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FAIR PLAY
_A NOVEL_
BY
MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH
AUTHOR OF
“Self-Raised,” “Ishmael,” “Retribution,” “The Bridal Eve,” “The Deserted
Wife,” “Eudora,” “The Haunted Homestead,” “The Widow’s Son,” “Victor’s
Triumph,” “The Wife’s Victory,” Etc.
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CHICAGO
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
PRINTERS AND BINDERS
407–429 DEARBORN STREET
CHICAGO
FAIR PLAY.
CHAPTER I.
THE FOUR BELLES OF BELLEMONT.
“God created woman, a living soul, worthy to stand in His presence and
worship him! and if it were only from the reverence she owes him, she
should never degrade herself to be any man’s slave! God endowed woman
with individual life—with power, will and understanding, brain, heart
and hands to do His work; and if it were only in gratitude to him, she
should never commit the moral suicide of becoming the nonentity of which
man’s law makes a wife!”
She was a splendid creature who uttered this heterodoxy, a magnificent
and beautiful creature! She spoke fervently, earnestly, passionately,
with blazing eyes, flushed cheeks and crimsoned lips that seemed to
breathe the fire that burned in her enthusiastic soul.
She was the most brilliant of a group of four lovely young girls who
were seated on the fresh grass, in a grove of magnolia trees on the
south banks of the James.
Before them flowed the fair river, fringed with wooded shores and dotted
with green isles, all sparkling in the early sunlight of a June morning.
Behind them, from amidst its ornamented grounds, arose the white walls
of Bellemont College for young ladies.
The first day of June was the annual commencement of the college. And
these four young girls, all dressed in purest white robes with
rose-colored wreaths and sashes, had sauntered out together and grouped
themselves under the magnolia trees to wait for the ringing of the bell
which should call them to the exhibition room.
Four more beautiful young creatures than these could scarcely be found
in the world. They were called the Four Belles of Bellemont. They would
have been belles anywhere and borne off palms of beauty from all other
competitors. Yet beautiful as each one was, the four were not rival
belles; because, in fact, each one was of a totally different style from
all the others. They might be said to represent the four orders of
female beauty—the blue, gray, hazel and black-eyed woman.
So far were they from being rivals, that they were fast friends, banded
in an alliance for offense and defense against the whole school, if not
the whole world!
Britomarte Conyers, the man-hater, the woman’s champion, the marriage
renouncer, first in beauty, grace and intellect, was, as I said, a
magnificent creature—not in regard to size, for she was not so tall as
the blue-eyed belle, nor so full-fleshed as the hazel-eyed one; but
magnificent in the sense of conscious strength, ardor and energy with
which she impressed all. She felt and made you feel, that if her earnest
soul had been clothed with the form of a man, she would have been one to
govern the minds of men and guide the fortunes of nations; or, woman as
she was, if law and custom had allowed her freer action and a fairer
field, she would have influenced the progress of humanity and filled a
place in history.
Britomarte’s present position and prospects were not very brilliant. She
was the orphan ward of a maiden aunt, who had sent her to this school to
be educated as a governess; and a hard struggle with the world was all
that she had to look forward to; but certainly, if ever a woman was
formed to fight the battle of life without fear and without reproach, it
was this brave, spirited, energetic young amazon.
In this quartette of fair girls the second in merit was certainly
Erminie Rosenthal, the daughter of a Lutheran preacher. Erminie was
above the medium height, with a well-developed, beautifully rounded,
buxom form; splendidly moulded features, blooming complexion, softly
shining, hazel eyes, and a shower of bright, auburn ringlets shading the
sweetest face in the whole group.
The third in this bevy of beauties was Elfrida Fielding, the daughter of
a thriving farmer. Elfie was small, slight, and elegant in figure, and
dark in complexion, with a rich crimson flush upon cheeks and lips, and
with black eyes, eyelashes and eyebrows, and jet black hair, cut short,
parted on the left side, and worn in crisp curls like a boy’s. Elfie was
the wild sprite, the mischievous monkey, the fast little girl of the
party. She was lively, witty, impulsive, excitable, fickle, and had an
especial affinity for—anything and everything in its turn, and an
especial mission to engage in—anything and everything that turned up.
