His Daughter First

XV.

JACK put Mabel, Miss Gaunt, and the maid in the train at Forty-second Street, and Mabel kissed him good-by affectionately without a single pang of conscience. It did not occur to her that her father was seriously fond of Mrs. Kensett, and if he were that was no reason why Mrs. Kensett should invade her realm, or take her papa away from her. She wanted her papa, as she did most things, for herself. To like and to love were not by any means the same, and love at Jack’s age was an utterly absurd and untimely emotion. Love belonged to youth. Mrs. Kensett, barely thirty-five, was one of the old people. It was almost incredible that papas and mammas could ever have been actors in that passionate, entrancing drama, so mysteriously real as depicted in books, so verging on the ridiculous as observed in life. At all events marriage at her papa’s time of life was neither a drama nor an idyl. It was a scheme, a design, a convention, in whose arrangement the principals were not the only parties to be consulted. Being disposed to scheme herself, she saw schemes in the most innocent events; and being confident of her power to twist Jack about her finger for innocent purposes, it was natural to impute the same power with evil designs to Mrs. Kensett. Poor, dear papa!

At the last moment Jack had given her a letter, a long blue envelope of business-like appearance, encircled by a rubber band, addressed to Mrs. Kensett, which Mabel had observed at once was unsealed.

“Mrs. Kensett’s quarterly accounts are in here,” Jack had said, “and I will let you hand them to her. You won’t forget them, will you? ”

“Do I ever forget things, papa?” said Mabel, putting the letter in the pocket of her dressing-case.

“No, you are a pretty reliable little girl.” He was kissing her good-by. “You take your days of grace, but you pay your notes when they are due.”

“I do keep my engagements and my promises, do I not, papa? ”

He wanted to ask her to be her very best with Mrs. Kensett, but he did not know exactly how to express it; there were strangers present, and he let it go.

There were others of the party in the same drawing-room car, and there was much excitement and talk. Little Constance Montrevel, a short, dark girl of twenty, of quiet manner, and with the unmistakable charm of race and breeding in her plain face, occupied a chair next Mabel, much to the latter’s annoyance, who endeavored unsuccessfully to manœuvre her out of it in favor of Mr. Heald. “How stupid she is! ” thought Mabel, for whom stupidity was often the obstruction of her wishes by unsuspecting people. She was the centre of all the conversation and gayety. One would have thought it was her party. She was making plans as if it were.

“You don’t know the house, Constance. I do. The drawing-room is perfect for charades, or a play. There are two pillars near the end just right for a curtain. Don’t you think it would be nice to have a play, Mr. Heald ? Then there’s a lovely winter garden. I do so love extraordinary things, palms and things from Africa — oh, and there’s an African there, too — a real live one.”

“Is he ebony, with ostrich plumes in his hair and rings in his ears ? ” asked Mr. Heald.

“How absurd you are! He ’s a cousin of Mrs. Kensett’s, from the gold mines, too, — or perhaps it’s diamonds, — which is it they have in Africa, Mr. Heald? ”

“Both, Miss Temple. But they have no women to wear them. It ’s an export trade.”

“Perhaps that is why he has come back. Constance dear, did you bring any of your lovely things ? embroideries and laces, you know ? I told you to. We must have one masked ball. Would n’t it be fun to invite the Westford people! I wonder if Mrs. Kensett will have any music. She always does things well. If she has, we can dance every night. There are lots of horses any way. I brought my riding-habit, — did you ? ”

Helen was sitting beyond Constance in the seat next Mr. Heald. There were roses in her cheeks and on her lips, and many a line that painters love in her form. One looked at her and understood that all the flowers do not open in May. She was the oldest of the company except Mr. Heald, and there was nothing to indicate that she was not on equal terms with the others. Constance liked her because she was quiet and had a low voice.

The talk subsided as the train moved out of the station into the roar and darkness of the tunnel. Looking out of the window Helen saw herself reflected from the black pane in the light of the electric lamps, and she remembered the young girl who once passed through that same tunnel alone, on her way from Boston to her new position in the New York boarding-school. It was such a different face which stared back at her from under the black hat plumes, and in the recollections suggested by her backward look it possessed so strange an interest for her that she stole glances at it as at a stranger whom she could only watch when unobserved.

She was annoyed at Mabel, at her assumption of managing Mrs. Kensett’s affairs. Though it were only idle chatter it was bad taste, and under the circumstances inconceivable. But that did not astonish her so much as did her own feeling of annoyance and criticism. She had been expecting momentarily some outburst on Mabel’s part, some coldness or irritation, indicating that Mabel knew. But except that her spirits seemed unaccountably high, almost forced, Mabel had shown nothing of the kind, and instead of exciting Mabel’s animosity Mabel was exciting hers. She had experienced, too, a new desire to be constantly near her, as if she expected every moment that Mabel would speak, that a crisis was coming. Sitting beside Mr. Heald, it seemed to her that this accidental fact could not escape notice, and she turned her revolving chair further away from him toward the window.

“How hot it is,” she said to Constance. “It makes one faint.”

“ Do you wish my salts ? ” asked Constance, unclasping the tiny vinaigrette from her belt.

“Thank you. Would you mind exchanging places with me ? I want to speak to Mabel.” Then she altered her mind. To change her seat was precisely what would attract attention. She would not be so silly. “No matter, I won’t disturb you. It’s of no consequence; ” and turning to Mr. Heald she began to talk, drawing Constance into the conversation.

In the excitement of meeting and the bustle of starting Mabel had not noticed the occupant of the chair on her left. The conversation on her right was too distant for her to join in it without effort, and as the train drew out of the tunnel she occupied herself with studying her neighbor, whom she mentally pronounced extraordinary. Mabel’s eye for color did not approve of her costume, but she abandoned her investigations on discovering that a pair of lorgnettes were fixed upon her, and that she was under observation herself. So she drew a magazine from within her large Empire muff and settled herself to read. She had got as far as the illustrations when a grim, business-like voice said:

“ Is not this Mabel Temple ? ”

Mabel lifted her violet eyes and somewhat freezingly assented.

“I thought so. I used to know your mother. I am Mrs. Frazer.”

“Oh, are you?” smiled Mabel, unbending. “I did not know ” —

“Naturally. You were in short dresses. But I knew you at once. You are the image of Gladys.”

“Am I? I am glad of that. Did you know my mother well ? ”

“Thoroughly,” said Mrs. Frazer.

Mabel was sensitive about her mother, and the incisive word disconcerted her.

“And a very lovely woman she was, ” Mrs. Frazer went on. “The last time I saw her was at a dinner she gave on the yacht at Newport. You were a little girl and had soiled your pink frock, for which you deserved a scolding which you did not get. Your father saved you.”

