Front matter (continued 3)

"Long ago, then, I 'faced things' as you call it. I looked right at them hard and baldly and I saw that Life is very hard on woman. Life, Society—even Nature—all seem to be leagued against her. Her one chance of happiness is to make a happy marriage; and in order to make a happy marriage how many things are needed—and how few are forthcoming! Even then she must make up her mind to face certain torture and possible death; and when, after bearing two or three children, she loses her youth, her strength, her good looks, she has the satisfaction of knowing that her husband is as attractive as he was the day she married him. So, practically, in the majority of cases, she has nothing but her children. I am not thinking of you, you monkey; you are a great exception. Of course the children must be worth a great deal to her, but, apart from them, the average woman has precious little. Her husband is usually fond of her—I am speaking, now, of happy marriages—but all the idealism and the romance die very quickly. If, on the other hand, she does as so many do and marries some one who is in love with her but for whom she cares little—what then? All the usual hindrances and no compensations. There is left only spinsterhood. Putting aside the lucky few who have some art, some profession, which means everything to them, unmarried women are, as you have said, simply incumbrances and not happy incumbrances at that. The one happy thing for a woman is to fall in love when she is young, marry some one who adores her, and become so absorbed in her children that she won't mind the rest. Of course there are a few ideal marriages here and there; cases where people fall in love and stay in love and have satisfactory children and enjoy life; but you know as well as I do how many of these there are. Four altogether; and I have sometimes doubted the fourth."

"Well, of all the cynics"—

"Not a bit of it; I don't cherish useless illusions in the face of facts, that's all. Well, as I began to say, long ago I 'faced things' and saw them as they were. The best thing to do was to fall in love and make a happy marriage; that I couldn't do. The next was to marry some one I didn't want, or to do something that would support me, and remain unmarried. Of the two, the last seemed the only possible thing. I can get along for the present just as I am and I do not look into the future. As far as I can see, it is bound to be a wretched one, anyway; but I may die—a thousand things may happen. In the meantime I do not worry because of realizing that life is a tragic thing; and I take things very coolly and don't make a fuss about anything that can't be helped. When I feel down in the mouth I always console myself with the reflection, first, that it can't last forever; and, secondly, that however industriously Fate may knock me, she can't compel me to squeal about it."

"What a truly cheerful and comforting reflection."

"Well, do you know anyone more cheerful than I?"

"No, I can't say that I do; but appearances are certainly deceptive. Then you really prefer unmarried unhappiness to married unhappiness—that is your final choice?"

"That is my final choice."

"It is an extraordinary one, that is all I can say, when one thinks of all the money that is thrown in with the married unhappiness."

"Money can't buy happiness."

"No, but it can buy some mighty good substitutes for it, my dear. And as far as I can see, you are not going to get anything at all with the unmarried unhappiness."

"Nothing at all? Freedom, a peaceful mind and an independent income. I'd rather have my liberty than all the houses in Christendom and all the men. Of course I am human; I should prefer to make a happy marriage; but how many people do, and why should I be picked out for a happy fate when so many kinder and better people than I have nothing but trouble from beginning to end of their lives? No; I complain of nothing."

"Don't you think you will be sorry for this, some day?"

"If I am, no one will ever know it."

"If you think all this about your future, why do you want to live?"

"I don't want to live. Do you? Does any mature person? But I must live and so must you. There is probably some reason for the world and for Nature and for Sin and for all the other queer works of God and of the Devil. Perhaps we shall find it all out some day and then again perhaps we shall sleep so soundly that we shall not care to find out anything at all. That would be nice. It would be still nicer, though, to find out that everything was for the best, really, and that everything about the world was necessary. 'God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,' you know, and all that sort of thing. That phrase about the 'best of all possible worlds,' when applied to this, is such rubbish and such inhuman rubbish at that; such an insult to the intelligence and humanity of mankind; yet one can't help hoping that there will be a 'best of all possible worlds' and the mere fact that we want it and look forward to it so instinctively shows that there must be one, somewhere, I think. What do you think?"

"I think I should like to have a brandy and soda," said Mrs. Hadwell, forlornly. "Positively you have given me the blues. I do hate thinking of heaven and poets and metaphysics and things. This earth is all right if you only have sense. The trouble is, you haven't any. Oh! I have just thought of something. I have a lovely box of Huyler's that I haven't touched. We'll eat that and Thomas shall light us a little fire and you can have the latest magazine and I'll read the book of that woman's—you know! the one that they are making all the fuss about. It's frightfully amusing and very improper and it doesn't make one think the least little bit. That's the sort of book I like, and it's the sort of book most people like, too, only they won't say so. Yes, it is, Lynn. You needn't say it isn't. Else why is it always out at the library, though they have seven copies, and why is its author able to travel all over the world on her earnings? You don't understand human nature. All it wants is to be amused and not to be improved. We all like to slide down hill, comfortably, without being obliged to climb up again. And we would all slide down much faster if it wasn't that the company at the foot of the hill is so unpleasant and the people at the top throw things at you and you can't throw them back. And the reason that the people at the top throw things is that they are so cross because they don't really like being stuck up there and they have to pretend they do."

"Well, you're not at all cross, yet, Del, and you haven't slid down hill very fast," said Lynn, laughing.

"Oh, yes, I have. Anyway I didn't have far to slide from. I began pretty low down, you know. Oh, I have no illusions about myself. But, even so I have slidden. But you see, if you are clad in gold armour, you can slide as much as you like; for that renders you bullet-proof. If I were a nursery-governess slaving over spoilt brats for the sake of getting a miserable living, I should be thought a very shady character. Just suppose I had said what I said just now about only liking improper things that didn't make me think! Why, I should be turned out of doors without a character, I suppose. But I am Mrs. Henry Hadwell and so I can slide just as much as I please—within limits. Perhaps it is just as well that there are limits to everything. Otherwise I dare say I should be even worse than I am. And I'm pretty bad, you know. I haven't any conscience and very little affection. And I have no ideals. But then, as I said before, I have dinners—lovely dinners! How glad I am to think that I am going to have another one to-morrow. Some way, when I think of that, I quite forget all the horrid things you have put into my head to-night. Just think! I—I might have been a nursery-governess. I! I hadn't brains or industry enough to become a teacher. Ugh! Oh, what horrible lives there are in the world and how lovely to think that I have a lovely home and a doting husband and three darling children and my dinners! What are you thinking about, now?"

"I was just thinking that we were awfully like the lower animals, really," replied Lynn, with a half-laugh. "A little more complex, but just about like them, otherwise. What does the average bear want? A mate, cubs,—and dinners. If he gets them he is happy; if he doesn't, he is miserable. If Bob could talk, he would say just about what you have been saying, now."

"Bob is a sensible dog," said Mrs. Hadwell, solemnly. "I don't like dogs and I do like you but justice compels me to state that Bob has a lot more sense than you have. Never mind! you will get wise when it is too late and then you will wish that you had had the sense to imitate me and Bob and all the other practical people in the world. You needn't think I mind being called a lower animal. If being a lower animal means getting what you want and being a higher animal means getting what you don't want,—well, I want to be a lower animal, thank you! Lynn! these marron glaces are simply the most delicious things you ever thought of. Do have one!"

CHAPTER XIII

REJECTED ADDRESSES

"The Heart's Desire hath led me

In barren lands and vain."

—Theodosia Garrison.

"I suppose it sounds brutal to say so," said Lynn Thayer, "but you know you ought really to be very grateful to me for refusing you. You will thank me for it, ten years hence."

Mr. Harold Lighton, who was sitting opposite, frowned angrily and made no response.

"We are not in the least suited to one another," she continued, gently. "You—I would make you very unhappy. You are young and rich, and when you get over this, you will be able to marry some nice, young, pretty girl."

"I don't want a nice, young, pretty girl," returned Mr. Lighton, glumly. "I want you."

Lynn's eyes suddenly danced but she very properly refrained from comment.

"Oh, I say, won't you think this over?" burst forth Mr. Lighton, quite unconscious of the doubtful compliment he had just paid the object of his affections. "I'm most awfully in love with you, indeed I am. You know that, don't you?"

"I know that you think you are in love with me, just now," answered Lynn, gravely. "But, in my twenty-eight years of life, quite a few people have told me that they were in love with me and would never be happy without me. And they have married some one else in a few years' time and have never thought of me, again."

"I'm not like that," said Mr. Lighton, eagerly. "Upon my soul, I'm not. You may think I'm fickle or easily suited. I'm not. I don't like anybody but you and I never will. It seems pretty hard when a fellow's waited until over thirty before he has run across any one he fancied—and then to be turned down, after all."

"It has happened before."

"Why, no, it hasn't!" said Lighton, indignantly.

"I mean to other people."

"Oh! See here, why won't you have me? I suppose I'm not clever enough for you. Is that the trouble?"

"No, no indeed. I'm stupid, myself, frightfully stupid in lots of ways. That isn't it, at all. It's just that I don't care enough about you."

Mr. Lighton regarded her with some perplexity.

"I say—I'd like awfully to say something if you won't think it rude."

"Very well—what is it?"

"You're twenty-eight—you don't mind my mentioning it, do you?" queried Mr. Lighton, tactfully. "You've always spoken so openly of it, yourself."

"Oh, I can never keep even the most damaging facts about myself hidden," said Lynn, solemnly.