Fourth and last among the four belles of Bellemont, though certainly
first in social position, was Alberta Goldsborough, the daughter of a
wealthy merchant in Richmond, and the heiress in her own right of a rich
plantation on the James. Alberta was tall, slender and dignified, with
classic, marble-like features, dazzlingly fair complexion, light golden
hair, and light blue eyes. She was a statuesque blond beauty.
The four belles, languidly reclining under the magnolia trees, had been
discussing as schoolgirls always do when they get together out of the
sight of their teachers—first the highly important subject of dress;
Elfie exclaiming indignantly at the outrage of being obliged to wear
rose-colored trimmings, when maize or cherry suited her brilliant
brunette beauty so much better; and Alberta placidly adding that she
herself would have preferred pale blue or mauve as more becoming to her
blond complexion. Erminie made no objection to the uniform, which was
perfectly adapted to her blooming loveliness; and Britomarte was too
indifferent to the subject to join in the conversation. But when their
talk turned upon matters of secondary importance, namely love and
marriage, and they had talked a great deal of girlish nonsense
thereupon, then Britomarte broke forth with the words that opened this
story.
“Are you right, dear Britomarte?” questioned Erminie, lifting her soft,
sunny, hazel eyes to the face of the speaker, with a loving, deprecating
reverence, as though asking pardon for doubting that any word of her
oracle could be less authoritative than those of Holy Writ. “Are you
quite sure that you are perfectly right?”
“I am,” answered Britomarte, firmly.
“But is not man’s law of marriage founded upon God’s?” timidly persisted
Erminie, laying her hands upon the lap of her idol.
“No! Those who say that it is, repeat a falsehood, invented by man and
inspired by Satan! The law of marriage founded on the law of God,
indeed! There is not a line or a word in the books of Moses or the
gospels of Christ to justify the base assertion? Pray, were the glorious
women of the Old Testament, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, Esther, Deborah,
Judith, Jael—women who ruled with men—had talked with God and His
angels—or were the divine women of the New Testament, Mary, Elizabeth,
Anna—the mother of the Christ, the mother of the Baptist, the Prophetess
of the Temple—were any of these, I say, the mere nonentities that man’s
laws makes of married women? Never! And more I say! Any man who approves
of the present laws of marriage that take away a married woman’s
property and liberty, and even legal existence—any man, I say, who
approves those laws is a despot and despoiler at heart, and would be a
robber and murderer if the fear of prisons and scaffolds did not hold
him in restraint! And any woman who disapproves these laws, yet dares
not express her disapproval, is a slave and a coward who deserves her
fate!”
“Britomarte, dear, how warm you are. Your cheeks are quite flushed. Take
my fan and try not to get so excited,” said Alberta, coolly, presenting
a pink and spangled toy to the ardent amazon.
“Hold your tongue! Thank you, I don’t want it,” answered Britomarte,
waving away the proffered article.
“But, Britomarte, love,” murmured Erminie, leaning upon the champion’s
lap, and lifting her soft hazel eyes to the champion’s proud face, with
that appealing gaze with which the loving plead with the fiery,
“Britomarte, darling, ‘Wives, obey your husbands’ are the words of Holy
Writ!”
With an impatient gesture Britomarte pushed off her worshiper,
exclaiming:
“Paul said that! He was a dry old lawyer, a bookworm and a bachelor!
What did he know about it? And besides, if he had been like Jacob, a
married man, with two wives, and two handmaids, and twelve children, I
would not take the word of the old apostle any more than I would that of
a modern preacher, unsupported by the law of Moses and the gospel of
Christ! And man’s legislation upon marriage has been guided neither by
law nor gospel!”
“Bosh!” exclaimed Elfie, whom neither pastors nor masters had been able
to break of the use of slang, “let the poor wretches make all the laws
in their own favor, if it amuses or helps to deceive them. They like it,
and it don’t hurt us! We needn’t trouble our heads to keep their laws,
you know! Let who will bother themselves about women’s rights, so we
have our own way! And anything we can’t bluster or coax out of our
natural enemy ain’t worth having! Why, law! girls, the creatures are
easily enough managed when you once get used to them! Why, there are no
less than three governors at Sunnyslopes—one pap and two uncles; but who
do you think, now, rules the roost at Sunnyslopes?”
“You do, when you are at home,” suggested Britomarte.
