"You never can make a crab walk straight."—Aristoparus.
"You never can make a crab walk straight."
—Aristoparus.
Two years have rolled past since men in business circles had been called upon to lament the departure of Edward Litchfield and his ill gotten gains.
"What makes Nellie so restless? Is the harness on them all right?" Cyril Fanchon surveys his span of beautiful black horses rather anxiously.
"She's all right, sir, just a trick that of hers."
Fanchon gets in and slams too the door. Certainly he never remembers the horses to act so before; the carriage rocks wildly from side to side. Heavens! they are beyond the man's control, they are running away. Loud cries of "stop them, stop them," rings in his ears, there is a sudden plunge, a crash, and all is still. Fortunately there was a doctor on the spot, he orders the unconscious man to be taken into the convent just opposite. The sisters were good at nursing, it could have happened nowhere more desirable. The dead leaves lay thick and yellow on the ground around the convent of St. Marguerite, the cruel winds have lately robbed the trees of all their pretty green foliage, leaving them grim and leafless, tossing their gaunt limbs sadly with the autumn's blast. The air is chilly; there is a decided sense of frost in the atmosphere. Sister Jean hurries in at a small side door; she is very tired, for she has been sitting up all night with a sick woman.
"Sister, there has been an accident; a man is hurt, he is here in room five; will you watch by him after you have rested?" says the Mother Superior, meeting her in the hall.
"Is he very bad?"
"Yes; but of course we cannot say just yet. We will do all we can; if it is useless the fault will not be laid at our door," answers mother St. Marguerite, selecting a certain key from a string hanging at her side.
Sister Jean hurries to her room, removes her long black cloak, and sits down for a moment to collect her tired senses. No, she will not rest now, there may be something she can do for the sufferer down stairs. She goes down, opens the door softly, and enters. The room is so dark, that for a minute or two nothing is discernable. Then mother St. Marguerite steps out from the shadows, and says in a whisper:
"Just sit by and watch for any movement." Then she and the doctor pass out, and Sister Jean approaches the bed where her patient lies.
"God help me," she cries, falling on her knees beside the bed. "Dare I stay here? Can my strength sustain me, to remain? Oh! will it? Has Heaven indeed at last avenged me?"
The eyes of the sick man are upon her, she holds her breath, then the room seems to swim around, as the weak voice says distinctly:
"Jantie, is this my Jantie?" The eyes close, and Cyril Fanchon is again unconscious. When five minutes later mother St. Marguerite enters, she finds the sister in a dead faint near the door.
Two months later, on a cold December afternoon, when the snow is piled up in high drifts around the convent of St. Marguerite, a man, muffled in furs, is walking up and down impatiently in the parlour or visitors' room at the convent. From the next room comes the music of a violin, it is evident one of the pupils is taking lessons. The door opens, he turns abruptly.
"Sir Barry Traleigh."
"Jantie!" sister Jean's hands are clasped warmly in the man's. "The same pretty Jantie of old, only a litter paler. Why did you run away, little one, and leave us all?" Sir Barry asks playfully.
"Oh, Sir, I could not stay there after—"
Sir Barry gets up and walks hastily to the window, and, coming back, says gently:
"You will pardon me for asking you something painful?" Jantie raises her pale face.
"Oh, Sir, nothing hurts my feelings now; sometimes I forget I have any left." Sir Barry laughs.
"A girl like you talking such nonsense; why child, your life has scarcely begun." He feels so sorry, so unutterably sorry for her.
"Tell me Jantie, have you any idea where your—where Cyril Fanchon is?"
The fire in the grate crackles and snaps cheerily, Jantie looks at the glowing coals, then she asks:
"Why do you come here to ask me that, Sir Barry?"
"My dear, you may be sure it is not from idle curiosity. A very dear friend of mine has been almost ruined by his partner; his name was Fanchon, but he is here in this house, so ill he can neither confess his guilt, if he be guilty, nor defend himself, if he is innocent. Tell me honestly, Jantie, do you know the man here sick?"
The falling snow outside comes in spiteful little flakes, and slaps against the heavily curtained window. Jantie shivers; surely she can trust the man beside her, who has always proved her friend.
"Sir Barry, he is my husband, the man for whom I left home and everything," bitterly. "But, Sir Barry, he wronged me; for when I found him he was already married. Yes, he had a wife and two children." The voice is low. Sir Barry looks incredulous.
"Impossible, the villain."
"Ah, but I saw them, I knew it was true, so I came here; I have long ago forgiven him, Sir Barry, and I want you to do the same."
The door opens, and mother St. Marguerite enters. Sir Barry starts to his feet. Good Heavens! who was this?
"Sister Jean, it is your hour to watch by your charge." The door closes, but Sir Barry's eyes seem fascinated. What makes him feel so strangely? Where had he seen that face before, where? Why, has it stirred the very depths of his heart?
