r II OP CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES POPULAR NOVELS. By May Agnes Fleming. 1. GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE. 2. A WONDERFUL WOMAN. 3. A TERRIBLE SECRET. 4. NORINE'S REVENGE. 5. A MAD MARRIAGE. 6. ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY. 7. KATE DANTON. 8. SILENT AND TRUE. 9. HEIR OF CHARLTON. 10. CARRIED BY STORM. (New.) " Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popu- lar every day. Their delineations of character life-like conversations, flashes of wit, con- stantly varying scenes, and deeply in- teresting plots, combine to place their author in the very first rank of Modern Novelists." All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each, and seut/ree by mail on receipt of price, BY G. TV. CARLETON & CO., Publishers, New York. ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY. BY MAY AGNES FLEMING, AUTHOR OF EARLSCOURT'8 WIFE," "A WONDERFUL WOMAN," "A TERRIBLE SECRET," "NORINE'S REVENCTE," "MAD MARRIAGE," ETC. NEW YORK: G. W Carleton & Co., Publishers. LONDON: S. LOW & PQ. MDCCCLXJCIX tA 1876, BT . W. CARLETON & CO, TFOW'S PRINTING AND UOOKBINDIKG 205-313 A'uj/ i2/A i/., MBW Y0KK% CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGB I. Sydney 9 . II. Cyrilla 18 III. School-Girl Gossip 25 IV. " So Young, and so Untender " 31 V. " Part now, Part well, Part wide Apart" 39 VI. Why Miss Dormer Hated Fred Carew 51 VII. "Under the Tamaracs" 60 VIII. " All is Lost but Honor" 66 IX. "A Tempest in a Teapot" 72 X. The Last Night 84 XL "A Laggard in Love" 89 XII. "Allan-a- Dale to His Wooing has Come" IOO XIII. " Allan-a-Dale is no Baron or Lord " in XIV. " Men were Deceivers Ever" 120 XV. "To One Thing Constant Never" 129 XVI. " His Honor, Rooted in Dishonor, Stood" 143 XVIL "He's Sweetest Friend, or Hardest Foe " 158 XVIII. " The Feast is Set" 165 XIX. The Guests are Met 175 XX." Death is King and Vivat Rex " 183 XXL "'Twason the Evening of a, Winter's Day " 192 XXII." Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to Ye, my Lad " 203 XXIII. Fairy Gold 214 XXI V. Vendetta 224 XXV. " Good-bye, Sweetheart" 234 XXVI. "Oh! the Lees are Bitter, Bitter " 245 PART SECOND. I. Sydney 252 II. " Sintram " 260 IIL-Talk and Tea and a Letter 270 9500 viii CONTENTS. CHAPTER TV. A Basket if Flowers and a Dinner 282 V. A Long Talk and a Little Walk age VI. "One Yellow New-Year Night" 299 VII. "Fair as a Star" 309 VIII. Twilight in Lucy's Room 319 IX. " My Life has Found what Some have found so Sweet "... 326 X." I shall have had my Day " 333 XI." Her Heart's Desire " 343 XII. Teddy 346 XIII. At the Play and After 357 XIV. A Visit and a Golden Wedding 365 XV. "No Sun goes Down but that some Heart does Break" .. 375 XVI. A Fond Kiss, and then we Sever " 380 XVII. " As One Whom His Mother Comforteth " 386 XVIII." The Light in the Dust Lies Dead " 392 XIX. "It is Good to be Loyal and True" 398 XX. A New- Year Gift 408 XXI." Two Hands upon the Breast and Labor Past " 414 XXII. Dolly 421 XXIII. "He who Endures Conquers " , 428 XXIV. "IntD Marvellous Light" 436 ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY CHAPTER I. SYDNEY. " A girl who has so many wilful ways, She would have caused Job's patience to forsake him, Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise, Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, A little better she would surely make him." GRAY, quaint Canadian town, a dozen rows of strag- gling streets, tin-roofed houses that wink and twinkle back the frosty fall sunshine houses uniform in nothing except their dulness and their glistening metal roofs. Dull, very dull they certainly are ; two-storied, many-windowed, of dingy red brick or gloomy gray stone ; depressing beyond all telling to the eye and mind of the solitary stranger doomed for his sins to drag out a few dreary months in the stagnant well, let us say town of Petit St. Jacques. Stagnant that is the word. Life long ago lay down for a siesta there, and never woke up. Religion is the only thing that seems at all brisk. Many gilt spires point upward to the blue Canadian heaven ; a full score of bells clash forth each Sunday, and thrice on that day, and thrice each week-day, the great booming bell of the dim old Cathedral de Notre Dame chimes forth the " An- gelus Domini," as you may hear in some dreamy, w'orld for- gotten town of old France. Beneath its gray stone arches tall pines and feathery tamaracs toss their green plumes in the salt breezes from the stormy gulf, and brilliant-plumaged, shrill- voiced Canadian birds flit among the branches. In the fiercely hot, short-lived Canadian summer grass grows green in the market-places and busiest streets of Petit St. Jacques. I* 10 SYDNEY. In the summer. But the summer, brief and sweet as a pleasant dream, is at an end ; the ides of October are here. Shrill October winds whistle down the wide empty streets ; drift? o!" scarlet maple and orange hemlock leaves swirl in your face ; a black frost holds the earth iron bound ; your footsteps ring like steel over the unpaved sidewalks ; the keen breath of coming winter sets your blood leaping, your eyes sparkling, and lights in dusk Canadian cheeks a hue rosier than all the rouge regetal on earth can give. "And the last of October will be Halloween! This is the twenty-ninth only two days more. Girls, do stop whooping like a tribe of Mic-macs gone mad, and list, oh ! list to me. Friday next is Halloween." But the speaker's voice was lost in the shrieking uproar of five-and-thirty school-girls " on the war-path." Afternoon school was over, the day scholars gone home, and the boarders, out in the playground for the last half-hour's recess before evening study, were rending the heavens with the deafen- ing, distracting din that five-and-thirty of those rose-cheeked, gold- haired, corseted angels alone know how to raise. If there was one thing besides its churches for which Petit St. Jacques was famous, it was the establishment of the Dem- oiselles Chateauroy for young ladies. It stood in the centre of the Rue St. Dominique ; and if there was anything to choose in the matter of dulness and respectability among all the dull and respectable streets of the little town, the Rue St. Dominique should be awarded the palm. There were no shops, there were no people ; the houses looked at you as you passed with a sad, settled, melancholy mildew upon them ; the doors rarely opened, the blinds and curtains were never drawn ; prim little gardens, with prim little gravel-paths, shut in these sad little houses from the street ; now and then a pale, pensive face might gleam at you from some upper window, spectre-like, and vanish. The wheels of a passing wagon echo and re-echo down its long silence; the very dogs who sneak out to waggle their tails in the front grass-plot have a forlorn and secret-sor- row sort of air. Take it for all in all, you might travel from the St. Lawrence to the Rio Grande and not find another so abso- lutely low-spirited and drearily respectable a street as the Rue St. Dominique. Indeed, as Miss Sydney Ovvenson often and justly remarked, it was a very poor compliment to St. Dominique to christen it after him at all. Miss Sydney Owenson was one of the Demoiselles Chateuuroy's five-and thirty boarders ; and SYDNEY. II It may as well be stated here as elsewhere, had made the Demoi- selles Chateauroy more trouble,' broken more laws, been con- demned to solitary confinement oftener, been the head and front of more frolicsome offendings, and, withal, been better loved by both pupils and teachers during the past three years than the other four-and-thirty put together. "Miss Owenson is in disgrace every week of her life," Mademoiselle Jeanne Chateauroy was wont to observe, taking a surreptitious pinch of snuff, " and, if strict justice were admin- istered, would be in punishment and disgrace every day of the week ; but, ma foi I what would you ? It is only high spirits and good health, after all. She keeps the school in a ferment, that is true ; there is no mischief of which she is not ringleader, but it is innocent mischief, after all ; she has the smile and voice of an angel ; it is impossible to be as severe with her as she deserves, and then, Mon Dieu, it is the best heart that ever beat." This pensionnat des demoiselles of the sisters Chateauroy was situated, as has been said, in the centre of the Rue St. Dominique, fronting directly upon the street its extensive gardens and play- ground in the rear. A wooden wall eight feet high shut in this sacred inclosure and its angelic "jeunes filles" from the sa- crilegious eye of man. In the face of the fierce summer sun, in the teeth of the fierce winter blasts, the twelve green shutters that protected the twelve front windows were kept jealously closed and barred. No prying, curious daughter of Eve might by any chance look out upon the gay and festive dissipations of the Rue St. Dominique no daring masculine eye might ever in passing glance in. This prison discipline had only existed within the past two years, and a dark and dreadful legend was whispered about through the dormitories in the '-dead waist and middle of the night " to all newcomers of the reason why. As usual, it was all Sydney Owenson's fault. Perched on top of the highest desk in the school-room, her eager head thrust out of the window, this daring, ill-behaved girl had deliberately winked at a passing soldier from the dingy old stone barracks outside the town. The soldier had winked back again; then this totally depraved Miss Owenson had thrown him a kiss ; then this dreadful soldier threw her a kiss, and grinned, and went by. Next day he came again ; next day Miss Owenson was perched up on -the window-sill, like sister Anne on the watch-tower, to see if there was anybody coming. Sent by her g lardian- angel, no doubt, at this dreadful juncture, Mademoiselle Chat- fj SYDNEY. eaiiroy the elder came into the school-room ; Mademoiselle Chateauroy's horrified eyes beheld Miss Owenson with all the superior half of her person projecting into the Rue St. Dom- inique : Mademoiselle Chateauroy's stunned ears overheard these words : 'I say, Mr. Lobsterback, who is that lovely young officer 1 saw prancing all you fellows to the English Church last Sun- ' day ? All the girls are dying to know, and I told them I would find out. We're all in love with him. Do tell us his " Mademoiselle Chateauroy heard no more. To seize Miss Sydney Owenson, to tear her from her perch, to slam down the window, to glare annihilation upon the grinning red-coat, to confront the offender, livid with horror, was but the work of a second. What awful fate befell the culprit no pupil knew no, not to this day ; her punishment was enshrouded in the same dark mystery that envelops the ultimate end of the Man in the Iron Mask. She had not been expelled, that was clear, for that was two years ago ; and when questioned herself, Miss Owenson was wont to look for a moment supernaturally solemn, and then go off into a peal at the remembrance that made the " welkin ring." It is close upon five on this October evening, when the thirty-five boarders of the pensionnat are disporting themselves in the primrose light of the dying day, under the watchful and weary eyes of Miss Jones, the English teacher. It is a French play, and a very noisy one. " Brother Hermit, can you dance ? " half a dozen tall girls are chanting, in high, shrill, sing-song French. Shrieks of laughter rend the atmosphere, and Miss Jones covers two distracted ears, and calls frantically, and calls in vain : " Young ladies ! Oh, dear me ! Young ladies, less noise." The noise grows fast and furious, the chanting rises shriller and shriller, the screams of laughter wilder and wilder. The "Brother Hermits" caper about like dancing dervishes gone mad. In the midst of it all, a tall, dark, handsome girl, with a double eyeglass across the bridge of her patrician aquiline nose, comes laughingly up to half-delirious Miss Jones. " It's more like a maison de satite, with the lunatics set loose, than a decorous young ladies' school," she remarks. " I say, Miss Jones, where is Sydney Owenson ?" " I don't know. Oh, if the study bell would but ring ! Go aad look for Sydney Oweiiioa m the thick of the melte i you'll SYDNEY. IJ be sure to find her ; they never could make half so much noise without her. Oh, good heaven ! hear that." Another ear splitting shriek made Miss Jones cover her bruised and wounded tympanums. The dark damsel laughed. " At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends from heaven that fell Had pealed the banner-cry of " " Miss Hendrick ! " screamed Miss Jones. " The place unmentionable to ears polite. Don't cry out be- fore you're hurt, Miss Jones. No, Syd isn't there, however they manage to raise all that racket without her. Where can she be ? I want to tell her that Friday is Hallowe'en, and that Mrs. Dela- mere has invited all our class who will be allowed to go to a party at her house." " Indeed, Miss Hendrick ! " Miss Jones, the English teacher, fixed two suspicious light-blue eyes upon Miss Hen- drick' s dark, handsome face, and expressed volumes of disbelief in that one incredulous word. " Yes,' indeed,' Miss Jones, and you are not invited, I'm happy to say. You don't believe me, do you ? You never do believe anything Cyrilla Hendrick says, if you can help yourself, do you ? You see, Mrs. Colonel Delamere happens unfortunately for you to be a lady, and has a weakness for inviting young ladies only to her house. That is why, probably, she is blind to the manifold merits of Miss Mary Jane Jones. You're name is Mary Jane, isn't it, Miss Jones ? I saw it in your prayer-book. No, don't apologize, please it's more one's misfortune than one's fault to be born Mary Jane Jones 'Arose by any other name,' etc." All this, with her black eyes fixed full upon Miss Jones's face, in the slowest, softest voice, an insolent smile on her handsome lips, Miss Cyrilla Hendrick said. Miss Jones sprang to her feet, passion flashing from her eye, her pale, freckled complexion flushing crimson. * " Miss Hendrick, your insolence is not to be borne ! I will not bear it. The moment recreation is over, I will go to Mam'selle Chateauroy and report your impertinent speech." " Will you, really ? Don't excite yourself, dear Miss Jones. It you palpitate in this way, something will go crack. Tell mam'selle anything it pleases yjur gracious highness; it won't be the first time you've carried stories of me. Mademoiselle 14 SYDNEY. can get a hotter teacher than you any day, but first-rate pupils don't grow on every tamarac-tree in Lower Canada. Adieu, dear and gentle Miss Jones ! I kiss your ladyship's hands. Sydney ! Sydney ! where are you ? " She walked away, sending her fresh, clear young voice over all the uproar. Miss Jones, the teacher, looked after her with a glare of absolute hatred. " I'll be even with you yet, Miss Cyrilla Hendrick, or I'll know the reason why ! You have given me more insolence during the past year than all the school together. As you say, it's no use complaining to Miss Chateauroy. You're a credit to the school, she thinks, with your brilliant singing, and playing, and painting ; but I'll pay you for your jibes and insults one day, mark my words one day, and that before long." " Sydney ! Sydney ! " the clear voice still shouted. " Now, where can that girl be ? ' That rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels call Lenore.' Sydney ! Sydney-y ! Sydney-y-y-y ! " She stops, expending all her strength in one mighty shout that rises over the wild, high singing of the French Canadians, " Frere 1'Hermite, savez vous danser ? " It comes pealing to an upper window overlooking the playground, and a girl huddled up cross-legged like a Turk takes two fingers out of two pretty pink ears, and lifts a yellow head from a book to listen. "Sydney! Sydney Owenson ! Oh, my own, my long-lost daughter!" cried Miss Hendricks with ear-splitting piercing- ness, " where in this wicked world are you ? " " Bother ! " mutters the girl in the window, and then the yellow head, " sunning over with curls," goes down again, two fingers return into two ears, a pair of gray eyes glue themselves once more to the pages of the book, and Miss Sydney Owenson is lost again to all sublunary things. They may shriek, they may yell, they may rend the heavens with their unearthly cries, they may drive Miss Jones deaf and frantic Cyrilla Hendrick, the friend of her bosom, the David in petticoats to her Jonathan ditto, may split her voice in her distracted cries for " Sydney ," Sydney is a thousind miles away ; nothing short of an earth- quake may arouse her, so absorbed is she. Yes, something does. ' Miss Owenson ! " says the awful voice of Mademoiselle Chate-auroy the elder, and Miss Owenson drops her book and jumps as though she were shot. "Miss Owenson, what book is that ? " SYDNEY. 15 A small, snuff- Colored lady, with a frisette and ahead-dress of yellow roses and black beadwork, confronts her a very small, very snuff-colored lady, with glancing opal eyes Mad- emoiselle Stephanie Chateauroy. Miss Owenson puts her two hands, the book in them, behind her back, and faces Mademoiselle Stephanie a la Napoleon the Great. She is a pretty girl a very pretty girl of seventeen or so, with gray, large, innocent-looking eyes, a pearly skin, a soft-cut, childish mouth, and curls of copper gold down to her slim girl's waist. " Yes, mam'selle," says Miss Owenson, in a tone of cheerful meekness ; " did you call me, mam'selle ? " "Why are you not in the playground, Mees Owenson ? " de mands, severely, mademoiselle. " Oh, well ! " responds Miss Owenson, losing a trifle of her cheerful meekness, "I'm sick of 'Brother Hermit' and the other stupid plays, only fit for the babies of the premiere class. Besides, the noise makes my head ache." Miss Owenson makes this remarkable statement calmly. The open window at which she has been sitting is just three feet over the heads of the rioters, and in the very thick of the tu- mult. Its utter absurdity is so palpable that mademoiselle de- clines to notice it. " Mees Owenson is aware that absence from the playground, in play hour, is a punishable offence?" goes on mademoiselle with increased ascerbity. " Oh, yes," says Miss Owenson, quite cheerfully once more ; "that's no odds. Nothing's any odds, when you're used to it, and I ought to be used to every species of punishable offences in this school by this time." " Mees Owenson, what were you reading when I entered this room ? " " A book, mam'selle." " Mees Owenson, what book ? " " Oh, well a story-book then, if you will have it, by a person you don't know a Mr. Dickens. I know it's against the rules, but it was all an accident upon my word it was, mam'selle." " An accident, you sitting here in play-hour reading a wicked novel ! Mees Owenson ! " " It's not a wicked novel. Dickens never wrote anything wicked in his life. Papa has every one of his books in the library at home, and used to read them aloud \'t mamma. And 16 SYDNEY. I mean it's an accident my finding the book. It isn't mine ; I don't know whose it is ; I found it last evening, lying among the cabbages honor bright, niam'selle ! I'll pitcli it back there now." And then, before Mile. Stephanie can catch her breath, Miss Owenson gives the volume behind her a brisk pitch out of the open casement, and it falls plump upon the head of her sworn friend, Cyrilla Hendrick. There is a moment's pause, and teacher and pupil confront each other. That an explosion will follow, Miss Sydney Owen- son fully expects, but what was she to do ? Helen Heine's name was on the fly-leaf. Helen Heme was a day-scholar, who surreptitiously smuggled story-books inside the sacred walls of the pensionnat for the private delectation of the boarders. Helen had been threatened with expulsion the next time she was caught in the act "red-handed," so to say, and it was much more on Helen's account than on her own that Sydney Owenson was palpitating now. " I coaxed so hard for that ' Pickwick,' " Sydney thinks. " I hope to goodness some of the girls will pick it up and hide it outside. I don't mind mam'seile's flare-up I'm used to it - but I'd never forgive myself if Nell came to grief through me." She looks up now into mademoiselle's indignant face, clasps two little white hands imploringly, and begins, with that voice and smile mademoiselle herself declares to be the most charm- ing on earth, to wheedle her out of her just wrath. " Oh, Mam'selle Stephanie, don't be angry, please. I know it's wrong to break rules, but then I am so tired of the stupid old plays out there, and the girls are so noisy and rude, and my head did ache, and the book was not a bad book upon my word and honor it wasn't, mam'selle ; not a bit like a novel at all, and I did rind it among the cabbages last evening, and " Mademoiselle Stephanie knows of old that Miss Owenson is perfectly capable of going on in this strain without a single full stop for the next hour. Therefore, without a word, she pulls a letter out of her pocket and hands it to her pet pupil. " 1 will overlook your disobedience this once, petite" she said, " because it is probably the very last time you will ever have a chance to disobey. Read your mamma's letter, my dear ; I know what it contains, as it came inclosed in one to me. C/ierte," mam'seile's voice absolutely falters, "you you are about to leave school." Sydney Owenson rises to her feet, the great gray eyes dilate SYDNEY. 17 and grow almost black with some vague terror. She looks at her letter a look of absolute affright, the last trace of color leaving her pearl-fair skin then at mademoiselle. " Papa," she falters. " Oh, mam'selle ! don't say papa is " " Worse ? -No, my dear. You poor child, you are as white as the wall. No, papa is no worse it isn't that it is but read your letter, tres chere ; it will tell you all about it, and be- lieve me, my dear," and mademoiselle lays two snuff-colored old hands kindly on the girl's shoulders, " no one in this school will regret the loss of its most troublesome pupil more than I shall." She toddies away and leaves Miss Owenson to read her letter. " Ah," she sighs, " it is the best, the tenderest little heart in the world, after all. I shall never love another pupil so well. Only a baby of seventeen, and to be married in a month ! Helas, the poor little one ! " Sydney tears open her letter ; it is a lengthy, spidery, woman's scrawl. " OWENSON PLACE, October 25, 18 . " MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER : I have written to the Made- moiselles Chateauroy, telling them to have all things ready for your departure on Monday, the third of November. You are to leave school, and for good. Papa is not worse really, but he thinks he is, and he pines for you. He has taken it into his head you know how hypochondriacal he is that he will die before the year ends, and he insists that you must be married at once, else he will not live to see it. Now don't worry about this, Sydney. I know how foolish you are concerning poor papa's whims, and it is only a whim. Bertie is here, came by the Cunard steamer from England three weeks ago, and is naturally all impatience io see you. It is a very absurd whim of papa's, I think myself, this marrying a child of seventeen and a boy of twenty-two ; but wliat use is it my saying so ? / was nine-and-twenty when I married Captain Owenson. Still, I am sure, I hope you will be happy ; and Bertie is so nice and good-tempered and gentlemanly and all that, that any one might get along with him. Rebecca will reach Petit St. Jacques Saturday afternoon, and you and she will start for home on Monday morning. Papa has actually sent to Paris for your wedding-dress, and pearls, and veil, as though good enough could not have been got in New York City ; but it is another of his whims to look down upon everything in this country, and 1 8 CYRILLA. think nothing fu for you that doesn't come from Europe. I'm sure sometimes I wonder he ever married an American lady, or that he found a school on this continent fit for his only child. 1 know he would have sent you to the Sacre Ctxnr at Paris, only he couldn't bear to put the ocean between himself and you. Bat this has nothing to do with it. So bid the young ladies and teachers good-by, and be ready to start on Monday morning with Rebecca. " Your affectionate Mother, " CHARLOTTE OWENSON. " P.S. Bertie sends his love and a kiss, he says, to all the pretty girls in the school. He is as foolish as ever, but very handsome and elegant, I must say. Christ Church College has improved him greatly. He wanted to accompany Rebecca, but, of course, I wouldn't hear of anything so improper as that. C. O. " P.S. No. 2. By the by, papa says you may invite your particular friend, Miss Hendrick. if you like, to be one of your bridemaids. He knew her aunt, Miss Phillis Dormer, in England, and her mother comes of one of the best families in Dorsetshire. As if the best family in Dorsetshire mattered in America. C. O." CHAPTER II. CYRILLA. JHE long, loosely written, rambling letter dropped on Sydney's lap, her hands folded over it, and she sat strangely quiet (for her), looking out at the faint opaline twilight sky. To leave school on Monday to be married in a month ! Surely enough to startle any school girl of seventeen. Besides being the daughter of the richest man, be- sides having double, treble the spending money of any other girl in the pensionnat, besides having silks and laces and jewels as though she were five-and-twenty and " out," besides having beauty and talent and goodness and grace, Sydney Owensor. had one othei and still greater claim to be " queen rose " of CYRILLA. 19 Mile. Stephanie's " rosebud garden of girls," she was engaged ! All and each of the four-and-thirty other boarders of mam'selle not to speak of the one-and-twenty day-scholarslooked for- ward in the fulness of time to a possible lover, a prospective engagement, and an ultimate husband, but a real lover and a bona fide engagement none of them had yet attained, with the exception of Miss Ovvenson. That heighth of bliss Miss Owen- son had reached in her sixteenth birthday. The midsummer vacation over, the young lady had returned to Canada from her paternal mansion a solitaire diamond ablaze on one slim fin- ger, a locket (with a gentleman's portrait and a ring of brown hair) around her white throat and calmly announced to all whom it might concern that she was engaged. The first stunning shock of surprise over, a torrent of ques- tions poured upon the blissful fiancee. " Oh ! good gracious ! Oh, Mon Dieu ! was she really ? Oh, how nice ! Oh ! c'est charmant ? What was his name ? Where did he live ? How did it come about ? What did he say ? Was he handsome ? Was he rich ? Did papa and mam- ma know ? Oh, what a love of a ring, and oh, how splendid it was to be engaged at sixteen ! And when, O Sydney 1 when were they going to be married ? " " There ! there ! there ! " cried Miss Owenson shrilly, breaking away from fifty-six eager, excited faces. " I am sorry I told you anything about it ! One would think I was the only girl in the world ever engaged before. If you leave me alone I'll answer all your questions. Stand off, and let me see. ' His name ? ' Well, his name is Albert Vaughan Bertie Vaughan a pretty name to begin with. ' Where does he live ? ' He lives at Oxford at present ; at least he was on his way back there when I left home. ' How did it come about ?' Well, it didn't come about ; it was always to be, destined from all time, and that sort of thing. Ever since I can remember anything, 1 re- member being told I was to marry Bertie some day, if I behaved myself family arrangements, you see, like a thing in a story. ' What did he say ?' Oh, well, he just came to me on my birth- day, and slipped this ring on my finger, and said, ' I say, Syd, I want you to marry me this day twelve months, or thereabouts, you know ; ' and I said, ' All right, Bert, I will.' ' Is he hand- some ?' Handsome as an angel, Helen brown eyes, brown curling hair, fair complexion, rosy cheeks like a girl, small hands and feet, and the sweetest little love of a mustache ! ' Is he rich ? ' Poor as a church mouse, Cyrilla rut got a sou in th 20 CYRILLA. earthly world ; but as I am to have enough for both, that doesn't signify. ' Do papa and mamma know ? ' Of course they know, goosies ! Bertie and I would never have thought of such a thing if papa hadn't told us to think of it. ' And when are we to be married?' Oh, I don't know not for ever so long. I don't want to be married it's dreadfully dowdy and stupid. We won't be married for ages not until I'm old oh ! ever so old twen- ty-one, may be. It's nice enough to be engaged, but married bah-hh!" Miss Owenson pronounced her " bah ! " with the disgusted look of one who swallows a nauseous dose, and sprang to her feet. " I say, girls ! let's have a game of ' Prisoners' Base ; ' I'm dying for a romp. Come ! " Miss Owenson had her romp until the pearl pale cheeks glowed like twin pink roses, and the vivid gray eyes streamed with laughing light. But from that hour a halo of romantic in- terest encircled her. She had a lover she was engaged she would be married in a year. Oh, happy, thrice happy Sydney Owenson ! Every month or so came to her a letter bearing the English postmark, dated " Ch. Ch., Oxford " real, genuine love-letters. Mile. Stephanie shook her head, and passed them over in fear and trembling to her engaged pupil. She had never had such a thing before, and to a certain extent it was demoralizing the whole school. Six-and-forty youthful heads ran more on lovers than on les- sons, on engagements than on " Telemaque " or " Chopin's Waltzes." Miss Owenson, as a matter of Christian duty, read those epistles of her young Oxonian faithfully aloud to her six- and-forty fellow-students. On the whole, they were rather a disappointment. They contained a great deal of news about boating on the Isis, riding across country, college supper parties, and a jolly time generally, but very few glowing love-passages to his affianced. Indeed, beyond the "Dear little Syd" at the beginning, and " Your affectionate Bertie " at the end, they didn't contain a single protestation of the consuming passion which it is to be supposed possessed him. " Of course not," Sydney was wont to cry out indignantly, when some of the more sentimental young ladies objected tc these love-letters on that head. " You wouldn't have Bertie spooning all the way across the Atlantic, would you ? I sup- pose, Helen, you would like the sort of letters Lord Mortimer CYRILLA. a used to write to namby-pamby, milk-and-waterish Amanda Fitzallan, ' Beloved of my soul ! ' Ha ! ha ! I fancy I see Bert writing that sort of rubbish to me. He wouldn't do it twice, let me tell you ! " As may be seen, Miss Owenson was not in the slightest sen- timental herself not one whit in love, in the common accepta- tion of the word, with Bertie Vaughan. "He was the dearest, jolliest old fellow in the world Bertie," she was calmly accustomed to observe ; " and since she must marry some- body sometime, she would rather marry Bert than anybody else, but to go spooning as they did in books no, not while either of them kept their senses." She sits very quietly now, the letter on her lap, looking out at that pale yellow, frosty sky a little pale, and very thought- ful. Going to leave school going to be married ! All the old life to end, and the new to begin. And the old life had been such a good life, such a pleasant life ; she was so fond of school and of all the girls well, with about three-and-twenty exceptions. She could never play " Brother Hermit," or " Hunt the Slipper," or "Tag" any more never any more! Married women never jumped skipping-ropes, never played " Puss in the Corner," or got people to swing them until their heels touched the beam in the barn each time ! Never ! never ! It was all dull and stupid, and dowdy, being married. And great tears rose up in Miss Owenson's gray eyes and splashed, one by one, down upon the fatal letter. " All alone, Syd ? " cries a brisk voice, and, with a swish of dingy skirts, Miss Hendrick is in the room. " And a letter another /0?' gables, and r loaned and whistled through the M TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT." 73 pines and tamaracs. Broad bars of luminous moonlight stole in thro'.igh the closed jalousies, and lay broad and bright on the faded carpet. Wiry and long drawn out, Mademoiselle Stephanie's small, treble snore told that a good conscience and a light supper are soporific in their tendency, and that she, at least, was "o'er all the ills of life victorious." And Cyrilla Hendrick lay broad awake, seeing and hearing it all, and think- ing of the sudden crash that had toppled down her whole fairy fortune. Impossible to sleep. She got up softly, wrapped a shawl around her, went to the window, opened one of the shutters, and sat moodily down. In sheets of yellow light, the moon- steeped fields and forest, the Rue St. Dominique wound along like a belt of silver ribbon, no living thing to be seen, no earthly sound to be heard beside the desolate soughing of the October wind. And, sitting there, Cyrilla looked her prospects straight in the face. To morrow morning Mademoiselle Stephanie would write a detailed account of her wrong doing to Miss Dormer, giving Mr. Carew's name, as a matter of course. She could picture the rage, the amaze, the fury of the passionate, tyrannical old woman, as she glared over the letter. Other, and even more grievous faults Miss Dormer might condone this, never. She would be sent for in hot haste she would be expelled the school her lip curled scornfully at the thought, for that her bold, resolute spirit cared nothing and she would return in dire disgrace to Dormer Lodge. And then the scene that would ensue ! Miss Dormer glaring upon her with eyes of fire, and tongue like a two-edged sword. " My niece Cyrilla comes of a bad stock ! " over and over again the old maid had hissed out her prediction ; " and mark my words, my niece Cyrilla will come to no good end!" The end had come sooner than even Miss Dormer had ex- pected. Well, the first fury, the first tongue-lashing over, Aunt Dor- mer would send her back, penniless as she came, to her father. No splendid fortune, hoarded for a quarter of a century, for her ; no "rich and respectable" Mr. McKelpin to take her to wife. Back again to the nomadic tribes of Bohemia, to the tents and : m- poverished dwellers in the realm of vagabondia ! As vividly as a painting it all arose before her her father's dirty, dreary, slip shod lodgings in some dismal back street of Boulogne-sur-Mer. She could see him in tattered dressing-gown, haggard and un- 4 74 "A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT? shorn, sitting up the night long with kindred spirits over the greasy pack of cards, fleecing some, and being fleeced by others. The rickety furniture, the three stuffy little rooms, the air per- fumed with tobacco and brandy and water, herself draggled and unkempt, insulted by insolent love-making, spoken of with coarse and jeering sneers. Oh ! she knew it all so well and her hands clenched, and a suffocating feeling of pain and shame lose in her throat and nearly choked her. " No," she thought, passionately, " death sooner than that ! Oh, what a fool I have been this night ! to risk so much to gain so little." A feeling of hot swift wrath arose with in her against Fred Carew. " My father ruined the life of your aunt. I will never ruin yours." That, or something like it, he had said to her, and now all unconsciously it is true the ruin of all her prospects had come, and through him. " I will never go back to my father," she thought again, this time with sullen resolution. " No fate that can befall me here will be worse than the fate that awaits me with him. America is wide ; it will go hard with me if I cannot carve out a destiny for myself." What should she do ? No one knew better than Cyrilla Hen- drick the futility of crying over spilt milk. What was done, was done no repentance could undo it. No use weeping one's eyes red over the inevitable past ; much better and wiser to turn one's thoughts to the future. She would be expelled the school; she would be turned out of doors by her aunt, all for a school- girl escapade, indecorous, perhaps, but no heinous crime, surely. Was she to yield to Fate, and meekly submit to the disgrace they would put upon her ? Not she ! Her chin arose an inch at the thought, sitting there alone her handsome, resolute lips set themselves in a tight, determined line. She would take her life in her own keeping, away from them all. She would never return to her expatriated father and his disreputable associates. " The world was all before her where to choose," what should that choice be ? Two alternatives lay before her. She might go to Fred Carew, tell him all, and at the very earliest possible moment after the revelation she knew he would make her his wife. His wife and she must march with the regiment ; both must live on seven-and-sixpence a day, just enough, as Fred now said, to keep him in bouquets and kid gloves. They must live in dingy lodgings, and appeal humbly in all extremity to th "A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT." 75 Right Hon. the Earl of Dunraith for help. Life ^vouM drag on an excessively shabby and out-at-elbows story indeed ; and Love, in the natural order of things, would fly out the door as Poverty stalked in at the window. A shudder ran through her. No, no ! Freddy had acted badly in getting her into this scrape, but she would not wreak life-long vengeance upon him by mak- ing him marry her and bringing him to this deplorable pass. "Not that he would think it deplorable, poor little dear !" Cyrilla thought, compassionately. " A better fellow than little Fred doesn't breathe, and he would share his last crust with me, and let me henpeck him all his life, and look at me with tears of entreaty in his blue eyes, and be utterly and speech- lessly wretched. But I would be a brute to do it. No, I must run away from Fred, and see him no more. If I did, he would force me into marrying him, and that way madness lies ! " It will be seen that Miss Hendrick was a young lady of wis- dom beyond her years, and capable of projecting herself into the future. With a sigh, she dismissed the thought of running away with Freddy. It would be very nice very nice, indeed, to be Fred Carew's wife ; to be able to pet him and tyrannize over him alternately all one's life oh ! what fate so desirable? But it was not to be. Then what remained ? In one moment she had answered that question solved the enigma. She would go on the stage. Next to being a grande dame, a wealthy leader of fashion, it "had always been her am- bition to be an actress. And Cyrilla thought of the life not as one without knowledge. Theatrical people had formed the staple of her acquaintances gentlemen with close-cropped heads and purple chins, deep, bass voices and glaring eyes ladies, slangy as to conversation, loud as to dress, audacious as to manners, and painted as to faces. All the drudgery, atl the heart-burnings, all the petty squabbles and jealousies, all the dangers of the life she saw clearly. But her bold spirit quailed not. She had performed repeatedly in private theatricals, she had even the year before coming to Canada " gone on " in one of the Strand houses in the very droll extravaganza of " Alad- din ; or, The Wonderful Scamp." No wonder her performance in these mild drawn pensionnat dialogues was strong meat to milk and water. Yes, Cyrilla decided she would go on the stage;. She would leave her aunt's house for New York, and in that great city it would go hard with her if with her handsome face, her tine figure, her clever brain, she could not carve out a bright destiny for herself Vain, she was not ; but she knew to 7 6 "A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT." the uttermost iota the market value of her black eyes, her long waving black hair, her dark, high-bred face, her tall, supple form, her thorough knowledge of French and German, her rich conlralto voice. Each one was a stepping-stone to future fame and fortune. And, as she thought it, worn out by watching and her unusual vigil, her head fell forward on the window-sill, and she dropped asleep. It was six by the little chimney clock when the harsh, disso- nant ringing of a bell awoke simultaneously all the inmates of the pensionnat. It aroused Mademoiselle Stephanie among the rest. The morning had broken in true November dreari- ness, in dashing rain and whistling wind, in bleakness and chill. With a yawn Mademoiselle Stephanie sat up in bed, shiver- ing and blue, and the first object upon which her sleepy eyes rest- ed was the drooping form of her prisoner by the window, in sleep so deep that even the clanging of the bell had failed to arouse her. She had evidently sat there all night, cried herself to sleep probably, and a pang of pity touched mademoiselle's kindly old French heart. But it would not do to show it. Miss Hendrick had sinned, and Miss Hendrick, by the inevitable laws of nature and grace, must suffer. She dressed herself shiveringly, went over, and laid her hand lightly on the sleeper's shoulder. "My child," she said, " wake up. You'll get your death of cold sitting here." Cyrilla lifted her head, looking in the dim gray morning light pallid and wretched, and took in the situation at a glance. " My death of cold ? " she repeated, bitterly. " No such luck, mademoiselle. It is almost a pity I do not ; it would be infi- nitely better for me than what is to come." She stood up as she spoke, twisting her profuse dishevelled black hair around her head, looking like the Tragic Muse, and fully prepared to do any amount of melodrama for ma'amselle's benefit. Ma'amselle looked at her in distrust and displeasure. " Do you know what you are saying, Mees Hendrick ? It would be better for you to be dead than dismissed this school, is that what you mean ?" " Not exactly. If nothing worse than being dismissed this school were to befall me," answered Cyrilla, with an inflection of contempt she could not suppress, " I think I could survive it. No, ma'amselle, much worse than that will follow." " I do not understand, Mees Hendrick," says ma'amselle, Stiffly. >' Jt means ruin, then ! " cries Cyrilla, her eyes flashing, her A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT." 77 tone one that would have been good for three rounds from pi* and gallery " utter, life-long ruin ! Listen, ma'amselle, and I will tell you this morning what I would have died sooner than tell last night in the presence of that spy and informer, Miss Jones ! Oh, yes ! ma'amselle, I will call her so. What does it matter what I say, since I shall be turned ignominiously out in a day or two ? Even the murderer can say his say out when he stands on the gallows ! " Ma'amselle stood perfectly transfixed, while Cyrilla, with im- passioned eloquence, poured into her ears the story of Miss Dormer's hatred of all who bore the name of Carew. How she had wished her to swear never to see him or speak to him while- she lived ; how good he had been to her and her father in the days gone by, what a pure brotherly and sisterly affection there was between them, how absolutely ignorant she had been of his coming to Canada, how petrified with astonishment at sigh* of him, how he had striven to tell her news of her father, how Miss Jones had interfered and prevented it, how in desperation he had implored her to grant him ten minutes' interview in the grounds, and how, in very despair at being unable to meet him in any other way, or even write to him, she had consented. In the torrent of Cyrilla' s eloquence mademoiselle was absolutely bewildered and carried away. How was the little simple-minded schoolmistress to estimate the dramatic capabilities of her very clever pupil ? For the girl herself it was half acting, half earnest. She felt reckless this morning equal to either fate. After all, who could tell ? The glittering, gas-lit life of the stage, with its music, its plaudits, its flowers, its rows of eager, admiring faces, might be hard to win, but, once won, would it not be infinitely preferable to the deathly dulness of existence dragged out as the wife of the rich and respectable Mr. Donald McKelpin ? And if her dark, bold .eyes and gypsy face really brought her money and fame, why, then, she might send for Freddy and marry him, and " live happy ever after." Mademoiselle Stephanie stood listening to Miss Hendrick's vehement outburst with knitted brows and pursed up lips, utterly perplexed and at a loss. A great offence had been done, un- paralleled in the annals of the pensionnat, an offence for which immediate expulsion, by every law of right and morality, should be the penalty. But if that expulsion was to ruin this young girl for life, and it was her first offence, why, then, one must hesitate. She had ever been such a credit to them all, and really her story sounded plausible, and mademoiselle wag ?8 " A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT.' staggered, divided, between pity and duty completely at a loss. " You are quite sure your aunt will deal with you in this severe fashion," she asked, her brows bent. "You are not deceiving me, Miss Hendrick ? " " I am not in the habit of stating falsehoods, mademoiselle," Cyrilla answered, majestically. " And she will send you in disgrace back to your father ? " " She will try, mademoiselle, but I will not go. No ! papa is poor enough without an additional drag upon him. I will never go back to be that drag." " What, then, will you do ? " " Pardon, mademoiselle ! I decline to answer. Once I am expelled this school your right to question me ends." " But I have not expelled you yet, and I demand an an- swer, Mees Hendrick," cried mademoiselle, her little brown eyes flashing. Cyrilla laughed after a reckless fashion. " I might marry the gentleman I met in the grounds. After compromising me in the way he has done it is the least repara- tion he could make, and I am sure he would if I asked him." Here catching sight of mademoiselle's face of horror and incre- dulity, Cyrilla nearly broke down. " But you need not fear ; I shall not ask him. I shall go to New York and go on the stage." Mademoiselle Chateauroy's eyes had been gradually dilating as she listened. At these last awful words a sort of shriek burst from her lips : " Oh, man Dieu ! hear her ! go on the stage I " cried little mademoiselle in piercing accents, and precisely the same tone as though her abandoned pupil had said, ' I will go to perdition ! ' " Mees Hendrick, do I hear you aright ? Did you say the stage ? " " I said the stage, mademoiselle," Cyrilla repeated, imperturba- bly " no other life is open to me, and for the stage alone am I qualified. When my aunt turns me from her doors I will go direct to New York to some theatre there an obscure one, I fear, it must be at first and in that great city, in the theatrical profession, make my living. I can dance, I can sing. I have perfect health, my share of good looks, and no end to what our cousins across the border call ' cheek.' I shall succeed it is only a question of time. And when I am a rich and popular actress, Mademoiselle Stephanie, I shall one day xeturn here and thank you for having turned me out i " "A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT." 79 I r or a moment mademoiselle stood speechless, looted to the ground by the matchless audacity of this reply, and once more Cyrtlla'a gravity nearly gave way as she looked in her face." Then, without a word, with horror in her eyes, she hastily walked out of the room, locking the door after her, and stood panting on the other side. " I must speak to Jeanne," she gasped. " Oh, mon Dieit ! who would dream of the evil spirit that possesses that child ? " Breakfast was brought to Miss Hendrick in the solitude of her prison by Mademoiselle Jeanne herself, who also made a fire. Miss Hendrick partook of that meal with the excellent appetite of a hearty school-girl, Mademoiselle Jeanne eyeing her in terror and askance. How the matter leaked out it seemed impossible to tell, but leak out it did ; perhaps Miss Jones's exultaion over her enemy's downfall got the better of her discretion, but as the four and thirty boarders sat down to their matutinal coffee and " pistolets" it was darkly whispered about that some direful fate had befallen Cyrilla Hendrick. In the darkness of the night she had committed some fearful misdemeanor, some "deed without a name," and was under lock and key down in Ma- demoiselle Stephanie's chamber. Saturday in the school was a half-holiday. In the forenoon the girls wrote German exercises and looked over Monday's lessons. All morning the shadow of mystery and suspicion hung over the class-room girls whispered surreptitiously behind big books. What had Cy Hendrick done ? What was to be her punishment ? Four and thirty young ladies were on the guivive, some secretly rejoicing, some simply curious, two or three slightly regretful for Miss Hendrick was by no means popular and one, one only, really sorry and anxious Sydney Owen- son. "What on earth can Cy have done ?" Sydney thought, per- plexedly. " We parted all right last evening, and this morning we wake and find her imprisoned and disgraced for the first time in three years. I wish I understood. Miss Jones looks compendiums she knows. I'll ask her after class." Lessons and exercises ended. At twelve the welcome bell rang announcing that studies were over for the week, and the students free to rush out pellmell and make day hideous with meir uproar. Sydney alone lingered, going up to Miss Jones, whose duty it was to remain behind, overlook desks, and put the class-room generally in order. 8o "A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT." "Miss Jones," she asked, "what has Cyiilla Hendrick done?" If Miss Jones had a friend in all the school, that friend was Miss Owenson. Miss Owenson, besides being an heiress, be- sides dressing better and giving away more presents than any other half-dozen pupils together, was so sweet of temper, so courteous of manner, so kindly of heart, so gentle of tongue, so gracefully and promptly obedient, that she :Von hearts as by magic. A certain innate nobility of character made her ever ready to take the side of the weaker and the oppressed. Miss Jones owed her deliverance from many a small tyranny to Syd- ney Owenson's pleading. Now Miss Jones pursed up her lips, and her eyes snapped maliciously. "Who says Miss Hendrick has done anything?" she asked. " Oh, nonsense ! We all know she has, and that she is in punishment down in Mademoiselle Stephanie's room. 'Toi- nette says she wasn't in her bed all night. Now, Miss Jones, what is it all about ? " " I regret that it is impossible for me to inform you, Miss Owenson. Any confidence Mademoiselle Stephanie may repose in me 1 consider inviolable. My lips are sealed." Sydney shrugged her shoulders and turned away. "I shall find out for all that. It is very odd, I must say. How could Cy have got into any trouble after going to her room last night ? " She ran down stairs and straight to the chambre a coucher of Mile. Stephanie. She would find the door locked, no doubt, but at least she could talk through the key-hole. She rapped softly. " It is I, Cy Sydney," she whispered ; " come to the door and speak to me." " Come in, Syd," the clear voice of Cyrilla answered. " The door is unlocked. Pull the bobbin and the latch will go up." Sydney opened the door and entered. At the window Cy- rilla sat alone, calmly perusing that exciting work of fiction, Le Brun's Telemaque. " I thought you were locked in ! I thought you were in pun- ishment ! " Sydney said, bewildered. " So I am," Cyrilla answered, laughing ; " but I so flustered poor little Mademoiselle Jeanne when she brought me my break- fast by my dreadful talk about being an actress, that she went out 'all of a tremble,' as the old ladies say, and forgot to lock the door. Mile. Stephanie I haven't seen since she got up this "A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT." 8l morning I daresay she has improved the raining hours in com- posing a letter to Aunt Phil, painting my guilt as blackly as the best black ink will do it. She will have a fit if she finds you here in my company the whitest of all her lambs side by side with her one black sheep." " Nonsense, Cy. What on earth have you done ? " " Has it leaked out, then ? ' 111 news flies apace.' Has Miss Jones told ? " " Ah, Miss Jones is at the bottom of the mischief. My pro- phetic, soul told me so, she looked so quietly exultant. You didn't try to murder her last night in her sleep I hope, Cyrilla." " Not exactly. If ever I get a chance I will, though. I owe Miss Jones a long debt of small spites, and if ever I get a chance I'll pay it off. What did I do ? Why, I stole out of niv room last night at midnight to meet Fred Carew." '" Cyrilla ! " Cyrilla laughed. " My dear Syd, if I had assassinated Miss Jones last night in her vestal slumber you couldn't look more horror-stricken! Is it such an awful crime, then ? My moral perceptions must be blunt for the life of me I can't see the enormity of it. Look here, I'll tell you all about it." And then Miss Hendrick, with the utmost sang froid, poured into Miss Ovvenson's ear the tale of last night's misdoing. " If the man had been any other man on earth than poor Freddy," pursued Miss Hendrick, "the matter wouldn't amount to much after all. Expulsion from school I don't mind a pin's point. I leave at Christmas in any case, and a shrill scolding once a day from Aunt Phil until the day I married her pet Scotchman would be the sole penalty. But now it means ruin. Aunt Phil will turn me out oh, yes, she will, Syd, as surely as we both sit here. No prospective fortune, no Mr. McKelpin tc make me the happiest of women, no leading the society of Montreal, no flirtation with Freddy, nothing but go forth, like Jack in the fairy tales, and seek my fortune. Jack always found his fortune, however, and so shall I." " But, Cyrilla, good gracious ! this is awful. Do you mean to say your aunt will really turn you out ? " " Really, Syd, really really. And, after all, one can't much blame her, poor old soul. Last night I rather dreaded my fate ; to-day I don't seem greatly to mind. After all, if the worst comes to the worst, 1 can always make my own living." "As an actress? Never, Cy. If the worst does come, yoa shall make your home with i ic, sooner than that. Not a word, 4* 82 "A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT" Cyrilla, I insist upon it. Oh, darling, think how nice it will be, papa and mamma, and Bertie and you, all in the same house ! " Cyrilla laughed. " And Bertie wishing me at Jericho every hour of the day. And papa and mamma, pinks of propriety, both looking at me askance, a girl expelled her school and turned out doors by her aunt. Oh, no, Syd ; you're the best and dearest of friends, bu 1 your scheme won't work. I shall go on the stage, as 1 say The dream of my life has ever been to be a popular actress, and the first time you and Bertie visit New York you will come and see me play." " And Freddy ? " " When I am rich enough I shall marry Freddy. Poor fellow ! how sorry he will be when he hears this. It is all the fault of that detestable Mary Jane Jones. If she had not in- terfered at Mrs. Delamere's, he would have said all he had to say there, and no more about it. It is her hour of triumph now, but if mine ever comes " " Enough of this, young ladies ! " interrupted the shrill voice of Mademoiselle Stephanie, entering hastily. " I have over- heard every word. Mees Owenson, why do I find you here?" In her hand Mademoiselle Stephanie held a letter addressed in most legible writing to Miss Phillis Dormer, Montreal. It was Cyrilla' s sentence of doom. Sydney started up, turning pale and clasping her hands. "Oh, mademoiselle, pray pray, don't send that letter. You don't know how her aunt hates Mr. Carew how implacable she is when offended. You will ruin all Cyrilla' s prospects for life. It is her first offence. She has always been so good you have always been so proud of her. She has been such a credit to the school. And she will never, never, never do so again. Oh, ma'amselle dear, kind Ma'amselle Stephanie ! don't send that letter." Tears stood big and bright in Sydney's beseeching eyes, as she stood with clasped, pleading hands before the preceptress. " Hush, Sydney ! " Cyrilla interposed, gently ; " it is of no use. Ma'amselle has heard all that before." " I have pleaded for Mees Hendrick," ma'amselle said, look- ing troubled ; " I have begged the good aunt to forgive her this one time." Cyrilla smiled serenely reckless. " You don't know Miss Dormer, ma'amselle. If an angel came down to plead for me, she would not forgive this. Seurt o_passion we read of, where girls are ready to sacrifice th^ir fathers and mothers, and homes, and soul'i 88 THE LAST NIGHT." salvation for some man who takes their fancy. I hate you when you are cynical and sarcastic and wordy, Cyrilla. I wish you would drop it ; it doesn't become you. Leave it for poor, disappointed, crossed-in-love Miss Dormer." " Bravo, Syd ? Who'd have thought it ? I begin to have hopes of you yet. I only trust your Bertie may be worthy of his sweet little wife. For you are a little jewel, Sydney, and better than you are pretty." " Oh, nonsense, Cy ! Drop that." " 1 shall miss you horribly, chere belle" Cyrilla goes on, plaint- ively. "You were the leaven in this dull house that leavened the whols mass. Still, it's only till Christmas, and then ' her eyes sparkle in the dusk, she catches her breath, and her color rises. " You will go to Montreal, and Freddy will be there. You will see him surreptitiously, and all the time you will be pro- mising Mr. McKelpin and your aunt to marry him," supple- ments Miss Owenson, gravely. "Take care, Cyrilla; that's a dangerous sort of game, and may end in bringing you to grief." " Little croaker ! the danger of it will be the spice of life. And, meantime, if your papa writes a nice diplomatic note to Aunt Phil, and gets her consent, I shall 'haste to the wedding,' see Master Bertie, and bestow my benediction on your nuptials. I will never forgive Aunt Dormer if she doesn't let me go." Arm in arm the two girls pace up and down the long, chill room, talking eagerly in undertones. In another half hour the bell for evening prayers rings, and their last tete-d-tete, where they have held so many, is at an end. " Good-by, old class-room," Sydney said, wistfully. " I have spent some very jolly days here, after all." Prayers and pious reading were long on Sunday night ; most of the girls were yawning audibly, a few were nodding, and one or two of the most reprobate fast asleep before the close. Then to their rooms, and silence and darkness brooded over the mini- ature world of the boarding-school, with its bread-and butter hopes and fears, heart-burnings and passions. , Monday morning came a perfect day, sparkling with frosty fall sunshine. A buzz of suppressed excitement ran through the school. A "round-robin" for a half holiday was sent to Made- moiselle Stephanie, and was granted. Breakfast was eaten amid a gabble of conversation, and as they arose from the table a thrill ran through all as a hackney-coach drove up to the door. The messenger for Sydney Owenson had come. 8 9 She was dressed in her travelling suit, a pretty " conserve " of giay and blue, with hat and gloves to match. Her trunk stood packed and strapped in the hall. Mademoiselle Stephanie came herself tremulously to bear the message that Rebecca was wait- ing, and that Miss Owenson must say good-by at once. There was no time to lose their train started in less than half an hour. The scene that ensued ! who may tell ? " Good by ! good- by ! good-by ! " tears, kisses, promises to write ad infinitum, and then Sydney, her handkerchief quite drenched with weeping, tears herself away, and springs into the carriage. The door is closed, she leans forward her lovely tear-wet face. They are all there on the steps, teachers, pupils, servants, and, foremost, the tall, erect figure and fine face of Cyrilla Hendrick. u Good-by, Cy dearest Cy," she sobs, and "Good-by, Syd- ney." Miss Hendrick answers, gravely, but without tears. The coachman cracks his whip, and they are off, rattling down the silent Rue St. Dominique, and the pensionnat* and the throng of eager faces out of sight. She falls back, crying quietly, but before they are half way to the station her tears are dried and she is listening eagerly to Rebecca's account of all at home. The station is reached smiles have totally routed tears, the pretty gray eyes sparkle, the delicate cheeks flush. The old life is at an end. After all, Cy was right, it was dull aud the new one is begun. The old one ended in darkness and rain, the new one begins in sunshine and brightness. It is emble- matic, the girl thinks, and she gives her engagement ring a shy little kiss, and thinks, with a happy blush and smile, that she is going to Bertie, to her bridegroom and so forgets the pension- nat. CHAPTER XL "A LAGGARD IN LOVE." HARLOTTE, what time is it ? If it isn t past foui that confounded clock must be slow." Captain Owenson " Squire Owenson " as he is known to all men hereabouts asks this question for the twentieth time within the hour, turning over with an impa- tient half sigh, half groan, in his big invalid chair. And Char- 90 *A LAGGARD IN LOVE." lotte, Otherwise Mrs. Owenson, looks up from her tatting, and answers placidly, as she has answered placidly also twenty times before : " It wants twenty minutes of four, Reginald, and the clock is right to a second." ' : Oh-h h ! " says the Captain. It is a half groan of pain, half grunt of anger, and impatiently the invalid flounces over on the other side, and shuts his eyes. He has not seen his Sydney, the " sole daughter of his house and heart," his one best treasure in life, for close upon a year, and all that year scarcely seems as long to his intolerable impatience, as do the hours of this lagging day that is to bring her home. At no period of his career has patience been the virtue upon which the friends of Reginald Algernon Owenson have placed their hopes of h ; s canonization, and years of ill-health have by no means strength- ened it, as his wife knows to her cost. He is a tall, gaunt man, with a face ?till handsome in spite of its haggardness, bright, restless eyes, and that particularly livid look that organic heart disease gives. The large, gray eyes, closed so wearily now, are the counterpart of Sydney's, and the abundant and un- silvered hair not many shades darker. By the lace-draped bay window of this her husband's invalid sitting-room sits Mrs. Owenson, serenely doing tatting. A tall, thin, faded lady, with pale blue eyes, pale, fairish complex- ion, and a general air of cheerful insipidity. In early youth Mrs. Owenson was a beauty in the maturity of seven and forty years, Mrs. Owenson fancies herself a beauty still. There is silence in the room for a few minutes. It is a very large and airy room, furnished with the taste and elegance of culture and wealth. There are pictures on the walls, busts on brackets, statuettes in corners, bronzes on the chimney-piece, books and flowers on the table, and over all, more beautiful than all, the crisp golden sunshine of the November afternoon. From the window you saw a lovely view, spreading woodland all glowing with the rubies and orange of that most exquisite and poetic season the "Fall," emerald slopes of sward, and far away the great Atlantic Ocean, spreading until it melted into the dazzling blue sky. The minutes drag like hours to the nervously irritable man, who bears suffering as most men bear it, in angry, vehement protest. A brave man in his day he has been, but brave under ill-health, slow, ciuel pain, he is not. Placid Mrs. Owenson, who sits, seeing nothing of the gorgeous picture before her, "A LAGGARD IN LOVE" 91 whose whole small soul is absorbed in her tatting, who jumps on a chair, and shrieks at sight of a mouse, would have borne it all with the pathetic, matter-of-course, infinite patience of woman, had she been chosen for the martyrdom. Presently the sick man opens his eyes, bright and restless with impatience. " Bertie is late, too," he growls ; " he was to return by the two o'clock train. A pretty thing for Sydney, a fine compli- ment indeed, to get here and find him gallivanting away in New York. It seems to me he does nothing but gallivant since his return from England returning plucked too ! Young dunder- head ! I don't like it ! I won't have it ! He shall stay quietly at home or I will know the reason why ! " " My dear," says Mrs. Owenson, calmly measuring off her tatting, " you mustn't excite yourself, you know. Doctors Howard and Delaney both said particularly you were never, on any account, to excite yourself." "Hang Doctors Howard and Delaney! Don't be a fool, Mrs. Owenson ! I'm not talking of those two licensed quacks. I'm talking of Bertie Vaughan's gallivanting, and I say it shall end or I will know the reason why." "Well, now," says Mrs. Owenson, more placid if possible than ever, " I don't believe Bertie's gallivanting, whatever that may be ; and as for his going to New York two days ago, you know, Reginald, you gave him permission yourself. Lord Dearborn is stopping there at a hotel, before going to shoot what-you-call-'ems buffaloes and Bertie and he were bosom friends at college, and naturally Bertie wanted to see him before he left. And you told him yourself now Reginald, love, you know you told him yourself, to invite him to the wedding, and " " Yes, yes, yes, yes ! O Lord ! what a thing a woman's tongue is ! Men may come and men may go, but it goes on forever. Don't I know all that, and don't I know, too, that he promised faithfully to be here by the two o'clock tram, in time to meet Sydney. And now it's nearly four. People who won't keep their promises in little things won't keep them in great. And this is no little thing, by George ! slighting Sydney. Isn't it time for those confounded drops yet, Char ? Lay down that beastly rubbish you are wasting time over and attend to your duties." Still serene, still unruffled, Mrs. Owenson obeys. To tell the truth, her liege lord's ceaseless grumbling has little more 92 "A LAGGARD IN LOVE." effect upon her well-balanced mind than the sighing of the fitfui wind out among the trees. A perfect digestion, an unshattTed nervous system, an unlimited capacity for sleep, raise Mrs. Ovvenson superior to every trial of life. She lays down the obnoxious rubbish, pours out the drops carefully in a little crystal cup, and hands it to her husband. As he takes it the shrill shriek of the locomotive, rushing into the station two miles distant, rends the evening air. " Thank God, there's the train," he says, with a sort of gasp " Sydney's train. In fifteen minutes my darling will be here." " And I will go and see about dinner, Reginald" remarks, Mrs. Ovvenson, settling her cap with a pleased simper at hei- self in the glass, " if you can spare me." " Spare you ! What the devil good are you to any one I should like to know ! sitting there with your eternal knit- ting " Not knitting, Reginald, love," remonstrates Mrs. Ovvenson, " knitting's old-fashioned. Tatting." A disgusted growl is the gentle invalid's answer. He closes his eyes and falls back among his pillows once more. Always a bit of a martinet, in his own household and neighborhood, as erstwhile on the quarterdeck, years of suffering have rendered him irritable and savage to an almost unbearable degree. Death is near, he knows, hovering outside his threshold by day and by night may cry " come ! " at any moment, and his pas- sionate protest against the inexorable decree never ceases. His longing for life is almost piteous in its intensity he holds his grasp upon it as by a hair, and each outbreak of anger or excitement may snap that hair in twain. The great house is very still the sick-room is far removed from all household tumult. It is a great house " a house upon a hill-top," a huge red brick structure, with acres of farm and field, of orchard and kitchen garden, belts of lawn and wooded slopes. It stands nearly half a mile from any othei dwelling a whole mile from the town of Wyckcliffe. A broad sweep of drive leads up to the portico entrance in front, slop ing away in the rear down to the sea-shore. There are many great men in the smoky manufacturing town of Wyckcliffe as great as half a million dollars can make them, but ever and always Squire Owenson, the great man par excellence. He is the wealthiest, he lives in the finest house, he drives the finest horses, he owns the finest farms, he keeps the largest staff of "A LAGGARD IN" LOVE." 93 servants, and above all he has the air of one born and bred to command. Loftily gracious and condescending, he has walked his uplifted way among these good people, and the rich, shrewd manufacturers submit good-humoredly to being patronized and smile in their sleeve over it. " A tip-top old swell," is the uni- versal verdict, " in spite of his British airs, free with his money as a lord, ready to help any one in distress, and a credit to the town every way you take him." A haughty old sprig of gentil- ity this Squire Owenson, setting a much greater value on birth* and blood than either of these useful things are entitled to, and loving, with a love great and all absorbing, his slim, pretty, yel- low-haired " little maid " and heiress. The one desire of his heart, when first he settled here, had been to found a house and a name, that would become a power in the land, to have "The Place" descend from Owenson to Owenson, for all time. But Mrs. Owenson, who disappointed him in everything, disap- pointed him in this. Six babies were born, and with the usual perversity of her contrary sex, each of these babies was a girl. To make matters worse, five died in infancy, and Sydney, " last, brightest, and best," alone shot up and flourished. Shot up, slender and pretty, an Owenson her father rejoiced to see in face and nature. It was then his thoughts turned to Bertie Vaughan. Since Providence deigned him no son, Bertie should be his son, should marry Sydney, should change his name to Vaughan Owenson, and so in spite of Mrs. Owenson hand down " The Place " to fame and posterity. The thought grew with every year. No exception could be taken to the orphan lad on the score of birth, and for his poverty the captain did not care he had enough for both. Yes, yes ! the very hour the boy and girl were old enough they should be married. It was the one hope, the one dream of his life, growing stronger as death came near. Of late he had been a little disappointed in young Vaughan. He had returned from Cambridge " plucked," his name never appeared in the " University Eight ; " at nothing, either physical or mental, so far as the old sailor could see, had he distinguished himself. He was without ballast, without "backbone," and never had Captain Owenson sighed so bitterly over the realization as on his last return. Still, all things cannot be as we would have them here below. He would love Sydney and be good to her, he could hardly fail in //iiit, and with that both she and her father must fain be con- tent. " We can't make statesmen, or orators, or great reformers to 94 "A LAGGARD IN LOVE." order," the captain thought. "The lad's a good lad. as the class go has no vice in him that I can see ; will make a re- spectable, easy-going gentleman farmer, quite willing to be tied to his wife's apron-strings all his life; and as that's the sort of men women like, why, I dare say, it will be all the better for the little one that he's not clever. Your clever man rarely makes a good husband." He lay thinking this for the thousandth time, with knitted brows and that expression of repressed pain that never left his face, more strongly marked than ever. Twenty minutes had ticked off on the clock, the yellow lines of the slanting afternoon sun were glimmering more and more faintly through the brown boles of the trees, when carriage wheels came rattling loudly up the drive. He started upright in his seat, a red flush lighting his haggard face, his heart throb- bing like a sledge-hammer against his side. There was the sound of a sweet, clear girlish voice and laugh, then a footstep came flying up the stairs, the door was flung wide, and fresh, and fair and breezy, his darling was in the room, her arms about his neck, her kisses raining on his face. " Papa ! papa ! dear, darling, blessed old papa ! how glad I am to be with you again ! " He could not speak for a moment ; he could only hold her to him hard ; gasping with that convulsive beating of the heart. The heavy, labored pulsations frightened Sydney ; she drew her- self away and looked at him. " Papa, how your heart beats ! Oh, papa, don't say you are any worse ! " she cried out, in a terrified voice. " No darling," he answered, a great pant between every word; "only the joy of your coming " he stopped and pressed his hand hard over the suffocating throbs. " Give me that medicine, Sydney." "I'll do it, Sydney," her mother said, coming in. "I told you, Reginald, not to excite yourself. I'm sure you knew Syd ney was coming, and there was no need to get into a gale about it like this." The squire's answer was a glare of impotent fury as he took the cordial from the exasperatingly calm partner of his bosom. Sydney's great compassionate eyes were fixed upon him as she nestled close to his shoulder, one arm about his neck. " Lie back, papa," she said, " among the pillows. I am sorry oh, darling papa ! sorrier than sorry to see you like this. Now let me fan you. Please don't excite yourself the least bit about me, or I shall be sorry I came." "A LAGGARD IN LOVE." 95 ' Little kisses, light as thistle-down, sorrowfully tender as love could make them, punctuated this speech. The father's gaze dwelt on her, as men do gaze upon that which is the apple of their eye. " I am better now, little one. Stand off, my baby, and let me look at you. Charlotte, look here Sydney is as tall as yourself." " Sydney takes after me in figure," says Mrs. Owenson, with a simper. " J was always considered a very fine figure when a girl. They used to call me and my two cousins, Elizabeth and Jane Bender, the Three Graces. It runs in our family." "Runs in your fiddlestick!" growled her husband, with ineffable disgust. " Sydney is an Owenson, figure and face, wonderfully grown and marvellously improved. Ah, Bertie's going to get a golden treasure, that I foresee. You don't ask after your sweetheart, little one," her father said, pinching her ear. " My sweetheart ? Oh, how droll," laughed Sydney. "Yes, to be sure, where is Bertie ? I rather expected to have met him at the station." " And you ought to have met him at the station," answered her father, lys frown returning. " Whatever else a man may be, he shouldn't be laggard in love. The truth is he has gone to New York to see his college friend, young Lord Dearborn, and something must have detained him. However, he is pretty sure to be here at eight. He has altered as much as you, little one, and grown a fine, manly, handsome lad." " Bertie was always nice-looking," said Sydney, in a patroniz- ing, elder-sister sort of tone ; "only too fair I don't admire very fair men. Mamma, is dinner ready ? I'm famishing ; and please, mamma, tell Katy to have something particularly nice, for life has been supported on thin bread and butter and weak tea for the past three years." She ran off to her own room to remove her hat, and mamrra trotted dutifully away to see after the commissariat. Papa gazed after her with eyes of fond delight. " My little one," he thought, "my pretty little one, sweet and innocent, an'' heart whole. No mawkish blushing or senti'nen- tality there. Bertie was always nice-looking, but too fair. Ha ! ha ! I hope she will take your conceit down a peg or two, Mas- ter Bert." The dining room of Owenson Place was like all the rooms, Dearly perfect in its way, hung with deep crimson and gold 9^ "A LAGGARD IN LOVE." paper, carpeted wi.h Axminster of deep crimson and wood tints, curtained with red satin brocatelle and lace. Handsome chro- nios of flowers and fruit, of startled deer, and forest streams cov ered the walls. A huge sideboard of old Spanish mahogany covered with dessert, occupied the space between two tall win dows. A little wood fire snapped in the wide steel grate ; under the big glittering chandelier in the centre of the dinner- table was set a huge epergne of autumn flowers, gorgeous in the centre. And, best of all, there were raised pies, and cold ham, and broiled partridge, and chicken fricassee, and ruby and golden jellies, and fruits, and sweets. Sydney's eyes sparkled as she looked. It sounds unromantic, but at the age of seventeen it is a matter of history that Miss Owenson's heart was very easily reached through her palate. " We don't have regular 'dinners roasts, and entrees and that, since Bertie's been away," said Mrs. Owenson. " I ordered all the things you used to like best. Papa never comes down to dinner when we are alone." " Oh, how nice," cried Sydney; "how good it seems to be home. What a delicious pie. Nobody makes game pies like our Katy, bless her ! I must go down to the kitchen directly and give her a hug. Won't you have something, mamma ? Oh, how i wish Cyrilla were here." " Who's Cyrilla, my love ? " asked Mrs. Owenson, helping herself to partridge. Mrs. Owenson has dined, but Mrs. Owenson is one of those happy exceptional mortals who can eat with ease and comfort at all times and seasons. "My chum at school, Cyrilla Hendrick. Don't you remem- ber telling me in your letter that papa said I might invite her here, as bridemaid. I have, and papa must write to her aunt immediately to-night or to-morrow. 1 wish Bertie were here," runs on Miss Owenson, going vigorously into the raised pie. " I'm dying to see him. Is he really handsome, mamma, and elegant, and all that?" " Really handsome, my dear," responded mamma, " and most elegant. His clothes fit him beautifully, and he's so particu- lar about his finger-nails, and his teeth, and his studs, and his sleeve-buttons, and his neckties, and his perfumes. And he bows magnificently. And he parts his hair down the middle. And he is raising a small moustache. It is so light yet you can barely see it, but 1 diresay it will come out quite plain after you are married. And he is going to ask Lord Dearborn down for the "A LAGGARD IN LOVE" 97 wedding, which will give everything an aristocratic air, you know. And, oh, Sydney, my love ! all your things have come, and you must go and see them as soon as you have dined. The bridal dress, vail, wreath, and pearls are expected from Paris in the steamer next week. They have cost a little fortune, and will be really splendid. And papa has fitted up three rooms for you and Bertie, after you return from your wedding-trip, and they are splendid also. Your* papa may be fractious, Sydney, but I must say he has spared no expense in this. There never was a wedding like it in Wyckcliffe, and I don't believe ever will be again. The papers will be full of it, you mav depend." " Dear, generous papa ! " Sydney exclaimed. " Mamma, you don't think him worse, do you not really worse ? His heart beats frightfully, but " " That was the excitement, my dear. He will excite him- seli over trifle^ do as you may," answers placid mamma. " But he is not worse ? The doctors don't say he is worse, do they ? " " By no means. He only fancies he is. They tell him to avoid excitement, to go on with the drops as before, to take gentle carriage exercise, light diet and wines, and he rnay linger ever so long. Now, have you finished, my dear? because I do want to show you the things." Sydney had finished, and putting her arm around mamma's waist familiarly, went with her up-stairs. The bridal apartments were first shown sitting-room, bedroom, dressing-room, all in different colors, all of different degrees of sumptuousness. Pretty pictures, gilded books, stands of music, a new piano and work-table, knick-knacks, pretty trifles, costing hundreds of dollars, and making an elegant whole. Everything was the best and rarest money could buy. Sydney went into raptures school-girl raptures ; but her color came and went, for the first time. For the first time, she was beginning to realize that she was really going to be married. The trousseau was displayed next. Dresses of silk, black, brown, blue, pink, white, all the colors that blonde girls can wear : dresses of lace, black and white ; dresses of materials thick and thin all beautifully made and trimmed. Then heaps of linen, ruffled, laced, embroidered, marked with the letters " S. V. O." twisted in a monogram Sydney Vaughan Owenson. Gradually, as she examined and admired, silence fell upon her. She was beginning to feel overpowered ; her life of the 5 9? "A LAGGARD IN LOVE." past and present seemed closing forever, and another, of which sli2 knew nothing, about to begin. A sensation, akin to dread of meeting Bertie Vaughan, was inexplicably stealing over her. She shook it off indignantly. What nonsense ! Afraid to meet Bertie ! Bertie with whom she had quarrelled and made up, whose ears she had boxed scores of times, whom she had laughed at and made fun of for his incipient young-mannish airs years ago afraid of him ! It was all very fine, and must have cost oceans of money, still she was glad when the sight-seeing was over and she could nestle up to her father's side and kiss him a little, silent, grateful kiss oi thanks. " How do you like it all, Mrs. Vaughan Owenson ? " he asked, patting the cheek, from which the eager flush had faded. "It is all lovely lovely. Papa, how good you are to Bertie and me ! " " You are all I have to be good to, child," he answered, sadly. " I,et me make you happy I ask no more. You think you will be happy with our boy, don't you, pettie ? " " I like Bertie very much, papa." " In a sisterly way eh, my dear ? Well, that is a very good way much the better way, in a little girl of seventeen. This time next year he will be something more than a brother to you. He will be very good to you, that I know." " It is not in Bertie to be bad to any one, papa. He always had a gentle heart." " Yes, my dear, I think he had. There may be nobler quali- ties than gentleness and softness, but we don't make ourselves, and, as young fellows go, Bertie is a harmless lad, a very harm- less lad. Be a good wife, Sydney, and don't be too exacting men are mortal, my dear the best of 'em very mortal. Be happy yourself, and make your husband happy it is all I ask on earth." " I'll try, papa," Sydney sighs, in a weary way, leaning against his chair, " but " " But I wish I need not be married at all. I wish I might just live on as I used, with you and mamma, and have Bertie for my brother. It is very tiresome and stupid being married, whether one will or no, at seventeen." That is what she would have liked to say, but an instinctive conviction that it would displease her father held her silent. " But what, little one ? " he asks. " Nothing, papa." "A LAGGARD IN LOVE." 99 There is silence for awhile. The gray, cold evening is falling over wood and ocean ; a star or two glitters in the sky. Both sit and look at the tremulous beauty of these frosty stars. Sud- denly Sydney springs to her feet. " Papa, I would like to go and see Hetty. May I?" Hetty was once Sydney's nurse, very much tyrannized over, and very dearly loved. Hetty was married now and living in the suburbs of the town. Papa glances at the clock. It is close upon seven, drawing near the time when Master Bertie may be looked for, and it will do him no harm to find Miss Owenson has not thought it worth her while to wait for him. So he gives a cheerful and immediate assent. " Certainly, my dear. Hetty is a good creature, a very good creature, and strongly attached to us all. Take Ellen or Katy, or drive over if you like, or Perkins, the coachman, will attend you, or " " Oh, dear, no, papa ! " laughs Sydney. " I don't want any of them. As if one needed an escort running over to the town ! Besides, I've been watched and looked after so long that a scamper for once on my own account will be delightful. May I ? " " It will be dark in ten minutes, Syd.' " I will be at Hetty's in ten minutes, and she will come back with me if I want her. P please, papa, may I ? " " Why do you say ' may I,' you witch ? You know you can do as you like with me. Run away. Wrap up, the evenings are chilly; and don't stay more than an hour." " Not a second. Good-by, papa ; au revoir" She ran up to her room, tied her dainty travelling hat over her sunny curls, threw a new and brillant scarlet mantle - ^er her shoulders, and in the steel-white, steel-cold set off foi At walk. ioo ALLAN-A-DALE TO HI!