CHAPTER XV"BE PITIFUL, O GOD!""O God! to clasp those fingers close and yet to feel so lonely,To see a light within those eyes that is the daylight only—Be pitiful, O God!"—E. Barrett Browning.Amy Waite walked swiftly down the path which led from Hadwell Heights to Pine Avenue. The night was a cold one; the moon hung bright and glittering in the starlit heavens and the white, still earth seemed to her as cruel as Life, as inexorable as Time. She shivered as she walked and drew her shabby fur more closely around her throat. When would this cruel walk end? When would this crueler interview be over?She reached her destination at length and rang the bell. General Shaftan had no relatives in Montreal, but his fame and character had won him many friends. Yet he lay dying alone in his handsome house; alone, save for the ministrations of a hired nurse. Mrs. Waite's thin lips curved in a smile more tragic than most tears are as she stood on the doorstep of the silent house while the keen winds blew dismally about her. Alone! What freak had made him send for her at such a time?A silent man-servant admitted and conducted her upstairs. Amy paused long enough to remove her wraps and, while she waited, the nurse came out from the sickroom and spoke, softly."The General is failing fast," she whispered. "He was determined to see you this evening and so I sent you that urgent message. This afternoon he saw his lawyer on business connected with his will and I wanted him to wait till to-morrow for this, but he would not. He seemed to fear that he might not live to see another day." Her voice trembled; she was a kind-hearted soul and the General had a way of endearing himself to all with whom he came in contact. Mrs. Waite, however, stood erect and tearless, and the nurse, after a half-wondering, half-resentful glance, directed her to enter."He wants to see you, alone," she said, reluctantly. "But, if any change should take place in him, be sure to let me know at once."Mrs. Waite gave the required promise and left her. The General lay, half-propped up with pillows; his bronzed face was pale with the pallor of approaching dissolution, but his eyes were the eyes of twenty. Amy's dead youth sprang to sudden life beneath them and something akin to the hopeless, useless rapture of thirty years ago awoke and cried in her heart. Her face was set and pallid, and the hands which clasped the dying soldier's were cold as his own. They looked at one another in silence which the woman could not break. The man spoke at last, a little disappointed at her lack of feeling."Well, Amy?" he whispered, half-quizzically."You—wanted to see me, Arnold?""I did—very much. I'm dying—I suppose you know that, eh?""I had heard so. I didn't know"——"Oh, it's true enough. Don't I show in my looks that I am?"Amy did not answer immediately nor did her face betray any especial interest in the statement. The General, after scrutinizing her closely, almost anxiously for a moment, relinquished her hand and laughed, half in amusement, half in disappointment."You're a cold-blooded little creature, Amy," he cried. "You always were. But you're a faithful little soul—I'd trust you through thick and thin—and I want to do something for you before I go. Also I want you to help me to pay off old scores and spite my lady Julia—you won't mind lending a hand in that, I'll wager." His still brilliant grey eyes twinkled significantly.Amy watched him passively and smiled a little, wondering why an ugly, faded woman of forty-eight with a sordid past should feel as keenly and cruelly as an untrained girl of eighteen. No answer suggested itself and she sat in silence, watching the dying man and wishing that she, herself, had died long ago.The General laughed feebly as he looked at her. She was, as he had told her, such a cold-blooded little thing—rather unpleasantly like a fish—but, after all, poor little soul! she had had a beastly hard time of it; why, she looked like an old woman at fifty. He could do one good turn to a friend before he died, at all events."Amy," he said at last, "give me your hand, little woman! I want to know if you will marry me. Don't look surprised: this is no freak. You see if we are married I can leave you all my money—I am not poor, though I am not rich—and it's only right that you should have some comfort before you die. Then, too, I want to prevent Mrs. Julia from saying what she will say as soon as I am dead—that I always wanted her and died of grief as well as of my wound, because of her refusal. She shan't say that, by—— She spoilt my life and I'll not die till I've paid her back a little. It seems queer," he went on, with the radiant, mischievous smile that had made his listener's heart ache in the old days, "it seems queer to die a married man, Amy, after living a single one all my life. But it's never too late to mend. How thin your hand is, you poor little thing! You've had hard luck, haven't you?" He relapsed into silence, staring steadily at the wall at the foot of his bed. His eyes grew glazed and feverish."Don't leave me," he muttered. "Julia! Julia!"Amy started and winced."You're a beastly little flirt," he went on, angrily, gripping her hand till she with difficulty refrained from crying out with pain, "a heartless, despicable little flirt and I despise you from the bottom of my soul—but, O God! I can't help loving you. No other woman has ever been to me what you were—and you—threw—me—over," he went on, slowly, with a hard, cruel expression, "for Greene. Greene! the miserable, worthless sot! Well, you made one mistake, my lady, didn't you? ... But don't turn away, Julia!" he went on, imploringly, "don't turn away from me! I can't stand it.... Your hand is cold—you don't care—O my God! you don't care!" His voice rose almost to a wail. "Julia!" he cried. "Julia! my darling, my darling!—say it's a mistake! You're not what you pretend to be—you can't be!—Julia!"He sank back exhausted and his face relaxed. A look of intense relief overspread his features and his lips formed a smile of great beauty and tenderness."Julia!" he murmured softly. Then he died.Amy sat quite unmoved and looked at the rigid figure. She showed no particular emotion; yet the peace which made the dead face so beautiful was lacking in the living. Some minutes elapsed. She rose at last and stood for a moment, looking down. About that lifeless thing on the bed had clustered all her poor, starved life had held of love and romance. She bent slowly toward it; then straightened, a faint red colour in her sallow cheek."No!" she said, almost proudly.She rang the bell."The General has just died," she said in level, unemotional accents. "It was very sudden. It was impossible to call you. I am sorry."The big-hearted nurse looked at her with hearty repulsion and dislike and burst into a flood of tears. There seemed no particular reason for waiting further; Amy moved mechanically to the door and down the steps; and so passed quietly into the bitter night.CHAPTER XVITHE HOCKEY MATCH"The day is short, the evening cometh fast;The time of choosing, Love, will soon be past;The outer darkness falleth, Love, at last.Love, let us love ere it be late—too late!* * * * *Once, only, Love, may love's sweet song be sung,But once, Love, at our feet life's flower is flung;Once, Love, once only, Love, can we be young."—Anon.The Montreal Arena is a building of considerable size, capable of accommodating many thousands. It has been the scene of many a revel; horses, prima donnas, vegetables, all have exhibited here at one time or another; from Calvé, who raved with indignation at the idea of singing in such a place, to Emperor, the finest horse in Canada, who made no objection, whatever. Only a hockey match, however, can count positively on filling it from wall to wall.To-night was the Wales-Conquerors match: and many a business man of mature years had sent his office boy days before to "stand in line" from nine to eleven on a bitter winter morning in order to procure tickets. Mrs. Hadwell had secured six seats and had organized a party to escort her American guests thither. She, however, had not accompanied them, frankly acknowledging the obvious fact that she was "no sport.""I do love to be fin-de-siecle," she had said. "But, when it comes to hockey or pug dogs—well, I simply can't, that's all." Then she had told a plaintive tale of how, when a girl, she had been taken to a hockey match. Her escort had been an enthusiast of the most virulent type; and she had been obliged to feign a joy which she by no means felt."It was ghastly," she observed, "ghastly. There I sat, huddled in grandmother's sealskin which wasn't a bit becoming, and watched a lot of weird things dressed like circus clowns knocking a bit of rubber round a slippery rink. And all those poor misguided beings who had paid two, three and five dollars to see them do it yelled like mad whenever the rubber got taken down a little faster than usual—oh, you may laugh! but I can tell you that when one of those silly men whacked another silly man over the head when the umpire wasn't looking because the second ass had hit that absurd bit of rubber oftener than he, the first ass, had—why, I felt sorry to think that the human species to which I belonged was so devoid of sense. And that great goat who stood at one end and tried to stop the thing from getting between two sticks! why did everyone think he was a hero when he managed to get his two big feet together in time to stop the rubber from getting through? I don't see anything very clever in putting your feet together and letting a rubber thing come bang against your toes, do you?"But what's the use of talking! You must think it clever. You must! or why should you go? Where is the attraction? Do youlikehearing those wild-looking men shouting insults at the men who don't play on their team? Does it amuse you to hear them snarling, 'Dirty Smith! Putimoff!' 