"Oh, Minnie! why didn't you tell me before?"
"How could I when you were off in that horrid Scotland? Ialwayshated Scotland."
"You might have told papa."
"I couldn't. I think papa's crueltoo. He doesn't care for me at all. Why didn't he find out our correspondence and intercept it, the way papas always do in novels? If I werehispapa I'd not lethimbe so worried."
"And did he never call on you?"
"Yes; he got leave of absence once, and I had a dreadful time with him. He was in a desperate state of mind. He was ordered off to Gibraltar. But I managed to comfort him; and, oh dear, Kitty dear, did youevertry to comfort a man, and the man a total stranger?"
At this innocent question Mrs. Willoughby's gravity gave way a little.
Minnie frowned, and then sighed.
"Well, you needn't be so unkind," said she; and then her little hand tried to wipe away a tear, but failed.
"Did he go to Gibraltar?" asked Mrs. Willoughby at length.
"Yes, he did," said Minnie, with a little asperity.
"Did he write?"
"Of course he wrote," in the same tone.
"Well, how did it end?"
"End! It didn't end at all. And it never will end. It'll go on getting worse and worse every day. You see he wrote, and said a lot of rubbish about his getting leave of absence and coming to see me. And then I determined torun away; and you know I begged you to take me to Italy, and this is the first time I've told you the real reason."
"So that was the real reason?"
"Yes."
"Well, Minnie, my poor child," said Mrs. Willoughby, after a pause, "you're safe from your officer, at any rate; and as to Count Girasole, we must save you from him. Don't give way."
"But you can't save me. They'll come after me, I know. Captain Kirby, the moment he finds out that I am here, will come flying after me; and then, oh dear! the other one will come, and the American, too, of course."
"The what? who?" cried Mrs. Willoughby, starting up with new excitement. "Who's that? What did you say, Minnie? The American? What American?"
Minnie threw a look of reproach at her sister, and her eyes fell.
"You can't possibly mean that there are any more—"
"There—is—one—more," said Minnie, in a low, faint voice, stealing a glance at her sister, and looking a little frightened.
"One more!" repeated her sister, breathless.
"Well, I didn't come here to be scolded," said Minnie, rising, "and I'll go. But I hoped that you'd help me; and I think you're very unkind; and I wouldn't treat you so."
"No, no, Minnie," said Mrs. Willoughby, rising, and putting her arm round her sister, and drawing her back. "I had no idea of scolding. I never scolded any one in my life, and wouldn't speak a cross word to you for the world. Sit down now, Minnie darling, and tell me all. What about the American? I won't express any more astonishment, no matter what I may feel."
"But you mustn'tfeelany astonishment," insisted Minnie.
"Well, darling, I won't," said her sister.
Minnie gave a sigh.
"It was last year, you know, in the spring. Papa and I were going out to Montreal, to bring you home. You remember?"
Mrs. Willoughby nodded, while a sad expression came over her face.
"And, you remember, the steamer was wrecked."
"Yes."
"But I never told you how my life was saved."
"Why, yes, you did. Didn't papa tell all about the heroic sailor who swam ashore with you? how he was frantic about you, having been swept away by a wave from you? and how he fainted away with joy when you were brought to him? How can you suppose I would forget that? And then how papa tried to find the noble sailor to reward him."
"Oh yes," said Minnie, in a despondent tone. "That's all very true; but he wasn't a noble sailor at all."
"What!"
"You see, he wasn't going to have a scene with papa, and so he kept out of his way. Ohdear, how I wish he'd been as considerate with me! But that's the way always; yes, always."
"Well, who was he?"
"Why, he was an American gentleman, returning home from a tour in Europe. He saved me, as you have heard. I really don't remember much about it, only there was a terrible rush of water, and a strong arm seized me, and I thought it was papa all the time. And I found myself carried, I don't know how, through the waves, and then I fainted; and I really don't know any thing about it except papa's story."
Mrs. Willoughby looked at Minnie in silence, but said nothing.
"And then, you know, he traveled with us, and papa thought he was one of the passengers, and was civil; and so he used to talk to me, and at last, at Montreal, he used to call on me."
"Where?"
"At your house, dearest."
"Why, how was that?"
"You could not leave your room, darling, so I used to go down."
"Oh, Minnie!"
"And he proposed to me there."
"Where? in my parlor?"
"Yes; in your parlor, dearest."
