.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 44419
   :PG.Title: The Arch-Satirist
   :PG.Released: 2013-12-13
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Frances De Wolfe Fenwick
   :MARCREL.ill: Charles Copeland
   :DC.Title: The Arch-Satirist
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1910
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

=================
THE ARCH-SATIRIST
=================

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      :alt: "The least we can do is to apologize, and we do it—thus."

      "The least we can do is to apologize, and we do it—thus."—Page `299`_

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      THE
      ARCH-SATIRIST

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      BY

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      FRANCES DE WOLFE FENWICK

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      ILLUSTRATED BY
      CHARLES COPELAND

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      "Justice had been done, and Time, the Arch-Satirist,
      had had his joke out."—THOMAS HARDY.

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      BOSTON
      LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

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   Published, March, 1910

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   COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD Co.

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   *All Rights Reserved*

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   *Entered at Stationer's Hall, London*

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   THE ARCH-SATIRIST

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   Norwood Press
   BERWICK & SMITH CO.
   Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.

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   CONTENTS

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   CHAPTER

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I.  `"Half Devil and Half Child"`_
II.  `A Visit to Agatha`_
III.  `"Forsaken Guts and Creeks"`_
IV.  `A Brilliant Match`_
V.  `"Blind Fools of Fate"`_
VI.  `"Life at its End"`_
VII.  `A Short Repentance`_
VIII.  `"Punchinello"`_
IX.  `"Just a Few of the Girls"`_
X.  `"A Fin-de-siecle Pair"`_
XI.  `Visitors and Disclosures`_
XII.  `The Views of Two Women`_
XIII.  `Rejected Addresses`_
XIV.  `A Decision to be Reached`_
XV.  `"Be Pitiful, O God!"`_
XVI.  `The Hockey Match`_
XVII.  `A Scandal Verified`_
XVIII.  `Mrs. Hadwell's Fancy Dress Ball`_
XIX.  `Agatha "Does Her Duty" and is Rewarded`_
XX.  `The Twins under a New Aspect`_
XXI.  `A Lie Which Is Part a Truth`_
XXII.  `Whispering Tongues`_
XXIII.  `When Love Is Done`_
XXIV.  `Mrs. Langham-Green Pays Her Debt; and Mrs. Waite, Hers`_
XXV.  `The Shadows Fall`_

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.. _`"HALF DEVIL AND HALF CHILD"`:

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   THE ARCH-SATIRIST

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   CHAPTER I

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   "HALF DEVIL AND HALF CHILD"

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   "Then the preacher preached of Sin ... fair of flower
   and bitter of fruit."—*Juliana Horatia Ewing*.

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"To me the idea of slaving for a
life-time in order to die rich is a
pitiful sort of insanity.  That's the
Italian in me, I suppose.  I would think it
wiser to drink—drink deep and long and
gloriously—and die of it—die in a ditch
if necessary!  *Then* I would have lived
some sort of life, anyway, and enjoyed it
after my fashion.  But I'm not going to
live or die that way.  I'm going to take
everything in life that's worth having, and
I'm going to enjoy—and enjoy—and
enjoy!  The devil, himself, can't cheat me of
it.  I've long arrears of happiness to make
up and by God——*I'll make them!*"
The speaker broke off, coughing horribly;
a gleam of intense rage shone in his great,
wild eyes and his thin nostrils quivered,
furiously.  Poor slight earth-worm! caught
in the whirlwind of Destiny and tossed
hither and thither! compelled to falsify his
weak boasts even as he uttered them!  The
man who sat opposite, smoking and lounging
in the dim light of the studio, withdrew
his gaze with an effort from his visitor's
frail form and frenzied face; there seemed
something indecent in gazing thus openly
at the contortions of a naked soul.

"Have a little hot Scotch for the cough,"
he suggested, reluctantly.  "What's the
use?  I may just as well give it to him,
here," he added to himself.  "The boy's
trebly doomed and a drop more or less isn't
going to make any difference either way."  He
busied himself with a spirit lamp and
glasses and soon his visitor was gulping
down the proffered draught, greedily.

"That's good!" he exclaimed.  "That
puts life in me.  I feel as if I could write
something now—something worth while."

"Something unfit for reading, I suppose
you mean," returned his host, cheerfully.

The boy laughed easily and settled back
among the cushions of his easy chair with
panther-like grace.

"Not a bit of it," he answered, gaily.
"I only write them after gin.  The best
thing I ever did was gin—'Sin's Lure.'  You
read it?"

"I did."

"Strong, wasn't it?"

"Strong, yes.  So is a—so are various
other things strong.  Just the sort of thing
a diseased, vice-racked, dissipated
young—genius—like you might be expected to
produce.  What bothers me now is your
prose.  Anything more uncharacteristic"—

The boy laughed and gazed at the older
man, intently and mischievously.

"Nothing morbid about that, is there?"

"Nothing.  Bright, dainty, unerringly
truthful, delightfully witty—how in
thunder do you do it?  You must have two souls."

"Two!  I've got a dozen."

The boy lit a cigarette and puffed it,
meditatively.  The man smoked a well-coloured
pipe and gazed steadily at his visitor.
Seen thus, they were an ill-assorted pair.

Gerald Amherst, the owner of the studio,
was an artist, uncursed overmuch by the
artistic temperament.  His strong, sane
face and massive figure suggested the
athlete, the pose and substance of his attitude
the successful business man.  Nor did the
omens lie.  He was an athlete in his
leisure moments, a business man at all times.
Art was his occupation, his delight; but
he never forgot that she was also his
bread-winner.  Amherst painted good, sometimes
exceptional pictures; and he demanded—and
obtained—good, sometimes exceptional
prices for them.  For the rest he
was thirty-four, fine-looking, well-bred,
honest—and popular.  Friends came to
him as flies come in July to ordinary mortals.

So alien was his visitor that he hardly
seemed to belong to the same world.  Lithe,
long-limbed, sinuous, with features of
almost feminine delicacy and charm and
hands that made the artist soul in Gerald
vibrate pleasurably.  The eyes—deep-set,
hollow, passionate—were the eyes of a
lost soul; impenetrable, fathomless, and lurid.

Strange, alluring, repellent personality! where
the seeds of a thousand sins—sown
centuries before—bore hideous fruit.
Madness, vice, disease, and death—and, through
them all, the golden fire of genius!  This
boy's age was nineteen; and no second
glance was needed to tell that the fierce,
straining spirit must soon leave its wretched
tenement behind and fare forth into
darkness.  In the meantime—Amherst puffed
at his pipe and thought.  A year ago this
boy had been a pet and idol of Montreal
society; to-day his open corruptness had
closed all doors to him save those of a few,
who, like Amherst, forgave the madman in
the genius, and the beast in the dying boy.

Then, too, our hero was an artist; and
Leo Ricossia was a model such as artist
seldom sees.  He was graceful as some
young wild animal; his delicately nervous
body could form no pose that was not
pleasing.  As for his face—thin-lipped,
wide-eyed, luminous—"Ricossia will never write
a poem so wonderful as his face," a
brother-artist had once remarked; and Amherst
fully concurred in the opinion.

Ricossia spoke presently, his dark eyes
heavy with thought.

"You think it possible that one may have ten souls?"

"I think it probable that one soul may
have twenty outlooks, and all of them vile,
when he has soaked in sufficient gin.  But
how an unhealthy mind can produce healthy
stuff—that's beyond me.  Your prose is
healthy, and what's more, it's fine.  It ranks
with"—He stopped abruptly, amazed and
confounded by the glitter in Ricossia's eye.

"You—you don't think it better than
my poetry?  You can't!"

"I think—in a sense—it is better!"  Amherst
spoke slowly and Ricossia leaned
forward to catch his words with an
avidity which seemed disproportioned to the
matter in hand.  "In another sense it's
not so good, of course.  The poems are
unhealthy, feverish, abnormal—but, in
their way, they're efforts of genius.  The
stories are simply very unusually clever
prose—healthy, witty, and clean.
Personally I prefer them."

"You—you miserable Philistine!"

The boy leaned back as though relieved
and his scarlet lips parted in a smile of
startling sweetness.  The eyes had lost
their wild gleam now and were simply
wells of dusky kindness and fellowship;
the eyes of an intelligent, friendly brute
with something added.  Gerald noted the
change with unflagging interest; as a
study the boy never palled.

"You think I'm a bad lot, don't you?"

"I think you're as bad as the worst.  But
a chap like you isn't to be judged by
ordinary standards."

"Yet," pursued Ricossia, slowly, "you
allow that I can write clean stuff.
Perhaps in spite of it all, underneath it
all—my soul is clean."

"I hope so; but I don't believe it for a
moment.  No, I can't account for it that way."

"Possibly," suggested the other, puffing
fitfully, "possibly, then, my unclean spirit
has gained control of some healthy, human
soul which it dominates."

"Possibly you're talking awful rot,"
returned the other, good-humouredly but a
trifle impatiently.

"Possibly I am."

The poet smiled softly and leaned back,
making a lovely thing of the corner where
he lounged.

"Healthy people often have a liking for
me," he observed.  "You, for instance—the
healthiest man I know.  And the healthiest
woman—Miss Thayer."

"That'll do."

"What do you mean?"

"That you mustn't speak of her."

"Why?"

"You ought to know."

The boy stared, uncomprehendingly;
then threw himself back, chuckling inaudibly.

"You didn't understand me," he said at
last, his beautiful eyes bright with
amusement.  "She has far too much sense to be
attracted by me in the ordinary way.  I
meant only"—

"I don't care what you meant.  I don't
like to talk to you about her and I won't.
If she did bestow a good deal of attention
on you at one time it was before she knew
your real character; she regarded you just
as a sick, inspired boy.  None of them ever
speak of you, now; you ought to know that."

Ricossia fixed his great eyes on the
speaker's face with an impenetrable
expression, then shook with silent laughter.

"We'll talk on some less delicate
subject," he said at last with a keen, bright
glance at the other man, replete with subtle
mockery.  "Still," he added, softly, "you'll
allow—leaving all personalities out of the
question—that I have a magnetic
attraction for all women, good and bad—even
if I am ostracized from polite society."

"I'll allow nothing—I don't want to
discuss it, I tell you," said Amherst,
irritably.  "There are some things and some
people one doesn't care to hear you
mention, you young—  Can't you understand that?"

"Perfectly!" returned the boy, laughing.
His laugh was an uncanny thing, so
melodious and bell-like as to be startlingly
unmasculine.  Amherst liked it no better than
the rest of him—and found it equally attractive.

After all, he mused, his momentary irritation
subsiding, our ideas of what a man
should be were arbitrary.  Certainly there
was a beauty of disease; a beauty even of
corruption, which, while no one cared to
imitate, no one, on the other hand, could
deny the existence of.  Here was a living
example; the scapegoat of heredity, laden
down with sin, weighted with disease, yet
possessed of how many goodly gifts!  And
all to end in—what?  The passion of the
hot heart, the sweat of the over-active
brain—all, all for nothing.  An evil life
and an early grave.  Retribution, yes; but
retribution, really, for the sins of the dead
men whose deeds lived, poisoning the life
and rotting the blood in the veins of this,
their human puppet.  And these dead men,
what of them?  What of their life,
endlessly self-renewed, unceasingly sinned
against until this, the last representative
of a name that had once been great, went
to fertilize the waiting earth.  "About all
he is fit for, too," mused Gerald grimly
enough, noting the signs plainly written
on the face of the boy.  Then his mood
changed.  How pitiful!  This beautiful
creature, in nature a cross between a satyr
and an elfin, in face, nothing short of a
god; this "vessel of a more ungainly
make" "leaning all awry"; this
marionette of the scornful gods, dancing gaily
enough, to every tune the devil chose to
play him; this strange, only half human
being of the unbridled will, the untempered
desires.  And only nineteen!

The studio showed bright with candle-light
and lamp-light.  A fire of wood and
coal glowed and chattered on the hearth.
It was all very quiet, very restful.  The
boy still lingered among the rich-hued
cushions and his face showed an unwonted
sense of peace.

The poetic instincts which an Italian
father, an Irish grandmother, had
bequeathed to him responded amazingly to
this atmosphere of cosy, sinless warmth.
He was quite capable of rising to heights
of extraordinary mental spirituality at such
moments, though quite incapable of applying
the first principle of morality to his daily life.

Gerald Amherst thought, as he had
thought many times before, of the strange
inequalities of life.  Here was he, thirty-four,
the possessor of a sound body, a clear
conscience, a healthy mind and a sufficient
income.  He reflected on these various
advantages with no sense of personal merit,
feeling that they had been bequeathed to
him as truly as had the old mahogany chest
which formed one of the chief ornaments
of his room.  He had certainly started as
well equipped as most to play the great
game of life.

What if he, too, had had this boy's heritage?
He tried, smiling a little, to imagine
himself a Ricossia; a doomed, reckless,
light-hearted being who chose to spend his
few remaining years in hopeless vice.  As
he thought, a sudden pity for the boy
overtook him as it had very often done before,
a sudden curiosity as to what really
transpired behind the black veil which we all
hang between our inmost selves and the
eyes of our fellow-humans.  Did the boy
ever feel regret or shame or loathing for
himself or reluctance to continue in his vile
career?  Would he confess to it if he did?
Amherst, pressed by a sudden desire to
know more of his whimsical visitant,
questioned him, soberly.

"I say—Leo!"

"Well, old man?"

"You've been going it a bit, lately,
haven't you?  Drinking pretty hard?  Drugs,
too, of some sort, I fancy.  You look pretty
seedy."

The boy started and glanced hastily in
a polished, steel mirror which hung near.
What he saw evidently re-assured him, for
he tossed his black head and smiled, carelessly.

"I think I look pretty fit," he said,
coolly.  "I'd hate to think otherwise.  My
word!  I don't know what I'd do if—some
fellows show that sort of thing so.  Swollen
faces, purple round the nose and all
that—you know?"

"I know."

"But I'm not in that class, yet, thank
the Lord."

"Yes, but suppose the Lord went back
on you and handed you the red nose and
the pimples and all the other ornaments
which rightfully belong to you—what then?"

"Then?—oh, then, I'd end it very
quickly.  I can't bear to have an ugly
object in the room with me; do you think
I could bear to be one myself?  Chloral's
painless."

"Yes, and cheap.  The idea of suicide
appeals to you, then?"

"Not especially," answered the boy,
beginning to stir, restlessly.  "But one must
do something if the worst comes to the
worst."

"I wonder, if you feel like that, that you
continue to live.  Do you really think your
life's worth living?"

"No," answered Ricossia, calmly.  "Do
you think yours is?"

Gerald stopped half-way in an answer,
struck by a sudden thought.  *Was* his life
worth living?  It was a good life as lives
go; but if he could exchange it now,
to-night, for total oblivion, absolute insurance
against future pain, old age, illness,
sorrow—would he, or would he not?  He hesitated.

"I ask you," pursued Ricossia, quietly,
"because, just now, as I leaned back here
in your comfortable chair with your fire
dancing in my eyes and your good drink
warming the very cockles of my heart, I
thought of you and, for a moment, envied
you.  Then I thought of your life.  Your
tiresome routine of work, exercise,
wholesome food, good air, sound
sleep—God! how do you stand it?  I'd go mad!"

"You think your own life preferable?"

"My life *is* life of a kind.  My cough's
a devilish nuisance but I can always
purchase oblivion with a few cents—oblivion!
Have you ever known what it is to want
sleep?  No?  I thought not.  Wait until
you have.  Then know what it is to want
sleep *and to get it*; to drop off to slumber,
lulled with pleasant thoughts, dreams,
fancies, and to feel no pain, no bother, nothing
but a delicious drowsiness.  Of course the
waking up is bad—but you don't think of
that; if you did, I suppose you'd take a
bigger dose once for all."

"I'm not paid to induce you to commit
suicide, but, feeling as you do, I wonder
what on earth you live for?"

"So do I.  So do most of us.  But of
course there is only one answer to that
question; namely, that Nature has
implanted in the breast of the tiniest insect
that lives and crawls on the face of this
globe not only the desire to live but the
intention to live.  It's an instinct.  We all
have it.  Life is a horrible thing, really.
This world is an unspeakable place.  But
none of us wants to leave it all the same.
That may be because it is the only life we
have or it may be because there's a worse
life waiting.  But I don't believe that,
someway.  Though the Creator seems
pretty cruel at times I think perhaps old
Khayyam did him no injustice.  'He's a
good fellow and 'twill all be well.'  And
now, Amherst, yarning always makes me
restless and dry and the night's still young.
I'm going to get drunk."

"Hold on!" expostulated Amherst,
genuinely shocked and startled, he could hardly
tell why, at this most unexpected and
unpleasant ending to their talk.  "Don't do
it, Ricossia.  How can you?  What—what
can you expect from the 'Good Fellow'
if you fly in his face, that way?  It's
devilish, that's what it is.  Stay and let me
fix you up for the night, you young fool, you!"

Ricossia laughed.  "You're a funny old
boy, Amherst," he observed, meditatively.
"I wonder what it feels like to have a
conscience.  I'd rather have a drink—a
series of drinks!  'My Clay with long
oblivion has gone dry.'  As for the 'Good
Fellow'—I haven't seen anything of him,
yet.  Have you?  But the other old Boy
is howling to be fed, so I'm off.  Good-night."





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.. _`A VISIT TO AGATHA`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   A VISIT TO AGATHA

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..

   |  "This life of ours is a wild Æolian harp of many a joyous
   |      strain—
   |  But under them all there runs a loud, perpetual wail as of
   |      souls in pain."—*Longfellow*.

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Agatha Ladilaw had made a
pink dress and was embroidering it
with roses.  Each of us has some
particular talent; Agatha's was dressmaking.
Her parents were not wealthy and
therefore she could not indulge in the
"creations" affected by many of her
friends; but by dint of constant industry,
excellent taste and unusual skill, she
contrived to be always charmingly costumed.
True, with a figure that might have stepped
out of a Fifth Avenue shop window and
a face which any colour rendered lovely, she
did not confront the difficulties of ordinary
mortals.

As physical perfection is rare and as
Agatha Ladilaw was, in her way, an
unusually fine specimen of purely mundane
and limited loveliness, a pen picture of her
as she sat may be of interest.

Nature in planning Agatha had done
unusually well.  She had not only bestowed
upon her a great amount of comeliness, but
she had, apparently, taken pride in finishing
her work in a way that is not common.
How often a pretty face is spoilt by an
irregular nose, a large ear, an imperfect
contour of cheek or brow!  In Agatha's
case, however, no pains had been spared
to produce a thoroughly bewitching whole.
While face and form were sufficiently
classical in outline to satisfy the most exacting,
there was a warmth, a colour, a radiance
about her, born partly of exuberant youth,
partly of brilliant health.  Her eyes were
wonderful; purple pansies, black-lashed,
white-lidded; her hair was a ripe chestnut,
deepening to auburn, lightening to gold.
Her skin had that pure satin whiteness
peculiar to extreme youth; her hands were
plump, dimpled, tapering, with pink palms
and transparent nails.  Her teeth were
white, tiny and sharp; when she smiled,
her pink cheeks broke into enchanting
dimples which added the last touch of
enticement to her kitten-like charms.

Nature had planned her upon classic
lines—a sort of pocket edition Venus.
Agatha, however, after a careful perusal of
the fashion plates every spring, moulded
her figure in accordance with the latest
"craze."  When long waists and narrow
hips held sway, Agatha presented a faultlessly
correct outline; when the coquettish
athlete adorned magazine covers, Agatha
might have passed for her sister.  How all
this was accomplished with no injury to
health is a mystery which only the
corsetiere can solve; Agatha at all times
might have sat for a picture of Hebe.

For the rest, she was slightly under
medium height, a fact which she publicly
deplored, but for which she was secretly
grateful.  She did not admire tall girls; in
fact, she did not admire anybody or
anything which differed very greatly from her
extremely attractive self.  She had an
intense and artistic appreciation of her
various good points and looked with pity on
those to whom the fairies had been less
lavish.  One who came in for a share of
this ingenuous pity was her cousin, Lynn
Thayer.

This young lady had dropped in at the
time the chapter opens, for a cup of tea,
in accordance with a long-deferred
promise.  As she sank into an easy-chair and
loosened her furs she smiled at Agatha
with a smile which held no tinge of envy.
For Lynn, while cherishing in common
with many plain women an enthusiastic
admiration for beauty, enjoyed it in much
the same way that she enjoyed music;
intensely, even emotionally, but impersonally.
Notwithstanding, she attached an
exaggerated importance to it and affected her
small cousin more than she otherwise
might have done because she possessed
it in such unstinted measure.

As she sat, idly watching Agatha's white
fingers moving through the pink draperies
of the gown which she was embroidering,
the thought of Leo Ricossia occurred to
her and she mentally compared them.  Both
were beautiful to an extraordinary degree;
but Agatha's beauty suggested roses,
kittens, Cupids, everything that was soft and
appealing, exquisite and empty, while
Ricossia's beauty suggested storm, flaming
sunset, glorious music.  His was, in short,
the beauty of a young caged tiger,
Agatha's the loveliness of a very perfect white
Persian kitten.  Lynn laughed as this
simile presented itself to her mind; it seemed
to her singularly apropos.  What different
worlds they inhabited, these two radiant
young creatures!  Ricossia represented the
pagan element, Agatha was the last word
of civilized young-ladyship.  The world
was wide enough to contain both; nay,
this little, stately old city was wide enough
for that.  They lived within an hour's
distance of one another, as far asunder in
thought, life, knowledge, ideals as is this
little earth from "the last star's uttermost
distance."

Lynn Thayer's and Agatha Ladilaw's
mothers had been sisters and both had been
beauties.  Lynn, however, as her maternal
relatives were fond of remarking, had
"taken after her father."  Though her face
was pleasing it was rather plain; plain, not
ugly; for its plainness consisted rather in
lack of positive beauty than in any
particular defect.  Her hair was brown and
abundant, her eyes deep-set and giving the
effect of brown to the casual observer,
although, as a matter of fact, they were a
dark greyish green.  Her skin was
colourless, her mouth, large and thin-lipped, her
nose, ordinary.  However, her figure was
excellent of its kind, tall, straight,
flat-backed, and, while delicately proportioned,
giving the effect of considerable reserve
strength.  Her movements, too, were
graceful, but graceful somewhat as a
young boy's are graceful, alert, easy,
noiseless and entirely lacking in effort or
self-consciousness.  Perhaps her only positive
beauty consisted in her teeth which, though
not dainty like Agatha's, were white and
regular.  It would hardly be fair to say
that her face lacked expression, but it was
not a mobile face; habits of self-control
and repression had stamped themselves too
deeply in her nature not to show elsewhere.
Her bearing was dignified and even
distinguished and her voice well-modulated
and soft.  As a whole, she was the sort of
girl whom one might meet any day in any
city of the continent; a girl who was no
longer young, yet showed no signs of age;
a girl who could never be pretty, yet would
hardly be considered ugly; a girl who wore
dark coloured tailor-made costumes and
looked like a lady in them; a girl who
closely resembled scores of other girls the
world over.

Lynn Thayer occupied a somewhat
unusual position in Montreal.  Her mother
had been a pretty woman of fashion, her
father a well-to-do man.  However, her
father dying shortly after his marriage and
her mother losing all her money in a way
which shall be explained elsewhere, Lynn
had been left penniless.  Her father's only
living brother had offered her a home and
a dress allowance; but she had refused
the latter, had qualified as a public school
teacher, and was earning a regular salary
in one of the Board Schools.  As both her
father's and her mother's relatives were
people of some wealth and much social
standing, she occupied an anomalous
position in what is known as "society."  As a
young girl she had "gone out" quite a
little; now for reasons which shall
presently develop, she went only to the homes
of intimate friends and was seldom seen in public.

Oddly enough Lynn Thayer possessed a
considerable fascination for both sexes.
All men and most women liked her.  She
had never been pretty and was no longer
a young girl, but her attraction had rather
augmented than diminished as time went
by.  Debutantes, secure in the possession
of unimpeachable gowns and rosy cheeks,
often looked with amazement at the
alacrity with which their partners left them
for a dance with Miss Thayer.  Probably
these same partners would have found it
difficult to explain why, themselves.  Lynn
always created the impression that she was
a nice girl; a positive "nice girl," not a
negative "nice girl."  People liked her.
Children "took to her" at once, dogs
followed her; cats jumped on her knee
without waiting for an invitation.  Beyond an
admirable figure and a pretty wit she
possessed no surface charms; but something
about her attracted and inspired confidence
and trust.  It is difficult to say why one
excellent person is universally liked,
another excellent person universally detested,
another excellent person universally
respected and shunned.  Lynn Thayer
belonged to the first class, that was all.

Certainly no two girls could resemble
one another less than the cousins.  Lynn
was at best "a nice-looking girl," Agatha
was "a dream."  She showed to excellent
advantage, too, in her mother's house
where everything had been planned with
an eye to the petted daughter as the central figure.

It was a very pretty sitting-room where
Agatha Ladilaw sat, this cold January day.
Without, the sharp air cut like a knife;
within, all was comfort, warmth, cosiness.
It would be difficult to imagine Agatha in
anything but elegant and graceful
surroundings.  She was like a lovely, white,
Persian kitten who had fed on cream and
lain on cushions all her life; and, someway,
one always knew that she would continue
to feed on cream and lie on silk even if she
lost her fur and her teeth in the course of
time.  If certain natures carry within
themselves the elements of tragedy, others carry
within themselves not only the desire for
the soft things of life but the capacity for
obtaining them.  To the latter class
Agatha undoubtedly belonged.  Her beautiful
aunt, Lynn's mother, had made rather a
mess of her life, in spite of the fact that
she had had all and more than Agatha
possessed in the way of beauty and
fascination.  One knew instinctively that Agatha
would never fall into her mistakes.  In the
first place she would not wait till
twenty-five before marrying; in the second place
she would never dislike any man who fed
and clothed her sumptuously; in the third
place she would never be carried away by
any indiscreet and expensive infatuation.
In short Agatha was quite the most correct
thing in young ladies, eminently
satisfactory and desirable.

The room where Agatha liked to sit with
embroidery or sewing was long, low, light.
The bay-window was filled with plants, and
the fragrance of mignonette and jasmine
hung about the rose-coloured curtains
which draped the alcove and separated it
from the rest of the room.  The furniture
was light and artistic rather than costly;
easy chairs upholstered in rose-patterned
chintz; mission-wood tables, bookcases
and "rockers"; the inevitable "cosy
corner," cushioned to the last degree of
comfort; a green carpet displaying a border
of various-coloured roses; a silver-laden
tea-table, a table containing books and
magazines—mostly uncut; another
containing one beautiful vase of cut flowers.
Presently, when dusk arrived, the room
would be suffused with rose-coloured
lamp-light, but, at present, the winter sun
flooding the room and the tiny fire which
burned on the hearth gave a sufficient
suggestion of cheer.

Agatha in her pink environment sewing
on a pink dress gave one a delightful sense
of the eternal fitness of things.  One
forgot, for the time being, the bitter January
wind howling outside, the flock of black
cares that dog the footsteps of ordinary
mortals.  Agatha certainly had her place
in the scheme of the universe, just as the
Persian kitten has.  If the kitten were
thrust out into the world and told to
earn its cream—that would be another story.

Agatha, as has before been stated, would
never have to earn her cream, otherwise
than by existing and ornamenting.  She
would always be cheerfully ready to pay
for it whenever necessary in the coin with
which Nature had so richly endowed her.
Therefore it will at once be seen that
Agatha was a most satisfactory girl;
everything that a young lady ought to be; just
the sort of person who could be depended
upon to give Society no shocks and her
parents no anxiety.

Lynn almost wished that Agatha would
not think it necessary to talk; the fire-lit,
rose-decorated room and the beautiful little
occupant who sat, absorbed in her
draperies, were both so eminently satisfactory
from an artistic point of view that she
would have preferred to lounge idly, and
enjoy them.  Everything about Agatha
was so attractive, so feminine, in such
charming taste.  The delicate white fingers
moving in and out of the pink draperies;
the graceful pose of the pretty figure in
the easy chair; the absorbed, almost
spiritual expression of the great, violet eyes;
all charmed Lynn, even while she realized
their misleadingness and realized, too, that,
by breaking into these absorbed
meditations, one was liable to disturb nothing
more important than the set of an
imaginary train.  Soon, however, Agatha spoke;
slowly and with something resembling an
effort.

"Lynn, what do you think of Harry
Shaftan, the General's nephew?"

"He's a nice boy."

"Nicer than Howard Pyle or Jimmy Gresham?"

"I believe I like him better."

"What do you think of the others?"

"Why?  Are you engaged to any of
them?" asked Lynn, laughing.

"Oh, no!  That is—I mean to say—yes.
I mean, I'm engaged to them all."

Lynn leaned back and gasped.  Agatha
continued to embroider.

"And—may I ask which one you intend
to marry?"

"I don't know, exactly," confessed
Agatha, poising her needle on her pink lip and
gazing reflectively heavenward.  "They're
all nice; but I don't think I'll marry any
of them."

"Agatha Ladilaw!  What do you mean?"

"Why, lots of engagements are broken,"
said Agatha, looking surprised.  "Lots and
lots of them.  If I found that I didn't
really love any of these men—that the
real passion of my life was yet to
come—you wouldn't advise me to marry them,
would you?"  She looked at her cousin
with an air of virtuous surprise and Lynn
shouted.

"Oh, Agatha, you're a treat!" she
exclaimed, with intense enjoyment.  "A
veritable, living treat!"

"I really don't see why," said Agatha,
coldly, proceeding to thread a needle with
an offended air.  "And if you're going to
laugh about serious subjects like love and
marriage, why, I won't talk about them,
that's all."

This consummation was far from Lynn's
desire; and by dint of earnest and respectful
entreaties she finally induced her small
cousin to continue.

"What made you accept them all in the
first place?" she asked with interest.

"Why, they all wanted me," said
Agatha, simply.  "And it's so hard to say no
to a nice man.  Even if he isn't nice, it's
not easy.  And you said yourself that they"—

"But, Agatha?"

"Yes?"

"Doesn't it seem queer to—well, to let
three men kiss you at the same time?"

"The idea!" said Agatha, haughtily.
"Of course they don't all do it at once.
I very seldom see more than one of them
in the same evening."

"Oh, don't be silly, Agatha; you must
know what I mean.  Doesn't it seem—isn't
it a little hard to"—

"Why, no," said Agatha, staring, "it's
the easiest thing in the world."

"Dear me!  You don't feel at all sneaky
or confused about it?"

"Confused?  Why, no.  You see, I've
always been engaged to two or three
people more or less ever since I was fifteen;
of course before that it wasn't really necessary."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, to be engaged, you know! one
didn't have to be.  But after you're fifteen,
it seems rather fast, somehow, to let people
kiss you that you're not engaged to."

"I had no idea you were so particular,"
murmured Lynn, bending down to hide a smile.

"Oh, I always think a girl can't be too
particular about those things," said
Agatha, firmly.  "Because suppose someone
happened to see you!  All you have to do
then is to say, 'To tell you the truth, I'm
engaged to Mr. ——,' whichever one it was.
And there you are!"

"And suppose the same person found
you with one of the others—what then?"

"Oh, that would be very unlucky.  I
don't believe I would ever be so unlucky
as that.  And, Lynn, now that I have taken
you into my confidence and told you
things, won't you make a friend of me? and
let me give you a little advice?"

"Why, yes," said Lynn, smiling.

"It's about Mr. Lighton.  You know he
is so eligible and it would be so dreadful
if, by any mismanagement, you let him
slip through your fingers."

"Oh!"

"Yes, indeed; and men are so deceitful,"
continued Agatha, piously, "you can't tell
a thing about them, you really can't.  Now
there was a case I knew; it was something
like yours only not so disappointing, for the
man had only two thousand a year.  But
he kept running after this girl, just the way
Lighton does after you, and everybody
thought he meant something.  People kept
expecting to hear the engagement
announced; but it never came off."

"What was the trouble?"

"Why, you know, it was the queerest
thing! he kept calling and calling and
every time you'd think he was going to
propose; but *he never did*.  So the girl
got mad.  She said she simply wasn't going
to stand it a moment longer, so she packed
her trunk and went off to stay with some
people in Toronto.  She was not going to
have any such nonsense.  But it didn't do
any good, for he married some one else."

"What a sad story!"

"Isn't it?" agreed Agatha, oblivious of
sarcasm.  "But she was very lucky, for she
met someone who had quite six hundred
a year more than the first man had, and
he proposed to her quite quickly, and so
then of course they were married, and I
sent them a centrepiece that I had
embroidered, myself.  It was a very handsome
one but you see Toronto is a nice place to
stay in."

"Oh, I quite see why you sent it.  I also
see why you told me the story.  It has a
moral.  If the man who is rushing you
doesn't propose after a reasonable space
of time—go to Toronto!  Isn't that the idea?"

"You are so clever," said Agatha with
an apologetic smile, "that sometimes I
don't quite understand you.  But if you
mean that you think that I am advising
you to go to Toronto, that isn't right,
because any other place would do as well.
Except that, of course, there are quite a
good many men in Toronto."

"And you think that one of them might
be induced to accept me?"

"Why not?" said Agatha, encouragingly.
"But, of course, you wouldn't be
at all likely to make another match like
Mr. Lighton.  So that is why I want you
to be so particularly careful.  You don't
take these things seriously enough, Lynn,
you know you don't.  You must remember
that you are getting on."

"Every year brings me nearer the grave,
but no nearer matrimony," commented
Lynn, assuming an appropriately funereal aspect.

"Oh, don't say that!" cried Agatha,
looking genuinely shocked.  "Please don't!
It sounds so dreadfully as if it might
be—  And I am sure Mr. Lighton is
most attentive and Mr. Amherst and two
or three others call pretty often, don't they?"

"Yet," said her cousin, solemnly, "I
think myself, Agatha, that there is just one
little thing which is going to effectually
prevent Mr. Lighton from marrying me.
You mark my words! as sure as I stand
here just so surely will I never be
Mrs. Lighton.  This one little obstacle is going
to stand in the way."

"Why, what can it be?" queried Agatha,
with intense interest.

"You have no idea?"

"Why, no."

"I thought that you wouldn't have,"
returned Lynn, very gravely.

"It won't prevent him from proposing, will it?"

"Not a bit of it.  It will only prevent
him from marrying—that is, from marrying me."

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Agatha in
genuine distress.  "And to think of all the
men you have refused, Lynn! and I
suppose that there isn't one you could get
back at a pinch."

"I fear not.  The majority are either
dead or married and the Grave and the
Other Woman do not disburse."

"No, indeed," sighed her mentor.  "And
it's so necessary for you to marry, Lynn,
for if Uncle Horace died to-morrow he
would leave Aunt Lucy everything and
there would be nothing left for you.  Oh,
what a pity that your mother's money was
all spent."

"Yes, it seems a little unfortunate."

"That dreadful Italian!  What a pity
Aunt Clara married him after your father
died.  And didn't they have a son?  What
has become of him?"

"My dear Agatha, how should I know?"
said Lynn, restlessly.  "Don't you
remember that, when Uncle Horace adopted me,
he did it with the distinct understanding
that I was to hold no communication with
my mother and my little half-brother?"

"Oh, how dreadful!  How could you
bear to be parted from your own dear
mother for ever?"

Lynn surveyed the questioner with a
slight smile.

"Oh, I enjoyed the feeling that I
brought in six hundred a year.  I knew
that it would procure my mother more
pleasure than my society could, and that,
with six hundred a year, her baby boy, and
an occasional kiss from the biggest
blackguard the Lord ever let loose on earth, she
would be as happy as she could ever be.
Poor mother! she was pretty, they say,
even when she lay dead; her beauty didn't
do her much good, but, on the other hand,
my ugliness hasn't profited me, greatly.
On the whole, I wish I looked like her."

"Aunt Clara was so awfully pretty and
that Italian she married was so wonderfully
handsome! the boy must have been
a perfect little beauty."

"He was."  Lynn spoke without enthusiasm.

"Weren't you fond of him?

"Very."

"Wouldn't you like to see him, again?"

"No—yes"—

"I don't believe you cared much about
him, really."

Lynn looked at her and smiled.

"I was nine when he was born.  My own
father had died when I was a baby and
my earliest recollections are those of
seeing my mother crying half the day because
my stepfather was out and laughing and
chatting wildly because he was in.  She
never noticed me.  I was an ugly little
thing and she worshipped beauty—as I
do.  Besides, there are certain people who
seem to suck the lifeblood of all who care
for them, and my stepfather was of these;
her love for him was a feverish thing, a
thing that absorbed and tortured and
finally killed her.  Such is the perfect
justice of the universe! no good man or
woman ever receives that idolatrous love;
it is only the vile, the utterly selfish, the
heartlessly cruel—oh, here! what am I
saying?  To return to my story; I had a
nurse till we grew too poor, then I looked
after myself.  Then ... the baby came.
The baby!  Oh, Agatha, if you had seen
him!  He was so beautiful, so utterly dear
and heavenly, and no one had ever cared
for me, and he—the very first time I saw
him he put out his tiny hand and the little
fingers twined about mine ... oh, my
baby, my baby, how could I ever love
anything in earth or heaven as I loved you?
Well! for three years I was always with
him and then—and then Uncle Horace
wanted to adopt me, to rescue me, as he
called it.  And—I went.  I was twelve
years old at the time—in years—and I
realized, in the bitterest moment of my life,
that to go meant money and comfort and
pleasure for him—my idol!  All I could
do for him was to leave him—I saw it
plainly—and I went without a word.  I
went.  I wonder if any misery in after life
can ever compare with the agony of that
last hour when I sat, holding him in my
arms and rocking him to and fro—and
waiting.  The carriage came at last to
take me to the station and I kissed the
wonderful little face and looked into the
marvellous baby eyes and went!  Oh, my
baby, my baby, if I ever have a child of
my own, will he, can he, ever be to me
what you were, I wonder!—dear me, what
a lot of nonsense I'm talking, Agatha!
You mustn't mind."

