Front matter (continued 4)

Lynn had been dancing and had just come out to the hall in search of a vacant chair or stair when she saw a vision of pink tulle gazing at her with such an unusual amount of feeling and expressiveness that, with a hasty excuse, she dropped her partner's arm and hurried to her small cousin's side.

"Agatha," she exclaimed, wonderingly. "What is it? Is anything the matter? Do you want me?"

"Indeed I do," responded Agatha, solemnly.

"Then just let me speak to Mr. Barnes a moment and explain why I am going: then we can run upstairs to Del's little sitting-room and talk quietly."

This programme was carried out; and, when they were safely ensconced behind closed doors, Lynn turned eagerly to her cousin.

"Now, Agatha!" she said.

Agatha turned and looked at her.

"Lynn," she said with portentous solemnity, "I don't know what you will think of me and I don't care. Some one has got to talk to you."

Lynn stared in amazement, wondering if her thrice-engaged cousin objected to her dancing twice with the same man: she could think of no other enormity of which she had been guilty that evening.

"I have been sitting out a couple of dances with Mr. Lighton, and he became unusually confidential," went on Agatha, turning almost pale: "and he tells me," pausing impressively, "he tells me that you—have—refused—him."

"He tells the truth," responded Lynn, looking annoyed, "and all I can say is, Agatha, that if you have torn me away from the dance"—

"Wait a moment," said Agatha, earnestly. "This is very important to me, Lynn. It isn't only that I feel sorry that you, being my cousin, should be so foolish as to refuse him, once; but what I want to know is,—did you mean it?"

"Assuredly I did," said Lynn, staring.

"You meant," said Agatha, pathetically, "you really meant, Lynn, to refuse that nice house and"—

"Yes, and that nice horse, too," exclaimed Lynn, turning red. "Upon my word this is too much! I can stand Aunt Lucy and Del, but when it comes to you, Agatha—understand once for all that I meant to refuse that nice house and that good-sized yard at the back and that commodious stable with all that it contains—not even excepting the horse which every one seemed to think that I would accept with tears of rapture, despite the fact that it was encumbered with a master whom I should have to accept, likewise, as they are inseparable."

"Oh, Lynn, dear! such a lot of long words and such a temper and all because I tried to advise you for your own good."

"Agatha, I give you fair warning that I shall gently but firmly assassinate the very next person who tries to advise me for my own good."

Agatha sat for a moment, absorbed in thought.

"Lynn," she said, presently, "does anyone know that you have refused Mr. Lighten?"

"Not unless he has chosen to tell anyone. I am not in the habit of publishing every offer I receive in the daily papers, which is one reason why some people suppose that I never get any."

"Then," said Agatha, thinking deeply, "I suppose, Lynn, you will not mind if I advise you not to—not to tell anyone? Do you remember what you said to me about those things—proposals and engagements and things, you know!—well, at the time I did say I thought it was foolish not to tell when people proposed to you because then lots of people, as you say, think you never get any—but since then I have changed my mind; I really think it is more sensible not to—particularly in your case where it would be so embarrassing for Mr. Lighton if he were attentive to some girl."

Lynn burst out laughing.

"I never in my life told on any man who was misguided enough to ask me to marry him. I have always felt that the pain of feeling that he had so lowered himself was punishment enough for any crime."

"Why, Lynn, I don't quite see what you mean," said Agatha, patient but bewildered.

"This is all I mean," said Lynn, gravely. "If you have any idea of going in for Lighton—and certainly his house is all that could be desired—why, don't feel as you walk up the aisle in veil and orange blossoms that I am whispering to my nearest acquaintance, 'I could have had that man if I had wanted him.'"

"But," said Agatha, timidly, "suppose such a thing did happen—it would not be very nice for you, Lynn, to think that people were saying that I had cut you out. That is the first thing that Mrs. Langham-Greene would think."

"I can think of nothing at the moment less likely to worry me than Mrs. Langham-Greene's thoughts concerning me."

"Oh, how queer you are!" said Agatha, opening her eyes widely. "Then, Lynn, if you should hear—well, anything! you won't mind. For there is still time for you to change your mind, you know; and really he's very fond of you, and his house"—

"Has only one drawback! Now don't dare to tell him I said that, Agatha, or"—

"Why, I don't know what you did say," responded Agatha, patiently. "You say such queer things, Lynn, that half the time I don't know what you're driving at. At all events, however, as I understand, you are quite determined not to accept Mr. Lighton."

"Quite."

"Then," said Agatha, dimpling bewitchingly and adjusting her rose wreath with an air of satisfaction, "then, Lynn, I must just go and tell him so, I suppose."

She found the Rejected sitting where she had left him, and gazing disconsolately into space. He brightened a little as she sat down beside him.

"You had no luck, I suppose?" he remarked, tentatively.

"Mr. Lighton," cooed Agatha, softly, "she is not worthy of you. She is my own cousin, but I can't help saying so."

Mr. Lighton turned a rich, ripe tan colour, the nearest approach to a flush of rage that his skin was capable of attaining.

"Made fun of me, I suppose?" he queried in tones of stifled fury. "Oh, you needn't try to smooth it over, Miss Ladilaw! I know that tongue of hers too well."

"Well," said Agatha, commiseratingly, "I must say, Mr. Lighton, that she might have been nicer. It's one thing to refuse a man and another to make jokes about it. Not that she said much, you know, but there was one speech about your house having only one drawback"—

"That," exclaimed Mr. Lighton in a burst of horrible enlightenment, "was Me!"

"I am afraid so," said Agatha, softly. "But please don't tell any one I repeated it, Mr. Lighton. I really shouldn't have, you know. But I felt so disturbed and angry at the idea of any one belonging to me being so heartless"—

Six months later when Miss Agatha Ladilaw, "the prettiest debutante of the former season," made "the match of the year," Lynn felt rather hurt at the demeanour of both bride and groom toward her.

"I was disagreeable," she reflected, "but he brought it on himself and I can't understand why the mention of my name should invariably produce a chill in the Ladilaw household. Agatha, at least, has nothing to blame me for."

Agatha and Agatha's husband, however, agreed in seeing as little as possible of Agatha's cousin and in acting as coldly as was consistent with politeness whenever they did meet her. This, Society thought, was owing to the fact that poor Miss Thayer had cherished useless aspirations in the direction of the Lighton house, herself. Poor Miss Thayer!

CHAPTER XX

THE TWINS UNDER A NEW ASPECT

"Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee

Jest and youthful jollity."

—Milton.

The fun was at its height. The most delightful waltz of the evening had just concluded and streams of gaily dressed forms poured in the direction of the balcony. It was mid-winter and the thermometer stood at five below: yet more than one couple strolled out on the balcony and stood, contracting lung trouble and pneumonia, while they gazed enraptured at the beautiful panorama which spread beneath them. The city was a mass of glittering lights, seen through the delicate pencilled branches of bare maples and willows; and seemed to the watchers as though lying hundreds of feet below Hadwell Heights. At the foot of the high hill on which the house was built lay Pine Avenue, thronged with couples arrayed in sporting garb and bent on their way to the toboggan slide at the back of the mountain. Less often a party of snowshoers would rush past on their ungainly footgear: an object of little amusement to the Canadians but one of never-failing interest to the Americans: and, less frequently still, a couple of men on skis. The twins, who never thought of colds or of precautions against them, spent most of their time between the dances in standing in the most exposed part of the balcony and watching the passers-by until the icy winds which whirled around drove them indoors, shivering but happy.

Bertie seemed to-night as though possessed of some demon of mischief and unrest. She confessed to a rather bad cold already, but it detracted nothing from her appearance though it affected her usually sweet voice, rendering it hoarse and strained. No entreaties could keep her from the icy balcony, though, and her partners soon stopped making them and devoted themselves to carrying on the flirtations which she seemed determined to push to the utmost limit. Never had any of her Canadian admirers seen her in such a mood; her usual gay, but rather reserved manner had given place to the one commonly attributed to the American girl in foreign fiction. Her partners were at first amazed, then flattered at her open and eager anxiety for their attentions; but some, including Donovan, her companion of the hockey match, who had come to like and admire the pretty Ohio girl, were rather repelled and disgusted at the change in her. Toward the end of the evening his disgust reached a climax. An extremely shy and painfully proper youth to whom Bertie had begged him to introduce her at the beginning of the evening, had just emerged from sitting out a dance with her and had asked Donovan to have a smoke with him in Mr. Hadwell's "den," which, for this night, was given over to the needs of the dancers. On Donovan's assenting, Mr. Simcoe, the shy youth, had unfolded a tale of horror. He had come up for his dance with Miss Hadwell when she, without a word of apology, had piloted him in the direction of the stairs, murmuring, as she did so, "We don't want to dance, do we? We can do better than that." On his expressing his willingness to do as she wished she had squeezed his arm and informed him in an ecstatic whisper that he was a duck, a perfect duck, and that she was going to show him a nice little cubby hole behind some curtains at the end of the hall which she was sure Mrs. Hadwell must have fixed expressly for them. "Of course," Mr. Simcoe had remarked, nervously, "of course I couldn't refuse to go, Donovan." Donovan, looking very grim, had agreed with him: of course he could not. So, it appeared, they had gone. Mr. Simcoe had seemed unwilling to divulge the secrets of his prison house but had gone so far as to hint that ladies who asked fellows to kiss them on so short an acquaintance were not in his line. Donovan had informed him here that gentlemen did not, as a rule, "kiss and tell": and had refused to listen further, regardless of Mr. Simcoe's anguished explanation. "But I didn't, Donovan! hang it all, it was she who insisted, you know, and she can't blame me for speaking of it." Donovan had walked off in a furious rage, awakened, not so much by Mr. Simcoe's lack of gallantry as by Miss Hadwell's lack of common sense and good breeding.

