CHAPTER XXIIIWHEN LOVE IS DONE"The mind has a thousand eyes,And the heart but one—Yet the light of the whole life diesWhen love is done."—Old Song."I love—but I believe in love no more."—Shelley.Lunn recognized him almost immediately and stood quite still, looking into his face with a curious deliberation and intentness."One would almost think you had expected me," said Amherst, involuntarily. One seldom says what is uppermost in one's mind on these occasions."I think I did," said Lynn with equal quietness. "When I awoke this morning something told me that this would happen.""There is a cab-stand a few blocks away," he continued, courteously. "May I take you there and see you into one?""I shall be—grateful for the attention," said Lynn, dully: then she laughed.They walked in silence for a block or two."Have you anything to say to me, Lynn?" said Amherst at last."I—nothing!""You prefer to say nothing?"Lynn was silent for a moment; then she spoke very distinctly."On the night that you asked me to marry you, I said all that I was at liberty to say.""Ricossia is rather exacting, isn't he?"The sneer escaped Gerald, wrung from him by his pain. Lynn started slightly but made no answer."I should ask your pardon," Amherst went on, presently. "I had no right to say that. I do not even know that it is Ricossia on whom you paid this late call. Possibly you have other friends in the Chatham.""I have not.""It—it is Ricossia?"She threw back her head and laughed."Exactly—it is Ricossia. And, by the way, Mr. Amherst, although I know that when one does an unconventional thing, 'gentlemen' are quite justified in insulting one; yet, as there is a policeman on the next corner, and as even a homeless cur isn't obliged to stand still while some one throws a rock at it—will you leave me?""No. Lynn, forgive me. I'm crazy; I don't know what I'm saying. If it were anyone else—if it were any other man—anyone, anyone but that villainous little blackguard"——"Stop!"Lynn turned on him like a tigress, her eyes blazing with fury."How dare you call him that?" she cried. "A genius! a god of beauty! and dying at that! What sort of man do you call yourself to insult first the woman who was to have been your wife and then a dying man."Amherst gasped and caught his breath in painful amazement."Oh, my God!" he groaned like a hurt animal, "how you must love him, Lynn!"They had passed the cab-stand now and had turned toward home, but neither noticed this. Amherst's face was ghastly and his steps unsteady; but Lynn walked erect and stately like a sable figure of doom.When some blocks had been traversed in silence Amherst spoke, slowly and humbly."Lynn, I should not have spoken as I did. We're all human and I'm not your judge. If I didn't love you—if I hadn't believed that you loved me—I should not have been so harsh. Will you let me walk home with you? We probably shan't see one another again very soon and there is so much I want to say.""No.""You won't let me? You compel me to—very well, I'll go to Ricossia, then; I'll make him listen to reason and, and if he won't, I'll"——"Gerald!"Lynn's voice was alive with a sudden, horrible fear."Gerald," she said swiftly, clasping his arm with her hands, "you loved me once, didn't you? For the sake of that, because of that, will you do me a favour? Deal with me, alone. I'm strong, I can stand anything. Say what you please to me, do as you think best—but let him alone. He's so young, he—he's so weak—and he's dying, Gerald, dying. He may be dead, to-morrow. While he lives, let him alone. Oh, Gerald, promise me!"Amherst could not speak for a moment. When he did his voice had altered."Lynn," said he, gently, "why did you promise to marry me?""Because I loved you, Gerald.""You still say that—now?""Yes. My love for him was quite another thing. I can't explain, and I don't expect you to understand.""I see—I think I see. The other was a—well, a sort of obsession.""Exactly. You could hit on no better word.""Yet you believed that you loved me. You think that you could care for two men at once?"She moistened her dry lips and spoke, feebly."If I had not been so alone in the world, Gerald, I might have loved several. There are so many different loves, you know; differing in kind and in degree. The love for a father, for a son, for a brother"—her face lightened with sudden hope,—"that was really what I felt for him, Gerald; the love that a mother has for a son, the love that a sister has for a brother—don't you, oh, can't you, understand? I loved you in quite another way—it's so different—and, if I tried to explain any more, I should break a solemn oath—I should bring a curse on my head"——Amherst's face lit with a sudden, heated gleam. He turned and spoke fiercely."Lynn! Don't insult my intelligence by telling me stuff of that sort, but listen! Promise that you'll never see him again, and that you'll do your best to forget him! Promise that he'll be nothing to you in the future! and I'll forgive all the rest. Come to me! I want you. I won't ask you a question, not a question. Marry me to-morrow and I'll kill the first man—or woman—who breathes a word against you. Lynn!"She held her breath and looked at him as though fascinated."Lynn! Promise!"She spoke, slowly and with difficulty."Until he dies, Gerald—my life is his.""Then"——Amherst's face flushed, a dark, purplish flush, ugly to see."You prefer him then to reputation, honour, common sense and decency." His breath came heavily. "You prefer him—to me!"As slowly and deliberately as before she answered him."I love you—as a woman loves the man she means to marry. I love L—Ricossia—as I love no other being on God's earth—as I do not believe any other man was ever loved from the beginning of time. You say rightly. I prefer him—and the oath at which you sneer—to reputation—honour—common sense—decency—and you! Good-bye, Gerald; try to forget me."CHAPTER XXIVMRS. LANGHAM-GREENE PAYS HER DEBT; ANDMRS. WAITE, HERS"The long-necked geese of the world that areever hissing dispraiseBecause their natures are little."—Tennyson.Estelle Hadwell was sitting by a blazing fire in her husband's library when she heard voices in the hall below, followed by the banging of a door. Then Mr. Hadwell called loudly:"Estelle! are you there?""Yes, dear," replied his wife, somewhat surprised. "Have you visitors?""Yes. Mrs. Langham-Greene and Mrs. Tollman are here. Can you come down?""Yes, indeed!" replied Mrs. Hadwell with effusion. She rose slowly from her chair by the fire, grimacing disgustedly as she did so. The library was so nice and Mrs. Greene so horrid and Mrs. Tollman such a bore.She hurried down and advanced with extended hands and a delighted smile. She had got as far as "A most delightful surprise—an unexpected pleasure!" when she caught sight of her husband's face."Henry!" she exclaimed in genuine consternation. "What in the world is it?"Her husband was standing with his back to the fireplace and a portentous frown on his brow, looking, as Mrs. Hadwell reflected to herself, for all the world like the British Matron in trousers."Henry, what is it?" she asked, again."These ladies," returned Mr. Hadwell with a majestic wave of his hand, "can tell you better than I."Estelle glanced from one to the other, wonderingly. Mrs. Tollman, a stout, pleasant-faced woman, wore a somewhat distressed expression and sat stiffly upright. Mrs. Langham-Greene, delicately lovely in dark blue velvet and ermine, leaned gracefully back in an easy chair, her fine features composed to an expression of decorous sorrow. Neither lady made any immediate effort to enlighten her hostess until Mrs. Greene swept a meaning glance at her companion from beneath her long, light lashes. Then Mrs. Tollman spoke."It's such a delicate matter, Mrs. Hadwell," she said in a flurried way. "I disliked coming to you about it, very much; but Mr. Hadwell insisted, saying that only an eye-witness could convince you.""Of what?""This is so hard on us, both," Mrs. Langham-Greene murmured, soothingly. "And it was so careless of me to mention the poor thing; for then Mr. Hadwell simply dragged the whole story out of me. I am most distressed, I am indeed!""But at what, dear Mrs. Greene?" cooed her hostess."Oh, at the whole affair—the poor girl so well connected and all! and Ricossia so common and dreadful.""Oh, some new scandal about young Ricossia," exclaimed