COXE AND WILLOUGHBY
Counsellors at law
He opened the door, and found himself in an outer office in which behind a rail were two foppish-looking clerks seated at desks. Neither of them made an attempt to move when Armitage entered, but continued their animated discussion of a game of baseball they had witnessed the previous day. Armitage hit the rail lightly with his hand to attract their attention, and finally one of the clerks condescended to get up and come and ask what the caller wanted.
"I wish to see a member of the firm," said Armitage.
The clerk looked him over from head to toe. He had been trained to judge people by their clothes, and there was something unconventional about Armitage's attire that appealed to his sense of humor. He turned to his fellow clerk and gave him the wink, whereupon the other laughed.
"In relation to what?" he demanded, wondering what possible business this ordinary workingman could have with his employer.
Armitage was puzzled for a moment as to how he should announce himself. Then an idea occurred to him. Taking from his pocket the advertisement which he had clipped from the paper the night before, he handed it to the clerk, saying:
"Say that a gentleman has called in answer to this advertisement."
"A 'gentleman,' did you say?" demanded the clerk insolently.
He looked first at the advertisement and then at Armitage. A look of blank astonishment which came over his face was succeeded by one of utter incredulity. Leaving the rail, he went over to his fellow clerk and whispered something to him, and they both snickered.
Armitage tried to be patient, but he was fast losing his temper. He did not like the clerk's supercilious manner. In another minute he would vault over that rail, and some one's head would get punched. Finally he said impatiently:
"Are you going to take that in to a member of the firm or must I do it myself?"
The clerk looked up, and he was about to make some impertinent retort when he suddenly thought better of it. There was a look in Armitage's eye that he did not like. Crossing the office, he disappeared through a glass door. A moment later he reappeared and, unfastening the rail gate, said in more respectful tones:
"Mr. Willoughby will see you at once, sir."
He ushered him into a spacious, well-lighted and handsomely furnished room. An elderly man of legal appearance was writing at a table littered with documents. He rose as Armitage entered, and courteously waved him to a chair. In his hand he held the advertisement, and while he twisted it nervously in his fingers he scrutinized his caller closely through his glasses.
"You wish to see me, Sir. What can I do for you?" he began.
"No," replied Armitage quickly. "You wished to see me. I came in answer to that advertisement."
The lawyer came nearer, and his scrutiny became keener.
"Oh, yes—I see. May I ask in what way this advertisement interests you?"
"Only that I'm John Armitage—that's all."
Mr. Willoughby started, and, taking out his handkerchief nervously, wiped his face. As much as any lawyer allows himself to show emotion, he betrayed surprise. He came still closer and, peering into his visitor's face, said:
"You? You are John Armitage?"
He looked at his visitor's dress, noticed his clumsy thick-soled boots, soiled jacket and trousers, and he shook his head incredulously.
"The world's full of impostors," he muttered to himself, "but we lawyers are too much for them." Aloud he repeated: "You are John Armitage?"
"Yes—I am John Armitage, formerly of Alnwick Tower, Bucks, England."
Hurrying back to his desk, the old lawyer opened a drawer and took from it a faded photograph. Holding it so that Armitage could not see it, he stood comparing the portrait with the living man before him.
"Same face!" he murmured. "Older—more serious expression, but same shaped head—same features." Aloud he added: "If, as you say, you are John Armitage, you have, of course, some way of identifying yourself. You see we have to be very careful."
Armitage laughed.
"I don't happen to have a passport," he said. "When I left England some fifteen years ago I didn't think I'd require one. But I've a mark on my left arm, a rough tattooing of the Armitage crest, which I did in my foolish boyhood days. And I have some letters which my mother wrote me after I left home. Those I've treasured. I let everything else go, but her letters I kept." Placing his hand over his heart, he added: "They're here."
As Mr. Willoughby grew more and more interested he became more and more nervous.
"Let me see them," he said impatiently.
Armitage opened his vest and drawing forth a small package of yellow-stained letters tied with a bit of ribbon, he handed them over.
"I guess we have no secrets from you," he said. "You may read them."
Mr. Willoughby untied the package, opened a letter and glanced hurriedly at the handwriting and signature. Then he handed them back.
"That's enough," he cried. "That's enough." Starting forward, he extended his hand.
"My dear Sir John—allow me to congratulate you!"