"That was the Mother Superior, Sir Barry, the best and noblest woman in the world. She gave up home and friends to found this convent, and there is no need to say she has succeeded in doing Heaven's work among all who are in need or trouble. Every one blesses the name of mother St. Marguerite. But will you excuse me now, Sir Barry, I am sorry it is impossible to remain longer away from my patient."
Sister Jean has nursed the man most faithfully, who had so basely deceived her. She has spared neither time nor rest; she will do for him all she can.
Sir Barry takes his leave; he is haunted by that face; he is scarcely himself; it is imperative that he should act, or he will lose his senses. His ears are caught by a voice that sounds familiar. Just ahead are a lady and gentleman. The man, Sir Barry immediately decides he does not know.
"Just wait here for a moment and I will inquire," Sir Barry hears him say to his companion, as he darts into a store.
Surely Sir Barry knows that perfect figure with its pretty suit of velvet and fur.
The lady turns her head and sees him.
"Why, Sir Barry, is it really you?"
"Miss Grey, I was sure I knew you, the back of your head had such a well known look."
Yes, it is stately, pleasant Blondine Grey, every whit as charming as when Sir Barry saw her last in Italy.
"And Miss Litchfield, how or where is she?"
Blondine's pretty face clouds.
"Poor Dolores, they have had such a trying time; of course you have heard about the trouble, Sir Barry."
Sir Barry looked grave, and said he thought he had heard something about it.
"I am going to see Dolores, as soon as Uncle Dick settles up some affairs; there is a very nice place, quite near where they live, that I want Uncle Dick to buy, and erect a summer residence, or winter either, if we should like the place very much."
Sir Barry sees Miss Grey's escort looking daggers at him, so raises his hat, and bids Blondine good-bye. He is gone; and Blondine had so many questions to ask him, oh dear; she wishes she could call him back again, but the corner hid Sir Barry's retreating form from Blondine's wistful eyes.
Then the remembrance of the face in the convent comes back to Sir Barry Traleigh, and he remembers where he has seen that wonderful face before, knows why it has raised such a flood of remembrance in his heart, and almost set his brain on fire. His mind is fully made up, that he will lose no more time in beating around the bush, he will do according to the dictates of his heart. "Faint heart never won fair lady," and Sir Barry determines he will be no coward. He set himself a task, and now when he is about to succeed, is his pluck going to desert him? he thinks not.
"Sit down and dangle your legs, and you will see your revenge."—Italian Proverb.
"Sit down and dangle your legs, and you will see your revenge."
—Italian Proverb.
It is a broiling day, or has been, but toward evening the same dense, lurid heat reigns over everybody and everything. The Australian sunset is going down in all its fiery glory. The sandy wastes stretch out far and wide, looking in the glowing heat like beds of living ashes. The miners are all out by their hut doors, vainly endeavoring to catch a reviving breath of fresh air, which seems very loth to lend its invigorating presence.
"Jim wants to see the American paper we got last night; here's a Canadian one, too." The man addressed took the pipe he was smoking out of his mouth.
"No, lad, there's nothing in the papers to interest me; lend it to some of the other chaps, there may be something to please them." He puts his pipe in his mouth and finishes his smoke. "May I see them a few moments, please?" asks the man whom no one dares approach with other than respect. He had come there and been very successful with his mine; the men said he was making money fast. He never drank, nor told long yarns with his fellow workers, and they at first feared, then grew to respect his solitude. Through the day no one worked harder than Ned Field, and it stood to reason that at night he was too tired to remain talking when sleep and rest were so much needed. He takes the paper in his own little cabin, spreads the sheet out on the table, and pores over the contents with eager eyes.
"Serious and Supposedly Fatal Accident.—As Mr. Cyril Fanchon was being driven home from his office, the horses became startled, ran away, upsetting the carriage, and throwing him out immediately in front of the convent of St. Marguerite. The injured gentleman was carried into the convent, where he now lies in a critical condition. Mr. Fanchon is of the firm of Litchfield & Fanchon, whom the reader may remember as Litchfield being the defaulter for thirty thousand dollars, and who left the country with that amount. It is supposed Mr. Fanchon, who is well and favorably known, will die."
"Serious and Supposedly Fatal Accident.—As Mr. Cyril Fanchon was being driven home from his office, the horses became startled, ran away, upsetting the carriage, and throwing him out immediately in front of the convent of St. Marguerite. The injured gentleman was carried into the convent, where he now lies in a critical condition. Mr. Fanchon is of the firm of Litchfield & Fanchon, whom the reader may remember as Litchfield being the defaulter for thirty thousand dollars, and who left the country with that amount. It is supposed Mr. Fanchon, who is well and favorably known, will die."
The paper lies unheeded on the table, the minutes and hours pass unheeded likewise, but the man sitting there in the little rudely constructed cabin never stirs. The clock strikes five and the man springs to his feet.
