CHAPTER XIIIREJECTED ADDRESSES"The Heart's Desire hath led meIn barren lands and vain."—Theodosia Garrison."I suppose it sounds brutal to say so," said Lynn Thayer, "but you know you ought really to be very grateful to me for refusing you. You will thank me for it, ten years hence."Mr. Harold Lighton, who was sitting opposite, frowned angrily and made no response."We are not in the least suited to one another," she continued, gently. "You—I would make you very unhappy. You are young and rich, and when you get over this, you will be able to marry some nice, young, pretty girl.""I don't want a nice, young, pretty girl," returned Mr. Lighton, glumly. "I want you."Lynn's eyes suddenly danced but she very properly refrained from comment."Oh, I say, won't you think this over?" burst forth Mr. Lighton, quite unconscious of the doubtful compliment he had just paid the object of his affections. "I'm most awfully in love with you, indeed I am. You know that, don't you?""I know that you think you are in love with me, just now," answered Lynn, gravely. "But, in my twenty-eight years of life, quite a few people have told me that they were in love with me and would never be happy without me. And they have married some one else in a few years' time and have never thought of me, again.""I'm not like that," said Mr. Lighton, eagerly. "Upon my soul, I'm not. You may think I'm fickle or easily suited. I'm not. I don't like anybody but you and I never will. It seems pretty hard when a fellow's waited until over thirty before he has run across any one he fancied—and then to be turned down, after all.""It has happened before.""Why, no, it hasn't!" said Lighton, indignantly."I mean to other people.""Oh! See here, why won't you have me? I suppose I'm not clever enough for you. Is that the trouble?""No, no indeed. I'm stupid, myself, frightfully stupid in lots of ways. That isn't it, at all. It's just that I don't care enough about you."Mr. Lighton regarded her with some perplexity."I say—I'd like awfully to say something if you won't think it rude.""Very well—what is it?""You're twenty-eight—you don't mind my mentioning it, do you?" queried Mr. Lighton, tactfully. "You've always spoken so openly of it, yourself.""Oh, I can never keep even the most damaging facts about myself hidden," said Lynn, solemnly."Eh?—what's that? Oh, well, never mind! What I wanted to say was this: Don't you mean to marry?""I haven't quite made up my mind, yet. Perhaps I may marry somebody a few years hence—but not you," she hastily added, seeing Mr. Lighton look up with sudden interest."Why not me?""I have told you twenty times over why not.""And you're serious about it? You're sure you won't change your mind? Well, what I wanted to say was this. Suppose, a few years hence when you've decided that you will marry—now, you won't be offended?""I don't think I will. What you want to say is, what will I do if no one wants to marry me, then?""Yes," confessed Mr. Lighton, looking a little embarrassed but sticking to his guns, manfully. "You're an awfully stunning girl, but a girl often doesn't get another offer after thirty; and what if you don't?""I won't marry.""But—but"—"I won't marry, anyway, unless I see some one I like better than I do you," said Lynn, deliberately. "It is best to be explicit, isn't it? I don't want to hurt you, but this is the plain truth of the matter. The idea of marrying just for the sake of being called 'Mrs.' doesn't appeal to me, at all; and I could not marry you for any other reason. Oh yes, of course I might marry you for the sake of living in a nice house and getting my clothes in Paris; but I don't care much about that, either. You see what I mean?""Oh, yes, I see. I thought, some way—you see I have a fairly good income and you're fond of horses"—"You thought I might marry you for the pleasure of seeing something of your horses; is that it?""Oh, I say, Miss Thayer, let up! It's bad enough to be refused without being made game of.""I suppose it is," said Lynn, slowly. She looked at him as though a new idea had occurred to her. "I wonder why you want to marry me," she said at last."Why I want to marry you?""Yes. I'm not very young, I'm not at all pretty and I have no money. It seems a most curious thing that you should have taken this violent fancy to me. Why did you? Do you know?""I say! youarea queer girl.""In other words I'm not a sheep," returned Lynn, composedly. "Don't you think most people are very like sheep? They travel in flocks and all bleat in unison at the same things and get up in the morning and eat and drink and go to sleep, again—and, in time, they die. I suppose they might as well be doing that as something else, but if it amuses me to do something else, why shouldn't I? Now, for instance, if I had been a well-regulated, conventional sheep I should have bleated out, 'Oh, Mr. Lighton, this is so sudden!' and then I should have thought lovingly of your good house and your nice furniture and should have simpered and accepted you. But, not being a sheep, I want to know why on earth you did it.""Because I—like you so awfully," explained Mr. Lighton, eagerly."But why on earth should you like me?""I don't know," said Mr. Lighton, doubtfully. "Why does any one like you?" he inquired, brightening. "You've had lots of other chaps.""Oh, but that's different. You see I'm a man's woman by instinct and training. I do my very utmost to please and be nice to every man I meet except you; and the consequence is that they all like me and the ones who like me enough to call on me, often, usually end by proposing: not because I'm so remarkably attractive but for the reason that a man, for some occult reason, cannot see much of a woman without proposing to her.""I say! You're gassing!""I'm not. But the queer thing is that you took this fancy to me at the very start without any help whatever from me.""What a funny girl you are to give yourself away like that. Girls generally say that they don't encourage anybody.""Yes, but, as you remarked, I am a funny girl; I tell the truth, sometimes. How do you suppose a plain, poor person like me would ever have had so many men friends if she hadn't done something? It's wonderful," said Lynn, meditatively, "wonderful! how easy it is to fascinate men. Just look at each man and talk to him as if you thought he was the most handsome, brilliant and fascinating creature extant—and the thing is done! The man doesn't live who can resist it.""Ha, ha! youarefunny.""Yes. I can remember when I was a young girl that I used to be terribly afraid that no one would ever fall in love with me because I was so ugly. I used to wish so that I had curling eyelashes and rose-leaf complexions and things: and, lo and behold! before I was eighteen the great beautiful truth dawned upon me. Just let a man talk about himself until he is black in the face and he will never tire of your society, no matter what you look like. Nothing else is necessary. A man thinks any eyes gazing admiringly into his are beautiful eyes: he considers any voice that murmurs timely flatteries in his good right ear a sweet voice: and any woman with intelligence enough to laugh heartily at his stale jokes and listen respectfully to his dull anecdotes, has all the intelligence that any female needs, in his opinion. So there you are. Having this knowledge, what else did I lack? I promptly became a belle of the first water and have remained so for ten years. Pretty girls have lost their beauty, rich girls have lost their money, lively girls have lost their vivacity; but I remain perennially attractive because I have grasped the great truth that every man prefers himself to anything else on earth and, next to himself, admires the woman who acts as though she agreed with him. I'm in a candid mood to-night, am I not, Mr. Lighton? What is the matter? you don't look very happy.""I can't help wondering," confessed Mr. Lighton, rather ruefully, "why, if you're so fond of having men like you, you've never been nicer to me.""Because," she returned, slowly, "I very soon received the impression that you were more or less in earnest. Now my puppy days have passed and I take no pleasure in causing pain; and it must be more or less painful to want some one who doesn't care anything about you. So I thought it best to be flippant and unpleasant in the hope that you would get disgusted. Why didn't you?""I—I don't know"—"Yes, I've been most hateful," continued Lynn, thoughtfully. "I wonder if it would do any good if I were to tell you all the harsh things I've said about you to Aunt Lucy.""I don't think," said Mr. Lighton, hastily and firmly, "that it would do a bit of good.""Then I won't. But will you tell me just as a matter of curiosity—what it was that you liked about me?""In the first place," her companion said, pondering, "I suppose I liked you because you didn't chase me and it was such a change. You see when a fellow has a good position and money coming to him"— He wiped his forehead and looked scared and reminiscent."I see," exclaimed Lynn. "I must make a note of that. There are men who tire of being 'chased.' Then there must be men who tire of tobacco, I suppose.""I don't know about that," said Mr. Lighton, dubiously. "You see, when one has smoked long enough, one can always throw one's cigar out of the window. So one doesn't get as sick of it as one does of women.""No, I suppose not. I never thought of that," said Lynn, gravely. "Well, let