[Illustration: 0239]
[Illustration: 9239]
AVING completed his breakfast, Mr. Percy Darley seated himself in a n
easy-chair, facing the cheerful grate-fire of ruddy anthracite, placed
his toes upon the fender, and relapsed into a thoughtful contemplation
of Leonard's letter.
“You had best come, my dear boy,” said the letter. “It is a sleepy
little town--one of those idyllic Acadian places of which you used to
rave when you were tired of the city and fretful at her ways. We can
smoke our pipes and chat over the old days, before a fire in my big,
old-fashioned grate. There is a noble stretch of clear ice here now. Our
little river is frozen over, solid and safe, and the darkest prospects
do not foreshadow another fall of snow for a fortnight. The sleighing is
superb; and, as Madeline Bridges says, 'the nights are splendid.' Pack
up your traps and come.”
The invitation was an alluring one, thought Darley. His head ached, and
his heart was sick of the everlasting round of parties and calls and
suppers. What a vision of beatific rest that idea of a chat over old
times! Ah, dear old times of childhood and youth, when our tears are as
ephemeral as our spendthrift dimes!
There seemed to be only one rational preclusion--to wit, Miss Charteris.
Not that he thought Miss Charteris would personally object to his
absence, but, rather, that _he_ had an objection to leaving Miss
Charteris. Miss Charteris was an heiress, and a handsome woman; to
be brief, Miss Charteris being rich, and our friend Darley having the
millstone of debt about his neck, he had determined, if possible, to wed
her. If he went away, however, at this period of his acquaintance,
when the heiress and he were becoming fast friends, some one else would
doubtless step into the easy shoes of attention.
So Darley went down into the city and telegraphed his friend Leonard
that he would be in Dutton on the evening train. He thought he should
like to see Miss Charteris, however, before going. He walked back slowly
along a particularly favorite drive of hers, and presently met this
young lady with her stylish little turn-out, looking very radiant and
happy on this bright winter morning.
There was some one with her--a fact Darley noticed with no great feeling
of pleasure. It was not a strange thing; but, following the course of
things as they had been for the past few weeks, it should have been
Darley himself. This morning it was a sallow, dark young man whom Darley
did not remember having seen before.
Darley explained that he was about to leave town for a few weeks, as
soon as Miss Charteris had drawn up alongside the pavement to wish
him goodmorning. Then she introduced him to her companion. “A very old
friend--Mr. Severance--just arrived from Australia.”
“Dear old Dutton!” said Miss Charteris, looking reminiscent. “You must
not break any trusting hearts down there, Mr. Darley; for the Dutton
maids are not only lovely, but proverbially trusting.”
“You know Dutton, then?” Darley answered, surprised.
“Oh, yes! I have a very dear aunt in Dutton--oh, but you will see! I
spent some of my happiest days there. So did you, I think, Lawrence.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Severance reflectively, “days almost as happy as the
present day. Don't you think, Mr. Darley, that a man's best years
cluster round the age of ten?”
Darley could not help agreeing to this. All men, provided their youth
has been happy, think so. Darley said good-by, and walked on.
Who was this fellow Severance? _She_ called him Lawrence--_Lawrence_, by
Jove! There was something in it--rather old schoolmates, too, they
had been, and what might they not be now? It was more pique than
disappointment which caused Darley to wish momentarily that he was not
scheduled for Dutton. However, he must stand the hazard of the die.
His things were soon packed; he also supplied himself with a box of the
cigars Leonard and he used to love in “the days that are no more,” and a
copy of “Outing.” And ten hours later the train, with a jovial roar, ran
into the little town, where the lights gleamed cozily against the snowy
background, and the sleigh-bells seemed to bid him a merry, musical
welcome.
A short, erect, trimly built man with a finely chiseled face and a brown
skin that seemed to breathe of pine woods and great wide, sunlit rivers
grasped Darley's hand as he stepped to the platform.
“Well, old man!” exclaimed the brown man, cheerily. “Awfully glad you've
come! Come this way! Here we are, Joseph! Step in!”