"Not at all," said Agatha, politely, "it's
interesting.  I had no idea that you were
so fond of babies, Lynn.  But it seems so
queer that you don't know where he is,
now.  What became of him when your
mother died?  He was about ten, wasn't
he? for I remember you were nineteen."

"Yes, he was ten.  Oh, he lived at school
and then with his father till the latter died
of consumption.  That was two years ago."

"And now?"

"Why, now—he is probably living
somewhere else.  He is a man, you see, and
able to take care of himself."

"But, oh, Lynn dear, you show so little
feeling," said Agatha, with dainty reproach.
"Not to care what has become of that
boy—when you used to be so fond of him."

"Oh, we forget everybody and everything—in
time," returned Lynn, listlessly.
"At least," she added in a lower voice, "I
hope we do."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Agatha,
comfortably.  "Lynn, did you ever see
anything so sweet as that last rosebud I've
just made?  And it's given me such a
lovely idea.  The very next fancy dress ball
I'm asked to, I'll go as the Queen of the
Roses.  Don't you think that will be
lovely?  Pale pink, you know, with
garlands of rosebuds and a rose-wreath.  Ring
for tea, won't you, please?  I'm dying for
a cup, and it's getting too dark to work."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"FORSAKEN GUTS AND CREEKS"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   "FORSAKEN GUTS AND CREEKS"

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "If we have loved but well
   |  Under the sun,
   |  Let the last morrow tell
   |  What we have done."
   |                    —*Bliss Carman*.

.. vspace:: 2

On an exceptionally disreputable
Montreal street stood a particularly
unsavoury old studio building.
Like other unsavoury things it had an
interesting history, having, in its palmy days,
belonged to an English duke.  The duke
was now dust and the studio building
unpopular with the constabulary.  Yet an air
of former greatness enveloped it and its
large, spacious halls and lofty ceilings bore
mute and pathetic testimony to the
grandeur of former days.

In an apartment which a duchess had
once inhabited rats and spiders revelled,
unrebuked, save when, once a week, a
wild-eyed slattern clattered noisily in and
attacked them with broom and scrubbing-brush.
Sometimes the heavy old-fashioned
door was locked and she went away
rejoicing; sometimes it was merely closed,
in which case she entered fearlessly and
performed her tasks as expeditiously and
abominably as possible.  Frequently,
during these revels, the lithe form of Mr. Ricossia
might have been discerned, stretched
upon the studio couch in deep and peaceful
slumber.  Even the prosaic and work-harrowed
drudge of the Chatham was wont
to pause occasionally and gaze with
something approaching awe at the frail form
and beautiful face of the opium-drugged
consumptive.  A spiritual majesty lay on
his brow and his whole being seemed
expressive of an unearthly peace and a
sombre loveliness.  Like some dark, fallen star
he lay quiescent in the dim light of the
studio; a thing to make one's heart ache
when one reflected that he, too, was born
of a human mother.

Mr. Ricossia's movements were
uncertain, however; and one fine January
evening found him sitting at the studio table,
smoking and scribbling, busily.  Presently
the door opened; he looked up, pleasantly,
showing no surprise, and bent over his
writing.

"Just a minute!" he said, in a low voice.

The visitor nodded, closed the door
quietly, and stood as though waiting.
Presently she raised a thick veil and fixed
her eyes intently on the writer.  They were
sombre eyes, not over large but somewhat
expressive; and as she watched the other
occupant of the studio, they dilated and
glowed in a way that was almost fierce and
wholly human.  So might a fire-tortured
martyr have regarded in death the symbol
of his faith, the cross for which he died.

Presently the woman spoke.

"I can only stay a few minutes, my
darling," she said in a low voice, vibrating
with painful tenderness.  "There is the money."

The boy sprang to his feet and grasped
it, his dark eyes aflame with eagerness.
Hastily, greedily, he counted it over, then
put it in his pocket and turned to the
woman with a brilliant smile.

"That is fine," he said, his flute-like
voice making melody in the studio and in
his hearer's heart.  "You must have done
well, lately.  How much have you sold
altogether?"

"A long story to the 'Alhambra,' a funny
skit to the 'Woman's Hearth' and an article
or two to some smaller concerns.  Try to
make it last, for I had to spend nearly all
my month's salary—oh, Liol, Liol!"

A burst of coughing interrupted her and
turned her wind-flushed face white.  She
stood in silence, knowing that nothing
infuriated the dying boy like sympathy, and
held her breath, waiting for the paroxysm
to pass.  So long did it last, however, that
she forgot all caution and, rushing to the
sick man's side, caught his hand and
screamed aloud.

"Oh, Liol, Liol, do you want to kill me?
Won't you go to that retreat? and try to
live for my sake?  Oh try, only try!  I
can't bear it!  I thought I could, but I
can't.  Oh, for God's sake, go! try it, only
try it for a little while"—

He snatched his hand away and flung
himself on the couch, shaking with
weakness and fury.

"Again?" he cried, raging.  "You ask
me again to go to one of those vile
cures? after all I've said and sworn?  God in
Heaven! how often must I tell you that,
if I've only a few months to live, I'm going
to *live!* not die by inches.  Fool that you are!"

She covered her face with her hands and
turned away from him.

"Go to those beastly mountains," he
snarled, venomously.  "Go where all that
makes life worth living will be out of reach
and I dogged by a pack of vile, prying
doctors and attendants!  If you're tired
of keeping me I'll take an extra dose and
end it to-night!"

"Liol!"

"Then don't madden me!  Here! you
said you couldn't stay long, didn't you?
My last poems are on the table.  Send a
couple more to 'Hosmer's Monthly'—they
asked for them—God! is this another fit
coming on? ... There!  I feel better.  It
passes sometimes and I daresay I'll outlive
you all, yet."  His face brightened and
became luminous with hope and defiance.
The terrible paroxysm of coughing had
flooded his dusky cheeks with rose; his
black hair curled limply back from his
damp forehead; his magnificent eyes
expanded and fired with the consumptive's
cheating illusion of future health.  Beside
his glowing, burning beauty Lynn Thayer
seemed one of those daughters of earth
who, in former ages, loved the sons of God.
She devoured him with her eyes in a silence
so tense and sorrow-laden that the very air
seemed to vibrate with it.

"Ah God, how I love you," she said at
last, hopelessly.  "And you—oh, Liol,
Liol, you never even kissed me, to-night."

"What?  Never even kissed you?"
answered the other, good-humouredly.
"Well, but, my dear old girl, you must
remember that the fool doctors say that
consumption's catching.  They're right,
too; I caught it from my father, curse
him!  I wouldn't be where I am to-day
if it wasn't for him."  His face darkened,
moodily; then he shrugged his shoulders
and held out his arms with a smile that
was more mirthful than tender.

Lynn Thayer walked swiftly to the
couch, dropped on her knees beside it and
buried her face in the frail shoulder of its
occupant.  She remained thus for a few
minutes while he wound thin arms about
her and murmured endearments which held
a perfunctory note even to her love-deafened
ears.  Presently she rose.

"Leo Ricossia is making quite a name
by his prose writing," she said with forced
cheerfulness.  "I must try to keep it up,
Liol.  Do you remember when I called you
'Liol' once, before some people and they
thought it so funny and we were so
worried about it?  Yet you see no one has ever
suspected anything."

"No.  If they did, I suppose it would
have to come out," said the boy, slowly.

"What?"

Lynn started and looked confounded.

"What?" she cried.  "Break my word
to my dead mother?  Tell who you
are? how she made me promise to keep you
and watch over you until you died and let
no one know who you were?—What are
you dreaming of, Liol?"

"Why, it's nothing to me," returned the
other, watching her composedly.  "Girls
must go into heroics over something, I
suppose; but you must see for yourself that
all this would look pretty badly if it came
out and wasn't explained, and it would
hardly be worth while to lose your
reputation and your home and your position too,
for an oath to a dead woman.  Too bad
you have to come here by night, but, of
course, day-time is impossible, for people
would be sure to see you, whereas the
chances are ten to one against it in the
dark and dressed as you are.  That absurd
oath!  What was it now?  And she was
going to come back and curse you, too, if
you broke it, wasn't she?"  He laughed.

"Our mother, Liol!" said Lynn, in a
choked voice.

"Yes, our mother.  I've almost forgotten
what she looked like even, but I
suppose you remember her better than I do,
though I don't see why you should,
considering the length of time that you were
away from her and—see here, Lynn,
you've been here an ungodly time; I don't
want to hurry you, but—oh, I say!
Amherst is puzzling his brains out as to how
I can write such healthy, humourous prose.
You would have shouted if you had heard
him, the other night."

"Perhaps.  But I must go, directly."

Lynn shivered and drew her fur a little
more closely about her throat.

"I must go now, Liol," she repeated in a
low voice.  "Good-bye.  And don't—but
there! what's the use of talking?  Do as
you please, dear; only try to love me a
little if you can.  You're all I've got."

"Mighty little at that, too!  You have
but little here below nor will you have that
little long—there, don't look like that, old
girl!  I'm only joking, you know."

With this joke ringing in her ears Lynn
left; passed down the rickety stairs,
through the dark doorway, out upon the
noisy street.  It was not a savoury
neighbourhood this, where her brother had
elected to take up his abode.  In fact, it
was not a place for a lady at any hour of
the day or night.  In face of an overpowering
compulsion, however, a woman sometimes
forgets that she is a lady, and this was
what had happened in Lynn's case.  The
love which, in the majority of instances, is
divided among parents, brothers, sisters,
husband, children, had been concentrated
upon one object.  A foolish vow exacted
by a delirious and dying woman had
become the important thing in Lynn Thayer's
life, the keeping of it a sacred duty.

We are usually punished both for our
follies and our virtues, and Lynn was
certainly severely punished for hers.
Ricossia, as he was called, in Montreal, kept her
on a constant rack of uncertainty and
suspense.  Daily, hourly, she expected to hear
of his death and, sometimes, in moments
of more than usual bitterness and grief,
she almost wished that he were safe in the
grave and incapable of doing himself or
her more harm.  The unworthiness of the
loved object, moreover, made life proportionately
bitter; the necessity for constant
deceit and stealth was a cruel necessity to
one of her nature, and the witty tales which
helped to procure her brother the luxuries
he craved were frequently written in
anguish of heart and despair of spirit.  Poor
Punchinello, dancing gaily on the night his
love died and his heart was broken, has
many a modern prototype.

Yet through all the disgust and grief
which his nature and actions caused her,
her love never faltered.  To her, the
drinking, drug-crazed youth in whose degenerate
nature there was not a trace of anything
high or kind was the baby brother of early
days; the baby brother whom she had
tended, adored, sacrificed and been
sacrificed for during the most impressionable
years of her life.  The tiny creature had
crept into the lonely heart of the child,
satisfying every want, sweetening every
bitterness.  There had been nothing else in
Lynn's life that had held comparison with this.





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.. _`A BRILLIANT MATCH`:

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   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A BRILLIANT MATCH

.. vspace:: 2

..

   "Love is a pastime for one's youth; marriage, a provision
   for one's old age."—*Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler*.

   |  "For life is not the thing we thought and not the thing we plan,
   |  And woman, in a bitter world, must do the best she can."
   |                                              —*Robert Service*.

.. vspace:: 2

In order that the reader may more fully
understand the foregoing chapters and
the predicament in which certain of the
characters find themselves, it is necessary
to ask him to return with us to a period
some thirty years before, when a certain
young lady, known as Clara Brooks, had
just made a most sensible match.

Now, as this was the first sensible thing
that Miss Brooks had ever been known to
do, it naturally attracted some attention
and created some discussion.  For she was
one of those impossible beings who want
to be happy and who, instead of viewing
happiness in the light of a series of
discreetly conducted flirtations, ending in
marriage with the most eligible of the
flirtees, had persisted in prolonging these
flirtations to a really indiscreet period of time
and had even carried her folly so far as
to refuse two or three really desirable
offers.  She had a vague yet fairly positive
idea that marriage, in order to be at all
happy or satisfactory, must be based on
mutual love and esteem, and, because of
this antiquated and most unfortunate
notion, she had remained unmarried until the
age of twenty-five.

This attitude of Clara's laid her open to
much well-deserved censure.  There were
two opinions about it; the first being
that she had no common sense, whatever;
the second being that she was unfortunately
romantic and fanciful, yet somewhat
to be commended in that her ideals were
of a slightly higher order than those of
the average girl.  There was not much
truth in either of these views.  Clara
Brooks, like most of the rest of the world,
was supremely selfish, though not unpleasantly
so.  She loved love; she also loved
money; she wanted to be happy, whatever
the price she paid for happiness; and she
did not care to do anything that she
thought likely to militate against her
happiness.  That was all.

It seemed very hard to Clara, who
possessed beauty of quite an unusual order,
a wheedling tongue, and a pretty taste in
dress, that she could not marry both for
love and money.  She would have
preferred to marry for love, however, if she
had been obliged to make a choice.  This
was partly because she had never known
poverty and could not compute its
discomforts with any degree of accuracy; but,
also, because she was one of those women
who are capable of an overpowering
infatuation and who are, therefore, instinctively
on the watch for a possible object which
may awaken it.  The object had not
appeared; Clara was twenty-five, and
twenty-five, at the period of which I write, was
not the twenty-five of to-day.  Only people
of unusual fascination and prettiness, such
as Miss Brooks, dared to be unmarried at
twenty-five.  Already her enemies were
beginning to brand her with the awful stigma
of "old maid," already her friends were
beginning to murmur plaintively, "What
can she be thinking about?"

Clara's thoughts ended in a very usual
fashion.  As Prince Charming had not
arrived; as the time was fast approaching
when she would be relegated to the
dreadful social lumber room where all such
derelicts of love were stowed by grieving
relatives in the "good old days"; as enemies
were, as has before been said, beginning to
murmur "old maid" behind her back, and
friends, "silly girl" to her face; for all
these reasons and for fifty others, Clara
Brooks suddenly made up her mind to
accept a well-to-do and silent man, by name
Lowden Thayer, who for some time past
had been obviously attracted by her
undoubted charms.  Now the sky brightened
for Clara.  She, as a bride-to-be, received
many handsome wedding presents, a
number of compliments on her most unexpected
good sense, and a vast amount of eminently
imbecile advice from well-meaning
ignoramuses of both sexes.

The wedding was a fine one; all Clara's
relatives were pleased to know that she was
settled and would be provided for until the
day of her death no matter how ugly or
unpleasant or incapable she became with
age; and all Lowden Thayer's relatives
were pleased to think that he had married
at all, though the majority of them felt that
he had made a most unsuitable choice.
Wherein they were undoubtedly right.

After the honeymoon, the Thayers took
up their abode in a handsome house in a
fashionable quarter of Montreal; the
gentleman went to business every day and the
lady began to receive and return calls from
the elite of what is known as "society."

She had many calls of all kinds to return,
for she had fulfilled the whole duty of
civilized woman; she had married, and
married well.  Within a year she further
absolved herself of blame by bringing into
the world a little, helpless infant, bald and
thin and red-faced, who howled most
objectionably and seemed as indignant at
having existence thus forced upon it as
though it knew what existence really was.
Probably it was no prophetic instinct but
some more prosaic ailment that led Clara's
infant daughter to make night hideous with
her cries.  Be that as it may, its mother
conceived something that almost amounted
to dislike for the ugly little voyager upon
the sea of life for whose existence she was
responsible.  She loved men and boys; why
then should she give birth to a daughter?
She loved beauty; why should her first-born
be devoid even of hair?  Besides
... the baby resembled its father; the "good
match" which Fate had compelled her to
make, much against her wishes; the
detested crumple in her bed of roses; the
hated benefactor to whose unwise fancy
she was indebted for board and clothing,
place in society and honourable title of
"married woman"; the loathed necessity
which spoilt everything—even her child—for her.

This much, however, must be said for
Clara Thayer; though the child meant less
than nothing to her, she did not neglect
it on that account.  She may have been an
unnatural mother, but she was not a
soulless brute, and she therefore attended
carefully to its wants and saw that it lacked
for nothing that she could give it.  What
she could not give it, it necessarily went
without; but she did her duty so far as she
was able and was unexpectedly and munificently
rewarded.  For when her little girl
was three years of age its father died,
leaving her a wealthy and beautiful widow.

Now when Fortune is too kind to us
Fate sometimes plays a grim joke, in order
to level us with the vast mass of toiling,
yearning, disappointed, suffering fellow-humans.
This is what Fate did with Clara Thayer.

She was young, rich, beautiful, able to
marry whom she pleased and live as she
liked without let or hindrance.  Fate had
given her good coin with which to purchase
anything her vagrant fancy might light
upon.  She might have chosen whom she
would.  Therefore she chose an extremely
good-looking scoundrel whose Irish mother
and Italian father had bequeathed to him,
together with the light-hearted fascinations
of their kindred natures, the sum total
of every vice of which both lands are
capable.  The sweet kindness of heart and
warm devotion to cause and kindred which
characterize the Italian and Irish races lay
in the softness of his dark eyes, the velvet
smoothness of his voice, but were quite
absent from his nature.  This Clara Thayer
did not know; and, had she known, it is
more than probable that she would not
have cared.  For the first time in her life
she was in the grip of a perfectly irrational
fascination, an infatuation which drove her
as a whirlwind might drive wheat.  The
infatuation ended, moreover, only when her
life did.

This was, perhaps, a natural ending to
Clara Thayer's career.  It was natural, too,
that people should refer to her as that poor
girl who made "such a sensible first
match" and "such an idiotic second one."  As
a matter of fact it would be difficult to
determine which of Clara's two marriages
was the more idiotic.  Her first was for
money, her second, for love.  Her first
supplied her with good food, pretty clothes
and unlimited boredom.  Her second gave
her sharp rapture and equally poignant
pain.  Possibly, if she had remained
unmarried she might have encountered worse
things than any of these.  Of the three
wishes which the bad fairy, Life, gives the
average woman it is difficult to say which
is the least fraught with unhappiness.

"Woman in a bitter world must do the
best she can."  Clara Brooks did the best
she could and bad was the best.

However she died at forty-five, and many
women live to be old.





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.. _`"BLIND FOOLS OF FATE"`:

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   CHAPTER V


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   "BLIND FOOLS OF FATE"

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..

   |  "Blind fools of fate and slaves of circumstance,
   |  Life is a fiddler and we all must dance."
   |                                    —*Robert Service*.

.. vspace:: 2

When Clara Thayer gave birth
to a daughter she was, as has
been before stated, disappointed.
When that daughter developed the appearance
and characteristics of its father Clara
began to dislike it.  In vain she reasoned
with herself, in vain upbraided herself,
secretly and severely, in vain called herself
"an unnatural mother."  The sad fact
remained that she did not care for the child.
It had no pretty ways, no graceful tricks;
its eyes were dull, its skin was pale, its hair
ordinary.  If it had resembled her she
would have loved it; if it had resembled
her mother, her father, anyone for whom
she cared, she would have idolized it.  It
resembled no one, however, but her
husband, and, although when Clara had
married Lowden Thayer she had been
supremely indifferent to him, that indifference
had, unfortunately, deepened into a
positively appalling dislike.  Not dislike for
his character which she respected; not
dislike for his attitude toward her which left
nothing to be desired; no, dislike for the
man, himself, dislike for his personality, his
manners, his way of entering a room, his
way of brushing his hair, his way of
walking, talking, breathing.

It is easy here for the reader to throw
down this veracious account of a real
woman with the single comment that she
was unreasonable and ungrateful.  It is
true that she was unreasonable but not
that she was ungrateful.  She knew all that
she owed to her husband, she sometimes
hated herself for her lack of feeling, and
she strove earnestly to hide her dislike and
to do her duty in a way befitting a wife
and mother.  It was a bitter addition to
what seemed to her an already difficult life
when the child, to whose advent she had
looked with so much hope and longing,
turned out the counterpart of her husband.
Instead of a distraction it was a perpetual
reminder of the galling chain; instead of
a delight it represented merely another
disagreeable duty.

Clara was generally considered a model
wife and mother; every domestic
obligation was scrupulously performed, every
connubial and matronly demand upon her
time, health and patience, uncomplainingly
complied with.  When Mr. Thayer died,
however, four years after their marriage,
Clara felt only an unspeakable relief; and
when, nine years later, Mr. Thayer's
brother offered to adopt Lynn, on
condition that her mother gave her up, entirely,
Clara felt only that a burden had been
lifted from her shoulders.

She had one child by her second husband
after she had been married to him five
years, and that child was a boy who
combined his father's picturesque, foreign
beauty with his mother's refinement and
grace.  To him, she was an adoring
mother; he was second in her heart only
to Guido Allardi.  Just as Lynn had been
the image of the man whom Clara had
disliked, so Lionel was the image of the
man whom she worshipped.  There was no
wish or choice in the matter; she always
felt sorry that she could not care for Lynn,
and she sometimes wished, in moments of
bitterness, that Lionel did not resemble his
father so closely.  It was a rare retribution
of Fate, this! the unloved child of
the unloved father who was all that a
mother could wish and the idolized child
of the idolized father who inherited from
him every trait that could break a mother's
heart.  If Lowden Thayer could have
looked into the future he would have been
amply revenged.  It is improbable,
however, that he wanted revenge; he wanted
his wife's love and, failing that, he wanted
rest.  He never had the first but we may
reasonably hope that he had the latter.

"Love's eyes are very blind," but they
are never so blind as not to perceive dislike
on the part of the loved object, however
conscientiously that dislike may be hidden.
Lowden Thayer was a just man; he saw
that his wife did her best and he, on his
part, did his best, hid his sorrow manfully,
and, when he died, willed Clara all his
property, unhampered by any galling restrictions.

The little daughter whom he left behind
developed in a rather interesting fashion.

The widely diverse natures of Lowden
Thayer and his wife mingled oddly in her.
She had her father's face but her mother's
pliant, graceful figure and movements.  She
inherited from her father a useful brain,
capable of assimilating considerable
knowledge and of reasoning accurately and
carefully; but she had her mother's brilliancy
and lively wit.  She had her father's
industry, business ability, and sense of justice,
and her mother's love of popularity and
social gayety.  From both she inherited
one thing in overwhelming measure; the
capacity for any amount of silent, tenacious
affection which no ill-treatment could
shake, no disillusionment alter.  Another
thing, too, she had from both; the ability
to suffer in silence, keeping a cool and
careless front to the world and hiding a
bleeding heart and a broken spirit behind a
smiling face and manner.  Lynn was thus,
in many ways, not so unlike her mother as
that mother supposed.

At the time when Lynn was adopted by
her uncle Horace she was twelve years of
age.  The next seven years were very busy
ones.  Child though she was, she felt keenly
the fact that her uncle had taken her into
his home in fulfilment of a sense of duty,
rather than from motives of affection.  She
determined that she would be indebted to
him for nothing more than was absolutely
necessary.  In pursuance of this idea she
begged to be allowed to train for a teacher
and, on graduating, insisted on taking a
position which offered itself.  Her uncle
made little objection; he cherished the
common masculine delusion that women
who live at home have nothing to do with
their time and he thought it rather a good
idea that some of this time should be
occupied.  The idea of his niece being a public
school teacher did not exactly appeal to his
sense of the fitness of things; but, after
all, since the girl was bent on it, "let her
do as she likes" was his ultimatum.
Therefore Lynn did as she liked; and events
which shortly afterwards transpired made
her think with horror of the fact that, had
she followed her aunt's wishes, she would
have been without any money that she
could call her own.

It was when she was nineteen that she
received a letter in an unknown
handwriting.  Its contents were brief and
pregnant.  Her mother was dying; would Lynn
visit her in New York before she died? as
there was much that she had to say.
The letter ended with an injunction to hide
the matter from her uncle and aunt, who
would never allow her to travel alone, and
would insist on accompanying her, which
her mother did not wish.

It would be difficult to describe the effect
which this letter had upon Lynn.  She had
always known that she held no place in
her mother's heart, and that knowledge was
a settled grief, not an active sorrow.  The
letter gave her a dull pain, almost like the
pain which one would experience, could the
corpse of a dead friend whom one had
mourned, then almost though not quite
forgotten, suddenly come to life and
demand recognition.

Lynn had held no communication with
her mother since she had lived with her
uncle in Montreal.  To her literal and very
punctilious mind the fact that this
correspondence was debarred as a condition of
adoption rendered it out of the question.
Besides, it must be remembered that there
had been no tender, anguished parting of
mother and child; Clara had, as always,
behaved prettily and politely, had kissed
the plain little face, distorted with difficult
feeling, and had inwardly congratulated
herself that this child of Lowden Thayer
had inherited his silent, unemotional
nature.  Otherwise she would have felt more
hesitation about sending her among
strangers.  As it was—the child was a good
child, who could be depended upon to give
little or no trouble to her guardians, and
she had so little feeling that one place was
likely to be much like another place to her.
True, Clara reflected with a slight qualm,
true, the child was devoted to her little
brother; but children soon forget.  It
would be a criminal sentimentality and one
for which the girl would have a right to
reproach her in the future, did she neglect
this excellent chance of having her
provided for.  So she kissed her once again,
trying to smile at her with affection and
kindness, told her that she must not
altogether forget her mother and her little
brother, though it was not likely that she
would see them again for a little while;
and watched the train steaming out of the
crowded station with mingled feelings of
pity, relief, self-congratulation, and some
faint stirring of sorrow that she could not
feel more spontaneous affection for her
own child.  Her own child!—that recalled
Lionel to her mind and her eyes brightened
and gleamed.  How beautiful he was! how
dear! how sweet that Fate should give her
this one lovely thing to offset her
disappointment in the other direction!  And
how delightful that the six hundred which
Horace Thayer had allowed her for the
future should be tied up so tightly that
only she could have access to it.  Little
Lionel need not lack for everything while
she had that to fall back upon.

It may be asked if no thought of her dead
husband, no perception of the difference
between him and Allardi ever caused her
to draw painful contrasts and inferences.
Yes, these thoughts, these comparisons did
occur to her sorrowfully enough at times;
she frequently bewailed the ugly Fate
which made the faithful dead abhorrent,
the unprincipled and worthless living dear
to her.  But facts are facts.  The dead was
abhorrent, the living *was* dear.  So with
her children.  Despite the fact that,
although at the time of which we write,
Lionel was a baby, he already displayed
traits which made her uneasy; despite the
fact that Lynn had been almost pathetically
"good" from babyhood, humbly devoted
to her mother, utterly subservient to every
whim of her baby brother; despite these
facts, Clara had for Lynn, at best, a sort
of affectionate tolerance, while for Lionel
she had an overpowering love.

Do not, dear reader, wholly bury poor
Clara under the weight of your virtuous
indignation.  She had an unfortunate
disposition, that was all.  The worthless
attracted, the worthy annoyed her.  She was
no more to blame than the child who seizes
some pernicious sweetmeat and refuses
even to look at the nourishing and
expensive meal which awaits his pleasure.

This much, at least, it is desired that the
reader keep clearly in mind when judging
Clara Allardi.  Both in her "mariage de
convenance" and in her "love-match" she
made the best of what she had; tried not
to visit upon Lowden Thayer the dislike
which marriage with him had awakened;
endeavoured to bear patiently with Guido
Allardi's vagaries and steadily refused to
leave him even when all her own money
had been squandered and when he was
incapable of making enough to support
her, comfortably.  This last, though, can
scarcely be attributed to her for righteousness.
The real reason that she stayed with
the Italian was because she could not leave
him; she was like a parasite, drawing her
very breath through him and unable to
exist away from him.

Poor Clara Allardi!  "Blind fool of fate
and slave of circumstance!"  When her
unloved daughter responded to the letter
which had caused her such mingled pain
and joy, she found the former favourite of
fortune living—or, rather, dying—in the
modern equivalent of the historic garret,
a squalid tenement in an unfashionable and
ragged quarter of the great city of New
York.  Her mother's husband, Lynn did
not see; the strain of attending to his sick
wife had proved unsupportable and, after
a short time, he had taken his departure,
leaving no address.  Lynn hoped that he
would not return until she had left New
York; she felt, seeing her mother and
remembering what that mother had been in
the past, that she could scarcely have borne
the burden of his presence.  Her fears,
however, were unnecessary; Clara Allardi
had been dead several days before that
husband returned and his absence had troubled
Lynn more than his presence could have
done; for it was from him that she was
obliged to ask the boon which crippled her
future yet filled her life for many years.

This, however, is anticipating.  We must
return to the time when Lynn took up her
abode in her mother's "home" once more
and did what she could for the comfort of
that mother.  She had complied with
Clara's request in so far that she had told
her guardians of her destination; she had
gone to the principal of the school where
she taught and had asked for leave of
absence, offering to pay a substitute; then
had packed a valise and left a note for her
aunt, explaining her mother's condition and
begging that her uncle would not follow
or bother about her.  This was merely a
figure of speech on Lynn's part; Horace
Thayer was a man who never bothered
about anything in the universe but himself.
Lynn realized, however, that her aunt, who
had a real affection for her, ought to know
her whereabouts and the object of her
journey; though, in the face of her mother's
strangely insistent entreaties, she was
strongly tempted to use a long-standing
New York invitation from a school friend,
as a pretext.

She found her mother delirious and very
weak.  She talked incoherently, but
recognized Lynn and greeted her with
something like eagerness, in the way that one
would greet a useful friend rather than in
the way that one would greet a child whom
one had not seen for many years.  Lynn,
however, had steeled herself to bear what
she had anticipated would not be an
especially joyous reunion and took stoically
whatever arrows the joyous fates chose to
drive in her direction.

Must the truth be confessed?  It was not
the thought of seeing her mother before
she died that had formed Lynn's chief
object in hastening to New York.  While she
would, in any case, have used every effort
to further her mother's dying wish, it must
be confessed that there was little more than
a bitter, dull grief in the prospect of seeing
the latter, again.  But there was another,
darling prospect.  The child! the little boy
who had been three when she left him,
would be ten, now.  Oh, to see him, again! the
one being who had always clung to her,
loved her, satisfied her.  The dear, unutterably
dear little mortal whose arrival into
the world had changed the face of life for
her.  How had she lived without him all
these years? she wondered; was he as
beautiful as ever, as full of life and
sweetness? and—had he come to resemble his
father as much as he had promised to do?
The thought depressed her for a moment;
she remembered how, as a child, it had
infuriated her to hear people remark upon
the wonderful likeness between Allardi and
his infant son.  Then her brow cleared.
He was really more like her mother than
his father, she insisted to herself; as he
had her high-bred clearness of outline, so
he would inherit her delicate refinement,
her ineradicable fastidiousness of mind.
She lost herself in hopeful musing, almost
forgetting in the joy of seeing her little
brother once more that her mother's grave
would probably be dug before she returned
again to Montreal.





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.. _`"LIFE AT ITS END"`:

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   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   "LIFE AT ITS END"

.. vspace:: 2

The April morning broke softly,
implacably chill.  There was a hint
of cruelty in the frolicsome spring
breeze that danced through the half-opened
window, a hint of sorrow in the few faint
tremulous notes of "half-awakened birds,"
preparing once more to face the strange
world of which they knew so little.  There
was something ominous in the softness of
the spring air, something that chilled one's
blood with a faint terror.

Over the dreary tenements and horrible,
rearing buildings of New York broke the
pitiless day.  The lovely rose of dawn
softened all that was bare and bleak and
gave it a semblance of tenderness and repose.

There was silence in the room where
Death lay waiting.  The body of Clara
Allardi lay stretched upon a bed in
slumber, her wasted hand, blue-veined,
marble-white, plucking mechanically at the quilt,
her restless voice muttering vaguely of
things that had long since passed away;
lips that had laughed, pulses that had
leaped, hearts that had broken, long, long
ago.  Death, itself, might have laughed to
hear her; but her daughter did not laugh.

Clara's face was blue-veined now and
hollow-eyed, but, even so, was lovely;
delicately, uselessly lovely, with the flawless
pulchritude of a marble statue, the sickening,
unearthly hue of ivory.  Clara Allardi
had been very beautiful in her day, had had
her share of the kingdoms of this world
and the glories of them; she lay dying in
a New York tenement, unloved, uncared-for,
an old woman at the age of forty-five.

Nature "red of tooth and claw" is
sometimes more horrible in tender mood than
in fierce; this riot of delicate colour and
tremulous song in the face of grisly Death
seemed to Lynn Thayer insulting and
indecorous.  The tragedy of the breaking day
and of the ebbing life gnawed at her heart.
She sat silent, watching the dying with
hungry eyes that held no trace of personal
grief, only a dumb heart-craving for
something she had never known.

In the farther end of the room lay a child
who slept peacefully, his scarlet lips
half-parted in a smile, his delicate arms thrust
outside the bed-clothes and half-bared.
The long black lashes which lay on the
glowing dusk of his cheek; the thickness
of the clustering curls which shaded his
low brow; the almost insolent regularity
of his childish features: all proclaimed him
to be Guido Allardi's son.  He was an ideal
and faithful representative of the old,
Italian race to which his father belonged;
before the family, ruined and disgraced, had
sought refuge in America, many such a
face had been seen in the family portrait
gallery.  Probably none quite so beautiful;
beauty such as this child's is rare and the
possessors of it are seldom quite human.
Perhaps this fact may have given rise to the
old Greek myths of the gods descending
in human shape and proceeding to the
performance of most ungodlike actions.

Lynn's thoughts wandered sometimes to
the cot where the boy lay, looking as much
out of place in the sordid setting which the
room afforded as some strange tropical
plant.  As she thought of him, her face
insensibly cleared.  The baby brother of
her childhood days had proved a fulfilled
delight.  As beautiful as in infancy and
with the same caressing, clinging ways
which had made him so dear to her then,
he had justified, to her, her loving
remembrance of him.  She cherished a hidden
thought of which she was half ashamed yet
which held a very real sweetness; namely,
that, in spite of the long years of
separation, the boy loved and clung to her and,
as of old, seemed to prefer her society to
that of his mother.  She failed to realize
that the stock of bonbons and toys with
which she had provided herself had induced
the affection which the child showed so
freely; she did not know that he would
have left his dying mother with equal
alacrity for anyone who would have fed him
with chocolates.  So little do we comprehend
what is passing in the minds of those
most near and dear to us; even in the
crystal mind of a child there are depths which
it is just as well not to probe too deeply.

In the bare and comfortless room where
these three were congregated Life and
Death were present and one more—Judgment.
Judgment, the dread avenger who
dogs the steps of Sin.  Judgment which,
after the fashion of Judgment, would fall
most heavily on the innocent head, most
cruelly on the undeserving.  Could Lynn
have looked into the future and seen the
awful harvest of corruption which the
sleeping child would reap it may be
wondered whether she would not have killed
him as he lay, out of sheer pity.

Ah, the tragedy of Life!  Life that takes
from us one by one all the glittering
baubles with which she has amused our
childish hours—the rose-hued hopes, the
crimson loves, the golden ambitions—and
gives us in their place—what?  The dying
moaned as though these thoughts had
found an echo in her heart; then lay still,
looking straight in front of her with eyes
which, though glazed and uncertain, held
a certain intelligence.

"Mother—are you better? do you
understand me?" asked Lynn very softly,
bending over the bed.

Clara Allardi turned her head slightly;
her lips moved.

"There was something, something you
wanted to say," cried Lynn, desperately.
"If you could only tell me now; it will
not take long, will it?"

Her mother's face brightened into life;
an anxious gleam shone in her eyes which
now held no uncertainty, but were the
homes of an insistent purpose, a keen
desire.  She struggled a moment, then spoke,
faintly.

"Your brother?"—

"Yes.  Yes."

"Not really—only your half-brother—but
you always cared just as much"—

"More.  Oh, mother, a thousand times
more.  Don't waste time in saying all this.
Is it something you want me to do for
Lionel?  Surely you know that anything I
could do would be all too little—tell me,
just tell me what it is.  I swear to do it,
whatever it may be."

"See to him.  His father—you know"—

"I know."

"—Doesn't understand children—the
little fellow may be hungry, cold"—Clara
Allardi's voice broke into a pitiful quaver
which shook Lynn's composure, terribly.

"Mother," she said, growing white and
speaking distinctly, "you are wasting time
and you may not have much more time.
You know—you must know—that, while
I live, Liol shall want for nothing that
I can give him.  He can never be
cold—or hungry—or friendless—or—loveless—while
I live.  You must know all
that.  I have my teacher's salary; if that
is not enough I will get money in some
other way; I have some saved, I have some
jewelry—oh, don't talk of anything so
trivial, so absurd, as the idea of Lionel ever
wanting for anything which I can give
him.  You understand all that, don't you,
mother?"