"Eh?—what's that? Oh, well, never mind! What I wanted to say was this: Don't you mean to marry?"

"I haven't quite made up my mind, yet. Perhaps I may marry somebody a few years hence—but not you," she hastily added, seeing Mr. Lighton look up with sudden interest.

"Why not me?"

"I have told you twenty times over why not."

"And you're serious about it? You're sure you won't change your mind? Well, what I wanted to say was this. Suppose, a few years hence when you've decided that you will marry—now, you won't be offended?"

"I don't think I will. What you want to say is, what will I do if no one wants to marry me, then?"

"Yes," confessed Mr. Lighton, looking a little embarrassed but sticking to his guns, manfully. "You're an awfully stunning girl, but a girl often doesn't get another offer after thirty; and what if you don't?"

"I won't marry."

"But—but"—

"I won't marry, anyway, unless I see some one I like better than I do you," said Lynn, deliberately. "It is best to be explicit, isn't it? I don't want to hurt you, but this is the plain truth of the matter. The idea of marrying just for the sake of being called 'Mrs.' doesn't appeal to me, at all; and I could not marry you for any other reason. Oh yes, of course I might marry you for the sake of living in a nice house and getting my clothes in Paris; but I don't care much about that, either. You see what I mean?"

"Oh, yes, I see. I thought, some way—you see I have a fairly good income and you're fond of horses"—

"You thought I might marry you for the pleasure of seeing something of your horses; is that it?"

"Oh, I say, Miss Thayer, let up! It's bad enough to be refused without being made game of."

"I suppose it is," said Lynn, slowly. She looked at him as though a new idea had occurred to her. "I wonder why you want to marry me," she said at last.

"Why I want to marry you?"

"Yes. I'm not very young, I'm not at all pretty and I have no money. It seems a most curious thing that you should have taken this violent fancy to me. Why did you? Do you know?"

"I say! you are a queer girl."

"In other words I'm not a sheep," returned Lynn, composedly. "Don't you think most people are very like sheep? They travel in flocks and all bleat in unison at the same things and get up in the morning and eat and drink and go to sleep, again—and, in time, they die. I suppose they might as well be doing that as something else, but if it amuses me to do something else, why shouldn't I? Now, for instance, if I had been a well-regulated, conventional sheep I should have bleated out, 'Oh, Mr. Lighton, this is so sudden!' and then I should have thought lovingly of your good house and your nice furniture and should have simpered and accepted you. But, not being a sheep, I want to know why on earth you did it."

"Because I—like you so awfully," explained Mr. Lighton, eagerly.

"But why on earth should you like me?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Lighton, doubtfully. "Why does any one like you?" he inquired, brightening. "You've had lots of other chaps."

"Oh, but that's different. You see I'm a man's woman by instinct and training. I do my very utmost to please and be nice to every man I meet except you; and the consequence is that they all like me and the ones who like me enough to call on me, often, usually end by proposing: not because I'm so remarkably attractive but for the reason that a man, for some occult reason, cannot see much of a woman without proposing to her."

"I say! You're gassing!"

"I'm not. But the queer thing is that you took this fancy to me at the very start without any help whatever from me."

"What a funny girl you are to give yourself away like that. Girls generally say that they don't encourage anybody."

"Yes, but, as you remarked, I am a funny girl; I tell the truth, sometimes. How do you suppose a plain, poor person like me would ever have had so many men friends if she hadn't done something? It's wonderful," said Lynn, meditatively, "wonderful! how easy it is to fascinate men. Just look at each man and talk to him as if you thought he was the most handsome, brilliant and fascinating creature extant—and the thing is done! The man doesn't live who can resist it."

"Ha, ha! you are funny."

"Yes. I can remember when I was a young girl that I used to be terribly afraid that no one would ever fall in love with me because I was so ugly. I used to wish so that I had curling eyelashes and rose-leaf complexions and things: and, lo and behold! before I was eighteen the great beautiful truth dawned upon me. Just let a man talk about himself until he is black in the face and he will never tire of your society, no matter what you look like. Nothing else is necessary. A man thinks any eyes gazing admiringly into his are beautiful eyes: he considers any voice that murmurs timely flatteries in his good right ear a sweet voice: and any woman with intelligence enough to laugh heartily at his stale jokes and listen respectfully to his dull anecdotes, has all the intelligence that any female needs, in his opinion. So there you are. Having this knowledge, what else did I lack? I promptly became a belle of the first water and have remained so for ten years. Pretty girls have lost their beauty, rich girls have lost their money, lively girls have lost their vivacity; but I remain perennially attractive because I have grasped the great truth that every man prefers himself to anything else on earth and, next to himself, admires the woman who acts as though she agreed with him. I'm in a candid mood to-night, am I not, Mr. Lighton? What is the matter? you don't look very happy."

"I can't help wondering," confessed Mr. Lighton, rather ruefully, "why, if you're so fond of having men like you, you've never been nicer to me."

"Because," she returned, slowly, "I very soon received the impression that you were more or less in earnest. Now my puppy days have passed and I take no pleasure in causing pain; and it must be more or less painful to want some one who doesn't care anything about you. So I thought it best to be flippant and unpleasant in the hope that you would get disgusted. Why didn't you?"

"I—I don't know"—

"Yes, I've been most hateful," continued Lynn, thoughtfully. "I wonder if it would do any good if I were to tell you all the harsh things I've said about you to Aunt Lucy."

"I don't think," said Mr. Lighton, hastily and firmly, "that it would do a bit of good."

"Then I won't. But will you tell me just as a matter of curiosity—what it was that you liked about me?"

"In the first place," her companion said, pondering, "I suppose I liked you because you didn't chase me and it was such a change. You see when a fellow has a good position and money coming to him"— He wiped his forehead and looked scared and reminiscent.

"I see," exclaimed Lynn. "I must make a note of that. There are men who tire of being 'chased.' Then there must be men who tire of tobacco, I suppose."

"I don't know about that," said Mr. Lighton, dubiously. "You see, when one has smoked long enough, one can always throw one's cigar out of the window. So one doesn't get as sick of it as one does of women."

"No, I suppose not. I never thought of that," said Lynn, gravely. "Well, let me see! you liked me in the first place because I didn't 'chase' you: and why did you like me, in the second?"

"You're a fine sport," said Mr. Lighton, pondering, "you're always ready for any thing, and you dance like a streak, and you're never tired, and you do make a fellow roar so. I suppose that's why."

"So these are my assets. Dancing like a 'streak'—whatever that may be: always being ready to skate and toboggan: and 'making a fellow roar so.' It doesn't sound attractive: however I never pretended to understand men. What a funny thing it is! No money, no beauty, no particular brains and one of the most eligible young men in the city begging me to marry him!"

"Your aunt likes me," said Mr. Lighton.

"She likes you very much; but she always confuses you with the new plumbing and the electric lights in your house. She can't conceive how I can withstand such fascinations. Poor Aunt Lucy! I wish I were a little more satisfactory: but I really cannot fall in love to order even to please her—not with a whole galaxy of electric lights."

"I don't know exactly what you're driving at," said Mr. Lighton, looking sullen, "but I think your aunt's a very sensible woman."

"So do I. I only wish I were half as sensible. I'm a great grief to her. You see, she feels rightly that a single woman with no independent income should struggle valiantly to avert the awful doom of old maid. Now, the deeper I sink in the mire of old-maiden-hood, the less I struggle."

"Is your aunt very fond of you?" asked Mr. Lighton curiously.

"No. She is much pleased at my popularity, which she doesn't understand in the least, and she regards it in the light of a personal reward for her goodness in adopting me. That is all."

"And your uncle? You don't mind my asking, do you?"

"Not a bit. My uncle hates me, but he thinks I'm a good girl and tries not to show it more than he can help. You see he can't endure children and he is prejudiced against me because I was a child when he first knew me and he has never forgotten it."

"Then I suppose you're not awfully fond of them?"

"I am—most grateful to them, both: but I do not love them. I have never really loved but one person in my life—no, two. The first love is much stronger than the second: but the second is—profound and lasting. I am not an affectionate person: I do not suppose that there will ever be more than just those two."

"Neither of them's me," interposed Mr. Lighton, gloomily and ungrammatically.

"Neither of them's you, no," returned Lynn, firmly.

"Oh, look here, Miss Thayer, can't you reconsider it? I'm—I'm most awfully in love with you, upon my word I am: and—and, after all,—I don't like to say this exactly—but you know I can give you everything you want and—don't you like the idea of having a little money?"

"Immensely."

"Then"——

"But, unfortunately I do not like the idea of having you. There is the plain English of it. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but there doesn't seem to be any way of making you understand."

"Oh, I understand, all right!" muttered Mr. Lighton, ruefully. "But I can't say I'm pleased. You might have given me a hint before letting me make a fool of myself."

"A hint! Man! how many hints have I given you?"

"A dev—I mean a great many," returned the consistent Mr. Lighton. "But I thought you were trying to draw me on."

"I have no talents for man-hunting," said Lynn, rather crossly. "I never try to 'draw people on' or anything like that. It does not amuse me: I'm a man's woman in one sense but I am not a flirt"——

"Flirt! You can't flirt any more tha—than that mantelpiece," said Mr. Lighton, desperately. "But I like you—I can't help liking you, some way."

"No—I suppose you can't—not just at present, anyway. But you'll get over it in time."

Mr. Lighton said nothing, but his face was not cheerful.

