Frances Waldeaux

Published：2026-07-29 21:35:27 Source: pretend play capes for 12 year olds under 10 dollars Author: Building Toys

FRANCES WALDEAUX

A Novel

BY

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS

AUTHOR OF "DOCTOR WARRICK'S DAUGHTER"

A REMEMBRANCER
OF
BRITTANY
FOR THE BEST FELLOW-TRAVELLER
IN THE WORLD

CONTENTS

FRANCES WALDEAUX

CHAPTER I

In another minute the Kaiser Wilhelm would push off from her pier inHoboken. The stuffed animals for babieslast bell had rung, the last uniformed officer andwhite-jacketed steward had scurried up the gangway. The pier wasmassed with people who had come to bid their friends good-by. Theywere all Germans, and there had been unlimited embracing and kissingand sobs of "Ach! mein lieber Sckatz!" and "Gott bewahre Dick!"

Now they stood looking up to the crowded decks, shouting out last fondwords. A band playing "The Merry Maiden and the Tar" marched on board.

The passengers pressed against the rails, looking down. Almost everyone held flowers which had been brought to them: not costly bouquets,but homely bunches of marigolds or pinks. They carried, too, littleGerman or American flags, which they waved frantically.

The gangways fell, and the huge ship parted from the dock. It was butan inch, but the whole ocean yawned in it between those who went andthose who stayed. There was a sudden silence; a thousand handkerchiefsfluttered white on the pier and the flags and flowers were waved on theship, but there was not a cry nor a sound.

James Perry, one of the dozen Americans on board, was leaning over therail watching it all with an amused smile. "Hello, Watts!" he called,as another young man joined him. "Going over? Quite dramatic, isn'tit? It might be a German ship going out of a German port. The otherliners set off in as commonplace a way as a Jersey City ferryboat, butthese North German Lloyd ships always sail with a certain ceremony andsolemnity. I like it."

"I always cross on them," said Dr. Watts. "I have but a month'svacation—two weeks on board ship, two on land. Now you, I suppose,don't have to count your days? You cross every year. I can't see, formy part, what business the assistant editor of a magazine has abroad."

"Oh, we make a specialty of articles from notorieties over there;statesmen, scientific fellows, or people with titles. I expect tocapture a paper from Lorne and some sketches by the Princess Beatricethis time."

"Lorne? It throws you into contact with that sort of folk, eh?" saidthe doctor, looking at him enviously. "How do they strike you, Jem?"

"Well," said Perry importantly, "well-bred people are the same theworld over. I only see them in a business way, of course, but one canjudge. Their voices are better than ours, but as to looks—no! It'squeer, but American women—the wives and daughters of saddlers orfarmers, perhaps—have more often the patrician look than Englishduchesses. Now there, for example," warming to the subject, "thatwoman to whom you bowed just now, the middle-aged one in blue cloth.Some Mrs. Smith or Pratt, probably. A homely woman, but there is adistinction in her face, a certain surety of good breeding, which islacking in the heavy-jawed English royalties."

"Yes; that is a friend of mine," said Watts.

"She is a Mrs. Waldeaux from Wier, in Delaware. You could hardly callher a typical American woman. Old French emigre family. Probablybetter blood than the Coburgs a few generations back. That priggishyoung fellow is her son. Going to be an Episcopalian minister."

Mr. Perry surveyed his friend's friends good-humoredly. "Brand newrugs and cushions," he said. "First voyage. Heavens! I wish it weremy first voyage, and that I had their appetite for Europe."

"You might as well ask for your relish of the bread and butter of youryouth," said Watts.

The two men leaned lazily against the bulwark watching the otherpassengers who were squabbling about trunks.

Mr. Perry suddenly stood upright as a group of women passed.

"Do you know who that girl is?" he said eagerly. "The one who lookedback at us over her shoulder."

"No. They are only a lot of school-girls, personally conducted. Thatis the teacher in front." "Of course, I see that. But the short, darkone—surely I know that woman."

The doctor looked after her. "She looks like a dog turning into ahuman being," he said leisurely. "One often sees such cases ofarrested evolution. D'ye see? Thick lips, coarse curls, flatnostrils——"

Perry laughed. "The eyes, anyhow, are quite human," he said. "Theychallenge the whole world of men. I can't place her!" staring afterher, perplexed. "I really don't believe I ever saw her before. Yether face brings up some old story of a tragedy or crime to me."

"Nonsense! The girl is not twenty. Very fetching with all hervulgarity, though. Steward, send some coffee to my stateroom. Let'sgo down, Jem. The fog is too chilly."

Frances Waldeaux did not find the fog chilly. She had been thinkingfor thirty years of the day when she should start to Europe—ever sinceshe could think at all.

This was the day. It was like no other, now that it had come. Thefog, the crowd, the greasy smells of the pier, all familiar enoughyesterday, took on a certain remoteness and mystery. It seemed to herthat she was doing something which nobody had ever done before. Shewas going to discover the Old World.

The New was not more tremendous or unreal before the eyes of Columbuswhen he, too, stood on the poop of his ship.

Her son was arguing with the deck steward about chairs.

"Now, mother," he said at last, "it's all right. They are under coverso that the glare will not strain your eyes, and we can keep dry whilewe watch the storms."

"How did you know about it all? One would think you had crossed adozen times, George."

"Oh, I've studied the whole thing up thoroughly," George said, with asatisfied little nod. "I've had time enough! Why, when I was inpetticoats you used to tell me you would buy a ship and we would sailaway together. You used to spoil all my school maps with red lines,drawing our routes."

"Yes. And now we're going!" said Frances to herself.

He sat down beside her and they watched the unending procession ofpassengers marching around the deck. George called her attention by awink to any picturesque or queer figure that passed. He liked to watchher quiet brown eyes gleam with fun. Nobody had such a keen sense ofthe ridiculous as his mother. Sometimes, at the mere remembrance ofsome absurd idea, she would go off into soft silent paroxysms oflaughter until the tears would stream down her cheeks.

George was fond and proud of his childish little mother. He had neverknown any body, he thought, so young or so transparent. It was easilyunderstood. She had married at sixteen, and had been left a widowlittle more than a year afterward. "And I," he used to think, "wasborn with an old head on my shoulders; so we have grown up together. Isuppose the dear soul never had a thought in her life which she has nottold me."

As they sat together a steward brought Mrs. Waldeaux a note, which sheread, blushing and smiling.

"The captain invites us to sit at his table," she said, when the manwas gone.

"Very proper in the captain," said George complacently. "You see,Madam Waldeaux, even the men who go down in ships have heard of you andyour family!"

"I don't believe the captain ever heard of me," she said, after a graveconsideration, "nor of the Waldeaux. It is much more likely that hehas read your article in the Quarterly, George."

"Nonsense!" But he stiffened himself up consciously.

He had sent a paper on some abstruse point of sociology to theQuarterly last spring, and it had aroused quite a little buzz ofcriticism. His mother had regarded it very much as the Duchess of Kentdid the crown when it was set upon her little girl's head. She alwayshad known that her child was born to reign, but it was satisfactory tosee this visible sign of it.

She whispered now, eagerly leaning over to him. "There was somethingabout that paper which I never told you. I think I'll tell you nowthat the great day has come."

"Well?"

"Why, you know—I never think of you as my son, or a man, or anythingoutside of me—not at all. You are just ME, doing the things I shouldhave done if I had not been a woman. Well,"—she drew her breathquickly,—"when I was a girl it seemed as if there was something in methat I must say, so I tried to write poems. No, I never told youbefore. It had counted for so much to me I could not talk of it. Ialways sent them to the paper anonymously, signed 'Sidney.' Oh, it waslong—long ago! I've been dumb, as you might say, for years. But whenI read your article, George—do you know if I had written it I shouldhave used just the phrases you did? And you signed it 'Sidney'!" Shewatched him breathlessly. "That was more than a coincidence, don't youthink? I AM dumb, but you speak for me now. It is because we are justone. Don't you think so, George?" She held his arm tightly.

Young Waldeaux burst into a loud laugh. Then he took her hand in his,stroking it. "You dear little woman! What do you know of sociology?"he said, and then walked away to hide his amusement, muttering "Poems?Great Heavens!"

Frances looked after him steadily. "Oh, well!" she said to herselfpresently.

She forced her mind back to the Quarterly article. It was a beginningof just the kind of triumph that she always had expected for him. Hewould soon be recognized by scientific men all over the world as theirconfrere, especially after his year's study at Oxford.

When George was in his cradle she had planned that he should be aclergyman, just as she had planned that he should be a well-bred man,and she had fitted him for both roles in life, and urged him into themby the same unceasing soft pats and pushes. She would be delightedwhen she saw him in white robes serving at the altar.

Not that Frances had ever taken her religion quite seriously. It waslike her gowns, or her education, a matter of course; a trustworthy,agreeable part of her. She had never once in her life shuddered at aglimpse of any vice in herself, or cried to God in agony, even to granther a wish.

But she knew that Robert Waldeaux's son would be safer in the pulpit.He could take rank with scholars there, too.

She inspected him now anxiously, trying to see him with the eyes ofthese Oxford magnates. Nobody would guess that he was only twenty-two.The bald spot on his crown and the spectacles gave him a scholasticair, and the finely cut features and a cold aloofness in his mannerspoke plainly, she thought, of his good descent and high pursuits.

Frances herself had a drop of vagabond blood which found comrades forher among every class and color. But there was not an atom of thetramp in her son's well-built and fashionably clothed body. He neverhad had a single intimate friend even when he was a boy. "He willprobably find his companions among the great English scholars," shethought complacently. Of course she would always be his only comrade,his chum. She continually met and parted with thousands ofpeople—they came and went. "But George and I will be together for alltime," she told herself.

He came up presently and sat down beside her, with an anxious,apologetic air. It hurt him to think that he had laughed at her."That dark haze is the Jersey shore," he said. "How dim it grows!Well, we are really out now in the big world! It is so good to bealone there with you," he added, touching her arm affectionately."Those cynical old-men-boys at Harvard bored me."

"I don't bore you, then, George?"

"You!" He was very anxious to make her forget his roughness. "Apartfrom my affection for you, mother," he said judicially, "I LIKE you. Iapprove of you as I never probably shall approve of another woman.Your peculiarities—the way your brown hair ripples back into that knot"—surveying her critically. "And the way you always look as if youhad just come out of a bath, even on a grimy train; and your gowns, sosimple—and rich. I confess," he said gravely, "I can't always followyour unsteady little ideas when you talk. They frisk about so. It isthe difference probably between the man's mind and the woman's.Besides, we have been separated for so many years! But I soon willunderstand you. I know that while you keep yourself apart from all theworld you open your heart to me."

"Wrap the rug about my feet, George," she said hastily, and then senthim away upon an errand, looking after him uneasily.

It was very pleasant to hear her boy thus formally sum up his opinionof her. But when he found that it was based upon a lie?

For Frances, candid enough to the world, had deceived her son eversince he was born.

George had always believed that she had inherited a fortune from hisfather. It gave solidity and comfort to his life to think of her inthe stately old mansion on the shores of Delaware Bay, with nothing todo except to be beautiful and gracious, as befitted a well-born woman.It pleased him, in a lofty, generous way, that his father (whom she hadtaught him to reverence as the most chivalric of gentlemen) had lefthim wholly dependent upon her. It was a legal fiction, of course. Hewas the heir—the crown prince. He had always been liberally suppliedwith money at school and at Harvard. Her income was large. No doubtthe dear soul mismanaged the estates fearfully, but now he would haveleisure to take care of them.

Now, the fact was that Colonel Waldeaux had been a drunken spendthriftwho had left nothing. The house and farm always had belonged to hiswife. She had supported George by her own work all of his life. Shecould not save money, but she had the rarer faculty of making it. Shehad raised fine fruit and flowers for the Philadelphia market; she hadtraded in high breeds of poultry and cattle, and had invested herearnings shrewdly. With these successes she had been able to provideGeorge with money to spend freely at college. She lived scantily athome, never expecting any luxury or great pleasure to come into her ownlife.

But two years ago a queer thing had happened to her. In an idle hourshe wrote a comical squib and sent it to a New York paper. Aseverybody knows, fun, even vulgar fun, sells high in the market. Herfun was not vulgar, but coarse and biting enough to tickle the ears ofthe common reader. The editor offered her a salary equal to her wholeincome for a weekly column of such fooling.

She had hoarded every penny of this money. With it she meant to payher expenses in Europe and to support George in his year at Oxford.The work and the salary were to go on while she was gone.

It was easy enough to hide all of these things from her son while hewas in Cambridge and she in Delaware. But now? What if he should findout that his mother was the "Quigg" of the New York ——, a paper whichhe declared to be unfit for a gentleman to read?

She was looking out to sea and thinking of this when her cousin, MissVance, came up to her. Miss Vance was a fashionable teacher in NewYork, who was going to spend a year abroad with two wealthy pupils.She was a thin woman, quietly dressed; white hair and black brows, withgold eye-glasses bridging an aquiline nose, gave her a commanding,inquisitorial air.

"Well, Frances!" she began briskly, "I have not had time before toattend to you. Are your bags hung in your stateroom?"

"I haven't been down yet," said Mrs. Waldeaux meekly. "We werewatching the fog in the sun."

"Fog! Mercy on me! You know you may be ill any minute, and your roomnot ready! Of course, you did not take the bromides that I sent you aweek ago?

"No, Clara."

Miss Vance glanced at her. "Well, just as you please. I've done whatI could. Let me look at your itinerary. You will be too ill for me toadvise you about it later."

"Oh, we made none!" said George gayly, coming up to his mother's aid."We are going to be vagabonds, and have no plans. Mother's soul drawsus to York Cathedral, and mine to the National Gallery. That is all weknow."

"I thought you had given up that whim of being an artist?" said MissVance, sharply facing on him.

Young Waldeaux reddened. "Yes, I have given it up. I know as well asyou do that I have no talent. I am going to study my profession atOxford, and earn my bread by it."

"Quite right. You never would earn it by art," she said decisively."How long do you stay in York, Frances?"

"Oh, a day, or a month—or—years, as we please," said Frances, lazilyturning her head away. She wanted to set Clara Vance down in herproper place. Mrs. Waldeaux abhorred cousinly intimates—people whorun into your back door to pry into the state of your larder or yourincome. But Miss Vance, as Frances knew, unfortunately held a key toher back door. She knew of George's wretched daubs, and his insanedesire, when he was a boy, to study art. He gave it up years ago. Whyshould she nag him now about it? By virtue of her relationship sheknew, too, all of Mrs. Waldeaux's secrets. It was most unfortunatethat she should have chosen to sail on this vessel.

"Well, mother," George said, uneasy to get away, "no doubt Miss Vanceis right. We should set things in order. I am going now to give myletter of credit to the purser to lock up; shall I take yours?"

Mrs. Waldeaux did not reply at once. "No," she said at last. "I liketo carry my own purse."

He smiled indulgently as on a child. "Of course, dear. It IS yourown. My father was wise in that. But, on this journey, I can act asyour paymaster, can't I? I have studied foreign money——"

"We shall see. I can keep it as safe as any purser now," she said,obstinately shaking her head.

He laughed and walked away.

"You have not told him, then?" demanded Clara.

"No. And I never will. I will not hurt the boy by letting him knowthat his mother has supported him, and remember, Clara, that he canonly hear it through you. Nobody knows that I am 'Quigg' but you."

Miss Vance lifted her eyebrows. "Nothing can need a lie," she quotedcalmly. Presently she said earnestly, "Frances, you are making amistake. Somebody ought to tell you the truth. There is no reason whyyour whole being should be buried in that man. He should stand on hisown feet, now. You can be all that he needs as a mother, and yet liveout your own life. It is broader than his will ever be. At your age,and with your capabilities, you should marry again. Think of the manylong years that are before you."

"I have thought of them," said Mrs. Waldeaux slowly. "I have hadlovers who came close to me as friends, but I never for a moment wastempted to marry one of them. No, Clara. When the devil drove myfather to hand me over—innocent child as I was—to a man like RobertWaldeaux, he killed in me the capacity for that kind of love. It isnot in me." She turned her strenuous face to the sea and was silent."It is not in me," she repeated after a while. "I have but onefeeling, and that is for my boy. It is growing on me absurdly, too."She laughed nervously. "I used to be conscious of other people in theworld, but now, if I see a boy or man, I see only what George was orwill be at his age; if I read a book, it only suggests what George willsay of it. I am like one of those plants that have lost their own sapand color, and suck in their life from another. It scares mesometimes."

Miss Vance smiled with polite contempt. No doubt Frances had a shrewdbusiness faculty, but in other matters she was not ten years old.

"And George will marry some time," she said curtly.

"Oh, I hope so! And soon. Then I shall have a daughter. I know justthe kind of a wife George will choose," she chattered on eagerly. "Iunderstand him so thoroughly that I can understand her. But wherecould he find her? He is so absurdly fastidious!"

Miss Vance was silent and thoughtful a moment. Then she came closer."I will tell you where to find her," she said, in a low voice. "I havethought of it for a long time. It seems to me that Providence actuallymade Lucy Dunbar for George."

"Really?" Mrs. Waldeaux drew her self up stiffly.

"Wait, Frances. Lucy has been with me for three years. I know her.She is a sincere, modest, happy little thing. Not too clever. She isan heiress, too. And her family is good; and all underground, which isanother advantage. You can mould her as you choose. She loves youalready."

"Or is it that she——?"

"You have no right to ask that!" said Miss Vance quickly.

"No, I am ashamed of myself." Mrs. Waldeaux reddened.

A group of girls came up the deck. Both women scanned the foremost onecritically. "I like that wholesome, candid look of her," said MissVance.

"Oh, she is well enough," said Frances. "But I am sure George does notlike yellow hair. Nothing but an absolutely beautiful woman willattract him."

"An artist," said Miss Vance hastily, "would tell you her features wereperfect. And her flesh tints——"

"For Heaven's sake, Clara, don't dissect the child. Who is that girlwith the red cravat? Your maid?"

"It is not a cravat, it's an Indian scarf. If it only were clean——"Miss Vance looked uneasy and perplexed. "She is not my maid. She isFraulein Arpent. The Ewalts brought her as governess from Paris, don'tyou remember? They sent the girls to Bryn Mawr last week and turnedher adrift, almost penniless. She wished to go back to France. Iengaged her as assistant chaperone for the season."

Mrs. Waldeaux's eyebrows went up significantly. She never commented inwords on the affairs of others, but her face always was indiscreet.George, who had come up in time to hear the last words, was not soscrupulous. He surveyed the young woman through his spectacles as shepassed again, with cold disapproval.

"French or German?" he asked.

"I really don't know. She has a singular facility in tongues," saidMiss Vance.

"Well, that is not the companion Ishould have chosen for thoseinnocent little girls," he said authoritatively, glad to bedisagreeable to his cousin. "She looks like a hawk among doves."

"The woman is harmless enough," said Miss Vance tartly. "She speaksexquisite French."

"But what does she say in it?" persisted George. "She is vulgar fromher red pompon to her boots. She has the swagger of a soubrette andshe has left a trail of perfume behind her—pah! I confess I amsurprised at you, Miss Vance. You do not often slip in your judgment."

"Don't make yourself unpleasant, George," said his mother gently. MissVance smiled icily, and as the girls came near again, stopped them andstood talking to Mlle. Arpent with an aggressive show of familiarity.

"Why do you worry Clara?" said Mrs. Waldeaux. "She knows she has madea mistake. What do you think of that little blonde girl?" she askedpresently, watching him anxiously. "She has remarkable beauty,certainly; but there is something finical—precise——"

"Take care. She will hear you," said George. "Beauty, eh? Oh, Idon't know," indifferently. "She is passably pretty. I have neverseen a woman yet whose beauty satisfied ME."

Mrs. Waldeaux leaned back with a comfortable little laugh. "But youmust not be so hard to please, my son. You must bring me my daughtersoon," she said.

"Not very soon. I have some thing else to think of than marriage forthe next ten years."

Just then Dr. Watts came up and asked leave to present his friendPerry. The doctor, like all young men who knew Mrs. Waldeaux, hadsuccumbed to her peculiar charm, which was only that of a woman pasther youth who had strong personal magnetism and not a spark ofcoquetry. George's friends all were sure that they would fall in lovewith a woman just like her—but not a man of them ever thought offalling in love with her.

Young Perry, in twenty minutes, decided that she was the most brilliantand agreeable of companions. He had talked, and she had spoken onlywith her listening, sympathetic eyes. He was always apt to be voluble.On this occasion he was too voluble. "You are from Weir, I think, inDelaware, Mrs. Waldeaux?" he asked. "I must have seen the name of thetown with yours on the list of passengers, for the story of a woman whoonce lived there has been haunting me all day. I have not seen northought of her for years, and I could not account for my suddenremembrance of her."

"Who was she?" asked George, trying to save his mother from Perry, whothreatened to be a bore.

"Her name was Pauline Felix. You have heard her story, Mrs. Waldeaux?"

"Yes" said Frances coldly. "I have heard her story. Can you find myshawl, George?"