me see! you liked me in the first place because I didn't 'chase' you: and why did you like me, in the second?""You're a fine sport," said Mr. Lighton, pondering, "you're always ready for any thing, and you dance like a streak, and you're never tired, and you do make a fellow roar so. I suppose that's why.""So these are my assets. Dancing like a 'streak'—whatever that may be: always being ready to skate and toboggan: and 'making a fellow roar so.' It doesn't sound attractive: however I never pretended to understand men. What a funny thing it is! No money, no beauty, no particular brains and one of the most eligible young men in the city begging me to marry him!""Your aunt likes me," said Mr. Lighton."She likes you very much; but she always confuses you with the new plumbing and the electric lights in your house. She can't conceive how I can withstand such fascinations. Poor Aunt Lucy! I wish I were a little more satisfactory: but I really cannot fall in love to order even to please her—not with a whole galaxy of electric lights.""I don't know exactly what you're driving at," said Mr. Lighton, looking sullen, "but I think your aunt's a very sensible woman.""So do I. I only wish I were half as sensible. I'm a great grief to her. You see, she feels rightly that a single woman with no independent income should struggle valiantly to avert the awful doom of old maid. Now, the deeper I sink in the mire of old-maiden-hood, the less I struggle.""Is your aunt very fond of you?" asked Mr. Lighton curiously."No. She is much pleased at my popularity, which she doesn't understand in the least, and she regards it in the light of a personal reward for her goodness in adopting me. That is all.""And your uncle? You don't mind my asking, do you?""Not a bit. My uncle hates me, but he thinks I'm a good girl and tries not to show it more than he can help. You see he can't endure children and he is prejudiced against me because I was a child when he first knew me and he has never forgotten it.""Then I suppose you're not awfully fond of them?""I am—most grateful to them, both: but I do not love them. I have never really loved but one person in my life—no, two. The first love is much stronger than the second: but the second is—profound and lasting. I am not an affectionate person: I do not suppose that there will ever be more than just those two.""Neither of them's me," interposed Mr. Lighton, gloomily and ungrammatically."Neither of them's you, no," returned Lynn, firmly."Oh, look here, Miss Thayer, can't you reconsider it? I'm—I'm most awfully in love with you, upon my word I am: and—and, after all,—I don't like to say this exactly—but you know I can give you everything you want and—don't you like the idea of having a little money?""Immensely.""Then"——"But, unfortunately I donotlike the idea of having you. There is the plain English of it. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but there doesn't seem to be any way of making you understand.""Oh, I understand, all right!" muttered Mr. Lighton, ruefully. "But I can't say I'm pleased. You might have given me a hint before letting me make a fool of myself.""A hint! Man! how many hints have I given you?""A dev—I mean a great many," returned the consistent Mr. Lighton. "But I thought you were trying to draw me on.""I have no talents for man-hunting," said Lynn, rather crossly. "I never try to 'draw people on' or anything like that. It does not amuse me: I'm a man's woman in one sense but I am not a flirt"——"Flirt! You can't flirt any more tha—than that mantelpiece," said Mr. Lighton, desperately. "But I like you—I can't help liking you, some way.""No—I suppose you can't—not just at present, anyway. But you'll get over it in time."Mr. Lighton said nothing, but his face was not cheerful."I have a good mind," said Lynn, slowly, "to tell you something about myself—something that will show you the hopelessness of asking me. It is this: even if I liked you very much I couldn't marry you.""But why?""Because—because I have a duty to perform; a duty which demands all my time and strength and—and thought; and which marriage would interfere with.""But—but do you mean that you are going to perform this duty—whatever it may be—all your life?""N-n-no. In a few years—perhaps sooner—it will be—finished.""And then?""And then—oh, don't talk about it! I was foolish to speak about it, anyway—but, do you know, I felt sorry for you. I can't understand why people like having proposals from people they don't want to marry. It always seems to me such a pity that anything should be wasted, that any feeling should burn itself out, without result. That may be a queer way to look at it—but I suppose I am queer. People seem to think so and, perhaps, they are right.""Well, I'd better go, I suppose," said Lighton, gruffly, after a short pause. "If anything turns up—I mean, if you should change your mind, you know, or anything like that—why"—"Thank you; but I never shall. Good-night, Mr. Lighton. I'm sorry, really I am. It all seems too bad, but you know it's not my fault."Left to herself, she drew a long sigh; then rose and moved about the room mechanically straightening the furniture and patting the sofa cushions. Finally she leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece and gazed earnestly into the mirror, above. "Curious what he sees in me!" she said, slowly. "Curious what anyone sees in me! I have nothing to recommend me in the way of looks; it is hard to understand. In spite of all that I have done for—for the boy, he—he doesn't really care very much about me, even now. And yet this man—whom I have done everything to discourage"—She stared slowly at herself: then turned away."Time to go to bed," she said, reluctantly. "And high time to stop—thinking.... Oh, Liol, Liol, Liol!"CHAPTER XIVA DECISION TO BE REACHED"'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,And matter enough to save one's own."—Browning.Mr. Albert and Miss Bertha Hadwell having arrived at Hadwell Heights their aunt had promptly issued invitations for the "bridge" of which she had spoken at her "tea." Hadwell Heights was "en fête." The guests had arrived and were playing, busily, though not for money. Apart from the fact that the guests of honour were young, Mrs. Hadwell disapproved of "bridge-gambling.""I never win at games," she confided to Lynn. "And I don't enjoy losing money even if I can afford it. And it's such a nice, cheap way of getting a reputation for steadiness and sobriety and high morality and all that. I love to be known for things that I haven't even a bowing acquaintance with. And it seems so delicious to say with a perfectly straight face, 'No, I never play for money. I don't approve of it.' It seems such a rebuke to the worldly-minded and the frivolous and all that lot."Mrs. Hadwell, though, might be depended upon to furnish very pretty prizes. Besides which her house was famed for its delightful entertainments of all descriptions. For which reasons, and for several others, her pretty drawing-room was thronged.Lynn Thayer had refused to play, offering to bear her hostess company, however, and to help her in any way she could. She sat now in an alcove of the great old-fashioned bay-window, watching the players absently, and trying to straighten out several matters which threatened to become hopelessly entangled in her mind. This was hardly the place to solve these problems, but, as they became daily and hourly more imminent, she felt that she might as well face them at one time as at another, so far as she was able.Her reflections chimed oddly with the scraps of conversation which were wafted to her ears from time to time."What shall I say if Gerald does ask me to marry him?" she thought, her face darkening. "How can I accept him? And then again—how can I refuse him? If he would only wait—but it is not reasonable to suppose that he would. How can I—how shall I answer him?""We-ll," interposed a voice, faintly, "I make it diamonds.""Oh, why, Mrs. Hall?""Oh, did you have a good suit? Oh, dear! well, never mind!—I suppose we can't take it back, can we?—no? well, I suppose not. That's the worst of"—"He must have meant that; he can't have meant anything else. Of course I have always known, but I thought I could keep it off a little longer. And I didn't realize till lately how much it would mean to me if—I can't give him up. No, I can't give him up. Yet how can I do anything else under the circumstances? Could I explain in any way—give him any inkling of my position? no, I don't see how"—"Oh, are we playing 'no trumps'? Why, I didn't know that. Why didn't you tell me when you saw me playing out my king and ace"—"He has no idea—naturally it will seem incomprehensible to him if I say that I do care for him but that I can't marry him for years. If I were five years younger; but, even so—no, I cannot say that. What can I say? If I ask him to trust me and to let me tell him when I shall be free to give him my answer—no, the case is hopeless. I had better tell him baldly and plainly that it is impossible for me to marry—and then?"