Her mother's face cleared, then clouded.

"You may marry—change?" she muttered,
looking wistfully at her daughter.

"Never!" said Lynn, choking.  "You
don't understand me, mother.  I could
never think of marriage while Liol was
dependent on me; and, as for change—if
that is all, you can die happy."

"Swear," said her mother, faintly.

Lynn hesitated.  "I don't like swearing,"
she returned, reluctantly, "but, if it will
make you any happier—I swear by
everything in heaven and earth—by God
Almighty—by the memory of my father—that
I will do exactly as I have said.  I
will look after Lionel always, always, no
matter what it costs me.  *Now* are you
satisfied?"

"You won't be hard on him—he is,"
she winced, "he is—Guido's child.  We
don't—don't always understand
foreigners—women don't always—understand—men.
You will remember?—you will
think of his heritage—and be merciful?
I have always had to be."  Her voice
dropped and broke in a dry sob.

"If he develops into what your husband
is," returned Lynn, quietly, "it will make
no difference.  You don't understand me,
mother.  Just as you never left the other
one, because you couldn't, because you
wouldn't have cared to live away from him;
so I—I couldn't desert Liol.  I have
always loved him; how dearly you have
never even guessed.  I shall always love
him and—and when he leaves his father
and goes to a good school and knows only
good people"—

"It's in his blood," said his mother,
faintly.  "Already—already it shows.
You—you must make—allowances.
Another thing!" she attempted to raise
herself in the bed and her eyes shone with
a feverish glitter, "another thing, Lynn!
No one must know."  Her voice grew
firmer, her hand more steady.  "You
remember the conditions—when your uncle"—

"I remember them well.  But, dear
mother, you don't think Uncle Horace
would hold me to them—now?"

"Horace is hard—a hard man.  When—if—Liol
did take after his father—they
would never let you see him—or know
him.  No.  If I am to die in peace you must
swear never to tell a living soul that he is
your brother.  If anyone at all knew—your
uncle might find out—oh, Lynn, promise?"

Lynn spoke, slowly.  "You have not
thought, mother.  This secrecy will lead
to all sorts of complications.  Uncle
Horace is a hard man, but he is just.  He will
grumble and think me a fool, but he can't
refuse his consent.  At present—for a
while—it won't matter, not telling
anyone about Liol; but later on—oh, mother,
don't ask me to promise that.  Let me use
my discretion about it, won't you?"

Clara Allardi half raised herself in bed;
her eyes shone with unnatural lustre, her
delicate features thickened with a sort of
fury and fever of determination.

"You refuse?" she said with terrible
distinctness.  "You refuse?  Then—I
curse you.  *I curse you*.  You—you're
taking your revenge now when I'm dying
and helpless for the years that I've put
him before you.  I curse you—why can't
you let me die in peace?  You'll tell—you'll
tell the Thayers; they'll make you
give him up or turn you out of doors.  How
will you look after him then on a miserable
pittance that depends upon your strength
anyway and may fail at any moment?  Ah,
you're your father in the flesh,"—she
spoke, slowly and with a concentrated
bitterness that appalled Lynn.  "Good—hard—hateful!
Why did I ever bring you into
the world?"

"That I might look after the child whom
you love, I suppose," returned Lynn with
equal bitterness.  "Have no fear, mother.
You needn't curse me.  If nothing else will
make you happy, I'll swear.  You know, of
course, that you're making me deceive and
lie to my guardians and all the rest of
the world and that you may land me in
hopeless confusion and trouble; but if you
think that will benefit Liol and minimize
the chances of his being deprived of
anything or annoyed in any way—why, of
course, there is nothing more to be
said—is there?"

But Clara Allardi had sunk back with a
look of satisfaction and relief at hearing
her daughter's bitter promise to take the
oath required, and it is doubtful whether
she even heard the rest.

"Swear, then!" was all she answered.

Lynn hesitated; looked imploringly at
her mother; then slowly and reluctantly
repeated her former oath.  "By God
Almighty—by the memory of my father—by
all I hold sacred in heaven and
earth—mother, mother, mother!"

Clara's fair face had turned the colour of
parchment; no breath of life seemed issuing
from her blue lips.  Struck by a deadly
fear, a still more poignant longing, Lynn
Thayer bent over her mother's death-bed,
yearning with an intensity which surprised
herself, for some word of kindness, of
recognition, ere the poor dust turned to dust.
It almost seemed as though her prayer had
been answered, for Clara opened her eyes
and looked at Lynn, a lovely light of
longing in them.  Her lips moved faintly.

"My child!"—the whisper came softly—"my
boy—my only child!"

She did not realize, of course, what she
was saying.  Lynn understood that.  She
rose from her knees, with lips firmly set.
Her face was a little white.

"You want to see him again," she said,
in tones which sounded clearly.  "I will
bring him to you."

Mrs. Allardi's face brightened.  Lynn
had divined her inmost thought.  She
yearned for the child.  She hungered to
die, holding him.  But Fate, implacable as
iron to the profitless wishes of poor foolish,
failing, mortal things, decreed otherwise.
A change on the dying face, an ominous
rattle and choking, arrested Lynn's
footsteps and brought her hurriedly back.

Clara Allardi gasped a little, a very little,
then lay quiet.  Lynn stood and watched
her, looking pinched and plain in the
trying light of early dawn.  The other woman
lay with eyes that stared a little.  Presently
Lynn realized that she was dead; it did
not come as a shock, only as an added
desolation.  She leaned forward and touched
the cold cheek, timidly.

"Mother!" she said in a low voice, "Mother!"

There was a brief and bitter silence.
Then Lynn took the cold head in her arms
and held it for a moment while her tears
fell fast and bitterly over it.

"She was my mother," she said,
weeping, "she—was—my mother!"  There
was no complaint in her tones, only a dull
pain.  Her face held an unconscious
desolation as she laid the fair head back on the
pillow and settled it, decently.  She
shivered a little as one soft, scented tress fell
against her hand.  She had never touched
her mother's hair in life and, oddly enough,
this trifling remembrance cut her to the
naked soul.  She gasped and looked away,
choking down her rising sobs with a species
of horror and disgust.  Life had taught her
self-control, and she disliked noise in the
presence of the dead.

Presently she rose and moved softly to
the cot where the boy lay sleeping.  She
looked at him in silence.  He stirred in his
sleep and smiled a little.  Her sallow face
flamed into sudden life and beauty as she
stood, watching him, an adoring smile
curving her thin lips.  She had forgotten
the other silent inmate of the room who
lay, smiling too, the dead eyes which her
daughter had forgotten to close, gazing in
front of her as though she saw nothing to
fear in the eternity upon which she had
entered.

Suddenly there was a burst of radiance,
a riot of colour and fragrance and song.
The chill, pink light of sunrise streamed
through the window and lay on the dead
face, making it very lovely.  A delicate
rose was reflected in the icy cheek, a
brilliant gold in the faded hair.  Lynn, who had
turned, startled by the sudden light, was
struck by her mother's beauty.  Despite
anxiety, illness, sorrow, Clara Allardi made
rather an exquisite corpse; and, as her
plain daughter sat watching her in the
trying light of early dawn, she reflected with
a smile that held no mirth that even in
death it was well to have regular features
and abundance of soft hair.  Then her face
changed and softened.  She moved reverently
to the side of the bed, veiled the
staring eyes, crossed the thin hands.  Then she
knelt and prayed; while far, immeasurably
far below, the slow wail of the sick child,
the low moan of the hungry animal, smote
on the deaf ear, the cold heart, of great
New York.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A SHORT REPENTANCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A SHORT REPENTANCE

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
   |  I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
   |  And then and then came Spring and rose-in-hand
   |  My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore."
   |                            —*The Rubaiyat*.

.. vspace:: 2

Nine years had passed since the
events related in the last chapter.
Lynn Thayer had developed from
a girl of nineteen into a woman of
twenty-eight.  She had lived quietly in Montreal,
never relinquishing her position in the
school, though, as the years went by, her
aunt had more than once begged her to
remain at home and lead the life of an
ordinary young woman of her class.

As has before been said, Lynn occupied
a rather exceptional position in Montreal.
The average girl who teaches in the public
schools makes up her mind, sooner or later,
to be a teacher, only.  Her position is not
considered in the light of a disgrace, but,
on the other hand, she occupies a slightly
lower grade than does the girl who remains
at home.  The latter, provided she has the
social connections and the time, may go
into any society she pleases.  She may be
unable to return any hospitality except in
a very simple fashion, but she may still
figure as a "society girl" and receive and
accept invitations in the most exclusive
houses.

Probably no other girl but Lynn,
however, was ever successful in combining the
duties of a public school teacher and of a
society girl.  Both her father and mother
had been so well-to-do, so well-known in
Montreal; both had had so many rich
friends, so many influential connections,
that their daughter was of necessity a
figure of interest.  Then, too, she was
connected with the nobility; and, what was
more important, her aunts on both sides
of the family, who lived in Montreal,
received and returned visits from the most
exclusive Butchers, Bakers and
Candlestick-Makers, and were generally accepted
as "fixtures" in society.  Therefore Lynn
had invitations of all kinds, not only from
people of gentle breeding, aristocratic birth
and good character, but also from that far
more important section of "society" who
lived in big houses and got their clothes
from Paquin.  She never "came out," much
to her aunt's grief; but she "went out,"
which was more to the point and which
many girls who "come out" never succeed
in doing.  She was so popular, so generally
liked, that her obstinate determination to
spend her days in teaching was both
admired and extolled.

Meanwhile, what of her brother?

On Mrs. Allardi's death Lynn had
secured from his father, who appeared
supremely indifferent to the child and to his
fate, a promise that she was to have full
control of him, on condition of paying for
his board and education.  Lynn, after
considerable thought, made arrangements for
him at a good but unfashionable school in
the country, as far as possible removed
from his father.  She was struck by the
attitude of father and son to one another.
Allardi seemed to regard his small son as
an amusing kind of dog, to be patted on
the head if he were in a good humour,
kicked out of the way if he were not; he
was proud of him, in a way, devoted to
him; yet, apparently, never thought
anything of his present wants or of his future
needs.  He was quite capable of leaving
the child alone for days while he sought
distraction elsewhere, and of loading him
with bonbons and caresses on his return.

He felt that if this queer, silent
step-daughter of his chose to supplement a small
allowance which Mr. Thayer had promised
to make the boy, he would be very foolish
to stand in the way.  He could make any
promise she chose to exact and break it
with alacrity as soon as the keeping of it
became inconvenient.  Therefore the
readiness with which he promised to see
practically nothing of the boy in the future
sprang really from a defective sense of the
value of a promise, rather than from the
total heartlessness with which Lynn
credited him.  He was really fond of Lionel—in
his way; and fully intended to see all
that he wished of him, whenever necessary.

So the child went to school and Lynn
returned to Montreal and worked steadily
for the extra sums which were needed for
Lionel's maintenance.  The next few years
were comparatively restful and pleasant
ones.  The reports which she received of
Lionel were not good, yet he seemed to be
progressing fairly well, and Lynn,
remembering her mother's dying words, tried not
to expect too much in the beginning.
When Lionel was fourteen, however, he
ran away and joined his father in New York.

Lynn did not even know his whereabouts
and had no way of discovering them.  The
boy did not assuage her anxiety by writing,
feeling that his hiding-place might be
ascertained if he gave any clue to it and that
he would then be compelled to return.
However, Allardi wrote to Lynn after a
time, telling her that the boy was with him
and asking that she would not withdraw
her help as Lionel already needed much
that he could not give him.

Lynn exhausted entreaties, reproofs, and
even threats.  Allardi was the boy's natural
guardian in the eyes of the law; his will
was absolute and he refused to send the
boy from him unless well paid for so doing.
This was out of the question.  Lynn had
already earned the reputation of a miser
for the scantiness and plainness of the
wardrobe which Mrs. Thayer felt herself
constantly obliged to supplement.
Naturally Mrs. Thayer could not see why a
girl with fifty dollars a month to spend on
herself alone—as she supposed—should
lack for anything in reason.

Here the inconvenience and absurdity of
the oath which Mrs. Allardi had made
Lynn swear began to show itself most
unpleasantly.  The truth was so simple, the
secrecy made the whole matter so difficult.
Lynn had dreaded inquiries anent the boy
when she first returned after her mother's
death, but none had been forthcoming.
Mr. Thayer had expected that Lynn would ask
him to have an eye to the boy and see that
the small allowance he had promised to
make him was fairly spent; when nothing
was said on the matter he assumed that
Lynn disliked the child as she did the
father and preferred never to think or
speak of them, now that the one link
between them and her was broken.  Mr. Thayer
was glad to forget the existence
of his sister-in-law's other child.  He had
never even seen the father or the son; he
had been intensely indignant at the second
marriage contracted while Clara was
visiting friends in the States; and, subsequent
events having justified his indignation, he
had sedulously avoided meeting any of the
people concerned.  His offer to adopt Lynn
had been made by letter; he had sent
money for the journey when that offer was
accepted, and settled the amount agreed
upon his sister-in-law; and had then
endeavoured to drive the whole affair from his
mind.  However, upon Lynn's return from
New York, he did make some gruff
inquiries as to the child's whereabouts; and, on
her replying that the boy was at a cheap
but highly respectable boarding-school in
the country, he had, with a feeling of relief,
dismissed the whole matter from his mind,
thinking that "that Italian blackguard"
had some sense of decency after all.

There seemed little that Lynn could do,
now that Lionel had taken matters into his
own hands and openly declared his
intention of remaining with his father.  Of
course the rational thing was to break her
promise and take her relatives into her
confidence.  Only the most scrupulous moralist
could hold her bound by an oath which her
mother, could she have looked into the
future, would have surely wished her to
break.  Ah, if only logic ruled life, how
simple life would be.  Unfortunately it does not.

Lynn had inherited from both father and
mother an overstrained sense of honour
and, though she had done her best to
refrain from making the unfair and ridiculous
promise, the possibility of breaking it when
made never occurred to her.

The Roman Catholic system of confession
has its advantages after all.  Had
Lynn gone to any confessional and asked
for permission to break her oath, and
absolution for the sin of so doing, what sensible
man, priest or layman, would have refused
to sanction such a procedure?  Lynn, under
the circumstances, had no confidant, no
adviser, no one to show her the needlessness
of her various sacrifices.

Besides, it is to be feared that Lynn's
sense of honour was so deeply ingrained
that it could not, under any conditions,
have yielded to the dictates of common
sense.  She would probably have done, in
any circumstances, just what she proceeded
to do; kept the foolish oath in its entirety,
continued to help the ungrateful boy, in
spite of the fact that he, in defiance of her
expressed wishes, continued to live in New
York with his father, and generally have
conducted herself as over-fond and
irrational women do, under such circumstances.

When Lionel was sixteen, however, his
father died of consumption in a tragic and
horrible manner; and Lionel, temporarily
sobered by the occurrence, suddenly "turned
over a new leaf," as he expressed it, and
wrote Lynn to that effect, declaring his
intention of taking up literary work and
"making his name in it."  Although his
manner of supporting himself did not seem
very practicable to his sister, she hailed with
joy this indication that her work and care
had at last borne fruit.

And, for a short time, Lionel was a
source of unmitigated joy and pride to her.
There are but a few poets in the world and
he was one of them.  His work earned him
instant recognition among a certain set
and, although his earnings were paltry, he,
at all events, did earn something and bade
fair to earn more.  All literary workers
know how frequently a certain amount of
fame may be gained with very small
pecuniary success to back it.

Then Lionel decided to live in Montreal.
He was ill; New York did not agree with
him; he wanted new experiences and
realized that Lynn could give him one thing
that he had never known—the society of
rich and fashionable people; and, more
important than all, he knew well that he could
wheedle every penny of her earnings from
her, provided he lived in the same town.
The boy was a degenerate, totally without
gentle feeling of any kind, his only
approach to it being a sort of sympathetic
and artistic understanding of other people's
emotions.  His sister was, to him, merely
a cow to be milked dry.  He was, to his
sister, a demi-god to be sacrificed to; she
laid before him in the dust the burnt ashes
of her heart and life—and received the
fitting and inevitable reward of such folly.

By reason of the oath sworn by Lynn
and also because Lionel had won fame
under the name of Leo Ricossia, this was
the name by which he chose to be known
in Montreal.  As Leo Ricossia he was
received with open arms.  He had secured
letters of introduction to certain influential
Montrealers and soon contrived to be
formally presented to his sister at the home
of one of these.  His literary fame had
preceded him, and this, in conjunction with his
extraordinary beauty, his extreme youth,
and the fact that he, already, lay under
sentence of death made him, for the time
being, "the rage."  No social gathering
was complete without him; all the
debutantes cut out his poems, pasted them in
albums, and entreated his signature on the
opening page; all the older women of
fashion petted, indulged and ran after him.

It is extraordinary how rapidly and
completely a certain person may become "the
rage" and still more extraordinary how
rapidly and completely this person may
sink out of sight and be practically forgotten
in the space of a few months.  For about
a year Ricossia's popularity was at fever
height; then—murmurs of disapprobation,
shruggings of shoulders, a few hints here,
a few direct words of condemnation
there—and, by the end of another year, Society
knew Ricossia no more.  He had
overstepped the limit of indulgence; much is
excused to a young and handsome man
with charming manners and lung disease;
but not everything.  In Ricossia's case,
unfortunately, there was everything to excuse
and people finally and positively refused to
excuse it.  Ricossia, who had tired very
quickly of comparative respectability,
hastened the climax with a certain gay
recklessness, and abandoned himself with entire
satisfaction to all that he had vowed to
relinquish when he came to Montreal.
Taking up his abode in the disreputable old
studio building before-mentioned, he
proceeded to follow very literally the words of
the Episcopal prayer-book, doing
everything that he ought not to do, leaving
undone all that he ought to do.

Now, it will be supposed, Lynn's patience
failed, utterly.  Now, at last she abandoned
the wretched boy who was bound to her
only by blood and who had voluntarily
relinquished every claim on her regard?  Ah,
no.  Again let us repeat, if only logic ruled
life, how simple life would be.  As logic
does not rule life, Lynn continued to
support her half-brother, denying herself
everything that she could go without,
refusing all invitations that entailed
expensive clothes, immolating herself on the altar
of self-sacrifice with most-admired
indiscretion.  Nor was this all.  As it was
clearly impossible that the disgraced and
ostracized Ricossia should visit her in the
respectable home of her irreproachable
relatives; as it was equally impossible that she
should go by daylight to the somewhat
disreputable quarter of the town where he
lived; as everything within her denied the
possibility of leaving him to die in poverty,
illness and loneliness; for all these reasons
and for fifty others equally excellent, Lynn
hit on the brilliant plan of visiting him by
stealth, Nicodemus-fashion, of going
ostensibly to dine with some friend or friends,
and of leaving early and driving to the
Chatham in order to see for herself whether
the worthless life was still extant and
whether the cold heart craved anything
that she could give it.  A fool?  Oh yes,
a very great and undoubted fool.

Unfortunately the vast mass of humanity
is composed of fools, and the people
apparently free from any trace of such folly are
not just the people whom we most admire
and love.  Casabianca, standing flame-encircled
on the sinking ship; Joan of Arc
leading a handful of peasants against the
flower of the English army; Charlotte
Corday giving her life on the guillotine for the
pleasure of making a martyr of an inhuman
hound; all these and all the other divine
fools of history make a curious appeal to
humanity.  Why?  That is difficult to
answer.  Perhaps because, deep in our hearts,
we know ourselves to be fools and are not,
in moments of depression, quite convinced
that we are even divine fools.

Be that as it may, Lynn Thayer qualified
herself, as will be admitted, for a high place
in the picture gallery of fools; risking her
reputation, beggaring her life, breaking her
heart, all for the sake of a boy who had
done nothing from childhood but grieve,
torment and disappoint her.  Ah, but he had
done a little more than this.  He had filled
her life with his image; he had afforded
her an object on which to squander the
treasures of her mind and heart.  And what
more does the average fool want, whether
she be an historical, or, as in this case, an
ultra-modern fool?

Ricossia had hit on a way by which Lynn
was enabled to supplement her teacher's
salary and provide for him more comfortably.
Struck by the humour and style of
a little sketch which she had written for
his amusement, he made a few alterations
in it and sent it to an editor with whom he
was personally acquainted, under his own
name.  It was accepted and paid for; and,
from that time on, Ricossia was known for
his pungent and witty society skits.  Lynn
was only too grateful for the addition to
her much-strained purse and delighted that
her brother was pleased to approve of her
work.  Had it not been for this new method
of earning, she would have found it
increasingly difficult to account for the way in
which her money went, bringing her no
apparent return.

In her spare moments, therefore, she
wrote, busily, and, moreover, assumed the
duty of amanuensis to her brother, who
seemed more and more indifferent, as his
health declined and his energy waned, as
to the disposal of his brain-wares.
Provided he could carouse all night and sleep
all day he seemed content; only varying
this routine by complaints if Lynn either
came at inopportune times or failed to come
when she might have been of use.

He absolutely refused all medical aid and
scoffed at the idea of going to a sanitarium.
He knew that he must die and he wanted
to die, happy.  And, if Lynn had but known
it, this, under the circumstances, was about
the greatest kindness he could have done
society in general and his sister in particular.





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.. _`"PUNCHINELLO"`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   "PUNCHINELLO"

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   |  "He laughed ... as gaily,
   |    Dancing, joking every night,
   |  'He's the maddest, merriest fellow,'
   |    Cried the people with delight.
   |  Bravo, bravo!  Punchinello!
   |    Bravo, Punchinello!"
   |                    —Old Song.

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Zangwell, in his clever
"Serio-Comic Governess," has shown
us a young lady leading two very
different lives at one and the same time.
In the day-time she is a highly respectable
and decorous governess, at night, a music-hall
artiste.  In both lines she is a success.

Now this success is probably owing to
the fact that this particular young lady is
gratifying her curiosity and her desire to
lead a conventional existence at one and
the same time.  She is, in short, doing that
which she wishes to do.

There are many such "serio-comic
governesses" in real life.  Perhaps you, who
read, may be one; perhaps, unknown to
you, the dear friend from whom you have
no secrets and who, you fondly believe, has
none from you, may have a personality
which you have never even guessed at.

In the case of our "serio-comic governess,"
however, we must draw a distinction.
Lynn Thayer liked neither of her
lives, which clashed horribly both with one
another and with her sense of right.  Since
she saw no way in which she could avoid
it, however, she continued to lead them to
the best of her ability, sustained, if not
comforted, by the thought that one of them
was bound to terminate with the death of
the one being whom she most loved.

We have seen our "serio-comic governess"
in one role; now we see her in
another.  We have seen Punchinello with the
mask off and the grin absent; now we see
him as he appears daily in the theatre of life.

Lynn had returned from the school
where she taught and sat in her aunt's
sitting-room, engaged on a shirtwaist and
in conversation.  If we listen we shall be
able to form a fair idea of the progress of
the conversation, if not of that of the
shirtwaist.  Mrs. Thayer was employed in
embroidering a collar and impressed the
casual observer as doing the exact thing for
which Nature had fitted her.  She was one
of those pretty, faded, querulous women
with worthy hearts but limited intellects of
whom one almost instinctively speaks as
"poor thing"; why, it is hard to say,
except that something in their appearance
calls forth the expression.  No one ever
called Lynn Thayer "poor thing," nor
would, whatever griefs or difficulties she
might labour under.

Mrs. Thayer was speaking.

"Now, Lynn, *why* is he not coming here,
to-night?"

"For one thing, because I don't want
him; and, for another, because he is
changing his hotel.  You know he is staying at
the 'Hastings' while his house is in the
hands of the painters."

"And he is moving from the 'Hastings.'  Why?"

"Oh, I think he said it was 'tough' and
that he would have to leave it.  I tried hard
not to compliment him upon the altruism
of his action.  Certainly if one thing more
than another is calculated to 'raise the
tone' of a hotel, it is his leaving it."

"Lynn! you didn't tell him so?"
shrieked her aunt.

"No," returned her niece, rather
sorrowfully.  "I didn't.  I wish I had."

"*Lynn!*"

"I don't often neglect anything
calculated to render me unpopular with him,"
continued Miss Thayer, composedly, "and
when I do I'm always sorry for it,
afterwards.  You know that, Aunt Lucy?"

"Lynn, dear, don't use all those long
words," adjured her aunt, piteously.  "They
do sound so clever.  And men do so hate
clever women.  I don't mean that you are
clever, you understand, dear," she continued,
apologetically, "only that you appear
so, sometimes."

"I wonder whether Mr. Lighton would
dislike it if he thought I were clever!"
queried Lynn with sudden interest.

"I don't know.  I am afraid—"

"*How* I would scintillate if I only
thought it would annoy him," Lynn said
in a low voice.

Mrs. Thayer started, indignantly.

"I am thankful," she reflected in loud
and severe accents, "that *I* was never
afflicted with a desire to make myself
unpleasant to estimable young men."

"Estimable!  Aunt Lucy!"

"It is true," said Mrs. Thayer, putting
two diminutive stitches in the collar which
she was embroidering, "it is undeniably
true, Lynn, that the poor boy has been a
little wild.  But he wants to settle down."

"If he wants to settle down with me,
Aunt Lucy, he can want."

"Lynn, is that the remark of a lady?"

"It is; and, furthermore, it is the remark
of a lady who knows her own mind."

Mrs. Thayer raised a tiny handkerchief
to her eyes and deposited two tinier tears,
thereupon.  Long practice had made her
an adept in the gentle art of weeping, by
which art she had succeeded in establishing
an absolute monarchy in her own home.

"Oh, Lynn, what a way to talk," she
wept, gently, "when the poor boy is so
fond of you and has such a good salary and
a house of his own, besides.  How few
young men have houses of their own that
you can walk right into as soon as you
marry them!  What are you laughing
at?  And anyway he is much too good for
you and besides Eva Holt would jump at him."

"Let her jump."

"Ah, Lynn, you have no natural,
womanly instincts."

"I am afraid I am lacking in some."

"Such a nice house as it is, too," sighed
her aunt, "and all being done over—new
plumbing, electric light and everything!
Electric light is so nice to read by.  How
fortunate it is that his uncle di—that is
to say, how fortunate it is that his uncle
left it to him."

"Yes, indeed.  There's something very
attractive about electric lights," returned
her niece, gravely.

Mrs. Thayer looked slightly puzzled and
changed the subject.

"Mr. Lighton is really in many ways a
very nice young man," she ventured,
timidly.  "And not a bit worse than lots of
others."

"Not a bit!" assented the other.  Her
voice was still cheerful but her face had
clouded a little.  "The trouble is," she went
on, rather absently, after a moment's pause,
"the trouble is, he's worse-looking.  Vice,
pure and simple, one might tolerate; but
vice, in conjunction with a vermilion nose"—

"Lynn!" interrupted her aunt with
righteous indignation.  "Mr. Lighton is
as the Lord made him."

"The Lord!  Brandy and soda!"

Mrs. Thayer had her answer ready in her
pocket; she drew it out and deposited three
more tears upon its snowy surface.  Lynn
hesitated; she had a truly masculine
aversion to tears, an aversion which had cost
her many a domestic battle.

"Please don't cry, Aunt Lucy," she burst
forth at length.  "I don't see why you are
so very anxious to get me married.  I
thought you liked having me in the house.
If you don't"—

"Of course I like having you," said the
older woman, reproachfully.  "But I must
confess that it makes me feel dreadfully to
think of having you, always—that is, I
mean that it makes me feel dreadfully to
see you throw away such good chances.
For you know, Lynn, you are not in the
least pretty."

"Dear Aunt Lucy, you have told me that
so often," returned her niece, patiently.
"But I cannot for the life of me see why
the fact of my not possessing a Greek
profile should make me want to marry Mr. Lighton."

"That is just where you are so
incomprehensible.  And, besides, he has such a
lovely horse."

"His horse is certainly a dream.
Unfortunately, though, it was not his horse
who proposed.  If I could marry the horse
and lock the gentleman up in the stable, I'd
do it with pleasure.  O dear, why will you
talk about it and make me say such horrid
things.  The plain truth of the matter is
that I do not like the man and I hate
talking about the whole affair.  It irritates me,
someway.  I hate to see anything wasted."

"Then why do you"—

"Oh, Aunt Lucy, *don't* start it, again! after
all I've said."

"I perceive at last," said Mrs. Thayer
with dignity, "that I may as well let the
matter drop."

"You might have seen that at first, if
you had wished to," thought Lynn.

"I only hope you may never regret this."

"I hope so, too.  By the way, I am going
to drop in at Estelle's for tea at five.  A
lot of the girls are going there.  Have you
any message?"

"None, whatever; but, as you are going
there, I trust that you will talk this matter
over with her.  You could not have a better
confidante.  Talk it over with her, won't you?"

"I don't think it is necessary to promise
that," replied Lynn, wearily, "for she is
quite certain to talk it over with me, which
comes to the same thing in the end."

Mrs. Thayer compressed her lips and
continued to embroider.  Lynn departed to
make some change in her toilet and, that
being concluded, left the house.  Once on
the street her face changed and contracted
a little, making her look curiously older.

"There are times," she said slowly,
regarding the little terrier which gambolled
joyfully at her side, "there are times, Bob,
when I find the society of the four-legged
portion of humanity infinitely more
congenial than that of the two-legged.  This
is one of them.  How I wish sometimes
that Aunt Lucy were dumb or I deaf!
How thankful I am that you can't talk
reason with me or advise me for my good
or do any other unpleasant thing of the
kind, Bob.  If they only knew what they
were talking about! if they only knew why
I can't marry Lighton or—or anyone
else"—She broke off, abruptly, biting
her lip as though in pain.  "What's the use
of thinking?" she went on, presently.
"I've got to face Del and twenty other
women nearly as sharp in five minutes'
time and I can't show my feelings here
in this horrible street, either.  Oh, to get
away from it all!—here, don't be a fool!
You have about two minutes to pull
yourself together in, you weak, whining—I'll
put it out of my mind, entirely.  Whom
has Del asked, I wonder.  If it's one of
those vile functions where you're wedged
tightly between layers of fat, stupid women
who gabble inanely and continuously and
spill ice-cream and coffee over your good
clothes, I'll never forgive her.  No, she said
distinctly that it was just a few of the girls
and she always tells the truth to me, if she
doesn't to anyone else.  Oh, Del, Del!  I
wonder if you are the right person to go
by.  I wonder what you would say if I were
to tell you of all this miserable coil of
deception and misery.  Of course I know
what you would say; you would say that
I was a fool and so I am; that wouldn't
help matters, much.  What *could* you, or
anyone suggest?  Nothing, nothing that
would be of any use; anyway, if I were
dying for advice, I am not free to obtain
it.  If I had an unfailing fund of common
sense and a heart of stone what would I
do, I wonder?  God knows.  Being myself
I'll do what I'm doing—and God grant it
can't last forever."  She set her lips firmly
and walked along until she reached Pine
Avenue.

Pine Avenue lies at the foot of Mount
Royal and, in fact, is built upon its slope.
It is a broad, fine street and some of the
handsomest residences in Montreal are
situated upon, or, rather, directly above it.
At all seasons of the year it is largely
frequented and, in winter, is a favourite haunt
of snowshoers and "skiers."  At the
present hour, however, it was practically
deserted; and Lynn drew a long breath of
relief as, leaving the crowded city streets
behind, she sought its solitude.  For some
little time she walked on in silence.

The golden January sun turned Mount
Royal into a mass of shining marble, flecked
with skeleton-like maples and crowned with
dark green pines.  Beyond—behind its
towering whiteness—lay the dead of
Montreal.  Lynn winced at the thought of them
and fiercely refused to let her thought dwell
on their impenetrable peace.

"I'm going to an At Home, Bob," she
said, half-aloud, trying to laugh.  "There
will be about twenty other women there—and,
in all probability, half of them are
wearing veils over their faces like the
minister in Hawthorne's story.  'I look around
me and lo! on every visage a black veil.'  Only
people don't go in for black veils unless
they're cowards; they go in for scarlet
and gold, which makes a far better disguise
and renders life more cheerful.  What's the
use of making a fuss?  Anyway, whatever
happens, whatever nasty knocks Fate may
hand me, there is one thing she can't
do—she can't make me whine."  She threw
her head back and laughed; then called the
dog to her side and smiled as he licked her
gloved hand.

"Del doesn't like you, old boy," she said,
fondly.  "But I'll hide you, somewhere,
and I won't stay any longer than I can
help.  Ah! there's the house, already.  It's
just as well.  I don't feel like being alone,
to-day, more than I can help.  I wonder
why it is that things seem so much worse
at some times than they do at others."





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.. _`"JUST A FEW OF THE GIRLS"`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   "JUST A FEW OF THE GIRLS"

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   "'I must be my own Mamma,' said Becky."—*Thackeray*.

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   "She was clever, witty, brilliant and sparkling beyond most
   of her kind but possessed of many devils of malice and
   mischievousness.  She could be nice, though, even to her own
   sex.  But that is another story."—*Kipling*.

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Mrs. Hadwell's home, whither
her friend, Miss Thayer, was
bound, contrived to be both home-like
and imposing.  Situated on a slope of
the "mountain," as all loyal Montrealers
call Mount Royal, it commanded an
unsurpassed view of the city and harbour and
was surrounded by a picturesque garden,
unspoilt by overcultivation.  In summer it
assumed an appearance of fairy-like charm:
and even when, as now, devoid of verdant
ornament and encompassed only by the
sighing branches of bare trees, it had an
appearance of creature comfort, oddly at
variance with the bleak, snow-crowned hills
that rose behind it.  Mount Royal, the
pride of every Montrealer, boasts many
another such home; but few combine dignity
and cosiness in the measure which
Mrs. Hadwell's did.

"Del's house is really awfully like her
in many ways," Lynn Thayer reflected as
she rang the bell.  "It is so expensive and
in such good taste and so comfortable and
so cold—is Mrs. Hadwell in, Ella?  Yes,
I know she is, but see here! can you
smuggle Bob somewhere where he won't be in
the way of the girls?  You know Mrs. Hadwell
doesn't like dogs."

She divested herself of some of her wraps
and crossed the hall.  The perfume of roses
pervaded the air and the soft strain of
violins was faintly heard beneath the
hubbub of voices as she made her way toward
the large old-fashioned drawing-room
whence the sounds of festivity proceeded.
This room, hung with crimson velvet and
panelled in dark oak, was almost
sumptuous in its comfort.  Beautifully carved
Turkish lamps hung from the ceiling: a
splendid wood fire burned on the hearth:
great vases of dark red roses and carnations
were disposed wherever opportunity
offered: and, at the further end of the room,
one caught a delicious glimpse of cool green
ferns and various-coloured blooms.  The
room was filled with daintily dressed girls
and young women: and behind a superlatively
dainty tea table sat the hostess who
hastily pushed aside a cream jug and
rushed in the direction of her latest guest.

"Help yourselves, girls," she exclaimed.
"I want to speak to Lynn.  Why are you
so late, child? and where have you been,
lately?  I haven't seen you for an age."

"Which, being interpreted, means four
days," said Lynn, laughing and returning
her hostess' kiss.  "How lovely the rooms
look, Del! and what a sweet frock that is!
I do like you in mauve."

"I think it *is* rather successful," said
Mrs. Hadwell, contentedly: and both
women laughed.  In their girlhood days
they had entered into a compact which
had ever since been observed faithfully;
namely, to tell no useless lies to one another.
"Only don't let us forget to tell them to
other people, Lynn," Mrs. Hadwell had
remarked, solemnly.  "Don't let it get us
into bad habits."  It had never got her into
bad habits: she had lied her way successfully
into public esteem, riches and an old
man's heart; and, even on reaching the
giddy pinnacle of social success where
rudeness is frequently condoned, she had
faithfully followed the policy of telling the truth
only to her one intimate friend, Lynn Thayer.

"Edie, do pour Lynn some tea," she cried,
now, turning to a pretty brown-eyed girl
who hovered near, watching her adoringly.
"And put piles and piles of cream in it and
five lumps or so of sugar—that's the way
she likes it, the incomprehensible
creature! ... Another of those sickening
debutantes," she observed in a confidential
undertone, turning to Lynn and gently
propelling her in the direction of a couch,
"simply worships me, you know! follows
me around like a dog and—that's right,
dear! how sweet of you to save me the
trouble! now get her an Italian cream and
a nice cake, will you? like an angel!—I
don't know what I shall do if it keeps up:
you know I can't bear bread and butter
misses and she actually asked me for a lock
of my hair the other day.  I felt like telling
her that I paid eighty dollars for my switch
in New York and that my own hair was
too precious to—oh, *thank* you, dear!
Lynn, this is the sweetest girl; she saves
me all sorts of trouble and her name is Miss
Roland; Edie, this is my friend, Miss
Thayer, of whom you have often heard me
speak—oh, dear! there are all the girls
coming up to speak to you, Lynn, and
anyway I ought to go and pour out some more
tea.  When you have done the polite, do
come and keep me company at the tea-table."

"Little Mrs. Hadwell," as her friends
usually called her, fled, casting a
bewitching smile at the group of girls who were
clustering about Lynn.  Estelle Hadwell's
teeth were her strong point, a fact which
she never, for an instant, lost sight of.  She
had no complexion worth terming such, her
features were irregular and her figure
decidedly angular.  Yet she contrived to be
considered a beauty, as any woman can who
has time and money to devote to her appearance.