'Butcher Brown! Knockiseadoff, Robinson!' It is incomprehensible to me. I shall always remember Alice Mann's proud face as she watched her brother chasing round while the crowd hailed him by the dignified and endearing title of 'Dirty Mann.' I think that, if I had a brother and heard him called 'Dirty Mann' in public, I should want to leave the city."Accordingly Mrs. Hadwell had stayed at home; but a merry and expectant party had met at Hadwell Heights and had driven to the Arena, where they sat now, awaiting the fray. It would be some time before this began, so the young strangers had time to look about them and comment on the various spectators. Ladies wrapped in costly furs sat side by side with shabbily dressed men, who, in spite of the printed reminder that smoke was forbidden, ejected a constant stream in the air, the while they hoarsely sang the merits of their favourite team and the demerits of the opposing one. Small boys perched on the rafters, looking as though a finger touch would hurl them to instant destruction."If one of them did fall," inquired Bertie, with a shudder, "wouldn't he be instantly killed?""If he were lucky," returned her companion, a young McGill professor named Donovan, cheerfully. "Otherwise he might only injure himself for life.""But"——"But you see, Miss Hadwell, none of them ever do fall. Not one boy has ever lost his hold, as far as I know. If one of them did get killed of course it would be stopped.""But don't they get awfully excited?""Excited! They go mad. But they don't fall.""You see," interposed Gerald Amherst, "they never think about it. If one of them stopped clapping and wriggling and began to measure the space from his airy perch to the ice, below; and furthermore meditate on the consistency and solidity of the aforesaid ice and the probable fate of anyone whose head came in contact with it after a fall of seventy to a hundred feet—why, he would drop, that's all. They are occupied with more important matters, however; the merits of Smith as a goal-keeper, the demerits of Brown as a forward—they have no time to muse upon their latter end and the thin veil that lies between them and eternity.""I'm glad they haven't; for my part I'm convinced that I shall have nightmare after seeing them. Is that your—what is the band playing for? Oh, is that the Vice-Regal party? Dear me! what is every one rising for? Must I get up, too?"Her voice was drowned in the strains of the National Anthem which was howled enthusiastically by boxes and rafters, alike. As, "God save the King" died into silence the Governor-General bowed and took his seat; while his daughters gazed with interest about the Arena which they were visiting for the first time."Observe his coat," said Mr. Donovan. "Feast your American eyes on it. That coat was bought by Lord Dufferin, and left by him to be worn by his successors. The sleeves are quite out of style by this time; but you see 'This is a man!' What's your opinion of him, on the whole?""Why, I think—good gracious, what's that!"A roar that shook the roof arose as the opposing teams emerged from the waiting room and skated upon the ice. The scarlet sweaters and caps of the Conquerors stained the crystal ice with daubs of blood: and the more sombre hues of the Wales showed with almost equal effect."Oh, are they beginning?" cried Bertie in ecstasy.They were. The whistle blew and both sides skated to the centre to receive the customary warning."They both seem pretty cool," remarked Mr. Amherst. "No signs of nervousness that I can see.""Not a particle. Look! who has won the toss? The Conquerors? Hurrah! You must say 'Hurrah!' too, Mr. Hadwell, whenever anything nice happens to the Conquerors. It's no fun unless you choose a team.""Why is the Conquerors your team?""Because—oh, because the captain's father was baptized by my grandfather, I believe. There is some such reason, but, for the moment, I forget just what it is. Any reason will do, you know; the point is that you must have a favourite team and shout whenever it scores and groan with indignation whenever the other team does. Do you see?""I see. When am I to begin? and how am I to let the public know what I am groaning about?""Oh, the public will know if you groan in the right place—that is, when the other team does well. Oh, look! there goes the puck!"It dashed across the ice, followed by a mass of skimming, pursuing forms; and, for the next few moments, silence reigned. Then a shout arose, "Off-side!""Off-side" it was; and the indignant audience hurled insults impartially at both teams; no one seeming very sure as to which was "off-side," but each assuming that it could not be a member of his favourite team. The Conquerors lost to the Wales this time and the latter passed to one of his team who succeeded in sending the puck flying toward the goal. Intense excitement reigned: would he succeed in getting the puck past the goal-keeper? No: the latter deftly turned it aside; and a roar of mingled delight and disappointment arose which made the American girl start and put her hands to her ears."Do they often make such a noise?" she asked, involuntarily."I should think so," answered Donovan, staring. "You don't mind it, do you? Oh, shame on you, Parton! what are you thinking about, Umpire?—don't mind me, Miss Hadwell, I'm just—Hurray! Bully for you, Marsh! oh, good work, old boy. You're the stuff! Push it along—Hurray!"The puck had passed and the Conquerors had drawn first blood. In the first wild shriek that rose Bertie was conscious chiefly of one thing—everybody's mouth was wide open. No individual shriek could be distinguished, yet, judging from appearances, every one, from the Governor-General in his box to the smallest imp on the highest rafter, was shouting himself hoarse. Slowly the excitement subsided; slowly the spectators sank back into the seats which they had vacated; and, after a minute or two of preparation, the game recommenced."Never tell me again that the English are a cold race," Bertie remarked solemnly as the party took their seats in Mrs. Hadwell's carriage at the close of the evening. "I have read of such things, but I never expected to see them in Canada. I could go to a hockey match every night in the week. It's grand! And, Mr. Donovan, if the Wales had won—as I thought at one time they would—I believe I should have cried myself to sleep. Oh, you needn't laugh! I mean it."An hour or so later, after the assembled guests had partaken of a supper at Hadwell Heights, Lynn and Gerald Amherst left together and walked slowly in the direction of the city. It was midnight and the streets were practically deserted. For a short time they walked on in silence, neither caring to speak of anything except the subject which was uppermost in the minds of both. Finally, however, Gerald broke the silence."Lynn," he said, very quietly, "I have tried to tell you something several times. You have always turned the subject in one way or another. This has been going on now for a long time, for a very long time. I can't have it. I must know to-night, what it is to be. You don't understand, I think, how hard this is on me; if you did, you wouldn't be vexed with me for speaking so plainly." He paused."I—am not vexed with you. I had rather you spoke, plainly—but"—"But—there it is, again. You seem uneasy, almost unhappy about the matter. Yet I don't think you altogether dislike me; in fact—in fact there have been times when I was sure you cared—then when I saw you next, you were quite different, altogether different. You seemed to avoid me. I know it is quite impossible to understand a woman, but, some way, I can't help hoping. You are so sincere in other ways that I think you would be sincere even about a thing like this. Now tell me! There is some trouble, some difficulty, I know. Won't you tell me what it is?""Oh, no—I can't.""Why not? Is it that you are thinking of some one else—of Harold Lighton, for instance—and that you can't be sure as to which you prefer"—"No, that is not it. You have been frank; and I will be frank in return. I prefer you to any other man that I have ever known.""Then"—"No, stop! You don't understand me. I did not say that I wanted to marry you and"—"You mean that you—don't care enough, is that it?""N-no. I can't say that, exactly.""What then?" he asked, eagerly; but Lynn was silent, staring at the lights of the distant city."Lynn!—what in God's name do you mean? Think! Think of what you have said. In one breath you almost allow that you care for me; and, in the next, you say, practically, that you can't marry me. What does it all mean?""I can't tell you.""You must. Try.""I know that I must sound ridiculous and unreasonable to you, but the fact remains. I do love you; I can't bear to let you go away without telling you so. But for reasons which—which I can't explain—I don't think that I can marry you.""But, Lynn, what in the world can you mean? You have no ties! nothing that can bind you down or prevent you from doing as you please. What do you mean?"Lynn walked on in silence for a little while, then turned. Her face was white."I can't marry you, Gerald," she said, distinctly."Why not? There's some one else?""No—not in the way you mean.""Then it's just that you don't care enough. It must be."She said nothing, but bit her lips and quivered."You do care," he burst forth, suddenly. "Lynn, you do care. I know it. I feel it. You have taken some crazy notion in your head, some fanatical idea or other. Tell me! I insist on knowing what it is. If you care for me you will confide in me about this. You must see how cruelly unfair it is to tell me that you can't marry me and to refuse to even let me know the reason. Tell me! Even if it is something which prevents our marrying now, the difficulty may be surmounted in a few years' time. Tell me."Lynn started and turned toward firm, her face suddenly illuminated."Do you?" she cried, breathlessly, "do you—oh, it isn't right, I oughtn't to ask it—but do you care enough to wait—to wait—perhaps, for a year, or even two years and keep our—the engagement secret?""Why, of course I do. What's two years against a life-time? But, Lynn, I don't like secrecy. Can't you tell me what all this means?"She paused, then spoke, weighing each word, carefully."I have a trouble, a care; something which prevents me from even thinking of marriage. It concerns other people and I can tell you nothing about it. But, at any time, I—may be released from it. Perhaps in a week—perhaps not for years—but eventually—I shall be free—broken-hearted and old with grief—but free. Till then. And even then, understand clearly, Gerald, I can explain, nothing—nothing. Now I have told you the truth so far as I am able; and you see for yourself how hopeless it is. Leave me. I am plain and sad and old. Marry some one else, Gerald, and forget me.""Some one else! Lynn, my dear, dear girl, you don't know what nonsense you're talking. Only say that you'll marry me—promise me that—and everything else may slide. To-morrow—a year—three years—what does it matter, as long as you come to me in the end?""But—no one must know—oh, Gerald, it can't be right to hold you. I shouldn't.""Perfectly right and perfectly wise; if, for any reason, you are obliged to keep it secret. Only, Lynn, you must promise me one thing. The moment that you are released from your obligation, whatever it may be, you must tell me. Promise me that you will let no false motives of delicacy stand in your way, but will come and tell me that you are ready to marry me, the instant that the obstacle is removed. I won't even ask what it is; I shall only ask that you promise me this."And Lynn promised.CHAPTER XVIIA SCANDAL VERIFIED"I'm not denying that women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men."