10 DOLORES. DOLORES. BY MRS. FORRESTER, AUTHOR OF " FAIR WOMEN," " MY HERO," ETC. ETC. PHILADELPHIA : J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 1896. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. . . 9 CHAPTER II. . . . >9 CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. . 39 CHAPTER V. . . 7 CHAPTER VI. The Law of Attraction . 57 CHAPTER VII. Charles Vivian on " The Fair Sex" .... . .68 CHAPTER VIII. Dolores in Paris . . ..... 77 CHAPTER IX. . . . 86 CHAPTER X. . . 97 CHAPTER XI. . . . 109 I* 5 2135455 CONTENTS. CHAPTER XII. r*OB London in Spring . xx6 CHAPTER XIII. A Discussion 123 CHAPTER XIV. By the Firelight I33 CHAPTER XV. Milly ,43 In St. Ouen CHAPTER XVI. 153 CHAPTER XVII. The Yellow Seine 164 CHAPTER XVIII. In Days gone By , . 174 CHAPTER XIX. A Confession 184 CHAPTER XX. A Letter . The Real Picture CHAPTER XXI. 191 199 CHAPTER XXII. What Fate Decrees tzo CHAPTER XXIII. Lovers and Lovers . Godd-by I9 CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER XXV. Guy tells his Story ........ .438 CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXVI. What Milly thinks 249 CHAPTER XXVII. What constitutes Happiness 959 CHAPTER XXVIII. Guy and Adrian 7 CHAPTER XXIX. What Dolores Discovers 79 CHAPTER XXX. The Cliflfe of Albion "89 CHAPTER XXXI. Lady Wentworth "99 CHAPTER XXXII. In the Row 39 CHAPTER XXXIII. An Introduction 3*7 CHAPTER XXXIV. Lord Heronmere falls in Love 3& CHAPTER XXXV. The Sun Shines 34 CHAPTER XXXVI. Doubt 347 CHAPTER XXXVII. Love at Cross-purposes 35 s CHAPTER XXXVIII. Milly Pleads 374 CHAPTER XXXIX. Dolores Resolves 3 8 CONTENTS. CHAPTER XL. ttam A New Lover 398 CHAPTER XLI. Hcronmere's Congi ......... 409 CHAPTER XLII. Heronmere's Restoration ........ 431 CHAPTER XLIII. Time to Interfere 438 CHAPTER XLIV. Guy Returns 443 CHAPTER XLV. The Thoroughbred .......... 455 CHAPTER XLVI. Eden Castle w* DOLORES. CHAPTER I. LA CRUCHE CASSEE. AN April afternoon in fair Normandy, an afternoon all the fresher and brighter for the new-fallen rain that has cleared the clouds from the sky, and left its only trace in the glistening drops which spangle the soft green leaves. How fair sweet mother earth looks, how joyous, how beaming, in the perennial youth that comes to her alone ! The heart which feels no responsive throb to her brightness this day must indeed be deeply scored by pain and care. All nature is awake; soft scent of flowers, sweet song of birds fill the air, not with the drowsy lull- ing languor of summer-time, but with the keen quickening vigor of awakening life and energy. An afternoon when one thanks God for life, when one's heart throbs with a sudden choking pity for the eyes that are closed to all this fair brightness, for the ears that no longer hear those sweet glad sounds, for the lips that are mute, ah, God 1 to us who once watched so wistfully for their unclosing. Down in the valley, the winding Seine flowing at its foot, lies the ancient city of Rouen, rearing its triumphs of past generations to the blue sky, its splendid piles of Gothic architecture, its lace-work of fretted stone. A* 9 10 DOLORES. Lingering in the old streets, looking upwards with loving reverence at the time-worn structures, a warmer glow comes into our English hearts, an odd, home feeling, as if this ancient city were one in which we, too, have pride, have feeling of kinship. One turns from the new parts of the town, from the gay boulevards, the clean com- modious stone houses that look so solidly and unpic- turesquely comfortable, from the rows of tempting shops, reminding one of a miniature Paris ; and one haunts over and over again the old-fashioned, ill-paved streets, with their tumble-down houses nodding across the narrow way to each other; the venerable trophies of dead men's hands, blackened, worn, half effaced with the lapse of centuries, and all the dear remnants of time so long gone by, dear only from distance. As if human hearts beat then with other hopes and passions than to-day, as if we who live, and love, and suffer now, were different from those men and women dead so long ago. More refine- ment, more education, more knowledge, a change of dress, a change of manners to-day, perhaps; but, ah me! the same capacity for suffering, the same experience of life, all the time from the creation until now. How odd it seems to think of that long gone past as a present ! to think that centuries back was once to-day, to close one's eyes and see in fancy the vast multitude thronging to witness the meeting of Henry and Francis, as a few years ago one looked upon the sea of upturned faces come to gaze upon Napoleon and Victoria. But the men and women dead so long ago have no real individuality for us, Agnes Sorel and Diana of Poictiers are vague names in our ears, coming across us like the princesses of fairy tales. Yet centuries ago this old city of Rouen knew them, and people talked of them, and discussed their charms, as freely as we do the court beauties of to-day. LA C RUCHE CASSEE. xz What have I to do with Agnes Sorel or Diana of Poic- tiers, with Arlette of Falaise or Joan of Arc, with all the kings and princes, and dukes who made war, and slew, and conquered, lived, intrigued, hoped, and died in this ancient town of Normandy ! I am going to tell all you who care to hear it a simple story of a little childish, innocent maiden, who has no part nor parcel in royalty or grandeur, who knows nothing of statecraft, or ambition, or despair, but leads her own humble, simple life, without great events, but without great sorrows, up yonder in that sweet spot looking down on the old town where I stood but now, when my errant thoughts started on their vague unprofitable wanderings. Yes, you may see her now standing in that very garden which is there to-day, looking back at the white house with brown Venetian shutters, and calling in a gleeful, birdlike voice, "Marcelline." An old-fashioned French garden, not too well kept, and yet not straggling nor untidy, a garden over which this April afternoon the very sweetest, softest winds of heaven are playing. There are great masses of gorgeous tulips and double stocks of sweet-smelling wall- flowers and clustering lilac, great blue and white fleurs- de-lis, growing in rows over thick borders of heaven-blue forget-me-nots, espalier pear-trees, stretching their long arms out to each other, and pink apple-blossoms thick upon the old fruit-trees that line the wide gravel walk. Some one besides you and me, reader, is looking at this spring picture, looking with rapt eyes of keen admiration ; some one who, tired of the noise and bustle of the quay, tired of fretted stone-work and painted glass, of old his- tories and memories and relics, has left the town and wandered up the Rue d'Ernemont to the Barriere, to breathe the fresh air blowing over the hills of Normandy, and watch the fair landscape lying so tranquil beneath ; I a DOLORES. some one who, hidden behind the hedge of clipped elms, looks at the young girl with intent eyes and murmurs, " Greuze's very picture !" The resemblance could hardly have failed to strike any one who, wandering through the galleries of the Louvre, had paused before Jean Baptiste Greuze's sweet picture "La Cruche Cass6e." The same sweet childish face framed in deep auburn hair, the same fair skin rosy- tinted, the same deep blue unspeculative eyes and rose- bud mouth. All the same, even to the very lap full of pink apple-blossoms. The young man stood unseen, leaning against the nar- row-barred gate, and looking with entranced eyes at the girl. It was not love at first sight. Something quite different from that keen first emotion which a breath may qui?ken into love it was the feeling that appeals, not to heart or mind, but purely to the sense. As he watches, a stout, good-humored looking woman, with a frilled white cap and clean kerchief pinned across her breast, appears at the house door. "Come in, mademoiselle 1" she calls. "Your dinner is served." "But I am not hungry, Marcelline." "Ah ca! but one must eat even if one isn't hungry, petite ; and when you but see what I have prepared " and Marcelline concludes her sentence with an oracular nod. "Tell me, Marcelline, what is it?" " But come and see, mademoiselle." "Tell me first, dear, good Marcelline," cries the girl. "Well then, first some bouillon" " Oh ! it's too hot for bouillon" and the pretty shoulders are shrugged half up to the ears. "Then some little little radishes." LA CRUCHR CASS&S. 1 3 "Well!" "Then a cotelette de veau piqule. " "Yes." "And a chou au gratin" "Ah, good; and then." "What more would the child have?" exclaims Marcel- line, slyly. " Why, does one ever dine without sweets?" " Well, then I had to go into the Rue Beauvoisine, and I brought one of your favorite cakes, all over chocolate and white sugar." "Oh, you dear Marcelline !" cries the little maid, ecstatically, "then I will come and eat without being hungry. But first, pick me this sweet little cluster just above my head." " Fie ! what waste !" cries Marcelline, approaching all the same, "spoiling good fruit just for a fancy." " But they look so pretty in the vases." "Pretty ah, bah! and for whom? Where are the visitors to admire them?" " But they are for me I like them." " A silly fancy. And in the autumn, when you want your tourte aux pommes every day, I shall have to buy apples, and Blaise Allain, the fruitier, is a cheat." Marcelline's strictures on the folly of plucking apple- blossoms are more practical, but certainly not so poetic as Christina Rossetti's : " I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree And wore them all that evening in my hair. Then in the autumn, when I went to see, I found no apples there." Nevertheless she picks the desired cluster, and then the two walk back into the house and are lost to view. 2 I 4 DOLORES. The watcher turns away with a sense of disappointment ; he could have looked a great deal longer at the pretty picture. He saunters down the road, now and again stopping to glance over the hedge at the numerous pic- turesque campagnes dotted about, or the sweet view lessen- ing gradually as he descends. "A quarter past five," he says, taking out his watch, "and the table-d'hotc is at half-past. I think I shall dine there after all, it's very slow having no one to talk to." Quickening his steps, he returns to his hotel upon the quay ; but his gregarious aspirations are doomed to disap- pointment, for at dinner he is placed between a round- eyed German, intent on the business of the hour, and a party of unprotected British females, armor-proof in vir- tuous exclusiveness. Feeling rather bored after the not too rechercht meal, he strolls out on the quay with a cigar. Crowds of men are promenading the broad walk under the trees, enjoying the relaxation from business, and yet not able to forget the commercial incidents of the day. You could not mistake them for anything but brokers and merchants, that noisy, bustling, chattering crowd, re- minding one, however humbly, of Manchester and the Stock Exchange (by the way, they dignify Rouen with the name of the Manchester of France). There are a few women, mostly of the lower grade, in white caps and aprons (very few retain the picturesque high Norman caps and massive gold ear-rings), and a large sprinkling of sol- diers in gay, if somewhat tawdry uniform. The dapper young officers strut about with their small waists, gold epaulettes, and white kid gloves ; and altogether the scene is a very gay and busy one. Sir Guy Wentworth (our hero by courtesy) lounges on to the great suspension bridge, and looks down at the dull-colored Seine, where lie the big-masted ships and barges in course of unlading. LA CRUCHE CASSEE. i$ Great bales, baskets and cases, stone and timber, are piled all along the quay. Carts heavily laden pass to and fro. On one side of the water are the boulevards, hotels, caf6s, shops, the Bourse ; on the other, great manufactories, and the poorer part of the town. Then he walks to the mas- sive stone bridge to see the statue of Corneille, and looks down towards the green islands in the Seine, and the pretty country beyond. Women pass him with their baskets of live poultry. Numbers of French poodles wag their tasselled tails at him, and for some time he is toler- ably amused by his investigation of the natives, until an uneasy desire to see the little " Cruche Cass6e," as he calls her, takes possession of him. "How I wish I could get to paint her!" he thinks. " I should like to make a good likeness of her, and take it to the Louvre, to see if after all there is a real resemblance. I'm glad I brought my brushes, not that I'm likely to get a chance of gratifying my fancy. Quien sabe ? Fortune sometimes favors the bold, anyhow, I shall try to see her again. I wonder who she is, and what her belongings are ! She doesn't look much like a French girl. I never will come abroad alone again," finishes up the young man, with a prolonged yawn ; "it's most confoundedly slow." The next morning, after breakfast, he walks out of the hotel, book and pencil in hand, and takes his way up the town with a view of making a sketch of the Rue Eau de Robec, that had- pleased his fancy the previous day. " I must make friends with the aborigines, and get them to let me sit in a doorway," he reflects, "or else I shall be the centre of attraction to all the children I saw playing in the gutter yesterday, or, worse still, those witch-like old women. I wonder why the old women abroad are so infernally ugly? " (a most appropriate adjective, by the way). And thus thinking, he arrives at the com 1 6 DOLORES. mencement of that most curious of old streets, the Rue Eau de Robec. Roughly paved it is, with no footpath, full of old furniture shops, most of the wares exposed in the street, children are playing, and old women knitting in the gutters. And the houses, oh ! the queerest of all queer tenements, all sixes and sevens, of different con- structions, ages, and materials. Some of the veriest rats' castles, built of wood, with old worm-eaten shutters and tumble-down balconies ; some lath and plaster, and cross- beams overhung by great eaves; some, and these in a de- cided minority, of brick, with good Venetian shutters, and a solid habitable appearance. Pots of flowers are placed in all the windows, giving a cheery look amidst the general ruin, gay tulips, double stocks, roses, cinerarias, and bright-eyed geraniums. Under the houses on the right- hand side coming into town, flows a piece of water, some eight feet wide and four deep, of a dull brown, bringing with it strong odors of the tanyards it has passed on its sluggish way, with sombre tints from the great dyeing places. Every house has its bridge to the street, and here and there are little worm-eaten wooden doors cut in the wall just above the water, out of which one could well fancy some inconvenient existence being thrust to eternity on a dark night, and no one the wiser. A stifled cry, a splash, and the Eau de Robec would go on its sluggish way, with only a momentary stirring of its hidden foulness. Sir Guy, arrived at what he considers the most pictur- esque bend of the street, looks out for a doorway suitable to his designs. A bright -looking middle-aged woman is standing on the step of one of the most barn-like tene- ments, and raising his hat ceremoniously to her, the young man begs permission to make his sketch from her doorstep. She gives a good-humored assent, rather glad of some little incident to break the monotony of every- LA CRUCHE CASSEE. x y day life in the Rue de Robec. Tumble-down houses have no particular antiquarian interest for their inhabi- tants, who would probably exchange picturesqueness for solid comfort with a great deal of satisfaction. So Sir Guy makes his sketch, and chats to the woman, and being naturally good-hearted and fond of children, makes friends with the blue-eyed baby Normans who come toddling about him in wide-eyed curiosity, and finally draws a little picture of them, to please the complaisant mother. He is in the act of closing his book when two figures pass the doorway, the sight of whom makes him start up, bid a hasty adieu and thanks to his new acquaintance, and start off down the street in pursuit. It is the "Cruche CasseV' and Marcelline. They are walking briskly, and he follows at a little distance, not wishing to attract their attention. Presently they turn up towards the church of St. Ouen, Sir,Guy still pursuing. They pass the splendid pile without even a glance at the beautiful lantern tower, or those master-piece arches over the doorway ; then, as if struck by an after-thought, they turn back and enter. The young man pauses a few moments before pushing open the door that has closed upon the girl ; he has not the effrontery some men possess in pursuing and staring offensively at a pretty woman. When he enters, the pair are not visible, but walking up between those grand columns that give one a sense of awed ecstasy by the majesty of their perfection he sees the girl's form, half hidden by a pillar, gazing up with rapt blue eyes at the gorgeous rose-window above the organ. Guy smiles to himself at the childish love of bright color that makes her look so long at the glass stained blue and red, gold and green, that seems to him the thing least worth looking at amidst so much symmetry of B 2* 18 DOLORES. architectural elegance, such perfect harmony of shape and form. He glances round for Marcelline, and pres- ently espies her kneeling at the shrine of the Virgin, crossing herself and gabbling a hasty prayer. When she rises, Sir Guy draws back a little into the shade of the column, and Marcelline, beckoning her charge, goes out. He follows them at a little distance as they ascend the steep Rue d'Ernemont, the girl with a light, bounding step like a fawn's, Marcelline toiling heavily and pausing very often to take breath. " But come, Marcelline !" cries the fresh young voice; " we shall not be home to-day, and the sun burns like August." "Ah, yes," grumbles the older woman, stopping to pant out her words, " you young people think of nothing but yourselves. Once I too could bound up hill like a chamois, but wait only until you have my years on your shoulders, and the asthma besides." " Come, I will help you," and laughing, the girl takes her companion by the arm and begins to run up hill. " Tiens, tiens ! stop, Mademoiselle Dolores," pants Marcelline, " Mon Dieu, comme vous etes mechante ! " Presently they arrive at the iron gate that incloses the avenue entrance to the house, and here fresh trouble awaits Marcelline. The key has been thrown back on the grass, just out of reach. " Mon Dieu ! what are we going to do now?" cries the poor woman in great distress. " Pierre will be at his dinner, and Jeanneton is as deaf as a post." " But she will hear the bell." " The bell is broken since yesterday, and that stupid Pierre has forgot to mend it. Pierre! Pierre!" she screams, as a forlorn hope. But no answer breaks the stillness. ACROSS THE HILLS OF NORMANDY. jp " I will run round to the other gate in five minutes," cries Dolores. "Impossible, mademoiselle," exclaims Marcelline. " Madame your mother forbade me to lose sight of you, and it is more than half a mile by the road ; all up hill too ;" and the poor soul groans heavily. At this moment Guy comes forward shyly, very shyly for a handsome young fellow six feet high. " If you permit me to try, madame, I think I could reach the key," he says, taking off his hat very courteously. Marcelline turns suspiciously, then seeing such a frank, good-looking face, she smiles and answers, "Ah, monsieur, you give yourself too much trouble." CHAPTER II. ACROSS THE HILLS OF NORMANDY. SIR GUY broke a small bough from trees that branched overhead, and began to pull off the twigs that covered it, Dolores watching him with shy curiosity the while. Then he pushed the stick through the bars of the gate, and after a few unsuccessful efforts, hooked up the key and handed it to Marcelline. The worthy soul was profuse in her thanks, and, feeling that such an obligation demanded something more than mere words, she invited him, albeit with some hesitation, to enter and rest himself. This was precisely what Sir Guy wanted, but with the guilty con- sciousness of having sought the opportunity, he looked and felt a little doubtful of accepting the invitation. ao DOLORES. Glancing furtively at Dolores, he read such entreaty in her all-unconscious eyes that he decided at once upon his answer. "I don't like to trespass upon your hospitality," he said to Marcelline, " but I am making a few sketches, and if you would allow me a glimpse of the view from your garden, which I am sure must be lovely, I should feel really grateful." Madame Power, her lady, was from home, Marcelline replied, but she felt sure that Madame would be charmed that Monsieur should make his sketch from her garden. Madame was English. Marcelline surmised that Monsieur was a compatriot. "Oh, are you English?" cried Dolores, breaking silence for the first time. "Yes," Sir Guy answered, smiling at the eager up- turned face. "And I too." " I thought so yesterday, when you were standing under the apple-trees," said the young man, betraying himself unintentionally. "You saw me yesterday !" cried Dolores in surprise, a faint blush coming into her cheek like the sun-kissed side of a peach. Here Marcelline interrupted. She did not approve of her young lady conversing with a stranger in a language foreign to her ears. "Mademoiselle, you had best come in doors, and Monsieur will make his choice of a point de vue for his picture." But Dolores hesitated. "You have made some sketches in Rouen, monsieur?" she said interroga- tively, glancing at his book. " Two or three. Would you like to see them?" "Ah, so much." ACROSS THE HILLS OF NORMANDY. 2 X He opened the leaves at his last sketch. " That is the Rue Eau de Robec that we came through just now, I know," cried the girl, clapping her hands. "Ah, monsieur, what could you see to draw in that ugly, tumble-down old place?" "I thought it picturesque, mademoiselle." " Picturesque !" and Dolores put her head on one side and made a little moue that was thoroughly French. "Picturesque! but how poor and uncomfortable; and the smell ! I always run through as fast as my feet will carry me. I hate all the old parts of the town, the narrow- streets, where the upper stories nearly touch across the way, like the Rue de la Grosse Bouteille, and the Rue Damiette, I never go there unless I am forced. Some- times Marcelline takes me to the Rue de I'lmp6ratrice and the Rue des Carmes, and we look at the shops, or we go on the Quai, and we see all the soldiers and people walk- ing about." "And do you go often to the churches?" "Sometimes on a saint's day, when Marcelline wants to say her prayers." " Don't you think them very beautiful?" A little French shrug of the pretty shoulders was the response. " They are very cold and gloomy, and there is a musty smell always," and Dolores turned over the leaf. "Ah, that is the Place de la Pucelle !" " Yes, I tried to give Goujon's statue of Jeanne d'Arc." "Jeanne d'Arc? who was she?" "What!" cried Sir Guy, astonished. "You live in Rouen and don't know who Joan of Arc was?" Dolores shook her head. " Why, the girl who saved France from us, and whom we were cowards enough to burn." 22 DOLORES. "Oh, the Pucelle d'Orleans, oh, yes, of course I've heard of her, only they always call her la Pucelle here. And that is the Hotel de Bourgtherould. Oh, how I wish I could draw like you, monsieur !" "Mademoiselle!" cried Marcelline, fidgeting about, "will you please to enter? With your hat off you will have a coup de soleil" "I will go into the shade," answered Dolores, taking the book and seating herself on the bank under the trees. '* You can go in, Marcelline, and prepare the dejeuner" " Mademoiselle, you will be so good as to enter with me," exclaimed Marcelline, reddening with anger. "No," said Dolores, with a pout and a rebellious glance of the blue eyes; "I want to see these pictures." Sir Guy felt in rather an awkward position, particularly as the Frenchwoman began to dart indignant glances in his direction. "Ah, there is the view from Bon Secours," cried Dolores. "Yes, that is the Seine and the long pear- shaped islands in it, and there are the manufactories and the railway bridge, and, ah ! yes, the Cathedral, with its frightful iron spire. Is it not frightful, monsieur?" Here Marcelline walked off to the house in a rage. " I think your servant is displeased that you are talking with me," said Sir Guy. "Oh, she is a cross old thing," pouted Dolores, and then she looked up in Sir Guy's face with bright pleading eyes. " Do not go away just yet, monsieur. I never see any one but the clergyman and old Pierre, or sometimes the doctor when mamma is ill." The girl's manner was so simple and natural, there was not a vestige of forwardness in her frank speech, and Sir Guy, looking down at the pretty upturned face, fell in love with its sweet innocence and guilelessness. ACROSS THE HILLS OF NORMANDY. 23 "I should like to stay better than anything," he an- swered, bending down to her, "but I feel that I am an intruder. You don't know anything about me. I doubt if this will make you any wiser," he added, taking out his card. "Sir Guy Wentworth," read Dolores; and then she blushed a little, fearing lest she had made too free with such a grand personage. " If Monsieur excuses me, I will go in to Marcelline, who awaits me. Monsieur will not leave the garden before having made his sketch." And she rose from the bank, made him a graceful little curtsey, and tripped off into the house. " So you have chosen to come in at last, mademoi- selle," said Marcelline, with some asperity, as she entered. " I shall take care before I invite any one to come into the garden again." "Is he not handsome, Marcelline?" said the little maid, meditatively, not noticing the crossness of the tone in which the remark was made. "He is big, like all Englishmen," retorted Marcelline; "but he has no figure." " You mean he has not a waist like the little French officers down on the quay. How I should like to go to England, if all Englishmen are like him." " Mademoiselle, you are not to think of men at all. I shall take care you see no more. What would Madame your mother say ! She would never forgive me. I hope he will go soon." " How beautifully he draws !" sighed Dolores. "Bah, it is his business. Some poor adventuring artist, I doubt not, though his clothes are so fine, and his linen of a dazzling whiteness. Those artists are always good for nothing." " But he is a grand gentleman, Marcelline." 24 DOLORES. " La, la, la ! Your English are all milords abroad." "Well, then, look here," and Dolores produced the card triumphantly. "And what does that mean to say?" asked Marcelline incredulously. " It means that he is a grand person, and down there at the bottom is where he lives, Wentworth Court. That means a chateau in a large park, like M. de Cevennes's, where your cousin lives." "Ah?" said Marcelline, more respectfully. "Now, mademoiselle, you eat your dtjeuner, and I shall ask this fine stranger if he will eat and drink something." And she tied on a clean apron, and walked into the garden, followed by Dolores's wistful eyes. Sir Guy was standing with his back to the house, looking down at the lovely view, perfect in full sunshine. At his feet lay the old town, rearing its many spires to the blue sky ; and on either side wound the yellow curving Seine, bounded by fields and clumps of trees, and shut in by the fair green hills of Normandy. " Quite an English landscape," murmured the young man, opening his book. "He is handsome, certainly," reflected Marcelline, coming down a side path and contemplating the stalwart form and handsome face she caught just in profile. She had a genuine woman's weakness for a good-looking man. " Will Monsieur permit me to offer him a glass of wine?" she said, stepping briskly up; and he turned smiling, quite surprised at so unexpected a courtesy. "A thousand thanks, no," answered the young man; "I breakfasted quite recently." "We have not much to offer, but if Monsieur deigns " " No, thank you all the same. I will just make the ACROSS THE HILLS OF NORMANDY. 25 sketch you kindly gave me permission for, and withdraw at once." To account for Marcelline's sudden change of de- meanor we must here record that her greatest weakness was a fondness for money, and having heard much of English liberality, she assumed her pleasantest manner with a view to obtaining some personal experience thereof. Nor was she disappointed, for when, still lingering, she begged him to remain as long as he pleased, Sir Guy, with an intuition of what was expected of him, placed a most liberal douceur in her unreluctant palm. "This is a lovely spot," he remarked, and Marcelline with a shrug and an elevation of the eyebrows admitted that it was "pretty enough." Perhaps she found it a little dull, Sir Guy suggested. " Dull, mon Dieu ! yes, and in the winter cold enough to freeze one. The wind blows in hurricanes off the hills, and comes in at the windows, which are not too secure against the currents of air." "Then you live here in the winter too?" " Oh, yes, all the four seasons. It is triste enough for old people, but it is like being buried alive for a young creature like Mademoiselle," Marcelline responded. She knew Paris of course ? the young man surmised. Paris ! dear beautiful Paris ! ah, how well ! Had she been in the picture galleries of the Louvre? Once, years ago, she did not remember much of it. Had she by chance seen a picture called La Cruche Cassee. Probably, she did not recollect now. "Because," said Sir Guy, "it is a favorite picture of mine, and your young lady here is the exact image of it, I would give five napoleons to paint her." "Monsieur would really like to paint Mademoiselle?" B 3 ,6 DOLORES. "There is nothing I should like so much." "And how long would it take, monsieur?" "Three days, perhaps." Marcelline began to reflect. To throw away five na- poleons would be madness. It would be a pleasure to the girl, whose life was dull enough, and Madame Power need never be the wiser for it. " Is Monsieur serious?" she asked, looking furtively at him from under her thick eyebrows. Perfectly so, he assured her. He would give five napo- leons into her hand when the picture was made, if she would procure him the pleasure of painting Mademoiselle. "And and Monsieur had no other object than the making of the picture?" shrewd Marcelline asked with some hesitation. None, on his word of honor as a gentleman. Then she would mention it to Mademoiselle, but she knew not if it would be agreeable to her ; and Marcelline curtsied and went off to the house. Sir Guy looked thoughtful. "These Frenchwomen are not to oe trusted," he said to himself. " I dare say the mother thought she was leav- ing that pretty child in safe hands when she went away, but this wretch would sell her to-morrow for gain." But he wronged Marcelline most grievously, for the worthy soul, in spite of her fondness for money, would have given her life rather than see a hair of her charge's head injured. She went briskly into the house, where Dolores sat before her untouched breakfast. " What ! you have eaten nothing, little dainty one ! No saucisson, no sardines, no radishes, not even the petit pain sucrt I made you? Tiens i I shall have to send for M, Dumesnil." "I am not hungry." ACROSS THE HILLS OF NOXMANDY. 27 " It is the heat. Your fine Monsieur will not eat or drink either. He is a gentleman, par cxemplc, ce Mon- sieur. ' ' "Did I not tell you so?" "And what do you think he said, petite f % "What do I know?" pouted Dolores, " He said you were like a picture in the Louvre in Paris, and he would like to paint you." " Oh, Marcelline !" and the girl's color came and went. "Did he say so?" "Yes; but of course I said it was impossible." " I hate you, Marcelline," cried Dolores, looking ready to cry. "But what would your mamma say? She would be ready to turn me away for only letting him into the garden." " Mamma need not know." " But there are Pierre and Jeanneton !" " Pierre is at dinner, and Jeanneton is away in the back kitchen." "But a picture is not to be painted all in one day, petite." " Dear, good Marcelline !" cried the girl, jumping up and throwing her arms round the substantial form, " do let my picture be made. I will be so good, and do just as you tell me all the rest of the time until mamma comes home." "Voyons /" said Marcelline. " On one condition then, only. I sit in the room and you do not speak one word of English." "I promise," cried Dolores, ecstatically, and clapped her hands and danced about in unfeigned glee. "Then I will go and tell him." " But stop, Marcelline ; I cannot be painted in this old aS DOLORES. cotton dress," and the girl's face fell. "And I have only my gray barege and my white muslin. What will he think?" " Perhaps it is only the face he wants, and then he can fill in a satin or velvet gown to his fancy," answered Marcelline, thoughtfully. " Go and ask him." And the woman went out, leaving Dolores in a state of troubled uncertainty as to whether the stranger would refuse to paint her when he found she had no grand clothes. Presently Marcelline returned. "He is gone, mademoiselle." "Gone!" and big tears gathered in the childish blue eyes, as Dolores saw her worst fears realized. " Silly child ! he is only gone to fetch his portfolio. He had nothing large enough to paint you on. He will be back in an hour, and he begs you to keep on the same dress he saw you in, and to pass a blue ribbon through your hair." " Oh, Marcelline, I am so happy !" and the girl tripped off to the glass to make the desired improvement. CHAPTER III. HALCYON DAYS. DOLORES POWER was a very pretty child, pouting, ca- ressing, rebellious, pleading by turns; sunshiny and stormy in a breath, a most bewitching plaything; but like a kitten, a plaything one tires of in time. She was very sweet in her innocence and guilelessness, very lova- HALCYON DAYS. 2 9 ble, although she was frivolous and wanting in common sense, only one felt that, unless some great change came over her, she would never grow into a companion, never satisfy that craving for sympathy that a man feels who comes world-worn and weary to the caressing arms and tender heart of the woman who loves him. As yet all was shallow on the surface with Dolores; life meant nothing more for her than was contained in the little out- side round of daily events. She had no deep, unsatisfied longings, no curiosity of the soul, no ardent desire to be anything nobler, better, more spiritual than she was. A walk on the quay, a saunter past the shops, a new dress or ribbon, a cake from the confectioner's, these were Dolores's aspirations, Dolores's pleasures, beyond which she had no formed thoughts or ideas. Living in an an- cient city like Rouen, in which each street, each house almost, has its own separate chronicle of interest, one would have imagined that her young mind would be full of curiosity concerning all those legends and traditions generally so dear to youth. But Dolores never troubled her pretty little head with vain speculations about the past ; she had not the remotest interest in or veneration for antiquity and historical fame ; she would have gone fifty times through the Place de la Pucelle without wanting to know who Joan of Arc was, or what she did for France, or why she was burnt. It did not interest her in the least that Corneille or Fontenelle were born in Rouen, any more than she was interested in its beautiful architecture or historical renown, any more than she bestowed a thought on the grand old Norman dukes or the lovely women once owning sway there, but long since mouldered into a driblet of dust. She came sometimes to the Cathedral, but in a vague, unspeculative way. 3* 3 DOLORES. It seemed dull and gloomy in her eyes. The perfection of elegance in its each minute detail made no harmony to her by its perfection ; the grandeur and antiquity stamped on every column and carving inspired no rever- ence in her mind ; roused in her no reflections upon the nothingness and vanity of all that belongs to poor mor- tality ; made no strange compassion swell in her heart to remember that all which remained of the puissant men who held the fate of kingdoms in their hands was a few grains of dust. She flitted here and there with a sort of half curiosity, tripped after the old beadle to ask him a question now and then, looked indifferently at the pictures, cast longer glances at the magnificent stained windows, listened with a yawn to his eulogiums on the carving of the Archbishop's tombs, and ran away shuddering when he pointed out Gou- jon's wonderful statue of Louis de Br6zs, cast after death. It was too horrid, she declared, and if Diane de Poic- tiers was like the kneeling figure on the tomb, she had certainly never been beautiful. So Dolores lived her hitherto uneventful, untroubled life up in the white house above Rouen. Her mother, silent and melancholy, spent most of the day in her room, and the girl was thrown for society and companionship upon kind-hearted, cheerful Marcelline. Mrs. Power had been called suddenly to England a week previous to the date at which my story commences, leaving Rouen the first time for fifteen years. Sir Guy returned even before the hour, and was ushered by Marcelline into the salon. It was a long, narrow room, with four windows draped by red curtains. The floor was of polished wood, having in the centre a thick square carpet ; there were chairs and sofas of crimson velvet, and a marble mantelpiece, decorated with the HALCYON DAYS. -jj usual gilt clock and ornaments. A few good pastels hung upon the wall ; in one corner stood a small rosewood piano, with music lying open upon the desk ; in short, there was every evidence of comfort and competence, if not of wealth. Sir Guy, glancing around, found the room charming ; not from its furniture or decorations, but from the bright visible presence of nature, sunshine, and spring. Great china bowls stood on the tables, filled with lilies of the valley, pink hyacinths, and blue forget-me-nots, with here and there an early rose or sprig of bright geranium. Two love-birds cooed and chattered together in their cage by the window, unprisoned birds sang sweetly in the neighboring trees, glad sunshine streamed through every chink where it could gain admittance, and down below lay the sweetest, most peaceful landscape on which the tired senses of man ever rested. The door opened, and Dolores came in blushing rosy red, and looking as fresh and simple as a pink-tipped daisy-bud. "It is very kind of you to let me paint you," said Sir Guy, smiling with pleasure at the sight of her sweet face. "It is you who are kind, monsieur. But will you please speak in French, since Marcelline exacts it ?' ' and she cast a glance at her chaperon, who entered at the mo- ment, and went to station herself at a respectful distance (but not out of hearing) with her knitting. "Certainly, if Marcelline desires it," he smiled, con- ceiving a better opinion of her from that moment. " But I must warn you that I have sadly forgotten my French. " "Ah, monsieur, but you speak very well. Not, per- haps, quite like a Frenchman, but still so that one under- stands perfectly." The young man began to make arrangements for the sketch. 3 2 DOLORES. "Mademoiselle, will it tire you too much if I ask you to stand?" "Oh, no. I prefer to stand. I like anything better than sitting, that tires one most." "Will you permit me to place you? I want you to look just like the picture in the Louvre, your dress held up by your arms, and your hands one in the other. So ! We ought to have some flowers. Ah !" and Guy went to the china bowl and pulled out the cluster of apple-blossom he had seen the girl pluck the day before, and laid them in her lap. . " Monsieur pardons the poorness of my dress, I hope," said Dolores, shyly. " The lady in the picture, without doubt, was very differently dressed." " No," Guy answered, " quite simply. Only her dress was not high to the throat; but low,, with a handker- chief tied loosely over the neck. But I must imagine your pretty shoulders," he added. The girl blushed like a crimson rose. Marcelline looked up from her knitting, and the young man colored and felt quite vexed with himself. " Do you go to England sometimes ?" he asked quickly. 'No, never, and I should so like it." "Your mamma will take you some day, perhaps." "Ah, no! Mamma hates England and the English. Since we came here thirteen years ago, she has never been away from Rouen a day until now. ' ' " Then you have never been in Paris either?" "Ah, no, monsieur;" and Dolores sighed. "Is it not beautiful ? Marcelline tells me it is twenty times as big as Rouen, and full of streets ! oh, much finer, and with better shops, than the Rue du Grand Pont and the Rue des Carmes." "Marcelline is quite right," smiled Guy. "You will HALCYON DAYS. 33 be so charmed with the Boulevards, full of beautiful shops ; and in the Rue de la Paix and the Palais Royal you will think yourself suddenly transplanted to Alad- din's cave, all the windows are full of diamonds and rubies as big as a bird's egg." "Ah, monsieur, I shall never see that wonderful sight," and the little maid heaved another big sigh. " Oh, yes, you will ; and some day when I am walking there, I shall meet you, and stop to remind you how once you were good enough to stand for me to paint you. And then you will go to the Louvre and see the picture of 'La Cruche Cass6e,' and fancy you are looking in the glass all the while." Time took to himself wings as the young man sketched and talked ; Marcelline knitted in silence ; and Dolores stood, the shyest, prettiest of models. " I must not tax your kindness any longer to-day," he said, at last, laying down his pencil. " May I look, monsieur?" and the model came forward with eager expectation in her eyes. " Oh, no, not yet. You would be sadly disgusted if I let you see it in this early state. I wish you would wait until it is finished." Dolores looked disappointed. " I never had my picture made in all my life." " Not even a photograph ?" She shook her head. " Then when I have finished this, if it does you justice at all, I will make a copy and send it you." "Oh, monsieur, will you really?" "Certainly I will. I owe you something for your goodness in sitting to me." Marcelline looked up quickly. She was afraid lest he should make some allusion to their bargain. C 34 DOLORES. Guy saw the look, and smiled to himself. " I should be very sorry for the little thing to know I pay for painting her," he thought. Dolores accompanied him to the door. " Come no farther, mademoiselle," cried Marcel line. "I shall unlock the gate for Monsieur." But the girl paid no heed, and walked down the avenue by his side. " See, monsieur, how pretty are all these blue forget- me-nots," she said, stopping before a great sky-colored patch. "Will you give me one?" For answer, she stooped and plucked a handful. "I shall put them away with my treasures," he said, smiling at her, " in memory of this pleasant day." Then they reached the gate, and he said good-by in English, forgetting Marcelline. " Good-by, monsieur. You will come to-morrow." " I would not leave my picture unfinished for the world." And he raised his hat to her and went away, with a sweet blushing young face and heaven-blue eyes engraven on his memory. Dolores stood watching him until he was out of sight ; then she locked the gate, and sat down on the green bank, her eyes half closed, her lips parted. It might have been a day-dream with some girls, but with Dolores it was a soft sensation of pleasure, like that which a kitten feels lying curled up in the sunshine. In the child's natuie there slumbered a vein of passion that had never been aroused. When it was called forth, it would be sudden, strong, willful, like a breath of hot air ; but as yet, to-day, it slumbered. To-morrow it will quicken, day by day the flame will be fanned, and then, poor little Dolores ! If you had only never seen this good-looking painter, HALCYON DAYS. 35 never had the misfortune to be like that famous picture in the Louvre galleries ! Guy found it quite impossible to complete his sketch in three days, and Marcelline, having received the promised bribe, was loth to hurry such a liberal Milor. She had misgivings sometimes about his visit coming to Madame Power's ears, but, as luck would have it, Pierre was con- fined to his bed with rheumatism, and she could always manage to keep Jeanneton employed in the back-kitchen while the painting went on. Nearly a fortnight passed, the picture was not even yet completed, and Marcelline began to regret the day when she had been tempted to show hospitality to the handsome stranger. The child was in love with him, in love, and utterly oblivious of anything else in the world. The shrewd Frenchwoman knew the symptoms well enough, and when she saw the little one silent and preoccupied, sitting under the trees in the garden, and sometimes smiling unconsciously to herself, or running to the gate an hour before the time to watch for Sir Guy, she would wrinkle her forehead and smooth her apron un- easily, saying under her breath, " Mon Dieu .' what will become of the little one when he is gone?" When Dolores took sudden fancies to go into the town and wander through the old streets she had detested before, Marcelline knew what it all meant, she had no need to glance at the blushing face when by chance they met the young Englishman in his antiquarian researches. He would join them with a smile, and send them home laden with the prettiest sweetmeats from the confectioner's, or ornaments and pictures from the big shops, anything he thought the pretty simple little maid fancied. Her innocent pleasure smiling out through clear eyes was delicious to him who had seen so much that was 3 6 DOLORES. artificial in the world. It was a real pleasure to him to hear the spontaneous utterance of her every thought, al- though there was not much depth or indication of imagina- tion in them. She was glad, she was sorry; this pleased, that vexed her. There was no disguise, no reticence, no shadow of insincerity about her. Marcelline had no longer to keep Argus eyes opened against the admiring glances of the young officers or students. Dolores never saw them, never saw anything or any one but her English- man, her beau Seigneur. At last, when the good woman noted how feverish and restless her charge had become, and that she thought of nothing in the world but the painting hour, and was fretful and silent when Sir Guy had gone, she took a determination. "I am going out this afternoon, mademoiselle," she said one day, coming down the garden in her best gown and Sunday cap. "Let me go too, Marcelline." " It is not possible, mademoiselle." "Why not?" pouted Dolores. "Where are you going?" "First into the church it is the day of the Virgin, you know, and the altar is all beautiful with white flowers placed by the good sisters and the school-children. ' ' "But I should like to see it too, Marcelline." "Ah, if it were only that, petite, but Madame Lefevre, the wife of the marchand de vins, has asked me to go and see her, and your mamma would not permit me to take you there." " Then let me stop in the church until you return, no harm could come to me there, and it is so dull here." " Be reasonable, my child. For once let poor Marcel- line have a little holiday to herself." "Then go go 1" cried Dolores, turning away in a pet; HALCYON DAYS. 37 and Marcelline went out, and by way of precaution took the key with her. She bent her steps first to the church, where, conscience-stricken, she said a devout prayer to the Virgin ; then, instead of going to visit Madame Le- fevre, she went down to the quay, and asked at the Hotel d'Angleterre for Sir Guy. He was not in, the waiter said, but she could speak with Monsieur's valet if she pleased. While Marcelline hesitated, Sir Guy came in, and, greeting her cordially, invited her to go up to his room. "Monsieur will pardon the liberty I take," Marcelline began, feeling very nervous and uncomfortable. No liberty at all, the young man declared ; in what way could he serve her ? Secretly he thought to himself she had come to get some more money out of him. " Monsieur will remember," said Marcelline, fidgeting about, " that, when he desired to paint Mademoiselle, he told me three sittings would suffice to complete the picture. ' ' It was quite true, Sir Guy assented. Monsieur would pardon her ; but to-day he had made his twelfth visit. Facts are stubborn things. Marcelline' s statement was perfectly true, and the young man, not being able to deny it, remained silent. "Is it not so, monsieur?" He bowed. "What is it you desire of me?" " That you should not come any more, monsieur." Sir Guy started, and a shade of vexation crossed his brow. "Monsieur does not lack honor; he would not harm an innocent child?" " God forbid 1" cried the young man. "What do you take me for?" 4 38 DOLORES. "Monsieur does not understand me. I do not fear he would wrong the little one, but but monsieur is a great Seigneur, and sees many ladies, and the child never saw any one in her life but him." " I give you my word of honor that I look upon Miss Power as a sister," cried the young man. "You have always been present, you know I have never spoken a word to her that could deceive her into any other thought." " That is all quite true, monsieur, but the poor little one loves you already without knowing it ; she watches for your coming, she is desolate when you are gone, all her days are spent in thinking of you, and she is no longer gay as before." Sir Guy stood quite still for a moment before he answered. He did not doubt the woman's sincerity for a moment, he felt she was right, but it pained him to leave the pretty child who had won his fancy without a word. "I am not to see her any more?" he said slowly at last. "If Monsieur would send Mademoiselle an excuse, would say he was suddenly called away," Marcelline said, hesitating. "I understand," Sir Guy answered. "I will do as you say." "Monsieur, I offer you a thousand thanks. You have a good heart." And Marcelline turned to go. "Good-by," Sir Guy said, shaking her hand; and the worthy soul in some confusion wished him "bon voyage." " Man DieuS" she said to herself, as she toiled up the Rue d'Ernemont, " but those Englishmen are odd. They understand, though, what is meant by honor." TEARS. 39 CHAPTER IV. TEARS. A FEW hours later, Dolores was standing by the garden gate, looking wistfully down the road, when a stranger, whose advancing figure she had been listlessly watching for some time, paused in his ascent and came towards her. "Miss Power?" he said, removing his cap. "Yes, I am Miss Power." Without another word he handed her a note, and, re- placing his cap, turned away. But not before, with the curiosity of a person who sees few strange faces, Dolores had remarked his features and bearing. "What can it be?" she exclaimed, trembling with excitement as she tore open the note. It was written in English, and ran thus: " DEAR Miss POWER, "I greatly regret to leave Rouen without having finished my sketch of you, but I am suddenly called away to Paris, and start to-night. I have to thank you a thousand times for your kindness and patience in sitting so long to me, and be assured that I shall not soon forget the fortnight in Rouen which you have made so pleasant for me. I will as soon as possible send you a copy of your portrait, and trust you will pardon me if I have not been happy enough to render justice to so sweet an original. " Believe me, sincerely yours, "Guv WENTWORTH." 40 DOLORES. A sudden chill crept over the girl while she read, as though a cloud had come before the bright sunshine and made everything cold and dark. The color died out of her cheek, she leaned against the gate almost gasping for breath, and then with sudden passion she flung her- self upon the ground sobbing piteously. So Marcelline found her an hour later, with a strange conscience-stricken pang. "If I had never taken his money," she muttered to herself in a troubled voice. " If for the hateful gold I should have sold the child's happiness ! What is it, my angel?" she said softly, coming a little nearer to the stricken form. " What ails thee, chtrie ?" and she stooped down and tried to take the trembling hand. " Go away, go away," sobbed Dolores. " Do not come near me. I don't want you!" and she snatched herself passionately from Marcelline's kindly grasp. "Tell poor Marcelline what grieves thee, little one. Hast thou hurt thyself?" " He is gone," moaned the poor child piteously. "He? But who, then?" uttered Marcelline, feeling terribly guilty all the while. " The Englishman, the handsome Sir Guy, and I shall never see him any more." "Does he say so?" asked Marcelline, glancing at the letter Dolores crushed in her hand. "But you know, little one, that he must have gone some time, and be fore your mamma returned, he had already stayed too long." " If he had only come to say good-by to me ! Oh, he is cruel to leave like that, when I counted the hours until he should come again." " Bah ! Men are all cruel, they care only for them- selves," said Marcelline, at a loss how to console her. TEARS. 41 "He is not cruel!" cried Dolores, with the pettish contradiction of a spoilt child. " He was obliged to go away suddenly to Paris." " He will come again, perhaps," uttered Marcelline in a soothing voice. " Paris is not so far." "How far?" " Two hours and a half by the grandc vitesse; Madame Lescaut told me last week." And then there was silence again, only broken by the child's intermittent sobs, coming like the last thunder- claps in a storm. " Hush, little one," said Marcelline at last, putting her finger to her lips as steps were heard along the gravel walk ; "here comes Jeanneton, and she is curious, like all the deaf. Do not let her see you, I pray." Dolores rose with a bound, and ran up the side avenue of nut-trees that led to the back of the house, while Mar- celline unlocked the gate. "Was that Mademoiselle I saw lying on the grass?" asked Jeanneton. ' ' Yes, ' ' responded the other, somewhat fiercely. ' ' What then?" Jeanneton shook her head. "Ah! it was like that I became deaf, lying on the damp grass in the spring." " But the grass isn't damp to-day." " One never knows. And there were drops of rain on the kitchen windows." " Bah ! that was when I watered the flowers. Good- night, Jeanneton. Come early to-morrow." And Marcel- line shut the gate with an angry click, feeling remorseful about her charge. "The little one will get over it," she said to herself, tapping the bars with the key; "in a month, a week, 4* 42 DOLORES. perhaps, she will have forgotten him. Ah ! I remember when I was seventeen, how I grieved after the beau Ca- poral who went off to the wars ; but I forgot him in a few weeks, for Defaux, the butcher, who was short and fat, and had no waist at all, only I don't know where Mademoiselle is to get another lover, since Madame will not let a man have his nose inside the gate. Mon Dieu ! if she finds out about this Englishman, and the little one is entetee enough to tell her, then I may pack my clothes and go. Well, I should have only the regret of leaving the child." The days went on, but Dolores showed no symptoms of forgetting. The poor child had all the more power of suffering impatient pain and desolation because she had no resources in her own mind. It was that impotent, un- bearable anger of pain that makes the new-prisoned bird maim his wings and beat his life out against fast-locked bars. " I cannot bear it ! I cannot bear it ! Oh ! if I could only die !" she repeated ceaselessly to herself, burying her poor tear-stained face in the sofa cushions, and stamp- ing her weary little feet on the wooden floor. It was the third day since she had seen him, and she had scarcely touched food or slept. A sudden thought came to her, and she jumped up, her face all aflame, her hands clasped. " I will go to him !" and her heart beat wildly. " He will not send me away, he will let me be his servant, perhaps, anything, only to be near him, to see his kind smile sometimes. If he will not have me, I will drown myself." The poor, ignorant, willful child began to lay her plans. To-morrow Marcelline would be gone out, it was her marketing-day ; she would be absent at least two hours. TEAKS. 43 The moment her back was turned, she, Dolores, would tie on her hat, and run down by the other longer road to the town, and take the train for Paris. She did not quite know where the station was, but she had heard Marcelline say it was somewhere beyond the barracks. And for money there was gold her mother had left in Marcelline's work-box, and she always kept the key for safety at the bottom of the old china vase in the salon. What if it were stealing ! She would never cost them any more money after that, and there was a frightened sob in her voice as she spoke the words half aloud. Should she write and leave a letter to say what she had done ? No ! for once, a long time ago, she had read in a book how a young girl had left her home and pinned a letter of fare well on the pincushion ; and through it, had been traced, and brought home, and shut in her room for whole years without speaking to a soul. Her mother was a harsh woman, quite capable of that. Dolores went about quite blithe when her resolve was taken. Poor child ! had she been able to realize the nature of the step she contemplated, her mind would have been full of terror and misgiving ; but she felt no doubts or fears yet, and Marcelline, noting the sudden alteration in her manner, said to herself, "Ah ! she begins to forget, as I forgot my caporal. Truly one need not trouble one's head for the tears of children." Dolores did not sleep that night ; and when, the next morning, she came down-stairs wide-eyed, with dilated pupils, and wandered nervously from room to room, a kind of repressed excitement in her manner, Marcelline was uneasy, and said, " What hast thou, my child ? Thou hast eaten nothing, and lookst as if thou hadst not slept." 44 DOLORES. "Oh, yes, ma bonne, I have slept all night, "said Dolores, eagerly, " and nothing ails me." " Thou art triste, little one ; thou shall come with me to the market to-day." " No, no," exclaimed Dolores. Then, fearful of betray- ing herself, she added, "I care not for the market; it wearies me to stand while you gossip with the people in the shop." "I gossip, mademoiselle!" cried Marcelline, indig- nantly. "If every one minded their business as I mind mine, the town would not be set by the ears." "Don't be angry, Marcelline; I did not mean to offend you, only I don't want to go.' 1 ' Never had a morning appeared so long before. The hands on the gilt clock seemed to the girl's impatient eyes not to move at all as she wandered twenty times in and out of the salon during an hour. She tried to play and sing, but voice and fingers refused their office in her tremulous nervousness ; she sauntered into the garden to pluck flowers for the vases, but stopped before she had gathered a handful, thinking, "Aquoibon? To-morrow I shall not be here." She bid adieu a hundred times to her furry cat and the French poodle. " I shall never see you any more, never never!" And she squeezed them in her arms and cried a little. Puss, responsive, emitted a great roll of purs, and the poodle walked across the room on his hind legs after her without being told. But at last the clock stood on the stroke of four, and Marcelline, who was punctuality itself, appeared on the threshold. "Good-by, Marcelline," said the child, throwing hei arms round the woman's neck, hardly able to keep from betraying herself. TEARS. 45 " Why, I am not going on a journey, cherie, that you should make me such an adieu," responded Marcelline, pleased, nevertheless, at the demonstration; "in two hours I shall be back." The moment she was gone Dolores flew to her room, donned her best gray barege and hat, and set off for the station. She was in too hot haste to feel any nervousness or trepidation until she reached the railway, and then the noise and bustle frightened her, the shouting of porters, the luggage being flung about, all the turmoil that seems quite regular and in order to the accustomed traveler, filled her with terror. It was some time before she found courage to ask how soon the train left ; and when she at last addressed herself, timid and blushing, to a stout, red- faced guard, he took no notice of her beyond a stare. "What is it you want to know, mademoiselle?" asked a dark-bearded man, with a fascinating smile that fright- ened Dolores much more than the other one's rudeness. " Can you tell me when the train leaves for Paris?" she asked with a faltering voice, ready to cry. "For Paris? In three-quarters of an hour. Does Mademoiselle propose to herself to go there alone?" "Yes, monsieur," stammered Dolores. "Ah! Now if only Mademoiselle were going to Amiens, I should have been charmed to offer my escort," said the stranger, with a familiar leer. "I am quite des- olate not to be able to serve Mademoiselle." And as the guard began to shout frantically, " En voiture, messieurs et mesdames !" he had to hurry off without more ado. "Three-quarters of an hour !" the child said to herself in dismay. "If Marcelline should have returned to the house and found me gone, she might come here to look for me, or some one who knows me might see and stop me. ' ' And she tried to look down, and hide her face under her 40 DOLORES. straw hat, but could not baffle the inquisitive or imperti- nent glances of the men who lounged about and ogled her. Then there was the terrible business of taking her ticket; and when she saw the gold and notes flung through the pigeon-hole, a sudden fear took possession of her that the one napoleon she had stolen from Marcel- line's work-box would be insufficient to pay for her journey. Perhaps if she asked for a ticket, and then had not enough money, some of those rough, dreadful-looking men might be rude to her, and turn her out of the station, or even put her into prison. She underwent torments of fear and anxiety. After a time, summoning up all her courage, she went and asked the price of a ticket to Paris. It was fifteen francs, and the official who gave it to her was polite. At last, after what seemed an age to her feverish anxiety, she was in the train, and on her way to Paris. In the carriage with her were two good-natured-looking women, who began to ask questions. " To what part of Paris are you going, mademoiselle?" said one. Dolores blushed scarlet, and shook her head. "I do not know, madame." "You are very young to travel alone," interposed the second. " But of course your friends will meet you?" "I do not know, madame," stammered Dolores again. " But, man Dieu ! mademoiselle, you cannot go wan- dering over Paris by yourself." The girl felt a vague terror lest these women should insist on finding out all about her, and taking her back to Marcelline; so she turned resolutely to the window and looked out, while her two companions glanced at each other, shook their heads, and thought there was something very strange about her. GUY MEETS HIS FATE. 47 The train whizzed past the green fields and rows of trees, past the high hills and the winding Seine, past stately white chateaux, inclosed in thick forests and avenues of handsome trees, and drew up at last, just as the dusk was falling, into the St. Lazare station of the beautiful city. There was a banging of doors, a clamor of voices, a hurrying to and fro, and with a beating, terrified heart, the child found herself pushed and hustled, not knowing which way to turn. At last she was in the street, cowering, shrinking, stared at, filled for the first time with a desperate fear lest, in this great city, she might wander hopelessly without finding the man she sought. It had never occurred to her before that there would be any doubt of her meeting Sir Guy. He was in Paris, she would go after him; and there the poor childish reasoning had ceased. CHAPTER V. GUY MEETS HIS FATE. SIR GUY WENTWORTH experienced a decided feeling of chagrin at leaving Rouen without completing his picture and bidding adieu to his pretty little friend. Something in her had charmed him, her sweet inno- cence, perhaps, and the child face that mirrored every thought of the simple heart. He recognized the shallow- ness of her nature without regretting it, since to him she was only a pretty child who had made a pleasant land- mark in the old city, and whom he should never see again. Still he would have liked to bid her farewell, to 48 DOLORES. go once more up to the Barriere d'Ernemont and see her at the gate watching for his coming and blushing with rosy gladness when he came. What man is insensible to the charm of being watched and waited for, of being greeted with bright eyes and glad smiles ? But after Mar- celline's words to him, he felt bound in honor to leave Rouen without seeing Dolores again, even though he was convinced that the woman's fears had run in advance of the reality. He would be the last to bring tears to those trustful blue eyes. Guy had his own ideas of the devoir of an English gentleman, and acted very fairly up to his standard, to do as you would be done by, to hold out a helping hand to friends in need, to be tender and courteous with women, liberal to the poor, and a fair landlord. A man with ten thousand a year holding such views is pretty sure to be popular, and in spite (perhaps because of) a few frailties the disciples of Mrs. Hannah More would have sat in judgment on, Guy was a very general favorite both with men and women. Nobody ever accused him of being very clever or a pattern young man, but among those who knew him, if any one had been at a loss to illustrate the meaning of the word gentleman, I think Guy would have been the first to present himself to the mind. He left Rouen with decided regret, but with no hesitation, after Marcelline's appeal. He had gone on staying day after day in the old town, because the society of this little girl had pleased him ; further- more, because the country was pretty, the air fine, and for the present he had nothing in particular to do. Now he was forced to make some fresh plans, he did not care to be in Paris alone ; he did not want to return to London for a week or two, so he took up his quarters at the H6tel Westminster, and wrote to his half-brother, Cap- GUY MEETS HIS FATE. 49 tain Adrian Charteris, to join him, if he had nothing better to do. Breakfast over the next morning, he lights a cigar, and strolls out into the Rue de la Paix, thinking a good deal more of the pretty blue-eyed maiden than he would care to own. She was a sweet simple little thing, with her clear child-like ways, transparent to the very soul through those clear eyes of hers. "If one didn't know," he muses, as he strolls along, " that those pretty little creatures, with their sweet, win- ning, kitten-like ways, only keep their charm as long as they are quite fresh and new ! But how one would weary of the loveliest face in the world that had no mind at the back of it ! that laughed when it was pleased, and cried when it was sorry, and had only one selfish, unreasoning consciousness of its own pains and pleasures, and none of that tact and sympathy that make a woman such a sweet companion for a man ! I'm not a David Copper- field. A Dora would wear my patience out in a month. Poor dear little soul ! I wonder if she will really take my going to heart at all ? My letter to her was such a cold, unsatisfactory thing, almost brutal, to a poor little child like that, whom it seems ridiculous to treat with so much formality. I wish I might There wouldn't be any harm in it by Jove ! I'll get that for her," he says, stopping before a jeweler's window, where a gold locket, set with pearls, has arrested his wandering eyes. " Poor little girl ! I dare say it will make up for the loss of me. How pretty it will look round her dear little white throat !" And he turns to enter the shop, when a hand is laid upon his shoulder. " How are you, Guy?" "What, you here, Vivian !" And the two men grasp hands heartily. " Where are you staying ?" D 5 50 DOLORES. "At the Westminster?" "So am I." " How long have you been here?" " I came from Rouen last night." " Rouen ! What the deuce were you doing there?" " Oh, only spoiling a few pages of my sketch-book." " How long did you stop?" "About a fortnight," answers Guy, a little confused. The other looks at him shrewdly. "Were you sketching landscapes or faces?" he asks, smiling. Then, linking his arm in Guy's, " Come and have some lunch." "My dear fellow, it isn't two hours since I break- fasted." " Never mind ; you needn't eat anything. My wife is sure to want to see you, and I'll introduce you to a very charming woman." "Thanks; but " " But you don't care about charming women. Never mind ; come and see this one. Only for heaven's sake don't fall in love with her. She is an awful flirt, and lives upon broken hearts." " Then I'm afraid she won't find me amusing. I'm a poor hand at making love to fashionable women. But how is Mrs. Vivian ?" "Oh, as capricious and worrying as ever," emphatic- ally. "If God made man, I'm sure the devil made women, confound them !" " What, the old story !" laughs Guy. " Of course, the old story, or I shouldn't be boring my life out here, just when the country is at its best." "What induced you to come?" "Why, I mean to po to Norway this summer, so I'm paving the way by giving in to my wife a little." GUY MEETS HIS FATE. 51 "I see, but you don't say how she is? in health I mean." " Perfectly well, of course ; but pretending to be deli- cate, as usual. Guy, my boy, take experience you haven't bought for once, and don't marry." " I don't intend to do so." " I didn't, either, but that doesn't make any difference. You meet a woman, a madness seizes you, you must have her, so you marry her, if she unhappily can't get anybody better, and lament it ever after." "And if she won't have you," laughs Guy, "you la- ment her all your life as the only woman you ever could have cared for." " A man consoles himself for a lost love," responds his friend, contemptuously, "but never for lost freedom." "The old story!" thought Guy. " What a pity two people, both very nice in their way, can't hit it off better !" "Here we are!" says Mr. Vivian, opening the door of a sitting-room. "Gertrude, here's Guy! Where's Milly?" A fair woman, pretty, if a little pass&e, comes forward quickly, saying, with unfeigned pleasure, " Oh, Guy ! how glad I am to see you J" Then follow a whole string of questions. Mrs. Vivian is not the least inclined to let him off about his visit to Rouen, as her husband has done. Guy is getting con- fused, when Mr. Vivian rushes to the rescue. "Confound it, Gertrude" (impatiently), "do change the subject. One would have thought you had lived long enough in the world to know that it is not discreet to press unmarried men with so many questions." "Or married ones either, perhaps!" retorts his wife, with a touch of sarcasm. "If that is intended for me, let me assure you that my 52 DOLORES. experience of one of the sex has never tempted me to pursue my researches further." "As great a bear as ever, you see, Guy!" says Mrs. Vivian, coloring a little, for this attached couple never spare their friends a "scene of domestic interest." " He always was a shocking bad fellow !" laughs Guy, good-humoredly, anxious to divert retort. "Ah, my dear boy, it's deuced easy for you fellows to be always good-tempered and pleasant, you've nothing to try you. A lame horse, a run of bad luck on the turf, your servants rob you ; what's that in comparison with ah ! well, least said soonest mended, I suppose." " Not at all," interrupts his wife, sharply. " Now you have favored us with so much, we should like to hear the rest." Fortunately, at this juncture the servant appears with lunch. Guy seats himself obediently at the table, with a glass of claret and a biscuit, while Mrs. Vivian regales him with a dozen little scandals fresh from home. The door opens again, and some one comes in quietly, some one whose eyes meet Guy's as he rises. She impresses him, even at that first glance, not that she is beautiful, but there is a nameless grace, a perfect ease, an elegance about her that instinctively attract him. " Milly, this is my old friend Guy Wentworth, you have often heard me speak of him ? Mrs. Scarlett, Sir Guy Wentworth." She smiles at him, and says, " I have often heard of ycu." And Guy thinks, What a charming voice! Mrs. Scarlett takes the chair Mr. Vivian has placed for her, and begins to eat. Guy is divided between a desire to look at her and the feeling that it is not usual or polite to stare at people when they are eating. "I am afraid I'm rather late," she says. GUY MEETS HIS FATE. 53 "Time was made for slaves," responds Mr. Vivian. " Surely no man would be so unreasonable as to expect a lady to take count of time during a shopping expedition ?" "I feel the rebuke." "No rebuke intended, I assure you. I am only too charmed to think you are amused. But seriously, I won- der how many years of her life a woman spends in shop- ping?" "Years! how absurd you are, Charles!" Mrs. Vivian interrupts. " Not at all absurd : if the average of people who live to seventy sleep twenty-three years, and eat for eight, it is not difficult to imagine that a woman may get through a considerable number at her milliner's and haberdasher's." " Well, and if we do, a very good thing too ! it makes time seem wonderfully short ; and how on earth should we get through if we didn't amuse ourselves in some way?" " Improving your mind !" with a dash of sarcasm. " Unfortunately, as you say, I have no mind to im- prove," retorts Mrs. Vivian. " I am not at all sure that men are so totally indifferent to dress," says Mrs. Scarlett, coming to the rescue; "though I wouldn't for an instant accuse you of such lightness" (with a comic little glance at Mr. Vivian, who prides himself upon not giving in to modern innovations). " You see, men have so little scope for fancy in their present dress ; but, in the good old times, when they were allowed to wear silks and velvets and laces, to paint their faces and put on patches, I dare say they thought almost as much about dress as we do." " I like to see ladies nicely dressed," says Guy, feeling a desire to be on Mrs. Scarlett's side, whatever turn the discussion may take. " So do all sensible men," she answers, smiling at him. 5* 34 DOLORES. " Oh, nicely dressed is another matter. But what do you mean by nicely? because a woman may be nicely dressed in a cotton gown." "A woman might, not a lady," maintains Guy. " Silk and lace and velvet are proper wear for ladies" (after a surreptitious glance at Mrs. Scarlett's costume, which is composed of all three). " Then you get from nice to extravagant !" " No, not extravagant," says Guy, warming to his ar- gument. "I'll change my sentence if I must, and say I like to see a lady handsomely dressed." "And I say that women think too much about dress, and spend a great deal too much money upon it. No man thinks any the better of them for it, only a few fools who like to encourage them in their vanity !" " Do you admit the soft impeachment, Sir Guy?" asks Mrs. Scarlett, lifting her long lids and looking at him with smiling eyes. Guy feels an enormous magnetic attraction towards her, he would like to sit and stare at her without saying a word. He is so entranced at meeting her eyes that he almost forgets to answer for a moment. She is obliged to say, "Do you?" again, and drop her eyes, while the faintest trace of color mounts to her cheek. " I beg your pardon. Do I Oh, yes do I admit that I am a fool? Certainly," he answers, a little con- fused. " I think women ought to have everything that is rare and costly and luxurious, particularly if they are handsome and elegant." "I don't follow you there," interposes Mr. Vivian. " If a woman is handsome and elegant, what does she want of adventitious circumstances? Give the adorn- ments to the plain and ill-formed, who need them." " Oh, I would give them to the whole sex, if it were GUY MEETS HIS FATE. 55 in my power," says Guy. "They are all charming in some way or other." And he feels honestly as if he thought so for the moment, after another stolen glance at Mrs. Scarlett, who is exercising a sort of witchery over him. " My dear fellow, you must be very much in love with one woman, to have such rose-colored sentiments towards the whole sex." "I !" And, to his intense disgust, Guy feels himself blushing like a school-girl. " Your face betrays you," laughs Mrs. Vivian. " Come, confess, Guy. Was there not some lovely young woman who kept you all that long time in Rouen ?" "Indeed," stammers Guy, feeling vexed, for some un- accountable reason, at the allusion being made before Mrs. Scarlett ; but her soft voice interrupts " Do tell me about Rouen. I have always wanted to go there so much. I don't know why I never accom- plished the wish." Guy is on the verge of proposing to make a party and go there of offering to be her cicerone; but the sudden thought of Dolores stops him. He scarcely knows why, but he feels as if it would be cruel to her to return to Rouen with another woman. So he merely tells his ques- tioner about the places of interest to be seen, dwelling particularly on the curious old Eau de Robec. "Milly," interrupts Mrs. Vivian, "we promised to be at Madame Chiffon's at half-past two." "So we did. I will put on my bonnet," Milly says, rising. "Shall we persuade your husband and Sir Guy to go with us, and give us the benefit of their taste?" with a saucy look at Mr. Vivian. "I'm an awfully good judge of bonnets," says Guy, eagerly, hoping she means it seriously. 56 DOLORES. "Pshaw!" cries Charles Vivian ; " come with me, and I'll show you something worth looking at. I'm going over the Emperor's stables." "Good-by," Milly says, smiling. Guy feels horribly disappointed that she has not given him her hand at parting ; for the last ten minutes he has been wondering if she will. Half the sunshine seems to have fled from the room with her. She has not been gone five seconds when he wants to see her again. "Mrs. Vivian," he says, eagerly, as he is left alone with her for a few moments, "do take compassion on me. I am here all by myself. Won't you let me be your escort sometimes, when you want to go to a theatre, or any- where? I know Vivian isn't very keen about that sort of thing." "Thanks, yes; I shall be very glad. I often want some one to take care of me. That comes of being an old married woman." (With a sigh.) "Mrs. Scarlett is a charming widow, so of course she has dozens of men to look after her." This speech envelops Guy as with a damp blanket. To be Mrs. Vivian's escort while dozens of men, curse them ! are surrounding this woman who has so strangely fascinated him! "I shall be charmed!" he makes answer, a little drearily. "When may I begin?" "To-night, if you like," responds Mrs. Vivian, giving him her hand with a coquettish smile. Poor little woman ! she is pleased at the thought of having such a stalwart, good-looking young fellow in attendance upon her. A sunny gleam comes across her of the old times when she had half a score of lovers ready to her hand. What a fearful thing it is for a woman who has beauty, and no THE LAW OF ATTRACTION. 57 resources within herself, to pass the halcyon days of la premiere jeunesse ! And Guy is trying to smile, and wishing frantically that the little plump jeweled hand in his were the lithe white fingers he watched across the lunch-table. CHAPTER VI. THE LAW OF ATTRACTION. I DON'T suppose many people believe in love at first sight. I will not argue that it is either possible or the reverse, but I believe that some persons are intensely at- tracted to others from the first moment of meeting, long to look into their eyes, to touch their hands, to be in their presence, and feel the strongest reluctance to be parted from them. I do not say this is love at first sight, but that so strong an attraction is generally followed by a violent passion on the part of the one attracted. One cannot but recognize the existence of sympathies and antipathies, though few, perhaps, would go so far as a friend of mine, who asserts that if he were placed blind- fold between two strangers at dinner, he should imme- diately feel which was the more sympathetic to him. Why are we acted upon by sympathies and antipathies ? Who can account for them ? We meet a person, against whom we immediately conceive a violent antipathy ; we become silent, and oppressed by his or her presence. Is it a warning? And yet the chances are that any such person will never be thrown into antagonism with us, will never have the least power of injuring us. And then again c* 58 DOLORES. we take a violent fancy to some one who turns out after all a very poor friend. "We had better dine together," says Mrs. Vivian, " and you shall go to the theatre with us afterwards. 'La Grande Duchesse. ' ' ' "I like Schneider." "So do I." "Oh, those everlasting last words!" growls Charles Vivian through the doorway. "The woman (if ever there was one) who could let a man go when he had said good -by once, deserves to be crowned with rubies." "Well, I suppose I must go. Good-by again, Guy." Guy wishes there were more last words, and that they could be spun out until Mrs. Scarlett re-appeared ; but Mrs. Vivian hurries away, and her lord says impatiently, " Come, Guy, get your hat and let's be off." So they jump into a remise and are driven to the stables, where they criticise and admire, and for the time forget everything else. The most love-sick knight gets half an hour of oblivion in a stable full of good horses, that is to say, if he be an Englishman, and fond of horses, and what Englishman is not ? Later, Guy meets a young "blood" of his acquaint- ance, the Vicomte de Trois Etoiles; very horsy, and exaggeratedly English in everything but his boots and accent. He is driving a magnificent blood mare, just come over from England, up the Champs Elys6es, in a tilbury by Peters. His groom is the neatest, knowingest young cockney out, his coat is by Poole, and his brin- dled bouledogue Billee (the most ferocious of his species) has put a sum I should be afraid to mention into the pocket of Bill George. The Vicomte insists on Guy mounting to his side, and dismisses the groom ; and Guy, fancying the mare exceed- THE LAW OF ATTRACTION. 59 ingly, accedes, and regrets it bitterly the moment after, for he is a good whip himself, and a genuine lover of horses. The mare has magnificent action, but that is not enough for her master, he must rattle her up to the Arc de Triomphe at break-neck speed ; and every moment he gives a little flick of the whip, making her break her trot, and get so irritable that she is covered with foam and sweat, while every vein stands out of her satin skin. If I had my own way I would make it the test of good coach- manship to drive without a whip at all, bien entendu that you are sitting behind a good animal. Guy was frantic, but he was doomed now to sit and curse inwardly for at least sixty minutes, and something else he saw in the Bois did not tend to sweeten his temper. When they had made the tour du lac and were returning, a barouche passed them. Mrs. Vivian smiled, and waved two fingers at Guy. Mrs. Scarlett did not even see him, she was looking at and listening to a man who sat opposite and was dis- coursing to her with the greatest animation. Guy was conscious of a wish that he had not come to Paris at all. For the first time since he turned from the jeweler's win- dow he thought of Dolores and her wistful innocent eyes. It was much better for a man's happiness to love some little rustic maiden who never saw but him, than a fash- ionable woman who lived upon the breath of flattery. Of course this was only an abstract idea, he hardly knew himself that he was illustrating it by Dolores and Mrs. Scarlett. Guy is doomed to vexation. He has arranged to join the Vivians in their rooms, and go with them to the Caf6 Anglais, to dine before the theatre. As he enters, Mrs. Scarlett is standing by the window with a good-looking young fellow, who is in the act of 60 DOLORES. buttoning her glove. He does not desist upon the entrance of a third person, nor does Milly draw away her hand, as indeed why should she ? Guy feels unaccountably irri- tated. Either this cursed young puppy, as he mentally designates him, is immensely awkward, or he has the most confounded assurance, for he takes about five minutes to accomplish his task, though the glove is not in the least tight. " Thanks very much," says Milly, smiling sweetly ; and then turning to Guy, " I hate an unbuttoned glove. Don't you?" she asks. " I don't know. No, I don't think so. I don't much mind," Guy answers, not in the least considering the question, but jealous of the service rendered. He is fast developing a hitherto unknown trait in his character ; it is the first time in his life he has ever been jealous ; indeed, he is not in the least aware that what he feels at this moment is a barb of the green-eyed monster. This is a self-sufficient, impudent young puppy, he thinks, and he would rather like to kick him. "Awful bore, an unbuttoned glove !" says our young plunger. " I say, Milly, I know I could button the first button of that other one, if you'll only let me try once more." Mrs. Scarlett gives her hand, and Guy feels so annoyed that he is obliged to look another way until the operation is finished. Enter Charles Vivian hurriedly. " I say, we shall be confoundedly late. How are you, Thornton ? Gertrude not here ! As usual, of course. Couldn't be punctual for anything, I suppose, except my funeral. I daresay she'd manage that." "Oh, yes, dear," echoes a laughing voice behind, "I'll take care to be in time for that. How are we to go now, I mean, not to your funeral?" THE LAW OF ATTRACTION. 6l "Oh, Thornton shall take you two in the carriage, and Guy and I will follow in a cab, eh, Guy?" Perhaps it would not be altogether correct to say that Guy assents cheerfully, but he assents, and that is all which is required of him. "Nice young fellow, Thornton!" says Mr. Vivian. "Ah!" responds Guy, dubiously. " Another victim of Milly Scarlett's. By Jove! I never saw anything like that woman; there seems to be some sorcery about her. This lad is only twenty now, and 'pon my soul I believe he thinks she's going to marry him." "I suppose he has known her a long time," says Guy, a little stiffly, thinking how he heard him call her by her name. " Oh, Lord, yes ! she used to pet him when he was a boy at Eton, and she just married." " How long has her husband been dead?" " Four years; it was a rum match" (reflectively). "Ah?" says Guy, interrogatively. " Biggest fool you ever saw, and she's such a clever one ! The most curious part of it is, she was tremendously fond of him, and nearly went off her head when he broke his neck out hunting." "Money, I suppose?" (tersely). " Yes, by Jove ! her jointure was three thousand a year, and she doesn't lose it if she marries again." This news does not please Guy. No woman ought to have money, he thinks to himself, no nice woman, at least. " Of course that gives a handle to spiteful people to say men run after her for her money," pursues Charles Vivian ; " but I don't believe it makes an atom of differ- ence in her case." " I should think not," responds Guy, with an emphasis 6 62 DOLORES. that his friend would certainly have remarked, had they not at this moment drawn up at the door of their cafe. Guy has not the felicity of sitting next to Mrs. Scarlett at dinner; Mrs. Vivian is placed between her and her young adorer. A disinterested observer might be amused to watch the unmistakable devotion of the lad. Guy is not at all amused, he can only feel lost in astonishment how a woman like Milly can tolerate such a forward young fool. Mrs. Vivian, who all the afternoon has been flattering herself that she will make Guy the captive of her bow and spear, feels somewhat chagrined at finding how absent his replies are, and how little effect the charming toilette she has donned for his special benefit seems to have upon him. She really looks young and pretty to-night, and she knows it. But she cannot help being aware that Guy's whole thoughts and attention are riveted on Milly, and though they are really the greatest friends, no woman can feel that her charms are placed in the shade by those of another woman without a slight temporary diminution in her friendship. Whatever the other three may do, it is quite certain that Guy and Mrs. Vivian do not find the dinner a very sociable or pleasant one ; however, there is compensation in store for both of them, as there very often is when things seem to be going utterly wrong. Mr. Thornton, to his infinite regret, has to take his mother and sister to the opera (a very pleasant companion, I dare say, they will find him) ; and at the door of the theatre Mrs. Vivian meets a young Frenchman who was immensely attentive to her at a ball some few nights previous, and who is only too charmed to accept a seat in her box, and devote him- self entirely to her during the evening. Guy sits at the back of the box. He can see the stage, THE LAW OF ATTRACTION. 