—"Not at all, Mrs. Willing, not at all. Of course it was my trick already but I saw that you hadn't noticed that—why, don't think of it for a moment. Of course, generally speaking, itisn'tsupposed to be a good thing to trump your partner's trick, but"—"He is not the sort of man to let it rest there; he will ask questions, all sorts of questions, he will insist on knowing what I mean, what I intend to do. How will it end? The only thing that he can never think of is the truth. He will think of everything else under the sun. Oh, the thing is too hopeless! I shall have to let him think that I don't care for him—oh, but if I do that he will go away, I shall not see him again; in time he will marry some one else—how could I bear that? He must not go. I'll say anything, anything, short of giving my secret away. Ah, that horrible oath! So needless, so useless! and to think that, on top of all the rest, this should come! and that I may be compelled to give up my only chance of happiness in the future. I won't give it up! I won't! Life is too cruel. I'll do anything to prevent him leaving me. And then there is not only my pain if he did—but he would suffer, too. No, it is not to be thought of for a moment. He must stay.""Well, I suppose I really shouldn't have thrown away my ace when hearts hadn't been played at all, but then you know I never stick to rules.""If only he hadn't written that note, asking to see me to-night. If only I could have put off answering him a little longer. If I refuse to let him go home with me it will be equivalent to refusing him, altogether. It is out of the question. I must settle it one way or another at once. What is it to be?""Oh, don't tell me the queen hasn't been played, yet? Why, I thought it was out ages ago—oh, I really think I ought to have that back"—"What will he say when I answer him—that is, if I tell him the truth? How will it sound? 'I do care for you but I can't marry you just now, perhaps not for several years, I can't say exactly when.' The thing is incredible. A woman of my age, presumably sane, to answer a proposal of marriage in that fashion. Ah, if only I were indifferent to him how easy things would be; and yet what would I have then in life? When Liol—dies—oh, I can't think of that! Where is he to-night, I wonder? What is he doing? Liol, Liol! if only you were dead! and yet, oh, I can't wish that. What will my life be when he is gone? Gone! Think of it! How can I marry, then? what will my life be worth? how shall I live and hide my grief? oh, Liol, Liol!""Upon my word, Mr. Coote! where were your eyes? Didn't you know that the nine of clubs wasn't out?""One thing is certain; much as I love Gerald, nothing and nobody can ever be to me what Liol was and is. Is that very strange? am I entirely different to all other girls. How could any strange man, however dear, be as much in your life as a person like Liol, with whom your very heart-strings were entwined; who came when your heart was empty and filled it? My Lionel! my little brother! my last charge from my dead mother! Oh, if the years could only be wiped out and if I could see him again as he once was, the same sweet dear child, how happily I could die—yes, how happily I could give up everything—Gerald, everything. But—I must live; and Lionel is—oh, I can't say, I can't think what he is; and he is dying by inches; and there is only one other person in the world for whom I care, only one other person for whom I ever shall care but him; and I may have to give him up. If only Lionel didn't need me so; if only he didn't need all my money, all my thought, all my care—imagine my deserting him and starting to choose a trousseau. A trousseau! when any day he may need a shroud.""A penny for your thoughts, Lynn."Mrs. Hadwell had come up, unnoticed and was standing at Lynn's side."Did I startle you?" she asked, brightly. "You were looking straight in front of you like Cassandra or Joan of Arc or some other unpleasant historical character. What was it? Indigestion?""A fit of the blues, perhaps," said Lynn. "Don't mind me, Del. It was most ungrateful of me to cast a shade over the festivities and, to tell you the truth, I wasn't aware that I was doing it. Who has the highest score?""Erma Reed, so far. Isn't she a beauty? Lynn, what's the matter with you?""Nothing, silly!—that is, nothing much. You know we all get a little despondent at times.""But not you, that is, not until lately. What has come over you?""Age, I suppose.""If you don't want to confide in me, don't—""I don't!"—"But I think it's most unkind, when I always tell you everything.""There's nothing that I can confide in you, silly-billy!" said Lynn, rousing herself and speaking with forced cheerfulness. "Nothing in the world. Now, will that satisfy you? You know practically all my affairs except those which concern other people and which I have promised not to tell.""Is that true?""There is just one thing which I might tell you—but, after all, it's nothing to tell"—"Oh, what is it?""A man—but this is silly for there is really nothing to tell and, anyway, I don't want to discuss it.""How logical you are," said Mrs. Hadwell, calmly. "But I know all about that, so you needn't bother. He is going to propose to-night, he told me so. And he begged me to make sure that he wasn't deputed to take anyone else home, as you had not answered his note and so he couldn't be sure"—"He told you! How queer! How very unlike him!""I skated with him to-day and we had tea together. And you know how I can always make any man tell me the inmost secret of his heart if I can once get him alone for five minutes. And you're the inmost core of his.""Del!""He as good as told me so. And I promised to put in a good word for him. So this is the good word. If youwillbe so foolish as to refuse Lighton—who is, by far, the better match of the two—why, you might do worse than Amherst.""Thank you.""But I can't help hoping, of course, that you will never be so foolish as to refuse Lighton.""Mr. Amherst would be delighted if he could only hear your warm advocacy of his cause.""Oh, I told him what I was going to say. I was perfectly frank. But I felt constrained to admit that you were such a hopeless idiot that I was very much afraid that you were going to refuse Lighton, if you had not done so, already. However, as I said, you were quite capable of committing the lesser idiocy of refusing him, afterwards. I don't know that I was quite so nice a confidante as usual; but then you must remember that Gerald Amherst absolutely refused to sanction my efforts at flirtation with him, this fall, and you can't expect me to forgive that all at once. I told him that, too.""Del!""Oh, he's a good sort. He said that, once you accepted him, his mind would be free and, if I would then renew my attentions, he would accept them most gratefully—always provided you didn't kick. Well, he didn't put it just that way, but that was his meaning. Only he didn't mean a word of it. Lynn, if ever a man was hopelessly enamoured of a woman, you are that woman. You're doing pretty well, all things considered. Two proposals in one winter and one a good catch—aparticularlygood catch—don't glare so, Lynn, it's rude! and the other an extremely nice man and not too poor, either. My goodness! but you ought to be thankful. Look at the way some people work and work and then don't get much at the end; and here you just sit with hands folded, so to speak, and watch the desirables canter in. At your age, too! only you mustn't dally any longer, you know; it's time to make up your mind.""Yes, you're right. It's high time I made up my mind.""Good. Now then, make it up.""My dear, my mind isn't like a bed that can be made up while you wait. I must think a bit.""What do you want to think about, I should like to know? Are you weakening on the idea of refusing Lighton?""No. To tell you the truth—I may just as well tell you, I suppose—I've refused him, already.""What? When? Where? No, never mind telling me, either. Let's stick to the point. Now that you have refused him, there is only one thing left to do—marry Amherst and thank your stars that he proposed just when he did. Otherwise, everyone would say that Lighton had neglected to 'come up to scratch.' Gracious! how fortunate that you had two strings to your bow.""You know that old proverb about 'falling between two stools,' don't you?" Lynn asked, smiling faintly."Yes, and it's perfect rubbish. The people who talk about 'falling between two stools' are the people who've never had but one stool in their lives and who've sat firmly down on that to prevent it getting up and running away. Two stools, indeed! Twenty, if you can get them! But two will do very nicely indeed, when they are two like these. One being gone, you grab the other just as quickly as you know how. Now don't stop to tell me that I am getting vulgar; practical people always seem vulgar to visionaries. The question is, what are you going to say to Amherst to-night?""I'm not going to say anything, Del, for I simply can't let him take me home. I must have a little more time to think. No, don't argue; I am serious. Tell him that I am frightfully tired—which is literally true—and that you have asked me to spend the night here; but that, if he will be so good as to take me home after the hockey match to-morrow night, I shall be eternally obliged. Or no, don't put it like that; say that—oh well, say what you think best, Del, you always know how to put these things. Really I am so tired that I simply can't think to-night. Will you arrange it for me? and you won't mind putting me up for the night, will you?""No, dear child, I shall be delighted to have you. And I'll give him the message though I think you are foolish to postpone the thing. But I won't tease you, for I am sure you are going to be sensible in the end; and we won't talk any more about it if you don't want to. See here, do look at that table! and please listen to the conversation between Agatha and that unfortunate wretch of a Haldern. I know who won't be Agatha's 'latest.'Dolisten.""But—excuse me for asking, Miss Ladilaw—but what did you make it 'no trumps' on?" inquired a masculine voice."Why—why—why, I'll tell you, Mr. Haldern," said Agatha looking up at him, confidingly. "My own hand was so perfectly awful—so appalling—that I felt sure Dummy must have a lot of aces and things. But you see it didn't.""But, in that case, why didn't you leave it to me?""Because I—I wassoafraid that you would make it spades. And I had quite good diamonds.""But don't you see?"