Mabel’s smile grew brighter. She had put down her magazine and was leaning forward with an eager expression on her face. One of the secrets of her popularity was her quick interest in the person with whom she happened to be talking. It was of no consequence who the person was or what she really thought. Her interest in what the Bishop was saying was no less intense than that with which she listened to her partner in the pauses of the waltz.

“Was I such a naughty child? Poor mamma! ”

“ All children are trying, ” remarked Mrs. Frazer. “You were no exception. Gladys was.”

“ Do tell me about her, Mrs. Frazer. ” She was about to say that her father never spoke of her mother, but refrained.

“You have only to look in your mirror to see her. You are her child, not your father’s.”

“It is wonderful, is n’t it, to be a reproduction of some one. One always feels so different from every one else, in spite of what people say. I remember distinctly differing from mamma on a good many occasions. It was papa who always agreed with me.”

“Those whom we most resemble are the very ones who are most annoyed to see themselves reproduced, ” said Mrs. Frazer. “So your papa agrees with you, does he ? ”

There was an amused smile on her face, and Mabel blushed.

“I know what you are thinking of,” she said ; “I have been told you thought I was spoiled.”

Mrs. Frazer laughed good-humoredly. “One must be on one’s guard against indulgent fathers, dear. They may prove a great misfortune. Nothing makes one so selfish as to be the object of unselfishness.” The smile faded out of Mabel’s face, and Mrs. Frazer changed the subject. “All these people are going to Cedar Hill, I presume. Who is that pretty girl over there ? ”

Mabel’s eyes followed the lorgnette. “That is Helen, Miss Gaunt. She used to be my governess.”

“And now ? ”

“Now? She is living with us still as — as my friend. Perhaps I am imitating papa and spoiling her. Would you like to see ? ” Her chance had come at last. “Helen, dear,”—at a sign from Mabel Helen left her seat, — “this is Mrs. Frazer, Margaret’s mother, you know. Will you take my seat for a little while ? She wishes to speak to you.”

At last she had effected her purpose. She spoke in passing with those on the other side of the car, dropped into Helen’s vacant seat, opened up a fire of conversation with Constance, allowed it to languish, and finally, offering her magazine to Miss Montrevel, leaned her head back on the high cushion of her revolving chair, and turned slowly to Mr. Heald.

“Come here, I want to speak to you.”

She was looking straight before her out of the window.

At the sound of her imperious voice Mr. Heald, who had risen politely when she took her seat, sat down again and looked inquiringly into her half-averted face.

“Don’t look at me so,” said Mabel in a low voice; “look out the window. Do you see that little white house on the top of the hill? Look at that.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and began to study the landscape as directed.

“Do you think I have no eyes? ” said Mabel.

“I always said they were the most beautiful ones I ever looked into, ” he replied, obeying her injunction with difficulty.

Mabel’s lashes closed for a moment and then opened again.

“Is that what you have been telling Helen ? ”

He made a quick, involuntary move* ment, but still obeyed her, keeping his eyes fixed on the little white house on the hill.

“I have been wanting to speak to you for some time, ” continued Mabel, “but you have either been invisible, — or inaccessible, of late.”

“Is not that natural, Miss Temple ? ”

“You mean because I refused you? Perhaps. How long ago was that? Well, never mind, we have both forgotten, and it is of no consequence. What I wished to say to you, first, was that I asked Mrs. Kensett to invite you ” —

“I am duly grateful, I assure you.”

— “to Cedar Hill, in order that I might speak to you.” She pronounced the words slowly and distinctly. “You have persistently avoided me since — since — I quite understand that. As you say, it is very natural. Then why did you ask papa’s permission to call? Don’t interrupt me. We ’ll say it was to save appearances, — yours, I mean. The first time, yes, — and the second, — but the third, last Thursday ? Did you not see me making every effort to speak to you then? And at the Wendells’, Monday, did I not go out of my way to ” —

“ Really, Miss Temple, you do me too much honor.”

A quick flash of scorn lighted up her eyes.

“How simple you are! or is it vanity ? Do you think I am relenting ? ” And with a low ripple of laughter she turned her head on the other cheek toward Constance. Helen was still talking with Mrs. Frazer. Constance was fingering the leaves of the magazine. “They are clever, are n’t they, — those drawings of Vierge ? ”

“Very,” replied Constance.

Mabel turned back again.

“I intended to wait till we got to Cedar Hill, till I could speak more freely ” —

“More freely! ” he said ironically.

“Much more. But I will say this now, especially as you seem to be laboring under a misapprehension. I — will — not — have — you — play — with —Helen.”

Her voice was low, but distinct with suppressed energy. Mr. Heald stopped playing with his gloves. Then he laughed softly.

“Are you going to play at governess too? ”

“I am not playing at anything, and my relations with Helen are not the subject of discussion, ” replied Mabel quietly. “But since you have intimated that we have changed places I must correct you again. I am not taking Helen’s place, she is taking mine, —the one I vacated.”

“Are you speaking in her name, Miss Temple? ”

“I do not require her permission to speak, and I shall not ask yours to speak to her, — to tell her, for example, how quickly you recover from despondency.”

“Mabel! ”

“Hush! Have you no control over yourself? I am not finding fault with you for your — your good spirits. You gambled, and lost, and you are too old a player to complain, and the loss was n’t worth suicide.” The sneer in her tone hurt him more than her words. “Is that what you would have me understand? Very good. But — don’t trifle with Helen. And don’t consider me your enemy ” — her voice softened a little—“on account of the — our past misunderstanding. I am not. I am only Helen’s friend. There! the white house is gone. You may look at me now. What are you laughing at so, Constance? Do let me see. You don’t mean to say you have found anything funny in ” —

Mr. Heald broke in savagely: “We shall speak of this again, ” he said, rising.

“Yes, do,” said Mabel, sitting up and pulling down the shade. “Are you going to smoke? When you come back we will talk it all over.” She gave him one of her bright smiles and turned to Constance.

It was no time or place for defense, explanation, or discussion, and Mr. Heald knew how to wait. He went forward into the buffet car, found a seat by himself in the small compartment, and called for a whiskey and soda.

There were others of the Cedar Hill party in the same car, one of whom presently came to ask him to make a fourth hand at whist. But he declined. Mabel’s sudden attack had completely confounded him. He was out of sorts with himself, and therefore with the rest of the world. But his opinion of her had risen immensely. What nerve the girl had!

