“Then let the inheritance go if it be mine only on condition that I take a wife with it,” exclaimed John Dinsmore, proudly. “I will have none of it. Never mention it to me again if you are true friends of mine and respect my feelings. I would not marry the loveliest or the richest woman the world holds. I could never look into a woman’s face with love in my heart for her, and the man who marries a woman without loving her is a villain, a rascal of the deepest dye. Heaven forbid that I should sell my honor and my manhood for such a price. Say no more about the inheritance, boys, I spurn it.”
“You have actually gone mad, Dinsmore,” cried Ballou, vehemently. “It would do for an actor on the stage to rant about wealth in that way, but in real life it is quite a different matter. One would think to hear you that you never knew what it was to want a square meal when your stories were returned with thanks, or to borrow enough from your friends to buy a paper dickey and cuffs in which to make a neat show before an editor. Bah!—don’t be a fool, I say. Take the goods the gods provide.”
“And I echo Ballou’s sentiments,” declared Jerry Gaines. “No one but a positive madman would let such a chance slip. Money can do anything, old fellow. It can purchase comfort and position, the luxury of idleness, royal good times, every enjoyment—ay, and last but not least, the hand of a beautiful woman in marriage. What more could you want?”
“I should want the heart of the woman I wedded, and money cannot buy the love of a true, good woman’s heart,” returned John Dinsmore, huskily.
As he spoke he thought of the royally beautiful creature from whom he had so lately parted on those self-same white sands, the girl to whom he had given all the love of his loyal heart, only to be scoffed at and spurned; the girl whom he had blindly believed Providence had especially given to him since the hour he had saved her life so miraculously, risking thereby the loss of his own. He had been so sure of her that he never for one instant doubted fate’s intentions, and had given himself up to his idolatrous love for her, body and soul, heart and mind.
“Say no more on the subject, good friends. You both mean well, I know, but it can never be,” said Dinsmore, earnestly. “Believe me, I know why I speak thus. Say no more to me of the inheritance. Help me to forget that it was ever in my grasp; that will be true friendship shown to me.”
“We must leave you for an hour or so to write up this gay ball and send in the sketch of it,” said Gaines, wishing Dinsmore to have plenty of time to think over his good fortune, and not to decide to cast it from him too hastily.
The “Trinity” walked slowly back to the hotel. On the veranda they parted, the two friends going in the direction of the ballroom, while Dinsmore threw himself into a chair in the shadow of one of the great pillars—to think.
How long he sat there he never knew. He was startled at length by the sound of voices. Two people had approached and seated themselves on the rustic bench on the other side of the wide pillar. A massive potted palm screened them from him, performing for him the same service, but he knew well that musical girlish voice which had the power to move his heart at will even yet. It was Queenie Trevalyn, and with her was Raymond Challoner, the handsomest of all the fast, gay set of young millionaires at Newport.
I strictly affirm, dear reader, that it was not Dinsmore’s intention to remain there and listen. He would have arisen instantly and quitted the veranda, but fate seemed to decree otherwise. He was unable to raise hand or foot or utter any sound. A terrible numbness seemed to close down upon his every faculty, holding them as in a vise.