There is quite a surprise among the miners, when they start to work the next morning, to see their old chum departing with his few worldly goods for parts unknown. He took passage in the next steamer, and his heart rejoiced as each mile brought him nearer the completion of his hopes.
Sir Barry Traleigh has started out for a walk. All day he has been unsettled, anxious, worried; he cannot define the feeling which oppresses him, as he expresses it; he feels as if "something unusual was going to happen." Very tired and often very discouraged was Sir Barry during those two years. He had tried with untiring, unwearied patience to find Mr. Litchfield's whereabouts, no expense of time or money had he spared, and yet not a word of hope could he send to the anxious, waiting family. All he could do was to buoy them up with hopes, and those were almost failing him. He had written a letter to Miss Adeline, telling of his assumption of another name, and pleaded for her to forgive the deception he had practised upon them, but saying she would be sure to forgive, when he could explain personally. All this he had written, and much more to the same effect. Dolores answered the letter for her aunt. A letter full of bitter reproaches, refusing to hear any explanation from him—words which stung Sir Barry's proud spirit to the quick. Any other man would have thrown up the whole business, but not so Sir Barry. He could not understand Dolores' strange actions. He sent a postal card saying he was going to see them, and named the day. But he received a curt note, saying they were not at home to strangers; so Sir Barry would not force himself where he was not wanted. He had certainly done wrong, but then Miss Adeline might have been a little more charitable. He was sure it must be Dolores who influenced Miss Adeline, and what he had ever done to be under the bane of Dolores' displeasure, was more than Sir Barry's keenest discernment could fathom. It entirely disheartened his efforts, this fruitless search, from day to day, week to week, and month to month, seeking among strange faces. The cabs and busses rattled along, up and down, in a ceaseless clatter of wheels and rumbles, that make him wonder if they tried to see how many scurrying foot passengers they could knock down in their progress along. He stands a minute to watch the whirling, pushing mass, then enters the station house, as the train is coming, in to watch who comes. And the first man he meets is the one man whom he would give the best thousand dollars he had to meet, just when and where he does. In spite of the heavy beard and deep sunburn, Sir Barry is not to be deceived; he recognizes immediately his old friend Edward Litchfield. Sir Barry rushes forward, extending his hands, and greeting him joyfully.
"Ah, Jet my boy, the first home face I have seen; it does my heart good to look at your face, lad." Edward Litchfield looks haggard and worried.
"How are things working?" are the first words he utters after the welcome is over, and they have taken a cab for Sir Barry's apartments.
"Of course Fanchon got the money, and used it; you disappeared, and of course he let you carry the blame with you; the business is going on with Fanchon at the head. It is the second rather steep affair for which he will be called to account. Of course I could do nothing, but now you are here, we will have a general sifting up of affairs," Sir Barry says with satisfaction.
"How is Fanchon getting? Poor fellow, I feel so sorry for him, but it is my duty to clear my own and my family's name from dishonor."
"We will go to the convent to-morrow, and see if he can say anything, clearly," Sir Barry says.
He is very anxious that all this miserable affair shall be cleared up as soon as possible.
The reports next day of the patient were much better; there was no question but that he would die, but as far as clearness of mind went, why he was perfectly capable of settling any affairs he wished. Sir Barry secures the services of a prominent lawyer and an officer of the police force, and with the physician visited the convent the next day. They took down Fanchon's written confession. He had knowingly obtained the missing money, for purposes he did not state; he professed himself sorry for having wronged his partner, but seemed utterly unaware of what punishment he would be called upon to suffer for his crime. Then Sir Barry says clearly:
"It is an understood fact that Cyril Fanchon is accused and found guilty of default of trust, is that true gentlemen?" Sir Barry looks around the room inquiringly.
"The man's own words declare himself guilty," is the reply.
"And I accuse him of another crime, that of bigamy."
"Sir Barry you must surely be mistaken," interrupted Mr. Litchfield, gravely. The silence for a moment is almost unbearable.
"That man lying there went to Scotland, won the affections of a pure, innocent girl, the pretty daughter of one of my tenants. He married her when he was already married here. He left his little Scottish bride, and she left her home, followed him here and found him a married man with a wife and family. She gave up all worldly ambitions; she is here in this convent, the girl who has tended him so faithfully during his illness—Sister Jean, once Jantie Mackeith. Are you listening? Is it not so?"
If Cyril Fanchon were dying, Sir Barry could not help feeling that Jantie Mackeith's hour of triumph had come. From pale to red, from red to purple, turned the face of Cyril Fanchon.
"Is that true?" Mr. Litchfield's voice is stern and reproachful. "Can it be possible this young man can be guilty of so much dishonor? impossible."
The doctor gives Fanchon some brandy, and he says sullenly:
"Well, if I did, whose business is it but my own?"
"Scoundrel," comes from Sir Barry's clenched teeth.
