“I have two lovers, both brave and gay;
And they both have spoken their minds to-day;
They both seem dying for love of me;
Well, if I choose one of them, which shall it be?
One is handsome, and tall, and grand,
With gold in the bank and acres of land,
And he says he will give them all to me
If only I’ll promise his wife to be.
The other is bonny, and blithe, and true,
With honest face bronzed, and eyes of blue;
But the wealth of his heart is the only thing
He can give to me with the wedding ring.
Yes, both seem dying for love of me;
Well, if I choose one of them, which shall it be?”
Queenie Trevalyn looked up archly into the handsome, agitated face
bending over her, and blushed deeply.
“Before I answer you, let me remind you that you are quite a stranger
to us, Mr. Dinsmore; you have not chosen to make a confidant of any one
concerning your personal history--from whence you came, or--or--your
standing in the community in which you reside,” she murmured, sweetly.
“I am aware of that fact,” he answered, gloomily, dropping her hands
dejectedly, while a heavy sigh trembled over his pale lips. “The truth
is, I dreaded telling you, lest I should, perhaps, lose your friendship
at first, then, at last, your love; but no! you are too good, too
noble, pure and true to let wealth and position weigh--against--love.”
His words gave the girl something like a fright. She had counted upon
this handsome, bearded adorer being a man of great wealth. She had
even fondly hoped that he might be a prince, traveling in disguise--a
personage of superior order. No wonder his words--which seemed to bid
fair to scatter these delicious hopes--alarmed the girl whose sole
ambition was wealth.
She did not answer; for the first time in her life this girl, who was
so witty, versatile and brilliant, was at a loss for words.
“It is but right that you should know who and what I am,” he pursued,
slowly. “Indeed, I should have prefaced my declaration of love with
that information. I am but a struggling author, Queenie--a man who
is fighting hard to make his way in the crowded field of letters to
future great achievements. I might have made money in the past had
I grasped the opportunities held out to me. I have been of a roving
disposition--nomadic in my tastes, eager to see the whole wide world,
and give to the people who stay at home glimpses of foreign lands,
through my pen.
“I was prodigal with the money I earned from this source. I gave it
freely to the poor and needy, who were everywhere about. On the burning
sands of Africa, or on the snowy plains of Russia, when I lay down to
sleep, with only the sky above me, I was as happy as men who lie down
in palaces. I had no care, I was as free from it as the joyous air that
blows. I led a happy enough life of it until I came here and met you;
from that hour the world has seemed to change for me. I am no longer
the careless, happy-go-lucky fellow of a few short weeks ago, leading a
merry, Bohemian existence--just as content without money as with it.
“If you will say that there is hope for me I will remedy all that; I
will go to work with a will and make something grand and noble out of
my life, with the one thought like a guiding star ever before me: The
woman I love shall be proud of me. I----”
The sentence never was finished. Glancing up at that moment he caught
sight of her face, which she had turned so that the white, bright
moonlight fell full upon it.
The scorn on the beautiful face, the anger that blazed in the dark
eyes, the contempt the curling lips revealed, appalled him. He had much
more to tell her that was important, but the words fairly froze on his
lips, and died away unmuttered.
“Hush! not another word,” she cried, quite as soon as she was able to
speak, through her intense anger. “You have basely deceived me, as well
as every one else. You knew of the current report that you were a man
of fabulous wealth and you let it go uncontradicted. You have sailed
under false colors to force your way into society. You have cheated and
deluded us into believing that you were a gentleman. Being what you
are--a nobody--you insult me with your proposal of marriage. Conduct me
back to the hotel at once, please.”
His face had grown white as marble--even his lips were colorless. His
eyes were dim with a sorrow too intense for words, and his strong
hands trembled like aspen leaves in the wind, and his bosom heaved.
Her cruel, taunting words had struck home to the very core of his
heart, and made a cruel wound there, like the stinging cut of a deadly,
poisoned dagger.
There was no mistaking the meaning of her words, she spoke plainly
enough. If he had been rich he would have stood a fair chance of
winning her. The love of a great, strong, honorable heart did not
count with her. Her affection was not for exchange, but for sale. The
beautiful girl whom he had thought little less than the angels above
was but common clay, a mercenary creature, who weighed gold in the
scale against marriage, and whose idea of a gentleman, one of nature’s
noblemen, was measured by his wealth. To her a poor man was less than
the dust beneath her dainty feet.
“You have heard what I have said, Mr. Dinsmore,” said Queenie Trevalyn,
haughtily. “Pray conform with my request by taking me back to the
ballroom at once. Were it not for appearances I would leave you and
return myself.”
Like one dazed he turned slowly around, setting his miserable face
toward the lights and the music, but his overwrought nerves could stand
no more, strong man though he was, and without a moan or a cry he fell
headlong upon the white sands at her feet--like a hero in a great
battle falls when he has received his death wound, crying out: “When
love has conquered pride and anger, you may call me back again.”
“Great heavens! what a dilemma!” cried Queenie Trevalyn, angrily. She
did not pause a moment to lave his face with the cooling water so near
at hand, or to take the trouble to ascertain if his headlong fall had
injured him, so intent was she in hurrying away from the spot before a
crowd gathered.
A moment more and she was flying across the white stretch of beach, her
pink tulle gossamer robe trailing after her like a sunset cloud which
somehow had fallen from heaven to earth.
She gained the hotel by a side entrance, and was soon back into the
ballroom. She had been gone so short a time that few had missed her
save the partner who was just coming in search of her for his waltz,
the first notes of which had just struck up.
