"Will it be a soldier smart, who will storm and take me?Or will a sailor break my heart, his figure-head to make me?Will it be a man to preach, Even-song and Matin?Or shall I go to school again, with Jack to teach me Latin?Will it be a coach and four? Will it be a carriage?Or will a cart be at the door, to take me to my marriage?"
"Will it be a soldier smart, who will storm and take me?Or will a sailor break my heart, his figure-head to make me?Will it be a man to preach, Even-song and Matin?Or shall I go to school again, with Jack to teach me Latin?Will it be a coach and four? Will it be a carriage?Or will a cart be at the door, to take me to my marriage?"
Sings Jerry blithely.
"Why, Jerry, old fellow, have you just woke up?" cries Gordon Aubrey.
"Jerry has such a sweet, fine, sympathetic voice; almost think it was a chime of bells," Florrie Silverstone says saucily.
Now this is rather hard on the Hon. Jerry, his voice, on the contrary, having once been compared favourably with a bass drum. But it being his favourite cousin, Florrie, who made the remark, it was, considering the person who expressed the implied sarcasm, overlooked.
"There is Lord Streathmere waving his hat to us from the deck," cries Rea. "We must not for the world say we have had our fortunes told, before Lady Streathmere, for she would be shocked. Now remember, not a word." Mrs. St. James holds up a warning finger, and she expects all to obey.
"Well, my dears, you must be very tired, I dare say you tramped all over that island this morning, and what reward did you get for your pains?"
The party are all on deck enjoying the beautiful sunset. Tea has been over for some time, the wind is blowing softly over the deep blue and green patches of water, and makes the yacht rock gently from side to side.
"Do you not consider having one's fortune told a sufficient reward?" Dolores' lazy tones inquire.
Now it so happened that Dolores, if she did hear Arial's command, had by now forgotten all about it. Gordon Aubrey coughed frantically; there seemed every reason to believe that he would strangle to death. Florrie giggled, they all did their best to cover up the effects of Dolores' unfortunate words. However, it was Florrie who saved them all from disgrace.
Lady Streathmere adjusted her gold eye-glasses firmly and cautiously upon her aquiline nose. "You seem to be prone to a cold, my dear; do you take any remedy for it? Now something hot would, I know, be most beneficial." And Florrie, in a voice choking with laughter, said she thought she must.
"Now I know just how you came by your wretched cold. Quite likely the grass was wet on the island this morning, and your feet have got damp, and last night you stayed out here quite late, and you know the night air is bad for any one with a weak throat. Now if you young people won't mind, I think I would be more comfortable where the fire is," and the poor unsuspecting lady arose, and, escorted by Jerry to the saloon door, disappeared.
"Give your tongue more holiday than your hands or eyes."—Rabbi Ben Azai..
"Give your tongue more holiday than your hands or eyes."
—Rabbi Ben Azai..
"This is a splendid photo of your father, and this, yes this must be—"
Zoe, sketching busily away at a little landscape she is copying, answers "Yes," vacantly. She is devoted to her work, and after giving Mr. Glen the three large family photograph albums to look at, sincerely wishes he will look at them quietly, and not disturb her. But the spirit moves the young man in an opposite direction. He suddenly becomes intensely interested in the members of the Litchfield family, past, present and absent. She does not notice the stop he makes now.
"And this lady in the white dress. Who is she?"
"With a big white hat?" Zoe enquires, looking up for a moment. "That is my sister."
"Your sister! So this is the peerless Dolores. Well, I will own she is beautiful enough to command all your admiration." He studies the picture before him intently.
"How angry Dolores would be if she heard you say that."
Mr. Glen looked up, inquiring so innocently, "Why?" that Zoe's heart smote her with remorse.
"She rather objects to having strangers call her by her Christian name, of course," the youngest Miss Litchfield goes on cautiously. "Perhaps she would not mind your admiring her picture. I am sure there was nothing but perfect truth in what you said, was there?"
Mr. Glen gazes across from his seat in the bay window, and regards Zoe thoughtfully.
"I suppose your sister, Miss Litchfield, has told you many pleasant stories regarding her trip abroad," he enquires, with strong emphasis on the Miss Litchfield.
"Oh yes! Sometimes I almost think I am in the various places she has been. Dolores describes persons and places so graphically."
Mr. Glen rather winces. In the enthusiasm of speaking of Dolores, Zoe's work is for the time forgotten.
"Yes, she is more than clever in almost everything; she has certain magnetic powers not possessed by us all."
Zoe looks at him in amazement. Had a bombshell suddenly gone off at her feet in the pretty sitting room, her eyes would not have fairly popped out of her head as they did now.
"Why, do you know my sister? You can't; at least she never mentioned your name."
Mr. Glen laughs, toys with his watch chain, and, does his face become just a trifle red?
"I am judging from the picture, my dear little girl."
Zoe resents being called his "dear little girl," so she says, "Oh, indeed," very stiffly. She goes on with her sketching, but its charm has gone. She has a strong, very strong impression that this young man and Dolores have met. But why has Dolores never told her? Perfect confidence has hitherto existed between them. Surely Dolores would not have any secrets from her. She would love to question Mr. Glen about it, but pride forbids. If there is anything to tell, Dolores will let her know when she thinks proper. So Zoe works on, and Mr. Glen turns the leaves of the books over listlessly. It is evident his thoughts are far away from the pretty room he is in, and the young girl, who looks at him from time to time, as some one has said, "out of the corner of her eye."