But Perry was conscious of no rebuff, and turned cheerfully to George."It was one of those dramas of real life, too unlikely to put into anovel. She was the daughter of a poor clergyman in Weir, a devout,good man, I believe. She had marvellous beauty and a devilishdisposition. She ran away, lived a wild life in Paris, and became themistress of a Russian Grand Duke. Her death——"

He could not have told why he stopped. Mrs. Waldeaux still watchedhim, attentive, but the sympathetic smile had frozen into icy civility.She had the old-fashioned modesty of her generation. What right hadthis young man to speak of "mistresses" to her? Clara's girls withinhearing too! She rose when he paused, bowed, and hurried to them, likea hen fluttering to protect her chicks.

"He was talking to me of a woman," she said excitedly to Clara, "who isnever mentioned by decent people."

"Yes, I heard him," said Miss Vance. "Poor Pauline! Her career wasalways a mystery to me. I was at school with her, and she was the mostgenerous, lovable girl! Yet she came to a wretched end," turning toher flock, her tone growing didactic. "One is never safe, you see. Onemust always be on guard."

"Oh, my dear!" cried Frances impatiently. "You surely don't mean toclass these girls and me with Pauline Felix! Come, come!"

"None of us is safe," repeated Clara stiffly. "Somebody says there isa possible vice in the purest soul, and it may lie perdu there untilold age. But it will break out some day."

Mrs. Waldeaux looked, laughing, at the eager, blushing faces aroundher. "It is not likely to break out in us, girls, eh! Really, Clara,"she said, in a lower tone, "that seems to me like wasted morality.Women of our class are in no more danger of temptation to commit greatcrimes than they are of finding tigers in their drawing-rooms. PaulineFelix was born vicious. No woman could fall as she did, who was notrotten to the core."

A sudden shrill laugh burst from the French woman, who had been lookingat Mrs. Waldeaux with insolent, bold eyes. But as she laughed, herhead fell forward and she swung from side to side.

"It is nothing," she cried, "I am only a little faint. I must gobelow."

The ship was now crossing short, choppy waves. The passengersscattered rapidly. George took his mother to her stateroom, and thereshe stayed until land was sighted on the Irish coast. Clara and hercompanions also were forced to keep to their berths.

During the speechless misery of the first days Mrs. Waldeaux wasconscious that George was hanging over her, tender as a mother with ababy. She commanded him to stay on deck, for each day she saw that he,too, grew more haggard. "Let me fight it out alone," she would beg ofhim. "My worst trouble is that I cannot take care of you."

He obeyed her at last, and would come down but once during the day, andthen for only a few hurried minutes. His mother was alarmed at theghastliness of his face and the expression of anxious wretchedness newto it. "His eye avoids mine craftily, like that of an insane man," shetold herself, and when the doctor came, she asked him whethersea-sickness affected the brain.

On the last day of the voyage the breeze was from land, and with thefirst breath of it Frances found her vigor suddenly return. She roseand dressed herself. George had not been near her that day. "He mustbe very ill," she thought, and hurried out. "Is Mr. Waldeaux in hisstateroom?" she asked the steward.

"No, madam. He is on deck. All the passengers are on deck," the manadded, smiling. "Land is in sight."

Land! And George had not come to tell her! He must be desperately ill!

She groped up the steps, holding by the brass rail. "I will give him afine surprise!" she said to herself. "I can take care of him, now.To-night we shall be on shore and this misery all over. And then thegreat joy will begin!"

She came out on deck. The sunshine and cold pure wind met her. Shelooked along the crowded deck for her invalid. Every-body was inholiday clothes, every-body was smiling and talking at once. Ah! therehe was!

He was leaning over Frances' steamer chair, on which a woman layindolently. He was in rude health, laughing, his face flushed, hiseyes sparkling.

Looking up, he saw his mother and came hastily to meet her. The laughwas gone. "So you came up?" he said impatiently. "I would have calledyou in time. I—— Mother!" He caught her by the arm. "Wait, I mustsee you alone for a minute." Urged by the amazed fright in her face,he went on desperately, "I have something to tell you. I intended tobreak it to you. I don't want to hurt you, God knows. But I have notbeen idle in these days. I have found your daughter. She is here."

He led her up to the chair. The girl's head was wrapped in a veil andturned from her.

Mrs. Waldeaux held out her hands. "Lucy! Lucy Dunbar!" she heardherself say.

"Mais non! Cest moi!" said a shrill voice, and Mlle. Arpent, turningher head lazily, looked at her, smiling.

CHAPTER II

Clara Vance had her faults, but nobody could deny that, in this crisis,she acted with feeling and tact. She ignored mademoiselle and herlover, whose bliss was in evidence on deck all day, and took possessionof Mrs. Waldeaux, caring for her as tenderly as if she had been somepoor wretch sentenced to death. "She has no intellect left except herideas about George," she told herself, "and if he turns his back on herfor life in this way—— She never was too sane!" shaking her headominously.

She thought it best to talk frankly of the matter to little LucyDunbar, and was relieved to find her ready to joke and laugh at it."No bruise in that tender heart!" thought Clara, who was anxious as amother for her girls.

"We all worshipped Mr. George," said Lucy saucily. "I, most of all.He is so cold, so exalted and ah—h, so good-looking! Like a Greekgod. But he never gave a look to poor little me! The fraulein came ondeck as soon as we all went down with sea-sickness, and bewitched himwith her eyes. It must have been her eyes; they are yellow—witch'seyes. Or maybe that cheap smell about her is a love-philter! Or wasit just soul calling to soul? I should have said the fraulein had thesoul of a milliner. She put great ideas into the hat that she alteredfor me," Lucy added, with an unsteady laugh.

"I care nothing for them or their souls," said Miss Vance crossly. "Itis his mother that I think of."

"But really," said Lucy, "mademoiselle is quite raw material. Noideas—no manners whatever. Mrs. Waldeaux may mould her into somethinggood and fine."

"She will not try. She will never accept that creature as a daughter."

"She seems to me to be indifferent," said Lucy. "She does not see howterrible it is. She was leaning over the bulwark just now, laughing atthe queer gossoons selling their shillalahs."

"Oh, she will laugh at Death himself when he comes to fetch her, andsee something 'queer'in him," said Clara.

But her little confidence with Lucy had relieved her. The child carednothing for George, that was plain.

Mademoiselle, watching Mrs. Waldeaux closely all day, was not deceivedby her laugh. "The old lady, your mother," she said to George, "iswhat you men call 'game.' She has blood and breeding. More than you,monsieur. That keeps her up. I did not count on that," said the youngwoman thoughtfully.

George took off his glasses and rubbed them nervously as he talked. "Idon't understand my mother at all! She has always been veryconsiderate and kind. I never thought that she would receive my wife,when I brought her to her, with calm civility. Not a kiss nor ablessing!"

"A kiss? A blessing for me?" Lisa laughed and nodded meaningly to thesea and world at large. "She could hardly have blessed a woman lollingfull length in her chair," she thought. "It IS her chair. And I haveunseated her for life curling herself up in the rugs."

Yet she had a twinge of pity for the old lady. Even the wild boar hasits affections and moments of gentleness. A week ago Lisa could havetrampled the life out of this woman who had slandered her dead mother,with the fury of any wild beast. For she was Pauline Felix's daughter.It was her mother's name that Mrs. Waldeaux had said could not bespoken by any decent woman. Lisa had been but a child, but she hadheld her mother's head close to her stout little heart as she laydying—that awful mysterious death of which the young man had tried tomake a telling story. The girl crossed herself now and closed hertired eyes as she thought of it. She had been a wicked child and awicked woman, but she knew certainly that the Virgin and her Son hadcome near to her that day, and had helped her.

George, who was poring fondly on her face, exclaimed: "Your eyes arewet. You are in trouble!"

"I was thinking of my mother," she said gently, holding out her hand tohim.

He took it and said presently, "Will you not talk to me about her,Lisa? You have not told me any thing of your people, my darling. Norof yourself. Why, I don't even know whether you are French or German."

"Oh, you shall hear the whole story when we are married," she repliedsoftly, a wicked glitter in her eyes. "Some of the noblest blood inEurope is in my veins. I will give you my genealogical tree to hang upin that old homestead of yours. It will interest the people ofWeir—and please your mother."

"It is good in you to think of her," he said, tenderly looking down ather.

He was not blind. He saw the muddy skin, the thick lips, the soiled,ragged lace. They would have disgusted him in another woman.

But this was—Lisa. There was no more to be said.

These outside trifles would fall off when she came into his life. Evenwith them she was the breath and soul of it.

She saw the difference between them more sharply than he did. She hadbeen cast for a low part in the play, and knew it. Sometimes she hadearned the food which kept her alive in ways of which this untemptedyoung priest had never even heard. There was something in this cleanpast of his, in his cold patrician face and luxurious habits new toher, and she had a greedy relish for it all.

She had been loved before, caressed as men caress a dog, kicking it offwhen it becomes troublesome. George's boyish shyness, his reverent aweof her, startled her.

"He thinks Lisa Arpent a jeune fille—like these others. A littlewhite rose!" she thought, and laughed. She would not tell him why shelaughed, and muttered an oath when he stupidly insisted on knowing.

He was the first lover who had ever believed in her.

She had begun this affair simply to punish the "old woman"; the man init had counted for nothing. But now, as they crossed the gangway, shelooked up at him with eyes that for the moment were honest and true asa child's, and her firm hand suddenly trembled in his.

Three weeks later Mrs. Waldeaux came into Miss Vance's little parlor onHalf Moon Street. Her face was red from the wind, her eyes sparkled,and she hummed some gay air which an organ ground outside. Clara laiddown her pen.

"Where have you been, Frances? It is a week since I saw you."

"Oh, everywhere! George has been showing me London!" She sat downbefore the fire with a gurgle of comfort and dropped her bonnet andgloves on the floor beside her. "Yesterday we spent at the Museum.George explained the Elgin marbles to me. I don't suppose any body inLondon has studied their history so thoroughly. I did wish you couldhave heard him. And the day before I was at the House—in the ladies'gallery. I can't imagine how he got admission for me. He IS soclever!"

"We are going down to Canterbury for a couple of days," said Clara."We start at noon. Will you go with us?"

"No, I think not. George does not seem to care for cathedrals. And hehas plans for me, no doubt."

Miss Vance brushed the bonnet and carefully rolled up the strings."Are you satisfied? Is London the London you have been thinking ofthese twenty years?" she asked.

"Oh, a thousand times more! And George has been with me everyday—every day!"

Miss Vance picked up the gloves, looking impatiently at the poor lady'shappy face. "Now she has gone off into one of her silly transports ofdelight, and for no earthly reason!"

"I noticed that George has seen very little of Lisa lately," she saidtentatively. "If he really means to marry her——"

"Marry her! Clara! You surely never feared THAT?"

"He certainly told us plainly enough that he would do it," said MissVance testily.

"Oh, you don't understand him! You have had so little to do with youngmen. They are all liable to attacks like that—as to measles andscarlet fever. But they pass off. Now, George is not as susceptibleas most of them. But," lowering her voice, "he was madly in love withthe butcher's Kate when he was ten, and five years afterward offered tomarry the widow Potts. I thought he had outgrown the disease. Therehas been nothing of the kind since, until this fancy. It is passingoff. Of course it is mortifying enough to think that such a poorcreature as that could attract him for an hour."

"I was to blame," Miss Vance said, with an effort. "I brought her inhis way. But how was I to know that she was such a cat, and hesuch—— If he should marry her——"

Mrs. Waldeaux laughed angrily. "You are too absurd, Clara. Aflirtation with such a woman was degrading enough, but George is notquite mad. He has not even spoken of her for days. Oh, here he comes!That is his step on the stairs." She ran to the door. "He found thatI was out and has followed me. He is the most ridiculous mother's boy!Well, George, here I am! Have you thought of some thing new for me tosee?" She glanced at Miss Vance, well pleased that she should see thelad's foolish fondness for her.

George forced a smile. He looked worn and jaded. Miss Vance noticedthat his usually neat cravat was awry and his hands were gloveless."Yes," he said. "It is a little church. The oldest in London. I wantto show it to you."

Miss Vance tied on Mrs. Waldeaux's bonnet, smoothing her hairaffectionately. "There are too many gray hairs here for your age,Frances," she said. "George, you should keep your mother from worryand work. Don't let her hair grow gray so soon."

George bowed. "I hope I shall do my duty," he said, with dignity."Come, mother."

As they drove down Piccadilly Mrs. Waldeaux chattered eagerly to herson. She could not pour out her teeming fancies about this new worldto any body else, but she could not talk fast enough to him. Had theynot both been waiting for a lifetime to see this London?

"The thing," she said earnestly, as she settled herself beside him,"the thing that has impressed me most, I think, were those greatNinevite gods yesterday. I sat for hours before them while you weregone. There they sit, their hands on their knees, and stare out oftheir awful silence at the London fog, just as they stared at thedesert before Christ was born. I felt so miserably young and sham!"

George adjusted his cravat impatiently. "I'm afraid I don't quitefollow you, mother. These little flights of yours—— They belong toyour generation, I suppose. It was a more sentimental one than mine.You are not very young. And you certainly are not a sham. The statuesare interesting, but I fail to see why they should have had such aneffect upon you."

"Oh!" said Frances. "But you did not stay alone with them as long as Idid, or you would have felt it too. Now I am sure that the debates inParliament impressed you just as they did me?"

George said nothing, but she went on eagerly. It never occurred to herthat he could be bored by her impressions in these greatest days of herlife. "To see a half-dozen well-groomed young men settle the affairsof India and Australia in a short, indifferent colloquy! How shy andawkward they were, too! They actually stuttered out their sentences intheir fear of posing or seeming pretentious. So English! Don't youthink it was very English, George?"

"I really did not think about it at all. I have had very differentthings to occupy me," said George, coldly superior to all mothers andParliaments. "This is the church."

The cab stopped before an iron door between two shops in the mostthronged part of Bishopsgate Street. He pushed it open, and theypassed suddenly out of the hurrying crowd into the solemn silence of anancient dingy building. A dim light fell through a noble window of thethirteenth century upon cheap wooden pews. The church was empty, andhad that curious significance and half-spoken message of its own whichbelongs to a vacant house.

"I remember," whispered Frances, awestruck. "This was built by thefirst Christian convert, St. Ethelburga."

"You believe every thing, mother!" said George irritably. She wanderedabout, looking at the sombre walls and inscriptions, and then backuneasily, to his moody face.

Suddenly she came up to him as he stood leaning against a pillar."Something has happened!" she said. "You did not bring me here to lookat the church. You have something to tell me."

The young man looked at her and turned away. "Yes, I have. It isn't adeath," he said, with a nervous laugh. "You need not look in that way.It is—something very different. I—I was married in this churchyesterday to Lisa Arpent."

Frances did not at first comprehend the great disaster that bulkedblack across her whole life, but, woman-like, grasped at a fragment ofit.

"You were married and I was not there! Yesterday! My boy was marriedand he forgot me!"

"Mother! Don't look like that! Here, sit down," grabbing herhelplessly by the arms. "I didn't want to hurt you. I brought youhere to tell you quietly. Cry! Why don't you cry if you're worried!Oh! I believe she's dying!" he shouted, staring around the empty church.

She spoke at last.

"You were married and I couldn't say God bless you! You forgot me! Inever forgot you, George, for one minute since you were born."

"Mother, what fool talk is that? I only didn't want a scene. I keptaway from Lisa for weeks so as not to vex you. Forget you! I think Ihave been very considerate of you under the circumstances. You have adislike to Lisa, a most groundless dislike——"

"Oh, what is Lisa?" said Frances haughtily. "It is that you haveturned away from me. She has nothing to do with the relation betweenyou and me. How can any woman come between me and my son?" She heldup her hands. "Why, you are my boy, Georgy. You are all I have!"

He looked at the face, curiously pinched and drawn as if by death, thatwas turned up to his, and shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "Nowthis is exactly what I tried to escape yesterday. Am I never to be aman, nor have the rights of a man? You must accept the situation,mother. Lisa is my wife, and dearer to me than all the world beside."

He saw her lips move. "Dearer? Dearer than me!" She sat quite stillafter that, and did not seem to hear when he spoke. Something in hersilence frightened him. She certainly had been a fond, indulgentmother, and he perhaps had been abrupt in cutting the tie between them.It must be cut. He had promised Lisa the whole matter should besettled to-day. But his mother certainly was a weak woman, and he mustbe patient with her. Secretly he approved the manliness of hispatience.

"The cab is waiting, dear," he said. She rose and walked to thestreet, standing helpless there while the crowd jostled her. Was sheblind and deaf? He put her into the cab and sat down opposite to her."Half Moon Street," he called to the driver.

"Mother," touching her on the knee.

"Yes, George."

"I told him to drive to Half Moon Street. I will take you to ClaraVance. We may as well arrange things now, finally. You do not like mywife. That is clear. For the present, therefore, it is better that weshould separate. I have consulted with Lisa, and she has suggestedthat you shall join Clara Vance's party while we go our own way."

She stared at him. "Do you mean that you and I are not to see Londontogether? Not to travel through Europe together?"

He pitied her a little, and, leaning forward, kissed her clammy lips."The thing will seem clearer to you to-morrow, no doubt. I must leaveyou now. Go to Clara and her girls. They all like to pet and makemuch of you. I will bring Lisa in the morning, to talk business alittle. She has an uncommonly clear head for business. Good-by,dear!" He stopped the cab, jumped out, and walked briskly to thecorner where his wife was waiting for him.

"You have told her?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes. It's over."

"That we must separate?"

"Yes, yes. I told her you thought it best."

"And she was not willing?"

"Well, she did not approve very cordially," said George, evading hereye.

"But she shall approve!" hanging upon his arm, her burning eyes closeto his face. "You are mine, George! I love you. I will share youwith nobody!" She whistled shrilly, and a hansom stopped.

"What are you going to do, darling?"

"Follow her. I will tell her something that will make her willing toseparate. Get in, get in!"

CHAPTER III

Frances, when in trouble, went out of doors among the trees asnaturally as other women take to their beds. Lisa's sharp eyes saw hersitting in the Green Park as they passed. The mist, which was heavy asrain, hung in drops on the stretches of sward and filled the far aislesof trees with a soft gray vapor. The park was deserted but for an oldman who asked Mrs. Waldeaux for the penny's hire for her chair. As hehobbled away, he looked back at her curiously.

"She gave him a shilling!" exclaimed Lisa, as he passed them. "I toldyou she was not fit to take care of money."

"But why not wait until to-morrow to talk of business? She is hurt andunnerved just now, and she—she does not like you, Lisa."

"I am not afraid. She will be civil. She is like Chesterfield. 'Evendeath cannot kill the courtesy in her.' You don't seem to know thewoman, George. Come."

But George hung back and loitered among the trees. He was an honestfellow, though slow of wit; he loved his mother and was penetrated tothe quick just now by a passionate fondness for his wife. Two suchgood, clever women! Why couldn't they hit it off together?

"George?" said Frances, hearing his steps.

Lisa came up to her. She rose, and smiled to her son's wife, and aftera moment held out her hand.

But the courtesy which Lisa had expected suddenly enraged her. "No!There need be no pretence between us," she said. "You are not glad tosee me. There is no pretence in me. I am honest. I did not come hereto make compliments, but to talk business."

"George said to-morrow. Can it not wait until to-morrow?"

"No. What is to do—do it! That is my motto. George, come here!Tell your mother what we have decided. Oh, very well, if you preferthat I should speak. We go to Paris at once, Mrs. Waldeaux, and willtake apartments there. You will remain with Miss Vance."

"Yes, I know. I am to remain——" Frances passed her hand once ortwice over her mouth irresolutely. "But Oxford, George?" she said."You forget your examinations?"

George took off his spectacles and wiped them.

"Speak! Have you no mind of your own?" his wife whispered. "I willtell you, then, madam. He has done with that silly whim! A priest,indeed! I am Catholic, and priests do not marry. He goes to Paris tostudy art. I see a great future for him, in art."

Frances stared at him, and then sat down, dully. What did it matter?Paris or Oxford? She would not be there. What did it matter?

Lisa waited a moment for some comment, and then began sharply, "Now, wecome to affaires! Listen, if you please. I am a woman of business.Plain speaking is always best, to my idea."

Mrs. Waldeaux drew herself together and turned her eyes on her withsudden apprehension, as she would on a snapping dog. The woman's tonesthreatened attack.

"To live in Paris, to work effectively, your son must have money. Ibrought him no dot, alas! Except"—with a burlesque courtesy—"mybeauty and my blood. I must know how much money we shall have before Idesign the menage."

"George has his income," said his mother hastily.

"Ah! You are alarmed, madam! You do not like plain words about theaffaires? George tells me that although he is long ago of age, he hasas yet received no portion of his father's estates."

"Lisa! You do not understand! Mother, I did not complain. You havealways given me my share of the income from the property. I have nodoubt it was a fair share—as much as if my father had left me myportion, according to custom."

"Yes, it was a fair share," said Frances.

"Ah! you smile, madam!" interrupted Lisa. "I am told it is a vastproperty, a grand chateau—many securities! M. Waldeaux pere made awill, on dit, incredibly foolish, with no mention of his son. But nowthat this son comes to marry, to become the head of the house, if youwere a French mother, if you were just, you would—— You appear to beamused, madam?"

For Mrs. Waldeaux was laughing. She could not speak for a moment. Thetears stood in her eyes.