Mrs. Hadwell with sudden enlightenment and a corresponding sinking of the heart."But he is not common; no one could call him that. Dreadful, certainly; but rather fascinating in his way, don't you think?""Apparently others have found him so," drawled the older lady, meaningly."What others?"Mrs. Langham-Greene looked deliberately at Mrs. Hadwell and spoke, regretfully."I am afraid, dear Mrs. Hadwell, that your friend, Miss Thayer"——"How dare you say so?""Estelle," said her husband, reprovingly, "is it likely that these ladies would speak without proper authority?""Very likely indeed," thought their hostess, but her heart was sick within her. Lynn's interest in Ricossia; her lack of interest in other men; her sorrow, her preoccupation, her confession of having outraged propriety; all these ranged as witnesses against her in her friend's heart."I knew—I told Mr. Hadwell that you would take it in just this way," murmured the widow, sympathetically. "So he insisted that we bring an eye-witness to convince you. Of course the thing has been going on for an indefinite space of time; but, just lately, Mr. and Mrs. Tollman, when returning home late one night, saw Miss Thayer leaving the Chatham. They followed her. She took a sleigh to Pine Avenue, dismissed it there and walked home. Isn't it so, Mrs. Tollman?""Yes," said Mrs. Tollman, fluttering. "It is undeniably true. But I don't know how it ever got out, for I only told my most intimate friends about it.""That was cheaper than having it printed in the 'Daily News' and certainly quite as effective."Mrs. Hadwell had lost her usual calm and diplomacy."Really," she continued with a sudden burst of candour, "really how I do hate women! They're every bit as nasty as men, and nothing like so nice into the bargain. I wish I need never see a woman again—except Lynn."This coming from the politic and tactful Mrs. Hadwell had the effect of a thunderclap. Before her listeners had recovered the housemaid announced Mrs. Waite and that lady entered.Since inheriting her legacy, Mrs. Hadwell's former housekeeper had hired a small furnished house and was living there alone. General Shaftan's house, her property, was advertised for sale; a proceeding which had roused some interest in Montreal society."How funny of her not to live there until it sells or rents! Can it be that that sourfaced woman is afraid of ghosts?" some had asked.She stood now in the doorway, looking from one to the other with her peculiarly cold and expressionless manner. "Excuse me," she said without preliminary, "but as I was walking through the hall just now I heard what you were saying; I could not help hearing. Is it true that Miss Thayer is in trouble?""Are you interested in Miss Thayer?" inquired Mrs. Langham-Greene with courtly insolence."Yes."The two women faced one another in silence; the one beautiful, patrician, elegant; the other, plain, sad-faced, and, apparently, old. A whole world lay between them; nor was the chasm bridged by the fact that both had loved the same man. Mrs. Hadwell, with her usual quick intuition, could feel the air charged with import and longed to know what lay beneath these different exteriors. Instead she turned to Mrs. Langham-Greene with a question."May I ask what your object was in laying these slanders about Miss Thayer before me?" she said."I wished," said the other slowly, "to see what could be done to help the wretched girl. Of course she cannot stay here; and I understand that there is a great dearth of teachers in the North-West; they are not particular there as to character and"—"You cat!" screamed little Mrs. Hadwell, losing all control of herself. "How dare you come to my house and compel me to be rude to your very face? How dare you speak so of my best friend? Who wants to hear your opinion of her? why, it's an impertinence on your part to have an opinion about a girl like Lynn. Let me tell you that Miss Thayer need not go to the North-West for a refuge; she will always find a welcome in my home whenever she needs one"—"Not in mine!"Mrs. Hadwell started and looked at her husband with amazement."You wish me to drop Lynn? My dear Henry, if you are thinking of setting up in the ostracizing business I can supply you with a long list of far more deserving cases.""I don't say that the girl is actually bad, but she has been proved to be utterly devoid of sense or decency. She shall never set foot in my house again.""In that case," Mrs. Hadwell's voice was calm—"I leave your house to-night and take my children with me.""What?""They are all under seven and until that age the mother has full control. I shall take them to my grandmother in Lachine; there, at least, I can receive my friends—my one friend, I should say! I haven't another."Mr. Hadwell stamped out of the room in a fury. Mrs. Tollman and Mrs. Greene followed him quietly, the former almost in tears, the latter composed and cheerful. When the door closed on them Mrs. Hadwell sat down and burst into tears."Oh, Lynn, Lynn, how could you?" she sobbed."Mrs. Hadwell, can you give me this Mr. Ricossia's address?"Mrs. Waite's cold, thin voice sounded unpleasantly at Estelle's elbow."Yes, I believe it's the Chatham, either 10 or 12 St. Eustache St.," answered the younger woman, staring through wet eyes in sheer amazement. "Are you there, still, Mrs. Waite? I thought you had gone.""Don't—don't mind so much," said the "Gorgon-faced automaton" with difficulty. "Perhaps something can be done.""Oh, nothing, nothing, I am afraid, except to stand by her.""You believe this story?""No!" lied Mrs. Hadwell, firmly."Neither do I. I am sure there is some explanation if one could only find out what it is. And I have plenty of money, now; money can do a great deal sometimes in cases of this kind, and there is nothing I would sooner spend it on"——"You—you? But, Mrs. Waite—if you don't mind my asking—why should you—what is Lynn to you?"Mrs. Waite moistened her dry lips and spoke, faintly."I had a child once. He died.... She was his teacher and—and she was good to him. But don't tell her; she might try to talk to me about him and—and I couldn't stand that"——Mrs. Waite stopped; her plain face contorted ludicrously. The next moment the cold Mrs. Hadwell and the woman beside whose frigid nature her own showed in the light of a volcano were weeping bitterly in one another's arms.CHAPTER XXVTHE SHADOWS FALL"All the dreaming is broken through,Both what is done and undone I rue,Nothing is tender, nothing true,In heaven or earth save God and you."—Arthur Sullivan."But still the faces gaped and cried,'Give us the dream for which we died!'"—Charles G. D. Roberts.Mrs. Hadwell, having hypnotized Mr. Hadwell into apologizing profusely for his conduct, promised to forgive him if he would go away for a week."You have been talking for years of paying a visit to your sister in Toronto," she said. "Suppose you go now, Henry. She will be delighted to see you, and I—after a week of absence I shall be so glad to see you, again, that I shall not even think of this. Otherwise"——He went. When Estelle had seen him safely in the train she drew a long breath of relief and telephoned to Miss Thayer. Until then she had not dared to risk an encounter between her friend and her husband, knowing that the former was a keen observer and the latter, a poor actor."Come to me, to-morrow, as soon as school is out, dear," she said. "I shall be in all afternoon. Promise!""Oh, yes, I shall come, Del," assented the other, quietly. Mrs. Hadwell, listening sorrowfully, thought she could detect a note of unaccustomed grief in Lynn's voice. She endeavoured to forget it, however, and, giving orders to admit no visitors that evening, sat in front of the library fire, cudgelling her brains for some method of rehabilitating her friend in public favour. Although a woman of great resource and audacity none occurred to her; the case was too hopeless."Let me see," she said, judicially, "what are the facts—the known facts? First: Lynn, who is a great favourite with men but who shows partiality to none, develops an enthusiastic fancy for an unknown genius who arrives in Montreal two years ago. She works night and day to induce her friends to take him up; she takes long walks and drives in his society; and is frequently seen holding absorbed conversations with him in out-of-the-way places. She puffs his writings untiringly; she persists in ignoring his open faults; she makes excuses for his bad habits. True, he is only a child in years. Then he turns out to be utterly depraved; everyone drops him; she grows white and thin, refuses to discuss him even with me and is seen talking with him after he has been practically ostracised by all reputable people. This is a year ago. She, who has hitherto loved society and revelled in every sort of outdoor exercise, suddenly takes to refusing all invitations and losing interest in all sports. To-day half a dozen unimpeachable witnesses—and dear knows how many others—are ready to swear that they have seen her leave his extremely dubious place of residence, late at night. Oh, Lynn, Lynn, my dear stupid child, how could you? WhatcanI do for you? If they were even people who could be bought—who could be bribed to swear that they had lied!