Jean's plans for the future were humble and reasonable enough to insure
them some measure of success, and the dreaded winter passed not
uncomfortably away. Then in the summer Uncle David Nicoll came to
Lambrig and boarded with his sister, paying a pound a week, and giving
her, on his departure, a five-pound note to help the next winter's
expenses. This order of things went on without change or intermission
for five years, and the little cottage gradually gathered in its clean,
sweet rooms, many articles of simple use and beauty. Mrs. Anderson took
entire charge of the housekeeping. Jean's needle flew swiftly from
morning to night, and though the girl had her share of the humiliations
and annoyances incident to her position, these did not interfere with
the cheerful affection and mutual help which brightened their lonely
life.
She heard nothing from Gavin. After some painful correspondence, in
which neither would retract a step from the stand they had taken, Gavin
ceased writing, and Jean ceased expecting, though before this calm was
reached she had many a bitter hour the mother never suspected. But such
hours were to Jean's soul what the farmer's call "growing weather;" in
them much rich thought and feeling sprang up insensibly; her nature
ripened and mellowed and she became a far lovelier woman than her
twentieth year had promised.
One gray February afternoon, when the rain was falling steadily, Jean
felt unusually depressed and weary. An apprehension of some unhappiness
made her sad, and she could not sew for the tears that would dim her
eyes. Suddenly the door opened and Gavin's sister Mary entered. Jean did
not know her very well, and she did not like her at all, and she
wondered what she had come to tell her.
"I am going to New York on Saturday, Jean," she said, "and I thought
Gavin would like to know how you looked and felt these days."
Jean flushed indignantly. "You can see how I look easy enough, Mary
Burns," she answered; "but as to how I feel, that is a thing I keep to
myself these days."
"Gavin has furnished a pretty house at the long last, and I am to be the
mistress of it. You will have heard, doubtless, that the school where I
taught so long has been broken up, and so I was on the world, as one may
say, and Gavin could not bear that. He is a good man, is Gavin, and I'm
thinking I shall have a happy time with him in America."
"I hope you will, Mary. Give him a kind wish from me; and I will bid you
'good bye' now, if you please, seeing that I have more sewing to do
to-night than I can well manage."
This event wounded Jean sorely. She felt sure Mary had only called for
an unkind purpose, and that she would cruelly misrepresent her
appearance and condition to Gavin. And no woman likes even a lost lover
to think scornfully of her. But she brought her sewing beside her mother
and talked the affair over with her, and so, at the end of the evening,
went to bed resigned, and even cheerful. Never had they spent a more
confidential, loving night together, and this fact was destined to be a
comfort to Jean during all the rest of her life. For in the morning she
noticed a singular look on her mother's face and at noon she found her
in her chair fast in that sleep which knows no wakening in this world.
It was a blow which put all other considerations far out of Jean's mind.
She mourned with a passionate sorrow her loss, and though Uncle David
came at once to assist her in the necessary arrangements, she suffered
no hand but her own to do the last kind offices for her dear dead. And
oh! how empty and lonely was now the little cottage, while the swift
return to all the ordinary duties of life seemed such a cruel
effacement. Uncle David watched her silently, but on the evening of the
third day after the funeral he said, kindly:
"Dry your eyes, Jean. There is naething to weep for. Your mother is far
beyond tears."
"I cannot bear to forget her a minute, uncle, yet folks go and come and
never name her; and it is not a week since she had a word and a smile
for everybody."
"Death is forgetfulness, Jean;
... 'one lonely way
We go: and is she gone?
Is all our best friends say.'
"You must come home with me now, Jean. I canna be what your mother has
been to you, but I'll do the best I can for you, lassie. Sell these bit
sticks o' furniture and shut the door on the empty house and begin a new
life. You've had sorrow about a lad; let him go. All o' the past worth
your keeping you can save in your memory."
"I will be glad to go with you, uncle. I shall be no charge on you. I
can find my own bread if you will just love me a little."
"I'm no that poor, Jean. You are welcome to share my loaf. Put that
weary; thimble and needle awa'; I'll no see you take another stitch."
So Jean followed her uncle's advice and went back with him to Glasgow.
He had never said a word about his home, and Jean knew not what she
expected--certainly nothing more than a small floor in some of the least
expensive streets of the great city. It was dark when they reached
Glasgow, but Jean was sensible of a great change in her uncle's manner
as soon as they left the railway. He made an imperative motion and a
carriage instantly answered it; and they were swiftly driven to a large
dwelling in one of the finest crescents of the West end. He led her into
a handsome parlor and called a servant, and bid her "show Miss Anderson
her rooms;" and thus, without a word of preparation, Jean found herself
surrounded by undreamed of luxury.
Nothing was ever definitely explained to her, but she gradually learned
to understand the strange old man who assumed the guardianship of her
life. His great wealth was evident, and it was not long ere she
discovered that it was largely spent in two directions--scientific
discovery and the Temperance Crusade. Men whose lives were devoted to
chemistry or to electrical investigations, or passionate apostles of
total abstinence from intoxicants were daily at his table; and Jean
could not help becoming an enthusiastic partisan on such matters. One of
the savants, a certain Professor Sharp, fell deeply in love with her;
and she felt it difficult to escape the influence of his wooing, which
had all the persistent patience of a man accustomed "to seek till he
found, and so not lose his labor."
Her life was now very happy. Cautious in giving his love, David Nicoll
gave it freely as soon as he had resolved to adopt his niece. Nor did he
ever regret the gift. "Jean entered my house and she made it a home," he
said to his friends. No words could have better explained the position.
In the winter they entertained with a noble hospitality; in the summer
they sailed far north to the mystical isles of the Western seas; to
Orkney and Zetland and once even as far as the North Cape by the light
of the midnight sun. So the time passed wonderfully away, until Jean was
thirty-two years old. The simple, unlettered girl had then become a
woman of great culture and of perfect physical charm. Wise in many ways,
she yet kept her loving heart, and her uncle delighted in her. "You have
made my auld age parfectly happy, Jean," he said to her on the last
solemn night of his life; "and I thank God for the gift o' your honest
love! Now that I am going the way of all flesh, I have gi'en you every
bawbee I have. I have put no restrictions on you, and I have left nae
dead wishes behind me. You will do as you like wi' the land and the
siller, and you will do right in a' things, I ken that, Jean. If it
should come into your heart to tak' the love Professor Sharp offers you,
I'll be pleased, for he'll never spend a shilling that willna be weel
spent; and he is a clever man, and a good man and he loves you. But it
is a' in your ain will; do as you like, anent either this or that."
This was the fourth great change in Jean's life. Gavin's going away had
opened the doors of her destiny; her father's death had sent her to the
school of self-reliant poverty; her mother's death given her a home of
love and luxury, and now her uncle put her in a position of vast,
untrammeled responsibility. But if love is the joy of life, this was not
the end; the crowning change was yet to come; and now, with both her
hands full, her heart involuntarily turned to her first lover.
About this time, also, Gavin was led to remember Jean. His sister Mary
was going to marry, and the circumstance annoyed him. "I'll have to
store my furniture and pay for the care of it; or I'll have to sell it
at a loss; or I'll have to hire a servant lass, and be robbed on the
right hand and the left," he said fretfully. "It was not in the bargain
that you should marry, and it is very bad behavior in you, Mary."