63 but the turn of a well-shaped head seems to interest him infinitely more than the sprightly performance Hither- to, he has been wont to be vastly pleased with the chic impersonator of "La Grande Duchesse;" but somehow it jars upon him a little to-night, he feels the uneasy sensation at his chest that corresponds to a woman's blush. While the scene between Fritz and his enamored mistress is going forward, he half expects the ladies to rise in a paroxysm of outraged virtue and leave the theatre. Guy is quite a man of the world, but he has a trick, as many of the best of his sex have, of making too wide a gulf in his mind between virtuous women and fast women, and setting those he cares for on a pedestal un- comfortably out of reach of the exigencies of every-day life. Few women appreciate such veneration, it genes them to act up to so high a standard ; but fortunately, as long as a man is really in love, a woman, do what she may, can hardly lessen his belief in her. Milly's eyes are fixed on the stage, she neither speaks, nor turns, nor smiles ; perhaps her eyes flash a little, but Guy cannot see that, he chooses to think she is dis- gusted. Mrs. Vivian evidently enjoys the performance immensely; her companion is lost in rapture. At the end of the scene Charles Vivian rises in his usual abrupt manner. "Such a thing wouldn't be tolerated in London," he says indignantly (it was before the Offenbachian element had been introduced with so much success in England). " I wonder modest women can sit and look on. I'm going; you'll see them home, Guy?" and he vanished impetuously. "Where is Charlie gone?" inquires his wife, sweetly. "He's gone to smoke a cigar," Guy makes answer, taking the chair next to Mrs. Scarlett. She turns and 64 DOLORES. smiles at him; her eyes meet his, and send a thrill of pleasure to his heart. " Charming music, is it not?" she whispers. "Awfully jolly!" And he forgets his outraged pro- priety, and thinks of nothing but the intense and new sensation of pleasure it gives him to sit next this woman, who is not beautiful, not moulded like a Diana or a Venus, or any other mythological personage. She turns to him now and then. I suppose there is something of the coquette in her nature ; she must know quite well the effect she is producing upon him ; there is no mistaking the expression of his eyes. But she looks round more often ; she lets her eyes linger for more than a moment on his face ; her voice falls into a lower, more caressing cadence. I wonder if the woman breathes who can see a man falling head over ears in love with her, and honestly try to prevent it ? (It will be clearly under- stood, of course, that I mean a man whose admiration is a credit to her.) I know Milly could not ; she was as insatiable of homage as an Eastern queen. Looking back to it, Guy thinks this the happiest hour of his whole life ; an entire sense of bien-etre pervades him, his whole frame seems possessed of a happy vitality, of a keen capacity for love and enjoyment. The curtain falls on the second act. Mrs. Vivian complains of the heat, and her companion suggests that she shall walk as far as the foyer. Mrs. Vivian accedes; will Milly go too? No ; Milly is very well where she is. If Guy could be happier than he already is, it is when the box door closes and leaves him alone with Mrs. Scarlett. Who does not know the thrill of delight with which one sees one's best friend depart, if one is left alone with the dear one ? Not a word may be said, not even a look exchanged, but a third person might welcomely see and hear ; but there is THE LAW OF ATTRACTION. 65 a wonderful pleasure in the bare fact of being alone together. Milly is vaguely conscious that what this man feels for her is not a transient passion or admiration (this is not the first time her magnetic power has exercised itself), and she can foresee the end. She wonders at it herself. She has met many men who have admired, liked, loved her, but only once before a man who has been drawn to her at once, like a needle to the magnet, with this strange power. It is strange, since it is not a power that she can either compel or constrain. Nay, it is quite possible that, when she would give the world to have it at her command, it would fail her. She likes Guy ; he is pleasing to her. Looks, birth, everything, are in his favor, and she loves to be adored. Milly can no more forego the pleasure of being loved than the flame can extinguish itself to keep the moth from self-immolation. After all, I don't sup- pose it would be of the slightest use for a woman to try to make herself displeasing in the eyes of the man who is in love with her; indeed, it is the common lot of poor humanity to love best what treats it the worst. Guy is immensely happy sitting looking into his com- panion's face, and listening to her bright charming voice. Their conversation is not particularly brilliant ; they do not "talk fireworks," as a newspaper critic writes; but it is very pleasant, and there is now and then a pause, al- most pleasanter still. Guy's attention, as he leans towards his companion, is divided between the slender white hands, sparkling with diamonds, and two brighter jewels that shine and kindle under the low arched brows. An irresistible impulse seizes him ; as he conceives the thought his heart throbs. What a terrible awe a brave man has of a pure woman ! for all brave, honest men believe in women. K 6* 66 DOLORES. His strong young voice trembles as he leans nearer towards her, and says, with an earnestness which could not be greater if he were entreating for the most mighty boon, " May I ask you a very great favor?" Milly is the least bit embarrassed, but she answer* archly, "You may certainly ask." "Might I" (very humbly, in an abashed whisper) "might I kiss your hand?" Milly feels considerably relieved. This tremendous favor, the bare asking of which makes him tremble, is only permission to perform an act of homage such as the mightiest sovereigns are in the habit of receiving. "Certainly you may," she makes answer with a gay little laugh ; and he takes it with unutterable reverence, as if it were some dainty bit of china, that might slip from his hand and shiver into a thousand pieces. And what a hand it is ! how fragile, and yet what a marvelous magnetic power it has ! He feels the touch of it in every fibre as it lies for a moment in his ; then he stoops his lips reverently to it. Milly thinks things are getting too serious. She is glad when at this moment the orchestra strikes up glad that Mrs. Vivian and her escort are in the act of returning to their places. Guy is not at all glad. The curtain draws up, but he sees nothing hears nothing of the opera ; his eyes are devouring the little hand, whose marvelous touch he still feels ; he is thinking that it will lie on his arm for a few moments as he takes her to the carriage. "I beg your pardon," he says, starting as he suddenly perceives Mrs. Vivian trying to attract his attention. It is only to draw his attention to the fact that Schneider has an entirely different set of diamonds from those she THE LAW OF ATTRACTION. 67 wore in the last act. He feels impatient, everything seems coarse and gross to him but the woman who has infatuated him. The piece is drawing to a close. Guy betakes himself to look for Mrs. Vivian's servant. When he returns, the ladies are cloaked and shawled. "Are you sure you are warm enough?" he asks solicit- ously of Milly. He is not aware himself how tender is the inflexion of his voice, but Mrs. Vivian notes it, and smiles to herself. She is not jealous now. Guy feels the longed- for hand on his arm ; he would like to linger for half an hour in the draughty passage, but he thinks of her, and hurries to the carriage. It has been raining ; the pavement is quite wet. Milly lifts her dress and discloses a dainty little foot, shod as pretty feet should be, the illusion is complete. If Guy has one weakness greater than another, it is for a pretty foot. They find Mr. Vivian smoking by a wood fire on their return ; he is not in a particularly amiable frame of mind. " Good-night, dear," says his wife sweetly ; " we've had a charming evening, and won't stop for you to spoil it. Good-night, Guy. Come, Milly," and exeunt. "Thank Heaven for that !" says her lord, graciously, as the door closes upon the two ladies, and Guy's reluctant eyes return from following them. " Come and have a weed." For a wonder, Guy would have preferred his own society; his brain is in a state of pleasant confusion, and he wants to think, but he is thoroughly good-natured, and obeys the peremptory summons cheerfully. Charles Vivian is in a very abusive mood. Everything comes under his sovereign displeasure, his chair, the fire, the hotel, Paris, France, the French, and he gradually comes round to the real cause of his ire, namely, the 68 DOLORES. morality or immorality of Offenbach's most popular opeia, which is again lost in an exposition of the demerits of the sex, called by courtesy le beau. CHAPTER VII. CHARLES VIVIAN ON "THE FAIR SEX." GUY never likes to hear women abused, but he objects particularly to it in his present mood. "I say, old fellow," he remarks with some warmth, "it's quite fair for every one to have his own opinion, but I don't see why, if you don't care for a thing your- self, you should try to depreciate it to those who do. It's all very well to abuse women, but how the deuce should we get on without them?" " Well, from a physiological point of view, not at all ; but if they hadn't entered into the plan of creation, I am not sure that we shouldn't have got on a great deal better. But, my good fellow, I don't set up for a woman-hater. No one enjoys the society of a clever, agreeable woman more than I do ; what I complain of is being tied to a particular one for the whole of your natural life, suitable or unsuitable. The nicest woman in the world must become odious when you feel you carft get away from her." "Then with such views," remarks Sir Guy somewhat sententiously, "you had no business to marry." "Of course not, only unfortunately, you see, I did not get those views until too late. When I fell in love, I thought what a heavenly thing it would be to be CHARLES VIVIAN ON " THE FAIR SEX." 69 always in the society of my idol ! Lord ! what blind fools men are ! My dear boy, when you are in love you will be ready to break any one's head who dares to think that you could have too much of your innamorafa." "Very likely," says Guy absently, looking into the fire, and thinking what utter happiness it would be to go through life with Milly Scarlett. "I think the best thing," proceeds Charles Vivian re- flectively, " since landed property and the laws of society compel the sacrifice, is to marry some very simple little country girl, and mould her oneself. It wouldn't be very exciting perhaps, but at all events she wouldn't be always kicking over the traces, and asserting her will against yours." "Pshaw!" is the impatient answer. "What pleasure on earth can a man have in a little bread-and-butter school-girl? Give me a woman of the world, brilliant, fascinating, charming, a woman whose love would raise you to Heaven, or sink you into the lowest depths of despair." His voice kindles, his eyes flash, the hand that holds his forgotten cigar trembles visibly. "Guy," asks his friend quietly, "are you thinking of Milly Scarlett?" "If I am?" he inquires stiffly, reddening a little. "I should be rather sorry, that's all. Don't misunder- stand me. I am not going to say a word against her. I dare say she'd make a very good wife to a man who wasn't jealous. She was an excellent wife to Scarlett, I believe, but since that time she has been thoroughly spoilt, and I don't believe she could exist without admiration." " I don't suppose any sensible man would object to his wife being admired," Guy remarks with some coldness. ''No, not to a certain extent, I dare say. But the jo DOLORES. present state of society is rather a curious one. Married women nowadays expect (and not in vain) as much atten- tion and admiration as a young debutante did formerly. I don't think it's at all a satisfactory state either for them or the men they marry, their children, household, or any- thing else. These cursed French manners don't suit us a bit." "Do you mean to tell me," says Guy, indignantly, " that there are not women whom no example or customs in the world could contaminate ?' ' "I don't believe in any woman breathing," answers Mr. Vivian, slowly. " I like women, I admire them, I take pleasure in their society, but I have no faith in them." Guy preserves a disgusted silence, and Charles Vivian, settling himself down in his chair, proceeds uninterrupted with his oration. He is a good talker, and a shrewd ob- server ; he loves the sound of his own voice, and he loves to revenge the sufferings of his married life by opening the eyes (as he thinks) of his fellow-men. But he prides himself on being strictly just he always makes allowances for every woman but one. Thus he delivers himself: " I say that women are false by nature, by constitution, by education, and, generally speaking, by inclination. I don't agree with the fools who think it fine to say they are only fit to be the slaves or playthings of men. On the contrary, I think them, sometimes, if not our supe- riors, at all events our equals. We, for the most part, are infernally selfish. Our one great concern in life of course I am speaking of idle fellows like you and me is to be as much amused and as little bored as possible. We have a perpetual craving after excitement, and nineteen- twentieths of us don't care a straw at what expense to others, and often to ourselves, we gratify it." " Confound it all !" breaks in Guy. " I " CHARLES VIVIAN ON " THE FAIR SEX." 71 " My dear fellow, please to understand that my re- marks are not personal. It isn't a question of you or me." "Oh, all right, I thought it was. Pray proceed," laughs Guy, good-humoredly, puffing away at his cigar, and entirely fortified by the dear image in his mind against any of the vituperations he knows to be coming. When Charles Vivian means to be down upon women, he always commences with a mild depreciation of his own sex. "Women love admiration, and that is the first step to- wards making them false. They like it to be known that they are admired, therefore they must have a little court about them ; therefore they must always appear in public with one or more devoted slaves. Now, you know, to get and keep these slaves, unless a woman is exceptionally beautiful, she must employ a certain amount of pains, and a good deal more dissimulation. She must first attract, then keep them amused, and allow them to believe that she reciprocates their regard, in a measure, at all events, for, as you and I know, Guy, there are precious few men who are inclined to waste their time on a woman they know to be utterly indifferent to them, and from whom nothing is to be hoped." "I don't know," interposes the other. "Some fel- lows are so confoundedly vain, they think if a woman looks at them she's dying for them." " Yes, some do, and a clever woman has a very easy task with them ; the least pressure of the hand, one or two be- wildering glances, and a woman ought always to be able to say with her eyes twenty times more than she means. I've spent a certain number of years of my life in trying to be up to their machinations, and I've come to the con- clusion that the most fascinating woman in the world, the 7 a DOLORES. one a man could swear was the most impassioned, is tha one who feels absolutely nothing." "Pshaw!" cries Guy, impatiently flinging away the end of his cigar, and lighting another. " My dear old boy, you're too clever by half. You're like Paul, to whom What's-his-name said, ' Much learning hath rr.ade thee mad!' " "I'm right this time, and I'll explain how it is. Women who feel very much " " Oh, you admit that some of them do?" " Hang it ! don't interrupt so." "All right, go on." " Women who feel very much are sure to be either too contained or too demonstrative. The one who feels nothing knows exactly what will make her most fasci- nating in the glamoured eyes of her lover, and in conse- quence succeeds to perfection. If a man could sometimes see the lady-love he has just left, vith a reeling intoxi- cated brain, and the profound conviction that she is the most heavenly being on earth, awfully, devotedly fond of him, of course, if he could hear the sigh of relief when the door closes upon him, and see the triumphant flash of her eyes at the memory of how she has befooled him, it might make him feel rather small, but it would be a rattling good thing for him, all the same. In society you see a dozen fellows round the object of your affec- tions, and perhaps you are ass enough to believe yourself the only favored one. What do you suppose is her at- traction for them ? has she never given encouragement to any one but you?" "Well, old boy," says Guy, rising to his feet, "they seem to have taken you into their confidence, and exposed their hands pretty freely; but as they haven't done me the same favor, I shall take the liberty of continuing to CHARLES VIVIAN ON " THE FAIR SEX." 73 believe that there are heaps of good, virtuous, pure women going about the world. Of course there are plenty of all sorts ; but, considering the sort of life we lead, hang me if I know how we're considered worthy to have a good woman's happiness intrusted to us 1" "Your sentiments do you credit," retorts the other, with sarcasm. " You must get up a lecture on the subject for afternoon teas this season." "All right," says Guy, good-humoredly. "Now I'm off. What are you going to do to-morrow ?" "I have promised to drive Mrs. Scarlett a few miles out of Paris, to see some old friends. But dine with us, if you can, at the Maison Dore to-morrow, and we will go somewhere afterwards." So they part. Guy is not the least inclined to sleep, so he lights another cigar and goes out into the street. The rain has ceased, it is a bright night, and he strolls about lost in thought, one thought, one idea, the perfections of his ladye-love. He still sees her, hears her voice, feels her hand in his, and he wonders in his heart if such enormous happiness is ever given to a man as to possess a woman for whom he feels what he does for Milly Scarlett. Such a woman false ! tire of such a woman ! Pshaw ! Old Vivian must be beginning to dote. Oh ! the unutterable happiness of feeling you are tied, chained, bound to a creature like that ! His mind painted Milly in a thousand ways ; at the head of his table, seated beside him on his four-in-hand, riding to the Meet on the best horse in the three kingdoms, lying on the deck of his yacht, making bright the old house at Wentworth with her sweet presence. Then came a revul- sion of feeling absolutely painful. How dare he think of winning her ? What was there in him to make such a woman care for him ? D 7 74 DOLORES. He went to his room, and tried to sleep. His thoughts maddened him. He rose and paced to and fro, and longed frantically for the morning. It might be odd, strange, mad almost, but he would see Mrs. Scarlett the next morning, and tell her just what he felt for her. When the broad daylight came in, he fell into a feverish sleep, and slept late into the morning. When he awoke and had breakfasted, his ideas underwent a considerable change as to the propriety of declaring his passion to Mrs. Scarlett. Oh, how grievously long that day seemed ! how utterly consumed he was by ennui! what countless cigars he smoked ! In the afternoon he got a message to say the ladies were tired, so they would dine in their rooms, and the dinner at the Maison Dorde must stand over until the next evening. Since he was a schoolboy, deprived of a holiday, Guy had never felt a disappointment so bitterly. He and Charles Vivian dined tete-d-tcte in the Palais Royal ; they were both out of sorts, the latter had quarreled with his wife for spending too much money. She had sulked and refused to join the proposed dinner-party, and Guy, of course, was dreadfully put out at the absence of the woman he was so eager to see. The dinner was excellent, but they both abused it, and sent away half the dishes untasted. "After all," said Guy, "a dinner without ladies is very slow work. You must admit that, Vivian." " Hang the women ! You and I have had plenty of jolly dinners together without them, and should have had to-night but for their fault." "You can't blame them for being tired," remarks Guy. " Tired ! pshaw ! they haven't walked five hundred yards to-day. My wife's in a temper, and wouldn't come to spite me, and of course Mrs. Scarlett was obliged to stay at home with her. Ah, my boy, you'll know all CHARLES VIVIAN ON " THE FAIR SEX." 75 these little delights for yourself one day. Your wife, like mine, perhaps, will have the most extravagant tastes, and spend a small fortune on her infernal bonnets and capes, you'll remonstrate, she will fly into a passion and call you mean, and cowardly, and ungentlemanlike, you will retort, she will have hysterics, and for the next twenty- four hours will be exercising her ingenious mind on the problem of how she can most vex and thwart you." Guy is silent ; he is wishing passionately that he could spend every farthing he has on the woman he loves. A man's mind is apt to look at these things in a differ- ent light when he is doubtful about possessing his treasure, and when it is unmistakably, positively, unchangeably his own. " I hope Mrs. Vivian will be all right to-morrow," Guy says, after the silence has remained unbroken for some little time. " Of course she will. She won't stop at home when she knows it doesn't annoy me, and, thank Heaven ! she can't know how angry I am, and what a stupid dinner we've had. How she would glory in it !" " It isn't very lively here. Let's go into the theatre." They do so, and Guy is horribly disgusted with every woman upon the stage ; so they stroll off to the Valentino are more disgusted still, and return to their hotel Charles Vivian to have the rest of the quarrel out, and Guy, more fortunate, to enjoy his slumbers undisturbed. The next day was an immensely happy one, the first part, at all events. In the morning he met Mrs. Vivian and her friend in the court-yard, and was graciously allowed to escort them on their shopping expedition. Milly was as bright as a lark, full of fun and sprightliness rallied Guy on a thousand subjects, laughed at him, smiled at him, consulted him on her purchases, and 76 DOLORES. scolded him for his extravagance in buying them two magnificent bouquets from a window in the Boulevards. They lunched together, and drove in the Bois, Milly pro- vokingly declaring she would not consent to his going, as he had told her only two days before he thought it awfully stupid, and quite beneath a man, to sit behind horses when he didn't hold the reins himself. But Guy laughed, and persisted, declaring that, if they didn't take him, he would hire the very worst fiacre on the stand, and disgrace them by bowing pointedly whenever he passed them. So they chatted all sorts of gay nonsense, and time sped swiftly, as it always does when folk are happy. Guy will never forget that day. Poor Guy ! Was Cle- opatra, was Semiramis were any of the sirens of old more seductive, more maddening than this woman, whose glo- rious eyes he was looking into? Guy would not have admitted it. How bright the day was ! how blue the sky, traversed by clouds like little white puffs of swan-down ! how the birds sang ! how blithe and insouciant looked the Paris- ians, their gayety unshadowed by any prescience of the bitter future ! " Du mal qu'un amour ignorf Nous fait souffrir, J'en porte 1'ame ddchiri Jusqu'a mourir," hummed Guy from the lovely " Chanson de Fortunio," as he dressed ; but somehow he did not altogether feel as if his love would be ignored, and that he should carry his broken heart to the grave. DOLORES IN PARIS. 77 CHAPTER VIII. DOLORES IN PARIS. DINNER was nearly over, when a waiter came in and handed a slip of paper to Mr. Vivian. Was the gentle- man there, he asked, whose name was written? he had already taken it to three rooms. "Sir Guy Wentworth," read Mr. Vivian, handing it across the table. "It is Monsieur?" the waiter inquired. "Yes." Then there was a gentleman below who desired very particularly to see him. " Excuse me a moment," said Guy. "It is most likely Adrian. May I bring him up, if it is?" "By all means," and rising, Guy followed the waitei down-stairs. Just outside the door he saw his servant. "What is it, Stevens?" "I beg your pardon, Sir Guy, for disturbing you," said the man, hesitating a little, "but I did not know what to do under the circumstances." "What is it? Be quick !" exclaimed Guy impatiently. " Well, Sir Guy, the fact is, I just met the the young lady at Rouen to whom you sent me with a note, and she ran up to me, crying, and asking to be taken to you, and I didn't know what to do. I thought you wouldn't like me to leave her wandering about the streets by herself at this time of night." " Good God !" cried Guy, involuntarily, a great horroi creeping across him. 7* yg DOLORES. "And so I took her to the hotel, and came on straight to you, Sir Guy. What had I best do?" " Captain Charteris has not come, has he ?" Guy asked, hurriedly. " Well, Sir Guy, I just saw him in a cab as I crossed the boulevards; but I wouldn't stop." Guy muttered a furious imprecation under his breath. "I will come at once," he said, "stay, take a cab and go back to the hotel. If Captain Charteris is in the sitting-room with. with the lady, make some excuse and get him away before I come." "Yes, Sir Guy;" and Stevens hurried off with a face perfectly inscrutable. Guy tried to assume an indifferent expression as he remounted the stairs, but when he entered the room his face was so white and anxious that every eye turned inquiringly upon him. "No bad news, old fellow, I hope?" Mr. Vivian said hastily. "Oh, no, thanks not at all. Only some one has come a long way to see me, on business, and is at the hotel waiting for me now. I am very sorry, but if you will excuse me " " Certainly, certainly by all means. Shall you join us at the theatre?" " I will if I possibly can ; but " " All right, my dear fellow; don't put yourself out foi us. If you can, you know, we shall be very glad; if not, never mind." "I will send word, at all events," said Guy hastily. " I do not know until I get to the hotel. Good-by." " Au revoir, I hope," said Milly softly, as Guy went out. He ran down-stairs and out into the street in a perfect DOLORES IN PARIS. 79 fever, and, jumping into a cab, bade the man drive quickly to the Hotel Westminster. "If Adrian had only not come," he reflected. "Of all the infernal pieces of luck I ever had, this is about the worst ! Of course he'll make something out of it, and I shall never hear the last of it. I don't mind for myself; but that poor little thing what, in the name of Heaven, shall I do with her?" And just then the fiacre clattered into the court-yard. The first person he saw was Captain Charteris leaning against the door with a cigar in his mouth. "How are you, Guy, old fellow?" he said, as Guy jumped out. " All right, old boy, thanks. Just pay this fellow, will you?" "I haven't a farthing of French money. I say, Guy, this is hot haste ! I never saw you so eager about a petticoat before." "For God's sake hold your tongue, Adrian. You don't understand ; I will explain everything presently." "I tried to make myself agreeable, but your little beauty was deucedly sulky. I couldn't get a word out of her." "You've seen her?" exclaimed Guy, angrily. "Then I think you'd have shown better taste if you had kept out of the way." " My dear fellow ! how was I to know? I went naturally and innocently to your sitting-room, little expecting to find it so charmingly occupied, and " Guy waited for no more, but hurried past his brother, and ran up-stairs. He turned the handle of the door and went in. A slight figure came towards him, came tremu- lously, hesitatingly, and then fell at his feet with a low sob. go DOLORES. "Forgive me, monsieur!" uttered a little, piteous, wailing voice. "Dolores! my dear child I why have you come?" cried the young man, quickly, stooping to raise her ; but she resisted his effort, and kept her face turned away from him. "Dolores!" he repeated, surprised and pained, still holding her hands, but not trying any longer to lift her from her crouching posture. " Oh, monsieur, I could not help it !" and tears came in floods now; "you went away, and left me without a word. I could not help it. I should have died without you, and I have followed you you will not send me away?" He lifted her up in his arms with gentle force, and placed her on the sofa; then he sat down beside her, taking her hand. "My little one," he said with great tenderness, "you have done yourself a great wrong." "I do not mind," cried the child excitedly. "What is it to me, if I can only be near you, and see you smile on me sometimes? Oh, monsieur ! Sir Guy ! you won't send me away, you will let me be your servant your slave anything, only to stay with you. ' ' A sharp pang went through the young man's heart. He felt as if he had done this innocent child some grievous wrong. "Does Marcelline know you have come?" he asked her, still holding her trembling hands, and speaking in the same kind voice. "Oh, no," she cried in a terrified whisper. "Marcelline knew nothing of my coming. You won't send me back to her?" "Tell me ; my child," he said softly, "how did you come without her knowing?" DOLORES IN PARIS. 8l "I knew she would be for two hours at the market to- day, and I planned it all last night. I took a napoleon from her box, and I ran all the way to the station. When I got there I was so frightened, but I took courage and came on, only when I reached Paris and found how large it was a great fear took me, and I despaired ever to find you. Many people stopped me, and would have taken me to their homes, but I refused their kindness, and then in a happy moment I met your servant." "Thank God !" said Guy devoutly, under his breath. "Tell me, Dolores, have you had something to eat?" " Oh, no, no !" she cried excitedly. " I am not hun- gry. I could not eat. 1 ' Her hands were burning with fever, and the wildness in her eyes frightened him. "When did you dine?" he asked her. " I could not eat my dinner. I have not eaten to-day." " My dear child," said the young man, seriously, " you will be ill; you must eat something. Come, to please me," he pleaded, as she shook her head. "If you wish it," she answered humbly. Sir Guy rose, left the room for a moment, then re- turned. "And now," he said, resuming his place beside her " now you must eat and sleep a little, and early to-morrow I will take you home." " What !" she cried, with a convulsive start, rising, and standing a little way from him, with wide-open eyes, and panting breast, "go home to Rouen to Marcelline ! I ! Oh, monsieur !" and she threw herself on her knees, with the tears streaming down her white face, "you will not be so cruel ! Let me stay only let me stay ! I will be so good, so obedient. I will do all you say. I will never trouble you only let me stay 1" F 8a DOLORES. She looked so lovely her anguish was so real the young man hesitated. "Child," he said at last, in a voice quite low and hoarse, as he bent over her, "you don't know what you are asking." " I do I do !" she cried, with piteous persistency. "I want to be always with you !" A strong, sudden impulse attracted him to this lovely child, and made him long to say, " Stay, darling, and be happy !" So dear is it to the heart of a man to be fondly loved. But he checked the thought almost before it rose, and took both her hands in his, speaking in a low, grave voice. "Little one," he said, "if I were to grant what you ask I should be a villain. It would blight all your life. Some day you would hate me, and I should never forgive myself." "I should never hate you," she whispered, fixing her lustrous eyes, that shone with tears, upon him. "It cannot be, Dolores; it is impossible." " Impossible !" she said, rising, whilst the color deep- ened red upon her cheeks. "You hate me, then ?" "Oh, child, you don't understand" (in a pained voice). "/ hate you! No, I love you like a dear little sister, whom I would shield from every thought of harm." " Then let me stay and be your sister." "But, little one, it is not possible. You do not know the ways of the world." " I don't want to know them, if they take me from you. Oh, Sir Guy, do not think me bold and presump- tuous that I entreat you so ; but I shall break my heart if you send me away." " Dear child, it is for your own sake," cried the young DOLORES IN PARIS. 83 man, half beside himself. "I would gladly have you always with me." "Why should you mind, if I do not?" she urged, impetuously. She looked so lovely in her impassioned eagerness this little girl, half French, half English, praying so passionately in her childish innocence, that Sir Guy was half unmanned. The door opened, and his servant en- tered with a tray. "I must leave you for a few minutes," he whispered. " Let me find you have eaten when I return." "You will come back?" she entreated, with fright- ened eyes. "Yes, I promise," he answered, reassuringly. "In half an hour, at the furthest." And then he went down-stairs, and, crossing the court- yard of the hotel, walked out into the busy street. A gay crowd passed him, laughing, chatting, pausing every now and then to look in the brilliantly-lighted shops at the great diamonds and emeralds, the pearls and rubies, flashing in the gaslight. He crossed over, away from the sounds and sights that jarred on him, to the Place Ven- dome, and stood by the railings of the great column of the trophies of France. " What shall I do ?" he asked himself a thousand times, as the kneeling figure, with great wistful eyes, haunted him. " Poor little soul 1 Perhaps they have already raised a hue and cry after her in the town, and all is known, or guessed, even now. How can I send her back to face the torrent of reproaches, the sneers, the cruel insults, that will be heaped upon her, pure and innocent though she is ? Surely it would be better to let her stay. Whatever happened, she could not be so miserable with me as left to the tender mercies of her own sex. 84 DOLORES. How cruel women can be to each other ! And she loves me with the first strong impulse of her unsullied child's heart. Perhaps I shall never be loved like this again." And then he thought of Milly, brilliant, winning, gra- cious, and his heart was torn by fresh emotions. " To be loved by a woman like that!" he said to himself; "a woman of whom one could never tire, of whom one would be so proud ! She may never care for me, I may never be able to win her, but even with the barest shadow of a possibility of such happiness, to cast it from me, and, out of simple compassion, to tie my whole life to a child, a doll, who would weary me to death in a month im- possible ! Poor little soul ! If I have wronged her by thoughtlessness and want of consideration, I would bear any pain, or make any sacrifice, to atone to her, and bring back happiness to her poor little heart; but to marry her impossible. And I swear before heaven she never shall suffer harm or wrong through me, or any one else, while I have a strong arm to shield her. Poor Mar- celline ! what an agony she will be in ! If she only has the sense to keep everything quiet " A sudden thought struck Sir Guy, and he went back to the hotel, and sent for his servant. "Stevens," he said, when the man came, "I want you to find out about the trains for Rouen. You must go by the very next yourself. I have a letter for you to take to the house up by the Barriere d'Ernemont and I am going myself, early to-morrow." "Very well, sir. I will inquire about the trains, and come back for the letter. How soon will it be ready." " In five minutes. " And Guy went to his room and wrote : "Miss Power is in Paris, and quite safe. If possible, let no one know that she is absent from home. I swear DOLORES IN PARIS. 8$ to bring her back to you to-morrow. She is as safe under my care as if she were my own sister." Then he went to look for his brother, and found him dining in the salle-d-manger. "Adrian," he said, sitting down opposite to him at the little table, " I want you to do me a favor." " All right, old fellow. What is it ?" "The Vivians are here; I've just been dining with them, and we were to have gone to the theatre together. Will you go instead, and say that business detains me all this evening and to-morrow, but I hope to see them in a day or two, and make my excuses?" "Oh, yes. I'll say it's business of a most important nature: couldn't possibly wait. I say, Guy, I'm not in- quisitive, I know it's not good form to ask questions, but this child, she isn't much more than a baby, what the deuce is she doing in your rooms? It's not quite your style." " Don't run away with any false notions," answered Guy, hurriedly. " I can't explain it to you now, but you may take my word of honor that she is a lady, and as pure and innocent as a child at its mother's breast. She lost her way in Paris ; Stevens luckily met her, and I am going to take her home." Captain Charteris gave a suppressed whistle, and looked incredulous. "I haven't time to bandy words," said Guy, hotly. " Will you do as I ask you?" " The Vivians are rather heavy after a long day's trav- eling, my dear fellow." " There is another lady with them." And Guy colored a little, and felt almost jealous that his brother was going to see her. "Nice?" Captain Charteris asked. 8 86 DOLORES. "Yes," briefly. "All right, then, I'll go. No occasion to dress, I suppose ?' ' "I dare say they'll excuse that. I may be back to- morrow night. At all events, I shall rely on your ex- plaining everything, so that " " No one suspects the truth." You can't knock a man down for curving the corners of his lips upwards, or elevating his eyebrows the sixteenth part of an inch, particularly if the man happens to be your brother. For the moment Guy rather wished you could. CHAPTER IX. POOR DOLORES. SIR GUY went back to the little room where he had left Dolores. He found her cowering up in a corner of the sofa, and, glancing towards the table, he perceived that she had not touched the food which had been brought her. "You promised me to eat something," he said, going up to her. "Is there nothing here you like?" " Oh, yes, indeed there is; but I cannot eat." " Come, my child, you must try. Now, sit down here. I will have some with you, and you shall pour out the coffee. Why, it is quite cold ! I will ring for some more." The child's eyes glistened. If he would eat, that was different, and she would so like to pour out coffee for him. Then he talked kindly to her, and coaxed her. POOR DOLORES. 87 and she began to smile and feel happy ; she thought now he would always let her stay. " It is not half sweet enough," he said, holding his cup across to her ; and she smiled at him and popped a great lump of sugar into it. At that moment a waiter threw the door open and came in, and some one passed along the corridor. It was Mrs. Scarlett. She half paused in her surprise at seeing Sir Guy sitting opposite to a pretty, smiling young girl, and then hurried on ; no one in the room observed her. Guy, all unconscious, was sitting tete-a-tete with Dolores in the little salon at the hotel. She dared not ask him any questions about the morrow, and he never once alluded to it, but talked to her of the wonders of Paris, and kept her smiling and amused. Presently he took out his watch. "It is time for all good children to be in bed," he said, rising. "I shall send for the femme de chambre, and she will do everything for you. To-morrow you must get up early, and come into breakfast with me at eight o'clock. Mind you sleep well. Good-night, little one," and he stooped and kissed her cheek. The color mounted to the child's face, and she shrank back a little. "Don't be afraid of me, dear," said Guy kindly. " That is how we always say good-night to our little sisters in England ;" and Dolores went away smiling, and saying to herself, " He will let me stay now." Guy went out again into the streets, feeling vexed and unsettled, hardly knowing what to do with himself, and dreading horribly the scene that must inevitably come in the morning. He did not want to see the Vivians, nor Mrs. Scarlett, nor his brother. They were so different, the two men most of all in their codes of honor. Guy knew perfectly well that if he told Captain Charteris the 88 DOLORES. truth his only answer would be a shrug, or an incredulous smile ; if Adrian believed him, he would consider him a fool ; and so Guy preferred to avoid a meeting. In the morning, when he went in to breakfast, Dolores was already there, looking out of the window. She came forward eagerly, and put up her face to him, since thai was the English custom, and he kissed her gravely and kindly. " Have you slept well?" he asked her. No, she had not slept much, but she was so happy at being in Paris, the hours had not seemed long. Then they drew up to the table, and she poured out coffee for him, as she had done the night before, and felt as if a kind of paradise had opened upon her. "It is you who do not eat this morning," she said playfully. " See how hungry I am, and how I have eaten more than my share of all the good things." As for Guy, he could not swallow a morsel ; he felt as if it would choke him. When Dolores had finished, he looked at his watch. "Will you go and put on your hat?" he said, getting up suddenly, with a painful feeling of embarrassment ; it must come now, and he had the true Englishman's horror of a scene. The child's color came and went, and she trembled. "Where are you going to take me?" she asked. "I can't deceive you," he said, going up to her and taking both her hands in his; " I must take you home. I have sent word to Marcelline that you shall be safe with her to-day. ' ' And then Dolores broke into a passion of tears and sobs, every one of which went straight to Guy's heart. He felt as if he were some cruel monster who had wittingly robbed this poor little lamb of her peace and happiness and broken her heart. " What shall I do?" he POOR DOLORES. 89 groaned to himself, and he tried to take her in his arms as he would have done a little sorrowful child. But she tore herself from him, and gasped out bitter, incoherent words, hardly intelligible through her sobs. " I will not go back I will die ! I will never see Mar- celline or mamma again. Send me out in the streets to die ! I care not ; you are so cruel, whom I believed so good and kind I It is nothing to you. Let me go away and die !" Guy was beside himself; he called her by all the most endearing names ; he took her in his arms, and laid her head upon his breast, while his own eyes were wet with unshed tears for very pity of the big drops that rained down the pale, piteous face. Had it not been for the thought of his promise to Marcelline, he would almost have resolved to keep her with him altogether. He waited with the patience of a woman until the fitful sobs began to die away, only now and then stroking the brown hair and uttering some soothing word ; and when the panting chest began to heave less painfully, and the great drops came slower, he said to her, "Let me talk to you, little one, and try to listen to me reasonably and calmly, like a woman." And Dolores said humbly, " Continue, monsieur. I will listen." "If I thought it would be for our happiness, dear, to be always together if I felt or believed I could always love you, and never weary of you, or you of me, I would make you my wife at once." "I never thought of that," interrupted Dolores, with a stifled sob. "But, my dear child, you do not understand these things. All your simple, innocent life you have lived upon that hill over Rouen ; you have never seen the 8* 90 DOLORES. world, or heard of its ways ; you don't even know what con- stitutes sin and wickedness. If I took advantage of your innocence and ignorance, I should be a 'blackguard.' " "Oh, no!" cried Dolores, shaking her head. "You could never do anything wrong or wicked." Guy was half beside himself. " If you stayed with me, Dolores, and I did not marry you, the world would despise and scorn you, and would call me a dishonorable villain." " Why should they scorn me ? the bad, cruel world !" " You cannot argue with me, child you do not under- stand, and I cannot explain to you; indeed, you must trust me, and believe that what I say is for your good." "You are very cruel !" cried Dolores, amid fresh sobs. " You do not care if my heart breaks, or if I die !" And then she fell on her knees, and put up her two little hands like a child praying, and said piteously through her tears, " Have pity on me !" After all, Guy was flesh and blood, not a stock or stone, insensible to passion or beauty, or anything else that men are touched by. He felt the blood rushing to his brain, and a strong desire possessing him to sacrifice right, honor, conscience everything for the sake of the kneeling figure before him. For one moment he forgot Milly forgot honor forgot all but the beautiful-eyed, pleading child, who loved him so dearly, so utterly ; and he snatched her in his arms and kissed her a thousand times. Then, over- come by a sudden horror of remorse, he fled from the room. "She shall go she must go!" he cried to himself, pacing up and down his room in a perfect fever. "What can I say to her ? Marcelline will be waiting in an agony. I have given my word, and how, in heaven's name, can I break it, without being the greatest blackguard on the face of the earth?" POOR DOLORES. 9 Then he caught sight of a great cloak and veil he had sent for to disguise Dolores on her journey; he threw them over his arm and went back to the room. " Child," he said, forcing his voice into harshness, " you must put on this cloak and veil and come with me at once. The train leaves in half an hour." The girl rose from the sofa and stood before him, proud and defiant. " Good -by, monsieur. Since you send me away, I go, Dut I will never return home. Why should I ? The Seine runs quite near; and then then I shall never trouble any one any more." But the voice that tried so hard to be firm failed utterly. " Don't talk like that, little one," Guy said, very ten- derly. "You make me cruel. Some day you will know that by parting from you I gave you the strongest proof of my love." "If you loved me, you would not part from me." "Very well, then," said Guy, in desperation, "say I do not love you. Would you force me to pass all my life with a woman I did not love?" "I beg your pardon, monsieur," cried the poor child, stung. to the very quick. "I did not believe you hated me. I see now how poor and disgraced I must seem in your eyes. Let me go ! I will never trouble you any more!" And, blind with pain and shameful tears, she tried to force her way past him to the street. " Dolores, before you leave me, tell me one thing," said Guy, detaining her by force. "Are you just ? Have I ever wronged or been cruel to you ? Have I tried to make you love me with soft words or false promises?" "No, monsieur, it was my own foolishness," she answered, bitterly. "I do love you, dear child love you very dearly. I pa DOLORES. will always be your friend as long as I live will shield you from harm, from sorrow or danger, as much as lies in my power. If ever you want me I will come to you at once." "If," said Dolores wistfully, looking up at his kind, earnest face through a mist of tears " if I go back home with you now, will you promise they shall not be angry 01 cruel with me ?' ' "I promise, on my sacred word of honor, if any one is cruel to you, to take you away, and place you among those who will be kind to you." "And will you come and see me sometimes just once now and then that I may not die of the misery of think- ing I shall never see you again ?' ' "I promise that too. And now, little one, wrap your- self up in these things, and we will go together." " Monsieur, I weary you ; but may I ask one little thing more of you?" "Anything in the world that is possible, my child." "Will you stay in Rouen all to-morrow, and not go away until Monday?" Guy paused a moment, and then promised. Half an hour later they were in the train, on their way to Rouen. Dolores scarcely spoke a word. She only answered, "Yes, monsieur," "No, monsieur," when her com- panion addressed her; but when he closed his eyes, or turned away to the window, she watched him furtively, with eyes brimful of tears. She was saying to herself, " If only this miserable journey would last forever, that I might at least see his face, or hear his kind voice ! ' ' "See, there is a handsome chateau!" or, "That is quite an English bit of scenery," Guy would say; and she answered, "Yes, monsieur;" but she was not thinking of what he said, only of him. And then at last the train arrived at Rouen, and he POOR DOLORES. 93 wrapped the cloak and veil tenderly round her, so that no one might by chance recognize her face or figure. As they stopped, he saw Marcelline's face gazing up from the platform, not comely and cheerful, as was its wont, but eager, haggard, worn. Guy stepped out quickly, and whispered, " Do not seem to notice her. I will take her up in a carriage to the house; you must follow on foot." "Do not drive up to the gate," she returned, in a hurried whisper; and then she disappeared. Guy lifted Dolores out, and put her into one of the station cabs, getting in after her. "Drive to the church of St. Ouen," he said to the man. The poor child leaned back against the dusty blue cushions in silence as the shaky conveyance rattled and jumbled past the scenes which she seemed to have left ages ago, instead of only the day betore. They passed the barracks, and along the quay, and then turned up the Rue Grand Pont and the Rue des Carmes. There were no eager glances at the gay shops now. What cared Dolores for the bijouterie or pictures, the bright nick- nacks or the admiring glances of the slim-waisted young officers ? At the door of St. Ouen they stopped, and Guy helped out the cloak and veiled figure. "Go in," he whispered, "and I will wait for Mar- celline." "I shall see you again?" she cried, feverishly. "Yes, dear; I am only going to wait outside. I will explain everything to Marcelline, and she shall not utter one word of reproach to you." And then Dolores went in, and the door closed between her and all she loved or valued in life. 94 DOLORES. It seemed to her as if she were going into her grave, the vast vaulted aisle struck her so chill and cold, and each footstep echoed dismally. She sat down on one of the rush-bottomed chairs, and laid her face against the back of another, and the tears came raining again from her weary eyes, and there was a numb, chill pain at her heart. What, to her, was bright coloring, or rose win- dows, or beautifully decked shrines now ? She only knew and thought that there was one supreme happiness in life that was love; one intense, heart-breaking misery that was love ; one thing to desire that was death. She did not know into what sweet lines that bitter, aching thought had been woven by a great poet. Why should saddest themes make sweetest music ? " Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain, And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain ; I know not which is sweeter no, not I. " Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death must be ; Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die." Poor little, impatient, sorrowful heart ! But sorrow comes so hard to the young. Meantime, Guy was pacing up and down the Place out- side, waiting for Marcelline, and looking in a desultory way at the statue of Napoleon and the Lantern Tower. Presently she appeared, toiling and out of breath, and he hastened forward to meet her. "Oh, monsieur, monDieu! monDieu! what a terrible affair ! What is to be done?" she cried, holding up her hands. " Come inside the doorway, where we shall not be dis- turbed," said Guy. " Now tell me is anything known ?" POOR DOLORES. 95 " Non, non, monsieur. Grace a Dieu, rien, rien, rien du tout!" " Thank God ! Have you seen my servant?" " Yes, monsieur. Ah 1 you are an angel of goodness I" and, to the young man's confusion, she seized his hand and kissed it. "Tell me, Marcelline, what did you do when you re- turned and found the poor child gone?" "Ah, monsieur, I was like one mad. I asked Jean- neton where was Mademoiselle, and she had not seen her, and came about curiously, questioning me; but I said it was nothing, though my heart failed me. I had told Mademoiselle to come and meet me, and we had missed on the road. Then I sent Jeanneton home, that I might not betray myself; and this morning, when she came and asked me where I found Mademoiselle, I told her she had been in the church, and that now she was in her own room, tired, and sleeping late. But last night, when Jeanneton was gone, I hastened and searched for the child's clothes; and when I found her best things miss- ing, and the money gone from my work-box, a great despair filled me, and I said to myself, ' She is gone to seek him.' Then I locked the house, and ran down to the Gare, and asked when a train had gone for Paris, and they told me nearly two hours since. I went to the Bu- reau, and asked the gentleman who looks through a little window if he had seen a young lady, quite young, and all alone, with a gray dress and hat, and he said yes, he re- membered such a one he believed she had gone to Amiens, but there had been a dark gentleman speaking to her. Then there came another official, and he said, ' No, the little fair demoiselle was gone to Paris,' but the first still said Amiens. Then, monsieur, my heart sank within me. I knew not how to act. The demoiselle 96 DOLORES. might not have been my child, after all j if I went away, and locked up the house, the neighbors would break open the door, and everything be discovered; if I went to Paris, how in all the great city should I find the little one ? I despaired I wrung my hands I was distracted. When I thought of the child alone in Paris, knowing nothing, knowing no one, I almost resolved to throw my- self into the Seine. For a moment a doubt of you, mon- sieur, came to me the Holy Virgin pardon me that I should ever have suspected any one so good, so noble, so generous ! but the hearts of men are evil, and the little one is beautiful. But what could I do ? Then I said, I will wait until to-morrow it may be she will return. I went home all was dark and desolate ; she was not there. I went into the church, and I prayed to the Holy Virgin to help me ah, monsieur, as I had never prayed in my life before ; and I vowed to her every sou of the money you had given me in candles for the little one's safe re- turn. Ah, the accursed gold ! It seemed to me as the thirty pieces for which Judas sold the Blessed Saviour. Then I went back to the house, and wandered to and fro, listening to every sound, thinking it might be the little one come back, and going every hour to the gate ; and very early this morning came your letter, and I wellnigh went mad for joy and for happiness to think I had be- trayed my horror to no one. Ah, monsieur, tell me, I pray, how it was that you found the child in the great city, where she must have been lost a thousand times but for the mercy of the Blessed Virgin 1" BON SECOURS. 97 CHAPTER X. BON SECOURS. AND Guy told her what we already know. "Now," he said, "promise me never to utter a harsh word or a reproach to the poor child on the subject." " I, monsieur ? Man Dieu / I make reproaches to the little innocent ! Do you take me for a barbarous one?" " On the contrary, I believe you to be all that is kind and tender. We will go to her now, and this afternoon I am coming up to see her. To-morrow, also, I have promised to remain in Rouen." Marcelline looked at him for a moment doubtfully, but she had not courage to oppose, even by i word, this man whom she looked upon as a marvel of nobleness and gen- erosity. Then they went up the aisle together, and found Dolores, with her face still buried in her hands. " Pauvre chou /" murmured Marcelline, her eyes filling with tears as she laid a kind hand on the child's shoulder. Then she took her gently by the arm, saying, " Come home with me, my lamb." Guy stooped down and whispered, " Go with her, dear. I will come and see you at four this afternoon." Then Dolores took heart, and, drying her tears, went away up the hill with Marcelline ; and Guy stayed behind in the great church, feeling sore grieved and perplexed. "Would to God I had never followed her in here the first time !" he said to himself. " If I could only undo what I have unwittingly done, what would I not give I" G . 9 98 DOLORES. It tortured him horribly to think of the tear-stained face and sobbing mouth ; he who would not willingly have given pain to any one or anything on earth. " She is only a child," he tried to comfort himself by saying; "she will soon forget." But he knew that in the nature of things it could not be yet awhile. A young beauty in the world of fashion may soon lose the heart-ache in a whirl of continual excitement, but this poor child, with no resources or amusements, leading a dull, monotonous life in this old town what had she to do but nurse and foster her sorrow, until it grew into a burden too heavy for her poor frail nature to bear ? As he stood leaning against the great column, he asked himself seriously whether he was not in honor bound to marry the girl whom he had wronged, however uninten- tionally. She was a dear lovable thing. Then he re- membered the misery he had seen among his friends from incongruous marriages, and how bitterly some of them had repented, and he felt it was impossible. Presently he left the church, and wandered down among the old streets that had interested him so much only a week ago; the curious old market-place, the Rue des Arpents, the Rue Malpalue. Then, bethinking himself of his servant, he went down to the quay. Stevens was standing at the door, talking to the landlord. "There is a room disengaged on the first floor, Sir Guy, if you like to have it," the discreet valet said, touching his hat. "Very well," Guy answered, "I shall probably stay until Monday morning, but you can go back to Paris. Tell Captain Charteris he may expect me on Monday, but that I shall write." In the afternoon, even before four o'clock, Guy was standing at the gate of the white house on the hill. BON SECOURS. 99 Dolores was not there waiting for him as she used to wait, straining eager eyes and welcoming him with glad smiles a long way off; Marcelline was there instead. "How is she?" the young man asked in a low voice. "She has poured out tears in torrents, has spoken little, and I have hardly persuaded her to taste a mouthful of food. 1 ' "Poor little soul!" said Guy, filled with compassion. "Be good to her," and he would have placed five napo- leons in Marcelline's hand, but she started back as if something had stung her. "No, no, no, monsieur! a thousand times no! I will never take any one's gold again that I have not earned, and I need no bribe to be kind to the poor little one." "I am sure you don't," said Guy, heartily; "I did not think of that;" and then he followed her up the garden into the house. Dolores was lying crouched up in a corner of the sofa when he entered ; her eyes were closed. She did not even move when he came up to her. Marcelline closed the door behind him, and went away sorrowfully to the kitchen, saying to herself, "Ah, if only the little one had a big dot, this brave milor might marry her, and all the trouble be saved. But for him she must have hundreds of thousands of francs at least. Ah, how one would be well in the world if every one were rich just as he wanted it !" Then she brisked about, and scolded Jeanneton, who did not mind very much, since she was deaf. "Who was the fine gentleman following you up the garden?" the old woman asked, presently turning from the wooden dresser where she was peeling an onion, and looking curiously at Marcelline. For a moment the latter was tempted to wish that poor Jeanneton was blind as well as deaf. 100 DOLORES. "Fine gentleman, indeed 1" she answered scornfully, clattering the plates together. "Since when have you had such an eye for a fine man?" "II 6tait beau cependant, ce monsieur," said Jeanneton, sagaciously. "Well, then, it was the English curb's brother, come to give a little spiritual advice to Mademoiselle." "He is not like the cur6 I have seen, then," returned Jeanneton, "a poor little, pale, meagre man. And the English priests are allowed to marry; it cannot be well, then, for them to come and give spiritual advice to pretty little ones like our demoiselle." " Bah !" said Marcelline defiantly, " you know nothing about it." "Ah, ah!" retorted Jeanneton, with a grin that showed a painful deficiency of front teeth, "handsome young men and girls are much the same everywhere, English or French. And the English are a fine race. I always liked a big man myself." "Pouf !" snorted Marcelline, contemptuously. " Ah ! I wasn't always like what I am now, I can tell you," said old Jeanneton, piqued; "once there wasn't a grisette in all the Quartier Latin with brighter eyes or a neater ankle." "Bah!" sneered Marcelline, "all old women have been pretty in their youth, if one believed them." "You may believe or not, it is nothing to me," re- torted Jeanneton, fiercely. " You think because you are fat, and have a double chin, that a man would have no eyes for a small slight figure." Marcelline gave a little short laugh. "Ah, mapauvre fille, we need not trouble ourselves to quarrel about what we have been, since I don't suppose any man would care much about either of us now." And BON SECOURS. Io i with that practical remark, the worthy soul betook her- self into the garden to gather herbs. Dolores lay upon the sofa, looking so white and still, saying never a word in answer to Guy's little kind em- barrassed sentences. Now and then she heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of her heart. It was infectious he answered it by another. After half an hour of this sort of thing, he feels he can't stand it any longer. "If it weren't for that other one," he thinks ruefully, " hang me if I wouldn't send for the parson and marry her at once. I believe she'll die, and then I shall have been her murderer." He gets up abruptly, and goes towards the door. " Don't leave me oh, don't leave me !" she gasps. " No, no, dear, I am coming back," and he closes the door softly and goes out to Marcelline, who is on her knees in the kitchen garden plucking herbs. " This is the very devil," he says, addressing her in his own vernacular, quite oblivious in his perplexity that she doesn't understand him. Guy, being unable to translate his sentence, pauses for a moment. "Pardon, monsieur?" responds Marcelline, picking herself up with some difficulty. "Is she getting reason- able?" Marcelline asks, pointing over her shoulder to the windows of the drawing-room. Guy shakes his head. "We can't go on like this," he says; "we must do something to distract her mind." "Mais, mon Dieu, comment?" inquires Marcelline, w!th a gesture expressive of profound despair. "I've promised to spend to-morrow here," pursues Guy; "but it is too dreadful to think of in this state of things. Look here, Marcelline," as an idea strikes him, "couldn't I have a carriage and take her out for the day?" 9* loa DOLORES. "Impossible." " Not impossible if you went too. You told me once her mother never speaks to any one here, and as for other people, you're clever enough to make it all right." tf Voyons/" reflects Marcelline, " to-morrow is Sunday, every one is abroad." " Every one but the English parson, who you say is the only person Mrs. Power ever speaks to. Now, if I were to have a carriage and take you both a little excursion, say to Bon Secours, it might distract her thoughts and do her good ; and I tell you frankly, I can't come up here with the prospect of another such day as to-day." Marcelline ruminates. " Madame returns on Thursday Thursday, and to-day is Saturday. Something must be done with the child, or her white face will tell everything. One must risk a little, and if the neighbors are inquisitive well, I shall satisfy them," she said, with a sagacious and self-approving nod. So it is arranged, and Guy goes back, a shade more cheerful, to the little drawing-room. "Come, dear, cheer up," he says, taking Dolores's hand. " Marcelline and I have been concocting a little plan for to-morrow." The wet gray eyes look sadly at him, but she is silent. "Well, have you none of the curiosity of your sex?" he adds, with an attempt at gayety. A little grievous shake of the head answers him. " Well, then, I suppose I must tell you. You, and I, and Marcelline are going to have a carriage and drive to Bon Secours we will dine and spend the day there. Come, now, won't that be a pleasant change?" A little gleam comes into the pale face. "Yes," says the poor broken voice. He sits a little time longer with her, and she brightens BON SECOURS. I0 3 up at last. It is such a great thing for a child, or indeed for any of us, to have something to look forward to. And by the next morning, when he comes to fetch her and Marcelline, and take them to the carriage that waits half-way up the hill, she is almost her old self again. She feels almost happy, sitting by Sir Guy's side in the lumbering fly, with its pair of veteran brown horses to her simple notion it seems quite grand. And, oh, how kind he is to her, stopping at the confectioner's to buy her all manner of cakes and sweetmeats (though she has not much heart to eat them now), and pointing out every- thing of interest on the road ! Marcelline, sitting oppo- site in her grand white cap and gloves, is the perfec- tion of a discreet duenna. She seems to see and hear nothing. How deeply that drive is engraven on the child's mind long, long after ! The bright hot sun shining on the water, the view from the quay of the bright green islands down the Seine, the tall poplars and the airy railway- bridge. She remembers the great rocks by the roadside full of holes, in and out of which black birds kept flying; the blind, halt, and maimed who sat by the wayside clam- oring for alms, to whom compassionate Guy threw sous and small silver coins, and sometimes large ones ; the good-looking young douanier at the Barriere too, who asked if they had anything to declare ; and the unfinished chateau half-way up the hill, which the builder had not lived to inhabit, but which was falling into ruin, while his heirs quarreled and went to law over it. Then they come to Notre Dame de Bon Secours, where they alight. "While you are saying your prayers," says Sir Guy to Marcelline, " we two will walk round the church, and afterwards you will find us in the cemetery." 104 DOLORES. Marcelline curtsies, and goes through the little side- aisle to the beautiful altar of the Virgin. She says very long prayers more than three times the wonted length of her orisons ; for has not the Holy Virgin heard her prayers and rescued the little innocent from the devour- ing jaws of the Evil One ? And who knows, thought the honest woman, but that the brave Englishman may com- passionate the little one, and make a grand milady of her, even though she has no dot} One had said to her that it was not always in England as in France a matter of convenance and arrangement, but that love and beauty were thought more of than even rank and fortune. Meantime Sir Guy and Dolores are walking round the beautiful church. Beautiful it is, with its pillars in scrolls of rich red and blue, green and gold its many windows splendid with all the colors of the prism, like the Moorish palace its arches covered with fair pictured angels bearing scrolls and garlands its altar-piece of gold, standing in a chancel paved with the most exquisite mosaics. " Come here," says Guy, drawing her to the right side of the church, and showing her the hundreds of white marble tablets set in the wall, and inscribed with the thanks and prayers of many a mother, husband, wife, for the recovery of dear ones. " I prayed to Mary, and she heard me." So they all ran. Then, going out, they descend to the cemetery, and stand looking down upon the scene below. The broad white road curves and winds up the green hill; the yellow Seine glitters in the sunlight; to the right lies the busy town, with its churches, its manufactories, its tall chimneys. In the midst of the river, opposite the town, stands a big island, covered with houses and little green gardens running down to its banks. The keen, BON SECOURS. Ic >5 fresh air blows in their faces ; there is a distant hum of stirring life from below in the silence they can even hear the dogs barking and the cocks crowing ; and there at theil feet lie the tranquil dead, sleeping their long sleep in the narrow graves which loving hands have strewn with flowers and immortelles. Priez pmir eux ! "Are you tired, my child?" asks the young man ten- derly, seeing a weary, wistful look come into the girl's eyes. " What are you thinking of?" " I am thinking I should like to die here to-day, while I am happy, and you are still with me." "You don't know what you say, my little one," he answers her kindly, taking her hand in his " you, with all your life before you; and please God many bright days in store." "I shall never be happy any more;" and big tears rise in the blue eyes and roll down on the grass like diamonds. Guy looks at her, feeling so grieved, and yet so utterly impotent to comfort her. "Oh, child," he cries presently, "if you only knew how you pain me ! I feel as though you were a poor little weak defenseless lamb that I had maimed and tortured." Dolores dries her eyes and looks up. " No, no, no !" she says quickly ; " it is only my fool- ishness. You have been very, very good, and I am un- grateful. See, here comes Marcelline. Before she reaches us, may I ask you something?" "Yes, dear, anything." "Will you come only up to the gate to-morrow morn- ing, and bid me good-by before you go ?' ' "I will." "You promise?" "I promise." E* 106 DOLORES. Then Marcelline came up, and they all went and had dinner together, and returned home by another road. Guy walked up and down the quay, smoking, until a very late hour that night. He lighted one cigar after another, and puffed sometimes quickly and vigorously at it, and sometimes so gently and thoughtfully you could hardly see the faint blue line curl from his lips. He was thinking of the strange things that had befallen him that week a week that almost promised to be the most eventful one of his life. He could not forget Milly, he longed passionately to see her again, and yet he loved this poor, innocent, sorrowful child, who clung to him with a strange, wild worship. And all that day she had been so sweet, so soft and tender, there had been no touch of waywardness in her. She seemed the dearest, most lovable thing in the world. " What some men would give to have a dear, loving little creature like that to pet and fondle 1" he said to himself; " but somehow I feel differ- ently about these things. I'm not a clever fellow myself, and a woman to win and keep my real love must be some- thing I could admire and be proud of; not a woman full of head-knowledge, and ready to overpower you with it on every occasion, but a dear, soft, feminine thing, full of bright intelligence and ready wit, who would show her beautiful soul in her eyes, and make you feel all the better and nobler for her influence. I should like to have had a little sister like Dolores. How fond I should have been of her ! If she had done the most foolish things in the world, I should have forgiven her, rather than to see the tears in her blue eyes, or the poor little mouth quiver that was only made to laugh and kiss. It makes my heart bleed when I think of her sad and sorrowful. It reminds me of the poor little wounded kitten I once saved from Adrian's dog. Will she remember me long after I am BON SECOURS. 107 gone, I wonder? Will she go about with a wan face and an aching heart ? My God ! if I thought she would, my poor little darling, I never could be such a brute as to leave her." And then Guy threw away the end of his cigar, and went into the hotel. The next morning, faithful to his promise, he went up to the Barriere to bid Dolores good- by. There she stood, looki;.g for him, her face so wan and wistful ; but when he approached, the color flushed up in her cheeks, so that he could not see its real expres- sion. She comes near to him, and puts one trembling hand on his, looking up in his face with eyes dimmed by tears. " Monsieur, I must say one little word to you before you go." "Say on, dear child," and he would have kissed her hand, but she draws it away quickly. "I did not think," she falters, her color coming and going " I did not know I would say I did not consider that in going after you to Paris I was doing something something that was shameful, and would lose me your esteem. Perhaps I was mad, but then only one thought filled me to see you once more, to be with you, and my great pain of losing you made me forget all else." She has never seemed so dear, so lovable in Guy's eyes as at this moment, when she stands before him ashamed, embarrassed, uttering her piteous words, painfully and brokenly. He leans against the high grass bank under the elms, and draws her towards him, until her head lies on his breast. Then he says, " My child, I never in my life had any but the tender- est, kindest thoughts of you. Your innocent love would be the dearest thing in all the world to me, if I only felt I could make it the return it deserves." io8 DOLORES. " I want no return," she answers, quickly. "I only want to tell you what I feel. I never seemed to see how wrong and foolish I had been until last night, when I lay awake all the long hours. Then it came to me all at once with a great horror, and I blushed for shame, even in the darkness, to think how I must have seemed in your eyes." " You never seemed anything to me, darling, but what was dear, and good, and honest," says Guy, stooping and kissing her tenderly. "I shall never have any thought of you except to blame myself. And remember, dear, if you are in any trouble or sorrow, write to me at once, and wherever I am, whatever I may be doing, I will come to you." Dolores looks up at him eagerly. "Will you," she falters "will you write to me just once or twice when you are in England, before you have quite forgotten me?" "I shall never forget you, my child; but I will send you a letter sometimes, if you wish it." "And some day, when you are in Paris, in the gay world, will you remember poor Dolores, and come out here to see her?" " Yes, dear, that I will. And now I must go ; there is no more time to spare." The poor child holds his hand quite tight for a moment, as though she cannot bear to let him go ; then she says, sobbing, "Adieu, monsieur adieu!" Guy feels as if he should cry himself if he stayed any longer. He draws her close to him and kisses her ten- derly, without speaking a word ; then he tears himself away, and hurries down the hill without once looking back. GUY'S TURN. I0 9 He felt utterly miserable during the journey back to Paris. He did not even think of Milly, or that he was going to see her ; it would have seemed too cruel to in- dulge one pleasant thought while this poor child was breaking her heart about him. CHAPTER XI. GUY'S TURN. IT was about one o'clock when Guy entered his rooms in Paris. Some letters were lying on the table a note from Adrian on the top : " MY DEAR GUY, In case you return before I get back, I leave a line to tell you that we're all off to Versailles for the day we being the Vivians, Mrs. Scarlett, and myself. What an awfully jolly little woman she is ! I'm tremen- dously obliged to you for putting me in the way of such a good thing, and shall be more so still if it comes to anything. I shouldn't wonder. I like her amazingly, and she seems to reciprocate. I've made the most of my time ; we've been together the whole of the last three days. By the way, I've smoked all your cigars, but I have left an address with Stevens, where Fox tells me you can get rattling good ones, but be sure to mention his name. We are going a nice little parti carre to the theatre to-night. Crichton kindly takes Mrs. Vivian off, and I look after the charming widow. Old Vivian tells me she has ^3000 a year, which she doesn't lose too good HO DOLORES. a chance to let slip, though I hate the thought of marrying like the devil. " Your affectionate brother, "ADRIAN CHARTERIS. "P.S. Vivian wants you to dine and go to Mabille with him. Mrs. Scarlett, it seems, saw you sitting with your mysterious little visitor drinking coffee on Friday night." As Guy read the letter, the color gradually flushed into his face a sickening sensation came over him the room seemed to reel. Stevens came in hurriedly at this moment. "Beg pardon, Sir Guy; I didn't expect you quite so soon. Shall I order some lunch, Sir Guy? The captain's gone out. He left a letter, and I was to be sure and give you this card with the cigar-merchant's address." "All right," said Guy, collecting himself with an effort. "I don't want anything at present; come back in an hour." Stevens disappeared, and Guy sat down and looked out of the window. He saw nothing, felt nothing, at first ; it was as if he had been stunned by a heavy blow. "Poor little girl !" he said presently, half aloud. "It is awfully hard to care for some one who doesn't care for you." He was thinking of Dolores. Then he roused himself. "What a fool I am to be so upset!" he thought, angrily; " I dare say it's only his swagger. He's a good- looking fellow enough, but what the deuce should she see in him to marry? He does well enough to swell the train of her lovers, but, pshaw ! marrying's a very different affair. I wish to heaven she lost every penny of her accursed money if she marries again ! It's an awful GUY'S TURN. m temptation to fellows who are poor. Anyhow, I'll stop and see for myself how matters are." Suffering makes us compassionate, and during that dreary afternoon Guy sent many a thought to Rouen, to the poor little girl whose wet blue eyes and trembling lips were so deeply printed on his mind. He went to the jeweler's and bought the locket set with pearls that had taken his fancy some days before, fastened a gold chain to it, and sent it off with the kindest letter he could frame. He never got the blurred, tear-stained, touching little letter that thanked him for it. The child could not rightly remember the name of his hotel, but she sent it in hope that he would get it. There could not be two Sir Guy Wentworths in Paris. When Guy returned to his room, Stevens met him. " Mr. Vivian's valet was here not ten minutes ago, Sir Guy, asking for you. I said you were out. Mr. Vivian wanted to see you in his room." Guy turned back, and went to the Vivians' room. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open. Charles Vivian was not there, but Milly Scarlett was, and alone. "Come in, Sir Guy," she says, gayly. "I am com- missioned to keep you until Mr. Vivian returns; he won't be more than ten minutes." The blood seems to rush from Guy's heart ; he hesitates, stammers something, and then walks straight up to Milly where she stands. He will never know how he came to act as he did ; the gravest actions of a man's life are often unpremeditated. " Don't think me quite mad," he says, in a voice thick and hoarse with feeling, for he does feel intensely at this moment ; feels at sight of this woman as if life or death hung upon her fiat. "You know nothing of me, you have seen nothing of me; I am not in any way worthy 112 DOLORES. of you, but I love you so madly that I cannot help speak- ing of it !" Great beads stand on his forehead from emotion. Milly, who has had many love-declarations, has never seen a man more in earnest than this. She is half frightened, and puts up her hand deprecatingly. "If you refuse me ten thousand times over," he says passionately, before she has time to speak, " I must tell you how I love you I must ask you to try to care for me a little." " Hush !" she says, the scarlet blood rising to her tem- ples, while her eyes look away from him. " Don't you know?" " Know what ?" harshly. "That I am going to marry your brother." He stands staring at her as if he had turned into stone. She feels dreadfully sorry for him. She would have given anything to avoid this scene. People have called her vain and heartless, but she is not vain and heartless enough to see a man suffer for loving her, and be glad. Milly puts her hand that delicate white hand he longs for so keenly into his. He shivers at the touch. "I never dreamed of this," she says, ever so sweetly, " How could I, after I saw you on Friday night with " She stops, confused. Guy laughs a bitter, strident laugh. "How indeed?" he says, harshly, wondering to him- self why Fate should have played these pranks with him. He feels the small hand in his; it burns him. He looks at Milly with strange eyes. A momentary madness seizes him. He takes her in his arms as in a vice, and, holding her, kisses her once, twice, thrice. Then she is alone, stupefied, frightened, half paralyzed. A moment, and Charles Vivian comes in. GUY'S TURN. H 3 " Was that Guy Wentworth I saw rushing out of this like a lunatic?" he asks. "Yes; he was afraid of being late for dinner," she answers quietly, recovering herself in a second. " Milly, how white you look ! You are shaking like a leaf, I believe." "I! My dear Charles, you have been smoking too much ; you can't see distinctly. Feel," she says, put- ting her hand on his "that is perfectly steady, is it not?" "Perfectly. I suppose I was mistaken." When Mr. Vivian inquires for Guy, he is nowhere to be found. The consequence is, the parti carrt is spoiled, for he does not see the fun of dining alone, and is utterly oblivious of the fact that he is not wanted. "Rum thing Guy going off like that !" he remarks to his wife later when they are alone. "I don't see anything particularly rum in it," she answers, pettishly ; for has he not spoiled their pleasant little projected party of four, and made himself further obnoxious by his unpleasant remarks ? "Of course not," he remarks, with sarcasm. "If the house tumbled into the street, or anything equally unlikely took place, it wouldn't seem strange to you if I happened to think it was." " I don't want to argue," she says, yawning. " Thank heaven it isn't necessary for my liver to be getting up a quarrel about nothing every half-hour in the day." " I suppose it's your charming placidity that puts so much superfluous flesh on you?" retorts Charles Vivian, agreeably, knowing her embonpoint is a very sore subject with his wife. For a wonder she makes no reply. "I believe," he says presently, resuming the thread of his discourse "I believe Guy proposed to Milly this H 10* H4 DOLORES. afternoon, and I believe she'll marry that confounded young fool Adrian." Mrs. Vivian laughs contemptuously. "Your penetration is wonderful. Guy want to marry her, when he only saw her for a few hours, and then went straight off with another woman, or girl, or whatever she was!" " Deuce take me if I understand about the girl !" says Charles Vivian, reflectively. "A little thing with a baby face, Adrian says, not more than sixteen. Milly says so, doesn't she ? And then Guy seeming so queer over it. and not telling me a word about her. He always used to confide in me about his affairs. However, just as I was coming along the passage, I saw him rushing out of the room like a maniac. I called to him, but he didn't stop, and when I went in Milly was as white as a sheet." " Nonsense ! you must have fancied it ; besides, he did not seem so particularly struck with her." " Didn't he ? My dear Gertrude, what a shocking bad memory you have ! Don't you remember the night we dined at the Cafe Anglais, when you put on a new gown, and displayed more than usual of your charms for his benefit, it was all lost upon him? By Jove!" and Mr. Vivian laughs pleasantly, "he never saw any one or anything but Milly." "Really?" says his wife, reddening with anger. "I almost wonder you have not fallen a victim, since you seem to think Mrs. Scarlett such a siren." "She's tremendously nice and clever; but love will never make a victim of me again," he replies, with a wry face. " You may congratulate yourself upon having had one captive all to yourself, to torture and do with what seemeth good in your eyes." "One," said his wife, with infinite contempt, "and GUY'S TURN. 115 what a one ! I might have married half a dozen men, as you know well enough, and none of them could have made me half as miserable as you have done !" "Quite true, I dare say; but you were practical, you know. I was by far the best match of the lot." "Of course you were," she says, bitterly, "or I shouldn't have married you. What on earth was there in you to please any woman ? plain, awkward, ill-tempered, badly dressed as you were, except your miserable money ! I was a pretty girl, I was admired, and you bought me." Charles Vivian sticks his glass into his eye, and con- templates his wife lazily for a few moments. "Hm!" he says thoughtfully. "I suppose you were once ; but, by Jove, it requires the eye of faith to realize it now!" "I detested and despised you then," she flames out passionately; "you know I refused you three times." " I can only regret that you ever exerted your woman's privilege of changing your mind in my favor," he an- swers politely. " I hate you !" she cries, bursting into tears. " Mutual, I assure you. Don't spoil those lovely eyes. Good-night. Dormez Men, mon ange," and he retires to his dressing-room. How they hate each other at that moment ! What hate is so black or bitter as the hatred of man and wife ? only fortunately in many cases it comes on in paroxysmSj and is too violent to last. Il6 DOLORES. CHAPTER XII. LONDON IN SPRING. ONE of those delicious spring days just after Easter, when the season has scarcely begun, but nearly every one is in town, and London is charming. It is not surprising that strangers think our dear old city a dull, unsociable, dingy place, especially when they have just come from Paris the gay, the bright, the beau- tiful ; but, I believe, to the genuine Londoner, it is the real El Dorado in the first blush of the dawning season, when he comes back to it from the country, or abroad, and meets everybody he knows between the top of Bond Street and the middle of Pall Mall. They look so cheery and so glad to see you too, and the pretty women of your acquaintance are so much more pressing in their invita- tions than later on, when they are bored to death with the business of pleasure, and exhausted after so much hard labor in entertaining and being entertained. "Now, you must come to tea, I have so much to tell you ; and have you seen So-and-So, and So-and-So, and did you hear ? but I'll tell you all about it when you come. Now, don't forget I shall expect you. No. , the old address. Good-by." And Madame rolls away in her carriage, which she has actually stopped to speak to you ; and you pursue your way smiling, very well pleased with yourself and your neighbor, thinking what an awfully charming woman this is, what an awfully jolly place Lon- don is, and what an awful mistake it is to go abroad to be amused, when everything is so much nicer and pleasanter LONDON IN SPRING. 117 in England. And the little dinners people give are so much jollier, because they are not duty dinners, but friendly and sociable; and you are asked to meet the people you like, and not dreadful, heavy old fogies, who have to be entertained because they have given a big feed to your host and hostess, or are going to do so some time during the season. Your club is just pleasant j there are enough fellows to make it cheery, without the horrid mob that fills it between the popular race-meetings. The trees are throwing out tender green shoots: you've put on your blue frock-coat, with a jardiniere in the button-hole, the first time this season ; you've had your hair cut, and, on the whole, rather fancy yourself, as you stroll down St. James's Street, arm in arm with another fellow, laughing with unfeigned enjoyment at the piquant little stories about everybody that you haven't heard because you've been away so long. And, after all, you're very well pleased with your own countrywomen, because they look fresh and lady-like, though they don't dress like French- women or Americans, and though, with a few exceptions, their boots froissent you inexpressibly. In this pleasant position George Thornton finds him- self on the afternoon of which I am about to write. He has been wintering abroad with his mother and sister, and, in spite of the awful blow he thinks he got in being thrown over by Mrs. Scarlett, he manages to sustain life with equanimity, and to feel pretty jolly, though he gives vent to his spleen by the assumption of a certain cynicism of manner, and by railing at women, after the manner of a disappointed boy, whenever he can conveniently bring up the subject. He has plenty of opportunity ; he and his compeers divide their conversation very equally between horses and women. As they turn the corner by Sams's his friend suddenly IX 8 DOLORES. disengages his arm, and in a moment is leaning half-way into the window of a brougham, into which he almost immediately jumps, and is conveyed away from young Thornton's eyes. " Oh, hang the women 1" he mutters, with a very glum visage. "Just in the middle of that story, too! And now, if I see Fitz, I shan't know whether to mention her to him or not. By Jove 1 Brooke, is that you, old fellow?" This to another man, who had just come up, with a hearty shake of the hand. " Why, Georgy, where have you been hiding all the winter?" says the new-comer, in a cheery voice, pleasant to hear (by the way, what a gift a good voice is ! ). " Nobody seemed to know what had become of you, and I began to think the Jews had taken possession of your valuable person." " Not so bad as that yet, old fellow. I think they'd have found me too expensive keep. I'm not at all sure my amusing conversation would have compensated them, and that's all they'd have got out of me. I've been wintering abroad for my health." "The deuce you have ! Well, you look pretty fit, sr I suppose your good intentions were crowned with suc- cess. I wrote you a line in December, and asked you to come down to the Court. I had some rattling good mounts for you, and the shooting was extra good this year; but I concluded you were off somewhere, as I didn't hear from you." "Thanks, old fellow! I needn't tell you I never got the letter. I told that fool at the club to forward my private letters, but they always send the wrong ones. I got about forty circulars, and had to pay I don't know what for them ; but they get the infernal thing up in such a way now, I defy you to tell by the outside what they LONDON IN SPRING. 