He was not given to the self-analysis and retrospection which lead to weakness and indecision. He always charged off the past to profit and loss. The future was the real asset. But the past sometimes holds the key to the future, and then deserves consideration. Nerve, and insight too ! It made him smile to think of it. No one had ever called him a gambler before, or had had any reason to, in the literal sense of the word, since one day when he lost five thousand pounds and his ranch on the turn of a card. He had never touched one since. There were easier and surer ways of making money. He had tested the fallacy of growing up with a new country. The place to make money is where money is. But Mabel was right. She had called him by name, and he always admired any one who hit the nail squarely on the head. He was a gambler. Not by profession or of the coarser sort, but by nature, and with instincts suited to the times. The times were sordid and commonplace, and money-making, like everything else, had degenerated into a mean trade. But if he had been born a hundred years earlier he might have been holding up travelers on the highroad, or cruising on the high seas with a black flag at the masthead, the dread of all gentry with gold sewed in their belts and — the devil take it! that was his weakness — a very prince of courtesy to the fair sex. He smiled at the picture as he rolled a fresh cigarette. It brought him back to Mabel with renewed admiration. If the old days were back again, when the art of transferring money from one’s neighbor’s pocket to one’s own was practiced by barons living in castles, he would like to be the knight to wear her scarf on his lance. And here he was leading germans and trading in curb stocks! It amounted to the same thing in the end, but it was not picturesque. Yes, she had a cool head and a lot of will. Who would have thought it, behind those violet eyes!

What was she driving at any way ? She had refused him squarely, with such light-heartedness as to have deprived his advances of all seriousness. For that he had been grateful at the time, a little disappointed, — it was a good chance lost, — but she had not made him feel that he was mercenary. There was no sting in her answer, and on his part no resentment. It was an open door, carelessly shut, and he had passed on. Now he felt as if he were a book cleverly read from cover to cover and laid aside not to be opened again. He admired her now, and with admiration came an exasperating sense of humiliation. She had described the situation exactly. He had seen an unusually big prize, an only child, with a wonderfully beautiful face and figure, and millions in prospect. And he had been fool enough to ask for these, as though they were the only stakes in the game! One thing was certain: she was very clever, and she had a heart. He had absolutely misjudged her.

And she had opened the book again — why ? Why had she invited him to Cedar Hill? Merely to tell him that she was Helen’s friend? If she were really and only that, why did she not warn Helen instead of him ? It was true she had threatened to, but she had not done so yet. Such pure philanthropy was incredible. Could it be that she was jealous, that she was calling him back? Or was she just ugly and officious ? The first hypothesis was more pleasing than the second, — but there was Helen. A demure little schoolmistress with a pretty face and not a penny. He had not seen her at first at all. He was not looking for pretty faces and empty pockets. And then, his venture in holding up the coach having proved a failure, in his confounded folly for gallantry he had paid a compliment to the loveliness of one of the passengers, — for she was lovely, — who had mistaken compliments for love and romance for reality. Strange! that a tinsel flame should light the fires in the quiet depths of Helen’s serious eyes, and that he should have thought there were no depths or seriousness in the others.

Whether under the influence of the whiskey and soda or the vision of Helen, he began to wander from the fixed moorings of sensible thinking down the current of dreaming. There were women so hungry that they were willing to give everything for nothing. Yet it was something, to take a woman who had nothing but herself to give, a homeless waif in the street as it were, cold and lonely and starving, and satisfy her, make himself the source of all her happiness, enthrone her. Could he really love her, and would he, after she was enthroned ? He pulled himself together with a start. No, he might be a gambler, but he was not a sharper.

The truth was he had entered upon a course of conduct without attaching any importance to it, or giving any thought to its consequences. He was angry, compassionately angry, with Helen for her simplicity; and he was angry, regretfully angry, with Mabel for appearing in the second act after having expired in the first. He was afraid that he understood Helen only too well. He was resolved to understand Mabel better, and he threw away his cigarette with this determination.

The train had just stopped, and the dining-car was being put on. He went out upon the platform and was among the first to enter it, appropriating a corner table, set for two. It was at the forward end of the car behind the open corridor door, and was necessarily passed by all who came in. Mabel was among the last. He pushed the door aside when he saw her, and offered her his seat.

“For me? ” she said, “how nice of you! I like corner seats where I can see every one.”

She was always at her ease, an ease which, as he had reason to know, could provoke an unwarranted assurance, or keep him, as now, at an uncomfortable distance. If one had not known Gladys one would wonder how so young a girl had acquired it. Being inherited, it bore no resemblance to the acquired, artificial article. But he was resolved on forcing her hand.

“ You don’t mind continuing our conversation ? ” he asked, putting her muff and magazine in the rack overhead and sitting down opposite her.

“Indeed no. On the contrary, I want to.”

She was taking off her gloves, watching the other members of the party as they took their seats. Helen and Mrs. Frazer were at the farther end of the car. She exchanged a smile with Helen, laid her gloves beside her plate, and took up the menu.

“ Bouillon, of course, ” she exclaimed, “always bouillon! No, I don’t want any ” — to the waiter. “How they do hurl the courses at you! like the night advertisements in Madison Square, and snatch them away as quickly. What time do we arrive at Westford? Do you remember? ”

“I think it is about three hours. We left New York at noon. That would make it three o’clock.”

“You have never been there? ”

“No, this is my first visit, thanks to you.”

“Is it? Why, I thought you and Mrs. Kensett were old friends. Perhaps I ought not to have asked her to invite you.”

“I hope you are not regretting it already.”

“No. Are you? I thought you would think it very nice and friendly in me, after our little quarrel.”

“Are you never serious, Mabel? ”

“Why should you think I am not serious ? At least I am always serious about serious things. When was I not? Is n’t the fault yours — that you do not take me seriously ? ”

“I took you seriously once, and I thought I understood you then. I don’t understand you now. ”

She laughed. “The question seems to be which can understand the other first. That is quite true — in a way. You will admit though that I have not asked you any questions, I only gave you a warning. I suppose it is difficult for you to appreciate my feelings toward Helen, — and that puzzles you. You think of her as she used to be, as what she thinks she is, — my governess. But, you see, you are both mistaken. She is not looking after me, I am looking after her. She is quite a child. It is really very extraordinary how little age counts. She learns some things with much more difficulty than I used to learn the lessons she gave me, and she does not forget her lessons as easily as I do mine. You must understand this, first, about Helen, that she is a mere child; and then this, about me, that I am fond of her, — more fond of her than she has any reason to be of me. That is what I wished to say to you, and that is all I think I am called upon to say. If you are as serious as I am you need not fear my interference.”

