"I wasn't burned up," said Grace, composedly; "and as you remarked just now, Mrs. Peyton, you have got well. Do you want to know what I think?"
"Yes, Grace—"
"I think—that the game was worth the candle!"
"Confess that I have surprised you, John Montfort!" said Mrs. Peyton.
"I do confess it, Emily," Mr. Montfort answered, gravely. "But I am truly glad that my house has been able to afford you shelter when you were in need of it."
"That is as much as to say, that under other circumstances—never mind! I am not going to quarrel with you, John."
"I trust not," said Mr. Montfort, still speaking with grave courtesy.
If Margaret had been present, she would have wondered at the change in her uncle's face. The warmth, the genial light of kindness, was clean gone out of it; it was an older and a sterner man who sat in the great armchair and looked steadily and quietly at his visitor.
Mrs. Peyton smiled, then frowned; at last she sighed.
"I never meant to hurt you, John," she said, softly. "Thirty years is a long time to hate a person who—who never hated you."
"I have never hated you, Emily," said Mr. Montfort, not unkindly. "Our paths have not crossed—"
Mrs. Peyton laughed. "No, they have not crossed. You took care of that. They have only run alongside each other—with the garden wall between."
"And nothing else?" said John Montfort.
She was silent for a moment. Then, "I never meant to make trouble between you and Rose!"
"You never did," said Mr. Montfort, tranquilly.
"I know! but—you thought I tried. I did tell you a lie that night, when I said she would not see you. How could I know that she was going to die before you came back from the West? I—I wanted to see you myself; that was no such dreadful sin, was it? I was sorry—sorry, I tell you, when I heard of her death.Thirty years ago, and I have never been able to speak to you alone till to-day. I—I had to burn my house down to get a chance to make my peace with you, John Montfort. No, I don't mean that I did it on purpose, though I am not sure that it wouldn't—aren't you going to forgive me, John, after all these years?"
Mr. Montfort rose. He was very pale, but he spoke steadily. "Emily, it is hardly strange that I do not care to open old wounds. If I have been unkind, I am sorry for it. I do forgive you, fully and freely. Now, let the past alone. What can I do for you in the present, and how help you to provide for the future? I have not been a good neighbor, I confess it; I will try to prove myself a better one henceforward."
Mrs. Peyton laughed her little mocking laugh. "It will be easier than you think, John. I am going to Europe, and I don't know whether I shall ever come back."
"Going to Europe, Emily? Are you strong enough?"
"I am perfectly well!" said Mrs. Peyton, simply. "Doctor Flower has been telling mefor several years that there was nothing really the matter with me any more, and that I could be well if I wanted. Grace Wolfe made me feel the same thing. Well, now I do want it. The fire lighted up a good many things for me, and showed me the way. I have no house to live in; I am alone in the world; I may as well be doing things as staying in bed, of which I am really very tired. I am writing to my man of business to take places for Antonia and me on next week's steamer for Paris. I've half a mind to take Grace Wolfe, too, if she will go."
"I have asked Grace to make her home with us for the present," said Mr. Montfort, quickly. "Next year I expect to take her and Margaret abroad together."
Mrs. Peyton laughed again. "I can't even have her! Well—never mind. I love her, but she frightens me. She might have catalepsy again,—though I rather think that was a clever device for getting me out of bed,—and I want to forget everything connected with sickness. But—John—there is something you can do for me. This girl risked her life to save my jewels, the playthings I have tried to amusemyself with these many years. I want you to sell them for me, and give her the money."
"Sell your jewels, Emily!"
"Yes. I never want to see them again." She shuddered slightly, but her voice was firm and steady.
"They are all here, in this basket. Lock them up now, and the next time you go to town sell them, and invest the money for Grace Wolfe. Will you do this for me, John? It is the only thing I shall ever be likely to ask you."