Armitage felt himself grow pale. He rose from his chair.
"You mean that my father——" he exclaimed.
The lawyer looked grave.
"Your father, Sir William, is dead——"
"But my elder brother, Charles?" stammered Armitage. "He succeeded to the title and estates—not I."
"Your brother Charles," replied the lawyer solemnly, "was killed in an automobile accident five years ago."
Armitage sank into a chair and burying his face in his hands burst into tears. That his father had died without forgiving him was bad enough, but that Charlie, his old pal, should have died years ago without his knowing it, was terrible!
"Poor Charlie! Poor Charlie!" he murmured.
"When your brother was dying," went on the lawyer, "he summoned your heart-broken father to his bedside and made him promise to forgive you, to make every effort to discover your whereabouts, and to make a will in your favor. They advertised for you in the London and colonial papers. We advertised for you in the American papers. We received no answer. And now your father has passed away. You are the sole heir. As the estates are entailed, you would have succeeded to the estates as a matter of course, but your father died forgiving you fully and leaving you sufficient income to keep up the title. Sir John, I again congratulate you on succeeding to an old and honored title and an income of little less than $100,000 a year."
Armitage listened like a man who is dazed. It had all come so suddenly that he thought he must be dreaming.
"When did my father die—of what?" he asked in a low tone.
"Of heart failure—three weeks ago," was the rejoinder. "We've been trying to find you ever since. They followed you as far as the London docks, and then all trace of you was lost. Where have you been all these years?"
The lawyer noted his new client's sun-tanned face, and he looked askance at his workman's dress.
"Knocking about the world—trying to forget things," replied Armitage.
Mr. Willoughby shook his head as he said:
"Young men will do foolish things! Well, you've had your lesson. Perhaps you'll be a better man for the hard time you've had. The past is dead and forgotten. A bright future is before you. What do you propose to do now?"
Armitage seemed lost in thought.
"I don't know. I haven't had time to think."
"Have you any ties here? Are you married?"
Armitage smiled.
"No, who would have me—a pauper?"
Mr. Willoughby carefully adjusted his spectacles and said decisively:
"Well, then, you had better start for England at once and take possession of your property under the will and entail. There will be a number of legal formalities to go through. I will advise our London office that you are coming. This is Tuesday. Could you sail on the Florida next Saturday?"
"I can," replied Armitage quickly.
The lawyer went to his desk and sat down to write. A moment later he returned with a piece of paper in his hand. Holding it out, he said:
"Of course you can't go dressed as you are. Here's a check for $1,000. It will pay your passage and your immediate needs. When you arrive in England, you can, of course, draw on our London office for all you want. You had better hurry now to book your passage and buy some clothes, and this evening if you have nothing else to do I shall be delighted if you'll dine with me at the Union League Club."
He touched a bell, and the supercilious clerk entered. By the sneer on his face, he evidently expected that he had been summoned to eject the rough-looking visitor. To his astonishment, he saw his employer shaking hands with him.
Mr. Willoughby accompanied Armitage into the outer office.
"Good-by, Sir John," he said cordially. "I'm delighted to have made your acquaintance. Don't forget to-night. Union League Club, at 7 o'clock."
The two clerks nearly swooned from amazement and consternation. As Armitage went down in the elevator he pinched himself to find out if he was awake.
When he emerged into Broad Street he was surprised to find how different everything looked to him. The world had suddenly taken on another aspect. The sunshine seemed brighter. Every man and woman he met seemed more amiable and friendly. The whole world seemed gayer, more joyous. He felt within him a strange novel sensation of exhilaration. His moodiness, his pessimism had disappeared. He felt imbued with new life and energy, as if he could go forth and conquer a world. From less than nothing to a title and $100,000 a year is a jump big enough to daze any man.
Suddenly he thought of Grace. If only he had received this news a few weeks before! Things might have been very different. Well, what was the use of torturing himself any longer? She was lost to him now—no matter how changed his circumstances and position.
He stood still, at the edge of the curb, irresolute, not knowing what to do next. Putting his hand in his pocket to feel if the check was still there, he drew it out to look at it. It was drawn on the Chemical Bank and payable to bearer. A thousand dollars! He had never seen so much money in his life. It was a question if they wouldn't arrest him as a suspicious character when he presented it for payment. However, there was no time to be lost. He must get the check cashed at once, buy an outfit and secure his steamship passage.