"Well, Gavin, get married yourself, and the furnishing will not be
wasted," answered Mary. "There is Annie Riley, just dying for the love
of you, and no brighter, smarter girl in New York city."
"She isn't in love with me; she is tired of the Remington all day; and
if I wanted a wife, there is some one better than Annie Riley."
"Jean Anderson?"
"Ay."
"Send for her picture, and you will see what a plain, dowdy old maid she
is. She is not for the like of you, Gavin--a bit country dressmaker,
poor, and past liking."
Gavin said no more, but that night he wrote Jean Anderson the following
letter: "Dear Jean. I wish you would send me a picture of yourself. If
you will not write me a word, you might let me have your face to look
at. Mary is getting herself married, and I will be alone in a few days."
That is enough, he thought; "she will understand that there is a chance
for her yet, if she is as bonnie as in the old days. Mary is not to be
trusted. She never liked Jean. I'll see for myself."
Jean got this letter one warm day in spring, and she "understood" it as
clearly as Gavin intended her to. For a long time she sat thinking it
over, then she went to a drawer for a photo, taken just before her
mother's death. It showed her face without any favor, without even
justice, and the plain merino gown, which was then her best. And with
this picture she wrote--"Dear Gavin. The enclosed was taken five years
since, and there has been changes since."
She did not say what the changes were, but Gavin was sure they were
unfavorable. He gazed at the sad, thoughtful face, the poor plain dress,
and he was disappointed. A girl like that would do his house no honor;
he would not care to introduce her to his fellow clerks; they would not
envy him a bit. Annie Riley was far better looking, and far more
stylish. He decided in favor of Annie Riley.
Jean was not astonished when no answer came. She had anticipated her
failure to please her old lover; but she smiled a little sadly at _his_
failure. Then there came into her mind a suspicion of Mary, an
uncertainty, a lingering hope that some circumstance, not to be guessed
at from a distance, was to blame for Gavin's silence and utter want of
response. It was midsummer, she wanted a breath of the ocean; why should
she not go to New York and quietly see how things were for herself? The
idea took possession of her, and she carried it out.
She knew the name of the large dry goods firm that Gavin served, and the
morning after her arrival in New York she strolled into it for a pair of
gloves. As they were being fitted on she heard Gavin speak, and moving
her position slightly, she saw him leaning against a pile of summer
blankets. He was talking to one of his fellows, and evidently telling a
funny story, at which both giggled and snickered, ere they walked their
separate ways. Being midsummer the store was nearly empty, and Jean, by
varying her purchases, easily kept Gavin in sight. She never for one
moment found the sight a pleasant one. Gavin had deteriorated in every
way. He was no longer handsome; the veil of youth had fallen from him,
and his face, his hands, his figure, his slouching walk, his querulous
authoritative voice, all revealed a man whom Jean repelled at every
point. Years had not refined, they had vulgarized him. His clothing
careless and not quite fresh, offended her taste; in fact, his whole
appearance was of that shabby genteel character, which is far more mean
and plebeian than can be given by undisguised working apparel. As Jean
was taking note of these things a girl, with a flushed, angry face,
spoke to him. She was evidently making a complaint, and Gavin answered
her in a manner which made Jean burn from head to feet. The disillusion
was complete; she never looked at him again, and he never knew she had
looked at him at all.
But after Mary's marriage he heard news which startled him. Mary, under
her new name, wrote to an acquaintance in Lambrig, and this acquaintance
in reply said, "You will have heard that Jean Anderson was left a great
fortune by her uncle, David Nicoll. She is building a home near Lambrig
that is finer than Maxwell Castle; and Lord Maxwell has rented the
castle to her until her new home is finished. You wouldn't ken the looks
of her now, she is that handsome, but weel-a-way, fine feathers aye make
fine birds!"
Gavin fairly trembled when he heard this news, and as he had been with
the firm eleven years and never asked a favor, he resolved to tell them
he had important business in Scotland, and ask for a month's holiday to
attend to it. If he was on the ground he never doubted his personal
influence. "Jean was aye wax in my fingers," he said to Mary.
"There is Annie Riley," answered Mary.
"She will have to give me up. I'll not marry her. I am going to marry
Jean, and settle myself in Scotland."
"Annie is not the girl to be thrown off that kind of way, Gavin. You
have promised to marry her."
"I shall marry Jean Anderson, and then what will Annie do about it, I
would like to know?"
"I think you will find out."
In the fall he obtained permission to go to Scotland for a month, and he
hastened to Lambrig as fast as steam could carry him. He intended no
secret visit; he had made every preparation to fill his old townsmen
with admiration and envy. But things had changed, even in Lambrig. There
was a new innkeeper, who could answer none of his questions, and who did
not remember Minister Anderson and his daughter, Jean. He began to fear
he had come on a fool's errand, and after a leisurely, late breakfast,
he strolled out to make his own investigations.
There was certainly a building on a magnificent scale going up on a
neighboring hill, and he walked toward it. When half way there a
finely-appointed carriage passed him swiftly, but not too swiftly for
him to see that Jean and a very handsome man were its occupants. "It
will be her lawyer or architect," he thought; and he walked rapidly
onward, pleased with himself for having put on his very best walking
suit. There were many workmen on the building, and he fell into
conversation with a man who was mixing mortar; but all the time he was
watching Jean and her escort stepping about the great uncovered spaces
of the new dwelling-house with such an air of mutual trust and happiness
that it angered him.
"Who is the lady?" he asked at length; "she seems to have business
here."
"What for no? The house is her ain. She is Mistress Sharp, and that is
the professor with her. He is a great gun in the Glasgow University."
"They are married, then?"
"Ay, they are married. What are you saying at all? They were married a
month syne, and they are as happy as robins in spring, I'm thinking.
I'll drink their health, sir, if you'll gie me the bit o' siller."
Gavin gave the silver and turned away dazed and sick at heart. His
business in Scotland was over. The quiet Lothian country sickened him;
he turned his face to London, and very soon went back to New York. He
had lost Jean, and he had lost Jean's fortune; and there were no words
to express his chagrin and disappointment. His sister felt the first
weight of it. He blamed her entirely. She had lied to him about Jean's
beauty. He believed he would have liked the photo but for Mary. And all
for Annie Riley! He hated Annie Riley! He was resolved never to marry
her, and he let the girl feel his dislike in no equivocal manner.
For a time Annie was tearful and conciliating. Then she wrote him a
touching letter, and asked him to tell her frankly if he had ceased to
love her, and was resolved to break their marriage off. And Gavin did
tell her, with almost brutal frankness, that he no longer loved her, and
that he had firmly made up his mind not to marry her. He said something
about his heart being in Scotland, but that was only a bit of sentiment
that he thought gave a better air to his unfaithfulness.
