MAURICE SINCLAIR.
The storm that tears the human heart
With deepest furrows, leaves its trace
Like shadows from a passing cloud
Upon the mirror of the face.
Passing through Portland Place, at about the hour of eleven, on that
damp, foggy night, it would have been impossible not to notice the most
attractive of the many beautiful houses, for there emanated from its
windows such a blaze of light that even the dense vapor that obscured
all objects in its near vicinity was penetrated by the brilliancy for
some distance.
The carriages that stopped before its portals loomed up through the mist
like phantoms, while the guests that entered the spacious door only lost
their ghastliness as they emerged into the full glare of the inner hall
during the brief moment of transit.
It was very evident that a ball of more than ordinary magnificence was
in progress, and one glance at the face of the hostess, Mrs. Archibald
Sinclair, would have shown any intelligent observer that, to Mrs.
Sinclair, at least, the necessity for making this particular
entertainment a glorious success was so urgent that it destroyed, in a
measure, her own enjoyment. Yet, with the innate tact of a woman born to
receive, to entertain, and to genuinely please her guests, all trace of
anxiety was carefully concealed, all nervousness overcome, and only
affability and satisfaction were allowed reflection upon her expressive
countenance.
However, in spite of her complacent demeanor, there were few mothers
present at that reception but could readily appreciate her feelings and
who did not, in their inmost hearts, admire her diplomatic tact during
so trying an ordeal.
Not a few carefully modulated voices signified to each other their
opinion and approval of her manner, for the gossips were out in full
force that evening. They knew by long anticipation that food for their
insatiable appetites would be furnished on this occasion in the person,
manner and language of Maurice Sinclair, their hostess' enigmatical
son, who had so lately returned from the Great Desert of Gobi or some
other equally undesirable quarter of the earth's surface.
True, rumor had it that this eccentric young man had been seen in and
about the City at intervals during the past year, but as any allusion
made to the widow, his mother, on this subject, met with unapproachable
silence, the matter was prudently dropped, and the information derived
from newspapers and casual observers accepted or rejected according to
the minds of the hearers, in the absence of better authority.
Many of the matrons present this evening recalled, only too accurately,
the days when Maurice Sinclair's boyish pranks refused for him admission
to one school after another. His wrong doings were always of a nature
too delicate for public mention and, after a more than usually
disgraceful affair while he was only fifteen years of age, he suddenly
vanished, and, but a month later, Archibald Sinclair, his disappointed
father, was laid to rest in the family plot, leaving behind a sorrowing
wife and a nearly heart-broken mother.
At last, after five years had elapsed, Mrs. Sinclair, tired of the
great house, and the wealth and splendor which she could never enjoy in
solitude, adopted a distant relative, a beautiful girl of sixteen, and
upon her she lavished the love of her true womanly heart and the wealth
that flowed so abundantly into her coffers from many sources.
Stella Ives, or Stella Sinclair as she was afterwards called, was one of
those peculiarly beautiful women, combining that which is most rarely
seen, beauty of face and form, with great depth of character and unusual
mental precocity. Now, at the age of twenty-one, Stella stood peerless
among her companions. Her wavy yellow hair fell low over a broad white
forehead. Her hazel eyes shone with the clear light of a brilliant
intellect. Her mouth was large, but shapely and sweet, and, in laughing,
disclosed a set of faultless teeth that were at once the envy and
admiration of all. Stella was a little above medium height, plump and
graceful, and withal a girl whom all could admire, but whose natural
reserve held aloof from her shrine the many lovers who would gladly pay
their homage to so fair a divinity.
Ten years had passed since Maurice disappeared and now, like one risen
from the dead, he had returned and, in a brief but affectionate note,
stated his intention to assist in entertaining her guests on this
particular evening. He explained his non-appearance since reaching
London as due to sensitiveness about meeting the mother whom he had so
deeply grieved, but having heard of his adopted sister's "coming out"
reception, he could control himself no longer and would throw himself
humbly and unreservedly upon her mercy.
Only an hour before the time for her guests to arrive Mrs. Sinclair
called Stella to her luxurious dressing-room and, passing her arm around
the young girl's form, said fondly: "Stella dear, look your best
to-night. You know we expect a large contingent of lords and baronets,
and nothing fills my old heart with more exquisite pleasure than to
witness the admiration which they bestow upon my beautiful daughter."
Stella laughed softly, but no blush of foolish vanity rose in her face
at her foster-mother's tender words. She only pressed the matronly arm
affectionately and replied, "All right, mamma, I will do my best. But
you are sure it is because of the 'lords and baronets' that you wish me
to look my best? Confess now," she continued archly, "is it not because
you wish the first glimpse of his adopted sister to be a satisfactory
one to Maurice that you take this violent interest?"
A little disconcerted by the young girl's reading of her secret, Mrs.
Sinclair could only laugh and push her gently from the room.
After Stella had gone, Mrs. Sinclair sank down on the sofa by the
heavily draped window to hold brief communion with herself as was her
wont when questions or thoughts of more than usual importance arose in
her mind. There was only a few moments in which to thus commune, but
Mrs. Sinclair possessed that distinctly feminine ability to evolve
various extraordinary theories on a given subject and yet deduct
therefrom a logical conclusion in about half the time it would take a
less intuitive brain to lose itself completely in an inextricable tangle
of reasons and vagaries. "The past is past," was her conclusion.
"My son will to-night be under my roof; I must begin at the beginning;
there shall be no reproaches. I shall offer him love, money, home,
influence and a fair chance of winning a beautiful wife. If he refuses
these, there is nothing more."
So saying, she rose, and with a hopeful look in her eyes, passed, in her
own stately and gracious manner, down the wide staircase and on into the
spacious parlors of her beautiful home, now doubly attractive to her by
the anticipated happiness of her son's return.
For, although there was little doubt but that the erratic Maurice had
been in London for many months, yet he had not seen fit to gladden his
mother's heart with the sight of his almost forgotten face until just in
time to give Stella's birthday reception a double significance.