MISS HILDRETH.

A Novel.

BY A. DE GRASSE STEVENS,

AUTHOR OF "OLD BOSTON," "THE LOST DAUPHIN,"
"WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE," ETC.

In Three Volumes.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1888.

[All rights reserved.]

Copyright by A. de Grasse Stevens, 1888.

TO MY ONLY SISTER,
MRS. FRANK H. EVANS,
I Dedicate this Book.

Dreams, books are each a world; and books we know
Are a substantial world, both pure and good;
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Wordsworth.

CONTENTS.

MISS HILDRETH.

CHAPTER I.

A LETTER.

"The Red House,
"Benton's Station, New Hampshire,
"April, 188—.

"My Friend,

"A clever Frenchman once said, 'On revient toujours à ses premiers amours.' Let us suppose this to have been said of a woman who, in her first youth, had loved a man and jilted him, and then, after many years and much sorrow, her heart returned again to him with a love and constancy unknown before. Cannot the past teach you to read between the lines? I did not write to you of my engagement; but now that it is over, and I am free, I find myself instinctively seeking the old shelter of your friendship, which at one time was never denied me; appealing to the old sympathy to which I then never appealed in vain. Are you astonished—surprised? I am not. In those old days—whose glory is not yet faded, over whose memory 'Requiescant in pace' has not yet been written—I came to you at all times, and you refused me nothing save one thing—once. So now I creep back to the old refuge, and bid you fold down the cere-cloth from our dead past, and see if still, after all these years, it does not look somewhat fair; if still there does not cling to it the memory of those old days; of blue skies, bluer waters, sweet roses, sweeter vows, bright sunshine, brighter promises! My marriage engagement is broken, Philip. Why? I can give no reason. He was all that the world calls worthy, and I believe he loved me; yet I found him wanting. Memory is a rare and delusive beautifier, and my memory is sadly tenacious of the past; therefore I am free. I could not be dishonest to him, even though I would. Yes, I am free, and I am writing you after years of silence. I wonder will you smile over this half-confession, and say, 'Impetuous as ever!' or will you understand, and, so understanding, send me the answer I desire? But should you choose to misconstrue my words, I can but say that I have wished to be honest, however late in the day. Write to me, Philip, or better, come to me. After all, I am but a woman, and a very weak one.

"Patricia."

This was the letter that awaited Philip Tremain on his breakfast-table, one bright spring morning of that most fickle, yet most beautiful month, April. Even as he entered the room he became aware of its subtle presence made known to him by its faint, dead odour of violets; consequently it caused him no great shock of surprise to find the large, square envelope, sealed with the device of a lighted candle and a silly moth, and the motto "Delusion" below a monogram; with the firm handwriting forming his name and address looking up at him from its dainty surroundings of silver and damask. As the face of a once dearly loved friend, neglected yet not forgotten, comes back to one from out the mists of memory, recalled unexpectedly by some trivial circumstance—a strain of music, a line of poetry, a faded flower.

Time was when each succeeding morning of Mr. Tremain's life, the early post brought a similar letter, but in those days his manner of receiving it differed exceedingly from this greeting. Then, he would take it up tenderly, holding it for a few moments before his longing eyes, and perhaps—for he was young and very adoring—raise it to his lips before he broke the seal—which in those days was not a cynical candle and blind moth, but a true lover's knot, with a French sentiment intertwined.

Now he eyed it askance for a second or more before he lifted it, and then after balancing it lightly on his open palm, put it down unopened, made his tea, buttered his toast, and opened his newspaper; nor did he glance towards it again until, his breakfast finished, his cigar alight, sitting in the sunshine that flooded his apartment, he took it up and broke the seal.

Various emotions passed over his face as he read. Surprise, half anger, half scorn, and lastly, as he came to the final lines, a quiver of pity or tenderness softened the stern outlines of forehead and lips. He laid the open letter on his knee, and as he sat motionless, the increasing noise of the shrill street cries, and the echo of commencing traffic bespoke the reawakening of the great city to one more day of toil and strife and unrest, passed by him unheeded.

A breath of the past was mingled with the present, and bore along with it the scent of fresh grass, a mingled perfume of fruit and flowers, a vision of flowing muslin draperies, a lithe, graceful figure, dark, lustreless hair crowning a proud little head, eyes of deepest violet shaded by black, pencilled brows and lashes, a face whose almost dusky colouring flushed in an instant into richest carmine when deeply moved.

Ten years had gone by since Philip Tremain, a young barrister struggling for briefs, idle, clever, lazy, and cursed with expectations of money, first met Patricia Hildreth. He was living then in a small city, in the interior of New York State, situated near one of those great lakes so renowned for their beauty and their treachery. On account of his talents and position he was rather the enfant gâté of society in that aristocratic little town; which, by the way, held itself very exclusive, and counted among its residents many blue-blooded descendants of old colonial families; its customs were colonial as well as its traditions, and it looked down with contempt upon its sister city, on the borders of a sister lake, because it had admitted within the doors of hospitality scions of fathers who were known to have made their money in trade.

To this hot-bed of traditional conservatism came Patricia as a guest—handsome, disdainful, capricious, city-bred Patricia—armed with all her little wiles and graces, a creature of wonderful resource, to be looked upon from afar, and to be judged and condemned by the narrow code and petty by-laws of the unwritten Blackstone of Hurontown. To the married women she was a dangerous siren; to the girls a triumphant, unapproachable Thetis; to the men a delusion and a snare, so soon as ever she burned them with the blue fire of her eyes, or flashed her smile upon them from the freshest of red lips, revealing the whitest of pearly teeth.

In virtue of Philip Tremain's long acknowledged precedence where anything feminine was concerned, all the other young eligibles of Hurontown stood aloof and watched the coming flirtation, half in envy, half in pride; for was not the conquering hero one of their own belongings, and one also who had never known the arts and cajoleries of women, save as portrayed by the demure maidens of their own little town; whose manners and conversation betook largely of the Puritan training bestowed upon them by their mothers? And was not this mocking, fearless young amazon a maiden fresh from that modern Babylon, New York, where, if all the girls were fair, all, too, were more or less false, and like the Lorelei, only ensnared to destroy? Would it not be a proud boast for all future Huronites if this beautiful young witch should be captured by their village Perseus, and so changing the classic rôle be made subservient to his will and pleasure all the days of her life?

But Patricia was petulant and capricious, and Patricia was not to be easily won; both of which reasons made Philip pursue her the more eagerly; to him, as to all men, that which is easy of attainment is not to be desired. Whether he was successful or not remained for a long time unknown to the outside world, but before many weeks had gone by Patricia had given over her superior little airs, ceased pursing up her pretty mouth, and become indeed wondrously meek and gentle, as she cast down her proud eyes and hung out the red flag of danger, followed by the white flag of truce; all of which signals signified a total surrender to the enemy.

Thus one evening as they drifted idly about in a cockle-shell of a boat on the blue waters of the great lake, she holding the oars, he sitting at her feet, the softly fading pink and amber light in the west casting a rosy hue over her sweet face and fleecy white draperies, he put his hand on hers, and drawing down her not unwilling head, told his love—the old, old story—and gained the assurance of hers.

Then followed days of beatific bliss and rapture, though both were poor, and a more undesirable and foolish marriage for either in the world's eyes—even the little world of Hurontown, which aped the morals and cynicism of modern Babylon—could not be imagined. As a punishment for their precipitate happiness came an indignant letter from Patricia's mamma summoning her home, and peremptorily bidding her give up such foolish playing at love. What did she think would be her chances for the future if she marred all possibilities by such reckless flirtations? Was she really devoid of all sense and judgment?

The lovers parted with vows of undying constancy, and the flame of their love was kept alight by the interchange of daily letters, which, on Patricia's part at least, were the cause of considerable deception and hood-winking. Thus the months wore on; winter came, and with it a kind friend, lately visiting in modern Babylon, brought news of Patricia's gay life in that city, and rumours of her not too innocent flirtations, of her daring public opinion by various foolhardy escapades; of her beauty, her wit, her heedlessness of public censure; to all of which Philip listened, smiling, believing in her fully, trusting that his love for her, and hers for him, was sufficient safeguard against all attacks made upon her loyalty by those in her own home.

But when there came a letter from Patricia, short, and not very gracious, flippant and worldly in tone, announcing her approaching visit to Europe under the chaperonage of a lady rather too well known for her leaning towards a brilliant life, and altogether unfitted to be the guide, philosopher, and friend of so impetuous a nature as his lady love's, Philip aroused himself from his indolence, and awakened to dangers ahead for him and her, betook himself to modern Babylon, and presented himself before her without word of warning. Came, indeed, most unexpectedly upon her, as she was holding her little court, composed of one or two clever men, several handsome ones, a sprinkling of fair girls and equally fair matrons; in the midst of whom Patricia shone forth resplendent, as the planet Venus among her satellites.

Upon this fashionable throng burst poor Philip, disturbed, travel-stained, and weary. From the fulness of a young, loving, jealous heart, overcharged and ready to explode at the first touch of powder, he demanded, not too courteously perhaps, that she should instantly then and there, explain the presence of those obnoxious men, renounce her contemplated journey, throw aside the useless, frivolous life she was leading; marry him at once, and come to him in his poverty and toil with him; he did not add for him, or she might have yielded. He was not even gracious in his manner of asking, and his hand clasped hers roughly, sending the brilliant rings into the soft fingers mercilessly.

Patricia drew back her injured hand, noting with self pity the red marks his violence had left upon it, glanced down at her dainty costume of delicate laces and softest silk, looked at the evidence of wealth in her soft surroundings, turned a little towards the inner room, brilliantly lighted, where she had left her subtle flatterers and adorers, their words still echoing in her ears, then brought her unwilling eyes back to Philip's tired, angry, harassed face, noted, although half ashamed, his rumpled hair and ill-fitting coat, his general lack of finish and repose, and drawing one hand slowly over the other, slightly shook her head.