—"Oh, Ialwaysbelieve in trusting something to Dummy," Agatha interrupted gently but with an air of finality. "Don't let us discuss it any further, Mr. Haldern.""Del," whispered Lynn to her hostess, "I may not be very kind-hearted, but I would not inflict Agatha on any man.""Oh, they'll change partners at the next table. And I think it's good for men to play with Agatha: they appreciate the next partner they get so much more than they otherwise would. Well, Lynn, how do you like my twins?""Charming; and they do seem to enjoy everything so. Did they only get here to-day? They look so cheerful and fresh. I thought they would probably want to rest, the first evening; but they seem to be enjoying it.""Yes. They're nineteen. At nineteen one enjoys everything but rest. I knew that and so I determined to start in without a moment's delay. I'm perfectly delighted with them, myself. I don't see how in the world that old curmudgeon of a brother of Henry's ever contrived to have two such good-looking, good-humoured children. And their names are so cute—Bert and Bertie; and the likeness is something extraordinary."It was. Lynn, who had elected to remain outside the game and keep her hostess company, glanced from the cosy corner where she was ensconced to a table in the middle of the room where Miss Bertha Hadwell was sitting: then a little further on to where Mr. Albert Hadwell was scooping up tricks with a dexterity which bespoke long practice. The boy was slightly, very slightly taller than the girl; but, apart from that, one might have fancied that one was the other's double. The same olive cheeks, slightly tinged with rose-red: the same impish, restless dark eyes: the same long, thin mouth, ever parting to show gleaming, irregular white teeth.They were an attractive pair: and Lynn's eyes rested on them for several moments before they wandered slowly over the rest of the room. The usual company was present: the pretty girl who never counted the tricks and continually appealed to her partner to tell her "what was trumps"; the stout woman who remembered everything and berated her confrère soundly if he forgot the thirteenth card; the mild-looking man who smiled sweetly as his lady partners trumped his tricks and cursed them bitterly on his way home; the pompous man who never failed to instruct all the rest of the table; the excitable debutante who invariably dropped the wrong card on the trick, then shrieked aloud and sought permission to "take it back" on the ground that she "hadn't been thinking"; and, last but not least, the bad-tempered man who regarded bridge as a religion, and burned to slay the sacrilegious ones who violated its tenets."Oh, Lynn," whispered Mrs. Hadwell with a sigh of contentment, "aren't people a treat? I wonder if they're getting hungry. Do you think I had better give orders to have supper served?""It mightn't be a bad idea. Let me go with you, Del.""Such a queer thing has happened to-day, Lynn," whispered Mrs. Hadwell, confidentially, as they went out together. "You remember my speaking to you of my prize housekeeper? the one beside whose frigid nature my own showed in the light of a volcano? Well, she has actually shown signs of being human for once. To-day she approached me with a request for an extra night out: at least she didn't call it that, but it was practically what she wanted. Under the circumstances—the twins arriving and the bridge people coming here, to-night—I demurred a little and asked if to-morrow wouldn't do. She then told me—with an air of wishing she didn't have to—that General Shaftan—theGeneral Shaftan—had been an old friend of hers in childhood days; and that she had just received an urgent message, asking that she go without fail to his house to-night. He must be better; it is queer, for I understood that he had been quite given up: he has two nurses and is never left for a moment, day or night. Imagine! Of course I told her to go—but what in the world do you suppose it means? You know the story about the General and the bewitching Langham-Greene, of course? They were engaged to be married some twenty years ago when Langham-Greene—who was plain Bill Greene, then—hove upon the scene with his half a million: and 'the scene was changed.' My lady dropped Shaftan like a hot potato and transformed Bill into a Benedict and a Langham-Greene. Then she drove him to drink: at least they say so! I don't believe, myself, that he took much driving. At all events he was thoughtful enough to drink himself to death: and thoughtless enough to speculate and leave her very poorly off—comparatively speaking, of course! Shaftan, in the meantime, had left the city and gone to India: and just about the time that Bill Greene drank his last glass, he blossomed out as a General and dear knows what all. Wasn't it rich? Poor Julia thought she had only to hold out a welcoming hand, when he returned; but to every one's surprise, he had neither forgotten nor forgiven. If he had even refused to meet her it would have been some solace to her vanity, but he was quite ready to go so far and was extremely polite when he did: only he would never talk to her if he could help it. She gave him up at last as a bad job. Now, when the papers can talk of nothing else but the career of the famous General Shaftan and his approaching death he sends for my housekeeper—and by the way, Mrs. Waite knew the Langham-Greene well when she was a girl, for the latter told me so, adding in her pleasant way that the poor thing had never had but the one offer which she accepted.""I wish she had said that to me.""She knows your tongue too well, my dear. And you make a great mistake in not conciliating the creature. Never make an enemy of a cad, male or female; for 'it' can use weapons which you would disdain to touch, and those weapons are frequently poisoned. If you must make enemies, make them of honourable people, who will simply let you alone, and not be trying to injure you; and be careful to see that every obnoxious kind of human reptile loves you. But what's the use of talking? one can't teach you common sense."When the business of ascertaining the highest scores had been attended to Miss Erma Reed was found to be the winner of the lady's prize. Mrs. Hadwell was much amused by the warmth of Mr. Bert Hadwell's congratulations. Such plaudits as he bestowed upon her are rarely called forth by the most amazing skill: and his aunt by marriage laughed and pinched Miss Thayer's arm as she listened to them."When one considers Erma's height and proportions and the almost unnatural whiteness of her skin, one sees that it is merely to be expected that such a slender and brown individual as Bert should be impressed by her cleverness at bridge.... Here is your prize, dear! I am so glad you won it and I think it will go nicely with your pretty dress.""It" was a pearl pendant which Erma received with something as nearly approaching animation as that stately and somewhat shy damsel ever showed. She was, beyond all doubt, one of the most beautiful girls in Montreal; her absolutely flawless skin and generous though graceful proportions instinctively recalling the masterpieces of Grecian sculpture. Yet it was a cold beauty, unlit by intellectual or mirthful fires: and some of the unthinking who merely assimilate the general effect without noticing details had been heard to say openly that they preferred Mrs. Hadwell's vivacious prettiness to the younger woman's more stately charms. No one had laughed more freely at this than Mrs. Hadwell, herself. She was well aware that, devoid of artificial advantages, she would be a most insignificant little nonentity, but that fact gave her no uneasiness and diminished nothing of her graciousness toward the younger and prettier girls who thronged her entertainments and sang her praises without stint. Yet she could not bear "green girls.""Lynn," she would say to her friend, "you have no idea what a comfort it is to feel that I can get away from them sometimes and take a rest with you. After these giggling, insipid debutantes you are like a—a cocktail! Yet it is the thing for nice women to be adored by young girls and so I must be adored, worse luck!"
CHAPTER XIII
REJECTED ADDRESSES
"The Heart's Desire hath led meIn barren lands and vain."—Theodosia Garrison.
"The Heart's Desire hath led meIn barren lands and vain."—Theodosia Garrison.
"The Heart's Desire hath led me
In barren lands and vain."
—Theodosia Garrison.
—Theodosia Garrison.
"I suppose it sounds brutal to say so," said Lynn Thayer, "but you know you ought really to be very grateful to me for refusing you. You will thank me for it, ten years hence."