If Miss Bertie's conduct gave rise to comment, what shall be said of Mr. Bert's? It is safe to say that never before in a Montreal drawing-room had any gentleman disported himself with such amazing freedom. Before many dances had transpired ominous whispers might have been heard among the young ladies who had been honoured with his partnership; and it was a matter of common observation that, toward the end of the evening, several of his companions flatly refused to "sit out" dances which he had engaged, earlier. The most amazing snub which he received came from Miss Reed, who, on his reminding her that she had promised him the eighteenth dance, had answered in tones of ice, "So sorry, Mr. Hadwell, but I never dance—except with gentlemen!" This was merely the climax of a series of unpleasant remarks which had been showered upon him; but, coming from Miss Reed, who was known to have absorbed all his time and attention until that evening, it was expected to have had a chilling effect upon him. This, however, was far from being the case. "I may not be exactly a gentleman, Miss Reed," he had returned with the utmost sangfroid, "but"— At this moment he had caught sight of his sister's eye, fixed on him with a look in which rage and consternation were strangely blended; and breaking off abruptly, he had left Erma's side, his manly shoulders shaking visibly. Bertie had held a hasty and agitated conversation with him; and the twinly devotion which had so impressed the assembled company when the dance commenced was apparently conspicuous by its absence.

In the midst of the dance Mrs. Hadwell was seen to leave the room, hastily, in response to a whispered message from a housemaid. When she returned her eyes were sparkling mischievously and her whole demeanour was charged with importance. Presently she beckoned confidentially to Mrs. Langham-Greene, who stood, resplendent in pale green draperies and water lilies, a most pleasing and graceful Undine. Undine approached and Titania linked her arm in hers. "My dear," she cooed, "you haven't an idea—oh, how shall I begin? You know my housekeeper, don't you? Wasn't she an old school friend of yours?"

"Not a friend, exactly," answered the elegant Undine, rather deprecatingly. "An acquaintance, rather. Such an ugly little thing and so lacking in any sort of brightness and attractiveness"—

"To us yes!" purred Titania. "But only think of a man like General Shaftan having cared so much for her that he was unable to die without seeing her and imploring her for the last time to become his wife"— She paused and viewed the crimsoning Undine with a countenance absolutely devoid of guile.

"General Shaftan?" inquired her guest, turning from crimson to scarlet. "General Shaftan? Why, my dear Mrs. Hadwell"—

"I know," murmured Titania, sympathetically, casting a demure glance at the infuriated water nymph, "I know! we all thought it was you—and, no doubt, he made you think so as well! men are such dreadful deceivers—but he sent for Mrs. Waite on his death-bed and wanted to marry her."

Undine found her breath.

"My dear Mrs. Hadwell," she laughed, lightly. "Does it sound a probable story?"

"No; and if the poor woman, herself, had told me about it, I regret to say that I should have doubted her. But the General told his nurse and trusted her with the secret contents of his will. It was drawn up three hours before he sent for Mrs. Waite and, in it, he says that he leaves all of which he dies possessed to Amy Marion Waite in the belief that that lady will, in the next few hours, become his wife, as he hopes and intends she shall."

Mrs. Langham-Greene said nothing, but turned white and twisted the fan which she held in her long, snake-like fingers feverishly. Titania, looking at her, felt a sudden twinge of compassion and compunction. She left her with some hurried excuse.

"So," she said, slowly to herself, "so even that unscrupulous, wheedling serpent is capable of caring for somebody: and caring for him all those years, too. Am I the only woman living who—who"——

Something wet and glistening fell on her chiffon dress. She hastily wiped it away and stared in amazement.

"Getting sentimental at my age?" she inquired in stupefaction. "Here, Estelle Hadwell, don't be a fool! You've got everything you ever wanted and you're ten times happier than anyone else you know. Think of your dresses and your jewelry and your friends and your—n-n-no, I don't know that you need think of him—not just now, at all events! But think of"—

She looked up, up the long, broad stairway, up to the big, quiet nursery. Then she smiled and tossed her head.

"I have everything, practically everything," she said, defiantly. "Everything but a sentimental experience which disappears, anyway, after six months of married life. I'm a fool, that's what I am! a discontented, ungrateful fool. The trouble with me is that I've got too much. If only—if only one of them doesn't"——

A spasm of agony crossed her face at the unwelcome thought; then she resolutely crossed the hall and opened an animated conversation with one of her numerous admirers. Lack of self-control was not one of the pretty Titania's failings.

Presently Lynn Thayer joined her, looking grave and perplexed. "May I have Mrs. Hadwell to myself for a few moments?" she asked, smiling in a rather forced way: then, putting her hand on Mrs. Hadwell's arm, she drew her aside.

"Del," she said in a low voice, "you know I am no prude and I don't make a fuss, unnecessarily, about anything; but I tell you plainly that you must speak to those young connections of yours."

"Why, what have the poor things been doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell in amazement. "I noticed that they were awfully lively but, surely, at their age"—

"My dear Del, their conduct is outrageous. Particularly Bertie's. After all, if a boy of twenty chooses to act like a fool he simply gets severely snubbed and, in time, comes to his senses and is forgiven. But when a girl of the same age, a girl who has had every advantage, starts to act in her uncle's house like an extremely fast barmaid, why, you know as well as I do that it won't be forgotten in a hurry. What has got into them to-night I don't know; but the whole room is talking of their actions. Imagine Bertie asking that shy little recluse of a Simcoe to kiss her and pretending to weep when he hesitated"——

"Lynn!"

"My dear, that isn't the worst of it. She has taken about half her partners to that little alcove in the second floor hall, which is curtained off, and has treated them to a course of hoydenish flirtation which is, to say the least of it, in the poorest taste. Silly little Simcoe was bad enough, but, when it comes to Parham, one of the fastest men in the city"——

"Surely not!"

"She has been sitting up there with him for the last two dances; and she is evidently taken with him, for, when she showed me her programme and I remarked on her having promised him three dances in succession, she giggled in the most affected manner and said, 'Oh, I simply adore those sad-eyed, soft-voiced men with reputations yards long!' and danced off before I had a chance to suggest that"——

"Why, Lynn, what can I have been thinking about to allow it? Oh, the silly child! If she must act like a goose, why couldn't she do it a little more privately? Don't laugh, Lynn: you know what I mean. And you tell me that Bert?"——

"Has been acting like a perfect fool. He even wanted to kiss me."

"Lynn! the boy must have taken leave of his senses."

"I was afraid myself that he was drunk. In fact I took the liberty of asking him if he was. He was quite angry for a moment. 'What do you mean by saying that I am drunk?' he asked. 'Oh,' I said, 'I didn't say that you were drunk: on the contrary I said I hoped you weren't.' 'But why should you think I was?' persisted my gentleman. So I told him that when people tried to make love to me I always thought they must be drunk. He shouted at that and explained that he was in good spirits—animal, not vegetable—and wanted to enjoy himself. I treated him to a piece of my mind, but it didn't seem to do much good."

"Isn't it extraordinary? With all their high spirits and love of fun I thought those twins were as well-bred a pair as you would want to meet. Well! I must do my duty, I suppose. Where are the miscreants, Lynn?"

"Bert is in the ballroom, trying to pacify his partners, most of whom are not pleased with him for reasons best known to themselves. Bertie, as I told you, is sitting behind a fairly thick curtain with a man who shouldn't be admitted into any respectable house."

"My dear child, don't start to lecture about that! I have enough on my hands."

She mounted the stairs with a determined but bored expression and presently descended, followed by the unrepentant Bertie who winked joyously at the stony and disapproving visage of her aunt's friend. Behind them strolled the redoubtable Parham, apparently highly amused.

Mrs. Hadwell entered the ballroom and looked about for Bert. He was presently discovered in the act of fanning an indignant-looking lady who pretended to ignore his efforts at small talk. Mrs. Hadwell beckoned and he sprang to his feet with alacrity.

"Bert!" said his aunt by marriage, sternly, "there are limits to my forbearance. I am sorry to say that you have transgressed those limits. I am still sorrier that you have no better taste than to take pleasure in showing impertinence to my guests."

Bert's face worked for a moment: he said something in an aside to his sister, then spoke.