"You will not?" he cried out hoarsely. Then without waiting for her reply, he burst into a torrent of disappointment and recrimination, urged thereto by his hurt self-love; as he, quick as Patricia to make comparisons, noted in proud disdain his provincial appearance beside the perfectly-mannered, faultlessly-dressed, languidly-interested young moths, who fluttered about the flame of Patricia's beauty, stupidly singing their sensibilities in the fire of her brilliancy. Yet none the less, though he knew and felt his own worth and truth to be boundless, compared to theirs, he also felt that in the eyes of the woman he loved, he looked—oh, unpardonable sin—honest, jealous, and countrified.

"You are not worthy of my love, or of me," he cried. "Go your own way, Patricia, lead your own life; I release you, but don't for one moment think you have injured or blighted mine. If all these luxurious dainties, and all those brainless fools," with a contemptuous wave of his hand towards the innocent revellers and their surroundings, "are more to you than my love, then is your love too dainty a luxury for me. I loved you, Patty, God knows how I loved you; but that goes for nothing in your eyes. Good-bye, Patricia, good-bye."

She stood very still and silent while he spoke, the colour burned red in her cheeks, the fire gleamed in her eyes, her bosom rose and fell rapidly with the quick beating of her heart. She had not intended that half unwilling shake of her head to be taken so literally, and used against her. Was he not over anxious to grasp at this chance of freedom? Were there not others, only waiting for her to declare herself unfettered, to offer her so much more than this one poor man could give? Above all, did he not snatch at this suddenly-made breach between them with almost indecent haste? Her head rose proudly. She met his look gallantly.

"As you say; no, I cannot live without what to me makes up the sum of life; luxuries, dainties, call them what you will; they have not entered over much into your life, I know; but they have become a part of mine, and of me. I should be miserable without them."

"Even as my wife?" he asked royally.

"Even as your wife," she answered proudly.

He said no more, but as he turned to go from her, she came close up to him, touching him lightly on his arm. His love had been very dear to her; might she not keep a slight chain upon him still, so that in the future she might have some little hold upon him; and, indeed, did she not love him all the more because of his hot anger, and bitter truth, and loyal love?

She put out both her hands to him—her voice was very gentle and pleading:

"Since we are to part, Philip, and you will have it so, will you not kiss me once, only once more, for good-bye?"

He turned from her, unheeding her pleading voice or hands.

"Do not say it is my will that we part, Patricia; be just at least, if you cannot be generous. No, I will not kiss you now, I am not quite a hypocrite; perhaps one day, when I can believe and trust in you again, Patty, or when all my love for you is dead, or when I can think of you, look at you, judge you, as other men do, then I will kiss you, but not until then. Ask me then, Patricia."

"I will never ask you again," she answered passionately; "but you, Philip, shall be the first to beg a kiss from me, and I shall be the one to make your pride suffer, as you now make mine."

Then she left him, sweeping by him, proud, tremulous, excited, stung to the heart, but making no sign. He heard her laugh ring out joyously, a moment later, as she applauded some witticism of one of her admirers, and with a muttered exclamation he made his way out into the night.

So they had parted, and never since that unhappy evening had they met.

Time went on; there came trouble to Patricia in the death of her mother; he wrote her a cold note of condolence, to which he received no reply; then rumour brought him the knowledge of her inherited wealth, and, shortly after, of her engagement to a man many years her senior. Of her wealth he thought little, of her engagement he spoke calmly, and with the air of a cynic, who beholds all things pass by, good and bad, and says, in the bitterness of his soul, cui bono? But, inwardly his love and pride were roused from their sleep of years, and he owned to himself, with a hard honesty, that to think of her as belonging to another man than he was intolerable. He had not been able to keep her love when he won it, but it was none the less a pain to find that another had succeeded where he had failed. Time, however, that wonderful physician, in a measure numbed his distress, and to his world he posed as a charming man, though cold and heartless; not one to be sentimental over a dead past, but rather one to make his power felt, and to lead and bend other wills by the stern inflexibility of his own.

And then had come Patricia's letter, telling of her broken toys; asking to be taken back into his affections; seeking to creep back into the old shelter of his heart, where once she had ruled so proudly.

Ten years had passed since he, in that sweet month of roses, had first met and loved her. Ten years; and in the mean time Philip Tremain had risen high in the world, and in men's opinions; his money had come to him, partly by inheritance, partly through his own hard work; he had made his name well known, his fame was still a rising one. No need to feel ashamed for him now; indeed, no greater sybarite lived than he, no truer dilettante, and no one whose surroundings were more daintily luxurious.

But notwithstanding the changes that had developed this, to her, unknown side of his nature, as he sat in the sunshine this fair spring morning, holding Patricia's letter in his hand, he judged her no less harshly, blamed her no whit the less, than he had when last he saw her, and refused to kiss her for good-bye. With her own hands she had torn the veil from his idol ten years ago, and he would not now voluntarily raise a finger to restore its shattered beauty.

An hour glided by, his cigar was finished, the freshness of the morning had departed, before he aroused himself from his retrospect; he turned to his writing-table with a smile, and a half-uttered: "No, not even for you, my once beloved Patty; you have made your own life, and you must live it out to the bitter end—alone."

His answer therefore to Patricia was a polite stiff note of condolence or congratulation, which she chose, on the failure of her matrimonial plans. A regret he was unable to accept her invitation, a hope for her happiness, an assurance that she might always consider him her friend, but nothing more; not one word in answer to the love she proffered, not one of remembrance of, or regret for the past.

Patricia Hildreth's face was not good to look upon, as she read his response; if ever mortified vanity and determined revenge was readable on a woman's countenance, it was to be seen on hers then.

"So I have humbled myself in vain," she said. "Well, it shall be your turn next, my Philip, or my woman's wit is of no account; you shall feel the same sting as you have given me, incased in your armour of pride and well-being though you may be. Take care, Philip, my hand is small but it is firm to strike, and he is most lost who thinks himself invulnerable to a woman's charms."

CHAPTER II.

THE FOLLY.

About a week later Mr. Tremain found at his breakfast plate another letter, and though bearing no crest or motto, and not suggestive of violets, was nevertheless a dainty enough feminine epistle.

"The Folly,
"Staten Island,
"April, 188—.

"Dear Mr. Tremain,

"Will you come down to us for as long as you can stay without becoming bored to extinction! Your favourite rooms are waiting you, your favourite horse stands idle in his stall, the yacht is in perfect condition, and this delicious foretaste of summer makes sailing in her delightful. We are bored to death, however, for want of some one out of the common. Come and be that some one. I can offer you a pretty girl, a clever girl, and a girl of the period to flirt with successively; then there is myself, and your little god-daughter, Marianne, for common sense and dulness; while George, poor fellow, is pining for another battle at tennis and billiards with you. The ponies, my new ones, and their mistress, will be at the five-thirty boat to-morrow afternoon, to meet you, so pray don't disappoint,

"Yours most cordially,
"Esther Newbold."

Nothing loth, Mr. Tremain put himself on board the Castleton the next day, and enjoyed the half-hour's crossing to the island, whose wooded, picturesque shores, clad in fairest green, were a refreshment to his senses, accustomed for so many months to the hard lines and sharp angles of New York. As he stepped off the boat at New Brighton, he was at once attracted by a very small boy, in a very tall hat, top-boots, and silver buttons; then the most perfect of pony-carriages and ponies met his view; and last, but not least, a pretty little woman in a Gainsborough hat, and a light ulster, who put out a welcoming hand, in a heavy driving-glove, as he appeared, and said gaily:

"Oh, Mr. Tremain, this is very good of you. You know I said I should come for you myself. Now, then, are you quite settled to your liking? Let go their heads, Tony; go on, my beauties."

The ponies answered spiritedly to the flick of her whip; and, indeed, pranced off so suddenly that the small atom of humanity, perched up behind, quite lost his dignity, and only retained his equilibrium by super-human efforts.

Once on the Terrace they bowled along at a good pace, and after the usual questions had been asked and answered, Mr. Tremain inquired whom he was to meet at the Folly.

Mrs. Newbold answered with a little laugh: "I think I told you in my letter of the three varieties of graces—a specimen of each—I have prepared for you? Here they are by name, and ticketed with the attributes they pose for, and fondly imagine they possess. A clever girl from Boston of course, Rosalie James—small and dark, and critical—reads all the newest books with the most jaw-breaking names, goes in for all the 'ologies' and 'isms,' the later the better; likes to think herself a disciple of the most advanced agnostic cult, is nothing if not cultured, and pins her artistic canons to those of Burne Jones and Walter Crane; is a working member of the Sorosis Club, the Nineteenth Century, and every other woman's club in the Union; writes for the magazines, and always has an æsthetic novel on the stocks, which never is launched. How do you like this style, Philip?"

"Honestly, not at all," answered Tremain, echoing her thrill of laughter; "from the woman of brains defend me! What have you next to show me?"

"Ah well, she's not so bad as she sounds," said Mrs. Newbold, "I've known her do a great many kind things; and after all it's not her fault, you know, if like the little boy in Punch she fails to take interest in any event subsequent to the Conqueror. And now to number two, my pretty girl, Baby Leonard, and a very pretty girl she is, in a slow, superb Juno-like fashion. I don't know of my own knowledge that she ever shows greater animation than a languid yes, or no, implies; but if you feel a very keen desire to read beneath the tranquillity of her manner, go to Jack Howard for information, she is his latest victim, and he may have touched the depths of even her shallow soul."

"Thank you," returned Tremain, "I do not feel my soul intensely drawn by occult forces—isn't that the correct jargon?—towards that of Miss Leonard; let us allow Jack full innings there."

"Ah, you are very hard to please," cried Mrs. Newbold in pretended petulance. "Now this is really my last and only remaining girl; in my heart of hearts I think she is worth the other two, in spite of her always handicapping herself; enter then Dick Darling, and shouldn't you know by the sound of her name that she is a girl of the period? Pretty? Oh, yes, but more fascinating than pretty; has a brown face, and laughing eyes, and turned-up nose, uses all the latest slang, wears a hard hat, a cut-away jacket, a Stanley necktie, and eye-glass and chain, and carries the slenderest of walking-sticks, smokes her own cigarettes, drinks Bass's ale, and plays a rattling good game at poker; and despite all her mannish affectations, has the best heart in the world. She rides like a bird, pulls an oar with the best, and can give as ugly a twister at tennis as you could wish to see. Now is she more to your liking?"