—George Eliot."Gracious, man! do give those unfortunate eyes of yours a rest. I should think they would ache, the way you roll them. Besides, it's such a waste of time to make eyes at me.""I don't think so.""I suppose it keeps you in practice," Miss Bent remarked, sardonically."I beg your pardon?""I said," repeated Miss Bent, slowly and deliberately, "that I supposed that—it—kept—you—in practice—to—make—eyes—at—me!""It does. But that's not the only reason I do it."Miss Bent eyed him with extreme disfavour."How silly you are," she said, snubbingly."Now that's unworthy of you," her companion returned. "Its rudeness is worthy of you, but not its stupidity. Ordinarily your remarks are witty, even when they are rude, but this"—"Has only truth to recommend it.""I don't care for verbal gymnastics.""Your likes and dislikes are not"—"A matter of interest to you? no, I suppose not. And you see that relieves me from considering yours. Take the present case, for instance. I feel like making eyes, as you rudely call it, at you: therefore I make them"—"And make them very badly!" interpolated the well-bred Miss Bent."You are no judge, being by nature incapable of doing anything in the eye-making way at all.""Ah!" said Miss Bent, reflectively, "there is no saying how well I might make eyes if I saw anything worth making eyes at. But, I say, don't be cross.""I'm not!""No, of course not: but don't, anyway, for I want to tell you something and some way I can't talk to cross people"—"But I tell you I'm not"—"Dear, dear! there you are again with a face flaming with rage, interrupting me and contradicting me."Mr. Ogden opened his mouth; then shut it with an air of determination, as though he really might have replied, had he chosen."And now you're glaring at me as if you were beside yourself with rage. Why don't you try to be reasonable?"The unhappy Mr. Ogden stared wildly but ventured no remark."I suppose I may go on now," Miss Bent said in a rather pointed manner when a moment of silence had elapsed. "What I began to tell you half an hour ago—only you would keep interrupting me—was that Mrs. Hadwell is giving all sorts of things for those cousins, or whatever they are, of hers from the States. And she has asked me to a theatre party and a tobogganing party, so I think I ought to give something for them. What would you suggest?"Mr. Ogden looked perplexed."Surely you're not sulking all this time!" said Miss Bent, rather sadly."I don't know what you mean. I never sulk.""Then, perhaps, instead of sulking, you will answer my question," said Miss Bent with asperity.Mr. Ogden laughed."I should suggest a drive," he hazarded. "A drive by moonlight and a supper afterwards.""Perhaps that would be the best plan," said Miss Bent, thoughtfully. "Who would you ask?""Me, for one.""Oh, yes, I suppose so, but—O dear! has my snowshoe come off, again?""Let me fix it.""What do you suppose is the reason?""The reason? You didn't let me do it at the start.""I suppose you think you can attend to my snowshoes better than I can myself.""I do, indeed.""Well, don't start to argue about that, please don't. I haven't seen you for such a long time and there are such a lot of things that I want to say, but some way, whenever I am going to start, something happens to prevent me.""Your snowshoe, for instance?""Yes, or you. You begin to argue about something. Now don't be cross! I suppose I really shouldn't have said that, but"—"Oh, it's quite true that I occasionally make a remark.""Occasionally!""Very occasionally, yes. When people are with you they don't talk much as a rule. Queer, isn't it?""I suppose," said his companion after thinking deeply for a moment, "that what you mean is that they don't get much chance.""That was my meaning, exactly.""I can't help talking a little sometimes, you know," said Miss Bent, icily——"You can't, indeed!""No. I come by it honestly.My own father was a man!"Silence reigned, unbroken and long. The snowshoers trudged on in silence, the lady chuckling delightedly to herself."I had two things to tell you," she remarked, presently, perceiving that her companion was unmoved by her silence and getting very tired of preserving it."Yes?""Yes. The second one is gossip, so I suppose I shouldn't"—"Oh, but you will.""Not," said Miss Bent, impressively, "not unless you promise solemnly never to tell a living soul about it—especially not Agatha!""Why is Agatha to be debarred from hearing what no living soul may know?""Because," said his companion, seriously, "Agatha is not to be trusted. She can't keep a secret. Oh, you needn't laugh. The person who told me this said the same thing to me. 'Don't tell anyone about this,' she said, most earnestly, 'and whoever you tell, don't tell Agatha.'""What lack of confidence you two secretive people do show in Agatha. Why is it?""In the first place because she's a cat.""Doesn't seem conclusive. I've known cats who talked less than some ladies.""—And in the second because she's her cousin.""Whose? The cat's?""No. Lynn Thayer's.""My golf-balls! Where are we at?""Why, I'm sure I've made myself plain enough," said Miss Bent, looking surprised."On the contrary you've made yourself awfully pretty in your sporting togs but you havenotmade yourself explicit.""You silly thing! Don't you see what I mean? It's Lynn Thayer that the gossip's about.""Oh, Miss Thayer," said Ogden. "Then I hardly think it's true.""Oh, it must be. This person saw her. It seemed so queer she could hardly believe her eyes.""What did?""Why, Lynn's being there alone at that time of night. Not that it was a proper place for a lady at any time"——"What place wasn't?""Dear me, Neil, you are stupid, sometimes. Why, St. Eustache St."——"Whew! St. Eustache St.!""Yes, and at eleven o'clock at night.""Nonsense.""It isn't nonsense. Mabel saw her—there! I let out the name, but you won't tell anyone, will you?—at all events you won't mention that it was Mabel"——"Mabel be—wait a moment. Your friend saw Miss Thayer—at eleven o'clock at night on St. Eustache St."—"Yes. Coming out of that rackety studio building on the south side, where unspeakable beings congregate.""What? Oh, look here, Kitty, you mustn't say that. You don't know what you're saying. Your friend, whoever she is, made a mistake—a big mistake. It was not Lynn Thayer she saw at all—it could not possibly have been—and she does a very wrong and wicked thing in spreading such stories. Now what I want you to do is"——"Neil, one would think I was fifteen. Do you suppose Mabel would say such a thing if it wasn't true? She didn't think at first that it could be Lynn, though she saw her distinctly; and so she followed her.""Oh! Well, Kitty, all I can say is that if your friend's a woman, I'm glad I'm a man. By the way, was this paragon alone?""Certainly not. She and her husband had been to the French theatre: and, as it was a fine night they decided to walk home. Then they began talking about how these awful old streets used to be fashionable, and he said that he would show her an interesting old house in St. Eustache St. So they went there and he pointed it out to her and told her how it used to belong to the Duke of —— and how now it had degenerated into the haunt of all sorts of people. Just as he was saying that only confirmed drunkards and opium eaters and things ever went there the door opened—and, to their infinite astonishment, Lynn Thayer came out.""Your friend's a"——"She isn't. She's a nice woman and so is her husband—at least I mean he's—well, anyway, they followed her for a block or two and she called a closed sleigh and, just for fun, they got into another and drove behind her. She went up to Pine Avenue and so they began to think that they must be mistaken when—what do you think?—she got out, paid the cabman and walked back to her aunt's house! There was no possible mistake about it."Neil trudged along in silence for a few moments."Kitty," he said at last, "there seem to be only two interpretations that can be put on that story. The first is that Lynn Thayer, a girl who has always been considered one of the nicest in Montreal, has done an unpardonable thing; the second, that your friends are liars. I prefer to think the latter—hello! do you want to run over us? Where's your light?""Beg pardon, sir. I've just been driving a lady who asked me to put it out while I was up here. I'll light it right away.""It's not right, a sleigh going at that rate without light: what on earth could the woman have meant by telling him to put it out. She must be—well, Kitty, what on earth is it?""Hush! Look!"He looked. A woman clad in a long dark cloak and wearing a heavy veil passed them with averted head and hasty steps. Her walk and figure were unmistakable. She shrank into the shadow of the leafless maples and descended rapidly citywards.CHAPTER XVIIIMRS. HADWELL'S FANCY DRESS BALL"When Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying feet."