Whether she intended it or not her silence convinced Van Dusen that

he need look for no further hope from her. It was not coquetry, but a

definite and permanent refusal. What an ass he had been not to see that

she never cared for him! But that he, a Van Dusen, should have been

turned down by a snip of a milliner! No, no, he must not think that. He

was a cad to call her names even in thought. Ah, she was a beautiful

girl--as good as they made them--but, she had not been made for him,

worse luck! Of course, there must be another fellow. But, by George,

couldn’t she look proud! And what a temper she could show! Ah, but she

looked more beautiful angry than smiling. Oh, well, if she didn’t care

to talk he wouldn’t make her. There was the gate, and there was Miss

Fisher, all in white, smiling and wholesome. After all, there was no

girl like an American girl. These foreigners----

“Hello, people, where have you two been?” came Margaret’s cheery

greeting to the silent pair emerging from the cover of the trees;

“exploring the landscape, Helen?”

“How do you do, Miss Fisher!” Van Dusen welcomed the break in the

oppressive silence he had endured. “You look very well. I need not ask

if the country is doing you good! Mother sent me with a message to you,

but as I learned you were resting I proposed to Miss Barton to visit

the ‘Kittanah Rock’--and here we are.”

“How are you, Mr. Van Dusen. Come in and sit down in the shade. This

is the only cool spot I know around here. Were you interested in the

Indian Rock, Helen? You didn’t know we could boast of ancient history

here, did you?”

They sat on the camp chairs in the grass under the spreading maples,

chatting in desultory fashion. Helène, however, soon retired to her

room, offering as an excuse her dishevelled condition after the walk.

As he sat facing the comely Margaret with her shrewd eyes, Van Dusen

realized that it would be useless for him to make a secret of what had

happened in the orchard. He saw that she already more than guessed.

Moreover, his disappointment at the rebuff made him feel a deep desire

to unburden himself; perhaps, also, to obtain a little sympathy. He

sought for an opportunity, and it came when Helène left them together.

But it was Margaret who seized it first.

“What have you been saying to Helen, Mr. Van Dusen? She seems unusually

quiet, and she kept her eyes away from you. I have elected myself

Helen’s guardian, you know, and her happiness is dear to me. What’s

been the trouble?”

“Miss Fisher,” the young man fidgeted and spoke nervously. “I know you

will be angry with me. I’ve made an arrant fool of myself. I proposed

to Miss Barton, and was promptly refused. I hardly know how I came to

do it, but, I suppose I couldn’t help it.”

Margaret’s face paled; she closed her eyes and said not a word.

“Miss Fisher, I see you are angry. But I’ve made it all right. I don’t

know how I came to forget myself, because, as I sit here now, I feel as

if I’m not in love with her at all--and never have been. If I feel hurt

it’s not my heart that has been wounded, but my vanity. Do say a kind

word to me, Miss Fisher. I don’t want you to send me away in anger.”

Margaret opened her eyes and looked at Van Dusen for a moment with

slight disdain. The ingenuousness of the young man, however, was so

transparent, and indicated so honest a nature that she was moved to

smile--the free and open smile which only she could give.

“Poor boy!” she said, “I guess you are right, you couldn’t help it. I

don’t blame you. If I were a man I would have done as you did. But you

must not come with us to-morrow; it would be awkward for both of you.

Oh, I do wish men wouldn’t insist on making love to every pretty girl

they meet; I’m afraid you’ve now spoiled Helen’s vacation--the first

one the child has had. I don’t know if you understand what that means

to a working-girl, because you’ve never done a day’s work in your life.”

“You’re right, missie, I don’t. But what can I do? Father thinks I am

a dunce; the fellows I know don’t do anything great, and mother wants

me to do the social stunt and shine. I wish I could do something. Won’t

you advise me, Miss Fisher?”

“Advise you? Why, Mr. Van Dusen, I don’t see that it is any of my

business! And please don’t ‘Missie’ me. I am too old for that. Really,

you make me laugh. I honestly believe you haven’t grown up yet.”

Any other young man might have resented the snubbing he was getting,

but Van Dusen enjoyed it.

“Never mind, Miss Fisher,” he said laughingly. “I’m not nearly the

boy you think I am. And if you keep on looking at me with those nice

eyes of yours--I’ll make another fool of myself. Now, please don’t get

angry. I’m going to behave from now on. You are right about the drive

to-morrow, though I’m awfully sorry to miss the pleasure of showing you

round. I had been looking forward to it.”

His tone was light, but it was evident that he was feeling the

deprivation deeply.

“Don’t think little of me, Miss Fisher. I hope some day to prove to you

that I can be of some use in the world. Say good-bye to Miss Barton for

me, please. Good-bye, Miss Fisher, and think kindly of me.”

Van Dusen rose and held out his hand to Margaret, who had reddened in

spite of herself. Really, he looked a manly fellow in his earnestness,

despite the flippancy of his manner. She couldn’t help appreciating the

sterling nature which it hid.

“Good-bye,” she said quietly as she took his hand in her friendly clasp.

She watched him get into the carriage and take the reins from the

waiting groom, and noticed how well he sat his seat. Van Dusen turned

and raised his hat in a parting farewell to her smiling nods. There

was not a trace to be seen of either disappointment or chagrin in his

laughing eyes, as he drove up the road and was lost in the wooded

avenue. Margaret turned and walked pensively into the house.

* * * * *

Labor Day had become a memory; Margaret was now fully recovered, and

both girls were back at their duties. Their well-regulated life, which

had been so rudely interrupted by the accident, resumed its even

course. The new actors which, in consequence of that distressing event,

had come into it, in no way disturbed the even tenor of their ways.

Helène met the spurned wooer, after not a few qualms of conscience,

with quiet friendliness. Van Dusen, on his part, had swallowed his

disappointment and became a devoted friend, using the privileges of an

elder brother, which had been extended to him. Helène had but hinted to

Margaret at what had occurred between her and Van Dusen, and Margaret

had refrained from inquiring too curiously. It was best to leave well

alone, she thought.

Flowers still came to the house in Gramercy Park; but their destination

was the reverse of what it had been before. Then it had been Helène who

was the recipient of the roses and giant asters and Margaret of the

lesser flowers. Now it was to Margaret that the more gorgeous plants

were addressed, and to Helène were relegated modest little bouquets of

lilies and pansies (pansies? Did he mean--heartsease?) and cornflowers.

The arrival of the flowers for Margaret usually presaged an evening’s

outing, and Helène soon came to understand that the bouquets which came

for her were but the expressions of courtesy and brotherly attention.

She did not fail to tease Van Dusen on the change, in her more

audacious moods, to his smiling content.

With renewed health Margaret’s cheeks filled out and regained their old

roundness and color. Indeed, her illness had improved her appearance.

She began to add to nature’s gifts the productions of the lore of the

“Modiste” and blossomed into as charming a woman as ever attracted the

eyes of the dwellers of the Park.

And now, with the waning of the summer, the first signs of the new

“season” began to appear on the Avenue. The World of Fashion was

returning to its urban fields of activity; the shops once more became

busy hives of jostling women. The evenings scintillated and sparkled

with brilliant lights and more brilliant costumes. The glamor of the

city drew people from the country, and once again the busy stir of

business and pleasure filled the blue-covered cañons of New York.

As for Margaret and Helène, work kept them from ennui. It was a lesson

to Helène, and she entered on the work of the season with all her heart.

The letter, the task of writing the important letter, had occupied her

thoughts for many months, sometimes as ominous, often as a ray of hope,

occasionally as a burden, but always as a sacred duty--a pilgrimage to

a shrine. She had begun its composition and had destroyed what she had

written time and again. And every time she had put off its completion,

waiting for a happier mood. When did autumn begin? Mrs. Kane’s almanac

said the twenty-second of September. And that was but a few days off.

Well, she would obey the promptings of her heart and do it now. It was

an evening when Margaret had decided to take an inventory of their

belongings to see what they required in the way of dresses for the

coming season, and she had retired early, leaving Helène to herself.

She sat down determined to get it done with once for all. At the end of

an hour the letter was finished, all but the date and signature. She

read it over carefully, and although she was not satisfied she decided

it would have to do.

Surely he would understand! She wondered what he was doing in

Cleveland, and if he ever thought of his friend of the Carpathians.

Perhaps he had found some rich and beautiful girl of his own country!

And his mother and sister? Was the Ruth he had spoken of like the girls

who came to Madame Lucile’s--free and lively and gay and often slangy?

Was his mother like Mrs. Van Dusen, with her haughty air and jewelled

fingers?

These and the like questions she put to herself only to add to her

hesitancy of purpose and distress of heart. She had learned much but

she was still a child and knew very little of life, especially of life

in America.

The greatest of all teachers, the omnipotent opener of all eyes and

all minds, had not yet come to her. Love may be blind, but it is a

wonderful magician for opening the heart’s far-seeing eyes. It may

be blind to the object of its passion, but as a teacher it takes

the highest rank. Helène did not know this. She was alone in the

world--without a home, without a father or mother, without even her

birthright. In this land of her adoption she was still a stranger.

She could but follow the impulses of her heart blindly. She did not

realize it, but it was love that led her. And Monday would be the

twenty-second!

CHAPTER XXVI

Very soon after he had entered on his administrative duties in

connection with the business his father had bequeathed him, John Morton

had found that one thing was certain--he must give his whole heart and

mind to the work, or things would go wrong. Judge Lowell had put it to

him characteristically when he said: “You must either attend strictly

to the executive work, or pay some one else to do it for you. A leader

cannot sit astraddle.” Morton had not believed him, at first, but it

was not long before he found, to his sorrow, that the judge was right;

and then he knuckled down to the system.

When he began gradually to master the fundamental principles of

generalship underlying the direction of so gigantic an enterprise, he

experienced a curious sense of elation and self-satisfaction. Nothing

pleased him more than to notice the admiration in the eyes of the old

warhorses of his father’s army. The knottiest of problems, he found,

would yield to earnest thought and tactful work.

Those who, at the beginning, had looked at him evasively or

contemptuously, had of late given both their approval and confidence.

The heads of the many diversified interests had tested him and had

found he was not wanting. They realized that he was both able and

strong. “A chip of the old block,” some of them said with a smile, and

others would remark: “I told you the acorn wouldn’t drop very far from

the oak,” or “Old Dan in his prime wasn’t in it with the boy.” These

were the opinions expressed by those who were in the business with him.

“The Street” had even begun to whisper that it wasn’t wise to monkey

with young Morton, and grizzled old bankers had found it desirable to

consult with him before deciding on some of their “big moves.” From

the outset he had declined offices on financial boards, pleading lack

of experience; but somehow important enterprises would be mentioned to

him at their inception. The players on the chess-board knew that it

was safer to give Morton a chance to make a move or not, as he felt

inclined. Thus it was that every day found Morton more firmly seated in

his father’s ample chair, and found also that the work connected with

his duties left him more and more invigorated.

His life with such responsibilities was bound to become circumscribed

in ever-narrowing circles, and could not fail to leave on him, both in

his features and bearing, indelible marks of care and thought. He found

little room for indecision, small opportunity for moroseness, and fewer

moments for idle dreaming. He carried himself so seriously that his old

friends at the club scarcely recognized in him the John Morton of the

past. He no longer found time for intercourse with men of science, nor

for indulgence in reading books. John Morton had, indeed, come into

Adam’s legacy--work and plenty of it.

Mrs. Morton and Ruth, although they could have but few opportunities

for coming in contact with the business world, heard some of these good

opinions. Married ladies, from whom their husbands kept no business

secrets, would repeat what they had been told; fiancées would carry the

expressions their future lords and master had made about Morton; Judge

Lowell, on his occasional visits, never failed to avow his high esteem

of this paragon of a son. They heard that he had been elected to the

dignified offices his father had held, and to which only honorable and

estimable men were called; that his advice and counsel were sought in

matters of public welfare, civic improvement and works of charity. The

Randolph in him may have been strong, but there was enough Morton in

his composition to make his power felt, and those who looked to him for

action were not disappointed.