“By Jove! it _is_ wintry here, isn't it?” said Darley, as he slid under
the buffalo robes. “What a peerless night!”
After supper the two men made themselves thoroughly comfortable in great
leather chairs before Leonard's promised fire, and smoked and chatted.
“You look just the same, old boy,” said Leonard, scanning Darley
carefully. “But the hair is a little thin in front there, and I think
I see the growing spot of baldness, as Ike Marvel has it. Did you ever
read that great book of his, 'A Bachelor's Reveries?' No? Well,
you should. I find it sweetest company. Yes, you are the same old
sobersides--a great deal deeper than you look, as the little boy said
when he fell into the well. And not married yet, eh?”
“Who, the little boy?”
“No; you, you rogue! I should have thought you would have gone off long
ago.”
“Why?”
“A hard question to answer. Are we not always in a condition of mild
wonder that our friends have not gone over to the married ranks, when
we ourselves have not? However, from floating gossip--that tongue's
flotsam--I have heard that you meditate going over.”
“Eh?” said Darley, pricking up his ears.
“Why,” answered Leonard, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, “Beau
Brummel cannot pay court to a beauty without the world knowing it! I,
even I, have heard of Miss Bella Charteris. She is not the sort of girl,
if I may make so bold, that I would have imagined you pinning yourself
to. I should have thought some quiet, sober, angelic little woman
like----”
“Like who?”
“Well, I was going to say like her sister,” said Leonard softly, bending
his head over his pipe as he slowly refilled it. “But you do not know
her sister, I think.”
“Why, I did not even know Miss Charteris had a sister!” exclaimed
Dar-ley in amazement.
“No? Why, Miss Florence Charteris lives here--in Dutton!”
“Miss Charteris mentioned an aunt, and hinted at some one else whom she
said I would see, now that I think of it.”
“Irony, I suppose,” said Leonard quietly, smiling a queer little smile.
“Yes, Miss Charteris the second lives in Dutton: a quaint, gray little
life, good, patient, and God-like. She is the sweet angel of Dutton. But
tell me, Percy, are you in love with your Miss Charteris?”
“I am afraid she is not my Miss Charteris,” said Darley, smiling. “And
to be candid with you, Jack, I am not in love with her--for which,
perhaps, I should be thankful. However, if Miss Charteris _does_ accept
me, which I think is highly improbable, I shall marry her for money.”
Leonard shook his head. “I thought that was the way the wind lay,” he
said sagaciously. “Don't do it,” he added tersely, after a pause. “Take
an old fool's advice--don't do it. I think you would only live to regret
having sold yourself into bondage. That is what it would amount to in
your case. You are not built upon rough enough lines, I know, not to
care at having your poverty sneered at and constantly thrown in your
face. It is a puzzle to me how any man with any sense of independence
and honor can sell himself, as some men do; and it is beyond my
understanding how _you_, with your fine feelings and high ideal of
manhood, ever thought of such a thing.”
This was certainly rubbing it in, Dar-ley thought. But, then, Leonard
was such an exceptionally odd fellow, with his one-man-in-a-million code
of chivalry and his ethical eccentricities. Still, Darley shrunk at the
castigation, because he knew that the feelings that prompted it were
sincere.
“But I am terribly in debt, Jack,” he said, almost deprecatingly. “What
is there left for me to do?”
“What is there left? The opportunity to fight it out!” retorted Leonard.
“Retrench. In a year, or two at most, unless you are _hopelessly_
insolvent, if you live without the profitless pleasures that have
brought you to this pass, you can come out triumphantly independent.”
Darley shook his head. “I am afraid I could not stand the strain, Jack,”
he answered, almost sadly. “A fellow of your caliber might. How is it,
by the way, that you yourself are still in single harness?”
Leonard was silent, gazing in the coals with almost a melancholy air.
“Perhaps I should not say so,” he said at last, “yet you have been so
frank with me; but I do not like the subject when applied to myself.
However, there is but one answer, which is embodied in that one
word that hangs like a pall before the eyes of the young literary
aspirant--_refused_. I shall always be single, Darley. Always the same
old solitary sixpence, with my rods and guns and dogs and books. Not bad
companions, all of them, when used well--faithful, too. Eh, Rosy?”