—oh, I give it up! I may as well telephone to Mrs. Waite and see if she has any ideas.""Is that you, Mrs. Waite? Yes, it is I, Mrs. Hadwell. No, I have not seen Miss Thayer yet but she is coming up to-morrow afternoon. I don't know; I am most unhappy about it. Yes, to-morrow afternoon. Oh, why?""Because," answered Mrs. Waite, quietly, "I think I have discovered something. Do not, on any account, let Miss Thayer know, or you may spoil everything. No, I can tell you nothing. I have your permission to bring him? then I shall say good-night.""Most tantalising," muttered Estelle as she hung up the receiver. "Still, as everything is as bad already as it can well be, nothing can make it much worse. How truly comforting! Who is the person she wants to bring, I wonder! and how can he help poor Lynn? A plea of insanity is the only solution that occurs to me. But I'll stand by her—and, in the meantime, I'll drink a pint of porter and see if that will make me sleep."It did; and at four o'clock the next day Mrs. Hadwell greeted her friend with an intensity of feeling that was almost solemn."You poor child!" she said, as she kissed her.Lynn returned the kiss, listlessly, and sat down. She looked rather tired."So you have not yet deserted me, Del?" she said, quietly, as she loosened her wraps."Deserted you! Oh, Lynn, Lynn, I wouldn't desert you if you had committed murder and sacrilege. But, my child, how could you be so foolish? Why weren't you content with doing a wrong thing without going further and doing it in such a way that it had to come out? I won't reproach you for the thing, itself; I am too sick, too sorry; but why, oh why, had you"——"Wait!"Lynn put her hand to her forehead as though bewildered."Just a minute, Del. I don't quite understand. What is it that you think?""Don't fence with me, dear, any longer. That green-eyed harpy of a Langham-Greene has got hold of the whole affair. You have been seen leaving the Chatham late at night; you have been seen dismissing a sleigh on Pine Avenue and walking home.""Yes.""You know! But, Lynn, how can you take it so coolly? Don't you realise what a terrible thing it is?""In what way?""Why, my dear, dear girl, your reputation is gone if we can't refute these statements; you must know that.""Yes, I know.""You—know!""Yes. The fact is, Del, that I have had so many real troubles lately that the loss of that intangible thing, reputation, affects me little. I can get along without it.""Lynn, you don't know what you are saying. A woman's reputation is like her clothing; it's a great bother, it's ruinously expensive and it's sometimes distinctly uncomfortable. The sad fact remains, however, that she must either have it or emigrate to the Sandwich Islands.""My reputation, as you call it, Del, is gone because two or three people say that they have seen me doing an unusual thing. It is true; I did it. Yet, if I had immersed myself in a nunnery and never stirred outside unless accompanied by an army of chaperons and escorts, my reputation might be gone, just as effectually. The first man who took a dislike to me could leave me without a shred of character provided he went to a little trouble and didn't mind a few lies—what man does? What is more, I might never have heard of the matter till years after; it merely happens that I am aware of this. There may be fifty scandals about me in other circles for anything I know to the contrary. No, Del; I have several troubles, but my lost reputation is not one of them.""My dear Lynn, are you absolutely indifferent to the opinions of others? You must be mad.""Possibly. I don't say that I am not sorry to think that many nice women must have a wrong idea of me: but as for men—pah! What does it matter whattheythink? It is not so very long ago since a certain engagement was broken off in this very city; the 'gentleman' took his former fiancee's letters to the club and read them there aloud amid shouts of laughter. There are men for you! the men that you and I know! Who would want the good-will of a pack of hounds like that? No; let them have my reputation to tear to pieces if it amuses them; I have other things to think of.""But Lynn, what are you going to do?""Stay here and face the music.""Stay here?""Certainly. What do you take me for?""A madwoman. You mean to stay in a place where everyone knows—where the man is still living—where"—"Why not? I've done nothing to be ashamed of, even granting that I have acted foolishly. I'm not going to skulk off!""Nothing to be ashamed of! Lynn! Why do you persist in maintaining this attitude? You compel me to speak plainly. You have done what is unforgivable—you have done"—"Wait a minute, Del! You mean?"—"I mean—oh, Lynn, Lynn, don't you see that if you had only kept this dreadful thing secret; if you only hadn't allowed people to know, positively, that you had done the one thing that is never pardoned in a woman—if you had only"—"Ah!"Lynn rose, slowly."I didn't know, Del—I knew what men were like—I didn't know—what you have taught me! Good-bye.""Lynn. Wait! Where are you going?""Home—to tell my uncle and aunt that I have been seen leaving the Chatham at night. If they won't have me in their house—I'll go, elsewhere. I have proved the worth of the two people, man and woman, who professed to love me best on earth; now I want to rid myself of all the rest. Good-bye.""Good heavens! You don't mean to say that you are trying to deny?"—"I am denying and trying to deny nothing. I refuse to discuss the subject. I suppose I must make up my mind to expect insults from strangers, but I am not compelled to receive them from my friends—or from those who were once my friends. I have no friends, now; I never had father or mother or—or—and now I have neither friend nor lover. Knowing what I now know of love and friendship—I am glad!""Oh, Lynn, Lynn! This to me! when I would move heaven and earth to help you!" cried Mrs. Hadwell, miserably. "How can you doubt my friendship? I tell you that if, to-morrow, everyone threw you over my house would still be open to you.""Your house! Do you think I would ever enter it again? Fool! We've known each other from childhood up, and yet, to-day, you think you can insult me and be forgiven. The sight of you makes me feel sick. Don't stop me, don't speak to me"—Mrs. Hadwell had risen to intercept her. Lynn hastened past her to the door. There stood Gerald Amherst, white as death.For a long moment the three stood in silence. Lynn was the first to break it and her voice was mocking."You interrupted an affecting farewell, Mr. Amherst. I was saying good-bye to my bosom friend, just as, not long ago, I said good-bye to my devoted lover. Having done what politeness demands I shall now take my departure.""No!" exclaimed Estelle, rushing forward. "Don't let her, Mr. Amherst. She doesn't know what she's saying or doing and Imustkeep her till she understands. Lynn, wait! Let me explain."Lynn, with a gesture that was almost majestic, motioned Amherst from the doorway where he still stood. He hesitated, trembling and uncertain; and while he hesitated, steps sounded in the hall behind and Mrs. Waite spoke."Mr. Amherst, don't go away! nor you, either, Miss Thayer. I wish very much to see you, both. I am sorry to be late, but"—Amherst moved aside, mechanically, and Amy Waite entered, followed by Ricossia. The two women stood where they were, unable to speak or move; and Ricossia spoke, pleasantly."Mrs. Waite has brought me here in order that I may explain"—"Liol!"