“You better believe it, my dear! Why, law, girls, I can wind pap and
uncles round my finger as easily as I can this blade of grass,” said
Elfie, suiting the action to the word with a mischievous sparkle in her
bright black eyes.
“Well, for my part,” said the fair Alberta, coolly playing with the gold
chain upon her bosom, “whenever I shall be engaged to be married, it
will, of course, be to the proper sort of person. And papa will see that
proper settlements are drawn up between us, and that my own fortune is
settled upon myself to spend as I please. In that way I shall secure all
the rights I care about. I must have a splendid establishment, with
costly furniture, and carriages, and horses, and servants, and dresses
and jewelry, and unlimited pocket-money. And so that I have all that, my
husband may do all the voting and make all the laws for both of us.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Britomarte, bitterly, “it is you and such as you,
Alberta, that retard the progress of woman’s emancipation! If there were
no willing slaves, there could be no successful tyrants! You are quite
willing to sell your liberty for lucre—to become a slave, so that your
chains and fetters be of gold!”
“Yes, these ornaments are rather like handcuffs, are they not?” said
Alberta, slightly raising her eyebrows as she displayed the priceless
diamond bracelets on her wrists. “But I do not see the justice of your
words, Britomarte, since I certainly do not intend to sell my hand for
money, but only to have my own inherited fortune settled upon myself.”
“For which simple price of justice you are willing to concede your most
sacred civil and political rights!”
Alberta shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“I speak to you of pocket-money, and you answer me with politics. Bah!
why should I care, so that I have a fortune to spend independent of my
future husband? For just think what a trouble it would be to have to ask
him for money every time I wanted to go shopping!”
“Oh! a horrid nuisance! I think I shall follow your example, Alba! I
shall get pap to settle the niggers, and the money, and the old blind
mare, and all the rest of the personal on me by myself, so that my
natural enemy, whenever I shall fall into his hands, can’t take it from
me. In return for which I will promise to keep in my sphere, and not run
for constable nor Congress,” said Elfie.
“You are both right so far as you go,” said Britomarte, earnestly, “but
you don’t go far enough. A girl with property is often married only for
that property. And if her husband should be a prodigal and squander it,
and bring her to want, or if he should be a miser and hoard it, and
deprive her of the comforts of life, she has no redress. Therefore, it
is well that a woman’s property should be settled upon herself, and that
she should be independent of her husband, at least as far as money can
make her so. What do you say, my dear?” she inquired, turning to
Erminie.
Erminie hesitated, the bright bloom wavered on her cheeks, and then
deepened into a vivid blush. She dropped her long-fringed eyelids over
her soft eyes, and answered, gently:
“I am glad I am not rich; very glad that I have nothing at all of my
own. Now I go to my dear father for everything I want, and it is sweet
to receive it from his hands; for he never refuses me anything he can
afford to give, and I never ask him for anything he cannot spare.”
And the Lutheran minister’s daughter paused thoughtfully, as if in some
tender reminiscence of her absent parent.
“But we are not talking about papas—we are talking about hubs,”
exclaimed Elfie, impatiently. “We are cussing and discussing the best
means of offense and defense against our natural enemies, meaning our
future hubs—poor wretches!”
“I know,” said Erminie, gravely.
Then, turning her soft eyes, that had strange mesmeric power in their
steady tenderness, upon the face of Britomarte, she continued:
“And, as I am not rich, as I have nothing at all of my own, no one will
ever marry me for anything else but affection. And, as I find it so
sweet to depend on my dear father, who loves me, I shall find it very
sweet also to depend on another who shall love me—ah! if only half as
well as he does!”
“I hope you will remain with your father, my darling. Fathers may be
trusted with their daughters—sometimes. The same cannot be said of
lovers or husbands,” said Britomarte, earnestly, and laying her hand
caressing upon the bright head that leaned against her bosom. “Yes, I
hope you will never commit that spiritual suicide of which I spoke.”
Erminie gently lifted her head from her queen’s bosom—every motion of
the fair girl was gentleness itself—again she hesitated, and the bloom
wavered on her face and settled into an intense blush, as she softly
said:
“I do not agree with you, dear Britomarte. I cannot. Nor do I like
discussions on this subject. It seems sacrilegious to speak so
irreverently of the holiest mysteries in nature, for such, indeed, I
deem love and marriage; and it seems like unveiling the holy of holies
in one’s own sacred bosom to give one’s thoughts and feelings about
them. Still, when that, which to me is a divine truth, is assailed even
by you, dear Britomarte, I must defend it, if necessary, by laying bare
my own heart.”