He was looking at her while she spoke, but nothing in her face belied her frankness. It was not a frankness, however, which told him what road to take. It left him at the crossways. He felt the constraint of their surroundings and wished he had waited.

“I suppose I ought to be grateful to you,” he said, “even though you are actuated solely by your interest in Miss Gaunt. ”

He paused, looking straight into her eyes.

“Yes?” she said, as if expecting him to go on.

“But are you not drawing inferences from rather slender premises? ”

“I think not.”

“In certain circumstances,” he hazarded, feeling his way carefully, “a man does not know what he is doing.”

A kindly smile came into her eyes.

“ Yes, exactly. Sometimes, in pique, or desperation, we do what cannot be undone as easily as what was done in seriousness. And then, you know, we misunderstand each other so dreadfully. Perhaps I spoke too impulsively a little while ago. But I really meant nothing that was not friendly.”

“Friendly to whom? ” he thought. “To him, or to Helen? ”

She had gathered up her gloves and was looking out of the window with something indecisive and appealing in her face.

“Mabel.” She did not appear to hear him. “Mabel,” he repeated, “don’t you know we can never be — friends.”

She turned and looked at him, another little vanishing smile in her eyes, like a lip’s quiver.

“Perhaps we can, after years and years,” she said. “Friendship is a very slow-growing plant, you know, — not like the other. And if you are so sure it cannot live you must not call me Mabel.” And then the smile became an ordinary one. “Will you give me my muff, please ? And will you come over with me to Mrs. Frazer’s table? I want to introduce you. We can have our coffee there with them.”

XVI.

As she had anticipated, Mabel found that she and Helen were to share the same room. There was a small parlor opening out from it, and both rooms bore evidence to a thoughtfulness not to be attributed to servants’ hands. She had anticipated that also.

Shortly after their arrival tea and deliciously hot toast were served in the parlor, and on leaving the tray the butler had announced dinner for eight o’clock. There was no luxury Mabel loved more than time, and after tea and a refreshing bath, while Helen and her maid Marie were emptying the trunks and putting things in order, she sat in the deep easy-chair before the parlor fire, lost in thought. There were two whole hours yet before she need think of dressing. Her writing materials had just been arranged on the table near her, and this reminded her of the letter for Mrs. Kensett. As the envelope was unsealed she felt no compunction in opening it. It contained a smaller envelope, also unsealed, and another closed, and endorsed “Mrs. Kensett’s Statement,” with the date. The note in the former read as follows: —

My DEAR MRS. KENSETT, — I am sending you by Mabel the usual statement for this quarter. It contains nothing to which I need call your attention. According to what I understood from Paul to be your wish, all the proceeds of the sale of the Argonaut stock, except the original net cost of your share thereof, has been credited to the person named in the remaining certificates, and converted into four per cent registered bonds which I hold subject to further orders. As your account showed a large idle balance I have reinvested a part of it as per memorandum herewith.

Yours faithfully,

JOHN TEMPLE.

Mabel returned the note to its envelope with the reflection that it was very like papa, and lapsed into thought.

What a queer person Mrs. Frazer was! She rather liked her, she was so brusque and refreshing. What was it to be spoiled? There was Helen, working away in the adjoining room. She was always doing something. Was it true that unselfish people made others selfish? Things got done somehow, just as they were being done now in the next room, if one left them to others. The only spoiled persons she knew among her acquaintances were either bad or sour, like spoiled fruit or cream. She was neither of these.

“ Helen dear, are n’t you tired? Do come in and sit down.”

“Yes, in a minute.”

Mabel went to the door and looked in. Her evening dress was laid out on the bed, her stockings and slippers on the chair beside it. The toilet-table glittered with the array of her silver, and Marie was hanging the last skirt in the wardrobe. There did not appear to be much to do.

“You are all through, are n’t you? ” she said.

“Almost,” replied Helen. “But I have n’t had my hath yet.”

Mabel had not thought of that, and returned to her chair.

Above the fireplace hung an old Venetian mirror with beveled edges and figures sunk in intaglio on the back. Mabel’s eyes rested on it admiringly. It was an exceedingly good specimen. And the Dresden china clock on the mantel was unusually pretty too, much prettier than her own. She might have thought the same thing had the two changed places. She had a keen appreciation for good things, but the pleasure they afforded began to diminish immediately after possession.

What was it to be spoiled? The thought came back persistently. She certainly had not spoiled Helen. She remembered her as she was when she first came to Gramercy Park. How awkward and prim she was then, with her conscientious efforts to instruct and discipline! No, Helen was decidedly improved. She was more at her ease, dressed better, spoke better French, was in every way happier. And all this was due to her — Mabel. If her father had had his way Helen would be a faded little old schoolmistress, or darning the family stockings in Boston. There was such a thing as being spoiled by success, however.

A knock at the door roused her from her reflections. It was only a servant who came to remove the tray. She gave him the envelope with the request that it should be delivered at once to Mrs. Kensett, and then began a note to her father announcing her safe arrival and the delivery of his letter. This occupied her but a moment, and she sat down again before the fire. She thought of her papa’s visit to the Vixen, and wondered whether he would remember to order the new deck awnings. She thought of his Christmas alone, and wondered what her Christmas presents would be. He always gave her something handsome. He was generally at a loss to know what it should be, and on the alert for any chance suggestion as to what she most wanted, and she wondered which of several hints furnished him through Helen and other roundabout channels would bear fruit. She wondered, too, who would take her out to dinner. And then, having exhausted lesser things, — she knew that they were all lesser things, so many decoys with which she was endeavoring to divert her mind from something else, — she got up and went into the other room, inspected it again carefully, and returned once more to her chair. She had always known what she wanted, her own mind. And she had commonly had her own way. If she was not, like Helen, transparent to others, she at least understood herself, which was a long step toward conquering obstacles presented from without. A good deal of will and a little tact did the rest. Now there was something within, something distinct and different from her old self, something disconcerting, vague, powerful, beyond her control, like a poison taken unawares. It was as if into her house of life had entered a stranger, whose presence she felt and was seeking to avoid, who was disputing her sovereignty and confusing her plans. It was worse than being thwarted, this not knowing any longer what she wanted. At all events she did not want to think, and with a glance at the clock she was about to begin her dressing when there was a knock on the door, and to her surprise Mrs. Frazer appeared.

“I am making a tour of inspection to see that all you young people are properly taken care of, ” she said. “May I come in? ”

“Do, Mrs. Frazer, do! ” cried Mabel. “We could not be more comfortable. Mrs. Kensett always makes one feel at home.”

