CHAPTER XIXAGATHA "DOES HER DUTY" AND IS REWARDED"Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings knownMake me quite forget my own?If she slight me when I wooI can scorn and let her go."—G. Wither.Past Boadicea, reclining against a marble heater and conversing with Mephistopheles; past Joan of Arc, flirting vigorously with Torquemeda; past the Queen of the Fairies, chatting to a miscellaneous group of knights and demons; past every variety of hero and lady fair went the self-sacrificing Agatha, intent on her altruistic aim. "For," as she muttered to herself, "if he has proposed to her, already, it isn't very likely that he will change for a little while, anyway, and I want to be married before any of the other girls. Besides it wouldn't be half so nice to marry a man who had been refused by your own cousin; though every one would think you had cut her out and Lynn is so funny that she would probably just giggle and say nothing, so it wouldn't matter much. But, as matters stand, I think it would be really wicked to let Lynn actually refuse him, particularly when I can get so many others: and, once they are married, she will be grateful to me as well as he and they will have a nice home and entertain a lot and I can be their bridesmaid and everyone will say how much prettier I am than the bride and"—At this moment she caught sight of her quarry.Lynn had been dancing and had just come out to the hall in search of a vacant chair or stair when she saw a vision of pink tulle gazing at her with such an unusual amount of feeling and expressiveness that, with a hasty excuse, she dropped her partner's arm and hurried to her small cousin's side."Agatha," she exclaimed, wonderingly. "What is it? Is anything the matter? Do you want me?""Indeed I do," responded Agatha, solemnly."Then just let me speak to Mr. Barnes a moment and explain why I am going: then we can run upstairs to Del's little sitting-room and talk quietly."This programme was carried out; and, when they were safely ensconced behind closed doors, Lynn turned eagerly to her cousin."Now, Agatha!" she said.Agatha turned and looked at her."Lynn," she said with portentous solemnity, "I don't know what you will think of me and I don't care. Some one has got to talk to you."Lynn stared in amazement, wondering if her thrice-engaged cousin objected to her dancing twice with the same man: she could think of no other enormity of which she had been guilty that evening."I have been sitting out a couple of dances with Mr. Lighton, and he became unusually confidential," went on Agatha, turning almost pale: "and he tells me," pausing impressively, "he tells me that you—have—refused—him.""He tells the truth," responded Lynn, looking annoyed, "and all I can say is, Agatha, that if you have torn me away from the dance"—"Wait a moment," said Agatha, earnestly. "This is very important to me, Lynn. It isn't only that I feel sorry that you, being my cousin, should be so foolish as to refuse him, once; but what I want to know is,—did you mean it?""Assuredly I did," said Lynn, staring."You meant," said Agatha, pathetically, "you really meant, Lynn, to refuse that nice house and"—"Yes, and that nice horse, too," exclaimed Lynn, turning red. "Upon my word this is too much! I can stand Aunt Lucy and Del, but when it comes to you, Agatha—understand once for all that I meant to refuse that nice house and that good-sized yard at the back and that commodious stable with all that it contains—not even excepting the horse which every one seemed to think that I would accept with tears of rapture, despite the fact that it was encumbered with a master whom I should have to accept, likewise, as they are inseparable.""Oh, Lynn, dear! such a lot of long words and such a temper and all because I tried to advise you for your own good.""Agatha, I give you fair warning that I shall gently but firmly assassinate the very next person who tries to advise me for my own good."Agatha sat for a moment, absorbed in thought."Lynn," she said, presently, "does anyone know that you have refused Mr. Lighten?""Not unless he has chosen to tell anyone. I am not in the habit of publishing every offer I receive in the daily papers, which is one reason why some people suppose that I never get any.""Then," said Agatha, thinking deeply, "I suppose, Lynn, you will not mind if I advise you not to—not to tell anyone? Do you remember what you said to me about those things—proposals and engagements and things, you know!—well, at the time I did say I thought it was foolish not to tell when people proposed to you because then lots of people, as you say, think you never get any—but since then I have changed my mind; I really think it is more sensible not to—particularly in your case where it would be so embarrassing for Mr. Lighton if he were attentive to some girl."Lynn burst out laughing."I never in my life told on any man who was misguided enough to ask me to marry him. I have always felt that the pain of feeling that he had so lowered himself was punishment enough for any crime.""Why, Lynn, I don't quite see what you mean," said Agatha, patient but bewildered."This is all I mean," said Lynn, gravely. "If you have any idea of going in for Lighton—and certainly his house is all that could be desired—why, don't feel as you walk up the aisle in veil and orange blossoms that I am whispering to my nearest acquaintance, 'I could have had that man if I had wanted him.'""But," said Agatha, timidly, "suppose such a thingdidhappen—it would not be very nice for you, Lynn, to think that people were saying that I had cut you out. That is the first thing that Mrs. Langham-Greene would think.""I can think of nothing at the moment less likely to worry me than Mrs. Langham-Greene's thoughts concerning me.""Oh, how queer you are!" said Agatha, opening her eyes widely. "Then, Lynn, if you should hear—well, anything! you won't mind. For there is still time for you to change your mind, you know; and really he's very fond of you, and his house"—"Has only one drawback! Now don't dare to tell him I said that, Agatha, or"—"Why, I don't know what you did say," responded Agatha, patiently. "You say such queer things, Lynn, that half the time I don't know what you're driving at. At all events, however, as I understand, you are quite determined not to accept Mr. Lighton.""Quite.""Then," said Agatha, dimpling bewitchingly and adjusting her rose wreath with an air of satisfaction, "then, Lynn, I must just go and tell him so, I suppose."She found the Rejected sitting where she had left him, and gazing disconsolately into space. He brightened a little as she sat down beside him."You had no luck, I suppose?" he remarked, tentatively."Mr. Lighton," cooed Agatha, softly, "she is not worthy of you. She is my own cousin, but I can't help saying so."Mr. Lighton turned a rich, ripe tan colour, the nearest approach to a flush of rage that his skin was capable of attaining."Made fun of me, I suppose?" he queried in tones of stifled fury. "Oh, you needn't try to smooth it over, Miss Ladilaw! I know that tongue of hers too well.""Well," said Agatha, commiseratingly, "I must say, Mr. Lighton, that she might have been nicer. It's one thing to refuse a man and another to make jokes about it. Not that she said much, you know, but there was one speech about your house having only one drawback"—"That," exclaimed Mr. Lighton in a burst of horrible enlightenment, "was Me!""I am afraid so," said Agatha, softly. "But please don't tell any one I repeated it, Mr. Lighton. I really shouldn't have, you know. But I felt so disturbed and angry at the idea of any one belonging to me being so heartless"—Six months later when Miss Agatha Ladilaw, "the prettiest debutante of the former season," made "the match of the year," Lynn felt rather hurt at the demeanour of both bride and groom toward her."I was disagreeable," she reflected, "but he brought it on himself and I can't understand why the mention of my name should invariably produce a chill in the Ladilaw household. Agatha, at least, has nothing to blame me for."Agatha and Agatha's husband, however, agreed in seeing as little as possible of Agatha's cousin and in acting as coldly as was consistent with politeness whenever they did meet her. This, Society thought, was owing to the fact that poor Miss Thayer had cherished useless aspirations in the direction of the Lighton house, herself. Poor Miss Thayer!CHAPTER XXTHE TWINS UNDER A NEW ASPECT"Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful jollity."—Milton.The fun was at its height. The most delightful waltz of the evening had just concluded and streams of gaily dressed forms poured in the direction of the balcony. It was mid-winter and the thermometer stood at five below: yet more than one couple strolled out on the balcony and stood, contracting lung trouble and pneumonia, while they gazed enraptured at the beautiful panorama which spread beneath them. The city was a mass of glittering lights, seen through the delicate pencilled branches of bare maples and willows; and seemed to the watchers as though lying hundreds of feet below Hadwell Heights. At the foot of the high hill on which the house was built lay Pine Avenue, thronged with couples arrayed in sporting garb and bent on their way to the toboggan slide at the back of the mountain. Less often a party of snowshoers would rush past on their ungainly footgear: an object of little amusement to the Canadians but one of never-failing interest to the Americans: and, less frequently still, a couple of men on skis. The twins, who never thought of colds or of precautions against them, spent most of their time between the dances in standing in the most exposed part of the balcony and watching the passers-by until the icy winds which whirled around drove them indoors, shivering but happy.Bertie seemed to-night as though possessed of some demon of mischief and unrest. She confessed to a rather bad cold already, but it detracted nothing from her appearance though it affected her usually sweet voice, rendering it hoarse and strained. No entreaties could keep her from the icy balcony, though, and her partners soon stopped making them and devoted themselves to carrying on the flirtations which she seemed determined to push to the utmost limit. Never had any of her Canadian admirers seen her in such a mood; her usual gay, but rather reserved manner had given place to the one commonly attributed to the American girl in foreign fiction. Her partners were at first amazed, then flattered at her open and eager anxiety for their attentions; but some, including Donovan, her companion of the hockey match, who had come to like and admire the pretty Ohio girl, were rather repelled and disgusted at the change in her. Toward the end of the evening his disgust reached a climax. An extremely shy and painfully proper youth to whom Bertie had begged him to introduce her at the beginning of the evening, had just emerged from sitting out a dance with her and had asked Donovan to have a smoke with him in Mr. Hadwell's "den," which, for this night, was given over to the needs of the dancers. On Donovan's assenting, Mr. Simcoe, the shy youth, had unfolded a tale of horror. He had come up for his dance with Miss Hadwell when she, without a word of apology, had piloted him in the direction of the stairs, murmuring, as she did so, "We don't want to dance, do we? We can do better than that." On his expressing his willingness to do as she wished she had squeezed his arm and informed him in an ecstatic whisper that he was a duck, a perfect duck, and that she was going to show him a nice little cubby hole behind some curtains at the end of the hall which she