The bell of the Fairville Presbyterian Church was slowly tolling the hour of morning service, and its tones, clanging out through the bright green shutters of the belfry on the peaceful Sabbath air, summoned the congregation to worship. The sun shone brightly upon the little white church, with its peaked roof and its tall, weather-vaned steeple, and its rays glanced hotly down upon the dusty roadway and wooden sidewalks of the long, village street. Two rows of white frame houses, fronted by little green patches, each enclosed by a picket fence and a swinging gate, extended away in the distance. Two lines of stately elms cast their shadows partially over the dusty street, while above them stretched the blue vault of the June sky.
The tolling of the bell was the only sound that disturbed the perfect quiet of the day, for even the birds seemed to have ceased their chirping in deference to the Sabbath. Soon, however, in answer to the call to prayer, the little picket gates swung open, and far down the street a slender line of people began to walk, with the measured tread of conscious righteousness, toward the little church which gleamed so white in the sunshine at the end of the street. The board walk creaked under the squeaking tread of Sunday shoes, and solemn lips spoke in subdued Sunday tones, as elders and laity slowly wended along under the shade of the stately elms. White lawn dresses, leghorn bonnets and blue shawls, folded cross-wise, and lisle-thread gloves, were interspersed among flopping broadcloth coats and straight brimmed hats in the throng which passed along the street and through the doors of the church. Once, just after the last tone of the bell had died away, the stillness was broken by the rumble of wheels, and a single carriage rolled through the dust up to the church door. It was a modest equipage, plain in its appointments, but some of the congregation frowned disapprovingly as the door opened and Florence Moreland and her father descended. Without heeding these glances of disapprobation, they walked quietly into the church and passed down the long aisle to the family pew. The movement of numerous fans ceased and many heads were turned to see the Judge and his daughter take their seats, while several pairs of young and envious eyes were directed toward the last production of a city milliner. After the fans had begun to move again, the cadaverous minister rose from his seat and in harsh, nasal tones announced the hymn. There was a hemming and coughing in the choir's gallery, the organ bellows wheezed, hymn-books rustled, and then, as the first strains of the organ sounded, the old familiar lines beginning, "All people that on earth do dwell," swelled forth in zealous tones.
Just as the last notes of the tune floated away and the congregation were taking their seats, a man stole quietly down the aisle and entered the pew behind Florence Moreland. His well-made clothes attracted curious eyes, and during the seemingly interminable prayer for the exorcism of every evil and the granting of all known blessings, many covert glances were sent in his direction. It seemed to those who looked, that during the prayer and the long didactic discourse upon Solomon and Sheba's queen, which followed, his eyes were kept continuously fixed upon the back of a gold-braided jacket in front of him. The doctor's daughter next him glanced over his book during the last hymn and saw that it was not open at the right place, while the elder who passed the plate looked wonderingly at the young Crœsus who placed a greenback among the coppers and silver; but during the entire service his eyes were not removed from the form in front of him. The last roll of the organ died away and the minister pronounced his benedictory prayer. During the conventional moment of silence which followed, the sun streamed through the stained glass windows and danced in colored shadows on the backs of the white lawn gowns; then the frocks rustled as the congregation slowly filed out, and the solemn, Sunday faces were relaxed into smiles of friendly greeting.
Florence Moreland waited until most of the people had passed out, then she placed her hand upon the pew door, and was about to open it, when she was startled by the sight of a familiar face behind her. "Harold," she said, when she had recovered from her surprise. "What brought you to Fairville?"
"I came as the bearer of a message for you," Harold Wainwright replied, as he opened the pew door for her.
"For me! From whom?" asked Florence in astonishment.
"If I may walk home with you I will tell you; otherwise you must wait."
"You are very dictatorial," she replied, "but when a woman's curiosity is aroused, she is easily managed. If father will drive home alone, I consent to your terms. Father," she continued, turning around and interrupting a conversation which Judge Moreland was holding with an elder, "here is Harold Wainwright."
"Glad to see you, Harold," said the Judge, taking Wainwright's hand and giving it the hearty shake of unaffected cordiality. "Glad to see the son of the best friend I ever had. You must bring your grip up to the house. What brought you to Fairville?"
Harold was about to reply to these numerous and disconnected remarks, but he was interrupted by Florence. "Harold brings news I must hear; he won't tell me unless I promise to let him walk home with me. Do you mind, father?"
"Certainly not. I'll take Elder Jones home—if I can persuade him to ride on Sunday," the Judge added in a whisper.
"Very well, then. Good-by, father," said Florence, moving toward the door.
"Good-by, children. It's a hot day, so don't hurry. If you want to stop under the willows to rest, I sha'n't mind, and I'll wait lunch for you. Don't forget to move up to the house, Harold."
"Thank you, Judge," said Harold, "but as I leave in the morning, I don't believe I had better bother you."
"Nonsense, my boy," called the Judge. "I'll send down for your traps this afternoon."
When Florence and Harold reached the street, the congregation had mostly dispersed. Instead of following the villagers along under the shady elms into the heart of the village, they turned to the left, and tramped in the hot sun toward the shore of the little lake which lay at the end of the town. Judge Moreland's place was on the opposite bank, and although the grey tower on the north wing of the house, rising above the surrounding oak trees, seemed quite near, they were obliged to follow the road for a mile and a half along the lake shore. About half way was a clump of willow trees growing by the water, under whose shade they had often stopped to rest. Florence and Harold both loved this little lake, sunk like a gem amid the rough setting of the mountain crags, and they both felt, instinctively, that they did not care to talk much until they reached their old haunt under the willows. Even Florence forgot her curiosity, and as she walked beside Harold over the road they had so often tramped together, she seemed to forget that he had been away, and that at their last meeting in distant Chicago so much that was unpleasant had occurred. Here in the New Hampshire mountains all seemed so different; she felt freed from the tainted atmosphere of the city which had made her restless and uncertain in mind. Florence had not forgotten her last words with Harold in Chicago; indeed she had thought of them over and over again, during the long months that had passed since that interview; the unpleasant episode at the Renaissance Club was also seldom absent from her mind; but to-day it all seemed to have faded quietly from her heart. Harold had come into church so silently, and it seemed so natural to be walking by his side, that she was carried back to the years before she went to Europe, when, still a child, she used to romp and play with him over these same New Hampshire hills.