Mr. Glen had been an inmate of Mr. Litchfield's household for a week now. Aunt Adeline was generally averse to having either small boys or big boys around her house, but here she was wonderfully taken. Mr. Glen was her ideal of all that a young gentleman should be. Mr. Litchfield discussed the topics of the day with him; there was no subject but what he was thoroughly versed in: a brilliant musician, with a fine tenor voice, a capital hand at whist, and if there was one thing that delighted Mr. Litchfield's heart more than another, it was to have some one to sympathise with him in this his favorite after-tea game. And Zoe? Well, he could paint, draw or sketch, and that with a true artist's eye for the beautiful. One of Zoe's drawings was quite another article after Mr. Glen had touched up and smoothed over the flaws. So in spite of their first unfortunate introduction, Zoe has accepted his being there as a thing to be tolerated. He lets her have her own way, and that is all Zoe cares about.
The soft warm breeze floats in at the open doors and windows, laden with the heavy perfume of flowers. The tall white and scarlet lilies in the garden nod and bob their stately heads. A bird, just outside in a tree, is pouring forth his joyous song of gladness; it is an ideal day in summer. Jet Glen, as he sits over there in the window, is "having it out" with his conscience. The reason he is here is to find out all he can, and as much more as possible. It was an anxious moment, when he got within thirty or forty miles of the place, how to proceed further; but fortune is good as well as fickle. He had greatly ventured, and all must do so who would greatly win. A former school mate was in the railway carriage; he was down with the blues. He had been invited to join a fishing party, with a number of other young friends. Suddenly, on the very day before they were to start, his mother, who was a woman of many minds, commanded him to give up his intended cruise and go down to the country to stop with her old school friend, Miss Adeline Litchfield. So, like an obedient son, he was on his way. This was just the chance for Jet's attaining his desired haven. Within less than an hour Jet Barry Traleigh was passing himself off as Jet Glen, the son of her school friend, and Miss Litchfield was delighted. And yet there was nothing, no, not a look, smile, gesture or tone of voice that recalled the remembrance of his mother. Poor deluded aunt Adeline, if you could see the real Jet Glen disporting himself with his holiday friends, what would you say?
They had all received him so cordially Jet's conscience pricked him most severely. But it was no use going back now; what he had done could not be undone.
The sun suddenly flashes full upon Zoe's work; she rubs her eyes, and wonders if Mr. Glen has gone to sleep, or why in the world is he sitting there, staring so idiotically at a photo of herself and Dolores when they were quite small children? But in all probability he is inwardly dying of laughter, commenting on the two thin little pairs of legs dangling from the high chair, in which they are seated, and criticising the braided pig-tails under the little round straw hats. How many times Dolores and herself have laughed over the closely shut lips, and demurely folded hands and short frocks. But for this young man to commit a like action was justly unpardonable. Then she thinks she is playing the part of hostess rather lamely.
"Say, Mr. Glen," Zoe pushes her chair back, and proceeds briskly to gather up her working implements. "Shall we go finish the game of tennis we were playing yesterday?"
Mr. Glen starts, shuts the album, and assents.
"The sun looks like playing tennis, or any thing else; you both stop just where you are, I am not anxious to have two cases of sun-stroke on my hands, with all my other household cares. Another thing, you both know the old maxim of "idle hands," so I have provided you with some useful employment."
Aunt Adeline sinks on a lounge, unties, and takes off the large yellow sun-bonnet, and fans herself energetically with a huge palm leaf. The useful employment consists of a bushel basket nearly full of green peas to be shelled for dinner. Jet laughingly declares he is ready to do anything to escape the two evils, sun-stroke, and the fate of the "Idle men and boys who were found."
And aunt Adeline replied admiringly, "Jet Glen, how much that sounds like your mother."
Jet looks thoughtfully on the floor, his conscience giving an unusually sharp twinge. This was rather much for him to make any reply. How easily we poor, frail mortals in this world are deceived.
"We know nothing of to-morrow: our business is to be good and happy to-day."—Sidney Smith.
"We know nothing of to-morrow: our business is to be good and happy to-day."
—Sidney Smith.
A day in December, two years previous to the beginning of my story.
"Dolores, uncle Dick is going into the town; do you care to go?"
Dolores is reading a long home letter from Zoe, full to the very edges, beside being crossed and recrossed with all the latest sayings, doings, and prospective to be done, ending up with the ardent wish and longing to be with her darling Dolores, in beautiful, bright, sunny Italy.
"I am so sorry, Blondine, but I must write to father this morning; so, you see, to go would be impossible."
Beautiful Blondine Gray, a distant cousin of the Litchfields, opens her brown eyes in horrified astonishment.
"Why, my dear, bury yourself in the house to write a letter on such a day as this! Come, don't talk so nonsensical; get your largest umbrella, for the sun is scorching. You can write this afternoon."