> WOOING HAS COMR" CHAPTER XII. :l ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOING HAS COME." otherwise Mrs. Simpson, lived, as has beer said, on the outskirts of the straggling town of Wyck cliffe, about three-quarters of a mile from the gates of Owenson Place, supposing you took the high road, Supposing you took instead the short cut, skirting the sea-side, you shortened the distance by half. Both were perfectly fa- miliar to Miss Owenson, both perfectly safe, and without delibe- rating about it, she at once struck into the " short-cut," running along the high rocky ledge skirting the sea. It was a rough, rock-bound coast, the steep rocks beetling up in some places almost perpendicularly, from fifty to two hundred feet. The steep sides were overgrown with stunted spruce, reedy grasses, and wild, flame-colored blossoms waved in the salt wind. A wide belt of yellow sand was left bare at low tide ; at high tide the big booming waves washed the cliffs for yards up. In wild weather the thunder of these huge Atlan- tic billows could be heard like dull cannonading to the farthest end of the town. It was a lonesome path, but one that always had a fascination for Sydney, as far back as she could remem- ber. To lean over the steep top of " Witch Rock," the highest point of all these high crags, and look sheer down, two hundred feet into the seething waters beneath, had ever been her dan- gerous delight. She walked along now, rather slowly and soberly at first, thinking in her childish way, how prosy and humdrum it was to be married in this manner, the very moment one left school. All the married ladies she had ever known were staid and grave " house-mothers," not a frisky matron among them all. Was she expected to be a solemn and steady-going house-mother too? It was a little too bad of papa she thought, with a reproachful sigh. If he had only let her have a good time first, for three years at least twenty is old, but it is not too old, after all, to be married. She might have come out, had a winter in New York, another in Washington, a trip to Europe, and a couple of seasons at Sara- toga and Newport. But of course poor sick papa must be obeyed ; so with another heavy sigh the little bride-elect put aside nor grievance, and wondered where Bertie might be at ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOING HAS COME." ioi that particular moment, and whether he really would be at home to-night at all. It was satisfactory very satisfactory, Miss Owenson mused gravely, that he was so nice-looking, and was a "clothes-wearing man," and was fastidious, as mamma had said, about his nails, and teeth and sleeve-buttons. Limi- ted as her knowledge of the nobler sex had been she had known gentlemen Colonel Delamere and sundry officers of his staff notably among the number who were not. Miss Owenson, musing thus, over the serious things of this very serious life, continued her way, as you have been told, at first slowly and soberly, but accelerating her pace gradually, and brightening up. It was so good to be at home, to be free from school discipline ; now and forever done with lessons and lectures. It was such an exhilarating night too. The stars sparkled brilliant and numberless. There was no moon, but a steely radiance shimmered over everything. Down below the pretty baby waves lapped the ribbed sand, and the great ocean melted blackly away into the sky. She paused, leaning over Witch Cliff, and gazing with fascinated eyes at that illimitable stretch of black water. She was still lingering there, when there came to her voices and footsteps on the high road beyond. She glanced carelessly over her shoulder carelessly at first ; then she started swiftly upright, and looked at the two advancing, with keen, surprised interest. A man and a woman, both young, going toward the town, the woman an utter stranger, but the man surely the man looked like Bertie Vaughan. She caught her breath. Could it be Bertie. It was his height, his walk, his general air and look. His hat was pulled over his eyes, and in that light, and at that distance, she could not discern his face. His head was bent slightly forward, moodily as it seemed, and he traced figures in the dust with his cane as he walked. His companion, a small, stylish-looking young lady, with a ringing voice and laugh, was rallying him as she leaned upon his arm. " That's all very fine," Sydney heard her say. "Very easy for you to tell me you only went to see a friend ; but how am I to be sure it's true ? I know you men deceitful every one of you. How am I to tell you hadn't a flirtation on hand up there ? Only, if you have " The man raised his head and answered her, but in too sub- dued a tone for that answer to be audible. It was the refined, the educated tc ne of a gentleman, and markedly different from hers. 102 < ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOING HAS COME." She laughed again at his reply, whatever it was, and began to sing, in a low, mellow voice : "It is good to be merry and wise, It is good to be loyal and true, It is good to be off with the old love Before you are on with the new." The' last words were faint in the distance. The pair lovers, it would seem passed out of view. And Sydney roused herself, her heart beating in the most absurd manner. The man was so like Bertie. Could it be ? Then she broke off. What a ridiculous idea ! Bertie was doubtless on his way from New York, and she was idly loiter- ing here after promising papa not to stay a moment longer than she could help. She hurried on, and in five minutes was in . Simpson's cottage and in Mrs. Simpson's arms. " Bless the baby ! " her nurse cried, a buxom woman of forty, the pleasantest of faces ; " how she is grown ! As tall as aer mamma, and as pretty as a picture ! " A shower of kisses wound up the sentence. " When did you come home ? " Mrs. Simpson asked, placing a. chair for her young lady, and removing her hat. "About two hours ago, and have run over tc see you the first thing. No, thank you, Hetty, I won't take my things off. I promised papa not to stay but a minute." "Which he's been that worriting about your coming, Miss Sydney, that I thought he would have gone after you himself, sick as he is. And now your home and going to be married to Master Bertie right away. Oh ! my dear, darling Miss Sydney, I hope it may be for the best." The pleasant face clouded a little as she said it, the pleas- ant eyes looked with wistful affection into her nursling's face. " Certainly it will be for the best, Hetty," Sydney responded, brightly, and yet with a certain reserve in her tone that told Mrs. Simpson the matter was not to be discussed; "and you shall have a brand-new brown silk you always sighed for a yellow-brown silk, I remember to dance at my wedding. How is the baby, and how is Mr. Simpson, and how are you getting on?" Mrs. Simpson's face grew absolutely radiart. The baby was well bless him ! Miss Sydney must see him at once ; and Simp- son was well, thank you, and that busy, and making that money, all thanks to the start her papa had given him, and she was the "ALLAN-A-DALE FO HIS WOOING HAS COME." 103 happiest and thankfulest woman in America, with not a want in the world. "Only the gold-brown silk," laughed Sydney; "that's a chronic want, isn't it ? Let me see the baby, and then I must be off." Mrs. Simpson left the room, returning in a moment with a six- months' old ball of r "it, rosy and sleepy, in her arms, trying to rub two blinking blue eyes with two absurd little fists. " Oh ! the darling ! '' cries Miss Owenson, jumping up and snatching at it as a matter of course. " Oh, oo love ! Oh, oo ittle pet-sy-wet-sy ! " Here a shower of kisses. " Oh, oo 'ittle beauty ! Hetty, he's splendid ! What's its name ?" "Which we've took the liberty of naming him after your par, Miss Sydney," responded the blissful mother ; "his name's Regi- nald Algernon Owenson Simpson, and at his christening your par presented him with a silver mug a real silver mug and your mar with a lovely coral and silver bells." Sydney had all a true girl's maternal instincts, strong, though dormant. Baby was smothered with kisses, which naturally taking baby's breath away, Reginald Algernon Owenson Simp- son opened his cherubic mouth, and set up a howl that made his mother spring to the rescue. " Poor 'ittle pets, did I scare it then ? " cooed Sydney, pecking daintily at one little paw ; " Aunty Syd shall fetch it something pitty next time she tomes ! Now then, Hetty, I really must not stay another minute. I ought to be on my way home now, but I lingered in my old fashion to look over the rocks, you rfe- member ?" " I remember, Miss Sydney , it was the terror of my life that you would break your neck over Witch Cliff. Ah ! that path isn't as quiet now as it used to be ; they've got to calling it Lover's Lane, of late. All them factory girls and their young men go a courting along that way Sunday nights, and the actors and ac- tresses at other times. 1 suppose you know they started a theatre over in Wyckcliffe ? " "No, I didn't know it. Have they ?" " Yes; and the best actress of them all boards in Brown's, next cottage to this Miss Dolly De Courcy she calls herself, a fine, fat, black-eyed, dressy yoimg woman, with more young men running after her than you could shake a stick at." "Happy Miss De Courcy ! Well, good-by, Hetty. I'll run over to-morrow, or maybe next day. Dood-by, baby div Aunt Syd one more tiss." 104 " ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOING HAS COME." " How fond you are of babies ! Ah ! wait until you've goi 'em of your own," says Mrs. Simpson, prophetically, at which Sydney laughs and blushes, and runs out, and starts more briskly than she came on her homeward walk. She encounters no one this time ; it is the loneliest walk con- ceivable, but she does not feel lonely. She sings as she goes ; she is singing as she enters the gates of The Place, singing, as it chances, the refrain of the ballad she had overheard, half an hour before : "It is good to be off with the old love Before you are on with the new. " The belated moon has arisen as she emerges from the shadowy drive, upon the broad belt of sward that encircles the house. On the portico steps stands a tall, dark figure, smok- ing a cigar. Her heart gives a quick beat, but she sings gayly on. With the last words she runs up the steps and stands beside him. He has not offered to move he stands coolly waiting for her to come to him. " Bertie ! " she exclaims, her frank gladness at seeing him over- coming her new and disagreeable shyness, and she holds out both hands. He removes his cigar holds it carefully between his finger and thumb, takes the two proffered hands in one of his, bends forward and kisses her. " Ah ! Syd. I thought it must be you. How cruel of you to run away when you knew I was coming as fast as steam would bear me. Stand off and let me look at you. By Jove ! how you have grown and how pretty ! " He says it in a tone of admiration, languid but real, and Sydney laughs, remembering it is the twentieth time within the last four hours she has been told the same. With that laugh every shade of embarrassment vanishes. After all it is only Bertie the old Bertie a trifle more manly-looking, but as affected and nonsensical as ever. " Certainly after all your efforts to improve me, could I do less ? And you I don't see much change or improvement in you, Bertie, except that I think you also have grown ! " Then she pauses and regards him doubtfully. " Whe.i did you come ? " she asks. " Ten minutes ago," responds Mr. Bertie Vaughan, " and "ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOING HAS COME." 105 was crushed to the earth by the announcement that you hadn't waited. Only one thing could have enabled me to bear up under the blow a cigar. May I goon with it? It's a capital cigar cost fifty cents in New York, and you must own you really must, sis, it would be a pity to throw it away." " A sad pity," says Sydney, gravely. " Pray, don't do any- thing so madly extravagant, Mr. Vaughan. You came ten minutes ago, did you ? Hum-m ! that's odd, too." " What's odd ? My getting here ten minutes ago ? Ex- plain." " I fancied I was sure, almost that I met you about half an hour ago with a young lady on your arm." She looks keenly at him as she speaks. It is a fortunate thing, perhaps, for Mr. Bertie Vaughan that the newly -risen moon does not shine on the spot where he stands. He has the blondest of blonde complexions, and it reddens like a girl's as he stoops to knock the ash, with care, off his cherished and ex- pensive cigar. " It was very like you," pursues Sydney, slowly ; " the hat, the height, the walk, the gray overcoat I could have sworn it was you, Bert." " Dangerous thing to swear rashly," says Bertie, with that af- fected drawl that always exasperated Sydney ; " must have been my wraith have heard of such things. May have been my double, and I may be going to die." , "It wasn't you, Bertie ? " " It wasn't I, Sydney. Your own common sense might tell you a man can't be in two places at once ; but then, common sense, I am told, is not one of the sciences taught at a young ladies' boarding-school." " Let us go in," Sydney says, abruptly. She feels disappointed, she doesn't know how, or in what. It begins to dawn upon her dimly that Bertie is shallow and af- fected, weak and unstable. The idea has long been taking shape in her mind ; as she looks at him to-night, languid and nonchalant, she is sure of it. They go in. Captain Owenson's room is brilliantly lit with clusters of wax lights. Gas may illuminate the other rooms old fashioned tapers shall light his. Mrs. Owenson has ex- changed the tatting for a novel, and sits near a table, reading. A small Broadwood piano that, ten years ago, came from Eng- land, stands open in a corner. The invalid is in his great chair, holding a paper, but listening for his daughter's footstep* Jto6 " ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOIXG HAS COME" instead of reading. As she enters, Bertie behind her, his whole face lights. " Well, puss," he says, " you are back safely after all. Did you come and go alone ? " " All alone, papa. Who was it said : ' I am never less alone than when alone ? ' It was my case to-night. I have had a surfeit of surveillance during the past three years. Freedom is sweet." " You hear, Bertie ? " says the squire ; " strong-minded no tions, eh ? She lets you see what's in store for you betimes." " Strong-minded notions are very pretty from pretty lips," Mr. Vaughan answers, and he gives Sydney the most thoroughly admiring glance he has given her yet. She looks brilliantly well. Her walk in the frosty air has flushed her cheeks and brightened her eyes. She stands up- right and slim, her scarlet cloak falling back, her yellow-brown curls falling loosely over it, the coquettish hat, with its long plume setting off the fair, star-like face beneath. The old sailor's doting eyes linger on her. " She has improved in her dull Canadian school don't you think so, Bertie ? And shot up like a bean stalk, little witch ! " " Improved is hardly the word," answers, languidly, Mr. Vaughan. " I wouldn't mind going there myself, for a year or two, if they would turn me out ' beautiful forever,' like Syd." He lays himself out upon the nearest sofa, long and slender, and very handsome, in a fair, effeminate way. He has hair in hue and silkiness like the pale tassels of the corn, large, dreamy, light blue eyes, a faintly sprouting moustache, and a Dundreary- ish drawl. A " Beauty-Man," beyond dispute a Narcissus, hopelessly in love with himself. " Play us something, Syd," he says. " I pine for a little music. And sing us a song." She sits down and obeys. She plays fairly well, and sings very nicely, in a sweet and carefully-trained voice, and is duly praised and applauded. "Ah ! you should hear Cyrilla Hendrick sing, Bertie !" she exclaims, twirling round on her stool. There's a voice and a player if you like ! By-the-by, papa, you're to write to her Aunt Dormer, and ask leave for Cy to come here and be brides " She stops suddenly short, meeting her father's knowing smile, and Bertie's glance, and blushes vividly. Bertie probably under- "ALLAN-A-DALE TC HIS WOOING HAS COME." IO? stood, and the blush was contagious, for he too reddened through his thin, fair skin. " And be brides oh ! yes, we know what she's to be eh, Bertie, my boy ? What ! you blushing too ! Bless my soul, what a bashful pair. Char, shove that writing-case over this way I'll do it now. Comes of a very good family, does your friend, Miss Hendrick, on the distaff side. Her mother was third daughter of Sir Humphrey Vernon ran away disin- herited hum-m. The aunt, Miss Dormer, very wealthy old lady, engaged once to nephew of the Earl of Dunraith hum-m- m. 'My dear Miss Dormer.' " The letter was speedily written, folded, and sealed. More music followed, more talk. Mr. Bertie Vaughan was rather silent through it all, rather tired looking, rather bored, and, it might be, a trifle anxious. Certainly his face wore anything but the expression of a rapturous lover. He lay on his sofa, pulled the ears of Mrs. Owenson's favorite pug, Rixie, and watched Sydney askance. Early hours were kept at Owenson Place. Sydney, accus- tomed to going to bed at nine, and fatigued with her journey, was struggling heroically with yawns before the clock struck ten. The striking of that hour was the signal for prayers. The ser- vants filed in, the squire, in a sonorous bass voice led the exer- cises. Then good-nights were said, and leaning on his wife's arm, Sydney going before, the master of the house started for his room. " And I will smoke a cigar for half an hour, outside," said Mr. Vaughan, rising leisurely. " Virtuous as I am, and always have been, the primitive hours of this establishment are a height I haven't attained. Good-night, governor; good-night, Aunt Char ; good-night, Syd." " Sydney must cure you of smoking cigars after ten o'clock," the squire answered, good humoredly. " Good-night to you, my lad." " Good-night, Bertie," said placid Aunt Char ; " put on youi overcoat, my dear boy, and tie a scarf around your neck, or even your pocket handkerchief will do. Consider these fall nights are chilly, and you might catch a cold in your head." " By-by, Bert ! " laughed Sydney, flashing a mischievous glance over her shoulder, " For goodness sake don't forgel to tie your handkerchief round your neck lest you should catch that cold in your poor, dear head. Tell him to put on over- 108 ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOING HAS COME." shoes, mamma the ground my be damp and hadn't Peikins better hold an umbrella over him to keep off the dew ? " She ran off, her mocking laugh coming back to him, and vanished into her own room. And Mr. Vaughan did put on his overcoat, and button it up carefully to the throat, before going out for that last smoke. It might be fun to Syd, but Aunt Chai was right he would take proper precautions against a cold in (the head. He lit up, and walked and smoked, a reflective frown on his face, and saw the lights vanish from the upper windows. Mr. Vaughan was doing what he was constitutionally unfitted for and unused to thinking. " She's very pretty uncommonly pretty, some fellows might think " a pause and a puff " and to think of her seeing me to-night. By George ! " He looked up again Sydney's light winked and went out. "Yes," Bertie mused, ''she's pretty, and she's doosid good style, and she's an heiress, and a very jolly girl so far as I can see, but still " He seemed unable to get any farther. He looked uneasily up at the house once more. All was dark and quiet. He pulled out his watch and looked at that. It was twenty minutes past ten. The moon was shining brilliantly now, silvering woods, and fields, and house. His eyes went slowly over the silver-lit prospect. " It's all hers, every inch of it, and mine the day I marry her. I don't see how I can help marrying her. It's a confounded muddle, look at it how you will. Sometimes I wish yes, by George, I wish I had never seen " Once more he abruptly broke off. This time he flung away his smoked-out Havana and started rapidly for the gates. They were bolted, and a huge English mastiff stood on guard very unnecessary precautions in that peaceful place, but of a piece with the squire's general fussiness. "Here, Trumps quiet, old boy," he said, and Trumps' hoarse growl rumbled away into silence. He slid the bolts, opened the gate, closed it, and struck at once into the rocky path by which Sydney had come and gone four hours before. He met no one until he left it and took the first street leading into the town. Here all was quiet too, the stores closed, a few bar-rooms alone sending their fatal light abroad. He drew near a large building, at whose entrance lamps burned, and from which strains of music came. Turning an angle of this " ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOING HAS COME." 109 building, he came upon a young girl standing alone, her shawl wrapped about her, her back against a dead wall evidently waiting. "Am I late, Dolly ?" demanded Mr. Vaughan, in a breathless tone. "Awfully sorry, upon my honor, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't, upon my word." He drew her hand under his arm and led her off, bending down affectionately to catch a glimpse of her face. A piquant face, lit with bright restless eyes, and plump as an apple. There was rouge on cheeks and lips, and powder, thick everywhere rouge was not, but the face he looked at was pretty in spite of that, with a certain chic and dash. "Are you angry, Dolly? Upon my soul, I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it. By Jove, Dolly, I couldn't." " Angry ? Oh, dear, no ! " answered Miss Dolly, with a flash of her dark eyes " not I, Mr. Vaughan ! Only when a young gentleman tells a young lady he'll meet her a quarter after ten, and doesn't come until a quarter past eleven, it's time for that young lady to find another escort home. It isn't pleasant wait- ing three-quarters of an hour out in the cold, and I won't try it on again, 1 can tell you that !" "Come, now, Dolly, you don't mean to quarrel with me, do you ? I couldn't stand that. I told you I positively couldn't get away, and I couldn't. There was" a momentary hesita- tion " a visitor at the house, and I had to stay and do the civil." " A young lady, Bertie ? " asked Dolly, quickly, with a sudden, swift, jealous change of tone. "Oh, yes, a young lady. In point of fact, my my cousin home from school." " Your cousin ! You never told me you had a cousin before, Bertie." " Didn't I, Doll ? Because I forget everything and everybody, in the world but you, I suppose, when I am with you." " That is all very fine," says Miss Dolly, whose strong point, evidently, is not retort. " Is she pretty this cousin ? " " ' Still harping on my daughter ! ' " laughs Bertie. " Not at .ill my dear. A skim-milk school-girl, pallid, delicate ; no more to you than a penny candle to the moon." " And then she's your cousin, besides," says Miss Dolly, in a musing tone; "and I suppose you wouldn't fall in love with your cousin, even if she was ever so pretty. I've heaid Eng- lish people are like that." 1 10 ALLAN-A-DALE TO HIS WOOING HAS COME? " Fall in love with my cousin ! ha, ha ! " laughs Bertie again* "That's a good joke. Oh, no, Doll; one young woman's enough to be in love with at a time." "And that's me," says Dolly, giving his arm a tender little squeeze, her anger totally gone, and the twain walk in delight- ful silence on for some yards. " I suppose that grumpy old uncle of yours wouldn't consent to your marrying an actress, though ?" the girl asks again, with an impatient sigh. " Well, no, Dolly, I am afraid he wouldn't. My uncle is a man of tolerably strong prejudice, and tolerably strong selfishness. I hate selfish people ! " says Mr. Bertie Vaughan, savagely. " He would cut you off with a shilling, I suppose, as the heavy fathers do in the pieces ? " suggests Dolly. " Precisely, cut me off without a shilling ; and, by Jupiter, Doll, I haven't a penny, no, not a halfpenny, but what the old duffer gives me." " Well, you could go on the stage," says Dolly, reassuringly. " With your face, and your figure, and your aristocratic air, and your education, and everything, you'd make a tip-top walking gent." "Don't say 'tip-top,' Dolly, and don't say 'gent,'" corrects Mr. Vaughan. " Yes, there's something in that. I could go on the stage, and I always liked the life. Well, if the worse comes to the worst, who knows ? I may don the sock or buskin. Meantime, here we are at your lodgings." "And oh ! by-the-by, Bertie, I nearly forgot !" cries Dolly, keeping fast hold of his arm. " We're to have a sailing party over to Star Island to-morrow afternoon, after rehearsal, a clam chowder, a dance, and a good time generally. I've refused everybody, because I wanted to go with you. You'll come? half-past one, sharp." " Really, Dolly, much as I would like to, I'm afraid " " What ! You won't come ? " "I'm afraid " " You must stay home and make love to the boarding-school cousin. Oh, I see it all ! " cries Miss Dolly, in bitterness of spirit. " Nonsense, Dolly! Make love nothing of the sort; only my uncle " " Oh ! your uncle, of course," cries Dolly again, with ever- increasing bitterness. " Very well, Mr. Vaughan ! do as you please. I wouldn't think of coaxing you for the world. Only I can tell Ben Ward I take back my refusal and will go witi " ALLAN-A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD." Ill him. I hope you'll have a good time with your uncle and cousin ! " The sneering scorn with which the actress brings out these two family titles is not to be described. " A real good time. Good-night, Mr. Vaughan." Ben Ward is the riches-t and best-looking young mil.-owner in Wyckcliffe, and Miss Dolly De Courcy's most obedient humble servant. As she says good-night she turns to go, leave ing him standing irresolute at the gate. She is half way to the door, when he lifts his head and calls : " I say ! Look here, Dolly. Don't ask Ward, confound him. It'll be all right. I'll be there." CHAPTER XIII. " ALLAN-A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD." T is the morning after, half-past eight, and breakfast time. Out of doors, yellow, crisp, sparkling sunshine lies over land and sea ; the orange and scarlet maples and hemlock glow and burn like jewels. A few gor- geous dahlias yet lift their bold, bright heads, where all the summer flowers are dead and gone, and the scarlet clusters hang from the rowan-trees like bunches of vivid coral. In- doors, the breakfast-table is spread, and silver and china and crystal flash back the sunlight cheerily. A. *ire snaps on the hearth, and makes doubly cozy the whole room. Around the table all are assembled no tardiness at meal-times will be tolerated in the household Squire Owenson rules. Bertie Vaughan looks a trifle fagged and sleepy, and struggles manfully not to gape in the face of the assembled company. Sydney, who has been up and doing since half-past six, sits down with eyes like stars and cheeks as rosy almost as the clusters of rowan berries in her lovely loose hair. " Look at that child ? " says the squire, his whole face aglow with the love and delight he cannot hide ; " she might sit for a portrait of the goddess Hygea. And we used to think her deli- cate ! Upon my word, a Canadian boarding-school, long les- sons, and short commons must be capital things for health. Bertie, my lad, what's the matter with you thi? morring? 112 "AL',AN-A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD" Didn't your last cigar sit well last night, or had you the night- mare ? You look rather white about the gills." " Delicacy is my normal state," Mr. Vaughan answers, lan- guidly. " Aunt Char, I'll trouble you for another steak and a second help of those very excellent fried potatoes. I am but a fragile blossom at best, that any rude wind may nip in the bud. A second cup of coffee, Aunt Char, if you please. Really, Katy is a cordon-bleu ; \ never tasted better in my life." He meets Sydney's laughing eyes with pensive gravity, and the squire booms out a great laugh in high good humor. "I'll tell you what it is, my fragile blossom," he says, "we will try if change of air won't do you good. Sydney, I've a treat in store for you. One hour after breakfast let all be ready in their very best rigging the carriage will be at the door and we will go and make a day of it over at the Sunderlands. We'll see if we can't blow the wilted roses back into the lily -like cheeks of our fair, fragile Mr. Vaughan." " Oh, how nice of you, papa ! " cries out Sydney, in her school-girl way ; " how glad I shall be to see Mamie and Susie Sunderland again. And we can have a row in the afternoon across the bay to Star Island. You are the very best and kind- est papa that ever lived." " Of course, of course best of men and fathers. Hey, Ber tie what do you say ? Confound the lad ! he looks as glum as if he had heard his death sentence. Say, don't you want to go ? " The flash in Squire Owenson's lion-like eye might have intimidated a tolerably strong man. A strong man mentally, morally, or physically Bertie Vaughan was not. His tone was deprecating and subdued to a degree when he spoke. " Really, sir, nothing would give me more pleasure, but " " Well ! " cried the old martinet, in an ominous voice, " what ? No stammering speak out ! " "I have another engagement that is all. I I might break it, of course," says Mr. Vaughan, rather agha?t. " Oh-h ! You might break it, of course ! Then will you have the very great goodness, Mr. Albert Vaughan, to break it ! When I propose a pleasure excursion in honor of my daughter's arrival, no one pleads a prior engagement in my house. At half- past nine, sharp, young man, you will be ready ! " An angry flush arose, hot and red, into the delicate face of Bertie Vaughan. He set his lips with rather a sullen air and silently on with his breakfast. But Sj Jriey came bravely to the rescue. She was not a whit " ALLAN-A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD" 1 13 in a\ve of her domineering, tempestuous father, and, naturally, had twice the pluck of Master Bertie. "But, papa, if Bertie really has an engagement, it isn't fair to make him break it. When he made it, how was he to know you would propose this ? Let him keep his engagement what- ever it is, and afterward let him join us. I am sure that will do every bit as well." "Humph!" growled the squire, "you are taking up the cudgels for him, are you ? Well, lad, let us hear what this won- derfully important engagement is all about, and if it really is worth noticing we will let you off duty. Come speak up ! " But " speak up " was the last thing Bertie could do on that subject. Good Heaven ! he thought his blood absolutely chilling, if this fiery old sailor really knew. A lie Mr. Vaughan would not have stuck at a second, but he was no> quick-witted enough to invent a lie. So there was but one waj out of the dilemma. " It is an engagement of no importance," he said, hurriedly, that sensitive conscious color deepening again "only a trifle. I'm sorry I mentioned it at all." " So am I," said Captain Owenson, curtly, and then profound and most uncomfortable silence fell. " Bertie has no tact," Sydney thought, a provoked feeling rising in her mind against her good-looking feeble fiance. " It his engagement really was an engagement, why didn't he keep it through thick and thin papa would have respected him for it, even if it did cross his will. If it was only a trifle, as he says, why did he mention it at all ? Now he has spoiled every- thing beforehand." The meal ended with a sonorous grace, said with lowering brow and suppressed, angry intonation by the master of the house. Then he arose and glared defiance across at Bertie. " Be off to your rooms and dress, every soul of you ! " he ordered, in what Sydney called his " quarter-deck voice," " and woe betide that one who is two minutes later than half-past nine ! " All dispersed Sydney with fun in her eyes, lingering long enough to give her irate father's grizzled mustache an audacious little tweak ; Bertie looking pale and uneasy ; Mrs. Owenson, slow, sedate, and serene under her fiery lord's wrath, as under all sublunary things. " What shall I do ? " Bertie thought, biting his lip and get- ting himself hurriedly into all the purple and fine linen the law H4 "ALLAN- A- DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD" allows his soveieign sex. " Dolly will raise the devil ! Yes, by Jove, she will, and Ben Ward hang him ! will cut in and have everything his own way. The mill owning cad wants to marry her, and will if only to spite me. And if Sydney insists on going over to Star Island in the afternoon, as she will be sure to do, with the confounded contrariness of her kind by Jove, what an infernal muddle ! Ten to one if Dolly sees me there, with all those girls, she will make a scene on the spot. But I won't go to Star Island no, by George ! wild horses won't drag me to the that beastly little twopenny-ha'-penny island !" But what should he do ? At half-past twelve precisely Dolly would be awaiting him, and to wait for any human being sat as illy upon the imperious little actress as though she had been Grand Duchess of Gerolstein in her own right. He had kept her waiting last night, and with this added she would never for- give him never. She would go off in dire wrath, and breath- ing vengeance, with that clod-hopping mill-man, Ward, and the odds were he would lose her forever. To lose Dolly De Courcy was to Mr. Vaughan's mind, this morning, about the bitterest earthly loss that could befall him. As far as a thoroughly weak, thoroughly selfish, thoroughly shallow man can love any one, he loved this black-eyed, loud-voiced, sharp-tongued, plump, dashing, daring, sparkling actress. She sang the most auda- cious songs, danced the most audacious dances, played the French Spy and Mazeppa, and set all the men in the house crowing and clapping over her most audacious double entendres and the air of innocence with which she said them. Three weeks ago he had lost his head on the first night indeed on which he had seen her at the little Wyckclifife theatre, in the dashing role of Jack Sheppard. For the matter of that a dozen other young men had lost their heads on the same auspicious occasion, but among them all the blue-eyed, fair-haired, aristo- cratic-looking young English gentleman proved conquering hero. Pretty, plump Dolly had a romantic, if rather fickle fancy, and he captivated it. Any one exactly like him, with his slow trainante voice, his soft, languid laugh, his gentle, obsequious manner, the provincial actress had never met before, and all the rich young mill -men had been nowhere in the race. They might sneer at " Miss Vaughan's" pretty white hands, curling Hyperion locks, soft little mustache like the callow down upon a gosling's back, his lavender and lemon kids, his scented and embroidered handkerchiefs. Miss De Courcy liked all these elegant and patrician things, because she wasn't used to them. "ALLAN-A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD." 115 He was a gentleman pure and simple, born and bred, and thai is what they were not ; plebeian, uneducated, and ignorant to the core herself, Dolly had an intense admiration of these things in him. In point of fact, Bertie Vaughan was " a thing of beauty and a joy forever" in her eyes, and she would rather have married him, to use her own forcible, if not too delicate expression, " without a shirt to his back," than Ben Ward, or Sam Hecker, or any mill-millionnaire of them all "hung with diamonds." She took his bouquets, and his costlier presents, and smiled upon him, and loved him, and was passionatelj jealous of every look, or word, or smile given to the humbles! and homeliest of her sisterhood. This Bertie knew. How, then, would it be when she found him breaking his promise, staying away from her picnic to attend another, and play cavalier ser- vante to his cousin ! " There will be the very dickens to pay," groaned poor Ber- tie, " and sooner or later the whole thing will blow up and reach the governor's ears, and then " A cold thrill ran through him, he could not pursue the hor rible subject " I'll write her a note and send it with Murphy," he thought, after a moment's profound cogitation. " It's the best I can do the only thing I can do. Confound the governor ! It's the first time since I've known him such a frisky idea as this evei came into his head, and to think of his pitching upon this day of all days ! Hang it all ! " Mr. Vaughan completed his toilet, in a greatly perturbed state of mind, "hanging" and "confounding" things and people generally, and occasionally using even stronger anathe- mas. His necktie was tied at last to his satisfaction, and seiz- ing pen and paper he dashed off this note to the lady of his heart : "DEAREST DOLLY :I can't go to the picnic don't expect me to-day. Got to stay on duty at home. I'm awfully sorry, but 1 can't get out of it. Now don't fire up, there's a dear girl. You know there is nowhere in the world I would as soon be as by your side ; but ' there is a destiny that shapes our ends, rough ' as some fellow says ' hew them how we will.' I'll be with you to-morrow after rehearsal, and tell you all about it. And, meantime, I am yours yours only, BERTIE. " P.S. Don't flirt with Ward or Hecker, that's a deai girl, B. Mr. Vaughan hastily folded and sealed this eloquent epistle, Il6 " ALLAN-A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD" and went off in search of " Murphy." Murphy was a small boy of twelve, and errand-runner in general to the household. An understanding strongly cemented by dimes and quarters had been established between him and " Masther Bertie ; " and Murphy alone, perhaps of the whole family, knew how his young master was running after the actress. It still wanted ten minutes of the appointed hour, and without loss of time Murphy ,\vas hunted up. " I say, Murphy ! " called Vaughan, softly, whistling him aside, " I want you." " Vis, sur." " I want you to deliver this note before twelve o'clock," said Bertie, slipping the note and the customary fee into the young- ster's grimy hand. Murphy's grin broadened. He could not read, and it was the first time he had ever been called upon as letter-carrier ; but he understood perfectly. "I will, sur. It's to them ye know, sur, isn't it?" cried Murphy, shutting one eye and cocking up the other. " It's to Miss De Courcy, and must be delivered before twelve. You will wait for an answer; and mind, Murphy, not a word to a living soul." " Not a sowl, sur, livin' or dead ! I'll be there an' back in a pig's whisper, sur. Long life to ye, Mishter Bertie !" " Hi ! there you, Murphy. 'Old the 'osses' 'eads, will yer ? " cried out Perkins, the cockney coachman. " Beg parding, Mr. Bertie, didn't see you, sir, but the hoff 'oss is a bit restive and fresh this morning. I say, Murphy ! look alive, will yer. 'Ere's the squire." Murphy held the frisky off-wheeler, and Mr. Perkins mounted to his seat. Squire Owenson, leaning on Sydney's strong young arm, appeared, Mrs. Owenson following. Bertie sprang forward to assist him in ; then Mrs. Owenson, then Sydney ; then with one parting glance of intelligence at Murphy, sprang after. Perkins cracked his whip and away they went at a rattling pace down the avenue. The gloom of Bertie's untoward remark still hung over the horizon of the squire. His Jove-like front lowered portentously. Bertie saw it and fidgetted rather uneasily, essayed small re- marks, and looked in the intervals out of the window. But Sydney, radiant of face and toilet, set herself assiduously to restore sunshine and harmony. She talked nonsense and laughed at it, made small jokes and laughed at them, and the "ALLAN A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD" 117 laughter was infectious if the humor was not. By the time they reached the Sunderlands', general geniality had been restored ; the squire smiled, and peace reigned. A lively welcome awaited them. Two tall daughters and two taller sons blessed this household all were rejoiced to see Sydney and Bertie ; and in the midst of laughter, and talk, and good fellowship, young Vaughan's last trace of uneasiness van- ished like mist before the sun. He was one of those people to whom it is a sheer physical impossibility to be unhappy long ' who shake off all thought of evil to come, and will eat, drink, and be merry to-day, come death and doom to-morrow. The young men smoked cigars, and compared notes of their doings for the past year the girls played the piano, and did likewise. Sydney's approaching marriage was discussed in all its bearings, and the Misses Sunderland were invited to make two of the five bridesmaids to officate upon the occasion. Bertie's good looks and Chesterfieldian manners were rapturously praised. Sydney's improved prettiness eloquently commented on. Then the privy council became general. They played croquet, they played billiards, and did both with such gay laughtei and tumult that they penetrated even to the, drawing-room, where the elders sedately sat, raising a smile to their sober faces. Star Island was proposed as a matter of course, but Bertie Vaughan protested against it. They were very well off as they were he always believed it was a good maxim to let well enough alone. So the idea was given up, and that difficulty tided over. " Let us take a walk on the beach, then," said Sydney, who loved the sea ; " it is an hour now till dinner time, and the water does look so calm and lovely." They all went down Sydney and the Messrs. Sunderland leading the way, Bertie and the Misses Sunderland. following. It was lovely ; the soft salt waves came lapping to their very feet, a faint breeze rippled the steely surface of the Atlantic, boats floated over it like birds, and Star Island lay like a green gem in its blue bosom. The elder Mr. Sunderland had brought a telescope, by the aid of which the revellers could be seen making merry afar off. "They're the theatre people from Wyckcliffe," Mr. Sunder- land said, ad/usting the glass for Miss Owenson, "and a lot of young fellows of the town. That's Dolly De Courcy's scarlet shawl, for a ducat, and that's her black plume. It reminds one Il8 ALLAN-A-DALE IS NO BARON OR LORD" of the man in the poem Dolly's ostrich feather is sure to be in the thickest of the fun. " And 'mid the thickest carnage blazed The helmet of Navarre." "Who's Dolly De Courcy?" asked Sydney; and Bertie Vaughan's guilty heart gave a jump, and then stood still. " Oh ! a pretty black-eyed actress from New York. Very jolly little girl eh, Vaughan? You know," laughed Mr. Sun- derland the elder. In an instant how Bertie did curse his fatal complexion in his heart the red tide of guilt had mounted to his eyes. Both the Sunderlands laughed, a malicious laugh. Sydney looked surprised, and the younger Miss Sunderland, who was only six- teen and didn't know much, said : " Law ! look how Bertie's blushing." " I I know Miss De Courcy that is, slightly," said Bertie, feeling that everybody was looking at him, and that he was ex- pected to say something. At which answer the two Mr. Sun- derlands laughed more than ever, and only stopped short at a warning look from Miss Sunderland the elder, and a wondering one from Sydney. " See ! they're going home ; they're putting off in two boats," cried Miss Susie Sunderland, holding her hand over one eye, and squinting through the glass with the other. " Oh, I can see them just as plain ! one, two, three, four, oh ! a dozen of them. There's the red shawl, and black feather, too, and there's Ben ! yes, it is, Ben Ward, Mamie, helping her in. They've they've sat down, and oh ! goodness, he's put his arm around her waist ; he, he, he !" giggled Miss Susie. " Perhaps you would like to look, Mamie ?" said the wicked elder brother, taking the glass from Susie and presenting it with much politeness to his elder sister, whose turn it had been to redden at Susie's words. For the perfidious Benjamin Ward, Esquire, had been " paying attention " to Miss Mamie Sunder- land, very markedly indeed, before that wicked little fisher of men, Dolly De Courcy, had come along to demoralize him. " No, thank you," Miss Sunderland responded, her eyes slightly flashing, her tone slightly acidulated ; " the goings on of a crowd of actors and actresses don't interest me. Mr Vaughan, just see those pretty sea-anemones ; please get me some." ALLAN-A-DALE 75 NO BARON OR LORD." 119 Mr. Vaughan goes for the sea-anemones with her, and Miss Mamie becomes absorbed in them, suspiciously absorbed, in- deed, but all the same she covertly watches that coming boat, with bitterness of heart. Alarm is mingled with Mr. Vaughan's bitterness, and as the boat draws nearer and nearer, he rather nervously proposes that they shall go back ; the wind is blowing chilly ; Miss Mamie may take cold. " I never take cold," Miss Mamie answers, shortly ; " I pre- fer staying here." So they stay, and the boat draws nearer and nearer. Syd- ney, with an interest she cannot define, watches it through the glass adjusted upon Harry Sunderland's shoulder. They have a glass, too ; the gentleman who sits beside the scarlet shawl and black feather fixes it for his companion, and she gazes steadfastly at the shore. Still they draw nearer and nearer. Does Ben Ward do it (he is steering) with malice prepense? They come within five yards. No need of glasses now. Dolly De Courcy is sitting very close beside Ben Ward, laughing and flirting, and she looks straight at Bertie Vaughan, who takes off his hat, and never sees him. Mr. Ward elevates his chapeau politely to the Misses Sunderland, which salutation Miss Mamie, with freezing dignity, returns. " Pretty Dolly gave you the cut direct, Vaughan," says the elder Sunderland, enjoying hugely his discomfiture. Harry Sunderland is a manly fellow himself, and has a thorough-going contempt for insipid dandy Bertie ; " or else she has suddenly grown short-sighted." But Bertie is on guard now, and his face tells nothing as Syd- ney wonderingly looks at it. For she has recognized the hand- some, dark girl in the scarlet shawl as the same she encountered walking late last evening with somebody that looked so suspici- ously like Bertie. The water party float away in the distance, Miss De Courcy singing one of her high, sweet stage songs as they go. As it dies out into the sunset distance they turn as by one accord, and go back to the house ; two of the group thoroughly out of sorts with themselves and all the world. Sydney, too, was rather silent. What did all this mean ? she wondered. Most obedient to hei father, she was most willing to marry Bertie Vaughan to please him, without much love on either side. Yet that he cared for her as much as she did for him, was as loyal to her as she was to him, she had never for a second doubted. 120 "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER." But now, a vague, undefinable feeling of wounded pride and distrust has arisen within her. What was *hat actress with the black, bold eyes to him that he should redden and pale at the very sound of her name ? " It surely was Bertie I saw walking with her last night," she thought, more and more perturbed. " I will ask him ; he shall tell me the truth, and that before this time to-morrow ! " CHAPTER XIV. " MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER." |INNER awaits them. It wants but three minutes to the hour as they straggle in, and Captain Owenson sits, watch in hand, stormy weather threatening in his eyes. The signs of the tempest clear away as they enter, and all sit down to the festal board. And still through all the cheery talk and laughter Bertie Vaughan and Mamie Sunclerland re- main silent and distrait, victims to the green-eyed monster in his most virulent form, the image of Dolly De Courcy, in her scarlet shawl and sable plume, upsetting the disgestion of both. " And I really think, my love," says Mrs. Owenson, when they arise from the table, " that we ought not to linger. These fall nights are cold, and you know the doctors all warn you against exposing yourself to cold." There is wisdom in the speech ; and though on principle Captain Owenson contradicts pretty much everything Mrs. Owenson may see fit to say, he cannot contradict this. So adieus are made, and the Owenson party enter their carnage and are driven home. It is a perfect autumnal evening blue, frosty, starlit, clear. The wind sighing fitfully through moaning pine woods, the surf thundering dully on the shore below, ring dreamily in Sydney's ears all the way. She leans forward out of the window, some- thing in the solemn murmurous beauty of the night filling her heart with a thrill akin to pain ; and still that dark and dashing actress occupies her thoughts and the more she thinks, the more convinced she is, that last night Bertie was her companion. If so, he has told her a deliberate lie, and the girl's heart con- tracts with a sudden sharp spasm of almost physical pain and "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER." 121 terror. If he has been false here, will he be true in anything? All her life Sydney has been taught to look upon lying with horror and repulsion. " It is the meanest and most sneaking of all cowardice," her blunt and fearless old father had said to her a hundred times ; 'don't ever lie, Sydney, if you die for it." " It is the most heinous and despicable of all sins," her ghostly directors had taught the child, in later years. "No goodness can dwell in an untruthful soul." And now was Bertie false ? Bertie, whom she was to marry and spend all her life with. " I ^ill ask him," she kept repeating ; " his tongue may speak falsely, but his face, his eyes, will tell the truth. And if there is anything between this girl and him " she stopped and caught her breath for a moment " then I will never, never be his wife." She looked at him wistfully, but, lying back in his corner, his hands clasped behind his golden head, his face was not to be seen. " How silent you young people are," the squire said, at last , "anything wrong with you, puss? A penny for your thoughts, Bertie." There was a momentary brightening, but too forced to last. Bertie Vaughan's thoughts would have been worth much more than a penny to his questioner they were solely and absorb- edly of Dolly. He must see her to-night ; impossible to wait until to-morrow. Ben Ward had been at her side all day pouring nis seductive flatteries into her ears, offering, very likely, to make her mistress of the new red-brick mansion over in Wyck- cliffe. And women are unstable, and gold, and offers of wed- ding rings, have their charm. He had nothing to offer her but his handsome blue eyes and Raphael face ; he had never even mentioned wedding rings in all his love-making. Yes, come what might, he must see the coquettish Dolly before he slept. It was half-past ten when they reached The Place, and the moon was beginning to silver the black trees around ii The squire was growling uneasily about the cold, and it was & relief to all when they drew up on the front steps, and Bertie and Perkins gave each an arm to the stiff and chill old sailor, and helped him to his room. " Are you going out again, Bertie ? " Sydney asked, looking at him in surprise as he replaced his hat, and turned to leave the house. 122 "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER." 11 For my usual nocturnal prowl and smoke. Couldn't sleep without it, I assure you. Run away to bed, sis, and good-night." He left the house and made straight for the town at a swing- ing pace. It was almost eleven now if he could only reach the theatre in time to see Dolly leave. He was in time. Moonlight and lamplight flooded the little square in front of the play-house, and standing himself in the shadow, Bertie saw the lady of his love come forth in the famous red shawl and black feather, leaning confidingly on the arm of Ben Ward. She wa,s in the highest of wild high spirits, too, her clear laugh and loud voice mingling with the deeper tones of his rival. " Awfully late to-night, ain't I ? " he heard her gayly say ; " I expect you're about tired to death waiting, Ben." " As if all time would be too long to wait for you, Dolly," responded, gallantly and affectionately, Mr. Ben ; and the lis- tener gnashed his teeth as he listened. It had come to this then it was Ben and Dolly : and who was to tell him it was not to be Ben and Dolly all their lives. He followed in their wake, keeping out of sight among the shadows. Keenly sensitive to ridicule, Bertie would not for worlds be seen in the ludicrous role of jealous lover by Ward. They sauntered very slowly, peals of laughter telling how they were enjoying their tete-a-tete. They reached Dolly's cottage- home and paused at the gate. In the shadow of some trees across the moonlit road Vaughan hid and glowered. Mr. Ward seemed disposed to prolong the dialogue even here, but Miss De Courcy, with a loud yawn which she made no pretence to hide, declared she was " dead beat," and must go to bed right away. " So good-night, Ben," cried the actress, opening the gate and holding out her other hand ; " and thanks, ever so much, for the flowers, and the ear-rings, once more." " But not good-night like this, Dolly," exclaimed Mr. Ward, drawing her nearer, and stooping his head ; " not good-night with a cold shake hands, surely?" But the gate had opened and shut smartly, and Dolly, on the other side, had eluded the embrace. " Not if I know it ! There's only one man in the whole uni- verse I ever mean to kiss, and he isn't you, Mr. Benjamin Ward, I can tell you ! Good-night." " Is it Bertie Vaughan, then, I wonder ? Pretty Miss VaugUu 'The Fair One With The Gqldqn Locks' we fellows "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER. n 123 call him, who cut you to day to court his cousin ? If it's that milk-sop, Dolly, I'm surprised at your taste ; upon my word and honor, I am." "It's no business of yours, Mr. Ward, who it is," cries out Dolly, her black eyes snapping in the moonlight ; "it isn't you, anyhow, be sure of that. And if you think your ear-rings are thrown away, I'll give 'em back to you. It shall never be said that Dolly De Courcy took any man's presents under false pre- tences." " Oh ! d the ear-rings ? " said Mr. Ward. " I never thought of them, and you know it. But, seriously, Doll, I think heaps of you ; never saw a girl in all my life 1 liked so well ; and I'll marry you any day you like so there ! Can I say fairer than that ? It's no use your thinking of Miss Vaughan ; it isn't, Dolly, upon my soul. He's booked for his cousin she isn't his cousin, by-the-by and has been, ever since he left off petticoats. He hasn't got a red but what the old man will give him ; and the wedding is fixed to come off in a month. He's spoony on you, I know, Dolly, but he can't marry you, because he hasn't a rap to live on. Now think over all this, and make up your mind to be Mrs. Ben Ward, because you'll never get a better offer, no, by George ! while your name's Dolly." " Have you got anything more to say ? " demanded Miss De Courcy, standing "at gaze," and with anything but a melt- ing expression, as Mr. Ward poured forth his tender wooing. "Well, I guess not at present. What do you say, Dolly ?" " I say good-night, for the last time, and go home and go to bed ! " snapped Dolly De Courcy, marching with a majestic Lady Macbeth sort of stride to her own front door. " All right," retorted the imperturbable Ben. " Good-night, Dolly." But Dolly was gone, and Mr. Ward laughed a little laugh to himself, struck a match, pulled out a stumpy, black meer- schaum, lit it, and went on his homeward way. " It's only a question of time," he said aloud, glancing up at the one lighted window of the cottage ; " she's a bewitching little devil, and I'm bound to make her Mrs. W. She's soft on 'The Fair One,' at present, but she'll get over that He must marry little Miss Sydney, and then Doll will have me, if only for spite. ' As he strode away, out from the dark shadows of the pines- stalked Bertie, pallid and ferocious with jealousy. It was pre- 'isely like one of Miss De Courcy*s own situations on the stage. 124 "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER." " Will she have you if only for spite ? " repeated Mr. Vaughan between his teeth in most approved style ; "and she's soft oil me at present, is she ! Confounded cad ! I wonder I didn't come out and knock him down there and then." Seeing that sinewy Ben Ward could have taken Bertie by the waist-band, and laid him low in the kennel any moment he liked, perhaps after all it was not to be wondered at. He opened the garden gate, flung a handful of loose gravel up at the lighted panes, and waited. There was a momentary pause ; then the curtains moved about an inch aside, and in a tone of suppressed fury a voice demanded : "Is that you, Ben Ward ? " " No, Dolly it's I Bertie." Like a flash the muslin curtain was swept away, and Dolly's eager face, eager and glad, in spite of all her efforts, appeared. " You, Mr. Vaughan ! and at this time of night ! May I ask what this insult means?" " Oh, nonsense, Dolly ! You're not on the stage now. Come down there's a darling girl I've something to say to you." "Mr. Vaughan, it is almost twelve o'clock midnight ! And you ask me to come down ! What do you think I am ? " " The dearest girl in creation. Come, Dolly, what's the use of that rubbish ?" Miss De Courcy, without more ado, drops the curtain, goes deliberately down stairs, unlocks the door, and stands in the moonlight before her lover. " My darling ! " He makes an eager step forward, but with chilling dignity Miss De Courcy waves him off. "That will do, Mr. Vaughan! I know what you're 'my darlings' are worth. If I told you my opinion of you this moment, you would hardly feel flattered. I hope you enjoyed yourself with your charming cousin to day." The withering scorn of this speech could only have been done by an actress. Miss Dolly, in a fine stage attitude, stood and looked down upon Mr. Vaughan. " No, Dolly, I didn't enjoy myself. Was it likely, with you on Star Island with Ben Ward ? I had to go. I tried to get out of it tried my best and failed. 1 can't afford to offend my uncle that is the truth and at the bare mention of my having an engagement he flew into a passion ; and you ought to see the passions he can fly into. No, I did not enjoy myselfj but I had to go." "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER" 125 " Oh-h ! " said Miss De Courcy, coldly. " I always thought you were a grown man, not a little boy, to be ordered about and made do as you are bid. Since you are so afraid of this awful Captain Owenson, then, and so dependent upon him, of course the moment he tells you to marry his heiress you'll buy a white tie and go and do it. Have you anything more to say to me, Mr. Vaughan ? because even an actress may have a repu- tation to lose if seen standing here with you after midnight." She turned as if to go then lingered. For he stood silent leaning against a tree, and something in his face and attitude touched her. " Have you anything more to say ? " she repeated, holding the door. " No, Dolly, since you take that tone nothing. What you say is tme it is pitiful in a fellow of twenty-one to be ordered about like a lad of twelve, and I ought to have held out and braved the old man's displeasure and gone with you. I have nothing to say in my own defence, and I have no right to do anything that will compromise you in the eyes of Ben Ward. He's rich and I'm poor, and I suppose you'll marry him, Dolly. I have no right to say anything, but it's rather hard." He broke off. The next instant impulsive Dolly was down the steps and by his side, her whole heart (and it was as honest and true a heart as ever beat in its way) in her dark shining eyes. " No right ! " she cried out. " Oh, Bertie ! if you care for me, you have every right ! " " If I care for you ! " the blue eyes look eloquently into the black ones ; " do you doubt that too ? " " No ! " exclaimed Dolly, doubt, anger, jealousy, all swept away in her love for this man. " You do like me, Bertie ! Oh, I know that ! You do like me better than her ? " " Than her ? Than whom ? " " Oh ! you know I've no patience to talk about her, your cousin, the heiress, Miss Owenson. She's sweetly pretty, too but, Bertie, do say it ; tell me the real truth, you do like me better than her ? " He bends down his handsome face, and whispers his answer an answer that brings the swift blood into the dusk cheeks of the actress, and a wonderful light into the glittering black eyes. " But what is the use of it all ? " she breaks out, with an im- patient sigh. " You are afraid of her father. You are depen- 126 "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER." dent on him. You will not dare offend him, and you wiL marry her." " No, by Jove ! " exclaims Bertie. " I'll marry nobody but you, Dolly that I swear. If I lost you, if you married Ward, I'd blow my brains out. I couldn't live without you, I don't know how I come to be so awfully fond of you, but I couldn't. And I wish you wouldn't take things from Ward ; ear-rings, or flowers even, or from any of them. You belong to me, and I don't like it." " Very well, Bertie," assents Dolly, with a long-drawn, happy breath, "I won't. I don't care for them or their presents, but I was mad to see you there on the shore ; and then Ben Ward told me all about your going to marry Miss Owenson, and the wedding things coming from Paris, and the wedding to be next month, until he had me half insane. It has been the most miserable evening in my life." " Indeed ! No one would have thought so to hear you and Ward laugh." " If I hadn't laughed I would have cried, and actresses can act off the stage as well as on. Oh, Bertie ! don't deceive me about this. I love you so well that " her voice actually fal- tered, tears actually rose to her hard black eyes. " I won't, Dolly, I swear it ! And you you're very exact- ing with me, but how am I to know how many lovers you have behind in New York ? how am I to know you are not en- gaged even to some fellow there ? " It was a random shot, but it struck home. In the moonlight he saw her start suddenly and turn pale. " Ha ! " he said, " it is true, then ? You are engaged ? " " Bertie," she faltered, " I don't care for a single man on all the earth but you ! You believe that ? " " But you are engaged in New York ?" "Ye-e-s that is, I was. But I'll write and break it off I will to-morrow morning. Bertie, don't look like that. I never really cared for him, he was too fiery and tyrannical." " What is his name ? " Vaughan gloomily asked. "What does it matter about his name? I'll never see bin again if I can help it. I'll write and end it all to-morrow. Come, Bertie, don't look so cross ; after all, it only makes ua even." " Yes, it only makes us even," he repeated, rather bitterly ; " even in duplicity and dishonor. I'm a villain and a fool too, I dare say, in this business, but I'll see it to the end for all that.' "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER." 12? " A villain and a fool for caring for me, no doubt, ' the ac- tress retorts, angrily. " Yes, Doll ; but I do care for you, you see, and I have never refused myself anything I cared for, and don't mean to begin now. So I shall marry you how or when I don't quite know yet, but I mean to marry you, and you only." She nestles close to him, and there is silence. The pale blue moonlight, the whispering wind, the rustling trees, nothing else to see or hear. " Why didn't you tell me all this sooner?" the girl asks at length. " Why did you leave it to Ben Ward ? Even last night you deceived me making me think she was a little ugly school-girl." "Why didn't you teVl me about the man in New York? Why hadn't you told him about me ? It won't do for you and me to throw stones at each other we have both been living in glass houses. Let us cry quits, Dolly, and bury the hatchet. You know all now. You believe I love you, and mean to marry you, and not Miss Owenson, and that, I take it, is the mairi point." " But, Bertie, this can't go on long. She expects you to rnarry her next month." "Her father does she doesn't. She would very much rather not marry me at all. And next month isn't this. Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof." Unconsciously to himself Bertie Vaughan was a profound fatalist, letting his life drift on, a firm believer in the " Some- thing-will-turn-up" doctrine. " You see," he went on, " the governor's life hangs on a thread on a hair. At any moment it may end. His will is made, and I am handsomely remembered in it. He may die suddenly before the wedding-day in which case a comfortable competence will be mine for life. The moment he finds out this he will destroy that will, turn me out, and disinherit me. Have I not reason enough for silence? Just let things drift on, Dolly it will do no harm ; and if, on the eve of the wedding- day, he is still alive, then I will throw up the sponge to fate, run away with you, turn actor or crossing-sweeper, and live happy ever after. There is the programme." He paused. Dolly De Dourcy stood silent, her keen black eyes fixed thoughtfully upon him. How selfish, how craven, how utterly without heart, generosity, honor, gratitude, this man she loved was ! this man who looked like a young Apollo here 128 "MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER." in the moon rays. False to the core, how could she expect him to be true to her? Unstable as water, would not the love of wealth prove the stronger love in the end ? Might he not play her false, and marry Captain Owenson's fair young heiress after all ? " No ! " Dolly cried, inwardly ; " that he shall not ! I have his letters I will go to Owenson Place, and show them to this haughty Englishman and his daughter first. He shall never j play fast and loose with me." " And now, darling, I must be off," Vaughan said, looking at his watch. " Ye gods ! half-past one. Farewell, Dolly ; remember ! no more flirtations with Ward. Give him his ear- ringsand his conge to-morrow." " I'll keep the ear-rings, but I'll give him his conge" replied prudent Dolly. " Good-night, Bertie. Be as false as you like to all the rest of the worle but be true to me." " Loyal je serai durant ma vie ! " laughs Bertie Vaughan, and then he is through the little garden gate and away. Dolly stands and watches the slender figure of her lover out of sight, then turns. " Faithful unto death," she says to herself. " Yes, you will be that to me, for I shall make you." The clocks of Wyckclifife were striking two as Vaughan came in sight of his home. To his surprise a light burned in Cap- tain Owenson's chamber, and figures flitted to and fro. He stopped ; a sudden thought shall it be said, hope ! sending the blood to his face. Was the squire sick, was he dead ? The rest of the house was unlighted. Perhaps his absence had not been discovered. He softly inserted his latch-key and opened the door. All was darkness. He closed it and stepped in. As he did so a light appeared on the upper landing, and some one lightly and swiftly began descending the stairs. " Perkins, is that you ?" the soft voice of Sydney asked. There was no reply. She descended two or three more stairs lamp in hand, wrapped in a white dressing-gown, her yel- low hair streaming over her shoulders and came face to face with Bertie Vaughan. " TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER '. 129 CHAPTER XV. "TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER." |HERE was an instant's pause both stood and looked each other full in the eyes. Then Sydney spoke. " You, Bertie ? " she said, in slow wonder. " I, sis," he answered, lightly. " I have been to Wychcliffe. The engagement I had to break this morning I kept to-night. But what is the matter ? Your father " " Has been taken suddenly ill a sort of ague. He must have got thoroughly chilled on our way home. Oh ! I wish we had not gone at all. Perkins is away for Dr. Howard. Ah I here he is now." The doctor entered with the coachman, and went straight to his patient's room. Sydney and Bertie waited outside, both silent, both pale and anxious, though from very different causes. If the old man died, the young man thought, with his will un- altered, his course lay straight before him. He would marry Dolly out of hand, and go off with her to New York. There would be a nine days' scandal Sydney would despise him he winced at the thought but otherwise she would not care. And in two or three years some lucky fellow would win her heart and become master of Owenson Place. A pang of jealousy and envy shot through him as he thought it. He was prepared to resign both himself, but all the same, the idea of that other who would profit by his folly was unbearable to him. Presently the chamber door opened and Doctor Howard came out, looking jolly and at ease. Sydney sprang up and ran toward him. "It's all right, my dear, it's all right," the old doctor said, patting the cold little hands she held out to him ; " papa won't leave us yet awhile. He thinks he will, but, bless you, we know better. If he keeps quiet, he's good for a dozen years yet. 'Now, just run in and kiss him good-night, and then away to bed. Those pretty eyes are too bright to be dimmed by late hours. Ah, Mr. Bertie, good-morning to you, sir." Sydney shot off like an arrow, and Bertie went slowly, and with a disgusted feeling, to bed. " Good for a dozen years yet ! " Oh, no doubt, no doubt at all. It is in the nature of rich fathers, and uncles, and guardians to hang to the attenuated 6* 13 " TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER." thread of life, Avhen they and everybody connected with there would be much more comfortable if they went quietly to their graves. " No fear of his going toes up before the wedding-day," thought Mr. Vaughan, bitterly. " He'll tough it out, as old Howard says, to dandle his grandsons, I've no doubt. And then there's nothing left for me but the ' all-for-love and the world-well-lost ' sort of thing. By Jove, Dolly will have to work for me as well as for herself when I make her Mrs. Vaughan ." Next day, by noon, Squire Owenson was able to descend to luncheon. A letter from Montreal, in a stiff, wiry hand, lay beside his plate. It was from Miss Phillis Dormer, and con- tained a gracious assent to the visit of her niece, Cyrilla. That same evening brought a note from Cyrilla herself to Syd- ney : p ETITE ST. JACQUES, Nov. 8th. " DEAREST SYD : It is all arranged. Aunt Phil cheerfully consents, and has actually (who says the days of miracles are past ?) sent me ten pounds to buy my bridesmaid's dress. Three days from this I will be with you on unlimited leave of absence. In haste (class-bell is ringing), but, as ever, devotedly yours, CYRILLA." Two days before, Sydney would have danced with delight, but now she read this note, her color rising, a look of undefined trouble on her face. Everything seemed settled her trous- seau had come, the very bridal veil and wreath were up-stairs. Cyrilla was coming to be bridesmaid, and Bertie had never spoken one word. She glanced across the table they were at dinner to where he sat trifling with a chicken-wing and tasting, with epicurean relish, his glass of Sillery. Was she worth so little, then, that she was not even worth the asking ? Less vanity a pretty girl could hardly have than Sydney, but a sharp, morti- fied pang of wounded feeling went through her now as she looked at him cool, careless, unconcerned. " Papa forces me upon him, and he ta.kes me because he cannot well help himself." she thought. " He is in love with that dark-eyed actress, and he will marry rne and be miserable all his life. Oh ! if papa had only let us alone, and never at- tempted this match-making ! " TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER." 13! ""Bad news, puss?" her father asked. "You look forlorn. What's the matter, little one ? Let me see the letter." She hesitated a moment then passed it over td him reluc- tantly, and the squire, adjusting his double eye-glass, read it sonorously aloud. Sydney's eyes never left the plate, her cheeks tingled ; Bertie sat, an indifferent auditor, his whole at- tention absorbed by his champagne. Squire Owenson laid down the letter and looked at his daughter through his glasses. "Well, petite, that's all right, isn't it? She'll be here in three days two more ; and you and Bertie shall meet her at the station. What' s that troubled look for, then ? You're fond of this young lady, are you not ? " Yes, papa, very fond. Dear old Cy ! " "Then what is it? It isn't that you're afraid she'll make love to Bertie hey ? and are jealous beforehand ?" But Sydney had finished her dessert, and jumped up abruptly and ran away. It was little short of maddening to see Bertie sit there, that languid smile of his just dawning, and feel all the cool, self-assured, almost insolent indifference with which he took her without the asking. The two days passed. Bertie spent a great deal of his time away from The Place, doing home duty at stated intervals, when it was impossible to shirk it without arousing the quick suspicions of the "governor." He drove Sydney and her mother along the country roads together, he rode out twice with Sydney alone, but that conversation had not taken place ; the explanation Miss Owenson meant to have she had not had as yet. It was one thing to resolve to ask Bertie whether or no he was in love with the actress, to tax him indirectly with falsehood, and another thing to do it. Bertie Vaughan, her old comrade and playfellow, was a man "a gentleman growed," as Pegotty says, and every instinct of her womanhood shrank from broaching the subject. It was for him to speak, for her to refuse or accept, as she saw fit. He never did speak never came within miles of the subject, avoided it, ignored it utterly, as the girl could hardly fail to see. And so the day and the hour of Cyrilla's arrival came, and matters matrimonial were in statu quo. It was a gloomy November afternoon, " ending on snaw,' sky and atmosphere sfeel gray alike, a wild, long blast rattled the trees and sent the dead leaves in whirls before it. A few feathery flakes were drifting through the sullen air, giving 132 TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEI T ER. promise of the first snow-storm of the season before mio night. The train came thundering into the lighted station as Sydney and Bertie took their places. Sydney in a velvet jacket, a velvet cap, crowned with an ostrich feather, on her bright, wind-blown hair, and in a state of eager expectation. For Mr. Vaughan, he had not deigned to take much interest in the new comer from the first ; judging, from Sydney's talk, he was predisposed to dislike her indeed, as a young person inclined to " chaff." People inclined to chaff, Bertie had found, from experience, generally chaffed him, and, like most weak men, he was acutely sensitive to ridicule. The train stopped ; the passengers for Wychcliffe, half a dozen in number, came out. Among them a tall young lady, in a travelling suit of dark green serge, at sight of whom Sydney uttered a joyous cry and plunged forward straightway into her arms. " Oh, of course," says Bertie cynically, eying the pair, " they must gush. A quarter of an hour of kissing and exclam- ation points, as though they had not seen each other for a cen- tury or so ! She's not bad looking either got eyes like Dolly." She might have eyes like Dolly, but there all resemblance ended. Miss Hendrick's tall, pliant figure bore no similarity to Miss De Courcy's "rounded and ripe." Miss Hendrick's patrician profile, and clear cut, colorless, olive face, was as unlike, as can well be conceived, Dolly's little saucy retrousse nose and highly-colored complexion. " Cyrilla, this is Bertie ; Mr. Vaughan, Miss Hendrick." Bertie flung away his cigar, doffed his hat, and bent before Miss Hendrick with his best bow. Miss Hendrick looked at him looked through him with those lustrous ebon eyes of hers, smiled, showed very brilliant teeth, and frankly extended one invisible-green kidded hand. " I don't feel at all as though I were meeting a stranger in meeting you, Mr. Vaughan. 1 have been your most intimate friend for the past two years haven't I, Sydney ? " " Miss Hendrick's friendship does me proud," says Bertie. He would like to utter some very telling and sarcastic compli- ment ; he has an instinctive longing to "take her down" at sight, but the truth is, he can think of none. Her pronounced manner has taken him decidedly aback. He had expected to meet a school-girl, more or less gauche and bread-and-buttery, TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. 133 and instead he saw a regal-looking young lady, with the "stilly tranquil " manner and gracious civility of a grande dame. The aggressive feeling he had felt, before he saw her, deepened ten- fold, He had intended to be very civil crushingly civil in deed to Sydney's little school friend ; to patronize her in the most oppressive manner, to get up a mild flirtation with her even, if she had any pretensions to good looks ; and behold, here she was absolutely patronizing him, and looking him through, to the very marrow of his bones, with those piercing, steadfast black eyes like in color, but wonderfully unlike in every other respect, Dolly's. " I expect you two to become fast friends at once ! " cries Syd- ney. " You know all about each other beforehand, and are compatriots besides." " ' None know me but to love me, None name me but to praise,' " says Bertie, helping them in. " I have heard Miss Hendrick's praises sung so assiduously for the past week, that " " The very sound of her name bores you yes, I understand," interrupts Cyrilla. "Syd, what a bewitching little turn-out, and what handsome steppers! You will let me drive you, won't you? I'm a capital whip." " I'll let you do anything you please. Oh! darling, how good it seems to have you with me again ! " Sydney said, cuddling close to Cyrilla's side. " How are they all in Petite St. Jacques ? How is Freddy ? " " I have not seen Freddy since the night I risked a broken neck and a shattered reputation getting out of the window to meet him. I managed to answer his letter, and there thing" remain. For the rest Miss Jones has left the school." " What ! ' " Perfectly true. It was suddenly discovered that she had a passion for novel-reading (Mile. Stephanie's pet abomination), and was a subscriber to the town circulating library that one of the French girls was in the habit of smuggling in the forbidden fruit, and having all her lessons done by Miss Jones in return. The crime was proven beyond refutation and Miss Jones sud- denly and quietly left the school." " Oh h ! " a very prolonged "oh," indeed "Mile. Stephanie dismissed her ?" " So I presume. The fact remains she went." 134 TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. "Cyrilla," Sydney said, a look of pain on her face, " did did you do this ?" "And what if I did, Syd ? There was little love left be- tween us from the first, and it pleased Heaven to diminish it on further acquaintance. Yes indirectly it was through me that Ma'amselle Stephanie made the discovery, I must own." There was silence ; unconsciously, involuntarily, Sydney shrunk a little from her friend. " Well, Syd, did I do wrong ? Were you so fond of Miss Jones that you put on that shocked face ? " " Fond of her ? no," Sydney answered, slowly ; " but I am sorry you did this. Poor Miss Jones ! life had gone hard with her, I am afraid, and soured her. She stood quite alone in the world, and it was all the home she had." " My dearest Syd," Miss Hendrick said, laughing, " if you carry that tender heart of yours through life you'll find it bleed- ing at every turn. I owed Miss Jones a long debt, and I have paid it that is all." "And she will pay you if ever she has the chance, you may be sure of that, Cyrilla." " I am sure of it, Sydney. But it is not my intention to let her have the chance. She does not know Aunt Phil's address, and most likely never will. People who have to work for the bread they eat have no time for vendetta. Why do we talk'of eo contemptible a subject at all ? Let us talk of yourself, chere belle. So that is our Bertie. He is as handsome as Narcis- sus." " And, like Narcissus, knows it only too well." There was a touch, all unconscious, of bitterness in Sydney's answer that did not escape the quick ear of her friend. " Everything is settled, I suppose, and the happy day fixed ? When is it to be, darling, this month or next ? " "The happy day is not fixed," Sydney answered, trying to speak lightly, and feeling the color burning in her cheeks ; " not this month, certainly. Next very likely, if at all." " My dear child," Cyrilla cried, really startled, " ' if at all ! ' What an odd thing to say ! " " Is it ? But who knows what may happen ? Who can tell what a day may bring forth, much less a month ? I have the strongest prophetic conviction there will be no wedding at all." She spoke almost without volition of her own something within her seemed to say the words. In the tragic time that TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. 135 was to come, that was even then at hand, she recalled that involuntary sentence with strange, sombre wonder. For Cyrilla she sat and looked at her, rendered utterly speechless for a moment by this unexpected declaration. " Don't stare so, Cy," Sydney laughed, recovering her custo- mary good humor. " It's very rude. Why, I may be dead and buried in a month ! " " Very true or Bertie ! " " Or Bertie." " Or one of you may prove false." " Or one of us may prove false ; " but as Sydney repeated the answer the color slowly died out of her face. "Sydney !" Cyrilla exclaimed, "it isn't possible no, it isn't, that you have gone and fallen in love since you left school ? " Sydney's clear laugh rang out so merrily that no other answer was needed, and Bertie turning around, demanded to know the joke. " Nothing concerning you, Bertie only something very witty Miss Hendrick has said by accident. Here we are. Cy wel- come to my home, which I hope you will make yours very, very often." Miss Hendrick was received with profoundest deference by Captain Owenson, with a smiling kiss by Aunt Char, and shown to the pretty room prepared for her the prettiest by far that she had ever occupied ; and here Sydney left her, to change her own dress before dinner. Cyrilla sat down for a moment in the low easy-chair in front of the fire, burning cheerily in the steel grate, and slowly and thoughtfully removed her wraps. " So," she thought, " that's the way the land lies already. Master Bertie has placed his pretty face and impecunious hand at another shrine, and Sydney has found it out. He doesn't like me. I could see that. We are antagonistic at sight. All your weak men are fickle and foolish. I wonder who his inamo- rata can be ? " ' Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, One foot on sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, But let them go n " Cyrilla hummed softly as she dressed. She wore the before mentioned garnet merino, the gold and ruby set, a jet comb in her black hair, a cluster of scarlet geranium blossoms ami velvet 136 TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. green leaf over one ear. And so, with the air of a grand- duchess in her own right, Miss Hendrick swept down to the drawing-room. " Thoroughbred," was Captain Owenson's inward critique ; "a Bohemian by accident, a lady by birth and breeding to the core. Ah ! they may say what they like in this new land, but blood will tell." He gave his handsome guest his arm to the dining-room, with stately Sir Charles Grandison courtesy. Bertie followed after with Aunt Char, and Sydney came in the rear. " 1 say, Bertie, can't you get up anything to amuse the girls this first evening?" the captain inquired. "There's a theatre of some sort over in the town they tell me. Is it eligible ? " "All the best people of WychclifTe attend, sir." " Ha ! do they ? And what is the piece to-night ? Anything worth going to see ?" " The ' School for Scandal ' and the ' Loan of a Lover,' " answered Mr. Bertie Vaughan. " Ambitious at least capital things both. And the actors, my boy very fourth or fifth class, no doubt, as befits strolling players ? " " A few of them, sir ; a few also are very good indeed," an- swered Vaughan, rather resentfully. " Then what do you say, young ladies ? What do you say, mamma ? Shall Bertie take you to see the ' School for Scandal' ? " " I should like it of all things, papa," responded Sydney. " And so should I, I am sure," said Aunt Char. " There's nothing I used to be so fond of when I was a girl as going to the theatre." " And you, Miss Hendrick ? " inquired the deferential host. " I shall be charmed, Captain Ovvenson ; I delight in the theatre." " Then that is settled. There will be no trouble about seats, or anything of that sort, Bertie ? " " I am not so sure of that, sir. It is a benefit to-night, you see, and the season closes to-morrow. The beneficiary is a prime favorite, and the house is likely to be crowded." " Who is the beneficiary ? " asked Sydney, flashing a sudden intent look into his face. That fatal trick of blushing ! Up came the blood of con scious guilt into the ingenuous face of Mr. Vaughan. TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. 