Annie did not answer his letter, but Messrs. Howe & Hummel did, and
Gavin soon found himself the centre of a breach of promise trial, with
damages laid at fifty thousand dollars. All his fine poetical love
letters were in the newspapers; he was ashamed to look men and women in
the face; he suffered a constant pillory for weeks; through his vanity,
his self-consciousness, his egotism he was perpetually wounded. But
pretty Annie Riley was the object of public pity and interest, and she
really seemed to enjoy her notoriety. The verdict was righteously enough
in her favor. The jury gave her ten thousand dollars, and all expenses,
and Gavin Burns was a ruined man. His eleven years savings only amounted
to nine thousand dollars, and for the balance he was compelled to sell
his furniture and give notes payable out of his next year's salary. He
wept like a child as he signed these miserable vouchers for his folly,
and for some days was completely prostrated by the evil he had called
unto himself. Then the necessities of his position compelled him to go
to work again, though it was with a completely broken spirit.
"I'm getting on to forty," he said to his sister, "and I am beginning
the world over again! One woman has given me a disappointment that I
will carry to the grave; and another woman is laughing at me, for she
has got all my saved siller, and more too; forbye, she is like to marry
Bob Severs and share it with him. Then I have them weary notes to meet
beyond all. There never was a man so badly used as I have been!"
No one pitied him much. Whatever his acquaintances said to his face he
knew right well their private opinion was that he had received _just
what he deserved_.
AN ONLY OFFER.
"Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?"
"When I was sixteen I was considered so. I was very like you then,
Julia. I am forty-three now, remember."
"Did you ever have an offer--an offer of marriage, I mean, aunt?"
"No. Well, that is not true; I did have one offer."
"And you refused it?"
"No."
"Then he died, or went away?"
"No."
"Or deserted you?"
"No."
"Then you deceived him, I suppose?"
"I did not."
"What ever happened, then? Was he poor, or crippled or something
dreadful"
"He was rich and handsome."
"Suppose you tell me about him."
"I never talk about him to any one."
"Did it happen at the old place?"
"Yes, Julia. I never left Ryelands until I was thirty. This happened
when I was sixteen."
"Was he a farmer's son in the neighborhood?"
"He was a fine city gentleman."
"Oh, aunt, how interesting! Put down your embroidery and tell me about
it; you cannot see to work longer."
Perhaps after so many years of silence a sudden longing for sympathy and
confidence seized the elder lady, for she let her work fall from her
hands, and smiling sadly, said:
"Twenty-seven years ago I was standing one afternoon by the gate at
Ryelands. All the work had been finished early, and my mother and two
elder sisters had gone to the village to see a friend. I had watched
them a little way down the hillside, and was turning to go into the
house, when I saw a stranger on horseback coming up the road. He stopped
and spoke to mother, and this aroused my curiosity; so I lingered at the
gate. He stopped when he reached it, fastened his horse, and asked, 'Is
Mr. Wakefield in?'
"I said, 'father was in the barn, and I could fetch him,' which I
immediately did.
"He was a dark, unpleasant-looking man, and had a masterful way with
him, even to father, that I disliked; but after a short, business-like
talk, apparently satisfactory to both, he went away without entering the
house. Father put his hands in his pockets and watched him out of sight;
then, looking at me, he said, 'Put the spare rooms in order, Phoebe.'
"'They are in order, father; but is that man to occupy them?'
"'Yes, he and his patient, a young gentleman of fine family, who is in
bad health.'
"'Do you know the young gentleman, father?'
"'I know it is young Alfred Compton--that is enough for me.'
"'And the dark man who has just left? I don't like his looks, father.'
"'Nobody wants thee to like his looks. He is Mr. Alfred's physician--a
Dr. Orman, of Boston. Neither of them are any of thy business, so ask no
more questions;' and with that he went back to the barn.
"Mother was not at all astonished. She said there had been letters on
the subject already, and that she had been rather expecting the company.
'But,' she added, 'they will pay well, and as Melissa is to be married
at Christmas, ready money will be very needful.'
"About dark a carriage arrived. It contained two gentlemen and several
large trunks. I had been watching for it behind the lilac trees and I
saw that our afternoon visitor was now accompanied by a slight, very
fair-man, dressed with extreme care in the very highest fashion. I saw
also that he was handsome, and I was quite sure he must be rich, or no
doctor would wait upon him so subserviently.
"This doctor I had disliked at first sight, and I soon began to imagine
that I had good cause to hate him. His conduct to his patient I believed
to be tyrannical and unkind. Some days he insisted that Mr. Compton was
too ill to go out, though the poor gentleman begged for a walk; and
again, mother said, he would take from him all his books, though he
pleaded urgently for them.
"One afternoon the postman brought Dr. Orman a letter, which seemed to
be important, for he asked father to drive him to the next town, and
requested mother to see that Mr. Compton did not leave the house. I
suppose it was not a right thing to do, but this handsome sick stranger,
so hardly used, and so surrounded with mystery, had roused in me a
sincere sympathy for his loneliness and suffering, and I walked through
that part of the garden into which his windows looked. We had been
politely requested to avoid it, 'because the sight of strangers
increased Mr. Compton's nervous condition.' I did not believe this, and
I determined to try the experiment.
"He was leaning out of the window, and a sadder face I never saw. I
smiled and courtesied, and he immediately leaped the low sill, and came
toward me. I stooped and began to tie up some fallen carnations; he
stooped and helped me, saying all the while I know not what, only that
it seemed to me the most beautiful language I ever heard. Then we walked
up and down the long peach walk until I heard the rattle of father's
wagon.
"After this we became quietly, almost secretly, as far as Dr. Orman was
concerned, very great friends. Mother so thoroughly pitied Alfred, that
she not only pretended oblivion of our friendship, but even promoted it
in many ways; and in the course of time Dr. Orman began to recognize its
value. I was requested to walk past Mr. Compton's windows and say 'Good
morning' or offer him a flower or some ripe peaches, and finally to
accompany the gentlemen in their short rambles in the neighborhood.
"I need not tell you how all this restricted intercourse ended. We were
soon deeply in love with each other, and love ever finds out the way to
make himself understood. We had many a five minutes' meeting no one knew
of, and when these were impossible, a rose bush near his window hid for
me the tenderest little love-letters. In fact, Julia, I found him
irresistible; he was so handsome and gentle, and though he must have
been thirty-five years old, yet, to my thinking, he looked handsomer
than any younger man could have done.
"As the weeks passed on, the doctor seemed to have more confidence in
us, or else his patient was more completely under control. They had much
fewer quarrels, and Alfred and I walked in the garden, and even a little
way up the hill without opposition or remark. I do not know how I
received the idea, but I certainly did believe that Dr. Orman was
keeping Alfred sick for some purpose of his own, and I determined to
take the first opportunity of arousing Alfred's suspicions. So one
evening, when we were walking alone, I asked him if he did not wish to
see his relatives.
"He trembled violently, and seemed in the greatest distress, and only by
the tenderest words could I soothe him, as, half sobbing, he declared
that they were his bitterest enemies, and that Dr. Orman was the only
friend he had in the world. Any further efforts I made to get at the
secret of his life were equally fruitless, and only threw him into
paroxysms of distress. During the month of August he was very ill, or at
least Dr. Orman said so. I scarcely saw him, there were no letters in
the rose bush, and frequently the disputes between the two men rose to a
pitch which father seriously disliked.