But no persuasions, either on the part of Blondine or uncle Dick, can move her, and they leave her in disgust. She watches them go down the road. Blondine walks with the ease, grace and quietness of a born native of Tyrol. Dolores admires Blondine's style of walking very much; it is a pleasure just to watch her movements; so different from uncle Dick's roll. A regular sailor's swing and roll of a walk did uncle Dick Gray possess. He was major in the army, and of course very portly, as majors are somehow, generally. But he had retired some years since with high honors. Blondine, his brother's child, being left an orphan, he considered it his duty to provide her a home; so before settling down to house-keeping, a trip abroad was considered just the nicest idea. Blondine was sick of school, so uncle Dick sent for Dolores to go with them on their journey.
After reading Zoe's letter over twice, to make sure there was nothing skipped, Dolores takes her pen, ink and paper out on the piazza. The day is like June; the waves, dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, are as blue as the heavens above them. The little boats rock from side to side as they float, now in, now out, from their moorings, and far out a white sail glistens in the glimmering sunlight. On shore children, dark eyed, red lipped little rascals, are selling flowers—roses and orange blossoms, with quantities of violets. Little groups are sitting or loitering about, their chief object seemingly to see who can produce the largest and gayest parasol. Dolores takes in all the details of the surroundings. Probably uncle Dick and Blondine are having some fun in town; they will sit on the promenade, after they have made their purchases, and rest themselves. They would be back by afternoon sometime; then Dolores would go with them to the Casino, see the people and hear the band. Suddenly her attention is attracted by a child, somewhere near, crying. There was never an animal or child yet that Dolores failed to sympathise with; now she looked about for the object of her awakened feelings.
"Don't go, mamma; don't go an' leave Roy alone."
A carriage is standing at the door, and a tall, handsome woman is getting in, a woman with a proud, cold face. A tiny boy, in a white frilled dress, is vainly trying to get away from the nurse girl, who is in her turn vainly trying to keep him out of sight, until his mother gets away.
"Take the child away, Hester, and do try to stop that terrible crying. Gracious! what a pest some children are." This is addressed to the young lady who comes down the broad steps to take her place by her friend's side. Mrs. St. James, with Rea Severn, are going to spend the day at Villafranche, and no foolish whim of a child's was going to interfere with their pleasure.
The carriage goes off, and Dolores tries her charms on the little man left behind. She goes over and talks to him; he is instantly fascinated by the lovely lady, consents to sit on her lap, listens to the ticking of her watch, and finally falls asleep, with his dark curly head pillowed on the train of Dolores' dress. She wrote her home letter, and did not forget to mention her latest gentleman admirer.
Walking back and forth, in one of the garden avenues opposite, there is a gentleman who has been a witness of all that has taken place; a tall fair man, broad shouldered, and with a noble face—a face possessed of everything good, kind and generous—a thorough gentleman. There are a great many "men" in the world, some great, some small, but the "gentlemen," of them it is to be regretted there are too few. Sir Barry Traleigh was here at Nice on business. He was very wealthy, but he was always employed by his business affairs. He believed in a man, whether rich or poor, having something with which to occupy his mind. Not an idle life did Sir Barry, the genial owner of Castle Racquette, beside many broad acres of land, lead. Castle Racquette was one of the finest estates in all Glengarry, Scotland, and very pardonable was the pride which Sir Barry entertained for his ancient, luxurious home. Now as the sun steals slyly under the large Panama hat and turns his short pointed beard, worn after the style of a Venetian, to a golden shade, Sir Barry is a very fine specimen of a nineteenth century Scotchman. From his promenade he watches Dolores; and Dolores, did she know who was watching her? Why certainly not. Well then, how was it a few minutes afterward, as Sir Barry came past the piazza, Dolores looked up, and their eyes met, Sir Barry's full of respectful admiration; why did Dolores blush and droop her eyes? It is truly wonderful how much can be said in a look. The next instant Dolores is ready to call herself a silly simpleton. What does she know of this man, that she should care to know who he was? Probably she would never lay eyes on him again. And yet Dolores could not help acknowledging, rather reluctantly to her own conscience, that a handsomer man she had never seen.
Presently little Roy wakes up, and Dolores and he have dinner brought up to Dolores' charming parlor, and all his mother's unkind neglect is forgotten. They have a right royal feast; and when Hester comes to take him, Roy goes, with the promise of again taking luncheon with his pretty Dolly. To all his nurse's entreaties to call Miss Litchfield by her proper name he refused; to him she was his pretty, kind Dolly; so Dolores, with a kiss, tells him laughingly he shall call her whatever he pleases, and the child goes for his walk perfectly satisfied.
"Come girls, come, don't be all day fixing yourselves; come on. Hello! there is that—no, it can't be—Traleigh!"
Uncle Dick, issuing forth on the way to the Casino, adjusts his gold eye-glass quickly, and forgets for the moment his anger at Dolores and Blondine, who hurry after him, secretly praying that their veils are on all right, for of all the fussy men in the world uncle Dick is the fussiest.
"Yes, but it is Traleigh in the flesh, and more than delighted to see Major Gray."
Dolores' handsome man of the morning is shaking uncle Dick's hand heartily. And uncle Dick, delighted to see his friend, turns and calls in his usual quick, blustering fashion—
"Say, girls, this is Traleigh, that I have told you so much about. Traleigh, those are the girls who have been toting me around from pillar to post for the last year or more. We are going to the Casino, so come on, and go with us. But there is a fellow over there I must speak to; you all go on, and I will catch up with you."