Mother and admiring sister regretted his now regular absence from

their drawing-room gatherings and his even less frequent visits to

the country home. But the women of America are content to accept the

demands that business makes on their husbands and brothers. As long as

John kept his health and looked as handsome as ever, with his face lit

up by his humorous smile, they were satisfied.

They had almost forgotten the existence of “the dark lady” of the

Carpathians. Ruth had gone so far as to say that she believed John “had

been stringing” them about her. She still was as determined as ever

to marry her handsome brother to some beautiful American girl, which

was her reason for not sharing in her mother’s pride at his continued

devotion to business. Not that she objected to hear people talk in

praise of John; but she could see no sense in working so hard for money

when they already had more than they needed. John lived like a hermit,

she said.

Her brother would listen to her smilingly, pat her on the cheek and

explain that the interests of their estate demanded it. Her mother

would talk of the sacred duty John owed to his father’s plans. But

neither argument had much weight with Ruth, for whom life was a much

more interesting affair than mere money-making. However, she said

nothing, but quietly made up her mind to carry out her plans. She’d see

that John married, come what may.

Moved by the desire to be nearer her son, Mrs. Morton, towards the

middle of the summer, had brought her household goods from Newport

to the big mansion on the Hudson. John had agreed to come there at

least once during the week and to spend his Sundays with her. She made

occasional trips to New York for shopping and visiting purposes, on

which Ruth would often accompany her--especially for the shopping. On

such occasions they generally succeeded in bringing John home with

them. They found that he was willing to break important engagements,

though to them these engagements seemed strangely unimportant. He would

meet them at some store or at the Terminal, and his escort was always

an added pleasure to them. Mrs. Morton, in particular, felt a great

pride in driving home with her son. Their arrival was like a triumphal

entry into some feudal castle. Her eyes would beam with delight as she

noted the servants’ admiring glances at “Mr. John,” or the proprietary

pride of the old station-master’s greeting of “Mr. Morton.”

Sometimes Ruth would go alone to visit a school friend, who would

assist her in selecting her purchases. It was on one of these private

expeditions that she ’phoned John and, catching him in a moment of

weakness, wheedled him into a promise to meet her at Maillard’s that

day at five, and to take her back to Tarrytown.

Punctual, as always, John was at the confectioner’s--the favorite

place of those ladies who believe they need reviving refreshment of a

stronger nature than can be obtained at the ordinary department stores.

His arrival made Ruth and Hattie Brown, her friend, the envy of the

other girls, who saw this distinguished-looking man greeting them. Is

it unkind to suggest that Ruth had selected the place of rendezvous

with this effect in view?

John had met Miss Brown on many previous occasions, so that he looked

at the girls’ effusive leave-taking without much emotion. Ruth’s great

charm to him had always been her perfect naturalness of manner, but

this did not prevent her behaving as other girls did when she was with

them. Once alone in the carriage with him, however, she quickly resumed

her vivacious self and was her brother’s comrade again.

The girl was excited, full of fun and bubbling over with laughter, much

to her brother’s amusement. Something unusual must have happened.

“You know that piece of fine old timber on our grounds, John? I mean on

the slope to the river.”

John nodded.

“Well, I’ve taken a fancy to it and want it all for myself. It’s been

neglected, because it hasn’t got what people call ‘a wonderful view.’

It needs draining and some paths cutting through it. Won’t you spare an

hour and come with me to look it over?”

“I don’t mind,” her brother remarked carelessly.

“And you will please me, won’t you, John, dear, and have the woods

put into good condition? I’m tired of hearing about grand vistas and

glorious sights and distant purple hills and all that kind of rot. It’s

a perfectly lovely bit of timber, and if you go the right way about

it, it can be made into a most delightful spot and a real refuge for

birds and small game. Put some quail on the place and mummy and I will

see that they are taken care of and fed in the winter. Now is just

the time, before it gets too cold. If you do this for me, John, I’ll

reciprocate. Oh, I’ve made the most marvellous discovery to-day. I’ll

let you in on it, if you’ll be good.”

Ruth rattled away without pausing for breath.

“Well, sis, I’ll go round the place with you and try to see it with

your enthusiastic eyes; but the superintendent is really the right

man. However, your wish shall be a command. Now, what’s this wonderful

reward I’m to get for being good?” He spoke in a bantering voice,

smiling at the excited face.

“I’ll tell you in good time. It’ll do you good to feed on your

curiosity a little. You haven’t enough emotion in you, anyway, John.

All you do is work and plan. Before you know it, you’ll be nothing but

a thinking machine. Ah, but I’ve got a charm up my sleeve that’ll make

you come out of your shell and be your old self again. Oh, John, if you

only knew!”

“What is this mysterious thing you are hiding? A new collie, or a plant

that sings between drinks, or some new genius? Tell, oh, sloe-eyed

daughter of my race!”

“You can laugh at me, if you like; but I tell you, John, I’ve struck it

rich. You’ll have to wait. All things come to him who waits. First my

woods and roads and drains, and then--your reward.”

They had arrived at the Terminal by this time and John had all he could

do to guide Ruth through the crowd into the train. In due course they

reached home and a short time after the modest family of three were

seated round the dinner-table.

Though a simple function, dinner was always an important affair for

Mrs. Morton when her son was with them. She took pride in seating

him in the high-backed chair at the head of the table and would gaze

lovingly at his handsome face and listen entranced to his conversation.

In Mrs. Morton’s opinion John could talk better than Daniel Webster. A

day’s absence would afford her an excuse for discovering new virtues

in her boy. Unlike the other women of her station, she had remained

what they would have characterized as “old-fashioned.” Home to her

had its old meanings and old duties--it meant home, and not a mere

stopping-place for the country club or the golf links or the porch for

slangy gossip. So that visitors to her house still found in it the air

of bygone days and were grateful for it.

Mrs. Morton had long since laid out her course of life and kept to

it. She knew that so long as John felt that he was taking care of her

and Ruth, he would stick to his business. She herself was not at all

necessary to him; but her pride lay in his strength and ability to

succeed. She was deeply afraid he might drift again into the “bohemian

life” of aimless study and travel, as she classed his previous lapses

into those fields. She could understand being a gentleman of leisure,

even approve of it; she could easily accept the life of ceaseless labor

and planning of business enterprises, for she had had the example of

that in her boy’s father; but she could see nothing in studying for

study’s sake, or in a devotion to research for the object of discovery.

This might do for eccentric foreigners or crazy college professors; but

for a Morton or a Randolph?--Never!

But Ruth had no such compunctions of mind, no such scruples of

conscience or carefully set plans. As they sat over the meal and

she listened to the serious discussion between her mother and John

on subjects in which she had not the slightest interest, she became

impatient.

“Mother, dear,” she said, breaking in. “I must tell you what happened

to me this afternoon. Please stop talking shop and bothering about

those horrid men in their offices, without souls, who sit there like

spiders in webs. Anyone listening to you two would think you were a

couple of promoters.”

“I think, Ruth, you might have chosen a better comparison,” remarked

Mrs. Morton severely. “What is this wonderful thing that happened?”

Ruth, not a bit abashed at the reproof, went on:

“Well, Hattie and I were snoopin’ around looking for things, you

know----”

“My dear, I wish you’d be a little more select in your vocabulary,”

remonstrated her mother mildly.

“Mummy, dear, you must let me tell my story my own way. As I was

saying, Hattie and I were shopping. You know Hattie simply won’t have

anything else but the latest and Frenchiest, and no trouble’s too much

for her so long as she digs it out. We had been to all the likeliest

places--to Arnitt’s and Longman’s and Carson’s and many others, when

she insisted that we should go to Madame Lucile’s. The great lady

herself waited on her, and Hattie tried on almost everything there was

in the place--hats, bonnets, laces, plumes, frocks--and could not be

suited. While the things were on the shelves they looked beautiful, but

when Hattie tried them on she couldn’t bear them. I am sure Madame must

have been disgusted. Even I was getting ashamed of her. Well, at last

Madame suggested that Mademoiselle Hello-a, or a name something like

that, should come and give her opinion. The young lady, she said, was

the very latest arrival from abroad and was absolutely faultless in her

taste. Well, Mademoiselle with the profane name was sent for and well,

she is simply wonderful!”

Ruth gazed at her listeners with eyes that said what no words could

express. They seemed to suggest dreams of delight and beauty. John

leaned back and roared with laughter. Ruth gave him a mingled look of

pity and disdain, and turned to her mother.

“Mamma, you never in your life saw such a beautiful girl. Honest, she’s

simply a wonder. It’s all very well for you to laugh, John, but you’ve

not seen her. But I’ll take you to see her and then you’ll know if I’m

right or not. I don’t believe she’s a day older than I am, but, somehow

she’s quite womanly. And her face, oh, mother, it’s like the face of

that beautiful Gainsborough picture we have, only much younger. Her

hair is the loveliest color and her eyes are like violets. As for her

figure--well--I’d give my eye-teeth to have one like it.”

“Say, Ruth, let up a little, won’t you?” chuckled John, “if you go on

I’ll have to be carried out by the butler.”

“Let me tell you, you’ll have to be carried out when you see her; she’s

a stunner.”

“Ruth, dear, don’t get so excited,” begged Mrs. Morton.

“I’m not excited, mother; but John doesn’t understand. He’s never heard

her speak, or he wouldn’t make fun of what I’m saying. She talks the

prettiest English in the loveliest voice you ever heard--and she’s so

modest and refined. I tell you she’s one in a million. I bet she’s a

lady--every inch of her--and I couldn’t help saying nice things to her.

You ought to have seen her blush when I said I’d like to know her. If

the girl ever does her blushing stunt when you’re around, John, you’ll

just walk right up and propose to her on the spot. And I hope she’d

accept you. And now, here’s my proposition. If you fix up my woods,

I’ll introduce you to her. Mummy, dear, you must come to New York with

me and invite her out. You’ll fall in love with her. You will come and

ask her, won’t you?”

“But, Ruth, how can we invite a shop-girl to this house? You are so

impulsive, my dear.”

“She’s not a shop-girl; she’s a lady,” exclaimed Ruth, indignantly.

“But a girl you know nothing about; how can you think of it? I never

heard such a thing! What did Hattie Brown say?”

“Oh, Hattie! She thought her very beautiful; but she prefers dark

people. Madame Lucile told us afterwards that the young lady was highly

educated. Now, I’ve said all I have to say. If you don’t want to meet

her, John, that’s your loss. But I tell you she’s a wonder.”

John saw that his sister was really in earnest and would hurt her

feelings if he carried his jocular manner too far. Rising, he went up

to her and put his arms around her shoulders.

“All right, sissie, some day I’ll ask you to introduce me. But not just

now. I’m going to Idaho. I’ll seek your kind favors when I get back.

Mother, dear,” he turned to Mrs. Morton, “I’ve got to go to Jackson’s

Hole next week. Do you mind if I take the opportunity to put in a

week’s shooting? I feel I need the rest.”

“Oh, John,” exclaimed his mother, “I’m so glad you’re going to take a

vacation. You deserve it, and I’m sure you need it. When do you start?

There’s nothing to keep you so far as I am concerned.”

“Thank you, mater, I’ll start next Tuesday. That will give me two days

here. Judge Lowell arrives on Friday and promised to remain until I

return. He’ll see to everything you may want. When you feel like going

to town to stay for the season, I’ve leased the Arkwright house, and

I’ve taken the even days for Box 17 at the Opera. Shall we have our

coffee on the verandah, mother; it’s a lovely evening?”

Mrs. Morton smiled her assent; but said nothing further about his going

away. Since her husband’s death she had clung to John with a double

tenacity--a mother’s love for a son, and a woman’s reliance on the man.