"One hot day in September everyone was in the fields or orchard; only
the doctor and Alfred and I were in the house. Early in the afternoon a
boy came from the village with a letter to Dr. Orman, and he seemed very
much perplexed, and at a loss how to act. At length he said, 'Miss
Phoebe, I must go to the village for a couple of hours; I think Mr.
Alfred will sleep until my return, but if not, will you try and amuse
him?'
"I promised gladly, and Dr. Orman went back to the village with the
messenger. No sooner was he out of sight than Alfred appeared, and we
rambled about the garden, as happy as two lovers could be. But the day
was extremely hot, and as the afternoon advanced, the heat increased. I
proposed then that we should walk up the hill, where there was generally
a breeze, and Alfred was delighted at the larger freedom it promised us.
"But in another hour the sky grew dark and lurid, and I noticed that
Alfred grew strangely restless. His cheeks flushed, his eyes had a wild
look of terror in them, he trembled and started, and in spite of all my
efforts to soothe him, grew irritable and gloomy. Yet he had just asked
me to marry him, and I had promised I would. He had called me 'his
wife,' and I had told him again my suspicions about Dr. Orman, and
vowed to nurse him myself back to perfect health. We had talked, too, of
going to Europe, and in the eagerness and delight of our new plans, had
wandered quite up to the little pine forest at the top of the hill.
"Then I noticed Alfred's excited condition, and saw also that we were
going to have a thunder storm. There was an empty log hut not far away,
and I urged Alfred to try and reach it before the storm, broke. But he
became suddenly like a child in his terror, and it was only with the
greatest difficulty I got him within its shelter.
"As peal after peal of thunder crashed above us, Alfred seemed to lose
all control of himself, and, seriously offended, I left him, nearly
sobbing, in a corner, and went and stood by myself in the open door. In
the very height of the storm I saw my father, Dr. Orman and three of our
workmen coming through the wood. They evidently suspected our
sheltering-place, for they came directly toward it.
"'Alfred!' shouted Dr. Orman, in the tone of an angry master, 'where are
you, sir? Come here instantly.'
"My pettedness instantly vanished, and I said: 'Doctor, you have no
right to speak to Alfred in that way. He is going to be my husband, and
I shall not permit it any more.'
"'Miss Wakefield,' he answered, 'this is sheer folly. Look here!'
"I turned, and saw Alfred crouching in a corner, completely paralyzed
with terror; and yet, when Dr. Orman spoke to him, he rose mechanically
as a dog might follow his master's call.
"'I am sorry, Miss Wakefield, to destroy your fine romance. Mr. Alfred
Compton is, as you perceive, not fit to marry any lady. In fact, I am
his--_keeper_.'"
"Oh, Aunt Phoebe! Surely he was not a lunatic!"
"So they said, Julia. His frantic terror was the only sign I saw of it;
but Dr. Orman told my father that he was at times really dangerous, and
that he was annually paid a large sum to take charge of him, as he
became uncontrollable in an asylum."
"Did you see him again?"
"No. I found a little note in the rose bush, saying that he was not mad;
that he remembered my promise to be his wife, and would surely come some
day and claim me. But they left in three days, and Melissa,
whose wedding outfit was curtailed in consequence, twitted me very
unkindly about my fine crazy lover. It was a little hard on me, for he
was the only lover I ever had. Melissa and Jane both married, and went
west with their husbands; I lived on at Ryelands, a faded little old
maid, until my uncle Joshua sent for me to come to New York and keep
his fine house for him. You know that he left me all he had when he
died, nearly two years ago. Then I sent for you. I remembered my own
lonely youth, and thought I would give you a fair chance, dear."
"Did you ever hear of him again, aunt?"
"Of him, never. His elder brother died more than a year ago. I suppose
Alfred died many years since; he was very frail and delicate. I thought
it was refinement and beauty then; I know now it was ill health."
"Poor aunt!"
"Nay, child; I was very happy while my dream lasted; and I never will
believe but that Alfred in his love for me was quite sane, and perhaps
more sincere than many wiser men."
After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed to take a great pleasure in
speaking of the little romance of her youth. Often the old and the young
maidens sat in the twilight discussing the probabilities of poor Alfred
Compton's life and death, and every discussion left them more and more
positive that he had been the victim of some cruel plot. The subject
never tired Miss Phoebe, and Julia, in the absence of a lover of her
own, found in it a charm quite in keeping with her own youthful dreams.
One cold night in the middle of January they had talked over the old
subject until both felt it to be exhausted--at least for that night.
Julia drew aside the heavy satin curtains, and looking out said, "It is
snowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can have a sleigh ride. Why, there
is a sleigh at our door! Who can it be? A gentleman, aunt, and he is
coming here."
"Close the curtains, child. It is my lawyer, Mr. Howard. He promised to
call to-night."
"Oh, dear! I was hoping it was some nice strange person."
Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts were far away. In fact, she had
talked about her old lover until there had sprung up anew in her heart a
very strong sentimental affection for his memory; and when the servant
announced a visitor on business, she rose with a sigh from her
reflections, and went into the reception-room.
In a few minutes Julia heard her voice, in rapid, excited tones, and ere
she could decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt Phoebe entered the
room, holding by the hand a gentleman whom she announced as Mr. Alfred
Compton. Julia was disappointed, to say the least, but she met him with
enthusiasm. Perhaps Aunt Phoebe had quite unconsciously magnified the
beauty of the youthful Alfred: certainly this one was not handsome. He
was sixty, at least, his fair curling locks had vanished, and his fine
figure was slightly bent. But the clear, sensitive face remained, and he
was still dressed with scrupulous care.
The two women made much of him. In half an hour Delmonico had furnished
a delicious little banquet, and Alfred drank his first glass of wine
with an old-fashioned grace "to his promised wife, Miss Phoebe
Wakefield, best and loveliest of women."
Miss Phoebe laughed, but she dearly liked it; and hand in hand the two
old lovers sat, while Alfred told his sad little story of life-long
wrong and suffering; of an intensely nervous, self-conscious nature,
driven to extremity by cruel usage and many wrongs. At the mention of
Dr. Orman Miss Phoebe expressed herself a little bitterly.
"Nay, Phoebe," said Alfred; "whatever he was when my brother put me in
his care, he became my true friend. To his skill and patience I owe my
restoration to perfect health; and to his firm advocacy of my right and
ability to manage my own estate I owe the position I now hold, and my
ability to come and ask Phoebe to redeem her never-forgotten promise."
Perhaps Julia got a little tired of these old-fashioned lovers, but they
never tired of each other. Miss Phoebe was not the least abashed by any
contrast between her ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was never
weary of assuring her that he found her infinitely more delightful and
womanly than in the days of their first courtship.
She cannot even call them a "silly" or "foolish" couple, or use any
other relieving phrase of that order, for Miss Phoebe--or rather Mrs.
Compton--resents any word as applied to Mr. Alfred Compton that would
imply less than supernatural wisdom and intelligence. "No one but those
who have known him as long as I have," she continually avers, "can
possibly estimate the superior information and infallible judgment of my
husband."
TWO FAIR DECEIVERS.
What do young men talk about when they sit at the open windows smoking
on summer evenings? Do you suppose it is of love? Indeed, I suspect it
is of money; or, if not of money, then, at least, of something that
either makes money or spends it.