"Aunt Del," he said, humbly but with an irrepressible twinkle in his black eyes, "we have acted like a couple of demons, I must admit, but, if you'll only forgive us this once, I swear we'll straighten things out. Every one is going to supper, now; well, Bertie and I are going in together and, just as soon as the people are seated, you will see what will happen."

"I will not," was Mrs. Hadwell's unexpected rejoinder. "I have had quite enough nonsense, Bert. It must end, here."

Bert consulted his sister with his eyes; then, catching his diminutive aunt by the waist, he whirled her down the room and whispered something in her ear. She gasped, then suddenly laughed and looked relieved; and Bertie approached and entered into an animated conversation with her.

Five minutes later, when the assembled company was seated at supper, the unruly and ostracized pair walked solemnly in and stood for a moment at the head of the room. Then Bert raised his crimson-decked arm with a mute request for silence. A hush of surprise fell on the revellers. He spoke.

"My dear friends," he said, gravely, "my sister and I have acted so badly to-night and have laid ourselves open to so much well-deserved censure that we think the least we can do is to apologize, and we do it—thus!"

He deliberately laid hold of his companion's snowy locks and, with a vigorous pull, exposed a close cropped head. Then he doffed his crimson headgear and a dark tress fell athwart his nose.

When the prolonged shrieks of amazement and laughter had died into silence Bert—the real Bert—spoke.

"My sister says that if all the girls whom she has kissed will forgive her she will never do it, again," he said. "And, as for me," he paused and cast a glance of pure delight in the direction of Messrs. Simcoe and Parham, "as for me, while I must confess that I am a horrible flirt"—

He could get no further.

An hour later Undine, looking paler than her wont, sat whispering behind a large fan to two or three other women. One of them, a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman, looked distinctly sad and uncomfortable.

"The poor girl!" she said.

"Such people should be exposed," returned Undine, coldly. "The idea of her being here at all. Mrs. Hadwell cannot associate with fast women and expect to keep her own character. Personally I never think there is any real harm in Mrs. Hadwell, though"— She paused tentatively while a venomous gleam lit her large, pale eyes.

"Oh, no, no!" cried the others in horrified unison; and Mrs. Langham-Greene saw that it would be dangerous to venture further. She bade an affectionate farewell to her hostess and ordered a closed sleigh.

"My dress is so thin," she explained, smiling.

As the sleigh drove away she crouched among the fur rugs and bit her naked arms and writhed.

"I'll pay them for this," she whispered, catching her breath in torture. "He sent for her—for her! and that little cat dared to tell me to my face—oh, I can't reach her, not yet; but I can hurt her through her friend, anyway. She really cares for the Thayer girl; it'll make trouble with her pompous old husband when she insists on supporting her—oh, I'll do what I can! it may help me to forget." She groaned. "Oh, I can't bear it: I didn't mind his death as I mind this! it's like losing him all over again—I'll pay her for what she's made me suffer to-night! I'll pay her!"

CHAPTER XXI

A LIE WHICH IS PART A TRUTH

"A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,

A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,

But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."

—Tennyson.

Mrs. Langham-Greene's pretty town house possessed a drawing-room as elegant as its mistress, and far less harmful. It was flanked by two bay windows, admirably adapted for gazing on the peccadilloes of one's neighbours, the while one ruminated contentedly on one's own virtues. Here its fair owner loved to sit on winter afternoons, dispensing excellent tea and gossip: and here one bright January day found her brewing the witching potion for a waiting guest. This was no other than Gerald Amherst, who happened to be painting the lady's portrait. When the daylight faded she had insisted on his accompanying her home and joining her in a cup of five o'clock tea. The fair widow was not an especial favourite of the artist's; but his stock of excuses had been exhausted on previous occasions and he had therefore submitted meekly.

Mrs. Langham-Greene was a woman who wore well, as the saying is. Her figure was straight and supple as a girl of twenty's and her delicate features had escaped the pinched look which frequently accompanies thinness in a woman of fifty. Her skin had always been colourless and now resembled fine ivory; her hair, which she wore parted in the middle in the Madonna style, was only very slightly flecked with grey. Julia Langham-Greene was a distinguished woman, an interesting woman, an elegant woman. When, at thirty-five, she had first donned widow's weeds, she had created such a furore that it was many years before she found herself able to relinquish them. However, when a woman reaches forty and finds herself capable of wearing pale blue and scarlet to advantage—she usually does.

Mrs. Langham-Greene was now forty-seven, yet she could attend a fancy dress ball attired in Nile green and pearls and look the part of Undine to perfection. Small wonder, then, that she wished to transfer such lasting charms to still more lasting canvas; and Amherst had attained distinction as a portrait painter years before. She smiled delicately on him now, as she sugared his tea and inquired in tones of melted honey whether he took cream or lemon; and pondered inwardly how best to land the shaft she held in store.

"You are too good," she purred, in response to a perfunctory compliment on his part. "Far too good. Among so many young and pretty girls I fear I must have been quite unnoticed. Miss Reed, for instance! What regular features she has; quite ideal! What a pity that she has so little conversation! and such poor taste in dress. And is it true that her father has fits and that her mother was a house-maid before he married her?"

"I never heard that," returned Amherst, opening his honest eyes in amazement. "Miss Reed is a striking looking girl, but, to my mind, Miss Ladilaw is far prettier."

"But so uninteresting, don't you think?"

"Not more so than the majority of very young girls."

"Still," pursued Mrs. Langham-Greene, thoughtfully, "she is a nice lady-like little thing. I daresay she will marry young; she is so naive and pretty. It is not likely that she will hang on year after year like that poor, plain cousin of hers."

"Surely you don't mean Miss Thayer?"

"I mention no names," said the widow, archly: then her face dropped, pathetically. "I should not like to say one thing about that poor, misguided girl that might sound unkind,—poor creature, she has enough to bear."

"I don't understand you," said Gerald, flushing angrily.

"Ah, you men are so gallant," commented the widow, smiling a little sorrowfully. "I am told that the things gentlemen say about Miss Thayer when they are alone could not be repeated in a lady's hearing."

"Whoever told you that, Mrs. Greene," replied Gerald, forgetting the hyphened adjunct in his fury, "is an uncommonly first class liar. The things that gentlemen say about Miss Thayer could be repeated in the hearing of St. Peter."

"My dear Mr. Amherst, you have lifted a weight from my mind. Is it possible that there are men in this world so—so kindly that they refrain from unpleasant comment on a woman of that kind even when the refining influence of ladies' society"——

"A woman of that kind! Unpleasant comment! I don't know what in the—what in thunder you can mean, Mrs. Greene; and, if you will kindly inform me in as few words as possible"——

"I?"

Mrs. Langham-Greene drew her slender figure up haughtily and regarded her interrogator with stately yet grieved amazement.

"I? I repeat scandal—I spread scandal about another woman? a woman, too, who, in spite of the fact, that she must be fully thirty, has not yet been able to secure a husband to protect her? Indeed, Mr. Amherst, you must not think that you can drag me into this. You quite forget yourself if you suppose that I am willing to discuss such questionable things. If you choose to delve into these unpleasant matters it shall not be in my drawing-room."

Mr. Amherst surveyed her in silence.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Greene," he said, courteously, "but was not the matter first referred to in your drawing-room, and by you?"

"If," said Mrs. Langham-Greene, rather sadly, "if I allowed an expression of sympathy for the unfortunate girl to escape me, I did not expect to be reproached for it, Mr. Amherst."

Amherst, despite his indignation, began to feel a little abashed. After all, the woman had done nothing but mention Lynn pityingly; but why she or any one else should——

He pulled himself together and spoke, quietly.

"I gained the impression from what you said, Mrs. Greene, that there were unpleasant rumours afloat concerning Miss Thayer. Won't you tell me what they are?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Amherst," murmured the lady, distressfully. "I couldn't, really."

"Can't you give me an idea of them?"

"But, Mr. Amherst, you must know something. Why, the very servants talk of it. My butler and housemaid"——

"Yes? Not having the pleasure of either your housemaid's or your butler's acquaintance, I am still grievously in the dark. Has anyone else mentioned the matter to you?"

"Why, everyone. I supposed, of course, that you knew, that you had heard of it long ago or, believe me, I should never have mentioned it. Of course if it were another man—if it were even a gentleman—it would not be quite so awful. But a villainous, sickly little foreigner like Ricossia"——

"What?"

"There. You have actually dragged the name out of me," cried Mrs. Langham-Green, indignantly. "I declare! Men are perfectly horrid. They will not let you be charitable and kind and keep things to yourself. That poor girl! I suppose you will be just as hard on her as all the others. I was so indignant, the other day, with Mr. Parham. He said—but really I had better not repeat it"——

"Stop!"

Amherst rose to his feet, breathing heavily.

"Parham, was it? I'll remember that," he said in quiet, metallic tones. "In the meantime, Mrs. Greene, you must tell me what you mean. What is this story?"

"Oh, my dear Mr. Amherst, I cannot spread scandal," cried his hostess, anxiously. "Do sit down and have another cup of tea. Tea is so soothing when one—I felt just as you do when I first heard it. It does seem so strange that such a plain girl couldn't conduct herself like a lady. Of course if she were at all good-looking so that people noticed her and sought her out it might—oh, you're not going, already?"