"I have a good mind," said Lynn, slowly, "to tell you something about myself—something that will show you the hopelessness of asking me. It is this: even if I liked you very much I couldn't marry you."

"But why?"

"Because—because I have a duty to perform; a duty which demands all my time and strength and—and thought; and which marriage would interfere with."

"But—but do you mean that you are going to perform this duty—whatever it may be—all your life?"

"N-n-no. In a few years—perhaps sooner—it will be—finished."

"And then?"

"And then—oh, don't talk about it! I was foolish to speak about it, anyway—but, do you know, I felt sorry for you. I can't understand why people like having proposals from people they don't want to marry. It always seems to me such a pity that anything should be wasted, that any feeling should burn itself out, without result. That may be a queer way to look at it—but I suppose I am queer. People seem to think so and, perhaps, they are right."

"Well, I'd better go, I suppose," said Lighton, gruffly, after a short pause. "If anything turns up—I mean, if you should change your mind, you know, or anything like that—why"—

"Thank you; but I never shall. Good-night, Mr. Lighton. I'm sorry, really I am. It all seems too bad, but you know it's not my fault."

Left to herself, she drew a long sigh; then rose and moved about the room mechanically straightening the furniture and patting the sofa cushions. Finally she leaned her elbows on the mantelpiece and gazed earnestly into the mirror, above. "Curious what he sees in me!" she said, slowly. "Curious what anyone sees in me! I have nothing to recommend me in the way of looks; it is hard to understand. In spite of all that I have done for—for the boy, he—he doesn't really care very much about me, even now. And yet this man—whom I have done everything to discourage"—

She stared slowly at herself: then turned away.

"Time to go to bed," she said, reluctantly. "And high time to stop—thinking.... Oh, Liol, Liol, Liol!"

CHAPTER XIV

A DECISION TO BE REACHED

"'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,

And matter enough to save one's own."

—Browning.

Mr. Albert and Miss Bertha Hadwell having arrived at Hadwell Heights their aunt had promptly issued invitations for the "bridge" of which she had spoken at her "tea." Hadwell Heights was "en fête." The guests had arrived and were playing, busily, though not for money. Apart from the fact that the guests of honour were young, Mrs. Hadwell disapproved of "bridge-gambling."

"I never win at games," she confided to Lynn. "And I don't enjoy losing money even if I can afford it. And it's such a nice, cheap way of getting a reputation for steadiness and sobriety and high morality and all that. I love to be known for things that I haven't even a bowing acquaintance with. And it seems so delicious to say with a perfectly straight face, 'No, I never play for money. I don't approve of it.' It seems such a rebuke to the worldly-minded and the frivolous and all that lot."

Mrs. Hadwell, though, might be depended upon to furnish very pretty prizes. Besides which her house was famed for its delightful entertainments of all descriptions. For which reasons, and for several others, her pretty drawing-room was thronged.

Lynn Thayer had refused to play, offering to bear her hostess company, however, and to help her in any way she could. She sat now in an alcove of the great old-fashioned bay-window, watching the players absently, and trying to straighten out several matters which threatened to become hopelessly entangled in her mind. This was hardly the place to solve these problems, but, as they became daily and hourly more imminent, she felt that she might as well face them at one time as at another, so far as she was able.

Her reflections chimed oddly with the scraps of conversation which were wafted to her ears from time to time.

"What shall I say if Gerald does ask me to marry him?" she thought, her face darkening. "How can I accept him? And then again—how can I refuse him? If he would only wait—but it is not reasonable to suppose that he would. How can I—how shall I answer him?"

"We-ll," interposed a voice, faintly, "I make it diamonds."

"Oh, why, Mrs. Hall?"

"Oh, did you have a good suit? Oh, dear! well, never mind!—I suppose we can't take it back, can we?—no? well, I suppose not. That's the worst of"—

"He must have meant that; he can't have meant anything else. Of course I have always known, but I thought I could keep it off a little longer. And I didn't realize till lately how much it would mean to me if—I can't give him up. No, I can't give him up. Yet how can I do anything else under the circumstances? Could I explain in any way—give him any inkling of my position? no, I don't see how"—

"Oh, are we playing 'no trumps'? Why, I didn't know that. Why didn't you tell me when you saw me playing out my king and ace"—

"He has no idea—naturally it will seem incomprehensible to him if I say that I do care for him but that I can't marry him for years. If I were five years younger; but, even so—no, I cannot say that. What can I say? If I ask him to trust me and to let me tell him when I shall be free to give him my answer—no, the case is hopeless. I had better tell him baldly and plainly that it is impossible for me to marry—and then?"—

"Not at all, Mrs. Willing, not at all. Of course it was my trick already but I saw that you hadn't noticed that—why, don't think of it for a moment. Of course, generally speaking, it isn't supposed to be a good thing to trump your partner's trick, but"—

"He is not the sort of man to let it rest there; he will ask questions, all sorts of questions, he will insist on knowing what I mean, what I intend to do. How will it end? The only thing that he can never think of is the truth. He will think of everything else under the sun. Oh, the thing is too hopeless! I shall have to let him think that I don't care for him—oh, but if I do that he will go away, I shall not see him again; in time he will marry some one else—how could I bear that? He must not go. I'll say anything, anything, short of giving my secret away. Ah, that horrible oath! So needless, so useless! and to think that, on top of all the rest, this should come! and that I may be compelled to give up my only chance of happiness in the future. I won't give it up! I won't! Life is too cruel. I'll do anything to prevent him leaving me. And then there is not only my pain if he did—but he would suffer, too. No, it is not to be thought of for a moment. He must stay."

"Well, I suppose I really shouldn't have thrown away my ace when hearts hadn't been played at all, but then you know I never stick to rules."

"If only he hadn't written that note, asking to see me to-night. If only I could have put off answering him a little longer. If I refuse to let him go home with me it will be equivalent to refusing him, altogether. It is out of the question. I must settle it one way or another at once. What is it to be?"

"Oh, don't tell me the queen hasn't been played, yet? Why, I thought it was out ages ago—oh, I really think I ought to have that back"—

"What will he say when I answer him—that is, if I tell him the truth? How will it sound? 'I do care for you but I can't marry you just now, perhaps not for several years, I can't say exactly when.' The thing is incredible. A woman of my age, presumably sane, to answer a proposal of marriage in that fashion. Ah, if only I were indifferent to him how easy things would be; and yet what would I have then in life? When Liol—dies—oh, I can't think of that! Where is he to-night, I wonder? What is he doing? Liol, Liol! if only you were dead! and yet, oh, I can't wish that. What will my life be when he is gone? Gone! Think of it! How can I marry, then? what will my life be worth? how shall I live and hide my grief? oh, Liol, Liol!"

"Upon my word, Mr. Coote! where were your eyes? Didn't you know that the nine of clubs wasn't out?"

"One thing is certain; much as I love Gerald, nothing and nobody can ever be to me what Liol was and is. Is that very strange? am I entirely different to all other girls. How could any strange man, however dear, be as much in your life as a person like Liol, with whom your very heart-strings were entwined; who came when your heart was empty and filled it? My Lionel! my little brother! my last charge from my dead mother! Oh, if the years could only be wiped out and if I could see him again as he once was, the same sweet dear child, how happily I could die—yes, how happily I could give up everything—Gerald, everything. But—I must live; and Lionel is—oh, I can't say, I can't think what he is; and he is dying by inches; and there is only one other person in the world for whom I care, only one other person for whom I ever shall care but him; and I may have to give him up. If only Lionel didn't need me so; if only he didn't need all my money, all my thought, all my care—imagine my deserting him and starting to choose a trousseau. A trousseau! when any day he may need a shroud."

"A penny for your thoughts, Lynn."

Mrs. Hadwell had come up, unnoticed and was standing at Lynn's side.

"Did I startle you?" she asked, brightly. "You were looking straight in front of you like Cassandra or Joan of Arc or some other unpleasant historical character. What was it? Indigestion?"

"A fit of the blues, perhaps," said Lynn. "Don't mind me, Del. It was most ungrateful of me to cast a shade over the festivities and, to tell you the truth, I wasn't aware that I was doing it. Who has the highest score?"

"Erma Reed, so far. Isn't she a beauty? Lynn, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, silly!—that is, nothing much. You know we all get a little despondent at times."

"But not you, that is, not until lately. What has come over you?"

"Age, I suppose."

"If you don't want to confide in me, don't—"

"I don't!"

—"But I think it's most unkind, when I always tell you everything."

"There's nothing that I can confide in you, silly-billy!" said Lynn, rousing herself and speaking with forced cheerfulness. "Nothing in the world. Now, will that satisfy you? You know practically all my affairs except those which concern other people and which I have promised not to tell."

"Is that true?"

"There is just one thing which I might tell you—but, after all, it's nothing to tell"—

"Oh, what is it?"

"A man—but this is silly for there is really nothing to tell and, anyway, I don't want to discuss it."

"How logical you are," said Mrs. Hadwell, calmly. "But I know all about that, so you needn't bother. He is going to propose to-night, he told me so. And he begged me to make sure that he wasn't deputed to take anyone else home, as you had not answered his note and so he couldn't be sure"—

"He told you! How queer! How very unlike him!"

"I skated with him to-day and we had tea together. And you know how I can always make any man tell me the inmost secret of his heart if I can once get him alone for five minutes. And you're the inmost core of his."

"Del!"