"I suppose it's not necessary for me to ask what you said."
"I suppose not," said Minnie, in a sweet voice. "He was so grand and so strong, and he never made any allusions to the wreck; and it was—the—the—very firsttime that any body ever—proposed; and so, you know, I didn't know how to take it, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings, and I couldn't deny that he had saved my life; and I don't know when Ieverwas so confused. It's awful, Kitty darling.
"And then, you know, darling," continued Minnie, "he went away, and used to write regularly every month. He came to see me once, and I was frightened to death almost. He is going to marry me next year. He used an awful expression, dearest. He told me he was a struggling man. Isn't that horrid? What is it, Kitty? Isn't it something very, very dreadful?"
"He writes still, I suppose?"
"Oh dear, yes."
Mrs. Willoughby was silent for some time.
"Oh, Minnie," said she at last, "what a trouble all this is! How I wish you had been with me all this time!"
"Well, what made you go and get married?" said Minnie.
"Hush," said Mrs. Willoughby, sadly, "never mind. I've made up my mind to one thing, and that is, I will never leave you alone with a gentleman, unless—"
"Well, I'm sure I don't want the horrid creatures," said Minnie. "And you needn't be so unkind. I'm sure I don't see why people will come always and save my life wherever I go. I don't want them to. I don't want to have my life saved any more. I think it's dreadful to have men chasing me all over theworld. I'm afraid to stop in Italy, and I'm afraid to go back to England. Then I'm always afraid of that dreadful American. I suppose it's no use for me to go to the Holy Land, or Egypt, or Australia; for then my life would be saved by an Arab, or a New Zealander. And oh, Kitty, wouldn't it be dreadful to have some Arab proposing to me, or a Hindu! Oh, whatamI to do?"
"Trust to me, darling. I'll get rid of Girasole. We will go to Naples. He has to stop at Rome; I know that. We will thus pass quietly away from him, without giving him any pain, and he'll soon forget all about it. As for the others, I'll stop this correspondence first, and then deal with them as they come."
"You'll never do it, never!" cried Minnie; "I know you won't. You don't know them."
(see caption)
"HE BENT HIS HEAD DOWN, AND RAN HIS HAND THROUGH HIS BUSHY HAIR."
LordHarry Hawbury had been wandering for three months on the Continent, and hadfinally found himself in Naples. It was always a favorite place of his, and he had established himself in comfortable quarters on the Strada Nuova, from the windows of which there was a magnificent view of the whole bay, with Vesuvius, Capri, Baiæ, and all the regions round about. Here an old friend had unexpectedly turned up in the person of Scone Dacres. Their friendship had been formed some five or six years before in South America, where they had made a hazardous journey in company across the continent, and had thus acquired a familiarity with one another which years of ordinary association would have failed to give. Scone Dacres was several years older than Lord Hawbury.
One evening Lord Hawbury had just finished his dinner, and was dawdling about in a listless way, when Dacres entered, quite unceremoniously, and flung himself into a chair by one of the windows.
"Any Bass, Hawbury?" was his only greeting, as he bent his head down, and ran his hand through his bushy hair.
"Lachryma Christi?" asked Hawbury, in an interrogative tone.
"No, thanks. That wine is a humbug. I'm beastly thirsty, and as dry as a cinder."
Hawbury ordered the Bass, and Dacres soon was refreshing himself with copious draughts.
The two friends presented a singular contrast. Lord Hawbury was tall and slim, with straight flaxen hair and flaxen whiskers, whose long, pendent points hung down to his shoulders. His thin face, somewhat pale, had an air of high refinement; and an ineradicable habit of lounging, together with a drawling intonation, gave him the appearance of being the laziest mortal alive. Dacres, on the other hand, was the very opposite of all this. He was as tall as Lord Hawbury, but was broad-shouldered and massive. He had a big head, a big mustache, and a thick beard. His hair was dark, andcovered his head in dense, bushy curls. His voice was loud, his manner abrupt, and he always sat bolt upright.
"Any thing up, Sconey?" asked Lord Hawbury, after a pause, during which he had been languidly gazing at his friend.
"Well, no, nothing, except that I've been up Vesuvius."
Lord Hawbury gave a long whistle.
"And how did you find the mountain?" he asked; "lively?"
"Rather so. In fact, infernally so," added Dacres, thoughtfully. "Look here, Hawbury, do you detect any smell of sulphur about me?"