The beautiful hound addressed raised her head and looked pathetically at
her master, rubbing her nose in a sympathetic way against his leg.
Darley felt deeply interested. “What was the trouble, old fellow?” he
ventured.
“The whole story is contained in that one word--refused. I never cared
for but one woman; and _she_ did not care for me--at least, not enough
to marry. Which was, after all, the most natural thing in the world, I
suppose. I could not blame her, could I, since I would only marry for
love myself? It is not much of a story, is it?”
“On the contrary, I think there is a great deal in it!” answered Darley,
warmly. “I think I see that you loved this woman as only men with hearts
like yours can love--once and for all.”
“Loved her? My love has no past participle, Darley! I shall always love
her! I shall always think her the sweetest woman in the world, and the
best! There is no other like her--God bless her! But you are sleepy, old
fellow; and even Rosy is yawning and thinks it is time all decent people
went to bed. Let us have one of the old-time horns, one of those old
camp-fire nips--and then to bed. To-morrow you shall see our little
town. By the way, did you bring your skates?”
“Skates! I haven't seen one for five years.”
“Never mind. I have a dozen pairs, and I dare say we can fit you. Do
you curl? No? Well, you shall learn. We have the finest rink within a
hundred miles. Here's your room, old fellow! Good-night, and rosy dreams
and slumbers bright, as Sir Walter says.”
The days passed happily for Darley. The ice was perfect; and though he
had not skated for years, his old power over the art came swiftly back.
The river was one glaring, narrow, indefinite sheet of incomparable ice.
Then there was the curling-rink, of which Leonard was an ardent devotee.
It is a quiet, satisfying sport, this “roaring” game, and has peculiar
charms for the man who has turned forty. The snow-bird shooting was
good, too, out in the broad white fields beyond the town. And one
glittering night the pair drove out into the country, and went on a hunt
after some depredatory foxes with some farmers. They did not get the
foxes; but they had a jolly supper at the farm-house, and an eight-hand
reel in the kitchen, which Darley thoroughly enjoyed--more, he affirmed
to his black-eyed partner, than any ball in the city he had ever
attended.
One morning, Leonard having some business to detain him, Darley went off
alone for the customary spin down the river. Skating out of the town
and away past the white fields and the farmhouses, he presently espied a
small feminine figure ahead of him, gliding quietly along. Suddenly
the figure tripped and fell. One skate had come off and flew out to the
center of the ice.
Darley sped to the rescue. The little figure in gray made a futile
attempt to rise.
[Illustration: 0252]
“Are you hurt?” exclaimed the rescuer as he wheeled to a short stop.
The lady looked up, and Darley saw the likeness in an instant. It was
the other Miss Charteris--not at all like his acquaintance of the city.
A rather pale, patient little face, with quiet gray eyes set far apart;
a plain face, Darley said to himself. But on second thought he decided
that it was not.
“I am afraid I have hurt my ankle,” said this little woman in answer to
Darley's inquiry. “I tried to stand up, but I got a twinge that told me
something was wrong.”
“Let me help you. Which foot is it?”
“This one,” indicating the foot minus the skate.
Darley lifted her up. “Now you keep the injured member off the ice,” he
said, “and I will skate you to shore.”
“It was all my fault,” said the patient, as Darley knelt down and
removed the remaining skate. “I would put on these old-fashioned things
just because the blades are splendid.”
Darley secured the refractory skate and removed his own. Then he asked
how the ankle felt.
Miss Charteris attempted to stand upon both feet, but sat down upon the
bank instantly.
“It _does_ hurt,” she said, as if unwilling to admit the painful fact.
She looked at Darley almost appealingly, then about her. The nearest
house was a quarter of a mile away. Finally she looked back at Darley,
with an expression that seemed to say, What are we going to do now, I
wonder?
Darley made up his mind quickly. He always did when a woman was in the
question. “You can't walk,” he said; “I shall have to carry you.”
Miss Charteris' pale cheeks assumed a rapid flush. “I can walk,” she
said, hastily.