13? " Miss De Courcy you saw her the other night, you re member. She plays Lady Teazle." " What's the boy blushing about ? " cried the captain. " Miss De what did you say, Bertie ? " " De Courcy, sir a nom de theatre, no doubt," answered Bertie, his natural complexion back once more. As he made the reply he looked involuntarily across at Miss Hendrick to find that young lady's dark searching eyes fixed full upon him a look of amusement in their depths. " She should be a tolerable actress to undertake Lady Teazle," Cyrilla said, suavely. "I know of no more difficult part." " She is a good actress ^ charming actress," retorted Ber- tie, a certain defiance in his tone. u I have seen many, but never one much better." " Isn't she rather wasting her sweetness on desert air, then ?" suggested the captain. "Jt seems a pity such transcendant talent should be thrown away on mill-men. Suppose you all start early and so make sure of good seats." There was a universal uprising, a universal alacrity in hasten- ing away to prepare. Squire Owenson's proposal met the views of all capitally. Bertie, who had looked forward to a long, dragging, dull evening listening to Sydney and her friend playing the piano or gossiping about the school, brightened up wonderfully. Sydney had an intense curiosity to see again the actress whose very name could bring hot guilty blushes to Bertie's boyish face, and Cyrilla was desirous of beholding Syd ney's rival. So a hasty toilet was made, and the three ladies piled into the carriage, with Bertie, submerged in drapery, between them, and were driven away through a whirling snow- storm to the Wychcliffe theatre. Half an hour later, and as the last bars of the "Agnes Sore? Quadrille," with which the provincial orchestra was delighting the audience, died away, there entered a group that at once aroused the interest of the house. A flutter of surprise and admiration ran along the benches a hundred pair of eyes 'turned to stare with right good will. The theatre was filled, as Vaughan had foretold pretty, piquant Dolly was so great a favorite that they were giving her a bumper house. All eyes, and a few glasses, turned upon these late comers, who swept up to the third row of seats, taking the play house in splendid style. Bertie Vaughan came first, with a young lady on his arm IjS TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. not Miss Owenson a tall, dark, stately young lady, wearing an opera wrap, a jet comb, and scarlet-geranium blossoms in her hair. Miss Owenson came next, with her mamma, looking fair as a lily, her light flowing hair falling loose and unadorned. A few significant looks, a few significant smiles, were inter- changed. It would be rather good fun to see the actress Vaughan was in love with, and the heiress he was to marry face to face. The broad, universal stare sent the color fluttering tremu- lously in and out of Sydney's childlike face. Miss Hendrick bo. 5 it all with the profoundly unconscious air of a three- seasons' belle, hardened by long custom to open admiration. A little bell tinkled as they took their places, the curtain went up, and the " School for Scandal " began. Cyrilla, lying gracefully back in her chair, slowly fluttering her fan, smiled with barely-repressed disdain as she watched that first scene. Ah ! she had seen that most bewitching of comedies played three years ago, in London, in a theatre where all were good, and a few were nearly perfect. To Sydney it was simply entrancing. It was almost her first visit to a play, and she was neither prepared nor inclined to make invidious dis- tinctions. So absorbed did she become that she almost forgot her prin- cipal object in coming, until at last Lady Teazle appeared on the stage. A tumult of applause greeted her ; and Dolly, look- ing charmingly in the piquant costume of old Sir Peter's youthful wife, bowed, and dimpled, and smiled her thanks. " Ah ! pretty, decidedly ! " was Miss Hendrick' s thought. She glanced at Bertie Vaughan. Yes, the tell-tale face had lit up, the blue eyes were alight, a smile of eager welcome was on his lips, his kidded hands were applauding tumultuously. She glanced at Sydney. A sort of pallor had chased away the flush of absorption ; a sort of gravity her friends had never seen there before, set her soft-cut, childish mouth. " Poor little Syd !" Cyrilla thought ; "it is rather hard your father should insist upon making you miserable for life whether or no. You don't love this handsome dandy, but he will break your heart all the same. I would like to see the actress, were she beautiful as Venus herself, that Fred Carew would throw me over for ! " The play went on. Dolly did her best, and received ap- plause enough, noisy and hearty, to satisfy a Rachel or a Ristori. x The smile, a smile of quiet amusement, deepened on TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. 139 Miss Hendrick's lips a smile that nettled Bertie Vaughan. The great screen-scene came, and at Miss De Courcy's pose, and the acting that followed, Cyrilla absolutely laughed aloud. " You seem well amused, Miss Hendrick," Bertie said, ag- gressively, an angry light in his blue eyes. " I am well amused, Mr. Vaughan. I may safely say this performance is a treat. I may also safely say, I never saw a comedy so thoroughly comical before. "You don't like it, Cy?" asked Sydney. "Of course, after the London theatres, it must seem very poor. What do you think of of Miss De Courcy ? " " Miss De Courcy is the most original Lady Teazle I ever beheld in my life," Cyrilla replied, still laughing. "Mr. Vaughan, I thought you said they had some tolerable perform- ers in this company ? What has become of them to-night ? " " Miss Hendrick is pleased to be fastidious. For my part, I think Miss De Courcy plays remarkably well, and gives promise of becoming in the future a very first-class artiste. Try to re- collect this is not the Prince of Wales' Theatre." " I am not likely to forget it," laughed Cyrilla, with wicked enjoyment of the young man's evident chargin. " And you really think, Mr. Vaughan, that Miss De Courcy plays well, and gives promise of becoming a popular actress?" " Do not you, Miss Hendrick ?" " Most decidedly most emphatically not. If she lives for fifty years, and spends every one of them on the stage, she will not be a whit better at the end than she is now. She does not possess the first elements of a good actress. Personally, she is too short, too stout, too florid, too may I say it ? vulgar. Mentally she has not an ounce of brains in her head, she does not know the A B C of her art. But I see I bore you, I had better stop." " By no means," cried Bertie, defiantly. " Go on." " Well, then, did you not see how flat the screen-scene fell ? that is the best situation in the play she made nothing of it. And she is making eyes at the house all the while a fatal mis- take. An actress should be the character she represents, and utterly ignore her audience. And she minces in her walk ; she talks English with a Yankee accent ; she is coarse in voice and manner ; she hasn't the faintest conception of a lady. A tol- erable "singing chambermaid," with training, she might make : a tolerable comedienne, never 1" " A strident sentence. But it is so much easier always to criticise than to do better." 140 TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. " I beg your pardon, I could do very much better," re sponded Cyrilla, coolly. " I lived among theatrical people all my life before I came to Canada, and was pretty thoroughly drilled in the rudiments of the profession. Once I looked for- ward to treading the boards myself before my aunt changed all that. If I were in Miss De Courcy's place to-night, I assure you I would play Lady Teazle much better. Don't look so disgusted, Mr. Vaughan, it is perfectly true." Again she laughed, more and more amused at Bertie's irri- tated face. The curtain had fallen, and Ben Ward had left his seat and gone out. Bertie knew what that meant a quiet flirtation with Dolly behind the scenes. He fidgeted uneasily, galled by Cyrilla' s contemptuous criticism, yet unable to resent it, jealous of Ward, and longing desperately to break away and rush behind the scenes also. The two girls were discussing the play ; Cyrilla in an undertone burlesquing Miss De Courcy for Sydney's benefit. That was the straw too much ; he arose. " If you'll excuse me, Sydney," he said, pointedly ignoring Sydney's friend, " I'll leave you for a moment. There's a er man down at the door I wish to speak to." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out, with his usual negligent saunter. Two minutes more, and he made his appearance in the green room, in time to behold his rival presenting Miss De Courcy with a very handsome bouquet. "Ah, Vaughan!" Ward said, with a cool nod, "how are you? Dencedly pretty girls those you escort to night. Who's the dark one ? " " No one you know, Mr. Ward, or are likely to know," retorted Bertie, turning his back upon him. " Dolly, you're in capital form this evening, never saw you look or play better in my life." "It's a pity you can't make one of the young ladies you have with you think so," cried Dolly, her eyes arlame. " Do you suppose I don't see her laughing at me at us all since she came in ? Such sneering fine ladies as that ought to stay at home not come here to laugh at their betters." "Gently, Dolly gently," put in Ward, maliciously; "you'll hurt Vaughan' s feelings. One of those two is the girl he is to marry this month or next. It wasn't she who was laughing at you, was it ? Admiring you as Vaughan does, I should think he would have taught her better." " It was the girl in the white opera cloak and red dress," said wrathful Dolly ; " she sat and sneered every time I opened my lips /could see her. You had better go back to them Mr. TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. 141 Vaughan," cried Dolly, with a toss of Lady Teazle's tall head- dress. " You're only wasting your time here." " I think I am, by " exclaimed Vaughan, with a furious oath. "I've wasted too much of it already. You're a fool, Dolly, and you'll live to repent it ! " He dashed out, his blue eyes lurid with jealous rage. " Bertie," Dolly called, faintly ; but if he heard he never looked back. He strode straight out, straight into the theatre, and resumed his seat beside his affianced. " By jingo !" exclaimed Mr. Ward, his shrill whistle of as- tonishment cutting the air; "who'd have thought there was so much fire in a milk-sop ! Let me congratulate you, Dolly, on your pluck in getting rid of him." " Keep your congratulations," retorted Miss De Courcy, the fine furious temper she naturally possessed all afire, " and let me get rid of you. Keep your flowers, too I don't want them. 1 wish I had never seen them or you ! " She flung them at his feet. " Go on, Dolly," said somebody, hurriedly ; " stage is wait- ing," and Dolly went on. Went on, white as ashes where rouge was not, playing worse than ever, half maddened by the sight of Bertie Vaughan laughing and chatting with his two fair friends. For Mr. Ward, he had calmly picked up his disdained bouquet, and sauntered back to his place in front. " I'll throw it to her at the end," thought this mill owning young philosopher ; " and she'll take it too. I know what Dolly's tantrums amount to. ' All things are possible to the man who knows how to wait.' " The end came, the bouquet was thrown and accepted. Ber- tie saw her pick it up, press it to her lips, and bow and smile to the donor, unmoved. She was coarse (so had set in the current of this most unstable gentleman's thoughts) ; she was a poor actress ; he wondered how he could ever have been so blind as to think her otherwise. If he married her he would be ashamed of her all his life long. He was the sort of man to make a mad marriage, and be ashamed of his wife all the rest of his days, and revenge his folly on her head. She was uneducated she was vulgar she had horrible relatives, no doubt she had nothing in the world to recommend her but two bold black eyes and a highly-colored complexion. Was the game worth the candle ? Was this actress worth the sacrifice of honor, wealth and caste all that had ever made his life ? And if what Miss Hendrick said were true that she did not 142 TO ONE THING CONSTANT NEVER. possess the first elements of theatrical success \vhat then? As her husband he would be a beggar a miserable, seedy, shabby beggar. To marry an actress in receipt of three or four hundred dollars a week would be a sacrifice for a man of his appearance, prospects and standing to marry an actress earn- ing a wretched pittance of ten or twenty dollars a week only good Heaven ! a shudder ran through him ; what an escape he had had ! He detested Miss Hendrick, but he felt abso- lutely grateful to her for opening his eyes. What an idiot what an utter drivelling idiot he had been ! Let Ward take her greater fool, Ward he was rich, and could indulge in folly it he chose. For himself, he would keep his honor intact, he would marry Sydney, and become master of Owenson Place, and the captain's noble bank stock. He looked across at her, her cheeks flushed with excitement and warmth, her eyes spar- kling, her fair hair falling to her waist. How pretty, how sweet, how refined the was. Hers was the sort of beauty years would but improve at thirty she would be a radiantly beautiful woman. What a contrast to Dolly De Courcy poor Dolly ! singing, dancing, coquetting before the footlights in her peasant garb in the " Loan of a Lover," casting imploring, penitent glances at him, doing her best to attract his notice. He put up his glass and surveyed her, a feeling akin to repulsion within him. He did not know it, but it was the turning-point of his life, his last chance of earthly salvation. It all ended. They called Dolly out, and she came, curtsey- ing, and with that stereotyped smile on her lips, her imploring eyes still bent on Bertie. But he would not see her, he was tenderly and solicitously wrapping Miss Owenson' s blue scarf about her shoulders, preparatory to going out. Through the white, whirling night they drove home. Two or three inches of snow already covered the ground. Winter had come before its time. And Bertie in a corner " pondered in 1m heart and was still." " I'll see Dolly once more, and make an end of it all," he mused. " I would be the most contemptible cad that ever lived if I disappointed the governor after all he has done for me. To jilt an heiress like Sydney for a penniless, common- place actress like Dolly would be sheer madness a girl with lovers in New York and Wychcliffe, and the deuce knows where besides. And I would tire of her in a month. She's as jealous and exacting as the very dickens. Yes, by Jove 1 I'll throw over the. actress and marry the heiress ! " JUS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." 143 CHAPTER XVI. HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." 1YDNEY sat very silent and thoughtful during the homeward drive, lying back in her cozy coiner, and watching the white, whirling night outside. All un- conscious of Bertie's good resolutions, her thoughts were running in an entirely opposite groove. If anything had been wanting to open her eyes to the true state of Mr. Vaughan's affections, to-night at the theatre had opened them. She had seen him look at Miss De Courcy as he had certainly never looked at her. She understood the secret of his brief absence as well as he did himself; there no longer remained a doubt in her mind. He cared nothing for her, and he did care a very great deal for this dashing actress. "Then I shall never marry him," Sydney thought "nevei never ! This is why he has not spoken why he is so offer absent, why he stays out so late nights. He is running aftei Miss De Courcy. Oh ! why cannot he be brave, and speak out, and tell me the truth ? I don't want to marry him, I don't want to marry anybody, and he must know it. Papa would not be so very angry, and he might forgive him perhaps." But here Sydney stopped. Papa would be most tremen- dously angry ; papa would never forgive him to the day of his death. She could never dare tell papa the truth ; if the mar- riage was broken off, it must be through her own unwillingness to keep to the compact, not his, else Bertie was ruined for life. " I will speak to papa this very night, if I get a chance. I couldn't marry Bertie oh, never ! never ! knowing he cared for another more than me ; that all the time he was standing by my side in the church he was wishing another girl in my place. No, I couldn't, not even to please papa. 1 don't care for Bertie now, but if I were married to him, it might be different ; and to grow fond of him, and feel sure he cared nothing for me no, I could not bear that ! " The pretty, gentle face looked strangely troubled, as Bertie helped her out, and she ran up the steps and into the hall. How wintry and wild the night had grown the trees standing up ink-black in the whirling whiteness. Captain Owenson had sat up for the return of his narem. A 144 "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD \ bright fire and a comfortable supper awaited them. Mrs Ovvenson, Cyrilla, and Bertie partook of cold chicken and champagne, with appetites whetted by the keen wind, but Doll) De Courcy had completely taken away Sydney's. Her father was the only one who noticed it her father, whose doting eyes n ?ver left her face for long. "Well, little one," he said, "what is it? Has Lady Teazle been supper enough for you ? You eat nothing." It was altogether the most random of shots, but it went straight home. Sydney started guiltily, and seized her knife and fork ; Bertie set down his glass untasted ; Miss Hendrick, delicately carving a wing, smiled in malicious triumph. " I do most sincerely hope this supercilious dandy will lose Sydney," she thought, " even at the eleventh hour. A dandy one could forgive Freddy is that, bless him ! but a fool, never ! " " How did you find this famous actress, of whom Bertie speaks so highly?" pursued the captain, whose evil genius evi- dently sat at his elbow prompting him. " Is she the star he makes her out, or was the ' School for Scandal ' a disappoint- ment?" There was a pause. As a matter of course, Mr. Vaughan reddened violently. The question being addressed generally, no one felt called upon to answer, and it was Aunt Char who came to the rescue. " I am sure I think it was very nice," that good lady said, "and Lady Teazle played remarkably well. I don't think it's a very moral play myself, because it was, of course, shock- ing of that wicked Mr. Joseph Surface to make love to a mar- ried lady. But really I could not help laughing when the screen fell, and there she was before her husband and the two Mr. Surfaces. One had to feel for her, too, she looked so ashamed of herself. I saw you laughing, Miss Hendrick you thought that particularly good, I am sure." " Particularly good, Mrs. Owenson," replied Cyrilla, that malicious smile deepening in her dark, derisive eyes ; " so good that I laugh now in recollecting it. I think we all admire Miss De Courcy excessively not so much as Mr. Vaughan, per- haps, who is an old friend, but very much indeed for a first acquaintance." Bertie lifted his eyes, and looked across at her with a glance uf absolute hatred. . " Malicious little devil ! " he thought, " I would like to choke, her." "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." 145 "Well, puss, and what do you say?" continued Sydney's fu'l er. " 1 think Miss De Courcy is very pretty and very popular ; but of actors and actresses I am no judge. Mamma, did you see Harry Sunderland with Augusta Van Twiller ? I wonder if ti;i-\ really are engaged?" Then the talk drifted to the Sunderlands, and Bertie was safe again. He drew a deep breath ; his eyes had not been opened a second too soon. He was suspected even by Sydney. For this obnoxious Miss Hendrick, her keen black eyes saw every- thii g ; she was his enemy, and would do him harm if she could. "But that she shall not," he thought, as he said good-night. " I'll prove an alibi to Sydney, though I should have to swear black is white." He went to his room, and his example was followed by Cyrilla and Aunt Char. For Sydney, she lingered yet a little longer, seated on a hassock at her father's side, her yellow head lying on his knee, her blue dreamy eyes fixed on the fire. For a n.oment or two he watched the thoughtful, childish face in silence ; then his hand fell lightly on the flaxen hair. "What is it, petite?" he asked so tender the harsh old voice was ! " What troubles my little one ? For you are in tn.uble I can see that." 'I he way was opening of itself, and Sydney felt relieved. She had" been thinking anxiously how to begin. " Trouble, papa" she answered, taking the hand fondly in both her own. " No, not trouble ; that is too strong a word. Tiouble has never com near me yet." "And pray Heaven it never may. What is it, then ? " "Well, papa, I am what is the word? worried. Just the least bit in the world worried." " About what ? " he asked, quickly. " Not Bertie ? " "Yes, papa, Bertie and this marriage. Don't be angiy, papa, please ; but if you wouldn't mind, 1 would rather not." " A somewhat incoherent speech ! Rather not what ? " " Rather not be married, please. I don't seem to care about being married, papa." Papa laughed. "1 am so young only a little girl after all, you know; and a married lady ought to be wise and sensible and old." " Old ? One's ideas of age differ. What may seem a ripe age in your eyes, Pussy?" 7 146 "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." "Twenty-one or two that is a good age to be man led, if one must be married at all. But I don't see why one must, especially when one doesn't seem to care about it. I would rather stay home with you and mamma just as I am." " Mamma and I intend you shall stay home with us just as you are." " Oh, but it will be different. I mean as we are at present. Bertie and I like brother and sister, not man and wife. Put off this marriage, papa say for three years to come. What differ- ence can it make ? and I will be twenty then, and beginning to grow old and wise. I should prefer it oh, so much ; and 1 am sure Bertie would too." "Bertie would too!" Her father sat suddenly upright. "Has he told you so, Sydney ? " " Oh, dear, no ! " Sydney answered, laughing ; " he is much too polite. You need not put on your court-martial face, Cap- tain Owenson ; Bertie hasn't said the least word about it one way or other." " One way or other ! Do you mean, Sydney, he hasn't spoken to you at all since your return ? " " Was it necessary ? " Sydney said, trying to speak lightly, but not succeeding in keeping down the flush that arose over her face. " You saved us all that trouble." " Sydney ! " Captain Owenson cried, in a voice that made Sydney jump, " there is something more here than I know of. You were willing enough all along, willing enough when you came home a fortnight ago. What does this talk of breaking off mean now, at the last moment ? What have you discovered about Bertie Vaughan ?" " Nothing, papa," Sydney came near gasping in her alarm ; but even in this extreme moment she checked herself. It would not be true, and the simple, white, absolute truth came ever from Sydney Owenson's lips. "You were willing enough a week ago," her father repeated. " What have you discovered about Bertie now ? " " I was willing enough because I had not thought the matter .over," Sydney answered, her voice tremulous. " Papa, I I don't care for Bertie in that way." " In what way ? Falling in love, do you mean ? Oh, if that be all pooh ! A very good thing for you too ; the love that will come after marriage will be all the safer to last. Are you sure, quite sure, there is no other reason than this?" " I think it is reason enough," retorted Sydney, a trifle indig- "ffIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." 147 nantly. " I ma}- be romantic if you like, but I should like to to love the man I am going to marry." Captain Owenson lay back and laughed, the thunder-cloud quite gone. For a moment he had been startled (boys will be boys, you know), but alter all it was only a school-girl's senti mental nonsense. He patted the fair flax-head as he might a child's. "And this is all ! Well, I'm very glad. I am afraid you have been reading romances in the Chateauroy Pensionnat. Love, indeed ! Well, why not ? he's a tall and proper fellow enough, a young gentleman of the period, with all the modern improvements ; parts his hair in the middle, wears a nice little moustache, and an eye glass, lemon kids, and a cane. He can sing, he can waltz, can dress with the taste of a Beau Brummell, and has a profile as straight as a Greek's. Now, what more can any young woman of the present day desire in a husband ? What is to hinder your loving him to distraction if you wish, since that is a sine qua non ? It ought not to be difficult." " No, I daresay not," Sydney thought, her eyes filling sud denly. " Miss De Courcy finds it easy enough, very likely. Oh ! how cruel papa is ! " " Well, my dear, you don't speak," her father went on, bend- ing down to catch "sight of her face; "are you listening to what I say ? it ought not to be difficult." " Perhaps not, but I don't, and that is all." " What ! cheeks flushed, eyes full, and voice trembling. Syd- ney 1 what is this ? Is the thought of marrying Bertie Vaughan so hateful to you ? Have you let things go on only to throw him over at the eleventh hour ? Is this only a girl's caprice, or is there some reason at the bottom of it all? Speak, and tell me the truth. If he is unworthy of you I would sooner see )ou dead than his wife. But if he is, by ," a tremendous quarter-deck oath, "he shall repent it !" There it was. If she told the truth she would ruin Bertie's life forever if she did not tell it she ruined her own. Tell, she could not, no matter what the cost to herself. " Oh, papa, how cross you are ! " she said, in a petulant voice, that she knew would bring him down from his heroics ; " and I wi>h you wouldn't swear. It's ill bred, besides being wicked." " 1 beg your pardon, Sydney," he said, suddenly; "so it is. I beg your pardon, my dear. I beg His ! " lie lifted his smoking-cap reverently, then sank back in his chair. 148 "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." " Dearest, best old papa ! " Sydney cried, touched with con trition, jumping up and flinging her arms around his neck. " 1 am a wretch for worrying you with my silly fidgets. You're a gentleman and a sailor that you are, every inch. After all, what's the odds ? Lord Dundreary says, one woman's as good as another, if not better I don't see why the same rule shouldn't apply to men. If I must marry somebody, whether or no, then I may as well marry Bertie since it will please you. I know him, anyhow, that is one comfort. Cecilia Leonard eloped from school with a young lawyer of the town two weeks after she was first introduced to him, and she told me when she came back that she was three months married before she was properly acquainted with her husband. Now I am acquainted with Bertie, and won't have the trouble of cultivating him when I'm his wife." " And he isn't a bad sort of young fellow, as young fellows go," her father added, thoughtfully ; " not any more brains than the law allows your sharp little head has found that out for itself, I suppose, my dear. He never would make his way in the world alone ; but dropping into my shoes, he'll make you a good husband, I think, my dear a kind one, a faithful one, and a very excellent country squire. As you say, we know him, and I like the lad. He has been brought up to consider you his wife, and The Place his home for life, and it would not be quite the thing to throw him over now. He has no profes- sion, and it is a little late in the day to learn one ; besides, he isn't clever, and I don't believe could earn his salt if he were a lawyer or a doctor to-morrow. And he is fond of you, little one don't get any foolish sentimental notions into your head to the contrary ; and, for pity's sake, Sydney, don't be an exacting wife, don't expect too much from your husband. He doesn't speak to you, perhaps, because he takes it all for granted. Very likely he takes to much for granted, but that is easily set aright." " Papa ! " Sydney cried out in alarm, at his smile and tone, "you won't speak to him about this ! You won't tell him to to speak to me ? Oh ! I should die of shame." "Foolish child! As if I would ever cheapen my darling's value, or make her blush. Trust me, Sydney. For the rest, when I am gone, if you were not Vaughan's wife, you might fall a victim to some subtle-tongued fortune-hunter ; for you know you will be very rich, my dear, and your poor mother has no more worldly wisdom than a babe. Bertie is not a brilliant "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD ." 149 match not at all the sort of man I would have had him but he is ours, and we like him. I think he will make you a tender husband, and the fortune-hunters, by-and-by, will have no chance. Believe me. it is better as it is." " Yes, I suppose so," Sydney sighs, hopelessly fate seems closing around her, and it is of no use to struggle. " Forgive me for troubling you, papa ; I won't do it again." " There is only one tiling in the world that can trouble me very greatly," her father answers, " and that is to see my little girl un- hap, ))'. Are the doubts all gone, and will you take Bertie, or " " I will do whatever you think best, papa," is her answer, and then he holds her for a moment in silence. " Heaven bless my good girl ! " he says, softly. " Now go to bed ; it is close upon one o'clock." Sydney goes, a glow at her heart. After all, just doing one's duty and simply obeying brings its own reward. She is quite happy as she kneels by the bedside to whisper her innocent prayers. It must be all right, since she is sacrificing her own will to please her father since she is pleasing her father on earth, shemust be pleasing her Father in heaven. For Bertie, she will be to him a wife so devoted, she will give him a heart so tender and true, that she will surely make him happy, surely wean him from all passing fancies for other women. And so, with a smile on her l lips, she falls asleep like a little child. But Captain Owenson lies awake long that night, thinking. One result of his cogitations he gives them at breakfast next morning. Sydney shall welcome her friend with a party, and introduce her to the best Wychcliffe society. The stately old sailor has all an Arab's notion of hospitality. He likes quiet, but he is ready to throw his house out of the windows any day to please the guest who breaks his bread. "Not a large gathering, you know?" he says; "just an off- hand affair say Thursday next. You and mamma can make out your list this morning and have them delivered before night. That will give four days to prepare quite enough in this primi- tive neighborhood, I should say." " Papa, I do think you hare the most beautiful inspiration !" cries Sydney, with a radiant face. " How did you know Cyrilla and 1 were pining for a party ? " She goes to work delightedly the moment breakfast is ovtr. "Come and help me, Bertie," she calls, brightly; and when Bertie comes makes place for him, with a depth of shining wel- come in her eyes he likes, but does not at all understand. ISO "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD.' 1 * He never will understand her : her nature is as far above hii as the sunlit sky above the snow-whitened earth out-doors. She thinks, as he sits beside her: " He is the one man of all men I am ever to care for. I want oh, I do want to make him happy." The invitations are all written and all dispatched. Then she and Miss Hendrick go off and hold a pow-wow on the subject of feathers and wampum of their dresses and adorning, that is to say. Aunt Char descends to consult with Katy, the cook ; and Captain Owenson waylays Bertie, his hat on his head, his cloak over his shoulders, his stick in his hand. "The morning's fine, Bertie," he says. "I'll take your arm for a turn on the piazza." So they go ; Bertie with much greater alacrity than he would have shown yesterday. He has shaken off Dolly's gyves of steel, or so he thinks, and is about to slip on his wrists those of Sydney. He is the son-in-law of Owenson Place, and is prepared to be- have as such. The ground is white with snow, beginning to melt and run in little rivulets in the heat of the noon sun. They walk slowly up and down, talking of many things, and it is apropos of noth- ing and rather suddenly that the elder man at last looks in the younger man's face and asks : " Bertie, Sydney's been home over a week. Have you and she settled upon your wedding-day ? " Bertie starts, colors, as usual, and shrinks from meeting those keen, steely eyes. " Really," he laughs, " I don't believe we have. I didn't like to hurry her, but I I must ask her this week." " Because," pursues the Captain, setting his lips, " she has grown tired of the engagement and wants to break it off." "Wants to" Bertie paused aghast "wants to break it off! Sydney ! " The idea is so absolutely new that he cannot for a moment take it in. He may rlirt, may play fast and loose with his fetters, may contemplate even running away with somebody else, but for Sydney to want to break with him Sydney ! No, he gives it up ; he cannot realize it. " She spoke to me last night," goes on her father ; " urged me in the strongest terms to make an end of the proposed marriage. She's not in love with you, it seems, and has some girlish notions of the desirability of that emotion in connection with the mai ried state. Of course, I could never think of forcing her in- "HIS HONOR ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." 151 clination," pursues this artful old seaman, carelessly ; "and it is never too late to draw back before the ring is absolutely on. She would prefer it she even appeared to hint that she thought you would prefer it too." "She is mistaken," cries Bertie, thoroughly startled, thor- oughly alarmed ; " greatly mistaken, altogether mistaken. Give up your marrriage ? Good Heaven ! Captain Owenson, you will not listen to such a thing as that ? " It seemed to him like a new revelation now that it was brought before him from the lips of another. Sydney wanting to throw him over his little Sydney ! And then Owenson Place and all his hopes for life ! Bertie Vaughan actually turned pale. "You won't listen to what Sydney says," he pleads ; "she doesn't know her own mind. Not love me ? Well, of course not, she hasn't had a chance ; we have been separated for the last five years. I was so sure it was all right that I didn't pes- ter her with love-making. I was so sure " " Ah, yes ! I daresay, a little too sure, perhaps. It doesn't do to take too much for granted where a woman is in the question, be she seventeen or seven-and-thirty," says the cynical captain. " But it isn't too late yet," goes on Mr. Vaughan, in hot haste. I'll talk to Sydney ; I'll convince her of her mistake. / want to break off the engagement ! By Jove, what could have put so preposterous an idea into her head ! " " Yes, what indeed ! That's for you to find out, my lad. She seemed tolerably convinced of it too." " It's Miss Hendrick's work," exclaimed Bertie, resentfully ; "confouna her ! I beg your pardon, sir," as the captain turned savagely upon him. " I know she's your guest and Sydney's friend, but a serpent on the hearth to you and a false friend to Sydney if she tries to poison her mind against me. Of herself, Sydney would never have thought of so absurd a thing. Miss Hendrick dislikes me, and I must say it I dislike her. She knows it too, and this is her revenge." " Be good enough to leave Miss Hendrick's name out of the question, if you please," say the seigneur of Owenson Place in his most ducal manner. " As you say, she is mj guest, and nothing disparaging shall be spoken of her in my presence." "At least I will go at once and speak to Sydney," says Bertie, excitedly "at once ! It is intolerable to me, that she should remain one moment with so false an idea in her mind," But the captain holds in this impetuous wooer. IS* "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." "Softly, my lad softly," he says, and he laughs in his sleeve at the diplomatic manner in which he has attained his end ; " there's no hurry. Sydney won't run away, and if you speak to her to-day, aye, or to-morrow either, she will suspect I have been speaking to you. Let me see. Suppose you wait until the night of the party, making yourself as agreeable as may be in the meantime. Then broach the subject of the approaching t nuptials, get her to name the day, and convince her of your undying devotion if you can. H'm ! What you say is very true, my lad ; those maples do want thinning out." A significant squeeze of the arm Bertie looks around be- wildered by this sudden change from matrimony to maples, and sees Sydney and Cyrilla approaching. The question of their respective toilettes has been settled ; they are, in hats and jackets, en route to WychclifTe, shopping. May Bertie be their escort ? He looks eagerly at Sydney, and Sydney glances suspiciously at her papa. Surely, papa, after his promise too, has not But no ; papa looks inno- cent and unconscious as some playful lambkin. No, he may not be their escort, Sydney answers ; the subject of shades and textures is altogether too important to be inter- fered with by the talk of a frivolous young man. So he stays, nothing loath, for the truth is, he is mortally afraid of meeting Dolly face to face in the Wychcliffe streets. And then, as that face arises before him, rosy, laughing, charming, a face he must never see or dream of again, he strikes into a path among the maples, with a sort of groan. If he could only care for Sydney as he cares for Dolly little wild *butlaw that she is ! Ben Ward will marry her no doubt one day hang Ben Ward. And the odds are. she will make no end of a row, insist on seeing Sydney it may be, or the captain, telling her story, showing his letters Oh ! gracious powers ! not that ! At any cost she must be kept quiet, and these fatal letters got back. What a hideous scrape he has got himself into ; how is he to get out of it ? One whisper of the truth, and he will be expelled Owen- son Place disgraced and ruined for life. To keep Dolly quiet will be no easy matter, for she is fond of him. not a doubt of that. He groans dismally again as he thinks of it. She will not resign her claim upon him without a struggle. After all, swerving from the straight path of honor and rectitude may be very fine fun for awhile, but it doesn't seem to pay in the end. If he had kept his faith with Sydney intact, what a deuce of a worry it would have saved him now. "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD." 153 He thought until his head ached, but he could think of no way out of his troubles. Then in weary disgust he gave it up, and lit a cigar. It was of no use turning his hair gray think- ing ; something would turn up something always turned up when things were at their worst. He must get out of this mo- rass somehow ; there would be no end of lies to tell, but Mr. Vaughan did not stick at a lie or two in a difficulty. He must appease Dolly in some way get her out of Wychcliffe until the wedding was over. After that he didn't care. Sydney and her fortune would be his. Dolly might say and do what she pleased. Between this and the night of the party he would do the duti- ful to Miss Owenson, avoid the town and the theatre. After that but after that had not come ; time enough to think of it when it did. * * * * * * * Thursday night. Vehicles of all sorts and sizes rattling up under the frosty sky to Captain Owenson's hospitable front door. The house is all alight from basement to attic wonders have been done in four days. A tolerably large company had been invited, the upper skimmings, of course, of country so- ciety ; and a " good time " was confidently looked forward to. For though Captain Owenson did not do this sort of thing often, he did do it when he did do it. ******* "They hav'n't invited you, Dolly, have they? No, I sup- pose they hav'n't. No more have they me. Well, the loss is theirs, let that console us," remarked casually Mr. Benjamin Ward, escorting home Miss Dolly De Courcy that same event- ful night. "Invited me where? I don't know what you're talking about. Who ever invites me anywhere ? " retorted Miss De Courcy. Dolly is looking thin, and her bright bloom of color has faded. Her piquant face has taken an anxious, watchful look of late that longing, waiting look which is one of the most pathetic on earth. Since the night of the " School for Scandal " she has seen nothing of Bertie Vaughan absolutely nothing. " Why, to Miss Owenson's ' small and early,' of course. Hav'n't you heard of it ? All the upper crust of Wychcliffe are bidden to the feast ; you and I, my Dolly, alone left out in the cold." " Miss Owenson 1 " At sound of that dreaded and detested 7* 154 "HIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD* nam: Dolly looks quickly up. "Is Miss Owenson giving a party ? " she asks. " When ? " " To-night. Nothing very extensive, you know. Wine and sweet cake, cards and music, dancing and tea. Miss Sunder- land's going saw her yesterday, and she told me about it. Deuced shabby of them to leave me out; but it's all the doing^ of the ' Fair One with the Golden Locks,' " says Mr. Ward with calm indifference. Dolly says nothing, but Ward hears her breath come quick, The cold, piercing November moonlight falls on her face, and he sees that frown of jealous pain and anger that never used to be there. " It's of no use, Dolly," he says, not unkindly, "of no use waiting for Vaughan any more. He won't come." " Who says he won't ? " Dolly cries, angrily. " What do you know about it ? You only wish he may not. He will come." " He never will. He is going to marry the captain's daugh- ter, he won't marry you. He likes you best maybe it isn't in him to like anybody but his own lovely seit very strongly, but all the same, he won't marry you. You needn't keep that look-out for him, Dolly, that ' light in the window,' any more. He never will come, " asseverates Mr. Ward, a solemn pause between each little word. She does not speak. She sets her teeth hard together, and her hands clench under her shawl. " Give him up, Doll," says the young mill-owner, good na- turedly ; " let him take his heiress and have done with him. He isn't worth one thought from so true-hearted a little woman as you. Give him up and marry me." She looks up at him with haggard eyes, that have a sort of weary wonder in them. ~" Would you marry me, Ben, knowing how how fond I am of him ? " " Oh, that would come all right," responds Ben, with his usual cheerful philosophy. " I'd be good to you, and fond of you, and women are uncommon that way ; married women, I mean ; they always take to a man that is good to 'em. Men don't ; but then husbands and wives are different some- how." Mr. Ward pauses a moment to ruminate on this idea, but it Is too complicated for him and he gives it up. "Say, Dolly, stop thinking of Vaughan, he's a sneak anyhow, and leave the stage and marry me. Marry me trie day he "HTS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR. STOOD." 155 marries Miss Owenson there will be a triumph for you, if you like ! " cries Ben, in a glow of happy inspiration. But her lips set, and her eyes keep their haggard look. " Thank you, Ben," she says, huskily ; you're a good fellow, a great deal too good for me, but I can't do it, I can't give him up. I know he's what you say, only I'd rather you didn't say it. I know I can't trust him, all the same I can't give him up. And he sha'n't marry Miss Owenson. No!" her black eyes blaze up with swift flame, " not if the wedding-day was to-mor- row. Her father's an officer and a gentleman. I'll go to him, I'll go to her, and I'll tell them both what will stop the wedding. Don't look at me like that, Ben I can't help it, I wish I could. And don't trouble yourself to come home with me any more during the few nights I play ; it isn't worth while. You can never get any better than a ' thank you ' and a shake-hands for your pains. " I'll take them then, and see you home all the same," is Ben's answer ; " but I wish you would think again of this." " If I thought till the day I die, it could make no difference. If I can't be Bertie Vaughan's wife and he has promised me I shall it doesn't much matter whether I am ever anybody's at all or not." " That for his promise ! " cries Ward, contemptuously. " Dolly, you're an awful little fool ! " " I know it, Ben," answers Dolly, quite humbly. " I can't help it, though. Don't come any farther, please. I am at home now." " And you'll never marry me never ? You're sure of it ?" " I'll never marry you never. I'm sure of it. Good-night." " Good-night," says Mr. Ward, and he pulls his hat over his eyes and turns and strides home, as if shod with seven-league boots. It is all over, he will never ask her again, but, when months and months after, he asks the same question of Mamie Sunderland and receives a very different answer, that scene is back before him, and the gas-lit drawing-room " curtained and close and warm," wherein they cosily sit, fades for a second away. The chill, steel-blue moonlight, the iron-bound road, the frostily-winking stars, and Doll/s miserable face, as she says "good-night," are before him. All ! well, it would never do for men's wives to know everything. She does not enter the house. A fire, a fever of impatience of jealous, sickening terror has taken hold of her. They have not invited her true ; nevertheless she will be there. 156 "ffIS HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD" She starts rapidly onward, she reaches the high white house, and meets no one on her way. She ascends the portico steps ; all is brilliance within, lights and music stream out. The draw- ing-room windows are open, chilly as is the night, curtains of lace and brocatelle alone separate her from the dancers. No one is near ; she stands motionless, looking in. She sees him almost at first glance he is dancing with the daughter of the house. A fierce spasm of hot pain goes through the little jeal- ous actress's heart. How pretty how pretty she is ! with her fair, feathery hair, her blue, bright eyes, her softly tinged cheeks, her sweet, smiling lips. How prettily she is dressed in palest pink, not a jewel about her, not even a flower in her hair, only a rose ribbon tying all its brightness back. And he but Dolly turns away with a despairing gesture, words are poor to describe him ! Just at the moment the dance ends, and with his partner on his arm, he comes directly toward the window at which she stands. She draws back in terror. There is a great stone urn close by ; she crouches down behind this, very close to where they stand. Are they coming out ? No ; they remain in the shadow of the curtains, and look out at the white, cold loveliness of the night. She sees as soon as she is able to see anything distinctly, for the mist that is before her eyes Bertie wrapping a fleecy white scarf about his com- panion's shoulders, hears (as soon as her startled hearing returns) the tender tones of his voice. She cannot catch his words at first, so lowly and hurriedly he speaks ; but by her drooping face and averted eyes she can guess he is wooing his bride. And she crouches listening here. A more dramatic situation could hardly have been devised for the Wychcliffe Lyceum. Even the accessories are not wanting. She out in the cold under the midnight sky ; they in the rosy light and perfumed warmth, the dancers in the background, and the slow German waltz music over all. She does not catch his words for a while, though she strains her ears to listen. But he raises his voice presently, and she hears : " Care for her. An actress ! Sydney, what folly to think of me. I tell you I care for no one in all the world but you. I hold your promise to be my wife, and by that promise I claim you. You will not retract your plighted word ? " " You know that I will not," she answers ; " but, Bertie, on your honor, would you not rather marry that actress than me?' " You insult me by the question, Sydney. I decline tc answer." ff/S HONOR, ROOTED IN DISHONOR, STOOD.' 1 * 157 "Oh' nonsense, Bertie," Miss Owenson says, half laughing; " don't try heroics. It's a very natural question, I think. Young men don't blush at the sound of a lady's name, noi brighten at the sight of her face for nothing, and I have seen you do both, sir, for Miss De Courcy. Honestly, now, you do like her better than me ? " " Do you insist upon my saying yes, Sydney? I see how it is you wish to break off our engagement, and a poor excuse is better than none. Very well so be it ; it shall never be said I forced your inclinations, no matter how deeply I suffer myself." He folded his arms in a grand attitude, and stood drawn up, looking very tall and slender, and affronted and cross. " Oh, dear ! " sighed Sydney, half laughing, half vexed ; " you will do private theatricals. No, I don't want to break off it would vex papa ; and of course everything is arranged, and there would be a dreadful deal of talk. Besides, I like you Oh, nonsense, Bertie ! " impatiently ; " no tender scenes, if you please. But if I thought you cared for the actress, or were pledged to her in any way, I wouldn't marry you no, not if I died for it ! " " Pledged to her 1 " Bertie repeated, flushing guiltily. " What awful nonsense." " Well, yes, 1 suppose it is nonsense. You wouldn't go that far even There's Harry Sunderland asking for me I must go." " Promise me first that the last Thursday in November will be our wedding-day," he says, barring her way. Harry Sunderland has espied the rose-pink robe, and is mak- ing for it. In desperation she pushes past him and out. " What does it matter ? " she says, impatiently ; " as well one day as another. Whenever you like yes, the last Thurs- day, then. Don't come out just yet I don't want Harry to know I was " "Spooning here with me," says Bertie, laughing. " Yes," says Sydney, with a little look of disgust ; " spooning here with you. Don't appear upon the festive scene for the next ten minutes." She vanishes. Bertie remains, a satisfied, complacent smile on his face, and regards the heavenly bodies. For a momect then "private theatricals" indeed! Sydney ought to b^ here to see them. A dark, crouching figure starts up as if out of the ground, directly in front of him. The streaming lamplight falls full upon an awfully familiar face, and a voice that sends every drop of traitor blood in his body back (o his heart says : " Bertie I " 158 "HE'S SWEETEST FRIEND OR HARDEST FOE." CHAPTER XVI [. "HE'S SWEETEST FRIEND OR HARDEST FOE." |T is Dolly. White, unlike herself, with wild eyes and excited face, but Dolly ! He stands for a moment petrified, utterly petrified by the greatness and sud- denness of the surprise. For the time being carried away by the excitement of his new wooing, he had absolutely forgotten her very existence. And now, like a stage Nemesis, like an avenging spirit, she stands here pale, menacing, terrible. But it is not a stage Nemesis. Dolly is not acting to-night but little of the bitter, jealous wrath and pain that fills her shows in her quivering lips, her dark burning eyes, and the white mis- ery of her face. " Bertie," she says again. For, full of anger and vengeance as she is, something in his face as he stands there and looks at her, frightens her. He has started back, staring as a man who cannot believe his own eyes. Her voice breaks the spell. " Wait there," he says. He glances quickly backward, no one sees him, no one is in sight. He stoops, raises the window a little higher, and steps out upon the piazza, by her side. The round November moon is at its zenith, its cold, spectral light glimmers in the ebony blackness of the trees on the hard, frozen ground, ringing like iron to every sound, upon the glar- ing brightness of the house, upon the pale, stern faces of the man and woman who stand and confront each other. Bertie Vaughan wears a look that few have ever seen him wear ; that Dolly De Courcy most certainly never has before. " Come with me," he commands, and she obeys without a word. A tumult of pain and misery is within her ; she feels that she has right on her side ; in all ways she is the stronger of the two, nevertheless she is afraid of him now. He leads the way she follows. Beyond his name she has said nothing as yet. Beyond that imperious " Come with me," he has said nothing. They leave the brightly-lighted house, its warmth, its merriment, behind them. The music dies softly away in the distance. With the first sensation of cold she has felt yet the girl draws her shawl closer about her as she follows "ff&S SWEETEST FRIEND OR HARDEST FOE.' 159 Bertie Vaughan across the wide, gladelike expanse of lawn and into the shadow of a belt of trees. No one from the house can see them here the very moonlight conies sifted in fine lances through the black, rattling boughs, and here the young man stops and faces his companion. " What has brought you here ? " is what he says. There is white, concentrated passion in his face, but his voice is barely raised above a whisper. She looks at him fiercely, her head flung back, her eyes afire. It is a capital stage atti- tude if poor Dolly were dying she must still act. " You ask that ! " she retorts, passionately. " I write to you and you do not answer. For five whole days you never come near me and you stand and ask what brings me here ! " " Yes, I ask ; and be good enough to remember that this is not the stage of Wychcliffe theatre, and that you're not talking for the pit and the gallery. Be kind enough to lower your voice. I ask you again, Dolly, what brings you here ? " "And how dare you ask it?" she cries, goaded to fury. " How dare you stand there and speak to me as you are speak ing ? What brings me here ? Who has a better right to come where you are than I ? " He laughs shortly. "The right I grant you, if you never want to see or speak to me again as long as you live. If that's what you're after, you couldn't have taken a better way." She stands and looks at him, shivering, partly with the cold, partly with nervous excitement, her eyes dark with terror, her lips white. " Did you think I would stay away ?" she asks, "knowing you had deserted me ? I waited five days, Bertie I wrote to you you never came you never answered. They told me you were engaged to Miss Owenson that the wedding-day was close at hand. I knew there was to be a party here to-night that while I suffered misery and loneliness there in Wychcliffe, you were dancing and enjoying yourself with her. And I was your promised wife, Bertie, don't forget that. Where you were I had a right to be. I came I couldn't stay away ; I thought if I could only see you for one minute, ar.d hear you say you forgave me for what I said that night at the theatre oh ! Bertie, I was sorry only hear you say you weren't tired of me, and hadn't forgotten me, I would go away again and leave you to enjoy yourself, and ask no more. I didn't mean any harm I dida't mean any one to see me, I only wanted to speak to you 160 "HE'S SWEETEST FRIEND OR HARDEST FOE." one minute. I went up there by the window with no thought of listening; but you came with her and I I overheard every " She had been growing hysterical as she went on, her voice choking and breaking ; now she stopped, literally gasping foi breath. Violent hysterics were, imminent. In horrible alarm Vaughan seized her wrist in a grasp that left a black bracelet on the quivering flesh for a week. " If you make a noise if you faint or have hysterics, Dolly," he cried, in a furious whisper, " I swear I'll never speak to you again as long as you live ! " The threat had its effect. A few gasping breaths, a few chok- ing sobs, a moment's convulsive quivering of body, and the perilous moment was past. Then a brief interval of silence, during which Mr. Vaughan relaxed his hold, and mentally con- ; signed Dolly to a region where the night-air is never chill ! Miss De Courcy leaned against a tree, her wretched face hidden in her handkerchief, her bosom still heaving with sup- pressed suffocating sobs. " Now, Dolly, look here," begins Bertie, his blonde brows knit, his mouth, under its little flaxen mustache, set in a tight, unpleasant line, " this is all most awful nonsense. You have come near making the greatest blunder of your life in coming here to-night. In the first place how did you know there was to be a party here at all ? " "Ben Wa ard told me," she answered, in a stifled voice. His eyes flashed. In the midst of his anger, while wishing her in the deepest depths of the Inferno, he could still be jeal- ous of Ward. " So ! " he said contemptuously, " that fool is after you yet. Sees you home every night of your life, I'll be bound." " There is no one else, Bertie." " All right that is your affair. Mine, at present, is to come to an understanding with you about to-night's visit. Once and for all, Dolly, I'll have no following, no spying, no dogging my steps, no eavesdropping, no jealous scenes. I would no more -marry a jealous woman than I would shoot myself. The sooner you realize that the better." The handkerchief fell. She looked up at him, the miserable, quivering face lighting all at once with hope. " Oh, Bertie ! You do mean to marry me then after all ? " Mr. Vaughan' s look of surprise of injured inocence wai fine. "HES SWEETEST FRIEND OR HARDEST FOE." l6l " After what ' all ' ? I am a man of honor, Dolly, and as such I keep my word ! Have I not acted honorably toward you from the first ? Did I not propose marriage to you a fortnight after our first meeting ? Have I not treated you in all respects as as a lady ? " You have you have, " sobbed Dolly, her tears penitent tears now. " O Bertie, you have been kind, been generous, been noble toward me. I am not your equal, I know in sta- tion or education, and you have treated me in every way as if I were. " Very well then," pursued Mr. Vaughan, loftily. "You can imagine, perhaps, what a blow to me to-night's escapade is. When people are jealous of each other, spy upon each other, dog each other, it is time those people should part. When confidence ceases love should end. "But, says Dolly piteously, and a trifle bewildered by these beautiful sentiments, " I overheard " " Ah ! yes, you overheard. You overheard what I said to Miss Owenson, very likely. By-the-by, Dolly, I did not think you could stoop to eavesdropping. May 1 ask what reason you had to be surprised at what you heard ? " " What reason ? You ask her to marry you denying that you care for me or ever did ; make her name the wedding-day, and what reason have I to be surprised ! " says Dolly, putting her hand in her head, her brain in a hopeless muddle. "I explained all that. Call to mind the night I told you fully how I stood in regard to this young lady, the obligations I was under to her father, how my whole future depends upon his bounty, what he expects, what she expects, the compact made when we were children, which I always meant to ratify, which I would have ratified had I not fallen in love with you. How, until the last moment, my intention was to keep them in the dark, hoping that the old gentleman might kindly die off before the wedding-day. Meantime, my full intention of acting my part, the better to blind them. That I may one day marry you, a rich man, I asked Miss Owenson to name the day, to-night." , Dolly stands speechless. She looks up at the moon, at the stars, at the tree tops, at Mr. Vaughan's handsome, rebuking face, as he utters these sublimated sentences, but her dazed brain absolutely refuses to comprehend. The more Bertie reasons the more hopelessly her senses reel. " Since that night at the theatre (when you so gratuitously in- sulted me, Miss De Courcy, in the presence of that cad, Ward) 162 "HE'S SWEETEST FRIEND OR HARDEST FOE." some inkling of the truth has come to Miss Owenson's ears. She is jealous, and to appease that jealousy I spare no effort. Let one whisper reach her father, and I am turned out adrift upon the world, without a home, a profession, a shilling. If he dies before the wedding-day I am provided for, can say good-by to Miss Owenson, and marry you. 1 hope you are satisfied now ! " He asks his last question in a tone of suppressed triumph ; his concluding arguments have evidently been clinchers. But Dolly only looks at him with a piteously bewildered face. She must be hopelessly stupid indeed, but the force of all this for- ensic logic is thrown away upon her. She is not satisfied. " May I ask, says Mr. Vaughan, changing his tone, while poor Dolly stands dazed, "what you came for? what you intended to do ? " She lights up suddenly, she can understand that question at least. " Shall 1 tell you, Bertie ? " she says, a flash of her old fire in eyes and voice. " I ask for information, Dolly." " Then I meant to have gone straight to Captain Owenson, to Miss Owenson, and told them my story, shown them my proofs, and broken off your marriage. I know it would break it off no lady of honor would marry you after reading your let- ters to me." There is an outbreak of triumph in her tone, but it changes quickly. All through the interview they have not been in very affectionate proximity, but he starts back two or three paces at these daring words, and looks at her with a glance that sends a bolt of cold terror through Dolly's heart. "You did !" A pause, an awful one. "And may I inquire why you did not carry out your dramatic intentions, Miss De Courcy ? " " Oh, Bertie, please don't look at me like that, and don't call me Miss De Courcy ! I I didn't do it !" she says, with a gasp. " No, you didn't do it. I ask again, why ? " "Because because I couldn't, 1 heard all you said, and it maddened me, and still I couldn't. I don't understand myself; I never used to be a coward. Other men have been fond of me, but I never cared a pin whether I lost them or not ; but J am afraid of you." The confession seems wrung from her against her will. A slight smile of complacent power glides over his set lips a second, then it disappears. "HE'S SWEETEST FRIEND OR HARDEST FOE." 163 " Well, now, Dolly," he says, " for fear any such temptation should occur to you again, let us understand one another. There is the house whenever expatiating you choose you can see Captain Owenson or his daughter ; you can tell them youi story I shall deny nothing ; you can show them my letters I will not refuse to admit them. Captain Owenson will at once order me from his doors ; Miss Owenson will probably never see me again while she lives. All this you can do ; and the moment you do it the moment a word of our engagement gets wind through you, and comes to their ears that moment is the last you will ever set eyes on me. I will never see you again, never speak to you again, so long as I live ! " Another pause. All white and speechless, shrinking, tremb- ling, Dolly De Courcy listens to her doom. Calm and stern as a stone Rhadamanthus, this youthful autocrat goes on : "If you care for me, if you ever want to be my wife, you must obey me in what I say to-night. I cannot write to you or receive letters from you without danger; I cannot visit you without instant discovery. Therefore I will neither write nor visit you. You will leave Wychcliffe with the rest of them, and wait for me in New York. When do the company go?" " In a week," Dolly answers, with a shiver. " Very well, you will go with them ; I will remain here. Captain Owenson may die any day of heart disease may die before the last Thursday in November. If he does, all is right ; if he does not, all will be right, too. On the day before the wedding I will quietly leave Wychcliffe, join you in New York, and marry you out of hand. I have no more to say. This is my final decision. You will abide by it or not, as you think best." " I am to go with the company, and see you no more until " " Until the last Thursday in November not quite two weeks. An eternity, certainly ! " he says, sarcastically. " It will seem so to me, for all the time I shall be fearing Bertie ! " she cries out, " you shall not marry her 1 Don't think it. I will never give you up." He turns to leave her. " 1 have no more to say. All my explanations have been thrown away. Do as you please." " Oh, Bertie, stay ! Forgive me ! I will do as you tell me. I will trust you. Only only say one kind word to ine 1 Thil 164 "HE'S SWEETEST FRIEND OR HARDEST FOE." has been a wretched night, and, indeed, indeed, I am dreadfully miserable." Sultan Bertie relents. His slave is in her proper place, at his feet. He can afford one relenting parting word. " Don't be a simpleton, Dolly," he says, taking both her hands in his. " If I wasn't idiotically fond of you, would I risk all my prospects in life for you ? It would be a good deal bet- T ter for me if I cared for Miss Owenson as I do for you ; but I don't and can't" and here Bertie told the truth "and that's an end of the matter. You shall be my wife, and no one else, that I promise, for the hundredth time. And now go, like a good child, and come here no more. Leave with the rest, and wait for me in New York. I shall see you once again, by some means, and we shall have a pleasanter good-by than this." A moment more and he is alone under the trees. Out in the open, in the full shine of the moon, a figure is hurrying toward the gate, a figure in whose breast a tumult is going on. Anger and passion are spent, and deep, sullen resolve has taken their place. He is deceiving her with the quick clairvoyance of her kind she knows it, and she means to be even with him. He in- tends to send her away quietly and marry the heiress of all this fine place. As well as he knows it himself she knows it also, and just as firmly as he is resolved to succeed just as firmly she is resolved he shall not. He stands and watches her out of sight. Half-an-hour has passed in the interview he will be missed, he fears. He starts rapidly forward no one is about. He is congratulating him- self on Dolly's safe and unseen exit, when he runs up the portico steps and comes full upon Cyrilla Hendrick. She is standing there alone, the moonlit expanse, cold and viv- idly bright before ; how long, who is to tell ? He is so stunned that he stands before her mute. Of all the people, she ! " Ah, Mr. Vaughan," she says, that malicious smile he has learned to detest on her lips, " I knew you could not be in the house. I said so, although Sydney insisted that you were." " And you volunteered to come out here in the cold and look for me ? How kind," he responds, his blue eyes glittering with hatred. "Oh, dear, no; don't flatter yourself," Cyrilla says, with the airiest of laughs ; " the parlors were oppressive, and I never take cold. The moonlight looked so inviting that I have been here fully ten riinutes enjoying the prospect. And I have enjoyed "THE FEAST IS SET* 165 it," says Miss Hendrick, with slow emphasis, smiling up in his face. " I can only regret that Sydney was not to be coaxed to come out with me and enjoy it too." " But you can describe it to her," suggests Bertie, in a hissing sort of whisper. " I can imagine you really must be good at that sort of thing, and every end will be answered as well. " No," Cyrilla laughs ; " I differ. You flatter me I am not at all good at that sort of thing, you mean describing what I see, don't you ? I never look for other people ; let every one use her own eyes. Will you give me your arm back, Mr. Vaughan ? I find I have had enough of moonshine. I hope Sydney is not inclined to be jealous she may actually think we have been flirting here on the steps." " Sydney will never be jealous of me," says Sydney's affianced, with elaborate carelessness, "if she is left to herself. There is nothing small, or prying, or suspicious about her" The personal pronoun is fiercely italicized, the gauntlet of de- fiance is openly Hung at her feet. Miss Hendrick lifts her big black eyes and laughs in his face, a laugh of most unaffected, thorough appreciation, good humor and enjoyment. And Mr. Vaughan looks down upon her hanging on his arm and thinks what a pleasure it would be to meet her by moonlight alone, in some nice, shady nook, and murder her in cold blood. CHAPTER XVIII. "THE FEAST is SE T." [NE two three four, on lightning wings the days go by. In mad haste they scamper over each othePs heels, frantic to quit time for eternity. Like flashes they come and go. This is what Sydney and Sydney's mamma think at least, hurried and busy with their preparations for the fast coming nuptials, only seven days off now. To the bridegroom they lag lag horribly. While the same town contains Dolly De Courcy and Sydney Owenson, what peace can there be for him ? She has promised to trust him, and go quietly ; but there is no putting confidence in a woman. Every day takes Sydney and her obnoxious friend into Wych- cliife every da}- takes Dolly there for rehearsal. Who is to 1 66 "THE FEAST 73 SET? tell him what hour may bring them together. What hour Dolly may "up" and tell them the whole story. As strongly as he had set his shifting heart upon marrying Dolly a fortnight ago, just as strongly has he set it now upon marrying Sydney. There is no love in the question, not a jot ; it is simply a matter of money; it is, as he tells himself, that his summer's madness is at an end; that he is "clothed and in his right mind " once more. During those four dragging lagging days he raises Miss De Courcy to the pinnacle of bliss by two visits ; he soothes her with sweet words and sugared promises. She is very quiet, dangerously quiet, if Bertie did but know it. She takes her sweetmeats from her master's hand, and says very little. And the fourth day comes, and by the morning train the whole company, leading lady of course included, leave Wychcliffe. Leave, positively leave. Bertie risks all things, gets out of bed at the unhallowed hour of seven, in the cold gray of the frosty November morning, and appears, blue and shivering, upon the platform to see them off. But even this proof of self-sacrificing devotion does not take Dolly in. She smiles sarcastically as she shakes hands with him, and sees through his little artifice in a moment. She is unaffectedly glad to see him too her dark face lights up, and she looks at -him as Bertie Vaughan most certainly does not deserve to be looked at by any woman on earth. Then they are in their places. What a long breath of infinite relief it is that Mr. Vaughan draws ; she waves her hand to him from the window, looks at him with two solemn black eyes, and says in her deepest Lady Macbeth voice : " REMEMBER ! " It reminds Bertie of Charles the First on the scaffold, and he laughs. " All right, Dolly," he says. " By -by." and the lovers' part- ing is over. He goes home, and is in wild high spirits all the rest of the day. He holds forth at breakfast upon the beauty and expe- diency of the "healthy, wealthy and wise" principle of early rising. To get up by gaslight on a bitter fall morning, to cracic the ice in your wash basin, and to plunge off for a three mile walk, is the acme of earthly bliss. Breakfast over, he insists upon escorting his affianced and her friend into town to do their diurnal shopping ; 10 wait upon them, Bertie avers to sit on high stools and listen to hyacinthe dry-goods men expa tiating on the beaut/ of lace and ribbon* and artificial flowery THE FEAST IS SET." 167 will be to him the supreme pinnacle of earthly blessedness \ It is as usual the odious Miss Hendrick who topples him down off the high horse he is rampantly riding. " A change has come o'er the spirit of your dream, rather, hasn't there?" she says. "Up to this morning you have obstinately refused to have anything to do with us. Apropos of early rising, the theatre people were to go to-daydidn't Mr. Sunderland say so last evening, Syd ? You must have seen them this morning in Wychcliffe, Mr. Vaughan ? " Again blue eyes and black eyes meet again Mr. Vaughan asks himself could it, would it, be wrong to privately assassin- ate this girl if he gets the chance. " I saw them, Miss Hendrick ; I even shook hands with two or three of them. Are there any further particulars of the theatre people you would like to hear ? " " None at all, thank you," Cyrilla laughs ; " I am quite satis- fied. In half an hour, then, Mr. Vaughan, we will place our- selves under your fostering care for the morning." All Sydney's artless efforts to make these two friends, fall flat. It is one of the thorns in her bed of roses that Cyrilla will per- sist in saying " Mr. Vaughan " to the bitter end. " I think it is really unkind of you, Cy," she says, reproach- fully now. " Calling Bertie Mr. Vaughan, just as if he wasn't to marry me next week. I am sure, if our cases were reversed, I would have been calling Mr. Carew Freddy long before this." " I am quite sure you would," answers Cyrilla, laughing ; " no one ever does call Freddy anything but Freddy, so far as I can see. There is no ccmparing the cases. There is a dignity, an unapproachableness (that is a good word) about Mr. Vaughan that forbids flippant familiarities with his Christian name. If I were wrecked on a desert island with your future spouse, Syd, I couldnH call him Bertie not under eighteen months. Sydney looks at her friend, half puzzled, half indignant, half inclined to laugh herself. Bertie dignified ! Bertie unap- proachable ! But Miss Hendrick's quizzical face baffles her. " Do you hear from Fred often, Cy ? " she inquires. " Twice a week, poor boy ! Ah ! what a penance it must be to Fred Care\v, who hates the sight of pen and ink with an honest hatred he never attempts to conceal. Each letter contains pre- thirteen lines. That military heart of his may be full tc Overflowing, and no doubt is, but to sit at a desk and put down m c.9ld ink Uie gushing warmth of hi* ffection-~no, that u 'be- 168 " THE FEAST IS SET" yond Freddy ; I don't expect it. I take my thirteen lines, and am thankful. What a rage Aunt Dormer would be in if she only knew ! " That day's devotion on Bertie's part was but \.\\e facsimile of the next and the next. The third was Friday the P>iday pre- ceding the wedding and on that day Captain Owenson dis- patched his son-in-law-elect to New York on an important mis- sion no less, indeed, than the inspection of the old sailor's wed- ding-suit and his own. For upon mature deliberation it had been decided that the tailors of Wychcliffe, sufficiently skilled artist at ordinary times, were not to be trusted upon the present important occasion. The sombre regulation costume must be got in the metropolis, and Bertie must be upon the spot to see that no mistake was made. There were other commissions also to fulfill for the ladies he would probably be detained until Monday night. "And upon my return, sir," said Bertie, " with your permission I will take up my quarters at the Wychcliffe Hotel until Thurs- day morning. In the usual course of things, the bridegroom doesn't generally exist and have his being under the same roof with the bride. It will be more strictly en regie, believe me, if I hang out at the hotel." "Oh! pooh nonsense fiddle-dee-dee!" said Captain Owenson. " All right, sir as you please. I merely mentioned the fact. 1 know it's the thing in England, but of course you know best. It doesn't matter to me," upliftedly responded Mr. Vaughan. The mention of England brought down the Captain, as Bertie knew it would. "Stay! Look here! Wait a minute! It's so long since I've had anything to do with weddings that I've forgotten. Will it really be more in accordance with well-bred British customs if you go to the hotel ? It looks like torn-foolery to me." " It's the thing, depend upon it," answered Bertie, calmly. " If I only consulted my own inclinations, I would stay here, of course, near Sydney. But I never heard of such a thing be- fore, as bride and bridegroom starting for church out of the same house. If it be an American custom, however, and if you wish it, I bow, of course," says Bertie, with a graceful inclina- tion, "to your superior wisdom." " That will do," growls the captain he hated American cus- toms. " Let it be as you say. Stop at the hotel when you come back. Will it be a solecism of English wedding good "THE FEAST IS SET." 169 manners, may I ask for you to favor us with an occasional call during those intervening two days ? " concludes the captain, sarcastically. " I shall spend my days and evenings here, sir," answered Bertie, repressing a strong inclination to laugh, " returning to the hotel to sleep." So this nice point of bridal etiquette was settled, and Mr. Vaughan started for New York. A haunting fear that Dolly would turn up, those last two days, and seek him out at the Place, had underlain the hotel project. If she did come he groaned mentally as he thought of it and visited him there, less harm would be done. In some way in what way he did not know, but in some way he would quiet her, and keep her out of harm's way until the ring was on Sydney's finger. Then let her do her worst. And yet, poor little Dolly ! how fond he had been of her, too ! He reached the great city, spent three days and a great deal of money very agreeably. A strong, almost irresistible desire to hunt up Dolly possessed him. He was never happier than when with Dolly, she suited him, as novels put it, " to the finest fibre of his being." But it would not do ; if she once set eyes on him in New York, an inward conviction told him she would never let him go. Who was to tell that she might not get a gang of East-side brigands to bear him off captive to the deep- est dungeon in the Bowery, and, willy-nilly, make him her hus- band ? Some vague thoughts like these actually went through Bertie's brain. No ; it would not do ; he must not go to see Dolly ; he must never see Dolly while he lived again. In spite of Sydney's real estate and bank stock, it was a dismal thought, and he sighed profoundly. After all, it was a pity Dolly wasn't rich, or a great actress. He was fond of her there was no getting over that. Monday morning came. The week " big with fate " had arrived. He took the cars, his business satisfactorily com- pleted, and started for home. It was only a three hours' ride to U'ychcliffe. As he took his seat and unfolded the morning's damp paper, he was thinking that the crisis in his life had come. How would he feel this time next Monday morning ? Would he be sitting by Sydney's side somewhere on their bridal journey, her lawful owner and possessor, or would Dolly turn up and make a grand theatrical tableau in the church and would ruin, and poverty, and disgrace be his portion for life ? He could not read. Again and again he tried; again and 170 "THE FEAST IS SET." again he failed He gave it up at last, and sat staring out at the wintry picture flitting by. It was like a day cut in steel clear, windless, sunless, cold. The sky was pale gray, the earth frozen hard, ringing like glass at every sound. The trees stood up, tracing their black, sharp outlines against the steely air. A snow-storm was pending would it storm on the wed- ding-day ? " Dolly ! Dolly ! " She haunted him like an importunate ghost. Her face was before him, her voice in his ears. " Re- member ! " what had she meant by that ? He had laughed then ; it was no laughing matter now. Oh ! it meant that he was to be with her on Wednesday night. He had said he would, if the captain did not die. Die ! he looked of late as though he would never die, as if he had renewed his lease of Hfe. Remember ! How ominous a gleam there had been in her black eyes as she said it. Black-eyed women are always edge tools to play with. Why had she ever come to Wychcliffe? Why had he ever gone to that infernal little theatre ? What would she do on Wednesday night when he did not come ? Would she even wait as long as Wednesday night ? It was only three hours' ride to Wychcliffe, and trains were running all the time. She was not a girl to stick at a trifle, and she had told him she would not give him up. The wedding hour was eleven. If she took the cars Thursday morning in New York, there would be ample time to get to church in season to He broke off with a pang of absolute physical agony. He could see it all, that horrible, sickening scene. Sydney faint- ing, the guests standing horror-stricken, the old captain, his friend, his benefactor, livid with fear and rage, Dolly, a black- eyed Nemesis, wild and dishevelled, in their midst, her back hair down, displaying her proofs before them all, pointing the finger of retribution at him, and reading his letters aloud. Those fatal letters ! Spoony beyond all ordinary depths of spoonyism, and he he standing pallid with guilt, his knees knocking to- gether, paralyzed, stricken dumb, sheepish. He set his teeth. No ! if it came to that there should be a tragic ending that would take the edge of the sheepishness at least. He would provide himself with a pistol, load it, carry it in his breast pocket, and when the awful moment came he would thrust in his hand, hurl it forth, cry : " Woman fiend ! behold your work ! " and pull the trigger. There would be a "THE FEAST IS SET* 1 71 flasli, a report, the wild shrieks of many women, and he would fall headlong at his bride's feet dead ! " Wychcliffe !" shouted the conductor, putting in his head. From his tragical reverie Mr. Vaughan sprang to his legs, seized his baggage, and got out of the car. There were many he knew at the depot, but no one from The Place, of course. He took a hack and drove to the hotel, made some change in his toilet, jumped into his hack once more, and was driven to Owenson Place in time for luncheon and to give an account of his stewardship. Nothing had happened bright loolcs and cordial greetings met him everywhere. The captain wrung his hand as though he had been away a year or so. Sydney actually blushed and looked shyly glad to see him. Aunt Char kissed his mustache, and Miss Hendrick gave him one slim, dusk hand, the old quizzical, satirical look in her ebon eyes. " How I do hate that girl ! " he said, petulantly, to Sydney, ten minutes later, when they were alone. " Bertie ! " Sydney cried, in a shocked tone ; "hate Cyrilla ! You don't mean that ?" " Yes, I do hate her as I do the " " Bertie ! " " Well, I won't, then ; but, I detested her from the first me- ment I set eyes on her. After you're married, Mrs. Vaughan, I promise you she shall not wear herself out visiting us. Now, don't put on that horrified face, sis. You've known well enough I didn't like her all along." "But why?" persisted Miss Owenson. "I think she's lovely. Why don't you like her? She's never done anything to you." "Oh, no, of course not, and wouldn't either if she got a chance ! " says Bertie, sarcastically. " Why don't you like a toad or a snake when you meet one ? A little green snake is pretty to look at and never did any one any harm. Why do we take antipathies to people at sight ? " ' I do not like you Doctor Fell ; The reason why I cannot tell.' " I feel Doctor Fell toward her. I could see her bow-strung and cast into the Bosphorus in a sack by two of my blackest Nubians, with all the pleasure in life ! " Then there is siience horrified on Sydney's part, ruminativ* on Mr. Vaughan' s. 1 72 " THE FEAST IS SET" " And so everything's lovely, Syd ? " he says, after a moment " Nothing's happened ? ' The feast is set, the guests are met, all correct and duly ? " "What could happen?" asks Sydney, gayly. "Of course everything is correct. Except the weather," adds the bride- elect, glancing apprehensively out of the window ; " that's cold and miserable enough even for the last week of November. By-the-by, it's a dismal inonth to be married in, Bertie." " Is it ? But there will be so much sunshine in our hearts that we will never see the weather. You didn't think I was so poetical, sis. did you ? Honestly, though, if we are married on Thursday morning, I'll do my best to behave myself and make you happy." It is about the nearest approach to a tender speech this ar- dent bridegroom has ever got, and Sydney laughs at it, but with a little tremble in her voice. " ' If we are married ! ' What an odd thing to say, Bertie ! " " Oh ! well, one never knows one may die any day. ' In *.he midst of life we are in death,' and all that. One never is certain of anything in this most uncertain world." She looks at him in wonder as he makes this cheerful and bridegroom-like speech. He is lying back in an easy-chair, his legs outstretched, a hand thrust in each trouser pocket, a dismal look on his face that suits his dismal words. He is think- ing of Dolly. " Would you care much, Syd," he goes on, looking out of the window at the dreary grayness of the dull day, not at her won- dering face, " if you lost me ? You're not in love with me, I know no more am " " I with you " is on his lips, and he barely catches it in time " no more do I expect it just yet ; but we've been jolly good friends and comrades all our lives quite like brother and sister ; and would you be sorry if any- thing happened, Syd ? " She comes close to him, laying a timid hand on his shoulder, and looking down at his moody face. " I don't know what you mean, Bertie. If anything hap- pened to stop our marriage, is it ? " " Yes. If s only a suppositious case, of course, but would you ?" " You know I would," she answers. " I I am not in love with you, as you say, but indeed, Bertie, I do mean to be a loving wife, and make you happy. 