But she was too wise to permit her own feelings to come between them.

When, later in the evening, the three were together in the spacious

living-room, Ruth took her brother aside and finally got her way about

the little wood.

The following morning Morton returned to the city. But this time he

carried back with him his old dreams. Ruth’s story at the dinner-table

had unlocked a door in his memory which he had kept closed; and now

the gracious spirit wandered once more about the chambers of his mind

giving him neither rest nor hope.

Would the promised letter arrive? Perhaps it was even now on its way

to him across the ocean! What if it should come while he was away in

Idaho? He made a note to leave instructions that it must be forwarded

on to him.

Love is said to give the lover almost supernatural powers of insight

and vision, as if the mysterious force produced a psychical state which

responded in harmony to the presence of the loved one. If this be

true, then Morton must have been born of a different species. In all

his concentrated thoughts of Helène he saw her either in some retired

village in Germany, or in some nunnery, or sitting in tearful neglect

in a dreary attic, or living with some high-born relative and walking

the world a queen in grace and beauty, the cynosure of all eyes. But

never for one instant did he picture her in New York, working patiently

and hopefully in a place he had passed a thousand times.

On the Saturday which was to be his last in town for some weeks to

come, Morton decided to lunch at his club before leaving for Tarrytown.

On the way he stopped his brougham at a gunsmith’s to purchase a rifle

and ammunition for his hunting trip. Was it fate or did a mischievous

fairy plan it?

It was a lovely day, one of those days on which in certain places of

the earth, far from the madding crowd, fairies would come out of their

secret places and dance in the green glades of the cool forest. New

York’s cañons of streets were blue and gold under the gracious sunlit

skies. Surely one of those lively sprites must have mistaken the city

in its shining beauty for a new kind of forest; for of a certainty

he was there. He must have skipped in past the yawning policeman at

the corner, heedless of the noise and the crowds, and careless of the

consequences. Seeing Morton in his carriage he must have whispered to

him to stop at the gunsmith’s shop and go inside and take his time. And

this same little fellow must have arranged it that Michael Sweeney,

the best judge in the city of a damascened barrel, with the finest

touch for adjusting the trigger, should just then be in the shop to

wait on customers. For Michael, withal his watery eyes, could weigh

powder with the skill of an assayer and discourse of guns as though

they were his beloved children. Morton forgot where he was and who he

was, so entranced was he. All he felt was that he was going away for

a vacation--he was putting work away and going to play! The fairy had

certainly enchanted him.

Outside on the avenue the horses in the brougham stamped in nervous

impatience, switching their short tails in vain efforts to keep the

flies away; the old coachman on the box had grown tired of flicking

his whip and had dozed off in the warm shade. And all the time Morton

was under Michael’s spell. Then the fairy, who had timed it well,

touched the weight of the old clock in the corner and started so loud

a whirr that Mike was disconcerted. The asthmatic gong gave a hoarse

ding-dong--it was one o’clock!

Immediately Morton realized that he was to get the 2.30 train and that

he had had no luncheon. He made for the exit hurriedly, giving at the

same time brusque instructions to Michael to bring his purchases to the

carriage.

Michael had wrapped everything very carefully, as was his custom,

using the brown paper and string which the famous establishment

always took care should be of the best, and hurried out in obedience

to Morton’s instructions. Now what followed proves conclusively that

there was a fairy or a leprechaun, as Michael would have called him,

in New York that afternoon. For Michael had not taken two steps beyond

his door, when the string broke and the contents of the brown paper

parcel--hooks, lines and sinkers--were scattered, like the buttermilk

from the pitcher of the fair Kitty of Coleraine, all over the place.

Sweeney, the impeccable, looked aghast and could but stare at the

articles rolling and sliding in every direction.

Morton was on the point of stepping into his carriage, but hearing

the commotion he stopped and turned round. And here is where the

fine Italian hand of the fairy came in. For now Morton also made a

discovery.

CHAPTER XXVII

As this Saturday was to be the last of the half-holidays of the summer,

Margaret and Helène were devoting it to replenishing their wardrobes

for the coming autumn. Monday would be “Fall Opening” day, with its

resumption of longer working hours, and no other opportunity would be

given them for this most necessary preparation for the winter.

The avenue was crowded. Idle promenaders mingled with people hurrying

to and from work, all exhibiting, in dress and manner, the many phases

of life in the metropolis. A touch of crispness in the air gave warning

of the change in the season.

Margaret, broad and commanding, walked by the side of Helène as though

protecting the slender figure in black from the press about them. Bent

on their important affairs they stepped briskly along regardless of

those about them and arrived at the gunsmith’s at the very instant of

Michael Sweeney’s mishap.

Michael, bent and perspiring with the effort of collecting the

scattered objects, straightened up to allow the two ladies to pass.

Morton, at that moment, turned and saw one of them skip gracefully

aside and then catch up with her companion’s gait. In that same

instant Morton experienced a sudden singing in his brain followed

by an association of ideas and an awakening of memory. He became

dimly conscious of something familiar about the graceful skip of the

young woman in black, and looked searchingly at the face beneath the

broad-brimmed hat and veil. At once he made an undignified jump from

the carriage step and was walking rapidly after the two girls.

He caught up with them and looked sharply as he passed; the next

instant he had stopped right in front of them.

“Comtesse Helène!” he exclaimed, “you here?”

Helène shot a frightened look at the man before them.

“Mr. Morton!” The silvery voice bathed him in beatific memories. He saw

nothing but the girl; nay, it may be doubted if he even saw her. He had

taken the little hand which had been involuntarily stretched out to him

and he now held it firmly as though fearful it might slip away from

him, his face mirrored with his emotions. The rest of creation did not

exist; it contained but this girl and himself.

“Comtesse Helène--for once fortune has favored me--I am so glad, so

glad.” He could find no other words.

“Oh, Mr. Morton, I wrote you last night and mailed the letter this

morning. And that I should meet you to-day of all days!”

“Pardon me, but I guess you’ve forgotten me,” interposed Margaret in

her driest of drawls. “Won’t you introduce me, Helen?”

John’s face flushed and Helène looked prettily embarrassed.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Margy,” and then turning to John smilingly, she

said slowly and distinctly: “Miss Helen Barton has the honor to present

to Mr. Morton her dear friend and chum, Miss Margaret Fisher.”

Margaret offered her hand with somewhat cold reserve. This entrance of

a male friend into her shy ward’s acquaintance was both unexpected and

inexplicable. Mr. Morton looked all right--too much so, she thought

with a tinge of resentment.

Morton, by this time, had regained his composure, and shook Margaret’s

hand heartily.

“Now that we have been properly made acquainted with each other, may I

inquire where you ladies are bound for? It is a long time since I last

saw Miss-er-Barton. Have you had luncheon?”

No, they had not. And then, to Margaret’s astonishment, the timid,

ingenuous Helène immediately accepted the offer which followed. On

their way to the hotel, Morton did his best to appear calm and divided

his attentions equally between the two girls. When they were settled

comfortably near a window looking out on the avenue of one of New

York’s famous hostelries, Margaret could not help speculating as to

who this man was. He evidently possessed Ali Baba’s countersign, for

he was waited on most assiduously. A seat at this particular hotel had

always seemed to her to be the reward of the world’s elect. She glanced

inquiringly at Helène, who was all unconscious of what was passing

through her friend’s mind, and to Margaret’s increasing wonder Helène

was taking the whole affair as if a luncheon at the Waldorf were an

everyday occurrence. With the utmost sang-froid she removed her gloves

and, to Morton’s delight, the protecting veil. Her eyes were sparkling

with a light Margaret had never before seen in them. Who and what was

this Mr. Morton? She was becoming really jealous of this interloper.

She remembered that Helen had once casually referred to a Mr. Morton

she had known “in the old country.” But this man was unquestionably an

American! She watched him closely and noted the animation in look and

tone whenever he spoke to Helen. Then she remembered that on meeting

her in the avenue he had addressed her as “Countess.” What did he

mean? Margaret was both puzzled and hurt.

Morton felt a restraint in himself and rightly judged that a similar

feeling existed in the girls. He made an effort to remove it. Turning

to Margaret, he said: “I cannot tell you, Miss Fisher, how glad I am to

have met Miss Barton. When we said good-bye to each other last it was

thousands of miles from here, and I suppose we both find it difficult

to realize that the world is a very small place after all. You will,

therefore, pardon me, I hope, for seeming unattentive. But I promise to

behave better.”

Margery at once saw the situation now. She guessed they would have

many things to say to each other which her presence prevented them

discussing. “Two is company and three is a crowd,” she said to herself.

Smiling amiably in response to Morton’s explanation, she turned to

Helène and said:

“Helen, dear, I’m sure you and Mr. Morton have much to say to each

other. Now, please, don’t mind me. I am going to devote myself to the

good things I see before me, and then I can enjoy looking at the styles

of the women passing by the window. This is a rare treat for me.”

Helène said nothing, but a tell-tale blush spoke volumes. Morton

laughed and said that Miss Fisher was right; he’d take full advantage

of her forbearance.

Suiting his action to the word he drew his chair more closely to

Helène, and before many minutes had passed the two had quite forgotten

Margaret’s presence.

“I have kept my promise, Mr. Morton. I sent the letter this morning and

it would have reached you on Monday--the first day of autumn. You will

believe that I have never forgotten your kindness to me, Mr. Morton. It

was, indeed, not ingratitude that kept me silent.”

“I am too happy to think of finding fault. Now that we have met again,

I shall say not a word of censure. You are looking very well. Ah, Miss

Barton, I give you warning that you won’t lose me again. To think that

you should have been in New York for these five long months when I have

searched the continent of Europe for you!”

“I know now, Mr. Morton, that it was, perhaps, wrong of me not to have

communicated with you earlier. But I am very happy now.”

“I cannot tell you how glad I am!”

“I have been very content of late in my independence. It makes me proud

to be able to say that.”

“I can well believe it,” responded Morton thoughtfully.

“But--Mr. Morton--it is all owing to Margy. She was and still is my

good angel. I don’t know what I should have done without her. She has

been my comfort and stay and the most patient and dearest friend in the

world.”

Helène stretched her arm across the table and pressed Margaret’s hand,

the tears filling her eyes. Margaret blushed and stroked Helène’s

slender fingers. Praise always called up her innate modesty of nature.

“You think too much of me, darling,” she whispered, smiling happily.

Morton looked at Margaret keenly. This was an unusual woman, he

thought, as he noted the broad forehead and firm yet kindly mouth. He

would not forget her kindness to the orphaned girl.

During the meal Margaret kept stealing glances at Helène. She could

scarcely explain the nature of the change she now saw. This erstwhile

quiet, simple maiden might be a princess, so queenly did she bear

herself and so beautiful was she in her animation. “What a difference a

man makes!” she thought bitterly, “especially if he is the right man,”

she added as an afterthought.

The luncheon over Morton remembered that he ought to have been on his

way to Tarrytown.

“Will you excuse me for a moment, ladies? My mother expects me home,

and I ought to send word to her that I will be delayed. Have you any

engagement for this evening, Miss Barton?”

“No, Mr. Morton,” Helène replied, “but I must not keep you from your

family and friends.”

“Miss Barton, I have been in great good luck to-day, and I should like

to take every advantage of it. Shall we say dinner at seven and the

theatre after? Help me, Miss Fisher, won’t you?”

Morton was longing to be alone with Helène, and as he did not quite

understand the relationship which existed between the two girls, he

put the question hoping that she would take the initiative. He was

determined not to part from Helène until he had had an opportunity to

hear her whole story from her own lips.

Margaret’s practical nature saw more than the surface of things showed,

and she had seen sufficient to know that she was _de trop_--to the man,

at any rate.

“Helène, dear,” she said, “you have had enough of me for one day. Make

your plans without considering me. I expect Mr. Van Dusen this evening,

so that I cannot avail myself of Mr. Morton’s kind invitation. You go.