Uncle Dick dives through the crowd of people, leaving Sir Barry to make himself agreeable to the ladies. It is evident he has heard of them before, as each girl was called by her proper name. Dolores remembers this morning, and hopes he did not see her make a fool of herself over little Roy. Sir Barry is pleased to know the young lady whose looks he admired so much. As for Blondine—well, Blondine was always pleased to make herself pleasant to no matter whom she was with, from the humblest to the highest; it was always the same with her. She rather resents Dolores' cold, commonplace answers, and secretly wonders what has come over gentle, merry Dolores. Well, when they get back to the hotel she will give Miss Litchfield a bit of her mind.
The Promenade des Anglais is visited, and Blondine goes in raptures over the magnificent horses, the jaunty equipages, and elegant toilettes. The Casino is packed; they espy uncle Dick frantically indicating with his arm that, as the crush is so great, he cannot get to them now, but will get in their vicinity as soon as it is possible. Sir Barry does his best to do his duty toward the two ladies thrown upon his tender mercies. He and Blondine talk, while Dolores listens to the music of the band, for music in Italy is worth listening to.
"Dolores, for Heaven's sake let us walk."
Blondine has nudged Miss Litchfield several times, but no notice being paid to her efforts, she has been obliged to speak. Blondine declares something ails her foot, a cramp, or asleep, or something, she cannot just decide which. Sir Barry clears the way, and they go, to be presently met by uncle Dick and two ladies. Sir Barry lifts his hat courteously as uncle Dick presents Mrs. St. James and Miss Severn. Mrs. St. James says they were caught in a shower on the way to Villafranche, and when they had hurried back found the sun shining most gloriously. Blondine bows and smiles—when does Blondine not smile?—and Dolores? Dolores deliberately turns her back; of course it is most unpardonably rude. Uncle Dick never notices anything wrong, he never does, poor deluded man, but goes on talking about one thing, then another. Blondine is shocked; the warm blood surges up in her face, covering her ears and throat. It is the first time she has ever had cause to feel ashamed of pretty, gentle Dolores. Poor Blondine ponders and worries; what has come over Dolores? she must certainly be ill to act so strangely. Sir Barry looks surprised as well as pained, but does his best to make things pass off as smoothly as possible. The walk back to the hotel was anything but pleasant. If there had been no gentlemen present Rea Severn would have been sullen or sulky; her manner now, however, was something betwixt and between the two. Mrs. St. James received the "direct cut" from Miss Litchfield with cool self-possession and indifference. If she noticed the insult offered to her she made no sign. A clever nineteenth century woman was Arial St. James.
With every pleasing, every prudent part,Say what does Chloe want?She wants a heart.—Pope.
With every pleasing, every prudent part,Say what does Chloe want?She wants a heart.
—Pope.
"No one could expect anything better from a person of Miss Litchfield's position. Of course you could not help noticing her manner yesterday; the girl's bringing up must account for her actions. Any man, a gentleman, who would marry a negress, could not but expect some flaw in his family."
Sir Barry Traleigh turns sharply from contemplating the reflection of his own face in the mirror opposite.
"Do you say Miss Litchfield's mother was a negress?"
Mrs. St. James takes up a scarlet ball of silk from her work basket.
"Oh, well," she answers with sarcasm, "I consider Creoles and negroes the same. As I said before, the girl is not to blame, considering everything. Then her mother ran away; why, surely you heard the story. She disappeared; no one knows if she is dead or living. The deepest sympathy was felt for Mr. Litchfield, who, I understand, is a very worthy man. His sister took charge of his home and children. Miss Litchfield has a younger sister home; they were quite young at the time of the trouble, and I believe they think their mother dead."
Mrs. St. James has waited patiently to hear Sir Barry reply, but reply in the way she wished him to; Mrs. St. James gets disappointed.
Sir Barry is thunderstruck. It cannot be possible that Dolores can be connected with any one but those whom any honest man would be willing to take by the hand. There must be some good reason for Dolores' mother leaving her home and family; and to find that reason out will be Sir Barry's future aim. Mrs. St. James goes on in soft, smooth tones.
"You see it places the family in a very perplexing and awkward position. Outside of the friends of the family, I believe no one makes anything of them." Mrs. St. James thinks Sir Barry will appreciate her defence of Miss Litchfield. "Of course the girls are not to blame for their mother's strange behaviour, but you know what the world is."
Yes, Sir Barry, in his wanderings about among persons and places, knew the world, and felt at this moment a fierce desire to punch every head in the world who dared to cast a slur on Dolores, or any one belonging to her. A very great interest he takes in this girl, whom he has not seen over half a dozen times, and who takes special pains to snub him at every opportunity. Mrs. St. James knits on the scarlet wool, contrasting vividly with her marble face and hands. The sunbeams, peeping coyly in through the half closed shutters, catches her diamond rings, and throws around them a hundred glimmering, glistening, sparkling rays. Some one, who has been sitting outside the open window, gets up to go. Sir Barry glances lazily out. He meets Dolores' eyes fixed full upon him—Dolores' pretty, gentle face no longer. Until he dies Sir Barry will remember that agonized, broken-hearted look on Dolores' face. As he turns to Mrs. St. James, he sees—can it be—a satisfied smile on her perfect lips? When he looks again, Dolores is gone.
"Did you see who just passed the window, and of course heard our conversation?" breaks sternly from between Sir Barry's clinched teeth.