"Indeed I will, Emily!" said Mr. Montfort, speaking with much more warmth than he had hitherto shown. "It will be a grateful commission. Shall I look?—these things are of great value, Emily. There are thousands of dollars' worth of trump—of trinkets here."
"So much the better for Grace!"
"There is nothing you would like to keep? None of these diamonds?"
"No; I detest diamonds! When a complexion begins to go—never mind! Stay, though! Margaret liked that pink pearl; sweet little prim Margaret, who has given me most of the little pleasure I have had these last three years.You'll let her have it, John? I beg you to let me give it to her!"
"Surely, surely, my dear Emily. It is a beautiful gem, and I am glad that my Margaret should have something to remember you by while you are gone. And now shake hands, for I must be off."
"You are going away?"
"For the night only. I was to have spent two or three days in town on business, but hurried home on hearing of the fire. I shall be back to-morrow, or next day at latest."
"And—I may stay here till then, John?"
"My dear Emily, I earnestly beg that you will stay as long as it is convenient to you. You must have many things to arrange; pray consider Fernley as your own house until you have everything comfortably settled."
"Thank you, John! I heard your own voice then, the kindest voice that—good-by, John Montfort!"
"Gone, you say, Margaret? When did she go? I fully expected to see her again."
"This afternoon, Uncle John. We could notpersuade her to stay longer. Her man of business came down this morning early, and arranged everything with the farmer and the servants, and finally took her and Antonia back with him. It is very sudden! I should be frightened at her attempting the voyage, but Grace says it is just what Doctor Flower has been wishing and hoping for. Poor Mrs. Peyton! I shall miss her very much, Uncle John. She is very, very lovable; and, somehow, these few days have so softened and changed her—I hardly know how to put it, but it is as if her heart had waked up after a long sleep."
"Perhaps it has!" said Mr. Montfort, thoughtfully. "Poor Emily! she has had an unhappy life; yet when she was your age, Margaret, Emily Silverton thought she had the world at her feet. Life is instructive, my child. Did she tell you what she had done about Grace?"
Margaret shook her head. "She said you would have something to tell me, but she would not say anything more. She was bent on keeping control over her nerves, I think, so I tried just to keep things quiet and cheerful, and Isaw that was what she wanted. What is it about Grace?"
Thereupon Mr. Montfort told the story of the jewels, and how he had taken them to town with him the day before. "It will be a great change for our Grace," he said. "She has had very little money, I think you told me, Margaret?"
"Oh, almost none, Uncle John. She has had a very, very hard time; and since her father died last year—she seems to have no other relations—she has supported herself entirely. Oh, this is a kind thing of Mrs. Peyton; and I understand just how she feels and why she wants to do it. Aren't the jewels worth a good deal, Uncle John?"
"Guess how much, little girl!"
"How can I? Perhaps as much as a thousand dollars? Oh, Uncle John!"
"Perhaps, Margaret; my child, Tiffany's head man thinks,—he could not price them all exactly,—but, roughly speaking, he thinks—that this collection is worth—fifty thousand dollars. Grace is, comparatively speaking, a rich woman."
Margaret stood speechless, in utter amazement.At this moment there was a sound, as of a book falling to the ground, and a smothered exclamation. Both started and looked round, as Hugh Montfort rose from the corner where he had been seated and came slowly forward. He was very pale, and seemed to bear more heavily on his stick than usual.
"You knew I was here, Margaret?" he said, with a look that tried to be unconcerned. "I trust I have not overheard anything that I should not. I was writing, and thought you saw me when you came in."
"No secrets, my boy, no secrets!" said Mr. Montfort, heartily. "You heard this great piece of news about our little friend, did you? She does not know it herself yet; Margaret must tell her. Margaret, you have deserved this pleasure, my dear, and I rejoice in making it over to you."
The good man was glowing with pleasure and good will; but for once he met no response from Hugh, who, pale and gloomy, stared before him as if he had seen a ghost.