1 would be dreadfully sorry if anything happened to break off our marriage now. I really believe papa would die of the disappointment." " THE FEAST IS SET." 173 " Always papa ! " He sits erect hastily, for just at that moment, enter Miss Hendrick, and all the softer sentiments take unto themselves wings and fly at sight of her deriding black eyes. All the minor details of the important event are mapped out by this time. Cyrilla, Mamie and Susie Sunderland are to support the bride through the ceremonial she thinks she can survive with only three bridesmaids. Harry Sunderland is to be best man. Grooms and groomsman are to meet bride and bridesmaids at St. Philip's, at eleven A. M., sharp. The nup- tial knot tied, they are to return to the paternal mansion then breakfast, toasts, speeches, good wishes, etc. A very large company are bidden. Then the bridal tour, due south, and un alloved bliss for the rest of their natural lives ! The snow-storm still threatens, but has not begun to fall, when at ten o'clock Bertie returns to his hotel. All Tuesday it darkens and lowers, and glooms, and the wind blows from a stormy quarter, but still the impending storm holds up. It will be a heavy fall when it comes, and the world will wear its chil- liest nuptial robe to do honor "to Sydney's bridal. One step for his own protection Bertie has taken. On Monday night he wrote a brief note to Dolly, informing her that the wedding had been postponed a week. That would throw her off the track he fondly hoped. If he could have seen the bitter unbe- lieving smile with which Miss De Cotircy perused it, his confi- dence in his own diplomacy might have been shaken. On Wednesday morning the long threatening storm began. The feathery snow came down in great, white, whirling flakes down, down, softly, steadily, ceaselessly. No wind blew, the bitter cold had changed to softness, and in two hours all the world was wrapped in a soft, soundless, ghostly carpet of white. " Oh ! " sighs Sydney, as she flutters from room to room and looks wistfully out, "how sorry 1 am. I did so want to-morrow toe." ' Superstitious child ! What's the odds ? " says Mr. Vaughan ; "though the snow were piled mountains high, though the 'awful avalanche' that destroyed that rash young man, Excelsior, threatened, still would your devoted Bertie be there." " Well, 1 wish the sun would shine," persists the bride. " You may say what you please, but a stormy wedding-day ig unlucky ! " "My child, I am saying nothing. And I am perfectly con- 174 "THE FEAST IS SET* fident the sun will shine. It will snow itself out before evening at th'.s rate. They can't have such a stock on hand up there." says Bertie, consolingly. Bertie is right. All day long it falls, soundlessly and thickly, then as evening approaches it lightens and ceases. The aii turns crisp and cold, the stars come out, the wind veers round into a propitious quarter, and the sun will shine upon Sydney's wedding. The Misses Sunderland are here, Bertie, Cyrilla, Sydney this last evening. The" have music, and waltzes in a small way over the carpet. Down in the dining-room the marriage feast is set out, silver and glass making a brave show under the lamps. Cold white cakes glisten, cut flowers in frosty epergnes are everywhere ! Up in one of the spare rooms the bridal dress and vail, wreath, gloves, and slippers, lie pale and wraith- like in the starry dusk. At ten o'clock Mr. Vaughan arises, makes his adieus, dons his overcoat, cap and gloves, and departs. Sydney escorts him to the door. How white and still all the snowy world below, how golden and blue all the shining world above ! How tran- quil, how beautiful heaven and earth ! " I am so glad it will be fine," she says, with a little flutter- ing breath. He bends above her a smile, almost fond on his face. " Good-by, sis," he says. " After to-morrow there will be no more good-bys." Then he is gone. She watches him in the starlight along the snowy path. Once he turns and waves his hand to her, that smile still lingering on his lips. So in her dreams, for many an after year, Bertie Vaughan comes back to her. He has disappeared, and Sydney, silent and thoughtful, goes back. Bertie tramps on his road, with only one thought in his mind. Dolly has not come will she come to-morrow ? He takes the short-cut to the town the path that Sydney affects, which "gives" along the high cliffs above the sea. All black and mysterious that great sea lies down yonder under the stars its soft-ceaseless whispering was sounding on the sands. He has reached Wychcliffe, the highest point, without meeting a creature, and it is just here from behind the rock that a dark figure starts up in his path and a stern voice cries . " Stay ! " THE GUESTS ARE MET.* 175 CHAPTER XIX. " THE GUESTS ARE MET." A is finishing " Come Haste to the Wedding," in ten pages of wild variations, driving the old- fashioned tune distracted : and she rises from the piano as Sydney enters. At sight of the bride's thoughtful little look, she laughs. " My solemn Sydney ! what is it he has been saying to you so heart-breaking that you should wear that forlorn look ? " "Do I look forlorn?" returns Miss Owenson. "I don't feel so, I can tell you. Papa, do you know we are going to have a fine day to-morrow, after all, and I am so glad." " And I am glad of anything that makes my little girl glad," says papa with loving eyes. " Now, young ladies all, which do you propose, to make a night of it here, and go to church to- morrow as yellow as lemons, or try the early-to-bed and early- to-rise principle, Bertie was advocating the other day ? " " To bed ! to bed ! " exclaims Miss Hendrick. " I for one don't expect to sleep a wink ; it is the first time I ever was bridesmaid in my life. Shall you, Syd ? " "I hope so, at least," laughs Sydney. "/ don't want to look as yellow as a lemon, to-morrow. Mamie, dear, it is your turn to look solemn what is it about ? " For the elder Miss Sunderland is staring in rather a dreary way at the fire, and saying nothing. " I know ! " cries that malicious elf, her younger sister, tri- i mphantly. Miss Hendrick's last remark has upset her. This is the third time she has been a bridesmaid ; and three times a brides- maid never a bride, you know. She is thinking how the cele- brated and fascinating Miss Dolly De Courcy had stolen from her the tickle affections of Ben " " Susie ! " cries Miss Mamie in an awful voice, and Susie, the irrepressible, shouts with laughter, and stops. Miss Hen- drick laughs a quiet laugh to herself, too. Truly Wychcliffe is well rid, she thinks, of that small destroying angel Dolly De Courcy. ' ( lood-night, Syd dear old Syd our Syd, no more ! " ex- claims Susie Sunderland, flinging her arms around the neck of 1 76 " THE GUESTS ARE MET." the bride in that scrt of hug known to bears and school-p"'rli " This time to-morrow oh ! dismal to think of it will be Mrs. Bertie Vaughan." " Good-night, Syd good-night, Sydney, repeat Cyrilla and Mamie, each with a less vehement embrace. " Good-night, Sydney, love," says mamma, coming last of all. "Try and sleep well it's very trying to the eyesight not to sleep well. I recollect I didn't sleep a wink the night before / was married you remember, Reginald ? " " How should I remember ? " growls Reginald. " I am sure I wasn't there ?" Whereat the girls all laugh. " Well, I didn't," says Aunt Char, " and my eyes were as red as a ferret's next day." " And lest yours should be as red as a ferret's to-morrow, suppose you be off to bed at once. Good night, young ladies," says the old sailor with his grandest bow, " I wish you all pleasant dreams, and a speedy coming of your bridal eve." They are all gone, and Sydney stands alone by her father's side. He puts his arm about her and looks anxiously down in her face. " You are happy, Sydney ? " he asks " really and truly happy ? " She lifts her smiling face and fair, serene eyes. " Really and truly, papa quite, quite happy." " God bless my little daughter." He holds her to him a moment, and lets her go. And Syd ney runs to her room, that smile still on her lips and in her eyes. The red glow of firelight fills the room. She turns low her light and goes to the window, to make sure of the weather. Yes, there are the stars, a countless host, studding that illimit- able, blue dome. Something in their glittering, tremulous love- liness holds her there, and she stands and gazes. And then Bertie's words come strangely back to her as if some soundless voice had spoken : " One never knows we may die any day. In the midst of life we are in death." She has heard many times the grand, solemn words, spoken nine hundred years ago, by the saintly lips of the Monk of St. Gall's on the lips of all mankind since; but they have never held the meaning to her they hold now. Yes, life with all its hopes and plans, its births and bridals, is like a half-told tale at best. Suddenly, when the story is at its brightest and fullest, the frail thread snaps, and Time is at an end and Eternit) begins "THE GUESTS ARE MET." 1 77 " What is this passing scene ? A peevish April day ! A little sun a little rain, And then night sweeps across the plain, And all things pass away." All things but the good works humbly done, the duties cheerfully fulfilled, the crosses patiently borne everything else life ha? held, lost these alone to plead for us in that awful dies irce. She draws the curtain and turns away, her thoughts swee* and solemn, but not sad. Half an hour later, her fair hair fall ing loose over her pillow, a wondrously fair sight, in the rose shine of the fire she is sleeping like a tired child. The sun is shining, filling her room with its early morning glory, when she awakes, and some one is standing by her bed- side smiling down upon her. It is Cyrilla. "Laziest of brides," is Miss Hendrick's greeting, "get up. Look at that clock and blush for yourself." Sydney looks it is nearly eight. ' Well," she says, with a stifled gape, " that is a very good hour, isn't it?" Then she is silent, and as it flashes back upon her that thif is her wedding-day, her heart for a moment seems to stand still. She sits up in bed, throws her arms around her friend's neck, draws down her face and kisses it. " Dear old Cy ! " she says, " what good friends we have always been. I hope oh ! I hope to-day may never make any difference between us." "It will make a great deal of difference," responds matter-of- fact Miss Hendrick. "Mr. Vaughan detests me with a cordial- ity worthy a better cause. Well, perhaps he has had some rea- son," and Cyrilla laughs. " Reason ? " Sydney looks puzzled. " What reason ? " "Never mind you dear little innocent, it isn't well for you to know too much. But, be assured of this however friendly Miss Owenson may have been to her vagabond friend, Mrs. Vaughan will keep her civilly at arms' length." " Cy ! as if I could ever change to you." "Ah! wait," hints Cyrilla darkly; "wives and maidens are two different orders of beings. You will see with Bertie Vaughan's eyes, and think with his thoughts, before you are his wife three months. It is one of the fixed laws of nature, as immutable as the stars ! " " If 1 were three years three centuries his wife," cried Miss 1 78 "THE GUESTS ARE MET," Owenson, with heightened color, "I would still be your friend, as strongly and as firmly as I am to-day." " Well," Miss Hendrick responds, heaving a profound sigh, "I hope so, I'm sure. I told you at school I had a firm con- viction I would one day make strong claims upon that friend ship, and I have it yet. If I am ever in trouble, friendless and cast out, I shall remind you of this promise. Now get up, do. and dress yourself, and come and have some coffee and a roll to nerve you for the trying ordeal. 1 should not be surprised if Mr. Vaughan were bracing his trembling nerves with a petite verre of the strongest fire-water in Wychcliffe at this moment." Sydney has her bath, knots up her hair, throws on a dressing- gown, thrusts her feet into slippers, and runs down-stairs. It is nine o'clock now. In two hours precisely she will be standing at the altar. From this moment all is fuss and haste, bustle and confusion, A hasty cup of strong coffee is swallowed all around ; eating is but a pretext with these excited maidens, then they scurry off to their rooms. In his, Captain Owenson is making the most elaborate toilet man ever made ; he began at eight and will probably not get through until eleven. For the first time in two years he is going to church. Sydney finds the hair-dresser awaiting her, and places herself under his hands. It is a lengthy operation. When it is over the maid who is to robe her for the sacrifice, approaches and leads her off. One by one they are on, dress, slippers, vail, wreath, necklace, gloves. As in a dream she sits or stands, wondering "if I be I." She can fancy the pains Bertie is taking over his wedding toilet, so fas- tidious and difficult as he is at all times, and she smiles to her- self. Then she glances at the clock twenty minutes of eleven. " Look at yourself, miss," says the girl with a pleased simper. " I don't believe you have looked yet." She scarcely has, but she does now. She almost starts ; she utters a faint, delighted exclamation. Can this be Sydney Ow- enson ? this radiant vision in silvery white, with all that gol(j hair coiffed so elaborately in this trailing splendor of shimmer- ing silk, and pearls, and lace, and orange blossoms ? Then tke door opens and the three bridesmaids come in. " ph 1 " It is a long-drawn, breathless aspiration from all three at once. They stand and survey the bride from head to foot. " Oh, doti t you look scrumptious ! " cries Susie Sunderland, "THE GUESTS ARE MET." 179 dancing a little ecstatic jig around the bride ; " shouldn't 1 love to be a bride and look like that ? " They are all three in palest pink ! rose is Cyrilla's color, and fortunately suits the Sunderland sisters. In palest pink, with golden lockets, the bridegroom's gift, on their necks and blush roses in their hair. " You really look lovely, Syd," says Minnie Sunderland, with a small, envious sigh. " I always knew being married was be- coming to almost everybody, but it becomes you better than, any one I ever saw. Your dress is exquisite." " And don't she wish Ben Ward would ask her to put on such a one and come to church with him ! " says Susie, in a stage " aside." The door opens again ; this time it is mamma, brave in pearl satin, a diamond breast-pin and point-lace cap. " Will I do, mamma ? " the bride asks, holding up her face to be kissed. " Yes, you look very well," says mamma, critically. " White silk is a trying thing to most complexions, but then fair people with a color can wear almost anything. I could myself when I was a girl. Everybody said I looked remarkably well the night I was married. I^refer a gaslight marriage myself it's more imposing, but your papa would have the morning and the church. It's more English, I suppose." Again a tap^at the door this time papa, looking stately and grand, an " orricer and a gentleman " every inch. " Ready, young ladies ? ready, Sydney ? " he asks, his watch in his hand, " the carriage is at the door, and it is only five min- utes to eleven. We shall be precisely ten minutes late." " Oh, where are the wraps ! " cry all, and a universal rush is made. Dazzling sunshine streams over everything, but it is the last week of November, and the air is iced accordingly. Wraps are found and thrown on, and all troop down-stairs with a joy- ous tumult of laughter and talk, and pile into the two carriages waiting there. Captain Owenson, Sydney and Cyrilla Hendrick in the first, mamma and the Misses Sunderland in the other. " What a perfect day ! " Sydney exultantly cries ; " sunshine everywhere and the snow sparkling as if it had been painted and varnished. It is a good omen this heavenly day." " I wish it were not quite so trying to the eyes, though," said her father ; "mine have been blinking in its dazzle ard raining tears the only tears that are to be shed at your wedding, Sydney." 180 " THE GUESTS ARE MET." Sydney smiles and nestles her hand in his. There is an inter val of silence then they are in Wychcliffe. And now the little bride's heart begins to beat fast. There is the church a flock of the town street Arabs around the gateth e hour has come. They stop. Can Bertie and Harry have walked ? Theirs are the only carriages waiting. The girls fling off their loose wraps, the door is opened and the captain is handed out. A red carpet is laid to the church door upon it the bride steps and takes her father's arm. The Misses Sunderland and Miss Hendrick follow ; mamma sails along in their wake, and the bridal cortege sweep into the church. There is a mist before Sydney's eyes, a dull roaring in het ears ; her heart beats as if it would suffocate her. She is dimly conscious that the church is very full of people, and that they are all staring at her. Then she never afterward knows how it is but a douche of ice-water seems to go over her, all palpi- tation passes away, all tremor, all shyness she feels suddenly cold and still, and the bridegroom is not here ! They, are standing alone at the altar rails, her father, her bridesmaids, herself, and no one else. Bertie and Harry Sunderland were to be here before them, but neither Bertie noi Harry has come. Her father it is her first thought her proud, sensitive, in- valid old father. He had turned livid in the first shock of real- izing the affront put upon him he has turned purple now, a fine imperial purple. Then, as the vestry door opens and the par- son in his surplice appears, changes to ashen pale again. The Reverend Mr. Sylvester beckons him aside and says in a whis- per : "This is very awkward, captain it is a quarter past eleven. Something has detained the bridegroom." Awkward ! A mild way of putting it, certainly. There stands the bride there stand the bridesmaids in a blank group, there sit all the gaping people, dead silent, breathless, a dawning smile on two or three faces. Here he is here is the parson ; but was ever such a thing heard of before in all the annals of bridals? the bridegroom is late! To her dying day, it seems to Sydney as she stands there, she will never recall this moment without turning sick and scarlet with pain and shame. She is as white as the dress she wears, she stands looking straight before her and seeing nothing. Sc they remain a petrified group, while one, two, three, four, five "THE GUESTS ARE MET? 181 minutes tick off. No one seems to know what to do, they just stand and look blankly before them. Then the captain pulls out his watch, his hand shaking as though palsy-stricken; it is twenty minutes past eleven. As he puts it back there is a sudden sound and bustle at the door. All start, all eyes turn, all hearts beat quick. A man enters, one man, one only not the bridegroom. It is Harry Sunderland. He is pale, his eyes look excited, he strides up to where they stand, heedless of the staring congregation, and addresses him- self to the father of the bride. "Hasn't Vaughan come?" he asks, in a hoarse, breathless sort of voice. " He is not here," the parson answers. The power of speech it seems has left Captain Owen son. "Then in Heaven's name, where can he be?" the young man cries. " He is not at the hotel he never was there all night. No one knows anything of him. He left yesterday afternoon and has never been seen since. " In the same hoarse, breathless voice, he says all this, staring blankly in the clergyman's face. " I waited and waited, hoping he would come," he goes on. " I sent messengers in search of him. No one has seen him, no one " " Papa ! " Sydney shrieks. She springs forward, not a second too soon, and reels as her father falls headlong into her extended arms. Harry Sunderland catches him before both fall. Then a scene of direst confusion begins, the cries of women, the rushing of many feet, the sounds of wild weeping, the excited clamor of many tongues. In the midst of it all the rector speaks : " Carry him into the vestry," he says, and young Sunderland obeys. Like a dead man the old sailor lies in his arms. Is he dead ? His doom has been long ago pronounced a sudden shock may kill him at any moment. Surely he has had shock enough now. " Fly for a doctor !" says Mr. Sylvester. Sunderland places his burden upon a bench and goes. Syd- ney, sinking on her knees by his side, receives her father's head in her arms. She does not speak, she makes no outcry, she is the color of death, and her eyes are wild and black with ter- ror, but she is perfectly still. Her mother in the grasp of Cyrilla \ Icndrick ii in violent hysterics ; the Sunderland girls stand near, 182 THE GUESTS ARE MET." sobbing uncontrollably. Sydney alone looks down in her father's corpse-like face and is still. It may be a moment, it may be an hour, she does not know when the doctor comes. She does not quit her post as he makes his examination ; it seems to her she hardly lives or feels as he searches pulse and heart, and pronounces it not death, but a death-like faint. Then remedies of all kinds are tried. Syd- ney is told to arise, and mechanically obeys. She stands beside her father, heedless of everything else that goes on, forgetful of everything else that has happened, and watches the slow return to life. Slow, but he does return ; there is a struggle, a quiver of all the limbs, a gasping breath or two, and he opens his eyes. He is bewildered at first he looks wildly around. "Sydney!" "Papa, darling, here!" She falls on her knees beside him again, again takes his head in her arms, and kisses him softly. "Something has happened? " he asks in the same vacant way. "What was it? Oh, I know!" A spasm of agony distorts his face. "Bertie." " Harry is going to try and find him. Don't think of Bertie now, papa. Can you sit up ? We are going to take you home." "Yes, home home!" he makes answer, brokenly. "There will be no marrying or giving in. marriage to-day. Oh, my little daughter." They raise him up, Harry Sunderland on one side, the doctor on the other, and bear him between them to the carriage. He came here this morning a fine, upright, grand old gentleman, he goes, marked for death, unable to stand alone. The doctor follows him in, and sits beside him ; then Sydney, Henry Sun- derland helps to hers, Mrs. Owenson still sobbing wildly, and finally Miss Hendrick. "You had better get into my sleigh, girls," he has said to his sisters ; "it is at the gate. They want no strangers at Owen- son Place to day. You can drive yourself and Sue, Mamie." They assent and go. The young fellow returns to the first carriage and looks with compassionate eyes at Sydney. "I am going in search of Bertie," he says. "I will find him if he is alive." She bends her head and the carriage starts. They go slowly it takes all the doctor's strength to uphold the stricken man The other carriage is at the house before them, and Mrs. Owen- son and Cyrilla stand at the door. "Oh, Reginald," Mrs. Owenson cries, with a wild flood of tears, "DEATH IS KING AND VI VAT REX." 183 He neither seems to see nor hear her. Perkins and the doc- tor carry him up-stairs to his bedroom, take off all those brave wedding-garments, which will serve for his shroud, and lay him on the bed from which he will never rise. In her chamber the unwedded bride is removing with rapid hands vail, wreath, pearls, robe. There are no tears in hei eyes; she has shed none, she keeps that pale cold calm through all. The clock strikes one as she throws on her dressing-gown and hurries to her father's bedside. And where in the world of the living or the world of the dead is Bertie Vaughan ? CHAPTER XX. "DEATH is KING AND VIVAT REX." |ER father is calling for her as she goes in. She comes forward and twines her arms around him as he lies. Infinite pity, infinite love look at her out of those haggard eyes. " My little one," he says, " my little one, it is hard on you." He cannot talk much. He has had spasms of the heart since they brought him home, and he is greatly exhausted. He lies with his daughter's hand clasped in his, and falls, almost as he speaks, into a sort of stupor in which he remains for hours. The doctor, Mrs. Owenson, Cyrilla, flit in and out, and offer to relieve Sydney, but she shakes her head, and her pale tired face never loses its patient, suffering look. Her mother is weeping ceaselessly Sydney sheds no tears. "How dreadful of you, Sydney," Mrs. Owenson says with a suppressed outbreak of sob- bing, " to sit there like that, and your poor papa as bad as he can be not to speak of Bertie. I am sure if I were in your place I would die. I never thought you could be heartless be- fore." Heartless! is she? She puts her hand to her head with a dreary gesture. A dull, dumb sense of misery oppresses her, but she cannot cry her eyes are dry and hot. Usually tears come as readily to her as to most girls, even for trifles, although slif has never wept much in her short happy life ; but if that life depended on it she could not shed a tear now. " Please, mamma, not so loud. You will wake papa," she 184 "DEATH IS KING AND VI VAT REX." says, pleadingly, and mamma with another burst of stifled hys- terics goes out and confides to Miss Hendrick ho\v dry-eyed and unfeeling Sydney sits. Hours pass. The yellow afternoon sun is slanting farther and farther westward ; in the sick-room pale twilight is falling already, when there is a loud ring at the door-bell. Sydney's heart jumps wildly. Her father's dulled ears hear it, her father's dulled eyes open. " Who is this ? " he asks. " I don't know. Are you better papa, dear ? " " Have you been here ever since ? " he inquires. " Yes, papa ; you know I would rather be beside you than anywhere else in the world." " My Sydney ! " He presses her hand gently, and tears force their way into his eyes ; " there is no news ? " "None, papa yet." " They are searching ? " " Yes, papa. Mamma says Harry and the constable are searching everywhere." " How long have I slept?" " Nearly three hours, papa." " And you have been here all that time. Your mother must relieve you. Ha ! who is that ? " There is a tap at the door it opens, and Mrs. Owenson comes hastily in. " Sydney ! " she says, in an excited whisper, " there is a man here, and he says he has news. He wants to see your father what shall we do ? " " Send him in ! " exclaims her husband's voice, and Aunt Char jumps and shrieks; " send him in, Char. Do you hear ? At once." Mrs. Owenson vanishes. Sydney feels the hand her father holds convulsively grasped, hears his quick panting breath, sees the excited flash of his eyes. " Oh, papa, be careful ! " she pleads ; " don't excite yourself. You don't know the harm it may do." He knows well enough, but he never thinks of himself in this moment. The man is ushered in by the mistress of the house, and stands, hat in hand, bowing awkwardly and looking embar- rassed a decent, intelligent working man. " Well," the captain gasps, " quick ! what is your news ?" The man advances towaid the bod, and holds out something to Sydney. "DEATH IS KING AND VI VAT REX" 1 8$ " Would you please to look at this, miss, and tell me if you know it ? " She takes it and utters a cry. It is a locket attached to a fragment of broken chain. ' It is Bertie's," she says; " his locket, papa with his mother's picture, the one he always wore on his watch-chain. Look ! " She places it in her father's hand. He recognizes it, as shs does, the instant his eyes fall upon it. " It's the missing young gentleman's, then?" asks the man. " I thought so. Could you tell me, miss, what sort of a neck- tie he wore the evening you see him last ? " " A blue necktie," Sydney answers, without a second's hesi- tation. " A dark-blue necktie no broader than a strip of nar- row ribbon." "Is this it?" says the man. He takes out of his vest pocket a tiny paper parcel, opens it, and displays what looks like a strip of narrow dark blue ribbon torn in two. "It is," Sydney exclaims; "I am sure of it! The ends are peculiarly stitched with white ; Mr. Vaughan had this on his neck last night when he left this house. Oh, papa ! what does this mean ? " "\Vhat I suspected from the first," her father answered, in & husky voice " that Bertie has been waylaid and murdered." Mrs. Owenson gave a faint shriek of horror, although she had been asserting as much ever since her return from church Sydney turns cold and trembles. But the old fire ul in the sail- or's eye, the old authoritative ring in his voice as he speaks : " U'here did you find these things, my man ? Speak at once." "1 found them early this morning, the locket hanging from a cedar bush, half way down Witch Cliff, the necktie torn in two pieces as you see it, and tramped down in the snow on the ground above. It was about nine in the morning, and I was on my way to Bensonbridge, five miles as you know, 'tother side ol this house, sir, and I had took the cliff path as a short cut. Wlu-n I got to that high place, Witch Cliff, 1 could see the snow all tramped and trod down, as if a couple of men had been scuffling and wrestling along the very edge of that dangerous place. A piece away I spied these bits of blue ribbon, torn in two and tramped into the snow with their boots. I picked them up and looked over the edge, kind o 1 skairt like. I don't sup- puse I would have seen this 'ere gold thing, but the sun was a shinin' and a glistenin' right onto it. I went back to where there's a path, and reached it. It was hanging from a cedai 1 86 "DEATH IS KING AND VIVAT REX. n bush, as if whoever wore it had fell down and it caught there and snapped off. The bush was a strong one, but it was rooted nearly up, like's if it had been caught holt of sudden, and nearly torn from the roots. I was skairt square, as I say, but I had no time to spare. I put the things in my pocket and tramped on to Bensonbridge. The first thing I hear when I come back was this 'ere story about the missing young gentleman as was to be married. I says nothin' to nobody, but I came right here. And that's all about it." There is dead silence ; Mrs. Owenson shrinks shivering into the background ; the captain's eyes are full of fire, and Syd- ney stands rigid, her face like white stone in the gray dusk. "There were the signs of a struggle?" her father asks. " Were there any traces of bloodshed on the snow ? " " None at all, square not a speck, jest the shufflin' and rtrugglin' and wrastlin' like, over the ground, and the edge of the cliff broke and crumbled off as it might be if a man fell over. And straight down from there I found the gold thing on the bush. I'm afraid there ain't no two ways about it, but that some poor fellow fell over there last night." " And the height is " " Eighty-foot, square, if an inch, and as dangerous a place as you'll find in the State. The sides as steep, pretty well, as the wall of a house, and the rocks below stick up like spikes the devil's own to fall on, askin' the ladies' pardon." " There was no sign " the captain stops, a choking in his throat. " Not the fust sign, square," the man answered, understand- ing readily, " of a body on the rocks. The tide was at high- water mark about eleven last night, and anything that fell down there " He pauses and looks compassionately at Mrs. Owenson, who has broken out into dreadful hysterical crying once more. A horrid picture is before her Bertie, her handsome, genial Ber- tie, hurled over that dreadful place, calling aloud in his agony for help, where there were, none to hear, lying all bleeding and mangled on the black-spiked rocks below, until the long, cold, cruel waves swept nearer and nearer, washing over his white bruised face, and carrying him off on their black breasts out tc the awful sea. She shrieks aloud in her horror, and Sydney has to go over and take her in her arms. " Mamma, hush." she says, imploringly, " you will hurt papa. You had better leave the room." "DEATH IS KING AND VI VAT REX" 187 " Yes, leave the room," orders the captain, and poor, terrified Aunt Char goes, thinking how hard-hearted and utterly without feeling her husband and daughter are. In the passage she meets Miss Hendrick, and to her she wails forth all she has heard, all she has imagined. Cyrilla listens gravely and soothes her, administers red lavender, valerian and sympathy. Miss Hendrick has her own version of Mr. Vaughan's disap- pearance, but she wisely keeps it to herself. Not for one second has she believed him dead. To her mind it has been a " put- up job " from first to last. He waited until the last moment that waiting was possible, and then quietly went off to Dolly De Courcy. He had never intended to marry Sydney, and has been too great a coward to say so. She recalls the night of the party, the meeting and parting under the trees, and Miss De Courcy scurrying home alone in the moonlight. He is not dead, Cyrilla feels sure, but somewhere in New York, comfortably under Dolly's protecting wing. She says nothing of what she knows and suspects. Better, she feels, a thousand times bet- ter, that they should think him dead than know him false. She listens to Aunt Char's story now, and is not in the slight- est degree shaken in her belief. The torn necktie, and broken chain and locket, are but parts of his well-laid plan to throw them off the track. Very weak-minded men have some of the low cunning of idiots ; there is no end to the depth of duplicity she believes Vaughan to be capable of. She smiles scornfully to herself as Mrs, Owenson paints her vivid picture of Bertie bruised and broken on the merciless rocks. No, no ! Bertie's tender form is unbruised, his symmetrical limbs unbroken, his fair, blonde beauty unscarred. Probably at this hour, while they sit lamenting him here, he is married to Dolly De Courcy. The man who brought the token has left the sick-room and is speeding back to town. He is to send Mr. Wynch, the chief magistrate, to the Place. He comes as the short November day ends, and the lamps are lit, and is closeted with the sick man. The facts are laid before him, and when Mr. Wynch departs, it is with a promise to do everything human and magisterial power can do to bring the mystery of last night to light. An hour later, Harry Sunderland, looking fagged and worn out, calls. He has discovered nothing, nothing at all, he says, spiritlessly. He is almost afraid to look at Sydney, but Sydney is very quiet, her head resting against the side of the bed, hej face keeping 'ts weary, tearless, patient look. r88 "DEATH IS KING AND VIVAT REX." Mrs. Owenson sits up with her husband all night ; Sydney is dispatched to bed. She goes and sleeps there is no better anodyne, no surer anaesthetic, than heavy trouble. And next morning she takes her post by the bedside, and keeps it all day long- It is a very sad and weary day. Her father has those dreadful spasms more than once. It seems at times as though he cannot live to see nightfall. But he does, and that nightfall brings no news. They are not one step nearer the development of the tragedy than at first. They have sent to New York for a clever detective, and place the case in his hands. All seem to take it for granted that a murder has been done, but i\\e. primd facie evidence of murder (the finding of the body), is wanting here. Had the missing man any enemies ? the detective very naturally asks ; any one at all interested in his removal a rival or anything of that sort ? And the answer is unanimously, no ! So far as all who were acquainted with him seem to know, he had neither rival nor foe. in the world. No mention is made of Dolly De Courcy no one except Cy rilla Hendrick and Ben Ward think of her in connection with the matter, and neither of them will speak. Still, by dint of inquiry, the detective finds out on the second day the little epi- sode of the actress. This missing young gentleman paid her attentions, and deserted her for the young lady he was to marry. The actress was a young person of violent temper, and not the sort to stand by and be jilted quietly. The detective on this hint goes up to New York and ferrets out Dolly. She is easily enough found. She occupies a suite of three rooms in a tenement house, with her mother. Dolly is short and snappish, not to say fierce, and knows nothing about it. She has read the account in the papers ; he was a villain, for whom any death was too good ; he treated her shamefully, and whatever has happened him, she is glad of it. And then Dolly does tragedy, and the fierceness turns to sobs. But she didn't kill him, does the detective suppose it ? She glances scornfully at him and laughs in his face. Would he like to know where she was that night ? Well, she was at home ; he can ask her mother, if he doesn't believe her. Mrs. Snivelly Snivelly is the name of Miss De Courcy"s mother being summoned, not only asseverates that her daughter was at home on the eventful night, but prays that she "ma}' never stir" if she wasn't, and is ready to take her arfadavy of the same. Dolly and Mrs. "DEATH IS KING AND VI VAT REX* 189 are triumphantly prepared to prove an alibi, and the detective returns to Wychcliffe more puzzled than he came. A week passes ; no trace is to be found. If the sea holdi him the sea keeps its secret well. Little by little people lose heart the detective returns to New York, and a lull comes in the search. At Owenson Place, its master lies dying the wonder is that he has lingered so long. It has seemed to him at times that he 'annot die until his boy is found, but death is here. He has never known how dearly he loved the son of his old friend until now. It is the night of the fifth of December, a cold, white, frosty night. The light burns low in the sick man's room, the fire flickers, and on his bed Captain Owenson is drifting out to a wider, darker, lonelier sea than any over which he has ever sailed. In her old place Sydney sits beside him, silent, pallid, shadow- like, thin and worn. She has been the most faithful, the most tender, the most loving of nurses, but still that apathetic trance holds her ; she hardly knows whether she is suffering or not. The sense that she must be here keeps her up, but she is not con- scious of any acute sorrow. Her heart feels numb. Her mother has grown used to her dry eyes and heartlessness, now, but she never ceases to deplore it to her one sympathizer, Miss Hendrick. She has become a perfect Niobe herself, literally drowned in tears. She cries enough for both ; her pale eyes look all faded and washed out with the constant briny rain. "Sydney!" Sydney starts up. She has been resting against the bed, in a dull torpor for the last hour a torpor that is not sleep, but is almost as merciful. "Yes, papa here." "Always 'here,' my darling." His voice is very faint ; the merest whisper indeed his face is all drawn. The awful seal and signet of Death is stamped upon it. "Sydney," he says in that faint whispering voice, "before I lose all power, I want to >ay a few words to you. There isn't much time left now. It's about " a pause and a gasp "Bertie." "Yes, papa." "They've about given up, haven't they? It doesn't take long to tire them ; they don't care whether his body is ever found or not ; whether his murderer is ever discovered. And I oh ! I cannot. But when I am gone, Sydney, dont give it up ; search for his body, search for his murderer search search ! " IQO "DEATH IS KING AND VI VAT REX" 11 Yes, papa." She repeats the two words always in the same weary, worn-out way the same look of mute misery on her face. " Mor.ey will do everything, or almost everything, in this world, and you will have enough of that more than you think. Keep detectives on the track, find Bertie's body and bury it be- side me, find his murderer, and give him to the hangman ! " His eyes flamed up a faint echo of the old fierce ring comes to his voice. " Yes, papa," Sydney says again ; she hardly knows what she is saying, poor child. " Never give it up, Sydney," he pants, " never as long as you live. Sometimes, five, ten, twenty years pass before a murderer is found ; but surely, sooner or later, the dead man's blood will cry out and the assassin will be found. And whether it be five, ten, or twenty years, if he ever crosses your path, hunt him down, bring him to justice, bring him to the gallows for the death he has done ! Sydney, promise me this." " I promise, papa." "Don't forget ! Don't let years blot Bertie from your mind. If ever you meet his slayer, hunt him down ! " "Yes, papa." He has exhausted himself. He falls gasping back, the cold dew standing in beads on his face. In after years that scene came back to Sydney far more vividly than she saw it then. The dimly-lit, silent room, the December wind blowing outside, her father's burning eyes, and the straining, whispering voice her own weary, half-conscious answers. It never left her to the day of her death. She gave him a few drops of a reviving cordial, and then resumed her former place and attitude, her heavy eyelids closing, almost the last words she had heard Bertie speak sounding dully in her mind : " In the midst of life we are in death ; of whom may we seek for succor but of Thee, O Lord, who for our sins are justly displeased." What a weary dreadful time it all was ; what sins had they done that this had fallen upon them ? Mrs. Owenson came in to relieve Sydney and watch for the night. The girl spiritlessly arose. "Good night, papa I do hope you may have a good-night." "I will, Sydney I am sure of it. My little one, good- night." She kissed him and went. He turned to his wife. "DEATH IS KING AND VI VAT RhX i?I "If I die in the night now don't cry !" he said with some of nis old impatience "don't disturb Sydney. Don't tell her until she has had her breakfast in the morning." Then there is silence. Mrs Owenson stifles her sobs, and he lies with his eyes closed. Presently he opens them and holds out his hand, with the shadow of a smile. " We have weathered fair weather and foul weather, for twenty-odd years side by side," he says ; " and you have been a good wife. Good-night, Char." She clasps his hand, and kisses and cries over it, and he does not check her. Perhaps he is thinking he has been rather a hard sailing-master to poor, foolish Char, in the trying voyage of life. Then he drops into a heavy slumber with his face turned from the light. ********* Cyrilla Hendrick is waiting at her friend's door next morning when Sydney comes out She passes her arms about her and kisses her gently. "How is papa?" Sydney asks. "Better," Cyrilla answers very gravely. "He is at rest this morning." She leads Sydney down, sees her drink a cup of coffee and eat a roll, then watches her toil slowly up the stairs to her father's room. Her mother meets her as she opens the door, and takes her in her arms. " Oh ! Sydney, Sydney ! " she sobs. She hasx^ried all night, cried until she thinks she has no more tears left, but she bursts out afresh at sight of her orphaned child. Sydney breaks from her and goes over to the bed. How white he is how still he lies how peaceful he looks. It must be an easy and pleasant thing to die after all ! She slips down on her knees by the bed, and lays her face on the dead hand. " In the midst of life we are in death ; of whom may we seek for succor, but of Thee, O Lord, who for our sins " There is a faint sobbing sigh, and she sinks from the bedside to tht? floor. For the first time in her bright, harpy, seventeen years, Sydney has fainted wholly away. *TWAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING* CHAPTER XXI. "'TWAS ON THE EVENING OF A WINTER'S DAY." | HE last night of a short February day was dying out over the city of Montreal, it had been a day of bitter cold ; the wind had swept in wild, long blasts around Place d'Armes and Champ de Mars, and up and down Notre Dame street, all the sunless day long. Now, with the fall of evening, the gale had fallen too, and the intense cold was slowly but surely abating. At the window of a house in a solitary end of the city, a young girl stood looking thoughtfully out at this gloomy winter nightfall. It was a house detached from all others, shut in rather extensive grounds, a group of noble horse-chestnuts in front lifting themselves in the gloaming like ebony goblins against a sky of lead. It was a house of dull, ugly red brick, with small, old-fashioned windows, and a general air of neglect, and desolation, and decay about it. A high wooden wall in- closed the grounds, with a high wooden gate, generally closed, but open now, showing the snowy path that led to the inhospit- able looking front door, and the two lighted windows, at one of which the watcher stood. Properly she was not a watcher, for she was looking for no one ; she was only gazing aimlessly out at the dismal prospect of snow-covered ground and starless sky. It was Cyrilla Hendrick, and the house was Miss Dormer's mansion, in the good French city of Montreal. Within, the house was silent as a tomb without, few and faint the muffled noises reached her. Montreal is not a deaf- ening city after nightfall. The only light in the room is the light of a large coal fire, and by its glow the apartment is dis- covered to be dingily comfortable the red hue of the well- worn carpet, curtains, chairs, and sofas having something to do with the look of warmth and comfort. There is a small, upright English piano, a few dark oil paintings in fly-blown gilded frames. Everything looked the worse for wear and lack of cleanliness, and so did the small old lady dozing in the big arm-chair in front of the fire Miss Phillis Dormer herself. It is seven weeks since Miss Hendrick returned home. "'TWAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING." 193 Home ! She never calls this gruesome, dull-as-death house that without a shudder. But her home it is, and the only one she is likely to know until she marries Donald McKelpin, Es- quire, which will be a change from Scylla to Charybdis, from the fr\ ing-pan to the fire. All the same, Miss Hendrick has quite made up her mind to make it. As she stands here waiting for Joanna, their one servant, to come in with the tea-tray, and draw the curtains, and Miss Dormer to arouse from her forty winks, she goes over in a dreary way all that has happened since she left school her visit to Sydney Owenson, that brief glimpse of a brighter world that was not the world of Bohemia, and Bertie Vaughan's mysterious disappearance. Mysterious, not tragical hardly even mysteri- ous to Cyrilla's mind. No light whatever had as yet been thrown on the darkness of that extraordinary bridal eve, no news at all of the missing bridegroom ; but Cyrilla still clung to her first firm conviction, that Vaughan had plotted the whole thing, and was now comfortably married to his actress. She thought of Captain Owenson's death of that long exhausted swoon of Sydney's, from which it had taken an hour to arouse her of the slow miserable fever that followed, turning her head and hands to fire, and her body to ice of the hopeless apathy from which nothing could arouse her, the weary death-in-life torpor into which the poor, over-worn child sank. Then came Miss Dormer's imperious letter : Was she ever coming back? Had she engaged herself as hired companion to Mrs. Owenson, or as sick-nurse to her daughter ? Would she kindly remember that she. her aunt, was ailing and alone, and return at once to Mont- real ? It was so nearly Christmas now, there was no use going back to school. Inclosed her niece would find a return ticket, ( iood for Tuesday, December i2th, only." Cyrilla packed her trunk, and went back, not altogether sorry. Owenson Place was a house of mourning now ; the fountain of Mrs. Owenson's tears as inexhaustible as ever, and Sydney did not seem to care whether she stayed or went. It was inex- pressibly dreary. Even Dormer House so Miss Dormer styled h*;r red brick building at the top of her lettersmight prove agreeable as a change, and there at least she would have Mr. M< Kdpin's wooing fora mild amatory stimulant. In the middle of a whirling December snow-storm, Miss Hen- drick's cab drove up to the wooden gate. The cabman carried in her trunk, bag and shawl, and Cyrilla, looking tall and hand- some, and not in the least like the beggarly daughter of Vaga 9 1 94 "'TWAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING." bondia she was, went up to the stiff backed arm-chair, and stooped her high-bred olive face over the withered countenance of Miss Dormer. " Dear aunt ! how glad I am to see you looking so well. How good it seems to be at home again," she said, kissing her. Miss Dormer laughed the shrill, scornful cackle Cyrilla re- membered so well. "Ha I" the cynical old voice said. "You do well to begin in time, Niece Cyrilla. 'How glad you are to see me looking so well,' indeed ! Much you care whether I am well or ill, so that I leave you my money when I die. ' How good it seems to be at home again ! ' I wonder when you would have left your fine friends and come home, if 1 hadn't made you? Don't try it on with me, Niece Cyrilla ; I'm too elderly a bird to be caught with chaff." This was Cyrilla's welcome to the only home she had on earth. She moved away from her aunt's chair, with a bitter smile. " Thank you for reminding me, Aunt Phil. I won't try it again. I suppose I may go to my room ? " "Yes, go, and make yourself as good-looking as you like. You ought to be good looking, with all the fine clothes I had to pay for, for the wedding the wedding that never came off, ha ! ha ! Make haste, and come back and tell me all about it." Cyrilla reappeared in one of the wedding-dresses, a soft, rich blue merino, trimmed with black lace, Bertie Vaughan's hand- some locket and chain on her neck, and sweeping into the dim dingy room like some slender young duchess. Mr. McKelpin was coming to tea, and to inspect his future wife, and preparations were on a scale of magnitude accordingly. The old silver, and cut glass, and fine Irish linen napery, were got out ; there were cold meat, and sliced tongue, and mashed potatoes, and hot rolls for supper. " If that estimable man, Mr. McKelpin, had a weakness," said Miss Dormer, grimly, to her niece, " it was his stomach. . It was well to inform her in time since it was to be her life's destiny to cater to that organ." Meantime she devoured Cyrilla with questions concerning the wedding that " was to have been and never was." She showed a honible, a greedily repulsive delight in every detail. How did the bride bear it ? Was she overwhelmed with pain and shame, with mortification and disappointment ? . "'TWAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING* 19$ "Not at all, Aunt Phil," Cyrilla responded, coolly. "She didn't care for the man. From first to last she thought only of her father. You must remember she wasn't in love that makes a difference." "Ah, yes, that makes a difference," said Phillis Dormer, set- ting her false teeth, the old fierce light flaming up in her dull eyes. Was she thinking of that old pain and shame, forgotten by all the world now save herself ? Was the wound so long ago given not healed yet ? Was it possible even a scar remained after five-and twenty years ? " Do you hear from England often ?" was her next question. " I never hear," Cyrilla responded with a sigh. " Poor papa may be dead and buried, for what I know." " And a very good thing, too, if he is," said Jack Hendrick's affectionate half-sister. " When men are of no use in the world the best thing they can do is to leave it. Did I tell you, Niece Cyrilla, that Mr. McKelpin was coming to tea?" " You mentioned that fact, Aunt Dormer." " He's coming to look a.\.you" pursued the old lady, grimly. " If he likes your looks he'll ask you to marry him." " What bliss ! " murmurs Miss Hendrick. " To-night, aunt ? " " Don't be impertinent, miss. No, not to-night ; whenever it suits him. That's if he likes your looks ; if he doesn't " " Ah," don't mention the dreadful contingency ! " interrupts Cyrilla, with a shudder ; " let me at least live in hope until the fatal hour comes. Surely the lowliest of his handmaidens will find favor in my lord's sight ! " " Don't be sarcastic, Niece Cyrilla. If there is one thing men hate and naturally above another, it is a sarcastic woman. And don't interrupt me again. If you marry Mr. M< Kelpin I mean to make you my heiress, feeling sure that my money will never be idly squandered in his possession. If he doesn't care to marry you, I will leave you five thousand dollars. Meantime you are to read to me, nurse me when I am sick, play and sing for me, and make yourself useful and agreeable generally. I receive no company none whatever. Mr. McKelpin and the doctor are the only men who ever cross my front door. And I shall countenance no gadding on your part quiet and decorous, willing to resign your own pleasure to mint-, I expect you to be. There is Mr. McKelpin's knock. Joanna will answer it to-night after to-night it will be one TWAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING? 1 97 rilla's thoughts drifted away hundreds of miles, and she forgot both. What was Fred Carew about ? When would she hear from him again ? His regiment was not coming to Montreal until February what a dreary time away February seemed. After tea, by order of the chatelaine, Miss Hendrick aired hei accomplishments for the benefit of her prospective husband , she played, she sang, she showed her drawings, she recited a poem in French and another in German, of which languages Mr. McKelpin knew as much as he did of Coptic and Runic. "But he deigned to listen soberly to all, his ten fingers clasped before him as though in prayer his chalky sodden face never losing its owl-like solemnity. " Verra good, ver-r-a good, indeed," he said, when the per- formance ended. " You've improved your opportunities I make no doubt. But these things are but vanities and frivolity at best. Housekeeping in a' its brenches and ramifications is the great accomplishment the young miss o' the praisent day should lairn." " My niece Cyrilla will begin to-morrow," put in the piping voice of Miss Dormer. " It is my intention she shall spend three hours of each day in the kitchen under the instructions of Joanna." And so life began for Cyrilla. Three hours a day in a calico dress, in a hot kitchen, under the tuition of a deaf old cook, learning the mysteries of puddings and pies, roasts and broils, for the future delectation of Donald McKelpin. Four hours of reading and playing for Aunt Dormer ; no visitors, no going out, except at stated times with a market basket. Cyrilla's soul loathed it all. She hated household duties ; she abhorred cooking : she nearly stifled herself with yawns, reading aloud. Oh ! the deadly deadly dullness of it ! Then Mr. McKel- pin's evenings, three in a week, to play long whist at a penny a game with Miss Dormer, each greedily eager to win, and taking no notice of her yawning drearily in the background. What a Christmas that was what a New Year what a January 1 Would Cyrilla ever, ever forget it ! But the stagnant calm was near its end, and Mr. McKelpin, of all men, the man to break it. Stolid, dull, lumbering as the man was, he yet was a man, and as such bad from the first cast an eye of approval upon the tall symmetrical figure, and haughtily handsome face of Miss DOT mer's youthful relative. igS "'TWAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING* "Your niece is a verra well-favored young woman, Miss Dor mer," was all he had ever said about it ; but the admiration was there, and in due course of time worked itself out of his slow soul to the surface. One evening early in February, at half past eight to a minute (he religiously left at nine), Mr McKelpin opened his mouth, and in words grave, sedate and few, in the presence of the two ladies, asked the younger to do him the favor of becoming his wife. "There's a disparity o' years, T am well aware," slowly and austerely said Donald McKelpin, " but the disparity is on the right side. For my own pairt, I think it's always best for a frivo- lous young pairson of the female sex to be united in wedlock wi' a man considerably her senior. You have given me to un- derstand, Miss Dormer, that you'll look wi' the eye o' favor on the match, and so, if Miss Cyrilla's willing, in the name o' Providence, we'll consider the thing settled." And the thing was settled. What she said to this impas- sioned declaration Cyrilla never knew; she was only conscious at the time of a hysterical desire to burst out laughing. But Aunt Phil's fierce old eye was upon her, so she controlled the insane desire, 'and there and then became the affianced of Mr. Donald McKelpin. The next time he came he brought with him an engagement ring of plain gold, his mother's wedding ring, in fact, and worn rather thin, and with elephantine playful- ness pressed it upon his bride's acceptance. Miss Hendrick took it with an unmoved countenance, and put it on the finger that wore poor Freddy Carew's. Poor Freddy Carew, indeed ! He wrote to Miss Hendrick regularly, and as Miss Hendrick always answered the door she received his letters without the slightest trouble or danger, and most regu- larly responded. Mr. Carew, therefore, was not left to pine in ignorance of Miss Hendrick's matrimonial good fortune. This cold February day on which she stands, idly gazing out of the window, has been a day more than usually eventful among the eventless days of her life. The early morning mail brought a letter from Mrs. Owenson announcing her departure with Sydney for New York, to spend March and April. " My dear girl is still in miserably poor health and low spirits," wrote Mrs. Owenson, " and I am taking her to my cousin's, Mrs. Macgregor, of Madison Avenue. Change of scene and the cheerful companionship of her cousins will no doubt cheer her up. In May we go to Europe, to remain two years at least. Sydney will write further particulars by next mail." *TtPAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING." 199 Happy Sydney Owenson ! Cyrilla enviously sighs. Yes happy, thrice happy in spite of her bereavement. To Miss Hen- drick it looks no such great bereavement after all. She didn't care for Bertie Vaughan, empty-headed, conceited noodle that he was ! and for her father well, of course, a doting, respectable and rich father is a person to be grieved for still, to Miss Hendrick's philosophic mind, it wasn't a grief to embitter the life of an heiress. A winter in New York ah ! lucky Sydney two years in Europe thrice-blessed orphan heiress ! Beauty and wealth unlimited. Yes ! Sydney Owenson was one of the elect of the earth, one of the darlings of the gods. The second event was the news that morning's paper had given her. The th had arrived in Montreal, and were quartered here for the winter. So ! Freddy was come, and she would see a sympathetic human face at last. The third event was the departure of Mr. McKelpin for Scot- land on the morrow, to be absent until the first week in June. The wedding is fixed for the close. This will be the last night for over three months the devoted Donald will spend in the company of his betrothed. But as she stands here and looks dreamily out, it is not of her betrothed, I regret to say, Miss Hendrick is thinking. Where when how will she see Fred Carew ? Poor Freddy ! he has not said much in his letters about her faithlessness, but the news of her betrothal has been as gall and wormwood to him, she knows. " Shut the shutters, Niece Cyrilla, and don't stand mooning there all night. 1 suppose you have been crying quietly over the departure of Mr. McKelpin ? " Thus sharply and sneeringly aroused from her nap by Miss Dormer, Cyrilla obeys. " I never cry, Aunt Phil ; it is one of the principles of rny life, and not even for Mr. McKelpin's sweet sake can I break through it. Shall I tell Joanna to fetch in tea ? " " You'll get something to cry for yet, mark my words, hard as you are," croaks Miss Dormer. "As Mr. McKelpin's wife? I think it extremely likely," cheerfully assents Cyrilla. " Still I shall put off the evil day until the evil day comes. Shall I call Joanna?" " Yes, call," says Aunt Phil, snappishly. Their encounters are sharp and frequent, and she generally finds herself worsted. Cyrilla is her dependent, certainly, but Cyrilla does not hold her pauper head in that haughty way for nothing. She keeps aoo "'TWAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING." her own well with Miss Dormer, and Miss Dormer likes her none the less for it. Joanna comes with their daily bread and butter and cold meat. It is a silent meil. The old maid is thinking how she will miss long whist and Mr. McKelpin, in the empty, endless, March evenings so near. The young maid is thinking how much brighter a look life has taken on since FredCarew is in Montreal. Half-past seven brings Mr. McKelpin. He shakes hands in a stiff way with his affianced, and hands her that evening's paper, and sits down to his last game with Miss Dormer. There is silence ; a paraffin lamp burns between them, the fire looks red and cheerful, the room cozy and comfortable, contrasted with the bleak coldness of the winter night outside. Miss Hendrick is reading the paper, searching for further news of the th, when loud and long there comes a knock at the door. " The postman ! " cries Cyrilla, starting up ; " a letter from Sydney." She rushes from the room, down the stairs, and throws open the door. A man stands there, but it is not the postman. He is not so tall as the postman, and he looks military. He wears a sealskin jacket and cap, the visor of the cap pulled over his eyes he wears sealskin gloves and carries a cane. " Ah-h ! " says this gentleman; "can you tell me if Mrs. Brown lives here ? " Cyrilla stands petrified. Surely she knows that voice Her heart beats as it has not beaten for four months. Can it can it be " Does Mrs. Brown live here, Beauty ? " asks again that famil- iar voice. He raises his cap ; the wan glimmer of the hall lamp falls full on his face, the serene, smiling face of Fred Carew. Miss Hendrick gives one gasp. " Oh, Freddy ! " is what she says. " How do you do, Beauty ? " says Mr. Carew, pleasantly. "Shake hands, won't you, or is it permitted the future Mrs. McKelpin to go that far ? You see I got to Montreal this morn- ing, and naturally the first thing I did was to look you up." "But to come here to Aunt Dormers house ! Oh, Fred ! " Cyrilla gasps again. " 'i'o the dragon's den. But then, really you know, I possess an overwhelming amount of courage. And I knew from youi letters that no one ever came to the door but yourself. You told me, you remember ? " "'TWAS ON A WINTERS EVENING." 201 " But I dare not stay. Aunt Dormer will miss me ; she and Mr. McKelpin are playing cards now." " But you can go back and steal out again, can't you, Beauty ? Say you have a headache and want to go to your room. I'll wait yonder under the trees. Only don't keep me long. Even friendship so glowing and ardent as mine may get chilled if kept too long in a Montreal February night." " I'll try ! I'll come ! " Cyrilla exclaims. " Wait, Freddy ; I'll be with you in ten minutes ! " She shuts the door and flies back. The glad, excited gleam of her eyes might tell its story, but the card-players are too much engrossed with their game to take heed. " Well, who was it ?" Miss Dormer querulously asks. She has lost ninepence and feels badly accordingly. " More letters?" " No ; a man ; he asked if Mrs. Brown lived here," demurely answered Miss Hendrick. " Mrs. Brown, indeed. Your deal, Mr. McKelpin ; luck will surely turn this time. Did you bolt the door after him, Cyrilla ? " " Certainly. Aunt Dormer ! " " Well ? " " While you're finishing this game I'll run up to my room my head rather aches, and I'll bathe it with camphor." Miss Dormer is too deeply absorbed in the new deal to re- ply. Cyrilla departs. Five seconds later and she is under the stripped chestnuts, both hands clasped fast in Fred Carew's. " Oh, Fred, I am glad to see you. How good of you to come." " Goodness is my normal state, Beauty." The first greetings are over by this time. " And so I really behold before me the affianced of Mr. Donald McKelpin ? " " You really do, and as such please relinquish my hands ; my shawl is as warm as as your fur gloves. Mr. McKelpin doesn't approve of indecorous familiarities." " Doesn't he? Excepting himself, of course. He is privi- eged, lucky beggar ! " says Mr. Carew, with a sigh. "Not even excepting himself. He comes three evenings a week, says ' How d'ye do, Miss Cyrilla ? ' and gives me a hand like a dead, damp fish. 1 never know what to do with it, so I give it back to him again." " And when is the wedding to come off, may I ask, Miss Hendrick ? " 9* 202 "'TWAS ON A WINTER'S EVENING." " You may ask, Mr. Carew. To come off, Deo volente, the last week of June." "Beauty," Mr. Carew says, gravely, "how is this to end?" " In a cold in the head for me most likely," laughs Cyrilla, wilfully misunderstanding. " Don't look so doleful, Fred it doesn't become you. June is June this is February, and I am Cyrilla Hendrick still. He goes off to-morrow Dieumerci to be gone three months. Oh, if some kind Christian would invite me out to spend an evening, we might meet and have a chat now and then." "That is easily enough managed, if your dragon will let you go. Mrs. Delamere is here, and she shall call upon you and invite you. The Colonel is about to retire from the army, and they sail for England in April. If she calls, do you think Miss Dormer will let you go ? " " I think so, so long as she does not suspect you are here. Warn Mrs. Delamere. If my aunt knew you were in Montreal, I believe she would never let me out of her sight. And now, Freddy, I positively must go." He does not detain her. It is very cold, and cold Mr. Carew does not like. " Mrs. Delamere shall call to-morrow; you will come to her house, and we can talk things over where the thermometer is not a hundred or so below zero. Don't make your farewells to the Scotchman too affectionate, Beauty, please, because my prophetic soul tells me you'll never write your name Cyrilla McKelpin." The game of whist is finished as she enters, and the clock is striking nine. Miss Dormer has won her ninepence back, and is in high good spirits once more. Colorless and smileless, Mr. McKelpin stands up and buttons his coat to go. " Good-by, Miss Dormer." He shakes hands. " Goou-by, Miss Cyrilla." The dead damp fish is extended to her. "You'll write to me occasionally, I hope, while 1 am gone ? " " Oh, of course," Cyrilla answers, with cheerful alacrity. " 1 wish you a pleasant voyage, Mr. McKelpin." He is gone. Miss Dormer retires to her room. Joanna bolts and bars the house. Cyrilla makes her aunt's night toilet and sees her safely in bed. Then she goes to her own room, lets down her hair, and looks at her own face in the glass a fac : that has not looked back at her with so happy, so bright a glance, for three weary months. As she looks and sm'les, Fred Carew's question returns to her " Beauty, how is this to end ? " " Off, WHISTLE, AND PLL COME TO YE" 203 " How, indeed ! " she thinks, " in disaster for me, I haven't ths slightest doubt. But meantime Donald has gone and Freddy has come, and let it end how it may, I shall be happy until the close of June, at least." CHAPTER XXII. "OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD." R. McKELPIN departed next morning from Montreal, and that evening there was no long whist, a penny a game, at Dormer House. Instead, Cyrilla read aloud a drearily-dull novel, over which she yawned surrepti- tiously, and Miss Dormer yawned aloud. And this was but the beginning of the end, the elder lady thought bitterly, but the beginning of a long series of such dull-as-death days and nights. True, when Mr. McKelpin was Cyrilla's husband the card-play- ing would be resumed, but meantime There can be no doubt at this point of her career but that old Miss Dormer would have married Donald McKelpin herself for the sake of his society, in spite of her fifty-odd years and crooked back, if a hopeless infirmity had not stood in her way. There can also be no doubt but that McKelpin would have married her if she had made it a sine qua iwn. No one in Montreal knew exactly how much Miss Dormer was worth as accurately as he did. In his secret soul (if he possessed such a sanctuary) he may have preferred the slim, dusk, handsome niece, but if he had had to choose between the niece of nineteen, penniless, and the aunt of five and-fifty, with half a million, Donald would not have hesitated. He was hard-headed by nature and by nationality, but he was not destined to be put to the test. Miss Dormer dying slowly in her chair of an incurable distemper, could not dream of marriage for herself, and so, as the next best thing, passed him on to Cyrilla. In any case she meant him to have her money, and he could hardly do less than take her destitute niece with it. Another heavy day, another dragging evening, both ladies gaping over their insipid novel until the Fin:s was reached 204 " OH, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YE." Outside, the February winds rattled the trees and sent the sleet drifting against the windows. Inside, firelight and lamplight did their best to dispel the vapors, and did their best in vain. Phil lis Dormer's old eyes went drearily to the card-table ; Cyrilla Hendrick's looked restlessly into the ruby heart of the fire, and both could have wailed with Tennyson : "Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! " Only, naturally, each was thinking of a different hand and voice. The afternoon of the third day brought Mrs. Delamere. Cyrilla, as usual, answered the door, and after ten minutes' private chat, came back to her aunt's room, a flush of hope and expectation in her eyes. " Who is it ? " Miss Dormer fretfully asked. " Mrs. Colonel Delamere, aunt. You have heard me tell how kind she was to me at Petite St. Jacques. The Colonel is about to retire from the army, and they sail for England, where he has a large estate, in April. Meantime they are staying in Montreal. She wishes very much to make your acquaintance, Aunt Dormer. May I ask her up ? " Miss Dormer looked keenly and suspiciously at her niece. " What does she want to make my acquaintance for, a crip- pled, miserable old creature like me ? What does she want of me?" " She wants nothing but the pleasure of knowing you. I told her you never saw any one, but she begged you would kindly make an exception in her favor. Shall I tell her you will not see her ? " " And insult a stranger in my own house ? No, Niece Cyrilla. I will see her. Show her up." Mrs. Colonel Delamere, imposing in brown silk and velvets, was shown up accordingly ; and quite awed for a moment, by her size and splendor, even grim Aunt Phil. But she was so cordial, so chatty, so friendly, that the awe speedily vanished and a pleasant excitement took its place. She stayed for over an hour, retailed all the news of the day, discussed Canada and England, and Miss Dormer actually experienced a feeling of regret when at last she arose to go. " I have overstayed my time," she said, with her soft, mel- low laugh ; " but really, it is so pleasant to meet a kindred spirit, and countrywoman, with whom to abuse Canada, its dreadfuj "OH % WHISTLE, AMD PLL COME TO YE." 205 climate and dreadful customs. Dear Miss Dormer, you really shouldn't lead the life of a recluse, an you do ; it is positively unkind to your friends. At least you must make me the ex- ception to your rule. And, meantime, as a great favor, I must beg of you to let this child come to see me. She was one of my especial pets at Petite St. Jacques, and, remember, I leave in April, and may never see her again." Miss Dormer's face darkened. " She never goes out," she said, querulously ; " I can't spare her." " Ah ! but, dear Miss Dormer, as a great favor to me. She and Miss Owenson were quite like my own daughters. And as she tells me she is to be married so soon to a most estimable man June, is it not, Cyrilla, love ? you should allow her a little more liberty. She must know somebody as Mr. McKel- pin's wife. I am sure he would wish it himself, and I promise you she shall know none but the very nicest people." "Well," Miss Dormer said, slowly and reluctantly; "but, mind, if she does, no gadding, no flirting with young men I won't have it." " Flirting ! " Mrs. Delamere repeated, in a voice of horror. " Really, Miss Dormer, how can you think such a thing of me ? No, no ! even if our dear girl were inclined and I am sure she is much too sensible I would never countenance such levity in an engaged young lady. I receive, next Tuesday, Cy- rilla, love. The carriage shall call for you very early. Only a few friends, Miss Dormer not three unmarried men among them. Good afternoon, my dear lady, and a thousand thanks for your kind permission." "Humph!" grunted Miss Dormer, distrustfully. "You're a deal too sweet, ma'am, for my taste too sweet by half to be wholesome ! " Cyrilla laughed noiselessly as she escorted her fat friend to the front door. " How well you did it ! " she exclaimed. " What an unde- veloped talent for intrigue you must possess, Mrs. Delamere 1 I believe I should have gone melancholy mad before spring if you had not come." Tuesday night was five days off, and during these five days Miss Hendrick saw nothing of Mr. Carew. She received several notes from him, however, in his usual brief and trench- ant style ; ind brightened up so, under their influence, ar.d the thought of Tuesday night, that she looked quite a new being 2ob "OH, WHISTLE, AND PLL COME TO YE." Miss Dormer saw it, with a great many sneers and croaks, bul Cyrilla bore all with angelic patience. Aunt Phil would noi retract her plighted word, and she asked no more. Very early before eight o'clock, in fact the Delamert sleigh was at the door, and Cyrilla, looking very eager and handsome, threw on her wraps, and was driven off. " Mind, be back early by midnight at the latest ! " croaked Miss Dormer after her. " Joanna shall sit up for you." The drive was not ten minutes long. Mrs. Delamere's " fur- nished apartments " were brilliant with gaslight ; and, early as she was, Cyrilla found one guest before her a very tall, elderly young lady, wearing diamonds and cerise silk, and to whom she was introduced as " Mrs. Fogarty." " I had no idea she would have come at this absurd hour," whispered Mrs. Delamere to her protegee. "She's a widow, out of weeds, as you see, immensely rich, and very much sought after on that account. Leaving her money out of the question, she has that kittenish, coquettish style that takes Heaven knows why with men, and is sure to make a heavy evening go off. The late lamented (his name makes patent his nationality) was forty years her senior, a pork man, and, as I have said, im- mensely rich. After the two years of nuptial bliss he departed - to a better world, let us trust, since he was frightfully hen- pecked in this." Miss Hendrick laughed as she threw off her cloak, and smoothed her shining coiled hair. " I haven't seen much of Mrs. Fogarty as yet," she said, " but from the little I have, I should think any change the pork man could make would be for the better. Two years of her unalloyed society I should say would be enough to kill any man." " The droll thing about it is," pursued Mrs. Delamere, with an odd little sidelong glance at her young friend, " is that she has come here at this unheard-of hour, and overdressed, as you per- ceive all for the sake of Fred Carew." " What I" exclaimed Cyrilla, knitting her brows. " Perfectly true, I assure you. She met him three days ago for the first time, and conceived a tendresse for him at sight. She always has a tendresse for some one. This morning she encountered Carew and the Colonel in St. James Street, and the Colonel, in his usual ridiculous way, told her Freddy was com- ing early very early, to smoke a cigar with him, and he hoped she would come early also and help entertain him ! The re- sult there she is !" " Off, WHISTLE, AND PLL COME TO YE." 207 " Is the woman an idiot ? " Cyrilla scornfully asked. "Oh, dear no ! Freddy generally does make an impiession on elderly young women at sight. Witness Miss Jones of the Pensionnat. Only it is not every elderly young lady who wears her heart on her sleeve as frankly as does Mrs. Fogarty." " For the sake of common decency I should hope not," re- torts Miss Hendrick with cold scorn. " Hush, dear ! here we are," says Mrs. Delamere. She opens the door of the drawing-room and sails majestically in. Miss Hendrick follows and sees Fred Carew, faultless and elegant to behold, a camellia in his button-hole, sitting on a sofa by Mrs. Fogarty's side, submitting to being made love to, with his customary serene and courteous face. " Mr. Carew, Miss Hendrick. You may remember meeting Mr. Carew once before, Cyrilla, love," says Mrs. Delamere, blandly. And Mr. Carew arises, and bows pleasantly and makes a smiling, foolish little speech about "the pleasure er of re- newing Miss Hendrick' s um acquaintance," etc.; and Miss Hendrick bends her rather haughty-looking head, and moves disdainfully away. A batch of arrivals enter; the hostess sweeps forward to meet them. Mr. Carew makes an effort to get up and follow Miss Hendrick to where she has seated herself at a distant table, and opened that refuge of the destitute, a photographic album. But Mrs. Fogarty is a veteran of four-and-thirty, although she does not look it, and is equal to the occasion. For the sake of Mr. Carew she has put on her diamonds, her Point d'Alencon, and her cerise silk, and come to Mrs. Delamere's " Tuesday ;" is it likely then she will allow Mr. Carew to fly off at a tangent? In her practised hands, Freddy is as an artless mouse in the grasp of a skillful, elderly mouser. By her side he is, by her side he shall remain ! And he does. He cannot break away he cannot tell how he makes half a-dozen attempts she skilfully meets and baf- fles them all. Without positive rudeness he cannot quit her side ; and positive rudeness, even to a Mrs. Fogarty, is something Fred is quite incapable of. He sees Cyrilla monopolized by half-a- dozen of his brother officers, looking handsome and brilliant her clear, sarcastic laugh comes to him where he sits, and he groans in anguish of spirit. At last he never knows how he rises he says something Mrs. Fogarty may know what ; he never does makes a bow, and finds himself by Cyrilla's side. She is alone, the last of the warriors for the moment has 208 " OJ, WHISTLE, AND PLL COME TO YE" deserted her, and she looks upon Mr. Carew with no frien lh eye. " ' Man's inhumanity to man,' " murmurs poor Freddy, in a plaintive tone, " 'makes countless thousands mourn.' But what is it oh ! what is it compared with the inhumanity of woman?" " I don't know what you are talking about," says Miss Hen- drick, scornfully. " I tried to get away," continues Mr. Carew in the same pite- ous voice, " give you my honor I did, Beauty, more than once, and she wouldn't let me. What did she do it for ? What grudge does she bear me ? I never did anything to her! " " Can't you see imbecile," says Miss Hendrick, still more scornfully, but inclined to laugh ; the woman's in love with you painted, simpering ninny ! I sat here and watched you, and thought I never in all my life saw a more idiotic-looking pair ! " " In love with me ! Oh, good heaven ! " exclaims Mr. Ca- rew, so much genuine, unaffected horror in his tone that Cyrilla laughs outright. " You never mean to tell me that ! " "My dear Mr. Carew," replies Miss Hendrick, "a woman who will paint and powder to the extent that woman is painted and powdered, is simpleton enough for anything even to falling in love with you. She's seven-and-thirty if she's a day, and she's made up to look seventeen. Observe those shoulder- blades and those cheek-bones women never get that look this side of thirty. She's worth no end of money made in Pork with a large P and she has cast the eye of favor upon your manifold charms, Freddy. Let me be the first to congratulate you ! " "Beauty," says Mr. Carew, in a depressed tone, "let us change the subject. There isn't anything that woman took into her head she couldn't make me do. So the dragon let you off duty, did she?" " As you see, Fred, else I wouldn't be here." " Are you aware I have been on the look-out for you ever since that night at your aunt's gate ? I have patrolled your street like a sentry on guard, early and late. Do you never go out?" " Hardly ever. Once a week I do the marketing give the orders, that is. Sometimes I have my ' Sunday out.' 1 express a wish to go to church ind am allowed to go. Aunt Dormer is a professed heathen hei self another good turn she owes thai false and faithless papa of yours, my Fred." "Off, WHISTLE, AND VLL COME TO YE. n 209 "What church do you patronize Sundays, pray?" " Notre Dame principally, for the sake of the music." " Shall you be there next Sunday ?" " If next Sunday is fine, and Aunt Phil's temper doesn't turn to gall and bitterness." " When do you go morning or evening?" " Morning." " 1 shall attend Notre Dame next Sunday morning," say3 Mr. Carew, gravely. " Pending next Sunday, cannot you man- age to meet me somewhere, Beauty. I have a million things to say to you. I proposed to relieve myself of a few to-night, but Mrs. Fogarty bless her ! has frustrated all that. By-the-by, one of them was what sort of a parting did you and Sandy have ? Not too affectionate, I hope ? " " Mr. McKelpin's highly respectable name is Donald, as I think I have informed you before. For our parting that is no concern of yours. The last farewells of those who love is much too sacred a subject to be exposed to the profane levity of out siders." " Ah ! " says Freddy, in a quenched tone, and the depressed look returns. Miss Hendrick compassionately comes to the rescue. " You said there were a million things you had to say to me this is only one. Proceed with the rest, and quickly; for in the distance Mrs. Fogarty is eying you as a vulture its prey, and will swoop down upon you in three minutes." " I want to see you, Cyrilla I want to talk to you seriously seriously, mind!" says Mr. Carew, "about this engagement with McKelpin. At what hour, daily, does Miss Dormer take her after-dinner nap ? Old ladies always do take after-dinner naps, don't they ?" " My experience of old ladies is extremely limited, I am happy to say. Miss Dormer goes to sleep at three o'clock every afternoon with the regularity of clockwork " " Then what is to hinder your stealing out every afternoon at three o'clock ? " cries Freddy, eagerly. and wakes," pursues Cyrilla, "as I was about to say when you interrupted me, on an average every five minutes. She looks about the room, and if I am not visible she calls for me. The instant I siole out to meet you, that instant the dear old lady would awake." " Still let us try it," goes on Freddy, undaunted, " for see you I must. Look here, Beauty every afternoon 1 will go to 2 10 " OH, WHISTLE, AND PLL COME TO YE." your house wind and weather permitting and I'll give you some signal to apprise you. Let me see ah ! I'll whistle a tune ' La Ci darem] for instance. And you shall come to the window and wave your handkerchief if there is a chance of your getting off. If to-morrow is fine " "Oh, Mr. Carevv !" exclaims the vivacious tones of the Pork gentleman's widow, " we are making up a card table, and we lust want one. Do come and be my partner you will be for- tunate, I am sure, and I am so unlucky at cards. Miss Hen- drick will excuse you, I am sure." Miss Hendrick bows frigidly and turns away. And before he quite realizes it, Mr. Carew is captured and carried off. " I am so unlucky at cards," gushes the widow, " and I do want a good partner so much." The last thing that reaches Miss Hendrick's disgusted ears is the imbecility Fred is murmuring : " unlucky at cards lucky in love the inexpressible pleasure of being Mrs. Fogarty's partner even for an hour, etc., etc." Then a brother officer of Carew's approaches, and asks her to waltz. She goes, and as the gentleman knows what he is about, enjoys the dance thor- oughly. She sees no more of Mr. Carew that evening, but she does not allow it to spoil her pleasure. She frowns a little, to observe how closely Mrs. Fogarty keeps him pinned to her side ; but all the same, she thoroughly enjoys this small reception of Mrs. Delamefe's. The last thing she notices as she flits away to put on her