"No. Who was it?"
But this is too much for any man to swallow. He knew the lady sitting right by the window had led the conversation to the topic they had been discussing, knowing perfectly well who was sitting outside, and would hear, whether she wished or not, what was said.
"Oh it's all right; good morning." And Sir Barry takes his hat and is gone. Mrs. St. James bites her scarlet lips in vexation, and hopes Sir Barry has gone to thoroughly digest what was said. And Dolores—poor Dolores—she is in her room, sobbing her heart out. Who can realize what her feelings are, to be thus rudely awakened to the knowledge that there hung over their family a dark cloud, some dreadful story about the beloved mother, whom Zoe and she had so often mourned as dead?
To be sure no tombstone marked her grave in the pretty shady cemetery at home. Aunt Adeline said their mother was dead, and that, to their minds, was proof enough, for was Auntie ever known to tell them a falsehood? Since she had grown up, the desire to have her mother, like the other girls around, had often possessed her. But to hear this woman tell Sir Barry that her mother had gone away and left her home and family! Believe it indeed! No! Certainly she could never look on the sweet, grave pictured face hanging in its massive frame of gilt, over the drawing room mantle at home, and believe that the original could commit any act that would make her children blush when they heard the name of their mother.
Probably had Arial St. James known how deeply her words had wounded Dolores, she would have been very sorry. Not a bad woman at heart, but she spoke without thinking. Another thing, she had but repeated to Sir Barry the story which every one knew at the time it happened. "A guilty conscience needs no accusing," as has often been said before. When Dolores turned her back on being presented to Mrs. St. James, it was because she could not bring herself to treat with any show of civility a woman who could treat her child so unkindly. Mrs. St. James attributed it to a wholly different cause. Two years ago she and her husband had come to Italy. Arial was charmed with the place, and when Mr. St. James proposed returning home, his wife declined to go. So he, as usual, let her have her own way, and left her and Roy, then an uninteresting, sickly little infant of only a few months old. Arial was not much of a person to write letters, so Mr. St. James, working away among his law books, heard very seldom from his wife, and knew very little of the way she employed her time. Sometimes the thought would flash across his busy brain that he would like to see his son. But Arial never mentioned the child's name, and Mr. St. James, thinking women were queer fish, came to the conclusion that the baby must have died in its infancy, and as perhaps it might hurt his wife's feelings, he never mentioned the child's name to her. But contrary to his ideas the baby did live, grew strong and flourishing, and little Roy was the favorite of all in the large crowded hotel. But in spite of his beautiful dresses, sashes, white kid slippers, dainty feathered hats, and little lace bonnets, still, for all those desirable things, the poor Italian peasant women followed the pretty, dark, curly headed lad, with deep pity in their dark lustrous eyes—for the Italians love their children with a deep passionate devotion almost amounting to idolatry. But the little white frocked, blue sashed English boy, Roy, had no loving mother to caress and love him. Mrs. St. James considered it time wasted to make a fuss over children. She never talked to her little son, nor played with him; she was proud of his beautiful face, and was not ashamed to call him her son. She considered she was doing her duty by him in providing a suitable nurse; he had everything he wanted, what more was required? And yet night after night he has cried himself to sleep, because his mother has passed his nursery door, and never "come to kiss Roy good night." Every one knew in the respect of affection she did her son a great wrong.
This was the conclusion Mrs. St. James came to—somebody had told Dolores that she neglected her child; and, be it said, Arial respected this girl, who dared to show her feelings. A good many older people than Dolores did not approve of Mrs. St. James' actions, but they held their tongues, made much of the lively English lady, and Arial enjoyed her power in her far Italian home.
Out on the beach, romping among the dancing waves, and having a good time generally, are Dolores and little Roy; much to Blondine's amusement; she is too lazy to take any part in the programme; all Blondine can do is to sit on a high boulder and laugh gaily at the two sea nymphs disporting themselves to their evident satisfaction. Roy and his "Dolly" are fast, firm friends; he cannot enjoy anything unless Dolores is present. Mrs. St. James, as long as the child keeps out of her way, does not take the bother to care who he is with. So many pleasant hours are spent in each other's company. Blondine says "Dolores cannot say she never had one staunch champion," and Roy declares he is going to marry his pretty Dolly as soon as ever he gets to be a "big man."
Coming along the sands, with his dog at his heels, is Sir Barry. He greets the ladies, and sends the dog in the water, to Roy's delight. When he appears Dolores immediately freezes. It is a never ending source of wonder to Blondine, what in the name of sense has Sir Barry ever done that Dolores treats him as she does.
"They are arranging a party to go and spend a couple of days or so at Monaco. Are any of you going?" Sir Barry asks, in his cheery voice.
"How delightful!" cries Blondine, starting up from her seat and brushing the sand off her blue flannel dress. Very bewitching she is looking in her blue gown and scarlet cap; and Blondine has the gift to know she looks pretty. "I do wonder if uncle Dick will go? I hope, oh how I hope he will; I am dying to go."
Dolores throws sticks in the water, to see the dog bring them out.
"Dolores, don't you hope uncle Dick will go? Did you hear what Sir Barry says?"
Dolores does not answer; perhaps the breeze carries Blondine's voice in an opposite direction, perhaps Roy's childish talk proves more agreeable.