After some difficulty he found the Chemical Bank, opposite the Post-Office. It was a splendid building with a lofty dome of stained glass, reminding him of a church. Making his way to the paying-teller's window, he handed in the check. The teller, a gaunt, keen-eyed man with spectacles, looked first at the check and then at Armitage. The latter's appearance did not seem to fit the amount of money the check called for, and a suspicious look came over his face. Eyeing the bearer severely, he demanded sternly:
"Where did you get this?"
"From the man who drew it, of course," replied Armitage coolly. "Let me have it in fifties and hundreds!"
Instead of complying with the request, the teller quickly touched an electric bell. It was evidently a signal, for instantly a special policeman attached to the Bank came up and took up a position near Armitage. He made no attempt to interfere, but just remained on hand in case he was wanted. Meantime the teller was already in telephonic communication with Coxe and Willoughby.
"Is this Coxe and Willoughby?" asked the teller.
"This is Mr. Willoughby," came the answer.
"Have you drawn to-day a check for $1,000 payable to bearer?"
"I have."
"What does the bearer look like?"
"Tall, dark man, smooth face, dressed like a workingman. It's all right. Pay it at once. Good day."
That was enough. The teller returned to his little window. Dismissing the uniformed attendant, he turned to Armitage and in a tone as if he had never for a moment doubted the genuineness of the check, asked suavely:
"Fifties and hundreds, I think you said, Sir."
Rapidly counting out the bills, he passed them through the little opening and turned to attend to the next man on the line.
Armitage slowly folded up bills, a grim smile of satisfaction. He had enjoyed the situation hugely.
"Now for my steamship passage!" he muttered to himself.
Turning to the right as he re-entered Broadway, he walked about a mile in the direction of the Battery until he came to Bowling Green, where the steamship companies have their offices. Conspicuous on the left-hand side were the palatial offices of the Blue Star Line. As he went up the imposing stone steps leading to the passenger booking-rooms, he thought bitterly under what different conditions he had last visited these offices. Then it was to sign articles as stoker on the Atlanta.
He entered the room devoted exclusively to first cabin business, and a clerk, quick to notice his shabby appearance, spoke up impatiently:
"Can't you read? This is first cabin. Steerage and second cabin on the other side of the hall."
Armitage gave the clerk a look that made the latter wish he had left the caller alone.
"Who asked you for any information?" he demanded, pretending wrath he did not feel.
"This is only first class," repeated the clerk peevishly, but not without feeling some respect to his interlocutor's massive shoulders.
"I don't care whether it's first class or tenth class," growled Armitage. "Let me see the plan of the Florida."
The clerk gasped as he laid the plan before him.
"The lowest in this ship is $150 a berth—two in a room," he said, in a tone as if he expected this would quickly settle the matter.
"Two in a room—not for mine," said Armitage jovially. "I want something comfortable. How's this?" he added, pointing to a berth.
"Single berth room—$400," said the clerk blandly.
"I'll take it," replied the new passenger. Peeling off four 100-dollar bills from the bank-roll, he threw them before the astonished clerk.
"What name, sir?" he asked, more respectfully.
"Sir John Armitage."
The clerk's hand shook so with surprise and nervousness that he dropped the book-plan on the floor.
Leaving the steamship offices, Armitage proceeded along Broadway, chuckling. How sweet was the power of money! Now he would be able to wield this power, to enslave men as they had enslaved him. Yet in the midst of this new-found joy, he knew there was something still lacking. He was haunted by a pair of dark eyes, lips that had trembled with passion he alone had awakened. What good was his money, his new-found power, if it would not give him the woman he wanted. Engaged to that spendthrift princeling, she was entirely lost to him. She had sold herself, and he tried to persuade himself that he despised her for it.
Yet how could he go away without saying good-by? It was different when everything looked hopeless, when his social standing was immeasurably beneath hers. He would never have subjected himself to a snub, and he had avoided her for that reason. He knew it would pain her to snub him, yet she would be compelled to do so. It would only have meant more suffering for him. But now it was different. He was more than her equal socially. In fact, he was her social superior. He could not go away without saying good-by. There could never be anything between them. She was going to marry the other fellow and satisfy her ambition to be a member of a royal house. Yet for all that they were still good friends.