Cleve Sullivan has been spending his for four years in Europe, and he
has just been telling his friend John Selden how he spent it. John has
spent his in New York--he is inclined to think just as profitably. Both
stories conclude in the same way.
"I have not a thousand dollars left, John."
"Nor I, Cleve."
"I thought your cousin died two years ago; surely you have not spent all
the old gentleman's money already?"
"I only got $20,000; I owed half of it."
"Only $20,000! What did he do with it?"
"Gave it to his wife. He married a beauty about a year after you went
away, died in a few months afterward, and left her his whole fortune. I
had no claim on him. He educated me, gave me a profession, and $20,000.
That was very well: he was only my mother's cousin."
"And the widow--where is she?"
"Living at his country-seat. I have never seen her. She was one of the
St. Maurs, of Maryland."
"Good family, and all beauties. Why don't you marry the widow?"
"Why, I never thought of such a thing."
"You can't think of anything better. Write her a little note at once;
say that you and I will soon be in her neighborhood, and that gratitude
to your cousin, and all that kind of thing--then beg leave to call and
pay respects," etc., etc.
John demurred a good deal to the plan, but Cleve was masterful, and the
note was written, Cleve himself putting it in the post-office.
That was on Monday night. On Wednesday morning the widow Clare found it
with a dozen others upon her breakfast table. She was a dainty,
high-bred little lady, with
"Eyes that drowse with dreamy splendor,
Cheeks with rose-leaf tintings tender,
Lips like fragrant posy,"
and withal a kind, hospitable temper, well inclined to be happy in the
happiness of others.
But this letter could not be answered with the usual polite formula. She
was quite aware that John Selden had regarded himself for many years as
his cousin's heir, and that her marriage with the late Thomas Clare had
seriously altered his prospects. Women easily see through the best laid
plans of men, and this plan was transparent enough to the shrewd little
widow. John would scarcely have liked the half-contemptuous shrug and
smile which terminated her private thoughts on the matter.
"Clementine, if you could spare a moment from your fashion paper, I want
to consult you, dear, about a visitor."
Clementine raised her blue eyes, dropped her paper, and said, "Who is
it, Fan?"
"It is John Selden. If Mr. Clare had not married me, he would have
inherited the Clare estate. I think he is coming now in order to see if
it is worth while asking for, encumbered by his cousin's widow."
"What selfishness! Write and tell him that you are just leaving for the
Suez Canal, or the Sandwich Islands, or any other inconvenient place."
"No; I have a better plan than that--Clementine, do stop reading a few
minutes. I will take that pretty cottage at Ryebank for the summer, and
Mr. Selden and his friend shall visit us there. No one knows us in the
place, and I will take none of the servants with me."
"Well?"
"Then, Clementine, you are to be the widow Clare, and I your poor
friend and companion."
"Good! very good! 'The Fair Deceivers'--an excellent comedy. How I shall
snub you, Fan! And for once I shall have the pleasure of outdressing
you. But has not Mr. Selden seen you?"
"No; I was married in Maryland, and went immediately to Europe. I came
back a widow two years ago, but Mr. Selden has never remembered me until
now. I wonder who this friend is that he proposes to bring with him?"
"Oh, men always think in pairs, Fan. They never decide on anything until
their particular friend approves. I dare say they wrote the letter
together. What is the gentleman's name?"
The widow examined the note. "'My friend Mr. Cleve Sullivan.' Do you
know him, Clementine?"
"No; I am quite sure that I never saw Mr. Cleve Sullivan. I don't fall
in love with the name--do you? But pray accept the offer for both
gentlemen, Fan, and write this morning, dear." Then Clementine returned
to the consideration of the lace in _coquilles_ for her new evening
dress.
The plan so hastily sketched was subsequently thoroughly discussed and
carried out. The cottage at Ryebank was taken, and one evening at the
end of June the two ladies took possession of it. The new widow Clare
had engaged a maid in New York, and fell into her part with charming
ease and a very pretty assumption of authority; and the real widow, in
her plain dress and pensive, quiet manners, realized effectively the
idea of a cultivated but dependent companion. They had two days in which
to rehearse their parts and get all the household machinery in order,
and then the gentlemen arrived at Ryebank.
Fan and Clementine were quite ready for their first call; the latter in
a rich and exquisite morning costume, the former in a simple dress of
spotted lawn. Clementine went through the introductions with consummate
ease of manner, and in half an hour they were a very pleasant party.
John's "cousinship" afforded an excellent basis for informal
companionship, and Clementine gave it full prominence. Indeed, in a few
days John began to find the relationship tiresome; it had been "Cousin
John, do this," and "Cousin John, come here," continually; and one night
when Cleve and he sat down to smoke their final cigar, he was irritable
enough to give his objections the form of speech.
"Cleve, to tell you the honest truth, I do not like Mrs. Clare."
"I think she is a very lovely woman, John."
"I say nothing against her beauty, Cleve; I don't like her, and I have
no mind to occupy the place that beautiful ill-used Miss Marat fills.
The way Cousin Clare ignores or snubs a woman to whom she is every way
inferior makes me angry enough, I assure you."
"Don't fall in love with the wrong woman, John."
"Your advice is too late, Cleve; I am in love. There is no use in us
deceiving ourselves or each other. You seem to like the widow--why not
marry her? I am quite willing you should."
"Thank you, John; I have already made some advances that way. They have
been favorably received, I think."
"You are so handsome, a fellow has no chance against you. But we shall
hardly quarrel, if you do not interfere between lovely little Clement
and myself."
"I could not afford to smile on her, John; she is too poor. And what on
earth are you going to do with a poor wife? Nothing added to nothing
will not make a decent living."
"I am going to ask her to be my wife, and if she does me the honor to
say 'Yes,' I will make a decent living out of my profession."
From this time forth John devoted himself with some ostentation to his
supposed cousin's companion. He was determined to let the widow
perceive that he had made his choice, and that he could not be bought
with her money. Mr. Selden and Miss Marat were always together, and the
widow did not interfere between her companion and her cousin. Perhaps
she was rather glad of their close friendship, for the handsome Cleve
made a much more delightful attendant. Thus the party fell quite
naturally into couples, and the two weeks that the gentlemen had first
fixed as the limit of their stay lengthened into two months.
It was noticeable that as the ladies became more confidential with their
lovers, they had less to say to each other; and it began at last to be
quite evident to the real widow that the play must end for the present,
or the _dénouement_ would come prematurely. Circumstances favored her
determination. One night Clementine, with a radiant face, came into her
friend's room, and said, "Fan, I have something to tell you. Cleve has
asked me to marry him."
"Now, Clement, you have told him all; I know you have."
"Not a word, Fan. He still believes me the widow Clare."
"Did you accept him?"
"Conditionally. I am to give him a final answer when we go to the city
in October. You are going to New York this winter, are you not?"
"Yes. Our little play progresses finely. John Selden asked me to be his
wife to-night."
"I told you men think and act in pairs."
"John is a noble fellow. I pretended to think that his cousin had
ill-used him, and he defended him until I was ashamed of myself;
absolutely said, Clement, that _you_ were a sufficient excuse for Mr.