"The matter has somewhat of droll to you?"

"It has its humorous side," said Frances. "I quite understand, George,that you will need more money to support a wife. I will double yourallowance. It shall be paid quarterly."

"You would prefer to do that?" hesitated George. "Rather than to makeover a son's share of the property to me absolutely? Some of thelanded estate or securities? I have probably a shrewder businesstalent than yours, and if I had control could make my property moreprofitable."

"I should prefer to pay your income as before—yes," said Francesquietly.

"Well, as you choose. It is yours to give, of course." George coughedand shuffled to conquer his disappointment. Then he said, "Have ityour own way." He put his hand affectionately on her shoulder. "Andwhen you have had your little outing and go home to Weir, you will beglad to have us come to you, for a visit—won't you, mother? Youhaven't said so."

"Why should I say so? It is your home, George, yours and your wife's."She caught his hand and held it to her lips.

But Lisa had not so easily conquered her disappointment. This womanwas coolly robbing George of his rights and was going instead to killfor him a miserable little fatted calf! Bah! This woman, who hadmaligned her dead mother!

She should have her punishment now. In one blow, straight from theshoulder.

"But you should know, madam," she said gently, "who it is your son hasmarried before you take her home. I assure you that you can present meto the society in Weir with pride. I have royal blood——" "Lisa!"George caught her arm. "It is not necessary. You forget——"

"Oh, I forget nothing! I said royal blood. My father, madam, was thebrother of the Czar, and my mother was Pauline Felix. You don't seemto understand——" after a moment's pause. "It was my mother whosename you said should not cross any decent woman's lips—my mother——"She broke down into wild sobs.

"When I said it I did not know that you—— I am sorry." Francessuddenly walked away, pulling open her collar. It seemed to her thatthere was no breath in the world. George followed her. "Did you knowthis?" she said at last, in a hoarse whisper. "And you are—married toher? There is no way of being rid of her?"

"No, there is no way," said Waldeaux stoutly. "And if there were, Ishould not look for it. I am sorry that there is any smirch on Lisa'sbirth. But even her mother, I fancy, was not altogether a bad lot.Bygones must be bygones. I love my wife, mother. She's worth loving,as you'd find if you would take the trouble to know her. Her deadmother shall not come between her and me."

"She's like her, George!" said Mrs. Waldeaux, with white, tremblinglips. "I ought to have seen it at first. Those luring, terrible eyes.It is Pauline Felix's heart that is in her. Rotten to thecore—rotten——"

"I don't care. I'll stand by her." But George's face, too, began tolose its color. He shook himself uncomfortably. "The thing's donenow," he muttered.

"Certainly, certainly," Frances repeated mechanically. "Tell her thatI am sorry I spoke of her mother before her. It was rude—brutal. Iask her pardon."

"Oh, she'll soon forget that! Lisa has a warm heart, if you take herright. There's lots of hearty fun in her too. You'll like that. Areyou going now? Good-by, dear. We will come and see you in themorning. The thing will not seem half so bad when you have slept onit."

He paused uncertainly, as she still stood motionless. She was facingthe grim walls of Stafford House, looming dimly through the mist, hereyes fixed as if she were studying the sky line.

"George," she said. "You don't understand. You will come to me always.But that woman never shall cross my threshold." "Mother! Do you meanwhat you say?"

It was a man, not a shuffling boy that spoke now. "Do you mean that weare not to go to you to-morrow? Not to go home in October? Never——"

"Your home is open to you. But Pauline Felix's child is no more to methan a wild beast—or a snake in the grass, and never can be." Shefaced him steadily now.

"There she is," said Frances, looking at the little black figure underthe trees, "and here am I. You can choose between us."

"Those whom God hath joined together," muttered George. "You knowthat."

"You have known her for three weeks," cried Frances vehemently. "Igave you life. I have been your slave every hour since you were born.I have lived but for you. Which of us has God joined together?"

"Mother, you're damnably unreasonable! It is the course of nature fora man to leave his parents and cleave to his wife."

"Yes, I know," she said slowly. "You can keep that foul thing in yourlife, but it never shall come into mine."

"Then neither will I. I will stand by my wife."

"That is the end, then?"

She waited, her eyes on his.

He did not speak.

She turned and left him, disappearing slowly in the rain and mist.

CHAPTER IV

Two days later Mr. Perry met Miss Vance in Canterbury and told her ofthe marriage. She hurried back to London. She could not hide herdistress and dismay from the two girls.

"How did she force him into it? One is almost driven to believe inhypnotism," she cried.

Lucy Dunbar had no joke to make about it to-day. The merry little girlwas silent, having, she said, a headache.

"You've had too much cathedral!" said Miss Hassard. "And the wholechurch is wretchedly out of drawing!"

Jean Hassard had studied art at Pond City in Dakota, and her soul'shope had been to follow Marie Bashkirtseff's career in Paris. But herfather had morally handcuffed her and put her into Clara's custody fora year. It was hard! To be led about to old churches, respectable asher grandmother, when she might have been studying the nude in a mixedclass! She rattled her chains disagreeably at every step.

"The mesalliance is on the other side," she told Lucy privately. "Awoman of the world who knew life, to marry that bloodless, finicalpriest!"

"He was not bloodless. He loved her."

Mr. Perry came up with them from Canterbury, being secretly alarmedabout Miss Dunbar's headache. Nobody took proper care of that lovelychild! He had attached himself to Miss Vance's party in England; hedropped in every evening to tell of his interviews with Gladstone orMrs. Oliphant or an artist or a duke. It was delightful to the girlsto come so close to these unknown great folks. They felt quite likeperis, just outside the court of heaven, with the gate a little bitajar. This evening Mr. Perry promised it should open for them. He wasgoing to bring a real prince, whom he familiarly dubbed "a jollyfellow," to call upon Miss Vance.

"Who is the man?" said Clara irritably. "Be careful, Mr. Perry. Ihave had enough of foreign adventurers."

"Oh, the Hof Kalender will post you as to Prince Wolfburgh. I lookedhim up in it. He is head of one of the great mediatized families.Would have been reigning now if old Kaiser Wilhelm had not playedAaron's serpent and gobbled up all the little kings. Wolfburgh haskept all his land and castles, however."

"Very well. Let us see what the man is like," Miss Vance said loftily.

Mrs. Waldeaux was not in the house when they arrived. Every day shewent early in the morning to the Green Park, where she had seen Georgelast, and wandered about until night fell. She thought that he hadgone to Paris, and that she was alone in London. But somehow she camenearer to him there.

When she found that Clara had arrived, she knew that she would be fullof pity for her. She came down to dinner in full dress, told somefunny stories, and laughed incessantly.

No. She had not missed them. The days had gone merry as a marriagebell with her even after her son and his wife had run away to Paris.

Mr. Perry congratulated her warmly on the match. "The lady is veryfetching, indeed," he said. "I remarked that the first day onship-board. Oh, yes, I know a diamond when I see it. But your sonpicks it up. Lucky fellow! He picks it up!" He told Miss Vance thatthere was a curious attraction about her friend, "who, by the way,should always wear brown velvet and lace."

Miss Vance drew little Lucy aside after dinner. "Do you see," shesaid, "the tears in her eyes? It wrenches my heart. She has become anold woman in a day. I feel as if Frances were dead, and that was herghost joking and laughing."

Lucy said nothing, but she went to Frances and sat beside her allevening. When the prince arrived and was presented, going on histriumphant way through the room, she nestled closer, whispering, "Whatdo you think of him?"

"He looks very like our little fat Dutch baker in Weir—he has the sameair of patronage," said Frances coldly. She was offended that Lucyshould notice the man at all. Was it not she whom George should havemarried? How happy they would have been—her boy and this sweet, neatlittle girl! And already Lucy was curious about so-called princes!

When his Highness came back to them she rose hastily and went to herown room.

Late that night Miss Vance found her there in the dark, sitting boltupright in her chair, still robed in velvet and lace. Clara regardedher sternly, feeling that it was time to take her in hand.

"You have not forgiven George?" she said abruptly.

Mrs. Waldeaux looked up, but said nothing.

"Is he coming back soon?"

"He never shall come back while that woman is with him."

Miss Vance put her lamp on the table and sat down. "Frances," she saiddeliberately, "I know what this is to you. It would have been betterfor you that George had died."

"Much better."

"But he didn't die. He married Lisa Arpent. Now it is your duty toaccept it. Make the best of it."

"If a lizard crawls into my house will you tell me to accept it? Makethe best of it? Oh, my God! The slimy vile creature!"

"She is not vile! I tell you there are lovable qualities in Lisa. Andeven if she were as wicked as her mother, what right have you—— You,too, are a sinner before God."

"No," said Mrs. Waldeaux gravely, "I am not. I have lived a goodChristian life. I may have been tempted to commit sin, but I cannotremember that I ever did it."

Miss Vance looked at her aghast. "But surely your religion teachesyou—— Why, you are sinning now, when you hate this girl!"

"I do not hate her. God made her as he made the lizard. I simply willnot allow her to cross my path. What has religion to do with it? I amclean and she is vile. That is all there is to say."

Both women were silent. Mrs. Waldeaux got up at last and caught Claraby the arm. She was trembling violently. "No, I'm not ill. I'm wellenough. But you don't understand! That woman has killed George. Ispent twenty years in making him what he is. I worked—there wasnothing but him for me in the world. I didn't spare myself. To makehim a gentleman—a Christian. And in a month she turns him into athing like herself. He is following her vulgar courses. I saw thedifference after he had lived with her for one day. He is tainted."She stood staring into the dull lamp. "She may not live long, though,"she said. "She doesn't look strong——"

"Frances! For God's sake!"

"Well, what of it? Why shouldn't I wish her gone? The harm—the harm!Do you remember that Swedish maid I had—a great fair woman? One dayshe was stung by a green fly, and in a week she was dead, her wholebody a mass of corruption! Oh, God lets such things be done! Nothingbut a green fly——" She shook off Clara's hold, drawing her breathwith difficulty. "That is Lisa. It is George that is being poisoned,body and soul. It's a pity to see my boy killed by a thing likethat—it's a pity——"

Miss Vance was too frightened to argue with her. She brought herwrapper, loosened her hair, soothing her in little womanish ways. Buther burning curiosity drove her presently to ask one question.

"How can they live?"

"I have doubled his allowance."

"Frances! You will work harder to make money for Lisa Arpent?"

"Oh, what is money!" cried Frances, pushing her away impatiently.

CHAPTER V

Miss Vance persuaded Mrs. Waldeaux to go with her to Scotland. Duringthe weeks that followed Frances always found Lucy Dunbar at her side inthe trains or on the coaches.

"She is a very companionable child," she told Clara. "I often forgetthat I am any older than she. She never tires of hearing stories ofGeorge's scrapes or his queer sayings when he was a child. Suchstories, I think, are usually tedious, but George was a peculiar boy."

Mr. Perry's search for notorieties took him also to Scotland, and,oddly enough, Prince Wolfburgh's search for amusement led him in thesame direction. They met him and his cousin, Captain Odo Wolfburgh, atOban, and again on the ramparts of Stirling Castle, and the very daythat they arrived in Edinburgh, there, in Holyrood, in Queen Mary'schamber, stood the pursy little man, curling his mustache before hermirror.

Mr. Perry fell into the background with Miss Hassard. "His Highness isbecoming monotonous!" he grumbled. "These foreigners never know whenthey are superfluous in society."

"Is he superfluous?" Jean glanced to the corner where the prince andLucy were eagerly searching for the blood of Rizzio upon the steps.

"Decidedly," said Perry. "I wished to show you and Miss Dunbar a liveprince, and I did it. That is done and over with. He has been seenand heard. There is no reason why he should pop up here and there allover Great Britain like a Jack-in-the-box. He's becoming a bore."

"You suspect him to be an impostor?" said Jean quickly.

"No. He's genuine enough. But we don't want any foreigners in ourcaravan," stroking his red beard complacently.

"No. What do you suppose is his object?" asked Jean, with one of herquick, furtive glances.

Mr. Perry's jaws grew red as his beard. "How can I tell?" he saidgruffly. He went on irritably, a moment later: "Of course you see it.The fellow has no delicacy. He makes no more secret of his plans thanif he were going to run down a rabbit. Last night at Stirling, overhis beer, he held forth upon the dimples on Miss Dunbar's pink elbows,and asked me if her hair were all her own. I said, at last, thatAmerican men did not value women like sheep by their flesh and fleeceand the money they were rated at in the market. I hit him square thattime, prince or no prince!"

"Yes, you did, indeed," said Jean vaguely. Her keen eyes followed Lucyand the prince, who were loitering through the gallery, pausing beforethe faded portraits. "You think it is only her money that draws himafter us?"

"Why, of course! A fellow like that could not appreciate Miss Dunbar'sbeauty and wit."

"You think Lucy witty?" said Jean dryly. "And you think she would notmarry for a title?"

"I don't believe any pure American girl would sell herself, like asheep in the shambles! And she is pure! A lamb, a lily! cried Perry,growing incoherent in his heat.

"She would not if her heart were preoccupied," said Jean thoughtfully.

"And you think——" he said breathlessly.

But Jean only laughed, and said no more.

The guide had been paying profound deference to Prince Wolfburgh,keeping close to his heels. Now he swung open a door. "If yourHighnesses will come this way?" he said, bowing profoundly to Lucy.

The little girl started and hurried back to Miss Vance. Her face wasscarlet, and she laughed nervously. Prince Wolfburgh also laughed,loudly and meaningly. He swore at the old man and went out into thecloister where his cousin stood smoking.

"Had enough of the old barracks?" said the captain.

"I found I was making too fast running in there," said the princeuneasily; "I'll waken up and find that girl married to me some day."

"Not so bad a dream," puffed his cousin.

"I'll take a train somewhere," said the prince. "But no matter where Igo, I'll find an American old woman with a girl to marry. They allcarry the Hof Kalender in their pockets, and know every bachelor inGermany."

The captain watched him attentively. "I don't believe those womeninside mean to drive any marriage bargain with you, Hugo," he saidgruffly. "I doubt whether the little mees would marry you if you askedher. Her dot, I hear, is e-normous!" waving his hand upward as if tomountain heights. "And as for beauty, she is a wild rose!"

Now, there were reasons why the captain should rejoice when Hugo alliedhimself to the little mees. On the day when he would take these hillsof gold and wild rose to himself, the captain would become the head ofthe house of Wolfburgh. It was, perhaps, a mean, ungilded throne, butby German law no nameless Yankee woman could sit upon it.

The prince looked at Captain Odo. "You cannot put me into a gallopwhen I choose to walk," he said. "She's a pretty girl, and a goodgirl, and some time I may marry her, but not now."

Odo laughed good-humoredly, and they sauntered down the path together.

The prince had offered to dine with Miss Vance that evening, but sent anote to say that he was summoned to the Highlands unexpectedly.

"It is adieu, not auf wiedersehen, I fear, with his Highness," MissVance said, folding the note pensively. She had not meant to drive amarriage bargain, and yet—to have placed a pupil upon even such abric-a-brac throne as that of Wolfburgh! She looked thoughtfully atLucy's chubby cheeks. A princess? The man was not objectionable inhimself, either—a kindly, overgrown boy. "He told me," said Jean,"that he was going to a house party at Inverary Castle."

"Whose house is that, Jean?" asked Lucy.

"It is the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Argyll."

"Oh!" Lucy gave a little sigh. Prince Hugo was undeniably fat and veryslow to catch a joke, but there was certainly a different flavor inthis talk of dukes and ancestral seats to the gossip about the Whitesand Greens at home.

Indeed, the whole party, including even Mr. Perry, experienced asensation of sudden vacancy and flatness when his Highness left them.It was as though they had been sheltering a royal eagle that was usedto dwelling in sunlit heights unknown to them, and now they were lefton flat ground to consort with common poultry.

CHAPTER VI

Miss Vance led her party slowly through Scotland and down again toLondon. Mrs. Waldeaux went with them. The girls secretly laughedtogether at her fine indomitable politeness, and her violent passionfor the Stuarts, and hate of the Roundheads. But Mr. Perry was boredby her.

"What is it to us," he said, "that Queen Mary paddled over this lake,or Cromwell's soldiers whitewashed that fresco? Give me a clean, newAmerican church, anyhow, before all of your mouldy, tomby cathedrals.These things are so many cancelled cheques to me. I have nothing topay on them. It is live issues that draw on my heart. You Americangirls ought to be at home looking into the negro problem, or Tammany,or the Sugar Trust, instead of nosing into Rembrandts, or miracles atLourdes, or palaces. These are all back numbers. Write n. g. on themand bury them. So, by the way, is your Mrs. Waldeaux a back number.My own opinion is that all men and women at fifty ought to go willinglyand be shut up in the room where the world keeps its second-handlumber!"

"Yet nobody," said Lucy indignantly, "is more careful or tender withMrs. Waldeaux than you!"

"That is because Mr. Perry has the genuine American awe of people ofgood birth," said Jean slyly. "It is the only trait which makes mesuspect that he is a self-made man." Mr. Perry, for answer, only bowedgravely. He long ago had ceased to hide his opinion that Miss Hassardwas insufferable.

Frances, for her part, was sure that the young people were glad to haveher as a companion. One day she decided to stay with them, and thenext to go to New York on the first steamer. She seemed to see lifehazily, as one over whose mind a cataract was growing. What had she todo in Europe, she reasoned? George was gone. Her one actual hold onthe world had slipped from her. That great mysterious thing calledliving was done and past for her.

And yet—there was Kenilworth, and Scott's house? Scott, who had beenher friend and leader since she was eight years old! And in thatanthem at York minster there was a message, which she had been waitingall of her life to hear! And here was Lucy beside her with her softvoice, and loving blue eyes—Lucy, who should have been George's wife!In all of these things something high and good called to the poor lady,which she heard and understood as a child would the voice of its mother.

One hour she resolved to leave her son with his wife, to go back toWeir at once and work with the poultry and Quigg's jokes for the restof her life. She was dead. Let her give up and consent to be dead.

The next, she would stay where she could see George sometimes, and tryto forgive the woman who had him in her keeping. Perhaps, after all,she was human, as Clara said. If she could forgive Lisa, she could behappy with these young people and live—live in this wonderful oldworld, where all that was best of past ages was kept waiting for her.

When they came to London, she went at once to Morgan's to make adeposit, for she had been hard at work on her jokes as she travelled,and had received her pay.

"Your son, madam," said the clerk, "drew on his account to-day. Hesaid he expected remittances from you. Is this to be put to hiscredit?"

"My son was in London to-day?

"He has just left the house."

"Did he—he left a message for me? A letter, perhaps?"

"No, nothing, madam."

"Put the money to his credit, of course." She went out into the narrowstreet and wandered along to the Bank of England, staring up at thehuge buildings.

He had been looking at them—he had walked on this very pavement aminute ago! That might be the smoke of his cigar, yonder!

She could easily find him. Just to look at him once; to hold his hand!He might be ill and need her; he never was well in foggy weather.

Then she remembered that Lisa was with him. She would nurse him.

She called a cab, and, as she drove home, looked out at the crowd witha hard, smiling face.

Henry Irving that night played "Shylock," and Mr. Perry secured a boxfor Miss Vance. Frances went with the others. Before the curtain rosethere was a startled movement among them, a whisper, and then Claraturned to Mrs. Waldeaux.

"Frances, Lisa is coming into the opposite box," she said. "She isreally a beautiful woman in that decollete gown, and her cheeksflushed, and her eyes—— I had no idea! She is superb!"

Two men in the dress of French officers entered the box with Lisa.They seated her, bending over her with an empressement which, to Mrs.Waldeaux's heated fancy, was insulting. George came last, carrying hiswife's cloak, which he placed upon a chair. One of the men tossed hiscape to him, with a familiar nod, and George laid it aside and sat downat the back of the box.

His mother leaned forward, watching. That woman had put her son in theplace of an inferior—an attendant.

The great orchestra shook the house with a final crash, and the curtainrose upon the Venetian plaza. Every face in the audience was turnedattentive toward it. But Mrs. Waldeaux saw only Lisa.

A strange change came upon her as she watched her son's wife. Formonths she had struggled feebly against her hate of Lisa. Now shewelcomed it; she let herself go.

Is the old story true after all? Is there some brutal passion hidingin every human soul, waiting its chance, even in old age? It iscertain that this woman, after her long harmless life, recognized thefury in her soul and freed it.

"Frances," whispered Clara, "when this act is over, go and speak tothem. I will go with you. It is your chance to put an end to thishorrible separation. They are your children."

"No. That woman is my enemy, Clara," said Mrs. Waldeaux quietly. "Iwill make no terms with her."

Miss Vance sighed and turned to the stage, but Frances still watchedthe opposite box. It seemed as if the passion within her had clearedher eyes. They never had seen George as they now saw him.

Was that her son? Was it that little priggish, insignificant fellowthat she had made a god of? He was dull, commonplace! Satisfied tosit dumb in the background and take orders from those bourgeois FrenchJews!

The play went on, but she saw nothing but George and his wife.

There was the result of all her drudgery! The hot summers of work inthe filthy poultry yards; the grinding out of poor jokes; the coarse,cheap underclothes (she used to cry when she put them on, she hatedthem so). Years and years of it all; and for that cold, selfish fop!