"Sulphur! What in the name of—sulphur! Why, now that you mention it, Idonotice something of a brimstone smell. Sulphur! Why, man, you're as strong as a lighted match. What have you been doing with yourself? Down inside, eh?"
Dacres made no answer for some time, but sat stroking his beard with his left hand, while his right held a cigar which he had just taken out of a box at his elbow. His eyes were fixed upon a point in the sky exactly half-way between Capri and Baiæ, and about ten degrees above the horizon.
"Hawbury," said he, solemnly, after about two minutes of portentous silence.
"Well, old man?"
"I've had an adventure."
"An adventure! Well, don't be bashful. Breathe forth the tale in this confiding ear."
"You see," said Dacres, "I started off this morning for a ride, and had no more intention of going to Vesuvius than to Jericho."
"I should hope not. What business has a fellow like you with Vesuvius—a fellow that has scaled Cotopaxi, and all that sort of thing? Not you."
Dacres put the cigar thoughtfully in his mouth, struck a light, and tried to light it, but couldn't. Then he bit the end off, which he had forgotten to do before. Then he gave three long, solemn, and portentous puffs. Then he took the cigar between his first and second fingers, and stretched his hand out toward Hawbury.
"Hawbury, my boy," said he again.
"All right."
"You remember the time when I got that bullet in Uruguay?"
"Yes."
"Well, I had a shot to-day."
"A shot! The deuce you had. Cool, too. Any of those confounded bandits about? I thought that was all rot."
"It wasn't a real shot; only figurative."
"Figurative!"
"Yes; it was a—a girl."
"By Jove!" cried Hawbury, starting up from an easy posture which he had secured for himself after fifteen minutes shifting and changing. "A girl! You, Dacres, spooney! A fellow like you, and a girl! By Jove!"
Hawbury fell back again, and appeared to be vainly trying to grapple with the thought.Dacres put his cigar between his lips again, and gave one or two puffs at it, but it had gone out. He pitched it out of the window, and struck his hand heavily on the arm of his chair.
"Yes, Hawbury, a girl; and spooney, too—as spooney as blazes; but I'll swear there isn't such another girl upon the whole face of the earth; and when you bear in mind the fact that my observation, with extended view, has surveyed mankind from China to Peru, you'll be able to appreciate the value of my statement."
"All right, old man; and now for the adventure."
"The adventure? Well, you see, I started for a ride. Had a misty idea of going to Sorrento, and was jogging along among a million pigs or so at Portici, when I overtook a carriage that was going slowly along. There were three ladies in it. The backs of two of them were turned toward me, and I afterward saw that one was old—no doubt the chaperon—and the other was young. But the third lady, Hawbury—Well, it's enough to say that I, who have seen all women in all lands, have never seen any thing like her. She was on the front seat, with her face turned toward me. She was small, a perfect blonde; hair short and curling; a round, girlish face; dimpled cheeks, and little mouth. Her eyes were large and blue; and, as she looked at me, I saw such a bewitching innocence, such plaintive entreaty, such pathetic trust, such helpless, childlike—I'll be hanged if I can find words to express what I want to say. The English language doesn't contain them."
"Do it in Latin, then, or else skip the whole description. All the same. I know the whole story by heart. Love's young dream, and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Well," continued Dacres, "there was something so confoundedly bewitching in the little girl's face that I found myself keeping on at a slow pace in the rear of the carriage, and feasting on her looks. Of course I wasn't rude about it or demonstrative."
"Oh, of course. No demonstration. It's nothing to ride behind a carriage for several hours, and 'feast' one's self on a pretty girl's looks! But go on, old man."
"Oh, I managed it without giving offense. You see, there was such a beastly lot of pigs, peasants, cows, dirty children, lazaroni, and all that sort of thing, that it was simply impossible to go any faster; so you see I was compelled to ride behind. Sometimes, indeed, I fell a good distance back."
"And then caught up again to resume the 'feast?'"
"Well—yes."
"But I don't see what this has to do with your going to Vesuvius."
"It has every thing to do. You see, I started without any fixed purpose, and after I saw this carriage, I kept on insensibly after it."
"Oh, I see—yes. By Jove!"
"And they drove up as far as they could."
"Yes?"