"In those two cases my friend, you are in my charge." The police officer steps forward.
"Cannot arrangements be made to let him remain here? You see death is not far off." Mr. Litchfield feels so sorry to see his late partner reduced to such distressing circumstances.
"Pity does more harm than good to such men as him," Sir Barry declares. All inducements were unavailable, and Cyril Fanchon was removed to prison. His wife, utterly heart-broken, took her children and went home to her father, and Edward Litchfield was proclaimed a free man. Old friends gathered around, glad to find their friend had not been unworthy their esteem.
"Aunt Adeline, you had better go right in the kitchen, for Zoe is in the preserve kettle, and I am afraid your plums will be scarce if they are not looked after, by some one less fond of tasting them than she is."
Aunt Adeline is out in the garden gathering fruit: peaches, ripe and luscious, and pears, rich and mellow.
"There, give me the basket, and I will finish." Dolores daintily holds up her white skirt, and climbs up the stepping stones, the better to gather those aunt Adeline could not reach.
"Say, Dolores, please throw me down that big, ripe peach up there, just this side of your head. Oh dear." Dolores does as requested.
"Zoe, child, what is it now?" she asks anxiously.
"I burnt my tongue, that's what's the matter, if you want to know. I wish I'd let the old preserves alone." She stands there leaning her pretty plump arms on the fence and watches her sister.
The train whistle blows shrilly, and is the only noise that disturbs the sweet drowsy stillness. Then the youngest Miss Litchfield saunters idlely off, vainly trying to coax the burnt tongue with sundry ripe peaches and pears.
Dolores laughs and works on; and as the sunlight glances through the boughs of the trees, lingering with a loving touch on her pretty hair, and sparkles and glistens in the tiny diamond earstuds, which had been Blondine's last Christmas gift. Dolores loved these, her only valuable trinkets, and wore them constantly: she even slept in her pretty eardrops. The little gate in the vegetable garden clicks, but the young lady perched on the wall never heeds it. She goes on placidly gathering her pears and peaches. Occasionally a more tempting one than the others finds its doom in her pretty mouth, but then the picker is always privileged.
"My eldest daughter is, as usual, busy, and where is my other daughter?"
It seems so natural that she should hear that voice; and those very words have been repeated so often that Dolores laughs softly, then she gives herself a little pinch to make sure she is awake, and not dreaming, then she looks down.
"Father." Slipping down into his arms.
"Hurrah! Aunt Adeline, father's home." Shouts the brilliant Miss Zoe, rushing up to fling her long arms around that beloved neck. She has witnessed the arrival from the very highest limb of a sweet bough apple tree, and has come down as quickly as possible, to the utter destruction of her dress sleeve, which looked now utterly innocent of ever being dignified by the name of sleeve. Nevertheless, her greeting was just as sincere, for Mr. Litchfield loved this, his youngest daughter, fondly; in fact, considered her a queen among women, no matter how she looked in other people's eyes. The fatted calf was certainly killed that day, in honor of the master's return. Aunt Adeline piled the tea-table with everything good, every imaginable luxury, to tempt her brother's appetite. And Zoe had a right royal feast, having three different kinds of preserves, and every variety of pie and cake, in which her longing heart delighted. It was a truly gala day.
"He who builds according to every man's advice will have a crooked house."—Danish Proverb.
"He who builds according to every man's advice will have a crooked house."
—Danish Proverb.
"Now uncle Dick, you promised, you know you did, and I will be so disappointed if you don't." Blondine's pretty red lips are curled up in a naughty pout, and her red cheeks are two or three degrees redder than their wont.
"People have said I could find a nicer, prettier place, and, my dear, I intend to settle this matter myself," decidedly.
"All right, uncle Dick, if you do not you will be sorry, now mind."
Blondine takes her place at the foot of the long table, and makes much unnecessary clatter among the fragile cups and saucers. Uncle Dick goes on calmly eating his tapioca pudding; he enjoys exciting Blondine's anger, but this time he wants her to understand that he knows his own business best. He thinks that at his time of life he knows where to or where not to build a house for the summer. Blondine, during her visit to Dolores, had found the most delightful spot, to her mind, for them to settle on; but some one had told uncle Dick that the place was the dullest hole he ever had occasion to poke his nose into. And if there was anything uncle Dick hated, it was a place where there was not something always on the move, to enliven things up once in a while.
Blondine toys with her napkin ring; she is too cross to finish her dinner; sometimes uncle Dick tries to see just how horrid he can act.
"Sir Barry Traleigh is in the drawing-room, shall I show him in here sir?" the servant announces at Major Gray's elbow.
"To be sure, to be sure; fetch him in," and Blondine looks up to see Sir Barry's pleasant face entering the door.
"Now, Sir Barry, won't you try to induce uncle Dick to do as I say? You have been there, and is it not delightful?" Sir Barry strokes his silky moustache in his lazy way, and contemplates Miss Gray for a few moments in silence.
