 
 way, I have three more lovely ones at home." 
 
 " What an overflow of wasted adoration that 
 implies," said Halford, smiling; for her shy 
 ness, her little attempts at dignity, her pettish 
 voice, were all incense to his masculine vanity. 
 " Poor flowers, luckless swains ! But really, 
 my dear child, if you don't stop tearing this to 
 pieces so recklessly, you will have to send home 
 for one of the neglected offerings." 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't call me child, Mr. Hal- 
 ford," returned Milly, gladly rushing into any 
 pretense for anger. "Because you know my 
 aunt so well is not a reason for addressing me 
 like that ; and I don't like it. I'm sure you're 
 quite acquainted with my name." 
 
 " I know your first name best of any," he 
 answered, his voice sinking lower ; "I ought, in 
 deed Milly ! Why, it has been the last thought 
 in my mind each night of this cruel absence 
 like a prayer ! Milly such a sweet name ! " 
 
 Milly's devastating hands paused in their cru 
 el work ; the lids drooped over the blue eyes, 
 and her head sank a little lower. 
 
 "You know what I meant," she said, rather 
 indistinctly. 
 
 "Then you'll not let me call you Milly? 
 You'll not be friends ?" he asked. 
 
 She turned her head still more away ; and 
 as he repeated his question, he bent so near, 
 trying to look in her face, the flowers in her 
 hair touched his forehead. 
 
 "I thought we were very good friends," she 
 said, managing to keep her voice tolerably 
 steady, and her tell-tale eyes hidden. 
 
 "One is good friends with all the world," 
 returned he, in a disappointed, injured tone ; 
 " that phrase doesn't mean any thing. But to 
 night you are not even friendly with me ; you 
 don't so much as give me a flower ; you'll not 
 say you remembered to keep even one dance 
 for me !" 
 
 " Was it my fault that you came so late ?" 
 cried Milly, with incautious haste. "And ev 
 ery body teasing me to dance ; and I hate to 
 have any body put me in an absurd position !" 
 
 "Oh, Milly, Milly, how can you say such 
 dreadful things ?" 
 
 She had said more than she intended, but 
 not in the sense he meant. She was afraid that 
 she had betrayed the real cause of her agitation 
 the flutter and dizziness which she had tried 
 to hide under capricious speeches and pettish 
 waywardness poor little girl ! As if the real 
 cause had not been apparent to him from the 
 first! 
 
 "Any-way, it is very wrong of me to stay 
 here so long," she added. "I was engaged to 
 Mr. Thorne for the galop ; it is perfectly shame 
 ful to treat people so rudely ! You made me
 
 JOHN WOETHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 95 
 
 do it, Mr. Halford ; you know you did ; it is 
 all your fault! But I'll go back this minute, 
 and say how sorry I am." 
 
 Kenneth Halford's detaining hand was laid 
 lightly on her little fingers, but, somehow, that 
 gentle touch detained her as effectually as the 
 strongest of fetters could have done. 
 
 " You won't go away angry with me, Milly 
 you won't leave me like this ?" 
 
 She began to tremble beneath that thrilling 
 whisper ; she forgot Charley Thorne and his 
 wrongs, Alice Marchmont's stormy dark eyes, 
 the ball, and every thing connected with it, as 
 completely as if they had all been worlds away. 
 The music surging up into the half-lighted bou 
 doir only sounded like the echo of the melody 
 sounding so loudly in her heart. Then it was 
 that, under the influence of the delicious mo 
 ment, and the new beauty which her sweet 
 trouble woke in Milly's face, Halford was hur 
 ried on to speak the words which carried her 
 away into a new world words which came 
 from his heart, and were the utterances of real 
 affection, though it was the affection that a man 
 gives to a creature young and childish, finding 
 the sunshine in her eyes a pleasant contrast to 
 the shadows which haunted his older experi 
 ence and sterner life. 
 
 " You know that I love you, Milly," he said ; 
 " you know that you are more than all the world 
 to me ! Give me your dear little heart to 
 keep ; bring your brightness into my dull life ; 
 be my wife will you, Milly ? Oh, answer ! 
 Don't look away from me, little one say that 
 you will come to me !" 
 
 Milly could not speak ; her two hands were 
 clasped in his, her eyes drooped under his eager 
 gaze, and poor Charley Thome's violets rolled 
 away unheeded over the carpet just as the in 
 cense of his youthful adoration would now pass 
 forever out of her existence, along with the 
 thousand other trifles which had contented her 
 before this bewildering vision came. 
 
 "You don't speak you don't answer me, 
 Milly ! Surely you know that I love you ? I 
 did not know how dearly myself until now ! 
 You will not send me away ? You can not 
 dream how desolate and lonely my life has 
 been ! Say that you will bring your sunshine 
 into it, and give it a brightness and warmth that, 
 till I knew you, seemed gone out of it forever." 
 
 It was certain that he had no need of words. 
 Those quivering hands nestled in his own, the 
 absolute glory of those girlish eyes lifted timid 
 ly to his for a moment, was answer enough ; 
 but the man's nature could not be content un 
 til he should have a complete avowal of his tri 
 umph. 
 
 "Just one word do you love me ?" 
 
 She could whisper it then just the one word 
 he demanded, faint and low, but fuller of con 
 viction than a whole volume would have been ; 
 and Kenneth Halford caught her for an instant 
 to his heart, exclaiming, 
 
 "My own darling all mine now ; my charge, 
 my happiness, henceforth. There shall no trou 
 
 ble come near you, Milly ; the fairy stories you 
 used to read shall not be brighter than your life, 
 my Milly," he whispered, "my little one all 
 my own !" 
 
 Still the same tone of triumph mingling with 
 his real feelings the thought that he had gain 
 ed the treasure which would bring to him the 
 charm now wanting in his existence a love 
 which would live upon his smile, and grow into 
 worship in return for his tenderness. She was 
 all his, to minister to him alone, to be his song 
 bird, his plaything, content to nestle peacefully 
 among the outer folds of his heart, and have no 
 conception of the inner depths that remained 
 undisturbed. 
 
 "Are you happy, Milly ? Are you content ? 
 Have you loved me have you dreamed of this 
 dear time ?" 
 
 Still determined to probe her very soul, and 
 bring out its holiest secrets as an incense at his 
 shrine ; and all the while, in spite of his man 
 ly sense and true worth, so hopelessly uncon 
 scious of his own selfishness. He repeated these 
 words again and again, until he forced an an 
 swer from her at last ; and out of her bewilder 
 ment Milly faltered, 
 
 " How could I allow myself to think of such 
 things how could I know that you cared for 
 me do any thing but blush at my unwomanli- 
 ness in in thinking of you at all ?" 
 
 "And you loved me, Milly ? Don't be afraid 
 of me ; surely you can speak openly now ; it is 
 only your own heart which hears you jours, 
 forever, Milly." 
 
 "I seem to have been living in a dream," 
 she answered, brokenly. " Oh, don't make me 
 talk of it I will tell you some time don't, 
 don't ask we now !" 
 
 " She hid her face in her hands, and at last 
 he remembered and pitied her confusion, leav 
 ing her time to be silent and recover her calm 
 ness, while he contented himself with kissing 
 her little cold hands, calling her by every ten 
 der, loving name, and promising every thing for 
 the future, as men rashly do at such times. 
 They were so completely out of sight in that 
 bay-window of the boudoir that it was some 
 time before Milly's recollection returned ; 
 then, though dizzy still with her great happi 
 ness, she could remember that .they were not 
 alone in some beautiful world, such as he had 
 been promising to create for her, and had de 
 scribed to her, with an extravagance of meta 
 phor which he would have been the first to 
 laugh at from the lips of another. 
 
 " It must be very late," she said. " Please 
 let me go to aunty." 
 
 " So soon you wish to leave me already ?" 
 
 " My aunt will want to go home." 
 
 But he could not let her go yet ; he must 
 hold her hands just an instant longer, and ex 
 ult at the happiness in her face. 
 
 " I shall tell your aunt very soon," he said, 
 " but not to-morrow. I must keep our secret 
 a little while yours and mine, darling it is 
 so very sweet."
 
 9C 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 Ah, the heavenly words their secret ! The 
 utterance seemed to make Milly's bliss bright 
 er and greater, if that were possible ; he could 
 see it in the sudden tremulousness of her smile. 
 
 "It is so delicious to say 'ours,' isn't it, Mil 
 ly ?" he whispered. "Little one, you don't 
 know how happy I am ; how my life expands 
 and blossoms under this new content. I did so 
 want to be loved not as women love who have 
 worn out all their freshness in the world, but 
 wholly, entirely, by a heart that had never 
 stirred at any human voice before." 
 
 She paused before him with a sweet gravity 
 which quite took the childishness out of her face 
 with a purpose and strength that were like a 
 premonition of the womanly soul which love 
 would rouse within her, saying, in a low voice, 
 that had lost its tremor, 
 
 " I will so love you I can so love you ; and 
 I thank the Heavenly Father that I am able ; 
 yes, I heartily thank him." 
 
 Perhaps, for a brief instant, it flashed upon 
 his mind how different a creature this girlish 
 being might become under the influence of his 
 affection flashed upon him and was forgotten, 
 because he liked best to keep her as she was 
 now, to be his sunbeam, his one flower, which 
 never gave out a tithe of its brightness and 
 sweetness save to him. 
 
 "My little Milly my darling !" 
 
 " I can't see all those people again I can't !" 
 she pleaded, shrinking timidly still from his em 
 brace. 
 
 " You shall not," he answered ; "they are not 
 worthy to look at the new beauty in your face. 
 I'll take you to the dressing-room ; then I'll find 
 your aunt, and see if she is ready to go." 
 
 He led her away, but detained her at the 
 door for another farewell. 
 
 " I must see you early to-morrow, Milly. 
 You haven't given up your early walks ?" 
 
 Milly had, since his departure ; he saw that 
 in her face. 
 
 "My precious child you'll let me call you 
 that now ?" 
 
 The words were too sweet for Milly to re 
 member her attempt at dignity when he had 
 first spoken them. 
 
 "But you'll go for a walk to-morrow? I 
 shall not even come to the house for you ; I 
 shall meet you, and it will be quite like a stolen 
 interview, Milly, since nobody knows our se 
 cret." 
 
 The little romance made the anticipation 
 doubly pleasant in Milly's mind, but she was so 
 fearful some one might come up that she beg 
 ged him to go away as soon as it had been ar 
 ranged in which direction her morning prom 
 enade was to lead her. But when he reached 
 the door, he looked back somehow the brief 
 parting appeared very long and on her saying 
 that her cloak had been thrown out of sight, 
 he hurried back to search for it, and whisper 
 farewell again. 
 
 He was gone at last, and Milly stood there, 
 unable to think, in the delicious whirl of her 
 
 senses, until she heard her aunt's step, and her 
 aunt's voice conversing with some acquaintance 
 also bent mantle and muffler-ward. They were 
 talking eagerly probably about somebody's 
 short-comings ; people arc seldom so earnest 
 about any thing else and Mrs. Remsen only 
 glanced at Milly in her white wrappings, and 
 said, 
 
 "So you are ready? Do just tell them to 
 look for my furs ; that's a dear child." 
 
 Then she and her companion resumed their 
 talk, continuing it as they passed down stairs, 
 greatly to Milly's relief, for she dreaded ques 
 tions as to the. cause of her disappearance from 
 the dancing-room, and was glad that her aunt's 
 quick eyes did not observe her face, for she felt 
 that it must be telling many things she did not 
 wish to speak. 
 
 Kenneth Halford was waiting for them in the 
 passage. Milly hardly dared to look at him. 
 As he helped her into the carriage, he found an 
 opportunity to whisper, 
 
 "To-morrow morning, remember." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen called, at the same instant, 
 
 "You must come and see us soon, Mr. Hal- 
 ford. I have had no time to thank you for 
 your kindness." 
 
 As if he were likely to forego any occasion 
 to present himself at the house ; at least, that 
 was the way in which Milly interpreted the 
 pressure he gave her little hand while he an 
 swered Mrs. Remsen. I dare say that was 
 what he meant, too ; entirely forgetting how 
 often he had neglected that privilege, allowing" 
 a game of billiai-ds or a dinner to detain him, 
 when he had thought how pleasantly Milly's 
 face always lighted up at the sight of him (what 
 a little darling she was altogether!), and had 
 determined to enjoy her society and pretty songs 
 during the evening. 
 
 The carriage drove off. Milly looked out as 
 long as she could see him standing on the steps 
 under the gas-light, then sank back in her seat, 
 only fearing that her aunt would be in a mood 
 for conversation, and so jar upon her dream. 
 But Mrs. Remsen only said, 
 
 "I really am too tired to talk ; don't expect 
 it, child." 
 
 Milly probably did not wish her aunt to suf 
 fer from fatigue, but was very glad that any 
 cause kept her silent, though she took half a 
 second, before going back to her vision, to pity 
 Aunt Eliza for having no bewildering reverie 
 to make her forget weariness nothing to think 
 of but a quantity of troublesome, commonplace 
 ideas her plans for her children her expenses 
 thoughts such worlds away from the girl's 
 dazzling fancies, that she quite pitied the mid 
 dle-aged lady. Probably Aunt Eliza knew 
 what had happened as well as if ample confes 
 sion had been made ; but there was a nice side 
 to her worldly nature ; she could understand 
 Milly's feelings enough to respect them, and 
 would disturb her by no show of consciousness 
 until the proper moment arrived. 
 
 As soon as they were safe in the house, Mil-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 97 
 
 ly ran up to her own room, where she and her 
 dreams would be secure from interruption. I 
 can not put the thoughts of those first hours 
 into words ; it would seem a positive sacrilege 
 to analyze and anatomize the emotions of that 
 fresh young heart, half frightened at its own 
 happiness. You can all look back and recall 
 a similar era in your lives; perhaps, in most 
 cases, it proved only a vision, ending in sor 
 row and darkness, or getting gradually worn 
 away in the hardening contact with the world ; 
 but at one time it appeared real and lasting as 
 eternity itself; and you have not forgotten 
 you can recollect how every thing shone in 
 the glorious light of its newness, and can pic 
 ture Milly's dream. 
 
 The next morning Milly went out to walk. 
 When she asked permission for it had never 
 been Milly's habit to announce her will after 
 the bluntness too common with girls of this 
 generation Aunt Eliza only said, 
 
 " It will do you good ; stay out in the air for 
 at least two hours." 
 
 She smiled to herself after the child had gone, 
 foreseeing just whom Milly would meet as plain 
 ly as if she had been endowed with the gift of 
 second-sight. Mrs. Remsen was in high good 
 humor with existence just now, and absolutely 
 enthusiastic in her affection for Milly. 
 
 It certainly happened that the yoijng lady 
 had not walked far when she met Kenneth Hal- 
 ford. She saw him long before he reached her 
 side ; and, after that first glance, was in a state 
 of such pleasurable agitation that she would 
 have been very glad to sit down. He saw her, 
 too, looking so pretty in her sober walking- 
 dress, with that thorough-bred air which it is 
 permitted to very few young girls to attain, her 
 pure forehead relieved by the masses of soft, 
 luxuriant hair; and he exulted at her loveli 
 ness. He hurried on to meet her, glad to find 
 that he still preserved the enthusiasm of the 
 previous evening well satisfied with himself 
 because he yet possessed the power of loving. 
 
 The first transports of the interview had to 
 pass quietly enough ; indeed, I fear that it is 
 only in plays any thing out of the common 
 order of affairs often happens ; but Halford 
 brought a new color to Milly's cheek by his 
 whispered questions. 
 
 " Had she regretted last night ? Did it seem 
 a dream still ?" 
 
 But they soon came down to a safer level 
 of conversation, considering their surroundings, 
 and Milly explained that her aunt had given 
 her a little errand to do. 
 
 "Further, perhaps, than you would care to 
 go," she said, with a smile of unbelief at her 
 own words. 
 
 "You suspicious, treacherous pigeon!" Hal- 
 ford replied. "You know you only say that for 
 the pleasure of hearing it contradicted." 
 
 Already he had invented a variety of non 
 sensical pet names for her ; and, in her igno 
 rance, she was pleased thereat, not perceiving 
 that even in this trifle he showed how young and 
 7 
 
 childish he considered her a creature to be 
 fondly loved and cherished, no doubt still, to 
 be looked upon as a child, and not in any way 
 to have a part in the graver emotions of his 
 life. 
 
 "Do you remember our first walk, Milly?" 
 he asked. " Had you thought then of the pos 
 sibility of our ever walking together like this?" 
 
 "Oh no, no how could I?" 
 
 " You wouldn't take my arm, and you blush 
 ed so beautifully when you explained the rea 
 son !" 
 
 "And I don't take it now," returned Milly, 
 triumphantly; but she blushed all the same. 
 
 " Tell me, when did you first begin to think ? 
 Ah, don't shrink away, don't be afraid !" 
 
 " I I haven't thought," Milly said, breath 
 lessly. ' ' Don't ask me questions please don't ! " 
 
 " Did you miss me ? Just tell me that !" 
 
 "Those last days when you staid away 
 longer than you intended " 
 
 "Then you found out that you cared a lit 
 tle ? My precious ! And were you disappoint 
 ed when you thought I should not come to the 
 ball ? Oh, Milly, who had my waltz ?" 
 
 Her indignant glance proved that the prom 
 ised dance had not been given to any other 
 mortal, though he had felt certain of this with 
 out asking. 
 
 "We are going to the opera to-night," Mil 
 ly said, getting away to a safer subject. " We 
 have Mrs. Lawrence's box to ourselves." 
 
 "I wish we were to have it to ourselves," re 
 turned Halford. 
 
 " Now don't say absurd things, because then 
 I look foolish," cried Milly; "and it is not 
 pleasant if one happens to meet people. My 
 aunt said at breakfast that we should want a 
 cavalier, and if she had thought she would have 
 asked you, but now she supposed she must send 
 for Cousin Moulson. I think it's really dreary 
 to be waited on by such a tiresome old man ; 
 he always smells of snuff." 
 
 "I suppose that is better, though, than the 
 odor of the cigars with which we of the young 
 er generation perfume ourselves," said Halford. 
 " But it would be a shame to confide you to 
 the tender mercies of that venerable party, and 
 have you run the risk of sneezing yourself to 
 death. Do you think, if I chanced to call at 
 just by accident " 
 
 "Oh, if you only will!'' exclaimed Milly, 
 ecstatically. "It's 'Favorita' to-night, and 
 then it would be perfect." 
 
 "But you must promise to sit back in the 
 box, so that a whole crowd of your adorers 
 won't see you and rush in." 
 
 "As if I had such things!" laughed Milly. 
 " Oh, don't deny it ! I am quite afraid that 
 you are a fearful little coquette!" 
 
 "No, Mr. Halford ; indeed, indeed I am 
 not." 
 
 " Well, well, you needn't be so earnest about 
 it, my little one as if I could say it serious 
 ly ! But you called me by a name that is riot 
 for your pretty lips."
 
 98 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "I am not accustomed to the other," she 
 said, shyly. 
 
 "Did you never even whisper it to yourself?" 
 he asked. "Oh, Milly, your name has grown 
 so familiar to me !" 
 
 " I am glad you will go," said Milly, be 
 coming a little nervous again at his earnestness, 
 and wishing to avoid the subject. 
 
 " Then you'll not answer my question ?" he 
 urged. 
 
 It was cruel of him to insist on such little 
 revelations while her happiness was so new. It 
 beti^yed the selfishness of a man's affection ; 
 for he never thought of her trouble in his desire 
 to satisfy that craving of his heart to be idolized 
 and worshiped like a Romney Leigh or a mod 
 ern Sir Launcelot. 
 
 "Please don't talk about it yet," she plead 
 ed. " I feel so strange, so awkward ; wait a 
 little Kenneth !" 
 
 He was gratified by her timid utterance of 
 his Christian name, and he saw by her face 
 how sorely she was disturbed, so had magna 
 nimity enough to be quiet for the present. He 
 began to talk of other things, quaintly, pleas 
 antly, as he could talk when he pleased, and 
 Milly soon forgot her embarrassment, and walk 
 ed on through the bright morning with a step 
 which never once touched the common earth. 
 
 They went to the florists to fulfill Aunt 
 Eliza's commission ; then made divers detours, 
 so as not to pass down the avenue again not 
 that there was the slightest reason, but it pleas 
 ed them to make a mystery of the expedition, 
 turning sharp corners and running away from 
 their acquaintances ; and Halford, in spite of 
 his thirty-three years and nonchalant dignity, 
 enjoyed it as much as Milly. They were al 
 most at the street where Mrs. Remsen lived, 
 when Halford said, 
 
 "I shall go on to the house with you, and 
 take great pains to relate to your aunt our 
 chance meeting your casual mention of the 
 opera and Mr. Moulson and shall say that I 
 have come to offer my services, if she will ac 
 cept them." 
 
 Milly laughed gayly ; all their foolish pains 
 to invent a mystery when none was needed 
 pleased her mightily. 
 
 "Aunt Eliza will be pleased," she said ; "you 
 are a great favorite with her, I know." 
 
 "Has she told you that?" Halford asked, 
 quickly, beset by certain thoughts as to the 
 counsels which the experienced matron might 
 have given her youthful charge ; for life had 
 rendered him somewhat suspicious, as, alas ! it 
 does most of us. 
 
 "No," Milly replied, frankly ; "I don't think 
 she ever said so ; but she is always very friend 
 ly with you ; and aunty can be haughty enough 
 when she chooses ! But once, while you were 
 gone, she did say that you were a man to be 
 honored and trusted." 
 
 It was true he was ; a man much more wor 
 thy of confidence than the race in general. He 
 felt slightly ashamed of the thought which had 
 
 sprung up in his mind, though it came from a 
 desire that Milly's love for him should not be 
 mingled with a single worldly feeling. And it 
 was not ; he felt certain of this. She had nev 
 er once remembered his fortune, his position, or 
 any of the advantages which would have been 
 prominent in the minds of so many girls, grown 
 old and calculating before their time. 
 
 "To-morrow will be Ash-Wednesday," Mil 
 ly said. "I have promised Constance Wor- 
 thington to go to St. Alban's with her." 
 
 "And I had meant to go there, too how 
 very odd ! And, little one, we will not tell 
 even Aunt Eliza our secret until three whole 
 days have gone ; we will have it all to ourselves 
 until then." 
 
 By this time they had reached the house, and 
 he went in, prepared to meet Milly's relative 
 with an accession of kindly feeling. Mrs. 
 Remsen was fully a match for half a dozen Ken 
 neth Halfords, or, indeed, any number of the 
 wisest men, as a shrewd woman ahvays is. 
 From her manner, no one would have supposed 
 that she suspected the young people of having 
 done the very thing she desired followed the 
 plan she had marked out from the day of Hal- 
 ford's arrival. She was perfectly content to 
 wait and make no sign until they were ready 
 to speak, and could appreciate the feeling which 
 made the pair long to have their happiness, for 
 a little time, entirely to themselves. 
 
 Halford presented his petition to be one of 
 the opera party, and it was granted not a word 
 or look added that could disturb Milly and, 
 altogether, Halford left the house better satis 
 fied than ever with his future relative, thinking, 
 
 " She's a well-bred woman nothing fussy 
 about her. Upon my word, I don't believe she 
 has talked to Milly about money or position ; 
 any way, the little darling is as innocent and 
 undesigning as a wood-thrush such a com 
 fort!" 
 
 He walked rapidly away, so happy and con 
 tent that he scarcely recognized himself, still 
 with that feeling of self-gratulation at his heart 
 that he yet possessed the ability to love. He 
 thought, too, and more exultantly, how Milly 
 would love him ; how pleasant she would make 
 his life with her childish ways ; how much bet 
 ter this calm affection on his own part than the 
 restless passion of early youth ; how sunny and 
 quiet after the loneliness, the great want, which 
 had troubled these later years. He was more 
 glad than ever that the preceding weeks had 
 lured him more swiftly on than he intended 
 when they began glad that he had not longer 
 postponed making his contentment complete, 
 though, when he went to the ball, he had not 
 meant to speak the words so soon it was only 
 that he- had been surprised into uttering them 
 by Milly's unconscious betrayal of her feelings 
 and the fascination of the moment. He had 
 purposed to wait to study her to consult his 
 own lordly will and pleasure ; but he was glad 
 now that he had spoken. 
 
 At the opera that night, Milly looked so love-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 ]y in her happiness that he was fuller of con 
 tent than ever. The little supper Halford per 
 suaded Mrs. Remsen into afterward there be 
 ing ample time to enjoy it and get home before 
 the midnight bells tolled out the Carnival sea 
 son was so gay that really things were grow 
 ing too pleasant to be real. 
 
 The next morning Milly went to service with 
 her friend Constance; but, though she tried 
 hard to be devout and penitent, as suited the 
 day, I am afraid the sight of Kenneth Halford 
 in the adjoining seat sorely disturbed her med 
 itations, though I doubt if her guardian angel 
 set the record against her as a sin. 
 
 That evening Halford came to the house ; 
 the next day there was another long walk, an 
 other visit ; and so the three days agreed upon 
 wore by. And such bewildering days they had 
 been to Milly as, I think, come but once to any 
 human being. Later in life there must always 
 be the recollection of certain other days marked 
 with a white stone, to mar the perfection of any 
 happiness life can give ; but these were her 
 first her very first ; she had never before stray 
 ed into Eden. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE STOBY TOLD. 
 
 THE morning which succeeded that trio of 
 happy days, Milly Crofton sat alone in the li 
 brary. She made a lovely picture, curled up 
 in the corner of a sofa, with her blue morning- 
 dress floating over the crimson cushions, and 
 her attitude as graceful as though she had ta 
 ken more thought in choosing it than was real 
 ly the case. 
 
 The warm yellow sun, which had premoni 
 tions of spring in its glow, streamed over her 
 fair hair, gave a new softness to her mouth, 
 and deepened the color of her eyes until they 
 might have caused a careful observer to think 
 that there was an earnestness and strength in 
 her nature which her girlish existence had not 
 yet developed. 
 
 Presently she should hear the door-bell ring 
 hear him go up to Mrs. Remsen's sitting-room 
 then, after a little, come down again to tell 
 her that all was arranged. 
 
 It all happened just as she expected. The 
 ring came the steps ascended the stairs then 
 a delicious whirl in Milly's heart and brain left 
 her powerless to take any note of time, or form a 
 single connected thought, until the tread struck 
 her ear anew, the door opened, and a voice 
 cried out, 
 
 " Has my bird flown quite out of sight this 
 morning?" 
 
 It was so pleasant to crouch behind the win 
 dow curtains, where she had quickly concealed 
 herself, and watch him looking eagerly about, 
 until the disappointment which came over his 
 face made her forget both her shyness and her 
 desire to tease, and she ran from her hiding- 
 place so quickly that the draperies floated out 
 
 like banners; and before they had settled to 
 their proper position, she was drawn to his side, 
 his strong arm lifted her from the floor, and 
 his lips rained kisses on her forehead and eyes, 
 by way of punishment. 
 
 " Your aunt has given you to me, you naugh 
 ty white pigeon," he said ; " and these are your 
 fetters, my darling, my own heart's darling !" 
 
 Then more kisses and many foolish words, 
 until Milly only wondered that she did not die 
 outright from very happiness. 
 
 "And aunty was pleased?" she whispered, 
 when they were at last seated, and prepared, 
 as they believed, to hold a sensible conversa 
 tion. " Was she pleased ?" 
 
 "As if she were likely to be any thing else, 
 at the prospect of being rid of such a dear little 
 bother?" returned he. "And she consents to 
 our wish, that the engagement should not be 
 announced just yet; so we can still have our 
 secret to ourselves for a while." 
 
 " She does not think me a trouble," said Mil 
 ly, extricating her long curls from his fingers. 
 " Let me tell you, I am not accustomed to have 
 any body tell me so and you are not to make 
 my hair untidv ; suppose some one should come 
 in?" 
 
 "But some one can't," replied he. "That 
 coffee-colored man-servant of yours has re 
 ceived orders that there is no one at home 
 this morning." 
 
 " So twenty people that one might wish to 
 see may be turned away," cried Milly, mis 
 chievously. 
 
 "Who is to care? Not you not I; and 
 your aunt is busy." 
 
 Then followed a long talk in the sunlight ; 
 and Halford pleased himself with thinking of 
 his good sense in choosing a loving, devoted 
 creature like this to worship him. She had 
 such bewitching ways ; and she rested him af 
 ter his experience of the past an experience 
 which had left him a little careworn and self 
 ish, in spite of his manly qualities. He asked 
 her again all those questions which he had 
 pressed upon her the night he told his love ; 
 and she had more courage now to answer. 
 
 " Had you thought of me, Milly had you, 
 indeed ?" 
 
 "How could I help it? Hud I ever seen 
 any one half so good and noble and hand 
 some ?" 
 
 " Dear, dear little Milly ! And did you 
 wonder if I loved you ?" he continued, still ea 
 ger to feed his vanity with those sweet assur 
 ances. " Did you wonder, Milly ?" 
 
 " Yes," she faltered, but a little sharply ; it 
 hurt her pride to have her maiden secrets wrung 
 from her. 
 
 He grew tender again, and the morning pass 
 ed so swiftly that Milly could not believe he had 
 been there twenty minutes, when Mrs. Remsen, 
 thinking he had gone, came into the room to 
 congratulate her niece. 
 
 ."But I am just going," Halford said; "I 
 have no business to be here ; I have oceans to
 
 ioo 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 do. Mrs. Remsen, this child makes me forget 
 every thing." 
 
 The lady smiled approval, and busied herself 
 good-naturedly at the other end of the room, 
 while he took his farewell rather a lengthy op 
 eration it proved. After he was fairly out of 
 the room, she sat down to talk, expressing her 
 satisfaction with such warmth that Milly was 
 fully content. 
 
 "Weren't you surprised, aunty ?" Milly ask 
 ed. 
 
 Mrs. Retnsen only smiled. She did not feel 
 it to be necessary to tell Milly that this con 
 summation was what she had hoped and labor 
 ed for ; indeed, if she had not seen clearly how 
 matters were going, it was hardly probable that 
 Milly would have been left quite so much to 
 her own devices, or indulged with so many new 
 dresses and pleasant extravagances. It cer 
 tainly was kind in the aunt ; for many a wom 
 an with an unmarried daughter would not have 
 relished seeing a niece bear off so valuable a 
 matrimonial prize as Kenneth Halford from one 
 of her own special brood. But, besides loving 
 Milly, Mrs. Remsen was a wise woman. Maud 
 could never have won him Maud was a fool, 
 and her mother was aware of it. She relinquish 
 ed the prize to Milly without a groan ; better 
 a nephew than no relation. Maud's turn would 
 come now ; she should have a clear field and 
 the favor of the married sisters and cousin. 
 Truly, Mrs. Remsen's acquaintance might call 
 her a fortunate woman, and the few who par 
 tially understood her admired her sagacity and 
 foresight. 
 
 " Now, pussy, you are disposed of," she said ; 
 for sometimes she could unbend enough to em 
 ploy pet names. " I am sure I ought to be 
 satisfied ; Adelaide and Hortense settled as 
 they are you happy as a queen I should be 
 a wicked woman if I was not." 
 
 Milly scouted, incredulously, the idea that any 
 queen whoever sat on a throne was able to com 
 pare with her in regard to bliss ; but she lis 
 tened in silence, not choosing to make Aunt 
 Eliza smile by putting her extravagant thoughts 
 into woids. So Mrs. Remsen went on to detail 
 her own plans, feeling that in the first part of 
 the conversation she had said all which the po 
 etic and romantic side required. 
 
 "Next winter I shall bring Maud out ; then 
 you will have a house of your own, and be able 
 to take her a great deal off my hands. " 
 
 " Indeed, yes, aunty ; and you know I would 
 do my best to have her enjoy herself." 
 
 " I am sure you would, Milly ; you are very 
 young, but, upon my word, I would rather trust 
 her with you than with either Adelaide or Hor 
 tense." 
 
 Really, such unusual praise was very pleas 
 ant, Milly felt ; and, as Mrs. Remsen looked at 
 her and saw how pretty she was, and thought 
 what a sensible little creature she had proved 
 herself, and how well every thing was arranged, 
 she was inclined to bestow still higher encomi 
 ums. Then her reflections went back to her 
 
 own special wishes and requirements, and the 
 good which her niece's marriage might work 
 therefor, as was natural, and no more selfish 
 and worldly than it is permitted even good peo 
 ple to be. One does not expect to find at every 
 turn penitent Saint Augustines, and pious, pa 
 tient Saint Catherines, ready and willing to cru 
 cify themselves without any reward whatever. 
 
 "I shall depend on you married ones very 
 much where Maud is concerned," she went on. 
 " This bringing out so many girls has thorough 
 ly cramped me ; but don't think I regret the 
 trouble you have cost, Milly ; you have done 
 exactly what I wished, and are a dear, good 
 girl." 
 
 This commonplace fashion of regarding her 
 extreme happiness grated a little on Milly 's car, 
 and she would rather not have heard the gentle 
 reminder which closed the speech ; but she bore 
 it very patiently, pleased to see how frank and 
 confidential her own new dignity made Aunt 
 Eliza. 
 
 She was evidently not to be treated as a child 
 any longer. 
 
 "Mr. Halford will have the sort of people 
 about him that I like," said Mrs. Remsen. 
 "Now Hortense 's set are so wise and literary, 
 that Maud would be overlooked ; and Adelaide 
 will not give up her liking for admiration ; so 
 she has a crowd of men about who are only det 
 rimental to a young lady ; for they haven't the 
 least thought of marrying. Your position will 
 be a very enviable one, my dear." 
 
 Milly had never once thought of that ; it 
 brought a flush to her cheek to hear her aunt 
 speak in so business-like a manner. She would 
 have been glad, in her girlish romances, to at 
 tempt some great sacrifice to prove her love. 
 An indistinct vision of toiling for Kenneth, and 
 living in the most modest of cottages, with af 
 fection to brighten it, struck her as a thing de 
 sirable. 
 
 "I never thought about his being rich," she 
 exclaimed, impetuously ; " why, Aunt Eliza, it 
 would be the same to me if he had not a pen 
 ny ; he would still be Kenneth Halford." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen smiled in tolerance of her fol 
 ly ; she had not interfered with Milly's roman 
 tic ideas, because they chanced to take the di 
 rection she approved. Had they led her into 
 any undesirable attachment, Milly might have 
 discovered a phase in her relative's character 
 with which she had never yet become acquaint 
 ed. 
 
 Soon Maud came in. and was informed of 
 Milly's prospects ; and she dashed frantically 
 at the opening which they left her. She had 
 no great amount of affection for her cousin ; 
 she had always looked upon her as an intruder 
 who stood in her, Maud's, light ; so now she 
 was divided between envy of Milly's good for 
 tune and self-gratulation that at last she might 
 emerge from the retirement in which she had 
 with great difficulty been kept. She had not 
 the beauty of one sister, nor the tact and style 
 of the other, and she was no more like Milly
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 101 
 
 than a blue jay is like a cardinal-bird. Her 
 face would pass as pretty, and also her figure, 
 with the aid of skillful dressing. She was shal 
 low and ill-tempered; given to talking non 
 sense, with a strong tendency toward the " rap 
 id " order, so common among the young ladies 
 of the present day. This latter role, easy as 
 it seems, requires an unusual share of beauty 
 and wit to make it at all successful, or even 
 creditable. But her mother was not uneasy in 
 regard to her; she could manage Maud's fu 
 ture. There was one good thing: she would 
 never be troubled with any ridiculous ideas of 
 romance and self-sacrifice; these were not in 
 the girl's character that is, if she could be said 
 to possess such a thing. 
 
 " Well, I needn't be buried alive any longer, 
 I suppose!" exclaimed the young lady; "you 
 are out of my moonshine at last, Milly." 
 
 "My dear," said her mother, " don't use such 
 expressions !" 
 
 " There's no one to hear," retorted Maud, 
 who believed that good manners were to be 
 kept, like fine dresses, for the benefit of socie 
 ty. " I wish it wasn't the end of the season ; 
 I could come out now." 
 
 "Have a little patience," returjied Mrs. 
 Remsen. 
 
 " Oh, patience !" repeated Maud, tossing her 
 head indignantly. " I hate the word." 
 
 " Next winter you shall have your own way 
 and be introduced," said her mother. 
 
 "Next winter!" echoed Maud, in angry dis 
 may. "Am I not going to Newport? You 
 must take me there ; I have set my heart 
 upon it. Clara Fay and all the girls of my 
 age this last half at school are to go, and I 
 must go too. All the fellows one cares to 
 know " 
 
 "Maud !" interrupted her mother, in horror. 
 "Where did you learn such dreadful expres 
 sions?" 
 
 "Goodness, mamma ! As if it made any 
 difference here at home you are so very par 
 ticular!" 
 
 "I detest the habit of slang, and I will not 
 permit it." 
 
 ".Why, mamma, all the girls at Madame 
 Chonfleur's do it not, of course, before the 
 teachers. Clara Fay always speaks of her papa 
 as "the Governor," and her mother as "Ma 
 dame Beck" it's out of a book Bulwer, I 
 think ; but then he's such a prig !" , 
 
 "Do be quiet. You talk too much,'.' ex 
 claimed Mrs. Remsen, seeing Maud's follies 
 rather more plainly than usual, in contrast with 
 Milly's good sense. 
 
 " Oh, that is what you always say, mamma," 
 returned Maud, in an injured tone ; " I believe 
 you think me a fool. What is the good of my 
 going into society, if I'm always to be muzzled 
 like Tom Schuyler's dog ?" 
 
 Mrs. Remsen held up both hands with such 
 an expression of suffering that Milly had much 
 ado not to laugh. 
 
 "Tom Schuyler!" repeated the mother. "A 
 
 man old enough to be your father, and spoken 
 of in that manner !" 
 
 " He pays me a great deal of attention when 
 ever he sees me," said Maud, stoutly ; "and I 
 don't care a straw if he is old ; he is richer than 
 Mr. Halford." 
 
 These last words mollified Mrs. Remsen ; her 
 mind rushed forward to future probabilities. 
 After all, these old bachelors often were pleased 
 with such girls; something might come of it; 
 she would not be too severe. 
 
 "I have decided upon my first ball-dress 
 just what it shall be," cried Maud, her mind 
 taking one of its rapid flights toward her fa 
 vorite subject of thought. "And you mustn't 
 interfere with me, mamma ; it will be perfect 
 ly lovely." 
 
 " The dress, or the non-interference ?" asked 
 Milly. 
 
 "Oh, you needn't be witty at my expense," 
 said Miss Maud, sharply. " If you are going 
 to be married, it's no reason for putting on such 
 airs. I may be married myself before long ! 
 And I don't care a bit if I can't say sharp 
 things. Tom Schuyler says it's no credit to a 
 girl ; and he's going to teach me billiards and 
 rowing at Newport." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was obliged to go out on busi 
 ness ; so she left the cousins together, reserving 
 her lecture for her daughter until a more con 
 venient opportunity. 
 
 " Mamma needn't think I'm going to be kept 
 back any longer," exclaimed Maud, as soon as 
 her mother was gone. " It's a sin and a shame 
 for a girl to be put down as I have been here 
 I am seventeen ! I'll tell you what, Milly, you'll 
 ] be very mean if you don't give me lots of pret 
 ty things when you are once married, to pay 
 I me for waiting till you were served." 
 
 "I'll do any thing I can to please you, 
 
 j Maud," replied Milly, wishing that her cousin 
 
 would depart, and leave her to dream in peace. 
 
 "There's Hortense snubs me every time I 
 open my mouth, as if I was a a china poo 
 dle," said Maud, casting about for a compari 
 son, and falling upon this somewhat unhappy 
 one from chancing to catch sight of such an or 
 nament upon the ttagere. 
 
 Milly was wickedly amused, for the china dog 
 had an absurd resemblance to Maud. "She 
 thinks," pursued Maud, " that because she nev 
 er makes mistakes about the names of books, 
 and can talk about ologies, that she's quite won 
 derful. I hate ologies, and I can never re 
 member the names of things ; but I don't care ; 
 I'm not going to set up for a Joan of Arc." 
 
 Milly could not see what connection of ideas 
 there was between the heroine of France and a 
 woman who pretended to scientific attainments, 
 and she laughed outright. 
 
 "Now, you're laughing at me," said Maud, 
 preparing to go into the sulks without loss of 
 time. 
 
 " I was laughing at learned ladies," asserted 
 naughty Milly. " You know I couldn't be one 
 if I tried."
 
 102 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME: 
 
 "But you're so bright," said Maud, envi 
 ously ; " and you know how to say such witty 
 things to men ; and mamma says you're so 
 high-principled." 
 
 She might have added much more without 
 drawing upon her imagination ; but to admit 
 that Milly possessed a reputation for beauty 
 was further than Maud's magnanimity could 
 go- 
 
 "When you have been a little in society 
 these things will come to you," returned Milly, 
 good-naturedly. 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind," said Maud, by no means 
 dissatisfied with herself, in spite of envying her 
 cousin. "I think my style will be different al 
 together from yours. " 
 
 There could be no doubt of that in the mind 
 of any person who saw the two together. 
 
 "I'll go to Newport in spite of mamma," 
 continued Maud. " You won't care to go ; 
 you can visit somebody, or perhaps you'll be 
 married before that. I'm going to have just 
 the prettiest lot of new dresses ever seen. Mil 
 ly, I mean to have one of those new blues, you 
 know the skirt trimmed with ruchings, and 
 let them run up the side and be caught with 
 poppies. I'll have three " 
 
 Milly leaned back in her chair in resigna 
 tion ; but she was' spared the impending ava 
 lanche of modes by the entrance of a sen-ant 
 bearing an immense basket of flowers, which he 
 placed on the table before her. Maud looked 
 at the blossoms, remarked that the violets would 
 be lovely in a tulle dress, while Milly was in ec 
 stasies over the beautiful gift, which filled the 
 room with its heavenly fragrance. 
 
 " Of course, Halford sent them," said Miss 
 Maud, who had a way of mentioning her male 
 acquaintances with a delightful freedom the re 
 verse of lady-like, usually eschewing any prefix 
 whatever to their names. 
 
 Milly was reading a scrap of paper folded 
 among a cluster of rose-buds, and could not 
 listen. 
 
 "I say," demanded Maud, in a louder key, 
 "wouldn't you rather he'd sent you a brace - 
 let?"- 
 
 Milly came back to real life with a glow of 
 indignation. 
 
 " Have you no love for beautiful things no 
 appreciation " 
 
 But she checked herself; where was the 
 good of wasting words ! 
 
 "Aren't bracelets beautiful things?" retort 
 ed Maud. - "I saw a pair at Tiffany's yester 
 day that were perfectly adorable. They were 
 shaped like this why don't you look, Milly ?" 
 
 But Milly was reading again the single line 
 written on the slip of paper, and Maud's words 
 fell upon deaf ears. The young lady crept soft 
 ly behind her cousin and, peeping over her 
 shoulder, read aloud, 
 
 " 'Sweets to the sweet !' Not a thing else. 
 If that isn't downright silly in Halford !" 
 
 Milly turned upon her in extreme wrath. 
 "You are the rudest girl without exception, 
 
 Maud, that it was ever my ill fortune to meet. 
 The idea that you could read another person's 
 note!" 
 
 " I'm not at all rude, and you need not get 
 a convulsion because I read a little foolish scrap 
 like that. I only did it for the fun of seeing you 
 in a towering rage." 
 
 "Very poor fun, Maud, and very unlady 
 like. A sort that I don't appreciate. Be good 
 enough not to attempt it with me again." 
 
 "I shall do it whenever it suits me! You 
 are not Miss Pompey the Great if you are go 
 ing to be married," said Maud, flushing with 
 anger. "You think no one can possibly be en 
 gaged but yourself; but I warn you I shall not 
 be put down by your airs and graces. I shall 
 not endure it there!" 
 
 "My dear Maud, you are as foolish as you 
 are rude," said Milly in her loftiest tones, and, 
 feeling that her patience was leaving her, took 
 her huge basket of flowers and went to her own 
 apartment to enjoy them and her tender thoughts 
 of the giver in peace. 
 
 "Nasty thing !" muttered the elegant Miss 
 Maud when she found herself alone. " Sweep 
 ing out of the room as if she was an English 
 duchess, and I the dust under her feet. I hate 
 her ; I'm sure I do. She shall never queen it 
 over me living dependent upon mamma. I 
 would like to remind her of it when Mr. Hal- 
 ford is here, only mamma is quite on her side, 
 and ought to be ashamed of herself. I hate 
 them all, and wish I had upset the basket and 
 stepped on the flowers shabby things for a 
 present, any way I quite hope he's stingy." 
 
 She appeared to find a certain consolation in 
 this idea, and went away up stairs to tease a 
 poor seamstress who was making a dress for 
 her ; and by way of a vent for her ill humor of 
 the morning, she made that much abused crea 
 ture take off all the flounces of her robe and 
 place them anew. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MILLY'S DREAM. 
 
 THE Lenten days glided on such sweet, 
 calm, beautiful days to Milly, though she some 
 times half reproached herself for not being so 
 grave and sedate as the requirements of the 
 penitential season demanded. But it was very 
 difficult to remember her short-comings in the 
 first ecstasy of her happiness, though she tried 
 hard to be thankful and to recollect whence this 
 great joy came ; so, perhaps, she did not put 
 the period to such bad use, after all. 
 
 Constance Worthington, having no special 
 dream or unusual cause for elation, flung her 
 self violently into a rigid observance of Lent : 
 never missed a single church service, early or 
 late, and sternly refused bonbons or indulgences 
 of any sort ; so that, owing to her state of mind 
 and Milly's constant new calls upon her time, 
 the two girls saw less of each other at this sea 
 son than they had been in the habit of doing.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 103 
 
 At least every other day Milly would find lei 
 sure to go up to St. Alban's as well as her 
 friend, and it was very easy for her to pray and 
 be grateful during these weeks; but Halford 
 either accompanied her or else met her on the 
 way ; and this was reward enough to make her 
 feel that Lenten observances, so far from being 
 a trouble, were a great pleasure ; and she won 
 dered that so many people dreaded the season. 
 The quiet, too, was so delightful : no balls, no 
 rushing about night after night ; occasional vis 
 its to the theatre or opera, where Halford al 
 ways sat by her side ; now and then tranquil 
 concerts or receptions, at which he could talk 
 to her almost as unrestrainedly as at home ; 
 and, better than all, long evenings in Aunt Eli 
 za's drawing-room with her lover, when nobody 
 besides Mrs. Remsen was there, and she care 
 ful not to let the young people feel her presence 
 a restraint. Oh, it was a bright, lovely peri 
 od, and Milly wished that Lent might last un 
 til it was time to go into the country. But she 
 only expressed her opinions once to Constance, 
 for that rigid young woman treated her to a 
 severe lecture, mentioning several dry books 
 which she thought Milly had better read ; and 
 the very names of them made poor Milly yawn, 
 and Constance's sermon did not prick her con 
 science so vitally as it ought to have done. 
 But she was not vexed she could not be an 
 gry with any body just now only she decided 
 to keep her theories to herself, and let Con 
 stance go her way. At this time it was Milly 's 
 creed young givls are fond of creeds that re 
 ligion was meant to make people happy, anil 
 she did not think it had that effect upon her 
 friend ; though, in truth, Constance found as 
 much excitement in her new rigidities as Milly 
 did in her dreams; and the two were just a 
 pair of children, with whom any new feeling 
 must necessarily become an enthusiasm. 
 
 Milly's wish to have the engagement kept a 
 secret was complied with so far as any actual 
 announcement was concerned ; but most peo 
 ple had their own suspicions on the subject, and 
 Minerva Lawrence occasionally teased her to 
 make a frank confession. 
 
 "How long do you mean to insist on this 
 impenetrable mystery, little pigeon?" Halford 
 asked her one day. "I invent as many ex 
 cuses for talking to you in public as if we Avere 
 surrounded by unheard-of dangers, and when I 
 come here of a morning I double as cautiously 
 as a hunted hare." 
 
 Milly laughed at his nonsense, but it pleased 
 her, nevertheless. 
 
 " There's no necessity for telling people yet," 
 she said ; "we know, and Aunt Eliza knows; 
 the matter doesn't concern any body else." 
 
 " One's friends have a way of thinking that 
 it is exactly such affairs which concern them 
 vitally," he replied. 
 
 "I don't want them told yet," she pleaded. 
 
 " I believe the child is ashamed of her fet 
 ters," he exclaimed, laughingly, as he kissed 
 the white hand whereon glittered the sapphire 
 
 ring he had placed there with words which still 
 made Milly's heart flutter each time she regard 
 ed the pretty bauble. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Halford " 
 
 " To whom is she speaking ?" interrupted he, 
 addressing a statuette of Apollo on the mantel. 
 
 " I mean Kenneth," said she, slyly. 
 
 " Ah, I know him ! Very well, sweetheart ; 
 what was to be the conclusion of that pathetic 
 appeal ?" 
 
 "You know that isn't why I don't want peo 
 ple told you do know it is not, please ?" 
 
 "I am beginning to have serious doubts," 
 said he, with mock gravity. " Unless you tell 
 me the real reason, I shall be obliged to think 
 you are ashamed of me. " 
 
 " You are as wicked as you can live !" cried 
 Milly. 
 
 He could never be content without making 
 her put each most tender feeling and maiden 
 fancy into words, unconscious that it was posi 
 tively cruel to insist. She blushed so beauti 
 fully in doing it, and the pleasure of reading her 
 guileless soul was so great that he could not 
 resist. 
 
 " Now is it because you think I am old ?" he 
 continued. " Milly, I saw such dreadful crow's- 
 feet under my eyes this morning!" 
 
 "It is a downright fib the dear eyes the 
 beautiful eyes !" cried Milly, laying her dain 
 ty hand softly over them. "Oh, Kenneth I 
 can't explain but somehow I feel as if it was a 
 sort of sacrilege to tell it all out for people to 
 gossip over, as they do every thing." 
 
 "Such a sensitive little Milly !" 
 
 "I can't make it clear, but I feel it! See, 
 it's like this the little miniature of my dead 
 mother that I wear always I couldn't bear to 
 let a stranger touch it, or even look at it " 
 
 "My darling, my precious I understand!" 
 
 So, with her head pillowed on his breast as 
 he folded her to his heart, she could smile and 
 talk more earnestly, though there were tears in 
 her eyes which he was obliged to kiss away, 
 and he felt slightly remorseful for having forced 
 her into an effort to explain her shy emotions. 
 
 " Of course every body must know we must 
 let them be told," she continued ; " but there's 
 no hurry say there isn't, Kenneth!" 
 
 "None in the world, little one! There, I 
 only wanted to tease you." 
 
 "You bad old thing!" 
 
 " I don't believe the news will take any of 
 our friends much by surprise," said he, laugh 
 ing mischievously again. "You are very wise 
 I have so much trouble to make you talk 
 when there's any body present that I'm afraid 
 people will think you are a victim ; but I'm a 
 foolish old chap, and show my feelings too 
 plainly." 
 
 " Nothing of the sort," returned Milly ; " if 
 you do care about me, you hide it beautifully ! 
 Now the other night, when you talked to Miss 
 Moore, I'm sure every one thought it was she 
 you were in love with." 
 
 Of course, she had to be punished for such
 
 104 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 wickedness, and the morning seemed to Milly 
 the happiest she had ever spent, though, as each 
 separate one of its predecessors during the last 
 fortnight had appeared thus in turn, perhaps, 
 in summing up and comparing the whole, she 
 would have been at a loss to make a choice 
 among them. 
 
 She wasted a great deal of time, undoubted 
 ly, during these days ; but though Aunt Eliza 
 was rather a martinet in her ideas of duty a'nd 
 the necessity of occupation, she never reproved 
 Milly now ; and, indeed, it was not exactly the 
 girl's fault. Halford was at the house daily, 
 and there were expeditions of all kinds con 
 stantly on foot; so that even Mrs. Kernsen was 
 forced into idleness frequently, and seemed to 
 enjoy it. Milly did not neglect certain little 
 duties she had long before assumed : each morn 
 ing she gave the children their music-lessons ; 
 and it was a great saving to Aunt Eliza, as it 
 allowed her to get on with an ordinary daily 
 governess for the rest of their small studies. 
 She was never tired of praising Milly, and the 
 wheels of the little household rolled on velvet 
 during those weeks. Prudent and far-sighted 
 as she was, even Mrs. Remsen forgot that the 
 brightest sky can change suddenly ; and Ken 
 neth Halford no more remembered that there 
 were such skeletons as disappointment and 
 trouble in the world than if he had been eight 
 een instead of a man who had lived and suffer 
 ed till, at one time, he had slight faith left in 
 any quarter. His love for Milly was so total 
 ly unlike that early passion which had dazzled 
 his boyhood and left the first years of his man 
 hood desolate that he never thought of com 
 paring the two. Indeed, the past was entire 
 ly consigned to oblivion ; he had long before 
 outlived it; even his meeting with Alice March- 
 mont after that lengthened separation had fail 
 ed to warm the ashes of the old affection into 
 life. He said to himself, and truly, that he 
 was no more the man who had loved her than 
 she was the impulsive girl of whom the dream 
 ing boy had made an ideal. There was not a 
 feeling, not a memory in his heart, which in 
 terfered with his loyalty to Milly ; yet he had 
 been guilty from the first of a great error. He 
 forgot that in endowing this child with the gift 
 of his love he took her out of her childhood for 
 ever. He forgot, too, that in becoming a wom 
 an she would have a woman's need and right to 
 share his existence fully be a part of it, or, 
 rather, allow hers so to mingle with his that 
 the two lives would only form one beautiful 
 whole. There must be no thought which she 
 could not share no secret left untold which 
 could ever trouble their happiness ; there was 
 no aim or care which she would not, through 
 the might of her love, be capable of compre 
 hending. The necessity of none of these things 
 had a place in his mind ; she was to be his song 
 bird, his sunbeam, a creature kept apart from 
 the graver interests of his destiny, to rest con 
 tented on his heart and warm it by her bright 
 ness. He could have seen how fallacious this 
 
 idea was had it been the case of another ; but, 
 like the rest of us, he was blind when the mat 
 ter became personal. John Worthington saw 
 the whole truth more clearly, for a warm friend 
 ship had sprung up between the two men, com 
 mencing in a similarity of tastes, and cement 
 ed by the strict integrity which each acknowl 
 edged in the other. There had been no confi 
 dence on Halford's part in regard to his engage 
 ment or love, but as Worthington often saw 
 him with Milly, he could not fail to suspect the 
 truth ; and if he had not perceived for himself 
 the state of affairs, Constance's frequent re 
 marks would have pointed it out. 
 
 "I wish Milly would tell me, uncle," she 
 said several times, in discussing her suspicions; 
 "I think she might such good friends as we 
 have always been." 
 
 "My dear Con, let Milly alone," was her 
 uncle's reply ; " when your turn comes, and you 
 know how nice it is to keep such a pretty secret 
 as long as possible, you'll be glad that you did 
 not tease her." 
 
 "My time for such things will never come," 
 she said, with the decision of eighteen, and the 
 amusing contempt with which an unawakened 
 heart regards the weaknesses of others. "I 
 don't mean to leave you." 
 
 ''Very well; I am glad to keep you don't 
 forget," he said, laughing. 
 
 "There is no danger. Besides, I'm study 
 ing German ; if Milly would only have taken it 
 up too, as I begged, she wouldn't have had lei 
 sure for any nonsense." 
 
 "German is a very good thing," said Wor 
 thington, with preternatural gravity, though 
 Constance was too much in earnest to observe 
 that it was a little overdone. 
 
 " I should think it was," returned she. "But 
 Milly never did have patience to study." 
 
 "My dear, I fancy that Milly is busy, too, 
 with a new language, and a more engrossing 
 one than German, though it comes so easy that 
 I dare say she can even think in it without dif 
 ficulty." 
 
 "Oh, now you are laughing!" cried Con 
 stance. " Well, I do think it's foolish of her, 
 all the same ; and only just before she went to 
 Europe she told me she should never marry 
 told me so with her own lips," continued Con 
 stance, with great energy, as if that method of 
 imparting information was so unusual that it 
 had added solemnity to the declaration. 
 
 " Ah, you see somebody else's lips have con 
 vinced her that she spoke rashly," he said. 
 
 " I don't like it all the same," returned Con 
 stance, with an injured air. "I don't think 
 people ought to announce a determination un 
 til they have given it so much thought that 
 there is no possibility of their changing." 
 
 "Oh, Con, Con!" cried her uncle, with a 
 burst of irrepressible laughter, "I shall have 
 to remind you of this sometime when you get 
 through with your German." 
 
 "Then I shall have something else to occu 
 py me," said Constance, with a little air of su-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 105 
 
 periority too innocent to be disagreeable. "Only 
 yesterday I told Milly one ought always to be 
 busy, and she said she thought it was nice to 
 be lazy she actually did, uncle!" 
 
 "Jupiter Ammon, what a horrible confes 
 sion!" 
 
 " Now you are teasing again ; and, indeed, I 
 am in earnest ! I am so fond of Milly, and I 
 hardly ever see her now !" 
 
 ''Be patient, little one, and, above all, un 
 selfish ! You've not lost your friend ; give her 
 time to get accustomed to her new happiness, 
 and she will love you better than ever." 
 
 "And she has such odd ideas about Lent," 
 added Constance, dropping her voice to a sol 
 emn whisper. 
 
 "What heretical opinion has she express 
 ed? I thought my old friend, Mrs. Remsen, had 
 taught her Church doctrines very carefully." 
 
 " Oh, Milly is good so good I don't mean 
 that!" 
 
 "Then what did she say that troubled you as 
 to the ideas she entertains in regard to Lent ?" 
 
 " Why, that people ought to be just as happy 
 as possible whenever they could " 
 
 "I agree with Milly, my dear." 
 
 "Yes, but that one could show as much grat 
 itude in Lent by being happy as by going to 
 service twice a day. Now, uncle, when Lent 
 means means that is, when it is the season 
 for repentance and penance and " 
 
 "And thinking very charitably of our neigh 
 bors, my dearest." 
 
 " Oh, uncle !" cried Constance, blushing scar 
 let. 
 
 " You would not intentionally do otherwise ; 
 but, my child, we can't judge for others." 
 
 "Yes, I know, and I don't mean to. But 
 when I wanted her not to touch bonbons or go 
 to the theatre it was so little to do!" 
 
 "Because you wanted it?" 
 
 "No; because oh yes, I'm afraid it was 
 partly for that," she answered, remorsefully. 
 
 "My dear, go to church all you can without 
 neglecting other duties that is right. Give 
 up amusements and indulgences that is right, 
 too ; but it is not a sin for Milly to eat sugar, 
 and I don't believe that sitting through a play 
 will prevent her being thankful." 
 
 "I see now I was judging her ! Oh dear, 
 and I was trying so hard to be good!" said 
 Constance, disconsolately. 
 
 "Don't try quite so hard: that's all. I 
 mean, don't hunt up all sorts of ideas to prick 
 yourself with, and don't run the risk of paying 
 so scrupulously the tithe of mint and cummin 
 that you forget the weightier matters of the 
 law. I hold to every Church observance to 
 its full rites and ceremonies ; but don't keep 
 Lent so rigidly that you exasperate yourself 
 into uncharitableness toward those who do not 
 feel the necessity to keep it just according to 
 your ideas, or even just to the letter." 
 
 " I'll go and tell Milly how wicked I have 
 been ; that will punish me," said Constance, 
 feeling herself a terrible sinner. 
 
 " I don't think I would use so harsh a word," 
 her uncle replied. " And now put on your bon 
 net and walk a little way with me, and forget 
 for half an hour that it is Lent." 
 
 Constance was happier by the time they re 
 turned to the house than she had been for 
 weeks, and her uncle's kind explanations clear 
 ed her mind of sundry small doubts, and she 
 ceased to consider herself utterly hardened and 
 lost because she could not help regretting the 
 bonbons her special weakness which she had 
 vowed not to touch until Easter Monday. 
 
 It chanced that this same evening Worthing- 
 ton encountered Halford at the club, where that 
 gentleman had strayed after his usual visit to 
 Mrs. Remsen's, and the two had a pleasant talk 
 in a quiet corner. The conversation wander 
 ed, as the conversation of men of all ages will, 
 toward the opposite sex ; and Kenneth Hal- 
 ford's opinions in regard to love and marriage 
 showed Worthington plainly what the feelings 
 were with which he had entered into his en 
 gagement always supposing that matters had 
 gone as far as that. 
 
 "I don't understand," Halford said, in an 
 swer to a remark of his companion's. "I have 
 always thought that there was a great deal of 
 nonsense in the talk about the danger of dis 
 parity of age." 
 
 " I don't consider that the danger lies in the 
 disparity of age ; it is in the lack of common 
 tastes and sympathies." 
 
 "But I hold that a man should teach a wife 
 to acquire his. One could not do this with a 
 woman already formed in mind and thought, 
 accustomed to the world ; but suppose a man 
 chose a young girl a child in heart until his 
 affection awakened it the case is different." 
 
 "Altogether different." 
 
 "Don't you believe, then, that a man could 
 train insensibly, and develop mind and soul ac 
 cording to his ideas ?" 
 
 "He might, assuredly." 
 
 " You say it in a doubtful tone." 
 
 "Not doubtful as regards the fact." 
 
 "How, then?" 
 
 " I was thinking of the young girl." 
 
 "But if she was loved, cared for, made hap- 
 py?" 
 
 "All right ! But suppose she suffered under 
 this training and development that she learn 
 ed to chafe at the knowledge that her husband 
 considered her a child ?" 
 
 "Her very innocence and ignorance would 
 prevent that." 
 
 "My dear friend, she would not remain a 
 child."" 
 
 Halford smiled compassionately, really pity 
 ing the old bachelor's lack of knowledge. 
 
 "I think," he said, "that one occasionally 
 meets a character which will always retain that 
 happy faculty not a girl of little mind, either 
 full of beautiful capabilities which the man 
 she loves may foster without disturbing the 
 child-like spirit which made her chief attrac 
 tion to him in the beginning."
 
 10G 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "I can only say that I think the man would 
 have to go very carefully to work," John Wor- 
 thington replied. 
 
 " Of course," said Halford, confidently. 
 
 " I think you mean that this imaginary wife 
 should be kept apart from her husband's actual 
 life content with that having, in fact, only 
 a partial love " 
 
 "Fondly loved and cherished." 
 
 "I can only say that it seems to me she 
 would probably discover this lack in her life, 
 and either rebel or suffer silently, according to 
 her nature." 
 
 "But there would be no lack." 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; according to my view 
 of marriage, there would. I think that, to have 
 any hope of happiness, husband and wife must 
 be literally one not even a care left unshared." 
 
 "But it is just those annoyances I would 
 keep from her. " 
 
 "They are not annoyances when they have 
 a place in the mind of the man she loves she 
 would feel them as she would feel that she was 
 shut out from his inmost self, and the knowl 
 edge would make her wretched." 
 
 " That might hold good in the case of a wom 
 an who had lived and suffered ; but the example 
 I am imagining is a very different creature." 
 
 "She must grow a woman in her turn." 
 
 " Yes, but of another sort from the wordly 
 creatures one meets." 
 
 " Humph ! A fairy ! Well, my dear fel 
 low, I'm afraid that, however carefully you 
 guarded the elf in an enchanted palace, some 
 chill wind from without would sweep in and 
 transform her into an earthly being, with a 
 strong determination to be considered such." 
 
 Again Halford smiled compassionately ; 
 Worthington saw it, but offered no remark. 
 The conversation was confined to such gen 
 eralities that his attempt at warning did not 
 strike home ; but he perceived that if it had 
 been ever so closely pointed it would have 
 failed to produce any effect. 
 
 "I would advise a man to reflect well." he 
 said, quietly. " It is a solemn responsibility 
 to take a human destiny into one's hands 
 above all, the kind of butterfly creature yon 
 mean a butterfly with a soul ; if it was an or 
 dinary one, she might be happy enough." 
 
 " But it is the fact of her possessing a soul 
 which would make her charming." 
 
 "Just so and which would give her capa 
 bilities for suffering, too." 
 
 " I have failed, I see, to make my meaning 
 dear." 
 
 " I understand your idea perfectly ; and 
 though an ancient bachelor, little skilled in the 
 nature of butterflies with souls, I repeat that I 
 consider such a marriage a great risk." 
 
 "You think the man would not be happy ?" 
 
 " I don't think about him ; but I fear that 
 the butterfly-wife would suffer, and her wings 
 droop and fade, and the suddenly awakened 
 soul cry out dismally in wrath and pain.'.' He 
 stopped and laughed a little at his own fanciful 
 
 imagery, as we all do when conscious of hav 
 ing ventured beyond commonplaces ; then felt 
 ashamed of the weakness, and added, 
 
 " I don't know why I should laugh ; I mean 
 every word." 
 
 "It is very pretty, but I should not be afraid. 
 I think I perceive a way of avoiding a single 
 shadow." 
 
 " Then you have solved a secret which might 
 have puzzled Solomon; I congratulate you," 
 said Worthington, dryly. 
 
 "I'm afraid it did sound conceited," Halford 
 answered, for he was sensitive about laying 
 himself open to any such charge. 
 
 " No, but overconfident ; I, at my age, should 
 call it a trace of youth, though I suppose you 
 consider yourself years beyond that." 
 
 "Upon my word, I think I am growing 
 young nowadays." 
 
 "Take care, or I shall believe you have 
 found the fairy." 
 
 "And if I had?" 
 
 "Then I'd say, heartily, God bless you both ! 
 You're a good man, Halford a very good 
 man ! But when you do catch the butterfly, 
 remember my caution about hurting her wings." 
 
 " Oh yes; but you see my theory is so clear." 
 
 "Heavens and earth!" cried John Wor 
 thington, " I'm not likely ever to marry ; but 
 if I should, it will not be upon a theory." 
 . Halford laughed, and dismissed the subject ; 
 indeed it was idle, he felt, to pursue it; Wor 
 thington was a very wise man, but this was a 
 matter outside of his comprehension. So they 
 went into the smoking-room, and on the way 
 Halford said, 
 
 " Have you any idea when we shall see Mrs. 
 Marchmont back?" 
 
 "Not the slightest don't think she knows 
 herself. " She writes me occasionally ; we are 
 very old friends, you know." 
 
 "Oh yes; she has an immense esteem for 
 you." 
 
 John Worthington smothered a sigh. Es 
 teem it was all very well so far as it went ; 
 he was past forty, and could expect nothing 
 more from any woman, but it seemed very lit 
 tle, and the word sounded very cold. But this 
 was an unmanly bit of weakness ; so he hasten 
 ed to put it by, and say cheerfully, 
 
 " I shall be glad to see her back ! I always 
 feel that parties at my house are a sad failure 
 without her." 
 
 "A charming woman a remarkable wom 
 an " 
 
 "Not like your fairy, eh?" but though he 
 said this, Worthington believed in his heart 
 that Halford would never have relinquished 
 Alice Marchmont if there had been the least 
 hope of winning her as if any man would ! 
 Worthington thought. 
 
 "Not a happy woman, I sometimes think," 
 Halford said. 
 
 Worthington's fears on this subject grew 
 stronger each day, but he had no mind to ac 
 knowledge them even to his friend.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 107 
 
 "She is variable and capricious," he said; 
 " but the only wonder is that the adulation she 
 receives has not spoiled her more." 
 
 "Nature seemed never to weary of heaping 
 on her the gifts that would bring this about," 
 Halford replied. "I never saw so beautiful a 
 woman, nor so clever a one." 
 
 How the pale, proud face rose before John 
 Worthington's fancy ! The smile, half mock 
 ing, half sad, thrilled across his soul ; the pas 
 sionate light of the great brown eyes lit his 
 imagination into a glow ; but the vision must 
 be put aside ! 
 
 There was a little more idle talk ; then he 
 bade Halford farewell, and walked homeward 
 through the still night, thinking that, in spite 
 of fame, of gratified ambition, wealth, all the 
 gauds which had glittered so bravely to his 
 sight in youth, life looked cold and empty ; 
 and even his scorn of his own weakness, his 
 stern sense of right, which led him to regard 
 the complaint almost as a sin, could not thrust 
 the disheartening consciousness entirely from 
 his mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FINDING THE CLUE. 
 
 ALL this time people heard of Mrs. March- 
 mont as brightening the Lenten dullness of 
 Washington by her presence, working sad 
 havoc among foreign diplomats, and creating 
 dire confusion in the minds of stately old sen 
 ators who ought to have been years past the 
 possibility of such weakness. But they were 
 men ; so that period would never arise, if they 
 lived until the age of Methusaleh ; and the 
 musty proverb, "No fool like an old one," is 
 as replete with truth as it was on the day of its 
 first utterance. 
 
 The French baron had gone on to the cap 
 ital also, and his name was often mentioned in 
 connection with that of the fascinating widow, 
 and bets were made at the New York and the 
 Union as to the chance of the baron's winning 
 the prize. Of course, in this age there is noth 
 ing about which men do not lay wagers, from 
 the truth of the Bible to the probability of some 
 friend's grandmother living the week out. 
 
 Richard Faulkner listened to the various 
 reports of Mrs. Marchmont's triumphs, and 
 ground his teeth when they described her as 
 gayer and more fascinating than ever. He 
 was not a man easily to relinquish a well- 
 formed resolution ; a certain dogged obstina 
 cy that lay at the bottom of his impulsiveness 
 had been, in a great measure, the secret of his 
 success ; and seldom had a stronger emotion 
 found a place in the pandemonium which he 
 called a heart than his passion for Alice March- 
 mont. It is revolting to write ; but, to render 
 my narrative clear, I must set down the exact 
 truth in regard to the people whose characters 
 I wish to make plain to you. 
 
 After her hasty departure, he recovered suf 
 
 ficiently from the rage and trouble into which 
 he had been thrown by her outwitting him, 
 and escaping his clutches at the very instant 
 when he believed that his plans were culmi 
 nating, to get back his usual clear-sightedness 
 and determination to get to the bottom of any 
 affair which puzzled him. How had she raised 
 the money ? that was the thought which scarce 
 ly left his mind even during his busiest hours 
 in the Gold-room, or while weaving his number 
 less webs to catch the unwary in the solitude 
 of his private office. He understood exactly 
 the state of her affairs ; there was not a detail 
 of her embarrassments with which the past sea 
 son had not made him familiar ; for, after hav 
 ing once trusted him, it had been a great re 
 lief to know there was somebody with whom 
 she could talk freely. How had she raised the 
 money ? A score of possible devices several 
 of them founded on that lack of faith in honor 
 and virtue which grew naturally out of his own 
 baseness suggested themselves in turn; but 
 prone as he was to think evil, each idea had to 
 be rejected in turn because his keen common- 
 sense showed him its impracticability. 
 
 The small Hebrew was an old friend of Faulk 
 ner's ; indeed, he possessed a certain hold over 
 the bulbous-nosed Jew, as he did over most 
 people with whom circumstances rendered him 
 intimate. It was he who had made the Israel 
 ite and Mrs. Marchmont acquainted ; and he 
 was cognizant of every business arrangement 
 between them, even to the troublesome lien 
 which Herman held upon her jewels. Many 
 a time he had secretly laughed at what the 
 proud woman must suffer from those weekly 
 visits of the distressed but virtuous widow, to 
 make sure that no false play was attempted in 
 regard to the diamonds. The same espionage 
 pursued Mrs. Marchmont during her sojourn iu 
 Washington, and Faulkner knew it. The Jew 
 had behaved fairly enough, actally intrusting a 
 larger portion of the gems to her guardianship 
 during her absence, but not running the slight 
 est risk thereby. He possessed a daughter 
 who was the happy and fleshy spouse of a 
 Washington clothes-dealer; and this amiable 
 woman gratified her parent by enacting the 
 part of the distressed widow twice a week, 
 while Mrs. Marchmont dazzled the old senato 
 rial owls by her presence in their city. 
 
 With all this knowledge, it was not difficult 
 for Faulkner to discover before a great length 
 of time the precise means whereby Mrs. March 
 mont obtained a sufficient sum to repay him, 
 and give herself a temporary relief from other 
 pressing creditors. So much was clear; she 
 had persuaded John Worthington to lend his 
 powerful name to a bit of stamped paper ; but 
 the certainty of the method she had employed 
 to release herself from her embarrassments did 
 not materially aid Master Richard in those 
 schemes for revenge which he plotted not 
 with cold-blooded fiendishness, but animated 
 by a sense of personal injury none the less 
 strong because it was unreal and ridiculous.
 
