"Good Lord!"
"I'm married!"
Hawbury sank back in his seat, overwhelmed by the force of this sudden and tremendous revelation. For some time there was a deep silence. Both were smoking. The clouds rolled forth from the lips of each, and curled over their heads, and twined in voluminous folds, and gathered over them in dark, impenetrable masses. Even so rested the clouds of doubt, of darkness, and of gloom over the soul of each, and those which were visible to the eye seemed to typify, symbolize, characterize, and body forth the darker clouds that overshadowed the mind.
"I'm married!" repeated Dacres, who now seemed to have become like Poe's raven, and all his words one melancholy burden bore.
"You were not married when I was last with you?" said Hawbury at last, in the tone of one who was recovering from a fainting fit.
"Yes, I was."
"Not in South America?"
"Yes, in South America."
"Married?"
"Yes, married."
"By Jove!"
"Yes; and what's more, I've been married for ten years."
"Ten years! Good Lord!"
"It's true."
"Why, how old could you have been when you got married?"
"A miserable, ignorant, inexperienced dolt, idiot, and brat of a boy."
"By Jove!"
"Well, the secret's out; and now, if you care to hear, I will tell you all about it."
"I'm dying to hear, dear boy; so go on."
And at this Scone Dacres began his story.
"I'lltell you all about it," said Scone Dacres; "but don't laugh, for matters like these are not to be trifled with, and I may take offense."
"Oh, bother, as if I ever laugh at any thing serious! By Jove! no. You don't know me, old chap."
"All right, then. Well, to begin. This wife that I speak of happened to me very suddenly. I was only a boy, just out of Oxford, and just into my fortune. I was on my way to Paris—my first visit—and was full of no end of projects for enjoyment. I went from Dover, and in the steamer there was the most infernally pretty girl. Black, mischievous eyes, with the devil's light in them; hair curly, crispy, frisky, luxuriant, all tossing over her head and shoulders, and an awfully enticing manner. A portly old bloke was with her—her father, I afterward learned. Somehow my hat blew off. She laughed. I laughed. Our eyes met. Imade a merry remark. She laughed again; and there we were, introduced. She gave me a little felt hat of her own. I fastened it on in triumph with a bit of string, and wore it all the rest of the way.
"Well, you understand it all. Of course, by the time we got to Calais, I was head over heels in love, and so was she, for that matter. The old man was a jolly old John Bull of a man. I don't believe he had the slightest approach to any designs on me. He didn't know any thing about me, so how could he? He was jolly, and when we got to Calais he was convivial. I attached myself to the two, and had a glorious time. Before three days I had exchanged vows of eternal fidelity with the lady, and all that, and had gained her consent to marry me on reaching England. As to the old man there was no trouble at all. He made no inquiries about my means, but wrung my hand heartily, and said God bless me. Besides, there were no friends of my own to consider. My parents were dead, and I had no relations nearer than cousins, for whom I didn't care a pin.
"My wife lived at Exeter, and belonged to rather common people; but, of course, I didn't care for that. Her own manners and style were refined enough. She had been sent by her father to a very fashionable boarding-school, where she had been run through the same mould as that in which her superiors had been formed, and so she might have passed muster any where. Her father was awfully fond of her, and proud of her. She tyrannized over him completely. I soon found out that she had been utterly spoiled by his excessive indulgence, and that she was the most whimsical, nonsensical, headstrong, little spoiled beauty that ever lived. But, of course, all that, instead of deterring me, only increased the fascination which she exercised, and made me more madly in love than ever.
"Her name was not a particularly attractive one; but what are names! It was Arethusa Wiggins. Now the old man always called her "Arry," which sounded like the vulgar pronunciation of "Harry." Of course I couldn't call her that, and Arethusa was too infernally long, for a fellow doesn't want to be all day in pronouncing his wife's name. Besides, it isn't a bad name in itself, of course; it's poetic, classic, and does to name a ship of war, but isn't quite the thing for one's home and hearth.