Presently Hester comes to take Roy away, and Dolores saunters idly back to Sir Barry and his fair companion. Blondine is highly delighted; Sir Barry has seen and asked uncle Dick if he would join the party, and of course uncle Dick had said yes. Any affair Traleigh approved was in uncle Dick's mind commendable.
"Will it not be splendid! Dolores, are you not pleased?"
And Sir Barry laughs lightly at Dolores' answer.
"Blondine, you would think it splendid if a shower of rain should descend this moment and drench us."
Blondine is watching the white clouds float across the azure sky, and wishing the sun may shine as brightly for the next couple of days. Sir Barry looks at the massive gold watch in his pocket, and says by the time they lunch and get ready it will be time to start. So Blondine unfurls her large white cotton umbrella, tucks Dolores' unwilling hand under her arm, and laments the smallness of the parasol's compass. If it was possible she would offer a part to Sir Barry; as it is she advises him to pull his hat well over his face, for freckles on a man's face is something Miss Gray detests.
"But some people consider them a mark of beauty; that is the reason I am trying to cultivate some," Sir Barry says solemnly.
Dolores gives one swift side glance at the handsome face of the man walking the other side of Blondine. He happens, at the same instant, to be looking at her. Dolores is angry at the blush she feels rising to her face. The idea of his watching her that way; it is too bad he cannot find some one else to gaze at all the time.
"I do wish you would hold the umbrella a little on my side," she says coldly to Blondine.
Sir Barry bites his moustache savagely; he has never been so persistently snubbed in all his twenty-eight years.
Ten minutes later Dolores, sitting at her parlor window, happens to glance out, to see Sir Barry strolling leisurely down the garden, with Rea Severn at his side, in all the glory of a fresh effort of Worth's—a dress which every girl in the hotel would give anything to possess. It was made so marvellously, no one could tell just how—and so Miss Severn feared no imitation.
Dolores watches them pace up and down, to and fro. Her heart is throbbing with an angry, passionate feeling against Sir Barry. He was very anxious to get Blondine and her back to the hotel, so he could walk and talk with Rea Severn. She wished uncle Dick would take Blondine and her home, away, far away from the place where Sir Barry Traleigh is, and all belonging to him. And yet if such had been the case that uncle Dick should leave Nice, probably Dolores would feel most sincerely loath to go. Rea has a cluster of magnificent pink and white roses in her hand. Dolores sees her select one and give it to Sir Barry. He takes it, and Dolores waits to see him fasten it in his coat. But Sir Barry seems to forget how much more effective it would have looked there, but carries the frail blossom between his gloved fingers. Dolores wonders what they are talking about? Probably the intended trip; no doubt they are planning numberless blissful moments together. Rea talks on, and Sir Barry listens, and ponders if Miss Litchfield will allow him to drive her in his stylish dogcart and span of fine horses. The others are all going in those jaunty little donkey carts which are so plentiful in Nice. Probably Rea is not only very much interested in Sir Barry on account of his good looks, but also has an inward longing for an invitation to a seat beside the owner of the handsome bays.
"The time I've lost in wooing,In watching and pursuing,The light that liesIn woman's eyes,Has been my heart's undoing."—Moore.
"The time I've lost in wooing,In watching and pursuing,The light that liesIn woman's eyes,Has been my heart's undoing."
—Moore.
"Miss Litchfield regrets that she must refuse Sir Barry Traleigh's kind invitation to attend the excursion this afternoon."
Sir Barry feels very much hurt and disappointed. He had done nothing to merit Miss Litchfield's displeasure, and yet to his pleasantly worded offer of a seat in his dogcart, she has sent him back those few coldly formal words of refusal.
In Dolores' parlor Blondine and Dolores are having what is approaching the most serious unfriendly words that have ever been exchanged between them. Blondine, who has at first laughed, then pleaded and coaxed, and scolded, finally sits down and cries. Dolores pays no attention to her cousin's entreaties. She had said she would not go to Monaco that afternoon, and she meant to keep her word, no matter what any one may say to the contrary.
"You had much better get ready, and be in time," Dolores says quietly.
"I never saw any one change so in my life as you have done lately. Whatever has got possession of you? We were going to have such a charming time," sobs Blondine, who is utterly cast down at the prospect of not having Dolores go and enjoy the beauties of the place with her.
Now any one may coax, scold, plead or pray, and Dolores is immovable; but when tears are called into operation Dolores is lost. So she takes Blondine's pretty dark head in her lap and pats it soothingly.
"Never mind, dear; do not spoil your pretty eyes with crying over me, but when I tell you that I would not enjoy myself, that I should be wretchedly unhappy, were I to go to-day; and that for you and uncle Dick to go and leave me behind, would render me a kindness more than anything else, then you will believe me, dear, will you not?"
Blondine is silent for a moment.
"I wonder if Mrs. St. James is going?" she asks presently.
"Why no, certainly not; little Roy has been so very ill lately, I should think it would be the last thing to leave him with none but that little nurse maid," Dolores answers decidedly.
Blondine thinks differently. As she came up the stairs she heard Mrs. St. James tell Sir Barry that she hoped there would not be many hills to go down, or they would certainly be dumped out of those funny little carts.