Mr. Tremain shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear Mrs. Newbold, what can I say? Miss Darling is doubtless a thoroughly good young lady, but more after the hearts and tastes of younger men than such a graybeard as I. Do not, I beg of you, make any efforts in the young-lady line on my behalf, I ask nothing better than a good share of your company, and an hour or two of romps with my little god-daughter. I shall be more than blessed if you will put up with my dulness."

"What a very pretty speech, Philip, it is quite refreshing to my old married ears; very well, you may sacrifice yourself on the altar of decorum and innocence if you like, I will not say you nay. The men of our party I think you know; besides Jack Howard we have handsome Freddy Slade—the beauty of the day—and one or two inoffensive lads to fetch and carry. And so you don't think either of my graces worthy your consideration, Philip? Yet I do believe each one of them owns a good and true heart, in spite of their individual fads."

"I do not doubt it," answered Mr. Tremain; "but seriously, my dear Esther, you must surely know that having suffered once in that way, I am not likely to be easily attracted again. I fancy the woman who could win my cynical and fastidious heart, has not yet come from the other world; she must needs combine all the beauties of the graces, the attributes of the muses, and be withal, like Cæsar's wife, above suspicion. Find me such a divinity, Esther, or else I shall wait for your own little Marianne."

A silence followed Philip's half-jesting, half-bitter reply, broken at last by Mrs. Newbold's lightest laugh, as she asked:

"Do you like my ponies? George gave them to me on my last birthday; Dick Darling christened them, Rock and Taffy; hard and soft, you know, or dependable and doubtful, or any opposing virtues you choose to select. Now then, here we are," as she turned her ponies cleverly over an awkward incline, and dashed through the gates.

"Shall we join the world at lawn-tennis, or will you come in with me and have a cup of tea?"

"With you, if you please," answered Philip, mock-pleadingly. "My dear Mrs. Newbold, don't deliver me into the hands of the Philistines prematurely."

Esther's blithe laugh rang out merrily as they sped up the long avenue, shaded by the rows of graceful elm trees on either side; she brought the ponies to the door with a workmanlike flourish, and scarcely touching Philip's assisting hand, sprang out and was up the low broad steps before him.

"Let us have tea at once, Long. This way, Mr. Tremain."

They entered the library together; it was a large room and the favourite one, par excellence, of all the apartments in that most charming and hospitable of homes, the Folly. On one side ran a broad, covered, outside verandah, on to which opened two large windows of stained glass, through whose mellow tints the light shone in tenderest colours; heavy draperies, of some wondrous Eastern fabric, fell on either side of the broad low door; a neutral-tinted wall supported rare plaques of Moorish faïence, and choice selections of bric-à-brac, with here and there the glimmer of brass sconces and silver repoussé ovals, relieving the somewhat sombre tone; while everywhere, in each possible or impossible spot, on every table, in every vase or bowl, a wealth of Maréchal Niel roses filled the air with their subtle pungent perfume, and caught and held the sunshine as in a trance. The one picture of the room stood upon an easel, hung with plush of ruddy hue; it was an artist proof engraving of Correggio's "Io and Jupiter." A fire of pine-logs smouldered on the andirons, and through the curtained doorway a vanishing perspective revealed a vista of drawing-room, music-parlour, and billiard-hall, all in the half tints of twilight.

Mrs. Newbold threw off her hat and ulster, and pushing back the light fluffy curls from her forehead, called out laughingly:

"Mimi, Mimi!"

A little fairy, all yellow curls and white frock, darted through the open door, and dancing up to the pretty lady threw her arms rapturously around her; her mamma bent down her own head above the little one, and kissed the eager little lips.

"See, Philip," she said, "here is your god-daughter. Has she not blossomed into a little hoyden?"

"A Hebe, rather," answered Philip, "and as like her mother as a bud is like the rose."

Esther laughed. "You certainly do pay one the very prettiest compliments, Mr. Tremain; I make you my humble acknowledgments," and she dropped him a mock curtsey. "If this is the result of stern law, why, commend me to its votaries."

And thus laughing, chatting and sipping their tea, they beguiled the time away, until the first dressing-gong broke upon them with surprise, and Philip escaped to his room before the tennis party appeared, flushed with victory, or despondent with defeat.

As Mr. Tremain moved leisurely about his apartment, his ear caught the sound of his own name; he stopped, with a half smile on his lips, and listened. The speakers, two girls, were evidently oblivious to the fact, that given open windows and unmodulated voices, what is sent out of one window, may enter at the other.

"Who is this Philip Tremain?" asked voice No. 1. "I am bored to death by Esther Newbold's praises of him. I don't know him."

"He can't be great things then, can he?" said mockingly voice No. 2. "Only you see, Rosie, this time you're out of it altogether; Philip Tremain is just too awfully utter, just the swellest thing out in men, my dear, though you don't know him Boston-way. Handsome mug, heaps of shiners, Mayflower family, and good form from way back."

Here a little whiff from a Russian cigarette fluttered in. "Ha, ha," laughed Philip, as he sniffed at it, "the girl of the period, and her least hated friend; matters grow interesting."

"How disgustingly slangy you are, Dick," broke in voice No. 1; "really your language is most offensive."

"Poor cultured child!" cried out the other, with a merry laugh, that had something honest in its tone. "How I afflict her! Oh, ye gods and little fishes, how shall I appease her? But seriously, Rosie, don't you remember some one telling us all about him, and the dreadful cropper handsome Patty Hildreth came over him? Long ago, my dear, when she was young, and we had not even seen our 'green and salad days.' He was tremendously in love with her, they say, and was blind to Patty's little peculiarities where men and flirting were concerned, until at last something worse than usual came to his ears, some scrape more daring and hare-brained, in which Patty's name figured largely, and he cut up rough about it; Patty was wilful and obstinate, and Mr. Tremain injured and harsh, and so the engagement came to everlasting smash, and Patty engaged herself, before the week was out, to old Tom Naylor, who left her a cool million, and died within the year of her dismissing him. What luck some girls have! By the way, Esther has asked her here, she says; what a lark it will be to see the meeting of the old-time pals. Good gracious! are you all dressed, Rosa? I shall be late again, as sure as eggs is eggs, and George is such a Turk about meals."

Then the speaker evidently moved away from the window, and Philip heard no more; but what he had listened to set him thinking, and brought a smile of bitterness to his lips.

"So Patty is coming, Patty is to be here," he mused, "and I must meet her after all these long years. Poor, wilful, pretty Patricia!"

A few moments later he entered the library, and found the room still in half-lights and apparently tenantless; but as he moved towards the fireplace he became aware of a tall, slight figure, severely clad in a dark, trailing gown of some heavy silken material. A fall of black lace surrounded the drooping head and fell low about the face, throwing such deep shadows upon it that Philip looked in vain for any definite characteristics. The long and slender hands lay crossed lightly upon her knees, and were guiltless of rings. Something in their attitude, however, recalled Patty to him, and, with a half-credulous smile, he quickened his steps towards the quiet, almost motionless figure; but as he reached her side, a ripple of laughter and light voices broke the spell, as the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Newbold entered, followed by her bevy of fair maidens.

"Ah, Mr. Tremain," cried Esther, "are you here before us? How shall I apologise? Now, will you take your introductions homœopathically, or in one dose? Girls, fall into line!"

Laughingly she presented him to each in turn, and with a careless, "The men you know," slipped her hand within his arm, saying: "Shall we go in to dinner?"

But Philip stayed her.

"You have forgotten one," he said, in a low voice, glancing towards the figure by the fire, that had remained motionless during all the gay argot and repartee.

"Oh," replied Mrs. Newbold, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, "you mean Mdlle. Lamien. She is Mimi's governess. I will present you, however. Mademoiselle, permit me; Mr. Tremain—Mdlle. Lamien."

The lady thus addressed turned and bowed slightly—the barest recognition of Mr. Tremain's presence. She raised her face a little, and the light from the wax candles in the sconce above her head fell full upon it. It was a face pale in the extreme, with the dull waxen colour of death—a pallor increased and intensified by the masses of snow-white hair piled high above it, and the heavy black lace folds about it. The dark eyes set in deep shadows burned with a strange inward fire, that not even the heavy lashes could veil. Across one cheek a long cruel mark of greyish blue seemed to throb, as if in angry remembrance of the cruel blow that had caused it; the fair skin would bear its traces for life. The mouth was firm and hard, save for a nervous twitching that sometimes marred its outline. It was a countenance neither handsome nor attractive, and Mr. Tremain turned away, after the barest interchange of civilities, with a feeling of irritable disappointment. What right had such a figure, youthful and full of grace, to be surmounted by a face almost grotesque in its plainness? He had thought of Patty, when first he saw the quiet, dark figure and clasped hands; but as he turned now with Esther's hand still on his arm, the fleeting evanescent vision passed from him.

"Mimi will come to us at dessert, mademoiselle," said Esther, not unkindly. "Will you not also join us?"

"Madame is very kind, but I beg she will excuse me," was the reply, in a voice that sounded young for so old a face, and yet that held an echo of such hopelessness in its cadences, it haunted Philip's ears unceasingly, and so dulled his senses that Miss James's most brilliant high æsthetical conversation fell unheeded, while Dick Darling's most daring slang evoked only a passing shudder of disapproval.

Miss James shrugged her thin shoulders and voted him a good-looking bore, then turned her dark head and left shoulder upon him, and carried the battle into the enemy's camp, by appropriating Jack Howard, who, by all rights, social and flirtatious, belonged to pretty Baby Leonard.

CHAPTER III.

"THE SINS OF THE FATHERS."

Philip thus left unmolested save by his own reflections, and quite innocent of his own shortcomings, was only aroused from a long brown study by hearing Freddy Slade appeal in his most drawling tones to his host, as he lifted his glass of Burgundy, and eyed it lovingly.