He wondered how he could see her. The best way probably was to write her a letter, telling her he was sailing immediately and asking for an interview. He would say nothing about his accession to the title, but just that his condition had changed for the better. This revealed nothing, and yet would account for his better clothes and possession of funds.
A firm of ready-made clothiers speedily fitted him with a neat business suit and furnished all the other things he required. When the transformation was complete with a clean shave and hair cut, he did not recognize himself in the mirror.
That night he took rooms at the Waldorf, and after enjoying a good dinner with Mr. Willoughby at the Union League Club, he returned to the hotel, sitting down in the reading-room, he wrote Grace a letter.
CHAPTER XXII.
New York City, Tuesday.
Dear Miss Harmon: You will perhaps consider this letter an impertinence, and yet you may not—under the circumstances. When the other day I called at your house, at your father's request, Mr. Harmon asked me to go up-stairs to see you. It was impossible for me at that time to accept his kind invitation. You will understand why. Since then, however, a change for the better has taken place in my affairs. The outlook is no longer so hopeless. I am leaving America. I sail on Saturday.
I cannot go without saying good-by. I have read in the newspapers about your coming marriage to the Prince of Eurasia. I sincerely hope that this realization of your life's ambition will bring the happiness you expect.
No matter what the future may have in store for me, the recollection of those all too few weeks we spent alone in close association on Hope Island will never grow dim in my memory. I can never forget you or the dream of supreme happiness that I once thought within my grasp. The signal fire is now dead and cold on Mount Hope's lofty summit, but another flame as bright and fierce, which you yourself kindled, will continue to blaze in my heart while life endures. I know that you are forever lost to me, I know that another will call you wife, yet night and day I am haunted by the memory of that mad afternoon on the sun-kissed sands when, almost crazed with passion, I seized you in my arms to take you for my own. Then, all at once, came the rude awakening!
But all that is past and gone. I steel my heart to try and forget what I had won and lost again. I will leave you in peace to enjoy your new happiness. You will never see or hear from me after I leave New York. Yet I would like to see you just once more, to grasp your hand and wish you well. We were always friends, and for one brief moment we were almost lovers. May I call on Thursday afternoon?
Yours sincerely,
John Armitage.
Ensconced in the big bay window of the library, comfortably propped up with cushions, Grace sat gazing pensively over the tree tops of Central Park. In her hand was Armitage's letter, which she had read and reread a dozen times until she knew every word by heart. Close by, impatiently tossed against a chair, was a magnificent floral basket which Prince Sergius had sent that morning. Attached to the basket by a white ribbon was an envelope—unopened. The perfume from the flowers scented the entire room, but Grace seemed to be unconscious of their presence. She kept looking out of the window as if expecting each instant to see some one appear on the Avenue. Every now and then she consulted her watch.
"Ten minutes past three!" she murmured. "I wrote that I should expect him at three. Perhaps he never got my letter."
A look of worry came over her face, and she was straining her eyes in an effort to distinguish far-away figures on the avenues when the door opened and her French maid entered. Grace looked up.
"What is it, Louise?" she asked.
"Ze telephone, Mademoiselle. His Royal Highness want to know if you are at home."
"Did you say I was home?"
"Mais non, Mademoiselle. I said I would see if Mademoiselle was in."
Grace left her place by the window and paced nervously up and down the room.
"Tell His Royal Highness that I'm out," she said. With a gesture of impatience she added: "Say I've gone out to dinner and won't be back until late. Vous comprenez?"
The girl curtsied.
"Mais oui, Mademoiselle."
She was leaving the room when Grace called her back.
"Take these flowers away, too. Their strong perfume makes me nervous."
Elevating her eyebrows as if to convey that she quite understood the situation, the maid took up the floral-basket and disappeared.
Grace resumed her vigil at the window, watching eagerly every one who came in sight along the avenue, wondering if each newcomer was the one man who was in her thoughts.
She was annoyed with herself for having betrayed herself before the servant. Yet surely they could all see that she detested the Prince, and that she was only marrying him for his lofty position. It had been the ambition of her life, her father approved it, her friends envied her, the papers were full of the splendors of the wonderful Eurasian palace of which she would one day be mistress. How could she resist? Yet how they must all despise her for selling herself!