I am sure you and he must have a great deal to talk about. Mr. Morton,

let me thank you for including me in your invitation.”

Helène seemed somewhat uneasy. Before, however, she could reply to

Margaret’s suggestion, she heard Morton say:

“You are quite right, Miss Fisher, Miss Barton and I have a great many

things to talk over. You are very kind. Am I to have the pleasure, Miss

Barton?”

Helène had decided. “I shall be very pleased to dine with you, Mr.

Morton; but I do not care to see a play for some time yet.” Then

turning to Margaret she asked: “You are sure, Margy, you don’t mind?”

“Not at all, my dear. Mr. Morton, I have acted as guardian to Helen for

the past five months, and have been very strict, as you see. Perhaps I

have been selfish; but Helen has been nowhere without me. She is very

dear to me. You may, therefore, consider it a great compliment that I

am willing to place this little treasure of mine in your care. But you

must promise that you will look after her, won’t you?”

“I am honored, Miss Fisher, and beg to assure you that I deeply

appreciate your trust. I shall take your place with Miss Barton.”

Morton smiled, fully appreciating this unusual anxiety on Miss Fisher’s

part.

“Will you excuse me now, for a few minutes, while I ’phone to my

mother?”

Margaret followed him with her eyes as Morton wound his way between the

tables. Helène sat gazing dreamily out of the window absorbed in her

thoughts. Margaret turned to her friend.

“Well, my dear, am I to know all about him? I am bursting with

curiosity, you know; but don’t tell me more than you care to.”

Helène turned her clear, honest eyes on her friend’s face. “There is

not very much to tell, Margy. I met Mr. Morton about a year ago under

unusual circumstances. He was a friend of my father’s. My father died

since then, and you are the one friend I have now. Mr. Morton was very

kind to me at the time, and I believe was willing to assume certain

responsibilities on my behalf, for my father’s sake. I promised that I

would let him know this autumn how I had fared, and it was only this

morning that I sent him the letter which he has not yet received. I

shall tell him now all that has happened to me, and he may be able to

give me news of old friends abroad. Did you really intend to go out

with Mr. Van Dusen?”

“Yes, dear. I was going to tell you about it, and now it will be

pleasant for both of us. Your Mr. Morton, Helen, is the real swell!”

Helène laughed. “Yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call him. But to me

he has been a fine friend--the best I have had--except you, dear.”

“Well, I accept the compliment. But--you know what the old song says:

‘A girl’s best friend is her lover.’ I can see, Helen, where I pass

out.”

“Oh, Margy!” she exclaimed, adjusting her veil quickly.

Morton’s return at that moment ended the confidences between the girls.

He was now, he told them, entirely at their service. It was then

arranged that he should call for Helène at seven o’clock at the address

given him by Margaret.

Helène’s hand lingered an instant in Morton’s at parting, and as he saw

her happy face he knew that he was welcome.

Morton drove to his rooms. Events had been crowding on him and he

wanted to be alone. On his way he stopped at a florist’s and ordered

flowers to be sent to the house in Gramercy Park.

Once in his room he drew a deep chair to the window and after lighting

a cigar sat down to his thoughts.

How beautiful she was! More beautiful than even he had pictured her

in his dreams. This evening she would tell him everything and explain

why she had kept herself away from him. And how pleased she had been

to see him! One look at her face had assured him that no other man had

come between them. She must have carried out her intention and come to

New York to work for her living. That explained Miss Fisher. By George,

that woman was a splendid protectress! He had no fault to find with

her--not in the slightest. Yes--he must put off his Western journey,

now.

John rose and began walking the room, whistling and smoking by turns,

smiling happily. His valet in the next room could hardly believe his

ears. He came obedient to a summons and was ordered to lay out evening

clothes. Mr. Morton would stay in town over Saturday night. What had

come over his master?

John had told his mother that he would be detained in town that night

and promised to be with her for luncheon the next day. He had laughed

to himself as he thought of the guessing match that would follow,

between mother and daughter. Ah, if they only knew!

He dressed with great care and took a hansom, thinking it would be more

fitting than his own more pretentious carriage, and as he drove down

the avenue he could not forbear smiling at his thought--he was just

like any ordinary young “chap” calling on his “best girl.”

* * * * *

Margaret and Helène, after leaving Morton and finishing their shopping,

arrived home, their arms filled with packages, most happily expectant.

An evening such as this promised to be to each of them was a rare

occasion. Helène had been afraid that Margaret would question her

further, but to her surprise and relief, she made no reference to Mr.

Morton.

“I think, Helen, dear, you must let me help to dress your hair,” she

said quietly, “your hat will sit better.”

Helène sensed a slight coldness in her friend; she came over to

Margaret and seating herself on the arm of her chair, cuddled up to her.

“Margy, dear, you are not disapproving, are you? Do you think I ought

not to dine with Mr. Morton this evening?”

Margaret held her tight and patted her shoulder affectionately.

“You mustn’t mind me, dearie; I suppose I’m a jealous old thing.

It’s perfectly right to go out with Mr. Morton, and I’m glad you are

going. I’ve been selfish; you’d get quite rusty if you allowed me to

monopolize you. There now, little girl, hurry and get dressed and when

you are ready call me.” And Margaret kissed her affectionately.

Helène knew that her friend had only her good at heart and thought

it wisest to say nothing more. She went to her room, though not to

dress. Her mind had been so disturbed by the sudden meeting with

Morton and she was so excited over it, that she felt she must regain

her composure. She took out her box of treasures containing the

dried leaves of flowers and a few letters and sat fingering them

thoughtfully. What passed through her mind it would be too curious to

inquire. The thoughts of a girl are sacred to herself. All we need to

know is that she did not sit long, but stole quietly to the mirror and

looked earnestly at her face and then with a sigh of satisfaction,

turned away with a happy smile.

Margaret, in her room, could hear her humming a pretty melody, the

words of which she could not make out; but, certainly, they were not

those of a dirge. When she responded to Helène’s call she found her

ready and saw spread on the bed the latest acquisition--a gray silk

dress. Margaret pretended not to notice it.

Indifferently at first she began her task of dressing Helène’s hair;

but gradually the feel of the silken tresses, almost human in their

touch, brought her back to her true self. With a sudden movement she

leaned forward and kissing the cheek before her, whispered: “I am so

glad you are going to wear that dress--you must look your prettiest

to-night.”

Helène gave her a glad look and smiled. The two were once again dear

friends and each felt the happier for it.

Mrs. Kane came in bearing two boxes of flowers. “From Thornley’s,”

she cried, “we sure have some swell admirers, haven’t we?” Her face

was beaming. Not for anything would she have foregone the pleasure of

bringing in the flowers. She also saw the dress and catching Margaret’s

eye she gave her a meaning look. How quickly women seize at the little

straws floating on the swift current!

The box addressed “Miss Barton” contained some magnificent roses on

long stems. Margaret gave an exclamation of admiration. Then taking out

a large bouquet of violets she held them out to Helène: “To match your

eyes, my dear,” she laughingly remarked, with a low curtsey.

At last both were ready to their mutual satisfaction, though not before

Margaret had made a careful survey of Helène from all sides to make

certain that she had received the finishing touches that would heighten

her darling’s charms. Then she had to leave, because Mr. Van Dusen had

arrived and was waiting for her in the parlor.

The Mr. Van Dusen who had now become a regular frequenter at the

Kane boarding-house was a different gentleman from the dapper young

man of the summer. His visits to Margaret had become the talk of the

table. Helène, however, was the only one who seemed to see nothing

of a special purpose in his calls. She always took him as a matter

of course. Under Margaret’s influence, no doubt, Van Dusen’s manner

had lost its flippancy and air of condescension. He had gained both

in reserve and tact, so much so, indeed, that in his intercourse with

Margaret, it was he who played the part of the serious friend and she

that of the light-hearted tease. To see them as they sat in the parlor

one would have said that Van Dusen was undoubtedly a man of experience

and good sense.

Margaret had not failed to notice the improvement. She was glad of the

change and her lightness of manner may have been part of her strategy

to bring out the stronger nature she knew he possessed. She told him of

her meeting with Helène’s friend and the luncheon at the Waldorf.

“Who was he?” inquired Van Dusen somewhat anxiously.

“Oh, a very handsome man, evidently rich, and looked like a Westerner

and with the nicest manners and voice. He is a--Mr. Morton.”

“Oh, how did he come to know Miss Barton?”

“They met abroad some time ago. He didn’t seem sure of her name,

because he called her by a word that sounded like Countess. What do you

make of it? I didn’t like to ask Helène more than she cared to tell me.”

Van Dusen sat looking down thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said after a pause, “I always had an idea that Miss

Barton was not any ordinary young woman. She is so different, don’t you

know. I’ll wager she’s some aristocrat. Poor girl, she must have gone

through great trouble. Did she show any sign of anxiety when he spoke

to her?”

“No, on the contrary, she was very surprised and then very pleased. She

kept on blushing whenever he spoke to her--and he--well he sat looking

at her as if he couldn’t take his eyes off her face. I was afraid he’d

forget himself and begin making love to her right in the restaurant. If

ever a man was in love with a girl that Mr. Morton is with Helène, or I

don’t know anything about men.”

“What’s Mr. Morton’s business, do you know?”

“No, I don’t, and I believe Helen doesn’t know either. He’s a

gentleman, there’s no doubt about that, and as good-looking as they

make ’em. His face seems familiar as if I had seen him before; but I

can’t place him.”

“Are you thinking of a portrait of a Mr. Morton you saw in the

newspapers, Miss Margaret?”

Margaret stared at him for a moment and then exclaimed:

“That’s it! You struck it! That’s just where I did see that face. It’s

a strong face with a slightly drooping mustache and gray eyes so calm

that you feel small as you look into them. That’s the very man! Who is

he?”

“Well,” replied Van Dusen, “if he’s the Mr. Morton whose portrait was

in the ‘Tribune’ the other day, he’s John R. Morton of Cleveland.”

“Who is he?”

“You don’t mean to tell me you’ve never heard of him?”

“No, I never did, and I am sure Helen never reads the papers carefully

enough to have seen it. But don’t look so surprised at me--who is

he--some criminal or a politician?”

“Oh, Lord,” groaned Van Dusen, “this beats anything I ever heard. Why,

John R. Morton is the only son and successor of old Dan Morton; he’s

just the biggest man in New York--and some man! You know my governor

is no piker when it comes to dollars, but Morton--why all the blue

bloods of New York are not in the same class with him. He could buy

and sell them all without the wink of an eyelash. I’ve met him at the

Metropolitan Club this summer. He’s a biggish fellow, about 33, a

couple of inches shorter than I am. Talks like a professor, gentle and

quiet. By George! I remember now. There was something in the papers

about his being mixed up in some foreign business with revolutions and

princesses. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s the man. No wonder Miss

Barton turned me down. Why, John Morton is the greatest catch in the

country and as fine a fellow as ever stood in shoe leather, so they

say.”

Margaret suddenly realized that she had not been wise to open the

conversation on a matter which concerned Helène alone. Indeed, she had

done wrong, she felt, especially as she had not pressed Helène herself

for information. She was deeply vexed at her indiscretion.

“Excuse me, a moment, Mr. Van Dusen,” she said quickly, “while I get my

coat. I shall not be long. Helen will not be down this evening.”

Without waiting she walked rapidly out of the room. The door closed

behind her, she became at once thoughtful. No--she would say nothing

to Helen of what she had been told. Besides, she did not know how to

broach the subject without betraying herself. She put on her coat and

opening Helène’s door she looked in and called out smilingly: “I’ll sit

up for you, dear.” Before Helène could reply the door had been closed

and Margaret was running down the stairs.

Helène heard the front door slam and knew that she would have to face

the coming ordeal alone. How she dreaded the announcement of Mr.

Morton’s arrival! Mrs. Kane would draw her own conclusion immediately.