"I say, Newbold, what an extraordinary woman you have managed to annex as a governess—capital wine this, what's its vintage?—I met her to-day, walkin' all alone in that beastly sycamore plantation of yours, and thinkin' she might be lonely offered myself as a companion. By George! you should have seen the look on her face as she declined; you wouldn't have thought me good enough to be her lap-dog—give you my word, never saw such scorn on any woman's face before. Who is she? A princess in disguise, an exiled Russian of high degree, or a disappointed tragedy actress?"

"Oh, you must ask Esther," replied lazy George Newbold. "She's her latest importation."

This was Mr. Newbold's usual way of getting rid of all troublesome or inconvenient questions. "It saved him trouble," he used to say, "and gave the wife the gratification of doing all the talking."

"Esther will tell you, without being asked, beau sire," broke in that little matron; "I am very much in love with her, you must know; she is delightful, and she is mysterious, what more can you ask? She is the daughter of a Russian noble and a French girl of the bourgeoisie. You can imagine the story, it's for ever repeating itself. The marriage was a secret one, the young man's family refused to recognise it; he was recalled to Petersburg, and the girl offered money in lieu of her young husband, which she passionately rejected. Then followed the old story of hopeless waiting; her baby was born, and for a time she struggled bravely on, fighting shame and poverty hand to hand. But at last she succumbed, and death freed her from her share in life's battle.

"The misfortunes of the mother seemed to follow and dog the daughter, whose great personal beauty served only as her worst enemy. She was brought up respectably enough, and but for what Lord Byron calls the 'fatal dower,' would doubtless have lived and died in the monotony of a commonplace existence. Little as you may think it, however, Adèle Lamien was possessed of such unusual beauty of face and form, it was impossible for her to pass unnoticed in the rank and file of humanity.

"In ignorance of her mother's fate, the poor girl, with a blindness born of innocence, was soon treading step by step that dolorous path which had ended for her young mother in despair and death. There's an irony in such repetitions that might well repay the study of one interested in the factors of the 'great chance' called life.

"Well, Adèle was wooed and won by a very lofty personage, who, if not of the parent imperial rose-tree, could claim close connection with it. Like her mother again, the marriage was a secret one, though in accordance with the ritual of the Catholic Church, to which faith the girl belonged. I believe the months that followed were the happiest the girl had ever known in her not too happy life. It made the awakening all the more terrible; for of course there was an awakening. Men have a habit of tiring of their most beautiful human toys, especially if these playthings develop intellect and passion.

"Let me draw a veil over this part of Mdlle. Lamien's history. It is enough to say that a terrible crime was committed—a crime so violent and so fatal that all Petersburg were roused to action, and the imperial blood-hounds let loose to track the perpetrator. It was at this time that Adèle fled from Russia, and reached England almost by miracle. From there she hastened to America, haven of all persecuted unfortunates; and in New York she came under my notice. I listened to her story, and, after she had finished its narration, and knowing all against her, and nothing in her favour, I took her as governess for my little daughter. Quixotic! Yes, I know it was, and a dangerous experiment; but I couldn't help it—there were reasons—her eyes haunted me. And truth compels me to state that so far she has proved herself fully worthy of my trust. Marianne is devoted to her—she is little short of angelic in the child's eyes; and I openly confess to a tender regard for her. She is unexplainable, enigmatic, fascinating. But, hush, here comes the child; and her ears are something abnormal."

Esther finished with a dramatic little gesture that set them all laughing, and in the general merriment Philip's gravity passed unchallenged.

The story, as told by Mrs. Newbold, with all her little artistic touches of gesture and inflection, haunted him strangely. He found himself constantly reverting to it, and always with an incongruous and almost jarring thought of Patty, running side by side with his unwilling sympathy for Mdlle. Lamien.

Miss James found him a very inattentive listener as, later in the evening, they sat together on the wide verandah, and looked across the broad stretch of lawn to where the faintest streak of shining grey marked the waters of the bay. The moonlight was flooding all things with reckless prodigality, until even the barest and tiniest twig grew luminous, and the budding roses became ethereal in the generosity of its rays.

Miss James would have dearly loved to sentimentalise a little; she was not at all adverse to a mild flirtation with this handsome grave man, whose very presence made her feel her own littleness of mental stature. Unconsciously she dropped her usual heroics, and was prepared to be as meek and coy as any new-fledged débutante. Unfortunately however, Philip's mind was not in tune, or she struck the wrong chords, for he failed miserably to be responsive. At length, after a rather awkward little silence, she requested him, a trifle sharply, to fetch her a shawl; she felt the evening growing chilly.

Almost too eagerly Philip sprang up and hastened to obey her, leaving her with tears of mortification in her eyes, and hot anger in her heart. Meantime, Mr. Tremain, quite oblivious to his shortcomings, made his way to the inner hall, where he had an indistinct remembrance of having seen something white and fluffy, and which bore about it a faint odour of white rose, Miss James's most affected scent. Surely, unless he was too awfully masculine, that soft white odorous mass was of the nature of a wrap.

As he crossed the entrance-hall on his quest, he caught sight of Mdlle. Lamien's tall figure in the little drawing-room which was especially consecrated to Marianne. She was standing by the window, her face pressed against the frame, her whole form shaken with suppressed emotion. Tremain, like most men, was acutely susceptible to tears. He stopped involuntarily, hesitated, and in another moment was at her side.

"Mdlle. Lamien," he said, gently, "are you in trouble? Can I help you?"

She made him no answer, save by a quick, impatient movement of her head.

But Mr. Tremain was not to be baffled, though he rather wished himself out of the scene, and felt unwarrantably angry at Miss James for being the innocent cause of his present position.

"Have you had bad news?" he persisted. "Are you suffering? Let me beg of you to tell me what troubles you?"

As suddenly as she had drawn from him before she turned towards him now, and lifted her face, pale and haggard in the moonlight, full upon him. Her eyes shone hotly.

"I have been looking my dead past—my old love—in the face," she cried, passionately, "and I am miserable!"

She turned, and before Philip could put out a detaining hand, was gone. He stood as she left him, almost as pale as the wild, white face she had flashed upon him.

"Good God!" he muttered. "What a look of Patty there was in her eyes!"

Miss James waited long, and impatiently, and in vain for Mr. Tremain and her wrap. He did not come back; indeed, as a matter of fact, he forgot all about her commission until later in the evening, when she swept by him on Jack Howard's arm. At sight of her, Philip was struck by his sins of omission, and with rather less self-possession than usual, made a poor apology for his rudeness.

"Were you rude, Mr. Tremain?" Miss James replied, icily. "Pray don't apologise; I had not accused you." And with a mocking smile, she passed on, laughing ostentatiously at Jack's latest witticism.

Mr. Tremain looked after them with a faint surprise in his glance; then he, too, laughed, but quietly, as he said, half-aloud:

"Oh, woman, woman! thy name is caprice!"

CHAPTER IV.

A FAIR PARLIAMENT.

The next morning, when Mr. Tremain sauntered down the broad stairs, that gave upon the inner hall, he found that favourite place of resort already occupied, and about twenty tongues were going at full gallop, every one talking, no one listening, while far above the well-bred clamour, rose Dick Darling's high-pitched treble.

"I say we must; oh, what a most too unutterably utter lark! Esther, you are a trump, you are a saint, you are a double-distilled daisy, and you deserve to have a free-actioned, high-stepping trotter, and a skeleton selfish waggon, for your very, very own!"

"You are very kind, Dick," and this time it was Mrs. Newbold's voice, "but indeed, I don't want a reward of merit of that description, I fail to appreciate it, my dear. A nasty little abominable trotting waggon, all bones and ribs, and no flesh, and a monstrosity of a horse that would drag my arms from their sockets and me over its head before I could say——"

"Jack Robinson," broke in the irrepressible Dick, "though why one is always supposed to invoke that mythical personage, in times of surprise, it is beyond me to explain. However, you are about right, Esther, for now I come to think of it, what would you do with your legs?"

"Oh, Dick, you are really too hopelessly vulgar," cried out a chorus of voices, to which Miss Darling not a whit abashed, replied:

"Well, and what would you have me call them?"

"You might say pedal extremities," remarked Miss James, to which brilliant suggestion Dick vouchsafed no further reply than a pronounced sniff and shrug of her shoulders.

Then Esther caught sight of Philip, and rose in pretty confusion to greet him.

"Ah, Mr. Tremain, you have stolen a march upon us, and invaded a woman's congress, and now, since you have been so very rash and bold——"

"'Oh, rash and bold!'" sang Dick, under her breath, with a comical Mikado gesture.

"You shall stay and be umpire. Perhaps, as you are a man," continued Esther, severely, "I may be able to drag a little bit of sense out of you."

"I doubt it," said Dick again, sotto voce.

"And so do I," echoed Philip aloud, at which there was a general laugh, and then a general and eagerly expressed desire that Mr. Tremain might be made as comfortable as possible, and at once admitted to the inner sanctorum of their circle.

Esther pulled forward the most seductive causeuse, Baby Leonard actually resigned a cushion for his head, and Dick Darling evolved the tiniest of cigarette cases and vesuvians from her knowing little coat pocket, and striking a light offered him a "real Turkish brew," assuring him that they were "quite the knob," and that she imported them herself, straight from the shores of the Bosphorus, a fact, which none of them being strong in geography, dared to contradict. Only Miss James refused to join in the general adulation; she sat quite still in her low wicker-chair, leaning her dark head against the gold-coloured cushions, and watching Philip, furtively, through her half-closed eyelids.

When the hubbub of welcome had somewhat subsided, and only a rippling laugh, or the frou-frou of the women's gowns, as their owners moved about listlessly, or settled themselves more comfortably in their luxurious chairs, gave evidence of the "concourse of tongues" that had been, Mr. Tremain ventured to ask, holding his unsmoked cigarette between his fingers, what had been the topic under discussion, when his untoward entrance silenced the music of their voices?

"Music of our voices, indeed!" mocked Dick, bringing her shoulders up to her little ears. "You flatter us, Mr. Tremain—at least you flatter me—the harmonies must have been strangely mixed in that galère; I never heard my shrill pipe called anything so fetching before. Speak for yourselves, girls, I am nothing if not honest."

"Don't be absurd, Dick," answered Miss James, pettishly; "what a miser you are to take everything to yourself in that fashion!"