things and go home, is Fred Carew meandering languidly through a square dance with his widow. Next day Fred is faithfully at his post, and the first bar of "La Ci Darem la Mario" reaches Cyrilla' s ears at a quarter past three. Miss Dormer is asleep, and she goes silently out and disappears with her lover around an angle of the house. This meeting is but the beginning of many. At each inter- view Mr. Carew uses all his eloquence, employs every argument he can bring to bear to induce Cyrilla to end the farce she is playing, to throw over the Scotchman and engage herself to him. Cyrilla listens, and laughs in his face. " And starve with you in a garret, like a pair of modern Babes in the Wood ? No, thank you, Freddy I like you very well, but I don't wish to commit suicide for your sake. It's pleasant to meet you in this way forbidden fruit is always sweetest, and it is good to see a face I knew in the old blissful, beggarly vaga- "Off, WHISTLE, AND TLL COME TO YE. n 211 Dond days ; but marry you poor as you are now ! No ! not while I keep my senses." About the middle of March, Mrs. Fogarty gave a ball at the Fogarty mansion in Shelbourne Street, which, for barbaric splen- dor and costliness, was long the talk of the town. Half Mon- treal seemed to be invited among them the rich Miss Dormer's heiress and niece the rich Donald McKelpin's affianced wife. Miss Dormer's niece obtained permission to go. To despise your hostess and yet enjoy her parties is no uncommon phase of society. Miss Hendrick put on the " strawberry-ice " silk, pre- sented her as bridemaid's dress by Sydney Owenson a rich and beautiful garment, stylishly made and trimmed. She wore a cluster of pink roses (sent by Freddy) in her glossy black braids, and a set of pearls loaned her by Aunt Phil for this occasion only. Her bouquet (sent also by Freddy) was of pink and white roses. And as she came into Mrs. Fogarty 's rooms, her dark head held high, her manner so eminently dis- tinguished and self-possessed, she looked the handsomest and most thoroughbred woman in the rooms. Mr. Carew was there, and on this night Mrs. Fogarty's atten- tions to him were painfully marked. To tell the truth, Mrs. Fogarty had made up her mind to marry him. She had married the pork man for money ; she would marry Mr. Carew for love ! Also for his handsome face, his elegant manners, his scarlet coat, and his connection with the British peerage. His grand uncle was an earl ; more than one life, as good as his own, stood between him and the succession ; but these lives might be removed, and she might write her name Countess of Dunraith ! She was still young she owned to four-and-twenty, and the record of the family Bible no one knew but herself. She was very rich, and half-a-dozen men this very winter had asked her to marry them. Mr. Carew was poor ; his admiration of her was quite patent to herself; before May he must propose. She would accept him, marry him, and take him for a honey- moon tour around the world, calling, en roufe, at Dunraith Park ! With all these good resolutions in her mind, she steadfastly held Fred at her side the whole night long. Men laughed and congratulated him ; the havoc he had made in the fair Fogarty's affections she took no pains to conceal ; the women, as a rule. expressed themselves disgusted. For Miss Hendrick, with her handsome face, betokening only tranquil enjoyment, she danced the long night through, without exchanging a do/en words with him. *I2 OH, WHISTLE, AND PLL COME TO YE" Once, indeed he broke his fetters, and rushed to her side, and implored her to dance with him ; but Miss Hendrick, in a voice thoroughly iced, told him she was engaged for every dance she meant to dance until she left, and turned her white shoulder pointedly upon him, and resumed her animated flirtation with Major Riddell. But once at home a few hours later, she tore off her pink silk, her pearls and roses, and flung them, a lustrous heap, in a fine fury, across the room. She was by nature intensely jealous j Mrs. Fogarty's quiet monopoly of Fred Carew all night had half- maddened her. She did not mean to marry him herself ; but to give him up to that woman that odious, brainless, giggling woman ! No ! She would ruin her every prospect in life, re- nounce Mr. McKelpin and her aunt's fortune, sooner ! Then an outbreak of vindictive tears, and the belle of Mrs. Fogarty's ball cried herself in a jealous rage to sleep. Mrs. Delamere, still Miss Dormer's only visitor, came quite often, and helped on the ending of the drama. " Really, Cyrilla, my love," she said, laughingly, more than once, " I think we will have fellow-passengers by the Austrian, in April. I am as sure as that I stand here Nelly Fogarty will be our traveling-companion." " Alone ? " Miss Hendrick asks. "Alone?" laughs Mrs. Delamere. " Simple child ! have you no eyes ? She means to marry Fred Carew, and take him with her. Poor Freddy it is a case of ' greatness thrust,' and so on. He doesn't like it, but when the proper time comes he will face his doom like a man and a soldier." About this time too, the short letters, the signal whistle under the windows, were given up. Mr. Carew was evidently getting tired of wooing another man's future wife. Rumors on all sides reached the girl's ears of his perpetual presence at the Hotel Fogarty. The blooming widow took him shopping in her cunning little blue velvet sleigh, gave dinner parties, none of which he ever missed, went to church with him Sundays, and let him carry her ruby velvet and gold prayer-book into the pew. Widows have been dangerous from time immemorial what was a poor little fellow like Fred Carew, totally unprotected, to do when laid siege to like this ? " Samivel, bevare of the vidders," said Mr. Weller, and Mr. Weller understood human nature. The first week of April Mrs. Delamere gave a farewell re- union ; Miss Hendrick was bidden and had obtained leave to go, "But mind," said Miss Dormer, grimly, "it is the last time "Off, WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YE. n 213 This makes three in two months. You go to no more fandan- goes, Niece Cyrilla." " I am sure I don't want to," responded Cyrilla, wretchedly ; " they don't afford me so much pleasure. I wish Mr. McKel- pin was back, and my wedding comfortably over." Once again, as a matter of course, Mr. Carew and Mrs. Fogarty were present, and once again, also, as a matter of course, in close juxtaposition. But presently Mr. Carew's order of release came, and armed with a white satin fan he sauntered over and took a seat beside her. " Well, Beauty," he begins, in his pleasant, lazy voice, " I have been waiting to come over for the last half hour and tell you how uncommonly well you are looking to-night." " And your keeper, Mrs. Fogarty, wouldn't let you, I sup- pose," says Miss Hendrick, scornfully. She's looking uncom- monly well, too, isn't she ? Have you told her so ?" " There is no need, Beauty to look uncommonly well is Mrs. Fogarty's normal state." "Yes," says Miss Hendrick, her handsome short upper lip curling, " there's nothing common about her, I admit, not even common sense ! Might one inquire whose very bridal-like fan that is you wield so gracefully, Mr. Carew ?" " This ? Nelly's, of course. The rooms are warm, and she kindly lent it to me. I must go back and return it, by-the-by." It is the last straw, we are told, that breaks the camel's back. Cyrilla Hendrick's eyes flashed and her lips quivered. " Nelly ! It has come to that, then !" Mr. Carew raises his eyebrows. " It is not improper, is it ? We are excellent friends, and she gives me the privilege. It's a pretty name and easy to say. I don't cotton to Fogarty, strange to relate no more does she." " Let us hope she will like her new name better. Has she proposed to you yet, Mr. Carew ? " " My dear Cyrilla, did I ever ask these embarrassing ques- tions about McKelpin ? Apropos, he is coming back in a few weeks, Nelly tells me, and the wedding is to come off when, Beauty ? " j This is too much. She turns upon him, passionate tears in her black eyes, passionate anger in her voice, and exclaims ; " Fred Carew, how is this to end?" 14 FAIRY GOLD. CHAPTER XXIII. FAIRY GOLD. E raises his eyebrows and looks at her, placid surprise only in his face. " How is this to end?" she repeats, in that passion- ately angry whisper. " The very question I put to you, if you remember, that night under your aunt's chestnuts. I forget what you answered. By the way things are going on at present, I think it will end in yo-T leading to the altar the manly McKelpin and I the lovely Fogarty." " Freddy, do you mean to marry that odious woman ? " " Cyrilla, do you mean to marry that odious man ? " " There is no comparison," she vehemently cries. " I cannot help selling myself you can. If she were nice, and not a widow, and not vulgar, and not " Miss Hendrick is absolutely growing hysterical, ami Mr. Ca- rew looks about him in alarm. " My dear child, don't let us talk here," he sayr, hurriedly. "The Fogarty, confound her, is watching us with the eyes of Argus. Come into the next room ; there is hardly any one there." He leads her away for once in his life with Cyrilla, he is master of the situation, and for once in his life means to remain so. The room adjoining is the back drawing-room, where the piano stands, forsaken now. One or two card-tables, also for- saken, stand in one or two recesses. They are more fortunate than even Fred has hoped. The back drawing-room is deserted. He takes his stand before his fair friend, leans his elbow in an easy position upon the piano, and prepares to have it out. " Now, then, Beauty," he begins, in a tone Fred Carew does not often use, " let us understand one another once and for all. This sort of fooling has gone on between you and me long enough it shall end to-night. How is it to end ? In your selling yourself to McKelpin and I to the Widow Fogarty? It is foi you to decide." FAIRY GOLD. 215 "Fred, tell me, could you, would you, under any circum- stances, marry that underbred, over-dressed, loud-voiced wo- man ? " " She's a very pretty woman, or was fifteen years ago," responds MY. Carew, "and worth a hundred thousand dollars. Hei taste in dress and laughter, I could tone down. Now, Mc'Kel- pin at no period of his career could have laid claim to pretti- ness, and I don't think he is worth a farthing more. Of course, there is also your aunt's fortune in the scale. Still money is not everything in this world; almost everything, I adir.it, but not quite. If you set me the example, 'Rilla, you must, not De surprised at anything I may do." " You have not answered my question," she angrily says. " Do you mean to marry Mrs. Fogarty ? " " What difference can it make to you when you are Mrs. McKelpin whether I marry her or not ? " What, indeed ! And yet Cyrilla feels that it does. She could marry her Scotchman and support life apart from Fred, if she could only feel sure Fred would live and die single for her sake. But to give him up to another woman ; that woman a widow, and such a widow no, that way madness lay. '"Rilla," he says, and he leans forward and takes both her hands in his, " you know you can never marry any man in the world but me I who was in love with you in pinafores ! Make an end of this nonsense, and marry me at once. We won't starve ; there's a special providence that watches over " " Fools ! " interrupts Miss Hendrick, bitterly. "Yes, I know." " Lovers, I was about to say," pursues Fred, in his pleasant way. " We'll be happy you know thai, Beauty. We suit each other as no two ever did before. Say you'll marry me on the quiet next week, and I give you my word of honor I'll cut Nelly dead from thenceforth forever." She turns upon him, a blaze of fury in her black eyes- " Nelly ! " she cries. " If you ever call her Nelly again- "Very well, I won't," responds Mr. Carew, soothingly ; "I'll call her nothing at all ; oh, no, we never mention her, from the hour you promise. If you refuse " he darkly pauses. "Well?" petulantly, but not meeting the pleading eyes, "if I refuse ? " " I shall ask Mrs. Fogarty to-morrow morning, I swear it, 'Rilla ; and the wedding shall come off a week before yours." ' i'rcd ! " with a gasp, "you you don't mean that?" *' I never meant anything so much in my life, Beauty." l6 FAIRY GOLD. " But to marry you in secret to ruin all my prospects foi life that I have worked so hard for, too ! Oh, I cannot I" she cries, distractedly. " There will be no ruin in the case. At present I have my pay, and that will suffice for us in a quiet way " "Ah, very quiet ! " interpolates Miss Hendrick, with scorn. " In a quiet way," proceeds Fred. "Then 1 shall write to my Uncle Dunraith, he's an uncommonly game old bird in money matters; and if Miss Dormer finds us out before she dies, why she'll come around. Its a rule of nature, that parents and guard- ians always do come round. But my own conviction is, that Aunt Dormer will die comfortably before finding us out, and leave you her money, and virtue will be its own reward in the end." She stands before him, a struggle going on, he can see, her chest heaving. His eloquence is not the cause, she is not list- ening to a word of it all ; she is simply thinking, " If I do not marry him Mrs. Fogarty will." "Mrs. Delamere will be our aider and abettor," goes on the voice of the tempter, "so will the colonel. The chaplain of the regiment will marry us, and after that Ah ! well, 'Rilla, love, after that there will be no more Nellys nor Donalds to trouble our peace. We will belong to each other as we do, for the matter of that, now to the end of our lives. Beauty, say yes ! " But she cannot not even with Fred's flushed, handsome pleading face so close to her own. " I cannot ! " she cries out in desperation ; " at least not now. Give me until to-morrow, and I will decide." " You are sure to-morrow ? " he asks. " I am sure to-morrow. Come at the usual hour, give the usual signal, and if it be possible I will steal out and meet you. But mind, don't hope too much the answer may not be yes." He smiles. " Would you really throw me into the arms of Nelly Fogarty ? " he asks, and as he utters the name a sound startles them. Both look up, and see Mrs. Fogarty's white, angry face looking at them through the half-closed folding doors. He drops her hands and they start apart. " The devil ! " exclaims Fred Carew. The next moment he is alone Cyrilla has walked straight over to the folding doors, but Mrs. Fogarty has fled. She is talking; FAIRY GOLD. 21J to Colonel Delamere when Miss Hendrick passes through the other room, and keeps her back turned toward her. Can she have heard ? the girl wonders. No, that is impossi- ble. She has not heard, but she has seen quite enough to know that Fred Carew will never be her husband. For Fred himself, he lingers a moment, that well-satisfied smile still on his lips. " The woman who hesitates is lost," he murmurs. " I think I may look out for a special license the day after to-mor- row." ******* The fifteenth of April was the day appointed for the depar- ture of the Delameres from Canada. Very early on the morning of the fourteenth a little party assembled in Mrs. Delamere' s drawing-room, on matrimonial business*intent the chaplain of the th, Frederic Carew, Cyrilla Hendrick, the Colonel and his wife. With locked doors and closed blinds, a ceremony was performed that required but a very short time. At its close the chaplain and Mr. Carew stayed to breakfast, and Cyrilla return- ed to Miss Dormer's house on foot Fred Carew's wife. It would have been a curious and rather cynical study to have analyzed the different feelings actuating the different people in the little bridal group. Fat Mrs. Delamere, with her head a little on one side, and a pensive simper on her fair and forty face, felt she was living a page out of one of her favorite romances. She had plaintive, sentimental theories about " two souls with but a single thought, two hearts," etc. The Colonel, with a jolly smile on his jovial face, gives away the bride, feeling that she is an uncommonly pretty girl, that he would not mind being in Carew's place himself, and that it is a capital joke to help out- wit the two skinflints, McKelpin and Phillis Dormer. The chaplain is a dark and saturnine gentleman, of a bilious habit, about as social and conversable as an oyster, who keeps secrets so well that he mostly forgets them himself. Cyrilla' s principal emotion as Fred slips the wedding ring on her finger is, that he can never, never flirt with that detestable Nelly Fogarty again. For the bridegroom, his are the best and honestest, and simplest feelings of all. True Love shines in his blue eyes as they look in his bride's face, and. he is recording a vow in his inmost heart xhat Cyrilla shall never repent this step she has taken for his Sike. - **** * * *' Aunt Dormer," says Cyrilla, coming into her aunt's room 10 2l8 FAIRY GCLD. with an open letter in her hand, " here is a letter from Sidney Owenson. See what she incloses a through ticket for next week to take me to New York. She and her mother sail for Europe on the tenth of May, and she begs I will spend a week with her before she sails. We may never meet again, she says, and we have been such good friends, aunt. May I go ? " It is the afternoon of the last day of April ; but Miss Dormer, in her stuffy room, sits huddled and shivering over a glowing coal fire. She lifts up her fretful, sour old face, all pinched and drawn, with its customary growl. "Always gadding, gadding ! never done ! I thought when that Delamere woman went, a fortnight ago, there would be an end of it, and here you want to begin again." " Have I been anywhere since Mrs. Delamere did go, aunt ? " " And now you want to be off to New York, the wickedest city in the world, and gad about there. What do you suppose Mr. McKelpin will say when he returns in June ? " There was a dangerous answer on the tip of Cyrilla's tongue, a dangerous flash in her eye at the question, but there was too much at stake for her to let temper get the better of her now. " I'm not Mrs. McKelpin yet, Aunt Phil. I belong to you, not to him. And it is the last, the very last favor I will ask. If Sydney had not sent the ticket too " "I suppose she thought I was too poor to pay for you," snarled Miss Dormer. " W T ell, I am too poor. I have no money to throw away, and never shall. To leave me, too, in my present wretched state, it is like your gratitude, after all I have done for you, Niece Cyrilla ! " " Then I am to write to Miss Owenson, return her ticket, and tell her you will not let me go ? " " And have her set me down as a monster, a tyrant, and your self a victim ! You would like that, would you not ? No, you shall go to New York, and you shall see Dr. S for me, ex- plain my case to him, and bring me back his medicines. I suppose your rich friend will give you a return ticket, since she seems to have more money than she knows what to do with." " I am quite sure she will, aunt. As you say, it will be an excellent opportunity to lay your case before the famous Dr. S . I have no doubt his prescriptions will add twenty years to youi life. Let me see. To-morrow is the first of May. This ticket is for the fourth. Of course I can easily be ready to go on the fourth." So it was arranged. That there was any duplicity about Uie FAIRY GOLD. ^19 letter or the t'cket, that Fred Carew had obtained a fortnight's leave sick leave ! how was Miss Dormer in her stifling prison to know ? Cyrilla made her preparations not many with so radiant a face that old Joanna lifted her deaf head from the work, and de- clared it did her old eyes good only to look at her. There was new light, new life in her dark face that turned the grave beauty to absolute loveliness. She sang to herself as she moved through the gruesome rooms, quite a new sound in Miss Dor- mer's dreary home. " Let us crown ourselves with roses before they fade," says a Sybaritish old French proverb ; her roses had bloomed, and she would gather them at their brightest. She was happy to-day. She would not look forward to to-morrow ; her day would last until the tenth of the month. If the night and the darkness came after, so much the more need to enjoy the sunshine of the present. Early on the morning of the fourth, Cyrilla started on her journey for New York. It was a veritable May day, even in Canada, of soft winds and melting sunlight. She lay back in her seat, and looked with radiantly dark eyes at the flying prospect. How good a holiday was ! She had been on the treadmill so long such a treadmill! that liberty alone seemed a foretaste of heaven. The girl was a gypsy by nature. In the Cedar wood palaces of her soul's desire she would have had backward yearn- ings for the canvas tents and fetterless freedom of the nomad tribes. She was free now one, two, three nine whole days she was to be happy. Nine whole days only. Ah, well ! people have gone through life without even nine hours of perfect bliss. The day wore on noon afternoon evening night. She did not feel even a touch of weariness, her vitality was perfect. Other people around her slept ; her eyes were like dusk stars. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, and "Boston" shouts the conductor, putting in his head. Her journey for the pres ent is at an end. There were not many people nor many hacks at the depdt at that hour, but one of the few persons in waiting made his way instantly in. While Cyrilla was gathering her belongings to- gether, some one came hastily to her side, stooped down and kissed her. "My wife!" Her answer is a smile that repays Fred Carew for tiresome hours of waiting. He gathers up shawl, bag and book, draws her hand through his arm, and leads her away tc a hack. 220 FAIRY GOLD. " Tremont," he calls, and they go rattling over the stony streets of Boston. "And this is the Hub of the Universe," says Cyrilla, laughing " It has an English look. We must stay here to-rnorrow and ex- plore it, Freddy." " Certainly, Cyrilla. Ah ! if Aunt Dormer could only see you now ! " But Aunt Dormer, uneasily asleep at home, dreams not of such horrors. That she has been outwitted, defied ; that her niece has secretly married the son of her arch-enemy that the trip to New York is her honeymoon trip it would be difficult indeed to convince Aunt Dormer of this. They spend the next day in Boston very agreeably take the evening boat for New York, and wake up next morning in the Empire City. They drive to an up-town hotel, breakfast, and then start out for their first day's sight-seeing. " I shall put off going to see Sydney until the very last day," says Mrs. Carew to Mr. Carew. " She will ask questions, and I cannot tell Sydney lies. With those innocent, crystal-clear eyes of hers on one's face, one hates oneself for being false. It is odious enough to be obliged to tell them to Aunt Dormer. | " Still, for a novice, my love, I am quite sure you do it re- markably well," murmurs the adoring husband, " as you do everything." , All her after-life Cyrilla looked back with a sigh of envious regret to that week. She was so free, so happy, and with Fred. Everything was new and delightful the streets, the stores, the parks, the people, the theatres everything. Other days of delight the future might bring, but never again any like these. The bloom would be brushed off life's peach, the first freshness and zest gone, she could never enjoy again as she enjoyed now. Ruin and disaster might be in store for her when Donald Me Kelpin came home she could not tell her gold might be fairy gold, after all, that would turn to slate stones in her grasp, but oh ! how brightly it shone. What a good and satisfying thing life could be made to two people who were fond of each other and had plenty of money ! The tenth of May, as has been said, was the day appointed for Mrs. and Miss Owenson's departure. On the afternoon of the day preceding. Cyrilla presented herself at the door of a stately brown front on Madison Avenue, with the legend " MAC- GREGOR " on a silver plate. " You will wait for me in Madison Square, Freddy," had said FAIRY GOLD. 221 Freddy's wife. " It will never do to shock little Syd by telling her the horrid truth, so you must not be seen." Mr. Carew, in the present stage of his existence, lived but to obey. Cyrilla rang, and the ring was answered by an ebony young man in livery. " Was Miss Owenson at home ? " " Yes, Miss Owenson was at home," made answer the ebony young man, throwing open a door and ushering the visitor into a perfumed and elegant reception room. " What name shall he say ? " " 1 will not send my card," the lady answers ; " tell her an old friend." "These Macgregors must be very rich people," thought Cyrilla, running her eyes critically over the costly furnishing and ornaments of the room ; " people of refinement and thor- ough good taste as well. Ah ! Sydney's lines seem to fall in pleasant places." The door opened as she thought it, and Sydney came in. Cyrilla arose. Was it Sydney rose cheeked, laughing Sydney, this pale, frail girl in deepest crapes and sables, with that sadly thoughtful face ? " Sydney ! " "Cyrilla!" It is a cry of very delight, and Sydney Owenson clasps the friend she loves in her arms, and kisses her in a rapture again and again. " My darling ! what a surprise ! " she exclaims. " I never thought of seeing you. Johnson said an old friend, and de- scribed you in glowing terms, but still I never thought of you. Dear old Cy ! how good of you to come before 1 left ! When did you come ? to-day ? " " No not to-day," Cyrilla answers, with a smile. " Sidney, child, how thin and pale you have grown. Have you been ill ? " " No, not ill exactly, and yet not well. I suppose I got too great a shock it was all so dreadful, and I was so little used to trouble. I do not think that 1 can ever feel again as I used oh ! how long ago it seems." " Hut you will, dear ; we all think like that in trouble. And Bertie no news of him has ever transpired ? " "None none none! Oh! Cyrilla, it breaks my heart 1 To think of him hurried into eternity without a moment's warn. 222 FAIRY GOLD. ing, full of life and hope, unprepared for death. If we could even have found his body, if we could have given him Chris- tian burial ! But all is mystery ; not even a trace of his body can be found." Her voic~ breaks and she turns away ; Cyrilla sits silent. With this last sorrow she cannot sympathize. The body is not found, of course, because there is no body to be found. Bertie Vaughan carries that about with him, and cares for it as .tenderly as ever, no doubt. " But you don't tell me how you came to be in New York," Sydney says, turning brightly around. " Is it not something wonderful for Miss Dormer to let you out of her sight ? " "Wonderful indeed; but you know, Syd, wonders never cease. Here I am ; and, my dear child, I want to beg as a favor that you will ask me nothing about how or why I came. Aunt Dormer knows I am here ; the rest is a secret. I am stopping at a hotel, and leave for Montreal to-morrow. Oh ! how I hate, how I abhor, how I detest and dread the very thought of going back ! " Sydney sat gazing at her, silent, wondering, but unsuspecting. Cyrilla always was a girl of mysteries and secrets ; that she was so still did not much surprise Miss Owenson. " But now that you are here you will stay and dine with me of course," she says. " Aunt Macgregor and my cousin Katy will be charmed to meet you. They have heard of you so much from mamma and me. Poor mamma is never done singing your praises ; how good, how tender, how sympathetic you are. She is out just now shopping, but will be back in an hour. Come up to my room and take off your things." " No, Sydney. I can't stay. Don't be hurt, dear, but my time is limited. I will remain half an hour longer, and I want you to tell me all about your winter here and your plans for over the ocean." They sit and chat, and the moments fly. Cyrilla half wishes she could stay to dinner, so interested does she become in it all, but she thinks mercifully of Fred, wandering aimlessly through the verdant groves of Madison Square, among the nurse-maids and perambulators, and arises at last and goes. "You will not forget me, Sydney. You will write often and tell me ill about your wanderings ? " is her last injunction. Sydney promises ; there is a last embrace and they part, to meet again neither knows when. Cyrilla rejoins her husband. They hail a passing omnibus to FAIRY GOLD. 22 J return to the hotel. Four people in the stage, three gentlemen and a lady, when they enter. This Cyrilla caielessly sees, but she does not glance at any of them specially. She generally rinds men's eyes fixed upon her with a stare of broad admiration which, thouch it does not disconcert her at all, she does not care to meet. A~ handsome girl in a Broadway stage is no such rara ac'is; still Mrs. Frederick Carew comes in for even more than the customary amount of staring. She sits supremely unconscious of t now, Razing out of the window, while Freddy passes up their fare and rrsumes his seat by her side. "Look not for an instant yet at the woman sitting op- posite," he says in French, in a guarded tone. She is surprised, but she waits the moment and then glances across. The woman, a thin, faded, youngish woman, sits directly opposite, her eyes fixed full upon Cyrilla, a glare of deadly hatred in their pale depths. It is Mary Jane Jones ! For a moment they transfix each other, mutual recognition in their eyes. It is a fortunate thing for Cyrilla that her creamy complexion never changes color. Then she looks straight over Miss Jones' head out at the crowds pouring up and down Broad- way. The ride to the hotel is a short one. Mr. Carew pulls the check string, and they get out. Miss Jones waits until another block is passed, evidently thinking deeply ; then she, too, alights, and walks back to the hotel. At the door of the reading-room she passes Fred Carew. She takes no notice, she goes on into the office and up to the desk, and accosts the official enthroned there. " Are there a Mr. and Mrs. Carew stopping here ? " she in- quires. " Yes, ma'am. Mr. Carew's at the door there," answers the official, with a nod, and the admirable brevity of his class. "They are from Montreal?" " From Montreal." " How long have they been here ? " Official refers to big book, looking bored. "Five days." "Thank you." With a smile on her lips, Miss Jones quits the ffice. Fred Carew is still standing where he stood when she entered, as she passes out She pauses before him, with that smile as unpleas- ant a smile as can well be imagined and looks up in his face. ** How do you do, Mr. Carew?" she says. 224 VENDE TTA 1 Mr. Carew puts up his eye-glass, and looks at hei in a be- wildered way. " Eh ? I beg your pardon, you know," drawls Freddy ; " but have I ever had the pleasure of er seeing you before, madam ? " Miss Jones laughs. " You do it very well," she answers ; " almost as well as she could herself. Give my best respects to Mrs. Carew I don't think she knew me in the stage. I hope her aunt is in good health, and is quite reconciled to the match. Good-day to you, Mr. Carew." CHAPTER XXIV. VENDETTA ! |R.AW that curtain, Niece Cyrilla, and don't sit moon- ing there, out of nothing. You might know all that glare of light would hurt my eyes, if you ever thought of anybody but yourself." The croaking, rasping old voice stops. With a tired sigh, Cyrilla rises and does as she is told. " Will that do, Aunt Phil?" There is no reply for a moment, then a dull, prolonged groan of misery from the old woman on the bed. " Oh ! my back. Oh ! my side. Oh ! this dreadful, racking pain. Niece Cyrilla, what are you sitting there like a stone for ? You have no more feeling than a stone. Get up and do something for me." The girl comes to the bedside, and looks pitifully down at the drawn, distorted face and writhing form. " Aunt Dormer, what shall I do for you ? I do feel for you, indeed. Shall I fetch your hot plates ? " Once again there is no reply. In the midst of her querulous cry, Miss Dormer has fallen into a fitful doxe. Cyrilla goes softly Dack to her place ; but she has hardly resumed her seat, when the harsh, complaining voice breaks out again " Isn't it time for my spoonful of morphine yet ? You never VENDETTA t 22$ know or care whether it is time for me to get my medicine or not. I wish you had this pain in your side and back, and all over your body, as I have ; perhaps you would be as glad as I am to get morphine Look at the clock, Niece Cyrilla, and don't sit gaping out ot that window like a fool." For the third time the girl arises, almost like an automaton ; it is only a specimen of what goes on all day now. Passing her hand wearily across her forehead, she looks at the clock ; the morphine hour has not arrived, but she administers the drug in a tiny crystal cup this, at least, will quiet her tyrant for the next hour. The scene is still Miss Dormer's room, but the arm-chair has been exchanged for a bed Miss Phillis Dormer will never sit in arm-chair or other chair again. It is almost the close of May a soft opal-tinted, exquisite May evening, but still a coal fire burns on the hearth, the windows are sealed, the doors are tightly closed by order of the invalid, the foul mephitic air is in itself sufficient to kill any one. Cyrilla has been breathing it since seven o'clock this morning ; she has been breathing it for many weary days past. A fortnight ago Miss Dormer's incur- able disease made one rapid stride forward, and brought Miss Dormer to the door of death. At death's door she lies now. The dread and gloomy portal that will open for all flesh one day may open for her any moment, now. Sh. Knows it too, only even to her own soul, she refuses vehemently, fiercely, to believe. It is but a temporary illness she will recover she must recover her affairs are not arranged, her will is not made, she cannot make it in all this pain and misery she has not time to die. When she is better she will make it, she will send for a clergyman, she will read her Bible, she she will try and pre- pare for death. She is not so very old, only fifty-five ; why, many men and women, not as strong as she is, live to seventy, eighty, ninety ! This is not death, she is only a little worse ; next week, or week after, she will be better, and then then she will amend her life and get ready to die. So she puts the thought fiercely from her, and no one dares tell her the truth. She has lived a most godless and unholy life, at wrath with all the world, for the wrong of one man ; she will die an impenitent and most despairing death. Oh, vanitas vani- tatcm ! What preacher that ever preached can speak to the heart as doe; the death-bed of a hoary sinner. She takes her anodyne, falls back upon her pillow and sinks at once into dull stupor. Then, still with that jaded, worn face, 10* VENDETTA! Cyrilla gets up, leaves the room, descends the stairs and stands out in the lovely freshness of the sweet spring night. The air is full of balm, of perfume, of balsamic odors ; it is warm and windless as June the June that will be here next week that is to bring Donald McKelpin to claim his bride. Up in the blue sky shining stars look down ; a faint, silver baby moon is away yonder over her left shoulder, half-lost in the primrose lus- tre of the sky. Away in Montreal half-a-dozen bells clash mu- sically out, calling the good French Canadians to the devotion of " The Month of May." It is all sweetness, and peace, and beauty, and the white, fagged look gradually leaves the girl's face, and her dark melancholy eyes lose a little of their sombre expression. But still she is very grave, and where has her youth gone to ? she looks ten years older than three weeks ago. Will Aunt Dormer die without making her will ? That is the thought that haunts her by night and by day, that robs her of appetite and sleep, that makes her bear imprisonment in that most miserable sick-room, that makes her endure the fierce impatience, the ceaseless complainings, of the sick woman, with a patience that never fails. If Phillis Dormer dies without mak- ing her will, she and her father are heirs-at-law, and her father, even if alive, will never disturb her in her possession. All will be hers and her husband's. If she only dies without making a will! if she only dies before Donald McK.elpin comes home. Even to her own heart selfish, mercenary, irreligious as Cyrilla is, she will not own that she wishes this sudden death. But she does ; and the shadow of murder the murder of desire- rests upon her as she stands here. With a horror none but those who fear death can know, Miss Dormer shrinks from the thought of making her will. She loves her money ; all her dreary life long it has been to her husband, children, friends, religion. To will it deliberately away to her niece, or even to Donald McKelpin, is bitterer than the bitter- ness of death itself. This the girl knows ; no will has been made, none is likely to be made ; on that now all Cyrilla's life hangs. If Miss Dormer dies intestate, riches, happiness, this world and the glory thereof, will be hers, with the husband she passionately loves ; if she does not "My solemn Cyrilla!" says a voice drawing near, "how wan and unearthly you look standing here in the gloaming, gazing at the stars. If you had on. a white dress, you might have been VENDETTA t 22^ tal en for the ghost of Dormer He-use. And Dormer House is just the sort of gruesome place to have a ghost." " Freddy ! " she exclaims, waking from her gloomy reverie and holding out her hand, " I must have been far away, indeed, since 1 never heard you come." "And what were you thinking of, Beauty ? The husband who adores you, I trust ? " " No, sir ; of a much less tender subject Aunt Dormer*swill." There is a pause. She takes his arm and walks with him up and down the grassy path. The high wooden wall shuts them from the view of outsiders ; Miss Dormer's drugged sleep will last for another half-hour. Old Joanna, deaf and stupid, never was guilty of looking out of a window in her life. So Mr. Carew can come to see his wife this time every evening with- out fear of detection. " Beauty," he begins, gravely, at the expiration of that pause, "you think too much of Miss Dormer's will. Don't be offended at my saying so, but one may buy even gold too dear. I'm not a preaching sort of fellow as a rule," Mr.carew goes on apologetically, " and I never interfere with any of your projects, because I know you've got twice the brains I have, and in a general way know what you' re about. But, my dear child, there is something absolutely revolting in the way you look forward to that poor old lady's death." Cyrilla looks at him for a moment in whimsical surprise, then she laughs. " My dear Fred, what a precocious little boy you are getting to be ! Your sentiments do you honor of course, all the same ; please tell me what we are to do if Aunt Dormer cuts me off with a shilling." "Trust in Providence and my Uncle Dunraith, and live on my pay meantime," responds Freddy, promptly. " Where, Fred ? In the back bed-room of a third-rate board- ing-house ? And if Uncle Dunraith turns a deaf ear to the penniless cry of his starving nephew and niece, what then?" " I'll sell out and start a grocery, set up a boarding-house, teach a school, sweep a crossing; anything, anything,*' says Fred, with a vague wave of his hands, " except wish poor Miss Dormer dead before her time." " 1 don't wish her dead," answers Cyrilla, with asperity, " but die she must, and that speedily ; is there any harm, then, in my hoping she may die wivhout a will? If she docs, all is well for you and me, Freddy ; we will go ba; * to England, dear, old *z8 VENDETTA! England, and when we tire of that we will run about the world together that modern marvel, as the poet says : " ' Two souls with but a single thought, That never disagree ! ' " Ah ! Fred, we can be very happy together, with Aunt Dor- mer's money." "We can be very happy together without," Mr. Carew answers. " Jf I lived in a garret and starved on a crust /could be happy, 'Rilla, love, so that you were near. Don't hope too much ; the disappointment when it comes will be all the harder to bear." " Don't talk of disappointment," cries Cyrilla, angrily ; " I will not listen. There shall be no disappointment. She has no thought of making a will I know, no thought of dying ; and Dr. Foster told me only this morning, she would hardly live the week out." Again there is silence. They walk slowly up and down under the scented, budding trees, with the pale, sweet shine of the little yellow moon sifting down on their grave faces. Presently Fred speaks. " You have heard nothing yet from Miss Jones ? " " Nothing; she has not written. Every letter that enters the house passes through my hands. No one has been here except Dr. Foster. Mrs. Fogarty, as I told you, called twice, and each time I refused to let her in. She looked as if she meant mis- chief, too." " And Miss Jones meant mischief, if ever I saw it in a woman's face. It is odd she has not written, but I have a conviction she will yet. I never saw such hatred before in human eyes." " Miss Jones has eyes exactly like a cat," says Cyrilla. "'Well, so that Aunt Dormer is comfortably in her grave, they may do their worst. Oh ! Fred ; how can one help wishing she would die and have done with it, when so much is at stake ! " " All the money in the world is not worth one such wish, 'Rilla. What I want to say to you is this : if, through Miss Jones, it should come to your aunt's knowledge that we were together in New York, don't deny our marriage. Mind, Cyrilla, don't ! Neither Miss Jones, nor your aunt, nor any one else, shall ever think you were with me there, except as my wife." " Nonsense, Fred ! Even if Aunt Dormer does hear it and I will take care she does not she still thinks I was visiting Sydney ; and I can prove our meeting was accidental." "Miss Jones knows better; she knows we were at that hotel VENDETTA! 229 as husband and wife For Heaven's sake, Cyrilla, don't tell that dying woman lies, it is too contemptible. Let us tell the truth if we must, and take the consequences. Nothing they can do can ever separate us, and our separation is the only thing I fear." " The only thing." Cyrilla laughs, and^all in a moment her face grows old and hard: "you don't fear beggary, then, or squalor, or misery, either for yourself or for me ? That is not love as I understand it. Freddy, let me tell you, once and for all, if Aunt Dormer disinherits me, I shall hate you for having made me your wife ! " Again there is silence ; again it is broken by Fred Carew in a troubled voice. " When does McKelpin come home, Cyrilla ? " " Week after next ; and if Miss Dormer is still alive, she pro- poses that the wedding shall be the day after his arrival. Her illness is a sufficient excuse for no preparation, no expense. Il is a tangled web, PYeddy, out of which I cannot see my way." She passes her hand across her forehead with the same weary gesture as in the sick-room, and sighs heavily. " I cannot advise you, Beauty ; I'm not a good one at plotting and duplicity. Tell the truth ; that is the only way out of it, that I can see. And you need not be so greatly afraid, things are not as black as you paint them. If the worst comes to the worst, tell the truth and trust in me." " I must go in," Cyrilla answers, coldly. " Aunt Dormer will awake, and be furious if she misses me. I have watched with her two nights ; I feel hardly able to stand." " You are wearing yourself out, rny darling," her husband says, looking at her with wistful tenderness. Ah ! Cyrilla, I never much wished for fortune before. I always seemed to have enough ; but I wish I were rich for your sake. Good-by, then, since you must go." " Good-by," she repeats, mechanically. She turns to go in. He has gone a few steps, when he wheels suddenly and conies back. " Beauty," he says, " I want to warn you again. If our being together in New York conies to Miss Dormer's ears confess our marriage. It would take a good deal to make me angry with you you know that ; but if you let any one any one think you were with me there other than as my wife, I couldn't forgive you. Promise me this." "I will promise you nothing. Good-night," she says, shorily, and disappears into the dark and dreary dwelling. 2 30 VENDETTA I \ Fred Carew goes back to his quarters, his handsome, genial face looking strangely anxious and troubled. And Fred Ca- rew's wilful wife drags herself spiritlessly up to her aunt's room. You may buy gold too dear, had said Fred. Surely she thought if every penny came to her, she was buying her gold at a fearful price. It was Joanna's night to watch, and Joanna was already ir the sick-room. The dim lamp was lit ; the close atmosphere seemed stilling to Cyrilla, coming in out of the fresh, cool air. Miss Dormer opened her eyes at the moment and peevishly cried out for her wine and water. " Here, aunt." Cyrilla raised the feeble old head, gave her the drink, shook and adjusted the pillows and replaced her among them. " I am very tired, aunt, I am going to my room, now. Joanna is here-. Is there anything more I can do for you before I go?" " No. Go you are only too glad to go. You hate to sit an hour with me after all I've done for you. Ah ! the Hendricks were a bad lot, a bad lot how could you be any- thing but bad, too ? " " Good-night, Aunt Dormer." Aunt Dormer disdains reply. Cyrilla goes. She is so dead tired, so utterly exhausted, that she flings herself on her bed, dressed as she is, and in five minutes is soundly and dreamlessly asleep. So soundly, so deeply, that when an hour later Dr. Foster comes, she never hears his loud knock. Two ladies are with him : two ladies who take seats in the chill, vault-like parlor, while he goes up to the sick-room. He feels his patient's pulse, says there is less fever ; she is sinking rapidly, but he does not tell her that. " Miss Dormer," he says, "two ladies have accompanied me here on what one of them says is a matter of life and death. Her name is Miss Jones. The other is Mrs. Fogarty, one of my patients and the wealthiest lady in Montreal. They are down- stairs and beg most earnestly to be admitted to see you." " I ne-ser see ladies," cries Miss Dormer, shrilly ; "you know that. What did you bring them here for ? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Foster." Doctor Foster knows her. He expects to send in a bill to her executors presently that will make them open their eyes. He bean this, therefore, like the urbane gentleman he is. VENDETTA! 231 Furthermore, Mrs. Fogarty, one of his very best pnying patients, has given him to understand that if he does not procure her this interview, she will be under the painful necessity of taking herself and her ailments elsewhere. " My dear lady," he blandly says, " did you observe when I told you it was a matter of almost life or death ? I really think yon had better break through your excellent rule in this instance. They are ladies of the utmost respectability, and one of them of great wealth. They have no sinister motive, I assure you. It is concerning some extraordinary deception that is being practised upon you by your very charming niece, Miss Hen- drick." Miss Dormer has been lying back on her pillows glaring at him, an awful object. At these last words she utters a shrill cry. " I knew it i I knew it ! I always said so ! She comes of a bad race, and she's the worst of them all. Fetch them up here at once ! do you go, Joanna ! fetch them up, I say at once." A moment more, and with a rustle of silk, and a waft of per- fume, Mrs. Fogarty sweeps smilingly into the chamber. Up- right, stiff, angular, solemn Miss Jones comes after. " My dear Miss Dormer, at last 1 have the pleasure of mak- ing your acquaintance. I have long desired it, and even under the present melancholy circumstances " Mrs. Fogarty has fluently and smilingly got thus far when Miss Dormer, with a harsh cry, cuts her short. "I don't want any of your fine talk, ma'am. I know what fine talk is worth. Old Foster and my niece, Cyrilla, give me enough of that. It's about my niece, Cyrilla, you've come. Now what have you got to say ? " " First, I must really apologize for the hour of our coming," says Mrs. Fogarty ; " but this, also, is the fault of your niece. I have been here twice this week, and she refused me admis- sion. I don't call her Miss Hendrick, because Miss Hendrick has ceased to be her name ! " A second harsh cry from Miss Dormer, her sunken eyes are glaring in a ghastly way up at the speaker. " Not her name ? Woman, what do you mean ? Why is Cyrilla Hendrick not her name ? " " Because," answers Mrs. Fogarty, snapping her white teeth together like an angry little dog, " it is Mrs. Frederic Carew I" " Or ought to be ! " in a solemn voice, puts in Miss Jones. At the sound of that name, that name unheard so long, nevet forgotten, Phillis Dormer gives a gasp and lies speechless. 2J2 VENDETTA I Frederic CareAv ! Frederic Carew ! It is the father she is thinking of, not the son. " We have taken you by surprise," Mrs. Fogarty goes on. " You did not know, I presume, he was in Canada at all. Such is the fact, nevertheless. He came last October, and your niece has been holding continual intercourse with him ever since." She knows now, the first shock over. It is the son of Frede- ric Carew, whom Cyrilla knew years ago in England, they mean. A savage light comes into her eyes, a horrid, hungry eagerness comes into her face. " Go on ! go on ! " she pants. " It is Miss Jones who has the story to tell," says Mrs. Fog- arty. " We have the strongest reason to believe your niece, Cyrilla, is Lieutenant Frederic Carew's wife." "Or ought to be !" croaks again Miss Jones. " Or ought to be, exactly. Still I think she is. Three weeks ago your niece was in New York and living with Mr. Carew at a hotel as his wife. Tell her about it, Miss Jones." And then Miss Jones begins at the beginning and tells her all. All all that occurred in Petite St. Jacques when Miss Hen- drick was so nearly expelled the school, Cyrilla's revenge upon herself, and their accidental meeting three weeks ago in the streets of New York. In stony, rigid silence the sick woman lies and listens, fury and rage in her eyes. " It may seem wicked to you," says Miss Jones, with grim truth ; "but I will own I have taken the trouble and expense of this journey here, all the way from New York, to tell you this, because I owe your niece a grudge. I know from Made- moiselle Stephanie Chateauroy, as I say, that you disliked this young man; I felt certain when I saw them together that you were being cheated and wronged. Still, it is for my own sake I have come. One good turn deserves another. By the merest accident I fell in with this lady upon my arrival in Montreal, through her I have found my way to you. Your niece, Cyrilla, and whether she is this man's wife or not, lived with him as such for a week in the Clarendon Hotel." " I have known this long time that they were lovers," inter- rupts Mrs. Fogarty. " I once witnessed a disgusting love scene between them myself." Still that stony, rigid silence, still the stricken woman glares up at them awfully from her bed. '* This is all ? " she hoarsely asks, at length. VENDETTA! 233 " This is all ; enough, I think," responds Mrs. Fogarty, with a shor. laugh. The burning, eager eyes glance away from one cruel face to the other. " You are prepared to repeat all this in my niece's presence, I suppose?" " Whenever and wherever called upon," replies Miss Jones. " Then you may go now ; I'll send for you both to-morrow. I'll pay you, ma'am, for your news. I'm a poor woman, but I'm able and willing to pay for that. Ring that bell for Joanna, and go." Her hands clench in a fierce grasp on the bed-clothes, her eyes stare, blind with pain and rage, up at the ceiling. The bitterness, the fury of this hour is like nothing the wretched woman can ever remember before. Long ago she loved and trusted, and was betrayed ; now she has neither loved nor trusted, and she has been betrayed, once again, by the girl she has cherished and cared for, the only creature in whom her blood runs, and by the son of the man who wrecked her life. Cyrilla Hendrick is the wife, or light of love, of Frederic Carew's son to Frederic Carew's son will all her loved and hoarded wealth go, if she dies without a will. She shrieks out like a madwoman at that, and beats the bed-clothes with frantic hands. " Go to Shelburne Street go to Lawyer Pomfret's house. Joanna, do you hear ? Go go at once. Go, I tell you, quick ! " Old Joanna, returning from bolting her visitors out, stares blankly at her mistress. " Idiot ! fool ! what do you stand gaping there for ? Don't you hear what I say ? deaf old addle-head ! Go to Lawyer Pomfret's house, and fetch him here. Tell him it's the rich Miss Dormer who wants him, and that it is a matter of life or death ! Go ! " Joanna never disputes her mistress's will. She looks at the clock only ten. Without a word she puts on her shawl and bonnet, locks the door after her, and starts at a jog-trot for the lawyer who is to make Miss Dormer's will. In the lonely sick-room the dim lamp glimmers, shadows thick in the corners of the large room. On her death-bed the stricken old sinner lies, body and soul full of pain and torture > hatred and revenge. And up-stairs, in her bate, comfortless chamber, Cyrilla sleeps deeply, while the retribution rer own hand has wrorght gathers above her head. 34 "GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART" I CHAPTER XXV. " GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." [YRILLA, as a rule, was inclined to sleep late of morn ings ; Miss Dormer, as a rule, was inclined not to let her. At seven, precisely, winter and summer, Joanna stood at her bedside, to summon her down stairs. At seven on the morning after her interview with Fred, Cjrilla ex- pected to be routed out as usual. But when she opened her eyes, after the long unbroken sleep, it was to find the sunshine filling her scantily-furnished little upper chamber, and the clock of a neighboring church tolling the hour of nine. Nine ! She sprang from her bed in dismay. What was Aunt Dormer, what was Joanna about, to let her sleep Hke this ? Had anything happened in the night ? Was Aunt Dor- mer , she would not finish the question even to herself, but her heart gave a great bound. The next moment she knew better; if anything like that had occurred, she would have been instantly summoned by the deaf old domestic, she felt sure. She hurriedly arranged her clothes, made her hasty ablutions, smoothed her dark rippling hair and ran down to her aunt's room. She softly opened the door and entered. The close, fetid atmosphere seemed to sicken her, ill or well, Miss Dormer had an insuperable aversion to fresh air. She advanced to the bedside ; in the dim light, the skinny bloodless face lay still upon its pillows ; the eyes, glitteringly bright, looked up at her with a weird stare. " Dear aunt, I am sorry I overslept myself. How was it Joanna did not call me as usual ? " " You have watched with me two nights in succession, Niece Cyrilla. Young people need rest." " How are you this morning, Aunt Phil ? Easier, I trust ? Have you had a good night ? " At that question the old woman broke into the strangest, wildest laugh ; a laugh most dreadful to hear, most ghastly to see. "A good night, Niece Cyrilla? Yes, a good night, a good night, the like of which I've never had but once before, and that five-and-twenty years ago ! And I'm strong and well to-day ; you'll be glad to hear, for I've a great deal to do before night, Niece Cyrilla, do you believe in ghostb ? " " GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." 235 " Dear aunt." " Yes. I am dear to you, am I not ? You wouldn't deceive or trouble me in any way, would you ? I'm going to see a ghost to-day. Niece Cyrilla ghosts don't generally appear in daylight either, do they ? the ghost of a man dead and buried five-and-twenty years. Five-and-twenty years ! Oh, me, what a while ago it seems ! " Was the old woman going insane ? Was this the delirium that precedes death? Cyrilla stood looking at her, and yet there was no fever in her face, no wildness in her eyes, and crazy as her talk was it did not sound like delirium. The golden rays of the jubilant morning sunshine tried to force a passage in, and here and there succeeded, making lines of amber glitter across the dull red carpet. All things were in their places, no voice spoke to tell her that in this room her ruin last night had been wrought. " Go down-stairs, Niece Cyrilla, and get your breakfast. Fetch me up mine when you come. I have something to say to you when it is over." Something to say to her ! Wondering, uneasily, the girl de- scended to the kitchen, the only clean and cozy apartment in the house, where Joanna, on a little, white-draped stand, had her tea and toast set out. " Joanna ! " shouted Cyrilla, sitting down to her morning meal, "did anything more than customary happen here last night ?" The old woman nodded her deaf head. " Aye, miss, that there did. She had visitors. Ladies," (Joanna spoke invariably in short jerks), " fine ladies. Silks and scents on one. Come with the doctor." Ladies ! Instantly Cyrilla's mind flew to Miss Jones. But "silks and scents" that did not apply. " Was one of them tall and thin, with a sharp, pale face, a long nose, a tight, wide mouth, pursed up like this and a way of folding her hands in front of her so ? " "Aye, miss that's her. Tall and thin. With a long nose. And a wide mouth. And her hands in front of her. That's her, miss to the life." Miss Jones then, at last. "Hast thou found me, O mine enemy ?" While she slept, off guard, her foe had forced her way in and all her secret was told. She turned for a moment sick and faint she turned away from her untasted breakfast and buried her face in her hands. This, then, was what Miss Dormer meant. 236 GOOD BYE, SWEETHEART." " T'other one," began old Joanna, still in jerks. " Tall, too, White teeth. Silks and scents. Roses in her bonnet. Red spots on her cheeks. Paint, /think." Mrs. Fogarty ! There was no mistaking the description the only two who hated her on earth. All was over notl ing remained but to " cover her face and die with dignity." And then, in Joanna's little kitchen, all aglitter with its floods of May sunshine, a struggle began a struggle for a soul. " Tell the truth. All the money in the world is not worth one such lie as this. It is too contemptible to deceive that poor old dying lady," whispered her good angel in the voice of Fred Carew. " Come with me ; I will care for you. Things will not be so bad as you fear. Trust in Providence and my uncle Dunraith. Meantime we can live on my pay." Fred's honest blue eyes shine upon her, Fred's tender, manly voice is in her ears. " If this does come to your aunt's knowledge, don't deny our marriage. Mind ! I warn you. It would take a great deal to make me angry with you, but I could not forgive that." The tender voice grows stern, the pleasant face grave and set as he says it. " Oh ! tell the truth," her own heart pleads ; " it is a revolting thing to tell deliberate lies to the dying." "And lose all for which you have labored so hard suffered so much borne so many insults endured months and months of imprisonment worse than death ! Leave this house and go out to beggary, to humiliation, to pinching and poverty, scant dinners, and scantier dress ! Let your arch enemies, Fogarty and Jones, triumph over you, throw up the sponge to Fate at the first defeat, and resign the fortune justly yours yours by every claim of blood and law to Donald McKelpin ! Never ! " She looks up, her eyes flash, her teeth set, her hands clench. Never ! She will fight to the last against them all against Destiny itself. She will die sooner than yield. The battle is over, the victory won, and the tempter, whis- pering in her ear, in the archives below, " records one lost soul more." " Joanna." she says, rising, " is Aunt Dormer's breakfast ready ? I want to bring it up." "But you've eat none yourself? Tea ain't drunk toast ain't eat. Sick, are you?" says old Joanna, peering in her face. " You're white as a sheet." "Am I ? " Cyrilla answers, with a laugh. " I am never very red, you know." "GOOD-EYE, SWEETHEART." 237 She seizes a coarse crash towel and rubs her cheeks and lips until a semblance of color returns. " Now, quick, Joanna," she says, with another reckless laugh. " I go to ' put it to the touch, to win or lose it all.' " She takes the tray and ascends to the upper room. She places it before Miss Dormer, and assists her to sit up among her pillows. " I hope you have an appetite this morning, Aunt Phil ? " she says, pleasantly. " Everything is fresh and nice, and per- fectly cooked." Surely nature intended this girl for an actress. Every nerve is braced for the coming struggle for lie upon lie yet even the hawk eye of Aunt Dormer can trace no change in voice or face. " Has Joanna been telling you I had visitors last night- ladies?" she asks, watching her keenly. " Yes, aunt, and I have been wondering who they could be. Joanna doesn't seem to know." "Don't you know, Niece Cyrilla?" " I ? " Cyrilla elevates her eyebrows. " I am not a clairvoy- ant, Aunt Phil." Aunt Phil laughs, her elfish, uncanny, most disagreeable laugh. " You're a clever girl, Niece Cyrilla oh ! an uncommonly clever girl. But the Hendricks were all clever all clever and all bad bad ! bad ! bad ! bad to the core ! " " You have told me that so often, Aunt Dormer," says Cyrilla, in an offended tone, "don't you think you might stop now ? Seeing two of the bad Hendricks are your nearest of kin, bad as they are, you might spare them, I think." " You think so, do you ? Well, I mean to spare one of them to-day if she gives me the chance. Take away this tray, Niece Cyrilla. Now put up that blind and let in the light plenty of light. Now sit here on the side of the bed, and look me in the eyes straight in the eyes. 1 want to see if I can read the lies you will tell, in that nineteen-year-old face of yours." " I am not in the habit of telling lies. Aunt Dormer," says Cyrilla, in the same offended tone, obeying all the grim orders as given. " Are you not ? Then you differ from all the Hendricks / ever knew. Your father never told the truth in his life, and we don't gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles, we are told. Your mother was a weak little fool perhaps you take your 23 8 " GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART* truth-telling proclivities from her. Let me see, where I want to begin ! Niece Cyrilla, is Frederick Carew's son in Canada ? " " Ah ! you have found that out ! How cruel to tell you you who hate the very sound of the name." " You own it then ? He is here. You have met him ; have been meeting him constantly since last October ? " Cyrilla looks up a flash of indignation in her eyes. " No, Aunt Dormer, I deny it ! Whoever tells you that, tells you a falsehood. I have seen him only a few times and I did not speak of it to you. Why should I ? I knew it would vex you to know he was here at all, and his presence made no difference to me, one way or other." " None ! Take care ! Is he not your lover, Niece Cy- rilla ? " " Aunt. I was a little girl when I knew him in England. I never thought of such a thing as lovers. Here I have met him, but a few times as I say, and always in the presence of others. We have had no opportunity, if we had the desire to be lovers. "Always in the presence of others," Miss Dormer repeats, her basilisk gaze never leaving her niece's unflinching face. " Who were the ' others ' the night you stole out of your bed- room window at school, to meet him in darkness, and by stealth, in the grounds of your school ? " " They have told you that, then ! " exclaims Cyrilla, in con- fusion. " Aunt, dear aunt ! do not be angry. I did do that a rash act, I allow, and one for which I nearly suffered severely, but I did it only to hear news of papa. You do not believe me, perhaps." Oh ! the infinite scorn and unbelieving of Miss Dormer's face but I love my father, and am always glad and eager to hear news of him. Fred Carew was just from England, "he had seen him shortly before, and brought from him a message for me. He tried to deliver it at Mrs. Delamere's where by purest accident we met but an odious woman, one of the teachers, gave him no chance. I was dying to hear it I know and regret my folly, aunt I did steal out and spend ten minutes with him in the garden ; not more. The woman a detestable spy found me out, and Mile. Chateauroy threatened to expel ree. Aunt, I assure you that was the first and only time oh, well ! with one exception." " And that exception, my dear Niece Cyrilla? " "Was in New York. Leaving Miss Owenson's house one day, I encountered him in Madison Square. He rode down town with me in the omnibus, and in that omnibus we met by " GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART* 239 chance, Miss Jones, the spying teacher. It is from her all this has come. 1 know how spiteful, and contemptible, and false a wretch she is." " And that is all, Niece Cyrilla all ? You never met him at Mrs. Delamere's here in Montreal, or at that other woman's what is her Irish name Fogarty ? " " Aunt Phil, I told you I had met him a few times, but always in the presence of others. I did not mention it to you at the time. I was afraid you would forbid my accepting any more invitations, and these parties were all the pleasure I had. Was it any such great crime to meet him by accident there ? " " No crime at all, only what a pity you did not tell me. It would be so much easier to believe you now, if you had not de- ceived me then. And this is all, absolutely all ? " " All, Aunt Dormer ! " Unflinchingly still, the black stead- fast eyes above met the fiercely questioning eyes below. " He is not your lover? " " My lover ! Nonsense ! This is Miss Jones' or Mrs. Fog- arty' s doing. They were both in love with him themselves." " What a fascinating young Lovelace he must be ! I should like to see him. He is not your husband then, Niece Cyrilla ? " " My " But this joke is so stupendous that Cyrilla laughs aloud. " You did not live with him as his wife for a week in New Yoik? " pursues Miss Dormer. Her eyes never seem to wink, never seem to go for a second from her niece's face. Cyrilla starts up indignantly, as if this were past bearing. " Aunt Dormer ! " she exclaims haughtily, " this is beyond a jest. Even you have no right to say to me such things as these. If you choose to believe my enemies, women who hate and are jealous of me who will stop at no lie to ruin me then I have no more to say ! " She stands before her, her dark eyes flashing, her dark face eloquent with outraged pride. As a piece of acting, the pose, the look, were admirable. When she said she would have played Lady Teazle better than poor Dolly De Courcy, there can be no doubt she spoke the truth. " Then it is all false all ? You own to having gone out of the window to meet this young man ? " says Miss Dormer, check- ing off the indictments on her skinny fingers, " to having met him at the Delamere's and at the Fogarty woman's. You own to having come upon him by accident in New York, and ridden with him in an omnibus. But he never was your lover, and he 240 " GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." is not your husband. You never lived with him for a week in a New York hotel. That is how the case stands ? " Cyrilla bows ; her face pale, her eyes black, her form erect, her look indignant. " You see I want to make things clear," continues Miss Dormer, almost apologetically ; " my time may be short," a spasm convulses her face ; " and a good deal depends on it. Mr. McKelpin will be here next week, and your innocence must be proven before he returns. I would rather believe these women false than you. You will not mind denying all this in thei: presence, I suppose, Niece Cyrilla ? " " Certainly not, Aunt Dormer." " Then I think that will do. I am tired with all this talking. Sit down there, and take that book, and read me to sleep." Cyrilla obeys. Her heart is beating in loud, muffled throbs, she feels sick and cold, a loathing of herself fills her. But she will not go back on the dark road she is treading there seems no going back. At noon the doctor comes, and Cyrilla quits the sick-room for a breathing-spell. In that interval the doctor receives from his patient a message for " the Fogarty woman." She is to wait upon Miss Dormer with her friend Miss Jones at five o'clock. She also dictates a note to a third person, which the obliging physician undertakes to deliver. Miss Dormer keeps her niece under her eye until about half- past four in the afternoon. Then she despatches her to the druggist's, with orders to be back precisely at five. Cyrilla is glad to go out, glad to breathe the fresh, clear air. The walk is long, she hurries fast, gets what she wants and hurries back. But, in spite of her haste, it is ten minutes past five when she lets herself in, and runs up to her aunt's chamber. She flings open the door and enters hastily. ''The druggist kept me some time waiting while he " She has got this far when she breaks off, and the sentence is never finished. Her eyes have grown accustomed to the dusk of the room, and she sees sitting there, side by side, her two mutual foes Mrs. Fogarty and Miss Jones. " You know these two ladies, Niece Cyrilla ? " says the shrill^ piping voice of Miss Dormer. Cyrilla stands before them, her black eyes flashing yes, liter- ally and actually seeming to flash fire. Mrs. Fogarty' s gaze sinks ; but Miss Jones, the better hater of the two, meets, with her light, sinister orbs, that look of black fury. "GOOD-BYE^ SWEETHEART" 141 *' It is my misfortune, Aunt Doimer,' : says Cyrilla in a ring- ing voice, " to have known them once. I know them no more, except as slanderers and traducers ! " The strong English words flash out like bullets. For a mo- ment, they, with truth on their side, flinch and quail. It is a pugilistic encounter d la vwrt, and the first blood is for Cyrilla. " Ha ! well put," says Miss Dormer, a gleam of something like admiration in the looks she gives her niece. Whatever else the Hendricks lacked, they never lacked pluck, right or wrong. Open the shutters, my dear, and let in the light on this business." It is the first time in all her life that Miss Dormer has called the girl " my dear." Cyrilla stoops over her, and for the third time in her life, kisses her. " Do not bel>':ve their falsehoods, Aunt Phil," she cries pas- sionately. " 1 am your niece ; your own flesh and blood. They hate me, both of them. They have laid this plot to ruin me. Do not J-:t them do it." " Prove them false, and they shall not," Miss Dormer an- swers, her olr* eyes kindling with almost a kindly gleam. " You are my own flesh and blood, as you say, and blood is thicker than water. Open the shutters and raise me up." Slie is obeyed. It is to be a duel to the death. Every nerve in tne girl's body is braced, she will stop at nothing at nothing, to defeat these two. A rain of amber sunset comes in ; over the thousand metal roofs and shining crosses of Montreal the May sun is setting. Miss Dormer is propped up, and looks for a moment wistfully out at that lovely light in the sky last sun- set she will ever see. It is a highly dramatic scene. The death-room, the two ac- cu.sers sitting side by-side, the culprit standing erect, her haughty head thrown back, her eyes afire, her red lips one rigid line, her haods unconsciously clenched. " Niece Cyrilla, there is a Bible yonder on the table. Hand it here." It is given. Miss Dormer opens it, and takes out a folded paper. " Niece Cyrilla, look ! " she says, and holds it up ; " it is my will! Last light while you slept I sent for my lawyer and made it. Jt bequeaths everything everything to Donald AlcRelpin--it does not leave you a penny. If I die without a will, all is yours, as you know. Prove these two ladies wrong in 242 "GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." what they have come here to accuse you of, and I will give you this paper to burn or destroy as you see fit, end my solemn promise to make no other." A gleam like dark lightning leaps from Cyrilla' s eyes. Prove them wrong I What is there that she will btop at to prove them wrong ? " My Niece Cyrilla," goes on the sick woman, turning to Miss Jones, " admits that she stole out of her room to meet this young officer one night in the school garden. She admits," looking at Mrs. Fogarty, " having met him at your house and at Mrs. Delamere's. She admits," glancing again at Miss Jones, " having encountered him by accident in New York, and riding with him a short distance in the omnibus. But all else she denies, positively and totally denies. Mr. Carevv is not her lover, is not and never will be her husband. She is to marry Mr. Donald McKelpin next week. Now, which am I to be- lieve my niece, ladies, or you ? " " Your niece is a most accomplished actress, madam," says the saw-like voice of Miss Jones ; " she can tell a deliberate falsehood and look you straight in the face while telling it. She may not be Mr. Carew's wife all the worse for Mr. McKelpin if she is not for she certainly lived with Mr. Carew as Mrs. Carew in New York for a whole week. I saw them enter the hotel together, I inquired of the clerk, and he told me they had been there together five days as man and wife." " Niece Cyrilla," says Miss Dormer, " what have you to say to this ? " " Nothing to her," replied Cyrilla ; " to you I say it is false I totally false ; a fabrication from beginning to end." " Let us call another witness," says Miss Dormer, " since we don't seem able to agree. Open that door, Mrs. Fogarty, and ask the gentleman to walk in." The widow arises and does as she is told, and for the first time Cyrilla starts and blanches. For there enters Fred Carew I She turns blind for an instant blind, faint, sick. All her strength seems to go. She gives an involuntary gasp, her eyes dilate, she grasps a chair-back for support ; then she sees the exultant faces of her enemies, and she rallies to the strife again. No, no, no ! they shall not exult in her fall. Fred Carew advances to the side of the bed, nearest the dooi. Cyrilla stands directly opposite. He looks at her, but her eyes are upon her aunt. He nods coldly to Mrs. Fogarty, and addresses himself to the mistre of the house : "GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART." 243 " You sent for me, madam ? " he briefly says. She looks at him a strange expression on her face. "I am going to see a ghost," she had said to her niece. Surely it is like seeing a ghost to see another Frederick Carew, with the same blood in his veins, the same look in his eyes, at her bed- side after tive-and-twenty years. The old smoldering wrong seems to blaze up afresh from its vhite ashes ! As in that distant time she hated and cursed the father, so now she has it in her heart to hate and curse the son. " I sent for you, sir," she answers, " to settle a very vexed question. A simple yes or no will do it, for you are an officer and a gentleman, with noble blood in your veins the blood of the Carews incapable of deceiving a poor, weak woman." Oh ! the sneer of almost diabolical malice in eyes and voice as she says it ! Fred's face flushes. " It is only this is my niece, Cyrilla Hendrick, your wife, or not ?" He looks across the bed and their eyes meet. " For heaven's sake, Fred, say no ! " her eager, imploring glance says. " Tell the truth, Cyrilla ! " his command, im- periously. " For my sake ! " their softening look adds. "Speak !" Miss Dormer cries fiercely ; "don't look at her Speak for yourself ! is she your wife or not ? " " I decline to answer so extraordinary a question," Fred says, coolly. " If I had known your object in sending for me, Miss Dormer, I would not have come." " Do you deny that she is ? " " I deny nothing I affirm nothing. Whatever Miss Hen- drick says, that I admit." "She is Miss Hendrick, then you own that?" " I have never heard her called anything else, madam." " Will you speak, or will you not ! " cries Miss Dormer, in a fury. " Are you my niece's husband ? Did she live with you in New York as your wife ? " He folds his arms and stands silent. "And silence gives assent," says the spiteful voice of Miss Jones. " Speak, sir ! " goes on Miss Dormer. " I am a dying wo- man, and I demand to know the truth. What is my niece to you ? " " My very dear friend. More, I positively refuse to say." "Cyrilla!" the old woman almost shrieks, "he will not speak you shall. Come nearer and repeat what you have already said. Is that man your husband or not 1 " 2 44 " GOOD-BYE, S WEE THEAR T. ' ' The agony of that moment ! There are drops on Cyrilla's face cold, clammy drops. A rope seems to be tightening around her neck and strangling her. Across the bed, Fred Ca- rew's eyes are sternly fixed on her changing face. " Speak ! " her aunt screams, mad and furious. " He is not!" " You never lived with him in New York as his wife ? " " I did not." " You are not married to him, and never will be." " I am not, and never will be." " Swear it ! " cries the sick woman, frenzied with excitement. " Your word will not suffice. I must have your oath." She flings open the Bible at the Gospels. " Lay your hand on this book and say after me ! I swear that Frederic Carew is not my husband, and never will be, so help me God ! " She lays her hand on the book blindly, for she cannot see. A red mist fills the room and blots out every face except one the one across the bed, that looks like the face of an avenging angel the face of the husband she loves and is for- swearing. " Speak the words," cried Miss Dormer : " ' I swear that Frederic Carew is not my husband ' begin ! " Oh ! the terrific, ghastly silence. The two women have arisen, and stand pale and breathless. " I swear that Frederic Carew is " Her face, the livid hue of death a second before, turns of a deep dull red, the cord around her throat, strangling her, all at once loosens, and she falls headlong across her aunt's bed. " She has been saved from perjury," says the sombre voice of Miss Jones. Fred Carew is by her side as she falls. He lifts her in his arms and carries her out of the room. Old Joanna is without in the passage, and recoils at the sight of the young man's stony face and the burden he bears. " Take her up to her room," she says, and leads the way. '' Poor dear, has she fainted ? " Cyrilla has not fainted vertigo, congestion, whatever it may be. She is conscious of who carries her ; knows when she is laid upon her bed, in a dull, painless, far-off way. She tries to open her eyes ; the eyelids only flutter, but he sees it. His face touches hers for a second. f ' Gogd-bye good-bye ! " he says. ' OH! THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER." 245 Then, still in that dulled, far-off way, she knows that he has left her ; she hears the house door open and shut, and feels, through all her torpor, that for the first and last time in his life, Fred Carew has crossed Miss Dormer's threshold. CHAPTER XXVI. " OH ! THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER." 