Mr. Harold Lighton, who was sitting opposite, frowned angrily and made no response.
"We are not in the least suited to one another," she continued, gently. "You—I would make you very unhappy. You are young and rich, and when you get over this, you will be able to marry some nice, young, pretty girl."
"I don't want a nice, young, pretty girl," returned Mr. Lighton, glumly. "I want you."
Lynn's eyes suddenly danced but she very properly refrained from comment.
"Oh, I say, won't you think this over?" burst forth Mr. Lighton, quite unconscious of the doubtful compliment he had just paid the object of his affections. "I'm most awfully in love with you, indeed I am. You know that, don't you?"
"I know that you think you are in love with me, just now," answered Lynn, gravely. "But, in my twenty-eight years of life, quite a few people have told me that they were in love with me and would never be happy without me. And they have married some one else in a few years' time and have never thought of me, again."
"I'm not like that," said Mr. Lighton, eagerly. "Upon my soul, I'm not. You may think I'm fickle or easily suited. I'm not. I don't like anybody but you and I never will. It seems pretty hard when a fellow's waited until over thirty before he has run across any one he fancied—and then to be turned down, after all."
"It has happened before."
"Why, no, it hasn't!" said Lighton, indignantly.
"I mean to other people."
"Oh! See here, why won't you have me? I suppose I'm not clever enough for you. Is that the trouble?"
"No, no indeed. I'm stupid, myself, frightfully stupid in lots of ways. That isn't it, at all. It's just that I don't care enough about you."
Mr. Lighton regarded her with some perplexity.
"I say—I'd like awfully to say something if you won't think it rude."
"Very well—what is it?"
"You're twenty-eight—you don't mind my mentioning it, do you?" queried Mr. Lighton, tactfully. "You've always spoken so openly of it, yourself."
"Oh, I can never keep even the most damaging facts about myself hidden," said Lynn, solemnly.
"Eh?—what's that? Oh, well, never mind! What I wanted to say was this: Don't you mean to marry?"
"I haven't quite made up my mind, yet. Perhaps I may marry somebody a few years hence—but not you," she hastily added, seeing Mr. Lighton look up with sudden interest.
"Why not me?"
"I have told you twenty times over why not."
"And you're serious about it? You're sure you won't change your mind? Well, what I wanted to say was this. Suppose, a few years hence when you've decided that you will marry—now, you won't be offended?"
"I don't think I will. What you want to say is, what will I do if no one wants to marry me, then?"
"Yes," confessed Mr. Lighton, looking a little embarrassed but sticking to his guns, manfully. "You're an awfully stunning girl, but a girl often doesn't get another offer after thirty; and what if you don't?"
"I won't marry."
"But—but"—
"I won't marry, anyway, unless I see some one I like better than I do you," said Lynn, deliberately. "It is best to be explicit, isn't it? I don't want to hurt you, but this is the plain truth of the matter. The idea of marrying just for the sake of being called 'Mrs.' doesn't appeal to me, at all; and I could not marry you for any other reason. Oh yes, of course I might marry you for the sake of living in a nice house and getting my clothes in Paris; but I don't care much about that, either. You see what I mean?"
"Oh, yes, I see. I thought, some way—you see I have a fairly good income and you're fond of horses"—
"You thought I might marry you for the pleasure of seeing something of your horses; is that it?"
"Oh, I say, Miss Thayer, let up! It's bad enough to be refused without being made game of."
"I suppose it is," said Lynn, slowly. She looked at him as though a new idea had occurred to her. "I wonder why you want to marry me," she said at last.
"Why I want to marry you?"
"Yes. I'm not very young, I'm not at all pretty and I have no money. It seems a most curious thing that you should have taken this violent fancy to me. Why did you? Do you know?"
"I say! youarea queer girl."
"In other words I'm not a sheep," returned Lynn, composedly. "Don't you think most people are very like sheep? They travel in flocks and all bleat in unison at the same things and get up in the morning and eat and drink and go to sleep, again—and, in time, they die. I suppose they might as well be doing that as something else, but if it amuses me to do something else, why shouldn't I? Now, for instance, if I had been a well-regulated, conventional sheep I should have bleated out, 'Oh, Mr. Lighton, this is so sudden!' and then I should have thought lovingly of your good house and your nice furniture and should have simpered and accepted you. But, not being a sheep, I want to know why on earth you did it."
"Because I—like you so awfully," explained Mr. Lighton, eagerly.
"But why on earth should you like me?"
"I don't know," said Mr. Lighton, doubtfully. "Why does any one like you?" he inquired, brightening. "You've had lots of other chaps."
"Oh, but that's different. You see I'm a man's woman by instinct and training. I do my very utmost to please and be nice to every man I meet except you; and the consequence is that they all like me and the ones who like me enough to call on me, often, usually end by proposing: not because I'm so remarkably attractive but for the reason that a man, for some occult reason, cannot see much of a woman without proposing to her."
"I say! You're gassing!"
"I'm not. But the queer thing is that you took this fancy to me at the very start without any help whatever from me."
"What a funny girl you are to give yourself away like that. Girls generally say that they don't encourage anybody."
"Yes, but, as you remarked, I am a funny girl; I tell the truth, sometimes. How do you suppose a plain, poor person like me would ever have had so many men friends if she hadn't done something? It's wonderful," said Lynn, meditatively, "wonderful! how easy it is to fascinate men. Just look at each man and talk to him as if you thought he was the most handsome, brilliant and fascinating creature extant—and the thing is done! The man doesn't live who can resist it."
"Ha, ha! youarefunny."
"Yes. I can remember when I was a young girl that I used to be terribly afraid that no one would ever fall in love with me because I was so ugly. I used to wish so that I had curling eyelashes and rose-leaf complexions and things: and, lo and behold! before I was eighteen the great beautiful truth dawned upon me. Just let a man talk about himself until he is black in the face and he will never tire of your society, no matter what you look like. Nothing else is necessary. A man thinks any eyes gazing admiringly into his are beautiful eyes: he considers any voice that murmurs timely flatteries in his good right ear a sweet voice: and any woman with intelligence enough to laugh heartily at his stale jokes and listen respectfully to his dull anecdotes, has all the intelligence that any female needs, in his opinion. So there you are. Having this knowledge, what else did I lack? I promptly became a belle of the first water and have remained so for ten years. Pretty girls have lost their beauty, rich girls have lost their money, lively girls have lost their vivacity; but I remain perennially attractive because I have grasped the great truth that every man prefers himself to anything else on earth and, next to himself, admires the woman who acts as though she agreed with him. I'm in a candid mood to-night, am I not, Mr. Lighton? What is the matter? you don't look very happy."
"I can't help wondering," confessed Mr. Lighton, rather ruefully, "why, if you're so fond of having men like you, you've never been nicer to me."
"Because," she returned, slowly, "I very soon received the impression that you were more or less in earnest. Now my puppy days have passed and I take no pleasure in causing pain; and it must be more or less painful to want some one who doesn't care anything about you. So I thought it best to be flippant and unpleasant in the hope that you would get disgusted. Why didn't you?"
"I—I don't know"—
"Yes, I've been most hateful," continued Lynn, thoughtfully. "I wonder if it would do any good if I were to tell you all the harsh things I've said about you to Aunt Lucy."
"I don't think," said Mr. Lighton, hastily and firmly, "that it would do a bit of good."
"Then I won't. But will you tell me just as a matter of curiosity—what it was that you liked about me?"
"In the first place," her companion said, pondering, "I suppose I liked you because you didn't chase me and it was such a change. You see when a fellow has a good position and money coming to him"— He wiped his forehead and looked scared and reminiscent.
"I see," exclaimed Lynn. "I must make a note of that. There are men who tire of being 'chased.' Then there must be men who tire of tobacco, I suppose."
"I don't know about that," said Mr. Lighton, dubiously. "You see, when one has smoked long enough, one can always throw one's cigar out of the window. So one doesn't get as sick of it as one does of women."