—Byron.There is a fascination about a fancy dress ball which appertains to no other form of entertainment. The excitement of seeing one's common-place acquaintances blossoming out, under the magic influence of costume, into fairies, kings and cavaliers is one which never palls.Interesting it is, too, to observe the characters impersonated and to note how clearly the character of the impersonator is expressed in his choice. Thus Mrs. Hadwell, on the evening of her famous ball, appeared as Titania, clad in a fluffy, shimmering robe of mousseline, which was further embellished and beautified by various shining ornaments and clusters of hothouse blooms. A sparkling diadem crowned her rich auburn tresses and a necklace of some value glittered on her neck. Her pretty arms were covered with bracelets and her prettier feet were adorned by diamond-studded sandals. She moved among her guests a shining, odorous, "form of faery," followed by ejaculations of admiration and murmurs of delight.Erma Reed, on the other hand, had wisely chosen the dress of ancient Greece: and her chiselled features showed clearly cut and noble beneath the chaplet of green leaves which lay lightly on her smooth, dark locks; while her flowing robe added distinction and grace to her splendid form, beside which the puny, slender figures of more modern beauties seemed mean and artificial.Lynn Thayer came, dressed as a Red Cross nurse. "Nothing about me suggests the heroine of history or romance," she said, "and I should make myself ridiculous by attempting to personate anything but an ordinary, everyday woman." She made a noble-looking nurse, however, and many turned from the more fancifully attired dames to watch her sympathetic countenance: some thinking, as they did so, that hers was a face that they would like to see in moments of illness or depression. Others there were, though, who watched her covertly and whispered stealthily to one another as she passed: and Lynn noted with surprise that Neil Ogden, who was standing by Kitty Bent, looked down hastily as he saw her approaching and made no sign of recognition. Nor did Kitty seem anxious to return her bow.The twins in whose honour the affair had been contrived attracted more attention than all the other guests put together. They were in mad spirits and seemed unable to keep apart, hurrying to one another's side as soon as each dance was finished and whispering and laughing together in unrestrained fashion. Bert was attired as Mark Antony in flowing Egyptian robes, donned, as he explained, after he had made the acquaintance of the Serpent of the Nile: and he handled the crimson, voluminous garments with a grace which called forth more than one admiring comment from his partners. Their compliments were invariably received with a stifled giggle: in fact Bert's manners, as a whole, did not show their usual reserve and good breeding. Still the handsome, boyish face above the crimson draperies was so alight with good humour; the black eyes were so unaccountably mischievous and the olive cheeks so becomingly flushed that the most exigeant of his uncle's guests could not find it in her heart to be really severe until—but that, as Mr. Kipling says, is another story.As for his sister, it is safe to say that no other girl created such a sensation. It was not only her appearance, though that was sufficiently striking, but the wild gayety and vivacity of her demeanour that made her the cynosure of every eye. She was dressed as a lady of the French court in a tightly fitting gown of French brocade with trailing draperies: and her eyes looked even darker and brighter than their wont beneath the high structure of powdered hair which the dress demanded. The pink and white brocade and the crimson robe of Egypt were so frequently seen in absorbed conversation that the twinly devotion of Mrs. Hadwell's connections was a favourite topic of conversation at the beginning of the evening. Later on, I regret to say—but here again I anticipate.Agatha Ladilaw, dressed as the Queen of the Roses, received her usual meed of praise and attention. Her three lovers followed her around with dog-like devotion; and many others, seeing what a magnet she was for three of the conflicting sex, hastened to make her acquaintance in order to discover for themselves what the attraction was. Agatha, in consequence, became more than ever convinced that she was bound to make the best match of any girl who had come out that year; and considered more seriously than before the advisability of adding a still more eligible fourth to her list of fiances. Among the many who sunned themselves in her smiles was Harold Lighton, who found her gaze of respectful attention and her eager and smiling responses so soothing after his late reverses that he insisted on sitting out several dances with her in order that he might give her further particulars of her cousin's cruelty; which cruelty she almost wept over."She's such a queer girl, Mr. Lighton," she said, shyly yet impulsively, "oh, I know she's my own cousin and perhaps I oughtn't to say so but"—"Isn't she?" inquired the disconsolate lover, eagerly. "As you're her cousin, I suppose I can say so"—"Anything you say," said Agatha, dimpling seraphically, "is quite safe with me, Mr. Lighton—anything!" She raised her deep, soulful eyes to him with an air of rapt attention and Mr. Lighton found himself murmuring involuntarily, "What a charming girl!""All I was going to say was," he continued, returning to the attack, but half forgetting his griefs in the joy of finding such an intelligent listener, "that your cousin really doesn't treat a fellow fairly. Now she won't listen to anything a fellow tries to tell her. All she will say is, 'Surely we have discussed this often enough, Mr. Lighton; do talk of something else!' Now, hang it all, Miss Ladilaw, that's rude!""I should think it was," exclaimed Agatha, looking appropriately shocked and grieved and inwardly wondering whether any mancouldspend an hour in her society and bestow a thought afterwards on a plain girl like Lynn."And then, when I tell her she is rude, all she will say is, 'I wonder you come to see me so often when I am so unpleasant and there are so many nice girls in the world.'" He paused."Ah!" said Agatha, softly, wondering inwardly why he did; and wondering, moreover, whether it was too soon to ask him to drop in some quiet evening when she was quite sure of having no other callers, in order that they might the more fully discuss her cousin's iniquities."And then to have her add the finishing touch by refusing me outright after all the time I've spent on"——"What?" said Agatha, startled, for once, out of all semblance of good manners. Was the man in earnest? Had he actually proposed? and had the fool—for no other word seemed appropriately to describe her cousin—had the fool refused him? Agatha gasped and caught her breath. Refused him! refused a horse and carriage and a nice house and a trip to Europe if she wanted it? Agatha could scarcely regain her composure."Yes, indeed, she refused me," reiterated the Rejected One, indignantly. "And she not only refused me but she told me that I would thank her for her refusal ten years hence.""Mr. Lighton," Agatha's voice was solemn—"Do you—I don't suppose you do, but—excuse my asking—doyou still want to marry her?""I should rather think I did," rejoined Mr. Lighton, staring. "Never was so dead gone on any girl in my life. But it's no use; I may as well make up my mind to"——"Mr. Lighton, if it is any satisfaction to you, I shall speak to my cousin. I cannot feel," Agatha continued, raising her big eyes almost tearfully to her companion's face, "I cannot feel that it is right to let my cousin refuse such an offer—I mean, such an honest and manly love as yours—without, at any rate, trying to show her how—howwickedit is. For," said Agatha with righteous indignation, "for what is Lynn, anyway? A public school teacher! And whom else is she going to get if she refuses you? Nobody! And I don't care whether she likes it or not I'm going to put her conduct before her in the right light.""That's the stuff," said Mr. Lighton, delightedly. "You're a fine little girl, that's what: and I tell you what it is, if you do make any impression on her—which," said Mr. Lighton, relapsing into despondency, "which you won't, for she's as stubborn as a—but, if you should—why, all I can say is, I'll never forget it."Agatha had, as all ladies who follow the time-honoured sport of man-hunting must have, an eye to all contingencies. She impulsively clasped her companion's big hand in her two small ones now as she murmured, feelingly:"Don't think that I am intruding, Mr. Lighton, but, if thisshouldbe a failure—and no one can tell anything where Lynn is concerned—always remember that you have one friend, anyway.""I won't forget it," responded Mr. Lighton with alacrity. Nice little thing! Pity her cousin wasn't more like her, that was all he could say. And yet, confound it all! there was something about the other—he couldn't help liking her in spite of everything—but, whatever happened, this little thing was worth cultivating. He wondered, as Agatha with a sympathetic smile and an air of stern resolve gathered up her pink draperies and departed in search of her cousin what the outcome of it would be. Well! he would soon know, at all events.
CHAPTER XV
"BE PITIFUL, O GOD!"
"O God! to clasp those fingers close and yet to feel so lonely,To see a light within those eyes that is the daylight only—Be pitiful, O God!"—E. Barrett Browning.
"O God! to clasp those fingers close and yet to feel so lonely,To see a light within those eyes that is the daylight only—Be pitiful, O God!"—E. Barrett Browning.
"O God! to clasp those fingers close and yet to feel so lonely,
To see a light within those eyes that is the daylight only—
Be pitiful, O God!"—E. Barrett Browning.
Be pitiful, O God!"
—E. Barrett Browning.
—E. Barrett Browning.
Amy Waite walked swiftly down the path which led from Hadwell Heights to Pine Avenue. The night was a cold one; the moon hung bright and glittering in the starlit heavens and the white, still earth seemed to her as cruel as Life, as inexorable as Time. She shivered as she walked and drew her shabby fur more closely around her throat. When would this cruel walk end? When would this crueler interview be over?