"And I followed. You see, I had nothing else to do—and that little girl! Besides, it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be going up; and the fact that I was bent on the same errand as themselves was sufficient to account for my being near the carriage, and would prevent them from supposing that I was following them. So, you see, I followed, and at length they stopped at the Hermitage. I left my horse there, and strolled forward, without going very far away; my only idea was to keep the girl in sight. I had no idea that they would go any further. To ascend the cone seemed quite out of the question. I thought they would rest at the Hermitage, drink some Lachryma Christi, and go back. But to my surprise, as I was walking about, I saw the two young ladies come out and go toward the cone.
"I kept out of the way, as you may suppose, and watched them, wondering what idea they had. As they passed I heard the younger one—the child-angel, you know,mygirl—teasing the other to make the ascent of the cone, and the other seemed to be quite ready to agree to the proposal.
"Now, as far as the mere ascent is concerned, of course you knowthatis not much. The guides were there with straps and chairs, and that sort of thing, all ready, so that there was no difficulty about that. The real difficulty was in these girls going off unattended; and I could only account for it by supposing that the chaperon knew nothing whatever about their proposal. No doubt the old lady was tired, and the young ones went out, asshesupposed, for a stroll; and now, astheyproposed, this stroll meant nothing less than an ascent of the cone. After all, there is nothing surprising in the fact that a couple of active and spirited girls should attempt this. From the Hermitage it does not seem to be at all difficult, and they had no idea of the actual nature of the task.
"What made it worse, however, was the state of the mountain at this particular time. I don't know whether you have taken the trouble to raise your eyes so high as the top of Vesuvius—"
Hawbury languidly shook his head.
"Well, I supposed not; but if you had taken the trouble, you would have noticed an ugly cloud which is generally regarded here as ominous. This morning, you know, there was an unusually large canopy of very dirty smoke overhead. I knew by the look of things that it was not a very pleasant place to go to. But of course they could not be supposed to know any thing of the kind, and their very ignorance made them rash.
"Well, I walked along after them, not knowing what might turn up, but determined to keep them in sight. Those beggars with chairs were not to be trusted, and the ladies had gold enough about them to tempt violence. What a reckless old devil of a chaperon she was, to let those young girls go! So I walked on, cursing all the time the conventionalities of civilizationthat prevented me from giving them warning. They were rushing straight on into danger, and I had to keep silent.
"On reaching the foot of the cone a lot of fellows came up to them, with chairs and straps, and that sort of thing. They employed some of them, and, mounting the chairs, they were carried up, while I walked up by myself at a distance from which I could observe all that was going on. The girls were quite merry, appeared to be enchanted with their ride up the cone, enjoyed the novelty of the sensation, and I heard their lively chatter and their loud peals of ringing laughter, and longed more than ever to be able to speak to them.
"Now the little girl that I had first seen—the child-angel, you know—seemed, to my amazement, to be more adventurous than the other. By her face you would suppose her to be as timid as a dove, and yet on this occasion she was the one who proposed the ascent, urged on her companion, and answered all her objections. Of course she could not have really been so plucky as she seemed. For my part, I believe the other one had more real pluck of the two, but it was the child-angel's ignorance that made her so bold. She went up the cone as she would have gone up stairs, and looked at the smoke as she would have looked at a rolling cloud.
"At length the bearers stopped, and signified to the girls that they could not go any further. The girls could not speak Italian, or any other language apparently than English, and therefore could not very well make out what the bearers were trying to say, but by their gestures they might have known that they were warning them against going any further. One might have supposed that no warning would have been needed, and that one look upward would have been enough. The top of the cone rose for upward of a hundred feet above them, its soil composed of lava blocks and ashes intermingled with sulphur. In this soil there were a million cracks and crevices, from which sulphurous smoke was issuing; and the smoke, which was but faint and thin near where they stood, grew denser farther up, till it intermingled with the larger volumes that rolled up from the crater.
"Now, as I stood there, I suddenly heard a wild proposal from the child-angel.
"'Oh, Ethel,' she said, 'I've a great mind to go up—'"
Here Hawbury interrupted his friend:
"What's that? Was that her friend's name?" he asked, with some animation. "Ethel?—odd, too. Ethel? H'm. Ethel? Brunette, was she?"
"Yes."
"Odd, too; infernally odd. But, pooh! what rot! Just as though there weren't a thousand Ethels!"
"What's that you're saying about Ethel?" asked Dacres.