"He as good as told me so. And I promised to put in a good word for him. So this is the good word. If you will be so foolish as to refuse Lighton—who is, by far, the better match of the two—why, you might do worse than Amherst."

"Thank you."

"But I can't help hoping, of course, that you will never be so foolish as to refuse Lighton."

"Mr. Amherst would be delighted if he could only hear your warm advocacy of his cause."

"Oh, I told him what I was going to say. I was perfectly frank. But I felt constrained to admit that you were such a hopeless idiot that I was very much afraid that you were going to refuse Lighton, if you had not done so, already. However, as I said, you were quite capable of committing the lesser idiocy of refusing him, afterwards. I don't know that I was quite so nice a confidante as usual; but then you must remember that Gerald Amherst absolutely refused to sanction my efforts at flirtation with him, this fall, and you can't expect me to forgive that all at once. I told him that, too."

"Del!"

"Oh, he's a good sort. He said that, once you accepted him, his mind would be free and, if I would then renew my attentions, he would accept them most gratefully—always provided you didn't kick. Well, he didn't put it just that way, but that was his meaning. Only he didn't mean a word of it. Lynn, if ever a man was hopelessly enamoured of a woman, you are that woman. You're doing pretty well, all things considered. Two proposals in one winter and one a good catch—a particularly good catch—don't glare so, Lynn, it's rude! and the other an extremely nice man and not too poor, either. My goodness! but you ought to be thankful. Look at the way some people work and work and then don't get much at the end; and here you just sit with hands folded, so to speak, and watch the desirables canter in. At your age, too! only you mustn't dally any longer, you know; it's time to make up your mind."

"Yes, you're right. It's high time I made up my mind."

"Good. Now then, make it up."

"My dear, my mind isn't like a bed that can be made up while you wait. I must think a bit."

"What do you want to think about, I should like to know? Are you weakening on the idea of refusing Lighton?"

"No. To tell you the truth—I may just as well tell you, I suppose—I've refused him, already."

"What? When? Where? No, never mind telling me, either. Let's stick to the point. Now that you have refused him, there is only one thing left to do—marry Amherst and thank your stars that he proposed just when he did. Otherwise, everyone would say that Lighton had neglected to 'come up to scratch.' Gracious! how fortunate that you had two strings to your bow."

"You know that old proverb about 'falling between two stools,' don't you?" Lynn asked, smiling faintly.

"Yes, and it's perfect rubbish. The people who talk about 'falling between two stools' are the people who've never had but one stool in their lives and who've sat firmly down on that to prevent it getting up and running away. Two stools, indeed! Twenty, if you can get them! But two will do very nicely indeed, when they are two like these. One being gone, you grab the other just as quickly as you know how. Now don't stop to tell me that I am getting vulgar; practical people always seem vulgar to visionaries. The question is, what are you going to say to Amherst to-night?"

"I'm not going to say anything, Del, for I simply can't let him take me home. I must have a little more time to think. No, don't argue; I am serious. Tell him that I am frightfully tired—which is literally true—and that you have asked me to spend the night here; but that, if he will be so good as to take me home after the hockey match to-morrow night, I shall be eternally obliged. Or no, don't put it like that; say that—oh well, say what you think best, Del, you always know how to put these things. Really I am so tired that I simply can't think to-night. Will you arrange it for me? and you won't mind putting me up for the night, will you?"

"No, dear child, I shall be delighted to have you. And I'll give him the message though I think you are foolish to postpone the thing. But I won't tease you, for I am sure you are going to be sensible in the end; and we won't talk any more about it if you don't want to. See here, do look at that table! and please listen to the conversation between Agatha and that unfortunate wretch of a Haldern. I know who won't be Agatha's 'latest.' Do listen."

"But—excuse me for asking, Miss Ladilaw—but what did you make it 'no trumps' on?" inquired a masculine voice.

"Why—why—why, I'll tell you, Mr. Haldern," said Agatha looking up at him, confidingly. "My own hand was so perfectly awful—so appalling—that I felt sure Dummy must have a lot of aces and things. But you see it didn't."

"But, in that case, why didn't you leave it to me?"

"Because I—I was so afraid that you would make it spades. And I had quite good diamonds."

"But don't you see?"—

"Oh, I always believe in trusting something to Dummy," Agatha interrupted gently but with an air of finality. "Don't let us discuss it any further, Mr. Haldern."

"Del," whispered Lynn to her hostess, "I may not be very kind-hearted, but I would not inflict Agatha on any man."

"Oh, they'll change partners at the next table. And I think it's good for men to play with Agatha: they appreciate the next partner they get so much more than they otherwise would. Well, Lynn, how do you like my twins?"

"Charming; and they do seem to enjoy everything so. Did they only get here to-day? They look so cheerful and fresh. I thought they would probably want to rest, the first evening; but they seem to be enjoying it."

"Yes. They're nineteen. At nineteen one enjoys everything but rest. I knew that and so I determined to start in without a moment's delay. I'm perfectly delighted with them, myself. I don't see how in the world that old curmudgeon of a brother of Henry's ever contrived to have two such good-looking, good-humoured children. And their names are so cute—Bert and Bertie; and the likeness is something extraordinary."

It was. Lynn, who had elected to remain outside the game and keep her hostess company, glanced from the cosy corner where she was ensconced to a table in the middle of the room where Miss Bertha Hadwell was sitting: then a little further on to where Mr. Albert Hadwell was scooping up tricks with a dexterity which bespoke long practice. The boy was slightly, very slightly taller than the girl; but, apart from that, one might have fancied that one was the other's double. The same olive cheeks, slightly tinged with rose-red: the same impish, restless dark eyes: the same long, thin mouth, ever parting to show gleaming, irregular white teeth.

They were an attractive pair: and Lynn's eyes rested on them for several moments before they wandered slowly over the rest of the room. The usual company was present: the pretty girl who never counted the tricks and continually appealed to her partner to tell her "what was trumps"; the stout woman who remembered everything and berated her confrère soundly if he forgot the thirteenth card; the mild-looking man who smiled sweetly as his lady partners trumped his tricks and cursed them bitterly on his way home; the pompous man who never failed to instruct all the rest of the table; the excitable debutante who invariably dropped the wrong card on the trick, then shrieked aloud and sought permission to "take it back" on the ground that she "hadn't been thinking"; and, last but not least, the bad-tempered man who regarded bridge as a religion, and burned to slay the sacrilegious ones who violated its tenets.

"Oh, Lynn," whispered Mrs. Hadwell with a sigh of contentment, "aren't people a treat? I wonder if they're getting hungry. Do you think I had better give orders to have supper served?"

"It mightn't be a bad idea. Let me go with you, Del."

"Such a queer thing has happened to-day, Lynn," whispered Mrs. Hadwell, confidentially, as they went out together. "You remember my speaking to you of my prize housekeeper? the one beside whose frigid nature my own showed in the light of a volcano? Well, she has actually shown signs of being human for once. To-day she approached me with a request for an extra night out: at least she didn't call it that, but it was practically what she wanted. Under the circumstances—the twins arriving and the bridge people coming here, to-night—I demurred a little and asked if to-morrow wouldn't do. She then told me—with an air of wishing she didn't have to—that General Shaftan—the General Shaftan—had been an old friend of hers in childhood days; and that she had just received an urgent message, asking that she go without fail to his house to-night. He must be better; it is queer, for I understood that he had been quite given up: he has two nurses and is never left for a moment, day or night. Imagine! Of course I told her to go—but what in the world do you suppose it means? You know the story about the General and the bewitching Langham-Greene, of course? They were engaged to be married some twenty years ago when Langham-Greene—who was plain Bill Greene, then—hove upon the scene with his half a million: and 'the scene was changed.' My lady dropped Shaftan like a hot potato and transformed Bill into a Benedict and a Langham-Greene. Then she drove him to drink: at least they say so! I don't believe, myself, that he took much driving. At all events he was thoughtful enough to drink himself to death: and thoughtless enough to speculate and leave her very poorly off—comparatively speaking, of course! Shaftan, in the meantime, had left the city and gone to India: and just about the time that Bill Greene drank his last glass, he blossomed out as a General and dear knows what all. Wasn't it rich? Poor Julia thought she had only to hold out a welcoming hand, when he returned; but to every one's surprise, he had neither forgotten nor forgiven. If he had even refused to meet her it would have been some solace to her vanity, but he was quite ready to go so far and was extremely polite when he did: only he would never talk to her if he could help it. She gave him up at last as a bad job. Now, when the papers can talk of nothing else but the career of the famous General Shaftan and his approaching death he sends for my housekeeper—and by the way, Mrs. Waite knew the Langham-Greene well when she was a girl, for the latter told me so, adding in her pleasant way that the poor thing had never had but the one offer which she accepted."

"I wish she had said that to me."

"She knows your tongue too well, my dear. And you make a great mistake in not conciliating the creature. Never make an enemy of a cad, male or female; for 'it' can use weapons which you would disdain to touch, and those weapons are frequently poisoned. If you must make enemies, make them of honourable people, who will simply let you alone, and not be trying to injure you; and be careful to see that every obnoxious kind of human reptile loves you. But what's the use of talking? one can't teach you common sense."

When the business of ascertaining the highest scores had been attended to Miss Erma Reed was found to be the winner of the lady's prize. Mrs. Hadwell was much amused by the warmth of Mr. Bert Hadwell's congratulations. Such plaudits as he bestowed upon her are rarely called forth by the most amazing skill: and his aunt by marriage laughed and pinched Miss Thayer's arm as she listened to them.