"Traleigh knows next to nothing about it at all, so how can he tell?" uncle Dick puts in hastily. He is afraid if Blondine secures Sir Barry for her side, the case will go rather hard against him.
"Excuse me, Major Gray, but I do know something about it, and if you will permit me to express my opinion, I should say you could not do better than acquiesce to Miss Gray's wishes." Blondine claps her hands.
"Now then, uncle Dick, what do you think of that?" she cries, delightedly.
"Two against one is not fair," uncle Dick says, in a tone intended to be argumentative.
"Say it shall be as I wish," Blondine demands, holding the Major's face between her hands.
"We will see; perhaps after I smoke my cigar, I will think it over," and Blondine knows that the victory is almost won.
"I had a long letter this morning from Dolores," Blondine says, as she and Sir Barry go out on the south balcony. "They are so glad their father has come home, and all that affair cleared up to every one's satisfaction."
Major Gray is off, down in the garden, wending his footsteps in and out among the late autumn flowers.
"Were you ever through the convent of St. Marguerite, Miss Gray?" Sir Barry asks, suddenly.
"No. I never have been, but Dolores, in her letter to me, spoke of one of the sisters there, who was treated disgracefully by the man Fanchon, who caused Mr. Litchfield so much trouble." Blondine is very much interested.
"You saw her, Sir Barry; is she very pretty?"
Sir Barry puts his hands in his pockets, and whistles. Blondine looks surprised.
"Will you go through with me next Thursday? I believe that is the visitor's day? Perhaps I can introduce you to Sister Jean; that is the girl's name Miss Litchfield referred to."
Blondine declares herself delighted to go. Then out there where the glimmering sunshine turns everything into a golden hue, with the flowers nodding their bright, cheerful heads, Sir Barry tells the girl by his side something, which causes Miss Gray to open her large brown eyes in bewildered astonishment.
"Why, I can scarcely credit it," Blondine says, when she has recovered the use of her tongue.
"If you agree with my impression, we will see what can be done. You are the only one I have said anything to about it."
Blondine would like to tell uncle Dick, but the dear old major could never, to save his life, keep a secret five minutes, so it was decided better not to tell him.
Thursday afternoon, Sir Barry and his pretty companion wend their steps toward the convent. One of the sisters, whose duty it was to show strangers around, informs them at once, that Sister Jean is well, but has gone out to the prison, where she goes twice a week to sit with one of the prisoners. Sir Barry and Blondine exchange glances, they both understand who "the prisoner" is, whom forgiving Jantie goes to visit when everyone else has forsaken him.
"What pretty flowers," Blondine exclaims, going over to a space in the hall, divided off by a little wicker railing. Sir Barry slowly follows.
"Are they not arranged beautifully?" she asks, turning to Sir Barry.
Coming down the long corridor, on her way to the school-room, is Mother St. Marguerite; she smiles her gentle, pleasant smile, when she sees the visitors; she always welcomes everyone with that grave, tender glance.
"Merciful heavens! the very image; of course you were right; how very wonderful," gasps Blondine. Sir Barry looks pleased.
"Then you and I agree on that point?" he asks, bowing to the sister who politely conducts them to the outer door.
"Agree with you! why no one could have the least doubt. The features, why her movements, smile, all are the same." Blondine declares she has never been so worked up in all her life before as she has been this afternoon.
"I must certainly tell uncle Dick," she says, decidedly, and Sir Barry consents.
At the end of the month, Cyril Fanchon dies, a very remorseful death; business men were sorry he did not live to bear the punishment he so richly deserved. But he was bidden to answer before a more powerful Judge than any on earth. About six weeks previous to his death, Sister Jean had heard they could find no one to sit at night with him, so she begged Mother St. Marguerite to allow her to take the night-watch by Cyril Fanchon. The mother knew it could not be for long, so she consented. Now her mission was over at the jail; she had kept her watch faithfully, she had nothing to regret. The girl looks white and miserable, after her long night vigil. Surely she has had her revenge doubly. But revenge is the last thing the gentle, faithful woman thinks of; far be it from her desire to have her worst enemy suffer.
There has been an application at the convent for one of the sisters to go to the country to take charge of a sick child for a few weeks. Mother St. Marguerite determines that Sister Jean shall be the one to go.
"The country air will brace you up for your duties here, when you return," were the Mother Superior's parting words, as she kissed the sweet face, and bade her bear up.
The gas and pretty wax candles are lighted, throwing a pleasant, soft radiance over Major Gray's daintily furnished drawing-room. It was rather chilly, and near tea-time; Blondine has ordered a fire to be lit in the white marble fire-place.
"Well, well, to be sure; of course I never heard the full particulars of the story, but of course Traleigh may be mistaken after all, and then you would both feel pretty foolish; but what does he purpose doing?" Major Gray inquires, helplessly.