—"Don't be absurd, Lynn! The fact is, good people," said the boy carelessly, "that Lynn's mother was also mine; and Lynn, as a child, contracted some crazy affection for me which seems to have got her into general trouble. In the first place, she swore an insane oath to my mother—you see the latter was dying and sent for her secretly—it's hard to explain! but Mr. and Mrs. Thayer, knowing what a bad lot my father was and judging rightly that I would be likely to take after him—which I certainly did!—made it part of the bargain when they adopted Lynn that she was to have nothing to do with the lot of us. Lynn, however, had always remembered me, it seems, and so, when my mother sent for her and explained that my father would see me starve to death before he would spend a penny on me, Lynn undertook to provide for my upbringing out of her earnings as a teacher. That was all very well; but what does my mother do but get excited and make her swear that she will never tell anyone that I am her brother, in case it may get to the ears of the Thayers and make them throw her over. Lynn tries to get out of it but finally swears and—and then—I'm not over strong, and I fancy I'll sit down if you'll allow me. For God's sake, Lynn, don't look like that! what on earth's the matter with you?"No one spoke and Ricossia leaned back wearily in the chair which he had taken, his beautiful face haggard, his great eyes hollow and emptied of expression. Lynn stood like a statue; since her first exclamation she had remained silent but her face had changed. Something resembling hope had crept into her eyes and mingled with the fierce love that illumined them whenever they rested on her brother. As he lay back, breathing faintly, she moved toward him and stood, looking down."God is not all cruel," she said, as though to herself. "He has taken all the rest—but He has given me this, at least, before you die—the knowledge that you do care a little, Liol. Else, why should you have done this?"Her tired face softened with a beautiful peace."I don't know what on earth you are muttering to yourself about," said the consumptive, shrugging his shoulders, whimsically, "but, if you imagine, my dear girl, that I dragged myself up this infernal hill to save you from the consequences of your own folly, you're mistaken. Why shouldn't you break the fool oath? However, you'll be glad to hear that you'll be able to keep your own earnings in the future. I've made a haul that"——"Mr. Ricossia," broke in the metallic voice of Mrs. Waite, "refused at first to explain the object of Miss Thayer's visits. I therefore"—"She therefore paid me well to do it—as I surmised she would," said Ricossia, composedly. "Whatareyou looking like that for, Lynn? Thank goodness, I'm dependent on your vagaries no longer; the doctor tells me that, if I reach California alive, I may live a month or so longer—he doesn't promise that Iwillreach it,—but if I do!"— He sprang to his feet, irradiated and glorious—"if I do—by God, I'll see Life before I die!""You infernal young scoundrel!" broke in Amherst, unable to contain himself longer, "you d——d ungrateful young blackguard! is this your return to your sister for all she has done and suffered? Have you no shame?""Not a particle!" answered the other, laughing. "No shame and no love in my composition! I never cared for any living thing but myself—not even my mother. As for Lynn, I'm going to do her one kindness before I die; and that is to tell her the truth. Lynn, you have never been anything to me at any time but a necessary evil; I had to have money to live, and from you, only, was I able to obtain it; therefore I tried to feign a little affection for you which I never felt in the most remote degree. I've allowed you to sacrifice time, money, and finally reputation to me; and now that I'm going off alone to die—riotously and wickedly and happily as I've always wanted to—I leave you this piece of advice. Marry Amherst and forget all about me. I'll forget you as soon as I'm out of your sight, which will be very soon, I promise you."Something approaching horror showed in the faces of his hearers; they looked uncertainly at one another, doubtful whether to still the cruel voice or no. Lynn, only, remained motionless; her face was grey and her hands twitched a little. Gerald, who stood nearest, alone heard her whisper:"Not this! Oh, God, not this!""Lynn," he burst forth, "what can I say? Come with me, forgive me; I'll spend my life in making amends. Don't mind him; he doesn't know what he's saying; he's sick, crazy, mad! they all get like that when they take drugs. Lynn!"She turned very slowly and looked at him."You—want me?" she asked, dully. "Think!—the best of me is dead; you've helped to kill it, all of you. I'm an old woman now; I'll never be young, again, never be young or light-hearted or gay again, while this life lasts. Are you sure you want me?""Come!"Lynn looked at him ... then slowly, very slowly, put her hand in his."The little boy I loved is dead, too," she said, rather lifelessly. "That—that is a ghoul that has taken his beautiful form. Oh, my baby, my baby! my little dark-eyed angel that I loved so! to think that you should die and I not know it. Or perhaps you never lived, really.... Let us go, Gerald! let us go away from it, all! I'm tired. You—you'll not fail me?""Before God, I will not."They moved toward the door. On its threshold Lynn paused and turned. The red evening sunlight was streaming through the window and its scarlet flame lay strangely on the deathless beauty of her brother's face. She surveyed it in silence ... the face that had held all heaven and all hell for her since the moment when she, a lonely, loveless child, had seen and worshipped it first."Good-bye, Liol!" she said at last, very softly. "You've been my idol all my life, and I'm never going to see you again in time or in eternity, and I thank God for it.... Good-bye."Gerald drew her gently away and the door closed behind them.THE END.* * * * * * * *The Potter and the ClayA Romance of To-dayBy MAUD HOWARD PETERSON. Bound in blue cloth, decorative cover, rough edges, gilt top. Four drawings by Charlotte Harding. Size, 5 x 7-3/4. Price $1.50One of the strongest and most forceful of recent novels, now attracting marked attention, and already one of the most successful books of the present year. The characters are unique, the plot is puzzling, and the action is remarkably vivid. Readers and critics alike pronounce it a romance of rare strength and beauty. The scenes are laid in America, Scotland, and India; and one of the most thrilling and pathetic chapters in recent fiction is found in Trevelyan's heroic self-sacrifice during the heart-rending epidemic of cholera in the latter country. The story throughout is one of great strength.Margaret E. Sangster: "From the opening chapter, which tugs at the heart, to the close, when we read through tears, the charm of the book never flags. It is not for one season, but of abiding human interest."Minot J. Savage: "I predict for the book a very large sale, and for the authoress brilliant work in the future."Boston Journal: "One of the most remarkable books of the year. Brilliant, but better than that, tender."
CHAPTER XXIII
WHEN LOVE IS DONE
"The mind has a thousand eyes,And the heart but one—Yet the light of the whole life diesWhen love is done."—Old Song."I love—but I believe in love no more."—Shelley.
"The mind has a thousand eyes,And the heart but one—Yet the light of the whole life diesWhen love is done."—Old Song.
"The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one—
And the heart but one—
Yet the light of the whole life dies
When love is done."—Old Song.
When love is done."
—Old Song.
—Old Song.
"I love—but I believe in love no more."—Shelley.
Lunn recognized him almost immediately and stood quite still, looking into his face with a curious deliberation and intentness.
"One would almost think you had expected me," said Amherst, involuntarily. One seldom says what is uppermost in one's mind on these occasions.
"I think I did," said Lynn with equal quietness. "When I awoke this morning something told me that this would happen."
"There is a cab-stand a few blocks away," he continued, courteously. "May I take you there and see you into one?"
"I shall be—grateful for the attention," said Lynn, dully: then she laughed.