"Speak for oneself, or no one will speak for you," said Dick, calmly. "I always find the best policy is that which brings oneself most into notice, and if you don't flaunt your own colours boldly, no one will haul 'em up for you."

"All this isn't very enlightening to Mr. Tremain," broke in Mrs. Newbold, in her pleasant fashion; "of course it's wildly exciting and interesting to us, but we can scarcely expect him to enter heart and soul, into the rights and wrongs of our feminine policy. Now the case in point, Philip, is this: next Thursday—ten days off, you see—will be my husband's birthday, and we thought it would be very nice to celebrate it for him in some jovial way."

"I suggested a dance," interrupted Baby Leonard, "because a dance is so easily done; one has only to put the whole affair in Delmonico's hands, and order one's dress, and let one's young men know the colours for one's bouquets, and fill up one's dance card twice over, and then you see—why then it is accomplished."

"Highly amusing for you, Baby, who never look to such advantage as valsing with Jack," said Esther, half indignantly, "but rather hard on poor old George, I think, seeing that the poor dear fellow can't dance a step, and after all, it's his birthday, you know."

"I don't suppose he would think of that," replied Miss Leonard, "I never did," at which self-evident ingenuousness Dick went off into a frenzy of laughter, which proved so infectious that they all joined in, until their united strength of lung attracted Jack Howard and Freddy Slade, who emerged from the billiard-hall, cues in hand, to know "what the dickens was the joke?" And then, when order was restored, and only Dick going off spasmodically in little spurts of merriment, the two men were invited to remain and become members of the council of war.

"Now, Esther, I have an idea," suddenly cried out Dick. "I don't get one very often, so attach it when you can. Let's have some downright first-class athletic sports. There's the gymnasium, just the ticket, with all the newest fads in bars, and poles, and trapezes. We girls might go in for the lighter exercises against the men, and then make way for their competitions in the higher science; and we could end up with a rousing good battle at ten-pins! Now that is a good suggestion. Don't you like it?" in a tone of intense astonishment, turning from one to another with a comical look of surprise on her fresh round face.

"I think it is perfectly disgusting," said Miss James, with scorn; "and quite worthy of you, Dick. The idea of making mountebanks of ourselves in those odious gymnasium costumes, to romp and riot about like a parcel of schoolboys! Besides, I don't see where George would come in, in your refined little programme, any better than in Baby's scheme!"

"Oh, he should give the prizes," answered Dick, not a whit abashed.

"Yes, and pay for them, too," muttered Jack Howard, a little maliciously.

"Well, I resign," said Dick, with the air of a martyr. "But really I don't see what we can do. We can't have races, because the ground's as hard as nails, and the poor dear beasties would lame themselves, and we can't have a yachting contest, because all the Squadron, and the crack boats, have gone off to Newport; and tennis is a bore, and dancing is a nuisance, and you look down on my healthy little device, so cudgel your own brains, my dears, mine refuse to evolve another iota of an idea!" And Miss Darling pulled out her cigarette-case and devoted herself to a minute inspection of its contents.

"Well, I am sure, the only things left to us are theatricals, or tableaux," said Esther, piteously; "the latter are simply odious, so it must be the former. After all, it's strange how one always does come back to theatricals; they always seem most satisfactory in the end."

"Because we all believe ourselves to be the one great actor of the future," said Mr. Tremain, with a smile; "it's only opportunity that we lack, not genius; and it's only other people's stupidity that fails to recognise our talents."

"You needn't count me in, Esther dear," cried Dick; "I never could act worth a cent, and what's more I hate it, pretending to be ever so many qualities that one is not, and never succeeding a third part as well as the most tuppenny-ha'penny actress at the Bowery!"

"Dick's severe," laughed Baby Leonard, "because the first and only time she was to have appeared in public the committee were obliged to ask her to resign, she made love in such a vigorous fashion, and charged the jeune premier as though he were a five-barred gate, and over him she would go, willy-nilly. She frightened him terribly, and he refused to go on with his rôle if Miss Darling continued in hers."

"Baby dearly loves a sell," remarked Dick, good-naturedly, when the laugh at her expense had subsided; "but she's quite right, I'm quite too awfully horrid when it comes to making believe." With which little home thrust Miss Darling settled back in her chair beamingly.

"Then, since acting it is to be, let's settle the play," said Jack Howard. "It's always a long business, and we haven't any too much time at our disposal."

"There's School," suggested Miss James, "or Ours, or The Romance of a Poor Young Man; and oh, doesn't that make one weep for poor Montague?"

"Oh, how sentimental!" cried Dick. "Why don't you have something jolly, like The Mikado, or Ruddigore, or even Patience? There's something more in any one of them, than in all your love and moonshine plays put together."

"But since you refuse to join our company, Dick, isn't it a little grasping on your part to wish to coerce our choice?" said Esther, mischievously.

"I am dumb," answered Dick, shutting her mouth firmly, and only letting her laughing eyes glance merrily from one to another, as the discussion waxed fast and furious, and threatened to end in tears and temper.

It settled itself down at last, however, into a comedy, or melodrama, and a farce; and when, to end all further embarrassment, Mr. Tremain suggested a ballot to decide, it was accepted unanimously. The result gave the first preference to The Ladies' Battle, the second to the ever fresh Box and Cox.

"Of course you all know I don't act," said Mrs. Newbold, prettily, and withdrawing gracefully from all contest over the rôles. "I never like anything so much as being wardrobe mistress and prompter, so I shall elect myself into those positions at once, and that clears off one superfluous woman."

Nor would she listen to any of the protestations and entreaties of her companions; she put her hands over her ears, and shook her head, until every little golden curl danced again, as she cried, laughingly: "It's no use, I don't hear you, and I'm not to be moved. I have chosen my favourite characters, and I won't give them up. Now then," bringing down her hands, "let us dispose of the rôles. Baby, you must be Léonie de Villegontier, you will look the character to perfection; Rosalie, whose forte though you may not think it, is comedy, shall be Mrs. Bouncer, in the farce; Jack, will you take De Grignon's rôle? And you, Philip, I know Henri is an old friend in your hands, will you represent him once more?"

"And who is to be the Countess, Esther?" asked Miss James, with a little smile. "Are you keeping her part for some special favourite who has not yet arrived? It's the most important rôle of all, and should be well taken, or the play will prove terribly flat."

"Have no fear, Rose," cried out Dick, forgetful of her vow of silence, "I know, my genius is once more to the front; for whom, of course, should Esther be keeping that part, except for the cleverest actress of you all—Patricia Hildreth—don't you know, pretty Patty——" She stopped as suddenly as she began, and, flushing crimson, stole a deprecatory look at Mr. Tremain's cold quiet face, which at that moment caught a reflection of her own painful blush.

"I beg your pardon," she murmured under her breath; and there followed a moment's constraint, broken immediately, however, by Philip asking quite naturally and easily:

"Then you are expecting Miss Hildreth, Mrs. Newbold? It is many years since I last saw her—act."

And then, just in time to save Esther's confusion, the luncheon-gong sounded, and the council broke up, straying off in twos and threes towards the dining-room.

"It's all very well," said Dick Darling, scoffingly, to Freddy Slade, as they sauntered along together, "having these miserable theatricals—they might as well have dumb-crambo at once, and be done with it—and, for my part, I can't see that poor George comes into it any better than he did with Baby and me, though Esther was so sharp about its being his birthday."

"Oh, George can pay the shot," answered Freddy, carelessly.

"I'm sure it's what he's always at, poor dear," retorted Dick, sharply; and as by this time they had reached the lunch-room, their argument came to an end.

CHAPTER V.

SENTIMENT AND "BACCY."

"Esther," said Mr. Tremain a few hours later, as they sat together in the library, just before the time for the tea-tray and the return of the other visitors, who, at Dick Darling's suggestion and under her guidance, had gone en masse to deal out tobacco and small sums of money to the old salts at Snug Harbour, "Esther, did you know Patricia was to be here, when you asked me to come?"

His voice was more stern than reproachful, and Mrs. Newbold, glancing up at him furtively, thought how cold and impassive was his face. She paused a moment before answering him, and the flames from the pine-logs on the wide hearth, leaping high, revealed a half-anxious, half-hesitating expression in her blue eyes and about her delicately-cut mouth. She held a screen of scarlet Ibis feathers, as she sat in a low chair, to shield her from the heat, and her hand trembled just enough to set the scarlet feathers moving, like so many vivid fire-tongues. She answered somewhat evasively:

"And if I did, Philip, what then? Is the old wound so deep it cannot be healed, and do you, a Hercules among men, shrink from the light touch of a woman's fingers?"

"We are but courageous," he made answer, "according to time and opportunity, and the weakness or strength of the temptation. A woman's hand has been the cause of a man's undoing ever since the world began, Esther. I have no desire to become another sacrifice on the altar of a woman's vanity."

"What do you fear, Philip?" she asked, presently, turning the feather fan round and round in her fingers, and watching him intently as she spoke.

"What do I fear? Everything and nothing. You, who know the whole miserable old story, must also know the bitterness of its ending. What do I fear? I fear Patricia; I fear the light coming and going in her eyes; I fear the grace and beauty of her motions; I fear the subtle witchery of her voice; I fear the sweetness of her smile, the studied trick of her down-drooped mouth, the soft lingering pressure of her hand; I fear—but there, why fight against shadows? I have the remedy in my own hands—I can leave you, Esther. Even you cannot compel me to see her."

He had risen as he spoke, and moved about restlessly, stopping half-unconsciously at a table that stood in his path, and fingered absently the several articles of bric-à-brac upon it.

Esther followed his movements with her eyes, a look of pity and yet triumph on her face. As his voice grew passionate, she dropped the feather-screen, and clasping her hands across her knee, drew a quick long breath; but when he came towards her again, she sank back into her former listless attitude. He stood up tall and straight before her, resting one arm upon the chimney-shelf, and looked down at her with dark excited eyes, which the slight smile upon his lips failed to counterbalance.

