144CHAPTER XX.MR. LE MOYNE OF PARIS.
Guy found Scott in his office, and he fancied that he looked a little careworn, but he dared not question him in regard to his trouble, lest Scott should think him presumptuous. He really pitied him, but Scott gave him no opportunity to make a suggestion. In fact, he seemed bent on leading him to other subjects.
A stranger entered the office and requested a private interview with Lawyer Wilmer, and Guy, after making known his errand, took his leave. Paul was busy in an adjoining room, attending to some correspondence.
“Are we alone?” the stranger asked.
“Yes, with the exception of my valet, who is in the adjoining room, busy with writing.”
“Is he reliable?”
“As much so as myself.”
The stranger, who gave his name as Antonio Le Moyne, was a man somewhat below the medium height. His features were even and delicately molded, and his large, round black eyes beamed with a look of deep intelligence. His beard was black and flowing, and his145complexion clear and dark. His air was that of a person extremely well bred. “I will see you again,” he said, after a long and earnest conversation with Scott.
“The groundwork is very slight,” said Scott, “but I will do my best, and perhaps with what evidence you may be able to furnish, we may find something to start on; but of course the utmost caution will be necessary on the part of both of us.”
The stranger bowed and left the room.
“I believe I have seen that face before,” said Scott to himself. “If not, I have seen one very much like it.”
“Who is he?” Paul asked, stepping into the room.
“A gentleman lately from Paris—a Mr. Le Moyne.”
“He is a good English scholar, I judge, from what I heard of his conversation.”
“As good as you or I.”
“The correspondence is all finished,” said Paul, “and if you have no further use for me I will go home.”
Scott replied that he no longer needed him, and Paul took his leave.
He did not hear all the conversation which passed between Scott and the stranger, but he had heard some remarks which set him to thinking deeply. He reached home, and sitting down before the grate, fell into a deep reverie.
“It is strange, very strange,” he said. “Good heavens! But pshaw, what a simpleton I am! How I dread the time when it comes. But I must be brave, like—Scott. How very brave he is—a very god in heroism. The woman who cast him off for that hollow headed villain146is a fit subject for the lunatic asylum, and her companion a knave of the deepest dye.”
Paul sat for some time in deep thought; then he went to seek June. She was in the parlor entertaining a lady who had called.
147CHAPTER XXI.PAUL AND SCOTT.
The week passed away, and it had been decided that Carrie Horton should spend the remainder of the winter with June.
A light tap was heard at Paul’s door, and Scott entered the room. He seated himself at Paul’s side, and leaning back in his chair, his eyes rested for a moment on Paul’s face. Then he said:
“Paul, what a handsome boy you are getting to be.”
Paul blushed like a schoolgirl.
“Am I?”
“Yes; but you need not blush like a woman. Had you been one I never would have told you so.”
It was the first time Paul had ever heard him flatter anyone, and he hardly knew how to accept it.
“What was it you wished to speak with me about? Is there anything I can do for you?” Scott asked.
“No, sir; thank you. But I have decided to make new arrangements, and I wanted to tell you that you will be compelled to look for another valet.”
“Why, Paul, what do you mean?” Scott asked in surprise.
“I am obliged to leave you.”
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“For what?”
“That I cannot tell you just at present.”
“Can you not trust me, Paul?” Scott asked sadly. “Have I not always——”
“Oh, please, do not ask that,” Paul said. “You have been more than a brother to me, more than a father, and—yes, more than anyone in all the world.”
“Then why do you leave me?”
“I must.”
“You must? It is strange. Are you tired of me, Paul?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Paul, becoming strangely excited.
“Then tell me why you leave me. If there is anything I can do, or anything which I have not done, let me know, and I will try to make amends.”
“There is nothing that I could desire that has not been done for me. Indeed, I do not think any other man in all the world would have been as generous as you have been, but I cannot stay longer.”
Scott arose and walked slowly up and down the room. His face had grown very grave, and his lips were pressed firmly together. At length he stopped before Paul, and grasping both his hands tightly in his own, and looking straight down in the boy’s face, he said:
“Paul, my boy, I cannot give you up; it is useless to try. You are a part of my home. Mother and June look to you in all their troubles, and now when all is darkest with me, will you leave me in still greater darkness? Paul, I have never made a confidant of any one, but to you I have confided more than to any other.”