"No, I suppose not. I never thought of that," said Lynn, gravely. "Well, let me see! you liked me in the first place because I didn't 'chase' you: and why did you like me, in the second?"
"You're a fine sport," said Mr. Lighton, pondering, "you're always ready for any thing, and you dance like a streak, and you're never tired, and you do make a fellow roar so. I suppose that's why."
"So these are my assets. Dancing like a 'streak'—whatever that may be: always being ready to skate and toboggan: and 'making a fellow roar so.' It doesn't sound attractive: however I never pretended to understand men. What a funny thing it is! No money, no beauty, no particular brains and one of the most eligible young men in the city begging me to marry him!"
"Your aunt likes me," said Mr. Lighton.
"She likes you very much; but she always confuses you with the new plumbing and the electric lights in your house. She can't conceive how I can withstand such fascinations. Poor Aunt Lucy! I wish I were a little more satisfactory: but I really cannot fall in love to order even to please her—not with a whole galaxy of electric lights."
"I don't know exactly what you're driving at," said Mr. Lighton, looking sullen, "but I think your aunt's a very sensible woman."
"So do I. I only wish I were half as sensible. I'm a great grief to her. You see, she feels rightly that a single woman with no independent income should struggle valiantly to avert the awful doom of old maid. Now, the deeper I sink in the mire of old-maiden-hood, the less I struggle."
"Is your aunt very fond of you?" asked Mr. Lighton curiously.
"No. She is much pleased at my popularity, which she doesn't understand in the least, and she regards it in the light of a personal reward for her goodness in adopting me. That is all."
"And your uncle? You don't mind my asking, do you?"
"Not a bit. My uncle hates me, but he thinks I'm a good girl and tries not to show it more than he can help. You see he can't endure children and he is prejudiced against me because I was a child when he first knew me and he has never forgotten it."
"Then I suppose you're not awfully fond of them?"
"I am—most grateful to them, both: but I do not love them. I have never really loved but one person in my life—no, two. The first love is much stronger than the second: but the second is—profound and lasting. I am not an affectionate person: I do not suppose that there will ever be more than just those two."
"Neither of them's me," interposed Mr. Lighton, gloomily and ungrammatically.
"Neither of them's you, no," returned Lynn, firmly.
"Oh, look here, Miss Thayer, can't you reconsider it? I'm—I'm most awfully in love with you, upon my word I am: and—and, after all,—I don't like to say this exactly—but you know I can give you everything you want and—don't you like the idea of having a little money?"
"Immensely."
"Then"——
"But, unfortunately I donotlike the idea of having you. There is the plain English of it. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but there doesn't seem to be any way of making you understand."
"Oh, I understand, all right!" muttered Mr. Lighton, ruefully. "But I can't say I'm pleased. You might have given me a hint before letting me make a fool of myself."
"A hint! Man! how many hints have I given you?"
"A dev—I mean a great many," returned the consistent Mr. Lighton. "But I thought you were trying to draw me on."
"I have no talents for man-hunting," said Lynn, rather crossly. "I never try to 'draw people on' or anything like that. It does not amuse me: I'm a man's woman in one sense but I am not a flirt"——
"Flirt! You can't flirt any more tha—than that mantelpiece," said Mr. Lighton, desperately. "But I like you—I can't help liking you, some way."
"No—I suppose you can't—not just at present, anyway. But you'll get over it in time."
Mr. Lighton said nothing, but his face was not cheerful.
"I have a good mind," said Lynn, slowly, "to tell you something about myself—something that will show you the hopelessness of asking me. It is this: even if I liked you very much I couldn't marry you."
"But why?"
"Because—because I have a duty to perform; a duty which demands all my time and strength and—and thought; and which marriage would interfere with."
"But—but do you mean that you are going to perform this duty—whatever it may be—all your life?"
"N-n-no. In a few years—perhaps sooner—it will be—finished."
"And then?"
"And then—oh, don't talk about it! I was foolish to speak about it, anyway—but, do you know, I felt sorry for you. I can't understand why people like having proposals from people they don't want to marry. It always seems to me such a pity that anything should be wasted, that any feeling should burn itself out, without result. That may be a queer way to look at it—but I suppose I am queer. People seem to think so and, perhaps, they are right."
"Well, I'd better go, I suppose," said Lighton, gruffly, after a short pause. "If anything turns up—I mean, if you should change your mind, you know, or anything like that—why"—
"Thank you; but I never shall. Good-night, Mr. Lighton. I'm sorry, really I am. It all seems too bad, but you know it's not my fault."
Left to herself, she drew a long sigh; then rose and moved about the room mechanically straightening the furniture and patting the sofa cushions. Finally she leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece and gazed earnestly into the mirror, above. "Curious what he sees in me!" she said, slowly. "Curious what anyone sees in me! I have nothing to recommend me in the way of looks; it is hard to understand. In spite of all that I have done for—for the boy, he—he doesn't really care very much about me, even now. And yet this man—whom I have done everything to discourage"—
She stared slowly at herself: then turned away.
"Time to go to bed," she said, reluctantly. "And high time to stop—thinking.... Oh, Liol, Liol, Liol!"
CHAPTER XIV
A DECISION TO BE REACHED
"'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,And matter enough to save one's own."—Browning.
"'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,And matter enough to save one's own."—Browning.
"'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own."
—Browning.
—Browning.
Mr. Albert and Miss Bertha Hadwell having arrived at Hadwell Heights their aunt had promptly issued invitations for the "bridge" of which she had spoken at her "tea." Hadwell Heights was "en fête." The guests had arrived and were playing, busily, though not for money. Apart from the fact that the guests of honour were young, Mrs. Hadwell disapproved of "bridge-gambling."
"I never win at games," she confided to Lynn. "And I don't enjoy losing money even if I can afford it. And it's such a nice, cheap way of getting a reputation for steadiness and sobriety and high morality and all that. I love to be known for things that I haven't even a bowing acquaintance with. And it seems so delicious to say with a perfectly straight face, 'No, I never play for money. I don't approve of it.' It seems such a rebuke to the worldly-minded and the frivolous and all that lot."
Mrs. Hadwell, though, might be depended upon to furnish very pretty prizes. Besides which her house was famed for its delightful entertainments of all descriptions. For which reasons, and for several others, her pretty drawing-room was thronged.
Lynn Thayer had refused to play, offering to bear her hostess company, however, and to help her in any way she could. She sat now in an alcove of the great old-fashioned bay-window, watching the players absently, and trying to straighten out several matters which threatened to become hopelessly entangled in her mind. This was hardly the place to solve these problems, but, as they became daily and hourly more imminent, she felt that she might as well face them at one time as at another, so far as she was able.
Her reflections chimed oddly with the scraps of conversation which were wafted to her ears from time to time.
"What shall I say if Gerald does ask me to marry him?" she thought, her face darkening. "How can I accept him? And then again—how can I refuse him? If he would only wait—but it is not reasonable to suppose that he would. How can I—how shall I answer him?"
"We-ll," interposed a voice, faintly, "I make it diamonds."
"Oh, why, Mrs. Hall?"