His mother saw him leave the box, and knew that he was coming.

"Oh, good-evening, George!" she said gayly, as he opened the door. "Awonderful scene, wasn't it? I have always wished to see Irving in'Hamlet.'"

"This is 'Shylock,'" he said gravely, and turned to speak to theothers. They welcomed him eagerly, and made room for him. He had lostsomething of the cold, blase air which had ennobled him in the eyes ofthe young women. He looked around presently, and said with acomfortable shrug:

"It is so pleasant to talk English again! My wife detests it. Wespeak only French. I feel like an alien and outcast among you!" Helaughed; his mother glanced at him curiously. But Lucy turned her faceaway, afraid that he should see it. As he talked, George noted theclear-cut American features of the girls, and their dainty gowns, witha keen pleasure; then he glanced quickly at the opposite box.

"Ah!" said Jean to Mr. Perry. "The soiled lace and musk are beginningto tell! He is tired of Lisa already!" "I never liked the fellow,"said Mr. Perry coldly. "But he is hardly the cad that you suppose."

He fell into a gloomy silence. He had wasted two years' salary infollowing Lucy Dunbar about, in showering flowers on her, in posingbefore her in the last fashions of Conduit Street, and yet when thisconceited fellow came into the box she was blind and deaf to allbesides! Her eyes filled with tears just now when he talked of hisloneliness. Lonely—with his wife! A married man!

George, when the curtain fell again, sat down by Frances.

"Mother," he said.

"Yes, George." Her eyes were bright and attentive, but her countenancehad fallen into hard lines new to him.

"I went to Morgan's this afternoon. You have been very liberal to us."

"I will do what I can. You may depend upon that amount, regularly."

He rose and bade them good-night, and turned to her again.

"We—we are coming to-morrow to thank you. MOTHER?" There was a hoarsesob in his throat. He laid his hand on her arm. She moved so that itdropped. "We will come to-morrow," he said. "Did you understand?Lisa wishes to be friends with you. She is ready to forgive," hegroped on, blundering, like a man.

"Oh, yes, I understand. You and Lisa are coming to forgive meto-morrow," she said, smiling.

He looked at her, perplexed and waiting. But she said no more.

"Well, I must go now. Good-night."

"Good-night, George!" Her bright, smiling eyes followed him steadily,as he went out.

Mrs. Waldeaux tapped at Clara's door that evening after they reachedhome.

"I came to tell you that I shall leave London early in the morning,"she said.

"You will not wait to see George and his wife?"

"I hope I never shall see them again. No! Not a word! I will hear noarguments!" She came into the room and closed the door. There was acertain novel air of decision and youth in her figure and movements."I am going to make a change, Clara," she said. "I have worked forothers long enough. I am going away now, alone. I will be free. Iwill live my own life—at last." Her eyes shone with exultation.

"And—— Where are you going?" stammered Miss Vance, dismayed.

"I don't know. There is so much—it has all been waiting so long forme. There are the cathedrals—and the mountains. Or the Holy Land.Perhaps I may try to write again. There seems to be a dumb word or twoin me. Don't be angry with me, Clara," throwing her arms about hercousin, the tears rushing to her eyes. "I may come back to you andlittle Lucy some time. But just now I want to be alone and fancymyself young. I never was young."

When Lucy stole into her old friend's chamber the next morning as usualto drink her cup of coffee with her, she found the door open and theroom in disorder, and she was told that Mrs. Waldeaux had left Londonat daybreak.

CHAPTER VII

During the year which followed, Mr. Perry was forced to return to theStates, but he made two flying trips across "the pond," as he calledit, in the interests of his magazine, always running down his prey ofnotorieties in that quarter of Europe in which Miss Vance and hercharges chanced to be.

When he came in July he found them in a humble little inn in Bozen. Helooked with contempt at the stone floors, the clean cell-like chambers,each with its narrow bed, and blue stone ewer perched on a woodenstool; and he sniffed with disgust when breakfast was served on a tableset out in the Platz.

"Don't know," he said, "whether I can digest food, eating out of doors.Myself, I never give in to these foreign ways. It's time they learnedmanners from us."

"I have no doubt," said Miss Vance placidly, "that you can find one ofthe usual hotels built for rich Americans in the town. We avoid them.We search out the inns du pays to see as far behind the scenes as wecan. I don't care to go to those huge houses with mobs of Chicagoansand New Yorkers; and have the couriers and portiers turn theflashlights on Europe for me, as if it were a burlesque show."

"Now, that's just what I like!" said Perry. "I always go to the houseswhere the royalties put up. I like to order better dishes and givebigger tips than they do. They don't know Jem Perry from Adam, butit's my way of waving the American flag."

"I am afraid we have no such patriotic motive," said Clara. "My girlsseem to care for nothing now but art. We have made this little inn ourheadquarters in the Tyrol chiefly out of love for the old churchyonder."

Mr. Perry glanced contemptuously across the Platz at the frowning graybuilding, and sat down with his back to it.

"Art, eh? Well, I've no doubt I could soon catch on to Art, if Iturned my mind that way. It pays, too,—Art. Not the fellows whopaint, but the connoisseurs. There's Miller from our town. He was adrummer for a candy firm. Had an eye for color. Well, he buyspictures now for Americans who want galleries in their houses. Hebought his whole collection for Stout—the great dealer in hams. Why,Miller can tell the money value within five dollars, at sight, of anypicture in Europe. He's safe, too. Never invests in pictures thataren't sure to go up in price. Getting rich! And began as a candydrummer! No, ma'am! Art's no mystery. I've never taken it up myself.Europe is sheer pleasure to me. I get the best out of it. I knowwhere to lodge well, and I can tell you where the famous plats arecooked, and I have my coats built by Toole. The house pays me a salarywhich justifies me in humoring my little follies," stroking his redbeard complacently.

Lucy's chubby face and steady blue eyes were turned on himthoughtfully, and presently, when they sauntered down the windy streettogether, he talked and she still silently watched him.

"Miss Precision is weighing him in the balance," said Jean, laughing,as she poured out more black coffee. "With all of her soft ways Lucyis shrewd. She knows quite well why he races across the Atlantic, andwhy Prince Wolfburgh has backed away from us and charged on us againall summer. She is cool. She is measuring poor Perry's qualificationsfor a husband now just as she would materials for a cake. A neatlittle inventory. So much energy, so much honest kindness—so muchvulgarity. I couldn't do that. If ever a man wants to marry me, I'llfly to him or away from him, as quick as the steel needle does when themagnet touches it." Miss Vance listened to her attentively. "Jean,"she said, after a pause, "are you sure that it is Lucy whom the princewishes to marry?"

"It is not I," said Miss Hassard promptly. "He has thought of meseveral times—he has weighed my qualifications. But the man is inlove with Lucy as honestly as a ploughman could be. Don't you thinkI've tough luck?" she said, resting her elbow on the table and her chinon her palm, her keen gray eyes following Miss Dunbar and her lover asthey loitered under the shadow of the church. "I am as young as Lucy.I have a better brain and as big a dot. But her lovers make her life aburden, and I never have had one. Just because our noses and chins aremade up differently!"

"Oh, my dear!" said Clara anxiously. "I never thought you cared forthat kind of success!"

"I'm only human," Jean laughed. "Of course I'm an artist. I'm goingto paint a great picture some day that all the world shall go madabout. Of Eve. I'll put all the power of all women into her. But inthe meantime I'd like to see one man turn pale and pant before me asthe fat little prince does when Lucy snubs him."

"Lucy is very hard to please," complained Miss Vance. "She snubs Mr.Perry—naturally. But the prince—why should she not marry the prince?"

"Your generation," said Jean, smiling slyly, "used to think that anunreasonable whim called love was a good thing in marriage——"

"But why should she not love the prince? He is honorable and kind, andquite passable as to looks—— Can there be any one else?" turningsuddenly to Jean.

Miss Hassard looked at her a moment, hesitating. "Your cousin Georgeused to be Lucy's type of a hero——"

"Why! the man is married!" Miss Vance stood up, her lean facereddening. "Jean! You surprise me! That kind of talk—it's indecent!It is that loose American idea of marriage that ends in hideous divorcecases. But for one of my girls——"

"It is a very old idea," said Jean calmly.

"David loved another man's wife. Mind you, I don't accuse Lucy ofloving any body, but when the needle has once touched the magnet itanswers to its call ever after."

Miss Vance vouchsafed no answer. She walked away across the Platz,jerking her bonnet strings into a knot. Jean was one of the New Women!Her opinions stuck out on every side like Briareus' hundred elbows!You could not come near her without being jabbed by them. Such womenwere all opinions; there was no softness, no feeling, no delicacy aboutthem. Skeletons with no flesh! As for Lucy, she had no fear. If eventhe child had loved George, she would have cast out every thought ofhim on his wedding day, as a Christian girl should do!

She passed Lucy at that moment. She was leaning against one of thehuge stone lions which crouch in front of the church, listening to Mr.Perry. If ever a pure soul looked into the world it was through thoselimpid eyes!

The Platz was nearly empty. One or two men in blouses clattered acrossthe cobblestones and going into the dark church dropped on their knees.The wind was high, and now and then swept heavy clouds low across thesunlight space overhead.

Lucy, as Jean had guessed, knew why the man beside her had crossed theAtlantic, and she had decided last night to end the matter at once.The tears had stood in her eyes for pity at the thought of the pain shemust give him. Yet she had put on her new close-fitting coat and abecoming fur cap, and pulled out the loose hair which she knew at thismoment was blowing about her pink cheeks in curly wisps in a way thatwas perfectly maddening. Clara, seeing the mischief in her eyes as shelistened shyly to Perry, went on satisfied. There was no abyss ofblack loss in that girl's life!

Lucy just now was concerned only for Perry. How the poor man lovedher! Why not marry him after all, and put him out of his pain? Shewas twenty-four. Most women at twenty-four had gone through theirlittle tragedy of love. But she had had no tragedy. She told herselffirmly that there had been no story of love in her life. There nevercould be, now. She was too old.

She was tired, too, and very lonely. This man would seat her on athrone and worship her every day. That would be pleasant enough.

"I am ashamed of myself," he was saying, "to pursue you in this way.You have given me no encouragement, I know. But whenever I go to NewYork and bone down to work, something tells me to come back and tryagain."

Lucy did not answer, and there was a brief silence.

"Of course I'm a fool,"—prodding the ground with his stick. "But if aman were in a jail cell and knew that the sun was shining just outside,he'd keep on beating at the wall."

"Your life is not a jail cell. It's very comfortable, I think."

"It has been bare enough. I have had a hard fight to live at all. Itold you that I began as a canal-boy."

She looked at him with quick sympathy. At once she fancied that shecould read old marks of want on his face. His knuckles were knobbedlike a laborer's. He had had a hard fight! It certainly would bepleasant to rain down comfort and luxury on the good, plucky fellow!

"Of course that was all long ago," said Perry. "I'm not ashamed of it.As Judge Baker remarked the other day, 'The acknowledged aristocrats ofAmerica, to-day, are its self-made men.' He ought to know. The Bakersare the top of the heap in New York. Very exclusive. I've beenintimate there for years. No, Miss Dunbar, I may have begun as amule-driver on a canal, but I am choice in my society. My wife willnot find a man or woman in my circle who is half-cut."

Lucy drew a long breath. To live all day and every day with this man!

And yet—she was so tired! There was a good deal of money to manage,and he could do that. He would like a gay, hospitable house, and sowould she, and they would be kind to the poor—and he was anEpiscopalian, too. There would be no hitch there. Lucy was a zealousHigh Churchwoman.

Why should she not do it? The man was as good as gold at heart. Jeancalled him a cad, but the caddishness was only skin deep.

Mr. Perry watched her, reading her thoughts more keenly than sheguessed.

"One thing I will say in justice to myself," he said. "You are a richwoman. If you marry me, YOU will know, if nobody else does, that I amno fortune-hunter. I shall always be independent of my wife. Everydollar she owns shall be settled on her before I go with her to thealtar."

"Oh, I'm not thinking of the money," said Lucy impatiently.

"Then you are thinking of me!" He leaned over her. She felt as if shehad been suddenly dragged too close to a big unpleasant fire. "I knowyou don't love me," he panted, "you cold little angel, you! But you dolike me? Eh? just a little bit, Lucy? Marry me. Give me a chance.I'll bring you to me. If there is a single spark of love in your heartfor me, I'll blow it into a flame! I can do it, I tell you!" Hecaught her fiercely by the shoulder.

Lucy drew back and threw out her hands. "Let me have time to think!"

"Time? You've had a year!"

"One more day. Come again this evening——"

"This evening? I've come so often!" staring breathlessly into herface. "It will be no use, I can see that. Well, as you please. I'llcome once more."

The young fellow in his jaunty new clothes shook as if he had the ague.He had touched her. For one minute she had been his!

He turned and walked quickly across the Platz.

Lucy, left alone, was full of remorse. She looked down into her heart;she had forgotten to do it before. No, not a spark for him to blowinto a flame; not a single warm thought of him!

The girl was ashamed of herself. He might be a cad, but he was real;his honest love possessed him body and soul. It was a matter ofexpediency to her; a thing to debate with herself, to dally over, withpaltry pros and cons.

Miss Vance came hurriedly up the street, an open letter in her hand.Lucy ran to meet her.

"What is it? You have heard bad news?"

"I suppose we ought not to call it that. It is from George Waldeaux.They have a son, two months old. He tells it as a matter forrejoicing."

"Oh, yes," said Lucy feebly.

"They are at Vannes—in Brittany. He has a cough. He seems to knownobody—to have no friends, and, I suspect, not much money. He isterribly depressed." Clara folded the letter thoughtfully. "He asksme to tell his mother that the baby has come."

"Where is his mother?"

"In Switzerland."

"Why is she not with him?" demanded Lucy angrily. "Wandering aboutgathering edelweiss, while he is alone and wretched!"

"He has his wife. You probably do not understand the case fully," saidClara coldly. "I am going to wire to his mother now." She turned awayand Lucy stood irresolute, her hand clutching the shaggy head of thestone beast beside her.

"I can give him money. I'll go to him. He needs me!" she said aloud.Then her whole body burned with shame. She—Lucy Dunbar, good properLucy, whose conscience hurt her if she laid her handkerchiefs away awryin her drawer, nursing a criminal passion for a married man!

She went slowly back to the inn. "He has his wife," she told herself."I am nothing to him. I doubt if he would know me if he met me on thestreet." She tried to go back to her easy-going mannerly littlethoughts, but there was something strange and fierce behind them thatwould not down.

Jean came presently to the salle. "I have had a letter too," she said."The girl who writes came from Pond City. She was in the same atelierin Paris with George. She says: 'Your friends the Waldeaux have cometo grief by a short cut. They flung money about for a few months as ifthey were backed by the Barings. The Barings might have given theirsuppers. As for their studio—there was no untidier jumble of oldarmor and brasses and Spanish leather in Paris; and Mme. George posingin the middle in soiled tea-gowns! But the suppers suddenly stopped,and the leather and Persian hangings went to the Jews. I met Lisa oneday coming out of the Vendome, where she had been trying to peddle aroll of George's sketches to the rich Americans. I asked her what waswrong, and she laughed and said, "We were trying to make thirty francsdo the work of thirty thousand. And we have made up our minds that weknow no more of art than house painters. We are in a blind alley!"Soon after that the baby was born. They went down to Brittany. I hearthat Lisa, since the child came, has been ill. I tell all this drearystuff to you thinking that you may pass it on to their folks. Somebodyought to go to their relief.'"

"Relief!" exclaimed Miss Vance. "And the money that they were flinginginto the gutter was earned day by day by his old mother! Every dollarof it! I know that during the last year she has done without properclothes and food to send their allowance to them." "You forget," saidLucy, "that George Waldeaux was doing noble work in the world. It wasa small thing for his mother to help him."

"Noble work? His pictures or his sermons, Lucy?" demanded Miss Vance,with a contemptuous shrug.

Lucy without reply walked out to the inn garden and seated herself in ashady corner. There Mr. Perry found her just as the first stroke ofthe angelus sounded on the air. Her book lay unopened on her lap.

He walked slowly up to her and stopped, breathing hard, as if he hadbeen running. "It is evening now. I have come for my answer, MissDunbar," he said, forcing a smile.

"Answer?" Lucy looked up bewildered.

"You have forgotten!"

The blood rushed to her face. She held out her hands. "Oh, forgiveme! I heard bad news. I have been so troubled——"

"You forgot that I had asked you to be my wife!"

"Mr. Perry——"

"No, don't say another word, Miss Dunbar. I have had my answer. Iknew you didn't love me, but I did not think I was so paltry that youwould forget that I had offered to marry you."

Lucy pressed her hands together, looking up at him miserably without aword. He walked down the path and leaned on the wall with his back toher. His very back was indignant.

Presently he turned. "I will bid you goodby," he said, with an effortat lofty courtesy, "and I will leave my adieux for your friends withyou."

"Are you going—back to the States?" stammered Lucy.

"Yes, I am going back to the States," he replied sternly. "A man ofmerit there has his place, regardless of rank. Jem Perry can hold hishead there as high as any beggarly prince. Farewell, Miss Dunbar."

He strode down the path and disappeared. Lucy shook her head and criedfrom sheer wretchedness. She felt that she had been beaten to-day withmany stripes.

Suddenly the bushes beside her rustled. "Forgive me," he saidhoarsely. She looked up and saw his red honest eyes. "I behaved likea brute. Good-by, Lucy! I never loved any woman but you, and I neverwill."

"Stay, stay!" she cried.

He heard her, but he did not come back.

CHAPTER VIII

Lucy was silent and dejected for a day or two, being filled with pityfor Mr. Perry's ruined life. But when she saw his name in a list ofoutgoing passengers on the Paris her heart gave a bound of relief.Nothing more could now be done. That chapter was closed. There hadbeen no other chapter of moment in her life, she told herself sternly.Now, all the clouds had cleared away. It was a new day. She wouldbegin again.

So she put on new clothes, none of which she had ever worn before, andtied back her curly hair with a fresh white ribbon, and came down tobreakfast singing gayly.

Miss Vance gave her her roll and milk in silence, and frowningimportantly, drew out a letter.

"Lucy, I have just received a communication from Prince Wolfburgh. Heis in Bozen."

"Here!" Lucy started up, glancing around like a chased hare.

Then she sat down again and waited. There was no other chapter, andthe book was so blank!

"His coming is very opportune," she said presently, gently.

"Oh! do YOU think so, my dear? Really! Well, I always have liked theyoung man. So simple. So secure of his social position. TheWolfburghs, I find, go back to the eleventh century. Mr. Perry hadnoble traits, but one never felt quite safe as to his nails or hisgrammar."

"But the prince—the prince?" cried Jean.

"Oh, yes. Well, he writes—most deferentially. He begs for the honorof an interview with me this afternoon upon a subject of the most vitalimportance. He says, 'regarding you, as I do, in loco parentis to thehochgeboren Fraulein Dunbar.'" "Hochgeboren!" said Lucy. "Mygrandfather was a saddler. Tell him so, Miss Vance. Tell him theexact facts. I want no disclosures after——"

"After marriage?" said Jean, rising suddenly. "Then you have decided?"

"I have not said that I had decided," replied Lucy calmly.

Jean laughed. "He will not be scared by the saddler. Europeans of hisorder take no account of our American class distinctions. They lookupon us as low-born parvenues, all alike. They weigh and value us byother standards than birth."

"I have money, if you mean that, Jean," said Lucy cheerfully.

"I think you had better go away, girls, if you have finished yourdejeuner. He may be here at any moment now," said Clara, lookinganxiously at her watch.

Lucy went to her little chamber and sat down to work at a monstrouscaricature which she was painting of the church. Jean paced up anddown the stone corridor, looking out of the window into the Platz.

"He has come," she said excitedly, appearing at Lucy's door. "He wentinto the church first, to say an ave for help, poor little man! Hisfat face is quite pale and stern. It is a matter of life and death tohim. And it's no more to you than the choosing of a new coat."

Lucy smiled and sketched in a priest on the church steps. Her handshook, but Jean could not see that. She went to the window again withsomething like an inward oath at the dolts of commonplace women who hadall the best chances, but was back in a moment, laughing nervously.

"Do you know he has on that old brown suit?" She leaned against thejamb of the door. "If I were a prince, and came a-wooing, I would havetroops of my Jagers, and trumpets and banners with the arms of myHouse, and I'd wear all my decorations. Of course we Americans arebound to say that rank and royalty are dead things. But if I had them,I'd galvanize the corpses! If they are useful as shows, I'd make theshow worth seeing. I'd cover myself with jewels like the oldRomanoffs. You would never see Queen Jean in a slouchy alpaca andpork-pie hat like Victoria." While her tongue chattered, her eyeswatched Lucy keenly. "You don't hear me! You are deciding what to do.Why on earth should you hesitate? He is a gentleman—he loves you!"and then to Lucy's relief she suddenly threw on her hat and rushed offfor a walk.

Miss Dunbar painted the priest's robe yellow, in her agitation. Butthe agitation was not deep. There really seemed no reason why sheshould hesitate. He would be kind; he was well-bred and agreeable. Aprincess? She had a vague idea of a glorified region of ancestralcastles and palaces in which dukes and royalties dwelt apart anddiscoursed of high matters. She would be one of them.