“Defend it, then, my love. Come on! I shall mind your fencing about as
much as I should the pecking of an excited turtle dove,” said the
amazon, with an indulgent smile.
Yet again the bloom wavered and flickered on Erminie’s sensitive cheek
as she murmured, softly:
“I have been thinking of all you have said this morning; I have been
listening to my heart, and it has told me this: To lose self in the one
great vital love a true wife finds in a true husband, is not moral
suicide, as you say, but the passing into another life—a double
life—deeper, sweeter, more intense, and more satisfying than any known
alone. To be content to be guided by his wisdom, and upheld by his
strength, and comforted by his love—to have no will but his will, which
she makes her own—this is not to be a nonentity, or weak, or silly, or
childish, but to be identical with the husband’s greater life—to be
wise, strong, womanly. She passes into his life, becomes part and parcel
of it. In losing herself she finds herself; in giving herself away she
receives herself again—transfigured! Oh! Britomarte, I am not
intellectual like you, but I do know, because my heart surely tells me,
that the true wife and the true husband are one—one being on this earth,
as they will be one angel in heaven,” said the gentle girl, forgetting
her timidity in her enthusiasm.
“Bosh!” cried Elfrida Fielding, in disgust, tearing and throwing away
the withes of grass she had been winding around her fingers,
emblematically of her method of managing natural enemies.
“Bah!” yawned Alberta Goldsborough, shrugging her shoulders.
“Have you seen many such unions in your short life, Erminie?” gravely
inquired Britomarte.
“No, I have not; but I know that all unions should be such! As for
myself, I do not think I shall ever love; but I do know that I shall
never marry unless I shall be sought by one whom I can love with all my
heart, and soul, and spirit; whom I can honor almost as I honor my
Creator; and I can obey in word and deed, with such perfect assent of my
will and understanding, that to obey his will shall be to have my own
way!—one who shall be to me the life of my life, the arbiter of my fate,
almost my God! Yes, that is what I feel I want, and nothing else in the
universe will satisfy me! That is what every true woman wants, and
nothing else in the universe will satisfy her! Oh! Britomarte—you who
are woman’s champion—you greatly bewray woman when you ascribe to the
coercion of coarse human laws that divine self-abnegation and devotion
which is the instinct and inspiration of her own heart!” exclaimed
Erminie.
“The dove pecks sharply—her little beaks are keen,” said Britomarte,
smiling. Then, speaking more gravely, she added: “Women might be such
angels, my darling, if men were such gods; but you will find few women
willing to be so devoted, and fewer men to deserve such devotion. Men do
not believe in women’s voluntary self-abnegation, and hence they coerce
them by what you call coarse human laws, by what I call unjust,
despotic, egotistical laws. I return to my point, darling. I hope that
you will never marry.”
“I do not think I ever shall, since it is not likely that I shall ever
meet with any one such as I have described,” said Erminie.
“Oh, no, that you will not, my dear,” said Elfie; “but you will think
you have met such a prodigy, and that will be all the same to you. You
will some day run against some commonplace John Thompson or Tom Johnson
whom you will take for a Crichton or a Bayard. You are booked for a
grand passion, my dear. It is in your system and it must come out. It
would kill you if it was to strike in. I pity you, poor child, for that
thing don’t pay. I know all about it; I’ve been all along there!”
“You, Elfrida?” exclaimed Alberta, with unusual interest, for her.
“Yes, me, ‘Elfrida!’ You had better believe it!”
“Tell us all about it.”
“I am going to. Well, you see when pap first brought me to this school
to finish my education, we stopped in the city a few days to fit me out
and show me the sights. One night he took me to see an opera. Hush,
girls! I never was inside of an opera house before in my life; and you
better believe I was dazzled by the splendor and magnificence around me,
and found quite enough to do to gape and stare at the gorgeous
decorations of the house and the beautiful dresses of the ladies, until
the curtain rose. Then, whip your horses! The opera was ‘Lucia di
Lammermuir,’ and the part of Edgar Ravenswood was performed by Signor
Adriano di Bercelloni.”
At the mention of that name Britomarte became attentive.