was sure Mrs. Hadwell must have fixed expressly for them. "Of course," Mr. Simcoe had remarked, nervously, "of course I couldn't refuse to go, Donovan." Donovan, looking very grim, had agreed with him: of course he could not. So, it appeared, they had gone. Mr. Simcoe had seemed unwilling to divulge the secrets of his prison house but had gone so far as to hint that ladies who asked fellows to kiss them on so short an acquaintance were not in his line. Donovan had informed him here that gentlemen did not, as a rule, "kiss and tell": and had refused to listen further, regardless of Mr. Simcoe's anguished explanation. "But I didn't, Donovan! hang it all, it was she who insisted, you know, and she can't blame me for speaking of it." Donovan had walked off in a furious rage, awakened, not so much by Mr. Simcoe's lack of gallantry as by Miss Hadwell's lack of common sense and good breeding.If Miss Bertie's conduct gave rise to comment, what shall be said of Mr. Bert's? It is safe to say that never before in a Montreal drawing-room had any gentleman disported himself with such amazing freedom. Before many dances had transpired ominous whispers might have been heard among the young ladies who had been honoured with his partnership; and it was a matter of common observation that, toward the end of the evening, several of his companions flatly refused to "sit out" dances which he had engaged, earlier. The most amazing snub which he received came from Miss Reed, who, on his reminding her that she had promised him the eighteenth dance, had answered in tones of ice, "So sorry, Mr. Hadwell, but I never dance—except with gentlemen!" This was merely the climax of a series of unpleasant remarks which had been showered upon him; but, coming from Miss Reed, who was known to have absorbed all his time and attention until that evening, it was expected to have had a chilling effect upon him. This, however, was far from being the case. "I may not be exactly a gentleman, Miss Reed," he had returned with the utmost sangfroid, "but"— At this moment he had caught sight of his sister's eye, fixed on him with a look in which rage and consternation were strangely blended; and breaking off abruptly, he had left Erma's side, his manly shoulders shaking visibly. Bertie had held a hasty and agitated conversation with him; and the twinly devotion which had so impressed the assembled company when the dance commenced was apparently conspicuous by its absence.In the midst of the dance Mrs. Hadwell was seen to leave the room, hastily, in response to a whispered message from a housemaid. When she returned her eyes were sparkling mischievously and her whole demeanour was charged with importance. Presently she beckoned confidentially to Mrs. Langham-Greene, who stood, resplendent in pale green draperies and water lilies, a most pleasing and graceful Undine. Undine approached and Titania linked her arm in hers. "My dear," she cooed, "you haven't an idea—oh, how shall I begin? You know my housekeeper, don't you? Wasn't she an old school friend of yours?""Not a friend, exactly," answered the elegant Undine, rather deprecatingly. "An acquaintance, rather. Such an ugly little thing and so lacking in any sort of brightness and attractiveness"—"To us yes!" purred Titania. "But only think of a man like General Shaftan having cared so much for her that he was unable to die without seeing her and imploring her for the last time to become his wife"— She paused and viewed the crimsoning Undine with a countenance absolutely devoid of guile."General Shaftan?" inquired her guest, turning from crimson to scarlet. "General Shaftan? Why, my dear Mrs. Hadwell"—"I know," murmured Titania, sympathetically, casting a demure glance at the infuriated water nymph, "I know! we all thought it was you—and, no doubt, he made you think so as well! men are such dreadful deceivers—but he sent for Mrs. Waite on his death-bed and wanted to marry her."Undine found her breath."MydearMrs. Hadwell," she laughed, lightly. "Does it sound a probable story?""No; and if the poor woman, herself, had told me about it, I regret to say that I should have doubted her. But the General told his nurse and trusted her with the secret contents of his will. It was drawn up three hours before he sent for Mrs. Waite and, in it, he says that he leaves all of which he dies possessed to Amy Marion Waite in the belief that that lady will, in the next few hours, become his wife, as he hopes and intends she shall."Mrs. Langham-Greene said nothing, but turned white and twisted the fan which she held in her long, snake-like fingers feverishly. Titania, looking at her, felt a sudden twinge of compassion and compunction. She left her with some hurried excuse."So," she said, slowly to herself, "so even that unscrupulous, wheedling serpent is capable of caring for somebody: and caring for him all those years, too. Am I the only woman living who—who"——Something wet and glistening fell on her chiffon dress. She hastily wiped it away and stared in amazement."Getting sentimental at my age?" she inquired in stupefaction. "Here, Estelle Hadwell, don't be a fool! You've got everything you ever wanted and you're ten times happier than anyone else you know. Think of your dresses and your jewelry and your friends and your—n-n-no, I don't know that you need think of him—not just now, at all events! But think of"—She looked up, up the long, broad stairway, up to the big, quiet nursery. Then she smiled and tossed her head."I have everything, practically everything," she said, defiantly. "Everything but a sentimental experience which disappears, anyway, after six months of married life. I'm a fool, that's what I am! a discontented, ungrateful fool. The trouble with me is that I've got too much. If only—if only one of them doesn't"——A spasm of agony crossed her face at the unwelcome thought; then she resolutely crossed the hall and opened an animated conversation with one of her numerous admirers. Lack of self-control was not one of the pretty Titania's failings.Presently Lynn Thayer joined her, looking grave and perplexed. "May I have Mrs. Hadwell to myself for a few moments?" she asked, smiling in a rather forced way: then, putting her hand on Mrs. Hadwell's arm, she drew her aside."Del," she said in a low voice, "you know I am no prude and I don't make a fuss, unnecessarily, about anything; but I tell you plainly that you must speak to those young connections of yours.""Why, what have the poor things been doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell in amazement. "I noticed that they were awfully lively but, surely, at their age"—"My dear Del, their conduct is outrageous. Particularly Bertie's. After all, if a boy of twenty chooses to act like a fool he simply gets severely snubbed and, in time, comes to his senses and is forgiven. But when a girl of the same age, a girl who has had every advantage, starts to act in her uncle's house like an extremely fast barmaid, why, you know as well as I do that it won't be forgotten in a hurry. What has got into them to-night I don't know; but the whole room is talking of their actions. Imagine Bertie asking that shy little recluse of a Simcoe to kiss her and pretending to weep when he hesitated"——"Lynn!""My dear, that isn't the worst of it. She has taken about half her partners to that little alcove in the second floor hall, which is curtained off, and has treated them to a course of hoydenish flirtation which is, to say the least of it, in the poorest taste. Silly little Simcoe was bad enough, but, when it comes to Parham, one of the fastest men in the city"——"Surely not!""She has been sitting up there with him for the last two dances; and she is evidently taken with him, for, when she showed me her programme and I remarked on her having promised him three dances in succession, she giggled in the most affected manner and said, 'Oh, I simply adore those sad-eyed, soft-voiced men with reputations yards long!' and danced off before I had a chance to suggest that"——"Why, Lynn, what can I have been thinking about to allow it? Oh, the silly child! If she must act like a goose, why couldn't she do it a little more privately? Don't laugh, Lynn: you know what I mean. And you tell me that Bert?"——"Has been acting like a perfect fool. He even wanted to kiss me.""Lynn! the boy must have taken leave of his senses.""I was afraid myself that he was drunk. In fact I took the liberty of asking him if he was. He was quite angry for a moment. 'What do you mean by saying that I am drunk?' he asked. 'Oh,' I said, 'I didn't say that youweredrunk: on the contrary I said I hoped you weren't.' 'But why should you think I was?' persisted my gentleman. So I told him that when people tried to make love to me I always thought they must be drunk. He shouted at that and explained that he was in good spirits—animal, not vegetable—and wanted to enjoy himself. I treated him to a piece of my mind, but it didn't seem to do much good.""Isn't it extraordinary? With all their high spirits and love of fun I thought those twins were as well-bred a pair as you would want to meet. Well! I must do my duty, I suppose. Where are the miscreants, Lynn?""Bert is in the ballroom, trying to pacify his partners, most of whom are not pleased with him for reasons best known to themselves. Bertie, as I told you, is sitting behind a fairly thick curtain with a man who shouldn't be admitted into any respectable house.""My dear child, don't start to lecture about that! I have enough on my hands."She mounted the stairs with a determined but bored expression and presently descended, followed by the unrepentant Bertie who winked joyously at the stony and disapproving visage of her aunt's friend. Behind them strolled the redoubtable Parham, apparently highly amused.Mrs. Hadwell entered the ballroom and looked about for Bert. He was presently discovered in the act of fanning an indignant-looking lady who pretended to ignore his efforts at small talk. Mrs. Hadwell beckoned and he sprang to his feet with alacrity."Bert!" said his aunt by marriage, sternly, "there are limits to my forbearance. I am sorry to say that you have transgressed those limits. I am still sorrier that you have no better taste than to take pleasure in showing impertinence to my guests."Bert's face worked for a moment: he said something in an aside to his sister, then spoke."Aunt Del," he said, humbly but with an irrepressible twinkle in his black eyes, "we have acted like a couple of demons, I must admit, but, if you'll only forgive us this once, I swear we'll straighten things out. Every one is going to supper, now; well, Bertie and I are going in together and, just as soon as the people are seated, you will see what will happen.""I will not," was Mrs. Hadwell's unexpected rejoinder. "I have had quite enough nonsense, Bert. It must end, here."Bert consulted his sister with his eyes; then, catching his diminutive aunt by the waist, he whirled her down the room and whispered something in her ear. She gasped, then suddenly laughed and looked relieved; and Bertie approached and entered into an animated conversation with her.Five minutes later, when the assembled company was seated at supper, the unruly and ostracized pair walked solemnly in and stood for a moment at the head of the room. Then Bert raised his crimson-decked arm with a mute request for silence. A hush of surprise fell on the revellers. He spoke."My dear friends," he said, gravely, "my sister and I have acted so badly to-night and have laid ourselves open to so much well-deserved censure that we think the least we can do is to apologize, and we do it—thus!"He deliberately laid hold of his companion's snowy