119 are. And I'm so awfully afraid of looking in the ghastly pile of bills I know awaits me, that I haven't opened a single envelope yet." " But did you really go abroad because you were seedy, Georgy?" " Yes, 'pon my word. I got a nasty kind of swimming in my head, nerves bad, always felt jumpy, you know, so I went and saw some fellow about it, and he sent me off to Nice, and advised me to keep pretty quiet. The doctor there is a very shrewd fellow ; he asked me a heap of questions, knocked off the brandies and sodas, got me to bed in decent time, and in a couple of months I was as fit as ever I was in my life." "That's it!" says Colonel Brooke. "The going abroad's all humbug; if you'd followed out that prescrip- tion and stopped at home, the result would have been just the same." "Of course it would, my dear boy, but I should like just to see anybody doing it in London, or anywhere else, as long as he stopped in England. I say, by Jove, Brooke, why do Englishwomen wear such awfully bad boots?" "Don't know, I'm sure. I never thought about it. I suppose they don't go to the right people. But tell me all about Nice what sort of a place is it?" "Oh, very jolly for a little while. Not much to do if you don't gamble and dance, and I didn't do the former, because, thank heaven, it doesn't amuse me, and I couldn't do much in the dancing line, on account of my head." " I wonder the green cloth never tempted you, Georgy. You're not altogether so averse to the excitement of betting, unless you're very much changed from what you were when I saw you." "Oh, I don't mind losing my money in a gentleman- 110 DOLORES. like way on a horse, but I hate the other thing. Always did. I don't know why. Of course it's all right for those who like it, only it doesn't amuse me. The worst part of it is, seeing the women. By Jove, when I was there, there were two or three awfully pretty, well-bred women ; and to see their keen, eager faces and their quivering lips, to see them sitting side by side with the most degraded of both sexes, made my blood boil. I think if ever I saw a woman play I cared about, I should strangle her." "I never heard you so down upon anything before, Georgy!" laughed his friend. "Well, you know, it seems such profanation. There's Monaco, one of the loveliest spots on God's earth; you stand on the terrace outside the Casino, and look down at the sea as blue as blue as blue as ' ' "A sapphire," suggests Colonel Brooke. "Yes, blue as a sapphire, without any humbug. And the mountains all round are red and purple in the sun, just for all the world as the Scotch heather looks; and it's the most calm, peaceful gem of a bit of scenery you can imagine. And then to turn from that, and go back into the gaudily-painted rooms, and see all the fevered, restless faces, and breathe the stifling odor faugh! it's like going from heaven to hell !" "By Jove! what a tirade! Well, as you are getting so moral, as you wouldn't play, and you couldn't dance, how on earth did you get through the time? Any pretty women there?" "Oh, confound women! I'm sick of them." But his face belies him, for at this moment he flushes scarlet as the neatest of Victorias pulls up in front of him, and Milly Scarlett's eyes beckon him. "The two very people I wanted to see," she says, LONDON IN SPRING. X2I shaking hands with them both. "We were just speaking of Colonel Brooke: weren't we, Laura?" turning to the very pretty golden-haired woman beside her. "Yes how d'ye do, Colonel Brooke how d'ye do, Georgy?" Everybody calls him Georgy. "We must have a chat with you both, and we can't talk here; but we are going straight home won't you both come and have tea with us?" The two men acquiesce. Mr. Thornton feels as if he ought to stand on his dignity, and never go near Milly again; but somehow, when her eyes are upon him, he seems bewitched, and gives a glad assent, instead of the frigid refusal he had contemplated. "Somebody told me Mrs. Scarlett was going to marry Charteris," says Colonel Brooke, as the Victoria drives off. "I should hardly think it can be true." "They say so," answers young Thornton stiffly. "I don't know what she sees in him a fellow with no brains, and a head like a barber's block. What a confounded clatter there is in the street !" he continues irritably, for he does not relish the subject. "Why on earth can't they make the roads here as they are in Paris ? I always feel the most utter contempt for London when I come back from there." " I don't think London is such a bad place after all," laughs the other. "I know I'm always precious glad to get back to it after I've been away a couple of months." " Oh, London's well enough, as far as the people go, and one's clubs, and comfort, and that sort of thing, but it's a very seedy place to look at. I don't wonder at foreigners hating it after their bright, cheery towns. Why, just look at our narrow streets, with the dwarfed houses all at sixes and sevens, built in every various style of in- elegant architecture known !" 122 DOLORES. " My good fellow, that's the beauty of our British inde- pendence. An Englishman's house is his castle." "It may be," retorts the other, "but I wish to good- ness he wasn't allowed to offend every one's eyes with it. As for Trafalgar Square, it's a downright blot on the nation. Ton my soul, I don't feel a bit more ashamed of Leicester Square. We want Haussmann here for twelve months : he'd make a clean sweep of those beastly little houses in the Strand, and open a view of the Houses of Parliament and St. James's Park." For when Georgy Thornton spoke it was the day of the Empire, when Paris was the Queen of Cities, when there were gala days and feasts and shows, when her face was fair, beloved, and when the ashes of shame and the sack- cloth of misery were not wrapped round her as a garment but, instead, laughter and power and wanton mirth. Five minutes later the two men are in the most grace- ful, most luxurious little drawing-room in all London. Milly and Mrs. Craven have arrived before them. A delicate service of transparent china stands on the low table, with one or two bottles of quaint shape, whose contents hint of masculine proclivities; a little copper kettle sings merrily on a wood fire, for the afternoon air is chilly j and a collie, the handsomest of his race, lies watchful upon the fur rug. Mrs. Craven has an infinite personal advantage over Milly Scarlett. She is indisputably a beauty, golden- haired by the real rare gift of nature, blue-eyed, and with the figure of Dannecker's Ariadne. At first you might have said one had no chance against the other, but after you had been for some time in company with the two you might feel inclined to turn from the fairer face, with its serene unchanging smile, to that other, all lights and shades, varying with every new emotion gay, grave, pa- A DISCUSSION. 123 thetic, scornful, tender. To the first, ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have given the apple, the hun- dredth would have kept it for Milly ; and perchance when the ninety and nine had gone their way and forgotten, he, poor fellow, would be haunted by a memory too deep to crush out. Colonel Brooke lounges into the dormeuse beside Mrs. Craven ; young Thornton stands with his back to the chimney-piece, and the talk is of theatres, operas, little scandals, and such things as men and women of the world do talk of over afternoon tea. Colonel Brooke and Mrs. Craven are not in the secret of Georgy's disappointment, and the latter innocently tells a touching story of the blighted affections of a certain young Guards- man, who loved a lady fair and false, and is supposed to have gone to the bad in consequence. CHAPTER XIII. A DISCUSSION. " JUST like 'em !" breaks in Georgy, bitterly. "What do they care, as long as they're amused ! I suppose it's a good thing to find them out in time. I've given up believing in them long ago." (The long ago in Georgy's reckoning of time is exactly a fortnight.) " How absurd for a boy like you to talk in that way !" laughs Mrs. Craven. "There isn't much of the boy left in one after four years in the service, Mrs. Craven," says young Thornton, with a shade of pique ; " the taunt don't go home." 124 DOLORES. "What a goose you are, Georgy! as if I meant to taunt you." " No, but that's such a favorite weapon of you charm- ing women. You lead fellows, on, or you play with them, or make catspaws of them, and then afterwards, if any mischief comes of it, or they're indignant, or you've broken their hearts and sent them to the devil, it's always, ' That boy ! who would have fancied his being so ridiculous? too absurd, you know !' and the woman who has been crazing your brain with her soft looks and speeches turns round when it's got as far as she chooses, and says with the most maternal air, ' My dear boy, it's too absurd. I'm old enough to be your mother.' They don't say that when it's really true," ends up Georgy, grimly, " only when they know they're looking awfully young and fresh and well." "Apropos de quoi 7" utters Mrs. Craven plaintively. " Did I ever encourage any boy, and then tell him I was old enough to be his mother?" The tone is so helplessly pathetic, every one laughs but Georgy, who is in earnest. " Of course, if you insist on the discussion being per- sonal," he retorts petulantly, "I have nothing more to say ; I was only speaking about women generally, and am not aware of having broken through the rule that excepts ' present company. ' Of course I give in that you and Milly are angels, full of heart and all that sort of thing, as women ought to be ; but I say again, and I stick to it, that women are not to be trusted, and are full of deceit, and cruelty, and vanity." "You've made your discovery at least ten years too soon," says Colonel Brooke quietly. "Men who live as hard as we do," returns Thornton, with a touch of conscious pride that makes the other A DISCUSSION. 125 smile, " cut their wisdom teeth pretty early. There isn't much any one could tell us." "Oh, Colonel Brooke!" cries Mrs. Craven, "you don't think like this bad boy you don't believe we're all so wicked and heartless?" " God forbid !" he answers, quickly. " I believe there are some very good women in the world." Mrs. Scarlett glances gently at him; she knows he might well be excused for having bitter thoughts of the sex. She knows, too, that he is far too thorough a gen- tleman to give utterance to any depreciatory opinion of them in their presence. "Not 'in the world,' you don't mean," says Georgy, paraphrasing him; "out of the world somewhere, per- haps ; down in the country beyond the reach of railways and Paris fashions and circulating libraries." "And wicked, idle, blase young Hussars and Guards- men !" adds Mrs. Scarlett, archly. "But, upon my word, Georgy," puts in Mrs. Craven, " I can't think what has come to you, who used to be such zpreux chevalier unless, indeed, you're getting corrupted by that horrid Captain Brenton." " I should just like you to hear him hold forth a little,'* says young Thornton, grimly; " he wouldn't mind a bit. I've heard him tell women some very pretty things novr and then ; quite true, though. They were shut up, and couldn't say a word. Only the other day, at Lady G 's he was on his favorite theme ; there were foui or five fashionable beauties there, and he told them the only men who knew how to treat women were Turks. Women were very well just to amuse men, but of course they had no minds, no reasoning powers ; were just fit to dance, to dress, to chatter, to intrigue; but there their capabilities ended." 11* 126 DOLORES. "Did he really say that?" asks Mrs. Craven, opening her blue eyes. "Yes, and they looked quite foolish." "I suppose you had the story from him, eh, Georgy?" says Colonel Brooke, looking up. "Yes," he answers, a little defiantly. "Why?" "Because I heard the end of it from some one else. Mrs. Basbleu was there, and she listened very quietly while he went on talking. ' I've traveled all over the world, 1 he said, in that insolent, affected tone that always makes one long to kick him. 'I've bought my experience, and I know that a good or true woman is a thing never met with out of a novel.' " * I dare say you have traveled a good deal, and bought a good deal of experience of our sex (rich men generally have),' says Mrs. Basbleu, in her quiet way, 'but you'll have to travel a little further, and buy a little more, to teach you that it's bad taste to talk to ladies as you've done to-day.' " "Bravo, Gracie !" cries Mrs. Scarlett. "I'm de- lighted. That's what makes me so angry with women, to think they allow men to say all kinds of impertinences without taking them up. If a man has ten thousand a year, like Captain Brenton, he may say and do anything. Wasn't he furious?" " He couldn't say a word, and Lady G , with her usual tact, changed the subject. But I heard him worse sat upon than that in Paris. He was giving his pet tirade at an afternoon tea of Mrs. Poynby's she used to get them up twice a week. When he began I got up to go, because it didn't amuse me, and of course you can't go down a man's throat when ladies are present, as you would at your club, or in a smoking-room. It took me a minute or two to make my adieu, or I should have missed a great A DISCUSSION. 12 7 gratification. He was just saying he didn't believe there were ten virtuous women in Great Britain and Ireland. There was a little American present, very quick and im- pulsive, as most of them are, and she jumped up with blazing eyes. 'I don't know who you are, sir, and I don't care, but I'll take the liberty to tell you that you are a liar and a coward, and I only wish I was a man, to have the pleasure of kicking you down -stairs !' " "I think I'll go," says Georgy at this juncture. He has been looking very savage the last five minutes. " Why, dear?" asks Milly Scarlett. "Because it doesn't amuse me to hear my friends tra- duced behind their backs. I am not a woman." "And it doesn't amuse us to be abused to our faces," laughs Milly. " But come, sit down, and don't be cross; we won't say another word about your dear Py lades. But, you know, you brought him on the ground first. After all, what does it matter what people say behind our backs, if they are civil to our faces?" "A regular woman's doctrine, -that," retorts young Thornton. "It seems to me," Milly continues, "that men have forgotten all about the chivalrous old days ; they have long ago laid down the swords they used to wield for us, and even taken up the pen against us." " Pshaw, Milly ! quite wrong. Who writes all the bitter articles about women ? Who puts one behind the scenes of your trickeries and shams and falsehoods? Where do we get all our knowledge of you, all our mistrust of you ? Where but from your own sex ? If one wants the newest scandal with its minutest details, if one wants to make merry over a broken heart and a shattered reputation, where does one go ? Not to the club, lien entendu, but to the charming little boudoir of a woman of the world I 2 8 DOLORES. not too young nor too particular ; and if you leave there with an unshaken belief in the goodness and faithfulness of women why, you must be either a fool or a fanatic." "That sort of women are a disgrace to their sex," cries Milly, hotly. " Of course, if men are so blind and so easily duped, it's hopeless to try to undeceive them. Who are the women that want to depreciate their sex to men? and what object can they have in opening men's eyes, as they profess ? They are only too frightened that the men over whom they have any influence may find some woman or girl who is pure and loving, the very contact with whom would make them loathe themselves ; and, oh, it makes me so angry to hear the cant of the day about women the perpetual slanderous tongue that acknowledges neither goodness nor purity nor truth in anything or any one. What about the Florence Nightingales, the women who nursed our sick soldiers through the Crimea ? What about the thousands of good self-denying creatures who are laboring year after year in the midst of repulsive poverty and sickness and crime ? who nurse men when they get ill, who comfort them when they are in trouble ; where do they go when they find the world unsympathetic, when their ambition is disappointed, but to a woman? And even when a woman has behaved badly to them, where do they go for sympathy but, in nine cases out of ten, to another woman ?' ' Milly Scarlett's face is flushed and eager as she bends forward, speaking quickly, with a real interest in her subject. Mrs. Craven looks amused ; Colonel Brooke watches her keenly, with a certain admiration of her enthusiasm. George Thornton steadily contemplates his well-varnished boots. "You judge women," continues Mrs. Scarlett, almost passionately, "by a few hundreds whom you meet in A DISCUSS f ON. 129 society, and whom you yourselves have spoiled. A woman is beautiful, or perhaps not perhaps somebody has made her the fashion, and, whether you care the least bit about her or not, you all run after her, crowd round her carriage by the park railings, troop into her box at the Opera, surround her whenever she appears in public, and do your very best to make her believe she is something more than mortal. The chances are, you don't care for her she doesn't amuse you a bit, she is ridiculously vain, utterly wanting in tact, and sometimes, presuming on her attractions, says very rude things; but it's the thing to be seen with her, so you pass by a score of good-hearted young women, who would be glad to talk to you, with a little distant bow, and move on, to swell the circle round the one who, except for vanity, doesn't care whether you are there or a thousand miles away. Or else, perhaps a woman is clever and amuses you, so you go and lounge about in her drawing-room two or three times a week, if it doesn't look too pointed ; or you drop into a chair by her in the Row, or contrive to sit next her at dinner, because she is such 'awfully good company,' and takes away the ennui which is the curse of all your lives nowadays. You haven't the resources, you know, of your grandfathers, who sat down to dinner at three, and went on drinking until they were helped in blissful unconsciousness to bed. Or per- haps," Mrs. Scarlett continues, speaking more evenly and quietly now " perhaps a woman is only beautiful, and you fall in love with her sheer beauty, and she may sit up to receive you exquisitely dressed, looking faultlessly perfect ; and you are content to sit and stare at her, and tell her over and over again that she is the most lovely creatuie in the world. It doesn't matter the least what it is the woman is liked for, whether fashion, wit, or beauty any one who has a great many lovers, who I I 3 DOLORES. hears herself perpetually praised and admired, can't help getting spoiled and heartless; she can't care for all the men who fall in love with her, but her vanity won't let her be quite honest with them; she likes to have them about her, it looks well and draws more ; and, besides, it makes other women envy her." "Stop and take breath, Milly!" interrupts George Thornton, in the half-affectionate, half-impertinent tone she has known him too long to resent. " What a pity we haven't got a short-hand writer here !" "Oh, I don't mind being teased a bit," laughs Mrs. Scarlett, good-humoredly, "and I haven't half finished yet. So, as I was saying, you take a certain class of women, whom you yourselves have spoiled, and sit in judgment on them afterwards, as the true types of all the sex. Girls bore you you 'go in for married women,' as you say, not remembering, of course, that if they were what they should be, they wouldn't have anything to say to you. What are the girls to do if they want to be noticed and admired, as most naturally they do ? Why, either they must try to copy that fastness which seems so enormously attractive to men, or else marry a man with money, who can put them in a position they can't help envying." "My dear Mrs. Scarlett," interrupts Colonel Brooke, " that's the very root of the matter. No man can feel sure nowadays that he is being married for love if he has any money or position at all; he only fancies he is being made the stepping-stone to a girl's ambition. She wants to marry him that she may flirt with his friends, and have an establishment of her own, and go out without a chap- eron. If you could only dream (for you don't see half) how eldest sons and fellows with money are pestered out of their lives the invitation-cards stuck all over their A DISCUSSION, ijj chimney-glasses; the millions of flattering little notes. In fact, they are toadied until they're ready to turn to anything, only to get away from it all. And the other poor fellows without a shilling may be ever so good-look- ing, and amusing, and faultlessly got up, but who cares a rush for them, except to lead a cotillion, or waltz with, or fill a vacant place at dinner ? I mean what girl ? because, of course, their being poor doesn't matter to women who don't want to marry them. And if by chance they do fall in love with some fresh pretty girl, and she seems fond of them, don't they know that a week later, if she gets the chance, she'll engage herself to any little beast of a fellow who happens to have a title or a heap of money?" " Of course," says Mrs. Scarlett, " you -will keep in that one groove of the women who live and breathe in the world of fashion. As if there were not thousands and thousands who would take a man because they loved him, and be true to him, and never want any one else. You want an exotic, and then are angry because it won't bloom out of a hothouse. Why not look for a fresh, simple girl, such as there are hundreds of?" " Oh, yes ; but they aren't amusing, you know," answers Colonel Brooke, plaintively. "Ah," says Milly, laughing, "I'm afraid you want too much. A woman of the world, yet quite unsophisti- cated clever, but not self-conscious beautiful, but not desiring admiration a woman that every man would envy you (or, like all men, you wouldn't value her), and who would not have a look or thought for any one but you." " I never dreamed of anything so impossibly charming, I assure you, Mrs. Scarlett." "Milly," interposes Mrs. Craven at this juncture, casting a look at the clock, "we shall never have time 132 DOLORES. to dress before dinner if you and Colonel Brooke don't make a speedy end to your discussion. And we want to see the beginning of the piece." The colonel takes the hint, and rises ; young Thornton prepares to accompany him. "I won't injure my reputation for good dinners by asking either of you to stay and dine," smiles Mrs. Scar- lett. " My cook is out for the day. And nowadays you men think of nothing in the world but that one great event." "What a calumny! You always say we live for no- thing else, but I assure you that's another fallacy. The society of charming women " "Won't makeup for an indifferent dinner. Oh, you forget how often you've treated me to tirades upon the pet subject. 'People aren't fit to live, you know, who can't appreciate a good dinner' mimicking him 'and any one who gives you a bad one ought to be hanged, or drowned, or something.' " "Good-by," says Colonel Brooke, laughing. "I'm bound to get the worst of it this afternoon." " Good-by good-by, Georgy. You've been very rude to us this afternoon, but we forgive you." She gives him her hand, and looks ever so kindly into his eyes. His anger against the sex melts as snow in sunshine, and he whispers eagerly, "I may come and see you sometimes still, mayn't I?" "Of course you may." Since that day Georgy has both believed and deceived *he sex; he hasn't turned misanthrope yet, and is gener- ally to be found in close attendance upon a pretty woman. BY THE FIRELIGHT. 133 CHAPTER XIV. BY THE FIRELIGHT. MIDNIGHT booms from Big Ben. Mrs. Scarlett and Laura Craven are sitting over a roasting fire in the for- mer's bedroom, brushing their hair after dismissing their maids. Not an original situation in a novel, granted, still less so out of one, for if there is a time dear to the female heart for these little tpanchemcnts , restrained at other times, it is the witching hour of night. Brush in hand, tresses unbound, luxuriously reclined in well-stuffed arm-chairs, a greater degree of affection and confidence breathes itself into the spirit of the fair friends ; and even women who are only acquaintances cannot resist the temp- tation of a gossip over the bedroom fire, particularly if it's very late and they know they ought to have been in bed hours ago. Women never quarrel at these midnight st- ances ; they make common cause, and probably arraign the absent pretty sharply, but for each other the claws are sheathed in the soft velvet paws, and perfect harmony presides at the meeting. I never heard of women falling out upon these occasions. The two friends are perfectly d* accord as they sit making faint pretense of brushing their long loose hair a sight worth looking at in these days, when a wealth of tresses is somewhat rare, though not so rare as men affect to think. The four little feet ranged on the fender are thrust into dainty satin slippers, and it seems a thousand pities the fair ones can't " receive" in the peignoirs that are so undeniably becoming. 12 134 DOLORES. "Really," utters Mrs. Craven, in a tone of genuine chagrin, as she contemplates the long meshes of her golden hair against the firelight, "it's a great shame when one has good hair not to be able to show it ; of course I know men think it's only put on, and the women who haven't got good hair always try to make them believe every one else's artificial. That horrid Mrs. Carlton told Captain Gore she was in at Douglas's when I bought mine." "What does it matter?" answers Mrs. Scarlett. "I don't care myself what people think or say." "What nonsense, Milly ! As if you wouldn't like to go about with it all down your back you know it's mag- nificent. When we were at Biarritz last year, I wanted to let mine down because people said it was false, only that disagreeable, provoking Harry wouldn't let me." " I suppose he doesn't want any one else to admire it." Mrs. Craven makes a contemptuous little moue. "As if he cared ! I might wear a wig for aught he knows. Now and then, when I'm trailing it out before the glass, he says in his gruff way, ' Don't be so vain, Laura,' and when I ask him, just in fun, if it isn't lovely, he only remarks, ' It's a good deal too long, and not the color he likes' as if your husband knew or cared a bit if you were a Venus when you've been married to him five years ! What fools women are to marry!" with a little vicious jerk of the brush. "Oh, Milly, what a goose you are, and how sorry you'll be for it !" " I !" echoes Mrs. Scarlett, gazing into the fire with a bright look stealing into her eyes. " No, I don't think I shall." " Only consider all you are going to give up ! Here you are at five-and-twenty, your own mistress, well off, living in London, with heaps of men in love with you. Oh, how I wish I was a widow! I don't mean that I BY 7WE FIRELIGHT, 135 want Harry to die ; of course it would make me wretched anything happening to him ; but if I could only have married some rich old man I hated, who would have died and left me all his money, oh, how happy I should be ! How I wish I was a widow !" " It's not such a very enviable position," Mrs. Scarlett interrupts, bitterly. " You know, Milly," proceeds Laura, oracularly, "I've completely thrown myself away. Of course I am pretty, I need not have any false modesty with you, for you flat- ter me as much as any one ; if I hadn't been goose enough to marry Mr. Craven I should been enjoying myself most thoroughly now. Of course I should have no end of men in love with me, as you have." "A great many more, I should hope," interrupts Milly. "Well, I should be quite satisfied with as many. But now I'm married, as soon as men get too attentive, I'm obliged to assume an air of iced propriety, because, what- ever people may say, I don't flirt. Do I? And you well, you had four letters this very morning ; I recognized the writing of two, and I knew the monograms of the others. All full of protestations and despair, of course, eh, Milly?" And Mrs. Craven laughs her pretty but rather vacant laugh. " Now, just look at me, shut up in a dull country place month after month, with hardly any society, and a hus- band who is farming all day, and goes to sleep and snores regularly every evening after dinner. If he'd only let me come up to town for the season but no ! just three weeks to the very day is all I get of London, though he knows I adore it ; and then he prowls about all the time, looking as if it would be his death. Men are so abominably selfish. Sometimes, Milly I dare say you won't believe it, because I'm always cheerful and happy when you're with me but 136 DOLORES. sometimes I cry for a whole day together; and when Harry comes in, though he sits opposite me at dinner, he never even sees that my eyes are red. We don't quarrel, and I dare say people quote us as a model pair, because our names are never coupled with anybody else, but ' ' And a long sigh, a wistful glance in the fire, finish the sentence. "Every one is unhappy, sometimes, I suppose," says Mrs. Scarlett, reflectively, drawing the comb lingeringly through the masses of her dark hair "every one. Every one, at least, who has a vestige of romance or ideality. Oh, how I envy the dull, stupid, commonplace, phleg- matic people, who never can suffer great disappointment because they never have great aspirations the people who live in their poor, vulgar, narrow-minded, circumscribed world, and are happy and contented because they never dream of anything higher, happier, better!" "My dear Milly," interrupts Laura, plaintively, "don't be high-flown, or I shall think you're talking at me. I'm not clever, and you are. I am one of the empty-headed frivolous sort. I never reflect, I haven't got any aspira- tions, as you call them, I don't go into paroxysms about something far off in the clouds that I can't reach, and only break my heart in striving after ; all I want is com- monplace, tangible, real. I want to live in town, to have a nice house, the handsomest ponies in London, and to be a widow." "Hush, Laura!" "My dear Milly, do understand me not Harry's widow, but the widow of some horrid dyspeptic old wretch that I never saw. However, since that shocks you, I abandon the idea, and consent to remain as I am ; for Harry isn't jealous, and society certainly allows one a very fair amount of latitude in these days." BY THE FIRELIGHT. 137 "And I," says Milly, passionately "I only want to love with my whole soul, to be loved as much in return, and never to see or want or think of any one else. I would love his faults as well as his virtues I would sac- rifice everything in the world, small or great, for him; but he must do the same for me." Mrs. Craven leans back in her chair, to indulge in a perfect peal of laughter. Milly laughs, too, but there is a bitter ring in her voice. "My dear, don't you think I'm aware of the highly ridiculous nature of my speech? Of course people never love like that in this world or, if they do, one of them dies. Only, while one is wishing, as you were just now, one may as well wish for the impossible as the possible.' "I wasn't laughing at that. What amused me was to hear you talk about loving one man, and wanting no one else, when you know you are the coldest, most heartless creature in the world, and are never satisfied unless you have half a dozen lovers at the same time. I'm laughing too, to think of your expecting such devotion from a husband. Poor Captain Charteris ! My dear Milly, he's very handsome, and for the present no doubt he'll be all your fondest expectations can desire; but don't insist on too much by-and-by, or you'll both be miserable. But of course I know it's only talk with you you have no heart really. You'll have a great deal to answer for. I know several men whom you've made dreadfully un- happy. ' ' " Nonsense, Laura, nothing of the sort. They did not really care for me. It is quite enough to be indifferent to a man, and he fancies himself mad about you he can't possibly live out of your sight ; and the very same man, if you loved him, if he knew he could make you misera- ble, if you showed yourself delighted when he came, and 13* 138 DOLORES. wretched when he went away, would be bored with you in a month. You would come to be that ' poor little girl who's so awfully fond of me,' instead of 'the woman I'd sell my soul for.' Indifference is the strength of those who possess it they can always command lovers and friends. Men are horribly disappointing." "Harry is, I know," responds Laura, pathetically. " De deux amants, il y a toujours un qui aime, et un qui se laisse aimer," says Mrs. Scarlett. "This world's very unsatisfactory," with a sigh; "everything is at cross- purposes, and the worst of it is that we all know it first from hearsay, and then from experience ; but that doesn't prevent our going again to the broken cistern for water." "What's that noise?" cries Mrs. Craven, suddenly jumping up. "It's only Faithful," answers Mrs. Scarlett. "He always sleeps on the mat outside my door, and doesn't understand hearing my voice at this time of night." And, opening the door, she lets him in. The dog walks solemnly up to her as she resumes her seat by the fire, and sits down in front of her with his nose thrust into her hand, and his loving, faithful dog's eyes turned up to her, while his tail gives slow thuds of contentment on the rug. "Oh, Milly, how can you have that horrid dog in here?" And Milly answers, smiling, " I know how to appreciate a true friend." "It's time we were in bed," cries Laura; and the friends part with a kiss, and Faithful resumes his guard of honor on the mat outside. But Milly does not -go to bed just yet ; she sits down again by the fire, and looks thoughtfully into the burning coals. I should like to describe her to you, but the task is more than difficult. I may well ink my pen and begin BY THE FIRELIGHT. 139 fifty different sheets of paper, in the endeavor to give any adequate description of Milly Scarlett. How can one be expected to reconcile paradoxes? Tc attempt to describe some people is like taking the bits of glass out of a kaleidoscope. Leave them where they are, they present an harmonious whole ; take them to pieces, they are only so many bits of different sized and colored glass, that put you at your wit's end to match. There are some women the very essence of whose nature is change who cannot be, because they cannot feel, always the same who have a thousand different moods, caprices, and feelings. To this class Mrs. Scarlett belonged. I think she had in her nearly all the attributes that go to make a good and bad woman. What shall I say of her? First, then, she was intensely a woman ; womanly in her instinct to side with what she loved rather than what was strictly just ; womanly in her championship of the weak; womanly in her apprecia- tion of the elegancies and refinements of polished life ; womanly beyond all in her intense desire to please, her love of approbation, and the inordinate value she set on personal appearance and manner in both sexes. A bril- liant imagination, a ready wit, a charming manner to those she liked, a very frigid and haughty one to those who dis- pleased her a woman who inspired spontaneously either great liking or the reverse. Milly was very bright and blithe sometimes, very bitlei and disappointed at others. In one mood she would revel in life and excitement, in another she would rail at Fate and the world would protest indignantly against the cruelty that gives blessings and saps all power of enjoy- ment out of them. At these times she suffered intensely from seeing how fair life might be, and how rotten it is at the core. She had that intense, supreme longing after 140 DOLORES. happiness that is the keenest torture of all large minds, because their disappointment is proportionate. "I have lived and loved let me die !" had been her motto with Thekla once. She had set up to herself an idol, had hung it with the precious gifts of her love and faith and truth, as all these passionate-hearted women do, and it had been, after all, a poor clay figure, beautiful in no one's eyes but hers. She awoke from her delusion, but her own heart alone knew the exceeding bitterness of that tardy dis- covery. To learn to disbelieve where one's whole faith has centred what sharper sting of all sore pains poor flesh is heir to? " I have no heart," she had been used to say, with the passionate tears, themselves a contradiction, glistening in her eyes; " I don't believe in love, or truth, or happi- ness, or anything else. We are born to be wretched and miserable, and to have everything we care for taken away from us. " There is no help, for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear. And how these things are, though ye strove to show, She would not know." With which favorite quotation she would walk up and down the room with flashing eyes, and then, flinging her- self into a chair, would launch a further tirade against the bitterness of life. And if any one, coming in a little later, would bring in some pitiful story of want, or sick- ness, or suffering, she would be filled with a bitter, con- trite sense of her own ingratitude for all the blessings she enjoyed, and feel sorely ashamed of her petulant discon- tent, however reluctant she might be to own it. I don't think people with natures like Milly Scarlett's can ever be really happy or contented ; they want too much there is no via media about them. They want perpetual extremes BY THE FIRELIGHT. 141 life must be all rose-color, skies one serene unchanging azure, the tiniest cloud casts a dark shadow upon them ; a trifling annoyance, that less sensitive minds would scarcely acknowledge the presence of, is a bitterness to them. They want always to be loved, always to be young, always to be happy, always to be in the vortex of pleasurable ex- citement ; and so, because they have such large powers of appreciation, and such large desires, they pass uncon- sciously by those small pleasures that make up the sum of ordinary folk's happiness, and are nearly always unhappy in straining after those great gifts that the most fortunate mortals only attain to twice or three times in a lifetime. But if Milly Scarlett was not in reality a very happy or contented woman, she kept the fox well concealed, for her friends and acquaintances, with one or two exceptions, thought her a most enviable person. She was always bright and smiling, always had a little court about her, lived in a charming house, and seemed to possess every advantage that a woman not too unreasonable could desire. And, on the whole, she was decidedly a favorite, especially with men. Charming was the word they invariably applied to her, if they liked her at all. And I think the great secret of her pleasing powers was her adaptablity the readiness with which she entered into all that pleased and interested those who cared for her her possession of the intuitive sympathy that is the essence of tact, but is also far more than tact. It has often struck me that the portrait of ill-fated Julie de 1'Espinasse, drawn of her, at her own request, by her faithful D'Alembert, might have served equally well for Milly Scarlett the greater part of it, at least : " You have a noble and graceful carriage, your face is full of soul and character. You please by your style, by your exquisite taste, and by the tact you have in saying 142 DOLORES. what will be most agreeable to every one. You are frank by nature, and discreet by reflection. You abhor malice and folly; you are not envious. Every one seems to you equally to be pitied, and you would not change your fate for that of any living being. You are very good-natured, but you have both temper and dryness. These latter de- fects are not natural to you, but have grown upon you from being wounded and crossed in your tastes and feel- ings. In trying to be hard to yourself, to crush your own nature, you have become hard towards those who love you. I do not know any one who pleases so gen- erally as you, nor any one who is more sensible of her power. You do not refuse even to make the first advance, when the person you wish to please does not take the initiative ; on this point you sacrifice your pride to your self-love. I must confess, too, that you are not quite so difficult to please as I think you ought to be ; the delicacy and nicety of your tact ought to make you more particular in the choice of your friends. The desire of having a court about you makes you too complaisant; and you don't even turn your back upon a bore, provided he is very devoted to you. One quality you aie exacting about, even to excess it is your extreme sensitiveness on the subject of good style and manner. The want of these is scarcely atoned for, in your eyes, by the most tender devotion." MILLY. 143 CHAPTER XV. MILLY. MILLY could not remember her mother. She had lived childhood and girlhood through with her father, and they were devoted to each other. The sight of the most doting mother had never made her feel the want of one. What greater, tenderer, more perfect love could any one have given her than this father, to whom she was all in all, who was all in all to her? She had grown up free, un- controlled, uncontradicted. She had an impulsive, pas- sionate nature, was bright, vivacious, and a favorite with most people, an idol with her father and the two old servants. Milly had had great ideas from her very childhood. She thought a good deal of fine horses, handsome carriages, and elegant attire. She chafed a little at times because the glory of the house was departed, and money failed to keep up the old place as in the former days ; but she would rather have cut her tongue out than bewail it in the pres- ence of her father, since it was to the extravagance of his youth their present impoverished condition was due. Her girlhood had been happy enough. She was clever, and her father had taken care she should be thoroughly well educated, whatever else money lacked for. But her edu- cation had been no school routine. He had wandered about with her to pleasant foreign towns, where she picked up languages and had lessons in music and singing from first-rate masters. " I don't think my little girl will ever be a great beauty I4 4 DOLORES. not great enough to dazzle the world," he used to say, fondly stroking her dark locks, " in spite of those eyes : so we must give her something to put her on a level with the empty-headed beauties against the time when she'll want a recommendation. Poor little girl ! she won't have any fortune we must give her something." Milly often cried bitterly in secret because she was not a beauty ; indeed, she made up her mind that she was positively ugly and this little girl had aspirations about love and power as big as any empress of the world ever entertained. But at seventeen she was a great deal better- looking than any one expected she would be, and made an extremely favorable debut in the world of fashion, under the auspices of her aunt. How proud and glad her father was ! Will Milly ever forget, to her dying day, how the old man kissed and blessed her, with glad tears in his eyes, when they returned together from her first ball ! " I think my little girl will be able to hold up her head with the best of them," he said, in a voice quivering with pride and gladness ; and not one of the thousand flatteries she has received since ever fell more sweetly on Milly's ear. She married very soon a man rich, good-looking, de- voted to her. I don't think he was a bit like the hero of her dreams certainly he was not clever. Some men said he was a good fellow ; others agreed with Mr. Vivian in calling him "the biggest fool out!" Big he was, florid and well-looking, of the country gentleman type, fond of sport, devoted to horses and dogs the sort of man to whom a wife is " Something better than his dog, A little dearer than his horse." If Milly chose to spend her passionate young heart on MILLY. 145 loving such a man, the end was sure to be disappointment. He could no more understand her high flights, as he called them, than the dead languages ; nor could he sympathize with her ardent nature. He was a fine animal, and she had to make the best of him ; and there were many things that made it a tolerably easy task. She delighted in riding and driving, and she might have the handsomest horses money could buy ; she had the real woman's love of " silk attire," and she might spend what money she liked on dress or anything else it gratified him to show her off, for he was proud of her ; and so she was obliged to satisfy the hunger of her poor little heart with the gilded husks. She would have liked to adore and worship her golden calf, but he would not let her it irked him ; she expected him to be always making love to and petting her, and he had as much idea of doing it as the aforesaid golden calf would have of returning its worshiper's adoration. And then ah, bitter, irreparable loss ! her father died, and she felt so lonely when the old man was gone that beloved one who had so often poured oil upon the troubled waters. She wanted something to cling to, and all her love for her husband came rushing tenfold back again. He was sorry for her, and tried to be kind and sympathetic, but he was one of those people who have not the remotest conception of what sympathy means, who with their greatest effort could not give any human being so much comfort as the faithful hound who thrusts his nose into your hand and looks up at you with honest sorrowful eyes. Then he broke his neck out hunting, and if he had been all her ardent temperament desired, Milly could not have grieved for him more. After the manner of her sex, she endowed him with more than human virtues; everything that had ever angered her in him she banished K 13 146 DOLORES. religiously from her mind ; all that was kind, good, lov- ing of him in the old time came back, and she longed for him with an intense, weary longing, that blanched her face and dimmed her eyes with bitter tears. All this until one day one day, as she sat alone in hei room, thinking always of that one thing, saying to herself that her life was done, that never in all the years to come, however long, however weary, would she take comfort or pleasure, the thought came to her that she would look over his desk, where perhaps she might find something to bring back the dear one more fully to her memory. With a heavy heart she crossed the hall into the room that had been his, where his whips and guns and fishing-tackle were left by her orders just as when he was alive where the antlers and the foxes' brushes, the stuffed birds and gigantic fish, his much-prized trophies, re- minded her at every step of him. Oh, only to hear the loud, brisk voice once more only to see the big frame, of whose strength she had been so proud ! But there came no answer, save the chill empty echo in her heart, " Never more !" She sat down and sobbed aloud, griev- ously ; the pain seemed greater than she could bear. At last she went to his desk, that stood in one corner of the room, and sat down before it. She found a pic- ture of herself, a bundle of her letters, a few bills. Pres- ently she turned over the blotting-book ; in it was a letter in a woman's hand, and a sheet of paper with a few words in his writing. She sat staring blankly at it, put it down once, then took it up again. It was dated the day of his death. Oh, God ! and she had believed that, if his was not a passionate nature, he had at least given her all the love he had to give she had never doubted that he was faithful to her ! When the years had passed, she could say to herself MILL Y. 147 that it was for the best she had discovered this ; it was a sharp remedy, perhaps, but it was better to be unde- ceived than to go on sorrowing so bitterly after a man who had not been worthy of her. Her friends wondered sometimes why they could never bring her to talk of the husband whom she had seemed to love so passionately in his lifetime. As she sits to-night over her fire, after Mrs. Craven has left her, she thinks over this past time of her husband, and of the men who have loved her. Perhaps she has been cruel sometimes; perhaps she has revenged the wrongs done by the guilty upon the innocent ; perhaps she has taken little heed of men's feelings who, after all, were sincere and honest in their love for her. Well, ah that is over now ; henceforth she will keep to one man only ; she will never have a thought save for him oh, how she will love him ! how she loves him already ! Pray God he may be good to her ! It is barely three weeks since she first saw him, and her whole life seems bound up in him. From the moment that he entered the box in Paris, she loved his handsome debonnaire face; she felt to him that intense attraction that she had had for his brother. That very night she knew, whatever she might hear of him, she would marry him, if he asked her if he were penniless, gambler, spendthrift, what- ever he might be. With every one else she has always been confident of herself; she has known exactly her own value, and the value set on her by others ; with Adrian, she is diffident, dissatisfied with herself, so eager to please him that she fears to defeat her wish by being over-anxious. And this is the woman who has been called hundreds of times cold, passionless, heartless. A few weeks later, Captain Charteris is calling at a house in May Fair not Mrs. Scarlett's. The lady who lives 148 DOLORES, here is a very old friend of Adrian's, has petted him since he was a boy at Eton, listened to all his confidences, given him advice, generally good, from a worldly point of view. She is a thorough woman of the world, understands men as well as it is possible for a woman to do, never bores them, never expects too much from them, is always glad to see them, and never reproaches them if they seem occasionally to forget her existence for a time. She knows they will come back. Men rarely desert a house long where the hostess is amusing, the dinners perfect, the cel- lar unexceptionable, and they may smoke good cigars ad libitum. She is considerably past her jeunesse, but looks extremely well ; a judicious arrangement of lights and rose-colored blinds will do a great deal for any one who studies them, and she always wears black. Perhaps of all the men who come to her house, she cares the most for Adrian. She knows him exactly for what he is, but that knowledge does not make it one whit less pleasant to her to look at his handsome face and be caressed by his charming manner. This is what she would say of him, but only to herself in the strictest confidence. He has one idea in the world himself! how he shall dress, and feed, and clothe his handsome person; he suc- ceeds perfectly. He is not conceited ; it is too self-evi^ dent that he is exceptionally good-looking ; he knows that he is pleasing to the eyes of almost every woman he meets, therefore he need take no trouble to amuse or please them farther than by a smile, a caressing glance, a few whispered words. Only let them alone, they will lionize, adore, make love to him, and save him all the trouble. He cares very little really about women ; as long as he can smoke good cigars, drink champagne for his dinner every day, and sit up playing cards till two o'clock in the morning, he can dispense with the women, except for MILLY. 149 vanity Good-natured enough, if it does not put him out of the way ; amusing, if he chooses to take the trouble. If there is a man in the world calculated to make a woman who loves him wretched, that man is Adrian Charteris. "I haven't seen you this age," he says, coming into the room, and greeting her very warmly. " You're look- ing awfully well ! I suppose you've heard the news?" "Yes," she answered. "Shall I congratulate you?" "I don't know, I'm sure. I think it's rather a good thing, but I want to hear your opinion." "Will you break it off if I don't approve?" she asks, laughingly. "Of course, like a shot !" " Then I'm afraid you're not very desperately in love." " Desperately ! Well, I never was desperately anything in my life except unhappy about you once" (with laugh- ing eyes). "Oh, I like her tremendously ! By the way, have you ever met her?" " I don't think so ; tell me all about her." "Well, she isn't a beauty exactly, but quite good-look- ing enough for anything; wonderfully good eyes and hair all her own." " Of course," she says, with a scarcely perceptible smile. " No mistake about it. I've seen it down. Knows how to dress ; looks uncommon well upon a horse, neat foot, and makes the most of it." "Is she clever?" "Oh, yes, knows everything, and isn't always ramming it down your throat, thank heaven!" "And rich, I hear." "Oh, the money's all right, or it wouldn't havt suited a poor fellow like me. Three thousand a year. 1 * " My dear boy, with your face you ought to have mar- ried twenty." i 150 DOLORES. " Yei ; but it's difficult to get a nice woman with twenty thousand a year, and this one is decidedly nice." "Well, then, it is evident you have every reason for congratulation. Accept mine," and she puts her hand into his. Adrian takes and kisses it gracefully. "But all the same, you know, matrimony's an awful business. I can't make up my mind to it a bit, yet." " Do you remember what you used to say about it?" "Oh, yes; I said they ought to write that quotation from Dante's 'Inferno' over the church doors: ' Lasciate ogni speranza voi cti entrate ? and, by George, I'm not at all sure that I've changed my opinion. I daren't think about it, that's the fact. Fancy having to go to bed at eleven o'clock ! Why, how the deuce should I be able to lie in bed all the morning if I did that ? and how the deuce should I get through the day if I didn't sleep through the first part of it? Then perhaps she'll object to my smoking all over the house. Why, I should be the most miserable dog out without my cigar. I hope to goodness she won't mind my going to the club of an evening. I should think she'd be sensible, and give me three nights a week, if I'm pretty attentive the other four." "Very likely. She has been married once, and won't expect as much from a husband as a girl would." "A girl! Faugh! my dear Henrietta, I wouldn't marry a girl with fifty thousand a year. Not my line. They ought to be kept in the schoolroom till they're married." "Adrian!" "Well, ma belle!" " I heard something about your brother having been in love with Mrs. Scarlett is it true?" MILLY. 151 "Poor old Guy!" he utters, lazily, smiling the smile that makes him so good to look at. "I'm afraid there's something in it. He went off like a lunatic, and has never been heard of since. I couldn't get it out of Milly, though I tried. Fancy cutting out your elder brother with a title and all those thousands a year, by George ! I never heard of his being downright spoony on a woman before. There was something very queer about it, too. When I got to Paris, of course I made straight for his room, and, to my utter astonishment, found an awfully pretty little girl there, quite a child. She jumps up and rushes to me, then, finding her mistake, stands staring and trembling all over; blushes crimson, and turns her back upon me. I naturally asked if I could be of any use to her in Guy's absence, but she seemed in a horrible fright, and said, 'No, thank you,' to everything in fact, that's all I got out of her. Then his man comes rushing in, and beckons me out, but not a word can I get out of him either. Then Guy, in frantic haste, seeming in a tremendous way about something, bullies me for hav- ing spoken to the girl, and finally disappears with her for three days. The plot thickens. However, I naturally take advantage of the good thing Providence has thrown in my way make love to the charrring widow, she reciprocates, and here I am." "A strange story," says his companion, thoughtfully. "Some little school-girl, I suppose, who had fallen in love with him and run away from school or home." "Very possibly can't say. She was sweetly pretty, /shouldn't have taken her back home, which I expect is what he did. But I must be off. I have to take my beloved one to Hurlingham, and she doesn't like to be kept waiting. I must educate her to my unpunctual habits. I'm half an hour late now." '52 DOLORES. "Perhaps she will have gone without you or with some one else." Adrian's only reply was a smile; but a smile that expressed more than words. " Good-by," he said, taking both her hands. " God bless you !" she says, in a voice that trembles a very little. " I suppose you won't quite forget me when you are married you'll find your way here after the first six months?" " Six months !" he answers, gayly. " My lune de miel will be a very short one, I can tell you ; and when that is over, I dare say you will have a great deal more of my company than you will care for. I shall not ask you to call on Milly. I don't want you to know each other." "Why?" "Oh, you'd be sure to hate each other you're too much in the same genre. And besides, if later on I want to abuse her to you (men always do abuse their wives, I believe), I shall have your sympathizing and partial ear, because you'll only hear one side. Adieu, ma chere," kissing her hand. When he is gone, she presses her lips on the spot where he has kissed it. "And that is the sort of man women with imagination and passion break their hearts about," she murmurs. " I dare say she knows quite well what he is. At all events, I do ; and if I could I would have married him, and he would have been charming to every woman but me. I can't help being sorry for her; but I hate her." Five minutes later a barouche rolls past the window. An elderly and a young lady are in it. Adrian is bend- ing forward to button Milly's glove, Milly radiant and charming. Henrietta sees them. " I hate her !" she mur- murs. This time she does not say, " I am sorry for her." IN ST. OUEN. 153 CHAPTER XVI. IN ST. OUEN. AND all this time Dolores was half breaking her heart up in the little white house that overlooked one of the fairest scenes in Normandy. She seemed to be quite changed from the shallow, thoughtless child we knew her first ; this strange passion and bitter disappointment had altered her nature. If things had gone smoothly, no doubt she would have remained as frivolous and super- ficial as when we first saw her ; but this grief, this constant dull pain, and waiting and longing for what would never come, had given a depth to her feelings that was far from natural to a character like hers. But it was sad to see the change to see her transformed from the blithe, thoughtless child, romping with her cat and dog, eager after flowers and sweetmeats and gay shops, to the sad, listless girl, who noticed so little, and seemed always brooding over a secret sorrow. She would sit for hours, her hands lying idle in her lap, her eyes far away over the distant green hills, while the fresh, soft air, laden with all the sweet scent of summer flowers, kissed her face ; and yet she saw nothing nothing outward at least only the kind, handsome face of the man who filled her every thought. Marcelline bustled about, and tried to be very brisk and cheerful, but her heart ached to see the child so silent and forlorn. " Tiens, petite," she would say, quite sharply; "it is not like that one gets through life always moping and c* '54 DOLORES. fretting. There are more men in the world than one. Bah ! If he did not think of me, I should be too proud to break my heart about him. I would rather dress St. Catherine's hair than run after a man who did not care for me." So the kind soul thought to stimulate the child's pride into forgetting her sorrow. " Leave me," answered Dolores, the color flushing into her cheeks. " If I am sad, I do not ask consolation or pity from you." "Do not be angry with poor Marcelline, petite cherie ; she only wants to see you smile again. Come down to the market to-day, and we will go on the Quai and see the fine young soldiers. ' ' " I care not for the soldiers I hate Frenchmen ! and the market is stupid. But I will go to the church, and you can leave me there until you return." " The church, the church ! always the church ! Petite, if you were of our religion, the good priests would soon make a religieuse of you. Ah ! what a pretty little sister, with the great black hood, and the long, ugly dress !" "I wish I was one," replied Dolores. "La, la!" cried Marcelline. "Wait until you have got over your moping fit, and some fine young fellow comes along and wants to marry you, and we shall see then whether you are still so eager to become a religieuse, No, no, no, my child ; leave that to the old and ugly ones, who have no pretty faces, and no dots to get husbands for them." "I shall never marry," cried Dolores, indignantly. "Ah! never is a long time, cherie. We shall see, we shall see. Go and put on your hat, if you will really go to the church, while I run and see that Jeanneton does not spoil the gouter. ' ' IN ST. OUEN. 155 And she went off into the kitchen, where she found Jeanneton ruminating with a saucepan in her hand. " Tiens /" she called out, in her brisk voice, that made the old woman jump, "it is not by standing in the middle of the kitchen and looking at the things that the work advances." " Peste /" retorted her factotum, " thou wouldst have done well, thou, to drive the poor negroes ; it's always go on, go on, go on one must not stop a moment to get up again if one fell. I was thinking " "Ah, it's bad to think," said Marcelline, sarcastically. " People who have to earn their bread should never waste their time like that. It's only fine ladies and savants who have to do with that foolishness." " I was thinking," persisted Jeanneton, " that it's very strange what has come to Mam'selle all this summer." "Ah, if that was all that thinking did for thee 1" answered Marcelline, contemptuously. " But other times she went about singing like a bird ; even I could hear her, and she was always in and out of the kitchen wanting this and that, and laughing at every- thing, like a giddy one. Now she is silent and sad. I see her from the window sitting out on the grass under the apple-trees, looking as if she saw something a long way off, and not even taking notice of poor Fidelio, who walks on his hind legs to please her." "Thou seest a great deal, for thou seest what is not," returned Marcelline, angrily. " One cannot always re- main a child ; if Mademoiselle is a little triste sometimes, the saints know it is dull enough." "The cure's brother has not been a long time," said Jeanneton, nodding her head shrewdly. " Oh, it is that which thou seest when thou look'st into the saucepans !" said Marcelline, irately. " Do thy work, 156 DOLORES; my girl, and leave thinking to thy betters." And she brisked off, in not the best humor in the world. A few minutes later, she and Dolores came out of the gate together. There was no laughing and running on before now, as in the olden times, no chiding of Mar- cel' ine for her fatness and slowness ; to-day the faithful servant would have given anything to see the little child- ish tricks and ways that had tormented her formerly. "Sans adieu, mademoiselle," she said, cheerfully, ag the girl went in at the green baize door of the church, and Dolores just nodded her head in response. "What does she do all that long time by herself*?" Marcelline wondered. Then she shook her head, and went off down the hill to the market-place. Dolores, left to herself, wandered about up and down the long aisles. The time was past when she used to skip to and fro, with small meed of reverence, and shiver at the gloom of the old Norman church. She did not run curiously now and peer into the marble basin, to see the reflection of the roof and the great pillars, nor strain her eyes to the bright-colored windows, but walked along listlessly, sadly, feeling that the solemnity and mournful- ness of the place were sympathetic to her sadness. Then she sat down in one of the chairs, and began to think about the old subject Guy. " Why does he not write to me?" she said. "Three months, and he has only written me that one little letter with the locket all that I have of him is that and the picture. Ah, it is beautiful, that picture. If I had been really like that, he must have loved me ; perhaps at first he thought I was, and then afterwards he was disappointed. Where is he now, I wonder ? He has quite forgotten me in the midst of the great people and the beautiful ladies he must see at home in London. Does he love one of IN ST. OUEN. '57 them? Oh, it would break my heart to believe that that he gave to some one else what he refused to me! How tired I am of my life ! Will it always, always go on like this? And I am so young, so young, and I have so many years to drag out before I can hope to die!" Then the bitter tears came into her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands. Some one was watching her, standing in the shade of one of the great pillars, and feeling very pitiful of her sorrow. It was a man, apparently some forty years of age, rather tall, and slightly made, with a face bronzed by exposure, and the kindest expression in it that could be imagined. He had gray eyes, set very, very deep in his head ; his hair, that had been dark, was beginning to be sprinkled with white ; the mouth was finely cut, and had a grave, tender expression. He stood a long, long time watching Dolores, thinking how young and fair she was, and wondering what could make such a mere child so sorrowful. She was not dressed in black, or he might have thought her crying bitterly after some one dear to her who had died, and her grief seemed too deep and silent to be caused by any mere childish mortification. " Poor child ! poor child !" he said to himself; " if I could only say or do something to comfort her!" But his instinctive delicacy made him shrink from intruding on her grief. Then presently, after a long while, he heard footsteps approaching, and saw a comely, middle-aged woman, in the garb of a servant, advancing towards her. "Tiens, che'rie, viens done avec ta pauvre Marcelline," he heard her say ; and then the girl rose and went out, leaving the stranger more puzzled than before. He did not attempt to follow her, but remained where he was, leaning against the column, as if lost in thought. After 14 158 DOLORES. awhile he roused himself, like one who wakes up from a day-dream, and, leaving St. Ouen, ascended the hill slowly, till he came to one of the white campagnes that dot the landscape all round. Opening the gate, he went up the garden, and in at the open window, where a lady was sitting writing. He just greeted her and she smiled a response ; then he lighted a cigar, and sat down by the glass door. Presently the lady finished what she was writing, and looked at him. " You seem to be in a brown study !" she remarked. "I am puzzled," he answered, taking the cigar from his lips, and looking thoughtfully after the cloud that issued from between them. "What has puzzled you?" " I went into St. Ouen this morning, and there was a child there about sixteen or seventeen, with such a lovely face, but such a sad expression." " Perhaps she had lost her father or mother." " No, I do not think that, because she wore a colored dress, and colored ribbons in her hat." "You were very observant, then, for a man who pro- fesses not to know anything about ladies' dress." " I watched her until she was so engraven on my mind, I don't think I should ever forget her. She sat a long time with her face buried in her hands, and when she looked up her eyes such beautiful blue eyes ! were full of tears. After a time a respectable-looking servant came in and spoke to her, and she rose and went away." " Had you the curiosity to follow her?" " No it did not occur to me. Mary" (this after a long pause), "what could have ailed the child?" "I do not know, dear. Perhaps she had been disap- pointed in love." " In love !" he repeated slowly after her " in love 1" IN ST. OUEN. 159 And then he went on smoking, and did not speak again for a long time. Mrs. Power had not failed to remark the change in Do- lores, although the child strove hard to hide her sorrow in her mother's presence. They were rarely together. They had never been companions, but in the old days Dolores had been wont to sing blithely about the house, to romp with her dog, to slam doors, and do many things that jarred on her mother's sensitive, over-strung nerves. Now she went as quietly about the house as a little ghost. She did not laugh, nor speak loud, and had such a dreary, sorrowful expression. At first, on her return, Mrs. Power had fancied the child suffering from some temporary in- disposition, but as week after week passed, and she was still silent, preoccupied, mournful-looking, the woman who had seen and suffered so much of the world in the days gone by began to have terrible forebodings. She had had little sympathy with her child so long as she was a merry, frivolous, boisterous girl ; but now, overshad- owed by the remembrance of her own sorrows, she trembled to think that she had brought into the world a creature with her own capacity for suffering. But what could ail the child ? One day she said, with unwonted tenderness, "You seem unhappy, my dear." The child who feared more than loved her mother, burst into tears and ran out of the room, saying, "I am not unhappy.' Then the mother sighed bitterly, and murmured, "It L my fault. I have been cold to her, and have never sought, her confidence; she will not tell me what she suffers.' Then, painful as it was to her pride, she resolved to ques- tion Marcelline. It was a summer evening. The red, mellow sunlighf bathed the earth in a flood of gold, lighting up the red roses, the passion-flowers and jasmine that climbed tin j6o DOLORES. wall, and the big white lilies growing underneath. It came streaming warm through the branches of the apple- trees on Dolores's bright hair, across her little white folded hands, and the knot of flowers in her breast. The picture was a fair one, but the mother who gazed on it turned away with a bitter sigh. She heard Marcelline's brisk patter on the polished stairs, and, opening the door, she called to her. "Come in here, Marcelline I want to speak to you." And poor Marcelline, a little frightened, obeyed the sum- mons. Mrs. Power pointed through the open window to where Dolores sat. "What ails my daughter?" she said, looking Marcel- lino in the face steadily. "Madame?" stammered Marcelline, confused. " You ought to know. She is quite changed, and it is all since I went away to England." "Madame must remember that it is triste for Made- moiselle; she has no companions, no society." " Neither had she before," said Mrs. Power. " Come away from the window ; she may hear our voices. Now, Marcelline, tell me the truth, honestly and fairly. There is something I do not know of. If there has been any fault, any imprudence, on my child's part or yours, I promise to overlook it; only tell me the truth." Marcelline stood for some moments twisting er apron between her fingers, the color deepening in her brown cheeks. "Madame," she said at last, "I cannot say there is anything to tell. Madame surmises for herself that the chere demoiselle has some one in her thoughts." "I thought as much," murmured Mrs. Power to her- self. " Oh, how wrong I have been to leave her to the IN ST. OUEN. 161 care of servants ! As if she would not grow into a woman some day, to suffer too !" Her lips quivered as she looked up at Marcelline's em- barrassed face. "Marcelline," she cried, "I implore you to tell me the truth. Am I not her mother?" And there were tears in the proud eyes, and the usually cold voice had grown pathetic. Marcelline was moved. She was afraid of her mistress afraid to tell the truth ; and yet she said to herself, " It is my duty." " Madame," she began, in a low, nervous voice, " you are right. I would have kept it from you ; but you are her mother you exact it, and I must speak. But, ma- dame, if you blame me, I entreat you not to show anger to the little one. Poor heart, it is already so sad !" "I will not speak of it to her, whatever it may be." " Then, madame, I will tell you all. A young English gentleman saw her standing in the garden picking flowers from the apple-trees, and he desired to paint her. He was quite a grand seigneur any one could see that ; and he looked brave and honest. If it had been a Frenchman, he should not have come inside the gate, nor so much as spoken with the little innocent ; but he was English, and the English are not galant, like the French. He told me he should like to paint Mademoiselle. He gave Made- moiselle his card, by which she knew he was distinguished. The child was anxious, her life was dull, and I consented. Ah, madame, if I was foolish, imprudent, wicked, even, to grant their prayers, the Holy Virgin knows if I have suffered." And Marcelline wiped the tears from her eyes. Mrs. Power said nothing. She was looking out far away into the garden, and presently Marcelline went on : " Monsieur came for nearly a fortnight. I was always L 14* 1 62 DOLORES. present, and only French was spoken. They talked of Paris ; he told her of the gay sights and the fine shops, and of the Bois and the picture-galleries. And they spoke of flowers and gardens, and of England, and a thousand in- nocent subjects. Then I began to see, though he was only kind to Mademoiselle like a brother, that in a little time she occupied herself with nothing but him. She was rest- less, she looked at the clock a hundred times in an hour, and watched impatiently his coming. It was then I began to feel sorry. I went to him, I made an excuse to leave her at home, and I told him he must not trifle with the little one's heart. He was a true gentleman he did not hesitate. He wrote Mademoiselle a little letter of adieu, and went away without seeing her even once." Marcelline paused. "Well," said Mrs. Power, bringing her eyes from the window, and fixing them on Marcelline. Her face was very pale, and her lips worked nervously. " Madame, the terrible part is to come." " Go on." The voice was imperious, but straoge and forced, as if with some awful dread. "When she had his letter, she wept passionately she refused all consolation. For three days she went about like one whose heart is broken, eating nothing. Then the fourth day, when I was gone to the market, she slipped away to the town, and went after him to Paris." The mother sat as if she had been turned to stone ; her hands were tight locked, and there was a look in her eye* that terrified Marcelline. She went on quickly : " He was very good and noble, that English gentleman. He knew the innocence of the little one's heart, he would not profit by her simpleness. He brought her back to me at once, safe quite safe. It was three days before you returned, Madame." IN ST. OUEN. 163 There was a long silence a darkness seemed to have fallen over the room, a darkness not because the red sun- light was fading away behind the hills, but because heavi- ness was in the hearts of these two silent women. They did not hear a soft step, a half-hushed sob, behind the door that stood ajar. Dolores had come in and heard Marcelline's last words. She stood for a moment full of anguish and terror, then she seized her hat from the peg where it hung, took the key from the table, and ran down the garden path to the gate, unseen. "Cruel, cruel Marcelline, to betray me!" she said, with a great sob, as she paused for a moment before unlocking it ; and then she hurried out, and away down the hill. Her heart was filled with a great fear. What would become of her now that her mother kne\* this terrible secret? her mother, who had never been tender or loving to her in all her life only cold, and even harsh. She thought she would run away somewhere, she knew not where ; not to Paris, nor Guy ah ! not to him, since he cared nothing for her. How could she ever look in her mother's face again now that her shame was known? How meet the stern, contemptuous gaze she felt would be directed towards her ths next time she entered that dreaded presence ? 164 DOLORES. CHAPTER XVII. THE YELLOW SEINE. THE poor child hurried down the hill with hasty, uncer- tain feet, feeling cruelly her helplessness, her loneliness, her impotency to decide for herself, and yet with one great certainty in her heart, the certainty that she must never see her mother's face again. She went on and on until she came to the quay, then she walked along it until she had passed all the shops and houses and people. There was no one just here. It was growing dark, and Dolores knelt down on the beach and looked into the river. A strange feeling came over her the feeling that possesses many nervous minds when they look into the water or gaze down from a great height. , It was a kind of fascina- tion; she almost longed to throw herself in. Fantastic visions seemed to come before her of white, vapory shadows, beckoning from beneath the water, and she thought of Andersen's pathetic story of the little mer- maid who had loved the handsome prince. He had been very kind and good to her, had loved her like a little sister, but he would not make her his princess. Then, when she saw him with his beautiful bride in his arms, she had plunged the sharp knife into her poor sorrowful heart, and thrown herself deep down into the cold waters of forgetfulness. " Would it be hard to die ?" said the child in a whisper to herself. "If one were dead, nothing would trouble one no one would be angry any more." And she stretched out her hands to the water. THE YELLOW SEINE. 165 Warm as the summer night was, it struck cold and chill. She shrank back, then she stooped down a little nearer. With a violent start she felt some one catch her by the arm ; then she seemed to fall forward, and, for a little while, she forgot everything. It was quite dark when she came to her senses and looked up. Thousands of stars were shining in the dark- blue vault above, and a kind face was bending over her, while warm hands clasped her chilled ones. "Do not be afraid, my dear," said a voice a very tender one for a man's voice ; " you are quite safe." "Where am I?" Dolores asked, feeling strangely sick and giddy. "You looked too long into the water; you might have fallen in. I caught you, and startled you, perhaps. When you are better I will take you home." "Home!" repeated the girl, with a shiver, suddenly remembering everything, "no, not home." And she rose, and stood upright by herself. "Where, then?" the stranger asked, kindly. She stood for a minute without answering then she said, "Thank you, monsieur, I am quite well now. I will go by myself, if you please." "You are too young to be out alone so late," he answered, gravely. " You must really let me go with you." "I cannot," she said, firmly. Then she looked up in his face, and seeing how kind and good it was, and what a tender pitiful expression it wore, she said, beseech- ingly, "Let me go, monsieur." He was silent, and she turned away. But as she walked on slowly, she felt that he was following her. They came back to the Quai, and she sat down on one of the great i66 DOLORES. bales, with her face averted from him. He paused for a moment, and then came up close to her. " I do not want to intrude upon you, nor to pry into your secrets, but I know you are in trouble, and I want to help you." The words were spoken so kindly and simply, they made the tears rush to Dolores's eyes ; but she was silent, for she could not find words to answer him. " I have seen you twice in St. Ouen, when you were there alone and unhappy; to-night I saw you hurrying down the hill, looking wild and miserable, and I followed you. Forgive me if I trouble you, but I am so anxious to help you." For a moment Dolores thought she would tell this kind stranger everything, and he might advise her what to do ; then all her instinctive delicacy rushed back upon her, and she put the thought away. In her love and grief before, she had forgotten her modesty, had thrown herself into the arms of a man who cared nothing for her : should she make her shame and remorse still greater by confiding it to an utter stranger ? "You are very good, monsieur," she said, in a low voice. " I thank you with all my heart, but you cannot help me. I have been wicked and foolish." " If it is so, my dear, do you think to mend matters by running away alone and at this hour ? Have you any one you wish to go to?" "There is no one who wants to have me," said the child, bitterly, fresh tears coming in her eyes. " Have you no father or mother?" "I have a mother." "Here in Rouen?" "Yes, monsieur." "And you would go away and break her heart with anxiety for you ?' ' THE YELLOW SEINE. 167 " She would be glad I was gone, now she knows what I have done." " Is it something so terrible?" " Yes," said Dolores, with a half-choked sob. " I did not see it then, but now." "Come, come," whispered the stranger, soothingly, " I hope you are making too much of the matter. I can- not fancy you have done anything very dreadful, after all. It is getting so late. Does no one at home know where you are?" " No. I ran away when I heard " "Heard what?" " Marcelline tell mamma." " Then you did not go because your mother reproached or angered you?" "No." " Has she ever been cruel to you?" "No." " Come back with me, then, dear child. All this is some fancy on your part. You little know what a mother's love is, if you think it would turn a babe like you adrift on the world in a fit of anger. I dare say now she is searching everywhere in town for you, and vowing to forgive you all, if only you go back to her. Come." " I cannot ! I cannot !" sobbed Dolores. " Oh, mon- sieur, leave me only leave me !" " To throw yourself into the Seine?" " I did not mean to do that, indeed," stammered Do- lores ; " but I looked and looked, and it seemed as if some one beckoned me ; and then I thought I should never trouble any one again and I was so miserable !" "Poor little child !" said the kind grave voice, quite broken with pity for this unhappy, misguided little soul. " Come with me. I dare answer you will meet no harsh- 1 68 DOLORES. ness or severity if you do. I have a sister who is the kindest creature in the world, and she will take you and be good to you." It began to dawn on Dolores that she had been very wrong and foolish, and that there was no help for her but to go home. So she rose from the great bale she had been sitting on, and walked by his side, while he held her hand in his, now and again giving it a kind reassuring pressure. They ascended the hill together, speaking very little, Dolores overcome by the weight of her shame, he silent from delicacy. Mrs. Power was standing at the gate, looking eagerly down the road. "Dolores!" she cried, as the two came up to her. "Oh, child, why did you do this?" And she put her arm round the girl, and kissed her, to Philip Etherege's intense comfort. Dolores was silent, stupefied for a moment ; then she released herself from her mother's embrace, and ran past her through the garden. Mrs. Power recovered herself, and turned to the stranger. "Is it you, sir, whom I have to thank for bringing my daughter back to me?" Captain Etherege bowed. "Where did you find her?" " On the brink of the river, madame." The mother gave a terrified glance at him. " Do you mean " " I think it would be well not to leave her too much alone," he said, gently. " She seems to have some great terror preying on her mind." "Terror of what?" cried Mrs. Power, with a white blanched face, beginning to have all manner of horrible doubts. THE YELLOW SEINE. 169 " She told me she had done something foolish, and that she had run away because some one had told you of it. 1 have seen your daughter before. My sister and I take a deep interest in her, it is so sad that such a mere child I beg your pardon, madame, I will not intrude upon you any longer." " I am deeply indebted to you," answered Mrs. Power, in a low voice ; " it must seem strange, but I cannot offer you any explanation of this matter." " Not for the world !" cried Captain Etherege. "Pray do not say one word ; believe me, I neither seek nor desire any explanation. If you will permit me to leave you my card, and to inquire at some future time after your daugh- ter, it is the greatest and only favor you can confer on me." "If you wish it," Mrs. Power answered, unable to refuse his simple request. "I do not think I need ask you to keep silence about what has happened to-night." "I think not," he answered, gravely. "Thank you." And she gave him her hand. The mother turned from the gate with a heavy heart, and went back to the sitting-room. Dolores was not there; and slowly, painfully, Mrs. Power ascended the stairs and went into the little bedroom. Dolores looked up with great frightened eyes, which the mother seeing, cried out, "Oh, child, are you so afraid of me?" and, taking the little trembling form to her breast, she burst into a passion of tears. "It is my fault my fault !" she moaned. ."Oh, my poor little child 1" And thus the two wept together, and for the first and last time in her life Dolores knew the greatness of a mother's love the mother whom she had thought so cold and stern. For she knew not how that rigid exte- K IS 1 70 DOLORES. rior was but as the crust of ice that an intense cold has made over a deep stream, while the water still flows swift and strong beneath. The next morning, when Marcelline went to call her mistress, she found her quite cold and dead. She had not been to bed. On her writing-table were two letters one unfinished. Marcelline could hardly believe she was dead. She rushed hastily to Pierre, and sent him off for the doctor. He came at once a kind-hearted little man, who had been called in by Mrs. Power once or twice when she had been seriously ill before. "Ah! ah!" he said, nodding his head shrewdly, "poor lady ! poor lady ! As I thought the heart ! Some emo- tion, some violent emotion! What is this? what is this?" And he put on his spectacles and looked at the writing, but he could make nothing of it, for he did not understand a dozen words of English. "And little Miss does she know?" Marcelline wrung her hands. "Poor babe! poor lamb! poor angel! no! She still sleeps, and I have not the heart to wake her." "She has some friends, hein somewhere in England ?" " I know not. It may be in this letter." And Mar- celline mournfully indicated the sheet of paper lying on the escritoire. "She ought to be got out of the house until all this sad business is over. And then her friends must be written to. Who will do all this? Surely she knows some one English person here in Rouen." "Not a single one, except ah! except " And Marcelline bethought her of the kind, grave-looking Englishman who had brought back her child after her second flight. "There is a gentleman who lives in the THE YELLOW SEINE. 171 Campagne close by, with his sister, but she has only spoken just a few words with him." " Ah !" responded the little doctor, " I know. A tall, melancholy man, with the spleen very English, and a nice amiable little lady very English too, but no spleen. I attended her for migraine last week. In an hour I shall go to her, and speak of poor little Miss. She is good, I know she will interest herself." And, true to his word, the kind little man betook him- self to Miss Etherege, told her the story, and entreated her kind offices for her poor forlorn little compatriote. She put on her bonnet and went at once to Dolores, whom she found stricken with grief and terror, entreat- ing to be allowed to see her mother, whom she had killed by her wicked conduct. At first she shrank from the sight of a stranger, but Mary Etherege was so tender, so refined, so sympathetic, that in a very short time the child was won over, and clung gratefully to her new friend. And she shrank, as all young things do, from the terrible presence of death, and when Miss Etherege proposed to take her to her own home for a day or two, and Marcelline affectionately urged her to accept the invitation so heartily given, she acquiesced. Often she wondered afterwards what would have become of her if Philip and Mary Etherege had not been sent to her at this time she so childish and ignorant of all worldly affairs, and Marcelline equally helpless. As it was, they arranged everything for her she had no care but the sorrow of losing her mother ; and after the first shock, that loss was not so grievous they had been so little to each other. When they arrived at the Campagne, Mary Etherege put two papers into her hand. "These must be for you to read, my dear," she said, 172 DOLORES. gently : " they were on your poor mamma's writing- table." With trembling hands and dim eyes, Dolores took them and read thus : My DEAR CHILD, " I have too long delayed this task pray God give me strength to complete it to-night, for I feel my days are numbered ; and but for your sake, my poor child, to whom I fear I have so imperfectly filled a mother's place, how gladly would I go home to rest ! Rest ! oh, child, how I have prayed for you this night on my knees, that you may never know that awful heartsick weariness that makes the most perfect thought of heaven rest ! My heart aches for you, to think, child as you are, that you have suffered already suffered when you ought to know nothing but joy and laughter ; and I feel sore self- reproach to think that my own grief has made me too little careful of your welfare. But you always seemed to me so thoughtless, so frivolous, so devoid of all deep feeling, that no thoughts save for your immediate bodily welfare ever troubled me. "I have so little strength, I must come quickly to the important part of what I have to write you. Your father's name I cannot tell you, though I am his lawful wife, and you his lawful child, though he still lives, and is a man of name and position in the world. I sacrifice you as I sacrificed myself, as I would sacrifice ten lives, ten children, if he asked it of me ; so, my poor little one, I pray your forgiveness, for you owe me nothing but reproach. And yet do not think harshly of me. I have suffered so terribly these fifteen years, and, as God is my witness, for no fault of mine. When I am dead, what little I have will belong to you. You need not be dependent on any one, since THE YELLOW SEINE. '73 you will always have two hundred and fifty pounds a year, the principal of which is invested in the English Funds. The name and address of my lawyer you will find in my desk. I am getting so weak, I must break off my letter to write another to a friend who was dear to me twenty years ago. I shall commend you to her care. If I live, I will add more to this letter at another time; if not " There the letter ended. The other sheet of paper con- tained only these few words : " MY DEAR CAROLINE, "You know what friends we were in the old days you cannot have forgotten all the faithful promises we made each other when we were girls together. It is twenty years, or very nearly, since you saw or heard of me, but I know all about you where you live, how many children you have for I took great pains to find you out when I was in England a month ago. You have had a smooth and happy life, and I but never mind, it is nearly over will be quite over when you read this. Oh, Carry, for the sake of our old love, be good to my child !" And that was all no address, no clue of any kind. Captain Etherege wrote to the lawyer, but he could give no information of any kind, as he had only managed a few unimportant affairs for Mrs. Power, and that only within the last five years. Mary suggested advertising in the English papers; but, as there was no doubt Power was only a feigned name, and Dolores's father was evi- dently interested in ignoring her, Philip thought such a measure useless. What was to be done with her ? was the vexed question that constantly presented itself to the minds of brother and sister. 