The other day there seemed to be no reason why she should not marry Mr.Perry. In marriage then one must only consider the suitability of theman? There was nothing else to consider——

With a queer, hunted look in her soft eyes she worked on, daubing onpaint liberally.

Meanwhile, in the little salle below, Miss Vance sat stiffly erect,while the prince talked in his shrill falsetto. Although he set forthhis affection for the engelreine Madchen as simply as the little Germanbaker in Weir (whom he certainly did resemble) might have done, shecould find, in her agitation, no fitting words in which to answer him.That she, Clara Vance, should be the arbiter in a princely alliance!At last she managed to ask whether Miss Dunbar had given him anyencouragement on which to found his claim.

"Ah, Fraulein Vance!" he cried, laughing. "The hare does not call tothe hounds! But I have no fear. She speaks to me in other ways thanby words.

"'Mein Herz und seine Augen
Verstehen sich gar so gut!'

You know the old song. Ah, ja! I understand what she wouldsay—here!" touching his heart.

He paced up and down, smiling to himself. Suddenly he drew up beforeher, tossing his hands out as if to throw away some pleasant dream. "Ihave come to you, gracious lady, as I would to the mother of MissDunbar. I show to you the heart! But before I address her it isnecessary that I shall consult her guardian with regard to business."

It was precisely, Clara said afterward, as if the baker from Weir hadstopped singing, and presented his bill.

"Business?" she gasped. "Oh, I see! Settlements. We don't have suchthings in the States. But I quite understand all those European socialtraits. I have lived abroad for years. I——"

"Who is Miss Dunbar's guardian?" the prince demanded alertly. He satdown by the table and took out a notebook and papers.

"But—settlements? Is not that a little premature?" she ventured."She has not accepted you."

"HE may not accept my financial proposals. It is business, you see.The gentle ladies, even die Amerikaner, do not comprehend business. Itis not, you perceive, dear lady, the same when the head of the House ofWolfburgh allies himself with a hochgeboren Fraulein as when thetailors marry——"

"Nor bakers. I see," stammered Clara.

"Miss Dunbar's properties are valuable. Her estate in Del-aware,"glancing at his notebook, "is larger than some of our German kingdoms.Her investments in railway and mining securities, if put on the market,should be worth a million of florins. These are solid matters, andmust be dealt with carefully."

"But, good gracious, Prince Wolfburgh!" cried Miss Vance, "how did youfind out about Lucy's investments?"

He looked at her in amazement. "Meine gnadigste Fraulein! It is notpossible that you supposed that in such a matter as this men leap intothe dark—the men of rank, princes, counts, English barons, who marrythe American mees? That they do not know for what they exchangetheir—all that they give? I will tell you," with a condescendingsmile. "There are agents in the States—in New York—inChicago—in—how do you name it? St. Sanata. They furnish exactinformation as to the dot of the lady who will, perhaps, marry here.Oh, no! We do not leap into the dark!"

"So I perceive," said Clara dryly. "And may I inquire, your Highness,what financial arrangement you propose, in case she becomes your wife?"

"Assuredly." He hastily unfolded a large paper. "This must beaccepted by her guardian before the betrothal can take place. I willtranslate, in brief. The whole estate passes to me, and is secured tome in case of my wife's death without issue. I inserted that clause,"he said, looking up, smiling, for approval, "because American Frauleinsare so fragile—not like our women. I will, of course, if we haveissue, try to preserve the real estate for my heir, and the remainingproperty for my other children."

"It seems to me that a good deal is taken for granted there," saidClara, whose cheeks were very hot. "And where does Miss Dunbar comeinto this arrangement? Is she not to have any money at all?"

"My widow, should I die first, will be paid an annuity from my estate.But while Mees Lucy is my wife, Iwill buy all that she needs. Iwill delight to dress her, to feed her well. With discretion, ofcourse. For there are many channels into which my income must flow.But I will not be a niggardly husband to her! No, no!" cried thelittle man in a glow.

"That is very kind of you. But she will not have any of her own moneyto spend? In her own purse? To fling into the gutter if she chooses?"

The prince laughed gayly. "How American you are, gracious lady! AGerman wife does not ask for her 'own purse.' My wife will cease to beAmerican; she will be German," patting his soft hands ecstatically."But you have not told me the name of her guardian?"

"Lucy," said Miss Vance reluctantly, "is of age. She has full controlof her property. A Trust Company manages it for her, but they have noauthority to stop her if she chooses to—throw it into the gutter."

The prince looked up sharply. Could this be a trick? But if it were,the agent would find out for him. He rose.

"To have the sole disposal of her own hand and of her fortune? Thatseems strange to us," he said, smiling. "But I have your consent, mostdear lady, to win both, if I can?"

"Oh, yes, prince. If you can."

He took her hand and bowed profoundly over it, but no courtly grace norwords could bring back Clara's awe of him. She had a vague impressionthat the Weir baker had been wrangling with her about his bill.

"Your Highness has asked a good many questions," she said. "May I putone to you? Did you inquire concerning Miss Hassard's dot, also?" "Ah,certainly! Why not? It is very large. I have spoken of it to mycousin Count Odo. But the drawback—her father still lives. He maymarry again. Her dot depends upon his good pleasure. Whereas MissDunbar is an orphan; and besides that, she is so dear to me!" claspinghis hands, his face red with fervor. "So truly dear!"

And she knew that he honestly meant it.

CHAPTER IX

When Miss Vance came into the corridor after she had reported thisinterview to Lucy, Jean swept her into her room and dragged the wholestory from her. In fact the poor anxious lady was glad to submit it tothe girl's shrewd hard sense.

"You told him that she was the uncontrolled mistress of her money!"

"It is the truth. I had to tell him the truth, my dear."

"Yes, I suppose so, for he would have found it out anyhow."

"I do feel," panted Clara, "as if I had put a dove into the claws of avulture."

"Not at all," said Jean promptly. "The little man has a heart, but anempty pocket. Was Lucy interested most in his love or his bargaining?"

"In neither, I think. She just went on painting, and said nothing."

"Oh, she will decide the matter in time! She will bring her littleintellect to bear on it as if it were a picnic for her Sunday-schoolclass!" Jean stood silent a while. "Miss Vance," she said suddenly,"let me engineer this affair for a few days. I can help you."

"What do you propose to do, Jean?"

"To leave Bozen to-morrow. For Munich."

"But the Wolfburghs have a palace or—something in Munich. Is it quitedelicate for us——"

"It is quite rational. Let us see what the something is. So far inour dealings with principalities and powers, we have had a stout littleman—with no background." The prince was startled when he was told ofthis sudden journey, but declared that he would follow them to-morrow.

Lucy, as usual, asked no questions, but calmly packed her satchel.

As the little train, the next day, lumbered through the valley of theEisach, she sat in her corner, reading a newspaper. Miss Vance dozed,or woke with a start to lecture on points of historic interest.

"Why don't you look, Lucy? That monastery was a Roman fortress in thethird century. And you are missing the color effects of the vineyards."

"I can look now. I have finished my paper." Lucy folded it neatly andreplaced it in her bag. "I have read the Delaware State Sun," she saidtriumphantly, "regularly, every week since we left home. When I goback I shall be only seven days behind with the Wilmington news."

Jean glanced at her contemptuously. "Look at that great castle onyonder mountain," she said. "You could lodge a village inside of theramparts. Do you think Wolfburgh Schloss is like that? The princetold us last night," turning to Miss Vance, "the old legends about hiscastle. The first Wolfburgh was a Titan about the time of Noah, andmarried a human wife, and with his hands tore open the mountain forrocks to lay the foundation of his house. According to his story therewere no end of giants and trolls and kings concerned in the building ofit," she went on, furtively watching the deepening pink in Lucy'scheek. "The Wolfburgh of Charlemagne's day was besieged by him, andanother entertained St. Louis and all his crusaders within the walls."Jean's voice rose shrilly and her eyes glowed. She leaned forward,looking eagerly across the fields. "The prince told us that theSchloss of his race had for centuries been one of the great fortressesof Christendom. And here it is! Now we shall see—we shall see!"

The car stopped. The guard opened the door and Miss Vance and Lucysuddenly found themselves swept by Jean on to the platform, while thelittle train rumbled on down the valley. Miss Vance cried out indismay.

"Never mind. There will be another train in a half hour," said Jean."Here is the Schloss," pointing to a pepper-box tower neatlywhitewashed, which rose out of a huge mass of broken stone. "And here,I suppose, is the capital of the kingdom over which the Wolfburghs nowreign feudal lords?"

Clara found herself against her will looking curiously at the forge,the dirty shop, the tiny bier-halle, and a half a dozen huts, out ofwhich swarmed a few old women and children.

"Where are the men of this village?" Jean demanded of the stationmaster, a stout old man with a pipe in his mouth.

"Gone to America, for the most part," he said, with a shrug.

Lucy came up hastily, an angry glitter in her soft eyes. "You have noright to make me play the spy in this way!" she said haughtily, andgoing into the little station sat down with her back to the door.

"You? It is I—I——" muttered Jean breathlessly. "And who lives inthe tower, my good man? It is not big enough for a dozen hens." Sheslipped a florin into his hand.

"Four of the noble ladies live there. The princesses. The gracioussisters of Furst Hugo. There come two of them now."

A couple of lean, wrinkled women dressed in soiled merino gowns andhuge black aprons, their hair bristling in curl papers, crossed theroad, peering curiously at the strangers.

"They came to look at you, Fraulein," said the man, chuckling."Strangers do not stop at Wolfburgh twice in the year."

"And what do the noble ladies do all the year?"

"Jean, Jean!" remonstrated Clara.

"Oh, Miss Vance! This is life and death to some of us! What do theydo?"

"Do?" said the man, staring. "What shall any gracious lady do? Theycook and brew, and crochet lace and——"

"Are there any more princesses—sisters of Furst Hugo?"

"Two more. They live in Munich. No, none of them are married.Because," he added zealously, "there are no men as high-born as ourgracious ladies, so they cannot marry."

"No doubt that accounts for it," said Jean. "Six. These are 'thechannels into which the income will flow,' hey?" She gave him moremoney, and marching into the station caught Lucy by the shoulder,shaking her passionately. "Do you think any American girl could standthat? How would YOU like to be caged up in that ridiculous tower tocook and crochet and brew beer and watch the train go by forrecreation? The year round—the year round?"

Lucy rose quietly. "The train is coming now," she said. "Calmyourself, Jean. YOU will not have to live in the tower."

Jean laughed. When they were seated in the car again, she lookedwistfully out at the heaps of ruins.

"It must have been a mighty fortress once," she said. "Those stoneswere hewed before Charlemagne's time. And a great castle could easilybe built with them now," she added thoughtfully.

CHAPTER X

The travellers entered Munich at noon. The great generous city laytranquil and smiling in the frosty sunlight.

"I have secured apartments," said Miss Vance, "used hitherto byroyalties or American millionaires. My girl must be properly framedwhen a prince comes a-wooing."

Lucy smiled. But her usual warm color faded as they drove through thestreets. Jean, however, was gay and eager.

"Ah, the dear splendid town!" she cried. "It always seems to give us aroyal welcome. Nothing is changed! There is the music in the Kellers,and there go the same Bavarian officers with their swagger and saucyblue eyes. They are the handsomest men in Europe! And here is theMunchen-kindl laughing at us, and the same crowds are going to thePinakothek! What do you want more? Beer and splendor and fun and art!What a home it will be for you, Lucy!"

Lucy's cold silence did not check Jean's affectionate zeal. Sheanxiously searched among the stately old buildings, which they passed,for the Wolfburgh palace. "It will not be in these commonplaceHaussmannized streets," she said. "It is in some old corner; it has avast, mysterious, feudal air, I fancy. You will hold a little court init, and sometimes let a poor American artist from Pond City in to hangon the edge of the crowd and stare at the haute noblesse."

"Don't be absurd, Jean," said Miss Vance.

"I am quite serious. I think an American girl like Lucy, with herbeauty and her money, will be welcomed by these German nobles as awhite swan among ducks. She ought to take her place and hold it."Jean's black eyes snapped and the blood flamed up her cheeks. "If Iwere she I'd make my money tell! I'd buy poor King Ludwig's residenceat Binderhof, with the cascades and jewelled peacocks and fairygrottos, for my country seat. The Bavarian nobility are a beggarlylot. If they knew that Lucy and her millions were coming to town inthis cab, they'd blow their trumpets for joy. 'Wave, Munich, all thybanners wave!'" Lucy's impatient shrug silenced her, but she waspreoccupied and excited throughout the day. Miss Vance watched hercuriously. Could it be that she had heard of the prince's plan ofmarrying her to his cousin, and that she was building these air castlesfor herself?

A day or two sufficed to make Miss Vance's cheery apartments therendezvous of troops of Americans of all kinds: from the rich lounger,bored by the sight of pictures, which he did not understand, and courtswhich he could not enter, to the half-starved, eager-eyed art students,who smoked, and drank beer, and chattered in gutturals, hoping to passfor Germans.

There were plenty of idle young New Yorkers and Bostonians too,hovering round Lucy and Jean, overweighted by their faultless Londoncoats and trousers and fluent French. But they deceived nobody; theyall had that nimble brain, and that unconscious swagger of importanceand success which stamps the American in every country. Prince Hugo,in his old brown suit, came and went quietly among them.

"The genuine article!" Jean declared loudly. "There is something royalin his hospitality! He lays all Munich at Lucy's feet, as if it werehis own estate, and the museums and palaces were the furniture of hishouse. That homely simplicity of his is tremendously fine, if shecould understand it!"

The homely genuineness had its effect even upon Lucy. The carriagewhich he brought to drive them to Isar-anen was scaly with age, but thecrest upon it was the noblest in Bavaria; in the cabinet of portraitsof ancient beauties in the royal palace he showed her indifferently twoor three of his aunts and grandmothers, and in the historical pictureof the anointing of the great Charlemagne, one of his ancestors, stoutand good-humored as Hugo himself, supported the emperor.

"The pudgy little man," said Jean one day, "somehow belongs to the oldworld of knights and crusaders—Sintram and his companions. He willmake it all real to Lucy when she marries him. He is like Ali Baba,standing at the shut door of the cave full of jewels and treasures withthe key in his hand."

"Those Arabian Night stories are simply silly," said Lucy severely. "Iam astonished that any woman in this age of the world should read thatkind of trash."

"But the prince's cave?" persisted Jean. "When are we to look into it?I want to be sure of the treasures inside. When are we to go to hispalace? When will his sisters ask us to dinner?"

Miss Vance looked anxious. "That is a question of great importance,"she said. "The princesses have invited me through their brother tocall. It is of course etiquette here for the stranger to call first,but I don't wish to compromise Lucy by making advances."

There was a moment's silence, then Lucy said, blushing and faltering alittle, "It would be better perhaps to call, and not prejudice them, byany discourtesy, against us. The prince is very kind."

"So! The wind is in that quarter?" Jean said, with a harsh laugh.

She jumped up and went to her own room. She was in a rage at herself.Why had she not run away to Paris months ago and begun her greatpicture of the World's mother, Eve? There was a career for her! Andthinking—perhaps of Eve—she cried hot salt tears.

CHAPTER XI

A week passed, but the question of the first call was not yet settled.It required as much diplomacy as an international difficulty. FurstHugo represented the princesses as "burning with impatience to beholdthe engelreine Madchen whom they hoped to embrace as a sister," but novisible sign of their ardor reached Miss Vance.

On Monday Jean went to spend the day with some of her artist friends,but at noon she dashed into the room where Clara and Lucy sat sewing,her dark face blotched red, and her voice stuttering with excitement.

"I have seen into the cave!" she shouted. "I have got at the truth!It's a rather stagy throne, the Wolfburghs! Plated, cheap!"

"What is the matter with you?" said Miss Vance.

"Nothing is the matter with ME. It is Lucy's tragedy. I've seen themagnificent ancient palace of the Wolfburghs. It is a flat! In thevery house where I went to-day. The third story flat just under theattics where the poor Joneses daub portraits. I passed the open doorsand I saw the shabby old tables and chairs and the princesses—two fatold women in frowzy wrappers, and their hair in papers, eating thatsoup of pork and cabbages and raisins—the air was thick with thesmell! And that is not the worst!"

"Take breath, Jean," said Lucy calmly.

"The prince himself—the Joneses told me, there can be no doubt—theprince makes soap for a living! No wonder you turn pale, Miss Vance.Soap! He is the silent partner in the firm of Woertz und Zimmer, andit is not a paying business either."

Jean did not wait for an answer, but walked up and down the room,laughing angrily to herself. "Yes, soap! He cannot sneer at Lucy'sancestral saddles, now. Nor my father's saws! His rank is the onlything he has to give for Lucy's millions, and now she knows what it isworth!"

Lucy rose and, picking up her work basket, walked quietly out of theroom. Jean flashed an indignant glance after her.

"She might have told me that he gave himself! Surely the man countsfor something! Anyhow, rank like his is not smirched by poverty ortrade. Bismarck himself brews beer."

"Your temper is contradictory to-day," said Clara coldly. "Did youknow," she said presently, "that the princesses will be at the Countessvon Amte's to-morrow?"

"Then we shall meet them!" cried Jean. "Then something will besettled."

Lucy locked the door of her chamber after her. She found much comfortin the tiny bare room with its white walls and blue stove, and thetable where lay her worn Bible and a picture of her old home. The roomseemed a warm home to her now. Above the wall she had hung photographsof the great Madonnas, and lately she had placed one of FrancesWaldeaux among them. That was the face on which she looked last atnight. When Clara had noticed it, Lucy had said, "I am as fond of thedear lady as if she were my own mother."

She sat down before it now, and taking out her sewing began to work,glancing up at it, half smiling as to a friend who talked to her. Shethought of Furst Hugo boiling soap, with a gentle pity, and of Jeanwith hot disdain. What had Jean to do with it? The prince was her ownlover, as her gloves were her own.

But indeed, the prince and love were but shadows on the far sky line tothe little girl; the real things were her work and her Bible, andGeorge's mother talking to her. She often traced rememberedexpressions on Mrs. Waldeaux's face; the gayety, the sympathy, astrange foreboding in the eyes. Finer meanings, surely, than any inthe features of these immortal insipid Madonnas!

Sometimes Lucy could not decide whether she had seen these meanings onFrances Waldeaux's face, or on her son's.

She sewed until late in the afternoon. There came a tap at the door.She opened it, and there stood Mrs. Waldeaux, wrapped in a heavy cloak.Lucy jumped at her, trembling, and hugged her.

"Oh, come in! Come in!" she cried shrilly. "I have just been thinkingof you and talking to you!"

Frances laughed, bewildered. "Oh, it is Miss Dunbar? The man sent mehere by mistake to wait. Miss Vance is out, he said."

"Yes, I suppose so. But I—I am here." Lucy threw her arms around heragain, laying her head down on her shoulder. She felt as if somethingthat she had waited for a long time was coming to her. "Sit by thestove. Your hands are like ice," she said.

"Yes, I am usually cold now; I don't know why."

Lucy then saw a curious change in her face. The fine meanings were notin it now. It was fatter—coarser; the hair was dead, the eyes movedsluggishly, like the glass eyes of a doll.

"You are always cold? Your blood is thin, perhaps. You are overtired,dear. Have you travelled much?"

"Oh, yes! all of the time. I have seen whole tracts of pictures, andno end of palaces and hotels—hotels—hotels!" Frances said, awakeningto the necessity of being talkative and vivacious with the young girl.She threw off her cloak. There was a rip in the fur, and the dirtylining hung out. Lucy shuddered. Mrs. Waldeaux's blood must haveturned to water, or she would never have permitted that!

"You must rest now. I will take care of you," she said, with a littlenod of authority. Frances looked at her perplexed. Why should thispretty creature mother her with such tenderness?

Oh! It was the girl that George should have married!

She glanced at the white room with its dainty bibelots, the Bible, theMadonnas, watching, benign. Poor little nun, waiting for the love thatnever could come to her!

"I am glad you are here, my child. You can tell me what I want toknow. I have not an hour to spare. I am going to my son—to George.Do you know where he is?"

"At Vannes, in Brittany."

"Brittany—that is a long way." Frances rose uncertainly. "I hoped hewas near. I was in a Russian village, and Clara's letter was long infinding me. When I got it, I travelled night and day. I somehowthought I should meet him on the way. I fancied he would come to meetme."

Lucy's blue eyes watched her keenly a moment. Then she rang the bell.

"You must eat, first of all," she said.

"No, I am not hungry. Vannes, you said? I must go now. I haven't anhour."

"You have two, exactly. You'll take the express at eight. Oh, I'mnever mistaken about a train. Here is the coffee. Now, I'll make youa nice sandwich."

Frances was faint with hunger. As she ate, she watched the prettymatter-of-fact little girl, and laughed with delight. When had shefound any thing so wholesome? It was a year, too, since she had seenany one who knew George. Naturally, she began to empty her heart,which was full of him, to Lucy.

"I have not spoken English for months," she said, smiling over hercoffee. "It is a relief! And you are a friend of my son's, too?"