She reached her destination at length and rang the bell. General Shaftan had no relatives in Montreal, but his fame and character had won him many friends. Yet he lay dying alone in his handsome house; alone, save for the ministrations of a hired nurse. Mrs. Waite's thin lips curved in a smile more tragic than most tears are as she stood on the doorstep of the silent house while the keen winds blew dismally about her. Alone! What freak had made him send for her at such a time?
A silent man-servant admitted and conducted her upstairs. Amy paused long enough to remove her wraps and, while she waited, the nurse came out from the sickroom and spoke, softly.
"The General is failing fast," she whispered. "He was determined to see you this evening and so I sent you that urgent message. This afternoon he saw his lawyer on business connected with his will and I wanted him to wait till to-morrow for this, but he would not. He seemed to fear that he might not live to see another day." Her voice trembled; she was a kind-hearted soul and the General had a way of endearing himself to all with whom he came in contact. Mrs. Waite, however, stood erect and tearless, and the nurse, after a half-wondering, half-resentful glance, directed her to enter.
"He wants to see you, alone," she said, reluctantly. "But, if any change should take place in him, be sure to let me know at once."
Mrs. Waite gave the required promise and left her. The General lay, half-propped up with pillows; his bronzed face was pale with the pallor of approaching dissolution, but his eyes were the eyes of twenty. Amy's dead youth sprang to sudden life beneath them and something akin to the hopeless, useless rapture of thirty years ago awoke and cried in her heart. Her face was set and pallid, and the hands which clasped the dying soldier's were cold as his own. They looked at one another in silence which the woman could not break. The man spoke at last, a little disappointed at her lack of feeling.
"Well, Amy?" he whispered, half-quizzically.
"You—wanted to see me, Arnold?"
"I did—very much. I'm dying—I suppose you know that, eh?"
"I had heard so. I didn't know"——
"Oh, it's true enough. Don't I show in my looks that I am?"
Amy did not answer immediately nor did her face betray any especial interest in the statement. The General, after scrutinizing her closely, almost anxiously for a moment, relinquished her hand and laughed, half in amusement, half in disappointment.
"You're a cold-blooded little creature, Amy," he cried. "You always were. But you're a faithful little soul—I'd trust you through thick and thin—and I want to do something for you before I go. Also I want you to help me to pay off old scores and spite my lady Julia—you won't mind lending a hand in that, I'll wager." His still brilliant grey eyes twinkled significantly.
Amy watched him passively and smiled a little, wondering why an ugly, faded woman of forty-eight with a sordid past should feel as keenly and cruelly as an untrained girl of eighteen. No answer suggested itself and she sat in silence, watching the dying man and wishing that she, herself, had died long ago.
The General laughed feebly as he looked at her. She was, as he had told her, such a cold-blooded little thing—rather unpleasantly like a fish—but, after all, poor little soul! she had had a beastly hard time of it; why, she looked like an old woman at fifty. He could do one good turn to a friend before he died, at all events.
"Amy," he said at last, "give me your hand, little woman! I want to know if you will marry me. Don't look surprised: this is no freak. You see if we are married I can leave you all my money—I am not poor, though I am not rich—and it's only right that you should have some comfort before you die. Then, too, I want to prevent Mrs. Julia from saying what she will say as soon as I am dead—that I always wanted her and died of grief as well as of my wound, because of her refusal. She shan't say that, by—— She spoilt my life and I'll not die till I've paid her back a little. It seems queer," he went on, with the radiant, mischievous smile that had made his listener's heart ache in the old days, "it seems queer to die a married man, Amy, after living a single one all my life. But it's never too late to mend. How thin your hand is, you poor little thing! You've had hard luck, haven't you?" He relapsed into silence, staring steadily at the wall at the foot of his bed. His eyes grew glazed and feverish.
"Don't leave me," he muttered. "Julia! Julia!"
Amy started and winced.
"You're a beastly little flirt," he went on, angrily, gripping her hand till she with difficulty refrained from crying out with pain, "a heartless, despicable little flirt and I despise you from the bottom of my soul—but, O God! I can't help loving you. No other woman has ever been to me what you were—and you—threw—me—over," he went on, slowly, with a hard, cruel expression, "for Greene. Greene! the miserable, worthless sot! Well, you made one mistake, my lady, didn't you? ... But don't turn away, Julia!" he went on, imploringly, "don't turn away from me! I can't stand it.... Your hand is cold—you don't care—O my God! you don't care!" His voice rose almost to a wail. "Julia!" he cried. "Julia! my darling, my darling!—say it's a mistake! You're not what you pretend to be—you can't be!—Julia!"
He sank back exhausted and his face relaxed. A look of intense relief overspread his features and his lips formed a smile of great beauty and tenderness.
"Julia!" he murmured softly. Then he died.
Amy sat quite unmoved and looked at the rigid figure. She showed no particular emotion; yet the peace which made the dead face so beautiful was lacking in the living. Some minutes elapsed. She rose at last and stood for a moment, looking down. About that lifeless thing on the bed had clustered all her poor, starved life had held of love and romance. She bent slowly toward it; then straightened, a faint red colour in her sallow cheek.
"No!" she said, almost proudly.
She rang the bell.
"The General has just died," she said in level, unemotional accents. "It was very sudden. It was impossible to call you. I am sorry."
The big-hearted nurse looked at her with hearty repulsion and dislike and burst into a flood of tears. There seemed no particular reason for waiting further; Amy moved mechanically to the door and down the steps; and so passed quietly into the bitter night.
CHAPTER XVI
THE HOCKEY MATCH
"The day is short, the evening cometh fast;The time of choosing, Love, will soon be past;The outer darkness falleth, Love, at last.Love, let us love ere it be late—too late!* * * * *Once, only, Love, may love's sweet song be sung,But once, Love, at our feet life's flower is flung;Once, Love, once only, Love, can we be young."—Anon.
"The day is short, the evening cometh fast;The time of choosing, Love, will soon be past;The outer darkness falleth, Love, at last.Love, let us love ere it be late—too late!* * * * *Once, only, Love, may love's sweet song be sung,But once, Love, at our feet life's flower is flung;Once, Love, once only, Love, can we be young."—Anon.
"The day is short, the evening cometh fast;
The time of choosing, Love, will soon be past;
The outer darkness falleth, Love, at last.
Love, let us love ere it be late—too late!
* * * * *
* * * * *
Once, only, Love, may love's sweet song be sung,
But once, Love, at our feet life's flower is flung;
Once, Love, once only, Love, can we be young."
—Anon.
—Anon.
—Anon.
The Montreal Arena is a building of considerable size, capable of accommodating many thousands. It has been the scene of many a revel; horses, prima donnas, vegetables, all have exhibited here at one time or another; from Calvé, who raved with indignation at the idea of singing in such a place, to Emperor, the finest horse in Canada, who made no objection, whatever. Only a hockey match, however, can count positively on filling it from wall to wall.
To-night was the Wales-Conquerors match: and many a business man of mature years had sent his office boy days before to "stand in line" from nine to eleven on a bitter winter morning in order to procure tickets. Mrs. Hadwell had secured six seats and had organized a party to escort her American guests thither. She, however, had not accompanied them, frankly acknowledging the obvious fact that she was "no sport."
"I do love to be fin-de-siecle," she had said. "But, when it comes to hockey or pug dogs—well, I simply can't, that's all." Then she had told a plaintive tale of how, when a girl, she had been taken to a hockey match. Her escort had been an enthusiast of the most virulent type; and she had been obliged to feign a joy which she by no means felt.
"It was ghastly," she observed, "ghastly. There I sat, huddled in grandmother's sealskin which wasn't a bit becoming, and watched a lot of weird things dressed like circus clowns knocking a bit of rubber round a slippery rink. And all those poor misguided beings who had paid two, three and five dollars to see them do it yelled like mad whenever the rubber got taken down a little faster than usual—oh, you may laugh! but I can tell you that when one of those silly men whacked another silly man over the head when the umpire wasn't looking because the second ass had hit that absurd bit of rubber oftener than he, the first ass, had—why, I felt sorry to think that the human species to which I belonged was so devoid of sense. And that great goat who stood at one end and tried to stop the thing from getting between two sticks! why did everyone think he was a hero when he managed to get his two big feet together in time to stop the rubber from getting through? I don't see anything very clever in putting your feet together and letting a rubber thing come bang against your toes, do you?
"But what's the use of talking! You must think it clever. You must! or why should you go? Where is the attraction? Do youlikehearing those wild-looking men shouting insults at the men who don't play on their team? Does it amuse you to hear them snarling, 'Dirty Smith! Putimoff!' 'Butcher Brown! Knockiseadoff, Robinson!' It is incomprehensible to me. I shall always remember Alice Mann's proud face as she watched her brother chasing round while the crowd hailed him by the dignified and endearing title of 'Dirty Mann.' I think that, if I had a brother and heard him called 'Dirty Mann' in public, I should want to leave the city."