"Oh, nothing, old man. Excuse my interrupting you. Go ahead. How did it end?"
(see caption)
"I SAW HER TURN AND WAVE HER HAND IN TRIUMPH."
"Well, the child-angel said, 'Ethel, I've a great mind to go up.'
"This proposal Ethel scouted in horror and consternation.
"'You must not—you shall not!' she cried.
"'Oh, it's nothing, it's nothing,' said the child-angel. 'I'm dying to take a peep into the crater. It must be awfully funny. Do come; do, do come, Ethel darling.'
"'Oh, Minnie, don't,' cried the other, in great alarm. And I now learned that the child-angel's name was Minnie. 'Minnie,' she cried, clinging to the child-angel, 'you must not go. I would not have come up if I had thought you would be so unreasonable.'
"'Ethel,' said the other, 'you are really getting to be quite a scold. How ridiculous it is in you to set yourself up in this place as a duenna! How can I help going up? and only one peep. And I never saw a crater in my life, and I'm dying to know what it looks like. I know it's awfully funny; and it's horrid in you to be so unkind about it. And I really must go. Won't you come? Do, do, dear—dearest darling, do—do—do!'
"Ethel was firm, however, and tried to dissuade the other, but to no purpose; for at length, with a laugh, the child-angel burst away, and skipped lightly up the slope toward the crater.
"'Just one peep,' she said. 'Come, Ethel, I must, I really must, you know.'
"She turned for an instant as she said this, and I saw the glory of her child-face as it was irradiated by a smile of exquisite sweetness. The play of feature, the light of her eyes, and the expression of innocence and ignorance unconscious of danger, filled me with profound sadness. And there was I, standing alone, seeing that sweet child flinging herself to ruin, and yet unable to prevent her, simply because I was bound hand and foot by the infernal restrictions of a miserable and a senseless conventionality. Dash it, I say!"
As Dacres growled out this Hawbury elevated his eyebrows, and stroked his long, pendent whiskers lazily with his left hand, whilewith his right he drummed on the table near him.
"Well," resumed Dacres, "the child-angel ran up for some distance, leaving Ethel behind. Ethel called after her for some time, and then began to follow her up. Meanwhile the guides, who had thus far stood apart, suddenly caught sight of the child-angel's figure, and, with a loud warning cry, they ran after her. They seemed to me, however, to be a lazy lot, for they scarce got up as far as the place where Ethel was. Now, you know, all this time I was doomed to inaction. But at this juncture I strolled carelessly along, pretending not to see any thing in particular; and so, taking up an easy attitude, I waited for the dénouement. It was a terrible position too. That child-angel! I would have laid down my life for her, but I had to stand idle, and see her rush to fling her life away. And all because I had not happened to have the mere formality of an introduction."
"Well, you know, I stood there waiting for the dénouement. Now it happened that, as the child-angel went up, a brisk breeze hadstarted, which blew away all the smoke, so that she went along for some distance without any apparent inconvenience. I saw her reach the top; I saw her turn and wave her hand in triumph. Then I saw her rush forward quickly and nimbly straight toward the crater. She seemed to go down into it. And then the wind changed or died away, or both, for there came a vast cloud of rolling smoke, black, cruel, suffocating; and the mountain crest and the child-angel were snatched from my sight.
"I was roused by a shriek from Ethel. I saw her rush up the slope, and struggle in a vain endeavor to save her friend. But before she had taken a dozen steps down came the rolling smoke, black, wrathful, and sulphurous; and I saw her crouch down and stagger back, and finally emerge pale as death, and gasping for breath. She saw me as I stood there; in fact, I had moved a little nearer.
"'Oh, Sir,' she cried, 'save her! Oh, my God, she's lost!'
"This was very informal, you know, and all that sort of thing; butshehad broken the ice, and had accostedme; so I waived all ceremony, and considered the introduction sufficient. I took off my hat, and told her to calm herself.
"But she only wrung her hands, and implored me to save her friend.
"And now, my boy, lucky was it for me that my experience at Cotopaxi and Popocatepetl had been so thorough and so peculiar. My knowledge came into play at this time. I took my felt hat and put it over my mouth, and then tied it around my neck so that the felt rim came over my cheeks and throat. Thus I secured a plentiful supply of air, and the felt acted as a kind of ventilator to prevent the access to my lungs of too much of the sulphurous vapor. Of course such a contrivance would not be good for more than five minutes; but then, you know, five minutes were all that I wanted.