15* 174 DOLORES. CHAPTER XVIII. IN DAYS GONE BY. Two months passed, and at the end of them Dolores was beginning to be a little more like her old self. There was many an hour during which she sat listless and sorrow- ful ; there were still sometimes traces of tears on her soft cheeks, but she did laugh now and then, and there was occasionally a ring of the old blitheness in her sweet voice. We must forget in time, or, at all events, become less sensitive to our bitter sorrows, thank God ! only let the days, and weeks, and months come to an end, and they will find (even after the crudest suffering) some of us resigned, some stultified, some utterly oblivious. " Two gifts, perforce, we have given us yet, Though sad things stay and glad things fly- Two gifts we have given us to forget All glad and sad things that go by, And then to die." Most of us want to die at first, when we are so wretched ah, so wretched ! that the most cruel thought is the thought of a long life. But then, some time, the bitter dark days pass, and we come out again into the sunlight, and we can thank God then for not having listened to the impatient prayer of our sorrow. So Dolores, having little to remind her of her grief, began gradually to think less of it, and to see the sprouting green shoots of an oasis in what had seemed to her poor little weeping eyes one great desert of scorching sand. The silver that had begun to IN DAYS GONE BY. '75 line her dark cloud was the constant presence and com- panionship of Captain Etherege and his sister. Dolores still lived with Marcelline in the little white house. Miss Etherege had tried to persuade her to go to England, where she would seek out some kind, pleasant people to take care of her j but the girl set herself reso- lutely against this project. " No, no, no !" she answered, decisively. "I will go on living here at all events, so long as you, my two kind friends, are here. What should I do in cold, miserable England, where I know no one ?" Marcelline was more than a mother to her mother, friend, devoted slave, all in one ; and the two had a pleas- ant sense of freedom, now that the first shock of Mrs. Power's death was over. No one to fear, no one to tremble at, no one to consider, no one to obey. All day and every day Dolores spent with her new friends. They planned little excursions to amuse and distract her mind they had books and pictures to show her ; they took her walks and drives, and never seemed weary of having her with them. What she cared most for was to sit in the twilight, on a low stool near the open window, and hear Captain Etherege tell of the foreign countries he had visited, and all the anecdotes and incidents of his life that he could remember. When he discovered that she cared to hear of these things, how he racked his brain to think of them ! what efforts he made to rouse himself from his natural shyness ! His sister, sitting in the far corner, that the remembrance of her presence might not disturb him, smiled to herself a little sadly, and thought, somehow, of Othello and Desdemona, as she saw the girl's rapt eyes fixed on his grave, deep-lined face. And all this time the child was twining herself round Philip Etherege' s world-worn heart twining so tight, so 176 DOLORES. tight, it pained him many a time, and wrung great sighs from him. "How could I ever hope she would care even a little for me?" he said, sadly "such a tender blossom, and I so old and careworn ! Yes, I am an old man compared with her; and I look ten years older even than I am. Forty and seventeen ! the disparity is horrible to think of 1" And he whispered to himself Shakspeare's verses " ' Crabbed age and youth Cannot live together ; Youth is full of pleasance, Age is full of care. Age, I do abhor thee, Youth, I do adore thee ; Oh, my love, my love is young !' " I dare say she thinks of me as some quite old man, too old even to remember the warm feelings of youth. Oh, if she only knew how fresh and keen my heart is still just as capable of loving as when it was twenty years younger ! And, even if it was not for that, could I dare to join her young life to my miserable, disgraced one? Though she has no name, no parents, no friends, could I dare to take advantage of that ? Ah, how little I thought ever to love or want to trust a woman again !" Then he wondered to himself what could be that secret in her life, so terrible, so bitter, that should have made her want to hide herself away from the scorn that followed it hide herself even in death. "Did she love some man very dearly in her sweet innocent heart, and did he deceive her ? If I could find the blackguard out " And a sudden passion made the hot blood flush into his cheeks. Then his head IN DAYS GONE BY. 177 dropped upon his arms, and a strange passing bitterness made his strong frame heave and tremble. Presently he leans back in his chair, and sits staring, with deep, intent eyes, at the burning logs. Looking into the fitful blaze, this is what he sees : A room wherein the light of a midsummer evening is waning, but there is yet no darkness; everything, even into the dimmest corner, stands out in bold relief. Re- clining nonchalantly in a low chair is a fair woman, pretty in feature, but almost repulsive in expression at this moment. The picture is well engraved on his mind, even to the shimmering satin, the cloudy lace, that- lay in folds round her svelte figure ; even to the jewels that deck her ears, her breast, and arms. There leans against the chimney-piece a man, whose face is dark with pain and anger, in whose eyes there is the strangest min- gling of wrath and pity. That man is himself. His mind takes a leap further back ; as in dreams where in a moment one seems to live through long spaces of time, he goes through the past years of his life. In the young days he has been wild, lived hard, as most men in the service have more, perhaps, from idleness and ennui than from any especial predisposition to or love for vice. There is some folly, some sin, much wasted time, to recall, but no disgrace, no stain of dishonor nothing that, in the eyes of the world, tarnishes a man's fair fame. And from the moment that he knew this woman, his life has been a page open and fair to all who might choose to read. She was young, girlish, pretty, and he loved her dearly nay, with all his heart and they were married. She traveled about with him, wherever his regiment was ordered. He put no restraint upon her ; she might dance and laugh with whom she chose. He did not suspect her was only glad that she should be admired and happy. M 178 DOLORES. He was not a rich man, but he could afford to gratify many of her extravagant tastes. What he had he gave lovingly, ungrudgingly. A year passed; she grew cold to him. If it had been only that ! hard as that is for one who loves to bear but there were rumors rumors that, at last, even he could not help hearing. He sent in his papers at once. She cried, implored, entreated. In answer he uttered not one word of suspicion or reproach, but on the subject of leaving the army he was inexorable. They went to live in London. He, a sportsman, fond of all country pursuits, abhorred it ; but he said to him- self, " What right have I to make her miserable by shutting her up in the country? If I condemn her to a dull life after what she has been used to, it will be my fault if she is driven to deceive me. ' ' So he took a house in London, lived a life he hated, went with her to balls, theatres, dinners, rode and drove with her, gratified all her whims, so far as he could, and begrudged not the sacrifice, for he loved her dearly. And she was dissatisfied wretched. She could not tear her- self away from the life that did not satisfy her. It morti- fied her every day to see women richer, better dressed, more admired than herself. Why should not she have stepping horses, and diamonds, and half a dozen men of fashion at her beck and call? She girded more bitterly at the hardness of her fate than the beggar who knows not where to look for his next meal. The man who loved her unselfishly was sorry for her. He read her heart, but did not despise her for what he found there; he only said, " Poor little girl ! she should have married a man with ten thousand a year !" As she grew daily colder and more indifferent to him, IN DAYS GONE BY. 179 impatient of all he said or did, more exacting the more he sacrificed, she became more anxious for the flattery and admiration of other men. Her flirtations were so prononct that her own sex began to draw aside from her ; still her husband shielded her, made excuses for her ; no one ever heard him say one harsh or bitter word of her not the women who knew him best could wring one word from him to her disparagement. Once a servant hinted to him something against her mistress; he turned her from the house there and then he could not, would not see. A time came when it was impossible to shut his eyes any more; he left her half mad with agony, and went straight to his lawyer. Why didn't he kill the man? Yes, if it had been one. A month passed a month of awful sickening pain, in which, after his first fury against her, he said to himself, " Shall I leave her to infamy and disgrace, to a horror worse than death? shall I drive he: deeper into the abyss than she is already? What is my life worth to me ? what future have I to look forward to ? how can I hold up my head again in the world ? Shall I not try to save her ? Perhaps she has suffered bitterly ; her punishment may already be enough." I know not what visions he sees of the long golden hair trailing in the dust, of the eyelids red with weeping, of the fair face distorted by shame and sorrow, as he turns his steps to that house that he has once called home. The servant who opens the door looks strangely at him, in doubt whether to admit him. He solves the difficulty by pushing past her and going up into the drawing-room. It is empty. " Tell your mistress I am here," he says, hoarsely, and the girl leaves him alone. A sickening feeling of expectation comes over him. Will she see him ? will she come and throw herself at l8o DOLORES. his feet ? Then then he will take her in his arms and forgive her, and they will go away together out of Eng- land until the world has forgotten, and Oh, how the minutes drag themselves out ! Will she never come ? She need not fear so to meet him. The handle of the door turns somewhat sharply ; there is a rustling, trailing sound of silk, and there stands before him no penitent Magdalen, but a woman haughty and bold of mien, with painted eyes, magnificently dressed, with diamonds glittering in her ears and on her breast. " Well, what do you want of me?" The hopes that have been growing and gathering in his breast are dispelled with one bitter wrench ; he stands staring at her, not knowing what to say. This is a phase he has not contemplated. " I did not think to find you like this," he says, bit- terly, after a moment. " No?" she utters, indifferently, sailing gracefully into a chair. " I am going to the opera." "To the opera?" he echoes, harshly. "Have you, then, fallen so low that you can flaunt your shame openly before the world?" "If you came for the pleasure of insulting me," she answers, coldly, "I must decline to hear any more; re- criminations are not amusing, and I suppose our lawyers can settle all there is to settle." "For God's sake," he cries, hoarsely, "don't talk like that ! Are you destitute of every spark of better feeling? Listen : this is what I came for. I came, hoping to find some remorse in your heart. I came to say to you, * If you have repented, if from to-day you will swear to me to lead a new life, I will take you back to me ; not to my love, not to my heart, but to my name my hearth and home, from shame and disgrace and we will go together IN DAYS GONE BY. 181 to some place where no one knows us, where no one can reproach you, where ' ' " Grand merci? she interrupts, scornfully; "your offer is too magnanimous, the picture you draw too tempt- ing. Thanks very much, but I have other views." His heart is full of wrath and bitterness, but he cannot ?ee this woman who has lain on his breast, whom he has loved so dearly, go headlong to her own perdition. "Have you no pity for yourself?" he says, presently; words seem slow in coming to him the words he wants. "No," she answers, icily, "none at all. I am sorry for you. I suppose you find you can't live without me. I don't doubt this moment you would take me back on my own terms if I chose; but I don't choose." He stands staring at her. Is this creature, fair to look upon, bright-eyed, red-lipped, soft-skinned, a woman ? a helpmate for man, to be his comfort, his consolation, his pleasure ? the one bright spot given to a man to cheer his dreary pilgrimage ? or is it some mocking devil per- mitted by an infernal agency to go about for his miseiy and destruction ? " What do you mean to do ?" The words came harsh and dry from his parched throat. "When we are divorced, I am going to marry a man with ten thousand a year, or very near it. You know you always said that was what I ought to have had. He will be here directly : you had better go." A sudden fury comes over him : he makes a step to wards her, a very devil kindling in his flaming eyes. She looks at him calmly. "Are you going to strangle me?" she asks, looking ai him with eyes that never blench. He falls back again, an awful coldness creeping over him ; the horror is so intense, it benumbs him. He tries 16 182 DOLORES. to steady himself against the chimney-piece. As if in a dream, he hears the bell ring sees her rise and go away. A moment later he hears a man's voice, with which hers mingles laughing. In an instant he dashes towards the door, his very soul filled with murderous rage ; his foot catches in the portiere, and he falls heavily, striking his head. For a moment he lies stunned ; then, as he essays to rise, he hears the street door close, and a carriage drive away. Mechanically he goes down the stairs, takes his hat, and leaves the house. His head swims, he is not aware of anything passing him, until a man touches his arm and says, " Hadn't you better get into a cab and go home, sir? You head seems to be bleeding very bad." Then he is conscious that people are staring at him, and that the side of his face is covered with blood. "Thank you," he says; and the man calls a cab and puts him into it. "Whereto, sir?" His memory seems to have left him j he cannot for the life of him remember the name of his hotel. He stares vaguely at his Samaritan friend. " Perhaps you've got a card or an envelope about you, sir?" He pulls half a dozen letters from his pocket ; the ad- dress is the same on all, so the man directs the cabman where to drive. Somehow he gets to his room, and throws himself on the bed. All through the night, as he tosses to and fro, his lips can frame but one sentence, " Oh, God ! and I loved that woman !" Captain Etherege sees all this in the logs that blaze and crackle. Time has worn off the keenness of the sting ; but the memory is still bitter. Degraded, disgraced, his IN DAYS GONE BY. 183 name stained, and for no fault or sin of his ! If he loved, ay, so much, could he offer that name to another woman ? It is two years since all this happened. After the di- vorce he went to America, and for twelve months led a roving life, finding what diversion he might in the wildest adventures, the most dangerous sports. He hated the thought of England ; he would rather have gone into the wildest, loneliest haunts of Indians than face London, his friends, his club. If he had been the guiltiest creature on God's earth if the mark of Cain had been branded on his brow he could not have more dreaded to meet those of his fellow-men who knew him and his history. So he traveled about the continent, and finally landed at Rouen, which took his fancy vastly. Thence he wrote to his eldest and only unmarried sister. "Mv DEAR MARY, " If you can be spared for a little time from your nephews and nieces that is to say, if you are not nursing any of the different tribes through measles, scarlatina, or \vhooping-cough come and spend a month or two with me in this quaint old city. Now you've taken to writing, you'll find no end of interesting old places and people here to scribble about ; and you will have the comfort of knowing you're doing a most charitable action, for I am getting utterly heart -sick for sight of a face I know, and I don't think any other would do me so much good as your dear old cheery one. What do you say? Will you come?" Mary Etherege's answer was to come straight off, as soon as she had packed her wardrobe and foolscap. 1 84 DOLORES. CHAPTER XIX. A CONFESSION. MARCELLINE, whose heart was bound up in Dolores who had no other thought or wish, morning, noon, and night, but the welfare of her little one, who had run such grievous risks and dangers Marcelline was not long in discovering that Captain Etherege loved her. The more she considered the subject, the more puzzled grew her brain. Thus her reflections ran : " He loves the little one, that is certain, perhaps even without knowing it. How he watches to see her smile to see her pleased ! What pains he takes to satisfy her least caprice ! And when she looks happy, there comes into his eyes ah ! those beautiful eyes, that are like the pictures of the blessed Saint Jean a tenderness that almost brings the tears into my eyes, old fool that I am ! He is too old, without doubt, for the little one ; but, ah, how good he would be to her ! and is not that a thou- sand times more to be desired than the quickly-ended passion of a young man, with whom it is a fashion to be capricious and to desire every pretty face he sees ? Still, she is so young, the little one so young and tender. It is not a father she wants. Sometimes they are happy, though, these marriages ; but I have heard they are not approved among the English. May the good God watch over her !" finished up Marcelline, " and send her happi- ness !" Dolores was not ignorant of the love she inspired. Those who themselves have loved become quick in detect- A CONFESSION. 185 ing the master-passion in others, and so the girl soon came to know that Captain Etherege cared for her. She had no feeling for him beyond a certain pleasure in his society and in hearing him talk a restful consciousness of protection in his presence, and a grateful remembrance that he had brought light across the dullness and dimness of her life ; yet she was glad he loved her glad to think she could inspire strong feeling in some heart, and, with the unfairness of an unreasonable child, she took a secret pleasure in fostering the passion which she had no thought of returning. But it raised no hopes in him ; he did not even give her credit for guessing at his real feelings ; and as for Mary Etherege, the kindest, best creature in the world, there was so little sentiment in her nature, and she was so unskilled in reading others, that she had not any real consciousness of what her brother felt and Do- lores knew. She was rendered additionally blind by the fact of having her mind concentrated on writing ; and though sometimes vague thoughts about the two would flit across her brain, they took no definite shape. One autumn evening, Captain Etherege, his sister, and Dolores were sitting over a cheery wood fire in the cozy little salon. There was no light but the flame of the blazing logs, which threw a warm, ruddy glow over the faces of the three ; but it was light enough to tell stories by, and Captain Etherege was telling one entranced auditor, at least, the story of the Endymion and her gal- lant crew, who, at the risk of being stranded on the reefs themselves, saved seven hundred of their French foes from a horrible death. "And then," he finished, his face all aglow with honest pride at the remembrance of what British tars had done " then, when the Endymion had hauled them off the rocks, and got into fair water again herself, the Frenchmen tum- 16* 1 86 DOLORES. bled into the rigging, and cheered our men like mad, until the sound was heard far above the howling of the wind and the roar of the waves ; and then they set sail, and went to tell the story of their noble foes, and you may depend after that they never thought of our British tars without a tender spot in their hearts somewhere for them." Dolores was leaning forward, her hands clasped, the tears standing in her eager eyes. "Ah, that was noble!" she said, her voice so tremu- lous she could hardly speak. "Yes," Captain Etherege answered. "That story always stirred my blood more than any other. I think I would rather have been in the Endymion that time, almost, than have fought by Nelson's side at Trafalgar." At this juncture Mary Etherege slipped away into the dining-room to fetch some work. After she was gone, her brother and Dolores sat for some time looking into the fire without speaking. Presently Captain Etherege glanced at his companion. The firelight flickered over her peach-like face and round white throat; it warmed her rich brown hair, and shone upon her sweet blue eyes. "I know what you remind me of," he said, suddenly. "It has often puzzled me, but I remember now; you are like Greuze's picture in the Louvre." Dolores gave one startled glance at him, and then burst into tears. "My dear child, what have I said?" cried Philip Etherege, quite distressed. "I would not pain you for the world!" But Dolores said nothing, only let the great glistening tears rain through her slender hands. "Dolores, dear child, don't cry," he said, kneeling A CONFESSION. 187 down beside her and putting his arm round her; "you make me wretched." " It is nothing," she sobbed, drawing herself away. He sat down again with a sigh, and remained silently looking into the fire until she left off crying and removed her hands from her face. Then he took one of them tenderly in his, and when she essayed to draw it from him, he said, gently, "Don't take it away, child; I would not do anything to vex you ;" and she let it remain. "What made you cry, dear?" he asked, presently. "Was it something I said?" "It was about the picture," Dolores answered, looking ready to cry again. " We will not speak of it, then, if it pains you." "If it had not been for that picture," cried Dolores, impetuously, " I should never have been so miserable so miserable as I am now." "Are you still so miserable?" Captain Etherege asked, in a sad voice. "I shall never be anything but miserable." "Oh, child, don't say that!" he cried, in a quick, uncertain voice. " You who are so young, with life and love before you, to talk like that !" "Not love," she answered, bitterly; "that is over." Philip Etherege could almost have smiled, if he had not felt so sad. "Do you know, dear," he said, giving utterance to what he had, a little while before, been firmly resolved never to betray, "do you know I love you, with all my heart that I would do or sacrifice anything in this world for the hope that you might be mine? I don't tell you this because I think or believe for one instant it would ever make you think of me otherwise than you do now 1 88 DOLORES. as a man, old and gray a man who could never be any- thing to you but a friend or an adviser. I feel all that, dear child, keenly, painfully enough; but I tell it you just to prove to you that, if you can revive a love in me that I thought no woman living could re-kindle, it makes it doubly sure that many another man will love you, for your beautiful face and your dear, sweet ways. And then, dear, when some one comes who is worthy of you, who has youth and love and all you value to give you, life will seem very different in your eyes from what it does to-day. Seventeen, and life and love finished ! Ah, my little one, you have tasted neither yet." " I have," she cried, passionately; " you do not know anything." Then she remembered what he had said about loving her, and she caught away her hand quickly. " If you knew," she said, the deep red flushing in her cheeks, and her voice faltering "if you knew, you would not love me, you would despise me." "I!" he exclaimed, in a tone of tender incredulity. "Yes, you. Ah, you do not know how foolish and wicked I have been." "Foolish, perhaps," he answered, regaining the little hand, and kissing it tenderly; "we are all foolish some time in our lives, but wicked no, dear, don't ask me to believe that. I hardly think you know what actual wick- edness means ; you have committed some trifling wrong, perhaps, and it seems a fearful enormity to your innocent eyes." " If I were to tell you " " Don't tell me, dear child. I trust you. I seek to know nothing." And so, in his generosity, he put aside the curiosity that had tormented him, waking and sleep- ing, for two months. "I will tell you," she said, resolutely. "But you A CONFESSION. 189 will still be kind and good to me, even if you despise me. You will not betray me to any one, will you?" There were some noble chords in Dolores's nature, and her sorrow had struck music from them, and made her something far sweeter, higher, worthier than the frivolous child it found her. " Don't tell me," said Philip Etherege, again. " I must tell you, because I want you not to love me," she answered, her sweet voice trembling. "It is so terri- ble to love, when the love is not returned." " Yes," he answered, mechanically, with a deep sigh. Dolores went on : " In the spring, mamma went away to England, and Marcelline and I were left alone up at the house. One day a stranger saw me picking apple-blossoms, and he desired to paint me, because I was like a picture in the Louvre. So he asked Marcelline, and it was so very, very dull and quiet up there, she thought it would please me, and consented. He came several times to make my picture, and I oh, Captain Etherege, it seems so bold, so immodest to tell you I loved him, hardly even know- ing that I loved him." And Dolores stopped a moment, because her voice was choked with tears. " Poor little child !" said Philip, his own eyes wet with pity, and he kissed the little hand again. "You will not want to do that when I have told you all," uttered Dolores, sadly; but he only clasped it the tighter. " He was a grand English gentleman ; he was very kind and good to me, but he never even guessed I should be foolish enough to love him. Then he had to go away suddenly ; he sent me a letter, and I thought my heart would have broken. Oh, if you knew what it is to feel that misery of being away out of sight of some one who igo DOLORES. is all your life to you, with the thought that you will never see them again, you would not want to love." Captain Etherege listened as if in a dream. To hear this little girl warn him of sufferings that had embittered the last years of his life, it was so passing strange, it be- wildered him into silence. "For three days," she went on, "I was almost mad with misery; then the fourth, I I could not bear it, and I followed him to Paris." "Good God!" cried Philip, in sudden agony, drop- ping her hand. "Yes," she said, shrinking back, "I knew you would hate and despise me." "Oh, child, go on!" he cried, catching it again, and grasping it so hard it pained her; "go on, tell me all, for God's sake !" She snatched her hand away, and burst into tears, while he sat devouring her face with fierce, strange, mis- erable eyes. " Don't keep me in this suspense !" he said, in a voice so unlike his own that the girl looked up, startled. " I found him, and he brought me back home," she faltered. And then there was a long silence. Captain Etherege was the first to break it. " Did you want to stay with him, child ?" "Yes," she answered, in a low voice, hiding her face in her hands. "I implored him to let me stay; I said I would be his servant anything, only to be with him." "And what answer did he make?" " He said I knew not what I asked." " Have you ever seen him since?" " He stayed two days longer in Rouen. I have never seen him since." "And your mother did she know?" A LETTER. 19! " Never until that first day I saw you down by the Quai. I was on the threshold, I heard Marcelline tell her, and 1 ran away blindly in my shame and terror. Now you know all, and you will never be my friend any more, perhaps." He only kissed her hands passionately for answer. "We cannot give love and take it back," he said, " No, child ; I love you with all my heart. I believe you as pure and innocent as any woman breathing ; and I would hold it the dearest blessing God could give me to shield your dear life from harm and sorrow. Oh, my darling, could you not love me a little ever so little?" But tears were his only answer. CHAPTER XX. A LETTER. DOLORES lay awake all that night thinking of what had happened to her, and hardly knowing whether to be glad or sorry. She was not ashamed of having told the honest truth to the man who loved her ; it was only fair and just that he should know, she said to herself. And he must love her dearly. Was it not strong proof that he remained unchanged, even after the disclosure which had been so painful and shameful to her? But she did not love him not as she understood the meaning of love not with that wild worship she had known for Guy. He would protect and shelter and be good to her, and she felt rest and trust in him that was all. The thought that he was too old never occurred to her ; he had seemed as young igt DOLORES. as Guy when he sat with her over the firelight kissing her hands. " How I wish I could love him !" she said to herself a thousand times. " I might be so happy with him if I could forget Sir Guy. Would he be sorry if I married some one else ? No, I think not ; he never cared for me;" and then she turned her face to her pillow and cried. " If it were possible," she thought again, "that some day we might meet, and he should think more of me, and then it was too late." And after thinking a long, long time, she resolved to write to Guy, and tell him, and ask his advice. The next day she wrote him this letter : " DEAR SIR GUY Once you told me, if I wanted help or counsel, to write to you. I cling still to the remem- brance of your kindness, though you, perhaps, have for- gotten it, and almost me. Some one who is very good and generous has offered me his love. I have told him all my foolishness that I was guilty of to you, and he pardons it. I do not love him as as I could wish ; but, since he is so good to me, and cares so for me, should I, who can never love again, refuse so much devotion? I ask you ; you will advise, will you not ? "Your little friend and sister, "DOLORES." With her own hands she posted the letter, and waited day by day for the answer. But it never came ; and at last she was forced to say, in the bitterness of her heart, " He has forgotten me utterly ; he will not even give himself the trouble to write me one line." Then pride came to her rescue. "It is mean and pitiful in me," she said, with kindling eyes, " to treasure in my heart such A LETTER. 193 love for a man who has no thought of me ! I will never think of him any more." And so she tried to banish him from her memory, and was all the happier for the effort. She began to take more interest in her life ; to be glad when she was with Captain Etherege, to be sorry when he left her, and to feel that he was the mainspring of her new existence, making it all smooth and pleasant to her. As for Philip, since that evening when he had been overcome into betraying his love for her, he had never alluded to it again. She knew now what his feelings were ; should she ever have the dawn of some warmer, kindlier thought of him, it would be for her to show it. Over and over again he thought of the story she had so frankly confessed to him ; and, bitter as the recollection was, it seemed, in one sense, to bring her nearer to him. If her past had been unclouded, if she had a future such as most young girls have to look forward to, would she not be utterly, hopelessly out of reach of him ? of what little he had to offer? But now there was this dark page in her life, which she herself was so bitterly ashamed of, might he not offer his heart, his love, and his name, to shield her as far as it is given to one mortal to shield another from so much of pain and suffering ? But it gave him a horrible pang to think of this little tender child having been at the mercy of another man. He would not doubt her. " If she were not spotless and innocent," he reasoned to himself, "she would never have made such a confession. Though she talks so bitterly of her wickedness and folly, I would stake my life she is ignorant of the construction the world would put on her words. Oh, if that No, he must be an honorable man, though I feel so bitter against him. If she had never seen him, and could have given me half of that passionate worship her poor lavish N 17 I 9 4 DOLORES. little heart wasted on him, how happy I might have been once again ! Even as it is, I feel it would be almost hap- piness to be able to protect her from all external harm and suffering. What is to become of the child, living here without society and companionship, having no one but Marcelline? She seems a good, sensible creature, and I am sure she loves the child ; but what an existence for a young girl who should be just beginning life with a host of joyous anticipations !" As a rule, Captain Etherege told his sister everything that concerned him, sure of her loving, sisterly affection ; but on the subject of Dolores he was silent, and told her nothing. One morning a letter came from an old friend. He was in delicate health, was going to the south of France for the winter, and being obliged to remain a few days in Paris, had written to ask Captain Etherege to join him there. " I am quite alone," he wrote, " and feel very wretched and nervous about myself. My brother is to join me in a few days, but meantime I am so hipped and dull, my life is a burden. For the sake of old times, do, like a good fellow, take pity upon me, and if you can spare a week from that exciting place in which you are at present stagnating, you will earn my eternal gratitude." Unable to resist such an appeal, Philip had his port- manteau packed, and went off by the afternoon train. Dolores ran in to pay her accustomed visit a few minutes after his departure. "Philip left all kinds of messages for you," said Mary Etherege ; "he has gone to Paris." "To Paris !" repeated Dolores, her face falling visibly. "Yes, dear, for a week; so you must take pity on me, and give me a good deal of your company the next few A LETTS X. '95 days. I dare say the change will do him good, poor fel- low. I am afraid he finds this place dull, but he is so kind and good, he would never say so, because he knows I enjoy being here." "I need not have been unhappy about his caring too much for me," sighed Dolores to herself. "I don't be- lieve men know what it is to love really." " Philip's has been a sad life," Miss Etherege went on presently. "Did you know he had been married, Do- lores?" " No," she answered, starting. "It is a very sad story. I hate to talk about it, but somehow I fancy he wants you to know." "And did his wife die?" asked Dolores, solemnly. "No." There was a pause. Mary Etherege fidgeted about a little, and arranged the things on her writing-table. " I hate to talk about it," she repeats presently, almost irritably for her. "She was a bad, wicked woman, and God forgive me, but I cannot forgive her. ' ' Turning, she sees Dolores's eyes fixed wonderingly upon her. " It is so difficult to tell a little innocent creature like you," she pursues. "I dare say you never even heard the word divorce?" Dolores shakes her head. Mary Etherege feels a great difficulty in continuing her narrative. "Well," she says at last, "when people are married, and one is untrue to the other, they can be separated by law: that is called being divorced. It means the mar- riage is annulled the husband and wife are no more to each other than if they had never been married." "And was some one once untrue to Philip to Cap- tain Etherege, I mean?" And the girl blushes. 196 DOLORES. "Yes," replies the sister, bitterly; "and yet he was the kindest, the most indulgent husband in the world." "Is it long ago?" " More than two years ; and, until he saw you, he could never bear to speak to a woman. I think you have cured him of that." " Oh !" And Dolores heaves a deep sigh. She went home with a new interest in Captain Etherege, saying to herself, " We have both had our sorrows, we should not expect too much of each other ; we can neither of us love any more." Old reasoning for such a child; but sorrow soon makes the heart old. And the days that he was away seemed so long and dreary, she felt as if it was quite impossible to go back to the old life without him. If he went away for a few months, what a great miserable blank there would be again ! Would it not be better to make sure of having him always near her ? And now that he was away, and she missed him so much, she began to think she loved him. She longed for him to come back, she counted the hours until the week should be over, and the more she doubted if he really cared for her, the more she felt drawn towards him. Then when he did come back, as she and Mary Etherege were sitting together over the firelight, when she saw his kind eyes looking gladly into hers, when she heard the sound of his voice, and felt the loving pressure of his hand, she was almost happy, and said to herself, "Yes, I know I shall love him." A little later, when Mary Etherege was out of the room, Dolores put one hand shyly on his, and said, " I am so glad you have come back. It seemed quite dull and changed without you." " Are you glad really glad, child ?" he asked, quickly turning to her. A LETTER. 197 "Yes, really." He was silent for a moment, and then he said, " Have you ever thought, while I have been away, of what I once said to you?" "Yes." " Has Mary told you about about my past life? Tell me, child, will you have my love?" "Yes," she answered, simply. "Darling," he said, hardly satisfied, "are you quite sure in your own mind? Don't take me out of pity. I would rather never see your dear face again than think you might some day regret what you had done." "I shall not regret," she answered, in a low voice. " We have both been sad, you and I ; we shall not expect too much from each other." He kissed her a little sadly, and she felt a tranquil con- tent that was not love, and yet was a sort of happiness. It was a strange wooing and acceptance for a girl of seven- teen, was it not? So it was settled that Captain Etherege and Dolores were to marry each other. His sister was surprised, but very glad, and Marcelline was divided be- tween exuberant pleasure and anxious doubts. They were not to be married just yet, it was decided Dolores was so young, and Philip was too diffident and uncertain of hex feelings to wish to hasten the marriage. Before she had consented to be his wife, he had believed it would be sufficient happiness only to have her; now he had the most ardent desire that she should love him, not luke- warmly, as he felt she did, but dearly, passionately, as she had loved that other man. Oh, how the recollection of him rankled in Philip's heart ! A month passed, during which Dolores felt happier than she had ever been before, except during the time of her fitful wild joy in the presence of Guy. Philip was so 17* igg DOLORES. good, he provided a thousand pleasures for her; it was even arranged oh, greatest happiness of all ! that he was to take her and his sister to Paris for a week. Dolores clapped her hands with a return of the old childish delight, and he began to feel more confident of ultimately winning her love. "Ah, mon Dieu ! what it is to be young and have rich lovers!" cried Marcelline one day, with a beaming face, when Dolores showed her the diamond ring that Captain Etherege had given her as the pledge of their engage- ment. " I told you once, little one, when you de- sponded, that some day good fortune would come to you ; and see how the bon Dieu makes everything right. As for M. le Capitaine, he is an angel of goodness he is like pictures of the blessed Saint Jean he is the man, par exemple, to make a good husband. Ah, how much better to have such a man as that, who is not young and giddy, and would not want to be always looking round for the pretty faces of other women, to break your heart!" Dolores did not answer. She was looking out thought- fully at the cold winter scene; and, when she turned, Marcelline saw that there were tears in her eyes. "Fi done, mademoiselle!" she cried, briskly "tears! why tears, I should wish to know ? Tiens ! look at these big frozen drops in your beautiful ring, like the fairy- story of the little princess whose tears were turned into diamonds. That was well worth crying for; but yours are but poor worthless drops of salt water, that only make your pretty eyes red and sore. Mon Dieu ! to cry because one has a rich, generous lover ! Oh, what a silly child ! And M. le Capitaine is a fine, handsome man, Men en~ tendu" she rattled on. "Marcelline," said the child, sadly, putting her arms THE REAL PICTURE. I 99 round her faithful friend's neck, "I am not worthy of him, and that makes me miserable." " La, la, la !" cried Marcelline, touched, but obstinately refusing to display any soft feeling; "what silly fancies are these? I'll answer he thinks you good enough. I dare say, if one only knew, he is fretting because he thinks himself unworthy of you. So it is always with those foolish lovers who make so much of each other. They don't trouble their heads about not being good enough after the priest has once joined their hands." CHAPTER XXI. THE REAL PICTURE. THE day was fixed for the visit to Paris, and Dolores was in quite an excited state at the thought of it, when a summons came for Miss Etherege to go to one of her sisters, who was ill. When Dolores heard the news, her disappointment was so grievous, and she showed it so un- mistakably in her face, that Philip felt she should not and must not be thwarted. " Molly," he whispered, " why should not Dolores and I go to Paris, and take Marcelline with us for chaperon?" Mary thought for a moment. " I do not see any objection at all," she answered, after a slight pause. So it was decided ; and when Dolores told Marcelline the news, she danced ibout the room with the childish gayety of old times. 200 DOLORES. The faithful servant's heart throbbed with pleasure at sight of this unwonted merriment ; her honest face beamed with delight, but she could not refrain from saying, a little maliciously, " Tiens! is this the demoiselle who wanted to be a nun who was never going to be happy again all the days of her life?" "Unkind Marcelline!" pouted the child. "Do you rail at me because I am happy?" Marcelline' s answer is to take the fair face between her brown hands and imprint a sounding kiss upon each cheek. Then she trots off into the kitchen, where, in the exuberance of her delight, she cannot help confiding to Jeanneton the news of her impending visit to Paris. Is not Paris the El Dorado of every Frenchwoman, gentle or simple, young or old ? "Ah !" says Jeanneton, pausing in her work, and look- ing enviously at Marcelline's triumphant face, " thou wilt see Paris, thou. Well, my girl, that will be a happy day for thee. And thou wilt see the gardens where I used to dance, and the houses where we supped afterwards (though they say many of them are pulled down), when I was the gayest grisette in all the quartier. Ah ! there are no more grisettes now like then. I remember, too, there were many English there ; fine men they were, and gener- ous. Oh, yes, generous, I tell thee; the English always spend their money like water. They had a fancy for me, too, but I liked the Frenchmen best. But, dis done, Mar- celline, if the little demoiselle marries this English capi- taine, wilt thou go with her to England?" "We shall see," replies Marcelline, nodding her head. "Ah, poor girl!" cries Jeanneton with a spice of malice, holding up her hands, "then I pity thee in that satane Angleterre, where they do nothing but eat raw THE REAL PICTURE. 2OI biftecks and get tipsy all day. Pauvres diables ! I suppose they are forced to it, or they would all hang themselves, through living in a weather as thick as bouillon" "Ah! it is because thou knowest nothing better that thou throwest me those niaiseries at the nose," retorts Marcelline. "Would the English be such a fine race, thinkest thou, if all one says of them were true ? Does M. le Capitaine look as if he drank all day?" "Ah ! but he looks as if he had the spleen. If I were Mademoiselle, I would rather have married the cure's brother, who used to come in the spring. He was a fine, gay-looking gentleman, that !" "Peste, ma bonne!" cries Marcelline, disconcerted. " I begin to think thee blind as well as deaf. The cure's brother was not to be looked at beside M. le Capitaine." "Blind 7" echoes Jeanneton, angrily. " Thou wouldst have it, perhaps, that my senses are failing me already ! I wager there is not more than five years' difference between thee and me." " Diable /" exclaims the other angrily, " what would the woman have ! Thou art beautiful as an angel, young as a rose-bud, innocent as a dove. Does that satisfy thee?" " Mon Dieu ! but thou hast a temper," retorts Jeanne- ton. " However, I wish thee no worse than to go to that satane Angleterre" Captain Etherege, Dolores, and Marcelline were in Paris, and a very happy trio they made. It seemed like enchantment to the child as she drove in the Bois, wan- dered about the streets, contemplating, with wondering, wide-open eyes, the treasures displaced in the shops, or sat, with rapt attention, in the theatre, laughing and cry- ing by turns, and calling on Marcelline, who sat, the i* 202 DOLORES. picture of a discreet chaperon, in the back of the box, to sympathize with her ecstasy or horror. To Philip it was like the glimpse of a new life to be with this gay creature to watch her enthusiasm, her rap- tures, and to feel this bright young life would in the happy future, that he almost trembled to think of, be made one with his. Yes, he trembled at this joy it was so keen ; he could not, dared not believe it would last. Like those who have suffered who know the duration of happiness can but be, ah ! so short he tried to disarm Fate by forecasting sorrow ; he said constantly to himself it cannot last, hoping against hope that, because he put no faith in the future, it might for once be gentle to him. On the fifth morning of their stay in Paris, as Dolores poured out the coffee for Captain Etherege, she looked at him timidly, saying, with her sweet little French accent, "Philippe." "Well, darling?" " Will you take me to-day to the Louvre?" "Will I? of course I will!" And he looks at the dimpling, smiling face with a happy sense of how glad a thing it is, and will be, to gratify every wish of that ten- der little heart. "You are getting tired of the shops, I suppose, and want an intellectual treat?" "I should never, never be tired of the shops," she re- plies, enthusiastically, "and I don't know anything about pictures ; but but ' ' And a rosy flush suffuses her face. " Ah ! I remember," interrupts Philip, a twinge passing through his heart at the recollection ; " you want to see 'LaCruche Cassee' ?" Dolores answers by a little nod. "So you shall," he responds, heartily; "but," rising and going over to her, " the little girl in the picture is not one-fiftieth part as pretty as you." THE REAL PICTURE. 203 He takes the small white face between his hands, and looks into the clear, pure depths of the violet eyes : to him, at least, it is a fairer face than limner's art can paint. He longs to kiss that little rose-bud of a mouth, as he longs a hundred times every day, only he .has a great dread of wearying and disgusting her; so he only strokes the bright hair tenderly, saying, " When shall we start?" " When you like now, at once. I will run and make my toilette." And she trips off with great jubilance to Marcelline. " My dear M. Philippe is going to take me to see my portrait !" she cries, bursting into the room, and flinging herself upon her nurse with an enthusiasm that causes the sturdy frame to sway to and fro. " Tiens /" cries Marcelline, reprovingly ; "what a mad- cap ! A fine wife for a big, grave gentleman like M. le Capitaine !" " Old cross-patch 1" says the child, releasing her with a pout. " Well, well but what portait?" " Why, the picture that that," and the blush re -appears "that oh, you know, Marcelline." Marcelline looks grave, and shakes her head. "What, dost thou think still of that nonsense?" "Why should I not like to see the picture?" fires up Dolores. "I only want to know if it is like me." "If it is only " utters Marcelline, relenting. " What else should it be ?" angrily. " Am I not going to marry M. Etherege ? What are all the other men in the world tome?" "It might bring back thoughts," says discreet Mar- celline. "You are a silly old woman ! If I were to see him 204 DOLORES. twenty times over," with flashing eyes "I should not care for him again." "That is well," says Marcelline, approvingly. "And now, my child, be quick and dress, that you may not keep M. le Capitaine waiting." Half an hour later Dolores is traversing the long galleries of the Louvre, wonderingly, admiringly. Philip does not remember in what room the picture of their quest is situa- ted, so they wander through a great many, and see a vast number of pictures, before they arrive at "La Cruche Cassee." Dolores has never been in a picture-gallery before, and wants to stand about half an hour in front of each picture that takes her fancy. She shivers with horror at "The Deluge," "The Shipwreck," "The Russian Campaign ;" she is immensely disconcerted in the presence of Rubens's fat, indecent women, from which Philip hurries her away, and considerably bored by the productions of the ancient masters. "We have been here an hour and a half," says Philip, looking at his watch, "and have not found our picture yet. Suppose you ask one of the officials to direct us. I'm always ashamed of airing my bad French before you." "Oh, but indeed you speak quite, quite well," returns Dolores, not adhering strictly to the truth, in her terror at the thought of addressing a strange and stern-looking individual; "and I" "Very well," says Philip. "If he cannot understand me you must help me out." And without more ado he puts his question, with an air of assurance and composure that he is far from feeling, and receives the necessary directions. " Here we are !" exclaims Captain Etherege, pulling up suddenly in front of the object of their search ; " or, I suppose, I ought to say, Here you are ! ' " Dolores stands and gazes, and Philip looks alternately THE REAL PICTURE. 205 from her to the picture, and from the picture to her. His mind is soon made up. "There is a look, certainly," he pronounces; "but," with great emphasis, "she isn't to be named in the same day with you. What do you say?" after a pause, as Dolores still continues to gaze. But she does not hear him ; her thoughts are far away in the old garden under the apple-trees, where he saw her first where he sat with her where he painted her. Only a couple of hours ago she had told Marcelline that, were she to see him twenty times over, he would be nothing to her; and now she sees, hears, feels him in every nerve, as in those old days the picture has brought back to her mind. Presently she turns away, with dim eyes and a short, stifled sob in her throat turns, and is face to face with the man of whom her heart is full. Poor little girl ! her nerves are overstrung it is so sudden ; she is not mistress of herself. A short, sharp cry a movement towards him and she would have fallen prone at his feet, but that Guy catches her in his arms. It is the work of an instant, this strange tableau. Fortunately it has but few spectators, and these few are only aware that a young girl has fainted, and is being supported by a man who looks quite equal to the task. They do not crowd round, but look askance with a certain interest. " Oh, Guy, what is this ? Is it some friend of yours ?" asks a sympathetic woman's voice; and, Guy having carried his burden to a seat, the owner of the voice pro- ceeds to untie the bonnet-string and loosen the fastenings round the child's throat and waist. "Yes," responds Guy, very flushed and anxious, as strong men usually are at sight of a fainting woman. And all this time Philip is standing speechless, whilst these strangers take his life, his darling, out of his hands 18 10 6 DOLORES. take her from him forever, he feels, with a desperate pain at his heart. "Is she used to these attacks?" the lady appeals to Philip. "Yes no I think not," he answers, confusedly, gazing with terror at the white face, and yet conscious of a fierce wish that she might never wake again, if she is to be taken from him. He knows by instinct who this man is, and why the sight of him has overcome Dolores. At this moment her eyes unclose vacant and dull at first ; then a frightened look comes into them, and she puts out a hand to Guy. " Oh, take care of me do not leave me !" she whispers, imploringly. What tortures some folk are made to suffer in this life ! I wonder what Philip had done to deserve this? Guy feels the awkwardness of the position. He does not know who Dolores's companion is, but feels, somehow, that he is in love with her, and that he is suffering cruelly. Milly Charteris, who is Guy's companion, has, with her usual tact, guessed the position. "No," she answers, soothingly, "we will not leave you. Come, you are much better already. We have a carriage here," turning to Philip. "Will it not be best for me to take her home? I think in these cases" and she smiles her own winning, gracious smile "a woman's care is the thing. Shall I go with her, and stay until you come?" "Thank you," answers Captain Etherege. "If you will be so good as to take Miss Power to the Hotel , her maid is there, and will take every care of her, until " "Until I come," he was going to say, but he dreaded seeing Dolores by herself, and had half made up his mind to flee from Paris altogether. THE REAL PICTURE. 207 "Lean on my arm," says Mrs. Charteris, kindly; and Dolores rises, faint and trembling, and does as she is told. "I think we must have you the other side," Milly remarks to Philip ; and he mechanically draws the little hand (reluctant, he feels painfully) within his arm. Guy brings up the rear. When they are in the carriage, Dolores gives a little feeble smile to Philip, and says, "Thank you, I am better ;" then a violent blush crimsons her white face as Guy shakes her by the hand, and she whispers, "You a//// come and see me?" " Certainly I will ;" and they drive off. The two men are left staring blankly at each other, feeling something must be said, not knowing what, or how to say it, and wishing themselves a thousand miles away. Guy is the first to break the silence. "It is some time since I saw Miss Power. I I am afraid by her dress she has had some loss. I I presume I have the pleasure of speaking to a relation, or " "No relation," Captain Etherege returns, coldly. "I was " with slight emphasis. For the life of him he cannot say, "I am engaged to be married to Miss Power." "Let me congratulate you," says Guy, ignoring the was, and trying to put some heartiness into his voice. " Miss Power is so charming and amiable, and " "I beg your pardon," interrupts Philip, with cold politeness, " if I remind you I am quite ignorant to whom I have the honor of speaking." " Oh ! of course, to be sure, I ought to have remem- bered." And Guy dives into his breast-pocket, and pro- duces a card from his note-book. As Philip reads the pain at his heart grows sharper. 208 DOLORES. So then this man has rank and wealth in addition to his handsome person. He knows the name well enough, and remembers shooting years ago at Wentworth when the baronet was a schoolboy. He has given up carrying cards; he sees no society; he hates even the sound of the name that has been so bitterly disgraced. "I have no card with me," he says; "my name is Etherege." "Oh, Etherege of the th?" asks Guy, who is igno- rant of the painful story attached to it. "I was in the th," Philip replies, stiffly. " I have two or three tremendous friends in it. Your name seems so familiar to me, I am sure I must have heard them speak of you." "Possibly." Guy is rather at a loss what to say next. He stands for a moment tapping his boot with his stick, then blurts out, "I suppose Mrs.-Power's death was rather sudden." "Quite sudden heart-disease. Did you know her well ?" eying him narrowly. Guy reddens under his gaze ; a guilty, confused feel- ing overtakes him. " No, indeed in fact, I never saw her. My acquaint- ance with her daughter was " Oh, hang it ! he ejac- ulates mentally, how the deuce am I to explain to him ? Captain Etherege's lips are severely compressed, a feel- ing of hatred comes into his heart, and he says, with his brows bent deeply together, "I take it you are the gentleman who painted Miss Power's portrait some twelve months ago?" "Yes," replies the other, more uncomfortable than ever. " I don't know what you have heard about the THE REAL PICTURE. 209 matter, but of course, in your position, you have a per- fect right to ask for an explanation, and I shall be very glad to give it you only" (looking round) "this isn't quite a convenient spot for private talk." "No," Captain Etherege assents. "But don't mis- understand me. I neither consider myself entitled to ask an explanation, nor do I ask one; but there are some things I should be glad to say to you. Will it be con- venient for me to call upon you, or " "By all means. What time will suit you best?" "Five o'clock." Guy remembers that he has promised to take Milly to make a call at that hour. He would not break an en- gagement made with her for the most important business in the world. "I'm afraid I shall be engaged all the afternoon," he answers. ' : Will it be very inconvenient to you to say this evening?" " I should prefer it." "Nine o'clock, then, if that suits you." "Nine be it." Their eyes meet for a moment, they raise their hats to each other with a distant ceremony such as Englishmen rarely use, then they part with a feeling of intense relief. HO DOLORES. CHAPTER XXII. WHAT FATE DECREES. PHILIP walks away fast, knows not, cares not, whither, except that he desires to get away from his kind. The bustle of the streets, the cheery looks of the light-hearted folk who walk briskly by him in quest of business or pleasure nay, the bright sunshine itself all are hateful to him; he would fain get away from them all. If he could only get away from himself! He turns his steps mechanically across the Place de la Concorde, up the Champs Elys6es, bethinking him vaguely of some long, dim, desolate alleys that he has glanced down when driving in the Bois with Dolores. He will not think yet ; he must be alone first ; and he hurries on, on, on, until he reaches his goal. The perspiration is streaming from his face, and some French nurses, who are airing their little charges in the sun, laugh, and point at him for a crazy Englishman. He has got away from every one now, from the sun- shine too; the jealous pines shut out Phoebus' warm, inquisitive glances, and he is as much alone as if he were a thousand miles from the habitations and haunts of men. "Oh, fool, fool, fool !" he groans to himself in a rage of pain. "After all these years' experience of life, to dream there was anything in store for you but bitterness and disappointment ! To think that you, old, worn as you are, were a fitting companion for that bright young life!" He stands leaning against the stiff, straight stem of a WHA T FA TE DECREES. 2 1 1 pine-tree, devoured with furious pain and self-contempt, trying to staunch his agony with bitter, angry taunts against his own folly. It would be a relief, he thinks, in his dumb suffering, to fling himself on the earth, to tear his flesh with his nails, to drag his hair out by the roots, to indulge himself in an ecstasy of bodily abandonment and anguish, after old Eastern fashion, if it were not for that proud instinct that makes the cultured European and the wild savage alike indomitable in their courage of silent suffering. The blow he had deprecated has fallen, and he knows that no whit has he under-estimated its effect. Until he loved this child he had lived fearless of what the morrow might bring forth, since he had no joys of which Fate might rob him. From the day when he had known she might be his, he had felt as though he stood between heaven and hell, impotent to raise himself to the one or save himself from the other. He knows the worst now, and the fact that he has all along feared and dreaded it makes the blow no lighter. Better, after all, a fool's paradise than to have enjoyed neither anticipation nor fruition. He would like to leave Paris at once, never to see Dolores any more; but that is impossible until he is assured that her other friends will take her under their care. A new thought strikes him. This man, who won and flung her love aside with equal indifference what reason was there to suppose he would occupy himself with her future now any more than he had done before ? It was a chance meeting his manner had been only just so kind as the occasion demanded he had promised at her request to go and see her that was all. That was all ; yes, all ! as though that all did not con- tain the severance of Philip from his one ewe-lamb, hi* 212 DOLORES. all of hope and promise in the future. His thoughts will wander off he cannot, cannot bring them to the point of what work lies for him in the next few hours. He will see the child he will not see her he will arrange all with Marcelline and go off whither ? leaving a message a simple adieu, or a few written words for her indiffer- ent eyes. Presently he leaves the sunless alley of pines, comes out into the broad sunshine, careless alike of both, and wends his slow, homeward way thinking, thinking all the while, and yet unable to decide on anything. Sud- denly he remembers his appointment with Sir Guy, and his bronzed face deepens with a hot flush. Why should he see this man, this d&bonnaire) selfish worldling, whose pastime is breaking men's and women's hearts? So we judge each other. Whose pain is like our pain ? which of us reads in a smiling face the heart-ache lurking behind. "Yes," Philip mutters, fiercely, "for her sake I must see him I must learn how he feels to her." Returning to the hotel, he finds the sitting-room un- tenanted. He rings the bell and asks for Marcelline. In quick answer to his summons she appears, but without her habitual cheery expression, looking pale, constrained, and anxious. At this moment both feel acutely the in- convenience of not having a common tongue wherein to express themselves. Philip is more conversant with French than Marcelline with English, but the latter has by far the less mauvaise honte. There are some things that must be said. So Philip conquers his hesitation, and blunders on regardless of mood, tense, grammar, articles; but he reaches his end he makes Marcelline understand him. "It is all over between us ; it was my fault I am too old. She could not love me. She saw the man she WHAT FATE DECREES. 213 really did love it is much better now than later. You will find out what she wishes to do ; to remain or go back to Rouen you will let me know to-morrow. I will arrange everything. I do not wish to see her. Tell her I shall never trouble her any more." Marcelline's glib tongue is dumb ; she is smitten with remorse, as though she too had stabbed this noble heart ; her thoughts go back to the day when she let the hand- some stranger in at the garden gate when she took the money to let him paint the child, though every sou of it had gone in wax candles for the Virgin, according to her vow, and she feels miserable and guilty. "It was the shock of a moment," she says, trying to reassure herself and him at the same time; "it will pass off. Mademoiselle is quite sensible that the milord does not think of her ; she is already angry with herself for her foolishness." One faint dim shadow of a hope flits before Philip's mind, but lasts no longer than it took time to shape. " Did she not say to you that she could never marry me now?" he asks, looking keenly at her. The shrewd French face puckers uneasily. " One must not always listen to children ; they do not know what is good for them." At this moment a small white face and trembling figure appears at the door, hesitates a moment, and then comes forward into the room. Philip stands immovable in his place, but Marcelline goes quickly out, shutting the door softly behind her. " Voyom /" she mutters, with a more cheery air, "per- haps affairs may still mend themselves. Poor gentleman, poor gentleman ! Holy Virgin take pity upon him !" Dolores comes up to Philip, stands silently before him, with drooped lids and white, waxen face, stained, he sees, 2i4 DOLORES. with tears ; then, with a sudden impulse, she throws her- self, with a storm of sobs, at his feet. For a moment he stands motionless, staring with dull eyes at the sweet mass of quivering womanhood at his feet, scarcely taking in the sense of the scene ; then he groans to himself, in horrible pain, "Oh, God! to think this child should have to suffer!" and, smitten with in- finite compassion, he takes her reluctant form in his strong arms, and places her beside him on the sofa. She hides her face in the cushions, and cries more bitterly still. The sound of it lacerates his overstrung nerves. "For pity's sake, leave off crying, child!" he says, almost harshly in his pain. " Why should you cry?" His tone, so different from what she has ever heard it, startles her, but it has the happy effect of stopping her sobs. "I cry," she answers, trembling, her face hidden in her hands, " because I am so miserable so wicked and ungrateful. Oh, Philip, you have been so good to me, and I I " "Little one," he answers, his voice quite calm now, "do not say one word against yourself; you are not to dame. How could you know ? But I I ought to have known I did know, only I shut my eyes and ears. You see, child," taking her hand tenderly "even when one is old and wise in the world's knowledge, one makes great mistakes, and then one has to suffer for them. But the innocent must not suffer with the guilty. Little one," earnestly "you must not be unhappy; you have all your life before you. I did not see it in the same light before," with a strong effort and a choked voice "but it would have been a crime in me to tie your bright young life to mine, worn and wasted as it is. And I can bear it WHA T FA TE DECREES. 215 better now, you know," smiling feebly "than later, when you would have been the life of my life." The deep flush in his face, the strong beating of his heart, belie his words. But she is not thinking much of him hardly hears what he is saying. She is wondering if Guy will really come to see her. Oh, unfair, incon- stant woman mind ! He feels it, knows it intuitively, and he would not be a man did not a pang of jealousy spring up in bitter conflict with his self-abnegation. " When I am gone you will see him," he says, bitterly. Dolores starts, and a crimson flush overspreads her pale cheeks. " Monsieur I" she begins, haughtily ; but her pride dies away in a moment, and she returns to her piteous sobbing. As Philip looks at her, his heart is torn in twain. For sheer pity's sake, if he did not love her madly as he does, he would fain take this little tender girl in his arms and soothe her ; but he dares not. What ! to feel her shrink from him ! to know his caresses were repulsive to her 1 So he goes away to the window, and stares listlessly out, with his hands pressed against his head, that he may not hear the maddening sound of her sobs. But he hears them all the same. Presently the sound ceases, or, rather, becomes inter- mittent, and he returns to the sofa, where she lies with her face buried in the cushions. For a moment he stands looking down at her at the small, lithe figure that still heaves, the round white throat, the bronze hair, and tiny shell-pink ear ; the delicate hand clinched against her black dress, with the diamonds (his gift) shining on it ; and the little foot, twisting and writhing in its fairy- small slipper. He looks as a painter might look upon the fairest thing his genius ever created, knowing he should never look upon it again that it should never bear his 2l6 DOLORES. name ; and his teeth clinch involuntarily, and his breath comes hard. For a moment he gives way ; it is only for a moment. As he sits down beside her, and takes her hand, he is strong again. "Dolores," he whispers, tenderly but gravely, not the least like a lover, " I want you to listen to me for a little. Put entirely out of your mind, as I have done" (poor Philip!), "that you and I were ever anything to each other more than dear friends, and hear what I have to say." She raises her head, and looks at him with blue, wet, mournful eyes, feeling thoroughly guilty and miserable. "Yes," she says, humbly, "I am listening." Philip hesitates ; he does not in the least know how to express what he wants to say. She is looking at him. This time it is she who is calm, he nervous and excited. He speaks fast, to conceal his agitation. "I am going away to-night; I shall not trouble you any more. I shall arrange with Marcelline for you to stay here, or return to Rouen, which you please. But oh, child, I must warn you," he says, suddenly and pas- sionately, " beware how you give way to loving this man until you know whether he has anything to give you in return. You do not know the horrible pain of loving when you are not loved." " Do I not ?" she says, simply, looking fixedly at him , and, with a sudden rush of memory, comes upon him that day when he first saw her little form quivering with sobs in the church of St. Ouen the night when he found her bending, with outstretched arms, over the dull, black waters of the Seine. "Philip," she continues, with something of dignity, childish as she is, "I beg you do not think so meanly of me as to believe I would suffer myself to go on breaking WHAT FATE DECREES. 217 my heart about some one who has no thought for me. 1 do not deceive myself. Sir Guy" she pronounces the name without faltering " only liked me as a little girl who made a few hours pass for him. He never loved me the least; he never will oh, I feel he never will!" with tremulous emphasis. " It is not that I care for him oh, Philip, believe me" and she speaks earnestly, as if she not only wishes to convince him, but herself, of the truth of what she is saying, " only only I feel I never, never could marry any one. If," she goes on, implor- ingly "if you would only still be my friend, and love me like a little sister, and let me live with you and Mary " " Impossible !" he utters, almost harshly. " No, child j I leave you to-night, and I hope never to see you any more." She shrinks away from him, frightened at the tone of his voice. "Forgive me, dear," he says, penitently, recovering himself. "Of course I will always be your friend always do everything in my power to further your happi- ness. Whenever you have need of me you will only have to write to me, and I will be to you in place of a brother or a father," he adds, with some bitterness. "You know, child, it is not possible to live in sight of what one most desires and covets, when one knows one can never reach out one's hand to grasp it." "I don't know," says the girl, dreamily. "I used to think, if I could only be always with him " Then she stops, her face suffused with blushes, remem- bering to whom she is making this confidence; but he answers, quietly, "You are an innocent little child; you do not even comprehend in the very least what a man feels." K 19 2l8 DOLORES. " Does he feel that to be away from what he loves is utter misery?" she asks, with kindling eyes. "Does he feel that everything pleasant is gone out of life? Does he feel that he would like to be dead, only that he might forget?" "Ay, child," he groans in answer, "and more than that much more." "There is nothing more," she says, shaking her head. The sitting-room door is thrown wide open by a waiter, and Sir Guy Wentworth's tall figure is visible in the door- way. Dolores is seized with sudden confusion. She remembers her tear-stained face, her disordered hair and neglected toilette, and, starting up, she rushes across the room, and makes her escape through another door. Philip rises stiffly. Guy looks very much embarrassed, but says, trying to speak naturally, "I am very glad to see that Miss Power has recovered from her her indisposition this morning. I came to inquire after her, but perhaps she does not feel equal or inclined to see visitors. I believe" (very courteously) " I am to have the pleasure of meeting you to-night. I think I will withdraw now." And he turns to leave the room. Philip's heart beats very fast, but his mind is made up. " If your time is at your disposal," he says, with cold politeness, "I shall be glad to have a few moments' con- versation now. I am anxious, if possible, to leave Paris to-night." "By all means," answers Guy, putting down his hat, and endeavoring to speak unconcernedly, although he feels the interview is not going to be a very agreeable one. " I was to have taken my sister-in-law out, but she has a headache. Very trying weather ! ' ' " I beg your pardon," says Philip, writing something LOVERS AND LOVERS. 219 on a piece of paper. He rings the bell, and gives it to the waiter. It is a line to Dolores, asking her not to return to the room until he sends for her. CHAPTER XXIII. LOVERS AND LOVERS. THE two men are alone together, yet for a few moments neither speaks Guy, because he is utterly at a loss what to say next ; Philip, because a horribly difficult task lies before him. How can he make his darling small in this man's eyes by betraying her love of him ? And yet for what other purpose has this miserable, hateful meeting been convened than to talk of her and of her future ? He begins his bitter task at last, speaking unconsciously in a hard, cold, constrained voice. " I should wish to explain to you the seemingly equiv- ocal position in which you find Miss Power and myself. My sister, with whom she has principally stayed since her mother's death, was suddenly called to England by illness; it had been arranged that we were all to spend a week together in Paris, and, not liking to disappoint Miss Power, I brought her here with Marcelline. We were to have been married shortly." His voice has grown harsher, until it is painfully abrupu Guy's strong brown fingers clinch themselves uneasily round his stick ; there is an uncomfortable sensation in his throat as he says, interrogatively, "Were to have been? I hope " He stammers, and his voice fails him. 220 DOLORES. "It was hardly a very suitable marriage," Philip con- tinues, speaking like some unsympathetic, dispassionate third person. " She was so many years younger than I, and I had so little to offer her; still " "Pardon me," says Guy, breaking in: "if you are under the impression that I have the desire or right to know any matters connected with Miss Power, I should wish to explain to you at once that, though I feel the greatest friendship and interest in her, I " " I know exactly the relations between you and Miss Power," utters Captain Etherege, in a freezing tone; "and although" (proudly) "explanations from me to you are unnecessary, there are reasons which make me desire to enter upon them." Sir Guy merely inclines his head, and relapses into silence. " I saw her for the first time, a few months ago, in Rouen," Philip proceeds; "she was sitting behind a pillar in St. Ouen, crying so bitterly that it made me wretched to see her ; a few nights after, I followed her as she was hurrying down to the river. I stopped her from drowning herself." For the first time Philip looks at his auditor, whose face is colorless to the lips. " From that time we saw a great deal of her, my sister and I. Her mother died. I, loving her, and seeing that she had no friends or relations, asked her to marry me. Then she told me about you." Guy starts up, the crimson flushing through his bronzed face ; takes two or three sharp turns ; then pulling himself up abruptly in front of Philip, and looking him straight in the face, says, "You must think me an awful blackguard." Philip returns the look, but is silent. In his heart ht LOVERS AND LOVERS. 221 does not condemn the man before him, fain though he would. Something frank and true speaks from the heart through the eyes and says, This is a man of honor ! " Before God," Guy says, with passionate earnestness, "I had no idea that the poor little thing" (Philip winces) "cared for me so much. I may have, nay, I must have been to blame ; but when I saw her pretty face and wanted to sketch it, when I talked to her up in the little garden at Rouen, I had no thought of any danger to her. You know," adds the young man, apologetically, " one can't be such a conceited ass as to go about afraid to speak to a pretty girl, for fear she should fall in love with one. When she came to me in Paris I was awfully cut up." The blood rushes tingling into Philip's white face. Guy, seeing it, pauses awkwardly, then resumes more earnestly, " I need not tell you that if Dolores had been my sister " "To doubt you would be to doubt her !" rejoins Cap- tain Etherege, icily. "If it had got wind in the place if any trouble had come to her through it, I would have married her. I should have done so as it was, only " It is Guy's turn to wince and grow red now. " You cared for some one else ?" "I did." "And you still " " I cannot marry the woman I love. I shall never love any other," Guy answers, a little stiffly. Philip could almost laugh to himself laugh, not for mirth, but to think of the bitter cross-purposes of Fate of himself who loves the child so tenderly, of her who loves this man, of him who loves another woman, and all 19* ,22 DOLORES. equally in vain. To think of anything so tender, so sweet, so exquisite as Dolores loving in vain ! "But surely," Guy resumes, "since all this is past, why should we rake it up again ? I am but too willing to answer any question you choose to put to me, but if you love Dolores, and she has consented to be your wife, surely - " Captain Etherege rises and walks to the window ; the words he has to say are bitter to him. " When I left this house with her this morning, it was in the firm belief that she was willing to be my wife. You observed the effect the sight of you produced upon her; since then she has told me she cannot marry me." "A child's fancy," mutters Guy. "In a little time - " "In a little time!" retorts Philip, turning upon him. " How long is it since she came to you here in Paris?" "But what can I do?" returns the young man, with some hauteur. "It is most unfortunate, but I hardly "I was too hasty," says Philip, collecting himself. He remembers that on his discretion, on his forgetfulness of himself at this moment, hangs, perhaps, the future of the girl whom he loves so dearly. "You must see," he says, speaking more coldly the more acutely he feels, " that my position is rather a pain- ful one. It is not in my power to make or mar her life now; but you - " "I !" says Guy, hesitating. "Do not think for one instant," pursues Philip, warmly, " that I am interceding with you in Miss Power's behalf; if you do not care for her, it would be better a thousand times she never saw you again. I am only think- ing you may have friends who, for your sake, would be kind to her who would introduce her into some society ; LOVERS AND LOVERS. 223 for at this moment she is without friends, position, without any one in the world except her faithful old nurse." " Has she no relations?" Guy asks. " Her mother died leaving no clue whatever to the past, and the lawyers who managed her affairs could tell us nothing." A sudden thought flashes across Guy ; under the influ- ence of it his breath comes quickly, the red color deepens in his face. What has he to look forward to in life? He loves one woman as in the depths of his heart he knows he can never love any other ! This poor innocent little girl loves him; after all, it is sweet to be loved, even when one has no love to give in exchange sweetest of all, perhaps, to feel one can inspire it when one's heart aches for the love one cannot have. He, so unhappy in his passion, can bestow great happiness on this little suffering child. She is pure; and how faithful she has been to him all these many months, whilst he selfishly had forgotten her ! But he cannot suddenly make this plunge he must have time given him to think. So he rises somewhat abruptly, saying, "I would do anything in the world for Miss Power. If you will allow me, I will think it over, and see you again this evening." The two men bow coldly to each other, and Guy, taking his hat, goes out. Goes out half giddy, confused, the strange new thought surging in his brain, and walks on towards his hotel, passing the same shops, the same streets, which he had passed that night she came to him in Paris, and he had paced up and down racking his brain to know what to do with her. Well, he knows now what should he do but marry her? She is very young, very fair, and she loves him ay, no doubt of that need perplex his thoughts. He goes straight to his room, gives strict 224 DOLORES. orders to his servant that he shall not be disturbed, and locks himself in. " Stay !" he cries, unbolting the door and calling back his man : " if Mrs. Charteris wants me, let me know." For nothing can make him forget her. Alone, he throws himself into a chair and thinks. It is not un- pleasant to him, this new thought of a young, beautiful, loving wife. He has not much joy of his life now : it was pleasant enough before Fate made him love so madly and miserably this woman who never can be his, but now what has he to look forward to ? He cannot be much longer in Milly's society the pain is too great, and, besides, he is nothing to her, only her husband's brother. As he drifts into the memory of her, he rouses himself with an impatient gesture, and goes back to his thoughts of Dolores. Yes, he will make a pet, a toy, a plaything of her. She is beautiful; well, he will make her more beautiful, with every adornment that wealth can buy. She loves him dearly ; he will be so good to her, she shall love him tenfold more in time he will grow to love her as much, and she will make him forget that he ever loved unhappily. So men argue and resolve. He thinks over what Philip has told him of his first meeting with the little thing drowned in tears, then of her attempt to throw herself into the Seine. A thrill runs through his veins, half of horror, half of joy to know that he is so passionately loved ; and then for the first time he thinks of Philip. He has only seen the cold exterior of a man of middle age, whose feelings are too well under command for any outward observer to guess the bitter pain of his heart ; and so he thinks little of his sacrifice. Going to marry her out of kindness does not seem very sorry to be out of it doesn't think, from his LOVERS AND LOVERS. 225 look, she would have had much of a time of it that is Guy's mental verdict. That is the way in which we pro- nounce upon each other. He sits thinking and thinking, until he has argued himself into the conviction that he is bound by every feeling of honor to marry Dolores. He would like to know something more of her antecedents ; but she is a perfect little lady, and has he not position enough for them both ? Yes, it is all settled ; he will marry her at once, as soon as everything can be arranged, at the Chapel of the Embassy ; and Milly will take care of her till then. He has half a mind to send and beg an inter- view with his sister-in-law. But no, she is not well, and he would not disturb her; and then, perhaps the sight of her, the sound of her voice, might make him feel differently might make him swerve from his hour-old resolution. He unbolts his door, and Stevens appears. " The captain's been here for you, Sir Guy, and wanted very much to see you ; but I told him your orders. He wanted to know where you were going to dine, Sir Guy." Guy had actually forgotten about dinner. After a moment's pause he says, " I have an engagement. Go and tell Captain Char- teris I shall not be able to dine with him to-night. Stay ; give me my coat, and wait until I have gone." Stevens is a very shrewd person. Knowing most of his master's business, and a good deal more, he has the well- bred stolidity that distinguishes a servant who knows his duty. He is attached to his master; but over and beyond that he has a professional interest in finding out anything that relates to his master's affairs. "Rattling good servant !" Guy once described him P 22 6 DOLORES. " never forgets anything no curiosity never bothers his head about things that don't concern him." Yet Stevens was the only person who knew that Guy was in love with his sister-in-law. Sir Guy goes out, and betakes himself to a small cafd in a side-street, where he feels quite sure of not meeting any acquaintance. He is preoccupied, but that does not pre- vent his selecting various dishes from the carte, and par- taking of them with a certain amount of relish, since they happen to be remarkably well cooked and served. An hour later he is again in the hotel where Dolores is staying, asking for Captain Etherege. He is ushered up-stairs, and finds Dolores sitting alone. She starts up on his entrance, coloring deeply, and, rising, stammers, "I did not expect you." " Did you not?" he says, coming forward with a smile and outstretched hand. "At all events, I hope the sur- prise is not an unpleasant one." He is not constrained or embarrassed ; why should he be ? He is no doubting lover hanging for his fate upon his mistress's word. He is here to ask a very pretty girl, who, he knows without a doubt, adores him, to be his wife. The task is not wholly an unpleasant one, for she is passing fair this child who stands downcast and trembling before him. "I came to see Captain Etherege," proceeds Guy; "but since he is not here " "He will be back at nine he sent me word so by Marcelline. It is barely eight yet," glancing at the gilt timepiece. "So much the better," replies Guy, quite unembar- rassed, laying down his hat. " May I take off my coat ?" divesting himself of it before she has time to reply. Dolores has not resumed her seat, but is standing by LOVERS AND LOVERS. 