"My dear fellow," cried Mr. Montfort, changing his tone at once, "you are not well. Howpale you are! or—you have had no bad news, Hugh? Nobody ill at home, eh? Your father—"
"No, no, sir, all well! Father is in perfect trim; I have just been reading a letter from him, Uncle John; you must hear it, sometime when you are not busy. Don't look at me like that, Margaret! I—my head aches a little, if I must confess. Did you never see any one with a headache before?"
Was it possible that Hugh was out of temper? Neither Mr. Montfort nor Margaret could believe it at first; both gazed at him, expecting the usual kindly smile to begin in his eyes and break gradually over his face; but no smile came. Mr. Montfort, who had lived many years and seen many things, was the first to recover himself; he passed Hugh with a friendly pat on the shoulder, and, nodding to Margaret, went out of the room. Margaret remained still, looking earnestly in her cousin's face, unconscious of offence.
"Dear Hugh," she said, affectionately, "I am so sorry! Let me get you something—one of those tablets that relieved you last time."
"No, no!" said Hugh. "It is nothing, Margaret,nothing at all. So Miss Wolfe is a rich woman, is she, and spoilt for life? And you are glad, you and Uncle John! Well, I am sorry, for my part; sorry from the bottom of my heart. It is an iniquity."
"Hugh!"
"It is! She will grow into an idle fine lady, like this very Mrs. Peyton, who throws about her gewgaws at every whim. Her life will be frittered away over dresses and frippery and fashion. Instead of a worker, a real woman, with a woman's work and aims, you will have a butterfly, pretty and useless, fluttering about in the sunshine, unable to bear rough weather. A fine piece of work it will be, the ruining of a girl like that."
Margaret stood aghast, and for a few moments found no words. Her cousin's face showed that he was only too deeply in earnest; his eyes glowed with sombre fire, and a dark red spot burned in his cheek. When Margaret did speak at last, her eyes were tender, but her voice was grave, almost stern. "Hugh," she said, "I hardly know you; and I see that you do not know Grace in the least. I thought—Ithought you did—understand her, better perhaps than any one else did; but if you can say such things as these, I see I was utterly mistaken. She, spoiled by a little prosperity? Oh, how can you? For shame, Hugh!"
Hugh looked up at her suddenly. "Oh, Margaret!" he said. "Margaret, have patience with me! I—I am not myself to-day. My head—there is something wrong with me."
"Yes, dear," said Margaret, tenderly. "Go and lie down, Hugh, won't you? And I'll bring you some cracked ice. That always helps a little."
"I don't want to lie down, and I don't want any cracked ice; thank you all the same, good little sister-cousin! I'll go out into the garden, I think. The trees will be the best thing for me to-day. And—Margaret—forget what I said, will you? It is none of my business, of course; only—good-by, little girl!"
"But, Grace—"
"But-ter, Margaret!"
"My dear, please don't be absurd!"
"My angel, I am not half so absurd as you are. Why, in the name of all that is incongruous, should I take this lady's money? Is thy servant a dog, that she should do this thing?"
"Listen, Grace! You are wholly, utterly wrong. Listen to me! Let us sit down here by the summer-house and have it out. No, you have said enough; it is my turn now. You talk about yourself, and your independence and freedom, and I don't know what. My dear, I want you to forget yourself, and think of her."
"Of her? What difference does it make to her?"
"All the difference in the world, it may be. What is that noise?"
"It is I!" said Hugh, emerging from the summer-house. "I seem fated to be an eavesdropper, and yet I am not one by nature. Pardon me, young ladies!"
He was about to pass them with a formal bow, but Margaret, with a sudden inspiration, caught his arm. "No!" she cried, "I want you to hear what I am going to say. You, too, misunderstand—sit down, Hugh, and listen! Please!" she added, in the tone that seldom failed to win any heart.
Hugh hesitated, but finally sat down, looking very grim, and stared at the box-tree in front of him. Margaret went on, hurriedly, moved for once out of her gentle calm.