Paul remained silent.
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“I will not ask you again why you leave me, but let me tell you that I shall be at a loss to know how to act without you, for I am just now in the beginning of a very puzzling piece of business, and I must have help in the matter.”
“Is it anything I can do?” Paul asked.
“I do not know; you might be compelled to leave the city.”
“Is it in regard to searching for your wife?”
“No, Paul,” Scott answered firmly. “I shall never look for Irene. When she comes to my home she will come of her own free will.”
“And you will take her back?”
“I shall never close my door against her.”
“May I ask you a question, Mr. Wilmer?”
“As many as you choose.”
“And you need not answer me unless you wish. Could you take her back and love her as well as ever?”
Scott waited some time before answering, as was his custom when asked a very important question.
“Paul,” he said, “I could never take her as my wife again. As far as that is concerned, I had better buried her; but should she ever return to my home, she shall never want if I have the power to aid her.”
“Oh, Mr. Wilmer, I am so glad to know that she will not suffer, for how terrible it would be to come to poverty after having lived in luxury, as she has. I knew you were noble, but did not know any one could be so generous.”
“No, Paul, I am not noble; you do not know, and heaven grant that you never may know, how hard were150the battles which I have fought to bring myself to that decision, but I have found that my marriage to Irene was a terrible mistake—a very grave error. Had she remained as my wife I should have endeavored to do all in my power to make her happy, but her own hand has severed the tie, and with God’s help I shall turn my back on the grim shadows that she has thrown across my pathway, and try to do life’s duty just the same as though all had been sunshine. I do not wish to censure her. I am only fearful that her sin will bring her more unhappiness than she can bear, for invariably the wages of sin is death. Paul, I am sure you will keep secret all that which I have entrusted to you; and now there is a matter of which I wish to speak, and I may want your help, if you will consent to aid me. The work requires cool, calculating and close figuring. The happiness of a life is at stake, and we must lay aside our own cares to work out the problem.”
Scott then related the interview between Mr. Le Moyne and himself.
Paul started to his feet, and grasping Scott’s hand in great agitation, he said:
“Scott Wilmer, you must let me help you.”
“How can you, Paul?”
“I can, I will, if only you will trust me. Do not question me, but let me do as I will. Let me come or go, and give me time and I will help you.”
“Why, how excited you are! Do you really think you can help me?”
“I am sure I can.”
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“Very well, Paul, do as you think best, only do not let me lose track of you.”
“I will come to you again—trust me.”
“I will, Paul, I will, and do not fail to draw on me for any amount you may need.”
After a long conversation and a great deal of speculating Scott and Paul came to a decision.
152CHAPTER XXII.LOOKING FOR A PLACE.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear, I am so tired, and here I’ve traveled all day, and my feet are so sore that I can hardly step at all.”
“What is the matter, and what is your name?”
“Well, the matter is that I am just tired to death, and my name is Mrs. Morris.”
The lady who asked the question smiled and drew nearer to the woman, who had taken a seat on the steps of her neat residence. It certainly was no very uncommon thing to find a tired old lady in the streets of New York, but there was something in the appearance of the old lady which attracted the attention of the young and beautiful woman in the doorway.
“Oh, dear; oh, dear,” she sighed again, and then the tears began to drop slowly upon the bundle she held in her lap.
She was dressed in a plain brown wool dress, and a black shawl and bonnet. She had a sweet, pleasant face, and it was that which caused the young lady to pause and take the second look, and to ask the cause of her trouble.
“If I only had a cup o’ tea,” the old lady said, “I153could go on better, but my money is well nigh gone, and I can’t afford it.”
“Oh,” said the young lady to herself, whom we shall call Miss Elsworth. “Oh, I wish I could turn them away when they come, but I can’t. I might just as well try to stop my own hunger as to try to turn one away that is hungry, and I’ll just slip in and get her a cup of tea to help her on her way. It will rest her, I am sure.”
Miss Elsworth touched the woman lightly on the shoulder, saying: “Come into the kitchen and I will give you a lunch; I know a cup of tea will do you good.”
The old lady arose, and wiping the tears away, said:
“God bless you, miss; I am sure you will get your reward some day for doing so great a favor.”
