at Hadwell Heights, Lynn and Gerald Amherst left together and walked
slowly in the direction of the city. It was midnight and the streets
were practically deserted. For a short time they walked on in silence,
neither caring to speak of anything except the subject which was
uppermost in the minds of both. Finally, however, Gerald broke the
silence.
"Lynn," he said, very quietly, "I have tried to tell you something
several times. You have always turned the subject in one way or another.
This has been going on now for a long time, for a very long time. I
can't have it. I must know to-night, what it is to be. You don't
understand, I think, how hard this is on me; if you did, you wouldn't be
vexed with me for speaking so plainly." He paused.
"I--am not vexed with you. I had rather you spoke, plainly--but"--
"But--there it is, again. You seem uneasy, almost unhappy about the
matter. Yet I don't think you altogether dislike me; in fact--in fact
there have been times when I was sure you cared--then when I saw you
next, you were quite different, altogether different. You seemed to
avoid me. I know it is quite impossible to understand a woman, but,
some way, I can't help hoping. You are so sincere in other ways that I
think you would be sincere even about a thing like this. Now tell me!
There is some trouble, some difficulty, I know. Won't you tell me what
it is?"
"Oh, no--I can't."
"Why not? Is it that you are thinking of some one else--of Harold
Lighton, for instance--and that you can't be sure as to which you
prefer"--
"No, that is not it. You have been frank; and I will be frank in
return. I prefer you to any other man that I have ever known."
"Then"--
"No, stop! You don't understand me. I did not say that I wanted to
marry you and"--
"You mean that you--don't care enough, is that it?"
"N-no. I can't say that, exactly."
"What then?" he asked, eagerly; but Lynn was silent, staring at the
lights of the distant city.
"Lynn!--what in God's name do you mean? Think! Think of what you have
said. In one breath you almost allow that you care for me; and, in the
next, you say, practically, that you can't marry me. What does it all
mean?"
"I can't tell you."
"You must. Try."
"I know that I must sound ridiculous and unreasonable to you, but the
fact remains. I do love you; I can't bear to let you go away without
telling you so. But for reasons which--which I can't explain--I don't
think that I can marry you."
"But, Lynn, what in the world can you mean? You have no ties! nothing
that can bind you down or prevent you from doing as you please. What do
you mean?"
Lynn walked on in silence for a little while, then turned. Her face was
white.
"I can't marry you, Gerald," she said, distinctly.
"Why not? There's some one else?"
"No--not in the way you mean."
"Then it's just that you don't care enough. It must be."
She said nothing, but bit her lips and quivered.
"You do care," he burst forth, suddenly. "Lynn, you do care. I know it.
I feel it. You have taken some crazy notion in your head, some fanatical
idea or other. Tell me! I insist on knowing what it is. If you care
for me you will confide in me about this. You must see how cruelly
unfair it is to tell me that you can't marry me and to refuse to even
let me know the reason. Tell me! Even if it is something which
prevents our marrying now, the difficulty may be surmounted in a few
years' time. Tell me."
Lynn started and turned toward firm, her face suddenly illuminated.
"Do you?" she cried, breathlessly, "do you--oh, it isn't right, I
oughtn't to ask it--but do you care enough to wait--to wait--perhaps,
for a year, or even two years and keep our--the engagement secret?"
"Why, of course I do. What's two years against a life-time? But, Lynn,
I don't like secrecy. Can't you tell me what all this means?"
She paused, then spoke, weighing each word, carefully.
"I have a trouble, a care; something which prevents me from even
thinking of marriage. It concerns other people and I can tell you
nothing about it. But, at any time, I--may be released from it. Perhaps
in a week--perhaps not for years--but eventually--I shall be
free--broken-hearted and old with grief--but free. Till then. And even
then, understand clearly, Gerald, I can explain, nothing--nothing. Now I
have told you the truth so far as I am able; and you see for yourself
how hopeless it is. Leave me. I am plain and sad and old. Marry some
one else, Gerald, and forget me."
"Some one else! Lynn, my dear, dear girl, you don't know what nonsense
you're talking. Only say that you'll marry me--promise me that--and
everything else may slide. To-morrow--a year--three years--what does it
matter, as long as you come to me in the end?"
"But--no one must know--oh, Gerald, it can't be right to hold you. I
shouldn't."