The new dress, the flowers, the elaborate preparations--well, Mrs.

Kane must think what she liked! It could not be helped now. To-morrow

would be the twenty-first of September--the last day of summer. She

glanced at the royal roses crowding the vase, their heads proudly erect

as if in challenge to the world. Then her eyes fell on the sweet purple

of the violets on the table--“The last rose of summer,” she murmured;

“but the violet is blue--true blue.”

Her watch told her that it was still some minutes before the time. She

must not betray any anxiety or show any undue haste. She would wait ...

ah--the electric bell was ringing. A deep voice, his voice, reached her

above the hum of talk--then quick steps ascending and a knock at her

door brought Nora, the maid.

“Miss Barton, Mr. Morton is waiting in the parlor.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

Brilliant lights flooded the gallery adjacent to the sumptuous

dining-room from which it was separated by a balustrade of palms.

The tables were occupied by men in sombre evening dress, setting off

to greater advantage the bright costumes of the ladies who sat with

them. The air palpitated with the hum of talk, the peals of light

laughter, the clinking of silver and glass and the music of a string

orchestra. The perfumes of flowers, the odors of viands and the scent

of tobacco smoke rose like the incense from a burnt-offering. The place

was typical of one of the more select of the restaurants in the best

sections of New York.

At a small table sat Helène and Morton facing each other. Helène’s face

was radiant with a happiness that was reflected from Morton’s eyes as

he gazed at her--and her only. Morton had quite forgotten the months of

anxiety of the spring and summer, he had cast into oblivion the many

questions he had intended to ask. It was enough for him that she was

there, facing him, happy and her dear self again. He was wishing he

could tell her all he felt and all he could not repress in his face.

As a matter of fact, however, he was conversing with her just as any

man would do who might be dining at Berry’s with a lady. But he was not

conscious of the power habit gave him to hide his emotions.

Helène’s modest frock was quite in contrast to the costly and elaborate

gowns of the ladies near her. Those of the sisterhood who sent

occasional searching glances at her wished they had the courage to

wear so simple a dress and to look so beautiful in it. The men eyed her

in open admiration, and the waiters evidently were of the same opinion,

for they were most deferential and suave to the slender girl in dove

gray with the violets in her corsage.

To Morton the fresh beauty of Helène grew so overpowering in its

insistency that he put his feelings into words before he knew what he

was saying: “You are bewitching, to-night, Comtesse,” he breathed,

“wonderfully so.”

Helène’s face suffused with blushes while she gave him a quick look of

surprise; but the next moment she smiled and her smile was like a ray

of sunlight through a rift in the clouds.

“The dress is pretty, is it not?” she said. “I am glad now I had

the courage to wear it. I did not expect you would take me to so

fashionable a place as this seems to be.”

Morton said nothing, but looked volumes. He dared not to say any more;

he dreaded a return of shyness and timidity in her, and yet he hoped

it would not pass away. He saw the two pretty little hands resting

flower-like on the white damask, fingering a fork, and an impulse came

over him to take them in his own and tell her there and then, of his

love and his heart’s desires. But the primitive man in him held him

back; it was so delightful to watch the ebb and flow of shy reserve

and unconscious expression in the sweet mobile face. What is it in

the human male that prompts him to seek this peculiar pleasure, as of

a cat playing with a mouse? Morton would have been highly indignant

had any one dared so to characterize his attitude at this moment and

he would have been justified, because he was as much the victim as

the victimizer--he was simply obeying the compulsion of the moment,

enjoying in anticipation the pleasure that he somehow was convinced the

future held for him.

The current of his emotions must have leaked through some faulty

insulation and induced a corresponding current in Helène, for she

suddenly became reserved and shy again. She sought refuge in a question.

“Shall I tell you of my adventures after I left Weimar?” she said.

The waiter had deposited two high-stemmed glasses filled with a pale

liquid before them.

“I am most anxious to hear everything,” he said; “but first let us

drink to good luck.”

He raised his glass and watched her take a dainty sip of the _apéritif_

and then with a puzzled expression replace the glass on the table.

“Your very good health, Comtesse Helène,” he said, “and may we always

be good friends,” and emptied his glass.

The orchestra had struck up a new piece. She listened intently for a

moment to the first few bars, and then her face lightened and the tears

came to her eyes.

“Do you hear, Mr. Morton, do you remember, it’s ‘The Blue Danube.’”

“Yes, I remember well. We heard it at the Bristol in Vienna on the day

I left for home,” he whispered back hastily, overcome with the emotion

born of the recollection. The next moment, however, he was the courtly

host again. It was the present, not the past, that concerned him just

now.

“And now, Miss Helène, may I hear your story?”

At first hesitatingly, then somewhat more fluently and occasionally

with a rush of words, she began and continued the story we know. When

she came to the incident with the Frau Professor in Hanover, she

scarcely knew how to relate it without conveying a false impression

about herself to Morton. But he realized the situation without her

assistance.

“I think I can fully appreciate the Frau Professor’s motives,” he said,

“the poor woman, worried and harassed by cares, had become soured by

her life. Many other women would have been only too glad to avail

themselves of your services; but you know, Miss Helène, Germany demands

diplomas and references more than she does ability. But go on with your

tale.”

Helène then told of her meeting with Margaret Fisher and told it so

enthusiastically that she forgot the excellent food before her. Then

came the voyage to America and her adventures in New York. When she

had finished, she looked at Morton, searching his face for a sign of

interest or reproach; but what she saw there made her cast her eyes

down quickly.

“Do you not think I did right, Mr. Morton, in coming to America?” she

asked, playing with the ice before her, “or did I act too hastily?”

There was a pleading note in her voice. She had not intended to say

the words, but her confusion consequent on seeing the expression in

Morton’s face threw her back on an instinct which women possess and

which they exercise in self-protection, the instinct which appeals to

the man and acknowledges his superiority.

Morton did not reply at once, but busied himself slowly pouring

out the coffee--the one menial office a man permits himself at a

dinner-table--and took the time thus granted him to reflect on what he

should say. This was the point which he had been hoping to reach in

order to discover her real motives.

“Under the circumstances, Miss Helène,” he said, “I think I would have

acted as you did. But why the secrecy towards Mr. and Mrs. Tyler, both

of whom had become greatly attached to you? And why did you not let me

know? Surely we had done nothing to deserve your displeasure! Ah, Miss

Helène, how I searched for you and scoured the most unlikely places in

my efforts to find you! Why did you do it?”

Morton’s face expressed his grievance and he could not repress a slight

tremor in his voice.

Helène had become white at his words of reproach. She struggled with

herself to regain composure and find a fitting answer. About them

everything had become suddenly quiet and she felt as if everybody in

the room were looking at them. For an instant she gave a frightened

glance around to see if her feelings had been justified; but she found

the same people there, all absolutely unconscious of her. Immediately

she realized that the place was her best protection. Alone with him she

would have confessed herself--here, in the crowd, she could tell him

only what she judged proper.

“Do you remember, Mr. Morton, that we had agreed to wait until the

autumn? To-night is still summer--my dress and the lovely violets bear

witness to that. Why should we not enjoy the season while it is still

with us? This is my first dinner _en fête_--will you not allow me to

taste its pleasure to the full without scolding me? If I have been

naughty, be kind to-night, _mon chevalier_.”

She breathed the last two words and looked at him pleadingly, her lips

tremulous, the blue eyes shining. Without saying a word, Morton bent

over and kissed the hand on the table.

“My dear child,” his voice was husky with emotion, “I am a brute. Of

course, it shall be as you say. And, after all, what does anything

matter? You are here, safe and well, and I--I am fortune’s favorite in

the privilege you have extended to me this evening. To-night, as you

have said, is still summer. I shall match the sunshine in your eyes

with the warm friendship in my heart.”

“Thank you, dear friend,” whispered Helène with drooping lashes.

“And to-morrow, Miss Helène, is another summer’s day. Will you not give

me a second opportunity to act as your escort? Let me take you to our

home in Tarrytown. My mother will welcome you, and you and Ruth--do you

remember my little sister?--you two can roam as you please in the park

and woods. It promises to be a beautiful day. Will you come?”

“You are very kind, Mr. Morton. I don’t know what to say. I have

thought of your sister with the pretty name, very often. Does she know

of my existence?”

How utterly different is the trend of women’s minds from men’s, thought

Morton. He had not dared to bare his soul even to Ruth, and yet Helène

took it for granted that he had spoken of her, and she was, perhaps,

speculating at this very moment, if his description of her had been

favorable.

“I want you to be my surprise to them, Miss Helène, if you will. You

have become so thoroughly Americanized that I doubt if my mother will

guess at your identity, though she knows I met you in Europe. But Ruth

knows nothing, and she will throw her slang at you as she would at any

New York girl she knows. So permit me to introduce you merely as a

friend without any further explanations.”

“Why, Mr. Morton, they will know immediately I am a foreigner--my first

words will tell the tale--they always do. Still, I will accept your

invitation gladly.”

“Thank you,” replied Morton simply.

“Won’t you tell me about your mother and sister?” Helène asked shyly.

Morton laughed; the question was a natural one for one girl to put to

another, but to him, a man, it was a puzzling one to answer. However,

he entered into the spirit of her curiosity and told her what he

thought would interest her. Helène had become quite animated now, and

Morton enjoyed keenly watching the sweet play of her features, the

dainty gestures of her little hands, so slender and soft and dimpled,

as he told her of his home life in his quiet unassuming manner. His

eyes kept looking at the finger which he was hoping some day to adorn.

“Is it not getting late, Mr. Morton?” Helène’s voice broke in on his

thoughts with a seeming suddenness that startled him. “Margy will be

waiting for me, and I must not keep her up late. If I abuse my present

privilege, she’ll not let me go another time. Margy is very strict, you

know. Sometimes I think she is jealous. Oh, but we’ve been so happy

together, and she’s been so good and so patient. I can never hope to

repay her.”

“Yes, Miss Fisher is a fine young woman,” he said. “It was a Providence

that sent her to you.”

To himself he thought that if the buxom Margaret were his only rival,

he could afford to be gracious. And as for her jealousy--well--he could

well understand that.

“Won’t you ask Margaret to come with me, Mr. Morton?”

“I shall willingly do so, if you wish,” he replied with a slight

dropping of his voice; “but if you came alone it would fit in better

with our plan.”

Morton thought he saw a threatening cloud in the distance. “Go slow,

old man, go slow,” he said to himself, “let her do the talking.”

To his surprise, however, she dropped the subject.

“When do we start?” she asked.

“There’s a good train at 9:40. Will it be too early if I call for you a

little after nine?”

“Oh, no, we breakfast early on Sunday. Shall we go now, Mr. Morton?”

Morton settled the bill and the two left followed by the admiring

glances of the late diners in the room. John’s vanity had been

suppressed from an early day; his training and habit of mind had made

him indifferent to what people might say of him. But as he walked

across the spacious salon he could not help noticing the looks sent

in Helène’s direction, and felt quite proud. Yes, the girl was worth

admiring, he said to himself.

The fairy of the afternoon must have been near them all the time, for

in spite of the salaaming manager at the exit and the cry of “Cab,

sir?” from a waiting driver, Morton was compelled to turn his head away

and look up at the big moon floating in the spangled blackness of the

gorge’s roof. A voice seemed to whisper to him: “Make hay while the

moon shines.” Instantly he had taken Helène by the arm and though his

heart beat within him he said, in a most matter-of-fact tone: “Shall we

walk? It’s a delightful evening.”

Of a certainty the fairy was at work; for the cool air was laden with

the scent of the meadows across the river and touched with the dew

distilled of youth’s innocent hearts. Margaret was forgotten, the night

was bathed in beauty and the bell of a neighboring clock lost one of

its strokes in the reverberating sounds from the cañon’s sky-scrapered

sides.