“Yes, it is the only house I ever visit. I dislike visiting, and visitors. This turning of one’s house into a hotel is not to my taste. I am going to sit down with you for a few minutes before dressing, if you do not mind.”

Society just then was a distinct relief to Mabel, and the interruption to her thoughts most welcome. Besides, ever since Mrs. Frazer had told her that she had known her mother she had wanted to talk with her again about Gladys.

“You will excuse my dressing-gown, won’t you, dear Mrs. Frazer? ”

“Yes indeed, child. And you will allow me to have my cigarette with you ? ”

She seated herself in Mabel’s comfortable chair and produced a jeweled case from her pocket.

“It is a very tyrannical habit,” she said, “and very offensive to many people’s prejudices. But I do not mind disturbing their prejudices if I do not disturb their comfort.”

She shook with a little soundless laugh as she spoke, in which Mabel joined. There was a suggestion of motherhood about this childless woman which Mabel felt, perhaps the more quickly because she was motherless. She pulled the footstool from under the table and sat down at Mrs. Frazer’s feet.

“I always admired your mother,” Mrs. Frazer continued, “for her consideration of others. It was perhaps an art, but we do not criticise motives and methods when the results are so satisfactory.”

“I like to have you speak of my mother,” said Mabel. “No one ever does, because — no doubt they think ” — she turned her face away thoughtfully— “it would be a painful subject to me.”

“You refer to the circumstances of her death, I suppose,” said Mrs. Frazer bluntly.

“Yes.”

“Have you never spoken with your father of them ? ”

“Never. There are some subjects of which I should never dare speak with papa.”

“You must remember, dear, that your father is thirty-five years older than you. We old people sometimes manage to share our children’s lives, but we never really share ours with our children. We understand you because we have been children ourselves, but you cannot understand us till you have replaced us. You should not misjudge your father. We cannot talk of the serious things of experience with those who have not had any.”

Marie came in to draw the shades and light the candles.

“ I like the firelight best, ” Mabel said interrogatively, and Mrs. Frazer assented. “Isn’t it possible you do not understand us as well as you think you do ? ” She had closed the door into the bedroom and was standing by the window, talking to the world inanimate slowly retreating into the shadows. “Experience must begin some time. We have perceptions at any rate, and we do a good deal of quiet thinking.” Then she came back to her stool and looked up into Mrs. Frazer’s face. “Silence implies ” — she hesitated — “I want to ask you a question. Was mamma to blame? I don’t believe it, but I want to know.”

“My dear,” replied Mrs. Frazer, looking down into the upturned eyes, “you ask a very difficult question. The machinery of justice in this world is a very clumsy affair. It is quite necessary, but it mangles one dreadfully, and I never set it in motion if I can help it.”

“ But one must have justice, ” remonstrated Mabel. “Is it impossible to answer my question? Is it because you cannot, or because you do not wish to? ”

“There are very few questions which can be answered by a yes or no. That your mother was to blame in any harsh sense of the word — no. But we sometimes, especially at your age, step beyond our depth, and then the question of responsibility becomes a very delicate one. What we do in the surprise and terror of finding that we have lost our foothold and cannot swim is one thing, what we do before is another.”

“But we do not know or realize beforehand.”

“No, we are impulsive, or thoughtless, careless of consequences, most often inexperienced. But the world will tell you that when you steer in from the open sea under the headlands you cannot make sudden squalls an excuse, or plead that you did not see them coming. They are to be expected, — like holes in one’s stockings. That is why we old people are forever preaching caution. It is very disagreeable in us, and very tiresome, to be continually searching the skies for storms which may never come. But then, you have your own barometer, —consult that.”

“What barometer? ” asked Mabel.

“ Some people call it conscience. You do not like the word, do you, dear ? ” Mrs. Frazer touched the bent head with her plump hand.

“I don’t object to it,” said Mabel.

“Nor I. We must not take too narrow a view of it. It indicates far more than duty, and is not a mere whip. It indicates danger. One should think of it as a friendly counselor who warns us, as our other senses do, of hot coals or bad odors. The important thing is to keep it in the sun, and above all — read it yourself. Don’t let others consult it for you. The last thing I should ever attempt would be to tell you what you ought to do. What a pretty dressing-gown you have on, dear. Where did you get it ? ”

“Marie made it,” said Mabel absent-mindedly. She was playing with the rings in her lap.

“She must be a treasure. Dear me! ” as the clock on the mantel chimed seven. “Is it so late? Punctuality is my one virtue. I can’t slip into a dress as quickly as I used to. Goodby, dear.” And at the door—“I rather think we shall get on well together.”

Mabel’s face brightened in assent, and the door closed.

“Whom were you talking with?” asked Helen, coming in from her bath.

“Mrs. Frazer. She is queer, isn’t she? But don’t you find her rather nice ? You had a long talk with her in the train.”

“ I thought she was somewhat inquisitive,” replied Helen.

“Inquisitive? About what? ”

“Oh, about everything.”

“Can’t you be more specific? Did you give me a good character? ”

“She did not refer to you. She asked me about myself and my family.”

“She was not inquisitive with me at all, ” said Mabel. “I could get nothing out of her.” She had rung for her maid, and Marie was dressing her hair. “She is n’t a bit like Margaret. You and Margaret will like each other, I am sure.”

“Don’t you like Miss Frazer? ”

“Why, yes, in a way. She is one of those persons who holds herself aloof, — very sweet and gracious, you know, but always just so far away.”

“And you think I succeed with persons of that description, do you ? ” laughed Helen.

“I think you succeed with most any one — when you try.” Helen turned and looked at her. “You made quite an impression on Mrs. Frazer. She told me she thought you were very pretty. ”

“Nonsense, ” said Helen, coloring.

She was dressing her hair at the toilet-table beside her bed, and Mabel from her chair before the pier-glass saw the color come. It was not the flush of annoyance, but of self-satisfaction and superiority,— at least Mabel thought so, and in her nervous condition Helen’s silence and tranquillity irritated her. Was there any reason for it? She was resolved to know. She must know.

“You may come in twenty minutes, Marie, ” she said to the maid when her task was finished; “at twenty minutes to eight.”

She sat for a moment before the glass after Marie had gone, adding a personal touch here and there to her hair, and then resumed the conversation where it had ended a few minutes before.

“I think so too.”

“Think what? ” asked Helen.

“That you are very pretty.” Helen’s heart began to beat. Mabel was not given to praising her. But she went on dressing in silence. “I have thought so myself, ” pursued Mabel; “ these last two weeks especially.”

Helen turned again, and this time caught Mabel’s eyes in the glass. She tried a disdainful smile of superiority to such nonsense, but failed.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it, dear? ” exclaimed Mabel suddenly, wheeling about on her chair.