At two the party start, and Dolores sits up stairs, listening to the merry talk and laughter going on below. She will not so much as look out the window to see who are going. No one but herself knows just how much she wants to go; but she crushes the longing that arises in her heart; she will not give in now, she will keep her word. Uncle Dick has accepted her decision with strange quietness; the usually fussy uncle Dick had laughed softly, and, rubbing his hands together remarked,
"Well, my girl, if you choose to be left behind, it will not be uncle Dick who will force you to go anywhere against your will."
Then at the last moment, just before starting, Blondine had ran up to say good bye, and actually Blondine was laughing as if she had never regretted leaving her dear but rebellious Dolores behind.
After they had gone Dolores does some fancy work; she plays a melancholy tune on the handsome Steinway piano, and sings an absurdly sentimental little ballad. She reads a little, and passes the afternoon. After tea, in the evening, she throws a white fleecy shawl around her shoulders, and strolls down stairs and out in the garden, the sweet, flower-scented garden. The pretty stars twinkled brightly in the clear evening sky, and the fair young moon, just rising, casts a silver lustre over the whole scene. The trees bend and whisper to one another; the sound of voices comes dimly to Dolores' ears, and a strange wave of home-sickness sweeps over and almost overwhelms her. It is such a new, strange feeling that Dolores does not quite know what to do with herself. If Zoe were only here, with her bright words of cheering, if she were only here to talk, perhaps that strange lonely feeling would pass away.
"Pardon me, Miss Litchfield, but what have I ever done to offend you? Why do you avoid me? You might have gone this afternoon in perfect safety; you see I did not go."
Dolores is so surprised to find Sir Barry here at her side, her heart, in spite of her, gives a glad throb. But of course she would not acknowledge it, even to herself, that it was his presence which made it do so. Now she looks at Sir Barry with a most bewitching smile curving her pretty red lips, and Sir Barry goes down before that pretty, piquant face without a struggle.
"Why, Sir Barry, I am sure you are rather visionary. I hope, if I have hurt your feelings, you will forget, and forgive me."
Dolores gives her hand to Sir Barry with a sweet impulsive gesture not to be resisted.
"And you will not 'cut' me any more, no matter how your temper runs?"
And Dolores, with a relieved feeling at her heart, consents.
"We shall be friends, Dolores, for the future?"
Any other time Dolores would have been shocked that a young man should dare to call her "Dolores." But then she had heard so much lately about Sir Barry, and she has been so much in his thoughts, that neither notice how naturally the name slips out. It is so nice to have some one to talk to, Dolores thinks, as she and Sir Barry walk around and around the sweet old garden, with everything bathed in the bewitching moonbeams. Some one is singing in the hotel, and the song floats out on the clear night air, and comes down to the ears of the young couple walking there. The words were sweetly pathetic, and stirred Sir Barry's heart with a wild impulse to end all further nonsense, and ask Dolores then and there to marry him.
"Never to know it, never,Never to know, ah never;Never to know the heart that's achingAll for our sake, and almost breaking;Never to know, never to know,The heart that we love is aching, aching, breaking."
"Never to know it, never,Never to know, ah never;Never to know the heart that's achingAll for our sake, and almost breaking;Never to know, never to know,The heart that we love is aching, aching, breaking."
The song ends in a piteous wail that makes Dolores shiver.
"How dreadful that song, 'Never to know,' ends," she says, never thinking what an excellent opportunity she is giving the man at her side to declare himself. But Dolores never thinks of this, however; and anyway, all further confidences are over, for suddenly a little figure appears before their astounded gaze.
"Oh, Miss Litchfield, would you please come in and quiet master Roy? His mamma has gone away, and he is so ill, Miss, I don't know what I shall do."
The little figure wrings her hands and looks piteously to Dolores for help.
"Surely Mrs. St. James did not go and leave that sick child with a little thing like you?" Sir Barry says sternly.
Goodness knows what would have been said, but for this timely interruption, and Sir Barry feels annoyed to find his opportunity gone. But instantly Dolores returns to see what can be done for her suffering little friend.
"You will come out again?" Sir Barry asks, as Hester is seen whisking in the door.
"If I can leave," Dolores answers, and Sir Barry gives the little hand resting on the balcony rail, a gentle pat, and Dolores, with a very red face, hurries in doors.
Poor little Roy, he is sitting bolt upright in his little iron bedstead; the sweet pretty face is flushed and burning in a high fever; his eyes are dull and heavy; but he holds out his arms when he sees Dolores.
"Dress an' take Roy away from here, Dolly; take and carry Roy down where the sun shines," he says; and poor Dolores is terribly frightened; little Roy is very ill. She tells him he will go to sleep now, as it is dark, but in the morning they will go and see the sunshine dancing on the water. She sends Hester for the doctor, but Sir Barry, who is watching, meets her and says to go back and remain with Miss Litchfield, and he will go for the physician.
All night, and all the next day, and the next, Dolores sits by the little iron bed; she never leaves the child's side. Not for a single moment will he allow his Dolly out of his sight. The case was very serious.
"I should think, if his mother wants to see him again alive, she had better be here to-day."
Mrs. St. James loves her child after her own fashion, but she loved pleasure and her own comfort more.
"He is surely not so very ill," Dolores says, regarding the doctor's face in alarm.
"Miss Litchfield, the child is dying; I can do nothing more for him."