"When one considers Erma's height and proportions and the almost unnatural whiteness of her skin, one sees that it is merely to be expected that such a slender and brown individual as Bert should be impressed by her cleverness at bridge.... Here is your prize, dear! I am so glad you won it and I think it will go nicely with your pretty dress."

"It" was a pearl pendant which Erma received with something as nearly approaching animation as that stately and somewhat shy damsel ever showed. She was, beyond all doubt, one of the most beautiful girls in Montreal; her absolutely flawless skin and generous though graceful proportions instinctively recalling the masterpieces of Grecian sculpture. Yet it was a cold beauty, unlit by intellectual or mirthful fires: and some of the unthinking who merely assimilate the general effect without noticing details had been heard to say openly that they preferred Mrs. Hadwell's vivacious prettiness to the younger woman's more stately charms. No one had laughed more freely at this than Mrs. Hadwell, herself. She was well aware that, devoid of artificial advantages, she would be a most insignificant little nonentity, but that fact gave her no uneasiness and diminished nothing of her graciousness toward the younger and prettier girls who thronged her entertainments and sang her praises without stint. Yet she could not bear "green girls."

"Lynn," she would say to her friend, "you have no idea what a comfort it is to feel that I can get away from them sometimes and take a rest with you. After these giggling, insipid debutantes you are like a—a cocktail! Yet it is the thing for nice women to be adored by young girls and so I must be adored, worse luck!"

CHAPTER XV

"BE PITIFUL, O GOD!"

"O God! to clasp those fingers close and yet to feel so lonely,

To see a light within those eyes that is the daylight only—

Be pitiful, O God!"

—E. Barrett Browning.

Amy Waite walked swiftly down the path which led from Hadwell Heights to Pine Avenue. The night was a cold one; the moon hung bright and glittering in the starlit heavens and the white, still earth seemed to her as cruel as Life, as inexorable as Time. She shivered as she walked and drew her shabby fur more closely around her throat. When would this cruel walk end? When would this crueler interview be over?

She reached her destination at length and rang the bell. General Shaftan had no relatives in Montreal, but his fame and character had won him many friends. Yet he lay dying alone in his handsome house; alone, save for the ministrations of a hired nurse. Mrs. Waite's thin lips curved in a smile more tragic than most tears are as she stood on the doorstep of the silent house while the keen winds blew dismally about her. Alone! What freak had made him send for her at such a time?

A silent man-servant admitted and conducted her upstairs. Amy paused long enough to remove her wraps and, while she waited, the nurse came out from the sickroom and spoke, softly.

"The General is failing fast," she whispered. "He was determined to see you this evening and so I sent you that urgent message. This afternoon he saw his lawyer on business connected with his will and I wanted him to wait till to-morrow for this, but he would not. He seemed to fear that he might not live to see another day." Her voice trembled; she was a kind-hearted soul and the General had a way of endearing himself to all with whom he came in contact. Mrs. Waite, however, stood erect and tearless, and the nurse, after a half-wondering, half-resentful glance, directed her to enter.

"He wants to see you, alone," she said, reluctantly. "But, if any change should take place in him, be sure to let me know at once."

Mrs. Waite gave the required promise and left her. The General lay, half-propped up with pillows; his bronzed face was pale with the pallor of approaching dissolution, but his eyes were the eyes of twenty. Amy's dead youth sprang to sudden life beneath them and something akin to the hopeless, useless rapture of thirty years ago awoke and cried in her heart. Her face was set and pallid, and the hands which clasped the dying soldier's were cold as his own. They looked at one another in silence which the woman could not break. The man spoke at last, a little disappointed at her lack of feeling.

"Well, Amy?" he whispered, half-quizzically.

"You—wanted to see me, Arnold?"

"I did—very much. I'm dying—I suppose you know that, eh?"

"I had heard so. I didn't know"——

"Oh, it's true enough. Don't I show in my looks that I am?"

Amy did not answer immediately nor did her face betray any especial interest in the statement. The General, after scrutinizing her closely, almost anxiously for a moment, relinquished her hand and laughed, half in amusement, half in disappointment.

"You're a cold-blooded little creature, Amy," he cried. "You always were. But you're a faithful little soul—I'd trust you through thick and thin—and I want to do something for you before I go. Also I want you to help me to pay off old scores and spite my lady Julia—you won't mind lending a hand in that, I'll wager." His still brilliant grey eyes twinkled significantly.

Amy watched him passively and smiled a little, wondering why an ugly, faded woman of forty-eight with a sordid past should feel as keenly and cruelly as an untrained girl of eighteen. No answer suggested itself and she sat in silence, watching the dying man and wishing that she, herself, had died long ago.

The General laughed feebly as he looked at her. She was, as he had told her, such a cold-blooded little thing—rather unpleasantly like a fish—but, after all, poor little soul! she had had a beastly hard time of it; why, she looked like an old woman at fifty. He could do one good turn to a friend before he died, at all events.

"Amy," he said at last, "give me your hand, little woman! I want to know if you will marry me. Don't look surprised: this is no freak. You see if we are married I can leave you all my money—I am not poor, though I am not rich—and it's only right that you should have some comfort before you die. Then, too, I want to prevent Mrs. Julia from saying what she will say as soon as I am dead—that I always wanted her and died of grief as well as of my wound, because of her refusal. She shan't say that, by—— She spoilt my life and I'll not die till I've paid her back a little. It seems queer," he went on, with the radiant, mischievous smile that had made his listener's heart ache in the old days, "it seems queer to die a married man, Amy, after living a single one all my life. But it's never too late to mend. How thin your hand is, you poor little thing! You've had hard luck, haven't you?" He relapsed into silence, staring steadily at the wall at the foot of his bed. His eyes grew glazed and feverish.

"Don't leave me," he muttered. "Julia! Julia!"

Amy started and winced.

"You're a beastly little flirt," he went on, angrily, gripping her hand till she with difficulty refrained from crying out with pain, "a heartless, despicable little flirt and I despise you from the bottom of my soul—but, O God! I can't help loving you. No other woman has ever been to me what you were—and you—threw—me—over," he went on, slowly, with a hard, cruel expression, "for Greene. Greene! the miserable, worthless sot! Well, you made one mistake, my lady, didn't you? ... But don't turn away, Julia!" he went on, imploringly, "don't turn away from me! I can't stand it.... Your hand is cold—you don't care—O my God! you don't care!" His voice rose almost to a wail. "Julia!" he cried. "Julia! my darling, my darling!—say it's a mistake! You're not what you pretend to be—you can't be!—Julia!"

He sank back exhausted and his face relaxed. A look of intense relief overspread his features and his lips formed a smile of great beauty and tenderness.

"Julia!" he murmured softly. Then he died.

Amy sat quite unmoved and looked at the rigid figure. She showed no particular emotion; yet the peace which made the dead face so beautiful was lacking in the living. Some minutes elapsed. She rose at last and stood for a moment, looking down. About that lifeless thing on the bed had clustered all her poor, starved life had held of love and romance. She bent slowly toward it; then straightened, a faint red colour in her sallow cheek.

"No!" she said, almost proudly.

She rang the bell.

"The General has just died," she said in level, unemotional accents. "It was very sudden. It was impossible to call you. I am sorry."

The big-hearted nurse looked at her with hearty repulsion and dislike and burst into a flood of tears. There seemed no particular reason for waiting further; Amy moved mechanically to the door and down the steps; and so passed quietly into the bitter night.

CHAPTER XVI

THE HOCKEY MATCH

"The day is short, the evening cometh fast;

The time of choosing, Love, will soon be past;

The outer darkness falleth, Love, at last.

Love, let us love ere it be late—too late!

* * * * *

Once, only, Love, may love's sweet song be sung,

But once, Love, at our feet life's flower is flung;

Once, Love, once only, Love, can we be young."

—Anon.

The Montreal Arena is a building of considerable size, capable of accommodating many thousands. It has been the scene of many a revel; horses, prima donnas, vegetables, all have exhibited here at one time or another; from Calvé, who raved with indignation at the idea of singing in such a place, to Emperor, the finest horse in Canada, who made no objection, whatever. Only a hockey match, however, can count positively on filling it from wall to wall.

To-night was the Wales-Conquerors match: and many a business man of mature years had sent his office boy days before to "stand in line" from nine to eleven on a bitter winter morning in order to procure tickets. Mrs. Hadwell had secured six seats and had organized a party to escort her American guests thither. She, however, had not accompanied them, frankly acknowledging the obvious fact that she was "no sport."

"I do love to be fin-de-siecle," she had said. "But, when it comes to hockey or pug dogs—well, I simply can't, that's all." Then she had told a plaintive tale of how, when a girl, she had been taken to a hockey match. Her escort had been an enthusiast of the most virulent type; and she had been obliged to feign a joy which she by no means felt.