Lynn watched her curiously as she
settled herself at the tea-table with a
coquettish little flirt of her silken skirts, and
marvelled anew at the unconscious dramatic
instinct which enabled this tiny creature to
play the role of a beauty with such
unfailing success.  As "Little Mrs. Hadwell" sat
pouring the tea with one pretty arm
gracefully raised, she was a vision for an artist.
Her mauve gown fell about her petite form
in folds that were almost statuesque in
their grace: her beautiful hair—which
looked just as beautiful as though it had
not grown on an Irish housemaid's head—was
arranged with such taste as to make
her small head a thing of beauty: her really
pretty neck and arms were set off by a
fichu and falling cuffs of rich yellow lace.
A cluster of violets was carelessly tucked
in the front of her fichu: and a long chain
of amethysts outlined her slender waist—which
had hardly been so slender, had it
not been for the skill and strength of her
French maid.  Altogether, as she sat there,
Lynn recognized for the fiftieth time—and
with precisely the same sense of
wonder—that, in spite of Estelle's entire lack
of beauty, she was the daintiest and most
fascinating thing, imaginable.

Among the girls who surrounded Lynn
were several whose beauty was sufficiently
apparent to make them noticeable,
anywhere.  Edith Roland, the adoring
debutante, had big, brown eyes, a pretty colour
and a figure whose slenderness and grace
owed nothing to artificial aid; yet, beside
her diminutive hostess she sank into
insignificance.  Erma Reed was a beautiful girl,
tall, splendidly proportioned with the
features of a Greek statue and the air of a
grand dame; but, after the first admiration
which her almost flawless pulchritude
provoked, one's eyes wandered instinctively to
the sinuous figure and piquante, appealing
face of Mrs. Hadwell.  "Magnetism—that
is the only word for it, I suppose," thought
Lynn.  "Yet she didn't always have it as
she has it now.  Can that sort of thing be
cultivated, I wonder?"

"Lynn, we never see you, now," declared
Joan Cadding, one of her friends.  "What's
the reason?"

"Old age, laziness and lots to do.  At
twenty-eight one can't be always gadding.
Besides, a teacher must keep early hours."

"Oh, aged one, it is not so many years
since a certain teacher was out every night
in the week until one or two o'clock and
absolutely refused even to lie down for half
an hour when she left school at three.
Mrs. Thayer used to say to mother, 'Really,
Lynn must have the constitution of a horse;
she comes home from school, skates for an
hour, rushes into calling costume and drops
into a dozen things before dinner: then,
as soon as that is over, prepares for a dance
or a tobogganing party.'"

"As you say, I was a few years younger, Joan."

"But why have you given everything up
so?  You can't complain of being shelved.
Why, at the only dance where I've met you
this winter your card was filled to
overflowing before you had been in the room
five minutes.  You certainly can't worry
about lack of attention."

"No, I have no beauty to fade and no
youthful fascinations to take wing, so the
people who liked me ten years ago are just
as apt to like me, now."

"Then why do you slip out of things
so?  Even Del says she never sees you."

"Del means that I don't live here as I
used to.  I see her three or four times a
week: any one but Del would be sick of
me.  But, seriously, girls, this idea of
combining public school teacher and society girl
isn't the best in the world.  As far as I
know, I am the only woman who has ever
done it successfully for years and I'm
getting tired of it.  And that reminds me!
Do you want to hear a good story?  I went
to a man-tea at Mrs. Dean-Everill's the
other day—you see I'm not altogether a
hermit yet—and I met a Mrs. Howden
there—a very common woman with
money.  No one else wanted to talk to her
and she seemed a good-natured soul and
anxious to be affable, so I sacrificed myself
as usual.  She simply beamed on me—till,
in the course of conversation, it transpired
that I taught from nine to three five days
out of the seven.  Then she froze: suddenly
and completely did she freeze: and took the
earliest opportunity of sidling away from
my contaminating presence.  A little later
on I was talking to some of the other
people when Dick Ashe, who has just returned
from Europe, you know, rushed up to me
and said in his usual boisterous way, 'Oh,
Miss Thayer, you should see the lovely pin
that your cousin, Lord Haviland, has
entrusted to me for you.'  I caught sight of
the woman's face; she looked like a
devotee who had unwittingly slapped a seraph.
I felt so sorry for her that I hastened to
murmur, 'Oh, Harry's only my third
cousin, you know!' but even that didn't
seem to wipe the tortured look from her
fat face.  Think what it must be to a social
climber to have snubbed an earl's third
cousin."

In the burst of laughter and talk which
followed this, only Mrs. Hadwell noticed
that Lynn had made a definite effort to turn
the course of conversation from discussion
of herself.

"Well," said Agatha Ladilaw in her
flute-like voice, "I don't see what is
amusing you all so.  It couldn't have been very
pleasant for Mrs. What's-her-name to think
that she had been rude to an earl's third
cousin: and, on the other hand, if Lynn
were an ordinary teacher you couldn't
expect her to be treated in the same way."

"Why not?" asked some one.  Lynn
merely laughed and looked at the first
speaker with covert yet kindly mirth.

"I don't see why you laugh," said
Agatha, with soft stubbornness.

"Why, you see, Agatha," said Lynn,
looking at her thoughtfully, "this
Mrs. Howden liked me till she found I was a
teacher.  Then she couldn't endure my
society till it transpired that I was related
to an earl.  Then she loved me once more."

"And why shouldn't she?" asked Agatha,
lifting her lovely lashes.  "Earls are
not so common."

"Not so common as snobs, no.  Still
having an earl for a cousin is no reason why
people should like one."

"But you see, Lynn, it is a reason.  You
say, yourself, that she liked you as soon as
she found it out."

Lynn abandoned argument.

"She liked me in the first place, too,"
she said, laughing.

"Oh, but then she didn't know you were
a teacher," Agatha explained, very sensibly.

"She liked me until I was found out, in
other words."

"Exactly," said Agatha, pleased to find
that her logic had penetrated.  "It often
happens so.  Look at that young Italian
with the lovely eyes who wrote the
magnificent poetry that you weren't allowed to
read! and had to smuggle into the
dormitory at night after the lights were out!
Now everybody raved about him until they
found that he took opium and drank."

"And then they promptly dropped him:
just as this Mrs. Howden did Lynn, when
she found that she taught.  It's an exactly
parallel case," agreed Mrs. Hadwell,
looking straight at Lynn with a perfectly
innocent face and inwardly wondering how her
friend could preserve such a stony
impenetrability of countenance.

"Certainly it is," said Agatha, triumphantly,
"except that of course it's wicked
to drink and it's quite respectable to teach.
But it comes to the same thing in the end."

"So many things do," said Lynn with a
little laugh.  "Still, Agatha, it's not
necessarily wickedness that makes people drink.
Some people drink in the same way that
they breathe—because to stop would be
to die or to go mad."

"What unpleasant people," said Agatha,
virtuously.  "I'm glad I'm not like that.
Still, even if I were I'm sure that I could
stop it—I can't understand people being
so weak.  And, speaking of that
Ricossia—whatever became of him?  He was so
wicked and he did look so nice in evening
clothes.  I used to be awfully gone on him
and so were all the girls in the Sixth.  It
wasn't because he was wicked, you know,"
she added hastily.

"No, indeed; the wickedness of Beelzebub
would have availed him nothing if he
hadn't also been decorative in evening
clothes.  Agatha, don't you want this
little chocolate cake with the nut in the top?"

Agatha did: and she also wanted some
information on the subject of Ricossia.

"Why are you so determined not to talk
about him?  He was your protégé from the
start.  You took him up—you and
Mr. Amherst—I don't believe he would ever
have been so popular and run after if you
hadn't started it."

"Yes, what has become of that boy?"
queried Mrs. Hadwell with sudden interest.
"Of course he has gone to the dogs, we all
know that: but what particular dogs and where?"

"I am not his keeper," answered Lynn,
lightly.  "Do you know that it's about time
I left, Del?"

"Oh, no!" cried Mrs. Hadwell, starting
up.  "You mustn't.  Why, you don't even
know why I asked you to come here, this
afternoon: you simply must stay long
enough to hear that."

"Well, I'll stay five minutes"—

"Very well, five minutes!" returned
Mrs. Hadwell, who knew quite well how long a
period of time five minutes can cover.
"Now, girls, attend!  You knew that
Henry's brother Carl settled in the States and
that he has a grown-up family.  Well, the
third child is twins—I mean the third
children are twins—well, never mind! what's
the use of explaining when you all know
what I mean, anyway.  The point is that
I've invited them one and all to visit me,
every year: but they've consistently
refused because the brother is indignant at
Henry's marrying a young wife, just when
they had quite come to count on getting
his money.  These twins, however, seem to
have a mind between them—they're only
nineteen, too, I believe—very young to
have a mind, even if it is only half a
one—and they have written with gusto,
accepting my invitation and telling me that
they're dying to see something of the
Canadian sports.  Now, as you know, I've no
taste for sports and I thought some of you
might help me out.  They are only going
to be here for a week or so, as they both
go to college, and I want to give them what
our American friends call 'a real good
time.'  I have thought of several of the
ordinary things—a tea for the girls and
a bridge the night after they arrive: and a
little later on, I am going to give a fancy
dress ball—yes, consider yourselves all
invited—but I thought it would be nice if
I got a few of you girls together and
organized some parties for tobogganing and
ice-boating and so on."

"Don't forget the Conquerors-Wales
hockey match."

"No, detestable thing! they'll want to
see that, I suppose.  I can't stand hockey.
Lynn, you're not going?"

"I must.  It's getting very late."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Mrs. Hadwell,
piteously: and at that moment, the clang
of the doorbell, followed by the advent of
a fresh visitor, seemed to give the lie to
Miss Thayer's assertion.

"Mrs. Langham-Greene!  Lynn, forgive
me.  I swear I didn't ask her," murmured
the hostess: then glided forward eagerly.

"So glad to see you.  What good genius
prompted you to drop in this particular
afternoon?  *All* the girls have done the
same.  (And if that doesn't pacify her,"
reflected the ingenuous hostess, "nothing will.")

The newcomer laughed, a pretty, soft,
disagreeable laugh, and glanced about her.

"So I see," she rejoined, smoothly.  "We
old married women will have to entertain
one another.  These young girls," her
glance wandered from Lynn Thayer to two
or three others and she smiled thoughtfully,
"these young girls have their own
topics of conversation."

"Now that," said Mrs. Hadwell to
herself with unwilling admiration, "is neat,
distinctly neat.  Insult to me, insult to my
best friend and insult to half a dozen of
my guests and all in one short breath.
Lynn, you're not going?" she added, aloud.

"I am indeed.  Bob will be wondering
what's become of me."

"*Bob*!  You didn't bring him here?"

"I did, Del.  You know I'm away all
day and Aunt Lucy never takes him out.
Poor little fellow! it's pathetic, the way he
greets me when I get home."

"Miss Thayer is such an attractive
person, isn't she?" murmured Mrs. Langham-Greene
with a peculiar gleam in her lazy
cat-like eyes.  "She has such a
fascination—for dogs and cats."

"You, Mrs. Langham-Greene," returned
Lynn with equal sweetness, "can have *no*
idea how nice it is to be able to fascinate
something."

With that, she left.  Mrs. Hadwell was
delighted with the Parthian shot and
indignant at Mrs. Langham-Greene's impudence
in classing herself with her hostess under
the title of "old married women."  She
therefore launched forth into a eulogy of
her absent friend which, judging from
appearances, went far to spoil the elegant
widow's enjoyment of her cup of tea.

"Lynn is such a favourite with men,
too," she concluded.

"Really," rejoined the green-eyed siren,
carelessly.  "But girls who teach do age
so rapidly, don't you think so,
Mrs. Hadwell? and they are apt to become soured
and to mistake rudeness for repartee."

"A mistake that is frequently made,"
said Mrs. Hadwell, inwardly furious.
"But, when one has such a clever tongue
as Lynn, don't you think one is apt to take
advantage of duller people than one's
self?"  Agatha broke in.

"Isn't it funny, Mrs. Hadwell, how Lynn
never will talk about Mr. Ricossia?  She
used to like him so much.  And I am sure
she must know what has become of him."

"Dreadful creature!" purred Mrs. Langham-Greene,
arching her delicate eyebrows.
"Your friend wasn't really infatuated with
him, was she, Mrs. Hadwell?  People do
talk so."

"Don't they?" assented Mrs. Hadwell,
looking grieved.  "I daresay even you and
I don't escape.  Poor Lynn presumed on
her twenty-eight years and her plain face
to take a sisterly interest in an eccentric
genius, little more than a child in years; and
people immediately assume that she must
be in love with him.  So absurd!  As if a
girl who—oh, they are all going! what a
shame!  How I wish you had dropped in a
little sooner, Mrs. Langham-Greene.  We've
had a delightful chat but such a short one!"





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.. _`"A FIN-DE-SIECLE PAIR"`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   "A FIN-DE-SIECLE PAIR"

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   "I have seen Hayes argue with a tough horse—I have
   seen a tonga driver coerce a stubborn pony—I have seen a
   riotous setter broken to gun by a hard keeper—but the
   breaking-in of Pluffles ... was beyond all these."—*Kipling*.

.. vspace:: 2

"But, Henry, you should be glad to
see your brother's children."

"I don't see why.  A pair of
young ragamuffins who'll pull the house
about my ears."

"My dear Henry!  They're nineteen."

"Worse and worse!  The boy will be
certain to fall in love with you."

"Do you think so?" asked Mrs. Hadwell, eagerly.

"I think it won't be your fault if he
doesn't," responded her husband with acerbity.

"Well, at all events the girl won't fall in
love with you," said Mrs. Hadwell with a
twinkle in her eye.

Her spouse grunted something unintelligible.

"Not if she sees you with that expression
on your face," went on Mrs. Hadwell,
rather sadly.  "It always seems so strange
to me that a man of your experience and
charm—a finished man of the world, in
other words—should give way to these
useless moods."

Mr. Hadwell's brow slightly cleared in
spite of his efforts to hide the fact.

"If I had seen when I first met you,"
went on Mrs. Hadwell in chastened accents,
"that, beneath the mask of courtly politeness
and delicate flattery, you concealed the
nature of a gloomy tyrant."

"Da—I mean, confound it all!" said
Mr. Hadwell, much affected, "what on
earth do you want, Estelle?"

"Why, I'm afraid I don't quite understand
you," said Mrs. Hadwell, raising her
pretty eyebrows in pained surprise.

"My dear little girl, you know I am not
a tyrant," said Mr. Hadwell, miserable at
the thought of being so misunderstood, yet,
at the same time, secretly delighted at the
reference to his "courtly politeness."  His
delight was natural when one considers the
fact that, at no time of his life, had his
manners surpassed those of an average groom.

"No—perhaps not," said Mrs. Hadwell,
softly.  "Yet, Henry, there are times when—when—"

"When what, darling?" inquired
Mr. Hadwell, abjectly.

"When," said Mrs. Hadwell with
sorrowful dignity, "when, Henry, I am
actually afraid to ask you for the little extra
money which will provide for the entertainment
of your brother's children."

"Must they be so much entertained?"
asked Mr. Hadwell, humbly yet uneasily.
He was a kind old man, but the prospect
of parting with a dollar never failed to
cause him acute agony.

"They need not be entertained,"
responded Mrs. Hadwell with feeling.
"Those unfortunate children may come
here and stay with us three weeks and
return to Ohio to tell their father and
mother that the woman who has deprived
them of their uncle's fortune, grudges them
a ball or a"—  She wept: and Mr. Hadwell
writhed in agony.  There were only
two things in life that he really loved:
his big income and his small wife.  Of the
two, he really preferred his wife: and after
a few moments' silent struggle, he
succumbed to her tears and her fascinations
and drew out his cheque book.

"How much?" he inquired, hardily.

Little Mrs. Hadwell dried her eyes.

"How much?" she inquired, innocently.
"How mu—oh, Henry! were you thinking
of giving me some money?"

Mr. Hadwell regarded her with perplexity.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" he inquired
looking puzzled.

Mrs. Hadwell buried her eighty-dollar
head in her pretty hands.

"I wanted you to show some interest in
these children—your own brother's
children!" she wept.  "And you—offer—me—money!"

Mr. Hadwell groaned, feeling that he
was a tactless brute yet not quite seeing
why.  Suddenly a bright thought struck
him: he tore out a blank cheque, signed it
and tossed it playfully to his wife.

"There, there!" he observed, soothingly.
"Don't cry any more, Estelle.  Of course
these children must be entertained—of
course I am pleased about their coming.
But, you see, we business men have so much
to worry us."

Mr. Hadwell's business consisted in
driving to his office every morning, receiving
the obsequious greetings of his manager—and
drawing his handsome income.  Mrs. Hadwell
knew this as well—better than
he did—therefore——

"Of course," she cooed, drying her eyes
and regarding her spouse with mingled awe
and wonder.  "Of course, dear.  You must
forgive me if I seem a little unreasonable,
sometimes; but it did hurt me so when you
seemed to think that all I wanted from you
was money"——

"Of course—of course!" said her husband,
hastily.  "Now I must be off.  What
are you going to do, to-day?"

"Well, let me see!  Lynn is coming to
dinner and we are going for a drive first."

"Ah!" said Mr. Hadwell, looking pleased.
He heartily approved of Lynn and took
great pleasure in the thought that this
exceptionally "nice" young woman was his
wife's best friend; feeling that Estelle's
evident devotion to Lynn overbalanced her
quite as evident love of flattery and
attention.  Mr. Hadwell never forgot that Lynn
insisted on teaching in the public schools
rather than allow her uncle to support her,
wholly: a piece of unselfishness that went
straight to his heart.  Needless to say, he
did not know that Estelle had talked him
over with Lynn from every point of view,
both before and after his marriage to the former.

Estelle Harding had been the granddaughter
of a wealthy man who had died
when she was sixteen, leaving her penniless.
For the next five years she had lived
with different relatives, positively refusing
to follow the example of her friend, Lynn
Thayer, who was preparing at the High
and Normal schools, to earn her living as
a teacher.  Being tremendously popular
both with girls and boys, she was deluged
with invitations and love affairs; but at
twenty-one, she met Mr. Hadwell, a
wealthy and retiring bachelor of
sixty-three, and, from that time on, she paid
assiduous and tactful court to him.  The net
result of this campaign was that, in six
months from the time she had first met
him, Mr. Hadwell was a married man.  It
speaks well for our small heroine's tactics
that her husband, to his dying day,
believed that he had fallen madly in love with
her when he saw her first and that nothing
but his overpowering fascinations had
induced the shy damsel to become his wife.
"You were the first man who had ever
cared for me," Estelle would say to him,
sometimes.  "The others—oh, they were
just boys!  I couldn't look up to them, dear:
they were on a level with myself."  This
was a particularly tactful lie on Mrs. Hadwell's
part: she knew well that among her
admirers had been young men whose
intellect and strength of character had far
surpassed her husband's.  But tactful lying
was Mrs. Hadwell's forte.

Many and varied were the comments on
Miss Harding's engagement.  "Little
cat! how clever she is," said some.  The
majority, however, murmured feelingly, "So
glad that sweet girl will have her reward."

"That sweet girl" had had her reward.
All that she cared for in life—money,
social position, unlimited flattery and envy
were hers without stint.  And, much as I
hate to grieve the moralists, Estelle
Hadwell was a supremely happy and contented
woman.  If she had been childless it is
possible that her lot might, at times, have
palled on her: but two pretty, healthy
children occupied what little heart she had.
Her husband, though in a vague way proud
of his children's beauty and brightness,
cared little for them: what heart *he* had
was occupied by his wife who played upon
his affections with the hand of a practised
artist.

She let the cheque lie by her plate, now,
as she rose and kissed her better half,
affectionately.

"What a delightful visit those dear twins
will have, thanks to your generosity," she
said, smiling at him, affectionately.

Mr. Hadwell waved a patronizing disclaimer.

"Oh, I shall be glad to do what I can
for Carl's children," he said, magnificently.

"That is so like you, dear," returned his
simple little wife, gently.

She was giggling softly to herself over
this conversation in the afternoon as she
pinned an expensive little hat over her still
more expensive tresses.  "I really do think
I am cleverer than most women," she
mused.  "I get just what I want and I
never hurt the dear old thing's feelings."  She
was really fond of her husband whose
absorption in her satisfied her vanity and
whose jealousy served to render life
interesting.  When Lynn Thayer arrived she
entered into a long and detailed account of
her morning's work, ending by triumphantly
displaying the cheque.  Lynn laughed,
unwillingly.

"I do hate that sort of thing, Estelle,"
she said.  "I know you're awfully clever
at getting your own way, but I can never
understand why you don't get Mr. Hadwell
to allow you a certain sum, monthly.
Then you wouldn't have to stoop to this
sort of thing."

"Oh, but I like stooping," said Estelle,
placidly.  "And, besides, if I knew just
how much I was going to get every month
it would be awfully tame.  You haven't a
bit of the gambler in you, Lynn."

"Not a particle."

"Then there's another side to the
question.  If Henry had to make me an
allowance he would only allow for necessities.
For instance, if I wanted to run down to
New York for a week or two it would have
to come out of my dress allowance.  That
would be horrid.  Oh, I had such a time
getting a few hundred dollars out of him
the last time I went.  He wrangled over
every detail—actually wanted me to stay
in the suburbs because hotels were cheaper
there, quite forgetting that my fare in and
out would amount to something.  As I said
to him, 'I suppose I could walk to the
ferry—it's only twenty miles or so each
way and exercise is good for one—but I
really couldn't walk across the water; I'm
not *quite* divine yet!'"

"You absurd child!  What did he say to that?"

"Oh, he mumbled something to the effect
that I ought to be a Christian Scientist.
That was meant as a joke.  He always jokes
when he feels ashamed.  So I said, 'Yes,
if I were a Christian Scientist I could walk
over anything, yourself included; but
because I am only your poor, stupid, little
wife, I must humbly beg you for money
for this little trip.'  Then he tried to be
pompous, the way he always does when I
pretend to knuckle down.  He said, 'If I
don't want you to go to New York, that
ought to be enough for any well-regulated
wife.'  And I said, 'You dear old stupid!
I'm not a well-regulated wife.  Don't be
so ridiculous.  Anyone would think I was
a watch to hear you talk!'  Then I looked
cute and rolled my eyes at him and he
caved right in.  Dear me, Lynn, what a pity
it is I can't bestow some of my superfluous
cleverness on you.  Your aunt tells me that
you are positively discouraging Mr. Lighton.
You must be mad."

"I am mad—thoroughly mad about the
whole business.  Why in the world should
I marry this man simply because he asks
me?  Really, I have been so advised and
dictated to and badgered about him that
now the very thought of his face makes me feel angry."

"Then why do you think of his face?"
inquired Mrs. Hadwell, opening her grey
eyes, innocently.  "Why don't you forget
about his face and think about his figure
at the bank?  That is what any sensible
girl would do."

Lynn groaned.  "I'm not a sensible girl,
unfortunately," she said.  "Now, Del, if
you're going for a drive before dinner you
had better hurry."

"Very well.  I'm ready.  Dear me!  I
must just see Mrs. Waite before we go and
tell her to have dinner at seven.  Oh,
Lynn! that woman is such a comfort to me.  She's
a regular automaton, knows how
everything in the house should be done—and
does it!  Of course she is absolutely
heartless, but—what are you giggling at?  Oh,
my dear, I may not be particularly intense
or passionate, but I assure you I am a
volcano beside Mrs. Waite.  She doesn't care
for the children, she doesn't even care for
me.  Now you know there must be
something radically wrong with any one who
doesn't care for me—I may have my faults,
but no one can deny that I am the most
fascinating person!—and in her case it is
the stranger as she is a decayed
gentlewoman and I have gone out of my way to
show her kindness.  Why, I even asked her
to dine with Henry and me once when we
had people who knew her coming to
dinner: and she looked at me with her
Medusa-like countenance and refused.  But as
a housekeeper she is a jewel and, as long
as she runs my house like clockwork, I can
excuse her lack of geniality.  Here she is.
Oh, Mrs. Waite, will you tell Sarah to put
off dinner till eight.  I am going out with
Miss Thayer.  By the way, you don't know
Miss Thayer, do you?  Miss Thayer,
Mrs. Waite.  Don't forget about dinner.

"There, isn't she a Gorgon, Lynn?  She
is always just like that—neat, accurate,
frigid, freezing.  Ugh!  What a lovely day
for a drive, isn't it?  I'm going to
Mr. Amherst's to take a look at my portrait.
It is going to be so nice and I want you
to see it.  I am sure it will be hung in the
Art Gallery at the Spring Exhibition.
What a nice man he is, isn't he?  By the
way, speaking of Mrs. Waite, I am going
to tell you why I always make a point of
introducing her to all my friends and
having things just as pleasant for her as
possible.  It's because she's like that
much-talked-of 'skeleton at the feast'; she's a
perpetual reminder to me of how lucky I
am.  I wish you would compare us and
take a lesson, my friend.  I'm the bright
example, she's the awful warning.  I might
have been just where she is to-day if I
hadn't had my wits about me.  She might
be where I am if she had made the most
of her opportunities.  Don't waste time
telling me that she's plain and uninteresting.
I would be plain if I didn't dress properly
and eat good food and take good care of
myself; and, as for 'interesting,' *every*
woman is interesting to a man if she
impresses him as being sensible and
womanly—that is, if she enjoys his conversation
and tells him that she likes dusting.
Every man likes a woman who is fond of
dusting.  I don't know why.  And, as for
sweeping, there is no surer passport to a
man's affections than to tell him that you
sweep out your own room every morning.
It never fails to have the desired effect.  It
doesn't matter if the man is a multi-millionaire
with an army of housemaids and footmen;
he still thinks it is womanly and
domestic to sweep.  If I ever found my hold
on Henry's affections becoming a trifle
slack, I should immediately start sweeping."

"Del, I don't think I ever met anyone
who could talk more nonsense than you, in
a given space of time."

"Nonsense!  Oh, Lynn, if I could only
get you to understand that what I am
saying, although delivered as if it were the
merest airy persiflage, is the soundest
common sense.  If you want to be admired and
respected by the male sex—sweep!  Or,
if you don't like sweeping, don't sweep;
but talk about sweeping as if it were the
one thing that you doted on; convey the
impression that you would rather sweep
than go motoring any day.  The man in
question may have thought you a charming
girl before, but, after that, his feelings will
take a deeper tinge; you will advance in
his mind to the status of a womanly
woman.  Delicious!  Instead of these
lectures girls are always attending at Y.W.C.A.'s
and colleges, about Browning and the
Pyramids and the condition of the poor
and the prevalence of frivolity, what a pity
it is they can't attend lectures given by
some past-master in the art of flirting—such
as I, for instance!  Wouldn't those
lectures be crowded, though; that is, if
girls knew what was good for them.  And
here you have all the advantages of a
private course of instruction and you won't
take the trouble to learn the first rules of
the game.  Ah, the golden words of wisdom
wasted! the opportunities lost.  Ah me!"

"Del, I strongly object to your speaking
as though I had no opportunities.  Haven't
I always at least one person who wants
to marry me? even though I do tell the
truth occasionally?"

"You have.  But that's by good luck,
not by management.  You might have
twenty if you exerted yourself properly."

"You make me feel as though I were a
sort of derelict.  It's a horrid feeling."

"If I succeed in making you feel a
derelict I have succeeded beyond my wildest
expectations.  Don't you know, my dear
child, that you are experiencing in a faint
degree what you will experience all your
life if you don't hurry up and settle
yourself.  Don't you know that for the next
fifty years you will, not only feel, but be a
derelict if you don't accept Lighton and
marry him before he changes his mind."

"Thank goodness, this drive can't last
forever," exclaimed Lynn, laughing.
"Otherwise I should be compelled to get out and
walk.  You are perfectly unendurable
sometimes, Del, and this is certainly one of the
times."

"I'm going to be unendurable again and
to better purpose, I hope, a little later on,"
said Mrs. Hadwell, darkly.  "But now I
suppose we'll have to descend—or ascend,
if you like it better—from practical life to
pictures.  Mr. Amherst paints well, doesn't
he?  And what a nice man he is.  I don't
know anyone who doesn't like him, do you?"

"No, I don't think I do.  He's nice and
very popular."

"And a great friend of yours too, isn't
he?  I haven't heard you speak of him,
lately.  I thought at one time"—

"Oh, Del, do think of something else!"
exclaimed Lynn a little crossly.  "Men,
men, men—and marriage, marriage,
marriage!  *Do* let us think and talk of
something else."

"Very well, my dear, we'll talk of myself.
I wanted to get up a flirtation with
Mr. Amherst this winter and he didn't seem
to respond at all.  So I immediately thought
that he must be interested in someone else
and, as he was always calling on you,
naturally I thought"—

"Men again!"

"Not men but a man.  Don't you perceive
the delicate distinction?  Well, as I
was saying, Mr. Amherst didn't seem a bit
interested in me, charming though I am
and was—what a mercy old Tom is stone
deaf!—and I was extremely puzzled.  I
didn't like to be too pointed in my attentions"—

"I do wish, Del, that you wouldn't talk
in that way.  It sets my teeth on edge to
hear a married woman speak in the way
you do.  Why don't you"—

"Stay at home and attend to my house
and children?  So I do; but not being
altogether a fossil yet I want to do
something else at times.  Isn't that natural at
my age?"

"Quite natural at your age, and there is
just the weak point of a marriage like
yours.  If you had married somebody you
really cared about, other men wouldn't
interest you."

"Not for the first year or so, no.  After
that, they would.  I might not like them
so well as I did my husband, but I should
like them and want them to like me.  Yes,
and I should want them to fall in love with
me, too, so long as they didn't tell me
about it and insist on making unpleasant
scenes.  Of course, in that case, they would
go, just as they do, now.  You know that, Lynn."

"Yes, I know that.  You are very careful,
Del.  I suppose it is all right and quite
harmless in its way, but I can't say that I
approve of it.  What is the sense of having
two or three men always sighing around
because they can't marry you?"

"What's the sense of music or flowers
or strawberry tarts?  I like them and they
agree with me.  You know there is a lot
of misconception with regard to the real
tastes of a young woman after she marries.
If she is a person who grows and develops
she must, of necessity, like many things
besides her husband and children.  Now
here is a case in point.  Because I am
devoted to my own children is that any
reason why I should not be fond of other
people's children?  As a matter of fact, I don't
care much for any children but my own;
but, if I did, wouldn't that be blameless and
even praiseworthy?  So with men.  I
should always like them all even if I were
eighty and had been married all my life."

"It's a funny thing, Del, but some way
you never seem married, to me."

"I was married, I assure you.  I remember
it very distinctly.  White is not becoming
to me, so I wore a dark blue cashmere
dress and a stunning black toque with
little feathers—you remember?  And Henry
thought I was so sensible and so above
feminine frivolities."

"It is awfully hard to know what is
right and wrong, I must say.  You
certainly make Mr. Hadwell perfectly happy
and you are an ideal mother.  Perhaps you
are more in the right than I think."

"My dear, I have read somewhere that
there are certain plants which die just as
soon as they have propagated.  That is all
they exist for; just to reproduce their own
life and then die.  Now there are a good
many women in the world who are like
these plants.  They are not half as good
mothers, not half as satisfactory wives as
I am; but they are devoid of all possibility
of offending because, to all intents and
purposes, they died with the birth of their first
child.  Henceforth they exist in a modified
form.  They are no longer individuals but
vegetables.  All the young plant needs is
air and light; but, as the young human
needs food, clothes, exercise and various
other things, they exist solely for the
purpose of furnishing it with those things.
They are incapable of holding an opinion
or formulating a thought; they all think
exactly alike on all subjects—which means,
practically, that they do not think at all—their
education, intellectually, stopped when
they graduated from school, their education,
emotionally, when they married.  Are
they more commendable than I?  What
do they do that I don't?  Only I do other
things in addition.  I am a living woman,
not a maternal cipher.  I have a heart and
a mind and a life of my own and these
develop side by side with the development
of my children.  Of course the mere fact
of life existing means that there are
possibilities of mistakes being made, faults being
committed; but isn't it better to live than
to die?  Lynn, I didn't know I was so
clever!  Aren't you proud of me?"

"Proud of you, all round, Del, except
that I still wish you didn't flirt.  Even if
you are not in love with your husband it
is bad form to publish the fact.  And the
very fact that you are still alive—very
much alive—and capable of leading a life
apart from your children makes your way
of acting dangerous.  I am always afraid
that some day you will"—

"That some day I shall fall in love and
make a fool of myself?  Don't worry.
Some women are dominated by one of the
great primal instincts, some by another.  I
am a mother, first and last and always.
Men are only things to play with, but my
children are necessities.  I could never do
anything that would cause them a
moment's anxiety or difficulty in the future.
No, my dear!  When little Aileen is enjoying
her first season her mother will be the
same irreproachable, if frivolous, matron
that she is at present.  What a serious
conversation we have drifted into, haven't we?
I don't like it—seriousness!  Dear me,
Lynn, what in the world should I do if
anything were to happen to you?  You're the
only person whom I dare to be myself with.
Catch me trusting another woman.  What
makes you so unlike other women, Lynn?"

"Possibly the lack of sense for which
you were upbraiding me so heartily a little
while ago," said Lynn, slyly.  "By the way,
Del, that name, 'Waite,' is strangely
familiar to me.  Oh, of course!  I know, now.
I had a little pupil, once"—

"Oh, Lynn, please don't start to talk
about those ragamuffins of yours.  I should
think you would be glad to put them out
of your mind for a few hours."

"He was a most unfortunate child,"
pursued Lynn, unheeding.  "He was plain and
stupid and he knew it: and he came from
a different social class from most of the
others, which seemed to put the final touch
to his isolation.  I was glad when he died,
poor little chap!  He was devoted to me
and I made a great pet of him because he
seemed so lonely.  I wonder if"—

"Oh, a Gorgon-faced, icebergy automaton
like Mrs. Waite never had a child in
her life, I'm sure.  Here we are at last."





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.. _`VISITORS AND DISCLOSURES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   VISITORS AND DISCLOSURES

.. vspace:: 2

..

   "Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers."—*Tennyson*.

   |  "I would that you were all to me.
   |    You that are just so much, no more,
   |  Nor yours, nor mine, not slave nor free!
   |    Where does the fault lie?  What the core
   |  O' the wound, since wound must be."
   |                                  —*Browning*.

.. vspace:: 2

"I love studios," announced Mrs. Hadwell
with effusion, "and I love artists.
Not you, only, Mr. Amherst, but all
artists.  They're so interesting."

"Don't, please don't, Mrs. Hadwell,"
implored Amherst, laughing.  "I have always
hoped that my habit of keeping my head
closely cropped and my face carefully
shaved would save me from being thought
'interesting.'  You have no idea what
visions that word 'interesting' conjures up in
the mind of the average man.  Dinky
velvet coats, unkempt beards, dirty hands,
soulful eyes—don't, whatever else you do,
call me 'interesting.'  You might as well
call a spoilt beauty a 'nice, sensible girl.'"

"That is something that no one ever
called me," said Mrs. Hadwell thoughtfully,
tugging at her gloves.  "You needn't look
at me, Mr. Amherst; I feel like staying
here a while and I'm going to stay, no
matter how busy you are—there, don't
apologize or waste time in saying you'll be glad
to see me and have me stay.  Of course you
will—a sensible man like you!  What were
we saying when you interrupted me—I
mean, when I interrupted myself?  Oh,
yes!  I was saying that no one had ever
called me a 'nice, sensible girl.'"

"The reason is obvious," declared Amherst,
laughing.

"Why—oh, I see!  Thank you.  You
mean that I don't look sensible.  No, I
should hope I didn't.  I should hate to!"

"I don't know whether I look sensible,"
said Lynn, wheeling suddenly round from
the contemplation of a picture, "but people
must think I do, for I so often hear myself
referred to as 'that nice, sensible girl.'  Is
it an insult?  I never thought of it in that
light."

"Not an insult, dear," said Mrs. Hadwell,
composedly, "but an undoubted lie.
Of all people who lack the first elements
of sense you certainly head the list.  Doesn't
she, Mr. Amherst?  But no, of course, you
wouldn't think so, naturally.  You're a
man, and anyway, you don't know her."

"I should have said I knew Miss Thayer
pretty well," said Amherst, looking
surprised, "and I should certainly have
thought that she was very sensible.  I don't
see what you mean."

"Of course you don't.  As I previously
remarked, you're a man.  You think she's
sensible and I have little doubt but that,
in your heart of hearts, you think I'm a
foolish little thing.  Yet there's more sense
in my little finger than there is in all of
Lynn's tall body.  *I* know."

"What you call sense I call lying and
cheating," returned Lynn, composedly.

Amherst burst out laughing.

"You and Miss Thayer are certainly the
most candid pair I have ever run across,"
he cried.  "Do you always give and return
these insults in perfect good faith? or does
one or the other sometimes get annoyed?"

"Never," replied Lynn.  "I can't
imagine anything happening to make Del and
me quarrel.  In fact, I don't believe we
could quarrel.  I don't know what other
people fight about, anyway.  Do you, Del?"