 108 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 He watched ; he waited ; for, even with the 
 sight of John Worthington's signature to make 
 the affair plain, there was a host of vague sus 
 picions in his mind which would not be allayed. 
 Now I might make a very sensational chapter 
 indeed just here; I might describe Faulkner 
 hunting up a skillful burglar, who, for a suffi 
 cient reward, would break into Mrs. March- 
 mont's house, get possession of a writing-desk 
 which contained a diary wherein she set down 
 each night the day's events, and where the de 
 tails of the forgery were described as elaborate 
 ly as if they had been stage directions for act 
 ing a drama. Perhaps that coup would be a 
 little coarse and vulgar, not exactly suited to 
 the highest rules of dramatic romance ; but 
 there are others which would serve : you see, I 
 am unwilling that any body should accuse me 
 of a lack of invention or ability to work out a 
 stirring plot. The Hebrew's spouse, with a 
 genius for histrionics, might have been induced 
 to try a new role, or Dick might have known 
 some wronged maiden willing to serve his ends, 
 and overwhelm him by exposure at the close 
 of the volume. This wronged but still inter 
 esting maid would, of course, have scarlet hair, 
 green eyes, the pallid complexion of a vampire, 
 not a tinge of color in her face except the coral 
 hue of her lips, with an ophidian head, a ser 
 pentine grace and sinuosity in each movement, 
 a strange, subtile fascination which no mortal 
 could resist, and a fondness for soliloquy equal 
 to Hamlet's. She and Faulkner would be dis 
 covered in a low, earnest conversation ; at the 
 first revelation of his plot she would utter a 
 fierce shriek, changed to a soft moan by a 
 threat from him. More talk more shrieks. 
 Suddenly Dick would pronounce Alice March- 
 mont's name ; the wronged but interesting 
 maid would spring to her feet with a wild, 
 exultant cry; then immediately turn into a 
 statue for the space of five minutes. After 
 Dick had brought her out of her perpendicular 
 trance by judicious questions, she would howl 
 forth her tale in a paragraph of six pages, in 
 the course of which, by earnest study, one would 
 discover that the man whom she loved and 
 loathed had deserted her for this creature Dick 
 named. She would be ready for revenge 
 thirsting for a draught of what modern actors 
 term "be-lood" and would clutch the air 
 wildly with two white hands, make frantic 
 dashes at Dick, ordering him to speak plain 
 ly, and talking so fast that she gave him no 
 opportunity to gratify her. The scene would 
 close, leaving the injured maid and Dick in a 
 tragic attitude; and the next one would rise 
 upon Alice Marchmont's bed-chamber, with 
 the wronged female standing in the centre of 
 the room, her costly raiment exchanged for the 
 garb of a domestic, her scarlet hair hidden un 
 der a cap ; and she would do Hamlet to any 
 extent in order to unfold the plot. Of course, 
 at this particular crisis, Mrs. Marchmont's house 
 keeper was in need of a chamber-maid ; the 
 wronged one knew it injured feminines al 
 
 ways know when their enemies require new 
 servants. Arrayed in fitting guise, she would 
 present herself to the housekeeper ; and here 
 would be an opportunity to contrast the home 
 ly honesty of the elder woman and the devilish 
 craft of the younger. The avenger would take 
 her place among the band of servitors ; after 
 doing Hamlet, she would search wildly curs 
 ing a great deal all the while in blank verse 
 among Mrs. Marchmont's secret treasures, 
 discover a blotting-book, hold it to the light, 
 pant gurgle moan, and finally announce 
 to herself in a confidential voice, distinctly au 
 dible in the neighboring square, that she had 
 solved the mystery. The treacherous tissue- 
 paper would have preserved the forged name, 
 and the injured maid would disappear from the 
 mansion, carrying the proofs of guilt away in 
 her mysterious flight. 
 
 But nothing so delightfully thrilling occur 
 red ; I wish there had, with all my heart. But 
 in real life events have a humiliating way of 
 coming about in a very prosaic fashion, and all 
 sorts of trivial, absurd incidents mix thcm^ 
 selves up with the loftiest tragedy. 
 
 Some men who belonged to the club of 
 which John Worthington was a member in 
 vited Dick to dine there one night, and Dick 
 accepted, though the sight of the place was a 
 severe humiliation, for he had twice been 
 blackballed when seeking admission among the 
 enviable band. He knew very well that he 
 had to thank Worthington for this slight ; he 
 had openly said that Dick Faulkner should 
 never be permitted to join a club to which he 
 belonged. Worthington, when they chanced 
 to meet, never vouchsafed him more than a 
 chilling salute or a few brief words, and would 
 not have gone so far as that, only Dick insist 
 ed on being elaborately civil ; for his desire to 
 keep his somewhat uncertain position in socie 
 ty as steady as possible made him determined 
 to show that he was at least on speaking terms 
 with the honored and influential man. 
 
 This evening he met Worthington in the 
 card-room. There happened to be few persons 
 present besides Dick and his host, and the par 
 ty seated at Worthington's whist-table, which 
 was drawn near a fire-place at one end of the 
 apartment, quite aloof from the other players. 
 There was an empty table close by, and Faulk 
 ner and his companion took possession of that 
 to indulge in a game of ecartt. Before long 
 Dick's Amphitryon was called out for a few 
 moments, and Dick sat listening to a conversa 
 tion between the four gentlemen, of which he 
 had caught some portion while talking to his 
 companion, and which had by this time grown 
 so animated that it delayed the progress of the 
 card-dealing. 
 
 " I tell you that no arguments could affect 
 me," Mr. Worthington said, in that low voice 
 which was at once so gentle and so firm. 
 
 "But perhaps I did not state my peculiar 
 example distinctly," returned his partner. 
 
 " Yes, you did ; but it makes no difference.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 109 
 
 I learned my lesson very early in life by ob 
 servation though, instead of experience, fortu 
 nately for me but it was one I never forgot." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "Why, you must remember my unfortunate 
 guardian, poor old Longford the best man in 
 the world, and the weakest. It was nothing 
 but indorsing his friends' bills that ruined him." 
 
 " Oh yes ; I recollect the whole story now ; 
 and a sad one it was." 
 
 "You must all three recollect it," returned 
 Worthington. "He was completely ruined, 
 and his good name went too. A better-hearted 
 man never lived. The disgrace killed him ; 
 and it was all brought about by the conduct of 
 those he had trusted. The last time I ever saw 
 him, only a few days before his death, he told 
 me the whole story. I was little more than a 
 boy then ;' and he made me promise that while 
 I lived I would not take the first step which 
 might end in a position like his." 
 
 " Keep clear of your neighbors' paper, eh ?" 
 
 " Yes, and I have remembered it. If ever I 
 felt tempted to yield, that old man's face came 
 up before me and held me firm." 
 
 "It must have been deuced difficult some 
 times to get rid of doing the thing," observed 
 another of the group. 
 
 " So it was," Mr. Worthington replied ; " but 
 I've not found the things most necessary to do 
 in this world the easiest, Van Rensslaer." 
 
 " No, by George ; I should say not." 
 
 Then there was a little laughter to get rid 
 of the disagreeable impression left by the mem 
 ories of old days which Mr. Worthington's words 
 had called up ; but he did not join in the mer 
 riment : he was looking very grave, and absent 
 ly playing a silent tune on the table with his 
 fingers. 
 
 " You're an awful one for holding firm, Wor 
 thington," said his partner. " I don't suppose 
 there's so obstinate a man living, when you 
 have once made up your mind." 
 
 " I hope that is not the exact word to ap 
 ply," returned he, smiling. 
 
 "Oh, very well ; call it firmness, if you like 
 that name better ; but admit that you have the 
 organ wonderfully developed." 
 
 " I trust so not much chance for a man in 
 this life who is so unfortunate as to be lacking 
 in the quality." 
 
 "You're right there," assented Van Renss 
 laer." 
 
 "But how to stick always to a resolution 
 like that puzzles me," observed another. 
 
 " I would do any thing else for a friend. I 
 hope, if I had only five dollars, I should not re 
 fuse to divide with a person whom I called by 
 that name ; but put my own to a bill for him 
 never nothing would induce me." 
 
 "But under the exceptional circumstances 
 I have suggested," observed his partner. 
 
 "They would have no such eft'ect," returned 
 Worthington. " If I could raise the money, I 
 would lend it give it, at any sacrifice, in a case 
 like that of which you spoke but never indorse 
 
 a note. No ! I am as principled against it as 
 I am against gambling, intoxication yes, theft, 
 or the lowest vice you can name." 
 
 " It's a good rule to lay down, but not al 
 ways easy to follow, Worthington," observed 
 one of the others. 
 
 "I have never swerved from it," he answer 
 ed ; "yet I don't think any friend of mine has 
 ever called me disobliging or mean." 
 
 "No, no," was of course the general chorus. 
 
 Dick Faulkner leaned over the table by 
 which he sat, and played with the rack of pens. 
 
 " It would be a good thing for some of us if 
 we had been as wise as Mr. Worthington," he 
 said, addressing that gentleman's partner in the 
 game a man engaged in Wall Street, like 
 Faulkner, and not in a position to snub Dick 
 for his free and easy interruption of the conver 
 sation. 
 
 "Yes, indeed,"'the other replied; and the 
 two gentlemen at the opposite sides of the card- 
 table addressed some similar words to Dick, not 
 sharing Worthington's prejudice against him, 
 or not caring to take the trouble to be rigid in 
 the cause of virtue if they did. 
 
 Emboldened by his success, Faulkner ad 
 dressed Mr. Worthington, partly because he 
 wished the conversation continued, partly be 
 cause he wanted the next day to boast that he 
 had enjoyed that gentleman's society. 
 
 "And you have been able to keep to your 
 resolution without losing a friend, Mr. Wor 
 thington ?" he asked, wheeling his chair round 
 so that they sat face to face. 
 
 In secret, Worthington anathematized his 
 insolence, but, without being guilty of a delib 
 erate outrage, he could not refuse to answer ; 
 and as he never did things by halves, his man 
 ner was perfectly courteous as he replied, 
 
 "I think I may safely say that I have not 
 lost one in my whole life from that cause." 
 
 "And yet you have held firm to your resolu 
 tion ?" persisted Dick. 
 
 Mr. Worthington's silent bow would have 
 abashed a brazen image by its awful dignity, 
 but it produced no impression whatever on 
 Faulkner. He had an end to gain, and Wor 
 thington should be forced to say more, no mat 
 ter what slight Dick himself received in the 
 skirmish. 
 
 "You never in a single instance varied from, 
 your rule ?" he asked. 
 
 Mr. Worthington gave him a glance of cold 
 surprise, enough to freeze ordinary blood, but 
 said, quietly, 
 
 " I never varied from it in a single instance." 
 
 "It's the most extraordinary thing I ever 
 heard!" cried Dick, in an admiring voice, ap 
 pealing to the other men. " I'll lay any wager 
 there's not a man in the house at this moment 
 who could say as much." 
 
 "I don't believe there is," averred Wor 
 thington's partner ; and the remaining pair an 
 nounced that they did not believe there was, 
 either. 
 
 "Even when you were young?" added Dick,
 
 110 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 offering the suggestion so apologetically that it 
 could not give offense only as any words he 
 might utter the bare fact of his existence, 
 even were an offense to John Worthington. 
 
 " There is no exception, sir none," said he, 
 rather sternly. 
 
 " I fancy that the rest of us have been guilty 
 of the weakness so often that we should not 
 venture to count the number of times," rejoin 
 ed Dick, not exactly venturing to put another 
 question. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," observed Mr. Worthington's 
 partner a thin man, with a nose like a trump 
 et, and eyes that looked sideways, as if they 
 could not see over it unconsciously aiding 
 Faulkner in his desire to have a cross-exami 
 nation. " You are perfectly certain you have 
 not forgotten a single lapse ?" 
 
 "My memory is very good," replied Mr. 
 Worthington, rather stiffly. " I should not 
 have been likely to forget the circumstance." 
 
 "You see," said Dick, with a laugh, "we 
 can't bear to think you are so much superior to 
 ordinary humanity ; I wish there had been one 
 transgression of your rule." 
 
 "Yes, yes, Worthington," added another; 
 "look back search your memory was there 
 never one violation ?" 
 
 "A small one to oblige some friend some 
 lady, may be : there's a suppositious case where 
 no ordinary rules would hold good," said Dick, 
 still laughing. 
 
 Mr. Worthington treated him to a glance of 
 icy contempt which made Dick wince, and ad 
 dressed his partner, oblivious of the imperti 
 nent remark. 
 
 "I never in my whole life put my name to 
 the paper of any human being," he said, with 
 extra distinctness. " So well known is my res 
 olution, that for the past ten years no man no 
 person has asked me to do it, or even hinted 
 the wish. I could not express myself more dis 
 tinctly, so there is nothing else to be said." 
 
 "Just so," murmured the trumpet-nosed 
 gentleman ; and the other two men uttered the 
 same ejaculation. 
 
 But Faulkner did not feel inclined to quit 
 the subject, though Mr. Worthington had par 
 tially turned his back upon him. 
 
 "Not much use, then, for any body to pre 
 sent a forged indorsement of Mr. Worthing 
 ton's to a money-lender," said he, " since his 
 rule is so well known." 
 
 Mr. Worthington took up a pack of cards that 
 lay by his side and asked the trio generally, 
 
 "Is it my deal?" 
 
 " Mine," said one of the antagonists. 
 
 "I say, any body would have pretty work 
 trying to forge your signature, Worthington," 
 cried the trumpet-nosed man, snorting at his 
 own wit. 
 
 "I think so myself," he replied, smiling; 
 "I don't suppose there's a man on Manhattan 
 Island can boast one so bad." 
 
 " Never saw it," said the antagonist who had 
 taken up the cards. 
 
 " It's a lucky thing to have it peculiar in any 
 way," added Faulkner. 
 
 "The 'John' looks like 'gin, '"said the 
 trumpet -nosed, with a fresh snort; "as for 
 the 'Worthington' well, there's no words! 
 Give us that scrap of paper and the pen off 
 the table back of you, Van Rensslaer," he con 
 tinued. 
 
 " Do you want me to exhibit my chirogra- 
 phy?" asked Worthington, as Van Kensslaer 
 placed writing implements before him. 
 
 He laughed and scrawled his signature ; 
 they all looked at it, Dick leaning directly 
 over his shoulder, and the laughter became 
 general. There were a variety of witty re 
 marks and comparisons, but Dick Faulkner 
 held his peace ; he had resumed his seat be 
 fore Worthington looked up. 
 
 " You're safe from the most experienced 
 forger that ever lived," said he of the trumpet. 
 
 " I never saw but one person who could im 
 itate my signature," Worthington replied. 
 
 " It is to be hoped that was in a quarter 
 where you ran no danger of having it tried," 
 observed Faulkner. 
 
 Mr. Worthington did not hear. 
 
 "It might place you in an unpleasant box 
 deuced unpleasant if it was some friend who 
 possessed the ability," continued Dick, in a. 
 louder voice ; and, when this remark did not 
 seem likely to be heard any more than the 
 previous one, added, " mightn't it, Mr. Wor 
 thington ?" 
 
 " Really, as the possibility has never enter 
 ed my mind, I am not prepared to answer your 
 inquiry," was the cold response. 
 
 "My suggestion, rather," added Dick, with 
 a bow. 
 
 "Indeed, Faulkner's right," said Van Renss 
 laer. "There might arise a predicament that 
 would pose you awfully." 
 
 " My imagination is not sufficiently brilliant 
 to conceive it, my dear fellow," returned Wor 
 thington. 
 
 " But suppose circumstances fate, or what 
 ever you please had put your friend in a tight 
 corner," continued Dick, not to be excluded 
 from the conversation by any reasonable effort 
 on Worthington's part ; " he might be tempted 
 to play you a shabby trick. " 
 
 " By his own wickedness, then ; he couldn't 
 lay the blame on what you call fate, and what 
 I am accustomed to calling Providence," re 
 plied Worthington, with polite severity. 
 
 "All right," said the unabashed DicE. "But 
 suppose the devil took possession of this person, 
 and tempted him to forge your name as the only 
 way out of his scrape " 
 
 Mr. Worthington would not interrupt ; but 
 as Faulkner made a slight pause here, he has 
 tened to rejoin, 
 
 "Among my whole list of friends there is 
 not one in regard to whom your supposition 
 could ever hold good ; so I am relieved from 
 the necessity of contemplating it." 
 
 "Now you're going too far!" cried Van
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Rensslaer ; and his partner, as usual, echoed 
 his words, while Dick waited patiently. "Any 
 body may be tempted, and some fine day you 
 may find that your friend has done your name 
 to a tidy bit of paper, and you will either be 
 obliged to expose him or pocket the loss." 
 
 " Just so," said his partner. 
 
 Mr. Worthington burst out laughing. 
 
 "Upon my word," said the owner of the 
 trumpet, gravely, " I don't think it's a laugh 
 ing matter, viewed in that light." 
 
 " It is the putting it in this light which 
 makes it so laughable," replied Worthington ; 
 " and you would say the same if I told you 
 who the person is that succeeds in imitating 
 my scrawl." 
 
 " Man or woman ?" asked the other, from 
 sheer idleness, and yawning because the sub 
 ject had lost its interest. 
 
 " It is a lady," Mr. Worthington replied. 
 
 "Name, name!" cried Van Rensslaer, gay- 
 I.v. 
 
 " Nonsense ! One would think we were a 
 pack of college boys," said Worthington, con 
 temptuously. " I do wonder, Van, if you will 
 ever remember that it is twice a decade since 
 you were twenty." 
 
 "Oh, come, you needn't fling a fellow's age 
 in his teeth," replied Van Rensslaer, in his 
 boyish way. "I insist on your telling now, 
 because it must be a good joke by your laugh 
 ing." 
 
 "Decidedly the best of the season," said 
 Worthington. " I'll tell the lady herself of 
 it before you sometime." 
 
 "I know," whispered the trumpet-nosed, 
 bending toward his opposite neighbor. "It 
 is Mrs. Marchmont; she's the only woman in 
 the world he ever takes the trouble to visit." 
 
 "Hush !" Worthington said. 
 
 Faulkner did not appear to have caught the 
 laughing whisper or Mr. Worthington's grave 
 remonstrance ; he was comparing his watch 
 with the clock on the mantle, and looking rue 
 fully at the table he had left, as if regretting 
 his friend's prolonged absence. 
 
 " But I was right !" persisted Worthington's 
 partner. 
 
 " Yes ; and now drop the subject, Livingston. 
 Did you say it was your deal ? We'll win this 
 rubber and be done for to-night. Just set the 
 inkstand out of the way, will you, Van ?" 
 
 As he spoke he crumpled the page whereon 
 he had written his name, and flung it upon the 
 hearth near which he sat. The four returned 
 to the business of the hour ; Dick Faulkner 
 rose and sauntered up and down the room till 
 his friend came back, full of excuses for his de 
 lay. 
 
 "It's no matter," Dick said ; " but I must 
 move homeward now ; it is getting late." 
 
 " I'll walk with you," the other replied. 
 
 They left the room together. As Faulkner 
 was going, he took a cigar-case from his pock 
 et, extracted a Havana, went to the fire, and 
 lighted it, picking up for that purpose the paper 
 
 which Mr. Worthington had thrown on the 
 hearth, twisting the remainder in his hand as 
 he walked on, apparently unconscious that he 
 had retained it. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE FIRST SHADOW. 
 
 MILLY'S bright days remained cloudless un 
 til Lent closed, and Easter ushered in its sea 
 son of rejoicing. Then Mrs. Marchmont re 
 turned from Washington as unexpectedly as she 
 went away, not having given any intimation of 
 her plans even in the gay, amusing letters with 
 which she indulged John Worthington during 
 her absence. Back she came, with her gorgeous 
 beauty, the strange glamour in her eyes, and 
 the proud lips that uttered such bitter speeches 
 at one moment, and the next brightened with 
 such bewildering smiles that the gloom seemed 
 only an outward shadow instead of proceeding 
 from trouble within. 
 
 Worthington called at her house the day af 
 ter her arrival, and was shocked and alarmed 
 at the change in her appearance ; but she was 
 already surrounded by a group of her friends 
 and admirers, so that he had no opportunity to 
 ask troublesome questions. She had grown 
 thin ; but it was not that so much as the ex 
 pression of her face which caused the altera 
 tion. She had not fallen off, so far as beauty 
 was concerned, and her spirits seemed as higli 
 as ever ; but it was a gayety which jarred upon 
 him, for he felt that it was factitious. She 
 talked a great deal related a score of anec 
 dotes at the expense of her Washington ador 
 ers, and the idiots about her as John Wor 
 thington mentally called them laughed and 
 applauded, not observant enough to notice the 
 change either in appearance or manner, or, if 
 they did notice, too selfish to think about ir, 
 since, whether ill or troubled, she was still able 
 to play her usual part in the tiresome old game. 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence had recommenced her week 
 ly receptions as soon as Lent ended ; and though 
 this first one, which was to take place the 
 evening after Alice Marchmont's return, was a 
 musical affair, the certainty of a good supper 
 brought the customary crowd. 
 
 Halford was there before Milly's arrival ; 
 and, after searching for her in vain, he went up 
 stairs into the card-rooms to see whom he could 
 find, as the music had ceased for a little, and 
 the familiar salons looked desolate without the 
 presence of his rose-bud. 
 
 "She isn't here yet," Mrs. Lawrence said, 
 chancing to meet him near the foot of the stairs. 
 "I suppose the place seems empty." 
 
 " With this crowd ?" he asked, not chosing 
 to understand her words. 
 
 "That's the comfort of a large house," said 
 she, complacently; "one can invite one's friends 
 without running the risk of their suffocating." 
 
 "And I believe you have more friends than 
 any other woman in the world," returned he.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "I ought to have plenty ; I like my species ! 
 I like you, too, though you're not a bit confi 
 dential it's shabby of you." 
 
 "I thought I was frankness itself," said he. 
 
 "Oh, indeed! But I'm not blind not 
 quite," returned Minerva, as if there was a 
 probability of her soon becoming so. "I can 
 see as far as most folk, and you may be silent, 
 and Milly look innocent, and Eliza Remsen 
 purse up her mouth she always had an ugly 
 mouth, though she doesn't believe it but I 
 know what is going on." 
 
 "Keally, your discernment is appalling! 
 You make me afraid," he said, and got away 
 as rapidly as possible. 
 
 Up stairs in the chamber next the boudoir 
 where he had told his secret to Milly, he came 
 upon Mrs. Marchmont. She had just left the 
 dressing-room, and stopped there for an in 
 stant's solitude before encountering the crowd 
 below. She stood leaning against the window, 
 from which she had pushed the curtains back, 
 gazing out into the garden beneath, where the 
 leafless trees sighed and waved their branches 
 in the night-wind, and the moon, half obscured 
 by clouds, rushed swiftly up the sky as if try 
 ing to escape the gloom which threatened ut 
 terly to overwhelm her. As Halford saw her, 
 he was as much struck as Worthington had 
 been by the change in her face : it showed very 
 plainly as she stood there unconscious of ob 
 servation. Such diverse emotions swept like 
 shadows over her countenance, and dimmed 
 the splendor of her eyes, that he was fairly 
 startled. But he moved quickly forward ; she 
 caught the sound of his step, and turned to 
 meet the intruder, whosoever it might be, 
 schooling her features into the haughty quiet 
 which had grown their habitual expression. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Halford ?" she said, 
 holding out her hand; but though she smiled, 
 and added pleasant inquiries, it seemed to her 
 listener that she spoke with an effort, as if in 
 reality too listless and weary even to be glad 
 at this meeting with an old friend. 
 
 " Are you well ?" he asked. 
 
 " Perfectly. I have forbidden anybody's ask 
 ing ; it is so humiliating always to be obliged to 
 confess myself in rude health!" 
 
 " Upon my word, you don't look it," he said. 
 
 "Never mind my looks; those weeks in 
 Washington were enough to make any angel 
 grow plain. But you have been a runaway, 
 too, somebody told me. The idea of your be 
 ing as near to me as Baltimore, and not coming 
 on to the odious capital !" 
 
 "I should have liked it exceedingly," he re 
 plied, " but I was too much engaged to spare 
 even a few hours from my business." 
 
 "Don't mention the horrid word! I don't 
 allow it uttered in my hearing any longer." 
 
 "There seems to be a variety of things that 
 you have forbidden," he said, smiling. " As I 
 have not seen you for some time, you will have 
 to give me a list, so that I may not ignorantly 
 transgress." 
 
 "I would forbid every earthly subject, if I 
 could only find new ones heavenly or other 
 wise. I have heard every thing discussed till 
 my patience is exhausted," she replied; but, 
 gayly as she spoke, it struck him, as it had 
 John Worthington, that her spirits were more 
 unreal and unnatural than ever. "Who is 
 down stairs just the old set, I suppose? How 
 nice it must have been to have lived in the 
 Reign of Terror! One had new faces each day 
 in prison ; and an hour's flirtation gained a new 
 piquancy by the reflection that a stroke of the 
 guillotine at the end of it would prevent one's 
 admirer ever growing tiresome." 
 
 " Washington seems to have had a bad ef 
 fect on your mind," he said, not half liking the 
 talk. 
 
 "On my manners, at least," she replied. 
 " Though I did not bore myself too much ; 
 sometimes it was rather pleasant a change, 
 at all events ; and that's the one blessing life 
 offers." 
 
 " So the baron followed you?" 
 
 " Of course as you would have done if you 
 had not been the most perfidious and fickle of 
 men. What nonsense I am talking! I really 
 forgot it was you, my good old Kenneth. Have 
 you been here long ?" 
 
 "No ; I only came a few moments ago ; ev 
 ery body that I cared to talk with was busy, 
 so I wandered up stairs to see who was to be 
 found." 
 
 "Every body! That always means one 
 body. So she was busy, and could not so 
 much as give you a word poor man! Did 
 you catch sight of my baron ? He has no 
 business to be late, because I expressly or 
 dered him to come early." 
 
 "And so waited until near midnight before 
 arriving yourself?" 
 
 "Exactly! I thought he would get tired, 
 and go off before I appeared. The poor baron 
 he really is a nicer creature than one would 
 believe." 
 
 " So he is the present victim ?" 
 
 " Oh, he'll never be a victim to any body or 
 any thing, unless it be tobacco. And you 
 aren't you a victim yet ?" 
 
 "I think not" 
 
 He stopped, for at that instant a face glanced 
 in at the door-way a girl's face, looking very 
 youthful and pretty framed among the silken 
 draperies; but it disappeared before Mrs. 
 Marchmont could remark what attracted his 
 attention. Several people from the inner 
 room entered just then, and Halford took ad 
 vantage of their appearance to hasten away in 
 search of Milly. 
 
 He did not find her, though ; and presently 
 Mrs. Marchmont met him in the card-room, 
 and of course he offered his arm down stairs. 
 
 Milly had left her aunt for a moment talking 
 to some acquaintance, and had passed through 
 the suite of upper rooms for the express pleas 
 ure of glancing into her beloved boudoir. She 
 loved that chamber better than any spot in the
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 113 
 
 whole world ; there was no haunt which held 
 a memory so enthralling as that of the night 
 when Kenneth Hallbrd put his heart into 
 words, and led her away into the full glory 
 of the magic land. On her way she fell upon 
 the little tableau innocent enough, but some 
 how not a pleasant one to her Mrs. March- 
 mont looking full in Halford's face with those 
 speaking eyes, and he bending toward her with 
 a deference and attention which of late Milly 
 had not been accustomed to see him bestow 
 upon any one but herself. She felt a little 
 guilty, too, as if she had intruded upon a scene 
 not meant for her observation stricken sud 
 denly by the idea that he might think she had 
 watched, or that a hint of their engagement 
 might already have reached Mrs. Marchmont, 
 and she with her careless tongue sting Halford 
 by some such insinuation. 
 
 Milly flew off to the dressing-room to have 
 a moment to herself, telling Aunt Eliza a fib 
 as she passed that she had forgotten her 
 handkerchief, though the fib was unnecessary, 
 for Aunt Eliza was talking comfortably, and 
 ready to wait as long as Milly pleased before 
 entering upon the lofty enjoyment of the clas 
 sical music which once more surged up from 
 the apartments below. But Milly uttered her 
 little untruth, and fled on to the retirement 
 of the dressing-room. Luckily it was empty 
 even the maid in attendance had temporari 
 ly absented herself; so she had an opportunity 
 to try and calm the agitation caused by the 
 picture she had so unwittingly studied. She 
 remembered her old fears of Mrs. Marchmont, 
 fears so quickly allayed by her departure that 
 they had lain forgotten until now ; but they 
 rushed back, and it required some time for 
 Milly to recover the beaming content which 
 had been her portion of late. Presently she 
 could think of the dear words Halford had 
 spoken in that little chamber; of the weeks 
 of happiness which had followed, and was 
 ready to laugh at her own folly as if any 
 human being could come between her and her 
 bliss, as if any mortal occurrence could ever 
 really disturb it ! 
 
 She returned to the card-room, and found 
 her aunt ; but Mrs. Remsen was so deep in 
 conversation that Milly had to wait, and it 
 was tiresome, now that she was eager to meet 
 Halford and atone for her momentary irrita 
 tion by increased sweetness and amiability. 
 
 "Now I'll go," Mrs. Remsen said, at last. 
 "Are you completely out of patience, Milly?" 
 "Oh no ; but I do like music, you know." 
 "Exactly," laughed Mrs. Remsen, as she 
 took the girl's arm and led her away; "it 'is 
 to listen to the music that you are anxious to 
 go down stairs." 
 
 "Now, if you tease me my cheeks will get 
 scarlet," pleaded Milly. 
 
 "Then I'll do it ; for it is very becoming." 
 " Oh, please I shall look like a goose !" 
 " So you are a dear little goose ! But 
 mercy on us, what a crowd there is ! I be 
 
 lieve Minerva Lawrence is never satisfied un 
 less she fills her house till one can't breathe." 
 
 " But the music is very fine," Milly said. 
 
 "I dare say. I'm not musical, further than 
 to like your singing, Puss. If I must have 
 concerts, I prefer them in a room built for the 
 purpose." 
 
 Milly was accustomed to hearing her aunt 
 and Mrs. Lawrence indulge in such thrusts at 
 each other's expense ; but she knew they were 
 good friends all the same, and neither of them 
 would have allowed any one else the liberty of 
 abusing her old school-companion. 
 
 "It's like going into a furnace," sighed 
 Aunt Eliza, as they reached the foot of the 
 stairs. " Oh, Minerva will be a fool if she 
 lives to be a hundred ! I never endured any 
 thing like it." 
 
 Unfortunately for the good resolutions Milly 
 had so lately been making, the very first sight 
 that met her eyes as she entered the drawing- 
 rooms was Mrs. Marchmont with a crowd about 
 her, from which she was just turning away with 
 her usual ease and indifference, and taking Hal- 
 ford's arm for a promenade between the pieces. 
 Worst of all, he was so much occupied that he 
 did not notice Milly's entrance. She was not 
 a fool, even in her love and her exacting disposi 
 tion. When she reflected upon the matter, she 
 knew very well that a man was to have a little 
 use of his eyes and ears for old acquaintances, 
 though he might be engaged. Many a time 
 she had laughed at girls for indulging in silly 
 tempers concerning things of the same sort; 
 but that did not remove the sudden chill which 
 struck her when she saw Alice Marchmont lean 
 ing on Halford's arm, and glancing up in his 
 face with those wonderful eyes which would 
 look as if they were meaning a great many 
 things that they did not. 
 
 It is very well to theorize about such trifles, 
 as Milly herself had often done in the plenitude 
 of her untried wisdom ; but a case which ap 
 pealed directly to her own feelings was a differ 
 ent matter, as you or I might discover under 
 similar circumstances. She followed her aunt 
 with a cold pressure at her heart, a breathless 
 sensation, an inexplicable sickening thrill which 
 made her absolutely faint, and very glad to sink 
 into a seat. 
 
 As if her disagreeable thoughts were not an 
 noyance enough, Adelaide Ramsay must needs 
 come up and hiss venomous whispers into Mil 
 ly's ears under cover of the music, which kept 
 her words from reaching Mrs. Remsen ; for Ad 
 elaide was not exactly bold enough to run the 
 risk of incurring her mother's wrath by such re 
 marks as her dislike of Milly prompted her to 
 utter. The two cousins never made the pre 
 tense of being friends, though it was not Milly's 
 fault. Adelaide had always disliked her, and 
 now, since she suspected that the girl was soon 
 to make a brilliant marriage, fairly hated her. 
 Indeed, she had on several occasions of late 
 been so rude that Mrs. Remsen had advised 
 Milly to keep away from her house, and even
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 threatened her daughter with Mr. Eamsay's 
 displeasure if she did not let Mill y alone. Maud 
 had as nearly betrayed the secret of the engage 
 ment as she dared, and Mrs. Ramsay could not 
 resist this opportunity of gratifying her spite. 
 
 "Do you see Kenneth Halford and Mrs. 
 Marchmont ?" she asked, without the slightest 
 preamble or salutation. 
 
 "I was busy listening to the music," Milly 
 answered, civilly; "it is very beautiful, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Oh, you can't put me off that way!" re 
 turned Adelaide. "You had better look after 
 Halford, I can tell you, Miss Milly." 
 
 "Allow me to beg that you will tell me noth 
 ing of the sort," replied Milly, with a good deal 
 of quiet dignity. " It is neither a kind nor po 
 lite remark." 
 
 "Upon my word, as Maud says, your airs 
 lately are too much for human patience ! I 
 shall tell you what I think best. Please to re 
 member I am a married woman, and your cous 
 in." 
 
 Milly could easily have exasperated her with 
 a cutting answer, but it was not worth the trou 
 ble ; besides, she had no wish to quarrel or to 
 dislike Mrs. Ramsay, if the woman would only 
 treat her with a show of decent feeling. So 
 she said, 
 
 "I am sorry you and Maud disapprove of 
 me, but I can't help it ; and I do not wish you 
 to connect my name with any man's as you did 
 just now." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," returned Adelaide, 
 with an insulting laugh ; "it was Mrs. March- 
 mont's name that I connected with Halford's 
 and with good reason, too." 
 
 "One that would not interest me, however 
 important," said Milly. 
 
 "Don't be absurd using words like Hor- 
 tense!" 
 
 "At least Hortense is good -hearted and 
 lady-like. Please to go away, Adelaide ; this 
 is no place for a discussion." 
 
 "Perhaps you'd better order me out of the 
 rooms, and be done with it ! Now I shall say 
 what I like, and when I like. I was speaking 
 in all kindness; but that is the way with you 
 you never appreciate one's motives." 
 
 "I think I do," Milly said ; then closed her 
 lips and mentally determined not to be pro 
 voked into speaking another word. 
 
 "Every body knows Halford used to be cra 
 zy over Mrs. Marchmont years ago, when she 
 was a girl," continued Adelaide. "Dear me ! 
 I believe he tried to shoot himself when he 
 heard she was married," she added this last 
 clause an entire falsehood, of course, born out 
 of her desire to annoy Milly. 
 
 "If you don't go away this instant I'll speak 
 to aunty!" she gasped, and Adelaide thought 
 it best to retreat. 
 
 Milly began fairly to hate this beautiful Al 
 ice, with her picturesque dress, her entrancing 
 ways, her power to sing in a theatrical, passion 
 ate fashion, and before the evening was over had 
 
 been pettish, and almost rude to her. Mrs. 
 Marchmont annoyed her still more by an 
 amused forbearance, though all the same she 
 felt an inclination to punish her, as one does to 
 punish the freaks of a spoiled child. Poor Mil 
 ly ! Somebody came up to ask her to follow 
 the general example of promenading through 
 the rooms while the musicians exchanged the 
 classics for a slow march. It was Charley 
 Thome who asked, unfortunate boy ! 
 
 "You've scarcely spoken to me for a whole 
 week," he said, dolefully; "you never do 
 speak to me nowadays, and I know the reason ; 
 but never mind ! I wish you would take my 
 arm once more just once," he added as dis 
 mally as if he were to be ordered off to execu 
 tion immediately after. 
 
 Milly's first impulse was to answer the boy 
 sharply ; then came a second thought the bit 
 ing fear so quick to trouble a woman's mind, 
 however young, that some one might be look 
 ing curiously at her, might suspect her secret, 
 notice any change in her manner, and attrib 
 ute it to its rightful cause. So she made poor 
 Charley who had flung his young heart at her 
 feet to be trodden upon in the insolent, uncon 
 scious pride of her girlhood happy by taking 
 his arm, and walking up and down the room 
 with him. 
 
 Then Kenneth Halford saw her with her 
 cheeks glowing from that fear, and her eyes 
 beautified by the twofold pain in her soul. 
 The course of the promenade brought the cou 
 ples close together. 
 
 "Oh, my pretty little fairy!" said Mrs. 
 Marchmont, holding out her hand. " I am so 
 happy to see you again." 
 
 Milly could not bring herself to give more 
 than two fingers and a very cold answer to the 
 lady's greeting, casting one glance toward Hal- 
 ford as she did so ; but Mrs. Marchmont inter 
 cepted the glance, fleeting as it was, and her 
 wits sharp as so many polished daggers com 
 prehended the matter at once as well as if she 
 had received a whole volume of explanations. 
 
 "You must come and see me, my blossom," 
 she continued, talking rapidly, while those swift 
 thoughts flitted through her mind, smiling, too, 
 at Milly's stateliness, which was a little like 
 the attempts of a pigeon to imitate a peacock. 
 "Come very soon, you and the dear aunt is 
 she quite well ?" 
 
 " Quite well ; she is here," Milly replied, not 
 vouchsafing Halford a second look. "I think 
 you may take me back to her, if you please, 
 Mr. Thorne." 
 
 Charley led her away. It was a pleasure to 
 get her out of Halford's neighborhood, if only 
 for a few moments. 
 
 " I haven't slept for a week," he moaned, 
 suddenly, forgetting the silence under which he 
 lad meant to shroud his griefs. Whispers in 
 regard to Milly's engagement had reached his 
 ars, and for days he had been eagerly watch 
 ing his face in the glass to see if thinness and 
 paleness gave any signs of the speedy death
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 115 
 
 which he believed he wanted. But it was not 
 so easy to die uncomplainingly as he had imag 
 ined, and now he turned upon Milly Avith that 
 peevish confession. 
 
 " I should go straight home, then, and go to 
 bed," was her unfeeling answer. "We must 
 not walk any longer. They are beginning that 
 thing of Riesiger's, and every body is expected 
 to sit down. 
 
 Milly wanted to go back to her chair. She 
 felt as she had sometimes done under the influ 
 ence of a bad dream, as if her limbs were half 
 paralyzed and refused to move. Charley Thome 
 wandered disconsolately away, to watch her 
 from a distance, and think his poor little dis 
 mal thoughts, and Halford came up, uncon 
 scious that any thing was amiss. The look 
 whose language had been so plain to Mrs. 
 Marchmont was lost on him being only a 
 man! 
 
 "I did not see you come in," he whispered, 
 under the cover of the thunder of two violon 
 cellos and a grand piano-forte. " How pretty 
 you look, my little blossom!" 
 
 I suppose he could not have stumbled on two 
 more unfortunate speeches ! First, so inno 
 cently to acknowledge that he had been una 
 ware of her presence. Love was making Milly 
 imaginative and unreasonable enough for the 
 feeling we have each indulged in our turn the 
 expectation that a beloved is to know by intu 
 ition when one approaches or is near. Then to 
 call her by that name ! She liked pet names, 
 but this was the appellation that odious woman 
 had just given her in his hearing. It grated 
 on Milly's ear like a harsh word. 
 
 "What made you so late?" continued Hal- 
 ford. 
 
 "It is not late," replied Milly, fretfully, tell 
 ing a fib to gratify her vexation ; for it was late, 
 and Aunt Eliza's dilatoriness had put her in a 
 fever a full hour before they set out. 
 
 The tone was unmistakably cross. Halford 
 looked surprised. 
 
 "Aren't you well ?" he asked. 
 
 "Certainly. Why should you think I am 
 not?" 
 
 He smiled ; he had never seen her cross be 
 fore, and it made her so pretty andpiquant that 
 he rather liked it by way of a change for a few 
 moments. After awhile another opportunity 
 was given restless people to walk about, and 
 Halford turned from a conversation with Mrs. 
 llcmsen to offer Milly his arm. She had three 
 minds to refuse, but could not bring herself 
 to carry her resentment so far. Halford took 
 pleasure in teasing her, and said a dozen things 
 at which she would have laughed in another 
 mood ; but she could not laugh now. Mrs. 
 Marchmont passed them on some man's arm, 
 and half whispered a few French words in Hal- 
 ford's ear so rapidly that Milly could not under 
 stand them. 
 
 "What a pretty lilac," he said, carelessly, 
 pointing to the trimmings on Milly's over-skirt. 
 
 He was not to blame because her unpracticed 
 
 ear had not caught the hurried accents, nor 
 could she quarrel with him outright because 
 the fascinating widow chose to address him in 
 a foreign language; but she could find fault 
 when he gave a wrong name to the tint of her 
 bows. 
 
 " They are lavender," she replied. " Some 
 thing must have made you color-blind to-night." 
 
 " My dear child," returned he, bent on teas 
 ing her, " I pride myself on the correctness of 
 my eye lilac, I do assure you." 
 
 "Then Aunt Eliza and I and the dress 
 maker must all be blind," she answered, hotly. 
 
 He laughed again at her tone and manner, 
 and was so determined to make her laugh that 
 at last Milly grew amiable in spite of herself. 
 The evening would have passed off tolerably, 
 and Milly need not have felt troubled or cross 
 again had not Mrs. Marchmont chanced to 
 meet her just before supper and utter some 
 innocent reirlark which turned Milly acid once 
 more. Then it was she committed the folly of 
 being pettish, and almost rude, turning away 
 with a few words so unlike her usual gentle 
 ness that Mrs. Marchmont was surprised and 
 offended. 
 
 "How cross the little blossom seems!" she 
 said, wonderingly, to John Worthington, who 
 had come in for half an hour just to meet her. 
 
 "Perhaps you have been poaching on her 
 manor," he answered, rather wearily ; for he 
 was not in good spirits to-night. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Why, Halford has been very devoted to 
 her all these weeks of your absence, so Con 
 stance says ; she fancies, too, that they are en 
 gaged." 
 
 " Engaged Kenneth Halford to that child?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " She is very pretty, to be sure, but a mere 
 baby and at his age ! He must be four-and- 
 thirty!" 
 
 "How dreadfully ancient !" 
 
 "As most men live, it is. The generality of 
 you are Methusalehs before that too old and 
 blast for a little innocent creature like her to 
 fancy." 
 
 ." You will please to remember my age." 
 
 "But you don't want to make love to Milly 
 Crofton, I suppose ? Mr. Halford engaged to 
 her ! Upon my word, it makes me laugh." 
 
 Her eyes danced. She was certain that her 
 suspicion, roused earlier in the evening by Mil 
 ly's manner, was correct. 
 
 "And the goose is jealous!" she thought. 
 " She's a pretty young bird, but she musn't 
 hiss at me like a small serpent each time I 
 venture to look toward her idol that will never 
 do." 
 
 There was a confusion of epithets in the 
 lady's mind, but the main thought was very 
 clear under them : if that girl ventured to be 
 impertinent she must be suitably punished. 
 
 "Of course she hasn't an idea in her head," 
 Alice went on thinking while she watched Mil 
 ly. " Well, it's odd how a man of Kenneth
 
 116 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 Halford's age will take a fancy to bread-and- 
 butter after ruining his digestion with all man 
 ner of forbidden eatables ; but I don't really 
 believe in the engagement." 
 
 Milly could not tell what was passing in Mrs. 
 Marchmont's mind, or be sufficiently wise to 
 know that in a battle such as she was ready 
 to bring on, a woman like her always has every 
 advantage over a young girl, in spite of love or 
 ties of any sort. She determined that the lady 
 should discover that she did not mean to sub 
 mit to affectionate patronage, or be called 
 names of extravagant endearment, or be med 
 dled with in any manner. Poor little Milly ! 
 
 Before the concert was over Mrs. March- 
 mont had Milly and Halford again brought to 
 her mind by John Worthington. 
 
 "Just look at them as they stand there by 
 the piano. Doesn't that look like business ?" 
 
 "I do believe he is getting into mischief," 
 said she. 
 
 "Very pleasant mischief, I've no doubt. 
 She is a bewitching little fairy." 
 
 "Just a sweet, undeveloped child ! So like 
 a man ! and when the child turns into a woman 
 on his hands he'll grow tired of her because 
 she is like the rest of her sex, and reproach 
 her instead of his own folly." 
 
 "You speak warmly," said he, rather suspi 
 ciously. " I think you prophesied this very 
 thing weeks ago, and I asked how you would 
 like it. Is it less agreeable than you fancied ?" 
 
 " How cross you are to-night !" she exclaim 
 ed. " I think I shall go home to get rid of 
 you." 
 
 " But you didn't answer my question !" 
 
 " I sha'n't weep over my Kenneth's deser 
 tion, if that is what you mean," she answered. 
 " But he's a good man, and she's a sweet baby. 
 I don't like to think of their making each other 
 unhappy ; but perhaps they will not." 
 
 He felt certain that there was no hidden 
 feeling in her mind. It was a great relief, for 
 he had often feared that Halford's return had 
 something to do with the change this winter 
 had worked in her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CROSS-PURPOSES. 
 
 OF course not many days could elapse with 
 out Mrs. Marchmont's meeting Dick Faulkner ; 
 still she contrived to avoid him a great deal, 
 for though she was free from his power, the 
 sight of him reminded her so forcibly of the in 
 sult he had offered the crime he had forced 
 her to commit that it was torture to find her 
 self in his presence, even if not compelled to 
 address more than a cold bow or a few chilling 
 words. 
 
 Immediately on Alice's arrival, Mrs. Faulk 
 ner left her own and her husband's cards, and 
 Mrs. Marchmont returned hers, scrupulously, 
 thoilgh she vowed that nothing should tempt 
 
 her ever to set foot within the house. She 
 must be civil when they met, lest people should 
 notice and ask the reason of the breach ; but 
 she would not go beyond that. Only a few- 
 evenings afterward she encountered them at a 
 party, and Mrs. Faulkner fluttered up with her 
 false smiles and honeyed words, doubly distaste 
 ful to Alice, because she knew that the spiteful 
 woman only did it at Faulkner's command. 
 
 Later in the evening she found Dick himself 
 by her side; he had been annoying her for the 
 last half-hour by standing at a distance and 
 watching her in the old way, so that by the 
 time he approached she was in a state of high 
 nervous exasperation. 
 
 "May I compliment you on the restored 
 looks you have brought back from Washing 
 ton?" he half whispered, in that silky disagree 
 able voice and the compromising manner he as 
 sumed toward all women. " You seemed tired 
 and fagged when you went away, but the old 
 capital has done wonders for you." 
 
 There was a covert sneer in his tone which 
 struck her with the old chill of dread, and she 
 knew that the speech was meant for an imper 
 tinence ; her glass told her plainly how much 
 these weeks had changed her. Fortunately, 
 she was alone for the moment, and could re 
 lieve her mind. 
 
 " You need not compliment me at all," she 
 replied, not vouchsafing him a single glance. 
 " I have already spoken to your wife ; that po 
 liteness will serve for you both the whole even 
 ing." 
 
 "You are not changed, certainly!" he said, 
 trying in vain to keep his voice from quivering 
 with anger; "you come back as haughty and 
 unforgiving as you went." 
 
 She did not speak looked away over his head 
 still, with that same careless contempt which 
 touched him as no display of anger could have 
 done. 
 
 "I think you are making a mistake," he 
 said, slowly ; "it is Christian-like and woman 
 ly to forgive ; it is always safer, too, for the pa 
 tience of the most penitent man may be pushed 
 too far." , 
 
 "As I am not a Christian, and you any thing 
 rather than penitent, I can make no application 
 of your words," she answered, after a moment 
 ary struggle whether to speak, or let him stand 
 there unnoticed till he muSt leave her for fear 
 some one should observe and smile at his ridic 
 ulous position. "The rest of your speech 
 seems a kind of threat ; you forget that you are 
 powerless." 
 
 He laughed in a low, sneering tone. 
 
 "You will think me capable of threats, then ? 
 But what folly on my part at this late day!" 
 
 "Utter folly!" she said ; though, in spite of 
 her, the old fear grew stronger, and she looked 
 at him now studied his face, to try and dis 
 cover if there was any hidden meaning to his 
 speech ; but features and attitude had assumed 
 the sentimental expression and pose which al 
 ways exasperated her. "I think it better to
 
 JOHN WORTIIINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 117 
 
 be frank," she continued, quickly, under the in 
 fluence of this emotion ; "I shall be obliged to 
 you, Mr. Faulkner, if you will never address a 
 Avord to me beyond the commonest greeting." 
 
 "That is hard," he said ; " very hard, when 
 the greatest pleasure I have in life is to con 
 verse with you, even if I must endure disdain 
 ful looks and cruel speeches." 
 
 "This is simply impertinent," she replied. 
 " Have the goodness to go away, or I shall be 
 compelled to leave you standing here." 
 
 " No, don't do that," he said ; " it would be 
 unwise." 
 
 "Another mysterious threat ?" 
 
 "Only a caution for your own sake ; you do 
 not wish people to know that you are offended 
 with me." 
 
 "I warn you that I shall not try to hide it, 
 if you venture to annoy me." 
 
 "Then you would have to tell the reason. 
 I don't mind ; I am not ashamed of loving you." 
 
 She half rose remembered where she was, 
 and controlled herself. 
 
 "I think," she said, "there must be some 
 man here who would protect me from your in 
 solence. Will you force me to make sure ?" 
 
 "But that would only hurt you ! Suppose 
 some preux chevalier shot me, it would not pre 
 vent the world's saying you must have gone 
 very far when I dared say such a thing ; you 
 would have to endure something worse than 
 my society." 
 
 " Nothing could be so bad as that !" 
 
 "Well, well, I don't mean to quarrel do 
 you know why ?" 
 
 "No ; nor care to hear." 
 
 " Simply out of regard for you. I am, what 
 I always have been, the most devoted of your 
 friends. I will not quarrel." 
 
 "I think you had better go away," she said, 
 with an ominous pause between each word. 
 
 "In a moment ; I don't intend to annoy you 
 hereafter, so I must speak clearly now." 
 
 " You have nothing to say." 
 
 " Yes ; this ! I want you to remember that 
 I am your friend. When the time arrives that 
 you need my help, recollect what I say now, 
 and send for me at once." 
 
 Again the paralyzing fear came back. Had 
 he discovered any thing ? did he suspect ? was 
 there a real meaning to his words, or were they 
 only an empty insolence for the pleasure of tor 
 menting her ? Oh, that last question must con 
 tain the rightful answer ; yet the bare thought 
 that it might not nerved her anew with the des 
 peration which nowadays served in the place of 
 her old courage. 
 
 "When I want you I will send," she an 
 swered, with a bitter smile ; "perhaps you will 
 have the goodness to wait until then, before 
 approaching me again." 
 
 " Yes," he said, gravely ; "I will wait." 
 
 She would not raise her eyes, anxious as she 
 was to read his face ; she feared that they 
 might confirm the dread in her soul. 
 
 "And you know that I can wait patiently," 
 
 he went on. "A few weeks ago, when you 
 set a time for me to come to you, I never in 
 truded until the ex/ict day: I shall not now." 
 
 " If yon will only wait till then, I have noth 
 ing more to ask." 
 
 "I will wait." 
 
 He bowed and turned away, but she felt her 
 self tremble under the triumphant ring in his 
 guarded voice. 
 
 A few days afterward she received an invi 
 tation to dinner from Mrs. Faulkner : it was 
 declined, as were all succeeding invitations from 
 that quarter ; Alice avoided the houses where 
 she was likely to meet the husband or wife. In 
 spite of his potency in these days, there were 
 people who refused to allow Dick Faulkner to 
 enter their doors, and as much as possible she 
 confined herself to their society. When she 
 did chance to meet him, he never troubled her 
 further than to speak, as a distant, respectful ac 
 quaintance might have done ; and as the days 
 went on she put him a great deal out of her 
 mind. 
 
 The fears which gathered darkly were not 
 those in which he had a part she must guard 
 against John Worthington now. The time 
 sped on with such terrible rapidity; the note 
 hidden in the Hebrew's desk haunted her more 
 and more persistently. Twice during her stay 
 in Washington she had thought the bargain 
 for her lands complete, had expected to have 
 the deeds presented for her signature ; on each 
 occasion the matter had again fallen through. 
 The company could not agree among them 
 selves, not where her demands were concerned ; 
 but there were inward dissensions among them 
 a change of president, and various troubles, 
 which prevented their having leisure to attend 
 to any purchases as yet. 
 
 And the days flew, each bearing her nearer 
 the moment when prompt action would be a 
 necessity. She had no hope of getting a re 
 newal of the note ; in the beginning the Jew 
 had allowed her to see that any such clemency 
 was not to be expected. When the fatal day 
 arrived he would appear before her, bill in 
 hand, and at the first word the first plea for 
 delay hurry from her to seek John Worthing 
 ton, and place the forged signature before his 
 eyes. She never got beyond that exposure in 
 her thoughts ; when she reached that point she 
 was past forming even the wildest idea of what 
 might follow. Whether he would expose her, 
 allow the law to take its course oh, she hoped 
 that would prove his choice ! A prison hard 
 labor life among the vilest convicts, would be 
 easier than to have him come and look in her 
 face, and tell her she was safe from the effects 
 of his righteous anger, so far as betrayal was 
 concerned ; but no punishment of the law could 
 equal the agony of meeting his contempt. 
 
 She grew more and more capricious in her 
 manner toward him ; sometimes seeking his 
 society, sometimes fairly running away, and 
 unable to decide whether she suffered most in 
 listening to his friendly words or in the seasons
 
 118 
 
 JOHN WOiiTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 of solitude when tormented by the idea that 
 before they met again some untoward chance 
 might have revealed to hin^the truth. 
 
 Worthington, troubled by his own secret, 
 placed a construction upon her conduct en 
 tirely foreign to the facts. He began to fear 
 that he had not concealed his feelings so care 
 fully as he believed ; that she suspected his 
 folly, and was divided between a wish not to 
 break their long friendship, and a dread that 
 he would pain her by putting his insanity into 
 speech. So he .visited her less ; went less fre 
 quently to places where they were likely to 
 meet. Then his absence terrified her, and she 
 would seek him and try to make her manner 
 what it had formerly been, and shudder with 
 remorse at each tone of his voice. 
 
 The baron 'had followed her home from 
 Washington ; he was always haunting her 
 steps, seeking an opportunity to lay his title 
 at her feet; and though she knew there was 
 little hope of her daring to accept the idea, 
 too, of marrying him was a torment she. could 
 not let him speak yet, lest afterward she should 
 regret having thrown away that one chance of 
 escape from her old life. 
 
 She had no peace anywhere, but in those 
 weary days Kenneth Halford's companionship 
 was nearer rest than aught else, and she lured 
 him to her side by every art that she could 
 find. He saw more of her real self than others 
 did, and he pitied her profoundly it was the 
 sore feeling in his heart ; but Milly was tor 
 menting him sorely, and Mrs. Marchmont's so 
 ciety was a relief, so he sought it often ; and of 
 course there were eyes enough to notice, and 
 tongues enough to hint to Milly of the flirta 
 tion that was going on. 
 
 The next time she met Mrs. Marchmont 
 after that first evening, Milly carried into ex 
 ecution her plan of showing the haughty beau 
 ty that she did not mean to be patronized or 
 treated as a child. It was very like a foolish 
 blossom pitting itself against a diamond star 
 and getting its leaves pierced by a score of the 
 sharp, sparkling points. Again Alice March 
 mont smiled sweetly upon her, and held an in 
 ternal monologue. 
 
 "Yes, I'll certainly teach yon a lesson, you 
 dreadful-mannered little girl of the period ! 
 If Kenneth Halford is idiot enough to marry 
 you, I shall do him and you a service by aggra 
 vating you into common sense. How much 
 you do lack it, my pecked white dove !" 
 
 Milly had dealt a dangerous blow to her own 
 peace, poor child ! I do not mean to say that 
 Mrs. Marchmont in the least disliked her ; but 
 she was accustomed to conquest even among 
 her own sex, and impertinence was a thing she 
 could not endure. Besides, during these hor 
 rible days she was hard and cruel : any fancied 
 slight made her long to punish the offender. 
 She would rule absolutely to the last ; there 
 was so little time left now so little ! 
 
 Had she really known Milly, she was more ca 
 pable of thoroughly understanding her than any 
 
 body had ever done ; but meeting her casually 
 in crowds, she only saw the trifling, childish ex 
 terior, and believed that Halford if the story 
 of the engagement proved true was taking a 
 step that he would bitterly regret when too 
 late. She concluded hastily that Milly's mind 
 was like the minds of so many girls, the best 
 comparison for which is an oak-seedling that 
 the Chinese plant in a vase, and which, under 
 some subtle treatment, speedily shoots into a 
 miniature tree, pretty and quaint, but never to 
 enlarge or grow any higher. 
 
 No confidence in regard to the engagement 
 passed between Mrs. Marchmont and Halford, 
 and though Alice heard the reports she did 
 not feel herself obliged to change her manner 
 toward him, since he offered no hint of his new 
 ties. This was, unfortunately, Milly's fault. 
 Only a short time after Mrs. Marchmont carne 
 back, he asked his betrothed if he might con 
 fide their secret to one of his oldest and dearest 
 friends. She was sure whom he meant, and 
 her budding jealousy prompted her to refuse 
 the request. 
 
 "I'll not have it," she said. "You prom 
 ised me that you would not tell till I gave you 
 leave." 
 
 "And I shall keep my word, dear child," he 
 answered, for he was still patient with her ; 
 "but in this one case I should like to break 
 through our compact." 
 
 "I'll not hear of it," Milly said; "no, I'll 
 not hear of it." 
 
 So the conversation ended there, and he did 
 not renew his plea. 
 
 The days passed on ; it was all the work of 
 a brief season, and the contest thus begun was 
 continued mere play to the elder woman, but 
 stern, terrible earnest to blind little Milly. 
 
 Just her childishness, her sunny laugh, her 
 light heart had won Kenneth Halford's love. 
 Therefore, when she grew fretful, and her tem 
 per uncertain, when she took him to task about 
 trifles, not choosing to reveal the real hurt 
 which smarted so keenly, he became impatient, 
 and began to regard her childishness from an 
 other point of view. He hoped that he had not 
 been overhasty in entering into this engage 
 ment, which was equivalent to fearing that he 
 had gone on too fast. He felt that, at all events 
 and at all risks, she must be subdued and taught 
 that such freaks were silly and ridiculously out 
 of place toward a man so much older and wiser 
 than herself, when that man had honored her 
 with his affection ; and I never yet have met 
 one of the sex who would not have felt the 
 same. 
 
 Then, out of the mystery of the heart's awak 
 ening, Milly's mind developed like an amaryl- 
 lis bursting suddenly into blossom. She thought 
 of things in a way she had never before done ; 
 of life and the world as they really are ; of the 
 fact that she could not always be young and 
 pretty. She saw that Halford considered her 
 a child ; that he loved her as such ; that there 
 were depths in his past which she was not al-
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 119 
 
 lowed to sound, supposed incapable of compre 
 hending experiences which kept them worlds 
 apart in spite of love and vows. She per 
 ceived clearly that he only allowed her to stand 
 in the pleasant light of the portico, and never 
 dreamed of opening the inner doors of the tem 
 ple that she might enter and take her rightful 
 place. 
 
 Did the awaking of these new faculties, this 
 ability to reason, this clear-sightedness, this 
 struggle into womanhood make her suddenly 
 more patient, better able to set right the tan 
 gled wo.of of the present? Ah, never did it so 
 happen in the case of any human being! The 
 wisdom gained by experience does not come 
 until long after the battle is over, the defeat ac 
 cepted. We look back on our Waterloos, and 
 see how the fight might have been won ; but 
 when we have acquired the generalship neces 
 sary for a victory, the great stakes for which 
 we \\spuld struggle are no longer there. 
 
 Milly was astonished to find that her temper 
 could be so bad. The children at home fret 
 ted her ; the light duties she had to perform be 
 came insupportable. Every thing went wrong, 
 and she made herself more wretched each day, 
 without mending matters in the least, and 
 forced her aunt to think her almost wicked, and 
 wonder how it was that her new position could 
 have so changed her nature. Mrs. Marchmont 
 was punishing her for her naughty behavior, 
 without meaning to injure her happiness or be 
 lieving there was depth enough to her mind to 
 make real suffering possible. Halfordwas ren 
 dered colder and sterner by Milly's petulance, 
 and so the clouds loomed swiftly up over the 
 horizon which had been so glorious. 
 
 "I want rest, peace," said Kenneth Halford, 
 in his masculine arrogance. " Is this child 
 only to tease and annoy me, instead of proving 
 the cheerful sunbeam that I wooed for my lone 
 liness?" 
 
 No remembrance of the warning John Wor- 
 thington had given recurred to his mind ; he 
 was blind as the rest of us are until the time 
 arrives when there is no space for any thing 
 but regret. We can see clearly enough then 
 how we might have averted the tempest. As 
 we look back across the graves of the past we 
 can perceive how patience, self-sacrifice, even 
 quiet endurance of actual wrong, might have 
 been needed to set matters straight, and the 
 sacrifices look very small, haughtily as we 
 should have rejected them while they could 
 have proved of any avail. 
 
 Minerva Lawrence struck the crowning blow 
 upon Milly's heart struck it unintentionally, 
 blindly, without the least idea of her own cru 
 eltyjust as our best friends hurt us, in their 
 desire to meddle with that which is better left 
 alone. She was very fond of Milly, and took 
 it upon herself to be indignant at the gossip 
 concerning Mrs. Marchmont and Halford. But 
 it did not occur to her to believe that it was 
 without foundation she never stopped to think 
 that he was an honorable man, incapable of 
 
 proving false. She felt it her duty to caution 
 Milly, to set her on her guard, to rouse in her 
 a proper spirit of resentment ; for, though the 
 girl had never admitted her engagement, Mi 
 nerva, iu her wisdom, felt certain that it ex 
 isted. 
 
 So, just when Milly was hottest and most 
 bitter, and her jealousy at its height, Minerva 
 came to make her a visit, and, as Mrs. Kemsen 
 was out, had a full opportunity to free her mind 
 of the burden which oppressed it. She felt ir 
 ritated, too, because Milly had not been frank 
 with her. The more wholly a secret belongs to 
 one's self the more fiercely one's friends resent 
 one's reticence. 
 
 "Where were you last night?" she asked. 
 
 "Aunty and I had to goto Hortense's," Mil 
 ly replied, yawning at the bare recollection. 
 '"'Oh, it was awful!" 
 
 "I should think so I tell Hortense honest 
 ly I'm not equal to her reunions. She thinks 
 it's because I'm a fool, but I don't care." 
 
 "And where were you?" asked Milly, not 
 wishing to be led into fault-finding with her 
 cousin. 
 
 "At the opera." 
 
 "Many there?" demanded Milly, just to 
 make conversation, for it was hard work to talk. 
 
 Halford had gone to Mrs. Maynard's, too, 
 and Milly had managed to get into an alterca 
 tion. But he would not quarrel ; he rose and 
 went away, thereby punishing her more cruelly 
 than if he had scolded. 
 
 "Yes, a great crowd," returned Minerva, 
 with unnecessary emphasis. " Mrs. March 
 mont was in. her box, going on as usual half- 
 undressed laughing, sighing, rolling up her 
 eyes. I hate her!" 
 
 Milly did not reply. 
 
 "And ycrfi ought to," pursued Minerva. " I 
 can tell you that." 
 
 "You have no reason for telling me any 
 thing of the kind," said Milly. 
 
 " Yes, I have don't be snappish, when I'm 
 so fond of you ! Kenneth Halford was with 
 her all the last act. I saw her go down stairs 
 on his arm." 
 
 He had strolled into the opera-house after 
 leaving Mrs. Maynard's, and seeing Alice 
 Marchmont had gone to her box ; but in Mil 
 ly's state of mind her first thought was that he 
 had promised to do so had left her with the 
 intention of seeking that woman. 
 
 "And what was there improper in the pro 
 ceeding ?" she forced herself to ask, trying to 
 appear languid and bored, as she had seen cid 
 er feminines do more naturally. 
 
 "It's a shame never mind, I'm supposed 
 not to know but I'm not a mole, nor an owl !" 
 cried Minerva; and by this time she was in a 
 state of such excitement that she poured out 
 her whole bundle of gossip almost without a 
 pause. "I don't believe you ever heard they 
 were engaged once ; but they were ! I'd for 
 gotten it ; but when Helen James raked up the 
 story from her old aunts I remembered it. Yes,
 
 120 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 indeed ; and she was always what she is now 
 the most heartless coquette in the world. She 
 threw him over because he hadn't money in 
 those days, and married Mr. Marchmont, and 
 Halford went off to Egypt. You needn't look 
 unbelieving it is the truth." 
 
 "But it is nothing to me," said Milly. 
 
 " So much the better, but it's a fib ! You 
 ought to call him to account for the way he 
 goes on ;" and she added a long list of enormi 
 ties which increased Milly's anger, though she 
 would not say a word. 
 
 She tried for a little to believe that the story 
 of the engagement was false ; but once having 
 set out on her mission, Minerva could not re 
 linquish it until she proved the fact by circum 
 stantial evidence which Milly could not doubt. 
 
 At last Aunt Eliza came in, but she appeared 
 too late. Minerva had done all the harm she 
 could, and in Milly's mood it was a great deal. 
 The keeping secret this ancient history seemed, 
 in her exaggerated frame of mind, a deliberate 
 deception on the part of Halford one that she 
 could not and would not forgive. Worse than 
 any thing, this woman had not lost her old pow 
 er over him ; she was sure of that. But he should 
 learn that she was no baby to be contented with 
 careless smiles and coaxing words ! She would 
 have all or nothing ; if he was not prepared to 
 give her his full heart, let him go back to Alice 
 Marchmont and his former love, and leave her 
 life free. 
 
 Halford perceived that she was jealous of 
 Alice. The idea amused him at first, as her 
 petulance had done. But Milly carried mat 
 ters too far; it became an insulting suspicion 
 in his eyes, and he was utterly out of patience 
 with her folly. Then Milly began to flirt ; she 
 had worn the edge off her other weapons, short 
 as the combat had been ; she would go into the 
 fray armed with the two-edged sword of coquet 
 ry. TBut when a young girl attempts to wield 
 rthat blade out of bitterness and a desire to an 
 noy her lover, she does not handle it with the 
 ) coolness of an experienced fencer ; half her 
 thrusts go astray, and the sharpest blows cut 
 
 r own heart. \ 
 
 Milly went on foolishly with any body who 
 presented himself; worst of all with poor Char 
 ley Thorne, who was as foolish a boy as she 
 was girl, only he had not much mind or soul to 
 develop, so would not get himself so severely 
 hurt as Milly was doing. Still, he loved her to 
 the full extent of his capabilities. We think 
 that a worm is not much to be pitied when 
 wounded, because it can only feel a dull, slug 
 gish pain ; but, after all, if it suffers to the full 
 extent of its powers, then it suffers in reality as 
 severely as an angel could. 
 
 By this time Halford was really angry. Not 
 that he supposed Milly cared for the youth ; 
 but, overlooking the real cause of her conduct, 
 began to fear that she was led on by her love 
 of admiration and flattery, and that she had 
 conceived the idea of taking a leaf out of Mrs. 
 Marchmont's book because she was nnnoved 
 
 with that lady. Milly must learn that such 
 conduct was not to be permitted, and as he 
 compared her with Alice Marchmont, he thought 
 what a pity it was that young girls could not 
 have the experience of worldly women, or that 
 women must give their innocent freshness as 
 the price of their knowledge. 
 
 But when you take a simple wild-flower, 
 modest and perfumed with morning dew, and 
 put it in a hot-house to grow double, to deepen 
 in color, and become more gorgeous in every 
 way, the fragrance and simplicity die out of it. 
 You have a beautiful decoration for a, jardiniere 
 or a ball-room, but you have deprived the blos 
 som of the charm it had when odorous of the 
 free air and memories of the pleasant haunts 
 where you played and were happy years and 
 years ago. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 IN THE DARK. 
 
 FKOM the moment that Milly admitted to 
 herself the truth of the reports Minerva Law 
 rence poured into her ears, not a day passed 
 without bringing a host of confirming evidence. 
 She began to find proofs of dissimulation in the 
 slightest thing connected with Halford's con 
 duct toward Mrs. Marchmont, and to indulge 
 more and more in the idea that he felt his en 
 gagement a restraint. 
 
 " Why didn't he leave me alone ?" cried poor 
 Milly, in her passionate monologues. " Why 
 did he come to me, and teach me to love him 
 when he had only half a heart to give? He 
 might have gone back to his old dream, and 
 left me untroubled. Oh, it was cruel, it was 
 wicked ! I shall hate him soon !" 
 
 At least half their interviews became stormy 
 ones. At times Milly was on the point of tell 
 ing him that she knew the story of his past 
 his treachery toward herself, and bidding him 
 leave her forever. But then some effort on 
 his part to pet her back to peace would suc 
 ceed for the moment, and she would persuade 
 herself that he loved her, until a second meet 
 ing with Alice Marchmont roused her jealous 
 fancies to a higher pitch. Had she only told him 
 bared her whole soul, no matter how harsh 
 ly, even yet the clouds might have been clear 
 ed away. He could have shown how false her 
 fears were ; made her understand that his boy 
 ish dream had no more connection with his 
 present life, no more hold upon him than the 
 pursuits which pleased her when a little child 
 possessed an interest now. But she did not 
 speak ; she kept her secret resolutely, sullenly, 
 and it ate into her heart like a plague-spot, 
 cankering to the very core. 
 
 Another week went by, and once again they 
 were all assembled in somebody's house, busy 
 with the old routine of dancing, talking pity 
 ing themselves for being there, and hating their 
 hostess for the invitation as bitterly as she de 
 tested them for the necessity of offering it.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 121 
 
 Milly was in one of her most violent moods 
 of irritation, and Halford cynical and misan 
 thropical, as he had grown of late. Mrs. March- 
 mont was there too, and Dick Faulkner watch 
 ing her, and each time she met his eyes it seem 
 ed to her that she read there a triumphant con 
 sciousness of the fact that the narrowing circle 
 of days bore her rapidly toward her doom. The 
 sight of him and the dread which his presence 
 roused had its usual effect of putting her in the 
 wildest, most feverish spirits, and prompted her 
 to do and say a thousand things for which she 
 hated herself afterward. 
 
 After trying for a while in vain to have a 
 pleasant moment with Milly, Halford went 
 away to make one in the circle about Mrs. 
 Marchmont. They danced together, and final 
 ly she complained of the heat, and he led her 
 away into the conservator}'. 
 
 They fell into a morbid, speculative conver 
 sation, sitting alone in the pretty retreat much 
 longer than was in exact accordance with the 
 rules of etiquette, but Mrs. Marchmont had 
 grown reckless of what people said, and Hal- 
 ford, man-like, did not think. Several times 
 a stray couple wandered in, glanced at them, 
 and departed with meaning smiles and whis 
 pers; but neither noticed. At length, as usu 
 ally happened, their talk became personal, and 
 something Halford said roused Mrs. March 
 mont into contradiction ; but it was a laugh 
 ing, graceful warfare, very different from poor 
 Milly's sharp speeches and petulant ways. 
 
 " I've no patience whatever with you," she 
 said ; " not the least. You are like the rest 
 of your sex, Kenneth Halford." 
 
 " In allowing myself to be dazzled by your 
 brilliancy ?" he asked, laughingly. 
 
 "Nonsense!" retorted she. "What is the 
 good of talking in that way ? There is nobody 
 to hear." 
 
 " Thank you," said Halford, and felt vexed, 
 as the veriest old stager will when a woman 
 says such things, however indifferent he may 
 be to her. 
 
 "People say that you are engaged to that 
 pretty little baby, Milly Crofton." 
 
 Halford looked up rather angrily at the epi 
 thets. 
 
 " If I am she is a darling little thing !" 
 
 "Just that," replied she, coolly; "and it was 
 what you wanted to find. Let me see you 
 are almost four-and-thirty ; you have lived ever 
 since you were fifteen oh yes, I know what 
 men like you want ! To be worshiped, adored, 
 made a god of! Innocence and youth for you 
 very good !" 
 
 " Thanks again for your kind opinion so frank 
 ly expressed, "he replied, amiably enough; "but 
 my vanity is not quite insatiable." 
 
 "You don't thank me, and I'm not talking 
 about your vanity. What I want to know is 
 this since you have seen fit to take a child to 
 bring up, why are you not satisfied ?" 
 
 " I wonder," said Halford, musingly, " do 
 these children " 
 
 " No, they don't," interrupted Mrs. March 
 mont; "they never do grow up, and that is 
 their chief charm the very reason why they 
 are to be envied. Who would feel if he could 
 help it? You have chosen your wild -flower 
 sometimes, after the first blossoming, such 
 flowers turn into the most commonplace weeds. 
 I trust it will not be the case in this instance. 
 Still, you must run your chance you can't have 
 ragout and syllabub in the same dish ; excuse 
 the confusion of metaphors. You have grown 
 dreadfully tired of the taste of ragout ; I only 
 hope the syllabub will not turn sour." 
 
 " How cynical you are !" returned he, in an 
 irritated tone. 
 
 " Men always say that when one takes the 
 trouble to tell them truth ; verity and cynicism 
 they seem to regard as synonymous terms." 
 
 " I wish there was no such thing as truth," 
 cried he, laughing. 
 
 "I don't think there will be by the time the 
 next generation gets here," returned she, qui 
 etly. "Well, they say we live afresh in our 
 children ; with your prospect you can look for 
 ward to that poetical delight." 
 
 "You sneer, but I know you love children ; 
 you would give the world for something to care 
 for as you could for a child." 
 
 " I don't deny it," she replied ; and for an 
 instant her lip quivered ; but the brief emotion 
 passed, and she continued in her former care 
 less voice, "I dare say I shall envy you! I 
 suppose, when a man grows tired of his sylla 
 bub, the babies are a great consolation ; and 
 our American doves subside very quietly into 
 nurses and upper-servants." 
 
 "I don't wish " 
 
 "You needn't interrupt! I have reached 
 the children's chapter, and I am always elo 
 quent thereupon. I say the babies are delight 
 ful, but they will grow to men and women ; and 
 the first use they make of their serpent teeth is 
 to sting one's dead heart into new life and keen 
 er suffering than any thing that went before." 
 
 "You are worse than Mephistophelcs!" he 
 exclaimed, angrily. 
 
 She laughed outright. 
 
 "Just because I tell you a few plain, unvar 
 nished facts !" 
 
 " I don't believe they are facts." 
 
 " So much the better for your peace of mind ; 
 don't you believe it until you are forced the 
 time will come soon enough." 
 
 " Upon my word, you are doubt incarnate," 
 said he, laughing too. 
 
 " I should be sorry to lead such a tender 
 young Faust astray," returned she, mockingly. 
 "I wish no harm to you or your Marguerite, 
 but I am really afraid for your future. There 
 are acids enough in her composition to make 
 your sweet draught unpalatable whey unless 
 there can something be found to counteract 
 them." 
 