"After our marriage we spent the honeymoon in Switzerland, and then came home. I had a very nice estate, and have it yet. You've never heard of Dacres Grange, perhaps—well, there's where we began life, and a devil of a life she began to lead me. It was all very well at first. During the honey-moon there were only a few outbursts, and after we came to the Grange she repressed herself for about a fortnight; but finally she broke out in the most furious fashion; and I began to find that she had a devil of a temper, and in her fits she wasbut a small remove from a mad woman. You see she had been humored and indulged and petted and coddled by her old fool of a father, until at last she had grown to be the most whimsical, conceited, tetchy, suspicious, imperious, domineering, selfish, cruel, hard-hearted, and malignant young vixen that ever lived; yet this evil nature dwelt in a form as beautiful as ever lived. She was a beautiful demon, and I soon found it out.
"It began out of nothing at all. I had been her adoring slave for three weeks, until I began to be conscious of the most abominable tyranny on her part. I began to resist this, and we were on the verge of an outbreak when we arrived at the Grange. The sight of the old hall appeased her for a time, but finally the novelty wore off, and her evil passions burst out. Naturally enough, my first blind adoration passed away, and I began to take my proper position toward her; that is to say, I undertook to give her some advice, which she very sorely needed. This was the signal for a most furious outbreak. What was worse, her outbreak took place before the servants. Of course I could do nothing under such circumstances, so I left the room. When I saw her again she was sullen and vicious. I attempted a reconciliation, and kneeling down I passed my arms caressingly around her. 'Look here,' said I, 'my own poor little darling, if I've done wrong, I'm sorry, and—'
"Well, what do you think my lady did?"
"I don't know."
"Shekicked me! that's all; she kicked me, just as I was apologizing to her—just as I was trying to make it up. She kicked me! when I had done nothing, and she alone had been to blame. What's more, her boots were rather heavy, and that kick made itself felt unmistakably.
"I at once arose, and left her without a word. I did not speak to her then for some time. I used to pass her in the house without looking at her. This galled her terribly. She made the house too hot for the servants, and I used to hear her all day long scolding them in a loud shrill voice, till the sound of that voice became horrible to me.
"You must not suppose, however, that I became alienated all at once. That was impossible. I loved her very dearly. After she had kicked me away my love still lasted. It was a galling thought to a man like me that she, a common girl, the daughter of a small tradesman, should have kicked me; me, the descendant of Crusaders, by Jove! and of the best blood in England; but after a while pride gave way to love, and I tried to open the way for a reconciliation once or twice. I attempted to address her in her calmer moods, but it was without any success. She would not answer me at all. If servants were in the room she would at once proceed to give orders to them, just as though I had not spoken. She showed a horrible malignancy in trying to dismiss the older servants,whom she knew to be favorites of mine. Of course I would not let her do it.
"Well, one day I found that this sort of life was intolerable, and I made an effort to put an end to it all. My love was not all gone yet, and I began to think that I had been to blame. She had always been indulged, and I ought to have kept up the system a little longer, and let her down more gradually. I thought of her as I first saw her in the glory of her youthful beauty on the Calais boat, and softened my heart till I began to long for a reconciliation. Really I could not see where I had done any thing out of the way. I was awfully fond of her at first, and would have remained so if she had let me; but, you perceive, her style was not exactly the kind which is best adapted to keep a man at a woman's feet. If she had shown the slightest particle of tenderness, I would have gladly forgiven her all—yes, even the kick, by Jove!
"We had been married about six months or so, and had not spoken for over four months; so on the day I refer to I went to her room. She received me with a sulky expression, and a hard stare full of insult.
"'My dear,' said I, 'I have come to talk seriously with you.'
"'Kate,' said she, 'show this gentleman out.'
"It was her maid to whom she spoke. The maid colored. I turned to her and pointed to the door, and she went out herself. My wife stood trembling with rage—a beautiful fury.
"'I have determined,' said I, quietly, 'to make one last effort for reconciliation, and I want to be heard. Hear me now, dear, dear wife. I want your love again; I can not live this way. Can nothing be done? Must I, must you, always live this way? Have I done any wrong? If I have, I repent. But come, let us forget our quarrel; let us remember the first days of our acquaintance. We loved one another, darling. And how beautiful you were! You are still as beautiful; won't you be as loving? Don't be hard on a fellow, dear. If I've done any wrong, tell me, and I'll make it right. See, we are joined together for life. Can't we make life sweeter for one another than it is now? Come, my wife, be mine again.'