"Why, yes," said Mrs. Hadwell.  "They
fight because one has a better hat than the
other or because one likes red and the other
likes blue, but, generally, because they both
want the same man.  Isn't that so, Mr. Amherst?
But, you see, in this case, Lynn
and I never like the same man, so we don't clash."

"But even if we did," said Lynn,
emphatically, "I can't imagine either of us
doing anything so vulgar as to quarrel,
Del.  I'm sure if the man preferred you,
you could have him; and, if he preferred
me, I'd give him up to you without a
moment's hesitation."

"I wonder!" said her friend, teasingly.
"Suppose I had taken a fancy to that
absurd boy with the black eyes and the
unpronounceable Italian name—would you
have given him up to me, Lynn?  I doubt
it.  Do you remember him, Mr. Amherst?
Wasn't it funny, the way our dear sensible
Lynn bowed down before him?  I think it
must have been her attentions that drove
him to drink, don't you? he probably
thought that he was in imminent danger
of being dragged to the altar."

Lynn smiled a little but stirred restlessly
and did not make any comment on this.

"What has become of that boy?" cried
Mrs. Hadwell, suddenly.  "There, now!
I'm so glad I thought to ask you.  You
ought to know if anyone would; you were
quite pals, weren't you, Mr. Amherst?  Is
the boy dead?"

"Unfortunately, no," returned Amherst, dryly.

"Then what's become of him?"

"Are you, too, interested in his fate,
Miss Thayer?" asked Amherst, turning to
where she stood looking intently at him,
as though something hung on his answer.
"You used to be very good to him, as
Mrs. Hadwell says.  Would you like to know
where he is, now?"

"Yes—no—yes, I should like to very
much," said Lynn in a low voice.

"Well, he is within a few minutes' walk
of this place."

"You don't say so!  And what is he
doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell with much
excitement.

"Going to the devil as fast as he possibly can."

"How?  Why?  Wherefore?  Lynn, I
shall shake you in another minute if you
don't show a little more interest.  This is
positively the most exciting thing.  Think
of it!  Ricossia!—going to the Devil with
a big D!—within a few minutes' walk of
this place.  What's his address, Mr. Amherst?"

"I—I don't feel at liberty to tell you
that," responded Amherst, after a slight
hesitation.  "I don't think he would like to
have it known."

"Oh, he must be a terribly shady
character," said Mrs. Hadwell with a delighted
chuckle.  "I think all this is thrilling.  Do
tell me his address.  I won't hurt him.  I
only want to see for myself what he is
doing and how he is.  I'll—I'd like to take
him a glass of jelly and some grapes.
What's the matter, Mr. Amherst?"

"Excuse me.  The idea of Ricossia in
conjunction with the glass of jelly and the
grapes upset me for the moment, that is all."

"I'd take him some champagne if Lynn
wasn't with me.  In my most abandoned
moments I never forget that I am a
chaperon so I'm afraid the champagne will
have to be left behind.  But I will go and
see him—Mr. Amherst, do tell me."

Amherst smilingly shook his head.

"He wouldn't like it, I know."

"You're quite right," said Lynn, regarding
the speaker, gratefully.  "I'm sure he
wouldn't like it.  I wouldn't, in his place.
Do—do you ever see him, Mr. Amherst?"

"Often.  I frequently run over and just
have an eye to him.  I always expect to
find him frozen or burnt to death or
something of that sort.  But Providence always
looks after people of that kind.  He'll die
in his bed, no fear—the little brute!"

Lynn started and flushed.

"I thought you liked him," she said with
involuntary reproach in her tone.

"Well—fact is, I don't.  What's more,
I don't know anyone who does.  The boy's
unfit to live and about equally unfit to
die—poor little chap!  It's wonderful, though,
the way he lasts.  He's a living example of
a theory I've always held, namely, that
consumption doesn't really kill, no matter what
the hardships may be, until the consumptive
loses interest in life and living.  Then,
he goes very quickly."

"You may be right," said Lynn, tonelessly.

"Now, while Mrs. Hadwell is absorbed
in the bald man with the red nose who is
hanging at the other end of the room," said
Amherst, hastily, "I want to ask you
something.  How is it that I never see you,
now?  It must be a month since I last
had a real talk with you.  What's the matter?"

"The matter?  Why, nothing."

"You're not offended with me about anything?"

"Why, no."

"In the last few weeks I must have rung
you up a dozen times, but you have always
been out or engaged.  You must lead a
busy life."

"I do," said Lynn, smiling faintly.
"But I am sorry you thought I didn't want
to see you.  It wasn't that."

"Wasn't it?"

Amherst's voice changed.

"Do you know that you have avoided me
ever since that night at the Burns'?"

"I—I hadn't thought about it."

"Is that the truth?"

Lynn was silent: then—

"Not exactly," she said with a faint effort.

"I tried to say something to you that
evening—you remember?"

"Yes."

"Why wouldn't you let me say it?"

"I thought you had better not," said
Lynn in a low voice.

"Don't say that; not unless you mean
me to understand that"—

"Mr. Amherst," broke in Mrs. Hadwell,
imperatively, "you are a horrid man!
First you refuse to give me Ricossia's
address, next you stand and talk to Miss
Thayer in a low voice without giving me
a chance to show her my portrait.  She's
dying to see it, aren't you, Lynn? and it's
getting so dark.  Can't you drive back with
me and take dinner? then you can talk to
Lynn as much as ever you want and Mr. Hadwell
and I will sit by like deaf-mutes
and play propriety.  Won't you?"

"Awfully sorry!" said Amherst with
genuine regret in his voice.  "I have an
engagement of long standing, so it's
impossible.  But if you'll only repeat the
invitation, I'd love to come.  Will you?"

"I will," responded Mrs. Hadwell.  "I'll
look up my engagement book and see if we
can find an evening when we shall all be
free.  In the meantime, let me ask you what
this means, this little wrinkle in my brow?
I've puzzled over it for at least ten minutes
and I demand to have it explained.  If it
is copied from life, you must simply paint
it out, that's all!"





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.. _`THE VIEWS OF TWO WOMEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE VIEWS OF TWO WOMEN

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Is it your moral of Life?
   |    Such a web, simple and subtle,
   |  Weave we on earth here in impotent strife,
   |    Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle,
   |  Death ending all with a knife."
   |                              —*Browning*.

.. vspace:: 2

"The time has come, the Walrus
said, to talk of many things,"
quoted Mrs. Hadwell, settling
back in her easy-chair with intense
satisfaction.  If, as the poet asserts, "a sorrow's
crown of sorrow is remembering happier
things" certainly a joy's crown of joy may
be remembering unhappier things.  One
principal reason for Mrs. Hadwell's calm
and unlimited enjoyment of her life lay in
the fact that her youth had been spent in
other people's easy-chairs.  It is
noteworthy that it had been spent in
easychairs; women of her type always do spend
their lives in easy-chairs, metaphorical and
literal; but an easy-chair bestowed upon
one by a doting husband, and an easy-chair
occupied by sufferance in other people's
homes are, as will readily be perceived, two
very different pieces of furniture.

"What do you want to talk about in
particular?" Lynn asked, regarding her
hostess lazily.  Dinner was over; Mr. Hadwell
had betaken himself to his club; and
the two sat at their ease in a softly shaded
luxurious library, filled with unread books
in half-calf.  Polished mahogany, heavy
damask curtains, thick, soft carpets, scent
of mignonette and roses, all added to its
comfort.

"I want to talk about all sorts of things,"
returned Estelle, in answer to her friend's
question.  "Interesting things—things that
matter—yourself for instance!  I wonder
why it is that so few people talk interestingly
about ordinary things!  I believe it
must be because they simply will not tell
the truth about them; they stick to
platitudes for fear of blundering on some
thought they feel they oughtn't to have.
Don't you think that is it?  Now we always
look things right in the face and say just
what we think about them; and that is
why we're so queer—and so nice—and
so interesting to one another.  And this is
such a good opportunity for a talk.  We've
had such a lovely dinner—wasn't that
soup delicious? and, as for that muscatel!
Don't you simply dote on things to eat?
I do.  I never agree with that man—Solomon,
wasn't it?—who said that he would
rather have a dinner of herbs and peace
than a stalled ox and strife therewith.
Let him have the herbs! and give me the
stalled ox every time.  If it were nicely
served and properly cooked I wouldn't care
if there were seven bad-tempered married
couples and sixteen cross cats and twenty
squalling parrots all rowing together at my
elbow.  That's what it is to be practical.
Give me things to eat and a good appetite
and I don't care much what happens.
There's something about a dinner which
appeals to me in a way that sunsets and
sonatas don't.  And yet some one described
me the other day as being 'spirituelle.'  Fancy!"

"Some one who didn't know you very
well, evidently."

"Some one who has called me 'Estelle'
all his life except the four years of it when
I wasn't born; but, as you say, some one
who doesn't know me very well because he
happens to be a man and a man who used
to be in love with me.  Poor thing!  And
yet he's happy in his way and I'm happy
in mine.  He has his ideals and I have my
dinners.  The only really happy people are
the people who have the sense to prefer
dinners to ideals and who steadily set to
work to get them."

"I suppose you are happy.  If dinners
could make anyone happy you ought to be.
But, tell me, Del, do you never want
anything else?"

"Oh, yes.  I want silk dresses and
diamond brooches and the feeling that every
snob in town will kow-tow as soon as my
snub nose appears.  And I've got them
all—thank goodness!  I very easily might
not have, you know.  There are so many
others looking out for just the opportunity
I seized.  And every one said that Henry
wasn't a marrying man.  Ridiculous!  As
if every one wasn't a marrying man as soon
as the right woman came along; the woman
who made love to him unremittingly and
tactfully without letting him see that she
was doing it.  It was an awful bore,
sometimes, to make love to Henry.  It had to
be done so carefully.  O dear, he was so
surly and snubby and so scared of being
hooked.  But it didn't do any good: *I
intended to marry him and I married him*—and
so could you if you had any gumption!"
she exclaimed, veering around and
fixing Lynn with a look of intense determination.

"What?  Marry Henry?"

"Not my Henry, no; but some other
Henry.  There are plenty of them and if
you don't take them somebody else will.
They all like to be admired and courted.
And oh, lucky girl!  Fate has dropped an
ideal Henry right in your lap."

"Don't, Del!  My poor lap!  And as for
'ideal,' why, he has green teeth and goggly
eyes."

"I am sure you are not so good-looking,
yourself."

"Now, Del!  Have I goggly eyes and
green teeth?  Let us be accurate before we
are aggravating.  Besides, it was horrid of
me to speak of his appearance.  Only his
appearance is so exactly like him that it
grates on me, some way."

"He is a great deal too good for you,"
said her friend, indignantly.

"So every one has already told me.
Anything is too good for an old, ugly
school-teacher, I dare say; but I don't want him,
even if he is too good for me."

"Now, Lynn, we'll talk this over.  I
want to have the whole thing out with you."

"As you please."

"Very well, then.  We will assume that
you are quite determined not to marry
Lighton.  Two other courses are open to
you; the first, to go on teaching all your
life; the second, to marry some one else.
We will examine these two alternatives—with
your permission."

"Or without it!"

"Or, as you say, without it.  Let us begin
then.  We will suppose that you stay as
you are and go on teaching.  You are not
at all young, now—you needn't grin.  I
know I am two years older, but that has
nothing to do with it; I'm married.  You
are not, I repeat, young.  Every year you
become a little older and a little older."

"The truth of your remarks is only
equalled by their unpleasantness."

"I don't care.  You go on getting older
and older.  Your aunt, who has been good
to you and of whom you are fond, will be
very much disappointed in you.  She feels
that it is disgraceful not to marry and
criminal not to marry Lighton, and I am
strongly inclined to agree with her.  So,
as the years go by and you get older and
plainer and less desirable your aunt will
grow less and less fond of you.  You are
not a great favourite with your uncle; to
be sure, he has only one supreme favourite
in the universe and I needn't say who that
is!—and your aunt will probably die in
time.  What a happy home you will have,
then!  Suppose on the other hand, that he
should die.  You wouldn't have money
enough to live in that big house and you
would have to be cooped up in a flat and
come home, after teaching all day, to
listen to your aunt's lamentations about
the nice establishment you might have
had"—

"Thank fortune there are always the
poison and the dagger."

"There are; but they're the refuge of the
coward, and ordinary respectable people
don't commit suicide, however much they
want to.  Now, having fully disposed of
that alternative, let us turn to the
other—that you marry some one else.  Who else
is there?  You are a general favourite and
lots of men like to talk to you; but who,
besides Lighton, is in love with you?  I
mean of course, that is in a position to
marry.  We will suppose, though, that you
have several other proposals in the next
few years—what then?  Whom would you
rather marry?"

Lynn said nothing and turned her head away.

"The fact is that there is no one you
would rather marry and there are very few
who could offer you what he does.  The
trouble with you is that you don't face
things.  You know that, if you don't marry
him, you have nothing in life to look
forward to; yet, because it isn't an ideal
arrangement, you refuse to consider it.
Surely you have outgrown the silly, pretty,
childish idea of marrying for love?  Look
at the people who do marry for love!  How
many of them are as happy as I am?  I,
who deliberately angled to catch the richest
man of my acquaintance and did it.  You
could not have managed matters for yourself
in the way that I did; and then, Fate,
instead of punishing you for being stupid,
offers you a prize—and you throw it away.  Why?"

"It is a little hard to explain why, Del,"
returned her friend, slowly.  "I don't know
whether I could make you understand."

"I don't know that I have much heart,
Lynn, but I have a mind.  Try me."

"Long ago, then, I 'faced things' as you
call it.  I looked right at them hard and
baldly and I saw that Life is very hard on
woman.  Life, Society—even Nature—all
seem to be leagued against her.  Her one
chance of happiness is to make a happy
marriage; and in order to make a happy
marriage how many things are needed—and
how few are forthcoming!  Even then she
must make up her mind to face certain
torture and possible death; and when, after
bearing two or three children, she loses her
youth, her strength, her good looks, she has
the satisfaction of knowing that her
husband is as attractive as he was the day she
married him.  So, practically, in the
majority of cases, she has nothing but her
children.  I am not thinking of you, you
monkey; you are a great exception.  Of course
the children must be worth a great deal
to her, but, apart from them, the average
woman has precious little.  Her husband is
usually fond of her—I am speaking, now,
of happy marriages—but all the idealism
and the romance die very quickly.  If, on
the other hand, she does as so many do
and marries some one who is in love with
her but for whom she cares little—what
then?  All the usual hindrances and no
compensations.  There is left only
spinsterhood.  Putting aside the lucky few who
have some art, some profession, which
means everything to them, unmarried
women are, as you have said, simply
incumbrances and not happy incumbrances
at that.  The one happy thing for a woman
is to fall in love when she is young, marry
some one who adores her, and become so
absorbed in her children that she won't
mind the rest.  Of course there are a few
ideal marriages here and there; cases where
people fall in love and stay in love and have
satisfactory children and enjoy life; but
you know as well as I do how many of
these there are.  Four altogether; and I
have sometimes doubted the fourth."

"Well, of all the cynics"—

"Not a bit of it; I don't cherish useless
illusions in the face of facts, that's all.
Well, as I began to say, long ago I 'faced
things' and saw them as they were.  The
best thing to do was to fall in love and
make a happy marriage; that I couldn't do.
The next was to marry some one I didn't
want, or to do something that would
support me, and remain unmarried.  Of the
two, the last seemed the only possible thing.
I can get along for the present just as I
am and I do not look into the future.  As
far as I can see, it is bound to be a wretched
one, anyway; but I may die—a thousand
things may happen.  In the meantime I
do not worry because of realizing that life
is a tragic thing; and I take things very
coolly and don't make a fuss about
anything that can't be helped.  When I feel
down in the mouth I always console myself
with the reflection, first, that it can't last
forever; and, secondly, that however
industriously Fate may knock me, she can't
compel me to squeal about it."

"What a truly cheerful and comforting reflection."

"Well, do you know anyone more cheerful
than I?"

"No, I can't say that I do; but
appearances are certainly deceptive.  Then you
really prefer unmarried unhappiness to
married unhappiness—that is your final
choice?"

"That is my final choice."

"It is an extraordinary one, that is all I
can say, when one thinks of all the money
that is thrown in with the married unhappiness."

"Money can't buy happiness."

"No, but it can buy some mighty good
substitutes for it, my dear.  And as far as
I can see, you are not going to get
anything at all with the unmarried unhappiness."

"Nothing at all?  Freedom, a peaceful
mind and an independent income.  I'd
rather have my liberty than all the houses
in Christendom and all the men.  Of course
I am human; I should prefer to make a
happy marriage; but how many people do,
and why should I be picked out for a happy
fate when so many kinder and better people
than I have nothing but trouble from
beginning to end of their lives?  No; I
complain of nothing."

"Don't you think you will be sorry for
this, some day?"

"If I am, no one will ever know it."

"If you think all this about your future,
why do you want to live?"

"I don't want to live.  Do you?  Does
any mature person?  But I must live and
so must you.  There is probably some
reason for the world and for Nature and for
Sin and for all the other queer works of
God and of the Devil.  Perhaps we shall
find it all out some day and then again
perhaps we shall sleep so soundly that we
shall not care to find out anything at all.
That would be nice.  It would be still nicer,
though, to find out that everything was
for the best, really, and that everything
about the world was necessary.  'God's in
his heaven, all's right with the world,' you
know, and all that sort of thing.  That
phrase about the 'best of all possible
worlds,' when applied to this, is such
rubbish and such inhuman rubbish at that;
such an insult to the intelligence and
humanity of mankind; yet one can't help
hoping that there will be a 'best of all
possible worlds' and the mere fact that we
want it and look forward to it so instinctively
shows that there must be one, somewhere,
I think.  What do you think?"

"I think I should like to have a brandy
and soda," said Mrs. Hadwell, forlornly.
"Positively you have given me the blues.
I do hate thinking of heaven and poets and
metaphysics and things.  This earth is all
right if you only have sense.  The trouble
is, you haven't any.  Oh!  I have just
thought of something.  I have a lovely box
of Huyler's that I haven't touched.  We'll
eat that and Thomas shall light us a little
fire and you can have the latest magazine
and I'll read the book of that woman's—you
know! the one that they are making
all the fuss about.  It's frightfully amusing
and very improper and it doesn't make one
think the least little bit.  That's the sort
of book I like, and it's the sort of book most
people like, too, only they won't say so.
Yes, it is, Lynn.  You needn't say it isn't.
Else why is it always out at the library,
though they have seven copies, and why is
its author able to travel all over the world
on her earnings?  You don't understand
human nature.  All it wants is to be amused
and *not* to be improved.  We all like to
slide down hill, comfortably, without being
obliged to climb up again.  And we would
all slide down much faster if it wasn't that
the company at the foot of the hill is so
unpleasant and the people at the top throw
things at you and you can't throw them
back.  And the reason that the people at
the top throw things is that they are so
cross because they don't really like being
stuck up there and they have to pretend
they do."

"Well, you're not at all cross, yet, Del,
and you haven't slid down hill very fast,"
said Lynn, laughing.

"Oh, yes, I have.  Anyway I didn't have
far to slide from.  I began pretty low down,
you know.  Oh, I have no illusions about
myself.  But, even so I have slidden.  But
you see, if you are clad in gold armour,
you can slide as much as you like; for that
renders you bullet-proof.  If I were a
nursery-governess slaving over spoilt brats
for the sake of getting a miserable living,
I should be thought a very shady character.
Just suppose I had said what I said just
now about only liking improper things that
didn't make me think!  Why, I should be
turned out of doors without a character,
I suppose.  But I am Mrs. Henry Hadwell
and so I can slide just as much as I
please—within limits.  Perhaps it is just as well
that there are limits to everything.  Otherwise
I dare say I should be even worse than
I am.  And I'm pretty bad, you know.  I
haven't any conscience and very little
affection.  And I have *no* ideals.  But then, as
I said before, I have dinners—lovely
dinners!  How glad I am to think that I am
going to have another one to-morrow.
Some way, when I think of that, I quite
forget all the horrid things you have put into
my head to-night.  Just think!  I—*I* might
have been a nursery-governess.  *I!*  I hadn't
brains or industry enough to become a
teacher.  Ugh!  Oh, what horrible lives
there are in the world and how lovely to
think that I have a lovely home and a
doting husband and three darling children
*and* my dinners!  What are you thinking
about, now?"

"I was just thinking that we were awfully
like the lower animals, really," replied
Lynn, with a half-laugh.  "A little more
complex, but just about like them,
otherwise.  What does the average bear want?
A mate, cubs,—and dinners.  If he gets
them he is happy; if he doesn't, he is
miserable.  If Bob could talk, he would say
just about what you have been saying, now."

"Bob is a sensible dog," said Mrs. Hadwell,
solemnly.  "I don't like dogs and I
do like you but justice compels me to state
that Bob has a lot more sense than you
have.  Never mind! you will get wise when
it is too late and then you will wish that
you had had the sense to imitate me and
Bob and all the other practical people in
the world.  You needn't think I mind being
called a lower animal.  If being a lower
animal means getting what you want and
being a higher animal means getting what
you don't want,—well, I want to be a
lower animal, thank you!  Lynn! these
marron glaces are simply the most delicious
things you ever thought of.  *Do* have one!"





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.. _`REJECTED ADDRESSES`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   REJECTED ADDRESSES

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..

   |  "The Heart's Desire hath led me
   |  In barren lands and vain."
   |                    —Theodosia Garrison.

.. vspace:: 2

"I suppose it sounds brutal to say
so," said Lynn Thayer, "but you
know you ought really to be very
grateful to me for refusing you.  You will
thank me for it, ten years hence."

Mr. Harold Lighton, who was sitting
opposite, frowned angrily and made no response.

"We are not in the least suited to one
another," she continued, gently.  "You—I
would make you very unhappy.  You are
young and rich, and when you get over this,
you will be able to marry some nice, young,
pretty girl."

"I don't want a nice, young, pretty girl,"
returned Mr. Lighton, glumly.  "I want you."

Lynn's eyes suddenly danced but she
very properly refrained from comment.

"Oh, I say, won't you think this over?"
burst forth Mr. Lighton, quite unconscious
of the doubtful compliment he had just paid
the object of his affections.  "I'm most
awfully in love with you, indeed I am.  You
know that, don't you?"

"I know that you think you are in love
with me, just now," answered Lynn,
gravely.  "But, in my twenty-eight years
of life, quite a few people have told me that
they were in love with me and would never
be happy without me.  And they have
married some one else in a few years' time and
have never thought of me, again."

"I'm not like that," said Mr. Lighton,
eagerly.  "Upon my soul, I'm not.  You
may think I'm fickle or easily suited.  I'm
not.  I don't like anybody but you and I
never will.  It seems pretty hard when a
fellow's waited until over thirty before he
has run across any one he fancied—and
then to be turned down, after all."

"It has happened before."

"Why, no, it hasn't!" said Lighton, indignantly.

"I mean to other people."

"Oh!  See here, why won't you have me?
I suppose I'm not clever enough for you.
Is that the trouble?"

"No, no indeed.  I'm stupid, myself,
frightfully stupid in lots of ways.  That
isn't it, at all.  It's just that I don't care
enough about you."

Mr. Lighton regarded her with some perplexity.

"I say—I'd like awfully to say
something if you won't think it rude."

"Very well—what is it?"

"You're twenty-eight—you don't mind
my mentioning it, do you?" queried Mr. Lighton,
tactfully.  "You've always spoken
so openly of it, yourself."

"Oh, I can never keep even the most
damaging facts about myself hidden," said
Lynn, solemnly.

"Eh?—what's that?  Oh, well, never
mind!  What I wanted to say was this:
Don't you mean to marry?"

"I haven't quite made up my mind, yet.
Perhaps I may marry somebody a few
years hence—but not you," she hastily
added, seeing Mr. Lighton look up with
sudden interest.

"Why not me?"

"I have told you twenty times over why not."

"And you're serious about it?  You're
sure you won't change your mind?  Well,
what I wanted to say was this.  Suppose,
a few years hence when you've decided that
you will marry—now, you won't be offended?"

"I don't think I will.  What you want
to say is, what will I do if no one wants
to marry me, then?"

"Yes," confessed Mr. Lighton, looking a
little embarrassed but sticking to his guns,
manfully.  "You're an awfully stunning
girl, but a girl often doesn't get another
offer after thirty; and what if you don't?"

"I won't marry."

"But—but"—

"I won't marry, anyway, unless I see
some one I like better than I do you," said
Lynn, deliberately.  "It is best to be
explicit, isn't it?  I don't want to hurt you,
but this is the plain truth of the matter.
The idea of marrying just for the sake of
being called 'Mrs.' doesn't appeal to me,
at all; and I could not marry you for any
other reason.  Oh yes, of course I might
marry you for the sake of living in a nice
house and getting my clothes in Paris; but
I don't care much about that, either.  You
see what I mean?"

"Oh, yes, I see.  I thought, some way—you
see I have a fairly good income and
you're fond of horses"—

"You thought I might marry you for the
pleasure of seeing something of your horses;
is that it?"

"Oh, I say, Miss Thayer, let up!  It's
bad enough to be refused without being
made game of."

"I suppose it is," said Lynn, slowly.  She
looked at him as though a new idea had
occurred to her.  "I wonder why you want
to marry me," she said at last.

"Why I want to marry you?"

"Yes.  I'm not very young, I'm not at
all pretty and I have no money.  It seems
a most curious thing that you should have
taken this violent fancy to me.  Why did
you?  Do you know?"

"I say! you *are* a queer girl."

"In other words I'm not a sheep,"
returned Lynn, composedly.  "Don't you
think most people are very like sheep?  They
travel in flocks and all bleat in unison at
the same things and get up in the morning
and eat and drink and go to sleep, again—and,
in time, they die.  I suppose they
might as well be doing that as something
else, but if it amuses me to do something
else, why shouldn't I?  Now, for instance,
if I had been a well-regulated, conventional
sheep I should have bleated out, 'Oh,
Mr. Lighton, this is so sudden!' and then I
should have thought lovingly of your good
house and your nice furniture and should
have simpered and accepted you.  But, not
being a sheep, I want to know why on earth
you did it."

"Because I—like you so awfully,"
explained Mr. Lighton, eagerly.

"But why on earth should you like me?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Lighton,
doubtfully.  "Why does any one like you?" he
inquired, brightening.  "You've had lots of
other chaps."

"Oh, but that's different.  You see I'm
a man's woman by instinct and training.
I do my very utmost to please and be nice
to every man I meet except you; and the
consequence is that they all like me and the
ones who like me enough to call on me,
often, usually end by proposing: not
because I'm so remarkably attractive but for
the reason that a man, for some occult
reason, cannot see much of a woman without
proposing to her."

"I say!  You're gassing!"

"I'm not.  But the queer thing is that
you took this fancy to me at the very start
without any help whatever from me."

"What a funny girl you are to give yourself
away like that.  Girls generally say
that they don't encourage anybody."

"Yes, but, as you remarked, I am a
funny girl; I tell the truth, sometimes.
How do you suppose a plain, poor person
like me would ever have had so many men
friends if she hadn't done something?  It's
wonderful," said Lynn, meditatively,
"wonderful! how easy it is to fascinate men.
Just look at each man and talk to him as
if you thought he was the most handsome,
brilliant and fascinating creature
extant—and the thing is done!  The man doesn't
live who can resist it."

"Ha, ha! you *are* funny."

"Yes.  I can remember when I was a
young girl that I used to be terribly afraid
that no one would ever fall in love with
me because I was so ugly.  I used to wish
so that I had curling eyelashes and
rose-leaf complexions and things: and, lo and
behold! before I was eighteen the great
beautiful truth dawned upon me.  Just let
a man talk about himself until he is black
in the face and he will never tire of your
society, no matter what you look like.
Nothing else is necessary.  A man thinks
any eyes gazing admiringly into his are
beautiful eyes: he considers any voice that
murmurs timely flatteries in his good right
ear a sweet voice: and any woman with
intelligence enough to laugh heartily at his
stale jokes and listen respectfully to his dull
anecdotes, has all the intelligence that any
female needs, in his opinion.  So there you
are.  Having this knowledge, what else did
I lack?  I promptly became a belle of the
first water and have remained so for ten
years.  Pretty girls have lost their beauty,
rich girls have lost their money, lively girls
have lost their vivacity; but I remain
perennially attractive because I have grasped
the great truth that every man prefers
himself to anything else on earth and, next to
himself, admires the woman who acts as
though she agreed with him.  I'm in a
candid mood to-night, am I not, Mr. Lighton?
What is the matter? you don't look very happy."

"I can't help wondering," confessed
Mr. Lighton, rather ruefully, "why, if you're
so fond of having men like you, you've
never been nicer to me."

"Because," she returned, slowly, "I very
soon received the impression that you were
more or less in earnest.  Now my puppy
days have passed and I take no pleasure in
causing pain; and it must be more or less
painful to want some one who doesn't care
anything about you.  So I thought it best
to be flippant and unpleasant in the hope
that you would get disgusted.  Why didn't you?"

"I—I don't know"—

"Yes, I've been most hateful," continued
Lynn, thoughtfully.  "I wonder if it would
do any good if I were to tell you all the
harsh things I've said about you to Aunt Lucy."

"I don't think," said Mr. Lighton, hastily
and firmly, "that it would do a bit of good."

"Then I won't.  But will you tell me just
as a matter of curiosity—what it was that
you liked about me?"

"In the first place," her companion said,
pondering, "I suppose I liked you because
you didn't chase me and it was such a
change.  You see when a fellow has a good
position and money coming to him"—  He
wiped his forehead and looked scared
and reminiscent.

"I see," exclaimed Lynn.  "I must make
a note of that.  There are men who tire of
being 'chased.'  Then there must be men
who tire of tobacco, I suppose."

"I don't know about that," said Mr. Lighton,
dubiously.  "You see, when one
has smoked long enough, one can always
throw one's cigar out of the window.  So
one doesn't get as sick of it as one does of
women."

"No, I suppose not.  I never thought of
that," said Lynn, gravely.  "Well, let me
see! you liked me in the first place because
I didn't 'chase' you: and why did you
like me, in the second?"

"You're a fine sport," said Mr. Lighton,
pondering, "you're always ready for any
thing, and you dance like a streak, and
you're never tired, and you do make a
fellow roar so.  I suppose that's why."

"So these are my assets.  Dancing like
a 'streak'—whatever that may be:
always being ready to skate and toboggan:
and 'making a fellow roar so.'  It doesn't
sound attractive: however I never
pretended to understand men.  What a funny
thing it is!  No money, no beauty, no
particular brains and one of the most eligible
young men in the city begging me to marry him!"

"Your aunt likes me," said Mr. Lighton.

"She likes you very much; but she
always confuses you with the new plumbing
and the electric lights in your house.  She
can't conceive how I can withstand such
fascinations.  Poor Aunt Lucy!  I wish I
were a little more satisfactory: but I really
cannot fall in love to order even to please
her—not with a whole galaxy of electric
lights."

"I don't know exactly what you're
driving at," said Mr. Lighton, looking sullen,
"but I think your aunt's a very sensible
woman."

"So do I.  I only wish I were half as
sensible.  I'm a great grief to her.  You
see, she feels rightly that a single woman
with no independent income should struggle
valiantly to avert the awful doom of
old maid.  Now, the deeper I sink in the
mire of old-maiden-hood, the less I struggle."

"Is your aunt very fond of you?" asked
Mr. Lighton curiously.

"No.  She is much pleased at my popularity,
which she doesn't understand in the
least, and she regards it in the light of a
personal reward for her goodness in
adopting me.  That is all."

"And your uncle?  You don't mind my
asking, do you?"

"Not a bit.  My uncle hates me, but he
thinks I'm a good girl and tries not to show
it more than he can help.  You see he can't
endure children and he is prejudiced against
me because I was a child when he first
knew me and he has never forgotten it."

"Then I suppose you're not awfully fond
of them?"

"I am—most grateful to them, both:
but I do not love them.  I have never really
loved but one person in my life—no, two.
The first love is much stronger than the
second: but the second is—profound and
lasting.  I am not an affectionate person:
I do not suppose that there will ever be
more than just those two."

"Neither of them's me," interposed
Mr. Lighton, gloomily and ungrammatically.

"Neither of them's you, no," returned
Lynn, firmly.

"Oh, look here, Miss Thayer, can't you
reconsider it?  I'm—I'm most awfully in
love with you, upon my word I am: and—and,
after all,—I don't like to say this
exactly—but you know I can give you
everything you want and—don't you like the
idea of having a little money?"

"Immensely."

"Then"——

"But, unfortunately I do *not* like the
idea of having you.  There is the plain
English of it.  I don't want to hurt your
feelings, but there doesn't seem to be any
way of making you understand."

"Oh, I understand, all right!" muttered
Mr. Lighton, ruefully.  "But I can't say
I'm pleased.  You might have given me a
hint before letting me make a fool of myself."

"A hint!  Man! how many hints have I
given you?"

"A dev—I mean a great many,"
returned the consistent Mr. Lighton.  "But
I thought you were trying to draw me on."

"I have no talents for man-hunting,"
said Lynn, rather crossly.  "I never try to
'draw people on' or anything like that.  It
does not amuse me: I'm a man's woman in
one sense but I am not a flirt"——

"Flirt!  You can't flirt any more
tha—than that mantelpiece," said Mr. Lighton,
desperately.  "But I like you—I can't
help liking you, some way."

"No—I suppose you can't—not just
at present, anyway.  But you'll get over it
in time."

Mr. Lighton said nothing, but his face
was not cheerful.

"I have a good mind," said Lynn, slowly,
"to tell you something about myself—something
that will show you the hopelessness
of asking me.  It is this: even if I
liked you very much I couldn't marry you."

"But why?"

"Because—because I have a duty to
perform; a duty which demands all my
time and strength and—and thought; and
which marriage would interfere with."

"But—but do you mean that you are
going to perform this duty—whatever it
may be—all your life?"

"N-n-no.  In a few years—perhaps
sooner—it will be—finished."

"And then?"

"And then—oh, don't talk about it!  I
was foolish to speak about it, anyway—but,
do you know, I felt sorry for you.  I
can't understand why people like having
proposals from people they don't want to
marry.  It always seems to me such a pity
that anything should be wasted, that any
feeling should burn itself out, without
result.  That may be a queer way to look
at it—but I suppose I am queer.  People
seem to think so and, perhaps, they are
right."

"Well, I'd better go, I suppose," said
Lighton, gruffly, after a short pause.  "If
anything turns up—I mean, if you should
change your mind, you know, or anything
like that—why"—

"Thank you; but I never shall.  Good-night,
Mr. Lighton.  I'm sorry, really I am.
It all seems too bad, but you know it's not
my fault."

Left to herself, she drew a long sigh;
then rose and moved about the room
mechanically straightening the furniture and
patting the sofa cushions.  Finally she
leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece and
gazed earnestly into the mirror, above.
"Curious what he sees in me!" she said,
slowly.  "Curious what anyone sees in me!
I have nothing to recommend me in the
way of looks; it is hard to understand.  In
spite of all that I have done for—for the
boy, he—he doesn't really care very much
about me, even now.  And yet this man—whom
I have done everything to discourage"—

She stared slowly at herself: then turned away.

"Time to go to bed," she said, reluctantly.
"And high time to stop—thinking....
Oh, Liol, Liol, Liol!"





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.. _`A DECISION TO BE REACHED`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


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   A DECISION TO BE REACHED

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..

   |  "'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
   |  And matter enough to save one's own."
   |                                —Browning.

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Albert and Miss Bertha
Hadwell having arrived at Hadwell
Heights their aunt had promptly
issued invitations for the "bridge" of
which she had spoken at her "tea."  Hadwell
Heights was "en fête."  The guests
had arrived and were playing, busily,
though not for money.  Apart from the
fact that the guests of honour were young,
Mrs. Hadwell disapproved of "bridge-gambling."

"I never win at games," she confided to
Lynn.  "And I don't enjoy losing money
even if I can afford it.  And it's such a
nice, cheap way of getting a reputation for
steadiness and sobriety and high morality
and all that.  I love to be known for things
that I haven't even a bowing acquaintance
with.  And it seems so delicious to say with
a perfectly straight face, 'No, I never play
for money.  I don't approve of it.'  It
seems such a rebuke to the worldly-minded
and the frivolous and all that lot."

Mrs. Hadwell, though, might be depended
upon to furnish very pretty prizes.
Besides which her house was famed for its
delightful entertainments of all descriptions.
For which reasons, and for several
others, her pretty drawing-room was
thronged.

Lynn Thayer had refused to play, offering
to bear her hostess company, however,
and to help her in any way she could.  She
sat now in an alcove of the great old-fashioned
bay-window, watching the players
absently, and trying to straighten out
several matters which threatened to become
hopelessly entangled in her mind.  This
was hardly the place to solve these
problems, but, as they became daily and hourly
more imminent, she felt that she might as
well face them at one time as at another,
so far as she was able.

Her reflections chimed oddly with the
scraps of conversation which were wafted
to her ears from time to time.

"What shall I say if Gerald does ask me
to marry him?" she thought, her face
darkening.  "How can I accept him?  And
then again—how can I refuse him?  If
he would only wait—but it is not
reasonable to suppose that he would.  How can
I—how shall I answer him?"