It is good to be young and to be pure in heart; for then we stand well

in the esteem of the fairies of our land. Morton trembled at the touch

of Helène’s arm as he walked by her side, breathing in the cool,

scented breeze, and realized, for the first time in his life, that he

was, indeed, rich.

When they arrived at the shadowed doorway of the boarding-house,

Helène gave a quick look upward and saw a light in the window of her

sitting-room. She felt guilty and a little afraid. John stood for a

moment, hat in hand, and took the dear hand in his own warm, friendly

grip. Then bowing deeply he touched it with his lips.

“Good night, Miss Helène, and pleasant dreams attend you. I shall call

in the morning.”

“Good night, Mr. Morton, and thank you for a most enjoyable evening. I

hope these violets will keep. I should like to wear them to-morrow.”

Morton smiled and watched her go up the steps. The door opened. Helène

turned to the still waiting man standing bareheaded in the moonlight.

“Good night, Mr. Morton,” she cried in her happy voice.

“Good night, Miss Barton,” but his words were drowned in the sound of

the closing door.

He looked up at the light in her window for a moment and then,

replacing his hat, walked slowly away.

Helène tripped up the stairs rapidly and almost rushed into the

sitting-room ready with an explanation to Margaret for her late return;

but although the light was brightly burning, no Margaret was there. She

looked into the bedroom but she was not there either. Where was she?

What had detained her? It was so unusual for her not to keep her word.

Well, she would wait until she arrived. The soft arm-chair was inviting

and Helène was not sorry to be alone and dream over the wonderful

events of this wonderful day.

But where was Margery? Ah, that is another story. Shortly after

leaving the boarding-house, she and Van Dusen were comfortably seated

at a table in a restaurant very similar to the one in which Helène

and Morton had spent such intimate hours. Miss Fisher, the buxom

damsel, and Van Dusen, the gilded youth of Gotham’s pride, may not

have appeared to the ordinary eye as fit subjects for romance, but

the ordinary eye is ordinary just because it does not see below the

surface of things and people. We, who are not ordinary, see more deeply

and know better, which is our reason for being present at this second

dinner also.

Van Dusen had evidently made up his mind, though it would seem he

lacked somewhat of courage. He had had his cocktail and not a few

glasses of wine. Margaret had not failed to notice his nervousness

and the frequency with which he refilled his glass, but she said

nothing and tried to look unconcerned. She was herself nervous; her

usual self-possession and poise seemed to have left her. She had tried

on previous occasions to restrain him but to-night he was more than

usually reckless.

As the wine began mounting to his head, he became more and more

sentimental and more and more talkative, and unbosomed himself to her

of his hopes and aspirations. He called her Margy and dearest Margy,

and laying his large bony hand with its prominent knuckles over her

plump one, he fastened on her ox-like eyes that gleamed amorously. He

was pleading his cause with her.

Margaret, full of doubt and distress, with her lips tightly compressed

and her bosom rising and falling in her agitation, knew not which way

to turn.

“Margy, dear,” he said almost tearfully, “I know you haven’t much faith

in my protestations and that you think me fickle; but you are unjust

to me--honestly you are. I know I’ve been a fool; but I’ve been cured

of my folly. Margy, I want you--only you.

“I love you, Margy. Give me a chance to prove it, won’t you? You always

understood me better than any girl I’ve ever met. I know now that it

was you I really cared for from the first--really I do. I know it

sounds silly to say so, but my running after your little friend was

only a momentary fancy--an impulse of admiration, and not love. Instead

of being unhappy, I was glad she refused me. Margy, don’t let that

silly business prejudice you against me. I don’t amount to much; but

I want to be somebody, and--you can help me. There isn’t anybody like

you--and you can do what you will with me.”

He paused while his exploring hand groped for hers: “Say something,

Margy. Say you will believe me and give me a trial.”

Margaret had kept her eyes all the time fixed on the table; she raised

them now and looked full into his now thoroughly serious, pale face.

The earnestness she saw there was as evident as it was unexpected. Was

she wise in permitting him to talk like this? And yet, after all, he

was a man and should know his own mind. She could but admit to herself

that he had been very kind, very courteous to her, and what he said

was really true--he had been marked in his attentions to her from the

first time they had met. He was young--but that was only in manner, not

in years. And, she could not help confessing that she liked him better

than any other man she had known.

Van Dusen sensed her kindlier feelings for him from the changing

expressions in her face.

“Listen, Margy,” he urged, “mother likes you. She says you are the

most sensible and wholesome girl she has ever met. Only last night

she told me that I needed a girl like you to wake me up and keep me

straight. I know she will be glad if you will have me--honest, she

will!”

In a moment Margaret--the strong, big, wholesome Margaret--forgot all

her doubts, forgot her oft-repeated vows to celibacy, forgot everything

except that she was lonely and still young, that Howard was the kindest

of men, and that it would be pleasant to take care of him, to make a

good husband and a successful man out of this spoiled boy. She looked

at his face and noticed that his hair had become disordered in his

excitement and felt an irrepressible desire to brush it straight. She

hesitated what to say--began to temporize with herself--and ended where

all end who hesitate--by being lost.

“Do you really care for me so much?” she murmured. “I never, never

thought you did.” Howard made an impulsive movement towards her.

“Please, remember, we are in a public place. Don’t lean over and look

at me like that. Please, sit up straight and let us be calm.”

“Then, tell me, Margy, that you care for me. Tell me that you love me.”

Margaret admitted that she was very fond of him--and immediately felt

very happy.

He made another movement to get nearer to her. “Please, please,

remember where we are!” And to her own surprise she burst into tears.

Quickly drying her eyes, she whispered: “Do you really love me, dear?”

This time Howard disregarded all injunctions. Leaning over the table

he almost sent the solitary sugar bowl between them sliding to the

carpeted floor, and whispered in her ear: “Shall we go, dearest?”

The question sounded ridiculously inane, but it had a very practical

import.

Proudly and with a new-born sense of protection, he assisted her with

her coat and walked with her to the door. To the boy who handed him his

hat and cane he gave all the change his large fist could grab. Flushed

with victory and anticipatory happiness, he followed the tall, striking

figure of the girl into the street.

Once outside, he lost not a moment in drawing her hand through his arm

and leading her down the quieter side street. Where they walked or what

they said to each other neither of them knew. The evening was balmy and

the little park in Madison Square a quiet haven with most accommodating

benches in the deep shadows. And as the benches can neither see nor

speak nor hear, what transpired there was, therefore, never recorded.

When Margaret reached the house in Gramercy Park, she found it as quiet

as a church. The vestibule, that time-honored institution of America,

the ever-ready refuge for laughing swains and coy maidens, was inviting

and bright. Margaret did not see the fantastic designs on Howard’s

face made by the arabesques etched on the glass panels of the door,

nor did he see anything but her sweet eyes and arched lips. And here

they sealed their plighted troth; here they made their plans for the

morrow’s new-coming happiness. John Morton need have no fear about

Margaret going with Helène. The good fairy had done his day’s work most

excellently well.

Helène was sitting in comfortable deshabille, waiting for Margaret. She

had almost made up her mind to chide the lax duenna for her dereliction

of duty. But when she saw Margaret open the door she greeted her as if

a midnight home-coming were a common occurrence in their lives.

And Margaret? Margaret carefully locked the door and then walked

straight up to Helène. She knelt down before her, put her arms about

her and kissed her without giving utterance to a single word.

For a few moments the two rested thus in close embrace, and then

Helène, the inexperienced, innocent child-woman, kissed her dear friend

and stroking her cheek and hair, murmured:

“I am glad from my heart, dearest, that it has come. I am sure you will

both be very, very happy.”

Who had told her? Ah, who knows?

The workings of a woman’s brain are mysterious, her moods subtle, and

the communion between one woman’s mind and another’s ever a miracle.

The instant she had spoken Helène felt that she had always known that

Van Dusen loved Margaret; nay, that he could not help loving her. And

yet, a moment before she would have denied vehemently the possibility

of her entertaining even a suspicion of such a thought. Scientists may

write volumes about the feminine brain; they may dissect and weigh it

as much as they please--their experiments will but bear witness to

their futility, for their analyses will have been in vain. It is wisest

not to analyse but simply to bow down and accept this perfect organism.

Man may intellectualize and reason; but woman knows, and she never

questions how or why she knows.

Margaret, her head against Helène’s breast was crying softly and

protesting that she would never leave her darling, never forsake her

so long as Helène wanted her. Helène said nothing, but sat still and

allowed the girl to kiss and embrace her. Her sympathetic silence had

its beneficent influence, and when Margaret had quieted down, Helène

said to her:

“Margy, dear, it is the best that could come to you. I have known it

all along. You must think now only of your own happiness. And now, good

night, Margy, dear, it is very late and we must be up early in the

morning. Happy dreams be with you.”

Helène lay in her bed thinking, not of her friend’s new-found

happiness, but of the morning’s meeting, and the visit to Morton’s

home. She was anxious about the impression she would make on his mother

and sister and painfully timid of the ordeal. Of Morton himself she had

no fear--he had been so kind, so happy to meet her. There was but one

problem with regard to him she had still left unsolved--it related to

the money in the bank at Weimar. She was at a loss how to broach the

subject and how to dispose of it once and for all. She lay awake for

a long time turning it over in her mind again and again. She decided

finally that she would speak of it at the first opportunity and have

done with it. She would not then be his debtor, and would feel free of

the burden it had been to her.

Comforted by this decision, she closed her eyes and with a happy sigh

slept peacefully the deep and strengthening sleep of a mind at rest.

Margaret sat for a long time going over in her mind all that happened

to her on this momentous evening. She was doing battle with herself to

subjugate the doubts that kept assailing her as to the step she had

taken. For, indeed, she had gone through a wonderful metamorphosis.

Yesterday, an ordinary working girl--to-day, the affianced of a Van

Dusen! A few hours ago she was a confirmed spinster, and now she was

happy in the possession of the truest lover a girl was ever blessed

with. Her eyes fell on the finger of her left hand on which shone

a gorgeous diamond--his betrothal ring. He had had it ready in his

pocket--nay, as he told her, he had had it there for weeks, waiting

until he could muster up the courage to speak to her. What a man!

She began slowly to undress, speculating the while as to whether or no

she should wear the ring in the morning. What would Mrs. Kane and the

others say? She extinguished the light, but not before she had taken

a last admiring and loving look at the glittering gem, and crept into

her bed. Should she remove the ring or wear it? The pillow was soft and

soothing. She stretched her limbs luxuriously. Should she wear the ring

or--her eyes closed in sleep.

Sleep, dear girl; sleep and dream of the happiness that has at last

come to you. Your brave spirit shall soon receive its reward. Love,

with which you blessed, will bless you.

CHAPTER XXIX

The harvest moon that had smiled so benignly upon New York in all its

fullness the evening before had proved a false prophet. The wind had

shifted to the east and brought a copious rainfall during the early

morning hours, and it was still drizzling when Morton’s carriage drew

up before the Gramercy Park house.

The feelings of Helène, who had risen early, and in high spirits, had

begun to oscillate while awaiting the arrival of Morton, alternating

between looking forward with hopeful expectancy to meeting the

ladies of whom she had thought so often, and the dread of a possible

unfavorable impression she might create.

Laboring under these depressing doubts, her greeting of Morton appeared

less spontaneous than he in his optimism had anticipated. The exchange

of salutations became quite formal, his compliment on her appearance

sounded commonplace. When, during the short drive to the Grand Central

Station, he once more and rather soberly expressed his regret that

their outing had begun in such unpromising weather, Helène turned to

him with a somewhat pathetic smile:

“I don’t mind the rain at all. I think I am really frightened at the

prospect of meeting Mrs. Morton and your sister!”

“You dear child--you need not worry on that score! They can’t help but

like you, and I am quite confident that you will like them.”