327 the fireplace, trying hard to compose herself to still the tremulousness that shakes all her delicate frame. Guy comes towards her, the smile deepening on his face, a pleasant sense of possession stealing over him at her mere physical loveliness, and in a moment naturally, without hesitation, stretches out his arm to draw her towards him. "Don't!" she cries, violently, starting back, a name- less sick terror taking possession of her. "Dolores," he utters, half reproachfully, " I have come to ask you to be my wife. ' ' The color glows fiercely again in the cheeks that had grown pale. She looks at him fixedly for a moment, then, drawing still further from him, answers, in a firm voice, "Never!" Guy is taken a little by surprise. He is certainly not a vain man, but under the circumstances, the sacrifice be- ing on his side, he had expected her to fall at once, hap- pily, if not gratefully, into his arms ; instead of which she stands glaring at him like a young pythoness, and reiterating, " Never !" The assumption of this position in the girl supposed to be breaking her heart for love of him somewhat alters the aspect of affairs. Guy naturally grows warmer in the face of opposition. "My dear child," he says, not attempting to touch her now, " pray forgive me. I was too abrupt. I fancied that you liked me a little, and " "And you came to ask me just out of pity !" cries the girl, excitedly. " Indeed no," he answers, a little shocked at this coarse way of putting it. "Indeed yes!" she retorts, passionately. "He has told you, I know, and it was mean and cruel of him." Guy, being about as clever at subterfuge as most 228 DOLORES. straightforward Englishmen, is rather at a disadvantage. A lie sticks in his throat, and nothing short of it is required to calm the girl's excitement. "My dear child " he protests; but she interrupts him. " Do you think I do not know? Cannot I read it in your face ? If he had not told you, would you have come into the room smiling and looking quite sure of what I should answer when you did me the honor to ask me?" Never before has Dolores been so passionately excited. She feels degraded in her own eyes, and it makes her bitter against the man who she feels has degraded her, dearly though she loves him. "What a clumsy brute I am !" Guy thinks to himself. " Of course I ought not to have blundered at it in that way; no wonder she resents it, poor little thing;" but her behavior has the effect of making him more solicitous about the prize he had besought in so cavalier a fashion. "Have I offended you?" he asks, rather humbly, not being skilled in the treatment of wayward young women. "Offended me!" with a touch of scorn. "Oh, Sir Guy, you do me too much honor, only" (her voice breaking suddenly " only, unfortunately, I know that you had an interview with Captain Etherege to-day, when he told you that that I loved you" (her face dyed with hot shame), "and so, out of pity out of pity, you ask me to be your wife." " But I assure you " pleads Guy. "Else" (interrupting him passionately) " else why have you been all these months without coming to see- if I was alive or dead, without writing me one line, without thinking of me once ; and now to-day, to-day you come suddenly with a face that says, * I have but to hold out my arms, and she will rush into them.' " GOOD- BY. 229 She stands before him with her lovely eyes dilated, her mouth quivering, every line and curve of her delicate figure shaking with intense emotion; her utterance is rapid, and tinged by the faintest foreign accent. Guy had come coolly to the wooing, in a composed after-dinner frame of mind he was utterly unprepared for any scene of this kind he had come with the inten- tion of saying in so many words, " My dear child, I am a disappointed man, tired of the world, tired of myself, tired of everything. I have no romantic love to give you ; no doubt in time I shall be very fond of you ; you are a very dear little thing, and I hope you will be content to take me as I am." His ideas on this subject undergo some modification. Such a style of wooing hardly seems suited to the present emergency, and, manlike, or perhaps rather human-like, he begins to set a little more store by the thing tha* is not so easy to win as he imagined. CHAPTER XXIV. GOOD-BY ! "INDEED I do love you, Dolores, awfully!" says the young man, making emphatic use of the word to which the present generation have by common consent given a new and utterly inappropriate signification. As he speaks, he feels quite certain that what he says is true. She, standing before him there, looks so sweet and fair, so altogether desirable, it is no longer a hard task to frame words loving enough to woo her. 230 DOLORES. She is not shrewd, nor clever, nor penetrating, but she can hear the altered ring of the voice, and, so hear- ing, looks up. "Not awfully !" she says, with pretty emphasis "a very little perhaps." "Let me talk to you, darling," he whispers, drawing her gently to his side on the sofa very gently, that she may not recoil from him again. "Why won't you be- lieve me when I say I love you ?' ' "Because," she answers, simply, "you were with me much in the last spring. You could not love me then ; if you had cared even a very little for me, you would have come just once to see me ah, mon Dieu! just once in all those months that I sat praying for you under the old apple-trees. Or, if that were too much to ask, you might have sent me a few lines to say you had not forgotten me altogether. Every day I stood at the gate, and how my heart beat as I watched the postman come up the hill, till when he came to the gate I turned sick with hope and fear; but he always passed" (sighing). "At least you might have replied to the letter I wrote to you." " Letter, my dear child !" cries Guy, remorseful at hear- ing how she has suffered for his sake ; "I never received one. But that is easily accounted for. I told them at home not to forward my letters, little dreaming there was one I should have been so glad to get." "Well," pursues Dolores, following her own thoughts, and not his words, "and all this time you never cared or wished to see or know of me, and yet now to-day you would persuade me that you have all at once come to love me ! How can I believe you ? It is out of the goodness of your heart indeed, I thank you, but, pitiful as I must seem in your eyes, I could not accept such a sacrifice." "But suppose," says Guy, his color deepening a little GOOD-BY. 231 as his conscience accuses him of perverting the truth, " suppose that last year there was an obstacle to my ask- ing you to be my wife an obstacle that is removed now?" She looks keenly in his face. "Oh, if I could only believe," she cries, half joyful, half doubting, "that you had loved me a little then !" " If it had not been for the obstacle I speak of, I should have asked you then to marry me." "Really and in truth?" she asks, wistfully. "Really and in truth," he affirms. "But what was the obstacle?" she asks, woman-like. The truth rises to his lips " I loved another woman ;" but he represses it. Why give her needless pain ? and, besides, that question answered, a dozen others would follow, and he never means her to know who has been her rival : so he only strokes her hair and answers, " Little curiosity ! what does it matter, since the ob stacle is removed?" "Are you sure it is quite removed?" she goes on, per- sistently. He pauses a moment, and then says, "Quite sure." But a sigh escapes him, and she takes note of it. "I know," she says, reddening, and with a sigh too. "You loved some one else." "I am not going to be cross-questioned," he answers, trying to speak lightly. "And perhaps," continues Dolores, with eyes intent upon his face, " perhaps you love her still?" " Hush !" he says, putting his hand to her lips. " Do I not love you ? and how can I love two people at the same time ? Come, darling, tell me that you will be my own beautiful little wife, and I swear to you you shall never have cause to think I love any one better than you." ,32 DOLORES. " Swear to me first," she says, solemnly, " that you love me better than any one else in the world. ' ' For a moment he hesitates, and then asks, evasively, "What makes you so suspicious? How can I prove to you that I love you dearly?" " By swearing what I ask, if you can," she returns, sadly. "But I have a mother," he says, trying to turn it off laughingly ; "I love her very much." " Ah ! that is quite different. You know one could never be jealous of a man's love for his mother." "Are you jealous, Dolores?" he asks her. "I do not know," she replies, reflectively. "I think I should be oh, yes," she adds warmly, " I am quite sure I should be." "Well, you shall not be put to the test. I will never look at another woman," he says, laughing, " if you for- bid it, except those of my own family." " Was that lady you were with to-day one of your own family?" Dolores asks, after a slight pause. "Yes my brother's wife" (trying to spaak unconcern- edly). "Do you like her?" "Yes." % " Did you know her before she married him?" Guy takes both her hands in his. "I shall not answer you any more questions until you have answered mine. Will you marry me, Dolores?" She twists herself free from him, goes to the window, looks out, and then comes back. "Oh, if I could only be quite, quite sure that you really love me !" she utters, wistfully. "Be quite sure, then, darling." And the young man puts his arm round her and draws her head upon his shoulder. G COD-BY. 233 She leaves it there this time, but he feels her whole frame quivering with sobs. Her heart is bitter within her. Although her hopes have come to fruition, the taste of them is not such as she had fancied. In the days gone by, when she had sat under the apple-trees, weaving memory and imagination into fair pictures, she had thought of some such scene as this, where he would say, "I love you, Dolores;" and it had seemed to her as though the happiness would be so supreme, so ecstatic, she could ask no more of life afterwards. But now that her head lay on his breast, that he whispered a thousand endearing words in her ear, it was all blank disappoint- ment ; for she knew in her inmost heart that he did not love as she loved him as Philip loved her. Poor Philip ! she could feel for him now. Sir Guy was sorely troubled what to do with her. He was so grieved at her distress, it inspired him with so much pity, that she grew every moment dearer to him. And there was no insincerity in his words as he essayed to soothe and bring her to a happier frame of mind. He sat beside her, holding her hands in his kind, strong clasp, talking to her about the future about his home, and all the bright things of the new life that should open for her ; and, as he grew warm in his pleading, the picture seemed fair enough to him too. The child's tears ceased to flow ; her eyes grew brighter, a smile parted her lips, the bitterness began to die away, and happy thoughts to come in the place of sorrowful ones. He must love her, or he could not talk so gladly, so eagerly, of a future to be spent with her. There comes a sudden knock at the door, and they start away from each other with a sort of guilty instinct ; both expect to see Captain Etherege in the doorway. But it is only a waiter, who, after a discreet pause, and 34 DOLORES. another knock, that elicits a spontaneous "Entrez" and " Come in," brings in a note, which he hands to Sir Guy, and retires. It is from Philip. " I dare say you will agree with me that there can be no advantage in our meeting again, as was arranged. All there is to say can be more easily written. If you cannot conveniently let me know now what you suggest for Miss Power's future, a note will find me here up to ten o'clock to-morrow morning." Guy may be pardoned for misjudging the writer ; small wonder if he thinks the man whose short, harsh note he has just read must be harsh and cold too. Hastily he rings for paper and ink. "Is it from Philip?" asks Dolores, timidly. "May I not see it?" For answer he puts it away in his breast-pocket, and kisses the outstretched hand. "What an inquisitive little woman it is!" he laughs, as he betakes himself to answer it. " DEAR SIR, " Miss Power has consented to become my wife. From to-morrow my sister-in-law will, I know, be delighted to undertake the care of her until " but he draws his pen through the last word, suppressing the sentence he had intended, as somewhat lacking in delicacy to Captain Etherege. "Poor Philip !" sighs Do'ores. Guy looks up, smiling, and not one whit jealous. "I suppose," he says, a sudden thought striking him, " that Captain Etherege and his sister were very kind to you, darling?" GOOD-BY. 235 "Oh, so very, very kind !" she responds emphatically. Thereupon he makes the following addendum to his note: " I am aware how very kind you and Miss Etherege have been to Dolores, and trust you will not think it im- pertinent or uncalled-for on my part if I thank you very earnestly and sincerely for your goodness to her. I trust we both trust that you will continue your friendship to her. I need not say you will always be welcome and honored guests at Wentworth." In after-days Guy came to regard this production as a coarse, clumsy, almost brutal affair, but at the present moment he was satisfied with it, and lost no time in dis- patching it. Then he bade farewell to Dolores, promis- ing to come early on the morrow, and to bring with him Mrs. Charteris, who would take her back to their hotel. Philip, sitting in a room hard by, hears the firm step pass his door, and crushes in his hand the letter he holds. He could almost laugh from no mirth, God wot 1 to think of the position they stand in to each other. The man from love of whom he had rescued Dolores was res- cuing her from him now. Only twelve hours since, and she was to have been the wife of the one, and novr the other is bidding him welcome to his and her joint friend- ship and hospitality in the future. There is but one thing for it to get away as soon as possible. He will bid Do- lores a kind, calm farewell he has just nerve enough for that and then away somewhere, no matter where, out of sight, out of mind of it at all. Thus resolved, he enters the room where Dolores sits buried in a reverie, half happy, half mournful. A crim- son blush ccvers her face. She rises and makes a step towards him. j^6 DOLORES. " I have come to say good-by, Dolores," he says quietly. His manner is so calm and cold that she thinks to herself, " After all, he did not care for me as I thought. Perhaps he, too, only felt pity for me." So she replies, somewhat bitterly, " You do not seem very sorry to say it." He checks the hasty answer that rises to his lips, and o.ily says, " I hope you will be very happy." "Why should you go away and leave me just now?" she asks, with a burst of selfish petulance. "It is better so, child," he says, quietly. "You will have plenty of friends now. I could do nothing for you if I stayed." " You are unkind !" she retorts, with rising tears ; really because she knows not what to say, and feels a vague, irri- table consciousness of wrong on her own side. "Ami?" he answers, very patiently; "then forgive me, and wish me good-by." Angry with herself, she takes refuge in being irritable with him. "Good-by, then, if you wish it." And she tears the diamond ring from her finger, and the locket from her neck, and thrusts them towards him. A look of pain comes into his face. "Don't do that, child," he says; "if you will no longer wear them, at least keep them, to remember that you were once loved very dearly. I don't suppose you will ever want a friend now ; but if a time should come when I can be of the very least service to you, I think you know that you may rely on me. Write to my club in London the letter will be sure to find me." "And Mary! what will Mary say?" asks the girl, aneasily. GOOD- BY. 237 "She will know that I was not well suited to you," he answers. " And you think so too !" she says, pouting ; " you are not so very sorry to be rid of me !" " I think so too," he replies, only caring to answer the first part of her sentence. "Once more good-by, child, and God bless you !" So saying, he draws her towards him, kisses her white brow, and, turning, leaves her. Returned to his room, Captain Etherege again sends for Marcelline, gives her certain instructions with money, and an address where he may be found, packs his portmanteau, and within two hours had left Paris. " Ce pauvre M. Philippe !" Marcelline says, plaintively, as she brushes out the child's long hair at bedtime. "I do not think you need pity him!" is the pettish retort ; "he does not seem to mind so very much." "Fa/" replies Marcelline, sharply; "you are a little ungrateful one. Not mind ! when I read that in his eyes which only to look at brought the tears to my own. The good God grant, mademoiselle, that you may never be sorry for this day's work!" "Why should I?" she asks, impatiently; "is not Sir Guy handsome, and good, and rich, and noble, and does he not love me?" " I hope so," Marcelline answers, dryly, pursing up her lips. "What do you mean?" cries Dolores, turning upon her passionately, the more so because her own heart misgives her; "do you dare to say Sir Guy does not love me?" "No, no, no," replies her nurse, soothingly. "You dft/mean that !" cries Dolores, excitedly, "and you are not my friend. Go away from me ! do not touch 238 DOLORES, me !" And she tears her hair from Marcelline's astonished grasp, who has never seen her child like this before. " Tiens, tiens!" she says, cajolingly; "what has thy Marcelline said ? Of course Sir Ghi loves thee, or why should he want to marry thee ? I only meant that poor M. le Capitaine loved thee better than ever any one else will, if thou livest to be a hundred. Thou canst not read the signs, but I have not lived in the world all these years for nothing." And Marcelline nods her head sagaciously. CHAPTER XXV. GUY TELLS HIS STORY. SIR GUY lighted his cigar at the door of the hotel, and proceeded to walk leisurely homewards, thinking as he went. The first thing to be done was to tell Milly, and to ask her opinion and advice. Not as to his marrying Dolores that was already irrevocably decided but as to various preliminaries and arrangements. Should he tell her everything? He remembered that, on the night when Dolores came to him in Paris, Milly had caught a glimpse of her ; not sufficient, perhaps, to enable her to recognize the child again, but Adrian had been in the room with her, had spoken to her; there would be no possibility of deceiving him as to her identity. Another thought vexed him. Stevens was acquainted with the whole affair; and, although he had great confidence in him, he knows the best servants are given to gossip. All things considered, he resolves to confide completely in GUY TELLS HIS STORY. 239 Mrs. Charteris, in whose judgment he has profound con- fidence. He finds Milly looking very elegant, and beautifully dressed as usual, buried in a dormeuse, reading a French novel. She throws it away as he enters. " Oh, I am so glad you have come back! I am bored to death. Where is Adrian ?" "I don't know; I have not seen him since lunch." "What ! did he not dine with you ?" asks Milly, red- dening with something that is not pleasure. " No ; I dined alone." "You might have given me the pleasure of your com- pany, I think," she remarks, with some petulance. " I should have been only too glad. The last I heard of you was that you had a headache, and were not to be disturbed. How is it now?" " Oh, I slept it off; and when I came down there was no dinner ordered, and no one to dine with and I hate dining alone !" she finishes, in a vexed tone. "If I had only known but, of course, I imagined Adrian " " You don't think anything can have happened to him, Guy?" asks Milly, anxiously. " How fond she is of him !" he thinks, bitterly. " I suspect he can take care of himself. I dare say he is dining with some one. By the way, now I think of it, he told me he had met Vansittart this morning ; they are very old chums, you know." Milly bites her lip. She is so fond of Adrian that the least slight from him wounds her to the quick. "Well," she says, forcing a smile, "and what have you been doing? have you, too, found an old chum? Oh. I forgot ; of course you have been to call on your pretty little friend whom we met in the Louvre this morning." 140 DOLORES. Guy draws a chair close to his sister-in-law, and, look- ing at her, says suddenly, "I am going to confide in you, Milly; I want your advice." " Yes, do tell me," she answers, with the ready interest and sympathy that is one of her greatest charms. "I am going to be married." "You?" Milly preserves her countenance admirably, but his words give her a shock. She had known that he was fond of her, and, though not aware of the depth of his love for her, was still certain of being dear to him. Per- haps she has regretted it certainly she feels nothing more for him than her relationship as his brother's wife warrants ; but it is, after all, rather pleasant than otherwise to have an utterly devoted slave, who asks nothing more than to be at the beck and call of the adored one, and to make everything as smooth and pleasant as possible for her. Neither can any woman reconcile it to herself that a man who loves her can entertain the idea of marrying another woman ; so, when he does, she generally tells herself that she has been mistaken in believing him to be really fond of her, and feels a little angry with herself, and somewhat aggrieved with him. "Of course it is nothing to her. She does not care !" Guy is thinking, with some bitterness, whilst Milly is striving sedulously, and succeeding very well, in conceal- ing her chagrin. "Can you guess to whom?" " Not to your friend of this morning?" "Yes. Why not?" he asks, a little sharply. " I don't know," Milly answers. "Somehow I fancied she was the property of that nice, gentlemanly-looking man who was with her." GUY TELLS HIS STORY. 241 "H'm! I don't think there was anything very nice- looking about him," he says, grimly. "Oh, I did, Guy. He had such a gentle manner, and looked so sad about the eyes and mouth, as though he had had some great trouble. Indeed, I did not fancy he seemed very happy this morning." " Women are more observant than men, I suppose," is the rather rough retort. "I was not particularly struck with Captain Etherege in any way." "Etherege! Etherege!" repeated Milly; "was he ever in the th?" "Yes." " Well, don't you remember about his wife?" "No. What about her?" " She was a horrid woman ; he was divorced from her. I remember her quite well." " I don't suppose she had much of a time with him," says Guy. "Indeed, you are quite wrong. What makes you so prejudiced, Guy? Are you jealous of him?" "No, certainly not," he answers, heartily and truth- fully. "He was devoted to her goodness itself; and she well, never mind ; we won't talk about her." "I wonder which is the worst," says Guy, looking in- tently into the fire, as if to read an answer there " to break your heart after what you want and cannot get, or to get it and let it break your heart ?' ' "I do not know," Milly answers, looking into the fire too, with a very sad inflexion in her voice. "Oh," she adds, with sudden enthusiasm, " if one could only have what one loves in this world, and not be disappointed by it, what better heaven would any of us want?" "Ay," answers Guy, in a low voice "what indeed?" U 21 24 DOLORES. Both are thinking of their own case. Milly recovers herself the first. "Come," she says, gayly, "I am waiting for your romance." " It is almost a romance," Guy answers ; " it wouldn't make half a bad novel. But I am going to ask you a question first." "Ask on." " Do you ever remember to have seen Dolores before?' " Dolores ! what a pretty name ! No. Why ?" "Think." Milly thinks. " There is something familiar in her face. But stay," and she looks for a moment curiously and intently at Guy "surely not !" And she hesitates, and reddens a little with the fear of being indiscreet. "Surely yes. I think you have it," he answers. "You need not be afraid to speak. I assure you there is no delicate ground." "How long ago is it since I might have seen her?" Milly interrogates, cautiously. " Two days after I first met you." "Then I know." And she looks a little strangely at him. "Well, Guy?" "Yes, I know it sounds odd," he answers, frowning a little ; " but it won't when I have told you all. I know some women would shrug their shoulders and raise their eyebrows, but not you, Milly not you," he repeats, looking very earnestly at her. Not to forfeit her brother-in-law's good opinion, Milly does not outwardly do either, but mentally she does both very much indeed. She remembers Guy's sudden dis- appearance, and Adrian's laughing and mysterious man- ner when questioned by the Vivians ; and, in spite of his passionate declaration of love for herself on his return GUY TELLS HIS STORY. 243 after three days' absence, she had always thought there was something connected with his sudden disappearance that had better not be inquired into too minutely. " It would be a difficult story to tell to any one but you," Guy continues, almost pleadingly "in fact, I cauld not tell any one else the exact truth of the story, for her sake as much as mine, but to you I will tell it word for word, as I know it myself." "You know you may rely upon me," she answers, very kindly and softly. " I know I may. God bless you !" He takes her hand, and presses it fervently, almost reverently. "Well, then, when I went to Normandy last spring, I was walking along a most picturesque and tumble-down old street in Rouen, with a view to sketching it, when I met one of the prettiest little girls I thought I had ever seen, accompanied by an elderly Frenchwoman just one of those stout, clean, comely-looking women, the very type of attached domestic and friend-of-the-family sort, you know, Milly. Well, I immediately wanted to sketch her." "What, the attached domestic?" laughs Milly. " No, the girl. So I followed them up the hill a good stiff one, too, that made the fat servant puff and blow and chide the girl, who seemed as frolicsome as a kitten. I was afraid the old party would be rather a dragon ; but I followed at a respectful distance, and by just arriving opportunely at the garden-gate, and reaching the key, which had fallen on the grass, and so preventing Mar- celline having to walk an additional half-mile, I crept into conversation and favor ; and the end of it was, I was allowed to enter, not only then, but several times after- wards, to sketch Dolores, who put me very much in mind 244 DOLORES. of the 'Cruche Cassee.' What do you think? Don't you see a likeness?" "Yes, but your Dolores is prettier," says Milly, mag- nanimously. " Oh, yes, a thousand times !" assents Guy, heartily. " Well, but tell me, Guy, was she living all alone with the servant?" " Only for the moment. Her mother had gone to England on business, and I was given to understand that, had she been at home, small chance should I have stood of putting foot inside the gate." "And where is her mother now?" " Dead, a few months ago." " Do you know who she was or anything about her?" " Not a syllable ; nor does any one else, as far as I can make out. There is some mystery." " How unfortunate !" Mrs. Charteris cannot help say- ing. The more she hears, the less she likes the idea of Guy's proposed marriage. "Yes, it is a nuisance, certainly," Guy answers, biting his lip. It begins to look rather unsatisfactory to him, too. " All that is known of Mrs. Power is that she went to live at Rouen some thirteen or fourteen years ago, and lived a most secluded life. At her death, which was sud- den, no clue could be found to her identity. Etherege did all he could to trace it, but even her lawyers knew nothing about her or her antecedents ; I heard all this from Dolores to-night. Still, I suppose as the man you have such a high opinion of was content to take her on trust, you will not blame me for doing the same?" "But, my dear Guy, yours is a very different case. Your position makes it a much more important matter whom you marry than whom Captain Etherege chooses. Besides, of course, through his unhappy position, though GUY TELLS HIS STORY. 245 not a particle of blame attaches to him, many women would think twice before consenting to be his wife." Milly is a woman of the world ; she knows nothing of Dolores, has no possible interest in her ; but she is fond of Guy, and, besides, he is the head of the family; so she may be pardoned for not entering very heartily into a scheme in which she sees no advantage to him in any way. " Are you so deeply in love, then ?' ' she continues, as he makes no answer. "No!" looking at her for a moment, and then away again; "it is not that. She is a dear sweet little thing. I am sure it would be impossible to live with, and not to love her: still " "Still what?" " When I have finished my story you will know. I had been nearly a fortnight in Rouen, going up almost every day to make my sketch, when one day Marcelline came down to the hotel to see me, and begged me to go away, because the child was getting fond of me. She was rather excited, blamed herself for having allowed me to go to the house at all, appealed to my feelings, and finally extorted a promise from me to leave Rouen at once, with- out seeing my little model again. Milly," he says, break- ing off suddenly, "I can see, by the expression of your face, that you think it was all a plant ; but you don't know Marcelline. She is the best creature that ever lived." " My dear Guy, I did not know you were a thought- reader !" says Milly, laughing. " And you know it would be quite in character with the attached domestic to make a good match for her young mistress." " Now, Milly, don't be like other women," utters Guy, reproachfully. " That is just like Mrs. Vivian." "I won't offend again," she answers, penitently, "but 21* 4 6 DOLORES. you must forgive me if all my interest in this story is centred in you." Guy's face brightens. " How well you understand the art of saying pleasant things!" he says. "Well, I went away. Of course I thought it quite absurd, but still I went ; and then you know, Milly," he added, pausing, "that night we were dining with the Vivians. Do you remember my being called out of the room?" "Perfectly," she says, with intense interest. Another longer pause. "Poor little darling," says Guy, in a low, tender voice, " how little she dreamed what a foolish thing she was doing ! She had followed me here, not even know- ing my address, nor having ever been in Paris before." "Alone?" Milly asks, holding her breath. " Yes, poor little soul ! She had escaped from Mar- celline, and come off alone to Paris. By the most won- derful and merciful intervention of Providence, she met Stevens, and he brought her here at once." "Well, Guy?" (impatiently). "Well, Milly, I think you may guess the rest. I sent Stevens off to tell Marcelline at once, and took the poor little thing back next morning by the first train." Milly puts her hand in his ; there are tears in her beau- tiful eloquent eyes ; no need for her to speak her thoughts. "Any other man would have done the same," he says, hastily. " Not every other," she replies. " I should have married her then and there, only " But, remembering, he leaves his sentence unfinished ; nor does Milly ask for the remainder. Her womanly sympathy is aroused. "Poor little thing !" she murmurs, softly. GUY TELLS HIS STORY. 247 "And so," he proceeds, " I stayed a day or two in Rouen, to pacify the poor little girl, and then I came back here." Another longer pause, broken at last by Milly. "But, Guy, how came she to be engaged to Captain Etherege?" " He went to stay at Rouen some little time afterwards with his sister, and met her in the church several times and, don't think me a conceited fool for telling you, Milly, he saved her from drowning herself." " Poor little soul ! how fond she must have been of you!" "Yes, it seems strange, doesn't it?" he says, half laughing, half bitter. "Guy," says Milly, looking at him with grave eyes, in which there is some reproach. " I beg your pardon," he answers, hastily. " I will not offend again." "Then," suggests Milly, "he fell in love with her and proposed to marry her. But, Guy, if she was so devoted to you, how came she to accept him?" " I hardly know," he says, hesitating. " I suppose he was kind to her, and she had not much to look forward to." "But, Guy," asks his companion, practically, "where is the sister? Miss Power is surely not staying in Paris alone with Captain Etherege?" "Oh, no," he answers, hastily, and frowning a little; "Marcelline is with her." "Toujours la fide le Marcelling. But," she adds, per- sistently, " where is the sister?" "Upon my life, I never thought to ask !" replies Guy, with some embarrassment. "Tell me what happened after our strange rencontre 48 DOLORES. this morning. Did Captain Etherege at once give up all claim, and hand her over to you?" "You see," says Guy, thoughtfully, "he knew the first part of the story, and I suppose he thought it was rather hopeless to marry a woman who liked another man." "Tell me about your interview," Milly says, impa- tiently. "Did he say, 'Bless you, my children,' or did he seem to feel it very much ?' ' Guy looks puzzled. "He did not betray much feeling, certainly; but, with those cold, self-contained fellows, you never can tell what they really suffer." Whence Milly draws the conclusion that Captain Eth- erege is not so very sorry to be relieved from his engage- ment, and is less satisfied than ever with Guy's proposed marriage. "In fact," proceeds the young man, "I should never for one instant have dreamed of standing in his way, only he drew such a picture of what the poor child had suffered, that I felt in honor bound almost. But she is a dear, sweet little thing," he breaks off, as though conscious of doing her wrong, "and I am sure to be very happy with her." "And I suppose you mean to marry her at once?" "Yes, as soon as possible. I want your help, Milly; I know I may ask you." "Anything in the world," she says, heartily. " I ventured to say you would go to her to-morrow and bring her here." "Here!" echoes Milly. " Is there anything against it?" he asks, looking up. Mrs. Charteris does not answer immediately. "Well, Milly?" "I hardly like to say it, Guy, but but does it not WHA T MILL Y THINKS. 249 occur to you that it might be as well for her not to come here?" Seeing him look puzzled, she adds, "Is it not just possible that some of the servants here might remem- ber her? and you know how they talk !" " You are quite right, as you always are. But what am I to do with her until I get the ceremony performed ; I thought, if she were with you for a fortnight or so, that would stop people's mouths." "That would not do it; and do you know, Guy, I think seriously it will be a great mistake if you get mar- ried in such a violent hurry?" " It must be done !" he answers, resolutely. "There is no must about it," she retorts. "It will be an injustice to herself as well as to you. Listen a moment while I give you my reasons." Guy settles himself in his chair, as if prepared to hear his sister-in-law talk for any amount of time ; but there is a certain fixed expression about the corners of his mouth, as though he is not likely to be convinced that his own plan is not the better one. CHAPTER XXVI. WHAT MILLY THINKS. FIFTY objections to the marriage crowded into Milly's brain ; every moment the idea seemed more hateful in her eyes. It was a miserable sacrifice, that Guy was rushing on blindly from a mistaken sense of honor, a Quixotic chivalry. And not only was he about to commit a fatal error, but to set about it in a manner that would L* 250 DOLORES. probably injure the happiness of his whole future. She felt almost indignant at his folly ; in her own mind she could not refrain from thinking that he was the dupe of Dolores and the French servant. Certainly the story, as told unconsciously by Guy, tended to such a conclusion ; and although we are in full possession of the facts, Mrs. Charteris was not, and very naturally formed an idea that Guy's sensitive nature had been imposed upon, and that he is about miserably to throw himself away from a mis- taken sense of honor. And if he married her in this hot haste, what would the world say, or, rather, what would it not say? what would Guy's mother think, and what story would she be able herself to tell plausible enough to satisfy society on the subject of his choice ? She feels almost angry with him for having brought about this dilemma; but there is no anger in her voice as, bend- ing forward, her cheek resting on her hand, she begins softly to urge upon him her convictions. " My dear Guy, have you thought yet what you are going to give out to the world as to Lady Wentworth's history ? You will hardly tell them what you have told me, will you?" "Most certainly not," he answers, emphatically. "Why tell them anything? Who has a right to ask, except my own family?" "But the moment you resent the world's questioning, the world takes upon itself to find its own answer; and that answer is invariably the very last one you would give, or wish given, yourself." " What could any one dare to say?" he commences, indignantly. " Of course," replies Milly, softly, "you and I know perfectly" she says this with a secret qualm " that not a syllable could justly be breathed against your future WHAT MILLY THINKS. 251 wife ; but you must admit there are one or two circum- stances which, if open to the criticism of your friends, are not so satisfactory as we could altogether wish. Nay, Guy," for he makes an impatient movement "you know I would not pain you ; I am only speaking to you as your mother would, were she here this moment." " I will keep her abroad for a year, until people have forgotten to ask any questions." " Why do that ! You must be anxious to see your own country and Wentworth again ; you have been away from it too long already." "Tell me, then, Milly, what do you propose?" " I cannot quite answer that at this moment ; I want you to give me a night to think about it. But I do urge your not dreaming of an immediate marriage. It would be a great blow to your mother, set every one talking in the country, and perhaps make your wife's position doubt- ful, instead of her being at once able to take her own place. Don't you agree with me so far?" "Yes," he answers, reluctantly. "Suppose, now," with a sudden inspiration, "that I were to dine at the table-d* hote of a certain hotel to- morrow that I were to sit next a charming young girl, to whom I took the greatest fancy ; suppose I continued the acquaintance, and became so fond of her that I asked her to go over to England and stay with me. You na- turally, being constantly with us, fall in love with my little friend, and, eventually, propose to her. She will, of course, be invited to Wentworth, to stay with your mother; and, in three months from the present time, what is to prevent your marrying a young lady whom the world knows all about? For it will not be very difficult to make a true story about her orphaned condition. What do you think of the idea, Guy?" 52 DOLORES. " Think ! I think you are the cleverest woman in the world!" "Then, for Stevens," she says, pausing, "well, you must caution him against alluding to the past, or seeming to recognize either Miss Power or her servant ; and, above all things, tell him to keep it from my maid, because I am not to be supposed to know anything about the past." Guy drums on the floor with one foot, and frowns a little. "Yes," proceeds Milly, "I know it is hateful to you to have recourse to deception of any kind ; but just think, Guy, for her sake, whether you can afford to brave every- thing and act quite straightforwardly. You see, the Vivians know of your having been in Rouen last year ; they know about some one coming to you in Paris, and your going back again to Rouen. Mrs. Vivian is not an ill-natured woman, but she is inquisitive, and fond of gossip, and, if there is a clue to unravel, will do her best to get to the bottom of it." " But, my dear Milly, how do you suppose for one in- stant that the fact of her having lived in Rouen all her life is to be kept a secret?" " I never dreamed of such a thing for an instant. But hark ! there is Adrian. May I tell him?" " I suppose so ; he must know sooner or later ; but not before me. And, Milly," he adds, hurriedly, "tell him not to chaff me about it I couldn't stand it." " I will mature my plans, and we will talk them over in the morning." The door opens, and Adrian comes in, looking hand- somer than ever, if a little more bored and languid. Milly is one of those who only get angry with people that are very dear to them. She has a grand armor of pride to protect her from the petty stings of life; but WHAT MILLY THINKS. 253 once she loves, that one to whom her heart is given has the power of wounding her to the very quick a power so great that it may easily be abused without design. This is, at the same time, her greatest fault and her greatest misfortune. The intonation of a voice, a cold or wan- dering glance, a distraite answer, can make her unhappy, a slight neglect or sharp retort cause her to feel passion- ately indignant and miserable. She is as irrational and unreasonable in her love as she is sensible and discreet in every other matter. With the whole force of her nature she loves Adrian not a whit the less because she does not respect him, because she knows him for what he is an utterly selfish man. Too indolent to be ill-tempered, too fond of himself easily to allow anything to put him out, always ready to be kind and pleasant when it does not inconvenience himself, and with a charming grace in re- fusing to do what he does not care for, that makes his refusal almost as good as other people's compliance. Milly has a passion for good looks ; it is a real pleasure to her to look at a handsome face, and she can gratify this taste perfectly with her husband, who is eminently handsome, and so perfectly aware of it that he would consider it beneath him to appear conceited. Guy is " quite good-looking enough for anything," as his friends say, but he has now and then felt a twinge of envy at seeing how irresistible his brother's handsome face is in the eyes of most women. " I dare say Dolores won't think much of me when she has seen him," is his mental comment, as Captain Char- teris comes in, looking more splendidly handsome even than usual. There is something irresistible about the smiling eyes, the curved mouth that the golden moustache shades but does not hide. At the bare sight of him Milly's wrath 254 DOLORES. melts like snow before the sun, her eyes shine a welcome on him, her own face becomes radiant "and beautiful too," Guy thinks. "Well, Guy, what have you been about?" Adrian says, not even noticing his wife, whose face falls, and whose heart gives a little indignant throb. He does not apologize for having left her, nor ask if her head is better ; and her anger begins to return. " I sent Stevens to you, but he said you were not to be disturbed on any account. What were you doing ? composing a valentine or a love-letter, or taking a nap eh ? Why, how glum you both look ! What's up, Milly?" " Oh, nothing," she returns, coldly, looking away from him. " We had a deuced good dinner ; you had better have come with me," pursues Captain Charteris, not noticing, or appearing to notice, his wife's displeasure. "Where did you dine?" " I did not know you were going to dine out," answers Guy, " so I dined alone at a place in the Rue Richelieu." "Well, Milly, and what did you do?" he asks, with a yawn. " I dined alone, which, as you know, I am particularly fond of doing," says Milly. " Oh ! I didn't think you'd dine at all ; people don't, generally, when they have a headache." "You might have left word you were going out," she returns, trying not to be angry. " I did not know, when I saw Fentum, that I was going out ; but when I heard from her that you were not to be disturbed, and the same from Guy's man about him, I went and found Vansittart, and we dined together. Capi- tal dinner! deuced dear, though!" And he pulls out the bill of fare, and hands it to his brother. WHAT MILLY THINKS. 255 "Ninety-five francs," Guy reads to himself, and in- wardly comments, " Hang it all ! if I owed nearly all my money to my wife, I think I'd be a trifle less lavish with it." But, to do Milly justice, as long as Adrian is good to her, she begrudges him nothing, and is perfectly willing to deny herself, that he may have everything he wants. Adrian accepts it all as his due, and does not see any particular generosity in his wife's handing over everything she has into his keeping with unquestioning confidence. If she had not had money, he would certainly not have married her ; and already he considers that he has made an enormous sacrifice in giving up his freedom, for which her fortune, were it ten times as great, could not compen- sate. " I suppose you were having a very interesting conver- sation, and I interrupted it?" says Adrian, with a yawn. " It's only half-past eleven" (looking at his watch), " but, as there is nothing else to do, I may as well go to bed Unless you'll come out for a stroll?" he adds, turning to Guy. But Guy, seeing that Milly is vexed, says he is tired, and does not care to go out again ; and so, wishing them good-night, he goes. Milly wants to tell her husband the news of Guy's engagement, but she is angry with him, and can hardly command her voice sufficiently to begin. If he would only say a kind word, or express a regret at having left her to dine alone, she could be pleasant again directly ; but he takes a book and begins to read. It is his theory that, if a woman is out of temper (and he has rarely had any- thing but pleasant looks from them, except an occasional outburst of jealousy), the only thing is to leave her quite alone until she comes round. As to a quarrel, a scene, 256 DOLORES. or an explanation, it would be far too much trouble ; be- sides, it would never enter his brain to imagine he could be in the wrong. He does not understand Milly the least in the world, and is of opinion that she has the "devil's own temper," as he expresses it; but he has heard that most married women have the same, so the only thing is to keep out of her way until she gets over it. Milly begins herself to think that she is bad-tempered ; scarcely a day passes but Adrian vexes her in some way, anrl, although she tries hard to conceal the bitterness she feels, she loves him too much not to resent what she thinks unkindness or neglect on his part. Milly was too exact- ing, and Adrian was the last man in the world to suit a woman of her temperament. She told herself this a thou- sand times in the day ; but it was additionally bitter to her from the fact that she had been used to receive willing homage and attention. She had been spoiled and flattered by a dozen men who had been only too happy to humor her least caprice ; and until her marriage with Adrian, she had looked upon all their acts of devotion as only her right and due. Captain Charteris was charming in society, but he could not be bored by playing at company-manners at home. It was absurd to expect a man to open the door or ring the bell for his wife, or otherwise make a lackey of himself. Milly, who had been used to all ihefletits soins that a woman values, felt that the absence of them be- tokened a want of affection on her husband's part. Since Guy had been with them, he had been so thoughtful and courteous to her, almost reading her wishes, and only too happy if he could satisfy the least of them. Captain Charteris watched his brother with some amuse- ment. "Ah, my dear fellow," he would say, with his indolent WHAT MILLY THINKS. 57 smile, " it's very jolly waiting upon other people's wives. I don't mind that myself; but wait till you get one of your own." And now she was going to lose Guy too, and she began to think of a thousand virtues and good qualities in him that had scarcely struck her much until now. Adrian must be told, so she will endeavor to ignore her wrongs and commence. Try as she may, she cannot summon up quite a good grace. "Adrian." "Well?" he answers, not looking up. "Is your book so very interesting?" "Yes, rather." " More interesting than my conversation?" ' ' A good deal more. ' ' " Thank you. Perhaps you take some interest in your brother's affairs?" " Not particularly," he answers, still reading. "He is going to be married," says Milly, quietly. "The deuce he is !" Adrian exclaims, looking at her. " What an infernal fool ! Whom to ?" "It is rather a long story," she answers, trying to swallow her anger. " Perhaps you would rather continue your book?" "No, I should not. I would rather hear your story," he adds, smiling graciously. "Come and tell me." Milly is weak. When her sovereign lord holds out the sceptre to her, she can only prostrate herself at his feet. So she rises, and, going to him, seats herself on the arm of his chair. "Adrian," she says, caressingly, " you know it was not kind of you to go out and leave me alone to-day." "Oh, I thought you would be sure to have Guy; and you know he waits upon you and looks after you much R 22* 858 DOLORES. better than I do. But tell me, whom is he going to marry?" "You know I told you at lunch about our meeting a girl in the Louvre who had a fainting-fit." "Yes." " He is going to marry her." "But who is she? Where did he meet her? How long has he known her?" For Guy's sake Milly wants to make the best of the story ; but, as she proceeds, she feels every moment that it is more and more unsatisfactory. During its progress her husband interpolates many ejaculations of contempt and derision. At its close he gives a prolonged whistle. "Guy always was the biggest fool about women," he comments. "I thought he would end by some such scrape as this. Rather an interesting addition to the family the new sister-in-law, eh, Milly?" " She may be very nice," Milly answers, "and she is certainly pretty." "If I were you, I wouldn't be dragged into it; let Guy manage it as best he can, if he is such an ass." "I don't think that would be wise; the only thing we have to do, since he is bent upon it, is to make the best of it." " I don't see there's any best to be made about it. You can't prevent the whole thing coming out one day, and then nobody will have two opinions about her. I don't doubt it's all right, because I know what Guy is; but you won't make anybody else believe it." "We shall see," replies Milly, with feminine astuteness. "You see, if we were to oppose it, he would have nothing to do but to marry her at once ; whereas, if we delay it, it is just possible," she says, hesitating, "that he may change his mind." WHAT CONSTITUTES HAPPINESS t 259 ''I see. You are a clever woman, Milly, but I rather doubt if you are a match for the ingenue and the old Frenchwoman. ' ' " Perhaps not. I have no idea of any scheming or counter-scheming. My only wish is for your brother's welfare." " Very good of you. And it would be rather a bore to lose such a useful slave, eh, Milly?" And Adrian goes off laughing, thinking he has divined his wife's thoughts very cleverly. After he was gone, Milly sits thinking in- tently, until her maid comes to see whether she means to sit up all night. By this time her plans are tolerably matured, and after breakfast, the following morning, she is able to detail them for Guy's benefit. She has also ex- tracted from her husband a promise not to interfere in any way with her projects, and to observe the strictest silence about his previous meeting with her in Paris, as well as to refrain from betraying to Dolores herself any recollection of having seen her before. CHAPTER XXVII. WHAT CONSTITUTES HAPPINESS? "Do you know, Guy," says Milly to her brother-in- law the next morning, " I think the best thing I could do would be to see Captain Etherege? It would be better for the world not to know anything about his engagement to Miss Power, and I feel sure oh, quite sure !" (emphat- ically), "that he would be as little likely as you to say a6o DOLORES. anything to the detriment of a woman ; but I am a little afraid of his sister, and " " I fear it is too late," breaks in Guy. " In his letter he says he shall be in Paris up to ten this morning, and," he adds, taking out his watch, "it is that now." " You might go at once, before breakfast ; and if you told him I was very desirous to see him, I dare say he would put off his departure for an hour or two. It is most important," she continues, anxiously, " that I should see him; and then, later on, you can explain to your fiancee that it will be better for me not to go to her and bring her back here to day." Guy takes his hat obediently and goes, though he likes neither of his missions. He does not want to meet Captain Etherege again ; and how is he to tell Dolores that she cannot openly and at once be received in her proper position by his family ? If he had not such a high opin- ion of Milly's prudence and discretion, he would like to have things his own way, and run all risks for the future. But Milly has put it on the highest ground his duty towards Dolores and he cannot help seeing that she is right. " How good she was about it !" he reflects, as he goes along. " Most women would have made themselves dis- agreeable and insinuated all sorts of things \ because, after all, it does sound a strange story in the telling, and a woman who was not pure-minded like Milly might make evil out of it. Bless her !" he thought, sighing, "I had rather have seen her married to most of my friends than Adrian. I hate him sometimes, when I see his manner towards her, and how fond she is of him ! A woman like that, that I should have been so proud of, should have worshiped so, to be valued only for her money ! Would to God I had met her before her first marriage, when she WHAT CONSTITUTES HAPPINESS? 2 6l had none ! But I suppose she would never have cared for me. Women don't care for the men who would be good to them and love them !" he says bitterly to himself. It is with no eager heart or step that the affianced lover turns in at the doorway of the hotel where his betrothed is staying; and when the porter tells him that Captain Etherege has left the previous night, he breathes more freely. And now for the interview with Dolores, which he foresees will be a little difficult. He finds her sitting before an untasted roll and cup of coffee Marcelline by the window at work The latter rises, makes him a curtsey, and prepares to withdraw, but he detains her. " No need to run away, Marcelline. You know we can talk all our secrets without being afraid of vour under- standing us." This is not very lover-like, Marcelline thinks, and Dolores feels it too, and the color comes into her cheeks as she bends over her coffee and pretends to drink it. Guy takes her hands in his, and looks very kindly at her. "You are looking quite charming this morning, Do- lores!" " Am I?" she says, in a pleased voice. " Isn't she, Marcelline?" he says, repealing his remark in French. And Marcelline smiles and nods in answer. "You will have to learn English now you are going to live in England," pursues Guy, taking it for granted that where Dolores goes there will her faithful servant attend her. " Milor is very good," she answers, " but as for leaving France " And she finishes her sentence with a doubt- ful shake of the head. " I am not Milor, Marcelline," laughs the young man 262 DOLORES. " only plain Sir Guy. And, you know, if you don't come to England, we shall have to settle in France. I am sure your little lady will never consent to part from you." "Ah, Sir Guy is joking the poor old woman. Her little angel will be only too glad to be rid of a cross old servant, who has done nothing all her life but contradict her." Dolores smiles and shakes her head. " Cunning old Marcelline ! You want me to flatter you, and to tell Sir Guy that I should die without you." "I hear Captain Etherege has gone," says Guy, pres- ently. " I was in hopes of finding him." "For what?" asks the child, blankly. " My sister-in-law, Mrs. Charteris, wanted to see him. Do you know if he has left Paris?" "Yes, he has gone. But why should Mrs. Charteris want to see him?" she asks, suspiciously. " I am not quite in the secret," answers Guy, evasively; "but, since he is gone, it is of course impossible." "And Madame your sister, is she coming here this morning?" "No-o," he says, hesitating, "not this morning. She thinks we think " "Sir Guy," interrupts Dolores, in a constrained voice, "do you object to my asking Marcelline to quit the room?" " Certainly not, dearest; but " "Marcelline," she pursues, with quiet dignity, "will you be so good as to leave us for a few minutes ?' ' "But certainly." And the good soul retires with great alacrity. Frenchwoman though she is, she has no scruples about leaving her young charge with her affianced husband. Marcelline has an immense respect for and confidence in Englishmen. WHAT CONSTITUTES HAPPINESS? 263 Dolores contains herself until the door has closed, and then bursts out, with quivering lips and flashing eyes, " I understand all, Sir Guy. Your sister does not wish you to marry me ; she has been persuading you from it ; she has refused to receive me. I am quite content ; you are free. I am certain that you only pretend to love me from kindness as I told you yesterday, from pity. I never wish to see you any more, and I pray you do me the kindness to leave me." Guy gives vent to an impatient sigh ; he is not in the humor to fight over again the uphill that he conquered last night, and he says, with slight irritation, " Why, what a foolish little girl it is ! Why cannot you be reasonable, Dolores ? At all events, let me finish. Come, darling." And he suddenly relents, as he sees the great tears standing in her eyes, and goes towards her to put his arm round her. She shakes him off impatiently. " Proceed, monsieur. I am listening." But Guy does not find it in the very least easy to pro- ceed. He feels that in her present touchy, sensitive mood he will only be adding fuel to the fire by giving his sister's reasons for not going to her at once. "My sister is not quite recovered from her headache, and " he stammers. "You have just thought of that for an excuse," says Dolores, looking steadily at him. " Why not tell me the truth ? I am not afraid to hear it. ' ' And, indeed, it is the little maiden who looks formida- ble now, and the fine big young man who is the coward. He is divided between two feelings the fear of wounding Dolores, and the horror of not being perfectly frank and straightforward. But, after a moment's hesitation, he resolves to tell her the truth as tenderly as possible. "My dear," he says, sitting down by her, "though 264 DOLORES. you are the sweetest and most charming little woman in the world, you cannot be expected, living in a place like Rouen all your life, to know a great deal about the ways of the world and society ; and so, darling, you know you must be content to trust a little to people who do. When you are Lady Wentworth, or people know you are about to be so, a great many of my friends and acquaintances will want to know all about you where I met you, how I came to be introduced to you in short, people are so in- quisitive, they want to know everything about everybody." "And you," says Dolores, with quick perception, "will be ashamed to tell them." "Why should I be ashamed, darling?" he answers, in the frankest, truthfulest voice. "What have you given me cause for except to feel most proud and grateful for your love? Only " He pauses, and a deep crimson blush suffuses the girl's face. She tries to hide it with her small white hands. "Oh, yes," she cries, ashamedly, "I know I know! If people knew how foolishly, how wickedly I had behaved, how bold and forward I had seemed, they would think I know not what. But you," she adds, imploringly, with eyes downcast, and tremulous mouth "you do not think ill of me ? Even Philip did not when I confessed it to him." " I ! my own darling ! what do you take me for ?' ' and he kisses her hands with some passion ; " what could I feel but proud to think so pure and sweet a creature could care so much for me? No, dearest, do not for one in- stant think I misunderstand you ; it is for your sake only that I would keep our secret from the world, which is always harsh and false in its judgments." " Guy," she says, imploringly, " you have not told your sister?" WHAT CONSTITUTES HAPPINESS f 265 "How could I help it, dearest?" he answers, uneasily. " You forget my brother saw you. But," he says, hastily, " you need have no fear of my sister knowing all : she is too pure-minded herself to impute harm to other women." "Ah," says Dolores, with instinctive jealousy, "I no longer wish to see Mrs. Charteris. I am glad she has not come. And Mary is coming to-day. I know she will be good to me, even though I have behaved with such in- gratitude to poor Philip." "Is Miss Etherege coming?" Guy asks; "and does she know " "How should she know? You forget it is only since yesterday, though," she says, with a sigh, " it seems much longer. I have her letter here" (drawing it from her pocket); "she says her sister has taken a wonderful turn for the better, and, as her mind misgives her that she ought not to have left us all to ourselves in Paris, she is coming, and will be in Paris to-night." Guy draws a long breath of relief. "I am very glad," he says, very heartily. "And Mrs. Charteris will be very glad too. She will come to-morrow and see Miss Etherege, I know, and after that I hope all will be plain sailing. And now, darling, put on your bonnet, and I will send for a carriage, and we will go out shopping, as we did at Rouen that day, and take Mar- celline with us, too." The child shakes her head mournfully. " No, it is better to say adieu, and leave me. I will go back to Rouen with Mary, and," she adds, her voice fal- tering, " I shall ask one of the good sisters whom I know, to take me into the convent." "No, my sweet," answers the young man, taking her in his arms ; "so dear a thing as you was never meant to be buried in a living grave. Please God, you shall see M 23 266 DOLORES. the bright side of life, and know what happiness and pleasure there is in the world. What ! tears again ? Come, I shall begin to think you do not care for me." "I wish I wish I hated you!" says the child, almost passionately. Guy laughs. "I will not believe you. And all this time," he says, trying to divert her thoughts, " I have forgotten that Mrs. Charteris is waiting to know about Captain Etherege, and that I have not had my breakfast. Well," he adds, taking his hat, " I shall be back in half an hour with a carriage, and shall expect to find you and Marcelline quite ready. Au revoir, my darling." Thus he goes ; and, after a few minutes, Dolores, making up her mind to obedience, summons Marcelline, and when Guy returns he finds them both prepared for the drive. "Are you still as fond of bon-bons?" he says, gayly, and orders the coachman to drive to a confectioner's in the Rue de la Paix. Then he takes her to the jeweler's, and buys her a half- hoop of diamonds ; and as she takes her glove off to try if it fits her, she remembers with a blush that Philip's ring is still there. She fears Guy will be vexed j but he says, very kindly, " We must put that on the other hand." Then he buys her a basketful of choice flowers, and an inlaid box of gloves. "We must not forget Marcelline," he says ; and they stop and purchase a beautiful lace cap, to her over- whelming delight. " Now come and help me to choose a present for my sister-in-law," says Sir Guy. "I don't know what to give her she has everything." "These are beautiful fans!" says Dolores, timidly pointing to a window they were passing. " The very thing ! What a clever little woman ! Ladies WHAT CONSTITUTES HAPPINESS f 367 can never have too many of those." And, going in, he selects a film of lace on carved mother-of-pearl sticks a dainty toy, just fit, he thinks, for so elegant a creature as Milly. After this he takes them to the Palais Royal, and gives them a sumptuous lunch, and insists on Marcelline par- taking of everything, although she is painfully shy at eating with her young lady and the English milord. Guy sees her diffidence, and good-naturedly makes her sit at an adjoining table, where she soon gets the better of her mau- vaise honte. In the afternoon they drive in the Bois. Dolores is quite happy. She has forgotten her doubts about Guy forgotten, too, that there is a man who has been kinder to her than ever Guy has, fleeing away from sight and hear- ing of her as fast as steam can take him, but carrying with him, as he will for many a long day, bitter memory and regret of her. Guy, too, has forgotten him. He is well pleased that the charming little figure beside him is to be his own prop- erty. What a sweet little "my lady" she will make ! He is agreeably conscious, too, that she attracts a good deal of attention from both sexes, although her toilette is of the very simplest. It pleases him to think how he will make Milly take her to all the best places and have her equipped as sumptuously as a little duchess ; and then, remembering that this will not accord with his sister-in- law's plans, he frowns a vexed frown. "Why can't one be happy one's own way? What a cursed nuisance society is!" he groans to himself. But, after all, the impediments in the way make him prize his little fiancee more. The happy day is over. Dolores is back in her room at the hotel, and Guy is taking leave of her. 2 68 DOLORES. " T wish you would stay with me," she says, wistfully. " In two hours Mary will be here, and, oh, what shall I say to her?" ' ' Say ?' ' replies Guy, cheerily " say ? Why, say ' ' But here he pauses, not finding it altogether easy to make a suggestion. The girl looks inquiringly at him. Guy clasps his hands round the handle of his umbrella, from which he is as loth to part as most men, and looks hard at it, as if some happy inspiration might come from contemplation of it. "It is awkward," he confesses, presently, rather gloomily. "Don't you think," says Dolores, laying a timid hand on his arm "don't you think you might tell her?" " I ! " (rising hurriedly,) " I, my dear little girl ! impossible !" His mind conjures up a she-dragon. Captain Ether- ege's sister will probably be a hard, angular old maid, who would take a pleasure in saying things very unpleas- ant for him to hear, and rather difficult to reply to. But, such being the case, is it fair to leave Dolores to her ten- der mercies ? "Tell me," he asks, hesitatingly "is she very severe and awful, this Miss Etherege?" And his face uncon- sciously elongates, until Dolores cannot help smiling. "Oh, no, no," she answers; "how could you think so ? She is so good so good ; I am quite sure she never said an angry word to any one in her life. That makes it worse she will be so grieved. But I shall tell her he was not very unhappy. He was not was he?" she asks, looking anxiously at Guy, "or he would not have given me up so easily." " People have such different ways of showing their feel- WHAT CONSTITUTES HAPPINESS t 269 ings," he answers, with a slight shrug. "I don't think, under the circumstances, /should " But here he pauses, and the color deepens in the girl's cheek. "Well, dearest," he concludes, hastily, "I must run away now; and you will write me a little line to-night, and tell me how the interview went off, and whether my sister may call in the morning and see Miss Etherege. Of course," he adds, with some warmth, "if she gets angry, and makes a scene, we must take you away at once. I won't have my little pet bullied." "Ah," she says, sighing, " there is no fear of that." "Well, good-by, my darling. I am glad you say you have had a pleasant day ; we will have many much pleas- anter ones, please God, when we get through all these confounded proprieties." She lays her hand lingeringly on his sleeve, her eyes hang upon his face wistfully. A less vain man than Guy might have been pardoned for saying in his heart, " How she loves me !" The thought comes suddenly and griev- ously across him, "Oh to be loved like that by the right woman !" And then, smitten with self-reproach for the involuntary infidelity, he stoops and kisses her very ten- derly. An intuitive perception seems to come across her, for, fond though the caress is, a pang of disappointment shoots through her heart. " Good-by," she says ; and there are tears in her eyes. "Good-by, my darling; do not forget to write to me to-night. All will be well soon." And, with a cheery smile and nod, he is gone. 270 DOLORES. CHAPTER XXVIII. GUY AND ADRIAN. IT is all over the story is told with hesitations, with tears, with pitiful little excuses ; and it is heard patiently and painfully by the compassionate sister. She does not blame the child, whose story she knows, and in her heart of hearts she had never thought the marriage quite a suit- able one ; but even she, who has so firm a faith in an all- wise Providence, cannot but wonder why all these cruel blows should be dealt on Philip, who never in his life, to her knowledge, had caused suffering to any human being. "But, oh, Mary," pleads the girl, wistfully, "do you know, I cannot think, after all, he is very sorry to give me up, or he would not have done it so easily and gone away? He did not seem very sorry." Mary is silent. Full well she guesses how keen the pain had been that concealed itself behind the cold, self- contained manner that Dolores could not comprehend. "Tell me," she says, after a slight pause, "what are your plans for the future ? Are you going to be married at once?" "I do not know," Dolores answers, reddening. "Sir Guy thinks his sister thinks " "His sister?" Mary says, interrogatively. " Not his own sister he has none his brother's wife." "Is she in Paris?" "Yes; and she would like," Dolores says, hesitatingly "would like to see you and talk to you about oh, GUY AND ADRIAN. 2 "Jl Mary, would you mind very much?" she adds, plead- ingly. Mary Etherege is silent. She is a good woman in the real sense of the word kind, tender-hearted, charitable; but it is asking a good deal to expect her to enter into arrangements for the marriage of the girl so lately be- trothed to her brother, with another man. " I know it seems a strange, unnatural thing to ask you," Dolores pleads, humbly; "but oh, Mary, I do so dread to meet Mrs. Charteris." " You have not seen her yet, then ?" "Yes, I have seen her that day in the Louvre. She was very kind ; but but, I do not know why, somehow I feel afraid of her. If only you would see her first, Mary !" And Dolores takes her friend's hand and kisses >'t, in her pretty, impulsive way. Many thoughts crowd into Mary's mind ; but with her duty, once she recognizes it, always takes the pre-emi- nence. And here, she tells herself, is this child, mother- less, friendless, placed in so strange a position, without any one to advise her ; and must she not banish her own private feelings, and do what she can to secure her hap- piness in the future ? She knows nothing of Sir Guy in her secret heart she does not' think well of him, and it occurs to her that the relations of a man in his position can hardly look with much favor on his marriage with a girl whose antecedents are unknown even to herself. And she thinks sadly how the girl is plunging with such happy confidence into the open sea, all unaware of the reefs and shoals lying thick under the fair water. She sighs this time it is for the girl's sake. " Mary," whispers Dolores, still caressing the hand she holds. "Yes, I will see her," answers Miss Etherege, sadly 272 DOLORES. " Oh, thanks, dear, dear Mary !" cries the child, fling- ing her arms round her friend's neck; "then I may write and tell him?" How selfish the young are ! Mary Etherege might have made this reflection, but she does not. In her kind heart there is always an ample fund of allowance for human weaknesses, and for those of the young especially. " There is so much suffering and disappointment in the very happiest, brightest lot," she is wont to say ; " and we make so much more sorrow than need be for each other by want of sympathy and kindness." " Yes, my dear, you may write ; and now, as I am very tired, I will say good-night." "Good-night, dear, kind Mary. Oh, how good you are to me ! and," she adds, with a sudden burst of con- trition, "I have been so ungrateful." " At least, you did not mean it," Mary answers, kindly, kissing her. Dolores sits down to pen her note to Guy. She is too shy to write the name without its prefix, though she feels it looks stiff and cold. It takes her a long time and a good deal of paper to write her little effusion, and after all it is a somewhat shy, awkward production. Then she is perplexed how to direct the envelope, and has half a mind to go to Mary Etherege for instruction, but ulti- mately decides not to disturb her, though with secret mis- givings. Guy smiles as he reads the note. "Dear little girl," he thinks, "I must get Milly to give her a lesson in writing charming little notes." Unconsciously almost, but with the tact that character- izes mankind, he is always saying to himself, " Milly must tell her this; Milly must show her that." A woman is always so pleased and ready to take hints from another GUY AND ADRIAN. 273 woman she suspects of occupying a prominent position in her lover's heart ! Milly is not pleased with the task that awaits her on the morrow. Nevertheless, she has given her word, and will not go back from it. She knows Guy is throwing himself away hopelessly ; he does not care for the girl not really care for her. To-night Guy has dined tete-d-tete with her, and taken her to the theatre, for Adrian is again dining with his friend Vansittart they are to have a little ecartl afterwards. He has not been the least distrait, does not appear much inclined to speak of his love or future, and indeed has only seemed to have one care how to please and amuse her, and distract her from thinking of Adrian's absence. In coming out of the door of the theatre a man had pushed against her, and Guy, ordinarily so quiet, had seized him by the collar and swung him into the street with a fury quite disproportionate to the offense. Some- times when she spoke to him he would turn to her with eyes so expressive of his feelings that she would look away sharply, half vexed, half embarrassed. " How that man loves me !" she could not help saying to herself, quite dispassionately and sorrowfully. " Why did I not care for him instead of Adrian ?" And yet she would not, dared not admit to herself that Adrian did not love her too it would have broken her heart. There were a few warm words spoken between the brothers that night. Milly had gone to bed, and Guy was in the sitting-room alone when Adrian came in. He flung himself in a chair, lighted another cigar, and pro- ceeded to discuss the events of the evening. "Just like my infernal luck!" he said, nonchalantly. " I dropped thirty pounds. Just the sum I promised Milly for her dressmaker, or milliner, or some con- 3 *74 DOLORES. founded bill, to-morrow. How cursed extravagant women are!" Guy began to get a little angry. "I fancy there is more satisfaction to be got out of paying thirty pounds for a dress for an elegant woman than flinging it away for half an hour's excitement." " C 'est selon /" answered Adrian, with a shrug. "When you've been married a few months you won't have tht remotest idea of how your wife dresses, until you have to pay the bills." "My good fellow," said Guy, with some heat, "it's all very well for you to waive the fact so delicately, but I think you might remember, when you talk so largely about your wife's bills, that it's her own money you condescend to pay them with." "Oh, no, it isn't," answered Adrian, lazily; "it's mine now. She laid it out on my purchase ; and, upon my soul, I think she has the best of the bargain !" " I dare say you do," retorted Guy, grimly. "I sup- pose you have something to recommend you women seem to think so, at least; but, by God," he adds, pas- sionately, "it is not your manliness or delicacy of feeling, or you would treat such a woman as you have the honor to possess a little differently from the way you do." "Ah, yes, my dear fellow," replied Adrian, languidly. " I know you're in love with my wife any child can see that but it's quite lost on her. I wish she had liked you better than me. I hate being married; but somehow," he adds, getting up and looking at himself in the glass first, and then at Guy "I don't know how the deuce it is women always did like me better than you, in spite of your title and your money." To which Guy answered by a savage anathema ; but all GUY AND ADRIAN. *7S the same, before they parted for the night, he had given his brother a check for thirty pounds, and requested him as a personal favor not to mention his loss at ecarte to Milly. Adrian was quite happy to comply with this wish, and the next morning gave his wife the money with a charming grace, and received in return a loving kiss, and as many thanks as though the money had not been her own ; for Milly had a very delicate mind. The meeting between Mrs. Charteris and Mary Ether- ege has been convened, and Milly goes to it feeling any- thing but at her ease. She expects to be met with icy coldness; it is quite probable, indeed, that Miss Etherege will utterly decline to enter into her plans : in any case, the interview can but be painful to both. She summons up all her tact as she ascends the stairs, and is ushered by a waiter into the sitting-room. A middle-aged woman is sitting there alone ; as the door opens, she rises and comes forward with an outstretched hand. Before that kind face, all Milly's doubts vanish; she takes the proffered hand eagerly, and in a moment, through that strange law of sympathy so impossible to account for, the two women are friends. For a long time they remain together in earnest con- versation, and when Milly leaves the hotel she feels far more satisfied with the aspect of affairs than when she entered it. Matters might have been worse how many men of position and title in these latter days have made degrading marriages ! and if, after all, there was a mys- tery connected with Dolores's birth, the letter written by her mother on the eve of entering into another world left no doubt that she was well born. Miss Etherege had spoken warmly of her amiability and sweetness of dispo- sition, and pronounced her sufficiently accomplished not to appear deficient in the position she was about to fill. t;6 DOLORES. So, when she meets Guy, Milly is able to say to him, with an encouraging smile, "A little patience, and all will be well." "A thousand thanks, Milly!" he answers, warmly. "Well, was the sister an awful dragon?" " Dragon ? no. One of the kindest, best women I ever met. Under the circumstances, it seems quite won- derful to me that she could have behaved as she did. And as for Captain Etherege, he has acted nobly. Ah, Guy, you thought he was making a very small sacrifice in giving up this girl to you; but I know" she adds, very earnestly, " that it has almost broken his heart." " Men's hearts are pretty tough," answers Guy, grimly; " and they need well be, to have to deal with your sex." " Guy !" she exclaims, in a startled voice, " that is not like you ! Surely you are not going to take to the fash- ionable man's jargon of the day, and speak ill of women?" * " No, indeed, Milly, I am not. I was a fool to say what I did ; and no one has a greater contempt than I have for men who make it their business to go about abusing women and speaking disrespectfully of them. I am quite sure a man who ever loved and has been loved by a good woman would never say anything but what was kind and generous of them. In nine cases out of ten the men who abuse women could not get the woman they wanted, and consider themselves ill treated because she thought some one else worthier to be preferred to him. No ; please God, I hope I shall never get into that hateful, unmanly habit ; and I am very much obliged to you for pulling me up." " Well," she answers, smiling, " you will have no cause to be bitter, for you are going to marry a very pretty girl, who is devoted to you, and of whom I hear everythi ng that is charming." GUY AND ADRIAN. 277 " Poor little girl !" he murmurs, with a sigh. "I only hope she won't be disappointed in me. I can't think why she should have taken it into her foolish little head to think so much about me ; only I suppose I was almost the first Englishman she ever saw, and, being English herself, she naturally thought more of me. By Jove!" he ex- claims, angrily, "I wish I could discover that scoundrel of a father of hers, and make him acknowledge her ! I would give five thousand pounds down this minute for a good clue. It must have been true what the mother wrote, must it not ? She would not have written a lie on the verge of the grave ?' ' " Impossible ! and there seems no doubt Mrs. Power was herself a lady. I have my own theory on the subject. I was thinking of it all the way home." "And what is it?" asks Guy, eagerly. " I think Miss Power's father must have been heir to some high position, and that, for some reason or other* when he married her mother he was not able to acknowl- edge her publicly. Afterwards, perhaps, he tired of her, or had a chance of making a good marriage, and, count- ing on her devotion to him, threw himself on her mercy not to divulge the marriage." "A pretty blackguard he must have been 1" interrupts Guy, hotly. " Remember, this is pure surmise on my part." "I can't believe any woman would have consented to such infamous treatment," continues Guy. "And if she were the rightful wife of a man in his position, and could prove it, is it likely she would go away and shut herself up in a place like Rouen, and live on a miserable pit- tance?" "I do not know," Milly says, thoughtfully. " If a woman loves a man with all her heart, I think there is 24 878 DOLORES. very little she will not sacrifice for him, if he only knows how to appeal to her. Perhaps he concealed his second marriage from her ; perhaps, by the time she knew it, he had other children a son perhaps ; but," she adds, break- ing off, "one may conjecture ten thousand things, and none of them be right ; only I think one is bound to be- lieve her letter, and that seems to point towards my con- clusion." "Yes, I believe you are not far from the truth; but," Guy adds, impatiently, " if one could only prove it !" " I doubt you ever will. Such care seems to have been taken to hide every trace of identity. I suppose, too, she must have destroyed her marriage certificate, so that even if one gained a clue to the husband, which is very improb- able, it might be impossible to prove the marriage, which perhaps took place abroad ; and don't you think, Guy, that it is perhaps as well to rest certain in our own minds that Dolores's antecedents were all that we can wish, than " "Yes, I understand," interrupts Guy, impatiently. " Well, it seems as if we must rest satisfied with what we know, for there appears little chance of our ever learning any more." WHAT DOLORES DISCOVERS. 279 CHAPTER XXIX. WHAT DOLORES DISCOVERS. THEY have all dined at the table-d'hote of the Grand Hotel Sir Guy, Captain and Mrs. Charteris, Dolores, and Miss Etherege ; nay, Milly has even thought it expedient to ask Mr. Vansittart to be of the party, as a future wit- ness, should one be needed. Dinner is over, Dolores and her friend have been duly presented to Captain and Mrs. Charteris, and they are all sitting together in the court- yard of the hotel, drinking their coffee. It is a bright warm spring evening early spring, to be sure, but still spring, for it is the middle of April, and the last few days have been as hot as June. Milly is talking confidentially to Miss Etherege, Guy to Dolores ; while Adrian and Mr. Vansittart are engaged in a discussion on dinners. This does not hinder either of them from casting occasional glances at Dolores Adrian from admiration, strongly impregnated with curiosity; his friend from unmixed admiration. " What an awfully pretty little girl !" he whispers. " I don't know when I've seen such a lovely little face; and yet she seems to remind me of somebody. Who is she?" " My dear fellow, I am as much in the dark as your- self," returns Adrian. "An old acquaintance of Guy's, evidently. I think he's in luck." " I think so too ; and, but that appearances are deceit- ful, I should say the little beauty is decidedly epris with Master Guy. I wonder whether I could make any impres- sion on the old woman, mother, aunt, duenna, or what- a8o DOLORES. ever she may be. She looks like a lady, though she isn't handsome." "Bet you five pounds to two she snubs you!" whispers Adrian, laughing. "I don't know how it is, Van, but dowagers seem to have a natural mistrust of you." "Not till they find out that I have no money," he re torts, with a shrug; "and indeed, as you know, my deai fellow, my only vice in fact, the only vice a man ca& have in a woman's eyes is poverty. But I take your bet all the same." And, waiting for a convenient opportu- nity, Mr. Vansittart delicately introduces himself into the conversation that Milly and Miss Etherege are engaged in. But from that moment Mary drops quietly out of it, although Jack Vansittart appeals frequently to her, and only answers by monosyllables to his polite questions and remarks. Meanwhile Captain Charteris has joined his brother and Dolores. At first, when Adrian speaks to her, she blushes and trembles, but there is no man living who has more tact when he chooses, or possesses the art of pleasing more perfectly, than Captain Charteris. So in a very short time she is quite at home with him, and feels sure, in her own mind, that he does not remember her. Guy sits for a few moments, watching the two, thinking, a little bit- terly, " I suppose he wants to cut me out there too. Well, he is a good-looking fellow there can be no two opinions about that ; but I think women must be a little shallow, to be won over so easily by a handsome face and a pleasant manner." Dolores is looking quite bright and pleased, and Guy turns somewhat abruptly, and joins Jack Vansittart, who is languishing out of the conversation with the two other ladies, and casting somewhat envious glances at Adrian. "That's a sweet pretty little creature, your friend !" he WHAT DOLORES DISCOVERS. 2 8i whispers, as Guy drops into the chair next to him. " I say, Guy, what a deuced good-looking fellow that brother of yours is ! and how all the women seem to take to him at once ! What beats me is, that he seems to treat it all as coolly as possible, as if it were his due. I don't believe he was ever in love in his life." " Hush !" says Guy, softly, looking towards Milly. " Oh, of course no man ever is in love with his wife; but if he isn't, she has had plenty who were." " I hope I shall be in love with mine," answers Guy, a little stiffly, not noticing the latter part of the sentence. "I should think you're too good a judge to get mar- ried, my boy at least, for ten years. Not but what that little fairy opposite would make a very lovely Lady Went- worth. Who is she, by the way ?' ' Guy has known Jack Vansittart too long to be offended by his familiarity, but it does not please him just at pres- ent. So he answers, huffily, and not very judiciously, " If you want her whole family history, I am afraid I cannot give it you ; but her name is Power, and" " I am going to marry her, at your service !" he is about to add. when he recollects himself, and stops, coloring a little. "Don't be angry, my dear boy. You know I always #as a deuced inquisitive fellow ; but her face puzzles me I am sure I've seen it before." "In a picture, perhaps?" suggests Gny. "Does she remind you of ' La Cruche Cassee' ?' ' " That's it that's it !" cries Jack, triumphantly; "now I've got it. I hate to be puzzled about anything; but," he continues, energetically, " this one will give the picture stones and beat her. Well, but where does she live? tell me all about her. 'Pon my life, Guy, this is not curiosity; I'm tremendously interested. Tried to make up to the old lady just now, but she wouldn't have it at 24 a82 DOLORES. any price, confound her ! so I have lost two sovereigns to Adrian. He said she wouldn't ; but how the deuce could she know I hadn't any money?" For Jack will never depart from his theory that nothing but poverty can ever cause him to meet with a rebuff from a woman. " I suppose she's the mamma?" "No," Guy answers "no relation. Miss Power's mother died in Rouen last year, and she has lived with Miss Etherege ever since." " Rouen !" cries Jack, pricking up his ears " Rouen ! Now, what the deuce have I heard about you in con- nection with Rouen? Did Miss Power live there?" "Yes," he answers, crimsoning with anger ; "but " "Ah, yes, I know" (interrupting him) "I remember, Master Guy. A pretty story I heard about you and Rouen last season ! but this little lady had nothing to do with it, so you needn't look so furious. No, no, quite another affair," he continues, chuckling to himself; "some little Normandy peasant ha ! ha !" Happily for Guy, at this juncture the waiter comes with the bill, and the conversation, which had been fast becoming unbearable, receives a check. But presently Jack returns to it, though, happily, not at the point where he left it. " Did I hear the name of Etherege?" he asks. "Yes; that lady is Miss Etherege." "Any relation to Etherege who was in the th?" "Sister, I believe?" "Ah! my eldest brother was in the same regiment; they were great chums. Capital good fellow Etherege was, until that infernal woman sent him to the deuce. Why do all the good fellows get sent to the deuce by women, I wonder? I was, I know," he adds, naively. "By the way, I saw her at Monaco last winter; she WHAT DOLORES DISCOVERS. 283 seemed rather by way of being prosperous. I should like to know what has become of him, poor old chap !" "Hush," says Guy, uneasily; "she will hear you." And, fortunately, at this moment Milly rises, and thinks it is time to be going. " What shall we do?" she says. " It is not nine yet. I think, as it is so fine and warm, a drive along the Boule- vards would be very pleasant, if," she adds, reflectively, " we could only get a decent carriage." " I ordered one to be here at nine," Guy answers ; " it wants five minutes to it now," looking at his watch. "You will come too, I hope?" Milly says, turning to Miss Etherege "You and Miss Power." "Thank you, I think not," Mary answers, but seeing Dolores's face fall, adds, "but perhaps you will let Do- lores accompany you? I see she would like it." " By all means, and we will drop you first at your hotel. Adrian, shall we pick you up afterwards ?' ' she asks, rather ignoring Vansittart, whom she does not particularly like. "Oh, no; Van and I will get a fiacre and smoke a cheerful weed. Guy, I know, will sacrifice anything for the sake of ladies." And, with rather a mocking smile, he puts them into the carriage which has just driven up, and, bending forward to Dolores with his most charming manner, hopes they will meet again very shortly. It is quite right of him to say this, of course ; but Milly cannot help feeling a twinge of jealousy already she hardly likes the idea that this girl is to be an inmate of her house ; but she tries hard to check the inhospitable thought. Later on, when Dolores too has been taken home, she and Guy compare notes about the evening, and agree that it has been a perfect success. " Although that fellow Vansittart kept me on tenter- hooks half the time with his blundering questions," Guy 284 DOLORES. says. " I was on the point of letting out the whole thing. You see, Milly" (apologetically), " I'm a stupid straight- forward sort of fellow, and I'm not very good at at " "Deception," she adds, laughing, "and I, being a woman, of course am. Is that it, Guy?" "Oh, Milly" (reproachfully), "you know I do not think so; and besides," tenderly, "is it not all for my sake?" " Well, I am very glad that horrid Mr. Vansittart came, because he is a regular gossip, and will spread the whole story of the meeting over London this season, which will save us a great deal of trouble. And to-night, you know, Guy, you must speak to Stevens." "Yes, I know" (wearily). " Oh, how glad I shall be when all this is over ! Good-night, Milly ; thank you a thousand times, and" (anxiously), "I hope you have not tired yourself." "Stevens," he says, later in the evening "Stevens" (Very abruptly). Yes, Sir Guy." "You you remember Miss Power at Rouen, you know. ' ' "Yes, Sir Guy" (imperturbably). "You will probably see her to-morrow with Mrs. Charteris" (pausing). "Yes, Sir Guy." "And and Stevens !" (turning suddenly upon him), " I think you are a good fellow, and wish to serve me." "Yes, indeed, Sir Guy." " Then you will not give one word or hint or hint, mind of ever having seen her before, except by chance meeting her one day in the streets of Rouen 1" " Certainly not, Sir Guy." "Thank you." WHAT DOLORES DISCOVERS. 