"I went on in this strain for some time, and my own words actually softened me more as I spoke. I felt sorry, too, for my wife, she seemed so wretched. Besides, it was a last chance, and I determined to humble myself. Any thing was better than perpetual hate and misery. So at last I got so affected by my own eloquence that I became quite spooney. Her back was turned to me; I could not see her face. I thought by her silence that she was affected, and, in a gush of tenderness, I put my arm around her.
"In an instant she flung it off, and stepped back, confronting me with a face as hard and an eye as malevolent as a demon.
"She reached out her hand toward the bell.
"'What are you going to do?' I asked.
"'Ring for my maid,' said she.
(see caption)
"VERY WELL. HERE IT IS."
"'Don't,' said I, getting between her and the bell. 'Think; stop, I implore you. This is our last chance for a reconciliation.'
"She stepped back with a cruel smile. She had a small penknife in her hand. Her eyes glittered venomously.
"'Reconciliation,' she said, with a sneer. 'Idon't want it;Idon't wantyou. Youcame and forced yourself here. Ring for my maid, and I will let her show you the door.'
"'You can't mean it?' I said.
"'I do mean it,' she replied. 'Ring the bell,' she added, imperiously.
"I stood looking at her.
"'Leave the room, then,' she said.
"'I must have a satisfactory answer,' said I.
"'Very well,' said she. 'Here it is.'
"And saying this she took the penknife by the blade, between her thumb and finger, and slung it at me. It struck me on the arm, and buried itself deep in the flesh till it touched the bone. I drew it out, and without another word left the room. As I went out I heard her summoning the maid in a loud, stern voice.
"Well, after that I went to the Continent, and spent about six months. Then I returned.
"On my return I found every thing changed. She had sent off all the servants, and brought there a lot of ruffians whom she was unable to manage, and who threw every thing into confusion. All the gentry talked of her, and avoided the place. My friends greeted me with strange, pitying looks. She had cut down most of the woods, and sold the timber; she had sent off a number of valuable pictures and sold them. This was to get money, for I afterward found out that avarice was one of her strongest vices.
"The sight of all this filled me with indignation, and I at once turned out the whole lot of servants, leaving only two or three maids. I obtained some of the old servants, and reinstated them. All this made my wife quite wild. She came up to me once and began to storm,but I said something to her which shut her up at once.
"One day I came home and found her on the portico, in her riding-habit. She was whipping one of the maids with the butt end of her riding-whip. I rushed up and released the poor creature, whose cries were really heart-rending, when my wife turned on me, like a fury, and struck two blows over my head. One of the scars is on my forehead still. See."
And Dacres put aside his hair on the top of his head, just over his right eye, and showed a long red mark, which seemed like the scar of a dangerous wound.
"It was an ugly blow," he continued. "I at once tore the whip from her, and, grasping her hand, led her into the drawing-room. There I confronted her, holding her tight. I dare say I was rather a queer sight, for the blood was rushing down over my face, and dripping from my beard.
"'Look here, now,' I said; 'do you know any reason why I shouldn't lay this whip over your shoulders? The English law allows it. Don't you feel that you deserve it?'
"She shrank down, pale and trembling. She was a coward, evidently, and accessible to physical terror.
"'If I belonged to your class,' said I, 'I would do it. But I am of a different order. I am a gentleman. Go. After all, I'm not sorry that you gave me this blow.'
"I stalked out of the room, had a doctor, who bound up the wound, and then meditated over my situation. I made up my mind at once to a separation. Thus far she had done nothing to warrant a divorce, and separation was the only thing. I was laid up and feverish for about a month, but at the end of that time I had an interview with my wife. I proposed a separation, and suggested that she should go home to her father. This she refused. She declared herself quite willing to have a separation, but insisted on living at Dacres Grange.
"'And what am I to do?' I asked.
"'Whatever you please,' she replied, calmly.