Accordingly Mrs. Hadwell had stayed at home; but a merry and expectant party had met at Hadwell Heights and had driven to the Arena, where they sat now, awaiting the fray. It would be some time before this began, so the young strangers had time to look about them and comment on the various spectators. Ladies wrapped in costly furs sat side by side with shabbily dressed men, who, in spite of the printed reminder that smoke was forbidden, ejected a constant stream in the air, the while they hoarsely sang the merits of their favourite team and the demerits of the opposing one. Small boys perched on the rafters, looking as though a finger touch would hurl them to instant destruction.
"If one of them did fall," inquired Bertie, with a shudder, "wouldn't he be instantly killed?"
"If he were lucky," returned her companion, a young McGill professor named Donovan, cheerfully. "Otherwise he might only injure himself for life."
"But"——
"But you see, Miss Hadwell, none of them ever do fall. Not one boy has ever lost his hold, as far as I know. If one of them did get killed of course it would be stopped."
"But don't they get awfully excited?"
"Excited! They go mad. But they don't fall."
"You see," interposed Gerald Amherst, "they never think about it. If one of them stopped clapping and wriggling and began to measure the space from his airy perch to the ice, below; and furthermore meditate on the consistency and solidity of the aforesaid ice and the probable fate of anyone whose head came in contact with it after a fall of seventy to a hundred feet—why, he would drop, that's all. They are occupied with more important matters, however; the merits of Smith as a goal-keeper, the demerits of Brown as a forward—they have no time to muse upon their latter end and the thin veil that lies between them and eternity."
"I'm glad they haven't; for my part I'm convinced that I shall have nightmare after seeing them. Is that your—what is the band playing for? Oh, is that the Vice-Regal party? Dear me! what is every one rising for? Must I get up, too?"
Her voice was drowned in the strains of the National Anthem which was howled enthusiastically by boxes and rafters, alike. As, "God save the King" died into silence the Governor-General bowed and took his seat; while his daughters gazed with interest about the Arena which they were visiting for the first time.
"Observe his coat," said Mr. Donovan. "Feast your American eyes on it. That coat was bought by Lord Dufferin, and left by him to be worn by his successors. The sleeves are quite out of style by this time; but you see 'This is a man!' What's your opinion of him, on the whole?"
"Why, I think—good gracious, what's that!"
A roar that shook the roof arose as the opposing teams emerged from the waiting room and skated upon the ice. The scarlet sweaters and caps of the Conquerors stained the crystal ice with daubs of blood: and the more sombre hues of the Wales showed with almost equal effect.
"Oh, are they beginning?" cried Bertie in ecstasy.
They were. The whistle blew and both sides skated to the centre to receive the customary warning.
"They both seem pretty cool," remarked Mr. Amherst. "No signs of nervousness that I can see."
"Not a particle. Look! who has won the toss? The Conquerors? Hurrah! You must say 'Hurrah!' too, Mr. Hadwell, whenever anything nice happens to the Conquerors. It's no fun unless you choose a team."
"Why is the Conquerors your team?"
"Because—oh, because the captain's father was baptized by my grandfather, I believe. There is some such reason, but, for the moment, I forget just what it is. Any reason will do, you know; the point is that you must have a favourite team and shout whenever it scores and groan with indignation whenever the other team does. Do you see?"
"I see. When am I to begin? and how am I to let the public know what I am groaning about?"
"Oh, the public will know if you groan in the right place—that is, when the other team does well. Oh, look! there goes the puck!"
It dashed across the ice, followed by a mass of skimming, pursuing forms; and, for the next few moments, silence reigned. Then a shout arose, "Off-side!"
"Off-side" it was; and the indignant audience hurled insults impartially at both teams; no one seeming very sure as to which was "off-side," but each assuming that it could not be a member of his favourite team. The Conquerors lost to the Wales this time and the latter passed to one of his team who succeeded in sending the puck flying toward the goal. Intense excitement reigned: would he succeed in getting the puck past the goal-keeper? No: the latter deftly turned it aside; and a roar of mingled delight and disappointment arose which made the American girl start and put her hands to her ears.
"Do they often make such a noise?" she asked, involuntarily.
"I should think so," answered Donovan, staring. "You don't mind it, do you? Oh, shame on you, Parton! what are you thinking about, Umpire?—don't mind me, Miss Hadwell, I'm just—Hurray! Bully for you, Marsh! oh, good work, old boy. You're the stuff! Push it along—Hurray!"
The puck had passed and the Conquerors had drawn first blood. In the first wild shriek that rose Bertie was conscious chiefly of one thing—everybody's mouth was wide open. No individual shriek could be distinguished, yet, judging from appearances, every one, from the Governor-General in his box to the smallest imp on the highest rafter, was shouting himself hoarse. Slowly the excitement subsided; slowly the spectators sank back into the seats which they had vacated; and, after a minute or two of preparation, the game recommenced.
"Never tell me again that the English are a cold race," Bertie remarked solemnly as the party took their seats in Mrs. Hadwell's carriage at the close of the evening. "I have read of such things, but I never expected to see them in Canada. I could go to a hockey match every night in the week. It's grand! And, Mr. Donovan, if the Wales had won—as I thought at one time they would—I believe I should have cried myself to sleep. Oh, you needn't laugh! I mean it."
An hour or so later, after the assembled guests had partaken of a supper at Hadwell Heights, Lynn and Gerald Amherst left together and walked slowly in the direction of the city. It was midnight and the streets were practically deserted. For a short time they walked on in silence, neither caring to speak of anything except the subject which was uppermost in the minds of both. Finally, however, Gerald broke the silence.
"Lynn," he said, very quietly, "I have tried to tell you something several times. You have always turned the subject in one way or another. This has been going on now for a long time, for a very long time. I can't have it. I must know to-night, what it is to be. You don't understand, I think, how hard this is on me; if you did, you wouldn't be vexed with me for speaking so plainly." He paused.
"I—am not vexed with you. I had rather you spoke, plainly—but"—
"But—there it is, again. You seem uneasy, almost unhappy about the matter. Yet I don't think you altogether dislike me; in fact—in fact there have been times when I was sure you cared—then when I saw you next, you were quite different, altogether different. You seemed to avoid me. I know it is quite impossible to understand a woman, but, some way, I can't help hoping. You are so sincere in other ways that I think you would be sincere even about a thing like this. Now tell me! There is some trouble, some difficulty, I know. Won't you tell me what it is?"
"Oh, no—I can't."
"Why not? Is it that you are thinking of some one else—of Harold Lighton, for instance—and that you can't be sure as to which you prefer"—
"No, that is not it. You have been frank; and I will be frank in return. I prefer you to any other man that I have ever known."
"Then"—
"No, stop! You don't understand me. I did not say that I wanted to marry you and"—
"You mean that you—don't care enough, is that it?"
"N-no. I can't say that, exactly."
"What then?" he asked, eagerly; but Lynn was silent, staring at the lights of the distant city.
"Lynn!—what in God's name do you mean? Think! Think of what you have said. In one breath you almost allow that you care for me; and, in the next, you say, practically, that you can't marry me. What does it all mean?"
"I can't tell you."
"You must. Try."
"I know that I must sound ridiculous and unreasonable to you, but the fact remains. I do love you; I can't bear to let you go away without telling you so. But for reasons which—which I can't explain—I don't think that I can marry you."
"But, Lynn, what in the world can you mean? You have no ties! nothing that can bind you down or prevent you from doing as you please. What do you mean?"
Lynn walked on in silence for a little while, then turned. Her face was white.
"I can't marry you, Gerald," she said, distinctly.
"Why not? There's some one else?"
"No—not in the way you mean."
"Then it's just that you don't care enough. It must be."
She said nothing, but bit her lips and quivered.
"You do care," he burst forth, suddenly. "Lynn, you do care. I know it. I feel it. You have taken some crazy notion in your head, some fanatical idea or other. Tell me! I insist on knowing what it is. If you care for me you will confide in me about this. You must see how cruelly unfair it is to tell me that you can't marry me and to refuse to even let me know the reason. Tell me! Even if it is something which prevents our marrying now, the difficulty may be surmounted in a few years' time. Tell me."
Lynn started and turned toward firm, her face suddenly illuminated.
"Do you?" she cried, breathlessly, "do you—oh, it isn't right, I oughtn't to ask it—but do you care enough to wait—to wait—perhaps, for a year, or even two years and keep our—the engagement secret?"
"Why, of course I do. What's two years against a life-time? But, Lynn, I don't like secrecy. Can't you tell me what all this means?"
She paused, then spoke, weighing each word, carefully.