“Very well,” said Darley, gently. “Take my arm.”
A few painful steps proved to Miss Charteris that she _could_ walk, at
the expense of excruciating agony. So, being a sensible little soul, she
stopped.
“You see, it is impossible,” said her knight. “You will have to let me
carry you, Miss Charteris. I beg your pardon for not introducing myself.
I am Mr. Percy Darley, a guest at Mr. John Leonard's.”
“I knew you were Mr. Darley, but I don't see how you knew that I was
Miss Charteris,” said that young lady, looking surprised, and quite
forgetting her ankle.
“I have the pleasure of knowing your sister, and I recognized the
likeness,” answered Darley, truthfully. “Now, will you allow me? Or I am
afraid I shall have to take the law into my own hands.”
“I am not the law,” retorted Miss Charteris, attempting to proceed.
“The very reason that I should become the law,” answered Darley,
laughing.
“I think I can _hop_,” said the girl, desperately. She did so for a few
yards, and then came to a last halt. Hopping through deep snow proved
rather heavy exercise.
“I am afraid you will have to carry me,” she said in a tone of
surrender.
Darley picked her up. She was no weight, this little gray thing, and
Darley was an athletic young man. Despite the snow, it did not take him
long to reach the farm-house.
The farmer's wife was a kind soul, and knew Miss Charteris. She also
knew a sprain, she said, when she saw one; and Miss Charteris' ankle was
sprained. So, while the injured member was being attended to by the
deft hand of the farmer's wife, Darley posted off to the town for Miss
Charteris' aunt's sleigh, the farmer being absent with his own.
Darley secured the sleigh, drove back to the farm-house, and his charge,
her ankle warmly and carefully wrapped up, was placed in the cutter and
driven home. The family doctor had already arrived, and Darley took his
leave.
“May I call and see how you are get-ing on?” he ventured as he said
good-by.
“I shall be happy if you will,” said Miss Charteris. But the gray eyes
seemed to say to Darley, Could you think of not doing so?
“I am afraid you are in love, or on the way,” said this young man to
himself as he walked briskly to his friend's house. “In love, young
fellow, and with a real woman, not a woman of the world, but a genuine
sweet woman, one worth the loving.”
He related the story as simply as he could to Leonard, and the latter
listened quietly. But Darley did not observe the odd look in his
friend's eyes during the narration, nor did he guess that Leonard was
saying to himself, Ah! my young friend, and have you, too, fallen at the
first shaft?
“Shall we go round to the rink?” suggested Leonard the following
evening, after dinner, as they sat over their pipes.
“I think I will stroll round and see how Miss Charteris is,” said
Darley, smoking furiously. “I will call in at the rink afterward, eh?”
“Very well, old fellow,” was all Leonard said.
Darley found Miss Charteris' ankle improved. The doctor had pronounced
it a severe sprain, had prescribed some wonderful liniment, and had
alleviated the pain.
“But I shall not be able to be out again for three weeks,” said the
invalid, plaintively, on the occasion of a second visit of anxious
inquiry. “It is too bad; for I think open-air skating the most
exhilarating of all sport! It always seems to lift me up.”
“It didn't seem to lift you up yesterday,” suggested Darley.
“No, indeed. I have thought since that I should be very grateful to you,
because, if you had not happened along, I am sure I don't know what I
should have done.”
“Don't talk like that, please,” said Darley, gravely. It is wonderful
the aversion a young man has to being thanked in a case of this sort--at
least, his profession of dislike. “I cannot tell you how unfortunate
I regard the doctor's mandate,” said Darley after one of those awkward
pauses between two young people who fancy, on a short acquaintance,
that they have a tender regard for each other. “On your own account, of
course, because I can understand how you feel over losing such a chance
as the present ice affords; but chiefly, I am selfish enough to say, on
my own behalf, because by the time you are able to skate again, even if
the ice is still good, my visit will have come to an end; and I had been
hoping, presumptuously enough, I know, to see you often.”
“Will it be really imperative for you to return so soon?” said Miss
Charteris, working rapidly at the woolen hood on which she was engaged.