"No. A mere acquaintance," said Lucy, with reserve.

"No one could even see George and not understand how different he isfrom other men."

"Oh! altogether different!" said Lucy. "Yes, you understand. Andthere was that future before him—when his trouble came. Oh, I'vethought of it, and thought of it, until my head is tired! He fellunder that woman's influence, you see. It was like mesmerism, or thevoodoo curse that the negroes talk of. It came on me too. Why, therewas a time when I despised him. George!" Her eyes grew full ofhorror. "I left him, to live my own life. He has staggered under hisburden alone, and I could have rid him of it. Now there are two ofthem."

"Two of them?" said Lucy curiously.

"There is a baby—Pauline Felix's grandson. I beg your pardon, mychild, I ought not to have named her. She is not a person whom youshould ever hear of. He has them both,—George. He has that weight tocarry." She stood up. "That is why I am going to him. It must betaken from him."

"You mean—a divorce?"

"I don't know—I can't think clearly. But God does such queer things!There are millions of men in the world, and this curse fallson—George!"

Lucy put her hands on the older woman's arms and seated her. "Mrs.Waldeaux," she said, with decision, "you need sleep, or you would nottalk in that way. Lisa is not a curse. Nor a voodoo witch. She cameto your son instead of to any other man—because he chose her out fromall other women. He had seen them." She held her curly head erect."As he did choose her, he should make the best of her."

Frances looked at her as one awakened out of a dream. "You talksensibly, child. Perhaps you are right. But I must go. Ring for acab, please. No, I will wait in the station. Clara would argue andlecture. I could not stand that to-night," with her old comical shrug.

Lucy's entreaties were vain.

But as the train rushed through the valley of the Isar that night,Frances looked forward into the darkness with a nameless terror. "Thatchild was so healthy and sane," she said, "I wish I had stayed with herlonger."

CHAPTER XII

Prince Hugo had made no secret of his intentions with regard to MissDunbar, so that when it was known that his sisters and the richAmerican Mees would at last meet at the Countess von Amte's there was aflutter of curiosity in the exclusive circle of Munich. The countessherself called twice on Clara that day, so great was her triumph thatthis social event would occur at her house.

She asked boldly "Which of Miss Dunbar's marvellous Parisianconfections will she wear? It is so important for her future happinessthat the princesses should be favorably impressed! Aber, lieber Gott!"she shrieked, "don't let her speak French! Not a word! That would beruin! They are all patriotism!" She hurried away, and ran back to saythat the sun was shining as it had not done for days.

"She thinks nature itself is agog to see how the princesses receiveLucy," said Miss Vance indignantly. "One would suppose that the childwas on trial."

"So she is. Me, too," said Jean, wistfully regarding the bebe waist ofthe gown which Doucet had just sent her. "I must go as an ingenue. Idon't play the part well!"

"No, you do not," said Clara.

Miss Vance tapped at Lucy's door as she went down, and found herworking at her embroidery. "You must lie down for an hour, my dear,"she said, "and be fresh and rosy for this evening."

"I am not going. I must finish these pinks. I have just sent a noteof apology to the countess."

"Not going!" Clara gasped, dismayed. Then she laughed with triumph."The princesses and all the Herrschaft of Munich will be there to passjudgment on the bride, and the bride will be sitting at home finishingher pinks! Good!"

"I am no bride!" Lucy rose, stuck her needle carefully in its place,and came closer to Miss Vance. "I have made up my mind," she saidearnestly. "I shall never marry. My life now is quiet and clean. I'mnot at all sure that it would be either if I were the PrincessWolfburgh."

Clara stroked her hair fondly. "Your decision is sudden, my dear," shefaltered, at last.

"Yes. There was something last night. It showed me what I was doing.To marry a man just because he is good and kind, that is—vile!" Thetears rushed to her eyes. There was a short silence.

"Don't look so aghast, dear Miss Vance," said Lucy cheerfully. "Go nowand dress to meet the Herrschaft."

"And what will you do, child?"

"I really must finish these pinks to-night." She took up her work.Her chin trembled a little. "We won't speak of this again, please,"she said. "I never shall be a bride or a wife or mother. I will havea quiet, independent life—like yours."

The sunshine fell on the girl's grave, uplifted face, on the whitewalls, the blue stove, and the calm, watching Madonnas. Clara, as Mrs.Waldeaux had done, thought of a nun in her cell to whom love could onlybe a sacred dream.

She smiled back at Lucy, bade her goodnight, and closed the door.

"Like mine?" she said, as she went down the corridor. "Well, it is acomfortable, quiet life. But empty——" And she laid her hand suddenlyacross her thin breast.

Jean listened in silence when Clara told her briefly that Lucy was notgoing.

"She is very shrewd," she said presently. "She means to treat them dehaut en bas from the outset. It is capital policy."

Jean, when she entered the countess's salon, with downcast eyes, drapedin filmy lace without a jewel or flower, was shy innocence in person.Furst Hugo stood near the hostess, with two stout women in shabby gownsand magnificent jewels.

"The frocks they made themselves, and the emeralds are heirlooms," Jeanmuttered to Clara, without lifting her timid eyes.

"Miss Dunbar is not coming?" exclaimed the prince.

"No," said Miss Vance.

"The Fraulein is ill?" demanded one of his sisters.

"No," Clara said, again smiling. "WE expected to meet her," theyounger princess said. "It is most singular——"

"She has sent her apology to the countess," said Clara gently, andpassed on.

But her little triumph was short lived.

A famous professional soprano appeared in a white-ribboned enclosure atthe end of the salon, and the guests were rapidly arranged according totheir rank to listen. Clara and Jean stood until every man and womanwere comfortably seated, when they were placed in the back row.

When the music was over supper was announced, and the same ceremony wasobserved. The Highnessess, the hochwohlgeboren privy councillors, thehochgeboren secretaries, even the untitled Herren who held some pettyoffice, were ushered with profound deference to their seats at the longtable, while Clara stood waiting. Jean's eyes still drooped meekly,but even her lips were pale.

"How can you look so placid?" she whispered. "It is a deliberateinsult to your gray hairs."

"No. It is the custom of the country. It does not hurt me."

They were led at the moment to the lowest seats. Jean shot onevindictive glance around the table.

"You have more wit and breeding than any of them!" she said. "And asfor me, this lace I wear would buy any of their rickety old palaces."

"They have something which we cannot buy," said Miss Vance gravely. "Inever understood before how actual a thing rank is here."

"Cannot it be bought? I am going to look into that when this huge feedis over," Miss Hassard said to herself.

Late in the evening she danced with Count Odo, and prattled to him in achildish, frank fashion which he found very charming.

"Your rules of precedence are very disagreeable!" she pouted."Especially when one sits at the foot of the table and is served last."

"They must seem queer to you," he said, laughing, "but they areinflexible as iron."

"But they will bend for Miss Dunbar, if she makes up her mind to marryyour cousin?" she asked, looking up into his face like an innocentchild.

"No. Hugo makes a serious sacrifice in marrying a woman of no birth,"he said. "He must give up his place and title as head of the family.She will not be received at court nor in certain houses; she mustalways remain outside of much of his social life."

He led her back to Miss Vance. She seemed to be struck dumb, and evenforgot to smile when he bowed low and thanked her for the dance.

"Let us go home," she whispered to Clara. "The American girl is a foolwho marries one of these men!"

When Miss Vance's carriage reached her hotel, she found Prince Hugo'scoupe before the door.

"He has come to see Lucy, alone!" she said indignantly, as she hurriedup the steps. "He has no right to annoy her!"

She met him coming out of the long salle. The little man walkednervously, fingering his sword hilt. He could not control his voicewhen he tried to speak naturally.

"Yes, gracious lady, I am guilty. It was unpardonable to come when Iknew the chaperone was gone. But—ach! I could not wait!" throwingout both hands to her. "I have waited so long! I knew when she didnot come to meet my sisters to-night she had resolved against me, but Icould not sleep uncertain. So I break all the laws, and come!"

"You have seen her, then? She has told you?"

He nodded without speaking. His round face was red, and something liketears stood in his eyes.

He waited irresolute a moment, and then threw up his head.

"Soh! It is over! I shall not whine! You have been very good to me,"he said earnestly, taking Clara's hand. "This is the first greattrouble in my life. I have loved her very dearly. I decided to makegreat sacrifices for her. But I am not to have her—never."

"I am so sorry for you, prince." Clara squeezed his hand energetically."Nor her dot. That would have been so comfortable for me," he saidsimply.

Clara hid a smile, and bade him an affectionate good-night.

As he passed into the outer salle a childish figure in creamy lace rosebefore him, and a soft hand was held out. "I know what has happened!"she whispered passionately. "She has treated you scandalously! Shecannot appreciate YOU!"

Prince Hugo stuttered and coughed and almost kissed the little handwhich lay so trustingly in his. He found himself safely outside atlast, and drove away, wretched to the soul.

But below his wretchedness something whispered: "SHE appreciates me,and her dot is quite as large."

CHAPTER XIII

George Waldeaux hummed a tune gayly as he climbed the winding maze ofstreets in Vannes, one cloudy afternoon, with Lisa.

"It is impertinent to be modern Americans in this old town," he said."We might play that we were jongleurs, and that it was still mediaevaltimes. I am sure the gray walls yonder and the fortress houses in thisstreet have not changed in ages."

"Neither have the smells, apparently," said Lisa grimly. "Wrap thisscarf about your throat, George. You coughed last night."

George tied up his throat. "Coughed, did I?" he said anxiously. Hehad had a cold last winter, and his wife with her poultices and frighthad convinced him that he was a confirmed invalid. The coming of herbaby had given to the woman a motherly feeling toward all of the world,even to her husband.

"Look at these women," he said, going on with his fancy presently. "Iam sure that they were here wearing these black gowns and huge redaprons in the twelfth century. What is this?" he said, stoppingabruptly, to a boy of six who was digging mud at the foot of an ancientivy-covered tower.

"C'est le tour du Connetable," the child lisped. "Et v'la, monsieur!"pointing to a filthy pen with a gate of black oak; "v'la le donjon deClisson!" "Who was Clisson?" said Lisa impatiently.

"A live man to Froissart—and to this boy," said George, laughing. "Itold you that we had gone back seven centuries. This fog comes in fromthe Morbihan sea where Arthur and his knights went sailing to find theHoly Greal. They have not come back. And south yonder is the countryof the Druids. I will take you to-morrow and show you twenty thousandof their menhirs, and then we will sail away to an island where thereis an altar that the serpent worshippers built ages before Christ."

Lisa laughed. He was not often in this playful mood. She panted asshe toiled up the dark little street, a step behind him, but he did notthink of giving her his arm. He had grown accustomed to regard himselfas the invalid now, and the one who needed care.

"I am going for letters," he called back, diving into a dingy alley.The baby and its bonne were near Lisa. The child never was out of hersight for, a moment. She waited, standing a little apart from Coletteto watch whether the passers-by would notice the baby. When one or twoof the gloomy and stolid women who hurried past in their wooden sabotsclicked their fingers to it, she could not help smiling gayly andbidding them good-day.

The fog was stifling. As she waited she gave a tired gasp. Coletteran to her. "Madame is going to be ill!"

"No, no! Don't frighten monsieur."

George came out of the gate at the moment.

"Going to faint again, Lisa?" he said, with an annoyed glance aroundthe street. "Your attacks do choose the most malapropos times——"

"Oh, dear no, George! I am quite well quite." She walked beside himwith an airy step, laughing gayly now and then, but George's frowndeepened.

"I don't understand these seizures at all," he said. "You seem to bein sound physical condition."

"Oh, all women have queer turns, George."

"Did you consult D'Abri, as I told you to do, in Paris?"

"Yes, yes! Now let us talk no more about it. I have hadthese—symptoms since I was a child."

"You never told me of them before we were married," he muttered.

Lisa scowled darkly at him, but she glanced at the baby and her mouthclosed. Little Jacques should never hear her rage nor swear.

From an overhanging gable at the street corner looked down a roughlyhewn stone Madonna. The arms of the Holy Child were outstretched tobless. Lisa paused before it, crossing herself. A strange joy filledher heart.

"I too am a mother! I too!" she said. She hurried after George andclung to his arm as they went home.

"Was there any letter?" she asked.

"Only one from Munich—Miss Vance. I haven't opened it."

"I thought your mother would write. She must have heard about the boy!"

George's face grew dark. "No, she'll not write. Nor come."

"You wish for her every day, George?" She looked at him wistfully.

"Yes, I do. She and I were comrades to a queer degree. I long forsomething hearty and homelike again. See here, Lisa. I'm going homebefore my boy begins to talk. I mean he shall grow up under wholesomeAmerican influences—not foreign."

"Not foreign," she repeated gravely. She was silent a while. "I havethought much of it all lately," she said at last. "It will bewholesome for Jacques on your farm. Horses—dogs—— Your mother willlove him. She can't help it. She—I acted like a beast to that woman,George. I'll say that. She hit me hard. But she has good traits.She is not unlike my own mother."

George said nothing. God forbid that he should tell her, even by alook, that she and her mother were of a caste different from his own.

But he was bored to the soul by the difference; he was tired of herignorances, which she showed every minute, of her ghastly, uncleanknowledges—which she never showed.

They came into the courtyard of the Chateau de la Motte, the ancientcastle of the Breton dukes, which is now an inn. The red sunset flamedup behind the sad little town and its gray old houses and spires massedon the hill, and the black river creeping by. George's eyes kindled atthe sombre picture.

"In this very court," he said, "Constance stood when she summoned theStates of Brittany to save her boy Arthur from King John."

"Oh, yes, you have read of it to me in your Shakespeare. It is one ofhis unpleasant stories. Come, Bebe. It grows damp."

As she climbed the stone stairway with the child, Colette lingered togossip with the portier. "Poor lady! You will adore her! She is oneof us. But she makes of that bete Anglais and the ugly child, saintsand gods!"

When George presently came up to their bare little room, Lisa wassinging softly, as she rocked Jacques to sleep.

"Can't you sing the boy something a bit more cheerful?" he said. "Youused to know some jolly catches from the music halls."

"Catches for HIM?" with a frightened look at the child's shut eyes.

"The 'Adeste Fideles' is moral, but it is not a merry air. You sing itmorning, noon, and night," he grumbled.

"Yes," she whispered, laying the child in its crib. "One never knowshow much HE understands, and he may remember, I thought. Some day whenhe is a great boy, he may hear it and he'll think, 'My mother sang thathymn. She must have been a good woman!'"

"Nonsense, Lisa," said George kindly. "You'll teach him every day,while he is growing to be a great boy, that you are a good woman."

She said nothing, but stood on the other side of the crib looking athim.

"Well, what is it?" said George uneasily. "You look at me as ifsomebody were dragging you away from me."

She laughed. "What ridiculous fancies you have!" She came behind himand, drawing his head back, kissed him on the forehead. "Oh, you poor,foolish boy!" she said.

Lisa sat down to her work, which was the making of garments for Jacquesout of her own gowns. She was an expert needlewoman, and had already apile of fantastic kilts of cloth and velvet.

"Enough to last until he is ten years old," George said contemptuously."And you will not leave a gown for yourself."

"There will be all I shall need," she said.

He turned up the lamp and opened Clara's letter.

Lisa's needle flew through the red and yellow silk. It was pleasantwork; she was doing it skilfully. The fire warmed her thin blood. Shecould hear the baby's regular, soft breathing as it slept. A pleasurethat was almost like health stole through her lean body. She leanedback in her chair looking at Jacques. In three years he could wear thevelvet suit with the cap and pompon. His hair would be yellow andcurly, like his father's. But his eyes would be like her mother's.She pressed her hands together, laughing, the hot tears rushing to hereyes. "Ah, maman!" she said. "Do you know that your little girl has ababy? Can you see him?"

What a superb "great boy" he would be! He should go to a militaryschool. Yes! She lay back in her chair, watching him.

George suddenly started up with a cry of amazement.

"What is it?" she said indifferently.

He did not answer, but turned the letter and read it over again. Thenhe folded it with shaking fingers.

"I have news here. Miss Vance thinks it time that I was told, and Iagree with her. It appears that I am a pauper, and always have been.My father died penniless."

"Then Jacques will be poor?"

"Jacques! You think of nothing but that mewling, senseless thing! Itis mother—she always has supported me. We are living now on the moneythat she earns from week to week, while I play that I am an artist!"

Lisa listened attentively. "It does not seem strange that a mothershould work for her son," she said slowly. "But she has never told us!That is fine! I like that! I told you she had very good traits."

George stared at her. "But—me! Don't you see what a cad I am?"

He paced up and down, muttering, and then throwing on his hat went outinto the night to be alone.

Lisa sank back again and watched Jacques. At military school, yes; andafter he had left school he would be a soldier, perhaps. Such agallant young fellow!

She leaned over the cradle, holding out her hands. Ah, God! if shecould but live to see it! Surely it might be? There was no pain now.Doctors were not infallible—even D'Abri might be mistaken, after all.

George, coming in an hour later, found her sitting with her handscovering her face.

"Are you asleep, Lisa?"

"No."

"There is a telegram from Clara. My mother has left Munich for Vannes.She will be here in two days."

She rose with an effort. "I am glad for you, George."

"You are ill, Lisa!"

"A little tired, only. Colette will give me my powder, and I shall bequite well in the morning. Will you send her to me now?"

After George was gone the rumbling of a diligence was heard in thecourtyard, and presently a woman was brought up to the opposite chamber.

The hall was dark. Looking across it, Frances Waldeaux saw in thelighted room Lisa and her child.

CHAPTER XIV

Before we come to the dark story of that night in the inn, it is butfair to Frances to say that she came there with no definite evilpurpose. She had been cheerful on her journey from Munich. There wasone clear fact in her brain: She was on her way to George.

The countless toy farms of southern France, trimmed neatly by the inch,swept past her. In Brittany came melancholy stretches of brown heathand rain-beaten hills; or great affluent estates, the Manor housescovered with thatch, stagnant pools close to the doors, the cattlebreaking through the slovenly wattled walls.

Frances, being a farmer, felt a vague amusement at these things, butthey were all dim to her as a faded landscape hanging on the wall.

She was going to George.

Sometimes she seemed to be in Lucy's room again, with the sweet, cleanair of youth about her. All of that purity and love might have goneinto George's life—before it fell into the slough.

But she was going now to take it out of the slough.

There was a merchant and his wife from Geneva in the carriage withtheir little boy, a pretty child of five. Frances played and jokedwith him.

"Has madam also a son?" his mother asked civilly.

She said yes, and presently added, "My son has now a great trouble, butI am going to relieve him of it."

The woman, startled, stared at her.

"Is it not right for me to rid him of it?" she demanded loudly.

"Mais oui, certainement," said the Swiss. She watched Frances afterthat furtively. Her eyes, she thought, were quite sane. But howeccentric all of these Americans were!

Mrs. Waldeaux reached Vannes at nightfall. At last! Here was theplace in this great empty world where he was.

When the diligence entered the courtyard, George was so near to thegate that the smoke of his cigar was blown into her face, but he didnot see her. He was lean and pale, and his eyes told his misery. Whenshe saw them his mother grew sick from head to foot with a suddennausea. This was his wife's doing. She was killing him! Franceshurried into the inn, her legs giving way under her. She could notspeak to him. She must think what to do.

She was taken to her room. It was dark, and across the corridor shesaw Lisa in her lighted chamber. This was good luck! God had put thecreature at once into her hands to deal with!

She was conscious of a strange exaltation, as if from wine—as if shewould never need to sleep nor eat again. Her thoughts came and wentlike flashes of fire. She watched Lisa as she would a vampire, acreeping deadly beast. Pauline Felix—all that was adulterous and vilein women—there it was!

Her mind too, as never before, was full of a haughty complacency inherself. She felt like the member of some petty sect who is sure thatGod communes with him inside of his altar rails, while the man isoutside whom he believes that God made only to be damned.

Lisa began to undress. Frances quickly turned away, ashamed of peepinginto her chamber. But the one fact burned on into her brain:

The woman was killing George.

If God would rid the world of her! If a storm should rise now, and thelightning strike the house, and these stone walls should fall on her,now—now!

But the walls stood firm and the moonlight shone tranquilly on theworld outside.

She told herself to be calm—to be just. But there was no justicewhile this woman went on with her work! God saw. He meant her to bestopped. Frances prayed to him frantically that Lisa might soon be putoff of the earth. Just as the Catholic used to pray before hemassacred the Huguenot, or the Protestant, when he tied his Catholicbrother to the stake. If this woman was mad for blood, it was amadness that many sincere people have shared.

Colette was busy with her mistress for a long time. She was verygentle and tender, being fond of Lisa, as people of her class alwayswere. She raised her voice as she made ready to leave the room.

"If the pain returns, here is the powder of morphia, mixed, withinmadame's reach," she said.

Frances came close to the door.

"And if it continues?" asked Lisa.

"Let monsieur call me. I would not trust him to measure a powder,"Colette said, laughing. "It is too dangerous. He is not used toit—like me."

Mrs. Waldeaux saw her lay a paper package on a shelf.

"I will pray that the pain will not return," the girl said. "But if itdoes, let monsieur knock at my door. Here is the tisane when you arethirsty." She placed a goblet of milky liquid near the bed.