“Now, whether it was the jaunty bonnet, with the heron’s feather, or the
crimson tartan plaid, or the black velvet tunic coat, or the white
cross-gartered hose and buskins, or the music, or the man, or all
together, I don’t know; but I fell over head and ears in love with Edgar
Ravenswood. Heavens! how I adored him! Don’t frown, Britty, And, ah! how
I hated Lucia, who had the divine happiness of being wooed in strains of
heavenly music by Edgar Ravenswood! And, oh! how ardently I aspired to
be a great prima donna, and play Lucia to that exalted being, Edgar.
Alba, if you smile that way I’ll bite you.”
“How did it end?” inquired Erminie.
“I’m going to tell you, Minie. I went home with my head in a whirl; I
had Bercelloni on the brain. Pap wanted me to come into the dining-room
and take some supper. But faugh! After the divine life of music,
buskins, love, heron’s feather, romance and Ravenswood, the mere idea of
eating was revolting to the last degree! But I made pap promise to take
me to the opera the next night. ‘Why, daught., you are music mad,’ he
said. ‘I am very fond of music, pap,’ I answered. Law girls! he believed
it was only the music! Our paps are very simple-minded people. Or else
they have learned so much wisdom in their age that they have forgotten
all they knew in their youth. Don’t you think so, Alba?”
“Yes, but never mind about the old gentleman. Tell us of the signior.”
“Well, instead of feasting on a vulgar supper, I went to bed to feast on
memories of the divine life of the opera and on hopes of living it over
again on the next evening. Ah! how I worshiped the Signior Bercelloni!
Ah! how I detested the Signiora Colona! Ah! how I aspired to be a famous
prima donna! I felt capable of dying for Bercelloni, of choking Colona,
and of running away from pap to become a prima donna. I was in the last
stage of illusion, hallucination, mania! Don’t glower at me so, Britty!
or I can’t go on. Ah! if our paps did but know, it is not always safe to
take every one of us to such places!”
“Indeed, it is not!” exclaimed Britomarte, so earnestly, so bitterly, so
regretfully, with so dark a shadow overhanging her face, that little
Elfie paused and gazed at her in dismay, faltering:
“Why, Britty, what is the matter? Surely, you never——”
“No, no,” said Britomarte, recovering herself with an effort, “I was
never at an opera. Go on. How did it end?”
“How did it end? As a Fourth of July rocket ends, of course. It streamed
up from the earth a blazing meteor, aspiring to the heavens! It fell
down to the ground a blackened stick, to be trodden under foot!”
“Ah!” sighed Erminie, in a voice full of sympathy.
Elfie laughed, and went on:
“But to leave the hifaluting and come down to the common. It was very
late when I got up next morning, and pap was as late as I was. And when
we sat down to the breakfast table we found a party sitting opposite to
us who were as late as we were. I didn’t look at them. I was still in a
dream, living in memories of the past evening and hopes of the coming
one. In so deep a dream, that I didn’t know whether I was breakfasting
off an omelette or stewed kid gloves, until pap stooped and whispered to
me: ‘Daught., there’s Signior Adriano di Bercelloni sitting opposite to
us.’ I woke from my dream and raised my eyes to see. Was it Bercelloni?
I looked and looked again before I could be sure. Yes, it was he! But
oh! my countrymen, what a change was there! How like, yet how unlike my
gorgeous hero of the evening before! His head was bald! his face was
bloated! his form was round! Ugh! His eyes were red! his nose was blue;
his teeth were yellow—ugh! ugh! He had a great plate of macaroni and
garlic before him, and a great spoon in his hand, with which he shoveled
the mess down his throat, as a collier shovels coal into a cellar—faugh!
Whatever he had done to himself to make him look so differently on the
stage, I don’t know. But the sight of him _au natural_ made me sick and
cured me.”
“And so that is the end of the story?” inquired Alberta.
“No, not quite. On one side of him sat a swarthy, scrawny signiora, who
was the wife of his ‘buzzum’. And on the other sat an equally swarthy
and scrawny signorina, who was the lovely pledge of their wedded
affections. And that’s not all either, Alba. That evening pap said,
‘Well, daught., shall we go to the opera to see the Signior Bercelloni
play Fra Diavolo?’ I answered, ‘Thank you, pap, I had rather not.’ And
so we went to church instead to hear the celebrated Rev.