"Perfectly right and perfectly wise; if, for any reason, you are obliged
to keep it secret. Only, Lynn, you must promise me one thing. The
moment that you are released from your obligation, whatever it may be,
you must tell me. Promise me that you will let no false motives of
delicacy stand in your way, but will come and tell me that you are ready
to marry me, the instant that the obstacle is removed. I won't even ask
what it is; I shall only ask that you promise me this."
And Lynn promised.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*A SCANDAL VERIFIED*
"I'm not denying that women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em
to match the men."--_George Eliot_.
"Gracious, man! do give those unfortunate eyes of yours a rest. I should
think they would ache, the way you roll them. Besides, it's such a
waste of time to make eyes at me."
"I don't think so."
"I suppose it keeps you in practice," Miss Bent remarked, sardonically.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said," repeated Miss Bent, slowly and deliberately, "that I supposed
that--it--kept--you--in practice--to--make--eyes--at--me!"
"It does. But that's not the only reason I do it."
Miss Bent eyed him with extreme disfavour.
"How silly you are," she said, snubbingly.
"Now that's unworthy of you," her companion returned. "Its rudeness is
worthy of you, but not its stupidity. Ordinarily your remarks are
witty, even when they are rude, but this"--
"Has only truth to recommend it."
"I don't care for verbal gymnastics."
"Your likes and dislikes are not"--
"A matter of interest to you? no, I suppose not. And you see that
relieves me from considering yours. Take the present case, for
instance. I feel like making eyes, as you rudely call it, at you:
therefore I make them"--
"And make them very badly!" interpolated the well-bred Miss Bent.
"You are no judge, being by nature incapable of doing anything in the
eye-making way at all."
"Ah!" said Miss Bent, reflectively, "there is no saying how well I might
make eyes if I saw anything worth making eyes at. But, I say, don't be
cross."
"I'm not!"
"No, of course not: but don't, anyway, for I want to tell you something
and some way I can't talk to cross people"--
"But I tell you I'm not"--
"Dear, dear! there you are again with a face flaming with rage,
interrupting me and contradicting me."
Mr. Ogden opened his mouth; then shut it with an air of determination,
as though he really might have replied, had he chosen.
"And now you're glaring at me as if you were beside yourself with rage.
Why don't you try to be reasonable?"
The unhappy Mr. Ogden stared wildly but ventured no remark.
"I suppose I may go on now," Miss Bent said in a rather pointed manner
when a moment of silence had elapsed. "What I began to tell you half an
hour ago--only you would keep interrupting me--was that Mrs. Hadwell is
giving all sorts of things for those cousins, or whatever they are, of
hers from the States. And she has asked me to a theatre party and a
tobogganing party, so I think I ought to give something for them. What
would you suggest?"
Mr. Ogden looked perplexed.
"Surely you're not sulking all this time!" said Miss Bent, rather sadly.
"I don't know what you mean. I never sulk."
"Then, perhaps, instead of sulking, you will answer my question," said
Miss Bent with asperity.
Mr. Ogden laughed.
"I should suggest a drive," he hazarded. "A drive by moonlight and a
supper afterwards."
"Perhaps that would be the best plan," said Miss Bent, thoughtfully.
"Who would you ask?"
"Me, for one."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so, but--O dear! has my snowshoe come off, again?"
"Let me fix it."
"What do you suppose is the reason?"
"The reason? You didn't let me do it at the start."
"I suppose you think you can attend to my snowshoes better than I can
myself."
"I do, indeed."
"Well, don't start to argue about that, please don't. I haven't seen
you for such a long time and there are such a lot of things that I want
to say, but some way, whenever I am going to start, something happens to
prevent me."
"Your snowshoe, for instance?"
"Yes, or you. You begin to argue about something. Now don't be cross!
I suppose I really shouldn't have said that, but"--
"Oh, it's quite true that I occasionally make a remark."
"Occasionally!"
"Very occasionally, yes. When people are with you they don't talk much
as a rule. Queer, isn't it?"
"I suppose," said his companion after thinking deeply for a moment,
"that what you mean is that they don't get much chance."
"That was my meaning, exactly."
"I can't help talking a little sometimes, you know," said Miss Bent,
icily----
"You can't, indeed!"
"No. I come by it honestly. _My own father was a man!_"
Silence reigned, unbroken and long. The snowshoers trudged on in
silence, the lady chuckling delightedly to herself.
"I had two things to tell you," she remarked, presently, perceiving that
her companion was unmoved by her silence and getting very tired of
preserving it.