"It was ghastly," she observed, "ghastly. There I sat, huddled in grandmother's sealskin which wasn't a bit becoming, and watched a lot of weird things dressed like circus clowns knocking a bit of rubber round a slippery rink. And all those poor misguided beings who had paid two, three and five dollars to see them do it yelled like mad whenever the rubber got taken down a little faster than usual—oh, you may laugh! but I can tell you that when one of those silly men whacked another silly man over the head when the umpire wasn't looking because the second ass had hit that absurd bit of rubber oftener than he, the first ass, had—why, I felt sorry to think that the human species to which I belonged was so devoid of sense. And that great goat who stood at one end and tried to stop the thing from getting between two sticks! why did everyone think he was a hero when he managed to get his two big feet together in time to stop the rubber from getting through? I don't see anything very clever in putting your feet together and letting a rubber thing come bang against your toes, do you?

"But what's the use of talking! You must think it clever. You must! or why should you go? Where is the attraction? Do you like hearing those wild-looking men shouting insults at the men who don't play on their team? Does it amuse you to hear them snarling, 'Dirty Smith! Putimoff!' 'Butcher Brown! Knockiseadoff, Robinson!' It is incomprehensible to me. I shall always remember Alice Mann's proud face as she watched her brother chasing round while the crowd hailed him by the dignified and endearing title of 'Dirty Mann.' I think that, if I had a brother and heard him called 'Dirty Mann' in public, I should want to leave the city."

Accordingly Mrs. Hadwell had stayed at home; but a merry and expectant party had met at Hadwell Heights and had driven to the Arena, where they sat now, awaiting the fray. It would be some time before this began, so the young strangers had time to look about them and comment on the various spectators. Ladies wrapped in costly furs sat side by side with shabbily dressed men, who, in spite of the printed reminder that smoke was forbidden, ejected a constant stream in the air, the while they hoarsely sang the merits of their favourite team and the demerits of the opposing one. Small boys perched on the rafters, looking as though a finger touch would hurl them to instant destruction.

"If one of them did fall," inquired Bertie, with a shudder, "wouldn't he be instantly killed?"

"If he were lucky," returned her companion, a young McGill professor named Donovan, cheerfully. "Otherwise he might only injure himself for life."

"But"——

"But you see, Miss Hadwell, none of them ever do fall. Not one boy has ever lost his hold, as far as I know. If one of them did get killed of course it would be stopped."

"But don't they get awfully excited?"

"Excited! They go mad. But they don't fall."

"You see," interposed Gerald Amherst, "they never think about it. If one of them stopped clapping and wriggling and began to measure the space from his airy perch to the ice, below; and furthermore meditate on the consistency and solidity of the aforesaid ice and the probable fate of anyone whose head came in contact with it after a fall of seventy to a hundred feet—why, he would drop, that's all. They are occupied with more important matters, however; the merits of Smith as a goal-keeper, the demerits of Brown as a forward—they have no time to muse upon their latter end and the thin veil that lies between them and eternity."

"I'm glad they haven't; for my part I'm convinced that I shall have nightmare after seeing them. Is that your—what is the band playing for? Oh, is that the Vice-Regal party? Dear me! what is every one rising for? Must I get up, too?"

Her voice was drowned in the strains of the National Anthem which was howled enthusiastically by boxes and rafters, alike. As, "God save the King" died into silence the Governor-General bowed and took his seat; while his daughters gazed with interest about the Arena which they were visiting for the first time.

"Observe his coat," said Mr. Donovan. "Feast your American eyes on it. That coat was bought by Lord Dufferin, and left by him to be worn by his successors. The sleeves are quite out of style by this time; but you see 'This is a man!' What's your opinion of him, on the whole?"

"Why, I think—good gracious, what's that!"

A roar that shook the roof arose as the opposing teams emerged from the waiting room and skated upon the ice. The scarlet sweaters and caps of the Conquerors stained the crystal ice with daubs of blood: and the more sombre hues of the Wales showed with almost equal effect.

"Oh, are they beginning?" cried Bertie in ecstasy.

They were. The whistle blew and both sides skated to the centre to receive the customary warning.

"They both seem pretty cool," remarked Mr. Amherst. "No signs of nervousness that I can see."

"Not a particle. Look! who has won the toss? The Conquerors? Hurrah! You must say 'Hurrah!' too, Mr. Hadwell, whenever anything nice happens to the Conquerors. It's no fun unless you choose a team."

"Why is the Conquerors your team?"

"Because—oh, because the captain's father was baptized by my grandfather, I believe. There is some such reason, but, for the moment, I forget just what it is. Any reason will do, you know; the point is that you must have a favourite team and shout whenever it scores and groan with indignation whenever the other team does. Do you see?"

"I see. When am I to begin? and how am I to let the public know what I am groaning about?"

"Oh, the public will know if you groan in the right place—that is, when the other team does well. Oh, look! there goes the puck!"

It dashed across the ice, followed by a mass of skimming, pursuing forms; and, for the next few moments, silence reigned. Then a shout arose, "Off-side!"

"Off-side" it was; and the indignant audience hurled insults impartially at both teams; no one seeming very sure as to which was "off-side," but each assuming that it could not be a member of his favourite team. The Conquerors lost to the Wales this time and the latter passed to one of his team who succeeded in sending the puck flying toward the goal. Intense excitement reigned: would he succeed in getting the puck past the goal-keeper? No: the latter deftly turned it aside; and a roar of mingled delight and disappointment arose which made the American girl start and put her hands to her ears.

"Do they often make such a noise?" she asked, involuntarily.

"I should think so," answered Donovan, staring. "You don't mind it, do you? Oh, shame on you, Parton! what are you thinking about, Umpire?—don't mind me, Miss Hadwell, I'm just—Hurray! Bully for you, Marsh! oh, good work, old boy. You're the stuff! Push it along—Hurray!"

The puck had passed and the Conquerors had drawn first blood. In the first wild shriek that rose Bertie was conscious chiefly of one thing—everybody's mouth was wide open. No individual shriek could be distinguished, yet, judging from appearances, every one, from the Governor-General in his box to the smallest imp on the highest rafter, was shouting himself hoarse. Slowly the excitement subsided; slowly the spectators sank back into the seats which they had vacated; and, after a minute or two of preparation, the game recommenced.

"Never tell me again that the English are a cold race," Bertie remarked solemnly as the party took their seats in Mrs. Hadwell's carriage at the close of the evening. "I have read of such things, but I never expected to see them in Canada. I could go to a hockey match every night in the week. It's grand! And, Mr. Donovan, if the Wales had won—as I thought at one time they would—I believe I should have cried myself to sleep. Oh, you needn't laugh! I mean it."

An hour or so later, after the assembled guests had partaken of a supper at Hadwell Heights, Lynn and Gerald Amherst left together and walked slowly in the direction of the city. It was midnight and the streets were practically deserted. For a short time they walked on in silence, neither caring to speak of anything except the subject which was uppermost in the minds of both. Finally, however, Gerald broke the silence.

"Lynn," he said, very quietly, "I have tried to tell you something several times. You have always turned the subject in one way or another. This has been going on now for a long time, for a very long time. I can't have it. I must know to-night, what it is to be. You don't understand, I think, how hard this is on me; if you did, you wouldn't be vexed with me for speaking so plainly." He paused.

"I—am not vexed with you. I had rather you spoke, plainly—but"—

"But—there it is, again. You seem uneasy, almost unhappy about the matter. Yet I don't think you altogether dislike me; in fact—in fact there have been times when I was sure you cared—then when I saw you next, you were quite different, altogether different. You seemed to avoid me. I know it is quite impossible to understand a woman, but, some way, I can't help hoping. You are so sincere in other ways that I think you would be sincere even about a thing like this. Now tell me! There is some trouble, some difficulty, I know. Won't you tell me what it is?"

"Oh, no—I can't."

"Why not? Is it that you are thinking of some one else—of Harold Lighton, for instance—and that you can't be sure as to which you prefer"—

"No, that is not it. You have been frank; and I will be frank in return. I prefer you to any other man that I have ever known."

"Then"—

"No, stop! You don't understand me. I did not say that I wanted to marry you and"—

"You mean that you—don't care enough, is that it?"

"N-no. I can't say that, exactly."

"What then?" he asked, eagerly; but Lynn was silent, staring at the lights of the distant city.

"Lynn!—what in God's name do you mean? Think! Think of what you have said. In one breath you almost allow that you care for me; and, in the next, you say, practically, that you can't marry me. What does it all mean?"

"I can't tell you."

"You must. Try."

"I know that I must sound ridiculous and unreasonable to you, but the fact remains. I do love you; I can't bear to let you go away without telling you so. But for reasons which—which I can't explain—I don't think that I can marry you."

"But, Lynn, what in the world can you mean? You have no ties! nothing that can bind you down or prevent you from doing as you please. What do you mean?"

Lynn walked on in silence for a little while, then turned. Her face was white.

"I can't marry you, Gerald," she said, distinctly.

"Why not? There's some one else?"

"No—not in the way you mean."

"Then it's just that you don't care enough. It must be."

She said nothing, but bit her lips and quivered.

"You do care," he burst forth, suddenly. "Lynn, you do care. I know it. I feel it. You have taken some crazy notion in your head, some fanatical idea or other. Tell me! I insist on knowing what it is. If you care for me you will confide in me about this. You must see how cruelly unfair it is to tell me that you can't marry me and to refuse to even let me know the reason. Tell me! Even if it is something which prevents our marrying now, the difficulty may be surmounted in a few years' time. Tell me."

Lynn started and turned toward firm, her face suddenly illuminated.

"Do you?" she cried, breathlessly, "do you—oh, it isn't right, I oughtn't to ask it—but do you care enough to wait—to wait—perhaps, for a year, or even two years and keep our—the engagement secret?"