“It is no favor,” Miss Elsworth said, as she led the way to the kitchen. “Only I shall be obliged to ask you to be as quick as possible, for I am about to go out to look for a housekeeper, and I wish to find her before she is otherwise engaged. It is so hard to find a trusty one.”
“Is it?”
“Yes; one has to be cautious.”
Miss Elsworth hurried about and soon had a steaming cup of fragrant tea and a tempting lunch prepared for the old lady.
“Sit down, now, and perhaps you will be better able to walk after you have eaten your lunch,” said Miss Elsworth.
Mrs. Morris took her seat by the table, and as she sipped her tea and broke a fresh bun she said:
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“What a terrible place New York is. I hadn’t no idee it was so big.”
“Have you just arrived here?” Miss Elsworth asked.
“Yes; I jest come from the country. I’ve got to get a place to work.”
“What can you do.”
“I was cooking in a hotel in the village before I came here.”
“Why did you come to such a place as New York?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I was working in Ghent in a hotel, and the other night I had an awful dream. I dreamed about a span o’ black horses. It worried me considerable, but I thought p’r’aps ’twas foolish to think about it, but the next night I dreamed about a lot o’ mud fallin’ down on my head, and then I knew somethin’ had happened to my poor boy. You see, I’ve got a boy here in New York somewhere, and you never can begin to guess how I do love that boy. He is the purtiest boy in the whole world.”
Miss Elsworth looked at the old lady, thinking that her son might be pretty, as she said, for she herself must have been a very handsome woman in her youthful days. Her features were finely chiseled, and the dark hair streaked with gray was as smooth and as soft as a piece of satin. But there were lines of care around the delicate mouth and across the broad forehead, and though she might have been pure at heart, there was a lack of education and a manner that caused Miss Elsworth to pity rather than ridicule her.
“Is your son very young?” Miss Elsworth asked.
“Oh, no; he’s nigh on to thirty, but you see he’s155sorter wild, and I’m jest afraid in a big place like this he’ll git into something awful. They say they’s so much mischief goin’ on here.”
“How did you expect to find him? Have you his address?”
“Oh, dear, no; all I’ve got to go by is his picture.”
Miss Elsworth smiled.
“That is rather a slim guide. How did you expect to find his place of residence by that?”
“Why, I jest thought I might show it to folks now and then, and perhaps they’d know him.”
Miss Elsworth smiled again. The idea of coming to New York to hunt up a prodigal son, with simply a photograph to aid her, seemed extremely ludicrous.
“And to think that I am here, all alone, without hardly any money. Why, I don’t believe I’d ’a’ dared to come to New York if I’d ’a’ had forty dreams, if I’d knowed what a terrible big place it was.”
“What did you intend to do while you are here?”
“Why, I thought as like as not I could get a chance to work. You see, I’m a awful good cook. Perhaps you know of some one that wants one?”
“Can you do other work besides, such as dusting and cleaning?”
“Oh, yes; I can do any kind of work.”
“I had just started to look for a housekeeper, and as you are looking for a place, you might try it here for a while. Your duties will not be arduous, as I am alone, though you will be required to take charge of all the work, as I am not wealthy, and am not able to keep other help.”
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“Oh, oh, I am so glad. I am sure I can suit you. I’ll show you my boy’s picture, and if you should ever meet him you can tell me.”
She drew from her pocket a photograph carefully wrapped in a piece of newspaper, and, unfolding it, she handed it to Miss Elsworth. She started as she gazed at the features.
“How very handsome he is,” she said. “He should be very good.”
“Oh, my, that’s the trouble. I’m afraid he gets into bad company, for along at first he uster send me some money now and then, but for a year or two he don’t ever write to me.”
“Are you sure he is in New York?”
“Oh, la me, no. I tracked him from one place to another, and the last time I heard from him they told me he was in New York, but didn’t know whether he was going to stay there or not.”
“I am afraid you will be obliged to give up the search, but if I can aid you I will do so.”
“Oh, thank you. I am so glad that I have got a place to stay, anyway, for a while, and p’r’aps when I find Charley he’ll provide for me.”
“I hope he will at least treat you as a son should treat a mother; but tell me how old you are, and if you are able to work.”