Mr.—What’s-his-name? Law! you know who I mean.”
“Did you fall in love with him?” inquired Alberta.
“Not as I know of! He may have had ‘a very beautiful spirit,’ as some of
his admirers say; but, if so, it was clothed with a very unattractive
person. Next day pap brought me here to school, and I have been here
ever since, except when I have gone home for the holidays. Now,
sisteren, I have given in my experience at this love feast for the
benefit of Sister Erminie Rosenthal; and I hope she will profit by it.
And now, I think, that is all.”
Alberta and Erminie laughed, but Britomarte looked very grave as she
said:
“No, Elfrida, that is not all. I have a sequel to your story, but I will
not tell it to you now. I will tell you this, however: The old glutton
who revolted your taste at the breakfast was Signior Adriano di
Bercelloni, the elder, and the father of Signior Adriano di Bercelloni,
the younger, whom you saw play Edgar Ravenswood.”
As Britomarte spoke, Elfie gazed at her with open eyes and mouth in
silent amazement.
“They have the same name, and they bear a strong personal resemblance to
each other, modified by the difference of age and temperament; but they
never play the same parts. How could you imagine, my dear, that there
could be any arts of the toilet, or effect of the stage, that could
transfigure that coarse old creature into the hero of an opera?”
“I don’t know. I thought toilet arts, and stage effects, were almost
miraculous. But what astounds me is the cunning of the gay old deceiver,
my pap! Now, I wonder if he didn’t see my infatuation from the
beginning! I wonder if he didn’t show me the old one, and let me deceive
myself, on purpose?”
“Of course, he did,” opined Alberta.
“But how came you to know anything about them—so much about them, I may
say, Britty, dear?” Elfie inquired.
“I said I had a sequel to your story; but I cannot tell it now,” replied
Britomarte, very gravely. Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added: “I
think it wrong—oh! very wrong—in parents and guardians to take young,
inexperienced, impressible girls to such places. If they love music, let
them have as many concerts as they please, but no operas, and no
plays—except, perhaps, a few of Shakespeare’s best historical plays.”
“How old are you, Britomarte?” suddenly inquired Alberta.
Britomarte paused as though she could scarcely answer that question at a
moment’s warning; and then she answered:
“I am eighteen. Why?”
“You talk as if you were eighty—that’s all.”
“I have had enough to age me,” said Britomarte, putting Erminie’s
caressing arms from her neck, and rising, and walking away, as if to
conceal, or overcome, some strong and deep emotion.
“Britomarte speaks bitterly,” said Elfie, in amazement.
“She has good reason to do so,” replied Alba, meaningly.
“What reason?” inquired Elfie and Erminie, in a breath.
“Law! don’t you know? Have you never heard?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t know whether I ought to tell it. It seems unfair to do so.
It seems, indeed, like speaking ill of her family behind her back. She
might not like it,” said Alberta, hesitating.
“Then, don’t do it,” urged Erminie.
“Do!” insisted Elfie.
“Well, you see, I never knew a word of it myself until last Easter
holidays, when I was home on a visit, and heard it by the merest
accident. For you know she never mentions a word about her family.”
“No, never; except sometimes to allude to the maiden aunt who pays her
school bills. But do tell me! Is it anything bad?” eagerly inquired
Elfie.
“Yes, very,” replied Alberta, with a shudder.
“And to think you should have known the secret ever since last Easter
and kept it from us!” exclaimed Elfie, with a reproachful look.
“You see I kept it to myself for her sake,” explained Alberta, with an
apologetic smile.
“Keep it so still, Alberta,” earnestly urged Erminie. “If you have
become possessed of any secret that you think Britomarte would not like
to have divulged, it would be disloyalty to your friend to divulge it.”
“Bosh! It is all among friends, so what’s the harm? Go on, Alberta. I am
on thorns until I hear all about it. Was it a murder, or a forgery, or a
bigamy, or an elopement, or an—or what was it?” eagerly questioned
Elfie.
“It was neither of these. It was something far more—Where are you going,
Erminie?” Alberta suddenly broke off in the middle of her sentence to
ask of her fair companion, who had risen and was walking away.
“I am going out of hearing of a secret that my friend might not like me
to know,” answered the true-hearted girl, leaving Alberta to tell
Britomarte’s mystery to her only willing listener.