"We-ll," interposed a voice, faintly, "I
make it diamonds."

"Oh, why, Mrs. Hall?"

"Oh, did you have a good suit?  Oh,
dear! well, never mind!—I suppose we
can't take it back, can we?—no? well, I
suppose not.  That's the worst of"—

"He must have meant that; he can't
have meant anything else.  Of course I
have always known, but I thought I could
keep it off a little longer.  And I didn't
realize till lately how much it would mean
to me if—I can't give him up.  No, I can't
give him up.  Yet how can I do anything
else under the circumstances?  Could I
explain in any way—give him any inkling
of my position? no, I don't see how"—

"Oh, are we playing 'no trumps'?
Why, I didn't know that.  Why didn't you
tell me when you saw me playing out my
king and ace"—

"He has no idea—naturally it will seem
incomprehensible to him if I say that I do
care for him but that I can't marry him for
years.  If I were five years younger; but,
even so—no, I cannot say that.  What
can I say?  If I ask him to trust me and
to let me tell him when I shall be free to
give him my answer—no, the case is
hopeless.  I had better tell him baldly and
plainly that it is impossible for me to
marry—and then?"—

"Not at all, Mrs. Willing, not at all.
Of course it was my trick already but I
saw that you hadn't noticed that—why,
don't think of it for a moment.  Of course,
generally speaking, it *isn't* supposed to be
a good thing to trump your partner's trick, but"—

"He is not the sort of man to let it rest
there; he will ask questions, all sorts of
questions, he will insist on knowing what
I mean, what I intend to do.  How will
it end?  The only thing that he can never
think of is the truth.  He will think of
everything else under the sun.  Oh, the
thing is too hopeless!  I shall have to let
him think that I don't care for him—oh,
but if I do that he will go away, I shall not
see him again; in time he will marry some
one else—how could I bear that?  He
must not go.  I'll say anything, anything,
short of giving my secret away.  Ah, that
horrible oath!  So needless, so useless! and
to think that, on top of all the rest, this
should come! and that I may be compelled
to give up my only chance of happiness in
the future.  I won't give it up!  I won't!
Life is too cruel.  I'll do anything to
prevent him leaving me.  And then there is
not only my pain if he did—but he would
suffer, too.  No, it is not to be thought of
for a moment.  He must stay."

"Well, I suppose I really shouldn't have
thrown away my ace when hearts hadn't
been played at all, but then you know I
never stick to rules."

"If only he hadn't written that note,
asking to see me to-night.  If only I could
have put off answering him a little longer.
If I refuse to let him go home with me it
will be equivalent to refusing him,
altogether.  It is out of the question.  I must
settle it one way or another at once.  What
is it to be?"

"Oh, don't tell me the queen hasn't been
played, yet?  Why, I thought it was out
ages ago—oh, I really think I ought to
have that back"—

"What will he say when I answer him—that
is, if I tell him the truth?  How
will it sound?  'I do care for you but I
can't marry you just now, perhaps not for
several years, I can't say exactly when.'  The
thing is incredible.  A woman of my
age, presumably sane, to answer a
proposal of marriage in that fashion.  Ah, if
only I were indifferent to him how easy
things would be; and yet what would I
have then in life?  When Liol—dies—oh,
I can't think of that!  Where is he to-night,
I wonder?  What is he doing?  Liol, Liol! if
only you were dead! and yet, oh, I can't
wish that.  What will my life be when he
is gone?  Gone!  Think of it!  How can I
marry, then? what will my life be worth? how
shall I live and hide my grief? oh,
Liol, Liol!"

"Upon my word, Mr. Coote! where were
your eyes?  Didn't you know that the nine
of clubs wasn't out?"

"One thing is certain; much as I love
Gerald, nothing and nobody can ever be
to me what Liol was and is.  Is that very
strange? am I entirely different to all other
girls.  How could any strange man,
however dear, be as much in your life as a
person like Liol, with whom your very
heart-strings were entwined; who came
when your heart was empty and filled it?
My Lionel! my little brother! my last
charge from my dead mother!  Oh, if the
years could only be wiped out and if I
could see him again as he once was, the
same sweet dear child, how happily I could
die—yes, how happily I could give up
everything—Gerald, everything.  But—I
must live; and Lionel is—oh, I can't say,
I can't think what he is; and he is dying
by inches; and there is only one other
person in the world for whom I care, only one
other person for whom I ever shall care
but him; and I may have to give him up.
If only Lionel didn't need me so; if only
he didn't need all my money, all my
thought, all my care—imagine my
deserting him and starting to choose a trousseau.
A trousseau! when any day he may need
a shroud."

"A penny for your thoughts, Lynn."

Mrs. Hadwell had come up, unnoticed
and was standing at Lynn's side.

"Did I startle you?" she asked, brightly.
"You were looking straight in front of you
like Cassandra or Joan of Arc or some
other unpleasant historical character.  What
was it?  Indigestion?"

"A fit of the blues, perhaps," said Lynn.
"Don't mind me, Del.  It was most
ungrateful of me to cast a shade over the
festivities and, to tell you the truth, I
wasn't aware that I was doing it.  Who
has the highest score?"

"Erma Reed, so far.  Isn't she a beauty?
Lynn, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, silly!—that is, nothing much.
You know we all get a little despondent at times."

"But not you, that is, not until lately.
What has come over you?"

"Age, I suppose."

"If you don't want to confide in me, don't—"

"I don't!"

—"But I think it's most unkind, when
I always tell you everything."

"There's nothing that I can confide in
you, silly-billy!" said Lynn, rousing
herself and speaking with forced cheerfulness.
"Nothing in the world.  Now, will that
satisfy you?  You know practically all my
affairs except those which concern other
people and which I have promised not to tell."

"Is that true?"

"There is just one thing which I might
tell you—but, after all, it's nothing to tell"—

"Oh, what is it?"

"A man—but this is silly for there is
really nothing to tell and, anyway, I don't
want to discuss it."

"How logical you are," said Mrs. Hadwell,
calmly.  "But I know all about that,
so you needn't bother.  He is going to
propose to-night, he told me so.  And he
begged me to make sure that he wasn't
deputed to take anyone else home, as you
had not answered his note and so he
couldn't be sure"—

"He told you!  How queer!  How very
unlike him!"

"I skated with him to-day and we had
tea together.  And you know how I can
always make any man tell me the inmost
secret of his heart if I can once get him
alone for five minutes.  And you're the
inmost core of his."

"Del!"

"He as good as told me so.  And I
promised to put in a good word for him.  So
this is the good word.  If you *will* be so
foolish as to refuse Lighton—who is, by
far, the better match of the two—why,
you might do worse than Amherst."

"Thank you."

"But I can't help hoping, of course, that
you will never be so foolish as to refuse
Lighton."

"Mr. Amherst would be delighted if he
could only hear your warm advocacy of his
cause."

"Oh, I told him what I was going to
say.  I was perfectly frank.  But I felt
constrained to admit that you were such a
hopeless idiot that I was very much afraid
that you were going to refuse Lighton, if
you had not done so, already.  However,
as I said, you were quite capable of
committing the lesser idiocy of refusing him,
afterwards.  I don't know that I was quite
so nice a confidante as usual; but then you
must remember that Gerald Amherst
absolutely refused to sanction my efforts at
flirtation with him, this fall, and you can't
expect me to forgive that all at once.  I
told him that, too."

"Del!"

"Oh, he's a good sort.  He said that,
once you accepted him, his mind would be
free and, if I would then renew my
attentions, he would accept them most
gratefully—always provided you didn't kick.
Well, he didn't put it just that way, but
that was his meaning.  Only he didn't
mean a word of it.  Lynn, if ever a man
was hopelessly enamoured of a woman, you
are that woman.  You're doing pretty well,
all things considered.  Two proposals in
one winter and one a good catch—a
*particularly* good catch—don't glare so, Lynn,
it's rude! and the other an extremely nice
man and not too poor, either.  My goodness! but
you ought to be thankful.  Look
at the way some people work and work
and then don't get much at the end; and
here you just sit with hands folded, so to
speak, and watch the desirables canter in.
At your age, too! only you mustn't dally
any longer, you know; it's time to make
up your mind."

"Yes, you're right.  It's high time I
made up my mind."

"Good.  Now then, make it up."

"My dear, my mind isn't like a bed that
can be made up while you wait.  I must
think a bit."

"What do you want to think about, I
should like to know?  Are you weakening
on the idea of refusing Lighton?"

"No.  To tell you the truth—I may
just as well tell you, I suppose—I've
refused him, already."

"*What*?  When?  Where?  No, never
mind telling me, either.  Let's stick to the
point.  Now that you have refused him,
there is only one thing left to do—marry
Amherst and thank your stars that he
proposed just when he did.  Otherwise,
everyone would say that Lighton had neglected
to 'come up to scratch.'  Gracious! how
fortunate that you had two strings to your
bow."

"You know that old proverb about 'falling
between two stools,' don't you?" Lynn
asked, smiling faintly.

"Yes, and it's perfect rubbish.  The
people who talk about 'falling between two
stools' are the people who've never had
but one stool in their lives and who've sat
firmly down on that to prevent it getting
up and running away.  Two stools, indeed!
Twenty, if you can get them!  But two
will do very nicely indeed, when they are
two like these.  One being gone, you grab
the other just as quickly as you know how.
Now don't stop to tell me that I am
getting vulgar; practical people always seem
vulgar to visionaries.  The question is,
what are you going to say to Amherst to-night?"

"I'm not going to say anything, Del, for
I simply can't let him take me home.  I
must have a little more time to think.  No,
don't argue; I am serious.  Tell him that
I am frightfully tired—which is literally
true—and that you have asked me to
spend the night here; but that, if he will
be so good as to take me home after the
hockey match to-morrow night, I shall be
eternally obliged.  Or no, don't put it like
that; say that—oh well, say what you
think best, Del, you always know how to
put these things.  Really I am so tired
that I simply can't think to-night.  Will
you arrange it for me? and you won't
mind putting me up for the night, will you?"

"No, dear child, I shall be delighted to
have you.  And I'll give him the message
though I think you are foolish to postpone
the thing.  But I won't tease you, for I
am sure you are going to be sensible in
the end; and we won't talk any more about
it if you don't want to.  See here, do look
at that table! and please listen to the
conversation between Agatha and that
unfortunate wretch of a Haldern.  I know who
won't be Agatha's 'latest.'  *Do* listen."

"But—excuse me for asking, Miss
Ladilaw—but what did you make it
'no trumps' on?" inquired a masculine voice.

"Why—why—why, I'll tell you, Mr. Haldern,"
said Agatha looking up at him,
confidingly.  "My own hand was so
perfectly awful—so appalling—that I felt
sure Dummy must have a lot of aces and
things.  But you see it didn't."

"But, in that case, why didn't you leave
it to me?"

"Because I—I was *so* afraid that you
would make it spades.  And I had quite
good diamonds."

"But don't you see?"—

"Oh, I *always* believe in trusting
something to Dummy," Agatha interrupted
gently but with an air of finality.  "Don't let
us discuss it any further, Mr. Haldern."

"Del," whispered Lynn to her hostess,
"I may not be very kind-hearted, but I
would not inflict Agatha on any man."

"Oh, they'll change partners at the next
table.  And I think it's good for men to
play with Agatha: they appreciate the next
partner they get so much more than they
otherwise would.  Well, Lynn, how do you
like my twins?"

"Charming; and they do seem to enjoy
everything so.  Did they only get here
to-day?  They look so cheerful and fresh.  I
thought they would probably want to rest,
the first evening; but they seem to be
enjoying it."

"Yes.  They're nineteen.  At nineteen
one enjoys everything but rest.  I knew
that and so I determined to start in
without a moment's delay.  I'm perfectly
delighted with them, myself.  I don't see how
in the world that old curmudgeon of a
brother of Henry's ever contrived to have
two such good-looking, good-humoured
children.  And their names are so cute—Bert
and Bertie; and the likeness is
something extraordinary."

It was.  Lynn, who had elected to remain
outside the game and keep her hostess
company, glanced from the cosy corner where
she was ensconced to a table in the middle
of the room where Miss Bertha Hadwell
was sitting: then a little further on to
where Mr. Albert Hadwell was scooping
up tricks with a dexterity which bespoke
long practice.  The boy was slightly, very
slightly taller than the girl; but, apart
from that, one might have fancied that one
was the other's double.  The same olive
cheeks, slightly tinged with rose-red: the
same impish, restless dark eyes: the same
long, thin mouth, ever parting to show
gleaming, irregular white teeth.

They were an attractive pair: and
Lynn's eyes rested on them for several
moments before they wandered slowly over
the rest of the room.  The usual company
was present: the pretty girl who never
counted the tricks and continually appealed
to her partner to tell her "what was
trumps"; the stout woman who remembered
everything and berated her confrère
soundly if he forgot the thirteenth card;
the mild-looking man who smiled sweetly
as his lady partners trumped his tricks and
cursed them bitterly on his way home; the
pompous man who never failed to instruct
all the rest of the table; the excitable
debutante who invariably dropped the wrong
card on the trick, then shrieked aloud and
sought permission to "take it back" on
the ground that she "hadn't been thinking";
and, last but not least, the bad-tempered
man who regarded bridge as a religion,
and burned to slay the sacrilegious ones
who violated its tenets.

"Oh, Lynn," whispered Mrs. Hadwell
with a sigh of contentment, "aren't people
a treat?  I wonder if they're getting
hungry.  Do you think I had better give
orders to have supper served?"

"It mightn't be a bad idea.  Let me go
with you, Del."

"Such a queer thing has happened to-day,
Lynn," whispered Mrs. Hadwell, confidentially,
as they went out together.  "You
remember my speaking to you of my prize
housekeeper? the one beside whose frigid
nature my own showed in the light of a
volcano?  Well, she has actually shown
signs of being human for once.  To-day
she approached me with a request for an
extra night out: at least she didn't call it
that, but it was practically what she wanted.
Under the circumstances—the twins
arriving and the bridge people coming here,
to-night—I demurred a little and asked
if to-morrow wouldn't do.  She then told
me—with an air of wishing she didn't
have to—that General Shaftan—*the*
General Shaftan—had been an old friend of
hers in childhood days; and that she had
just received an urgent message, asking
that she go without fail to his house
to-night.  He must be better; it is queer, for
I understood that he had been quite given
up: he has two nurses and is never left
for a moment, day or night.  Imagine!
Of course I told her to go—but what in
the world do you suppose it means?  You
know the story about the General and the
bewitching Langham-Greene, of course?
They were engaged to be married some
twenty years ago when Langham-Greene—who
was plain Bill Greene, then—hove
upon the scene with his half a million: and
'the scene was changed.'  My lady dropped
Shaftan like a hot potato and transformed
Bill into a Benedict and a Langham-Greene.
Then she drove him to drink: at
least they say so!  I don't believe, myself,
that he took much driving.  At all events
he was thoughtful enough to drink himself
to death: and thoughtless enough to
speculate and leave her very poorly
off—comparatively speaking, of course!  Shaftan, in
the meantime, had left the city and gone to
India: and just about the time that Bill
Greene drank his last glass, he blossomed
out as a General and dear knows what all.
Wasn't it rich?  Poor Julia thought she
had only to hold out a welcoming hand,
when he returned; but to every one's
surprise, he had neither forgotten nor
forgiven.  If he had even refused to meet her
it would have been some solace to her
vanity, but he was quite ready to go so far and
was extremely polite when he did: only he
would never talk to her if he could help
it.  She gave him up at last as a bad job.
Now, when the papers can talk of nothing
else but the career of the famous General
Shaftan and his approaching death he sends
for my housekeeper—and by the way,
Mrs. Waite knew the Langham-Greene well when
she was a girl, for the latter told me so,
adding in her pleasant way that the poor
thing had never had but the one offer which
she accepted."

"I wish she had said that to me."

"She knows your tongue too well, my
dear.  And you make a great mistake in
not conciliating the creature.  Never make
an enemy of a cad, male or female; for
'it' can use weapons which you would
disdain to touch, and those weapons are
frequently poisoned.  If you must make
enemies, make them of honourable people, who
will simply let you alone, and not be trying
to injure you; and be careful to see that
every obnoxious kind of human reptile loves
you.  But what's the use of talking? one
can't teach you common sense."

When the business of ascertaining the
highest scores had been attended to Miss
Erma Reed was found to be the winner of
the lady's prize.  Mrs. Hadwell was much
amused by the warmth of Mr. Bert Hadwell's
congratulations.  Such plaudits as
he bestowed upon her are rarely called
forth by the most amazing skill: and his
aunt by marriage laughed and pinched
Miss Thayer's arm as she listened to them.

"When one considers Erma's height and
proportions and the almost unnatural whiteness
of her skin, one sees that it is merely
to be expected that such a slender and
brown individual as Bert should be
impressed by her cleverness at bridge....
Here is your prize, dear!  I am so glad you
won it and I think it will go nicely with
your pretty dress."

"It" was a pearl pendant which Erma
received with something as nearly
approaching animation as that stately and
somewhat shy damsel ever showed.  She
was, beyond all doubt, one of the most
beautiful girls in Montreal; her absolutely
flawless skin and generous though graceful
proportions instinctively recalling the
masterpieces of Grecian sculpture.  Yet it
was a cold beauty, unlit by intellectual or
mirthful fires: and some of the unthinking
who merely assimilate the general effect
without noticing details had been heard to
say openly that they preferred Mrs. Hadwell's
vivacious prettiness to the younger
woman's more stately charms.  No one had
laughed more freely at this than Mrs. Hadwell,
herself.  She was well aware that,
devoid of artificial advantages, she would
be a most insignificant little nonentity, but
that fact gave her no uneasiness and
diminished nothing of her graciousness toward
the younger and prettier girls who thronged
her entertainments and sang her praises
without stint.  Yet she could not bear
"green girls."

"Lynn," she would say to her friend,
"you have no idea what a comfort it is to
feel that I can get away from them sometimes
and take a rest with you.  After these
giggling, insipid debutantes you are like
a—a cocktail!  Yet it is the thing for nice
women to be adored by young girls and
so I must be adored, worse luck!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"BE PITIFUL, O GOD!"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center medium bold

   "BE PITIFUL, O GOD!"

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "O God! to clasp those fingers close and yet to feel so lonely,
   |  To see a light within those eyes that is the daylight only—
   |            Be pitiful, O God!"
   |                        —*E. Barrett Browning*.

.. vspace:: 2

Amy Waite walked swiftly down
the path which led from Hadwell
Heights to Pine Avenue.  The night
was a cold one; the moon hung bright and
glittering in the starlit heavens and the
white, still earth seemed to her as cruel as
Life, as inexorable as Time.  She shivered
as she walked and drew her shabby fur
more closely around her throat.  When
would this cruel walk end?  When would
this crueler interview be over?

She reached her destination at length and
rang the bell.  General Shaftan had no
relatives in Montreal, but his fame and
character had won him many friends.  Yet he
lay dying alone in his handsome house;
alone, save for the ministrations of a hired
nurse.  Mrs. Waite's thin lips curved in a
smile more tragic than most tears are as
she stood on the doorstep of the silent
house while the keen winds blew dismally
about her.  Alone!  What freak had made
him send for her at such a time?

A silent man-servant admitted and
conducted her upstairs.  Amy paused long
enough to remove her wraps and, while
she waited, the nurse came out from the
sickroom and spoke, softly.

"The General is failing fast," she
whispered.  "He was determined to see you
this evening and so I sent you that urgent
message.  This afternoon he saw his
lawyer on business connected with his will and
I wanted him to wait till to-morrow for
this, but he would not.  He seemed to fear
that he might not live to see another day."  Her
voice trembled; she was a kind-hearted
soul and the General had a way
of endearing himself to all with whom he
came in contact.  Mrs. Waite, however,
stood erect and tearless, and the nurse, after
a half-wondering, half-resentful glance,
directed her to enter.

"He wants to see you, alone," she said,
reluctantly.  "But, if any change should
take place in him, be sure to let me know
at once."

Mrs. Waite gave the required promise
and left her.  The General lay, half-propped
up with pillows; his bronzed face was pale
with the pallor of approaching dissolution,
but his eyes were the eyes of twenty.
Amy's dead youth sprang to sudden life
beneath them and something akin to the
hopeless, useless rapture of thirty years
ago awoke and cried in her heart.  Her
face was set and pallid, and the hands which
clasped the dying soldier's were cold as his
own.  They looked at one another in silence
which the woman could not break.  The
man spoke at last, a little disappointed at
her lack of feeling.

"Well, Amy?" he whispered, half-quizzically.

"You—wanted to see me, Arnold?"

"I did—very much.  I'm dying—I
suppose you know that, eh?"

"I had heard so.  I didn't know"——

"Oh, it's true enough.  Don't I show in
my looks that I am?"

Amy did not answer immediately nor did
her face betray any especial interest in the
statement.  The General, after scrutinizing
her closely, almost anxiously for a moment,
relinquished her hand and laughed, half in
amusement, half in disappointment.

"You're a cold-blooded little creature,
Amy," he cried.  "You always were.  But
you're a faithful little soul—I'd trust you
through thick and thin—and I want to do
something for you before I go.  Also I
want you to help me to pay off old scores
and spite my lady Julia—you won't mind
lending a hand in that, I'll wager."  His
still brilliant grey eyes twinkled significantly.

Amy watched him passively and smiled a
little, wondering why an ugly, faded woman
of forty-eight with a sordid past should feel
as keenly and cruelly as an untrained girl
of eighteen.  No answer suggested itself
and she sat in silence, watching the dying
man and wishing that she, herself, had died
long ago.

The General laughed feebly as he looked
at her.  She was, as he had told her, such
a cold-blooded little thing—rather
unpleasantly like a fish—but, after all, poor little
soul! she had had a beastly hard time of
it; why, she looked like an old woman at
fifty.  He could do one good turn to a
friend before he died, at all events.

"Amy," he said at last, "give me your
hand, little woman!  I want to know if
you will marry me.  Don't look surprised:
this is no freak.  You see if we are married
I can leave you all my money—I am not
poor, though I am not rich—and it's only
right that you should have some comfort
before you die.  Then, too, I want to
prevent Mrs. Julia from saying what she will
say as soon as I am dead—that I always
wanted her and died of grief as well as of
my wound, because of her refusal.  She
shan't say that, by——  She spoilt my life
and I'll not die till I've paid her back a
little.  It seems queer," he went on, with
the radiant, mischievous smile that had
made his listener's heart ache in the old
days, "it seems queer to die a married man,
Amy, after living a single one all my life.
But it's never too late to mend.  How thin
your hand is, you poor little thing!  You've
had hard luck, haven't you?"  He relapsed
into silence, staring steadily at the wall at
the foot of his bed.  His eyes grew glazed
and feverish.

"Don't leave me," he muttered.  "Julia!  Julia!"

Amy started and winced.

"You're a beastly little flirt," he went
on, angrily, gripping her hand till she with
difficulty refrained from crying out with
pain, "a heartless, despicable little flirt and
I despise you from the bottom of my
soul—but, O God!  I can't help loving you.
No other woman has ever been to me
what you were—and you—threw—me—over,"
he went on, slowly, with a hard,
cruel expression, "for Greene.  Greene! the
miserable, worthless sot!  Well, you
made one mistake, my lady, didn't you?
... But don't turn away, Julia!" he went
on, imploringly, "don't turn away from
me!  I can't stand it....  Your hand is
cold—you don't care—O my God! you
don't care!"  His voice rose almost to a
wail.  "Julia!" he cried.  "Julia! my
darling, my darling!—say it's a mistake!
You're not what you pretend to be—you
can't be!—Julia!"

He sank back exhausted and his face relaxed.
A look of intense relief overspread
his features and his lips formed a smile of
great beauty and tenderness.

"*Julia!*" he murmured softly.  Then he died.

Amy sat quite unmoved and looked at the
rigid figure.  She showed no particular
emotion; yet the peace which made the
dead face so beautiful was lacking in the
living.  Some minutes elapsed.  She rose
at last and stood for a moment, looking
down.  About that lifeless thing on the
bed had clustered all her poor, starved life
had held of love and romance.  She bent
slowly toward it; then straightened, a faint
red colour in her sallow cheek.

"No!" she said, almost proudly.

She rang the bell.

"The General has just died," she said in
level, unemotional accents.  "It was very
sudden.  It was impossible to call you.  I
am sorry."

The big-hearted nurse looked at her with
hearty repulsion and dislike and burst into
a flood of tears.  There seemed no particular
reason for waiting further; Amy
moved mechanically to the door and down
the steps; and so passed quietly into the
bitter night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOCKEY MATCH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOCKEY MATCH

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "The day is short, the evening cometh fast;
   |  The time of choosing, Love, will soon be past;
   |  The outer darkness falleth, Love, at last.
   |  Love, let us love ere it be late—too late!
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |  Once, only, Love, may love's sweet song be sung,
   |  But once, Love, at our feet life's flower is flung;
   |  Once, Love, once only, Love, can we be young."
   |                                            —Anon.

.. vspace:: 2

The Montreal Arena is a building of
considerable size, capable of
accommodating many thousands.  It
has been the scene of many a revel; horses,
prima donnas, vegetables, all have
exhibited here at one time or another; from Calvé,
who raved with indignation at the idea of
singing in such a place, to Emperor, the
finest horse in Canada, who made no
objection, whatever.  Only a hockey match,
however, can count positively on filling it
from wall to wall.

To-night was the Wales-Conquerors
match: and many a business man of
mature years had sent his office boy days
before to "stand in line" from nine to eleven
on a bitter winter morning in order to
procure tickets.  Mrs. Hadwell had secured
six seats and had organized a party to
escort her American guests thither.  She,
however, had not accompanied them,
frankly acknowledging the obvious fact
that she was "no sport."

"I do love to be fin-de-siecle," she had
said.  "But, when it comes to hockey or
pug dogs—well, I simply can't, that's
all."  Then she had told a plaintive tale of how,
when a girl, she had been taken to a hockey
match.  Her escort had been an enthusiast
of the most virulent type; and she had
been obliged to feign a joy which she by
no means felt.

"It was ghastly," she observed, "ghastly.
There I sat, huddled in grandmother's
sealskin which wasn't a bit becoming, and
watched a lot of weird things dressed like
circus clowns knocking a bit of rubber
round a slippery rink.  And all those poor
misguided beings who had paid two, three
and five dollars to see them do it yelled
like mad whenever the rubber got taken
down a little faster than usual—oh, you
may laugh! but I can tell you that when
one of those silly men whacked another
silly man over the head when the umpire
wasn't looking because the second ass had
hit that absurd bit of rubber oftener than
he, the first ass, had—why, I felt sorry
to think that the human species to which
I belonged was so devoid of sense.  And
that great goat who stood at one end and
tried to stop the thing from getting
between two sticks! why did everyone think
he was a hero when he managed to get his
two big feet together in time to stop the
rubber from getting through?  I don't see
anything very clever in putting your feet
together and letting a rubber thing come
bang against your toes, do you?

"But what's the use of talking!  You
must think it clever.  You must! or why
should you go?  Where is the attraction?
Do you *like* hearing those wild-looking men
shouting insults at the men who don't play
on their team?  Does it amuse you to hear
them snarling, 'Dirty Smith!  Putimoff!'
'Butcher Brown!  Knockiseadoff, Robinson!'  It
is incomprehensible to me.  I shall
always remember Alice Mann's proud face
as she watched her brother chasing round
while the crowd hailed him by the dignified
and endearing title of 'Dirty Mann.'  I
think that, if I had a brother and heard
him called 'Dirty Mann' in public, I should
want to leave the city."

Accordingly Mrs. Hadwell had stayed
at home; but a merry and expectant party
had met at Hadwell Heights and had
driven to the Arena, where they sat now,
awaiting the fray.  It would be some time
before this began, so the young strangers
had time to look about them and comment
on the various spectators.  Ladies wrapped
in costly furs sat side by side with shabbily
dressed men, who, in spite of the printed
reminder that smoke was forbidden, ejected
a constant stream in the air, the while they
hoarsely sang the merits of their favourite
team and the demerits of the opposing one.
Small boys perched on the rafters, looking
as though a finger touch would hurl them
to instant destruction.

"If one of them did fall," inquired Bertie,
with a shudder, "wouldn't he be instantly
killed?"

"If he were lucky," returned her
companion, a young McGill professor named
Donovan, cheerfully.  "Otherwise he might
only injure himself for life."

"But"——

"But you see, Miss Hadwell, none of
them ever do fall.  Not one boy has ever
lost his hold, as far as I know.  If one of
them did get killed of course it would be
stopped."

"But don't they get awfully excited?"

"Excited!  They go mad.  But they
don't fall."

"You see," interposed Gerald Amherst,
"they never think about it.  If one of them
stopped clapping and wriggling and began
to measure the space from his airy perch
to the ice, below; and furthermore meditate
on the consistency and solidity of the
aforesaid ice and the probable fate of
anyone whose head came in contact with it
after a fall of seventy to a hundred
feet—why, he would drop, that's all.  They are
occupied with more important matters,
however; the merits of Smith as a
goal-keeper, the demerits of Brown as a
forward—they have no time to muse upon their
latter end and the thin veil that lies
between them and eternity."

"I'm glad they haven't; for my part I'm
convinced that I shall have nightmare after
seeing them.  Is that your—what is the
band playing for?  Oh, is that the
Vice-Regal party?  Dear me! what is every one
rising for?  Must I get up, too?"

Her voice was drowned in the strains of
the National Anthem which was howled
enthusiastically by boxes and rafters, alike.
As, "God save the King" died into silence
the Governor-General bowed and took his
seat; while his daughters gazed with
interest about the Arena which they were
visiting for the first time.

"Observe his coat," said Mr. Donovan.
"Feast your American eyes on it.  That
coat was bought by Lord Dufferin, and left
by him to be worn by his successors.  The
sleeves are quite out of style by this time;
but you see 'This is a man!'  What's your
opinion of him, on the whole?"

"Why, I think—good gracious, what's that!"

A roar that shook the roof arose as the
opposing teams emerged from the waiting
room and skated upon the ice.  The scarlet
sweaters and caps of the Conquerors
stained the crystal ice with daubs of blood:
and the more sombre hues of the Wales
showed with almost equal effect.

"Oh, are they beginning?" cried Bertie
in ecstasy.

They were.  The whistle blew and both
sides skated to the centre to receive the
customary warning.

"They both seem pretty cool," remarked
Mr. Amherst.  "No signs of nervousness
that I can see."

"Not a particle.  Look! who has won
the toss?  The Conquerors?  Hurrah!  You
must say 'Hurrah!' too, Mr. Hadwell,
whenever anything nice happens to the
Conquerors.  It's no fun unless you choose
a team."

"Why is the Conquerors your team?"

"Because—oh, because the captain's
father was baptized by my grandfather, I
believe.  There is some such reason, but,
for the moment, I forget just what it is.
Any reason will do, you know; the point
is that you must have a favourite team and
shout whenever it scores and groan with
indignation whenever the other team does.
Do you see?"

"I see.  When am I to begin? and how
am I to let the public know what I am
groaning about?"

"Oh, the public will know if you groan
in the right place—that is, when the other
team does well.  Oh, look! there goes the puck!"

It dashed across the ice, followed by a
mass of skimming, pursuing forms; and,
for the next few moments, silence reigned.
Then a shout arose, "Off-side!"

"Off-side" it was; and the indignant
audience hurled insults impartially at both
teams; no one seeming very sure as to
which was "off-side," but each assuming
that it could not be a member of his
favourite team.  The Conquerors lost to the
Wales this time and the latter passed to
one of his team who succeeded in sending
the puck flying toward the goal.  Intense
excitement reigned: would he succeed in
getting the puck past the goal-keeper?  No:
the latter deftly turned it aside; and a roar
of mingled delight and disappointment
arose which made the American girl start
and put her hands to her ears.

"Do they often make such a noise?" she
asked, involuntarily.

"I should think so," answered Donovan,
staring.  "You don't mind it, do you?  Oh,
shame on you, Parton! what are you
thinking about, Umpire?—don't mind me, Miss
Hadwell, I'm just—Hurray!  Bully for
you, Marsh! oh, good work, old boy.
You're the stuff!  Push it along—*Hurray!*"

The puck had passed and the Conquerors
had drawn first blood.  In the first wild
shriek that rose Bertie was conscious chiefly
of one thing—everybody's mouth was
wide open.  No individual shriek could be
distinguished, yet, judging from appearances,
every one, from the Governor-General
in his box to the smallest imp on the
highest rafter, was shouting himself hoarse.
Slowly the excitement subsided; slowly the
spectators sank back into the seats which
they had vacated; and, after a minute or
two of preparation, the game recommenced.

"Never tell me again that the English
are a cold race," Bertie remarked solemnly
as the party took their seats in Mrs. Hadwell's
carriage at the close of the evening.
"I have read of such things, but I never
expected to see them in Canada.  I could
go to a hockey match every night in the
week.  It's grand!  And, Mr. Donovan, if
the Wales had won—as I thought at one
time they would—I believe I should have
cried myself to sleep.  Oh, you needn't
laugh!  I mean it."

An hour or so later, after the assembled
guests had partaken of a supper 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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A SCANDAL VERIFIED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A SCANDAL VERIFIED

.. vspace:: 2

..

   "I'm not denying that women are foolish: God Almighty
   made 'em to match the men."—*George Eliot*.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MRS. HADWELL'S FANCY DRESS BALL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   MRS. HADWELL'S FANCY DRESS BALL

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "When Youth and Pleasure meet
   |  To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."
   |                                        —*Byron*.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`AGATHA "DOES HER DUTY" AND IS REWARDED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   AGATHA "DOES HER DUTY" AND IS REWARDED

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "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*.

.. vspace:: 2

Past Boadicea, reclining against a
marble heater and conversing with
Mephistopheles; past Joan of Arc,
flirting vigorously with Torquemeda; past
the Queen of the Fairies, chatting to a
miscellaneous group of knights and
demons; past every variety of hero and lady
fair went the self-sacrificing Agatha, intent
on her altruistic aim.  "For," as she
muttered to herself, "if he has proposed to her,
already, it isn't very likely that he will
change for a little while, anyway, and I
want to be married before any of the other
girls.  Besides it wouldn't be half so nice
to marry a man who had been refused by
your own cousin; though every one would
think you had cut her out and Lynn is so
funny that she would probably just giggle
and say nothing, so it wouldn't matter
much.  But, as matters stand, I think it
would be really wicked to let Lynn actually
refuse him, particularly when I can get
so many others: and, once they are
married, she will be grateful to me as well as
he and they will have a nice home and
entertain a lot and I can be their
bridesmaid and everyone will say how much
prettier I am than the bride and"—At this
moment she caught sight of her quarry.

Lynn had been dancing and had just
come out to the hall in search of a vacant
chair or stair when she saw a vision of pink
tulle gazing at her with such an unusual
amount of feeling and expressiveness that,
with a hasty excuse, she dropped her partner's
arm and hurried to her small cousin's side.

"Agatha," she exclaimed, wonderingly.
"What is it?  Is anything the matter?  Do
you want me?"

"Indeed I do," responded Agatha, solemnly.

"Then just let me speak to Mr. Barnes
a moment and explain why I am going:
then we can run upstairs to Del's little
sitting-room and talk quietly."

This programme was carried out; and,
when they were safely ensconced behind
closed doors, Lynn turned eagerly to her
cousin.

"Now, Agatha!" she said.

Agatha turned and looked at her.

"Lynn," she said with portentous solemnity,
"I don't know what you will think of
me and I don't care.  Some one has got
to talk to you."

Lynn stared in amazement, wondering if
her thrice-engaged cousin objected to her
dancing twice with the same man: she
could think of no other enormity of which
she had been guilty that evening.

"I have been sitting out a couple of
dances with Mr. Lighton, and he became
unusually confidential," went on Agatha,
turning almost pale: "and he tells me,"
pausing impressively, "he tells me that
you—have—refused—him."

"He tells the truth," responded Lynn,
looking annoyed, "and all I can say is,
Agatha, that if you have torn me away
from the dance"—

"Wait a moment," said Agatha,
earnestly.  "This is very important to me,
Lynn.  It isn't only that I feel sorry that
you, being my cousin, should be so foolish
as to refuse him, once; but what I want
to know is,—did you mean it?"

"Assuredly I did," said Lynn, staring.

"You meant," said Agatha, pathetically,
"you really meant, Lynn, to refuse that
nice house and"—

"Yes, and that nice horse, too,"
exclaimed Lynn, turning red.  "Upon my
word this is too much!  I can stand Aunt
Lucy and Del, but when it comes to you,
Agatha—understand once for all that I
meant to refuse that nice house and that
good-sized yard at the back and that
commodious stable with all that it contains—not
even excepting the horse which every
one seemed to think that I would accept
with tears of rapture, despite the fact that
it was encumbered with a master whom I
should have to accept, likewise, as they are
inseparable."

"Oh, Lynn, dear! such a lot of long
words and such a temper and all because I
tried to advise you for your own good."

"Agatha, I give you fair warning that I
shall gently but firmly assassinate the very
next person who tries to advise me for my
own good."

Agatha sat for a moment, absorbed in thought.