Clare's will. Then he blamed his own past idleness so much, and promised
if I would only try and endure 'the slings and arrows' of your
outrageous temper, Clement, for two years longer, he would have made a
home for me in which I could be happy. Yes, Clement, I should marry John
Selden if we had not a five-dollar bill between us."
"I wish Cleve had been a little more explicit about his money affairs.
However, there is time enough yet. When they leave to-morrow, what shall
we do?"
"We will remain here another month; Levine will have the house ready for
me by that time. I have written to him about refurnishing the parlors."
So next day the lovers parted, with many promises of constant letters
and future happy days together. The interval was long and dull enough;
but it passed, and one morning both gentlemen received notes of
invitation to a small dinner party at the widow Clare's mansion in ----
street. There was a good deal of dressing for this party. Cleve wished
to make his entrance into his future home as became the prospective
master of a million and a half of money, and John was desirous of not
suffering in Clement's eyes by any comparison with the other gentlemen
who would probably be there.
Scarcely had they entered the drawing-room when the ladies appeared, the
true widow Clare no longer in the unassuming toilet she had hitherto
worn, but magnificent in white crêpe lisse and satin, her arms and
throat and pretty head flashing with sapphires and diamonds. Her
companion had assumed now the rôle of simplicity, and Cleve was
disappointed with the first glance at her plain white Chambéry gauze
dress.
John had seen nothing but the bright face of the girl he loved and the
love-light in her eyes. Before she could speak he had taken both her
hands and whispered, "Dearest and best and loveliest Clement."
Her smile answered him first. Then she said: "Pardon me, Mr. Selden, but
we have been in masquerade all summer, and now we must unmask before
real life begins. My name is not Clementine Marat, but Fanny Clare.
_Cousin John_, I hope you are not disappointed." Then she put her hand
into John's, and they wandered off into the conservatory to finish their
explanation.
Mr. Cleve Sullivan found himself at that moment in the most trying
circumstance of his life. The real Clementine Marat stood looking down
at a flower on the carpet, and evidently expecting him to resume the
tender attitude he had been accustomed to bear toward her. He was a man
of quick decisions where his own interests were concerned, and it did
not take him half a minute to review his position and determine what to
do. This plain blonde girl without fortune was not the girl he could
marry; she had deceived him, too--he had a sudden and severe spasm of
morality; his confidence was broken; he thought it was very poor sport
to play with a man's most sacred feelings; he had been deeply
disappointed and grieved, etc., etc.
Clementine stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed on the carpet and
her cheeks gradually flushing, as Cleve made his awkward accusations.
She gave him no help and she made no defence, and it soon becomes
embarrassing for a man to stand in the middle of a large drawing-room
and talk to himself about any girl. Cleve felt it so.
"Have you done, sir?" at length she asked, lifting to his face a pair of
blue eyes, scintillating with scorn and anger. "I promised you my final
answer to your suit when we met in New York. You have spared me that
trouble. Good evening, sir."
Clementine showed to no one her disappointment, and she probably soon
recovered from it. Her life was full of many other pleasant plans and
hopes, and she could well afford to let a selfish lover pass out of it.
She remained with her friend until after the marriage between her and
John Selden had been consummated; and then Cleve saw her name among the
list of passengers sailing on one particular day for Europe. As John and
his bride left on the same steamer Cleve supposed, of course, she had
gone in their company.
"Nice thing it would have been for Cleve Sullivan to marry John Selden's
wife's maid, or something or other? John always was a lucky fellow. Some
fellows are always unlucky in love affairs--I always am."
Half a year afterward he reiterated this statement with a great deal of
unnecessary emphasis. He was just buttoning his gloves preparatory to
starting for his afternoon drive, when an old acquaintance hailed him.
"Oh, it's that fool Belmar," he muttered; "I shall have to offer him a
ride. I thought he was in Paris. Hello, Belmar, when did you get back?
Have a ride?"
"No, thank you. I have promised my wife to ride with her this
afternoon."
"Your wife! When were you married?"
"Last month, in Paris."
"And the happy lady was--"
"Why, I thought you knew; everyone is talking about my good fortune.
Mrs. Belmar is old Paul Marat's only child."
"What?"
"Miss Clementine Marat. She brings me nearly $3,000,000 in money and
real estate, and a heart beyond all price."
"How on earth did you meet her?"
"She was traveling with Mr. and Mrs. Selden--you know John Selden. She
has lived with Mrs. Selden ever since she left school; they were friends
when they were girls together."
Cleve gathered up his reins, and nodding to Mr. Frank Belmar, drove at a
finable rate up the avenue and through the park. He could not trust
himself to speak to any one, and when he did, the remark which he made
to himself in strict confidence was not flattering. For once Mr. Cleve
Sullivan told Mr. Cleve Sullivan that he had been badly punished, and
that he well deserved it.
THE TWO MR. SMITHS.
"It is not either her money or her position that dashes me, Carrol; it
is my own name. Think of asking Eleanor Bethune to become Mrs. William
Smith! If it had been Alexander Smith--"
"Or Hyacinth Smith."
"Yes, Hyacinth Smith would have done; but plain William Smith!"
"Well, as far as I can see, you are not to blame. Apologize to the lady
for the blunder of your godfathers and godmothers. Stupid old parties!
They ought to have thought of Hyacinth;" and Carrol threw his cigar into
the fire and began to buckle on his spurs.
"Come with me, Carrol."
"No, thank you. It is against my principles to like anyone better than
myself, and Alice Fontaine is a temptation to do so."
"_I_ don't like Alice's style at all."
"Of course not. Alice's beauty, as compared with Mrs. Bethune's settled
income, is skin-deep."
If sarcasm was intended, Smith did not perceive it. He took the
criticism at its face value, and answered, "Yes, Eleanor's income is
satisfactory; and besides that, she has all kinds of good qualities,
and several accomplishments. If I only could offer her, with myself, a
suitable name for them!"
"Could you not, in taking Mrs. Bethune and her money, take her name
also?"
"N-n-no. A man does not like to lose all his individuality in his
wife's, Carrol."
"Well, then, I have no other suggestion, and I am going to ride."
So Carrol went to the park, and Smith went to his mirror. The occupation
gave him the courage he wanted. He was undoubtedly a very handsome man,
and he had, also, very fine manners; indeed, he would have been a very
great man if the world had only been a drawing-room, for, polished and
fastidious, he dreaded nothing so much as an indecorum, and had the air
of being uncomfortable unless his hands were in kid gloves.
Smith had a standing invitation to Mrs. Bethune's five-o'clock teas, and
he was always considered an acquisition. He was also very fond of going
to them; for under no circumstances was Mrs. Bethune so charming. To see
her in this hour of perfect relaxation was to understand how great and
beautiful is the art of idleness. Her ease and grace, her charming
aimlessness, her indescribable air of inaction, were all so many proofs
of her having been born in the purple of wealth and fashion; no parvenu
could ever hope to imitate them.
Alice Fontaine never tried. She had been taken from a life of polite
shifts and struggles by her cousin, Mrs. Bethune, two years before; and
the circumstances that were to the one the mere accidents of her
position were to the other a real holiday-making.