"'Do you really propose,' said I, 'to drive me out of the home of my ancestors, and live here yourself? Do you think I will allow this place to be under your control after the frightful havoc that you have made?'
"'I shall remain here,' said she, firmly.
"I said nothing more. I saw that she was immovable. At the same time I could not consent. I could not live with her, and I could not go away leaving her there. I could not give up the ancestral home to her, to mar and mangle and destroy. Well, I waited for about two months, and then—"
"Well?" asked Hawbury, as Dacres hesitated.
"Dacres Grange was burned down," said the other, in a low voice.
"Burned down!"
"Yes."
"Good Lord!"
"It caught fire in the daytime. There were but few servants. No fire-engines were near, for the Grange was in a remote place, and so the fire soon gained headway and swept over all. My wife was frantic. She came to me as I stood looking at the spectacle, and charged me with setting fire to it. I smiled at her, but made no reply.
"So you see she was burned out, and that question was settled. It was a terrible thing, but desperate diseases require desperate remedies; and I felt it more tolerable to have the house in ruins than to have her living there while I had to be a wanderer.
"She was now at my mercy. We went to Exeter. She went to her father, and I finally succeeded in effecting an arrangement which was satisfactory on all sides.
"First of all, the separation should be absolute, and neither of us should ever hold communication with the other in any shape or way.
"Secondly, she should take another name, so as to conceal the fact that she was my wife, and not do any further dishonor to the name.
"In return for this I was to give her outright twenty thousand pounds as her own absolutely,to invest or spend just as she chose. She insisted on this, so that she need not be dependent on any annual allowance. In consideration of this she forfeited every other claim, all dower right in the event of my death, and every thing else. This was all drawn up in a formal document, and worded as carefully as possible. I don't believe that the document would be of much use in a court of law in case she wished to claim any of her rights, but it served to satisfy her, and she thought it was legally sound and actually inviolable.
"Here we separated. I left England, and have never been there since."
Dacres stopped, and sat silent for a long time.
"Could she have been mad?" asked Hawbury.
"I used to think so, but I believe not. She showed too much sense in every thing relating to herself. She sold pictures and timber, and kept every penny. She was acute enough in grasping all she could. During our last interviews while making these arrangements she was perfectly cool and lady-like."
"Have you ever heard about her since?"
"Never."
"Is she alive yet?"
"That's the bother."
"What! don't you know?"
"No."
"Haven't you ever tried to find out?"
"Yes. Two years ago I went and had inquiries made at Exeter. Nothing could be found out. She and her father had left the place immediately after my departure, and nothing was known about them."
"I wonder that you didn't go yourself?"
"What for? I didn't care about seeing her or finding her."
"Do you think she's alive yet?"
"I'm afraid she is. You see she always had excellent health, and there's no reason why she should not live to be an octogenarian."
"Yet she may be dead."
"Maybe! And what sort of comfort is that to me in my present position, I should like to know?Maybe? Is that a sufficient foundation for me to build on? No. In a moment of thoughtlessness I have allowed myself to forget the horrible position in which I am. But now I recall it. I'll crush down my feelings, and be a man again. I'll see the child-angel once more; once more feast my soul over her sweet and exquisite loveliness; once more get a glance from her tender, innocent, and guileless eyes, and then away to South America."
"You said your wife took another name."
"Yes."
"What was it? Do you know it?"
"Oh yes; it wasWilloughby"
"Willoughby!" cried Hawbury, with a start; "why, that's the name of my Ethel's friend, at Montreal. Could it have been the same?"
"Pooh, man! How is that possible? Willoughby is not an uncommon name. It's not more likely that your Willoughby and mine are the same than it is that your Ethel is the one Imet at Vesuvius. It's only a coincidence, and not a very wonderful one, either."
"It seemscon-foundedlyodd, too," said Hawbury, thoughtfully. "Willoughby? Ethel? Good Lord! But pooh! What rot? As though theycouldbe the same. Preposterous! By Jove!"
And Hawbury stroked away the preposterous idea through his long, pendent whiskers.
(see caption)
"SHE CAUGHT MINNIE IN HER ARMS."