“About what? ” said Helen, with an effort at indifference.

“Or don’t I inspire confidence? ”

Helen made another ineffectual effort at apathy. “Not when you talk in riddles.”

Mabel got up and went over to where she stood, with the impulse to put her arms about her and kiss her into confession. But she did not. She sat down instead on the edge of the bed where she could look up into Helen’s face. Her curiosity was not purely disinterested, and the consciousness that the sincerity of her caress depended too much upon what Helen should say checked her.

“Have n’t we lived together long enough to warrant a little frankness ? ”

Helen felt her presence of mind deserting her, and said the first thing that came to her lips.

“You are not very frank with me, Mabel.”

“Not frank with you! Why, what have I to be frank about? No one is in love with me. You foolish girl! It is perfectly plain that Mr. Heald is paying you marked attention.” The color rushed up again like the waves of a rising tide. “You cannot deny that. And I am tremendously interested — tremendously. I want to know all about it. Why should you be so shy? Has he —spoken to you? ”

“No — not exactly,” said Helen. She would have unburdened herself in a moment but for the haunting suspicion that her position was not secure.

“Not exactly ! ” echoed Mabel,bursting into laughter. “I really believe you are turning into a finished coquette, Helen. But you certainly are not a worldly person. Everything depends upon whether you love him — do you ? ”

“He has n’t asked me,” said Helen, wavering.

It was all clear now, but Mabel went on. “He will, if you let him —do you ? ”

“Please don’t say anymore, Mabel. You torture me. I don’t wish to speak of it — I don’t know.”

“Well I do, and if you wish to know yourself I will tell you how you can — just suppose you could not have him.”

She might have said the words so gently, so reassuringly, as to have helped one in difficulty to a better knowledge of self; but they were not meant so. She knew they were cruel, and felt a certain keen pleasure. The color went from Helen’s face, and a scared look came into her eyes. She saw Mabel, with her beauty, her millions, and her daring, and a miserable feeling of her own nothingness swept over her. She despised herself for it, and for the terrifying discovery that she could not despise him. Yet she wanted Mabel to go on now, to have it over. But with one of those sudden changes of mood which alter the whole tone of a conversation, Mabel exchanged the rôles.

“I did not mean to torture you, Helen. I did not know the subject was one which ever did torture. Perhaps, some day, you will deign to enlighten me — with the rest of the world.”

It was Mabel’s way to unexpectedly and illogically convert herself into the aggrieved party. Helen had had experience with it before, and had determined again and again not to yield to it. But she always did, and succumbed once more to the old spell.

“Mabel, dear,” she said tremulously, sitting down beside her on the bed and putting her arms round her, “don’t speak so. I could be happy — very happy — if I knew you were. ” She had not intended to say so much, but when her presence of mind deserted her she always said more or less than she meant to.

“If I were! ” repeated Mabel, growing rigid.

“ I mean, ” said Helen, feeling the chill, “I thought that once ” — she drew back as she spoke but plunged on — “that at one time he — that you ” —

For the one brief moment in which Helen was struggling with words Mabel kept still, her lips tight, her eyes fixed, a figure of stone. Then with a desperate effort she pulled herself together.

“That I would not approve. You thought that. Why should you ? You have not got to consult me.” Marie was knocking at the door. “Yes, Marie, come in ” — for Marie was hesitating on the threshold. “We shall be late if you do not hurry, Helen.”

Bewildered, Helen sat down before her dressing-table again. Were all her fears, then, so foolish? She was conscious of Marie’s eyes, and her fingers bungled.

“Go and help Miss Gaunt, Marie,” said Mabel; and Marie, who saw that something had happened, tactfully endeavored to supply the conversation.

At last they were ready.

“Come, it is striking eight,” said Mabel.

In the corridor, outside the door, before they went down, she caught Helen’s hand and pressed it tightly. “You silly girl! If Reginald Heald asks you to marry him, and you consent, I shall be ” — she hesitated for the right word — “delighted — simply delighted.”

It was the conditional mood, but in the wave of relief which swept over her Helen did not notice it, and she returned the pressure of Mabel’s hand with a light-heartedness she had not known for days.

XVII.

The Bishop stood at the farther end of the drawing-room with Mrs. Frazer, as Dolly received her guests. He had been at Lemington selecting a site for the new church with Professor Fisher, and needed no urging to accept the invitation to dinner. Miss Fisher, who was not at ease on formal occasions, had managed to find an excuse satisfactory to her conscience, strict truthfulness being always her first consideration. Her brother, never anything else than at home on all occasions, accompanied the Bishop “with the greatest pleasure.”

There was a momentary hush as Mabel entered the room, the involuntary pause a lovely rose compels when one walks through a garden. She was radiantly beautiful, and to those who, like Helen, knew her in her unbending, willful moods, the air of distinction and sovereignty she assumed with an evening dress was always a source of fresh surprise and admiration. The Bishop, who respected all powers, human and divine, and never failed to claim the paternal right associated with his office, went forward to pay his homage and assert his spiritual relationship after she had greeted Dolly ; then he returned to Mrs. Frazer’s side at what might be called the throne end of the room, which he occupied in what Mabel styled his monumental capacity.

“They are wonderful things, youth and beauty, ” he said to Dolly, as he gave her his arm and they followed the others down the broad stairway. “ ’To be young, ’ as the poet says, ‘ is very Heaven. ’ ”

It was not very complimentary, Dolly thought, but she smiled, feeling it true.

“ How many secrets lie in the hearts of all these roses,” Mrs. Frazer was saying to Paul, with whom she led the way into the dining-room.

“ I wish they were all as happy ones as mine, ” he replied.

“Yours!” she retorted contemptuously; “try to pay me a little more attention, or it will be out before the evening is over. You forget I am an important personage for you hereafter.”

Mabel had taken Mr. Heald’s arm with an inward approval of Mrs. Kensett’s arrangements and the outward hauteur she kept in reserve for certain situations, checking the expression of his good fortune with the remark that that depended upon what use he made of it.

She sat on Dolly’s right beyond the Bishop, and made the latter her ally by listening with unaffected interest to all the plans for worthy students with which he was at the moment occupied.

“And where is your father? ” he asked, looking down the table as though he expected to see him.

“Papa? ” said Mabel. “He is having his holiday. You see, I am away, and to-morrow he will be on the deck of the Vixen.”

“He is not cruising in winter,” said the Bishop, sipping his sherry.