locks and, with a vigorous pull, exposed a close cropped head. Then he doffed his crimson headgear and a dark tress fell athwart his nose.When the prolonged shrieks of amazement and laughter had died into silence Bert—the real Bert—spoke."My sister says that if all the girls whom she has kissed will forgive her she will never do it, again," he said. "And, as for me," he paused and cast a glance of pure delight in the direction of Messrs. Simcoe and Parham, "as for me, while I must confess that I am a horrible flirt"—He could get no further.An hour later Undine, looking paler than her wont, sat whispering behind a large fan to two or three other women. One of them, a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman, looked distinctly sad and uncomfortable."The poor girl!" she said."Such people should be exposed," returned Undine, coldly. "The idea of her being here at all. Mrs. Hadwell cannot associate with fast women and expect to keep her own character. Personally I never think there is any real harm in Mrs. Hadwell, though"— She paused tentatively while a venomous gleam lit her large, pale eyes."Oh, no, no!" cried the others in horrified unison; and Mrs. Langham-Greene saw that it would be dangerous to venture further. She bade an affectionate farewell to her hostess and ordered a closed sleigh."My dress is so thin," she explained, smiling.As the sleigh drove away she crouched among the fur rugs and bit her naked arms and writhed."I'll pay them for this," she whispered, catching her breath in torture. "He sent for her—for her! and that little cat dared to tell me to my face—oh, I can't reach her, not yet; but I can hurt her through her friend, anyway. She really cares for the Thayer girl; it'll make trouble with her pompous old husband when she insists on supporting her—oh, I'll do what I can! it may help me to forget." She groaned. "Oh, I can't bear it: I didn't mind his death as I mind this! it's like losing him all over again—I'll pay her for what she's made me suffer to-night!I'll pay her!"CHAPTER XXIA LIE WHICH IS PART A TRUTH"A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."—Tennyson.Mrs. Langham-Greene's pretty town house possessed a drawing-room as elegant as its mistress, and far less harmful. It was flanked by two bay windows, admirably adapted for gazing on the peccadilloes of one's neighbours, the while one ruminated contentedly on one's own virtues. Here its fair owner loved to sit on winter afternoons, dispensing excellent tea and gossip: and here one bright January day found her brewing the witching potion for a waiting guest. This was no other than Gerald Amherst, who happened to be painting the lady's portrait. When the daylight faded she had insisted on his accompanying her home and joining her in a cup of five o'clock tea. The fair widow was not an especial favourite of the artist's; but his stock of excuses had been exhausted on previous occasions and he had therefore submitted meekly.Mrs. Langham-Greene was a woman who wore well, as the saying is. Her figure was straight and supple as a girl of twenty's and her delicate features had escaped the pinched look which frequently accompanies thinness in a woman of fifty. Her skin had always been colourless and now resembled fine ivory; her hair, which she wore parted in the middle in the Madonna style, was only very slightly flecked with grey. Julia Langham-Greene was a distinguished woman, an interesting woman, an elegant woman. When, at thirty-five, she had first donned widow's weeds, she had created such a furore that it was many years before she found herself able to relinquish them. However, when a woman reaches forty and finds herself capable of wearing pale blue and scarlet to advantage—she usually does.Mrs. Langham-Greene was now forty-seven, yet she could attend a fancy dress ball attired in Nile green and pearls and look the part of Undine to perfection. Small wonder, then, that she wished to transfer such lasting charms to still more lasting canvas; and Amherst had attained distinction as a portrait painter years before. She smiled delicately on him now, as she sugared his tea and inquired in tones of melted honey whether he took cream or lemon; and pondered inwardly how best to land the shaft she held in store."You are too good," she purred, in response to a perfunctory compliment on his part. "Far too good. Among so many young and pretty girls I fear I must have been quite unnoticed. Miss Reed, for instance! What regular features she has; quite ideal! What a pity that she has so little conversation! and such poor taste in dress. And is it true that her father has fits and that her mother was a house-maid before he married her?""I never heard that," returned Amherst, opening his honest eyes in amazement. "Miss Reed is a striking looking girl, but, to my mind, Miss Ladilaw is far prettier.""But so uninteresting, don't you think?""Not more so than the majority of very young girls.""Still," pursued Mrs. Langham-Greene, thoughtfully, "she is a nice lady-like little thing. I daresay she will marry young; she is so naive and pretty. It is not likely that she will hang on year after year like that poor, plain cousin of hers.""Surely you don't mean Miss Thayer?""I mention no names," said the widow, archly: then her face dropped, pathetically. "I should not like to say one thing about that poor, misguided girl that might sound unkind,—poor creature, she has enough to bear.""I don't understand you," said Gerald, flushing angrily."Ah, you men are so gallant," commented the widow, smiling a little sorrowfully. "I am told that the things gentlemen say about Miss Thayer when they are alone could not be repeated in a lady's hearing.""Whoever told you that, Mrs. Greene," replied Gerald, forgetting the hyphened adjunct in his fury, "is an uncommonly first class liar. The things thatgentlemensay about Miss Thayer could be repeated in the hearing of St. Peter.""My dear Mr. Amherst, you have lifted a weight from my mind. Is it possible that there are men in this world so—so kindly that they refrain from unpleasant comment on a woman of that kind even when the refining influence of ladies' society"——"A woman of that kind! Unpleasant comment! I don't know what in the—what in thunder you can mean, Mrs. Greene; and, if you will kindly inform me in as few words as possible"——"I?"Mrs. Langham-Greene drew her slender figure up haughtily and regarded her interrogator with stately yet grieved amazement."I? Irepeat scandal—I spread scandal about another woman? a woman, too, who, in spite of the fact, that she must be fully thirty, has not yet been able to secure a husband to protect her? Indeed, Mr. Amherst, you must not think that you can drag me into this. You quite forget yourself if you suppose that I am willing to discuss such questionable things. If you choose to delve into these unpleasant matters it shall not be in my drawing-room."Mr. Amherst surveyed her in silence."Pardon me, Mrs. Greene," he said, courteously, "but was not the matter first referred to in your drawing-room, and by you?""If," said Mrs. Langham-Greene, rather sadly, "if I allowed an expression of sympathy for the unfortunate girl to escape me, I did not expect to be reproached for it, Mr. Amherst."Amherst, despite his indignation, began to feel a little abashed. After all, the womanhaddone nothing but mention Lynn pityingly; but why she or any one else should——He pulled himself together and spoke, quietly."I gained the impression from what you said, Mrs. Greene, that there were unpleasant rumours afloat concerning Miss Thayer. Won't you tell me what they are?""Oh, no, Mr. Amherst," murmured the lady, distressfully. "I couldn't, really.""Can't you give me an idea of them?""But, Mr. Amherst, you must know something. Why, the very servants talk of it. My butler and housemaid"——"Yes? Not having the pleasure of either your housemaid's or your butler's acquaintance, I am still grievously in the dark. Has anyone else mentioned the matter to you?""Why, everyone. I supposed, of course, that you knew, that you had heard of it long ago or, believe me, I should never have mentioned it. Of course if it were another man—if it were even a gentleman—it would not be quite so awful. But a villainous, sickly little foreigner like Ricossia"——"What?""There. You have actually dragged the name out of me," cried Mrs. Langham-Green, indignantly. "I declare! Men are perfectly horrid. Theywillnot let you be charitable and kind and keep things to yourself. That poor girl! I suppose you will be just as hard on her as all the others. I was so indignant, the other day, with Mr. Parham. He said—but really I had better not repeat it"——"Stop!"Amherst rose to his feet, breathing heavily."Parham, was it? I'll remember that," he said in quiet, metallic tones. "In the meantime, Mrs. Greene, you must tell me what you mean. What is this story?""Oh, my dear Mr. Amherst, Icannotspread scandal," cried his hostess, anxiously. "Do sit down and have another cup of tea. Tea is so soothing when one—I felt just as you do when I first heard it. It does seem so strange that such a plain girl couldn't conduct herself like a lady. Of course if she were at all good-looking so that people noticed her and sought her out it might—oh, you're not going, already?""Yes, I'm going to hunt up Mr. Parham," said Gerald, searching blindly for his hat."No, oh, no. Oh, but I insist. Well, rather than have you run off like that I'll tell you the whole truth—all that I know, that is. It seems that—you know that Miss Thayer and Ricossia were always together when he came here first, two years ago. It was quite a joke; such a difference in their ages, you know; and he so handsome and she, poor girl, so plain! and it does seem as though it must be her fault, for certainly he never appeared to encourage her"——"Go on, for God's sake!""Mr. Amherst, I must beg of you not to use profane language," observed Mrs. Langham-Greene with dignity. "Well, where was I? oh, yes! well, when he disappeared from polite society and we were all obliged to give him the cold shoulder because he was so openly depraved—not like some people whom onecanknow because they keep quiet about it—but he had no savoir faire, that is to say, no shame"——"Mrs. Greene," shouted Amherst, "won't you please skip Ricossia and get to Miss Thayer?"The widow reared herself like a black-and-golden snake, about to strike. Her green eyes gleamed; then she recollected herself and smiled, subtly."Dear Mr. Amherst, pray allow me to tell the story in my own way. I really cannot be interrupted in this abrupt fashion. I was coming to Miss Thayer. It seems that the wicked girl, instead of dropping him when he was found out, as all the rest of us did, continued to meet him secretly. He evidently was not sufficiently enamoured to pursue her very much, but you know how it is! a woman of that age who has never succeeded in marrying frequently loses all hope and simply doesn't care what she does; so she used to visit him at night in some awful slum where he lived"—"What utter absurdity!""My dear Mr. Amherst," said the widow with angelic patience, "you may be sure that I should not readily believe such things of another woman. Unfortunately, however, the misguided girl was seen and recognized, not only by my butler but by people of her own class; people who could hardly believe their eyes and who, in their anxiety not to condemn her rashly, followed her home—at a safe distance, of course. Not that she went home, directly: I am told that her practice was to take a sleigh to a lonely part of Pine Avenue, dismiss it there and walk to her uncle's house. Very dangerous, too! fancy a lady walking alone after dark. Once, when I first lost my husband, I was compelled by some mischance to traverse two blocks one evening without an escort. Some men passed me and one of them made some remark about the 'bewitching widow.' I don't know how I ever reached home; but, as soon as I did, I retired, immediately. Next morning I sent for my doctor: he advised rest and plenty of light nourishment—what, you're going? Good evening, Mr. Amherst: so sorry we drifted into these unpleasant subjects.Goodevening!"Ten minutes later Gerald rang the Thayers' bell."No, Miss Thayer is not at home. I don't believe she will be in to-night, for she is dining at Mrs. Hadwell's. Certainly, sir: I'll tell her."CHAPTER XXIIWHISPERING TONGUES"Whispering tongues can poison truth,And constancy dwells in realms above,And life is thorny—and youth is vain—And to be wroth with one we loveDoth work like madness on the brain."