"Yes?"
"Yes. The second one is gossip, so I suppose I shouldn't"--
"Oh, but you will."
"Not," said Miss Bent, impressively, "not unless you promise solemnly
never to tell a living soul about it--especially not Agatha!"
"Why is Agatha to be debarred from hearing what no living soul may
know?"
"Because," said his companion, seriously, "Agatha is not to be trusted.
She can't keep a secret. Oh, you needn't laugh. The person who told me
this said the same thing to me. 'Don't tell anyone about this,' she
said, most earnestly, 'and whoever you tell, don't tell Agatha.'"
"What lack of confidence you two secretive people do show in Agatha.
Why is it?"
"In the first place because she's a cat."
"Doesn't seem conclusive. I've known cats who talked less than some
ladies."
"--And in the second because she's her cousin."
"Whose? The cat's?"
"No. Lynn Thayer's."
"My golf-balls! Where are we at?"
"Why, I'm sure I've made myself plain enough," said Miss Bent, looking
surprised.
"On the contrary you've made yourself awfully pretty in your sporting
togs but you have _not_ made yourself explicit."
"You silly thing! Don't you see what I mean? It's Lynn Thayer that the
gossip's about."
"Oh, Miss Thayer," said Ogden. "Then I hardly think it's true."
"Oh, it must be. This person saw her. It seemed so queer she could
hardly believe her eyes."
"What did?"
"Why, Lynn's being there alone at that time of night. Not that it was a
proper place for a lady at any time"----
"What place wasn't?"
"Dear me, Neil, you are stupid, sometimes. Why, St. Eustache St."----
"Whew! St. Eustache St.!"
"Yes, and at eleven o'clock at night."
"Nonsense."
"It isn't nonsense. Mabel saw her--there! I let out the name, but you
won't tell anyone, will you?--at all events you won't mention that it
was Mabel"----
"Mabel be--wait a moment. Your friend saw Miss Thayer--at eleven
o'clock at night on St. Eustache St."--
"Yes. Coming out of that rackety studio building on the south side,
where unspeakable beings congregate."
"What? Oh, look here, Kitty, you mustn't say that. You don't know what
you're saying. Your friend, whoever she is, made a mistake--a big
mistake. It was not Lynn Thayer she saw at all--it could not possibly
have been--and she does a very wrong and wicked thing in spreading such
stories. Now what I want you to do is"----
"Neil, one would think I was fifteen. Do you suppose Mabel would say
such a thing if it wasn't true? She didn't think at first that it could
be Lynn, though she saw her distinctly; and so she followed her."
"Oh! Well, Kitty, all I can say is that if your friend's a woman, I'm
glad I'm a man. By the way, was this paragon alone?"
"Certainly not. She and her husband had been to the French theatre:
and, as it was a fine night they decided to walk home. Then they began
talking about how these awful old streets used to be fashionable, and he
said that he would show her an interesting old house in St. Eustache St.
So they went there and he pointed it out to her and told her how it used
to belong to the Duke of ---- and how now it had degenerated into the
haunt of all sorts of people. Just as he was saying that only confirmed
drunkards and opium eaters and things ever went there the door
opened--and, to their infinite astonishment, Lynn Thayer came out."
"Your friend's a"----
"She isn't. She's a nice woman and so is her husband--at least I mean
he's--well, anyway, they followed her for a block or two and she called
a closed sleigh and, just for fun, they got into another and drove
behind her. She went up to Pine Avenue and so they began to think that
they must be mistaken when--what do you think?--she got out, paid the
cabman and walked back to her aunt's house! There was no possible
mistake about it."
Neil trudged along in silence for a few moments.
"Kitty," he said at last, "there seem to be only two interpretations
that can be put on that story. The first is that Lynn Thayer, a girl
who has always been considered one of the nicest in Montreal, has done
an unpardonable thing; the second, that your friends are liars. I
prefer to think the latter--hello! do you want to run over us? Where's
your light?"
"Beg pardon, sir. I've just been driving a lady who asked me to put it
out while I was up here. I'll light it right away."
"It's not right, a sleigh going at that rate without light: what on
earth could the woman have meant by telling him to put it out. She must
be--well, Kitty, what on earth is it?"
"Hush! Look!"