“Oh no, he is only getting ready to. He loves to smell tar and ropes. I have been trying to persuade him to buy a steam yacht. I like to be sure of getting where I am going to. But he prefers to battle with the elements. He says a steam yacht is nothing but a hotel. Are you fond of the water, Mrs. Kensett ? ” she asked, bending forward and speaking over the Bishop’s plate.

“ I am fond of it, but I am afraid of it. I should prefer the steamer, as you do, though I fear my reasons would do me less credit than yours.”

“Papa is so absurdly fond of the Vixen,” continued Mabel. “She is my one rival in his affections.”

“ One ! ” exclaimed the Bishop, playing with his glass. “And how many has he in yours ? ”

“Absolutely none, my dear Bishop,” laughed Mabel.

“Ab actu ad posse valet consecutio, ” he replied, returning her smile.

“Are you saying something nice or horrid ? Helen, ” called Mabel, leaning forward again and speaking to Helen, who sat beyond Mr. Heald, “do help me. The Bishop is talking Greek.”

“Latin, ray dear young lady, Latin, ” interposed the Bishop. “I was only saying that it was safe to argue from what has been to what will be.”

Helen was not so proud of her dead languages as formerly, but smiled brightly as Mr. Heald whispered, “ Latin for the Romans ! ”

“ I can ’ t draw such fine distinctions, ” declared Mabel.

It amused the Bishop greatly to hear the difference between Greek and Latin called a fine distinction, and he repeated Mabel’s remark, first to Dolly and then to the Professor sitting opposite him. The Professor, not being gifted with a sense of humor, after pondering over the subject and vainly endeavoring to join in the conversation, resolved to ask Mabel on some more favorable opportunity what her point of view was.

Notwithstanding several pleasant things said at dinner, Helen found the effect of Mabel’s reassuring declaration in regard to Mr. Heald wearing away with the evening. There was a pause, if not a change, in his manner. She reminded herself that she had herself insisted upon the pause ; but women do not always expect to be taken at their word, or, at least, to be obeyed so literally as to make it difficult for them to change the countersign. She possessed none of Mabel’s skill in manœuvring, nor any desire for it, but she did find mere courtesy unsatisfying. Nor was it pleasant to feel that if he was giving her more than her due of tabletalk, it was because Mabel was neglecting him.

When the men came into the drawing-room Mr. Heald managed to get in his few words of private conversation with Dolly.

“Under ordinary circumstances, my dear Mrs. Kensett,” he said, “I should not have presumed to offer you my advice, but having been honored by your confidence at the outset, I felt I could not exaggerate my responsibility. To be quite frank, my own confidence is as great as ever; but there will very likely be a period of exploration during which the market value of the stock would naturally decline. My only reason for asking you to regard my advice as confidential was the wish to explain to you in person that it was founded on excess of caution, — nothing more. ”

“ I quite appreciated your suggestion, ” said Dolly. “It was very thoughtful of you, but the stock had been already sold.”

“Already! you have the true flair of the speculator.”

“Oh no, Mr. Heald, that is the last thing I aspire to. Mr. Temple, who is my business adviser, thought it more prudent ” —

“Quite right, quite right,” rejoined Mr. Heald. “Mr. Temple’s judgment is excellent.”

Dolly thought he seemed annoyed, but the subject had lost interest for her, and she allowed it to drop.

“Come,” she said, taking him over to the group where Paul was standing, “we are to have a toboggan party tomorrow morning. You must help me arrange it.”

Paul had been possessed all the evening by the vague conviction that he had seen Mr. Heald somewhere before, — one of those convictions which lead nowhere, but will not be shaken off. He had talked with him after dinner, but the conversation had yielded no clue. He said to himself that it did not matter whether he had seen him before or not, yet he went on pursuing the idea as one always does pursue a thought which has broken away from all orderly connections. On coming in from the smoking-room he had been drawn by Margaret’s presence to the circle near the conservatory door, but before reaching her side Mabel intercepted him.

“Have you begun your observations ? ” she asked, as he came up. “ Because I release you.”

“ My observations ? ” he repeated, not understanding her.

“I am glad you have forgotten. It was a very disagreeable and utterly impossible task I set you.”

“I was going to ask you to let me off, ” said Paul, recollecting.

“Were you? why? ” rejoined Mabel, becoming suddenly interested.

“Because, as you know very well, such estimates are not serious. One’s eyes do not get in focus on so short an acquaintance. If I made a good report it would only count as flattery ” —

“And if you made a bad one I should not believe it! But I was not thinking of myself at all when I asked you. I only wanted to know what your ideal was. For of course you would try me by some standard, real or imaginary. It is interesting to know what people’s standards are.”

“You are talking the wildest nonsense, child,” broke in Mrs. Frazer. “If his standard is the ordinary one by which men judge women, we know beforehand what it is ; and if it is the extraordinary one which he has discovered personified in the flesh, it would not interest us.”

“Why not? ” asked Mabel.

“ Because no woman is ever flattered by the choice of another. As for eyes, ” she said to Paul, “ there is nothing like a long acquaintance for getting them out of focus.”

“What are you all talking about so earnestly? ” asked Dolly, coming up with Mr. Heald.

“About people’s judgments of us,” said Mabel. “Which is the true one, Mrs. Kensett, — the acquaintance’s, whose eyes are not yet in focus, or the friend’s, whose eyes have got out again ? ”

“That depends upon the judge, ” said Dolly simply. “We are not mere bundles of facts on which to base final opinions, but ” —

“ But what, Mrs. Kensett ? ” said Helen, who felt Dolly was struggling with a personal message.

“ But bundles of possibilities in which one finds what one is looking for. You must ask the Bishop or Professor Fisher, ” she added, smiling, and calling herself back to her surroundings. “I have a much simpler proposition to make, — a toboggan party to-morrow after breakfast.”

The music began in the conservatory while Dolly’s proposal was under discussion, and a young attaché from Washington came to ask Mabel for the opening waltz.

“Don’t you think, Mrs. Kensett,” she said, as she took his arm, “it would be nice to have some charades to-morrow evening? ”

“Yes indeed, I was thinking of it myself. ”

“Then you don’t mind my suggesting it, do you ? ”

“Why certainly not, Miss Temple. It is exactly what I wish you to do.”

Mabel left her partner’s arm for a moment and laid her hand on Dolly’s. “Please don’t call me Miss Temple, Mrs. Kensett,” she whispered. “I want to be Mabel to you.”

Dolly was almost ready to believe that her troubles were of her own creation, or that Mabel had experienced a change of heart. Or did the girl seriously think that her admonition had been effective, and that she could heal the wound she had made by a little amiability ? The thought sent a flush of pride and indignation to Dolly’s face. As Mrs. Frazer had predicted, it was not so easy to put pride to sleep.