They walked in silence for a block or two.
"Have you anything to say to me, Lynn?" said Amherst at last.
"I—nothing!"
"You prefer to say nothing?"
Lynn was silent for a moment; then she spoke very distinctly.
"On the night that you asked me to marry you, I said all that I was at liberty to say."
"Ricossia is rather exacting, isn't he?"
The sneer escaped Gerald, wrung from him by his pain. Lynn started slightly but made no answer.
"I should ask your pardon," Amherst went on, presently. "I had no right to say that. I do not even know that it is Ricossia on whom you paid this late call. Possibly you have other friends in the Chatham."
"I have not."
"It—it is Ricossia?"
She threw back her head and laughed.
"Exactly—it is Ricossia. And, by the way, Mr. Amherst, although I know that when one does an unconventional thing, 'gentlemen' are quite justified in insulting one; yet, as there is a policeman on the next corner, and as even a homeless cur isn't obliged to stand still while some one throws a rock at it—will you leave me?"
"No. Lynn, forgive me. I'm crazy; I don't know what I'm saying. If it were anyone else—if it were any other man—anyone, anyone but that villainous little blackguard"——
"Stop!"
Lynn turned on him like a tigress, her eyes blazing with fury.
"How dare you call him that?" she cried. "A genius! a god of beauty! and dying at that! What sort of man do you call yourself to insult first the woman who was to have been your wife and then a dying man."
Amherst gasped and caught his breath in painful amazement.
"Oh, my God!" he groaned like a hurt animal, "how you must love him, Lynn!"
They had passed the cab-stand now and had turned toward home, but neither noticed this. Amherst's face was ghastly and his steps unsteady; but Lynn walked erect and stately like a sable figure of doom.
When some blocks had been traversed in silence Amherst spoke, slowly and humbly.
"Lynn, I should not have spoken as I did. We're all human and I'm not your judge. If I didn't love you—if I hadn't believed that you loved me—I should not have been so harsh. Will you let me walk home with you? We probably shan't see one another again very soon and there is so much I want to say."
"No."
"You won't let me? You compel me to—very well, I'll go to Ricossia, then; I'll make him listen to reason and, and if he won't, I'll"——
"Gerald!"
Lynn's voice was alive with a sudden, horrible fear.
"Gerald," she said swiftly, clasping his arm with her hands, "you loved me once, didn't you? For the sake of that, because of that, will you do me a favour? Deal with me, alone. I'm strong, I can stand anything. Say what you please to me, do as you think best—but let him alone. He's so young, he—he's so weak—and he's dying, Gerald, dying. He may be dead, to-morrow. While he lives, let him alone. Oh, Gerald, promise me!"
Amherst could not speak for a moment. When he did his voice had altered.
"Lynn," said he, gently, "why did you promise to marry me?"
"Because I loved you, Gerald."
"You still say that—now?"
"Yes. My love for him was quite another thing. I can't explain, and I don't expect you to understand."
"I see—I think I see. The other was a—well, a sort of obsession."
"Exactly. You could hit on no better word."
"Yet you believed that you loved me. You think that you could care for two men at once?"
She moistened her dry lips and spoke, feebly.
"If I had not been so alone in the world, Gerald, I might have loved several. There are so many different loves, you know; differing in kind and in degree. The love for a father, for a son, for a brother"—her face lightened with sudden hope,—"that was really what I felt for him, Gerald; the love that a mother has for a son, the love that a sister has for a brother—don't you, oh, can't you, understand? I loved you in quite another way—it's so different—and, if I tried to explain any more, I should break a solemn oath—I should bring a curse on my head"——
Amherst's face lit with a sudden, heated gleam. He turned and spoke fiercely.
"Lynn! Don't insult my intelligence by telling me stuff of that sort, but listen! Promise that you'll never see him again, and that you'll do your best to forget him! Promise that he'll be nothing to you in the future! and I'll forgive all the rest. Come to me! I want you. I won't ask you a question, not a question. Marry me to-morrow and I'll kill the first man—or woman—who breathes a word against you. Lynn!"
She held her breath and looked at him as though fascinated.
"Lynn! Promise!"
She spoke, slowly and with difficulty.
"Until he dies, Gerald—my life is his."
"Then"——
Amherst's face flushed, a dark, purplish flush, ugly to see.
"You prefer him then to reputation, honour, common sense and decency." His breath came heavily. "You prefer him—to me!"
As slowly and deliberately as before she answered him.
"I love you—as a woman loves the man she means to marry. I love L—Ricossia—as I love no other being on God's earth—as I do not believe any other man was ever loved from the beginning of time. You say rightly. I prefer him—and the oath at which you sneer—to reputation—honour—common sense—decency—and you! Good-bye, Gerald; try to forget me."
CHAPTER XXIV
MRS. LANGHAM-GREENE PAYS HER DEBT; ANDMRS. WAITE, HERS
"The long-necked geese of the world that areever hissing dispraiseBecause their natures are little."—Tennyson.
"The long-necked geese of the world that areever hissing dispraiseBecause their natures are little."—Tennyson.
"The long-necked geese of the world that are
ever hissing dispraise
ever hissing dispraise
Because their natures are little."
—Tennyson.
—Tennyson.
—Tennyson.
Estelle Hadwell was sitting by a blazing fire in her husband's library when she heard voices in the hall below, followed by the banging of a door. Then Mr. Hadwell called loudly:
"Estelle! are you there?"
"Yes, dear," replied his wife, somewhat surprised. "Have you visitors?"
"Yes. Mrs. Langham-Greene and Mrs. Tollman are here. Can you come down?"
"Yes, indeed!" replied Mrs. Hadwell with effusion. She rose slowly from her chair by the fire, grimacing disgustedly as she did so. The library was so nice and Mrs. Greene so horrid and Mrs. Tollman such a bore.
She hurried down and advanced with extended hands and a delighted smile. She had got as far as "A most delightful surprise—an unexpected pleasure!" when she caught sight of her husband's face.
"Henry!" she exclaimed in genuine consternation. "What in the world is it?"
Her husband was standing with his back to the fireplace and a portentous frown on his brow, looking, as Mrs. Hadwell reflected to herself, for all the world like the British Matron in trousers.
"Henry, what is it?" she asked, again.
"These ladies," returned Mr. Hadwell with a majestic wave of his hand, "can tell you better than I."
Estelle glanced from one to the other, wonderingly. Mrs. Tollman, a stout, pleasant-faced woman, wore a somewhat distressed expression and sat stiffly upright. Mrs. Langham-Greene, delicately lovely in dark blue velvet and ermine, leaned gracefully back in an easy chair, her fine features composed to an expression of decorous sorrow. Neither lady made any immediate effort to enlighten her hostess until Mrs. Greene swept a meaning glance at her companion from beneath her long, light lashes. Then Mrs. Tollman spoke.
"It's such a delicate matter, Mrs. Hadwell," she said in a flurried way. "I disliked coming to you about it, very much; but Mr. Hadwell insisted, saying that only an eye-witness could convince you."
"Of what?"
"This is so hard on us, both," Mrs. Langham-Greene murmured, soothingly. "And it was so careless of me to mention the poor thing; for then Mr. Hadwell simply dragged the whole story out of me. I am most distressed, I am indeed!"
"But at what, dear Mrs. Greene?" cooed her hostess.
"Oh, at the whole affair—the poor girl so well connected and all! and Ricossia so common and dreadful."
