LORD STREATHMERE'S SUIT. SIR BARRY'S CONQUEST.
"Mortgages and great relations, And Indian bonds, and tithes and rents, What are they to love's sensations?"
—Praed.
"Oh mercy! A real, live Lord to be in town, and I declare if Sir Barry Traleigh is not here, too. Hurrah for our side!"
The breakfast room is cheerful with fire and sunlight. Zoe is reading the list of hotel arrivals.
"What is the child talking about? Zoe, I trust you are not growing profane. What is that you are saying about Lord?" Aunt Adeline is busy with the breakfast arrangements, and has only caught a stray word of Zoe's exclamation.
"Father," calls the youngest Miss Litchfield, at the top of her far from low voice, "Did you know Sir Harry was here? My dear old Jet, how glad I will be to see that man."
"Not so loud, my girl," her father says from the fire where he is warming his hands. "I saw them last night, and invited them here to dinner this evening."
Aunt Adeline sniffs in an ominous manner. The Litchfield household have got to look upon that sniff of aunt Adeline's as boding no good to any new project of which it is doubtful if she will approve.
"Chickens are eighty cents a pair in the market, are you aware of it, Edward?" she asks tartly. Mr. Litchfield laughs.
"Well, my dear sister, we need not encourage their heinous demands."
"Lords and Sirs always expect every luxury, whether reasonable or otherwise, but as you have already asked them, I will have to do the best I can." Miss Adeline stalks from the room with a stern look of disapproval on her face. "Lords and Sirs indeed," she mutters. "Pray is it not all owing to Sir Barry that is making her dear Dolores go around looking so disconsolate?" She never for a moment takes into consideration that it is all Dolores own wilfulness that has made Sir Barry stay away so long.
A telegram arrives during the forenoon from uncle Dick Gray, announcing their coming that very afternoon. Dolores drives over to the station with her span of grey ponies, to meet and bring them home.
At dinner Lord Streathmere is presented to Sister Jean. Blondine, merry Blondine, his right hand neighbor at dinner, is nearly beside herself with merriment, as she watches the covert looks of admiration he casts across the table at the convent sister. Sister Jean has improved wonderfully since her arrival; gay and charming, she is almost the pretty Jantie of old. Poor Burpee, Lord Streathmere, is very badly hit; more so, perhaps, than he himself thinks. Dolores has a bad headache, and does not put in an appearance. Zoe is rather disappointed in Sir Barry, he seems so much changed since he left; not the same genial Jet who had petted and teased the youngest Miss Litchfield almost to distraction. He seemed to Zoe older and graver. After dinner Dolores comes down to the pretty drawing-room. She is looking most wonderfully sweet and gracious. Lord Streathmere is making great strides in his friendship with Sister Jean. He suddenly manifests a strong inclination about finding out the ways of life in a convent, and the wants of the poorer classes. To all this Sister Jean gives her patient attention and information.
Sir Barry is standing by the little Gipsy table, where Dolores is busy, daintily dealing out cream, and sugar, and coffee, in tiny shell-like cups. Dolores is very gracious this evening, so much so that Sir Barry is completely dazzled, and he can scarcely realize she can mean it all for his own benefit. She is wearing a dress this evening, the identical kind of a one she wore daring the last tender interview they had held together in far off sunny Nice, when Dolores had strayed down to the clear moonlit garden, and Sir Barry had almost declared himself. Dolores talks on, her soft, pleasant laugh filling up the spaces, when Sir Barry forgets to answer. A marble jar standing near is laden with mignonette and candy tuft, filling the rooms with their sweetness, making Sir Barry almost positive that the present is a dream, and that he is back in the pretty Italian garden, surrounded by the old-fashioned sweet-smelling flowers, walking by Dolores side, and listening to her gay, young voice.
"Now stupid, try, do, to keep still until I can undo this tangle you have made," says the youngest Miss Litchfield to Ned, who sits most patiently, adoringly, by Zoe's side, assisting, or detaining, the young lady to wind a skein of wool.
In spite of all aunt Adeline's corrections, her niece very frequently falls into the error of raising her voice to what Miss Adeline considers a most unladylike pitch of clearness and highness. Staring at people was another grave offence that called forth all aunt Adeline's attempts to put down. Zoe would open those wonderful grey green eyes of hers and stare at you for, it would be impossible to say what length of time. Habit, of course, but a habit that aunt Adeline's gentle "Zoe, my dear, drop your eyes, dear," failed to mend.
"I see St. James is selling out, and going to live abroad. I wonder what he purposes doing?" asks Lord Streathmere.