“Well, you see, I ain’t so old as I look, but Charley has worried me a lot, and that makes me look old, but I ain’t quite fifty, and I am sure I’m as strong and able to work as I was when I was twenty; but I was thinkin’ just now that p’r’aps Charley has got married,157and his wife is proud and won’t let him take care o’ me. Charley didn’t like to work very well, anyhow, but he might take care of us two, for he was a good enough carpenter and jiner. But I know if he’s got wild it’s all owin’ to the tricks of this awful big city.”
“The city is a bad place for a person out of employment.”
“Well, I’m dreadful glad I’ve found a place,” said Mrs. Morris, arising from the table.
“And if everything proves satisfactory, I shall be glad that I have found a housekeeper,” said Miss Elsworth.
A less courageous person might have been shocked at the idea of taking a stranger into her house, as Miss Elsworth took Mrs. Morris, but she knew enough of city life to know that there was no great safety in dealing with strangers. But Mrs. Morris had an honest look and a simple, honest way, and Miss Elsworth was very much in need of a housekeeper, and so she decided to accept Mrs. Morris on trial.
The people across the way wondered why it was so very quiet about the place opposite. They saw a beautiful young lady come and go, but they knew neither her name nor occupation. Indeed, she did not seem to have any, for she was seldom seen on the street, and when she was seen she was closely veiled, as one afraid of being recognized, and was always neatly, though plainly dressed. There was any amount of mail left at her door, which fact gave rise to much speculation by gossiping and curious neighbors. They thought it very strange that a handsome young woman, seemingly158without occupation, should live there with only a housekeeper. But they were none the wiser, when several months had elapsed and still she remained, coming and going in the same strange manner.
Mrs. Morris had proved herself a very trusty and efficient housekeeper, and though she was possessed of rather a peculiar disposition, she was never ill tempered.
“Oh, if Charley would only come back! I’ve often thought since I’ve been here what a nice thing it would be if only you could see him. You couldn’t help loving him, he is so handsome; and I’ve often thought of what a beautiful couple you would be. La me, wouldn’t you shine, though, goin’ out together? But, la me, maybe he’s married afore this, or he may be dead. Oh, if I jest knew. What do you think? Do you suppose he’s dead?”
“Really, I have no way of knowing anything at all about it. He may be dead, or he may come back to you and make you happy the rest of your days.”
“You hain’t forgot what you promised, have you,” she said one day, “that you would try to help me to find him?”
“No, I have not forgotten.”
“P’r’aps you better keep his picture, or you might forget how he looks.”
“No, I shall not forget; I never forget a face which once I have seen.”
“And do you think you would know him if you should see him?”
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“If he looks like his picture I shall certainly know him.”
“Well, he does, for all the world.”
“I have been thinking, Mrs. Morris, that when Spring comes you and I will change our place of abode, and perhaps go into the country, at least for a while.”
“But maybe I wouldn’t find my boy there.”
“You would be just as likely to find him there as anywhere.”
“Oh, I s’pose I would,” said Mrs. Morris, dropping her work and looking steadily down at the carpet. “Here is your letters,” she said, as a violent ring of the bell brought her to the door. “My, what a lot of ’em.”
Miss Elsworth tore open the seals, one by one, perusing their contents. There was evidently something very pleasing in the last one opened, for Miss Elsworth, after reading it carefully twice through, folded and replaced it in its cover, smiling, and with sparkling eyes.
“I am very glad,” she said.
“Of what?” Mrs. Morris asked.
“My last work is meeting with a very rapid sale, so my publisher tells me, and I shall no doubt make a snug little sum.”
“So you’re gettin’ rich, are you? Well, I hope you will. P’r’aps you might look around a little for my boy. You’re sure you’d know him?”
“Quite sure.”
“Oh, I wish you could find him, and I can’t help thinkin’ how nice it would be if you two was to get married.”
“I shall probably never get married,” said Miss Elsworth,160while a strange light came into her eyes. “But I shall be glad to help you to be happier, if I can.”
“You are an angel, anyway.”
“A very wicked angel,” said Miss Elsworth, as she turned to her desk.
Blanche Elsworth finished her writing, and turning to Mrs. Morris she said:
“Mrs. Morris, I shall expect you to keep very quiet in regard to my business. I am really obliged to entrust to your knowledge some things which I must ask you to keep entirely to yourself.”
“La me, I don’t know anybody to tell anything to, and I’d never tell if I did. I’m sure I wouldn’t do anything mean, when you’ve took such an interest in my son. Whereabouts in the country do you think you’ll go?”