Once more she took up Armitage's letter and read it through. She wondered why he was leaving America and what the change for the better of which he spoke could be. No doubt he had been successful in securing more congenial employment. She was sincerely glad to hear it. She would remember him always.
She wondered why life was so contrary, so cruel. The one man she could have loved truly, sincerely, was too poor for her to marry, too far beneath her in the social scale. Suppose she braved everything for his sake, what then? It would break her father's heart. All her friends would laugh at her. The world would ostracise her. No—it was an impossible dream. She owed something to her position. Her own happiness must be sacrificed to please others. Angry, defiant yet powerless to resist the laws of the society she moved in, she rebelled at the injustice and cruelty of it.
Suddenly the bell at the front door rang. She heard voices, followed by steps on the stairs. A footman appeared on the library threshold.
"Mr. Armitage has called to see Miss Harmon."
Grace advanced, nervous.
"Ask Mr. Armitage to come up."
The servant withdrew, and Grace crossed hastily to the mirror to see if everything about herself was as she wanted him to see it. A moment later she heard some one enter the room behind her. It was Armitage. She turned and greeted him with a smile, extending her hand, which for a moment he held firmly in his.
She hardly knew him, so altered was he in appearance. He wore a neat business suit, with derby hat and gloves. His hair trimmed and carefully brushed, was more wavy and glossy than usual, and a close shave threw into still greater relief the academic outline of his features. The change was so remarkable that at first she hardly recognized him. But when she heard the familiar rich tones of his deep, manly voice, no further doubt was possible.
"I've come to say good-by," he said, with a smile.
"What a change!" she exclaimed, with an effort to appear light-hearted and at ease.
He made no answer for a moment, embarrassed as to what to say. Then he replied:
"Yes—I do look a little different, don't I? It's wonderful what clothes will do. No wonder they are the world's only standard!"
"Come and sit here and tell me about it."
She led the way to the low recess at the bay-window, and, sinking down on the cushions, she motioned him to take a seat opposite.
"Tell me," she repeated, "what good fairy has worked this transformation?"
He smiled as he replied:
"Things have changed a little for the better."
"You mean that you have found more lucrative and congenial employment?"
He hesitated, not willing to lie to her. Yet, after all, it was the truth. His new position was decidedly more lucrative.
"Yes," he replied, after a pause. "More lucrative—more congenial."
Grace was puzzled. His answers were vague. He was hiding something from her. Perhaps he thought her questions impertinent. After all, what right had she to question him?
"I'm pleased—for your sake," she answered, rather haughtily.
Armitage was quick to notice the difference in her tone, and intuitively he divined the reason.
"For my sake?" he echoed. "Why should you care?"
"I shall always be glad to hear that you are prospering and—happy," she answered.
He looked into her eyes without speaking. There was a melancholy, wistful expression in his face. He seemed to want to say something and did not dare. Embarrassed by the continuity of his fixed gaze, she averted her head and looked out of the window over into the park, where the nurses and children were playing on the green lawns. There was a silence that was almost painful. At last he broke it.
"You will be happy," he said. "One day you will be a Princess!"
Grace sighed. With a forced laugh she said:
"Happiness! What is happiness? We are always pursuing it, we think we've found it, only to find it empty and unreal, after all."
"You're happy, aren't you?" he persisted.
For a moment she made no answer. Then she said:
"Yes—I suppose I am."
"When do you expect to get married?" he asked.
"I don't know—nothing is settled—perhaps never——"
She laughed nervously. There was something in the tone of her voice that sounded like a stifled sob.
Armitage watched her closely. This was not the way a happy woman acts or talks. Could it be that she did not care for the Prince, that she was forcing herself in this ambitious marriage in spite of her own better, truer self? Certainly the man was unworthy of her. The escapades and scandals in which he had been mixed up were the talk of Europe. She must be aware of his real character, or was she completely blinded by the brilliancy of his position? His heart throbbed furiously as he thought that he had perhaps guessed the truth.
He wondered if it would make any difference if he told her everything, of the miraculous change in his fortune, that he was no longer a penniless outcast of society, but the bearer of one of the proudest titles in England. That's why he hesitated. It might make a difference, and that he didn't want. If after being told of the change in his position she consented to marry him, he would always suspect that it was for his title. No, if he was to win her he was determined that she should love him for himself. The thought that there was still a possibility of making her his wife had never presented itself until now. On the desert island, remote from the conventions of civilized life, bound only by nature's laws, he had claimed her as his chattel, his primordial right. He was the lord and master whose will she must obey without question. But now, restored to the protection of civilization, she was free to exercise her own will, and it had never occurred to him that, of all the men who had courted her, she might have chosen him from preference. Such a possibility was beyond his most fantastic dreams. Yet, after all, why not?