"Yes, I'm going to hunt up Mr. Parham," said Gerald, searching blindly for his hat.

"No, oh, no. Oh, but I insist. Well, rather than have you run off like that I'll tell you the whole truth—all that I know, that is. It seems that—you know that Miss Thayer and Ricossia were always together when he came here first, two years ago. It was quite a joke; such a difference in their ages, you know; and he so handsome and she, poor girl, so plain! and it does seem as though it must be her fault, for certainly he never appeared to encourage her"——

"Go on, for God's sake!"

"Mr. Amherst, I must beg of you not to use profane language," observed Mrs. Langham-Greene with dignity. "Well, where was I? oh, yes! well, when he disappeared from polite society and we were all obliged to give him the cold shoulder because he was so openly depraved—not like some people whom one can know because they keep quiet about it—but he had no savoir faire, that is to say, no shame"——

"Mrs. Greene," shouted Amherst, "won't you please skip Ricossia and get to Miss Thayer?"

The widow reared herself like a black-and-golden snake, about to strike. Her green eyes gleamed; then she recollected herself and smiled, subtly.

"Dear Mr. Amherst, pray allow me to tell the story in my own way. I really cannot be interrupted in this abrupt fashion. I was coming to Miss Thayer. It seems that the wicked girl, instead of dropping him when he was found out, as all the rest of us did, continued to meet him secretly. He evidently was not sufficiently enamoured to pursue her very much, but you know how it is! a woman of that age who has never succeeded in marrying frequently loses all hope and simply doesn't care what she does; so she used to visit him at night in some awful slum where he lived"—

"What utter absurdity!"

"My dear Mr. Amherst," said the widow with angelic patience, "you may be sure that I should not readily believe such things of another woman. Unfortunately, however, the misguided girl was seen and recognized, not only by my butler but by people of her own class; people who could hardly believe their eyes and who, in their anxiety not to condemn her rashly, followed her home—at a safe distance, of course. Not that she went home, directly: I am told that her practice was to take a sleigh to a lonely part of Pine Avenue, dismiss it there and walk to her uncle's house. Very dangerous, too! fancy a lady walking alone after dark. Once, when I first lost my husband, I was compelled by some mischance to traverse two blocks one evening without an escort. Some men passed me and one of them made some remark about the 'bewitching widow.' I don't know how I ever reached home; but, as soon as I did, I retired, immediately. Next morning I sent for my doctor: he advised rest and plenty of light nourishment—what, you're going? Good evening, Mr. Amherst: so sorry we drifted into these unpleasant subjects. Good evening!"

Ten minutes later Gerald rang the Thayers' bell.

"No, Miss Thayer is not at home. I don't believe she will be in to-night, for she is dining at Mrs. Hadwell's. Certainly, sir: I'll tell her."

CHAPTER XXII

WHISPERING TONGUES

"Whispering tongues can poison truth,

And constancy dwells in realms above,

And life is thorny—and youth is vain—

And to be wroth with one we love

Doth work like madness on the brain."

—Coleridge.

"Yes, the dear twins have gone at last. Whether or no they are leaving their young hearts here I can't say, but they are certainly carrying two very nice ones away with them. Except that the female one is chiefly ice; but really, Erma quite thawed toward the end. Odd that he preferred her to Agatha: she's no better looking and not half so popular—by the way, Lynn, talking of Agatha reminds me! what in the world have you done to Lighton?"

"My dear Del!"

"Refused him, again?"

"He has not, thanks be, compelled me to do so."

"Then what has happened? I've seen him six times with Agatha in the past ten days. Oh, Lynn, why can't you be sensible? To let such a thing slip through your fingers! Upon my word you make me feel sometimes like a donkey boy with a goad."

"And you, my love, make me feel like Mephisto with a pitchfork."

"Oh, Lynn! And, at all events, if you don't want to marry him, now, why tell him so? You may be very glad of him a few years hence. Why not keep him hanging on?"

"Because, dear friend, I am neither a liar nor a cheat."

"Well, why aren't you? What's the use of trying to be honest in a world of liars and cheats? What do you expect to gain by it?"

"I really can't say. The reward of virtue, perhaps."

"The reward of virtue, dearest, is usually a whack over the head."

"So I have observed."

"Is that why you are so desperately anxious to obtain it?"

"Not exactly."

"What do you propose to do when it arrives?"

"Look and act as though it were the one thing on earth I had always longed for. Unless it is violent enough to stun me, in which case I shall set my teeth and say nothing."

"Lynn, you're a fool!"

"I have frequently suspected as much."

"And oh, Lynn, I chatter and chatter—and all the time there is something I must say to you."

"Say it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No; but, whatever it may be, Del, hurry up and tell me. You know suspense is the one thing I can't bear."

"Will you let me ask you something?"

"Anything—but I won't promise to answer."

"Will you answer me this? Have you ever cared for anyone?"

"Yes."

"Any man, I mean!"

"Yes."

"Much?"

"Very much."

"Enough—well, enough to do anything foolish for?"

"Enough to do things that you would consider would qualify me for a madhouse."

"Ah!"

Mrs. Hadwell drew a long breath and her face fell.

"You might have told me, dear," she said, gently.

"I couldn't, Del. But, anyway, it's not what you think. Why do you ask me all this?"

"Was that why you refused Lighton?"

"No—yes; I would have refused him, anyhow."

"But the other had something to do with it?" said Mrs. Hadwell, leaning forward, breathlessly.

Lynn said nothing but her face was sad. Although she felt that her secret must die with her brother she longed to-night for the sympathy which she could so easily obtain from this, her oldest and dearest friend.

"I—I would have liked to tell you, Del," she said in a low voice. "But—I had promised to tell no one. It was not that I didn't trust you. The circumstances were peculiar. I had others to consider."

"Oh, Lynn, Lynn, it was some one that you couldn't marry, then?" Mrs. Hadwell's voice rose almost to a wail.

"Yes. But, Del, the more you say, the less you understand. Let us talk of something else."

"Lynn, I can't! Oh, do tell me just one thing more: you know that you can trust me. Have you done anything that was unconventional? stupidly unconventional? that might expose you to scandalous comments if it were known?"

"I—yes, I am afraid I have. But don't talk of it, Del. I don't feel very cheerful to-night."

"But I must. Lynn, will you promise solemnly never again to do anything foolish—you know what I mean?—anything improper or reckless?"

Lynn was silent.

"Promise. Oh, Lynn, promise! You don't know what danger you're in. You have enemies; you are already talked about in certain circles. I won't ask a question, dear, not a question: only promise"——

"Del, I can promise nothing."

"You—you would do foolish things again?"

"Yes."

"But, why—oh, Lynn, why?"

It was some moments before Lynn answered and, when she did, her voice was hard.

"Because all my happiness on earth—everything in life that counts—depends on my outraging certain very sensible conventions. Don't worry if you can help it: I'm a fly, caught in the web of Fate: you can't help me, I can't help myself. If I—stopped, I should never forgive myself: I should never know another happy moment."

"Lynn, I see I shall have to tell you—and it's a thing I hate to do. There are stories afloat concerning you—I don't know what, exactly—coupling your name with that of Ricossia."

Lynn grew slowly white.

"Have you nothing to say, Lynn?"

"Nothing, Del."

"You won't explain—not even to me?"

"Del," said her visitor, suddenly, bending forward and gazing intently in Mrs. Hadwell's face, "if you had to face some personal trouble or misunderstanding, amounting to disgrace, even—or break a solemn and sacred oath—which would you do?"

"Break the solemn and sacred oath," returned Mrs. Hadwell, promptly and cheerfully.

"Ah," said Lynn, despairingly, "what's the use of asking you, Del? You have no conscience about those things."

"No, indeed; yet I am rich enough to afford one if I really wanted it. But you, my dear, have no business with so costly and useless an appendage. Can't you get rid of it—for the present, anyway? It's going to land you in a perfect sea of trouble; and, beyond, shining faintly, is that whack over the head of which we spoke. When you have tormented yourself sufficiently Society will hand you that; and then I suppose you will have nothing left to wish for?"

"Only death; and I'm pretty healthy!"

"And you will not explain? in spite of all I can say or do?"

"No, I'm very tired, Del. I'm going now, if you don't mind."

Half an hour later Amherst left Hadwell Heights, scowling unhappily. Miss Thayer had just left; she had had a headache and had returned early. He could not, in decency, call on her at her home after hearing this, much as he wanted to. He must wait until to-morrow.