They reached the willows, and Florence sat down on the green turf and leaned her back against a tree. She took off her hat and let the breeze cool her temples, while Harold, stretched out on the bank beside her, lay for a while resting upon his elbow, and carelessly watching the pebbles, he threw from time to time, skip lightly from ripple to ripple and finally sink from sight. The sunlight danced on the gently ruffled surface of the water; in the distance the bold side of a mountain rose abruptly above the lake, its rough outlines standing out sharply in relief against the clear blue of the sky; and the little white farmhouses, perched here and there high up on its slopes, glistened in the sunshine.
They sat there enjoying the scene, until Florence seemed to awaken, as from a pleasant dream, and feel all her troubled thoughts come rudely back to her. She remembered that Harold had come from the distant city in the West and had not yet told her the meaning of his unexpected visit. "We must not dream on forever, Harold," she said, as he lazily sent another pebble skipping from wave to wave; "you have not yet told me the nature of the message you have brought."
Harold slightly shifted his position and, resting his head on his hand, looked up into her face with a surprised expression, as though he, too, had forgotten the present and was startled at being called back to it. "I brought a command for you to return to Chicago," he said, smiling.
"A command from whom?" she asked in astonishment.
"Here it is," he answered, reaching into his pocket and producing a letter which he handed to Florence.
It was addressed in Marion Sanderson's hand. Florence hastily broke the seal and read as follows:
"Dearest Florence:—"I have never forgiven you for your sudden flight last winter, and the offense is of such long standing that I summon you to appear in Chicago before Derby Day to answer a charge of infidelity to me. You will be imprisoned here for at least one month,—longer if possible,—and I charge Mr. Wainwright with the execution of this warrant. In other words, dearest girl, I cannot live any longer without seeing you, and must have you here for a visit. Pack up and come immediately, as the Derby is a great 'function' here, and is run on the twenty-first of June."With a world of love,"I am, your devoted"Marion."
"Dearest Florence:—
"I have never forgiven you for your sudden flight last winter, and the offense is of such long standing that I summon you to appear in Chicago before Derby Day to answer a charge of infidelity to me. You will be imprisoned here for at least one month,—longer if possible,—and I charge Mr. Wainwright with the execution of this warrant. In other words, dearest girl, I cannot live any longer without seeing you, and must have you here for a visit. Pack up and come immediately, as the Derby is a great 'function' here, and is run on the twenty-first of June.
"With a world of love,"I am, your devoted"Marion."
"With a world of love,"I am, your devoted"Marion."
"Did you come all the way from Chicago to bring me this?" Florence asked, after she had finished the letter.
Harold was sitting up now, and looking into her face he said quietly: "I came to tell you again that I love you."
Florence felt a sudden emotion thrill her heart, but a doubtful expression came into her eyes as she glanced down and said slowly: "You forget what happened the day before I left Chicago."
Harold smiled. He took her hand and held it firmly between his own. "I remember that you are the bravest girl in the world," he said, "and that, to save a friend, you accused yourself."
"You don't know that," said Florence anxiously.
"I know that nothing could make me believe you did wrong, for you are incapable of it." Then he added earnestly: "I know, too, that I love you better than my life."
Florence looked up into his face and he must have read her answer in those gentle, brown eyes, for, without waiting for her to speak, he drew her to his side and kissed her on both cheeks. "I love you, I love you," he repeated, as he held her tightly in his strong arms; "but I must hear love spoken by those dear lips."
"I love you, Harold," she said, and the words made his heart leap with happiness.
"Then why were you so cruel to me last winter?" he asked reproachfully.
"I did not know it then," she answered. "It was not until I left the smoky city and came away into the free country air that I knew I cared for you, Harold, dear."
"I wondered you cared for me at all," he replied laughingly. "We had been friends so long that it was strange for me to speak of love."
"Yes; I always believed that love was some giant who crushes one by his mighty power," she said, "and I found he was a little rascal who stole into my heart before I knew he was anywhere about. But, O, Harold, I am so happy now."
She rested her head on his shoulder and looked up into his face again. He kissed her, and, as he did so, the wind caught Marion Sanderson's note lying in her lap, and carried it out onto the lake, where, resting on the water, it sailed slowly away toward the western shore. Harold saw it and asked what message it bore from her to Marion.
"I had forgotten the note," she answered. "It makes me think of that woman and the danger poor Marion was in. I had better not go to Chicago," she said, after a moment's thought.
"Why not, sweet one?" asked Harold.
"Because of that woman. She would say such things about me."
Harold smiled. "Don't you think they would have been said long ago, if she had intended saying them?" he asked.
"Perhaps she did say them, though I have heard nothing, and one usually hears the unpleasant things that are said of one."
"I know you have heard nothing, dear," he replied, "and I know you never will."
"You forget what I admitted to her, and you don't know what a spiteful woman is capable of."
"I know Mrs. McSeeney," he said.
"And you think that she can be trusted? I am surprised at you, Harold."
"I think she is the last woman in the world I would trust," he replied.
"Then what do you mean?" she asked.
"Mrs. McSeeney and I are old acquaintances. I think I can answer for her."
"You speak in enigmas, Harold, and you ought not to keep any secrets from me, you know."
"I don't think you had better ask to know more," he said laughingly.
"But I do," she answered.
"Then I obey. Mrs. McSeeney and I were at Bar Harbor the same summer. I got to know her very well, perhaps better than she liked."
"Well, what has that to do with the affair in Chicago?" Florence asked impatiently.
"Nothing much except that Mrs. McSeeney thinks it would be wise never to mention it."
"Why?"
"I can't tell you. It is a secret between Mrs. McSeeney and myself."
"Harold Wainwright," she said, in a tone of authority that startled him, "I forbid you to have any secrets from me."
"Well," replied Harold, "if you command me to tell more, I must admit that Mrs. McSeeney and I had a confidential talk directly after it happened, and I persuaded her that she had better not mention the matter again."
"You persuaded her? How ridiculous! You must have threatened her with something. What was it?"
"I merely asked her if she remembered a certain evening at Bar Harbor when there was afêteat the Canoe Club."
"Well, what of it? I don't see anything unusual in that."
