PEVERIL ACQUIRES AN UNSHARED INTEREST
An autumn evening two years later finds Richard Peveril seated in the
smoking-room of the University, the most thoroughly home-like and
comfortable of all New York clubs. He has dined alone, and now, with a
tiny cup of black coffee on the stand beside him, is reflectively
smoking his after-dinner cigar.
This is his first visit to the East since he left it, more than two
years before, almost penniless and wellnigh friendless, on a search
for a mine that he was assured would prove worthless when found. Today
that same mine is yielding an enormous revenue, of which he receives
one-quarter, or a sum vastly in excess of his simple needs, for he is
still a bachelor, acting as manager of the Copper Princess, and still
makes his home in the little mining settlement on the shore of the
great Western lake.
A fortune twice as large as his own, and derived from the same source,
lies idle in the vaults of a trust company awaiting a claimant who
cannot be found. Her name is Mary Darrell, and though from the very
first Peveril has guarded her interests more jealously than his own,
and though he has made every effort to discover her, her fortune still
awaits its owner.
He has not only been disappointed at the non-success of his efforts in
this direction, but is deeply hurt that the girl, who has been so
constantly in his thoughts during his two years of loneliness, should
so persistently ignore him. That she has occupied so great a share of
his time for thinking is due largely to the fact that there is no one
else to take a like place, for Rose Bonnifay long since released him
from his engagement to her, and he has contracted no other.
As soon as he believed his _fiancee_ to be in New York, he wrote her a
long letter descriptive of his good-fortune and promising very soon to
rejoin her for the fulfilling of his engagement. To his amazement it
was promptly returned to him, endorsed on the outside in Miss
Bonnifay's well-known handwriting.
"As my last to you came back to me unopened, I now take
pleasure in returning yours in the same condition."
He immediately wrote again, only to have his second letter treated as
the first had been, except that this time it came to him without a
word. From that day he had heard nothing further from Rose Bonnifay.
Now business had called him to New York, and he had reached the city
but an hour before his appearance at the club. Here he gazed curiously
about him, as one long strange to such scenes, but who hopes to
discover the face of a friend in that of each new-comer. Thus far he
had not been successful, nor had he been recognized by any of the men,
many of them in evening-dress, who came and went through the spacious
rooms. Peveril was also in evening-dress, for he had conceived a vague
idea of going to some theatre, or possibly to the opera. And now he
listlessly glanced over the advertised list of attractions in an
afternoon paper.
While he was thus engaged, a young man, faultlessly apparelled and
pleasing to look upon, stood in front of him, regarded him steadily
for a moment, and then grasped his hand, exclaiming:
"If it isn't old Dick Peveril--come to life again after an age of
burial! My dear fellow, I am awfully glad to see you. Where have you
been, and what have you been doing all these years? Heard you had gone
West to look up a mine, but never a word since. Hope you found it and
that it turned out better than such properties generally do. Was it
gold, silver, iron, or what?"
"You may imagine its nature from its name," answered Peveril, who was
genuinely glad to meet again his old college friend, Jack Langdon; "it
is called the 'Copper Princess.'"
"The 'Copper Princess'!" cried the other. "By Jove! you don't say so!
Why, that mine is the talk of Wall Street, and if you own any part in
it, you must be a millionaire!"
"Not quite that," laughed Peveril, "though I am not exactly what you
might call poor."
"I should say not, and only wish I stood in your shoes; but, you
see--" Here Langdon plunged into a long account of his own affairs, to
which Peveril listened patiently. Finally the former said:
"By the way, what have you on hand for to-night?"
"Nothing in particular. Was thinking of going to some theatre."
"Don't you do it! Beastly shows, all of them. Nothing but vaudeville
nowadays. Come with me and I'll take you to a place where you will not
only have a pleasant time, but will meet old friends as well. You
remember old Owen?--'Dig' Owen, we used to call him."
"Yes."
"Well, he is here in New York, and has made a pot of money--no one
knows how. Shady speculations of some kind, and, between ourselves, it
is liable to slip through his fingers at any moment. But that's
neither here nor there. He married, about a year ago, a nice enough
girl, who has apparently lived abroad all her life. Rather a
light-weight, but entertains in great shape. Always has something good
on hand--generally music. They give a blow-out to-night, to which I am
going to drop in for a while, and, of course, they will be delighted
to see you. So don't utter a protest, but just come along."
In accordance with the programme thus provided, Peveril found himself
an hour later entering the drawing-room of a spacious mansion on upper
Fifth Avenue. It was already so well filled that it was some time
before the new-comers could approach their hostess.