—Coleridge."Yes, the dear twins have gone at last. Whether or no they are leaving their young hearts here I can't say, but they are certainly carrying two very nice ones away with them. Except that the female one is chiefly ice; but really, Erma quite thawed toward the end. Odd that he preferred her to Agatha: she's no better looking and not half so popular—by the way, Lynn, talking of Agatha reminds me! what in the world have you done to Lighton?""My dear Del!""Refused him, again?""He has not, thanks be, compelled me to do so.""Then what has happened? I've seen him six times with Agatha in the past ten days. Oh, Lynn, why can't you be sensible? To let such a thing slip through your fingers! Upon my word you make me feel sometimes like a donkey boy with a goad.""And you, my love, makemefeel like Mephisto with a pitchfork.""Oh, Lynn! And, at all events, if you don't want to marry him, now, why tell him so? You may be very glad of him a few years hence. Why not keep him hanging on?""Because, dear friend, I am neither a liar nor a cheat.""Well, why aren't you? What's the use of trying to be honest in a world of liars and cheats? What do you expect to gain by it?""I really can't say. The reward of virtue, perhaps.""The reward of virtue, dearest, is usually a whack over the head.""So I have observed.""Is that why you are so desperately anxious to obtain it?""Not exactly.""What do you propose to do when it arrives?""Look and act as though it were the one thing on earth I had always longed for. Unless it is violent enough to stun me, in which case I shall set my teeth and say nothing.""Lynn, you're a fool!""I have frequently suspected as much.""And oh, Lynn, I chatter and chatter—and all the time there is something I must say to you.""Say it.""Do you know what it is?""No; but, whatever it may be, Del, hurry up and tell me. You know suspense is the one thing I can't bear.""Will you let me ask you something?""Anything—but I won't promise to answer.""Will you answer me this? Have you ever cared for anyone?""Yes.""Any man, I mean!""Yes.""Much?""Very much.""Enough—well, enough to do anything foolish for?""Enough to do things that you would consider would qualify me for a madhouse.""Ah!"Mrs. Hadwell drew a long breath and her face fell."You might have told me, dear," she said, gently."I couldn't, Del. But, anyway, it's not what you think. Why do you ask me all this?""Was that why you refused Lighton?""No—yes; I would have refused him, anyhow.""But the other had something to do with it?" said Mrs. Hadwell, leaning forward, breathlessly.Lynn said nothing but her face was sad. Although she felt that her secret must die with her brother she longed to-night for the sympathy which she could so easily obtain from this, her oldest and dearest friend."I—I would have liked to tell you, Del," she said in a low voice. "But—I had promised to tell no one. It was not that I didn't trust you. The circumstances were peculiar. I had others to consider.""Oh, Lynn, Lynn, it was some one that you couldn't marry, then?" Mrs. Hadwell's voice rose almost to a wail."Yes. But, Del, the more you say, the less you understand. Let us talk of something else.""Lynn, I can't! Oh, do tell me just one thing more: you know that you can trust me. Have you done anything that was unconventional? stupidly unconventional? that might expose you to scandalous comments if it were known?""I—yes, I am afraid I have. But don't talk of it, Del. I don't feel very cheerful to-night.""But I must. Lynn, will you promise solemnly never again to do anything foolish—you know what I mean?—anything improper or reckless?"Lynn was silent."Promise. Oh, Lynn, promise! You don't know what danger you're in. You have enemies; you are already talked about in certain circles. I won't ask a question, dear, not a question: only promise"——"Del, I can promise nothing.""You—you would do foolish things again?""Yes.""But, why—oh, Lynn, why?"It was some moments before Lynn answered and, when she did, her voice was hard."Because all my happiness on earth—everything in life that counts—depends on my outraging certain very sensible conventions. Don't worry if you can help it: I'm a fly, caught in the web of Fate: you can't help me, I can't help myself. If I—stopped, I should never forgive myself: I should never know another happy moment.""Lynn, I see I shall have to tell you—and it's a thing I hate to do. There are stories afloat concerning you—I don't know what, exactly—coupling your name with that of Ricossia."Lynn grew slowly white."Have you nothing to say, Lynn?""Nothing, Del.""You won't explain—not even to me?""Del," said her visitor, suddenly, bending forward and gazing intently in Mrs. Hadwell's face, "if you had to face some personal trouble or misunderstanding, amounting to disgrace, even—or break a solemn and sacred oath—which would you do?""Break the solemn and sacred oath," returned Mrs. Hadwell, promptly and cheerfully."Ah," said Lynn, despairingly, "what's the use of asking you, Del? You have no conscience about those things.""No, indeed; yet I am rich enough to afford one if I really wanted it. But you, my dear, have no business with so costly and useless an appendage. Can't you get rid of it—for the present, anyway? It's going to land you in a perfect sea of trouble; and, beyond, shining faintly, is that whack over the head of which we spoke. When you have tormented yourself sufficiently Society will hand you that; and then I suppose you will have nothing left to wish for?""Only death; and I'm pretty healthy!""And you will not explain? in spite of all I can say or do?""No, I'm very tired, Del. I'm going now, if you don't mind."Half an hour later Amherst left Hadwell Heights, scowling unhappily. Miss Thayer had just left; she had had a headache and had returned early. He could not, in decency, call on her at her home after hearing this, much as he wanted to. He must wait until to-morrow.He walked along Pine Avenue with his hands in his overcoat pockets. Lynn was the best girl that ever lived; but, after all, there was no smoke without fire, that was certain. She had committed some imprudence; what, he must find out before he took any steps to circumvent these slanders. Of course one thing was undeniable; she had bestowed a good deal of attention on Ricossia when she first met him. It was through her and her warm eulogies of his genius and beauty that he, himself, had first become interested in the young—but, after all, the boy couldn't live a year and he must not call him what he really was. What beauty he possessed! the beauty of the very devil! and how women did go mad over him! It wasn't wonderful if—Then suddenly, like poison, Ricossia's low, bell-like laugh at their last meeting rang in his ears. And his words—what were they? He had said that Lynn was not attracted by him in the ordinary way—bah! any one a degree above a cur would say that. Lynn loved him, Amherst, that was certain; but there were different kinds and degrees of love. Had he not seen a kind sweet woman, a devoted wife and mother, leave home, husband, children, everything that made her life; had he not seen her ready to pay with a life-time of odium and desolation for the feverish joy of a few anxious months? Lynn had a stronger nature than the majority of women; that was nothing; she would be likely to go to greater extremes for that very reason. She was so sensible, so logical, so prudent—were they not the very women who forsook all caution when vitally interested? Ricossia was a boy, a child; yes, and had it not passed into a proverb, the love of a woman of thirty for a youth?—what was he thinking of? where had his fancies led him? Doubt Lynn! Lynn, whom he had known from a child!—yes, known! the mockery of the word! Who ever knew another human being? Strangers we wandered into life; strangers we left it; strangers we were, each to other, always; husband to wife, child to mother—above all, lover to beloved. He groaned as he walked, but no feeling of resentment toward his betrothed held place as yet. Lynn, as he had told her, was the one woman on earth to him: he would abide by her explanation. If—he turned cold and faint at the thought—if, in the past, she had been infatuated with that "half-devil and half-child," Ricossia; and, if she had done foolish things, mad things ... yes, even wrong things—he could forgive them, knowing that she loved him, and him only, now. After all, when one considered Ricossia's reputation, merely to be seen with him was enough; and she had, probably, traded unduly on her social position and good name. Perhaps it was nothing more than pity; the boy was dying and he was so young, so friendless. On the whole Amherst decided that he was probably acting like a fool; one might almost as well be jealous of a corpse as of Ricossia, who might be one at that moment for anything he knew to the contrary. With a sudden rush of compunction and self-reproach Amherst left Pine Avenue and, descending to the city, hailed a passing car. He would look the boy up; confound it all, the young fool might be dying a miserable death at this very moment while he maundered away like a simpleton in a melodrama. He would see how Ricossia was holding out, anyway; this last cold spell wasn't just the best thing for a consumptive, and he would like to see the cub spend his last months on earth in comparative comfort, whether he deserved to or not. And, perhaps—but no! he couldn't touch on that—not with him!The car took him within a few blocks of his destination. He walked slowly on, feeling cheered and comparatively happy. When one has writhed in doubt and misery for a certain number of hours the reaction is usually strong; and Amherst wondered how he had ever come to attach so much importance to the babblings of a green-eyed tabby cat and the insults of a hound. He inhaled the clear night air with calm enjoyment; to-morrow he would see Lynn and then—and then—He had nearly reached the Chatham when the door opened quietly and a woman descended the steps. As she advanced toward him she raised her head in a blind, unseeing sort of fashion. The light of a flickering gas jet shone clearly and pitilessly on her upturned face; a face which, though drawn and hollow-eyed, was strangely familiar—the face of his intended wife, Lynn Thayer.
CHAPTER XIX
AGATHA "DOES HER DUTY" AND IS REWARDED
"Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings knownMake me quite forget my own?If she slight me when I wooI can scorn and let her go."—G. Wither.
"Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or her well-deservings knownMake me quite forget my own?If she slight me when I wooI can scorn and let her go."—G. Wither.
"Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
If she slight me when I woo
I can scorn and let her go."
—G. Wither.
—G. Wither.