"I can't tell you more; only when I reminded her of that evening she acknowledged that it would be discreet for her to remain silent concerning you and Marion Sanderson. You see I happened accidentally to observe some of Mrs. McSeeney's actions on that occasion, and, considering that you were in her power, I felt justified in informing her of the fact."
"Then it was you who saved Marion and me from her spiteful tongue," said Florence in a relieved tone. "You don't know how grateful I am, and how I have worried over that matter."
"You need worry no longer, my girl," replied Harold. "But I must tell you again how plucky you were to try to save your friend in the way you did, and now let's forget all about it."
"Yes, dear," said Florence fondly. "We have pleasanter things to think of."
"'Tis true, my darling," he replied, taking both of her hands in his. "To-day you have made me the happiest man in the world. Do you know why I love you?"
"No; why?"
"Because you have so much common sense."
Florence smiled. "I never showed it until I began to love you," she replied; "but what time do you suppose it is? Just think of poor papa waiting all this time."
"Only to find he has lost his best possession," answered Harold.
Judge Moreland was sitting in the library when they reached the house, and although he had been waiting patiently for nearly an hour since the servant had announced luncheon, he did not seem ill-humored, for, on seeing the delinquents enter, he smiled good-humoredly, and shook his head with mock disapproval, as he said: "Three-quarters of an hour late, children. That is more than I bargained for, but you will be punished. The luncheon is cold and you will be compelled to eat it without grumbling."
Harold took Florence's hand and they both stood before the Judge; then Harold said penitently: "The fault is mine, sir, but I have a greater sin to answer for. I have robbed you of your daughter, and I come to ask your clemency."
"I think I understand," answered the Judge. "Yours is a very grave offense, and the only way you can obtain pardon is by seeking benefit of clergy. Florence, my girl, come here and let me kiss you. You have made me very happy."
"Happy," echoed Florence, "I feared you would never forgive me."
"Not forgive you for loving the son of Judge Wainwright? He was my best friend and his son will make my daughter the best husband in the world. Give me your hand, Harold," he continued, after he had kissed Florence affectionately, "you are your father's own boy."
"That is the best compliment you could pay me," answered Harold.
"I know it is, and you know I mean it when I say I expect to see you on the federal bench yourself some day."
"Luncheon is getting cold, sir," said the old family butler, coming into the room and looking far from amiable.
"Let it wait, Thomas," said the Judge, "until you can get a bottle of champagne up from the cellar. We have some healths to drink to-day, haven't we, children?"
That evening the little church was lighted up for evening service, and again the rustling of fans ceased, and heads were turned around as Florence and Harold took their seats. But Harold's eyes were no longer directed toward the pew in front of him, and the doctor's daughter remarked that the two people in front of her stood unnecessarily close to each other during the hymns, while the postmaster's wife made up her mind that people who "smirk and look so silly durin' meetin' must be sparkin'." In fact the homely folk of Fairville were not slow of perception; many were the gossiping heads put together that night, and it was a curious coincidence that there was no dissenting voice in regard to the probability of a certain event having taken place that afternoon.
Going home that night, Florence and Harold walked with the tarrying step of lovers, but the Judge was not waiting luncheon, and, as the evening was warm and bright, they rested again under the willows, watching the moonlight play on the ripples of the lake. They were planning for the future, and many were the rosy tinted castles reared in that soft night air under the shade of the trees they loved so well. The moon shone kindly over the mountain top at the farther end of the lake, and the waves plashed softly on the pebbles at their feet, as Florence sat there with her head resting on Harold's shoulder, dreaming the sweetest dream of life.
The sun was streaming through the Sanderson's library window, and the curtains were fluttering in the soft lake breeze which blew through the open casement. Across the driveway a policeman was chatting with a trim nursery maid, and two or three loungers were leaning over the sea wall, watching the blue water splash lazily against the grey stones. The white sails of the lake craft in the offing glistened in the sunshine, and the smoke from the steamers settled along the horizon in long black streaks, while the passing of an occasional vehicle along the driveway produced a little cloud of dust, which for a moment obscured the view, and then was carried away by the summer breeze and scattered along the roadway. The atmosphere had the hazy hue peculiar to one of those first warm days of early summer, when the air seems charged with lassitude, and one is overpowered with a depressing sense ofennui, which precludes the possibility of any sort of action.
Marion Sanderson and Florence Moreland were there in the library, trying to keep cool and talking over the events of the past six months. Marion was stretched on a lounge with an Eau-de-Cologne bandage bound about her forehead to relieve themigrainefrom which she was suffering, and Florence sat beside her, plying a palm-leaf fan and trying to amuse her friend by accounts of the small doings of her life in New Hampshire.
"So you think I must have had a stupid winter," said Florence, in answer to Marion's last remark.
"I am sure of it. You had much better have remained here with me."
"You are very inconsistent," laughed Florence. "Last minute you said Chicago was the dullest place you knew anything about."
"I meant dull in comparison with London or New York. It is certainly better than a place where life is made up of prayer meetings and snow banks."
"I am glad you are beginning to appreciate the advantages of your home," said Florence.
"Don't chaff me, Florence. I can't bear it. I am too nervous. I wish you had this headache for five minutes and perhaps you would feel sorrier for me."
"Why, my dear, I do feel sorry for you; isn't there anything I can do?"
"No; Dr. Maccanfrae is coming this morning and I suppose he will give me a lot of stuff, but it won't do me any good. I have taken every known medicine this winter, and I have had this headache every day for months. I can't eat anything. I can't sleep, and I am tired and bored all the time. The Doctor calls it neurasthenia, but I don't know what good it does to put such a big name to it, when he can't do me any good."
"There must be something that will help you," said Florence.
"Of course there is. If I could go somewhere else to live I know I should feel better. What I need is some new distraction, but how can I have that in this stupid town?" Then she was silent for awhile and during that time she thought of the few days last winter when a new element had come into her life only to vanish as quickly again. She thought of a ball-room, an exciting dance, and the magnetic impulse of a moment which had made life seem so sweet. Why had she resisted that temptation, she asked herself. The other course could not have made her more unhappy, and it, at least, was no more a mockery than her present life, with that love still burning fiercely to the wild accompaniment of Tzigan strains, echoing in her heart. "What is the use of being good?" she asked herself. Then she smiled a mocking answer, turned over on the lounge and buried her face in the cushions.