"Oh, uncle Dick, certainly Sir Barry knows what he is about. I had not the slightest doubt, nor have I now, as far as the likeness goes. And—and—why he will fix it up all right." Pretty, stately Blondine sinks in her low chair of plush and satin, with an air of perfect faith in Sir Barry's mode of unveiling this little mystery, which has caused so much excitement among those three persons. The Major gently rubs one slippered foot over the other, and watches Blondine thread her needle with yellow floss. It is very evident he has something to say, that he finds rather difficult to express.
"My dear," he says, toying with his spectacle case, "I had the papers drawn up this afternoon, and the architect engaged, and they intend commencing work on the new house immediately."
Blondine lays down her fancy work, and looks at Major Gray.
"Where?" she asks.
"I have Traleigh's word for it, that the place you spoke of could not answer better."
"You dear, you gem of a man, I knew you would change your mind and do as I asked you to."
"There, there, my dear, that will do," gasps uncle Dick, as two fond arms are twisted about his neck.
"Get me my shoes, my dear; I have to go to see a man about, about—ah, some business," the Major declares.
Blondine runs up-stairs, singing, to get a letter for uncle Dick to put in the post-office for—well, perhaps it would do no one any good to know to whom that dainty little letter was addressed.
"Gone—and I always loved that girl so well,Gone—like the old proverbial fair gazelle;Or like the piece of toast so broad and wide,That always tumbles on the buttered side."—Anon.
"Gone—and I always loved that girl so well,Gone—like the old proverbial fair gazelle;Or like the piece of toast so broad and wide,That always tumbles on the buttered side."
—Anon.
"Burpee, my dear son, be careful in your choice of a wife; it is an event in life which every young man should look into with all possible keenness of judgment; and, my dear boy, I beg of you to be very careful."
Lady Streathmere taps her silver-headed cane on the deep piled, plush carpet. She is very anxious about the person who is to be the future bride of her wayward son.
"Yes, mother, you are very good about giving your advice, but I hope I have sense enough to understand what I am doing. I know my own mind, too, although you seem to think I don't."
Lady Streathmere feels hurt; she looks past her son, out the window into the garden, where the pretty flowers have faded and died by the frost's bitter, chilly blast.
"'In buying horses and taking a wife, shut your eyes and commend yourself to God,' is an old Italian proverb, often quoted by your father; it contains all that is necessary, my son. I will leave your choice in hands higher and better than mine."
Burpee, Lord Streathmere, laughs gaily; he has become so accustomed to those little lectures from his mother that they go in one ear and out the other.
"Well really, mother, I actually believe my fate is sealed, at last; the girl I have selected, is a woman you don't meet every day."
The sweet perfume of mignonette and roses float through the long, handsome rooms, from the lovely vases fixed around in such sweet, artistic profusion. Lady Streathmere sighs. Whatever is she to do if Burpee brings home a wife whom she will blush to present to her friends?
"Who is she?" she asks, faintly, after a moment's reflection.
"She is a sister in the convent of St. Marguerite, one of the best and noblest of women. I know, when you know her goodness, you will say the same." Lord Streathmere leaves the mantel, where he has been standing, and goes over to the table, where his mother sits.
"Oh, my son, my son," she moans, "is it so bad as that? You surely are trying to jest with me."
"No, mother, not jesting. If she will have me I intend to marry her, although I have never spoken to her."
"Heaven grant you never may," groans Lady Streathmere. She is in an agony of doubt; it is even worse than she had expected.
"I was so sure you would take a fancy to Rea Severn. Such a nice, pretty girl; although there was none I should have liked better for a daughter than charming Dolores Litchfield. I think you are very cruel, Burpee, to treat your poor old mother so."
Burpee is busy selecting a fragrant rose to pin in his coat; it is more than probable he has not taken in all his mother has been saying.
"I never saw any girl looking so wretched as Rea Severn; I wonder what ails the girl?" asks Lady Streathmere.
"I should be very thankful, if I were you, that my son had enough discretion not to marry a girl who is killing herself by eating opium," Lord Streathmere says, deciding on a cream instead of a pink rose. "As for Dolores, she did me the honor to refuse me, but in such a nice way that, 'pon my word, I forgot to feel bad over it."
Burpee, Lord Streathmere, possesses a good, though rather effeminate face, and now, when lit up by enthusiasm, he looks the ideal of an easy, good-tempered fellow, of whom any mother might well be proud. Certainly Mrs. St. James must have exaggerated when she had described him as a "horrid, quarrelsome little boy"; for a better, nor a more peaceful young man never existed.
