Maud declared that the trousseau must be a very simple and quiet one,
since almost everything must come from the pockets of Eliot and Edith.
But the brother and sister overruled her objections.
"As if we had any other use for our savings!" cried Edith. "We are
going to spend every penny. Do you think we are going to let our sister
go to her rich husband plain and shabby?"
So the order was given for several very handsome dresses, among them an
ivory white satin, veiled in lace, for the bridal-dress.
But before the bills came in from milliners and modistes the young
authoress was able to pay them out of her own purse.
And it came about in this wise.
About four weeks after her engagement to the rich Southerner she
received a visit from her Boston publisher.
He put into her hand a check for several hundred dollars, the receipts
from her novel which until now had not paid for the first costs of its
publication.
"I congratulate you, Miss Van Zandt," he said. "Your novel is suddenly
becoming popular. The book-sellers report numerous calls for it, and in
consequence I have large orders."
Maud's lip quivered, and her blue-gray eyes, so like Eliot's, dimmed
with happy tears.
"At last!" she exclaimed, joyously. "Oh, I had ceased to hope or expect
anything!"
"I have taken pains to inquire into the cause of your success after the
unfriendliness of the critics had so long injured its sale," he said;
"and I have found out that the real merits of your novel have at last
been discovered and revealed by a friendly critic."
"I thought they were all my mortal foes!" she exclaimed.
He smiled, and answered:
"Not this one, at least, for he or she has been very frank, as well as
very just. While the defects of your book are plainly acknowledged, its
many beauties and merits are enthusiastically dwelt upon, and the fact
of the author's tender youth is eloquently dilated on in excusing its
faults."
The girl's sweet eyes dilated wildly.
"Who could have known that?" she asked him.
"I can not tell. I understood that the writer is a reviewer of books
for a noted New York magazine. I have not learned the name, but I will
find it out for you, Miss Van Zandt," promised the genial publisher.
"Pray, do so, if possible; and also please get the magazine containing
the friendly review of my poor book. It will make me so happy to read
it, and to write a letter of thanks to my good angel!" she exclaimed,
fervently.
Smiling at her enthusiasm, and promising to gratify her desire, the
publisher took leave, and the very next day sent her the magazine.
How gladly, how happily the young heart beat as her eager eyes
devoured the column of reviews, and at last fell on "The Fatal Roses,"
her own romantic and high-flown novel, over whose non-success she had
shed such bitter, burning tears.
But they were tears of joy that glittered on her lashes now, as she
went eagerly over the two full columns that had been given to "The
Fatal Roses" by one who signed the, to Maud, startling name of "Una."
"Una!" she cried out, wildly, and ran to seek Eliot, who was in the
library with her intended husband.
"Eliot! oh, Eliot, look! Our own darling Una!" she exclaimed, wildly,
pointing with her taper finger at the startling name.
Scarcely less agitated than herself, he took the review and read it
hurriedly, then passed it to Carmontelle.
"Can it be my Una?" he exclaimed, pale and agitated, his heart beating
wildly.
But the face of Pierre Carmontelle looked calm and grave.
"Dear Eliot, dear Maud, do not give yourself up too ardently to hope,"
he said. "This may prove but a coincidence. The name may have been
chosen as a _nom de plume_ by the writer."
"My publisher promised to find out the name of the critic, if
possible," Maud said; and to him Eliot went at once in a fever of
anxiety.
Mr. Dudley could not give him any satisfaction. He had written to the
New York publisher, asking for information, but had not yet received
his reply. As soon as it came, he would be happy to lay his letter
before Miss Van Zandt and her brother.
It was almost a week before the reply came, and Mr. Dudley forwarded it
at once to Maud.
The New York publisher wrote that he was unacquainted with his able
critic, save by the name of Una. All his business with her was
transacted through a Boston banker, whose name he gave, and whom the
Van Zandts knew as the head of one of the most influential banks in the
city.
"She is here, then, in this very city, my lost Una--so near and 'yet so
far!'" groaned Eliot. "But I shall go at once to Mr. Chesterton, with
whom I have long had a friendly acquaintance."
He went and elicited simply nothing. The great banker would give him no
information.
"I am not at liberty to speak one word on the subject, although I would
gladly oblige you, Van Zandt, were it in my power!" he cried, affably.
"At least tell me if Una is young, and if it is a real name, or a _nom
de plume_," pleaded Eliot.