“I am not certain of going at all yet.”
“Well, when you do get ready, it’ll be all right; but I do hope you’ll find my poor Charley somewhere. You an’ him would make the beautifulest lookin’ couple on top o’ ground.”
“Please do not say anything more about that, and when we find him, we will see what he has to say about it himself.”
“It’s awful to write books for a livin’. It jest seems to me I’d die.”
“Why?” asked Blanche.
“La me, I couldn’t live and not have a chance to talk to anybody.”
“I believe it,” said Blanche.
“Why, it jest seems to me it must be awful to sit all161day and think. Why, I’d ruther wash every day in the week.”
“Every one has his taste,” said Blanche, “and play becomes work when monotony steps in; but gaining a living by the pen is by no means play. It has its toil, and also its charms. There are hours when it is only a beautiful pastime, and there are hours of the most incessant toil. It is neither all pleasure nor all pain.”
“Well, for my part I wouldn’t never want to be a writer. I never see one afore, and I always thought it was something awful nice, but, la me, I never would want to tear my brains to pieces in that way.”
Blanche arose and looked out of the window. The evening was coming on, and the street lamps were just beginning to light up the city. Shop girls, with white, tired faces, men and women of toil, even children, worn and weary, were hurrying along through the cold. Everything looked like toil to Blanche Elsworth at that moment. What a long, long weary round of toil she had just completed. Her first novel had been set afloat upon the world to fall into the hands of the lover of fiction or to be scanned by the scathing eye of the critic. She remembered how, when she started, that looking before her it seemed like a long lane that had no turn. How would she ever reach the end? she had thought. Could she? Others had, but had they the difficulties to overcome that she had? She did not believe they had, but she would try it at least. She had published several small books of poems, but the work on which she was about to start out was so much broader, so much more toilsome.
162CHAPTER XXIII.JUNE’S REASON—LETTER FROM PAUL.
Carrie Horton was seated in the Wilmer library. She had wandered to the bright and glowing little world of books, and choice and rare paintings. June was entertaining Guy in the parlor and Carrie knew that he would say that “three was a crowd,” so she had left them alone, saying significantly that if they did not care she would go to the library. She had taken a volume of travels and was soon deeply absorbed in its contents.
“Ah, good evening, Miss Horton,” Scott said, entering the room. “I think I will follow your example.”
“Mr. Wilmer,” Carrie said at length, looking up from her book, “will you allow me to interrupt you?”
“Certainly.”
“I have just been reading of a tribe of gypsies, and I have never yet found any information as to where they originated. I have heard of them often and seen them, too, but I never knew to what nation they belong, though I have often wondered. Can you tell me anything about them?”
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“They are claimed by history as being a mysterious, vagabond race, scattered over the whole of Europe, Asia, Africa and even America. Where they originated is still a matter of speculation, as the question has been studied by competent investigators, and is still but partially solved. No fact seems really established except that India, the cradle of many nations, was the source from which they sprang. Their language is a corruption of many others with a loss of some of their own original language. They are a lawless race and are quick at framing a falsehood, and cunning at thieving.”
“They are, naturally, a filthy class of people, too,” said Carrie. “I have seen some young gypsy girls who would have been really beautiful had it not been for their slovenly attire and tangled hair.”
“Yes, I hardly think there are any of them who would care to cultivate a refined nature, even if they had the opportunity.”
“Have you any faith in their fortune telling?”
Scott laughed as he answered: “Oh, no; though I had my fortune told by an old gypsy once, but have hardly thought of it since.”
“Has any of it come true?”
“Well, really, I have not noticed. Let me see—why yes, I do not know but there has a part of it come to pass.”
“Then she must have known.”
“No, I think she guessed at it.”
“How could she?”
“Easy enough.”
“What did she tell you?”
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“That my parents were both living and that I had never soiled my hands with work.”
“Was it true?”
“Yes.”
“Was that all?”
“No, she said that I would marry a beautiful woman.”
“And so you did,” said Carrie, thoughtlessly. “And is that all?”
“She said there were tears for me, and that I would commit a crime.”
“Mercy!” said Carrie, starting.
“Do not get excited, Miss Horton, I assure you I have not the least intention of making good her prophecy,” Scott said, smiling.
“No, I do not think you have, but—”
“But what?”
“If you should happen to.”
“I do not think it will ever happen.”