"Burpee, how dare you speak so unkindly of Rea Severn, who has always, to my knowledge, been beyond reproach," Lady Streathmere says, sternly. "Mrs. St. James is a friend of mine, and I am sure Arial never mentioned such a thing." To be sure, she had heard many people remark about Rea's complexion, her scarlet cheeks and the feverish looking sparkle in her eyes, but the girl was always in such high spirits, she never seemed ill, and Lady Streathmere always understood opium eaters were nervous; altogether it all seems very perplexing. Burpee strides over to the piano and fusses around among the music.
"Everyone knows it, and I dislike Mrs. St. James most heartily." Burpee dashes off into a breezy little ballad that used to be a favorite of Dolores, and Lady Streathmere leaves the room. She has no patience with the boy when he is in a mood like the present. Lord Streathmere dislikes being left alone, so he goes down town, and meets Sir Barry Traleigh.
"Look here, Sir Barry," he says, taking the Scotchman's arm, "Will you get me acquainted with Sister Jean? I am going to marry that girl, if she will have me. Day after day I have watched her go on her dreary visit to the jail to see Fanchon. Such devotion I never heard of. I want you to plead my cause for me, to my mother. Tell her the girl's story; you are more plausible about such things than I am." Sir Barry looks amused.
"What will Lady Streathmere say?" he asks.
"I want you to tell her, and get me acquainted as soon as you can; will you?" Sir Barry looks at his watch.
"I am afraid it will be no use Streathmere. Her first taste of married life has been so bitter, it is very doubtful if she would care to try it a second time." Lord Streathmere looks distressed, and Sir Barry goes on. "Of course I don't want to discourage you, but you will do well to be prepared for a refusal."
The pretty little Bijou Theatre is ablaze with lights, brilliant jewels and handsome women. And over there in a box sits Lady Streathmere, and leaning over her plush chair back stands handsome Sir Barry Traleigh. Many pairs of bright, eager eyes are levelled upon this society favorite. But alas for them, Sir Barry is too deeply interested, by what he is saying, to be conscious of the flattering scrutiny. He is relating Jantie's sad love story to the high bred looking lady.
"What a brave, forgiving, sympathetic girl." There are tears in Lady Streathmere's kind eyes. She feels deeply interested in the story of this girl, whom Sir Barry Traleigh has been telling her about.
"She it is whom Burpee has decided to select for his wife." Sir Barry has been ordered by Lord Streathmere to tell his mother, and this is the way he tells her.
The music and acting go on, but Lady Streathmere, sitting there in her beautiful silk and lace dress, waving the feather fan she holds, pays no heed to anything but the words Sir Barry is uttering. No one could have told her better, for she had Sir Barry's word for it, that the woman who was to bear their old ancient name, was a woman faithful, honest, and true. So she thanked heaven Jantie was as good as Sir Barry said she was, and Lady Streathmere had to make up her mind to do the best she could with her future daughter-in-law.
"You will never have cause to feel ashamed of her, Lady Streathmere. Jantie is a lady in every sense of the word, but I feel rather certain that Burpee will find it a difficult matter to cage his pretty bird."
"Why?" Lady Streathmere asks, coldly. She is at a loss to see why anyone, let alone a poor, friendless girl like Miss Mackeith, should have the audacity to hesitate a moment when considering a match like Burpee, Lord Streathmere.
"Do not misunderstand me, Lady Streathmere. When you come to consider that the girl knows nothing of the honor in store for her, you will see there is some weight in my remark," he says, stiffly. He is not going to allow Lady Streathmere to snub him in that tone.
"Silly boy," she says playfully; going on earnestly, "you will pardon a mother's pride and anxiety. I did not wish to wound you, Sir Barry; you have told me very kindly, but I cannot help wishing that Burpee could have trusted his mother enough to have told me, what you have done, himself."
So when Burpee comes in later his mother greets him with a smiling look, and the faint-hearted lad knows Sir Barry has overcome all his difficulties for him, as far as Lady Streathmere's anger was concerned.
The next day, when Lord Streathmere, accompanied by Sir Barry, called at the convent of St. Marguerite, they heard that Sister Jean had been called away, to take charge of a person who was ill. Nothing could be learned about her farther. She had gone, and it was against the rules of the convent to give information to strangers concerning the habits or whereabouts of the inmates. Lord Streathmere was disconsolate. She was gone, and he had loved her so well. Now what was to become of him? It required Sir Barry's deepest chaffing powers to be called into play, in order to keep the disappointed boy from falling into despair.
"I am as I am, and so will I be,But how that I am, none knoweth truly;Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free,I am as I am, and so will I be."—Wyatt.
"I am as I am, and so will I be,But how that I am, none knoweth truly;Be it ill, be it well, be I bond, be I free,I am as I am, and so will I be."
—Wyatt.