"Did you ask her here with some deep-laid plan of reconciliation? Esther, was that your motive? Did you think, knowing me since your girlhood—not so many years ago, Esther—and finding me fairly good-natured and forgiving, as men go, that you would take the spindle of fate into your own hands, and like Atropos of old, cut the tangled skein of my life, in the vain hope of reuniting it with hers? It was kindly meant, Esther, but—it cannot be."

Mrs. Newbold stopped him with an upward gesture of her hand.

"Philip," she said, slowly, and looking at him steadily, "does it not strike you—do you not think—you are taking her acquiescence rather too much as a matter of course? Has Patricia no right to repudiate you, before even you endeavour to reclaim her?"

He paused before he answered, and the lines about his mouth and eyes grew sterner and more defined. When he spoke he took his arm from the chimney-shelf, on which he had been resting, as though disdaining that slight support, and his voice sounded harsh and uncompromising.

"Has she that right, Esther? Has she not rather by her own actions cut herself adrift from the usual consideration granted to women? Did she consider me, when she cast me off so lightly? And for what, forsooth? Because I was a too eager and too rustic a lover; because my outward appearance offended her hypercritical eyes; because she was but a butterfly of the hour, as vain and frivolous as the frailest cigale of a summer's hour; and because her world, before which she shone as a bright particular star—and oh, what a little, trifling world it was!—and over which she reigned as a queen, repudiated me. I was not of their mode; I was not a super-chic; I could not speak their argot, or join in their light impertinent persiflage. I was too honest, Esther, for her world—too honest and too brutally straightforward, and so—she threw me over."

"She was young, Philip," pleaded Mrs. Newbold, "young and flattered and spoilt. Cannot you now make allowance for her surroundings then, and understand how terrible and impossible poverty, imperious poverty, seemed to her? You, who so well appreciate the luxuries of life now, cannot you put yourself in Patricia's place, and judge from her standpoint, and see with her eyes, what it meant, when you asked her to fling her old life behind her, and start on a new and untried one, with you alone, and you only as recompense and compensation?"

"If she had loved me," broke in Mr. Tremain, "she would not have considered, she would not have hesitated; my love and my devotion would have weighed heavier with her than all the baubles and gewgaws of her fashionable life."

For all answer to this Mrs. Newbold laughed, throwing back her pretty head, and throwing out her pretty hands dramatically.

"Ah," she cried, "for wholesale, downright vanity commend me to a man! It's no use looking savage, Philip; I cannot help it, I must have my laugh out; your cool assumption of the be-all and end-all of Patricia's existence is too irresistibly funny. It's very man-like, and very characteristic. You never take into consideration, you lords of creation, the up-bringing, education and surroundings of a girl of the world. You forget that the very trifles you stigmatise as frivolities are the daily small necessities of her life: she knows nothing different. It is as natural to her to have pretty clothes, artistic surroundings, and dainty employments, as it is for you to go to a crack tailor and smoke an irreproachable cigar. She cannot understand another sort of world where these elements are not: she accepts them as a matter of course, and could not fashion her day without them. Then comes some untoward fate, in the shape of a lover from that unfamiliar world, whose habits, manner of life, occupations, are all opposed to hers—as opposite as the luxurious civilisation of Europe is to that of the heart of Africa. What she deems necessities, he calls luxuries; her natural pastimes become frivolities; her occupations, idleness; her unconscious acceptation of all that money brings, worldliness; and her hesitation, when her lover and her love demand the sacrifice of all this, pusillanimity and calculativeness. And what does the man offer in exchange?—for luxurious comfort, straitened means; for dainty clothes, the resuscitated dresses of last year; for society—a tired harassed husband; and for recreation—perhaps a cheap place at some theatre, two or three times a year."

"You are painfully frank, Esther," said Mr. Tremain, stiffly.

"Yes, and I mean to be," continued Mrs. Newbold, "because it is a subject I have very much at heart, and because it is the fashion of the day to cry down the worldly maiden, and cry up the poor, but self-sacrificing lover. Had you anything better to offer Patricia, than what my words picture? Was there any brighter prospect for her? Did you not make the sacrifice as great a one as possible, and could you honourably and reasonably have expected the change in your fortunes, when you urged Patricia's choice, and left her no alternative between poverty with you, and her accustomed luxury without you? Do you not understand her position somewhat better, Philip, since you have become a man of luxury and wealth?"

"You should qualify as a special pleader, Esther," was Mr. Tremain's reply; "but you are in a manner right, a woman's motives are always beyond a man's fathoming;" and then with half a sigh she heard him add, under his breath, "poor Patty, poor pretty wilful Patty!" and she smiled at the inconsequent words, and nodded her pretty head at the dancing flames, while the lurking look of triumph in her eyes shone out defiantly, and drove away the droop of apprehension from her lips.

Then came Long, and the tea-tray, and little Marianne, and Mrs. Esther was very gracious and sweet, and full of petits soins for Mr. Tremain's comfort, and withal so winsome and so subduedly elated, that Dick Darling—who returned presently with all her volunteers in outrageous spirits—declared she was "the daisyest thing out, and quite too superlatively lovely!"

"And how did you find the old salts, Dick?" asked Esther, when every one had been served with tea, and little Marianne was particularly happy, forcing some scalding milk down the luckless throat of "Trim," her fidus Achates in terrier-dog form.

"Oh, as fresh as paint, and as delightfully greedy and selfish as it behoves all old men to be. They minutely inspected the 'baccy,' and one of them told me, ''tweren't his sort, but shiver his timbers if he could expect a young leddy ter know the difference atween "old virginny," and "honey dew";' and another one spat rather unpleasantly upon the new silver dollar I gave him, and expressed his rather blasphemous opinion, as to its being a 'Blaine dollar,' and only worth ninety cents! Oh, my dear, they are a most edifying old crew, and their simplicity and naturalness is only worthy of that respectable old party, and his residence, known familiarly as 'Davy Jones's locker.'"

"Dick, you are incorrigible!" laughed Mrs. Newbold, and that young lady, on whom the afternoon's expedition seemed to have acted as champagne, began again.

"There was one most particularly refreshing old hero; he said he had been all through the civil war, and got his promotion, and his leg bowled off, at Gettysburgh——"

"Oh, but I say, Miss Dick," here broke in Freddy Slade, "he couldn't do it, you know, not there, because Gettysburgh was a land battle, and how could your old man-o'-war's man be there?"

"He said Gettysburgh, I am perfectly sure he did," answered Dick, "because I quite well remember how he winked at me when he said it, and—yes, I did, I couldn't help it, it must have been capillary attraction, Esther—I winked back at him, and then he spun a tremendous yarn, all about his gory wounds, and bloody hurts; mixed up, you know, with reefing topsails, and belaying mizzen-masts, and setting fore and aft sheets, and rolling in the scuppers, and weltering in his own gore, and piping up the dog-watch, and losing his leg, and fighting for his country, and scoffing at its rewards; and I am sure, yes, very sure, he said it was at Gettysburgh it all happened. But really now, when you come to think of it, things were a little mixed, and I am not responsible for the geography of this country."

At this there was another laugh, in which Dick joined, and then in the silence that followed, Marianne's shrill treble made itself heard:

"I do quite think with Perkins, mumsey, Miss Dick's the gal for my money!"

At which astounding revelation Esther gasped, and the rest of the company fell into renewed shouts of laughter.

"Come here, Mimi," said Mr. Slade at last, putting out his hand, and catching hold of the child and the dog, and drawing them towards him, he lifted Marianne on to his knee, causing Trim to stand in perilous fashion on his back legs, since his little mistress refused to release him.

"Now, Mimi," Mr. Slade continued in the hush of a breathless silence, "you are a most interesting little girl, and what you have just told us has made Miss Dick very happy, only we should like to know a little more. Can you remember anything else said by the ingenuous Mr. Perkins?"

"He isn't Mister Perkins, 'cept to Sarah," said Marianne, very proud of her position, and rather consequential in consequence; "he's her young man, and he comes under her window sometimes, and sings 'Sally in our Alley,' real beautiful, and that's her, and I heard her tell Jane, and she's my very own nursery-maid, that he said 'that there wasn't no one could hold a candle to Miss Dick, and she was the gal for his money; he wouldn't mind putting a fiver on her, 'cause she'd run straight; but he wouldn't go much on that there pal of hers, Miss James, 'cause she was a shifty one.'"

"Oh, Marianne, Marianne!" cried out Esther, trying vainly to cover the confusion caused by Miss Newbold's parrot-like revelations, "come here to me." Then as Mimi struggled down from Mr. Slade's detaining arms, and danced over to her mother, she said, reprovingly:

"What were you doing, to hear all that senseless gossip? Where was Mdlle. Lamien?"

"Poor Lammy had a 'cruciation' headache," lisped the little girl, standing first on one foot and then on the other; "so I was just put off on to Jane, 'cause nursey was out, and so she and Sarah did their work together and I helped 'em, and they were having 'a crack' over the company. Is you sorry, mumsey?" the little thing asked suddenly, noticing the look of annoyance on her mother's face. "Was I naughty?"

"Yes, I am very sorry," answered Mrs. Newbold, emphatically; "my little daughter, you must not listen to such nonsense. You must get your dolly next time, or come to me, when Mdlle. Lamien has a headache."

"Poor Lammy!" echoed the child, "she was cross, too, and said Sarah was very wrong, every one wasn't made with Miss Dick's bright face and sweet temper; but I could make myself like her if I tried to always say a kind thing and not a horrid one, though the horrid one might be cleverer."

There was a moment's unbearable awkwardness as Mimi's sage remarks fell upon the burning ears of her audience; then Esther made a move, quickly followed by the other ladies, and the party broke up, each glad to escape the embarrassment of the moment. Esther alone noticed Miss James's face, flushed with passion and mortification, and sighed involuntarily.

She had reason afterwards to remember that look, and her sigh.

CHAPTER VI.

STAGE-STRUCK.

For the next week but little was talked of at the Folly, save the forthcoming theatricals.

The morning hours grew strangely silent. Gone was the light laughter, banished the echo of gay voices, the quick coming and going of youthful feet; indeed, to any one entering suddenly and unknowing, the air of the house was so changed and transformed they might well exclaim, "The place is haunted!"