Florence watched Marion anxiously for a moment. She was extremely worried about the state of nervous depression in which she had found her friend on returning to Chicago, and she was trying to think of some way in which she could help her. She leaned over her and slowly stroked her rich black hair. Marion looked up and smiled faintly. Then she seized Florence's hand and began to sob nervously. "You love me, don't you Florence; you love me, don't you?" she said between the sobs.
"You don't need to ask that, Marion."
"I know it," she replied; "I think you are the only person in the world who understands me, the only person who loves me."
"You are wrong in that, my dear, I am sure."
"No, I am not," she moaned. "I want love, I must have love. O, I can't live without it!"
Florence stroked Marion's head again, and tried to soothe her hysterical sobbing. "Dear," she said softly, "there is one man who would die for you if it would bring you happiness. I am sure of it."
Marion turned her head away and did not reply. Florence felt pity for her friend's unhappy state of mind, which she considered was, in a great measure, self-produced, but she knew it was useless to talk to Marion about her husband, as she was a woman who could not be influenced by persuasive words. Florence wanted to help her friend to understand the danger she was in, but she could not see a way which promised success; so, thinking that the best course was to divert her mind from herself, she took Marion's hand and said cheerfully, "I have a secret to tell you, dear, but you must sit up and look pleased."
"I hope it is interesting," said Marion somewhat mournfully. "I haven't heard a secret for months."
"Guess what it is."
"Is it an engagement?"
"Yes."
"Whose?"
"Guess."
"I can't. You must tell me immediately. I am dying to know," answered Marion, brightening considerably.
"It is mine."
"You horrid creature," said Marion, sitting up and hurling one of the sofa cushions at Florence.
"That is a novel way to treat a friend at such a time," Florence said as she dodged the pillow.
"You are an awful girl not to tell me before. How could you be in the house since yesterday and not say anything? I suppose Harold Wainwright is the man, but I don't much care who he is. You are a provoking creature," and she emphasized her remarks by throwing another cushion which hit wide of the mark, and sent some books spinning off the library table onto the floor.
Marion was over her depression now, and, jumping up, she threw her arms about Florence and kissed her, saying: "Sit down, dear, and tell me all about it. When did it happen? When is it going to be announced? When are you going to be married? I always felt you would marry him. Who are you going to have for bridesmaids?"
Florence laughed at Marion's multitude of questions. "You dear girl," she said, kissing her, "I am glad I made you smile again; but I can answer only one of those questions. It happened last Sunday at Fairville."
"And you didn't tell me until now! O, I will pay you up for this. But come, let's talk it all over and decide about the wedding and the bridesmaids."
A servant entered the room and announced "Dr. Maccanfrae." Marion and Florence hurriedly assumed different positions and adjusted their ruffled hair. Then the kind face of the philanthropic physician appeared in the doorway.
"How do I find my patient this morning?" said the Doctor, coming toward the window where they were seated.
"Better, I hope," said Florence, turning round.
"Miss Moreland!" exclaimed the Doctor in astonishment. "I thought you were somewhere in the White Mountains."
"No; I came back yesterday," she continued as he shook her hand. "I thought you needed a nurse for your patient."
"Nurse and remedy combined, for you are the best cure I could prescribe for Mrs. Sanderson."
"You are very flattering, Doctor. Under your advice I shall try to do my best, but, if you will excuse me, I shall run away and do some unpacking." Saying this, Florence left her seat, and, bidding the Doctor good-by, walked toward the door. As she was leaving the room she called to him, asking when he would give her another lecture on pantheism.
"I fear if I do I shall have to suffer for the sin of corrupting the heart of a Puritan," said the Doctor.
"A Puritan is always fortified against Satan's wiles," she answered laughingly, as she stopped in the doorway, "and, besides, my grandfathers, for six generations, were ministers."
"A case of the transmission of the original sin, I suppose," answered the Doctor, as she retired through the door. "And how is my patient to-day?" he repeated, as Florence's laughter died away and her steps were heard hurrying up the stairs.
"I don't think I am a bit better," said Marion somewhat mournfully, having relapsed into her former state in the presence of the Doctor. After adjusting the cloth on her aching head, she continued: "I have no animation or ambition; I have these frightful nervous pains and headaches; my appetite is all gone; nothing seems to amuse me any more, and I lie here all day long feeling utterly wretched. In the evening I manage to develop animation enough to take me out, and, for a while, I forget myself, but when it is over I feel worse than ever. Oh, Doctor, what is the matter with me?"
Dr. Maccanfrae looked at Marion a moment as though hesitating to answer her question, then, feeling her pulse, he replied: "Mrs. Sanderson, there is nothing the matter with you."
"What do you mean, Doctor?" said Marion somewhat angrily. "Do you suppose I don't know how I feel?"
"When I say there is nothing the matter with you, I mean you have no organic disease. You are simply suffering from the fashionable complaint of nervous depression, or neurasthenia, as we physicians call it. Almost every woman in your station in life has it sooner or later. It is nothing but a symptom, but it may grow into a great many worse things."
"Well, why don't you cure me then, if it is nothing?" remarked Marion in a provoked manner.
The Doctor looked at her a moment; then he asked slowly, but with an emphasis which seemed to carry a hidden meaning: "Do you want to get well, Mrs. Sanderson?"
Marion looked up somewhat startled. "Why do you ask such a question?" she replied.
"Because you produced the disease yourself, and you alone can cure it."
"You are positively rude, Doctor."
"I know I should ask pardon for my brusqueness, but I am your physician, and I desire to see you well again. The only way that can be accomplished is for you to take the case in your own hands."
"I don't understand, Doctor."
"I take a sincere interest in you and your husband. If you will let me talk to you as a friend, and will take my advice, I hope I may do you much good; but if I am to remain the physician and must confine myself to writing prescriptions for worthless drugs, I fear the improvement will be slow."
"Go on, Doctor. I promise to listen," said Marion, prompted more by a curiosity to hear his advice than by a resolution to follow it.
"I may say some very plain things. Will you promise to take them in the friendly way in which they are meant?"
"Go on, Doctor. I shall not get angry, I promise you."