Sir Barry Traleigh's parlour, at his bachelor apartments, is lit only by the flickering firelight. It chases the dark shadows out of the dim corners, and throws a cheerful brightness over the pretty crimson and gold satin furniture. Sir Barry's little dog "pug" lies on the tiger skin rug in front of the cheerful blaze, keeping watch over his master's slippers. Mr. Litchfield and Dolores sitting there, awaiting Sir Barry's return, are not slow to enjoy the luxuries spread so lavishly about them. It is nearly five o'clock on a December afternoon, and the short day is almost gone. The woman in charge of the rooms had brought in lights, but Dolores had refused to have them lit, saying the fire light was so very pleasant. Sir Barry had sent to Mr. Litchfield to know where he could secure a good boarding place for a few weeks for sister Jean. She had a persisting, little, hacking cough, that worried Sir Barry, and made him persuade her to try a change of air. Aunt Adeline, in her goodness of heart, said the girl should come to them. And Dolores was sent with her father with a special invitation. They had gone to the hotel on their arrival, and afterward drove to see Sir Barry. He was out, but they awaited his return in his pretty fire-lit parlour. Dolores has slipped off her seal skin jacket and gloves, and is sitting on the rug patting the little grey coated, brown eared dog, when the door opens.
"Mr. Litchfield, why, this is a pleasant surprise; have you been waiting long?" Sir Barry says, coming forward. Then his eyes fall on the girl crouched there by the fire, with the dog in her lap. "Dolores, Miss Litchfield."
There is an eager, expectant look in Sir Barry's pleasant eyes, he has longed so to see the girl's face, to hear her musical voice; now she is here, here in the room where he can talk to and hear her talk. Dolores rises leisurely and puts the dog down.
"How do you do, Sir Barry Traleigh?" she says coldly, not offering even to shake hands with him. She does not, she can not yet trust herself to look at the man standing before her, and Sir Barry turns to Mr. Litchfield.
"You got my letter; have you gained a place for my little friend yet?"
"My Sister sent us to take her home with us."
"Miss Adeline was always kind; I hope she has overlooked my deception ere this?"
Sir Barry glances across the room where Dolores stands beside a cabinet of rare old china, her blue velvet and silk dress making a pleasant rustle as she moves about the pretty room, admiring the pictures and the ornaments. Sir Barry lets her be, he will not force his company upon anyone.
"Oh yes, long ago, my lad; we laugh at your masquerade now as a fine joke. I explained away all the difficulties. Now when can we see this sister Jean? Mr. Litchfield's voice breaks in upon Sir Barry's meditation.
"We can go now; ah!"—The door is thrown open, and Blondine's pretty face, radiant with welcome, appears.
"I just thought I would come over; I got your telegram, uncle Edward, and as you were not at the hotel I came here. I hope you will pardon me, Sir Barry, for invading your room in such an unceremonious way. Dolores, my darling, how are you?"
"We are going to the convent, Miss Gray, will you come?" asks Sir Barry, as he assists Dolores on with her coat.
"Do, dear," Dolores says, drawing on her fur gloves. "I hate to go, yet I want to."
Blondine is always ready and willing to go anywhere for a change, so consents. Sir Barry had said he would arrange some plan for taking Mr. Litchfield to the convent; this must be the way, and Blondine begins to feel a great excitement creeping around her. They arrive and are admitted by a sister, who takes them up-stairs to the Mother Superior's parlour, where a cosy fire burns in the polished grate.
"Will you see the mother St. Marguerite? as sister Jean has just come home and is too tired to see anyone to-night," asks the sister. This is just what Sir Barry wants, so he said if it were possible he would see mother St. Marguerite. Sir Barry is very restless; he walks up and down the pretty, homelike little room, until Blondine thinks she will go wild, if he does not sit down. Blondine's eyes are full of suppressed fire; she and Sir Barry are soon, any moment, to be either rewarded or mistaken in what they have long been patiently planning. There is a sound of approaching footsteps, Sir Barry wheels around his face in deep shadow; the door is opened softly, and mother St. Marguerite stands within the room.
"Estelle, my wife? Thank God I have found you at last," Mr. Litchfield cries, springing forward.
"Edward," gasps mother St. Marguerite.
"Blondine, what does it all mean?" Dolores demands.
"It means that you have found your dear mother."
"Surely this is Dolores." Mother St. Marguerite takes the trembling girl in her arms. "And my little, spirited baby, my Zoe, she is well? Ah! the good God has preserved my dear ones until this happy day." Blondine's eyes are full of happy tears.
"Are you not glad, dear Sir Barry? Dolores will never be able to thank you enough. If it had not been for you, she would never have found her mother."
Sir Barry feels glad that so much happiness had been brought around for all hands concerned, but feels most woefully forlorn himself. It seems now they are all united, that he is left entirely out in the cold. Blondine's voice awakens him.
"Yes, I suppose so," he says, absently.
"Dolores is going to stop a few days with me; come in and see us any time, when you are lonely," Blondine says, cheerfully. She intends giving naughty Dolores a good scolding for her persistent coolness to Sir Barry. "And at one time I imagined they were getting so fond of each other," Miss Gray thinks, ruefully.