Alice met Mr. Smith with _empressement_, fluttered about the tea-tray
like a butterfly, wasted her bonmots and the sugar recklessly, and was
as full of pretty animation as her cousin Bethune was of elegant repose.
"I am glad you are come, Mr. Smith," said Mrs. Bethune. "Alice has been
trying to spur me into a fight. I don't want to throw a lance in. Now
you can be my substitute."
"Mr. Smith," said Alice impetuously, "don't you think that women ought
to have the same rights as men?"
"Really, Miss Alice, I--I don't know. When women have got what they call
their 'rights,' do they expect to keep what they call their 'privileges'
also?"
"Certainly they do. When they have driven the men to emigrate, to scrub
floors, and to jump into the East River, they will still expect the
corner seat, the clean side of the road, the front place, and the pick
of everything."
"Ah, indeed! And when all the public and private business of the
country is in their hands, will they still expect to find time for
five-o'clock teas?"
"Yes, sir. They will conduct the affairs of this regenerated country,
and not neglect either their music or their pets, their dress or their
drawing-room. They will be perfectly able to do the one, and not leave
the other undone."
"Glorious creatures! Then they will accomplish what men have been trying
to do ever since the world began. They will get two days' work out of
one day."
"Of course they will."
"But how?"
"Oh, machines and management. It will be done."
"But your answer is illogical, Miss Alice."
"Of course. Men always take refuge in their logic; and yet, with all
their boasted skill, they have never mastered the useful and elementary
proposition, 'It will be, because it will be.'"
Mr. Smith was very much annoyed at the tone Alice was giving to the
conversation. She was treating him as a joke, and he felt how impossible
it was going to be to get Mrs. Bethune to treat him seriously. Indeed,
before he could restore the usual placid, tender tone of their
_tete-à-tete_ tea, two or three ladies joined the party, and the hour
was up, and the opportunity lost.
However, he was not without consolation: Eleanor's hand had rested a
moment very tenderly in his; he had seen her white cheek flush and her
eyelids droop, and he felt almost sure that he was beloved. And as he
had determined that night to test his fortune, he was not inclined to
let himself be disappointed. Consequently he decided on writing to her,
for he was rather proud of his letters; and, indeed, it must be
confessed that he had an elegant and eloquent way of putting any case in
which he was personally interested.
Eleanor Bethune thought so. She received his proposal on her return from
a very stupid party, and as soon as she saw his writing she began to
consider how much more delightful the evening would have been if Mr.
Smith had been present. His glowing eulogies on her beauty, and his
passionate descriptions of his own affection, his hopes and his
despairs, chimed in with her mood exactly. Already his fine person and
manners had made a great impression on her; she had been very near
loving him; nothing, indeed, had been needed but that touch of
electricity conveyed in the knowledge that she was beloved.
Such proposals seldom or never take women unawares. Eleanor had been
expecting it, and had already decided on her answer. So, after a short,
happy reflection, she opened her desk and wrote Mr. Smith a few lines
which she believed would make him supremely happy.
Then she went to Alice's room and woke her out of her first sleep. "Oh,
you lazy girl; why did you not crimp your hair? Get up again, Alice
dear; I have a secret to tell you. I am--going--to--marry--Mr.--Smith."
"I knew some catastrophe was impending, Eleanor; I have felt it all day.
Poor Eleanor!"
"Now, Alice, be reasonable. What do you think of him--honestly, you
know?"
"The man has excellent qualities; for instance, a perfect taste in
cravats and an irreproachable propriety. Nobody ever saw him in any
position out of the proper centre of gravity. Now, there is Carrol,
always sitting round on tables or easels, or if on a chair, on the back
or arms, or any way but as other Christians sit. Then Mr. Smith is
handsome; very much so."
"Oh, you do admit that?"
"Yes; but I don't myself like men of the hairdresser style of beauty."
"Alice, what makes you dislike him so much?"
"Indeed, I don't, Eleanor. I think he is very 'nice,' and very
respectable. Every one will say, 'What a suitable match!' and I dare say
you will be very happy. He will do everything you tell him to do,
Eleanor; and--oh dear me!--how I should hate a husband of that kind!"
"You little hypocrite!--with your talk of woman's 'rights' and woman's
supremacy.'"
"No, Eleanor love, don't call it hypocrisy, please; say
_many-sidedness_--it is a more womanly definition. But if it is really
to be so, then I wish you joy, cousin. And what are you going to wear?"
This subject proved sufficiently attractive to keep Alice awake a couple
of hours. She even crimped her hair in honor of the bridal shopping; and
before matters had been satisfactorily arranged she was so full of
anticipated pleasures that she felt really grateful to the author of
them, and permitted herself to speak with enthusiasm of the bridegroom.
"He'll be a sight to see, Eleanor, on his marriage day. There won't be a
handsomer man, nor a better dressed man, in America, and his clothes
will all come from Paris, I dare say."
"I think we will go to Paris first." Then Eleanor went into a graphic
description of the glories and pleasures of Paris, as she had
experienced them during her first bridal tour. "It is the most
fascinating city in the world, Alice."
"I dare say, but it is a ridiculous shame having it in such an
out-of-the-way place. What is the use of having a Paris, when one has to
sail three thousand miles to get at it? Eleanor, I feel that I shall
have to go."
"So you shall, dear; I won't go without you."
"Oh, no, darling; not with Mr. Smith: I really could not. I shall have
to try and manage matters with Mr. Carrol. We shall quarrel all the way
across, of course, but then--"
"Why don't you adopt his opinions, Alice?"
"I intend to--for a little while; but it is impossible to go on with the
same set of opinions forever. Just think how dull conversation would
become!"
"Well, dear, you may go to sleep now, for mind, I shall want you down to
breakfast before eleven. I have given 'Somebody' permission to call at
five o'clock to-morrow--or rather to-day--and we shall have a
_tete-à-tete_ tea."
Alice determined that it should be strictly _tete-à-tete._ She went to
spend the afternoon with Carrol's sisters, and stayed until she thought
the lovers had had ample time to make their vows and arrange their
wedding.
There was a little pout on her lips as she left Carrol outside the
door, and slowly bent her steps to Eleanor's private parlor. She was
trying to make up her mind to be civil to her cousin's new
husband-elect, and the temptation to be anything else was very strong.
"I shall be dreadfully in the way--_his way_, I mean--and he will want
to send me out of the room, and I shall not go--no, not if I fall asleep
on a chair looking at him."
With this decision, the most amiable she could reach, Alice entered the
parlor. Eleanor was alone, and there was a pale, angry look on her face
Alice could not understand.
"Shut the door, dear."
"Alone?"
"I have been so all evening."
"Have you quarreled with Mr. Smith?"
"Mr. Smith did not call."
"Not come!"
"Nor yet sent any apology."
The two women sat looking into each other's faces a few moments, both
white and silent.
"What will you do, Eleanor?"
"Nothing."
"But he may be sick, or he may not have got your letter. Such queer
mistakes do happen."
"Parker took it to his hotel; the clerk said he was still in his room;
it was sent to him in Parker's sight and hearing. There is not any doubt
but that he received it."
"Well, suppose he did not. Still, if he really cares for you, he is
hardly likely to take your supposed silence for an absolute refusal. I
have said 'No' to Carrol a dozen times, and he won't stay 'noed.' Mr.