"This lady—I must speak plainly, though she is my friend—has lived a selfish, empty, idle life. She was very beautiful and very rich, really one of the great beauties and heiresses, and—and that was all. She was brought up by a worldly aunt—her mother died when she was little—and married to some one whom she cannot have cared for very much, I am afraid; and she never had any children. Then came all this ill health. Oh, Grace, I can't help it ifit wasn't all real, she certainly has suffered a great deal; and through it all she has been alone, loving no one, and with no one to love her. She will not see any of her own people, cousins—she has no one nearer; she says they are all mercenary. I don't know, of course, but it is one of the terrible things about having a great deal of money, that you think everybody wants it, whether they do or not. Now, at last, before it was too late,—oh, I am so thankful for that,—the change has come. She has waked up, and it is all owing to you, Grace. Yes, it is! I have been fond of her, and she has petted me, and been very good to me, and given me things, but I never could open her eyes, try as I would. Now, you have done it, dear. You not only saved her life actually—yes, you did, Grace; she told me all about it; she never would have got out of that room alive but for you—you not only saved her life, but you have given her some idea of how to live. She wants to do something in return. It is the first time, I do believe, that she has wantedreallyto help some one else. When she gave me prettinesses, it was because it amused her to do it, not becauseI needed them, nor because she was thinking specially about me.
"Grace, if you refuse this; if you shut back the kindly impulse, the desire to help some one, I tell you you will be doing a wrong thing. It is nothing in the world but pride, selfish pride, that is speaking in you. Tell me again—tell Hugh, what Mrs. Peyton said to you when she went away."
"She said—" Grace's voice had not its usual cool evenness, but was husky, and faltered now and then—"she said, 'Do not refuse my last wish! I do not tell you what it is, for fear you should refuse at once, and shut me up with myself again. Do not refuse, for the sake of Christian kindness, of which I have known nothing hitherto, but which I mean to learn something about if I can.'"
"And then?"
"And then—she kissed me—Margaret, it is brutal of you to make me tell this!—she kissed me twice, and said—" Grace's voice broke. "I—cannot!" she faltered.
Margaret rose to her feet with a sudden impulse. "Hark!" she said. "Is that UncleJohn calling me? Wait here, please, both of you!" and she ran off, never looking behind her. It was the first and last deceitful act of Margaret Montfort's life.
There was a long silence. Hugh Montfort stared at the box-tree. Grace cried a little, quietly; then wiped away her tears, not noticing them much, and observed an ant running along the path. At last, "Well?" said Hugh.
"Well!" said Grace. "I am sorry to have made such a spectacle of myself. Is there anything to say?"
Hugh plucked a box-leaf and scrutinized it carefully.
"They make these things so even!" he said.
"Machinery never could—Let me tell you a story. Do you mind? Once upon a time there was a man—or—well, call him a man! He was part of one, anyhow, as much as accident allowed. He was not strong, but he could work, and he meant to work, and do things he cared about, and lead as good a life as he knew how. He had been a good deal alone, somehow, though he had dear good people of his own; he was anodd stick, I suppose, as odd as the one he walked with."
He stopped, glanced at his stick, with its handle worn smooth as glass; then he went on.
"He had never seen much of women, except his own family; never thought about them much as individuals, though always in his mind there was a dream—I suppose all men have it—of some one he should meet some day, who would turn the world from gray to gold. One day—he saw a vision; and—after that—he learned, not all at once, but little by little, that life was not full and rounded, as he had thought it, but empty and one-sided and unprofitable, if this vision could not be always before his eyes; if this one woman could not come into his life, to be his star, his light, his joy and happiness. She was poor, like himself. He thought of working for her, of sharing with her the honest, laborious, perhaps helpful life he had planned, the life of a Western forester, living among the woods and mountains, studying the trees he loved, learning the secrets of nature at first hand, teaching his beloved all the little heknew, and learning more, a thousandfold more, from every look of her eyes, every tone of her wonderful voice.