Mrs. Willoughbyhad been spending a few days with a friend whom she had found in Naples, and on her return was greatly shocked to hear of Minnie's adventure on Vesuvius. Lady Dalrymple and Ethel had a story to tell which needed no exaggerations and amplifications to agitate her strongly. Minnie was not present during the recital; so, after hearing it, Mrs. Willoughby went to her room.
Here she caught Minnie in her arms, and kissed her in a very effusive manner.
"Oh, Minnie, my poor darling, what is all this about Vesuvius? Is it true? It is terrible. And now I will never dare to leave you again. How could I think that you would be in any danger with Lady Dalrymple and Ethel? As to Ethel, I am astonished. She is always so grave and so sad that she is the very last person I would have supposed capable of leading you into danger."
"Now, Kitty dearest, that's not true," said Minnie; "she didn't lead me at all. I led her. And how did I know there was any danger? I remember now that dear, darling Ethel said there was, and I didn't believe her. But it's always the way." And Minnie threw her little head on one side, and gave a resigned sigh.
"And did you really get into the crater?" asked Mrs. Willoughby, with a shudder.
"Oh, I suppose so. They all said so," said Minnie, folding her little hands in front of her."I only remember some smoke, and then jolting about dreadfully on the shoulder of some great—big—awful—man."
"Oh dear!" sighed Mrs. Willoughby.
"What's the matter, Kitty dearest?"
"Another man!" groaned her sister.
"Well, and howcouldI help it?" said Minnie. "I'msureI didn't want him. I'msureI think he might have let me alone. I don't seewhythey all act so. Iwishthey wouldn't be all the time coming and saving my life. If peoplewillgo and save my life, I can't help it. I think it's very, very horrid of them."
"Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed her sister again.
"Now, Kitty, stop."
"Another man!" sighed Mrs. Willoughby.
"Now, Kitty, if you are so unkind, I'll cry. You'realwaysteasing me. Youneverdo any thing to comfort me. YouknowI want comfort, and I'm not strong, and people all come and save my life and worry me; and I really sometimes think I'd rather not live at all if my lifehasto be saved so often. I'm sureIdon't know why they go and do it. I'm sureInever heard of any person who is always going and getting her life saved, and bothered, and proposed to, and written to, and chased, and frightened to death. And I've agreatmind to go and get married, just to stop it all. And I'djustas soon marry this last man as not, and make him drive all the others away from me. He's big enough."
Minnie ended all this with a little sob; and her sister, as usual, did her best to soothe and quiet her.
"Well, but, darling, how did it all happen?"
"Oh, don't, don't."
"But you might tellme"
"Oh, I can't bear to think of it. It's too horrible."
"Poor darling—the crater?"
"No, the great, big man. I didn't see any crater."
"Weren't you in the crater?"
"No, I wasn't."
"They said you were."
"I wasn't. I was on the back of a big, horrid man, who gave great jumps down the side of an awful mountain, all sand and things, and threw me down at the bottom of it, and—and—disarranged all my hair. And I was so frightened that I couldn't even cur—cur—cry."
Here Minnie sobbed afresh, and Mrs. Willoughby petted her again.
"And you shouldn't tease me so; and it's very unkind in you; and you know I'm not well; and I can't bear to think about it all; and I know you're going to scold me; and you'realwaysscolding me; and youneverdo what I want you to. And then people arealwayscoming and saving my life, and I can't bear it any more."
"No-o-o-o-o-o, n-n-no-o-o-o, darling!" said Mrs. Willoughby, soothingly, in the tone of a nurse appeasing a fretful child. "You sha'n't bear it any more."
"I don'twantthem to save me any more."
"Well, they sha'n'tdoit, then," said Mrs. Willoughby, affectionately, in a somewhat maudlin tone.
"And the next time I lose my life, I don't want to be saved. I want them to let me alone, and I'll come home myself."
"And so you shall, darling; you shall do just as you please. So, now, cheer up; don't cry;" and Mrs. Willoughby tried to wipe Minnie's eyes.
"But you're treating me just like a baby, and I don't want to be talked to so," said Minnie, fretfully.
Mrs. Willoughby retreated with a look of despair.
"Well, then, dear, I'll do just whatever you want me to do."