'HE lies there for the remainder of the day, while the rose light of the sunset fades out, and the pale prim- rose afterglow comes. The moon rises, and her pearly lustre mingles in the sky with the pink flush of that May sunset. The house door has opened and shut again and again, while she lies mutely there, and she knows that her triumphant enemies have gone, that Dr. Foster has come, for it is his heavy step thai ascends the stairs now. A torpor, that is without pain or tears, or sorrow or remorse fills her, and holds her spell bound in her bed. Her large, black, melancholy eyes are wide open, and stare blankly out of the curtainless windows, as she lies, her hands clasped over her head. She can see the myriad city roofs, sparkling in the crys- tal light of moonrise and sunset, a dozen shining crosses pierc- ing the blue heaven, which she feels she will never see. As she gazes at them dreamily, the bell of a large building near clashes out in the quivering opal air. It is a convent, and the bell is the bell of the evening Angelus. How odd to think that there are people about her, scores and scores of people who can kneel before consecrated altars, with no black and deadly sins to stand between them and the holy and awful face of God. And now it is night. All the little pink clouds have faded in pallid gray, and the clustering stars shine down upon Montreal. Ho\v still the house is. Are they both dead her aunt and Joanna ? No ! While she thinks it, Joanna comes in with a cup of tea and a slice of toast. " Better, miss ? " says the old servant, interrogatively. " Would have come sooner. Could not get away. Waiting on her. Very low to-night. Eat something, miss." Cyrilla drinks her tea thirstily, and makes an effort to get 246 "Off! THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER" up. It is a failure there is something the matter with hei head ; she falls heavily back. . " Lie still, miss. You look gashly. I'll stay with her to- night. Have a sleep, miss." And old Joanna takes her tray and untouched toast, and goes. So she lies. Presently the high bright stars and the twinkling city lights fade away in darkness. There is a long blank then all at once, without sound of any kind, she awakes and sits up in bed, her heart beating fast. Some one is in her room, and a light is burning. It is old Joanna, standing at her bedside, shading a lamp with her hand. " She's gone, miss," says Joanna. "Gone!" Cyi ilia repeats vaguely ; "who? Gone where?" " Yes where ? I'd like to know," says Joanna, staring blankly for information at the papered wall. " The Lord knows, / don't. But she's gone. Went half-an-hour ago. Four o'clock to a minute. The cocks begun to crow, and she riz right up with a screech, and went." The girl sits staring at her her great black eyes looking wild and spectral in her white face. "All night long she talked," pursued Joanna: "talked talked stiddy. It was wearin' to listen. About England and the time when she was young, I reckon, and Frederic Carew and Donald McKelpin, and her wild brother Jack. That's what she called him. And she talked it out crazy and loud like, else I wouldn't a-heerd her. It was awful wearin'. Then she was quiet. Kind o' dozin'. I was dozin' myself. For it was very wearin'. Then the cocks crowed for mornin'. Then she riz right up with that screech, and went. Will you come, miss? It's wearin' there alone." Cyrilla rises and goes. The house is so still so deathly still that their footsteps echo loudly as they walk. The shaded lamp still burns in Miss Dormer's room, and on the bed, stark and rigid, with wide-open, glassy eyes and ghastly fallen jaw, Miss Dormer lies the "rich Miss Dormer." Lonely, loveless and unholy has been her life lonely, loveless and unholy has been her death. Even old Joanna, not easily moved, turns away with a creeping feeling of repulsion from this grisly sight. " She won't make a handsome corpse, poor thing," remarks Joanna, holding up the lamp, and eyeing her critically, as if she had been waxwork ; " but I suppose we must lay her out. We must shut her eyes and put pennies on 'em. And wash her. And make a shroud, and straight her out. And " " OH! THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER." 247 "I cannot !" the girl cries out, turning away, deathly sick, "it would kill me to touch her. You must go for some one or else wait until some one comes." Kut Joanna does neither. Dead or alive, she is not afraid of Miss Dormer. She goes phlegmatically to work and does all herself, while Cyrilla sits or rather crouches in a corner, her folded arms resting on the window-sill, her face lying upon them. She has stood face to face with death before, calmly and un- moved, but never oh ! never with death like this. So when morning, lovely, sunlit, Heaven-sent, shines down upon the world again, it finds them. The sun floods the chamber with its glad light, until old Joanna impatiently jerks down the blinds in its face. On her bed Miss Dormer lies, her ghastly eyeballs crowned with coin of the realm, her skeleton arms stretched stiffly out by her sides, but the mouth is still open, the jaw still fallen, in spite of the white bandage. " I knowed it," Joannna observes, with a depressed shake of her ancient head, stepping back to eye her work. " You can't make a handsome corpse of her, let you do ever so." Then her eye wanders from the dead aunt to the living niece. "You ain't no use here, miss," she says, with asperity. " You'd better come down with me to the kitchen, and I'll make you a cup 'o strong tea. It's been a wearin' night." They descend, and the strong tea is made and drank, and does Cyrilla good. Joanna bustles about her morning duties. At nine o'clock Doctor Foster knocks, is admitted, hears what he expects to hear, that his work is finished, and his patient has taken a journey, in the darkness of the early dawn, from this world to the next. After that, many people, it seems to Cyrilla, come and go- come to look at the rich Miss Dormer in death, who would never have crossed that doorway in 'her life. Mrs. Fogarty and Miss Jones come with the rest. She sees them from her bed- room window, but she is conscious of no feeling of anger or resentment at the sight. All that is dead and gone gone for- ever with hope, and love, and ambition, and daring, and all the plans of her life. Only a day or two ago a day or two ! it seems a lifetime ! She keeps her room through it all, stealing down to the kitchen now and then, through the stajtling still- ness of the house, for the strong tea or coffee on which she lives. No one sees her, though dozens come with no other ob- ject. For the story her story is over the city. Mysterious hints of it are thrown out in the morning papers ; it is the chit- 248 " OH! THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER^ chat of barrack and boudoir, mess-table and drawing-room Nothing quite so romantic and exciting has ever before hap- pened in their midst, and Mrs. Fogarty and Miss Jones awake and find themselves famous. The heroine keeps herself shut up, ashamed of herself, very properly ; the hero is invisible. too. And how has Miss Dormer left her money ! That is the question that most of all exercises their exercised minds. The day of the funeral comes, and Miss Dormer, in her cof- Jin, goes out, for the first time in years, through her own front gates. It is quite a lengthy and eminently respectable array of carriages that follow the wealthy ladv to her grave. O J J ^ O "I am the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in Me, although he be dead, shall live ; and every one that liveth and believeth in Me, shall not die forever ! " says the reverend gentleman in the white bands who officiates, and they lower Miss Dormer into her last narrow home, and the clay goes rat- tling down on the coffin lid. It is a wet and windy day ; the cemetery looks desolation itself a damp and uncomfortable place in which to take up one's abode. The sexton flings in the clods, and no tears are shed and no sorrow is felt. The}' are glad to get back to the shelter of their carriages, and men laugh and crack jokes about Fred Carew and the dead woman's niece all the way home. The dead woman's niece has not gone to the funeral. Old Joanna alone represents the household. The doctor is there, and the lawyer is there, for they expect ample fees for their pains presently ; but the dead woman's niece expects nothing. She sits in her lonely room ; a lost feeling that something has gone wrong with her head ever since that cord snapped around her throat and she fell across her aunt's bed her principal feeling. She puts her hand to it in a forlorn, weary way, won- dering why it feels so oddly hollow, as if the thinking machine inside had run down, and the key was lost. She suffers no acute pain, either mental or physical, only she seems to have lost the power both to sleep or eat, and does not feel the need of either. There is a tiresome, ceaseless sense of aching at her heart, too ; a blunted sense of misery and loss, that never for a moment leaves her. She plucks at it sometimes, as if to pluck away the intolerable gnawing ; but it goes on and on, like the endless torture of a lost soul. M r. Pompet, the lawyer, has come to look after bonds and mortgages, receipts, bank accounts and papers of value, to re- move them to his own safe, until the arrival of Mr. McKelpin, "OH! THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER." 249 He is engaged in this work when the door of the room opens, and a figure comes gliding toward him a figure with a face so white, eyes so black, and weird, and large ; that, albeit not a nervous man, Mr. Pompet drops the deed he holds and starts up with a stifled ejaculation. It is the dead woman's niece. " Don't let me disturb you." The weird, dark eyes look at him the faint, tired voice speaks. " I will only remain a mo- ment. You are the lawyer who made Miss Dormer's will ? " "Yes, miss I mean Mrs. " Here Mr. Pompet comes to a dead lock. He has heard so much about Miss Hendrick being Mrs. Carew, that he is at a loss how to address her. " 1 am Miss Dormer's niece. Will you tell me how she has left her money ? " He looked at her compassionately how wretchedly ill the poor girl is looking, he thinks. A handsome girl, too, in spite of her pallor and wild-looking eyes Lieutenant Carew has had taste. " Has Mr. McKelpin got it all? Don't be afraid to tell me, or am I remembered ? " " Except a small bequest of one hundred dollars to her ser- vant Joanna, Mr. McKelpin has it all," answers the lawyer. " I am not even mentioned in her will ? " Again Mr. Pompet is silent again he looks embarrassed and compassionate. " Please answer," she says, wearily. ' I would rather know." " You are mentioned then, but only to say she has disin- herited you for your falsehood and deceit, and to warn Mr. McKelpin in no case to aid or help you." She bends her head with the old graceful motion. " Thank you," she says, and goes. So it is over, and she knows the worst it is only what she has known all along, the lawyer has but made assurance doubly sure. In striving to keep love and fortune she has lost both. She has lost all, good name, lover, home, wealth, everything she has held most dear. And her own falsehood has done it all. If she had been honest and dealt fairly by her am*, she would at least, as Donald McKelpin's wife, have been a rich woman. If she had been honest and dealt fairly by Fred Carew, she 'would have had his love and presence to comfort her. But she has lost both. Truly, even for the children of this world, honesty is the best policy truly, also, the way of the transgres- sor is hard, and the wages of sin is death. Another night falls upon the lonesome, dark old house, an- other ghostly, hushed sleepless night. She lies through the long, black, dragging hours, and listens to the raiu pattering n* 350 "OH! THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER." on the glass, and the wind blowing about the gables. " Blessed is the corpse that the rain rains on," says the children's rhyme. The rain is beating on Aunt Dormer's grave is Aunt Dormei blessed ? she wonders. Again it is morning another gray, wet morning. In the early dawn, sleep reluctantly comes to her, and with sleep dreams. The sleeping is more cruel than the waking, for she dreams of her husband. She is back with him in New York, living over again that one bright honeymoon week that week that will stand out from all the other weeks of her life. With a a smile on her lips she awakens, and then a moment after there is a desolate cry. For the truth has come back to her with a pain sharper than the pain of death. She has heard nothing of him or from him since their parting she never will again that she knows. That whispered 'good-bye' was for all time. Why should she expect otherwise ? In the face of all she denied him forswore him. What could he have left but scorn and contempt for her. It never occurs to her to think of see- ing or hearing from him again. Her sentence is passed its justice she does not dispute. That forenoon brings a telegram from Mr. McKelpin. He has landed at Quebec by to-morrow he will be in Montreal. Her brief respite is at an end she must be up and doing now. She has no right in Donald McKelpin's house. He is an Honest man, and she has betrayed him. She has no intention of allowing him to find her here by to-morrow morning's early train she will go. She will go but where ? In all the world she has neither home nor friends. She thinks of Sydney, good little, loyal Sydney but Sydney is far away. Still she has her plans. In the long watches of the night she has made up her mind to go to New York. Why, she does not know ; only in a great city it is so easy to lose one's self, to die to all one has ever known. Perhaps there she will get rid of this gnawing, miserable pain at her heart ; perhaps there, her wandering brain may feel as it used. And she has been so happy there so happy. She will go back, and walk in the places where they used to walk together, as Eve may have come back and looked over the closed gates of Eden. And then well, then, perhaps, there may be mercy for her, and she may die. She is of no use in the world, of no use to any one she is a wicked wretch, of w'lom the earth will be well rid "a sinner viler than them all." People tLc eve-y day,, every hour ; why sliould not sl "O//7 THE LEES ARE BITTER, BITTER." 25? To-morrow morning comes. She has packed her trunk and her little hand-bag. Old Joanna fetches her a hack, and she puts on her hat, and holds out her hand and says good-bye to the old creature mechanically, and tells her (when asked) that she is going to New York. She never once lifts her heavy eyes to take a last look at the gloomy red brick house as the hack bears her away. She has some money not much, but enough. Since their marriage Fred has made her his banker. It will take her to New York after that, it doesn't matter what happens. She is in the cars. She lays her head with a tired-out feeling against the window, and closes her eyes. They are flying along in the warm June morning, and thoughts of the last time she made this journey, not yet a month ago, drift vaguely through her mind. She never looks up or out. Her forehead is rest- ing against the cool glass it feels to her like a friendly hand ; and so, dead to all about her. dead to herself, to everything that makes life de?r, Cyrilla drifts out of the old life whither, she neither knows nor cares. PART SECOND. CHAPTER I. SYDNEY. " Yet, is this girl I sing in naught uncommon, And very far from angel, yet I trow Her faults, her sweetnesses are purely human, And she's more lovable as simple woman Than any one diviner that I know." jjWO o'clock of a cold November afternoon, a shrill rising wind, whistling up and down the city streets, stripping the gaunt brown trees of their last sere and yellow leaf, and making little ripples all along the steely pools of water, which the morning's rain has left. The rain has ceased now, but a gray, fast-drifting sky yet lowers over New York, ominously suggestive of the first wintry fall of snow. Omnibuses rattle up and omnibuses rattle down, private car- riages, all aglitter of black varnish, prancing horses and liveried coachmen whirl up park-ward. A few ladies trip past in the direction of Broadway, a few beggar children creep around the areas. That is the street scene, the tall young lady with the fair hair, mourning dress, sits and looks at rather listlessly, con- sidering that more than four years have elapsed since these blue-gray eyes looked upon it before. The young lady is Miss Sydney Owenson, newly returned from a five years' so- journ abroad, and domiciled with her late mothers cousin, Mrs. Macgregor, of Madison Avenue. Her mother, Mrs. Owenson, is dead. Except these cousins, Sydney Owenson, orphan and heiress, stands quite alone in the world. Four years ago, one sunny May day, Captain Owen- son's widow and only child left New York for Havre. Four quiet pleasant years followed for poor badgered Aunt Char; more quiet and pleasant than Aunt Char would ever have owned even to herself, with no terrible marital voice to thunder SYDNEY. 253 at her for the thousand and one foolish little deeds and speeches of every day. There was one long balmy winter in Florence, another in Rome, where the churches and picture galleries, the delights of her daughter's heart, made her head ache, and where St. Peter's with its splendors and its vastness, and its majestic music and wondrously beautiful ceremonies, nearly tired her to death. Physically, mentally and morally, Aunt Char was weak, and growing weaker every day. For Sydney, that Roman winter was one long dream of delight ; it seemed to her mother she literally lived in the churches and picture galleries. The summers were spent rambling in a vagabond sort of way through Switzerland, Germany and Bavaria. The fourth winter was spent in Paris, and in that city Aunt Char's feeble hold on life grew weaker and weaker ; and one bleak spring morning Sydney awoke, to find herself an orphan indeed, and that weak and gentle mother, lying with folded hands and placid face and life's labor done. Four years before, on that December morning when she knelt down by her dead father's bed, the girl had been a child, a very child in heart and knowledge, in thought and feeling. But with that day her childhood seemed to cease, and womanhood to dawn. She had loved her feeble little mother very dearly, but never no never as she had loved her father. In those years of aimless wandering hers had been the guiding spirit, hers the ruling voice. To rule was not in Mrs. Ovvenson's nature all her life she had been meekly under orders until its very last day. Strong, self-reliant, fearless, she looked upon her slim, stately young daughter with wonder and admiration, and leaned upon her from the first day of her husband's death. That by- gone tragedy had left its impress upon the girl for life. Grave beyond her years, with a gravity most people found very charm- ing, thoughttul, but very gentle and sweet,. her seriousness was an added witchery. She had shot up in these years, supple and tall, healthful and handsome, with eyes as bright as these south- ern skies at which they gazed, a complexion not pale, and yet colorless, and a fearless frankness of manner, that her unfettered, wandering life could not fail to give. In her heart, her whole /ife long, she would mourn for the father she had so dearly loved, the brother who was to have been her husband ; but her face was bright as the sunshine itself, and the handsome Amer- ican heiress did not reach her twenty-first birthday, be very sure, without more than one manly heart and hand (more or less short of ready money) being laid at her shrine, and just at pre- 254 SYDNEY. ent it was the bus' ness of the Macgregor family to discover vvhethe; their fair and rich relative had brought hei heart home with her, or had left that useful organ behind in ft reign parts. She had been with them three weeks now, and the discovery had not been satisfactorily made yet, and Dick Macgregor, son of the house and graduate of West Point, was growing seriously anxious on the subject. Miss Owenson had remained a full year abroad after her mother's death with some English friends, whose acquaintance she had made in Paris. These friends were Sir Harry Leonard and his sister, a maiden lady of forty. With the sister, Miss Owenson frankly owned to having fallen in love at sight the brother, Mrs. Owenson had more than hinted in her letters, had done precisely the same with Sydney. Sir Harry was a man of thirty, not bad-looking, and rich enough in Cornish tin mines to put the possibility of mercenary motives entirely out of the question. Miss Owenson had spent many months following her mother's death with Miss Leonard, and now the question arose, was Sydney the fiance of Sir Harry Leonard? Dick Macgregor, his mother, and sister revolved this question in all its bearings and revolved in vain. Sydney was serenely silent on all these tender matters, and there was a quiet dignity about her that forbade questions. Dick's attentions she took with a cousinly indifference and good nature that was exasperating to a degree. " It seems a pity to let the fortune a million, if a dollar go out of the family," says Mrs. Macgregor, knitting her brows, until they made a black archway over her lofty Roman nose. " If she were to marry Dick, I needn't sell myself to that fat beast, old Vanclerdonck," says Miss Macgregor, with con- siderable asperity. " One of us must marry money or starve. Of course I will be the sacrifice, though. Old Vanderdonck is as fond of me as it is possible for him to be of anything, except his bank account, and Sydney is about as much in love with Dick as she is with your new black coachman, mamma. Who can wonder, though, after the men she has associated with abroad, and it's not your fault, I suppose, my poor Dick, that you've neither brains nor beauty." "She's engaged to the baronet that's where the trouble is," responds Dick, with a gloomy glance at his sister, "or that other fellow what's his name, the German that wanted tc marry her ? American girls are all tarred with the same stick SYDNEY. 255 they'd marry the deuce himself, horns and hoof, if he only had a title." Of this family conclave, of the plots and plans in regard to her, Miss Owenson was most supremely unconscious. Those bright gray eyes of hers would have opened very wide indeed if any one had told her Dick Macgregor wanted to marry her not only wanted to marry her, but had fallen in love with her. She would stay with them for this winter, she thought, and afte? that but the "after that" was not quite clear in Sydney's mind. Youth, beauty, many friends, two or three lovers, and great wealth are hers ; but as she sits here to clay and looks out at the bleak, wind-blown street, she feels lonely and sad enough. The Macgregors are relatives, and are very good to her after their light, but their house is not home, nor even like the Cor- nish home that was hers so lately, and oh ! so unutterably un- like the dear old home at Wychcliffe forever lost now. This day is an anniversary this day five years ago was the day be- fore her wedding this day five years ago, and just at this hour, she and Bertie Vaughan stood looking out at the whirling snow. Again she sees him lying back in his chair, that moody look on his blonde, boyish face ; again she hears him speak, " Who knows what may happen ? In the midst of life we are in death, and ail that, you know." His words had been prophetic. Ah ! poor Bertie. Looking back now, with the knowledge and ex- perience of five years added upon her, Sydney knows that as Bertie's wife she would have been a supremely wretched woman. Looking back now, she knows he was weak and unstable as water that she would have outgrown him, and that they would have wearied to death of the tie that bound them. She knows that for herself and her own happiness it is infinitely better as it is. Yet none the less does she regret him, none the less does she mourn his tragic end. The mystery of that night's dis- appearance is as dense a mystery as ever ; nothing has ever come to light nothing, it is probable now, ever will. Whether a murder was done, whether an accident befell him, may never be discovered. Of late years Sydney has inclined to the latter belief. Bertie had no enemies not one and just there an ac- cident might very easily befall. A slip, a false step, and the rising tide would speedily bear away all traces. She rises from her reverie with a sigh to the memory of those pleasant by-gone days, and goes in search of a book. The /oom she is in is called a library, although one small bookcase rolds all its lila'aUuc the Alac^rqjors arc uyl a reading ian> 256 SYDNEY. ily. Pictures there are in profusion chromos and engravings mostly ; the carpet is soft and rich, the curtains are elegant and costly, the furniture is blue silk rep, and there are half-a-dozen lounging chairs. How Mrs. Macgregor furnishes her house, dresses her daughter, keeps her carriage, gives her quantum of parties in the season, and goes everywhere, is a conundrum several families on the avenue are interested in solving, am' cannot. All this she does and more. Newport and Saratoga know them in the summer solstice ; their seat at the opera and at Wallack's is always filled ; they have an open account at Stewart's and another at Tiffany's. "And how on earth does Mrs. Macgregor do it," ask the avenue families, " when we all know how John Macgregor left her nothing but the house -.he lives in and a beggarly two thousand a year." Miss Owenson takes down a book at random, and returns to her chair. The book turns out to be " Sintram," a very old friend, and a very great favorite one that will bear reading many times, and the closing page of which Sydney has never yet reached with dry eyes. She opens near the middle and be- gins to read, and soon all things, all cares of her own, the very memory of her own life-sorrows, are lost in the ideal sorrows of " Sintram." Brave, tempted, noble, forsaken, her heart is with him through all, far more than with Sir Folko, stainless knight and happy husband. Her eyes are dewy as she reads lines that tell poor, tempted, sorrowing Sintram that his trials are almost done. " Death comes to set thee free ; Oh! meet him cheerily, As thy true friend ; Then all thy fears shall cease, And in eternal peace Thy penance end ! " " Sydney," calls a voice, the clear, fresh voice of Katherine Macgregor. Then the library door is thrown open by an im- petuous glove! hand, and Katherine Macgregor, in stylish carriage costume, stately as her name, tall and elegant, rustles in. " What ! reading," she exclaims, and not dressed and it is half-past three, and we promised to be ready at three, and poo 1 ' Uncle Grif pottering about the drawing-room waiting for the last hour ? Oh ! this is too much ! even my patience has its limits. What is that you have got hold of now ? " SYDNEY. 257 Without cerem jny Miss Macgregor snatches the book, and her little, piquant nez retrouae curls scornfully as she glances at the title. " Sintram and His Companions ! That you should live to be two-and-twenty, and still addicted to fairy tales ! " " It isn't a fairy tale," says Miss Owenson, laughing. " It is all the same goblins and demons, and skeletons, and death's heads. Ugh ! I began it once and had the nightmare after it. How any one can read such rubbish, with dozens of delicious new novels out every day, I cannot imagine." "Your new novels are the rubbish, judging by the criticisms I read of them. One Sintram, wild, pathetic, old legend that it is, is worth the whole boiling " " 1 don't care for pathetic things, 1 ' says Miss {Catherine Mac- gregor, shrugging her shoulders ; " one's daily life and its wor- ries are as pathetic a legend as / want to know anything about." Sydney lifts her eyes and looks at her. A fall brunette, not really handsome, but making the most of herself, of a fine erect figure, a pair of sparkling black eyes, and set of very white teeth. Vivacity is becoming to Miss Macgregor's peculiar style, consequently Miss Macgregor is charmingly vivacious and high-spirited everywhere except at home. Dull parties "go oft"" with Katie Macgregor to the fore; heavy dinners are lightened ; very young men fall in love with her at sight ; mar- ried men are invariably smitten when they sit near her. She plays the piano well, waltzes well, dresses in excellent taste, sings a little, and can " take " Broadway of a sunny afternoon, with a dash and elan that makes every masculine head turn involuntarily to look again. And it must be added that Miss Macgregor's face is very well known on Broadway, indeed, better and longer than she likes to think, herself. She is three years Sydney's senior, and as she came out at sixteen, the ways of the wicked world are as a twice told tale to Katherine Macgregor, and Money and Matrimony " the two capital M's," as her brother Dick calls them long ago became the leading aHis of her life. As indeed of what well regulated young women aio they not ? " You worried, Katie ? " Sydney says, still laughing ; " do my ears deceive me ? Who would think Katie Macgregor, >unbeam of New York,' as I heard poor young Van (Juyler call you last night, had a care." " The laughing hyena of New York is brother Dick's name for it, and the more suitable of the two," responds Miss Mac- gregor, rather bitterly. " To cat, drink, and be merry, mamma 258 SYDNEY. told ir.e when I was sixteen, was to be my role through life laughter is becoming, you know, to people with white teeth and black eyes, so I began at her command, and have gone on ever since. It has become second nature by this time, but to laugh is one thing, to be happy another." "What is tlie trouble, dear?" Sydney asks; ''is it anything in which I can help you ? If so " " Thanks, Syd no, you cannot help me, unless you can in- duce somebody to leave me fifty or sixty thousand dollars. Dollars, the great want of the world, are my want. With them I need not become Mrs. Cornelius Vanderdonck without them I must." " Katie ! Old Mr. Vanderdonck ! Ill-tempered, rheumatic, sixty years ! You surely do not dream of marrying him ? " " I surely do only too happy and thankful to have him ask me. I am tired, tired and sick, Sydney, of the life we lead, hand to mouth, pinching here, and saving there ; servants un- paid, bills, duns, mamma nearly at her wits' end. Oh ! you don't know ! In my place you would be as mercenary and heart- less as I am." " But I thought," Sydney says, with a puzzled look, " that Aunt Helen was rich?" (Aunt Helen is a convenient term for her mother's cousin.) " If money matters are your only trouble, Katie, why do you not draw on me ? I have more than I can possibly use, and you must know, Aunt Helen must know, that I would be only too glad " " We know you are generosity itself, Sydney, dear," responds Miss Macgregor, still with that touch of cynicism in her voice that she keeps strictly for family use, " but even you might grow weary after a time of supporting a large family of third cousins. And of the two evils marrying sixty years, ill-temper, and ugliness, or swindling you to your face, I really think I prefer the former. But this is all a waste of time." Miss Macgregor pulls at her watch. " Twenty minutes to four and the daylight waning already, and Von Ette's studio closes invariably at five. I give you just ten minutes to dress, Miss Owenson. The car- riage is already at the door." " The new picture ! I had forgotten all about it ! " cries Miss Owenson starting up. "Ten minutes is it, Katie ? Very well in ten minutes I will be ready." Strange to say, Miss Owenson keeps her word. In ten minutes she descends, a seal jacket over her black silk dress, a black hat with a long black plume on her head, and her fail SYDNEY. 259 face and golden hair, very fair by contrast. Dee^ mourninq Sydney has left off, colors she has not yet assumed. " Uncle Grif grew tired of waiting," says Miss Macgregor, as they enter the carriage, "and toddled off by himself to meet us at Pbilippi 1 mean at Von Ette's.'' " Who is this Monsieur Von Ette?" Sydney asks. "His name is new to me." " The name is new to us all. A year ago Carl Von Ett6 was a beggar literally a beggar in the streets of New York, hawking his own pictures from door to door, and earning a crust and a garret. One day he fell down in a fainting fit in he street, from sheer starvation, and a man nearly as poor as himself, took him home, nursed him, encouraged him, and the result Von Ette has painted a picture that the town talks of, and is on the high road to fame and fortune." "And his friend the good Samaritan what of him ?" Sydney's eyes glisten as she asks the question. Her sym- pathetics are very quick it is things like these that go home to her heart. For Miss Macgregor, her cynical look comes back. " The good Samaritan is precisely where he was the usual fate of good Samaritans, is it not? plodding along in a lawyer's office. Lewis Nolan may be the cause of greatness to others, but I have a presentiment he will never be great himself. He has exploded theories about honor and honesty, that keep men back. Here we are. Raise your dress, Sydney. These stairs may have been swept during the last ten years, but I doubt it. Your true artist is a dirty creature, or nothing." She lifts her glistening silk train and runs lightly up the stairs, her vivacious society face in its best working order. Miss Owen- son, with an expression of extreme distaste for ihe dirty, un- swept stairs, gathers up her skirts and follows. " Shall we see the artist, Katie ? " she asks. " No, decidedly. Von Ette is a perfect miracle of ugliness is next door to a dwarf, and has a hump. No one ever enters his studio when he is there but Uncle Grif and Lewis Nolan." " The good Samaritian ! Shall we see him ? " They have reached the landing. Miss Macgregor gives her- self one small shake, and shakes every ribbon, every silken fold into its place in a second. She pauses at her cousin's question, and looks at her for a moment. " Perhaps ! " she answers, slowly ; " and if we do, I want you to look at him well and tell me what you think of him. Lewis 260 "SINTRAM." Nolan has been my puzzle for the past ten years, and is more my puzzle\to-day than ever. Let us see if you can solve it." She taps at the door, opens it, and the two young ladies are in the studio. CHAPTER II. " SINTRAM." j|T was a large and well-lighted room, the floor covered with dark-red wool carpet, the walls colored of some dull, neutral tint and, containing by way of furniture three queer spindle-legged, old-fashioned chairs. Three or four ladies and as many men stood clustered around a picture the picture, the only picture upon the wall. At the extreme end of the room two or three others hung excepting these the plastered walls were quite bare. "Von F,tte's studio is as grim and ugly as himself," remarked Miss Macgregor, taking in the place and the people with an American girl's cool, broad stare. "There is Uncle Grif gaz- ing through his venerable old specs, lost in a trance of admira- tion, just as if he had never seen it before. The dear old soul has no more idea of art than a benevolent torn cat, but a sign- board painted by little Von Ette would be in his eyes as a Murillo or a Rubens in those of other people." M. Von Ette is then a. protege of Uncle Grit's?" asks Miss Owenson. " Let us take a seat until these good people dis- perse. I detest looking at a picture over other's shoulders." " Carl Von Ette is a. protege of Lewis Nolan. Lewis Nolan, since he was twelve )iears old, has been a protege of Uncle Grif's ; while Uncle Grif, ever since I can remember, has been mamma's abject slave. 1 never knew him to rebel except on one point, and that point this same Lewis Nolan. ' The money you spend upon that Irish boy, Brother Grif,' says mamma, looking at him with her glance, beneath which the stoutest heart may well blench, ' would be much more suitably employed in educating your only sister's orphan children. Charity begins at home, sir.' And Uncle Grif, bless him ! quails and trem- bles, and makes answer, in quivering falsetto, ' Little Lewis ib "SINTRAM." 261 like a son to me, Sister Helen. It is but little that I tan do for him ; that little I mean to do ; whatever is left, you and the children are welcome to, I'm sure.' " Miss Macgregor, in her most vivacious tone, parodies her mother and uncle without the smallest compunction, and the mimicry is so good that Sydney has to laugh. " Mr. Nolan is Irish, then, and poor ? " " Of Irish extraction, and poor as a rat. His mother and sister are seamstresses. He is a lawyer now, admitted to the bar, thanks to uncle. He began life selling papers, was ele- vated to office-sweeping, was one of those boys you read of in Sunday-school books, and goody literature generally, who are athirst after knowledge, spend their leisure hours in hard study, rise to be prime ministers, and marry a duke's daughter. Mr. Nolan has not had greatness of any kind thrust upon him yet, but, after all, I shouldn't be in the least surprised to see him a ruler in the land before his hair is gray one of those self-made men, who are so dreadfully priggish and pompous, and who never tell a lie in their lives. There! an opening at last. Now let us go and look at the pictures." Kate Macgregor's cynicisms and worldly knowledge, her sar- castic strictures, on every subject under the sun, were a never- failing source of wonder and amusement to Sydney. A very good type of the girl of the period was Miss Macgregor, devouring with relish the newspaper literature of the day, mur- ders, divorces, scandals the most atrocious, and ready to dis- cuss and analyze the most revolting cases with perfect sang froid a girl to whom love had meant nothing since her seven- teenth birth-day, and marriage and an establishment every- thing a girl who flirted, waltzed, took presents, went to water- ing-places every summer, went to parties every winter, and in the midst of all kept a bright look-out for the main chance a girl who looked calmly in the face of every man to whom she was introduced, with these two questions uppermost in her mind : " Is he rich ?" and " Can I induce him to marry me ? " Not an evil-minded or bad hearted young woman by any means ; simply a latter-day young lady, true to the teachings of her life, and of the world, worldly, to her inmos' soul. The little group before the painting had dispersed, and the cousins were free to look at their leisure. Miss Macgregor doubled up her gray gloved hands, pursed her lips, and set her- seil to find out its faults. "H'm! a very pretty picture subject somewhat 262 SINTRAM. ' The Little Sister.' Nuns are rather a hackneyed subject, but always effective. The gas-light falling on that girl's face is very good very good, indeed a fallen woman in more senses than one. The Sister's dress is painted with pre-Raphaelite fidel- ity, and the face I should say, now, the face was painted from memory not exactly pretty, but very sweet. I have seen Sisters of Charity with just that expression. Do you like it, Sydney you, who have lived in an atmosphere of pictures, so to speak, for the last five years ? " " Like it ? yes." Sydney answers dreamily, and that elo- quent face of hers truly an eloquent face, where all feelings of the heart are concerned says far more than the quiet words. The picture pleases her artistic sense, but it has done more it has touched her heart, and she stands very silent and looks at it long. It is a city scene a twilight scene. A primrose light yet lingers coldly in the wintry sky the haze of early evening fills the air, and the street lamps blink dimly through it. One or two bright frosty stars pierce the chill opaline lustre, but day has not yet departed. In the archway of a large building a woman a mere girl seems to have fallen, huddling her rags about her in a strange, distorted attitude of pairt. Her face is upturned, the gas Hares upon it, and the haggard eyes stare fiercely in their infinite misery, their reckless, crazed despair. Above her, bending over her, her basket on her arm, stands a little Sister of the Poor, in her black nun's dress. Infinite com- passion, angelic pity, heavenly sweetness, are in the nun's wist- ful face, its peace, its purity, its tender gentleness, in striking contrast with the fierce despair, the haggard pain, the reckless wretchedness of her sinning sister. " Oh ! " Sydney says, half under her breath, "how beautiful it is, how pathetic a story it tells ! Katie, your Von Ette is a genius." " Very likely," says Miss Macgregor, with one of her shrugs ; " he is hideous enough, I am sure. The contrast between those two faces is very good. By-the-by, there is Mrs. Grierson odious creature and, as usual, disgustingly overdressed. I must go and speak to her. The idea of that woman coming to see a picture ! the only painting she has soul enough to appre- ciate is the drop scene of a theatre, when Grierson isn't there, and she has a new flirtation in hand." And then Miss Katherine sweeps gracefully and graciously over, and ki?so* Ijer friend with effusion, and in a moment they are in the midst of a most animated conversation, abusing theil "SINTRAMS 263 absent and mutual friends, no doubt, Miss Owenson thinks with disdain. She presently leaves the picture she has come to see ar.d saunters down the room to view the others. They are not of equal merit, rather poor in fact, with the exception of one which rivets her attention from the first. For it is called " Sintram," and is oddly enough a scene from the story she was reading an hour ago. It is a very small picture, but, in a different way, quite as striking as "The Little Sister." A dead white expanse of frozen snow, paling away into the gray and low-lying sky. Black and spectral against this ghostly whiteness stands out the tall, powerful figure of Sintram, his dark face, full of passion, remorse, and horror. Behind him, leering and evil, tempting him to the murder of his friend for the sake of that friend's wife, crouches " The Little Master." Away in the distance, at the foot of an icy precipice, lies prostrate and helpless the gallant Sir Folko. But the interest of the picture centres in Sintram. You can see the fierce battle between temptation and honor, between the inherent ferocity and mobility of his nature, and you wonder almost painfully how the struggle will end. Sydney lingers, fascinated, and while she stands, Katherine deserts her friend and returns to her. An exclamation from Miss Macgregor makes her glance iound ; that young lady pauses and gazes at " Sintram" with an inexplicable expression of face. '* Is it not exquisite ? " Sydney asks ; " even better in its way than the other? You can see the torture poor, tempted, loyal Sintram is suffering in his very face." " I don't know how it may depict Sintram," says Katie, in her most caustic voice. " I know it is a very good portrait of Lewis Nolan, although I never saw him wear any such gruesome expression as that." She stands and regards it with a look in her eyes that SyJ ney does not understand, but which is something deeper than, mere criticism. " I wonder if it is for sale?" Sydney eagerly asks. " I shoulJ like to buy it. It is my ideal Sintram exactly." " You can very easily ascertain. Uncle Grif will negotiate Ihs transaction for you with Von Ette. I will call him now." She breaks abruptly off. Uncle Grif still remains where she has left him, but no longer meekly alone. A man has entered and stands talking to him, his tall head slightly bent, a grave imile on hi$ face, Mr. Nolan, Sydney knows in a moment, partly 264 "SINTRAMr by the expression of her cousin's face, partly by his vivid re- semblance to the " Sintram." Miss Macgregor is right, the likeness is a very good one, lacking of course, the agony of despair. A very tall man is Mr. Nolan. Sydney glances approv- ingly at the active figure and broad shoulders, with a black, close- cropped head, and a dark, rather sallow face, a face whose habitual expression will be that of profound gravity, but which is lighted just now by a very genial smile. By no means a hand- some face, but. a very good one, a thinking face, a strong face, the face, it might be, of a man of powerful passions, held well in hand by a still more powerful will. " Here they come," says Katherine Macgregor, half under her breath, " Now, then, Sydney, solve my riddle if you can. Tell me what manner of man Lewis Nolan is ?" " He is a man who carries himself well, at least," says Miss Owenson, with a second calmly approving glance. " Your very tall man slouches, as a rule ; Mr. Nolan does not." " Lewis," says Uncle Grif, shambling up to his niece and looking at her in meek deprecation, for the old man stands in mortal awe of his dashing young relative, " this is Katherine, my niece, Katherine. You remember Katherine, don't you?" " It is much easier to remember Miss Katherine than to forget her," says Mr. Nolan, with an amused glance into Miss Katherine' s laughing eyes. " My memory in some cases is fatally good." " Uncle Grif himself never remembers my existence five sec- onds after I am out of his sight, and naturally takes it for granted the rest of mankind are equally criminal," says Katherine. " We have come to see the picture, you perceive, Mr. Nolan. It is charming. I have fallen quite in love with Mr. Von Ette since I saw it. I always do fall in love with genius." " Happy Von Ette happy genius ? Would that I but of what avail are wishes ? 1 shall transport Carl to the seventh heaven this evening by letting him know." " As for this," says Miss Macgregor, with a graceful motion toward the " Sintram," "my cousin is enchanted with it. Oh ! excuse rue my cousin, Miss Owenson, Mr. Nolan. Quite a foreigner, I assure you, and a judge of pictures ; has spent the last five years of her existence running from one picture gallery of Europe to another." "Poor Van Ette ! How wretched the knowledge will make him, that so formidable a connoisseur has bten criticising hi& poor attempts." " STNTRAM" 265 " I am afraid that speech is more sarcastic than sincere," answers Miss Owenson, coolly. " I am not in the least a critic. I know when a picture pleases me, and very often the pic- ture that pleases me is one connoisseurs pass over in con- terhnt." ""And 'The Little Sister,'" Mr. Nolan asks, "you really like it, I hope ? " " I really do. Jt is a charming subject, charmingly executed. But it may surprise you to hear, I like this better." " That ! ' Sintram ? ' Why, Von Ette put that in a corner out of the way. I am nothing of a judge myself; I fancied it rather good. I am not unprejudiced, though, for Sintram, on canvas or off it, is a very old friend of mine." "Is he?" Miss Owenson, relaxes into an approving smile. " You have sat stood rather for this Sintram evidently." Mr. Nolan laughs. "Yes Von Ett6 read the book in one of his lazy evenings, and conceived the happy idea that I resembled the hero. Sin- tram had a black complexion, if you remember, and a correspond- ing ferocity of disposition ; so the happy idea was not personally flattering. I posed with a tragic expression accordingly, and you see the result." " A very satisfactory result," interposes Katie ; " you have rather the look of a first murderer in a melodrama. Did you really hurl the gentleman yonder over the precipice in a trans- port of madness, or how ? My recollections of Sintram are hazy." Both young ladies, as it chances, are looking into Mr. Nolan's face and both see a most remarkable change pass over it as Katie Macgregor speaks. The dark, colorless complexion fades slowly to a gray white. But he neither starts, nor turns away ; only Sydney notices that his hands tighten over the felt hat he holds. " My favorite Sintram does no such dastardly deed," she says, coming intuitively to the rescue, and glancing away from Mr. Nolan's altered face, " Sir Folko falls over, and Sintram flies to the rescue like the gallant knight he is. Is the picture for sale, Mr. Nolan ? I should like to have the pleasure of possessing it." "It is for sale," he answers. "Von Ette will only be too glad to dispose of it." He speaks quite calmly, but the traitor blood doe: ^ct re- turn. He is deadly pale still, and his eyes very handsome 12 266 " SINTRAM7* dark gray eyes Sydney notices, are fixed in a curious way on the picture. " Then, Uncle Grif, may I commission you to purchase it foi me," says Miss Ovvenson. " I really have seen nothing in a long time which has so completely taken my fancy." Uncle Griff is no kin of Miss Owenson's, but he is Uncle Grif to all who have ever known him. Indeed, his sprightly niece goes so far as to affirm that in his tender years he was " Uncle Grif" to the other boys of the school. A thin, patient-looking old man, whom you intuitively know for an oW bachelor at sight, badgered by his strong-minded sister, patron- ized by his nephew and niece, and imposed upon in a general way by all the world. One of those men who battle weakly all their lives with Mammon, and end as they began, hopelessly poor one of the great brigade of the Unsuccessful. " Uncle Grif tells us you are engaged in the great Harland case, Mr. Nolan,"- remarks Katherine Macgregor. "As junior counsel yes." He answers rather dreamily, his eyes still fixed with that curi- ously intent look upon the " Sintram." " It is a great opening, is it not ? You will have a chance and you only need a chance, I am sure, to distinguish yourself." " Mr. Graham will have chance enough ; there is very little for me." He takes no notice of her smooth compliment ; he appears to answer mechanically, his thoughts with the picture, or something it suggests. " You are for the defence," persists his fair inquisitor " for Mrs. Harland, are you not ? " "Yes." " Poor thing ! " Katherine heaves a sympathetic sigh "how dreadfully she must feel, to be tried in a week for her life." " There is no question of her life," says Mr. Nolan, still in that absent tone ; " they cannot bring it in wilful murder, do their worst. It will be outrageous to bring it in even manslaughter. Our hope is that we will get a verdict of ' not guilty.' " " But she is guilty," says Miss Owenson, opening her eyes ; " she killed her husband. Killing is murder, is it not ?" "God forbid !" cries Lewis Nolan, so suddenly, so energeti- cally, that Katie absolutely recoiled. " What then do you call it ? " asks Sydney, looking at him with wondering blue eyes. " Not murder, certainly, else Heaven help the world To "SINTRAM. n 267 hate a man, to lie in wait for him, to assassinate him, coolly and deliberately, and with malice prepense that is murder, if you like, and worthy of the gallows." " Ah, yes ! " says Katherine, with a second sympathetic sigh. " I don't see that it makes much difference to the victim, though," says Sydney ; " the result is the same so far as he is concerned, whether he is murdered in hot blood or cold. Mr. Harland was sent into eternity by the hand of his wife just -as surely as though she had lain in wait there for hours, pistol in hand. " He was a brute," exclaimed Miss Macgregor, " for whom shooting was too good." "A brute I grant, if what the papers say of him be true, who most shamefully insulted and ill-treated his wife. All the same, he has died by her hand, and his blood is upon her." " She did not mean to kill him." " Can that avail the soul sent before its Maker in a moment of time, with all its transgressions upon it?" cries Sydney, her eyes kindling. She did kill him, and she is his murderess." " Miss Owenson, she is guiltless," exclaims I/ewis Nolan, an answering fire kindling in his eyes " guiltless before Heaven, as we shall try to prove her before man." " And I hold her guilty, with blood to answer and atone for, in this world and in the next." " You have not read the papers you cannot have read the case," says Mr. Nolan in suppressed strong excitement. " The man was, as Miss Macgregor says, a brute, a devil incarnate. He maddened his wife in every way that a man can madden a wo- man he starved her, he beat her, he slandered her, he insulted her ; her very life was not safe. In a moment of madness, goaded beyond human power of endurance, she snatches his revolver from the table, where he has just laid it, tires, and kills him by sheer chance, for she never fired a pistol before in her life. 1 tell you the man is guilty of his own death, not she. Jt was rightful retribution. " Retribution, perhaps," Miss Owenson responds, in a tone whose clear coldness contrasts strikingly with the repressed, almost passionate earnestness of his " still a murderess." Her hand sends a human soul unprepared before its Judge. I hold it, palliate the circumstances as you will, the most horrible of earthly crimes. She may live, repent, be forgiven so might he in time, had she not taken his life. It seems to me that no earthly remorse or repentance can ever atone for blood -guiltiness. a 68 "SINTRAM." It seems incredible to me that any conscientious lawyer can plead for the man or the woman who has taken a life." " Not even if taken in a moment of madness, unpremedi- tated, regretted as soon as done ? " " No ; for once done it can never be undone. No remorse, no repentance can give back life. I hold that no provocation none none can pardon or condone the crime of taking life." " Miss Owenson, you are merciless. Those are very cruel words from a woman's gentle lips." " I think of the victim, Mr. Nolan, as well as the slayer. And justice is a virtue as well as mercy." She is nearly as pale as Mr. Nolan herself, and both are paler than Miss Margregor has ever seen them. Sydney is thinking of Bertie Vaughan as she speaks. If he were murdered, what would all the remorse and repentance of a lifetime avail- to atone for that death? Heaven's forgiveness it might obtain, since supreme mercy reigns there ; but her forgiveness could she ever give that ? " Dear me ! dear me ! " says Uncle Grif, looking beseech- ingly from one to the other, "don't excite yourselves now, don't. What's this Mrs. Harland to you, Lewis, my boy, that you should fight her battles ? Miss Owenson, don't mind him ; he doesn't mean a word he says, I'm sure. He wouldn't com- mit murder for the world." "Bless you, Uncle Grif!" says Katie, patting the seedy brown coat affectionately, " what a counsel for the defence you would make ! " " I beg your pardon. Miss Owenson," Mr. Nolan says, but he says it with unconscious coldness ; " I have let my profes- sional feelings carry me too far. I look at this case from a man's point of view Miss Owenson from a young lady's." " It is I who should apologize," retorts Miss Owenson in her stateliest manner, while Katie turns aside to hide a satirical smile. " I should not have expressed an opinion at all." " All the same, though, you adhere like wax to the opinion you have expressed," says the sarcastic voice of Cousin Katie. " Decidedly," still coldly, and turning for a last look at the picture. Mr. Nolan follows her glance gloomily and is silent. Once again Katherine Macgregor throws herself manfully into the brelch. " Nearly five, Sydney, and nearly dark. We will barely have time to reach home before dinner. Lewis " she turns to the "SINTRAM." 269 young lawyei with her most winning smile " shall we see you at Mrs. Graham's conversazione to-night ? Mrs. Graham's I know to be one of the few houses you frequent." " Yes that is, no 1 think not. I half-promised, but we are busy at the office, and I am not sure I can get off." " Preparing for the great case, I understand. Still, come if you can. All work and no play you know the rest. Over work is worse than over-idleness." " My brain will stand the pressure," he answers, somewhat grimly. "Thanks, all the same, for your friendly interest, Miss Macgregor." " She calls him Lewis," Sydney thinks. " They are older friends than I fancied. I don't think that I like Mr. Nolan." Mr. Nolan escorts them to their carriage, and stands, hat in hand, at the door until they drive off. Miss Macgregor is warmth and cordiality itself. Miss Owenson's final bow is slightly iced. " Well, dear, and how do you like him ?" sweetly inquires Katie. " Not at all," Sydney responds. " Pleading the case of a woman who shoots her husband in a fit- of ill-temper, and then patronizing me I ' I look at it from a man's point of view Miss Owenson from a lady's.' Impertinent! 1 wish my 'Sin- tram' did not resemble him. It will half spoil my pleasure in its possession." " I foresee," says Miss Macgregor, calmly, " that when you have met Lewis Nolan a few times more, it will be a case of mutual and reciprocal adoration. He was white with anger, Sydney, when talking to you. And what did he turn so ghastly for, in the first instance, when I asked my innocent question if Sintram threw the other man over the cliff?" " I don't presume to understand the various moods and changes of Mr. Nolan's ingenious countenance," replies cousin Sydney, impatiently. " Do drop the subject, Katie." " 1 sincerely hope he may put in an appearance at Mrs. Graham's to night," is Cousin Katie's answer. " An aquaint- anceso auspiciously begun cannot fail to end happily. H*re we are at home." Miss Owenson, disdaining all reply, goes up to her own room. On the table a big English letter lies, and with an exclamation of pleasure she pounces upon it. It is from Cornwall. From the baionet's sister; and in Alicia Leonard's copious pages, she forgets her late annoyance, forgets there is such a being in the scheme of the universe as Mr. Lewis Nolan. 2 7 TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. CHAPTER III. TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. |ARRY has refused to go, at the last moment, with the Arctic expedition, although to go with that expeditior has been the dream of his life for the past two years. Need I tell you the reason why, little friend ? The word ' Come ' may be in one of her letters, sooner or later, Alicia,' he said to me the other day. ' What are all my adventures and ambitious dreams compared to that one word from her.' Poor fel- low ! you should see with what wistful eyes he watches your let- ters, and my face as I read them, for one sign of hope. And, my darlirtg, he hardly-longs for your return more than I do. All the sunshine seems to have gone with your sweet face, from our old home." That was one of the concluding paragraphs in Miss Alicia Leonard's letter, and very thoughtfully, a little sadly, Sydney folded it up, and sat musing long and deeply. Why should she not say that word " Come" after all, and bring Sir Harry Leon- ard across the ocean, to claim her as his wife. No one would ever love her better, no one would ever be more worthy of her love. And home, and two loyal hearts would be hers. Here she had no home ; these relatives of hers could never be tried and trusty friends. Mrs. Macgregor, cold, 4iard, calculating, repelled her ; Katharine, cynical, mercenary, old at five-and- twenty, at times she revolted from. Her heart was as untouched to-day as it had been five years ago when she was Bertie Vaughan's plighted bride no man of all the men she had ever seen, had ever awakened any stronger, deeper feeling than cordial, sincere friendship. Frank, and heart-whole, she had gone through life it seemed to her must ever go. She had her idea of the man *she would like to marry, if she ever married, which she was not at all certain of, but certainly none of the men she had yet met approached that ideal. No doubt she expected too much ; more than she would ever find. Why, then, not write " Come," and go back with Harry Leonard to that bright English home where Alicia awaited her, and where she had spent nine such happy months? She did not love him no ; but she liked him well, and love might follow. Why not write " Come " to Sir Harry Leonard ? TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. 271 " Now, Sydney, my dear child," says Katherine, putting in her head, and looking imploringly, "don't sit mooning there by yourself, and forget all about the conversazione, I beg. What ! the Cornish post-mark again ? From the baronet, I bet. ' For Miss Macgregor said " I bet," and " I guess," was well up in the expressive slang of the day, and could use it with killing effect at proper seasons, on her victims. " My letter is from Miss Leonard," said Sydney, folding it up. " Ah ! Miss Leonard with an inclosure from mon frere. Sydney, own up don't be so dreadfully secretive. I am sure I tell you everything. You are engaged to Sir Harry Leonard ? " " Am I ? " " I am sure you are. Young, good-looking, rich, a baronet how could you refuse him ? " " How indeed ! I never said I refused him. I never said he asked me. Miss Leonard and her brother are two of my very dearest friends. Has the dinner bell rung ? I never heard it. Tell Aunt Helen I will be down in three minutes. " Thus civilly dismissed, Miss Macgregor goes more and more at a loss to understand Miss Owenson. " Her very dearest friend ! Ah ! but I don't believe in the very dearest masculine friends of handsome young heiresses. But whether engaged to the baronet or not, Dick has'nt a chance, not the ghost of a chance of that I am certain. Not that his poverty would stand in his way she is just one of those foolish virgins who will fall in love with a beggar, and raise him to the dignity of prince consort, and consider herself and her money honored by his lordly acceptance. Such a man as Lewis Nolan, for instance." Katherine Macgregor*s face darkened suddenly perhaps as heiress of a million it was a folly even she might have been capable of. Dinner over, the young ladies dressed for Mrs. Graham's reception. Miss Owenson, as has been said, did not yet wear colors, but black velvet and point lace can be made a very effective toilet when crowned by a pearl pale face, and feathery blonde hair. "Too matronly," Katherine Macgregor pronoun- ces the velvet ; but the rich sable folds falling about the tall, slight figure, the square, classic con-age, the white tuberoses and ste,>h- aiiotis, would have delighted the eye of an artist. Miss Mac- givgor herself shines in the azure resplendence of her jilver blue siik and pearls ; brunette as she is, some shades of blue, by gaa light, she finds extremely becoming. 2/2 TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. " A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, Ana most divinely fair." quotes Dick Macgregor, as Miss Owenson comes forward, her black velvet sweeping behind her. " By George, Sydney, you look like a princess royal or something of that sort. Only black and white too ! How do you do it ? The other girls pile on the colors of the rainbow Katie among 'em ; but you have a look somehow, a general get-up Dick waves his hands, vaguely hopeless of expressing his meaning in words. Sydney laughs, and takes his arm his sister cries out in indignant protest. " Only black and white indeed. Only black velvet and point lace a costume fit for a young duchess. That is how men are deceived. Every one of them at the conversazione will echo Dick's cry ' only black and white modest simplicity itself how economical-ly and tastefully the heiress dresses, what an example for these gaudy, extravagant butterflies around her.' And all the time Miss Owenson's costume will be far and away the richest and most costly in the room. There will be nothing like that point," says Katherine, with a sigh of bitterest envy, "at Mrs. Graham's conversazione to night." " Hang Mrs. Graham's conversazione," growls brother Dick ; "hang all such shams with their fine French names. It is a cheap and nasty substitute for a decent party ; instead of a German band, and a sit-down supper, scandal and weak tea." " The tea need not be weak unless you wish it the scandal I acknowledge," interposes his sister. " Sitting ranged around the walls, a crowd of guys," proceeds .Dick, in a disgusted tone, " tea handed round in Liliputian cups, and all the guys jawing in pairs, as a matter of duty. Talk and tea that's what Mrs. Graham's conversazione comes to in plain English ; and hang all such shams, I say again." "Then why come, my deai boy?" inquires Miss Owenson ; " why make a martyr of yourself, why immolate yourself in the flower of your youth and loveliness, a victim to brotherly duty? Why not express those natural sentiments of your manly heart at dinner, and Aunt Helen would have matronized us, or even poor, dear Uncle Grif might have been reluctantly forced into the breach. Anything to have spared you." " The cousin with whom I go will make even Mrs. Graham's talk and tea go down with relish," says Dick, gallantly ; " and if Nolan's there as he is pretty sure to be we will have some TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. 273 decent music, at least. I'd rather hear that fellow sing than Brignoli." 'Mr. Nolan is musical, then ? " says Sydney. " He has the face of a man who can sing." " And men who sing at evening tea parties, like Tom Moore, are flukes as a general thing," answers Dick. Nolan's an exception, however. He never does sing, except at Mrs. Gra- ham's, and whether he sings or is silent, he is as good a fellow as ever breathed. He was out with us the first year, and fought like a brick. He has just Irish blood enough in him to make fighting come naturally, I suppose." For be it known that Dick Macgregor Captain Macgregor, to the world at large is only in the bosom of his family for a two months' furlough, and his regiment awaits him down in Virginia. It is the second year of the " Unpleasantness," and Dick Mac- gregor went out with the first. "Mr. Nolan's one talent, leaving his forensic abilities out of the question," says Katherine, " is a passion for music. As a boy, I remember, he would come in and sit down at the piano, play harmonious chords intuitively, and rattle off street tunes by ear. As he grew older, Uncle Grif, exceedingly vain of his boy's abilities, had him taught. Did I tell you that Uncle Gril adopted him, in a measure, when ten years old, and that to him Lewis Nolan owes it that he is a promising young lawyer to- day ? He is also organist of St. Ignatius', where you and I must go some Sunday, Syd, and hear one of the finest choirs in the city." They have reached Mrs. Graham's, and enter with a flock of other guests. Most of them Miss Macgregor knew. Friendly greetings are exchanged, and introductions performed on the way up- stairs. " 1 hope the evening won't drag," Katherine remarks, as she adjusts her ribbons and laces. " Dick is right ; as a rule this sort of thing is slow. Talk and tea are not the most stimulating amusements on earth. If you feel bored, Sydney, be sure you let me know, and we will leave early." The guests had nearly all arrived, when they descend and make their way to their hostess' side. Mrs. Graham is a large, and cheerful looking lady, in mauve silk that "refuge of the destitute " addicted to embonpoint, good nature, and colors that "swear," as the French phrase it. Katherine Macgregor 1 a face is known to every man and woman in the room ; bat who is the tall, regal-looking blonde, so lovely of face, so distin- 12* 274 TALK ANL TEA AND A LETTER. guished of manner. And when the whisper goes round that she is the Miss Owenson, the rich Miss Owenson just returned from Europe, Miss Owenson becomes the star of the assembly, and Miss Macgregor and Mrs. Graham are besieged with pressing aspirants for introductions. It grows a bore in time, but Syd- ney shows no sign of boredom in her gracious face. Still it is something of a relief when she finds herself in a quiet corner, with Dick devotedly beside her, and free for a moment from her court. " Oh, Solitude, where are thy charms ? " says Dick. " ' Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,' where talk and tea are un- known. Let's sit down here, Sydney, and be a comfortable couple. Here is a book of engravings, they always turn over books of engravings in novels, if you notice. Let us live a chapter out of a novel, and turn over the engravings." He thinks, as he says it, that there is not a picture of them all as fair and sweet as Sydney herself a slight flush on her clear, pale cheek, the golden hair flashing against the rich blackness of her robe. "Your friend Mr. Nolan is not here," she says, as Dick spread out his big portfolio, preparatory to examining the en- gravings. " Isn't he ? Very likely not. You see he is a young man of uncommonly high-toned notions poor and proud, as they phrase it. As Katie says, he owes all he has to Uncle Grif. His mother and sister are dressmakers, I believe, and as yet Nolan hasn't achieved any distinction worth speaking of. He never goes anywhere ; his voice would open no end of doors, but he won't be asked for his voice. He makes an exception, somehow, in Mrs. Graham's favor. Ah ! there he is now." The piano in the back drawing-room had been going industri- ously since their entrance ; but now a new hand, the hand of a master, touched the keys, and the grand, grateful notes were won- drously different from the young lady-like jingle that had gone be- fore. This was the touch of a musician, and the instrument seemed to know and respond. "Za ci Darem" was what Mr. Nolan ang and played ; and the pictures were untouched, and Diclf and Sydney sat absorbedly listening. It was a powerful tenoi; with that veiled sympathetic vibration, that undertone of pathos in its swee'ness, that reaches the heart. "I don't care for Italian opera," says Captain Macgregor; " it's a deuce of a bore, as a rule ; but I like that. La ci Darem la mano, he is singing now. Niceish voice, isn't it." TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. 275 " Niceish is a ney adjective to me," responds Sydney, laugh- ing, " and one that hardly applies. Mr. Nolan is the fortunate possessor of one of the finest tenors I ever heard, and I have heard some good tenors Sims Reeves was one. There, he has finished : how sweet, how tender those lower notes were. Surely they will not let him stop." " Oh, he is not stingy when he does sing he does sing ; nothing niggardly about him. I have heard him rattle through a whole opera bouffe shriek like the soprano, growl like the bass father, shout like the chorus take 'em all off capitally, I assure you. There, he is singing again : let's follow the crowd, and see him." They leave the table and make their way to the other room, where Mr. Nolan, in regulation evening dress, sits at the piano, and where Katherine Macgregor leans gracefully against the instrument, fluttering her fan and listening with downcast eyes. " As a rule," observes Dick, in a profound tone, " it's a pain- ful spectacle a very painful spectacle to watch a music man. The contortions of his facial muscles, the hideous extent to which he opens his mouth, the dislocating way in which he flings back his head, the inspired idiot style in which he rolls his eyeballs up to the chandelier, the frenzied manner in which elbows and fingers fly, are trying didoes to witness without a still small feeling of dis- gust. But Nolan doesn't contort, doesn't roll his eyeballs, doesn't look like a moonstruck lunatic, and doesn't open his mouth even to any very disgusting extent. Brava ! " Mr. Macgregor gently pats his kidded paws. " Very good very good indeed ! We will take your whole stock at the same price." Mr. Nolan concludes his second song and makes an attempt to get away, but he is besieged by soft pleadings, and Kathe- rine Macgregor gives him one of those long, tender glances from beneath her sable lashes that have done such telling exe- cution in her time. " Just one other in English this time a ballad for me." " For you?" repeats Mr. Nolan, a laugh in his dark eyes, but his lips grave. " If I were hoarse as a raven, put in that way, refusal would be an impossibility. Something in English, something pathetic, of course. Will this do ? " He plays a jaunty, tripping, waltz-like symphony, into which his voice blends in an air that exactly suits the words, % mischievous light in the eyes he keeps on her eagef face: 2 76 TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. " My eye ! how I love you, You sweet little dove, you ! There's no one above you, Most beautiful Kitty, " So glossy your hair is, Like a sylph or a fairy's, And your neck, I declare, is Exquisitely pretty. " Quite Grecian your nose is, And your cheeks are like roses, So delicious oh, Moses ! Surpassingly sweet ! " Not the beauty of tulips, Nor the taste or mint-juleps, Can compare with your two lips, Most beautiful Kate. " And now, dearest Kitty, It's not very pretty, Indeed it's a pity To keep me in sorrow : " So, if you'll but chime in, We'll have done with our rhymin', Swap Cupid for Hymen, And be married to-morrow." A low murmur of laughter and applause follows, and Katherine Macgregor actually flushes under his eyes. " And if he really asked her it might go hard with the chances of Vanderdonck," muttered Dick ; " but no, our artless Katherine's heart will never run away with her head." "Mr. Nolan has an old tendresse, then, for Kate?" Sydney asks, carelessly. " I half thought so this afternoon. " By no means. He certainly has an old tendresse, some- thing more than a tendresse, and I doubt if he is quite over it yet, for " Dick does not finish his sentence, for the subject of it arises from his seat, sees them, and approaches. As he looks now, warmth in his dark face, animation in the large gray eyes, a smile on the grave lips, Sydney wonders to see that he is handsome. " That was all very delightful indeed, old boy," is Dick's greeting. "Why weren't we all born with black eyelashes or tenor voices, or both, and be the centre of such a group ot TALK AMD TEA AND A LETTER. 277 adoring angels as you are wherever you go ? Miss Owenson and I have been listening entranced in the background yot know my cousin, by the way, I think." "1 had the pleasure of meeting Miss Owenson this afternoon," says Mr. Nolan, with that very genial smile of his. " Apro- pos, Miss Owenson, you have been the means of making very happy one poor fellow who has not been used to over-much happiness Von Ette the most excitable of living beings ; he nearl) expired with ecstasy when I told him of your admira- tion of ' Sintram,' and your intention of purchasing it. He flew to the studio on the instant, had it packed, and sent, and you will find it at home before you upon your return." " Then I have been fortunate, indeed," Sydney responds, " if in giving pleasure to myself I have given pleasure to another. Mr. Von Ett6 is destined to win far higher praise than any poor appreciation of mine." " I doubt if he will ever value any more highly. Miss Owen son," he says, abruptly, "I am afraid my manner, my words, must have offended you. The thought that it may be so has troubled me more than I can tell. It is a subject upon which I feel deeply, and one which is likely tocarry me away. Pray, forgive me." " Is he in love with this Mrs. Harland, I wonder ? " thinks Miss Owenson. " Was that what Dick meant ? " " The apology is needless," she says, cordially. " There was no offence how could there be ? 1 never thought of it after." The dark gravity of the afternoon overspread his face again the smile vanished. What a strong, thoughtful, intellectual face it was, the girl thought. What a good face, if she were any judge of physiognomy. This clever Mr. Nolan, with his charming voice, a thing that will make its way to a woman's foolish fancy sooner than more solid qualities, and his profound convictions, was beginning to interest her. Dick had been summoned by some fair enslaver, and had reluctantly obeyed. Mr. Nolan and Miss Owenson had slowly been making their way to the front drawing-room while they talked, and Sydney resumed her seat by the table and the engravings. Mr. Nolan took the vacant seat by her side, still wearing that earnest look. "I am glad that my words did not trouble you. Yours most certainly have troubled me." Sydney looks at him in surprise. " Yes, Miss Owensoa, troubled me : for if uiy convictions were Z78 TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. not with Mrs. Harland, most assuredly I would not plead hei case. I have conscientious notions about this sort of tiling that are exceedingly unprofessional, I know notions I will never outlive. But that Mrs. Harland is a murderess, I will not, cannot believe." " Not with intent, perhaps " " Not at all, Miss Ovvenson. See ! for years her life with this man was a daily and hourly martyrdom. He starved her, he insulted her he was all the worst husband can be to the most helpless wife. She bore it patiently, submissively ; she was friendless, poor, and alone for years she endured it. One day he comes home half drunk, lays his revolver on the table, is more brutal than usual, offers her an insult, devilish in its atrocity. It maddens her. Hardly conscious of what she is doing goaded beyond endurance she lifts the pistol, fires, and he falls'dead. She had not meant to kill ; without thought, hardly knowing what she does do, she kills him. Is this murder ? " Sydney is silent ; his suppressed vehemence almost frightens her. How interested he is in this Mrs. Harland ! Does he mean to free her, and marry her after ? " She is filled with a remorse, a despair, an anguish I never saw equalled," he goes on. " How she lives or keeps her reason is more than I can understand. If she could give her life to restore his she would give it thankfully, joyfully. Is this woman then guilty ? Does the crime of murder lie at her door ? " " Oh ! I don't know," Sydney says, with a look of distress. " No, surely not. And yet it is an awful thing whether by accident, by passion, or by intention to take a human life. " Awful ! Great Heaven ! yes," he says, in a voice so thrill- ing that Sydney looks at him in ever-increasing wonder ! Surely he must love this Mrs. Harland, else why the passion- ate agony of that whisper ? " Poor fellow !" she thinks; " it is hard on him. He deserves something better than to care for a woman whose hands are red with her husband's blood." There is a pause. Sydney turns over the pictures without seeing them, conscious of a dawning and strong interest in this man. He rests his forehead on his hand, so dark a look in his face that she absolutely wonders if this be the same man who a few minutes ago sang laughingly a comic song. That he should keep his levity for them, his earnestness for her is a subtle flattery that conquers her as no other flattery could. TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. 279 " Surely my foolish opinions can have no weight with you, Mr. Nolan, no power to pain you," she says, very gently. " If so I am indeed sorry. It shall teach me to be less hasty and presumptuous in proffering opinions for the future. In the sight of Heaven I cannot believe your friend is guilty of this dreadful crime, and I sincerely hope you may get a verdict." " My friend," he says, and he lifts his head, and a smile breaks up the dark thoughtfulness of his face, "I have not seen Mrs. Harland three times in my life : after the trial I shall probably never see her again while I live. I am interested in her as a woman who has suffered greatly ; but it is whether or no the guilt of murder is upon her that centres my interest. This is what I would give worlds, if I possessed them, yes, worlds, to know." " He is not in love with this unhappy Mrs. Harland," Sydney thinks. " I am glad of that. I like him. He deserves some- thing better. He looks like a man " ' To bear without rebuke The grand old name of gentleman.' " " I am afraid I have bored you mercilessly with this tragic affair," he goes on, his face and tone changing ; " it is upper- most in my thoughts ; I feel it so deeply ; but hold I am sin- ning again while I apologize. Let us look at the pictures ; Mrs. Graham never affronts her guests' intellect by offering poor ones." They look at the pictures accordingly, and talk of the pic- tures. Miss Owenson has seen many of the fine old paintings from which these engravings are taken, and Mr. Nolan has a cultivated eye and taste, and a keen love of art. They talk of Italy and Germany, and those classic foreign lands which she has seen and loved, which he longs but never expects to see. And minutes fly, and hours, and to Sydney's horror for she hates anything like a pronounced tete-a-tete their conversation does not end until Katherine seeks her side, and the company rise to disperse. " Really," Miss Macgregor says, and if there is a fine shade of irony in her tone Sydney does not take the trouble to detect it, " for two people quarrelling fiercely at their first meeting, you seem to have got on well with Mr. Nolan. Were you quarrelling again, my dear, or making up, and was I not a true prophetess ? " "A true prophetess ! What did you predict ? " asks Sydney, 28o TALK AND TEA AND A LETTER. with equal carelessness. " Mr. Nolan and I neither qnarrellcj nor made up, and I have to thank him for spending a very pleas- ant evening. If I have a weakness it is for men of intellect." " And you don't meet them every day. Poor Dick ! " laughs Dick's sister. So talk and tea are not so utterly flavorless after all, belle cousine" " If the talking is done by Mr. Nolan no," retorts Sydney, with spirit. "Don't excite yourself," says Miss Macgregor. "I have heard before that Lewis Nolan improves on acquaintance. Does he not sing divinely ? Has he not a thoroughbred look for one with so few opportunities ? Ah ! what a pity he is so poor." " ' Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing yet hath all,' " quotes Sydney. " What would you ? Men cannot expect to have money, and brains, and divine voices. For my own part, all the men I ever found worth talking to, ever was interested in, were men without a sou." " Ah ! you are interested in Mr. Nolan ? " " Yes," says Sydney, flinging back her head, and accepting the challenge. " And only in poor men ! Sir Harry, I have heard, is worth twenty thousand pounds a year. I am afraid I shall not have a baronet for a cousin-in-law, after all. Now, now ! don't freeze into stateliness, Syd. I don't mean anything I never do mean anything. Come." Dick, at the foot of the stairs, look ing depressed and unhappy, offers Sydney his arm. Mr. Nolan, who stands talking cheerfully to him, does duty for his sister. " You never come to see us now," the couple in front heard Katherine say, in a plaintive voice. '' Have you vowed a vow to honor Mrs. Graham alone with your friendship ? " " I am not sure that Mrs. Graham looks upon my friendship in the light of an honor. It is a new idea, however, and I shall inquire." " That is not an answer to my question. Why do you not come to see us as as you used ? " " As I used ? " Mr. Nolan lifts his eyebrows. " Used I ever ? I have no time for dangerous delights. I have to work ' from early morn 'til dewy eve ' for my daily bread and butter.'' " Dangerous delights ? " says Miss Macgr,egor with an artless upward glance. " VVhat do you mean by that?" TALK AND TEAAXD A LETTER. 281 " Do I really need to explain, Miss Macgregor ?" retoits Mr. Nolan, looking down into the upturned dark eyes. " Miss Macgregor? it used to be Katie," says Katie, anrl in tl>e low voice there is a tremor, either real or well assumed. " Oh, by George ! let us get on," says Dick, with a face of such utter disgust that Sydney laughs. She has been trying to get on herself, for the last twc minutes, out of earshot of this conversation, and succeeds so well that Mr. Nolan's response to Katie's last is inaudible. Katie's cheeks are slightly flushed though, as she reaches the carriage, and the smile on her lips shows it has been to order. " 1 wish to Heaven, Katie," growls Dick, "when you make love to fellows, you wouldn't do it quite so loudly. Old Van- dcrdonck himself deaf as an adder might have heard you spooning to Lewis Nolan, if he had been there." " Old Vanderdonck might have heard, and welcome, my gen- tle brother." " And if you think Nolan's to be taken in by your soft sawder, you're a trirle out of your reckoning, let me tell you. He isn't an old bird, Nolan isn't, but he's not going to-be caught with chaff." " Dick," says Miss Macgregor, " it is patent to the dullest observer that the attentions of Miss Emma Winton have been painfully marked ; also, that five cups of gunpowder tea do not agree with your digestive organs. Therefore we excuse the rudeness of your remarks, and prescribe total silence for the rest of the drive home." Dick growls, but obeys Katherine is the ruling spirit of the household. The city clocks are striking two when Sydney reaches her room. On the wall hangs " Sin tram." She greets it with a smile of welcome, and the likeness to Mr. Nolan does not spoil her pleasure in looking at it, as she has feared. On the table lies a letter with a Canadian postmark, and in a stiff, mercantile hand. She turns up the gas, and tears it open eagerly, without waiting to remove her wraps. It is from Mr. McKelpin, in answer to one she had written him for news of br lost friend Cyrilla Hendrick. MONTREAL, Nov. 23^, 18 . " RESPECTED Miss : " ^ Sydney smiles ; the " Respected Miss" is so like what poor Cyrilla used to tell her of her middle-aged Scottish suitor 282 A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. "Yours of the iyth inst. came to hand yesterday, and con- tents duly noted. In reply, I have to say I know nothing of the present whereabouts of the late lamented Miss Dormer's niece. On the day before my return to this city, four years ago last May, she left by train direct for Boston. I made inquiries concerning her advertised for her in the Boston papers, and placed a certain sum of money at her disposal. In the course of the following week I received, in reply to my advertisement, a letter from the head physician of one of the public hospitals of Boston. A young lady answering the Description, from Montreal, was lying very ill under his charge ; some mental strain, appar- ently, and physical exhaustion, had prostrated her to such an extent that it was doubtful if she would ever recover. I went to Boston ; I saw and identified her (herself unconscious), and ordered every care and attention. She recovered eventually, wrote me a brief note of acknowledgment, and at the earliest possible moment quitted the hospital. Since then I have neither seen nor heard from the late lamented Miss Dormer's niece. This is all I have to communicate, and I remain, Respected Miss, yours to command, DONALD MCKELPIN." CHAPTER IV. A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. CATHERINE," says Mrs. Macgregor, "do lay down that book, get off that sofa, dress, and go down town, match this fringe, go to Fratoni's for ices, and to Greenstalk's for the cut-flowers. Do you hear? " " I hear. Anything else ? " "And make haste. Where your own personal gratification is not concerned, Katherine, I must say you are unbearably lazy. Here, the whole forenoon was spent in bed " " Did you really expect me to get up, and go to matins at St. Albans after dissipating at Mrs. Graham's until two this morning ?" " I expect very little of you, my daughter, that will put you to the least inconvenience. I know of old how useless it would f BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. 