“I am afraid so,” answered Darley, with something very like a sigh. “I
could not infringe on too much of Leonard's time----”
“Ah! it is not the city which calls, then?”
“No, it is not the city,” answered Darley, laughing, and being angrily
conscious that he was flushing. “But Jack is such a dear good fellow,
that I know he would not dream of sending me away.”
Miss Charteris' eyes were on her work, and she plied her fingers
rapidly.
“Do you know Leonard very well, Miss Charteris?” continued Darley, as
the girl did not venture a remark.
“Oh, yes!” The tone might have suggested that Miss Charteris was
agitated; but Darley went on, radiant and sublimely ignorant.
“He is a grand fellow--the one man in the world that I would fall down
and worship! I think Shakespeare must have had him in his vaticinal eye
when he put those perfect words, that immortal eulogy, in the mouth
of Antony: 'His life was gentle; and the elements so mixed in him that
Nature might stand up and say to all the world, '_this_ was a man!'”
The maid came in and asked if she should light the lamps.
“Not just yet. I prefer this twilight. Do you, Mr. Darley?”
“Very much--for itself. It is very satisfying and soothing, and always
seems to me like a benediction. But it is very bad for your eyes, and
very soon I shall be only able to half see your face.”
“Which will be very good for _your_ eyes. Well, I have done work
for today.” Miss Charteris laid the hood away, which Darley had been
regarding curiously, and folded her hands in her lap. The action and the
moment made Darley think of the “Angelus;” the “Angelus” made him think
that it was getting late, and that made him think that it was time to
go. The lamps, he said, had come round, and----
“No, sit down, unless you really want to go,” said Miss Charteris. She
was remarkably frank, this young lady. “The lamps have not come round;
and, on the contrary, I think that my disinclination for them should be
taken as proof that I do not think it is time for you to go. Besides,
the days are cruelly short now.”
“I find them so,” answered Darley, softly. “Leonard is making everything
so comfortable for me that I do not know what I shall feel like when the
curtain has rung down. It will seem like awaking suddenly from dreamland
to cold earth again. I am sure I shall feel like one of those mountains
falling into the sea of dullness that Poe describes: 'Mountains toppling
evermore into seas without a shore.'”
“You seem a great admirer of Mr. Leonard,” ventured Miss Charteris.
There was just the slightest suspicion of jealousy in her tone, which
Darley did not notice. Was it because he had inadvertently attributed
his loneliness at leaving to his friend's kindness, and not paid her
that little tribute of homage which women love? But who knoweth the
heart of woman? Darley longed to tell her why he should feel lonely
when he came to say good-by; but he did not wish to garnish such
a declaration with quotations from poets. Let a man speak from the
inspiration of the moment when he tells his love, or hints at it.
“Admirer!” he echoed, in reply to Miss Charteris' remark. “It is more
than that. Just think! We were inseparable for years. I wish we had
remained so. No one who knows Jack Leonard as I have known him could
help thinking him a perfect man, noble and generous, as he is!”
“We are one in that opinion,” answered Miss Charteris, quietly. “And,
next to esteeming a noble man, I can esteem his friend who can speak so
unselfishly and sincerely of him, as you have done.”
Darley felt touched--not so much at the words, but at the way in which
they were spoken, gently, deeply, as if breathing of sincereness. But he
did not distinguish anything beyond that in the grave eulogy to Leonard
and himself.
At length the lights _had_ to be brought in, and Darley rose to go.
“You said you felt it unfortunate that I should be unable to skate,
because you had been hoping to see me often,” said Miss Charteris. She
was conscious of a slight flush, but she went bravely on. In certain
circumstances a woman _has_ to be what prudes call bold. “Did you mean
it?”
“How could you doubt that I meant it? I certainly did mean it.”
Darley was a little confused by this frankness. All true women must be
coquettes in some degree, was Darley's creed. But Miss Charteris was
hardly a coquette even in a slight degree, he thought. It was not
frivolousness that prompted her to speak in this way.
“Because, if you meant it,” continued this charming young person, “I
shall be glad if you will come and see me as often as you like, if you
will not find it dull.”