"Oh, did you have a good suit? Oh, dear! well, never mind!—I suppose we can't take it back, can we?—no? well, I suppose not. That's the worst of"—
"He must have meant that; he can't have meant anything else. Of course I have always known, but I thought I could keep it off a little longer. And I didn't realize till lately how much it would mean to me if—I can't give him up. No, I can't give him up. Yet how can I do anything else under the circumstances? Could I explain in any way—give him any inkling of my position? no, I don't see how"—
"Oh, are we playing 'no trumps'? Why, I didn't know that. Why didn't you tell me when you saw me playing out my king and ace"—
"He has no idea—naturally it will seem incomprehensible to him if I say that I do care for him but that I can't marry him for years. If I were five years younger; but, even so—no, I cannot say that. What can I say? If I ask him to trust me and to let me tell him when I shall be free to give him my answer—no, the case is hopeless. I had better tell him baldly and plainly that it is impossible for me to marry—and then?"—
"Not at all, Mrs. Willing, not at all. Of course it was my trick already but I saw that you hadn't noticed that—why, don't think of it for a moment. Of course, generally speaking, itisn'tsupposed to be a good thing to trump your partner's trick, but"—
"He is not the sort of man to let it rest there; he will ask questions, all sorts of questions, he will insist on knowing what I mean, what I intend to do. How will it end? The only thing that he can never think of is the truth. He will think of everything else under the sun. Oh, the thing is too hopeless! I shall have to let him think that I don't care for him—oh, but if I do that he will go away, I shall not see him again; in time he will marry some one else—how could I bear that? He must not go. I'll say anything, anything, short of giving my secret away. Ah, that horrible oath! So needless, so useless! and to think that, on top of all the rest, this should come! and that I may be compelled to give up my only chance of happiness in the future. I won't give it up! I won't! Life is too cruel. I'll do anything to prevent him leaving me. And then there is not only my pain if he did—but he would suffer, too. No, it is not to be thought of for a moment. He must stay."
"Well, I suppose I really shouldn't have thrown away my ace when hearts hadn't been played at all, but then you know I never stick to rules."
"If only he hadn't written that note, asking to see me to-night. If only I could have put off answering him a little longer. If I refuse to let him go home with me it will be equivalent to refusing him, altogether. It is out of the question. I must settle it one way or another at once. What is it to be?"
"Oh, don't tell me the queen hasn't been played, yet? Why, I thought it was out ages ago—oh, I really think I ought to have that back"—
"What will he say when I answer him—that is, if I tell him the truth? How will it sound? 'I do care for you but I can't marry you just now, perhaps not for several years, I can't say exactly when.' The thing is incredible. A woman of my age, presumably sane, to answer a proposal of marriage in that fashion. Ah, if only I were indifferent to him how easy things would be; and yet what would I have then in life? When Liol—dies—oh, I can't think of that! Where is he to-night, I wonder? What is he doing? Liol, Liol! if only you were dead! and yet, oh, I can't wish that. What will my life be when he is gone? Gone! Think of it! How can I marry, then? what will my life be worth? how shall I live and hide my grief? oh, Liol, Liol!"
"Upon my word, Mr. Coote! where were your eyes? Didn't you know that the nine of clubs wasn't out?"
"One thing is certain; much as I love Gerald, nothing and nobody can ever be to me what Liol was and is. Is that very strange? am I entirely different to all other girls. How could any strange man, however dear, be as much in your life as a person like Liol, with whom your very heart-strings were entwined; who came when your heart was empty and filled it? My Lionel! my little brother! my last charge from my dead mother! Oh, if the years could only be wiped out and if I could see him again as he once was, the same sweet dear child, how happily I could die—yes, how happily I could give up everything—Gerald, everything. But—I must live; and Lionel is—oh, I can't say, I can't think what he is; and he is dying by inches; and there is only one other person in the world for whom I care, only one other person for whom I ever shall care but him; and I may have to give him up. If only Lionel didn't need me so; if only he didn't need all my money, all my thought, all my care—imagine my deserting him and starting to choose a trousseau. A trousseau! when any day he may need a shroud."
"A penny for your thoughts, Lynn."
Mrs. Hadwell had come up, unnoticed and was standing at Lynn's side.
"Did I startle you?" she asked, brightly. "You were looking straight in front of you like Cassandra or Joan of Arc or some other unpleasant historical character. What was it? Indigestion?"
"A fit of the blues, perhaps," said Lynn. "Don't mind me, Del. It was most ungrateful of me to cast a shade over the festivities and, to tell you the truth, I wasn't aware that I was doing it. Who has the highest score?"
"Erma Reed, so far. Isn't she a beauty? Lynn, what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, silly!—that is, nothing much. You know we all get a little despondent at times."
"But not you, that is, not until lately. What has come over you?"
"Age, I suppose."
"If you don't want to confide in me, don't—"
"I don't!"
—"But I think it's most unkind, when I always tell you everything."
"There's nothing that I can confide in you, silly-billy!" said Lynn, rousing herself and speaking with forced cheerfulness. "Nothing in the world. Now, will that satisfy you? You know practically all my affairs except those which concern other people and which I have promised not to tell."
"Is that true?"
"There is just one thing which I might tell you—but, after all, it's nothing to tell"—
"Oh, what is it?"
"A man—but this is silly for there is really nothing to tell and, anyway, I don't want to discuss it."
"How logical you are," said Mrs. Hadwell, calmly. "But I know all about that, so you needn't bother. He is going to propose to-night, he told me so. And he begged me to make sure that he wasn't deputed to take anyone else home, as you had not answered his note and so he couldn't be sure"—
"He told you! How queer! How very unlike him!"
"I skated with him to-day and we had tea together. And you know how I can always make any man tell me the inmost secret of his heart if I can once get him alone for five minutes. And you're the inmost core of his."
"Del!"
"He as good as told me so. And I promised to put in a good word for him. So this is the good word. If youwillbe so foolish as to refuse Lighton—who is, by far, the better match of the two—why, you might do worse than Amherst."
"Thank you."
"But I can't help hoping, of course, that you will never be so foolish as to refuse Lighton."
"Mr. Amherst would be delighted if he could only hear your warm advocacy of his cause."
"Oh, I told him what I was going to say. I was perfectly frank. But I felt constrained to admit that you were such a hopeless idiot that I was very much afraid that you were going to refuse Lighton, if you had not done so, already. However, as I said, you were quite capable of committing the lesser idiocy of refusing him, afterwards. I don't know that I was quite so nice a confidante as usual; but then you must remember that Gerald Amherst absolutely refused to sanction my efforts at flirtation with him, this fall, and you can't expect me to forgive that all at once. I told him that, too."
"Del!"
"Oh, he's a good sort. He said that, once you accepted him, his mind would be free and, if I would then renew my attentions, he would accept them most gratefully—always provided you didn't kick. Well, he didn't put it just that way, but that was his meaning. Only he didn't mean a word of it. Lynn, if ever a man was hopelessly enamoured of a woman, you are that woman. You're doing pretty well, all things considered. Two proposals in one winter and one a good catch—aparticularlygood catch—don't glare so, Lynn, it's rude! and the other an extremely nice man and not too poor, either. My goodness! but you ought to be thankful. Look at the way some people work and work and then don't get much at the end; and here you just sit with hands folded, so to speak, and watch the desirables canter in. At your age, too! only you mustn't dally any longer, you know; it's time to make up your mind."
"Yes, you're right. It's high time I made up my mind."
"Good. Now then, make it up."
"My dear, my mind isn't like a bed that can be made up while you wait. I must think a bit."
"What do you want to think about, I should like to know? Are you weakening on the idea of refusing Lighton?"
"No. To tell you the truth—I may just as well tell you, I suppose—I've refused him, already."
"What? When? Where? No, never mind telling me, either. Let's stick to the point. Now that you have refused him, there is only one thing left to do—marry Amherst and thank your stars that he proposed just when he did. Otherwise, everyone would say that Lighton had neglected to 'come up to scratch.' Gracious! how fortunate that you had two strings to your bow."
"You know that old proverb about 'falling between two stools,' don't you?" Lynn asked, smiling faintly.
"Yes, and it's perfect rubbish. The people who talk about 'falling between two stools' are the people who've never had but one stool in their lives and who've sat firmly down on that to prevent it getting up and running away. Two stools, indeed! Twenty, if you can get them! But two will do very nicely indeed, when they are two like these. One being gone, you grab the other just as quickly as you know how. Now don't stop to tell me that I am getting vulgar; practical people always seem vulgar to visionaries. The question is, what are you going to say to Amherst to-night?"