“How long ago was it that you had your fortune told?”
“Oh, several years ago. I merely had it told to please my curiosity. I have hardly thought of it since.”
“It seems strange that any of it should come true if she did not know what it was.”
“You are not superstitious, are you?”
“Oh, no, I do not believe in it myself, only it seems funny that there are so many things they tell that come to pass.”
“I think nothing comes to pass that would be any different in case they did not predict it.”
“I have often thought of a gypsy who told my fortune165once. She gave me nothing but riches and a life of pleasure. Soon after she told Guy’s fortune, and really he was to be just as happy all his life as I.”
“I am sure that is pleasant to think of.”
“Yes, but it would be very strange if we were both happy all our life. No one ever is happy always.”
“Very few,” said Scott, and then his mind dwelt on the scenes which had passed, and he thought of the gypsy woman’s words: “You will marry a beautiful woman, and there will be tears and the stain of blood on your hands.” His lip curled in scorn at the thought of crime. He turned again to his book, and, though he had not the least idea of allowing himself to think of the old gypsy’s words, there came now and then to his mind the words that he had scarce thought of since he had heard them from her lips. He would now and then cast his eyes toward Carrie, thinking what a sweet, amiable, home-loving girl she was. How happy she would yet make some one.
Guy had called on June for a special purpose. He had made up his mind that there was one question that he wanted to ask June. Thus, when Carrie so generously offered to leave them alone, Guy very readily accepted the favor. June had been playing a soft air on her harp, and when Guy entered she arose to welcome him. June was practical, and she treated Guy as a friend, though she was keen enough to see that his intentions meant something more than friendship.
“I have come, as I told you I would,” said Guy, seating himself beside June, “to speak on a very important subject. Have you any idea what it is?”
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“I suppose I have,” said June, as the color rose to her face.
“Then you are prepared for it?”
“I suppose I shall be.”
“What is it?” Guy asked, smiling.
“That is not my part of the business.”
“What is your part?”
“To answer questions.”
“You are the most practical and honest person I ever saw,” said Guy, laughing. “Why do you not look surprised and be entirely ignorant of what I intend to ask you?”
“Because I am not entirely ignorant.”
“Then I suppose your answer is ready.”
“It is.”
“What is it; yes or no?”
“That depends on the question.”
“Suppose that I were to tell you that somebody wanted a wife?”
“That would not be strange. There are a great many men who want wives.”
“Suppose I were to tell you that some one wanted you for a wife?”
“I have been told that before.”
June’s sweet, honest eyes were looking straight at Guy as he spoke. Her fingers were neither toying with diamond rings nor an ivory fan, but her shapely white arms were folded across her waist in a very matter-of-fact way. She was quite sure as to what Guy had to say, and she had made up her mind to answer frankly any question that he might ask. She had not the least167idea of growing faint or falling in tears on his bosom, as she had heard of women doing. That plan did not suit her at all.
“You have been told that before?” Guy repeated.
“Yes.”
“And suppose I were to tell you that I was the man who wanted you, would you say yes?”
“No.”
“June, June,” he said, looking very serious, “June, darling, you do not mean that.”
“There, Guy, do not grow sentimental; of course I mean it.”
“And would you really say no?”
“I said I would not say yes.”
“Well, what does that mean but no?”
“It means that I would not readily give my consent.”
“Why not?”
“I would not wish to.”
Guy looked perplexed.
“June,” he said, speaking suddenly, “I never thought you were a coquette.”
“Your opinion is a correct one regarding that.”
“Then what do you think of me?”
“I think,” said June, surveying his countenance, “I think you are very nice.”
Guy laughed in spite of his disappointment.
“Then why will you not marry me?” he asked.
“I did not say that I would not.”
“But you did not say that you would. Don’t you think you could love me, June?”
“I rather think I could,” she answered, coolly.
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“Oh, June, please have a little more reason; if you can love me, why will you not say you will marry me?”
“Guy,” she said, in a voice grown low almost to sadness, “I shall never marry any man until I have first studied his character.”
“Are you so afraid, then that you might find me a villain?”
“Not at all. I know you to be very far from a villain, but I do not know whether your tastes accord with my own. You would not be willing to have me allude to your faults, and you might have those which would be very annoying to me and I might have those which would be extremely vexatious to you.”