“Alone, Miss Trevalyn!” exclaimed Ray Challoner, advancing toward the
palm-embowered nook in which she had seated herself. “Why, this is
unprecedented. I did not suppose you ever enjoyed the luxury of being
alone; such is the penalty of having admirers by the score,” bowing low
before the beauty, adding: “I beg to remind you that this is our waltz,
and it is my favorite music, ‘My Queen.’”
Queenie Trevalyn arose graciously, her rosebud lips wreathed in the
sweetest of smiles. She danced and laughed, the gayest of the gay,
never for an instant did her thoughts revert to the heart that was
enduring the agonies of death, for love of her, down upon the cold,
white sands.
Ay! There he lay, stunned almost unto death, never caring to arise and
face the world again. All he wanted to do was to lie there until the
tide would come in and bear him away from life and the love which he
had found more cruel than death.
With such a man love, with all the intensity of his grand soul, was
only possible. It was not for such a one to worship lightly at a
woman’s shrine.
How long he lay there he never knew. It was in reality a few moments,
but to him it seemed endless centuries. He was startled by the sound of
familiar voices.
“It is indeed Dinsmore, by all that is wonderful!” exclaimed a man who
bent over him, while his companion said musingly: “What in the world
could have happened to have felled him like this, and he strong as an
ox!”
“The best and quickest way to find out is to bring him to and see,”
declared the other, kneeling beside the prostrate form and dashing salt
water in the white face, then catching up his hands and beginning to
chafe them vigorously.
John Dinsmore opened his eyes slowly and gazed into the two anxious
faces bending over him.
“Are you ill, old fellow!” they both cried in a breath. “What in the
name of goodness has happened that we find you like this?”
His lips opened to say: “A beautiful woman has broken my heart, and I
am lying here for the tide to come in to carry me out--to death,” but
the words seemed to scorch his lips, he could not utter them. They
helped him to his feet, still wondering.
“I was stricken with a pain at my heart,” he said. “I shall be better
soon.”
“Let’s hope so, for we have brought the means with us to make you so,
if anything on this round earth can. But by the way,” went on one of
them, “you do not seem the least surprised to find the two chums,
poor as church mice, whom you left behind you in broiling New York,
apparently ‘doing’ fashionable Newport, though it is like catching sly
old dog Time by the tip of his tail, coming here on the last evening,
when the play is about over, and they are just going to ring down the
curtain.”
His two companions linked arms with him, one on either side, and drew
him along the beach, each waiting for the other to unfold to John
Dinsmore the amazing news which had brought them there.
While they hesitated thus you shall learn their identity, reader.
The tall, dark-haired young man on the right was Hazard Ballou, artist;
French as to descent, as his name indicated, who was struggling for
fame and fortune by painting pictures which nobody seemed to want to
buy, and illustrating the joke articles in an evening paper to earn
support in the meantime.
His companion was Jerry Gaines, a reporter, that was all, though he did
have wonderful ambition and always alluded confidently to the time when
he should be the editor of some great New York paper, and when that
time arrived, what he should do for the remainder of the trinity, his
author and artist friends, who were always ready to share their crust
with him when luck went dead against him in being able to gather in
good news articles, and getting up acceptable copy. His gains lay all
in his name at present, instead of the more practical place--his pocket.
The “Trinity,” as the three young men styled themselves, occupied one
and the same room in a New York boarding house, each swearing never to
sever the bond by marrying, though a veritable Helen of Troy should
tempt them.
The three friends had toiled hard, but even in their work they were
happy, for they had few cares, and had not been touched by the fever
called Love.
“You had better tell him what brings us,” whispered Ballou to Gaines,
as John Dinsmore seemed in no hurry to question them.
“Reporters are generally chosen to break startling news to people,”
remarked that young gentleman, dryly. Then, turning to Dinsmore, he
began, abruptly: “I say, old fellow, you were a sly dog, when you
heard us cussing rich folks in general, never to mention that you had
great expectations in that direction, I vow.”
“I do not understand you, Jerry,” remarked Dinsmore, looking at his
friend in puzzled wonder.
“I may as well break headlong into the facts as beat about the bush,”
laughed Jerry Gaines, adding: “Well, to tell you an amazing truth,
we are here to congratulate you upon inheriting a fortune. A pair of
English lawyers have just succeeded in ferreting you out and locating
you with our aid. They bring the astounding news, and better still, the
documents which prove you to be heir to one of the finest estates in
Louisiana, an immense tobacco plantation adjoining it, and----”
“My poor old Uncle George!” cut in John Dinsmore, surprised for the
moment out of the grief which had taken such a deep hold of him. “And
he is dead. I am deeply grieved to hear it. And you say he has left
his enormous wealth to me. I can honestly say that I am astounded. He
has always given me to understand that I need not expect one cent from
him. He was deeply angered at me for my love of roving about the world.
There were others nearer and dearer to him who had every right to
expect to inherit his fortune. I am bewildered; I cannot understand why
he chose to make me his heir.
“If you had brought me this wonderful news yesterday, boys, you would
have made me almost insane with joy and gratitude--ay, have made me the
happiest of men. Now it is but as dross to me. The gods have sent the
golden gift to me too late--too late.”
“You did not wait for me to finish, old fellow,” said Gaines, coolly.
“There is a string tied to the inheritance. If you accept it you must
take a girl with it--for your wife, so your uncle’s will reads.”