285 "This," reflected Mr. Stevens to himself when alone "this is a rum start. What does it mean? Is he going to marry her? Well, we shall see. He's a good fellow, anyhow, is Sir Guy, and behaved like one gentleman to another. Many masters would have said, ' Look here, Stevens, if you don't split, I'll give you this, that, or the other; if you do, I'll send you to the devil ;' but no, he's a real gentleman, so he don't try bribery and corruption, but appeals to my honor. And blank me," adds Mr. Stevens, vigorously, " if I don't justify his good opinion. He'll make it up to me some day, I know, and if I make up my mind to go to my brother in America as I shall do if I get another letter like the last a little present won't come amiss ; and of course, if he's going to marry this gal after all, it'll reconcile him more to losin' me." The next few days Dolores spent almost entirely in the society of Mrs. Charteris. Miss Etherege was always asked to be of the party, but Milly perfectly understood why she preferred to keep aloof, and never pressed her invitations. It was settled that they were to leave Paris in a week, and Dolores was to accompany them. Milly consented to the engagement between her and Guy being ratified the day previous to their leaving. "And then I may wear my ring," says Dolores, smiling, when Guy makes this announcement. "I have been so afraid all this time of keeping it in my box, lest some one should steal it ; it only feels safe on my finger." When the happy day arrives, and Guy is permitted to treat her en fiancee, he gratifies himself by taking her out and buying her a host of beautiful things, until she is bewildered by her riches, and almost ashamed. "Please please not to buy me anything more," she cries, at last; "you know I am not used to all these things. Marcelline and I shall be so afraid of losing them. 2 86 DOLORES. And oh," she adds, looking at him with wonder, "how rich you must be !" He smiles at her naivett. "One thing is certain," he says to himself, "it is not for my money that she loves me, that is one consolation. ' ' And in the frugal life that the child has always led, never being tempted to envy by seeing the riches of others, and feeling no want of more than she possessed, the thought of Guy's possible or probable wealth had never for one moment dawned across her brain. She had never been in a large house, never seen beautifully-dressed women, until she came to Paris, never been to theatres or gay sights, and had not the faintest idea of the value of money; indeed, with her two hundred and fifty pounds a year, and so few expenses, she considered herself passing rich. Now that she beheld so many splendors, and was witness of what seemed to her the fabulous sums that Guy ex- pended on her, she felt ill at ease ; the sacrifice that so great and rich a personage was making in marrying any one so poor and humble as herself weighed upon her. Milly, according to Guy's desire, had ordered quite a trousseau for the girl, that it might not be supposed, when she was presented to the world, that she was poor, or dependent for anything on his bounty. One day when they left a house where Milly had been ordering two or three charming toilettes for her future sister-in-law, Dolores, blushing a great deal, stammered, " Madame, I fear I must not have any more beautiful things ordered, or I shall not have the money to pay for them." " But, my dear child, no one dreamed of your paying for them." A still deeper flush suffuses the girl's cheek as she says, with just a little touch of pride, WHAT DOLORES DISCOVERS. 287 " Pardon, madame, Sir Guy is very good, very generous, but I could not receive these things from his kindness. I have twelve hundred francs. I must keep some money for my journey, and I will therefore pray you not to let me spend more money than I can afford." "Very well, dear," answers Milly, kindly; "it shall be as you wish. If you will give me six hundred francs, I shall be able to pay your bills." And she cannot help smiling to herself as she thinks that six times the sum would not cover the orders she has given by Guy's direction. She is pleased, however, at this evidence of independence on the child's part, and tells Guy of it the same evening. "Dear little soul!" he says, tenderly; "it was very good of you, Milly, to manage so that she should not sus- pect. Fancy the little thing being so proud !" Every night they went to some theatre or place of amusement. Dolores enjoyed it immensely the plays, at least. She did not enjoy it when, sometimes, looking up suddenly for Guy to share her pleasure at some touch- ing scene or charming song, she would find his eyes fixed, not on the stage, nor on her, but on Mrs. Charteris. She could not quite read the expression in them, whether it was love or grief, or some other feeling she did not com- prehend ; but whenever she saw it, a bitter feeling seemed to creep into her heart, and she forgot to appeal for his sympathy in her pleasure. One day they were sitting together alone, when she said suddenly, "Sir Guy, when did you first meet Mrs. Charteris?" "Oh, some time last spring," he answers, trying to speak indifferently. "Did you know her first, or me?" " Oh, you, I think" (a little confused). " Why ?" "And was she going to marry your brother then?" 288 DOLORES. "No" (in a vexed voice). "But why do you ask all these questions?" " They are very simple ones," answers the girl, calmly. " Is there any reason why you should be vexed to answer them?" " Certainly not," Guy says, warmly ; " but " " I have still some more to ask. Did your brother ask her soon after he met her to marry him ?' ' "Yes, I believe so" (impatiently). "I wonder," continues Dolores, reflectively, looking at him, and yet hardly seeming to see him " I wonder how she should have preferred him to you?" "Is he not fifty times handsomer than I am?" Guy answers, with some bitterness. " Do not all women fall in love with him ? Indeed, I am not quite sure that you are not beginning to be fascinated by him." "I!" she exclaims, with a smile of superior wisdom; " oh, no. I understand him quite well." "Do you, little wisehead?" (smiling.) "I doubt it." " Oh, yes. I am not clever rather foolish, perhaps, as you think me, but I can see quite well that Captain Charteris loves no one but himself. He is handsome oh" (impressively), "very, very handsome ; but since he knows it and admires it himself, and only makes it the means to get all he wants, /should not love him for that. And look at his wife, how she adores him !" Guy gives a little impatient shrug. "Yes, I know it pains you to hear it, but she does. Ah, I would have taken you had I been her !" " Dolores !" (with some anger), " what makes you talk in this way? It is not right. You are far too young to speak or think of such things. And how do you know for one moment that I ever had any thought of love for my sister-in-law?" THE CLIFFS OF ALBION. 289 "How do I know?" Dolores says, contemptuously. " Oh, of course I am so young that I must be blind, and have no reason either. Well, I will tell you how I know. You told me yourself that when" (blushing painfully) " when I came to you in Paris, you would have asked me to marry, only there was an obstacle now there is no obstacle it was she. Do I not know?" she continues, with flashing eyes. "And can I not see now, every day, that you still love her? Do I not see your eyes rest on her as they never do on me ? Do you not try to read her very thoughts ? And often when I turn to speak to you, to ask you something, to tell you of my pleasure at what I see, you are thinking of her, and have forgotten even that I am there." Guy listens, almost stupefied. For a moment he turns to the window to collect his thoughts. When he looks round, Dolores has gone. CHAPTER XXX. THE CLIFFS OF ALBION. GUY does not attempt to follow her : he still stands by the window, deep in thought. "Is it so?" he says to himself. "Am I such a poor hand at concealing my feelings that even this child has discovered them? What an utter fool I am! Why did I ever risk being with her again ? What is the strange fascination she has for me? God help me, it is too strong for me!" And he buries his face in his hands. " She is my brother's wife ! She does not care two straws T 2$ 290 DOLORES. for me ! I am engaged to this child, who really does love me, and yet night and day I seem to have no thought nor eyes but for this one woman, who can never be mine. I must and will pluck it out of my heart ; but then I must get away somewhere, out of sight of her. Why did she not let me go my own way, and marry Dolores out of hand? Once married, perhaps I may get cured of my other love please God, at least, I may !" he adds, rever- ently. "But there must be some change in our plans. Dolores cannot go on staying with her. I will go at once to my mother, when I return to England, and beg of her to receive her at Wentworth. I think she will. She is very kind-hearted; and, after a little, I don't doubt but that she will take to her. And I will marry her very, very soon ! there is no need to wait three months. I should be in a mad-house if I had to live all that time in the constant society of the woman I love, and the one who loves me. The woman I love !" he thinks, bitterly. "I seem to have forgotten that she is my brother's wife, and that it is a sin and a crime to love her ; but, some- how, it doesn't seem so, since she cares nothing for me !" For some days after the scene with Dolores he studiously avoids Milly, is never in her presence if he can avoid it, only speaks to her when she addresses him, and keeps his eyes even from her, so that Dolores never once surprises him looking at her. "Have I offended you, Guy?" Milly asks, softly, one day, when they are alone together for a moment. " I do not think you could," he answers, quietly, rising and going to the window. There is a moment's pause, and then he comes back, and stands in front of her, looking long and wistfully in her face. "I may as well tell you the truth," he says, in a low THE CLIFFS OF ALBION. 291 voice. " It will make things easier, and you are not likely to misunderstand me. I know you are as far away from me as if as if one of us were dead, but all the same I have loved you ever since the day I first saw you ! This sort of thing cannot go on even if it were not wrong I think it would kill me in time. Yes, you smile ! I look strong and hale enough, don't I ? But the stronger a man is, the harder it is to crush his feeling. And it isn't fair to her poor little girl ! for I am such a poor dissembler, it seems, that she has guessed it." "Guy," says Milly, reaching out her hand to him, " I don't blame you for liking me how can any woman? but" (sadly) " I can't help feeling that it is only a bit of the perversity of human nature just wanting the thing you can't have. If I had married you instead of Adrian, I dare say you would not think very much of me by now. I don't believe I really am a very nice person, though I have a sort of way, somehow, of leading people to think I am, until they know me better. Look at Adrian" (with a shade of bitterness), " he seemed fond of me before he married, but you see he does not think he has much of a prize now does he?" " I do not know what might have had happened had I been permitted the happiness of marrying you. I think I should have loved you better every day. But" (abruptly) " it is not that I have to speak of now. Knowing that I have this infatuation, or whatever it may be, I want you to help me to conquer it as far as I may. Let me keep away from you do not be kind to me do not notice me. As soon as I return to England, I will go straight to Wentworth, and ask my mother to receive Dolores ; and down there, perhaps" (smiling wistfully), "I shall forget you, and fall desperately in love with my future wife." "No difficult task, I am sure," Milly answers, rising, 292 DOLORES. with tears in her eyes. " God bless you, Guy 1 Remem- ber, we all have our crosses in life, and the hardest to bear are those that we make for ourselves. I would not for the world cause that poor child the pain of jealousy, for I think there is no harder pang to bear." "Ay," answers Guy; and, with one last look at her, he goes. The day of departure has arrived, and Dolores takes leave of Mary Etherege with many tears and embraces. " You forgive me, dear Mary ? Tell me once more that you forgive me. And you will pray Philip to think kindly of me too ? Indeed, indeed, when I remember all your kindness, both of you, to me, it takes away all my happi- ness in my future, for I feel as if my ingratitude will in turn be punished." " My dear child," Mary answers, very kindly, " do not think any more about sad things. Go and be happy in your new life. I pray God it may be a very bright one ; and I dare answer for Philip that he feels no anger in his heart towards you, and would be happiest by hearing of your happiness." "And you will write to me often, and some day," says Dolores, pleadingly, " dear Mary, you will come and see me in my home ? Oh, how happy I shall be when that day comes!" " Yes, I will write to you, and perhaps some day I may meet you in London. At all events, you shall know where I am. And now, my dear, it is almost time to start." "Mary" (hurriedly slipping the ring Philip had given her from her finger), "I feel I have no right to this. Will you will you make me happy by taking it ? Do, dear Mary!" But Mary puts it gently back on her finger. THE CLIFFS OF ALBION. 293 " You would not wish to cause Philip more pain, Dolores?" And at this instant Guy arrives, and in another minute has carried the child off, crying, but trying very hard to smile through her tears. " Are you so sorry to leave France ?" Guy asks, kindly, pressing her hand as they drive along the handsome white streets, and her tears still flow. " And are you afraid at the thought of your own country, that you have never seen? I dare say Marcelline has been frightening you with dreadful stories about it. Is it not so?" he says in French, turning to Marcelline ; but she utters a polite and vigorous disclaimer. But, in truth, the good soul is not without her mis- givings, and her horror of the sea-passage is so great that it requires as strong a counterbalance as her love for Do- lores to induce her to undertake it. This the girl imparts to her lover, and he rejoins, smiling, in an undertone, " I'll be bound she'll be horribly ill, poor soul ! for- eigners always are; but we won't tell her so. I am rather anxious to know about you, though, darling ; for if you prove a good sailor, I mean to take you to Norway in my yacht for our honeymoon." She smiles. The tears are all dried now, and she is supremely happy at being with him, and feeling that this fine, noble-looking man, as she thinks him, really belongs to her, or rather she to him. Other women may think Captain Charteris handsome, but for her, she wonders how any one can prefer him to Sir Guy, who is infinitely more noble, more distinguished-looking. She has appealed for Marcelline's opinion on the subject, and has received it. M. le Capitaine was handsome, even very handsome, but he had not that look of real goodness 25* *94 DOLORES. that made the beauty of Sir Guy's face. And Marcelline's judgment is perfectly correct. It is a bright sunny day ; the stir and bustle is pleasant to Dolores, and although she has nothing to do, as Guy and his servant manage everything, there is a kind of contagion about the general activity, and S\\Q feels rather important. Milly and her husband arrive immediately after them ; fortunately for Marcelline, Mrs. Charteris's maid is French, and has traveled a good deal, so she feels rather more happy in her mind at the thought of the journey made under such auspices. She has been cautioned about what she is and is not to say, and, gossip though she is, once her child's interest is concerned, can be dis- cretion herself. Guy attends scrupulously to the comforts of both his fair companions, and Adrian as scrupulously to his own. Stevens is in charge of a valuable hamper, which he hands to his master in the carriage. When opened, it contains two choice little bouquets, bottles of scent, fruits, sweet- meats, and books, and a recherche lunch, to be consumed at a more advanced period of the journey. " Really, Guy, I think you are the most thoughtful man in the world !" cries his sister-in-law. " What a treasure of a husband you are going to have, Dolores !" And such a proud, radiant look beams in the girl's eyes, it is pleasant to behold the reflection of so much bright young hope and love. "Milly," says Adrian, lazily, "I shall be very happy to bet you twelve to six in gloves that he don't think of all these touching little attentions when he's been married six months." " I am very happy to take your bet," answers Milly, laughing and taking out her tablets. " Oh, how the car- riage shakes ! Write it for me, Adrian." THE CLIFFS OF ALBION. 295 " Can't move," he says, languidly. "Guy will do it for you he is such an active fellow. And besides" (maliciously), "he always does everything for you." Guy takes the tablets gravely and writes. "There," he says, smiling, as he hands them back; " now, if I fall off in my good behavior, here will be my own testimony against me." " Don't put any faith in his promises, Miss Power at least, Dolores. I may call you that now, may I not? You see, Guy calls my wife Milly, though he is looking at me now as if he thought my proposition an infernal piece of cheek. Dolores," he added, caressingly "It is such a soft, pleasant name to say ! Milly, I wish you were called Dolores !" " Do you ?" (rather dryly.) "Well, I don't know" (reflectively); "perhaps it would be a bore for one's wife to have such a long name ; it doesn't do to say it too often. Fancy shouting up- stairs, Dolores, Dolores, Dolores, when she was keeping you waiting !" They all laugh ; his languid way of saying it is irre- sistible. "The worst of it is, Guy," he continues, without the faintest smile on his own face "the, worst of it is, I don't see how you are to abbreviate it. Dolly no, that would be too dreadful ! And there is literally no other. The only thing that I can see for it is, she must never keep you waiting." " You see, Adrian," answers his brother, laughing, "I am not quite as delicate as you, so the exertion would not try me so much. And I think" (looking very kindly at Dolores) " it is such a sweet name that I shall not mind how often I have to say it." "Now, Guy, there's a good fellow don't begin to 296 DOLORES, spoon ; it is too hot ; and, besides, it always makes other people uncomfortable. It's such a selfish thing ! I never did in public did I, Milly?" "Never," she answers, biting her lip and looking out of the window. " But, apropos of the basket, I've been going to remark ever so many times only one thing always drives another out of one's mind that's just the way we spoil women. Of course we're obliged to be tremendously civil and at- tentive and thoughtful before we get married ; and then, afterwards, they expect one to go on with it, which of course, you know, is a sheer impossibility. Fancy the strain on one's mind of always being on the lookout to anticipate a woman's wants ! Dolores" (beseechingly), " don't look at me as if I were some strange wild animal ; you'll find a good many of the same kind, I assure you, the other side of the Channel." Dolores smiles. She, like a great many older women, cannot help regarding him as one does a beautiful, way- ward child. As a woman once said of him, "If he had not his handsome face, and that languid, caressing voice, one would think him intolerably selfish and impertinent ; but he can afford to say or do anything." Milly is quite under the influence. When he speaks caressingly to her, what is there she would not do or sac- rifice for him ? But how she hates to hear him use that tone to any other woman ! and, to tell the truth, he does now more often than to her. She is horribly, painfully jealous of him ; she is already jealous even of Dolores, to whom he is pleased to be very kind and gracious, and is sorry to think the girl is going to make her home with them even though it is only for a week. She fights against the feeling, and tries to be all the kinder to her brother's future wife; but her face is too expressive to THE CLIFFS OF ALBION. 297 conceal entirely what she feels. At all events, Guy reads it. Boulogne is reached ; they are on board the boat, and Dolores is quite bewildered by hearing English spoken on all sides of her. "How strange it all sounds!" she says, clinging to Guy's arm nervously. "Do you know, I cannot under- stand half they say, and they seem to talk so fast !" " Little Frenchwoman !" he smiles, drawing her nearer to his protecting strength. "It will all be familiar enough to you soon. Now let me go and find a comfort- able place for you and Milly, where you will be out of the smell of smoke, and the bustle." "Is is Mrs. Charteris" (hesitatingly) "ever ill?" "Never, I believe. But I don't think you need be afraid, dearest; besides, it won^t be rough to-day." "I think," says Dolores, shyly, "that I shall go down-stairs, because" (blushing) "I am told the mal de mer comes on very suddenly." Though there is a fresh breeze outside, and several of the passengers suffer notably the two Frenchwomen Dolores enjoys her trip thoroughly ; and Guy is charmed to think how well this beginning augurs for his yachting plans. They arrive in excellent time at Milly's house in May Fair a very much larger one than the first we saw her in, for, by Adrian's wish, she has let her country house and come to live permanently in town. She would have been quite content to live down there with him would have liked, indeed, much better to keep him away from the temptations of London, fond as she is of it her- self but he resolutely combated the idea. "What the deuce could I possibly do down there among an infernally stupid lot of country squires and squiresses, and parsons and parsonesses ? The shooting is very fair, N* ig8 DOLORES. but it isn't as good as Guy's, and I can always have as much of that as I like, besides heaps of other places where I am used to go regularly ; and of course, if you have a place of your own, you are bound to entertain, and it's deuced expensive, besides being a bore." "I don't think there is anything pleasanter than en- tertaining, if you have a nice party," rejoins Milly; "and I hate to be under obligations to anybody." "Oh, that's all very well if you've got twenty thou- sand a year; but we have only four, and it's no use think- ing of it. And if we want to ask any one particularly, I'll get my mother to have them to Wentworth. Guy is sure not to object." " Well, but suppose your brother marries." (This con- versation is soon after Milly's marriage.) " I don't suppose he will ; but, if he does, I shall make myself agreeable to my sister-in-law, and you can do the same to Guy, and we shall get all we want." It need hardly be said that these views are very little in accordance with Milly's own, but she gives way, at all events, on the subject of letting the house, much as she dislikes the idea. Adrian takes it all as a matter of course ; he is accus- tomed to have sacrifices made for him. When Guy heard all this, which he did from his brother in Paris, he said to himself, " Milly shall not miss her country-house. Wentworth shall be her home whenever she chooses to go to it." But now that circumstances are so changed, that he is going to marry Dolores, and that he feels Milly's absence, not her presence, is essential to his happiness and well-being, he is utterly perplexed what to do. " Adrian will of course expect to come to Wentworth for partridge and pheasant-shooting; she must come if he does; and then," adds Guy, groaning, "there will be LADY WENTWORTH. 299 the old story over again, and worse, for when Dolores is mistress at the Court, if she chooses to be jealous, she can make it very unpleasant for Milly. She is a dear, good little girl ; but once a woman is jealous, and in a posi- tion to wreak her resentment on her rival, they're all the very " " Wentworth Station !" shrieks the porter at this junc- ture ; for the last soliloquy has taken place in the train. en route for Wentworth Court. CHAPTER XXXI. LADY WENTWORTH. LADY WENTWORTH is sitting in her own room, await- ing the arrival of her son. It is indeed what most ladies would call their boudoir ; but Lady Wentworth likes plain English names, and it therefore always goes by the name of " my lady's sitting-room." Every article in it is hand- some, and useful too, if we except the beautiful collection of china, which is my lady's chief delight. She is one of the old school, but without the homeliness that usually characterizes that type : she is essentially a grande dame. You recognize that at once by her manner and dress. She never wears anything but the richest silks and brocades, even to visit her garden and poultry-yard ; but on these occasions her dress is always looped daintily over a spot- less-white petticoat, just disclosing what is still a beautiful little foot, in a clocked-silk stocking and high-heeled shoe, and a large white muslin apron protects the front of her dress. Her hair, almost white now, is brushed up after the manner of an old picture, and surmounted by a cap 300 DOLORES. of costly lace. Her delicate fingers always flash with diamonds. She has her own ideas about the devoir of an English lady, as her son (who probably inherits them from her) has his of what is right and proper for himself. She thinks it the business of a woman of quality to act and dress in accordance with her position silk and satin and rich fabrics are the appropriate garb of the rich and well-born, cotton and woolen material for the lower classes. She has never permitted her children, or any servant but her maid, to see her en deshabille; she would consider by so doing that she derogated from the dignity of her position as head of the house. Her servants stand in great awe of her, though they are devoted to her, for she is the kindest and most considerate mistress in the world; only her orders must be obeyed to the letter. Certainly she is an autocrat, although her rule is a kindly one. To the poor she is a bountiful benefactress, although she takes care to discriminate in her benevolence ; and it is these who least of all are inclined to agree in the gen- eral opinion that she is proud and haughty. It is natural that a woman of a dominant temper, living for many years in a state of absolute authority over the people about her, should become a little arbitrary and exacting; but Lady Wentworth has such a fund of real kindness and courtesy underlying her proud exterior that those who know her well see much more to love and admire than to fear. She superintends every detail of her household, and feels with some pride that when Guy brings home a wife to the Court she will be able to deliver up the reins of government and hand over everything in perfect order to the new mistress. It will be a very sore trial to her to leave Wentworth and retire to the Dower House ; but she LADY WE NT WORTH. 301 has been preparing to meet the blow ever since Guy has been of a marriageable age ; for she is perfectly deter- mined that no persuasion shall induce her to remain one day after the new chdtelaine is installed. She will come to the Court as a visitor, but, let the then mistress mis- manage her house as she may, her lips shall be sealed. Lady Wentworth from choice leads a somewhat retired life, although she makes a charming hostess, and has always been ready and willing to entertain any friends whom her sons choose to invite ; all their men friends are devoted to her sometimes the women think her a little stiff and old-fashioned. However, the house is a most pleasant one to stay in, and Guy and his mother, equally thoughtful and hospitable, take ample care to provide amusement for their guests of both sexes. She is very fond of young people, and somehow or other the most wayward boy or girl never takes liberties in her presence. She belongs to a very old family, whose fortunes were somewhat decayed in her girlhood, through the extravagance of her father, and his father before him. She had one brother and two sisters. All three girls were remarkably handsome, and were expected to redeem the family fortunes by good marriages. The two younger ones amply fulfilled the ex- pectations that had been formed for them ; but Margaret, the eldest, afterwards Lady Wentworth, had fallen deeply in love with her handsome cousin, Captain Charteris, and had engaged herself to him, although her family utterly refused to sanction the marriage. With all her heart and soul she loved this man, who was certainly not worthy of so great a love, and for his sake would have remained unmarried to the day of her death; but he made any sacrifice on her part unnecessary, by himself marrying a woman a good deal his senior, with a large fortune. At this time Margaret, who was seven-and-twenty, still 26 302 DOLORES. handsome and very unhappy, met Sir Guy Wentworth, who fell deeply in love with her, and by his extreme kind- ness and tenderness for her won, if not her love, at all events her friendship and esteem. For four years they lived happily together, Lady Wentworth making an ad- mirable wife, and her husband thinking there was no woman in the world like her; then, after a short illness, Sir Guy died, leaving her with one child, a boy, two years old. Very deeply and sincerely did she regret him, but it was not wonderful that when, some eighteen months later, she again met the man whom she had so passion- ately loved, and he, being also free, asked her to marry him, she consented. And was she happy when she ob- tained her heart's desire ? She was never heard to say aught to the contrary, but her cheeks grew thin and pale. Colonel Charteris was frequently absent from home. One son was born of this marriage, and a daughter, who died in her infancy. In a locket set round with brilliants which never left the mother's neck, was a miniature of one of the loveliest child's faces conceivable. Perhaps the mother loved it all the more because it was so like the husband she adored. For, in spite of all, perhaps because of all, she loved him with the same unchanging love, and when he died, ten years after their marriage, it almost broke her heart. For years after, she was scarcely seen to smile, and could harly even bear to have her children with her. Good men and women are rarely loved and regretted like those who have made the hearts of those who love them ache so bitterly. I wonder why ! The two boys grew up, and in her heart the younger was dearer to the mother, although she strove conscien- tiously not to show any difference ; but Guy knew from a child that he was not his mother's favorite, and felt it LADY WENTWORTH. 33 keenly. Nevertheless he had always been a kind and affectionate brother to Adrian, and many a difficulty had he helped him out of since they were boys together. Lady Wentworth had the highest opinion of her elder son she both loved and respected him but Adrian was the darling, the apple of her eye, as his father had been before him ; there was just the same difference in her love for her children as there had been in her love for their fathers. She knew and deplored Adrian's selfishness and instability of character, but there was no sacrifice in the world she would not have made for him. All his life she had been saving for him, for Colonel Charteris had only a life-interest in his first wife's money, and died in debt, having also spent what little he had of his own. Guy, out of sheer good will, allowed him seven hundred a year, which he did not see fit to withdraw on his mar- riage, and the other three hundred came from his mother. Three times, between them, Lady Wentworth and Guy had paid his debts. First he went into a cavalry regiment, then exchanged into the Guards, and finally sold out, considering it too great a bore to be under anybody's orders. All this time he had lived as though he pos- sessed Guy's fortune, and it was not until Guy was called upon to pay his debts for the third time eight thousand pounds on this occasion that he ever spoke with harsh- ness to him. "Look here, Adrian," he said, sternly, "I'm not fond of reminding people of what I have done for them. I think you know by this time that's not much in my line; but I'm going to do it now, once for all. You are not my own brother, you have no actual claim upon me what- ever, but since I came of age I have regularly allowed you seven hundred a year ; on different occasions I have paid three thousand, five thousand, and eight thousand pounds DOLORES. for you, and this shall be the last, I take my solemn oath ! My house is your home, my chambers in town are at your disposal whenever you choose, my horses, my yacht, and almost everything I possess. If you have not sufficient gentlemanlike feeling to know that it is a blackguard thing to abuse generosity, I must take it upon myself, painful as it is, God knows, to remind you. Once for all, I will not pay any more of your debts. With a thousand a year, and free quarters, if you can't live like a gentleman, I'm sorry for you, but you will have no more from me, I swear to you. And I think you know when I have once passed my word I generally stick to it." This happened about three months before Adrian's meeting with Mrs. Scarlett, or he would, in all prob- ability, never have thought of marrying at all. He said as much to Guy one night in Paris. "Ah, my dear fellow," he said, maliciously, "you might so easily have become the owner of your fair sister-in-law, if you had not been so infernally stingy with me after my little difficulties. If it hadn't been for money, I wouldn't have married the loveliest woman on God's earth!" (sighing). "There isn't one in all Eng- land and France I wouldn't sooner have for a sister-in-law than a wife." Guy frowned and bit his lip, and Adrian, smiling to himself, enjoyed his little piece of revenge. Lady Wentworth had been pleased with her younger son's marriage. She considered Milly elegant, well bred, and very good style ; her fortune, too, was a great desid- eratum. And now she is called upon to approve Guy's choice of a wife, for the last letters she has received from both himself and Milly leave no doubt in her mind that he intends to marry, and she is waiting anxiously for his LADY WENTWORTH. 305 arrival, that she may hear full particulars concerning her new daughter-in-law. Her mind, too, has been dwelling considerably on her own future ; she has spent a whole morning at the Dower House, arranging in her own mind the purposes to which she will devote the various rooms and the new furniture that will be required. She has always had the gardens kept up, as flowers are the things she cares most for. "I am surprised," she says to herself, "that Milly has never mentioned the young lady's connections. I do not like Guy's proposing upon so short an acquaintance. I fear he has not taken proper care to assure himself that she is desirable in point of family as well as personal attractions, and it would be indeed deplorable to bring into the family, as head of it, a person of whose antece- dents one had reason to be ashamed. I wonder if Guy is altered. It is a year since I have seen him. What can have made him take such a sudden idea of traveling into his head ? Adrian half hinted to me but, oh, I hope that was not true at all events, he must be cured now. I should never have fancied Guy a man to fall suddenly or violently in love ; but how little one knows even of one's own children !" A sound of wheels strikes upon her ear; in another moment she hears Guy's cheery greeting to the servants ; another, and he throws the door open, and is clasped in her arms. They have not met for more than a year j the tears come into the mother's eyes as she feels the strong arms of her first-born round her ; his are dim too. " Why, mother, you look positively younger," he says, looking fondly in her face. " I haven't seen any one so handsome as you all the time I've been away." "And you," she replies, smiling through her tears " you are grown, I think. How bronzed you are ! You U 26* 306 DOLORES. are a little thin, too; but you look very well" (proudly). "I never thought you so good-looking before." "How complimentary we both are !" he says, laughing. "Absence works wonders doesn't it, mother?" "Come, dear boy," she answers, drawing him to the sofa, "tell me about Adrian and Milly, and my new daughter-in-law. ' ' " Oh," says Guy, reddening, though he has been prepar- ing himself a whole week for the question, " Adrian and his wife are all right ; and with regard to the other mat- ters, it is such a long story that it won't do to begin now. I feel so dirty, after traveling, and it is nearly dinner- time. Let me dress and dine, and then, you know, my dear mother, we shall have all the evening before us." "Tell me one thing, Guy," asks his mother, anxiously detaining him, " you forgot to say in your letter does she belong to a good family?" " You shall hear all in good time," he answers, making his escape. Dinner is over, the servants are gone, and Lady Went- worth comes over and seats herself in an arm-chair by her son. "Now, my dear," she says, taking his hand affection- ately, " I am all impatience." "Well, mother," he answers, returning the pressure, " it is for you to put questions, and for me to answer them. Of course you will want to know what she is like." "Of course; though that is not the most important matter, after all." " Well, without undue prejudice, I may say that she is extremely pretty, as every one else is of the same opinion. She is slim, though not short, has lovely eyes and hair, a skin like a white lily; she speaks French better than English, and is a perfect little lady." LADY WE NT WORTH. 307 "I shall like to see her," says the mother, smiling. " And I suppose, Guy, you are desperately in love with her?" " Oh, she is the dearest little girl in the world." But, to the mother's keen ears, the true ring is wanting in the tone. "And where did you first meet her?" It has been arranged between Guy and Milly how much is to be told to Lady Wentworth they both know her well enough to feel that, if she were aware of Dolores having followed him to Paris, she would look upon it as utterly unpardonable, and would be at once fatally preju- diced against her. So he tells his mother of his meeting with her in the old Rue Eau de Robec, of his wishing to sketch her, and of his obtaining a tardy permission from Marcelline ; but he says nothing of his frequent visits, or the child's sudden fancy for him, but proceeds swiftly to the second meeting in Paris. His mother interrupts him. "You have mentioned that she had a mother, but I should like to hear a little more about her ; and you have not yet told me who her father was." So Guy, painfully conscious of the difficulty of the Usk, tells her all he has heard of Mrs. Power, of the letters sha left at her death, and her solitary life at Rouen. At each word the mother's heart sinks lower. When he ha^ said all there is to say, an icy hand seems to hold her she cannot speak a word. An unknown illegitimate girl mis- tress of Wentworth, the successor of a long line of women whose connections had been sometimes among the highest, but always unimpeachable. And Guy was not committing this folly on the spur of a mad, unconquerable passion ! A silence falls upon both. Guy is dimly, uncomfortably conscious of what is taking place in his mother's mind, 308 DOLORES. and he is not in love enough to combat her objections and hotly take up the defense of his intended wife. When Lady Wentworth speaks again, it is in an altered voice, as though she had suddenly awakened from a doze. "Ring for coffee, Guy, and we will go into my room, and you must tell me all about your travels. ' ' Guy is glad enough to change the subject ; nor do they again revert to it during the evening. When his mother has retired for the night, he betakes himself to his room, and, lighting a cigar, proceeds to commune with his own thoughts. " I knew she would take it badly, but this is worse than I expected. Very likely she will refuse to receive Dolores here until she comes as my wife. Well," sighing, "I suppose it is not a very good business. I wonder why Fate was pleased to turn my steps to Paris, and above all things into the Louvre, on that identical morning. I dare say she would have been happy enough with him if she hadn't met me. And," with a groan, "what am I going to do with her all my life? One can't force love; and perhaps she will grow to hate me in time, when she finds I'm a very mediocre sort of fellow, instead of the hero she has set up in her poor foolish little heart. I wonder why on earth one was sent into this world at all, or, once here, why we can't be allowed to be happy ? I used to be happy enough until last year the world was good enough for me then ; I seemed to have dropped into an easy, comfortable life hunting and shooting, yachting and women's society. I could enjoy them to the full ; and now somehow I don't seem to care for any of them. And all this is the doing of one woman, and no fault of hers either, God knows ! I've fancied myself in love plenty of times before, but it was always pleasant, and never interfered with the other things I cared for ; but this seems to scorch up everything IN THE ROW. 309 else, to lay all my life waste and bare, and yet never to have given me anything in its stead. And she ! Adrian will break her heart in time, as his father broke my mother's, curse him ! No, I don't mean that God for- give me for saying anything bitter against the dead ; but only to think of men having such women as those and not caring for them ! I used to feel it was such a good thing only to live, but now I think I should be plad to be well out of it." CHAPTER XXXII. IN THE ROW. IT is the first week in May, the weather is bright and June-like, and the London season has commenced in good earnest. The Row is sufficiently full to be pleasant- there is not the disagreeable crowding you get later on, when the mass of, for the most part, tawdrily got-up hu- manity seethes up and down the narrow path, treading on each other's toes and gowns, proceeding at about the same pace they would out of a crowded church some gushing, some with sickly smiles, some with hot-faced, weary discontent. But this warm May morning the assemblage is quite of the elite. There are some charming toilettes ; dresses and complexions look fresh ; the fair Amazons glow with the flush of their healthful exercise; the horses are gay and full of spirit ; and as for the men, they are about as good- looking, well-dressed a lot as England can produce, and I defy any other country in the world to match them. 3 ro DOLORES. Everything and every one looks so bright and well and cheery this morning, it is a very difficult matter to believe they are not all as gay and light-hearted as they look ; but we, who know the world and are behind the scenes, are well aware what the gay mask hides. Some of them may be pleased and amused, even happy, but with the major- ity, behind the smile there lurks, if not a heartache, still an unfilled want, a yearning after something that is not "vanity and vexation of spirit." Still the faces smile, the voices are cheery, and the scene is bright enough to take in the outside public. There is a girl of about sixteen standing by the rails, utterly absorbed in contemplating the gay scene. She has nothing to do with the story, and you, reader, if you had seen her, would not have remarked her in any way, but we, whose business it is to try to beguile your idle hours, have to go about with our eyes open, and concern ourselves with things and people you would not take the trouble to remark ; and then, you know, we are thought- readers, and have the gift of divining what people are thinking about. So it comes that I sit for some half an hour watching this girl, and seeming to read her heart, and in my own way to be answering her thoughts. But if this seems tedious, the gentle reader has only to turn over a few pages, and get back to the story, should it be so fortunate as to interest him. But I cannot part com- pany from my humble little friend just yet. I see in her so much more than appears on the surface ; in her eyes I read ambition, impatience of her humble sphere, and such a craving after the happiness she imagines she sees before her. She is thinking enviously and longingly how in- tensely happy all these elegant, well-dressed people must be ; she is painfully conscious of her own poor, cheap, unfashionable clothes, her ill-made boots, the loutish IN THE ROW. 3 H young fellow who is her companion, and she thinks, only to be one of these ladies only to be beautifully dressed, and surrounded by handsome, distinguished-looking men, must be heaven upon earth. She wonders bitterly in her heart why her lot in life should be so hardly different why she, yearning after all these enviable things, should be shut out from them ? She does not dream how should she ? that in all this gay bright throng there is, perhaps, not one really happy, contented heart. She does not know how should she ? that these beings of another world from hers suffer as much from being "bored" as poor people do from want, and misery, and privation. Ennui is as much the curse of the upper ranks of society as pov- erty is of the lower. I hardly know which is hardest to bear, the hunger of the body or the hunger of the heart that perpetual weariness, perpetual desire of amusement, perpetual striving to get out of themselves. Nine-tenths of the time the whirl of gayety they fling themselves into doesn't amuse them, and yet without it they would be utterly, hopelessly wretched. Half an hour's amusement, excitement, pleasure, will probably be followed by the re- action of weariness or morbid discontent. If they have enjoyed a little, they want always to enjoy. It seems hard, shameful, cruel, that the world should paint life in such fair colors one moment, to blur them into dull drabs and grays the next. My lady in her dainty boudoir is dull and cross and vexed because she has caught cold, and her doctor has forbidden her to go out in the evening until she has lost it ; and so she sits and frets and chafes, thinking herself the most ill-used, unhappy mortal, because she is missing four or five entertainments, that probably would not have amused her, and forgets that there are in this very city many as young as she who are stretched on beds of sickness and suffering some who, perchance, will 312 DOLORES. never walk abroad in God's fair sunshine again. Why can't we bring ourselves to look at the bright side of things, and be thankful for all the blessings we have, instead of being discontented and longing for the grapes that grow out of our reach ? Well for us if we could em- ulate Reynard's sagacity, and call them sour, instead of longing and striving after them and fancying them ten times sweeter than they are. You see women, pretty, admired, fashionable, and you, who perhaps don't possess these attributes, think they ought to be immensely happy and contented. Are they ? Not a bit more, perhaps not half so much as you, my friend. Why? Because the more you have of the good things of this world, the more you want, and the less it is in their power to satisfy you. Oh, hard, if just dispensation ! And perhaps of all unsat- isfying, heart-breaking, spirit-wearing things in the world, perpetual pleasure-seeking is the most stale, flat, and un- profitable. Have not nearly all the happiest moments of our lives been those in which we did not preconcert our pleasure ? and have not nearly all those plans from which we promised ourselves great enjoyment turned out lament- able failures ? So with the pretty, charming women of the world you see them bright, gay, admired, ergo they must be happy ; and none but themselves know what fail- ures, what disappointments, what mortifications, have gone to initiate them into the world-known fact that " all is vanity and vexation of spirit." Well, my poor little girl with the wistful eyes and the dusty boots, come with me a moment, and I will put you behind the poor shabby garish scenes that look like fairy- land from your front view. You see all these pretty, fashionable, elegant women, occupying a quarter of a mile of chairs, or moving languidly up and down, for the better display of their toilettes you'll be very much sur- IN THE ROW. prised to hear that nine out often are quite as discontented as you are, and some a great deal more so. You see this lovely woman in the satin and lace, with fair hair, tapping a dainty little impatient foot on the shelly gravel. Super- ficial observer that you are, you only see that she is beauti- ful, well dressed, and talking and laughing to two good looking men ; really she is so vexed and mortified she could cry, because she made a rendezvous with that fair, long- moustached man five chairs lower down, and he has been sitting for the last half-hour talking to that piquante brunette, seeming very happy indeed, without any sign that he remembers his appointment. Well, here is another, radiant with smiles, you say ah ! but you can't read faces. She has the reputation of being a good deal admired, and is never happy untess sur- rounded by a group of men, because she knows that men are like sheep, and always run in a flock, particularly after a woman; and this morning there is only one man talking to her, and he no one in particular, so that rather effusive smile and manner are to prevent any one discover- ing how really vexed and mortified she feels. And so on. This one is disappointed because she has no one at all to talk to ; the next, because the man she sat out with at a ball last night, and who seemed so cpris, has not come up to speak to her ; the next, because a very plain, badly- dressed friend from the country has taken the chair beside her, to have a long chat, thereby displacing the good-look- ing young Guardsman who had so much to say to her ; another, because a fair, acquaintance has asked her with charming malice if she is going to the duchess's to-morrow, and seems so surprised when she answers in the negative ; another, because she feels her new bonnet is not becoming ; another, because she has quarreled with her lover; another, o 27 314 DOLORES. because she has had her milliner's bill, and, bad as she expected it to be, had no conception it would prove so startling ! How on earth is she to tell her husband ? Well, you give up the women you allow they are dis- satisfied, and with some reason ; but the men, they look so gay, so debonnaire or, if not that, at all events so supremely indifferent and unimpressionable. But they are worse off than the women oh, much more blast, much more bored ! The season's an awful bore, the Row's an awful bore; it's an awful bore for a man to be kicking his heels about here, and dancing attendance on a lot of women they don't feel fit this morning; or they've got a lawyer's letter about that d d bill they were fool enough to back for Blank ; the horse they were so sweet upon has gone all wrong; the woman they're fond of has turned them over for that little beast with his confounded money; they can't get any more leave; or oh, commonest and most irritating worry of all these good-looking, well-got-up young fellows they are "hard up." " There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word's death." It means getting deeper into the hands of the Jews; it means sending their horses to Tattersall's ; it means selling out of the regiment they're so proud of, because they can't get the money to buy their next step, or because the time has come when they can't stave off their creditors any longer ; it means to some, binding themselves for life to a woman with whom they haven't one sympathy in com- mon, to others exile, if only temporary, from all they care for ; it means vexation, worry, ceaseless, perpetual, unre- lenting. They may look ever so cheery, and laugh ever so heartily, these dashing young fellows, but no one on this earth, whatever we hear to the contrary, can be really IN THE ROW. 315 ttnconcerned at the thought that he is in debt which he does not see the way clear to shake off without dis- honor. And so you see, little girl, if you'll take my word for it. that the brilliant, envied beings who for the most part com- pose this gay throng don't all wear heart's-ease in their breasts. I dare say, though, if they only realized the pain and suffering, the agony and want that is going on day and night around them in the great pitiless world, they would be a little ashamed of their peevish discontent and ennui. If you, madame, rich, good-looking, admired, could realize the dull, forlorn, loveless life of some of your poor sisters say, for instance, of a teacher in a girls' school, of some invalid's companion, some poor cripple or deformed creature who never in this world had a look of love or admiration, but instead perhaps a shuddering averted glance. You see vice, squalor, wretchedness sometimes, when you drive through a by-street, leaning back in your well-stuffed carriage ; or often enough, Heaven knows, in our broad thoroughfares, there are poor drabs of women, with all beauty and lovableness seamed and distorted out of their rugged faces. Who made you to differ from them ? you might have been in their place, and they in yours. Do you know, as you frivolously toss away your guineas for something you don't want, that there are people starving for the want of bread poor, cheap, common bread? Do you know there are women watching the poor, emaciated frames of the chil- dren or the men they love, heart-broken because they have not that little wherewithal to keep the poor body and soul together, or to minister some small comfort to the dying dear one? You have a down bed to lie upon, a soft carriage to ride in, luxurious food to eat, beautiful clothes to wear; how, think you, would you make the gi6 DOLORES. poor, suffering, hungry toilers understand your discon tent, your imaginary grievances, your ennui? Fancy if you only realized that there are people in the world whose idea of heaven is "always to have enough to eat." Throw the book down : it is dull, wearisome, stupid ; you don't want unpleasant thoughts put into your head, you want to be amused. I have done with my shabby, ambitious little friend, and the thoughts she has brought crowding to my brain, and am ready to go back to my story. Milly and Dolores are both of the company this morn- ing; both look charming, both are smiling, and yet I fancy neither is quite happy in her mind. Dolores would so supremely enjoy this new life that has opened upon her had she only Guy by her side, but she has never once seen him during the fortnight that has elapsed since her arrival in England. He writes kind letters, but has scarcely once mentioned his mother or alluded to her going to Wentworth ; and though she writes nearly every day, and entreats him to come to her in London, and tells him the only thing she wants to make her quite happy is his presence, he has always put her off with excuses about his affairs and the attention they require after so long an absence. Poor child, the bitter is already well mixed with the sweet ; the future that had seemed so fair is growing overcast, and she has said to herself more than once, " Oh, why did I ever see him again ? I had for- gotten him, and was so happy with Philip and Mary." She cannot help seeing the truth his mother is dis- pleased, and will not invite her to Wentworth ; and she knows, oh, she is quite sure, that the reason Guy does not come to her in London is that he cannot trust himself in the presence of Mrs. Charteris. To be jealous of a woman who is married ! Dolores cannot realize it to AN INTRODUCTION. 3'7 herself, and yet she is bitterly jealous so jealous that sometimes she hates Milly. Captain Charteris is de- voted to her, insists on driving her in his phaeton, speaks to her always in his caressing voice, and it gives her a wicked secret pleasure to feel that she can make Milly suffer the tortures she has inflicted upon her. For jeal- ousy is a hateful thing, and triumphs over every good and pure feeling. Milly knows she cannot bear it much longer ; she feels she owes Guy something for his sake she has been unvaryingly kind to Dolores ; but now that Adrian pays her this marked attention, and seems to take so much pleasure in her society even though she knows that Dolores cares for no one in the world but Guy, just as Dolores knows Milly is utterly and solely devoted to her husband yet the girl's presence has become intoler- able to her, and it is only the urgent entreaties of Guy to keep her until his mother grows into a better frame of mind, that prevents her writing to him that he must ab- solutely come and take her back with him to Wentworth. CHAPTER XXXIII. AN INTRODUCTION. DOLORES still wears slight mourning for her mother, whose comparatively recent death is an excuse for her not going to balls or dinners ; but she sees plenty of society at Milly's house, in the Park, and at the Opera, and has been introduced already to many of Guy's friends. " She is a great success," Adrian writes to his brother : "in fact, if you don't come back soon, I think some 27* 3I 8 DOLORES. bigger swell will cut you out. Horton is immensely taken with her ; and his old mother was asking me yesterday why you did not take more care of such a prize ? I told her ladyship that you were perfectly satisfied as long as she was under my respectable guardianship ; at which she tapped me with her fan in her stupid old way, and said she did not consider me a suitable guardian for a pretty girl, and asked how my wife liked her. Of course I re- plied immensely ; but in my own mind I don't think there is much love lost between the two. And I know Milly has been infernally cross with me lately, though she treats your future as if she was devoted to her. " What humbugs women are ! By Jove ! it would take a clever fellow to understand them. I don't; and I've seen a little of them, too. Apropos of that, imagine to yourself that Lady B has gone off with that old wetch Y , with his wig and stays, and not a sixpence. Mrs. S , they say, doesn't care twopence about Charlie, as nice and good-looking a fellow as ever breathed, and is head over ears in love with that red-headed brute, G , in the Foreign Office. " But about Dolores every one likes her the women too they won't long ; and no unpleasant questions have been asked. I believe Mrs. Vivian was rather inquisitive, but, as you know, Milly is a deuced clever woman, what- ever else she may not be, and she made it all right there. The only thing people seem to think is, that it is a little odd you are never with her ; and I have to make excuses about business matters and our mother not liking to spare you. However, that won't go down much longer; and people will soon begin to talk you know pretty well how they do. It's a confounded bore my lady taking it so badly ; but I thought she would ; and of course she won't care about turning out of Wentworth. I must write and AN INTRODUCTION. 3*9 give a flaming account of Dolores to her. She has never once mentioned her in her letters to me or Milly since we returned. I fancy the girl must be hurt at your behavior, although she laughs and talks with everybody who comes up to her ; and upon my soul, Guy, I really don't think you're behaving particularly well to her. I know if a girl was as fond of me as she seems of you, and such a pretty girl too, I don't think I could treat her in the way you're doing." Guy's lip curls a little as he reads this ; he flings the letter on one side, but presently takes it up again, and reads it twice over very slowly. "Yes," he says presently, to himself, "it can't go on much longer like this. My mother and I must come to some understanding. 'I don't think there is much love lost between the two' " (taking Adrian's letter up again, and reading). " ' I know Milly has been infernally cross with me lately.' Yes, I suppose Adrian is exercising his fascinations" (contemptuously) "on Dolores, and Milly is miserable. What a selfish brute I am ! Well, I will delay no longer : it shall all be settled one way or the other this morning. Poor mother ! God knows I would be the last to make her unhappy ; but my first duty now is to the girl who is to be my wife." Since the evening of his arrival, the subject has never once been alluded to between Lady Wentworth and her son. She has waited for him to speak, and he has not felt the courage or inclination. All day he has been employed riding or walking about with his bailiff, and at night the conversation has turned almost entirely upon the events of the day, or on his travels. But this morning, when breakfast is over, he says, "Mother, may I come to your room presently? I want to talk to you." 320 DOLORES. His face is pale and a little stern, and her cheek blanches somewhat as she answers, " By all means, my dear you know I am always at your disposal." When he joins her, she is sitting in her usual place near the window, her tapestry-work in her hands, which tremble a little, although her face is composed. Guy takes one or two turns in the room, and then, coming up suddenly, sits down by his mother, and takes her hand. " Mother, I think you know I would not willingly vex or pain you," he says, pleadingly. Lady Wentworth's lip trembles, but her face is cold and rigid ; she does not reply. "You know," he went on, earnestly, "I have asked asked Dolores to marry me, and there is no drawing back now, even if I wished it" (hesitating), "which I most certainly do not." "Why did you ask her?" says his mother, turning suddenly upon him; "why bring disgrace upon your family for a girl you do not love ? Nay, you need not interrupt me you do not love her; if you did, would you have been here a fortnight without once going to see her ? The distance is not very great ; you have had nothing really to keep you here; and I I have not attempted to prevent you going." "And yet," he replies, gently, " it is you who prevent my going. I had promised that you would receive her, that she should come here at once; I told Milly and Acrian so too ; but after the way in which you received my first mention of her, how was it possible I could ask you to invite her here? And to see her, and tell the truth, or ignore what I had previously said I ask you, mother, is it possible ?' ' "I cannot receive her," says Lady Wentworth, with AN INTRODUCTION. 321 angry energy; " it is impossible. When she is your wife, if you insist on marrying her, I must of course treat her as her position requires, but I do not think" (bitterly) "we shall often meet." Then, relenting, she says, taking both his hands, and with strong entreaty in her voice, " Guy, why do this foolish thing? I do not know I cannot imagine what your motive is ; but one thing I know, it is not love. If, as you say, she has no family, no friends, we can find a home for her; you can make her what compensation you please ; if she is so lovely, she will soon find another husband, and " Guy starts up in great anger, saying, passionately, " Mother, it is the first time I ever heard you dishonor your lips with bad counsel; this is indeed unlike the mother whom I have loved and honored ever since I was born." Lady Wentworth is abashed by her son's words the first harsh ones she has ever heard from his lips ; but she resents the rebuke. "You will do as you please" (rising, and with great haughtiness). " I am prepared to leave your house when you please to-day, even." "Forgive me, mother!" cries Guy, whose heart re- proves him for having spoken harshly to his mother, although his sense of honor compelled the words. " This house, you know, is yours, and will always be, as long as you care to live in it. But" (pushing her gently back into her chair) "let us talk together calmly and quietly over what is best to be done. You are quite wrong in fancying I do not love Dolores. She is a dear, sweet little girl, and I believe firmly that when you come to know her you will love her as a daughter. Adrian's wife has done all in her power to make the best of what is bad in the matter ; she might have set her face against it, but v 322 DOLORES. she has been goodness itself. Adrian writes me that Dolores is well received. And, mother" (very earnestly), " would you spoil her future and mine by showing the world that you disapprove the marriage by making them suspect things which they will not if you open your arms to her?" A silence falls upon them ; it is broken at last by Lady Wentworth. "If it must be so," she says, coldly, "I will do what you wish at all events, I will make no opposition. I will be present at your marriage. I will not let the world suspect my real feelings. But do not ask me to have her here now; it is impossible. Since Milly" (eying him keenly) " has been already so kind, why should Miss Power not continue with her until your marriage?" "Impossible!" (with great energy) " utterly impos- sible !" (walking up and down the room with great strides.) "Why impossible?" (quietly.) Another pause. "Because" (slowly) " it makes Milly unhappy. Mother" (turning impetuously to her), "you know what Adrian is you know that, without caring the least bit about them, he has a way of making love to every woman he meets. I believe he is doing so now with Dolores; and Milly" (with an effort) "is so devotedly fond of him that it half breaks her heart to see it. I must get her away 1 For God's sake, mother, don't oppose the first thing I ever prayed of you in my life !" Lady Wentworth looks at him sorrowfully. The ugly suspicion that had so small a shape before is growing large and dark. She sees the truth as far as his feelings for Milly are concerned, and it puts every other thought out of her head. It is not so much the words that he has AN INTRODUCTION. 323 spoken, but the deep, intense emotion she reads in hi? eyes and mouth. It is not for Dolores he is entreating, but for Milly. She is conquered. Her mother's heart goes out to him in his trouble ; for she knows too well his strong sense of honor to fear any wrong or harm from hi* unhappy love. "Perhaps," she thinks, "he is marrying this girl to put another stronger bar between himself and Milly." There are tears in her eyes ay, in her heart too as she goes to him and puts her arm round his neck. " It shall be as you wish," she says, kissing him. " I will write to my new daughter-in-law this morning. When do you wish her to come ?" "Oh, mother, really!" he exclaims, unable to realize this sudden change. " God bless you 1 You have taken a great load off my mind." He does not dream that she too knows his secret, and she would not for the world that he should. " I will telegraph that I shall be up in time for dinner to-night, and to-morrow no, the day after I will bring her back. May I, mother?" "Yes, my dear. And" (kindly) "you need not be afraid about her reception. There is no fear of her being dull here, either, I dare say, as you will be with her." " Oh, as for that, she has been used to a dull life, and all this novelty is sufficient excitement. A thousand thanks again, dearest mother ! Why, how foolish I have been all this time, to be afraid to speak to you ! If there were more mothers like you, I think there would be a good many better fellows in the world though" (laughing) " that sounds rather like a compliment to myself, doesn't it? But" (with a sigh), "heaven save the mark! that was the last thought in my mind." A few hours later Guy takes leave of his mother and 3 2 4 DOLORES. starts for town. He occupies the journey up with making plans for the future. "What a fool I was," he says, over and over again, to himself, " to feel so certain that my mother would not come round ! I might have known better. I believe she's the best woman in England, bar none, God bless her ! Dolores will be a little frightened of her at first, I dare say, and perhaps my mother will be a little stiff; but it won't last, and I shouldn't wonder if she gets quite fond of her soon she is always so good to anything young and weak. And I well, I shall take her about everywhere ; and no doubt" (sighing), " I shall be happy in seeing her happy. Perhaps she won't think so much of me now she has seen other men. I hope to heaven she hasn't fallen in love with Adrian, for it seems as if no woman can resist him. What the deuce do they see in him, except his good- looking face ? They must find him out pretty soon, but that doesn't seem to make any difference." Guy isn't the first man in the world who has been ut- terly at a loss to see the attractions a man of whom he does not think much himself has for women, just as there are women who find it impossible to account for the charm a member of their own sex, in whom they see so little, exercises over the minds of men. There are men whom all other men admire, and say, " Now, if I were a woman, that's the fellow I should fall in love with;" but these are not generally the men for whom women care. And there are a few women universally admired by their own sex who rarely make any very great impression on men. Guy arranges in his own mind that the marriage shall take place very soon. It is now May ; well, by the end of June at latest. And then they will go off in the yacht to Norway, and be back again in time for partridge-shoot- ing, when they will have a large party at Wentworth. AN INTRODUCTION. 3*5 This happens to be the very day of which I have spoken, when Milly and Doloers are sitting in the Row, neither very happy at heart, though their faces are smiling j and we will take our privilege of putting the clock back a few hours, and join them once more. At this moment Lord Heronmere comes up to Milly. He is a fair, good-look- ing boy, a first cousin of Guy and Adrian, the son of one of Lady Wentworth's sisters, and he and Milly are great- friends. " Oh, Mrs. Charteris," he says, coming up eagerly, with an unmistakably pleased smile, "I'm so awfully glad to see you again ! What an age since we met ! Where have you been hiding all this time?" " In very public places," she answers, laughing. "But first" (in a low voice) "let me introduce you to your new cousin." The young fellow ducks his hat, and as his eyes light on Dolores, they say, unmistakably, " By Jove ! what a pretty girl!" Now, with one exception, Milly is the least jealous woman in the world. No one is so kind and sympathetic with young girls. She likes to see them admired. She enjoys their freshness and pleasure in the things that she too likes, although she knows they are hollow, and no one in the world ever heard her say a word to the detriment or detraction of any girl living. She is pleased that every one should admire Dolores, save and except one man, and with her kind heart, and ready admira- tion of everything young and fair, she would be the first to love and admire Dolores, if Adrian had not had the same inclination. But he is not here this morning ; Colonel Brooke is in attendance, and when she reads young Heronmere's admiration in his face, she is well pleased. 28 326 DOLORES. "I haven't very long come off guard," he continues, standing before them in the attitude of the young British soldier, with his hands crossed upon the umbrella which supports his weight. "Awful hard work, the defense of one's country. Perhaps Miss Power might like to corne down and see the Guard mounting one morning? It's too early for you, I know, but she looks as if she was in the habit of going to bed and getting up early. Beauty-sleep, and all that kind of thing, you know !" "Thank you," says Milly, laughing. "And I dare say, when I have explained to Miss Power the charms of standing in a flagged yard for twenty minutes, and under- going the concentrated fire from the hundred pairs of eyes of your scarlet giants, she will be very happy to accept your invitation !" "Now, Mrs. Charteris, don't be so down on a fellow. I only meant to be civil, you know; and, by Jove ! I'm forgetting my message all this time. I went round to your place as soon as I got my uniform off, to ask you, with my mother's love, if you would all come round and lunch after the Park? She only came to town, you know, the day before yesterday, and would have called or written, but but I forget why but she particularly wants you to come, and you will, won't you?" "Yes, I think we shall be very glad, and" (aside) "I want your mother to see Dolores." " Dolores" (sotto voce], " what a jolly name ! At least, it isn't exactly jolly, is it? Means something rather the other way, doesn't it? Yes, my mother wants to see her tremendously, and I think she'll like her immensely. I'm sure I shall" (dropping into the chair beside Milly, that some one has just vacated). " I think Guy's a lucky fellow. I don't know when I've seen such a pretty girl ! And what a charming way she has of speaking half for- AN INTRODUCTION. 327 eign it sounds ! Is she English ? and where did Guy meet her? Do tell me all about it." So for the fiftieth time Milly tells the stereotyped story, and, that being ended, pronounces it time to be going. " Colonel Brooke, I know you'll do something for me," she says, leaning forward to speak to him. " We are going to lunch with Lady Heronmere, and I have not time to go home first. Will you look in on your way to your club, and leave word for Adrian where we are, and that he is to join us, if he has time ? And please tell them to send the open carriage for us at half-past three." Colonel Brooke accepts the commission, but young Heronmere interposes, with a deference he would not feel for any one but his superior officer. "But, Colonel Brooke, won't you come too? My mother will be so awfully glad, you know ; and if you'll take charge of the ladies, I'll run round myself in a minute, and leave the message." But Colonel Brooke excuses himself, and so the three proceed to Lady Heronmere's house in Park Lane. Milly is wondering what Guy's aunt will think of his choice, for she is a very grande dame, holds a high place in society, and is vastly particular about family and connec- tions. But if Lady Heronmere is all this, she is, at the same time, a capricious woman, given to take enormous fancies ; and Mrs. Charteris is perfectly aware that if good fortune will only permit Dolores to seem pleasing in her eyes, there will be nothing left for the world to say to her preju- dice. And in this case Fortune is propitious, for Lady Heron- mere is vastly taken with the girl, and there and then invites her to come on the following day and spend a week with her, thereby giving great satisfaction to Reginald 328 DOLORES. Viscount Heronmere, and taking no light load off Milly's breast. " Of course," Lady Heronmere whispers aside to Mrs. Charteris, "one would wish to know a little more about her antecedents ; but one thing is providential : and that is, that she has no relations. She is a most charming little creature; her manners are perfect, and that little shyness and constant blush are perfectly ravishing. She will be an immense success next year as Guy's wife. I shall present her myself. If she belonged to one of our best families, she could not be better bred."' So Dolores is received by the most important member of the family, and Milly, in her heart, thanks heaven devoutly that the same roof will no longer, for the time at least, cover her and Adrian. CHAPTER XXXIV. LORD HERONMERE FALLS IN LOVE. WHEN Dolores reaches home, and Sir Guy's telegram is put into her hands, she trembles, and turns very white- it is the first she has ever received. " Oh, if he should be dead !" she thinks. " Do not be so frightened, my dear," says Milly, gayly : " it is most likely to tell you that Guy will be here to dinner to-night." As Dolores opens it, and reads the corroboration of Mrs. Charteris's words, a lovely blush overspreads her face, and she looks radiant with joy. She bounds up-stairs to Marcelline. LORD HERONMERE FALLS IN LOVE. 3 2 9 " Tiens! tiens!" says that shrewd person ; "Sir Ghi has arrived?" "Not arrived, but in half an hour he will be here. And they dine out, so I shall have him all to myself. Marcelline, make me beautiful, dress me all, all in white, as he likes to see me ; and I will put on the pearl neck- lace he gave me, and the pearl locket he sent me long ago at Rouen." Marcellir.e remarks dryly that it is quite time Sir Guy arrives he has been long away. "But if his affairs demanded it?" asks Mademoiselle, imperiously. Marcelline says apologetically that if he stayed away too long he might come to be forgotten. "/forget him.'" cries the girl, in such a tone, and with so radiant a face, the greatest skeptic in true love could not have doubted her for an instant. She proceeds to array herself in one of those charming toilettes that Milly's taste selected for her in Paris ; and when she is dressed she looks at herself in the long glass. In her whole apparel there is not a vestige of anything but white, and, little vain though she is, she cannot help seeing that she is fair. "Like a little angel just flown from heaven!" Mar- celline declares, putting a finishing touch with loving hands. " There is nothing wanting but the wings." "And the goodness," says the child, shyly. " Ah ! pour fa," Marcelline returns, with a shrug ; "it would, after all, be very tiresome to live with people who were always so good." When Guy is ushered into the drawing-room, and sees this lovely little apparition, he is almost confounded by its loveliness. He makes a step towards her, and then, feeling so dusty and travel-stained, he hesitates. 28* 330 DOLORES. " Why, you little fairy," he says, with a look of genuine pride and pleasure, "you look so ethereal I am afraid to touch you in my present state." "Do not be," she answers, with the loveliest little blush, and coming forward a step. Thereupon he makes no further ado, but takes her in his arms and kisses her with no feigned fondness. "I hope I haven't spoilt your gown," he says, in some trepidation, as he releases her. "What matters my gown," she replies, with some con- tempt, "if you are pleased to see me once more. Are you pleased?" Guy makes the practical answer the question demands, and a moment later Milly enters the room. She is en grande toilette ; and while Guy makes his greetings, the woman and the girl survey each other. "How elegant she is !" thinks Dolores, her pride and pleasure in her own apparel taking wings. " How fair and young and fresh she is 1" thinks Milly; "and how old and worn I must look beside her." "What magnificence !" utters Guy, smiling. " Where are you all going? I fear I have come at the wrong moment." " No, indeed. Adrian and I are obliged to go to one of Lady B 's stupid dinners, and we were going to be rude enough to leave Dolores alone ; but now everything has happened just right, and you will have a charming little tete-d-tete dinner." " Well, I must be off to dress. My hansom is at the door. I shall be back in half an hour." So the two women are left to make each other compli- ments on their appearance, and talk generalities, until the brougham comes to the door; and Adrian, having been sent for twice, makes his appearance. LORD HERONMERE FALLS IN LOVE, 33* "We shall be late, Adrian," says his wife; "and you know how particular Lady B is." " Confound her !" replies Adrian, with his accustomed languor; "what the deuce does she mean by dining at such an un-Christian hour as half-past seven ? I say, my dear little sister-in-law, how lovely you look to-night ! Is it happiness or your white gown? Milly, why don't you get a gown like that ?' ' "Because I am several years older than Dolores," she returns, dryly. "True," yawns Adrian; "it wants youth and inno- cence." "It is time we were going" (impatiently). " I must have another look at this little angel, if the old lady sits down to dinner without us," he answers, languidly. Then, with more enthusiasm, "'Pon my soul, I think Guy's the luckiest man in London to-night. Sweet little sister, I've never been so indiscreet before. Let me salute you just this once." And, so saying, he stoops his handsome head, and orushes her cheek with his fair moustache. At this precise moment Guy enters. He sees Milly crimson, with tears starting in her eyes ; and it does not make his greeting to his brother more cordial. " Don't look so savage, my dear fellow !" says Adrian, quite unabashed ; " you may kiss Milly, if you like. I'm all for family affection myself. Well, now we'll be off. Come, Milly. I wish to heaven you'd keep that con- founded train of yours from under one's feet" (this as he stumbles over it). Guy looks a little glum, and goes to the window. Presently a little white hand steals under his arm, and the prettiest face in the world looks wistfully up at him. "You are not angry, Guy?" 332 DOLORES. "Not angry," he answers, in rather a lecturing tone, " but I should like to see you have a little more dignity." "Do you think /care about him?" (indignantly) "do you think /want him to kiss me? It was only be- cause he is your brother that I permitted it." "Does he often take advantage of his coming rela- tionship to bestow his brotherly affection upon you?" (bitterly). "Never never in his life before. And now" (tremu- lously) "that you have just come back, after being all this time away, you are going to be angry with me !" "No, indeed," putting his arm round her, and as suddenly withdrawing it, as the door opens, and the butler announces dinner. When Guy hears the events of the day, he is genuinely pleased. In the first place, his mother will undoubtedly be biased by her sister's approval of Dolores, as will also the rest of the world, and the visit to Lady Heronmere will give Lady Wentworth more time to get accustomed to the thought of receiving her. "And how do you like my aunt?" he asks. "Oh, so much! she was kindness itself. I had ex- pected to be a little afraid of her, but that all vanished the moment she spoke to me." "And how do you like Heronmere?" "Your cousin? He is a most amusing boy." " Boy ! what an indignity for a young Guardsman !" "Oh, but he is quite, quite a boy, and so full of fun ! He will be handsome, too, I think, when he gets older, and the little fluffy moustache grows. ' ' " For heaven's sake, my dear child, don't tell him so ! The pride of his life is that little fluffy moustache, as you call it." " And he wants me to go and see his Guards mounting, LORD HERONMERE FALLS IN LOVE. 333 though I cannot understand what they do, since Mrs Charteris says it all happens in a sort of court-yard." "I think you and Heronmere have been flirting," laughs Guy. " He is a dangerous young fellow all the women make a pet of him." "Dangerous! such a child!" retorts Dolores, with some contempt, at which Guy is more amused still. "I shall have to stop in town to look after you," he says ; "and I suppose I may as well send for my phaeton, and drive you out in the morning of course my aunt will monopolize you in the afternoon. I wonder whether she will let me take you to the theatre in the evening, when she goes out to her big entertainments ? I suppose that won't be etiquette, though." " Etiquette ! what is that?" "Something that you will very soon understand, and find a very great bore, too." The next day Dolores is duly installed in Park Lane, where she spends ten days of almost unalloyed happiness. Lady Heronmere is kindness itself. Guy is nearly always with her, and as for Lord Heronmere, his one object in life seems to be to devote himself slavishly to her amuse- ment, and it is easy to see that he is fast falling hopelessly in love with his pretty little cousin who is to be. Dolores orders him about in a patronizing, imperious way, that he considers adorable, and that immensely amuses his mother and Guy. When inexorable Fate, and a sense of the proprieties, compel the poor young fellow to leave her alone with his rival (as in his heart he considers Guy), he wanders aim- lessly and moodily about the house, generally taking refuge in the room where the housekeeper, formerly his nurse, and who still adores him, sits in company with his mother's maid and Marcelline. He and the latter are 334 DOLORES. tremendous friends, although their conversation is lins ited, owing to the difficulty each has in making the other understand. For Viscount Heronmere, although he was educated at Eton, and went abroad for a short tour, previous to joining the Guards, is by no means an adept at languages, and has not taken the slightest pains to cul- tivate them. He speaks French with the purest British accent, and translates his sentences entirely from the English ; and, as he is frequently at a loss for words when he pays a visit to Marcelline, he takes with him a small French dictionary. One particular afternoon he has lin- gered rather long with the lovers, and is obliged to see at last that Dolores is getting pettish at his continued presence, so he betakes himself dolorously to the apart- ment which is at that moment occupied by Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, and Marcelline. He greets his former nurse with a warm slap on the shoulder, which makes her jump up and cry, " Oh, my lord, how you do startle one !" " Comment vous portez-vous aujourd'hui, Madame Marcelline?" says my lord, in his sweet British accent. "Je suis oblige de venir ici parceque, parceque" "they're always spooning in the drawing-room," he wants to say, but the difficulty of translating the sentence prevents his getting any further. He has recourse to his dictionary, and finds the verb to spoon translated mettre d sec ; but that doesn't sound like what he wants, so he tries back. " Mademoiselle Dolores, vous savez, et mon cousin moi je suis de trop." "Ah oui ! je comprends, milor," replies Marcelline, nodding her head sagaciously, and smiling. " There, you see, Bellamy," utters the young man, dole- fully, "she understands that I'm in the way. I never used to be in people's way." LORD HERONMERE FALLS IN LOVE. 335 " And whose way are you in now, pray, my lord, I should like to know?" queries Mrs. Bellamy, warmly. "Oh, that confounded pair of spoons, Guy and Miss Power." " Oh, well, my lord," says his old nurse, apologetically, "lovers will be lovers, you know." "Yes, worse luck to them, I suppose they will," says the young man, moodily; " but now, when you come to think of it, Bellamy, doesn't it seem absurd that people who are going to bore each other to death, and probably quarrel all the rest of their lives, must be always wanting to be left alone together ? It seems such a silly, unreason- able thing to me." "I dare say it won't, my dear, when it's your turn," responds Bellamy, dryly. " But that won't come just yet, I doubt." " I wish to heaven it was here now, and I was going to marry that little darling !" cries my lord ; at which Mrs. Bellamy looks shocked, and says, " Oh, my lord, you mustn't talk like that ; why, they're a' most as good as man and wife now." "Many a slip, you know, my dear old Bell; and if anything should happen, hang me if I don't cut in, as sure as my name is Reginald Hubert St. Vincent Gower Heronmere. I say, Marcelline, pourquoi le deuce ne parle pas tout le monde la meme langage. J'ai" (a pause, while he consults the dictionary) " un mille choses de dire a vous. Votre jeune demoiselle est le plus joli que j'ai vue dans tout ma vie" (Marcelline nods en- couragingly) ; "et je ne crois pas que mon cousin est a demi assez bon pour elle. Not but what he's a thundering good fellow, you know but oh, hang it all, I can't say that in French." "Why, my lord," interposes Bellamy, "I should ha' 336 DOLORES, thought, the time you was abroad, you'd a' had all the foreign languages at your fingers' ends." "Would you? Then permit me to tell you, with all due deference, Mrs. Bellamy, that you're a stupid old donkey ! Some fellows are clever in one way, and some in another. If I can't speak French and German, permit me to tell you that I can ride, cricket, and dance with most fellows in Great Britain and Ireland. I won't say so much about my shooting, though I have before now wiped the eye of a crack shot ; and perhaps, considering my youth and inexperience, I can tool a team up Gros- venor Place, into the Park, and out at the Albert Gate again, as well as most fellows. Not that I should have reminded you" (with mock modesty) "of my little ac- complishments, only that you seem to take a somewhat disparaging view of them." " Oh, no, no, my lord far from it ; but I thought, as my lady spoke it so beautifully, you'd mayhap do the same." " Languages don't run in families, my dear old woman. I say, Marcelline, est-ce que mon cousin parle Franaise bien?" "O si, tres-bien, milor," replies Marcelline. " Hang him !" returns Milor. " By the way, I wonder what's the French for that? I suppose it's an idiom. And what's to fall in love? Tomber en amour? That don't sound right. Est-ce que Mademoiselle Power aime beaucoup mon cousin ?' ' Marcelline believed well that the dear young lady loved him, and it was not to be wondered at, as he was so hand- some and distinguished. "H'm!" replies the young viscount, not particularly charmed at this panegyric. So he changes the subject, and inquires how she likes LORD HERONMERE FALLS IN LOVE. 337 Eagland, and whether she means always to live there; to which Marcelline replies by a shrug of the shoulders, and a remark that it will be as the bon Dieu pleases. It would be strange indeed if Dolores did not enjoy her new life : there was everything to make her happy during her ten days' visit in Park Lane, and not a single draw- back. Guy was the most thoughtful and attentive of lovers. If people had wondered a little before at his neglect of his lovely little fiancee, they had no cause for remark now. Every morning he drove her in his phaeton, or walked with her in the Row. He lunched regularly in Park Lane, and sometimes, in the afternoon, occupied the third seat of his aunt's barouche. He was frequently to be seen in Lady Heronmere's opera-box, and, on those evenings when she dined out, always took Dolores to the theatre, under the chaperonage of Miss Frost, his aunt's companion, supplemented by that of his young cousin. There is no greater incentive to a man's valuing his own property than seeing it admired by others ; and Guy was getting very proud of Dolores, and really beginning to think he possessed a treasure, when every second man of his friends said, " I say, Wentworth, who is that lovely girl you're with?" or, "Wentworth, who is that charm- ing creature I saw in Lady Heronmere's carriage this afternoon ?" It gave Guy a pleasurable sensation to answer, " She is Miss Power, and I am going to marry her." One evening Lady Heronmere gave a dinner-party, and introduced Dolores formally to several of her distinguished fi iends; and Dolores, though very shy and nervous, sang two or three plaintive little French songs. She had a sweet, pathetic voice, and every one was charmed. Lord Heronmere hung about the piano until Dolores despot- ically sent him away, and then he proceeded dismally to w 29 338 DOLORES. a distant corner, whence he eyed her with a melancholy admiration. " My dear Regy," says his mother one morning, laugh- ing, " it will never do for you to be falling in love with Dolores I am sure any one can read your sad complaint in your face; Guy will be getting jealous." "Not he," returns the young fellow, glumly j "he knows a deuced sight too well that she's head over ears in love with him. Between you and me, mother, I don't believe he cares so very much for her. I wish to heaven he'd fall desperately in love with some other woman, and then I might console this one. I say, mother, could you not ask some very pretty young woman here to seduce Guy's affections?" " You goose !" says his mother " don't you know Guy is the soul of honor? He would not think it right to look at another woman now." "But if we could persuade him it would be for her good, you know, mother, because I am a better match than he is any day." "You silly boy ! do you think I should allow you to throw yourself away so ? She is a dear, charming little thing, but you will please to look a good deal higher for my daughter-in-law." "Higher be hanged!" retorts Viscount Heronmere. "Lay you twelve to two, mother, you don't find a duke's daughter in the three kingdoms to match her for looks and breeding. It's no good I am in love with her awfully in love with her. She isn't his wife yet, and if I thought there was any chance of cutting Guy out, which, worse luck, I don't, hang me if I wouldn't try !" So Lady Heronmere, although she is only amused, and sees no danger whatever in her son's admiration foi Dolores, does not consider it expedient to invite her to LORD HERONMERE FALLS IN LOVE. 339 prolong her visit beyond ten days ; but she makes Guy promise to bring his wife into Yorkshire in the autumn. Guy does not feel the slightest pang of jealousy about his young cousin. To him he is only the boy he used to tip at Eton, and mount at Wentworth in the Christmas holidays, when he used to ride so pluckily to hounds. He laughingly rallies Dolores on her conquest. "You would make a pretty little couple," he says; " and you know, my dear, you'd be a much greater swell as Lady Heronmere than as Lady Wentworth." To his surprise, she does not take his remark as he in- tends it. "I dare say you would prefer it," she says, in a hurt tone, and taking up a book to hide her emotion. But a tear falls upon the page. " My darling, what do you mean?" cries Guy, putting his arm round her. " Why, I would not give you up for the world." " Would you not, really?" (smiling through her tears), and he renews his assurance. "And you," cries the girl, with kindling eyes, putting her little hand in his "if you, instead of being rich, and a grand seigneur, were to be quite quite poor to-morrow, and had to work hard to gain your bread, I would not change you for all the lords in the world no, not if they prayed me on their knees that is" (wistfully), "if you cared to have me." Guy is touched. "You are a little darling!" he says, "and I am not half good enough for you." 340 DOLORES. CHAPTER XXXV. THE SUN SHINES. THE marriage is to take place at the end of June. Dolores is to spend a little time at Wentworth, and Lady Wentworth is then to bring her to London, to make final arrangements about the trousseau and wedding. Lady Heronmere has volunteered to give the breakfast. The favor with which her sister has received Dolores has gone a very long way towards reconciling Guy's mother to the marriage, but she still looks with feelings quite unakin to pleasure at the prospect of receiving the girl at Went- worth, and having to depart so far from her habit of life as to stay in London for any time in the season. But throughout her life Lady Wentworth has always been guided by a strong sense of duty, and now that she has discovered her son's secret, she feels bound, at whatever cost to herself, to keep him from suffering and temptation. For she regards it as a terrible sin to love the wife of another man, even when there is no guilt in the heart of him who loves, and even when the love is, as now, un- shared by the woman to whom it is given. The day arrives, and Dolores leaves Lady Heronmere' s house to visit the home that is to be hers in the future. She is full of joyous anticipation, not altogether unmixed with a certain dread of meeting Lady Wentworth. She has received the kindest letter from her, and Guy has as- sured her a thousand times that she has nothing to fear ; but she knows in her heart that his mother is not pleased with the marriage Else why did she let so long a time THE SUN SHINES. 