And haunted it certainly was, but with fair ghosts in modern raiment, who, if they moved about at all, did so with tragic step and abstracted gaze, or with comic gesture and exaggerated action, accompanied by eagerly-moving lips, from which, however, no sound proceeded, while each and all held, tightly clasped and closely scanned, one of those thin yellow paper books which Mr. French has made so happily familiar to all of us.

Indeed, as Dick Darling remarked, with a piteous shake of her head, and a twisting up of her round mouth, "There wasn't such a thing as a 'rise' to be got out of any one of them, since the craze for acting had descended upon them."

Now and then George Newbold, in honour of whose birthday all this commotion was undertaken, would come upon a solitary group of two—always a girl and a man—who evidently considered learning in couples the quickest way, and who would scowl upon him distractedly when he approached them, or seem wrapped in contemplation of the other's genius as, with halting speech and flushed face, he or she repeated their respective lines.

Mr. Newbold had been heard to declare more than once within the safe precincts of the smoking-room, in language more forcible than polite, that for his part, he should be glad when the "shindy" was all over; and as to its having anything to do with him, or his birthday, it was a—lie. He didn't see where his fun came in, since he took no part in it.

"Paying the bills, old man," replied Jack Howard, lazily, to this outburst; "what more can you ask? Isn't that the proud position and boast of the typical American husband?"

To which grim comfort George only replied by lighting a very large and disreputable-looking pipe, and smoking furiously.

Miss James was among those who elected to study à deux, and had undertaken, in this way, Jack Howard's education, who, much to Baby Leonard's chagrin, had become in some manner, the clever Rosalie's slave. Baby, with tears in her eyes, marked his defalcation from her ranks, and with a feeling of self-pity and wounded vanity, sought compensation in Freddy Slade, and absorption in her rôle.

Between Miss James and Dick Darling coolness reigned. These once fast friends were now almost declared enemies, for even Dick's proverbial good-nature was not proof against the continued and unbending anger of her whilom friend. Miss James had neither forgotten nor forgiven little Marianne's unfortunate revelations, and she visited her annoyance and jealousy upon Dick, who at least was guiltless of all wish to offend; and from brooding over Mr. Perkins' plain and unvarnished words, Rosalie grew to forget they were the utterance of a servant, and magnified their consequence until she fairly hated Dick, and longed to see some evil befall her.

Perhaps the keenest sting of all lay in the fact of her humiliation before Mr. Tremain, for, with an unreasoning confidence, she had made out to herself that Philip was attracted to her, that he found in her a mind superior to the general run of young ladies, and that consequently he might, in time, come to fully realise and appreciate her abilities, and so, perhaps, would be solved the enigma of her future; for Miss James was no longer a jeune ingénue, and the thought of continued single-blessedness troubled her not a little.

It was therefore very bitter to be humiliated in his presence, and to see the lurking smile gather about his lips at Marianne's reckless disclosures. Mr. Tremain, be it remarked, was innocent of any co-operation in Miss James's schemes; he did not even give her a second thought beyond the necessities of every-day life; and the fact that they were often thrown together created no suspicion in his mind, as to any ulterior hopes being built upon his words and manner. Though, indeed, Philip had that courteous and deferential bearing towards women which made his smallest service an appeal, and his lightest word a caress—as Dick Darling said, "When he asked one to have sugar in one's tea, it was with such an assumption of intimacy and entreaty, one might well imagine he was suing for one's heart and hand."

Perhaps Miss James built upon this manner, and though so clever in ologies and ethics, failed to read aright the signs of this man's heart, and raised foundations on sand in consequence.

And still Patricia did not come. Each day Mr. Tremain looked for the old familiar witching face in the circle of "fair women" who gathered at tea-time in the pleasant library; where the wide fireplace, never empty of smouldering pine-logs, was very attractive in the chilly spring mornings and evenings. But he looked in vain. The faces were constantly changing—for Mrs. Newbold was a great favourite, and had many guests—and they were fair enough, too, but none so fair as Patty's, as he remembered it, ten years ago, and not so winsome or so full of grace.

He was too proud to ask news of her; ever since his conversation with Esther, his heart had gone forth more and more to his little wayward love of a decade ago, and though he turned his thoughts resolutely from all remembrance of her, and sternly told himself that he had been right in his judgment of her, she was but a frivolous butterfly, and as such more unsuited than ever to him in his graver years, still there would come unbidden a lurking memory of her sweet mutinous face, the wilful lips, the flashing eyes, the silks and laces that surrounded her lithe form, the faint sweet odour of violets that always accompanied her, and he would pull himself up with a start to find his heart and mind gone captive to the ghost of his old love.

"Ten years ago!" he said, half unconsciously to himself, "ten years ago! It is ten years since we parted; why, Patty must be past her jeunesse now; she was nineteen then, she is nine-and-twenty now, and what woman keeps youth's fairness or freshness when so close on thirty? Patty thirty! Patty grown out of wilful, petulant girlhood; Patty with suffering and change written on her face; nay, with perhaps a wrinkle or two, or even a gray thread in the soft brown darkness of her hair!"

Impossible! He could never think of her save as when they parted, when she was in the full flush and arrogance of her young beauty, surrounded by every luxury, and flattered by the gay homage of her little court, triumphant, sparkling, inaccessible. To picture her in any different guise, was to wilfully take down his idol from its pedestal.

He sauntered into the library one afternoon, at the accustomed hour of tea, and found the room full of people. Mrs. Newbold was pouring Indian Hyson into faultless cups of royal Worcester, which Jack Howard passed about, followed by Dick Darling with what she called "the trimmings," i.e. sugar and cream.

An animated discussion was going on, so Philip's entrance was unnoticed save by Miss James, who beckoned to him to take the empty chair beside her. Nothing loth to escape introductions, he fell into her scheme and made her supremely happy; for they sat a little withdrawn from the general group, and this made Mr. Tremain's position all the more marked. Miss James was never quite content unless what she called Philip's "attentions" were fully en évidence.

Dick Darling's bright eyes spied him out presently, and she brought him a cup of tea, handing it to him with a shrug of her shoulders and an absolute wink of her eye, at which Miss James coloured and cast an angry look after the retreating culprit.

"And when is Miss Hildreth coming?" were the first words that caught Mr. Tremain's ear, and riveted his attention at once.

"Not until the very day of the play," replied Mrs. Newbold. "It's rather provoking of her, isn't it? But really, you know, Patricia's so spoiled, and it doesn't very much matter. She's quite perfect in her part, and we can have a dress rehearsal before evening on the day, if necessary."

"And who acts Henri de Flavigneul's part?" asked another voice.

"Oh, Mr. Tremain," replied Mrs. Newbold again. "You need have no fear, Mrs. Beverley. Mr. Tremain is sans reproche in his character."

"Do you mean Philip Tremain," the lady persisted, "the clever Mr. Tremain, who has such bijou chambers and who is so unapproachable? But surely, won't that be a little awkward? Wasn't he once engaged to Miss Hil——?"

But here Dick Darling managed to upset the brass water-kettle, and in the confusion which ensued the question was never completed.

Soon after the guests took their departure, and as the house party stood about the fire waiting for the dressing-gong, Esther said:

"I am sure it is high time we had a rehearsal; we shall never be ready if we go on in this lazy fashion. I have sent for Mr. Robinson, of Wallack's Theatre, to coach you all, and he will be here to-morrow; so I call a rehearsal for that afternoon, and I advise you to study up well, for he's a perfect martinet regarding correct lines, and thinks nothing of reducing one to abject misery by his sarcasm."

"But who will take Miss Hildreth's part?" asked Baby Leonard. "It's no use our rehearsing if the Countess isn't here—it will be Hamlet with Hamlet left out, and no mistake."

"Baby is thinking of her grand scene," murmured Miss James aside to Philip. "Her part is nothing without the Countess as a foil."

"Some one might read the lines of her rôle," suggested Freddy Slade, who, as De Grignon, thought very little of any other character. "It won't matter very much if one only gets one's proper cues."

"Oh, but it matters a great deal, thank you," cried Baby, quite roused from her usual lethargy. "Who wants to act to bare cues, I should like to know? And how is one to work up into anything, if one hasn't the proper assistance?"

"You are quite right, Baby," said Esther, when she could make herself heard, "and you shan't be put in any such dampening position. Mdlle. Lamien has offered to be Patricia's substitute, and she knows the lines by heart. I think it's very good-natured of her."

To which there was a general assent, only Miss James whispered again to Mr. Tremain:

"You will have no temptation to draw you from your allegiance to your Baby-ish sweetheart, Mr. Tremain. Mdlle. Lamien can scarcely offer any counter attractions, as the Countess, to Baby, as Léonie."

Then with a quick upward look and the least perceptible halt: "How would it be, I wonder, if our capricious leading lady were here in person?"

The glance she gave him was brief; but in the second that her eyes scanned his face, she noted the blood steal slowly into his cheeks, and the lines deepen about his mouth, and with an angry impotent throb at her heart she realised his secret, and the hopelessness of her plans and desires. She turned away however, as the gong sounded, with a light laugh, despite the dull heavy sense of her own impuissance.

Mr. Tremain was not long in completing his toilette that evening, and when he came downstairs and made his way to the library in search of a book, it was with the purpose of half an hour's quiet reading before dinner. He crossed the room to the low book-cases that lined one side, and selecting his volume turned back to the fireplace, where a low reading-lamp on the sofa-table made an inviting resting-place.

He had thought himself quite alone, and was consequently not a little surprised to see within the shadow of the chimney recess, opposite to him, the dark quiet figure of Mdlle. Lamien. He put down his book with a half-sigh, and approached her; not even at the sacrifice of his dearest self-indulgence could Mr. Tremain be discourteous to a lady, still less to a stranger and a dependent. Moreover, he acknowledged to himself that Mdlle. Lamien exercised a distinct and strange kind of spell over him, reminding him in some occult mysterious way of Patricia, though why and wherefore he was at a loss to explain.

It was not that these two women—who had so little in common, whose lives were as wide apart as the poles, and whose interests were as diversely opposite as well could be—had ever met; and yet—such is the strong personal magnetism of certain natures—Philip, though he had spoken but twice to Mimi's governess, felt the sense of her power over him; a power so subtle, and yet so strong as to amount almost to physical force; while always with the sense of this domination came the thought of Patricia.