"So up I rushed, and, as the slope was only about a hundred feet, I soon reached the top. Here I could see nothing whatever. The tremendous smoke-clouds rolled all about on every side, enveloping me in their dense folds, and shutting every thing from view. I heard the cry of the asses of guides, who were howling where I left them below, and were crying to me to come back—the infernal idiots! The smoke was impenetrable; so I got down on my hands and knees and groped about. I was on her track, and knew she could not be far away. I could not spend more than five minutes there, for my felt hat would not assist me any longer. About two minutes had already passed. Another minute was taken up in creeping about on my hands and knees. A half minute more followed. I was in despair. The child-angel I saw must have run in much further than I had supposed, and perhaps I could not find her at all. A sickening fear came to me that she had grown dizzy, or had slid down over the loose sand into the terrific abyss of the crater itself.So another half minute passed; and now only one minute was left."
"I don't see how you managed to be so confoundedly accurate in your reckoning. How was it? You didn't carry your watch in one hand, and feel about with the other, I suppose?"
"No; but I looked at my watch at intervals. But never mind that. Four minutes, as I said, were up, and only one minute remained, and that was not enough to take me back. I was at the last gasp already, and on the verge of despair, when suddenly, as I crawled on, there lay the child-angel full before me, within my reach.
"Yes," continued Dacres, after a pause, "there she lay, just in my grasp, just at my own last gasp. One second more and it must have been all up. She was senseless, of course. I caught her up; I rose and ran back as quick as I could, bearing my precious burden. She was as light as a feather—no weight at all. I carried her as tenderly as if she was a little baby. As I emerged from the smoke Ethel rushed up to me and set up a cry, but I told her to keep quiet and it would be all right. Then I directed the guides to carry her down, and I myself then carried down the child-angel.
"You see I wasn't going to give her up. I had had hard work enough getting her. Besides, the atmosphere up there was horrible. It was necessary, first of all, to get her down to the foot of the cone, where she could have pure air, and then resuscitate her. Therefore I directed the guides to take down Ethel in a chair, while I carried down the child-angel. They had to carry her down over the lava blocks, but I went to a part of the cone where it was all loose sand, and went down flying. I was at the bottom a full half hour before the others.
"Then I laid her upon the loose sand; and I swear to you, Hawbury, never in all my life have I seen such a sight. She lay there before my eyes a picture of loveliness beyond imagination—as beautiful as a dream—more like a child-angel than ever. Her hair clustered in golden curls over her white brow, her little hands were folded meekly over her breast, her lips were parted into a sweet smile, the gentle eyes no longer looked at me with the piteous, pleading, trustful, innocent expression which I had noticed in them before, and her hearing was deaf to the words of love and tenderness that I lavished upon her."
"Good!" muttered Hawbury; "you talk like a novel. Drive on, old man. I'm really beginning to feel excited."
"'The fact is," said Dacres, "I have a certain set of expressions about the child-angel that will come whenever I begin to describe her."
"It strikes me, though, that you are getting on pretty well. You were speaking of 'love and tenderness.' Well?"
(see caption)
"I BENT DOWN CLOSE."
"Well, she lay there senseless, you know, and I gently unclasped her hands and began torub them. I think the motion of carrying her, and the fresh air, had both produced a favorable effect; for I had not rubbed her hands ten minutes when she gave a low sigh. Then I rubbed on, and her lips moved. I bent down close so as to listen, and I heard her say, in a low voice,
"'Am I at home?'
"'Yes,' said I, gently, for I thought it was best to humor her delirious fancy.
"Then she spoke again:
"'Is that you, papa dear?'
"'Yes, darling,' said I, in a low voice; and I kissed her in a kind of paternal way, so as to reassure her, and comfort her, and soothe her, and all that sort of thing, you know."
At this Hawbury burst into a shout of laughter.
"What the mischief are you making that beastly row about?" growled Dacres.
"Excuse me, old boy. I couldn't help it. It was at the idea of your doing the father so gravely."
"Well, am I not old enough to be her father? What else could I do? She had such a pleading,piteous way. By Jove! Besides, how did she know any thing about it? It wasn't as if she was in her senses. She really thought Iwasher father, you know. And I'm sure I almost felt as if I was, too."
"All right, old man, don't get huffy. Drive on."
