YOU NEVER CAN TELL.
With every pleasing, every prudent part,
Say what does Chloe want?
She wants a heart.
--Pope.
"No one could expect anything better from a person of Miss Litchfield's
position. Of course you could not help noticing her manner yesterday;
the girl's bringing up must account for her actions. Any man, a
gentleman, who would marry a negress, could not but expect some flaw in
his family."
Sir Barry Traleigh turns sharply from contemplating the reflection of
his own face in the mirror opposite.
"Do you say Miss Litchfield's mother was a negress?"
Mrs. St. James takes up a scarlet ball of silk from her work basket.
"Oh, well," she answers with sarcasm, "I consider Creoles and negroes
the same. As I said before, the girl is not to blame, considering
everything. Then her mother ran away; why, surely you heard the story.
She disappeared; no one knows if she is dead or living. The deepest
sympathy was felt for Mr. Litchfield, who, I understand, is a very
worthy man. His sister took charge of his home and children. Miss
Litchfield has a younger sister home; they were quite young at the time
of the trouble, and I believe they think their mother dead."
Mrs. St. James has waited patiently to hear Sir Barry reply, but reply
in the way she wished him to; Mrs. St. James gets disappointed.
Sir Barry is thunderstruck. It cannot be possible that Dolores can be
connected with any one but those whom any honest man would be willing to
take by the hand. There must be some good reason for Dolores' mother
leaving her home and family; and to find that reason out will be Sir
Barry's future aim. Mrs. St. James goes on in soft, smooth tones.
"You see it places the family in a very perplexing and awkward position.
Outside of the friends of the family, I believe no one makes anything of
them." Mrs. St. James thinks Sir Barry will appreciate her defence of
Miss Litchfield. "Of course the girls are not to blame for their
mother's strange behaviour, but you know what the world is."
Yes, Sir Barry, in his wanderings about among persons and places, knew
the world, and felt at this moment a fierce desire to punch every head
in the world who dared to cast a slur on Dolores, or any one belonging
to her. A very great interest he takes in this girl, whom he has not
seen over half a dozen times, and who takes special pains to snub him at
every opportunity. Mrs. St. James knits on the scarlet wool, contrasting
vividly with her marble face and hands. The sunbeams, peeping coyly in
through the half closed shutters, catches her diamond rings, and throws
around them a hundred glimmering, glistening, sparkling rays. Some one,
who has been sitting outside the open window, gets up to go. Sir Barry
glances lazily out. He meets Dolores' eyes fixed full upon him--Dolores'
pretty, gentle face no longer. Until he dies Sir Barry will remember
that agonized, broken-hearted look on Dolores' face. As he turns to Mrs.
St. James, he sees--can it be--a satisfied smile on her perfect lips?
When he looks again, Dolores is gone.
"Did you see who just passed the window, and of course heard our
conversation?" breaks sternly from between Sir Barry's clinched teeth.
"No. Who was it?"
But this is too much for any man to swallow. He knew the lady sitting
right by the window had led the conversation to the topic they had been
discussing, knowing perfectly well who was sitting outside, and would
hear, whether she wished or not, what was said.
"Oh it's all right; good morning." And Sir Barry takes his hat and is
gone. Mrs. St. James bites her scarlet lips in vexation, and hopes Sir
Barry has gone to thoroughly digest what was said. And Dolores--poor
Dolores--she is in her room, sobbing her heart out. Who can realize what
her feelings are, to be thus rudely awakened to the knowledge that there
hung over their family a dark cloud, some dreadful story about the
beloved mother, whom Zoe and she had so often mourned as dead?
To be sure no tombstone marked her grave in the pretty shady cemetery at
home. Aunt Adeline said their mother was dead, and that, to their minds,
was proof enough, for was Auntie ever known to tell them a falsehood?
Since she had grown up, the desire to have her mother, like the other
girls around, had often possessed her. But to hear this woman tell Sir
Barry that her mother had gone away and left her home and family!
Believe it indeed! No! Certainly she could never look on the sweet,
grave pictured face hanging in its massive frame of gilt, over the
drawing room mantle at home, and believe that the original could commit
any act that would make her children blush when they heard the name of
their mother.
Probably had Arial St. James known how deeply her words had wounded
Dolores, she would have been very sorry. Not a bad woman at heart, but
she spoke without thinking. Another thing, she had but repeated to Sir
Barry the story which every one knew at the time it happened. "A guilty
conscience needs no accusing," as has often been said before. When
Dolores turned her back on being presented to Mrs. St. James, it was
because she could not bring herself to treat with any show of civility a
woman who could treat her child so unkindly. Mrs. St. James attributed
it to a wholly different cause. Two years ago she and her husband had
come to Italy. Arial was charmed with the place, and when Mr. St. James
proposed returning home, his wife declined to go. So he, as usual, let
her have her own way, and left her and Roy, then an uninteresting,
sickly little infant of only a few months old. Arial was not much of a
person to write letters, so Mr. St. James, working away among his law
books, heard very seldom from his wife, and knew very little of the way
she employed her time. Sometimes the thought would flash across his busy
brain that he would like to see his son. But Arial never mentioned the
child's name, and Mr. St. James, thinking women were queer fish, came to
the conclusion that the baby must have died in its infancy, and as
perhaps it might hurt his wife's feelings, he never mentioned the
child's name to her. But contrary to his ideas the baby did live, grew
strong and flourishing, and little Roy was the favorite of all in the
large crowded hotel. But in spite of his beautiful dresses, sashes,
white kid slippers, dainty feathered hats, and little lace bonnets,
still, for all those desirable things, the poor Italian peasant women
followed the pretty, dark, curly headed lad, with deep pity in their
dark lustrous eyes--for the Italians love their children with a deep
passionate devotion almost amounting to idolatry. But the little white
frocked, blue sashed English boy, Roy, had no loving mother to caress
and love him. Mrs. St. James considered it time wasted to make a fuss
over children. She never talked to her little son, nor played with him;
she was proud of his beautiful face, and was not ashamed to call him her
son. She considered she was doing her duty by him in providing a
suitable nurse; he had everything he wanted, what more was required? And
yet night after night he has cried himself to sleep, because his mother
has passed his nursery door, and never "come to kiss Roy good night."