What more she said Frances did not hear.

It was to be! There was the morphia, and yonder the night drink withinher reach. It was God's will.

Colette turned out the lamp, hesitated, and sat down by the fire.Presently she rose softly, bent over her mistress, and, finding herasleep, left the room noiselessly. Her door closed far down thecorridor.

Mrs. Waldeaux was quite alone, now.

It was but a step across the hall. So easy to do—easy. It must bedone at once.

But her feet were like lead, she could not move; her tongue lay icycold in her mouth. Her soul was willing, but her body rebelled.

What folly was this? It was the work of a moment. George would befree. She would have freed him.

In God's name then——

She crossed the hall softly. Into the hell of her thoughts flashed alittle womanish shame, that she, Frances Waldeaux, should be walking ontiptoe, like a thief.

She took down the package, and leaning over the table at the side ofthe bed, shook the white powder into the glass. Then she went back toher room and shut the door.

The casement was open and the moonlight was white outside. She wasconscious that the glare hurt her eyes, and that there was a strangestricture about her jaws and the base of her brain, like an iron hand.

It seemed to her but a minute that she stood there, but the dawn wasbreaking when there was a sudden confusion in the opposite room. Sheheard Colette's voice, and then George's, calling Lisa.

There was no answer.

Frances stood up, to listen. "Will she not speak?" she cried. "Makeher speak!"

But in reality she said nothing. Even her breath had stopped to listen.

There was no answer.

Frances was awake now, for the rest of her life. She knew what she haddone.

"Why, George," she said, "she cannot speak. She is dead. I did it."

She stood in the room a minute, looking from side to side, and thenwent with measured steps out of it, down the corridor and into thestreet.

"I did it," she said to herself again and again, as she walked slowlyon.

The old cathedral is opposite to the inn. Her eyes, as she passed,rested on the gargoyles, and she thought how fine they were. One was aridiculous head with lolling tongue.

A priest's voice inside was chanting mass. A dozen Breton women intheir huge white winged caps and wooden shoes hurried up to the door,through the gray fog. They met Mrs. Waldeaux and saw her face. Theyhuddled to one side, crossing themselves, and when she passed, stoodstill, forgetting the mass and looking, frightened, up the steep streetbehind her to find what horror had pursued her.

"They know what I have done," she said aloud.

Once when she was a child she had accidentally seen a bloated wretch, amurderer, on his way to the gallows.

"I am he," she thought. "I—I, Frances."

Then the gargoyle came into her mind again. What a capital headpieceit would make for "Quigg's" next column! It was time this week's jokeswere sent.

But at last these ghosts of yesterday's life faded out, and she saw thefact.

She had hated her son's wife and had killed her!

CHAPTER XV

When the sun was well up the women who had been at mass gathered downby the little river which runs through the old city, to wash theirclothes. They knelt on the broad stones by the edge of the water,chattering and singing, tossing the soap from one to another.

There was a sudden silence. "Here she is again," they whispered, as aslight, delicate woman crossed the bridge with steady steps.

"She is blind and deaf," said old Barbe. "I met her an hour ago andasked her whom she sought. She did not see nor hear me, but walkedstraight on."

Oliver Bauzy was lounging near, as usual, watching his wife work.

"She is English. What does she know of your Breton talk? I speakEnglish and French—I!" he bragged, and walking up to Mrs. Waldeaux,he flourished his ragged hat, smiling. "Is madame ill? She has walkedfar," he said kindly.

The English words seemed to waken her. "It is always the town,"looking around bewildered. "The people—houses. I think I am notwell. If I could find the woods——"

Bauzy had but a hazy idea of her meaning, but he nodded gravely. "Sheis a tourist. She wants to go out of Vannes—to see the chateaux, thedolmens. I'm her man. I'll drive her to Larmor Baden," he said to hiswife. "I have to go there to-day, and I may as well make a franc ortwo. Keep her until I bring the voiture."

But Frances stood motionless until the old wagon rattled up to thewater's edge.

"She has a dear old face," Bauzy's wife whispered.

"She is blind and deaf, I tell you," old Barbe grumbled, peering up ather. "Make her pay, Oliver, before you go."

Bauzy nodded, and when Frances was seated held out his hand.

"Twenty francs," he said.

She opened her bag and gave them to him.

"She must be folle!" he said uneasily. "I feel like a thief. Awaywith you, Babette!" as a pretty baby ran up to him. "You want to ride?That is impossible. Unless, indeed, madame desires it?" lifting thechild to place her on the seat. Babette laughed and held out her hands.

But Mrs. Waldeaux shrank back, shuddering. "Take her away," shewhispered. "She must not touch me!"

The mother seized the child, and the women all talked vehemently atonce. Oliver climbed into the voiture and drove off in silence. Whenhe looked around presently he saw that the woman's face was bloodless,and a cold sweat stood on it. He considered a while. "You want food,"he said, and brought out some hard bread and a jug of Normandy cider.

Frances shook her head. She only spoke once during the morning, andthen told him something about a woman "whom no child could touch. Noman or woman could touch her as long as she lived. Not even her son."

As Bauzy could make nothing of this, he could only nod and laughcivilly. But presently he, too, grew silent, glancing at heruncomfortably from time to time.

They drove through great red fields of sarasson, hedged by long banksof earth, which were masses of golden gorse and bronzed and crimsonferns. The sun shone, the clover-scented air was full of the joyousbuzzing of bees and chirp of birds.

"It is a gay, blessed day!" Bauzy said, "thanks to the good God!" Hewaited anxiously for her reply, but she stared into the sunshine andsaid nothing.

Larmor Baden is a lonely little cluster of gray stone huts on the shoreof the Morbihan sea. Some of Bauzy's friends lounged smiling up towelcome him, waving their wide black hats with velvet streamers, andbowing low to the lady. Oliver alighted with decision. One thing heknew: He would not drive back with her. Something was amiss. Hewould wash his hands of her.

"Here, madame, is Vincent Selo, paysageur," he said rapidly in French."He has a good boat. He will take you where you desire. Sail with herto Gavr' Inis," he said to Selo, "and bring her back at her pleasure.Somebody can drive her back to Vannes, and don't overcharge her, yourobbers!"

"Gavr' Inis?" Frances repeated.

"It is an island in the sea yonder, madame. A quiet place of trees.When there was not a man in the world, evil spirits built there analtar for the worship of the devil. No men could have built it. Thereare huge stones carried there from the mountains far inland, that noengine could lift. It is a great mystery."

"It is the one place in the world, people say," interrupted Selo,lowering his voice, "where God never has been. A dreadful place,madame!"

Frances laughed. "That is the place for me," she said to Selo. "Takeme there."

The old man looked at her with shrewd, friendly eyes, and then beckonedBauzy aside.

"Who is she? She has the bearing of a great lady, but her face hurtsme. What harm has come to her?"

"How do I know?" said Bauzy. "Go for your boat. The sea is rising."

Late in the afternoon M. Selo landed his strange passenger upon thepebbly beach of the accursed island. He led her up on the rocks,talking, and pointing across the sea.

"Beyond is the Atlantic, and on yonder headland are the great menhirsof Carnac—thirty thousand of them, brought there before Christ wasborn. But the Evil One loves this island best of all places. It hasin it the mystery of the world. Come," he said, in an awed voice. "Itis here."

He crossed to the hill, stooped, and entered a dark cave about fortyfeet long, which was wholly lined with huge flat rocks carved withcountless writhing serpents. As Frances passed they seemed to stir andbreathe beside her, at her feet, overhead. The cave opened into asacrificial chamber. The reptiles grew gigantic here, and crowdedcloser. Through some rift a beam of melancholy light crept in; a smellof death hung in the thick, unclean air.

Selo pointed to a stone altar. "It was there they killed theirvictims," he whispered, and began to pray anxiously, half-aloud. Whenhe had finished, he hurried back, beckoning to her to come out.

"Go," she said. "I will stay here."

"Then I will wait outside. This is no place for Christian souls. Butwe must return soon, madame. My little girl will be watching now forme."

When he was gone she stood by the altar. This island of Gavr' Inis wasone of the places to which she and George had long ago planned to come.She remembered the very day on which they had read the legend that onthis altar men before the Flood had sacrificed to the god of Murder.

"I am the murderer now, and George knows it," she said quietly. Butshe was cold and faint, and presently began to tremble weakly.

She went out of the cave and stood on the beach. "I want to go home,George," she said aloud. "I want to be Frances Waldeaux again. I'msure I didn't know it was in me to do that thing."

There was no answer. She was alone in the great space of sky and sea.The world was so big and empty, and she alone and degraded in it!

"I never shall see George again. He will think of me only as the womanwho killed his wife," she thought.

She went on blindly toward the water, and stood there a long time.

Then, in the strait of her agony, there came to Frances Waldeaux, forthe first time in her life, a perception that there was help for her inthe world, outside of her own strength. Her poor tortured witsdiscerned One, more real than her crime, or George, or the woman thatshe had killed. It was an old, hackneyed story, that He knew every manand woman in the world, that He could help them. She had heard itoften.

Was there any thing in it? Could He help her?

Slowly, the nervous twitching of her body quieted, her dulled eyescleared as if a new power of sight were coming to them.

After a long time she heard steps, and Selo calling. She rose.

The murder was known. They were coming to arrest her.

What did it matter? She had found help.

Selo came up excitedly.

"It is another boat, English folk also, that comes to arrive."

She turned and waited.

And then, coming up the hill, she saw George, and with him—Lisa!Lisa, smiling as she talked.

They ran to meet her with cries of amazement. She staggered back onthe rock.

"You are not dead? Lisa——"

"Dead? Poor lady!" catching her in her arms. "Some water, George! Itis her head. She has been too much alone."

When Frances opened her eyes she was lying on the grass, her childrenkneeling beside her. She caught Lisa's arm in both hands and felt it:then she sat up.

"I must tell you what I did—before you speak to me."

"Not now," said Lisa. "You are not well. I am going to be your nurse.The baby has made me a very good nurse," and she stooped again overFrances, with kind, smiling eyes.

Selo came to wile George up to the mysterious cave, but Lisaimpatiently hurried them to the beach. "Caves and serpent worshipperstruly!" she cried. "Why, she has not seen Jacques!" and when, in theboat, George, who was greatly alarmed, tried to rouse his mother fromher silent stupor, Lisa said gayly, "She will be herself again as soonas she sees HIM."

When they reached Larmor Baden, she despatched George in search ofColette and the child, and she went into the church. It was late, andthe village women sat on the steps gossipping in the slanting sunlight.There is nothing in their lives but work and the church; and when, eachday, they have finished with one they go to the other.

Frances followed her. The sombre little church was vacant. Shetouched Lisa on the shoulder.

"There is something I must tell you," she said. "You would not let metouch the child, if you knew it."

She stooped and spoke a few sentences in a vehement whisper, and thenleaned back, exhausted, against the wall.

Lisa drew back. Her lips were white with sudden fright, but shescanned Mrs. Waldeaux's face keenly.

"You were in Vannes last night? You tried—— My God, I remember!The tisane tasted queerly, and I threw it out." She walked away for amoment, and then turning, said, "You called my mother a vile womanonce. But SHE would not have done that thing!

"No," said Frances, not raising her head. "No."

Lisa stood looking at her as she crouched against the wall. The fiercescorn slowly died out of her eyes. She was a coarse, but agood-natured, woman. An awful presence, too, walked with her alwaysnow, step by step, and in that dread shadow she saw the things of lifemore justly than we do. She took Frances by the hand at last. "Youwere not quite yourself, I think," she said quietly. "I have pushedyou too hard. George has told me so much about you! If we could betogether for a while, perhaps we should love each other a little. Butthere is no time now——" She turned hastily, and threw herself downbefore a crucifix.

After a long time she went out to the vestibule, where she foundFrances, and said, with an effort to be cheerful and matter-of-fact,"Come, now, let us talk like reasonable people. A thing is coming tome which comes to every-body. I'm not one to whine. But it's thechild—I don't think any baby ever was as much to a woman as Jacques isto me. I suppose God does not think I am fit to bring him up. Sitdown and let me tell you all about it."

They sat on the steps, talking in a low tone. Frances cried, butLisa's eyes were quite dry and bright. She rose at last.

"You see, there will be no woman to care for him, if you do not. Therehe is with Colette." She ran down, took the baby from the bonne, andlaid him in Frances's arms.

Mrs. Waldeaux looked down at him. "George's son," she whispered,"George's boy!"

"He is very like George and you," Lisa answered. "He is a Waldeaux."

"Yes, I see."

She held him close to her breast as they drove back to Vannes. Georgewhistled and sang on the box. He was very light of heart to have herwith him again.

He looked impatiently at an ancient village through which they passed,with its towers, and peasants in strange garbs, like the pictures insome crusading tale.

"Now that we have mother, Lisa," he said, "we'll go straight back home.I am tired of mediaeval times. I must get to work for this youngster."

Lisa did not speak for a moment. "I should like to stay in Vannes alittle longer," she said. "I did not tell you, but—my mother isburied there. That was why I came; I should like to be with her."

"Why, of course, dear. As long as you like," he said affectionately."I will not detain you long. Perhaps only a week or two," she said.

He nodded, and began to whistle cheerfully again. Frances looked atLisa, and her eyes filled with tears. It was a pitiful tragedy!

But the poor girl was quite right not to worry George until the lastmoment. She was blocking his way—ruining his life, and God was takingher away so that she could no longer harm him.

And yet—poor Lisa!

They drove on. The sun warmed the crimson fields, and the birdschirped, and this was George's child creeping close to her breast. Itstirred there a keen pang of joy.

Surely He had forgiven her.

A month later a group of passengers in deep mourning stood apart on thedeck of the Paris as she left the dock at Liverpool. It was GeorgeWaldeaux, his mother, and little Jacques with his nurse. Mrs. Waldeauxwas looking at Clara and her girls, who were watching her from thedock. They had come to Vannes when Lisa died, and had taken care ofher and the baby until now. Frances had cried at leaving them, butGeorge stood with his back to them moodily, looking down into the blackwater.

"It seems but a few days since we sailed from New York on the KaiserWilhelm," he said, "and yet I have lived out all my life in that time."

"All? Is there nothing left, George?" his mother said gently.

"Oh, of course, you are always a good companion, and there is thechild——" He paused. The fierce passions, the storms of delight andpain of his life with Lisa rushed back on him. "I will work forothers, and wear out the days as I can," he said. "But life is overfor me. The story is told. There are only blank pages now to the end."

He turned his dim eyes toward the French coast. She knew that they sawthe little bare grave on the hill in Vannes. "I wish I could have seensomething green growing on it before I left her there alone!" hemuttered.

"Her mother's grave was covered with roses——" Frances answeredquickly. "They will creep over to her. She is not alone, George. Iam glad she was laid by her mother. She loved her dearly."

"Yes. Better than any thing on earth," he responded gloomily.

A few moments later the ship swung heavily around.

"We are going!" Mrs. Waldeaux cried, waving her hand. "Won't you lookat Clara and Lucy, George? They have been so good to us. If Lucy hadbeen my own child, she could not have been kinder to me."

Mr. Waldeaux turned and raised his crepe-bound hat, looking at Lucy inher soft gray gown vaguely, as he might at a white gull dropped on theshore.

"I suppose I never shall see her again," said his mother. "Clara tellsme she is besieged by lovers. She is going to marry a German prince,probably."

"That would be a pity," George said, with a startled glance back at thegirl.

"Good-by, my dear!" Mrs. Waldeaux leaned over the bulwark. "She isbeautiful as an angel! Good-by, Lucy! God bless you!" she sobbed,kissing her hand.

Mr. Waldeaux looked steadily at Lucy. "How clean she is!" he said.

When the shore was gone he walked down the deck, conscious of a suddenchange in himself. He was wakening out of an ugly dream. The sight ofthe healthy little girl, with her dewy freshness and blue eyes, full ofaffection and common sense, cheered and heartened him. He did not knowwhat was doing it, but he threw up his head and walked vigorously. Thesun shone and the cold wind swept him out into a dim future to begin anew life.

CHAPTER XVI

George Waldeaux took his mother and boy back to the old homestead inDelaware. They arrived at night, and early the next morning he rowedaway in his bateau to some of his old haunts in the woods on the bay,and was seen no more that day.

"He is inconsolable!" his mother told some of her old neighbors whocrowded to welcome her. "His heart is in that grave in Vannes." Thewomen listened in surprise, for Frances was not in the habit ofexploiting her emotions in words.

"We understood," said one of them, with a sympathetic shake of thehead, "that it was a pure love match. Mrs. George Waldeaux, we heard,was a French artist of remarkable beauty?"

Frances moved uneasily. "I never thought her—but I can't discussLisa!" She was silent a moment. "But as for her social position"—shedrew herself up stiffly, fixing cold defiant eyes on herquestioner—"as for her social position," she went on resolutely, "shewas descended on one side from an excellent American family, and on theother from one of the noblest houses in Europe."

When they were gone she hugged little Jacques passionately as he lay onher lap. "That is settled for you!" she said.

When George came back in the evening, he found her walking with the boyin her arms on the broad piazzas.

"I really think he knows that he has come home, George!" she exclaimed."See how he laughs! And he liked the dogs and horses just as Lisathought he would. I am glad it is such a beautiful home for him. Lookat that slope to the bay! There is no nobler park in England! And thehouse is as big as most of their palaces, and much more comfortable!"

"Give the child to Colette, mother, and listen to me. Now that I havesettled you and him here, I must go and earn your living."

"Yes."

She followed him into the hall.

"I leave you to-morrow. There is no time to be lost."

"You are going back to art, George?"

"No! Never!"

Frances grew pale. She thought she had torn open his gaping wound.

"I did not mean to remind you of—of——"

"No, it isn't that!"

He scowled at the fire. Art meant for him his own countless daubs, andthe sickening smell of oily paints and musk, and soiled silk tea gowns,and the whole slovenly, disreputable scramble of Bohemian life in Paris.

"I loathe art!" he said, with a furious blow at the smouldering log inthe fireplace, as if he struck these things all down into the asheswith it.

"Will you go back into the Church, dear?" his mother ventured timidly.

"Most certainly, no!" he said vehemently. "Of all mean frauds theperfunctory priest is the meanest. If I could be like one of the oldholy gospellers—then indeed!"

He was silent a moment, and then began to stride up and down the longhall, his head thrown back, his chest inflated.

"I have a message for the world, mother."

"I am sure of it," she interrupted eagerly.

"But I must deliver it in my own way. I have lost two years. I amgoing to put in big strokes of work now. In the next two years Iintend to take my proper place in my own country. I will find standingroom for George Waldeaux," with a complacent smile. "And in themeantime, of course, I must make money enough to support you and theboy handsomely. So you see, mother," he ended, laughing, "I have notime to lose."

"No, George!" It was the proudest moment of her life. How heroic andgenerous he was!

She filled his pocket-book the next day, when he went to New York totake the world by the throat. It was really not George Waldeaux'sfault that she filled it.

Nor was it his fault that during the next two years the world was in nohurry to run to his feet, either to learn of him, or to bring him itsbags of gold. The little man did his best; he put his "message," as hecalled it, into poems, into essays, into a novel. Publishers thankedhim effusively for the pleasure of reading them, and—sent them back.The only word of his which reached the public was a review of the workof a successful author. It was so personal, so malignant, that George,when he read it, writhed with shame and humiliation. He tore the paperinto fragments.

"Am I so envious and small as that! Before God, no words of mine shallever go into print again!" he said, and he kept his word.

He came down every month or two to his mother.

"Why not try teaching, George?" she said anxiously. "These greatscholars and scientific men have places and reputations which even youneed not despise."

He laughed bitterly. "I tried for a place as tutor in a third-classschool, and could not pass the examinations. I know nothingaccurately. Nothing."

It occurred to him to go into politics and help reform the world byrouting a certain Irish boss. He made a speech at a ward meeting, andbroke down in the middle of it before the storm of gibes and hootings.

"What was the matter?" he asked a friend, whose face was red withlaughter.

"My dear fellow, you shouldn't lecture them! You're not the parson.They resent your air of enormous superiority. For Heaven's sake, don'tspeak again—in this campaign."

It is a wretched story. There is no need of going into the details.There was no room for him. He tried in desperation to get somefoothold in business. The times were hard that winter, which of coursewas against him. Besides, his critical, haughty air naturally did notprepossess employers in his favor when he came to ask for a job.

At the end of the second year the man broke down.

"The work of the world," he told Frances, "belongs to specialists.Even a bootblack knows his trade. I know nothing. I can do nothing.I am a mass of flabby pretences."

Every month she filled his pocket-book. She found at last that he didnot touch the money. He sold his clothes and his jewelry to keephimself alive while he tramped the streets of New York looking forwork. He starved himself to make this money last. His flesh waslead-colored from want of proper food, and he staggered from weakness."'He that will not work neither let him eat,'" he said grimly.

It was about this time that Miss Vance came home. Mrs. Waldeaux in amoment of weakness gave her a hint of his defeat.

"Is the world blind," she cried, "to deny work to a man of George'scapacity? What does it mean?"