“I cannot see that you have a fault, my dear June, and if you loved me truly you would not see my faults.”
“I do not say that I do see many faults, and that is what I am studying your character for—to find them.”
“Why do you wish to find them?”
“To either help you to correct or see if I can have patience to bear with them without complaining.”
“How practical you are, June. Indeed, one would think that if there ever had been any romance in your nature that it had all died away and left but the ashes of a ruined hope. You speak more like a disappointed maiden lady of thirty-five than a young girl only fit for Cupid’s wiles.”
“I speak from observation, and I tell you truly, Guy, that if there were more practical and less romantic people in the world there would be more happiness.”
“But people marry for love; do they not?”
“Perhaps they do.”
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“Then is it not right that they should overlook the faults of each other?”
“That is just the point. They fancy themselves deeply in love—so much so that they do not stop to consider whether the object of their choice has faults or not. After marriage comes reflection, and after the romance has worn off they have not the patience to bear with the faults that, until then, have been kept from the surface. It is not long since I spoke upon this very subject to a gentleman who asked me a similar question. Yesterday I received a letter from him saying that he should soon repeat the request, although I gave him a decided answer in the negative.”
“Did you care for him?”
“I certainly did not, and I told him so.”
“He is very impertinent,” said Guy, rather impatiently.
“No, he is very blind, and I have no doubt that the least turn of fortune would bring my faults to light.”
“If you know of any great faults I have I would willingly correct them if you would show me what they are.”
“I fancy that you have a habit to which I am greatly opposed, though I have never seen you indulge in it.”
“What is it?”
“The use of tobacco.”
“Oh, I occasionally smoke a cigar.”
“Why have you never done so in my presence?”
“I thought perhaps it might be offensive.”
June’s eyes were turned full upon Guy as she said:
“Tell me truly, Guy, do you think if I had been your170wife that you would have been particular to keep the fact from my knowledge?”
“Perhaps not, but I am sure I should not indulge in the habit in your presence if it were distasteful to you.”
“There should be no deception between man and wife. I shall not commit one act that my husband may not know of, and I shall expect a full knowledge of his behavior, whether at home or abroad. If such is not the case I would be unhappy. I would rather you would never deceive me in a small act. Of all faults I abhor deceit.”
“Do you know of another fault that I have?” Guy asked thoughtfully.
“Perhaps one is enough to speak of at once.”
“I would rather hear of all now.”
“Then you may be angry.”
“Not with you, June.”
June remained silent a moment, as though she were calculating the propriety of showing Guy the fault which rested in her mind.
“I am waiting very patiently,” he said.
“Will you promise not to become angry with me?”
“I promise.”
“Well, then, you are inclined to be egotistical.”
“What?”
“It is true.”
“I cannot see when or how.”
“I cannot see my faults, but I have them,” said June earnestly. “I will cite you an instance. When your sister was speaking of a certain play we witnessed a few171evenings since, and you did not agree with her upon the point she mentioned, you closed the argument in a manner which said plainly that your opinion was right, and further discussion useless.”
Guy, looking steadily down at the carpet, asked:
“Was not my opinion correct?”
“It was, as far as my judgment went, but I might also have been wrong. But even if it were right or wrong, the manner in which you expressed it really hurt your sister’s feelings, though she said nothing.”
“Is it not a little cruel, June, to pick out such disagreeable faults and hold them up before a man to mortify him?”
“Do you think that a disagreeable one?”
“Yes; of all faults that is one of the worst.”
“Will you do me a favor, for the sake of friendship?”
“Any favor you may ask; what is it?”
“Correct that fault.”
“I will try,” said Guy, submissively.
“And what will you do with the other?” June asked, smiling.
“Kill it outright, since it is a useless habit; but really are those faults all I have?”
“They are all I have noticed.”
“It seems to me you might be able to bear with two faults, since I have promised to correct them. I think if you had fifty I could overlook them all.”
“No, I shall wait and study your character, your likes and dislikes, and if, after a certain time, I find myself capable of bearing, patiently, those which I cannot correct, I will give you my answer, provided you have not172found a woman really faultless; meantime I ask as a favor that you speak freely of my faults whether great or small.”
“Shall I begin now?”
“As soon as you please.”