He walked along Pine Avenue with his hands in his overcoat pockets. Lynn was the best girl that ever lived; but, after all, there was no smoke without fire, that was certain. She had committed some imprudence; what, he must find out before he took any steps to circumvent these slanders. Of course one thing was undeniable; she had bestowed a good deal of attention on Ricossia when she first met him. It was through her and her warm eulogies of his genius and beauty that he, himself, had first become interested in the young—but, after all, the boy couldn't live a year and he must not call him what he really was. What beauty he possessed! the beauty of the very devil! and how women did go mad over him! It wasn't wonderful if—

Then suddenly, like poison, Ricossia's low, bell-like laugh at their last meeting rang in his ears. And his words—what were they? He had said that Lynn was not attracted by him in the ordinary way—bah! any one a degree above a cur would say that. Lynn loved him, Amherst, that was certain; but there were different kinds and degrees of love. Had he not seen a kind sweet woman, a devoted wife and mother, leave home, husband, children, everything that made her life; had he not seen her ready to pay with a life-time of odium and desolation for the feverish joy of a few anxious months? Lynn had a stronger nature than the majority of women; that was nothing; she would be likely to go to greater extremes for that very reason. She was so sensible, so logical, so prudent—were they not the very women who forsook all caution when vitally interested? Ricossia was a boy, a child; yes, and had it not passed into a proverb, the love of a woman of thirty for a youth?—what was he thinking of? where had his fancies led him? Doubt Lynn! Lynn, whom he had known from a child!—yes, known! the mockery of the word! Who ever knew another human being? Strangers we wandered into life; strangers we left it; strangers we were, each to other, always; husband to wife, child to mother—above all, lover to beloved. He groaned as he walked, but no feeling of resentment toward his betrothed held place as yet. Lynn, as he had told her, was the one woman on earth to him: he would abide by her explanation. If—he turned cold and faint at the thought—if, in the past, she had been infatuated with that "half-devil and half-child," Ricossia; and, if she had done foolish things, mad things ... yes, even wrong things—he could forgive them, knowing that she loved him, and him only, now. After all, when one considered Ricossia's reputation, merely to be seen with him was enough; and she had, probably, traded unduly on her social position and good name. Perhaps it was nothing more than pity; the boy was dying and he was so young, so friendless. On the whole Amherst decided that he was probably acting like a fool; one might almost as well be jealous of a corpse as of Ricossia, who might be one at that moment for anything he knew to the contrary. With a sudden rush of compunction and self-reproach Amherst left Pine Avenue and, descending to the city, hailed a passing car. He would look the boy up; confound it all, the young fool might be dying a miserable death at this very moment while he maundered away like a simpleton in a melodrama. He would see how Ricossia was holding out, anyway; this last cold spell wasn't just the best thing for a consumptive, and he would like to see the cub spend his last months on earth in comparative comfort, whether he deserved to or not. And, perhaps—but no! he couldn't touch on that—not with him!

The car took him within a few blocks of his destination. He walked slowly on, feeling cheered and comparatively happy. When one has writhed in doubt and misery for a certain number of hours the reaction is usually strong; and Amherst wondered how he had ever come to attach so much importance to the babblings of a green-eyed tabby cat and the insults of a hound. He inhaled the clear night air with calm enjoyment; to-morrow he would see Lynn and then—and then—

He had nearly reached the Chatham when the door opened quietly and a woman descended the steps. As she advanced toward him she raised her head in a blind, unseeing sort of fashion. The light of a flickering gas jet shone clearly and pitilessly on her upturned face; a face which, though drawn and hollow-eyed, was strangely familiar—the face of his intended wife, Lynn Thayer.

CHAPTER XXIII

WHEN LOVE IS DONE

"The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one—

Yet the light of the whole life dies

When love is done."

—Old Song.

"I love—but I believe in love no more."—Shelley.

Lunn recognized him almost immediately and stood quite still, looking into his face with a curious deliberation and intentness.

"One would almost think you had expected me," said Amherst, involuntarily. One seldom says what is uppermost in one's mind on these occasions.

"I think I did," said Lynn with equal quietness. "When I awoke this morning something told me that this would happen."

"There is a cab-stand a few blocks away," he continued, courteously. "May I take you there and see you into one?"

"I shall be—grateful for the attention," said Lynn, dully: then she laughed.

They walked in silence for a block or two.

"Have you anything to say to me, Lynn?" said Amherst at last.

"I—nothing!"

"You prefer to say nothing?"

Lynn was silent for a moment; then she spoke very distinctly.

"On the night that you asked me to marry you, I said all that I was at liberty to say."

"Ricossia is rather exacting, isn't he?"

The sneer escaped Gerald, wrung from him by his pain. Lynn started slightly but made no answer.

"I should ask your pardon," Amherst went on, presently. "I had no right to say that. I do not even know that it is Ricossia on whom you paid this late call. Possibly you have other friends in the Chatham."

"I have not."

"It—it is Ricossia?"

She threw back her head and laughed.

"Exactly—it is Ricossia. And, by the way, Mr. Amherst, although I know that when one does an unconventional thing, 'gentlemen' are quite justified in insulting one; yet, as there is a policeman on the next corner, and as even a homeless cur isn't obliged to stand still while some one throws a rock at it—will you leave me?"

"No. Lynn, forgive me. I'm crazy; I don't know what I'm saying. If it were anyone else—if it were any other man—anyone, anyone but that villainous little blackguard"——

"Stop!"

Lynn turned on him like a tigress, her eyes blazing with fury.

"How dare you call him that?" she cried. "A genius! a god of beauty! and dying at that! What sort of man do you call yourself to insult first the woman who was to have been your wife and then a dying man."

Amherst gasped and caught his breath in painful amazement.

"Oh, my God!" he groaned like a hurt animal, "how you must love him, Lynn!"

They had passed the cab-stand now and had turned toward home, but neither noticed this. Amherst's face was ghastly and his steps unsteady; but Lynn walked erect and stately like a sable figure of doom.

When some blocks had been traversed in silence Amherst spoke, slowly and humbly.

"Lynn, I should not have spoken as I did. We're all human and I'm not your judge. If I didn't love you—if I hadn't believed that you loved me—I should not have been so harsh. Will you let me walk home with you? We probably shan't see one another again very soon and there is so much I want to say."

"No."

"You won't let me? You compel me to—very well, I'll go to Ricossia, then; I'll make him listen to reason and, and if he won't, I'll"——

"Gerald!"

Lynn's voice was alive with a sudden, horrible fear.

"Gerald," she said swiftly, clasping his arm with her hands, "you loved me once, didn't you? For the sake of that, because of that, will you do me a favour? Deal with me, alone. I'm strong, I can stand anything. Say what you please to me, do as you think best—but let him alone. He's so young, he—he's so weak—and he's dying, Gerald, dying. He may be dead, to-morrow. While he lives, let him alone. Oh, Gerald, promise me!"

Amherst could not speak for a moment. When he did his voice had altered.

"Lynn," said he, gently, "why did you promise to marry me?"

"Because I loved you, Gerald."

"You still say that—now?"

"Yes. My love for him was quite another thing. I can't explain, and I don't expect you to understand."

"I see—I think I see. The other was a—well, a sort of obsession."

"Exactly. You could hit on no better word."

"Yet you believed that you loved me. You think that you could care for two men at once?"

She moistened her dry lips and spoke, feebly.

"If I had not been so alone in the world, Gerald, I might have loved several. There are so many different loves, you know; differing in kind and in degree. The love for a father, for a son, for a brother"—her face lightened with sudden hope,—"that was really what I felt for him, Gerald; the love that a mother has for a son, the love that a sister has for a brother—don't you, oh, can't you, understand? I loved you in quite another way—it's so different—and, if I tried to explain any more, I should break a solemn oath—I should bring a curse on my head"——

Amherst's face lit with a sudden, heated gleam. He turned and spoke fiercely.

"Lynn! Don't insult my intelligence by telling me stuff of that sort, but listen! Promise that you'll never see him again, and that you'll do your best to forget him! Promise that he'll be nothing to you in the future! and I'll forgive all the rest. Come to me! I want you. I won't ask you a question, not a question. Marry me to-morrow and I'll kill the first man—or woman—who breathes a word against you. Lynn!"

She held her breath and looked at him as though fascinated.

"Lynn! Promise!"

She spoke, slowly and with difficulty.

"Until he dies, Gerald—my life is his."

"Then"——

Amherst's face flushed, a dark, purplish flush, ugly to see.

"You prefer him then to reputation, honour, common sense and decency." His breath came heavily. "You prefer him—to me!"

As slowly and deliberately as before she answered him.

"I love you—as a woman loves the man she means to marry. I love L—Ricossia—as I love no other being on God's earth—as I do not believe any other man was ever loved from the beginning of time. You say rightly. I prefer him—and the oath at which you sneer—to reputation—honour—common sense—decency—and you! Good-bye, Gerald; try to forget me."

CHAPTER XXIV

MRS. LANGHAM-GREENE PAYS HER DEBT; AND MRS. WAITE, HERS

"The long-necked geese of the world that are

ever hissing dispraise

Because their natures are little."

—Tennyson.

Estelle Hadwell was sitting by a blazing fire in her husband's library when she heard voices in the hall below, followed by the banging of a door. Then Mr. Hadwell called loudly:

"Estelle! are you there?"

"Yes, dear," replied his wife, somewhat surprised. "Have you visitors?"

"Yes. Mrs. Langham-Greene and Mrs. Tollman are here. Can you come down?"