“She somehow contrives to get inside your defenses,” said Mrs. Frazer in a low tone to Dolly, as they watched the dancers from their chairs. “She is very like her mother, sensitive and arrogant, with a personality that manages to atone for its own offenses. The danger is that she is young, a child playing with, fire, which is nothing unusual, and in any house but our own would be none of our concern.”

Mabel went in to supper with the Professor.

“ You were speaking at dinner of fine distinctions, Miss Temple,” he began. “I wanted to ask you ” —

“Was I? ” laughed Mabel. “Very likely. I never make them. If I do I get lost in the fog directly.”

“ I do not quite understand your point of view. Distinctions tend to clarify.”

“ Are you a great friend of the Bishop’s ? ”

“Why certainly,” said the Professor, taken aback. “The Bishop and I” —

“So am I. But listen to his next sermon. He can split a color into so many shades you cannot tell black from white. After he has walked round and round and round a subject you feel positively dizzy.”

“ But one must analyze first in order to generalize afterwards.”

“You must n’t do either now if you want any supper, ” said Mabel, smiling into the spectacles, — and then a voice at her elbow set her heart beating.

“May I speak to you a moment, Miss Temple? Mrs. Kensett has asked me to arrange the toboggan party for tomorrow morning.”

She knew from the tone and manner that this was only a pretext.

“Certainly,” she said; and excusing herself to the Professor she rose and followed Mr. Heald.

“What is it?” she asked, a shade of anxiety in her words.

“I have just received a telegram from New York, and must go down at once. I shall try to return, to-morrow if possible, but I may have to go out West, perhaps for a long time — on urgent business. I want to speak to you — now. I must. There is no one in the conservatory. Come.”

It was less an entreaty than a command, and Mabel followed him again. In the few steps which separated them from the seat under the palms to which he led her a hundred thoughts rushed through her mind. Above all, that this man was going to sound her heart, tear away the veils, expose her. She struggled with herself for a plan of action, the plan she had not been able to form in leisure, and which would, in a few seconds, have to be acted upon. There had been a strange exciting pleasure in indecision, in saying shall I or shall I not. That was over. She must answer. Under all the indecision had been the reality, the truth. What was it? What was the horrible power which had prevented her from being true to herself ?

He stood before her determined, as if done with obedience. She noticed the difference in the short interval before he spoke. She could have managed supplication better.

“Mabel! ” He uttered the word passionately, the passion of authority and ownership. She did not resent it, she responded to it, against every effort of her will. It was the voice of her master, — she loved him. The veil fell from her eyes with his first word. But she met his without flinching. He thought it was her superb nonchalance. He would break through it.

“There is no time to waste in words, Mabel, — do you love me ? ”

Her eyes had not faltered or fallen.

“Answer me, —yes or no.”

“ Do you want the truth ? ”

“ Nothing but the truth — this time. ”

“No.”

It was a lie, and she knew he knew it, but it gained her a breathing-time.

“You said so once before and I believed you. I will not believe you now. ”

“ What made you believe me then ? ” She was sitting rigid in the chair, her hands clasping the arms tightly.

“Because you made me. You cannot do it again.”

“Yes, I know. I ridiculed you. I hurt your pride. Well — I did wrong. So did you. It would have been better if you had not believed me. Hush! ” she cried to what she saw in his face, “don’t speak! I cannot love you.”

“ Cannot! ”

“Cannot and will not. I might.” Her face was growing white, but she went on resolutely. “You have made it impossible. ”

“ I ? ”

“You. If you want the truth you must give it. You have made Helen love you. Why, you know best. Do you know it, or not? Did you mean she should ? want her to ? which was it ? No matter. I said I might love you, — I retract nothing — whichever it was. It is true. I might.”

“ Mabel, ” he cried, seizing her hands, “you do ! ”

For signs of lesser promise he would have taken her in his arms, but something in her attitude told him that she was out of his reach.

“Don’t touch me. I said I might. You have made Helen love you.”

“I have not,” he said doggedly.

“Let that go. She does. She has told me. I don’t blame you. We won’t blame each other,” — her voice had grown pitifully low, — “we will blame ourselves instead. I confess my share. When you asked me before I did not know — what I have learned in this chair— that I could love you. You asked me in the train if I was calling you back. If I was, I did not know it. I was jealous. I did not understand Helen then. Now I do. You asked for the truth. You ought to be satisfied.”

She covered her face with her hands. He tried to drag them away from her eyes. He remembered doing so at another time, with Helen, and almost the same words he had spoken then came to his lips again.

“Mabel, ” he pleaded, “do you think I will submit ” —

She lifted her face with the old imperious light in it.

“Certainly. For one of two reasons. Either because”—her voice broke, she waited a moment, then went on — “ because you care for me enough to do the only thing I shall ever ask of you, or because you love Helen, — it does not matter which.”

“ Mabel, you are mad, mad! Miss Gaunt has no right to ” —

“Stop! ” she cried, “I do not want to hear. You have let her love you. That is enough.”

It was so true that for an instant he could say nothing. He took a few steps away, then came back again.

“ You seriously mean that because in a moment of pique, of desperation, I paid a-compliment to a woman I do not love, you will sacrifice the woman I do, our lives, to no purpose? Think what you are doing.”

“I am thinking of what I will not do. I have promised Helen ” —

“Promised her what? What was not yours to give. You can refuse my love and trample it under your feet, — you cannot give it to her. O Mabel! ” he whispered, taking her cold hands in his warm ones.

She felt her courage going, the temptation to let go, not to struggle any more, an overpowering desire to yield, to shut her eyes and abandon herself to something stronger than sleep, sweeter than life. The thin, high note of a violin came from the door of the drawing-room, like a rifle-shot to a dreaming sentinel. She sat up as if indeed waking from a dream, every sense alert again. “Go — go — have you no pity! ”

One minute more, he thought, and he would have conquered.

“Give me my gloves.” The musicians were taking their seats at the farther end of the conservatory. They were no longer alone. He stooped for her gloves.

“You must give me this waltz,” he said in a low voice. “It will give you time to recover yourself.” She gave him a grateful look and nerved herself to face the lights.

The floor was crowded with dancers, and she gave herself up to the motion and music in a sort of trance, seeing no one.

“Take me to Mrs. Frazer,” she whispered when it was over.

“A horrid dance,” said Mrs. Frazer. “It takes one’s breath away to watch it. You look positively giddy.”

“ I am, ” replied Mabel, fanning herself. “I shall not dance any more tonight.”

Arthur Sherburne Hardy.

(To be continued.)