 "She is dreadfully exacting and jealous," 
 Halford said, gloomily, with a man's usual lack 
 of generosity.
 
 122 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 " Never mind ! I am sorry I made that last 
 speech it vras too bad of me ; but I have been 
 punishing her lately for sundry little imperti 
 nences." Mrs. Marchmont's mood changed ; 
 he looked so disturbed that, she longed to say 
 something which should ease the pain caused 
 by her words, though she honestly feared that 
 her warnings would prove correct. But it 
 was wicked of her to foster his own feelings of 
 distrust in the future he had chosen ! Why 
 should she force doubts more clearly upon him ? 
 She was grown too hard and cruel oh, these 
 last days would leave nothing womanly, noth 
 ing even human about her! She was indul 
 ging these swift self-reproaches while he spoke 
 again, for he felt ashamed of that weak com 
 plaint as soon as it was uttered. 
 
 "Milly is only a child yet," he said; "I 
 must be patient. One's theories are fine enough, 
 but it is difficult to reduce them to practice." 
 
 " It is the thing of all others, though, which 
 must be done ! There I go again ! What was 
 it Shakspeare said about the ease of showing 
 other people the road ? The idea of my giv 
 ing advice to any body ; why, I haven't even a 
 fine theory left to violate!" 
 
 " You never are satisfied without doing your 
 self injustice." 
 
 " It's not of me we were talking," she said, 
 quickly ; " it is of you and your hope of happi 
 ness a possibility that interests me more just 
 now than any thing connected with myself. 
 Mr. Halford, listen to me, I am in earnest now : 
 if you go to work aright, I believe that you 
 may be tolerably tfappy and contented. Go find 
 her, and try to bring back her sunshine. It is 
 a great deal to be loved ; don't lose the oppor 
 tunity." 
 
 " If I have found it," he muttered. 
 
 "You believed for a time that you had. 
 Why, man, even a pleasant deception is better 
 than a blank ! Keep to your illusions, if such 
 they be." 
 
 "To tell me that, at my age, when I know 
 how impossible it is to prevent their slipping 
 away!" 
 
 " Then don't let this idyl be an illusion ! I 
 tell you the future is in your own hands. Take 
 what life offers, and don't fret after the unat 
 tainable. You are not a boy. I'll not talk to 
 you any more to-night. I feel bitter I really 
 envy you the peace that you may have." 
 
 She sent him away without the least hesita 
 tion or ceremony. 
 
 "But I don't want to go," he said. 
 
 "No matter go back to that pretty flower. 
 I don't wish you here ; in reality, you don't 
 wish to stay. We are two idiots to stand air 
 ing our misanthropy at each other's expense." 
 
 She could not trust herself to be grave. She 
 began to say merry, witty things, and sent him 
 off laughing, in spite of his mood. 
 
 "I wish the child had brains," she thought, 
 looking after him as he passed out of the con 
 servatory. " But, after all, she is better off as 
 she is. Of course he will get tired a man ! 
 
 Bah ! the idea of being loved by such a hack 
 neyed heart as his ; it would bear comfortably 
 as many crosses as an apple-tart. Still, where 
 will one find a better, or as good ? for he is 
 worth infinitely more than any other of his 
 sort, that's certain ! My good old John Wor- 
 thington does not count in the li*t. Oh, John 
 Worthington!" 
 
 She put her hands hastily before her eyes. 
 The thoughts called up by the mental utter 
 ance of that name were too terrible to endure. 
 She went to the window, leaned her forehead 
 against the glass, and forgot Halford, Milly, 
 the whole world, but herself and her misery. 
 She gazed up at the moonlit sky : it looked so 
 far off, so cold! There was no comfort, no 
 hope for her even in the future. The forever 
 itself seemed only an empty sound, else a new 
 word of doom. 
 
 She heard some one enter the conservatory ; 
 she was not alone. Back to reality she came, 
 flashing at the foolish midge who interrupted 
 her reverie a smile so brilliant that it fairly diz 
 zied him. 
 
 " Come and say pretty things to me!" cried 
 she ; then gave him a second glance, and added, 
 carelessly, "Oh no, you are one of the dancing 
 set. Well, take me among them, Mercury." 
 
 I suppose the poor fool was dreadfully puz 
 zled, flattered, and confused all at once. Mrs. 
 Marchmont had a habit of upsetting the brains 
 of the midges, and making them feel horribly 
 uncomfortable and out of place, yet hopelessly 
 fascinated the while. It was a great deal to 
 be seen talking and dancing with a woman who 
 was the rage, and they admired her from the 
 very fact that they could no more understand 
 her than they could decipher an Egyptian hi 
 eroglyph, and that her conversation was as un 
 intelligible to them as the complaint of a night 
 ingale would be to a flock of sparrows. 
 
 Halford went in search of Milly. She was 
 talking with Charley Thome, who saw her grow 
 inattentive and deaf and blind, and knew before 
 he looked up that Halford was near. So, with 
 an ache in his poor heart, he took himself out of 
 the way, for fear he should get mercilessly snub 
 bed, as sometimes happened since the Milly of 
 old days had so utterly changed. 
 
 " M~illy," said Halford, "half our sunshine 
 seems gone. Is it wise to let these shadows 
 come between us?" 
 
 Her lips quivered, but she knew that he had 
 just left Mrs. Marchmont. The knowledge 
 did not incline her to accept any share of the 
 blame. 
 
 "I have not brought them," she answered, 
 doing her best to look cold and quiet, and to 
 speak with proper indifference. 
 
 " No matter who has done it," he said ; 
 " they have come, and they will make us very 
 unhappy if they are not swept away." 
 
 A fortnight before, Milly would have been 
 softened by those words and that tone ; now, 
 out of her new clear-sightedness came the 
 thought,
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 123 
 
 " He talks to me as if I were a child, to be 
 lectured or coaxed into obedience at his whim. 
 I'll not endure it!" 
 
 She did a very silly and unworthy thing, but 
 painfully natural in her state of mind. She 
 gave a little flirt to her fan, and, with a coquet 
 ry which no art less than Mrs. Marchmont's 
 could have rendered graceful, said, 
 
 " I have not complained of unhappiness ! 
 Dear me, where has Charley Thorne gone? 
 He asked me to dance." 
 
 Of all habits which girls can fall into that of 
 nicknaming their male acquaintances was the 
 most detestable to Halford, and it was a bit of 
 bad taste of which he had never before heard 
 Milly guilty. 
 
 " She really has no heart," he thought ; " one 
 can neither reason with her nor appeal to her 
 feelings. Am I always to be disappointed 
 and mistaken? is there no rest for me any 
 where ?" 
 
 Milly interpreted the gloom in his face to 
 mean unalloyed censure, and it irritated her 
 into another annoying speech. 
 
 "I promised this redowa to Charley Thorne," 
 she said, arranging her bracelet ; " how rude 
 he will think me ! I hate to be rude, unless 
 people deserve it. Which way did .Charley 
 Thorne go, Mr. Halford ?" 
 
 "Perhaps you would like me to call him," 
 suggested he, coldly. 
 
 "Glad to get away," thought Milly. "I'll 
 not let him see that I feel it ; I would die first 
 die die !" She had learned, out of the ex 
 perience of the past weeks, to be a tolerable 
 hypocrite, so was able to say, flippantly, "If 
 you would be so good! The room is cold 
 when one sits still, and I promised him this 
 dance faithfully oh, longago yesterday morn 
 ing, at the concert." 
 
 Kenneth Halford stared aghast at this new 
 Milly, who confronted him with those guarded 
 eyes, that icy smile, and found such insolent 
 meaning for her voice. He was at a loss what it 
 would be right and best to say or do ; but just 
 then up came Charley Thorne to remind her 
 of her pledge. The boy was frightfully nervous 
 for fear she should refuse, and make him feel 
 boyish before Halford, but could not forego the 
 possible chance of a few moments' happiness. 
 
 "Will you have you forgotten?" he stam 
 mered, completely losing the ease of manner 
 for which our New York youths are famous, 
 and which sometimes strikes one in connection 
 with pink cheeks and budding mustaches as 
 ludicrously as it would to hear a lamb growl. 
 
 " Oh, I never forget," returned Milly, with a 
 laugh. Up she rose with a flutter, sweeping 
 out her skirts, and speaking more loudly than 
 was agreeable; took the arm which Charley 
 offered, trembling with delight at the idea of 
 taking her away from that man ; and Milly 
 smiled defiance at Halford, and floated off. 
 
 "Has she neither head nor heart?" thought 
 Kenneth. " Not even good manners ! Well, 
 well, that I should live to this age to be a | 
 
 greater fool than I was at twenty ! Actually 
 to believe in a girl a doll ! I deserve to be 
 punished for my insanity, my idiotic stupidity." 
 
 He fairly ground his teeth, and felt inclined 
 to do melodrama, but, fortunately, remembered 
 where he was, and that it would not be worth 
 while to amuse people by making himself ridic 
 ulous. He stood still for a few moments, talked 
 to the first person within reach, then walked 
 quietly out of the room, and went home to 
 smoke many pipes and sulk exceedingly. He 
 sat till near morning, recalling every unpleasant 
 thing which had ever happened to him in the 
 whole course of his life sand when a man past 
 thirty does that, he can speedily reduce himself 
 into a state of sufficient disgust with the world 
 and existence in general to have satisfied Di 
 ogenes himself. 
 
 Then he brought the record up to this latest 
 disappointment this child, whom he loved ten 
 derly, mixed with much of a patronizing feeling 
 which was so exasperating to the creature whom 
 his love had quickened into new powers of 
 thought and perception, and he grew still more 
 misanthropical. 
 
 After a time the very unreasonableness of 
 his mood brought a reaction. He caught sight 
 of Milly's picture lying on the table. The 
 sweet young face, with its faint shadow of 
 melancholy, like the premonition of a sorrow 
 ful destiny which made it different from other 
 girl-faces, looked up at him with a reproach for 
 having indulged in those old memories and 
 raked up the ashes out of the dead past to sully 
 the present. He began to study the picture ; 
 to be softened and encouraged by the beautiful 
 capabilities the countenance betrayed, and at 
 last went to bed, determined to make one more 
 grand effort to set Milly right, to bring the sun 
 shine back to her eyes, and secure to himself 
 peace and repose in her simplicity and childish 
 ness. 
 
 To set Milly right : that was still his thought, 
 erring as sorely now as he had done in the out 
 set. Ah, we men and women going out of our 
 youth the faded, wasted youth which our own 
 errors or evil fortune has rendered misshapen 
 and distorted till we are glad to be rid of it, to 
 bury it deep, and get away from the lifeless 
 thing which fills us with remorse, such as some 
 wretch might feel in looking at the face of a 
 friend whom he had murdered how petty and 
 unjust we are toward those still in the spring 
 time of life and heart ! We forget to judge 
 them by what we ourselves were at that sea 
 son ; we refuse to acknowledge that they can 
 feel and comprehend mysteries which we know 
 that we felt and comprehended long before we 
 could reason in regard to them. We do this 
 constantly, and so leave ourselves powerless to 
 aid the bewilderment of those young souls, even 
 when we wish in all sincerity to do so. Ken 
 neth Halford was a good man better than the 
 generality of his kind ; but the leaven of con 
 ceit and selfishness was there, and by one of 
 those strange, though, unfortunately, frequent
 
 124 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 contrarieties of our nature, this very love which 
 had come to cheer his heart in the maturity of 
 manhood, roused the perverse qualities which 
 he believed so utterly rooted out that he did 
 not recognize them as evil under the fine guise 
 in which they presented themselves. 
 
 Milly, whirling through the dance, saw Hal- 
 ford depart, and straightway her heart went 
 down, down into the black depths, and she would 
 have gladly given her soul to call him back, just 
 for one loving word, one gentle look. Then 
 she detested herself and innocent Charley 
 Thorne, but was borne on and obliged to re 
 strain her tears as best she could. She was a 
 poor, blind, foolish child, with the woman too 
 suddenly wakening in her soul, living a real 
 life, and doomed to suffer its pangs, which are 
 so terribly real mixed up with so much that 
 is small, ludicrous, and absurd, that hurt the 
 more because denuded thereby of half their 
 dignity. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen saw that Halford was gone ; 
 and before long, feeling a little sleepy and cross 
 (the supper was a failure, so she had her rea 
 sons for misanthropy as well as any lover of 
 them all), she insisted on taking Milly home ; 
 and though the evening was any thing but an 
 enjoyment, Milly felt that solitude would be 
 worse. Then Alice Marchmont gave the 
 crowning stroke to the girl's multifarious trou 
 bles, though actuated by the kindly feeling her 
 conversation with Halford had roused. / 1 don't 
 know why, but nine times out of ten we do our 
 worst mischief when trying to help people.") 
 
 She and Milly chanced to stand side by side 
 in the dressing-room, and nobody very near. 
 Mrs. Marchmont extended her hand impulsive 
 ly, and half-whispered, 
 
 " You don't like me of late. I'm so sorry !" 
 
 Milly was not equal to the politeness of see 
 ing the outstretched hand, but she bowed gra 
 ciously, and answered, 
 
 " How very good of you to take so much no 
 tice of a child !" 
 
 "It is because you are one, my dear," Alice 
 replied, good-humoredly, determined not to be 
 vexed. 
 
 "Then excuse me for saying that I find the 
 reason a rudeness," retorted Milly, her cheeks 
 growing scarlet. 
 
 "People have accused me of all sorts of 
 things, but I think nobody ever said before that 
 I was rude," returned Mrs. Marchmont, with a 
 smile which goaded Milly into hotter anger. 
 "I wish you would be friends ; I learned some 
 thing to-night which makes me anxious to have 
 you like me." 
 
 " I am utterly at a loss to imagine any thing 
 which could give you that amiable anxiety," 
 answered Milly. 
 
 " When you speak like that you prevent my 
 explaining," said Alice, rather wondering at 
 her failure in appeasing the pretty blossom. 
 
 " So much the better !" cried Milly. 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Remsen called, 
 
 "Are you ready, Milly? Good-night, Mrs. 
 
 Marchmont. What a stupid evening it has 
 been !" 
 
 When she was shut up in the carriage with 
 her niece the lady fell to fault-finding, and Mil 
 ly grew flippant, so between them they made 
 matters worse. Mrs. Remsen had her suspi 
 cions that things were not going quite smooth 
 ly with the betrothed pair, and, though she 
 knew nothing for a certainty, was inclined to 
 blame Milly. She had already delivered sun 
 dry lectures to the girl upon her peevishness 
 and variable tempers, and they had produced 
 the effect which lectures offered at the wrong 
 time generally do upon people since the days 
 when Cain was a boy, and Adam scolded him 
 for not liking to hear his brother praised and 
 himself always blamed. 
 
 On reaching home, Mrs. Remsen found await 
 ing her one of the most unpleasant results of 
 our advanced stage of civilization a telegraphic 
 dispatch. She was obliged, after all, to go to 
 Baltimore in regard to the letting of her houses, 
 and to set off without delay. So she went to 
 bed crosser than ever, which was natural, I am 
 sure. 
 
 The next day she departed, taking Maud 
 with her, having decided to remain a week 
 and visit an old friend. She might as well 
 get a little pleasure, if possible, out of the bore 
 dom and annoyance. But Milly could not be 
 expected to stay shut up in the house during 
 her absence, nor could she go away on account 
 of the children, so Mrs. Remsen wrote and 
 asked good-natured Minerva Lawrence to play 
 chaperon for her niece's benefit. She could 
 think of nobody else, little as she trusted Mi 
 nerva's judgment, for Hortense was too busy 
 with her ologies, her hospitals, and her blue 
 stocking clubs to pay any attention to Milh-, 
 and Adelaide Ramsey was too selfish and spite 
 ful even to make a pretense of doing so. 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence would have been delighted 
 to take Milly and the children to her house, 
 but that her friend would not permit ; all she 
 could be trusted to do was to go out of an even 
 ing with the young lady. So Aunt Eliza de 
 parted, leaving behind her so many rules and 
 regulations for Milly's conduct that they be 
 came, as peoples' rules usually do, a bundle of 
 contradictions. 
 
 Hate is a spiteful jade there is not the 
 slightest doubt of that. When she wants com 
 pletely to upset any little scheme of happiness 
 that we may have in view, she arranges the 
 most commonplace incidents to suit her nefa 
 rious designs ; and she was as malignant to 
 ward Milly as she has proved to each of us in 
 our time.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THROWN BACK. 
 
 THE days passed on ; it was late in March 
 now, and the beautiful traces of spring were 
 everywhere visible. The air grew balmy and
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 125 
 
 soft, the trees in the squares had put out their 
 first delicate green, the birds hovered about 
 them just returned from their southward flight, 
 and each morning brought some new miracle 
 in that wondrous resurrection of nature to 
 which we are so accustomed that we scarcely 
 notice its loveliness in our frantic rush after 
 the pleasures and honors of our petty lives. 
 
 How fast the time flew this was Alice 
 Marchmont's constantly haunting thought ! 
 Almost a month had gone by since her return 
 from Washington, and there was nothing done, 
 no step taken to relieve herself from the dread 
 ful state of suspense which deepened as each 
 day's swift course reminded her of the necessity 
 for action. And she was powerless ; could only 
 wait in that horrible doubt, worse to her impa 
 tient soul than any ruinous catastrophe. She 
 watched the days pass, and knew that each 
 left her nearer the crisis which must overthrow 
 her present life as suddenly as an earthquake 
 desolates some tropical land. 
 
 She went out constantly, she was more witty 
 and brilliant than ever ; but could those of her 
 own sex who envied and reviled her, and would 
 have been glad to see the endless gossip in re 
 gard to her grow into tangible truths which 
 should strike her down from her dazzling 
 height, have seen her in solitude, the severest 
 and most malicious among the band might 
 have felt their rancor turned into pity. There 
 was one fancy which haunted her dreams, and 
 in her waking hours seemed the sole compari 
 son that suited the strait in which she found 
 herself. She was like some hapless wretch in 
 a frail boat that swept more and more swiftly 
 down a laughing stream, with bright flowers 
 and graceful trees on its margin, and the roar 
 of an unseen cataract beyond coming always 
 nearer and nearer, and she powerless even to 
 lift her hand or make a movement to turn the 
 light bark out of the fatal current. 
 
 No wonder that she grew thinner and paler, 
 her eyes larger and blazing with a brighter light, 
 her wit sharper and keener; yet all her trouble 
 seemed only to increase that beauty which had 
 been her bitterest curse, and she was more ad 
 mired and courted than ever. Often, in her 
 desperate moments, when she thought of the 
 end stealing closer, she would laugh outright 
 in a horrible merriment to think how the fairy 
 palace in which she dwelt must fall into ruin 
 with one fearful crash, like some enchanted 
 dwelling in an Eastern tale, beneath the stroke 
 of a magician's wand. 
 
 The month ended. She had begun to count 
 the days yet to elapse before the forged note 
 fell due, and as the shortening time of grace 
 brought back to her mind the awful dread of 
 madness or death as the only way out, the tor 
 ture ended. She found herself free ! The 
 news came to her early one morning, just when 
 the project for the sale of her lands seemed 
 broken up entirely, owing to the failure of one 
 of the company. But the stock-holders had 
 met again, and this time the bargain was actu 
 
 ally concluded with the agent before she knew 
 a word of the matter. Her first thought was 
 that she could deliver herself from peril ; her 
 second, that if she had only waited and kept 
 Dick Faulkner from an open esclandre, forget 
 ting how impossible that would have been, 
 this stain need not rest upon her soul. And 
 she could never forget. She might render ex 
 posure out of the question, she might stand be 
 fore the world and the friend whom she had 
 betrayed, fearless of suspicion, but in her own 
 soul that gnawing memory and remorse must 
 remain to torture it beyond any hope of peace. 
 She would know herself a guilty woman, and 
 loathe herself for the knowledge. If she had 
 gone to John Worthington and told him the 
 truth, he would have helped her. He could 
 not have left her alone to face that danger; 
 every word and action of his proved that he 
 would have come to her aid. Then she recol 
 lected that what hindered her was the certain 
 ty of losing his respect and esteem, and each 
 week of this terrible season since had shown 
 her more plainly how dear they were to her. 
 But if, after the note was again in her hands, 
 she could get back to the one hope of quieting 
 her remorse ; if she could tell him the whole 
 story and receive his pardon ! Tell him what 
 that she was a forger, a criminal? All cour 
 age went out of her heart again as she asked 
 and answered her own dreadful questions, till 
 she forgot that even the surety of keeping her 
 reputation spotless in his eyes and before the 
 world was in her power ; and the old scenes of 
 misery and remorse were enacted anew in the si 
 lence of her chamber. She had grown fairly to 
 hate this room the whole house, for that mat 
 ter. She could scarcely look at an article of fur 
 niture which was not in some way connected 
 with hours of insane suffering, or did not stand 
 before her like conscious witnesses of her guilt. 
 There was the pretty morning -room she 
 could hardly enter it ! There it was that Dick 
 Faulkner had dared to bring his wicked designs 
 clearly before her, put his shameful passion into 
 degrading words. The easy-chair in the win 
 dow of her dressing-room seemed always re 
 minding her that it was there she had sunk 
 down in the first hours of misery. The very 
 figures on the carpet made her head throb with 
 pain as she remembered how often she had lain, 
 hour after hour, counting them mechanically, 
 following their lines, and trying to hold her reel 
 ing senses fast by the childish occupation. And 
 oh, worst of all, the sight of the table on which 
 she had committed that deed made her bond 
 with the fiend ! Why, the very bronze ink 
 stand, with its graceful pattern of a helmet sup 
 ported by two cupids, had been a present from 
 John Worthington himself! It was a slight 
 comfort that the house had passed out of her 
 possession. She had been obliged to sell it ear 
 ly in the autumn, and must leave it by the first 
 of May. The furniture would go ; it was mort 
 gaged to the Jew, and he might have it and wel-
 
 126 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 This sale of the lands would free her from 
 pecuniary difficulties, though she might be in 
 straightened circumstances for a long time, 
 certainly until the company opened the mines 
 and sunk the oil-wells upon whose products she 
 was to have a generous royalty. But if she 
 were obliged to live on bread and water, seek 
 menial employment, it would be better than 
 her life during the past year, viewing only the 
 ordinary difficulties which pursue people in em 
 barrassments. She could silence the ceaseless 
 rings at her door-bell, have done with importu 
 nate tradesmen, get back the host of bonds and 
 securities, the jewels and other valuables, which 
 lay in her Jewish friend's possession, and, better 
 than any thing, hold once more that accursed 
 paper and tear it with her own hands. She 
 would go away into the country, cross the ocean, 
 and live quietly in some sober Italian city ; oh, 
 it made no difference what she did ! Even a 
 prospect of absolute physical suffering and want 
 would be a relief! Go somewhere she must ; 
 escape from every thing which reminded her 
 of her guilt most of all, from the kindly glance 
 of John Worthington's eyes ; and, even as she 
 thought that, the sudden pang at her heart 
 warned her for the first time of what he had 
 grown to her during these years. 
 
 The tiresome business was settled with very 
 little delay; the deeds were signed, and half 
 the purchase-money in the bank at Mrs. March- 
 mont's disposal. It was a bright morning a 
 Tuesday. She was going this very day to her 
 Hebrew confidante, going to make her last visit. 
 It was in her power to reclaim the securities 
 which had gone to help her in her mad schemes, 
 or afford her a temporary tranquillity at the 
 price of frightful discounts and ruinous rates 
 of interest. The thing of which she thought 
 most, of course, was the getting that note in her 
 possession ; that done, she would only be obliged 
 to journey forward hand in hand with her re 
 morse. Never to be rid of that, never! It 
 had been the one reflection in her mind since 
 the hour in which she learned that it was in 
 her power to avert danger; it was the sole 
 thought in her soul now as she dressed to go 
 out on her errand. 
 
 How these weeks had changed her ; five 
 years of ordinary life would not have altered 
 her so much ! She stared at the anxious face 
 confronting her in the mirror, and the cruel 
 morning light showed plainly the ravages 
 which this season had wrought. Every body 
 had always prophesied that hers was a beauty 
 which would not soon fade ; she had often 
 thought complacently that even her fortieth 
 birthday would not be to her the knell of youth 
 as it was to less favored women. She had been 
 so proud of that loveliness, so fond of it not 
 from mere vanity, not wholly from love of the 
 power which it gave her, but from a sort of 
 childish pleasure in every thing beautiful, and 
 a childish delight in its effect. Now she was so 
 tired, so worn in heart and soul, so filled with 
 loathing and self-contempt, that she fairly was 
 
 sorry that her vaunted loveliness had not suf 
 fered more severely. 
 
 "It's such a hideous farce!" she thought. 
 " Oh, what do I want longer of the world ? 
 Let me get away pay my debts and get away, 
 and at least be honest for the rest of my life. 
 Shall I be able to live quiet and alone ? Oh, I 
 don't know ! And I might have been so much 
 loved perhaps Kenneth would have loved me; 
 but I would not have cared for that ; I had 
 grown beyond him. But it's too late now to 
 think of such things too late! Why, what 
 would a crown be in comparison to the happi 
 ness of looking in John Worthington's face, and 
 knowing that my soul was free from any wrong 
 to his trust and confidence? Oh, John Wor- 
 thington ! John Worthington ! if you could 
 know, if you could only see the whole truth, 
 understand all my misery, you would pity me 
 I know you would pity me!" 
 
 And, as if her mental utterance of his name 
 had been a charm to invoke his presence, some 
 one came to tell her that John Worthington 
 was below. 
 
 "But I can't let him keep me," she said to 
 herself. "I must get at least beyond the risk 
 the danger. I declare, it's harder to meet 
 him now that I have nothing to distract my 
 mind from the sin I committed toward him, 
 than it was when the fear stood between me 
 and remorse. Oh, it's dreadful to think that I 
 don't want to see him that I am afraid ; when 
 I'd rather have his society than the whole world 
 put together ! If I dared tell him if I could 
 speak the truth out ! If I think of it another 
 minute, I shall rush up stairs again and hide 
 myself in the dark. Oh, what a fool, what a 
 fool!" 
 
 She tortured herself with these reflections as 
 she went down to meet him, paused for an in 
 stant at the door of the library, then entered 
 with her usunl manner. The old game of dis 
 simulation, which we all play so constantly, must 
 go on. She met him with smiles and fair 
 words, as you must meet the man whom you 
 know you may murder before the week is out ; 
 as you must greet the false friend who has be 
 trayed you ; the woman for whom you broke 
 your heart ten years before ; the relative that 
 believes you inherited grandmother's money by 
 foul play any body, every body, except in 
 those rare moments in life when the masks fall 
 off each face, and you and your foe or your 
 victim stand grinning at one another in an 
 honest acknowledgment of hatred which ought 
 to ease the soul a little after bearing so long its 
 burden of lies. 
 
 " You look better more like yourself this 
 morning," were his first words, as he hurried 
 forward and took her hand. " Come, there's 
 some comfort in that. I believe you have act 
 ually slept all night." 
 
 " Of course I have ; what else should I do ? 
 And don't talk about my looking better, you 
 rude man, as if my looks were not always the 
 best to be found."
 
 JOHN WORTIIINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 127 
 
 " You are very pale, but " 
 
 "I'll turn you out of the house if you say an 
 other word of the sort, "she interrupted, sitting 
 down and motioning him to a seat. "By-the- 
 way, what brings you here at this time in the 
 morning? You ought to have been at your 
 office an heur ago. What do you mean by 
 getting into such irregular, dissipated habits ?" 
 
 " That is your gratitude, I suppose, for my 
 taking the trouble to find out whether you were 
 alive or dead." 
 
 He had no intention of telling her the real 
 reason which brought him. It seemed foolish 
 to himself, but he could not pass the house 
 without entering to make sure that all was well 
 with her. The whole night through he had 
 been troubled with evil dreams, in which he 
 saw her menaced by invisible dangers, appeal 
 ing to him for assistance which he was unable 
 to give ; and if the vision changed a little, it 
 was only to see her desperately ill, dying by 
 poison, and a strong hand holding him back 
 when he tried to give her the antidote which 
 might save her yet. Whether these nightmares 
 came from the fact that she was much in his 
 waking thoughts, and he had been sorely trou 
 bled about her ever since her return, or wheth 
 er some strange warning was permitted to star 
 tle his soul, are questions in regard to which we 
 need not speculate. These unruly spirits of 
 ours hold strange mysteries, and are subject to 
 odd influences, if only we were not so blind 
 in our shallow wisdom that we refuse to heed 
 them. But the charm of her presence, the 
 sight of her face more tranquil than he had 
 seen it in weeks, so cheered him that his trou 
 bled dreams, his anxious forebodings, speedily 
 faded from his mind. 
 
 " You are in unusually good spirits," she 
 said, as he talked more rapidly and gayly than 
 was his wont. 
 
 "Because it makes me cheerful to see you 
 look so much like yourself." 
 
 " There you go again ! . Pray, like whom 
 have I looked lately ?" 
 
 " I can't tell a sort of ghost of your old self." 
 
 "Oh, don't talk about ghosts even in broad 
 daylight. There's no knowing how soon you 
 may rouse them," cried she. 
 
 "None, Ihope, that could tormentyou much." 
 
 " Don't be afraid ! You act as if you thought 
 I went about with a secret, like a woman in a 
 romance ; but I assure you my existence is a 
 very tame one." 
 
 " I don't like your talking in that way," he 
 said, seriously ; " you often do it nowadays, as 
 if you suspected me of watching you. Why 
 should I?" 
 
 "Why, indeed!" 
 
 "I am anxious when I see you look ill or 
 troubled, but I am sure you understand that no 
 other feeling makes me curious." 
 
 "You're the best man in the world!" she 
 exclaimed; "I'm not fit to have your friend 
 ship. But never mind. When did you hear 
 from Constance?" 
 
 " Last night. She is enjoying her visit very 
 much. At her age it needs so little to make 
 one happy." 
 
 ' ' Where is she Albany ?" 
 
 "No, Cincinnati. She has some cousins 
 there who have begged for a visit these two 
 years, so at last I was obliged to put by my self 
 ishness, and give her up for a few months." 
 
 " You must miss her dreadfully ; such a dear 
 little thing, and growing so pretty, too !" 
 
 "And always honest and true, which is still 
 better." 
 
 " Ah ! that's a hit at the rest of us poor wom 
 en," cried she. "You don't give the sex in 
 general much credit for either quality." 
 
 " Now you want to quarrel, and I'll not do 
 it. I am contented and amiable this morning, 
 and you shall not tease me into a bad humor." 
 
 He sat there for half an hour, enjoying the 
 visit more than he had done any interview with 
 her for a long time. At the last he went hur 
 riedly away, so moved by her gentleness and 
 sweetness that he was afraid to remain lest he 
 should be idiot enough to burst out with the 
 revelation which he meant never to utter, be 
 cause its utterance would probably cause the 
 loss of the greatest pleasure which his life held 
 this frank, free intercourse with her. 
 
 Alice Marchmont stood there after he had 
 gone, with a line from the Book which she had 
 so long neglected ringing in her ears, "And 
 some men's sins going before to judgment." Tru 
 ly hers was a case of this retribution ; if the 
 sentence had been written especially to point 
 her out, it could not have been more applica 
 ble. Twenty times during that interview she 
 had been on the point of revealing the truth. 
 She wished now that she had possessed the 
 courage to do it. 
 
 "And then," she thought, " he would despise 
 me ; shrink away in horror and disgust, and I 
 should see it. I should be alone! Every 
 thing is lost but his friendship youth, hope, 
 truth, self-respect oh, I can't lose that, too! 
 Isn't the remorse punishment enough ? Isn't 
 it any expiation, any atonement? Must I lose 
 the regard of my one friend, the one human 
 being I care for ? Oh, I can't God forgive 
 me ! I can't do that !" 
 
 She sobbed and choked, but no tears came 
 to relieve her, and, suddenly remembering how 
 late it was, rang for Pauline to bring her bonnet 
 and mantle. Of course another person must 
 detain her, just because the anxiety had rushed 
 back, and it seemed that something dreadful 
 would happen before she could reach the Jew's 
 office and obtain that paper. Miss Portman 
 came into the room, and wanted advice upon 
 a dozen trivial domestic matters, concerning 
 which in her most lucid moments Alice would 
 have been as ignorant as a child. Even when 
 she escaped the discussion and reached the door, 
 the spinster called her back. 
 
 "Don't forget I mean, have you forgotten ?" 
 for if conversing with a person who had only 
 five minutes to live she would have hesitated
 
 128 
 
 JOHN WOBTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 and struggled to make her language strictly 
 correct "we are engaged to Mrs. Lathvop to 
 night." 
 
 "Yes what for? Oh, I know a horrid 
 dinner ! I wish dinners were abolished. I 
 wish there might never be material found to 
 get up another." 
 
 "My dear Alice," returned the matter-of- 
 fact creature, in horror, "you don't mean that? 
 You don't want the whole human race to starve, 
 I am sure." 
 
 "Then I'm not sure if you are! Both 
 er the human race singly and collectively! 
 Good-bye, you blessed! I'll soon be back. 
 And oh, my Portman, if you don't stop tell 
 ing people you are anxious about my health 
 I'll do something dreadful to you !" 
 
 "But I am anxious, my love." 
 
 "That's because you are a dear old goose! 
 But if you ever again hint that I ever was, will, 
 could, or should be ill, I'll I'll let me think ! 
 I'll make you drive in the Park at five o'clock 
 in the day with a yellow satin gown on and a 
 bird-of-paradise in your bonnet." 
 
 She ran off, and left Miss Portman with 
 both hands uplifted and her eyes turned to 
 the ceiling, as if beseeching the crooked-legged 
 cupids depicted there to shield her from so 
 terrible a fate. 
 
 As Mrs. Marchmont's carriage made the 
 turn into Broadway at. Union Square, she saw 
 Dick Faulkner sauntering along. He saw her, 
 too, and as he lifted his hat she almost fancied 
 that he made a gesture for her to stop. Then 
 she remembered that he was not likely now to 
 be guilty of "any such impertinence, and the re 
 flection brought her a feeling of relief. 
 
 The carriage rolled on, and she reached her 
 destination at length, solacing herself all the 
 way by the thought that it was the last time 
 she should ever be forced to make the journey. 
 She had her check-book in her pocket a de 
 lightful new volume, sent to her the day before 
 from the bank and when she left the dusty 
 counting-room she would be a free woman, so 
 far as he was concerned ; better still, so far as 
 danger and disgrace were concerned. 
 
 The frouzy fat partner of the little Jew's 
 bosom, who was seated as usual at her lofty 
 desk, making her customary display of legs 
 that were not mates and a great deal of black 
 stocking for the delectation of the youths be 
 hind the counter, informed Mrs. Marchmont 
 that the Hebrew was in his upper office. 
 
 "Then I will go there," Alice replied, cheer 
 fully, beyond the necessity of excuses or sub 
 terfuges to delude the Mosaic clerks. "Don't 
 trouble yourself to come with me. I can find 
 the way." 
 
 So the frouzy woman mounted again to her 
 perch, but with so utter a disregard of her rai 
 ment that the young man nearest was able to 
 see that she had forgotten her garters that 
 morning. Mrs. Marchmont passed on up the 
 narrow staircase, which had certainly never 
 been swept, and entered the counting-room, 
 
 which, in addition to its ordinary odor of sau 
 sage and leather, had taken to itself several 
 new and indescribable smells since she was last 
 in it. But she was in too great a hurry to be 
 disturbed by trifles. There sat her little He 
 brew friend behind his table. Alice thought 
 that in all probability he dined and slept on 
 that stool, and could not be persuaded off it 
 on any less urgent summons than the hope of 
 cheating a customer more effectually than the 
 youths below stairs were capable of doing in 
 their present adolescent state. 
 
 It did not take long to explain her business, 
 and her Hebrew looked just as wooden as he 
 did on all occasions. 
 
 "I have come to pay every penny I owe 
 you," she repeated, wondering that even the 
 idea of receiving money could not rouse him 
 into a little animation. 
 
 "You are the first visitor of the sort I have 
 had to-day," he said, in his wheezy voice, as he 
 laid down his ruler and put his pen behind his 
 ear. "Plenty come to borrow " 
 
 "Yes, I dare say. But I am in great haste 
 this morning; so please don't keep me a min 
 ute longer than you can help. I want all the 
 securities the shares, bonds, my jewels. I'll 
 give you a check for the whole amount the 
 the last bill and all." 
 
 " Ya'as so ! I heard that madam had sold 
 her Virginia lands to the great company," he 
 answered, composedly. 
 
 " I believe you hear every thing," said she. 
 " Come open your great ugly safe, and reckon 
 your interest, and let me pay you. Please don't 
 keep me waiting. I've a thousand things to do." 
 
 "I won't, dear madam, I won't! But give 
 me a little time. I've just had a gentleman 
 here who always does make my poor head so 
 dizzy Mr. Faulkner." 
 
 " Mr. Faulkner here ? Why, I met him in 
 Union Square." 
 
 "Ya'as just so. He had been here, but 
 not to borrow. Oh, he's too great a man for 
 that nowadays," replied the Hebrew, and for 
 an instant he did rouse enough out of his im 
 passibility to look resentful ; but Mrs. March 
 mont was too much troubled by the name he 
 had mentioned to observe his appearance. 
 
 " What on earth did Mr. Faulkner want ?" 
 she asked, with a sudden fear, which even the 
 thought of the check-book in her pocket could 
 not silence. 
 
 "Business always business," said the Jew, 
 absently, as he rose from his seat and walked 
 toward the iron safe, key in hand. He opened 
 the heavy door, which grated and complained 
 as if unwilling to disgorge its prey, searched 
 among the compartments, and finally returned 
 to the table, carrying a heap of papers which 
 Mrs. Marchmont recognized only too well. 
 
 "And the box of jewels !" she demanded. 
 
 " Ya'as, presently ; as soon as we are through 
 with this," he said. 
 
 "Are you afraid I shall seize it, and run off 
 without paying you?" she asked, impatiently.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 129 
 
 " The madam knows I never doubt her," he 
 said, unmoved. " She ought to have the dia 
 monds compared with my list, to be sure they 
 are all the same." 
 
 " I can trust you, too. I do think you're 
 honest in your way," she said. 
 
 " Business is business, though," he answered, 
 taking a soiled bit of sweet flag-root from his 
 pocket, and proceeding to chew it with an air 
 of tranquil satisfaction. He untied the bundle 
 of papers, and spread them out on the table, and 
 she sat down opposite him. "These are the 
 railway bonds, this is the stock ; there's the last 
 interest dotted down on this page. I did it 
 last night, for I knew the madam would be here 
 soon, after what I'd heard, and I didn't want to 
 keep her waiting." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont studied the amounts ; prin 
 cipal and interest were all noted. The sum 
 was a very large one, but, fortunately,'she could 
 pay the whole without difficulty. 
 
 "Every thing is here? the amount for the 
 jewels " 
 
 He pointed to the item with his dirty fore 
 finger. 
 
 " Oh yes, and the mortgage on the Long Isl 
 and property Yes, I see. But the last 
 the bill ?" she asked, looking quickly up. 
 
 "The bill?" he repeated, though neither 
 voice nor features expressed any surprise. 
 "The madam is a good business woman, but 
 she forgets sometimes." 
 
 "What do you mean?" demanded sne. 
 " Where is the note I drew for three months " 
 
 "Ninety days," he parenthesized, as usual. 
 
 "Yes, the indorsed note" 
 
 "Indorsed by Mr. John Worthington, of 
 course ; that one," returned the Jew, apparent 
 ly thinking that he recalled to her mind some 
 circumstance she had forgotten. 
 
 "But I want to take that up, too," she said, 
 eagerly. "It's not due yet ; but no matter 
 I want to pay every thing." 
 
 Probably the Hebrew had not laughed in 
 twenty years at least, but he did laugh now, in 
 a hoarse, creaking tone, as if the muscles of his 
 throat were so unaccustomed to the exercise 
 that they did not know how to behave. 
 
 "Now, that is more than I look for," said he, 
 while Mrs. Marchmont sat staring at him with 
 a dismayed wonder, at first the only sensation 
 in her mind. " The madam wants to pay me 
 twice. But once will do." 
 
 "Pay you twice?" cried she. "Are you 
 asleep ? What on earth do you mean ?" 
 
 Now his wooden features did show a faint 
 trace of surprise. 
 
 "I think I didn't never hear to equal that," 
 said he, shaking his head slowly. "I do be 
 lieve it has gone out of the madam's mind." 
 
 His dull astonishment, the strange mystery 
 of his words, changed the sensation in her mind 
 to one of sudden fear. 
 
 "I tell you I want the promissory note I 
 gave you, due in ninety days, indorsed. in 
 dorsed " She could not finish. " Give me 
 9 
 
 that note ! I think you must be a little insane 
 this morning!" 
 
 "But I have given it to you," he answered, 
 his face showing that he was still divided be 
 tween surprise and the idea that she had for 
 gotten certain circumstances in regard to the 
 bill. 
 
 She caught up the sheet where the sums 
 were set down the note was not named. She 
 seized the pile of papers, turned them hastily 
 over the bill was not among them. The Jew 
 sat 'perfectly still, and watched her more curi 
 ously. 
 
 " It's not here !" she exclaimed. " Where 
 where is that note ?" 
 
 "But I explain and explain," he said, pa 
 tiently, spreading out his two hands. " I don't 
 want the madam to pay me twice." 
 
 " If you want me to pay you once, you had 
 better be quick," she said, her voice growing 
 cold and haughty. "Are you presuming to at 
 tempt a jest ? You forget yourself, sir !" 
 
 "I don't mean to offend the madam," he 
 said, humbly, " and I don't never joke. I can't 
 understand she seems to forget, though I try 
 my best to make her remember." 
 
 " Remember what ?" she asked, forcing her 
 self to sit still and to speak quietly. 
 
 "About the note " 
 
 " Mr. Hermans, answer me distinctly where 
 is that note ?" she interrupted, looking sternly 
 at him. 
 
 " I gave it up when madam sent me her let 
 ter." 
 
 She was on her feet now, staring wildly at 
 him, unable to believe the testimony of her own 
 ears. He rose too, perhaps, in spite of his im 
 passibility, somewhat startled by her appear 
 ance. She motioned him to sit down ; resumed 
 her own seat. The great horror and dread, 
 undefined as it was, which had taken possession 
 of her, made her afraid to demand the close of 
 the explanation which her hasty movement 
 had inteiTupted. 
 
 " When did you receive my letter ?" she 
 asked, after a short silence, which he had not 
 ventured to break through fear of displeasing 
 her again, though in what his offense consisted 
 he had not the slightest idea. 
 
 "Four weeks ago nearly five," he replied, 
 determined to confine himself to the simple 
 answer of her questions. 
 
 She hesitated again ; then inquired, 
 
 " How did you receive it ?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Faulkner brought it himself," 
 came the response without an instant's delay. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont grew so giddy and faint 
 under the awful shock that her first confused 
 thought was that she had received a physical 
 blow from some unseen hand. As the black, 
 dancing mists cleared a little from before her 
 eyes, she saw the Hebrew looking strangely at 
 her. Very far off and indistinct his features 
 appeared through the shadows. 
 
 "The letter give me the letter!" were her 
 first words.
 
 130 
 
 JOHN WOBTHIXGTON'S NAME. 
 
 He oponed a drawer of the table, took out 
 a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to her. 
 She was obliged to hold it close to her eyes in 
 order to read ; a partial blindness seemed to 
 have seized her. It was her writing, she could 
 distinguish that; after a while could make out 
 the words. -They were these : 
 
 " Will Mr. Herman please give to Mr. Faulk 
 ner the promissory note ? Mr. Faulkner will 
 pay the money, and settle the affair." 
 
 Her name was atthe bottom. She remem 
 bered writing the billet; but that was in the 
 autumn. She recollected the whole circum 
 stance, confused as she was. She had borrow 
 ed a small amount of the Jew for thirty days ; 
 he had accepted her note. The morning it fell 
 due Faulkner chanced to come to her house 
 with a sum of money which he had made for 
 her in a stock speculation. He knew that she 
 had borrowed of the HebreAv, so she had no 
 hesitation in requesting him to stop at the of 
 fice, pay the sum, and take up the note. That 
 very evening he had sent her the paper, and 
 there was an end. This billet which she held 
 in her hands had no date, but it was the one 
 she had written in November ; it was the only 
 time that she had ever empowered Faulkner to 
 arrange any matter with the Hebrew. 
 
 "It is all right madam recollects now," 
 she heard the Jew say, cheerfully, while he 
 rubbed his fat hands together. "Madam was 
 in Washington when she wrote, so busy with 
 her pleasure that she forgot; but it was all set 
 tled. Mr. Faulkner came straight here as soon 
 as he heard from madam, paid the thousands, 
 took up the note, and madam must have burned 
 it long ago, and forgotten, as she did all the 
 rest." 
 
 She felt no inclination to shriek or faint. 
 She was stupid and numbed by the shock. It 
 had affected her senses for the time exactly 
 as an actual blow on her skull would have 
 done. She could not hear or see distinctly. 
 She spoke, and her voice did. not sound like 
 her own ; she was conscious of wondering stu 
 pidly if it Avas hers. 
 
 " That is off the list, then," she said. "Make 
 up the whole amount of those separate items, 
 and I will write a check." 
 
 The Jew began his calculations, and she sat 
 there, regarding him in the same dull, stunned 
 manner. Confused as she was, one reflection 
 gradually separated itself from the chaos of her 
 faculties and started up, like a serpent uncoil 
 ing its length. Faulkner held that note ! He 
 had discovered the forgery, and she was once 
 more in his power ! She held fast to the arms 
 of her chair, griping them hard, for it seemed 
 to her that she was falling down down an im 
 measurable height into an awful blackness that 
 stretched below. But she did not lose con 
 sciousness, did not cry out. Her face was 
 white and fixed, her great eyes positively look 
 ed dead and glazed. She drooped slowly 
 against the chair-back, like a lifeless body; 
 but she could see and hear still. 
 
 "That is the amount. Madam can verify 
 it," the Jew said, pushing the paper along the 
 table. 
 
 She leaned both elbows on the board, sup 
 ported her head with her two hands, actually 
 added up the long row of figures a kind of 
 mental exertion which would not have been 
 easy for her at ordinary moments. Slowly 
 and with difficulty any physical movement 
 was a labor she changed her attitude, took 
 the check-book, filled up one of the blanks, and 
 gave it to him. While she wrote he had been 
 to the safe and taken out the box of jewels. It 
 sat on the table by her. 
 
 " That finishes every thing," he said. "Mad 
 am has all her papers. Here is the list, too, 
 of the stones with the values as near as I could 
 get at it in their settings she must have it ver 
 ified. Here is a receipt in full, too, though 
 not needed ; but I know ladies are particular. 
 So I thank the madam, and I wish all my cus 
 tomers were as prompt and honorable." 
 
 It was a long speech for the small man. She 
 comprehended that her business was ended 
 that she must go ; comprehended, too, that in 
 leaving the place she went forth to meet a dan 
 ger more deadly, more inevitable than any she 
 had yet known. But she did not faint ; made 
 no sign ; and the Jew did not trouble himself to 
 study her face. 
 
 .She took the papers and jewel-box in her 
 hand, and tried to rise. Twice she was obliged 
 to sit down : her limbs refused to support her. 
 The Hebrew was locking his safe, and did not 
 observe her. With the third effort she got out 
 of her chair, walked steadily onward, but in a 
 moment the Jew's voice warned her that, in 
 stead of moving toward the door, she had gone 
 in the opposite direction, and was close to the 
 window. 
 
 "Madam wants to see if her carriage is 
 waiting. I'll call the man, if he has driven up 
 the street." 
 
 She thanked him, knew that she bade him 
 good-morning, passed down the stairs, entered 
 her carriage, and was driven away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE POOK BARON. 
 
 THE next morning came, and Alice March- 
 mont rose to meet it with such calmness of des 
 peration as she could find. It was useless to 
 talk about courage now ; she had reached a 
 strait where the word possessed no meaning. 
 In Dick Faulkner's power still! That had 
 been her sole tangible thought during the hours 
 of solitude which she had permitted herself af 
 ter her return from that visit to the Hebrew. 
 She had sent Miss Fortman alone to the even 
 ing's festivity, glad for once to offer the femi 
 nine excuse of illness as a reason for staying at 
 home. 
 
 This man, whom she had believed out of her
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 131 
 
 way forever, held her secret in his hands. Dis 
 grace was before her, after all she had dared ; 
 the power to fling it down upon her possessed 
 by the very wretch to escape whom she had 
 soiled her soul with crime. Nothing left now 
 but death no hope ! As well look for mercy 
 from a jungle tiger as from him ! It was all 
 over. Truly, her world had fallen in ruins at 
 her feet ! 
 
 She had decided to wait ; she would neither 
 send for him nor write ; she would make no sign 
 whatever, as long as there was a day of grace 
 left. It was not from any expectation that her 
 silence would force him into showing the line 
 of conduct he had resolved to pursue. There 
 was no plan in her determination beyond a de 
 sire to avoid his presence as long as possible. 
 
 Of course, this morning a dozen people came. 
 She had given orders that she was at home to 
 whosoever came. Of all times, she must 'not 
 at this crisis vary from her usual habits. Be 
 sides the visitors, there were calls from credit 
 ors whom she had requested to send in their 
 accounts, fancying the delight with which she 
 should pay them. Now, as debt after debt was 
 stricken off the formidable pile, she only re 
 membered that these efforts to preserve appear 
 ances, to be honest and straightforward, were 
 in vain. She might pay struggle; always 
 the skeleton hand kept before her eyes the 
 note which Dick Faulkner owned, the note with 
 John Worthington's signature. 
 
 By the time the last of the creditors had 
 gone, reduced to a state of smiling abjectness 
 by the entire satisfaction of their claims, the 
 idle people began to stream in. Helen James, 
 overflowing with gossip ; Miss Portman's two 
 old maid friends : half a dozen silly women and 
 sillier men, in pairs or singly, and they buzzed 
 and fluttered. But she bore it all patiently; 
 nothing mattered. 
 
 One by one the visitors departed ; Miss 
 Fortman herself went out, after changing her 
 mind six times as to whether she had better go 
 or stay at home, and insisting that Alice should 
 agree with each separate decision. Mrs. 
 Marchrnont sat there alone, wondering if the 
 day would ever come to an end, yet shudder 
 ing to see it pass. Presently Ferguson ap 
 peared to say that the baron desired an inter 
 view. The name roused her to a quickness of 
 reflection which stirred the dullness of her 
 senses into a sudden pain. The baron why, 
 here was a chance of release, if she should 
 accept him, marry him at once, and go away. 
 True, she was not in possession of the fortune 
 with which report endowed her, but abundance 
 of money was certain to come sooner or later. 
 He was not an extravagant man, nor a merce 
 nary one, though, of course, Frenchman-like, he 
 would not think of marrying a woman who 
 could bring him no dot. But his head, if not 
 very wide, was a rather practical one. If she 
 explained exactly the state of her affairs, proved 
 to him that the sale of her lands would make 
 her rich again before five years were over, he 
 
 would be perfectly satisfied. His income and 
 the ready money which she should have left, af 
 ter arranging her debts, would enable them to 
 live almost en prince in Italy. Borne was not 
 an unpleasant place of sojourn now. The young 
 princess had gone there to hold her court. 
 Since Paris had ceased to be at least the de 
 lightful Paris of the Empire the Eternal City 
 would rank first on the Continent in the matter 
 of amusements and gayety, thanks to the royal 
 Marguerite's love of dancing and pleasure. 
 
 Surely, another escape from the laudanum- 
 bottle was offered. It needed no reflection ; 
 the way out lay plain before her. The first 
 idea of a sudden, almost secret, marriage would 
 not answer ; Dick Faulkner would discover her 
 plan, appear at the altar, and wave the forged 
 note in the bridegroom's face, if he could stop 
 the nuptials in no other manner. But she 
 might sail at once for Europe, meet the baron 
 in London, wed him there, and let events in 
 America take their course. If John Worthing- 
 ton learned the truth no, when he learned it, 
 he would not trouble her ; he would find means 
 to silence Faulkner. She knew the man ; she 
 could be certain that the hour in which Faulk 
 ner exposed the secret to him wicked Dick's 
 ability to harm her would be at an end. She 
 should never see Worthington afterward, never 
 be humiliated by the sight of his kind face, dark 
 with loathing and contempt. Faulkner might 
 spread evil stories ; they would be powerless in 
 her new life utterly so. No echo of them 
 could disturb her quiet in the old Roman pal 
 ace which she and the baron were to choose for 
 their residence. 
 
 It takes so many words to describe her re 
 flections, though they arranged themselves 
 clearly in the brief space before the French 
 man could be shown into the room. There 
 was leisure for another thought, too worse, 
 more degrading than the others. Poor, mis 
 erable Alice! mad, guilt-stained Alice! so fallen 
 from the high estate of her glorious woman 
 hood! She need not run away; she could ac 
 cept the baron, asking only that the engage 
 ment should be kept a profound secret until 
 her affairs were entirely arranged. That would 
 give her leisure to outwit Faulkner. She could 
 do it ! Smile at him, weep for him, throw her 
 self on his mercy, lie to him, fool him to the 
 top of his bent, meet artifice with artifice, craft 
 with craft. If he believed that he should suc 
 ceed, that she would listen to the avowal of his 
 shameful love, he would give up the note, take 
 her money she was free ! Only at the cost 
 of a few falsehoods, of a stain upon her soul 
 deeper and darker than that left by her treach 
 ery to her friend ; the guilt and degradation of 
 smiling on a man whose every thought in re 
 gard to her was pollution, whose every smile an 
 insult ; by these means she could purchase her 
 release. She felt a glow of exultation at the 
 idea of duping him, of tearing the note before 
 his eyes, and telling him that he had been 
 duped outwitted ; overwhelming him with the
 
 132 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 full torrent of her passion and scorn, and en 
 joying his utter confusion and impotent wrath. 
 
 Then the very thrill of wicked joy which 
 shook her at the picture of his evil face chang 
 ing suddenly from anticipated triumph to rage 
 and the humiliation of defeat, roused her to a 
 consciousness of the depth to which her soul 
 had sunk. The self-contempt and ahhorrence 
 came back, an unutterable fear .of herself, too ; 
 but there was no space to moan or cry out. 
 The baron was entering ; he was in the room. 
 
 There he stood, irreproachable in toilet and 
 attitude, overflowing with pretty speeches, beam 
 ing -with smiles and delight at finding Mrs. 
 Marchmont alone. 
 
 "This is more happiness than I expected," 
 he said, in French, as he finally subsided into 
 a chair near her, after having made himself 
 pink in the face by bows and compliments. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont looked at him, and, stun 
 ned and dazed as she was, retained enough 
 hold of her womanly intuitions to understand 
 the errand which had brought him ; the baron 
 meant to speak out. It had been very difficult 
 for weeks past to avert the denouement; it 
 would have come in Washington, only that she 
 was always careful never to allow him a private 
 conversation. Let him speak now. He ap 
 peared at the right moment ; let him speak. 
 She had proved herself a coward ; she had tried 
 to die, arid lacked the courage to carry out her 
 wish. If she trusted to that means of escape, 
 it would fail her again at the last. She was 
 lost, degraded, sunk below the possibility of re 
 covering her self-respect. But one hold over 
 the world remained, one chance to keep the 
 hollow splendor of her life secure before human 
 eyes. She could accept the baron, and outwit 
 Dick Faulkner ! 
 
 She had leisure to follow her thoughts so far 
 while the baron chose a more picturesque atti 
 tude than his first, arranged the ends of his 
 long mustache, and assured himself that his 
 wristbands showed the proper line of white be 
 low his coat sleeves. 
 
 "I began to think there was a fate in it," he 
 said. " I haven't succeeded for so long in see 
 ing you alone that I was truly in despair." 
 
 "You look very comfortable for a despair 
 ing man," she replied, speaking his native lan 
 guage with an accent as perfectly Parisian as 
 his own. 
 
 "That is because I am here with you op 
 posite ; no wearisome people to interfere. I 
 am comfortable ; I am well." 
 
 " But you are not to commence abusing my 
 friends as soon as you come in," she said ; "and 
 in such a sweeping fashion!" 
 
 "I did not say your friends were tiresome, 
 only that it % was pleasant not to have a whole 
 world about us." 
 
 " Very well ; put in that way, I forgive you ! 
 And how does town seem after the dullness of 
 Washington ?" 
 
 "Oh, it is endurable, because you are here," 
 he said, with a shrug which revealed his slight 
 
 ing opinion of Gotham as plainly as the most 
 violent abuse could have done. "But I can 
 not think why you stay here ; you ought to be 
 in Europe. These people do not appreciate 
 you these dull men of business, with their ledg 
 ers always in their minds." 
 
 "But Paris is dead poor Paris!" she an 
 swered. "And London is a degree worse than 
 New York." 
 
 "Do not mention it!" he shuddered, with a 
 true Gallic horror of every thing English. " I 
 do always remember my one visit there. I 
 staid but a week, and I never can forget !" 
 
 "Or forgive," she added. 
 
 "Ah ! that, yes. One does not hate the poor 
 islanders, one only pities them ;" and it was 
 delicious to hear the way in which he said it. 
 If Albion had been situated near the North 
 Pole, and its inhabitants an inoffensive race, 
 doomed to hunt seals and live on train-oil, he 
 could not have expressed more commiseration 
 by his tone. 
 
 "I should like to see Italy again," she said ; 
 "I have not been there in years. Rome must 
 be very pleasant now." 
 
 "Yes; since poor Paris is so changed. I 
 shall go there when I return." 
 
 "And you think of deserting us ?" she asked. 
 "Are you already tired of our poor country?" 
 
 " The country that has the honor to hold you 
 must always be charming," he replied, in the 
 rather ponderous fashion which was due to the 
 slight admixture of Flemish blood in his veins. 
 " But I do go back very soon. I have told you 
 so before." 
 
 "Yes, but I hoped you might change your 
 mind. It is tiresome to lose people just as one 
 gets really to know them," she said, and felt it 
 very hard work to sit there and talk common 
 places, and lead the conversation up to the 
 point he desired. But it must be done. 
 
 "It is of that I do wish to speak. I came 
 to do so this morning," returned he, fidgeting 
 a little, as the most thorough-bred man will do 
 under the embarrassment of an errand like his. 
 
 "Oh, .don't talk of any thing so dismal as 
 your going away !" she said, willfully misunder 
 standing his words, just because coquetry had 
 grown so much a matter of habit that she could 
 not help indulging in it. 
 
 "But it is of that I must speak, to give a 
 reason for showing you my whole heart and 
 soul !" he exclaimed, warming to his work. 
 
 But the sentence which he thought so neat 
 struck rather heavily on Mrs. Marchmont's ear. 
 She had heard so much glowing talk from 
 really eloquent men, that the baron's poor little 
 periods sounded tame enough. She was not 
 thinking of her own wickedness in allowing him 
 to speak, and making the answer she had de 
 cided to give, only wondering how she could 
 ever support life with that unchanging face al 
 ways opposite her, that measured voice to ring 
 incessantly in her ear, and ('it sounds puerile 
 and absurd to write it of her in her state of 
 mind, but I like to show you clearly what an
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 133 
 
 inconsequent, vagrant habit of thought she had 
 allowed herself to cultivate) she wondered if 
 the pointed ends of that mustache would some 
 day put her eyes out when he attempted to 
 kiss her. Then she remembered that he was a 
 Frenchman, and once married. Her face would 
 be of slight consequence ; he would be a mod 
 el husband, visit her occasionally, sometimes 
 breakfast with her. The rest of their two lives, 
 would pass free of each other. 
 
 He was heavy and tiresome; 
 long while to say very 
 his Flemish intellect < 
 
 him 
 
 icred him incapable of 
 
 j- .^ai- be w as the dreariest com- 
 Sta ?re P s9eYtaWc commonplaces; but -a 
 gentleman he weuld never * 11 nn J 
 
 POUP'' 
 
 so 
 
 her notice. 
 
 ... 
 
 way violate les convenances If be even had 
 small vices, and she. almost thought they would 
 make an interesting variety, he would hide them 
 carefully that they need never come under 
 But he was speaking again, and 
 she must listen. It would not answer to allow 
 him to propose without hearing it. However, 
 he had not yet reached the important words ; 
 he had to go through the business in his own 
 methodical manner. Perhaps he thought that 
 as he should be freed from, the necessity of 
 making pretty speeches for the future, in case 
 she became his wife, it was his duty to ex 
 haust the whole vocabulary now. 
 
 "I should not have staid in America so long 
 as I have but for the great happiness of finding 
 myself near you," he said. 
 
 "A very nice compliment," she replied; 
 " but it does not count for much, since you 
 talk of running away just as we have become 
 good friends." 
 
 She had not patience to wait while he sidled 
 and maundered up to the goal through a driz 
 zling shower of flattering words. If he wanted 
 to ask her to marry him, let him do it and be 
 done. 
 
 "I like to hear you say that," sighed he; 
 and she thought what a delightful caricature 
 he would make just then, and felt an insane 
 desire to commit some enormity on the instant 
 which would startle him out of his propriety 
 to dance at him like a maniac, or talk gib 
 berish that he would take for Choctaw, or sing 
 an aria from the "Grand Duchess," but con 
 trolled herself. "Ah ! yes, they are very sweet 
 words. I would like to hear you say them 
 again." 
 
 Positively, this was too much, when every 
 nerve in her body was out of order and her 
 mind a chaos ! 
 
 "Life is not long enough to repeat things," 
 returned she ; " and I am never of the same 
 opinion a sufficient length of time to do it. 
 Take care, or I shall say something savage, by 
 way of a change." 
 
 He looked bewildered, and a little hurt. 
 
 "You do always confuse and put me off like 
 that," he said, with another tremendous sigh. 
 "It is not right, when I speak earnestly !" 
 
 "I had not the least idea you were doing 
 
 that," she replied. " Come, I will be as seri 
 ous as an academician." 
 
 "Yes ; for I came to be serious." 
 " What an appalling threat ! Really, I think 
 I must call Miss Portman. She can deal with 
 such a mood better thnn I." 
 
 "I pray vou do not call her; <3o not rise," 
 he said- " H USU il taking her words literally. 
 
 .But I think it must have been she you came 
 to visit. She is a very serious person," replied 
 Alice, for the satisfaction of teasing him, since 
 there was no other relief to he gained. 
 
 " It is you whom I wished to see, you only ; 
 ah ! you do know that you do see my mind." 
 "My dear baron, I am the stupidest and 
 blindest nf my sex ! I need to have any fact 
 clearly pointed out before I can perceive it." 
 
 He sighed for the third time. Now it was 
 because she worried him, broke the thread 
 of his prearranged discourse, and ruined his 
 round of compliments. But he was very much 
 in earnest, and though to his slow comprehen 
 sion it was somewhat like making love to a 
 meteor, he must tell his story. 
 
 " You are the most wise as you are the most 
 beautiful of your sex,'' he said. " See, you do 
 so hurry and confuse me that I can not well 
 choose my words. But I wish to say clearly 
 what is in my mind." 
 
 "I am listening," she answered, resignedly. 
 "I have told you that I staid here because 
 of you. Now I must return to my own hand ; 
 but I want you to know " 
 
 Evidently the sentence was not the exact 
 one he had meant to put in that particular 
 place ; for he broke off and consulted the 
 rown of his hat, as if the proper arrangement 
 of words was noted there. Mrs. Marchmont 
 was thinking over the plan which the announce 
 ment of his name had suggested. She could 
 get away be free from Dick Faulkner; oh, 
 if he would only speak and have it over! 
 
 " I am before you this morning," he went 
 on rather more rapidly, as if he had put the 
 sentences in order at last and was encouraged 
 thereby, "as a humble suitor, a poor suppliant 
 upon your bounty ; and yet I am to ask that 
 which is priceless, feeling always my own un- 
 worthiness." 
 
 It was stilted and strained, more so in French 
 :ven than English, reminding her of a paragraph 
 out of some obsolete romance ; yet it was plain 
 that he spoke truthfully. Somehow the idea 
 troubled her ; but she did not interrupt him. 
 
 "I do come to offer you my hand, my title, 
 :hough in these days it may be that does not 
 count for much. I do come honestly, gravely, as 
 an honorable man should. I have weighed in 
 my mind well the whole matter. I do think 
 hat we might have a happy life if, in your great 
 goodness, you could care for me a little. See, 
 '. would not have you accept my offer if you 
 can not do that. I do ask your heart for my 
 icart, because I love you very dearly, and must 
 lave your love in return for mine ; else I should 
 >e most miserable."
 
 134 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 Once off, he had spoken more fluently than 
 she ever heard him, and the words and man 
 ner filled her with such astonishment that she 
 could hot break in upon his speech. This was 
 not what she had expected ; she did not want 
 this ! Why, the man cared for her ! It was 
 not her beauty, her fortune Lo caved for her 
 his. slow, dull heart was moved, ana ~4^<J out 
 for crumbs of comfort. Oh, to accept"^ns^ 
 would bo a. \vifkp.dness beyond even her! She 
 could not ! A quick i evulsion shook her mind ; 
 the full horror and sliame of the project she 
 had contemplated stared her in the face. But 
 he had not finished, he was speaking still ; she 
 must interrupt, must tell him that it could not 
 be ; and then where was she wli.it. was to be 
 come of her, then ? 
 
 " I could wish you to reflect. T should at 
 tend your answer until you have thought well 
 of the matter" 
 
 " Wait, don't say Let me speak," she fal 
 tered. 
 
 He bowed, looking at her with a certain trou 
 bled surprise. 
 
 "I I can not. Oh, I beg you pardon, bar 
 on !" she cried ; " I have done very wrong, 
 did not expect you to speak like this." 
 
 He smiled now ; her words had evidently re 
 stored his self-complacency. 
 
 " That does not surprise me," he said, 
 am a man with a singular control over my feel 
 ings. I willed not to show my sentiments un 
 til the fitting moment. You have thought me 
 only an admirer a friend ; but see, now I make 
 plain my secret, and I ask you to consider it." 
 
 " But but when you talk of caring for me 
 of love !" she exclaimed, involuntarily break 
 ing into English, " oh no, no, I never thought 
 of that!" 
 
 "But it is now that yon sail sink," he re 
 plied, doing his best with the harsh syllables of 
 her native tongue. "Not so soon, peutetre, 
 bat after I my leave take. Zen you sail sink, 
 and I wait till you comment dit on raflaict." 
 
 She did not answer ; she did not know what 
 to say. He waited for an instant, then took 
 refuge in his own language once more. 
 
 " You may believe me when I say it is all 
 my heart that I bring here. I love you ; and 
 I do not lightly speak those words." 
 
 "You must not love me," she said, eagerly. 
 "Had you talked to me about respect 1 no, 
 no " for the word applied to herself made her 
 shiver " I mean if you talked of friendship, that 
 would be well enough, but not love, not love." 
 
 "I must speak that which I feel ; it is love," 
 he answered. "See, I have startled you I 
 had kept my secret too well. You are moved ! 
 Let me go away now. When you have thought, 
 you will send for me to hear your answer." 
 
 " No, don't go ; we must understand each 
 other fully! Baron, you can't blame me so 
 much as I blame myself." 
 
 " But I can not blame you at all ; you have 
 not known. I have been so guarded it is my 
 habit that you did not perceive." 
 
 "I thought I feared you might accuse me 
 of coquetry." 
 
 No, no," he replied, with a conceit that 
 would have amused her at another time. "I 
 am not a man with whom women coquette. I 
 am too grave, too serious. You have done al 
 ways what was most charming. But before I 
 go, let me fully explain " 
 
 "I can't have you," she interrupted; "you 
 
 saa, 
 
 ^ 7>more about my poor heart ; 
 it loves you, and I tni_ , "L \- 
 
 _ ' ,' S vou do believe me a 
 
 man too sober to speak falsto .. , B , 
 
 cr views of the affair; 1 hHve loofee^ " o 
 sidb. i am not a rich man t lmve m y a '? r j 
 thirty thousand fmncs a year, hut compared 
 with your American ibi lunes, it is small." 
 
 He. paused, to be certain tiiat +i 1e sentences 
 were following in the proper order, ana CL, ^ 
 lay gave her leisure to see the one way ^ 
 proving to him the impossibility of any idea of 
 marriage between them. 
 
 " You have a right to expect a fortune in re 
 turn," she said ; "a much larger one than your 
 own even, since you have position and title to 
 give." 
 
 "Yes," he said, gravely, "that ought to 
 count. Still, once more in the cause of my 
 poor heart, dear lady ! Were you less rich, 
 were your fortune smaller than mine, I would 
 ask you just the same to marry me, if you could 
 be brave enough to forego great wealth." 
 
 She had laughed at this man, amused her 
 friends at his expense, and here he showed him 
 self kind and noble-minded ; and she but oh, 
 what could she expect of herself lost, fallen ! 
 " But I have not the great fortune," she said, 
 quickly. " People think me very rich. I must 
 tell you my secret ; I know that it is safe with 
 you." 
 
 He looked disturbed now, but made one of 
 his low bows as a sign that he waited for her 
 to continue. 
 
 " I have spent and lost an immense deal of 
 money. I have been extravagant and wicked. 
 I am trying to free myself from debt." 
 
 "That is right; it is like you," he said, his 
 face clearing. "But once your debts paid, all 
 will be well. You do sell your lands you told 
 me so." 
 
 "Yes; but you can form no idea of what 
 my debts are ! It will take nearly the whole 
 sum of money I get to pay them. I shall be 
 poor for years, forced to economize in every 
 way possible." 
 
 " But after that ?" 
 
 " Oh, maybe in ten years I shall have a large 
 income again ; but it is a chance. Suppose the 
 mines should prove a failure. Don't you see, 
 my fortune will depend on the company's suc 
 cess ?" 
 
 " But it is sure ; it is only a matter of time." 
 "No, no ; it is not sure. There is always a 
 risk in such things." 
 
 He sat still for a few seconds, took out his
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 135 
 
 watch, looked at it steadily for a space, then 
 put it in his pocket. 
 
 " J do beg your pardon," he said. " I made 
 myself take those moments to reflect ; it is wise 
 always to reflect. Now I shall ask " 
 
 "Don't ask me any thing!" cried she. 
 
 "It is the nerves always," he said, in the loft 
 ily compassionate tone in which certain peo 
 ple address children, though it was too kindly 
 meant to be offensive "always the nerves, 
 dear lady. I must finish my question. I had 
 arranged it." 
 
 "If he were married and his wife died," 
 thought Mrs. Marchmont, "he'd bury her, if 
 he had made his arrangements, no matter if 
 she came back to life and tried to run away." 
 
 "It is this," he pursued, apparently reading 
 it off the crown of his hat. "I have told you 
 what is the amount of my income ; could you 
 be content with that and yours, whatever it may 
 be, added ? I have reflected I did not take 
 much time, for I have studied my nature where 
 you are concerned. I always make a study of 
 my nature ; but in all that regards you I have 
 done so to a greater degree than ordinary. So 
 I know what I say, I feel what I do offer. I 
 shall be a man very happy if you can accept." 
 
 She could not laugh. He might talk in fear 
 fully long sentences, but his proposal was that 
 of a good man, and she felt it a courageous 
 proposal, too, coming from one brought up un 
 der such narrowing influences as he had been, 
 with old creeds in regard to the necessity of 
 wealth to support his title added to the rest. 
 
 "I thank you, I do thank you!" she said. 
 " If I were a better woman I mean if I were 
 not so hopelessly wedded to luxury ; if I were 
 able to be reasonable and prudent, it would 
 change matters. But I can not trust myself." 
 
 "You have not thought; you must take 
 time. All people do not study their natures 
 closely enough to reply to grave questions with 
 out much reflection," he urged. 
 
 "No, the matter must be settled here 
 now," she replied, eagerly; and it was an added 
 humiliation in the midst of her self-abasement 
 to feel how utterly unworthy she was of this 
 man's affection, unconscious that her very in 
 ability to carry out the wild plan which had 
 risen in her mind was a proof of how much 
 good still remained in her burdened soul. 
 
 "I must tell you plainly, if people knew the 
 real state of my affairs they would call me ruin 
 ed. I am poor. I must give up my present 
 life, go away where I shall not be tempted into 
 extravagance." 
 
 " We could live quietly at Naples, at Flor 
 ence; even Pisa is not so bad," he said, hope 
 fully. 
 
 "I can't marry you ; I can't!" she exclaim 
 ed. "There! it's out; forgive me! When 
 you came in, I meant to ; when you began to 
 speak, I meant to ; but I understand you better 
 now, and I will not do you so great a wrong." 
 
 " How could it be a wrong to give me my 
 happiness ?" he asked, confused again by the 
 
 energy with which she spoke. "You who are 
 so beautiful, so good " 
 
 " I'm not good," she broke in, then checked 
 herself in time, and continued, more quietly, 
 "let us put the matter solely on pecuniary 
 grounds ; you and I are not two children to be 
 blinded by romance. Honestly, I could not 
 marry any but a very wealthy man. I know 
 how mean it sounds ; but I should ruin any 
 other. I might try to be prudent ; I could not. 
 What would seem ordinary expense to me would 
 be mad extravagance. No, no, baron ; it can 
 not be ! I thank you for your offer, I honor 
 you, I like you ; but I will not be your wife." 
 
 She spoke so decidedly that he saw she meant 
 every word, and realized that there was no ap 
 peal. He looked troubled and distressed, but 
 conducted himself like a chivalrous knight. 
 Perhaps even the crusaders were a little heavy 
 and stiff. 
 
 " You leave me dumb," he answered ; "you 
 do not care for me, so I have no hope to offer. 
 Still, I thank you, dear lady. It is something 
 to have loved you. All my life-long I shall 
 feel honored by the thought that I have, though 
 the memory shall bring its little pain, too." 
 