"Well—while he dreamed—something happened. Suddenly, by a wave of a wand, as in the fairy tales, his maiden was transformed. Instead of the orphan girl, working bravely with her brave hands to earn her bread, he saw—a rich woman! saw the woman he loved condemned by the idle whim of an idle pleasure-seeker to sit with folded hands, or play with toys and trinkets. He was filled with rage; he hated the very sound of the word money, because—it seemed to him that this money would rob him of his darling. I—he—"
Hugh broke off suddenly. "I am the greatest fool in the world!" he said. "Grace, do you understand me? Do you know what I am trying to say?"
It was the merest whisper that replied, "I don't—know—"
"Yes, you do." Hugh caught the slender hands, and held them close. "You know, you must know, that I have cared for you ever since that first wonderful moment, when you brokethrough the leaves like sunshine, and I saw the face I had dreamed of all my life. You must have felt it, all these weeks. Oh, Margaret is right, I suppose. All she says is true enough; if you can help this poor woman by taking her wretched money, I suppose you will have to do it. But—but I lose my princess, before ever I could win her. I can't ask a rich woman to be my wife."
While Hugh was speaking, Grace's head had drooped lower and lower, as if she shrank under the weight that was laid upon her; but now she looked up bravely, with a lovely light in her eyes. "Can't you, Hugh?" she said. "It's a pity you can't, Hugh, because—you could have her for the asking."
If Timothy Bannan has had scant mention in these pages, it is not because he was not an important personage at Fernley. King of the stable, governor of the dogs, chief authority on all matters pertaining to what Gerald called "four-leggers," he was as much a part of the establishment as Frances herself. In person he was a small man, with reddish-gray whiskers, an obstinate chin, and a kindly twinkling eye. He usually wore a red waistcoat with black sleeves, and he was suspected of matrimonial designs on Elizabeth.
One morning, not long after the events of which I have been telling, Bannan approached his master, who was tying up roses, Margaret, as usual, attending him with shears and ball of twine.
"If you please, sir," said Bannan, touchinghis hat, "would it be convenient for me to take a horse this evening, sir?"
Mr. Montfort straightened himself, and looked with friendly interest at his retainer.
"A horse, Bannan? Certainly! What horse do you want?"
Bannan looked embarrassed. "I was thinking of taking Chief, if you was anyways willing, sir." Now Chief was the pride of the Fernley stable. Mr. Montfort opened his eyes a little.
"Going far, Bannan?"
"N—not so very far, sir. I was wishful to try him with the new cart, if you had no objections."
The new cart was a particularly stylish and comfortable wagonette, bought for Margaret to take her young friends out in, and Mr. Montfort's eyes opened still wider.
"Well, Bannan—of course you will be careful. You want to take some friends out, eh?"
This simple question seemed to embarrass Bannan strangely. He reddened, and taking off his cap, turned it round and round in his hands. "No, sir, I shouldn't presume—that is to say, not exactly friends, sir, and yet notanyways the reverse. But if it's not agreeable to you, sir, I'll take the old mare and the Concord wagon."
"No, no," said Mr. Montfort, kindly. "Take Chief and the cart by all means, Bannan. I wish you a pleasant drive with your—friends." Bannan thanked him and withdrew, and Mr. Montfort turned to Margaret with a smile and a sigh. "Does that mean Elizabeth and matrimony, Margaret? What will Frances say?"
"Indeed, Uncle, I am quite sure that Elizabeth would disapprove as much as Frances of Bannan's taking Chief and the wagonette. You are too indulgent, dear sir."
"I suppose I am," said Mr. Montfort. "I suppose, also, that I am too old to change. But I never knew Bannan to do such a thing before."
Meanwhile, Bannan was standing at the kitchen door, fuming. "If ever I do sich a thing again, Frances, you may cut me up and serve me in a gravy-boat."