Clara heard of George's sufferings with equanimity. "The truth is,"she said, when she told the story to Miss Dunbar, "Frances brought thatboy up to believe that he was a Grand Llama among men. There is nowork for Grand Llamas in this country, and when he understands that heis made of very ordinary clay indeed, he will probably be of some usein the world."

Lucy was watering her roses. "It is a matter of indifference to me,"she said, "what the people of New York think of Mr. Waldeaux."

Clara looked at her quickly. "I do not quite catch your meaning?" shesaid.

But Lucy filled her can, and forgot to answer.

CHAPTER XVII

Clara had brought Miss Dunbar back and established her in her own housenear Weir, under the care of a deaf widowed aunt. Dunbar Place was astately colonial house, set in a large demesne, and all Kent Countywaited breathless to know what revelations the heiress would make toit, in the way of equi-pages, marqueterie furniture, or Paris gowns.

Mrs. Waldeaux found Lucy one day, a month after her arrival, seated ather sewing on the broad, rose-covered piazza, looking as if she neverhad left it.

"Have you come to stay now, my dear," she said, "or will PrinceWolfburgh——"

"Oh, that is an old story," interrupted Clara. "Lucy handed the littleprince over to Jean Hassard, who married him after he had a long fightwith her father about her dot. He won the dot, but Count Odo is nowthe head of the house. Jean, I hear, is in Munich fighting her way upamong the Herrschaft."

"Jean has good fighting qualities," Lucy said. "She will win."

"I had a letter from her to-day," said Miss Vance. "Here it is. Shesays, 'I mean to rebuild the Schloss, and I have put a stop to thesoap-boiling business. I will have no fumes of scorching fat in ourancestral halls. Four of the princesses live with us here in the flat.Gussy Carson from Pond City is staying with me now. We have anAmerican tea every Wednesday. Gus receives with me.'"

"Poor princesses!" said Lucy.

Miss Vance folded the letter with a complacent nod. "I am glad thatJean is settled so satisfactorily," she said. "As for Lucy——"

No one answered. Lucy threaded her needle.

"I start next week to Chicago, did you know, Frances? The Bixbys—twoorphan heiresses—wish me to take them to Australia, coming back byIndia. And I suppose," she said, rising impatiently, "if I were tostay away forty years I should find Lucy when I came back, with whitehair maybe, but sitting calmly sewing, not caring whether there was aman in the world or not!"

Lucy laughed, but did not even blush.

Mrs. Waldeaux presently said good-by, and Clara went home with her tospend the night. Lucy was left alone upon the piazza. It was therethat George Waldeaux saw her again.

This had been the hardest day of his life. He rose that morningtelling himself with an oath that he would earn the money to buy hisown food or never eat again. His mother had sent him a cheque by post.He tore it up and went out of his cheap lodging-house withoutbreakfast. There was a queer change in him—a sudden loftyindependence—a sudden loathing of himself. He knew now that it wasnot in him to do good work in the world, but at least he would pay hisown way. He had been a mass of vanity and now he was so mean in hisown eyes that he shrank from the passers-by. Perhaps the long strainhad damaged the gray matter of the brain, or some nervous centre—I donot know what change a physician would have found in him, but the manwas changed.

A clerk was needed in a provision shop on Green Street. George placedhimself in the line of dirty, squalid applicants. The day was hot, theair of the shop was foul with the smells of rotting meat andvegetables. He felt himself stagger against a stall. He seemed to beasleep, but he heard the butchers laughing. They called him a drunkentramp, and then he was hurled out on the muddy pavement.

"Too much whiskey for this time o' day!" a policeman said, hauling himto his feet.

"Move along, young man!"

Whiskey? That was what he wanted. He turned into a shop and bought adram with his last pennies. It made him comfortable for a few hours,then he began to cry and swear. George Waldeaux had never been drunkin his life. The ascetic, stainless priest in him stood off and lookedat this dog of the gutter with his obscene talk, and then came defeatof soul and body.

"I give up!" he said quietly. "I'll never try again."

He wandered unconsciously to the ferry and, having his yearly book oftickets in his pocket, took the train for home from force of habit. Heleft the cars at a station several miles from Weir, and wandered acrossthe country. Just at sundown, covered with mud and weak from hungerand drunkenness, he crossed the lawn before Lucy's house and, lookingup, saw her.

He had stumbled into a world of peace and purity! A soft splendorfilled the sky and the bay and the green slopes, with their clumps ofmighty forest trees. The air was full of the scents of flowers and thegood-night song of happy birds. And in the midst of it all, lady ofthe great domain, under her climbing rose vines, sat the young, fairwoman, clad in some fleecy white garments, her head bent, her blue eyesfixed on the distance—waiting.

George stopped, sobered by a sudden wrench of his heart. There was theworld to which he belonged—there! His keen eye noted every delicatedetail of her beauty and of her dress. He was of her sort, herkind—he, kicked into the gutter from that foul shop as a tramp!

This is what I have lost! his soul cried to him.

He had not as yet recognized Lucy. But now she saw him, and with alittle inarticulate cry like that of a bird, she flew down the steps."Ah! It is you!" she said. "I thought you would come to welcome mesome time!"

Her voice was like a soft breath; her airy draperies blew against him.It was as if a wonderful, beautiful dream were folding him in—and in.

He drew back. "I am not fit, Miss Dunbar. I did not know you werehere. Why—look at me!"

"Oh! You are ill! You have had an accident!" she cried. She had laidher little white fingers on his hand and now, feeling it burn andtremble at her touch, she caught it in both of her own and drew himinto the house.

"Mr. Waldeaux," she said to a servant who appeared, "has had a fall.Bring him water and towels. Take care of him, Stephen." She spokequietly, but her voice trembled with fright.

The man led George to an inner room.

"Were you thrown, sir?" he asked sympathetically.

George hesitated. "Yes, I was thrown," he said grimly.

He made himself clean in angry haste, taking the whisk from the man andbrushing off the dry mud with a vicious fury.

Lucy came to meet him, with a pale, anxious smile. "You must not gowithout a cup of hot coffee," she said, leading him to a lounge in thehall. It was very sweet to be treated like a sick man!

"And God knows I am sick, body and soul!" he thought, sinking down.

Beside the lounge was a little table with one cover. He noted withkeen pleasure the delicate napery, the silver candlesticks, the bowl ofroses, with which the substantial meal was set out. Lucy waited on himwith the quick intelligence of a trained nurse. She scarcely spoke,yet her every motion, as she served him, seemed a caress. When he hadfinished he began to stammer out his thanks.

"No," she said, rising decisively. "You are too weak to talk to meto-night, Mr. Waldeaux. The coupe is at the door. John will drive youhome. You need sleep now."

As he sank down into the luxurious cushions and drove away through thetwilight, he saw the little white figure in the door, and the gravewistful face looking after him.

"Did she suspect!" he suddenly cried, starting up.

But George Waldeaux never knew how much Lucy suspected that night.

Meanwhile Mrs. Waldeaux's mare had jogged on leisurely, dragging hermistress and Miss Vance home through the shady country lanes.

"Phebe is old," apologized Frances. "She really is a retired carhorse."

"You used to take pride in your horses, Frances?"

"Yes." Mrs. Waldeaux added after a pause. "My income is small. Ofcourse George soon will be coining money, but just now—— The peachcrop failed this year too. And I save every dollar for Jack'seducation."

"But what of the jokes for the New York paper? They were profitable."

"Oh, I gave them up long ago." She glanced around cautiously. "Neverspeak of that, Clara. I would not have George know for the world; Inever would hold up my head if he knew that I was 'Quigg.'"

Miss Vance gave a contemptuous sniff, but Mrs. Waldeaux went oneagerly, "I have a plan! You know that swampy tract of ours nearLewes? When I have enough money I'll drain it and lay out a summerresort—hotels—cottages. I'll develop it as I sell the lots. Oh,Jack shall have his millions yet to do great work in the world!" hereyes sparkling. "Though perhaps he may choose to strip himself ofeverything to give to the poor, like Francis d'Assisi! That would bebest of all. It's not unlikely. He is the most generous boy!"

"Stuff!" said Miss Vance. "St. Francis, indeed! I observe, by theway, that he crosses himself after his meals. Are you making aRomanist of the child? And you speak French to him, too?"

Mrs. Waldeaux's color rose. "His mother was French and Catholic," shesaid. "I will not have Lisa forgotten."

They went on in silence. Miss Vance was lost in thought. Was GeorgeWaldeaux equally eager to keep his wife's memory alive? Now that theconceit had been beaten out of him, he would not make a bad husband.And her child Lucy had always—esteemed him highly.

CHAPTER XVIII

The next day was Sunday. George jumped out of bed with the dawn. Hewhistled and sang scraps of songs as he took his bath. The sun shone.What a full, happy world it was, anyhow! And he had given up the gamelast night? Why, life was just beginning for him! He was nothing buta boy—not yet thirty. He would make a big success soon, and then tryto win—to win—— He stopped, breathless, looking into the distance,and his eyes slowly grew wet with passion and longing.

He left the house and struck across the country through the woodlandand farms. He did not know why he went—he had to go. When he reachedthe Dunbar woods, he stood in the thicket for hours, watching thehouse. She came out at last and sat down on the steps to play with thedog. Last night in her white, delicate beauty she had not seemedreal—she was far off, like an angel coming down into his depths ofmisery.

But to-day she sat on the steps in her pretty blue gown, and laughedand rolled Tramp over, and sung snatches of songs, and was nothing buta foolish girl. For so many years he had been thinking of work andmoney-making and bosses. All of that mean drudgery fell out of sightnow. He was a man, young, alone, on fire with hope and passion. Hisshare of life had been mean and pinched; yonder was youth and gladnessand tranquillity. The world was empty, save for themselves. He washere, and there was the one woman in it—the one woman.

He looked at his tanned, rough fingers. Last night she had folded themin her two soft little hands, and drawn him on—on into home!

He would go up to her now and tell her——

George pushed aside the bushes, but at that moment Lucy rose and wentinto the house. After a moment he crossed the lawn and sat down on thepiazza, calling the dog to him. She would come back soon. Tramp'shead rested on his knee as he stroked it. It was here her hand hadtouched it—and here——

The scent of roses was heavy in the sunshine, the bees hummed; he satthere in a hazy dream, waiting for the door to open and the joy of hislife to begin.

He was dragged roughly enough out of his dream.

Miss Dunbar's landau drove to the door to take her to church. Georgelooked up, carelessly noting how quiet and perfectly appointed it was,from the brown liveries of the negro coachman and footman to thetrappings on the black ponies. There were no horses of such high breedin Delaware. He stood up suddenly, his jaws pale as if he had beenstruck. What money there was in it! He had forgotten. She was agreat heiress.

She came out at the moment. He scanned her fiercely, the plain, costlygown, the ruby blazing on her ungloved hand. Then he glanced down athis own shabby Sunday suit. She was the richest woman in Delaware, andhe had not a dollar in his pocket, and no way to earn one.

He went up to her, courteously took her hand when she held it out,blushing and dimpling, bowed to her aunt, saying that he had merelywalked over to put her into her carriage, and, having shut the door,looked after them, hat in hand, smiling when she glanced shyly back athim.

Then he laughed loudly. If he had the salary that she paid her negrodriver he would be lucky! And he had meant to marry her. He laughedagain and took his way homeward.

CHAPTER XIX

His mother was waiting to give George his breakfast. Whether he choseto lie in bed until noon or to walk twenty miles at dawn, she smiled ajoyful approval. But neither the crisp toast, nor the fried chicken,nor any of her funny stories, would penetrate the blackness of hisgloom.

"Oh, by the way!" she said; "here is a letter that came by last night'smail. I forgot to give it to you."

He glanced at the envelope. "Great Heavens! It is life and death tome, and you forget it to tell Jack's pert sayings!" He read the letterand threw it down.

"What is it, George?" she asked humbly.

"Burnett & Hoyle offer me a place in their house."

"Mr. Hoyle is an old friend of mine. I wrote to him. What is thesalary, George?"

"Forty dollars a week. I could earn more as a coachman—for some richheiress."

"But George dear—— It would be a beginning. They are brokers, andthere are so many short cuts to fortune in that business! Do try it,my son."

"Of course I'll try it. Do you think I'm a fool? It will keep me fromstarving. But I want something else in life than to be kept fromstarving, mother."

He stretched out his arms with a groan, and walked to the window. Shefollowed him with wretched, comprehending eyes. Why did not Lucy givehim her fortune? Any woman would be honored who could give George herfortune.

"I always have heard that brokers know the short cuts to wealth," shesaid calmly. "You go on the Street some day, and come back amillionaire."

"That is a woman's idea of business. Instead, I will sit on a highstool and drudge all day, and on Saturday get my wages, and after threeor four years I'll make a fight for ten dollars more a week, and thankGod if I get it. 'A short cut to fortune!'"

Mrs. Waldeaux carefully averted her eyes from him. "You may marry," shesaid, "and it may happen that your wife also will have some littleincome——"

"Mother! Look at me!" he interrupted her sternly. "I will never bedependent on my wife, so help me God!"

"No, George, no! Of course not. Don't speak so loud. Only, I thoughtif she had a small sum of her own, she would feel more comfortable,that's all."

In spite of his ill temper George threw himself into his work withzeal. After a couple of months he came home for a day. He was dressedwith the quiet elegance which once had been so important in his eyes.

His mother noted it shrewdly. "A man has more courage to face life,decently clothed," she said to herself.

He did not come again until winter. Lucy happened to be spending theday with Mrs. Waldeaux. There were no liveried servants, no pricelessrings, no Worth gown in sight. She was just the shy, foolish girl whomhe had once for an hour looked upon as his wife. George talked aboutWall Street to her, being now wise as to stocks; took her outsleighing, and when in the evening she took Jack in her arms and sanghim to sleep, sat listening with his head buried in his hands. Mrs.Waldeaux carried the boy up to bed, and Lucy and George were leftalone. They talked long and earnestly.

"She consulted me about her affairs," he said, after she was gone, hiseyes shining.

"I am afraid she does not understand business!" Mrs. Waldeaux repliedanxiously.

"Oh, like a woman! That is, not at all. Her whole property is in thehands of The Consolidated Good Faith Companies. I reminded her of theold adage, 'Never put all of your eggs into one basket.'"

"But that is so sound a basket, George!" "Yes. It is thought so," witha shrug.

"Poor child! She needs a guardian to advise her."

Waldeaux's countenance grew black. "She should employ an attorney. Itcertainly will never be my duty to advise Miss Dunbar," he retortedirritably.

George showed himself shrewd and able in his work. Mr. Hoyle was apowerful backer. Before spring his salary was doubled. But what wasthat? The gulf between him and the great heiress gaped, impassable.

Lucy spent much time with her old friend, and Frances at last broke thesilence concerning him.

"The boy never before knew what love was. And it is you that he loves,child."

"He has not told me so," said Lucy coldly.

"No. And never will. It is your wealth that makes him dumb. I wishit was gone," said Frances earnestly. "Gone. You would be so happy.What is money compared to being——"

"George's wife?" Lucy laughed.

"Yes. George's wife. I know what he is worth," his mother saidboldly. "You might give it away?" looking eagerly in the girl's face."In charity."

"I might do so," said Miss Dunbar tranquilly.

One morning in April Mrs. Waldeaux saw George coming up from thestation. She ran to meet him.

He was pale and breathless with excitement. "What is it? What hashappened?" she cried.

"Hush—h! Come in. Shut the door. No one must hear. TheConsolidated Companies have failed. They have robbed their depositors."

"Well, George? What have we—— Oh, Lucy!"

"Yes, Lucy! She is ruined! She has nothing. It was all there." Hepaced up and down, hoarse with agitation and triumph. "She mustn'tknow it, mother, until she is safe in another home."

"Another home?" "Oh, surely you understand! Here—if she will come.Poor little girl! She has not a dollar! I am getting a big salary. Ican work for you all. My God! I will have her at last! Unless——Perhaps she won't come! Mother, do you think she will come?" Hecaught her arm, his jaws twitched, the tears stood in his eyes, as whenhe used to come to her with his boyish troubles.

"How can I tell?" said Frances. "Go and ask her."

CHAPTER XX

In July Miss Vance returned unexpectedly. Her charges had tired oftravel, and turned their backs upon India. She dropped them inChicago, and came to Weir for rest. The evening of her arrival shestrolled with Frances through the park, listening to the story ofGeorge's sudden wooing, and the quiet, hurried wedding.

"It had to be quiet and hurried," said Mrs. Waldeaux, "in order to keepher ignorant of her change of fortune. He took her to the Virginiamountains, so that no newspapers could reach her. They are comingto-morrow. It won't trouble her to hear that her money is gone whenshe is here with us all, at home. As for me," she went on excitedly,"I am beginning to advertise the summer resort. I must put my hand tothe plough. I don't mean that she shall miss any comfort or luxury asGeorge's wife."

Miss Vance looked at her. "Frances, give up your planning and working.Let George work for you and his wife," she said curtly. "It is time foryou to stop and rest."

"And why should I stop and rest, Clara?" said Frances, amazed.

"Surely you know, dear. You are not as young as you once were. Youreyes are weak, and your hearing is a little dulled, and——"

Frances threw out her hand eagerly. "You think I am growing old! Itis only my eyes and ears that are wearing out. Iam not deaf norblind," she said earnestly. "Iam not old. I find more fun andflavor in life now than I did at sixteen. If I live to be seventy, ora hundred, I shall be the same Frances Waldeaux still."

Clara gave an annoyed shrug. "But really, Imake the thought ofdeath my constant companion. And you are older than I."

"'After the busy day
Comes the calm sleep of night,'"

she quoted, with a sententious sigh.

"Calm and sleep do not appear to me to be the highest conditions oflife. No! I will not be set aside, even when I am dead, like aburned-out candle!" The indignant tears stood in her eyes. "Why, evenin that other world I shall not be a barren stock, thank God! I havegiven a family to mankind. To watch a long line of your descendants atwork, to see in them your own thoughts and your own soul reaching out,live powers through all eternity—I often think of it. That willbe—not calm nor sleep."

Miss Vance touched Mrs. Waldeaux's arm affectionately. "What a queeridea, Frances. Well, I never argue, you know. Drop in the harness, ifyou choose. Let us go in now. It is chilly."

The older woman looked after her, and smiled good-humoredly. After amoment she raised her hand, examining it attentively. Her hand hadbeen very beautiful in shape, white and dimpled, and she had been vainenough to wear fine rings. Now it was yellow and wrinkled. The greatemerald looked like a bit of glass upon it.

"Yes, I see," she said, with a miserable little laugh, and then stoodlooking out into the far distance. "But Iam not growing old." Shespoke aloud, as if to one who stood apart with her and couldunderstand. "Even out in that other world I shall not be only amother. I shall be me. ME!" touching her breast. "After a million ofyears—it will still be me."

There stirred within the lean body and rheumatic limbs depths of unusedpower, of thought, of love and passion, and, deeper than all, awfulpossibilities of change.

"I have it in me still to be worse than a murderer," she thought, withwhitening face.

She stood a long time, alone. A strange content and light came slowlyinto her face. "Come what will, I shall never be left to myselfagain," she said at last, speaking to a Friend whom she had found longago.

Then she went in search of the boy. "Come, Jack," she said cheerfully,"there are busy days before us."

George and Lucy that evening reached Dover, prettiest of Americantowns. They strolled down the shaded street out into a quiet countrylane. Lucy sat down upon a fallen tree, and George threw himself uponthe grass beside her.

"To-morrow we shall be at home," she said, pushing his hair back. "Doyou know that your profile is absolutely Greek?" Her eyes half closedcritically. "Yes, we shall be at home about eleven o'clock. I wroteto Stephen to order all the dishes that you like for luncheon. Yourmother and Jack are coming. It will be such a gay, happy day!"

He took her hand. He would tell her now. It would not distress her.The money weighed for nothing in her life. He was her world; he knewthat.

"Lucy!" he said.

She turned, startled at his grave tone. The color rose in her delicatelittle face, and there was a keen flash of intelligence in her blueeyes. It vanished, and they were only blue and innocent.

"Lucy, would you be willing to come to my house? To take it for home?To be a poor man's wife, there? God knows I'll try to make you happyin it."

"No," she said gently. "That is your mother's home. She has made it.It is not fair to bring young queen bees into the old queen's hive. Wewill live at your house, Dunbar Place, George."

"It is not mine nor yours!" George broke out. "Oh, my darling, I havehidden something from you. It is all gone. Your property, income,every thing! The Consolidated Consolidated Companies failed. Theirdepositors are ruined."

"Yes, I know," said Lucy, brushing a fallen leaf from her gown. "Butthey had no control over my affairs. I withdrew them from theirmanagement in February."

George started up. "Then you—you are a great heiress still?"

"No." She rose, holding out her hands, laughing. "My husband, Ibelieve, is a rich man, and I shall have what he gives me."

But he did not hear her. He walked away down the road, shaken by adumb fury. He had been tricked! Who had tricked him?

Then he heard a miserable sob and turned. Great God! Was any thing onearth so dear as that little woman standing there? She was crying!Had he struck her? He was a brute. What had he done?

He ran to her, and taking her outstretched hands, kissed thempassionately.

"They are mine—mine!" he whispered, and knew nothing beyond.

They walked together like two happy children down the shady lane towardthe golden sunset. The money was forgotten.

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