"Oh, some new scandal about young Ricossia," exclaimed Mrs. Hadwell with sudden enlightenment and a corresponding sinking of the heart.
"But he is not common; no one could call him that. Dreadful, certainly; but rather fascinating in his way, don't you think?"
"Apparently others have found him so," drawled the older lady, meaningly.
"What others?"
Mrs. Langham-Greene looked deliberately at Mrs. Hadwell and spoke, regretfully.
"I am afraid, dear Mrs. Hadwell, that your friend, Miss Thayer"——
"How dare you say so?"
"Estelle," said her husband, reprovingly, "is it likely that these ladies would speak without proper authority?"
"Very likely indeed," thought their hostess, but her heart was sick within her. Lynn's interest in Ricossia; her lack of interest in other men; her sorrow, her preoccupation, her confession of having outraged propriety; all these ranged as witnesses against her in her friend's heart.
"I knew—I told Mr. Hadwell that you would take it in just this way," murmured the widow, sympathetically. "So he insisted that we bring an eye-witness to convince you. Of course the thing has been going on for an indefinite space of time; but, just lately, Mr. and Mrs. Tollman, when returning home late one night, saw Miss Thayer leaving the Chatham. They followed her. She took a sleigh to Pine Avenue, dismissed it there and walked home. Isn't it so, Mrs. Tollman?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Tollman, fluttering. "It is undeniably true. But I don't know how it ever got out, for I only told my most intimate friends about it."
"That was cheaper than having it printed in the 'Daily News' and certainly quite as effective."
Mrs. Hadwell had lost her usual calm and diplomacy.
"Really," she continued with a sudden burst of candour, "really how I do hate women! They're every bit as nasty as men, and nothing like so nice into the bargain. I wish I need never see a woman again—except Lynn."
This coming from the politic and tactful Mrs. Hadwell had the effect of a thunderclap. Before her listeners had recovered the housemaid announced Mrs. Waite and that lady entered.
Since inheriting her legacy, Mrs. Hadwell's former housekeeper had hired a small furnished house and was living there alone. General Shaftan's house, her property, was advertised for sale; a proceeding which had roused some interest in Montreal society.
"How funny of her not to live there until it sells or rents! Can it be that that sourfaced woman is afraid of ghosts?" some had asked.
She stood now in the doorway, looking from one to the other with her peculiarly cold and expressionless manner. "Excuse me," she said without preliminary, "but as I was walking through the hall just now I heard what you were saying; I could not help hearing. Is it true that Miss Thayer is in trouble?"
"Are you interested in Miss Thayer?" inquired Mrs. Langham-Greene with courtly insolence.
"Yes."
The two women faced one another in silence; the one beautiful, patrician, elegant; the other, plain, sad-faced, and, apparently, old. A whole world lay between them; nor was the chasm bridged by the fact that both had loved the same man. Mrs. Hadwell, with her usual quick intuition, could feel the air charged with import and longed to know what lay beneath these different exteriors. Instead she turned to Mrs. Langham-Greene with a question.
"May I ask what your object was in laying these slanders about Miss Thayer before me?" she said.
"I wished," said the other slowly, "to see what could be done to help the wretched girl. Of course she cannot stay here; and I understand that there is a great dearth of teachers in the North-West; they are not particular there as to character and"—
"You cat!" screamed little Mrs. Hadwell, losing all control of herself. "How dare you come to my house and compel me to be rude to your very face? How dare you speak so of my best friend? Who wants to hear your opinion of her? why, it's an impertinence on your part to have an opinion about a girl like Lynn. Let me tell you that Miss Thayer need not go to the North-West for a refuge; she will always find a welcome in my home whenever she needs one"—
"Not in mine!"
Mrs. Hadwell started and looked at her husband with amazement.
"You wish me to drop Lynn? My dear Henry, if you are thinking of setting up in the ostracizing business I can supply you with a long list of far more deserving cases."
"I don't say that the girl is actually bad, but she has been proved to be utterly devoid of sense or decency. She shall never set foot in my house again."
"In that case," Mrs. Hadwell's voice was calm—"I leave your house to-night and take my children with me."
"What?"
"They are all under seven and until that age the mother has full control. I shall take them to my grandmother in Lachine; there, at least, I can receive my friends—my one friend, I should say! I haven't another."
Mr. Hadwell stamped out of the room in a fury. Mrs. Tollman and Mrs. Greene followed him quietly, the former almost in tears, the latter composed and cheerful. When the door closed on them Mrs. Hadwell sat down and burst into tears.
"Oh, Lynn, Lynn, how could you?" she sobbed.
"Mrs. Hadwell, can you give me this Mr. Ricossia's address?"
Mrs. Waite's cold, thin voice sounded unpleasantly at Estelle's elbow.
"Yes, I believe it's the Chatham, either 10 or 12 St. Eustache St.," answered the younger woman, staring through wet eyes in sheer amazement. "Are you there, still, Mrs. Waite? I thought you had gone."
"Don't—don't mind so much," said the "Gorgon-faced automaton" with difficulty. "Perhaps something can be done."
"Oh, nothing, nothing, I am afraid, except to stand by her."
"You believe this story?"
"No!" lied Mrs. Hadwell, firmly.
"Neither do I. I am sure there is some explanation if one could only find out what it is. And I have plenty of money, now; money can do a great deal sometimes in cases of this kind, and there is nothing I would sooner spend it on"——
"You—you? But, Mrs. Waite—if you don't mind my asking—why should you—what is Lynn to you?"
Mrs. Waite moistened her dry lips and spoke, faintly.
"I had a child once. He died.... She was his teacher and—and she was good to him. But don't tell her; she might try to talk to me about him and—and I couldn't stand that"——
Mrs. Waite stopped; her plain face contorted ludicrously. The next moment the cold Mrs. Hadwell and the woman beside whose frigid nature her own showed in the light of a volcano were weeping bitterly in one another's arms.
CHAPTER XXV
THE SHADOWS FALL
"All the dreaming is broken through,Both what is done and undone I rue,Nothing is tender, nothing true,In heaven or earth save God and you."—Arthur Sullivan."But still the faces gaped and cried,'Give us the dream for which we died!'"—Charles G. D. Roberts.
"All the dreaming is broken through,Both what is done and undone I rue,Nothing is tender, nothing true,In heaven or earth save God and you."—Arthur Sullivan."But still the faces gaped and cried,'Give us the dream for which we died!'"—Charles G. D. Roberts.
"All the dreaming is broken through,
Both what is done and undone I rue,
Nothing is tender, nothing true,
In heaven or earth save God and you."
—Arthur Sullivan.
—Arthur Sullivan.
—Arthur Sullivan.
"But still the faces gaped and cried,
'Give us the dream for which we died!'"—Charles G. D. Roberts.
'Give us the dream for which we died!'"
—Charles G. D. Roberts.
—Charles G. D. Roberts.
Mrs. Hadwell, having hypnotized Mr. Hadwell into apologizing profusely for his conduct, promised to forgive him if he would go away for a week.
"You have been talking for years of paying a visit to your sister in Toronto," she said. "Suppose you go now, Henry. She will be delighted to see you, and I—after a week of absence I shall be so glad to see you, again, that I shall not even think of this. Otherwise"——
He went. When Estelle had seen him safely in the train she drew a long breath of relief and telephoned to Miss Thayer. Until then she had not dared to risk an encounter between her friend and her husband, knowing that the former was a keen observer and the latter, a poor actor.