When they finally reached the place where she was talking and laughing
with a group of guests, her face was so averted that Peveril did not
see it until after Langdon had said:
"Good-evening, Mrs. Owen. You have gathered together an awfully jolly
crowd, and I have taken the liberty of adding another to their number.
He is an old college friend of your husband's, and quite a lion just
now, for he is the owner of the famous Copper Princess that every one
is talking about. May I present him? Mrs. Owen, my friend Mr. Richard
Peveril." With this Langdon stepped aside, and Peveril found himself
face to face with Rose Bonnifay.
For an instant she was deadly pale. Then, with a supreme effort, she
recovered her self-possession, the blood rushed back to her cheeks,
and, extending her hand with an engaging smile, she said:
"This is indeed an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Peveril, and I am ever so
much obliged to Mr. Langdon for bringing you. Did he know, I wonder,
that you were an old friend of mine, as well as of Mr. Owen's? No!
Then the surprise is all the pleasanter. Oh! there is mamma, and she
will be delighted to meet you again. Mamma, dear, here is our old
friend, Mr. Peveril. So pleased, and hope we shall see you often this
winter."
[Illustration: PEVERIL FINDS MARY AGAIN]
Other newly arrived guests demanding Mrs. Owen's attention at this
moment, Peveril found himself borne away by her mother, who had
greeted him effusively, and now seemed determined to learn everything
concerning his Western life to its minutest details. To accomplish
this she led him to a corner of the conservatory for what she was
pleased to term an uninterrupted talk of old times, but which really
meant the propounding of a series of questions on her part and the
giving of evasive answers on his.
While Peveril was wondering how he should escape, a hush fell on the
outer assembly, and some one began to sing. At first sound of the
voice the young man started and listened attentively.
"Who is she?" he asked.
"Nobody in particular," responded Mrs. Bonnifay; "only a girl whom
Rose met when she was studying music in Germany. I fancy she spent her
last cent on her musical education, which, I fear, won't do her much
good, after all; for, as you must notice, she is utterly lacking in
style. She is dreadfully poor now, and earns a living by singing in
private houses--all her voice is really fit for, you know. So Rose
takes pity on her, and has her in once in a while. Why, really, they
are giving her an encore! How kind of them; and yet they say the most
wealthy are the most heartless. But you are not going, Mr. Peveril? I
haven't asked you half--"
Peveril was already out of the conservatory and making his way towards
the piano, as though irresistibly fascinated. For her encore the
singer was giving a simple ballad that had been very popular some
years before. The last time Peveril heard it was when cruising along a
shore of Lake Superior, and it had come to him from somewhere up in
the red-stained cliffs.
At last he had found Mary Darrell--"his Mary," as he called her--in
quick resentment of the smiling throng about him, who _paid_ her to
sing for them.
He did not speak to her then, nor allow her to see him, but when, with
her task finished, she left the room, his eyes followed her every
movement and lingered lovingly on her beautiful face--for it was
beautiful. He knew it now, as he also knew that he loved her, and
always had done so from the moment that he first beheld her, a vision
of the cliffs.
When, accompanied by faithful Aunty Nimmo, she left the house, he was
waiting outside. She tried to hurry away as he approached her, but at
the sound of his voice she stood still, trembling violently.
An hour later, in the modest apartment far downtown, which was the
best her scanty earnings could afford, he had told his story. Mary
Darrell knew that she was no longer a poor, struggling singer, but an
heiress to wealth greater than she had ever coveted in her wildest
dreams. But to this she gave hardly a thought, for something greater,
finer, and more desirable than all the wealth of the world had come to
her in that same brief space of time. She knew that she was loved by
him whom she loved, for he had told her so. Even now he stood
awaiting, with trembling eagerness, her answer to his plea.
Could she not love him a little bit in return? Would she not go back
with him, as his wife, to the house that had been hers, and still
awaited her, by the shore of the great lake?
"But I thought, Mr. Peveril--I mean, I heard that you were engaged?"
"So I was. I was engaged to Mrs. Owen, at whose house you sang this
evening, and where I was so blessed as to find you. But she thought me
unworthy and let me go. I know I am unworthy still; but, Mary dear,
won't you give me one more chance? Won't you take me on trial?"
"Well, then, on trial," she answered, though in so low a tone that he
barely caught the words.
In another instant he had folded her in his arms, for he knew that she
was wholly his, and that in _this_ Copper Princess his interest was
unshared.
* * * * *
THE END
* * * * *
By S. R. KEIGHTLEY
THE LAST RECRUIT OF CLARE'S. Being Passages from the Memoirs of
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