The Doctor leaned forward and said, in a more sympathetic manner: "Mrs. Sanderson, every physician whose patients are drawn from the classes we call society has to deal with scores of cases precisely like yours. One of us will administer bromides; another will feed his patients on extract of beef; another will use electricity; another will recommend massage, and so on. But all these remedies are fruitless except in so far as they assist the sufferer to believe that she is improving, or afford some temporary relief. The disease, if so I may term a depressed state of the nervous system, is caused by the habits of the patient, and can only be cured by changing those habits."
"I am not dissipated," said Marion somewhat resentfully.
"I did not say that, Mrs. Sanderson, but if you desire to get well you must completely change your mode of life."
"What must I do?"
"I fear you will only laugh when I tell you, and call me a silly old fool."
"No, I sha'n't; I promise."
"You must go to bed before eleven every night. You must be up by half-past seven. You must walk or ride every morning, drink no wine, tea, or coffee, eat plain food, and read no novels. You must develop an interest in your household affairs, get a wholesome occupation for every hour of the day, and take no more medicine. When you feel a headache go into the fresh air; when you feel depressed, throw the mood off by finding some work to do."
"But, Doctor, I had almost sooner die than do all that. I could never live in such a routine of the commonplace."
"I know that is very hard, but perhaps it is not all," said the Doctor. "You have no children, Mrs. Sanderson."
"No, thank heaven. I am worried enough without that."
"Unfortunately we are confronted in this world with a certain amount of worry. I think experience proves that it is better to accept the worries nature intended than to create worse ones by trying to circumvent her. However, I see you weary of my preaching. Think it over until Monday, and then I shall give you some more advice provided you think your nerves can bear it."
"You are just as bad as Dr. Thompson."
"Only I have no choir boys and spring bonnets to attract an audience," replied the Doctor, rising to leave. Then he continued in a different tone: "I trust you will pardon what I have said, and even if you don't follow my disagreeablerégime, I want you to feel that I gave you the best advice that I could."
The Doctor bade her good-by, and when he was gone she buried her face in the pillows and thought over what he had said. "I never could do all that," she thought; "besides, he is a perfect crank on fresh air and diet. If I thought Roswell would let me, I would go to someone else. I think he is too old to be up with the times, and Mrs. Smythe says Dr. Wimbleton is a perfect dear and helped her from the first day she went to him. O, my poor head, how it does ache!" she called out, half expecting sympathy from the oak book-shelves and the bric-a-brac; then she turned over nervously and continued her restless thinking. "I wish I were dead," she moaned. "So little comes into my life that living it is scarcely worth the trouble. If there were only someone to bring me sympathy. If I could only forget those days when, for a few moments, I felt as other women feel."
Florence came into the room again and Marion, hearing her step, looked up. "Is it you?" she said.
"Yes," answered Florence; "I heard the Doctor go out so I thought I would come back. What did he say?"
"O, a lot of nonsense which I really did not listen to. He ought to do more to cure me and talk less. In fact, I think his personality exasperates me, and I am afraid I shall have to change physicians if I want to get any better."
"Poor Dr. Maccanfrae," said Florence. "He is the dearest, kindest, best intentioned man in the world. Think of the good he does among the poor."
"O, I know all about that, but that's no reason why he should lecture me like a child about going to bed early and taking exercise."
"Perhaps he believes more in such medicine than in drugs. Don't you think yourself that it is some suchrégimethat you need?"
"Don't you begin to lecture me, too," said Marion, with a sigh. "Life is hard enough without your making it worse."
"I shall not lecture you, I promise, but," she continued, taking Marion's hands and pulling her up from the lounge, "as your nurse, I must see that you have a change. Come, tell me what are the plans for to-day."
"Why, there's the luncheon at Mrs. Ryder's."
"Good, and what else?"
"Why, we dine at the Beemers' to-night."
"And to-morrow?"
"We go to the races on Walter Sedger's drag, and dine at the Washington Park Club."
"Is your husband going?"
"Of course."
"How does he leave his business?"
"I make him."
"Very well, then this morning before luncheon we take a walk as far as Lincoln Park."
"I can't walk that far, Florence."
"You are going to walk that far," said Florence, authoritatively. "I am your nurse, and I insist upon it."
"But I shall be ill all day."
"Never mind, you will get over it this afternoon when we read some Thackeray, and to-morrow morning you and I will do the marketing."
"You are crazy, Florence, I do believe."
"I never was more sane in my life. Come, I am in earnest. You would have me here, you know, and I shall make myself so disagreeable that you will be thankful when I am gone."
"O, Florence, how can you be so rough?" said Marion, as Florence dragged her toward the door.
"There, now," said Florence, after they had passed into the hall, "go and put on your hat. I brought mine with me."
"Just think of the heat, Florence," said Marion as she disappeared up the stairs.
In a few minutes Marion returned looking brighter already, Florence thought, and the two women were soon strolling along the lake shore talking over the countless trivialities women find to talk about, and at tea-time, after a day of Florence's nursing, Marion was forced to admit that she had passed an unusually cheerful day. Roswell Sanderson came in just as they were finishing tea, and after taking a seat and declining a cup of the beverage, he said in a careless manner: "By the way, Marion, an old friend of yours came into the bank just before I left."
"Who?" asked Marion.
"That New Yorker, Duncan Grahame."
Marion felt a sudden sinking in her heart and was conscious that the color was fading from her cheeks, but she took a large swallow of tea and tried to look unconcerned. Florence watched Roswell's face closely and saw the same expression come into his eyes which she had noticed that afternoon at the Renaissance Club tea.
"When did he come?" asked Marion, after a moment.
"This morning on the 'Limited'. He has been in England all winter. You will see him to-morrow, as he told me Sedger had asked him on his coach."
"What fate has brought him back again?" thought Marion.
Roswell Sanderson was silent for a moment, then he came toward his wife. Taking a seat beside her, he asked tenderly if she remembered what day it was; then he took a package from his pocket which he dropped into her lap.
"Why, it's the anniversary of our wedding. I had quite forgotten it."
Florence had left the room a moment before, so that they were alone. Marion untied the parcel in her lap, and found that it was a case containing a string of pearls. She looked up into her husband's face and kissed him, and a feeling of shame came into her heart. She saw a love in his eyes which she could not return, and she prayed that he might find the means to make her love him. This thought was in her heart only for a moment, then she was playing with the pearls, and wondering again why Duncan had come back into her life.