Past Boadicea, reclining against a marble heater and conversing with Mephistopheles; past Joan of Arc, flirting vigorously with Torquemeda; past the Queen of the Fairies, chatting to a miscellaneous group of knights and demons; past every variety of hero and lady fair went the self-sacrificing Agatha, intent on her altruistic aim. "For," as she muttered to herself, "if he has proposed to her, already, it isn't very likely that he will change for a little while, anyway, and I want to be married before any of the other girls. Besides it wouldn't be half so nice to marry a man who had been refused by your own cousin; though every one would think you had cut her out and Lynn is so funny that she would probably just giggle and say nothing, so it wouldn't matter much. But, as matters stand, I think it would be really wicked to let Lynn actually refuse him, particularly when I can get so many others: and, once they are married, she will be grateful to me as well as he and they will have a nice home and entertain a lot and I can be their bridesmaid and everyone will say how much prettier I am than the bride and"—At this moment she caught sight of her quarry.
Lynn had been dancing and had just come out to the hall in search of a vacant chair or stair when she saw a vision of pink tulle gazing at her with such an unusual amount of feeling and expressiveness that, with a hasty excuse, she dropped her partner's arm and hurried to her small cousin's side.
"Agatha," she exclaimed, wonderingly. "What is it? Is anything the matter? Do you want me?"
"Indeed I do," responded Agatha, solemnly.
"Then just let me speak to Mr. Barnes a moment and explain why I am going: then we can run upstairs to Del's little sitting-room and talk quietly."
This programme was carried out; and, when they were safely ensconced behind closed doors, Lynn turned eagerly to her cousin.
"Now, Agatha!" she said.
Agatha turned and looked at her.
"Lynn," she said with portentous solemnity, "I don't know what you will think of me and I don't care. Some one has got to talk to you."
Lynn stared in amazement, wondering if her thrice-engaged cousin objected to her dancing twice with the same man: she could think of no other enormity of which she had been guilty that evening.
"I have been sitting out a couple of dances with Mr. Lighton, and he became unusually confidential," went on Agatha, turning almost pale: "and he tells me," pausing impressively, "he tells me that you—have—refused—him."
"He tells the truth," responded Lynn, looking annoyed, "and all I can say is, Agatha, that if you have torn me away from the dance"—
"Wait a moment," said Agatha, earnestly. "This is very important to me, Lynn. It isn't only that I feel sorry that you, being my cousin, should be so foolish as to refuse him, once; but what I want to know is,—did you mean it?"
"Assuredly I did," said Lynn, staring.
"You meant," said Agatha, pathetically, "you really meant, Lynn, to refuse that nice house and"—
"Yes, and that nice horse, too," exclaimed Lynn, turning red. "Upon my word this is too much! I can stand Aunt Lucy and Del, but when it comes to you, Agatha—understand once for all that I meant to refuse that nice house and that good-sized yard at the back and that commodious stable with all that it contains—not even excepting the horse which every one seemed to think that I would accept with tears of rapture, despite the fact that it was encumbered with a master whom I should have to accept, likewise, as they are inseparable."
"Oh, Lynn, dear! such a lot of long words and such a temper and all because I tried to advise you for your own good."
"Agatha, I give you fair warning that I shall gently but firmly assassinate the very next person who tries to advise me for my own good."
Agatha sat for a moment, absorbed in thought.
"Lynn," she said, presently, "does anyone know that you have refused Mr. Lighten?"
"Not unless he has chosen to tell anyone. I am not in the habit of publishing every offer I receive in the daily papers, which is one reason why some people suppose that I never get any."
"Then," said Agatha, thinking deeply, "I suppose, Lynn, you will not mind if I advise you not to—not to tell anyone? Do you remember what you said to me about those things—proposals and engagements and things, you know!—well, at the time I did say I thought it was foolish not to tell when people proposed to you because then lots of people, as you say, think you never get any—but since then I have changed my mind; I really think it is more sensible not to—particularly in your case where it would be so embarrassing for Mr. Lighton if he were attentive to some girl."
Lynn burst out laughing.
"I never in my life told on any man who was misguided enough to ask me to marry him. I have always felt that the pain of feeling that he had so lowered himself was punishment enough for any crime."
"Why, Lynn, I don't quite see what you mean," said Agatha, patient but bewildered.
"This is all I mean," said Lynn, gravely. "If you have any idea of going in for Lighton—and certainly his house is all that could be desired—why, don't feel as you walk up the aisle in veil and orange blossoms that I am whispering to my nearest acquaintance, 'I could have had that man if I had wanted him.'"
"But," said Agatha, timidly, "suppose such a thingdidhappen—it would not be very nice for you, Lynn, to think that people were saying that I had cut you out. That is the first thing that Mrs. Langham-Greene would think."
"I can think of nothing at the moment less likely to worry me than Mrs. Langham-Greene's thoughts concerning me."
"Oh, how queer you are!" said Agatha, opening her eyes widely. "Then, Lynn, if you should hear—well, anything! you won't mind. For there is still time for you to change your mind, you know; and really he's very fond of you, and his house"—
"Has only one drawback! Now don't dare to tell him I said that, Agatha, or"—
"Why, I don't know what you did say," responded Agatha, patiently. "You say such queer things, Lynn, that half the time I don't know what you're driving at. At all events, however, as I understand, you are quite determined not to accept Mr. Lighton."
"Quite."
"Then," said Agatha, dimpling bewitchingly and adjusting her rose wreath with an air of satisfaction, "then, Lynn, I must just go and tell him so, I suppose."
She found the Rejected sitting where she had left him, and gazing disconsolately into space. He brightened a little as she sat down beside him.
"You had no luck, I suppose?" he remarked, tentatively.
"Mr. Lighton," cooed Agatha, softly, "she is not worthy of you. She is my own cousin, but I can't help saying so."
Mr. Lighton turned a rich, ripe tan colour, the nearest approach to a flush of rage that his skin was capable of attaining.
"Made fun of me, I suppose?" he queried in tones of stifled fury. "Oh, you needn't try to smooth it over, Miss Ladilaw! I know that tongue of hers too well."
"Well," said Agatha, commiseratingly, "I must say, Mr. Lighton, that she might have been nicer. It's one thing to refuse a man and another to make jokes about it. Not that she said much, you know, but there was one speech about your house having only one drawback"—
"That," exclaimed Mr. Lighton in a burst of horrible enlightenment, "was Me!"
"I am afraid so," said Agatha, softly. "But please don't tell any one I repeated it, Mr. Lighton. I really shouldn't have, you know. But I felt so disturbed and angry at the idea of any one belonging to me being so heartless"—
Six months later when Miss Agatha Ladilaw, "the prettiest debutante of the former season," made "the match of the year," Lynn felt rather hurt at the demeanour of both bride and groom toward her.
"I was disagreeable," she reflected, "but he brought it on himself and I can't understand why the mention of my name should invariably produce a chill in the Ladilaw household. Agatha, at least, has nothing to blame me for."
Agatha and Agatha's husband, however, agreed in seeing as little as possible of Agatha's cousin and in acting as coldly as was consistent with politeness whenever they did meet her. This, Society thought, was owing to the fact that poor Miss Thayer had cherished useless aspirations in the direction of the Lighton house, herself. Poor Miss Thayer!
CHAPTER XX
THE TWINS UNDER A NEW ASPECT
"Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful jollity."—Milton.
"Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful jollity."—Milton.
"Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity."
—Milton.
—Milton.
The fun was at its height. The most delightful waltz of the evening had just concluded and streams of gaily dressed forms poured in the direction of the balcony. It was mid-winter and the thermometer stood at five below: yet more than one couple strolled out on the balcony and stood, contracting lung trouble and pneumonia, while they gazed enraptured at the beautiful panorama which spread beneath them. The city was a mass of glittering lights, seen through the delicate pencilled branches of bare maples and willows; and seemed to the watchers as though lying hundreds of feet below Hadwell Heights. At the foot of the high hill on which the house was built lay Pine Avenue, thronged with couples arrayed in sporting garb and bent on their way to the toboggan slide at the back of the mountain. Less often a party of snowshoers would rush past on their ungainly footgear: an object of little amusement to the Canadians but one of never-failing interest to the Americans: and, less frequently still, a couple of men on skis. The twins, who never thought of colds or of precautions against them, spent most of their time between the dances in standing in the most exposed part of the balcony and watching the passers-by until the icy winds which whirled around drove them indoors, shivering but happy.
Bertie seemed to-night as though possessed of some demon of mischief and unrest. She confessed to a rather bad cold already, but it detracted nothing from her appearance though it affected her usually sweet voice, rendering it hoarse and strained. No entreaties could keep her from the icy balcony, though, and her partners soon stopped making them and devoted themselves to carrying on the flirtations which she seemed determined to push to the utmost limit. Never had any of her Canadian admirers seen her in such a mood; her usual gay, but rather reserved manner had given place to the one commonly attributed to the American girl in foreign fiction. Her partners were at first amazed, then flattered at her open and eager anxiety for their attentions; but some, including Donovan, her companion of the hockey match, who had come to like and admire the pretty Ohio girl, were rather repelled and disgusted at the change in her. Toward the end of the evening his disgust reached a climax. An extremely shy and painfully proper youth to whom Bertie had begged him to introduce her at the beginning of the evening, had just emerged from sitting out a dance with her and had asked Donovan to have a smoke with him in Mr. Hadwell's "den," which, for this night, was given over to the needs of the dancers. On Donovan's assenting, Mr. Simcoe, the shy youth, had unfolded a tale of horror. He had come up for his dance with Miss Hadwell when she, without a word of apology, had piloted him in the direction of the stairs, murmuring, as she did so, "We don't want to dance, do we? We can do better than that." On his expressing his willingness to do as she wished she had squeezed his arm and informed him in an ecstatic whisper that he was a duck, a perfect duck, and that she was going to show him a nice little cubby hole behind some curtains at the end of the hall which she was sure Mrs. Hadwell must have fixed expressly for them. "Of course," Mr. Simcoe had remarked, nervously, "of course I couldn't refuse to go, Donovan." Donovan, looking very grim, had agreed with him: of course he could not. So, it appeared, they had gone. Mr. Simcoe had seemed unwilling to divulge the secrets of his prison house but had gone so far as to hint that ladies who asked fellows to kiss them on so short an acquaintance were not in his line. Donovan had informed him here that gentlemen did not, as a rule, "kiss and tell": and had refused to listen further, regardless of Mr. Simcoe's anguished explanation. "But I didn't, Donovan! hang it all, it was she who insisted, you know, and she can't blame me for speaking of it." Donovan had walked off in a furious rage, awakened, not so much by Mr. Simcoe's lack of gallantry as by Miss Hadwell's lack of common sense and good breeding.
