LAWYER SALMON MEETS DEFEAT.
The day on which Doane and the two sweet friends visited Ouida was
a fateful one. On that same day Lawyer Salmon had a most eventful
conversation with his daughter Marie. They also met near Ouida’s place.
“My dear child,” said he, “it is foolish for you to pine your young
life away in grief over Milton.”
“Father,” said she, “it is easy for you to speak thus, but I cannot
root out of my soul the love and faith therein enshrined.”
“He has forgotten you.”
“I will not believe it,” said she stoutly.
“How long,” persisted the father, “has it been since you have heard
from him?”
“About six months, but he may be ill. There must be some cause,” said
Marie, fighting every inch of ground.
“Stuff and nonsense,” said he, “why don’t you admit to yourself the
truth. He has abandoned you. I always thought you had more pride than
to throw yourself into the arms of a man who seems so utterly to have
forgotten you.”
“Father,” said Marie, a tremor in her voice, “you wrong Milton. I fear
you do not love me, or you would not so wound me.”
“There, daughter, you are unjust to me. You may deem me hard, cold,
unromantic, but I know these Royles. His father was as treacherous as
an Indian, and I believe in heredity.”
“And I in love,” said Marie.
“And I shall be silent henceforth on the subject. Stern though I seem,
I love you, my darling child, and your happiness is my one aim in life.”
“Then withdraw your opposition to Milton, for I will only be completely
happy when you shall admit him to your heart as a son.”
“Ah, well,” said Salmon with a sigh, thinking of the girl’s dead
mother, “I will think upon it. I must now go in to see Ouida. I will
not be long detained. Remain without until I return.”
“I will yet win him over. God alone knows how I have worried over
Milton’s long and extraordinary silence.”
A moment and right upon the street, she felt warm arms around her, and
a heart breathing next her own.
“Marie,” was all that Milton said.
“Milton!” she exclaimed, “what a surprise to father. Your name has
just left my lips. My father and I have just been indulging in another
portion of our perpetual quarrel over you. Why have you been so long
silent?”
“Silent, dearest,” said he in surprise.
“I have not received a line from you in six months.”
“Then my mail must have been miscarried, for I wrote almost as
frequently as usual.”
“Almost? Why not just as often?” she said, rather piqued.
“For the last few months I have been more than absorbed in my work, for
the annual competition at Rome, and moments were golden.”
“Did you succeed?” she asked in breathless suspense.
“Yes, my darling,” said Milton proudly, “I won the first prize, and
hastened home to lay the laurels at your feet.”
“I am proud of you, and I rejoice in your success. Now father shall
come over to us,” said Marie.
“What’s the news?” asked Milton. “I just disembarked from the Germania,
jumped into a cab at the wharf, drove to your residence, learned that
you had started for this place, followed, and once again behold your
beloved face.”
“Strange things have happened since you went abroad. You have heard
about Ouida?”
“Yes,” said Milton, “and it almost broke my heart. I owe so much to
her.”
“I am no longer jealous of her, and, dear Milton, if you can in any way
help her I will love you more than ever, if possible.”
“I need no inspiration to that end,” said Milton, “my own gratitude
would urge and compel me to serve her.”
“You are always generous, Milton, and I appreciate you all the more for
it.”
“I care not what the world may say,” said Milton, “but humanity needs
her, and she shall no longer be buried beneath the weight of a sin for
which long ago she paid the awful penalty.”
“I share your opinion with all my heart,” said Marie.
Just about this time Mr. Salmon, having accomplished the mission which
had called him to Ouida’s house, returned, and his first glance lighted
upon the happy pair, who were totally oblivious to his presence. He
turned down another street, with a sigh, and left them undisturbed.
_He had met with defeat._ The girl’s faith had triumphed. He felt he
ought to succumb, yet he was proud and stubborn, and even yet there was
opposition in his soul.