"Nobody'd touch ye!" said Frances. "Ye've got to have juice to make gravy, ye little bones-bag. I told ye let me see to it; men-folksalways messes when they try to manage nice things. It's like as if you started to whip cream with a garding hose."
"I don't care!" said Bannan. "'Twas me the telegram come to, and 'twas me they expected to see to it. You'd like to boss everything and everybody on the place, Frances."
"I'll boss you with this mop, little man, if you give me any sauce," said Frances, with massive calm. "Go away now and feed your beasts; it's what you're best at."
"But you'll have the supper ready and all, Frances? If I can feed beasts, you can feed their masters, I'm bound to own that," said Bannan, presenting this transparent sop with an air of hopeful diffidence.
"Go 'long with ye!" said Frances, loftily, yet with a suggestion of softening in her voice. "I've kep' Mr. John's birthday for twenty years, but I reckon you'd better tell me how to do it this time."
"And you'll tell nobody about—them—"
But here Frances raised the mop with such a businesslike air that Bannan took himself off, grumbling and shaking his head.
Left alone, Frances fell into a frenzy of preparation, and when Margaret found her half an hour later, she was beating eggs, stoning raisins, and creaming butter, apparently all at the same moment. An ardent consultation followed. What flavor would Mr. John (Frances would never say Mr. Montfort) like best for the ice-cream? and the cake—would a caramel frosting be best, or a boiled frosting with candied fruits chopped into it? and for the small cakes, now, and the tartlets?
Mr. Montfort's birthday came, as most birthdays do, once a year. Considering this, it was a singular thing that he, the most methodical of men, who turned his calendar as regularly as he wound his watch, never seemed to remember it. He never failed to be astonished at Margaret's morning greeting. More than this, he apparently forgot it as soon as it was over, for he always had a fresh stock of astonishment on hand for the health-imperilling feast that Frances was sure to arrange for the evening. To-day he took no notice of the fact that wherever he went he came upon some girl or boy carrying armfuls of flowers and ferns, or arranging themin bowls, jars, and vases. When he found his desk heaped with a tangle of clematis and wild lilies,—Peggy had dropped them there "just for a minute," half an hour before,—this excellent man merely said "Charming," and rescued his pet Montaigne from the wet sprays which covered it. In the course of the morning, Fernley House was transformed into a bower of greenery, lit up with masses of splendid color. Everywhere drooped or nodded clusters of ferns, the ostrich fern and the great Osmunda Regalis, with here and there masses of maiden-hair, most delicate and beautiful of all. In the library, especially, the ferns were arranged with all the skill and care that Margaret possessed. They outlined the oaken shelves, their delicate tracery seeming to lie lovingly against the rich mellow tints of morocco and vellum; they waved from tall vases of crystal and porcelain; they spread their lace-like fronds in flat bowls and dishes. "I don't see how there can be any left," said Peggy; "it seems as if we had all the ferns in the world, and yet in the woods it didn't seem to make any difference. Oh, Jean, isn't it just splendid!"
"Corking!" said Jean.
"Jean, I won't have you say that."
"Well, the Merryweathers say it all the time, Peggy. They never say anything else, except when Margaret is round; you know they don't."
"The Merryweathers are boys, and you are a girl, and there is all the difference in the world," said Peggy, loftily. "Jean, it is high time you went to school."
"Oh, bother school! I have two ponies to break this fall, and Pa has promised to let me drive the reaper around the hundred-acre field."
Peggy said nothing, being a wise as well as an affectionate elder sister; but she resolved to consult Hugh, and to write to "Pa" without delay.
So the morning passed in preparation and mystery. Then in the afternoon came a drive in the great open car, a delightful vehicle, holding eight people comfortably. Peggy sat on the box—happy Peggy!—and drove the spirited black horses. Uncle John was by her side, and they recalled merrily the day when, as John Strong, he took his first drive with her, anddecided that she was to be trusted with a horse.
"Oh, what fun we did have that summer!" cried Peggy. "Only—we had no Uncle John. Oh, Uncle, if we had Rita here, wouldn't it be too absolutely perfect for anything?"