“You give me courage, Mr. Morton--I do hope you will prove to be

right!” Helène’s smile had now lost its pathos, anticipating to Morton

the breaking of the sunshine through the clouds which was promised by a

rapidly widening strip of heavenly blue.

In the drawing-room of the now quickly moving train, Helène found the

opportunity she had been waiting for so long.

“Mr. Morton--I want to speak to you on a matter which has been

constantly on my mind. It relates to that money in the Weimar bank. I

cannot accept it--it is not rightfully mine. Please withdraw what of it

is yours. I cannot take money from you, really I cannot!”

Morton was not surprised. He had expected some such outbreak as this.

In the stillness of the past night, in which he had devoted some hours

to his “Hellenic studies,” he had once again read the girl’s last

letter to him, and while in the blissful state of having found her, had

also decided what he would do should she speak of this matter.

“Miss Barton, you told me yesterday that you had written to me to

Cleveland. The letter should reach me in two days. In that letter, I

presume, you accept the injunctions laid upon you by your father? Am I

right?” Helène, who had been anxiously awaiting his reply, nodded.

“Your father had enjoined me to act in his stead. Consequently, I have

become, so to say, your legal guardian. Now, Miss Helène, as you are

still a minor, any action with reference to any property or money you

may own, lies with me. You surely do not question my qualifications for

this duty?” Helène gave a protesting and frightened, “Oh--no!”

“Very good, then, suppose you leave this all to me and to my office.

When the proper time arrives, my secretary will render you a full

account. Until then, please let us dismiss it!” The mouth of his

vis-à-vis showed a decided droop, which made Morton immediately change

both his tone and tactics. Taking the little hand that hung listlessly

at her side, and giving her his most brotherly smile, he said, as

insinuatingly as he knew how:

“Poor child, you have been worrying all these months without any real

cause! You should have had full confidence in your father’s wisdom and

in me. Now remember what you promised me last evening? To-day is still

summer, this is to be yours and Ruth’s day. Brush away the wrinkles

from your brow and let us all be happy. See, the sun is shining again,

bright and warm. The country will look the better for the rain. Even

the elements are on their best behavior in your honor, Miss Helène, and

you should reciprocate!”

His eyes met her searching glance unwaveringly. She saw no guile in

them and her heart found its happiness in surrendering to his authority.

Helène and Morton were the sole occupants of the lumbering “carry-all”

that deposited them at the open park gate. The gravel paths had dried,

but the lawns still glistened with myriads of dazzling rain-born gems.

The foliage of bush and tree shone with a renewed gloss and the sweet

scent of new-mown hay belied the spring-morn redolence of the balmy air

which was filled with faint whispers of bird-song.

Helène breathed the gracious air and with care-free heart tripped

joyously by the side of her companion, exclaiming her delight in the

beauty of her surroundings. Then both grew silent. The restfulness of

the garden, the peace of the Sabbath and the hush of memories were upon

them.

The path rose gradually. The sauntering pair advanced slowly until,

emerging from a group of thick shrubbery, they caught the first glimpse

of the majestic river glistening in the broad sunlight. The charming

vista drew renewed admiration from Helène and brought the suggestion

from her companion that she should rest upon a convenient stone seat in

the deep shade nearby.

“We have many things to talk about, Miss Helène, and, I fear, once my

mother meets you, I shall find very little further opportunity. You

have given me an outline of your life during the past ten months, and

you have told me you are now quite happy. Will you not tell me of your

ambitions, of your work and, perhaps, of your plans? This is a cozy

spot, almost made for friendly confidences.”

Helène’s eyes rose questioningly to his; but the calm face beamed

kindly and invitingly on her.

“I am, indeed, very happy, Mr. Morton. I have not heard from either

Weimar or Roumelia, so that I am entirely out of touch with my old

life. What has been the fate of my country and my Princess? Perhaps you

can enlighten me?”

She paused questioningly. Was she trying to gain time? But surely, it

was Morton’s turn to speak.

“The last information I received from abroad,” replied Morton, “said

that the Princess Marie-Louise was still at Weimar. Some ten days ago

I had a letter from Mr. Rosen, the first news from Roumelia since we

left it. Conditions there have at last begun to improve somewhat;

life has become bearable, he writes. Miss Rachel is well. About the

political state of the country, however, he is silent. From Berlin come

rumors that the Royalist party is growing stronger every day and that

an important move may be expected shortly. Would you wish to return to

your own country, Miss Helène?”

“I have no one left there, Mr. Morton, who would claim me. And even

if restitution were offered and papa’s land should be returned to

me--what could I do there? No, Roumelia and I have parted forever, I

fear. This country, your country, Mr. Morton, has opened to me a new

vista in life, even if its prospects are not quite clear. But to tell

the truth, I have not thought much of what is to come, and I have

formed no plans for the future.”

But John had his plans, however, but these lay hidden in his breast,

for the time had not yet come for him to reveal them. He had his road

cut out before him.

“I am delighted to hear that our beautiful country finds an admirer

in you. It well deserves it. Do you know, your remarks recall a

curious prophecy pronounced by your father in one of our frequent

conversations. He pointed out that history proves the constant trend

of progress from the East to the West, and predicted that the most

powerful commonwealths, the most enlightened people will in future

dwell in the West. His words recurred to me the other night while

thinking over what a friend of mine, a prominent professor of the city,

had said to me on the subject of telepathy. I was wishing I could speak

to you by means of this mysterious power, wishing I could bring you

nearer to me or know where I could find you. And, behold, the very next

day I met you! It must have been this mysterious force of the ‘westward

trend’ that brought you here.”

A flush suffused Helène’s face. “Then you did sometimes think of me?”

she asked shyly. “I see now that it was wrong in me not to write. But,

oh, I was so ignorant of life--will you not forgive me? Happy as I

was with Margaret, the thought of my negligence was never out of my

mind--and--I corrected my error just as soon as I could!”

“My dear Miss Helène, my dear child--all is well that ends well!” He

glanced about him; for he had a sudden feeling that eyes were hidden in

the bushes. But all breathed rest and solitude, not a sound disturbed

the still air. “Miss Helène, we have still some time before us. Mother

and Ruth are at church. Let us walk up to the brow of the hill, where

you can get a wider view of the river. It is but a few rods from there

to the house, and we can time our arrival by observing my mother’s

carriage drive up!”

Helène was chatting vivaciously now about her interesting work, and

was expressing her admiration for the customs of this, her country by

adoption. She permitted Morton the full enjoyment of her confidences.

The path led to a low marble building patterned after a Grecian temple,

which occupied the summit of the gentle hill.

“There is our goal, Miss Helène. Please do not turn round until you are

on the porch; to obtain the full effect of the beauty of the view, it

should come by surprise!” She smiled up to him happily and, obedient to

his request, sat down on a wicker-bench he drew towards her. The next

moment a glad cry of wonderment escaped her.

There before her gaze spread the broad river bordered by luxurious

trees, the waves of which shimmered in the brilliant light of the

sun now high above them, and beyond the glorious waters the olive

smoothness of the hills on the opposite bank. The foreground, a

well-kept park, lost itself into neighboring slopes equally parklike.

On the waters, the one thing in motion, an ungainly barge towed by a

powerful tug; and over all the quiet of leisure, the restfulness of

solitude.

“Oh, Mr. Morton,” she exclaimed, “I am so grateful to you for bringing

me here. It is glorious! And to think that we are but a few miles from

the gigantic city and its teaming millions! Wonderful! I see now why

your people love this place. Will you point out your house to me?”

“The house is hidden beyond that slight swell to your left. There,

right under us, is the driveway. Shall we sit here awhile? It is so

quiet and restful--almost like in a church, don’t you think?” He found

a seat on one of the steps of the porch.

Helène, smiling assent, gratefully relaxed in her seat. She was too

happy to speak. She felt at peace with herself and all the world.

“Miss Helène,” Morton broke into her reveries. “Would you be interested

to know what happened to me since we parted? You have not inquired?”

“I am more than interested, only I had not the courage to ask. Please

tell me.” She placed her hands together supplicatingly.

“May I go further back than one year? I should like to tell you about

my earlier life. You may find it entertaining.”

“Nothing would please me more;” her animated eye confirmed her words.

Morton sat leaning against the fluted column.

“It seems a long time as I look back, but as a boy, I was, no doubt,

as fond of studies and athletics as most boys; but somehow, I never

became intimate with my schoolmates. My father’s wealth prevented me,

for I was always reminded of it, and I resented it. It was the same

at college. Whenever I attempted to embrace a friendship offered me,

my father’s position interfered. I don’t believe that the young men

of my country are any more devout worshipers of the Golden Calf than

those of the rest of the world; but I suppose I was over-sensitive.

At all events, I came in time to hate wealth. I put down to that the

loneliness of my youth; for I became more and more a solitary. In time

this so grew on me that, after my graduation from Harvard, I went

abroad--to England and then to Germany. There I devoted myself to

literary and scientific studies. Strange to say, the people there were

more willing to value me for what I was, and I lived there some of the

happiest days of my life. Do I tire you with this autobiography, Miss

Helène?”

“Not at all, Mr. Morton. I am greatly interested. Please continue.”

“I returned to Cleveland with the full intention of entering one of my

father’s enterprises. I had quite a leaning towards engineering and

had acquired considerable knowledge of it. My father approved when I

spoke to him, but I could see that he did not believe I was serious.

He suspected that I had made the suggestion to please him. I believe

now he was right, because I soon grew restless again. I tried travel

for one year and was attached to our Embassy in London--but nothing

satisfied me. Again I returned to America and assisted my father in

some work in the Rocky Mountains; but _wanderlust_ once more seized me

and I went to the Soudan. It was on my return from that place that I

met and came to know the Count, your father.” Morton paused and locked

his hands over his knee; then he continued in a softer voice: “To know

him was to reverence him. The few days of companionship I had the

privilege to spend with him have had a great influence on me. When I

came home I was a changed man. To-day, I am engaged, heart and mind, in

the work my father so ably laid out for me. I am a business man; and,

strange as it may sound, I am proud of it.”

Helène had listened with the deepest attention and interest showing in

her mobile features. When Morton paused, she said simply:

“I do not think it strange, Mr. Morton. Since I have lived in America

I have come to look up to the business man--the man of action. I think

his is the noblest of occupations. The European attitude to the man of

business is both foolish and wrong. Were I a man, I would want to be in

business.” Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed.

Morton had risen and was standing before her with folded arms.

“Miss Helène,” he said in a low voice, “will you let me tell you what

else happened to me during the few weeks between my meeting with your

father and my leaving for home?”

The words were simple enough; but the man’s face wore so strange an

expression that Helène was filled with trepidation. She could barely

stammer her assent and stared helplessly into space.

“Miss Helène,” Morton was pale now and his voice had gained an

impassioned vigor. She felt she dared not look at him. “Miss Helène,

when I met your father--I also met his daughter--by means of a portrait

which has since never left its place near my heart.”

The girl’s lips formed as if to whisper, but no sound passed through

them.

“A voice in me spoke to me, and said ‘this is the woman of your

dreams,’ and I exultantly obeyed the call. When I met you in Padina my

dream woman was surpassingly realized. And during the days that came

after, when I saw you, hour after hour, so brave, so loyal, so good,

my heart went out to you. All my manhood cried out to protect you,

and all my soul desired to worship you. On that memorable morning in

the Transylvanian cottage, when I stood near you and held your hand,

I almost forgot your distress and came near opening my heart to you.

And in Vienna when at parting you spoke those words of friendship and

approval, it was all I could do to hold myself back. I left determined

to come back to Weimar and speak to you; but you had flown. Oh, how I

have searched for you! But I had to be content with your letter and

its promise for the autumn. I have lived on that promise--and no man

ever longed for autumn as I did! Helène, I am not a youth to be caught

by a beautiful face. I am a ripened man tried by the fire of life.