783 IK *o *"* you expect me worn out as I am, to go after it my- sek' r " ' t>iessec\ are they who expect nothing of which number am I,'' reiorU Miss Katherine. She has b^en lying on a sofa in the family sitting-room during this discussion, a provoking drawl in her voice her eye never once leaving her book. In an arm-chair by the window, also reading, an<2 in a dress whose faultless neatness is a striking contrast to her cousin's, sits Miss Owenson. Mrs. Macgregor, a portly matron, with a frisette of glossy darkness, coldly glim- mering blue eye. an austere Roman nose, a thin, severe mouth, and a worried and anxious air generally, looks up from her sew- ing to regard her undutiful daughter with an angry glance. " Katherine, will you or will you not get up and go down town ? " " Best of mother,?, I would much rather not. The day is cold and disagreeable ; I feel dreadfully sleepy yet, and this novel Mr. Van Cyler*s, mamma is thrillingly interesting. Send Susan." "Aunt Helen," cries Sydney, starting up, "let me go. I will match your fringe, and deliver your other messages with pleas- ure." Miss Katherine shrugs her shoulders, and smiles sarcastically behind her book. " Thank you, my love, I cannot think of troubling you " " It will be no trouble ; 1 was just meditating a walk on my own account my daily constitutional, you know. It will give me pleasure to be of service to you." " Very well, my dear ; but if my daughter thinks she can set me 9*. defiance after this fashion, she is mistaken. "Kathe- rine," and the cold blue eyes light and flash, " put down that book this instant, and do as I command you." "When my mammy takes that tone," says Katherine, with in perturbable good temper, and addressing her remark placidly to Sydney, " I know better than to disobey. Let us see match the fringe order the ices see to the flowers. But the confec- tioner's and the fringe stores are at opposite ends of the town can't do both in one short, dark November afternoon. One of them must go, dearest mother." " You and Sydney can go to Greenstalk's from here, then she can walk over to Sixth Avenue and match the fringe while you 284 A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. take a car and visit Fretoni's," rapidly and concisely, says Mrs Macgregor. " What a business-like head this mater of ours has. Sydney ! Pause, wonder, and admire. Very well, Mrs. Macgregor you shall be obeyed to the letter ; but what a pang it costs me to give up Van Cyler's novel ! There are times when even filial duty is a painful thing." Mrs. Macgregor's brow cleared. Sydney laughed. Kathe- rine's habitual manner of cheerful impertinence to her mother at times startled, at times amused her. Real impertinence the girl did not mean, but this vapid surface manner had become second nature. The young girls started forth together. Sydney with her seal jacket buttoned across her chest, and a tall black hat and plume. The day was cold, gray, and overcast windy, dusty, and supremely unpleasant. " I feel like the little boy who thought it was such a delight- ful thing to be an orphan, and do as he liked," says Katherine, bending before a windy gust. *' Poor mamma, she works and worries, toils and troubles, year in, year out, for Dick, and me, too." " When you are Mrs. Vanderdonck, the wife of the million- aire, you will be able to do as you please, with a whole regiment of lackeys to fly at their lady's bidding." " I am not so sure of that. A millionaire old Vanderdonck is, that is historical : and that he intends to ask me to marry him, I am also quite certain ; but about the lackeys and the liberty I have my doubts. He is stingy as a miser, jealous as a Turk, relentless as a Nero, his inward man as hideous as his outward. What a happy destiny will be mine as Mrs. Vander- donck ! " " Don't marry him, Katherine." " And go to the dogs with mamma and Dick ? We are over head and ears in debt, Sydney, and nothing short of this mar- riage can save us. I actually wonder that mamma's frisette does not turn gray with all the struggling she has to keep up appearances. I owe it to her to tide her over these troubled waters. Vanderdonck, miser as he is, shall pay my price to the last farthing before he puts the ring on my finger. It shall be a clear matter of money from first to last. He shall give his written bond to pay mamma's debts, and settle five or six thousand a year on me, or he shall never call me wife. If 1 must be sold, I shall fetch as good a price as I can." Sydney shuddered. A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. *8<; " It is horrible. It seems to me I would go out as a shop girl, as, a servant, sweep a crossing, starve, sooner than that." " Yes, I daresay," Miss Macgregor retorts, coolly ; " rich people always say that. They would work their fingers to the bone, starve, die, sooner than degrade themselves. Unhappily I have no talent for work. 1 can't go on the stage and become a Ristori in a night, or write a novel and become famous, as they do in books. Starvation would not agree with me. I am something of an epicure, as you may have noticed, and dying ah ! dying is something I never want to think of. In my place, belle cousine, you would be as heartless, as mercenary, as calculating as I am. In my place you would marry old Vanderdonck." " Never ! " " Love is all very well," pursues Katie, a hard, cold look, curiously like her mother's, crossing her face and ageing it ; " it is one of the luxuries of life life's very sweetest luxury per- haps ; but for me it is not to be thought of. You can afford it, can fall in love with a beggar if you choose, and turn him into a prince. Oh ! Sydney ! cousin mine, what a lucky young woman you are. This is Mr. Greenstalk's." Baskets and bouquets littered the counters and perfumed the warm air ; wreaths festooned the walls, shrubs stood around in pots. A damsel in attendance behind the counter, waiting on the one customer the shop contained, a gentleman bending over some curious foreign plant, his back towards them. " What a lovely basket ! " says Katherine. " Look, Sydney." It was a small flat basket, such as florists use, of purest white flowers, camellias, white roses, Japonicas, stephanotis. On top lay a card, having this legend in pencil, and in a man's writing : " \\ITH LOVE. L." And whether the hand struck her as fa- miliar, or something in the back view of the man, Miss MacGreg- gor turned, and looked curiously at him. " You will send the basket the first thing," says a voice she recognizes. " Here is the address ; and you will fasten the card I have laid on it among the flowers. Don't fail." " All right, sir; it shall go the first thing to-morrow," cheer- fully responds the lady in waiting. "Look, Sydney!" says Katherine; and Sydney looks, and sees the tall form and dark face of Lewis Nolan. He pushes a five-dollar bill to the shopwoman, buttons up his overcoat, and with an absorbed look on his face hurries out without casting last look at his purchase, or a first look at the two ladies be- 286 A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. side it. " Lewis Nolan, poor as a church mouse, spending five dollars for flowers ! " exclaims Katherine, aghast. "Now what does this mean ? " " You need not look at me. I am sure I don't know," an- swers Sydney, laughing. " Mr. Nolan shows very good taste in his selection that is the only opinion I have on the subject." "With love," pursues Katherine, "and the first th.ng to- morrow morning. Whom can they be for ? Sydney, I shall ask." " Katie ! " cries Sydney, indignantly. " No, I shall not. But whom can they be for ! Is he really in love with that horrid Mrs. Harland ? " " Are you concerned in knowing, dear? Mr. Nolan would feel flattered if he were aware how deep is your interest in him." " Mr. Nolan would not feel in the slightest degree flattered. Vanity, the predominant weakness of his sex, is not his weak- ness. But he cannot be as poor as I imagined if he can afford to spend five dollars in flowers." " Under the influence of the tender passion a man may be extravagant to the extent of five dollars, and still be pardoned," says Miss Owenson. The flower woman approaches, Miss Macgregor gives her va- rious orders for the day after to morrow, which are duly tran- scribed in black and white, and the two girls depart. " I wonder who the flowers are for!" is Miss Macgregor's thoughtful remark as they reach the street. " Sydney, your fas- tidious notions are decidedly in the way. I've a good mind to go back and ask." Sydney laughs outright, then stops, and blushes, for a gen- tleman, approaching rapidly, lifts his hat, with a smile. It is Mr. Nolan. " Quand on parle du diable " begins Miss Macgregor, in execrable French, and with unruffled coolness. " We were just talking of you. We saw you in Greenstalk's, ordering flowers, but you never deigned to notice us." 'What unpardonable blindness!" answers the gentleman. "I am on my way back to Greenstalk's ; I forgot one of my gloves." "Your floral taste is excellent, Mr. Nolan," says Katherine, mischievously. "Your big bouquet is beautiful." " Do you think so ? Yes, it is pretty. She prefers white flowers. Cold, is it not," says Mr. Nolan, "for November?" " You dine with us, do you not, on Friday e /ening ? " inquires A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. 287 Katherine. " Mamma sent you a card, I know, but I want to add a verbal invitation." * " Thanks, very much ; but I am afraid I cannot have the pleasure. I am very busy, Miss Katie." " You are never too busy to go to Mrs. Graham's, it seems," says Miss Macgregor, with her most effective and best-practised pout. " 1 insist upon your coming. That stupid trial will surely take no harm for being laid aside one evening." "You are most kind, and I am most grateful; all the same " He pauses, and involuntarily, unconsciously, glances at Miss Owenson. She meets that glance with a bewitching smile. I "I think I must add my entreaties to Katherine's," she says. " I should very much like to hear Korner's Sword Song once more." " You will come ? " asks Katherine. "You do me too much honor," replies Mr. Nolan, flushing slightly. " Yes, I will come." Then he was gone, and the cousins go on their way, in silence for a moment, silence broken first by Sydney. " What a great deal of coaxing your Mr. Nolan takes. Evi- dently the honor of his presence is not to be lightly be- stowed." i " But he yields at your request, dear, not mine," says Katie, with a sudden sharp ring in her voice. And for a moment there is silence again. " What does Katherine Macgregor mean by her new cordial- ity ? " thinks Mr. Nolan, rather ungraciously. " An invitation, and pressing one to the Macgregor*s mansion is altogether a new distinction. I suppose singing to amuse the company is at the bottom of it. What a noble and loving face that is ! " But he did not mean Miss Macgregor. The cousins parted at the junction of Broadway and Grand Street, Katherine to go across town, Sydney to seek Sixth Avenue, and match the fringe. This was a tedious process, and the street lamps were twinkling in the gray November dusk before it was concluded. Fearless in most things. Sydney yet had a nervous dread of being out alone in the streets of a city af-jr night-fall, and hailed a passing car, which she knew would convey her to within a couple of blocks of home. The car was filled, not a vacant seat, but a very youthful gentleman sprang up as if galvanized at sight of a beautiful 288 A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. young lady, and with a smile and a little bow Sydney thankfully took his place. At the next corner the car again stopped, and an elderly woman, with a large and heavy market basket on her arm, got in. She looked tired, and proceeded to hang her- self up by the strap. The double row of men glanced over the tops of their papers, saw only an old woman, rather shabby of aspect, and dived back again. Evidently she was to be allowed to stand, and Sydney realizing it, arose and proffered her place. " Oh, no, thank you no," the woman said. " I could not think of it, my dear young lady. Keep your seat." "You are tired and I am not; I don't mind standing. Oblige me by sitting down." " Thank you, I am tired," the woman said, with a sigh of re- lief, sinking down ; but it's too bad to make you stand." " I have not far to go ; that is, I think not. How far is it to th street ? " " Fully fifteen blocks ; too long for you to stand, I ought not to have taken your seat." " I won't have to stand; just wait and see," whispered Syd- ney, with an arch smile ; and as she said it the man beside the old lady got up, with a bashful " Here, miss," and suspended himself in mid-air. " Did I not tell you ? " says Sydney, with a subdued laugh. "Virtue is its own reward." " An, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome," answers her new acquaintance. Miss Owenson glanced at her and made up her mind that she must have been handsome in her day, also. It was a kindly and matronly face, with dark, gentle eyes, and snow-white hair. " Tell me, please, when we get to th street," Sydney said. " I am almost a stranger in New York, and don't want to get belated. What uncomfortable conveyances these street cars are." She chatted with her chance acquaintance until her street was reached, then with a smiling " good-bye," got out and walked rapidly into Madison Avenue, and her aunt's house. On Friday night Mrs. Macgregor gave a dinner party for the special delectation of Mr. Vanderdonck. There were but seven or eight guests in all, and Mr. Nolan made one of the number. " Although, really, what you want to ask that young man for, A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND A DINNER. 289 I cannot understand. It is all nonsense having him here. These *ort of people should keep their place. I can't see what yim wa it him for, Katherine." "C. Vanderdonck knows you well enough not to be jeal- ous of a pauper, my daughter. And I do hope, Katherine, you wi 1 manage to make him speak soon, for these entertain- ments I can not afford." " Poor, dear mamma ! Well, never mind : when the five thousand a year are settled on me you shall have half for life." Miss Macgregor certainly did flirt with Mr. Nolan, and as certainly succeeded in causing Mr. Vanderdonck to scowl with malignant blackness, as they reversed the usual rule, the gen- tleman singing and the lady bending devotedly by his side and turning his music. But at last Miss Macgregor deserted him for her Auld Robin Grey, and Mr. Nolan sought out the owner of the " noble and lovely " face, and lingered in its vicinity until the hour of de- parture. They seemed to find endless subjects in common, those two literature, art, music, travels ; their conversation never seemed to flag. " Decidedly, Mr. Nolan improves on acquaintance," thought Miss Owenson, en route to bed ; " it is a positive pleasure to hear him." "To know her is a liberal education," quotes Mr. Nolan, wending his homeward way. " What a very excellent thinking- machine there is behind that Madonna face. How poor Von Ette would rave of its beauty; how he would delight to paint it. *' And if any painter drew her He would paint her unaware, With a halo round her hair." " What a contrast she is to that dark daughter of the earth, Kathe~ine Macgregor." "3 2 QO A LONG TALK AND A LITTLE WALT. CHAPTER V. A LONG TALK AND A LITTLE WALK, JHE dinner was a pleasant affair, and my chat with Mr. Nolan most agreeable, but, after all, I doubt whether the game was worth the candle." " Miss Owenson makes the remark, and makes it to herself alone. She holds up to view at the same time, a mass of rich Chantilly lace, woefully torn and rent. On Friday night last it was the costly appendage of a silken robe, upon which a masculine boot heel has accidentally trodden, with the aforesaid result. It is the afternoon of Monday, and with the exception of Uncle Grif, Miss Owenson is quite alone in that coziest apart- ment of the Macgregor house, the family sitting-room. Her aunt and cousin are out making calls, in which social martyr- dom she has declined participating. " I must have it mended," thinks Miss Owenson ; "but who is to do it ? Experts in lace work are rare, I fancy, in New York. I must ask Katie." " Is anything the matter, my dear Miss Sydney ? " inquires Uncle Grif, in his timid way, coming forward. " Do I look so woe-begone over my torn flounce, then ? " says Sydney, laughing. " This is the matter," she holds up the large rent, "not a matter of life or death, you see." "Ah ! torn," says Uncle Grif. in profound sympathy. "What what is it?" " It was a flounce, and will be again if I can get it mended." " Are you going to do it yourself, Miss Sydney ? " asks Uncle Grif, and his dull eyes light suddenly. "Not I!" replies Miss Owenson. "I never did anything half so useful in my life. This lace belonged to poor mamma she wore it when a girl, and it is a souvenir, so of more value thanMts intrinsic worth." The sparkle in Uncle Grif s dull eyes grows brighter, and more eager. " Miss Sydney," he says, "/ know a person a lady who will mend that for you. She makes lace and embroidery, and all that. She was educated in a convent, and does the loveliest A LONG TALK AND A LITTLE WALK. 291 needlework you ever saw. If you'll come with me I'll take you to her, and you can ascertain for yourself." " Uncle Grif, you are a household treasure ! " exclaims Syd- ney, rolling up her lace, and rising. " Wait ten minutes, and I will be with you." She makes a parcel of her torn Chantilly, hastily arrays her- self for the street, and sallies forth under the protecting wing of Uncle Grif. That amiable old gentleman's face beams with delight. "We will take a Seventh Avenue car. You don't mind taking a car, do you, Miss Sydney ? " " Decidedly not, Uncle Grif. Why on earth should I ? " " Katie does ; that is all. One has to ride with such a motley assembly of the Great Unwashed that is what she says." " Katie says more than she means ; you must not take her literally. There is nothing I enjoy more than riding in those city street cars, and watching the different phases of the human face divine. It is quite a new experience to me. Who is the the lady who does the lace work ? " "A most respectable person, Miss Sydney. Oh, a most respectable person," cries Uncle Griff, eagerly. " Of course," Sydney answers ; " that goes without saying, since you are taking me to her. But what is she, maid or ma- tron, wife or widow ?" " A widow lady and her daughter ; there are two. Once she was well off, and she is a person of culture and refinement. They are poor now, and she ekes out her income by doing fine needlework for ladies, and for fancy stores." They are riding up town now, and as Miss Owenson does not fancy conversation at the pitch at which it must be cairied on in a street-car, she relapses into silence, and watches with never- flagging interest and amusement the people who perpetually get in and out. Presently their own turn comes, and they walk three or four blocks westward, and stop at last before a two-story wooden house, sadly in want of paint. A tiny plot of grass is in front ; there are flowers in all the windows, Miss Owenson notices, and augurs well therefrom. Uncle Grif knocks with his knuckles, and this primitive summons is answered immediately. An elderly woman opens the door, smiles upon Uncle Grif, and glance; at his companion. Then there is a simultaneous excla- mation. 292 A LONG TALK AND A LITTLE WALK. " My dear young lady ! " lt My dear old lady ! " Sydney was on the point of saying, but substituted " madam ; " and Uncle Grif gazes agape from one to the other. "Why, you're not acquainted already, are you ?" he asks. " We met ; 'twas in a crowd," laughs Sydney ; " we met by chance the usual way, last week, Uncle Grif, in a car. Really it is quite a coincidence." " Come in," says the mistress of the house, and ushers them into the tiniest, the trimmest little parlor Miss Owenson has ever seen out of a doll's house. A flower-stand filled with pots is in each window ; muslin curtains, delicately embroidered, draped them ; a little upright piano, its keys yellowed by time, covered with music, stands in a corner ; one or two oil chromos and steel engravings, in home-made rustic frames, hung on the papered walls ; books in profusion litter the centre-table. The chairs are cane, the carpet old and faded, but the little room is so sunny, so sweet, so dainty, that it is a positive pleasure to be in it. " People who have seen better days, decidedly," Miss Owen- son infers, taking all this in with one comprehensive feminine glance. " What a very nice face the old lady has." "Will you not introduce this young lady, Mr. Glenn?" says the mistress of the house, as she places chairs. " We have met before, and the young lady did me a favor, but I have not the pleasure of knowing her name." " I beg your pardon, 1 I forgot to introduce you," Uncle Grif responds in his flurried, nervous way. "This is Miss Owenson, Mrs. Nolan Miss Sydney Owenson. And this is my old friend, Mrs. Nolan, Miss Sydney." "Nolan," thinks Sydney, a little startled. " You you know Lewis, you know ? " continues Uncle Grif, apologetically to Sydney. " This is his mother. She she is acquainted with your son, Mrs. Nolan, and and her lace is torn, and I made her bring it here to have it mended." Uncle Grif pulls out his handkerchief and wipes his forehead, very much upset at finding himself master of the ceremonies, even on this small scale. Mrs. Nolan looks at her fair visitor with a pleased smile. " You have met my son, Miss Owenson ? " " More than once, madame. But I had not the slightest idea, I assure you," says Miss Owenson, blushing suddenly, " that in coming here " A LONG TALK" AND A LITTLE WALK. 293 "Didn't I tell you it was Lewis' mother?" says Uncle Grif, looking surprised. " No. by-the-by, 1 believe I didn't. She tore her what was it, Miss Sydney ? Oh, her flounce, and I asked her to bring it here, and let you mend it. You can mend it, you know, Mrs. Nolan ? " " I will be able to tell better when I see it," Mrs. Nolan an- swers ; and Sydney unwraps her parcel and hands it to her, feeling oddly nervous herself. Lewis Nolan's mother Lewis Nolan's home she looked at both with new and strong interest. That was his piano, those his books how refined everything was in its poverty. What was the sister like, the girl wondered. Mrs. Nolan took the torn lace to the window and examined it with the admiring and appreciative eye of a connoisseur in laces. "What exquisite Chantilly what a beautiful pattern what a pity it should be torn. I never saw a lovelier piece of lace it must be very valuable." " It is," Sydney answered ; "but its chief value, in my eyes, is that it belonged to my dear mother. Can you mend it, Mrs. Nolan ? " Uncle Grif assures me you work miracles with your needle." " My eyes are very bad for fine work, particularly black ; but Lucy can, I am positive. Lucy is my daughter, Miss Owen- son, and very proficient in lace work. She is an invalid, and cannot come down-stairs, but I will bring it up, and show it to her, if you like." "Cannot Miss Sydney go up too ?" cries Uncle Grif, in his eager way. " I I should be glad to have her know Lucy." " And Lucy will be very glad to know her," says Mrs. Nolan gently, " if you will come up, my dear Miss Owenson " Sydney rises at once ; that strong feeling of profound inter- est still upon her, and follows Mrs. Nolan up a little flight of steep stairs to an upper landing off which three small rooms open. The door of each stands open ; they are all bed cham- bers, all spotless and tasteful, one the mother's, one the son's, the young lady decides, and this front one the invalid daugh- ter's. Sydney pauses a moment on the threshold and takes in the picture. The green carpet on the floor, the small white bed in the corner, the two pictures that hang near it " Ecce Homo," and "Mater Dolorosa," a trailing Irish ivy filling one window, roses and geraniums the other. The same muslin draperies as downs-tairs, a large photograph of Lewis Nolan's strong face and thoughtful forehead over the mantel ; a table 294 A LONG TALK AND A LITTLE WALK. with a family Bible and one or two other books of a grave na- ture, judging by their binding, and a little thrill goes through Sydney as she sees it a basket of pure white flowers that a few days ago graced the counter of Greenstalks. This, then, is the lady-love for whom the young lawyer spends his money. Mr. Nolan rises in one second to a place in Miss Owenson's regard, which it might else have taken him months to attain. She looks from the room to its occupant with ever-growing interest. In a great invalid chair she sits, no girl a woman of thirty evidently, so slight, so fragile, so bloodless, that the thin face and hands seem almost transparent. But it is the sweet- est face, Sydney thinks, her eyes have ever looked on, with an expression so gentle, so patient, so womanly, that her heart is taken captive at a glance. There is a subtle likeness to the brother in the sister, the same dark, deep eyes, the same thoughtful brow, the same cast of feature. Only the some- what stern mouth of the young man is soft and tender in the woman, and the likeness makes the contrast between them more marked and pathetic he, the very type and embodiment of perfect health, strong and manly vigor she, with death, it seems to Sydney, already imprinted on her face. "Lucy," Mrs. Nolan says, "this is Miss Owenson. She has brought some lace to be repaired, and Mr. Glenn, with his cus- tomary kindness, recommended us." "Miss Owenson?" Lucy Nolan's face lights up. "The Miss Owenson who resides with Mrs. Macgregor ? " " Mrs. Macgregor is my relative yes." How much the sister resembles her brother, Sydney thinks, when she smiles, and where where has she seen Lucy Nolan before ? In a moment it flashes upon her. Idealized, and as this sick woman may have looked ten years ago, her face is the pictured face of " The little Sister." " Evidently Monsieur von Ette derives his inspiration ' from this family," thinks Miss Owenson, amused. " That is a very good likeness of Mr. Lewis, over the mantel. That strong, dark face, and those piercing eyes of his photograph well." "You can do this, can't you, Lucy?" says her mother, ex- hibiting the rent ; and Lucy examines it in her turn through a pair of glasses with a practical eye. " I have to wear glasses at my work," she informs Sydney. " What lovely lace ! Yes, I can do this easily, and ?o that the mending will never be known from the original pattern ; but not this week. Are you in a hurry, Miss Owenson ? " A LONG FALK AND A LITTLE WALK. 295 " Not at all next week, next month, will do if you like." "Ah ! but we don't like," responds Lucy Nolan; "we do not want to keep a flounce worth a thousand dollars in our possession any longer than we can help. I shall do it early next week." " I must go and see after Uncle Grif," says Mrs. Nolan, leaving the room. " He is languishing in solitude down-stairs." " What very lovely flowers," remarks Miss Owenson. " Your windows are perfect floral bowers, Miss Nolan." " Yes, plants flourish with me. Is not that calla beautiful ? My brother takes the trouble of banishing them every night. He has hygienic notions about their absorbing all the oxygen that my poor lungs need." " Your brother is right. Yes, your calla lily is a gem. And what a superb ivy. This," Sydney points to the basket, " is an old acquaintance." " Yes, Lewis sent me that on my birthday. I was one-and- thirty last Thursday ; and he told me he met you and Miss Macgregor at the florist's. I am glad I have met you, Miss Owenson," Lucy says, with a smile. " I have heard of you until my curiosity has been strongly aroused." " Heard of me ? " Sydney repeats, her blue eyes opening. " I never go out ; it is months since I left this room, and Lewis tries to amuse me by telling me every evening what goes on in the outer world, the people he meets, and the sights he sees. And he has told me a great deal about you." " Indeed," says Miss Owenson, coloring. " I wish I might tell you what he has said. I wonder if you would be offended," laughs Lucy. " Well, so that it be not very uncomplimentary I think I might stand it. It is well sometimes to see ourselves as others see us." " Then ! you're not to be offended, mind ! He told von Ett6 he had seen many beautiful faces in his time, but never one of such ideal purity and nobility, half womanly, half angelic." " Oh ! " Sydney cries, " hush ! " The rose-pink blush is scarlet now. " If Mr. Nolan had the bad taste to say that, you should not have repeated it." " 1 apologized beforehand, remember. He would be as in- dignant as yourself if he knew I had told. Von Ette says you have bought ' Sintram.' What do you think of the likeness ? " " It is a very good one, if one could imagine your brothel 2f)6 A LONG TALK AND A LITTLE WALK. in so tragic a frame of mind. So you never go out : how sad that must be. You look very ill too ill to work. Have you been an invalid long ? " " For ten years," said Lucy Nolan. " Oh ! " " I have consumption, as you may see," pursued Miss Nolan, with perfect cheerfulness, "and complaint of the spine, that chains me to this chair. But I am quite able to work. Oh, I assure you, yes; and my work and my books are the two chief pleasures of my life. You don't know how thankful I am to be able to work and help mother and Lewis, who work so hard. My needle passes the days, and then there are the evenings. My sun rises, Miss Owenson, when other people's set, for the evening brings Lewis and Carl von Ette, and we have music and the magazines, and the news of the world outside. And I am happy, I assure you. Oh, just as happy as the days are long." There are tears in Sydney's eyes as she listens to the bright voice, and looks in the wan face, all drawn and pallid with pain. " But you must suffer, surely your face shows that." " Yes," Lucy says, and says it still cheerfully, "a little some- times. My back " a spasm twitches the pale lips " I suffer at times with my back. The worst of it is, I have a nasty, hacking cough that worries mother and Lewis, and keeps them awake nights." " It keeps you awake too, does it not ? " " Yes, but it doesn't matter so much about me. They have to work so hard all day, that it is too bad their rest should be broken by my wretched cough." Lucy Nolan says this with such genuine sympathy for them, such genuine indignation at herself, that Sydney smiles, al- though tears still stand in her eyes. " Are you ever confined to bed, Miss Nolan ? " " Miss Nolan ! how comical that sounds," says the invalid, laughing. " Call me Lucy, please I don't know myself by any other name. Yes, I am sometimes, when my back is very bad, and then poor mother is nearly worn to death waiting on me, and Lewis will have a doctor and expensive medicines, say what I will. I am a dreadful drag on them both all Lewis earns he is obliged to spend in me. Ah ! you don't know how good he is, Miss Owenson. Night after night he has had tc witch with me, and toil all day long at he office after. He would insist upon mother's going to bed, and letting him take A LONG TALK AND A LITTLE WALK. 297 her place. The trouble of my life is the trouble I give them." " ' Honor thy father and thy mother, that thou mayest be long- lived upon the land,' " thinks Sydney. " A good son and a good brother. Mr. Lewis is a gentleman and a Christian, and I like him." So they sit and talk, and the minutes fly. Sydney is so vividly interested that the afternoon wanes and she does not see it. The charm of manner that makes the brother so agreeable a companion is possessed also by the invalid sister. Her needle flies as she talks, her eyes laugh behind her glasses, she is free from pain to-day and quite happy. It is only when Lucy lays down her work that Sydney sees the shadows of coming night filling the room. " Oh ! " she exclaims, starting up in consternation, " how I have lingered. It is nearly dark. What will Uncle Grif say ? " " Uncle Grif went away half an hour ago," says Mrs. Nolan, entering. " I left him to do something in the kitchen, and when I looked in again he was gone." " Highly characteristic of Uncle Grif," says Lucy, laughing. Don't feel mortified, Miss Owenson, but he forgot all about you five minutes after you were out of his sight." " What shall I do ? " cried Sydney, in despair. " Here is Lewis you must let him take you home," says Mrs. Nolan. " It is altogether too late for you to venture alone." The house door opened and closed, a man's step came two or three at a time up the stairs, and Lewis Nolan, " booted and spurred " that is, in great coat and hat stood in the doorway amazedly contemplating the group. " Miss Owenson ! " The color flashed vividly into Sydney's cheeks, but she held out her hand with a nervous laugh. " You see before you a damsel in distress, Mr. Nolan. Un- cle Grif perfidious, like all of his kind inveigled me here and then basely deserted me." In a few words Mrs. Nolan explained the situation, while Sydney hastily drew on her gloves. " You must permit me to take Uncle Grif 's place, of course," said Lewis Nolan. " His loss is my gain. Uncle Grif is to be trustee! no further than you can see him. If he were a genins he could not be more absent minded." " Stay for tea," said Mrs. Nolan, hospitably. " The evening ' cold, and a cup will warm you." 298 A LONG TALK AND A LITTLE WALK. " Tea is my mother's panacea for all the ills of life," said Mr. Nolan. But Sydney would not listen to this she was nervously anxious to reach home before Aunt Helen and Katherine, and avoid questioning. So taking the arm of Mr. Nolan, Miss Owenson went forth into the gaslit highways of New York. "Come again soon do," pleaded Lucy, at parting; "you don't know what a pleasure it will be to me." And Sydney had kissed the patient, gentle face, and promised. " Your sister is charming, Mr. Nolan," she said ; she " be- witched the hours, I believe. How patient she is, how sweet, how good." " Poor Lucy ! yes. I hope, among your multiplicity of engagements you will sometimes steal an hour for her. Her pleasures are so few, her sufferings so great." " She does suffer then ? She would not say so to me." " Miss Owenson, her life for the past ten years has been one long martyrdom, and she has borne it all with patience angelic. She does not seem to think of her own suffering, only of the pain and trouble she gives us. Her happiness is in days like this, when she can sit up and work, or talk to a friend. So it will be a work of charity if sometimes " " I shall come often very often," says Miss Owenson. ''The visits will be a greater pleasure to me than they can possibly be to her. I owe Uncle Grif a debt of gratitude for having brought me." "In spite of his heartless desertion?" asks Lewis Nolan. " Miss Owenson. shall we ride or walk ? The cars are sure to be crowded at this hour, and it is doubtful if you will be able to get a seat. Besides, their progress is so slow, with continual stoppage " " I will walk then," Miss Owenson answers. " I have no fancy for bad atmosphere and hanging suspended in mid-air. Besides, I am an excellent walker; I have had no end of practice among the Swiss mountains and over the Cornish moors." "You have been in Cornwall, then?" " For nine months and thought a six-mile walk between breakfast and luncheon a mere bagatelle." She pauses suddenly with a keen sense of pain. There is Miss Leonard's letter to be answered, and it flashes upon her she can never say " come " to Sir Henry Leonard. She has never been sure before, but she is to-night. The walk is nearly an hour long, and the frosty stars are all "ONE YELLOW NEW YEAR NIGHT." 299 a-twinkle in the November sky when they reach the palatial brown-stone front, and lights flash from dining-room and hall. " You will come in ? " Miss Owenson says. " If you will excuse me, no. I shall be busy writing until midnight. Good-night, Miss Owenson." He rings the bell, and waits to see her admitted ; then, with another good-night, Lewis strides away. "What a long walk I have given him, and no doubt he is tired enough already," Sydney thinks. " Susan, have Mrs. Macgregor and Miss Katherine re- turned ? " " No, Miss Sydney, not yet." " Dieu merci ! " thinks Sydney, running up to her own room. Strangely enough, when they do come, and all meet at dinner, she says not a word of where she has spent the afternoon. At ten o'clock she goes up to her chamber, but before she goes to bed she writes her letter. It is rather a difficult letter to write ; but since it must be written, why, the sooner the better. Near the Close she says this : " I hardly know whether to be glad or sorry Sir Harry has not sailed with the expedition. I am glad for your sake, certainly. But, dear friend, I can never say to him the word he wants 1 can never say ' come.' If I ever doubted, I doubt no longer. I do not love him, worthy of all love as he is ; and I shall love my husband, or go to my grave unwedded. Tell him this as gently as you can, and forgive me all the pain I cause you both." CHAPTER VI. "ONE YELLOW NEW YEAR NIGHT." |FTER that November afternoon Miss Owenson com- plied many times with Mr. Nolan's request that she would " sometimes steal an hour from her multipli- city of engagements, and come to see Lucy." Twice, at least, every week, brought her to the little cottage in the shabby, out-of-the-way street ; and with every visit her strong 300 " ONE YELLOW NEW YEAR NIGHT." first liking for n other and daughter grew stronger. Bouquets, luxuriant and rare house-plants, baskets of luscious white grapes, new books, and beautiful engravings, new music, all the refined and delicate things the invalid best loved, began to find their way to the cottage. It was easy for Sydney to imagine her tastes, for they were her own. It was understood, also, that these things were not to be mentioned at the donor's next visit ; the thanks and gratitude were to be understood, not expressed. Best of all, work never flagged now ; all the time the widow and her daughter could spare from their regular customers, Miss Owenson filled up. During these weekly visits the son of the house was but rarely met. A shyness altogether new in Miss Owenson's experience of herself, made her shrink from meeting him when she came to see his sister, although always very frankly and cordially glad to meet him elsewhere. They did meet tolerably often in this way most often of all at his friend Mrs. Graham's, rarely at the Macgregors', and occasionally at concerts or opera. Mrs. Graham, like most happy little wives and women, was a match-maker by instinct, and conceived the happy idea from the very first night, of marrying Miss Owenson to her favorite Lewis. " It arranges itself as naturally as life, John," says Mrs. Graham to Mr. Graham, in connubial confidence. "Both are young he clever, she handsome he struggling for fame and a start in life, she with more money than she knows what to do with. She is the sweetest girl I have met for many a day sim- ple, unaffected, intelligent and lovely. She is worthy even ol him. All is said in that." " I feel," observes Mr. Graham, calmly, " that if this sort of thing goes on much longer 1 shall become a victim of the green eyed monster ferociously jealous of Lewis Nolan." " Nonsense, sir ! You know you are as fond of him as I am, and just as anxious to see him marry well." " Ah ! but heiresses don't throw themselves away, as a general thing, on impecunious young attorneys. Money marries money. ' He that hath a goose shall get a goose." This Miss Owenson was of English descent lays claim on the father's side, so I understood, to birth and blood, and all that. And everybody knows that Lewis my junior partner at present began his career as my office boy. That sort of thing tells with women." " It does not with Miss Owenson/' cries Mrs. Graham, with "ONE YELLOW NE W YEAR NIGHT." 301 spirit. * Don't class her with the ordinary run of young per- sons that fast Katie Macgregor, for instance." " Fast, my dear ? " remonstrates Mr. G. " Certainly ; she is audacious enough for anything. Did you hear her discuss that odious divorce case lastnight with Mr. Van Cuyler ? Van Cuyler, of all men, with his high and mighty notions of womanly delicacy and dignity. And the way she angles for Mr. Vanderdonck the way she has been angling for the past six years ! It is a thousand pities so pure, so true, so thoroughly sweet and womanly a girl as this Sydney Owenson should be among them." " She is one of the family, and they are going to marry hei to Dick," says Mr. Graham. "Ah! Dick ? I hope your head won't ache until they do," darkly retorts Mrs. Graham. " She will no more marry Dick Macgregor than than I would if I were single." " Thank you, my love," says Mr. Graham, and falls asleep. Mrs. Graham, acting on this philanthropic idea, took every opportunity of throwing these two young people together. She conceived a great and sudden passion for the orphan heiress, carried her about with her wherever she could induce her to come, had her at her house a great deal, and gave Mr. Nolan ample opportunity, if he so desired, to win his way to the heiress' favor. But favors are vainly thrust on some people. Mr. Nolan showed himself insensible, in a most exasperating degree, to all this loveliness and wealth. He and Miss Owenson got on remarkably well in a general way, danced together, talked to- gether, even sang together, on very private evenings, but of love-making, the alphabet was not yet commenced, " Perhaps Mr. Nolan's modesty stands in his way, my dear," is what Mr. Graham said, soothingly to Mrs. Graham, when that best of women bitterly complained of her favorite's defection. " Bashful ness is the bane of most young barristers' lives." " Bashfulness ! " cries Mrs. Graham, with ineffable scorn. " The remark, sir, is too contemptible to be answered. The worst of it is thai I think " But here Mrs. Graham paused, too honorable to betray even to her husband the secret of a sister woman's heart. * You think young Nolan might go in and win, my dear, if he liked ? " insinuates Mr. Graham, which coarse remark his spouse disdains to answer. Many new friends were being made in the December weeks, many invitations pouring in for the fair heiress, many engage- 302 "ONE YELLOW NEW YEAR NIGHT." ments for every day. A net of entanglement seemed to be closing around Sydney, in spite of her rebellious protests and chafings. Invitations could not be rejected without rudeness, and although for general society Sydney did not much care, she found herself being drawn into the maelstrom, whether she would or no. It was most difficult, at times, to keep up hei visits to Lucy Nolan, and in these latter weeks Lucy was ailing and in pain. The wan, patient face saddened when Sydney went, and lightened into temporary forgetfulness of suffering when she came. Some of the December sunshine seemed to enter in her face, the little sad house grew glad with her presence. " Syd- ney's days " were the sunniest days in the week to Lucy ; and Sydney, realizing it, resolved that no engagement should here after interfere with those visits. The place that Cyrilla Hen. drick had once held in her heart, vacant ever since, was rapidly being filled by this wan, gentle Lucy. " The great trial of " The State vs. Harland " was to com- mence about the close of December, and Lewis Nolan became so busy and absorbed that he no longer was visible even in the drawing-room of Mrs. Graham. He came home very late, to sleep, left early, and was seen no more until the following night. Mrs. Graham poured her complaints into Miss Owen- son's ear. " He is working himself to death. I saw him last evening. I went down to the office for Mr. G., and Lewis lifted such a worn face from a pile of hideous law papers those great eyes of his, hollow, and with bistre circles beneath. I miss him so much at my receptions, that tall black head of his towering over the heads of his fellow men. " ' He seemed the goodliest man That ever among ladies sat in hall, And noblest when she lifted up her eyes, And loved him with a love that was her doom,' " said Mrs. Graham, gushing out in the most unexpected manner into blank verse. Sydney laughs rather unsympathetically. " Dear me ! how very tragic. ' With a love that was her doom!' You do not mean yourself, I hope, Mrs. Graham? For the sake of morality, and my friendly regard for Mr. Graham " "Ah ! you are like the rest," says Mrs. Graham, shaking hei head ; " the guis of the present day have no heart. When i was "ONE YELLOW NEW YEAR NIGHT." 303 young we would all have lost our heads for such a man as Lewis Nolan." " What very ill-disciplined heads must have been in vogue. And how odd it seems to be talking sentiment at the fashiona- ble hour, and on the sunny side of Broadway," answers the heiress. Mrs. Graham might have her own ideas, but Miss Owenson baffled even her. Certainly the bright face of this stately young heiress betokened anything but love-sickness, and that frank, rather satirical laugh must come from a heart-whole maiden. The gentleman was immersed in a horrid murder case, the lady in running the round of a New York season yes, it seemed a a hopeless affair. Sydney's acquaintance had come long ago to the ears of her family. And Katie Macgregor had looked up from a fashion- book and the latest style of coiffures, and given her blonde cousin a long, peculiar glance. " So that is where you go ? " she said, slowly. " Do you know it has rather puzzled me lately where so many of your afternoons were spent ? " " Indeed ! " said Miss Owenson, going on with her knitting in unruffled calm. " How very unnecessary for you to puzzle yourself. Had you inquired I would have been most happy to have told you." There was silence. Miss Macgregor looked back at the heads of hair with compressed lips. " You went first with Uncle Grif, to have your torn flounce repaired ? " " Yes." "I knew they were seamstresses of some sort dressmakers or shirtmakers, I fancied. What kind of people are they ? Vul- gar, or like Lewis ? " " Vulgar is the last word I should think of applying to Mrs. or Miss Nolan. If I ever saw ladies, they are ladies." " Ah ! persons of education ? " " That is understood." " But it must be a very unpleasant neighborhood for you to visit some low street, is it not, near the North River ? " " It is a street of poor people, if that is what you mean. Does poverty inevitably include lowness ? I jo not find it at all unpleasant." " And then, of course, Lewis is always there to see you safety home/' carelessly suggests Miss Vlacgregor. 304 "ONE YELLOW NEW YEAR NIGHT." Miss Ovvenson lifts her eyes from her work a gray and crimson breakfast shawl fjr Aunt Helen and looks across al her cousin. "Mr. Lewis came home with me on the evening of my fust visit, as Uncle Grif had forsaken me. Since that day I have not had the pleasure of meeting him once at his mother's house." Was there a ring of defiance in Sydney's tone ? Instantly Katie became cheerfully apologetic. " Uncle Grif always said they were the nicest possible people, the Nolan family. I never met any of them but Lewis. He was a protege of uncle's, as I have told you, and it was uncle who first got him into Mr. Graham's office to open and close, sweep, go errands not a very dignified beginning and finally sent him to the same school with Dick. Dick used to bring him here at times, and we all romped in a friendly way together ; but as we grew up, of course, our paths swerved. I have no doubt, however, that Lewis Nolan's will one day be a well known name throughout the land." " One, two, three, four, five seven twelve loops of gray," is Miss Ovvenson' s answer to this, as she bends over the break- fast shawl. " The trial begins to-morrow," pursues Katie. " How I should like to go." " Should you ?" growls Dick, rising suddenly from his seat in a distant window and throwing down his paper. " I dare say : women are always fond of going where they're not wanted ; divorce trials, murder trials, everything new and nasty. They go to hangings, sometimes, and bring their babies. I don't sup- pose it would do you any harm ; but, for all that, you won't go." " Don't attempt sarcasm, Dick, at least until you gro\v a little older. I want very much to see Mrs. Harland, and hear Mr. Nolan's speech. Mrs. Graham is going, Mrs. Greerson, and lots more. Why cannot you get Syd and me admission, like a man and a brother ? " " Would you go ? " asks Dick, looking at Miss Owenson. " No," says Sydney, quietly. " Ah ! " Captain Macgregor's manly brow clears ; " I thought not. You may go if you choose, Katie ; you're big enough and old enough to look out for yourself ; but I wouldn't if I w?re you. Fellows talk about that sort of thing, and it spoils your chances." " Mr Vanderdonck wouldn't care," responds Katherine, with unruffled good temper. "ONE YELLOW NEW YEAR NIGHT." 305 " No, but Van Cuyler might. You've been making eyes at Van Cuyler lately, haven't you ? Not that it's of any use, mind you," says Dick, darkly. " He has registered a vow, has Van Cuyler, like those fellows with the crosses on their legs cross- legged, eh ? Crusaders, never to marry. He'll take all the love-making you can do he's used to it, bless you and never think once you're out ofhis sight." " What a ' blessing in disguise' is a brother," observes Katie as the door closes after Captain Dick's stalwart form. "He is right to a certain extent, after all ; I should like to go." She did not, however ; but the papers and Dick brought daily reports of the trial. The opening speech for the prosecu- tion was crushing the learned counsel inveighed against the man or woman " who anticipates the great prerogative of the Almighty, and sends a soul from time to eternity." Great inter- est was felt on all sides, for Mrs. Harland had youth and good looks, and many friends. The trial lasted a week. Mr. Nolan came to the fore nobly, and displayed a forensic skill and acu- men that would have done honor to twenty years' experience at the bar. That was what the papers said, and Dick and Mrs. Graham endorsed. He arose and spoke for his client in away, the latter lady declared, that brought tears to every eye. He painted a long catalogue of wrongs she had endured, the name- less insults she had undergone, the outrages of every kind that a brutal husband can inflict. His speech, Mrs. Graham declared, was one outburst of impassionated eloquence his whole heart and soul seemed to be in it. Sydney listened with profound sympathy. Mr. Nolan himself could hardly hope more ar- dently than did she now, that the unhappy prisoner might go forth free. But the hope was in vain, the trial ended, the sen- tence was a light one, most people thought four years. " She heard it with stony calm," narrated Mrs. Graham, with a half sob ; " but she grasped Lewis Nolan's hand as he held it out to her, and kissed it. ' I will never see you again,' she said ; ' L will never live to come out. My sentence is just ; but all my life I will thank and pray for you." I cried, I assure you, as if my heart would break," said Mrs. Graham, who cried as if that organ would break on the smallest provocation. "Death was impiinted on her face, poor thing; and for Lewis himself, he hardly looked better." That evening a little note from Lucy reached Sydney. " DEAR," it said, " come to-morrow. I am sick in body an baf- fled. " No," she thinks, " she does not care. She never could look like that if she did." An influx of callers next day detained Sydney in the drawing- room until quite late. It was half-past four before she could make her escape and change her dress to visit Lucy. She war feverishly eager to go perhaps there she would hear whethei there were any truth in this new rumor or no- She rode to her destination, but it was nearly six before she reached the house. Lucy would be waiting, would think she did not mean to come, and she hurried in, opening the house door without knocking. She looked into the parlor no one there. She turned and ran lightly up to Lucy's room. In the doorway she paused, struck by the picture before her. Com- ing darkness shadowed the little chamber, the fire in the grate had burned low and cast fitful gleams over everything. Lucy sat in her accustomed place, and leaning over the back of her chair was Lucy's brother. Neither saw her from their position, both were absorbed, and it was her own name, uttered by Lewis No- lan, that chained her to the spot. "Sydney Owenson," he was saying, in an intense tone of con centrated feeling. "Yes, Lucy, you have guessed the truth It is because I dare not see her. that I avoid her, because I have no trust in my own strength, that I shun her presence. If I met her oftener than I do, I would have neither self-control nor power left. There are some temptations a man can face, defy, and trample under foot there are others from which flight is the only salvation. This is one. " "I have suspected this," Lucy said. "Who could see her and not love her, so lovely, and so lovable, so true, and tender, and sweet ? " " And so far above us. She does not suspect my presump- tuous folly ?" " I think not. I am sure not. But, Lewis, is it such presump- tuous folly ? I know she is very wealthy, and of a very proud family ; but is mere wealth, then, such an insuperable barrier? Why not tell her at least before you go? It is only fair she should have a voice in the matter, since you go on her account. She is so gentle, so good, she would not look upon it as presump- tuous folly even if she refused you " " Even if she refused me," Lewis repeats with a short laugh " Your knowledge of the world is limited, Lucy, but even you TWILIGHT IN LUCY S ROOM. 325 can hardly doubt that. She is surrounded by suitors of a beauty and a fortune equal to her own, and Van Cuyler, surrounded by a glamor of fame, at their head. Nothing succeeds like success Van Cuyler will win her, and I will carry the crowning mad- ness of my life with me to Sacramento, and in new scenes anc 4 hard work live it down." The spell is broken. Sydney makes a step forward and stands still. Lewis Nolan starts around, Lucy utters a cry ; Miss. Owenson, pale as ashes, trembling violently, comes forward. " I I beg your pardon," she says, in a gasping voice, " I did not mean to listen. But I caught my name and " She comes over to Lucy's side ; and Lucy takes the two hands, imploringly held out, in hers, and clasps them hard. "You have heard," Mr. Nolan asks, quite white with the shock of his surprise. "All. Oh! forgive me. Indeed I did not mean to listen " "Forgive you /" he repeats, mastering himself by an effort. "But you will do me the justice, I am sure, to believe I would not wilfully have pained you by this avowal." She stands silent, but her color is coming and going, her breath quick, her eyes intent upon the carpet pattern. Lewis Nolan, in spite of the poverty of his antecedents, is an adept in the polite art of self-repression. He holds himself well in hand now. " My sister has been trying to overthrow my resolution of going away next month," he says, but the deadly pallor of his face belies the calmness of voice and words, " and in an uncon- trollable moment 1 have told her the truth. That I have learned to love you is at once my loss and my gain, but knowing its hopelessness I never meant to pain you by the knowledge. Now that by chance you have heard, if it does pain you, you will still forgive me, I am sure." She stands silent. " Forgive him ! " He only asks that. " Have 1 indeed offended you ? " he says, coming nearer. "Shall we not part friends, then, after all ? "' Part ? She cannot bear that. She sinks down on her knees, and lays her face against her friend. "Tell him, Lucy," clinging to Lucy's hands "you know." And Lucy laughs softly at the little comedy of errors, and holds her close, and looks triumphantly at her brother. " Mis.^ Owenson ! " he cries " Sydney, what does this mean ?" " Oh, stupid Lewis ! "Lucy laughs ; " how blind men are ! [t means you are not to go to Sacramento that is alL" 326 "WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET* CHAPTER IX. "MY LIFE HAS FOUND WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET.' ilT is half-an-hour later. Twilight, pale and gray, has given place to night : outside the frost February stars sparkle, and a new moon glimmers like a broken silver ring. Inside, the red glow of the fire still fitfully lights the room, and lingers on the two figures standing at the ivy-wreathed window, and on Lucy Nolan lying back, her eyes upon them, her hands clasped, praying, perhaps, but with a face of infinite content. For the two persons most interested, they just stand here and say very little. They have said very little in the past half-hour, but Sydney knows that the desire of her heart is hers. And Lewis Nolan knows, that what in his wildest moments of hope he never dared hope for, what Ernest Van Cuyler has vainly sought, is his. And among all the elect of Mammon, whom the news will probably shock and amaze, not one will be more honestly surprised than is at this moment the happy man himself. He has spoken little either of love, or rapture, or gratitude, as they linger here. Long ago he is thinking of it as he stands by Syd- ney Owenson's side and gazes out into the starry darkness the strong passions nature lias given him, slipped their leash, and the memory of that time has darkened his whole after-life. The power of self-repression, his life-study since, has become second nature now, and he stands beside the beautiful woman he has never hoped to win, and keeps those turbulent emotions of joy and love well reined in. But Sydney is content, the si- lence is eloquent, and his few broken words, his face, his eyes, have told her all she asks to know. " Sydney," he says, and the name comes as naturally to his lips as though they had spoken it for years, " Mrs. Macgregor will never consent." Sydney, leaning lightly against the window forme, her eyes fixed on that broken, little yellow moon, smiles dreamily, and glances shyly up in her tall lover's face. " Will she not? Very likely. But it doesn't matter, does it ? A second cousin is well, a second cousin. I am not sure that her consent or approbation signifies." He smiles at the easy air and tone of utter indifference. "WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET." 327 " But I am afraid it does, my little princess. You are mak- ing a very shocking mesalliance, stooping very low in stooping to me. Do you not know that ? " " I did not before. You should know best, however. I bow to your superior wisdom, Mr. Nolan." "Ah ! it is no laughing matter. Mrs. Macgregor's house is your home ; she can make it very unpleasant for you, Sydney." Sydney knows that ; Mrs. Macgregor has made it exces- sively unpleasant for her already. "And you have no other home. Do you know, my princess, that, rich as you are, you are not as well off as other girls after "all." " I am to-night," she answers, softly, and with a glanre that thrills his inmost heart. " If I only had a home," he says, drawing a tense breath ; " a home no matter how inferior to what you have been used, to offer you, I would take you from them at once. But I have not ; I can offer you nothing." " Except yourself. Oh ! Lewis, I ask nothing in all the world beside." They clasp hands, and again there is silence ; one of those long, delicious blanks that are better than words. But the cloud still lingers on the young man's brow ; her face is radiant. " I suppose you know, Sydney, that you will be set down as the prey of a fortune-hunter. And very naturally, too. When a pauper aspires to a princess what other motives can actuate the pauper than mercenary ones ? " " Lewis," says Sydney, and the way in which she utters her lover's name for the first time, is a caress in itself, " don't b^ disagreeable, please. What does it matter to you or to me what all the world says ? You are the only one who will have the impertinence to repeat such a thing in my presence." He laughs, then sighs. " I am not so sure of that. Mrs. Macgregor will consider it her duty and her privilege to put things before you very plainly oh, very plainly indeed. She will tell you what is true that I am beneath you in every way. That while you were born to the purple, I was born a newsboy ; that while you walked in silk attire, and siller had to spare, I swept offices and ran errands ; that while you reigned ' queen, lily, and rose in one,' in a fashionable boarding-school, I was educated by the bounty of her brother ; that while you are an heiress, and of 328 " WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET." the salt of the earth, T am an out-at-elbows Bohemian, fighting my way inch by inch, obscure, unknown to fame, with a mother and sister who sew for a livelihood. And all Madison. Avenue will be scandalized, and the best metropolitan society will cry out that one of their Order has put them to shame. Oh ! little princess, think of it in time. It is not yet too late to draw back, to repent of your sin against society." "That is a very eloquent outbust, Mr. Nolan," replies Miss Owenson, coolly; "but, as a rule, eloquent outbursts art thrown away upon me. If you have been surprised into tell- ing rne you you care for me a little, and want to get out of it, please put it in plain words. If you tell me to give you up. I will do it ; if not, the rest of the world, though it cried out to me with one voice, is as nothing." " My own ! how can I ever prove my gratitude for this ? " " By never saying such hateful things more. All New York can neither make nor mar my happiness, but you can with a word. All the wealth of the world, if I possessed it, would not weigh a feather-weight against my love." She speaks that last word in a shy whisper, as one not yet used to its sound. For two-and- twenty years she has gone on her way, her heart her own, to lay it down humbly here. She is sweetness, and nobleness, and generosity itself, but even yet this difficult Mr. Nolan is not at rest, for he knows she speaks of wealth and position with the grand disdain of one who has never known the lack of either. And now Mamma Nolan puts in her best black Sunday cap, and calmly announces that the pancakes are ready, and will they please come down to tea, and at this descent from sub- limated sentiment to flap-jacks, all laugh. " Dear me," says Mrs. Nolan, " what are you laughing at and what are you all doing in the dark ? Lewis, I should think you might have lit the lamp. It can't be pleasant for Miss Owen- son to sit in darkness like an owl." " I don't mind being an owl for a little while, Mrs. Nolan," responds Sydney, demurely. " Mr. Nolan and I have been dis- cussing society and its creeds, and forgot that it was lamplight time." "Well, come down to supper," says Mamma Nolan, inno- cently. " Lewis, be very careful in carrying Lucy on the stairs." For it is one of Lucy's best days, and she is to go down- stairs. The warning is not needed, no woman could be more tender of touch, ikui is Lew u> wuh his frail sister. He carriei WHAT SOME NAVE FOUND SO SWEET." 329 her down to the coxy parlor, where fire and lamp make warmest light, and where china teacup; glisten, and an old silver tea- pot, the one relic of affluent days, sparkles, and where there are cakes, and coffee, and chickens, and ruby jellies and snowy biead, cold ham and hot pancakes, all tempting and nice. Jt is a delightful meal, although Sydney finds to her surprise thi t she has no appetite, and her effort in the eating way is only an effort to please her hostess. Lewis is rather silent, but he looks wonderfully happy, even his mother notices, and her artless remarks on the subject make Miss Owenson blush. There is a ring in one of these pancakes, Mrs. Nolan gravely informs her company, whoever gets it is to be married before the year ends ; and this blissful symbol, the propitious Fates will, shall fall to Miss Owenson. Thereupon everybody laughs, and the bright hue of the young lady's cheek grows brighter, and alto- gether it is a feast to be remembered, a symposium of the gods. All the while not a word is dropped that can enlighten the mind of mamma. After tea there is music, and Lewis is the musi- cian, all his heart in the songs he sings, in the rich melody his fingers awake. Sydney sits in a trance, and listens, and knows that if the deep happiness she feels were to end with this night, it might still compensate for a lifetime of sorrow. Presently it is nine, and she starts up, and announces that it is time to go. She kisses Lucy and Lucy's mother, with an ardor only one of them understands ; and so, with Lewis following, tiits away and disappears. It is a bright winter night, cold and cleai, a night that photo- graphs itself on the memory of both. The streets are lull of people, but these two are in solitude they drift on slowly, silent again, and neither knowing they are silent. But, presently, the gentleman breaks the spell. " Sydney," he says, and the troubled look that worries Syd- ney is back in his eyes, " after all, this is a leap in the dark for you. What do you know of me in reality ? " " ' A lightsome eye. a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, No more of me you knew My love, No more of me you knew ! ' " laughingly says Sydney, out of her radiantly happy heart. But .Nolan will not laugh, he looks down at her with thosa 33 "WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND ?0 SWEET." gray, dark eyes of his, Miss Owenson thinks the most beautiful in the world, and reiterates his remark. " You know nothing of me or my life. I may be the greatest villain on earth for all that you can tell." " Excuse me, Mr. Nolan, that is your little mistake. Partly from Lucy, partly from your doting mamma, partly from Mrs. Graham, partly from Uncle Grif all your devoted slaves I have heard the whole biography of Lewis Nolan since he was an interesting cherub in long robes, ' and the best child,' as Mamma Nolan emphatically tells me, ' that ever lay in a cradle. Could the most exacting inquirer ask more ?" Mr. Nolan sees fit to laugh at this, but to Sydney's disgust grows grave again directly. " I may have secrets in my life that even these good friends do not know. Which of us are known to our nearest and dear- est as we are. Sydney, there is something that 1 ought to tell you, that you have a right to know, and that may part us." " No, no ! " Sydney cries out, holding his arm tighter ; " I do not believe it. Oh ! Lewis, you have not you have not - " " A hidden wife ? " supplements Lewis and laughs again. " My dear child, no. No woman on earth has the faintest claim upon me excepting yourself." She draws a long breath of relief. For a moment the absurd notion that he has put into words has actually flashed across her brain. " Nothing else can matter then ; if you love me and no one else will suffer. For I could not take even you, Lewis, from one who had the slightest prior claim." " No one has a prior claim, now. Once years ago I cared for, or fancied I cared for, which amounts to the same thing, a girl who threw me over. Think of that, Miss Owenson ! You honor with your preference a jilted man ! " " I owe her ten thousand thanks that she did jilt you. But what atrocious taste she must have had ! Is that your awful secret, Lewis ? " " No, Sydney ; I wish to heaven it were. In my past life " Lewis, stop ! " she cries out again, in affright. " I don't want to know. I would rather not know. I won't know ! No matter what it is even if a crime it has been repented of and atoned for, I am sure. With your past life I have nothing to do; I take you as you are, asking no questions. Only be "WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET." 331 faithful and true to me, loving me with your whole heart always, for with less I will not be content, and I ask no more." " No more," he repeats, strong repressed passion in his tone fire in his eye. " Sydney! you mean that ?" " I mean that. I ask no more." " And whatever comes if in the future what I would tell you now comes to your ears, you will hold me blameless ? " " I hold you blameless, so that you are still all mine." "Thank Heaven !" Did he say it, or did she only fancy it? He drew a deep breath of great relief, and looked at the fair and noble face with eyes of almost adoration. " Sydney, you are an angel. No, you are what is infinitely better for me a perfect woman." " Oh ! no, no," she said, earnestly " a very faulty and erring woman, wanting a clear head and a loving heart to guide her ; wanting some one braver and wiser than herself to help her through life." " And you think me that better and wiser guide ? My poor little Sydney ! " There was an unutterable bitterness, unutterable remorse and pain in his voice. Was he doing wrong in taking this trusting girl at her word, in all the innocence of ignorance, and making her his own, the secret of his life untold ? " I, too, have my confession to make," Sydney says, shyly. " J, too, was once before engaged. Did you know it, Lewis ?" " No," he answers, " I did not know it." And the knowledge now gives him a curious sort of jealous pain. " Yes, and was very nearly married, but he died, poor fellow ; was killed in fact. I did not care for him in in this way. We had grown up together, and I was fond of him as a sister. My father desired me to be his wife; I was only seventeen, and knew no other will than my dear father's. But he died. Sydney's voice trembles even now, as she recalls that dread- ful time. " Do not say any more," Nolan says, tenderly. " I can see it pains you to recall it. Let the dead past be buried, and from this night, I swear my whole life, my every thought shall be open to you. If perfect love, if perfect fidelity, all I have to otter, can in any way repay the sacrifice you make for me, then they are yours." " I wish for no more," she says, and gives him both her hands. 33 2 "WHAT SOME HAVE FOUND SO SWEET." i They are at Mrs. Macgregor's door ; and, as she speaks the words, and he clasps in his those two extended hands, that door suddenly opens, a blaze of light falls upon them, and Mrs. Mac- gregor, awful as Macbeth, majestic and stern, in full evening dress, stands before them. Tableau ! Mr. Nolan takes off his hat, Sydney blushes vividly, Mrs Mac gregor stands and glares petrified, middle-aged gorgon. " Good- evening, Mrs. Macgregor," says Mr. Nolan, politely, and by no means crushed. His voice breaks the chilling spell. " Will you n.n come in, Lewis?" says Miss Owenson, bravely " No ? Well, then, good-night. Tell Lucy I shall see her to- morrow." "Good-night," he says, biting his lip to repress a smile, and runs down the steps. . She lingers a moment to watch him, and even Mrs. Mac- gregor cannot but read what is written so radiantly in Sydney's lovely eyes. "Will you come into the drawing-room, Miss Owenson?" she says, in a sharp metallic voice. " I would like to speak to you before you retire." " Not to-night, Aunt Helen," Miss Owenson replies, smiling gayly, at the same time turning to go up-stairs. " It is half-past ten," says Aunt Helen, in an acrid tone, and a glance of the darkest displeasure. " Is it ? " retorts Sydney, carelessly. " All the more reason I should go to my room at once. Good-night, Aunt Helen." She runs up lightly, that smile still on her lips. There will be a scene to-morrow, and the truth must come out. The scene will be unpleasant, and Sydney wants nothing unpleasant to mar the memory of this perfect night. She does what all young women in love do, in books and out of them, sits at the window and contemplates the moon. Sunday was dreary, yesterday was dull, to-day had been weary to-night all that earth held of ecstasy was hers, because a sallow young man with gray eyes and not a rap in his pocke< tells her he is in love with her. She looks up at her " Sintram" the moonlight is full on the dark, sad, remorseful face. " I have seen Lewis to night with just that look," she thinks, with a sort of tender trouble. "What can his secret be ? But it is nothing that concerns me he has told me that; and I s,haL make his life so happy that he will cease to resemble poor, "7 SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAY." 333 tempted, melancholy Sintram. I never rejoiced in my wealth before, but I do now for his sake. And to think to think he would have gone away without telling me if! had not chanced to overhear. " My life has found What some have found so sweet ; Then let come what come may, No matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day. " CHAPTER X. " I SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAY." YDNEY goes down to breakfast next morning with a face from which even the prospect of what is to come cannot dim the sunshine. Mrs. and Miss Macgregor are already seated, Katherine immersed in the morning paper, and Mrs. Macgregor majestic behind the coffee-pot, her Roman nose higher in the air, and more awfully Roman than Sydney ever remembers to have seen it. But Miss Owenson is the daughter of a fighting sailor, and not deficient in pluck. She encounters the stony stare of the mistress of the mansion with a frankly pleasant smile, although her heart beats a trifle faster than is its wont. " Coffee or tea ? " says Mrs. Macgregor to her young rela- tive, as who should say, " Pistols or poison take your choice ! " " Tea, please. Any news this morning, Katie ? " " Nothing especial," answers Katie, rather coldly, and Syd- ney receives her tea cup and stirs her tea. "Sydney!" begins Mrs. Macgregor, in a voice that makes every nerve in Sydney's body wince, " it is my duty, unpleasant though it may be, to speak seriously to you this morning. Your parents arc dead, I am your nearest living relative, and you are a member of my family. All these considerations com- pel me to tell you that 1 was shocked yes, Sydney, honestly shocked by what I saw last night. " Did you see anything very awful, Aunt Helen ?" inquired isb Owenson, taking some dry toast. 334 / SHALL HAVE H*D MY DAY." " I saw what I did not expect to see Reginald Owenson' s daughter lowering herself " O O "Lowering herself? I do not think I quite understand, Mrs. Macgregor." Sydney's voice is quite calm, her blue eyes look steadily across the table, but she is growing very pale. " I repeat it lowering herself," says Mrs. Macgregor. " la it necessary for me to say that Lewis Nolan is no fit compa- nion for Captain Owenson's daughter?" " Your daughter first introduced me to Mr. Nolan. I take it for granted she would not introduce me to any one unfit to be my companion, and I met him next at the house of one of j your most intimate friends. He is a gentleman, is he not, Aunt Helen ; and, as such, a fitting companion for any lady in the land ? " j " A gentleman ! He is a pauper, a dependant on my brother's bounty ; a young man very well in his way no doubt, 1 but low low both in bringing up and connections ; at no time the proper associate of a young lady in your position, and notoriously unfit to be her solitary escort home at ten o'clock at night! " j Miss Owenson has thrown back her head, her face is pale, her eyes are shining as only blue eyes shine in intense, re- pressed anger. " I have long intended," Mrs. Macgregor's metallic voice goes en, "to speak to you of the impropriety of your frequent visits to this young man's house; but, knowing you were very charitable to the poor, I forced myself to believe your visits there were as your ordinary visits to the homes of your pensioners. But last night I heard you even now I can scarcely credit my eairs I heard you call that young man Lewis, saw you stand with both hands clasped in his ! I know that Mis. Graham, in her foolish way, has taken this young man up ; that her equally foolish hus- band has taken him into partnership. All the same, he is none the less your inferior, and beneath your notice ; and when you permit him the freedom I saw with my own eyes last night, you it is a strong word, but I must use it you degrade your- self, Sydney." " Mother ! " cries Katherine, throwing down her paper. Miss Owenson rises to her feet, and stands tall, and stately, and pale as death. "It is a word that has never been used to me before ; it is one that shall never be used to me again in this house. All / SffAtL HAVE HAD MY DAY." 335 Kfadison Avenue, all the friends you have, Mrs. Macgregor, might have been standing as you were last night, looking on, and I would have held Lewis Nolan's hand all' the closer, and stood by his side, prouder of my right to stand there than of any one else on earth. Kpr I have the right," Sydney says, a flush of exultant joy, triumph, and love lighting her face, "it is my great happiness this morning to tell you, the right to stand by his side my whole life long ! " " Sydney ! " Mrs. Macgregor exclaims. She rises also, blanched with horror. "You do not mean you cannot mean " "That I am to be Lewis Nolan's wife? Yes, Aunt Helen, whenever he sees fit to claim me." Aunt Helen drops back in to her seat with a thud. Katherine sits and gazes at Sydney with glittering cold black eyes. " I am sorry if I in any way cause you annoyance, Aunt Helen," Sydney goes on in a gentler tone. She is so infinitely happy that she can afford charity to others. " You are my near- esf relative, as you say, and I am at present under your care. It will afford me pleasure to please you in any way in my power, to yield to you in all proper matters, but here you must not inter- fere. 1 am Mr. Nolan's plighted wife; you are free to announce it to every acquaintance you have, and as soon as you please. Any affront offered to him I shall resent, as I would never think of resenting an affront offered to myself." And then Miss Owenson, still stately and uplifted, bows her head and goes. Mrs. Macgregor sits up paralyzed ; Miss Macgregor holds her Herald up before her face and stares at it, and" never sees a word. " Lesvis Nolan ! " the mother faintly gasps, at last. " Sydney Owenson to marry Lewis Nolan ! Katherine, are you deaf, that you sit there and read ? Did you hear what she said?" " 1 heard, mother," Katherine answers, icily. " I am not surprised. She is worthy of him I can praise Sydney no more highly than that. " " Katherine ! " "And, mother, as Miss Owenson is her own mistress, and you have not a shadow of right over her, and as she pays you trebly for her board, and is rather a lucrative item in our house- hold, 1 would strongly advise you to be civil. An heiress need never want friends ; doors will be open to her if you make your house too hut to hold her. She may even marry Mr. Nolan put of hand, and have a home of her own. / would in her place ! " VV'it.h w^ith Katherine leaves the room, and her mother 32* "/ SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAY." is alone, to chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancies. Very bit ter she finds them. To refuse Dick, to refuse Van Cuyler all for this Lewis Nolan. What does she see in him ? Aunt Helen thinks, helplessly. If he were a very handsome man she could understand a romantic girl's fancy and folly ; but he is not he is dark and sallow, and thin, with prominent features, and nothing attractive about him except a voice for singing, a gift that rather detracts from a man's manliness, in Mrs. Mac- gregor's eyes. He may be clever in his way, but if Sydney wanted cleverness, why did she not take Ernest Van Cuyler, a gentleman and a scholar, and a man who wrote books, surrounded, too, by the aroma of conquest and fame. Why had she fallen in love with this young man, Nolan ? What does she see in him ? The case is hopeless, the conundrum unsolvable. In a stunned way she rises and gives it up at last. Katharine runs up to Sydney's room and raps at the door. " Let me in, Sydney, please, " she says ; " it is only 1." Sydney obeys. She has been crying, Katherine can see the usual ending of feminine heroics ; and Katie takes her in her arms impulsively and kisses her. " Sydney, you are the best and pluckiest girl in the world, and I wish you joy. I think I half expected this from the first." Sydney leans her arm on the mantel and her face on her arm, tears welling up in her eyes again. " Don't mind mamma," goes on Katherine. "Your conduct is sheer madness in her eyes, nothing less. And who can won- der? Refusing Ernest Van Cuyler last week, and accepting Lewis Nolan this ! How pleased Mrs. Graham will be ; she set her heart on this long ago, and \vas nearly in despair when she heard of his departure. Of course the Sacramento exile is at an end now," says Katie, with a touch of her old satirical smile. " I hope so. I don't know," Sydney answers, in a stifled voice. There is silence, and Katherine stands and looks at her, half curiously, half admiringly. "And so my beautiful Cousin Sydney, captor so long, is cap- tive at last ! Shall you be married after Lent, Sydney ? " " I don't know." "/would!" says Katherine, energetically. Why should you wait? you will be ever so much happier in a home of your own, and where is the object in waiting half a-dozen years while he struggles upward. One of you has money, and I know in your primitive creed it doesn't matter which, though it would to most '/ SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAI." 337 people. But then most people would not throw themselves s.way don't be angry, Syd it is throwing yourself away in one sense." " Be kind enough not to say so, Katie. If I were told a kingdom and a crown were awaiting me, they could not give me a tithe of the happiness the knowledge that he loves me does." " It must be nice to be unworldly and fresh-hearted like that," says Katie, with a half sigh ; "but then it is a luxury you can afford. In your place, even I might fall in love with and marry a poor man." Ill news travels apace perhaps that was how Mrs. Macgregor accounted for the rapidity with which the stunning fact of Miss Owenson's engagement extraordinary transpired. To Lewis Nolan ! Who was this Lewis Nolan ? cried out the uninitiated ; and the answer came crushingly : " A young fellow without a penny ; his mother an Irishwoman who sews for a living son educated for the bar through the char- ity of Mr. Griffith Glenn and John Graham, Esquire man who plays the organ in a church for a salary, and sings at evening parties." Can it be wondered at, that the best society of this democratic city held up its hands aghast, shocked, outraged, indignant ? One of the richest heiresses in New York, the last of a fine old English family, a young lady who had refused Ernest Vander- velde Van Cuyler only a few weeks ago ! There must be some- thing intrinsically wrong, mentally or morally, with this hand- some and high-spirited Miss Owenson insanity latent probably in the family. Of course very little of all this came to Miss Owenson's ears, but of course also, she could hardly fail to read the wonder, the pity, the curiosity in the faces she met ; and, what was much worse, Aunt Helen, afraid of open warfare, had frozen into strong rigidity. Not Lot's wife had ever been stiffer, harder, colder, than was displeased Aunt Helen Macgregor. She had always disliked this fortune-hunter, this adventurer, this Bohe- mian young Nolan. As a boy, the money brother Grif should have spent on Dick had been wasted on this pauper lad. As a boy, at the same school, this audacious mendicant had carried ott prize after prize over Dick's devoted head. And now this final and never- to-be-forgiven sin of winning Sydney Owenson by his artifices, and for her fortune only, had been committed. He had been taken Dick left. No wonder Mrs. Macgregor*s thoughts were gall and bitterness ; no wonder that severe Ro '$ 338 "/ SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAY." man profile grew awful in Miss Owenson's sight ; no wonder every -vord that fell from her lips were as so many icicles. Mrs. Graham, on the contrary, was transported, and embraced Sydney over and again in an ecstasy of gushing,match-making joy. " You were made for each other, my darling ! I saw that from the first. 1 should never have forgiven you, Sydney, if you had let him go." Mrs. Graham was Sydney's one friend. At her house she and Lewis sometimes met, but not often, for Mr. Nolan was, as usual, very much occupied, and seemed to have received a new impetus to work. He had even for a brief time no intention of giving up his California project he could attain the desired end so much more quickly there. Sydney had looked reproachfully and imploring, and Mrs. Graham had scolded him roundly for such " a tempting of Providence " ; Lucy and his mother had pleaded, and finally, and not without some reluctance, it was abandoned. He was* working hard, as has been said, with thoughts and hopes now tnat made the dry-as-dust office work sweet, and at infrequent intervals he and his affianced met chiefly at Mrs. Graham's. Mrs. Macgregor's doors were closed against him. On Sydney's visits to his home he was almost invariably absent, and his partner's house was the only one he visited. When they met in company here, it was good to see Sydney take her place at his side, as one having the right, jeal- ous lest any should fancy for a moment that she was either afraid or ashamed of her choice. The reserve that would have been hers had her lover been what the world called her equal, and that would have forbidden any public pronounced attention, she resolutely banished. The world should respect, if she could make it, this man whom she delighted to honor. But it was a false position, and the girl, delicate and sensi- tive, felt it. As the spring wore on and Easter drew near, her life at the Macgregors' began to grow intolerable. Katie was kind, but unsympathetic. Katie's mother was simply unendurable. All her life Sydney had been the beloved and petted of the household ,unkindness, coldness, covert sneers, icy glances, stabbed her like daggers. Without creating infinite gossip and scandal, she could not quit Mrs. Macgregor's house, and gossip and scandal were the nightmares of her life. Her wealth would have opened scores of doors, but not one home. She was happy, infinitely happy in her heart's choice, but that did nqt prevent very many bitter tears being shed in the solitude of her own room. Shf "7 SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAY" 339 grew pale and nervous, lost flesh and color rapidly in this ordeal, and a troubled, startled look was growing habitual to the lovely serene eyes. Mrs. Graham saw with ever-growing indignation the change in her young friend, and at last her feel- ings grew too many for her, and she lifted up her voice and spoke. " I never thought, Lewis, whatever your faults and their name is legion, very likely that you were altogether heartless ! " cries Mrs. Graham with compressed lips and flashing eyes. " My dear madam, " expostulates Mr. Nolan, looking up laughingly from a pile of legal cap, for the lady had gone all the way to the Wall street office to rate the delinquent, " what have I done now ? " " What are you not doing, rather ? Have you no eyes ? Car/- not you see that she is growing thin as a shadow and white as a spirit in that house, under the tyranny of that old gorgon ? But, of course, you cannot. Men are proverbially as blind as bats. Other people can see how wretchedly the poor child is looking ; but you, who ought to be the first, don't or won't see anything at all. Go to !" cries Mrs. Graham, who laid down an Eliza- bethan novel just before coming out. " I have no patience with you." " Do you mean Sydney ? " Lewis says, in a troubled tone. " My dear Mrs. Graham, what can I do ? I have seen the change in her ; I know they make her suffer for my sake, and I I am powerless to help her or take her from them." His dark eyes glow, his lips set sternly. Never has he felt the bitterness of being a poor man as he feels it now. He would give his life to save her pain, and he must stand by and see her suffer, powerless to help her. " What can you do ? " retorts Mrs. Graham, with a scornful little snort. " You can marry her, I suppose. If / were a man," cries this stout and excitable matron, " and a lovely girl were ridiculous enough to love me, and that girl had money enough for a dozen, do you think I would leave her to be made miserable by a cantankerous old cat like Helen Macgregor? No, sir, i would marry her out of hand, and give her a home of her own, and a husband to take care of her, and never stop to think of it twice." " But as I am so utterly poor, what would the w arid say? Would it be honorable " "A fig for the world that for your honor. What is all the world to you compared with Sydney's health and happiness? 