"Well, you know, she kept her eyes closed, and didn't say another word till she heard the voice of Ethel at a distance. Then she opened her eyes, and got up on her feet. Then there was no end of a row—kissing, crying, congratulating, reproaching, and all that sort of thing. I withdrew to a respectful distance and waited. After a time they both came to me, and the child-angel gave me a look that made me long to be a father to her again. She held out her little hand, and I took it and pressed it, with my heart beating awfully. I was horribly embarrassed.
"'I'm awfully grateful to you,' she said; 'I'm sure I'd do any thing in the world to repay you. I'm sure I don't know what would have become of me if it hadn't been for you. And I hope you'll excuse me for putting you to so muchtrouble. And, oh!' she concluded, half to herself, 'whatwillKitty say now?'"
"Kitty! Who's Kitty?"
"I don't know."
"All right. Never mind. Drive on, old chap."
"Well, I mumbled something or other, and then offered to go and get their carriage. But they would not hear of it. The child-angel said she could walk. This I strongly dissuaded her from doing, and Ethel insisted that the men should carry her. This was done, and in a short time we got back to the Hermitage, where the old lady was in no end of a worry. In the midst of the row I slipped away, and waited till the carriage drove off. Then I followed at a sufficient distance not to be observed, and saw where their house was."
(see caption)
THE MEETING.
Dacrespaused now, and lighting a fresh cigar, smoked away at it in silence, with long and solemn and regular puffs. Hawbury watched him for some time, with a look of dreamy curiosity and lazy interest. Then he rose, and dawdled about the room for a few minutes. Then he lighted a cigar, and finally, resuming his seat, he said:
"By Jove!"
Dacres puffed on.
"I'm beginning to think," said Hawbury, "that your first statement is correct. You are shot, my boy—hit hard—and all that; and now I should like to ask you one question."
"Ask away."
"What are you going to do about it? Do you intend to pursue the acquaintance?"
"Of course. Why not?"
"What do you intend to do next?"
"Next? Why, call on her, and inquire after her health."
"Very good."
"Well, have you any thing to say against that?"
"Certainly not. Only it surprises me a little."
"Why?"
"Because I never thought of Scone Dacres as a marrying man, and can't altogether grapple with the idea."
"I don't see why a fellow shouldn't marry if he wants to," said Dacres. "What's the matter with me that I shouldn't get married as well as lots of fellows?"
"No reason in the world, my dear boy. Marry as many wives as you choose. My remark referred merely to my own idea of you, and not to any thing actually innate in your character. So don't get huffy at a fellow."
Some further conversation followed, and Dacres finally took his departure, full of thoughts about his new acquaintance, and racking his brains to devise some way of securing access to her.
On the following evening he made his appearance once more at Hawbury's rooms.
"Well, old man, what's up? Any thing more about the child-angel?"
"Well, a little. I've found out her name."
"Ah! What is it?"
"Fay. Her name is Minnie Fay."
"Minnie Fay. I never heard of the name before. Who are her people?"
"She is traveling with Lady Dalrymple."
"The Dowager, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Who are the other ladies?"
"Well, I don't exactly remember."
"Didn't you find out?"
"Yes; I heard all their names, but I've forgotten. I know one of them is the child-angel's sister, and the other is her cousin. The one I saw with her was probably the sister."
"What, the one named Ethel?"
"Yes."
"Ethel—Ethel Fay. H'm," said Hawbury, in a tone of disappointment. "I knew it would be so. There are so many Ethels about."
"What's that?"
"Oh, nothing. I once knew a girl named Ethel, and—Well, I had a faint idea that it would be odd if this should be the one. But there's no such chance."
"Oh, the name Ethel is common enough."
"Well, and didn't you find out any thing about her people?"
"Whose—Ethel's?"
"Your child-angel's people."
"No. What do I care about her people? They might be Jews or Patagonians for all I care."
"Still I should think your interest in her would make you ask."
"Oh no; my interest refers to herself, notto her relatives. Her sister Ethel is certainly a deuced pretty girl, though."
"Sconey, my boy, I'm afraid you're getting demoralized. Why, I remember the time when you regarded the whole female race with a lofty scorn and a profound indifference that was a perpetual rebuke to more inflammable natures. But now what a change! Here you are, with a finely developed eye for female beauty, actually reveling in dreams of child-angels and their sisters. By Jove!"