"I'm not going to say anything, Del, for I simply can't let him take me home. I must have a little more time to think. No, don't argue; I am serious. Tell him that I am frightfully tired—which is literally true—and that you have asked me to spend the night here; but that, if he will be so good as to take me home after the hockey match to-morrow night, I shall be eternally obliged. Or no, don't put it like that; say that—oh well, say what you think best, Del, you always know how to put these things. Really I am so tired that I simply can't think to-night. Will you arrange it for me? and you won't mind putting me up for the night, will you?"
"No, dear child, I shall be delighted to have you. And I'll give him the message though I think you are foolish to postpone the thing. But I won't tease you, for I am sure you are going to be sensible in the end; and we won't talk any more about it if you don't want to. See here, do look at that table! and please listen to the conversation between Agatha and that unfortunate wretch of a Haldern. I know who won't be Agatha's 'latest.'Dolisten."
"But—excuse me for asking, Miss Ladilaw—but what did you make it 'no trumps' on?" inquired a masculine voice.
"Why—why—why, I'll tell you, Mr. Haldern," said Agatha looking up at him, confidingly. "My own hand was so perfectly awful—so appalling—that I felt sure Dummy must have a lot of aces and things. But you see it didn't."
"But, in that case, why didn't you leave it to me?"
"Because I—I wassoafraid that you would make it spades. And I had quite good diamonds."
"But don't you see?"—
"Oh, Ialwaysbelieve in trusting something to Dummy," Agatha interrupted gently but with an air of finality. "Don't let us discuss it any further, Mr. Haldern."
"Del," whispered Lynn to her hostess, "I may not be very kind-hearted, but I would not inflict Agatha on any man."
"Oh, they'll change partners at the next table. And I think it's good for men to play with Agatha: they appreciate the next partner they get so much more than they otherwise would. Well, Lynn, how do you like my twins?"
"Charming; and they do seem to enjoy everything so. Did they only get here to-day? They look so cheerful and fresh. I thought they would probably want to rest, the first evening; but they seem to be enjoying it."
"Yes. They're nineteen. At nineteen one enjoys everything but rest. I knew that and so I determined to start in without a moment's delay. I'm perfectly delighted with them, myself. I don't see how in the world that old curmudgeon of a brother of Henry's ever contrived to have two such good-looking, good-humoured children. And their names are so cute—Bert and Bertie; and the likeness is something extraordinary."
It was. Lynn, who had elected to remain outside the game and keep her hostess company, glanced from the cosy corner where she was ensconced to a table in the middle of the room where Miss Bertha Hadwell was sitting: then a little further on to where Mr. Albert Hadwell was scooping up tricks with a dexterity which bespoke long practice. The boy was slightly, very slightly taller than the girl; but, apart from that, one might have fancied that one was the other's double. The same olive cheeks, slightly tinged with rose-red: the same impish, restless dark eyes: the same long, thin mouth, ever parting to show gleaming, irregular white teeth.
They were an attractive pair: and Lynn's eyes rested on them for several moments before they wandered slowly over the rest of the room. The usual company was present: the pretty girl who never counted the tricks and continually appealed to her partner to tell her "what was trumps"; the stout woman who remembered everything and berated her confrère soundly if he forgot the thirteenth card; the mild-looking man who smiled sweetly as his lady partners trumped his tricks and cursed them bitterly on his way home; the pompous man who never failed to instruct all the rest of the table; the excitable debutante who invariably dropped the wrong card on the trick, then shrieked aloud and sought permission to "take it back" on the ground that she "hadn't been thinking"; and, last but not least, the bad-tempered man who regarded bridge as a religion, and burned to slay the sacrilegious ones who violated its tenets.
"Oh, Lynn," whispered Mrs. Hadwell with a sigh of contentment, "aren't people a treat? I wonder if they're getting hungry. Do you think I had better give orders to have supper served?"
"It mightn't be a bad idea. Let me go with you, Del."
"Such a queer thing has happened to-day, Lynn," whispered Mrs. Hadwell, confidentially, as they went out together. "You remember my speaking to you of my prize housekeeper? the one beside whose frigid nature my own showed in the light of a volcano? Well, she has actually shown signs of being human for once. To-day she approached me with a request for an extra night out: at least she didn't call it that, but it was practically what she wanted. Under the circumstances—the twins arriving and the bridge people coming here, to-night—I demurred a little and asked if to-morrow wouldn't do. She then told me—with an air of wishing she didn't have to—that General Shaftan—theGeneral Shaftan—had been an old friend of hers in childhood days; and that she had just received an urgent message, asking that she go without fail to his house to-night. He must be better; it is queer, for I understood that he had been quite given up: he has two nurses and is never left for a moment, day or night. Imagine! Of course I told her to go—but what in the world do you suppose it means? You know the story about the General and the bewitching Langham-Greene, of course? They were engaged to be married some twenty years ago when Langham-Greene—who was plain Bill Greene, then—hove upon the scene with his half a million: and 'the scene was changed.' My lady dropped Shaftan like a hot potato and transformed Bill into a Benedict and a Langham-Greene. Then she drove him to drink: at least they say so! I don't believe, myself, that he took much driving. At all events he was thoughtful enough to drink himself to death: and thoughtless enough to speculate and leave her very poorly off—comparatively speaking, of course! Shaftan, in the meantime, had left the city and gone to India: and just about the time that Bill Greene drank his last glass, he blossomed out as a General and dear knows what all. Wasn't it rich? Poor Julia thought she had only to hold out a welcoming hand, when he returned; but to every one's surprise, he had neither forgotten nor forgiven. If he had even refused to meet her it would have been some solace to her vanity, but he was quite ready to go so far and was extremely polite when he did: only he would never talk to her if he could help it. She gave him up at last as a bad job. Now, when the papers can talk of nothing else but the career of the famous General Shaftan and his approaching death he sends for my housekeeper—and by the way, Mrs. Waite knew the Langham-Greene well when she was a girl, for the latter told me so, adding in her pleasant way that the poor thing had never had but the one offer which she accepted."
"I wish she had said that to me."
"She knows your tongue too well, my dear. And you make a great mistake in not conciliating the creature. Never make an enemy of a cad, male or female; for 'it' can use weapons which you would disdain to touch, and those weapons are frequently poisoned. If you must make enemies, make them of honourable people, who will simply let you alone, and not be trying to injure you; and be careful to see that every obnoxious kind of human reptile loves you. But what's the use of talking? one can't teach you common sense."
When the business of ascertaining the highest scores had been attended to Miss Erma Reed was found to be the winner of the lady's prize. Mrs. Hadwell was much amused by the warmth of Mr. Bert Hadwell's congratulations. Such plaudits as he bestowed upon her are rarely called forth by the most amazing skill: and his aunt by marriage laughed and pinched Miss Thayer's arm as she listened to them.
"When one considers Erma's height and proportions and the almost unnatural whiteness of her skin, one sees that it is merely to be expected that such a slender and brown individual as Bert should be impressed by her cleverness at bridge.... Here is your prize, dear! I am so glad you won it and I think it will go nicely with your pretty dress."
"It" was a pearl pendant which Erma received with something as nearly approaching animation as that stately and somewhat shy damsel ever showed. She was, beyond all doubt, one of the most beautiful girls in Montreal; her absolutely flawless skin and generous though graceful proportions instinctively recalling the masterpieces of Grecian sculpture. Yet it was a cold beauty, unlit by intellectual or mirthful fires: and some of the unthinking who merely assimilate the general effect without noticing details had been heard to say openly that they preferred Mrs. Hadwell's vivacious prettiness to the younger woman's more stately charms. No one had laughed more freely at this than Mrs. Hadwell, herself. She was well aware that, devoid of artificial advantages, she would be a most insignificant little nonentity, but that fact gave her no uneasiness and diminished nothing of her graciousness toward the younger and prettier girls who thronged her entertainments and sang her praises without stint. Yet she could not bear "green girls."
"Lynn," she would say to her friend, "you have no idea what a comfort it is to feel that I can get away from them sometimes and take a rest with you. After these giggling, insipid debutantes you are like a—a cocktail! Yet it is the thing for nice women to be adored by young girls and so I must be adored, worse luck!"