Dolores is shocked. What will she do? Dear, gay, merry little Roy dying! Oh! it cannot be possible! What can his mother be thinking of to leave him so cruelly alone? But he never once mentioned his mother's name. "Dolly" was there, and that was sufficient. It was useless to try to send for Mrs. St. James; it was doubtful if they could find her if they did; anyway, they would be back within a day or so. So it was in Dolores' arms he died. Dolores closed the white lids over the tired eyes, folded the tiny waxen hands upon the little breast, and bitter tears fell upon the still peaceful baby face of her little lost friend. Then when all was over, Dolores waited with bitter feelings for his mother to come.
She came the next day, in the afternoon. They were a merry party, and much pleased with their trip. Mrs. St. James, on going up to her rooms, finds Hester, her eyes red and swollen with weeping, every blind and shutter closed, and the child—where was he? Then she heard her boy was dead; she would not believe it; nothing, until she stood beside the little silent form, would convince her.
"Oh, Miss Litchfield, can I ever forgive myself, can I ever forget that you did for him while his own mother left him? Surely now, in my deep trouble and sorrow, you will believe me when I say I am sorry for those careless words you heard me speak about your mother."
Dolores is sitting beside the little white casket, and on the floor, clasping Dolores' hands, is the child's mother. Dolores wonders if her sorrow is real, or is she so polished that she can deceive people? Sometimes the awful suspicion does actually flash through Dolores' mind. Yes, it is to Dolores she goes in her trouble, nor is it in Dolores' nature to refuse any one her sympathy.
"Will you have a dispatch sent his father, Mrs. St. James? We would have sent before, but did not know the address."
"No, no?" Mrs. St. James answers hurriedly. "I shall have him buried here."
Dolores opens her pretty eyes in shocked astonishment. Then Mrs. St. James rises from her kneeling posture, draws the black shawl over her handsome shoulders, and paces the long room hurriedly; then stops in front of Dolores, and says, with a half smile:
"Miss Litchfield, if I entreat you to silence, and entrust to you a secret, will you help me, for my dead boy's sake, to keep it?" She draws an easy chair beside Dolores, and goes on. "Yes, yes, you will promise, for the child's sake, will you not, Dolores? will you not?" and Dolores, with tears in her eyes, promises.
"You may have wondered why the child never spoke of his father, and I suppose, when I tell you his father believed him dead three years ago, you will be still more surprised. I was jealous of my husband's love for Roy. I never have been to Canada since we came here, three years ago. At that time the child was sick, and after Mr. St. James went home I never mentioned Roy's name, for my letters were not very frequent. Of course he considered the boy had died. If he had had the slightest fancy the infant lived he would have had him home, and I would hold but a secondary place in my husband's heart; that would never do. I know it is selfish in me, but I must have all the love of my husband; it cannot be divided, not even with my own child. Now he must never be any the wiser about the child having died, for if he should find out I have deceived him so long, I should never be forgiven. I do not profess to love my husband passionately; I never could love any one or any thing very much; it is all owing, I suppose, to my selfish disposition. There is not the slightest doubt but that I am wholly beloved by my husband. I do not deserve so much goodness; I am utterly unworthy of him. Promise me, Dolores, that if ever we meet again—Heaven only knows if we ever shall—but if we do, never breathe of what has taken place here. Your face tells me I have merited your disapproval, but try and pity me, for I never had any one to teach me better, or instil good principles in my mind. When you judge me, remember a spoilt child, brought up by nurses and teachers, has not had the benefit of home discipline."
Dolores does not know what to say, she has heard such a cruel story. Contempt and pity struggle together in her heart. She buries her pretty face in her pocket handkerchief and weeps—weeps for the little child lying there, who has no fond mother's heart to mourn over him, and for the far off father who will never see his little son now, and whose heart would no doubt be well nigh broken if he knew no parent's face was present to catch the last glimpse of the fast dimming baby eyes. And seeing Dolores cry, Mrs. St. James does likewise; probably she is more touched than she has ever been before in her life.
"Mrs. St. James, I have promised," Dolores says presently, "and no matter what my feelings are, I shall not go back on my word."
She takes no heed of her companion's words of gratitude, neither does she accept or notice the outstretched hand, but hurries from the room, to find Sir Barry in the parlor opposite.
"My dear little friend, how wretchedly tired you must be, and then bothering with that woman. Why can she not humbug someone else beside you?" he says, hurrying forward and taking her hands in his. Probably Sir Barry was rather cross at not having seen Dolores more often during the past few days; and Dolores, despite her independent spirit, is very thankful for his thought for her.
"I have done all I can," she replies sadly, and Sir Barry, terribly afraid the next thing she will do will be to cry, goes on quickly.
"Did you know Major Gray was talking of leaving here very soon?"
Now those are the very words Dolores has been dreading to hear. She knows perfectly well things cannot go on forever as they have been lately, and now her heart goes down into her boots, if such a feeling is possible.
"I must go immediately and ask about the arrangements," she says faintly.
"And there is something I want to say to you. Can I see you this evening?" and Sir Barry waits for her answer.
Dolores' pretty face flushes; she looks past Sir Barry, down the long hall, and out to the blue sky beyond.
"Not to-night; some other time," she answers gently. Then, before Sir Barry can plead more, she leaves him. But he is far from unhappy, as he strolls down to the hotel office to smoke a sociable cigar with the Major.