"I regret that I am not at liberty to answer your questions," repeated
courteous Mr. Chesterton.
Baffled, but almost convinced by all this mystery that Maud's friendly
critic was none other than his lovely, lost Una, Eliot went away in
despair, and found a comforter in Carmontelle.
"Leave it to me, Eliot, and I will find out all about the little
runaway," he said, confidently.
He went to a directory and found out the residence of Mr. Chesterton, a
stately brown-stone residence in a fashionable and aristocratic street.
A day or two later he said to Van Zandt:
"I have found out all about the members of Mr. Chesterton's family. He
has a handsome young wife, three small children, and a beautiful young
governess."
"Una!" Eliot cried, with a start.
"Perhaps so; but we must not be too sure. I have not seen her yet,"
said Carmontelle.
"But you will do so soon?" anxiously.
A week later he came to Eliot where he sat with his sisters in the
library, their favorite room, for here Sylvie seldom obtruded her
presence.
Maud, so lovely and happy now that she did not look like the pensive
girl of a month ago, sprung up impetuously and caught his arm.
"Oh, you look so happy, you surely found our darling girl!"
Taking Eliot's and Edith's indulgence for granted, he pressed a light
kiss on her pure brow.
"You have guessed aright," he answered, "I have seen Mr. Chesterton's
governess. She calls herself Mademoiselle Lorraine, and teaches French
to the little Chestertons, but she is indeed no other than our Una."
"Thank Heaven!" Eliot cried, springing up, "I will go to her at once."
"Nonsense! She will not receive you," said his friend, and Eliot flung
himself down again with a groan.
"Listen," said Pierre Carmontelle, "Mademoiselle Lorraine goes out
every afternoon to walk with her little charges. She is always closely
veiled, and sometimes she walks past this very house, and looks up at
the windows with eyes full of sadness. I saw her myself to-day, and
recognized her in spite of her thick veil. I followed her, and when
near the gate, I spoke to her; but afterward I was almost sorry I had
done so, she was so terribly frightened."
"Frightened!--but why?" cried Maud.
And Eliot echoed bitterly:
"Why?"
"I can not tell you, I only know that she did not accord me any
welcome. She only looked sorry and frightened and cried out sharply:
'Oh, you have hunted me down! This is cruel, cruel; but, oh, Monsieur
Carmontelle, for God's sake, do not betray me to Eliot--to Mr. Van
Zandt.'"
"And then?" cried Edith, breathlessly.
"Then her little pupils came around her and hurried her inside the
gate. She looked back at me, waved her little gloved hand imploringly,
and cried out again, 'Do not betray me to Eliot, or any one.' Then she
vanished inside the banker's door."
They sat looking sadly, and yet gladly, at one another. At least she
lived, poor darling, and was out of the power of the wicked woman whose
malice had lured her from home and love.
"If I could only see her, only speak to her, my poor little Una, I am
sure I could win her confidence!" Eliot exclaimed, passionately.
"You are right; and indeed you must see her now," answered his friend.
"Una must give you her confidence, must come home to you. It is not
right that she, your wife, and my adopted child, should be slaving her
young life away like this through some fancied duty."
"I must see her. I will go to Mr. Chesterton since she denies me a
sight of her. I will tell him my story, I will ask him to plead my
cause with Una," Eliot exclaimed, in strong agitation; and just a
little later he stood before the banker's mansion ringing the bell, and
looking up in the darkness at the front of the great house, thrilling
with the thought that his loved, lost bride was so near to him at this
moment, that it seemed almost impossible but that they must soon come
face to face.
"And if she loves me still, as she said she did that happy night before
she left me, I swear that no earthly power shall ever tear her again
from my arms!" he vowed to himself.
Mr. Chesterton was at home, and received his guest in the library with
courteous surprise; but when the young man poured forth his agitated
story, the banker became greatly interested and excited.
"You are right. She is, she must be your wife. She came to us two years
ago from the Convent of Le Bon Berger in New Orleans. My wife was once
a pupil there, and wrote to the mother superior for a French teacher
for our little ones. She sent us Mademoiselle Lorraine, who is as
gifted and clever as she is lovely and winning. But I have always seen
that she lay beneath the shadow of some sorrow. Wait, my young friend,
and I will go upstairs and beg this proud young wife to give you an
immediate interview," concluded the good man.