"Why, of course I do. What's two years against a life-time? But, Lynn, I don't like secrecy. Can't you tell me what all this means?"

She paused, then spoke, weighing each word, carefully.

"I have a trouble, a care; something which prevents me from even thinking of marriage. It concerns other people and I can tell you nothing about it. But, at any time, I—may be released from it. Perhaps in a week—perhaps not for years—but eventually—I shall be free—broken-hearted and old with grief—but free. Till then. And even then, understand clearly, Gerald, I can explain, nothing—nothing. Now I have told you the truth so far as I am able; and you see for yourself how hopeless it is. Leave me. I am plain and sad and old. Marry some one else, Gerald, and forget me."

"Some one else! Lynn, my dear, dear girl, you don't know what nonsense you're talking. Only say that you'll marry me—promise me that—and everything else may slide. To-morrow—a year—three years—what does it matter, as long as you come to me in the end?"

"But—no one must know—oh, Gerald, it can't be right to hold you. I shouldn't."

"Perfectly right and perfectly wise; if, for any reason, you are obliged to keep it secret. Only, Lynn, you must promise me one thing. The moment that you are released from your obligation, whatever it may be, you must tell me. Promise me that you will let no false motives of delicacy stand in your way, but will come and tell me that you are ready to marry me, the instant that the obstacle is removed. I won't even ask what it is; I shall only ask that you promise me this."

And Lynn promised.

CHAPTER XVII

A SCANDAL VERIFIED

"I'm not denying that women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men."—George Eliot.

"Gracious, man! do give those unfortunate eyes of yours a rest. I should think they would ache, the way you roll them. Besides, it's such a waste of time to make eyes at me."

"I don't think so."

"I suppose it keeps you in practice," Miss Bent remarked, sardonically.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said," repeated Miss Bent, slowly and deliberately, "that I supposed that—it—kept—you—in practice—to—make—eyes—at—me!"

"It does. But that's not the only reason I do it."

Miss Bent eyed him with extreme disfavour.

"How silly you are," she said, snubbingly.

"Now that's unworthy of you," her companion returned. "Its rudeness is worthy of you, but not its stupidity. Ordinarily your remarks are witty, even when they are rude, but this"—

"Has only truth to recommend it."

"I don't care for verbal gymnastics."

"Your likes and dislikes are not"—

"A matter of interest to you? no, I suppose not. And you see that relieves me from considering yours. Take the present case, for instance. I feel like making eyes, as you rudely call it, at you: therefore I make them"—

"And make them very badly!" interpolated the well-bred Miss Bent.

"You are no judge, being by nature incapable of doing anything in the eye-making way at all."

"Ah!" said Miss Bent, reflectively, "there is no saying how well I might make eyes if I saw anything worth making eyes at. But, I say, don't be cross."

"I'm not!"

"No, of course not: but don't, anyway, for I want to tell you something and some way I can't talk to cross people"—

"But I tell you I'm not"—

"Dear, dear! there you are again with a face flaming with rage, interrupting me and contradicting me."

Mr. Ogden opened his mouth; then shut it with an air of determination, as though he really might have replied, had he chosen.

"And now you're glaring at me as if you were beside yourself with rage. Why don't you try to be reasonable?"

The unhappy Mr. Ogden stared wildly but ventured no remark.

"I suppose I may go on now," Miss Bent said in a rather pointed manner when a moment of silence had elapsed. "What I began to tell you half an hour ago—only you would keep interrupting me—was that Mrs. Hadwell is giving all sorts of things for those cousins, or whatever they are, of hers from the States. And she has asked me to a theatre party and a tobogganing party, so I think I ought to give something for them. What would you suggest?"

Mr. Ogden looked perplexed.

"Surely you're not sulking all this time!" said Miss Bent, rather sadly.

"I don't know what you mean. I never sulk."

"Then, perhaps, instead of sulking, you will answer my question," said Miss Bent with asperity.

Mr. Ogden laughed.

"I should suggest a drive," he hazarded. "A drive by moonlight and a supper afterwards."

"Perhaps that would be the best plan," said Miss Bent, thoughtfully. "Who would you ask?"

"Me, for one."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so, but—O dear! has my snowshoe come off, again?"

"Let me fix it."

"What do you suppose is the reason?"

"The reason? You didn't let me do it at the start."

"I suppose you think you can attend to my snowshoes better than I can myself."

"I do, indeed."

"Well, don't start to argue about that, please don't. I haven't seen you for such a long time and there are such a lot of things that I want to say, but some way, whenever I am going to start, something happens to prevent me."

"Your snowshoe, for instance?"

"Yes, or you. You begin to argue about something. Now don't be cross! I suppose I really shouldn't have said that, but"—

"Oh, it's quite true that I occasionally make a remark."

"Occasionally!"

"Very occasionally, yes. When people are with you they don't talk much as a rule. Queer, isn't it?"

"I suppose," said his companion after thinking deeply for a moment, "that what you mean is that they don't get much chance."

"That was my meaning, exactly."

"I can't help talking a little sometimes, you know," said Miss Bent, icily——

"You can't, indeed!"

"No. I come by it honestly. My own father was a man!"

Silence reigned, unbroken and long. The snowshoers trudged on in silence, the lady chuckling delightedly to herself.

"I had two things to tell you," she remarked, presently, perceiving that her companion was unmoved by her silence and getting very tired of preserving it.

"Yes?"

"Yes. The second one is gossip, so I suppose I shouldn't"—

"Oh, but you will."

"Not," said Miss Bent, impressively, "not unless you promise solemnly never to tell a living soul about it—especially not Agatha!"

"Why is Agatha to be debarred from hearing what no living soul may know?"

"Because," said his companion, seriously, "Agatha is not to be trusted. She can't keep a secret. Oh, you needn't laugh. The person who told me this said the same thing to me. 'Don't tell anyone about this,' she said, most earnestly, 'and whoever you tell, don't tell Agatha.'"

"What lack of confidence you two secretive people do show in Agatha. Why is it?"

"In the first place because she's a cat."

"Doesn't seem conclusive. I've known cats who talked less than some ladies."

"—And in the second because she's her cousin."

"Whose? The cat's?"

"No. Lynn Thayer's."

"My golf-balls! Where are we at?"

"Why, I'm sure I've made myself plain enough," said Miss Bent, looking surprised.

"On the contrary you've made yourself awfully pretty in your sporting togs but you have not made yourself explicit."

"You silly thing! Don't you see what I mean? It's Lynn Thayer that the gossip's about."

"Oh, Miss Thayer," said Ogden. "Then I hardly think it's true."

"Oh, it must be. This person saw her. It seemed so queer she could hardly believe her eyes."

"What did?"

"Why, Lynn's being there alone at that time of night. Not that it was a proper place for a lady at any time"——

"What place wasn't?"

"Dear me, Neil, you are stupid, sometimes. Why, St. Eustache St."——

"Whew! St. Eustache St.!"

"Yes, and at eleven o'clock at night."

"Nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense. Mabel saw her—there! I let out the name, but you won't tell anyone, will you?—at all events you won't mention that it was Mabel"——

"Mabel be—wait a moment. Your friend saw Miss Thayer—at eleven o'clock at night on St. Eustache St."—

"Yes. Coming out of that rackety studio building on the south side, where unspeakable beings congregate."

"What? Oh, look here, Kitty, you mustn't say that. You don't know what you're saying. Your friend, whoever she is, made a mistake—a big mistake. It was not Lynn Thayer she saw at all—it could not possibly have been—and she does a very wrong and wicked thing in spreading such stories. Now what I want you to do is"——

"Neil, one would think I was fifteen. Do you suppose Mabel would say such a thing if it wasn't true? She didn't think at first that it could be Lynn, though she saw her distinctly; and so she followed her."

"Oh! Well, Kitty, all I can say is that if your friend's a woman, I'm glad I'm a man. By the way, was this paragon alone?"

"Certainly not. She and her husband had been to the French theatre: and, as it was a fine night they decided to walk home. Then they began talking about how these awful old streets used to be fashionable, and he said that he would show her an interesting old house in St. Eustache St. So they went there and he pointed it out to her and told her how it used to belong to the Duke of —— and how now it had degenerated into the haunt of all sorts of people. Just as he was saying that only confirmed drunkards and opium eaters and things ever went there the door opened—and, to their infinite astonishment, Lynn Thayer came out."

"Your friend's a"——

"She isn't. She's a nice woman and so is her husband—at least I mean he's—well, anyway, they followed her for a block or two and she called a closed sleigh and, just for fun, they got into another and drove behind her. She went up to Pine Avenue and so they began to think that they must be mistaken when—what do you think?—she got out, paid the cabman and walked back to her aunt's house! There was no possible mistake about it."

Neil trudged along in silence for a few moments.

"Kitty," he said at last, "there seem to be only two interpretations that can be put on that story. The first is that Lynn Thayer, a girl who has always been considered one of the nicest in Montreal, has done an unpardonable thing; the second, that your friends are liars. I prefer to think the latter—hello! do you want to run over us? Where's your light?"

"Beg pardon, sir. I've just been driving a lady who asked me to put it out while I was up here. I'll light it right away."

"It's not right, a sleigh going at that rate without light: what on earth could the woman have meant by telling him to put it out. She must be—well, Kitty, what on earth is it?"

"Hush! Look!"