"I have a trouble, a care; something which prevents me from even thinking of marriage. It concerns other people and I can tell you nothing about it. But, at any time, I—may be released from it. Perhaps in a week—perhaps not for years—but eventually—I shall be free—broken-hearted and old with grief—but free. Till then. And even then, understand clearly, Gerald, I can explain, nothing—nothing. Now I have told you the truth so far as I am able; and you see for yourself how hopeless it is. Leave me. I am plain and sad and old. Marry some one else, Gerald, and forget me."
"Some one else! Lynn, my dear, dear girl, you don't know what nonsense you're talking. Only say that you'll marry me—promise me that—and everything else may slide. To-morrow—a year—three years—what does it matter, as long as you come to me in the end?"
"But—no one must know—oh, Gerald, it can't be right to hold you. I shouldn't."
"Perfectly right and perfectly wise; if, for any reason, you are obliged to keep it secret. Only, Lynn, you must promise me one thing. The moment that you are released from your obligation, whatever it may be, you must tell me. Promise me that you will let no false motives of delicacy stand in your way, but will come and tell me that you are ready to marry me, the instant that the obstacle is removed. I won't even ask what it is; I shall only ask that you promise me this."
And Lynn promised.
CHAPTER XVII
A SCANDAL VERIFIED
"I'm not denying that women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men."—George Eliot.
"I'm not denying that women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men."—George Eliot.
"Gracious, man! do give those unfortunate eyes of yours a rest. I should think they would ache, the way you roll them. Besides, it's such a waste of time to make eyes at me."
"I don't think so."
"I suppose it keeps you in practice," Miss Bent remarked, sardonically.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said," repeated Miss Bent, slowly and deliberately, "that I supposed that—it—kept—you—in practice—to—make—eyes—at—me!"
"It does. But that's not the only reason I do it."
Miss Bent eyed him with extreme disfavour.
"How silly you are," she said, snubbingly.
"Now that's unworthy of you," her companion returned. "Its rudeness is worthy of you, but not its stupidity. Ordinarily your remarks are witty, even when they are rude, but this"—
"Has only truth to recommend it."
"I don't care for verbal gymnastics."
"Your likes and dislikes are not"—
"A matter of interest to you? no, I suppose not. And you see that relieves me from considering yours. Take the present case, for instance. I feel like making eyes, as you rudely call it, at you: therefore I make them"—
"And make them very badly!" interpolated the well-bred Miss Bent.
"You are no judge, being by nature incapable of doing anything in the eye-making way at all."
"Ah!" said Miss Bent, reflectively, "there is no saying how well I might make eyes if I saw anything worth making eyes at. But, I say, don't be cross."
"I'm not!"
"No, of course not: but don't, anyway, for I want to tell you something and some way I can't talk to cross people"—
"But I tell you I'm not"—
"Dear, dear! there you are again with a face flaming with rage, interrupting me and contradicting me."
Mr. Ogden opened his mouth; then shut it with an air of determination, as though he really might have replied, had he chosen.
"And now you're glaring at me as if you were beside yourself with rage. Why don't you try to be reasonable?"
The unhappy Mr. Ogden stared wildly but ventured no remark.
"I suppose I may go on now," Miss Bent said in a rather pointed manner when a moment of silence had elapsed. "What I began to tell you half an hour ago—only you would keep interrupting me—was that Mrs. Hadwell is giving all sorts of things for those cousins, or whatever they are, of hers from the States. And she has asked me to a theatre party and a tobogganing party, so I think I ought to give something for them. What would you suggest?"
Mr. Ogden looked perplexed.
"Surely you're not sulking all this time!" said Miss Bent, rather sadly.
"I don't know what you mean. I never sulk."
"Then, perhaps, instead of sulking, you will answer my question," said Miss Bent with asperity.
Mr. Ogden laughed.
"I should suggest a drive," he hazarded. "A drive by moonlight and a supper afterwards."
"Perhaps that would be the best plan," said Miss Bent, thoughtfully. "Who would you ask?"
"Me, for one."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so, but—O dear! has my snowshoe come off, again?"
"Let me fix it."
"What do you suppose is the reason?"
"The reason? You didn't let me do it at the start."
"I suppose you think you can attend to my snowshoes better than I can myself."
"I do, indeed."
"Well, don't start to argue about that, please don't. I haven't seen you for such a long time and there are such a lot of things that I want to say, but some way, whenever I am going to start, something happens to prevent me."
"Your snowshoe, for instance?"
"Yes, or you. You begin to argue about something. Now don't be cross! I suppose I really shouldn't have said that, but"—
"Oh, it's quite true that I occasionally make a remark."
"Occasionally!"
"Very occasionally, yes. When people are with you they don't talk much as a rule. Queer, isn't it?"
"I suppose," said his companion after thinking deeply for a moment, "that what you mean is that they don't get much chance."
"That was my meaning, exactly."
"I can't help talking a little sometimes, you know," said Miss Bent, icily——
"You can't, indeed!"
"No. I come by it honestly.My own father was a man!"
Silence reigned, unbroken and long. The snowshoers trudged on in silence, the lady chuckling delightedly to herself.
"I had two things to tell you," she remarked, presently, perceiving that her companion was unmoved by her silence and getting very tired of preserving it.
"Yes?"
"Yes. The second one is gossip, so I suppose I shouldn't"—
"Oh, but you will."
"Not," said Miss Bent, impressively, "not unless you promise solemnly never to tell a living soul about it—especially not Agatha!"
"Why is Agatha to be debarred from hearing what no living soul may know?"
"Because," said his companion, seriously, "Agatha is not to be trusted. She can't keep a secret. Oh, you needn't laugh. The person who told me this said the same thing to me. 'Don't tell anyone about this,' she said, most earnestly, 'and whoever you tell, don't tell Agatha.'"
"What lack of confidence you two secretive people do show in Agatha. Why is it?"
"In the first place because she's a cat."
"Doesn't seem conclusive. I've known cats who talked less than some ladies."
"—And in the second because she's her cousin."
"Whose? The cat's?"
"No. Lynn Thayer's."
"My golf-balls! Where are we at?"
"Why, I'm sure I've made myself plain enough," said Miss Bent, looking surprised.
"On the contrary you've made yourself awfully pretty in your sporting togs but you havenotmade yourself explicit."
"You silly thing! Don't you see what I mean? It's Lynn Thayer that the gossip's about."
"Oh, Miss Thayer," said Ogden. "Then I hardly think it's true."
"Oh, it must be. This person saw her. It seemed so queer she could hardly believe her eyes."
"What did?"
"Why, Lynn's being there alone at that time of night. Not that it was a proper place for a lady at any time"——
"What place wasn't?"
"Dear me, Neil, you are stupid, sometimes. Why, St. Eustache St."——
"Whew! St. Eustache St.!"
"Yes, and at eleven o'clock at night."
"Nonsense."
"It isn't nonsense. Mabel saw her—there! I let out the name, but you won't tell anyone, will you?—at all events you won't mention that it was Mabel"——
"Mabel be—wait a moment. Your friend saw Miss Thayer—at eleven o'clock at night on St. Eustache St."—
"Yes. Coming out of that rackety studio building on the south side, where unspeakable beings congregate."
"What? Oh, look here, Kitty, you mustn't say that. You don't know what you're saying. Your friend, whoever she is, made a mistake—a big mistake. It was not Lynn Thayer she saw at all—it could not possibly have been—and she does a very wrong and wicked thing in spreading such stories. Now what I want you to do is"——
"Neil, one would think I was fifteen. Do you suppose Mabel would say such a thing if it wasn't true? She didn't think at first that it could be Lynn, though she saw her distinctly; and so she followed her."
"Oh! Well, Kitty, all I can say is that if your friend's a woman, I'm glad I'm a man. By the way, was this paragon alone?"
"Certainly not. She and her husband had been to the French theatre: and, as it was a fine night they decided to walk home. Then they began talking about how these awful old streets used to be fashionable, and he said that he would show her an interesting old house in St. Eustache St. So they went there and he pointed it out to her and told her how it used to belong to the Duke of —— and how now it had degenerated into the haunt of all sorts of people. Just as he was saying that only confirmed drunkards and opium eaters and things ever went there the door opened—and, to their infinite astonishment, Lynn Thayer came out."
"Your friend's a"——
"She isn't. She's a nice woman and so is her husband—at least I mean he's—well, anyway, they followed her for a block or two and she called a closed sleigh and, just for fun, they got into another and drove behind her. She went up to Pine Avenue and so they began to think that they must be mistaken when—what do you think?—she got out, paid the cabman and walked back to her aunt's house! There was no possible mistake about it."
Neil trudged along in silence for a few moments.