Miss Spooner, Miss Charteris' aunt, came in at this moment and spoiled
the eloquent look of reproach that Darley gave her niece.
“Did you ever see such a girl!” exclaimed Miss Spooner in her high but
pleasant voice. Miss Spooner's speech was emphatic, and endowed with
realism. Darley felt like saying that he never had, indeed. “_I_ never
did! Going into mourning, I believe, because she can't go out and break
another ankle! You wouldn't catch _me_ on that ice! I saw it to-day from
the bridge--horrible, shiny, treacherous stuff! Not going already, Mr.
Darley? Better stop to tea.”
Darley said he could not stop to tea _that evening_; which meant that he
could some other evening, of course, and would be unspeakably happy to
do so. All of which Miss Spooner understood; and so she extended her
hospitality to him for the next evening.
*****
“Do you know, Percy, I believe you are going to marry Miss Charteris,”
said Leonard, quietly, one evening. “_Our_ Miss Charteris, I mean.”
“What makes you say so?”
“I believe you are in love with her; in fact, I know you are. And I hope
you will. Nothing could make me happier.” Darley looked the satisfaction
he could not speak at this little speech.
“I am in love with her. But I am not good enough for her,” he said,
humbly. “I have been a worthless beggar all these years----”
“You can prove your worth,” said Leonard, warmly. “And you _must_, if
you marry Florence Charteris. I know you are not worthless; but you must
let the good come to the surface.”
“I shall work,” answered Darley, earnestly. “I begin to feel now the
approving glow that comes to a man when he anticipates marrying a woman
he loves. But why should I anticipate? I have not the slightest reason
to believe that Miss Charteris cares a jot for me!”
“Is that true, Percy?” questioned Leonard, sharply.
Darley did not know whether it was true or not. He did not like to be
sanguine, he said. No; he had no reason to think Miss Charteris cared
whether he went back to town to-morrow. Not an item of which Leonard
believed.
“I hope earnestly you will win her,” he said again. “But you will have
to retrench. Florence Charteris is as poor as a church mouse.”
“I am heartily glad of it,” said Darley, warmly. “I shall be the man I
have never yet been if I win her.”
“Well, you will win her,” said Leonard. “I feel it in my bones.”
So the days went round; and each one found Darley at Miss Spooner's.
Even little Dutton had begun to watch with interest the outcome of this
quiet wooing of the little lady whom all the town loved. The evolutions
of acquaintance had merged rapidly into the sweeter plane of an almost
wordless courtship; but as yet Darley had not ventured to speak He felt
fearful lest his dream should be dispelled; and yet, though he was not a
vain man, he felt that this lovable little woman cared for him. He could
not go back to town and leave his love unspoken, however; because if he
had done so this little story would not have been written. And at length
came the day when he felt that his visit had been prolonged beyond the
limits that even close friendship allows.
“I am going away to-morrow,” he said on this eventful afternoon. It was
just such an afternoon as that first one which he had spent there. It
was growing dusk; and through the window they could see the red lights
of home, those terrestrial apostles of Hesperus, punctuating the white
landscape.
“I am going away to-morrow,” repeated Darley. Miss Charteris said
nothing, but gazed out of the window.
“Why don't you say something?” he burst out. “Have you nothing to say?”
“What should I say? Do you want me to say good-by? Is it such a sweet
word, then, that you are anxious that I should say it now?”
Darley knelt beside the little dusky figure in the rocker. How sweet it
is to have the woman you love speak to you like this, and to hear her
voice tremble, and to feel that she cares for you!
“No, I don't want you to say good-by,” he said, very gently. “I want you
to tell me not to go. Can't you see that the thought of leaving you has
been like the thought of eternal darkness to me? I love you, and I
want you for my own, always, that I may never know the bitterness of
good-by!” Miss Charteris turned her head, and Darley saw that the gray
eyes he loved so well were wet. She put out one little white hand till
it rested on his.
“Stay!” she whispered.