341 elapse without sending her either letter or message ? But Guy will be there, and he is all in all to her ; whom and what would she not face with him ? Every day her love for him grows greater and deeper ; it is so transparent no one can help seeing it. Relieved from the presence of Milly, she has no more jealous fear her life is a succession of pleasures. This new existence, in which every one fetes and pets her, in which she sees and mixes in the gayeties and pleasures of the world, seems to come upon her like a glimpse of Paradise, after the long dull years of her childhood, whose monotony had only been broken by pain. She shudders at the remembrance of it. "If," she thinks, "after all this happiness, I should have to go back again to that ?" She has become a different being, full of sprightly grace; radiant with happiness, more confident in herself, since all she says and does seems to please those around her; and altogether Guy cannot help feeling things have turned out better than he could have imagined in his wildest dreams, and that, after all, fortune has not treated him so cruelly. Lady Heronmere is exceedingly loth to part with Dolores ; her son is in absolute despair. "I suppose you'll ask me sometimes to Wentworth?" he says, gloomily, to Guy, as he wishes him good-by. His cousin gives him a hearty slap on the shoulder, and answers, laughing, " I think you always came pretty much as you liked before, my dear fellow, and I don't see anything to hinder your doing so in future." "That's his cursed confidence!" reflects the young man, dismally : "he doesn't feel the least afraid of me ; he knows she's so fond of him." Guy's feeling for Dolores is of the calmest kind ; there . 29* 342 DOLORES. is no passion in it it is rather a sense of protection and patronage. She young, and fair, and weak, therefore he is pleased to shelter her in his strength ; she has nothing, so he likes to shower riches and pleasure upon her. It is pleasant to him to know that she loves him, but that very security he feels in her love takes away its value. It is the old story : " Damon pursues when Cynthia flies, But when her love is born, his dies." He can never forget for a moment that he is making a great sacrifice for her, and that renders him all the more anxious to pay her every attention and consideration, that she may not divine his feeling. He wants her to see the home he is bringing her to under the most favorable auspices, so he has ordered his coach to meet them at the station, and makes a devour in the drive to show her Wentworth Court from the prettiest point of view. All this is in the very furthest removed from a desire to im- press her with his own importance ; his sole thought is to make everything as bright and desirable as possible in her eyes. She is perfectly delighted when she is perched up on the box-seat beside him, and after a little capering, at first, which somewhat terrified her, the thoroughbreds have settled down into a steady trot. It is a lovely May afternoon, the country is looking its greenest and love- liest, and the spot in which Guy's house is situated will bear comparison with most English scenery. Dolores is in ecstasies. Every moment her pretty mouth is opened in fresh wonder and admiration. She wants to appeal to Marcelline for sympathy, but that worthy person is safe inside, not much less gratified with the dignity of her position than her young lady. " Oh, what a lovely chateau !" cries the girl, suddenly, THE SUN SHINES. 343 as, at a turn, they come in sight of Wentworth, from its most picturesque point of view. "That is Wentworth." " Not really ! not your house !" she cries, in so incred- ulous a voice that Guy cannot help laughing. "Why not?" he asks. Looking at her, he sees, to his surprise, the color mount to her cheeks, and the tears to her eyes. " Why, little one," he says, tenderly, shifting the reins to his right hand, and putting the other on hers, " what is it?" She turns her head away, that he may not see the tears which are falling now. A keen and sudden pang has shot through her heart at sight of his house and lands. She seems to see for the first time the enormity of the sacrifice he has made for her. If it had been from love of her, it would have made her all the more glad and proud ; but it was from pity, and the remembrance stings her to the quick. "My darling," Guy exclaims, more tenderly than he has ever spoken to her before, "what is this? what pains you?" "If I had known," she says, in a low voice, through her tears, " I would have run away and hidden myself from you in Paris ! I who am so poor, what have I to give you, who are so great and rich?" " You silly little child !" he answers, pressing her hand. " I am not at all great and rich. There are half a dozen houses in the county, and hundreds in England, much better than mine. You won't think much of it by-and- by, when you have seen the others. And" (kindly) " if it were ten times better, it would not be too good for you. Why" (laughing) " Heronmere's place is three times as big as this, and I am quite sure you might be mistress 344 DOLORES. there, if you liked to give me up. I see you don't know yet the value of a pretty face, and what it can command ; and" (gayly) " I am not going to enlighten you too much, or you will begin to think you are throwing yourself away on me." "Ah," she says, the smiles shining through her tears, 'I wish you might become poor to-morrow, so that you might see " "Thanks" (laughing). "Flattering as the test might be, I don't at all want you to be put to it." Certainly, from the spot whence they are regarding it, Wentworth Court is a very handsome and imposing pile of buildings. The principal part of the structure is old, but it has been added to at various times always pic- turesquely and in good taste. From here you catch the terraced walks, green slopes, the innumerable flower- beds, that in another month will be like a kaleidoscope, and the great clear sheet of water shimmering in the sun. Dolores, who has seen so little, may well be impressed. They have driven through the two lodge-gates, and up the half-mile of park to the house, and the girl is begin- ning to feel very nervous about the coming meeting. They drive up to the door, half a dozen servants come bustling out, and when Guy has lifted Dolores down, she sees a stately but kind-looking lady awaiting her in the doorway. "Welcome, my dear," she says, very kindly, kissing her on both cheeks, and, taking her by the hand, leads her into her own room. Lady Wentworth has been for many days nerving her- self to the great effort of receiving her future daughter- in-law cordially, and is somewhat surprised, now it is over, to find how little difficulty there has been in the perform- ance of the dreaded task. In spite of the eulogiums she THE SUN SHINES. 345 had heard on all sides of Dolores, she has not been dis- posed to think favorably of or to like her ; but now she sees the pretty, childish, innocent face, and hears the soft, slightly foreign voice, her prejudices melt away, and she feels the benevolent protecting emotion that the sight of weakness and helplessness always inspires in her. So, when Guy comes in a few minutes later, feeling a little nervous and uncomfortable, he is most agreeably reassured by finding the pair upon the best of terms. It is evening of the day of Dolores's arrival at Went- worth, and she and Guy are sitting together in the em- brasure of the window in fhe small drawing-room, as it is called. Lady Wentworth is also of the party, but she has acquired the delightful habit of dozing after dinner, so highly desirable for elderly people, especially when they have to play the unthankful part of third to a pair of lovers. She has placed herself discreetly, and without apology, with her back to the other members of the company, so that Dolores's head may recline on the strong shoulder of her beloved, and he may whisper in her pretty ear with perfect ease and confidence. For a moment her scruples have vanished ; the kindness and cordiality of Lady Went - worth have put her at her ease, and she feels in a state of tranquil bliss, as though she were dreaming some fairy- tale. Everything seems so wonderful and magnificent ; for, although Guy's house is only a well- furnished and well-kept-up country-seat, to her, who has seen nothing all her life but the little campagnes dotted aboU Rouen, it seems a kind of fairy palace, the splendor rf which dazzles her. There has been silence for some moments Gnv from an indolent sense of bien-etre, and Dolores because she s so happy she does not want to break the spell. Present , p* ,., DOLORES. however, she turns her face upwards, and whispers, in her pretty accent, "Will you please pinch me, Guy?" At this strange request he smiles, and takes one of the round white arms in his bronzed hand. " Oh, much harder I do not feel that." Instead of complying with this order, he stoops his mouth and kisses it. "I did net mean that," she says, smiling, " but it will do as well. I only wanted to be quite sure I was awake. " Sometimes" (becoming grave, and looking with wistful eyes into the kind blue ones that meet hers) "some- times, when I feel so happy as I do now, I fancy that I am dreaming, and that I shall wake and find myself back in the old house, or under the apple-trees. I used some- times to dream there that I was with you, and then, when I awoke" (shuddering) " ah ! man Dieu /" I wonder what man could be so cold as to hear such a loving, innocent confession unmoved ? Not Guy. "My darling," he whispers, fervently, "I pray God you may not be deceiving yourself in thinking too well of me. Go on loving me, and I will do my utmost to be worthy of your pure, sweet love." A knot rises in his throat ; he is deeply moved by the great love this child bears him, and such tenderness for her wells up in his heart that it is almost love. For once the other shadow does not come between. Then they fall to happy talk about the future the trip to Norway, the big salmon that Dolores is to catch ; and then the shooting- party at home in September, the visits to friends, and the festivities with which they will keep her first Christmas in England. When Lady Wentworth, waking up, announces that it is half-past ten, they cannot believe the clock. "My dear mother, it must be an hour fast" (consult- DOUBT. 347 ing his watch) "no, by Jove J five minutes slow ! Is it possible?" "Ah!" says Lady Wentworth, smiling benevolently, " I have known such instances before; but I think Dolores will need rest after London hours, and' ' (kindly) " I should like to see a few more roses with the lilies." " And you," Dolores asks of Guy " do you go to bed, too?" " Oh, no" (laughing) ; " this is my time for study. To- morrow you shall see where I burn the midnight oil." "Midnight tobacco, I'm afraid," smiles his mother; "you will have to cure him of his bad habits, my dear." " But, indeed, I like very much the smell of a cigar," says Dolores, simply. "Ah, mother," laughs Guy, "you see I am going to get fortified in one bad habit, at all events." And he salutes his mother affectionately on the cheek as he pre- sents her with her candle. "Good-night, little white rose," and, dissembler that he is, contents himself with pressing a light kiss upon the little hand that is out- stretched to him. CHAPTER XXXVI. DOUBT. MARCELLINE, beaming with smiles, awaits her young mistress in the dainty apartments that have been prepared for her. There is a pink-and- white bedroom, a blue-and- white boudoir, and a chintz dressing-room for Marcelline ; for Lady Wentworth, who never forgets anything, has thought it probable that Dolores may feel lonely or nervous 348 DOLORES. in a strange house, and, little coward that she is, no mortal power would induce her to sleep in a room where she could not have Marcelline within call. That faithful creature is in a seventh heaven. " Tiens /" she cries, when the door is shut, and she has commenced the business of disrobing her young mistress. " I hope Milady is satisfied with her chateau her pal- ace ; and I, who thought everything must be so cold and uncomfortable and dull in this country ! But it is a para- dise here !" "If only the angels spoke French, I suppose," laughs Dolores. "Tell me, my poor Marcelline, how do you make them understand?" " Oh, but my English is not so contemptible as Made- moiselle pretends," utters Marcelline, with a touch of pique. " I make myself understood. And M. Valken- shaw also speaks a little French, and Milady's femme de chambre. Ah ! but if I were to tell Mademoiselle the compliments that have been made her this evening at the supper but no ; she is already spoiled. And when these fine gentlemen and ladies flatter her so much, she will not occupy herself with what the domestics say." " But tell me, all the same," says Dolores, who has not had so much praise and flattery in her life as to become easily blase. "No," replies Marcelline, perversely, "I shall not tell Mademoiselle; but" (slily) "I will tell her instead what they say of Sir Ghi." "Ah! do!" cries the girl enthusiastically, a lovely flush deepening in her face; "I would much rather hear that oh, yes, a thousand times !" "Petite," utters Marcelline, gravely, stopping, brush in hand, to look in the girl's face, " you are getting to love too much your Sir Ghi. Listen to me, my child : it DOUBT. 349 is not good for men to know that they are much beloved. Be a little difficile, a little coquette, with him sometimes ; talk with other gentlemen, as if you also liked them ; he will prize you the more." Dolores draws herself up a little stiffly. ''The advice you give me is French," she says, " and I" (proudly) "am English." "Ma petite cherie" retorts Marcelline, "the advice is as good for Englishmen as Frenchmen, since they are all much alike where a woman is concerned." "Well" (impatiently), "but what do they say of him?" "What do they say? Tiens ! what do they not say? He is the most generous, most kind, most thoughtful ah! man Dieu, I cannot remember half. He is every- thing that is good and noble, and they all rejoice, they say, that he will have so beautiful and gracious a little lady for his wife." "Marcelline," says the girl, thoughtfully, "why is it that every one finds me beautiful and gracious now ! no one used to tell me so at home, in Rouen." "Eh, man Dieu! cries Marcelline. "And who was there up in the little campagne to find thee beautiful? Was it old Pierre, or Jeanneton? Thy stupid old Mar- celline" (slily) "knew thee for what thou wert, but she was not going to put ideas for nothing into thy pretty head. And dost thou not remember how the smart young officers, with the little waists, used to turn their heads when thouwent'st by? And" (conclusively) "if he had not found thee beautiful, why did Sir Ghi follow thee and want to paint thee?" Dolores is silent. Her first meeting with Sir Guy is always rather a sore subject. Poor Marcelline rattles on : "And if thou hadst not been beautiful, wouldst thou 30 350 DOLORES. now be going to be a great lady, and mistress of this fine chateau ? Ah, if thy mamma, poor lady ! had lived, how proud would she have been !" Dolores shakes her head. "I do not think she would have cared; she did not love me. Tell me, Marcelline, what do you remember of her first? When did you come to us? I don't think I ever heard. Sit down here, and tell me." "There is nothing to tell" (with a shrug). "I used to live with my brother and his wife ah ! mon Dieu ! what a temper that woman had 1 It was five miles from Rouen. I used to carry eggs and butter into the market, and one day I heard that a young lady with a little child had taken one of the campagnes on the hill, and wanted a servant. I thought I would go and see about it, for I had been bonne to some children before, and I could no longer bear the tongue of my belle-s&ur, so I went to the campagne, and engaged with Madame ; and when I went back home and told Adeline, was she furious?" Marcelline chuckles still at the remembrance. " But my mother was she young?" "Yes, she was young, and had been beautiful also, though not like Mademoiselle, but she looked as if she had wept her eyes away. There were great hollow rings round them, and already gray hairs were coming thick among the black ones. She made me miserable only to see her; but thou wert such a merry, pretty little infant, not three years old, I loved thee at once, and so I con- sented to go. But, poor lady ! I never saw any one so unhappy. She wore deep black for Monsieur thy father, I suppose, and she never spoke, and scarcely ate, and at night I could hear her sob and cry, until I could have cried also to hear her." "Poor mamma!" utters Dolores, softly. DOUBT. 35* " Yes, indeed, poor lady ! Although I could not help wondering always how, when she had a little angel like thee, she did not console herself. Sometimes for days she would not ask for nor see thee ; and as the years went on she ceased to weep and cry, but then she became quite cold and severe, and I grew to feel afraid of her. The good God did well to take her, poor lady!" " Why are people allowed to be so miserable, I won- der?" says Dolores, thoughtfully. " Ah ! that is what only the bon Dieu knows ; but thou must thank him for having made thee so happy, my little angel. Now sleep, and dream of all the happiness that waits for thee when thou wakest." The days pass swiftly and so happily. Dolores has her lover all to herself now. He is teaching her to ride. She is not endowed with a courageous soul, but with him at her bridle-rein she never feels afraid. And those delicious canters over the lovely downs bring the roses to her fair face, and the rippling laughter of enjoyment to her lips, and she cannot help saying, half a dozen times in the day, "Oh, how happy I am!" He drives her about the country on his coach, takes her round his farms, and introduces her to his tenants, and upon every face he reads admiration and sympathy with his choice. It is not that Dolores is a regular beauty there is nothing stately or commanding or statuesque about her it is the bright beauty of youth and coloring, and a winning, childish expression, that inspires every one with a desire to protect and make much of her. She behaves to the farmers' wives just as she would to Lady Heronmere, with a natural, easy grace, and a certain deference she is used to pay her elders. Guy is happier than he has been for many a long day ; he has resolutely banished all thought of any other 353 DOLORES. woman, and is only anxious now for the wedding to be over, that he may carry off his lovely little bride to Norway. Lady Wentworth has become wonderfully fond of Dolores ; all her prejudices have vanished before the girl's sweet manners; it pleases her, usually undemon- strative though she is, to lavish kindness and caresses upon her, which Dolores, who has never known a mother's ten- derness, eagerly reciprocates. So everything is rose-color; the sky is blue and un- clouded, and for once it seems as though one mortal at least was permitted to taste pure felicity. Thirteen happy days without one shadow of pain or vexation to alloy their sweetness. But the thirteenth is the last. On the evening of it Guy gets a telegram, announcing the seizure of his father's only brother with a fit, and sum- moning him at once to London. So there is a sudden ending to the bliss. No sleep visits Dolores's eyes that night ; her heart is heavy, and full of forebodings ; Guy has gone, with the promise of a speedy return, but she feels almost as sad as if he had gone forever. Mr. Went- worth was not expected to live many hours ; if he died, the marriage would have to be postponed; but the thought which hurts her most is that Guy is near Milly. She has felt, during the last three weeks, that she has been gaining an ascendency over him, that he is becom- ing more attached to her every day, and now a sort of presentiment comes across her that she will lose all the ground she has gained, and he will succumb once more to the old fascination. She suffers agonies of jealousy ; her whole heart and soul are so bound up in Guy, the idea of his preferring another woman to her, although she can never be his, tortures her cruelly, and she cries tears of impotent anguish, and stifles her sobs in the pillows, that Marcelline may not hear them. When DOUBT. 353 that faithful creature comes to her in the morning, she is horror-stricken at the white cheeks and swollen lids. " Tiens ! tiens /" she says, almost angrily; "but could one have believed such foolishness ! Here is Sir Ghi, just gone for a day to the bedside of a rich uncle, who will perhaps die and leave him more money, and Made- moiselle must make herself look like a ghost with weep- ing ! But it is ridiculous ! ' At which Dolores begins to cry again. "Ft done, mademoiselle !" continues Marcelline, think- ing a little judicious scolding the proper remedy for this imaginary grief. " What will Milady say, and all the ser- vants ? They will laugh at you. But for shame ! When I was a girl I would not have let people think I cared so much for any man. It is impossible that you go down to breakfast with such eyes, though, when you do not appear every one will know just the same what ails you. Come, I shall fetch you some coffee, and you shall well bathe your eyes, and rub your face hard, to make a little color come into it." So, between coaxing and scolding, Marcelline at last gets her young mistress dressed, and sends her into Lady Wentworth's sitting-room. That kind-hearted lady starts up in genuine concern at sight of Dolores's pale face. " My love," she says, drawing her to the sofa, and kiss- ing her affectionately, "you must not take this so seri- ously. Please God, my poor brother may get over this attack ; but in any case Guy will be down again very soon. You must try to put up with a stupid old woman for a few days ; it will be all the pleasanter when he comes back, you know." "Oh, indeed, it is not that," answers the child, pite- ously, trying to restrain her tears. "I am very, very X 30* 354 DOLORES. happy with you, dear Lady Wentworth. I am very silly, I know, but somehow I cannot tell why I feel as if some great misfortune were going to befall me as if as if I should lose him." Here she fairly breaks down. "But, my love" (soothingly), "that is giving way wrongly. What should happen to him ? how could you lose him ? It is only a little nervousness, that you must make an effort to conquer. You know, if you had been married to him, he would have been obliged to leave you just the same on an occasion like this." "It is a presentiment," murmurs Dolores. " Oh ! I have had dozens of presentiments that never came to anything," answers the elder lady, cheerily. "When we love any one very much, we are so fearful of losing them that we try to stave off misfortune by antici- pating it." Meanwhile, Guy is in London. On arriving at the hotel on the previous evening, he had found his uncle uncon- scious, and in a very critical state. The faithful old ser- vant, the only person with Mr. Wentworth, told Guy, with tears in his eyes, of the sudden seizure of his master, and the opinion given by the physician who had been called in. " Of course the first thing I thought of, as soon as I could turn around, was to send off for you, Sir Guy, and glad I am you're here, for I feel quite dazed and stupid, and as if I did not know what to do or think of next. My poor, dear master, as hale and hearty a looking gentleman as any in the country. I sent to the captain, but he was gone to the races ; but Mrs. Charteris came at once, and she would have more advice, and stopped and heard what the physicians had to say ; and the first thing she asked was if you'd been sent for. And says she, ' Beg Sir Guy to come to me as soon as he arrives. ' For you know, Sir DOUBT. 355 Guy, she was very fond of my poor master, and so was he fond of her." Guy had not intended going to Milly's house at all events, that night ; but when her message is given to him, he does not think twice about complying with it. So, after he has seen the family physician, he goes to her at once. It is nearly nine, but she has waited dinner for him, and they sit down to a very melancholy tete-a-tete. Guy is devoted to his uncle, who has been a second father to him; and the blow falls with all the greater force because it is so utterly unexpected. He feels it acutely ; the sight of that kind cheery face, so altered and still, has quite unnerved him ; the thought that he may never hear the kind hearty tones of that dear old voice again, fills him with a pain too deep for words. He cannot realize it ; he has never yet lost any one by death ; and there is no one except his mother whose loss he would feel so much. Ralph Wentworth had never married, and Guy had been to him as a son. There is no woman living more sympathizing in trouble than Milly, or whose sympathy is more consoling than hers. She knows so well how to cicatrize a wound, and never makes it bleed afresh. Dolores's presentiment is true enough : the old subtle influence steals over Guy as he sits talking to Milly it is to her he turns in his trouble; he has almost forgotten the pretty little girl who is to be, and who has been lately, so much a part of his life. But he remembers her when the door has closed be- tween him and Milly, and he is walking back to the hotel. " Poor little girl !" he says, with a heavy sigh. For days Mr. Wentworth lingers between life and death ; sometimes a feeble glimmering of consciousness returns to him, and his eyes seek Guy with something of recogni- tion in them ; but at last the life flickers out, and the kind 356 DOLORES, generous heart beats no more. Guy has been constantly at his bedside, and every day Milly has come to share the watch. She has felt from the first that the end is nigh, but Guy would hope against hope, and so she let him hope. The shock is great when it comes : he has never in his life felt a pain like this, for he has never lost any one he loved by death. After the funeral is over, he feels a listless disinclination to see any one or do any- thing, that is quite foreign to his active nature. He shrinks from going back to Wentworth ; the thought of love-making and marriage seems a kind of disrespect to the dead ; the only comfort he finds is in Milly's pres- ence, and he spends nearly all his time with her. CHAPTER XXXVII. LOVE AT CROSS-PURPOSES. MILLY sits alone in her boudoir ; it is a charming little room blue satin and gold, with a good deal of choice lace, old Dresden, Chelsea and Sevres china, a few lovely little cabinet pictures, some velvet-mounted miniatures, quaint vases of flowers ; her favorite books, all bound alike in blue, a couple of big curious old china dragons by the fireplace, and a hundred other nicknackeries which are the delight of a woman's eyes. They are to her what guns, pistols, foils, whips, heads and brushes, antlers, gloves, pipes, swords, polished hoofs, tobacco-pouches, fishing-rods, cricket-bats, prints of celebrated horses and dogs, are to man a sportsman bien entendu, Milly is at her writing-table, pen in hand, but the paper is blank be- LOVE AT CKOSS-PURPOSES. 357 fore her, and she is evidently in a brown study. She is thinking how hollow life is, and how little pleasure there is to be got out of it. She has told herself this often enough before, has predicted and been sure that she is not destined to be happy, and yet she has gone on hoping against hope, as we all do, though we have been disap- pointed ever so many times. "It is my own fault," she tells herself; " I expect too much : many fortunate things have happened to me in my life, and I ought to be grate- ful, make the best of what I have, and let it content me. When I look round and see the misery, the want, the sickness and suffering about me, even at my very doors, I am well and strong, and rich comparatively. I have no affliction nor deformity, no bodily ailment, no great mental anxiety, and yet God knows whether I am a happy woman ! Oh, these little daily carking cares, that sap out love, life, youth, so slowly and surely ! I used to have tact, they said ; I have now in the common affairs of the world, but none where I most want it. And it is no use talking to myself, I know it all just as well as Tantalus knew where the water was he could never reach. I bore Adrian, that is the plain truth ; my love for him is a nuisance it an- noys him. I, who would give life, fortune, everything I have, to make him happy! I know quite well what I ought to do. I ought to let him come and go as he pleases, to be as free as before he married me ; to ask no questions, never to resent his absence or insist on his company ; to look pleasant and cheery when he comes home, and to amuse him. I used to be able to amuse men ; I had the reputation of being agreeable and having plenty to say. Even now men seem to care to talk to me, but somehow when Adrian and I are alone together we are almost al- ways silent ; I feel angry with him for something he has done or left undone, and if he sees I am annoyed, he 358 DOLORES. takes the paper or a book and reads on without speaking a word to me. Oh, if he would only once say to me, 'Don't be angry, Milly, I did not mean to vex you,' or speak kindly, what would I not forgive him ! What do I ask more than to be happy, and to love him with all my heart, and never to have a harsh word with him !" The tears come into her eyes, and a sob chokes her. "Why cannot I be sensible? Why do I feel angry, and bitter, and jealous, when I see him talking to other women, and looking into their eyes as if he adored them ? I know it is only his manner. He never really" (sighing) " cared for any one in his life ; but it makes me feel un- utterably miserable, and I cannot help showing him that I am angry. I shall make him hate me soon." There comes a knock at the door. "May I come in?" asks Guy's voice, and he enters, not looking much less unhappy than Milly. It is four days since the funeral has taken place, and after the first greeting is over she says, looking rather fix- edly at him, "Guy, when are you going back to Wentworth?" He moves a little uneasily in his chair, drums with a paper-knife on a book, gives various signs of disquietude of mind, and then answers, abruptly, "Upon my soul, I don't know." "Why not to-day?" "To-day!" starting; then, in a piqued tone, "Do I bore you very much?" "You know it is not that" (quietly) j "but don't you think your duty is more there than here?" "Perhaps; but" (hotly) "how can I think for a mo- ment of my own pleasure and gratification, or of laughing and love-making, when that dear old man is hardly cold in his grave?" LOVE AT CKOSS-PIWPOSES. 359 Milly looks at him sorrowfully. She is thinking that, if he loved the girl he was going to marry, his first thought would be to go to her to fill the void that his uncle's death had made in his heart. "Don't you think," she says, very softly, "that your first duty, now you can do no more for the dead, is to the living? You know how sensitive Dolores is, and how deeply attached to you : don't you think that all this time she is suffering cruelly from your absence, especially now that there is nothing to detain you here any longer?" Milly is fond of Guy ; she likes to have him with her ; but she has a strong sense of right, and a great compassion for any other woman who loves more than she is beloved ; and although she does not in her heart care very much for Dolores, she would be the first to support her cause and persuade Guy back to her. Guy rises irritably from his chair, and walks up and down. At last he seats himself again facing Milly. "I ought not to say it," he begins, in a low voice, looking and feeling uncomfortable, and ashamed of him- self "I could not say it to any one else, but I feel the want of some one to speak to so intensely, and there is no one but you I could or would trust. You know, before this happened, when I was down at Wentworth, I was getting quite reconciled to the idea, and really fond of her, poor little girl ! but now I don't know what pos- sesses me I feel a horror of going back. I'll tell you what it is, Milly I can tell you, because you know the whole story, and therefore won't think me a conceited ass, or believe I am deceiving myself. I assure you it makes me positively unhappy to see how fond that poor little thing has grown of me. I look upon it as a kind of infatuation, and some day I'm afraid she will wake up from it, and see me as I am, and be horribly disappointed 360 DOLORES. in me. I am positively afraid to go back now. I have a sort of idea she will look unhappy, and I shall seem cold and changed to her, and the very effort that I shall have to make to seem fond enough to satisfy her will, I know, convince her all the more that I do not care for her as I ought. She is so quick, she seems to read my thoughts by instinct. Oh!" (with a groan) "why did I ever go back to Paris ?' ' " How perverse you men are !" says Milly, thoughtfully. " Why can't you take the goods the gods provide, and be thankful ? Dolores is very pretty, and devoted to you ; many a man might envy you." "Yes, I know, and don't think badly of me for speak- ing of things to you that, as a man of honor, I should never breathe even to myself; but I tell you truthfully that my fear and reluctance are infinitely more for her sake than my own. This life is so new to her ; of course it seems fair enough now, but when she has got used to it, and I don't satisfy her, or she finds I am not what she fan- cies me and God knows I am not ! shall we not wake up one morning and find ourselves both wretched ?" "Nonsense!" (cheerfully). "When you are once married you will be devoted to her, and very proud of her, and " (looking at him kindly) " I think it very improba- ble that she will see cause, at any future time, to change her opinion of you." " Please God she may not !" (devoutly). " But, any- how, Milly, all our plans are altered now, and the marriage cannot take place the end of this month, as it was fixed." "No" (thoughtfully); but in two months' time, perhaps." " That would be August a horrid month for traveling; and this year I've made up my mind to shoot, the first of LOVE AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 361 September. We were to have had a large party, but, of course, all that is knocked on the head now. I'll tell you what I have been thinking of. You know, I meant to have taken Dolores to Norway in the yacht. That cannot be now ; but I cannot stand three months' pottering about in the country at this time of year, with nothing to do. I shall get one or two fellows to go with me, and start for Norway as soon as possible ; come back in August, shoot for the first fortnight in September, get quietly married, go away for a month, and come back the end of October, to shoot pheasants. Yes" (resolutely), "that will be the best plan." "And Dolores ! Do you forget how unhappy she will be if you go away for so long?" "She would be more unhappy if I stayed. I don't know what's come to me. I used to be pretty good-tem- pered ; but of late I've grown so restless and irritable I'm constantly obliged to put a restraint on myself, for fear of letting out at somebody." " I am glad to hear some one besides myself feels that," answers Milly, laughing. The door opens, and admits Adrian. "What, still in town, Guy?" he asks, raising his eye- brows. " I tell him he ought to be back at Wentworth," Milly interposes, "and he means to go this afternoon: don't you, Guy?" looking at him. " I can't, very well," he answers. " I must run down and have a look at the yacht, and see Mason, if I mean to start in a fortnight." " Why, where are you off to?" " Norway." "By Jove ! I've a great mind to go with you." "Do," says Guy, and, the moment after, is sorry, as he Q 31 362 DOLORES. looks up and sees the liveliest agitation depicted in Milly's expressive face. "You are not serious, Adrian?" she says, her lips quivering ; " you would not really go ?" " Indeed I will ; I am getting sick of London, and I haven't been to Norway for three seasons." "I cannot really spare you," she says, forcing a smile, but in a voice that expresses her meaning clearly enough. Guy longs to say to her, "You must come too," but the impossibility of it flashes across him in time. What 1 shut himself up in the small compass of a yacht with the woman whom he has been striving his hardest to forget ! take her, and leave Dolores in England, devoured with jealous pain ! "Oh, you will amuse yourself charmingly, I don't doubt," answers Adrian, coolly. "You have lots of friends, to take you about, and, as you know, absence makes the heart grow fonder." "Mine has no need of absence," she answers, proudly, yet with a certain tremor in her voice; "and and although I think you are only jesting do not say any more about it, Adrian" (pleadingly) : "I could not bear you to go." "Really, this is worthy of a very gushing young bride!" he answers, laughing, but with a touch of sar- casm that wounds her to the quick. The hot blood mounts to her cheek, and she walks to her escritoire and pretends to turn over some papers. Guy suffers acutely for her sake, but he does not know quite what to say. "Married men have no business to leave their wives," he remarks, at last, wishing to break an awkward pause. " Perhaps you may feel differently on the subject by this time next year," retorts Adrian, with a curl of his LOVE AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 363 handsome mouth. "Indeed, I think you are showing great signs of defection already, though you are supposed to be at the most stirring period of the whole transaction. Of course, my dear fellow, if you haven't room for me, I won't force my company upon you. Effingham goes next week, and is looking out for a fourth man to make up his party." "Oh, I have plenty of room" (coldly), "and if you go, you can go with me, of course !" " Why not take Milly and Dolores too?" asks Adrian, a little maliciously. "Milly is a first-rate sailor, and Dolores was all right crossing the Channel, which is a good test." There is silence after this proposition. Milly is strug- gling with herself. She would dearly like to go, for any- thing in the world seems preferable to being parted from Adrian, and, moreover, she loves yachting ; but she knows she would be acting against her own conscience to go, even if Guy pressed it, which he does not seem inclined to do. She pretends not to have heard. Guy does the same. "You don't seem very keen about it," says Adrian, presently, with a laugh. "After all, I think women are rather de trap on a yacht, particularly if we should happen to have a little rough weather." Guy, still silent, rises. " If you make up your mind to go, let me know in good time," he says, after having wished Milly good -by. "I will come down with you," she says ; and when they had descended the stairs, she motions him into the dining- room. Then her whole face changes, and she says, with such eagerness, as she lays her hand on his arm, " Oh, Guy, don't take him with you ! I cannot bear to part from him ! I know it is foolish, but the anxiety 364 DOLORES. of feeling he was at sea, and might be drowned, would half kill me." "He won't get drowned," responds Guy, grimly, thinking in his heart that his brother's life is of too little value to be easily lost; and then, conquering his momentary bitterness, he says, very gently, "I do not think he is serious. If he is, I will do my utmost to dissuade him ; but if he goes, you may trust to me to see that no harm comes to him." And, once more pressing her hand, he goes. And as he wends his way back to his hotel, this fine handsome young man, with so much to make life pleasant and enviable, is thinking what a sorry business the whole thing is, after all, and that it might be well to be out of it and lying in six feet of earth, like his uncle. He is impatient of the perverseness of fate, and he hates to suffer, but there is one thing he hates worse, and that is to see Milly suffer. That Adrian should wound her through her very love for him seems unbearable, odious; he forgets that he is making Dolores suffer from the same cause. For a moment he thinks of giving up going to Norway altogether, but only for a moment ; he cannot face the idea of three months more at Wentworth, with nothing else to do than to make reluctant love. And he knows Adrian too well to think he would allow himself to be thwarted if he had once made up his mind to go. So it is decided ; he makes his arrangements, and the following day returns to Wentworth. It is not, certainly, with the joyous haste and ardor of love that he wends his way homewards this May evening ; he feels oppressed nay, he even shrinks from the thought of meeting Dolores. This very day, on his way through London, he has found a letter from his mother, and although, like a prudent woman, she expresses herself very guardedly, it is quite LOVE AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 365 evident she thinks he is not behaving to Dolores in a very kind or lover-like way. He knows and feels it acutely himself, and this very consciousness makes him shrink from meeting her. It is with no light heart that he drives up to the door, and, throwing the reins to the groom, walks slowly to his mother's room. He expects to find both ladies there supporting each other in their reproachful glances and demeanor; he is not sure that Dolores will not burst into a flood of tears, which will make the position doubly difficult. He sets his lips, and his face is sterner than usual as he opens the door of his mother's room. She is there alone, and as he goes towards her she smiles at him, in the pleasantest, kindest way in the world, and tells him how glad she is to see him back. Not a word of reproach ; she does not even mention Dolores, but speaks of his uncle, and asks many ques- tions; and this talk engrosses them until the dressing- bell rings. "Where is Dolores, mother?" he asks then. "She ran away when she heard the sound of wheels; very likely she thought we might want to talk of your poor uncle, and was afraid of being de trop. Go and dress now; she will be sure to be in the drawing-room when you come down." Guy does not hurry himself particularly, but still he is down before the second bell rings. The drawing-room, however, is empty. Lady Wentworth only comes in just as dinner is announced, but Dolores is still not there. A moment after she enters. The butler is at the door ; there can be only a formal salutation between them. She is all in white, and looks very fair too pale, perhaps, and her eyes look larger and darker than usual. She offers a small cold hand to Guy, as though he were a stranger; 31* 366 DOLORES. her face betrays no reproach nor resentment ; she behaves to him exactly as though he were some new acquaintance. At first he is a little relieved by this reception, but, man- like, when it continues, he begins to be nettled by her indifference, and his own manner becomes warmer and more tender. He cannot help admiring her she looks so lovely; and it somewhat chafes him that he cannot win her eyes to his, or extract from her one of those soft, loving looks she has been wont to shower upon him. There is no stiffness in her manner, no apparent intention of avoiding him she behaves as a woman naturally would to a man who was a friend and had no other claim upon her. Lady Wentworth, remarking the state of affairs, is secretly pleased. She gives Dolores credit for a tact which she had not expected from her, and thinks Guy amply deserves the punishment that is being inflicted upon him. " I shall make an excuse for leaving them together after dinner," she says to herself. " They will be sure to make it up then." "By the way," she asks her son, "did I tell you that Heronmere had been down for a couple of days during your absence ?" "No," Guy answers, coldly, not feeling particularly pleased. "It was so pleasant," Dolores says, kindling for the first time into warmth ; "and we rode and walked together, and he made us laugh ; did he not, Lady Wentworth?" "Yes. I never saw a boy so improved," answers my lady; "and he is coming down again very soon." "He does not seem at all bashful," says Guy, stiffly. " I think he might wait until he is asked." He is beginning to wonder whether the change in Dolores's manner is in any way connected with his cousin's visit. LOVE AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 367 "Do you not remember," interrupts Dolores, quickly, " how he asked you if he might still come here as usual, and you laughed, and said, 'Certainly?' " "Men don't usually time their visits when they know the master of the house is absent," retorts Guy. "He did not know it; he was quite surprised to find you were not here." At this juncture Lady Wentworth rises. As Dolores passes Guy at the door, he stretches out hio hand to take hers, but she either does not or will not see it, and walks quietly out after his mother. He feels rather provoked, but his love receives a decided stimulus, and a very short time elapses before he joins the ladies in the drawing-room. Dolores is there alone, but intrenched behind a small table with a large piece of work. Guy has pictured to himself how he will go and take her in his arms and make his peace; but it is not very easy to carry out this idea; and, moreover, there is something in her manner that makes him rather afraid to hazard the experiment. He goes up to the table where she is at work, and stands looking at her for a few moments, but she is apparently unaware of his presence, and immensely engrossed in her work. "Dolores" (reproachfully), "aren't you glad to see me again?" "Oh, yes" (indifferently, not looking up). "You have not even said how d'you do to me yet." "How do you do?" "I don't mean in words" (smiling, if a little vexed); "won't you say it in my way?" And he tries to take the little hand that is plying the needle busily. "Please don't hinder me" (coldly). "I want very much to finish this to-night." "Nonsense" (moving the table a little away with his 368 DOLORES. foot). "May I not come and sit beside you?" (plead- ingly). " This is the most comfortable sofa in the room." " I shall be very happy to give it up to you." " Oh, no, I should not like it then" (getting nearer and taking her hand). She pulls it sharply from him, but he will not be thwarted and takes it with gentle force, while he essays to draw her to him with the other hand. But she pulls herself sharply from him, and with great hauteur says, " Do you wish to compel me to join your mother, Sir Guy?" The young man is quite taken aback : he is utterly un- prepared for this mode of attack, but, if it is premeditated, it is certainly very effective. "My darling," he says reproachfully, "why are you so unkind? what have I done to offend you?" "I am not offended." "Then why is your manner so changed towards me?" Silence. "Is it" (with rather a guilty conscience) "is it be- cause you think I ought to have returned sooner ? Indeed, I assure you " She looks up at him for the first time, and there is a very unusual touch of scorn in her eyes and voice as she says, " I asked you for no explanation or excuse, Sir Guy. You need not give me a false reason for your stopping in London, when I know the real one." He feels more guilty still, and is anxious to excuse him- self j so, as usual in such cases, he tells half the truth, trying to persuade himself and her that it is the whole truth. "You know, dear" (gravely), "I was very much at- tached to my poor uncle, and I could not help feeling as LOVE AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 369 if it would be a kind of disrespect to his memory to to be happy, and thinking of love and marriage, while he was hardly cold in his grave." "Ah !" drawing a quick breath ; then, laying her work down in her lap, and regarding him with a fixed, steady gaze " Should you mind telling me where you spent your evenings in London?" It is a very rare thing for Guy to shrink from meeting the eyes of man or woman, but at this moment he is hardly inclined to return the steady gaze that he feels upon him. Dissimulation is not in his nature. He takes a book from the table, and answers, somewhat defiantly, while he turns over the leaves, " There is only one house in London I should be likely to go to at such a time." " Your sister-in-law's?" (with aquivering lip and flash- ing eyes.) "My brother's" he replies, with emphasis. Silence again, interrupted only by the sharp, hurried click of Dolores's needle. Presently Guy lays down the book, and turns to contemplation of her. His feelings are of a mixed nature ; indeed, he would be puzzled to ana- lyze them himself. His first perception is, man-like, that she is very fair, and, now that he is with her, eminently lovable ; not to be loved, certainly, with the deep, strong, lasting passion that that some women inspire, but with a tender, kindly, protecting feeling that has its charm ; secondly, he feels guilty towards her, and wishes to atone for his neglect ; and thirdly, he is a little indignant that she should question his actions so sharply, and seem to ask an account of them. But most of all his feeling towards her is that of indulgence and compassion ; so it is not long before he speaks again to her in a caressing voice. " I think, little one, you are hardly kind to me. I have Y 370 DOLORES. been more unhappy than I can tell you, and I thought at least to have had your sympathy. ' ' "You did not want my sympathy," she retorts quickly ; " you never thought of coming to me for it ; you went, as every one goes, to the person they love most for that." He is about to interrupt her, but she continues, with a flushed face and passionate voice "Do you know to whom I should turn first, if any trouble came to me ? do you know who could console me for any grief or trouble in the world ? Oh, yes, you know quite well, and that is why you care so little." The tears course down her cheeks. This time Guy will not be denied, and takes strong possession of the tremb- ling little frame, and, whether she will or not, kisses the tears off her face. So, for a few moments she submits, and lays her head on his shoulder, and tastes once more the happiness of feeling his strong arms about her. But this is not the programme that she has mapped out to her- self throughout all those bitter days and sleepless nights, and presently, with a heavy sigh, she conquers her strong desire to lay still and rest, and fight no more against her love, and, disengaging herself resolutely from his embrace, she walks away, then returns, and stands before him. He sees that her anger is not appeased, and so prepares to hear it flow forth in bitter words, and to combat it only with kindness. She tries to speak calmly, but the quiver- ing of her lips and throat makes her words hardly intel- ligible. "I cannot go on suffering to love very much is to suffer my heart breaks with it I am tortured always I have waited until you returned I would not vex or com- plain to your mother, who is so good ; but let me go away I can bear no more." Guy sighs heavily. In this moment he sees before him, LOVE AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 371 and before her too, a vista of wretchedness, of perpetual reproach and recrimination. He has been prepared to take her to his heart and home, because she has loved him and suffered for his sake ; but he is not prepared to take her as a hard taskmaster, who can call him to account for every word and action of his future life. From a sense of honor, and for pity's sake, he has been ready to sacri- fice all to her, and is she to exact from him as much as though their positions were entirely reversed? He is touched with pity by her tears and sobbing voice, but he knows a time will come when they will bring only weari- ness and disgust. How shall he find words kind and tender enough to warn her of the misery she is preparing for them, without adding to her present bitterness ? He scarcely notices her words ; not in the very least does he take her threat of going away in a literal sense where should she go ? So, after a silence of a few moments, he says to her, in a very grave, sad voice, " Child, I don't suppose you dream for a moment what misery you are preparing for both of us. If a husband and wife have no confidence in each other, nothing but wretchedness can ensue. My first desire has been, and always will be, to make you happy ; but if you mean to make my life wretched with constant and unjust reproaches, God help us both !" He has never spoken sternly to her before, and she looks at him with frightened eyes ; but she has a fixed purpose in her head, which has grown out of the painful days since he left her. "You need not fear" (with a trembling voice); "I shall reproach you no more, for I shall not have any right." " Why do you talk like this ?" (a little wearily). " You will always have the right, if you choose to consider it a 372 DOLORES. right, to embitter the life of a man whose only desire is to make you happy." "Yes, I know you have been kind most kind." Guy is about to interrupt her, but she makes a gesture, and continues : " I have known it from the first. Do not think I was ever deceived. It was pity made you ask me to be your wife, and it was kind and noble of you ; but you never have once loved me. I wearied you always ; you regretted it always sometimes more, sometimes less ; and I know not why, but it was so dear to me to be with you, to see you, and to feel that I should belong to you and never part from you any more, I tried to blind my- self, and, oh" (clasping her hands tight), " that time here before you went to London was like heaven, happier than any other heaven I could fancy, for I thought you were growing to care a little for me, to be glad to be with me." "And so I was, darling so I do," cries the young man, infinitely touched. "No" (decisively, recoiling from him). "When you went away, when you saw her, the little you had begun to care for me ceased. I knew by your short letters, by your long silences, that it wearied you to think of me, that I had become a burden to you. And I tell you" (with kindling cheeks) "that all the misery I ever felt in Rouen was oh, not to be compared with what I have felt in this house ; and that all the joy and happiness I have had here could not repay me for it, or blot it out of my mind. You say I am making misery for us both it is true ; but I will make it no more ; and your misery what would that be to mine ? Only one you love very much could make you so miserable she might I could not." "For God's sake, child," cries Guy, deeply shocked, LOVE AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 373 " do not talk like this ! Do you remember that you are speaking of my brother's wife? I cannot conceive what has put this delusion into your head ; but, if you value my love or esteem, I beg you never to hint at it again." Dolores colors deeply at his reproof, but she replies, looking him full in the face, "Will you swear that you do not love her? yes, love her in the way that I love you?" It is his turn to redden, but he strives to hide what he feels under the cover of anger. "Whatever I may have felt for my brother's wife be- fore her marriage, her engagement to him I trust you will give me credit for a stronger sense of honor than to cherish feelings that would be as displeasing to her as dishonorable to myself." "But can you help it?" says the girl, sorrowfully. "Which is stronger love or honor? And would one love when it only brings pain, if one could help it?" He is silent, wondering that this child should be thus learned in the lore of love and suffering. Presently he says, rousing himself, " My dear child, I entreat you to put all these foolish thoughts out of your head, and let us be happy together. I am sure you can make me happy, and I will do my best to make you so." " No," she answers, shaking her head. And at thia moment Lady Wentworth enters the room. 374 DOLORES. CHAPTER XXXVIII. MILLY PLEADS. WHEN Guy has left her, Mflly does not return to the room where Adrian is, nor does she on that day recur to the subject of Norway. She is quite conscious that her best plan is to let the idea wear itself out ; but her anx- iety is so great that the following day she determines to know the worst. Nothing is to be gained by opposition. She is bent on winning her way by fair means. It seems hard that she, who has been so spoiled, whose lightest wish has been law to so many, should have to entreat and implore now hardest of all because the entreaty is to a man not to leave her. She who has always been called so charming, the pleasantest company in the world ! it is bitter to find how few charms her society has for the one man whom she cares to please. But to-night she is bent on conquest. She attires her- self in a dress her lord has been pleased to admire. More important still, she orders the dishes that he likes best for his dinner, exerts herself to the utmost to amuse him while he dines, and finally herself lights his cigar, and seats herself at his feet while he enjoys it. Her loving little artifices are rewarded by success. Her sultan is in charming humor, compliments her on her looks, and strokes her dark hair caressingly. This is the moment to broach the subject, and her heart beats fast as she begins. "I wonder what put it into Guy's head to go off to Norway ?' ' MILL Y PLEADS. 375 " Bored at Wentworth, I suppose. It is a horrid bore to be kicking one's heels about a country-house in the summer months. Deuced unlucky for that poor little girl, the old man going off just now ! I shouldn't wonder, Milly, if your ruse succeeds, and he does not marry her at all. You are a tremendously clever woman" (ad- miringly). The blood rushes to Milly's face. " Oh, Adrian, do not say that ! I was not serious. Guy is far too honorable to think of drawing back now." "But you thought it might happen if he only had time enough," persists Adrian. "And I don't think it would be half a bad thing for her if he did give her up. I am morally certain that Heronmere would marry her to- morrow, with or without his mother's consent, as the case might be. I saw him a few days ago. He had just come up from Wentworth, and was evidently in a very hope- less state, abusing Guy tremendously, and declaring he was not worthy of such a prize. You know, Milly, it's deuced odd how that little girl takes with everybody, and how they all seem to forget the doubtful nature of her antecedents." "I wish," says Milly, thoughtfully, "that she would take a fancy to Lord Heronmere. I do not think either she or Guy will be particularly happy if they marry." "The fact is, Milly," utters Adrian, with his languid smile, " you would rather any body married any one than Guy ; you want to keep him all to yourself. It's rather a good thing for you both that I am not of a jealous dis- position." She looks up at him with a radiant face, her beautiful eyes eloquent with love. "I wish you were jealous," she says, putting her hand in his; "I wish vou would forbid me ever to look at a 376 DOLORES. man again, that I might show you how much I love you, and how utterly indifferent I am to every other man in the world." "A likely story," he retorts, laughing. "But, Adrian," returning to her subject, "when you talked of going to Norway with Guy, you were only laugh- ing, were you?" (caressingly). " Indeed, I was perfectly serious. I am getting fright- fully bored here, and I have a sort of fancy to sit in a boat and haul in big salmon again, and to see the water swirling about the rocks, and to go to bed by daylight at midnight." "But" (her voice trembling a little) "you have told me, over and over again, how you hate the whole thing the dull old Norse towns, and the general discomfort jolting about in carrioles, and living on preserved meats, in a log house, with bare boards. And how bored you will be in the evenings, with no one to play cards with!" " Oh, I shall ask Thorneycroft to go; Guy won't mind. He and I are pretty even at ecarti ; and very likely I shall sleep all day and fish all night." " I thought you were so devoted to London ! You used to say it was the only place in the world, except in the shooting and hunting season." "I used to think so" (leisurely puffing the smoke in wreaths above Milly's head); "but, although you are a very charming woman, and all that sort of thing, you must think that London doesn't present quite so many charms to a man once he gets married. This time last year" (sighing) "I found it pleasant enough." He does not intend it, but his words wound Milly to the quick. She turns away, to conceal the tears that spring to her eyes. She sees, moreover, that he has made MILLY PLEADS. 377 up his mind to go, and there is but one resource left ; she has hardly much faith in it. "Adrian," she says, putting both her arms round his neck, and speaking in a tone of utter entreaty, "my dar- ling, I beseech you don't go; it will break my heart. If you care the least bit in the world for me, don't go ; or, if you want change, take me with you, and I will go any- where in the world you like." Adrian abhors a scene. He hates anything that disturbs his comfort; so he turns from his wife's embrace, and says, rather coldly, "I don't think your suggestion is a very practical one. If I went to Norway at my own expense, and took you, it would cost a fortune ; and now I can go in Guy's yacht, without any trouble or expense at all. And, as I only propose being away a month or six weeks, I really do not see what objection you have to make." "I should be miserable all the time," sobs Milly. "I should think you were drowned, or something had hap- pened to you." " Well" (with a not very pleasant laugh), " you would soon console yourself with a third, no doubt ; you were very fond of your first husband, I have heard, but you seemed extremely cheerful and happy when I met you." Milly is deeply angered. She starts to her feet, and says, with flashing eyes, " You are cruel and unmanly ! You have no right to leave me. Why did you marry me, if you meant to make me wretched?" " Indeed" (with a sneering smile), "I don't know why I did. If I had my time over again, I would not, if you had three times " "the money," he was going to add, but a certain small instinct of gentlemanlike feeling makes him pause. 32* 378 DOLORES. But there is no need for him to finish the sentence Milly knows the words that were on his lips. She looks at him for a moment as if she were turned to stone, and then, opening the door very quietly, goes out. Adrian finishes his cigar, puts on his hat, and betakes himself to a house in Curzon Street, where we have already once accompanied him. The lady who owns it is at home, and receives him with a look of unmistakable welcome. "My dear Henrietta," he says, with the smile that Milly has not seen these many days, "I am so charmed you are at home ! I was horribly afraid you would be at che opera, or dining out. Give me my own particular chair, and one of your best cigars, and a brandy and soda, and let me unburden my mind to you. Are you prepared to lend a sympathizing ear to all my woes ?' ' "Are they many?" "Yes, many and great, although only the consequences of one piece of folly." Henrietta smiles to herself. Some of her friends have not returned to her after their marriage, but more have ; this is one she knows : well, it had been only a question of time, though she hardly expected him so soon. "Why did I ever marry?" says Adrian, plaintively "or why didn't I marry you? What a charming wife you would make, Henrietta ! You would never be exact- ing, never keep a man tied to your apron -stri ng ; you would know the only way was to give him his head, and take care he never felt the curb wouldn't you?" (caressingly). Mrs. Clayton looks at him with a smile, half kind, half bitter. She is a strange, wayward woman, although she has learned, in many hard lessons, the supreme value of tact, and has practiced it for years with the greatest pos- MILL Y PLEADS. 379 sible advantage. Once, now and then, it pleases her to speak out truthfully and honestly; it is quite safe, too, for when she does no one believes her. "Did you ever hear," she says, ''that I was separated from my husband for years before he died ?" " No yes 'pon my soul I hardly remember. At all events, I am quite sure it was his fault." " You would not think so. It was just for the very reason that we were speaking of because I would not let him go anywhere without me; because I was horribly jeal- ous of him and could not bear him out of my sight ; because, in short, I loved him, and showed it in the way that women of my disposition generally do." Adrian looks at her in languid surprise, then says, with a smile and shake of the head, "Nonsense, my dear Henrietta; you are a capital actress, and you delight in surprising one ; but that sort of thing isn't your line, and never was, I'll lay a thou- sand to one." She laughs. Her momentary emotion has passed away, and she says, " At all events, I should know better now. With your sex there is but one way : if we want you to worship us, we must be quite indifferent to you ; and the worse we treat you, the better you will behave to us." "All we want is to be let alone let us go our own way, and we shall not interfere with you." "But who can let alone what they love?" asks Hen- rietta. " Love, my dear ! but there is no love in the question not, at least, as I understand it. You do all that sort of thing before you marry, and then you want to subside into a quiet, easy-going sort of life, without strong emo- tions which, by the way, always bored me and I look 380 DOLORES. upon it as a merciful dispensation of Providence when you are tolerably satisfied with the wife you've got, and don't want anybody else's, or that sort of thing, you know." "But I have not heard the grievance yet." "Ah, yes, the grievance. Well, I'm getting utterly sick of London; and Guy is going to Norway, and I mean to go with him. My wife is pleased to fancy she can't live without me, and has just treated me to a Iremendous scene. Why on earth is it part of the role of a devoted wife to be always quarreling with one? and why does she consider it part of the business to be everlastingly tacked on to one ? I should think it the greatest relief in the world to get away from each other every now and then, and forget 'the chains that gall.' " "The old story," Henrietta thinks to herself, bitterly. "Why do we waste so much love upon them, when they value it so little? I suppose because we cannot help it." But she does not speak her thoughts aloud. " I thought Guy was going to be married almost imme- diately?" " So he was ; but his uncle died, you know. Did you not see it in the paper?" " No. So that has put off the marriage ?" "I don't think he is very keen about it." "She is very pretty. He brought her to see me one day. And she is very fond of him. I am afraid it runs in the family not to value what you have." "Looks like it, doesn't it?" " But what does she say to his going to Norway?" " I haven't heard yet ; but I shall be very much sur- prised if she takes it quietly. I shouldn't wonder if she gives him up and takes Heronmere." "What would his mother say?" MILLY PLEADS. 381 "Wouldn't like it a bit, of course. But he is his own master." " And you think he would marry her?" ''Like a shot." "Life is a strange thing," remarks Mrs. Clayton, re- flectively. "But, apropos of yourself, if your wife objects so strongly to your going, shall you still go?" "Of course I shall it will simplify matters for another time. If I gave in now, I should be in bondage forever. It isn't that I care very much about it. I know I shall be horribly bored long before a month ; but I want to taste the sweets of freedom once more." " Yet every one tells me your wife is one of the most charming women in London." "I dare say" (indifferently). "Men like her; but then they're not married to her, you know. That makes such a tremendous difference. She can be amusing and pleasant, and all that, but she has the devil's own temper ; and of course no one sees that but the wretched hus- band." Mrs. Clayton feels sorry in her heart for Milly ; but it is not a part of her system to champion the wives of the men she likes. So presently she changes the subject, and they fall into all manner of pleasant chat, so that, when the clock strikes one, Adrian is loth to believe it, and rises to take his leave with reluctance. " Good -by, Henrietta," he says, kissing her hand. " I wish I had married you. Would you have had me?" "I dare say," she answers, looking up into his hand- some face, and sighing; "and have been wretched ever after!" " Not a bit of it : we should have been like turtle- doves." " We don't know what the inner life of turtle-doves 382 DOLORES. may be," she answers, laughing. " Good-night, and bon voyage, if I do not see you again before you go." "But you will. Good-night, ma chere" CHAPTER XXXIX. DOLORES RESOLVES. EXCEPT the first few days, all the time of Guy's absence Dolores has been fighting with her love for him. She is young and inexperienced, but she has strong instincts, and these tell her the bitter truth, that her love is be- stowed in vain, and that Guy is only going to marry her from pity and because he has given his word. If she ac- cepts this sacrifice, if she burdens his life with hers, will he not one day, perhaps, hate her? With her love for him is mingled a not unnatural resentment at his indiffer- ence to her. It is hard for those who are always hearing themselves praised, to feel their charms have no influence on the one of all others in whose eyes they long to seem fair. For many days and nights she has been fighting against her love trying with all her might to bring her reluctant heart to consent to the displacement of its idol. How can she willingly cut herself off from a future which has seemed like heaven to her, and in which the dearest thought has been that she will be always with him? If she gives him up, what has she to look forward to? No- thing but banishment from the new and brilliant life to which he has introduced her. She will have to give up all her new friends, and go back to the dull old life, which will be ten times duller and lonelier now she has known DOLORES RESOLVES. 383 a different one. And there will be no Philip to try to make it happier. Poor Philip ! she wonders, with a kind of awe, if he has suffered as she does, and if this is a pun- ishment on her for the pain she has inflicted on him. In the selfishness of her happiness she has thought so little of him, but now it all comes back to her. As the days go by, and Guy's letters are so few and short, she plucks up her pride. She will give him up no matter what it costs. If she dies of grief afterwards, she will not thrust herself upon a man who cares so little for her. As soon as he returns she will tell him so, and then there will be nothing left but to say good-by to his mother, who has been so kind to her, and whom she has grown to love, and to leave all these good things that were to have been hers. Somewhere, perhaps, in her se- cret heart, she has a hope that he will not really let her go, and that, when they meet again, pleasant days, like those before he left Wentworth, may come over again ; but she does not admit the hope only says resolutely to herself that all is over. And on the night of Guy's re- turn, after what has passed between them, she knows that it must be so. Lady Wentworth's entrance has prevented her telling him then what she has resolved, but there will be plenty of time on the morrow. Guy has not the very faintest inkling of her intention. He had rather expected a scene, although not such a one as had actually taken place, and he is shocked and horri- fied at her allusion to Milly. When his mother enters, he goes away into the garden, and down the terrace into the park. There, as he paces up and down, he interro- gates himself sharply. How is it possible that this child has fathomed his feelings ? Has there been anything in his conduct towards his sister-in-law, absent or present, to lead any one to the conclusion that he loves her ? If 384 DOLORES. there has been, he feels he can never forgive himself. It is true that he has been passionately in love with her, that he admires her more than any woman he has ever seen, that he would have given up everything he possessed in the world to have made her his wife, that she has an in- fluence over him still that would prevent his ever caring much for any other woman ; but he can lay his hand on his heart and say that, as his brother's wife, he has never had a dishonorable thought towards her, that he looks upon her with an unalterable respect and devotion, and that he knows her to be as far removed from him as though she were an angel in heaven. And yet this child, who, perhaps, in the innocence of her heart, does not re- alize the nature of the thing with which she taxes him so boldly, has discovered what he will not even own to him- self. He must try to conquer her jealousy, and there is only one way of doing it, he tells himself, with a sigh by keeping entirely away from Milly. It is the first time he realizes how much his sacrifice is costing him ; never- theless, it must be made, and in the end, perhaps it will be better for his own sake too. Another thought comes to trouble him. If Dolores is angered and hurt at this short absence, how will she bear the news of his going to Norway? He will get his mother to break it to her anything rather than face a scene like to-night's. When he returns to the drawing-room, his mother is there alone. "Where is Dolores?" he asks. "She has gone to bed." (After a moment's silence) " Guy, what has happened between you ? The poor child seems very much out of spirits indeed, she has lost all her roses, and I was quite concerned to see how much she took your absence to heart." "I think she is a little unreasonable," Guy answers. DOLORES RESOLVES. 385 " She ought to understand that we cannot have everything exactly one's own way in this world. Mother" (abruptly), "I am going to Norway next week." Lady Wentworth looks up in unfeigned surprise. "Are you serious, Guy?" "Perfectly" (with slight irritation). "Of course our marriage will have to be postponed, and I really cannot go on hanging about the country all the summer months with nothing to do. I propose going to Norway for a couple of months or so, coming back here to shoot partridges and pheasants, and then, about the middle of October, getting married, and going somewhere for a month, and coming back for hunting. Do you see what else I can do ?' ' "I suppose you told Dolores to-night, and that has made her unhappy?" " No, indeed, I have not mentioned it ; all her dis- pleasure concerns my recent absence, I presume. I was going to ask you to break my Norway expedition to her." Lady Wentworth looks at her son very earnestly for a minute, then away, as if irresolute ; but finally she makes up her mind to speak. "You know, Guy, when you first broached it to me, I was very much opposed to your marriage, but since I have known Dolores, and have seen her intense devotion to you, I feel differently. Poor child ! she is far too fond of you for her own peace of mind, and, knowing this, you ought to be very careful not to wound her. She is very sweet and lovable, and I must confess that she has won her way to my heart more than I should have thought it possible for a stranger to do in my old age. There are, of course, objections to the marriage, but you have gone too far to draw back, and, since she is your affianced wife, you owe her some consideration, and have no right wan- tonly to cause her unhappiness." Z 33 386 DOLORES. After this peroration, Lady Wentworth looks at Guy with some anxiety. "My dear mother," he answers, with some warmth, " there is reason in everything, and surely, because a man is engaged to marry a woman, he is not reduced to such a state of bondage as to cease entirely to be a free agent ? It surely is not well to make a tie more irksome than necessary, and I think, if you were to give a hint of the kind to Dolores, it might be a good thing for both of us." Lady Wentworth shakes her head, then, after a pause, says, "Why not marry her at the time you first proposed? only have a very quiet wedding." " No" (resolutely) ; " no one shall accuse me of slight- ing the memory of the man who was a second father to me." "Well, my dear" (with a sigh), "it must be as you choose ; but I fear Dolores will feel your absence very keenly. And I cannot help thinking it will be better for you to break it to her yourself; she would be less likely to resent it." Guy does not think so, but refrains from pressing the matter. All the next day he sees very little of Dolores; she seems to avoid him, and, to tell the truth, he rather shrinks from a tete-d,-tete with her. But after dinner, the evening being warm and beautiful, he proposes to her to go into the garden ; and she, having also something to say to him, consents. The daylight has scarcely gone yet ; there is still a faint reflex of red clouds ; the air is heavy with the scent of roses, and the nightingales are singing the prelude to their nightly concert. Far away sounds the occasional note of the cuckoo ; everything reminds one of spring. It is such a night as should make one feel DOLORES RESOLVES. 387 glad only to be alive. Guy passes the girl's hand through his arm, and they walk together across the lawn, among the flowers, down to the lake, in which the moon is be- ginning to show her face. " What do you think of our English summer evenings, little Frenchwoman?" he asks her, gayly. "You have everything to make them beautiful," she answers "all your lovely trees and flowers. I dare say they are as fair in France, only I never lived in a chateau there, and cannot tell." "Would you rather live in a French chateau? I be- lieve you only look upon England as a stepmother, and France lies nearest your heart. Are you getting home- sick ? I shall have to take you to Rouen for our wedding- trip." He speaks gayly, for he wants to get her into a good humor before he breaks his disagreeable news. They have reached the water, and are looking down at the great lily- leaves clustering upon its breast. " Shall we go on the water this lovely night?" "Yes." He helps her into the boat that lies close by, looses it from its moorings, and they drift out on the broad sheet of water. On the side they have left, a smooth-shaven lawn leads down to the edge, and on the opposite one there is a great belt of trees, on which the moon is shining. Guy pulls the boat along lazily, and Dolores lies half re- clined, watching the moonlight on the rippling water. Presently he draws in the oars and comes nearer to her. It does not seem difficult to be fond of her when he is near her ; it is when he is absent that he feels a reluctance to bind himself to a future of which he feels uncertain. "What are you thinking of, little one'" he asks, gently possessing himself of one of her hands. 388 DOLORES. "I scarcely know" (with a sigh ; looking up, but not answering the smile in his face). " Perhaps I was think- ing it would be very dull and ugly and lonely at home, after the life here." " Home !" he echoes " Where is home? You have no home but this now" (very kindly). "Yes, it is my home now," she answers, looking at him steadily ; " but in a few weeks more it will not be." "No?" (with an incredulous smile). "Where will the little bird be flown?" " Back to its own nest, I suppose" (with a faint smile). "Do not talk like this any more, child," says Guy, kindly. "I do not suppose you mean it seriously, but still it pains me to hear you say such things." "No," she answers, in a quiet voice, although her heart beats thick and fast, and her face is ashy pale " no, you do not think I mean it seriously you do not suppose I would give up living all my life in a splendid house like yours, with everything everything almost one could wish for, to go back to a dull poor cottage like the home I came from ; but yet that is what I mean to do, what I came out to-night to tell you." The incredulous look has died out of Guy's face ab she speaks. He sees she is in solemn earnest. And to make such a resolve as this, he feels she must have been intensely miserable. His heart condemns him. He feels ready to make any sacrifice to atone for his neglect of her, even the very one he had been most opposed to. "My darling," he says, very earnestly, "if I have made you unhappy, if you think I have been wanting in consideration towards you, I entreat you to forgive me. But do not think that I will ever let you leave this place and go back to Rouen. Come, dearest, say you forgive me. I will give up my trip to Norway, or rather we will DOLORES RESOLVES. 389 be married at the time it was proposed, and you shall go with me." " Were you going to Norway ?" "Well" (a little confused), "I had some thoughts of it. You know there is not very much for a man to do in the country just now." Dolores feels a dull, cold pain at her heart. So he could not bear the thought of spending the summer with her, and must go to Norway to get out of sight and re- membrance of her. And now, for pity's sake again, the pity that she hates and rages against, he is offering once more to make a sacrifice for her to marry her at once, because he thinks she cannot live without him. A bitter resentment grows up in her breast. Her love is half turned to hate. She tries to speak indifferently, but her voice is bitter as she says, "Well, you shall go to Norway, and be quite happy there. I shall wish you ban voyage, and you will make the arrangements for our departure ; as you know Mar- celline and I are not much used to travel." "Dolores," cries Guy, angrily, "do you wish to put me out of all patience ? If this is a jest; it is a very bad one." "A jest" (bitterly) "a jest ! ah, yes, it is droll, is it not? a jest to make one laugh." And she gives a short, hard laugh. Guy is pained and bewildered. What is he to say to her? Shall he try anger or entreaty? Neither seems of much avail, and he reflects rather wearily that it is a bad lookout for the future. Presently he says in an authorita- tive tone, "You may be sure of one thing, and that is, that I shall not permit you to carry out what at present seems to be a very strong, but a very foolish, idea." 33* 39 DOLORES. " How can you prevent it ?' ' (defiantly). " If I choose to go, who can hinder me?" "Common sense, I should hope " (drily). "Common sense" (passionately) "yes, it is just that which makes me go; it is that which says to me, Why force yourself on a man who does not want you ? I know what I give up your fine chateau, your park, your money, your great friends, all sorts of gay pleasure ; but if I stay and take them, I give up my pride, my respect of myself, and I should break my heart with saying every day, He did not want me, he took me out of pity, he would be glad if I were dead. And some night some night like this" (looking wildly about her), "I should come down here, and throw myself in, and then you would be done with me forever." Guy looks at her in alarm he sees she is over-excited, and his one idea is to soothe her. " Do not agitate yourself so, child," he says, tenderly. " We will talk no more about it to-night ; but, at all events, promise me to say nothing to any one about this for the present. In a day or two we will talk the matter over calmly, and if we are not to be together much more, let us make the most of the time we have, and try to be happy." Then he goes back to his oars, and rows her about the lake for a long time; and as the water grows ever brighter in the moonlight, and the song of the nightin- gales sweeter, a sense of rest steals over them ; and when at last, summoned in by Lady Wentworth's anxiety, they leave the boat, and Dolores, leaning on Guy's arm, slowly ascends the lawn towards the house, all angry and troubled feelings are stilled in their breasts, and they are conscious of nothing but the supreme power and beauty of nature. DOLORES RESOLVES. 39* Guy sits up very late, smoking, and trying to think what is best to be done. He does not yet believe that Dolores really means to give him up, or, if she is in earnest about it now, that when the time comes she will have courage to go back to the old life. Time, he feels certain, will heal her fancied wounds ; and what an ab- surd thing it would be to have an esclandre and a rupture of the engagement when, in a few months, it is sure to be renewed ; for he thinks he knows Dolores too well to believe that she could ever endure a repetition of her former existence. Poor little child ! he feels most unfeignedly sorry for her no thought of anger crosses his mind. Well, there is only one thing for it to go to Norway, as he has ar- ranged, and, before going, to extract from her a promise to stay with his mother, and to let everything, to all out- ward appearance, remain between them as before. He does not realize that the surest way to win the girl back to him would be his constant presence ; on the contrary, he believes, in her present frame of mind, it only serves to irritate her; and, thinking this, he hastens his de- parture. Before going, he asks Dolores, very gravely and seri- ously, to remain with his mother during his absence, as a personal favor to himself, and not to let her suspect any alteration of their plans or feelings towards each other. Then he says, very kindly, taking both her hands in his, " If, when I return, and we have been together a little while, you feel sure that I cannot make you happy, you shall do what you think best ; but, in any case, we must always be friends, and you must look upon this as your home whenever you choose to make it so." And Dolores having so far swallowed her pride as to consent to this arrangement, he bids her good-by ten- 392 DOLORES. derly, and goes off perfectly satisfied that everything will happen as he has planned. Short-sighted mortal ! but how in the world is a man to understand the wheels within wheels that work a woman's mind ? After his departure Dolores feels relieved. She is schooling herself to forget him, which is no easy task, when every one, unconscious of what has passed between them, thinks to please her best by speaking of him. No one but our shrewd Marcelline suspects anything, and even she only says to herself, " The child has a fit of pique. It makes her feel strong just now, but it will melt, melt, melt with time. Only, if I had been Sir Guy, and had cared for the little one, I should have stayed, instead of going off in my fine boat. Oh, these men how stupid they are ! The good Lord have pity on them !" But although Marcelline has a somewhat poor opinion of the sex, she takes a certain amount of pleasure in their society, and gives herself so much pains to be agreeable to them as to become an object of disfavor in the eyes of some of the female portion of the establishment at Went- worth. There are times when she thinks that, as her young lady intends settling here, there may be advantages in also making a permanent home, and contracting ties which will give her a still stronger hold in the country. For, whatever may be her affection for France, her pros- pects there are anything but brilliant, and no one is more alive to worldly ease and comfort than Marcelline. Her attentions are divided between Mr. Hart, the head gardener, and Walkinshaw, the butler, who has lived in the family some thirty years. Now, as the housekeeper has for many years cherished the hope of becoming, joii.tly with Mr. Walkinshaw, proprietor of the " Went- worth Arms," and the lady's-maid has looked with long- DOLORES RESOLVES. 