Every one knew in the respect of affection she did her son a great
wrong.
This was the conclusion Mrs. St. James came to--somebody had told
Dolores that she neglected her child; and, be it said, Arial respected
this girl, who dared to show her feelings. A good many older people than
Dolores did not approve of Mrs. St. James' actions, but they held their
tongues, made much of the lively English lady, and Arial enjoyed her
power in her far Italian home.
Out on the beach, romping among the dancing waves, and having a good
time generally, are Dolores and little Roy; much to Blondine's
amusement; she is too lazy to take any part in the programme; all
Blondine can do is to sit on a high boulder and laugh gaily at the two
sea nymphs disporting themselves to their evident satisfaction. Roy and
his "Dolly" are fast, firm friends; he cannot enjoy anything unless
Dolores is present. Mrs. St. James, as long as the child keeps out of
her way, does not take the bother to care who he is with. So many
pleasant hours are spent in each other's company. Blondine says "Dolores
cannot say she never had one staunch champion," and Roy declares he is
going to marry his pretty Dolly as soon as ever he gets to be a "big
man."
Coming along the sands, with his dog at his heels, is Sir Barry. He
greets the ladies, and sends the dog in the water, to Roy's delight.
When he appears Dolores immediately freezes. It is a never ending source
of wonder to Blondine, what in the name of sense has Sir Barry ever done
that Dolores treats him as she does.
"They are arranging a party to go and spend a couple of days or so at
Monaco. Are any of you going?" Sir Barry asks, in his cheery voice.
"How delightful!" cries Blondine, starting up from her seat and brushing
the sand off her blue flannel dress. Very bewitching she is looking in
her blue gown and scarlet cap; and Blondine has the gift to know she
looks pretty. "I do wonder if uncle Dick will go? I hope, oh how I hope
he will; I am dying to go."
Dolores throws sticks in the water, to see the dog bring them out.
"Dolores, don't you hope uncle Dick will go? Did you hear what Sir Barry
says?"
Dolores does not answer; perhaps the breeze carries Blondine's voice in
an opposite direction, perhaps Roy's childish talk proves more
agreeable.
Presently Hester comes to take Roy away, and Dolores saunters idly back
to Sir Barry and his fair companion. Blondine is highly delighted; Sir
Barry has seen and asked uncle Dick if he would join the party, and of
course uncle Dick had said yes. Any affair Traleigh approved was in
uncle Dick's mind commendable.
"Will it not be splendid! Dolores, are you not pleased?"
And Sir Barry laughs lightly at Dolores' answer.
"Blondine, you would think it splendid if a shower of rain should
descend this moment and drench us."
Blondine is watching the white clouds float across the azure sky, and
wishing the sun may shine as brightly for the next couple of days. Sir
Barry looks at the massive gold watch in his pocket, and says by the
time they lunch and get ready it will be time to start. So Blondine
unfurls her large white cotton umbrella, tucks Dolores' unwilling hand
under her arm, and laments the smallness of the parasol's compass. If it
was possible she would offer a part to Sir Barry; as it is she advises
him to pull his hat well over his face, for freckles on a man's face is
something Miss Gray detests.
"But some people consider them a mark of beauty; that is the reason I am
trying to cultivate some," Sir Barry says solemnly.
Dolores gives one swift side glance at the handsome face of the man
walking the other side of Blondine. He happens, at the same instant, to
be looking at her. Dolores is angry at the blush she feels rising to her
face. The idea of his watching her that way; it is too bad he cannot
find some one else to gaze at all the time.
"I do wish you would hold the umbrella a little on my side," she says
coldly to Blondine.
Sir Barry bites his moustache savagely; he has never been so
persistently snubbed in all his twenty-eight years.
Ten minutes later Dolores, sitting at her parlor window, happens to
glance out, to see Sir Barry strolling leisurely down the garden, with
Rea Severn at his side, in all the glory of a fresh effort of Worth's--a
dress which every girl in the hotel would give anything to possess. It
was made so marvellously, no one could tell just how--and so Miss Severn
feared no imitation.
Dolores watches them pace up and down, to and fro. Her heart is
throbbing with an angry, passionate feeling against Sir Barry. He was
very anxious to get Blondine and her back to the hotel, so he could walk
and talk with Rea Severn. She wished uncle Dick would take Blondine
and her home, away, far away from the place where Sir Barry Traleigh is,
and all belonging to him. And yet if such had been the case that uncle
Dick should leave Nice, probably Dolores would feel most sincerely loath
to go. Rea has a cluster of magnificent pink and white roses in her
hand. Dolores sees her select one and give it to Sir Barry. He takes it,
and Dolores waits to see him fasten it in his coat. But Sir Barry seems
to forget how much more effective it would have looked there, but
carries the frail blossom between his gloved fingers. Dolores wonders
what they are talking about? Probably the intended trip; no doubt they
are planning numberless blissful moments together. Rea talks on, and Sir
Barry listens, and ponders if Miss Litchfield will allow him to drive
her in his stylish dogcart and span of fine horses. The others are all
going in those jaunty little donkey carts which are so plentiful in
Nice. Probably Rea is not only very much interested in Sir Barry on
account of his good looks, but also has an inward longing for an
invitation to a seat beside the owner of the handsome bays.