"Well, then, I want you to tell me what I am to do."
"About what?"
"Why, about this great, big, horrid man."
"I thought you didn't want me to talk about this any more."
"But Idowant you to talk about it. You're the only person that I've got to talk to about it; nobody else knows how peculiarly I'm situated; and I didn't think that you'd give me up because I had fresh troubles."
"Give you up, darling!" echoed her sister, in surprise.
"You said you wouldn't talk about it any more."
"But I thought you didn't want me to talk about it."
"But Idowant you to."
"Very well, then; and now I want you first of all, darling, to tell me how you happened to get into such danger."
"Well, you know," began Minnie, who now seemed calmer—"you know we all went out for a drive. And we drove along for miles. Such a drive! There were lazaroni, and donkeys, and calèches with as many as twenty in each, all pulled by one poor horse, and it's a great shame; and pigs—oh,suchpigs! Not a particle of hair on them, you know, and looking like young elephants, you know; and we saw great droves of oxen, and long lines of booths, no end; and people selling macaroni, and other people eating it right in the open street, you know—such fun!—and fishermen and fish-wives. Oh, how theywerescreaming, and oh,sucha hubbub as there was! and we couldn't go on fast, and Dowdy seemed really frightened."
"Dowdy?" repeated Mrs. Willoughby, in an interrogative tone.
"Oh, that's a name I've just invented for Lady Dalrymple. It's better than Rymple. She said so. It's Dowager shortened. She's a dowager, you know. And so, you know, I was on the front seat all the time, when all at once I saw a gentleman on horseback. He was a great big man—oh,sohandsome!—and he was looking at poor little me as though hewould eat me up. And the moment I saw him I was frightened out of my poor little wits, for I knew he was coming to save my life."
"You poor little puss! what put such an idea as that into your ridiculous little head?"
"Oh, I knew it—second-sight, you know. We've got Scotch blood, Kitty darling, you know. So, you know, I sat, and I saw that he was pretending not to see me, and not to be following us; but all the time he was taking good care to keep behind us, when he could easily have passed us, and all to get a good look at poor me, you know.
"Well," continued Minnie, drawing a long breath, "you know I was awfully frightened; and so I sat looking at him, and I whispered all the time to myself: 'Oh, please don't!—ple-e-e-e-e-ease don't! Don't come and save my life! Ple-e-e-e-e-ease let me alone! I don't want to be saved at all.' I said this, you know, all to myself, and the more I said it the more he seemed to fix his eyes on me."
"It was very, very rude in him,Ithink," said Mrs. Willoughby, with some indignation.
"No, it wasn't," said Minnie, sharply. "He wasn't rude at all. He tried not to look at me. He pretended to be looking at the sea, and at the pigs, and all that sort of thing, you know; but all the time, you know, I knew very well that he saw me out of the corner of his eye—this way."
And Minnie half turned her head, and threw upon her sister, out of the corner of her eyes, a glance so languishing that the other laughed.
"He didn't look at you that way. I hope?"
"There was nothing to laugh at in it at all," said Minnie. "He had an awfully solemn look—it was so earnest, so sad, and so dreadful, that I really began to feel quite frightened. And so wouldyou; wouldn'tyou, now, Kitty darling; nowwouldn'tyou? Please say so."
"Oh yes!"
"Of course you would. Well, this person followed us. I could see him very easily, though he tried to avoid notice; and so at last we got to the Hermitage, and he came too. Well, you know, I think I was very much excited, and I asked Dowdy to let us go and see the cone; so she let us go. She gave no end of warnings, and we promised to do all that she said. So Ethel and I went out, and there was the stranger. Well, I felt more excited than ever, and a little bit frightened—just a very, very, tiny, little bit, you know, and I teased Ethel to go to the cone. Well, the stranger kept in sight all the time, you know, and Ifelthis eyes on me—I reallyfeltthem. So, you know, when we got at the foot of the cone, I was so excited that I was really quite beside myself, and I teased and teased, till at last Ethel consented to go up. So the men took us up on chairs, and all the time the stranger was in sight. He walked up by himself with great, big, long, strong strides. So we went on till we got at the top, and then I was wilder than ever. I didn't know that therewas a particle of danger. I was dying with curiosity to look down, and see where the smoke came from. The stranger was standing there too, and that's what made me so excited. I wanted to show him—I don't know what. I think my idea was to show him that I could take care of myself. So then I teased and teased, and Ethel begged and prayed, and she cried, and I laughed; and there stood the stranger, seeing it all, until at last I started off, and ran up to the top, you know."