"I believe this climate does not agree with Mrs. St. James' health," Blondine answers quickly.
Dolores looks across the room at Ned; he catches her eye, and smiles.
"Handsome woman, I have heard," Mr. Litchfield says, from the hall where he is walking up and down.
"Who do you mean? Ah yes, Mrs. St. James; a most peculiar woman," says Sir Barry, as he comes back, after giving Mrs. Litchfield her cup of coffee.
A very great favorite is Sir Barry of Mrs. Litchfield's; she is so grateful to him for all his past goodness, and, knowing Dolores tender secret, she looks forward to Sir Barry some day gaining his heart's desire. They are a very gay party; Blondine is greatly interested in Sister Jean. She has taken a great fancy to this girl, of whom she has heard so pitiful a history. This lovely morning Blondine and Sister Jean are driving into the town to do some shopping. Pretty Blondine is always needing "trash," as she calls the hundred and one odds and ends her fancy decrees. She has declared her intention of visiting the furrier's store this particular day.
"Why, Miss Gray, what do you want of another seal jacket when you have such a beauty already?" Sister Jean asks, as the man displays the goods before Blondine's critical eyes.
"My darling, I want it for you."
"For me?" Sister Jean's pretty lips ejaculate. Nothing that she could say would make imperious Blondine change her mind.
"To please me, dear, you will take it, won't you? I have so much money I do not know how to spend it. You will not feel insulted and refuse my gift, will you?" Blondine argues in her coaxing tones.
So the gift was accepted. Sister Jean is very happy, everyone is so good to her—to her, a poor charity sister. But as far as being intimately connected for the future with the convent, they will lose one of their most staunch and zealous workers. For Lord Streathmere had very humbly and in great trepidation, asked Sister Jean to marry him.
It all seemed very impossible, but true, nevertheless, and Sister Jean? well, she was so grateful to him, and then another thing, she had learned to be very fond of impetuous, handsome Lord Streathmere. So as there was no need for delay, one pleasant sunny morning in May, pretty Jantie Mackeith became Lady Streathmere. And Burpee's meaning was very tender as well as sincere, when he whispered in Jantie's dainty ear:
"Huntingtower is mine lassie,
Huntingtower is mine Jeanie;
Huntingtower an' a' Blairgower,
And a' that's mine is thine lassie."
No one among all the throng of invited fashionables knew the bride's origin. All they knew was that it was a purely love match, very unusual in those all-for-money-days. But the poor, sick and suffering, of the convent of St. Marguerite are losing a gentle, sympathetic friend. An anonymous gift of several hundred dollars, was received by the new Mother Superior, which went to show Jantie's influence had already begun. Lord Streathmere's mother was not present at the marriage; she was in the south of France, and she dared not risk her health in our clear, cold Canadian winter. The happy couple went away immediately on an extended European tour.
"I am off to-morrow, my dear, for far off Scotish home; will you not say farewell, Miss Litchfield?"
The sun is streaming in, in all its full, glorious tints through the stained glass windows of the pretty sitting room, and falls and lingers lovingly on Dolores' head, bent over the table writing. She starts as Sir Barry speaks.
"To-morrow," she repeats, gazing at him as if his words were some foreign tongue, to her meaningless. She loves this man standing there, but her proud heart is too lofty to let such a feeling be fancied, let alone proved. And so she hides her feelings behind an icy exterior. And Sir Barry has given Dolores, his own Dolores—as he calls her passionately to himself—up almost in despair.
"Yes, it is a long time now since I have seen the dear old place, and I dare say they are requiring my presence there. I have done all I can do here, there is no need for my remaining longer, there will be no one to be sorry I am gone. Good bye, Miss Litchfield, I am sorry I have always seemed to displease you, very sorry, but when I am gone, then perhaps you may sometimes think of me kindly in my far off lonely home."
Sir Barry's voice breaks in a highly suspicious way. He is holding his hand out to Dolores; but Dolores' eyes are full of tears, she cannot see the outstretched hand. What makes her sit there, feeling so silly? What will Sir Barry think of her? She tries to throw off the strange feeling that is stealing over her senses, but Sir Barry's words were so pathetic they struck direct to Dolores' rebellious, loving heart. She drops her head on the table and weeps.
"Dolores, my darling, do you care so much that I am going?" He steps over to her side. "Is it go or stay, Dolores?" Sir Barry asks, with a peculiar catch in his clear, firm tone.
"Stay," comes the reply from the bowed head on the table, and Sir Barry stays.