A small crowd was collected in front of the Hotel Mazarin, and its proportions were gradually being swelled by passing Saturday loungers. Walter Sedger's drag, drawn up in front of the hotel to receive his party for the races, was the attraction which drew together this inquisitive throng, and in spite of the expression of superior indifference assumed by most of the men and boys composing the crowd, it was easy to see that the red-wheeled coach, with its smart team of browns, was an object of more than passing interest. A park policeman was exchanging a word or two in a knowing manner with the stolid Briton in boots and breeches at the leaders' heads, and near him a slouch-hatted veteran, wearing a Grand Army badge, was talking condescendingly with an ice-man. A large cake of ice, which had been carried thus far on its way to the hotel bar, was slowly melting in the sun, and little streams of water flowed from it and trickled into the gutter; but the veteran and the ice-man still gazed at the shining panels of the drag, and eyed the "cattle" with the air of connoisseurs, while a butcher's boy with his white apron and basket of meat, and a German carpenter with his kit of tools, stood there stolidly, intent upon remaining until the show was over. A diminutive Italian boot-black, still attired in the rags of his native Naples, had crowded to the curb and was standing in front of two Norwegian sailors; just behind them was a party of Bohemian laborers, and a peddler from sunny Sicily touched elbows with a mortar-covered mason from Erin's shores, while some cadaverous clerks from the State Street shops, radiant in the ready-made attire of assumed gentility, were there, helping to swell this crowd of perhaps a hundred loungers. They were all citizen of the great Republic, and though few could speak intelligently the language of their adopted home, probably most of them, in their hearts, resented the appearance on the Chicago streets of this English coach as something unAmerican, for which "them doods" on the Avenue were responsible.
The hands of the hotel clock indicated that the hour was nearing two. The thin-faced veteran in the slouch hat plunged his hands deeper into his trousers' pockets, and, turning his head to a critical angle, said patronizingly to the ice-man: "Them's the things they calls 'tally-ho's.'" The ice-man rolled his shirt-sleeves a little higher above his elbows, folded his brawny arms and replied, in the accent of the Teuton, "I dink dot vas it."
"Them swells likes to show off mighty well. Wonder what that machine cost," answered the veteran. But before the ice-man could reply, a messenger boy at his side shouted out, "Golly! there goes another of them 'busses," and the attention of the crowd was attracted toward the street, where Jack Elliot's coach, with its team of roans, was passing along the Avenue, bearing a party to the races.
"I wish that chap in the white pants'd toot his horn," said the messenger boy; but Jack Elliot was a coaching man who did not believe in arousing the neighborhood with useless music, so the wish was not gratified.
While the attention of the crowd was thus diverted, Sedger and his friends emerged from the hotel. The party was composed of Marion and her husband, Florence Moreland, Harold Wainwright, a Mrs. Smith from Cincinnati, and Walter Sedger. They had been lunching in the restaurant of the hotel, and on reaching the sidewalk they at first found some difficulty in pushing their way toward the coach; but on seeing them the smart park policeman on duty officiously pushed the crowd back and made a way for them.
"I can't wait for Grahame any longer," Sedger was saying to Mrs. Sanderson. "He couldn't lunch with us, and I told him to be here at half-past one. It's a quarter to two, and we shall miss the first race."
"Don't wait for him, then," said Marion, thinking this was the only thing to be said, but feeling an inward disappointment at the thought that Duncan might not see her in her white crepon gown, with its gold corselet and braided trimmings, just sent her by Mrs. Mason of Burlington Street, London, W. She knew it was becoming, and she also liked her Virot hat, but she didn't think it wise to put Sedger in an ill-humor by asking him to wait, so she walked silently to where a groom was holding a ladder against the box-seat. Meanwhile Sedger passed round to his off side wheeler and picked up his reins. Assorting them in correct road fashion he mounted to his seat, wrapped a light driving apron about his legs, picked up his whip, caught the lash in a double thong, and waited while his party took their places. Marion mounted to the box seat and the rest took the longer seat behind. Just as Sedger was about to start his team, Marion, who had been constantly looking in the direction in which Duncan should appear, saw him hastening around the corner of Jackson Street. "There is Mr. Grahame," she called out, and while Duncan was hurrying along the street, Roswell Sanderson suggested that he and Wainwright had better change to the back seat, so as to give Duncan an opportunity of seeing something of the city.
Duncan came up almost breathless from his rapid walking, and after exchanging a hurried greeting with the party, mounted to the seat beside Florence left vacant by Harold Wainwright. "Let 'em go," Sedger called to the grooms. The lead bars rattled, the leaders pranced as the grooms jumped from their heads, the wheelers sprang into their collars, and the coach rolled off down the Avenue.
It was a bright June day, and all Chicago seemed to be in the long, tree-lined boulevard which stretched away to the south. Hundreds of vehicles of every description known to the coach-builder's craft were rolling over the hard macadam pavement, bearing people to the races, and in this motley array were to be found all sorts and conditions of men and carriages. Buggies and express wagons, stanhopes and butcher carts, mail-phaetons and road-carts, char-à-bancs and extension tops, victorias and "hacks," coaches and omnibuses, aristocracy and democracy scattered the same dust and rolled toward the same goal. Only the road to Epsom can present a scene more varied than this; only the Champs Élysées excels the noble avenue down which Walter Sedger tooled his team of browns.
"It is a pleasure to live on such a day, with four such horses to drive behind, isn't it, Mr. Grahame?" asked Florence, as the coach rolled past the Auditorium, and the team settled down to their work.
"I am surprised you think so," answered Duncan, with a bantering expression in his eyes.
"Why?"
"Because I don't see how you reconcile so Anglican an institution as a drag with your patriotic sentiments."
"You forget that George Washington hunted, and had his clothes made in London."
"Then I am to infer that the highest type of patriot is he who rides to hounds and gets his coats on Hanover or Conduit Street."
"You are to infer that the highest type of patriot is not he who blusters sectional prejudice from under the shade of a slouch hat, but he who is sufficiently liberal to combine foreign excellencies with native virtues."