Mrs. Willoughby shuddered, and took her sister's hand.
"There was no end of smoke, you know, and it was awfully unpleasant, and I got to the top I don't know how, when suddenly I fainted."
Minnie paused for a moment, and looked at her sister with a rueful face.
"Well, now, dear, darling, the very—next—thing—that I remember is this, and it's horrid: I felt awful jolts, and found myself in the arms of a great, big, horrid man, who was running down the side of the mountain with dreadfully long jumps, and I felt as though he was some horrid ogre carrying poor me away to his den to eat me up. But I didn't say one word. I wasn't much frightened. I felt provoked. I knew it was that horrid man. And then I wondered what you'd say; and I thought, oh, how youwouldscold! And then I knew that this horrid man would chase me away from Italy; and then I would have to go to Turkey, and have my life saved by a Mohammedan. And that was horrid.
"Well, at last he stopped and laid me down. He was very gentle, though he was so big. I kept my eyes shut, and lay as still as a mouse, hoping that Ethel would come. But Ethel didn't. She was coming down with the chair, you know, and her men couldn't run like mine. And oh, Kitty darling, you have noideawhat I suffered. This horrid man was rubbing and pounding at my hands, and sighing and groaning. I stole a little bit of a look at him—just a little bit of a bit—and saw tears in his eyes, and a wild look of fear in his face. Then I knew that he was going to propose to me on the spot, and kept my eyes shut tighter than ever.
"Well, at last he hurt my hands so that I thought I'd try to make him stop. So I spoke as low as I could, and asked if I was home, and he said yes."
Minnie paused.
"Well?" asked her sister.
"Well," said Minnie, in a doleful tone, "I then asked, 'Is that you, papa dear?'"
Minnie stopped again.
"Well?" asked Mrs. Willoughby once more.
"Well—"
"Well, go on."
"Well, he said—he said,'Yes, darling'—and—"
"And what?"
"And he kissed me," said Minnie, in a doleful voice.
"Kissed you!" exclaimed her sister, with flashing eyes.
"Ye-yes," stammered Minnie, with a sob; "and I think it's a shame; and none of them ever did so before; and I don't want you ever to go away again, Kitty darling."
"The miserable wretch!" cried Mrs. Willoughby, indignantly.
"No, he isn't—he isn't that," said Minnie. "He isn't a miserable wretch at all."
"How could any one be so base who pretends to the name of gentleman!" cried Mrs. Willoughby.
"He wasn't base—and it's very wicked of you, Kitty. He only pretended, you know."
"Pretended!"
"Yes."
"Pretended what?"
"Why, that he was my—my father, you know."
"Does Ethel know this?" asked Mrs. Willoughby, after a curious look at Minnie.
"No, of course not, nor Dowdy either; and you mustn't go and make any disturbance."
"Disturbance? no; but if I ever see him, I'll let him know what I think of him," said Mrs. Willoughby, severely.
"But he saved my life, and so you know you can't beveryharsh with him. Please don't—ple-e-e-ease now, Kitty darling."
"Oh, you little goose, what whimsical idea have you got now?"
"Please don't, ple-e-e-ease don't," repeated Minnie.
"Oh, never mind; go on now, darling, and tell me about the rest of it."
"Well, there isn't any more. I lay still, you know, and at last Ethel came; and then we went back to Dowdy, and then we came home, you know."
"Well, I hope you've lost him."
"Lost him? Oh no; I never do. They alwayswillcome. Besides, this one will, I know."
"Why?"
"Because he said so."
"Said so? when?"
"Yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"Yes; we met him."
"Who?"
"Dowdy and I. We were out driving. We stopped and spoke to him. He was dreadfully earnest and awfully embarrassed; and I knew he was going to propose; so I kept whispering to myself all the time, 'Oh, please don't—please don't;' but I know he will; and he'll be here soon too."