When I met you, face to face yesterday, I knew it was the answer to my

prayers. I know now what love is--true, ennobling love. Helène, I love

you. Will you not look at me? Speak to me, Helène!”

Deeply agitated, she raised her eyes, which shone with the bliss of a

revelation, to the impassioned man towering over her. Her lashes were

wet with tears they had tried to hide. Then a mischievous little smile

parted the lips as she whispered:

“I am still a minor--what does my dear guardian command?”

Morton gave a quick step forward and gathered her into his arms. Her

face was hidden in his breast; she was safe in the harbor at last! He

held her for some moments when a timid voice muffled in the folds of

his coat came up to him:

“Mr. Morton--did you say those words because you pity me--because of

your promise to my father?”

“Pity you, my darling! Why, sweetheart, you are the greatest, noblest

gift God can bestow on any man. All my life I shall bless Him and thank

Him for the great boon he has vouchsafed me. The promise I gave your

father was given long after the sacred promise I had given myself--to

protect you always--as my dear wife.” Then in a softer voice: “But,

sweetheart--you must call me John.”

No reply, only sounds suspiciously like a child’s sobs, came from the

hidden face. Helène was weeping her tears of unspeakable happiness.

Morton gently lifted her head back and saw her face transfigured with

love. With reverent finality he kissed her moist lips as she murmured:

“My dear knight, without fear and without blemish.”

The shady porch is transmuted into an altar. Framed between the pillars

and above the balustrades, templelike, the blue vault of true heaven

looks down. In an air vibrating with a whispered symphony a little

butterfly alights on the seat--a harbinger of security. And over the

pair passes that happiness which the human heart knows but once in a

lifetime.

Through the shade of the lofty pillared portico Helène and John

entered the spacious reception hall of “Rhinecliff.” Helène was still

under the influence of the emotion aroused in her by the solemnity

of the last hour. She barely noticed the transition from the park to

the broad driveway, lined by ancient elms, leading to the commanding

terrace. Indeed, she could not have told how she reached the room to

which Morton’s guiding arm had led her. The dread which had possessed

her in the early morning had now returned with increased insistence;

so that when they stood before a handsome gray-haired lady, she heard

Morton’s voice as through a veil: “Mother, I have great pleasure in

bringing to you Comtesse Rondell.” She could just see the winning smile

upon the fresh face and hear the cordial words: “I am happy to welcome

you, Comtesse.” As in a dream she took the hand which was held out to

her, and mumbled a polite sentence, imagining, in her trepidation, an

investigating pause on the part of the elderly lady. Try as she would

she could not master her embarrassment; but her gentle breeding and

natural charms came to her aid, and she expressed eloquently what the

disobedient lips failed to say. She looked the pure girl she was. One

glance of Mrs. Morton’s approving eye was sufficient to take it all in.

“We entered through the South Gate, mother, and Comtesse Rondell

must be tired. She has agreed to stay for luncheon; I trust you will

persuade her to remain until after dinner.”

“Permit me to ring for the maid, Comtesse. You will require a rest

after your journey and the warm walk,” suggested the hostess.

“Hello, Ruth!” His sister had entered from an inner door. “Ruth, I want

you to meet Comtesse Rondell, a dear friend of mine--my sister Ruth,

Comtesse. I have often spoken of you, Ruth, to the Comtesse. I hope you

will be friends.”

Full of animation, Ruth came forward. A glance at Helène’s face caused

her to halt momentarily and to send an indignant look at her brother,

both of which actions escaped all but Helène. Then her willing hand

grasped Helène’s shy offering in a hearty clasp: “If the Comtesse is

minded like I am, it won’t take us long to be the best of friends.”

Helène reddened deeply, but this time the little dimples came into

play. The smiling eye veiled the recognition which the parted lips

were longing to betray: “Miss Morton, I shall be very happy if we are

friends.”

When the maid appeared, Ruth and the visitor were occupying seats next

to each other in a retired nook engrossed in a low-voiced conversation.

“Comtesse,” said Mrs. Morton, interrupting them, “Nettie will show you

to your room. Luncheon will be served in a few minutes.”

When Helène retired, John turned to his mother: “I hope, mother, you

will like Comtesse Helène. If you are disengaged before luncheon, I

should like to see you. Can you spare the time?”

“Certainly, my dear boy. You will find me in the lounging room. Was

the matter that kept you in town disagreeable, John?”

“Not at all, mother. I will tell you all about it. I shall put off my

Western trip, however, for the present.”

On his way to his room John was intercepted in the hall by his excited

sister. “John,” she hissed breathlessly. “I wouldn’t have believed it

of you! How could you be so mean?”

“I don’t understand you, sis. What have I done?”

“Couldn’t you wait until I had brought you two together? Who introduced

you to her?”

John looked his astonishment. “Do you refer to Comtesse Rondell? Why, I

met her abroad last year, through her father. What are you driving at,

little one?”

“Oh, John--this is too wonderful! You big stupid--don’t you see! The

Comtesse is my beautiful discovery of two days ago, the replica of

papa’s Gainsborough!”

At once John saw everything, even the ambiguous situation in which his

darling might find herself.

“Ruth, I didn’t dream of this! Please do not refer to it in any way. I

would not have Comtesse Helène embarrassed for anything in the world.

Promise, sis?”

“Sure, Jack, cross my heart! But, brother of mine, isn’t she all I said

she was?”

John laid his arm affectionately about his sister’s shoulder. “She

is all that, my dear, and more. Now, run off and be discreet.

And--Ruth--it is my dearest wish that you and Helène--the Comtesse, you

know--should be dear friends.”

“Oh! Does the wind blow from that quarter, Jack? I am so glad!” A

lightning-like hug, an ethereal kiss--and she was off!

In the lounging room, later, John sat facing his mother. The breeze

entering through the open Venetian windows relieved the noon heat,

but failed to lighten the task he had before him. Many a time had he

gone over this interview in his mind, always looking forward to it

with exultation. And now, when the moment had arrived, he felt greatly

ill-at-ease.

“Mother, dear--you may remember my telling you that I had met a lady

whom I hoped to win--that she had been lost to me. Well, I have

found her again. She is the Comtesse Rondell. I met her in New York

yesterday, quite by chance--and I have won her. Mother, I am very

happy. I want you to love her for my sake, though I know you will

gladly embrace her for her own virtues.”

John had spoken very earnestly. Mrs. Morton looked at her “boy” in

sheer astonishment. “John, my dearest boy--I don’t know what to say--it

has come so unexpectedly! Of course, John, I will do my best--she

certainly looks sweet. But, John....”

“Mother, you will love her and be proud of her when you see me the

blessedest man in America.”

Mrs. Morton’s eyes filled with tears. “Your happiness, John, dear, is

all I ask for.”

“Thank you, mother. And now will you do me a kindness? I have no ring

to give Helène. Can you give me one of yours?”

“Wait until after luncheon, John. Do you love her very much?” She

rose, floundering again on the verge of tears. The news had almost

overwhelmed the good lady; or was it jealous resentment or simply the

fear of the change that it would mean for her?

Morton rose quickly and, laying his hands affectionately upon his

mother’s shoulders said, with deep feeling: “Mother, I do. It is

not a momentary fancy or infatuation. When you know Helène, you will

understand that it was not her beauty only but her golden heart that

drew me to her. Mother, I feel blessed beyond all men that this heart

has been placed in my keeping.”

“Oh, John--I do hope it’s as you say. You must forgive me--I am

a little unnerved. If Comtesse Rondell should come down before I

return--will you excuse me to her, John? I shall be back shortly.”

Luncheon proved a very simple affair and the conversation which at the

beginning had rested upon Ruth’s shoulders soon became general and

animated. Helène, who sat at Mrs. Morton’s left, had lost her shyness

and entered into the spirit of the occasion with the tactful modesty

and grace of manners which never yet had failed to charm. Mrs. Morton’s

formal politeness gradually melted into admiration. She was evidently

charmed with the girl. John observed with lightened heart the approving

eye and the pleased expression on his mother’s face.

On rising from the table Mrs. Morton pleaded some duty and left the

young people to themselves on the porch. At once Ruth rose and took her

new friend by the arm. “Let’s leave John to his cigar, Helène (it had

been Helène after the first, of course), I want to show you my patch of

woods if you don’t mind the hot sun. Mother and John always talk shop

at this hour--even on a Sunday, I believe. Come, dear.”

John caught Helène’s eye and saw the look of relief and longing for

a respite to be enjoyed with her girl friend, and prudently resigned

himself.

It was not long before his mother came to him, smiling happily,

her cheeks faintly flushed. “The ring your father gave me upon our

engagement, John,” she whispered with a catch in her voice, handing him

a brilliant stone. And John knew all was well--Helène had won!

Ruth’s chatter became audible from the stairway, the clatter of

youthful feet resounded from the hall, and the two girls entered hand

in hand. Ruth looked first at John, then at her mother, and lastly at

Helène, who had remained somewhat in the rear. Drawing the hand she

held towards her, she encircled her friend’s waist with the other, and

curtesying in mock reverence, and with a well-assumed dignity, said: “I

have the honor to present to you both the Comtesse Helène Rondell--my

darling sister.” Then, running up to her brother she threw her arms

around him and gave him a resounding kiss. “My congratulations,

brother!”

Of course, after this, all ceremony had to be foregone. But it was Mrs.

Morton’s affectionate embrace of Helène which sealed the welcome. It

brought a great happiness to Ruth and John and a transcendent light

into Helène’s girlish face.

At dinner John announced that Helène would return to New York that

night and that he would escort her home. It was, indeed, a happy meal

for these four--now reunited in love.

Later they were sitting on the porch enjoying the lovely evening over

their coffee. Faint stars were beginning to twinkle and the air had the

warmth which comes with the dying summer.

“John,” broke in Ruth, “it’s a glorious evening; you should show Helène

the hill-view from the east loggia. I will let you know when the

carriage drives up.”

* * * * *

John stood with his beloved in the dusk of the protected wing. Below

them the evening haze of autumn enveloped the valley and slopes,

leaving a clear outline of wooded hillside against the bright glow

whence the rising moon was promised. From the distance blinked

occasional gleams of light marking dwellings here and there. Out of

the darkened lawn came the song of crickets and the whisper of the

invisible night life. It was the very time and place for our fairy.

Surely he was behind that dusky bed of cannas, crouching under the

giant leaf of that caladium!

Helène sat supported by John’s strong arm, and over both surged a flood

of golden memories. She was the first to break the stillness:

“Mr. Morton--John--you are so very rich and powerful. I did not dream

of it. And I--I have nothing--not even a _dot_! Is it right that I

permit myself to love you? Will you not regret it, some day?”

John tightened the arm round her shoulder, and gave a love chuckle.

“Darling, the girls of our country never have _dots_, even if their

parents have sinful wealth. And you--the good God has given you wealth

beyond compare. He has given you a heart finer than gold, beauty rarer

than a vision. And ... I love you, Helène, I love you.”

She drew herself closer to his breast and gave a faint sigh of

ineffable content. “If papa could know, John,” she said softly.

“I think he does know, sweetheart, and is smiling down on us. See,

Helène, there is my faithful ally, the ‘Great Bear.’ He kept his

promise and spoke for me.”

“You mean the ‘Big Dipper,’ John,” said Helène with a smile. “He has

been my good friend also. Other girls may have a star of destiny; but

I--I have seven!”

The fairy behind the cannas rubbed his palms together in great

glee--and grinned.

With faces upturned they stood as if listening for the message of

promise from the twinkling stars, their souls in union--the brave

hearts tried, the abiding love tested. It was the last day of summer;

but for these two happy ones, it was the dawn of eternal spring!

A door slammed and energetic heels tatooed a warning. Ruth’s form stood

outlined against the dimly lighted glass door.

“Children,” she called out in her fresh, cheery voice, “the moon will

be up in five minutes--and your carriage is coming up the drive!”

* * * * * *

Transcriber’s note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.