"Yes, indeed!" replied Mrs. Hadwell with effusion. She rose slowly from her chair by the fire, grimacing disgustedly as she did so. The library was so nice and Mrs. Greene so horrid and Mrs. Tollman such a bore.

She hurried down and advanced with extended hands and a delighted smile. She had got as far as "A most delightful surprise—an unexpected pleasure!" when she caught sight of her husband's face.

"Henry!" she exclaimed in genuine consternation. "What in the world is it?"

Her husband was standing with his back to the fireplace and a portentous frown on his brow, looking, as Mrs. Hadwell reflected to herself, for all the world like the British Matron in trousers.

"Henry, what is it?" she asked, again.

"These ladies," returned Mr. Hadwell with a majestic wave of his hand, "can tell you better than I."

Estelle glanced from one to the other, wonderingly. Mrs. Tollman, a stout, pleasant-faced woman, wore a somewhat distressed expression and sat stiffly upright. Mrs. Langham-Greene, delicately lovely in dark blue velvet and ermine, leaned gracefully back in an easy chair, her fine features composed to an expression of decorous sorrow. Neither lady made any immediate effort to enlighten her hostess until Mrs. Greene swept a meaning glance at her companion from beneath her long, light lashes. Then Mrs. Tollman spoke.

"It's such a delicate matter, Mrs. Hadwell," she said in a flurried way. "I disliked coming to you about it, very much; but Mr. Hadwell insisted, saying that only an eye-witness could convince you."

"Of what?"

"This is so hard on us, both," Mrs. Langham-Greene murmured, soothingly. "And it was so careless of me to mention the poor thing; for then Mr. Hadwell simply dragged the whole story out of me. I am most distressed, I am indeed!"

"But at what, dear Mrs. Greene?" cooed her hostess.

"Oh, at the whole affair—the poor girl so well connected and all! and Ricossia so common and dreadful."

"Oh, some new scandal about young Ricossia," exclaimed Mrs. Hadwell with sudden enlightenment and a corresponding sinking of the heart.

"But he is not common; no one could call him that. Dreadful, certainly; but rather fascinating in his way, don't you think?"

"Apparently others have found him so," drawled the older lady, meaningly.

"What others?"

Mrs. Langham-Greene looked deliberately at Mrs. Hadwell and spoke, regretfully.

"I am afraid, dear Mrs. Hadwell, that your friend, Miss Thayer"——

"How dare you say so?"

"Estelle," said her husband, reprovingly, "is it likely that these ladies would speak without proper authority?"

"Very likely indeed," thought their hostess, but her heart was sick within her. Lynn's interest in Ricossia; her lack of interest in other men; her sorrow, her preoccupation, her confession of having outraged propriety; all these ranged as witnesses against her in her friend's heart.

"I knew—I told Mr. Hadwell that you would take it in just this way," murmured the widow, sympathetically. "So he insisted that we bring an eye-witness to convince you. Of course the thing has been going on for an indefinite space of time; but, just lately, Mr. and Mrs. Tollman, when returning home late one night, saw Miss Thayer leaving the Chatham. They followed her. She took a sleigh to Pine Avenue, dismissed it there and walked home. Isn't it so, Mrs. Tollman?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Tollman, fluttering. "It is undeniably true. But I don't know how it ever got out, for I only told my most intimate friends about it."

"That was cheaper than having it printed in the 'Daily News' and certainly quite as effective."

Mrs. Hadwell had lost her usual calm and diplomacy.

"Really," she continued with a sudden burst of candour, "really how I do hate women! They're every bit as nasty as men, and nothing like so nice into the bargain. I wish I need never see a woman again—except Lynn."

This coming from the politic and tactful Mrs. Hadwell had the effect of a thunderclap. Before her listeners had recovered the housemaid announced Mrs. Waite and that lady entered.

Since inheriting her legacy, Mrs. Hadwell's former housekeeper had hired a small furnished house and was living there alone. General Shaftan's house, her property, was advertised for sale; a proceeding which had roused some interest in Montreal society.

"How funny of her not to live there until it sells or rents! Can it be that that sourfaced woman is afraid of ghosts?" some had asked.

She stood now in the doorway, looking from one to the other with her peculiarly cold and expressionless manner. "Excuse me," she said without preliminary, "but as I was walking through the hall just now I heard what you were saying; I could not help hearing. Is it true that Miss Thayer is in trouble?"

"Are you interested in Miss Thayer?" inquired Mrs. Langham-Greene with courtly insolence.

"Yes."

The two women faced one another in silence; the one beautiful, patrician, elegant; the other, plain, sad-faced, and, apparently, old. A whole world lay between them; nor was the chasm bridged by the fact that both had loved the same man. Mrs. Hadwell, with her usual quick intuition, could feel the air charged with import and longed to know what lay beneath these different exteriors. Instead she turned to Mrs. Langham-Greene with a question.

"May I ask what your object was in laying these slanders about Miss Thayer before me?" she said.

"I wished," said the other slowly, "to see what could be done to help the wretched girl. Of course she cannot stay here; and I understand that there is a great dearth of teachers in the North-West; they are not particular there as to character and"—

"You cat!" screamed little Mrs. Hadwell, losing all control of herself. "How dare you come to my house and compel me to be rude to your very face? How dare you speak so of my best friend? Who wants to hear your opinion of her? why, it's an impertinence on your part to have an opinion about a girl like Lynn. Let me tell you that Miss Thayer need not go to the North-West for a refuge; she will always find a welcome in my home whenever she needs one"—

"Not in mine!"

Mrs. Hadwell started and looked at her husband with amazement.

"You wish me to drop Lynn? My dear Henry, if you are thinking of setting up in the ostracizing business I can supply you with a long list of far more deserving cases."

"I don't say that the girl is actually bad, but she has been proved to be utterly devoid of sense or decency. She shall never set foot in my house again."

"In that case," Mrs. Hadwell's voice was calm—"I leave your house to-night and take my children with me."

"What?"

"They are all under seven and until that age the mother has full control. I shall take them to my grandmother in Lachine; there, at least, I can receive my friends—my one friend, I should say! I haven't another."

Mr. Hadwell stamped out of the room in a fury. Mrs. Tollman and Mrs. Greene followed him quietly, the former almost in tears, the latter composed and cheerful. When the door closed on them Mrs. Hadwell sat down and burst into tears.

"Oh, Lynn, Lynn, how could you?" she sobbed.

"Mrs. Hadwell, can you give me this Mr. Ricossia's address?"

Mrs. Waite's cold, thin voice sounded unpleasantly at Estelle's elbow.

"Yes, I believe it's the Chatham, either 10 or 12 St. Eustache St.," answered the younger woman, staring through wet eyes in sheer amazement. "Are you there, still, Mrs. Waite? I thought you had gone."

"Don't—don't mind so much," said the "Gorgon-faced automaton" with difficulty. "Perhaps something can be done."

"Oh, nothing, nothing, I am afraid, except to stand by her."

"You believe this story?"

"No!" lied Mrs. Hadwell, firmly.

"Neither do I. I am sure there is some explanation if one could only find out what it is. And I have plenty of money, now; money can do a great deal sometimes in cases of this kind, and there is nothing I would sooner spend it on"——

"You—you? But, Mrs. Waite—if you don't mind my asking—why should you—what is Lynn to you?"

Mrs. Waite moistened her dry lips and spoke, faintly.

"I had a child once. He died.... She was his teacher and—and she was good to him. But don't tell her; she might try to talk to me about him and—and I couldn't stand that"——

Mrs. Waite stopped; her plain face contorted ludicrously. The next moment the cold Mrs. Hadwell and the woman beside whose frigid nature her own showed in the light of a volcano were weeping bitterly in one another's arms.

CHAPTER XXV

THE SHADOWS FALL

"All the dreaming is broken through,

Both what is done and undone I rue,

Nothing is tender, nothing true,

In heaven or earth save God and you."

—Arthur Sullivan.

"But still the faces gaped and cried,

'Give us the dream for which we died!'"

—Charles G. D. Roberts.

Mrs. Hadwell, having hypnotized Mr. Hadwell into apologizing profusely for his conduct, promised to forgive him if he would go away for a week.

"You have been talking for years of paying a visit to your sister in Toronto," she said. "Suppose you go now, Henry. She will be delighted to see you, and I—after a week of absence I shall be so glad to see you, again, that I shall not even think of this. Otherwise"——

He went. When Estelle had seen him safely in the train she drew a long breath of relief and telephoned to Miss Thayer. Until then she had not dared to risk an encounter between her friend and her husband, knowing that the former was a keen observer and the latter, a poor actor.

"Come to me, to-morrow, as soon as school is out, dear," she said. "I shall be in all afternoon. Promise!"

"Oh, yes, I shall come, Del," assented the other, quietly. Mrs. Hadwell, listening sorrowfully, thought she could detect a note of unaccustomed grief in Lynn's voice. She endeavoured to forget it, however, and, giving orders to admit no visitors that evening, sat in front of the library fire, cudgelling her brains for some method of rehabilitating her friend in public favour. Although a woman of great resource and audacity none occurred to her; the case was too hopeless.