If Miss Bertie's conduct gave rise to comment, what shall be said of Mr. Bert's? It is safe to say that never before in a Montreal drawing-room had any gentleman disported himself with such amazing freedom. Before many dances had transpired ominous whispers might have been heard among the young ladies who had been honoured with his partnership; and it was a matter of common observation that, toward the end of the evening, several of his companions flatly refused to "sit out" dances which he had engaged, earlier. The most amazing snub which he received came from Miss Reed, who, on his reminding her that she had promised him the eighteenth dance, had answered in tones of ice, "So sorry, Mr. Hadwell, but I never dance—except with gentlemen!" This was merely the climax of a series of unpleasant remarks which had been showered upon him; but, coming from Miss Reed, who was known to have absorbed all his time and attention until that evening, it was expected to have had a chilling effect upon him. This, however, was far from being the case. "I may not be exactly a gentleman, Miss Reed," he had returned with the utmost sangfroid, "but"— At this moment he had caught sight of his sister's eye, fixed on him with a look in which rage and consternation were strangely blended; and breaking off abruptly, he had left Erma's side, his manly shoulders shaking visibly. Bertie had held a hasty and agitated conversation with him; and the twinly devotion which had so impressed the assembled company when the dance commenced was apparently conspicuous by its absence.
In the midst of the dance Mrs. Hadwell was seen to leave the room, hastily, in response to a whispered message from a housemaid. When she returned her eyes were sparkling mischievously and her whole demeanour was charged with importance. Presently she beckoned confidentially to Mrs. Langham-Greene, who stood, resplendent in pale green draperies and water lilies, a most pleasing and graceful Undine. Undine approached and Titania linked her arm in hers. "My dear," she cooed, "you haven't an idea—oh, how shall I begin? You know my housekeeper, don't you? Wasn't she an old school friend of yours?"
"Not a friend, exactly," answered the elegant Undine, rather deprecatingly. "An acquaintance, rather. Such an ugly little thing and so lacking in any sort of brightness and attractiveness"—
"To us yes!" purred Titania. "But only think of a man like General Shaftan having cared so much for her that he was unable to die without seeing her and imploring her for the last time to become his wife"— She paused and viewed the crimsoning Undine with a countenance absolutely devoid of guile.
"General Shaftan?" inquired her guest, turning from crimson to scarlet. "General Shaftan? Why, my dear Mrs. Hadwell"—
"I know," murmured Titania, sympathetically, casting a demure glance at the infuriated water nymph, "I know! we all thought it was you—and, no doubt, he made you think so as well! men are such dreadful deceivers—but he sent for Mrs. Waite on his death-bed and wanted to marry her."
Undine found her breath.
"MydearMrs. Hadwell," she laughed, lightly. "Does it sound a probable story?"
"No; and if the poor woman, herself, had told me about it, I regret to say that I should have doubted her. But the General told his nurse and trusted her with the secret contents of his will. It was drawn up three hours before he sent for Mrs. Waite and, in it, he says that he leaves all of which he dies possessed to Amy Marion Waite in the belief that that lady will, in the next few hours, become his wife, as he hopes and intends she shall."
Mrs. Langham-Greene said nothing, but turned white and twisted the fan which she held in her long, snake-like fingers feverishly. Titania, looking at her, felt a sudden twinge of compassion and compunction. She left her with some hurried excuse.
"So," she said, slowly to herself, "so even that unscrupulous, wheedling serpent is capable of caring for somebody: and caring for him all those years, too. Am I the only woman living who—who"——
Something wet and glistening fell on her chiffon dress. She hastily wiped it away and stared in amazement.
"Getting sentimental at my age?" she inquired in stupefaction. "Here, Estelle Hadwell, don't be a fool! You've got everything you ever wanted and you're ten times happier than anyone else you know. Think of your dresses and your jewelry and your friends and your—n-n-no, I don't know that you need think of him—not just now, at all events! But think of"—
She looked up, up the long, broad stairway, up to the big, quiet nursery. Then she smiled and tossed her head.
"I have everything, practically everything," she said, defiantly. "Everything but a sentimental experience which disappears, anyway, after six months of married life. I'm a fool, that's what I am! a discontented, ungrateful fool. The trouble with me is that I've got too much. If only—if only one of them doesn't"——
A spasm of agony crossed her face at the unwelcome thought; then she resolutely crossed the hall and opened an animated conversation with one of her numerous admirers. Lack of self-control was not one of the pretty Titania's failings.
Presently Lynn Thayer joined her, looking grave and perplexed. "May I have Mrs. Hadwell to myself for a few moments?" she asked, smiling in a rather forced way: then, putting her hand on Mrs. Hadwell's arm, she drew her aside.
"Del," she said in a low voice, "you know I am no prude and I don't make a fuss, unnecessarily, about anything; but I tell you plainly that you must speak to those young connections of yours."
"Why, what have the poor things been doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell in amazement. "I noticed that they were awfully lively but, surely, at their age"—
"My dear Del, their conduct is outrageous. Particularly Bertie's. After all, if a boy of twenty chooses to act like a fool he simply gets severely snubbed and, in time, comes to his senses and is forgiven. But when a girl of the same age, a girl who has had every advantage, starts to act in her uncle's house like an extremely fast barmaid, why, you know as well as I do that it won't be forgotten in a hurry. What has got into them to-night I don't know; but the whole room is talking of their actions. Imagine Bertie asking that shy little recluse of a Simcoe to kiss her and pretending to weep when he hesitated"——
"Lynn!"
"My dear, that isn't the worst of it. She has taken about half her partners to that little alcove in the second floor hall, which is curtained off, and has treated them to a course of hoydenish flirtation which is, to say the least of it, in the poorest taste. Silly little Simcoe was bad enough, but, when it comes to Parham, one of the fastest men in the city"——
"Surely not!"
"She has been sitting up there with him for the last two dances; and she is evidently taken with him, for, when she showed me her programme and I remarked on her having promised him three dances in succession, she giggled in the most affected manner and said, 'Oh, I simply adore those sad-eyed, soft-voiced men with reputations yards long!' and danced off before I had a chance to suggest that"——
"Why, Lynn, what can I have been thinking about to allow it? Oh, the silly child! If she must act like a goose, why couldn't she do it a little more privately? Don't laugh, Lynn: you know what I mean. And you tell me that Bert?"——
"Has been acting like a perfect fool. He even wanted to kiss me."
"Lynn! the boy must have taken leave of his senses."
"I was afraid myself that he was drunk. In fact I took the liberty of asking him if he was. He was quite angry for a moment. 'What do you mean by saying that I am drunk?' he asked. 'Oh,' I said, 'I didn't say that youweredrunk: on the contrary I said I hoped you weren't.' 'But why should you think I was?' persisted my gentleman. So I told him that when people tried to make love to me I always thought they must be drunk. He shouted at that and explained that he was in good spirits—animal, not vegetable—and wanted to enjoy himself. I treated him to a piece of my mind, but it didn't seem to do much good."
"Isn't it extraordinary? With all their high spirits and love of fun I thought those twins were as well-bred a pair as you would want to meet. Well! I must do my duty, I suppose. Where are the miscreants, Lynn?"
"Bert is in the ballroom, trying to pacify his partners, most of whom are not pleased with him for reasons best known to themselves. Bertie, as I told you, is sitting behind a fairly thick curtain with a man who shouldn't be admitted into any respectable house."
"My dear child, don't start to lecture about that! I have enough on my hands."
She mounted the stairs with a determined but bored expression and presently descended, followed by the unrepentant Bertie who winked joyously at the stony and disapproving visage of her aunt's friend. Behind them strolled the redoubtable Parham, apparently highly amused.
Mrs. Hadwell entered the ballroom and looked about for Bert. He was presently discovered in the act of fanning an indignant-looking lady who pretended to ignore his efforts at small talk. Mrs. Hadwell beckoned and he sprang to his feet with alacrity.
"Bert!" said his aunt by marriage, sternly, "there are limits to my forbearance. I am sorry to say that you have transgressed those limits. I am still sorrier that you have no better taste than to take pleasure in showing impertinence to my guests."
Bert's face worked for a moment: he said something in an aside to his sister, then spoke.
"Aunt Del," he said, humbly but with an irrepressible twinkle in his black eyes, "we have acted like a couple of demons, I must admit, but, if you'll only forgive us this once, I swear we'll straighten things out. Every one is going to supper, now; well, Bertie and I are going in together and, just as soon as the people are seated, you will see what will happen."
"I will not," was Mrs. Hadwell's unexpected rejoinder. "I have had quite enough nonsense, Bert. It must end, here."
Bert consulted his sister with his eyes; then, catching his diminutive aunt by the waist, he whirled her down the room and whispered something in her ear. She gasped, then suddenly laughed and looked relieved; and Bertie approached and entered into an animated conversation with her.
Five minutes later, when the assembled company was seated at supper, the unruly and ostracized pair walked solemnly in and stood for a moment at the head of the room. Then Bert raised his crimson-decked arm with a mute request for silence. A hush of surprise fell on the revellers. He spoke.
"My dear friends," he said, gravely, "my sister and I have acted so badly to-night and have laid ourselves open to so much well-deserved censure that we think the least we can do is to apologize, and we do it—thus!"
He deliberately laid hold of his companion's snowy locks and, with a vigorous pull, exposed a close cropped head. Then he doffed his crimson headgear and a dark tress fell athwart his nose.
When the prolonged shrieks of amazement and laughter had died into silence Bert—the real Bert—spoke.
"My sister says that if all the girls whom she has kissed will forgive her she will never do it, again," he said. "And, as for me," he paused and cast a glance of pure delight in the direction of Messrs. Simcoe and Parham, "as for me, while I must confess that I am a horrible flirt"—
He could get no further.