"Come to me, to-morrow, as soon as school is out, dear," she said. "I shall be in all afternoon. Promise!"
"Oh, yes, I shall come, Del," assented the other, quietly. Mrs. Hadwell, listening sorrowfully, thought she could detect a note of unaccustomed grief in Lynn's voice. She endeavoured to forget it, however, and, giving orders to admit no visitors that evening, sat in front of the library fire, cudgelling her brains for some method of rehabilitating her friend in public favour. Although a woman of great resource and audacity none occurred to her; the case was too hopeless.
"Let me see," she said, judicially, "what are the facts—the known facts? First: Lynn, who is a great favourite with men but who shows partiality to none, develops an enthusiastic fancy for an unknown genius who arrives in Montreal two years ago. She works night and day to induce her friends to take him up; she takes long walks and drives in his society; and is frequently seen holding absorbed conversations with him in out-of-the-way places. She puffs his writings untiringly; she persists in ignoring his open faults; she makes excuses for his bad habits. True, he is only a child in years. Then he turns out to be utterly depraved; everyone drops him; she grows white and thin, refuses to discuss him even with me and is seen talking with him after he has been practically ostracised by all reputable people. This is a year ago. She, who has hitherto loved society and revelled in every sort of outdoor exercise, suddenly takes to refusing all invitations and losing interest in all sports. To-day half a dozen unimpeachable witnesses—and dear knows how many others—are ready to swear that they have seen her leave his extremely dubious place of residence, late at night. Oh, Lynn, Lynn, my dear stupid child, how could you? WhatcanI do for you? If they were even people who could be bought—who could be bribed to swear that they had lied!—oh, I give it up! I may as well telephone to Mrs. Waite and see if she has any ideas."
"Is that you, Mrs. Waite? Yes, it is I, Mrs. Hadwell. No, I have not seen Miss Thayer yet but she is coming up to-morrow afternoon. I don't know; I am most unhappy about it. Yes, to-morrow afternoon. Oh, why?"
"Because," answered Mrs. Waite, quietly, "I think I have discovered something. Do not, on any account, let Miss Thayer know, or you may spoil everything. No, I can tell you nothing. I have your permission to bring him? then I shall say good-night."
"Most tantalising," muttered Estelle as she hung up the receiver. "Still, as everything is as bad already as it can well be, nothing can make it much worse. How truly comforting! Who is the person she wants to bring, I wonder! and how can he help poor Lynn? A plea of insanity is the only solution that occurs to me. But I'll stand by her—and, in the meantime, I'll drink a pint of porter and see if that will make me sleep."
It did; and at four o'clock the next day Mrs. Hadwell greeted her friend with an intensity of feeling that was almost solemn.
"You poor child!" she said, as she kissed her.
Lynn returned the kiss, listlessly, and sat down. She looked rather tired.
"So you have not yet deserted me, Del?" she said, quietly, as she loosened her wraps.
"Deserted you! Oh, Lynn, Lynn, I wouldn't desert you if you had committed murder and sacrilege. But, my child, how could you be so foolish? Why weren't you content with doing a wrong thing without going further and doing it in such a way that it had to come out? I won't reproach you for the thing, itself; I am too sick, too sorry; but why, oh why, had you"——
"Wait!"
Lynn put her hand to her forehead as though bewildered.
"Just a minute, Del. I don't quite understand. What is it that you think?"
"Don't fence with me, dear, any longer. That green-eyed harpy of a Langham-Greene has got hold of the whole affair. You have been seen leaving the Chatham late at night; you have been seen dismissing a sleigh on Pine Avenue and walking home."
"Yes."
"You know! But, Lynn, how can you take it so coolly? Don't you realise what a terrible thing it is?"
"In what way?"
"Why, my dear, dear girl, your reputation is gone if we can't refute these statements; you must know that."
"Yes, I know."
"You—know!"
"Yes. The fact is, Del, that I have had so many real troubles lately that the loss of that intangible thing, reputation, affects me little. I can get along without it."
"Lynn, you don't know what you are saying. A woman's reputation is like her clothing; it's a great bother, it's ruinously expensive and it's sometimes distinctly uncomfortable. The sad fact remains, however, that she must either have it or emigrate to the Sandwich Islands."
"My reputation, as you call it, Del, is gone because two or three people say that they have seen me doing an unusual thing. It is true; I did it. Yet, if I had immersed myself in a nunnery and never stirred outside unless accompanied by an army of chaperons and escorts, my reputation might be gone, just as effectually. The first man who took a dislike to me could leave me without a shred of character provided he went to a little trouble and didn't mind a few lies—what man does? What is more, I might never have heard of the matter till years after; it merely happens that I am aware of this. There may be fifty scandals about me in other circles for anything I know to the contrary. No, Del; I have several troubles, but my lost reputation is not one of them."
"My dear Lynn, are you absolutely indifferent to the opinions of others? You must be mad."
"Possibly. I don't say that I am not sorry to think that many nice women must have a wrong idea of me: but as for men—pah! What does it matter whattheythink? It is not so very long ago since a certain engagement was broken off in this very city; the 'gentleman' took his former fiancee's letters to the club and read them there aloud amid shouts of laughter. There are men for you! the men that you and I know! Who would want the good-will of a pack of hounds like that? No; let them have my reputation to tear to pieces if it amuses them; I have other things to think of."
"But Lynn, what are you going to do?"
"Stay here and face the music."
"Stay here?"
"Certainly. What do you take me for?"
"A madwoman. You mean to stay in a place where everyone knows—where the man is still living—where"—
"Why not? I've done nothing to be ashamed of, even granting that I have acted foolishly. I'm not going to skulk off!"
"Nothing to be ashamed of! Lynn! Why do you persist in maintaining this attitude? You compel me to speak plainly. You have done what is unforgivable—you have done"—
"Wait a minute, Del! You mean?"—
"I mean—oh, Lynn, Lynn, don't you see that if you had only kept this dreadful thing secret; if you only hadn't allowed people to know, positively, that you had done the one thing that is never pardoned in a woman—if you had only"—
"Ah!"
Lynn rose, slowly.
"I didn't know, Del—I knew what men were like—I didn't know—what you have taught me! Good-bye."
"Lynn. Wait! Where are you going?"
"Home—to tell my uncle and aunt that I have been seen leaving the Chatham at night. If they won't have me in their house—I'll go, elsewhere. I have proved the worth of the two people, man and woman, who professed to love me best on earth; now I want to rid myself of all the rest. Good-bye."
"Good heavens! You don't mean to say that you are trying to deny?"—
"I am denying and trying to deny nothing. I refuse to discuss the subject. I suppose I must make up my mind to expect insults from strangers, but I am not compelled to receive them from my friends—or from those who were once my friends. I have no friends, now; I never had father or mother or—or—and now I have neither friend nor lover. Knowing what I now know of love and friendship—I am glad!"
"Oh, Lynn, Lynn! This to me! when I would move heaven and earth to help you!" cried Mrs. Hadwell, miserably. "How can you doubt my friendship? I tell you that if, to-morrow, everyone threw you over my house would still be open to you."
"Your house! Do you think I would ever enter it again? Fool! We've known each other from childhood up, and yet, to-day, you think you can insult me and be forgiven. The sight of you makes me feel sick. Don't stop me, don't speak to me"—
Mrs. Hadwell had risen to intercept her. Lynn hastened past her to the door. There stood Gerald Amherst, white as death.