"Let me see," she said, judicially, "what are the facts—the known facts? First: Lynn, who is a great favourite with men but who shows partiality to none, develops an enthusiastic fancy for an unknown genius who arrives in Montreal two years ago. She works night and day to induce her friends to take him up; she takes long walks and drives in his society; and is frequently seen holding absorbed conversations with him in out-of-the-way places. She puffs his writings untiringly; she persists in ignoring his open faults; she makes excuses for his bad habits. True, he is only a child in years. Then he turns out to be utterly depraved; everyone drops him; she grows white and thin, refuses to discuss him even with me and is seen talking with him after he has been practically ostracised by all reputable people. This is a year ago. She, who has hitherto loved society and revelled in every sort of outdoor exercise, suddenly takes to refusing all invitations and losing interest in all sports. To-day half a dozen unimpeachable witnesses—and dear knows how many others—are ready to swear that they have seen her leave his extremely dubious place of residence, late at night. Oh, Lynn, Lynn, my dear stupid child, how could you? What can I do for you? If they were even people who could be bought—who could be bribed to swear that they had lied!—oh, I give it up! I may as well telephone to Mrs. Waite and see if she has any ideas."

"Is that you, Mrs. Waite? Yes, it is I, Mrs. Hadwell. No, I have not seen Miss Thayer yet but she is coming up to-morrow afternoon. I don't know; I am most unhappy about it. Yes, to-morrow afternoon. Oh, why?"

"Because," answered Mrs. Waite, quietly, "I think I have discovered something. Do not, on any account, let Miss Thayer know, or you may spoil everything. No, I can tell you nothing. I have your permission to bring him? then I shall say good-night."

"Most tantalising," muttered Estelle as she hung up the receiver. "Still, as everything is as bad already as it can well be, nothing can make it much worse. How truly comforting! Who is the person she wants to bring, I wonder! and how can he help poor Lynn? A plea of insanity is the only solution that occurs to me. But I'll stand by her—and, in the meantime, I'll drink a pint of porter and see if that will make me sleep."

It did; and at four o'clock the next day Mrs. Hadwell greeted her friend with an intensity of feeling that was almost solemn.

"You poor child!" she said, as she kissed her.

Lynn returned the kiss, listlessly, and sat down. She looked rather tired.

"So you have not yet deserted me, Del?" she said, quietly, as she loosened her wraps.

"Deserted you! Oh, Lynn, Lynn, I wouldn't desert you if you had committed murder and sacrilege. But, my child, how could you be so foolish? Why weren't you content with doing a wrong thing without going further and doing it in such a way that it had to come out? I won't reproach you for the thing, itself; I am too sick, too sorry; but why, oh why, had you"——

"Wait!"

Lynn put her hand to her forehead as though bewildered.

"Just a minute, Del. I don't quite understand. What is it that you think?"

"Don't fence with me, dear, any longer. That green-eyed harpy of a Langham-Greene has got hold of the whole affair. You have been seen leaving the Chatham late at night; you have been seen dismissing a sleigh on Pine Avenue and walking home."

"Yes."

"You know! But, Lynn, how can you take it so coolly? Don't you realise what a terrible thing it is?"

"In what way?"

"Why, my dear, dear girl, your reputation is gone if we can't refute these statements; you must know that."

"Yes, I know."

"You—know!"

"Yes. The fact is, Del, that I have had so many real troubles lately that the loss of that intangible thing, reputation, affects me little. I can get along without it."

"Lynn, you don't know what you are saying. A woman's reputation is like her clothing; it's a great bother, it's ruinously expensive and it's sometimes distinctly uncomfortable. The sad fact remains, however, that she must either have it or emigrate to the Sandwich Islands."

"My reputation, as you call it, Del, is gone because two or three people say that they have seen me doing an unusual thing. It is true; I did it. Yet, if I had immersed myself in a nunnery and never stirred outside unless accompanied by an army of chaperons and escorts, my reputation might be gone, just as effectually. The first man who took a dislike to me could leave me without a shred of character provided he went to a little trouble and didn't mind a few lies—what man does? What is more, I might never have heard of the matter till years after; it merely happens that I am aware of this. There may be fifty scandals about me in other circles for anything I know to the contrary. No, Del; I have several troubles, but my lost reputation is not one of them."

"My dear Lynn, are you absolutely indifferent to the opinions of others? You must be mad."

"Possibly. I don't say that I am not sorry to think that many nice women must have a wrong idea of me: but as for men—pah! What does it matter what they think? It is not so very long ago since a certain engagement was broken off in this very city; the 'gentleman' took his former fiancee's letters to the club and read them there aloud amid shouts of laughter. There are men for you! the men that you and I know! Who would want the good-will of a pack of hounds like that? No; let them have my reputation to tear to pieces if it amuses them; I have other things to think of."

"But Lynn, what are you going to do?"

"Stay here and face the music."

"Stay here?"

"Certainly. What do you take me for?"

"A madwoman. You mean to stay in a place where everyone knows—where the man is still living—where"—

"Why not? I've done nothing to be ashamed of, even granting that I have acted foolishly. I'm not going to skulk off!"

"Nothing to be ashamed of! Lynn! Why do you persist in maintaining this attitude? You compel me to speak plainly. You have done what is unforgivable—you have done"—

"Wait a minute, Del! You mean?"—

"I mean—oh, Lynn, Lynn, don't you see that if you had only kept this dreadful thing secret; if you only hadn't allowed people to know, positively, that you had done the one thing that is never pardoned in a woman—if you had only"—

"Ah!"

Lynn rose, slowly.

"I didn't know, Del—I knew what men were like—I didn't know—what you have taught me! Good-bye."

"Lynn. Wait! Where are you going?"

"Home—to tell my uncle and aunt that I have been seen leaving the Chatham at night. If they won't have me in their house—I'll go, elsewhere. I have proved the worth of the two people, man and woman, who professed to love me best on earth; now I want to rid myself of all the rest. Good-bye."

"Good heavens! You don't mean to say that you are trying to deny?"—

"I am denying and trying to deny nothing. I refuse to discuss the subject. I suppose I must make up my mind to expect insults from strangers, but I am not compelled to receive them from my friends—or from those who were once my friends. I have no friends, now; I never had father or mother or—or—and now I have neither friend nor lover. Knowing what I now know of love and friendship—I am glad!"

"Oh, Lynn, Lynn! This to me! when I would move heaven and earth to help you!" cried Mrs. Hadwell, miserably. "How can you doubt my friendship? I tell you that if, to-morrow, everyone threw you over my house would still be open to you."

"Your house! Do you think I would ever enter it again? Fool! We've known each other from childhood up, and yet, to-day, you think you can insult me and be forgiven. The sight of you makes me feel sick. Don't stop me, don't speak to me"—

Mrs. Hadwell had risen to intercept her. Lynn hastened past her to the door. There stood Gerald Amherst, white as death.

For a long moment the three stood in silence. Lynn was the first to break it and her voice was mocking.

"You interrupted an affecting farewell, Mr. Amherst. I was saying good-bye to my bosom friend, just as, not long ago, I said good-bye to my devoted lover. Having done what politeness demands I shall now take my departure."

"No!" exclaimed Estelle, rushing forward. "Don't let her, Mr. Amherst. She doesn't know what she's saying or doing and I must keep her till she understands. Lynn, wait! Let me explain."

Lynn, with a gesture that was almost majestic, motioned Amherst from the doorway where he still stood. He hesitated, trembling and uncertain; and while he hesitated, steps sounded in the hall behind and Mrs. Waite spoke.

"Mr. Amherst, don't go away! nor you, either, Miss Thayer. I wish very much to see you, both. I am sorry to be late, but"—

Amherst moved aside, mechanically, and Amy Waite entered, followed by Ricossia. The two women stood where they were, unable to speak or move; and Ricossia spoke, pleasantly.

"Mrs. Waite has brought me here in order that I may explain"—

"Liol!"—

"Don't be absurd, Lynn! The fact is, good people," said the boy carelessly, "that Lynn's mother was also mine; and Lynn, as a child, contracted some crazy affection for me which seems to have got her into general trouble. In the first place, she swore an insane oath to my mother—you see the latter was dying and sent for her secretly—it's hard to explain! but Mr. and Mrs. Thayer, knowing what a bad lot my father was and judging rightly that I would be likely to take after him—which I certainly did!—made it part of the bargain when they adopted Lynn that she was to have nothing to do with the lot of us. Lynn, however, had always remembered me, it seems, and so, when my mother sent for her and explained that my father would see me starve to death before he would spend a penny on me, Lynn undertook to provide for my upbringing out of her earnings as a teacher. That was all very well; but what does my mother do but get excited and make her swear that she will never tell anyone that I am her brother, in case it may get to the ears of the Thayers and make them throw her over. Lynn tries to get out of it but finally swears and—and then—I'm not over strong, and I fancy I'll sit down if you'll allow me. For God's sake, Lynn, don't look like that! what on earth's the matter with you?"