"Lynn," she said, presently, "does
anyone know that you have refused Mr. Lighten?"

"Not unless he has chosen to tell anyone.
I am not in the habit of publishing
every offer I receive in the daily papers,
which is one reason why some people
suppose that I never get any."

"Then," said Agatha, thinking deeply,
"I suppose, Lynn, you will not mind if I
advise you not to—not to tell anyone?
Do you remember what you said to me
about those things—proposals and
engagements and things, you know!—well,
at the time I did say I thought it was
foolish not to tell when people proposed to you
because then lots of people, as you say,
think you never get any—but since then
I have changed my mind; I really think it
is more sensible not to—particularly in
your case where it would be so embarrassing
for Mr. Lighton if he were attentive to
some girl."

Lynn burst out laughing.

"I never in my life told on any man who
was misguided enough to ask me to marry
him.  I have always felt that the pain of
feeling that he had so lowered himself was
punishment enough for any crime."

"Why, Lynn, I don't quite see what
you mean," said Agatha, patient but bewildered.

"This is all I mean," said Lynn, gravely.
"If you have any idea of going in for
Lighton—and certainly his house is all that
could be desired—why, don't feel as you
walk up the aisle in veil and orange
blossoms that I am whispering to my nearest
acquaintance, 'I could have had that man
if I had wanted him.'"

"But," said Agatha, timidly, "suppose
such a thing *did* happen—it would not be
very nice for you, Lynn, to think that
people were saying that I had cut you out.
That is the first thing that Mrs. Langham-Greene
would think."

"I can think of nothing at the moment
less likely to worry me than Mrs. Langham-Greene's
thoughts concerning me."

"Oh, how queer you are!" said Agatha,
opening her eyes widely.  "Then, Lynn,
if you should hear—well, anything! you
won't mind.  For there is still time for you
to change your mind, you know; and really
he's very fond of you, and his house"—

"Has only one drawback!  Now don't
dare to tell him I said that, Agatha, or"—

"Why, I don't know what you did say,"
responded Agatha, patiently.  "You say
such queer things, Lynn, that half the time
I don't know what you're driving at.  At
all events, however, as I understand, you
are quite determined not to accept Mr. Lighton."

"Quite."

"Then," said Agatha, dimpling bewitchingly
and adjusting her rose wreath with
an air of satisfaction, "then, Lynn, I must
just go and tell him so, I suppose."

She found the Rejected sitting where she
had left him, and gazing disconsolately into
space.  He brightened a little as she sat
down beside him.

"You had no luck, I suppose?" he
remarked, tentatively.

"Mr. Lighton," cooed Agatha, softly,
"she is not worthy of you.  She is my
own cousin, but I can't help saying so."

Mr. Lighton turned a rich, ripe tan colour,
the nearest approach to a flush of rage
that his skin was capable of attaining.

"Made fun of me, I suppose?" he
queried in tones of stifled fury.  "Oh, you
needn't try to smooth it over, Miss Ladilaw!
I know that tongue of hers too well."

"Well," said Agatha, commiseratingly,
"I must say, Mr. Lighton, that she might
have been nicer.  It's one thing to refuse
a man and another to make jokes about it.
Not that she said much, you know, but
there was one speech about your house
having only one drawback"—

"That," exclaimed Mr. Lighton in a
burst of horrible enlightenment, "was Me!"

"I am afraid so," said Agatha, softly.
"But please don't tell any one I repeated
it, Mr. Lighton.  I really shouldn't have,
you know.  But I felt so disturbed and
angry at the idea of any one belonging to
me being so heartless"—

Six months later when Miss Agatha
Ladilaw, "the prettiest debutante of the
former season," made "the match of the
year," Lynn felt rather hurt at the
demeanour of both bride and groom toward her.

"I was disagreeable," she reflected, "but
he brought it on himself and I can't
understand why the mention of my name should
invariably produce a chill in the Ladilaw
household.  Agatha, at least, has nothing
to blame me for."

Agatha and Agatha's husband, however,
agreed in seeing as little as possible of
Agatha's cousin and in acting as coldly as was
consistent with politeness whenever they
did meet her.  This, Society thought, was
owing to the fact that poor Miss Thayer
had cherished useless aspirations in the
direction of the Lighton house, herself.  Poor
Miss Thayer!





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.. _`THE TWINS UNDER A NEW ASPECT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE TWINS UNDER A NEW ASPECT

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
   |  Jest and youthful jollity."
   |                      —*Milton*.

.. vspace:: 2

The fun was at its height.  The
most delightful waltz of the
evening had just concluded and
streams of gaily dressed forms poured in
the direction of the balcony.  It was
mid-winter and the thermometer stood at five
below: yet more than one couple strolled
out on the balcony and stood, contracting
lung trouble and pneumonia, while they
gazed enraptured at the beautiful panorama
which spread beneath them.  The city was
a mass of glittering lights, seen through
the delicate pencilled branches of bare
maples and willows; and seemed to the
watchers as though lying hundreds of feet below
Hadwell Heights.  At the foot of the high
hill on which the house was built lay Pine
Avenue, thronged with couples arrayed in
sporting garb and bent on their way to the
toboggan slide at the back of the mountain.
Less often a party of snowshoers would
rush past on their ungainly footgear: an
object of little amusement to the Canadians
but one of never-failing interest to the
Americans: and, less frequently still, a
couple of men on skis.  The twins, who
never thought of colds or of precautions
against them, spent most of their time
between the dances in standing in the most
exposed part of the balcony and watching
the passers-by until the icy winds which
whirled around drove them indoors,
shivering but happy.

Bertie seemed to-night as though
possessed of some demon of mischief and
unrest.  She confessed to a rather bad cold
already, but it detracted nothing from her
appearance though it affected her usually
sweet voice, rendering it hoarse and
strained.  No entreaties could keep her
from the icy balcony, though, and her
partners soon stopped making them and
devoted themselves to carrying on the
flirtations which she seemed determined to push
to the utmost limit.  Never had any of her
Canadian admirers seen her in such a
mood; her usual gay, but rather reserved
manner had given place to the one
commonly attributed to the American girl in
foreign fiction.  Her partners were at first
amazed, then flattered at her open and
eager anxiety for their attentions; but
some, including Donovan, her companion
of the hockey match, who had come to like
and admire the pretty Ohio girl, were
rather repelled and disgusted at the change
in her.  Toward the end of the evening his
disgust reached a climax.  An extremely
shy and painfully proper youth to whom
Bertie had begged him to introduce her at
the beginning of the evening, had just
emerged from sitting out a dance with her
and had asked Donovan to have a smoke
with him in Mr. Hadwell's "den," which,
for this night, was given over to the needs
of the dancers.  On Donovan's assenting,
Mr. Simcoe, the shy youth, had unfolded a
tale of horror.  He had come up for his
dance with Miss Hadwell when she,
without a word of apology, had piloted him in
the direction of the stairs, murmuring, as
she did so, "We don't want to dance, do
we?  We can do better than that."  On his
expressing his willingness to do as she
wished she had squeezed his arm and
informed him in an ecstatic whisper that he
was a duck, a perfect duck, and that she
was going to show him a nice little cubby
hole behind some curtains at the end of the
hall which she was sure Mrs. Hadwell must
have fixed expressly for them.  "Of
course," Mr. Simcoe had remarked,
nervously, "of course I couldn't refuse to go,
Donovan."  Donovan, looking very grim,
had agreed with him: of course he could
not.  So, it appeared, they had gone.
Mr. Simcoe had seemed unwilling to divulge
the secrets of his prison house but had gone
so far as to hint that ladies who asked
fellows to kiss them on so short an acquaintance
were not in his line.  Donovan had
informed him here that gentlemen did not,
as a rule, "kiss and tell": and had refused
to listen further, regardless of Mr. Simcoe's
anguished explanation.  "But I didn't,
Donovan! hang it all, it was she who
insisted, you know, and she can't blame me
for speaking of it."  Donovan had walked
off in a furious rage, awakened, not so
much by Mr. Simcoe's lack of gallantry
as by Miss Hadwell's lack of common sense
and good breeding.

If Miss Bertie's conduct gave rise to
comment, what shall be said of Mr. Bert's?  It
is safe to say that never before in a
Montreal drawing-room had any gentleman
disported himself with such amazing freedom.
Before many dances had transpired
ominous whispers might have been heard
among the young ladies who had been
honoured with his partnership; and it was
a matter of common observation that,
toward the end of the evening, several of
his companions flatly refused to "sit out"
dances which he had engaged, earlier.  The
most amazing snub which he received came
from Miss Reed, who, on his reminding her
that she had promised him the eighteenth
dance, had answered in tones of ice, "So
sorry, Mr. Hadwell, but I never dance—except
with gentlemen!"  This was merely
the climax of a series of unpleasant remarks
which had been showered upon him; but,
coming from Miss Reed, who was known
to have absorbed all his time and attention
until that evening, it was expected to have
had a chilling effect upon him.  This,
however, was far from being the case.  "I may
not be exactly a gentleman, Miss Reed," he
had returned with the utmost sangfroid,
"but"—  At this moment he had caught
sight of his sister's eye, fixed on him with
a look in which rage and consternation
were strangely blended; and breaking off
abruptly, he had left Erma's side, his manly
shoulders shaking visibly.  Bertie had held
a hasty and agitated conversation with him;
and the twinly devotion which had so
impressed the assembled company when the
dance commenced was apparently
conspicuous by its absence.

In the midst of the dance Mrs. Hadwell
was seen to leave the room, hastily, in
response to a whispered message from a
housemaid.  When she returned her eyes
were sparkling mischievously and her whole
demeanour was charged with importance.
Presently she beckoned confidentially to
Mrs. Langham-Greene, who stood, resplendent
in pale green draperies and water
lilies, a most pleasing and graceful Undine.
Undine approached and Titania linked her
arm in hers.  "My dear," she cooed, "you
haven't an idea—oh, how shall I
begin?  You know my housekeeper, don't
you?  Wasn't she an old school friend of yours?"

"Not a friend, exactly," answered the
elegant Undine, rather deprecatingly.  "An
acquaintance, rather.  Such an ugly little
thing and so lacking in any sort of
brightness and attractiveness"—

"To us yes!" purred Titania.  "But
only think of a man like General Shaftan
having cared so much for her that he was
unable to die without seeing her and
imploring her for the last time to become his
wife"—  She paused and viewed the
crimsoning Undine with a countenance
absolutely devoid of guile.

"General Shaftan?" inquired her guest,
turning from crimson to scarlet.  "General
Shaftan?  Why, my dear Mrs. Hadwell"—

"I know," murmured Titania, sympathetically,
casting a demure glance at the
infuriated water nymph, "I know! we all
thought it was you—and, no doubt, he
made you think so as well! men are such
dreadful deceivers—but he sent for
Mrs. Waite on his death-bed and wanted to
marry her."

Undine found her breath.

"My *dear* Mrs. Hadwell," she laughed,
lightly.  "Does it sound a probable story?"

"No; and if the poor woman, herself,
had told me about it, I regret to say that
I should have doubted her.  But the
General told his nurse and trusted her with
the secret contents of his will.  It was
drawn up three hours before he sent for
Mrs. Waite and, in it, he says that he
leaves all of which he dies possessed to
Amy Marion Waite in the belief that that
lady will, in the next few hours, become
his wife, as he hopes and intends she shall."

Mrs. Langham-Greene said nothing, but
turned white and twisted the fan which she
held in her long, snake-like fingers feverishly.
Titania, looking at her, felt a sudden
twinge of compassion and compunction.
She left her with some hurried excuse.

"So," she said, slowly to herself, "so
even that unscrupulous, wheedling serpent
is capable of caring for somebody: and
caring for him all those years, too.  Am I
the only woman living who—who"——

Something wet and glistening fell on her
chiffon dress.  She hastily wiped it away
and stared in amazement.

"Getting sentimental at my age?" she
inquired in stupefaction.  "Here, Estelle
Hadwell, don't be a fool!  You've got
everything you ever wanted and you're ten
times happier than anyone else you know.
Think of your dresses and your jewelry
and your friends and your—n-n-no, I don't
know that you need think of him—not
just now, at all events!  But think of"—

She looked up, up the long, broad
stairway, up to the big, quiet nursery.  Then
she smiled and tossed her head.

"I have everything, practically everything,"
she said, defiantly.  "Everything
but a sentimental experience which
disappears, anyway, after six months of married
life.  I'm a fool, that's what I am! a
discontented, ungrateful fool.  The trouble
with me is that I've got too much.  If
only—if only one of them doesn't"——

A spasm of agony crossed her face at the
unwelcome thought; then she resolutely
crossed the hall and opened an animated
conversation with one of her numerous
admirers.  Lack of self-control was not one
of the pretty Titania's failings.

Presently Lynn Thayer joined her,
looking grave and perplexed.  "May I have
Mrs. Hadwell to myself for a few
moments?" she asked, smiling in a rather
forced way: then, putting her hand on
Mrs. Hadwell's arm, she drew her aside.

"Del," she said in a low voice, "you
know I am no prude and I don't make a
fuss, unnecessarily, about anything; but
I tell you plainly that you must speak to
those young connections of yours."

"Why, what have the poor things been
doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell in amazement.
"I noticed that they were awfully
lively but, surely, at their age"—

"My dear Del, their conduct is outrageous.
Particularly Bertie's.  After all, if a
boy of twenty chooses to act like a fool he
simply gets severely snubbed and, in time,
comes to his senses and is forgiven.  But
when a girl of the same age, a girl who has
had every advantage, starts to act in her
uncle's house like an extremely fast
barmaid, why, you know as well as I do that
it won't be forgotten in a hurry.  What has
got into them to-night I don't know; but
the whole room is talking of their actions.
Imagine Bertie asking that shy little
recluse of a Simcoe to kiss her and pretending
to weep when he hesitated"——

"*Lynn!*"

"My dear, that isn't the worst of it.  She
has taken about half her partners to that
little alcove in the second floor hall, which
is curtained off, and has treated them to a
course of hoydenish flirtation which is, to
say the least of it, in the poorest taste.
Silly little Simcoe was bad enough, but,
when it comes to Parham, one of the
fastest men in the city"——

"Surely not!"

"She has been sitting up there with him
for the last two dances; and she is
evidently taken with him, for, when she showed
me her programme and I remarked on her
having promised him three dances in
succession, she giggled in the most affected
manner and said, 'Oh, I simply adore those
sad-eyed, soft-voiced men with reputations
yards long!' and danced off before I had
a chance to suggest that"——

"Why, Lynn, what can I have been
thinking about to allow it?  Oh, the silly
child!  If she must act like a goose, why
couldn't she do it a little more privately?
Don't laugh, Lynn: you know what I
mean.  And you tell me that Bert?"——

"Has been acting like a perfect fool.
He even wanted to kiss me."

"Lynn! the boy must have taken leave
of his senses."

"I was afraid myself that he was drunk.
In fact I took the liberty of asking him if
he was.  He was quite angry for a
moment.  'What do you mean by saying that
I am drunk?' he asked.  'Oh,' I said, 'I
didn't say that you *were* drunk: on the
contrary I said I hoped you weren't.'  'But
why should you think I was?' persisted my
gentleman.  So I told him that when people
tried to make love to me I always thought
they must be drunk.  He shouted at that
and explained that he was in good
spirits—animal, not vegetable—and wanted to
enjoy himself.  I treated him to a piece of
my mind, but it didn't seem to do much good."

"Isn't it extraordinary?  With all their
high spirits and love of fun I thought those
twins were as well-bred a pair as you would
want to meet.  Well!  I must do my duty,
I suppose.  Where are the miscreants, Lynn?"

"Bert is in the ballroom, trying to pacify
his partners, most of whom are not pleased
with him for reasons best known to themselves.
Bertie, as I told you, is sitting
behind a fairly thick curtain with a man
who shouldn't be admitted into any respectable house."

"My dear child, don't start to lecture
about that!  I have enough on my hands."

She mounted the stairs with a determined
but bored expression and presently
descended, followed by the unrepentant
Bertie who winked joyously at the stony
and disapproving visage of her aunt's
friend.  Behind them strolled the
redoubtable Parham, apparently highly amused.

Mrs. Hadwell entered the ballroom and
looked about for Bert.  He was presently
discovered in the act of fanning an
indignant-looking lady who pretended to ignore
his efforts at small talk.  Mrs. Hadwell
beckoned and he sprang to his feet with
alacrity.

"Bert!" said his aunt by marriage,
sternly, "there are limits to my
forbearance.  I am sorry to say that you have
transgressed those limits.  I am still
sorrier that you have no better taste than to
take pleasure in showing impertinence to
my guests."

Bert's face worked for a moment: he
said something in an aside to his sister,
then spoke.

"Aunt Del," he said, humbly but with
an irrepressible twinkle in his black eyes,
"we have acted like a couple of demons, I
must admit, but, if you'll only forgive us
this once, I swear we'll straighten things
out.  Every one is going to supper, now;
well, Bertie and I are going in together
and, just as soon as the people are seated,
you will see what will happen."

"I will not," was Mrs. Hadwell's unexpected
rejoinder.  "I have had quite enough
nonsense, Bert.  It must end, here."

Bert consulted his sister with his eyes;
then, catching his diminutive aunt by the
waist, he whirled her down the room and
whispered something in her ear.  She
gasped, then suddenly laughed and looked
relieved; and Bertie approached and
entered into an animated conversation with her.

Five minutes later, when the assembled
company was seated at supper, the unruly
and ostracized pair walked solemnly in and
stood for a moment at the head of the
room.  Then Bert raised his
crimson-decked arm with a mute request for
silence.  A hush of surprise fell on the
revellers.  He spoke.

.. _`299`:

"My dear friends," he said, gravely, "my
sister and I have acted so badly to-night
and have laid ourselves open to so much
well-deserved censure that we think the
least we can do is to apologize, and we do
it—thus!"

He deliberately laid hold of his
companion's snowy locks and, with a vigorous
pull, exposed a close cropped head.  Then
he doffed his crimson headgear and a dark
tress fell athwart his nose.

When the prolonged shrieks of amazement
and laughter had died into silence
Bert—the real Bert—spoke.

"My sister says that if all the girls whom
she has kissed will forgive her she will
never do it, again," he said.  "And, as for
me," he paused and cast a glance of pure
delight in the direction of Messrs. Simcoe
and Parham, "as for me, while I must
confess that I am a horrible flirt"—

He could get no further.

.. vspace:: 2

An hour later Undine, looking paler than
her wont, sat whispering behind a large
fan to two or three other women.  One of
them, a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman,
looked distinctly sad and uncomfortable.

"The poor girl!" she said.

"Such people should be exposed,"
returned Undine, coldly.  "The idea of her
being here at all.  Mrs. Hadwell cannot
associate with fast women and expect to
keep her own character.  Personally I never
think there is any real harm in Mrs. Hadwell,
though"—  She paused tentatively
while a venomous gleam lit her large, pale eyes.

"Oh, no, no!" cried the others in
horrified unison; and Mrs. Langham-Greene
saw that it would be dangerous to venture
further.  She bade an affectionate farewell
to her hostess and ordered a closed sleigh.

"My dress is so thin," she explained, smiling.

As the sleigh drove away she crouched
among the fur rugs and bit her naked arms
and writhed.

"I'll pay them for this," she whispered,
catching her breath in torture.  "He sent
for her—for her! and that little cat dared
to tell me to my face—oh, I can't reach
her, not yet; but I can hurt her through
her friend, anyway.  She really cares for
the Thayer girl; it'll make trouble with
her pompous old husband when she insists
on supporting her—oh, I'll do what I
can! it may help me to forget."  She groaned.
"Oh, I can't bear it: I didn't mind his
death as I mind this! it's like losing him
all over again—I'll pay her for what she's
made me suffer to-night!  *I'll pay her!*"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A LIE WHICH IS PART A TRUTH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center medium bold

   A LIE WHICH IS PART A TRUTH

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
   |  A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,
   |  But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."
   |                                                    —*Tennyson*.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Langham-Greene's
pretty town house possessed a
drawing-room as elegant as its
mistress, and far less harmful.  It was
flanked by two bay windows, admirably
adapted for gazing on the peccadilloes of
one's neighbours, the while one ruminated
contentedly on one's own virtues.  Here
its fair owner loved to sit on winter
afternoons, dispensing excellent tea and gossip:
and here one bright January day found her
brewing the witching potion for a waiting
guest.  This was no other than Gerald
Amherst, who happened to be painting the
lady's portrait.  When the daylight faded
she had insisted on his accompanying her
home and joining her in a cup of five
o'clock tea.  The fair widow was not an
especial favourite of the artist's; but his
stock of excuses had been exhausted on
previous occasions and he had therefore
submitted meekly.

Mrs. Langham-Greene was a woman who
wore well, as the saying is.  Her figure
was straight and supple as a girl of
twenty's and her delicate features had escaped
the pinched look which frequently
accompanies thinness in a woman of fifty.  Her
skin had always been colourless and now
resembled fine ivory; her hair, which she
wore parted in the middle in the Madonna
style, was only very slightly flecked with
grey.  Julia Langham-Greene was a
distinguished woman, an interesting woman,
an elegant woman.  When, at thirty-five,
she had first donned widow's weeds, she
had created such a furore that it was many
years before she found herself able to
relinquish them.  However, when a woman
reaches forty and finds herself capable of
wearing pale blue and scarlet to
advantage—she usually does.

Mrs. Langham-Greene was now
forty-seven, yet she could attend a fancy dress
ball attired in Nile green and pearls and
look the part of Undine to perfection.
Small wonder, then, that she wished to
transfer such lasting charms to still more
lasting canvas; and Amherst had attained
distinction as a portrait painter years
before.  She smiled delicately on him now,
as she sugared his tea and inquired in tones
of melted honey whether he took cream or
lemon; and pondered inwardly how best
to land the shaft she held in store.

"You are too good," she purred, in
response to a perfunctory compliment on his
part.  "Far too good.  Among so many
young and pretty girls I fear I must have
been quite unnoticed.  Miss Reed, for
instance!  What regular features she has;
quite ideal!  What a pity that she has so
little conversation! and such poor taste
in dress.  And is it true that her father
has fits and that her mother was a
house-maid before he married her?"

"I never heard that," returned Amherst,
opening his honest eyes in amazement.
"Miss Reed is a striking looking girl, but,
to my mind, Miss Ladilaw is far prettier."

"But so uninteresting, don't you think?"

"Not more so than the majority of very
young girls."

"Still," pursued Mrs. Langham-Greene,
thoughtfully, "she is a nice lady-like little
thing.  I daresay she will marry young;
she is so naive and pretty.  It is not likely
that she will hang on year after year like
that poor, plain cousin of hers."

"Surely you don't mean Miss Thayer?"

"I mention no names," said the widow,
archly: then her face dropped, pathetically.
"I should not like to say one thing about
that poor, misguided girl that might sound
unkind,—poor creature, she has enough to
bear."

"I don't understand you," said Gerald,
flushing angrily.

"Ah, you men are so gallant," commented
the widow, smiling a little sorrowfully.
"I am told that the things gentlemen
say about Miss Thayer when they are
alone could not be repeated in a lady's hearing."

"Whoever told you that, Mrs. Greene,"
replied Gerald, forgetting the hyphened
adjunct in his fury, "is an uncommonly first
class liar.  The things that *gentlemen* say
about Miss Thayer could be repeated in the
hearing of St. Peter."

"My dear Mr. Amherst, you have lifted
a weight from my mind.  Is it possible that
there are men in this world so—so kindly
that they refrain from unpleasant comment
on a woman of that kind even when the
refining influence of ladies' society"——

"A woman of that kind!  Unpleasant
comment!  I don't know what in the—what
in thunder you can mean, Mrs. Greene;
and, if you will kindly inform me
in as few words as possible"——

"I?"

Mrs. Langham-Greene drew her slender
figure up haughtily and regarded her
interrogator with stately yet grieved amazement.

"*I?  I* repeat scandal—I spread scandal
about another woman? a woman, too, who,
in spite of the fact, that she must be fully
thirty, has not yet been able to secure a
husband to protect her?  Indeed, Mr. Amherst,
you must not think that you can drag
me into this.  You quite forget yourself if
you suppose that I am willing to discuss
such questionable things.  If you choose to
delve into these unpleasant matters it shall
not be in my drawing-room."

Mr. Amherst surveyed her in silence.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Greene," he said,
courteously, "but was not the matter first
referred to in your drawing-room, and by you?"

"If," said Mrs. Langham-Greene, rather
sadly, "if I allowed an expression of
sympathy for the unfortunate girl to escape me,
I did not expect to be reproached for it,
Mr. Amherst."

Amherst, despite his indignation, began
to feel a little abashed.  After all, the
woman *had* done nothing but mention
Lynn pityingly; but why she or any one
else should——

He pulled himself together and spoke, quietly.

"I gained the impression from what you
said, Mrs. Greene, that there were
unpleasant rumours afloat concerning Miss Thayer.
Won't you tell me what they are?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Amherst," murmured the
lady, distressfully.  "I couldn't, really."

"Can't you give me an idea of them?"

"But, Mr. Amherst, you must know
something.  Why, the very servants talk
of it.  My butler and housemaid"——

"Yes?  Not having the pleasure of either
your housemaid's or your butler's acquaintance,
I am still grievously in the dark.  Has
anyone else mentioned the matter to you?"

"Why, everyone.  I supposed, of course,
that you knew, that you had heard of it
long ago or, believe me, I should never
have mentioned it.  Of course if it were
another man—if it were even a gentleman—it
would not be quite so awful.  But
a villainous, sickly little foreigner like
Ricossia"——

"What?"

"There.  You have actually dragged the
name out of me," cried Mrs. Langham-Green,
indignantly.  "I declare!  Men are
perfectly horrid.  They *will* not let you be
charitable and kind and keep things to
yourself.  That poor girl!  I suppose you
will be just as hard on her as all the others.
I was so indignant, the other day, with
Mr. Parham.  He said—but really I had
better not repeat it"——

"Stop!"

Amherst rose to his feet, breathing heavily.

"Parham, was it?  I'll remember that,"
he said in quiet, metallic tones.  "In the
meantime, Mrs. Greene, you must tell me
what you mean.  What is this story?"

"Oh, my dear Mr. Amherst, I *cannot*
spread scandal," cried his hostess,
anxiously.  "Do sit down and have another
cup of tea.  Tea is so soothing when
one—I felt just as you do when I first heard it.
It does seem so strange that such a plain
girl couldn't conduct herself like a lady.
Of course if she were at all good-looking
so that people noticed her and sought her
out it might—oh, you're not going, already?"

"Yes, I'm going to hunt up Mr. Parham,"
said Gerald, searching blindly for his hat.

"No, oh, no.  Oh, but I insist.  Well,
rather than have you run off like that I'll
tell you the whole truth—all that I know,
that is.  It seems that—you know that
Miss Thayer and Ricossia were always
together when he came here first, two years
ago.  It was quite a joke; such a difference
in their ages, you know; and he so
handsome and she, poor girl, so plain! and it
does seem as though it must be her fault,
for certainly he never appeared to
encourage her"——

"Go on, for God's sake!"

"Mr. Amherst, I must beg of you not to
use profane language," observed Mrs. Langham-Greene
with dignity.  "Well, where
was I? oh, yes! well, when he disappeared
from polite society and we were all obliged
to give him the cold shoulder because he
was so openly depraved—not like some
people whom one *can* know because they
keep quiet about it—but he had no savoir
faire, that is to say, no shame"——

"Mrs. Greene," shouted Amherst, "won't
you please skip Ricossia and get to Miss Thayer?"

The widow reared herself like a black-and-golden
snake, about to strike.  Her green
eyes gleamed; then she recollected herself
and smiled, subtly.

"Dear Mr. Amherst, pray allow me to tell
the story in my own way.  I really cannot
be interrupted in this abrupt fashion.  I
was coming to Miss Thayer.  It seems that
the wicked girl, instead of dropping him
when he was found out, as all the rest of
us did, continued to meet him secretly.  He
evidently was not sufficiently enamoured to
pursue her very much, but you know how
it is! a woman of that age who has never
succeeded in marrying frequently loses all
hope and simply doesn't care what she
does; so she used to visit him at night in
some awful slum where he lived"—

"What utter absurdity!"

"My dear Mr. Amherst," said the widow
with angelic patience, "you may be sure
that I should not readily believe such
things of another woman.  Unfortunately,
however, the misguided girl was seen and
recognized, not only by my butler but by
people of her own class; people who could
hardly believe their eyes and who, in their
anxiety not to condemn her rashly,
followed her home—at a safe distance, of
course.  Not that she went home, directly:
I am told that her practice was to take a
sleigh to a lonely part of Pine Avenue,
dismiss it there and walk to her uncle's
house.  Very dangerous, too! fancy a lady
walking alone after dark.  Once, when I
first lost my husband, I was compelled by
some mischance to traverse two blocks one
evening without an escort.  Some men
passed me and one of them made some
remark about the 'bewitching widow.'  I
don't know how I ever reached home; but,
as soon as I did, I retired, immediately.
Next morning I sent for my doctor: he
advised rest and plenty of light
nourishment—what, you're going?  Good
evening, Mr. Amherst: so sorry we drifted
into these unpleasant subjects.  *Good* evening!"

Ten minutes later Gerald rang the Thayers' bell.

"No, Miss Thayer is not at home.  I
don't believe she will be in to-night, for
she is dining at Mrs. Hadwell's.  Certainly,
sir: I'll tell her."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHISPERING TONGUES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   WHISPERING TONGUES

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Whispering tongues can poison truth,
   |  And constancy dwells in realms above,
   |  And life is thorny—and youth is vain—
   |  And to be wroth with one we love
   |  Doth work like madness on the brain."
   |                              —*Coleridge*.

.. vspace:: 2

"Yes, the dear twins have gone at
last.  Whether or no they are
leaving their young hearts here I
can't say, but they are certainly carrying
two very nice ones away with them.  Except
that the female one is chiefly ice; but
really, Erma quite thawed toward the end.
Odd that he preferred her to Agatha: she's
no better looking and not half so popular—by
the way, Lynn, talking of Agatha
reminds me! what in the world have you
done to Lighton?"

"My dear Del!"

"Refused him, again?"

"He has not, thanks be, compelled me
to do so."

"Then what has happened?  I've seen
him six times with Agatha in the past ten
days.  Oh, Lynn, why can't you be sensible?
To let such a thing slip through your
fingers!  Upon my word you make me feel
sometimes like a donkey boy with a goad."

"And you, my love, make *me* feel like
Mephisto with a pitchfork."

"Oh, Lynn!  And, at all events, if you
don't want to marry him, now, why tell him
so?  You may be very glad of him a few
years hence.  Why not keep him hanging on?"

"Because, dear friend, I am neither a
liar nor a cheat."

"Well, why aren't you?  What's the use
of trying to be honest in a world of liars
and cheats?  What do you expect to gain
by it?"

"I really can't say.  The reward of virtue, perhaps."

"The reward of virtue, dearest, is usually
a whack over the head."

"So I have observed."

"Is that why you are so desperately
anxious to obtain it?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you propose to do when it arrives?"

"Look and act as though it were the one
thing on earth I had always longed for.
Unless it is violent enough to stun me, in
which case I shall set my teeth and say
nothing."

"Lynn, you're a fool!"

"I have frequently suspected as much."

"And oh, Lynn, I chatter and chatter—and
all the time there is something I must
say to you."

"Say it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No; but, whatever it may be, Del, hurry
up and tell me.  You know suspense is the
one thing I can't bear."

"Will you let me ask you something?"

"Anything—but I won't promise to answer."

"Will you answer me this?  Have you
ever cared for anyone?"

"Yes."

"Any man, I mean!"

"Yes."

"Much?"

"Very much."

"Enough—well, enough to do anything foolish for?"

"Enough to do things that you would
consider would qualify me for a madhouse."

"Ah!"

Mrs. Hadwell drew a long breath and her face fell.

"You might have told me, dear," she
said, gently.

"I couldn't, Del.  But, anyway, it's not
what you think.  Why do you ask me all this?"

"Was that why you refused Lighton?"

"No—yes; I would have refused him, anyhow."

"But the other had something to do with
it?" said Mrs. Hadwell, leaning forward,
breathlessly.

Lynn said nothing but her face was sad.
Although she felt that her secret must die
with her brother she longed to-night for the
sympathy which she could so easily obtain
from this, her oldest and dearest friend.

"I—I would have liked to tell you, Del,"
she said in a low voice.  "But—I had
promised to tell no one.  It was not that
I didn't trust you.  The circumstances were
peculiar.  I had others to consider."

"Oh, Lynn, Lynn, it was some one that
you couldn't marry, then?"  Mrs. Hadwell's
voice rose almost to a wail.

"Yes.  But, Del, the more you say, the
less you understand.  Let us talk of
something else."

"Lynn, I can't!  Oh, do tell me just one
thing more: you know that you can trust
me.  Have you done anything that was
unconventional? stupidly unconventional? that
might expose you to scandalous
comments if it were known?"

"I—yes, I am afraid I have.  But don't
talk of it, Del.  I don't feel very cheerful
to-night."

"But I must.  Lynn, will you promise
solemnly never again to do anything
foolish—you know what I mean?—anything
improper or reckless?"

Lynn was silent.

"Promise.  Oh, Lynn, promise!  You
don't know what danger you're in.  You
have enemies; you are already talked about
in certain circles.  I won't ask a question,
dear, not a question: only promise"——

"Del, I can promise nothing."

"You—you would do foolish things again?"

"Yes."

"But, why—oh, Lynn, why?"

It was some moments before Lynn answered
and, when she did, her voice was hard.

"Because all my happiness on earth—everything
in life that counts—depends
on my outraging certain very sensible
conventions.  Don't worry if you can help it:
I'm a fly, caught in the web of Fate: you
can't help me, I can't help myself.  If
I—stopped, I should never forgive myself:
I should never know another happy moment."

"Lynn, I see I shall have to tell you—and
it's a thing I hate to do.  There are
stories afloat concerning you—I don't
know what, exactly—coupling your name
with that of Ricossia."

Lynn grew slowly white.

"Have you nothing to say, Lynn?"

"Nothing, Del."

"You won't explain—not even to me?"

"Del," said her visitor, suddenly,
bending forward and gazing intently in
Mrs. Hadwell's face, "if you had to face
some personal trouble or misunderstanding,
amounting to disgrace, even—or break a
solemn and sacred oath—which would you do?"

"Break the solemn and sacred oath,"
returned Mrs. Hadwell, promptly and cheerfully.

"Ah," said Lynn, despairingly, "what's
the use of asking you, Del?  You have no
conscience about those things."

"No, indeed; yet I am rich enough to
afford one if I really wanted it.  But you,
my dear, have no business with so costly
and useless an appendage.  Can't you get
rid of it—for the present, anyway?  It's
going to land you in a perfect sea of
trouble; and, beyond, shining faintly, is
that whack over the head of which we
spoke.  When you have tormented yourself
sufficiently Society will hand you that;
and then I suppose you will have nothing
left to wish for?"

"Only death; and I'm pretty healthy!"

"And you will not explain? in spite of
all I can say or do?"

"No, I'm very tired, Del.  I'm going
now, if you don't mind."

Half an hour later Amherst left Hadwell
Heights, scowling unhappily.  Miss Thayer
had just left; she had had a headache and
had returned early.  He could not, in
decency, call on her at her home after hearing
this, much as he wanted to.  He must wait
until to-morrow.

He walked along Pine Avenue with his
hands in his overcoat pockets.  Lynn was
the best girl that ever lived; but, after all,
there was no smoke without fire, that was
certain.  She had committed some imprudence;
what, he must find out before he
took any steps to circumvent these slanders.
Of course one thing was undeniable; she
had bestowed a good deal of attention on
Ricossia when she first met him.  It was
through her and her warm eulogies of his
genius and beauty that he, himself, had
first become interested in the young—but,
after all, the boy couldn't live a year and
he must not call him what he really was.
What beauty he possessed! the beauty of
the very devil! and how women did go mad
over him!  It wasn't wonderful if—

Then suddenly, like poison, Ricossia's
low, bell-like laugh at their last meeting
rang in his ears.  And his words—what
were they?  He had said that Lynn was
not attracted by him in the ordinary
way—bah! any one a degree above a cur would
say that.  Lynn loved him, Amherst, that
was certain; but there were different kinds
and degrees of love.  Had he not seen a
kind sweet woman, a devoted wife and
mother, leave home, husband, children,
everything that made her life; had he not
seen her ready to pay with a life-time of
odium and desolation for the feverish joy
of a few anxious months?  Lynn had a
stronger nature than the majority of
women; that was nothing; she would be
likely to go to greater extremes for that
very reason.  She was so sensible, so
logical, so prudent—were they not the very
women who forsook all caution when vitally
interested?  Ricossia was a boy, a child;
yes, and had it not passed into a proverb,
the love of a woman of thirty for a
youth?—what was he thinking of? where had his
fancies led him?  Doubt Lynn!  Lynn,
whom he had known from a child!—yes,
known! the mockery of the word!  Who
ever knew another human being?  Strangers
we wandered into life; strangers we
left it; strangers we were, each to other,
always; husband to wife, child to mother—above
all, lover to beloved.  He groaned
as he walked, but no feeling of resentment
toward his betrothed held place as yet.
Lynn, as he had told her, was the one
woman on earth to him: he would abide
by her explanation.  If—he turned cold
and faint at the thought—if, in the past,
she had been infatuated with that
"half-devil and half-child," Ricossia; and, if she
had done foolish things, mad things
... yes, even wrong things—he could forgive
them, knowing that she loved him, and him
only, now.  After all, when one considered
Ricossia's reputation, merely to be seen
with him was enough; and she had,
probably, traded unduly on her social position
and good name.  Perhaps it was nothing
more than pity; the boy was dying and he
was so young, so friendless.  On the whole
Amherst decided that he was probably
acting like a fool; one might almost as well be
jealous of a corpse as of Ricossia, who
might be one at that moment for anything
he knew to the contrary.  With a sudden
rush of compunction and self-reproach
Amherst left Pine Avenue and, descending to
the city, hailed a passing car.  He would
look the boy up; confound it all, the young
fool might be dying a miserable death at
this very moment while he maundered away
like a simpleton in a melodrama.  He would
see how Ricossia was holding out, anyway;
this last cold spell wasn't just the best
thing for a consumptive, and he would like
to see the cub spend his last months on
earth in comparative comfort, whether he
deserved to or not.  And, perhaps—but
no! he couldn't touch on that—not with him!