"You have a flow of expression which would do credit to a campaign orator," laughed Duncan. "For my part I don't believe in patriotism, at least in the sentimental sense of the word. Patriotism is a compound of pride and jealousy. Eliminate these two factors, to use an algebraic expression, and nothing remains."
"I fear we shall never agree on such questions," said Florence, anxious not to enter into a useless argument with Duncan.
"Perhaps, after all, it is my fault," answered Duncan with an expression of sadness in his eyes which seemed strange to Florence. "I wish I might believe in noble sentiment, but a man who has had his wings clipped in Wall Street is not the chap for sentiment."
"Perhaps you will change your mind one day," answered Florence.
"It would only take one example of true sentiment to convert me," said Duncan gravely. "Well," he added, after a moment, "there may be rough spots in a worldly life, but there is no dullness, and, after all, that is what most of us try to avoid. While the sparkle lasts life is sweet, but when it is gone one might as well give up the fight."
Mrs. Smith of Cincinnati interrupted them by asking Florence if she knew what the large, brick building on the left was.
"That is the Calumet Club," Florence answered, and then they subsided, for a moment, into silence.
Approaching Grand Boulevard the crowd of vehicles became denser, and the coaching party found much to amuse them. Sedger pointed his leaders around the corner of Thirty-fifth Street, and the coach swayed and rocked as the four browns dashed around the turn into the short cross-street. The horn was sounded to warn the street cars of their approach, and then, after a passing glance of horses, coach, and party, reflected in the broad shop windows of the street, another corner was turned, and they were rolling along the broad boulevard leading to Washington Park. Sedger was late, and, anxious to be in time for the first race, he sent his lash under the lead bars, and touched the off leader a clip on the legs which made him jump into his collar in quick order. The team all caught the inspiration of the lash, the pace was quickened, and the great vehicle rumbled on past the small fry of the road, quickly measuring off the two miles or more of straight avenue stretching away toward the park. The party on the drag laughed and talked, and occasionally glanced at the quickly changing scene. Soon the coach was rolling past the great, green meadow of the park so English in its aspect, and then, after passing a bit of lake where hundreds of holiday seekers were now stretched in the cool shade of the shrubs on its banks, rattled down the little incline which leads to the Club House road. The strains of band-music came over the bit of level ground and the party could see the great Grand Stand crowded with its ten thousand spectators. By its side was the Club House, standing on a rise of ground skirted by lawns and flower-beds, its two verandas filled with people, and the driveway in front crowded with arriving vehicles.
Sedger urged his team to a gallop, and the horses scampered through the lodge-gate and up the little hill to the Club House, where he brought them up "all standing." The people on the veranda crowded forward to see the coaching party, while Sedger and his guests descended, and the coachman drove the steaming horses off to the stables. Scores of smart traps followed the drag up to the club steps, and the party stopped a moment to view the brilliant scene. Sleek horses and polished brass, neat liveries and shining panels, bright gowns and gay parasols, moved in seemingly endless succession to the accompanying music of champing bits and the restless pawing of countless hoofs. After watching the changing throng for a moment, Sedger and his party walked through the Club House to the veranda facing the course, which they found filled with members and their friends. On the enclosed lawn before them people were sitting in chairs, or walking up and down. Considering this the best place to view the sport, they placed seats on the green turf and sat down in the shade of the Club House.
"A capital course this," said Duncan to Marion, as he glanced across the turf-covered enclosure filled with smartly dressed people to the track beyond, where a half dozen racers were taking their preliminary gallop. "I had no idea you had such a place as this in Chicago," he added, and then Sedger suggested that they go to the betting ring and see how the betting was.
"Wait till after this race," put in Wainwright. "There go the horses to the post."
"Well, if we can't play this race, we must have a hat pool," answered Sedger, who felt that not to have something on a race was to lose half the sport. "Let's see, there are just seven horses and seven of our party. Five dollars apiece for a flyer."
No one objected, so Sedger wrote the seven numbers on little pieces of paper which he tore off his programme, and, shaking them up in his hat, he passed them about among his party.
"What horse have you, Mrs. Sanderson?" asked Duncan as she drew her number from the hat.
"Number seven," answered Marion, and Duncan looked at his card to see what horse it was. "Orion," he said, "and his colors are purple and white."
"My husband's university colors; that ought to bring me luck."
"Not on Orion, I am afraid," interrupted Sedger, who prided himself on his knowledge of the turf. "He was a 'twenty-to-one shot' in town last night, but I'll be generous and give you two dollars for him."
"No, I prefer to keep him. Orion may prove a lucky star after all."
"By Jove, they're off!" shouted Duncan, who had been watching the horses at the post on the other side of the course. They were all well bunched, the red flag dropped, and away they scampered on a five-furlong dash.
"Orion's last, Mrs. Sanderson," called Sedger, who was following the race with a large pair of russet-leathered field-glasses. "Orion's last, but I'll give you a dollar for your chance."
"Don't take it, Mrs. Sanderson, he's coming up," said Duncan, as the horses dashed around the first turn, scattering a cloud of dust behind them. Then the crowd in front of the Grand Stand began to surge and sway, and the sea of ten thousand hats was lashed to excitement. A murmur broke forth from the distant crowd as a mass of color and racers emerged from the dust and rushed down the home stretch; then the cheering grew louder and the hats swayed more furiously as the horses dashed on to the finish.
"Look at Orion now," said Duncan, "he's a good second. By Jove, he wins!" he shouted, as the purple and white rushed to the front and won hands down by a neck. "I congratulate you, Mrs. Sanderson."
"Who would have thought the brute could beat 'The Wizard' who sold at two to one on" said Sedger, and then he suggested that the men should go to the betting ring and play the Derby.
Duncan turned to Marion and asked if she would not choose him a horse to play. "You are so lucky that I feel sure of winning," he added.
"But I know nothing about the horses," remonstrated Marion.
"Neither do I, so we have a fair chance."
"Well, I choose Belle of Newport."
"You think she ought to be fast, I suppose."
"No, but the Marquis, who, Mr. Sedger says, is a favorite, will be sure to follow her."
"Don't you play the Belle, Grahame," said Sedger, as he and Duncan left the ladies and wandered toward the Grand Stand. "Her owner told me last night that he is afraid she isn't fit."
"Perhaps he intends playing her himself," laughed Duncan.