 " I hope not, baron ! I shall trust some day 
 to see you happy in the affection of a wife more 
 worthy of you than I should have been." 
 
 "Madame," said he, with one of his eternal 
 bows, "the day may come I do not yet see it 
 when I shall ask some good lady to accept 
 my hand, and I shall try always to make her 
 a good husband ; but I feel that whatever the 
 happiness may be that comes, it will not be the 
 happiness your regard could have given, and I 
 shall know that my life held one chance of a 
 great success, and missed it." 
 
 Actually she felt the moisture gather under 
 her eyelids she, who had grown so fierce, so 
 hardened in fighting her terrible battle against 
 the destiny her own recklessness had brought 
 about, that she often thought no tears could 
 ever cool her heart again. 
 
 " You will find a better happiness than such 
 a wcman as I could give," she said ; " and when 
 it comes you must teach the lady to like me a 
 little. She will not need to be jealous." 
 
 "No," he answered; "because I shall tell 
 her the whole truth at first. One need have 
 no trouble with those whom one loves, if there 
 is only perfect candor and trust." 
 
 He bowed over her hand, uttered his last 
 farewells, and turned to go. 
 
 "Not adieu," she said. "You will come to 
 see me again." 
 
 "Madame, to-morrow a steamer sails for 
 France. If you look, you shall see my name 
 among the passengers," he replied. 
 
 " Oh no ! not so suddenly." 
 
 " My business here is done," he said, after 
 waiting to be sure that he did not interrupt 
 her. " I shall go back to my own country. I 
 had so arranged it, in case disappointment over 
 whelmed me this morning. Once more, dear 
 madame, adieu."
 
 136 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "And a prosperous voyage, and many happy 
 days," she said, tremulously. 
 
 "My thanks my best thanks. Adieu !" 
 
 He bowed himself out, the door closed, and 
 left her to the reflection that once more an hon 
 est heart had been offered for her acceptance, 
 and she forced to let it pass out of reach. Oth 
 er thoughts came up thoughts so terrible, so 
 maddening, that she dared not trust herself to 
 their companionship. 
 
 The air of the house was stifling ; she would 
 suffocate if she sat there a moment longer. She 
 rang the bell, and asked the servant if he knew 
 whether her riding-horse had been brought to 
 the stables, as she had ordered a few days pre 
 vious. The horse had been sent over from her 
 Long Island farm, and was ready. She never 
 had to repeat a command in her household. 
 
 "Tell them I want to ride. I will have 
 James to follow me." 
 
 She hurried up stairs ; Pauline was not there ; 
 she exchanged her dress for a riding-habit, 
 without assistance, doing it all in frantic haste, 
 as if there was some urgent need. Her house 
 was so far up toward the Park, that she could 
 mount at her own door, instead of having to en 
 dure the boredom of a carriage on account of 
 crowded streets. 
 
 The trees were already fresh and green, the 
 turf verdant, the air balmy and soft, and the 
 bright spring sunshine making all things beau 
 tiful. The rapid exercise was a relief. Away 
 she galloped ; on through the Park and out on 
 the Bloomingdale Road, regardless of any sur 
 prise that her appearance there, with no other 
 escort than a servant, might occasion. She 
 dashed on, heedless of every thing and every 
 body ; and it was only dropping her whip and 
 having to halt, while the faithful James who 
 thought the end of the world must be near 
 when his mistress obliged him to ride at such 
 a pace enabled Kenneth Halford to attract 
 her attention. The bright day and his own 
 discontent had tempted him into equestrian ex 
 ercise also, and he was on his way back to the 
 Park when he saw her. 
 
 "You were riding so furiously," he said, af 
 ter his first greetings, " that I almost fancied 
 Irving's headless horseman had strayed down 
 from Sleepy Hollow." 
 
 "I hate to crawl," she answered, while he 
 sat marveling at her beauty, familiar as he was 
 with her face. The air and exertion had given 
 a tinge, of color to her cheeks, and her great 
 brown eyes were fairly dazzling. " So, you are 
 on your way home ? I might have asked you 
 to ride with me, only I am very stupid." 
 
 "And I too ; but if you will permit, I shall go 
 on with you." 
 
 "Why should you be stupid?" she asked; as 
 they passed up the hill. " Haven't you got your 
 strawberries and cream ; aren't you satisfied ?" 
 
 He was not in a mood to be teased ; he did 
 not wish the conversation to stray toward Mil- 
 ly, for he had no mind to be guilty of the mean 
 ness of complaint in regard to her. 
 
 "If you say annoying things, I shall ask af 
 ter your health," said he. "Let's be civil, and 
 keep to generalities." 
 
 " With all my heart, or, better, don't let's 
 talk, just for the sake of novelty. Here's a 
 smooth bit of ground now for a race. I'll 
 wager six pairs of gloves that Princess and I 
 reach the next mile-stone before your Blue- 
 skin." 
 
 Away they dashed, and the Princess and her 
 rider won by a length. What might be thought 
 by several stately ladies of her acquaintance 
 whom they passed in the race, Mrs. Marchmont 
 neither reflected nor cared. 
 
 "I feel much better," she said, when the 
 goal was reached. " Now we can turn home 
 ward. I feel almost human again." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A COSTLY VENGEANCE. 
 
 PAUL ANDREWS chose that very week to 
 give one of his delightful dinners, and Mrs. 
 Lawrence was invited. He importuned her to 
 bring Milly; for he had heard rumors of the 
 engagement with Halford, and, having a deep- 
 rooted aversion to that gentleman for declining 
 his acquaintance, he thought that to persuade 
 the girl to accept one of his invitations would 
 be a nice bit of vengeance. 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence was a sort of cousin of Paul's, 
 rich, and free to go where she pleased, and hav 
 ing known Andrews in his youthful days, when 
 there was probably some good in him, was ready 
 to believe that he had been injured and maligned, 
 and that very likely he was no worse than oth 
 er men, only not hypocrite enough to cover up 
 his failings so carefully as they did and keep 
 the varnish of reputation without a crack. 
 
 You must remember Paul Andrews? He 
 shot himself not long since, and, so far as this 
 world is concerned, it was the only wise thing 
 he had done in years. He was as bad, and 
 thoroughly blase the word has become so En 
 glish, that you can excuse it as a man could 
 well be. His wife had been a gay, reckless 
 woman. I dare say he ill-treated her, as she 
 said ; at all events, something drove her quite 
 mad, and she ran off to Europe with a fellow a 
 shade worse than her husband. 
 
 That is a very improper story, told in as few 
 words as I can manage ; for it is only as Mil- 
 ly's destiny chanced momentarily to cross his 
 path that I have any thing to do with him. He 
 had returned to New York, after a long absence, 
 having obtained a divorce without difficulty ; 
 but the affair had hurt him exceedingly would 
 have ruined him utterly, had it not been for his 
 high and mighty relations and his money. 
 
 Besides his disreputable and delightful mas 
 culine suppers, where there was much fun and 
 more high play, he occasionally gave dinner 
 parties, at which he used to persuade some one 
 of his feminine relatives to preside, and to which
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 137 
 
 many people would go. In our age, peopl 
 would rush into the mouth of purgatory for an 
 hour's amusement. The dinners certainly wer 
 charming, and Paul an angel of an host, how 
 ever much of a devil he might have been in hi 
 private capacity as a man ; but I used to thin! 
 I would rather see a sister or wife of mine dea 
 than sitting at his table, looked at as he lookec 
 at all pretty women, and listening to the conver 
 sation which went on there, brilliant as it was 
 Mrs. Lawrence entered readily enough int 
 Andrews's scheme ; the more heartily, perhaps 
 because, knowing that the best-natured peopl 
 work better for a reward, he promised her, in 
 case she succeeded, a wonderful carved cabine 
 he owned, upon which her heart had long beer 
 set. It seemed to Mrs. Lawrence the most de 
 lightful thing in the world to induce Milly to d 
 something of which her aunt Avould disapprove 
 "A regular lark," she called it to Andrews, anc 
 set herself diligently to work; for Paul had 
 hitherto been deaf to all entreaties and plans 
 for getting possession of the coveted cabinet. 
 
 She failed utterly. Milly would not hear oi 
 the thing, and at last grew very indignant, anc 
 Mrs. Lawrence could have cried with vexation 
 she did hate to be thwarted in any project, anc 
 the cabinet was such a beauty ! 
 
 "You're a foolish little kitten," said she. 
 "Why, the Conways go, and Mrs. Dexter, and 
 Helen James. Dear me, you needn't be so par 
 ticular ! Poor old Paul ! Why, I met Kenneth 
 Halford there once, and Mrs. Marchmont. " She 
 did not add that Halford had accepted the in 
 vitation two or three days after his return, be 
 fore he knew any thing about the character of 
 the man, and had steadily avoided him since ; 
 and she could not know that Alice Marchmont 
 had gone, because she was insane to see Faulk 
 ner, and he had forced her into the visit as a 
 means of humiliation. Milly felt the fire blaze 
 up in her heart with new strength. Mrs. Law 
 rence spoke as if they had b.een at one of the 
 dinners together, and Milly would ask no ques 
 tions. 
 
 This injudicious woman pleaded as long as 
 she dared ; but Milly held firm, though it flash 
 ed through her mind that it would be a fitting 
 punishment to Halford for her to go, and coolly 
 tell him that, if it was proper for him and Mrs. 
 Marchmont, she concluded there could be no 
 objection to her going likewise. But that was 
 only a passing thought. Consent she would 
 not, and finally reproached Mrs. Lawrence for 
 urging her. 
 
 " You know my aunt would not permit it. 
 I think you do very wrong to propose taking 
 me to a place of which she would disapprove." 
 "Oh, Eliza Remsen was always terribly 
 straight - laced !" returned free-and-easy Mrs. 
 Lawrence, not in the least offended. "I 
 thought you had more love of fun in you, and 
 would like to go, just because you ought not. 
 Poor Paul ! he's not so black as he's painted, 
 in spite of what has come and gone. People 
 don't always get their deserts in this world ; if 
 
 they did, I'm afraid that wild-eyed Mrs. March 
 mont Kenneth Halford flirts so with would be 
 out of the pale more than Andrews. " 
 
 Milly listened eagerly, though having the 
 grace to blush at her own unworthiness in con 
 senting to hear the slanders which Mrs. Law 
 rence poured forth without the slightest scruple. 
 She did not dislike Alice, or believe half the 
 things she' ||pcated, but she was an inveterate 
 gossip, from sheer idleness, and such a woman 
 does more harm than a downright malicious 
 scandal - monger ; besides, she was so much 
 vexed at losing the cabinet that it was a relief 
 to abuse somebody. . 
 
 "I vow Kenneth Halford shouldn't go on as 
 he does, if I were in your place," she added. 
 "You needn't purse up your mouth, Miss 
 Puss ! Your aunt the same as told me you 
 were engaged the morning she went away. 
 I'd bring him to terms, if I were you ! I was 
 glad to see you flirt with Charley Thorne the 
 other night. I think it touched my Lord 
 Kenneth." 
 
 Milly felt bitterly glad yes, wickedly glad 
 with that dreadful exultation which we have at 
 the success of a plan that wounds what we love, 
 while it stings our own souls. He should feel, 
 feel to the core of his heart, that she was not a 
 baby to be punished and sent into a corner. So 
 people noticed his conduct ; no wonder ! But 
 she would beat him at his own game. 
 
 And there Mrs. Lawrence sat, inventing 
 things, giving a signification to speeches that 
 never was meant, yet not intending any harm ; 
 stirring Milly up, as she would have expressed 
 it, for her own amusement, by way of a little 
 amends for the disappointment of having to tell 
 Paul that she had failed in their scheme. She 
 did not even think that she was guilty of wick 
 edness ! I declare I sometimes half believe 
 that the sins which will drag us down to hell 
 are those very exploits which we regard so 
 complacently, never ranking them among our 
 sins at all. . 
 
 " Well, Milly, I shall say no more," she ex 
 claimed at last. "Put up with Halford's con 
 duct, if you choose. Meekness is interesting; 
 )ut, thank Heaven, I have a will of my own " 
 >eautifully oblivious of the fact that she was 
 )lown hither and thither, like a tuft of down, 
 >y the wind of any body's breath who took the 
 rouble to influence her. "Why, when I was 
 our age, I would have done any thing for an 
 evening's sport ! Your aunt would never find 
 t out ; but let the matter rest. Do as you 
 'lease, of course. I stand by Paul Andrews ; 
 always shall ! When a man begins to go 
 [own in the world there is some merit in keep- 
 ng to your friendship, and I shall do it. I can 
 emember, when we were all three young, Eliza 
 lemsen was pleased enough if he paid her at- 
 ention, though now you say she would not 
 hink his house fit for you to set your foot in." 
 "No, I did not say that " 
 " Oh, I'm not particular about words ; that 
 vas what you meant,"
 
 138 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 She let fly a few more shafts at Halford and 
 Mrs. Marchmont, and went her way. But, in 
 spite of Milly's determination stupid obstina 
 cy, Minerva called it that lady said to An 
 drews, 
 
 " Keep a place at table. I shouldn't wonder 
 in the least if I brought her at the last moment." 
 The things which had been said rankled in 
 Milly's mind, and made her morA angry with 
 Halford ; but the possibility of goiffg to the din 
 ner did not occur to her. 
 
 It was the very day of the party. Mrs. Law 
 rence had given up her lingering hope; Paul 
 Andrews had resigned himself to the failure of 
 his plot for annoying the man who had over 
 whelmed him with civil contempt, and to the 
 endurance, where Milly was concerned, of the 
 smart which the most hardened animal suffers 
 at the knowledge that some innocent creature 
 shrinks from him. 
 
 Milly wanted to see Halford ; a change had 
 come over her. Had he appeared at the mo 
 ment she would have forgotten his sins, and 
 been remorseful over her own errors and short 
 comings. She wrote him a note, and gave the 
 man-servant directions to take it to Mr. Hal- 
 ford's hotel. Now Caasar inherited a full share 
 of the indolence so bounteously bestowed upon 
 the children of Ethiopia, and, feeling no de 
 sire for a walk this morning, gave the note to a 
 Bismarck-tinted friend of his, who had dropped 
 in to pay him a visit, and must pass Halford's 
 lodgings on his way home. Fascinating Han 
 nibal took the letter, and promised faithfully to 
 leave it ; but he chanced to meet a salmon-hued 
 lady of his acquaintance on the road, and was 
 beguiled into a promenade, and the note in con 
 sequence was forgotten. 
 
 Milly waited and waited. The day was pass 
 ing ; no answer no message. She rang the 
 bell to inquire if the note had been sent. A 
 maid -servant hurried off to ask Ca;sar, and 
 came back with the positive assurance that he 
 had dispatched it without delay. Still Hal- 
 ford did not make his appearance. Milly hac 
 leisure to pass through a thousand changes of 
 feeling. She cried from disappointment; she 
 grew angry ; she excused him, only to bestow 
 increased bjame a moment later; then she criec 
 again, and after those last tears felt harder anc 
 more resentful. If he had even answered hei 
 note, offering any excuse whatever for his re 
 fusal of her request, she could have forgiven 
 him ; but to be treated with this utter show of 
 indifference was more than Milly could bear. 
 
 It was late in the day when Mrs. Lawrence's 
 carriage stopped at the door, and the servant 
 came up to say that Mrs. Lawrence wanted hei 
 to go and drive, only she was to make haste. 
 Milly did not wait to reflect that she was in 
 no mood to endure any body's society. She 
 threw on her bonnet and mantle, and ran down 
 stairs. 
 
 "Actually here!" exclaimed her friend as 
 she appeared at the door. " Milly, you are an 
 angel not to have kept me waiting." 
 
 Milly laughed discordantly ; the color rushed 
 over her cheeks ; she stepped into the carriage, 
 and off they drove. Mrs. Lawrence talked 
 about the dinner regretted that she could not 
 mve Milly with her; but the girl was too busy 
 with her thoughts to pay much attention to the 
 emarks or her own answers. They took a few 
 urns about the Park, then Mrs. Lawrence com- 
 jlained of feeling cold, and they turned home 
 ward down Fifth Avenue. 
 
 " I want to stop at Mrs. Delancy's a mo 
 ment," Mrs. Lawrence said. "I'll not make a 
 call. It's just to ask about a servant who used 
 to live with her." 
 
 Milly declined going into the house, so her 
 'fiend left her in the carriage, and went upon 
 ler errand. Milly sat idly looking through 
 one of the windows, watching the gay equipages 
 dash past, thinking how contented every body 
 appeared, and wondering why the change in 
 tier life, which had promised such happiness, 
 should have brought her this great trouble 
 wondering, fretting, and bemoaning her wretch 
 edness, without having the least idea that her 
 own actions could have mended matters. 
 
 Suddenly down the avenue passed two per 
 sons on horseback, riding fast, talking and 
 laughing gayly. These were Mrs. Marchmont 
 and Kenneth Halford. One glance she had, 
 and they were gone ; and there Milly sat, her 
 blood turning .to ice about her heart, and her 
 head reeling till the long rows of houses seemed 
 to totter, as if about to fall in one common ruin. 
 Do you know what it is to be frantically, in 
 sanely jealous ? To go so mad that, for the 
 time, you would sell body and soul to be 
 avenged to do something that should destroy 
 yourself, here and hereafter, that the false one 
 might have eternally to regret the misery as of 
 his causing? If you do not, pray to God to 
 keep you from such phrensy and the calamities 
 you may bring down under its influence. 
 
 Milly sat with her hands clenched in her 
 muff, her teeth set, and her eyes blazing with a 
 light that had never before shone in them, her 
 whole mind lost in a whirl of fierce emotion 
 which shook her every nerve. Back came the 
 widow, and they drove away through the gath 
 ering twilight, Mrs. Lawrence rattling on about 
 some wonderful story she had heard during her 
 visit, till at length Milly interrupted her by ex 
 claiming, suddenly, 
 
 "I will go with you to this dinner!" 
 " Oh, you darling girl ; I am so glad ! Now 
 you are behaving sensibly! Your aunt will 
 never know it." 
 
 Little cared Milly, at that moment, if the 
 whole world knew of it. What were any con 
 sequences that might arise to her? Kenneth 
 Halford should be made to feel that was all 
 she thought of; the worse the place, the great 
 er the wound to his pride! Go? Why, she 
 would have gone, she thought, if the fiend had 
 guarded the door, and claimed her soul for his 
 forfeit ! 
 
 "You shall have a charming evening," pur-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 139 
 
 sued Mrs. Lawrence. " Do wear the blue dress 
 and silver ornaments yon wore last at my house." 
 "I shall go," repeated Milly, in the same de 
 fiant tone "I shall go." 
 
 They reached the corner of the street where 
 Mrs. Ilemsen lived. 
 
 "Let me out here,' ? said Milly; " I'll walk 
 home." 
 
 " It's only a step you'd better drive." 
 "No, no; I want to walk I must walk," 
 returned Milly. 
 
 "I shall call for you at half-past seven, pre 
 cisely," said Mrs. Lawrence. " Now, pray look 
 your" sweetest. How lucky that Maud went 
 with her mother! You'll have no one to pre 
 vent you." 
 
 Milly was out of the carriage before it fairly 
 stopped, and hurried along without a parting 
 word. 
 
 "T do think she must be mad," said Mrs. 
 Lawreni^. t o herself. "What has come over 
 her, to look like that? She must have seen or 
 V><n r d something of Halford that has made her 
 horribly ngry. Well, I don't care what it is 
 srib'o going r,;th me ! Mr. Paul Andrews, the 
 sooner you send me u iat lovely cabinet the bet 
 ter. I have kept my word. I do so hate to be 
 beaten!" 
 
 She drove on in the best possible spirits, de 
 bating with herself as t o which particular 3 ah> 
 should enshrine her long-wlshed-for treasure 
 and laughing as she thought of Kenneth Hal 
 ford's fury when he heard of Milly at this 
 ner ; and he would quickly hear of it. Diet 
 Faulkner would take care of that. 
 
 Of any evil consequences to Milly, beyond 
 lecture or a lover's quarrel, soon made up, sh 
 never dreamed. She only looked at the mis 
 chief and amusement, and was as happy as 
 boy over a pocketful of stolen apples. 
 
 Milly got into the house and up to her room 
 She took no time to think. Think, indeed 
 You might almost as well have asked red-ho 
 lava to pause for reflection as her dizzy mind. 
 It was already late, so she dressed hersel; 
 looking more lovely than she had ever done i 
 her life. This culmination of the excitemen 
 of the past weeks into this fever had done it 
 work. She was lovely ; but not like the dream 
 ing, romantic Milly of so brief a time back. T 
 one who understood what made the change 
 there would have been something piteous i 
 the eager face with its flashing eyes, the scarle 
 spots on either cheek, and the defiant smile o 
 the lips which had so lately been tender an 
 tremulous. 
 
 Half-past seven came very soon. The car 
 riage was at the door. Mrs. Lawrence cam 
 into the house, to be certain that Milly wa 
 dressed to please her, and, as the girl ran dow: 
 stairs with her white cloak on her arm, coul 
 not refrain from exclaiming, aloud, 
 
 "You were always pretty," she cried, en 
 thusiastically ; " but to-night you are positively 
 beautiful!" 
 
 Milly jested and laughed, and the false ex 
 
 itement supported her until it was too late to 
 etreat or think. She was in Paul Andrews's 
 rawing-room ; he was holding her hand, look- 
 ng into her face with his languid eyes, and ut- 
 ering fulsome compliments. 
 
 Then her reason came back. She realized 
 he full insanity of her step, saw clearly what 
 he had done. She looked about at the peo- 
 le ; men whom she met at large balls two 
 >r three known to her by sight as reckless and 
 dissipated ; women, with several of whom she 
 lad never been allowed to be on speaking 
 erms ; others, with whom she acknowledged 
 acquaintance, protected as they were by their 
 msband's names ; and every body looked a lit- 
 ,le curiously at her, as if wondering by what 
 odd chance she was there. 
 
 Milly's rage and jealousy could not keep np 
 to their white-heat any longer. She was glad 
 to creep into a chair, and do her best to pre 
 vent her teeth chattering, from the chill which 
 shook her, unable to talk to those who ap 
 proached, transformed at once into so com 
 monplace a girl that Paul Andrews regarded 
 her in disgust. He would have been ready to 
 throttle Mrs. Lawrence for swindling him out 
 of 1iis cabinet, only he consoled himself by 
 recollecting that at least her presence in his 
 house would punish Halford. 
 
 Nor did Milly improve after the party was 
 seated at the table. The color would not come 
 back to her cheeks, nor the light to her eyes. 
 The jests at which the others laughed only puz 
 zled her-, or, if she dimly understood, they filled 
 her wilh horror. She was seated near Andrews ; 
 but, after trying to talk with her, and receiving 
 only monosyllables in reply, he gave up the 
 task in a rage, wondering what people saw in 
 the washed-out little thing to admire, and think 
 ing that Helen James, if somewhat passe'e, was 
 worth a dozen like her. 
 
 It seemed to Milly that they remained a 
 lifetime at table. It was all like a bad dream. 
 The noise, the laughter, the quantity of wine 
 the men drank, the freedom of the women's talk 
 the whole affair was insupportable. Toward 
 the close of the dinner, Dick Faulkner made 
 his appearance, and there was much chatter 
 over his excuses for not coming in earlier. 
 
 " I think Andrews said supper," he averred ; 
 and it was evident that he had been drinking 
 freely. Then he saw Milly, and called out 
 with his usual insolent familiarity, though she 
 scarcely knew him, 
 
 "Ah, Miss Crofton, delighted to see yon 
 here. Mrs. Lawrence is showing you a little 
 life, eh ?" Then he recollected his wife's gos 
 sip about the engagement between Milly and 
 Halford, and added, " I say, Paul, where's the 
 book-man Halford, you know ?" 
 
 " Not invited," returned Andrews, curtly. 
 " Nor Mrs. Marchmont ?" 
 "She she couldn't come." 
 "Does Halford's name naturally suggest 
 hers ?" somebody asked. 
 
 " Oh yes, "returned Dick, with an evil laugh ;
 
 140 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 for the intimacy between the two had caused 
 him almost as much annoyance as it had Milly. 
 
 "Just a moment. I want to say something 
 to you," pursued Dick, wondering how he could 
 
 TJ U U 1 1_ t * >**-j " v*i.v*\vJ *i iivvv UC vUUlil 
 
 Heres her health a bumper to Alice ; manage to annoy Alice Marchmont by letting 
 
 j her suppose that he had given Milly a danger- 
 
 ^ It was so plain that he was partially intox- j ous hint about her affairs. "I sav the be 
 icated that the women made a move to leave witching widow has been worrying you a great 
 the table. Milly thought she must die before ' Lf " : " 
 she could get out of the room. When they 
 returned to the salon, Milly begged Mrs. Law 
 rence to let her go home ; but her friend would 
 
 not listen to it. 
 
 "What nonsense! after coming," she said. 
 "I can't imagine what ails you to-night; you 
 don't look or act like yourself." 
 
 "I don't feel like myself, either," replied 
 Milly, with a quivering lip. The excitement 
 which had given her a false courage was gone, 
 and she never felt more like a burst of babyish 
 tears in her whole life. " I do so want to go,' 
 she pleaded. 
 
 "Oh, wait a while.'" said Mrs. Lawrence, 
 longing to doze in peace till the men appeared. 
 " You can't go yet ; it would look so odd. Pan] 
 would be vexed, and scold me." 
 
 So Milly took refuge in a comer, and oc 
 cupied herself, as shy young ladies do, by turn 
 ing over a volume of engravings, and none of 
 the women paid any attention to her beyond a 
 contemptuous assent to Paul Andrews's dictum 
 that she was a poor, washed-out thing, and not 
 worth the talk her coming out in society had 
 caused. 
 
 After a while her retreat was invaded by 
 Dick Faulkner, and then Milly decided that 
 she must die outright. He sat down by her 
 and began to talk pleasantly enough. The 
 extra wine he had drank since the ladies left 
 the room had removed the apparent traces of 
 having too deeply indulged ; but he was affect 
 ed by it in a certain way. Quietly as he talked, 
 he could not keep from touching on subjects 
 and throwing out hints which he would have 
 avoided at another moment. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Marchmont a friend of yours ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I know her meet her very frequently," 
 Milly replied, wishing only that he would take 
 himself off. 
 
 " You mean you don't like her. I'.ve watched 
 you both this last fortnight ! I'm fond of study 
 ing people. You hate her, Miss Crofton." 
 
 Milly was not too much subdued to look of 
 fended, but remained silent. 
 
 " You'll not own it," he continued ; " but 
 all the same, you can't deny yes, you hate 
 Alice Marchmont." 
 
 "If I did, Mr. Faulkner, I really can not see 
 that the fact could interest you enough to re 
 pay discussion." 
 
 "It might; wait a bit! I'm not sure, but 
 I hate her myself, at least " 
 
 Here he became conscious that his tongue 
 threatened to stray into disclosures in regard 
 to his private sentiments, and stopped. 
 
 " I must ask Mrs. Lawrence to let me go 
 home," Milly said. " I am tired." 
 
 deal of late.' 
 
 "You must excuse my listening," said Mil 
 ly, in a trembling voice, which she tried in vain 
 to render firm and dignified. 
 
 "Now, you'd better you'll be glad after," 
 urged he ; and, as he had placed himself in front 
 of the taboret where she sat, it was impossible 
 for her to rise until he moved. "They say you 
 are engaged to Kenneth Halford ; but she so.es 
 him oftener than you do." 
 
 Milly had tried to get out of her seat, as he 
 spoke those first words, but the conclusion of 
 his sentence made her sink back. 
 
 " Please to let me go away, " she said, fai^- 
 " In a second. No matter what mr reasons 
 are for warning you, I do " 
 
 "I don't want any warnings !" Milly broke * 
 "I think I must give you a spell '^ will 
 leave her powerless to harm von petrify tl 
 white witch, eh? s the j>"ncess does in the 
 legend." 
 
 illy did not trr to interrupt him notf-. 
 Where was I ? Oh ! the first time she an 
 noys you, just whisper in her ear mind you do 
 it skillfully- -' Dick Faulkner says "the Ides of 
 March " have come, but not gone.' " 
 
 He moved away, and allowed her to escape. 
 She hurried back to Mrs. Lawrence's side, and 
 again pleaded to go home. Paul Andrews hap 
 pening to overhear her request, said, 
 
 I am sorry you so soon repent having hon 
 ored my house with your presence, Miss Crof- 
 on." 
 
 Of course, she had to set matters straight, but 
 succeeded very indifferently. 
 
 " I am too stupid even to be polite," she add- 
 d, beginning to laugh, for fear she should cry ; 
 and Andrews did not contradict her assertion. 
 Nobody will go these two hours," said her 
 silly friend ; " and I promised to play a game 
 of whist." 
 
 "You needn't go. The carriage is here; 
 only let them take me and come back for you," 
 vhispered Milly. "I can't stay I'm ill." 
 
 She looked so, in truth. Mrs. Lawrence be- 
 ;an to grow alarmed, and eager to escape fur- 
 her responsibility. 
 
 "Well,". she said, "if you will go, you will! 
 Paul, tell them to order the carriage. Miss 
 Irofton is going." 
 Milly got away. 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence accompa 
 
 nied her, kissed her at the head of the stairs, 
 and called her a foolish child ; but Milly could 
 nly think of the happiness of escaping. 
 
 "It's a dead loss," Andrews said to his rel 
 ative, as she returned to the drawing-room. 
 Your little friend is the most consummate 
 diot I ever saw in my life ! I hope your house 
 will burn the day you get the cabinet." 
 
 The instant Milly reached home she rushed
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 141 
 
 up stairs and flung herself on the bed. All she 
 had gained by the step, which in her frenzy she 
 fancied would be so great a triumph over Hal- 
 ford, was an intense headache and an intolera 
 ble fear of her aunt's discovering her adventure. 
 She had not even the pleasurable excitement 
 which might have lent an interest to her freak. 
 There had been no pleasure, no success. She 
 had not appeared a sort of drawing-room meteor 
 to Paul Andrews and his guests. She had sat 
 among them, pale and stupid as an overgrown 
 school-girl, suffering from shyness and too much 
 plum-cake. % 
 
 Verily, Milly's taste of stolen fruits was not 
 sweet ! The apples of Sodom had turned to 
 ashes on her lips. 
 
 She lay on her bed, and shook and shivered, 
 and could only get warm as she remembered 
 Andrews's false smile, or the echo of some of 
 those horrid jests haunted her. Then she 
 seemed burning up with shame, and fairly wish 
 ed the floor might open and let her away down 
 into the dark, and hide her forever from her 
 fear and humiliation. When that crisis passed, 
 she could remember Dick Faulkner's words, 
 and there appeared more meaning in them 
 than had struck her at the time. 
 
 "I am glad I went," she thought, in a quick 
 reaction of resentment ; " glad glad ! Every 
 body knows that he is false to me. I knew it 
 before, only I tried not to believe it. But I'll 
 tell her. If he knows something that can fright 
 en her, she shall think he has told me. I'm not 
 likely to forget his words ! I wish it was day. 
 I wish I stood face to face with them both. Oh, 
 I shall go mad !" 
 
 So Milly battled with her demons, and yield 
 ed to the fierce dictates of her jealousy and her 
 rage, till it fairly seemed as if weeks must have 
 elapsed in that vigil, the pure, girlish face looked 
 so worn and seamed with misery and passion. 
 
 While she struggled the night through in 
 her pain, Alice Marchmont held a watch dark 
 er and sterner than this of a young girl's heart 
 troubles. It was almost dawn before she fin 
 ished a letter many times interrupted, two or 
 three copies impatiently torn, but the task al 
 ways resumed ; and at last it was done. 
 
 Then the restless march was resumed, fright 
 and despair tugged at her soul as they had so 
 often done before, and the quiet seemed full 
 of voices that mocked coldly at her agony, and 
 repeated the story of her shame. Thus she 
 wore the darkness out, and saw the dawn break 
 chill and gray, then crept to her bed, not so 
 much to sleep as to shut out the hateful light 
 which she could have prayed never to see 
 again. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 TWO LETTERS. 
 
 AFTER that unquiet vigil, and the heavy, un- 
 refreshing sleep which followed, Alice March 
 mont appeared down stairs at her usual hour 
 
 in the m'orning, determined in nothing to vary 
 from her ordinary habits during these dreadful 
 days, as though holding fast to such trifles was 
 the one gleam of security in her awful suspense. 
 Some way, when she forced herself to go on in 
 the accustomed routine, there were moments 
 in which she could almost persuade herself, 
 even now, that her fears could not all be real, 
 since nothing in her daily life was changed. 
 
 Miss Portman was already out on a shop 
 ping expedition, from a sense of duty, with 
 some country friends ; so Alice had the freedom 
 of the library, and was at liberty to be idle and 
 dull, without having to answer troublesome 
 questions. The unrestraint did not last long, 
 however, for the servant came to say that Ken 
 neth Halford wished to speak with her, and 
 Mrs. Marchmont roused herself from her ap 
 athetic reverie, remembering that she had a 
 sharper scrutiny to baffle than the observation 
 of her timid, easily satisfied relative. 
 
 "This is a fearfully early visit," he said, as 
 he entered ; " so I beg your pardon in the com 
 mencement." 
 
 " It is almost noon," she replied ; " so your 
 excuse is a polite* way of telling me that I am 
 a lazy woman a bit of revenge, I suppose, for 
 my having won yesterday's race. The gallop 
 did me a world of good. I mean to ride every 
 morning." 
 
 In spite of his feeling it necessnry to excuse 
 his appearance at this hour, he had already 
 stopped at Mrs. Remsen's house to inquire after 
 Milly ; for the not seeing her on the previous 
 day had given him time somewhat to forget the 
 numerous annoyances she had caused him of 
 late. But Milly had gone with one of the lit 
 tle children to the dentist's, so he could only go 
 into the nearest florist's, and scribble an affec 
 tionate note, to be sent with choice flowers a 
 note telling her that he should be too much oc 
 cupied to return, but he would see her that 
 night at Mrs. Lawrence's reception. Then he 
 walked on to Mrs. Marchmont's, for there was 
 something which he felt he ought to say to her, 
 though the necessity was any thing but agree 
 able. 
 
 The two talked the ordinary commonplaces 
 of conversation for a few moments ; but he was 
 a man who liked to get an unpleasant thing off 
 his mind as quickly as possible, so he took ad 
 vantage of a break in the talk to observe, 
 
 " Perhaps you will think my errand here an 
 impertinent one ; but I could not resist coming." 
 
 Naturally her first thought was that he had 
 learned the truth ; she was always expecting 
 somebody to overwhelm her with it. Not even 
 a servant could enter the room hastily in these 
 days without giving her a sensation of terror. 
 She became languidly composed at once. Her 
 ability to endure still, shaken and unnerved as 
 she was, had comething wonderful in it. 
 
 "What an appalling commencement!" said 
 she, in her most indolent voice. " You would 
 pique my curiosity, if I had any left." 
 
 " We are such very old friends that I thought
 
 142 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 I might take the liberty," he continued, rather 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "Tell me what you want to, and excuse 
 yourself afterward," she said, her tone grow 
 ing suddenly impatient, though she looked as 
 unmoved as ever. 
 
 "A friend of mine a business man told 
 me last evening that there were vague reports 
 in circulation about your affairs " 
 
 " Do you mean business affairs ?" she inter 
 rupted. 
 
 " Yes, of course. Now,- as I knew that you 
 were negotiating with the South-western Com 
 pany for the sale of your Virginia lands, it oc 
 curred to me as possible that the stories might 
 have a malicious origin that is, might be the 
 work of some persons who wanted to prevent 
 the sale, either because they had coal-lands in 
 the same neighborhood, or " 
 
 " The sale was effected several days ago. I 
 have received the first payment," she broke in 
 again, utterly incapable of listening to his ex 
 planation, which in his slight embarrassment 
 he made tedious, as people always do when 
 afraid of saying a wrong word. 
 
 "Then I disquieted myself needlessly," he 
 replied, " and I am very glad of it. I congrat 
 ulate you on your success." 
 
 " Thanks ; success is invariably so pleasant," 
 she said, bitterly. "But you have roused my 
 curiosity, though I just denied possessing any. 
 Tell me exactly what your friend said." 
 
 "It was only a vague story. I could not 
 make much out of it," he answered, evasively, 
 wishing heartily that he had held his tongue, 
 or, at least, been sensible enough to ask out 
 right if she had sold her lands, instead of re 
 peating the gossip. 
 
 "You can tell me what he said," she in 
 sisted, with a flash of the imperiousness which 
 had grown upon her of late. "From whom 
 did he say the report came ?" She knew what 
 the answer would be, and dreaded to hear it, 
 yet, when he hesitated, could not help asking 
 more sternly, " Who originated the report, Mr. 
 Halford?" 
 
 " I believe it was Mr. Faulkner. At least, 
 it was he who repeated the gossip in my friend's 
 hearing." 
 
 She did not stir ; not a line of her face al 
 tered. 
 
 "I want to hear the whole conversation, 
 word for word," she said, slowly. 
 
 "Why, it was little more than a hint that 
 the company had better be careful. It struck 
 me as meant to cast some doubt on your titles. 
 Itis of no consequence since the sale is effected." 
 
 "Where did it take place? when?" 
 
 " T\vo or three days ago more than that, I 
 believe ; but I only heard of it yesterday. It's 
 not worth thinking about now, though ! I pre 
 sume some disappointed land-owner invented 
 it," he replied, careful only to answer the last 
 clause of her question. 
 
 "I asked you where." 
 
 " Upon my word, I " 
 
 " I have a reason for wishing to know, Mr. 
 Halford. I beg you to tell me the place where 
 the conversation occurred, and, as near as pos 
 sible, the words used by Mr. Faulkner." 
 
 He could not help mentally comparing the 
 wayward, pretty imperiousness of Alice Berners 
 in the old days with the overbearing haugh 
 tiness which this woman at times displayed, 
 thinking, as he had often done, how sad it was 
 that life should have changed her so utterly. 
 
 " It was in a room of a cafe' near Wall Street 
 a place where the brokers go a great deal. 
 Faulkner was there lunching with a couple of 
 men ; they had just struck one of their grand 
 coups, and were having a Champagne-breakfast 
 after " 
 
 "And having drank too much, were talking 
 about the women of their acquaintance ; I un 
 derstand ! Don't hesitate. I am a good many 
 years past the possibility of being shocked by 
 the way in which bad men talk. What was 
 said about me?" 
 
 "I am sorry I mentioned the subject " 
 
 " I said that I did not want excuses !" 
 
 Her haughtiness would have been insuffera 
 ble, only, guarded as her 'face was, he read some 
 thing there which filled him with pity. 
 
 "I only meant to add that, having done so, 
 it was better to tell you just what occurred. 
 Not very dreadful, after all." 
 
 "Not when one has lived long enough to 
 know what men are. I beg your pardon. " 
 
 " My friend was lunching at the next table. 
 The firs f thing he heard was some chatter " 
 
 " The words, if you please." 
 
 " These," he replied, a little out of patience : 
 "One of Faulkner's companions said, 'So the 
 fascinating widow is trying to sell her lands ; 
 they say she is rather pushed.' The second 
 man asked, ' Who says so ? I don't believe it.' " 
 
 "And he Faulkner?" 
 
 " He had evidently been drinking too much " 
 
 " He said" 
 
 " ' I believe it, and I know it ! I'd advise any 
 body who means to take Mrs. Marchmont's 
 note or buy lands of her to make sure of the in 
 dorsement on the titles.' " 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 "Every word. My friend said the two be 
 gan to chaff Faulkner, to tell him that probably 
 you had snubbed 1 him, and he changed the con 
 versation, apparently discovering that he had 
 said more than he intended." 
 
 " I thnnk you for coming," she said ; " it was 
 very kind of you." 
 
 " Very useless, under the circumstances." 
 
 "No matter. Oh, this world, this disgust 
 ing world, where a man like that is allowed to 
 go about staining women's names by the mere 
 taking of them on his lips !" 
 
 " Certainly, had there been the least reason, 
 you have friends enough who would call him 
 to account," he said. 
 
 " No, no ; nothing so bad as that could hap 
 pen the surest way to ruin a woman that ever 
 men invented ! Oh ! you would not promise
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 143 
 
 me, no matter what you heard you would not 
 do that!" 
 
 " There will be no necessity ; he will never 
 dare." 
 
 "Oh, there is nothing he would not dare !" 
 she cried, recklessly, and as soon as the words 
 were spoken knew she had revealed the fact 
 that for some reason she feared this man. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" Halford asked, ea 
 gerly. 
 
 " Only that he is a brute and a coward," she 
 answered, her voice once more disdainful and 
 quiet. 
 
 "We are very old friends, Mrs. Marchmont. 
 I wish 1 might say to you all that is in my 
 mind." 
 
 For the first time it occurred to him to con 
 nect the troubles which he felt certain oppressed 
 her with Faulkner. 
 
 " It could do no good," she said ; " but I am 
 grateful for your kindness." 
 
 She turned away her head, but, quickly as 
 she moved, he caught the expression of her 
 face. This sympathy had shaken her out of 
 that unnatural self-control. He thought, if he 
 lived a hundred years, he could never forget 
 her countenance as it looked then, with its di 
 lated eyes and the features fixed in the awful 
 whiteness of wrath and despair. 
 
 '"You suffer!" he exclaimed. "Is there 
 nothing I can do ? Can you think of no way 
 in which I can serve you ?'' 
 
 She turned back at the sound of his voice, 
 drew her hand across her forehead, and looked 
 at him with a strange ghost of a smile upon her 
 lips, past caring what he thought, past caring 
 how fully she betrayed her wretchedness, in 
 the intense longing which had come over her 
 for some human sympathy in the darkness. 
 
 "Again I thank you," she said, in a cold, 
 grating voice; "you have done all that you 
 can in making the offer. No human being 
 could help me further, and I think Heaven will 
 not." 
 
 It seemed heartless to remain silent ; but 
 what could he say ? It was impossible to in 
 trude upon her secrets, whatever they might be 
 to ask the slightest question as to the cause 
 of her distress ; yet it was dreadful to leave 
 her alone in a misery so deep that even faith 
 in the Divine mercy had deserted her. 
 
 After a little she spoke again : 
 
 " I believe that sounded wicked ; I did not 
 mean it so. It was weak, too, and that is al 
 most more unpardonable. I am bold and self- 
 reliant enough " she had nearly said, desper 
 ate "but sometimes I am forced to remem 
 ber that I am only a woman." 
 
 "If you would let me speak ; if I could ven 
 ture to without appearing downright insolent!" 
 
 "I should not think you so; but there is 
 nothing more to bo said. See, I have not 
 tried to hide from you that I suffer it is a 
 great deal for me to confess. I could not do 
 it to any body else ! Only forget it ; don't let 
 me ever see the consciousness in vour face." 
 
 " If it is about business if you would only 
 tell me." 
 
 "It is not." 
 
 She had begun to tell a lie ; she would not 
 do it. She was weary of her burden of dis 
 simulation. It was enough to bear the stain 
 of guilt, the awful memory which placed her in 
 the rank of men and women outside the pale 
 of humanity ; she would no longer add to that 
 the petty falsehoods wherewith the weakest of 
 her sex shielded their little sins. 
 
 " Impossible, was what I meant to say im 
 possible !" 
 
 The tone, the look, told him that, whatever 
 her trouble might be, she had regarded it on 
 every side, and knew tha't an iron door shut 
 between her and any hope of assistance. He 
 comprehended that at this instant it was nei 
 ther pride nor fear which kept her silent, noth 
 ing but the utter impossibility of any aid avail 
 ing. 
 
 "I am deeply grieved," he said, touched to 
 the heart. "I know that sounds very poor; 
 but it is all I can say." 
 
 " It is a great deal," she replied, with that 
 same phantom of a smile still upon her lips. 
 "There is no other human being who has seen 
 enough even to say so much." 
 
 He saw that she was wholly unfit for further 
 conversation, and rose to go. 
 
 " I can't bear to leave you like this," he said ; 
 " but I believe it is the kindest thing I can do." 
 
 "Yes, the very kindest. You know I am 
 used to bearing my burden alone." 
 
 It was the more painful to witness her wretch 
 edness, and remember that she had the whole 
 world at her feet, and she with some secret 
 weighing on her soul which shut out any pos 
 sibility of peace. 
 
 " He returned quickly to her side, saying, 
 
 "If there should arise a moment when I 
 could help you " 
 
 *' I would ask your assistance yes; but 
 there never will. I don't know what you must 
 think, Kenneth ; I don't much care ! When 
 you entered this room I did not believe any 
 thing could ever make me admit to a human 
 creature that I suffered." 
 
 " But you are not sorry that I know ?" 
 
 "I am glad glad! Don't be troubled; 
 don't think about me ! How kind and good 
 you are ! And you are happy tell me that 
 you are ?" 
 
 He forgot the annoyances and doubts of the 
 past weeks, or, rather, they seemed as nothing 
 in the presence of her misery, and Milly'_s im 
 age rose before him like a vision of rest. 
 
 "Yes," he answered; "I have more con 
 tentment than I deserve." 
 
 "Not more; and I am glad! When you 
 see me again I shall be like myself, and you 
 can forget. Better so." 
 
 He went away, and many times during the 
 morning, busy as he was, he remembered and 
 pitied her, yet could not help contrasting her 
 with MillVj and feeling a certain exultation in
 
 144 
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 the midst of his thankfulness, that his choice 
 had fallen upon his childish, unworldly young 
 betrothed instead of this woman, weighed 
 down in the midst of her splendor by some se 
 cret which she must guard alone. He thought 
 no evil of her, as many men would have done. 
 Whatever her faults might be, he knew that 
 she was pure enough even to he Milly's friend. 
 He could only account for her misery by sup 
 posing one of two causes. He had always be 
 lieved that she had some unfortunate attach 
 ment since the day when his sense of honor led 
 him to offer her his hand, though he had been 
 forced to acknowledge that it could not be for 
 any man whom he ever saw near her now.' Be 
 sides this, he feared* that she was in terrible 
 business embarrassments; perhaps Faulkner 
 had deluded her into one of his brilliant schemes, 
 and she found herself surrounded by difficul 
 ties, even cramped for money, which would be 
 fearful to her. But he got no nearer the truth 
 than that in his fancies, and gladly as he would 
 have aided her, he felt that he could not offer 
 moneyed assistance. It would appear an in 
 sult. So he thought a great deal about her as 
 the day wore on, but more about Milly. He 
 had been a little hard of late ; he had expected 
 too much of this pretty child. He should see 
 her to-night ; he would change back to the old 
 manner at once ; pet her into the cheerfulness 
 and amiability formerly her chief charm. He 
 had been wrong, possibly. He must not train 
 and develop her too rapidly ; he would be very 
 patient henceforth with his flower, even at the 
 sacrifice of his own tastes and comfort. He 
 wished that the evening were come ; he was 
 wild to see her again, and he smiled at his boy 
 ish impatience, but felt glad that he was capa 
 ble of it. 
 
 After he had gone, Alice Marchmont sat by 
 the window where he left her, staring at the 
 blue sky, with a face such as an old painter 
 might have given to a lost spirit gazing up 
 through the blackness of purgatory toward the 
 light of the far-off, unattainable heavens. 
 
 At last she drew from her dress the letter 
 which she had written the previous night, tore 
 it slowly into fragments, went to the hearth, 
 and flung them into the flames. 
 
 "Burn," she thought; "oh, I wouldn't care 
 if it was your soul or mine !" 
 
 She walked up and down the room in one 
 of the eager marches in which nowadays she so 
 often tried to tire herself, then after a while sat 
 down at a table and began to write. She must 
 send some message to Faulkner; she could 
 wait no longer. But it would have been mad 
 ness to forward the epistle she had consigned 
 to the flames. There must not be a line or 
 word which the whole world could not see ; yet 
 she found it difficult to write, making several 
 commencements, tearing them up, even flinging 
 aside her pen often, as if half decided to let 
 matters take their course. But it was finished 
 at length a simple request in the third person, 
 that Mr. Faulkner would have the goodness to 
 
 call upon her at his earliest convenience upon 
 a matter of business. 
 
 Once written, a spasm of mad anxiety came 
 over her ; she folded and sealed. in great haste, 
 rang the bell, and ordered the man to send it 
 to Mr. Faulkner's office he was sure to be there 
 at that hour and see that the person waited 
 for an answer. 
 
 It was a full hour and a half before the mes 
 senger returned, an eternity in tlie mood which 
 had taken possession of her. Ferguson, the 
 model of an English servant, appeared at last ; 
 but, before he left her to read the note he 
 brought, had to explain that the delay was not 
 the fault of the boy in buttons who had taken 
 it. Mr. Faulkner was not at his office, and the 
 small emissary had been obliged to return up 
 town to the gentleman's private dwelling. Hav 
 ing satisfied his conscience by justifying the 
 small boy, he bowed himself out, and Mrs. 
 Marchmont was free to open her letter. 
 
 "I am so grieved," wrote the insolent wretch, 
 without preface of any sort, " to disappoint the 
 most charming woman in the world ; but I can 
 not come this morning. I was just getting into 
 the carriage to drive to the railway when your 
 note reached me. I have come into the house 
 to write my excuses, and say how grieved I am 
 that I must defer the happiness of an interview 
 a happiness of which I have been so long de 
 prived. But I am forced to leave town on bus 
 iness, and shall not return until Sunday. How 
 ever, I shall meet you that evening ; for I know 
 you are invited to Mrs. Granger's dinner. We 
 can have a little conversation, and arrange any 
 time that suits you best forme to come to your 
 house. My time is always at your disposal ; 
 and I am, as ever, the most devoted of your 
 slaves, DICK FAULKNER." 
 
 She tore it with passionate fury, as she would 
 have torn his black heart at that moment if it 
 had been within her reach ! 
 
 Four whole days to wait almost five for 
 it was only Wednesday now. Oh, those days I 
 
 The man-servant appeared with another note, 
 one of John Worthington's pleasant epistles. 
 How the sight of his signature at the bottom 
 of the page burned her aching eyes ! He wrote, 
 begging her not to forget that he had changed 
 his weekly dinner-party to this night. It had 
 always been her habit to come to him once a 
 fortnight, but it was an age, owing to her un- 
 pardonably long stay in Washington, since he 
 had seen her at his table. 
 
 She could not go she would not ! She had 
 borne so much that she could not trust her for 
 titude as she did at first. Sit by John Wor 
 thington's side to-night, meet his kindly smile ; 
 no, it was beyond her power of endurance! 
 She wrote, telling him that she should be un 
 able to come. She had promised Mrs. Law 
 rence, without fail, to be at her reception, and 
 could not break her word, as she had treated 
 the little woman shamefully all winter. 
 
 "That would seem no reason to refuse your 
 dinner, " she wrote, "only I promised you weeks
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 ago not to be so dissipated any more. There 
 fore, I can only go to one place in the same 
 evening. You see what it is to make wise 
 laws ; the fulfillment of them is sure to fall 
 unpleasantly on yourself. I hope you will 
 miss me terribly, and that your party will ap 
 pear as stupid to you as mine is certain to do 
 to, yours faithfully, JOHN WORTH INGTON." 
 
 That was the signature she had written ! 
 She saw it as she began to fold up the sheet. 
 The bewildering agony caused by the sight of 
 his name had so confused her faculties Jhat she 
 had actually put his signature to her note, in 
 his writing, too ! She had a brief season of 
 enacting insanity, the poor soul ! then the let 
 ter was destroyed, burned, and another written. 
 She was so nervous and afraid now that three 
 separate times, after sealing and directing it, 
 she tore the note out of the envelope, to be cer 
 tain that there was no treacherous mistake. 
 Even after the letter was gone she fell to think 
 ing about it, and was ready to send after the 
 messenger, rush to the house herself and get 
 possession of it before Worthington returned 
 home, lest there should be some betrayal of 
 her secret in its pages. 
 
 So the day dragged by ; it seemed more 
 endless and horrible to Alice than any of its 
 predecessors. Then she remembered that she 
 had said the same of each in turn since the 
 night which shut her out forever from the pos 
 sibility of innocence or peace. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 "THE IDES OF MARCH." 
 
 THE next morning Mrs. Remsen and Maud 
 returned, and Milly was obliged to exercise a 
 little self-control. Miss Maud was more tire 
 some than usual, for she wanted to relate a 
 romantic episode which had befallen her dur 
 ing her absence. Unluckily, Milly soon dis 
 covered from Maud's contradictions that one 
 portion or the other of the story must be a fig 
 ment of the imagination. She was ill-natured 
 enough to point out the discrepancies, and Maud 
 flew into a passion. After lavishing a few flow 
 ers of rhetoric upon her cousin, she departed to 
 visit her sister, Mrs. Ramsay, who would listen 
 with less critical acumen than Milly displayed. 
 
 Later there came a brief note from Kenneth 
 Halford. He could not call, because there was 
 another wearisome meeting of a learned society 
 in which he was interested ; but he would see 
 her that evening at Mrs. Lawrence's. Not a 
 word in reference to the request she had writ 
 ten him the morning previous ; no reason for 
 not having come to the house. 
 
 " He does not condescend to excuse him 
 self," Milly thought. "My letter was not 
 worth a mention." 
 
 This slight was almost more unpardonable 
 than all which had gone before, and Milly a 
 hundred times inwardly vowed that she would 
 10 
 
 never forgive him, and brought her passion up 
 to fever heat again by the persistency with 
 which she fastened upon that resolve. Let 
 him go back to his old love ; let him do what 
 he pleased with his life, so that he left her in 
 peace ! 
 
 It was a dark day, indeed. Aunt Eliza her 
 self was not in her usually equable mood, nat 
 urally enough, after having traveled all night, 
 and Milly's manner was not calculated to soothe 
 her. Mrs. Remsen asserted that she had hur 
 ried back expressly on Milly's account ; but 
 Milly, in her misanthropy, her new unbelief in 
 every thing and every body, told herself that 
 if her aunt had not been as crazy for amuse 
 ment as a girl of sixteen she would not have 
 returned ; very ungrateful on the young wom 
 an's part, and she knew it, and was more irri 
 table with her relative on account of the knowl 
 edge. 
 
 Milly's dress for the evening wlas not finished. 
 Milly boldly declared that she did not care 
 whether she went or staid at home, and Mrs. 
 Remsen was divided between wrath and aston 
 ishment. She forced Milly to work, and sat 
 down to assist, for a good deal of the girl's finery 
 had to be arranged by their own hands, stylish 
 and French as it always looked. It had been 
 too late in the season for her aunt to afford her 
 the extravagance of a new gown, though she 
 was engaged to a rich man ; so there was seri 
 ous business in hiding a silk already worn un 
 der some wonderful combination of ribbons and 
 tulle. 
 
 " I thought you would have had it done days 
 ago," said Mrs. Remsen. "The idea of leav 
 ing it till the last minute!" 
 
 " I hate the sight of it," returned Milly. " I 
 wish there were no such things as balls. I'd 
 rather not go." 
 
 " Of course you must go," said Mrs. Rein- 
 sen. " I never saw a girl like you ; the wind 
 is not more changeable ! What on earth ails 
 you lately, Milly ?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Milly; "only I hate par 
 ties." 
 
 She ripped the trimming off the silk skirt 
 with incautious haste, tore the fresh tulle which 
 was to cover it, and altogether made such hav 
 oc that, but for Aunt Eliza's patience and skill, 
 the gown would have been a dismal failure. 
 
 " I could shake that girl with pleasure," 
 thought Mrs. Remsen, but restrained her rising 
 temper. Milly was soon to be rich and inde 
 pendent ; too severe a lecture would not be prop 
 er under the circumstances. 
 
 The evening came at last, and they were on 
 their way to Mrs. Lawrence's, with Milly, out 
 of her passion and bitterness, wishing that she 
 were driving to her own funeral instead of a 
 ball. 
 
 They had not been long in the house before 
 Mrs. Marchmont appeared in a costume which 
 so lighted up her pale beauty that it seemed to 
 have increased from the winter's dissipations, 
 the late suppers, the interminable German co-
 
 146 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 tillions, which had worn the freshness out of 
 so many faces, youthful and blooming when the 
 season began. Since her last effort to soften 
 Milly, Mrs. Marchmont paid very little atten 
 tion to her during the few times they had met. 
 She was growing into the habit of looking over 
 Milly's head, and ignoring her girlish airs of 
 state and dignity ; not that Alice really cared 
 about her manner, except from considering it 
 an impertinence. 
 
 To-night Milly vowed that she would not in 
 any way notice the woman, even if Mrs. March 
 mont addressed her outright. She neither 
 cared how it looked nor what people thought ; 
 she would not do it, and there was an end. 
 
 As ill luck would have it, not ten minutes 
 after Milly formed that resolution, her furbe 
 lows caught in a stand of plants while dancing 
 at the end of the room, and her dress would 
 have been absolutely ruined had not Mrs. March 
 mont chanced to be near. She darted forward, 
 and extricated Milly, who was only giving fierce 
 tugs which threatened utter annihilation to her 
 draperies, while her partnermade matters worse 
 by his assistance, with the awkwardness com 
 mon to the male sex in the presence of such 
 disasters. The skirt was loosened before Mil 
 ly had time to see who had aided her. She 
 turned, exclaiming, " I am so much obliged " 
 saw that it was Mrs. Marchmont, and left her 
 sentence unfinished, while her face changed so 
 quickly that a mole could have discovered she 
 would rather have had body and soul torn into 
 fragments than be indebted to this woman for 
 her release. 
 
 Alice perceived it plainly, smiled down at 
 her from her superior height with a careless 
 contempt which few of her sex could have 
 equaled, and said, in her most indifferent voice, 
 
 " Pray don't thank me, Miss Crofton. I did 
 it for the sake of the flutings ; I can't bear to 
 see a pretty dress ruined." 
 
 Then she swept Milly an overwhelming 
 courtesy, and was gone. 
 
 Between shame at her own rudeness, rage at 
 the lady's cool scorn, and various other contend 
 ing emotions, Milly stood speechless. But it 
 was necessary to remedy the misfortune to her 
 attire, so she asked Charley Thome to take her 
 np stairs, that she might find some one to mend 
 her puffs and flounces. She could hardly stand 
 still while the maid was setting her to rights, 
 and lamenting the accident, and congratulating 
 her that it did not show in the least where it 
 was pinned. 
 
 " Thanks," Milly said, impatiently ; " any 
 way will do. Oh, I don't care how it looks !" 
 
 She turned into the hall, took Charley's arm 
 again, and went down stairs. The first sight 
 that met her eyes was Kenneth Halford dan 
 cing with her enemy. He had just arrived, and 
 Mrs. Marchmont wickedly took possession of 
 him at once. When the galop was over, he 
 came to Milly as she stood leaning against a 
 pillar at the upper end of the great drawing- 
 room, while Thorne had gone in search of a 
 
 glass of water at her request, for her throat 
 seemed on fire. 
 
 "At last !" exclaimed Halford, the unavoid 
 able separation of the past few days having left 
 him forgetful of every thing except his love. 
 " Oh, my dearest Milly, it has been an age since 
 I saw you!" 
 
 She turned upon him in a kind of suppressed 
 fury. 
 
 "How dare you speak to me?" she said. 
 " Don't come near me again to-night!" 
 
 It was very absurd, I know, but, considering 
 all that she had undergone, perfectly natural, 
 and it was just as natural that Halford, entirely 
 ignorant of her cause for indignation a real 
 cause this time, since she had every reason to 
 suppose that he had received her note should 
 walk away without reply. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont was punishing her cruelly 
 for her rudeness ; Halford was punishing her 
 from a determination that she should feel what 
 it was to give him grave offense ; and after that 
 he and Alice were led on by that spirit of co 
 quetry which seizes most people under the in 
 fluence of a mood like theirs. They danced, 
 they talked, they were as careless of appear 
 ances as two people are when the man is furi 
 ous against some one whom he loves, and the 
 woman a soured, imbittered creature who has 
 rushed forth for an evening's excitement to es 
 cape the horrible spectres which haunt her soli 
 tude. 
 
 Just as it began at a ball, so it ended. In 
 the very chamber, the tiny, half-lighted boudoir, 
 away from the noise and glare of the ball-room, 
 where Kenneth Halford had held Milly to his 
 breast, and lifted her by his whispers into a new 
 world in that very spot, the beautiful realm 
 which had been tottering for days, as if shaken 
 by an earthquake, fell into fragments at Milly's 
 feet, and crushed her heart under its ruins. 
 
 Milly had borne her torture until she could 
 endure no further ; she had danced and flirted 
 with Charley Thorne, almost unconscious what 
 she did or said, and at last she must have a few 
 moments to herself. She ran up stairs, and 
 got into the first empty room she could find, 
 saw with a shudder that she had entered the 
 boudoir, but would not retreat. It was add 
 ed wretchedness to stand there and recall the 
 events of that night which looked so far off 
 only a few weeks distant but seeming whole 
 years away, and Milly forced the fresh agony 
 mercilessly upon her soul. 
 
 She stood shrouded among the window-cur 
 tains, completely concealed from view, when 
 into the boudoir came Kenneth Halford and 
 Mrs. Marchmont. They were laughing and 
 talking, saying all manner of ridiculous things 
 which both knew meant nothing whatever ; for 
 each understood the other too well not to per 
 ceive that this gayety rose from bitterness and 
 trouble. 
 
 They were speaking of the past, the days 
 when Alice Berners had been a dreaming, hap 
 py girl ; and before Milly could regain self-pos-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 147 
 
 session enough to make her presence known, 
 she caught words which, to her distorted senses, 
 shook the very ground from under her feet. 
 
 " Never to love as he had loved then " 
 
 Milly heard that broken sentence from Hal- 
 ford's lips ; the rest was uttered in French, too 
 rapidly for her to understand ; but she had no 
 need to hear more. It was enough, surely it 
 was enough ! 
 
 Then she saw Halford raise Mrs. March- 
 mont's gloved hand that slender, beautiful 
 hand and touch it with his lips. Sparks of 
 fire danced before Milly's aching eyes ; a whole 
 volume of passionate utterance could not have 
 meant more to her jealous fancy. Before she 
 could carry into execution her idea of confront 
 ing them, Mrs. Marchmont uttered some laugh 
 ing ejaculation, and Halford passed out of the 
 boudoir as she turned to leave by a door that 
 led into the dressing-room. 
 
 She walked so close to Milly that the girl 
 felt the touch of her garments, and shrank 
 back with a faint exclamation of horror, as if 
 something noxious, deadly, had brushed against 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont caught the sound, and look 
 ed back. Milly's quick movement had disar 
 ranged the curtains so that she was visible. 
 
 "Is that you, little Miss Milly?" the lady 
 asked, laughingly, and with perfect composure. 
 " I did not see you." 
 
 The tone, the epithet, what seemed to the 
 girl a wicked triumph in the dark eyes all 
 helped to render her more insane. 
 
 "It was natural that you should not," she 
 answered, in a voice so sharp that, even through 
 her rage and bewilderment, the tone struck her 
 own ear as strangely as if some evil spirit had 
 hissed the words from between her parched 
 lips. 
 
 The voice was so full of insulting signifi 
 cance that Mrs. Marchmont could not resist 
 saying, 
 
 "You place a more modest and proper es 
 timate on yourself than I should have expected, 
 dear Miss Milly." 
 
 " Have the goodness not to speak my name," 
 she exclaimed. "I don't wish to hear it from 
 your l!ps." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont laughed ; the scene appear 
 ed so ridiculous, Milly's manner so exaggerated, 
 that she could not remain serious. 
 
 "Not tired of your name already?" she 
 asked, while Milly shook with a new spasm 
 of fury at the sound of that cruel merriment. 
 "Ah, you see, vou girls of to-day live so rap 
 idly!" 
 
 "At least, we have a sufficiently bad exam 
 ple in the women old enough to know better," 
 retorted Milly. 
 
 " You should take warning from it, child ! 
 Don't you understand that we good-naturedly 
 make light-houses of ourselves to show you the 
 way you ought to go ? But, all the same, it is 
 very naughty of you to remind me of my im 
 mense age." And she laughed again. 
 
 I "You laugh you dare to laugh!" Milly 
 j muttered, while her white teeth, set hard like a 
 vise, showed through her parted lips. 
 
 " Verily, mademoiselle, I have no great dread 
 of so doing," replied Alice, quietly. "But per 
 mit me to ask the meaning of this little private 
 ball-room tragedy ? I am out in my points from 
 not having an idea of the part I am expected 
 to play." 
 
 "You are always ready to act any part that 
 is treacherous and false," cried Milly, too mad 
 j by this time to attempt the slightest restraint 
 i or care if she made herself ridiculous. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont had wholly forgotten the 
 scene of a few moments before ; had been so 
 busy with her own thoughts that she hardly no 
 ticed Halford's kissing her hand ; but she re 
 membered it now, and knew that Milly must 
 have witnessed the whole. 
 
 "Ah!" said she, with malicious emphasis, 
 " you had not just entered the room." 
 
 " I was here when you came," answered Mil 
 ly, defiantly. 
 
 "And you staid?" 
 
 "I staid." 
 
 "That is," returned Alice, "you remained 
 quiet listening." 
 
 The retort was cruel, but Milly's tmlady-like 
 manner provoked it. She was sorry in an in 
 stant. 
 
 "Not listening," Milly said ; " I had no wish 
 to hear a word ; but I saw " 
 
 She broke off abruptly, suddenly recalled to 
 a sense of the way in which she was exposing 
 her misery. 
 
 " Truly, you saw!" cried Alice, mockingly. 
 " How shocking ! Pray, don't compromise me ; 
 that would be very heartless." 
 
 Back to Milly's mind rushed the words Dick 
 Faulkner had spoken, and she cried, 
 
 "If I'd wished I could have done that be 
 fore." 
 
 There was such meaning in her voice that 
 Mrs. Marchmont stared in wonder and dread. 
 
 " May I ask the solution of these mysteries ?" 
 she asked, coldly, without a trace of her inward 
 emotum apparent in features or manner. 
 
 " It would be very easily given," replied 
 Milly, laughing in her turn. 
 
 "Really? Then perhaps you would be kind 
 enough to offer it, though I fear you mistake in 
 supposing it can possess the slightest interest 
 for rne," Alice said. 
 
 The playful contempt with which she still 
 spoke angered her listener more than the harsh 
 est words could have done, because it seemed 
 to denote that she was a rude, unreasonable 
 child, not to be treated with a show even of se 
 riousness. 
 
 " I make mistakes less often than you think, 
 Mrs. Marchmont," returned Milly. 
 
 " You are more fortunate, then, than the rest 
 of our sex. I congratulate you on your wis 
 dom and prudence." 
 
 Her sneers were what Milly could least en 
 dure. She turned to move away and end the
 
 148 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 interview ; perhaps she would have obeyed the 
 impulse had not Alice laughed again. Milly 
 confronted her suddenly, saying, 
 
 "Would you like to hear a message that 
 was given me last night ?" 
 
 "Well, that would depend," drawled Alice. 
 "Now it is a message the interest grows! 
 But one thing are you sure it was meant to 
 be repeated for my benefit? I never care to 
 hear what was only intended for other people's 
 ears." 
 
 " It was for you, and from Mr. Faulkner." 
 
 Alice Marchmont retreated a step, and stood 
 looking full at her with fiery eyes. 
 
 "A valuable acquaintance for a young lady !" 
 said she. 
 
 " He is your acquaintance, not mine ; but he 
 gave me the message." 
 
 " The mystery grows deeper, "returned Alice, 
 slowly ; but now a tremor ran through the 
 scornful voice, and Milly caught it, and was so 
 unwomanly in her passion that she rejoiced in 
 having at last pierced the haughty woman's ar 
 mor. 
 
 "Would you like me to explain? Are you 
 as anxious as you were a moment since ?" 
 
 "Whenever you can sufficiently come down 
 from histrionics to do so rationally," answered 
 Alice, clutching desperately at the self-control 
 which threatened to escape her. 
 
 "I fancy I can at least make myself intelli 
 gible," sneered this transformed Milly, who 
 might have been startled to see the passion- 
 lined face with which she confronted her ene 
 my. 
 
 "It would be somewhat more interesting than 
 this theatrical display, though I do full justice 
 to your dramatic talent," said Alice. 
 
 " You shall have your way, then " 
 
 "Oh yes! by all means the message," in 
 terrupted Mrs. Marchmont, while her heart 
 beat almost to suffocation at the idea that 
 any hint of her story had come into the pos 
 session of this girl, who had unexpectedly 
 changed from childish thoughtlessness into a 
 woman's implacability. " Very good-of you 
 to take so much trouble for a person you seem 
 to hate so energetically," she continued, trying 
 for any careless words which should give her an 
 instant's breathing space to call up her strength 
 before this blow, whatever it might be, should 
 strike her. 
 
 " I did not seek the office it was forced upon 
 me. I had no desire to occupy myself with 
 you or your secrets." 
 
 "Secrets now! Why, you talk like an as 
 trologer. Are you sure you have not dreamed 
 the whole matter ?" 
 
 "You shall judge of that for yourself." 
 
 ' ' Oh, I don't believe you will ever give me 
 the opportunity ! I have been trying to urge 
 the oracle into speech for the last five minutes," 
 said Alice. 
 
 "Mr. Faulkner bids you remember that the 
 Ides of March have come, but not gone," re 
 turned Milly, slowly. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont stood motionless : not a 
 muscle quivered ; her eyes never .wandered 
 from Milly's face; despair and agony worse 
 than death tore at her soul, but she was pre 
 pared ; and there was no show of emotion, save 
 the hard ring of her voice, as she said, 
 
 "Was' that all?" 
 
 "All I was to tell you," replied Milly. 
 "Enough, too, I fancy." 
 
 "We shall see that later," Alice said. "You 
 must have seen Mr. Faulkner in one of his fits 
 of intoxication a singular time for a young 
 lady to converse with him ; certainly, it was not 
 in your aunt's presence." 
 
 "You want to find out if any body else 
 knows. There does not. I don't want to talk 
 to you any more." 
 
 She turned abruptly away, and Mrs. March 
 mont passed into the dressing-room, closing 
 the door behind her. As Milly sank into a 
 seat, she heard Halford's voice saying, 
 
 "I have looked for you everywhere ! Your 
 aunt's head ached so fearfully that she has gone 
 home, leaving you to the care of Mrs. Ramsay. 
 May I come in ? Are you vexed yet ?" 
 
 She was standing in the centre of the room 
 before he finished speaking. She said, in a 
 husky tone, 
 
 " Come in yes, I want you ! I have some 
 thing to say, and you must hear me. I set you 
 free. You are a bad, false man, and from this 
 night I will never speak to you again !" 
 
 "Milly !" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Don't call me by that name. Don't let 
 me hear it again." 
 
 "What ails you?" he asked. "Are you 
 mad, child?" 
 
 "Yes child!" she repeated, with such bit 
 terness that all the suffering of the past weeks 
 seemed to burst out in the tone. " That is 
 what you thought me a child !" 
 
 He caught her hands, and held them fast in 
 spite of 'her struggles. 
 
 "Don't look so," he said ; " be quiet, Milly ! 
 What is the matter?" 
 
 "Let me go don't touch me don't come 
 near me !" 
 
 He was so startled by her emotion, and his 
 dread of its effect upon her, that there was no 
 room in his mind for anger. 
 
 " I love you," he said, roused into an ear 
 nestness which had never warmed his voice be 
 fore. "You know that I love you, dearest 
 child!" 
 
 She forced herself away from him, and lean 
 ed against a table, panting for breath. 
 
 "You loved me as you would a child," she 
 said ; " and I tell you I am a woman strong to 
 love, strong to hate, and I hate you ; hate you 
 with a force my love never had ; hate you for 
 the knowledge you have brought to me ; hate 
 you for the woman's experience which has taken 
 away my youth ; hate you for what you are for 
 what you have made me !" 
 
 "Milly, Milly !" he could only exclaim, stun 
 ned by this passionate utterance, this outburst
 
 JOHN WOKTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 149 
 
 of fiery strength from the creature who had 
 been his sunbeam, his blossom. 
 
 The real nature, which happiness might have 
 developed slowly into perfection, had sprung to 
 sudden maturity, warped and distorted under 
 the suffering of the past weeks, and the mad 
 ness of the past hour. Milly's childish inno 
 cence, Milly's May-day were gone forever. 
 
 "What has changed you like this?" he de 
 manded. "What has happened ? Tell me 
 explain." 
 
 "Explain?" she repeated. "I was here in 
 this room. I saw and heard you." 
 
 "You are wrong," he said. "I see what 
 you think ; but you are mistaken. I love you, 
 Milly, I love you!" 
 
 " You don't love me you don't know me ! 
 If you ever cared, it was because you thought 
 me a child. I am a woman, and a bitter one !" 
 
 Her passion revolted him. He began to grow 
 angry. 
 
 " You act like a crazy creature," he said. 
 "Speak sensibly; explain what you want." 
 
 " Go out of this room," she answered, " and 
 as you go, remember that you pass out of my 
 life forever. Go!" 
 
 His mood changed, his anger subsided. 
 There was a depth, a fearful reality in her 
 manner and words which he had not at first 
 comprehended. He could not lose her like 
 this. There was a revelation of character he 
 had little expected. Could this bitter, unyield 
 ing woman be the child whom he had played 
 with and sought to punish into obedience ? 
 
 " Only listen to me, Milly !" 
 
 "There is no need ; I tell you I saw and 
 heard." 
 
 " But you are mistaken. Let me explain " 
 
 "Oh, stop !" she interrupted, with a gesture 
 of absolute abhorrence. " There has been false 
 hood enough, deceit enough ! I don't know 
 why you trifled with me, out of your pitiful 
 man's vanity ; but don't attempt it any more." 
 
 " How can you venture to accuse me of false 
 hood ?" he asked. " By what right do you sus 
 pect me of treachery? I tell you that what 
 you saw and heard can be easily explained." 
 
 " I want no explanation. I will hear none." 
 