Smith will be sure to ask for a personal interview."
Eleanor answered drearily: "I suppose he will pay me that respect;" but
through this little effort at assertion it was easy to detect the white
feather of mistrust. She half suspected the touchy self-esteem of Mr.
Smith. If she had merely been guilty of a breach of good manners toward
him, she knew that he would deeply resent it; how, then, when she
had--however innocently--given him the keenest personal slight?
Still she wished to accept Alice's cheerful view of the affair, and what
is heartily wished is half accomplished. Ere she fell asleep she had
quite decided that her lover would call the following day, and her
thoughts were busy with the pleasant amends she would make him for any
anxiety he might have suffered.
But Mr. Smith did not call the following day, nor on many following
ones, and a casual lady visitor destroyed Eleanor's last hope that he
would ever call again, for, after a little desultory gossip, she said,
"You will miss Mr. Smith very much at your receptions, and brother Sam
says he is to be away two years."
"So long?" asked Eleanor, with perfect calmness.
"I believe so. I thought the move very sudden, but Sam says he has been
talking about the trip for six months."
"Really!--Alice, dear, won't you bring that piece of Burslam pottery for
Mrs. Hollis to look at?"
So the wonderful cup and saucer were brought, and they caused a
diversion so complete that Mr. Smith and his eccentric move were not
named again during the visit. Nor, indeed, much after it. "What is the
use of discussing a hopelessly disagreeable subject?" said Eleanor to
Alice's first offer of sympathy. To tell the truth, the mere mention of
the subject made her cross, for young women of the finest fortunes do
not necessarily possess the finest tempers.
Carrol's next visit was looked for with a good deal of interest.
Naturally it was thought that he would know all about his friend's
singular conduct. But he professed to be as much puzzled as Alice. "He
supposed it was something about Mrs. Bethune; he had always told Smith
not to take a pretty, rich woman like her into his calculations. For
his part, if he had been desirous of marrying an heiress, and felt that
he had a gift that way, he should have looked out a rich German girl;
they had less nonsense about them," etc.
That was how the affair ended as far as Eleanor was concerned. Of course
she suffered, but she was not of that generation of women who parade
their suffering. Beautiful and self-respecting, she was, above all,
endowed with physical self-control. Even Alice was spared the hysterical
sobbings and faintings and other signs of pathological distress common
to weak women.
Perhaps she was more silent and more irritable than usual, but Eleanor
Bethune's heartache for love never led her to the smallest social
impropriety. Whatever she suffered, she did not refuse the proper
mixture of colors in her hat, or neglect her tithe of the mint, anise
and cummin due to her position.
Eleanor's reticence, however, had this good effect--it compelled Alice
to talk Smith's singular behavior over with Carrol; and somehow, in
discussing Smith, they got to understand each other; so that, after all,
it was Alice's and not Eleanor's bridal shopping that was to do. And
there is something very assuaging to grief in this occupation. Before
it was completed, Eleanor had quite recovered her placid, sunshiny
temper.
"Consolation, thy name is satin and lace!" said Alice, thankfully, to
herself, as she saw Eleanor so tired and happy about the wedding finery.
At first Alice had been quite sure that she would go to Paris, and
nowhere else; but Eleanor noticed that in less than a week Carrol's
influence was paramount. "We have got a better idea, Eleanor--quite a
novel one," she said, one morning. "We are going to make our bridal trip
in Carrol's yacht!"
"Whose idea is that?"
"Carrol's and _mine too_, of course. Carrol says it is the jolliest
life. You leave all your cares and bills on shore behind you. You issue
your own sailing orders, and sail away into space with an easy
conscience"
"But I thought you were bent on a European trip?"
"The yacht will be ever so much nicer. Think of the nuisance of
ticket-offices and waiting-rooms and second-class hotels and troublesome
letters waiting for you at your banker's, and disagreeable paragraphs in
the newspapers. I think Carrol's idea is splendid."
So the marriage took place at the end of the season, and Alice and
Carrol sailed happily away into the unknown. Eleanor was at a loss what
to do with herself. She wanted to go to Europe; but Mr. Smith had gone
there, and she felt sure that some unlucky accident would throw them
together. It was not her nature to court embarrassments; so Europe was
out of the question.
While she was hesitating she called one day on Celeste Reid--a beautiful
girl who had been a great belle, but was now a confirmed invalid. "I am
going to try the air of Colorado, Mrs. Bethune," she said. "Papa has
heard wonderful stories about it. Come with our party. We shall have a
special car, and the trip will at least have the charm of novelty."
"And I love the mountains, Celeste. I will join you with pleasure. I was
dreading the old routine in the old places; but this will be
delightful."
Thus it happened that one evening in the following August Mrs. Bethune
found herself slowly strolling down the principal street in Denver. It
was a splendid sunset, and in its glory the Rocky Mountains rose like
Titanic palaces built of amethyst, gold and silver. Suddenly the look of
intense pleasure on her face was changed for one of wonder and
annoyance. It had become her duty in a moment to do a very disagreeable
thing; but duty was a kind of religion to Eleanor Bethune; she never
thought of shirking it.
So she immediately inquired her way to the telegraph office, and even
quickened her steps into as fast a walk as she ever permitted herself.
The message she had to send was a peculiar and not a pleasant one. At
first she thought it would hardly be possible for her to frame it in
such words as she would care to dictate to strangers; but she firmly
settled on the following form:
"_Messrs. Locke & Lord_:
"Tell brother Edward that Bloom is in Denver. No delay. The matter is of
the greatest importance."
When she had dictated the message, the clerk said, "Two dollars, madam."
But greatly to Eleanor's annoyance her purse was not in her pocket, and
she could not remember whether she had put it there or not. The man
stood looking at her in an expectant way; she felt that any delay about
the message might be fatal to its worth; perplexity and uncertainty
ruled her absolutely. She was about to explain her dilemma, and return
to her hotel for money, when a gentleman, who had heard and watched the
whole proceeding, said:
"Madam, I perceive that time is of great importance to you, and that you
have lost your purse; allow me to pay for the message. You can return
the money if you wish. My name is William Smith. I am staying at the
'American.'"
"Thank you, sir. The message is of the gravest importance to my brother.
I gratefully accept your offer."
Further knowledge proved Mr. William Smith to be a New York capitalist
who was slightly known to three of the gentlemen in Eleanor's party; so
that the acquaintance began so informally was very speedily afterward
inaugurated with all the forms and ceremonies good society demands. It
was soon possible, too, for Eleanor to explain the circumstances which,
even in her code of strict etiquette, made a stranger's offer of money
for the hour a thing to be gratefully accepted. She had seen in the door
of the post-office a runaway cashier of her brother's, and his speedy
arrest involved a matter of at least forty thousand dollars.
This Mr. William Smith was a totally different man to Eleanor's last
lover--a bright, energetic, alert business man, decidedly handsome and
gentlemanly. Though his name was greatly against him in Eleanor's
prejudices, she found herself quite unable to resist the cheery,
pleasant influence he carried with him. And it was evident from the very
first day of their acquaintance that Mr. William Smith had but one
thought--the winning of Eleanor Bethune.