Guy looked at June’s bright, loving face, and wondered if there was one fault to correct. In all their acquaintance he had never seen her ill-humored. He had never heard her speak disparagingly of anyone, farther than strict honesty compelled. He really did not know how there could be a fault; but since she wished it he would try and find some to hold up for her special benefit. She had often told him that she never would make a mark in the world; she would never be other than June, and she would only be known in the circle in which she moved. Guy laughed outright at the idea of such nonsense, as he called it. He wanted a wife; a companion. He had known actresses who had made a great name, but he would not give a penny for the best one in the land. His business gave him an opportunity to know something of the private life of poets and novel writers, and he never yet saw one, however amiable they might be, that was calculated to brighten their own home.
“I expect you will marry a literary woman some day,” June said, mockingly. “She will probably have a mole on her chin.”
“Well, there is no mole here,” he said, looking closely at June, and starting to kiss the pretty lips.
“Not yet,” she said, drawing away, “wait until you173know all about my faults and, perhaps, you will change your mind.”
“I know my own mind now, as well as I shall ever know it,” Guy said, in a sober tone. “But I am willing to wait your decision, and I shall wait, June, a lifetime if necessary.”
“It will not take a lifetime to find the defects in my nature,” she said pleasantly.
“Do you bid me remain away?” he asked, as he neared the door.
“Certainly not. In that case I shall not be able to study your character.”
“Good night,” he said, pressing her hands, then he left the room.
The Spring had come again. Scott sat in his office with a huge pile of letters before him. He had been enabled to secure the services of a boy who had come well recommended, and who proved to be good and trusty, “but he never could fill the place of Paul,” Scott said. If Paul were only here he would not be obliged to attend to so much corresponding. He really wondered how he could live without that boy. He had been gone since February and it was now the month of May. How long the time seemed and to-day was the first that Scott had heard from him. He had the letter before him. It ran thus:
“My dear Employer: Please pardon my long silence. The only excuse that I have is that I have been at work, the nature of which you will guess. Enclosed174find a valuable paper. I send a messenger to carry it to you that I may know of its safe arrival. You will hear from me again ere long. Until then, trust and believe me your faithful servant,Paul.”
“My dear Employer: Please pardon my long silence. The only excuse that I have is that I have been at work, the nature of which you will guess. Enclosed174find a valuable paper. I send a messenger to carry it to you that I may know of its safe arrival. You will hear from me again ere long. Until then, trust and believe me your faithful servant,
Paul.”
Scott had read the letter, and as he placed it in the desk before him, the door opened, and Mr. Le Moyne entered the room. Scott gave him a cordial welcome, and Mr. Le Moyne said in a low tone:
“I have had a long and fruitless search. I have been from one end of the city to the other, and I can find nothing satisfactory.”
“I have just now received a letter,” said Scott, “which may be of some use.”
He then handed the letter to Mr. Le Moyne, who examined the paper while a pallor spread over his face, as he said:
“Good Heavens, it is the very same.”
“Are you sure?” Scott asked, starting to his feet.
“As sure as that I live. Here is positive proof,” he said, taking a letter from his pocket and pointing at the bottom.
“Yes, it certainly is,” said Scott. “Well, that is worth a great deal.”
“Yes, providing we can find the balance, and that may be the hardest part.”
“At all events we will not give it up yet,” said Scott.
“Give it up! I shall not give it up as long as I live.”
“There is but one thing to do. I cannot just at present tell you how it came in my possession any more than I have already told you, but, leave the matter to175me for a while, and I will make you acquainted with the first important facts I may obtain and please leave this with me,” Scott said, taking the paper.
Mr. Le Moyne soon took his leave.
“It is all very strange,” thought Scott. “I do wonder where the boy came across it. He is a shrewd lad, at all events. How I do miss him. I wonder where he is. He will probably let me know, when he has accomplished his purpose.” Here his thoughts fell upon his wife. He wondered where she was, and why she had acted so foolishly. His heart ached when he thought of her, but he had no desire to look upon her false face again. His love was dead.
As he closed the door of his office he was met by Guy, who had just stepped over to consult him on a matter of business. As the two stood for a moment on the broad steps, an elderly woman stopped before Scott and inquired if his name was Lawyer Wilmer. He replied in the affirmative, and, giving him a letter, she hurried away. Scott placed the letter in his pocket, thinking there was time to read it when he reached home. Guy had asked Scott to go with him to his place of business and together the two started on.