 "Then you are madder than I thought." 
 
 " Not mad now ; coming to my senses. I 
 have been mad. Oh, I don't care for to-night 
 that was only the proof! But these weeks 
 of wretchedness the misery you have made 
 me endure ! I don't forgive these. I never 
 will!" 
 
 " And have I had nothing to endure, Milly ?" 
 he asked, controlling himself from the very sight 
 of her agitation. " Have I had nothing to com 
 plain of?" 
 
 " Nothing," she retorted ; " nothing." 
 
 "Do you call your caprices, your ill-temper 
 nothing ?" 
 
 "There has been only what you brought on 
 us both. You goaded me into my caprices and 
 ill-temper." 
 
 Had she been jealous from the first of Alice 
 
 Marchmont ? Jealous, and concealed it as long 
 as possible, so that her annoying ways, her per 
 versity, had been outbursts from that silent well 
 of trouble, instead, as he had fancied, a pre 
 text to indulge her willfulness. His temper was 
 naturally hasty, but he had much more self-con 
 trol than Milly, and these thoughts enabled him 
 to reason and plead with her. 
 
 "Perhaps I have been wrong," he said ; "but 
 it was unintentional. I beg you to believe that." 
 
 These were words which Kenneth Halford 
 had never expected to speak to his blossom, a 
 concession which might have led to good re 
 sults had it come earlier ; for it meant a good 
 deal, when one considered his character and 
 the patronizing nature of his affection for Mil 
 ly. But it was too late. At this moment the 
 avowal seemed a fresh insult. 
 
 "If I have been wrong," she answered, "I 
 am not sorry ! If I have made you feel, I am 
 glad. It was very little I could do to repay 
 the suffering you brought upon me." 
 
 " Why were you silent, why " 
 
 "You deceived me from the first." 
 
 " Say what you will, Milly, you know I loved 
 you." 
 
 "Admitting that you did, it was as a child 
 a baby. I tell you again that is what I can 
 not pardon. You see your mistake now. I am 
 no child, but a woman. You must know that 
 you can not care for me." 
 
 " I do, Milly indeed, I do !" 
 
 "To say that with your kiss warm on that 
 woman's hand your old love. Oh, she is fit 
 to be ! I tell you that your affection is an in 
 sult to a good, honorable girl. I will never 
 hear of it again." 
 
 "This is too much!" he said. "No man 
 could be expected to endure such language, 
 such unwomanly taunts." 
 
 " If I am unwomanly, it is your fault. You 
 are to blame for every thing every thing!" 
 
 Milly was thinking as she spoke of that din 
 ner at Paul Andrews's house, divided between 
 shame and a desire to fling the story down 
 upon him, to prove that she could be as reckless 
 as he, and cared as little for consequences when 
 thus driven out of herself. 
 
 Just then Adelaide Rarnsay came into the 
 room. Seeing them both so visibly agitated, 
 she hurried forward, saying, 
 
 " I don't wonder you are furious, Mr. Hal- 
 ford. I never heard of any thing so atrocious 
 in my life ! Many a man would break with her 
 outright, and nobody could blame him. What 
 mamma will say, I can't imagine. You may 
 thank your stars, Miss Milly, that she has gone 
 home with a headache." 
 
 The pair gazed at her while she poured forth 
 this harangue with wonderful rapidity, gazed, 
 divided between surprise and indignation. 
 
 " You needn't look like that, Milly," pursued 
 Adelaide. " I am your cousin, and have a right 
 to speak. The pity is that you were always too 
 headstrong to listen to me as you ought." 
 
 "If Miss Milly is as much at a loss as I am
 
 150 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 to discover Mrs. Ramsay's meaning, she must 
 be puzzled, indeed," said Halford, with his most 
 magnificently freezing air. 
 
 " Oh, that won't do for me ! It may answer 
 for the world ; but with me !" cried Adelaide, 
 shaking her head until the flowers and butter 
 flies and hows and false hair and miracles of 
 all sorts which crowned her apex threatened 
 to desert her utterly. "And I side with you, 
 Mr. Halford. I promise you that entirely." 
 
 Halford looked at her, more and more mys 
 tified ; but Milly understood now to what her 
 cousin alluded. The story of the dinner had 
 already spread abroad, and she supposed they 
 were quarreling over Milly's escapade. 
 
 "Go away, Adelaide," Milly said ; "I don't 
 want you here. We were not talking of what 
 you thought. Go away." 
 
 " I know you were talking of it," she replied, 
 "and can see that Mr. Halford is furious, and 
 so will mamma be, and I shall tell her and 
 the things people will say ! " 
 
 " Tell what you like and whom you like," 
 said Milly, with a haughty gesture of dismissal 
 which Adelaide did not regard. 
 
 "You are bold enough about it ! To go to 
 a dinner at Paul Andrews's house good heav 
 ens ! Indeed I shall tell mamma ! Why, you 
 will be ruined if it gets out !" 
 
 Kenneth Halford had been sufficiently agi 
 tated before, but now he turned pale as death. 
 He never looked at Milly ; he evinced no sign 
 of anger ; he only said to Adelaide, in a low, 
 quiet voice, 
 
 " We were not speaking of that affair. Mrs. 
 Ramsay will confer a great favor on me by not 
 mentioning it either to her mother or any one 
 else." 
 
 Mistress Adelaide sailed out of the room in 
 a towering passion with them both, but feeling 
 very uncomfortable under Halford's open con 
 tempt, and conscious that her spite against 
 Milly had led her into an exceedingly rude 
 action. Whatever her sentiments might be, or 
 her behavior among her relations, before the 
 world in general she liked to appear a lady. 
 She was gone, and Halford turned on Milly. 
 
 " You went to Paul Andrews's dinner ?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied, defiantly. "Where I 
 go or what I do is no affair of yours, Mr. Hal- 
 ford. I have already told you so." 
 
 " No wonder Mrs. Ramsay was beside her 
 self," he said, ignoring the latter part of her 
 speech. " To go to that man's house " 
 
 "And that I went was your fault, too," in 
 terrupted Milly. ' ' You would not even answer 
 my note. I was not worth so much attention. 
 You could not spare the time from that woman." 
 
 "What note?" 
 
 "The one I wrote you yesterday ; probably 
 you have forgotten." 
 
 "1 received no note from you yesterday, 
 Milly." 
 
 Milly laughed her unbelief of the assertion. 
 Oh, such a bitter, harsh laugh to hear from lips 
 so young as hers ! 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Milly." 
 
 "You did not even have an appointment 
 with Mrs. Marchmont ?" sneered Milly. 
 
 "I was out on horseback and met her; I 
 rode home with her. I had no note from you." 
 
 He began reproaches for her rashness in go 
 ing to the dinner ; Milly replied with renewed 
 anger and scorn, and so they went on until 
 words passed between them which could not 
 be forgotten or forgiven. Milly upbraided him 
 with having made a secret of his former en 
 gagement, broke their own so decidedly that 
 there was nothing for him but to submit. At 
 last she cried out, 
 
 " Go away go ! I hate and loathe you more 
 than ever ! You are perjured every way!" 
 
 Kenneth Halford flung back some last angry 
 words, and went from her. 
 
 Milly dared not stand there, dared not think ; 
 all her energies were bent in an insane deter 
 mination to hide what she suffered. Down 
 into the ball-room she hastened; some one 
 asked her to dance. She was whirling through 
 a waltz, she was laughing and talking as wildly 
 as Mrs. Marchmont herself, her eyes were blaz 
 ing, her cheeks scarlet ; those who knew her 
 best looked on in wonder ; men crowded about. 
 She was a new creature, and they could only 
 marvel at the change. 
 
 Adelaide tormented her to go, threatened 
 to leave her ; but Milly never heeded. It was 
 almost daybreak when she consented to leave, 
 laughing and coquetting to the very door with 
 the men who hovered about her. Then forth 
 from the last ball of the season Milly Crofton 
 passed, leaving her youth behind forever. 
 
 The latest sight she beheld was Halford bend 
 ing over her foe the latest sound she remem 
 bered hearing, that woman's mocking voice ! 
 
 She was at home. As she reached her 
 aunt's door, Mrs. Remsen came out in her 
 dressing-gown, demanding the reason of her 
 late return; but Milly would not speak she 
 could not. She rushed on to her chamber, 
 tore off her cloak, then her overstrained nerves 
 gave way, and at length a merciful insensibil 
 ity put an end to her sufferings for the time. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE MOKNING AFTER. 
 
 MILLY must have lain a long time on the 
 floor in a swoon, for when she came to her 
 self the daylight was streaming broad and full 
 through the curtains ; the fire had died out en 
 tirely, and she was so chilled and weak that at 
 first she could neither rise nor comprehend what 
 had happened. 
 
 Then all came slowly back the terrible mem 
 ory of the past night! Milly dragged herself 
 to her bed, and lay down lay there for hours 
 not sleeping, not even thinking connectedly a 
 wild whirl in her brain ; but with the stern un- 
 forgivingness strong in her mind. At last she
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 151 
 
 heard some one knocking at her door. It was 
 a servant, sent by Mrs. Kemsen to know if she 
 was coming down. Milly began to realize that 
 life must go on again. She could not remain 
 there in her solitary anguish ; she must go forth 
 and meet her aunt, give explanations of all that 
 had happened, listen to blame and reproaches, 
 and live and act like other ordinary mortals. 
 She threw off her crushed ball-dress and man 
 aged to get into a morning-gown, but did not 
 leave her chamber. 
 
 Then Mrs. Remsen came up ; she was very 
 angry at Milly's staying so long behind her at 
 the ball ; had been frightened by her appearance 
 when she ran past her on her return ; still more 
 angry and alarmed as she thought the matter 
 over and became convinced that something very 
 strange and unpleasant had occurred. Up stairs 
 she marched, and knocked loudly at Milly's 
 door ; but there was no response. 
 
 " Open the door, Milly !" she exclaimed. " I 
 insist on coining in." 
 
 Milly hesitated a little, then allowed her aunt 
 to enter. As well now as ever, she said to her 
 self. The scene and the contest must come ; 
 let her get them over, and be done. She did 
 not notice her aunt's look of astonishment, list 
 ened passively while she broke into a torrent 
 of exclamations and inquiries, and insisted upon 
 an explanation of this mysterious conduct. 
 Milly sat down, calm from the exhaustion which 
 follows such fearful excitement, but so deter 
 mined that her aunt's anger had slight place in 
 her thoughts. 
 
 "Are you ill, Milly ?" 
 
 "No," returned Milly, wearily. 
 
 It was such an effort to speak ! If she could 
 only be left quite alone ; not compelled to see 
 the face of any human being ; allowed to wear 
 out in utter solitude the first hours of the an 
 guish which had come upon her! 
 
 " You look dreadfully ill," pursued Mrs. Rem 
 sen ; " you are white as a ghost, and your eyes 
 look as if you had not closed them during the 
 night.". 
 
 There was no need of answer. Milly sat 
 dumb. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen's anxiety at her appearance 
 was merged in curiosity to know what had hap 
 pened, and a sudden dread that by some folly 
 Milly had endangered her whole future. 
 
 "If you are not ill," she said, with no great 
 amount of tenderness in her voice, " will you 
 tell me what is the matter ?" 
 
 "I am very tired, aunt," replied Milly, reso 
 lutely. "I wish you would not make me talk 
 this morning." 
 
 "This is too ridiculous!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Remsen, beginning to feel very indignant. "I 
 insist upon an explanation. Milly, what has 
 happened to you ?" 
 
 She was silent. How .could she put her mis- 
 cry into language to that woman standing so 
 coldly before her ? How could she cry out that 
 her heart was broken? The whole world, the 
 beautiful world where she had been wandering, 
 
 laid in ruins at her feet, with every sweet hope, 
 every youthful joy crushed tinder them ! 
 
 " Will you tell, now ?" urged her aunt. 
 
 Milly tried to speak. There was a suffoca 
 ting sensation in her throat which kept the 
 words back ; the only sound she could make 
 would be a groan ; and, even in that early stage 
 of her trouble, Milly had strength of soul enough 
 to be determined on hiding the full depth of 
 her suffering. 
 
 "Have you quarreled with Kenneth Hal- 
 ford ?" asked her aunt. " I suppose that is the 
 trouble I thought so last night. You are a 
 very foolish girl ; but there is one consolation, 
 lover's quarrels are easily remedied." 
 
 She spoke lightly, forcing herself to believe 
 that Milly's pain was only caused by youthful 
 exaggeration of some very trifling difficulty, 
 which would be set at rest before the day 
 ended. 
 
 "Just tell me what you quarreled about; 
 for you did quarrel with Mr. Halford, didn't 
 you ?" she continued. " It seems very dreadful 
 to you, I have no doubt ; but you may be quite 
 sure that a few words will set matters straight, 
 and you will be even happier than before." 
 
 " Set matters straight! Be happier than be 
 fore ! " Milly could have repeated the assur 
 ance in an insane shriek. There she sat, strug 
 gling with her trouble a trouble that had trans 
 formed her suddenly from girl to woman, and 
 must blast her whole youth ; and this worldly- 
 minded aunt, unable to see the change in her, 
 stood talking as if she were still a child, to be 
 coaxed and fondled back to good behavior. 
 
 Milly heard her aunt's voice again, but it 
 sounded faint and as if it came from a great 
 distance. The very objects about the room, 
 so familiar and treasured, looked strange to 
 her, as if the whole aspect of the apartment 
 had altered during the night. 
 
 " Now tell me all about it, Milly, like a dear, 
 good girl," Mrs. Remsen was saying. "I prom 
 ise that every thing shall be set right. You 
 shall not be called upon to make concessions 
 or do any of those things girls think so very 
 humiliating; every thing shall be arranged. 
 Only tell me." 
 
 Milly did not speak ; the idea of putting her 
 misery into words was a new torture, and it 
 would be still worse to tell the story of her 
 lover's treachery, to describe the scene she 
 had witnessed, to go over the gradual growth 
 of her doubts till they had culminated the pre 
 vious night. And her aunt would spare her 
 nothing ; Milly was sure of that. She would 
 insist on a full and explicit account, regardless 
 of the girl's pain ; so Milly sat there silent, not 
 stubborn, but because it was so hard to begin 
 the sickening tale. 
 
 "Now, don't be obstinate, Milly; it is only 
 foolish, and I give you the credit of not being 
 like girls in general. What did you and Mr. 
 Halford quarrel about ? Don't say you have 
 not quarreled, for I am sure of it." 
 
 She seated herself beside Milly on her sofa,
 
 152 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 and remembering all that depended upon this 
 marriage, not only for Milly, but herself, she 
 grew more gentle in her desire to bring her 
 niece into a conciliatory frame of mind ; but 
 Milly shrank from her, could not bear her 
 touch, nor any one near her just then, and she 
 turned away. 
 
 "I declare, Milly, one would think you were 
 acting a play !" said her aunt, growing angry 
 again. " I don't suppose you have been struck 
 dumb or are quite out of your senses. I beg 
 you will not be ridiculous." 
 
 These words did Milly good ; they gave her 
 strength. No, her suffering must not be made 
 despicable. She would be like herself, or, if 
 not that, perfectly calm. Let her aunt ques 
 tion ; each inquiry was like pressing a hot iron 
 upon her wounds ; but she must grow accus 
 tomed to endurance. If the story must be told, 
 as well now as ever. So when her aunt said 
 again, 
 
 " Will you tell me what is the matter be 
 tween you and Mr. Halford ?" 
 
 She answered in a sharp, strained voice, 
 
 " I shall not marry Mr. Halford. I have 
 told him this ; I no longer love him." 
 
 She closed her lips firmly, and sat looking 
 in her aunt's face, utterly indifferent to the in 
 credulity and wrath which she read there. 
 
 "Not marry Kenneth Halford?" cried Mrs. 
 Remsen. "Oh, you must have gone mad- 
 quite mad !" 
 
 " I am not mad, Aunt Remsen," returned 
 Milly. "I know very well what I am saying: 
 I shall not marry Mr. Halford." 
 
 "And you have told him so?" 
 
 "I have told him so." Still in the same 
 quiet voice. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen leaned back aghast : the affair 
 began to appear more serious than she had ex 
 pected; still she could not believe that the dif 
 ficulty was beyond remedy. Of course Milly's 
 declaration went for nothing. Young women 
 frequently made such resolves, when angry, for 
 the express purpose of being teased into break 
 ing them. Mrs. Remsen would be cool. - She 
 had an idea that Milly could be abominably 
 obstinate, if thoroughly aroused ; she would be 
 cool. She must get to the bottom of the mat 
 ter without delay. 
 
 "At least, you can give some reason for this 
 extraordinary determination, I suppose ?" 
 
 If it were possible Milly's white face grew 
 whiter when her aunt's question obliged her to 
 think of the reason she must give for her con 
 duct : the words she had heard Kenneth Hal- 
 ford speak to Mrs. Marchmont the words 
 the kiss upon her hand ! 
 
 Mrs. Remsen looked at her in amazement. 
 She knew that it was not in Milly's nature to 
 betray deep feeling easily. She had no girlish 
 fondness of moaning for the edification of her 
 friends on every plausible occasion, and wear 
 ing her sorrows painted upon her countenance. 
 This made her aunt wonder; unable to under 
 stand the mingled storm of pain and indignant 
 
 scorn which swept across her features while she 
 recalled the scene of the previous evening as it 
 was impressed upon her excited mind. 
 
 " Don't look like that, Milly !" Mrs. Rcmsen 
 exclaimed, not knowing in the least what to 
 think of the girl in this new phase of character. 
 It was not in her disposition to open her arms 
 and bid her niece come and rest therein like a 
 stricken deer. Moreover, she felt instinctive 
 ly that Milly would have preferred the coolest 
 contempt to such an effusion of pity and ten 
 derness. 
 
 " What horrible thing can Kenneth Halford 
 have done that you should look like this ?" 
 
 "He has done what I never can never will 
 forgive ! If I believed my heart weak enough 
 to pardon him and receive him again, I would 
 tear it from my bosom with my own hands !" 
 
 Could this be Milly, uttering these wild 
 threats with such passion ? No wonder Mrs. 
 Remsen asked herself this question, as Kenneth 
 Halford had done on the preceding night. If 
 it was Milly, it certainly was not the same crea 
 ture who had been treated as a child, supposed 
 to have no thoughts or feelings beyond those 
 common to girls of her age not the Milly who, 
 a month ago, just one little month, had been so 
 loving, so confiding, with her heart so full of 
 sunshine, her eyes so glad with content. No, 
 never that Milly any more. She was gone 
 dead in this sudden wreck of hope and trust. 
 The creature who had taken her place was a 
 woman, bitter, and even defiant, with a knowl 
 edge of evil forced upon her of which the oth 
 er Milly had been entirely innocent. 
 
 A perception of this change came over Mrs. 
 Remsen's mind. She began to see with what 
 and whom she had to deal. There must be 
 something very black at the bottom of all this ; 
 but it should be cleared up, set right. Fortune, 
 position, a successful future could not be flung 
 aside for any reason that the heart alone might 
 dictate. The bare possibility of a disaster and 
 failure roused Mrs. Remsen to extreme anger. 
 
 "You certainly are crazy, Milly, " she said. 
 "This is some fancy you have taken, some 
 wild fit of anger at a small offense " 
 
 "Fancy!" interrupted Milly, while two scar 
 let spots began to blaze in the whiteness of her 
 cheeks. "You will have me speak, you will 
 make me put my shame into words shame for 
 one of my age to have the knowledge of sin 
 forced upon her!" 
 
 " What, for Heaven's sake ? He could have 
 done nothing so terrible as your words would 
 imply ! You don't know what you are saying, 
 you can't know." 
 
 " If you had seen your husband bending over 
 another woman, kissing her, speaking words of 
 love in her ear, would you have known what 
 it meant?" cried Mill}-, in a sharp, frightened 
 tone. "Let me alone, aunt ; don't ask me 
 questions I shall not answer. It is bad enough 
 to know this without being forced to put it into 
 words. Let me alone, I say." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen turned away, utterly bcwil-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 153 
 
 dcred. She could not trust herself to speak 
 for the moment. She was sorry for Milly, but 
 furious with her, with Halford, every one, be 
 cause this sudden barrier had come between 
 her and the fulfillment of her wishes. 
 
 " It is that Mrs. Marchmont!" she exclaim 
 ed, wrathfully, after a long silence which Milly 
 could not break. 
 
 "You see!" exclaimed Milly. "You had 
 noticed ; you knew that he loved her ; you 
 knew " 
 
 "I knew nothing of the kind," retorted her 
 aunt; "I don't believe it now. She is an 
 abominable flirt, and the best of men will hu 
 mor such a woman." 
 
 " Humor !" repeated Milly. 
 
 " Yes," continued Mrs. Rcrnsen; "it's their 
 way, I suppose, because she is so beautiful. I 
 don't pretend to defend the thing, but all men 
 will do it. I have no idea that there was any 
 thing wrong in what you saw or heard just 
 ridiculous gallantry and coquetry. The truth 
 is, you have been behaving as badly as possible 
 to Mr. Halford for several weeks. You were 
 jealous of Alice Marchmont all the time, and 
 I was sure of it. If you had but spoken one 
 word to him, it might all have been set right." 
 
 " Would you have had me beg and implore 
 him to be true?" cried Milly. "Am I a dog 
 to be petted when he chooses, and sent into a 
 corner when he grows weary of me? Oh, 
 Aunt Remsen, you don't know me ! I am no 
 longer a child ; I am indeed a woman, to feel 
 with all a woman's passion, and hate with all 
 her strength." 
 
 This was a new sort of talk in Mrs. Remsen's 
 experience of young ladies ; and she was at a 
 loss what to do or how to receive it. She did 
 what most women would have done under these 
 aggravating circumstances grew more angry, 
 and commenced the detail of her own personal 
 wrongs and injuries arising out of the affair. 
 
 "After all the pains I have taken," she said, 
 " to be treated in this way ! I have been a 
 good mother to you, Milly ; I have brought 
 you up with every care, kept Maud out of so 
 ciety on your account, and now you behave in 
 this unlieard-of manner." 
 
 "Would you have me marry him ?" demand 
 ed Milly, with a flash of indignation in her eyes. 
 
 "Girls can't break engagements with impu 
 nity," urged Mrs. Remsen, evasively. 
 
 " If I had been his wife, I would have left 
 him, "said Milly. "There are many things I 
 could bear patiently neglect or ill-treatment ; 
 but when one whom I have loved shows me 
 that I have deceived myself, that his heart is 
 not mine, there is no power strong enough to 
 keep me with him my love is dead." 
 
 "There are other things to be thought of 
 in marriage besides love," returned Mrs. Rem 
 sen. 
 
 "I know you believe so; I told you in the 
 beginning, aunt, that I did not care for other 
 considerations. You laughed at me, and 
 thought it a girlish folly; but I meant it. 
 
 If I marry a man, I must respect and love 
 him. Since my engagement I have seen all 
 these things still more clearly. I do not love 
 Mr. Halford ; I do not respect him ; I consider 
 him false and despicable ! I can not marry 
 him I will not!" 
 
 "What am I to do? I can't give you an 
 other such winter. I am embarrassed as it is ; 
 and, after all, you are not my daughter, though 
 I have been so fond of you. Oh, you mad, 
 crazy girl ! " 
 
 "I don't care to go again into society, aunt. 
 I will help you all I can. Send away the gov 
 erness. I'll teach the children ; I'll sew ; I'll 
 do any thing any thing!" 
 
 "Do be sensible, then, and look at matters 
 in the usual way," replied Mrs. Remsen, not 
 yet despairing of bringing her niece to reason, 
 or, more strictly speaking, unable to cease ur 
 ging her arguments, even after they were thor 
 oughly exhausted. "I don't at all understand 
 the affair yet ; no one could, I should think. 
 Do pray explain " 
 
 "Have a little mercy, Aunt Eliza! Can't 
 you see how you hurt me ?" 
 
 "It's very well to have such sensitive feel 
 ings," cried Mrs. Remsen, anger getting the 
 upper hand again ; " but they are more nat 
 ural in a novel than in real life. I'd rather 
 see a young lady show docility and obedience, 
 be a little more ready to rely upon the advice 
 of friends, than turn like a serpent to sting the 
 bosom that has warmed her." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was slightly indulging in high 
 tragedy, too ; but as hers sprang from disap 
 pointed worldliness, it was rather ridiculous ; 
 while Milly's, however exaggerated, had the 
 dignity which only real suffering gives to such 
 expressions. 
 
 "I've no wish to make you unhappy, Aunt 
 Remsen," she said. "I am very grateful to 
 you for your goodness ; but don't reproach me 
 for what is no fault of mine." 
 
 "It is your fault, I tell you, Milly ! For a 
 long time you have irritated Kenneth Halford 
 in every way " 
 
 " He tortured me," broke in Milly, roused to 
 passionate self - exculpation ; "he stung and 
 wronged me; he followed that woman about, 
 and left me." 
 
 "Did you expect to keep him fastened to 
 your chatelaine like a gold breloque?" asked 
 Mrs. Remsen, sarcastically, interrupting in her 
 turn, as even ladies will when excited. 
 
 " I expected him to love me as he had prom 
 ised," answered Mill}-, resolutely. "I expected 
 him to keep his vow in deed and in thought. 
 As well be actually false to me as allow his 
 mind to stray." 
 
 " You are absurdly and insanely jealous," 
 said her aunt. "That is exactly what ails 
 you." 
 
 "Not now," replied Milly, bitterly. "One 
 must love to be jealous, and Kenneth Halford 
 has killed my love with that one blow." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen fairly ground her teeth. I am
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 sure she must have regretted not being a man ; 
 a little hearty plain-talk would have been such 
 a relief, and a sort of safeguard against break 
 ing a blood-vessel, which she really thought she 
 must do. 
 
 " I don't believe," she almost shrieked ; " no, 
 I don't believe out of a mad-house so crazy a 
 creature was ever seen ! I thought you had 
 common sense, and here you show yourself the 
 most doleful fool that ever worried a woman's 
 life out. I'd like to put a straight-jacket on 
 you, and send you up to Bloomingdale ! I 
 would, indeed. I verily believe it would be 
 the proper place for you." 
 
 "Send me, if you like, Aunt Eliza; I'll go 
 there or anywhere you please." 
 
 "Now, don't play the martyr," groaned Mrs. 
 Remsen. "For Heaven's sake, don't add that 
 to all the rest, unless you wish to make me as 
 crazy as you are." 
 
 "Perhaps I had better go away," pursued 
 Milly, catching at the idea with a feeling of re 
 lief. " It might be better for all of us." 
 
 "And wherein the name of goodness would 
 you go?" 
 
 "I don't know; I think I don't care. I 
 could teach children " 
 
 "For pity's sake do be quiet ! I shall cer 
 tainly go out of my senses ! My niece a gov 
 erness ; it wouldbe a pretty story to tell, wouldn't 
 it ? Do you wish to ruin us all utterly, have 
 people call me the most cruel woman that ever 
 lived, and see Maud's prospects completely de 
 stroyed ?" 
 
 " Then what can I do, Aunt Remsen ? Only 
 suggest something that will prevent my being a 
 burden to you, and I will obey." 
 
 "There is but one thing to be done; a bat 
 could see it plainly," retorted Mrs. Remsen, as 
 if deciding upon young women's futures was 
 the ordinary occupation of the mysterious beast 
 she mentioned. 
 
 "Tell me; only tell me," begged Milly, 
 wearily. 
 
 " Let me send for Kenneth Halford, and get 
 a frank, full explanation of this affair." 
 
 "Never never!" cried Milly. "Any thing 
 but that!" 
 
 " Of course, I knew you would say so ! 
 Any thing except the only thing that can be 
 done." 
 
 "There is no explanation possible." 
 
 "Now, Milly Crofton, that is just romantic 
 nonsense, nothing more. Listen to me ! You 
 will have to live in the world, not in a novel. 
 You will have to do as other women do, put up 
 with such kind of trouble. Romance is all very 
 well, and love is all very well ; but they are 
 rank nonsense when carried too far. Neither 
 of them endures beyond five-and-twenty. When 
 a woman marries, she should look at the future. 
 As she grows old, she wants position and mon 
 ey ; without these, all the love that ever poet 
 dreamed of becomes the most utterly worthless 
 drug that it is possible to imagine." 
 
 Milly was listening, grown so quiet that Mrs. 
 
 Remsen thought her words were beginning to 
 have an effect. 
 
 " Go on," said Milly, when her aunt paused 
 for breath, speaking with a calmness that would 
 have sounded ominous had the lady been suffi 
 ciently composed to notice it. 
 
 " So I say, when a girl has found these things 
 as you did, let her take no notice if the gilding 
 wears off her romance ; let her trust to her wom 
 an's tact to keep a certain hold upon the man 
 she marries ; in short, let her take the benefits 
 Heaven offers, and not demand impossibilities." 
 
 She ceased, overcome by her own eloquence, 
 and Milly, looking intently in her face, asked, 
 
 "You think I have no reason to feel hurt 
 and outraged ?" 
 
 "I don't say that; it's aggravating to see 
 one's lover devoted to another woman ; but 
 they will all of them do it ! I am sure Mr. 
 Halford only wanted to punish your caprices. 
 Talk quietly with him." 
 
 "No, Aunt Eliza, I can not blind myself. 
 He knew this Mrs. Marchmont long ago ; he 
 loved her ! He was pleased with my girlish- 
 ness, and engaged himself to me thoughtlessly. 
 Then this woman resumed all her old power 
 over him." 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it all !" 
 
 There was no logic in the assertion, but it 
 was the best Mrs. Remsen could do under the 
 circumstances. Flat denial was the only ground 
 left for her to take. 
 
 "Aunt Remsen, if there were no other rea 
 son, I would not marry him now that I know 
 he thought me a child ; loved me only as he 
 might some pretty plaything." 
 
 " Time enough after you are married to show 
 him that you are not," urged Mrs. Remsen. 
 
 " Oh no ; for I should only bring untold mis 
 ery on myself. I could not be patient when 
 I saw that he considered me incapable of shar 
 ing his loftiest feelings, his deepest secrets. I 
 should weary him with my anger and my im 
 portunities. Every week would separate tis 
 more widely." 
 
 Where, in Heaven's name, had this child 
 learned such arguments ? Mrs. Remsen stared 
 at her with something of the feeling a person 
 might have if a pet song-bird, that had been 
 content with its lumps of sugar and its gilded 
 cage, suddenly transformed itself into a mount 
 ain eagle, beating against the bars of its prison, 
 struggling fiercely with every thing which op 
 posed its flight, and betraying in every move 
 ment the uncontrollable spirit of its race. 
 
 "I say, "continued Milly, "that, putting all 
 else aside, this view of the case would be enough 
 to make me break my engagement." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen groaned again. 
 
 "Aunt Eliza, I have only been childish and 
 thoughtless because I was happy. My love 
 seems to have changed me entirely, and roused 
 deep feeling and keen perception that I did not 
 know I possessed. Suffering has made me so 
 much older, that it seems out of my power to go 
 back to my girlish carelessness."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 155 
 
 Mrs. Remsen sat up in her chair, and gur 
 gled in her throat in the vain effort to speak, 
 and stared aghast and helpless. 
 
 " I can remember my mother ; I know now 
 what she suffered ? She married a man older 
 than herself, who regarded her as a child, and 
 could never be made to understand that as the 
 years went on her intellect widened to the full 
 ness of his. He sought companionship among 
 women of the world, and crushed her by his 
 unrecognition of her claims, until she drooped, 
 faded, and dropped into her grave, glad to be 
 at rest." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was silent, a little awed, and 
 much softened. Her love for that sister, so 
 early dead, had been the purest, the least self 
 ish feeling of her whole life. 
 
 " I should not do that," Milly went on, her 
 voice hardening and her face growing stern ; 
 " I could not allow myself to be crushed with 
 out a struggle. In time I should surely come 
 to hate the man who, from pride and blind con 
 ceit, refused me my true place in his heart. I 
 should become capable of any act which might 
 wound and teach him that the creature he had 
 looked down upon and petted like an infant 
 was able to sting his very soul and ruin the life 
 in which he thought she made so small a part 
 a thing pleasant to have, like flowers or mu 
 sic, but, like them, to be put aside Avhenever it 
 should suit his lordly will." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was still dazed; but she must 
 say something. Her experience, her worldly 
 wisdom would not allow themselves to be com 
 pletely silenced by this strange creature that 
 Milly had come to be. 
 
 ''You should say all that to Kenneth Hal- 
 ford," she began ; but Milly went on, almost 
 without a pause. 
 
 "I say it to him! If he could not see it, 
 better to part. Since he loved only a child, it 
 was not I whom he loved, for I am one no 
 longer. He wanted a plaything ; he must look 
 elsewhere. Let him buy one with his wealth 
 and position. My heart is beyond his pur 
 chase." 
 
 " I tell you, Milly, these feelings will pass 
 out of his mind," urged her aunt ; " he will 
 love and respect you after this." 
 
 "You forget the rest," replied Milly ; " or, 
 rather, you will not remember ; but I can not 
 forget ! He has put a gulf between my heart 
 and his that he could never cross." 
 
 " Your jealousy again." 
 
 " Call it what you please." 
 
 " Just follies that torment you." 
 
 " Think so, if you will, you can not persuade 
 me. I saw them together I heard his words. 
 I can not go over all these things again. It 
 would be of no use." 
 
 She began to tremble again, and leaned weari 
 ly back in her seat ; she had not tasted food 
 that day, and after her long fainting fit and ter 
 rible excitement she was thoroughly exhaust 
 ed. It was more plainly visible now, in contrast 
 to her recent passion and firmness. 
 
 " You are ill, Milly. Oh, you will kill your 
 self!" 
 
 Milly shook her head. 
 
 "No, Aunt Remsen ; people can't die so eas 
 ily. I used to think a great trouble would kill 
 suddenly ; but now I believe it must take years 
 and years, when one is so young and strong as I." 
 
 She looked too pale and haggard, now that 
 the color which excitement had brought to her 
 face began to die out, to be scolded much more. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen sat puzzling her brain as to 
 what could possibly be suggested further as at 
 all likely to have influence upon the girl ; but 
 she could only go over the old arguments dress 
 ed in a little different fashion, and they proved 
 as ineffective as before. At last Milly cried 
 out, in a voice which fairly frightened her, 
 
 " Let me alone, Aunt Remsen ; let me alone, 
 I beg !" 
 
 And there was no opportunity to scold or ar 
 gue more just then, for, as she spoke, Milly 
 fainted entirely away. Mrs. Remsen was a 
 sensible woman, so, instead of shrieking for 
 help, she managed to lift her to the bed, and 
 worked over her until she recovered conscious 
 ness again. Mrs. Remsen had a horror of 
 scenes, thought them positively vulgar. Peo 
 ple who have no great degree of feeling are 
 much given to that opinion. Any thing which 
 thoroughly arouses them from their selfish com 
 fort is so tiresome and mauvais genre. 
 
 But, with all her foibles, Mrs. Remsen was 
 kind-hearted, as I have said; and just then 
 her irritation and disappointment were forgot 
 ten in anxiety, and she did every thing that 
 could be of use in the gentlest and most wom 
 anly way. 
 
 Milly turned her face from the light, and 
 closed her eyes as if she were going to sleep 
 a mere artifice to induce her aunt to leave her. 
 
 "You can rest now," said Mrs. Remsen, 
 " and be quite restored when you wake ;" and 
 she kissed her, as women do kiss each other 
 touching the face to be so honored with the tip 
 of the nose and went out of the room. 
 
 Milly was so fortunate as to lie on her bed 
 all the morning unmolested, her aunt having 
 told Maud and the servants that she was ill with 
 a nervous headache, and on no account to be 
 disturbed. Maud, at least, was not likely to 
 intrude upon her, under such circumstances ; 
 for that young lady was as much out of her ele 
 ment in a sick-room as a useless creature could 
 well be. Mrs. Remsen took a little time to de 
 liberate, and then she sat down and wrote a note 
 to Kenneth Halford. 
 
 She commenced thus : 
 
 " MY DEAR FRIEND, Our little girl is quite 
 ill" 
 
 Then she hesitated. She had much wom 
 anly delicacy in her composition ; she could 
 not appeal to his sympathy by exposing Milly 's 
 weakness. She reflected a little longer, and, 
 after much trouble and many erasures, wrote 
 and dispatched the following :
 
 15G 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "DEAR MR. HALFORD, I wish you would 
 come and see me as soon as you receive this. 
 You and I are old friends, and can afford to 
 talk openly with one another ; and I am sure 
 you feel that in any thing I might say I should 
 have your happiness, and that of our fanciful 
 little Milly, very closely at heart. 
 
 " So come and talk with me, and let this 
 light cloud be swept away by our mutual en 
 deavors before it grows darker ; come, with your 
 usual kind frankness, and be certain that you 
 will find me now, as ever, your very sincere 
 friend, ELIZA REMSEN." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen felt a sense of relief when her 
 missive was gone ; at least, she had done some 
 thing, and that is always a comfort when one 
 has been at a loss. Halfbrd would at once obey 
 her summons ; of that she felt certain, and the 
 more she reflected the more confident she be 
 came that every thing would end well. Her 
 spirits returned, her distress and irritation pass 
 ed away. Several times she stole up to Milly's 
 room on tiptoe and looked in. The girl's face 
 was buried in her pillow, she seemed to be 
 sleeping quietly, and with each visit Mrs. Rem 
 sen felt her hopes revive. But only too soon 
 the final blow overthrew them utterly. As she 
 was descending from one of these expeditions 
 she met Cajsar, the man-servant, with a letter 
 in his hand. 
 
 "For madam," he said, with one of his 
 grand bows. "The individiole did not wait 
 for no answer. " 
 
 Mrs. Remsen glanced at the superscription. 
 It was in Halford's hand, and she went into the 
 little reception-room to read it. 
 
 "All will be arranged now," she thought, as 
 she tore open the envelope in haste. "I am 
 very glad I wrote." 
 
 She unfolded the note, glanced at the date, 
 and with a start and an exclamation of min 
 gled wrath and dismay, hurriedly read the con 
 tents. This was Kenneth Halford's answer : 
 
 "Steamer Laura, 12 M. 
 
 "DEAR MADAM, Your note has just been 
 brought to me ; the date above will explain my 
 hurried reply. I am leaving for South Amer 
 ica. The task of' explanation remains with 
 your niece, who last night brought our engage 
 ment so decidedly to an end that my own self- 
 respect renders it impossible to me to employ 
 any means if such were in my power to 
 change her determination. 
 
 "I wish you and yours every happiness, and 
 trust that the years which will probably elapse 
 before my return may not wear from your mind 
 all kindly recollections of 
 
 "KENNETH HALFORD." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen rend the letter twice, as if she 
 found it difficult to understand the contents, 
 crushed it in her hands as dramatically as an 
 actress could have done, and between rage and 
 disappointment came near a fainting fit herself. 
 
 " Gone to South America !" was all she could 
 utter, in a voice that would have done justice to 
 Queen Constance's famous speech, for the first 
 time conscious of her own utter helplessness. 
 He had put it beyond her power to do any thing 
 now. "Gone to South America! Two mad 
 people together, and I am to bear the conse 
 quences of their folly !" 
 
 Yes, Kenneth Halford had gone. In his 
 anger with Milly, his sorrow at having lost his 
 beautiful hope of peace, his bitterness toward 
 himself and fate, he had gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 HORTENSE'S WISDOM. 
 
 LIKE most people disappointed of their plans, 
 Mrs. Remsen had not magnanimity enough to 
 bear her mortification and Milly's conduct with 
 any degree of patience. She sat holding Ken 
 neth Halford's letter in her hand, as yet too 
 confused and angry to see her way. Before 
 she had composed her mind beyond the desire 
 to go up to Milly and overwhelm her with fresh 
 reproaches, Adelaide Ramsay hurried into the 
 room, having seized the earliest opportunity to 
 acquaint her mother with the affair of the din 
 ner-party, in spite of Halford's prohibition. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was looking so white and 
 amazed that Adelaide knew something ex 
 traordinary must have occurred ; she glanced 
 at the note in her mother's hand, recognized 
 Halford's writing, and jumped at a conclusion 
 in a flash. 
 
 "Has he broken with her?" she demanded, 
 breathlessly. " I don't blame him in the least ; 
 any man would have done the same. I only 
 wonder you have patience with her, to lose a 
 match like that ; but she deserves it all and 
 more." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen only leaned back in her chair, 
 and stared at Mrs. Ramsay without reply. It 
 was evident that people had conspired to drive 
 her out of her senses ! What was this which 
 she did not know what further mystery was at 
 the bottom of Milly's conduct and Halford's de 
 parture ? 
 
 "I don't wonder you look as if you had fall 
 en from the clouds, mamma,"pursued Adelaide. 
 "I never heard any thing so horrid in my life, 
 never ! But what does he say ? Let me see 
 his letter." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen allowed her to take the epistle, 
 and sat steadying her dizzy head upon her hand 
 while Mrs. Ramsay perused it. 
 
 " Gone to South America actually gone ! 
 Well, Miss Milly has concluded her affairs fine 
 ly! 'Leave the explanation to your niece,'" 
 she read aloud, " ' who has brought our en 
 gagement so decidedly to an end.' Oh ! that's 
 all nonsense, you know. But it's very good-na 
 tured in him to allow her the credit of breaking 
 it, I am sure ; but he really did it himself, any
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 157 
 
 man would ; and so proud as Kenneth Halford 
 has always been " 
 
 " In Heaven's name, Adelaide, tell me what 
 you are talking of?" broke in Mrs. Remsen. 
 "Milly has nearly crazed me this morning, and 
 you now seem determined to finish the work." 
 
 " What have I done, mamma ? You don't 
 expect me to take her part ! I think Halford 
 is right ; he ought to. throw her over ; she quite 
 deserved it." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," groaned 
 Mrs. Remsen. "Milly broke the engagement 
 herself, and it is the maddest thing ever a girl 
 did." 
 
 "Now, that is the sheerest nonsense," said 
 Adelaide, with her usual respectful candor. 
 " Of course, one must say so. It is the only 
 loop-hole of escape for her." 
 
 "I declare I think I shall go mad, among 
 you all," cried her mother. " Do talk connect 
 edly, Adelaide, and explain yourself." 
 
 "Why, mamma, I think your brain is turned. 
 I'm sure I spoke plainly enough. It was the 
 quarrel about the dinner that made him do it. 
 I came to tell you, but it seems Milly has al 
 ready confessed it herself." 
 
 " Dinner !" repeated Mrs. Remsen. " What 
 dinner, Adelaide ?" 
 
 " Then you don't know she didn't tell you ?" 
 
 " Tell me what ? Heavens and earth ! Ade 
 laide, what is it ?" 
 
 Mrs. Ramsay at last perceived that her news 
 had not been forestalled, and she burst forth 
 with the energy peculiar to people when able to 
 impart unpleasant tidings in regard to some one 
 whom they heartily dislike. 
 
 "Day before yesterday Milly went to a din 
 ner given at Paul Andrews's. Halford discov 
 ered it, and this has caused the trouble between 
 them." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen rose from her chair and sank 
 back in it again ; she could- only repeat in a 
 choked voice, 
 
 "A dinner-party at Paul Andrews's house!" 
 
 " Yes, mamma ; Mrs. Lawrence took her 
 there, and Milly did it on purpose to vex Hal- 
 ford, who has a mortal horror of the man. She 
 ought to be shut up in a convent ; there's noth 
 ing bad enough to do to her ! Now you un 
 derstand it all. Of course, Halford has broken 
 with her." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen's first impulse was to fly in 
 search of Milly with some undefined idea of 
 putting an end at once to that young lady; but 
 she controlled herself, and made Adelaide re 
 late such particulars as she could vouch for. It 
 was difficult to keep Mrs. Ramsay's imagination 
 down to a plain statement of facts, as she had 
 a marked talent for embroidery. She ended 
 her story with the interview she had personally 
 interrupted at the ball, in describing which she 
 was able to employ her most gorgeous colors, 
 and her mother could not demand authority. 
 
 " I always insisted to you that she was the 
 worst girl in the world ; I hope you are satis 
 fied of it now !" she added, by way of conclu 
 
 sion. " The idea of indulging her as you have, 
 of leaving her in Mrs. Lawrence's charge dur 
 ing your absence ! I thought you must be mad 
 at the time." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was not a worm to endure even 
 the slightest trampling meekly : no, even though 
 it was the most humiliating hour of her life. 
 
 "You would never see after her," she said. 
 "You are almost as much to be blamed as 
 Milly." 
 
 " There, mamma, you needn't attempt a word 
 of that sort ; I am married now, and my days 
 for being lectured are over ! I don't like Mil 
 ly ; I never did ; and I wasn't going to bother 
 myself with her. She has ruined the best chance 
 she will ever have, and I wash my hands of her 
 and her affairs. " 
 
 "What will people say?" moaned Mrs. Rem 
 sen. 
 
 " Say she deserves it," said Mrs. Ramsay, 
 viciously. 
 
 "Adelaide," urged her mother, "for all our 
 sakes we must declare that she broke the en 
 gagement. Halford's letter is proof of that." 
 
 " Oh ! say whatever you please ; I've no ob 
 jection to repeat it; but people will believe 
 what they choose. I've done ; I shall not say 
 another word against her, only I don't pity her 
 in the least." 
 
 "Pity her!" cried Mrs. Remsen. "I ought 
 to put her in a strait-jacket!" 
 
 "A very good idea, mamma. Now I must 
 leave you. Where is Maud? I want to see 
 her a moment about that worsted-work ; I sup 
 pose she has been too lazy to finish it." 
 
 She took herself and her finery out of the 
 room, dismissing all thoughts of Milly's troubles 
 in her own particular affairs, and leaving her 
 mother to her reflections. 
 
 After a few moments Mrs. Remsen rose and 
 went up stairs, determined to "have it out" 
 with Milly. But when she reached the cham 
 ber she found the girl really asleep, and look 
 ing so pale and ill that the aunt could not find 
 it in her heart to obey her first impulse and 
 waken her. She could not help being sorry 
 for the child, in spite of her anger, so she turn 
 ed away. Out of sight of Milly's worn young 
 face, her wrath returned, and a restless night 
 did not leave her in a more placable mood. 
 
 At noon the next day Milly had not appear 
 ed, and Mrs. Remsen went out to make visits 
 without having seen her. During her absence 
 she learned, to her horror, that Milly's escapade 
 was quite well known, and Halford was said to 
 have left her in consequence. There was no 
 doubt that these ill-natured reports would hurt 
 her fearfully ; and any hope of seeing her safely 
 married and out of the way grew fainter with 
 each visit in Mrs. Remsen's mind. She made 
 the best she could of the affair. To those who 
 knew of the engagement she avowed that Mil 
 ly had dissolved it, and even showed Halford's 
 letter to a favored few ; but people are not eas 
 ily led to believe that which they would rather 
 not, and the world seems often to prefer think-
 
 158 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 ing the worst. Mrs. Remsen hastened to con 
 front Mrs. Lawrence ; she must give herself 
 that small spark of satisfaction. I suppose 
 few women ever received from one of their 
 own sex a more dreadful " wigging " than that 
 rattle - brained lady caught at the hands of 
 Eliza Remsen. To make matters worse, Mrs. 
 Lawrence was as impulsively warm-hearted as 
 she was thoughtless. She had only taken Mil- 
 ly to the dinner for " the fun of the thing," and 
 was truly grieved to hear that it had been -the 
 means of bringing such trouble upon her. 
 
 " I never was so sorry," she said over and 
 over again. "If ever I can make it up to little 
 Milly, I will ; indeed I will !" 
 
 "If you will please leave her to me in future, 
 and have no further care for her, it is all I ask 
 of you," retorted Mrs. Remsen, finally. 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence was not angry; she contin 
 ued her remorseful apologies and malapropos 
 suggestions until Mrs. Remsen departed in a 
 state of subdued fury. Indeed, the kind-heart 
 ed widow went about doing battle valiantly for 
 Milly, declaring point-blank that she had never 
 been at the dinner; and when this did not an 
 swer, she averred that the child went with her, 
 not knowing whose the dinner was, and hurried 
 off as soon after she discovered the truth as 
 civility would permit. She affirmed, moreover, 
 that Halford had flirted so outrageously with 
 Alice Marchmont that Milly could no longer 
 endure it. I am bound to say that in her de 
 sire to screen her favorite she tried to blacken 
 poor Mrs. Marchmont's character unmercifully, 
 and committed numberless sins in the way of 
 untruths. She brought on a fierce enmity be 
 tween herself and Paul Andrews, and did so 
 fight like an amiable dragon, right and left, in 
 Milly's cause, that she really softened some 
 what the reports ; but Mrs. Remsen did not 
 forgive her any the more. 
 
 When people have really done one an inju 
 ry, it is only tantalizing to- find them sorry and 
 ready to atone ; one would rather they remain 
 ed stoical and indifferent, so that there should 
 be no drawback to nourishing a genuine hatred 
 and applying the objurgatory Psalms to their 
 cases when one reads the Bible. 
 
 But, while Mrs. Lawrence was going about 
 on her errand of penitence, Mrs. Remsen had 
 descended upon Milly almost as belligerent as 
 the Assyrian of old, and there was no kind an 
 gel to protect the poor, foolish child. 
 
 " I never expected to be so stunned and 
 shocked in my life never!" cried Mrs. Rem 
 sen. "I could not at first believe it; I can 
 hardly do so now ! To do a thing like that 
 a young girl ! Why, Milly Crofton, I should 
 think you would expect some horrible judg 
 ment to follow such conduct!" 
 
 "I am very sorry I went, Aunt Remsen, for 
 your sake," said Milly; "but I had suffered so 
 much, and when he neglected my note in order 
 to go out with that woman, I did not care what 
 I did. I only wanted to hurt and offend him 
 most." 
 
 " But you have hurt yourself more !" 
 
 "After all, a great many people go to Mr. 
 Andrews's dinners. Oh, I don't care what they 
 say!" said Milly, growing desperate. 
 
 "No wonder Mr. Halford broke the engage 
 ment " 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Remsen, I told you he did not ! 
 I did that myself before Adelaide came in ; he 
 knew nothing of the dinner until she told him 
 paid very little attention to it then." 
 
 "But this thing ought of itself to have made 
 you try to effect a reconciliation, for your own 
 sake." 
 
 " Never, Aunt Remsen ; not if I were actu 
 ally to be disgraced ! People must say and 
 think what they please, pity or blame me, be 
 lieve that he left me or not. I would not be 
 reconciled to this man if he came to kneel at 
 my feet and implore it." 
 
 "No more stage effects, I beg," returned 
 Mrs. Remsen. " There is no danger of your 
 ever seeing him again ; a prouder creature docs 
 not live than Kenneth Halford " 
 
 "And my pride is equal to his ; I will stoop 
 no quicker than he would." 
 
 " Milly, I will not have you talk so it is 
 abominable ! At least, you might appear sor 
 ry." 
 
 "I can not act a lie ; and my love has gone 
 out forever," said poor Milly, believing what 
 she said. " You would not have borne it any 
 more patiently than I did ; no woman could 
 have done so." 
 
 " You know very little of what women are 
 obliged to endure." 
 
 " That is when it is too late to find a reme 
 dy," replied Milly. "A wife may be forced to 
 bear such ignominy, to hold fast her heart to 
 keep it from bursting, and still smile patiently 
 before the world. I was able to break my bonds 
 and end my pain." 
 
 " You talk like an idiot !" exclaimed the ex 
 asperated Mrs. Remsen. " It is useless to say 
 more to you." 
 
 "If you will only leave me to myself, I shall 
 be so very thankful." 
 
 " That is very well, now that you have done 
 all the mischief you possibly can. If you had 
 the smallest particle of gratitude or decent feel 
 ing in your composition, you would remember 
 the trouble this brings upon me." 
 
 "I do remember, Aunt Eliza, and I am in 
 deed sorry for it ; but I can not help that 
 now." 
 
 "Such a future!" groaned her aunt. "I 
 thought you were going to be so happy ! I 
 was very fond and so proud of you ; I loved 
 you because you were so like your mother ; and 
 now that you should treat me in this way !'' 
 
 " I couldn't help it, Aunt Remsen ; indeed, 
 I couldn't help it," pleaded Milly. 
 
 " What am I to do ?" pursued Mrs. Remsen, 
 once more growing eloquent upon the subject 
 of her own personal grievances. "Maud can't 
 be kept back any longer ; it wouldn't be fair ; 
 she would never submit to it, and I can't take
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 159 
 
 you both out next year. It's quite out of the 
 question." 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Eliza, I don't wish to go any 
 where again. I have told you that, and I will 
 teach the children." 
 
 "Now, that is nonsense. You know I can 
 not let you do such a thing. You know I would 
 not ; it only sounds more foolish and ungrate 
 ful than the rest." 
 
 " I did not mean it so, indeed, Aunt Eliza," 
 said poor Milly. 
 
 "And I had hoped so much from you," Mrs. 
 Remsen quavered, not heeding Milly's words. 
 "Mr. Halford could have placed Bob in the 
 Naval School. I could have bought that house 
 I wanted on my own terms, with him in the 
 family. Oh, Milly, I think you are the most 
 atrocious girl I ever heard of!" 
 
 As she thought of her wrongs anger was up 
 permost again, and she scolded until she raised 
 a corresponding tempest in weary Milly's mind 
 at last. 
 
 " Let me go away ; send me away," she sob 
 bed. "I can not stay here. I can not bear 
 such scenes. You will kill me ! I shall go out 
 of my senses if you do not let me alone !" 
 
 Then the passion in each feminine breast 
 broke into hysterical sobs, and finally both wept 
 themselves into tolerable composure. It was 
 altogether the best thing which could have hap 
 pened ; Mrs. Reinsen could talk no more, and 
 Milly was left to weep herself to sleep the 
 only lullaby she was likely to find at present. 
 
 Of course, this conversation was only the be 
 ginning of many similar scenes, before they had 
 learned to look the matter full in the face and 
 call up a little resignation. It was well for 
 Milly that her cousins were so hard upon her, 
 as Mrs. Remsen was forced at last to defend 
 her a little ; and this fact kept matters from 
 reaching their extreme limit of endurance be 
 tween Milly and her aunt. 
 
 Maud would have been a perfect little wasp 
 if she had dared ; indeed, she never failed to 
 tease Milly when she found a safe opportunity. 
 Adelaide Ramsay " cast Milly off," as she had 
 pompously declared she should do ; but, as she 
 had always been as indifferent and cold as pos 
 sible, the additional ill- nature was not suffi 
 ciently apparent to be painful. As for Hor- 
 tense, the intellectual daughter of the family, 
 she descended sufficiently from the elevation 
 of her missions and ologies to be fearfully 
 shocked ; but her mind was so filled with the 
 sufferings of missionaries in the South Sea Isl 
 ands, and the probable appearance and tastes 
 of the inhabitants (if any such existed) of the 
 regions about the North Pole, that she could 
 not be expected to dwell upon Milly's poor lit 
 tle troubles. 
 
 She came to the house during the first ex 
 citement, saw Milly, and deluged her with wis 
 dom and advice ; but under all her learned fol 
 lies she had a more tender heart than either of 
 her sisters, and did not reproach her with so 
 much crueltv. 
 
 " It all comes of your having an undisci 
 plined mind," she said. " Oh, Milly, I told 
 you long ago that you ought to undertake a 
 course of mental philosophy, or even geology or 
 conchology, or at least something really to de 
 velop your reasoning powers." 
 
 "Never mind, Hortense," replied Milly, hon 
 estly grateful for such good-nature; "I can 
 study now." 
 
 Mrs. Maynard rushed into a long disserta 
 tion, in which she proved satisfactorily to her 
 self that the world could never revolve proper 
 ly in its orbit until women should be different 
 ly educated. Then she branched off in modest 
 praise of her own mental qualifications, reach 
 ed the fertile subject of her grand occupations, 
 and the thorough manner in which she was ful 
 filling her destiny, and ended with this climax, 
 
 " If I were you, Milly, I would be a mission 
 ary !" 
 
 Mrs. Remsen entered the room in time to 
 catch these last words, and, her patience in 
 these days being mere thread-paper, she ex 
 claimed, 
 
 " I declare, Hortense, I almost think you are 
 a greater idiot than Milly herself!" 
 
 Hortense smiled in lofty compassion. She 
 could not be ruffled, because her wisdom was 
 deemed folly by those who were too ignorant 
 or too shallow-minded to comprehend its depth. 
 
 "Mamma," she said, grandly, "you never did 
 understand me ; but I am not to blame for that. 
 You may call my life folly ; you may consider 
 the approval of such men as Professor Drivler 
 and Doctor Brazen not worth having, but I can 
 not agree with you. In his day Galileo was re 
 garded as a madman and " 
 
 "Oh, Hortense!" broke in her mother, giv 
 ing herself an exasperated shake. 
 
 " One moment, mamma, then I have done ! 
 Where was I? These constant interruptions 
 render connected thought impossible. Oh ! I 
 repeat what I said, for I did not make the as 
 sertion without due reflection ; if I were Milly, 
 I would become a missionary." 
 
 "She is about as fit for it as her white kit 
 ten is to become a bishop," returned Mrs. Rem 
 sen. "Milly has thwarted her own destiny! 
 She was meant to be rich a woman of the 
 world " 
 
 "Oh, mamma!" sighed Hortense, interrupt 
 ing in her turn, while Milly leaned back in her 
 chair and felt contemptuous of both. " Do you 
 believe there is no higher destiny than being 
 a butterfly, thinking only of dress and trivial 
 amusements, of the attractions of wealth and 
 the enervating weaknesses in which most wom 
 en pass their lives ?" 
 
 " Hortense," said her mother, "I don't mean 
 to argue. I am quite willing to admit that in 
 your case the learned and high-minded style 
 succeeded admirably. But it strikes me that, 
 in spite of your wisdom, you were not unwilling 
 to marry a rich man ; that you think as much 
 of dress as we frivolous women ; and enjoy your 
 wise dinners and stilted reunions in quite as dis-
 
 1GO 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 sipated a fashion as we do balls and operas, be 
 sides taking your fair share of them, too." 
 
 Hortense smiled benignly a smile meant to 
 express the wide difference between their con 
 duct and her habit of varying the important 
 duties of life by lighter pursuits at convenient 
 seasons. 
 
 "If Milly were like Angelone Davidson, she 
 might lecture." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen shrieked. 
 
 " Only a prejudice on your part, mamma," 
 interposed Hortense, equably. 
 
 " I beg you won't go on talking, of it, at all 
 events," shivered Mrs. Remsen. 
 
 Hortense smoothed her ruffles, smiled com 
 placently, and meditated an overflowing of elo 
 quence ; but concluded that it would not be 
 worth the trouble, considering her audience, 
 and continued, 
 
 "If it had pleased Heaven to make her a 
 woman of genius, she might write something, 
 or paint." 
 
 "It did not," said Mrs. Remsen, "and I 
 thank Heaven for it. She has given me trou 
 ble enough as it is ; goodness knows what might 
 have happened if she had been troubled with 
 soul-pinings and aspirations." 
 
 " She is, indeed, happier. The children of 
 genius suffer anguish of which the world little 
 dreams;" and Hortense sighed as if she had a 
 soul as full of poetry and pangs as Sappho her 
 self. 
 
 "There is only one thing for Milly to do," 
 said her aunt ; "let her write to Mr. Halford ; 
 let her say " 
 
 "Aunt Remsen, "interposed Milly, "it is per 
 fectly useless to go over all that again. I have 
 told you I would never do it ; I had much rath 
 er die !" 
 
 "Oh, Milly, your obstinacy will kill me!" 
 cried Mrs. Remsen. "I can not endure this 
 much longer." 
 
 " Mamma," said Hortense, assuming the at 
 titude she affected when about to get off some 
 thing particularly brilliant, " in some respects 
 Milly is right woman's dignity must be main 
 tained ! I am sorry for her in many ways ; 
 but I say frankly, suffering is good for her ; bit 
 terness is a tonic. Let Milly be brave, press 
 her thorn of .suffering to heart, go on unflinch 
 ingly, and out of the darkness and trouble will 
 come consolation and wisdom !" 
 
 Milly had a dim idea that Charlotte Bronte 
 had said the same in a better way, but she held 
 her peace. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was goaded beyond endurance, 
 and exclaimed, " If you can not do better, Hor 
 tense, than uphold Milly in her wickedness, you 
 had better be silent." 
 
 "I do not uphold her, mamma; I blame 
 her ; but I pity her, too, because I see so plain 
 ly the causes which have brought this affliction 
 upon her," continued Mrs. Maynard, waving 
 her hand in the air, as she careered, well- 
 mounted, upon her oratorical hobby. " Wom 
 en's minds are not properly developed, wom 
 
 en's souls not thoroughly roused from the cha 
 otic " 
 
 " Hortense," snapped her mother, dismount 
 ing her with cruel haste, " you may as well stop 
 talking, for I can not understand one word you're 
 saying." 
 
 Hortense sighed and frowned ominously, 
 then decided to smile again from the height of 
 her superiority, and shook out her flounces pre 
 paring to depart. 
 
 "It seems my advice can not aid you," she 
 said, with an accent of serene pity for their 
 weakness. "Professor Drivler says he would 
 rather have my opinion on certain subjects than 
 that of most of the scientific men in America; 
 but well neither you nor Milly is Professor 
 Drivler." 
 
 Milly thought of the professor's crooked nose 
 that seemed always trying to go round a corner 
 before him, and congratulated herself upon the 
 fact her cousin had stated. 
 
 "Oh, Hortense," said Mrs. Remsen, unable 
 to keep the peace ; " you are a pretty woman, 
 and you have really a fair share of brain ; but 
 your 'ologies and the flattery you receive are 
 quite turning your head, and destroying your 
 common sense." 
 
 " Mamma, Jean Paul Richter says " 
 
 "I don't at all care what he says. The 
 opinion of a musty old Dutchman isn't going 
 to help me out of my troubles." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, if we could only learn to re 
 ceive troubles aright ! The crushed grape yields 
 the wine " 
 
 " But I am not a crushed grape ; don't talk 
 nonsense." 
 
 Milly couldn't help an actual laugh. It was 
 many days since she had felt in the mood to 
 laugh. 
 
 "You may find laughing matter in this af 
 fair, but I don't," said her aunt, adopting the 
 injured tone. 
 
 "Mamma," said Hortense, "you are so 
 worldly." 
 
 "I suppose I was intended to be so, or I 
 should have been sent somewhere else to live ! 
 It is easy for you to preach not a care in the 
 world, plenty of money, and even your house 
 hold affairs troubling you no more than if such 
 things did not exist." 
 
 "Do you think my mind is to be brought 
 down to a level like that?" demanded Hor 
 tense, vehemently. "Do you suppose I would 
 fold up my talents in table-cloths, and wear 
 out my brain consulting about what I should 
 eat ?" 
 
 " Nevertheless, you seem to enjoy your good 
 dinners quite as much as any one." 
 
 "I could dine off the- simplest fare," returned 
 Hortense, " provided I had intellectual intelli 
 gences to share it." 
 
 "But you would not have them," retorted 
 her mother. " They take good care to carry 
 their intellectuality where nice dinners are to 
 be found." 
 
 Hortense held up her hands in holy horror
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 1G1 
 
 of such heretical opinions, and as she did so 
 her eye caught a new bracelet she wore. 
 
 "Isn't it pretty?" she said, extending her 
 arm toward Milly. "It was the only one in 
 that pattern that Tiffany had." 
 
 Milly thought bitterly, "They would talk of 
 themselves and their petty affairs if I was lying 
 here dead ! Hortense is kinder than the oth 
 er girls, but even she has no more heart than 
 one of her big books ; and Aunt Eliza is kill 
 ing me with her uncertain tempers one mo 
 ment pitying, the next abusing me for my in 
 gratitude." 
 
 "Adelaide will be horribly vexed," said Mrs. 
 Remsen. " She told me about the same brace 
 let yesterday, and said she had almost teased 
 Mr. Ramsay into buying it for her." 
 
 Hortense smiled complacently. In spite of 
 her lofty aims, she was woman enough thor 
 oughly to enjoy the delight of possessing a thing 
 some one else had been eager to procure. 
 
 " I think little of such trifles," she observed, 
 with superb indifference. " If I had to whee 
 dle and tease as Adelaide does to obtain them, 
 I should go without." 
 
 "Perhaps," added Mrs. Remsen, doubtfully. 
 
 "If she would only go away," thought Mil 
 ly. "I shall hate them all soon. If I were 
 only quite alone away in a Western forest, 
 where no human being could reach me!" 
 
 But the Western forest was not accessible ; 
 she was obliged to remain quiet, and receive 
 Hortense's parting words of counsel. 
 
 " You ought not to sit down idly and grieve," 
 she began ; but Milly flashed out at once. Any 
 thing like pity she could not endure. 
 
 " I am not grieving ; I have nothing to grieve 
 over. Be good enough to understand that per 
 fectly, Hortense." 
 
 "Nothing to grieve over?' 1 cried her annt. 
 " Oh, you are a wicked girl and the trouble 
 you have given me the pain and the disap 
 pointments!" 
 
 "I did not mean that, Annt Remsen ; I am 
 sure you know what I intended to say quite 
 well. I am sorry to disappoint you, heartily 
 sorry; but I have no other trouble to grieve 
 over." 
 
 "Then you really did break the engage 
 ment?" asked Hortense. 
 
 "Yes, and I should do it again with the 
 same reason." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen leaned back in her chair and 
 emitted the most dolorous groan to which she 
 had yet given vent. She had become an adept 
 in the art during these past few days, but this 
 latest effort was such a triumph that it quite 
 startled her listeners. 
 
 "Why, Adelaide said Mr. Halford did it," 
 returned Hortense, as soon as she had suffi 
 ciently recovered from the effects of her moth 
 er's moan to speak again. 
 
 "Adelaide is a chattering magpie, " cried Mrs. 
 Remsen, roused to speech again. " Things are 
 quite bad enough. She needn't try to disgrace 
 Milly by spreading such reports." 
 11 
 
 " Oh ! she only told me ; she will be careful 
 before the world, but among ourselves " 
 
 "Among ourselves the matter need not be 
 discussed," interrupted Milly, with the new 
 firmness and decision she had gained of late. 
 " I beg you to understand, once for all, Hor 
 tense, that I broke my engagement with Mr. 
 Halford because I found I did not love him. 
 I never wish to hear his name mentioned 
 again." 
 
 "This is the way she goes on," said Mrs. 
 Remsen, disconsolately; "it is enough to drive 
 me distracted." 
 
 "But, mamma, if she found that a youthful 
 fancy had deceived her, it was wise to pause in 
 time." 
 
 "I shall go to my own room," replied Mrs. 
 Remsen. "I will not hear such language ap 
 plied to the subject. If you choose to encour 
 age Mildred in her wickedness " 
 
 "I don't, mamma; you misunderstand me. 
 Regarded from a worldly point of view and 
 one of the worst features of the life and educa 
 tion of the present age is the fact that we must 
 often be, to a certain extent, worldly Milly 
 has done a very unwise thing." 
 
 "I do not want advice, Hortense. My aunt 
 is the only person to whom I should look for 
 it." 
 
 "And much attention you pay to it, after it 
 is given," said Mrs. Remsen. 
 
 Hortense did not allow her equanimity to 
 be disturbed by Milly's hasty words ; she only 
 looked pityingly at them both, thinking what 
 weak creatures they were, and how differently 
 she would behave in the place of either. 
 
 " You comprehend me as little as my moth 
 er does, Milly," said Hortense, with her lofti 
 est air. "I could say nothing sadder. But I 
 must go now ; I have to attend a meeting of the 
 Shirt-sewers' Union and see the Committee on 
 the Hayti Fund, and Professor Drivler dines 
 with us. Oh, Milly ! and Mrs. Tonguay, too. 
 ! If you could only hear her talk, it would do 
 ! you a world of good." 
 
 Milly found herself shuddering at the bare 
 idea. 
 
 " I don't wish to hear any one talk just now," 
 she said. " My head is aching fearfully." 
 
 "And my heart aches, too," added her aunt, 
 in her very saddest voice. "I do think I am 
 the most unfortunate woman in the world. 
 What your dear mother would say to you if 
 she were alive, I can not imagine." 
 
 Milly remembered how that mother had suf 
 fered, and became softened by the thought of 
 the sympathy she would have had for this dis 
 tress, till a wish rose in her mind to be quietly 
 at rest by that mother's side under the green 
 turf, far away from the bustle and weariness 
 of this life. 
 
 " Well," said Hortense, "it seems I can say 
 nothing to aid either of you. Mine would be 
 a life thrown away, indeed, if my opinion were 
 of as little importance everywhere as it seems 
 to be here."
 
 162 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "Now, Hortense, don't talk nonsense," in 
 terposed her mother. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, it is indeed so ! I can see it 
 plainly. Not that-I am angry ; I only think 
 how astonished Professor Drivler and others 
 of my friends would be if they saw it. But 
 good-bye to you both. Come and see me very 
 soon." 
 
 She gave her mother a dutiful kiss, and Mil- 
 ly a patronizing tap upon the shoulder, smiling 
 grand commiseration of their folly in not seek 
 ing and using her advice. Before she reached 
 the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Remsen remembered 
 something that she wished particularly to say 
 to her daughter, and hurried out ; so Milly was 
 left to a little quiet, a thing she most longed 
 for and greatly needed. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 DESPERATE. 
 
 IT was Saturday at last. Alice Marchmont 
 had remained shut up in her room for two days, 
 so that no report of Milly's broken engagement 
 or Halford's departure had reached her, as Miss 
 Portman was always glad to stay at home, and 
 had taken advantage of her cousin's indisposi 
 tion to close the doors against visitors, and live 
 as solitary and unsociably as an ancient nun. 
 
 This morning Mrs. Marchmont decided to go 
 to Milly. At least, she had a right to demand 
 from the girl how much Dick Faulkner had re 
 vealed in regard to her affairs. No matter how 
 Milly behaved, she could not be in a worse po 
 sition, and she desired before the next night's 
 meeting with Faulkner to know exactly where 
 she stood, so far as the babblings of his wicked 
 tongue were concerned. 
 
 She drove to Mrs. Remsen's house, and sent 
 in her card to that lady herself, tolerably cer 
 tain that if she asked for Miss Crofton she 
 would be denied admittance. Mrs. Remsen 
 was not at home, but Miss Maud happened to 
 be in the reception-room, and gave orders that 
 the visitor should be shown in. She had an 
 envious admiration for Mrs. Marchmont's beau 
 ty and grace, and as she seldom had an oppor 
 tunity of seeing her, determined to have that 
 satisfaction now. 
 
 So Alice entered and was very gracious, ac 
 cording to her habit with young girls, and Maud, 
 bold as brass, began to explain that her mam 
 ma was out, and that she, Maud, would never 
 be forgiven if she did not detain Mrs. March 
 mont till the mother's return. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont was very willing to be de 
 tained at least, for a while and though she 
 had only seen Maud a few times had sufficient 
 ly guaged her mental calibre to know how to 
 flatter her into a complacent mood. That re 
 sult gained, Alice said, sweetly, 
 
 " My visit was partly for your cousin, Miss 
 Crofton. I wanted to see you all. Is she in?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Maud answered, volubly, "she's 
 
 up in her room been playing invalid since 
 Mrs. Lawrence's ball." 
 
 " Indeed ! Not seriously indisposed, I trust. " 
 
 "Bless me! no," returned the magpie ; "just 
 one of her fancies. I suppose she's sorry, now 
 it is too late." 
 
 Alice was too busy with her own reflections 
 to notice the girl's words, and only said, 
 
 " Would you be kind enough to let her know 
 that I am here ?" 
 
 " To be sure," said Maud ; " but I don't be 
 lieve she will come down. She stays in her 
 room, and acts as if she was possessed." 
 
 She rang the bell, and sent up Mrs. March 
 mont's message ; presently back came the an 
 swer. Miss Crofton was particularly engaged, 
 and could see no one. 
 
 "Just like her," pronounced Maud; "but 
 I'll tell mamma how rudely she behaves ill- 
 natured thing!" 
 
 "But you," said Mrs. Marchmont, with her 
 blandest manner and her sweetest smile, " are 
 so kind and frank that I am sure you will do 
 me the favor to say to your cousin that I wish 
 particularly to see her. I have a reason." 
 
 "Of course," said Maud, instantly devoured 
 by a rampant curiosity. " What shall I tell 
 her you want ?" 
 
 "She might be vexed if I did not tell her 
 first," urged Alice, gently. 
 
 Maud had to go away unsatisfied, and having 
 after a good deal of difficulty obtained admis 
 sion to Milly's room, delivered the message. 
 
 " I shall not see her," cried Milly, to whom 
 the visit seemed a crowning insult. 
 
 "Then I'll ask her to tell me," said Maud, 
 anxious to have her curiosity gratified. 
 
 " You will attend to your own affairs, if you 
 please," returned Milly. 
 
 "It is my affair," said Maud, in a passion 
 at once. "You need not try to treat me like 
 that any longer. You'll never be married 
 now." . 
 
 "Have the goodness to go away," was the 
 only answer Milly made. 
 
 " I'll go and tell Mrs. Marchmont you say 
 you'll not see her." 
 
 " If you add that I will not, now or ever, I 
 shall be much obliged," returned Milly. 
 
 Down stairs flew Maud and repeated what 
 Milly had said, adding a rapid account of her 
 cousin's late misdemeanors, including the story 
 of the broken engagement, which Maud vowed 
 was Halford's work because Milly went to Paul 
 Andrews's dinner. Mrs. Marchmont was shock 
 ed and pained, but the reason Maud gave pre 
 vented her blaming herself for any share in the 
 catastrophe. She got away from the girl's chat 
 ter, and hurried out of the house, having gain 
 ed nothing by the step, as she bitterly thought, 
 except to afford that heartless Milly a fresh tri 
 umph. The creature would believe that she 
 had been frightened into an attempt to sue for 
 mercy. 
 