For a long moment the three stood in silence. Lynn was the first to break it and her voice was mocking.
"You interrupted an affecting farewell, Mr. Amherst. I was saying good-bye to my bosom friend, just as, not long ago, I said good-bye to my devoted lover. Having done what politeness demands I shall now take my departure."
"No!" exclaimed Estelle, rushing forward. "Don't let her, Mr. Amherst. She doesn't know what she's saying or doing and Imustkeep her till she understands. Lynn, wait! Let me explain."
Lynn, with a gesture that was almost majestic, motioned Amherst from the doorway where he still stood. He hesitated, trembling and uncertain; and while he hesitated, steps sounded in the hall behind and Mrs. Waite spoke.
"Mr. Amherst, don't go away! nor you, either, Miss Thayer. I wish very much to see you, both. I am sorry to be late, but"—
Amherst moved aside, mechanically, and Amy Waite entered, followed by Ricossia. The two women stood where they were, unable to speak or move; and Ricossia spoke, pleasantly.
"Mrs. Waite has brought me here in order that I may explain"—
"Liol!"—
"Don't be absurd, Lynn! The fact is, good people," said the boy carelessly, "that Lynn's mother was also mine; and Lynn, as a child, contracted some crazy affection for me which seems to have got her into general trouble. In the first place, she swore an insane oath to my mother—you see the latter was dying and sent for her secretly—it's hard to explain! but Mr. and Mrs. Thayer, knowing what a bad lot my father was and judging rightly that I would be likely to take after him—which I certainly did!—made it part of the bargain when they adopted Lynn that she was to have nothing to do with the lot of us. Lynn, however, had always remembered me, it seems, and so, when my mother sent for her and explained that my father would see me starve to death before he would spend a penny on me, Lynn undertook to provide for my upbringing out of her earnings as a teacher. That was all very well; but what does my mother do but get excited and make her swear that she will never tell anyone that I am her brother, in case it may get to the ears of the Thayers and make them throw her over. Lynn tries to get out of it but finally swears and—and then—I'm not over strong, and I fancy I'll sit down if you'll allow me. For God's sake, Lynn, don't look like that! what on earth's the matter with you?"
No one spoke and Ricossia leaned back wearily in the chair which he had taken, his beautiful face haggard, his great eyes hollow and emptied of expression. Lynn stood like a statue; since her first exclamation she had remained silent but her face had changed. Something resembling hope had crept into her eyes and mingled with the fierce love that illumined them whenever they rested on her brother. As he lay back, breathing faintly, she moved toward him and stood, looking down.
"God is not all cruel," she said, as though to herself. "He has taken all the rest—but He has given me this, at least, before you die—the knowledge that you do care a little, Liol. Else, why should you have done this?"
Her tired face softened with a beautiful peace.
"I don't know what on earth you are muttering to yourself about," said the consumptive, shrugging his shoulders, whimsically, "but, if you imagine, my dear girl, that I dragged myself up this infernal hill to save you from the consequences of your own folly, you're mistaken. Why shouldn't you break the fool oath? However, you'll be glad to hear that you'll be able to keep your own earnings in the future. I've made a haul that"——
"Mr. Ricossia," broke in the metallic voice of Mrs. Waite, "refused at first to explain the object of Miss Thayer's visits. I therefore"—
"She therefore paid me well to do it—as I surmised she would," said Ricossia, composedly. "Whatareyou looking like that for, Lynn? Thank goodness, I'm dependent on your vagaries no longer; the doctor tells me that, if I reach California alive, I may live a month or so longer—he doesn't promise that Iwillreach it,—but if I do!"— He sprang to his feet, irradiated and glorious—"if I do—by God, I'll see Life before I die!"
"You infernal young scoundrel!" broke in Amherst, unable to contain himself longer, "you d——d ungrateful young blackguard! is this your return to your sister for all she has done and suffered? Have you no shame?"
"Not a particle!" answered the other, laughing. "No shame and no love in my composition! I never cared for any living thing but myself—not even my mother. As for Lynn, I'm going to do her one kindness before I die; and that is to tell her the truth. Lynn, you have never been anything to me at any time but a necessary evil; I had to have money to live, and from you, only, was I able to obtain it; therefore I tried to feign a little affection for you which I never felt in the most remote degree. I've allowed you to sacrifice time, money, and finally reputation to me; and now that I'm going off alone to die—riotously and wickedly and happily as I've always wanted to—I leave you this piece of advice. Marry Amherst and forget all about me. I'll forget you as soon as I'm out of your sight, which will be very soon, I promise you."
Something approaching horror showed in the faces of his hearers; they looked uncertainly at one another, doubtful whether to still the cruel voice or no. Lynn, only, remained motionless; her face was grey and her hands twitched a little. Gerald, who stood nearest, alone heard her whisper:
"Not this! Oh, God, not this!"
"Lynn," he burst forth, "what can I say? Come with me, forgive me; I'll spend my life in making amends. Don't mind him; he doesn't know what he's saying; he's sick, crazy, mad! they all get like that when they take drugs. Lynn!"
She turned very slowly and looked at him.
"You—want me?" she asked, dully. "Think!—the best of me is dead; you've helped to kill it, all of you. I'm an old woman now; I'll never be young, again, never be young or light-hearted or gay again, while this life lasts. Are you sure you want me?"
"Come!"
Lynn looked at him ... then slowly, very slowly, put her hand in his.
"The little boy I loved is dead, too," she said, rather lifelessly. "That—that is a ghoul that has taken his beautiful form. Oh, my baby, my baby! my little dark-eyed angel that I loved so! to think that you should die and I not know it. Or perhaps you never lived, really.... Let us go, Gerald! let us go away from it, all! I'm tired. You—you'll not fail me?"
"Before God, I will not."
They moved toward the door. On its threshold Lynn paused and turned. The red evening sunlight was streaming through the window and its scarlet flame lay strangely on the deathless beauty of her brother's face. She surveyed it in silence ... the face that had held all heaven and all hell for her since the moment when she, a lonely, loveless child, had seen and worshipped it first.
"Good-bye, Liol!" she said at last, very softly. "You've been my idol all my life, and I'm never going to see you again in time or in eternity, and I thank God for it.... Good-bye."
Gerald drew her gently away and the door closed behind them.
THE END.
* * * * * * * *
The Potter and the Clay
A Romance of To-day
By MAUD HOWARD PETERSON. Bound in blue cloth, decorative cover, rough edges, gilt top. Four drawings by Charlotte Harding. Size, 5 x 7-3/4. Price $1.50
One of the strongest and most forceful of recent novels, now attracting marked attention, and already one of the most successful books of the present year. The characters are unique, the plot is puzzling, and the action is remarkably vivid. Readers and critics alike pronounce it a romance of rare strength and beauty. The scenes are laid in America, Scotland, and India; and one of the most thrilling and pathetic chapters in recent fiction is found in Trevelyan's heroic self-sacrifice during the heart-rending epidemic of cholera in the latter country. The story throughout is one of great strength.
Margaret E. Sangster: "From the opening chapter, which tugs at the heart, to the close, when we read through tears, the charm of the book never flags. It is not for one season, but of abiding human interest."
Minot J. Savage: "I predict for the book a very large sale, and for the authoress brilliant work in the future."
Boston Journal: "One of the most remarkable books of the year. Brilliant, but better than that, tender."