393 ing eyes at the snug cottage tenanted by Mr. Hart, it will be easily imagined that our worthy friend Marcelline finds small favor in their eyes, but is rather looked upon in the light of a foreign interloper. It happens one afternoon that Mr. Walkinshaw and Mrs. Parker are tete-a-tete in the housekeeper's room, Mrs. Simpson, the lady's-maid, having gone into the neighbor- ing town, and Marcelline being out in the grounds. A magnificent tabby cat dozes on the hearth, with one eye open to play propriety. A brisk fire burns in the grate it is a chilly day for June ; a large plate of muffins stands on the steel bar of the fender, and the whole room is per- vaded by a fragrant smell of coffee. Everything is ready for the evening meal. "Madame Marslin's a long time coming," says Mrs. Parker at last, with some irritation. "She is engaged with her young lady, I presume," returns Walkinshaw, who is a traveled man, and prides himself upon the correctness with which he speaks the English language. " I wonder if she's going to stay here always," resumes the housekeeper. " I presume so ; and I, for one, should be sorry to lose her very sorry," remarked Walkinshaw; "she seems quite to have enlivened up the old place." "You used not to find it dull before she came, Mr. Walkinshaw," says Parker, reproachfully. "Nor should I ever while you were in it, ma'am," he answers, gallantly. " I have always been accustomed to consider our little circle most select and delightful ; but there's a pekancy and vivacity about Frenchwomen that's very taking with my sex. You know, Mrs. Parker, it isn't always those as amuse us men the most that we respects the most." R* 394 DOLORES. " I'm afraid you're sad creatures," says the housekeeper, mollified, nevertheless. " Men will be men," remarks Walkinshaw, with a smile that seems to imply, without regretting, a certain amount of moral laxity in himself and the sex in general. "But Madame Marcelline is a fine presence of a woman," he goes on, indiscreetly. " For those, perhaps, that like quantity, and aren't par- ticular about figure," sniffs Mrs. Parker, contemptuously, who is small and slim herself. " I don't mean to say she has the elegance nor the car- riage of some people that shall be nameless," rejoins Wal- kinshaw; " for none knows better than you, Mrs. Parker, that the rules of good society forbid present company to be mentioned ; but still Madame Marcelline is a fine pres- ence of a woman a very fine presence of a woman." " How she can wear those nightcaps about the house, is more than I can tell. Why, Scuttles, our under-house- maid, would scorn to be seen cleaning the grates in such a thing." "Perhaps you are not aware, ma'am," interrupts the butler, grandiosely, "that in foreign parts those white caps are not a badge of servitood. I, as you know, have been abroad a good deal, and can assure you from expe- rience from personal experience that the wives of the farmers and tradesmen, and women generally of the middle class, all wear those kind of caps." "And as for those long gold ear-rings, I don't call them respectable," pursues Mrs. Parker, with acrimony. "I wonder my lady hasn't thought fit to make the remark to her." "There again I think I can set your mind at rest," replies Walkinshaw, blandly. "All you ladies, my dear Mrs. Parker, have your little vanities, and every French- DOLORES RESOLVES. 395 woman must have her gold ear-rings in fact, I believe they often go through families as hair-looms." Repulsed in two successive places, Mrs. Parker's fem- inine instinct leads her to seek a third breach for escalade. "I'm sorry to make the remark," she says, primly, " 'specially before a gentleman, but I do not consider Madame Marslin is as particular in her conversation as J think becoming in a female." "My dear Mrs. Parker," replies the butler, with a slight smile, "I cannot altogether be surprised if Madame Marcelline occasionally offends the delicacy of your sen- sitive mind there is a laissy ally about Frenchwomen, I admit. For instance, I might make a joke without hesita- tion to Madame Marcelline, that I should blush to think of even in your presence." " I should hope you would never take such a liberty with me," exclaims the housekeeper, bridling. "That's just what I say that foreign creature comes here cor- rupting everybody; and it wouldn't be her if she didn't begin with the men first." "My dear Mrs. Parker, you quite mistake me," cries Walkinshaw, regretting his confidence, now it is too late. "Oh, no, Mr. Walkinshaw, I don't mistake at all," she retorts, irefully. "You men are as weak as water any woman can lead you by the nose if she only flatters you up enough it can't be laid on too thick but what you can take it all in at once. Just because this person palavers you over and Mossoo's you half a dozen times in a sentence, you think more of her than of any one whose whole life's been open to you for seventeen years." "Mrs. Parker," says the butler, severely, becoming very red, " there's a limit to everything." But here Marcelline comes in with a beaming face and brisk gait. 396 DOLORES. "Ah ! millc pardons ! I'av made you vait, fa me desole. Ah, madame, 'ow your cafe smell good !" she commences, pleasantly, with her natural French instinct of politeness. Mr. Walkinshaw has risen ceremoniously, and is placing her a chair. " Ah, monsieur, ne vous derangez pas, je vous en prie !" cries Marcelline. " Creature /" frames Mrs. Parker's lips; but a stern glance from the butler quells her. (The prospect of being future mistress of the "Wentworth Arms" is not to be lightly thrown away.) "I am so ungry," says the Frenchwoman. "We 'av walk all troo de Park, Monsieur 'Art an' me." "Permetty moy d'offrer de muffins," interposes Wal- kinshaw, affably. "Sank you, sank you, monsieur. Ah, madame, if I but spoke de English like Monsieur peake de Francais." But Mrs. Parker's face is bent over the cups. "You have only been in England two months, you know, madarm," answers the butler, courteously. "On and off I should say I have been twelve in Paris." "Ah ! de dear beautiful Paris !" cries Marcelline, en- thusiastically. " But indeed, monsieur, dis England is is milk fois much better dan dey make me tink. For beaucoup tings I like ver much to be in England." "Our country has its advantages," says Walkinshaw, patronizingly. "And for de men, one told me sey vas toujours vot you call ivre ? ah ! teepsy, Jest (a, an' rude comme les ours ; I find dem all politesse. ' ' "Some people would make anybody polite," returns Walkinshaw, with a complimentary bow to Marcelline. But this is too much for poor Parker, who, rising from her seat, flounces out of the room, muttering something DOLORES RESOLVES. 397 that sounds gratingly in the butler's particular ears like "Two's company, three's trumpery," but is quite unin- telligible to Marcelline. "Vat as she, Madame?" asks the latter. "I think she said something about the toothache," answers Walkinshaw, confused. " Poor sing ! Quel dommage, an' ze caf so good." " I do not think it is very much ; she will return soon, no doubt. Some more muffins, madame?" When Mr. Walkinshaw smokes his pipe in the evening, he makes sundry reflections, which end as follows : " Yes, I've said it before, and I say it again, matrimony is a decided mistake. I don't deny that state has its ad- vantages, but I'm convinced the drawbacks more than counterbalance them. Mrs. Parker's a nice woman, a well-preserved woman, and a lady -like woman, and there have been moments, I don't deny, when I've wished that Mrs. Parker and I were one; but there have also been moments when I've thanked Providence we weren't, and this present is one of them. You see," Walkinshaw goes on, apparently apostrophizing a red-hot coal on which his eye is fixed " you see, if Mrs. Parker was my wife, there would be the deuce to pay with her about all the other ladies in the house. She's of a jealous tempera- ment. It doesn't matter so much now, because I haven't set the seal upon my affections by offering her my hand and heart ; so, however much she may be in a rage, thank the Lord she must keep it to herself; but that seal once set, then, John Walkinshaw, you'd never dare have an eye for a fine woman again, I promise you. I've known Mrs. Parker this seventeen years, and all that time I've thought of her, for I'm not one to marry in haste and repent at leisure, and experience has taught me that she's got a rare number of good qualities, but she's also got, in 34 DOLORES. common with her sex, a temper and a tongue. I don't mind the temper that's nothing ; everybody's got that, more or less; but the tongue good Lord deliver me from that, say 1 1" CHAPTER XL. A NEW LOVER. LORD HERONMERE is very much in love indeed. He sighs a good deal, and is exceedingly doleful, gets chaffed immoderately by his friends (mostly contemporary en- signs), takes little pleasure in his wonted amusements, and begins to think life a mistake. It is with a feeling of supreme delight that he receives, one morning at the Tower, the intelligence that Guy has started for Norway. His first thought is, " What a confounded shame !" his second, " By Jove ! I'll have a try for her now all's fair in love and war." Exhilarated by this thought, he re- covers his accustomed cheerfulness, which his friends do not fail to remark. "Well, Infant," says one (that being his sobriquet in the regiment), "what has brought the rose to your damask cheek and the smile to your coral lips again? I should think some old woman had died and left you a fortune, if you weren't so infernally rich already. Has she accepted, or have you proposed by mamma's order, and has she refused ? either would account for your extreme chirpi- ness." "Never mind the reason, Duffer, my boy," replies the young Viscount ; " suffice it to say the rose has come back A NEW LOVER. 399 to my damask cheek, etc., etc., as you justly observe, and we'll have a dinner on the strength of it you, and Bob, and Billy, and I. Let's go and look them up." All that day the young fellow is making plans for the conquest of Dolores ; but the more he thinks about the matter, the less promising it looks. " She is confoundedly fond of him !" he says, dismally, to himself. " I don't suppose anything would put her out of conceit of him ! If anything would, his going off and leaving her like this ought to. But women are such unaccountable creatures !" (with an air of experience that would have made any one die of laughing if he had had an audience). "At all events, I shall write to Aunt Margaret and ask if I may go down for a few days or, by Jove !" (as a sudden thought strikes him) "she might suspect something, and put me off. I'll go down to Bertram's, if I can get leave he is always asking me ; and it's only five miles from Wentworth. I dare say he'll cut up rather rough if I want to leave him much ; but I'll square him by confiding in him." Three days later he and George Bertram are walking arm-in-arm across the common which lies outside the Park gates of Bertram Hall. "By Jove! we've got summer at last!" says young Bertram. "Let's sit down a minute. I'm not much of a walker since Paragon rolled on my leg in the winter." So they seat themselves on the trunk of a fallen fir-tree. "It's an awfully pretty place," says Lord Heronmere, taking a leisurely survey of the scene " a deal of incident, too, for the country." It is a very picturesque scene that stretches out before them, and both contemplate it for a few moments in silence. A warm light lies upon the common, and reddens the dark stems of the fir-trees, spread about in clumps, and 400 DOLORES. the long thick line of alternate oaks and beeches which bounds yonder park. A big brown gipsy woman, with the remains of a black velvet bonnet and feather pyramidi- cally surmounting her swart face and coal-black hair, is driving a couple of side-saddled donkeys to a shallow pool ; sundry dirty imps lie in supreme abandon on the short dry turf near their encampment ; a cart laden with timber toils up the hill, and a flock of sheep browse on the common, tended by a herd not after Watteau. "Oh, the place is pretty enough," rejoins Bertram, discontentedly, " if there was any one to see or anything to do. My uncle will keep me tied by the leg down here, and what he wants me for except to tyrannize over, heaven only knows ! And I daren't offend him, because you know he isn't bound to leave me the money, though I must have the place. And I'm infernally hard up just now, and want to keep him in a good temper. What a happy fellow you are to be your own father." " It must be a bore having to stop in one place," re- turns his friend ; " and I expect scenery is very apt to pall upon one after a little time. Haven't you got any pretty girls anywhere about?" " Deuce a one except the girl who is engaged to your cousin. She's pretty enough for anything." Heronmere reddens, but he does not quite feel the time for a confidence has arrived. "Let's see, what else is there?" he continues, rather hurriedly. " Happy thought ! write a book !" " Quite my line. A thousand thanks for the suggestion," laughs his friend. "Easiest thing in the world, I'm told, writing a book. When you once begin, it goes like lightning the ideas crowd into your brain and all that sort of thing. This would be a stunning place to write in, or paint a picture A NEW LOVER. 401 for instance, a composition piece in various approved styles. Village inn in the foreground" (pointing to an unpretentious "Marquis of Granby" on the hill summit), " with boors drinking, after Teniers. Give your fancy free rein, and imagine this highly intelligent-looking shep- herd to our right a Corydon after Watteau, belaced and beribboned, piping to his lady-love ; then bring in a flock of sheep, after who's the great swell that does sheep?" " Cooper?" " Yes, Cooper ! Then donkeys drinking, Sir Edwin ; gipsy encampment, Faed ; and wind up with a gorgeous sky, and a patch of magenta heather, after Linnell or Cole. A splendid idea, by Jove ! would make your for- tune, and pay all your debts, if you could only carry it out, because there must be something to please all tastes in a picture like that. I say, Bertram" (with a sudden and startling change of subject, and blushing vividly the while), " should you consider it dishonorable to be in love with a girl who was engaged to another man?" Bertram puffs away at his cigar, and appears to be ruminating deeply over the matter that has been pro- pounded to him. "Well, no," he answers, presently, removing it from his mouth, and speaking with great deliberation; "I shouldn't call it dishonorable to be in love with an engaged girl, because falling in love is an involuntary action, and you can't help your feelings; but" (looking at his friend with some curiosity) " I shouldn't think it right to try and cut the other fellow out, if it was a bona fide engagement, more particularly if the man was your friend." "Or your relation, for instance?" "Why, Kerry, you don't mean to say you're in love with the future Lady Wentworth ?' ' 2A 34* 402 DOLORES. "Yes, I do" (gloomily). "You said just now you knew that one couldn't help one's feelings." " Do you want my advice on the subject?" "It rather depends upon what it is." " Well, keep out of her way." "Bertie, old boy," cries his friend, "were you ever in lovcl" "Scores of times, my dear fellow" (with a blase air). "Ah, but did you ever feel" (vehemently) "that you would give up everything you had in the world worth having for the sake of a woman ?" " Can't say I ever did. Perhaps, though, that was be- cause I never had much to give up." " Don't laugh, old fellow. I'm in sober, solemn earnest. I worship that girl, and, by heaven ! I do be- lieve that if she marries Guy I shall blow my brains out." And the tears actually stand in the boy's blue eyes. "This is rather a bad business," says his friend, gravely. "But, Kerry, my boy, it isn't the action of a gentleman, you know, to try and get her away from him." "Perhaps not" (ruefully), " only, the fact is, Bertram, he isn't behaving what I call well to her, and, astound- ing as it seems, / don't believe he is in love with her. If he was, you know, it would never have crossed my brain; but look here, old fellow, I adore her ! She couldn't lose either in money or position by marrying me, and if he doesn't really care very much for her, where's the harm ?" "But, Herry, if he didn't care for her, why did he ask her to marry him ?' ' Heronmere shakes his head. " I don't knowj but, all the same, I don't believe he does." " Do you think you could get her to like you?" A NEW LOVER. 4>3 "Ah!" (with a deep sigh, and a rueful countenance), " that's the worst of it! She's so awfully fond of him ! I don't know why though, to be sure, I used to think he was a good fellow once. Nothing separates friends like a woman !" Bertram laughs. "I'm afraid, Kerry, you have taken the complaint very badly ; and if she is as fond of Wentworth who, by the way, is as good a fellow as ever stepped as you say, I don't think you've got a chance, so take my advice and give it up. He's sure to hear afterwards that you've been trying it on, and it isn't a sort of thing a man comes very well out of, particularly if he doesn't get the woman after all. And I dare say you wouldn't be so keen about her if there wasn't an obstacle !" "Shouldn'tl?" (emphatically). " Do you know her ?" " I have just been introduced to her that's all." "Well, the only thing that surprises me is that every man who sees her doesn't fall madly in love with her at once, as I did." " It's a mercy men's tastes are different," laughs his friend, " or what a run there would be on some women ! Hang it, I hear the first dinner-bell in the distance ! And if we are late, I sha'n't get any money out of the old man for another month." Many and large are the cigars that Lord Heronmere smokes that evening, when all the household, except his friend, have retired to rest ; and long-winded is the dis- course and subtle the arguments he pours into that long- suffering friend's ear. Bertram is patient the cigars are Kerry's, and very good ; he hates going to bed, there- fore he makes a most excellent listener ; and as he sees that the boy is not to be turned from his purpose, he ceases to offer opposition. To-morrow, or rather to-day 404 DOLORES. for it is long past midnight they are to ride over to Wentworth. Bertram is to be re-introduced to the love- liest creature on earth, and to take off Aunt Margaret. And Heronmere well, he is very brave to-night, and feels capable of saying and doing anything. But when they have arrived at the Court, and been duly welcomed and invited to lunch by Lady Wentworth, the poor fellow is taken with quite unaccustomed shy- ness. He has plenty of opportunity of seeing his idol and being alone with her, but, whether his guilty con- science makes him shy, or he is embarrassed by the per- fect ease of her manner to him, he is utterly unable to make anything but the most commonplace remarks. "Have you been riding lately?" he asks her, as they stroll through the garden together, while Bertram, like a true friend, is pretending to take an enormous interest in flowers, and holding a long discussion with Lady Went- worth on the respective merits of different bordering plants. " No" (with a little sigh), " not since Guy went away." " I suppose you don't care to ride with anybody else?" (gloomily). "I don't care about riding with a groom" (smiling). "And, to tell you the truth, I am a little afraid, unless I have some one quite close to me." "Mayn't I come over and ride with you?" (eagerly). " I'll take the most tremendous care of you." " I should like it very much. I feel nearly as safe with you as I do with Guy." "Not quite?" (disappointed). "I'll back myself to take care of a lady out riding with any fellow living." " I dare say. But you are such a child, you know; one can't have as much confidence in you as in a grown-up man." And Dolores laughs slyly. She takes an immense A NEW LOVER. 465 pleasure in teasing the young fellow, with whom his youth is rather a sore subject. "Really, Miss Power" (huffily), "considering that I am at least four years older than you, I should think I might be considered a responsible person. I came of age last winter, and if I am thought old enough" (grandly, and caressing the down on his lip) " to fight for my coun- try, surely I may be trusted to perform so very slight a service as to look after a lady on horseback. Why, last winter, Lady Di Carew always took a lead from me, al- though there were many much older fellows present." Here he stops, remembering that the reason why that lovely young Amazon preferred his lead was on account of his very straight and plucky riding ; but Dolores knows nothing about hunting, and cannot, therefore, embrace this opportunity of tripping him up. " May I ride over to-morrow, on the chance of your feeling inclined to ride?" " Oh, yes, do come ; and stop all day, and make me laugh. I feel the want of laughing, and you amuse me so much ! We won't ride in the morning, because it will be hot ; but you shall row me on the lake, and then, after lunch, you shall give me another lesson in billiards, and we will ride about five ; and then, after dinner, you can go back to your friend." " Yes. What an awfully jolly day we shall have !" ex- claims the young fellow, delighted, "at least" (mod- estly) "I shall." " But suppose it rains?" "Oh, it won't; and if it does, I shall come all the same ; ard we can play billiards and battledore, and you'll sing to me a little won't you?" " Perhaps, if you promise to be very funny, and make me laugh." 406 DOLORES. "I suppose you must think me an awful fool," says the boy, dejectedly, " if I'm fit for nothing but to be a kind of buffoon." "I think you are the nicest boy I ever met," she an- swers, with a little patronizing tap on the arm. " Do you ?" (eagerly, gulping down the boy for the sake of its preceding adjective.) He longs to seize and embrace the little hand, but his shyness will not let him ; and yet, in his dealings with the fair sex, he has not by any means enjoyed the reputation of being backward. But the boldest man becomes shy when he is really in love with a modest woman. The very desire of taking such a delightful liberty brings the hot blood to his cheeks, and he turns away, to conceal his confusion. "Aunt Margaret," he cries, as Lady Wentworth and Bertram approach them, "don't you think a few rides would do Miss Power good? She is looking rather pale." "Yes" (kindly) ; "I am sure of it. You might come over and take her out. Come to-morrow; and perhaps Mr. Bertram will come too." But Bertram pleads an engagement ; he does not find it very exciting amusement to play third and to take off Lady Wentworth. "A pretty fellow you are, to come and stay with one!" he says to his friend, as they ride through the Park together, on their homeward way. " My dear fellow" (penitently), " I know it's an awful shame; but I'm tremendously grateful to you," answers Heronmere, feeling that, if he only knew how to do it delicately enough, he would like to pay off his friend's debts, "tremendously grateful to you for letting me make a convenience of you; and and some day, I hope, I shall be able to do the same for you." A NEW LOVER. 407 " I hope you won't" (cynically) ; "I hope Providence will keep me out of the toils of women for the next ten years at least." "I used to think so," replies Heronmere, magnifi- cently; "in fact, I was always telling my mother so when she wanted to ram some duke's daughter down my throat. But, do you know, Bertie" (with an air of con- viction), "I have been thinking lately that it is really a good thing for a fellow who has responsibilities, like a big place and a lot of land, you know, to settle down early. It keeps one out of mischief. And, you know, I'm the last of the family; and if I were to go under, the title would become extinct." Bertram bursts into a peal of laughter. "Well done, Infant! I see you have taken every contingency into consideration. I wonder, with such tremendous responsibilities on your shoulders, you aren't afraid to get outside a horse, or trust yourself in a rail- way-carriage, let alone being a soldier, and running the risk of being shot, if we have a war. Why the deuce didn't you go into the Life Guards or the Blues? Your precious life would have been a deal safer there." "Now, Bertie, shut up your chaff, and let's discuss the matter rationally. You know" (with an only half-con- vinced air), "knocking about isn't near so jolly as one fancies." " I'm not so sure of that," retorts Bertram. " I think you and I have had some jolly times together a great deal more than you're ever likely to have again, if you tie yourself down at one-and-twenty to a girl you'll prob- ably get sick of before a twelvemonth." "Never !" (with great energy). " Fellows of your age," proceeds Bertram, "were never intended to settle down at twenty-one, and go to bed at 408 DOLORES. ten o'clock, and carve for the children, and have family prayers. Look at those jolly old patriarchs, what a time they took to sow their wild oats." "Oh, yes, and a nice husband one would make for a pretty girl when one was a toothless, bearded, used-up old mummy," retorts Heronmere. "That's just the time enjoy your youth, and marry when you want a nurse ; you can always get a pretty young woman to have you, if you've lots of tin at least, that's what Uncle Fred always says when he wants to take a rise out of poor aunt." "Your uncle's an old brute, and Mrs. Bertram is an angel," says Heronmere, warmly. "I should have liked to throw a decanter at his head two or three times last night when he was bullying her so shamefully." " Oh, I think she likes it at least, she's so used to it I'm sure she'd miss it dreadfully if he took it into his head to leave it off for a day or two. But there's no fear of that, as long as he keeps on eating and drinking, and lay- ing in gout for himself as he does." " What a dreadful thing to get old ! Poor old beggars ! I suppose dinner is the only thing they've got to look forward to." "I suppose so. But you haven't told me yet how you got on to-day. Have you paved the way at all?" "Well, you know" (doubtfully), "it isn't exactly a very easy thing when a girl's engaged to your cousin " "So I thought last night" (drily), "but you didn't seem to see it then. ' ' "To-morrow, perhaps," says Heronmere, putting his horse into a gallop on the smooth turf. " I'll race you from here to the Marquis of Gran by for a fiver. ' ' " Done !" And off the two good-looking young fellows fly on their thoroughbreds, at a speed that would have HERONMERE'S CONGE. 409 made Uncle Fred swear for a month, if he could only have seen them. Within a hundred yards of the Gran- by, they are neck and neck ; Heronmere pulls his horse slightly he doesn't want the fiver, and Bertram does. CHAPTER XLI. HERONMERE'S CONGE. HAPPINESS is selfish, and while everything had gone smoothly with Dolores, she had thought very little about Captain Etherege and his sister. But since sad hours have taken the place of glad ones, they have been a great deal in her thoughts, and she feels a strong desire to hear something about them. So one day she writes a letter to Mary Etherege, quite a short letter, and scarcely speaking of herself, but asking news of both her old friends. A few days after, she receives an answer. It is very kind ; in it there is no allusion to the past. Mary writes pleas- antly about herself, and her plans for the summer and autumn. In a postscript she writes, " Philip has gone on a wild exploring expedition with two friends; they are all very enthusiastic about it, and expect great results. Who knows but he may become a second Sir Samuel Baker?" "I suppose he has forgotten all about me," sighs Do- lores. " How happy men are, when things go wrong with them, to be able to go away and travel, and make new in- terests, instead of having to sit at home and think always about their grief, as we must." 35 4io DOLORES. Lord Heronmere's arrival in the country has, however, a very good effect on her spirits. The company of a good-looking, lively young fellow is decidedly a pleasant change from that of a quiet elderly lady, however kind and amiable she may be. Dolores has really never been in the society of any one of her own age, and the fun and vivacity that is part of her nature has lain perdu ; but Heronmere's gayety and good humor are contagious, and she has never seemed so sprightly or full of fun as in his company. Lady Wentworth is delighted; the thought of her nephew, whom she looks upon as a mere child, being a rival for her son, never enters her brain, and she encour- ages his visits warmly when she sees how much brighter and lighter-hearted they seem to make Dolores. Since his aunt's first invitation, Heronmere has availed himself most freely of every opportunity of being at the Court, and in spite of Bertram's remonstrances, and the secret qualms of his own conscience, every day after breakfast he mounts his steed and gallops off to Dolores. They make a charming pair, as no one who sees them together can fail to remark; and Guy, lying in his boat on the Norse river, enjoying the occasional excitement of hauling in a big salmon, or more often the do Ice far niente, would probably be not altogether pleased if he could see his cousin and bride-elect upon such remarkably free and happy terms. He writes occasional letters to Dolores, in which he makes no allusion to any change in their relations to each other ; he tells her what fish he has caught ; describes the life he is leading; writes how he has bought her a whole set of Norwegian silver ornaments; inquires about her health and pursuits ; sends messages to his mother, and so on. In return she writes him short letters, carefully HLRONMERE*S CONGE. 411 answering all his questions, giving particulars of the health of his horses and dogs, and such matters as may interest him, but avoids any allusion to herself and her own inten- tions towards him. After three or four days spent in her society, Heron- mere's infatuation reaches a pitch that makes concealment almost impossible ; he has just self-control enough to con- ceal his feelings tolerably in his aunt's presence, but at other times he throws off all restraint, and the state of his affections is patent to every member of the household, and is commented pretty freely upon in the servants' hall. Just at this time, too, Lady Wentworth is seized with a severe cold, which confines her to the house, and for the greater part of the day to her own room. Dolores, whose disposition is very affectionate, is anxious to sit with her, to read to her, or to do anything in the world that can add to her ease and comfort ; but the elder lady will not hear of it, and the girl is afraid to press her ser- vices, lest they should be unwelcome. So, as the weather is glorious, the two young people spend the whole day out of doors, reveling in the sun- shine, making the garden resound with their laughter, and playing each other a thousand tricks, like young madcaps as they are. Every now and then, however, Heronmere becomes sad and serious : he is dying to tell his passion to the object of it, yet he dares not, except by glances and sighs and pressures of the hand. The girl is a little co- quette : she knows he is in love with her, and takes a mis- chievous pleasure in teasing him. When they go in the boat, she will not give him the pleasure of holding her hand to help her in, but jumps nimbly past him, with a malicious little laugh at his disappointed face. Some- times, when they go out riding, she will not let him mount her, but insists on being put up by the groom. There- 4 I2 DOLORES. upon, mortified and furious, the young fellow looks dag- gers at her as they ride down the avenue ; and she laughs a little laugh of triumph, calls him a silly boy, and de- clares that if he does not immediately smile and be pleasant she will turn round and go home, and sit with his aunt in her bedroom all the rest of the afternoon. She delights in this little tyranny she likes to feel that he is in her power, and that he adores her further thought or intention has she none. A little pleasant re- vengeful idea, that Guy would not be pleased if he knew it, adds zest to her enjoyment. But Heronmere's feelings are getting too much for him. Not to have her now would be madness, despair, the end of all things ! He has not experienced much contradic- tion in his life, and the blood in his veins is young and hot. So it happens that one summer morning he speaks. The sunshine of a month seems to be crowded into this day ; everything looks bright and beautiful, the softest air breathes through the trees, preventing the heat from being oppressive, and the youthful pair have betaken themselves to the lake, where they row close to the bank, under the shade of the big trees. Dolores is reclined upon a heap of cushions, which her young gallant has piled luxuriously for her ; her face, crowned with rippling hair, looks mar- velously fair upon the rose-colored pillow ; she is dressed all in airiest white, and two of the tiniest little silk-stock- inged, bronze-shod feet peep out from her gown and trouble the soul of her young lover. She is a cruel little tease. She is delighted with her new-born power, and uses it unmercifully, revenging her- self upon this devoted slave for all Guy's coldness and neglect, as she is pleased to call it. This morning she has had an inspiration, and, acting upon it, has left Guy's letter, received by the morning's post, unopened, and has HERONMERE S CONGE. 4x3 brought it down to the boat to read, in order to tease Heronmere. Her idea succeeds admirably ; he of course recognizes the handwriting as she ostentatiously breaks the seal, and his handsome face undergoes the various al- ternations of vexation, anger, and grief, as she, apparently unconscious of his feelings, or even presence, reads it slowly through, smiles, looks interested, re-reads, and so on. Little arch-hypocrite ! it does not please or interest her one bit ; on the contrary, it makes her feel furious, as Guy's calm, kind letters always do. As she reads it she positively hates him, and it makes her all the more cruel to her young adorer. He, poor fellow, looks almost ready to cry ; the oars slacken in his grasp. Presently he ceases to row at all, and regards his fair vis-d-vis with an expression of distress and impatience. "Your letter seems vastly interesting," he says, pres- ently, in a piqued tone. " I wonder you managed to keep it so long without reading it." "Yes" (coolly, without looking up), "it is very inter- esting. It is from Guy." "Oh!" (furious) " of course, that accounts for your being so delighted with it." " I always like to keep a bonne louche, don't you ?" says the little witch, in an artless tone. " Does he say when he is coming back?" " No" (coloring a little) ; " that is hardly likely, when he has only just arrived." " I wonder how he could go away and leave you," says Heronmere, devouring her with his eyes. If he wants to be revenged on her, he could not find a more effective method, but that is furthest from his thoughts. " Do you?" (coldly). "That is because you are only a boy, and don't understand these things." "Boy or no boy" (passionately), "I know, if I were 35* 414 DOLORES. engaged to the dearest, sweetest, loveliest creature upon God's earth, the biggest salmon, or the pleasantest com- pany, wouldn't get me away from her for a day, if I could help it." To such a speech who could make an unkind retort. Dolores relents. " You are a nice, dear boy !" she smiles patronizingly, " but you are getting very idle, and you must go on row- ing immediately. I do not like stopping still." But, disobedient for once to the behest of his little sovereign, Heronmere leaves his seat and flings himself on the cushions at her feet. "Dolores," he says, hotly, "if I am not a man now, when do you think I shall be one ? Can a man feel more at thirty, when he has lived hard, and used up his feelings, than he does at one-and-twenty ? Does Guy love you more passionately, more devotedly than I do? Would he go through fire and water for you, as I would now, this instant, if I only had the chance ? You may think it all swagger, because I haven't the chance ; but, upon my soul, and as God is above us, I would now, this minute, cut off my right hand, and give up my title, if I could only make you love me as I love you." His words flow forth in a torrent of passion, his chest heaves, the blood glows in his cheeks, and Dolores feels, for the moment, that he is a man, and not a boy, to be trifled with. His ardor frightens her, but it also inspires in her a greater respect for him. "Lord Heronmere," she begins, blushing, and trem- bling a little, " I think you forget " " No" (impetuously), "I forget nothing. I know you are engaged to my cousin ; I know it may seem dishonor- able, my speaking to you of love, but I cannot help it ; it is stronger than I; and oh, my darling, I don't think he HERONMERE'S CONGE. 415 loves you as I do j and I believe, upon my soul, if you would only trust me, I could make you happier than he can." And he seizes both her hands, and covers them with burning kisses. If such a scene as this had occurred before Dolores had resolved to give Guy up, she would have felt intensely indignant, and probably dismissed her unfortunate young lover in a very summary manner ; but now, if he does not know it, she knows that she is doing no wrong to any one by listening to his declaration ; and although the idea of marrying Lord Heronmere never entered, and does not now enter, her brain, it soothes her wounded pride to feel that he loves her so dearly. "No," she says, sadly, replying to the thoughts his words have inspired, "I don't think he does love me as much as you do. I don't even know that he loves me at all." "Then, darling," cries Heronmere, eagerly pursuing his advantage, " if you think that if you feel that, won't you rather take a man who worships the ground you walk on, and who would devote every hour of his life to making you happy?" " But" (with a sorrowful smile) "you forget one thing: you say you love me, but, though I like you, I do not love you." "But you would" (passionately) "I would make you ! Oh" (the tears coming into his blue eyes), " if you saw, day after day, how I loved you, how I adored you, how I could think of nothing but to make you happy and to gratify your every wish, you would come to care for me you could not be so hard-hearted as not to love me!" The girl shakes her head. 41 6 DOLORES. "If I do not marry Guy, I shall never marry any one else." "Do you love him so much?" groans the poor boy, burying his face in his arms. "Oh, my darling, isn't there anything in this mortal world I can do to win your love away from him?" "Come," says the girl, softly laying her hand upon him, as she sees his stalwart young frame shaking with emotion, and conceives a horrible suspicion that he is crying, " you shall always be my dear friend. Will not that do as well?" But he makes her no answer. " Don't don't be unhappy !" she pleads, tears of gen- uine distress coming into her eyes, as she feels remorse- fully that she has been playing with fire in encouraging Heronmere's passion. "Look at me" (trying with her little hands to raise his head from his arms) " look at me, dear, dear boy, and tell me you won't be unhappy ! I have been so miserable myself, I would not for the world make you suffer." He looks up at her, his face distorted with passionate pain, and says, bitterly, " It is my own fault; I was a fool ! I ought to have known it would come to this. Bid me good-by, and I will go away, and, please God, never see you again." Dolores is smitten with pain. She is to lose him too, and he has made life so pleasant to her lately ! But it must be so ; how can she ask him to stay ? "Dolores" (with miserable, longing eyes), "if I am going away from you forever, won't you give me something to remember you by ? Kiss me once ; as he will have them all" (bitterly), "perhaps he won't begrudge me one." She feels so sorry for him, how can she refuse ? So she HERONMER&S CONGE. 417 stoops her face to his. The ardent blood flames in his cheek, he twines his strong young arms round her, and presses his lips on hers as though he would " Breathe his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips." Then he is gone, leaving her crimson, abashed, remorseful. Half an hour later he flings into Bertram's room. "Whew ! ' ' says that young man, with a long, low whistle, as he reads his friend's story in his face. "So it is all over, eh, old man?" Then, with a not unkind shake ot the shoulder, "Cheer up, Kerry; there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, you know." " They may stop there for me ; and I wish to God I was with them, at the bottom of it !" says the poor lad, who is very hard hit. " I never knew how I loved her till to-day." " Poor old boy !" ejaculates his compassionate friend, at a loss what to suggest by way of comfort. "Let's run up to town, and have a big dinner, and go to the theatre, and make a night of it." "Why, Bertram" (reproachfully), "do you think I've got any heart left for big dinners and the theatre ? and do you imagine that a lot of horrid painted creatures could console me for the loss of that angel ?" "Well," replies his friend apologetically, "you must do something. You can't stop here, eating your heart out, within five miles of her, you know ; and, I believe, going rather to the devil for a little is the best cure when a woman has turned you over. But tell me, old fellow, how did it come about ? You've seemed so tremendously chirpy and hopeful lately." "I don't know. We were out in the boat together, 2B 4 i 8 DOLORES. and, somehow, I lost my head a little, and it all came out." "And did she fly in a rage, and declare she had never given you any encouragement and all that sort of thing?" " No," groans poor Heronmere ; " she behaved like an angel, and begged me not to be unhappy, and seemed quite cut up about it. Oh, if I hadn't been such an ass, and could have held my confounded tongue, I should have been with her now, this minute ! And now it's all over" (laying his head on the table), " and I shall never see her again ! Bertie, old boy, the kindest thing you could do for me would be to put a bullet through me ; I shall never get over this never !" Meanwhile, Dolores is nearly as unhappy. She has lost her friend and playfellow, and until this moment she has not known how fond she had grown of him. Not fond in the sense that she has been fond of Guy ; but was he not the brightest, cheeriest, pleasantest companion she has ever had in her life ? And now it will all be so dull and stupid again ! The horses are ordered for the afternoon, but there will be no ride, no billiards after lunch, no fun and laughter. And how is she to account for his absence to Lady Wentworth? The girl remains lying despondently in the boat until the lunch-bell rings, and then wends her way, with re- luctant feet, to the house. There are two covers laid for lunch. Lady Wentworth is not down ; and, after Do- lores has taken her place, Walkinshaw still stands mo- tionless, waiting for the guest. "Lord Heronmere does not lunch here to-day," says the girl, blushing. "Oh, indeed, miss I beg your pardon." And, with an imperturbable countenance, the butler HERONMERE'S CONGE. 419 hands her dish after dish. She makes a pretense of eat- ing something, and says, "Please do not wait, Walkinshaw I am not going to eat anything more." He retires, his face still inscrutable, but his mind con- siderably at work. "Just as I thought," he says to himself. "I knew it must come to this sooner or later. She seems rather cut up, however ; but she's a kind-hearted little thing ; and I don't suppose, being so took up with Sir Guy, she as much as suspected what this one was after. Poor young chap! Still, he had no business to come poaching on other folks' preserves." How dull and long the afternoon seems ! how the girl misses Heronmere's cheery voice and laugh, and wishes a thousand times she had not let him go ! When Lady Wentworth asks why her nephew has left so early, she replies, with some confusion, that she thinks his friend does not like being left so much alone. The elder lady is at that moment engaged upon a rather elaborate flower in her wool-work, and fails to notice Dolores's embarrass- ment. The next day rises bright, hot, and beautiful, but, oh, how dull and long it seems ! Poor little Eve wanders melancholy in Paradise without her companion, and finds no scent in the flowers, no brightness in the sunshine, no sweetness in the birds' songs. She is certainly not in love with Heronmere, but she is in love with laughter and gayety ; and while he came every day she had reveled in both. Marcelline makes a shrewd guess at the state of affairs. "Where then is the young milord?" she asks her young mistress the day after the scene in the boat : "is he not coming back any more ? " 420 DOLORES. "I do not know" (rather pettishly). "Poor young man 1" pursues Marcelline, with a side- long glance. " I met him yesterday flying on his horse down the Park, and he did not stop to have a word and a laugh with me, as he always does. Mademoiselle has been cruel to him, perhaps ? Oh, it is easy to see what ails the poor young milord. If now Mademoiselle were not promised to his cousin, what a grand marriage she might have made ! One said his lordship was three times as rich as Sir Ghi. ' ' "If I had not been promised to one, I should never have seen the other," retorts Dolores, pettishly; "and you are always talking about marriage I hate the sound. Why must we always marry the moment one likes any one?" And she turns away and goes into the garden. " After all," she reflects, " this is very silly. Here are we both making ourselves miserable apart, when we might be laughing together. I shall tell him to come back, and then I will tease him out of liking me too much, at least." She runs back to the house much lighter of heart than when she left it. There is still half an hour before the post goes out, and she writes her letter and drops it in the box in the hall. " DEAR BOY" (she never calls him anything else), "It is too silly that we should not be friends ; and I have wearied myself all to-day and all yesterday with wishing for you. Never have I laughed once since you left me ; and I die to hear your voice again, that makes the house sound so lively. Do come back and be my brother, which, after all, is much nicer ; and I will always be your affectionate sister, DOLORES." HERONMERE S RESTORATION. 421 CHAPTER XLII. HERONMERE'S RESTORATION. HERONMERE cannot stand another day in the country. It is the second morning after his farewell to Dolores ; his things are packed, his servant gone on with his lug- gage, and Bertram is just stepping into the dog-cart to drive him to the station. At this moment the man comes up the drive with the letter-bag. "I rather think there's a letter in there I don't want the governor to see," says Bertram. " Hold hard." " Hang it ! we shall miss the train," cries Heronmere : "we're late now." " No fear. Here, Mason, run for the key look sharp, there's a good fellow." In another moment he is ransacking the letter-bag. " Here we are, and, stop ! there's one for you too, in a female hand. They can't let you alone. All right, let go." And off dashes the bay mare down the drive. "We shall do it with five minutes to spare. Halloo! what's up?" as Heronmere utters a sudden exclamation. "By Jove!" seeing the delighted expression of his friend's face, "you don't mean to say she's going to throw Sir Guy over and take you?" "I mean to say I'm not going to London to-day," answers Heronmere, with a radiant face. We'll go to the station and let my man know ; and then, if you're the good fellow I take you for, Bertie, my boy, you'll drive me straight over to Wentworth. Here, read what the little darling says." 36 422 DOLORES. "H'm!" remarks Bertram, dubiously, as he reads "brother sister I don't see anything here to account for your sudden exhilaration, Herry ; it strikes me she only wants to make a catspaw of you until the other one returns." "And if she does, I don't care," retorts the young fellow, joyously ; "anyhow, I shall have her till he does come back, and I don't care what happens afterwards." "The last state of that man was worse than the first," says Bertram. " Better by half take the train now, and get out of her way. In a month you'll have forgotten all about her." "Don't waste your eloquence, old fellow," laughs Heronmere. " Now she has said she wants me, no mor- tal power shall keep me away. Here's the station and the train in sight, by Jove ! Never mind, it will go to London without me now. Hurrah ! what a lucky thing you stopped for the post-bag !" Dolores is sitting at breakfast, feeling very dismal and lonely, and wondering whether her letter will succeed in bringing Heronmere back, when she hears the sound of wheels coming up the drive at a rapid pace. A moment later, she catches sight of Heronmere and Bertram, and a flush of pleasure overspreads her face. In another moment he is in the room, and they are exchanging joyous greet- ings; the presence of Bertram saves them from any embarrassment. "What is the meaning of this ?" Walkinshaw asks him- self; but his face remains inscrutable and bland as he inquires if his lordship has breakfasted. "Well, we are supposed to have breakfasted at eight, but I don't think we either of us had much appetite eh, Bertram? I'm tremendously hungry now yes, Walkin- HERONMERE' S RESTORATION. 423 shaw, I think we can both do with another breakfast, and as soon as you like, too." Lord Heronmere is almost as great a favorite in the house as Guy ; from the time when he used to ride on Walkinshaw's shoulder, and coax good things out of Parker, plague the housemaids, and sit on the backs of every horse in the stable, he has enjoyed an unvarying popularity ; and at the present day, when he has a cheery word of greeting for every servant in the house, and a hand that is more often in his pocket than out of it, there is not one who would not fly to do anything for him with almost as much alacrity as they would for their master. The day is a merry one for all three. Bertram is not in the least de trap; on the contrary, he prevents the necessity for any explanations. Now and then Heronmere takes the opportunity of his friend's head being discreetly averted to dart an anxious glance at his adored one, or to press her hand rapturously, and she is too glad to have him back to check these ebullitions of feeling. They row, play croquet, and ride. Lady Wentworth sends down a special invitation to the young men to stay and dine. She only then makes her appearance, and all dinner-time her nephew devotes himself entirely to her, and makes her laugh so much by his lively sallies that she declares he has done her twice as much good as her doctor, and must come over as often as possible. It is then that this artful young fellow remarks, " I have to go back to the Tower next Saturday, but I shall get my leave on the ist of August, and then, auntie, if I shouldn't be too noisy, or bore you and Miss Power too much, I wish you would ask me down to stay for a little while." "My dear, you know you are always welcome. I am only afraid you will find us so very quiet down here that 44 DOLORES. it is you who will be bored. Would you not like to bring one or two of your brother-officers ? And shall I ask your cousin Eleanor? You used to be very fond of her." "Oh, no, indeed, aunt. I'd much rather" (with great emphasis) "have you alone. As for our fellows, I see quite enough of them in town ; and Eleanor is getting so conceited, she isn't half as nice as she was." "Wish me joy, old boy," he cries to Bertram, with a vigorous slap on the back that the other would gladly dis- pense with, and that makes the bay mare break into a canter. "I've got my invitation, and 7'm going there on the First." "Well," responds Bertram, "I must say your innamo- rata is a deuced charming girl, and worth fighting for. Hang me if I can understand your cousin going off and leaving her!" "Thank God he did !" (devoutly.) "Herry, my boy, don't be too cock-a-hoop! You haven't got her yet. The chances are, when he comes she'll send you to the devil, and I'm bound to say you'll have no one to blame but yourself." " Bertie" (shyly), " I am going to ask you a question." " Ask away." "And you'll promise to tell me exactly what you think?" "Oh, yes. I know what that means. You want me to say exactly what you want." " No upon my soul ! Do you" (hesitating) " should you think, at all, from her manner, that she cares about me just a very little, you know ?' ' "I'll tell you what I think" (after a pause), "but you won't like it. I think she cares a good deal for you, but, just as she wrote, as a sister. I don't think she's in love with you." HERONMERE'S RESTORATION. 435 Heronmere looks disconsolate. "I'll tell you another thing, old fellow. You'll have to be a little more guarded, if you stay there. Lady Wentworth has not the slightest suspicion of your feel- ings, but I know some one who has, and that's that very gentleman-like old butler, Walkingstick, or whatever you call him." " He !" cries Heronmere, derisively. " He never sees half an inch before his nose." " Don't you believe it ! Servants are the devil they see and know everything ; the butler tells the housekeeper, the housekeeper the lady's-maid, and one day, while she's doing your aunt's back hair, she'll let out the whole thing. You're blessed with what they call ' a very speaking coun- tenance,/ old boy, and as much discretion as most ensigns of one-and-twenty ; so look out and mind what I tell you. ' ' "And pray what makes you so wise, Bertie?" " Experience, of course. My aunt had a very jolly little girl as companion I didn't the least mind being down here for a month at a time then ; my aunt never noticed anything, nor Uncle Fred either, for a wonder, until my precious fool jabbered to the lady's-maid, who went straight to my aunt. Finale, dismissal of poor little companion, and the devil to pay for self." " All right, I'll be careful. Thanks for the hint ; but I assure you, as far as Walkinshaw is concerned, you're quite mistaken." But Bertram is right, and Heronmere wrong. "So!" says Walkinshaw, to himself, "he's going to stop, is he ? Well, as far as I am concerned, I like the lad, and he livens up the place wonderfully ; but my first duty is to Sir Guy, and I'm not the man to see things going on under my nose he wouldn't approve of without 3 6* 426 DOLORES. giving him warning. So, if things don't go on as I like when my lord comes to stop, I shall just give Sir Guy a hint that will bring him back in double quick time." During the three days that remain of his leave, Heron - mere is discretion itself in the presence of his aunt and Walkinshaw ; and even when alone with Dolores he does not speak of his love, though he conveys it amply by glances and sighs and pressures of the little hand, which is not now unkindly withheld from him. "What shall I do without you for a whole fortnight?" he says to her, in a melancholy voice, the day before he is to leave. "I also shall miss you," she answers. "Dreadfully! I dare say much more than you will miss me. You will have all your friends and your gay parties and your rides in the Park." "Not much of that. Why, I'm at the Tower, you know, and can hardly ever get away. You can't think how dull and monotonous it is nothing but Guards and Pickets, and the delightful exercise of walking in the Tower gardens." "But it must be very interesting, the Tower," says Dolores. "Oh, immensely!" (laughing). "But that sort of thing rather palls upon one after a time. It's very nice when you get some pretty women to come out and lunch and go over it. I don't think we trouble the interesting part of it much at any other time." "Well" (with a little tone of pique), "you can get your pretty women, and then it will no longer be dull." "Oh, Dolores!" (reproachfully), "as if you didn't know that I wouldn't give a fig for all the pretty women in the world but one ! I shall do nothing but think of HERONMERE'S RESTORATION. 427 you all the time. If I only had a picture of you ! even the very poorest photograph. Haven't you ever been taken!" "No" (shaking her head), "not in a photograph." Lord Heronmere suddenly bethinks himself that in the town of Allington, some seven miles distant, there is a photographer. "I wonder," he says, eagerly, "if you would do me a most tremendous favor. 1 ' " I dare say I would" (smiling). " What is it?" "Let us ride over to Allington this afternoon, and be photographed. We might as well go there as anywhere else." " I do not mind, but we must ask Lady Wentworth first." " Oh, certainly, and then you will give me one, won't you?" "Yes, if you will give me one of yours too." " I shall be too proud. Will you look at it once now and then?" " Every day ; and wish you were here." Lady Wentworth gives a ready consent when her per- mission is asked. She is only too glad of anything that can divert Dolores from fretting about Guy, as she firmly believes the girl is doing. The local photographer is in raptures at the honor of faking his lordship and this beautiful young lady, and is at his utmost pains to make successful pictures of them. When Dolores has left the shop, Heronmere runs back to the artist. "On second thoughts," he says, "you had better for- ward the proofs to me at the Tower ; and, mind, I shall rely upon having them on Wednesday at the latest." " On Wednesday, my lord Wednesday without fail," 428 DOLORES. bows the photographer; "and if possible, my lord, on Tuesday. ' ' He is true to his word, and on Tuesday Heronmere is overjoyed at receiving a really very respectable likeness of his adored one. He proceeds at once to have it copied on ivory, and on the same day sends for a beautiful painted miniature of himself, which he blushes to think he had ordered a month previously for some one else. It has been a great trouble to him that he cannot show his de- votion to Dolores by making her magnificent presents; but this he dare not even think of. Here, however, is an opening. He takes the miniature, intended for a locket, to Hancock's, and orders it to be set in big diamonds, reflecting that, if he only had it inclosed in a locket, she would probably take out the portrait and return the cadre; but if the portrait is framed in diamonds, she will not be able to detach the one from the other, and will probably consent to keep both. When his order is executed, he sends off the case to Dolores, with a little note, entreat- ing her humbly to wear this small token of affection for his sake ; but if she considers he has been too conceited in having himself framed ornamentally, that she will tear off the frame and throw it behind the fire; but at all events keep the picture. When she opens the case and sees the diamonds, Do- lores is extremely embarrassed, and makes up her mind that they must be returned, for, although she is ignorant of their real value, she knows the trinket must be costly, and therefore objects to accept it. But the portrait is so charming, it is such a handsome, frank face that beams out upon her from the splendid setting she has not the heart to send that back she turns it over several times to see if she cannot take it from the diamonds, which she resolves not to accept ; but that is utterly impossible. So HERONMERE S RESTORATION. 429 she contents herself with writing to him that she is de- lighted with his picture, but that he must have it taken from its present setting if he wishes her to keep it. Meantime she puts it on the chain that has been used to hold Guy's picture, which, since his departure, she has discarded, and wears it under her dress, not unfrequently taking it out to look at when she is alone. During the fortnight that he is absent, Dolores finds plenty to occupy her. Lady Wentworth has a slight attack of congestion of the lungs, and the girl nurses her with an unwearying devotion and tenderness that attach the elder lady daily more to her. It is two days before the time for Heronmere's visit, when Dolores timidly suggests to his aunt that she had better write and ask him to postpone his visit. Lady Wentworth will not hear of such a sacrifice. "Not for the world, my love," she says. "You have had too much confinement lately, and are losing your roses again. I don't know what Guy would say if he came back and found you looking ill. No, Regy is so lively, and you seem such capital friends, his visit is just Apropos, and will do you all the good in the world. Besides, now I am able to sit up, I shall like to have him ; he always amuses me, and is never in the way. ' ' So Heronmere comes and takes up his abode with great joy at the Court, and Walkinshaw prepares himself to keep watch over the two young people. True, there is a cousin of Lady Wentworth's a good-natured, elderly lady, who arrives on her annual visit the last day of July, and seems a kind of chaperon generally ; but she spends a good deal of time in her own apartments, and is, besides, the most unsuspicious mortal in the world. After dinner, Heronmere, who has been wishing the old iady at the bottom of the lake all the evening, challenges 43 DOLORES. Dolores to a stroll in the gardens. They are full of health and spirits, and, once out in the garden, they race together down the slopes, like a couple of children let loose from school. A slight trip that Dolores makes over her dress gives Heronmere a delightful opportunity of catching her in his arms, and, carried away for the moment by his joy at being with her again, he kisses her sweet red lips as he holds her. But she is angry and offended. "I am sorry you have come," she says, with tears of indignation in her eyes. "I shall go back into the house. ' ' Whereupon the young fellow falls, in great contrition, upon his knees, and implores pardon with so much pathos and humility that Dolores is obliged at last to condone the offense. "I have something to give you, my lord," she says, presently, drawing his miniature from her neck. He is delighted to see that she has actually been wearing it. "If you call me my lord," he says, laughing, "/shall go back to the house. I would rather hear you say ' dear boy.' " "Well, then" (relenting), "dear boy, I have some- thing to give you." And she takes the miniature from the chain, and holds it towards him. " So you don't care to have my picture?" (in a piqued voice); "see how I treasure yours." And he, too, pulls from his breast a miniature, set just like the other. She give a little cry of delight as she recognizes in the half-light a lovely picture of herself, only much too pretty, she thinks. " Oh, do give it to me, dear boy do give it to me!" "Not this one!" clasping his hand over hers ; "another, if you like, but not this. And I suppose I may take mine back, as you don't seem to value it?" HERONMERE'S RESTORATION. 43' " Not the picture only the diamonds. I love the picture. I have looked at it hundreds of times, and almost fancied it spoke to me." " Have you, darling ? then why not go on wearing it ? What do the trumpery diamonds matter?" " No" (firmly). " I know they must be very valuable, and I cannot take them ; only remove them from the pic- ture, and I shall be too delighted to have it." They are standing by the edge of the water, and Heron- mere takes the trinket quietly from her hand. " Very well," he says, with a resolute expression in his blue eyes that Dolores has not seen there before. " You have made up your mind not to have the diamonds, and I have made up my mind that they shall not be parted from the picture ; and if you don't have the two together, no one else shall." And the rash young fellow raises his arm, and in another moment eight hundred pounds' worth of diamonds would have been lying at the bottom of the lake, if Dolores had not, quick as lightning, seized his hand. " How can you be so wicked !" she cries. "Give it back to me." "No" (resolutely); "not unless you give me your sacred promise to keep and wear it as it is." " I cannot ; it is too valuable." " Will it be more valuable at the bottom of the water ?" " Oh, pray, pray don't be so foolish !" cries the girl, in genuine distress. " I long so to keep the picture 1" "Well, promise me." She hesitates. "You won't? Then here goes." And he raises his hand again. "I promise" (breathlessly). Then, as he slips it on the chain again and clasps it round her neck, "You are 432 DOLORES. an unkind boy, to make me do things I do not wish to." "I suppose you are afraid of Guy discovering it some day, when you are married to him," he says, bitterly. "By heaven!" (fiercely seizing her two hands in his, and speaking with violent passion), "If you marry him now, I shall blow my brains out on your wedding-night !" "I am not going to marry him," whispers Dolores, in a frightened voice. " Not going to marry him ! Upon your oath not going to marry him?" (feverishly). " I have told you I am not." "And does he know it?" (eagerly). " I have told him so." "But" (incredulously) "he does not believe you." " I do not know what he believes ; but I have told him so, and I mean it." "Then" (triumphantly), "you shall be mine! I swear it." And regardless of all his vows and promises only ten minutes before, he clasps the girl once more in his fer- vent embrace. CHAPTER XLIII. TIME TO INTERFERE. WHEN Lord Heronmere has been a week at the Court, it occurs to Dolores, for the first time, that it might be better to be Lady Heronmere than to go back to her deso- late home in Rouen, with nothing to look forward to but a dull, weary life and comparative poverty. She is grow- ing fond of him, in a calm, even sort of way, very differ- TIME TO INTERFERE. 433 ent from her passionate attachment for Guy ; but she is happy in his society; he always keeps her cheerful and amused, and she feels no reluctance at the thought of spending the rest of her life in his company. But she sees a great many more difficulties in the way of transfer- ring her hand and affections to him than ever occur to the hot-headed, willful young viscount ; and, before all things, she remembers how, when she believed, in the days gone by, that she had completely forgotten Guy, and been ready to marry another man, how the mere sight of him again had brought back all the old love and made it seem utterly impossible. And might this not happen again on his return, if she promised herself to Heron- mere ? She cannot tell ; she believes that she has ousted Guy from her heart, but that former experience makes her hesitate. Then again, under Guy's own roof, in the daily companionship of his mother, who already looks upon her as a daughter, would it be honorable to promise herself to another man, even though she believes he would rejoice, rather than regret it? Again, she feels very doubtful how Lady Heronmere will receive her. She knows perfectly well that that lady has far different expec- tations for her son, and is perfectly conscious that, if she was an unsuitable match for Guy, che would be ten times more so for his cousin. Since Dolores's confession that her engagement with Guy is broken off, Lord Heronmere has been intensely hopeful and radiant. If he no longer has Guy to fear as a rival, she must be his, he thinks. He talks to her with joyous confidence about their fature, drawing pictures that might have dazzled a more ambitious mind than hers, but in truth her greatest idea of bliss is neither grandeur nor riches, but to be happy, loving, and beloved. It is de- lightful to her to be worshiped as she is by Heronmere, 2C 37 434 DOLORES. with an ardent demonstrativeness such as youth loves, and which is certainly convincing. But she does not want him to make sure of her, lest that should happen which she fears when Guy returns. So one day, as they are riding out together, she makes up her mind to tell him about Philip. With many burning blushes she tells her story, and with much shame and contrition too. As Heronmere listens, his bright, joyous face becomes crest- fallen, he chafes with inward irritation, and falls, as youth is prone, from the summit of hope to the abyss of despair. "So," he says, presently, his voice trembling, and a miserable look overspreading his face, "it only wants a fortnight to his coming back, and you are preparing to shunt me. I suppose you only intended all along to make use of me to pass the time !" "Don't be unjust," she answers, her color rising. " Have I ever once led you to think that I intended to marry you?" "You have never said so, certainly" (in a gloomy voice), "but you said you did not mean to marry him." " Nor do I" (resolutely) : " that is quite certain." "Then " (passionately) " am I such a repulsive brute that you would rather face a miserable life in the future than accept everything I could give you as my wife? " " Dear boy," she answers, very sweetly, " I love you ! I always shall love you; but don't you think it is more fair of me to tell you the truth now than to make you unhappy by-and-by? I do not know that it will hap- pen in my heart I do not believe it will but if one has been so foolish once, one must be prepared against another time. But, come what will, I shall never marry him, because" (her voice faltering) "he does not he never has loved me." "Will you promise me one thing?" says Heronmere, TIME TO INTERFERE. 435 looking very miserable, and casting about to extract the only comfort he can from the situation. "Will you promise me that, if, when Guy comes back, you don't feel you care so very much about him, you will have me?" "Yes" (smiling), "I promise. Only, hasn't it ever struck you what a difficult position it would be, being in his own house and every one thinking one was to marry him?" " Yes, I know it's awkward ; but I've settled it all in n.y own mind. We must run away !" " Run away!" (aghast). " Oh, yes ; it's as easy as possible. Marcelline would gc with us. We wouldn't leave any clue, and in a day or so we could be married. And then" (joyfully) " I'll fight him, or give him any other satisfaction he likes to demand." The state of Lord Heronmere's affections has been very freely commented upon in the servants' hall still more in the house-keeper's room. Walkinshaw says very little, but his mind is uneasy. Mrs. Parker, the lady's- maid, the. upper-housemaid, and my lord's valet, have much discussion upon the subject, when Marcelline is not of the party. "There's no doubt about one thing," says Parker, emphatically "my lord's head over ears in love with her. What I can't make out is, whether she thinks any- thing of him more than his being Sir Guy's cousin. She's always very lively and laughing with him, and they're hardly ever apart ; but if ever I saw any one in love, she was with Sir Guy before he went away. It's my opinion he hadn't ought to have gone away and left her." " Tut, tut," remarks Walkinshaw, who will never hear a word against his master ; "a man can't always be tied to a woman's apron-string, particularly when he knows 436 DOLORES. he's got to live with her all the rest of his life. And where is he to think she's safe, if it isn't under his own roof with his own mother?" " I do wonder my lady is so blind to it all," puts in her ladyship's maid. "To be sure, she don't* see much of them together; but when I've been in the room some- times, I've seen him look as if he could eat her up; he doesn't seem to have any idea of hiding his feelings." "Well," interposes Walkinshaw, testily, "I almost wonder you haven't thought to give her ladyship a hint. You have so many opportunities, being, as I may say,, drawn so very near to her ladyship." " Oh, I've made it my rule through life never to inter- fere in families," returns Mrs. Simpson, loftily, " or I shouldn't have been in them the years upon years that I have been." "I must say that they do make a lovely couple," re- marks the upper-housemaid, a comely, good-natured woman; "and, much as I like Sir Guy, I must say he doesn't seem so suitable as my lord. He is a handsome, kind young feller, and, Lord ! how he does dote on Miss Power ! I found the loveliest picture of her in his bed this morning, all set round with great diamonds. I sup- pose it slipped off his neck as he lay asleep ; and just as I was looking at it, he rushes in, and sees me with it, and gets as red as a turkey-cock. Then he laughs, and says, ' Exchange is no robbery,' and slips a sovereign into ray hand." " There'll be the deuce to pay with the dowager viscount- ess, if it comes to any thing," here says Mr. James, Heronmere's valet. " It seems to me," replies Walkinshaw, severely, " that if she's good enough for Sir Guy she's good enough for my lord ; for if one is a viscount, and the other a baronet, TIME TO INTERFERE. 437 my master's family is older by a couple of hundred years than my lord's." " Of course of course," says James, soothingly ; " only my lady does look so high for him nothing under a dock's daughter would please her. Last year she had three of 'em staying with her there was my Lady Jacintha, Lady Constantia, and Lady Frederica, each one plainer than the other, and I heard him say to his ma, ' Mother, if you ask those d d ugly, freckled women here again' (saving your presence, ladies, but my lord is a little free in his speech), 'I won't come home at all.' But there, he's much too young to be married, only the ladies are always after him, and inviting of him, and making much of him wantin' to ride, and dance, and play croquet, and make little bookies for his button-hole, and ready to tear each other's eyes out about him. I've seen a deal of it, staying in coantry houses. This is the first time he's ever had an obstacle, and I don't doubt that's what makes him so keen. I never saw him half so mad about anybody before." This talk takes place a very few days after Lord Heron- mere's arrival at the Court, and Walkinshaw makes up his mind that it is time to give a hint to his master of the state of affairs. He has tried to instill into Parker and Simpson the propriety of opening Lady Wentworth's eyes ; but these ladies have other ideas in view. If Miss Power marries Sir Guy, their hated rival Marcelline will be estab- lished at the Court once for all ; but if, on the other hand, she marries Lord Heronmere, she is at once and forever removed from their path, for such a marriage will not be followed by much visiting between the two families. Neither has said as much to the other, but they perfectly understand each other, and are even prepared, if necessary, to throw dust into her ladyship's eyes, should they show symptoms of opening. As for old Mrs. Conway, the fact 37* 438 DOLORES. of Dolores being engaged to Guy, and shortly about to marry him, utterly precludes the idea of any possibility of any one else making love to her. Heronmere is Guy's cousin he is a very lively young fellow, brimful of life and spirits, and no wonder the two take pleasure in each other's society. So Walkinshaw, in despair, seeing no help at hand from any quarter, takes upon himself the onerous duty of giving a hint to Sir Guy. The letter costs him a sleepless night, but he writes it, and with trembling hands puts it in the post-bag. "I'm sure, Sir Guy, you' II believe " he writes, "that I have only one motive in writing, which is to do my duty to you, and every member of your family. Nearly ever since you left home, Lord Heronmere has been here, on and off ; and though far be it from me to say he's had any encour- agement from Miss Power, no one can help seeing what his lordship' sfeefings is. Having been very freely remarked upon in the servants' hall, I think it only my duty to ap- prize you, Sir Guy ; and I think pardon the liberty I take in saying so, nothing would put a stop to the talk like your coming home if so be as you see fit. I must add, for the furthest from my thoughts is to sow dissension, as Miss Power's conduct to his lordship was such that he might have been her brother. Her ladyship having for the most part been confined to her room the last month, his lord- ship and the young lady have been thrown very much upon each other, and her ladyship has not had the opportU' nity of seeing what was going on. I beg you humbly to believe, Sir Guy, nothing but the strongest sense of duty would have ever put such a liberty into the head of "Your obedient, humble servant, "JOHN WALKINSHAW." TIME TO INTERFERE. 439 Which letter being dispatched, the poor butler alternates between a nervous fear of having exceeded his duty, and self-congratulation at having done it. It so happens that when the letter arrives at Guy's cot- tage in Norway, he has left, and is on his way home by a circuitous route, and the letter is sent back again to England, to his club in London. He has had ample time for reflection during the long days in Norway, and he is coming home very full of kindness and tenderness for Dolores, and very much resolved to do his utmost to make her happy for the future. He is not by any means satis- fied in his own mind that he has behaved quite kindly to her, and is determined that she shall not have the very slightest cause for complaint on his return. Only one thing troubles him, and that is, that he cannot by any possibility avoid Milly's being at the Court with Adrian for the shooting-season. Adrian, from habit, seems to have as much a right to be there as Guy himself, and to propose separating him from Milly again, unless he is prepared to tell the truth all round, would be impossible. He has a kind of vague hope that her intuitive tact will lead her to make an excuse for not accompanying her husband on this occasion; but there is one thing stronger in Milly than tact, or anything else, and that is her love for Adrian. When he returned to her, after six weeks' absence, gay, good-humored, handsomer than ever, the remembrance of all the bitter anger and anxiety she has felt during his ab- sence melts like snow before the sun. Separate herself voluntarily from him again ! not for the sake of any man or woman living ! Guy's intention is to be at Wentworth on the 3oth of August, and to spend a day first in London, but he is re- solved neither to go to his brother's house, nor to travel 440 DOLORES. by the same train with them to Wentworth. Indeed, his idea is to arrive the day before them, and to have Dolores all to himself, and if she has still any anger against him, to conquer it with tenderness and affection. This will be a great deal easier when he is able to assure her that he has not even so much as set eyes on Milly since he left England. L'homme propose. On his arrival in London, the after- noon of the 29th, he goes to his club for letters, and there finds not only Walkinshaw's letter, but also an ill-spelt anonymous one, evidently from an under-servant at the Court, containing very much fuller particulars than the butler had thought fit to give. Guy, with great propriety, tears the letter into fifty pieces and scatters them to the wind, but he doesn't feel quite the same as before he read it. Now, suppose a man has proposed to a girl from a sense of honor, and because he believes she cannot live without him, and suppose, further, he has felt considerably bur* dened by the responsibility he has taken, would you not think it would be a great relief to him to find suddenly that some one else is not only willing, but madly eager, to shift the responsibility from his shoulders, and that the fair burden does not seem to show any particular disinclina- tion to be so shifted would you not think, I say, that the man to whom this piece of good fortune occurred would be highly delighted, and that his delight would appear very strongly depicted on his countenance ? Look at Guy, then ! His face is as white as the bronze of sun and sea will allow, his teeth are set very hard, and there is a look of such anger in his face as very few people have ever seen there. Well, there is a stronger passion even than love, and that is pride. It is not very pleasant, I suppose, to hear that your affianced wife, whom all your friends know TIME TO INTERFERE. 44! to be devotedly attached to you, is receiving the very ar- dent and demonstrative love-making of your cousin, with perfect complacency, under your very roof, and openly and undisguisedly, in the face of your servants ; and that, from the butler to the lowest kitchen-wench and helper in the stables, every one sees, knows, and talks over the com- parative chances of you and your rival. Well, I suppose such a thing would not be altogether pleasant, even if one knew one had oneself to thank for it in a great measure. Guy might reflect that she had told him positively that she will never marry him, and that it is only by his most earnest entreaties that she has consented to remain at the Court during his absence, and to refrain from making her intentions known ; and that, therefore, if another man offers her his hand and fortune, she is perfectly at liberty to accept it without committing a dishonorable or immod- est action. But when we are very angry we rarely see more than one side of the case, and that is very naturally our own ; therefore Guy decides furiously that Dolores's behavior is only a shade less culpable than his cousin's, whom he will on the morrow, D. V., horsewhip, and kick out of the house. For. a whole hour a host of angry projects rush through his brain ; and then, as it begins to get very bewildered and uncertain, he bethinks him that he will take his rage and his wrongs to Milly. Now, Milly, as we know, is not particularly predisposed in favor of Dolores, but she has a strong sense of justice ; and when Guy has confided to her all the circumstances, although her sympathy is entirely with him, she thinks, too, there is some allowance to be made for the girl. What astonishes her is that Dolores, after being so devoted to Guy, can be capable of caring for any one else in her heart she does not believe it. T* 442 DOLORES. "For heaven's sake, Milly, advise me what to do!" cries Guy, stopping short in his walk up and down the room, and looking like a caged lion. " What on earth can my mother have been thinking of to allow it?" "I'll tell you what I think, Guy: you know, servants are so fond of talking and making mountains out of molehills and Walkinshaw, though a dear, good old man, is a little bit fussy and important. I think it very probable that your cousin may have fallen in love with Dolores, and very likely she may have found it dull with- out you, and been glad to have him there; but I don't see that it at all follows that she thinks anything of him. Why, Guy, if it had been mutual, don't you think your mother must have seen it, and of course would not have permitted it for an instant ? I had a letter from her only this morn- ing, saying Lord Heronmere was going to stay for the shooting, and how much good he had done them all by his fun and liveliness" (Guy grinds his teeth); "and then old Mrs. Conway has been there for the last month." " The most stupid old woman in creation, who never sees the nearest thing to her nose," interrupts Guy. After a great deal of talk and persuasion, Milly succeeds in getting Guy into a more reasonable frame of mind, and he consents to wait until he gets to Wentworth and is able to form his own opinion. So everything happens as Guy has not intended ; he dines with Milly, and the next day they all go down to Wentworth together. Heronmere and Dolores are watching together from one of the windows in the picture-gallery ; both are in- tensely nervous and constrained Heronmere in an agony as to the effect Guy's return will produce upon his idol, and Dolores herself doubtful and perplexed. Pre- sently the phaeton comes in sight among the trees, and a moment later they recognize Guy and his sister-in-law. GUY RETURNS. 443 If Dolores has lost her love for Guy, he has not lost the power of wounding her, and when she sees him laughing and talking with Milly, as they draw near the house, a hot thrill of anger rushes through her heart. "I suppose you are going down to meet him?" says Heronmere, nervously, looking very white and sick. For answer she turns away, flies to her own room, and locks herself in. Heronmere, not feeling particularly anxious to meet his cousin, does the same. CHAPTER XLIV. GUY RETURNS. WHEN the travelers arrive, there is no one to greet them bu^ Lady Wentworth, and she is so delighted at seeing Adrian again that she fails to perceive Dolores's absence. Guy is on thorns. He feels he must speak to his mother on the subject that fills him with so much trouble ; he cannot before an audience, and he does not like doing anything so pointed as to ask immediately for a private interview. At any moment Dolores may come in, though her absence looks extremely suspicious, and he will not know how to meet her. Presently Milly goes to take off her hat, but Adrian remains. Guy feels the plunge must be taken. " Adrian," he asks nervously, " would you mind leaving me alone with our mother for a few minutes? I have something very particular to say to her." Lady Wentworth looks a little surprised, and Adrian answers, lazily, 444 DOLORES. " I suppose I must, if you insist. But, my dear fellow, why are you not off looking for Dolores, whom you must be so anxious to see?" However, he goes ; and the instant the door has closed behind him, Guy says, sternly, " Mother, what is this I hear about Dolores and Heronmere?" Lady Wentworth looks at him in surprise. " I do not understand you, my dear. What have you heard?" "That he has been here nearly ever since I left, making the most impassioned love to her under your very eyes." "Absurd!" answers his mother. "Who has presumed to tell you such a thing? As if Dolores would for one instant give a thought to a boy like Regy, when she is not only engaged to marry you, but is entirely devoted to you!" "May have been" (bitterly); "but women soon change. And I am assured, on the authority of a mem- ber of the household whom I can trust, that Heronmere is madly in love with her, and that they have been together, morning, noon, and night, for nearly two months." "I do not know who your authority may be," replies Lady Wentworth, with some warmth, "but it must be some very foolish and officious person. You surely give me credit for being able to see what is going on before me ; and I have no hesitation in saying that there is nothing but friendship between the two. They seem to take very great pleasure in each other's society, which is no more than natural they should do, both being very lively, and near the same age. But, my dear Guy" (smiling), "I do not think you need have any fear of poor Regy as a rival." GUY RETURNS. 445 His mother's confidence a little re-assures Guy, but he cannot get over the letters, chiefly the one of which he desires not to think at all. And why are Dolores and Heron mere both absent ? He is half inclined to see Walkinshaw; but at this moment the dressing-bell rings, and he resolves to wait a few hours and judge for himself. When he comes down, the whole party are assembled. Dolores is talking with some animation to Adrian, Heron- mere is bending over Milly, and the two elderly ladies are chatting together. Dolores gives him her hand in an unconcerned manner not in the least as though she were glad to see him; and he turns, rather nettled, to his cousin, who greets him not very cordially, but still in a way not calculated to draw any remark. At dinner he has old Mrs. Conway on his right, and Dolores on his left; but she talks incessantly to Adrian, who is on her right; although, whenever Guy addresses her, she answers him with per- fect politeness. During the first part of dinner, Heronmere has been excessively nervous and anxious how Dolores will comport herself with Guy ; but when he observes that she scarcely speaks to him, he waxes confident, and is able to talk to Milly with great liveliness and enthusiasm. When Dolores sees him so engrossed with Milly, a pang of jealousy seizes her : is this woman always to be in her way ? she thinks, bitterly. Her vexed look at Heronmere is not lost on Guy. How thankful he is when this miserable dinner is over ! He feels thoroughly uncomfortable and out of sorts. His pride is deeply wounded ; he is full of anger, to which, in his own house, it is difficult to give vent ; and he has the pleasant consciousness that every servant in the house 38 446 DOLORES. knows the position of affairs, and that the coolness of Dolores's reception of him will be freely commented upon. He feels it hardly possible to speak civilly to his cousin, so, almost as soon as the ladies have gone, he makes an excuse, and adjourns to his room, leaving Adrian and Heronmere upon the best of terms. He sends for Walkinshaw, and questions him ; but that worthy, fearful of having already said too much, only confines himself to remarking that he does not doubt all will be well now Sir Guy has returned, and, though he thinks his lordship was very much taken with Miss Power, he had never (emphatically) seen her behave in any other way than she might have done to a brother. To be sure, they did race about in the gardens together, and ride, and row on the lake; and he had seen his lordship with his arm round Miss Power's waist, but to be sure that was only when he was teaching her to dance ; and they did laugh and go on like two mad things sometimes; but, Lor' ! that was only what all young creatures full of health and spirits would do. All of which we may be sure was eminently satisfactory to Guy all the more that there was nothing definite enough to give him an excuse for an open rupture with his cousin. He refrains from any allusion to the anonymous letter. When he returns to the drawing-room, Adrian is still talking to Dolores, and Heronmere to Milly. He makes at once for Dolores. "I suppose I must give place," says Adrian, with a smile ; but she answers, without even looking at Guy, " Why should you? We are very well as we are ; he can go and talk to Mrs. Charteris." Stung to the quick, Guy turns away and walks to his mother. "My dear," she whispers, not quite understanding how things are going, "I think you are wrong in being GUY RETURNS. 447