"It would be very delightful," said Mr. Montfort. "I would give a good deal to see that dark-eyed lassie and her gallant Jack. I think I must take you and Margaret to Cuba one of these days, Peggy, to see them. How would you like that, Missy?"
"Oh, Uncle John!" cried Peggy; and she almost dropped the whip, in the effort to squeeze his arm and turn a corner at the same moment.
But the best of all was when the whole family assembled in the library before supper, the girls in their very prettiest dresses, with flowers in their hair, the lads brave in white duck waistcoats, with roses and ferns in their buttonholes. Then the girls presented the gifts they had made for the beloved uncle; Margaret's book, a fine old copy of the "Colloquies of Erasmus," bound by her own hands ingold-stamped brown leather, Peggy's mermaid-penwiper, with a long tail of sea-green sewing silk, and the pincushion on which Jean had spent many painful hours in her efforts to make the ferns look like ferns instead of like green hen feathers. Grace had woven a basket of sweet rushes, of quaint and graceful pattern, which Mr. Montfortdeclaredwas what he had dreamed of all his life, while Hugh produced a box of wonderful cigars, which had a history as mysterious and subtle as their fragrance. Lastly, the Merryweathers, declaring that they had no gift but themselves, and that if Mr. Montfort would be graciously pleased to accept them, they were his, proceeded to go through a series of acrobatic performances, which brought cries of admiration from all the beholders.
While this was going on, Margaret took advantage of the interlude (though she was loth to lose one of Gerald's graceful postures) to run out and see if supper was ready. She came back with a rueful countenance, and whispered to Peggy, "Supper will not be ready for ten minutes yet, and Frances is in a mostfrightful temper. She actually drove me out of the kitchen; said she would not be bothered with foolish children, and she would not send supper in till Bannan came back, if it cost her her place."
"Bannan? What has Bannan to do with supper?"
"Bringing something, I suppose; some extra frill she has prepared as a surprise. She is always savage when she has a surprise on foot. Hark! There are wheels now. Listen! Yes, they are going round to the back door. Bannan has come, then, and we may hope for food. Oh, do look at those boys! Did you ever see anything like that?"
All eyes were fixed on the twins, who, after every variety of separate antic, now proceeded to perform what they called a patent reversible waltz. Standing on their hands, they twined their feet together in the air, and revolved gracefully, moving in unison, and keeping time to the waltz they whistled. The whole company was watching this proceeding with such absorbed attention that no one saw the door at the back of the hall open silently; noone noticed the figure that stole noiselessly through, and now stood motionless in the doorway. A young woman, slender, richly dressed, beautiful exceedingly; with a certain foreign grace, which struck the eye even more than her beauty. But it was neither the grace nor the beauty that was first to be seen now; it was the light of love in the large dark eyes, the soft fire of joy and tenderness and mirth that shone from them, and seemed to irradiate her whole figure as she stood there, erect, yet seeming to sway forward, her hand on the door, her eyes bent on the group before her. Her gaze wandered for a moment to the guests: the revolving boys, Grace and Hugh in their quiet corner together, Jean staring with open eyes and mouth; but after a wondering look, it came back and settled again on the central group, Mr. Montfort, in his great armchair, Peggy and Margaret each on a stool beside him, leaning against his knees. Was the group complete? or was there room for another by that good man's side?
Jean was the first to look up and see the newcomer. She started violently. "My goodness!"she cried, "who is that?" The next instant a cry rang out, as Margaret and Peggy sprang forward, "Rita! Rita!"
But Rita was too quick for them. Before they were well on their feet she had them both in her arms, and was weeping, sobbing, laughing, and kissing, all in a breath. With the next breath she had sunk at Mr. Montfort's feet, and, seizing his hand, pressed it passionately to her lips.
"My dear child," cried Uncle John, blushing like a girl, and drawing away his hand in great discomposure. "Don't, my love; pray don't. Rita! is it possible that this is really you? What does it mean?"