Breaking the long and awkward silence, he said:
"Have you quite recovered from your experience on Hope Island?"
"Yes—I'm all right now," she replied quickly.
"You're more comfortable, at any rate," he smiled, glancing around at the oriental rugs, books and costly objets d'art with which the luxuriously furnished room was littered. "I suppose you're glad to be home."
She shook her head, and a wistful smile came into her face as she answered:
"Sometimes I wish I were back there. Now that I've returned, it's the same social treadmill again—the same exhausting round of teas, receptions, dinners, and all the rest, hearing women talk nothing but dress and scandal and bridge until you begin to think there is nothing else in the world worth discussing. It's nauseating. When I think of those ideal days on the little island—the life of perfect peace under the cool trees by the silver sea—doing cheerfully each day's allotted task, helping you as best I could—when I think of how happy I was leading that lonely peaceful existence, I'm almost sorry we were rescued."
A glad smile broke over his face. His eyes flashed and his mouth trembled slightly as he eagerly bent forward.
"Really?" he said. "You were happier then?"
She flushed and then turned pale. He hardly heard the low answer that came from her lips:
"I don't know."
His steady gaze embarrassed her. She was afraid that he might read the secret which lay deep in her heart. Rising abruptly from her seat by the window, she crossed the room, stopping near a side table to arrange some American beauty roses in a vase. Armitage rose and followed her.
"Tell me," he persisted eagerly. "Were you happier then than you are now?"
"Suppose we change the subject," she said hastily, without turning round. "Let us talk about you and your plans. So you're going to England?"
He nodded gravely.
"I sail on Saturday. I came to say good-by."
Grace nervously plucked one of the roses and crushed its soft, perfumed petals against her face. Her head still averted, she said: "But you'll come back?"
"No—never," he replied firmly.
She made no reply, and, as he could not see her face, he did not know that tears were in her eyes and that her lips were trembling. She could not speak without betraying her feelings. An awkward silence followed.
Armitage stood watching her. This girl loved him—he was convinced of that now. Only her pride was keeping them apart. A struggle for the mastery was going on within her, between her artificial self and her true self. One word from him and she would know that she had no reason to be ashamed of the man to whom she had given her love; that, on the contrary, she might be proud to be his wife. But that one word he was determined not to speak. He owed that much to his manhood, to his self-respect. This would be the crucial test. If she loved him, it must be for himself alone, not for his title. If he won her, he would proudly carry off the prize of two New York seasons—he, penniless, unknown, to all appearances an ordinary workman!
He moved forward so he could see her face.
"We've been good friends," he went on. "I can never forget you. You made a new man of me. You came into my life at a time when everything seemed at an end. Your sweet, gentle influence filled me with renewed hope, renewed energy, a determination to begin life anew. Suddenly, I discovered that you were indispensable to my happiness. In my folly I dreamed that you might become my wife. Perhaps if things had turned out otherwise, if the Saucy Polly had not come—— Well, what's the use of talking of that now? I was insane. I lifted my eyes to the stars. I deserved to be punished for my temerity."
Grace did not stir. Fascinated, she stood listening to his words. There was sadness in his voice, and the music of its rich tones still exercised on her its old-time magnetism. What potent attraction was there about this man that rendered her powerless to resist his pleading? Was she afraid to confess to herself that she loved him and that she was ready to do anything, break off with the Prince, incur the ridicule of her friends, offend her father—for his sake?
Armitage continued:
"But that is all over now. We part good friends. You go your way—I will go mine. You will find happiness with the Prince——"
Grace turned quickly. Her eyes red and flashing, her bosom heaving with pent-up emotion, she cried:
"The Prince! The Prince! I detest the Prince! I wouldn't marry him if there wasn't another man left in the world."
Armitage drew back, surprised.
"Aren't you engaged to him?" he demanded.
"No—no! That is only newspaper talk. He has been annoying me with his attentions, and of course all my people were flattered. But there's nothing more serious."