 The day got by the evening. She went to 
 the opera, in spite of Miss Portman's expostu-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 1C3 
 
 lations: and that lady drove her nearly wild the 
 whole evening by her sighs and head-shakings, 
 and her assurances to every body who entered 
 the box that Mrs. Marchmont ought to be at 
 home and in bed. But Alice bore it ; she bore 
 the next day's suspense, too ; bore seeing Miss 
 Portman depart for church, and the recollec 
 tion of all which kept herself from joining in 
 the services she had once so dearly prized. 
 
 Alice Marchmont went to Mrs. Granger's 
 dinner, and found, just as she expected, sever 
 al of the leaders of the fast set which she had 
 grown to abhor in the depths of her heart. 
 Dick Faulkner's wife was there, indulging in 
 her little attempts at stinging with sugared 
 words ; and, yes, there was Dick himself 
 Alice saw him bowing to her ; and though she 
 had been so anxious to discover what his first 
 look would reveal, it told her very little. 
 
 He did not offer to approach her ; he looked 
 much as usual, she thought, only paler and 
 more insolent, so that she was sure ho had 
 been off on some carouse, such as people said 
 had become frequent with him of late. The 
 half-hour of waiting was nearly over before he 
 came near her. Mr. Lewis had just left her 
 to speak with some new-comer; she could feel 
 Dick Faulkner's approach, and shuddered as 
 if some noxious reptile were crawling toward 
 her. 
 
 "I was so sorry not to be able to go to you 
 the day your note reached me," he said. "If 
 you knew what a pleasure it was to me to see 
 even a line of your writing once more !" 
 
 She just regarded him with a glance of sur 
 prise and disgust which sent the blood to his 
 face. 
 
 " You do not believe me ?" he persisted. 
 
 " I did not listen to what you said," she re 
 plied. " There is only one subject upon which 
 I propose to converse with you." 
 
 He turned away without another word, just 
 giving her one look out of his black eyes which 
 was absolutely like a flash of fire. 
 
 Dinner was announced. Mr. Lewis came 
 to take her in. It seemed to Alice March 
 mont that they were walking over a mine 
 which was ready to explode, and that she 
 had no power to save herself as like a night 
 mare as if she had been actually in the midst 
 of a horrid dream. She was very gay, though, 
 after the dinner fairly commenced; indeed, she 
 could not tell what demon possessed her, but 
 she could not resist saying the most stinging 
 things to each and every one in turn, and es 
 pecially tormenting Dick Faulkner. All the 
 while she felt that he was capable of suddenly 
 crying the truth about her in the ears of the 
 charming assembly. 
 
 He persisted in talking to her ; he was seat 
 ed nearly opposite, and she could see that he 
 drank even more wine than usual. -She would 
 have been glad of any excuse for getting away 
 from his neighborhood ; if she could only faint, 
 as she had done a few weeks before ! But, no, 
 her nerves seemed braced as they had not been 
 
 during all these months, and she could uot re 
 sist daring the danger in every way. 
 
 I once heard a man describe being on a rail 
 way-engine and seeing a train shoot round a 
 curve toward them, the engineer trying vainly 
 to slacken the speed ; he knew that an instan 
 taneous death menaced him, yet he could only 
 stand there and stare at it coming nearer and 
 nearer utterly incapable of any effort to save 
 himself, if such had been possible could only 
 stand and stare, while it seemed like some 
 hideous dream, and through the suspense in 
 which every faculty was centred flashed broken 
 thoughts and sudden memories of half a lifetime 
 gone by. I can think of nothing that forms 
 so fit a comparison for Alice Marchmont's state 
 of mind. 
 
 She was watching the danger; she knew it 
 came nearer and nearer, yet, through her own 
 reckless talk, through the idle laughter and con 
 versation which went on about her, all manner 
 of things, trifling and grave, events of her past 
 existence would arise. 
 
 She could remember a wood where, as a'child, 
 she had found wonderful flowers the varie 
 gated blossoms in Mrs. Granger's coiffure re 
 called them ; she could see the lofty pine-trees 
 and her little child-phantom so plainly. Some 
 trivial game with a playmate ; a sunny June 
 morning long ago, with Kenneth Halford com 
 ing over the lawn to the house, and her old 
 self watching him through the Venetian blinds. 
 Any thing, every thing that was utterly re 
 moved from the present ; and always she could 
 catch the flash in Dick Faulkner's' eyes, observ 
 ant of her wherever he looked, with whomso 
 ever he talked, and knew that the danger was 
 coming more and more near. 
 
 They were discussing a late English novel, a 
 story of a woman's guilty secret ending in dis 
 covery, ruin to herself, and disgrace to those 
 connected with her ; an adventuress, who had 
 made for herself a place and retained it safely, 
 until out of her own past rose the ruin which 
 overwhelmed her. 
 
 " The best part of the book is, that it is true 
 to nature," exclaimed Dick Faulkner, sudden 
 ly, as the rest were leaving the subject. 
 
 Every one was the more astonished because 
 literature was" not his forte, and he had been 
 drinking much Champagne while the volume 
 was under consideration. 
 
 "Mr. Faulkner means to astonish us by ap 
 pearing in a new character," Alice could not 
 avoid saying; " a criticism of a novel. Eeal- 
 ly, Mr. Faulkner, we shall expect to discover 
 that you have been all this while a genius in 
 disguise, writing the cleverest reviews and hear-' 
 ing us admire them." 
 
 " I thought you disliked novels, Mr. Faulk 
 ner," said the hostess. 
 
 " But I do read them occasionally, though I 
 think Mrs. Marchmont considers me a dunce," 
 he said, with his wickedest smile at Alice. 
 
 " Oh no! At least, I never thought that," 
 she retorted, laughing, but with emphasis.
 
 164 
 
 JOHN WOETHIXGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "At all events," continued he, "I read this 
 book ; and I must insist that it is natural." 
 
 "Ah, very well," said Alice, mockingly ; "I 
 retire from the contest. Mr. Faulkner's opin 
 ion is douhtless founded upon his choice of ac 
 quaintance among the sex, and ought to be as 
 convincing as a veritable argument." 
 
 "I think it natural," he went on, in a dog 
 ged manner, " because I once knew of a case 
 which was a parallel, at least." 
 
 "Let us hear it," cried Mrs. Granger. "I 
 dote upon true stories. You are sure it is 
 true ?" 
 
 "Perfectly sure," he said. " That would be 
 its sole merit in my way of telling ; I can only 
 give the bare details, and Mrs. Marchmont al 
 ready laughs at me forgetting out of my line." 
 
 Such an evil smile ! did the others notice ? 
 
 "I promise not to laugh," she said, "oh, 
 most modest raconteur ; but at the same time 
 I reserve to myself the privilege of doubt if the 
 story is about a woman. You masculines are 
 never correct in your judgments of us." 
 
 "I don't judge. This is the story the man 
 told me who knew. A. lady, a great lady, as 
 the novels would say, courted and spoiled by 
 the world, found herself getting dreadfully into 
 debt " 
 
 " Oh, it's a vile slander," interrupted Mrs. 
 Granger. " We won't hear him, will we, Mrs. 
 Marchmont ?" 
 
 "Yes; we shall want to know how to act 
 when we get into debt," she answered. 
 
 She leaned back in her chair, her fingers tri 
 fling with a bunch of grapes, and her eyes turn 
 ed full upon Dick Faulkner's face with a calm 
 smile. 
 
 " She must have been a Frenchwoman," said 
 Mr. Lewis. "Wasn't she a Frenchwoman, 
 Faulkner ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, say a Frenchwoman, if you like," 
 he answered ; " shall we, Mrs. Marchmont ?" 
 
 " Call her the Queen of Sheba, if you will ; 
 but please do tell us what she did." 
 
 It was coming! At least, suspense was 
 over; that seemed, strange as it sounds, a lit 
 tle comfort. 
 
 " She had to pay a sum of money." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Granger, "she sold her 
 jewels ?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " Got married ?" suggested some one. 
 
 " No, that wasn't in her line. Make a guess, 
 Mrs. Marchmont." 
 
 She held up the cluster of grapes in a pretty 
 way, and said, carelessly, never once taking her 
 eyes from his face, and making him feel their 
 fiower through all his rage and the recklessness 
 caused by wine, " I shall not guess ; I'll wait 
 and pronounce a verdict." 
 
 "She committed a forgery!" 
 
 The women cried out in horror. 
 
 "An utter libel!" exclaimed Mrs. Granger. 
 
 "Keally, Dick," said his wife, "you will 
 never succeed as a conteur if you can't keep 
 nearer to the probabilities." 
 
 "She committed a forgery !" repeated he. 
 
 The cluster of grapes had not fallen from 
 Alice Marchmont's white fingers ; she had not 
 stirred, not even seemed to breathe. 
 
 "Was she found out ?" asked some one. 
 
 " Else I should not have heard it, I suppose," 
 said Faulkner. " Yes ; a man found it out 
 a man who had loved her, and whom she had 
 treated in a most outrageous manner." 
 
 "What did he do?" inquired a half-dozen 
 voices at once. 
 
 Dick Faulkner looked again at the grace 
 ful figure opposite the white hand held the 
 grapes, the eyes regarded him still, the lids 
 just a little drawn over the dilated pupils ; 
 but the whole attitude of careless elegance un 
 changed. 
 
 "What do you suppose he did, Mrs. March 
 mont ?" 
 
 " That would depend on the man," said she, 
 speaking without apparent effort. " Was he a 
 gentleman or a villain ?" 
 
 "Oh, do tell us what he did !" implored the 
 other women. 
 
 Alice looked at him still. For the life of him 
 he could not finish ; his story was falling flat 
 enough, from the utter impossibility of rousing 
 the slightest show of emotion in her face. 
 
 " Perhaps he paid her debts," said Mr. Lew 
 is, " by way of being heroic." 
 
 " I don't know what he did," said Faulkner, 
 drinking off his glass of Champagne. " I only 
 wanted .to show you that there was nothing im 
 probable in describing a woman of position as 
 doing all sorts of out-of-the-way tilings." 
 
 There was a general chorus of indignation 
 at his attempt at a story, and by the time this 
 was ended the ladies rose from the table. 
 
 "I have been learning billiards, Sophy," 
 Mrs. Granger said to Mrs. Faulkner as they 
 ascended to the drawing-room. 
 
 "Oh, let us go and play!" she answered. 
 "Those tiresome men will stay down there 
 for an hour, and it is so stupid for us four, all 
 women." 
 
 "Shall we go?" asked Mrs. Granger. 
 
 " Go, you two, and take Miss James for um 
 pire," said Alice. "I want to go to sleep in 
 the bay-window. I'm tired." 
 
 " You haven't looked well for a month past," 
 said Mrs. Granger; not that she had thought 
 of it before that minute. 
 
 " Nonsense ; I am quite well. Go and play 
 your billiards." 
 
 So the three went down the stairs again, the 
 billiard-table being on the dining-room floor, 
 and Alice went on up into the great salon that 
 she so disliked, with its collection of gilded frip 
 peries, and thought that it looked to-night more 
 than ever like an upholsterer's shop. 
 
 She had not long to wait. She knew Dick 
 Faulkner would follow her, and she had scarce 
 ly seated herself when he came in. He walk 
 ed straight toward her sofa, and sat down by 
 her side. 
 
 "The other ladies are playing at billiards,"
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 165 
 
 said she, with a little yawn, spreading out her 
 robes between them. 
 
 " I know they are ; that is the reason that I 
 came up." 
 
 "Hadn't you better join them?" she asked, 
 sweetly. "I told them I was going to sleep, 
 and I am nearly so now." 
 
 " What did you think of my story ?" he asked. 
 
 She was fanning herself negligently, as if 
 making an effort to keep awake. 
 
 "Frankly," said she, "it was not a success. 
 Either the audience was not sympathetic, or 
 you were not in the vein for story-telling." 
 
 "What would they have done, do you sup 
 pose, if they could know it was the truth, as 
 you and I did?" 
 
 The fan dropped from her hand, and as it 
 hung to her wrist by the silken cord, it rattled 
 against the side of her sofa under the sudden 
 nervous trembling which seized her. The next 
 thing she knew this man had both her hands in 
 his, was holding them in a close, painful grasp, 
 and saying, in a rapid, suppressed voice, 
 
 " I love you, Alice I love you ! Don't be so 
 hard you shall hear me now ! Never mind 
 the note; don't think about it! Oh, Alice 
 Marchmont, I'd give my soul for just one smile ! 
 Only love me, do try to love me !" 
 
 She made one effort and freed her hands, so 
 sick and faint, with a blinding spasm of indig 
 nation and outraged womanhood upon her, at 
 his touch. 
 
 "One word more," she said, starting to her 
 feet, and speaking in a voice of icy coldness, 
 "and I will summon your wife !" 
 
 " Call the whole world," he exclaimed, with 
 a burning, beseeching look. ' ' I'm not ashamed 
 of loving you ! I'm sick of this farce of re 
 spectability ! Call ah, you don't dare !" 
 
 " Continue, and you shall find that I dare 
 any thing " 
 
 "Don't put me in a rage," he interrupted. 
 "You have driven me nearly desperate during 
 these weeks ; you can't go further ! I swore 
 you should not escape me. Don't make me 
 talk to you like this ! Let me tell you I love 
 you as no man ever loved " 
 
 With the remembrance of all she had done 
 to escape this wretch, to be obliged to suffer 
 the contamination of such words ! 
 
 She made a step toward the bell. 
 
 "Take care," said he. "Call, and it will 
 then be too late ; you will make me so furious 
 that I shall speak what can't be taken back !" 
 
 " There is nothing more you can say to harm 
 me! Great Heaven!" she cried, "if there 
 were, don't you know I'd hear it sooner than 
 such words! If I were drowning, and only 
 your hand could save me, do you think I would 
 be degraded by its clasp ?" 
 
 "The hand that has held a pen to sign a 
 forged name can't easily be damaged," said he, 
 with a sneering laugh. "There, it's out now ! 
 You want war and you shall have it ! You 
 won't let me love you ? Then you shall give 
 up to my hate." 
 
 She sank back into her seat. 
 
 " Yes, that's better," said he. 
 
 " I am waiting for an explanation of your 
 words," she said, with forced calmness. " You 
 will be pleased to state distinctly what you 
 mean." 
 
 "What is the use of this?" he exclaimed. 
 "No trouble shall come to you; I. have sworn 
 that ! But there's no good in keeping up this 
 pretense of bravado. I'd sell my soul for you." 
 
 She turned her back on him in silence. 
 
 " Better not," he half whispered. " Remem 
 ber the note it's a nice signature looks well 
 John Worthington !" 
 
 With one last superhuman effort at self-con 
 trol she faced him again. 
 
 " Exactly," she said ; " the note with his in 
 dorsement upon it. I am ready to pay you the 
 money." 
 
 He laughed scornfully. 
 
 "There's not money enough in Wall Street 
 to buy it," he said ; " so there's no good to talk 
 of that." 
 
 " It is mine ; you are bound to give it up !" 
 
 He laughed again. Nothing could save her ! 
 she must go over the precipice after all, after 
 all! 
 
 "We shall see what John Worthington will 
 say to your writing his name on the back of the 
 little paper," he said. 
 
 " I think he is quite able, Mr. Faulkner, to 
 manage his own affairs. Is there any thing 
 extraordinary in his obliging as old a friend as 
 I am in that way, if I had chanced to need ?" 
 
 " Yes ; for I heard him say he had never 
 done such a thing for any human being, and 
 never would." 
 
 " He is a thorough gentleman, incapable of 
 compromising a woman by talking about her 
 affairs." 
 
 " Will you say that he indorsed this note ?" 
 
 "I will not talk further with you on any sub 
 ject, Mr. Faulkner ! You first insult me with 
 your love your love .Great Heaven ! that 
 you should dare to misuse such a word!" 
 
 " Go on, now. I would not stop you if I 
 could." 
 
 "After that, you accuse me of forgery !" 
 
 "As I will do to-morrow to John Worthing 
 ton." 
 
 "And John Worthington will have your 
 heart's blood in return. Nonsense, Mr. Faulk 
 ner, I am not to be terrified into listening to 
 your offers of affection. Is that the only way 
 in which you have been able to bring any wom 
 an near to you ? I am of a different make, be 
 lieve me." 
 
 "At all events, I shall ruin you," he went on, 
 as if she had not spoken. 
 
 " And I say it is not in your power. Since 
 you can't avenge, you had better take your 
 money." 
 
 " I mean to have both," he answered. 
 
 "The next time you take the liberty of sup 
 posing a lady to have committed a crime, go 
 differently to work, if you wish to terrify her,"
 
 1C6 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 she said, struggling still, vain as she knew the 
 effort to be. 
 
 "It came to me in a flash," he went on, still 
 paying no attention to her words. " You may 
 believe I was waiting till something should hap 
 pen to put you in my power ! When I saw that 
 note in old Hermans's desk, it was all plain to 
 me. He told me in the beginning you had 
 given one " 
 
 "After you had told him the amount, and by 
 your falsehoods made him believe that I had 
 confided in you." 
 
 " Just as you please. At least, I found out 
 thai, to pay me off you had given the note ; it 
 flashed across my mind then the story you 
 and John Worthington were telling last sum 
 mer about your learning to copy his writing 
 bah ! It was as transparent as day !" 
 
 "Have you nearly finished, Mr. Faulkner? 
 All this is very tiresome." 
 
 Again, as she stood there in her scornful 
 beauty, though trembling in every limb with 
 terror and despair, the gust of passion swept 
 over him, and he cried out, " Only let me love 
 you ; give me one gentle word a smile ; you 
 know I am your slave " 
 
 "Not if it were to save my life my soul !" 
 she broke in, with a gesture of loathing. 
 
 "Then to-morrow I go to John Worthing 
 ton ; he shall know it. I'll take Hermans with 
 me. Don't suppose me a fool ; of course he'll 
 hold his tongue, but I can let the world know, 
 and how do you think he will like that ? You, 
 that live to be admired and respected ! Bah ! 
 my revenge will be more complete than if I saw 
 you in prison !" 
 
 She was wringing her clasped hands, strug 
 gling for breath; he had touched the right 
 chord at last. 
 
 " Take in the newspapers, Mrs. Marchmont," 
 he continued ; " I promise you there shall be 
 paragraphs worth your reading. Then, if you 
 like, prosecute the editors, and when the case 
 comes on see if John Worthington is able to 
 swear that he indorsed that little bill." 
 
 She heard doors open and close on the floor 
 below, the click of billiard-balls, the voices of 
 men and women as the former left the dining- 
 room to overlook the ladies' game. They were 
 not yet coming up no hope, no help possible. 
 
 His voice again took that pleading tone 
 worse to bear than his threats and unmanli- 
 ness. 
 
 "Alice! Alice! only think! It isn't too 
 late; let us forget every thing! Go away 
 with me let me take you to Italy ! I'll 
 make your life like a dream of happiness!" 
 
 She turned and fled. At this instant he 
 heard a step on the stairs, and thought that 
 had frightened her. He followed her, whis 
 pering, "I'll come to you to-morrow; think 
 of it. You may save yourself yet." 
 
 She got up into the dressing-room ; she did 
 not faint; she had only one thought to get 
 out of the house, beyond the sight of that man, 
 the sound of his voice. She must not faint or 
 
 go mad there ; and yet truly it seemed to her 
 that the final crisis had arrived ; her reason 
 was in danger. She drank some water, and wet 
 her forehead with the icy drops ; she groped 
 about, blind and dizzy, feeling for the bell- 
 rope ; reached it at last, and rang. She had 
 got into a chair when Mrs. Granger's maid came. 
 
 "Order me a carriage, please," she said; 
 " I am not well, and must go home." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Marchmont, you do look so white !" 
 the girl exclaimed, and she was voluble in offers 
 of assistance and exclamations of distress, be 
 fore Alice could speak again ; for Mrs. March 
 mont was the admiration of the domestics, on 
 account of her kind ways and words, wher 
 ever she went ; and Mrs. Granger's French 
 woman in particular cited her as "the one 
 properly dressed lady in America." 
 
 "Shall you have the salts? Is it like an 
 evanouissement ? I go to call madame " 
 
 "No, no!" said Alice; "don't disturb her. 
 It is nothing but fatigue. I want to get home ; 
 just call me a carriage." 
 
 " But madame's has this instant arrived ; it 
 waits." 
 
 "Then find my wraps yes, that is all. 
 Thank you !" 
 
 She ran away, with the kind creature's ex 
 postulations in her ears. 
 
 "Tell Mrs. Granger I was so unwell I had 
 to go home, and would not disturb her," she 
 had sense enough to say, remembering, even 
 then, that her conduct would need some ex 
 cuse. There was no one in the drawing- 
 rooms as she hurried past the doors, no one 
 in the hall below, and she left the house un 
 observed. She sprang into her brougham, and, 
 as the man was closing the door, said, 
 
 "Drive to Mr. Worthington's ; go quickly !" 
 
 She allowed herself no time to think. The 
 order had been given without any actual voli 
 tion on her part. She had not meant to go 
 there. She had not even been thinking. She 
 covered her face in her wraps, and cowered 
 down in the seat till the carriage stopped. The 
 man ran up the steps and rang. She saw the 
 door open, got out of the brougham into the 
 hall. The housekeeper came into the hall, and 
 said, 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Marchmont, you have driven 
 round for Miss Portman. They are not back 
 yet. Indeed, I think Miss Constance was to 
 take her home." 
 
 "At all events, I will wait. I want is Mr. 
 Worthington in ?" 
 
 "He's in his study, ma'am." 
 
 " I will go to him," she said, and went on 
 through the hall. As she reached the study 
 door, it opened. Mr. Worthington had heard 
 the voices. 
 
 "Mrs. Marchmont!" he exclaimed; "and 
 Constance has not come yet." 
 
 He caught sight of her face, never staid to 
 utter another word, but led the way into the 
 room and closed the door. She covered her 
 face with her trembling hands.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 167 
 
 " Shut the door, John Worthington," she 
 said, hoarsely. " Shut it close !" 
 
 A fearful premonition of trouble came over 
 him as he looked at her standing there like the 
 ghost of her former self. 
 
 " In Heaven's name, Alice, what has hap 
 pened ?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Do you remember your promise?" she 
 gasped, uncovering her haggard features, " to 
 be my friend to forgive " 
 
 "Alice! Alice! always!" 
 
 "Then the time has come ! God help me ! 
 John Worthington, I have no hope of help even 
 from you !" 
 
 As Alice Marchmont spoke these words, she 
 tottered back and forth, and seemed about to 
 fall. Mr. Worthington started forward, but 
 she would not let him support her. 
 
 "Don't touch me," she cried, "don't touch 
 me ! You are a good man an honest man. 
 You should not touch one like me !" 
 
 "Alice! Alice! are you mad?" he asked. 
 "Sit down you are falling!" 
 
 " No, I must not. Mad ? I don't know. 
 Perhaps this is the last time we shall ever stand 
 face to face. Did I ask you to forgive me ? I 
 can't expect that ; you will hate me !" 
 
 He thought she must be raving; he tried to 
 take her cold hands and put her in a chair. 
 She retreated from him, only crying again, 
 " Don't ! don't touch me ! I came here to tell 
 you. Let me do it, quick ! Oh, my sin ! Oh, 
 my God, John Worthington, my shame !" 
 
 He made a step backward, putting out his 
 hand as if to check her revelation, his face as 
 white as her own. 
 
 " I'll not believe it !" he cried. " If an an 
 gel from heaven told me you were guilty, I'd 
 not believe it. You are mad, Alice you must 
 be mad!" 
 
 "I think I have been mad," she moaned. 
 "I do think that, though it is no excuse." 
 
 He sat down in the chair which he had push 
 ed toward her ; the great drops of perspiration 
 stood on his forehead. 
 
 "Tell me your trouble," he said, in a slow, 
 difficult voice ; " tell me." 
 
 She flung up her ai'ms with an appealing 
 gesture, and sank on her knees at his feet. 
 
 "Don't, Alice !" he pleaded. " I can't bear 
 this. I can't see you humiliated." 
 
 "The only place for me, the fittest place," 
 she said, "except the prisons where such wom 
 en as I have been sent ! I forged your name, 
 John Worthington !" 
 
 She tried hard to keep back the hysterical 
 spasm, fought against it bravely ; but it would 
 have its way. She struggled there at his feet 
 in tortures pitiable to witness. He had not 
 spoken ; she felt him raise her in his arms and 
 carry her to a sofa. He brought water, and af 
 ter a time she could swallow a few drops. He 
 bathed her forehead gently, and soon she was 
 able to speak. 
 
 "You will think I am making a scene," she 
 said, brokenly, " to enlist your sympathy " 
 
 "Hush! hush!" he interrupted, finding 
 words at last. " Don't say such things to me ! 
 I am thanking the Merciful Father that it is 
 not the old story the sin I should have ex 
 pected from another woman's lips !" 
 
 " He pities me !" she sobbed a dry, choking 
 sob, more painful than tears. " I don't deserve 
 it, I don't deserve it ! Oh, you don't under 
 stand, you don't know what I said ! I have 
 forged your name." 
 
 "And did I not promise you that there should 
 be nothing which I would not do for you ?" he 
 said. " Surely I can let you use my name. 
 Only be calm, be quiet, and tell me every 
 thing. The worst is over for you now noth 
 ing shall touch you." 
 
 " Oh, nothing could be so horrible as what 
 I have endured ! If I could have asked God's 
 help, as you did just now, this would not have 
 come to me ! I have been so wicked in my 
 pride. I have forgotten every thing in my 
 mad vanity, or I should not have been left to 
 fall into this fearful sin." 
 
 "A sin, Alice, for which your bitter remorse 
 is atonement your confession ample amends." 
 
 " Oh no, no ; I should never have made the 
 confession if escape had been possible there is 
 no help! But I have suffered, oh, I have suf 
 fered ! Such days and nights, John Worthing 
 ton ! if I could tell you the half! No wonder 
 I have grown pale and old in these weeks ; and 
 there is gray in my hair, John ! Oh, it seems 
 as if I had lived an eternity since that fearful 
 day!" 
 
 " My poor child ! Poor little Alice !" 
 
 She could not see the movement he made as 
 if he would have taken her in his arms, and 
 shielded her against his heart even, from every 
 painful memory. She had buried her face in 
 the cushions at the sound of his tender words, 
 and cried out, 
 
 "Don't speak so to me ; you'll kill me with 
 your kindness! I can't bear it!" 
 
 He sat down by her side, smoothing her hair 
 gently with his hand, but not speaking till the 
 sobs were checked again, and she lay quiet. 
 
 "When you can, you shall tell me all about 
 it," he said. "I would not ask you to say an 
 other word, only that it will be better for you 
 to tell me, and then I am quite sure I can ar 
 range every thing." 
 
 "I can tell you," she answered, sitting up 
 right, and trying to look in his face. The emo 
 tion she saw there, and above all the yearning 
 pity, so overwhelmed her with remorse that she 
 could only fall at his feet once more, crying, 
 
 " Forgive me ! only say you forgive me ! But 
 don't speak so kindly, don't look like that ! If 
 you do, I think I must die here." 
 
 The tears rained down. For weeks she had 
 been able to shed none, but now it seemed as 
 if she would weep her very life away. He let 
 her cry. He knew how near madness she must 
 have been, and that nothing could help her so 
 much as those tears. He did not attempt to 
 raise her. She sat there at his feet, shedding
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 those blessed tears, and at last she heard his 
 voice, saying softly, 
 
 "Hear my prayer, Lord! and let my crying 
 come unto thee. Hide not thy face from me in 
 the time of my trouble ; incline thine ear unto me 
 and hear me. Yea, like as a father pitieth his 
 own children, even so the Lord is merciful." 
 
 The blessed words from the dear Liturgy, 
 which had once been so familiar to her. Even 
 her tears slowly ceased, and it seemed to Alice 
 Marchmont as if God had sent one of his pity 
 ing angels to whisper these assurances in her 
 agony. They sat in silence for a little, then 
 she said, in a quiet voice, 
 
 " I can tell you now all the miserable story." 
 
 She sat there at his feet and told it, conceal 
 ing nothing, and beginning further back than 
 the time when I took up the record of her life. 
 She told him of the old, old days of her girl 
 hood, when they had separated her from all 
 that would have made her girlish happiness. 
 She told him of the lonely years with a hus 
 band who had not been as tender as he ought 
 of the young creature he had taken to his keep 
 ing, for she had not deceived him ; when he 
 had married her, he knew that she had no heart 
 to give him. She kept back no detail of her 
 wicked extravagance during the ensuing years, 
 when she had been dazzled by her newly-re 
 gained liberty and the adulation of the world ; 
 while in her ignorance and folly it had seemed 
 to her that her fortune was inexhaustible with 
 out the slightest thought she had spent the 
 thousands lying ready for investment at the 
 time of her husband's death. 
 
 Dick Faulkner's connection with her life ; 
 her allowing him to win money for her; her 
 debts and troubles, and the harassing sense of 
 degradation; her permitting him to keep on, 
 because each week she believed his promises, 
 and that she was about to realize a sufficiency 
 to pay him and all her other debts. She kept 
 nothing back. She made no effort to excuse 
 herself; she did not think that excuse was 
 possible. But it was a blessed comfort to sit 
 there, at his feet, and tell the whole ; to feel 
 that she had no longer to bear her guilt in se 
 cret ; that, whatever might come, she had done 
 all she could to atone ; and now, whatever he 
 decided upon she was anxious to do. 
 
 "I want you to tell me," she said; "and 
 I'll do it. I can't thank you for your kind 
 ness, but oh ! John Worthington, you are a 
 good man ; and when you meet my father in 
 the other world the father who died when I 
 was an innocent little girl he'll thank you for 
 your kindness to me." 
 
 " Don't talk of thanks, Alice ; there's no 
 such word between you and me you " 
 
 "Because you pity me so," she exclaimed, 
 " you feel so now ; but oh ! to-morrow and to 
 morrow, and for all times to come ! You'll 
 think then how can you help it ? not harshly, 
 I know ; but you'll always remember ! You 
 wouldn't like to see me near Constance ; then 
 you would think of it. I must go away ; I can 
 
 not look at the face of any human being I have 
 ever known. Ah, how lonely ! John Wor 
 thington, if only people could know in advance 
 the bitterness of sin, they would keep their hearts 
 right by prayer if only they could know !" 
 
 "Alice, I can't hear you talk like this! 
 Child, the Saviour forgave all penitent sin 
 ners. Repentance brings a sure forgiveness ; 
 and a sin forgiven is swept away forever out 
 of the soul, only as its memory keeps the heart 
 full of thankfulness to Him who died for us." 
 
 "You are so good so good! You don't 
 despise me as I do myself?" 
 
 "My child, what right have I to despise a 
 penitence that the Highest of all finds accept 
 able ?" 
 
 So many years since she had heard such 
 words, or thought such feelings possible ! 
 
 " You must not talk any more to-night," he 
 said ; " you must have absolute quiet, and leave 
 this matter to me. Will you stay here, or will 
 you go home ?" 
 
 "Oh, let me go home let me go now be 
 fore Constance comes ! I can not, must not 
 see her!" 
 
 " You shall go home. Don't look so fright 
 ened ; you are worn out." 
 
 "It comes over me anew," she sighed, "each 
 time I think. Yes, let me go home." 
 
 "And don't think about this any more ; think 
 of nothing to-night but rest. These weeks are 
 gone dead ; there is nothing needed but that 
 man's silence and the note, and both are easy 
 to have. His manner of obtaining it has placed 
 him in our power." 
 
 " Oh, does it ? Can you get it ?" she asked, 
 remembering once more the dreaded world's 
 scorn, which she had nearly forgotten in John 
 Worthington's forgiveness. "You'll send me 
 word? Oh, I remember he said he should 
 come to-morrow. Don't let him come to-mor 
 row ; I can't bear it !" 
 
 "There is no danger of his troubling you 
 again at any time. I have your authority, and 
 shall prevent it. I shall see you to-morrow 
 morning, and meantime you will try to rest?" 
 
 He wrapped her up tenderly, and said, 
 
 "I shall tell Constance you waited no one 
 will think there was any special reason for your 
 visit. " 
 
 " You think of every thing !" 
 
 "All I want is to think of something to give 
 you a night's sleep." 
 
 "And I haven't had one in so long so 
 long! Oh, those nights!" 
 
 " Don't think of them ; all that is ended now, 
 and you can rest," he said. "Come, now; I 
 will put you in your carriage." 
 
 She hesitated a little. 
 
 "What is it, Alice?" 
 
 " Oh, I can not say k ! I haven't any 
 words " 
 
 "It doesn't need saying, Alice." 
 
 As he put his hand on hers to draw it through 
 his arm, she bent her head and pressed her lips 
 on it with a feeling of such pure devotion as she
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 1C9 
 
 had never felt for any human being since the | 
 day when she could recollect her father's par 
 don for some childish fault. She felt his strong 
 frame quiver in every nerve, but he did not 
 speak. 
 
 They went through the hall in silence, and 
 he placed her in the carriage. 
 
 "Good-night, now," he said. "You prom 
 ise me to rest and sleep ?" 
 
 " Yes, and I think I .can, too. I owe it to 
 you ; whatever peace my life may ever find, I 
 shall owe to you." 
 
 She was driven away, back to the home she 
 had left with such a frightful sensation of hav 
 ing in the world no place of refuge. She en 
 tered it now with the feeling of one who had 
 seen an earthquake suddenly yawn before his 
 feet, and when he seemed about to be over 
 whelmed in the darkness the chasm closed, and 
 the stars came out in the heaven above. 
 
 That night a merciful slumber without dreams 
 locked her senses, so long stranger to them, and 
 gave her new strength to meet the waking and 
 the new day which must come. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 C^ESAK'S CONFESSION. 
 
 So these first days dragged by for Milly. 
 There were useless discussions between herself 
 and her aunt, endless reproaches and complaints, 
 which threatened to end in destroying all affec 
 tion between the two. 
 
 Milly was determined to be brave and show 
 no wound. She saw every one who visited at 
 the house, and forced herself to appear the same 
 as usual. She laughed and talked so gayly, 
 and played her part so well, that the world went 
 away completely puzzled, and almost inclined 
 to believe that she had had matters her own 
 way where Kenneth Halford was concerned. 
 But the reaction when she was once more alone 
 was terrible. It was well for her that spring 
 had come and the festivities of winter were 
 nearly over, and people busy preparing to get 
 away from town, or the strain upon her nerves 
 would have broken her down completely. As 
 it was, they were worn to the most acutely sen 
 sitive state ; the sudden opening of a door 
 made her spring from her chair ; a loud voice 
 would give her a headache which lasted for 
 hours. She was obliged to see Mrs. Lawrence ; 
 for, notwithstanding Mrs. Remsen's lecture, the 
 little woman was so conscience-stricken about 
 Milly that she actually made her way into her 
 presence one day when she had met the bellig 
 erent aunt in the street, and knew she might 
 enter the house in comparative safety. 
 
 " Oh, Milly, little Milly !" she exclaimed, be 
 ginning to cry at once, " I am so sorry ; I nev 
 er meant you any harm, believe me. I just 
 thought it fun, and I have quarreled with Paul 
 Andrews, and I've told every one you didn't 
 go ; and if you did, it was without knowing 
 
 whose dinner it was ; and I wish my feet had 
 been cut off before I did it ;" and here she broke 
 down, and Milly had to comfort her it was the 
 first sincere sympathy the poor child had met 
 with. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Lawrence, you have done noth 
 ing ; I don't care about these ill-natured re 
 ports." 
 
 " Yes, but I've ruined your happiness ; your 
 engagement is broken off." 
 
 "But not on that account. It was all my 
 own doing. Mr. Halford did not even know of 
 the dinner until afterward." 
 
 Mrs. Lawrence brightened wonderfully, and 
 very soon was offering protestations of friend 
 ship for the future without stint. 
 
 "I wish you would be my guest at Newport 
 this summer for a nice long visit ; I'm sure 
 your aunt must be horrid cross just now. 
 Won't you promise, dear?" 
 
 But Milly had no desire for gayety ; more 
 over, she would not have chosen to trust her 
 self to Mrs. Lawrence's care, even if her aunt 
 would be willing a thing not probable. 
 
 "If ever I can help you, dearest little Milly, 
 you may be sure I will. I declare, if I should 
 die before you are married, I'll leave you all 
 the money I can will away from my husband's 
 relatives see if I don'f !" 
 
 Milly assured her that she much preferred 
 her continuing to live, and made her laugh at 
 the droll speeches under which she was learn 
 ing to conceal her suffering. 
 
 " I do wish you would come and see me ; but 
 I don't suppose your aunt would let you," said 
 Mrs. Lawrence. 
 
 "No, I suppose not," Milly said, frankly. 
 
 "Well, I can't blame her. Of course, she is 
 furious about your losing such a chance, and 
 blames every body concerned ; but you are not 
 angry with me, little Milly ; you are sure you 
 are not ?" 
 
 " Indeed I am not, dear Mrs. Lawrence ; I 
 think you arc as kind-hearted as it is possible 
 to be, and I like you very much." 
 
 "You are a little darling!" cried she. "I 
 just wish you were my own niece ; you should 
 break as many engagements as you pleased ; 
 you would be so nice to have always near one." 
 
 Milly thought of her own temper and bitter 
 feelings of late, and was heartily ashamed to be 
 the recipient of so much praise ; but Mrs. Law 
 rence would not hear a word to gainsay her 
 own opinion. 
 
 "I like you so much more than any young 
 lady I ever knew," she said. "If you should 
 ever need a friend, do promise to come to me. 
 I suppose I must go now. If your Aunt Rem- 
 sen found me with you she would be furious ; 
 but I was quite determined to see you." 
 
 "And you must go away feeling that you 
 have never done me any harm," said Milly. 
 
 " That will be a great comfort, and you real 
 ly don't look unhappy. People think me friv 
 olous and silly ; but I do love you, and can un 
 derstand vou. I used to be a different sort of
 
 170 
 
 JOHN WORTIHNGTON'S NAME. 
 
 woman once indeed I did !" She sighed, and 
 the tears came into her eyes ; tears for some 
 faded romance in her younger days ; but she 
 was too cheerful really to repine. 
 
 "The Lord knows when I shall see you 
 again," she said. "I am going down to the 
 Island soon, my dear. Keep up your courage, 
 and remember what I have said." 
 
 She kissed Milly a dozen times, repeating ev 
 ery sort of extravagant proffer, and went away 
 greatly relieved in her kind heart and mind. 
 Then, before many days foolish young Charley 
 Thorne must needs present himself to Milly, 
 and, after many pretexts and transparent eva 
 sions, pour out his tender story. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Milly, it wasn't for any of these 
 things that I came you know it wasn't! I 
 love you so I have always loved you ! I was 
 broken-hearted when I heard you were engaged 
 to Mr. Halford ; but they say you have sent him 
 off. Miss Milly, I came to ask you to care for 
 me a little to marry me, and let me try to 
 make you happy." 
 
 Milly was overcome with remorse when she 
 remembered how, in her recklessness and an 
 ger with another, she had led this young man 
 on to love her, forgetting that it might be sad 
 earnest to him. 
 
 " I am so sorry, oh ! so sorry," she faltered. 
 
 He looked in her face and saw the sympathy 
 there, but nothing more. He was not brilliant 
 or deep, but he really loved her in his boyish, 
 impetuous way, and his love made him clear 
 sighted enough to understand now that he had 
 no hope. 
 
 "You mean you can't care for me," he said. 
 " I know what being sorry means ! Oh, Miss 
 Milly, don't you think you ever could ?" 
 
 " Never, Charley, never, I'm quite sure ; but 
 I wouldn't have grieved you for the world." 
 
 "Nevermind all that," said he, bravely, "only 
 I did so hope ; I couldn't help it, you know. 
 For all they said you were engaged, you were 
 so kind and pleasant that I was fool enough to 
 think perhaps you did like me a little, and had 
 been drawn into that other affair against your 
 wishes." 
 
 He said this without having the least idea 
 bow his words reproached Milly, making her 
 see her coquetry in an entirely new light as an 
 absolute sin against that other young heart. 
 
 "I wish you could feel differently about it, 
 Milly ; I'm rich, you know, and I'd try so hard 
 to make you happy." 
 
 "Don't, Charley; please don't." 
 
 "I won't say another word if it pains you, 
 Milly. What makes you look so sad and 
 changed ? People say you are gayer than ever 
 since Halford went away, but I can see you are 
 not at all the same." 
 
 His love gifted the foolish fellow with new 
 perceptions ; he could feel that he beheld an 
 other Milly sitting there, very unlike the girl 
 with whom he had danced and made merry, 
 though he could not have explained his thought. 
 
 "I'll tell you what, Milly," he exclaimed, 
 
 suddenly. "If that fellow Halford has treat 
 ed 3'ou ill, I'll follow him to the ends of the 
 earth and punch his head. I always did hate 
 him." 
 
 He looked eager to be dispatched on the 
 journey at once, and Milly hastened to set his 
 mind at rest. 
 
 "No one has treated me ill, dear Charley; 
 but I have behaved shamefully to you, and I 
 ask your pardon for it." 
 
 " Now, don't," he stammered. " You'll have 
 me making a fool of myself in a minute, and I 
 mustn't do that. Oh, Milly, I wish you could 
 love me ! I'm twenty-one now ; my fortune is 
 all my own, and I know if you don't marry me 
 I shall get into no end of scrapes, and perhaps 
 ruin myself." 
 
 "Don't say so, Charley, for that would make 
 me very unhappy." 
 
 " Would it would it, really now ?" 
 
 " Indeed, indeed it would !" 
 
 "Then I'll do no such thing. I'll be as 
 steady as a light-house. I'll not spree, even 
 if the fellows do call me a muff," cried Charley, 
 bravely. " I wish I only had a regularly good 
 head-piece I'd I'd do something so grand 
 and magnificent that you'd be glad to love me. 
 But I'm good for nothing," sighed honest Char 
 ley, " unless it's at getting up tableaux and play 
 ing billiards, and they're no good, you know. 
 A fellow can't go about making a picture of 
 himself, or being like that French chap what's- 
 his-name that'll send a billiard-ball clear 
 round a corner and bring it back to pocket." 
 
 Milly looked at him and listened ; he seem 
 ed so very young, years and years younger than 
 herself in her experience and distress ; and she 
 envied him his youth and freshness, even his 
 folly. 
 
 "And you are sure you couldn't care for 
 me ?" persisted Charley. 
 
 "Only as a sister might, Charley; in that 
 way I care a great deal for yon, and always 
 shall." 
 
 "Yes, that's nice," said Charley, doubtfully. 
 "It's what women always say to the men they 
 won't marry. Oh dear! I'm sure I don't 
 know what to do with my life it's an awful 
 bore, you know ! You sec I have been build 
 ing a sort of chateau what-do-you-call-it ? I 
 never could remember the French word ; and 
 now its tumbled about my ears, and 1 stand 
 like the fellow among the ruins of Carthage, 
 you know," said Charley, with dramatic effect, 
 recalling the simile from some long-forgotten 
 school-book. 
 
 "But you will try and get over it soon, Char 
 ley, and find out how much better it is for you, 
 and cease to care for me in that way. " 
 
 "Maybe so," said Charley, ruefully; "so 
 does a fellow get over the toothache, but it 
 hurts deucedly while it lasts." 
 
 Here was Charley Thorne attempting com 
 parisons and being imaginative ; but Milly was 
 too sick at heart to smile at his oddities or 
 blunders. She had to send him away con-
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 171 
 
 vinced at last; but when it came to parting 
 he grew desperate, and nearly blubbered. 
 
 "I never thought I should wish to use my 
 new revolver except for fun," sighed he ; " but 
 I'd like to, now." 
 
 He was so dismally in earnest, that Milly's 
 self-reproaches and sorrow for his pain would 
 not permit her to get impatient with the poor 
 boy. 
 
 " Well," cried he at last, " I must say good 
 bye ! You've made my life a blank, Miss Mil- 
 ly, but. it isn't your fault ! I feel just like the 
 man in Tennyson, you know 
 
 'Oh, my Amy, mine no more 
 Oh, the barren, barren moor-land ! 
 Oh, the dreary, dreary shore !' 
 
 Only I don't think you're false or shallow, you 
 know ; but I'm sure Broadway and the Avenue 
 will be a desert to me now, and the Park a deal 
 more lonesome than any moor-land." 
 
 He got as far as the door, but had to come 
 back ; it was all cruelly serious with him, and 
 he was suffering to the full extent of his capac 
 ity. He kissed Milly's hands, quoted more 
 Tennyson, slapped his forehead as he had seen 
 Edwin Booth do in a play, and then he flung 
 himself out of the room. 
 
 As ill-luck would have it, he met Mrs. Rem- 
 sen in the hall, and as keeping his emotions se 
 cret was not an art in which Charley excelled, 
 he was fain to tell her his troubles, and his de 
 termination of doing something desperate, be 
 fore Milly had begged him not. 
 
 Mrs. Eemsen was seized with an idea. Why 
 should not Milly take possession of this silly 
 boy and his half -million, and bring him up 
 reasonably? Plenty of girls would have ac 
 cepted him thankfully. If Milly only would 
 do so, every thing might be arranged, and Mrs. 
 Remsen's anxieties at rest. She contented her 
 self with telling Charley that young women 
 often changed their minds, and that he must 
 not consider all at an end and lose courage. 
 "Paint heart never won fair lady." 
 
 " That's what the play says. Mary Gannon 
 used to do the boy so well in it," said Charley ; 
 "but I don't know about it. Milly might do 
 exactly what she pleased with me ; I'd never 
 cross her such a pony-carriage as she should 
 have ! I wouldn't even let the dogs into the 
 house if it bothered her;" and after this con 
 cession Charley felt that masculine devotion 
 could go no further. 
 
 "I am sure you would be a kind husband," 
 Mrs. Eemsen said, determined, under the influ 
 ence of her new idea, not to see that he was a 
 fool. 
 
 Charley was flattered by the praise, and took 
 himself off less burdened with black despair, 
 though he went along the street muttering, 
 
 " I feel like Mariana in the 'Moated Grange,' 
 by Jove ! 
 
 'She only said, "My life is dreary; 
 
 He cometh not," she said ; 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead !" ' 
 
 That's it, for all she wasn't a fellow ; it just ex 
 presses it." 
 
 He thought of numberless self-pitying and pa 
 thetic bits of poetry, and went resolutely home 
 to be miserable over his woes, in spite of meet 
 ing Jack Norris and Harry Colville, and other 
 choice spirits of his own calibre, who tried to 
 lure him into Phelan's for billiards, or Delmon- 
 ico's for luncheon. 
 
 Charley Thome shook them off impatiently. 
 Billiards, he said, were "a drug;" food was "dis 
 gusting." Even the sight of a wonderful little 
 black-and-tan dog Jack Norris had gave him no 
 pleasure, and Harry Colville's stunning trowsers 
 and gorgeous scarf failed to awaken envy in 
 his soul. 
 
 "There's a gulf between me and them," said 
 Charley to himself, as he trudged through Un 
 ion Square ; " a gulf they can't bridge over, ex 
 cept with Byron's ' Bridge of Sighs,' by Jupiter ! 
 I know just how those chaps used to feel when 
 they went over it. I shall go out of town ; 
 maybe I'd better go back to Europe ; that's 
 what the fellows always do in English novels 
 rush over to the 'Continent.' I wonder why 
 the rest of Europe isn't the Continent as well 
 as Paris, for it's always just going to Paris they 
 mean by it. Oh dear, I'm very wretched ! If 
 I was to go and see those terrier-pups to-day ; 
 but I sha'n't ; I've no heart for any thing now. 
 There goes Tom Sora ; and it's Lydia Mason 
 walking with him, and they look so happy 
 Oh I hate them I hate the whole world ; I 
 wish I was dead ! " 
 
 Charley banged his hat down over his eyes, 
 and strode home, as miserable in his own way 
 as more rational and broader-minded people 
 are in theirs. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was at the same time advising 
 Milly to marry Charley Thome, and Milly was 
 so outraged that she seemed to have reached 
 the crowning moment of her humiliation and 
 misery. 
 
 "I begin to believe, Aunt Remsen, that you 
 would sell me, body and soul," she said. "I 
 marry that boy, that baby without an idea in 
 his head!" 
 
 "But he is so rich ; he would be very kind ; 
 he is good looking, and of good family. Many 
 a girl would be glad enough to get him." 
 
 "Let them take him, I beg." 
 
 " I never saw a girl throw away her life and 
 prospects as you do ! You would not marry 
 Halford, a man of mind and brain ; you won't 
 marry Charley Thome, because he is a fool. In 
 Heaven's name, what would you wish to have ?" 
 
 "I wish for nothing, Aunt Remsen, except 
 to be left alone." 
 
 "You'll not have offers of marriage every 
 day ! I never knew so lucky a girl, or one who 
 so recklessly rejected her chances." 
 
 "Aunt Eliza, would you like to see me mar 
 ry Charley Thorne? Answer honestly." 
 
 "I know twenty girls who would be only too 
 rejoiced to do it," she answered, evasively. 
 
 " I have not a feeling in common with him ;
 
 172 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 he could no more share my thoughts than I 
 could understand Hebrew." 
 
 " Oh ! if you are going to talk like Hortense, 
 I have done. Having genius, and soul, and in 
 ward yearnings for congeniality, and Heaven 
 knows what other nonsense, may be all very 
 well for a young lady with a fortune ; but when 
 she has hardly a penny of her own, I call such 
 things downright wicked, and if they don't bring 
 a judgment on your head I shall wonder." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen reproached Milly bitterly ; but 
 I suppose she would have been sorry to see her 
 sacrificed in this way. At the moment, all she 
 could think of seemed to be the madness of 
 deliberately throwing away a half -million of 
 money. 
 
 " You could be married at once," she said ; ; 
 "and that would put an end to all the stories 
 about you. Charley would take you to Europe 
 immediately. Why, he would be a perfect slave : 
 to any whim of yours." 
 
 "And the sin, Aunt Remsen the wicked 
 ness of marrying a man whom I could not love 
 nor even respect, whose weakness I must indeed 
 despise. You say nothing of these." 
 
 "And you, you think nothing of repaying my 
 long years of affection with ingratitude, of the 
 wickedness of making one a skeleton with anx 
 iety about your future. You don't think of 
 these things in this moment of delicacy and re 
 ligious scruples." 
 
 This series of excitements, following in such 
 rapid succession, was killing little Milly. She 
 wrung her hands, and burst into a torrent of 
 despairing tears that frightened Mrs. Remsen, 
 who knew better than any one how terribly her 
 nerves had been tried. 
 
 "I shall say no more," she continued, 
 " though I don't know how we are to get on 
 this summer ; I feel as poor as a church-mouse. 
 What I can afford must be spent upon Maud, 
 and we must economize." 
 
 "I want nothing, Aunt Remsen nothing 
 but rest." 
 
 "As for keeping the governess, I think it a 
 useless expense this summer," pursued Mrs. 
 Remsen. "What with some money I have 
 lost, and all that I have spent upon your win 
 ter, so certain was I of your doing well, that I 
 feel quite penniless for the present." 
 
 " I will teach the children, do any thing for 
 them, as I have told you. Let me go down 
 into the country; I shall be so glad to get 
 away. I can take the children, and that will 
 be an economy. You will be able to go with 
 Maud to a watering-place." 
 
 " I am in a nice state of mind for society," 
 sighed Mrs. Remsen; "you have so dispirited 
 me. How can I tell that Maud will not behave 
 in the same way fly in the face of Heaven just 
 as her good luck is all accomplished and ready 
 to accept?" 
 
 Milly might have added that she hoped that 
 Maud would not have all her hopes blighted 
 when they looked most blooming, her faith in 
 human nature, her trust in life, almost her be 
 
 lief in the goodness of God, shaken to its foun 
 dation by a blow from the very hand which had 
 promised to make existence brighter and more 
 beautiful. But she had grown shy of giving 
 utterance to her feelings, even before her aunt. 
 So Milly remained silent. 
 
 "Perhaps you think Maud's future of little 
 consequence," said Mrs. Remsen. 
 
 "Indeed, Aunt Remsen, I was thinking a 
 great deal about it, and hoping that it might 
 be bright and pleasant." 
 
 " There shall be no more nonsense," said 
 her aunt, forcibly ; " on this I am determined. 
 I have learned to my cost what romance and 
 poetical feelings lead to." 
 
 Milly shivered at her annt's harsh tone ; 
 Mrs. Remsen had imagination enough to un 
 derstand Milly somewhat; but, after all, when 
 one is vexed and disappointed it is very diffi 
 cult to be generous, and one is prone to lose re 
 spect for romance and poetry when they stand 
 in the way of getting one's youthful charges 
 successfully settled in the world. 
 
 The time that Mrs. Remsen had named for 
 leaving town was the first week in May, and it 
 arrived at last, although to Milly it had seemed 
 that the day would never come. Matters had 
 been more definitely arranged between aunt 
 and niece, and the actual dislike which seem 
 ed at one time imminent was gradually passing 
 from their minds. Milly had promised to be 
 governess to the little girls, and Rob was to be 
 sent to boarding-school. No more holiday life 
 for Milly ; she felt she must be useful, since she 
 had so lamentably failed in the ornamental 
 part, and wished to make all the amends in her 
 power. 
 
 Maud was horribly disappointed and disa 
 greeable when she was made aware of the 
 plans in contemplation for the summer, and 
 she rebelled with an explosion of wrath, as 
 loud as she dared make it in her mothers pres 
 ence, mingled with premonitions of the ava 
 lanche of reproach which would fall on Milly's 
 devoted head at the first convenient opportu 
 nity. 
 
 " Go into the country now, and to stay, and 
 at that horrid poky place I have always so 
 hated!" cried the young lady. "And you 
 promised me that I should go to Newport ; you 
 know you did, mamma!" 
 
 "But you wouldn't care to go there before 
 August?" 
 
 "I shall die of stupidity in the country, I 
 know I shall," moaned Maud. " Not a soul to 
 speak to that one cares about oh dear! oh 
 dear!" 
 
 Just then she was seized with a brilliant 
 thought. Adelaide was good-natured to her, 
 when it did not interfere with her own comfort, 
 and Mr. Ramsay was always so. Maud felt 
 confident that, if she bemoaned her fate in his 
 hearing with sufficient clamor to penetrate the 
 abstraction in which he passed the time out of 
 business hours, he would bid Adelaide snatch 
 i her from the impending fate. So, when the
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 173 
 
 process of packing for the journey commenced, 
 Miss Maud arrayed herself and departed to her 
 brother-in-law's mansion, looking like Niobe, 
 just before the process of petrifying that damp 
 and unhappy female. She was so fortunate as 
 to find Mr. Eamsay at home, as she expected, 
 for it was near the dinner hour ; and what was 
 equally satisfactory, her sister Adelaide was in 
 an unusually good humor, as she had coaxed 
 her husband into giving her a lovely brooch 
 and ear-rings that day. 
 
 "I have come to dinner," announced Miss 
 Maud; " and I am as miserable as I can possi 
 bly be." 
 
 Mr. Ramsay came out of his brown study, 
 and nodded pleasantly, as he had only heard 
 the first part of her announcement, relapsing 
 immediately into abstraction. 
 
 "Great bear!" thought Maud; "I'd like to 
 pinch you into a little feeling !" 
 
 Adelaide displayed her jewelry for Maud, 
 and she was forced to admire it in spite of the 
 bitterness in her soul, for fear of the conse 
 quences ; but she took the earliest occasion to 
 begin the recital of her wrongs, and Adelaide 
 grew more amiable than ever, after roundly 
 abusing poor little Milly. 
 
 "I'd rather die, Adelaide, than be buried in 
 the country. I think mamma is downright 
 cruel, and, as for Milly, I quite begin to hate 
 her." 
 
 "She's horribly aggravating," returned Mrs. 
 Ramsay ; " it's all her fault, I'm sure, and I 
 wonder mamma has any patience with her." 
 
 " If you were in my place you would go per 
 fectly wild," pursued Maud. "Oh, I don't 
 know what I shall do !" 
 
 She fretted and complained, occasionally 
 glancing toward Mr. Ramsay; but his thoughts j 
 were full of some Western railway stock that 
 had risen astonishingly in the market that 
 morning, and he did not even remember that 
 she was in the room. At last Maud began to 
 weep ; she bubbled and trickled like a mount 
 ain brook, and distressed Adelaide, because 
 such noisy grief interfered with her comfort ; 
 but the desired effect was at length attained. 
 Mr. Ramsay heard, came out of his medita 
 tions, and exclaimed, 
 
 "Heyday, pussy, what in the world is the 
 matter?" 
 
 Maud only sobbed the louder, and Adelaide 
 said, . 
 
 "She's in despair at having to go down to 
 the country place ; and mamma is so discour 
 aged by Milly's horrid conduct that she has no 
 spirits left for any thing else." 
 
 "You don't want to go into the country, 
 pussy ?" said Mr. Ramsay, kindly. 
 
 " Oh, it's horrid !" sobbed Maud ; "it's enough 
 to kill any one." . . 
 
 "Well, well, don't cry so; you'll spoil your 
 pretty eyes ! Stay with us ; Adelaide can take 
 you to Saratoga, and then you can go with her 
 to Newport, too. Don't cry !" 
 
 Maud was in an ecstasy of delight ; this was 
 
 ! better than she had dared even to hope. Ade 
 laide, being softened by Maud's judicious ad 
 miration of herself and her new jewels, and an 
 imated by a desire to punish Milly by the con 
 trast, entered into the scheme with sufficient 
 satisfaction. Maud went home in delight, and 
 informed her mother of her good fortune, and 
 Mrs. Remsen was almost as glad as her daugh 
 ter at the turn affairs had taken. 
 
 "I shall go to Adelaide at once," said Maud. 
 "I can do no good here, can I, mamma?" 
 
 "None in the least," Mrs. Remsen replied, 
 truthfully enough. " You had better get your 
 trunks packed, and go to-morrow. I can ar 
 range with Adelaide to get you any thing else 
 you may need." 
 
 So Maud escaped the discomforts and disa 
 greeables of the last days one spends in a house 
 under such circumstances. It would have been 
 a shadow upon that gentle young person's hap 
 piness if she could have known how much 
 Milly was relieved by her departure, and with 
 what satisfaction she looked forward to the 
 quiet of the country, undisturbed by her cous 
 in's uncongenial presence ; but Maud, feeling 
 sure that Milly must be wretched over the con 
 trast to her good luck and anticipated summer 
 of content, departed in the full tide of bliss. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen, Milly, and the children went 
 down into the country ; but, before their de 
 parture, a revelation was made to Milly, which 
 somewhat softened the fierce anger and sense 
 of injury that had helped her to keep up a show 
 of courage. 
 
 Caesar, the coffee - colored, was going, as he 
 always did in the summer, to coin gold at a 
 watering-place, and lord it as head waiter over 
 more humble and deeper-tinged companions in 
 labor. The evening before his departure he 
 asked for an interview with Milly. Caesar's 
 dark-hued conscience had awakened ; he knew 
 very well what had happened to Milly, as serv 
 ants always do know the troubles in the family, 
 and Caesar took remorse to himself in the affair 
 of the note which his young mistress had given 
 him, and which had lain for so many days for 
 gotten in the recesses of Julius Hannibal's 
 treacherous pocket, that the two ebony idiots 
 decided that it was of no use whatever then to 
 deliver it. Cassar could not make up his mind 
 to leave the house without confessing his guilt, 
 for he cherished a chivalrous devotion for Mil 
 ly ; but he put off his revelation, like a wise 
 creature, until the moment when it could do no 
 possible good. He told his story with the gran 
 diloquence peculiar to his race, beginning with, 
 
 " I little 'spected Miss Milly, that annoyings 
 could ever reach you from any resource where 
 I was connected, but I trusted to friendship, 
 and friendship has proved a Gurgorious knot, 
 which I had to cut distinctively." 
 
 Caesar wrote for an Ethiopian paper, and was 
 a poet much admired among the select circles 
 in colored society where he moved. In conse 
 quence of this turn of mind, his conversation 
 was often so flowery and ornate, to say nothing
 
 174 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 of its peculiarity, that it was difficult to dis 
 cover his precise meaning, a difficulty not quite 
 unheard of, however, in the case of other po 
 ets. But he soon made himself clear enough 
 for Milly's comprehension by producing the 
 unfortunate note, wrapped in tissue-paper and 
 tied with a pink ribbon, as he had laid it care 
 fully aside after its recovery ; find he bowed be 
 fore Milly, as he presented it, with a contrite 
 air which would have made the fortune of a 
 "negro minstrel," if it could only have been re 
 produced in its perfection. 
 
 Milly had no thought of reproving him 
 where would be the good of doing so now? 
 She took the billet, told Caesar that it was not 
 of the slightest importance, and thanked him 
 for his honesty, though it had come somewhat 
 too late. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 OVERREACHING HIMSELF. 
 
 SEVERAL days elapsed before John Wor- 
 thington could see Faulkner, for business had 
 called him out of town. During this time 
 Worth ington did not go to Mrs. Marchmont. 
 He knew that his presence would only be a 
 pain until he could tell her that the matter 
 was definitely arranged. He wrote her a kind 
 letter, begging her to feel no uneasiness, and 
 she rested upon that assurance. At length he 
 grew tired of the waiting himself at least, he 
 could not bear the idea of her suffering this 
 suspense any longer. She received another 
 note he had gone to Washington in search 
 of the man. 
 
 Dick Faulkner's schemes at this juncture had 
 led him further than he contemplated, and he 
 was at the capital, hoping to gain private in 
 formation as to the way certain bills before 
 Congress would turn, in order that he might 
 strike some grand coup in stocks, and relieve 
 himself from his present embarrassment the 
 first check which he had met since he com 
 menced his bold operations. Worthington 
 was in a position to do him great harm in the 
 opinions of the honorable members and sena 
 tors whom he wished to reach ; and his arrival, 
 and the fact that Mrs. Marchmont had actually 
 revealed the whole truth, was an unexpected 
 blow. 
 
 There was a private meeting between the 
 two men ; and, before it ended, John Wor 
 thington gave the coward a secret to guard on 
 his own account, for he shook him until he was 
 black in the face ; and probably, since the days 
 of his boyhood, Dick Faulkner had never re 
 ceived so thorough a chastisement. It grew 
 out of his venturing to sneer at Mrs. March 
 mont when irritated by Worthington's cool as 
 sumption of a right to claim the note. 
 
 "You couldn't swear it was yours; you 
 couldn't deny, if it came to a trial, that the 
 woman was a forger," he said. 
 
 " There is no possibility that any such ques 
 
 tion should arise," Mr. Worthington answered, 
 with ominous composure. " There may be a 
 trial, but it will be against you. Mrs. March 
 mont gave a promissory note to the man Her 
 mans, with my indorsement on the back " 
 
 "A forged indorsement!" broke in Dick. 
 
 " When she went to take it up,"pursued Wor 
 thington, more quietly than ever, "she found 
 that you had stolen it." 
 
 "I paid the money." 
 
 "Exactly; but you represented yourself as 
 her agent exhibited a letter which Hermans 
 will swear you said was written by her the day 
 before, to give you the authority for action. 
 Miss Portman will swear that this letter was 
 written months previous, and referred to an 
 entirely different business. The case is a very 
 clear one, Mr. Faulkner; I shall have the pleas"- 
 ure of conducting it myself." 
 
 Dick Faulkner began to have the look of a 
 feline animal driven into a corner. 
 
 "Also, in connection with that case there 
 will be brought up another," continued John 
 Worthington. " Since your arrival here, you 
 and your agents have been guilty of an attempt 
 at bribery of certain members of Congress for 
 the furtherance of a bill you want carried 
 through." 
 
 "I never offered a penny to one of them." 
 
 "I am aware of that ; but promises to secure 
 them a share in your gains, and an offer to make 
 your word good in advance, constitute bribery 
 just the same." 
 
 Faulkner attempted to bluster, but the ef 
 fort was so signal a failure that he recognized 
 its absurdity, and said, sullenly, 
 
 "Well, what do you want ?" 
 
 " To take up the note with my name on the 
 back, which you obtained under false pretenses, 
 and give you my check for the amount." 
 
 Faulkner pulled the bill out of his pocket, 
 received the check in exchange, and might 
 have escaped, further humiliation had he been 
 able to restrain his tongue. 
 
 " You've got the whip-hand of me," said he, 
 with a malicious grin. "You're about the 
 shrewdest man I ever met, John Worthington, 
 I'll own that ! But there are some things you 
 can't set right. You can't make my lady an 
 honest woman ; you can't hinder the fact that 
 every time you look at her you will remember 
 she's a forger ; you can't prevent her knowing 
 you think it, or help her forget that she came 
 near being my " 
 
 He never finished that sentence. Then it 
 was that he found himself clutched in Wor 
 thington's nervous arms, and, though a strong 
 man himself, lifted bodily like a child, and flung 
 on the floor in the struggle. I am happy to 
 add that John Worthington also so far forgot 
 his habitual control as to apply the toe of his 
 boot vigorously to the prostrate form. An ac 
 count of a duel would have been more dramat 
 ic, but not so pleasurable to narrate, nor so 
 sore a punishment to the dastardly wretch. 
 
 The morning after this occurrence, Alice
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 175 
 
 Marchmont sat waiting for her visitor almost ' 
 with such feelings as men of old must have 
 waited for the coming of the angels who some 
 times visited them. I think the comparison is 
 not too strong, nor do I mean to be irreverent. 
 It was the very thought in her mind. Could 
 there remain a hope that her repentance would 
 prove effectual had the feeling been less ? 
 
 He had saved her this man whom she had 
 been afraid to trust saved her, and given her 
 back to life. She could see, too, that her sin 
 was not so much against him as. against her 
 own soul ; but it was only now that she saw 
 this. During those weeks of blind anguish, 
 her chief dread was in losing the respect and 
 admiration of those about her, and, worst, the 
 idea that exposure would deprive her of his es 
 teem and friendship. It was horrible enough 
 to be flung down from her place in the world 
 to become the theme of gossip and execration ; 
 but to live without him was more terrible. 
 
 Now she was willing to accept her humilia 
 tion ; she had not been brave enough to confess 
 her folly and obtain his aid ; she had elected to 
 commit the sin, and must endure the expia 
 tion. 
 
 She wondered, as she sat there, what life 
 would be to her henceforth. She could not 
 take it up from the spot where this great trou 
 ble had made the break. In all time to come, 
 existence must be very different to her from 
 any thing which had gone before. But noth 
 ing was clear to her mind as yet ; nothing be 
 yond the thankfulness, the penitence, the desire 
 to be set right. 
 
 So occupied was she with her reflections that 
 John "Worthington entered the room before she 
 was aware, and saw her face as it looked in her 
 solitude very pale still, but with the restless 
 ness and anxiety, the repression and fear quite 
 gone out of it a purer, sweeter face than it 
 had been in years. She did not rise ; she was 
 feeble, as if after a long illness. She put out 
 her hands in silence ; he took them in his own, 
 and held them in that firm, ge.ntle grasp which 
 gave her a sense of such protection. 
 
 "It is all arranged," he said; "I must re 
 peat what I wrote, so that we may be done with 
 the subject forever." 
 
 "And you went after him you saw him !" 
 
 " Understand me," he said ; " it is all over." 
 
 "All over!" . She whispered the words as a 
 man might the sentence of his reprieve coming 
 when he was in sight of the scaffold. 
 
 "Arranged without his even having the priv 
 ilege of an evil thought, Alice ; but I told no 
 untruths." 
 
 " No, no ; I am sure of that." 
 
 " So it is over, and there is a whole new life 
 before you." 
 
 He sat down by her, and she looked at him 
 with the trust and confidence which, before 
 these troublous times, had offered so beautiful 
 a contrast to her capricious moods with others. 
 
 "And that is what I want to know about," 
 she said. " I want to have a new life. I think 
 
 for a time I must go away. It will be better 
 for me. I can't explain what I mean. I sha'n't 
 go just because I am ashamed to meet you and 
 know what must be in your thoughts ; I would 
 try to bear that " 
 
 She had spoken more and more slowly 
 could get no further. 
 
 "Shall I show you one way to a new life?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Yes ; you will help me." 
 
 She did not notice that his face had grown 
 a little pale, and that his hand trembled as it 
 rested on her chair. 
 
 "Will you be my wife, Alice?" he asked, 
 softly. 
 
 She looked at him for an instant, doubtful 
 whether she could have heard aright. 
 
 " Will you be my wife?" he continued, " and 
 let me shield you even from every sad thought ?" 
 
 She never dreamed of the secret which had 
 lain in his heart for years. She could not im 
 agine that the offer came from any other mo 
 tive than his intense sympathy, his great good 
 ness. He was not content to have saved her ; 
 he was so anxious to restore her to her own 
 self-respect that he asked her to become his 
 wife, hoping thus to make her feel that she 
 had not lost her claims to esteem. He would 
 marry her, and guard her happiness so care 
 fully that never, by word or look, would he be 
 tray what he suffered in remembering her past. 
 But she could not accept the sacrifice. It 
 would be a sin blacker than her great crime. 
 Yet she must not let him perceive that she rec 
 ognized it as a sacrifice, because then he would 
 overpower her by his arguments, and she was 
 so weak that she might yield all the weaker 
 that her heart yearned toward him as it had 
 never done toward any other man. She reach 
 ed these conclusions with her usual rapidity, 
 tired as she was, and, when he attempted to 
 continue, said, quickly, 
 
 ^'Please don't say any more not a word. 
 Lean not listen! Don't make me seem harsh 
 and aingrateful I can't listen." 
 
 The answer fell like a stroke of doom, and 
 crushed the vague hope which had been grow 
 ing in his mind during these last days. His 
 old supposition had been correct ; she cared 
 for some one else. All he could do now was 
 to spare her pain ; hide his trouble, bury the 
 long-treasured secret more deeply in his soul, 
 let her believe that no sentiment stronger than 
 sympathy had prompted his speech. 
 
 " Since it pains you, Alice," he said, in-.an 
 unfaltering voice, "I will never speak of this 
 again never. You shall forget that I have 
 mentioned it, or remember it only to know how 
 entirely you can trust my friendship." 
 
 " I do know ! I can't thank you. Oh, I am 
 dumb but I feel it God bless you !" 
 
 She was so much shaken and disturbed that 
 he rose and went away at once. That night 
 he received a long letter from her, and two days 
 after the gay world was astonished by the news 
 that she had sailed for Europe.
 
 176 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 So they parted ; and close as each had been 
 to reading the other's secret, no perception of 
 the truth struck either heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 BEARING HER BURDEN. 
 
 MILLY and her aunt went away into the coun 
 try, accompanied by the children away to a 
 little place which was Milly's sole possession, 
 and where they had been in the habit of spend 
 ing a few months of retirement almost every 
 summer, in order to be able to afford the ex 
 penses of the winter. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen spoke vaguely of their "place " 
 as a little nest, where she sought rest and do 
 mestic felicity; and although these were not 
 the reasons which took her there, it was a spot 
 in which one might have been well content, if 
 in a mood to enjoy the quiet loveliness of the 
 surroundings. The house was not far from a 
 village that seemed always wrapped in a Rip 
 Van Winkle sleep, with its small, vine-covered 
 dwellings, its pretty church and school, and all 
 the appurtenances that go to make up a well- 
 regulated hamlet ; not forgetting its shop, where 
 the farmers' wives from the vicinity brought 
 their butter and eggs to sell, taking in exchange 
 all manner of bright-colored finery, to delight 
 the eyes of their daughters ; and the quaint old 
 inn, where the same set of seedy loungers grad 
 ually grew more and more dilapidated as the 
 years went by. 
 
 The cottage was small ; but it had a wide 
 hall, a pretty parlor, with white draperied win 
 dows, and a book and music room on one side, 
 with shady bay-windows, besides a great vine- 
 covered porch. It had a smooth, sloping lawn 
 in front, a lovely pine wood at the back, and 
 one might have played the misanthrope in such 
 quarters with tolerable resignation. The view 
 from the porch was quietly lovely, with a little 
 river a tributary of the Hudson in the mid 
 dle distance, cultivated fields and bits of wood 
 land on either side, and a range of blue-tinted 
 hills closing in the distance far away, beautiful 
 and mysterious as distant hills must always be. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen pronounced herself fond of the 
 country, but her idea of enjoying it thoroughly 
 was to have an immense house and constant 
 flocks of visitors, so that she never accepted the 
 months at her hermitage save as a stern neces 
 sity. It had always been pleasant enough here 
 to Milly, though sometimes rather dull. In 
 her youthful heedlessness, she had not enjoyed 
 to its full extent the peace which Nature brings 
 if we only seek her faithfully, and now she had 
 lost the power to do so. 
 
 There they established themselves, and pre 
 pared to pass the summer; and what a sum 
 mer what a dreadful summer to Milly in ev 
 ery way ! She wondered how she lived through 
 it ; but though the bloom wore out of her cheeks 
 and the light out of her eyes, her health would 
 
 not quite fail. Her aunt had, in a great meas 
 ure, ceased her allusions to the past, but there 
 was winter between their hearts, and each 
 blamed the other that it was so ; and both were 
 right, and both were wrong. Milly kept to the 
 strict letter of their agreement^ but it was in 
 the spirit which would make one rush into mar 
 tyrdom. She taught the children even, and 
 she brought them on well ; but the duties that 
 might have been made so pleasant were nearly 
 unendurable, and she almost hated herself and 
 her charge sometimes. The children were 
 quick to understand this, and they complained 
 of Milly's indifference ; then Aunt Eliza found 
 fault in a frigid, conscientious way worse than 
 her old petulance, and Milly was impatient or 
 sullen, and every thing was as bad as it could 
 be. I wish I could say that my poor Milly 
 bore her woes in either a heroic or an angelic 
 manner ; but she was only a very woman, sud 
 denly come out of her childhood, and so she 
 could but be natural. 
 