34 */ SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAY" Honorable I like that. Is it more honorable for you to grub along in this office for the next ten years, making a competence while you let her life be tortured out of her, than to many her and make her happy ? I admire such honor ! Good morning to you, Mr. Lewis Nolan. Unless 1 hear something more manly of you soon, you will kindly consider our acquaintance at an end." In spite of himself, Nolan laughs Mrs. Graham's excitement and indignation are so real. He escorts her to her carriage. " ' Beggar that I am, I am poor even in thanks ; but I thank you,' " he says, " for your more than friendly interest in Sydney and me." " Sho^v your gratitude then by acting as you should. Home, Thomas." retorts Mrs. Graham, snappishly. He returns to his work, but he cannot work. It has been his dream to make a name and a home for his bride, not such a home as she has been accustomed to just at first, but still one of his making. But what if Mrs. Graham is right ? Is Sydney unhappy among the Macgregors, and for his sake ? If so, is it not his duty to take her from them, to pocket his pride and ambition, defy the world's scoff, and make her his wife at once ? He tries in vain to concentrate his mind on the brief before him. He throws it aside, puts on his hat and coat, and goes home. It is one of Sydney's days, he has a chance of finding her there yet. He has noticed, with keenest pain, how fragile and changed she has grown of late. He can infer pretty well what kind of enemy Mrs. Macgregor can be. Sydney is still there ; is alone in the little parlor, playing for Lucy in the chamber above. She starts up, a flush of surprise and delight making her face bright at sight of him. " You, Lewis, and before five ! How could you tear your- self away from that enchanting office and those fascinating big books bound in calf?" " Don't be sarcastic, Sydney," says Mr. Nolan ; " sarcasm is not the strong point of your sex. I tore myself away because I fancied you might be still here, and I was hungry to see you." The bright color stays in her face under his grave eyes and at his words, but in spite of it he can see the change in her. The hands that lie loosely in her lap are thin and transparent He takes one and slips off without an effort the simple engage- ment ring he has given her. " Three weeks ago, Sydney," he says, that troubled look iu fys eyes, " this ring fitted so tightly that it was an effort to gel "J SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAY." 341 it ?n. Now see it drop off; My princess, what is the matter?" The rosy light leaves her face ; she looks away from him, out into the grimy street, upon which the red flush of an early April sunset lies. " You are suffering for me," he goes on ; " Mrs. Macgregor is making your life miserable. You are not happy there, Syd- ney, I can see that. I have seen it from the first. And I it will be so many years before I have a fitting home to offer you." She does not look at him, she watches those ruby gleams of sunlight on the dusty street, her color coming and going. Her heart is full of words, but she is a woman, and her lips may not speak them. He has dropped her hand, and is walking up and down, his brows bent. He stops abruptly before her in his walk, takes both hands, and gazes down at her, a resolute look in the shady darkness of his eyes. " Sydney," he says, " without a home ; with neither fame nor fortune to offer you, will you marry me at once ? " She lays her face down on the hands that clasp hers, almost with a sob. " My only home can be where you are," she answers ; " thai is no home. I am oh ! so miserable there, Lewis ; I can never have any home except as your wife." So it is settled. ******* Now that the plunge is taken, Mr. Nolan shows himself a man of energy and decision. The marriage shall take place at once this very month. Miss Owenson pleads for a little longer respite. " Not quite this month, Lewis say next. I can never be ready." " Ready ? What do you call being ready ? You don't mean to go in for an expensive trousseau, I hope. At our wedding such a thing would be a mockery." Sydney knows that, and hesitates. Then Mrs. Graham goes over to the enemy, and her side kicks the beam. " Married in May ! Don't you know May is the unluckiest month in the year for marriages ? It is not to be thought of." " They do nearly all their marrying and giving in marriage, in May, in London," says Miss Owenson. " They may do in London as they please ; you shall do in New York as New Yorkers do." " Does nobody marry in New York in May, Mrs. Graham ? " 342 "/ SHALL HAVE HAD MY DAY" " Don't ask ridiculous questions, Miss Owenson. Be gaided by the superior wisdom of your elders. May is an unlucky marry- ing month. Let us call it the last week of April and be happy." Sydney laughs, blushes, glances shyly at Mr. Nolan, and yields the point ; but in her eyes no month will be unlucky that will make her Lewis's wife. As this is the close of the first week, there is very little time for preparation. Sydney screws her courage to the sticking place, and announces the fact at home, and Mrs. Macgregor turns yellow with passion. "1 cannot prevent this madness of yours, Sydney,'' she says, in a voice of concentrated rage ; " but in no way will I coun- tenance it. No one from my house shall be present. Across this threshold that man shall never come." " That is understood," said Sydney Owenson, very pale, but quite calm. " What I wish to know is, if I have your permis- sion to remain here until my wedding day ? I would prefer it myself. An open family feud is detestable. If not, I will go to Mrs. Graham's. " And add insult to injury. That I could never forgive." " Then I remain. For that, at least, Aunt Helen, I thank you." But Aunt Helen's answer is a look of exceeding bitterness Katherine says little; but, two days after, she discovers sfit owes a long-standing visit to Philadelphia, and flits away to pay her debt. And now the days fly : one by one they dawn, glide by, and are over, and all at once the wedding-day is here. A lovely day sunny, serene, cloudless. In Mrs. Graham's carriage, by Mrs. Graham's side, the bride goes to church. She wears a pale gray travelling suit, with a trifle of white lace and blue ribbon at the throat, a gray hat and gray gloves. Not a flower, not a jewel ; a shop girl would have thought it plain. She is quite white with emotion, but in her heart there is not a doubt, not a tremor. That other wedding day, with all its bri- dal bells and bravery, its bright array of bridesmaids, comes back for a moment, but she banishes the uncanny resemblance. In- deed, Bertie Vaughan is but the palest shadow of memory now, and has been ever since she met Lewis. To-day there are neither bells nor bridesmaids, but in the church the bridegroom stands looking as he always looks in Sydney's eyes " a man of men." Uncle Grif awaits her at the door, and on his arm she goes up the aisle. Little Monseiur Von Ette is dancing about, wild "HER HEART'S DESIRE." 343 with repressed excitement, and there, grave and gray, is Mr. Graham, and there tearful and trembling Mrs. Nolan. And now she kneels, and he is beside her, and the marriage is begun. Uncle Grif gives her away, blushing all over his bald head ; Mrs. Graham sniffs audibly behind her pocket-handkerchief, and in Mrs. Nolan's eyes there are quiet tears ; but Sydney lifts two eyes of heavenly radiance to the bridegroom's face as he slips the ring on her finger, and knows that the desire of her heart is hers. They are married. For the last time the door of the Mac- gregor house has closed upon her as home ; it is to Mrs. Nolan's they go to breakfast. And there Lucy awaits them, and into Lucy's arms the bride goes, and cries for a moment hysteri- cally. " My own dear sister," Lucy says, " Heaven bless and keep you both." So she has been married, and the outrage upon society con- summated. With neither bridesmaids nor bridal gifts, nor re- ception, nor veil, nor wreath, nor trailing whiteness of wedding- robe, nor anything proper. But it is doubtful if ever more blissful bride stood by her wedded lover's side than Sydney Nolan. CHAPTER XL " HER HEART'S DESIRE." JjHE nine days' wonder was at an end ; the Wonderful I Wedding had become a thing of the past. Mr. and Mrs. Nolan had been wandering about for fully six weeks, and were shortly expected home. Home ! Where ultimately that was to be, Lewis Nolan had not the faintest idea. His intention was to take his wife to a hotel upon their return, and once he had asked her, if among them she had any preference, and Sydney had blushed in a guilty way and evaded an answer. The man's pride to a cer- tain degree had been excoriated by his marriage, and he shrank with, perhaps, a morbid sensitiveness from renewing this sub- ject. They had gone to Washington first, then westward ; it die not matter where just at present, you know ; they did not 344 " HER HEART'S DESIRE. tread the earth, but a sublimated, etherealized, rapturous world of their own. Mrs. Nolan had desired to go to Europe, and show Mr. Nolan Italy and the Rhine, Paris, and Napoleon the Third ; but Mr. Nolan had incisively declined. A six weeks' holiday he might afford ; a six months' scamper was not to be thought of. Did Mrs. Nolan expect to henpeck him at this early stage of proceedings ? He objected to being trotted about Europe at present ; his wife might consider herself fortunate that he had humored her by leaving Wall Street, even for a day. And Sydney had laughed, and given up the point. It was delightful to obey Lewis, to feel he had the right to command, that she be- longed to him, to him alone, wholly and for all time ! But the six weeks ended, and they were coming back. Coming back where ? Once more Nolan broached the hotel question once more Sydney slipped out of it with a caressing : " Wait until we get to New York, Lewis ; I'll de- cide then." All through the honeymoon a conspiracy had been in progress ; mysterious letters passed between Mrs. Graham and the bride, which the bridegroom was not permitted to see, and which wreathed Mrs. Nolan's face with dimples. One lovely June morning, a steamer floated up to her pier, and the happy pair were back in the dear familiar din and dust of Gotham. A very elegant private c\rriage, with a pair of handsome black horses and a coachr An, blacker than the horses, was drawn up to the pier. Within sat Mrs. Graham and Uncle Grif, and handshakings and kissing ensued, and in- quiries all round, and the young wife was informed she was looking uncommonly well, ana then the quartet were flashing away up town. Sydney sat, and talked, and looked nervous and cast wistful sidelong glances at her husband. Mr. Nolan, uncomfortably unconscious of his destiny, but with a feeling that all the rest knew, took out a damp morning paper, and with a true " married-man manner " calmly began to read. Presently they were very far up town in quiet and dignified streets of brown-stone stateliness, and before one of these " pa- latial " residences, semi-detached, with shrubbery in front and an air of elegant rusticity, the carriage stopped. " Lewis," Sydney said, in a tremulous whisper, laying her hand on his arm, " this is home." His eyes answered her ; he said nothing, only sprang out and assisted the ladies, Uncle Grif ambled after, and the carriage was driven round to certain stables in the rear. They entered an imposing hall, hung with paintings, rich in "HER HEART'S DESIRE." 345 bronzes and statuary, and into a dining-room, perfect in every dark and handsome appointment, where a table stood with a silver and china breakfast equipage, and where Mamma Nolan came forward to meet and welcome her son and daughter. And still in silence Lewis saw it all. " How is Lucy? " Sydney asked. " Better than usual, and Sydney-sick, as perhaps her letters have told you. Will you go up-stairs and take off your things ? You must be famished after your journev. I will show you the way." "Come, Lewis," Sydney said, shyly, and Lewis followed up the long easy stairway, to another hall both perfect in every minute detail of costly upholstery. Mamma Nolan threw open a door and displayed a vista of three rooms en suite, quite superb in coloring and appointment. " I hope they will please you," said Mamma Nolan. " Mrs. Graham followed your instructions to the letter. Now make haste, like good children, and come down to breakfast." She bustled away, and husband and wife were alone. Syd- ney stood, that fluttering color of hers deepening and fading, then she turned and threw herself into his arms. " Oh, Lewis," she said again, " this is home." He held her still in silence, gazing about the rich and beau- tiful rooms. " You you are not angry that I did not consult you ? " she said, pleadingly. " I wanted to surprise you. It is so long since I have had a home, a real home, that the thought of this has been sweet to me. You do not mind, Lewis ? Why don't you speak ? " " U'hat can I say, Sydney ? I feel crushed. Fortune seems to shower fairy gifts upon me. I receive all and give nothing. There are no words that I can speak. Some day if ever when I am a successful man I will tell you what I feel j just now I cannot. I can only say I love my wife." Perhaps Mr. Nolan could have said in his most eloquent moments nothing his wife would have liked so well. She laughed _as she threw off hat and jacket, and began to smooth her hair. "It is a lovely house, is it not ? Mr. Graham and Uncle Grif, Mrs. Graham and your mother were all in the plot. You never can tell, Lewis," said Mrs. Nolan, plaintively, " wh at I have suffered the past six weeks keeping this secret." " I am quite sure of it, my love." " And it is the last, the very last I ever mean to keep from '5* 346 TEDDY. you for a moment. Now let us go down to breakfast, for I am most excruciatingly hungry." Sydney's new life was fairly begun her unclouded new life. Lewis made his daily pilgrimage to Wall Street early in the morning, and madam generally drove down for him early in the evening. Lucy was well, that is, much better than usual. Katie Macgregor was back, had roped in the erratic old Von- derdonck at last, and was to lasso him for good at St. Alban's, in early autumn. Mrs. Macgregor, now that the evil was inevi- table, smiled upon her fair, erring relative once more, even upon that fair relative's pauper husband. Finally, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan gave an "At Home," preparatory to Mrs. Nolan's flit- ting away before the July heats, and a large assembly were bid- den and came. It was an affair to be remembered the ro- mantic interest attaching to the marriage ; the lovely, blissful face of the young wife, her exquisite toilet and diamonds; the stately bearing and air noble of the young husband, carrying himself as one to the manner born ; the magnificence of the house itself all combined to make this reception quite out of common a brief glimpse of romance. And so Sydney has her heart's desire, the husband she loves, ftnd a home that is an ideal home in its beauty and perfectness ; and is that world's wonder, rare as the blossom of the century plant a perfectly happy woman. CHAPTER XII. TEDDY. JHE first days of July send Mrs. Nolan to Newport for the blazing weeks, and Mrs. Graham and Katherinc Macgregor go also. Mr. Nolan escorts them, stays a day, and returns to town. He has grown used to being stared at as the hero of a love match, a sort of modern Claude Melnotte, a lucky young barrister, who has successfully carried off, over the heads of all competitors, the beautiful heir- ess of fabulous thousands. Great things are predicted of this fortunate young man by the knowing ones. "A young fellow of prodigious talent, sir, great oratorical powers, keen forensi" abilities. With his own cleverness, indu* TEDDY. 347 try and ambition, combined with the great beauty ami wealth of his wife, and the social power she will wield, any career is open to Nolan ANY, sir bar, bench, or senate. The young man will be a judge at thirty, sir a fellow of infinite capabili- ties, and amazingly shrewd for a youngster. Lovely creature, the wife." It seemed as if Nolan himself, who said very little about it, had notions that coincided. Certainly he did not spare him- self; he worked without stint or measure. Sydney entreated him, when he made his flying visits, to remain a week ; he kissed her, laughed at her, and returned inexorably. She was growing jealous of those grimy big tomes, of his office and pro- fession, that enchained him. How much stronger hold they seemed to have upon him than she had. Ambitious he had al- ways been, and his affection for his wife was but an added spur. She must be proud as well as fond of the penniless husband she had chosen, and he grudged every lost hour as one that kept success an hour longer off. Every Saturday evening he went to Newport and spent Sun- day with his wife. As a matter of course, therefore, Sunday became the one day of the week to this infatuated young woman. Still the intervals, with their water parties, driving parties, horseback rides, long walks, evening hops, surf bathing, band, the well-dressed, well-mannered crowd of men and women, all the light, insouciant, sunny, sensuous life of a fash- ionable watering-place, could hardly drag to any very weari- some extent. Sydney grew plump and rosy as Hebe's self, and seemed to have found a fairy fountain of perennial beauty and youth. Mr. Nolan, on the other hand, as August blazed to a close, began to look a trifle jaded and worn ; hot weather and hard work were beginning to tell upon him, and Sydney, quick to note the slightest shade on that one face of all faces, grew alarmed, and despite the expostulations of fiiends and ad- mirers, flitted back to the city to see that Lewis did not go off with congestion of the brain from over-study. " What could that beautiful creature have seen in that fellow?" queried the Newport gentlemen, pulling their pet mustaches meditatively. " A clothes-wearing fellow, with nothing to say for himself, nothing in the way of looks to speak of, besides a tolerable figure and a pair of ovjrgrown eyes. What's there about him that she should have thrown away herself and her ducats upon him, and after four months of matrimony, adore .he ground he walks on ? " 348 TEDDY. Syilniy was looking forward to a very gay winter. She knew lhat ;;he could further her husband's views by her own gracious hospitality. In the case of almost every successful man there is always a woman who does for him what he cannot do for him self, a. good genius in petticoats without whom success could never have been achieved. She may be his wife or she may not, the world may know of her or it may not, but she clings to him and loves him, and her slender hand either pulls or pushes him to heights he else would never attain. So Sydney purposed taking society by storm this winter, giving a series of brilliant entertainments, and making her husband's face as familiar to all influential New York as the statue in Union Square. But woman proposes the Infinite Justice that disposes had decreed very differently from Mrs. Lewis Nolan. September was here, and September in New York is a per- fect month, a gem in the necklace of the year. Coming home from a shopping expedition one afternoon, Mrs. Nolan was informed by the smart black boy in buttons who answered the bell, that a caller awaited her in the draw- ing room. " Been waitin' more'n half an-hour, missis." says Jim ; " said jest to tell you, please, as how a very old friend wished to see you. Didn't give me no name, nor card, nor nuffin, missis. Got a little boy wid her, missis." Sydney descended to the drawing-room. A lady, dressed in black, sat on a sofa, her back to the door, turning a photo- graph book, and for some seconds did not turn. A child of four, a handsome little fellow, in velvet blouse and breeches, golden ringlets and a pair of shapely juvenile legs, lopked up at her with a friendly smile. Very much puzzled, Sydney drew near ; the child was a stranger to her who was the lady ? The lady arose at the moment, turned, and faced her. There was a gasp, a cry, a rush, and Sydney was clasping in her arms Cyrilla Hendrick ! "Cyrilla! Cyrilla! oh, darling Cy!" " My dearest Sydney ! " Yes, it was Cyrilla' s voice Cyrilla' s dear, familiar face upon which she was raining kisses. The old fascination of her school- girl days was not outgrown by later loves. As the world held but one perfect man, that man her husband, so it held but one Cyrilla Hendrick, friend dearest and best beloved. " My pet, my pet ! " cries Mrs. Nolan, in a rapture, " what a TEDDY. 349 suqirire this is .' Oh ! Cy darling how I have longed for you, worried about you, all this time ! Where have you been ? Why did you not find me out before ? Let me look at you and make sure it is my very own Cyrilla." She holds her off and gazes. Cyrilla smiles. She is changed, but not greatly. There is the creamy, colorless beauty, the youthful roundness, the perfect contour of other days, the old haughty poise of the head, the great dusk, sombre eyes, the high bred, distinguished air Sydney remembers so well. " Well ? " Cyrilla says, coolly. " You have changed, dear, and yet, where the change is I cannot make out. Oh ! my Cy my own dear friend, I can- not tell you, indeed I cannot tell you, how happy it makes me to see you again." " I was sure of it," is Cyrilla's answer, " else be very certain, Sydney, I had never come. It is my turn to look at you. You have changed certainly. How handsome you have grown 1 You were always pretty, but not like this." " Happiness is an excellent cosmetic," laughs Mrs. Nolan, " and 1 am very happy, Cyrilla." " You look it. And so you are ' wooed and married and a' what a fortunate man is Mr. Nolan ! I hope he appreciates it." " Fully, I assure you." All this time they have been standing clasping each other's hands, gazing in each other's faces. Now the youthful per- sonage in the velvet blouse, who has been standing unnoticed regarding this scene, pulls Cyrilla's dress and pipes in : " Mamma mamma, who is the pretty lady ?" " Mamma ! " Sydney starts as if she was shot, and looks from one to the other. She has absolutely forgotten the child in the sudden surprise of the meeting. Cyrilla's son, surely, for Cyrilla's black, solemn eyes shine in the baby face, although the small, fair features and flaxen curls are very unlike her friend's dark skin and jetty hair. "This lady is Auntie Sydney you know Auntie Sydney?" The small head nods intelligently. " Now go and tell Auntie Sydney who you are, my pet." " The young gentleman advances, very much at his ease, looks up into Mrs. Nolan's face, and gives his biography. " I is Teddy Croo." " Oh, Cy ! " Sydney says, and snatches Teddy Croo in her arms and takes away his breath with kisses, " I never dreanvxi of this." 35 TEDDY. She is paler than Cyrilla with emotion, as she bends over Cyrilla' s son, all the maternal heart in a wife's bosom aroused. " You knew that I was married, did you not ? " Cyrilla says, quietly. " You remember my visit to you at Mrs. Macgregor's five years ago last May ? That was my bridal tour, Sydney. I had been married two weeks then." She stops a moment. She has great self-command, always had, but even her self-command is shaken a little as she thinks of then and now. " I married Fred Carew at Mrs. Colonel Delamere's house, Sydney, and under pretext of visiting you, came to New York with him. It was all of a piece duplicity on my part from first to last, duplicity that worked its own retribution. The very day I left you I met Miss Jones in a Broadway omnibus, and she went all the way to Montreal to tell my aunt. The deceit, the plotting, the falsehoods, from beginning to end, were mine- mine alone. Fred urged me to tell the truth he only yielded to please me. I wanted him and I wanted Miss Dormer's money, and in trying to secure both, lost both. It was simple justice I acknowledge that." " I wrote to Mr. McKelpin," faltered Sydney. " There were such extraordinary rumors afloat. Some said you had been married to Mr. Carew ; others, that although you were with him in New York, you were not his " "His wife go on, Sydney. That I should lose reputation as well as husband and fortune, I also richly deserved ; for across my aunt's dying bed, with Fred's eyes upon me,I denied our marriage." " I never believed that story," says Sydney. " I mean, that you were not married. If you were with Lieutenant Carew in this city, I knew as surely as I lived, it was as his wife ! " " My loyal Sydney ! Yes, I never feared your hearing, I never doubted your fidelity. Whatever has befallen me, I have fully merited. You know how poor Aunt Phil hated Fred well, she was dying, and she asked me to swear that I was not his wife. I see that scene at this moment, Sydney, as vividly as I saw it then. I live it over in dreams. I awake with a start a dozen times a day, and come back from that dingy, stifling room, with Aunt Dormer, a ghastly sight in the bed, Mrs. Fogarty and Miss Jones watching with deadly hatred for my downfall, and Fred standing with folded arms waiting for me to speak. I have never seen him since. Sydney no, not once never even have heard of him from that dreadful day." TEDDY. 351 For a moment only a moment she falters and breaks down, but she neither sobs nor sheds a tear. It is Sydney's eyes that are full. " I lost all, Sydney," Cyrilla goes on. " Aunt Dormer died and left all she possessed, all I had slaved and sinned for, to Donald McKelpin. I fell down in a fit of some kind on Miss Dormer's bed. I remember that, and I know that it was Fred who lifted and carried me to my room. I heard him whisper ' good-by,' and go. After that all is hazy my head was not clear, it had the queerest feeling, as if it were grown enor- mously large and as light as a cork. " The strain had been too much for me the illness was com- ing on even then that nearly ended my life. I had but one idea to get away from that house, from Montreal, before Mc- Kelpin came. I did it. I got on the train, found a seat some- how, and seemed to be going spinning through empty air. I can recall no more for many weeks. I was in a Boston hospital when life came back, so weak that I could neither lift my hand, nor speak aloud, nor care whether I lived or died. They were very kind to me. One of the physicians had taken a fancy to me, it seemed, and gave me devoted care and skill. Gradually I grew stronger, and from Dr. Digby I discovered where I was and how I had come there. "Some time in the evening, it appeared, the conductor go- ing his rounds, had found me lying in my seat to all appearance dead or dying. There was great excitement and alarm, and the moment we reached Boston I was brought here. I had been ill, very ill so ill that at one time Dr. Digby had thought death inevitable. My friends in Montreal had advertised for me, he said. I stared at this one of them, he went on, had even come here to see me. His name was McKelpin, and he had left a note for me, and the sum of five thousand dollars to my credit in the bank. Donald McKelpin, whom I had always even laughed at, whom I had shamefully led on and deceived, was an honorable gentleman after all, it seemed. I cried over his note, Sydney I, who never cry, but I was weak and broken down, and kindness so undeserved moved me. It was a cold and civil note ; he made no allusion to my marriage or my treachery ; he simply said that his late lamented friend, Miss Phillis Dormer, having left him he: whole property, he consid- ered it his duty to see that the services I had rendered his es- teemed friend in her last illness were not unrequited, ll was what I had no right to expect from him, of all men, but 352 TEDDY. I felt that it was no more than I had rightfully earned from her. Twice that amount would not have repaid me for the life I led at Miss Dormer's, so I answered Mr. McKelpin, ac- cepted the money humbly and gratefully, and then turned my thoughts to the future. I was not to die, it seemed, and lonely and desolate as life would be, I clung to it as we all cling. I had five thousand dollars, and youth, and just then that seemed affluence. Long before Dr. Digby thought me fit to leave his care, I bade him good-bye and came here to New York, found a boarding house, and grew strong at my leisure. " 1 am not going to tell you, Sydney, how desolate and heart- sick, remorseful and despairing 1 was at times. If you had been here I would have come to you ; you were just the only person in the world whose pity I could have borne. I had not one friend in the whole great city, and of all loneliness the loneliness of one utterly alone in a great city is the most utter. To see thousands pass you by and not one familiar face, to feel a lost, unknown creature among all who come and go, to know that you might drop down and die in their midst and not one to give you a sec- ond thought. Oh ! you cannot realize this. It was the most absolutely wretched time of my life ; but in spite of that I grew strong and hearty, and the old question rose up what should I do? Five thousand dollars would not last forever. I must earn my own living. " My first thought, one that I found hard to give up, was of the stage. If I had capabilities for anything, if I had a vocation in life, that was it. I was an excellent elocutionist already, thanks to long training and natural taste ; I had a tall and %ood figure, a passable face, a head oC good hair below my waist, and two black eyes. I took stock of myself as any manager might appraise me ; I had a flexible voice ; I could dance, sing, speak French, and would never know the meaning of stage fright. 1 had money enough to live upon until the initiative train- ing was complete. I felt certain of success if I tried, and still and still I hesitated. I had outraged my husband, driven him from me, and now that I had lost him, I did what I never had done before in my life stopped to think whether or no he would have approved of my impulses. Easy as you may have thought him, free from prejudices, he yet had very strong pride and prejudices about certain things. One of these was the stage, for me. He had vetoed it ever since I had known him. 'It's no place for you, Beauty, he would say, ' with your gunpowder temper, and peppery pride, and overbearing little ways generally. You TEDDY. 353 would come to grief in the green-room in a week. Besides, the theatre's well enough for those that must go in for that sort of thing; somi of the women are trumps, take 'em anyhow yon like ; but it's not the place for you, Beauty ; I never want to see your face behind the footlights." " And I knew Freddy felt much more strongly and deeply on this subject than he could express. And I, who had never ac- knowledged any will but my own heretofore, now that he and I were parted forever, obeyed his wishes, gave up my one am- bition, and resolved that my life for the future should be one of expiation for the past. I had found a quiet home about this time with a widow, ' poor but honest,' as they say, who took no other boarders ; and here, one January day, my baby arrived. Life all at once grew bright again ; 1 had something to love, live for, and work for. After all the tears and weeping, joy- fulness had been poured in at last. " Four months after baby's birth, I set myself resolutely to look for labor. I had lived so economically that I had nearly four thousand dollars still, but I was growing niggardly for baby's sake, and must keep that for him. I advertised in the daily papers, and answered advertisements without number, ladies wanted com- panions families wanted governesses there seemed no end of situations ; but when one applied there was always something that rendered it impossible to accept. I advertised for pupils in music and French ; but the market was drugged, it seemed, with French and music teachers. Four months had passed, and I seemed as far off a livelihood as ever, but baby thrived and grew, and I was happy. Sydney, as happy as I could be in this world again. At last, it was by the merest chance I saw an advertisement of a young ladies' seminary in Chicago that stood in need of a French, and music, and singing gover- ness. With credentials from the clergyman who had baptized Ted. and the doctors, 1 went to Chicago, suited the vacancy, and got it. I had lost my husband, I told the gentlemanly principal and his wife, and they looked sympathetic, and did not press me with questions. Of course I could not keep my baby in the school, and the thought of parting with him almost made me resign the position. But this would have been folly, and I was worn out trying so long, so the sacrifice had to be made. After some trouble I found a young married woman, with a seven-months boy of her own, willing to take charge of Teddy on reasonable terms, and to her care J was obliged to resign him. One inducement was, that she kept a cow, and Teddy could 354 TEDDY. have plenty of fresh milk. And she has been the best and most tendor of nurses to my boy ; he has been with Mrs. Martin ever since." Cyrilla paused, as if her story had come to an end, and look- ed with tender eyes at her little son. " Who is he like, Sydney ? " she wistfully asked. "Like Fred Carew, with Cyrilla Hendrick's black eyes. My own dear Cy, how lonely and miserable you must have been all these years how much you have suffered since we met last." " I have wrought my own destruction, Sydney I deserve no pity. I can only think that I have wrecked his life, and hate myself for it." " You have heard nothing from him all those years ? " " Nothing of him or from him : I never expect to I do not even wish it." "Not wish it?" " No we could never be happy together ; he could never trust me, he could have nothing but contempt for the wife who so basely denied him. If he took me back at all, it would be through pity, and I would rather be as I am than that." " Ah ! Cy, the old pride is not dead yet. If it were my case, I think I would only be too glad to be taken back on any terms. It is strange to me that Mr. Carew has not sought you out. He was so fond of you, Cyrilla, I can't understand his resigning you wholly for one fault ; love forgives everything." " Not such a sin as mine ; and Fred, slow to anger, is also slow to forgive. Don't let us talk about it. I am resigned, or try to be. But to go on I have to think of the future, not the past." " And all of these years you have been a governess in a school. What a destiny for you, my brilliant Cyrilla ! " Cyrilla half laughed. " Do you remember Aunt Phil's cheerful prediction, croaked out so often ? ' Mark my words, my niece Cyrilla will come to no good end.' She was a true prophetess, was she not? And it does not lighten labor, or cheer the monotony, to feel that I owe it all to myself. Well, I ought to be thankful in the main, I suppose. I have Teddy, a respectable home and profession, they are all kind and friendly, and I save money for a rainy day. It is better fortune than I deserve." " You are greatly changed, Cy ; this sad, resigned manner is not much like the bright, ambitious Cyrilla Hendrick of Petite St. Jacques. What shuttlecocks of fortune we all are ! " TEDDY. 355 " Life's battledore has hit you gently, Syd ; I never thought fthat you would grow half so lovely. Can you imagine why I have sought you out at last ? " " Remorse of conscience at having neglected me so long, 1 should hope." " I am afraid not. I have come to remind you of a promise made first in school, afterward in your old home ; a promiso that if ever I stood in need of a friend, do what I might, }ou would be that friend." " I remember," Sydney answered, with emotion. " To see you and be your friend is all that has been wanting, since my marriage, to make my happiness complete. What is it, Cy- rilla?" " That you will take my boy and keep him for me until I can claim him. Mrs. Martin and her husband are going to Galves- ton, and Teddy will lose his home. To give him to strangers I cannot endure ; but if you will take him, Sydney " Sydney's answer is the delighted hug she inflicts on Master Teddy. " Oh, Cy ! how good you are to think of me. I love chil- dren ; do I need to tell you that I love yours above all ? My pet, kiss Auntie Sydney ! I am going to be your mamma, now. You will stay with me Teddy, won't you ? " " Does you have Johnny-cake for tea ? " asked Teddy, cau- tiously, before committing himself to rash promises. '"Cause if you hasn't I won't." " Johnny-cake, pound-cake, jelly, oranges, candies, ice-cream everything ! " says Auntie Sydney, magnificently. " Sen I'll stay with you," says Teddy, manifesting no emo- tion of any kind. " I likes oranges, and candy, and ice-cream. Does you keep a cow ? " " Not a cow, Teddy, but I think we might get one if you wish it very much. And a pony can you ride a pony, Ted ? " " I can wide a wockin' hoss," answers Teddy, rousing to enthusiasm at last. " I can make him gee up, bully, like every- sing ! " " Then consider yourself master of a wockin'-hoss and a cow, and oranges unlimited. Oh ! Cyrilla, why cannot you stay as well as Teddy, and make your home with me ? I would be so happy " " And Mr. Nolan also, no doubt," says Cyrilla, smiling ; " men are so fond of having their wives' bosom friends domiciled with them. No, thank you, Syd ; I have my life work to do, and 35 6 TEDDY. will do it. You have made me unutterably grateful by taking Ted." " You will miss him dreadfully, Cy." " Naturally, but it must be done. I look forward to a time, a few years hence, when 1 will have a home of my own, hovvevei humble, where my pupils may come to me. And now tell me about yourself, dear; I have selfishly monopolized the time with my talking." "What shall I tell?" Sydney answers with a radiant look. " In a happy wife's history there is no romance. It is only life's sorrows and sufferings that make interesting stories. No, there is nothing to tell. I am married and happy all is said in that." " I have never seen your husband. What is he like ? Tall, short, dark, fair which ? " " I will show you his photograph. I have a score, more or less, about the house. Oh, dark of course, but it is useless to ask me what he is like. / don't know. It is months since I ceased to see him as he is." She laughingly produces two or three large-sized photographs, taken in different attitudes. Cyrilla examines them thought- fully. " Is is Mr. Nolan handsome ? " she asks, hesitatingly. " These things are such caricatures sometimes." " Handsome ? " repeats Mr. Nolan's wife, still laughing ; " is he not ? I am sure 1 do not know. I see only an idealized Lewis, with a countenance like a king, whom nobody else, not the real Lewis himself perhaps, would recognize. I only saw him once as others see him, and then I recollect I fancied him rather plain. Need I say it would be rank heresy to call him plain in my presence now ? " Cyrilla laughs in answer, but she also sighs. " Happy Sydney ! It is a face one likes, strong and intellec- tual ; better still, the face of a good man. Give me one, and one of your own ; it will be pleasant to have them in my room." " And so you will not stay ? " " Not another moment. No, Sydney, do not entreat, please ; it was difficult to get off a great favor, and I am bound by promise to make no delay in New York. I shall start again in an hour." " But you will wait and see my husband ? " Sydney cries, aghast. " Not even that will tempt me. A promise given should be 9 A T THE PL A Y AND AFTER. 357 promise kept. I must go this very instant. Teddy, mamma is going ; what have you got to say ? " " Dood by," says this young philosopher, his two little paws in his two little pockets, and not moving a muscle. Cyrilla's lips quiver as she clasps him and kisses him. " Teddy will be a good boy, and not make Auntie Sydney any trouble ? " " Yes, I '11 be dood when I gets de wockin-hoss," Teddy re- plies, still careful not to commit himself. He accepts rather than returns his mother's caresses, and sees her depart without winking once. Of a phlegmatic and unemotional nature, evi- dently, is Frederic Carew, junior. So Cyrillagoes, and Sydney leads Master Ted up to her own room, feeling as if in a dream, feeling also that the last drop of content has been added to her cup, and that one other will make it brim over with bliss. CHAPTER XIII. AT THE PLAY AND AFTER. JHE first week of October, there was brought out at a fashionable Broadway theatre, a new play by an old actor and dramatist. The new piece, like all the new pieces by this popular playwright, was stolen bodily from the French so all the other players and playwrights said at least the mise en scene changed from Paris to New York. The little three-act comedy, sparkling with epigrams, peppered with satire, rich with old jokes juicily done over, and as full of capital situations as a pudding of plums, was an immense success. Whatever carping critics might say, the good-natured public were disposed O forgive many sins to the dramatist because he chaimed much. The great man himself, just over from Europe, was to play the principal part, a fascinating old serving-man ; the scenery and effects were exceptionally fine, and the music but everybody knows what the orchestra of that theatre is like. The house was filled half an hour before the rising of the cur- tain, and packed at a quarter to eight. At eight, there was not standing room people had secured their seats a fortnight ahead. A brilliant assemblage was there, the women beauti- 358 AT THE PLAY AND AFTER. ful, with that rare, delicate beauty of America, to be surpassed nowhere in the world, and the curtain arose before one of the most fashionable audiences the city could show. In one of the stage boxes sat a lady who had attracted con- siderable attention before the rising of the curtain. This lady, tall, blonde, beautiful, very simply dressed, attracted, for a few moments, a steady fire of lorgnettes, and was Mrs. Lewis Nolan. Another lady, a dashing brunette, much more brightly arrayed, and wearing coral ornaments, was Miss Katie Mac- gregor. Behind his wife sat Mr. Nolan, partly screened by her chair, surveying the house with a look of amusement at the at- tention he and his party were receiving. The young ladies sat in full view, with that inimitable air of utter unconsciousness which conies so naturally to women. Presently the orchestra burst forth in full blast with a grand march, and Mr. Nolan for whom music had charms, resigned himself to listening and waiting for the rise of the curtain. Just then Mrs. Nolan, perusing her bill, uttered a little exclama- tion. "Well, Sydney," her husband said, " what now ? " She glanced back at him, a startled expression in her eyes. " It is a name here in the play-bill a name that I have seen before." " Nothing very startling in that, I should say. The names on your play-bill, one and all, should be tolerably familiar by this time. Let me see." She hands him the play-bill, and points to a name near the end of the list. He looks, and reads Dolly De Courcy." It has startled Sydney. In one instant the scene changes, and it is a stormy November night, and she and mamma, Cyrilla and Bertie, are seated in the primitive play-house, waiting for Lady Teazle. Five years ago only, and what great and sadden- ing changes. Papa and mamma dead, Bertie murdered, Cyrilla worse than widowed, she alone of them all happy, and here, and again to see Dolly De Courcy. She had been happy then in a different way. Yes, positively happy, although she had not known such a being as Lewis Nolan existed on earth. How impossible to conceive of any happiness now where he was not the central figure. She leans back and glances up at him, a smile in the lovely eyes, and holds out her hand for the paper. '' Are you committing it to memory, monseigneur ? The curtain is rising my bill, please." The gravity that lias left her face seems to have found its way AT THE PLAY AND AFTER. 359 into his. He hands her back the paper with no answering smile. " Where did you ever see this name before ? ' he inquires. " It is her first appearance here." "I saw her over five years ago at a theatre in Wychcliffe." " It is odd you should remember the name so well after so many years." "It would be, under ordinary circumstances," Sydney says, in a low voice, " but I knew her under rather extraordinary ones. I lost a very dear friend, and she was at one time supposed to be associated with his death. I will tell you all about it another time it is impossible here." For Sydney, five months a wife, has not yet, in any outburst of connubial confidence, told her husband the story of Dolly De Courcy and Bertie Vaughan ; the name of either, in fact, has not passed her lips. She has a vagoe theory, but men are averse to knowing that the woman they marry has had a former lover and actually been on the brink of matrimony with another man. And the slightest thing that can annoy Lewis she avoids. It is an exceedingly painful subject even at this distant date, a black cloud of the past, that will only needlessly darken the sunlight of the present. Besides, they make a compact before marriage to let the dead past stay dead on both sides. She has told him she was once engaged : he that he was once before in love disagreeable facts both, best forgotten. The play goes on it is very bright and witty, and Sydney laughs. The music is fine, the scenery and costumes perfec- tion. It is a drawing-room comedy, one of th Charles Mathews' sort, in which people seem to behave themselves as they might in their own drawing-rooms at home only such badinage, such re- partee, such smart epigrams, such flashes of wit and wisdom, unhappily one rarely hears in the conversations of every-day life. Mrs. Nolan, lying back in her chair and enjoying it im- mensely, forgets all about Dolly De Courcy and the memories the name brings, and at every telling hit glances back at her husband to see how he takes it. He takes it all rather absently, Sydney thinks, his very answering smiles are distrait ; thinking of his eternal (if she had been a man she would have thought infernal) law business, she thinks, half-impatiently. But it is not of Inw business Nolan is musing, for when the curtain falls he leans over his wife and resumes the subject of the actress. " YOU have made me rather curious, Sydney," he says, " by 360 AT THE PLAY AND AFTER. your remark. How was it possible for this actress to be in any way associated with the death of any friend of yours ? " "She was suspected at one time of having killed him," Sydney answers, in a nervous tone. "Don't let us talk of it, Lewis, please at least not here." " One more question : What was your friend's name?" There is something more than mere curiosity in the young lawyer's face, as he puts this question, but that face, in which Sydney's eyes can read all changes, she cannot see as she sits. " Are you trying to get up a case at this late day ? His name was " she pauses a second, with the strangest feeling of repugnance to uttering it " Bertie Vaughan." "Sydney," exclaims Katie, leaning forward, "here comes Mr. Vanderdonck. I thought he would run us down before the evening ended." Her venerable lover enters as she speaks, makes his bow to the ladies, and accepts a seat beside his betrothed. Another gentleman, a poet and journalist of half a century, with a snowy beard and a dreamy brow, a professed admirer of beautiful Mrs. Nolan, follows, and takes a seat for the remain- der of the performance by her side. Conversation becomes general ; but Sydney notices that although her husband drops a remark now and then, and so avoids notice, he is singularly silent, and that a sort of grayish pallor has come over his face. " You're not looking well, Nolan ; upon my life, you're not," remarks Mr. Vanderdonck. "Don't overwork yourself among the big books, my boy. Distinction will come soon enough. It never pays to burn the candle of life at both ends." The curtain rises again, and a coquettish chambermaid is discovered dusting the furniture, and talking to herself, as is the way of chambermaids on the stage singing between whiles snatches of popular songs, in a very nice voice. The chamber- maid is Dolly De Courcy. Sydney looks at her with interest. So far as she can see, years have made no change in her. She wears her own abundant black hair under a natty cap ; and the plump figure, she can recall, is as rounded and ripe as ever. But to Sydney the face is repulsively bold, the high color coarse, the manner brazen. Presently, as she dusts and sings, and vivaciously says her lines, she approaches their box, glances up, and stares full at Sydney. The recognition is mutual. For the space of five seconds she stands, brush in hand, her song suspended ; then AT THE PLAY AND AFTER. 361 she recovers herself, flashes a glance at the others, and goes on with her little part. Other personages appear, the comic valet among them, who make the sort of love comic valets do make to singing chambermaids. Dolly does her part well if she did not she would not be here ; but through the whole of it her eyes are fixed every other instant on the Nolan box. Not on Mrs. Nolan, but on the face behind her husband's with an intensity that may be surprise, recognition, dislike it is hard to define what. She takes so little pains to conceal at whom she stares, that they all, perforce, notice it. " Is that little soubrette an old acquaintance of yours, Nolan?" inquires old Vanderdonck, with an unctuous chuckle. " She doesn't seem able to take her eyes off you." " She Hoes watch you, Lewis," says Sydney, in wonder. "I have seen her before," Lewis answers, quietly. " To be sure you have," says old Vanderdonck. " Don't be jealous, my dear Mrs. Nolan ; we have all been acquainted with pretty little actresses in our day." " What a horrid old man," thinks Mrs. Nolan, disgusted. " / jealous of Lewis absurd ! " But suddenly there returns the words, half-spoken by Dick Macgregor she could hardly recall them, but something of a grande passion once entertained by Lewis for somebody. Was it for this actress, with whom Bertie Vaughan and Ben Ward used to flirt ? Lewis himself had owned to a former attachment was it for Dolly De Courcy ? It seemed odd, indeed, if Dolly could twice cross her path as rival. She certainly did watch him in a very marked manner. During that act and the next, the chambermaid was off and on in several of the scenes. Perhaps none in the house paid as much attention to the dashing little coquette as the party in that particular box. Mrs. Nolan looked and listened to her with a growing, and, very likely, unjust sensation of dislike. She was coarse, bold, vulgar ; what could men see in her ? what could Lewis, whose every instinct was fastidious and ?cfined, see to attract him in a creature like this ? In the an- noyance of the bare thought, gentle Sydney absolutely called poor Dolly a creature, than which there exists no word of more bitter contempt from one woman to another. The play ended delightfully ; everybody was dismissed to happiness, the singing chambermaid and comic valet among the rest, and even the critics to whom gall and bitterness are the \vines of life, went home and only mildly abused it. The two 16 362 AT THE PLAY AND AFTER. gentlemen made their adieus ; Miss Macgregor went to Ma 3ison Avenue, and Mr. and Mrs. Nolan entered their carriage, and were driven home. It was an exquisite October night, moonlight, mild, even the streets of New York looked poetical under the crystal rays. It was still early, the city clocks were only striking eleven as they crossed their own threshold. " I must run and have a peep at my boy," says Madame Sydney, tripping away. In the last month she has become the abject slave and adorer of Master Teddy, spoiling him as thoroughly and completely as any doting mamma. With the fine discrimination of his years and sex, Teddy, on the other hand, is loftily indifferent to all Auntie Sydney's kisses and caresses, and has bestowed his juvenile heart on Uncle Lewis, at the first sound of whose foot- step he precipitates himself down the stairs and into his legal coat sleeves with jubilant shrieks of welcome. Ted is in his crib asleep, rosy, plump, lovely, a very cherub in outward seeming alas ! in outward seeming only, as his vic- timized nurse but too well knew. She kisses him, throws off her wraps, and hastens to the apartment where she is pretty sure of finding her husband a little gem of a room that is called the master's study by the household, and where he answers letters, etc., that he does not find time for during the day. He is there now, the gas is lit over the green table, but turned down to one minute point. It is the moonlight streaming between the cur- tains that lights the room, and Mr. Nolan sits near one of the windows gazing out. " Oh ! wise young judge ! of what is your honor dreaming ? " his wife exclaims, standing behind him and clasping her fingers across his breast. " To-morrow's business, I am certain. Who- ever heard of a lawyer looking at the moon ? " Nolan smiles. " I was neither thinking of to-morrow's business nor of the moon. I was thinking will you wonder? of the strangeness of your knowing Dolly De Courcy." " You know her, Lewis." It is not a question, it is an assertion, and as such he answers : " Yes, well too well, years ago. But this Bertie Vaughan " (how pat he has the name, Sydney thinks) " what friend of yours was he ? She perches herself lightly on his knee, and lays her pretty golden head against his shoulder. AT THE PLAY AND AFTER. 363 " Lewi's," she says, caressingly, " you will not care, will you ? You will not mind. He was the person I was to mairy." There is a pause. The shadow of the curtain throws that immobile expression over her husband's face, perhaps, but in the half light it looks as if it were cut in stone. " Tell me about it, Sydney," he says. " 1 would have told you long ago, Lewis I often wished to but I was afraid it might pain you ever so little, dear, to know that once before my wedding-day was named, my wedding dress on, and that I was ready and waiting to become the wife of another man. I was only fond of him as a brother, Lewis, but still, to please my father, I would have married him." And then, her arm around his neck, her hand on his shoulder, she tells him all that strange, tragical story of the past the mystery still unravelled of that night. " Whoever killed Bertie, if he were killed, committed a double murder, for he killed papa as well. But I cannot think he was murdered ; he had no enemies, poor Bertie, and what motive could any one have for so dreadful a deed ? It has changed my whole life it brought on papa's death, as I say; it broke up our home. Papa certainly believed he had been thrown over the cliff, and on his death-bed, Lewis, made me promise to bring the assassin to justice, if it ever was in my power. I promised, and that promise troubles me sometimes, for I do nothing, of course, to discover the guilty person. If papa had lived he would never have given up until he had done it." " But if you ever do meet him " how hollow a sound has Lewis Nolan's voice "you will keep that promise you will deliver up this murderer of Bertie Vaughan ! " " Lewis ! how hoarse you are ! " She lifts her head, but she can only see the rigid outline of his face. " Well what else can I do ? My promise to my father binds me, and it would be only just. Still it would be a very dreadful thing to have to do. I hope I never may find him it would be hard indeed to let him go unpunished. Do you remember, Lewis, how deeply I felt about Mrs. Harland, how indignant I was with you for defending her? Well, 1 was no! thinking of her at all, but of poor Bertie ; thinking how I would abhor the lawyer who would stand up and defend his assassin/ " Even if he were thrown over the cliff, as Harland was shot in a moment of reckless passion ?" " Even so. To give way to reckless passion is in itself i sin how can a lesser crime stand as excuse for a greater i n 364 AT THE PLAY AND AFTER. What right has any one to give way to reckless passion and lift his hand against his brother's life, taking that gift which God gave, and which all the power of earth cannot restore ? " " You are quite right, Sydney. If ever you find the man who killed Bertie Vaughan, you will be fully justified in giving him up to the punishment he has so richly earned." " You think he was killed, then ? " "I think so." She remains still, her eyes fixed on the glory of moonlight on earth and sky, her mind vaguely troubled. " I hope I may never meet him," she says. " I do not want to be an avenger. I wish papa had not made me give that promise. I believe I could not keep it after all it would haunt me all my life to bring punishment on another." He sits silent. She lifts her head and looks at him once more. " Lewis," she says, uneasily, "it has not vexed you, this story I have told, or my keeping it from you so long ? " " Vexed me ? You vex me, my Sydney ? " Then he suddenly rises and gently puts her from him. " It is almost twelve, and time you were asleep. You were dancing all last night, remember. Don't sit up any longer." He turns up the gas, floods the room with light, and begins assorting letters and papers on the table. " And you, Lewis ? You are going to burn the midnight oil, as usual, I suppose, and have everybody telling you how badly you are looking, and that you are working yourself to death. People will begin to think your married life is so miser- able that you are wearing away to a shadow." He smiles, but he does not look at her. " No one will ever think that, my princess, but I promise not to write long to-night." Mr. Nolan has retained a bad habit of answering a dozen or more letters every night, when he should be virtuously asleep. With his countryman, Tom Moore, he believed that " The best of all ways to lengthen your days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear ; " and all expostulations to combat this vicious custom were fu- tile. She lingers a moment at the door to watch him as he begins work. It is a picture she recalls, with what pain and bitter- ness it would be vain to tell, in later days. The cozy room, rich in every costly and elegant appoint- A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. 365 merit, the weU-nlled book-cases surmounted by busts of emi- nent lawyers and statesmen, portraits of sundry fathers of their country, a carpet like moss, the tube of gas pulled down to the table, and the rapid hand dashing over the sheet. It is a scene that stands out vividly to the day of her death. He knows that she is lingering there, but he neither pauses nor looks round. Only when she is gone the pen drops fiom his fingers, and he takes it up no more. His elbows on the table, his face bowed in both hands, so he sits, heedless of time. The mellow morning hours pale and pass, the little brown Eng- lish sparrows in the trees outside twitter and talk as the pink dawn breaks, and up-starirs Sydney lies asleep, an innocent smile on her lips. But Lewis has not slept, has hardly stirred, the night through. CHAPTER XIV. A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. IVE days after this, on Wednesday the eleventh of Oc- tober, an event of very considerable importance in cer- tain circles was to transpire the golden wedding cele- bration of the famous Mr. and Mrs. Ten Eyck. Mr. Ten Eyck (so let us call him, although of course we dare take no such liberty with his highly respectable name as to introduce it inio these pages) is a man whose invitations, like those of royalty, are equivalent to commands. No one dreams of refusing. Lewis Nolan even, who is indifferent to most invitations, and rarely cared to court favor, does not consider it derogatory to ac- cept promptly and with pleasure this card for Wednesday night. In certain political dreams which this aspiring young man has dreamed, Mr. Ten Eyck's favor and patronage may be of im- mense advantage, for among the rulers who sit at the gates and administer wisdom and equity, his name has been a tower of might. A mighty sachem in the wigwams of the pale faces ; an old-time Democrat as to politics, ex-governor of a State, owner of a line of ocean steamers, and whose millions no man pre- sumes to count that is Mr. Ten Eyck. "You really will go then, Lewis?" says Mrs. Lewis, with 366 A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. pleasure, when the cards arrived, for Lewis had an adroit way of slipping out of unwelcome invitation? at the eleventh Lour. " I may count upon you for the golden wedding ? " " Who refuses Ten Eyck ? Not I ! " laughs Nolan. " Little men must bow down before great ones. I expect to ask a favor or two of the great T. E. before very long." This had passed on the day preceding the theatre-going, and no mention had been made of the subject since that night when Mr. Nolan had still further recklessly risked his health by falling asleep over his odious papers, as Mrs. N. indignantly found out. He had been more absent, more silent, more serious, more pre- occupied, than she had ever seen him since. Once or twice quite a new thing he had not come home to dinner, and when he did return, he looked so haggard, so weary, that Sydney was growing seriously alarmed. His was a countenance that told but little of what was passing within ; but something more than ordinary, something more than mere press of business, was weigh- ing upon him now. " Do you still intend to go to the Ten Eyck's, Lewis ? " she asked on Wednesday morning at breakfast. She asked it half timidly, for something in her husband's looks and manner of late almost awed her. She was growing bewil- dered and frightened, poor child, by the change in him ; in spite of her clinging affection he seemed slipping away from' her ; there were places in his life, it seemed, and thoughts in his heart, she could not share, and her cup of felicity was not quite with- out alloy, at last. " Do you still intend to go ?" she repeats. "You have ac- cepted, you know." He looks across from the morning paper he holds, with eyes whose depth of tenderness she cannot doubt, and yet with some- thing beside she does not understand. "I will go, Sydney I shall not fail you to-night." The answer is simple enough, surely, but somehow it makes Sydney vaguely uneasy. " I shall not fail you to-night." It sounds oddly as though he had added, " It is for the last time." She looks wistfully at him, but he has gone gravely back to his paper. How worn that dear face grows ! Oh ! what is this that is coming between them, this dark vague cloud that has neither shape nor name ? She goes with him to the door, lin- gering beside him as he puts on his light overcoat, still silent, still wistful, still troubled. Is it a presentiment that this is the last time she will ever so linger ? Does he feel it, too, or is it A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. 36? some secret knowledge that makes his parting embrace so tender ? " Good-bye, my princess," he says, and is gone She wanders about the house, that vague, restless trouble still haunting her. What is the matter with Lewis what secret has he from her ? Is he ceasing to love her ? No, she does not doubt that, whatever she doubts. Has he had trouble with Mr. Graham ? losses, disappointments in business ? Oh, how foolish to trouble about such trifles, and they so rich. She tries to read and fails ; attempts fancy work and throws it aside in disgust ; sits down to practise a new song Lewis has brought her, and fancies she can't sing. She goes to the nursery and pro- poses a game of romps ; but Teddy is going out in his goat-car- riage with his bonne, and loftily declines. Shall she go down town and see Lucy, and so pass the dragging hours ? No, she is too listless to go out of doors she must dawdle about as best she may until dinner hour brings Lewis, and dressing time. An in- tense longing to see him again takes possession of her ; she will put her arms around him, and beg him to tell her the trouble between them. Her entreaties, her tears, he can never resist ; whatever the cloud is, it shall be dispelled. Why has she not thought of this before ? how silly to go on wondering and fret- ting when a few words would have broken down the barrier of reserve. So strong does this longing grow, that once she rises and stretches forth her hand to order the carriage and drive down to the office immediately. But she stops and laughs at her own impatience. Mr. Graham will be there, and the clerks ; and Lewis' look of silent wonder and disapprobation would be terrible. No, she would wait until evening and drive down for him then. " I grow worse and worse evejy day," muses Mrs. Nolan. " One would think I was married yesterday, and could not bear Lewis out of my sight. I will do nothing so ridiculous ; I will wait; only I wish it were five instead of eleven o'clock." Half-past twelve is luncheon hour. As Mrs. Nolan sits down with Teddy to that mid-day refection, a boy from the office comes with a buff envelope, addressed in Mr. Nolan's none too legible hand : 44 Mv DEAREST: Do not wait for me this evening; I shall 6e detained, and will probably not reach the house until after eleven. Go at your own hour we will meet there. Affection ately, LEWIS." 368 A VISIT AND 4 GOLDEN WEDDING. Will it be believed ? she has been married nearly half a year, remember Mrs. Nolan actually cried over this note ! She had made up her mind to have that explanation, to go to the golden wedding in a golden glow of peace, proud and happy on her husband's arm, and now she must go alone, and he would put in an appearance after midnight, or perhaps not at all. "Was the matter, Auntie Syd?" pipes Teddy, opening his brown solemn eyes. " Was you cwying 'bout ? Gimme some more chicken pie. Was you cwying for ? I ain't done nossin, has I ? " Auntie Syd wipes away those rebellious tears, and laughs and helps Ted to chicken-pie. "Was I cwyin' 'bout, what, indeed? Auntie Syd is only an overgrown baby, after all, Master Ted, not half as much of a hero as yourself. Auntie won't cry any more." She keeps her word, but the afternoon is utterly spoiled. She takes a book, lies down in her own room, darkens it, and tries to read herself to sleep. She succeeds, and the slanting yellow lances of sunshine that make their way in, tell her when she wakes that it is late. She looks at her watch past five. She sits up refreshed, and buoyant once more, for the troubles of her waking life have not followed her into dreamland. She goes down-stairs at once towards the dining-room, and at the hall-door hears bell-boy Jim in magisterial discussion with some- body who wants admission. " Master ain't home, I tell yer ; and if he was, why don't you go 'round to the airy door. He ain't home, and I dunno when he will be, and you can leave your name, and call again." " I can't call again what's more I won't," replied, a shrill feminine voice. " I want to see Mr. Nolan, and I'll wait till I do. Area door, indeed ! I knew Mr. Lewis Nolan when he had neither areas, nor hifalution houses, nor impudent little niggers like you." " What is this ?" says the gentle tones of Mrs. Nolan, and bell-boy Jim, "clothed in a little brief authority," falls back before his mistress. "It's a young woman, missis, wants to see master. I've told her he ain't home yet, but she won't go." Sydney looks, then recoils with a strange shrinking ; for the young woman, pert of aspect, loud of dress, is Dolly De Courcy. There is a moment's silence ; even audacious Dolly seeml taken aback, but not for long. A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. 360 " I want to see Mr. Nolan," she says, with a defiant toss. " He lives here, don't he? I've had trouble enough hunting him up, Lord knows ; I ain't going back without seeing him now." " Mr. Nolan is not coming home to dinner will not return until eleven, probably. If it is anything I can do in his place " " V.'iY.yyu see me?" says Dolly, with a certain incredulity in her tone. " Undoubtedly, if it is anything I can attend to as well." " I don't know but that you can," says Miss De Courcy, with a disagreeable little laugh ; " perhaps better than Lewis oh, beg pardon ! I mean Mr. Nolan." Something in the tone of the speech brings the blood to Sydney's cheeks, and her manner changes from gentleness to cold formality. " Will you walk this way ? And I must beg you to make your business brief, for I am very much occupied this evening." " I won't keep you long," is Dolly's answer. She follows Mrs. Nolan into one of the smaller reception rooms, and gazes in undisguised wonder and admiration at the stately magnificence. "Ain't this just splendid ! " Dolly says, half-audibly ; " and all his ! Well, it's better to be born lucky than rich. I guess he ain't sorry, when he looks at all this, that I didn't marry him when he wanted me to." The color deepens in Sydney's face. Can it be, indeed, that Lewis her Lewis has ever loved, and wished to marry, this woman ? In the thought there is unutterable paiii and humili- ation. In the pure, piercing light of day. withou. stage paints or powders, the actress looks haggard and repulsi 1 e, on her un- blushing front a brand there's no mistaking. Sydney shrinks a little, but she waits quietly. " What is it you want ? " she asks. They both still stand ; Mrs. Nolan cannot quite ask her to sit down. " You know who I am ?" demands Dolly De Courcy. " I saw you at the theatre last week." "He saw me, too, didn't he? Lewis, you kno. Oh ! I beg pardon again : of course I mean Mister Nolan." A toss of the head, an insolent giggle. The Dolly De Courcy of to- day, it is evident, has sunk pitifully below the Dully of five yean ago. " Mr. Nolan saw you, and recognized you, I believe. Ha Baid he had known you before." 16* 37 A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. tc Did he say he wanted me to marry him that he was dead in love with me that he was madly jealous of no matter who that he prayed and begged me to marry him, and that I wouldn't? Did he tell you that?" insolently demands Dolly. " Will you tell me your business here ? " says Mrs. Nolan, with a stately coldness. " I have no time to waste." " With such as me, I understand. But mind, you offered to see me yourself I didn't come to see you. I never expected to speak to you. But it's queer oh, 'good Lord !' it's the queerest thing I have ever heard of that you, you of all peo- ple, should go and marry him ! " Sydney stands silent looking at her the color fading from her face. " I knew you the minute I set eyes on you," pursues the actress, " and, I declare, it almost knocked me over. I had heard Lewis had married a New York heiress, but never heard her name ; and if I had I wouldn't have thought it was that Miss Owenson. Why, it's horrid of him to deceive you so, be- cause, if you knew, I don't believe you would have married him."' What is this ? Sydney stands quite rigid, holding a chair, her eyes on Dolly's face, her own fixed and white. "Of course he knew," pursues Miss De Courcy, "and it's what I wouldn't have expected of him, because, with all his fiery temper and jealousy, he usn't to like that. But I suppose he thought it a great thing to carry off a beauty, and an heir- ess, and a fine lady. He doesn't think I know as much as I do, and the minute I heard he had married rich, I made up my mind to hunt him up and just scare him a little ; but I didn't think," cries Dolly, with a tragic air, I didn't think he would have dared to marry you" Still Mrs. Nolan stands fixed, white, every faculty of mind and body seeming to be absorbed and gazing at Dolly, and listening to Dolly. " What I want is money," pursues the actress, coming briskly back to business. " It's what I've come after, and what I must have. I am going to leave New York, and I want two or three thousand for a suitable wardrobe, and that Mr. Lewis has got to give me, or well, never mind what, now. If you'll let me wait, I'll wait till he comes ; he won't refuse so old a friend," Dolly laughs again. " And besides, I want to congratu- late him. Why, it's like one of our pieces exactly, his doing A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. 371 what he has done, and then marrying you, and me turning up, knowing everything. But he ought not to have married you it wasn't the square thing, and that I mean to tell him." Sydney wakes from her trance. Whatever horrible meaning lies beneath this wretched woman's words : one thing she feels that for some misdemeanor of the past she intends to an- noy and torment Lewis Lewis, who is sufficiently annoyed by business already. She takes out her pocket-book. " If you are poor," she says, " I will help you. If you have any claim upon my husband's kindness, it will not be disre- garded. I will tell him you have been here, and he will know what is right to be done. Meantime take this from me, and do not return. Leave your address, and you shall hear from us." Dolly looks at her curiously, but she takes the bills, counts tnem over, and puts them in her pocket. " What did you marry him for, I wonder ? " she says, as if to herself, with a puzzled look at Sydney. " You're awfully pretty I never saw any one prettier and rich, and respectable, and everything. He isn't handsome at least I don't think so. Never could hold a candle to Bertie Vaughan." Sydney recoiled at the sudden sound of that name. " You never found out who killed him, did you ? He was thrown over the bank, you know, and they suspected me." Here Miss De Courcy laughs, with a certain savage light in her black eyes. " He was a sneak and a liar anyway. It was good enough for him telling lies to you and lies to me. " Didn't you ever tell your husband you were going to be married to him." " I don't know what you mean." " He has deceived you, then ; men are all alike liars every one of them. Well, when he comes home to-night ask him if he ever knew Bertie Vaughan ; ask him how they parted last ; tell him I told you, and that I can tell you more. Don't forget. I'll be back to-morrow." Miss De Courcy turns with the words, and goes out of the room. Mrs. Nolan makes no attempt to follow her, to bring her back, to ask 'an explanation. She stands feeling that the room is going round, and that if she lets go her hold of the chair she will fall. But the giddiness passes in a moment, and she gropes for a chair, and sits down, and lays her head upon the cushion, feeling sick and faint. What does this dreadful woman mean ? Her NO: ds are all 372 A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. confused in Sydney's mind ; only one thing stands clear, and that that he has known Bertie Vaughan, and knows who killed him. But that is impossible. Has she not told her husband the whole story, and has he said he ever heard the name before, ever met Bertie in his life ? The creature must be crazy 01 drunk, or both her story is absurd on the face of it. But wha! a shock even an absurd story can give. She laughs weakly at her own folly in being so overcome, and then a glow of indigna- tion fills her, and lends her strength. How shameful that she should have listened while her husband was defamed, called a liar and deceiver by this vulgar actress her beloved husband, with the glance of a prince, honored and respected of all men. Excitement follows indignation no more lassitude now. She tries to dine, but finds eating a delusion. An artist in hair comes to dress those flowing blonde tresses, greatly admired, and she is nearly an hour under his profes- sional hands. Night has fallen, gas is lit, and she is leaving, dressed for the ball. She wears white and rich laces, and bridal pearls, and looks lovely. There is a streaming light in her eyes, a deep, permanent flush on her cheeks that makes her absolutely brilliant to-night. After eleven she will see Lewis ; that is the one thought, the one desire uppermost in her mind, as she is driven to the town house of the Ten Eycks. A lengthy file of carriages block the avenue, policemen keep order, two large private lamps burn before the house, which is lit from roof to basement. A red carpet is laid across the pavement colored men in snowy shirt fronts, kid gloves, black broadcloth and beautiful manners, stand in waiting. It is a long time before Mrs. Nolan finds her way to the lofty and superb saloon where Madame Ten Eyck receives her guests. Flowers bloom everywhere, literally everywhere, gaslight floods every corner ; it is a picture all light and no shadow, German dance music fills the air, and there are crowds of elegant women in magnificent toilets. All are making their way to where Mrs. Ten Eyck, a little old lady in creamy satin, yellow point, priceless diamonds, with a severe silvery face, snow- white hair, combed back a la Washington, stands in state. She looks like a large doll, or a little duchess Sydney hardly knows which and she receives Mrs. Nolan with distinction. " I was an heiress myself, my dear," the little old lady said to her, on the occasion of their first meeting ; " only not half so great an heiress as they tell me yov- are, and not quarter as great a beauty. I ran away with Ten Eyck, my dear he A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. 373 didn't run away with me, m nd when I was only seventeen. My father cut me off with a shilling, and we began housekeep- ing on eighty dollars. I fell in love with yoa- r my dear, the moment I heard what you had done. I don't understand the young women of the present day they believe in marriage but not in love. In my time we believed in love, if we never were able to marry." It was Sydney's good fortune to attract elderly people. Men worn and gray in life's long battle looked after the lissome shape, and frank, sweet face, with a gravely tender smile. Mr. Ten Eyck, a patriarchal old gentleman, greeted her with unwonted cordiality, inquired for her husband, hoped he would be here, had heard great things predicted of him, hoped he would prove worthy of the wife he had won, and verify these predictions. Mrs. Nolan found herself at once surrounded and engaged for every dance before supper. People remembered afterward that never had she seemed so fair or so brilliant as to-night. It was ten when Sydney entered the house ; eleven came, twelve, and still no Lewis. A fever of expectation, impa- tience, longing, filled her. In half an hour supper would be commenced surely he would be here to take her down. She made her escape from her latest partner, and took shelter in the curtained recess of an open bay window. How cool and fresh seemed the sharp night air ; imprudent perhaps to sit in a draught, but darkness and solitude were tempting. Excitement had made her head ache, and her cheeks burn. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, and looked up at the million stars keeping watch over the great city. Some men were talking in the piazza just outside, their voices blended with the music within, and the fragrance of the cigars they were smoking came to her as she sat. They were talking, in a desultory way, of the ball, of the ladies, of the war ; all at once she heard her own name pronounced some one was saying she was the prettiest woman present. Some one else spoke of her husband's absence, a third made some campaigning remark, and the subjects seemed to connect themselves in bis mind. Why doesn't Nolan try it, I wonder ? " said this gentleman in a dissatisfied tjne. " He's as likely a mark for a bullet as ; any of us ; a tall and proper fellow like that." " Ah ! why ?" retorts No. i, with a satirical laugh. " He if the only son of his mother, and she is a widow.' 374 A VISIT AND A GOLDEN WEDDING. 11 He has married a wife, and therefore cannot come," says No. 3. " All wrong, you fellows," cuts in a fourth voice ; " he is going I happen to know. He has been offered the captaincy in his old regiment, vice Wendall, shot, and has accepted. He has kept it quiet the fact is three days old ; but I can't stand by and hear you old women abuse him. You envy him natu- rally I do myself. Lovely girl, that wife. He starts in two days. As good a fellow as ever lived, is Nolan." " And as plucky," supplements another; "he was out ihe first year, as you know. We served together. Got a bullet in the lung, and came home invalided. There's fight enough in Nolan being an Irishman, that is understood. But as to his going out, by George, if I were in his place I would think twice before I left a wife like that, only married yesterday, or there- about. There's the "Soldaten Lieder " let's go back. This is a great night ; Mrs. Ten Eyck expects every man to do his duty." They go ; but Sydney, long after their voices cease, sits frigid. Is she in a dream ? Lewis going to join the army, without a word to her going in two days ! She sits for a while so stunned that movement or thought is impossible. Then she rises slowly and stiffly, feeling chilled to the heart by the frosty night wind, and parts the curtains and step out. Almost the first person she sees is her husband, talking to one or two other men. "Then you're really going back, Nolan ? " one says ; "it is an accomplished fact ? Well, we need such men as you, and we all must make sacrifices at our country's call." " Day after tc-morrow, is it ? " asks a second, and Nolan nods a little impatiently, his eyes wandering about in search of some one. Sydney comes forward. The color has left her face it is white as her dress ; her eyes look blank and bewildered with sudden terror. The men stare at her her husband with an alarmed look is instantly at her side. " Sydney, you are ill ! '' "Yes no," she answers, incoherently, grasping his arm. " Oh ! Lewis, take me home." " Sit down for a moment," he says. He knows she has heard what he meant to break to her him- self. She obeys and he leaves her, but he is back directly with a glass of iced champagne. " Drink this." She obeys once more, looking at hin with imploring eyes. "HEARTS BREAK AS THE SUN GOES DOWN* 375 " Will you not take me home, Lewis ? My head aches and burns this glare and music is torture. Take me home at once." " Certainly, my dearest ; but will you not wait for " " No, no I will wait for nothing. Take me home at once at once ! " But " at once " is not so easy. Mr. Nolan must see his hostess, and explain that his wife has been taken suddenly ill. Then an- other half hour passes before their carriage can come into line and she is safely seated in it, her head on Lewis' shoulder, his arm holding her to him, and scarcely a word interchanged the whole way. CHAPTER XV. " NO SUN GOES DOWN BUT THAT SOME HEART DOES BREAK." T is the supreme hour of his life he feels that. He has not meant that a denouement shall come in this way ; he has intended to break to her the news of his departure ; andwhen far away write to her the story he knows he must tell now. All the way home he is nerving him- self for the ordeal the self-repression, the self-command, that have been the study of his life for the past five years stand him in good stead now. Except that the face on which the lamps shine is deadly pale, there is no change. The eyes he fixes on his wife are dark with unutterable sadness and compassion. For her, she trembles and clings to him, and when they reach her own room, to which he leads her, she clasps her hands and speaks for the first time. " Lewis, is this true ? " " Sit down, Sydney," he says gently, and places her in a chair. " Is what true, my wife ? " " That you are about to rejoin your regiment that you go the day after to-morrow ? I heard it all at the ball." She is thinking of this strange fact alone, that she is about to lose him, and that he has never told her. It pierces her heart like a knife it has driven all thought of Dolly De Courcy and her suggestion out of her mind. " It is quite true." 37 6 "HEARTS BREAK AS THE SUN GOES DOWN. 1 " And you never told me ! " The passionate reproach of the eyes that look at him those gentle blue eyes that never had for him other than infinite ten- derness move him to the soul. " My darling, I meant to explain I meant to have told you to-morrow. You know I have often spoken of this to you since our marriage. After all, it is only my duty. You would not listen, and I Heaven help me ! was not strong enough to break from the gentle arms that held me back might nevre have broken but for what passed between us the other night. "The other night!" She repeats, in vague wonder. Then recollection flashes upon her, and her eyes dilate incredulously. " Lewis," she exclaims, " you do not mean to say that the story I told you the other night has forced you to do this?" " I am only doing my duty, Sydney. Still, but for that story my duty might never have been done." She gazes art him silently, seemingly lost in wonder and in- credulity. " Did you feel the fact of my former engagement so deeply, then ? Because I was once before on the verge of marriage you leave me to rejoin the army ? Oh! Lewis, pardon me, but I cannot believe this." " That was the cause, but not as you think. Sydney, love, do you remember, in telling me of your previous engagement be- fore our marriage, you never told me the man's name? Had you done so," he stops a moment, " we would never have been man and wife." She sits quite still, her hands clasped, her dilated eyes, look- ing almost black with vague terror, fixed on his face. " D