He looked. A woman clad in a long dark cloak and wearing a heavy veil
passed them with averted head and hasty steps. Her walk and figure were
unmistakable. She shrank into the shadow of the leafless maples and
descended rapidly citywards.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*MRS. HADWELL'S FANCY DRESS BALL*
"When Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."
--_Byron_.
There is a fascination about a fancy dress ball which appertains to no
other form of entertainment. The excitement of seeing one's common-place
acquaintances blossoming out, under the magic influence of costume, into
fairies, kings and cavaliers is one which never palls.
Interesting it is, too, to observe the characters impersonated and to
note how clearly the character of the impersonator is expressed in his
choice. Thus Mrs. Hadwell, on the evening of her famous ball, appeared
as Titania, clad in a fluffy, shimmering robe of mousseline, which was
further embellished and beautified by various shining ornaments and
clusters of hothouse blooms. A sparkling diadem crowned her rich auburn
tresses and a necklace of some value glittered on her neck. Her pretty
arms were covered with bracelets and her prettier feet were adorned by
diamond-studded sandals. She moved among her guests a shining, odorous,
"form of faery," followed by ejaculations of admiration and murmurs of
delight.
Erma Reed, on the other hand, had wisely chosen the dress of ancient
Greece: and her chiselled features showed clearly cut and noble beneath
the chaplet of green leaves which lay lightly on her smooth, dark locks;
while her flowing robe added distinction and grace to her splendid form,
beside which the puny, slender figures of more modern beauties seemed
mean and artificial.
Lynn Thayer came, dressed as a Red Cross nurse. "Nothing about me
suggests the heroine of history or romance," she said, "and I should
make myself ridiculous by attempting to personate anything but an
ordinary, everyday woman." She made a noble-looking nurse, however, and
many turned from the more fancifully attired dames to watch her
sympathetic countenance: some thinking, as they did so, that hers was a
face that they would like to see in moments of illness or depression.
Others there were, though, who watched her covertly and whispered
stealthily to one another as she passed: and Lynn noted with surprise
that Neil Ogden, who was standing by Kitty Bent, looked down hastily as
he saw her approaching and made no sign of recognition. Nor did Kitty
seem anxious to return her bow.
The twins in whose honour the affair had been contrived attracted more
attention than all the other guests put together. They were in mad
spirits and seemed unable to keep apart, hurrying to one another's side
as soon as each dance was finished and whispering and laughing together
in unrestrained fashion. Bert was attired as Mark Antony in flowing
Egyptian robes, donned, as he explained, after he had made the
acquaintance of the Serpent of the Nile: and he handled the crimson,
voluminous garments with a grace which called forth more than one
admiring comment from his partners. Their compliments were invariably
received with a stifled giggle: in fact Bert's manners, as a whole, did
not show their usual reserve and good breeding. Still the handsome,
boyish face above the crimson draperies was so alight with good humour;
the black eyes were so unaccountably mischievous and the olive cheeks so
becomingly flushed that the most exigeant of his uncle's guests could
not find it in her heart to be really severe until--but that, as Mr.
Kipling says, is another story.
As for his sister, it is safe to say that no other girl created such a
sensation. It was not only her appearance, though that was sufficiently
striking, but the wild gayety and vivacity of her demeanour that made
her the cynosure of every eye. She was dressed as a lady of the French
court in a tightly fitting gown of French brocade with trailing
draperies: and her eyes looked even darker and brighter than their wont
beneath the high structure of powdered hair which the dress demanded.
The pink and white brocade and the crimson robe of Egypt were so
frequently seen in absorbed conversation that the twinly devotion of
Mrs. Hadwell's connections was a favourite topic of conversation at the
beginning of the evening. Later on, I regret to say--but here again I
anticipate.
Agatha Ladilaw, dressed as the Queen of the Roses, received her usual
meed of praise and attention. Her three lovers followed her around with
dog-like devotion; and many others, seeing what a magnet she was for
three of the conflicting sex, hastened to make her acquaintance in order
to discover for themselves what the attraction was. Agatha, in
consequence, became more than ever convinced that she was bound to make
the best match of any girl who had come out that year; and considered
more seriously than before the advisability of adding a still more
eligible fourth to her list of fiances. Among the many who sunned
themselves in her smiles was Harold Lighton, who found her gaze of
respectful attention and her eager and smiling responses so soothing
after his late reverses that he insisted on sitting out several dances
with her in order that he might give her further particulars of her
cousin's cruelty; which cruelty she almost wept over.