"What does it mean, my uncle? It means that even in Cuba we know the days of the month. Dearest and best of men, I wish you a thousand returns of the day,—five, ten thousand returns, and each one more blissful than the last. Marguerite, my angel, you are more beautiful than ever. Angel is no longer the word; you are a seraph! Embrace me again! Peggy, you are a mountain; but a veritable mountain of roses and cream! Dearlittle huge creature, I adore you. But where, then, is the rest of me? Jack! Figure to yourself a husband who skulks in doorways at a moment like this! Come forth, thou!"
Jack Del Monte advanced laughing; behind him in the passage the three conspirators, Frances, Elizabeth, and Bannan, peered triumphant. "My dear," said Jack, "I was merely waiting for my cue. You would not have had me spoil your entrance, you know you would not. Uncle John—I may say Uncle John? thanks!—I hope you will forgive Rita's little stratagem for the sake of the pleasure it has given her."
"My dear nephew," said Uncle John, "you have brought me the most enchanting birthday gift that ever a man had. Let me look at you again, Rita! If ever happiness agreed with a person—but I must not begin upon compliments now. I want you to know these cousins and friends. Here is Hugh Montfort and Jean; here is Grace Wolfe, who is to be your cousin one of these good days; and here are our friends Gerald and Philip Merryweather. You have all heard of one another; let us all be friends at once, without further ceremony, and keep this joyful feast together."
"Supper is served, sir," said Elizabeth.
A joyful feast it was indeed. The table, decked with ferns and roses, was covered with every good thing that Frances could think of, and she could think of a good many. The candles shed their cheerful light on all, though the faces hardly needed the artificial light. Amid general mirth, Rita told of her plan; her letter of inquiry to Frances and Elizabeth, asking if all were well, and if their coming would make any inconvenience. Then the telegram to Bannan, and the arrival, to find him awaiting them with the best horse the stable afforded; and, finally, their stealthy entrance at the back door. All had been triumphantly successful, and as Rita told her story, she laughed and clapped her hands with the glee of a child, while every face glowed responsive.
"'I PROPOSE . . . THE HEALTH OF THE BEST MAN . . . THAT LIVES UPON THIS EARTH TO-DAY; . . . THE HEALTH OF MY UNCLE JOHN!'""'I PROPOSE . . . THE HEALTH OF THE BEST MAN . . . THAT LIVES UPON THIS EARTH TO-DAY; . . . THE HEALTH OF MY UNCLE JOHN!'"
"And now," said Rita Del Monte, springing to her feet, and lifting high her glass, "I wish to propose a toast—the only fitting toast for this night. I propose, dear friends, and dearstrangers whom I hope to have for friends, the health of the best man—ah, Jack, you have not had time yet, nor you others; but courage, time is before you!—of the best man, I say, that lives upon this earth to-day; the dearest, the kindest—oh, all please drink to the health of my Uncle John!"
One and all were upon their feet; all bending forward, glass in hand, eager and joyous, their eyes shining with love and admiration; and from one and all came the same glad cry, "Uncle John!"
"Because if one hasn't the luck to be really his nephew," said Gerald, "the least one can do is to make a bluff at it."
And here, at this happy moment, let us leave our friends. Good-by, Margaret—dear Margaret! Good-by, Peggy and Rita, Hugh and Grace, Gerald and Phil,—we may see you again, boys,—Jean and Jack! Good-by, and good luck to you! Last of all, good-by to you, John Montfort. If you are not the best man in the world, you are at least a good one! Wise and strong, courteous and kindly, brave and true, long may you live, as now you sit, in your ownbeautiful home, surrounded by those you love best in the world. Love, kindness, and truth; having these, what more do you lack? Good-by, John Montfort.
Transcriber's Notes:Obvious punctuation errors repaired.The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
The remaining corrections made are indicated by dotted lines under the corrections. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.