The car took him within a few blocks
of his destination.  He walked slowly on,
feeling cheered and comparatively happy.
When one has writhed in doubt and misery
for a certain number of hours the reaction
is usually strong; and Amherst wondered
how he had ever come to attach so much
importance to the babblings of a green-eyed
tabby cat and the insults of a hound.  He
inhaled the clear night air with calm
enjoyment; to-morrow he would see Lynn and
then—and then—

He had nearly reached the Chatham
when the door opened quietly and a woman
descended the steps.  As she advanced
toward him she raised her head in a blind,
unseeing sort of fashion.  The light of a
flickering gas jet shone clearly and
pitilessly on her upturned face; a face which,
though drawn and hollow-eyed, was
strangely familiar—the face of his
intended wife, Lynn Thayer.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHEN LOVE IS DONE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   WHEN LOVE IS DONE

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "The mind has a thousand eyes,
   |    And the heart but one—
   |  Yet the light of the whole life dies
   |    When love is done."
   |                      —*Old Song*.

   "I love—but I believe in love no more."—*Shelley*.

.. vspace:: 2

Lunn recognized him almost
immediately and stood quite still, looking
into his face with a curious deliberation
and intentness.

"One would almost think you had
expected me," said Amherst, involuntarily.
One seldom says what is uppermost in one's
mind on these occasions.

"I think I did," said Lynn with equal
quietness.  "When I awoke this morning
something told me that this would happen."

"There is a cab-stand a few blocks away,"
he continued, courteously.  "May I take
you there and see you into one?"

"I shall be—grateful for the attention,"
said Lynn, dully: then she laughed.

They walked in silence for a block or two.

"Have you anything to say to me,
Lynn?" said Amherst at last.

"I—nothing!"

"You prefer to say nothing?"

Lynn was silent for a moment; then she
spoke very distinctly.

"On the night that you asked me to
marry you, I said all that I was at liberty
to say."

"Ricossia is rather exacting, isn't he?"

The sneer escaped Gerald, wrung from
him by his pain.  Lynn started slightly but
made no answer.

"I should ask your pardon," Amherst
went on, presently.  "I had no right to say
that.  I do not even know that it is
Ricossia on whom you paid this late call.
Possibly you have other friends in the
Chatham."

"I have not."

"It—it is Ricossia?"

She threw back her head and laughed.

"Exactly—it is Ricossia.  And, by the
way, Mr. Amherst, although I know that
when one does an unconventional thing,
'gentlemen' are quite justified in insulting
one; yet, as there is a policeman on the next
corner, and as even a homeless cur isn't
obliged to stand still while some one throws
a rock at it—will you leave me?"

"No.  Lynn, forgive me.  I'm crazy; I
don't know what I'm saying.  If it were
anyone else—if it were any other man—anyone,
anyone but that villainous little
blackguard"——

"Stop!"

Lynn turned on him like a tigress, her
eyes blazing with fury.

"How dare you call him that?" she
cried.  "A genius! a god of beauty! and
dying at that!  What sort of man do you
call yourself to insult first the woman who
was to have been your wife and then a
dying man."

Amherst gasped and caught his breath in
painful amazement.

"Oh, my God!" he groaned like a hurt
animal, "how you must love him, Lynn!"

They had passed the cab-stand now and
had turned toward home, but neither
noticed this.  Amherst's face was ghastly and
his steps unsteady; but Lynn walked erect
and stately like a sable figure of doom.

When some blocks had been traversed in
silence Amherst spoke, slowly and humbly.

"Lynn, I should not have spoken as I
did.  We're all human and I'm not your
judge.  If I didn't love you—if I hadn't
believed that you loved me—I should not
have been so harsh.  Will you let me walk
home with you?  We probably shan't see
one another again very soon and there is
so much I want to say."

"No."

"You won't let me?  You compel me to—very
well, I'll go to Ricossia, then; I'll
make him listen to reason and, and if he
won't, I'll"——

"Gerald!"

Lynn's voice was alive with a sudden,
horrible fear.

"Gerald," she said swiftly, clasping his
arm with her hands, "you loved me once,
didn't you?  For the sake of that, because
of that, will you do me a favour?  Deal
with me, alone.  I'm strong, I can stand
anything.  Say what you please to me, do
as you think best—but let him alone.  He's
so young, he—he's so weak—and he's
dying, Gerald, dying.  He may be dead,
to-morrow.  While he lives, let him alone.
Oh, Gerald, promise me!"

Amherst could not speak for a moment.
When he did his voice had altered.

"Lynn," said he, gently, "why did you
promise to marry me?"

"Because I loved you, Gerald."

"You still say that—now?"

"Yes.  My love for him was quite another
thing.  I can't explain, and I don't
expect you to understand."

"I see—I think I see.  The other was
a—well, a sort of obsession."

"Exactly.  You could hit on no better word."

"Yet you believed that you loved me.
You think that you could care for two men
at once?"

She moistened her dry lips and spoke, feebly.

"If I had not been so alone in the world,
Gerald, I might have loved several.  There
are so many different loves, you know;
differing in kind and in degree.  The love for
a father, for a son, for a brother"—her
face lightened with sudden hope,—"that
was really what I felt for him, Gerald; the
love that a mother has for a son, the love
that a sister has for a brother—don't you,
oh, can't you, understand?  I loved you in
quite another way—it's so different—and,
if I tried to explain any more, I should
break a solemn oath—I should bring a
curse on my head"——

Amherst's face lit with a sudden, heated
gleam.  He turned and spoke fiercely.

"Lynn!  Don't insult my intelligence by
telling me stuff of that sort, but listen!
Promise that you'll never see him again,
and that you'll do your best to forget him!
Promise that he'll be nothing to you in the
future! and I'll forgive all the rest.  Come
to me!  I want you.  I won't ask you a
question, not a question.  Marry me
to-morrow and I'll kill the first man—or
woman—who breathes a word against you.  Lynn!"

She held her breath and looked at him as
though fascinated.

"Lynn!  Promise!"

She spoke, slowly and with difficulty.

"Until he dies, Gerald—my life is his."

"Then"——

Amherst's face flushed, a dark, purplish
flush, ugly to see.

"You prefer him then to reputation,
honour, common sense and decency."  His
breath came heavily.  "You prefer him—to me!"

As slowly and deliberately as before she
answered him.

"I love you—as a woman loves the man
she means to marry.  I love L—Ricossia—as
I love no other being on God's earth—as
I do not believe any other man was ever
loved from the beginning of time.  You say
rightly.  I prefer him—and the oath at
which you sneer—to reputation—honour—common
sense—decency—and you!
Good-bye, Gerald; try to forget me."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Mrs. Langham-Green Pays Her Debt; and Mrs. Waite, Hers`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center medium bold white-space-pre-line

   MRS. LANGHAM-GREENE PAYS HER DEBT; AND
   MRS. WAITE, HERS

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "The long-necked geese of the world that are
   |      ever hissing dispraise
   |  Because their natures are little."
   |                              —*Tennyson*.

.. vspace:: 2

Estelle Hadwell was sitting by
a blazing fire in her husband's library
when she heard voices in the hall
below, followed by the banging of a door.
Then Mr. Hadwell called loudly:

"Estelle! are you there?"

"Yes, dear," replied his wife, somewhat
surprised.  "Have you visitors?"

"Yes.  Mrs. Langham-Greene and
Mrs. Tollman are here.  Can you come down?"

"Yes, indeed!" replied Mrs. Hadwell
with effusion.  She rose slowly from her
chair by the fire, grimacing disgustedly as
she did so.  The library was so nice and
Mrs. Greene so horrid and Mrs. Tollman
such a bore.

She hurried down and advanced with
extended hands and a delighted smile.  She
had got as far as "A most delightful
surprise—an unexpected pleasure!" when she
caught sight of her husband's face.

"Henry!" she exclaimed in genuine
consternation.  "What in the world is it?"

Her husband was standing with his back
to the fireplace and a portentous frown on
his brow, looking, as Mrs. Hadwell reflected
to herself, for all the world like the
British Matron in trousers.

"Henry, what is it?" she asked, again.

"These ladies," returned Mr. Hadwell
with a majestic wave of his hand, "can tell
you better than I."

Estelle glanced from one to the other,
wonderingly.  Mrs. Tollman, a stout,
pleasant-faced woman, wore a somewhat
distressed expression and sat stiffly upright.
Mrs. Langham-Greene, delicately lovely in
dark blue velvet and ermine, leaned gracefully
back in an easy chair, her fine features
composed to an expression of decorous
sorrow.  Neither lady made any immediate
effort to enlighten her hostess until
Mrs. Greene swept a meaning glance at her
companion from beneath her long, light lashes.
Then Mrs. Tollman spoke.

"It's such a delicate matter, Mrs. Hadwell,"
she said in a flurried way.  "I disliked
coming to you about it, very much;
but Mr. Hadwell insisted, saying that only
an eye-witness could convince you."

"Of what?"

"This is so hard on us, both,"
Mrs. Langham-Greene murmured, soothingly.
"And it was so careless of me to mention
the poor thing; for then Mr. Hadwell
simply dragged the whole story out of me.  I
am most distressed, I am indeed!"

"But at what, dear Mrs. Greene?" cooed
her hostess.

"Oh, at the whole affair—the poor girl
so well connected and all! and Ricossia so
common and dreadful."

"Oh, some new scandal about young Ricossia,"
exclaimed Mrs. Hadwell with sudden
enlightenment and a corresponding
sinking of the heart.

"But he is not common; no one could
call him that.  Dreadful, certainly; but
rather fascinating in his way, don't you
think?"

"Apparently others have found him so,"
drawled the older lady, meaningly.

"What others?"

Mrs. Langham-Greene looked deliberately
at Mrs. Hadwell and spoke, regretfully.

"I am afraid, dear Mrs. Hadwell, that
your friend, Miss Thayer"——

"How dare you say so?"

"Estelle," said her husband, reprovingly,
"is it likely that these ladies would speak
without proper authority?"

"Very likely indeed," thought their
hostess, but her heart was sick within her.
Lynn's interest in Ricossia; her lack of
interest in other men; her sorrow, her
preoccupation, her confession of having
outraged propriety; all these ranged as
witnesses against her in her friend's heart.

"I knew—I told Mr. Hadwell that you
would take it in just this way," murmured
the widow, sympathetically.  "So he
insisted that we bring an eye-witness to
convince you.  Of course the thing has been
going on for an indefinite space of time;
but, just lately, Mr. and Mrs. Tollman,
when returning home late one night, saw
Miss Thayer leaving the Chatham.  They
followed her.  She took a sleigh to Pine
Avenue, dismissed it there and walked
home.  Isn't it so, Mrs. Tollman?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Tollman, fluttering.
"It is undeniably true.  But I don't know
how it ever got out, for I only told my most
intimate friends about it."

"That was cheaper than having it
printed in the 'Daily News' and certainly
quite as effective."

Mrs. Hadwell had lost her usual calm and
diplomacy.

"Really," she continued with a sudden
burst of candour, "really how I do hate
women!  They're every bit as nasty as men,
and nothing like so nice into the bargain.
I wish I need never see a woman again—except Lynn."

This coming from the politic and tactful
Mrs. Hadwell had the effect of a thunderclap.
Before her listeners had recovered
the housemaid announced Mrs. Waite and
that lady entered.

Since inheriting her legacy, Mrs. Hadwell's
former housekeeper had hired a small
furnished house and was living there alone.
General Shaftan's house, her property, was
advertised for sale; a proceeding which had
roused some interest in Montreal society.

"How funny of her not to live there
until it sells or rents!  Can it be that that
sourfaced woman is afraid of ghosts?"
some had asked.

She stood now in the doorway, looking
from one to the other with her peculiarly
cold and expressionless manner.  "Excuse
me," she said without preliminary, "but as
I was walking through the hall just now I
heard what you were saying; I could not
help hearing.  Is it true that Miss Thayer
is in trouble?"

"Are you interested in Miss Thayer?"
inquired Mrs. Langham-Greene with courtly
insolence.

"Yes."

The two women faced one another in
silence; the one beautiful, patrician,
elegant; the other, plain, sad-faced, and,
apparently, old.  A whole world lay between
them; nor was the chasm bridged by the
fact that both had loved the same man.
Mrs. Hadwell, with her usual quick intuition,
could feel the air charged with import
and longed to know what lay beneath these
different exteriors.  Instead she turned to
Mrs. Langham-Greene with a question.

"May I ask what your object was in
laying these slanders about Miss Thayer
before me?" she said.

"I wished," said the other slowly, "to
see what could be done to help the wretched
girl.  Of course she cannot stay here; and
I understand that there is a great dearth
of teachers in the North-West; they are
not particular there as to character and"—

"You cat!" screamed little Mrs. Hadwell,
losing all control of herself.  "How
dare you come to my house and compel me
to be rude to your very face?  How dare you
speak so of my best friend?  Who wants to
hear your opinion of her? why, it's an
impertinence on your part to have an opinion
about a girl like Lynn.  Let me tell you
that Miss Thayer need not go to the
North-West for a refuge; she will always find a
welcome in my home whenever she needs one"—

"Not in mine!"

Mrs. Hadwell started and looked at her
husband with amazement.

"You wish me to drop Lynn?  My dear
Henry, if you are thinking of setting up in
the ostracizing business I can supply you
with a long list of far more deserving cases."

"I don't say that the girl is actually bad,
but she has been proved to be utterly
devoid of sense or decency.  She shall never
set foot in my house again."

"In that case," Mrs. Hadwell's voice was
calm—"I leave your house to-night and
take my children with me."

"What?"

"They are all under seven and until
that age the mother has full control.  I
shall take them to my grandmother in
Lachine; there, at least, I can receive my
friends—my one friend, I should say!  I
haven't another."

Mr. Hadwell stamped out of the room in
a fury.  Mrs. Tollman and Mrs. Greene
followed him quietly, the former almost in
tears, the latter composed and cheerful.
When the door closed on them Mrs. Hadwell
sat down and burst into tears.

"Oh, Lynn, Lynn, how could you?" she sobbed.

"Mrs. Hadwell, can you give me this
Mr. Ricossia's address?"

Mrs. Waite's cold, thin voice sounded
unpleasantly at Estelle's elbow.

"Yes, I believe it's the Chatham, either
10 or 12 St. Eustache St.," answered the
younger woman, staring through wet eyes
in sheer amazement.  "Are you there, still,
Mrs. Waite?  I thought you had gone."

"Don't—don't mind so much," said the
"Gorgon-faced automaton" with difficulty.
"Perhaps something can be done."

"Oh, nothing, nothing, I am afraid,
except to stand by her."

"You believe this story?"

"No!" lied Mrs. Hadwell, firmly.

"Neither do I.  I am sure there is some
explanation if one could only find out what
it is.  And I have plenty of money, now;
money can do a great deal sometimes in
cases of this kind, and there is nothing I
would sooner spend it on"——

"You—you?  But, Mrs. Waite—if you
don't mind my asking—why should
you—what is Lynn to you?"

Mrs. Waite moistened her dry lips and
spoke, faintly.

"I had a child once.  He died....  She
was his teacher and—and she was good to
him.  But don't tell her; she might try to
talk to me about him and—and I couldn't
stand that"——

Mrs. Waite stopped; her plain face
contorted ludicrously.  The next moment the
cold Mrs. Hadwell and the woman beside
whose frigid nature her own showed in the
light of a volcano were weeping bitterly in
one another's arms.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SHADOWS FALL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SHADOWS FALL

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "All the dreaming is broken through,
   |  Both what is done and undone I rue,
   |  Nothing is tender, nothing true,
   |  In heaven or earth save God and you."
   |                            —*Arthur Sullivan*.
   |
   |  "But still the faces gaped and cried,
   |    'Give us the dream for which we died!'"
   |                            —Charles G. D. Roberts.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Hadwell, having hypnotized
Mr. Hadwell into apologizing
profusely for his conduct,
promised to forgive him if he would go
away for a week.

"You have been talking for years of
paying a visit to your sister in Toronto," she
said.  "Suppose you go now, Henry.  She
will be delighted to see you, and I—after
a week of absence I shall be so glad to see
you, again, that I shall not even think of
this.  Otherwise"——

He went.  When Estelle had seen him
safely in the train she drew a long breath
of relief and telephoned to Miss Thayer.
Until then she had not dared to risk an
encounter between her friend and her
husband, knowing that the former was a keen
observer and the latter, a poor actor.

"Come to me, to-morrow, as soon as
school is out, dear," she said.  "I shall be
in all afternoon.  Promise!"

"Oh, yes, I shall come, Del," assented
the other, quietly.  Mrs. Hadwell, listening
sorrowfully, thought she could detect a
note of unaccustomed grief in Lynn's voice.
She endeavoured to forget it, however, and,
giving orders to admit no visitors that
evening, sat in front of the library fire,
cudgelling her brains for some method of
rehabilitating her friend in public favour.
Although a woman of great resource and
audacity none occurred to her; the case was
too hopeless.

"Let me see," she said, judicially, "what
are the facts—the known facts?  First:
Lynn, who is a great favourite with men
but who shows partiality to none, develops
an enthusiastic fancy for an unknown
genius who arrives in Montreal two years ago.
She works night and day to induce her
friends to take him up; she takes long
walks and drives in his society; and is
frequently seen holding absorbed
conversations with him in out-of-the-way places.
She puffs his writings untiringly; she
persists in ignoring his open faults; she makes
excuses for his bad habits.  True, he is only
a child in years.  Then he turns out to be
utterly depraved; everyone drops him; she
grows white and thin, refuses to discuss
him even with me and is seen talking with
him after he has been practically ostracised
by all reputable people.  This is a year ago.
She, who has hitherto loved society and
revelled in every sort of outdoor exercise,
suddenly takes to refusing all invitations
and losing interest in all sports.  To-day
half a dozen unimpeachable witnesses—and
dear knows how many others—are
ready to swear that they have seen her leave
his extremely dubious place of residence,
late at night.  Oh, Lynn, Lynn, my dear
stupid child, how could you?  What *can* I
do for you?  If they were even people who
could be bought—who could be bribed to
swear that they had lied!—oh, I give it
up!  I may as well telephone to Mrs. Waite
and see if she has any ideas."

"Is that you, Mrs. Waite?  Yes, it is I,
Mrs. Hadwell.  No, I have not seen Miss
Thayer yet but she is coming up to-morrow
afternoon.  I don't know; I am most
unhappy about it.  Yes, to-morrow afternoon.
Oh, why?"

"Because," answered Mrs. Waite, quietly,
"I think I have discovered something.  Do
not, on any account, let Miss Thayer know,
or you may spoil everything.  No, I can tell
you nothing.  I have your permission to
bring him? then I shall say good-night."

"Most tantalising," muttered Estelle as
she hung up the receiver.  "Still, as
everything is as bad already as it can well be,
nothing can make it much worse.  How
truly comforting!  Who is the person she
wants to bring, I wonder! and how can
he help poor Lynn?  A plea of insanity is
the only solution that occurs to me.  But
I'll stand by her—and, in the meantime,
I'll drink a pint of porter and see if that
will make me sleep."

It did; and at four o'clock the next day
Mrs. Hadwell greeted her friend with an
intensity of feeling that was almost solemn.

"You poor child!" she said, as she kissed her.

Lynn returned the kiss, listlessly, and sat
down.  She looked rather tired.

"So you have not yet deserted me, Del?"
she said, quietly, as she loosened her wraps.

"Deserted you!  Oh, Lynn, Lynn, I
wouldn't desert you if you had committed
murder and sacrilege.  But, my child, how
could you be so foolish?  Why weren't you
content with doing a wrong thing without
going further and doing it in such a way
that it had to come out?  I won't reproach
you for the thing, itself; I am too sick,
too sorry; but why, oh why, had you"——

"Wait!"

Lynn put her hand to her forehead as
though bewildered.

"Just a minute, Del.  I don't quite
understand.  What is it that you think?"

"Don't fence with me, dear, any longer.
That green-eyed harpy of a Langham-Greene
has got hold of the whole affair.
You have been seen leaving the Chatham
late at night; you have been seen dismissing
a sleigh on Pine Avenue and walking home."

"Yes."

"You know!  But, Lynn, how can you
take it so coolly?  Don't you realise what
a terrible thing it is?"

"In what way?"

"Why, my dear, dear girl, your reputation
is gone if we can't refute these statements;
you must know that."

"Yes, I know."

"You—know!"

"Yes.  The fact is, Del, that I have had
so many real troubles lately that the loss
of that intangible thing, reputation, affects
me little.  I can get along without it."

"Lynn, you don't know what you are
saying.  A woman's reputation is like her
clothing; it's a great bother, it's ruinously
expensive and it's sometimes distinctly
uncomfortable.  The sad fact remains,
however, that she must either have it or
emigrate to the Sandwich Islands."

"My reputation, as you call it, Del, is
gone because two or three people say that
they have seen me doing an unusual thing.
It is true; I did it.  Yet, if I had immersed
myself in a nunnery and never stirred
outside unless accompanied by an army of
chaperons and escorts, my reputation might be
gone, just as effectually.  The first man
who took a dislike to me could leave me
without a shred of character provided he
went to a little trouble and didn't mind a
few lies—what man does?  What is more,
I might never have heard of the matter till
years after; it merely happens that I am
aware of this.  There may be fifty scandals
about me in other circles for anything I
know to the contrary.  No, Del; I have
several troubles, but my lost reputation is
not one of them."

"My dear Lynn, are you absolutely indifferent
to the opinions of others?  You must be mad."

"Possibly.  I don't say that I am not
sorry to think that many nice women must
have a wrong idea of me: but as for men—pah!
What does it matter what *they*
think?  It is not so very long ago since a
certain engagement was broken off in this
very city; the 'gentleman' took his former
fiancee's letters to the club and read them
there aloud amid shouts of laughter.  There
are men for you! the men that you and I
know!  Who would want the good-will of
a pack of hounds like that?  No; let them
have my reputation to tear to pieces if it
amuses them; I have other things to think of."

"But Lynn, what are you going to do?"

"Stay here and face the music."

"*Stay here?*"

"Certainly.  What do you take me for?"

"A madwoman.  You mean to stay in a
place where everyone knows—where the
man is still living—where"—

"Why not?  I've done nothing to be
ashamed of, even granting that I have acted
foolishly.  I'm not going to skulk off!"

"Nothing to be ashamed of!  Lynn!
Why do you persist in maintaining this
attitude?  You compel me to speak plainly.
You have done what is unforgivable—you
have done"—

"Wait a minute, Del!  You mean?"—

"I mean—oh, Lynn, Lynn, don't you
see that if you had only kept this dreadful
thing secret; if you only hadn't allowed
people to know, positively, that you had
done the one thing that is never pardoned
in a woman—if you had only"—

"Ah!"

Lynn rose, slowly.

"I didn't know, Del—I knew what men
were like—I didn't know—what you have
taught me!  Good-bye."

"Lynn.  Wait!  Where are you going?"

"Home—to tell my uncle and aunt that
I have been seen leaving the Chatham at
night.  If they won't have me in their
house—I'll go, elsewhere.  I have proved
the worth of the two people, man and
woman, who professed to love me best on
earth; now I want to rid myself of all the
rest.  Good-bye."

"Good heavens!  You don't mean to say
that you are trying to deny?"—

"I am denying and trying to deny nothing.
I refuse to discuss the subject.  I
suppose I must make up my mind to
expect insults from strangers, but I am not
compelled to receive them from my friends—or
from those who were once my friends.
I have no friends, now; I never had father
or mother or—or—and now I have neither
friend nor lover.  Knowing what I now
know of love and friendship—I am glad!"

"Oh, Lynn, Lynn!  This to me! when I
would move heaven and earth to help you!"
cried Mrs. Hadwell, miserably.  "How can
you doubt my friendship?  I tell you that
if, to-morrow, everyone threw you over my
house would still be open to you."

"Your house!  Do you think I would
ever enter it again?  Fool!  We've known
each other from childhood up, and yet,
to-day, you think you can insult me and be
forgiven.  The sight of you makes me feel
sick.  Don't stop me, don't speak to me"—

Mrs. Hadwell had risen to intercept her.
Lynn hastened past her to the door.  There
stood Gerald Amherst, white as death.

For a long moment the three stood in
silence.  Lynn was the first to break it
and her voice was mocking.

"You interrupted an affecting farewell,
Mr. Amherst.  I was saying good-bye to my
bosom friend, just as, not long ago, I said
good-bye to my devoted lover.  Having
done what politeness demands I shall now
take my departure."

"No!" exclaimed Estelle, rushing
forward.  "Don't let her, Mr. Amherst.  She
doesn't know what she's saying or doing
and I *must* keep her till she understands.
Lynn, wait!  Let me explain."

Lynn, with a gesture that was almost
majestic, motioned Amherst from the
doorway where he still stood.  He hesitated,
trembling and uncertain; and while he
hesitated, steps sounded in the hall behind
and Mrs. Waite spoke.

"Mr. Amherst, don't go away! nor you,
either, Miss Thayer.  I wish very much to
see you, both.  I am sorry to be late, but"—

Amherst moved aside, mechanically, and
Amy Waite entered, followed by Ricossia.
The two women stood where they were,
unable to speak or move; and Ricossia
spoke, pleasantly.

"Mrs. Waite has brought me here in
order that I may explain"—

"*Liol!*"—

"Don't be absurd, Lynn!  The fact is,
good people," said the boy carelessly, "that
Lynn's mother was also mine; and Lynn,
as a child, contracted some crazy affection
for me which seems to have got her into
general trouble.  In the first place, she
swore an insane oath to my mother—you
see the latter was dying and sent for her
secretly—it's hard to explain! but
Mr. and Mrs. Thayer, knowing what a bad lot
my father was and judging rightly that I
would be likely to take after him—which
I certainly did!—made it part of the
bargain when they adopted Lynn that she was
to have nothing to do with the lot of us.
Lynn, however, had always remembered
me, it seems, and so, when my mother sent
for her and explained that my father would
see me starve to death before he would
spend a penny on me, Lynn undertook to
provide for my upbringing out of her
earnings as a teacher.  That was all very well;
but what does my mother do but get
excited and make her swear that she will
never tell anyone that I am her brother, in
case it may get to the ears of the Thayers
and make them throw her over.  Lynn
tries to get out of it but finally swears
and—and then—I'm not over strong, and I
fancy I'll sit down if you'll allow me.  For
God's sake, Lynn, don't look like that! what
on earth's the matter with you?"

No one spoke and Ricossia leaned back
wearily in the chair which he had taken,
his beautiful face haggard, his great eyes
hollow and emptied of expression.  Lynn
stood like a statue; since her first
exclamation she had remained silent but her face
had changed.  Something resembling hope
had crept into her eyes and mingled with
the fierce love that illumined them
whenever they rested on her brother.  As he lay
back, breathing faintly, she moved toward
him and stood, looking down.

"God is not all cruel," she said, as though
to herself.  "He has taken all the rest—but
He has given me this, at least, before
you die—the knowledge that you do care
a little, Liol.  Else, why should you have
done this?"

Her tired face softened with a beautiful
peace.

"I don't know what on earth you are
muttering to yourself about," said the
consumptive, shrugging his shoulders,
whimsically, "but, if you imagine, my dear girl,
that I dragged myself up this infernal hill
to save you from the consequences of your
own folly, you're mistaken.  Why shouldn't
you break the fool oath?  However, you'll
be glad to hear that you'll be able to keep
your own earnings in the future.  I've made
a haul that"——

"Mr. Ricossia," broke in the metallic
voice of Mrs. Waite, "refused at first to
explain the object of Miss Thayer's visits.
I therefore"—

"She therefore paid me well to do it—as
I surmised she would," said Ricossia,
composedly.  "What *are* you looking like
that for, Lynn?  Thank goodness, I'm
dependent on your vagaries no longer; the
doctor tells me that, if I reach California
alive, I may live a month or so longer—he
doesn't promise that I *will* reach it,—but
if I do!"—  He sprang to his feet,
irradiated and glorious—"*if I do*—by
God, I'll see Life before I die!"

"You infernal young scoundrel!" broke
in Amherst, unable to contain himself
longer, "you d——d ungrateful young
blackguard! is this your return to your
sister for all she has done and suffered?
Have you no shame?"

"Not a particle!" answered the other,
laughing.  "No shame and no love in my
composition!  I never cared for any living
thing but myself—not even my mother.
As for Lynn, I'm going to do her one
kindness before I die; and that is to tell her
the truth.  Lynn, you have never been
anything to me at any time but a necessary
evil; I had to have money to live, and from
you, only, was I able to obtain it; therefore
I tried to feign a little affection for you
which I never felt in the most remote
degree.  I've allowed you to sacrifice time,
money, and finally reputation to me; and
now that I'm going off alone to die—riotously
and wickedly and happily as I've
always wanted to—I leave you this piece
of advice.  Marry Amherst and forget all
about me.  I'll forget you as soon as I'm
out of your sight, which will be very soon,
I promise you."

Something approaching horror showed in
the faces of his hearers; they looked
uncertainly at one another, doubtful whether
to still the cruel voice or no.  Lynn, only,
remained motionless; her face was grey
and her hands twitched a little.  Gerald,
who stood nearest, alone heard her whisper:

"Not this!  Oh, God, not this!"

"Lynn," he burst forth, "what can I
say?  Come with me, forgive me; I'll spend
my life in making amends.  Don't mind
him; he doesn't know what he's saying;
he's sick, crazy, mad! they all get like that
when they take drugs.  Lynn!"

She turned very slowly and looked at him.

"You—want me?" she asked, dully.
"Think!—the best of me is dead; you've
helped to kill it, all of you.  I'm an old
woman now; I'll never be young, again,
never be young or light-hearted or gay
again, while this life lasts.  Are you sure
you want me?"

"Come!"

Lynn looked at him ... then slowly,
very slowly, put her hand in his.

"The little boy I loved is dead, too," she
said, rather lifelessly.  "That—that is a
ghoul that has taken his beautiful form.
Oh, my baby, my baby! my little dark-eyed
angel that I loved so! to think that you
should die and I not know it.  Or perhaps
you never lived, really....  Let us go,
Gerald! let us go away from it, all!  I'm
tired.  You—you'll not fail me?"

"Before God, I will not."

They moved toward the door.  On its
threshold Lynn paused and turned.  The
red evening sunlight was streaming through
the window and its scarlet flame lay
strangely on the deathless beauty of her
brother's face.  She surveyed it in silence
... the face that had held all heaven and
all hell for her since the moment when she,
a lonely, loveless child, had seen and
worshipped it first.

"Good-bye, Liol!" she said at last, very
softly.  "You've been my idol all my life,
and I'm never going to see you again in
time or in eternity, and I thank God for
it....  Good-bye."

Gerald drew her gently away and the
door closed behind them.

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   THE END.

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   The Potter and the Clay

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   A Romance of To-day

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By MAUD HOWARD PETERSON.  Bound in blue cloth,
decorative cover, rough edges, gilt top.  Four drawings by
Charlotte Harding.  Size, 5 x 7-3/4.  Price $1.50

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One of the strongest and most forceful of
recent novels, now attracting marked attention,
and already one of the most successful books of
the present year.  The characters are unique,
the plot is puzzling, and the action is remarkably
vivid.  Readers and critics alike pronounce it a
romance of rare strength and beauty.  The scenes
are laid in America, Scotland, and India; and one
of the most thrilling and pathetic chapters in
recent fiction is found in Trevelyan's heroic
self-sacrifice during the heart-rending epidemic of
cholera in the latter country.  The story
throughout is one of great strength.

Margaret E. Sangster: "From the opening
chapter, which tugs at the heart, to the close,
when we read through tears, the charm of the
book never flags.  It is not for one season, but
of abiding human interest."

Minot J. Savage: "I predict for the book a very
large sale, and for the authoress brilliant work
in the future."

Boston Journal: "One of the most remarkable books
of the year.  Brilliant, but better than that,
tender."

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   THE LITTLE GREEN DOOR

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   *By MARY E. STONE BASSETT*

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   Eight illustrations by *Louise Clarke* and twenty-five decorative
   half-title pages by *Ethel Pearce Clements*

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   12mo Cloth $1.50

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A charming romance of the time of
Louis XIII.  The door which
gives the title to the book leads to a
beautiful retired garden belonging to the
King.  In this garden is developed one of
the sweetest and tenderest romances ever
told.  The tone of the book is singularly
pure and elevated, although its power is
intense.

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"This is a tale of limpid purity and sweetness, which, although
its action is developed amid the
intrigues and deceptions of a corrupt
French court, remains fine and delicate to the end.  There is
power as well as poetry in the little romance, so delicate in
conception."—*Chicago Daily News*.

"Tender, sweet, passionate, pure; a lily from the garden of
loves."—*Baltimore Herald*.

"The story is exquisitely pure and tender, possessing a finished
daintiness that will charm all clean-minded persons."—*Louisville
Courier-Journal*.

"This book carries with it all the exhilaration of a beautiful
nature, of flowers, birds, and living things, and the beauty of a
winsome personality of a pure, beautiful girl.  It is a romance
entirely of the fancy, but a refreshing one."—*Chicago Tribune*.

"The little romance is charmingly wrought, and will be sure to
find its way to the heart of the reader."—*Boston Transcript*.

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   MISS BILLY

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   A NEIGHBORHOOD STORY

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   By EDITH K. STOKELY and MARIAN K. HURD

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   Illustrated by CHARLES COPELAND

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   12mo Cloth 1.50

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"MISS BILLY" deserves more than passing
notice in these days of civic improvement.
It is a story of what an irrepressible young woman
accomplished in the neighborhood into which her
family felt obliged to move for financial reasons.
The street was almost as unpromising as the celebrated
"Cabbage Patch," and its characters equally
interesting and original.  The happy common-sense of
Miss Billy and the quaint sayings and doings of
her new neighbors form a capital story.

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"The story abounds in humor with a hint of tears and an
overflowing kindness of heart bubbling over in infectious
gayety."—*Boston Herald*.

"The book is sure to have an immense number of
readers."—*St. Louis Star*.

"The plan of the tale is original,
the conversation very bright and
witty, the style smooth, and the characters true to
life."—*Boston Transcript*.

"It is a human interest story which appeals to the heart, and at
one juncture to the eyes of the sympathetic
readers."—*Pittsburg Chronicle Telegraph*.

"'Miss Billy' is a charmingly bright,
clever little story, full of
spontaneous humor and frankly
inspirational."—*Chicago Daily News*.

"This is an ideal story."—*N. Y. Times*.

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   The Lions of the Lord

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   By HARRY LEON WILSON

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Author of "The Spenders."  Six illustrations by Rose Cecil
O'Neill, bound in dark green cloth, illustrated cover, 12mo.
$1.50, postpaid.

In his romance of the old West, "The Lions of the Lord,"
Mr. Wilson, whose "The Spenders" is one of the successes
of the present year, shows an advance in strength and grasp
both in art and life.  It is a thrilling tale of the Mormon
settlement of Salt Lake City, with all its grotesque comedy,
grim tragedy, and import to American civilization.  The
author's feeling for the Western scenery affords him an
opportunity for many graphic pen pictures, and he is equally
strong in character and in description.  For the first time in
a novel is the tragi-comedy of the Mormon development
adequately set forth.  Nothing fresher or more vital has
been produced by a native novelist.

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   The Spenders

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   By HARRY LEON WILSON

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   70th Thousand

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Author of "The Lions of the Lord."  Red silk cloth, rough
edges, picture cover.  Six illustrations by Rose Cecil
O'Neill.  12mo.  $1.50, postpaid.

Mark Twain writes to the author: "It cost me my day
yesterday.  You owe me $400.  But never mind, I forgive
you for the book's sake."

Louisville Courier-Journal says: "If there is such a thing
as the American novel of a new method, this is one.
Absolutely to be enjoyed is it from the first page to the last."

Harry Thurston Peck, in the New York American, says:
"The very best two books written by Americans during the
past year have been 'The Spenders,' by Harry Leon Wilson,
and 'The Pit,' by Frank Norris."

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   Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Boston

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