He looked. A woman clad in a long dark cloak and wearing a heavy veil passed them with averted head and hasty steps. Her walk and figure were unmistakable. She shrank into the shadow of the leafless maples and descended rapidly citywards.

CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. HADWELL'S FANCY DRESS BALL

"When Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."

—Byron.

There is a fascination about a fancy dress ball which appertains to no other form of entertainment. The excitement of seeing one's common-place acquaintances blossoming out, under the magic influence of costume, into fairies, kings and cavaliers is one which never palls.

Interesting it is, too, to observe the characters impersonated and to note how clearly the character of the impersonator is expressed in his choice. Thus Mrs. Hadwell, on the evening of her famous ball, appeared as Titania, clad in a fluffy, shimmering robe of mousseline, which was further embellished and beautified by various shining ornaments and clusters of hothouse blooms. A sparkling diadem crowned her rich auburn tresses and a necklace of some value glittered on her neck. Her pretty arms were covered with bracelets and her prettier feet were adorned by diamond-studded sandals. She moved among her guests a shining, odorous, "form of faery," followed by ejaculations of admiration and murmurs of delight.

Erma Reed, on the other hand, had wisely chosen the dress of ancient Greece: and her chiselled features showed clearly cut and noble beneath the chaplet of green leaves which lay lightly on her smooth, dark locks; while her flowing robe added distinction and grace to her splendid form, beside which the puny, slender figures of more modern beauties seemed mean and artificial.

Lynn Thayer came, dressed as a Red Cross nurse. "Nothing about me suggests the heroine of history or romance," she said, "and I should make myself ridiculous by attempting to personate anything but an ordinary, everyday woman." She made a noble-looking nurse, however, and many turned from the more fancifully attired dames to watch her sympathetic countenance: some thinking, as they did so, that hers was a face that they would like to see in moments of illness or depression. Others there were, though, who watched her covertly and whispered stealthily to one another as she passed: and Lynn noted with surprise that Neil Ogden, who was standing by Kitty Bent, looked down hastily as he saw her approaching and made no sign of recognition. Nor did Kitty seem anxious to return her bow.

The twins in whose honour the affair had been contrived attracted more attention than all the other guests put together. They were in mad spirits and seemed unable to keep apart, hurrying to one another's side as soon as each dance was finished and whispering and laughing together in unrestrained fashion. Bert was attired as Mark Antony in flowing Egyptian robes, donned, as he explained, after he had made the acquaintance of the Serpent of the Nile: and he handled the crimson, voluminous garments with a grace which called forth more than one admiring comment from his partners. Their compliments were invariably received with a stifled giggle: in fact Bert's manners, as a whole, did not show their usual reserve and good breeding. Still the handsome, boyish face above the crimson draperies was so alight with good humour; the black eyes were so unaccountably mischievous and the olive cheeks so becomingly flushed that the most exigeant of his uncle's guests could not find it in her heart to be really severe until—but that, as Mr. Kipling says, is another story.

As for his sister, it is safe to say that no other girl created such a sensation. It was not only her appearance, though that was sufficiently striking, but the wild gayety and vivacity of her demeanour that made her the cynosure of every eye. She was dressed as a lady of the French court in a tightly fitting gown of French brocade with trailing draperies: and her eyes looked even darker and brighter than their wont beneath the high structure of powdered hair which the dress demanded. The pink and white brocade and the crimson robe of Egypt were so frequently seen in absorbed conversation that the twinly devotion of Mrs. Hadwell's connections was a favourite topic of conversation at the beginning of the evening. Later on, I regret to say—but here again I anticipate.

Agatha Ladilaw, dressed as the Queen of the Roses, received her usual meed of praise and attention. Her three lovers followed her around with dog-like devotion; and many others, seeing what a magnet she was for three of the conflicting sex, hastened to make her acquaintance in order to discover for themselves what the attraction was. Agatha, in consequence, became more than ever convinced that she was bound to make the best match of any girl who had come out that year; and considered more seriously than before the advisability of adding a still more eligible fourth to her list of fiances. Among the many who sunned themselves in her smiles was Harold Lighton, who found her gaze of respectful attention and her eager and smiling responses so soothing after his late reverses that he insisted on sitting out several dances with her in order that he might give her further particulars of her cousin's cruelty; which cruelty she almost wept over.

"She's such a queer girl, Mr. Lighton," she said, shyly yet impulsively, "oh, I know she's my own cousin and perhaps I oughtn't to say so but"—

"Isn't she?" inquired the disconsolate lover, eagerly. "As you're her cousin, I suppose I can say so"—

"Anything you say," said Agatha, dimpling seraphically, "is quite safe with me, Mr. Lighton—anything!" She raised her deep, soulful eyes to him with an air of rapt attention and Mr. Lighton found himself murmuring involuntarily, "What a charming girl!"

"All I was going to say was," he continued, returning to the attack, but half forgetting his griefs in the joy of finding such an intelligent listener, "that your cousin really doesn't treat a fellow fairly. Now she won't listen to anything a fellow tries to tell her. All she will say is, 'Surely we have discussed this often enough, Mr. Lighton; do talk of something else!' Now, hang it all, Miss Ladilaw, that's rude!"

"I should think it was," exclaimed Agatha, looking appropriately shocked and grieved and inwardly wondering whether any man could spend an hour in her society and bestow a thought afterwards on a plain girl like Lynn.

"And then, when I tell her she is rude, all she will say is, 'I wonder you come to see me so often when I am so unpleasant and there are so many nice girls in the world.'" He paused.

"Ah!" said Agatha, softly, wondering inwardly why he did; and wondering, moreover, whether it was too soon to ask him to drop in some quiet evening when she was quite sure of having no other callers, in order that they might the more fully discuss her cousin's iniquities.

"And then to have her add the finishing touch by refusing me outright after all the time I've spent on"——

"What?" said Agatha, startled, for once, out of all semblance of good manners. Was the man in earnest? Had he actually proposed? and had the fool—for no other word seemed appropriately to describe her cousin—had the fool refused him? Agatha gasped and caught her breath. Refused him! refused a horse and carriage and a nice house and a trip to Europe if she wanted it? Agatha could scarcely regain her composure.

"Yes, indeed, she refused me," reiterated the Rejected One, indignantly. "And she not only refused me but she told me that I would thank her for her refusal ten years hence."

"Mr. Lighton," Agatha's voice was solemn—"Do you—I don't suppose you do, but—excuse my asking—do you still want to marry her?"

"I should rather think I did," rejoined Mr. Lighton, staring. "Never was so dead gone on any girl in my life. But it's no use; I may as well make up my mind to"——

"Mr. Lighton, if it is any satisfaction to you, I shall speak to my cousin. I cannot feel," Agatha continued, raising her big eyes almost tearfully to her companion's face, "I cannot feel that it is right to let my cousin refuse such an offer—I mean, such an honest and manly love as yours—without, at any rate, trying to show her how—how wicked it is. For," said Agatha with righteous indignation, "for what is Lynn, anyway? A public school teacher! And whom else is she going to get if she refuses you? Nobody! And I don't care whether she likes it or not I'm going to put her conduct before her in the right light."

"That's the stuff," said Mr. Lighton, delightedly. "You're a fine little girl, that's what: and I tell you what it is, if you do make any impression on her—which," said Mr. Lighton, relapsing into despondency, "which you won't, for she's as stubborn as a—but, if you should—why, all I can say is, I'll never forget it."

Agatha had, as all ladies who follow the time-honoured sport of man-hunting must have, an eye to all contingencies. She impulsively clasped her companion's big hand in her two small ones now as she murmured, feelingly:

"Don't think that I am intruding, Mr. Lighton, but, if this should be a failure—and no one can tell anything where Lynn is concerned—always remember that you have one friend, anyway."

"I won't forget it," responded Mr. Lighton with alacrity. Nice little thing! Pity her cousin wasn't more like her, that was all he could say. And yet, confound it all! there was something about the other—he couldn't help liking her in spite of everything—but, whatever happened, this little thing was worth cultivating. He wondered, as Agatha with a sympathetic smile and an air of stern resolve gathered up her pink draperies and departed in search of her cousin what the outcome of it would be. Well! he would soon know, at all events.

CHAPTER XIX

AGATHA "DOES HER DUTY" AND IS REWARDED

"Shall a woman's virtues move

Me to perish for her love?

Or her well-deservings known

Make me quite forget my own?

If she slight me when I woo

I can scorn and let her go."

—G. Wither.

Past Boadicea, reclining against a marble heater and conversing with Mephistopheles; past Joan of Arc, flirting vigorously with Torquemeda; past the Queen of the Fairies, chatting to a miscellaneous group of knights and demons; past every variety of hero and lady fair went the self-sacrificing Agatha, intent on her altruistic aim. "For," as she muttered to herself, "if he has proposed to her, already, it isn't very likely that he will change for a little while, anyway, and I want to be married before any of the other girls. Besides it wouldn't be half so nice to marry a man who had been refused by your own cousin; though every one would think you had cut her out and Lynn is so funny that she would probably just giggle and say nothing, so it wouldn't matter much. But, as matters stand, I think it would be really wicked to let Lynn actually refuse him, particularly when I can get so many others: and, once they are married, she will be grateful to me as well as he and they will have a nice home and entertain a lot and I can be their bridesmaid and everyone will say how much prettier I am than the bride and"—At this moment she caught sight of her quarry.