But this is too much for any man to swallow. He knew the lady sitting right by the window had led the conversation to the topic they had been discussing, knowing perfectly well who was sitting outside, and would hear, whether she wished or not, what was said.
"Oh it's all right; good morning." And Sir Barry takes his hat and is gone. Mrs. St. James bites her scarlet lips in vexation, and hopes Sir Barry has gone to thoroughly digest what was said. And Dolores—poor Dolores—she is in her room, sobbing her heart out. Who can realize what her feelings are, to be thus rudely awakened to the knowledge that there hung over their family a dark cloud, some dreadful story about the beloved mother, whom Zoe and she had so often mourned as dead?
To be sure no tombstone marked her grave in the pretty shady cemetery at home. Aunt Adeline said their mother was dead, and that, to their minds, was proof enough, for was Auntie ever known to tell them a falsehood? Since she had grown up, the desire to have her mother, like the other girls around, had often possessed her. But to hear this woman tell Sir Barry that her mother had gone away and left her home and family! Believe it indeed! No! Certainly she could never look on the sweet, grave pictured face hanging in its massive frame of gilt, over the drawing room mantle at home, and believe that the original could commit any act that would make her children blush when they heard the name of their mother.
Probably had Arial St. James known how deeply her words had wounded Dolores, she would have been very sorry. Not a bad woman at heart, but she spoke without thinking. Another thing, she had but repeated to Sir Barry the story which every one knew at the time it happened. "A guilty conscience needs no accusing," as has often been said before. When Dolores turned her back on being presented to Mrs. St. James, it was because she could not bring herself to treat with any show of civility a woman who could treat her child so unkindly. Mrs. St. James attributed it to a wholly different cause. Two years ago she and her husband had come to Italy. Arial was charmed with the place, and when Mr. St. James proposed returning home, his wife declined to go. So he, as usual, let her have her own way, and left her and Roy, then an uninteresting, sickly little infant of only a few months old. Arial was not much of a person to write letters, so Mr. St. James, working away among his law books, heard very seldom from his wife, and knew very little of the way she employed her time. Sometimes the thought would flash across his busy brain that he would like to see his son. But Arial never mentioned the child's name, and Mr. St. James, thinking women were queer fish, came to the conclusion that the baby must have died in its infancy, and as perhaps it might hurt his wife's feelings, he never mentioned the child's name to her. But contrary to his ideas the baby did live, grew strong and flourishing, and little Roy was the favorite of all in the large crowded hotel. But in spite of his beautiful dresses, sashes, white kid slippers, dainty feathered hats, and little lace bonnets, still, for all those desirable things, the poor Italian peasant women followed the pretty, dark, curly headed lad, with deep pity in their dark lustrous eyes—for the Italians love their children with a deep passionate devotion almost amounting to idolatry. But the little white frocked, blue sashed English boy, Roy, had no loving mother to caress and love him. Mrs. St. James considered it time wasted to make a fuss over children. She never talked to her little son, nor played with him; she was proud of his beautiful face, and was not ashamed to call him her son. She considered she was doing her duty by him in providing a suitable nurse; he had everything he wanted, what more was required? And yet night after night he has cried himself to sleep, because his mother has passed his nursery door, and never "come to kiss Roy good night." Every one knew in the respect of affection she did her son a great wrong.
This was the conclusion Mrs. St. James came to—somebody had told Dolores that she neglected her child; and, be it said, Arial respected this girl, who dared to show her feelings. A good many older people than Dolores did not approve of Mrs. St. James' actions, but they held their tongues, made much of the lively English lady, and Arial enjoyed her power in her far Italian home.
Out on the beach, romping among the dancing waves, and having a good time generally, are Dolores and little Roy; much to Blondine's amusement; she is too lazy to take any part in the programme; all Blondine can do is to sit on a high boulder and laugh gaily at the two sea nymphs disporting themselves to their evident satisfaction. Roy and his "Dolly" are fast, firm friends; he cannot enjoy anything unless Dolores is present. Mrs. St. James, as long as the child keeps out of her way, does not take the bother to care who he is with. So many pleasant hours are spent in each other's company. Blondine says "Dolores cannot say she never had one staunch champion," and Roy declares he is going to marry his pretty Dolly as soon as ever he gets to be a "big man."
Coming along the sands, with his dog at his heels, is Sir Barry. He greets the ladies, and sends the dog in the water, to Roy's delight. When he appears Dolores immediately freezes. It is a never ending source of wonder to Blondine, what in the name of sense has Sir Barry ever done that Dolores treats him as she does.
"They are arranging a party to go and spend a couple of days or so at Monaco. Are any of you going?" Sir Barry asks, in his cheery voice.
"How delightful!" cries Blondine, starting up from her seat and brushing the sand off her blue flannel dress. Very bewitching she is looking in her blue gown and scarlet cap; and Blondine has the gift to know she looks pretty. "I do wonder if uncle Dick will go? I hope, oh how I hope he will; I am dying to go."
Dolores throws sticks in the water, to see the dog bring them out.