 The spring dragged heavily on into summer; 
 the summer deepened to its prime, but brought 
 no change, no hope of peace to Milly, or relief 
 to her aunt. Maud was having a success at 
 Newport with her sister. This was Mrs. Rem- 
 sen's only consolation ; and she could not for 
 bear reading bits from her letters to Milly, and 
 irritating her by hints of what she herself might 
 have been enjoying, until the poor girl Avas 
 white and shivering with pain. 
 
 Her aunt thought her wholly to blame now. 
 She must have driven Halford away by her ca 
 prices and bad temper. But, in truth, he was 
 more in fault than Milly, as men past their first 
 youth always are when they want to marry a 
 Avife because she is young and childish, and 
 then get impatient with the faults growing out 
 of the very qualities they had desired, and for 
 get that a girl who is capable of real, earnest 
 love is also capable of being gently led into a 
 noble womanhood. They were all wrong just 
 as we often are in this world ; but Milly's trou 
 ble was hardest tp bear, because it was her first. 
 As we grow older, we know that, however dark 
 is the night, it must surely pass at length, if it 
 be only into a gray quiet like an autumn after 
 noon. 
 
 In first suffering we do not understand this. 
 The first clouding of the sky, the first obscur 
 ing of all beauty in life, is much more terrible 
 than when later we have gro\vn somewhat ac 
 customed to seeing our flowers fade, and our 
 suns go down. Ah ! no matter what may come 
 afterward misery, ruin, even disgrace there is 
 nothing so overwhelming as the first swoop of 
 affliction upon the entirely undisciplined heart. 
 
 So they all struggled on after their differ 
 ent ways ; Kenneth Halford looking back into 
 the past from his foreign wanderings, with a 
 keen regret that deepened daily as he found 
 how difficult it was to take a new interest in 
 life ; Aunt Eliza disgusted with young people 
 generally ; and Milly so rebellious that sorrow 
 worked no good in her nature.
 
 JOHN WORTHIXGTON'S NAME. 
 
 177 
 
 She chafed most because she could not with 
 one wrench tear out the past from her heart. 
 She did not know that the pain from the scar 
 of a healed wound is sometimes more insupport 
 able, with its dull aching, than the keenness of 
 the first agony. Twenty times each day she 
 might say to herself that she scorned the mem 
 ory of this man who had wronged her hated 
 herself the whole world ; but then she raged 
 inwardly because she could not deny that she 
 was intensely and entirely miserable. She was 
 in that state of mind when even sensible peo 
 ple do the most senseless things sit on the wet 
 grass stare at the moon at unholy hours eat 
 and drink dreadful things at impossible seasons, 
 or not eat at all ; and when the physical system 
 refuses longer to bear this ill-treatment, added 
 to the incessant hen-pecking of the soul, and 
 gives way and perishes, friends talk of their 
 having died of a broken heart, or some such 
 malady of which rational human beings have 
 no business whatever to die. 
 
 Poor Milly, with her changed face, her mourn 
 ful eyes, and her dark, gloomy thoughts ! She 
 had no faith left in mankind ; she grew cynical, 
 and discovered falsehood in the most trivial 
 action ; could see no justice in heaven or on 
 earth. You who have left the freshness of 
 your youth far behind you can perfectly under 
 stand the different stages of suffering through 
 which she passed. These were the seasons 
 . when her crushed pride rose and helped her to 
 loathe the recollection of her brief dream ; then 
 days and days when she could summon neither 
 pride nor hatred could only crouch down un 
 der the sharpness of her suffering, like a wound 
 ed deer dying in its thicket. Then would fol 
 low periods almost of mental vacuity, when she 
 seemed only to vegetate ; though all the time, 
 through her apathy, she could feel the dull ache 
 of her trouble like a bodily pain that is deaden 
 ed by laudanum the days were so long and 
 drear}', the nights seemed endless. Either she 
 had not energy enough to -stir except as her 
 duties compelled her, or else she rushed forth 
 to walk mile after mile, until she actually sunk 
 down from physical prostration ; but whether 
 she was shut up in the house tortured by her 
 own reflections, or wearing her strength out by 
 overfatigue, the pain never would leave her 
 heart. 
 
 To some persons this may seem very silly, 
 but it is dreadfully true, notwithstanding. It 
 is terrible for the young to suffer, and Milly's 
 was real suffering. It was no false sentiment, 
 no romance from which she could recover, and 
 be then all the stronger and wiser. Hers had 
 been the love that comes but once to the heart, 
 and which deforms and distorts the mind, or 
 develops it to its fullest beauty, according as 
 one bears the happiness or trouble which it 
 brings ; and Milly had not yet learned to bear 
 hers wisely. 
 
 A brief visit from Hortense was the only 
 break in the monotony. She was on her wav, 
 with a party of wise people, to visit the Mam- 
 12 
 
 moth Cave, and other marvels of nature suf 
 ficiently grand to interest such lofty minds. 
 She stopped at the cottage for a few days, hav 
 ing arranged to rejoin her companions in a city 
 farther west, where they were to tarry for a 
 time, in order that one of the professors might 
 illuminate the region by a course of his scien 
 tific lectures. 
 
 Mrs. Kemsen was divided between the pleas 
 ure of having some one to whom she could talk 
 freely, and annoyance at the extreme trouble 
 such a guest would bring to the small domestic 
 staff; and Milly comforted herself by the re 
 membrance that it might have been worse if 
 Adelaide Ramsay had chosen to come. Hor 
 tense was in the full tide of a flood of botany 
 and geology, and quite determined to turn 
 these few days to account, that she might as 
 tonish her intellectual companions when' she 
 should rejoin them. If she had chanced to be 
 in a poetical mood, she would have expatiated 
 upon the loveliness of nature, the glory of the 
 hills, the poetry of the flowers ; but, in her 
 present mania, she only saw in the hills and 
 rocks materials to be chipped with a little ham 
 mer she carried in her pocket, and she made 
 cruel havoc among all the blossoms within her 
 reach to get at their hearts and their anatomy, 
 and called them divers learned and unpleasant 
 sounding names, which seemed adding insult to 
 injury. She dragged Milly about with her on 
 her expeditions ; and while Hortense pounded 
 at the rocks, convinced that every hard and 
 particularly ugly stone contained some won 
 derful mineral, or depopulated the gardens 
 and fields of flowers and mosses, Milly sat per 
 fectly unconscious of the stream of eloquence 
 and wisdom poured out in her hearing, gazing 
 always at the blue hills in the distance with a 
 weary longing and unrest. 
 
 Hortense, like many people with great minds, 
 always declared that she never cared about what 
 she ate ; but her little requirements in this way 
 nearly drove the servants crazy, and irritated 
 Mrs. Remsen exceedingly ; while Milly was 
 obliged to spend half her days sewing up rips 
 and torn places in their visitors' gowns, for she 
 had no idea of making a guy of herself in stout 
 ugly garments, even if she were strong-minded 
 and given to ologies. 
 
 "I could pass my whole life here," Hortense 
 said, again and again, with enthusiasm. " Here 
 one could study in quiet, and feel one's mind 
 expand undisturbed." 
 
 "I am sure you quite grumbled when you 
 were a girl and obliged to come here," retort 
 ed Mrs. Remsen one day, when she was not in 
 a mood to listen with patience to her daughter's 
 raptures. Hortense did not choose to notice 
 the remark. 
 
 ; ' But, alas !" she went on, " there is so much 
 else that it is one's duty to do. I take my 
 lours of study usually from my time for re- 
 msc ; I must live in the bustle of the world 
 aecause I can do the most good there." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen quietly left the room ; her stock
 
 i; 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 of patience grew daily more threadbare ; and 
 when Hortense began wildly galloping her hob 
 by it was better to retreat. Milly was sitting 
 in the open window ; the morning lessons were 
 over, and she had some needle-work in her lap ; 
 but her hands were idle, her eyes fixed on the 
 distant hills. 
 
 "Milly," said Hortense, "I see a great 
 change in you." 
 
 "I am in perfect health," returned Milly, 
 impatiently. "Now don't begin to fancy there 
 is any thing the matter with me." 
 
 "You mistake," explained Hortense; "I 
 meant a change in your mind ; I see an alter 
 ed soul look out of your eyes." 
 
 "Oh, Hortense, I can't feel either poetical 
 or metaphysical, I warn you." 
 
 "You ought to turn all your trouble to a 
 proper use " 
 
 "I have no trouble," interrupted Milly. 
 "Two or three times you have talked to me 
 as if I were a broken-hearted Letitia Landon ; 
 please to understand that I am nothing of the 
 sort." 
 
 " Milly, Milly, don't grow hard and common 
 place !" 
 
 " Oh, but I quite wish to," said Milly ; " it 
 is the only way to go comfortably through the 
 world." 
 
 "Occupy your mind, "cried Hortense; "study 
 think enlarge your soul and your intellect." 
 
 " That is all very well for you who have not 
 a care in the world. If you were to teach 
 those children, I fancy you would be quite 
 tired enough each day without attempting 
 learned studies." 
 
 " Don't mention your petty cares," said Mrs. 
 Pierson with scorn. " Look at my life. Do 
 I ever have an hour to myself? I attend to 
 my hospitals, my schools, and my societies, but 
 I also find time for intellectual improvement." 
 
 "Well, I don't care about it, "returned Mil 
 ly, shortly. 
 
 Hortense lifted her hands in horror. 
 
 " I knew Maud was an idiot, and Adelaide not 
 much better," she exclaimed ; " but I did think 
 that, under all your girlish frivolity, there was a 
 soul which would sooner or later rouse itself." 
 
 "I am sorry to disappoint you, Hortense ; I 
 dare say I am an idiot, too ; but what differ 
 ence does it make?" 
 
 "Difference!" sighed Hortense; "think! 
 oh, think! Life is forever; we pass from one 
 cycle of existence to another; we grow higher, 
 and nobler, and purer! Let us begin here the 
 work of wisdom that must go on through the 
 endless cycles of Eternity !" 
 
 " That is the worst of it," said Milly, in a 
 dreary voice ; " forever !" 
 
 "What do you mean, Milly?" 
 
 "Forever, you know; you said it. It's hard 
 enough to live this life, but to think that there 
 will never be an end that we must live on and 
 on. Oh, I would rather have been a stone !" 
 
 "Are you a heathen, Milly?" questioned 
 Hortense, looking at her quite aghast. 
 
 "I wish I was," said Milly; "they have a 
 Juggernaut that kills one; ours rolls and crush 
 es us, and leaves us still alive." 
 
 " It is wicked, Milly, to say such things. 
 You might as well be an atheist as to talk like 
 that!" 
 
 But Milly was in one of those moods when 
 neither religious teachings nor good example 
 can keep us from indulging in useless, impious 
 thought, and Hortense possessed no eloquence 
 which could bring her out of that state of mind. 
 
 "I don't see that it matters much whether 
 we are wicked or good," said Milly. "We 
 have nothing but trouble all the same." 
 
 "But trouble is good for the soul," pursued 
 Hortense, grandly. "It makes it grow and 
 widen. Used aright, it is a magic wand that 
 opens for us the doors which lead into the very 
 heart of Nature's mysteries." 
 
 Milly listened to Mrs. Tierson's mixed met 
 aphors with intense irritation, not to say dis 
 gust. It was easy enough for her to talk 
 this woman who had never known a real trou 
 ble whose queer, old, learned husband was 
 her slave whose whole life was sunshiny and 
 pleasant. 
 
 " She's a greater fool than the other two," 
 thought Milly, " though she does speak five 
 languages, reads Arabic, and knows Humboldt 
 by heart. Her learning has only made her 
 more shallow." 
 
 "Suffering!" pursued Hortense. "Why, 
 Milly, it is grand to suffer." 
 
 "I'm sure you know nothing about it," re 
 torted Milly. " Keep to your books and your 
 sciences, Hortense you are quite at home 
 there ; but when it comes to trouble, you are 
 no more competent to speak than I am to teach 
 Sanscrit." 
 
 Hortense was stupefied with amazement at 
 the idea of there being any subject upon which 
 she could not speak like one inspired. 
 
 "Milly," said she, compassionately, "3-011 
 are growing cynical and ill-natured ; you used 
 to be a perfect little sunbeam ; I don't know 
 you any more." 
 
 Milly felt the old choking in her throat, and 
 caught up her work and began sewing industri 
 ously. 
 
 "I suppose it is the precursor of old-maid- 
 ism," she answered, trying to laugh, and feel 
 ing sorry that she had snubbed Hortense, who 
 was at all events kind, and always good-na 
 tured. 
 
 " Do you mean to be an old maid ?" inquired 
 her cousin, here taking another tack at once. 
 
 " Yes, very likely." 
 
 "Why don't you become a Sister of Chari 
 ty ?" cried Hortense, with enthusiasm. " You 
 have no taste for books ; you could never adopt 
 one of the learned professions ; but you could 
 give up your life to duty, and go about like a 
 ministering angel among poor humanity." 
 
 "I don't think I care enough about human 
 ity to wish to help it much," replied Milly, 
 stitching away industriously.
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 179 
 
 "You are an enigma," said Hortense ; "I 
 will own it, you puzzle even me !" 
 
 " If I puzzle you more than I do myself, I am 
 astonished," thought Milly, as she worked on. 
 
 Hortense was silent for a few moments, pull 
 ing a number of flowers in pieces and strewing 
 their leaves upon the carpet. Like many per 
 sons troubled with a love for hobbies of all 
 sorts, she was not always tidy in the pursuit. 
 Just now her mania was quite distressing ; the 
 carpets never were clean, and one stumbled 
 over bits of rock and fossils in all sorts of places 
 where they had no business. She looked at 
 Milly as if she had been some species of re 
 markable flower that she could neither classify 
 nor comprehend, and this state of mind was 
 very unusual with Mrs. Pierson, priding herself 
 as she did upon her ability to read character. 
 
 "You would be an interesting study, Milly," 
 said she, presently, in a meditative way. " I 
 wish Mrs. Tonguay could be with you for a 
 time. Mental peculiarities are quite her forte." 
 
 " Do you think me like a musty old botany 
 book, that any one may peep into at will ?" said 
 she ; "or that I can be chipped at, and so made 
 to reveal myself, as you do the rocks, by the aid 
 of any body's hammer ?" 
 
 " Don't be violent, Milly ; always restrain 
 yourself in discussion. Dear me, how odd you 
 have grown!" 
 
 Milly threw down her work and passed out 
 on the lawn, repeating Hortense's words to her 
 self. Odd, indeed strangest of all, to herself 
 and the worse thing was, that nothing would 
 ever bring her old self back, nothing could ever 
 set the crooked life straight. 
 
 "Nothing!" said Milly, again and again; 
 "nothing!" 
 
 She looked up at the clear summer sky, with 
 its masses of fleecy white clouds sailing away 
 toward the zenith, afar off to the misty hills, and 
 her very soul sickened within her. The light 
 wind stirred the maple boughs, and shook fra 
 grance from the hearts of the blossoming flow 
 ers ; the sun shone golden and soft ; the day 
 was balmy and beautiful ; but there was no 
 power in the brightness which could warm Mil- 
 ly's heart, no spell in the calmness of the after 
 noon that could quiet her wounds. Very soon 
 the children came out and espied her, and made 
 multifarious requests, with which she complied, 
 but there was no pleasure in it ; she had na 
 happiness as of old in gratifying them, only the 
 determination to do her duty, and in the most 
 uncompromising way. 
 
 "Cousin Milly," said little Dora, suddenly, 
 when the wrinkle in her little French costume 
 had been set smooth, " why don't you act as if 
 you loved me any more ?" 
 
 "What a foolish question !" said Milly. 
 
 " No it isn't, cousin ! Last winter you used 
 to play with us, and come into the nursery to 
 show us how beautiful you were in your ball- 
 dresses, and we loved you ever so ; but now 
 you never play with us, and you never tell us 
 fairy stories. Why don't you ?" 
 
 The words came at a moment when they 
 touched Milly. She leaned her head on the 
 child's flaxen curls and wept piteously ; tears 
 which did her more good than any she had 
 shed for a long time, seeming to wash away a 
 little of the bitterness from her soul. 
 
 "Don't cry, Cousin Milly," pleaded Dora, 
 frightened at this unexpected response to her 
 childish expostulations. "I didn't mean any 
 thing; please don't cry ; don't." 
 
 "Let me cry, Dora dear; it does me good." 
 
 This was incomprehensible to the little one, 
 in whose mind tears were associated with ill- 
 learned lessons or offense to mamma, or some 
 other enormity of like nature ; but, with the 
 odd intelligence of her age able to sympathize 
 with that emotion which she could not compre 
 hend, she just remained holding fast to Milly's 
 hand, and never uttering a word. 
 
 The tempest passed ; Milly wiped away the 
 scalding drops, kissed Dora, and said, 
 
 " You mustn't tell any one how foolish I have 
 been, Dora dear." 
 
 " Indeed I won't never fell nobody," returned 
 the child, becoming all negatives in her earnest 
 asseveration. " But oh, Milly," with her eyes 
 like saucers, "have you been bad ?" 
 
 " No one is any too good," returned Milly, 
 evasively. "But I liked to cry, dear; it has 
 made me feel better." 
 
 " I'm awfully glad of that ; but it's very 
 queer," said Dora, looking puzzled. " But I'll 
 not tell ; and Milly, I won't bother you so much 
 any more, now that I know you are so sorry 
 about something." 
 
 The little one ran off to join her sister, and 
 Milly walked about the lawn and garden until 
 she had sufficiently regained her composure to 
 be presentable before her aunt and cousin. But 
 when she entered the house, she found Mrs. 
 Remsen nodding over a novel, and Hortense 
 deep in one of Professor Drivler's printed lec 
 tures, and neither noticed her. 
 
 "I need not have feared they would see 
 there was any thing the matter," thought Mil 
 ly. " Unless I chanced to die before their 
 eyes, they would never discover there was any 
 thing wrong with me." 
 
 Hortense's visit came to an end, and she pro 
 ceeded on her journey in high spirits, leaving 
 the house very quiet after the rustle of her silk 
 en trains, and the incessant rat-tat of her geo 
 logical hammer had died out of it. 
 
 Then came more letters from Maud and a 
 few from Adelaide. They were enjoying New 
 port to the fullest extent, and Maud described 
 herself as creating a marked sensation. In 
 deed Adelaide wrote that she found Maud quite 
 the belle of the season of course, meaning the 
 unmarried belle; for Mrs. Ramsay could not 
 make up her mind to believe that girls were 
 ever so much admired as their wedded sisters. 
 Mrs. Remsen was willing to remain buried un 
 til winter, in order to give Maud a brilliant sea 
 son ; but the seclusion so foreign to her tastes 
 did not tend to make her a more amiable com-
 
 180 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 panion, and she could not forbear occasional 
 little flings at Milly for being there, buried alive, 
 teaching the children, when she might have 
 been displaying bridal paraphernalia, to the 
 envy of every feminine heart at Newport or 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Oh, those bright, golden days, how long they 
 seemed to Milly ! Worse a thousand times 
 than clouds and tempests would have been, 
 she thought she could have found something 
 responsive in the howl of the blast or the fury 
 of a tornado ; but the drowsy, indolent quiet of 
 those long summer days nearly drove her wild. 
 
 "And this must go on," she thought, "for 
 weeks, months, years as long as I shall live! 
 My youth has gone from me, my power of en 
 joyment has gone. There is nothing left but 
 the bare husks of life. I feel as if I were jour 
 neying over a straight road, under a gray No 
 vember sky ; not a turn, not a hillock, not a 
 tree to rest under; only an endless stretch of 
 white road, and the dust getting into my eyes, 
 and I growing always more weary and more 
 faint. And one can not die ! Suffering doesn't 
 kill. I know I am looking different older, and 
 paler, and I feel always so tired ; but nothing 
 really ails me ; my health doesn't fail ; I shall 
 be obliged to live on. I wonder I did not kill 
 myself at first. It would have been wicked, I 
 suppose ; but could the punishment have been 
 any worse than that I endure here ? Never to 
 have any end, never to be any different, if I 
 live to be an old, old woman ! What will be 
 come of me at last ? When Aunt Remsen dies, 
 I shall be quite alone in the world. I could 
 teach then ; there would be nobody's pride to 
 save; the girls would not mind if only I was 
 never a trouble to them. It would be better 
 than being quiet, with nothing to do but feel 
 this ache at my heart day and night day 
 and night." Such were often Milly's thoughts 
 while the glad summer wore on, and still there 
 came no relief. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 MRS. LAWRENCE'S PROMISE. 
 
 SEPTEMBER had come ; the sky wore its 
 golden haze ; the hills grew softer and more 
 beautiful, and the quiet of the season some- 
 Avhat soothed Milly's unrest. 
 
 About this time Mrs. Remsen was seized with 
 a violent rheumatic fever, from the effects of a 
 drenching which would have upset the stoutest 
 hydropathist that ever shivered under a bath 
 of ice-water in December, and very ill she was. 
 Never Avas illness more fortunate, in one re 
 spect I mean in the effect it had upon our 
 faulty Milly. She began Avith the intention of 
 being a martyr ; she took entire charge of the 
 sick-room ; she watched day and night ; .and, 
 before Aunt Eliza left her bed, Milly Avas do 
 ing her duty from far different motives than 
 those which had actuated her in the outset. 
 
 Sitting in that darkened chamber, Milly found 
 
 ample time for retrospection, and was forced to 
 regard her conduct and her suffering in their 
 true light. The hardness and bitterness left 
 her soul, and the discipline to Avhich she was 
 obliged to submit did her a world of good. At 
 first Milly had not much leisure to reflect her 
 aunt Avas too ill, peevish and exacting also, as 
 the most patient people are under that dread 
 ful malady, and Milly had to exert all her en 
 ergies in the task which devolved upon her. 
 But Avhen the sick Avoman ceased to endure 
 constant pain, could sleep a good deal by night 
 and day, then, in her silent watches, came Mil 
 ly's time for thought, Avhich she could neither 
 drive away nor turn a shade from its proper 
 hue. 
 
 She Avas able, at length, to see that she had 
 poorly deserved the short-lived happiness vouch 
 safed her ; able to understand that her undis 
 ciplined nature had not been capable of any 
 real and permanent content. She could see, 
 too, IIOAV suffering might work good to mind 
 and heart, instead of imbittering the whole na 
 ture, as she had allowed it to imbitter hers ; so 
 that, if continued, her cynical speeches and lack 
 of faith would render her insupportable to all 
 Avith Avhom she came in contact. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen could sit up, permitted the 
 children to enter her room, and recovered a 
 portion of her former energy. Her old ten 
 derness for Milly revived, she AA'as so like the 
 dead sister Avho had been fondly loved. Of 
 course Mrs. Remsen was 1 often peevish and un 
 reasonable, and Milly had many relapses into 
 her mental distempers ; but she had character 
 enough to struggle on, now that she saw the 
 light. Her very SOITOAV grew different ; she 
 suffered, and her poor young heart ached Avea- 
 rily; but she began to discover that, because 
 one hope failed, she had no right to cry out 
 that the Avhole Avorld Avas barren. Naturally, 
 she rather Avent to the opposite extreme for 
 a Avhile, and Avas overstrict Avith herself it is 
 so difficult to preserve a happy medium in deal 
 ing with one's own peculiarities. 
 
 She found leisure for a long Avalk each day ; 
 Mrs. Remsen saAV how much she enjoyed it, 
 and Avould not permit her to forego the grati 
 fication, and the solitary rambles helped her 
 greatly. She observed and felt the beautiful 
 as she had neA r er before done ; each change in 
 the soft skies, each neAv aspect of loveliness was 
 caught by her, and she looked out tOAvard the 
 glorious hills Avith an increasing serenity very 
 unlike the wicked impatience of the preA'ious 
 months. 
 
 I am not transforming her into a heroine or 
 an angel ; she Avas sadly human still, and full 
 of faults ; but, trying to do right, people are 
 helped in the effort. It Avas difficult to be 
 composed under trifles Avhen she Avas solacing 
 her mind with dreams of great sacrifices ; pin 
 pricks are hard to endure serenely. The chil 
 dren would be careless about their lessons; 
 Aunt Eliza Avould moan when her tea had too 
 much or too little sugar in it; the kitchen staff
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 181 
 
 would be stupid and provoking ; and as many 
 days were spoiled completely as ever an acolyte 
 ruined plats while acquiring the sacred myste 
 ries of the culinary art. But Milly persevered ; 
 sometimes, just as she thorfght herself advan 
 cing promisingly, back she slipped ; she would 
 hurt herself severely, and have to lie on the 
 thorns and weep a little ; but she always pick 
 ed herself up and trudged gallantly on, grad 
 ually learning life's lessons going slowly but 
 surely toward the light. 
 
 One day, in particular, Mrs. Remsen was 
 extremely cross as you or I would have been 
 with a shoulder that creaked like a rusty hinge 
 when we tried to use it, and a trip-hammer 
 beating furiously in the left temple. The serv 
 ants had to be set in order, the children wanted 
 twenty things at once, and each of the twenty 
 something they had no business to require, and 
 they all the more clamorous on that account. 
 But Milly bore it splendidly saved herself 
 from the least slip, and held fast to her pa 
 tience. When quiet was restored, Aunt Eli 
 za's shoulder comfortable, and her head induced 
 to leave off its trip-hammer performance un 
 der Milly's skillful manipulations, Mrs. Remsen 
 lay looking at her in silence for a long time. 
 
 "Milly," she said at length, "you are not 
 like the same girl." 
 
 Milly seized the thread of her aunt's reflec 
 tions and smiled. 
 
 "I hope not," she answered; "there was 
 need of a change." 
 
 "I never saw a better nurse. Oh, Milly, 
 you have been your mother over again since I 
 was ill !" 
 
 Milly did not burst into tears, or throw her 
 self on her knees before her aunt with a long- 
 winded apostrophe of thankfulness. She con 
 tinued her work, and tried to keep her voice 
 quiet, as she said, 
 
 " Then you must love me once more for her 
 sake." 
 
 " I have always loved you, even when I was 
 most angry," Mrs. Remsen replied. "I can 
 see where I was wrong, but I loved you as well 
 as one of my own children all the time ; I want 
 you to believe that." 
 
 "I do believe it, aunt, and it makes me hap 
 py," Milly said. " I have been a very foolish, 
 ungrateful girl in many things ; in others I have 
 been unfortunate " 
 
 "Yes, Milly," her aunt interrupted, softly; 
 "I ought to have recollected that." 
 
 "I want you to try and forget my faults," 
 Milly went on, "and I will try to forget my 
 little troubles ; then we shall do very well." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen could not help thinking what 
 good fortune Milly deserved, and her thoughts 
 reverted to the hopes of the past. 
 
 "Oh, Milly," she said; "if only things had 
 not ended as they did !" 
 
 "Don't, aunt, please ! I don't want to talk 
 or think of what has gone bv. Let it be a 
 sealed book between us. It will be better ev- 
 crv wav." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen was silent again for a while. 
 She watched Milly's face, from which the wea 
 riness and discontent had faded, leaving it 
 changed and womanly. She felt, more keen 
 ly than she often allowed herself to feel, that 
 life held something for the young beyond dress 
 and gayety, something higher than the mere 
 hope of wealth and station. Then, too, she 
 began to think that Milly might get over her 
 trouble in time, that she might find a new ob 
 ject to love, and all the happiness and good 
 fortune come which Mrs. Remsen wished her. 
 
 "Milly," she said, "we will go away from 
 here before long. My dividends are coming 
 up again, and I shall be able to draw a sum 
 that will make us very comfortable, and we'll 
 have a pleasant winter." 
 
 "I am very comfortable here, I give you my 
 word." 
 
 "But you can't go on living like this; I 
 don't wish to turn you into a governess or seam 
 stress ! It's not natural for a girl to stay shut 
 like a hermit in a cave." 
 
 Milly laughed more like her old self than she 
 had done in a long time. 
 
 "But, aunty, this house is not a bit like a 
 cave, and I like to sew. I have learned to like 
 teaching the children, too. I think I am bring 
 ing them on very well don't you ?" 
 
 "Indeed you are; much better than that 
 stupid Miss Lane ever could or would. But 
 you are young ; you must have pleasures suit 
 able to your age change, society." 
 
 Milly shuddered to recall her brief career ; 
 it had been very delightful ; but oh, the black, 
 dreadful end ! She could not care longer for 
 the world, because there was no aim back of 
 its charms ; it would be sadly hollow and blank 
 to her lacking that. How could she sigh for 
 crowds, when she could no longer go among 
 them to watch for one dear face ? How could 
 she join in the old dances, remembering the 
 season when a beloved arm supported her sit 
 and listen to the familiar operas and plays, when 
 there was no one treasured friend to whom she 
 could turn for sympathy and appreciation. 
 
 " I want a quiet life, aunt," she said. " You 
 gave me my butterfly season, and I soiled my 
 wings terribly, and flew in the very face of the 
 wind. It would not be just to Maud or the 
 younger ones, who will soon take her place, for 
 me to wear out the last of my youth in amuse 
 ment, and put you to an expense which ought 
 to be reserved for them." 
 
 And Mrs. Remsen thought what a dear, wise 
 girl she had grown ; indeed, she could not per 
 mit her, with her heightened beauty and her 
 new mental attractions, to sink into a house 
 hold drudge for the sake of her other charges. 
 
 "But, Milly," she began, "you may marry." 
 
 "Aunty, don't talk about that ; I shall never 
 marry. I don't mean to be foolish or romantic, 
 but I know, I know that I couldn't love any 
 man again." 
 
 She checked Mrs. Remsen by a sign when 
 she would have expostulated, and went on :
 
 182 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 " Aunt, I feel as you did after Uncle George 
 died. Don't make me say any thing more. I 
 have buried my love ; I could not build a new 
 palace over its grave. . I don't wish to talk 
 about these things, or think of them, further 
 than is unavoidable ; but it is better for us to 
 understand. each other thoroughly." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen did not speak, but in that mo 
 ment she acknowledged the true force and 
 womanliness of Milly's nature. . 
 
 "You are not angry, aunt?" 
 
 "No; but it pains me to think of your liv 
 ing solitary and sad, when you would know so 
 well how to use happiness." 
 
 "I have it, aunt; at least, I am not unhap 
 py the rest will come in time." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; we will trust to time," Mrs. Rem 
 sen said. 
 
 Milly smiled, comprehending what was in 
 her thoughts, but not anxious to pursue the 
 subject. 
 
 After this conversation, the understanding 
 between the two was perfect ; and, as Mrs. 
 Remsen's health improved, the days passed so 
 pleasantly that the restless, active woman quite 
 enjoyed her period of convalescence. She was 
 sometimes anxious about Maud, but she hoped 
 for the best, and trusted to Adelaide's letters 
 that every thing was going as well with the 
 young lady as if she were there to watch ; and 
 with each week Milly's companionship grew 
 more dear, and Milly's example produced its 
 effect upon her habits and range of thought. 
 
 It was October beautiful, gorgeous Octo 
 ber. They were expecting letters from Maud, 
 now at Mr. Ramsay's country-seat, and the 
 morning passed without bringing them, though 
 the postmaster had faithfully promised to send 
 his boy if any arrived, and Milly had tempted 
 the youth himself by offering pleasant induce 
 ments in the way of sixpences. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen felt confident there were letters 
 at the office, and Milly was beset by an odd rest 
 lessness, as if expecting news herself, though 
 certain there was none to come. So, when the 
 early dinner-hour went by, and the afternoon 
 wore on without bringing the small boy, Milly 
 set out for the village. She was still haunted 
 by her vague expectation when she reached the 
 place. The old postmaster put on his specta 
 cles, admitted that he thought he had letters, 
 entered into a lengthy speculation as to the 
 cause of "George Washington's" delay, and, 
 when Milly's patience was entirely exhausted, 
 began slowly turning over the piles of letters, 
 and at last counted her down three with as 
 much reluctance as if he had been a philan 
 thropist called upon to help some one in secret. 
 Milly looked at the envelopes all for Mrs. 
 Remsen : one in Maud's young-lady hand, the 
 other from the lawyer, and the third evidently 
 a business letter likewise. Milly turned home 
 ward with an actual feeling of disappointment, 
 and then laughed at herself for her folly : she 
 had not the slightest reason to expect a letter 
 from any quarter. It was only a return of her 
 
 old restless ways. She walked on briskly, be 
 cause she knew her aunt would be anxious, and 
 forgot her own causeless disappointment in the 
 pleasure which lighted up Mrs. Remsen's face 
 as the letters were laid in her lap. 
 
 "An actual mail-bag," said Aunt Eliza, with 
 true feminine delight. " Oh, this is from Maud ; 
 now let us see what she says." 
 
 She skimmed the epistle in her eagerness, 
 then read portions aloud for Milly's benefit. It 
 was full of glowing accounts of picnics, garden- 
 parties, petitions for new costumes, appeals for 
 money, hints of significant attentions, and a long 
 paragraph about Charley Thome. 
 
 " He is very devoted to me, mamma, and I 
 can't think he ever cared a straw about Milly 
 it was just one of your fancies. He sings duets 
 with me, and he reads Tennyson aloud of a 
 morning, while I work on Addie's chair-cover 
 ings. I'd rather he read a jolly magazine story, 
 of course, but it's very nice of him." 
 
 "I hope you are not jealous, Milly," said 
 Mrs. Remsen. 
 
 " Not in the least, I assure you. He is the 
 best-hearted young fellow in the world ; and 
 if he likes Maud, and she him, it will be a good 
 thing for both." 
 
 "We shall see," said Mrs. Remsen, compla 
 cently. "At all events, every thing seems to 
 go on well with her. But oh what an extrav 
 agant puss she is, and Adelaide encourages her 
 in it. They have no idea of having old dresses 
 made over into new. You are a genius in that 
 way, my dear." 
 
 "A proof that I must be meant for narrow 
 means; but Maud hates such things." 
 
 " Here's Mr. Whiting's letter," said Mrs. 
 Remsen ; " it's only about those railway bonds, 
 I see." 
 
 She took up a third letter, glanced at the su 
 perscription, and turned the epistle over to look 
 at the seal. " I don't know this writing," said 
 she; "who can it be from? It's postmarked 
 New York ; why, who can it be from ?" 
 
 Milly laughed outright at her aunt sitting 
 there and perplexing herself as people love to 
 do over an unknown chirography. 
 
 " Suppose you should open it," she suggested. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen looked as if the thought .had 
 not occurred to her, but, after another instant's 
 contemplation, followed Milly's advice. She 
 tore open the envelope, and out fell an inclos- 
 ure. Mrs. Remsen glanced at it, and exclaimed, 
 
 " Why, Milly, it's a letter for you !" 
 
 Milly took it, wondering a little after the 
 fashion for which she had laughed at her aunt, 
 till it was Mrs. Remsen's turn to cry out, 
 
 "For mercy's sake, open it, you silly child! 
 You'll never find out the contents by staring at 
 the address," quite oblivious of her own per 
 plexed staring while she thought the epistle 
 was intended for herself. 
 
 Milly opened the letter and began to read, 
 then glanced up in astonishment, almost fright. 
 
 "What is it, Milly?" exclaimed her aunt, 
 still nervous enough, from her recent illness, to
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 183 
 
 be easily alarmed. "There's no bad news 
 nothing about the girls?" 
 
 Milly shook her head, finished the page, and 
 sat an instant, pale and startled, regardless of 
 her aunt's continued inquiries ; then she buried 
 her head on the arm of the sofa and sobbed 
 heartily. 
 
 " Milly, Milly, what is it, child ?" cried Mrs. 
 Eemsen, now absolutely frightened. "Is it 
 bad news?" 
 
 " Oh, good news good news ; and I don't 
 deserve it," sobbed Milly. "Only read this, 
 Aunt Kemsen." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen grasped the epistle and de 
 voured the contents in surprise, mingled with 
 other feelings, as she read. Mrs. Lawrence had 
 died suddenly, but at the last she had not for 
 gotten the careless promise she made to Milly. 
 She had left her all the property that was in 
 her control; and this letter was from her law 
 yer, to announce the fact to Milly that she was 
 now mistress of some two hundred thousand 
 dollars, or its equivalent, in all sorts of safe in 
 vestments. 
 
 It would be difficult to describe the feelings 
 of the pair in the first moments of this good for 
 tune, they were so bewildered ; but soon they 
 were mingling their tears ; and to Mrs. Rem- 
 sen's credit be it said, that her emotions were 
 as full of pure, unadulterated gratitude as Mil 
 ly 's own. 
 
 "Poor Mrs. Lawrence!" the girl said, regret 
 fully ; " and I have scarcely thought of her all 
 the summer !" 
 
 " My dear, she was so much older than you." 
 
 " She did not forget ; she said she should do 
 this." 
 
 "When what do you mean?" 
 
 Milly had to explain about the visit she had 
 received from Mrs. Lawrence, in her penitence, 
 the previous spring, and Mrs. Remsen said, 
 
 "Poor dear woman! I am glad I had al 
 ready forgiven her, and was sorry I scolded her." 
 
 " She was not to blame." 
 
 "It's all over, anyway. Dead, and left you 
 all this money poor Minerva ! And that silly 
 Maud never to mention her death, though it 
 seems she died at her country place, and it's 
 not more than ten miles from Mr. Ramsay's." 
 
 She took up the letter again, and found a 
 half -page which she had overlooked; and 
 there, edged in between a description of Ade 
 laide's new croquet costume and the account 
 of a picnic, was the mention 
 
 " Oh, I forgot to tell you Mrs. Lawrence is 
 dead erysipelas or something. Addie and I 
 did not go to the funeral for fear of infection ; 
 besides, that day we had a grand croquet-match, 
 and her house was so far off that Addie said 
 she could not count as a neighbor." 
 
 Mrs. Remsen threw down the epistle in dis 
 gust. They went over the lawyer's letter again 
 for such brief particulars as it contained, and 
 Milly could only remember how kind the dead 
 woman had been, and wonder at the hardness 
 and unbelief of human nature in which she had 
 
 herself so long indulged. Mrs. Remsen did 
 not jar upon her thoughts by any worldly cal 
 culations ; indeed, while waiting the next two 
 days for the further details promised by the 
 man of business, they could only dwell on Mrs. 
 Lawrence's invariable goodness ; and Aunt Eli 
 za said, over and over, 
 
 " Poor Minerva, I am so glad I forgave her ! 
 We were old school -friends, and I never was 
 really cross to her but that once." 
 
 It would be preposterous to say that Milly 
 felt any poignant sorrow, and it was right and 
 natural that, after that season of regret, she 
 should turn to her changed prospects, only not 
 forgetting to feel thankful in this new pros 
 perity. 
 
 "I have not deserved it, aunt," she said; 
 "oh, I have not deserved it." 
 
 "No one more," Mrs. Remsen answered; 
 "and I am sure you will use it wisely." 
 
 " I will try," Milly said, humbly ; " and you 
 must help me." 
 
 That night, as she sat alone in her room 
 thinking of all which had happened, Milly 
 could not combat the profound depression 
 which stole over her. What could wealth do 
 now ? It could not give back her lost youth ; 
 it could not restore the love gone from her, or 
 warm into a second blossoming the hopes which 
 clung, sere and dead, about her heart. Those 
 were dark hours, but she was helped through 
 them, and, when morning came, could again 
 remember that, if this change in her life might 
 not restore its brightness, at least it could be 
 made a blessing to others. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen began to hold long consulta 
 tions with her ; and if Milly had been her own 
 daughter she could not have found her more 
 ready to appropriate this fortune to the gen 
 eral good. 
 
 "You see, aunt," she said, "it just furthers 
 my plan of living with you after the others are 
 gone. When the little ones grow up and mar 
 ry, you and I will cling together, and grow old 
 and comfortable." 
 
 Aunt Eliza smiled at the prospect ; indeed, 
 she could afford to wear her most benignant 
 smile in these days ; for the share which Milly 
 appropriated to her use out of this new income 
 would make her independent of all pecuniary 
 cares. Milly was too generous to have a tinge 
 of the mean pride in regard to money which is 
 possessed even by so many persons who give 
 freely ; she only remembered how much she 
 owed her aunt, and was anxious to show her 
 gratitude. 
 
 "I think," she said, "that I should like to 
 enlarge this house, and always spend the sum 
 mers here. We could make the place lovely." 
 
 " Oh, very easily, and at a moderate ex 
 pense," replied Mrs. Remsen, who had a mania 
 for building and altering. "I think it an ex 
 cellent idea. I am fond of the old house." 
 
 She commenced at once, in fancy, to throw 
 out wings and put in bay-windows, and was 
 exceedingly provoked at an interruption by the
 
 184 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 children just as she was arranging an extensive 
 conservatory. 
 
 "You never leave Milly a moment's peace," 
 she said, as the small ones gathered about their 
 cousin, each with half a dozen petitions. 
 
 "But Milly likes it," they pleaded ; "don't 
 you, Milly ?" 
 
 And Milly assured them that she did. 
 
 She sent Maud a present to buy ball-dresses, 
 which caused that young lady almost to forget 
 her envy of Milly's good fortune in the con 
 templation of the numerous benefits likely to 
 accrue to herself therefrom. Adelaide wrote 
 that Milly must be very happy to have an op 
 portunity of showing her gratitude to them all, 
 but added that she believed in gratitude only 
 when she saw some tangible proofs of its ex 
 istence. She hinted sweetly that she did not 
 expect to see such evidences in Milly's case, 
 and, if they were displayed, should believe that 
 they only rose from a fear of people's consider 
 ing her an utter monster if she acted otherwise. 
 
 Then Hortense sent an epistle full of good- 
 natured congratulation on the first page, 
 branching off into endless sentences of sesquip 
 edalian words, in which she proved that Milly 
 knew nothing about the value or uses of money, 
 and demonstrating with equal force what she 
 ought to do under the direction of those capa 
 ble of guiding her. Hortense's plan, as well 
 as Milly could understand it, seemed to be for 
 her to found an establishment, and become the 
 head of a s,ort of modified nunnery, with a hos 
 pital attached. Milly laughed heartily over 
 the characteristic letters of her cousins, and 
 Adelaide would have been disgusted to per 
 ceive that her malevolence failed to wound, 
 and Hortense shocked that Milly could laugh 
 at opinions shared by the whole intellectual 
 coterie, Professor Drivler and Doctor Brazen 
 included. The next news was that pretty 
 Constance Worthington had met her fate, and 
 was to be married immediately. She begged 
 Milly to come to her, and of course she depart 
 ed. The Crittendons were at Mr. Worthington's 
 country-seat, and they proposed to Milly to go 
 back with them to Europe. Mrs. Remsen de 
 cided to remain in America until spring, then 
 she would put Rob at West Point, and follow 
 Milly with her daughters. She felt convinced 
 that, if she did not take Maud out of Charley 
 Thome's reach, he would succumb before the 
 winter was over, and she wanted that restless 
 young lady settled in life. 
 
 So, in the late autumn, Milly sailed once 
 more for the storied lands of the Old World, 
 and the new existence began. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 IN A HIGHLAND GLEN. 
 
 THE winter passed quietly and pleasantly to 
 Milly, in the Italian cities which they sought; 
 and if she did not find happiness, at least it was 
 
 a season very different from the darkness of the 
 previous months. 
 
 When spring came, her friends took her back 
 to England to meet her aunt, who arrived with 
 the younger members of her brood. Maud had 
 passed out of her hands ; as usual, Mrs. Rem- 
 sen's scheme had proved a success, and she 
 rested on her laurels like a victorious general. 
 Charley Thome had yielded to destiny, and 
 Maud was his wife. Milly thought it probable 
 they would get on well enough, and Charley go 
 comfortably on toward a corpulent middle age, 
 submitting easily to Maud's rule, caring less 
 and less about Tennyson, and forgetting his in 
 ner nature in the attractions of good dinners 
 and such other sweetness of existence as might 
 be offered. 
 
 When summer came, Mrs. Remsen and Mil 
 ly established the little girls in a quiet English 
 village, under the care of their governess a 
 woman, whom a friendship of years had proved 
 worthy of trust and wandered away into the 
 beautiful scenery of the Highlands. The ho 
 tel where they stopped to rest for a fortnight 
 was situated near the edge of one of the love 
 liest of the Scottish lakes, and not far off was 
 the most picturesque little hamlet imagina 
 ble. 
 
 It is too near the close of my story to rave 
 about scenery, so I shall only tell you that they 
 settled down there and enjoyed the bright days 
 to the full ; and to Milly it was like new life 
 and strength to breathe the fresh air of the 
 mountains. 
 
 She spent her days out-of-doors ; and there 
 was no glen so hidden that she did not explore 
 its recesses, no moor so steep that she did not 
 climb it to watch the landscape spread out like 
 a picture below. Very rapidly mind and body 
 grew invigorated and thoroughly healthy. She 
 was worlds away from the fanciful girl who had 
 known that brief season of happiness, as far re 
 moved from the impatient creature who had 
 struggled with such blind restlessness under the 
 thralldom of a first great sorrow. 
 
 One day she had rambled a long distance np 
 among the hills, had passed so many twists and 
 windings between the rocks, and through such 
 a variety of mossy glens, that she was really 
 unable to tell which way led to the hotel. She 
 mounted still higher, in the hope of attaining 
 some point of view which would give her a sight 
 of the village, or at least some landmark where 
 by she could direct her course. She came only 
 upon a lofty water-fall with which she had not 
 yet made acquaintance, and it seemed to her 
 more peculiarly lovely than those she had be 
 fore visited. In front of her rose a perpendic 
 ular mass of rock to a great height, completely 
 covered with green moss and delicate, feathery 
 ferns, over which a stream of water swept in a 
 broad, thin sheet, like a fine embroidered lace 
 veil flung over the emerald tints, and fell into 
 a moss-lined basin just at her feet. The thick 
 moss smothered the noise of the falling water, 
 so that it foamed into the basin with a bell-like
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 185 
 
 murmur so musical that it seemed to Milly to 
 be singing some exquisite melody. 
 
 She stood there some moments, looking and 
 listening, then moved on toward a projecting 
 ledge, and found that she was not alone in the 
 enchanting place. A lady was seated there, 
 her head turned away ; she moved at the sound 
 of a stone which Milly's foot dislodged looked 
 up, and Milly saw that it was of all people in 
 the world the one she least wished to meet 
 Alice Marchmont. 
 
 The girl felt her heart cease beating for an 
 instant ; it was like coming face to face with 
 an evil destiny that had taken human shape to 
 mock her with the fearful fruition of its work. 
 She could neither move nor breathe for several 
 instants ; could only stand looking full in the 
 woman's countenance with a sensation of abso 
 lute dread. 
 
 At the first glance Alice's short sight pre 
 vented her recognizing Milly, in the strength 
 and beauty the face had gained out of her suf 
 fering and repentance the face she had known 
 as so childishly pretty. Seeing her gaze re 
 turned with that perplexed expression one wears 
 when trying to recall a countenance, Milly felt 
 that she was unrecognized ; if she could only 
 get away before the creature had time to re 
 member or address her! But the very move 
 ment to obey her thoughts so quick and impul 
 sive brought to Mrs. Marchmont's mind the 
 excitable girl of the old days, and she knew her 
 at once. 
 
 "Miss Crofton!" she exclaimed. "Surely 
 it is Miss Crofton not some trick my eyes are 
 playing me!" 
 
 When Milly heard Alice Marchmont's voice, 
 her first impulse was to hasten on without a 
 word ; but Alice came toward her holding out 
 her hand with as much friendliness as if their 
 last meeting had no place in her mind. 
 
 " So it really is you," she said, laughing. 
 "How you do stare! But no wonder; the 
 idea of our meeting in this out-of-the-way 
 place! I am not quite certain yet that it is 
 not your double ; do speak, and tell me you are 
 not a ghost." 
 
 The same ringing laugh that had so vexed 
 Milly's heart in the days gone by, the same low, 
 indolent voice, which gave such a peculiar charm 
 to every word. What a torrent of recollections 
 surged up and shook her very soul on hearing 
 the sound ! 
 
 Men under such unpleasant circumstances 
 are slow to think and act, unless in a case 
 where a fellow -man is concerned, and there 
 is a shadow of pretext for knocking him down ; 
 but women's thoughts come and go like flashes 
 of lightning. This woman should not perceive 
 that she had power to move her in any way 
 should not be able to exult in the idea that I 
 Milly had never recovered from the effects of 
 the blow dealt by her hand. But Alice's in 
 tention was very different ; she had long since 
 forgiven Milly's cruelty, and had sometimes 
 feared that she might unconsciously have had 
 
 a share in bringing about the trouble between 
 her and Halford. 
 
 " It is Mrs. Marchmont," Milly said, with 
 delightful indifference. "No wonder you are 
 surprised to see me I less so ! The place is 
 so lovely that I am not astonished to see a fairy, 
 or any other beautiful creature, appear." 
 
 "Ah ! you have found voice you are not a 
 spirit," returned Mrs. Marchmont; "and what 
 a pretty greeting you give me ; please shake 
 hands." 
 
 But Milly was busy arranging her dress ; it 
 had been looped over a blue petticoat, and 
 some of the festoons had obligingly given way. 
 
 " I would with pleasure," said she, laughing 
 as gayly as Alice herself; "but you see my 
 hands are both occupied. Imagine that Amer 
 ican greeting done and over." 
 
 She did this so very well that any other wom 
 an might have been deceived ; but Alice saw 
 that Milly still hated her. 
 
 "The little unforgiving monster!" thought 
 Mrs. Marchmont ; " what did I ever do to her? 
 But how lovely she has 1 grown! what in the 
 world has changed her so? There's a soul 
 looking out of those eyes that has been newly 
 wakened. I must really find out what it all 
 means ; who would have dreamed it ?" 
 
 "You are too busy with your dress, or too 
 indifferent to be surprised," said she ; " but I 
 can't forego my woman's privilege. How came 
 you here ? indeed, where did you come from ? 
 Do tell me." 
 
 " Up the hill from the village ; and I have 
 torn my prettiest petticoat," replied Milly, 
 laughing again. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont began to be vexed; but 
 she enjoyed a bit of high comedy well perform 
 ed, and could not help laughing too. 
 
 "You vexatious creature," cried she; "how 
 came you in the village, then, since one must 
 question categorically ?" 
 
 " Oh dear, yes I beg your pardon think 
 of my being so stupid as not to understand ! 
 I really believe the air of these quiet places 
 dulls one's wit." 
 
 Alice had an internal conviction that Mil 
 ly's, so far from being dulled, had been decid 
 edly sharpened by the air or some other un 
 known cause. She had been the recipient of 
 coolness and raillery quite long enough ; per 
 haps she had better warn this young woman 
 that the dullness of the country had not yet 
 deprived her of her old, dangerous weapons. 
 
 "So odd a place to meet you," said she; 
 " of course it must be a bridal journey. Only 
 lovers or misanthropes would come to so quiet 
 a place. Am I to congratulate you ?" 
 
 " Only on the pleasure of meeting yourself," 
 she said, not flinching under the thrust which 
 reached a wound that Alice, ignorant of her 
 own share in Milly's trouble, did not dream 
 of touching. 
 
 "It is I who am to be congratulated, my 
 dear young lady," said Alice, in her most lan 
 guid way.
 
 186 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 " Or else pitied," said Milly. 
 
 "How so, I beg?" 
 
 " Since you say the place could only be sought 
 by lovers or misanthropes," returned Milly, fol 
 lowing up her success. 
 
 "Pas mal," said Alice, laughing again. 
 "Oh, well, every one knows that I am a mis 
 anthrope ; but a charming young blossom like 
 yourself can not urge such a plea." 
 
 "Oh, I came with my aunt," replied Milly ; 
 " so the being in love or misanthropic will fall 
 to her charge." 
 
 "How comfortable and convenient to have 
 an aunt," said Alice, with the slightest percep 
 tible sneer; " I wish I had one." 
 
 "Yes," drawled Milly, with a whole volume 
 of meaning in her distinct and deliberate ut 
 terance ; " I dare say you would often have 
 found one a great convenience." 
 
 Alice Marchmont remembered on the instant 
 Maud's story of the dinner-party ; the best of 
 women in such an encounter will be wicked 
 toward each other. 
 
 " Yes," she said, meditatively ; "but obser 
 vation has shown me that they are not always 
 a sufficient shield for young women to hide be 
 hind." 
 
 "Indeed ?" answered Milly. " Oh, I know 
 nothing about that ; but I am quite willing to 
 take your experience for it. I have never had 
 occasion to hide behind any one." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Marchmont, in a tone of 
 voice so nicely balanced between a doubtful as 
 sent and an interrogatory that a man would 
 have believed it the former; but the blood tin 
 gled in Milly's veins, for she knew very well 
 which was intended, and felt the full force of 
 the taunt. 
 
 "I am so grateful for your warm confirma 
 tion of my words," said Milly, sweetly. 
 
 "And the gratitude of a dear girl like your 
 self is such a charming thing to have," said Al 
 ice, with equal sweetness. 
 
 The foils had clashed and glanced off equal 
 ly ; it was scarcely worth while to continue the 
 encounter on that ground. 
 
 "What lovely views there are from these 
 hills. I must have been wandering miles," 
 was Mrs. Marchmont's next remark, moving 
 nearer to the edge of the cliff. Milly assented, 
 and for a few moments they did enthusiastic 
 admiration of the scenery in mutual accord. 
 
 "It must be getting late," said Milly, sud 
 denly, glancing at her watch. "Why, it is af 
 ter sunset!" she added, in dismay. "And I 
 fancy we are a long way from the village. In 
 deed I don't quite know where we are ; I was 
 climbing the hill hoping to get a look out, when 
 I came upon you." 
 
 " I was in the same predicament," said Alice. 
 " I tried several paths, but each one seemed to 
 lead me further astray than the one before it ; 
 I am very fortunate to have met you." 
 
 She knew that would vex Milly, and it did 
 so. 
 
 " Fortunate, provided I can help you out of 
 
 your difficulty, but I am not certain that I shall 
 be able to do so." 
 
 "Ciel!" cried Mrs. Marchmont. "Well, 
 ma belle, we shall at least have the consolation 
 of being lost together." 
 
 "You will make me unwilling to find the 
 way home if you remind me of that pleasure," 
 said Milly. 
 
 "Ah!" said the other, "but we shall go to 
 gether, too." 
 
 "Not if I can help it," thought Milly ; " I'll 
 put her in the right path, and leave her ; she 
 makes me feel too wicked!" But she did not 
 express her reflection in words or voice. "I 
 only hope we may be able to find the way," she 
 said, pleasantly. " I will go on to the extreme 
 top of the. cliff; very likely I can see the vil 
 lage from there. l)on't follow me, for if I 
 slipped I should throw you backward." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont stood quietly near the wa 
 ter-fall watching Milly as she ran up the stony 
 path with a rapid step, her stay in this place 
 having made her quite a mountaineer. She 
 reached the top, and Alice saw her look eager 
 ly about, then try several paths, and finally sit 
 down on a mossy rock to rest, thoroughly fa 
 tigued by her unusual walk. Presently she de 
 scended, stepping slowly down over the rocks 
 with what to most people might have passed 
 for caution in descending the rugged way ; but 
 Alice, with her quick perceptions, interpreted 
 the hesitation more correctly; she knew that 
 Milly could hardly endure being obliged to re 
 join her. 
 
 "What a dreadful disposition she must have !" 
 thought Alice. "One would have supposed 
 she might have forgotten her dislike of me in 
 all these months." 
 
 Just then she heard Milly speaking as she 
 drew near the fall. "I can see no sign of the 
 village," she said; "it is very odd where we 
 can be." 
 
 "Perhaps the place is enchanted, and the 
 genii are angry because we have come," re 
 turned Alice, trying to laugh, but feeling great 
 ly disturbed by Milly's words, for she had just 
 discovered that she was thoroughly exhausted. 
 
 "The worst of it is," continued Milly, " there's 
 a heavy cloud coming over that mountain 
 mist or rain, or both ; so we must hasten in 
 some direction." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont rose to her feet at once. 
 
 " You have no idea which path would lead 
 us least astray ?" she asked. 
 
 "Not the slightest," replied Milly, with com 
 posure. "Whether we had better go down 
 the way I came up, or go to the top of the cliff 
 and ascend on the other side the village must 
 lie in one direction or the other." 
 
 " How re-assuring !" responded her compan 
 ion. 
 
 " Yes ; we can have the satisfaction of be 
 lieving ourselves right until the last moment." 
 
 "Thank you, but I don't like the idea of 
 last moments! Eh lien; which path do you 
 propose to take ?"
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 187 
 
 " I am as much at a loss as you can bo. I 
 have taken so many turns, and climbed so many 
 hills, that I can not tell the right hand from the 
 left." 
 
 Alice began to laugh again from sheer fa 
 tigue and nervousness. 
 
 "We shall have to imitate the school-boy," 
 said she, picking up a little flat stone. "See 
 I toss this in the air ; if the gray side comes 
 uppermost, we go back by the way you came ; 
 if the yellow, we try fate on the other side of 
 the cliff." 
 
 " Very well ; but I warn you the path seemed 
 very steep as I looked down at it." 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont shrugged her shoulders in 
 differently. 
 
 "One two ; now for luck or fate !" 
 
 She tossed the little stone in the air. As it 
 fell, both leaned over it. The yellow side was 
 uppermost. 
 
 "We are doomed to try the cliff," said she. 
 "I confess to being very superstitious. I 
 wouldn't tempt destiny by going the other way 
 for the world." 
 
 She spoke half in jest, half in earnest. But 
 Milly herself had the same little superstitious 
 feeling in favor of following the decision of 
 their oracle, such as it was, a feeling every body 
 has had in moments of perplexity, though ad 
 mitting its folly. 
 
 "So be it," she said. "We had better go 
 at once ; either it is growing dusk, or that cloud 
 is coming very fast." 
 
 They clambered up the ascent, Milly some 
 what burdened with a plaid which she had 
 brought on her arm to make a comfortable seat, 
 and Alice so weary that even the excitement 
 of knowing they were lost could not make her 
 forget her intense fatigue. But of all persons 
 in the world, each felt that her companion was 
 the last to whom she would admit either weari 
 ness or fear; so they climbed on, laughing and 
 jesting, and being as witty and clever for each 
 other's benefit as if they had been in a ball 
 room, with a crowd of men to listen to and ap 
 preciate their ban mots. They were at the top 
 of the cliff, and stopped an instant to get breath 
 and look out for some sign of the village. 
 
 Away in the west were broad streaks of dark 
 red, half covered with smoky flecks ; but the 
 mist and rain, coming up from the south, had 
 rushed so rapidly between, that it was like gaz 
 ing out over a gray sea, and in the dim light 
 the path at their feet looked fearfully precipi 
 tous and uncertain. Alice Marchmont gave 
 one glance, and then started back a little. 
 
 "Are you afraid?" asked Milly, with polite 
 contempt in her voice. 
 
 " Not in the least ; my head was dizzy for a 
 moment. It is over." 
 
 " Come, then, I'll go first." 
 
 "No, indeed; as the elder, that is my priv 
 ilege." 
 
 Be helped out of an unpleasantness or dan 
 ger, as it might chance to be, by Mrs. March 
 mont ? No ; Milly felt that she could not, even 
 
 if the consequence of leading the way were a 
 fall from the height and a broken back. She 
 started down the suspicion of a pathway with 
 out another word, and Alice followed, with a 
 careless laugh on her lips. Two woodsmen 
 could not have shown less appearance of timid 
 ity, and certainly would have displayed more 
 caution than these women, animated by feel 
 ings of cordial dislike on the one side, and re 
 pulsion on the other, caused by a consciousness 
 of that dislike. 
 
 Down they hastened. The descent, which, 
 under ordinary circumstances, would have been 
 rather difficult than dangerous, was now some 
 what perilous ; for the red light .died rapidly 
 out of the sky, and the mist surged on toward 
 them, some drops of chilly rain already begin 
 ning to fall, as a precursor of the storm which 
 was close at hand. They had passed the steep 
 est part of the way, and were apparently ap 
 proaching a number of glens similar to those 
 on the other side of the hills, and the sound of 
 water-falls were again audible. 
 
 " Can you see out at all?" Mrs. Marchmont 
 asked. 
 
 "Not in the least. I thought when we got 
 here I should be able to form some idea of our 
 whereabouts." 
 
 " But you can't ?" 
 
 " No more than if we were in the moon." 
 
 Alice began to laugh, made a misstep, caught 
 at a shrub for support ; but the twigs gave way 
 in her hand, and she fell to the ground, unable 
 to repress one sharp cry of pain. Milly was 
 some distance in advance, peering about among 
 the shadows, but she heard the exclamation, 
 and called, 
 
 " You did not fall ? You're not hurt ?" 
 
 There was no answer. She hastened back 
 to the spot, and found Mrs. Marchmont nearly 
 fainting, but trying to rise to her feet. 
 
 "Oh, are you hurt?" Milly asked, her anx 
 iety roused at once. 
 
 "I think not; I can't tell till I'm up very 
 awkward of me thank you," as Milly aided 
 her. 
 
 But the instant she tried to stand the pain 
 forced a groan from her, and she would have 
 fallen again if Milly had not held her firmly. 
 
 ' ' What is it ? Where are you hurt ?" 
 
 "My foot " 
 
 "You have sprained your ankle?" 
 
 " I don't think it is ; the pain is in my foot. 
 Let me sit down a moment; perhaps I have 
 only bruised it against a stone." 
 
 Milly forgot her dislike to the woman the 
 wrongs she had received at her hands every 
 thing except her suffering, and that she could 
 see was excessive, by the whiteness of Mrs. 
 Marchmont's lips, and the nervous contraction 
 of her hands. Carefully as she could have 
 touched a sister, Milly seated her on a conven 
 ient bank and supported her in her arms. 
 
 "I think the pain will pass in a moment," 
 said Alice, trying to keep her voice from trem 
 bling. " Don't let me tire you ; I can sit up."
 
 188 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "Lean against the tree, and let me loosen 
 your boot-lacing," Milly said, for she saw that 
 the pain did not decrease. 
 
 In spite of her hasty deprecation, Milly knelt 
 and unlaced the dainty kid bottine. 
 
 "Ah, that is easier; perhaps if I draw it 
 partly off for a little it will get better." 
 
 Milly attempted to do so, but Alice fairly 
 shrieked then exclaimed, as Milly stopped, in 
 a fright, 
 
 "I do beg your pardon; I didn't think I 
 was such a baby. Let it alone I can walk 
 I must walk." 
 
 She struggled to her feet, tried to take a step, 
 and fell backward. 
 
 "I can't do it," she said, the horrible pain 
 sending a deathly faintness over her. "I must 
 have broken some bone in my foot." 
 
 "Let me get your shoe and stocking off, 
 and " 
 
 " No, no ; it would do no good ! See, now ; 
 you must not mind me; just leave me here, 
 and make your way down to the village." 
 
 "Indeed I will do no such thing!" 
 
 " You must reach it in time ; you can send 
 some one back for me." 
 
 " I can riot leave you alone, Mrs. Marchmont 
 indeed I will not ; so we'll not discuss it fur 
 ther." 
 
 "Then I must walk, if it kills me." 
 
 " You must do no such thing," returned Mil 
 ly, firmly, restraining her as she tried to rise. 
 
 "It would be much wiser for you to go on 
 and leave me," said Alice. "I should be per 
 fectly safe." 
 
 "I'm not quite such a brute," exclaimed 
 Milly. 
 
 " Indeed you are only too kind," returned 
 Alice, warmly. "But you see, it can do no 
 good to stay; I'm not afraid; besides, you 
 would be sure to find help somewhere." 
 
 "I might find myself in the deep woods at 
 the foot of the mountain as likely as any 
 where." 
 
 " Honestly, would you rather stay ?" 
 
 "Honestly! I don't know which way to 
 turn." 
 
 "Well, certainly, there's no use filling the 
 neighborhood with lost and distressed females ; 
 we may as well stay together if you are so good 
 as to wish it, and " 
 
 A severer twinge checked further words for 
 the moment. 
 
 "I must find a more comfortable place for 
 you," Milly said, "and get your boot off. 
 Wait a moment." 
 
 She ran a little farther down the descent, 
 and found herself in a sheltered glen ; in the 
 dim light she could see a water-fall dashing 
 across the rocks, not far off a group of trees, 
 under which last she spread her plaid, and 
 then hurried back. In spite of Mrs. March- 
 mont's expostulations, Milly half carried, half 
 led her to the place. Supported by Milly, she 
 managed to get at last to the trees, and then 
 sank on the plaid almost unconscious. Milly 
 
 held her in her arms until the faintness had 
 somewhat passed, too much frightened to re 
 member any thing except that she was a wom 
 an, and needed help. 
 
 " What a miserable idiot I am !" cried Alice, 
 recovering; "I dare say the hurt is nothing." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," Milly answered. 
 "Let me try to find out what is wrong." 
 
 Milly drew off the boot and stocking as 
 tenderly as possible, and examined the dainty 
 white foot ; Alice had displaced one of the lit 
 tle bones in the instep. Milly knew at once 
 what was the matter, for young Rob, with the 
 usual ill luck of boys at vacation-time, had met 
 with a similar accident the preceding summer. 
 She explained the nature of the hurt, saying, 
 
 "If you will let me, I am quite sure I can 
 push the bone into its place, and bandage it as 
 I saw the doctor do. There will be very little 
 pain after." 
 
 "Oh, I should be so glad! Can I walk 
 then ?" 
 
 "Ah, that I can't promise. Rob was not al 
 lowed to attempt it for more than a week!" 
 
 "Fancy a week's sojourn here!" cried Alice. 
 
 Milly did not waste more words ; she tore 
 their handkerchiefs in strips, took the wounded 
 foot in her hands, and easily pushed back the 
 bone, the operation being slight enough to any 
 one gifted with common sense and a keen fac 
 ulty of observation. Then she bound it deftly 
 with her impromptu bandages, wet them thor 
 oughly, and finally folded Mrs. Marchmont ten 
 derly in the plaid. 
 
 Alice had not uttered a word during the 
 operation, which was painful enough, as I can 
 aver from experience ; but when it was over 
 the relief was so great that she breathed a long 
 sigh of positive content. 
 
 "Is that better?" asked Milly. 
 
 " It is like coming out of purgatory ! How 
 good you are to me and how skillfully you 
 did it!" 
 
 " Luckily I was obliged to watch the doctor. 
 Rob would not sit still unless I held him fast 
 in my arms." 
 
 "I am sure any surgeon would have hurt 
 me much more men are so awkward." 
 
 The pain was now sufficiently gone for them 
 to consider their situation, and there was cer 
 tainly nothing for it but to stay where they 
 were. Mrs. Marchmont announced that she 
 had a packet of biscuits in her pocket, and 
 Milly had some fruit and a drinking-cup in 
 the little velvet sachel which she always took 
 with her in her walks to carry a book in. It 
 was evident, as the rain had not continued, that 
 the most unpleasant thing which could happen 
 would be to suffer with cold. 
 
 "If you had not been unlucky enough to 
 meet me," said Alice, "you would be safe at 
 home long before this." 
 
 " No, indeed ; I should only he lost some 
 where else, and quite alone at least I am very 
 glad we are together." 
 
 " Do you really mean it ?"
 
 JOHN WORTIIINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 189 
 
 "I do; I am in earnest now; I would not 
 say it else." 
 
 "Then I thank you heartily, and may be as 
 glad as I wish to be that you met me, since you 
 are not sorry." 
 
 "The storm has passed by," said Milly: 
 " there will be no rain ; perhaps the mist will 
 go before the moon rises." 
 
 " If we were only men, we should carry plen 
 ty of matches for our odious pipes, and could 
 have a fire." 
 
 "Are you cold?" 
 
 " Not at all I am so wrapped up ; but I'm 
 afraid you are. Do take part of the plaid." 
 
 " Not yet ; I'm warm enough. We have 
 chanced on a bed of heather, where the sun 
 has been lying all day, and my feet are as warm 
 as possible." 
 
 " How absurd it all seems," said Alice ; and 
 they both began to laugh, which did them good. 
 
 By this time they discovered that they were 
 hungry, and Mrs. Marchmont's paper of bis 
 cuits and Milly's forgotten fruit became treas 
 ures. 
 
 " It is better than the choicest supper at the 
 Trois Freres," Alice declared. " By-the-way, 
 when did you come abroad ?" 
 
 " Last autumn," Milly answered. 
 
 "A friend wrote me that you were here, and 
 that you are an heiress in these days. I con 
 gratulate you." 
 
 " You are very good." 
 
 " People may moralize as much ^as they 
 please ; money is a nice thing to have ! So 
 your friend Constance Worthington is married. 
 I hope she is happy. Dear me one forgets so 
 your aunt was very ill just before you left 
 America." 
 
 "Yes very ill." 
 
 " So the voyage was partly on her account ?" 
 
 "No; she only came over this spring. I 
 was with Mr. and Mrs. Crittendon until then." 
 
 "Nice people very. You must have en 
 joyed these months greatly." 
 
 " I have ; we were very quiet all winter, but 
 I liked that." 
 
 "At your age?" 
 
 "One sometimes feels in that mood after 
 taking care of a sick person, "Milly answered, 
 dryly. 
 
 "Ah! yes. I should think that might be. 
 But I know very little about illness I have 
 been such a useless creature. I never was 
 with any sick person except my husband," she 
 added, in a softer voice, "and he only lived a 
 very short time." 
 
 Alice said no more. Straightway Milly's 
 thoughts rushed into the future. This wom 
 an would yet marry Mr. Halford ! Well, and 
 what was either of them to her ? At present 
 she had only to reflect that she was beside a 
 human being who had need of her assistance. 
 On the morrow they would separate, and each 
 go her way Mrs. Marchmont to wait for Hal- 
 ford, herself to take life as it came to her with 
 what patience she might. She was recalled 
 
 from these quickly flashing thoughts by Alice's 
 voice repeating, meditatively, 
 
 "No, I knew nothing about illness until my 
 husband's death." 
 
 " I am sorry if it was a great grief to you," 
 Milly said, and never remembered how strange 
 ly the words would sound until they were spoken. 
 
 "It was not a grief to me in itself," Alice 
 said, quietly "but it was a very solemn sea 
 son. It made me think and reflect as I had 
 never done before." 
 
 She said nothing else, and Milly did not 
 choose to ask her what she meant. The con 
 versation was assuming a serious tone not agree 
 able to her ; she had no desire to learn any thing 
 in regard to Alice's state of mind or feelings, 
 and certainly no intention of betraying her 
 own. 
 
 "The mist is passing away," she said, after 
 a short pause ; " the stars are beginning to come 
 out; we shall have moonlight presently." 
 
 She rose and began to walk about the little 
 glen in the gloom. Alice had not noticed her 
 words, but her moving roused her from the rev 
 erie into which she had fallen. 
 
 "I am sure you are cold," said she. 
 
 "Indeed, no; I am impatient to see the 
 moonlight. It will make the water-fall look 
 very lovely, I am sure." 
 
 "How it sings!" said Alice; "I always 
 envy running water ; it seems to be so happy." 
 
 Presently the sky lightened ; the tops of the 
 cliffs and trees became tinged with streaks of 
 pale, uncertain radiance that gradually bright 
 ened and grew silvery, till at last the moon 
 sailed slowly up over the fleecy clouds. The 
 rays streamed broad and full on the sparkling 
 cascade, and turned the little glen into a fairy 
 bower to which the lingering masses of mist 
 made tinted hangings that were too lovely to 
 be described by any words. 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont uttered an exclamation of 
 extreme delight, and then was still, entranced 
 by the loveliness of the scene. She glanced 
 toward Milly; the girl was standing in front 
 of the cascade, leaning carelessly against a tall 
 tree, the moonlight resting full upon her face 
 and upturned eyes, transfiguring them to that 
 almost unearthly beauty which only moonlight 
 can give. Alice bent forward, watching her 
 curiously. Was this the creature she had left 
 a spoiled, capricious child this woman with 
 the solemn eyes, and a strange, self-controlled 
 expression on the beautiful mouth the whole 
 face changed into a lofty type of loveliness, 
 which showed that not only had the soul de 
 veloped into full power, but some terrible and 
 bravely conquered suffering had smitten youth 
 ful and childish follies from her heart ? 
 
 Had the separation from Kenneth Halford 
 done this? Great Heaven, this girl had loved 
 him, then really loved ! Alice seldom gave 
 any one of her sex credit for the ability to love ; 
 but when she did, she pitied and admired her 
 beyond measure. A great sympathy for Milly 
 filfed her soul, deepened by a sensation of ab-
 
 190 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 solute awe at the expression of her face in the 
 white glory of the moonbeams. 
 
 " Milly!" she called, suddenly. 
 
 "Are you suffering again?" asked Milly, as 
 she came toward her, startled by the tone. 
 
 "No, no; I beg your pardon. This odd 
 adventure makes me silly and fanciful. You 
 looked so like a lovely spirit, as you stood there, 
 that I almost expected to see you float away." 
 
 "Ah, you have such a fund of pretty fancies 
 and compliments," Milly answered, coldly. 
 
 " I did not mean to compliment ; I was just 
 speaking my thoughts one doesn't often ; but 
 surely in this place it is very pardonable to be 
 surprised into it." 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 "Are you angry because I called you by 
 your first name ?" 
 
 " I did not notice it." 
 
 "It was odd I should have done it; but I 
 used to hear you called so very often." 
 
 Milly felt a hot flush of anger pass over her 
 the allusion was to Kenneth Halford. How 
 dared this woman make even the most distant 
 reference to his name ! 
 
 " Let me wet the bandage again," she said, 
 in the most commonplace tone. 
 
 " It is not necessary ; my foot is perfectly 
 easy, and I am as warm as possible. You will 
 freeze, I am sure, if you walk about. Come, 
 wrap yourself in the plaid, and let us watch the 
 moonlight together." 
 
 " I'm not cold, and so very wide awake that 
 I could not keep myself quiet," Milly replied. 
 
 With these thoughts again roused in her 
 mind, she could not go near Mrs. Marchmont ; 
 her only chance of regaining composure was in 
 getting back to ordinary topics of conversation 
 while she walked about. 
 