An hour later Undine, looking paler than her wont, sat whispering behind a large fan to two or three other women. One of them, a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman, looked distinctly sad and uncomfortable.
"The poor girl!" she said.
"Such people should be exposed," returned Undine, coldly. "The idea of her being here at all. Mrs. Hadwell cannot associate with fast women and expect to keep her own character. Personally I never think there is any real harm in Mrs. Hadwell, though"— She paused tentatively while a venomous gleam lit her large, pale eyes.
"Oh, no, no!" cried the others in horrified unison; and Mrs. Langham-Greene saw that it would be dangerous to venture further. She bade an affectionate farewell to her hostess and ordered a closed sleigh.
"My dress is so thin," she explained, smiling.
As the sleigh drove away she crouched among the fur rugs and bit her naked arms and writhed.
"I'll pay them for this," she whispered, catching her breath in torture. "He sent for her—for her! and that little cat dared to tell me to my face—oh, I can't reach her, not yet; but I can hurt her through her friend, anyway. She really cares for the Thayer girl; it'll make trouble with her pompous old husband when she insists on supporting her—oh, I'll do what I can! it may help me to forget." She groaned. "Oh, I can't bear it: I didn't mind his death as I mind this! it's like losing him all over again—I'll pay her for what she's made me suffer to-night!I'll pay her!"
CHAPTER XXI
A LIE WHICH IS PART A TRUTH
"A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."—Tennyson.
"A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."—Tennyson.
"A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."
—Tennyson.
—Tennyson.
Mrs. Langham-Greene's pretty town house possessed a drawing-room as elegant as its mistress, and far less harmful. It was flanked by two bay windows, admirably adapted for gazing on the peccadilloes of one's neighbours, the while one ruminated contentedly on one's own virtues. Here its fair owner loved to sit on winter afternoons, dispensing excellent tea and gossip: and here one bright January day found her brewing the witching potion for a waiting guest. This was no other than Gerald Amherst, who happened to be painting the lady's portrait. When the daylight faded she had insisted on his accompanying her home and joining her in a cup of five o'clock tea. The fair widow was not an especial favourite of the artist's; but his stock of excuses had been exhausted on previous occasions and he had therefore submitted meekly.
Mrs. Langham-Greene was a woman who wore well, as the saying is. Her figure was straight and supple as a girl of twenty's and her delicate features had escaped the pinched look which frequently accompanies thinness in a woman of fifty. Her skin had always been colourless and now resembled fine ivory; her hair, which she wore parted in the middle in the Madonna style, was only very slightly flecked with grey. Julia Langham-Greene was a distinguished woman, an interesting woman, an elegant woman. When, at thirty-five, she had first donned widow's weeds, she had created such a furore that it was many years before she found herself able to relinquish them. However, when a woman reaches forty and finds herself capable of wearing pale blue and scarlet to advantage—she usually does.
Mrs. Langham-Greene was now forty-seven, yet she could attend a fancy dress ball attired in Nile green and pearls and look the part of Undine to perfection. Small wonder, then, that she wished to transfer such lasting charms to still more lasting canvas; and Amherst had attained distinction as a portrait painter years before. She smiled delicately on him now, as she sugared his tea and inquired in tones of melted honey whether he took cream or lemon; and pondered inwardly how best to land the shaft she held in store.
"You are too good," she purred, in response to a perfunctory compliment on his part. "Far too good. Among so many young and pretty girls I fear I must have been quite unnoticed. Miss Reed, for instance! What regular features she has; quite ideal! What a pity that she has so little conversation! and such poor taste in dress. And is it true that her father has fits and that her mother was a house-maid before he married her?"
"I never heard that," returned Amherst, opening his honest eyes in amazement. "Miss Reed is a striking looking girl, but, to my mind, Miss Ladilaw is far prettier."
"But so uninteresting, don't you think?"
"Not more so than the majority of very young girls."
"Still," pursued Mrs. Langham-Greene, thoughtfully, "she is a nice lady-like little thing. I daresay she will marry young; she is so naive and pretty. It is not likely that she will hang on year after year like that poor, plain cousin of hers."
"Surely you don't mean Miss Thayer?"
"I mention no names," said the widow, archly: then her face dropped, pathetically. "I should not like to say one thing about that poor, misguided girl that might sound unkind,—poor creature, she has enough to bear."
"I don't understand you," said Gerald, flushing angrily.
"Ah, you men are so gallant," commented the widow, smiling a little sorrowfully. "I am told that the things gentlemen say about Miss Thayer when they are alone could not be repeated in a lady's hearing."
"Whoever told you that, Mrs. Greene," replied Gerald, forgetting the hyphened adjunct in his fury, "is an uncommonly first class liar. The things thatgentlemensay about Miss Thayer could be repeated in the hearing of St. Peter."
"My dear Mr. Amherst, you have lifted a weight from my mind. Is it possible that there are men in this world so—so kindly that they refrain from unpleasant comment on a woman of that kind even when the refining influence of ladies' society"——
"A woman of that kind! Unpleasant comment! I don't know what in the—what in thunder you can mean, Mrs. Greene; and, if you will kindly inform me in as few words as possible"——
"I?"
Mrs. Langham-Greene drew her slender figure up haughtily and regarded her interrogator with stately yet grieved amazement.
"I? Irepeat scandal—I spread scandal about another woman? a woman, too, who, in spite of the fact, that she must be fully thirty, has not yet been able to secure a husband to protect her? Indeed, Mr. Amherst, you must not think that you can drag me into this. You quite forget yourself if you suppose that I am willing to discuss such questionable things. If you choose to delve into these unpleasant matters it shall not be in my drawing-room."
Mr. Amherst surveyed her in silence.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Greene," he said, courteously, "but was not the matter first referred to in your drawing-room, and by you?"
"If," said Mrs. Langham-Greene, rather sadly, "if I allowed an expression of sympathy for the unfortunate girl to escape me, I did not expect to be reproached for it, Mr. Amherst."
Amherst, despite his indignation, began to feel a little abashed. After all, the womanhaddone nothing but mention Lynn pityingly; but why she or any one else should——
He pulled himself together and spoke, quietly.
"I gained the impression from what you said, Mrs. Greene, that there were unpleasant rumours afloat concerning Miss Thayer. Won't you tell me what they are?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Amherst," murmured the lady, distressfully. "I couldn't, really."
"Can't you give me an idea of them?"
"But, Mr. Amherst, you must know something. Why, the very servants talk of it. My butler and housemaid"——
"Yes? Not having the pleasure of either your housemaid's or your butler's acquaintance, I am still grievously in the dark. Has anyone else mentioned the matter to you?"
"Why, everyone. I supposed, of course, that you knew, that you had heard of it long ago or, believe me, I should never have mentioned it. Of course if it were another man—if it were even a gentleman—it would not be quite so awful. But a villainous, sickly little foreigner like Ricossia"——
"What?"
"There. You have actually dragged the name out of me," cried Mrs. Langham-Green, indignantly. "I declare! Men are perfectly horrid. Theywillnot let you be charitable and kind and keep things to yourself. That poor girl! I suppose you will be just as hard on her as all the others. I was so indignant, the other day, with Mr. Parham. He said—but really I had better not repeat it"——
"Stop!"
Amherst rose to his feet, breathing heavily.
"Parham, was it? I'll remember that," he said in quiet, metallic tones. "In the meantime, Mrs. Greene, you must tell me what you mean. What is this story?"
"Oh, my dear Mr. Amherst, Icannotspread scandal," cried his hostess, anxiously. "Do sit down and have another cup of tea. Tea is so soothing when one—I felt just as you do when I first heard it. It does seem so strange that such a plain girl couldn't conduct herself like a lady. Of course if she were at all good-looking so that people noticed her and sought her out it might—oh, you're not going, already?"
"Yes, I'm going to hunt up Mr. Parham," said Gerald, searching blindly for his hat.
"No, oh, no. Oh, but I insist. Well, rather than have you run off like that I'll tell you the whole truth—all that I know, that is. It seems that—you know that Miss Thayer and Ricossia were always together when he came here first, two years ago. It was quite a joke; such a difference in their ages, you know; and he so handsome and she, poor girl, so plain! and it does seem as though it must be her fault, for certainly he never appeared to encourage her"——
"Go on, for God's sake!"
"Mr. Amherst, I must beg of you not to use profane language," observed Mrs. Langham-Greene with dignity. "Well, where was I? oh, yes! well, when he disappeared from polite society and we were all obliged to give him the cold shoulder because he was so openly depraved—not like some people whom onecanknow because they keep quiet about it—but he had no savoir faire, that is to say, no shame"——
"Mrs. Greene," shouted Amherst, "won't you please skip Ricossia and get to Miss Thayer?"
The widow reared herself like a black-and-golden snake, about to strike. Her green eyes gleamed; then she recollected herself and smiled, subtly.
"Dear Mr. Amherst, pray allow me to tell the story in my own way. I really cannot be interrupted in this abrupt fashion. I was coming to Miss Thayer. It seems that the wicked girl, instead of dropping him when he was found out, as all the rest of us did, continued to meet him secretly. He evidently was not sufficiently enamoured to pursue her very much, but you know how it is! a woman of that age who has never succeeded in marrying frequently loses all hope and simply doesn't care what she does; so she used to visit him at night in some awful slum where he lived"—
"What utter absurdity!"
"My dear Mr. Amherst," said the widow with angelic patience, "you may be sure that I should not readily believe such things of another woman. Unfortunately, however, the misguided girl was seen and recognized, not only by my butler but by people of her own class; people who could hardly believe their eyes and who, in their anxiety not to condemn her rashly, followed her home—at a safe distance, of course. Not that she went home, directly: I am told that her practice was to take a sleigh to a lonely part of Pine Avenue, dismiss it there and walk to her uncle's house. Very dangerous, too! fancy a lady walking alone after dark. Once, when I first lost my husband, I was compelled by some mischance to traverse two blocks one evening without an escort. Some men passed me and one of them made some remark about the 'bewitching widow.' I don't know how I ever reached home; but, as soon as I did, I retired, immediately. Next morning I sent for my doctor: he advised rest and plenty of light nourishment—what, you're going? Good evening, Mr. Amherst: so sorry we drifted into these unpleasant subjects.Goodevening!"