"She's such a queer girl, Mr. Lighton," she said, shyly yet impulsively,
"oh, I know she's my own cousin and perhaps I oughtn't to say so but"--
"Isn't she?" inquired the disconsolate lover, eagerly. "As you're her
cousin, I suppose I can say so"--
"Anything you say," said Agatha, dimpling seraphically, "is quite safe
with me, Mr. Lighton--anything!" She raised her deep, soulful eyes to
him with an air of rapt attention and Mr. Lighton found himself
murmuring involuntarily, "What a charming girl!"
"All I was going to say was," he continued, returning to the attack, but
half forgetting his griefs in the joy of finding such an intelligent
listener, "that your cousin really doesn't treat a fellow fairly. Now
she won't listen to anything a fellow tries to tell her. All she will
say is, 'Surely we have discussed this often enough, Mr. Lighton; do
talk of something else!' Now, hang it all, Miss Ladilaw, that's rude!"
"I should think it was," exclaimed Agatha, looking appropriately shocked
and grieved and inwardly wondering whether any man _could_ spend an hour
in her society and bestow a thought afterwards on a plain girl like
Lynn.
"And then, when I tell her she is rude, all she will say is, 'I wonder
you come to see me so often when I am so unpleasant and there are so
many nice girls in the world.'" He paused.
"Ah!" said Agatha, softly, wondering inwardly why he did; and wondering,
moreover, whether it was too soon to ask him to drop in some quiet
evening when she was quite sure of having no other callers, in order
that they might the more fully discuss her cousin's iniquities.
"And then to have her add the finishing touch by refusing me outright
after all the time I've spent on"----
"What?" said Agatha, startled, for once, out of all semblance of good
manners. Was the man in earnest? Had he actually proposed? and had the
fool--for no other word seemed appropriately to describe her cousin--had
the fool refused him? Agatha gasped and caught her breath. Refused
him! refused a horse and carriage and a nice house and a trip to Europe
if she wanted it? Agatha could scarcely regain her composure.
"Yes, indeed, she refused me," reiterated the Rejected One, indignantly.
"And she not only refused me but she told me that I would thank her for
her refusal ten years hence."
"Mr. Lighton," Agatha's voice was solemn--"Do you--I don't suppose you
do, but--excuse my asking--_do_ you still want to marry her?"
"I should rather think I did," rejoined Mr. Lighton, staring. "Never
was so dead gone on any girl in my life. But it's no use; I may as well
make up my mind to"----
"Mr. Lighton, if it is any satisfaction to you, I shall speak to my
cousin. I cannot feel," Agatha continued, raising her big eyes almost
tearfully to her companion's face, "I cannot feel that it is right to
let my cousin refuse such an offer--I mean, such an honest and manly
love as yours--without, at any rate, trying to show her how--how
_wicked_ it is. For," said Agatha with righteous indignation, "for what
is Lynn, anyway? A public school teacher! And whom else is she going to
get if she refuses you? Nobody! And I don't care whether she likes it
or not I'm going to put her conduct before her in the right light."
"That's the stuff," said Mr. Lighton, delightedly. "You're a fine
little girl, that's what: and I tell you what it is, if you do make any
impression on her--which," said Mr. Lighton, relapsing into despondency,
"which you won't, for she's as stubborn as a--but, if you should--why,
all I can say is, I'll never forget it."
Agatha had, as all ladies who follow the time-honoured sport of
man-hunting must have, an eye to all contingencies. She impulsively
clasped her companion's big hand in her two small ones now as she
murmured, feelingly:
"Don't think that I am intruding, Mr. Lighton, but, if this _should_ be
a failure--and no one can tell anything where Lynn is concerned--always
remember that you have one friend, anyway."
"I won't forget it," responded Mr. Lighton with alacrity. Nice little
thing! Pity her cousin wasn't more like her, that was all he could say.
And yet, confound it all! there was something about the other--he
couldn't help liking her in spite of everything--but, whatever happened,
this little thing was worth cultivating. He wondered, as Agatha with a
sympathetic smile and an air of stern resolve gathered up her pink
draperies and departed in search of her cousin what the outcome of it
would be. Well! he would soon know, at all events.
*CHAPTER XIX*
*AGATHA "DOES HER DUTY" AND IS REWARDED*
"Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
If she slight me when I woo
I can scorn and let her go."
--_G. Wither_.