Sedger and Duncan passed over the bridge connecting the Club House lawn with the Grand Stand, and were soon in the midst of the great crowd moving toward the betting-rooms. The sun beat down upon the heads of this army of enthusiasts, but, despite the heat, thousands of men crowded into the low room where scores of keen book-makers, with their coats off, were ranged in little booths, calling off the odds on the next race, and taking the money of the eager crowd of gamblers. By the time Sedger and Duncan had worked their way through this throng up to a book-maker, and had purchased two tickets on Marquis and Belle of Newport respectively, they were thankful to hurry out of the stifling place into the open air.
"I took your advice, Mrs. Sanderson," said Duncan, after he had returned to the club lawn. "Belle of Newport is my horse."
"I hope my choice won't bring you ill luck."
"We shall soon know, for there go the horses to the post."
Five of the starters trotted past the Club House, and there was a perceptible movement among the people on the veranda and lawn as the contestants for the great event passed before them. The Marquis was the favorite and he was greeted by a round of applause, as Jockey Gannon urged him into a brisk hand gallop. The sleek sides of the chestnut gelding glistened in the sunshine, and he certainly looked a winner. Close at his heels was the bay Kentucky filly, Belle of Newport, ridden by the veteran Forest, and the knowing ones could see that the Southern mare was in prime condition. The first horses were followed by three stragglers who had been late in saddling, and then the starter's carriage rolled across the green turf of the field toward the half-mile post at the opposite side of the course. Hundreds of glasses were leveled at the bunch of racers over by the stables, restlessly tugging at their bits. Then there was a scramble and a rush of horses past the red flag, but one horse was slow in getting away and the flag still fluttered in the breeze. The jockeys pulled up their mounts and turned them back to the starting-post. After much manœuvring for positions, they scrambled away again, scattering the dust behind them. They were well bunched, the red flag dropped, and away they went on the mile and a half gallop for the American Derby. The crowd surged wildly and eager eyes were strained toward the mass of horses scampering over the first half-mile of the course.
Down they came to the Grand Stand, a cloud of dust enveloping them and almost concealing the bright colors of the riders. Men rushed to the railings and strained their eyes down the course; a faint murmur broke from the crowd and grew louder and louder. "Marquis! Marquis wins!" was shouted by the favorite's friends, as they saw the long stride of the chestnut gelding in front. Then the racers clattered past the Grand Stand, urged on by cheers and applause.
It was nobody's race yet, but Marquis still led, with Belle of Newport a good second. They passed the Club House with Marquis close to the inside railing for the turn, when he swerved against the railing and stumbled. There was a shout of horror, and the women at the Club House turned their heads away. The racers rushed on to the finish, but the favorite lay there in the dust, with the blood gushing from a broken knee, and Jockey Gannon motionless at his side. Some men ran on to the course and carried Gannon away. The poor Marquis tried to rise and looked pleadingly at his owner who had rushed to his side. From the distance came a cheer. It was for the Belle of Newport, the winner of the great race. Jockey Forest had seen the Marquis go down before him, and pressing his knees to the sides of the Belle, had raised the filly and carried her over the fallen favorite. The other riders had seen the accident in time, and, swerving their mounts aside, they had rushed on to the finish, while the Marquis lay there in the dust pleading for help with his mournful eyes. A veterinary bent over the horse's wound. He held a hurried consultation with the owner; then some one placed a revolver against the poor beast's head; there was a loud report, a convulsive kick, and the noble racer lay dead on the field he had striven so hard to win. A pair of work-horses was brought on to the course and all that remained of the Marquis was dragged away, while over by the little lake, under the shade of an elm, Jockey Gannon lay stretched on the turf. A physician was by his side, and a crowd of curious people gazed at the pale face before them. "He may live till morning," the physician said, and then the wounded jockey was silently borne away. The band played again, the blood stains on the course were covered by fresh dirt, and the bell rang for the next race. People asked a few questions about the dying man, and then he was forgotten in the excitement of the sport. It was only a jockey.
"You see, you brought me luck, Mrs. Sanderson," Duncan said to Marion, after he had returned from getting his Belle of Newport ticket cashed. "Two hundred dollars for forty. That is luck, isn't it?"
"Yes, but that reminds me of the accident. Do you know, I feel quite unnerved after that sight."
"You had better walk with me on the lawn. It will do you good, I am sure."
"I hope so," said Marion as she rose to go with him.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour they walked up and down the lawn, chatting away unconcernedly about the people around them. It was the first time they had been alone together since Duncan's return, but he made not the slightest reference to their last meeting. He was careless and unconcerned, and Marion tried to appear the same, but there was a strange feeling in her heart, half of fear and half of resentment, which told her that indifference had no place there. She laughed and chatted, but waited anxiously, thankful that so many people were there, but hopeful that he might say something to tell her that he remembered the words he had spoken at the Patricians' ball.
Suddenly Duncan stopped at a secluded part of the lawn where there was an empty bench. "Let us sit down here in the shade. You must be tired," he said, and then, after they had taken seats, a moment of silence came, and Marion could feel that Duncan was looking into her face, but she did not dare to meet his glance. He leaned toward her and spoke in the soft tones she remembered so well. "You are cruel," he said.
She looked up, startled. "Cruel, what do you mean?" she asked.
"You are cruel to forget so easily. You are cruel to treat me as you have."
"I, cruel; I don't understand," she said, and she thought of his careless manner and how she had waited for him to speak.
"Yes, you women are all alike. You play with us men for the moment, and then we are cast aside like a toy which no longer pleases. I thought you were different from the rest."
Marion looked up into his face with an expression of astonishment. She met his grey eyes, and for a moment she felt again that subtle power she had been dreaming of so long.
"Have you forgotten?" he said slowly.
Marion turned her head away. "Don't talk of that, Mr. Grahame," she answered. "That is all ended."
"It can't be ended while——" He did not finish for he saw a man approaching. "Here we are, Sanderson," he called carelessly. "I suppose you are looking for your wife."
"Yes," answered Roswell, coming nearer. "Mr. Sedger has tea ready on the upper veranda, and he wants his party. You look pale, Marion, is anything the matter?"
"I felt very much upset by that accident. I came here to get away from the people for a moment."
"A cup of tea will put you right," said Duncan.