After a while, when the lamps--those horribly real and unromantic
things--were brought in, they talked of other matters. But both seemed
very happy, and ready to talk of anything. Even the mysterious hood,
which was now completed, came in for a share of attention, and the
inquisitive Darley learned that it was for a “poor old soul,” as Miss
Charteris expressed it, who lived in a wretched little shanty with
a worthless grandson, at the other end of the town. By-and-by Miss
Charteris said:
“I have some news for you. Bella was married yesterday. Can you guess to
whom?”
“No, I cannot,” answered Darley, almost breathlessly. Bella was the
Miss Charteris of the city. He did not know whether to feel glad or
indifferent, but he was free of the gentlest touch of spleen. A woman
will be conscious of a twinge of pique when she hears that a man with
whom she has had some little love affair has married some one else. But
Darley was not conscious of any such sensation.
“It was very quiet,” continued Miss Charteris. “At least, I gather so
from the paper which tells me of it. Bella never writes me, and not
even on this occasion has she done so. However, she is now Mrs. Lawrence
Severance.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Darley in a superior tone, which testified that he knew
something about it. Then he mentioned having met Severance. He had not
said anything of the occurrence before, not caring for Miss Charteris of
the city as a subject of conversation with her sister, for reasons best
known to himself.
“There is quite a little story about it, you know,” continued Miss
Florence. “Lawrence, you know, and Bella have been lovers ever since
they were so high, and Bella was Aunt Mary Spooner's favorite. When Aunt
Mary died she left a great deal of money for Bella when she should come
of age, stipulating, however, that Bella should have only a certain
allowance till she was beyond a marriageable age.”
“And, pray, what age is that?” asked Darley, laughing.
“I should not have cared to ask Aunt Mary that question. The reason was
that Lawrence was the son of an old sweetheart of Aunt Mary's, who had
jilted her without any mercy; and so the sins of the father were visited
upon the head of the son. 'Marry Lawrence, my dear,' says Aunt Mary, 'if
you like, but you don't have my money. Florence shall have it the day
you marry Lawrence Severance.'”
Darley started as if stung. “Eh?” he exclaimed, “I don't understand!”
“Then listen. 'Oh, ho!' quoth Lawrence, when he grew up and understood
the story. 'So that is the way of love, is it? Well, there are more
fortunes than Aunt Mary's in the world.' And away went Lawrence, nothing
daunted, to win--what I hear he has won--double the fortune that Bella,
in marrying him, hands over to me.”
“Then you mean to say that this--money comes to you; that you are a rich
woman, in fact?” Darley's tone was almost bitten.
“Yes!” answered Miss Florence, gleefully, and clapping her little hands.
“Aren't you glad?”
“Glad? I hate it!”
“Hate it?”
“Yes, hate it! I was glorying in the fact that if I won you I would
marry a poor woman. Now--” Darley did not finish his sentence.
“You must not talk like that,” said Miss Florence with some asperity.
“It is very wrong, and it hurts me, although I know I should be pleased.
But I know you love me for all that. Money is a very good thing--God's
gift in the hands of those who use it well. There is a great deal of
good that we can do with Aunt Mary's money. She was very good herself
to the poor, despite her unnatural dislike for Lawrence Severance; and I
should like her to know that her mantle had fallen on worthy shoulders.
You and I shall use this money to a great purpose.”
“But you don't know what a happy thing it has been to me, this thought
of winning you and proving my love by earnest work!”
“And need that resolve be dissipated?” said Miss Florence, gravely. “You
shall do that. There is a great deal of work to be done.”
*****
Leonard met Darley on his return, and drew him into the light.
“I have won her, Jack!” said the younger man, grasping his friend's
hand. “The sweetest and the noblest woman God ever made!”
“I see it in your face,” said Leonard, huskily. Even Darley could not
fail to notice the change in his friend's voice. “What is the matter,
old man?” he exclaimed. “You----”
“Nothing, nothing, my boy,” Leonard answered quickly. “But promise me
one thing: that you will make her a noble husband, always--always!”
Then Darley understood.
“Dear old Jack!” he said tenderly. “What a fool I have been! Can you
forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, my boy--nothing. But you must always be
good to her. But never get angry because another man besides yourself
worships your wife.”
[Illustration: 0265]
[Illustration: 0266]