"Nonsense," said Dacres.
"Well, drive on, and tell all about it. You've seen her, of course?"
"Oh yes."
"Did you call?"
"Yes; she was not at home. I went away with a snubbed and subdued feeling, and rode along near the Villa Reale, when suddenly I met the carriage with Lady Dalrymple and the child-angel. She knew me at once, and gave a little start. Then she looked awfully embarrassed. Then she turned to Lady Dalrymple; and by the time I had got up the carriage had stopped, and the ladies both looked at me and bowed. I went up, and they both held out their hands. Lady Dalrymple then made some remarks expressive of gratitude, while the child-angel sat and fastened her wonderful eyes on me, and threw at me such a pleading, touching, entreating, piteous, grateful, beseeching look, that I fairly collapsed.
"When Lady Dalrymple stopped, she turned to her and said:
"'And oh, aunty darling, did youeverhear of any thing like it? It wassobrave. Wasn't it an awfully plucky thing to do, now? And I was really inside the crater! I'm sureInever could have done such a thing—no, not even for myown papa! Oh, how I dowishI could do something to show howawfullygrateful I am! And, aunty darling, I dowishyou'd tell me what to do.'
"All this quite turned my head, and I couldn't say any thing; but sat on my saddle, devouring the little thing with my eyes, and drinking in the wonderful look which she threw at me. At last the carriage started, and the ladies, with a pleasant smile, drove on. I think I stood still there for about five minutes, until I was nearly run down by one of those beastly Neapolitan calèches loaded with twenty or thirty natives."
"See here, old man, what a confoundedly good memory you have! You remember no end of a lot of things, and give all her speeches verbatim. What a capital newspaper reporter you'd make!"
"Oh, it's onlyherwords, you know. She quickens my memory, and makes a different man of me."
"By Jove!"
"Yes, old chap, a different man altogether."
"So I say, by Jove! Head turned, eyes distorted, heart generally upset, circulation brought up to fever point, peace of mind gone,and a general mania in the place of the old self-reliance and content."
"Not content, old boy; I never had much of that."
"Well, we won't argue, will we? But as to the child-angel—what next? You'll call again?"
"Of course."
"When?"
"To-morrow."
"Strike while the iron is hot, hey? Well, old man, I'll stand by you. Still I wish you could find out who her people are, just to satisfy a legitimate curiosity."
"Well, I don't know the Fays, but Lady Dalrymple is her aunt; and I know, too, that she is a niece of Sir Gilbert Biggs."
"What!" cried Hawbury, starting. "Who? Sir what?"
"Sir Gilbert Biggs."
"Sir Gilbert Biggs?"
"Yes."
"Sir Gilbert Biggs! By Jove! Are you sure you are right? Come, now. Isn't there some mistake?"
"Not a bit of a mistake; she's a niece of Sir Gilbert. I remember that, because the name is a familiar one."
"Familiar!" repeated Hawbury; "I should think so. By Jove!"
Hawbury here relapsed into silence, and sat with a frown on his face, and a puzzled expression. At times he would mutter such words as, "Deuced odd!" "Confounded queer!" "What a lot!" "By Jove!" while Dacres looked at him in some surprise.
"Look here, old fellow!" said he at last. "Will you have the kindness to inform me what there is in the little fact I just mentioned to upset a man of your size, age, fighting weight, and general coolness of blood?"
"Well, there is a deuced odd coincidence about it, that's all."
"Coincidence with what?"
"Well, I'll tell some other time. It's a sore subject, old fellow. Another time, my boy. I'll only mention now that it's the cause of my present absence from England. There's a bother that I don't care to encounter, and Sir Gilbert Biggs's nieces are at the bottom of it."
"You don't mean this one, I hope?" cried Dacres, in some alarm.
"Heaven forbid! By Jove! No. I hope not."
"No, I hope not, by Jove!" echoed the other.
"Well, old man," said Hawbury, after a fit of silence, "I suppose you'll push matters on now, hard and fast, and launch yourself into matrimony?"
"Well—I—suppose—so," said Dacres, hesitatingly.
"Yousupposeso. Of course you will. Don't I know you, old chap? Impetuous, tenacious of purpose, iron will, one idea, and all that sort of thing. Of course you will; and you'll be married in a month."
"Well," said Dacres, in the same hesitating way, "not so soon as that, I'm afraid."