Mdlle. Lamien was sitting where first he remembered seeing her, well within the shadowed recess; her face, even in the subdued light of the single lamp, looked paler than ever, perhaps because its waxen pallor was touched by a shade of red in the cheeks; the kindly shadows hid the painful mark that disfigured one of them, but the light, catching the silver of the wavy hair beneath the falling lace folds, played about it, and across the dark sombre eyes, and thin hands that lay clasped with a sorrowful droop on her knees.

As Philip drew near to her, some polite words of salutation on his lips, she suddenly raised her head, and turning it more fully towards the light, smiled at him. It was wonderful, the effect of her smile; in a moment, as it flashed across her face, it transfigured it wholly, and restored, once more, somewhat of the youth and beauty of bygone days.

Mr. Tremain stood spell-bound; once again there swept across him that strange intangible something, that reflex of Patricia, that evanescent likeness, gone as soon as caught, yet so tantalising in its reality. As he stood silent, amazed, and yet in a manner fascinated, by the singular metamorphose wrought by a smile, two lines of an unpublished poem, written by a dear dead friend, rose unbidden to his lips. He repeated them, half unconsciously, below his breath:

"Light my path thro' Stygian darkness,
By the splendour of thy smile."

Such indeed must have been the light that glowed upon the face of Cleopatra, when Anthony called her his

"Glorious sorceress of the Nile."

As Philip gazed upon the face before him, and no word was spoken, he felt a sudden thrill of life and fire pass through him; the blood leapt in his veins and flew to his face, he put out his hands entreatingly, drawing nearer to her; he felt the subtle essence of her being wrapping him around, enervating his mind, his will; and yet he had no power, no desire to combat it. For it was not Mdlle. Lamien he saw, it was not her white, wan face, with its disfiguring scar, that enchanted him, it was not her burning eyes that held his, it was not even the present he was conscious of. No, he was back again in the past, ten years ago, and he was looking his last upon his sweet girl-love, seeing the mocking smile upon her lips, the trembling hands, the piteous, defiant eyes.

"Patricia," he cried, "Patricia!" And as he called her name, the spell was broken, the glory faded, the past fell from him, and he found himself alone; and only the light rustle of a silken gown, the faint click of a closing door, gave evidence of a departing presence.

"Good heavens!" he said at last, drawing a deep breath, and looking about him uncertainly, "who and what is this Mdlle. Lamien, that she is so like, and yet so unlike Patricia? And what spell does she own to trick me into such hysteric emotion?"

Then the door opened, and Long came in, followed by Perkins, and the wax candles were lit in the brackets and sconces, and the room from semi-darkness and mysterious shadows, leapt into vivid, brilliant life. Then came Mrs. Newbold, bringing a touch of this world's goods in her latest importation of a Wörth gown, full of joyful content and well-being, fastening her gloves and jingling her jewelled bangles, and looking very much surprised to find Mr. Tremain in advance of her.

And so the hour passed and the spell faded, and Philip gave no further thought to Mdlle. Lamien or, strange to say, to Patricia.

Miss James scored several points that evening in her own estimation, and felt almost feverishly anxious to have the preliminaries over with, and her engagement to Philip recognised as un fait accompli.

CHAPTER VII.

DANGER AHEAD.

Meantime the preparations for the theatricals went on rapidly. Mr. Robinson came down the next day, and found his amateur troupe duly drawn up for inspection. Not one of them, however, was word-perfect, in spite of their diligent study, singly or in couples, except Mdlle. Lamien and Mr. Tremain, to neither of whom did the text present any difficulties.

Much to Philip's surprise, Mdlle. Lamien proved but an indifferent actress; she recited her lines without a mistake, but that was all that could be said in praise of her. She was dull, apathetic, heavy, made no effort to throw life or emotion into her part, and was, indeed, so studiously indifferent, that Mr. Robinson took no trouble to either remonstrate with or contradict her, knowing her to be but a substitute, and feeling perfectly sure of the real impersonator, who had been trained untiringly by him, and had made her début as his favourite pupil.

Mdlle. Lamien made it so very apparent that she only appeared in obedience to Mrs. Newbold's request, that Philip found acting up to her not only laborious, but ridiculous, and consequently shirked his scenes with her as much as possible, though not without wondering at the strange contradictions of which her character seemed formed.

The days were drawing on now, and only three remained before that one which, as Dick Darling remarked, "they were to so appropriately celebrate—George's birthday, with George left very much out of it." Now that Philip knew Patricia was not expected until the very morning of the all-important day, he put away from him all thought of meeting her, and, with a suddenly developed gaiety, joined heart and soul in the frivolities of the hour.

The day before the great event, however, something happened which threatened to deprive the company of Henri's personation, and which for the moment, threw even the theatricals in the shade. A letter written by Mr. Tremain to his one intimate man friend best explains the situation:

"The Folly,
"April, 188—.

"Dear Mainwaring,

"Here I am with a strained wrist and a halo of heroism. The first is uncomfortable, the second undeserved. No doubt you will receive a garbled account of what has occurred, and a highly-coloured report of my 'heroic action and wonderful presence of mind'—the words are Miss James's, not mine. Well, then, to save your brain a shock, and your friendship a blow, I send off these somewhat unintelligible lines. I don't want you repeating the tale, with mock heroics, at the club and about town, and I know your fondness for a good story.

"Let me say then, as a premise, that whatever of bravery or heroism was displayed, at a somewhat critical moment in a commonplace incident, belongs solely to Mdlle. Lamien, Mimi's governess; and, by-the-bye, I don't know but that it is just at these commonplace times that one's nerve and resolution are most often put to the test.

"Here are the facts: Mrs. Newbold has a pair of new ponies, George's latest gift, and her last fad; she drove me up with them the day I arrived, and I didn't care for their style particularly, they pulled too hard, and had an obstinate trick of catching at the bit that might prove nasty. Esther's groom on these occasions is Tony, elected, presumably, because of the smallness of his stature. You have seen Tony, and therefore know that he is mostly hat.

"Very well, this morning being bright and cool, Mrs. Newbold decided to take little Marianne and Cissy Beverley for a drive; it was in vain both George and I pointed out to her that the ponies had not been exercised for the last two days, and would therefore be very fresh and too great a handful for her, she would not listen—her sex never will, you know, when advice runs against inclination—and woman-like, she must play with her latest toy.

"So off they started, the children tucked in beside Mrs. Newbold, and Tony perched up behind. The little brutes were fresh enough, but Esther had them well in hand, and drove off in true workmanlike style. They had their drive, along the upper road, and round by the Bay, and so through the town to Beverley's house. Here Mrs. Newbold got out, letting Marianne hold the reins, with Tony at the ponies' heads. She lifted Cissy down, and was just turning to give a word of caution, when a cat, followed by Beverley's setter pup, ran out from the kitchen garden and flew directly under the ponies' heads.

"Then came a sudden shying movement, the light carriage swayed dangerously, and then, with tossing heads, the little brutes broke loose from Tony's hold, took the bits between their teeth, and in a second were off on a dead run.

"You will admit it was not a pleasant situation for Esther. She has since told me that her first intimation of danger was the sight of her darling's bright sunny hair and frightened blue eyes being borne away in the rocking, swaying carriage, as it sped down the drive, drawn by horses wild and young.

"They passed the gate safely, and started off down the Terrace at a full gallop. And now my part comes in. I was walking leisurely up from the post-office when, as I neared Snug Harbour, I saw the ponies dashing towards me; in a second I recognised them; in that second they were past me. I started after them, but with a feeling of hopelessness, for who could hope to come up with their flying feet? And though the road was broad and open for several miles, little Marianne—whose piteous white face caught my eye as she was borne by me—might at any moment loose her hold and be dashed out, or dragged in the trailing reins.

"I put on what speed I could, and as I reached a slight curve in the road, beyond which the ponies would be lost to sight, a woman flew through an open gate and threw herself directly in front of the frightened animals.

"Thus checked for a second, I saw her measure the distance with a glance, then jump and catch the bridle with one hand, flinging all her weight upon it and never letting go, though the little brutes dragged her several rods. To reach her side and add my strength to hers was but the work of a moment; the ponies, easily tired, submitted to my soothing voice and hand, while little Marianne, who throughout had behaved like a heroine, now covered herself with glory, by stepping deliberately out of the carriage and throwing her arms about the tall, dark figure beside her.

"I turned then to face my brave companion; it was, as I suspected, Mdlle. Lamien, who stood there, calm and unmoved, the heavy lace of her veil concealing whatever emotion her face might have revealed. It was she, and no other, who had risked her own life to save the child; and yet, Mainwaring, I declare to you solemnly and in all calmness, it was not of her I thought as we stood together side by side; it was not her personality that seemed so near me, nor her spirit that had carried out so brave a rescue. Laugh at me if you will, suggest hysteria and nerves; so be it, I accept the taunt, and repeat again, it was not Mdlle. Lamien who made captive my admiration and esteem—it was Patricia Hildreth. Explain it as best you can. I do but repeat, it was Patricia who dominated me then; Patricia who seemingly stood so close, I had but to put out my hand to touch her,—and yet—it was Mdlle. Lamien who replied coldly to my inquiries, and who walked swiftly away, leaving me with Marianne, and the now quiet horses.

"Strange to say, neither she nor the child have received any injuries, and I have escaped with a strained wrist—my left one—which will not incapacitate me for to-morrow; indeed, a Henri de Flavigneul with a sling will be a new departure, and ought to prove what Miss Darling would call 'very fetching.'

"By the way, you come down, I believe, for the play; did I tell you Patricia will also be here? I think in many ways this place grows dangerous, and I shall return to my own den, as soon as the theatricals are over.

"As ever, old friend, yours faithfully,
"Philip Tremain."

But if Mr. Tremain was inclined to treat thus lightly his share in Marianne's rescue, the others refused to look at it in so trivial a light. Esther, with tears in her eyes, took both his hands and thanked him with a tremulous smile.

"I shall never forget it, Philip, never," she said, and turned away to hide the falling drops.