"Thank God!" he muttered under his breath.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"I'm glad—for your sake," was his evasive answer.
He approached closer and held out his hand.
"Good-by," he said in a low tone.
Again she averted her head, and as she did so she stumbled against the table. Afraid she was going to fall, he caught her by the hand. Their hands remained clasped. She made no attempt to withdraw. He grew bolder and went still nearer. A strange sensation of sudden weakness came over her. She felt as if her will-power was about to succumb before a superior mental force. She loved this man. He was the first and only man she had ever cared for, and she was losing him. Her eyes filled with tears. What had she done that the happiness which other women know should not be granted also to her?
"Good-by!" he said again.
She made no answer. Bending forward to catch a glimpse of her face, he saw traces of tears.
"What?" he exclaimed. "You are crying!"
"Am I?" she said quickly, making a desperate effort to hide her face. "How foolish!"
"Why are you crying?" he demanded.
"I'm nervous, I think. I have not yet quite recovered from the wreck."
He looked at her, trying to read her innermost thoughts. She met his gaze unflinchingly.
"Is that the reason, or is there another?" Drawing her gently to him, he said:
"You are unhappy— I know you are—— You are allowing your pride to stand in the way of your happiness. I have no right to blame you. You are free to do as you think is right. Only I am sorry for you—sorrier for you than I am for myself. Good-by. May God bless and protect you. Just one kind word, one smile before I go. We may never see each other again."
His voice trembled and grew husky. Manlike, he was ashamed of showing emotion; he was anxious to get away before he lost control of himself. He left her standing there, took his hat and gloves and went toward the door. She stood motionless watching him going, powerless to utter the word that would stay him. The color left her face. She grew ashen pale. Her entire being trembled with suppressed emotion.
At the door he turned round for the last time.
"Good-by—God bless you!" he said.
"Wait—just a moment—just a moment!" she cried desperately.
The spell seemed broken. She made a movement forward, her hand outstretched. There was a wild look of mute appeal in her eyes.
"You are going alone," she demanded, her breath coming and going in quick spasmodic gasps.
"Yes—alone."
"NO—YOU'RE NOT! I'M GOING WITH YOU."
"No—no—you're not!" she cried, advancing toward him.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"Because I'm going with you!"
The next instant she was in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder.
"Going with me?" he exclaimed hoarsely. He thought he must be dreaming. Does such happiness as this come to a man so suddenly?
"Yes," she whispered; "as your wife—to the end of the world if necessary."
"But have you considered everything—your father—your friends—the uncertain future?"
"I've weighed everything. I knew that I loved you all along. I struggled with my pride, and I've mastered it. My father will forgive me when he knows that I am happy. As to what society thinks, I don't care."
"But are you willing to marry a poor man—are you willing to sacrifice all the luxuries you now enjoy for what may be a precarious existence with me?"
She looked up at him, her face radiant.
"I'd give up everything for you. Wealth does not bring happiness. I've found that out. I did not know what happiness was until I spent those blissful days with you on Hope Island. I'll welcome poverty if I am to share it with you. We can live in a cottage, on nothing a year, and I'll still be the happiest woman on earth."
He clasped her in his strong arms and fiercely kissed her unresisting lips. Here was a woman that any man might rejoice to call wife, and he had won her by love alone.
"It isn't as bad as all that, dearest," he said, with a smile.
"What do you mean?" she demanded, puzzled.
"There is no immediate danger of your having to live any differently."
Grace opened her eyes in amazement.
"What do you mean?" she repeated. "My father may be so incensed that he won't give me anything."
Armitage smiled.
"We wouldn't take it if he did. We wouldn't need to. I have plenty of my own."
Grace was more and more mystified.
"Are you jesting?" she exclaimed.
"Not in the least. Didn't I tell you there had been a change for the better in my fortunes?"
"Yes, but——"
Taking fondly once more in his arms the girl he had won, he whispered:
"That's why I—that's why we—are going to England, dearest. My father, Sir William Armitage, died three weeks ago. I am heir to the title and estates."
"I always thought you were more than you seemed," she murmured. Looking up at him mischievously, she added: "So you deceived me— I marry a title, after all?"
He looked down proudly at her as he replied with his frank smile:
"But I wooed you as a poor man. You are mine—by right of conquest!"