No one spoke and Ricossia leaned back wearily in the chair which he had taken, his beautiful face haggard, his great eyes hollow and emptied of expression. Lynn stood like a statue; since her first exclamation she had remained silent but her face had changed. Something resembling hope had crept into her eyes and mingled with the fierce love that illumined them whenever they rested on her brother. As he lay back, breathing faintly, she moved toward him and stood, looking down.

"God is not all cruel," she said, as though to herself. "He has taken all the rest—but He has given me this, at least, before you die—the knowledge that you do care a little, Liol. Else, why should you have done this?"

Her tired face softened with a beautiful peace.

"I don't know what on earth you are muttering to yourself about," said the consumptive, shrugging his shoulders, whimsically, "but, if you imagine, my dear girl, that I dragged myself up this infernal hill to save you from the consequences of your own folly, you're mistaken. Why shouldn't you break the fool oath? However, you'll be glad to hear that you'll be able to keep your own earnings in the future. I've made a haul that"——

"Mr. Ricossia," broke in the metallic voice of Mrs. Waite, "refused at first to explain the object of Miss Thayer's visits. I therefore"—

"She therefore paid me well to do it—as I surmised she would," said Ricossia, composedly. "What are you looking like that for, Lynn? Thank goodness, I'm dependent on your vagaries no longer; the doctor tells me that, if I reach California alive, I may live a month or so longer—he doesn't promise that I will reach it,—but if I do!"— He sprang to his feet, irradiated and glorious—"if I do—by God, I'll see Life before I die!"

"You infernal young scoundrel!" broke in Amherst, unable to contain himself longer, "you d——d ungrateful young blackguard! is this your return to your sister for all she has done and suffered? Have you no shame?"

"Not a particle!" answered the other, laughing. "No shame and no love in my composition! I never cared for any living thing but myself—not even my mother. As for Lynn, I'm going to do her one kindness before I die; and that is to tell her the truth. Lynn, you have never been anything to me at any time but a necessary evil; I had to have money to live, and from you, only, was I able to obtain it; therefore I tried to feign a little affection for you which I never felt in the most remote degree. I've allowed you to sacrifice time, money, and finally reputation to me; and now that I'm going off alone to die—riotously and wickedly and happily as I've always wanted to—I leave you this piece of advice. Marry Amherst and forget all about me. I'll forget you as soon as I'm out of your sight, which will be very soon, I promise you."

Something approaching horror showed in the faces of his hearers; they looked uncertainly at one another, doubtful whether to still the cruel voice or no. Lynn, only, remained motionless; her face was grey and her hands twitched a little. Gerald, who stood nearest, alone heard her whisper:

"Not this! Oh, God, not this!"

"Lynn," he burst forth, "what can I say? Come with me, forgive me; I'll spend my life in making amends. Don't mind him; he doesn't know what he's saying; he's sick, crazy, mad! they all get like that when they take drugs. Lynn!"

She turned very slowly and looked at him.

"You—want me?" she asked, dully. "Think!—the best of me is dead; you've helped to kill it, all of you. I'm an old woman now; I'll never be young, again, never be young or light-hearted or gay again, while this life lasts. Are you sure you want me?"

"Come!"

Lynn looked at him ... then slowly, very slowly, put her hand in his.

"The little boy I loved is dead, too," she said, rather lifelessly. "That—that is a ghoul that has taken his beautiful form. Oh, my baby, my baby! my little dark-eyed angel that I loved so! to think that you should die and I not know it. Or perhaps you never lived, really.... Let us go, Gerald! let us go away from it, all! I'm tired. You—you'll not fail me?"

"Before God, I will not."

They moved toward the door. On its threshold Lynn paused and turned. The red evening sunlight was streaming through the window and its scarlet flame lay strangely on the deathless beauty of her brother's face. She surveyed it in silence ... the face that had held all heaven and all hell for her since the moment when she, a lonely, loveless child, had seen and worshipped it first.

"Good-bye, Liol!" she said at last, very softly. "You've been my idol all my life, and I'm never going to see you again in time or in eternity, and I thank God for it.... Good-bye."

Gerald drew her gently away and the door closed behind them.

THE END.

* * * * * * * *

The Potter and the Clay

A Romance of To-day

By MAUD HOWARD PETERSON. Bound in blue cloth, decorative cover, rough edges, gilt top. Four drawings by Charlotte Harding. Size, 5 x 7-3/4. Price $1.50

One of the strongest and most forceful of recent novels, now attracting marked attention, and already one of the most successful books of the present year. The characters are unique, the plot is puzzling, and the action is remarkably vivid. Readers and critics alike pronounce it a romance of rare strength and beauty. The scenes are laid in America, Scotland, and India; and one of the most thrilling and pathetic chapters in recent fiction is found in Trevelyan's heroic self-sacrifice during the heart-rending epidemic of cholera in the latter country. The story throughout is one of great strength.

Margaret E. Sangster: "From the opening chapter, which tugs at the heart, to the close, when we read through tears, the charm of the book never flags. It is not for one season, but of abiding human interest."

Minot J. Savage: "I predict for the book a very large sale, and for the authoress brilliant work in the future."

Boston Journal: "One of the most remarkable books of the year. Brilliant, but better than that, tender."

* * * * *

THE LITTLE GREEN DOOR

By MARY E. STONE BASSETT

Eight illustrations by Louise Clarke and twenty-five decorative half-title pages by Ethel Pearce Clements

12mo Cloth $1.50

A charming romance of the time of Louis XIII. The door which gives the title to the book leads to a beautiful retired garden belonging to the King. In this garden is developed one of the sweetest and tenderest romances ever told. The tone of the book is singularly pure and elevated, although its power is intense.

"This is a tale of limpid purity and sweetness, which, although its action is developed amid the intrigues and deceptions of a corrupt French court, remains fine and delicate to the end. There is power as well as poetry in the little romance, so delicate in conception."—Chicago Daily News.

"Tender, sweet, passionate, pure; a lily from the garden of loves."—Baltimore Herald.

"The story is exquisitely pure and tender, possessing a finished daintiness that will charm all clean-minded persons."—Louisville Courier-Journal.

"This book carries with it all the exhilaration of a beautiful nature, of flowers, birds, and living things, and the beauty of a winsome personality of a pure, beautiful girl. It is a romance entirely of the fancy, but a refreshing one."—Chicago Tribune.

"The little romance is charmingly wrought, and will be sure to find its way to the heart of the reader."—Boston Transcript.

* * * * *

MISS BILLY

A NEIGHBORHOOD STORY

By EDITH K. STOKELY and MARIAN K. HURD

Illustrated by CHARLES COPELAND

12mo Cloth 1.50

"MISS BILLY" deserves more than passing notice in these days of civic improvement. It is a story of what an irrepressible young woman accomplished in the neighborhood into which her family felt obliged to move for financial reasons. The street was almost as unpromising as the celebrated "Cabbage Patch," and its characters equally interesting and original. The happy common-sense of Miss Billy and the quaint sayings and doings of her new neighbors form a capital story.

"The story abounds in humor with a hint of tears and an overflowing kindness of heart bubbling over in infectious gayety."—Boston Herald.

"The book is sure to have an immense number of readers."—St. Louis Star.

"The plan of the tale is original, the conversation very bright and witty, the style smooth, and the characters true to life."—Boston Transcript.

"It is a human interest story which appeals to the heart, and at one juncture to the eyes of the sympathetic readers."—Pittsburg Chronicle Telegraph.

"'Miss Billy' is a charmingly bright, clever little story, full of spontaneous humor and frankly inspirational."—Chicago Daily News.

"This is an ideal story."—N. Y. Times.

* * * * *

The Lions of the Lord

By HARRY LEON WILSON

Author of "The Spenders." Six illustrations by Rose Cecil O'Neill, bound in dark green cloth, illustrated cover, 12mo. $1.50, postpaid.

In his romance of the old West, "The Lions of the Lord," Mr. Wilson, whose "The Spenders" is one of the successes of the present year, shows an advance in strength and grasp both in art and life. It is a thrilling tale of the Mormon settlement of Salt Lake City, with all its grotesque comedy, grim tragedy, and import to American civilization. The author's feeling for the Western scenery affords him an opportunity for many graphic pen pictures, and he is equally strong in character and in description. For the first time in a novel is the tragi-comedy of the Mormon development adequately set forth. Nothing fresher or more vital has been produced by a native novelist.

* * * * *

The Spenders

By HARRY LEON WILSON

70th Thousand

Author of "The Lions of the Lord." Red silk cloth, rough edges, picture cover. Six illustrations by Rose Cecil O'Neill. 12mo. $1.50, postpaid.

Mark Twain writes to the author: "It cost me my day yesterday. You owe me $400. But never mind, I forgive you for the book's sake."

Louisville Courier-Journal says: "If there is such a thing as the American novel of a new method, this is one. Absolutely to be enjoyed is it from the first page to the last."

Harry Thurston Peck, in the New York American, says: "The very best two books written by Americans during the past year have been 'The Spenders,' by Harry Leon Wilson, and 'The Pit,' by Frank Norris."

Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Boston