"He sha'n't. I won't let him. I'll never give him the chance."
"I think you needn't be so cruel."
"Cruel!"
"Yes; to the poor man."
"Why, you don't want another man, I hope?"
"N-no; but then I don't want to hurt his feelings. It was awfully good of him, you know, andawfully plucky."
(see caption)
"IF I EVER SEE HIM, I'LL LET HIM KNOW WHAT I THINK OF HIM."
"Well, I should think that you would prefer avoiding him, in your peculiar situation."
"Yes, but he may feel hurt."
"Oh, he may see you once or twice with me."
"But he may want to see me alone, and whatcanI do?"
"Really now, Minnie, you must remember that you are in a serious position. There is that wretched Captain Kirby."
"I know," said Minnie, with a sigh.
"And that dreadful American. By-the-way, darling, you have never told me his name. It isn't of any consequence, but I should like to know the American's name."
"It's—Rufus K. Gunn."
"Rufus K. Gunn; what a funny name! and what in the world is 'K' for?"
"Oh, nothing. He says it is the fashion in his country to have some letter of the alphabet between one's names, and he chose 'K,' because it was so awfully uncommon. Isn't it funny, Kitty darling?"
"Oh dear!" sighed her sister; "and then there is that pertinacious Count Girasole. Think what trouble we had in getting quietly rid of him. I'm afraid all the time that he will not stay at Florence, as he said, for he seems to have no fixed abode. First he was going to Rome, and then Venice, and at last he committed himself to a statement that he had to remain at Florence, and so enabled us to get rid of him. But I know he'll come upon us again somewhere, and then we'll have all the trouble over again. Oh dear! Well, Minniedarling, do you know the name of this last one?"
"Oh yes."
"What is it?"
"It's a funny name," said Minnie; "a very funny name."
"Tell it to me."
"It's Scone Dacres; and isn't that a funny name?"
Mrs. Willoughby started at the mention of that name. Then she turned away her head, and did not say a word for a long time.
"Kitty!"
No answer.
"Kitty darling, what's the matter?"
Mrs. Willoughby turned her head once more. Her face was quite calm, and her voice had its usual tone, as she asked,
"Say that name again."
"Scone Dacres," said Minnie.
"Scone Dacres!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby;"and what sort of a man is he?"
"Big—very big—awfully big!" said Minnie. "Great, big head and broad shoulders. Great, big arms, that carried me as if I were a feather; big beard too; and it tickled me so when he—he pretended that he was my father; and very sad. And, oh! I know I should be soawfully fond of him. And, oh! Kitty darling, what do you think?"
"What, dearest?"
"Why, I'm—I'm afraid—I'm really beginning to—to—like him—just a little tiny bit, you know."
"Scone Dacres!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby, who didn't seem to have heard this last effusion. "Scone Dacres! Well, darling, don't trouble yourself; he sha'n't trouble you."
"But Iwanthim to," said Minnie.
"Oh, nonsense, child!"
(see caption)
"HALLO, OLD MAN, WHAT'S UP NOW?"
A fewdays after this Hawbury was in his room, when Dacres entered.
"Hallo, old man, what's up now? How goes the war?" said Hawbury. "But what the mischief's the matter? You look cut up. Your brow is sad; your eyes beneath flash like a falchion from its sheath. What's happened? You look half snubbed, and half desperate."
Dacres said not a word, but flung himself into a chair with a look that suited Hawbury's description of him quite accurately. His brows lowered into a heavy frown, his lips were compressed, and his breath came quick and hard through his inflated nostrils. He sat thus for some time without taking any notice whatever of his friend, and at length lighted a cigar, which he smoked, as he often did when excited, in great voluminous puffs. Hawbury said nothing, but after one or two quick glances at his friend, rang a bell and ordered some "Bass."
"Here, old fellow," said he, drawing the attention of Dacres to the refreshing draught. "Take some—'Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget thy lost Lenore.'"
Dacres at this gave a heavy sigh that sounded like a groan, and swallowed several tumblers in quick succession.