Ten minutes later Gerald rang the Thayers' bell.
"No, Miss Thayer is not at home. I don't believe she will be in to-night, for she is dining at Mrs. Hadwell's. Certainly, sir: I'll tell her."
CHAPTER XXII
WHISPERING TONGUES
"Whispering tongues can poison truth,And constancy dwells in realms above,And life is thorny—and youth is vain—And to be wroth with one we loveDoth work like madness on the brain."—Coleridge.
"Whispering tongues can poison truth,And constancy dwells in realms above,And life is thorny—and youth is vain—And to be wroth with one we loveDoth work like madness on the brain."—Coleridge.
"Whispering tongues can poison truth,
And constancy dwells in realms above,
And life is thorny—and youth is vain—
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the brain."
—Coleridge.
—Coleridge.
"Yes, the dear twins have gone at last. Whether or no they are leaving their young hearts here I can't say, but they are certainly carrying two very nice ones away with them. Except that the female one is chiefly ice; but really, Erma quite thawed toward the end. Odd that he preferred her to Agatha: she's no better looking and not half so popular—by the way, Lynn, talking of Agatha reminds me! what in the world have you done to Lighton?"
"My dear Del!"
"Refused him, again?"
"He has not, thanks be, compelled me to do so."
"Then what has happened? I've seen him six times with Agatha in the past ten days. Oh, Lynn, why can't you be sensible? To let such a thing slip through your fingers! Upon my word you make me feel sometimes like a donkey boy with a goad."
"And you, my love, makemefeel like Mephisto with a pitchfork."
"Oh, Lynn! And, at all events, if you don't want to marry him, now, why tell him so? You may be very glad of him a few years hence. Why not keep him hanging on?"
"Because, dear friend, I am neither a liar nor a cheat."
"Well, why aren't you? What's the use of trying to be honest in a world of liars and cheats? What do you expect to gain by it?"
"I really can't say. The reward of virtue, perhaps."
"The reward of virtue, dearest, is usually a whack over the head."
"So I have observed."
"Is that why you are so desperately anxious to obtain it?"
"Not exactly."
"What do you propose to do when it arrives?"
"Look and act as though it were the one thing on earth I had always longed for. Unless it is violent enough to stun me, in which case I shall set my teeth and say nothing."
"Lynn, you're a fool!"
"I have frequently suspected as much."
"And oh, Lynn, I chatter and chatter—and all the time there is something I must say to you."
"Say it."
"Do you know what it is?"
"No; but, whatever it may be, Del, hurry up and tell me. You know suspense is the one thing I can't bear."
"Will you let me ask you something?"
"Anything—but I won't promise to answer."
"Will you answer me this? Have you ever cared for anyone?"
"Yes."
"Any man, I mean!"
"Yes."
"Much?"
"Very much."
"Enough—well, enough to do anything foolish for?"
"Enough to do things that you would consider would qualify me for a madhouse."
"Ah!"
Mrs. Hadwell drew a long breath and her face fell.
"You might have told me, dear," she said, gently.
"I couldn't, Del. But, anyway, it's not what you think. Why do you ask me all this?"
"Was that why you refused Lighton?"
"No—yes; I would have refused him, anyhow."
"But the other had something to do with it?" said Mrs. Hadwell, leaning forward, breathlessly.
Lynn said nothing but her face was sad. Although she felt that her secret must die with her brother she longed to-night for the sympathy which she could so easily obtain from this, her oldest and dearest friend.
"I—I would have liked to tell you, Del," she said in a low voice. "But—I had promised to tell no one. It was not that I didn't trust you. The circumstances were peculiar. I had others to consider."
"Oh, Lynn, Lynn, it was some one that you couldn't marry, then?" Mrs. Hadwell's voice rose almost to a wail.
"Yes. But, Del, the more you say, the less you understand. Let us talk of something else."
"Lynn, I can't! Oh, do tell me just one thing more: you know that you can trust me. Have you done anything that was unconventional? stupidly unconventional? that might expose you to scandalous comments if it were known?"
"I—yes, I am afraid I have. But don't talk of it, Del. I don't feel very cheerful to-night."
"But I must. Lynn, will you promise solemnly never again to do anything foolish—you know what I mean?—anything improper or reckless?"
Lynn was silent.
"Promise. Oh, Lynn, promise! You don't know what danger you're in. You have enemies; you are already talked about in certain circles. I won't ask a question, dear, not a question: only promise"——
"Del, I can promise nothing."
"You—you would do foolish things again?"
"Yes."
"But, why—oh, Lynn, why?"
It was some moments before Lynn answered and, when she did, her voice was hard.
"Because all my happiness on earth—everything in life that counts—depends on my outraging certain very sensible conventions. Don't worry if you can help it: I'm a fly, caught in the web of Fate: you can't help me, I can't help myself. If I—stopped, I should never forgive myself: I should never know another happy moment."
"Lynn, I see I shall have to tell you—and it's a thing I hate to do. There are stories afloat concerning you—I don't know what, exactly—coupling your name with that of Ricossia."
Lynn grew slowly white.
"Have you nothing to say, Lynn?"
"Nothing, Del."
"You won't explain—not even to me?"
"Del," said her visitor, suddenly, bending forward and gazing intently in Mrs. Hadwell's face, "if you had to face some personal trouble or misunderstanding, amounting to disgrace, even—or break a solemn and sacred oath—which would you do?"
"Break the solemn and sacred oath," returned Mrs. Hadwell, promptly and cheerfully.
"Ah," said Lynn, despairingly, "what's the use of asking you, Del? You have no conscience about those things."
"No, indeed; yet I am rich enough to afford one if I really wanted it. But you, my dear, have no business with so costly and useless an appendage. Can't you get rid of it—for the present, anyway? It's going to land you in a perfect sea of trouble; and, beyond, shining faintly, is that whack over the head of which we spoke. When you have tormented yourself sufficiently Society will hand you that; and then I suppose you will have nothing left to wish for?"
"Only death; and I'm pretty healthy!"
"And you will not explain? in spite of all I can say or do?"
"No, I'm very tired, Del. I'm going now, if you don't mind."
Half an hour later Amherst left Hadwell Heights, scowling unhappily. Miss Thayer had just left; she had had a headache and had returned early. He could not, in decency, call on her at her home after hearing this, much as he wanted to. He must wait until to-morrow.
He walked along Pine Avenue with his hands in his overcoat pockets. Lynn was the best girl that ever lived; but, after all, there was no smoke without fire, that was certain. She had committed some imprudence; what, he must find out before he took any steps to circumvent these slanders. Of course one thing was undeniable; she had bestowed a good deal of attention on Ricossia when she first met him. It was through her and her warm eulogies of his genius and beauty that he, himself, had first become interested in the young—but, after all, the boy couldn't live a year and he must not call him what he really was. What beauty he possessed! the beauty of the very devil! and how women did go mad over him! It wasn't wonderful if—
Then suddenly, like poison, Ricossia's low, bell-like laugh at their last meeting rang in his ears. And his words—what were they? He had said that Lynn was not attracted by him in the ordinary way—bah! any one a degree above a cur would say that. Lynn loved him, Amherst, that was certain; but there were different kinds and degrees of love. Had he not seen a kind sweet woman, a devoted wife and mother, leave home, husband, children, everything that made her life; had he not seen her ready to pay with a life-time of odium and desolation for the feverish joy of a few anxious months? Lynn had a stronger nature than the majority of women; that was nothing; she would be likely to go to greater extremes for that very reason. She was so sensible, so logical, so prudent—were they not the very women who forsook all caution when vitally interested? Ricossia was a boy, a child; yes, and had it not passed into a proverb, the love of a woman of thirty for a youth?—what was he thinking of? where had his fancies led him? Doubt Lynn! Lynn, whom he had known from a child!—yes, known! the mockery of the word! Who ever knew another human being? Strangers we wandered into life; strangers we left it; strangers we were, each to other, always; husband to wife, child to mother—above all, lover to beloved. He groaned as he walked, but no feeling of resentment toward his betrothed held place as yet. Lynn, as he had told her, was the one woman on earth to him: he would abide by her explanation. If—he turned cold and faint at the thought—if, in the past, she had been infatuated with that "half-devil and half-child," Ricossia; and, if she had done foolish things, mad things ... yes, even wrong things—he could forgive them, knowing that she loved him, and him only, now. After all, when one considered Ricossia's reputation, merely to be seen with him was enough; and she had, probably, traded unduly on her social position and good name. Perhaps it was nothing more than pity; the boy was dying and he was so young, so friendless. On the whole Amherst decided that he was probably acting like a fool; one might almost as well be jealous of a corpse as of Ricossia, who might be one at that moment for anything he knew to the contrary. With a sudden rush of compunction and self-reproach Amherst left Pine Avenue and, descending to the city, hailed a passing car. He would look the boy up; confound it all, the young fool might be dying a miserable death at this very moment while he maundered away like a simpleton in a melodrama. He would see how Ricossia was holding out, anyway; this last cold spell wasn't just the best thing for a consumptive, and he would like to see the cub spend his last months on earth in comparative comfort, whether he deserved to or not. And, perhaps—but no! he couldn't touch on that—not with him!
The car took him within a few blocks of his destination. He walked slowly on, feeling cheered and comparatively happy. When one has writhed in doubt and misery for a certain number of hours the reaction is usually strong; and Amherst wondered how he had ever come to attach so much importance to the babblings of a green-eyed tabby cat and the insults of a hound. He inhaled the clear night air with calm enjoyment; to-morrow he would see Lynn and then—and then—
He had nearly reached the Chatham when the door opened quietly and a woman descended the steps. As she advanced toward him she raised her head in a blind, unseeing sort of fashion. The light of a flickering gas jet shone clearly and pitilessly on her upturned face; a face which, though drawn and hollow-eyed, was strangely familiar—the face of his intended wife, Lynn Thayer.