"Kitty," he said at last, "there seem to be only two interpretations that can be put on that story. The first is that Lynn Thayer, a girl who has always been considered one of the nicest in Montreal, has done an unpardonable thing; the second, that your friends are liars. I prefer to think the latter—hello! do you want to run over us? Where's your light?"
"Beg pardon, sir. I've just been driving a lady who asked me to put it out while I was up here. I'll light it right away."
"It's not right, a sleigh going at that rate without light: what on earth could the woman have meant by telling him to put it out. She must be—well, Kitty, what on earth is it?"
"Hush! Look!"
He looked. A woman clad in a long dark cloak and wearing a heavy veil passed them with averted head and hasty steps. Her walk and figure were unmistakable. She shrank into the shadow of the leafless maples and descended rapidly citywards.
CHAPTER XVIII
MRS. HADWELL'S FANCY DRESS BALL
"When Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying feet."—Byron.
"When Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing hours with flying feet."—Byron.
"When Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."
—Byron.
—Byron.
There is a fascination about a fancy dress ball which appertains to no other form of entertainment. The excitement of seeing one's common-place acquaintances blossoming out, under the magic influence of costume, into fairies, kings and cavaliers is one which never palls.
Interesting it is, too, to observe the characters impersonated and to note how clearly the character of the impersonator is expressed in his choice. Thus Mrs. Hadwell, on the evening of her famous ball, appeared as Titania, clad in a fluffy, shimmering robe of mousseline, which was further embellished and beautified by various shining ornaments and clusters of hothouse blooms. A sparkling diadem crowned her rich auburn tresses and a necklace of some value glittered on her neck. Her pretty arms were covered with bracelets and her prettier feet were adorned by diamond-studded sandals. She moved among her guests a shining, odorous, "form of faery," followed by ejaculations of admiration and murmurs of delight.
Erma Reed, on the other hand, had wisely chosen the dress of ancient Greece: and her chiselled features showed clearly cut and noble beneath the chaplet of green leaves which lay lightly on her smooth, dark locks; while her flowing robe added distinction and grace to her splendid form, beside which the puny, slender figures of more modern beauties seemed mean and artificial.
Lynn Thayer came, dressed as a Red Cross nurse. "Nothing about me suggests the heroine of history or romance," she said, "and I should make myself ridiculous by attempting to personate anything but an ordinary, everyday woman." She made a noble-looking nurse, however, and many turned from the more fancifully attired dames to watch her sympathetic countenance: some thinking, as they did so, that hers was a face that they would like to see in moments of illness or depression. Others there were, though, who watched her covertly and whispered stealthily to one another as she passed: and Lynn noted with surprise that Neil Ogden, who was standing by Kitty Bent, looked down hastily as he saw her approaching and made no sign of recognition. Nor did Kitty seem anxious to return her bow.
The twins in whose honour the affair had been contrived attracted more attention than all the other guests put together. They were in mad spirits and seemed unable to keep apart, hurrying to one another's side as soon as each dance was finished and whispering and laughing together in unrestrained fashion. Bert was attired as Mark Antony in flowing Egyptian robes, donned, as he explained, after he had made the acquaintance of the Serpent of the Nile: and he handled the crimson, voluminous garments with a grace which called forth more than one admiring comment from his partners. Their compliments were invariably received with a stifled giggle: in fact Bert's manners, as a whole, did not show their usual reserve and good breeding. Still the handsome, boyish face above the crimson draperies was so alight with good humour; the black eyes were so unaccountably mischievous and the olive cheeks so becomingly flushed that the most exigeant of his uncle's guests could not find it in her heart to be really severe until—but that, as Mr. Kipling says, is another story.
As for his sister, it is safe to say that no other girl created such a sensation. It was not only her appearance, though that was sufficiently striking, but the wild gayety and vivacity of her demeanour that made her the cynosure of every eye. She was dressed as a lady of the French court in a tightly fitting gown of French brocade with trailing draperies: and her eyes looked even darker and brighter than their wont beneath the high structure of powdered hair which the dress demanded. The pink and white brocade and the crimson robe of Egypt were so frequently seen in absorbed conversation that the twinly devotion of Mrs. Hadwell's connections was a favourite topic of conversation at the beginning of the evening. Later on, I regret to say—but here again I anticipate.
Agatha Ladilaw, dressed as the Queen of the Roses, received her usual meed of praise and attention. Her three lovers followed her around with dog-like devotion; and many others, seeing what a magnet she was for three of the conflicting sex, hastened to make her acquaintance in order to discover for themselves what the attraction was. Agatha, in consequence, became more than ever convinced that she was bound to make the best match of any girl who had come out that year; and considered more seriously than before the advisability of adding a still more eligible fourth to her list of fiances. Among the many who sunned themselves in her smiles was Harold Lighton, who found her gaze of respectful attention and her eager and smiling responses so soothing after his late reverses that he insisted on sitting out several dances with her in order that he might give her further particulars of her cousin's cruelty; which cruelty she almost wept over.
"She's such a queer girl, Mr. Lighton," she said, shyly yet impulsively, "oh, I know she's my own cousin and perhaps I oughtn't to say so but"—
"Isn't she?" inquired the disconsolate lover, eagerly. "As you're her cousin, I suppose I can say so"—
"Anything you say," said Agatha, dimpling seraphically, "is quite safe with me, Mr. Lighton—anything!" She raised her deep, soulful eyes to him with an air of rapt attention and Mr. Lighton found himself murmuring involuntarily, "What a charming girl!"
"All I was going to say was," he continued, returning to the attack, but half forgetting his griefs in the joy of finding such an intelligent listener, "that your cousin really doesn't treat a fellow fairly. Now she won't listen to anything a fellow tries to tell her. All she will say is, 'Surely we have discussed this often enough, Mr. Lighton; do talk of something else!' Now, hang it all, Miss Ladilaw, that's rude!"
"I should think it was," exclaimed Agatha, looking appropriately shocked and grieved and inwardly wondering whether any mancouldspend an hour in her society and bestow a thought afterwards on a plain girl like Lynn.
"And then, when I tell her she is rude, all she will say is, 'I wonder you come to see me so often when I am so unpleasant and there are so many nice girls in the world.'" He paused.
"Ah!" said Agatha, softly, wondering inwardly why he did; and wondering, moreover, whether it was too soon to ask him to drop in some quiet evening when she was quite sure of having no other callers, in order that they might the more fully discuss her cousin's iniquities.
"And then to have her add the finishing touch by refusing me outright after all the time I've spent on"——
"What?" said Agatha, startled, for once, out of all semblance of good manners. Was the man in earnest? Had he actually proposed? and had the fool—for no other word seemed appropriately to describe her cousin—had the fool refused him? Agatha gasped and caught her breath. Refused him! refused a horse and carriage and a nice house and a trip to Europe if she wanted it? Agatha could scarcely regain her composure.
"Yes, indeed, she refused me," reiterated the Rejected One, indignantly. "And she not only refused me but she told me that I would thank her for her refusal ten years hence."
"Mr. Lighton," Agatha's voice was solemn—"Do you—I don't suppose you do, but—excuse my asking—doyou still want to marry her?"
"I should rather think I did," rejoined Mr. Lighton, staring. "Never was so dead gone on any girl in my life. But it's no use; I may as well make up my mind to"——
"Mr. Lighton, if it is any satisfaction to you, I shall speak to my cousin. I cannot feel," Agatha continued, raising her big eyes almost tearfully to her companion's face, "I cannot feel that it is right to let my cousin refuse such an offer—I mean, such an honest and manly love as yours—without, at any rate, trying to show her how—howwickedit is. For," said Agatha with righteous indignation, "for what is Lynn, anyway? A public school teacher! And whom else is she going to get if she refuses you? Nobody! And I don't care whether she likes it or not I'm going to put her conduct before her in the right light."
"That's the stuff," said Mr. Lighton, delightedly. "You're a fine little girl, that's what: and I tell you what it is, if you do make any impression on her—which," said Mr. Lighton, relapsing into despondency, "which you won't, for she's as stubborn as a—but, if you should—why, all I can say is, I'll never forget it."
Agatha had, as all ladies who follow the time-honoured sport of man-hunting must have, an eye to all contingencies. She impulsively clasped her companion's big hand in her two small ones now as she murmured, feelingly:
"Don't think that I am intruding, Mr. Lighton, but, if thisshouldbe a failure—and no one can tell anything where Lynn is concerned—always remember that you have one friend, anyway."
"I won't forget it," responded Mr. Lighton with alacrity. Nice little thing! Pity her cousin wasn't more like her, that was all he could say. And yet, confound it all! there was something about the other—he couldn't help liking her in spite of everything—but, whatever happened, this little thing was worth cultivating. He wondered, as Agatha with a sympathetic smile and an air of stern resolve gathered up her pink draperies and departed in search of her cousin what the outcome of it would be. Well! he would soon know, at all events.