 "Please do come," begged Alice, "else I 
 shall think you still hate me too much." 
 
 "But since I am not cold " 
 
 "Ah, but I am sure you must be ; I implore 
 you to come ! Well, if you won't, I'll get up 
 and throw your plaid away," exclaimed she, 
 with a pretty willfulness. 
 
 There was nothing for it but to make a "scene 
 which would render herself ridiculous, and be 
 downright cruelty under the circumstances, or 
 to comply with Mrs. Marchmont's wish. So 
 Milly sat down beside her, and Alice wrapped 
 the plaid carefully about her, leaving her hand 
 to rest caressingly on Milly's shoulder, and the 
 touch of those slender fingers sent a chill to 
 Milly's very soul. 
 
 "Ah, you are shivering even now ! " exclaimed 
 Alice. " You will catch cold and be ill, and 
 all by my fault. Oh, I bring bad luck to ev 
 ery one who comes near me !" 
 
 "I don't think you will bring any bad luck 
 to me," replied Milly, steadily, "in this in 
 stance." 
 
 "I hope you don't believe I wish to in any 
 instance," said she, catching the last words. " I 
 hope you don't," she repeated, when Milly did 
 not speak. 
 
 "I hope not, certainly," she answered, try 
 ing to laugh ; "but since you say you are so 
 unfortunate to your friends, perhaps it is lucky 
 for me that we are not likely to meet, if ever 
 we get out of this wood." 
 
 " What an odd idea ! Not meet ? What 
 can you mean ?" 
 
 Milly had said more than she intended. 
 
 "I mean nothing like most people. I 
 should have said not soon, or often." 
 
 " Oh, that would pain me to believe," cried 
 Alice, impulsively. " I'm such an absurdity ; 
 it seems to me as if we had been ever such a 
 long time here together, and had grown well 
 acquainted." 
 
 She was trying her fascinations, thought Mil 
 ly, bitterly ; but Alice Marchmont was quite 
 powerless to deceive her. 
 
 "Are you laughing at me?" Alice asked. 
 
 " Oh no. I accept your last words as I do 
 your other pretty speeches ; they are very pleas 
 ant to hear." 
 
 "But you don't believe? That is down 
 right unkind. I did not think you could be so 
 hard-hearted ! I wish I had not let you bind 
 up my foot. I think I would rather have been 
 left quite alone in the wood to-night than be 
 indebted to a person who can think meanly of 
 me." 
 
 She spoke so warmly that Milly was really 
 touched. She relented sufficiently to believe 
 that Mrs. Marchmont was sincere for the mo 
 ment ; but there was no reason why she should 
 be deceived by so ephemeral a feeling, even if 
 the lady Avas. 
 
 "There is no cause for gratitude," she said, 
 cordially enough. "I shall think you are fe 
 verish, and be frightened if you are so easily 
 agitated." 
 
 "Are you always calmness personified ?" ask 
 ed Mrs. Marchmont, smiling again. "Well, I 
 am impulsive, as you see, even after all the dis 
 cipline life has brought me; and there is one 
 thing above all in which I think I shall never 
 change if I am to love any one I do it with 
 out warning, and I think I must love you in 
 spite of yourself." 
 
 " Even if I had hostile intentions, I should 
 in that case be obliged to throw down my arms. 
 You are so entirely invincible, you know." 
 
 " You are mocking, and I am sure you have 
 some strong dislike for me. AVhy is it ? You 
 do dislike me, don't you?" 
 
 Milly was silent ; the truth was too rude to 
 tell, and she was not willing, even for civility, 
 to stoop to falsehood. 
 
 "You seem quite to hate me," persisted 
 Alice. 
 
 "Not at this moment, "replied Milly. 
 
 " Come, that is better than nothing a long 
 step gained. I'll be wise, and not ask more 
 questions." 
 
 "How did you happen to find this quiet vil 
 lage ?" said Milly, wishing to change the sub 
 ject of conversation. 
 
 " The village that I can not find, you mean ?
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 191 
 
 Oh, I was tired, and bored with well-known 
 places and people, and I chanced to hear some 
 one rave ahout this lake and the water-falls ; 
 so the next morning I set off in search of 
 them." 
 
 " You reached here to-day ?" 
 
 "Yes ; but how did you know?" 
 
 "I did not at least, that it was yon. A 
 servant told mine of another lady who had ar 
 rived, wondering I suppose, to see strangers so 
 late in the season." 
 
 " So we are positively living under the same 
 roof?" 
 
 "When we get back to it, if ever we do." 
 
 "Oh, they'll hunt us up," said Alice, with 
 her usual insouciance. " Your aunt is sure to 
 be frightened, and send to look you up, and 
 my old servant will go quite mad." 
 
 "Poor aunty! I declare it was wicked of 
 me to forget her anxiety." 
 
 "We are the heroines; it is for the others 
 to be anxious. What time is it now?" 
 
 Milly looked at her watch ; it was almost 
 midnight. 
 
 "I did not think it was so late," said Mrs. 
 Marchmont. 
 
 "Hark!" said Milly, starting up. "There 
 are voices!" 
 
 They listened the cries were repeated, and 
 Milly shouted as loudly as she could in return. 
 It was not long before the landlord and his 
 party came down the cliff path, and Alice un 
 gratefully whispered to her companion, 
 
 " I'm rather sorry they found us. I was 
 very comfortable, and we should have got ac 
 quainted if they had only left us to play babes 
 in the wood till morning." 
 
 As she spoke the words she looked up, and 
 by the glare of the lanterns which shut out the 
 moonlight she saw John Worthington's face. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 MADE CLEAR. 
 
 MILLY found her aunt in a state of great 
 alarm, and almost inclined to be hysterical over 
 her restoration, until she forgot the intention in 
 her wonderment at learning who had been the 
 girl's companion in this untoward adventure. 
 
 "Alice Marchmont!" she exclaimed. " Why 
 I never heard the like ! They told me there 
 was another lady out, but they said it was a 
 Mrs. Marsham. What on earth did you say or 
 do?" 
 
 " We laughed," said Milly ; " then she broke 
 her foot ; then I mended it ; then we lay down 
 in my plaid and talked trash ; then the people 
 found us. But who do you think headed the 
 scouting-party ?" 
 
 "I don't know ; I am past surprise." 
 
 "Mr. Worthington. He told me he reach 
 ed here just as the excitement about us was at 
 its height ; and oh ! he hurt his arm coming 
 back, to complete the romance." 
 
 "It is exactly like a romance," cried Mrs. 
 Hem sen. 
 
 "Oh, very like," returned Milly, yawning. 
 "But I shall go and see Mrs. Marchmont, then 
 get to bed, and finish the romance in the morn 
 ing." 
 
 It had all come about naturally enough, ro 
 mantic as it appeared to Mrs. Rcmsen. Alice 
 Marchmont had been wandering about the Con 
 tinent since her hasty departure from America, 
 and had lately come over to England. She 
 was seized with a desire to visit the Highlands 
 once more, and, as Miss Portman detested 
 mountain scenery, had left her at peace near 
 London, and wandered off with no guardian 
 ship but that of her maid and man. 
 
 For several months past, John Worthington 
 had received no letters from her ; it had grown 
 difficult for her to write in the old, calm, friend 
 ly way. He became too anxious to endure 
 longer her silence ; he set sail for Albion. He 
 found Miss Portman, learned the direction her 
 relative had taken, and started in pursuit. He 
 followed her from one place to another, and 
 reached the hotel only a few hours after her ar 
 rival. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Marchmont was unable 
 to leave her bed. She had caught a severe 
 cold ; and this, added to the sprain, made her 
 really ill, though it seemed to Milly that she 
 was suffering more from mental agitation than 
 physical pain. 
 
 John Worthington heard of her state from 
 the physician, and did not attempt to see her, 
 but he lay in wait for Milly, and fairly startled 
 her by his manner and eager questions. 
 
 " Beg her to admit me as soon as she is able," 
 he urged. 
 
 Milly went back to Mrs. Marchmont and re 
 peated the message ; but there was no reply. 
 Alice turned her head on her pillow, so that 
 her face was hidden, and did not speak for a 
 long time. Milly might have thought that she 
 slept save for the spasmodic quivering of her 
 hands at intervals, and the choked sobs which 
 occasionally shook her frame, but the girl was 
 too wise to worry her charge by a single ques 
 tion. Alice grew so much worse after the phy 
 sician paid his afternoon visit that she needed 
 constant care ; and finding her maid more help 
 less than a frightened partridge, Milly could 
 not leave the room. 
 
 It was strange enough to sit by that bed, 
 watching the woman whom she believed had 
 willfully and wickedly worked her so much 
 harm ; to recall her own dislike, and their last 
 meeting ; but this was no time to indulge in 
 unkind feelings, nor was there in her thoughts 
 any Pharisaical idea of heaping coals of fire on 
 her enemy's head. 
 
 As night came on, Alice's fever increased so 
 much that she was slightly delirious. Howev 
 er, the doctor had prepared Milly for this ; so 
 she was not alarmed. 
 
 Between sleeping and waking, Alice talked 
 disconnectedly of people and things concern-
 
 192 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 ing which Milly was ignorant of trivial and 
 long-forgotten matters, as well as those nearer. 
 Sometimes she seemed frightened, oppressed 
 by danger once she called out Worthington's 
 name, and uttered appealing words. Then she 
 roused herself with an effort, and said, 
 
 " How good you are how kind and tender ! 
 Wasn't I talking great nonsense ?" 
 
 But the struggle to keep awake and sensible 
 Avas too great for her wearied nerves, and she 
 dozed again, complaining that she was so tired 
 so tired ! She journeyed over stony roads ; 
 she was out of breath climbing steep hills ; she 
 was, through all, full of grief at her inability 
 to explain something, and begged for Milly's 
 little warm hand to hold in hers, because with 
 out it she was so lonely. 
 
 At length she fell sound asleep, and Milly 
 sat regarding the beautiful face, afraid to move 
 lest she should disturb her, and thinking what 
 a strange chance it was that had brought them 
 together under such circumstances. Milly was 
 no wiser than the rest of us, and said chance, 
 when, if she had stopped to reflect, she knew 
 there was no such thing no space for it in the 
 grand plan of human existence. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Marchmont was bet 
 ter, but, by the physician's orders, she remained 
 in bed ; indeed, after one rebellious attempt to 
 leave it, she resigned herself to the necessity 
 of obedience without further complaint. 
 
 The day wore on, and Milly scarcely left her. 
 Toward evening she went down stairs for a few 
 moments, to give Mr. Worthington more ex 
 plicit tidings than she had been able to send, 
 and he handed her a letter for Mrs. March 
 mont. 
 
 "It is shameful to keep you a prisoner 
 here," Alice said, as she returned to the cham 
 ber ; " but I do so hate staying alone !" 
 
 "I could not leave you to your servant; I 
 am glad to stay," Milly answered. 
 
 " Have you seen Mr. Worthington ?" Alice 
 asked, after a pause. 
 
 "Yes; his arm is better. I could relieve 
 his anxiety about you, too." 
 
 "He was anxious my good old John!" 
 
 "I have something to give you when yon 
 are well enough to read it," Milly added. 
 
 Alice stretched out her hand, and Milly put 
 Worthington's letter into it and busied herself 
 at the other side of the room, while Mrs. March 
 mont read the epistle. For a long time she lay 
 quiet. It was growing dusk now ; Milly could 
 not see her face, but she thought that Alice 
 was weeping. At last Milly heard her call 
 her name in a steady voice. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, going toward the 
 bed. " Shall I help you to move ?" 
 
 "No," Alice answered. "Sit down by me 
 I want to talk to you." 
 
 " Shall I ring for a lamp ?" 
 
 " Not yet, please ; I like the twilight. You're 
 sure you don't mind staying with me ?" 
 
 " I like to stay ; do believe it." 
 
 "Dear Millv I mav call vou Millv?" 
 
 "If it pleases you," Milly said, softened in 
 spite of herself, and wondering if she could 
 possibly have misjudged this woman through 
 out wondered, too, if she had as much exag 
 gerated the wrong done her as she had Mrs. 
 Marchmont's share in it. 
 
 "Do you remember our last meeting in Amer 
 ica, Milly ?" Alice asked, suddenly. " Weren't 
 you a little hard on me then ?" 
 
 "Very hard ; I have many times since been 
 sorry ; but I was so hard and wicked in those 
 days." 
 
 "My poor Milly, "returned Alice, tenderly; 
 " were you suffering too ?" 
 
 This was an admission Milly could not bring 
 herself to utter; she remained silent. Pres 
 ently Alice spoke again. 
 
 "I am thinking about your goodness to me. 
 I haven't had much tenderness shown me in 
 my life, Milly. Oh! those days I was speaking 
 of how I suffered ; my pride has become more 
 tamed than yours I don't mind owning it. 
 Do you know who was very good to me then, 
 though he had no idea what caused my trou 
 ble ? Shall I tell you who it was ?" 
 
 "Of course, if you like," Milly answered, 
 slowly. 
 
 "It was Kenneth Halford." 
 
 Alice felt the hand which she had taken grow 
 cold and begin to quiver, but she held it fast. 
 
 "Don't draw away, Milly; be quiet, child! 
 I want to talk to you about him." 
 
 " And I don't care to hear," Milly replied, 
 steadily. 
 
 " Because you don't believe with me that he 
 was kind and true?" 
 
 " Partly that," said Milly, her voice growing 
 a little hard. "But perhaps you knew him 
 better than I did." 
 
 " Oh, Milly ! And you once promised to be 
 his wife?" 
 
 Milly snatched away hei\ hand with an im 
 pulse to rise and leave the room, but Alice 
 clung to her. 
 
 " You must not go, Milly ! You will forgive 
 me if my question sounded cruel; indeed I did 
 not mean to be." 
 
 "Then we will talk of something else," Mil 
 ly said, decidedly. 
 
 " We must speak of this ; I implore you to 
 let me !" Alice cried. " It is not curiosity, oh, 
 believe that ; but I must know what separated 
 you and Kenneth Halford." 
 
 " I can imagine no reason why " 
 
 "Hush, Milly! It is for my soul's peace! 
 I had sometimes feared that I Oh ! now, 
 what John Worthington writes " 
 
 "Mr. Worthington can know nothing about 
 the matter," interrupted Milly. "If you in 
 sist upon an answer, it is easily given." 
 
 "Tell me, Milly ; do tell me !" 
 
 "His arrogance and my girlish caprices, his 
 misunderstanding of my character and my lack 
 of faith in him. lieasons enough for us to 
 separate, since they proved there could be no 
 real love between us."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 193 
 
 " No, Milly, no ; I dm sure he loved you." 
 
 "Don't say another word, Mrs. Marclmiont," 
 said Milly, sternly. "If we are to speak or 
 meet again, this subject must be at an end be 
 tween us !" 
 
 " Then you still dislike me so much that you 
 will not talk frankly. Perhaps I might be able 
 to explain away your harsh judgment of me;" 
 and she drew Milly to her, placed her hand on 
 the unwilling head, turned the face toward her 
 own, and looked pleadingly in the blue eyes. 
 "How could you answer me like that?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "No other subject could make me do so," 
 said Milly, somewhat softened. 
 
 " Because because you love him ?" whis 
 pered Alice. 
 
 "Is it probable?" returned Milly, with the 
 bitter laugh which had of late been unfamiliar 
 to her lips. " Do you think I belong to the 
 order of women who can love on after falsehood 
 and deceit ? I think there is not so much of 
 the spaniel in my nature !" 
 
 " Kenneth Halford never intentionally de 
 ceived a human being ; I know him to be in 
 capable of it," said Alice, warmly. 
 
 Then came back to Milly the thought which 
 had occurred to her that night in the glen 
 Alice loved him, and would marry him ! Now 
 she must not shrink from his name if it should 
 wring her heart to listen. 
 
 "I know what I say," pursued Alice ; "you 
 may trust me, Milly ; I am sure of it." 
 
 "Indeed, Mrs. Marchmont, its truth or fals 
 ity can have no interest for me," Milly answer 
 ed, calmly. "Mr. Halford has passed com 
 pletely out of my life and thoughts." 
 
 " Oh, Milly ! ' When Kenneth Halford loved 
 you so dearly you believe that he loved you ?" 
 Alice asked. 
 
 "No," said Milly, coldly; "I am sure that 
 he did not. He was a man tired of the world, 
 and considering me a child, he fancied me for 
 a time ; but when he found that I could think 
 and feel, even if I could not reason, and that I 
 was horribly ill-tempered and exacting, he was 
 glad to let me go." 
 
 "Did he say all this?" 
 
 " He was not likely to say it, Mrs. March 
 mont, but I was quick to understand. Young 
 as I was, you can not suppose that I was an ut 
 ter idiot, without perception or imagination." 
 
 " On the contrary, I fancy both were only 
 too excitable," replied Mrs. Marchmont. " So 
 you sent Mr. Halford away?" 
 
 "Out of my life at least; yes." 
 
 " I only heard the incomprehensible story 
 your little cousin told me the day I tried to 
 see yon," said Alice; "but I knew you must 
 have broken the engagement ; he was not a 
 man to do that, although you did torment 
 him." 
 
 "Perhaps he complained to you, "said Mil 
 ly, her eyes flashing. 
 
 "No, Milly," said Alice, gently, "you could 
 not think so. ! found it out for myself, but 
 13 
 
 not long before he went away, and I have had 
 no news of him since." 
 
 Milly found herself wondering at this ; per 
 haps Alice loved him without return. Milly 
 softened into a kinder mood. 
 
 "Nor have I," said she ; " so we have reach 
 ed the conclusion of the episode ; and now we 
 can talk of something else." 
 
 " Not quite yet, dear Milly. I must under 
 stand why you disliked me so much. Tell me 
 why you broke your engagement, Milly." 
 
 This question brought back too plainly the 
 night when she had parted with Halford the 
 kiss she had seen him press on Alice's hand 
 the broken words she had heard him speak. 
 
 "I think we had better end here," said she, 
 slowly. 
 
 "What made you start, dearest Milly? 
 You say you don't love him ?" 
 
 "I was thinking of you, rather than of him," 
 Milly said, forcing herself to speak calmly. " I 
 was thinking how odd that we two should be 
 here together, and that you should ask me this 
 question." 
 
 "Now tell me what you mean, Milly." 
 
 "At all events, I did not mean to say that." 
 
 " But you have said it ; you must explain. 
 Child, I have reason to think that I had a share 
 in your trouble. You vexed me often, and I 
 fancied that you liked Halford, and wanted to 
 tease you. Can you forgive such meanness ?" 
 
 " Easily now." 
 
 "After I was certain of your engagement, I 
 did not want to do any harm ; but I thought it 
 only a kindness to you both to teach you to be 
 less impulsive and exacting. It was very wick 
 ed of me. I did not know you." 
 
 "But this" 
 
 "Wait, Milly! John Worthington's letter 
 has shown me the truth. He tells me that 
 Halford, in one of his letters, told him that 
 you were annoyed by our friendship. Wor- 
 thington wrote me this now, that I might try 
 to set right any wrong I had done. Oh, let 
 me try, Milly ! If you will show me your whole 
 heart, I shall believe that you have ceased to 
 think harshly of me ; and I, too, need a little 
 tenderness, Millv, oh, so much ! What did I 
 do?" 
 
 " There is no need to go back over the past," 
 Milly said ; " it is dead and gone let it rest ! 
 I don't dislike you now." 
 
 " You must tell me what share I had in your 
 trouble." 
 
 " I was jealous, if you will know," cried Mil 
 ly ; " he tormented me, I hated you bitterly, 
 but I blamed him none the less." 
 
 " But he loved you, Milly, child ! He loved 
 you." 
 
 Milly's penitent regret died out under fresh 
 anger at these words. 
 
 "Hush !" she said, harshly. " You say you 
 wish me to believe you ; don't make it quite 
 impossible. He loved you, Alice Marchmont, 
 and you knew that he did." 
 
 Her soul was full of bitterness. The old be-
 
 194 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 lief in Alice's falsity came back so strongly 
 that she longed to get away. She rose to leave 
 the room, but Alice clung to her, saying, vehe 
 mently, 
 
 "You are wrong, child; he was good and 
 true ; he did not love me." 
 
 "Oh, madam!" cried Milly, indignantly, 
 "what can you gain by trying to cheat me 
 now? That night at the ball that last night, 
 when I saw him kiss your hand, I heard him 
 say " She broke off with a shudder, and 
 turned proudly aside, but Alice held her hands 
 fast. 
 
 "Try to believe me, Milly," she pleaded; 
 ^'let me tell you bow it was." 
 
 "You were free to love him," went on Mil 
 ly. " The treachery was on his side treacher 
 ous to both, since he was my betrothed husband 
 when he spoke those words of love to you." 
 
 "He never did there is your error. Give 
 me a moment, child, and I can explain all this. 
 I understand now I remember that night " 
 
 " Then we need talk no more." 
 
 "It is for that very reason you must listen ; 
 you were mistaken. Mill}-, don't refuse to hear 
 what may bring back peace to you." 
 
 Milly made a violent effort, and conquered 
 her passion. Alice held her hands, looking up 
 into her face, her lovely eyes misty with tears, 
 and Milly's heart believed, in spite of pride. 
 
 " Go on," she said. " I will hear you." 
 
 " Kenneth Halford and I were friends ; we 
 had been nothing else since my girlhood. He 
 knew all my life's story, more of my early 
 wretchedness than any other person, and it 
 made a strong tie between us. You are listen 
 ing, Milly, and believing ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes go on," said Milly, with her face 
 averted. 
 
 "I liked you," pursued Alice; "you were 
 so very pretty like a flower or a picture. I 
 did not know you really cared for him. At last 
 it was rumored that you were engaged. I 
 thought he would have told me if it were true. 
 Y"ou grew dreadfully rude to me, and I vexed 
 yon in return ; but I had not the most distant 
 idea of destroying your future peace." 
 
 " Go on," said Milly, softly. 
 
 " You were capricious with Mr. Halford. 
 You made him think that he had been mis 
 taken in you, that you were jealous and tyran 
 nical, and that your love could never bring him 
 the rest and peace he craved, perhaps too self 
 ishly. Do you see this ?" 
 
 "I have no wish to exculpate myself. I did 
 wrong ; but at least I was true ! I loved him, 
 and he " 
 
 "Wait, Milly, I am coming to that that last 
 night. You did behave badly ; he was hurt, 
 and angry ; and I was in such a reckless mood 
 if you could know what I was living through 
 Milly, I was like the man who had a sword 
 suspended over his head by a hair, and knew 
 that the blow might fall at any moment!" 
 
 Milly drew both the shaking hands into hers 
 with a sudden pity, and held them fust. 
 
 "We were standing in that little room ; he 
 had told me of his engagement to you, and his 
 fears that he had been mistaken in your char 
 acter. I answered that I thought you a child ; 
 but since it was youth and innocence that he 
 coveted, he must be content. I told him he 
 was wrong not to show you more of his true 
 self, and teach you to come up where he stood, 
 if he really loved you. 'I do love her,' he 
 said ; ' she is my last hope of happiness ;' and, 
 Milly, I am sure he meant it." 
 
 Milly listened breathlessly now. 
 
 "Then he began talking all sorts of nonsense 
 and bitter misanthropy. He said at last that 
 he was a greater fool than he had thought ; 
 that he had never believed he could be so weak 
 as to love as he did ; then broke off, laughing, 
 ashamed, I suppose, that I should see how much 
 he suffered, said something about my being a 
 sweet comforter, and, just out of a man's fool 
 ish gallantry, kissed my hand, and hurried away. 
 A moment after, I saw you in the room. I can 
 see how it all appeared to you, Milly ; but now, 
 surely, you believe me say that you do." 
 
 "Yes," answered Milly ; "I can not doubt 
 you." 
 
 "Then you forgive me, too, dear, my share 
 in your suffering?" 
 
 " Wait, Alice, till I can think. It is I, you 
 know, who need forgiveness." 
 
 "And are you satisfied now you are at 
 rest ; you exonerate Kenneth Halford from any 
 charge of deceit ?" 
 
 " Entirely, dear friend ; I see it all clearly 
 now." 
 
 "And you are glad again you hope?" 
 
 There was no responsive pressure to the hand 
 which held Milly's. Alice looked in her face 
 in surprise. 
 
 "What is it?" she urged; "what is it you 
 are thinking of now ?" 
 
 " I thank Heaven that I have not loved a 
 man unworthy," Milly answered, drying a few 
 quiet tears. "I am full of remorse for the bit 
 terness I cherished in my heart during those 
 black days, grateful to God that I have since 
 tried to be less wicked ; for if this news had 
 come to me in their midst, I should have been 
 overpowered by shame at my sin against the 
 Father in losing hope and faith." 
 
 "And that is all, Milly?" 
 
 " That is all ! Glad to know you thorough 
 ly ; for I love you now, dear Mrs. Marchmont, 
 and always shall." 
 
 "And I love you, too, and want you to be 
 happy." 
 
 " I shall grow so, if I try to fulfill my duties. 
 You know there is no other real happiness." 
 
 "But there is another happiness, dear child; 
 and it is not too late to find it." 
 
 "Hush! Alice." 
 
 "Does not the confirmation of his truth 
 bring back your old love, your old hopes, 
 Milly?" 
 
 " No, Alice ; I feel that the past is irrevoca 
 ble."
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 195 
 
 "Not to you not to you, with nothing to 
 blot out but the remembrance of a lover's quar 
 rel." 
 
 "Oh, Alice! Kenneth Ilalford and I are 
 separated forever ; and it is better so," Milly 
 said, her voice breaking a little. "He never 
 loved me as I really was he loved his own 
 ideal. He was wrong to patronize and look 
 clown upon me, and and I was outraged by 
 perceiving it. It was not wholly the foolish 
 jealousy of a girl. I had always the feeling 
 of a woman who is slighted and underrated." 
 
 " But every thing would be so different now." 
 
 "Not in the least, believe me. He wanted 
 a child's love to be looked up to and worship 
 ed quite blindly, and without question. I am 
 not that child. The man who loves me will 
 and must respect me, too, and feel that there 
 is no depth in his soul I could not reach, no 
 aspiration that I am unfit to share." 
 
 " How firm and stern you are ! I thought 
 you were only influenced by your belief in his 
 falsehood." 
 
 " Now that doubt is quite past, the other 
 causes which must sooner or later have sepa 
 rated us do not lose their importance." 
 
 "But when I tell you that he did so love 
 you " 
 
 " Don't mock me with the word, dear friend ; 
 you and I know what love really is. There are 
 many girls content to remain children all their 
 lives, to take only a vicarious interest in the 
 things which occupy their husband's hearts and 
 minds ; you do not think me such a one ?" 
 
 "No, Milly, you are not, indeed." 
 
 "And since it was such a wife Kennetli Hal- 
 ford wanted, he could never really love me. By 
 this time he will have forgotten his dream. J 
 had not passed deep enough into his life to be 
 long regretted." 
 
 "I can not believe that, Milly." 
 
 " Well, if he regrets me, it is as one misses 
 a favorite flower, a bird, any trifle with which 
 one amused the leisure hours of his life." 
 
 "If he could see you as you really are." 
 
 " You forget that it would be the strongest 
 reason of all for not loving me. I am not a 
 child, and it is a child he longs for, not a wom 
 an. Would you have me call him back, if it 
 were possible, to be disappointed anew ? No, 
 I am sure you would not. My life is tranquil ; 
 leave it me." 
 
 Alice urged her no further ; she only sighed, 
 
 "It is so dreary to be quite alone; life is 
 sometimes so heavy." 
 
 "Perhaps not in time, dear Alice ; I believe 
 not." 
 
 "Ah! you can hope it. I am older than 
 you. I have had a trouble more sharp ; but 
 it seems to me that life is very dark, Avithout 
 one strong and tender friend. Ah me ! But 
 go you to bed ; I needn't keep you up listening 
 to my wailings." 
 
 They talked for a while longer. Alice per 
 suaded her to relate every circumstance con 
 nected with the broken engagement ; then she 
 
 sent her away, insisting that she could sleep 
 if left alone. 
 
 She spent the night almost ns wakefully as 
 she had done so many others, but at least it held 
 one means of relief. She wrote a long letter 
 to Kenneth Halford, and, when it was finished, 
 she murmured to herself, 
 
 "At all events, I can do so much; thank 
 God for that!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 INTO THE LIGHT. 
 
 THE next day Milly found Mrs. Marchmont 
 suffering less physical pain, but she knew the 
 instant she looked in her face that no sleep had 
 visited the hollow, mournful eyes during the 
 whole night. 
 
 Alice talked, and tried to be herself, keeping 
 so resolutely away from any serious subject that 
 it was not until nearly night that Milly could 
 induce her to listen to Mr. Worthington's ur 
 gent requests for admission. 
 
 "I must see him," Alice said ; "I have just 
 been trying to put it oft*. I am such a coward." 
 
 Several times she had uttered vague hints of 
 the sort, but Milly could demand no explana 
 tions. 
 
 "He is very anxious about you," she said. 
 "I think he suffers a good deal, too, with his 
 arm." 
 
 " Oh yes, he was hurt ; I forgot it selfish 
 wretch ! Go and tell him to come up, Mil 
 ly. To-morrow I'll see your aunt, too. I am 
 ashamed to have behaved so ill." 
 
 Milly assisted her to rise and dress, estab 
 lished her in an easy-chair, and went in search 
 of Mr. Worthington, beginning to perceive that 
 there was a deeper feeling hidden in both hearts 
 than the old friendship which she had believed 
 the tie that bound them. 
 
 He came into the room, and Alice's last effort 
 at self-control gave way ; she could only bury 
 her face in her hands and weep silently. He 
 sat down, soothed her back to quiet by his gen 
 tle words, and at last she could look up and 
 talk connectedly, and try to thank him for his 
 goodness. 
 
 " But you have not told me why you ceased 
 writing," he said, after they had talked for a 
 long time. 
 
 The color flickered across her cheeks as she 
 answered, with an attempt at her old playful 
 ness, 
 
 "You can't expect me to have grown quite 
 free from caprices in little more than a year." 
 
 "Was it because I wrote something that I 
 ought not?" he asked. "Were you afraid I 
 would trouble you with my foolish wishes ? 
 You should have remembered that I had prom 
 ised never to do so again." 
 
 "No, no; not that!" she replied, faltering. 
 " I knew that was not likely to happen ; it was 
 the impulse of a moment ; even an angel's pity 
 could not "
 
 196 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. 
 
 "Alice, Alice!" he interrupted, "yon know 
 what made me speak you must know." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "and I did full justice to 
 your goodness! You pitied me so; but I 
 couldn't let your pity make you forget. I 
 couldn't be any man's wife, least of all yours." 
 
 "I never thought to tell you my story," he 
 said, " but I must ; then, if you bid me, I will 
 go away. Alice, I have loved you all these 
 years ! I never spoke, for fear it should break 
 up our pleasant friendship ; but I loved you as 
 passionatelv, as devotedly as ever woman was 
 loved." 
 
 " You loved me !" she said, almost in a fright 
 ened voice. "You loved me !" 
 
 " Always with the full strength of my heart. 
 When that trouble came, I loved you more 
 fondly than ever I thought ; every day since 
 you have grown closer and closer to my soul. 
 Perhaps I oughtn't to say this. I don't mean 
 to trouble you." 
 
 " Oh, John Worthington, John Worthington, 
 it isn't that ! But how could you love me ? 
 how could you care for me ?" 
 
 "I suppose nobody ever was able to answer 
 that question, Alice ; but I do love you the 
 one love of my life. I love you so truly that 
 even if you can never care for me I will not 
 trouble you by my pain." 
 
 "You have been an angel to mo !" she said, 
 brokenly. "No one was ever like you. All 
 these years you have been my ideal of every 
 thing that was noble and good." 
 
 "Alice! Alice! do you know what you are 
 saying ? Do you know what hope you are giv 
 ing me ?" 
 
 " Ought I ?" she asked, simply as a child. 
 "Do you tell me what is right, John Worthing 
 ton." 
 
 " Try to love me, Alice ; to understand how 
 boundless my affection is for you how lonely 
 the rest of my life must be if we separate again. 
 Could you try, Alice ?" 
 
 She hid her face in her hands, but he heard 
 her voice, low and firm now, 
 
 "I think I must have loved you all the 
 while ; but this last year taught me plainly. I 
 missed you so ! oh, I missed you so!" 
 
 John Worthington folded her in his arms, 
 with the thankful content of a man who has 
 found the realization of a life's fondest wish, 
 and she wept her tears of gratitude upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 For a time neither of them could talk much, 
 but it was easier at length ; and then there was 
 so much to say, that Milly, waiting in her cham 
 ber, grew a little impatient of the long inter 
 view. All the evening they sat together, and 
 Alice thought that she must have passed into 
 another world. Every thing was settled for 
 her; she had no need to make decisions, to 
 weary hei-self with fears or doubts. She put 
 her trust in his assurances, and was at rest. 
 
 Mrs. Remsen and Milly were to be induced 
 to accompany them to Edinburgh. Miss Port- 
 man would join them there. 
 
 " Then I shall have you fast," he said ; li my 
 wife, my own wife !" 
 
 " Xot so soon ; I am not fit. Wait till you 
 are sure I mean to be worthy oh, John !" 
 
 But the strong arm was drawing her closer 
 again. 
 
 "I want my happiness," he pleaded; "I 
 can't afford to wait any longer ; this dreadful 
 year of loneliness is enough. Alice, my dar 
 ling, for you and me the past is dead ; between 
 you and the merciful Father it will be a bond 
 to bring you closer to Him." 
 
 He would have it so, and she had nothing 
 more to urge. It was so sweet to rest upon 
 his decision, and know that it must be right. 
 
 In less than four weeks the news of the mar 
 riage reached America ; and though people in 
 general thought it sufficiently extraordinary, 
 they were obliged to admit the suitability of 
 the match. 
 
 After the departure of the newly -wedded 
 pair, Mrs. Remsen and Milly lingered in the 
 neighborhood of that most picturesque of cities, 
 sending for Miss Gorham and the children to 
 join them. 
 
 September came, and on one of its loveliest 
 evenings Kenneth Halford opened the gate of 
 the pretty cottage where Milly and her aunt 
 had made their home for a time. He had been 
 a very unhappy man during his wanderings, 
 finding that his love for Milly was a deeper- 
 seated sentiment than he had himself recog 
 nized. He learned to think of her, not as the 
 spoiled child whom he had wished to direct, 
 and by whom he was to be blindly worshiped, 
 but as the true woman into which he saw his 
 love might have developed her. Then Alice 
 Marchmont's letter reached him, and he has 
 tened away to try if life might not yet win peace 
 and rest. 
 
 Milly had been out among the woods and 
 fields. Toward sunset she reached the grove 
 which crowned the hill back of the house, and 
 sat down on a rustic bench to watch the crim 
 son and white clouds sweep up the west. Sit 
 ing there in the gathering brightness, Milly's 
 thoughts went back to the old days, and the 
 dream which had beautified her youth think 
 ing sadly, as she seldom now allowed herself to 
 do, of all that might have been, of the fulfill 
 ment of hope which might have reached her 
 had she been more patient, more ready to leave 
 her destiny in higher hands. 
 
 Milly had learned to be content, satisfied to 
 pluck the little flowers which grow up in our 
 daily paths, but which most of us crush uncon 
 sciously under our feet, while staring away into 
 the future and the unattainable. Milly knew 
 that, with no great love to brighten existence, 
 her life, regarded by itself, must appear a little 
 faded, a little solitary ; but she was trying not 
 to live for herself, not to dignify selfishness 
 by some poetical name ; therefore she was able 
 to endure the lack of warmth and coloring, 
 and look bravely forward along the appointed 
 path.
 
 JOHN WORTHIXGTON'S NAME. 
 
 197 
 
 And while she thought, and sternly told her 
 self that she had a great deal to be thankful 
 for, some one came quickly up the hill from 
 the cottage. She raised her eyes at the sound 
 of footsteps, and there Kenneth Halford stood 
 before her, his hands stretched out in eager 
 welcome, his voice calling, 
 
 "Milly! Milly!" 
 
 She could not rise or speak ; the meeting 
 was so unexpected that his presence seemed 
 scarcely real. 
 
 "Won't you speak to me, Milly? Won't 
 you at least say that you are glad to see me ?" 
 
 He caught her hands, and held them fast 
 while he poured out the story of his contrition 
 and suffering. 
 
 "I have come to ask your pardon, Milly ; 
 will you grant it? As soon as we were part 
 ed I saw how blind and mad I had been! I 
 did think you a child, Milly ; but I loved you 
 with all my heart. I could see when too late 
 how my man's arrogance had made me hard 
 and cruel. I knew that it was I who had been 
 wrong ; I longed so for your forgiveness ; shall 
 I have it, Milly ?" 
 
 " If you felt like that, think what my feel 
 ings were," Milly answered, when she could re 
 ply. "I have learned how falsely I suspected 
 you, how wicked I was. Oh, you can never 
 forgive that!" 
 
 "Mrs. Marchmont wrote me the whole story, 
 Milly ; I don't wonder you doubted me. You 
 are not to blame ; it was all my fault my self 
 ishness that caused the whole trouble. Can 
 you forgive me ?" 
 
 "As entirely as you have forgiven me." 
 
 " Can you trust me with your heart again ?" 
 he urged. " Can vou love me once more, 
 Milly ?" 
 
 She turned her face away, but her voice was 
 steady, almost solemn, as she answered, 
 
 " I never ceased to love you, Kenneth not 
 for a day or an hour." 
 
 It was the old, old story, which is always 
 beautiful, always new the story of love and 
 reconciliation the true love which knows upon 
 what it is built, and has learned to treasure its 
 blessings aright. 
 
 "To think that I have wasted so many 
 months of our lives," Halford said, after they 
 had talked deep into the twilight. " We might 
 
 have been happy all this dismal season, which 
 seems a century to look back on." 
 
 Milly shook her head and smiled. 
 
 "No, Kenneth, we should not have been 
 happy ; the trouble must have come. We be 
 gan wrong; I was too ignorant, too undisci 
 plined, for peace to have been possible." 
 
 But he could only see his own error, and la 
 ment his own blindness and folly. 
 
 " I think I am humbled now, Milly. I know 
 that all that is purest and best in my life must 
 come from you that all my great joys must 
 depend upon you, every care be lightened by 
 your sympathy. I know that I am honored by 
 your love ; the sole reason I can believe there 
 is any good left in me is because you are able 
 to care for me." 
 
 "Oh, Kenneth!" 
 
 Milly 's voice was so sweet as she uttered 
 the name which he had not heard since he left 
 her, to wander among careless strangers ; Mil- 
 ly's eyes so beautiful, as she raised them to his 
 face with her whole soul shining from their 
 depths, that he could only fold her to his heart 
 again, and let the common world drift out of 
 sight, leaving them alone in their glorified Eden 
 just them alone. 
 
 They were married at once. There is noth 
 ing more to tell. 
 
 Two winters afterward, Mrs. Remsen gave a. 
 grand party in honor of their return home. 
 Adelaide Ramsay was there, looking like a per 
 ipatetic jewelry shop ; Hortense, talking right 
 and left to whoever would listen, about some 
 wonderful theory in regard to a man's having 
 three separate souls ; and Charley Thorne, seem 
 ing contented enough with Maud by his side. 
 
 John Worthington and his wife were there, 
 too, and it seemed to Alice that, as she leaned 
 on her husband's arm, and gazed at Milly's ra 
 diant face, the last troubled memory swept away 
 forever into the oblivion of the past. 
 
 Dick Faulkner had already disappeared from 
 the haunts which once knew him, had almost 
 faded out of the recollections of those who call 
 ed themselves his friends. In the financial ruin 
 which overtook him, he would have fared still 
 worse, had not his wife received from the wom 
 an he had so cruelly tormented, a check, signed, 
 like the note for which Alice Marchmont peril 
 ed her soul, with John Worthington's name. 
 
 THE END.
 
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 295. No Man's Friend. By F. W. Robinson 75 
 
 296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 50 
 
 297. Caste 50 
 
 298. The Curate's Discipline. By Mrs. Eiloai t 50 
 
 299. Circe. By Babington White 5ll 
 
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 301. Carlyon's Year. By James Payn 25 
 
 302. The Waterdale Neighbors ... 60 
 
 303. Mabel's Progress " 50 
 
 304. Guild Court. By Geo. Mac Donald 50 
 
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 306. Playifs for High Stakes. By Annie Thorn 
 
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 308. One of the Family. By James Payn 25 
 
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 317. Dead-Sea Fruit. By Miss Braddon. Illustrated. 50 
 
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 Vincent's Land of the White Elephant, 
 
 The Land of the White Elephant : Sights and Scenes in Southeastern Asia. A Personal 
 Narrative of Travel and Adventure in Farther India, embracing the Countries of Burma, 
 Siam, Cambodia, and Cochin-China (1871-2). By FRANK VINCENT, Jr. Magnificently 
 illustrated with Map, Plans, and numerous Woodcuts. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $3 50. 
 
 The work presents us with a personal narrative of 
 travel and adventure in Farther India, embracing the 
 countries of Burma, Siam, Cambodia, and Cochin- 
 China. Mr. Vincent is an American gentleman, and 
 his travels took place in the years 1871-2, so that his 
 volume has the great advantage of reflecting the actu 
 al existing state of these lauds. Daily yews, London. 
 
 This is in many respects a model book of travel. 
 For once a traveler eschews any thing like book- 
 making, and, although Mr. Vincent visited India and 
 China, Ceylon and Japan, he limits his narrative to 
 lands that are far less familiar to us. The route he 
 describes in his volume led him up the Irrawaddy to 
 independent Burma; thence, returning to Rangoon, 
 he made the circuit of the Malay Peninsula, and, after 
 a visit to the kingdom of Siam, made his way through 
 Cambodia to the French settlements in Cochin-Chiua. 
 The volume is profusely and excellently illustrated, 
 and convenient maps add to its value. Mr. Vincent 
 gives a plain but pleasant account of all that struck 
 him as best worth noting. * * * In many ways the jour 
 ney was extremely interesting, and, what is more to 
 our present purpose, it was a journey extremely inter 
 esting to read about. * * * The whole of his book is 
 worth reading,as giving the latest observations of an in 
 telligent traveler over countries that are rapidly chang 
 ing their characteristics. Pall Mall Gazette, London. 
 
 We are inclined to assign to this book a place of 
 foremost interest among the travel books of the year. 
 The architectural and sculptural plates alone add im 
 mensely to its value. Examiner, London. 
 
 A not unwelcome addition to our knowledge of the 
 Indo-Chinese peninsulas. It is written in a clear and 
 unaffected style. It is descriptive of forests, lakes, 
 rivers, capitals, and ruins. It shows the author to be 
 possessed of some of the qualities indispensable to 
 successful exploration energy, endurance of heat, 
 fatigue, and petty annoyances, good humor, quickness 
 of observation, and intelligence. Its value is enhanced 
 by two or three maps throwing light on some disputed 
 points of geography, as well as by many excellent en 
 gravings which place before us the pagodas with their 
 wonderful tracery and the reigning monarchs in their 
 robes of State. Saturday Review, London. 
 
 "This new work of Oriental travel and adventure 
 presents fresh, accurate, and original information 
 about Farther India and its people. It is not padded 
 with historical, political, ethnographical, or geograph 
 ical matter obtained at second-hand from books, but 
 is a record of the author's own travels and observa 
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 courts, and of Cochin-China, carry the reader through 
 entirely untrodden fields ; while the chapters relating 
 to Siam, besides a complete account of Bangkok, the 
 king, and palace, contain a very interesting narrative 
 of a long journey made through the heart of the king 
 dom, and a carefully written, popular description, now 
 for the first time published, of the magnificent ruins 
 of Angkor, on its eastern frontier. The work is 
 splendidly illustrated with engravings, maps, and 
 plans, and is in all respects one of the most interest 
 ing and valuable books of Eastern travel ever given 
 to the public." 
 
 Farther India is still more or less a sealed book to 
 most of us, and one could not desire a more pleasant 
 tutor in fresh geographical lore than our author. He 
 won our heart at once by plunging in mediae res, in 
 stead of devoting a chapter to the outward voyage ; 
 and he tells us sensibly and intelligently, in a natural 
 and unaffected style, what he saw and heard. John 
 Bull. London. 
 
 "The Land of the White Elephant," by Mr. Vincent, 
 is another instance of the superiority of your country 
 men over ours iu the writing of books of travel, as a 
 general rule. For directness, for Baying what he has 
 to say straight off, and beginning at the really interest 
 ing and important portion cf his travels at once, in 
 stead of reiterating old descriptions which every one 
 has read a score of times, Mr. Frank Vincent is almost 
 unique and his book a model. It is rendered addition 
 ally interesting by the extraordinary changes \rtiich 
 are taking place in Siam, that remote and wonderful 
 land now making strides toward the adoption of West 
 ern civilization more energetic than those of the "Land 
 of the Rising Sun" itself. London correspondence of 
 the JV. Y. Herald.
 
 Harper 6 s * Brothers' List of New Books. 
 
 Evangelical Alliance Conference, 1873, 
 
 History, Essays, Orations, and Other Documents of the Sixth General Conference of the 
 Evangelical Alliance, held in New York, October 2-12, 1873. Edited by Rev. PHILIP SCHAFF, 
 D.D,. and Rev. S. IREN^US PRIME, D.D. With Portraits of Rev. Messrs. Pronier, Carrasco, 
 and Cook, recently deceased. 8vo, Cloth, nearly 800 pages, $6 oo. 
 
 About one hundred men, from various parts of the 
 world, eminent for learuing, ability, and worth, hold 
 ing high rank in theology, philosophy, science, and 
 literature, men of genius, power, and fame, were care 
 fully selected, and invited to prepare themselves, by 
 months and years of study, for the discussion of themes 
 of immediate and vital importance. They were chos 
 en, as the men of thought and purpose best fitted to 
 produce Treatises which should exhibit, in the most 
 thorough and exhaustive form, the TBUTH, as sustained 
 by the Holy Scripture and the most advanced and en 
 lightened human reason.' The results of this concen 
 trated thought and labor are embodied in this volume. 
 
 Rarely has a volume issued from the press which 
 
 contained a more varied and extensive array of talent 
 and experience. 
 
 The vital topics of Evangelical Theology, the delicate 
 relations of Science and Religion, the diflicult subjects 
 of practical Benevolence, Philanthropy, and Reform 
 are here discussed by clear, sound, and experienced 
 minds. Pulpit orators, of renown and recognized po 
 sition, have contributed to this volume their best pro 
 ductions. 
 
 It is, in short, a library of Christian thought and 
 learning the latest expression of master-minds upon 
 the important topics that are now moving the Chris 
 tian world and should be read by all who would be 
 educated in the thought of the age. 
 
 Motley's Life and Death of John of Barneveld, 
 
 Life and Death of John of Barneveld, Advocate of Holland. With a View of the Primary 
 Causes and Movements of " The Thirty Years' War." By JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, D.C.L., 
 Author of "The Rise of the Dutch Republic," "History of the United Netherlands," &c. 
 With Illustrations. In Two Volumes. 8vo, Cloth. (In Press.) 
 
 Victor Hugo's Ninety-Three, 
 
 Ninety-Three. A Novel. By VICTOR HUGO, Author of " Toilers of the Sea," " Les Mise'ra- 
 bles," &c. Translated by FRANK LEE BENEDICT. i2mo, Cloth, $1 75 ; 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 
 
 Tyng on a Christian Pastor, 
 
 The Office and Duty of a Christian Pastor. By STEPHEN H. TYNG, D.D., Rector of St. 
 George's Church in the City of New York. Published at the request of the Students and 
 Faculty of the School of Theology in the Boston University. I2mo, Cloth, $i 50. (Nearly 
 Ready.) 
 
 Colonel Dacre, 
 
 Colonel Dacre. A Novel. By the Author of " Caste," c. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 
 
 There is much that is attractive both in Colonel Da- Colonel Dacre is a gentleman throughout, which 
 ere and the simple-hearted girl whom he honors with 
 his love. Athenceum, London. 
 
 character ia somewhat rare iu modern novels. Pall 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 Field's Memories of Many Men and of Some Women, 
 
 Memories of Many Men and of Some Women : being Personal Recollections of Emperors, 
 Kings, Queens, Princes, Presidents, Statesmen, Authors, and Artists, at Home and Abroad, 
 during the last Thirty Years. By MAUNSELL B. FIELD. I2mo, Cloth, $2 oo. 
 
 Abounds in anecdotes, and the personal sketches of 
 eminent characters are so cleverly drawn that we have 
 the originals before us. Philadelphia Press. 
 
 He has written a pleasant volume of personal gossip, 
 detailing in a frank, unpretending way a host of inter 
 esting anecdotes of all sorts of people. * * * A very 
 entertaining volume. iV. Y. World, 
 
 The book is very cleverly executed, and is enter 
 taining in no ordinary degree. * * * lie has preserved 
 plenty of anecdotes which embody much that is pithy 
 and pungent about them. Boston Saturday Evening 
 Gazette. 
 
 Possibly other Americans have had as good oppor 
 tunities and made as much of them as Mr. Field, but 
 few have taken the trouble to publish theirs in a book. 
 Boston Daily Advertiser. 
 
 One of the most interesting books of the season. 
 St. Louis Dispatch. 
 
 Mr. Field, in jotting down these recollections, has 
 not endeavored to write history, or even biography, 
 but just gossip. It is gossip, nevertheless, so bright 
 and entertaining, and affording so vivid a view of the 
 informal domestic or social life of the persons con 
 cerned, that it is more interesting than elaborate biog 
 raphy could have been. Boston Journal. 
 
 Mr. Field's anecdotes are bright and clear ; are told 
 with a facile pen and an appreciation of the "point" 
 which at once entails the interest of the reader. * * 
 Sprightly and spirited. N. Y. Commercial A dvertiser. 
 
 A chatty book of anecdotes and reminiscences. It 
 has something to say about almost every man promi 
 nent in political circles, both in this country and in 
 Europe, during the last quarter of a century. Phila. 
 Evening Bulletin. 
 
 It is a volume of unusual interest, amusing, instruct 
 ive, and companionable. St. Louis Times.
 
 Harper 6- Brothers' List of New Books. 
 
 Bulwer's The Parisians, 
 
 The Parisians. A Novel. By EDWARD BULWER, Lord Lytton, Author of " The Coming 
 Race," "Kenelm Chillingly," "A Strange Story," "The Caxtons," "My Novel," &c., &c. 
 With Illustrations by SYDNEY HALL. I2mo, Cloth, $i 50; 8vo, Paper, $i oo. 
 
 Lord Lytton was as much a dramatist as a 
 novelist, and his plots were always carefully woven. 
 Down to the very last chapter of "The Parisians" 
 our interest is skillfully kept not alive but glowing. 
 
 * * la a word, "The Parisians" is its author's ripest 
 work. Lyttou's aftermath is in many ways a richer 
 crop than his spring yielded. Graces of style, acquired 
 by long labor, have grown into a second nature. * 
 We have the last novel of a novelist who, conscious 
 of the lapse of time, is consciously writing for pos 
 terity. Many will read it often ; none need regret to 
 have carefully read it once. Athenceum, London. 
 
 It is one of the most characteristic and remarkable 
 of its author's works. The book is characteristic in 
 the fact that we find in it some of the more obvious 
 points that distinguish Buhver purely as a novelist. 
 There is the carefully conceived and elaborately in 
 volved, but always artistically arranged and develop 
 ed plot, in which this writer surpassed all his contem 
 poraries. There are characters, like Graham Vane 
 and Victor de Mauleon, which so bear the stamp of his 
 mind that one could hardly be misled into doubting 
 their parentage. There are ripened fruits of that spirit 
 of observation that long since passed out of its crude 
 stage. Nearly the whole panorama of French life 
 which it furnishes may be said tobe of this stamp. 
 The Marquis de Kochebdaut, Frederic Lemercier, 
 Raoul and Enguerrand de Vandemar, Louvier, Sava- 
 rin, Gustave Kameau, are all strong types of charac 
 ter, and together put France in her recent era more 
 perfectly before the reader than she has ever been pre 
 sented by any writer with whom we are familiar, in 
 any form. * * * The book is a credit both to the heart 
 and the head of Bulwer in the declining years of his 
 life, and is an admirable legacy of the ripest stage 
 of his mind. The two posthumous productions of his 
 pen, "Kenelm Chillingly" and "The Parisians," are 
 scarcely inferior in interest as novels to any thing he 
 wrote, and in acnteness of observation, wisdom and 
 purity of reflection, end almost perfect polish of liter 
 ary style, they surpass all his previous works. The 
 close of his career is crowned with its noblest offering. 
 
 * * * It pictures Paris before its fall. We see in it Louis 
 Napoleon upon the throne. We find in it the secret 
 of the strength that made this the splendid and daz 
 zling point of power that it presented to the world for 
 years before it toppled and fell ; and we see, also, the 
 causes, both in social life and in public profligacy, that 
 were surely undermining this apparently impregnable 
 prosperity. These were never so graphically analyzed 
 and laid bare. * "Few things in literature are finer than 
 the description of the social condition of France which 
 made her so easy a prey, in spite of the bravery and the 
 pride of her people. Bo*ten Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 That "The Parisians," though incomplete, is the 
 greatest production of Lord Lyttou's pen, will, we 
 think, be the general verdict. It has greater breadth 
 of plan, a larger scope, and is informed with a higher 
 and more matured philosophical spirit than any of 
 his other works. * * * Every one who takes up the book 
 is lured on from page to page by a fascination which 
 never relaxes its hold upon the mind. We follow, 
 with increasing interest, the fortunes of the various 
 characters of the story, because we insensibly become 
 interested in them, as we do in living characters. At 
 every step we feel the charm of the author's style, of 
 his incisive wit, of his keen, clear observation. The 
 volume abounds in brilliant sayings, as well as pro 
 found ones. The author never allows himself or any 
 of his characters to inflict dullness on the reader, and 
 whether speaking in his own person or through an 
 other, avoids the fatal error of prosing. There are 
 chapters and books in " The Parisians " on which the 
 reader dwells with special pleasure, and to which ev 
 ery one will turn back with delight for a reperusal ; 
 but there is none which he will feel inclined to skip 
 in the hurry to get on with the story. Boston Journal. 
 
 The author has set before himself the task of paint 
 ing French society in Paris in the last days of the Sec 
 ond Empire, and he has accomplished this task, for 
 eigner as he was, with a skill which a born Frenchman 
 might well envy. As an historical fiction " The Paris 
 ians" stands higher than "Rieuzi" or the "Last Days 
 of Pompeii." It is a satire in the sense that it remorse 
 lessly depicts the follies and crimes of the imperialist 
 regime, and is a far abler satire than the "New Ti- 
 mon." It is more brilliant in its epigrammatic wit than 
 "Pelham," and smoother in the flow of its narrative 
 than " Kenelm Chillingly." * * It will always be treat 
 ed by students of literature with the respect due to a 
 brilliant and exceptionably able novel. A'. Y. World. 
 
 On every page of " The Parisians " we find evidences 
 of the painstaking, thorough preparation for his task 
 which distinguishes all the works of Lord Lytton. * * * 
 "The Parisians" is a rare and noteworthy instance 
 of the successful artistic use of contemporary history 
 for the purposes of fiction. * * * His aim was to portray, 
 through the living medium of fiction, the social and 
 political condition of France at the close of the second 
 empire, and we hazard the statement that no future 
 historian will give a more faithful or more graphic 
 picture of the France and the Paris of '69 &nd 'TO than 
 is to be found in the pages of this novel. * * * The read 
 er who takes it up will not willingly lay it down until 
 the last page is reached, and he will rise from its pe 
 rusal with the conviction that it is a work worthy of a 
 place by the side of "The Caxtons "and "My Novel." 
 -V. }'. Evening Post. 
 
 Sara Coleridge's Memoir and Letters, 
 
 Edited by her Daughter. With Two Portraits on 
 
 Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge. 
 Steel. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 50. 
 
 This is a very choice contribution to the literature 
 of its class ; not surpassed in literary interest or intel 
 lectual power by any female correspondence that we 
 possess. It i5, moreover, a valuable addition to the 
 literature which has gathered round the names of the 
 Lake poets. We are again admitted within the charmed 
 circle of which Souther, Wordsworth, and Coleridge 
 are the presiding deities. British Quarterly Revie.w. 
 
 This charming volume forms an acceptable record and 
 presents an adequate image of a mind of singular beauty 
 and no inconsiderable power. Examiner, London. 
 
 This charming work. * * * We can hardly conceive 
 an intelligent reader for whom the work will not 
 have a charm, as telling genuinely and naturally the 
 life, the daily thoughts, and hopes, and occupations 
 of a noble woman of a high order of mind, and as mir 
 roring a pure heart. Her letter-writing is thoroughly 
 unaffected; there is never straining for effect. Athe 
 nceum, London. 
 
 * * * The records of the life of a singularly gifted, 
 intellectual, and accomplished woman one whose 
 memory is a benefaction to the race. A*. Y. Times.
 
 Harper 6* Brothers' List of New Books. 
 
 Baird's Annual Record, 
 
 Annual Record of Science and Industry for 1873. Prepared by Prof. SPENCER F. BAIRD, 
 Ass't-Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. With the Assistance of some of the most 
 eminent men of Science in the United States. Large i2mo, over 800 pages, Cloth, $2 oo. 
 ( Just Ready.) 
 
 Uniform in style and price with the volumes for 1871 and 1872. The Three Vohtmes sent 
 to one address, postage paid, on receipt of $5 oo. 
 
 The Heart of Africa, By Schweinfurth, 
 
 The Heart of Africa ; or, Three Years' Travels and Adventures in the Unexplored Regions 
 of the Centre of Africa. From 1868 to 1871. By Dr. GEORG SCHWEINFURTH. Trans 
 lated by ELLEN E. FREWER. With an Introduction by WINWOOD READE. Illustrated by 
 about 130 Woodcuts from Drawings made by the Author, with Two Maps. 2 vols., 8vo. 
 (In Press.) 
 
 "Traveling, not in tbe footsteps of Sir Samuel contribute in an important degree to the solution of 
 Baker, but iu a westerly direction, Dr. Schweinfurth the Nile problem ; and ethnologieally it will tend to 
 reached the neighborhood of Baker's Lake, and, pass- set at rest the disputed question as to the existence 
 ing through the country of the Niam-Niam, he remain- of a dwarf race in Central Africa. Dr. Schweinfurth 
 ed for some months in the hitherto unknown kingdom is an accomplished draughtsman, and his work is elab- 
 of Monbuttoo. In a geographical sense, his book will orately illustrated from his own drawings." 
 
 The Land of Moab : The Result of Travels and Discoveries on the East Side of the Dead 
 Sea and the Jordan. By H. B. TRISTRAM, M.A., LL.D., F.R.S., Hon. Canon of Durham. 
 With a Chapter on the Persian Palace of Mashita, by JAS. FERGUSON, F.R.S. With Map 
 and Illustrations. Crown Svo, Cloth, $2 50. 
 
 Dr. Tristram's account of his visit to the Land of 
 Moab will be welcomed by all who have longed to 
 know something more of a country so intimately con 
 nected with the history of the Israelites. Pleasantly 
 written arid well illustrated, the narrative sustains its 
 interest throughout, and gives a vivid picture of the 
 present condition of the country. Athenaeum, Lon 
 don. 
 
 The volume has all the interest of a drama, and will 
 be a rich feast to the reader who comes to its perusal 
 with the eagerness all Christians feel in those coun 
 tries which were the scene of all the events and most 
 of the prophecies recorded in Holy Writ. It is written, 
 too, in the choice language Canon Tristram knows so 
 well how to use. Altogether this book is one delight 
 ful to read, and full of information. 2Yi Presbyterian. 
 
 Lottie Darling, 
 
 By John Cordy Jeaffreson, 
 
 Lottie Darling. A Novel. By JOHN CORDY JEAFFRESON, Author of "Isabel," " Not Dead 
 Yet," " Live it Down," " Olive Blake's Good Work," &c. Svo, Paper, 75 cents. 
 
 "Lottie Darling" contains some delicious love pas 
 sages and original and striking sketches of character. 
 The plot is one of powerful interest. Graphic, London. 
 
 A story of healthy tone, and readable throughout. 
 Examiner, London. 
 
 In "Lottie Darling," Mr. Jeaffreson has achieved a 
 triumph. It is a capital novel, as sparkling as it is 
 
 Pet, A Book for Children, 
 
 original, as powerful as it is amusing. It is healthy 
 in tone, interesting from beginning to end, and con 
 tains sketches of life and character unusually vivid 
 and well drawn. Morning Post, London. 
 
 This story is well told. It opens up a phase of life 
 hitherto untouched by any novelist Daily Xeics, 
 London. 
 
 Pet; or, Pastimes and Penalties. By H. R. HAWEIS, Author of " Music and Morals." With 
 50 Illustrations. I2mo, Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 Prettily written and sure to interest children. The 
 illustrations are very good. Pall Mall Gazette, London. 
 
 Evidently the work of a writer who is at heart a 
 boy yet, and gains from this fact a freshness and 
 truth. Hour, London. 
 
 "Pet," the dearest little heroine who ever graced a 
 story book. * * * " Pet" will win the hearts of all read 
 ers, whether they are fathers and mothers or their boys 
 and girls. Atheneeum, London. 
 
 A charming little volume. Daily Keics, London. 
 
 The Blue Ribbon, 
 
 The Blue Ribbon. A Novel. By the Author of "St. Olave's," "Jeanie's Quiet Life," 
 
 " Meta's Faith," &c. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. 
 
 acter. It is one of the best novels of the season. En 
 glish Independent, London. 
 
 The reader will be both pleased and interested in 
 this story. It abounds in picturesque, healthy dia 
 logue, touches of pathos and quiet good sense, which 
 will surely make it popular. Standard, London. 
 
 An unquestionably interesting story. We like " The 
 Blue Ribbon" very much. Spectator, London. 
 
 An admirable story. The character of the heroine 
 is original and skillfully worked out, and an interest 
 is cast around her which never flags. The sketches 
 of society in a cathedral city are very vivid and amus 
 ing. Morning Post, London. 
 
 The very best work the author has yet given us. It 
 Is strong in its plot, which is admirably worked out, 
 and careful in discrimination and portraiture of char-
 
 Harper 6* Brothers' List of New Books. 
 
 Among our Sailors, 
 
 By J. GREY JEWELL, M.D., late United States Consul, Singapore. With an Appendix con 
 taining Extracts from the Laws and Consular Regulations Governing the United States 
 Merchant Service. I2mo, Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 Mr. Jewell was for some years United States Consul 
 at Singapore, and in that station he had an opportu 
 nity to note the abuses of the American merchant ma 
 rine. His book is mainly to call attention to the in 
 justice with which officers and men are treated, in the 
 hope that legislation and philanthropic effort will cor 
 rect the abuses of which he complains. As a whole it 
 is an excellent work, and will unquestionably do good 
 in the way intended. N. Y. World. 
 
 An exceedingly intelligent, instructive, and enter 
 taining work. Every page in the volume is freighted 
 with telling revelations of the sea. No space is wasted 
 with idle rhetoric. Similar narratives have been pub 
 lished in fragmentary style in the current news of the 
 day for many years, but no other effort within our rec 
 ollection has been made to bring the facts together in 
 a form calculated to constitute a thrilling and power 
 ful appeal, such as we hnve before us now. " Among 
 our Sailors" is a deserving book, and it will be more 
 talked about among the classes to which it addresses 
 itself than any work that has reached them in many 
 years. Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 It is very seldom that we meet with a book which 
 is more useful, and withal more interesting, than this. 
 The condition of our sailors, the hardships, often 
 
 amounting to cruelties and oppressions, which they 
 undergo, the relations subsisting between ordinary 
 seamen and a ship's officers, form an important chap 
 ter in the life of one of the most valuable sections of 
 the people. The peculiar circumstances that surround 
 the life of a sailor, his ignorance of the means of ob 
 taining redress, and the short time that he usually re 
 mains on shore, deprive him of the opportunity, afford 
 ed to most other persons, of submitting his grievances 
 openly to the world. Dr. Jewell has, therefore, done 
 a good work in taking up a cause which, for these and 
 other reasons, has too long been left unnoticed. It is 
 a work which, so far as we are aware, has never before 
 been attempted in this country ; but it has fallen, at 
 last, into efficient hands, and the result is a book that 
 should be read by every one who has the interests of 
 the American mercantile marine at heart. A long 
 practical experience has given Dr. Jewell ample qual 
 ification for the duty he has undertaken ; and while, 
 by a clear explanation of the laws, some of which he 
 has either in whole or in part added, he has furnished 
 a valuable manual for the sea-faring community, he 
 has also, by the vivid narrative of facts and the accu 
 mulation of much minute detail, supplied a most in 
 teresting book to the general reader. y. Y. Times. 
 
 "Ship Ahoy!" 
 
 A Yarn in Thirty-six Cable Lengths. 
 WADDY. 8vo, Paper, 40 cents. 
 
 "This capital sea-story grew out of the popular agi 
 tation aroused in England by Mr. Plimsoll's startling 
 expos& of the abuse of sending unseaworthy and over 
 loaded ships to sea, so heavily insured that their loss 
 would be profitable to the owners and shippers. The 
 adventures which make up the narrative of ' Ship 
 Ahoy '.' have their parallels in actual experience, but 
 
 Illustrated by WALLIS MACKAY and FREDERICK 
 
 with them is interwoven n romantic love-story which 
 awakens the reader's sympathy and maintains his in 
 terest to the close. ' Ship Ahoy !' forms an excellent 
 pendant to Dr. Jewell's work, 'Among our Sailors,' 
 recently published, in which public Attention is called 
 to many flagrant abuses to which American sailors are 
 subjected." 
 
 Twelve Miles from a Lemon, By Gail Hamilton, 
 
 Twelve Miles from a Lemon : Social and Domestic Sketches. By GAIL HAMILTON, Author 
 of "Woman's Worth and Worthlessness," "Little Folk Life," &c. I2mo, Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 The title of this volume is explained by the familiar 
 story of Sydney Smith, who described his living in 
 Yorkshire as being so out of the way that it was actu 
 ally " twelve miles from a lemon," and consequently a 
 like distance from all the other elements of punch 
 and civilization. Miss Dodge apparently lives at much 
 the same distance from Boston, and regarding Boston 
 and lemons as synonyms of civilization, she has writ 
 ten a volume of sprightly little essays and sketches 
 relating for the most part to the humors and infelici 
 ties of suburban life. In many respects it is the most 
 entertaining of her numerous books. It is simply a 
 volume of brilliant, witty, and audacious gossip, touch 
 ing upon countless topics, and perpetually moving the 
 reader to pleased or sardonic mirth. World, N. Y. 
 
 It is written in the curt, crisp, self-assertive, and 
 somewhat aggressive style in which the author is fond 
 of propounding her theories and fancies. Herald, N.Y. 
 
 The book is not only readable, but it will be read ; 
 its clever treatment of the petty trivialities of every 
 day life, and its outbreak from these into the broader 
 atmosphere of right and wrong, alike commend it to 
 the everyday reader. Evening Mail, N. Y. 
 
 This is a light, airy, and pleasant book, containing 
 some hard hits at the follies, mistakes, pretensions, 
 and extravagances of the times Episcopalian, Phila. 
 
 Gail Hamilton is one of tho^e writers who are never 
 dull. Her manner may be considered jerky and fantas 
 tic, but there is always point in her sallies, and a vast 
 amount of good mother wit. Inter-Ocean, Chicago. 
 
 Through Fire and Water, 
 
 Through Fire and Water. A Tale of City Life. By FREDERICK TALBOT. Illustrated. 
 8vo, Paper, 25 cents. 
 
 Trollope's Phineas Redux, 
 
 Phineas Redux. A Novel. By ANTHONY TROLLOPE, Author of "The Warden," "Bar- 
 chester Towers," "Phineas Finn," "Orley Farm," "The Small House at Allington," &c. 
 Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, $i 25 ; Cloth, $i 75.
 
 Harper 6 Brothers' List of New Books, 
 
 A Princess of Thule, By Wm, Black, 
 
 A Princess of Thule. A Novel. By WILLIAM BLACK, Author of " Love cr Marriage ?' 
 " Kilmeny," " The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton," &c., &c. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 
 
 We have at least one nearly perfect novel. His 
 beautiful, his almost perfect story. * * There is a 
 mingling of humor of the raciest, with pathos most 
 true, simple, and dignified. Spectator, London. 
 
 This is not the first time that our author has shown 
 himself capable of describing a fascinating woman ; 
 and the excellent descriptions of natural beauty, the 
 thorough mastery of local peculiarities, the truth and 
 accuracy with which the local dialect and modes of 
 thought are reproduced. * * * Those who like novels 
 of character will be amply gratified. Complete indi 
 viduality distinguishes all concerned. Athenaeum, 
 London. 
 
 It is not of many novels it can be said they arc good 
 from the title to the end, but this may be fairly re 
 marked of Mr. Black's last work, to which he has 
 given so happily descriptive a title. Mr. Black never 
 relies for effect upon violent means. He contrives by 
 delicate, subtle, but sure touches to win the interest 
 of his readers, and to retain it till the last volume is 
 laid down with reluctance. The characters of Sheila 
 an'dher father, Mackenzie, ought to have an enduring 
 and recognized existence in fiction. * * * The "Prin 
 cess of Thule " is altogether a remarkable novel ; it 
 will add to the reputation which Mr. Black has already 
 made by his sincere and undeviating loyalty to the 
 best principles of the art in which he excels. Globe, 
 London. 
 
 If Mr. Black had written no other novel than this, he 
 would have made himself a high place in the republic 
 of literature. It is witty, humorous, pathetic, and 
 throughout artistic. Scotsman. 
 
 It is quite refreshing to take up such a work of fic 
 tion. It is no exaggeration to say that the story ex 
 ercises a sort of fascination over the reader from the 
 first chapter to the last, and this by no fantastic spell, 
 but by the charm of the purest, truest, and most 
 healthy sentiment. Daily Telegraph, London. 
 
 We do not remember to have read any where of a 
 more wholly fascinating hroiue than Sheila. Court 
 Circular, London. 
 
 A novel which is both romantic and natural, which 
 has much feeling without any touch of mawkishness, 
 which goes deep into character without any sugges 
 tion of painful analysis this is a rare gem to find 
 among the debris of current literature, and this, or 
 nearly this, Mr. Black has given us in the "Princess 
 of Thule." * * * His success, which is undoubtedly 
 great, is due to a careful study and competent knowl 
 edge of character, to a style which is free from blem 
 ish, and to a power of graphic description which is 
 but very seldom met with. Saturday Review, London. 
 
 It is full of fine character-rendering, with the all- 
 brightening thread of humor glimmering out now 
 and then. * * * A work of singular power and deli- 
 cacy.-r/Jn7i'a/i Quarterly Review. 
 
 Christlieb on the Methods of Counteracting Infidelity, 
 
 The Best Methods of Counteracting Modern Infidelity. A Paper read before the General 
 Conference of the Evangelical Alliance, New York, October 6, 1873. By THEODOR CHRIST- 
 LIES, Ph.D., D.D., Professor of Theology and University Preacher at Bonn, Prussia. I2mo, 
 Flexible Cloth, 75 cents. 
 
 The public wiH not soon forget the powerful im 
 pression made during the recent sessions of the Evan 
 gelical Alliance, by Dr. Christlieb, whose paper on 
 "The Best Methods of Counteracting Modern Infidel 
 ity" was read before the Alliance. Christian Union. 
 
 Diamond Cut Diamond, 
 
 This paper of Dr. Christlieb's is regarded as the 
 ablest and best presented before the Evangelical 
 Alliance, and it has elevated him at once to the front 
 rank of Evangelical divines of the present age. 
 Lutheran Observer. 
 
 A Story of Tuscan Life. By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE, Author of " Lindisfarn Chase," " A 
 Siren," " Durnton Abbey," &c. I2mo, Cloth, $i 25. 
 
 Many novelo have been written of the people of this 
 country, and "Diamond Cut Diamond" is among the 
 best of them. * * * The plot is symmetrical, and the 
 story is smoothly and pleasantly told. X. Y. World. 
 
 It reveals an interesting picture of social life in 
 Italy, and is very cleverly written. Lutheran Observer. 
 
 This is a tragic story of priestly interference in the 
 
 This well-told story. The Episcopalian. 
 
 We unhesitatingly place it among the highest of its 
 class. Its plfiu is not a complicated one. Its charac 
 ters are few enough almost to be counted upon the 
 fingers of one hand. But for symmetry, attentivencss 
 to detail, careful finish, and general effect, we bestow 
 upon it our warmest praise. * * * There is to our eye 
 
 private affairs of domestic life a thoughtful and well- i something exquisite in the fullness of contour, sharp- 
 written story. Mr. Trollope is a flue writer. Presb'j- ness of outline, and richness of color with which it has 
 
 been wrought by the writer. * * * It is, in a true sense, 
 a work of art The Congregatiomdist. 
 
 The plot is happily conceived, and is worked out 
 with great ability. Aero Bedford Standard. 
 
 terian. 
 
 Itispictnresque and extremely n 
 
 The style is clear, and the descriptions entertaining. 
 The Christian Advocate, Pittsburgh. 
 
 The Bazar Book of Health, 
 
 The Dwelling, the Nursery, the Bedroom, the Dining-Room, the Parlor, the Library, the 
 Kitchen, the Sick-Room. i6mo, Cloth, $i oo. (Uniform with the "BAZAR BOOK OK 
 DECORUM," Price $i oo.) 
 
 Trollope's Harry Hcathcote of Gangoil, 
 
 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil : A Tale of Australian Bush-Life. By ANTHONY TROLLOPE 
 Author of "The Warden," "Barchester Towers," "Orley Farm," "The Small House at 
 Allington," "The Eustace Diamonds," &c., &c. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents.
 
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